The words were whispered into life in the gilded halls of the Imperial Palace on the afternoon of March 16, 1804. Within minutes, they were carried down the foothills of Aventine Augusta, spread across the city of Ripae Proper, and telescribed throughout the land of Astarte in bursts of electricity that seemed aware of the gravity of their message. But you didn't need to be told that: you were there. All you needed was to look up—from the streets of Ripae, from the seaport market, from your office davenport—and see the red eagle of the Astartean flag atop Aventine Augusta in flames. There was no mistaking what you saw, and no mistaking what it meant.
Emperor Christoph IV, Verenberg Monarch, is dead.
It was neither a phial of poison in his drink nor a well-placed knife between his ribs that brought the Emperor of Astarte to his deathbed, but the accumulated burden of 28 years on the Astartean throne and 200 million people under the throne. For many Astarteans, Christoph's death came not a moment too soon, but not one of them could have been acquainted with the terrible conundrum he left unsolved: the imperial succession.
In 1785, Christoph and Militrisa Wisteroff—daughter of the House of Wisteroff—gave birth to the Emperor's only son: Jung, the heir-apparent. And in 1803, not a week after his eighteenth birthday, Jung was killed in a gunpowder explosion during the inspection of a cannon regiment. With no further children, the second in line for succession is Christoph's nephew: Joachim Verenberg, Verenberg Commander, a young lion of the Imperial Navy whose claim to the throne is upheld by the House of Verenberg and its supporters. However, Joachim's claim is rejected by the second-most of the Regnant Houses, the House of Galloux. In 1800, Joachim's father (Christoph's brother), the much-maligned Duke Alois, was exiled and later executed for war crimes—and by old Gallican law, which has no legal importance in Astarte, the consanguinity of Joachim and Christoph was broken when Alois was formally exiled. Galloux, therefore, supports the claim of Christoph's second cousin and the third in line for succession: Troussant du Galloux, Gallican Statesman.
It's now March 21st. For the better part of a week you've heard the question posed again and again. Not in the streets, not in the tavern, and not even behind the doors of your home—no, this is the sort of question that drives an immutable wedge between friends and within families. It's something that resides in the pit of your stomach, tying your insides in knots and keeping your mind from pleasant thoughts: who do you follow? If it comes to civil war in Astarte, will you fight to protect the old guard of the Verenbergs or lay down your life in support of the Gallicans?
With the state funeral of Christoph in two days and the coronation of Joachim in four, everyone must face the question; you've heard rumblings of what the House of Galloux plans to do on the eve of the coronation. Troussant du Galloux, backed by the authority of his claim to the throne and his possession of the Imperial Signet, will take four legions of Galloux-sympathetic soldiers and travel eastward to Levere, the Ever-Lit City and ancestral home of the Gallicans. There, near Astarte's border with the Sunrise Kingdom of Anatolis, he'll establish his own Astartean throne, threatening to divide the continent into a western and eastern empire in the same way the House of Anatolis did centuries prior.
Anatolis!—you can hardly consider what role they'll play in the succession crisis. And what of Wisteroff, who had so carefully orchestrated a marriage with Christoph to install their child on the throne? Even the fifth Regnant House, the House of Mensor: when the city and empire they raised from the ground of Aventine Augusta centuries ago collapse, what tears will they shed? The questions rattle in your skull with every step you take. However, right now, you only need the answer to one of them. Will you leave your life in Ripae behind—your friends, your family, and even your old self—and follow Troussant toward the beacon of a new life and a new world in Levere? Stand idly by and history will resign you to be a spectator in its inexorable wake; join the Gallican emigration and you may find yourself on the rudder of the historical current, the power to shift its course within the range of your actions.
You step into the anteroom of Senator Troussant's office; or, rather, the office of the Soi-Disant Emperor Troussant. "I want to go to Levere," you proclaim to no one in particular, but a secretary looks up wearily and motions to the dozens of people standing back-to-back along the mahogany wall. "So do they. Fill this out." He hands you a printed form and a fountain pen, and directs you to one of the small desks along the opposite wall.
Is this an application to travel cross-empire? Legal jargon certainly drains an endeavor dry of any romanticism it had. But the significance of the form slowly dawns on you: this isn't an application to go from one city to another; this is an application to go from one country to another. You're applying for a passport and provisional visa to the New Empire of Astarte.
You fill out the form and walk to the end of the line with a spring in your step. As the minutes pass, you overhear the couple in front of you discussing rumors of the route of the emigration: as Verenberg presence in the Imperial Navy is too strong, travel by sea is out, and as Astarte's steam locomotive infrastructure is too underdeveloped to accommodate more than a thousand people, travel by rail is out. The most feasible alternative is travel by horse-drawn omnibus—a month's journey from Ripae to Levere.
The prospect of the journey fills you with anxiety as the registrar takes and reviews your application. With a hurried nod, he stamps the papers, hands them back, and sends you on your way. There would be hundreds more applications to review today, and hundreds more tonight: the call of Levere, of the New Empire of Astarte, was too resounding to ignore. And so, tomorrow, history itself will answer the call—on to Astarte!
"We teach our children that 'the higher the rise, the longer the fall.' It's a cautionary maxim, but one only a parent could care about; our children will become largely inconsequential and their lives won't amount to anything more than ours did—they've only themselves to hurt when they fall. Indeed, we can't maintain the illusion that human society will do anything more than bat an eye when we fall: the bricklayer's walls don't collapse when he does; the farmer's crops don't wilt when he does; the baker's loaves don't rot when he does. The rises to power that should concern us most, rather, are from those that have already risen past us. When the Colossus of Talos fell, how many people were crushed beneath?"
—The Edwardian Analects, vol. III
You see a flash in the corner of your eye. Smoke stings your nostrils. A horse whinnies. The charcoal cotton of a military uniform brushes past your arm.
In the space of a second your mind rushes to make sense of what it's experienced: something isn't right; you've only just left the city; they said Verenberg wouldn't attack before Joachim's coronation; all of this is surely a coincidence. But in the space of another second, the six soldiers in your omnibus leap out and start priming their muskets, after which a lieutenant shouts a command and the two horses driving the bus start moving it forward at full speed. That's when you see it. You look out the back of the bus, back toward the walls of Ripae, and gasp in shock as you see the Unconquerable Sun of the Verenberg battle-standard leading three legions of grey soldiers.
A cannon regiment fires another volley—this time your mind processes the deafening boom—and you see an omnibus in the rear guard dashed to pieces. Maybe two. The scene of the battlefield is too chaotic to comprehend; or, at least, your side of the battlefield is. As Gallican soldiers struggle to come about and form a battle line, the central column of the Verenberg army fires a musket volley at them; as the civilian omnibuses struggle to move past the open field outside Ripae, the two flanking legions of the Verenberg army swing around to double-envelop them.
You turn forward in horror and bury your face in your hands as the morning sun strikes your eyes. How did this happen? Were they hidden inside the city walls? Did the cover of twilight obscure them just enough? Of course, it hardly matters now: even if you survive this onslaught, and even if Emperor Troussant does, there's nothing left for you in this world; the dream of Levere has been vanquished by the rising of the Verenberg sun. The woman next to you bursts into tears; you hear a scream in the distance. Without looking up, the clinging smell of gunpowder says that you haven't made it nearly far enough to escape the battlefield. Yes, this is how it will end. You were a fool to think the fall of Christoph IV could lead to anything but pain—for you, for the five Regnant Houses, and for the entire Empire of Astarte.
Welcome to Empire of Astarte, a Mini for 12 players reviewed by ZDS and ganderin_dan.
All MTGS Mafia rules apply.
I reserve the right to change any rule that isn't an MTGS rule.
Don't post when you're dead. Not even a "bah" post. The dead can't talk.
Don't communicate to anyone about the game outside the confines of the game, whether you're alive or dead.
Don't reference the goings-on of ongoing games.
Don't threaten to replace yourself or be modkilled.
Don't edit or delete your posts (or others', if you've been blessed with that power). This includes posts in a QT chat.
Don't thank posts.
Don't discuss my formatting unless I explicitly allow it.
Don't crypto-claim or use other crypto-text.
Don't quote anything game-related from outside the game thread unless I've given explicit permission to do so. This includes role PMs and QT chats. Please,
don't quote your role PM, borderline quote your role PM, or do anything that could be construed as quoting your role PM. You may loosely paraphrase a quote, but when in doubt, ask me if a paraphrasing is acceptable.
In general, when in doubt, please ask me. I love answering questions, and I may not tolerate ignorance of a question you didn't ask.
If you ask a question in the game thread that pertains specifically to you, in whole or in part, I may not answer it in the game thread but would have answered it in a PM.
Put anything that needs to be read by a mod in bold text at the beginning of a line; preferably on its own line. This includes votes and requests.
You don't need to unvote in order to revote, but it would help. Vote Y while voting X is assumed to be shorthand for Unvote X, Vote Y.
Players cannot vote for themselves. A vote for yourself will be ignored, but if revoting from another player the unvote will still count.
A player is lynched when their lynch threshold has been reached (typically a majority of living players). Twilight begins at that moment and lasts until I say that Night has begun, even if I don't say that it's Twilight. You may post during Twilight but not a moment after—please make sure Night hasn't begun when you post during Twilight.
You may vote for no lynch instead of voting for a player. When the majority of players do so, Twilight will fall as normal and the Day will end without a lynch.
If you're going to be V/LA for more than 72 hours, tell me what dates you'll be V/LA from and till in the game thread if it's Day (if it's Night, PM me instead).
You are required to make at least one post every 72 hours. If you go 72 hours without a post, I'll prod you (if you post before being prodded, I'll retroactively mark that you were prodded for posterity).
There are additional, hidden activity thresholds. If you fail to meet one of these thresholds and I feel that your activity has been lacking, I'll prod you. The average player shouldn't be worried about this—just don't try to skate by on one post every 72 hours.
I reserve the right to set an arbitrary deadline to end the Day, as well as move that deadline up or back in time. If player activity is poor, I may move the deadline up. You can request that I move the deadline back, and if recent activity for all or almost all players has been extraordinary, I may oblige.
If the deadline is reached without a majority lynch, the player with the most votes will be lynched if and only if there's no tie for most.
At the beginning of each Night, I will set a strict deadline for the end of that Night, typically 72 hours from the end of the Day, possibly rounded to the top of the next hour or the next day. All Night actions must be submitted by that deadline, even if I haven't started the next Day yet. Night chats, however, can continue until I start the next Day.
Force-replacement and modkills will be handled on a case-by-case basis. However, this is not license to break the rules. Flagrantly breaking a rule, repeatedly breaking rules, or breaking a major rule will be punished by either force-replacement or being modkilled.
Play nice and have fun
I use the following resolution order for Night actions:
Actions that occur at the beginning of Night
Gaining actions
Losing actions
Becoming untargetable
Blocking redirection
Redirection
Blocking blocks
Blocking other actions
Protection
Item & message actions
Miscellany
Killing & other deaths
Recruiting
Information gathering
Actions that occur at the end of Night
All actions within the same step resolve simultaneously if possible, and will never resolve on timestamp order.
There are five factions, each representing one of the five Regnant Houses.
Any given role may be given a safe name, a safe House, and safe flavor to claim.
Here's a sample Gallican role PM in a box, with the House of Galloux's win condition:
Croquet, in addition to being a gentleman's game, is an absolutely smashing experience—and doubly so when you get to play with the Imperial Court. But when the fortune to do so befalls you (in your experience "befall" is indeed the appropriate choice of word), and you're given the opportunity to roquet the Emperor of Astarte's ball, there are a few things you've learned not to do. First, you don't want to miss his ball altogether; that alone will draw guffaws from the rest of the assembled nobles and turn you into quite the jester in the emperor's eyes. But second—and you can say without a lacing of irony that this is as important as your life—you don't want to roquet the emperor's ball through his next wicket. And you especially don't want to roquet his ball through his next two wickets, clear through to the stake that wins him the game.
From that moment on, your prestige plummeted among each of the interconnected Ripae social circles. As chance would have it, no one cares to associate with someone so comically awful at croquet. And the names they called you! Well, there was really only one, "Croquette," and that faded away once people realized how bad of a pun it was (something about you "mashing" the emperor's ball, but you don't keep up with the latest fashionable wordplay trends). But now, with Christoph dead, you're forced to relive the traumatic memory of that fateful croquet game; you have to consider the croquet ability and etiquette of each of the new claimants to the Astartean throne.
You, more than anyone else, know that a person's true nature rises to the surface when they play croquet, just as it did for the other guests of the emperor's lawn party on that day. And Troussant du Galloux—there's a croquet player if you've ever seen one. Even the way he holds the mallet is like he's holding a scepter, but of course you'd rather seen Emperor Troussant enact his decrees with the mallet. Either way, your mind has been made: you'll follow him to Levere in the hopes that, one day, even you can roquet his ball through the wickets of a New Astarte.
You are from the House of Galloux.
You win when all threats to the House have been eliminated.
"Astarte is too big. Sure, technology has made administration of the empire easier; we now have an engine that carries you from Ripae to Perpetuopolis in a week and a wire that sends a message that distance in the blink of an eye. But the whole thing is still too damn big. The emperor can't possibly administrate the border principalities with the same policies he uses to administrate Ripae: Wiskva, East Salia, and Vascony enjoy a greater degree of autonomy today than when they were independent! There are people under the Astartean crown—under its formal rule and legal jurisdiction—that are foreigners. And if that doesn't frighten you, then good luck when the whole empire goes to pot. But for today, at least, consider what makes a man a true Astartean: consider the behavior and actions of your family, your friends, and even the passers-by on the street, and determine if they're really on your side—the side of Astarte."
—Arthur Morris, for The Herald
You look upward: the Neralbian Mountains. Astarte's longest and highest mountain range runs a thousand miles from north to south, binding the far west of the empire to the rest of the continent like a granite suture, but also separating the City and Principality of Ripae from the rest of the empire. The foothills begin only a hundred miles east of Ripae, and the ridge due east of the city rises to heights of nearly nine thousand feet, snow-capped even as spring approaches; foreboding even though you've seen them hundreds of times from your home in Ripae. That's what you're about to climb.
It's been four hours since the Verenberg ambush began outside Ripae, and your circumstance seems marginally better now than in the despair-filled moment of the attack—if nothing else, you're alive. However, you're also quite mystified at the good fortune that left you alive: the three Verenberg legions were in the tactical position to slaughter every last one of the Gallican emigrants, but when their double envelopment was complete (when every last civilian and Gallican soldier was pinched between two flanking Verenberg legions), the attack was halted, as if that itself was their goal and they were left to wait for a new directive. With the initial chaos of the ambush subsided, the Gallican legions took the opportunity to retreat by cutting diagonally through the left column of the Verenberg force, offering the civilian omnibuses an escape route away from the right column.
Four hours of hard driving—and hundreds of horses dead from exhaustion—carried the remaining omnibuses to the base of the Neralbians, but scattered them over a stretch of thirty miles in the disarray of the retreat. Now, there's nowhere to go but up: if the Verenbergs give chase, the only safe place is the mountains. You climb out of the omnibus, leaving your largest bag behind. A horse whinnies in pain as its legs buckle (your own legs feel like they're about to buckle, but for an entirely different reason). As you look around you realize just how isolated your bus was; it was grouped with four more, and the only other visible buses are miles in the distance. Twelve more people step out of the buses—you see others, but they're dead already.
As the thirteen of you look each other over, a man steps out from among you. He's old—seventy, judging by the wrinkling of his skin—with wispy grey hair, a neatly-trimmed beard, horn-rimmed glasses, and a sage green cloak. "Well! I dare say that was exciting. Shall we get on with it, then?"
The rest of you look around apprehensively. "Who are you? And get on with what, exactly?"
"Levere!—Levere, my good man! That's why the lot of you are here, isn't it? To go to Levere?" He starts hiking up the mountain, unfettered. On an afterthought he turns around to face you again. "As for who I am, it's Alexander Edwards. But really," he says as he gestures at the rest of you, "you shouldn't bother yourselves with me. I'd be more worried about each other." He chuckles to himself and turns to keep walking.
"Where are you going? How are we even getting to Levere, anyway?"
"You're full of questions!" He stops hiking and rests against a pine. You imagine he'd be impatient if not for his apparent unflappability. "We're crossing the Neralbians to Lidge, which should be safe for the time being; once there we'll find a way east to Levere. Locomotive, if possible."
Someone else pipes up. "You—you said we should be worried about each other. What do you mean?"
"Oh, you don't know?" he says with an amused smile. "Not all of you are Gallicans. In fact, from what I can tell, you're a rather colorful bunch. If you want to even make it to Lidge alive, I say you have your work cut out for you."
The twelve of you look around uneasily, swallowing the implication of his words with great difficulty. The man next to you steps forward. "Alexander, what about you? How do you know so much, and who the hell are you? Right now, the only one I'm sure we can't trust is you!"
"My boy," he starts, stopping himself for a hearty laugh. "My boy, if you can't trust me, you're as good as lost already. To be perfectly honest I don't care what happens, so long as I'm there when it does. You see, I'm only here to follow History. But you, all of you: you have your own goals, I'm sure, so I'll let you get to them. For now," he says as he picks up a fallen branch, testing his weight against it with a nod, "we hike! No rest for the weary!" He's already on his way as he lets out a final laugh.
You know Alexander is right, but you have no idea what the next week will hold, for you or the other eleven travelers. If you're indeed following History, as Alexander believes, then it's sure to be interesting.
Just got to say, you've definitely earned distinction as an MTGS hero
Quote from Stardust »
Because he's the hero MTGS deserves, and the one it needs right now. So we'll global him. Because he can take it. Because he's not just our hero. He's a silent guardian, a watchful protector. An expired rascal.
Quote from LuckNorris »
ExpiredRascals you sir are a god-like hero.
Quote from Lanxal »
ER is a masterful god who cannot be beaten in any endeavour.
I don't have any hard numbers on this, but I'm targeted more often than a black guy driving a beat-up sedan with a broken tail-light and no license plate, and Cy's well aware of that.
I don't have any hard numbers on this, but I'm targeted more often than a black guy driving a beat-up sedan with a broken tail-light and no license plate, and Cy's well aware of that.
When art thou voting for Asenion? Clearly the weakest random vote?
Also, 'bout that flavor. Who thinks we can profit from sharing info flavor/win con info, and who thinks it'll be a nice chaotic cluster if we do, so why the hell not?
@Azreal: Doing well, and I think the complexity of the flavor, combined with the downright offensive fact that not everyone has read it all yet *FOR SHAME* would lead to a clusterfudge.... I'm down.
Also, 'bout that flavor. Who thinks we can profit from sharing info flavor/win con info, and who thinks it'll be a nice chaotic cluster if we do, so why the hell not?
When art thou voting for Asenion? Clearly the weakest random vote?
Also, 'bout that flavor. Who thinks we can profit from sharing info flavor/win con info, and who thinks it'll be a nice chaotic cluster if we do, so why the hell not?
Wherefore art thou, Azrael?
Vote "No" on mass-claim of any stripe. The OP says that some people have ready-made false claims, and I'll go out on a limb and say that those with false claims probably aren't pro-town.
Just got to say, you've definitely earned distinction as an MTGS hero
Quote from Stardust »
Because he's the hero MTGS deserves, and the one it needs right now. So we'll global him. Because he can take it. Because he's not just our hero. He's a silent guardian, a watchful protector. An expired rascal.
Quote from LuckNorris »
ExpiredRascals you sir are a god-like hero.
Quote from Lanxal »
ER is a masterful god who cannot be beaten in any endeavour.
Also, 'bout that flavor. Who thinks we can profit from sharing info flavor/win con info, and who thinks it'll be a nice chaotic cluster if we do, so why the hell not?
Just got to say, you've definitely earned distinction as an MTGS hero
Quote from Stardust »
Because he's the hero MTGS deserves, and the one it needs right now. So we'll global him. Because he can take it. Because he's not just our hero. He's a silent guardian, a watchful protector. An expired rascal.
Quote from LuckNorris »
ExpiredRascals you sir are a god-like hero.
Quote from Lanxal »
ER is a masterful god who cannot be beaten in any endeavour.
Just got to say, you've definitely earned distinction as an MTGS hero
Quote from Stardust »
Because he's the hero MTGS deserves, and the one it needs right now. So we'll global him. Because he can take it. Because he's not just our hero. He's a silent guardian, a watchful protector. An expired rascal.
Quote from LuckNorris »
ExpiredRascals you sir are a god-like hero.
Quote from Lanxal »
ER is a masterful god who cannot be beaten in any endeavour.
Just got to say, you've definitely earned distinction as an MTGS hero
Quote from Stardust »
Because he's the hero MTGS deserves, and the one it needs right now. So we'll global him. Because he can take it. Because he's not just our hero. He's a silent guardian, a watchful protector. An expired rascal.
Quote from LuckNorris »
ExpiredRascals you sir are a god-like hero.
Quote from Lanxal »
ER is a masterful god who cannot be beaten in any endeavour.
Just got to say, you've definitely earned distinction as an MTGS hero
Quote from Stardust »
Because he's the hero MTGS deserves, and the one it needs right now. So we'll global him. Because he can take it. Because he's not just our hero. He's a silent guardian, a watchful protector. An expired rascal.
Quote from LuckNorris »
ExpiredRascals you sir are a god-like hero.
Quote from Lanxal »
ER is a masterful god who cannot be beaten in any endeavour.
I'm open to a mass claim on Day 1 because this game has an exceptionally high amount of non-Town players in it. Since RVS is well and truly over now, let's start on some set-up analysis.
12 players
X Town
1-2 Scum (probably)
1 unknown Neutral
1 unknown Neutral
1 unknown Neutral
We have at MOST 8 Townies in the game. Much more likely 6-7. Possibly as low as 5, but I doubt it because that would leave us without a majority on Day 1. (Which is an instant veto from me as a reviewer, and hopefully most others.)
It's possible the scum have as many as 3, but highly unlikely with 3+ neutrals. I'm expecting a Survivor, a Hit-Man, and a third neutral of a different type. The scum could also be a Serial Killer if alone or a Mentor variant.
Now the value of a mass-claim, is that we can lock in everyone. Normally you out too many power roles, but in a game where it's likely that nearly half the game is non-Town, we could get more value from keeping people tied to their claims than from outing our power. Or at least it's worth talking about. Some of them might have prepared claims, but others might not. Even if they do, lying about their role this early will start the spider web and might catch some of them off-balance.
Another thing we need to talk about is how to address the Third-Parties. If we do have a Hit-Man or Serial Killer, they probably have to die along with the scum. But how do we deal with other types of Neutral claims? Because of the high density of them we can't focus on them or we won't ever catch scum, but we can't ignore them either without losing control of the lynch.
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
An accurate description of myself:
Quote from Megiddo »
You're the dude who just lies a lot and makes people hate you and then magically becomes town later, right?
You've been scum in every game I've played with you.
Vote ExpiredRascals
You've been scum in every game I've played with you!
Is the reason I wanted to end RVS. It doesn't read like a joke or RVS post to me, it reads like someone nervous trying to join in. Doesn't help him any that he hasn't posted again in almost 24 hours since the game started heating up.
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
An accurate description of myself:
Quote from Megiddo »
You're the dude who just lies a lot and makes people hate you and then magically becomes town later, right?
When art thou voting for Asenion? Clearly the weakest random vote?
Also, 'bout that flavor. Who thinks we can profit from sharing info flavor/win con info, and who thinks it'll be a nice chaotic cluster if we do, so why the hell not?
Sure, why the hell not? You're neutral, aren't you?
I don't have any hard numbers on this, but I'm targeted more often than a black guy driving a beat-up sedan with a broken tail-light and no license plate, and Cy's well aware of that.
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"Christoph is dead."
The words were whispered into life in the gilded halls of the Imperial Palace on the afternoon of March 16, 1804. Within minutes, they were carried down the foothills of Aventine Augusta, spread across the city of Ripae Proper, and telescribed throughout the land of Astarte in bursts of electricity that seemed aware of the gravity of their message. But you didn't need to be told that: you were there. All you needed was to look up—from the streets of Ripae, from the seaport market, from your office davenport—and see the red eagle of the Astartean flag atop Aventine Augusta in flames. There was no mistaking what you saw, and no mistaking what it meant.
Emperor Christoph IV, Verenberg Monarch, is dead.
It was neither a phial of poison in his drink nor a well-placed knife between his ribs that brought the Emperor of Astarte to his deathbed, but the accumulated burden of 28 years on the Astartean throne and 200 million people under the throne. For many Astarteans, Christoph's death came not a moment too soon, but not one of them could have been acquainted with the terrible conundrum he left unsolved: the imperial succession.
In 1785, Christoph and Militrisa Wisteroff—daughter of the House of Wisteroff—gave birth to the Emperor's only son: Jung, the heir-apparent. And in 1803, not a week after his eighteenth birthday, Jung was killed in a gunpowder explosion during the inspection of a cannon regiment. With no further children, the second in line for succession is Christoph's nephew: Joachim Verenberg, Verenberg Commander, a young lion of the Imperial Navy whose claim to the throne is upheld by the House of Verenberg and its supporters. However, Joachim's claim is rejected by the second-most of the Regnant Houses, the House of Galloux. In 1800, Joachim's father (Christoph's brother), the much-maligned Duke Alois, was exiled and later executed for war crimes—and by old Gallican law, which has no legal importance in Astarte, the consanguinity of Joachim and Christoph was broken when Alois was formally exiled. Galloux, therefore, supports the claim of Christoph's second cousin and the third in line for succession: Troussant du Galloux, Gallican Statesman.
It's now March 21st. For the better part of a week you've heard the question posed again and again. Not in the streets, not in the tavern, and not even behind the doors of your home—no, this is the sort of question that drives an immutable wedge between friends and within families. It's something that resides in the pit of your stomach, tying your insides in knots and keeping your mind from pleasant thoughts: who do you follow? If it comes to civil war in Astarte, will you fight to protect the old guard of the Verenbergs or lay down your life in support of the Gallicans?
With the state funeral of Christoph in two days and the coronation of Joachim in four, everyone must face the question; you've heard rumblings of what the House of Galloux plans to do on the eve of the coronation. Troussant du Galloux, backed by the authority of his claim to the throne and his possession of the Imperial Signet, will take four legions of Galloux-sympathetic soldiers and travel eastward to Levere, the Ever-Lit City and ancestral home of the Gallicans. There, near Astarte's border with the Sunrise Kingdom of Anatolis, he'll establish his own Astartean throne, threatening to divide the continent into a western and eastern empire in the same way the House of Anatolis did centuries prior.
Anatolis!—you can hardly consider what role they'll play in the succession crisis. And what of Wisteroff, who had so carefully orchestrated a marriage with Christoph to install their child on the throne? Even the fifth Regnant House, the House of Mensor: when the city and empire they raised from the ground of Aventine Augusta centuries ago collapse, what tears will they shed? The questions rattle in your skull with every step you take. However, right now, you only need the answer to one of them. Will you leave your life in Ripae behind—your friends, your family, and even your old self—and follow Troussant toward the beacon of a new life and a new world in Levere? Stand idly by and history will resign you to be a spectator in its inexorable wake; join the Gallican emigration and you may find yourself on the rudder of the historical current, the power to shift its course within the range of your actions.
You step into the anteroom of Senator Troussant's office; or, rather, the office of the Soi-Disant Emperor Troussant. "I want to go to Levere," you proclaim to no one in particular, but a secretary looks up wearily and motions to the dozens of people standing back-to-back along the mahogany wall. "So do they. Fill this out." He hands you a printed form and a fountain pen, and directs you to one of the small desks along the opposite wall.
Is this an application to travel cross-empire? Legal jargon certainly drains an endeavor dry of any romanticism it had. But the significance of the form slowly dawns on you: this isn't an application to go from one city to another; this is an application to go from one country to another. You're applying for a passport and provisional visa to the New Empire of Astarte.
You fill out the form and walk to the end of the line with a spring in your step. As the minutes pass, you overhear the couple in front of you discussing rumors of the route of the emigration: as Verenberg presence in the Imperial Navy is too strong, travel by sea is out, and as Astarte's steam locomotive infrastructure is too underdeveloped to accommodate more than a thousand people, travel by rail is out. The most feasible alternative is travel by horse-drawn omnibus—a month's journey from Ripae to Levere.
The prospect of the journey fills you with anxiety as the registrar takes and reviews your application. With a hurried nod, he stamps the papers, hands them back, and sends you on your way. There would be hundreds more applications to review today, and hundreds more tonight: the call of Levere, of the New Empire of Astarte, was too resounding to ignore. And so, tomorrow, history itself will answer the call—on to Astarte!
"We teach our children that 'the higher the rise, the longer the fall.' It's a cautionary maxim, but one only a parent could care about; our children will become largely inconsequential and their lives won't amount to anything more than ours did—they've only themselves to hurt when they fall. Indeed, we can't maintain the illusion that human society will do anything more than bat an eye when we fall: the bricklayer's walls don't collapse when he does; the farmer's crops don't wilt when he does; the baker's loaves don't rot when he does. The rises to power that should concern us most, rather, are from those that have already risen past us. When the Colossus of Talos fell, how many people were crushed beneath?"
—The Edwardian Analects, vol. III
You see a flash in the corner of your eye. Smoke stings your nostrils. A horse whinnies. The charcoal cotton of a military uniform brushes past your arm.
In the space of a second your mind rushes to make sense of what it's experienced: something isn't right; you've only just left the city; they said Verenberg wouldn't attack before Joachim's coronation; all of this is surely a coincidence. But in the space of another second, the six soldiers in your omnibus leap out and start priming their muskets, after which a lieutenant shouts a command and the two horses driving the bus start moving it forward at full speed. That's when you see it. You look out the back of the bus, back toward the walls of Ripae, and gasp in shock as you see the Unconquerable Sun of the Verenberg battle-standard leading three legions of grey soldiers.
A cannon regiment fires another volley—this time your mind processes the deafening boom—and you see an omnibus in the rear guard dashed to pieces. Maybe two. The scene of the battlefield is too chaotic to comprehend; or, at least, your side of the battlefield is. As Gallican soldiers struggle to come about and form a battle line, the central column of the Verenberg army fires a musket volley at them; as the civilian omnibuses struggle to move past the open field outside Ripae, the two flanking legions of the Verenberg army swing around to double-envelop them.
You turn forward in horror and bury your face in your hands as the morning sun strikes your eyes. How did this happen? Were they hidden inside the city walls? Did the cover of twilight obscure them just enough? Of course, it hardly matters now: even if you survive this onslaught, and even if Emperor Troussant does, there's nothing left for you in this world; the dream of Levere has been vanquished by the rising of the Verenberg sun. The woman next to you bursts into tears; you hear a scream in the distance. Without looking up, the clinging smell of gunpowder says that you haven't made it nearly far enough to escape the battlefield. Yes, this is how it will end. You were a fool to think the fall of Christoph IV could lead to anything but pain—for you, for the five Regnant Houses, and for the entire Empire of Astarte.
Welcome to Empire of Astarte, a Mini for 12 players reviewed by ZDS and ganderin_dan.
All actions within the same step resolve simultaneously if possible, and will never resolve on timestamp order.
Introduction (Signups)
People of Astarte (Role PMs)
Prologue: The Rooster's Crowing (Pregame)
Chapter I: On to Lidge (Day 1)
An Interlude
The Regnant Houses
Chapter II: The Flower of Carnage (Night 1)
Chapter III: A Thief in the Night (Day 2)
Chapter IV: Lunacy Beneath a Lenten Moon (Night 2)
Chapter V: Handshakes & Heartache (Day 3)
Chapter VI: A Starless Sky (Night 3)
Chapter VII: Deaths Close and Far (Day 4)
Chapter VIII: Shepherd's Warning (Night 4)
Ending: The Two Empresses (Game Over)
"Astarte is too big. Sure, technology has made administration of the empire easier; we now have an engine that carries you from Ripae to Perpetuopolis in a week and a wire that sends a message that distance in the blink of an eye. But the whole thing is still too damn big. The emperor can't possibly administrate the border principalities with the same policies he uses to administrate Ripae: Wiskva, East Salia, and Vascony enjoy a greater degree of autonomy today than when they were independent! There are people under the Astartean crown—under its formal rule and legal jurisdiction—that are foreigners. And if that doesn't frighten you, then good luck when the whole empire goes to pot. But for today, at least, consider what makes a man a true Astartean: consider the behavior and actions of your family, your friends, and even the passers-by on the street, and determine if they're really on your side—the side of Astarte."
—Arthur Morris, for The Herald
You look upward: the Neralbian Mountains. Astarte's longest and highest mountain range runs a thousand miles from north to south, binding the far west of the empire to the rest of the continent like a granite suture, but also separating the City and Principality of Ripae from the rest of the empire. The foothills begin only a hundred miles east of Ripae, and the ridge due east of the city rises to heights of nearly nine thousand feet, snow-capped even as spring approaches; foreboding even though you've seen them hundreds of times from your home in Ripae. That's what you're about to climb.
It's been four hours since the Verenberg ambush began outside Ripae, and your circumstance seems marginally better now than in the despair-filled moment of the attack—if nothing else, you're alive. However, you're also quite mystified at the good fortune that left you alive: the three Verenberg legions were in the tactical position to slaughter every last one of the Gallican emigrants, but when their double envelopment was complete (when every last civilian and Gallican soldier was pinched between two flanking Verenberg legions), the attack was halted, as if that itself was their goal and they were left to wait for a new directive. With the initial chaos of the ambush subsided, the Gallican legions took the opportunity to retreat by cutting diagonally through the left column of the Verenberg force, offering the civilian omnibuses an escape route away from the right column.
Four hours of hard driving—and hundreds of horses dead from exhaustion—carried the remaining omnibuses to the base of the Neralbians, but scattered them over a stretch of thirty miles in the disarray of the retreat. Now, there's nowhere to go but up: if the Verenbergs give chase, the only safe place is the mountains. You climb out of the omnibus, leaving your largest bag behind. A horse whinnies in pain as its legs buckle (your own legs feel like they're about to buckle, but for an entirely different reason). As you look around you realize just how isolated your bus was; it was grouped with four more, and the only other visible buses are miles in the distance. Twelve more people step out of the buses—you see others, but they're dead already.
As the thirteen of you look each other over, a man steps out from among you. He's old—seventy, judging by the wrinkling of his skin—with wispy grey hair, a neatly-trimmed beard, horn-rimmed glasses, and a sage green cloak. "Well! I dare say that was exciting. Shall we get on with it, then?"
The rest of you look around apprehensively. "Who are you? And get on with what, exactly?"
"Levere!—Levere, my good man! That's why the lot of you are here, isn't it? To go to Levere?" He starts hiking up the mountain, unfettered. On an afterthought he turns around to face you again. "As for who I am, it's Alexander Edwards. But really," he says as he gestures at the rest of you, "you shouldn't bother yourselves with me. I'd be more worried about each other." He chuckles to himself and turns to keep walking.
"Where are you going? How are we even getting to Levere, anyway?"
"You're full of questions!" He stops hiking and rests against a pine. You imagine he'd be impatient if not for his apparent unflappability. "We're crossing the Neralbians to Lidge, which should be safe for the time being; once there we'll find a way east to Levere. Locomotive, if possible."
Someone else pipes up. "You—you said we should be worried about each other. What do you mean?"
"Oh, you don't know?" he says with an amused smile. "Not all of you are Gallicans. In fact, from what I can tell, you're a rather colorful bunch. If you want to even make it to Lidge alive, I say you have your work cut out for you."
The twelve of you look around uneasily, swallowing the implication of his words with great difficulty. The man next to you steps forward. "Alexander, what about you? How do you know so much, and who the hell are you? Right now, the only one I'm sure we can't trust is you!"
"My boy," he starts, stopping himself for a hearty laugh. "My boy, if you can't trust me, you're as good as lost already. To be perfectly honest I don't care what happens, so long as I'm there when it does. You see, I'm only here to follow History. But you, all of you: you have your own goals, I'm sure, so I'll let you get to them. For now," he says as he picks up a fallen branch, testing his weight against it with a nod, "we hike! No rest for the weary!" He's already on his way as he lets out a final laugh.
You know Alexander is right, but you have no idea what the next week will hold, for you or the other eleven travelers. If you're indeed following History, as Alexander believes, then it's sure to be interesting.
Day 1 has begun! With 12 alive, it's 7 to lynch.
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First to post = scum
tl;dr on the novel, but I'll probably read it later.
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You've been scum in every game I've played with you.
Body Count: GRRRUUUUUUUUUUU
إن سرقت إسرق جمل
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Always.
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He's clearly out for blood.
UUU Azami, Lady of Scrolls
RRR Diaochan, Artful Beauty
UR(U/R) Tibor, Lumia, & Melek (WIP)
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Sigil: an MMORPCCG ">Mexus: An MMORPCCG
In that case, you should also vote the mod. In the OP, he doesn't use the colon either.
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Asenion also didn't use a colon, but you only called out Tanarin.
unvote.
Vote: iRebel
I guess that gives the mod and I Protection from Colonoscopies...
* Tanarin runs away
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Vote Tanarin
Lame joke is laaamee.
You're right. But I don't like antagonising the mod XD.
But Tanarin was my teacher! I distinctly remember him using the colon in #78 lol.
You shouldn't age yourself so much
UUU Azami, Lady of Scrolls
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Vote ExpiredRascals
You've been scum in every game I've played with you!
I'm done with RVS. I will not end it until everyone checks in though as a courtesy.
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Which is more important: the prosperity of the New Empire of Astarte, or saving the whales? Would you kill a whale for your country?
How art thou?
[Commence scum lurking]
Why art thou?
Which art thou?
When art thou voting for Asenion? Clearly the weakest random vote?
Also, 'bout that flavor. Who thinks we can profit from sharing info flavor/win con info, and who thinks it'll be a nice chaotic cluster if we do, so why the hell not?
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Vote: Azrael
Hey Cythare, why aren't you jumping on those guys for using the Fry emoticon incorrectly?
That better be a joke vote.
I only have eyes for you.I learn from my mistakes.Why can't it be a real vote?
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Err, whoops, that second quote was supposed to be this quote, not something from Club Flamingo.
Reiterated for posterity: Why can't it be a real vote?
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I'm obv-town already. I mean, clearly.
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Why?
Sigil: an MMORPCCG ">Mexus: An MMORPCCG
Because that would be one of the silliest reasons to vote someone. Hes rping and or crypto claiming.
I want to mass claim right now. Really.
Don't be sheep and start voting me either.
They hate us cause they ain't us.
* ExpiredRascals starts to raise hand *
Oh wait...
* ExpiredRascals puts hand back down *
Wherefore art thou, Azrael?
Vote "No" on mass-claim of any stripe. The OP says that some people have ready-made false claims, and I'll go out on a limb and say that those with false claims probably aren't pro-town.
Clearly.
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Unvote. Vote: Archmage Eternal
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I hope you're not serious.
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Why so serious?
At this point, I'm dead serious.
I want to know whether you were serious with that post.
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Why?
Body Count: GRRRUUUUUUUUUUU
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How do you know there are three scum?
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Mathematics. Plus, I night talk with two of them. So, there's that.
Oh yeah, I need to do my obligatory "yay, I'm town again, game over!" post, so that people aren't scared of me.
Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!
(Game over.)
You mean mathematics in a game that is supposed to have 5 factions?
Vote Azrael
Draft my cube! (630 cards)
12 players
X Town
1-2 Scum (probably)
1 unknown Neutral
1 unknown Neutral
1 unknown Neutral
We have at MOST 8 Townies in the game. Much more likely 6-7. Possibly as low as 5, but I doubt it because that would leave us without a majority on Day 1. (Which is an instant veto from me as a reviewer, and hopefully most others.)
It's possible the scum have as many as 3, but highly unlikely with 3+ neutrals. I'm expecting a Survivor, a Hit-Man, and a third neutral of a different type. The scum could also be a Serial Killer if alone or a Mentor variant.
Now the value of a mass-claim, is that we can lock in everyone. Normally you out too many power roles, but in a game where it's likely that nearly half the game is non-Town, we could get more value from keeping people tied to their claims than from outing our power. Or at least it's worth talking about. Some of them might have prepared claims, but others might not. Even if they do, lying about their role this early will start the spider web and might catch some of them off-balance.
Another thing we need to talk about is how to address the Third-Parties. If we do have a Hit-Man or Serial Killer, they probably have to die along with the scum. But how do we deal with other types of Neutral claims? Because of the high density of them we can't focus on them or we won't ever catch scum, but we can't ignore them either without losing control of the lynch.
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Is the reason I wanted to end RVS. It doesn't read like a joke or RVS post to me, it reads like someone nervous trying to join in. Doesn't help him any that he hasn't posted again in almost 24 hours since the game started heating up.
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Sure, why the hell not? You're neutral, aren't you?
This is an awful, awful, awful, vote. Explain yourself.
This.
Unvote; vote: Sir Karn
On the mass claim, I'm down. Let's do it popcorn style.
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