Jack Vaux-Harrowden
Posts: 245
12/27/2011
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You have, at many a masquerade and society dinner, inquired of me how I come to know all of the intriguing tales I share at such events.
And though many a time I have demured, your pleading, dear heart, most delicious of friends, has won me over at last; so I now impart to you one last marvelous tale before I leave to sail the still waters of the Unterzee.
There is, you see, a tavern in Spite--once a true hive of scum and villainy, but much civilized after it received the attention of certain of the aristocracy, and now reserved almost exclusively for young noblemen who wish to go slumming without actually facing the vulgarity and discomfort of a genuine slum.
And in this tavern there meets, once a week, a group of young nobles--men, women, persons indeterminate, and occasionally even the better sort of servant or a genuinely polite (and well-heeled) Surfacer or Rubbery Man. They call themselves the Young Blood's Adventuring Society, and they gather to share tales--entirely true tales, sirrah, and let any who says otherwise draw steel and defend his villainous insinuation--they gather to share tales of their exploits upon the Surface of the Earth, during their departures from the Neath.
Of course, I can say to you with confidence that these 'genuinely genuine stories of adventure' are a pack of lies: fictions, fabularities and fantasies, but immensely entertaining ones; entertaining enough, it has appeared, to make me the talk of more salons than perhaps, given my chequered past, is to my benefit.
I am even now seeking to establish a reputation in London sufficient that I might convince certain parties that I ought to be allowed a ship of my own; perhaps during my impending absence certain wicked rumours and calumnies about my honourable self shall become, so to speak, old news.
I hope I shall see you again upon my return, dearest of the dear and most delectable of the delicious, but only time will tell.
Yrs truly,
-Jack Vaux-Harrowden
Out-of-character: What even is going on here, anyway? (Please do read this) wrote:
My fellow Fallen Londoners, I propose a game. And I propose it in an awkward quote format because it appears we don't yet have [spoiler] tags or any other ability to set aside, and preferably hide, text.
The game I propose is my own variation on an RPG called The Extraordinary Adventures of Baron Munchausen--it's a fantastic system, but ill-suited to play-by-post, as the core mechanics focus on the ability to interrupt other players as they speak. I think it'd be fantastic for these forums, though--fellow Echo Bazaar players seem like a perfect group for this system, and I think the fact that our young noblemen have never actually seen the surface would add a new dimension to the game. The standard Munchausen tales take place in darkest Africa, furthest Nippon and exotic India, but there's no distinction to a Fallen Londoner between distant Prussia (where the military keeps strict control, on pain of death, of all the nation's horses, they being difficult to acquire in that snow-choked landscape) and savage, exotic Philadelphia (the City of Brotherly Love, so called for the scandalous liaisons so famous in their royal family, the Penn-Sylle branch of the Tudors).
For those not familiar with the game, I'll explain; for those who know it, please do at least skim this section, as the rules I propose (which you are welcome to comment on, and which I will be happy to amend between play cycles) are rather different from the ones in the actual book.
So: you will be roleplaying as a member of the Young Blood's Adventuring Society, or as one of their occasional guests--maybe even one who has actually seen the surface. If you're not one of the first let's say five to post, then you'll need to describe your character's arrival in our tavern and subsequent joining of the tale-telling. Not because there's anything wrong with you, just because I don't know how many people will even be interested and we can't have too many people who were absolutely there all along before it strains belief, and the gathering in the tavern isn't the part that's supposed to cause such strain.
You'll arrive at the table with a purse of seven 'Echoes'--abstract points out-of-character, cold hard cash in-character--which are used during the round of questions, comments, and corrections that follow a tale. (I considered using social actions--boxed cats, sparring bouts, and all the rest--as currency, but I had no idea how we'd settle an exchange rate, so I went with abstract points; if you want to bargain with your fellow players to swap those points for promises of socialization, then go right ahead.)
One person at a time, beginning with myself because I'm the first to post, will take it upon themselves to share a tale of one occasion on which they ventured to the Surface. They're welcome to be as detailed or vague, as brief or as long-winded as they like, bearing in mind of course that they're writing for an audience with the goal of impressing them.
Once the tale is posted, the rest of the players have the opportunity to react in character, offer comments, sarcasm, or witticisms, and to make two kinds of game action: wagers and objections. Both of these kinds of action can spawn a sub-story--requiring the storyteller to go back and amend their tale, filling in details or making corrections. I won't say wagers and objections to a sub-story are outright banned, but please try to keep that sort of thing reasonable; the tale has to end eventually, and the storyteller's throat could get very dry indeed.
A wager is when a player wants to hear more of the story spun out, and so picks a place in the tale where details were glossed over and offers up a stake of one or more Echoes to ask for an explanation. For example: 'Dear Baron, you skipped over sailing from Lesotho to Russia entirely, but I'd wager five Echoes there was a stowaway...' The storyteller may then accept the wager, add the stake to their purse, and tell a sub-story detailing the events described in the wager.
An objection is when the veracity of the storyteller is called into question. The objecting player offers up a stake of one (and only one) Echo, and challenges a fact mentioned in the story, demanding an explanation. The storyteller now has two options: add the stake to their purse, accept the challenge (and any abuse that was attached to it) and correct themselves, or add an Echo of their own to the stake, rebutting the challenge. The challenger may then add the stake to their purse, backing down (and accepting any abuse the storyteller cared to offer) or hold their own, adding another Echo to the stake. The betting continues thus until one party backs down and accepts the money, whether because they're tired of the argument or because they ran out of Echoes and can't add another to the stake. This has the potential to drag on for a long time and bog the whole game down, so please do exercise good judgment; if it gets to be a problem, we can settle on harsher limits.
In addition to the round of questions at the end of a given tale, a storyteller who's running out of money, ideas, or both (or who simply finds it appealing) can take a dramatic pause--post their tale incomplete, and accept wagers and objections as it stands before picking the thread up again.
Once twenty-four hours have passed without a wager or objection, the tale draws to a close and the next storyteller (that is, whoever is first to post the next story) takes their turn. No storyteller can take more than one turn in the spotlight in a single play cycle.
After forty-eight hours pass without a story being told, the play cycle is over. Each player then has twenty-four hours to cast their vote for whoever they felt told the best story. When you vote for a player, your purse is emptied, becoming that players' bounty. Bounty is not added to the receiving players' purse. You cannot vote for yourself--it'd be extremely poor form anyhow. Once all the votes are cast, the player with the greatest bounty is the winner of that play cycle, all purses revert to seven Echoes, and the game begins anew as soon as someone posts a story. Bounty will serve as a sort of running score throughout the game and across play cycles, but only the bounty gained in a given play cycle counts to win that cycle.
Quick disclaimer: I'm nominally in charge by virtue of posting the rules and starting the thread, but I claim no actual authority. Again, this post has turned into 3 AM Theatre, so it's probable someone will have a better idea for the rules. I'll just go by votes; I'll only make the call myself in case of a tie, or if no third party has yet commented on the suggested changes.
edited by Jack Vaux-Harrowden on 12/27/2011
edited by Jack Vaux-Harrowden on 12/28/2011
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Jack Vaux-Harrowden
Posts: 245
12/27/2011
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Wonderful! It looks like we've got a decent group of players, so I may as well start us off.
A tavern in Spite—aromatic, despite its surprising gentility. Light glinting off a lacquered table—a cross-section of a tree, mounted on legs. Not genuine, of course, but a cunning replica.
A hand in immaculate gentleman's gloves lifts a tankard, and the tales begin.
"My turn, then? Very well. This is the entirely true tale of how I became the personal dancing instructor to the King of Siam."
The First Tale: How the Viscount Falstaff became the Personal Dancing Instructor to the King of Siam
"It all began, you see, with a calling-card, brought to me by my manservant Cornelius early one morning, along with a bundle of genuine Surface grapes. Apparently there'd been a visitor during the night—the courier of an archaeologist whose acquaintance I'd made when I funded a part of his expedition to go turning over stones in the Forgotten Quarter some years ago.
According to Cornelius, an urchin had come round with the grapes, the calling card, and a message—'By Jove, I've found something immense! You must come at once to Paris!'
Now, I felt it rather rude of the man to summon me at all, let alone so abruptly, but the grapes were still fresh—clearly he'd spared no expense in getting them, and his message, to me with astounding haste and therefore, I surmised, urgency. And my curiosity was somewhat piqued. So I told Cornelius to pack some bags, for we were taking a trip to Paris.
We took great care to pack such items as we were likely to require--surface money, toiletries, a ready supply of books (only the most instructional sort; I don't hold with such nonsense as novels), provisions, phrase-books, my trusty rapier, and of course a few bottles of some of Gebrandt's more clever brews—curatives, restoratives, and (following the scandalous events of Lord A—'s Yuletide Ball three years prior) a solvent for dyes. The usual servants, retainers, guides, and hangers-on were hired, and excepting an unfortunate but predictably brief (given that I learnt to fence from Cyrano de Bergerac himself) encounter with an over-bold spirifer, it was without incident that our party reached the Cumaean Canal.
I shall not bore you with the events of our journey from there to the Surface; we drifted in a stately manner along the serene water, admiring the reflections of the false-stars and trading tales (which I shall not recount here, for though I am told that nesting stories within each other is the fashion in parts of Araby I find the idea of such a practice most disconcerting, and not a little impolite; where might such a story end?), and in that way did we reach the caverns of Italy, from whence to travel by way of train to Paris to meet my erstwhile scholar.
And it was thus that I found myself in a French coffeehouse sharing English toffee with a Greek archaeologist and discussing, of all things, the Siamese royal court.
You see, my friend was quite convinced that he’d found the lost tomb of Messerach—evidently a Mesopotamian monarch of some renown, importance, and most of all wealth—but was quite convinced that the key to this ancient storehouse of wisdom, treasure, and a monarch’s preserved organs was in the possession of the King of Siam, and he had decided to prevail upon me to retrieve it!
Well, needless to say I was rather put out that he’d call me all the way to France just to tell me I’d need to travel all the way to Siam, but I had already agreed to help the gentleman, and a promise is a promise, no matter how reluctant I was at that juncture to honor it.
It seemed that Fate had smiled upon this particular misadventure, for once again it was in swiftness and without incident that we were able to sail to Siam, and thence to travel to the Court of the King.
We could see the palace even from the outskirts of the city, for though most of the buildings were barely tall enough for a grown man to stand in at his full height the palace towered, nearly as high as New Newgate and roofed entirely in gold.
Now, I had heard from those locals I had seen fit to question that the King of Siam was a man of eccentric whim, liable to treat a new arrival—especially one so obviously foreign, for it had been several years since my last Surface venture (the one, as you’ll recall, involving the rediscovery of Machiavelli’s own copy of The Prince) and I had the pallor common to all Fallen Londoners, a paleness found not even in the forest-folk of Sweden but only, on the Surface, in the albino tribesmen of south Mali; a people who I clearly did not number among, for I was clad in silk, which they, for religious reasons, refuse to wear—in whatever manner, however kind or cruel, struck his fancy, and I was thus reluctant to make myself known to him.
It was fortunate, then, that Cornelius had (bless the man) brought with us my most silent spidersilk slippers, and footfalls thus quieted I crept like a churchmouse into the grand Palace of Siam.
Quickly, however, I learned that I could go nowhere in the palace without discovery, for the King of Siam was kept aware of the comings and goings of the Palace quite reliably, though through a truly singular method.
You see, the roof of the Palace was held up by columns, of course, but not columns of stone or iron or even wood—but columns of men! Yes, each of the pillars of the Siamese royal abode consisted of thirty stout men, each standing upon the shoulders of another except the stoutest of all who was the column’s base; and each man was turned at a slight angle from the rest of his compatriots, thus affording the pillar as a whole a complete field of view.
Perplexed by this admittedly cunning oddity, I stared from where I lurked beside the gate at one of this curious columns, and at a little length I noticed that each man was wearing a most peculiar earring—a longish cylinder, most thing, suspended by a chain and frequently tucked behind the man’s ear? Each of them had one, so they could not merely be decorations, but what purpose might such a thing—oh, of course! They were not earrings, friends, but pens! And so it was that I surmised how these column-men made their reports to the King, being of course unable to find him in person as they could not leave without bringing the palace tumbling down. But in a belt-pouch each man kept a supply of parchment, and upon witnessing a thing of note he’d bring out his pen and begin to record it until he felt the pillar grow unstable, and he would then drop the note and grab the man above him to restabilize; the next man down would catch the note and continue where the prior had left off, and so the completed note would be passed down to the bottom-most man, who would keep it in a leather satchel at his side for the King’s eventual retrieval.
Well, I knew I’d have to get that key, but I knew further that I couldn’t very well have a literal paper trail of notes to the King behind me, so I surmised I’d simply have to steal the notes as I crept; if I retrieved them unnoticed, then the pillar-men would have no reason to write another, and the King would remain ignorant of my whereabouts and presence.
But this was folly, for I had forgotten: by angling themselves the column-keepers had granted themselves a full field of vision, and thus my attempts at stealthy retrieval were doomed from the start; and no sooner had I dipped my fingers into the first pillar’s satchel but the men who composed raised such a hue and cry that, I confess, I panicked, and struck out at them.
Which was, of course, folly again—for it was they who held up the roof above all of our collective heads! With a great crashing, the pillar crumbled into its component patriots, and the roof, groaning, began to tear and sink and tumble down, threatening to crush me.
It was only with great difficulty, and by exercising every ounce of nimbleness I had learned in all my adventuring, that I was able to escape the collapsing palace, leaping at last from the gate of the palace into the fresh air and bright sun; I paused a moment, staring at the ruin, turned around—and, standing behind me in full regalia, the King!
For a long moment we stared at one another, and then he spoke:
‘You have brought down my entire winter palace; I confess I am displeased. You have come to my land to relieve me of a treasure that I won fairly; I confess I am displeased. You have brought about the deaths of countless of my loyal pillar-spies; I confess I am displeased.
But I will spare you the consequences of what you have done, and even give you that which you came here to steal.
You see, I find myself more deeply in love by the day with the Englishwoman who I hired to teach my children.
You are very light on your feet, to escape the palace as it became a ruin, and she is quite fond of waltzing.
So: for a year and a day you shall be my personal dancing instructor.”
Out-of-character: The Viscount Falstaff wrote:
Current storyteller
Purse: 7 Echoes
Tales: The First Tale (How the Viscount Falstaff became the Personal Dancing Instructor of the King of Siam)
Round 1 Bounty: 0
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