Please scroll down to the second post to see my new game request! Thanks!
Lady Nox and I developed a game wherein a heroine is a noble countess from Florence that has been wronged by her scheming husband. The heroine and an assassin team up to get revenge on this evil man! It's a simple story, really, made a bit complicated by a number of things. I'm looking for a female writer that can post two or three times a week. The story is a little non-con. I generally prefer blonde characters who wear thigh high boots. I know, I know, there weren't thigh high boots in renaissance Italy -- but the story can have some fantasy elements, like vampires, werewolves, magic, etc., and nobody will be any wiser if we stuffed thigh high boots in there, too.
The story has some survival elements, but mostly it's about pluck and adventure. Ideally, the female heroine begins play in a remote prison. I want the game to have a Quentin Tarantino feel, so all of the characters, except the heroine, have a sense of mortality.
Anyways, here's the first post!
(PM me if you have any questions!)
A TIME IN
FLORENCE Herein, our Daring Adventurer almost meets his end,
and intrudes upon a secret in
Firenze, Italia, Anno Domini, 1602.
There were three figures within the confines of a beautifully ornate horse-driven carriage coursing through the narrow streets of Firenze. The first man is of no importance, except to say that he has a large girth. Do not think me judgmental! His girth is of importance. The second man was a priest of the Catholic faith. I mention his faith because he was one of those extraordinary individuals that relished the notion of being perceived as good, though having never acted in that fashion in his life. The third man is our hero, a Frenchman, whose identity is unknown and whose occupation is the reason why all three have been unceremoniously joined today. The man of girth was the priest's bodyguard, and the Frenchman the prisoner. The three were being driven by an old deaf mute, whose hair had grayed long ago, who led a dozen armed horsemen.
Father Bautisto Verrazano began, in his eloquent, sensitive manner, "the facts are these. The Count has been murdered by his wife. She used Emperor Nero's favorite antidote, cyanide. His Highness was quickly overcome by the poisson, and in his dying state, condemned his wife for having ruined him. She was tried and sentenced to life in a remote prison, and her fortune is to be inherited by a man very close to the Count, currently at war as a soldier of fortune in the Ottoman Empire. There is nothing out of the way in this story at all, is there, monseur?"
The Frenchman said nothing in reply, and merely sat there. The Frenchman was said to have traveled to the New World along with the famous Florentine that would travel across the Atlantic four times, and to have learned the ancient ways of the forests from the warrior savages on that newly discovered continent. Indeed, he was an impressive physical specimen, hardened by life abroad and on the high seas, with very short hair, a perfectly maintained goatee, and paraphernalia indicative of a pirate's life. He was even said to be handsome and charming, despite his cruel methods. "Ah, oui oui, yes, there is something the matter with my story, is there not, Monseur Chevalier Francais? It was not that gentlewoman that killed her husband. It was you. The Frenchman, El Assessino! And that is why we are here today, is it not? Surely, you must have expected that you would become a loose end. And here I am, the soul of discretion, forced to perform my solemn duty to my master. And of course, you do not know who my master is, do you, Monseur?"
The Frenchman looked away. He did not possess that much sympathy for anyone, but that Countess didn't deserve what he had put her through. He had spent the last four weeks infiltrating her staff, and had he had struck most definitively on the Ides of March, via cyanide, because a dagger was too masculine, and poison just perfect for a man who wanted to be Caesar. "Well, monseur? Do you know who my master is?" "Oui,"
the Frenchman said softly. "Oh really? How alarming! Q'est tres terrible! Did I say that correctly? Your language, it is very interesting. And I must confess that you are very interesting, too. You say that you know who my master is? That is interesting. But I do not believe it. Tell me, who do you think it is?" "The Count himself,"
the Frenchman said.
Herein, the priest appeared horrified, for truly, his master was that dead man. Before he could ask another question, the Frenchman continued: "When I poisoned him, I realized that el homme was faking it. He had developed a tolerance for le morte, oui? He was still breathin' when I checked him. I see by the look on your face that I am right. Now, here is the supposition: that man that is inheriting the Countess' fortune is one of the Count's other identities. Now her fortune is his, and he is free to ruin another woman."
The priest was livid with fury, but he quickly composed himself. "It seems that we were wise to collect you from the forest, monseur,"
he said. "Now I feel no pity for you."
The priest nodded at the fat man, and the fat man nodded back. Then, the fat man removed a curved knife from his pocket, and turned to the Frenchman beside him. But in a blur, the Frenchman smashed his heel against the priest's face and slammed his shoulder against the fat man, forcing him to drop the knife. In a breeze, the Frenchman contorted his body to allow clearance for his bonds, and he quickly had his hands before him, grasping for the fallen knife, which he then interred into the priest's stomach in a savage lunge. He glanced outside the carriage and saw the rest of the priest's entourage. The fat man returned to his bearing, and struggled with the Frenchman, but the Frenchman grappled him, hurtled him outside unto the road, and used his body as a springboard to launch himself into the river below.
The priest and his bodyguard died that day. It was said that it had been a Muslim spy. But it was merely a Frenchman looking for revenge.