+-Character--------------+-HP-+-STR-+-REF-+-PER-+-END-+
| The Three Sisters | 5 | 4 | 4 | 2 | 5 |
+------------------------+----+-----+-----+-----+-----+
| Age: 21761
| Origin: The Sea
| Weapon: Katana
|
| Nemesis (+5 all attacks):
| T.D. Himself [guest_account_7]
|
| The Kurgan have caught your scent and are on your trail.
Everyone should have a private message updating their hidden bonuses and/or abilities. If you spy any discrepancies in your character sheets or bonuses, please let me know via PM and I’ll investigate.
Travel destinations should be up here in a little bit - as always, thank you for your patience.
Become a founding member of the Illuminati (1776): "Adam Weishaupt founded this secret society in the late 18th century. Only the members know the true extent of the group’s power and influence. Do the rumors begin where the truth ends? Or is it the other way around?" Factions: n/a Effects: +1 STR, +1 PER
The French Revolution (1789 - 1799): "Unrest, conflict, bloodshed. The weapons change, but every century is the same. That having been said, the ironic appeal of watching some heads roll is not lost on you…" Factions: n/a Effects: +1 REF, +1 END
Obtain an autographed first edition of Sense and Sensibility (1811-1813): "The writings of an anonymous author have caused a bit of a stir in England, capturing the zeitgeist from a woman’s point of view. You’ll need to do a little bit of leg work to uncover the author’s identity, but you suspect the book will be remarkably valuable in years to come." Factions: n/a Effects: +1 REF, +1 PER
“I am listening and ready to record your intentions.”
Current status: Awake and listening
Order submission: Available
Submission deadline: 2017-10-27 23:00:00 -0400
A strange header: 9ca465df2e28e3159d2c67b413fa42bf9772db99
As a reminder - the BBS is moving from bbs.elsewhere.cafe to the new address of bbs.elsewhere.cafe late tomorrow night (EDT). Updates will be posted, but you may wish to keep an eye on the migration topic:
Following my time amongst the Iroquois, I decided to stay around the New World for a while. Since I had gained a taste for piracy during the previous century, I decided that I would base myself in the Caribbean for a time.
I based myself around the Spanish Main.
I took the name of François l’Olonnais. I discovered I had quite the taste for marauding, and took a particular interest in attacking the Spanish, for which the French were happy to reward me.
Alas, my career, while brilliant, was short. Not long after having an old Spanish friend for dinner, I was obliged to fake my own death and move on.
I made my way to the court of King Charles II, that tremendously fun madman, and lived for a while as one of his favourites, John Wilmot.
It was a merry time, as England recovered from the rule of that joyless bastard, Cromwell.
Again, though, a sadly shortlived experience. And all the debauchery got to me in the end. I became a little ill, and was obliged to take a rest cure. The Stuarts were coming to an end, James was nowhere near as much fun as his brother. I laid low during the Glorious Revolution. Hanoverian England was excruciatingly full, although punctuated with more fighting against the Spanish, naturally - but early on during Farmer George’s reign, the immortals began to come together again.
I am writing this letter using the “Calon Lan” cipher developed by my mentor Merlin, which may only be read by those of pure heart. I have doubled and redoubled the spell of encipherment, using extra eye of [redacted], but even that may not be enough, for I suspect that Christopher Marlowe, the man in the middle of my correspondence with [redacted], has broken the cipher, and my our enemies may have access to it. I would not take this dangerous step except in a case of great emergency.
We are in the midst of major upheavals in our lives. Events such as the Black Death and the revelations of the Polish sage Copernicus have caused many to question our view of the world and the structures of our society.
By now we have all seen the portents in the sky, the comet’s tail like a great banner prophesying a rent in the very fabric of the Cosmos itself.
The rabble act as if this great matter is of no more import than changing one’s boots. But I have come to the firm belief that these changes are not random events, but part of an age-old conspiracy to reshape the Universe for the benefit of a small cabal. I believe that its members possess the ability, like Merlin the Wise, to see the past and the future, and to weave dark magic. I believe that they are the source of that dread compulsion that causes us to murder our fellows whenever we meet, despite the fact that, as the esteemed Sir Ronald “Bon” McEvoy has pointed out, it makes no sense, and many of us feel extreme remorse afterwards.
It has come to a point where I feel I have no choice but to name that cabal, regardless of the danger to all of us, and to another whom I have sworn to protect.
J’accuse!
I accuse Mr.Collins @David_Falkayn of being the mastermind behind the aforesaid cabal, a false manipulator who spreads lies to divide and confuse us.
Item: He seems obsessed with collecting and controlling all knowledge. Years ago, before I had begun to encipher my journal, I carelessly made mention of the library where my writings are stored. Within a fortnight I had a private letter from Mr. Collins. He had already gone there without my permission, attempting to intimidate the monks of [redacted] into letting him read the volumes. The monks, however, true to their oath, held fast and would not admit him. He had the gall to propose that I should travel thither with him and allow him to get his hands on the books. Fearing treachery, I declined.
Item: Recently Mr. Collins wrote an open letter dismissing the possibility that T.D. Himself has any connection to his evil conspiracy, instead trying to divert suspicion to Evelyn Wolff @Nightflyer as the manipulator hiding among us.
But consider this picture, painted at the wedding feast of Elizabeth Báthory, at which Mr. Collins served as Master of Ceremonies:
I believe the servant emerging from the doorway on the right is Yevgeniya Nikolaevna Vovk (Evelyn Wolff as we now know her), in disguise for her own reasons. I suspect Mr.Collins first noticed her at this feast and marked her as a convenient scapegoat for the future.
(Nota Bene: Lady Evelyn replied to my letter to her on the subject of the incident in Beijing, but did not include the check rune that I suggested. We must assume she is under some geas that prevents her from speaking freely.)
Item: Mr.Collins professes great remorse at having killed Lady Maple Clamphoof in Nuremberg, and disingenuously claims not to recall the event. He forgets that I was a witness to that murder. I clearly heard him say to her, “Prepare to die!” and swear to have her head mounted above his fireplace. (A vow more honoured in the breach than the observance, and one I took to be mere rhetoric at the time. Has anyone seen Lady Maple’s head recently?)
Of the other members of the cabal, more anon. The singular transition foretold by the prophet @LockeCJ approaches. I go now to purify my body and compose my mind. May we meet again on the other side.
I can assure you, sir knight, that the only conspiracy of which I am a member is one that schemes to keep my own head firmly attatched to my shoulders.
I keep no council with our esteemed Mr. Collins (@David_Falkayn). To be honest, I am unconvinced he knows half of that which he claims to know… but that is neither here nor there. If there were any among us I counted as a comrade-in-arms, that would be Aeaba. Yet if I’ve heard true, she has fallen to the bloodthirsty blade of Jane (@MalevolentPixy). And I do hope to address that matter with her at some point in future, when we are not subject to the peace of Armistice.
That was a rune? By the time I received your missive, it was an illegible smudge on the parchment. It doesn’t matter. Like Mr. Collins, you may believe my words, or not, as you will. If I hold to any promises, that’s my business alone.
If you choose to follow this conspiracy theory, feel free to do so. I can only promise you I know nothing of any secret plots or cabals among the Immortals. And I can’t help but wonder if you’re barking up the wrong tree.
Milady, you misread my letter. As I clearly said, I utterly reject Mr. Collins’ vile accusation that you are, as he puts it, an “imposter” and “wildly implausible”. He is using you in an attempt to draw our attention from his own machinations, and those of his confederates.
My previous letter to you was sent out of concern, which is why I gave you a signal to use to indicate that you were not in thrall to evil forces. When your gracious reply included no such signal, I feared the worst. If in fact you are not in danger or constrained in your speech, I am relieved and delighted. I will take everything you say henceforth as the pure and complete truth, and I will trim my quill with more care in future.
If I may ask, are you able to confirm my theory that you were the person, disguised as a serving lad, in the painting of Elizabeth Báthory’s wedding? I ask not your reasons; I’m sure they were above reproach.
In such a quest, questions are more important than answers – even bad, confused questions like yours, Other Pendragon.
For I do beseech the shadows.
You have already highlighted my connection to the demon summoner Gilles de Rais.
I have queried that god-like presences in our lives, @messana, both publicly and privately.
I once appear to have even provoked the @archivist to show himself.
But, despite my best efforts, I have failed to make a connection – or gain influence – any more than GIlles did with his demons.
Evelyn also dis-avows contact. As the old saying goes “once… Happenstance. Twice… Coincidence. Three times… enemy action.” At least this will become an old saying when someone gets around to writing it down. In any case, while I still believe Evelyn may have inadvertently excercised powers beyond her understanding, I also believe she acts on her own behalf, which is what matters.
I could defend myself against your disorganized charges (you are a better swordsman than prosecutor, Mr Pendragon), but since the odds are that either one or two of the three of us will suffer a cervical separation soon, I prefer to put my focus on Survival.
That requires knowledge, which requires talking to the most interconnected men of the age, which means I am away to Ingolstadt.
You have a keen eye, sir knight, though I wish you didn’t. Yes, I was in disguise at the Bathory wedding… though the story behind it wasn’t exactly one of my finest hours.
It began back in Malta, after the end of the Great Siege. I was preparing to take my leave of Fort St. Angelo when I had the misfortune of meeting some minor nobles of Hungary. They’d come to make their names in battle, as so many young men did in that era. One in particular, a Zrínyi Bernát, imagined himself a rare flower of chivalry. Ha! He had neither the honor nor the respect required (not to mention a distinct lack of intelligence.) No, he was a yapping cur who had the nerve to believe that a woman warrior had no place upon a battlefield.
At first, I ignored his bluster and insults as not being worth the time and effort to correct. (Though I’ll admit, the fact that he had at least a hundred pounds on me and a much longer reach than I did might have had something to do with it. Discretion is, after all, the better part of valor. And the man was huge.) But then he did something I could no longer ignore. Declaring that he would save me from my heroic delusions, that massive mongrel knocked me into a horse trough, and he… he…
…he took my sword, okay?
I am not proud of myself. I should have seen it coming. I never should have let it happen. But it did. And I swore a mighty oath that day, that no matter how long it took, I would find him and get my lovely karabela back. Oh, I had other swords-- I never stayed in any area for long without hiding caches of weapons in case of need. It was a matter of principle. He’d publicly humiliated me. No matter what, I was determined to bring him to heel.
It took quite some time to trace his whereabouts. It’s easy to forget how long it took to travel from place to place in those days. But finally, I caught the scent and tracked him to the palace of Vranov nad Topľou, where the lady Bathory was to be wed. It looked to be a good place for settling scores…
I disguised myself as a serving lad, which gave me access to much of the castle. After all, what noble wastes attention on the lowly help? --Except, of course, when they need something done. So the first challenge was avoiding the cook, who always had some task or another for me to perform. Then, cautiously, I needed to get close enough to Bernát to steal his room key from his pocket, without him catching me or recognizing me. That turned out to be easier than expected-- he was too occupied clumsily flirting with the host’s daughter to be aware of anything else. (Some knight.) Getting out of the banquet room proved another trial, however. Turns out the old Lady Thurzó had more appetite for the serving lads than for the meals they carried. Evading her amorous attentions without exposing my secret took some doing! Finally, finally, I crept through the halls and searched Zrínyi’s room… where I was reunited with my lovely, lovely karabela. All that was left was to sneak out under cover of the commotion in the dining hall.
What do you mean, what commotion? Oh, I forgot that part. Seems that… someone… slipped a note under Baron Nádasdy’s plate, warning him that his daughter’s virtue was in danger from a certain mongrel knight. Who knew the fine Baron had such a temper? The last I saw, Zrínyi Bernát was running off with his tail between his legs, the Baron in hot pursuit, bellowing in rage. ~pauses a moment, her innocent grin failing to hide the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes.~
So that’s what I was doing at the wedding feast of Elizabeth Bathory. What was your purpose there, Mr. Collins? (@David_Falkayn)
So, mining is hard. And it’s fucking dangerous too. I lost the better part of my left leg in Newcastle. I was recuperating in London when the whole bloody thing went up in smoke. I kept hoping they’d find my leg and bring it back to me. I think I could make it work again, but nobody even remotely followed my suggestions of a rescue mission.
Anyone, there I was, laid up, when a nice old lass came at me smiling from above. She looked like someone’s mum. Then I noticed the paring knife. I pulled my knife and struck first. I stabbed her multiple times in the chest, but she shrugged it off and used that paring knife like a saw. First it was flesh, then sinew, then the little gap between me bones.
In a little under 20 minutes, I think she sawed my head clean off.
Ha! Boldly done and drolly told, my lady, and no more than the blackguard deserved. On my oath, when I read your tale, I spit a mouthful of good Rhenish on the page!
