Young Writers Society

The OOC

The Plot
The city of Owl Tree has stood on the coast for as long as anyone can remember. Hardly any now live that can remember the world before it sprang up in the north, and those that do hide in the shadows. Daethdr, the first Elf, built it and established the Northern domain many centuries ago, but his line has since fallen into ruin. For many lives of men, wars have thinned their numbers. Now, only a few remain, but most do not know who they are nor what they want to do with their lives. Those that know their history are feeble and old with little of Daethdr's blood in them after years of strife.

The Dux Domini have fallen into ruin, and their protection over the Belecthorian continent has all but disappeared. Those that remain mingle with the other races, showing little care for the ways of the new world or travel across the land as rangers and soldiers. But a new threat has arisen-- out of the North, from Nesrin, pirates have come upon Belecthoria like a plague. Without a Chieftain to hold the North together, the people of Owl Tree want a king to keep them safe. The Dux Domini remnants disapprove of this plan and tell the ignorant descendants of Daethdr their true origins.

For now, these descendants and some of the wealthier or stronger citizens of Owl Tree have agreed to meet together as a council at the River Inn, which is owned by one of these descendants. Together, they must all either defeat the pirates and sort out the power struggles later, or one must dominate the others and take control.

The Rules


The Character Sheet

The ports were mostly empty, apart from the few ships that had chosen to remain since the last pirate attack. Michael's own small vessel was practically irreparable-- if it weren't for the fact that he didn't have a friend that promised she could fix it, he would've had it scrapped already. He moved from his place beside the window at the steeple of his inn and carefully made his way down the spiral staircase onto the third floor. Two Dwarves were whispering in their own tongue beside a mirror in the hallway.

"Beat it," Michael snapped in their language. "There is much to be talked about, and it's not for your ears. To your rooms!" The Dwarves exchanged a glance before obeying, waddling off to their respective bedrooms.

Confusticate and bebother this meeting! Michael screeched inwardly. He couldn't remember who had recommended such an important meeting should take place at a popular, usually full-to-the-brim inn like his, but he hated them for it, especially given that he himself had asked for it to be private. Maybe he didn't want his thoughts on certain matters known to the general public. Maybe some discussions were better had behind closed doors. But for whatever reason, this wasn't one of them.

Michael made his way down the next two flights of stairs and entered the large, mostly empty dining area. About a score of people were already seated or standing around a central table near to the fireplace. Michael turned to a counter on the other side of the room and walked around it, fetching his pipe and a bit of what was called sweet leaf. His friend had found it abroad and brought several stalks of it to Owl Tree to be planted and grown. A small number of farms controlled the supply of sweet leaf, which was currently plentiful and in season. It was a bit addictive, but that was more due to the taste than anything else. It always made him relax a bit more and loosen up a bit, and tonight that was probably just what he needed.

After taking a moment to stuff and light his pipe, Michael listened to the gossip and idle chatter as he waited for someone to start talking about why they were actually there. He could care less who was in charge, so long as his business was his own, and Owl Tree wasn't hurt by a tyrant's rule. He didn't want the job, though, he just wanted to make sure everything turned out alright in the end.

As he sat on a stool in the corner, quietly puffing on his pipe, he thought back to what his mother-- no, his adoptive mother had said to him.`You're not my son by blood,` she'd said, `but you are in spirit. Your father was Harndir, son of Harnon, son of Himlben, the great-great-great-grandson of Daethdr. You are of his line, and you have made your ancestors proud.`

Ancestors I knew little of until recently, he reasoned. The past doesn't concern me; the now and the future do.