The Islands: Langwarrin and Other Places
by, 09-10-2012 at 02:05 AM (860 Views)
The leader of Langwarrin (pronounced lan-GWOR-rin) is President Judas Pearcedale, a friendly enough sort who was elected president of Langwarrin unanimously.
He voted for himself.
He lives in a beach shack on the western coast of the huge island that is Langwarrin. President Pearcedale waits until a shipment of prisoners arrives from Clenchwarton, gives them food he’s scrounged from the surrounding scrubland and local lakes, offers the newcomers the comfort of his humble home, waits until the newcomers are asleep, and then cold cocks them, ties them up, and dumps them in the wastes.
Those who survive usually come back a couple of years later looking for revenge. President Pearcedale beats the shit out of them. Then, if President Pearcedale lets them, they walk away, saying, “Thank you, Mr. President.”
Langwarrin is a prison. It’s filled with horrible creatures who want nothing but to eat everything that can fit into their mouths. And that’s just the people. Everything in Langwarrin is trying to kill you all the time. There are hardly any women, and the few that are there are either taken or tough as nails. Langwarrin is hand-to-mouth anarchy. A few outposts of civilization exist—a wizard-convict once managed to keep a couple of pages of his spellbook with him during the long trip to Langwarrin and magically crafted some buildings in the unforgiving, blasted landscape. But, otherwise, it’s a random and horrible collection of miscreants, felons, murderers, and debtors, all angry, hungry, and far from home.
If you’re a Langwarriner (pronounce lan-GWOR-reh-ner) you’re from fantasy Mad Max Australia. You were exiled here by the Clenchwart authorities. Clenchwarton abolished the death penalty about a hundred years ago and started filling up this monstrously large, monster-filled island with its human feces. Most didn’t survive, but reports from Clenchwart sailors who stranded prisoners on the island detailed seeing smoke from what they assumed were people’s fires. One of those fires might have been yours. You probably live near the coast, away from the deadly scrubland creatures but unfortunately close to your fellow inhabitants. You might survive—if you’re hardy enough—in the scrubland, but you better be one tough son of a ***** [note: Really, Pen and Paper Games, that's the word you censor? Seriously?] to do that. There’s the small possibility that you were born and raised here, in which case you are one bad ass bastard. You’re probably human, but with Clenchwarton sending its worst here, you could be anything.
You’d worship at the Church of the Dragon, Sinister, but there isn’t one here, and not doing that hasn’t made much of a difference anyway.
Langwarrin has the privilege of being closest to the islands, but the distinct disadvantage of not having any way to reach them. A few courageous souls—individuals and a few groups, even—have built boats, but those boats are rickety affairs of weeds, hope, and very small rocks that float. Most Langwarriner sailors are dead swimmers. A few months ago, though, a Clenchwart ship that was sent to Langwarrin didn’t come back. Nobody knows what happened to it or the sailors on it.
For any Langwarriner, the islands are freedom.
Pick two horrible words that just shouldn’t go together as your Langwarriner name; that’s what all the people you killed called you before they died. If you were born in Langwarrin, that’s the only real name you’ve ever known. Otherwise, also pick a Clenchwart name. You can go by either.
O, sure, there are other places. They are just as bad, if not worse. I’d rather you pick one of the ones I've detailed, though, because they taste good, and I went to all the trouble of creating them.
I tried my best to offend everyone equally, by the way. Here’s hoping you were.
If none of these sound cool enough—or terrible enough—for your character, let me know, and I’ll pound out 300 words on fantasy Sweden, Mexico, or Tibet. Just have something in mind first.
Next: The New World