Village of Limoges

This is the setting that I created over a few months of brainstorming and writing. For all the thought that I put into this setting there is not really a whole lot to read about it, I tried to capture the most important aspects of the village and keep the rest hidden away as they should be. As such, the setting displayed here really is just the beginning and I invite all who wish to do so, to use this as a beginning of their own games. At the very least I would hope this example of a Engel setting might inspire your own ideas for an Engel game.

One of the aspects of Limoges that I am most proud of is that the Fellowship of Engel presented here are very well suited for a small game group. Only have 1 or 2 players or perhaps only 1 or 2 players who want to play Engel? This presents a problem when all Engel are to be placed within a Fellowship. How do you play a Michaelite Engel NPC who doesn't make all of the PC's decisions, how do you have a Gabrielite Engel NPC who doesn't always kill the PC's enemies. Played incorrectly, the NPC members of a Fellowship can take a lot of enjoyment and role playing away from Engel players. Limoges as a setting is perfect for a small group in that what ever Engel they wish to play replace the NPC's listed here and the remaining Engel become NPC's who wont be overbearing the PC's gaming experience. By clicking on each of the NPC names storytellers can get a more in depth look at each of them, including the NPC Fellowship.

A peal of thunder ripples off in the distance in the afterglow of jagged lightening through clouds, rain and the night sky. It echoes, the roar slowly diminishing yet never fully disappearing. Some remnant remains, dull and low and ever present through the lingering pour of rain. Even as the storm calms and the rain slows to a mere trickle there is the same undercurrent of fury waiting to be released. Through the lessened rains, across the deep chasm of ruins that is Irefell can be seen the source, a dire incandescence on the horizon. A churning pillar of flame, twisting, growling and spitting fire as though a rabid hound chained. Awaiting the moment the chains break, when it might unleash its fury. Though it be miles away, it remains ever present upon the doorstep of this faithful village of Limoges.

This village, perched upon the edge of a craggy cliff and nestled within the hill and valley lands north of Beziers and west of Lyon within the heart of what was once known as Old France. From the cliff’s edge the village sprawls downward along the side of the gentle slope of a rolling hill. Aged buildings of a construction lost to the second flood stand in various stats of half repair and shoddy maintenance, clustered together in small communities fractured by maze-like networks of claustrophobic alley ways. Weathered cobblestone, smooth from the endless downpour of rain, connect the communities together by a few small streets all leading from the village gate towards the marketplace found within the heart of the village. Stone carved gutters divert waters away from the streets and into basins that empty into the unknown depths of a pre-flood sewer system. The wide wall of upright tree poles are lashed tightly together around the edge of the village and are well trodden by the boots of vigilant guards, keeping the village within the wall safe from harm. The sanctuary wall end upon the edge of the cliff, leaving the heart of the city open to the hazards of a long drop into the ruins of Irefell, though many simple wood plank fences keep the unwary from stumbling to their doom. Within the heart of the village, in the center and near the edge, is the market square where all the citizens of Limoges come to trade, sell, ply and advertise their wares. At the edge of the market, perched upon the farthest outcrop of ledge over the ruins is the fabled and holy Spire of Deliverance, a source of much hope and just as much myth within the village.

At the north end of the village rises a crag of grey stone flush against the edge of the cliff and serving to complete the circle of protection with the sanctuary wall. Built into the base of this cliff is an white washed monastery encircled with its own iron-wrought fence and flying pale white flags bearing the healing hand of the Raphaelite Order. A part of the monastery, yet free of the iron barrier is a grand hospice of Raphaelite healers where all who are in need are welcome day and night. Upon the crag of stone itself, far above the village and the surrounding land, sits yet another structure, a simple tower of white stone and the village’s greatest source of hope and inspiration, the home of the resident Engel. This tower can be seen throughout the lands of Limoges, the winged denizens of the tower lift gracefully from the topmost platform into the skies a welcome scene for all to witness. In these dark times it is a sorely needed beacon of faith and conviction for the peoples of Limoges.

Directly across the ruins of Irefell from Limoges and a mere 2 km in front of the towering flames of the inferno is a small gathering of tents. A makeshift village set in the manner of nomadic life yet gathering the signs of an extended rest. For over a year the Gathering of the Eternal Flame has camped before the unmoving inferno, living in the infernal light and warmth of the swirling tornado of flames. There is no night or day here, only the ever red glow of fire, the roar of the Lord of Flies nightmarish anger and the fervor of religious fanatics obeying the will of their shepherd, Father Hyzeus. It is their claim that faith alone has brought the Inferno to a halt, a strange and perhaps even heretical sect of ecstatics that so far has been left alone by the inquisitive Angelitic Church. A small contingent of Templars maintains a small tent on the edge of the village, keeping an attentive eye on the Inferno and watching for any sign of the demonic spawn that usually accompany the twisters of horror. Strangely enough the Inferno has produced no swarms of death in all of the year it has remained stationary.

Beyond the cliff edge of the village is the incredible sight of an entire pre-flood city in ruins within the mist shrouded shadowy depths of Irefell. The entire city of sin, for 8 km in either direction, has fallen straight down far into the earth and remains effectively cut off from the rest of humanity by the sharp craggy vertical cliffs that rise up at least 2 km with no safe way to descend to or escape from the ruins. From above, the ruins can be looked over, but most of it is hidden away under the waters of severe flooding and what is left that can be seen is merely a mass of scorched rubble. The city of sin that once stood was judged, righteously, by our Lord above and as such, it is forbidden for anyone to enter the ruins. Those who disregard this, the will of the Angelitic Church, are branded heretics to be burned for their crimes. However, not once has any of the faithful people of Limoges been condemned for such sinful actions. Irefell remains a powerful message of what happens to those fallen to the temptations of the adversary, Limoges remains as always a pillar of Angelitic Faith.

Spire of Deliverance

In those days there was darkness. The city glimmered like a jewel, both clean and heartless. Towers of glass and steel rose up from the slate grey streets and the ever heavy rains disappeared into th earth as quickly as it could pour down from the weeping heavens. Beasts of technology roamed freely upon the earth as well as in the skies. As night fell every corner of the city kindled the soft light of lanterns without flame.

It was darkness of the soul, a city without faith. The sins of arrogance coupled with infernal mechanics. The honest work of man stolen away by empty monstrosities of metal, the skies invaded by the unnatural and the night sky itself dismissed by a casual hand and false sunlight. The stars blinked out above this city, unwilling to bear witness to the hollow city.

Such arrogance. Such sin. Such foolishness.

Within the tallest spire of metal and glass, upon a throne of blinding white stone sat the city’s queen. Her smile was as chill, chiseled and false as her throne. Her eyes were black and empty of anything accept the malice of darkness. Her name was Lyonnea DuValier, the Diadoche Queen of the city of Limoges. Hers was a will of hatred and from her bosom flowed the milk of suffering for all her people as her hatred fueled heresy, war and damnation.

The heavens continued to weep, the tears mingled with the blood of both the righteous and damned upon her grey streets. The Templars marched upon the city, met the Queen’s conscripts and fell down together as her mechanical demons unleashed death upon them both without mercy. Yet the streets remained as clean as always, blood and rains drained away quickly and bodies were disposed without rite or prayer for purification.

Her atrocities were without end. Her people cried for salvation even as they were forced to die at the hands of their would be saviors. The war continued, an amusement to her when it came to her attention at all. By her side stood her only son, who watched as cruel mother tormented her own kingdom. Finally she was amused no longer and her weapons of infernal might rose up to destroy the armies of the Angelitic Church, to end the war and stain the earth with the fall of the faithful. Nothing would stand against the darkness of Lyonnea DuValier.

Yet in every darkness shall be found the glimmer of light, of hope, of faith, of promise, of salvation no matter the depths of that darkness. The armies of Limoges marched upon the Angelitic Templars who stood awaiting death in service to our Lord above. A small soft white feather floated down onto the crest of a hill between them and for a moment there was pause. From above, breaking through the thick dark clouds in a rush of majestic wings, came the divine messengers of our Lord above, the Engel. The young prince of Limoges picked up the single feather and looked up at the descending host of the Lord. At that moment he knew that glimmer of light, of hope, or faith, of promise and of salvation.

“The world shall know the ire of your hatred no longer, mother,” the voice of the boy prince rang out clear and strong with the conviction of his new found faith. The boy then disappeared, feather cupped in hands held in prayer to our Lord above. With him fell the city of Limoges, the heartless queen and her damnable armies. All that remains, even to this day, is a huge crater of ruins two kilometers deep. Upon the spot where the boy prince stood rises a spire of pure black glassy stone. There are days, when the heat is especially thick, that people swear the outline of a young boy can be seen glowing like a candle within the reflective depths of the dark stone.

Ab Donivar
Raphaelite Abt of Limoges, Overbearing Father of the Monastery.

A beacon of holy inspiration and flame of righteous judgement, burning brightly within his stark eyes flecked with a multitude of different shades of color mingled with silver. Yet this is but a flicker of the power within this holy man, when he speaks the will of our Lord above manifests itself in that steely voice of conviction. This heavenly halo overshadows the somewhat frail frame that is an aged man of late years. What little hair remains upon his head is so thin and light that it can barely be seen, leaving his heavily wrinkled head bare. He moves carefully, but steady with the aid of a dark cane and a stride of purpose. The pure white robes of the Raphaelite order adorn his shoulders, stitched in silver threads bearing the honor of many blessings of the Angelitic Church.

Father Hyzeus
Savior of the Faithful, Prophet of Flames.

A bent and crippled man, not of elderly years but still beyond the age of youth. A dirty grey robe encloses his twisted frame in a shroud of scratchy cloth and a gnarled old tree branch helps him find his way across the heat scorched earth. The burning fever of faith flickers brightly in his eyes, his trembling voice and within his every passionate word.

Goodman Manx
Magistrate of Limoges, Scourge of the Grimriders.

Shady fellow in his late forties, his face etched in the harsh lines of both age and hardships. His short hair is a dark grey, combed back and kept neat only for the most important of meetings within the office of the Magistrate. His cloths are kept in much the same way, simple and dark in color but always appropriate for whatever occasion his duties call for. For all that the years have heaped upon him, his grey green eyes remain clear, firm and resolute.

Morgan the Whitecrest
Templar of the Raphaelite Order and both Custodian and Armatura of Limoges

Not all that tall of a man, he is none the less a solidly built fellow. Always Morgan is armored within the Templar breastplate, helm and greaves with the spotless white warriors robe overtop and the healing hand of the Raphaelites upon his back. The bright white of his tunic has become the source of his nickname, the Whitecrest, atop his stallion it is difficult to mistake him for anyone else. Dark brown hair, cropped short and neat, begins showing the slightest bit of greying caused not by age but from the heavy tole of perilous years. Those same years have only given a strength and determination to his bold hazel eyes. His Hasta is never out of arm’s reach.

Young Simon Swift
Vagabond Street Waif

A small young boy with wild unevenly hacked short hair the color of wheat and dark brown eyes. Although he is cleanly kept, it is obvious that the boy lives among the streets and nearby wilds. Patchwork clothing, torn and stained, hangs on his thin frame with several layers of leather bound about his feet. A small blade is strapped to his side in a well crafted leather sheath by a strip of yellow cord. No one has ever seen the blade and he refuses to show anyone or part with the blade, claiming it to be the only relic he has from his parents. Other than the strange silence that comes over him when he is content, the boy is a cheerful lad with a bright smile and kind tongue.

Sister Katherine
Minister and Confessor to the Divine Engel.

A small mousy young woman wearing the white robes of a Raphaelite Monach swirling around her as the robe is far too big for her thin size. A number of belts secure as much of the robe to her as possible. Dark little eyes peer out from behind a pair of wire frame spectacles and her voice is quiet, barely rising beyond a whisper except when summoned to a surprising clarity when performing Mass. She is rarely seen as her duty is to the divine Engel alone, each day serving as both confessor and performing Mass for the most holy of God’s children.

Goodman Styk
Merchant of Oddities, Scavenger of Irefell

A twitchy fellow wrapped in a shroud of thick black cloths, a thick hood draped over his ever dirty head. His eyes are hidden behind a large set of strange goggles that make his eyes appear twice as big as normal. His voice is a nasal whine, when he speaks at all, though it does have an odd sense of secretive amusement to it as if he was privy to some joke that no one else is in on.

Divine Messenger Abriel
Raphaelite Engel of Restoration and Destruction

Wearing spotless white robes bound in a strip of cloth inked with prayers and blessings to keep him safe from harm with his left shoulder covered by a light shield portraying the healing hand of the Raphaelite order. He wears little else, feet, chest, back and shoulders bare accept for the stark lines of the order’s mystical God given tattoo’s, the Signum and Sigil. Upon his face is worn a pleasant smile without concern or care of anything, as if all was well in the world. Long silvery hair is kept neatly combed back with a small strip of votive-cloth bound within, bearing yet another prayer for his well being. He carries a small dagger at his side that is kept always razor sharp, both as a weapon of war as well as a tool of healing. Rising from his bare shoulders are majestic wings, a snowy white with just a hint of silver to them in the proper light.

Divine Messenger Afael
Gabrielite Engel of Wrath and Sorrow

Afael’s rage only serves to accentuate the fine tanned features of her lovely, yet child like face. Her hair is longer than the average Gabrielite, a dark tinted red that is loosely bound in a single long braid and wrapped in the votiv cloth of her consecration. Long flowing black robes and a large shoulder shield shroud most of her strong, muscular and athletic body, leaving only her face, feet, hands and their fine lines of the Signum showing. Strapped to her waist is the blazing relic of her order and purpose, the flaming sword of judgement. From her back flow powerful wings of a soft light brown with a tint of red similar to her hair.

Divine Messenger Cassiel
Urielite Engel of Silence and Solitude

A deep dark green robe is wrapped tightly about his waist, falling down loosely around his legs to allow freedom of movement. He keeps no shoulder shield, his chest and arms bare except for the lines of power drawn across his dark tanned flesh, cris crossing with the numerous ragged scars collected from his wild wanderings. Deep dark brown eyes stare intently in silence, his black brown hair is bound in several very tight, very long braids that fall about his body. From his shoulders spread mottled white brown wings. A small blade is strapped to one leg and his massive self made Urielite Longbow is always within reach of him and his divinely blessed arrows. Only a single votive cloth graces his body, spattered in the stains of the wilderness, tattered from time and bound about one of his tight braids.

Divine Messenger Ismael
Ramielite Questioning Engel

A quiet cherub stands alone, watching the world around him with inquisitive eyes and a compassionate smile. A long robe of deep blue cloth wraps tightly around his slight frame. A pale mane of fine blond hair falls down past his great white wings, folded neatly on his back. Wound loosely 'round his neck is a long votive-cloth, crisp and freshly conferred, a blessing of our Lord. And on his left arm, it's companion, keeping him from harm. His only real possession, a tiny tin flute, rests at his belt.

Divine Messenger Tabriel
Michaelite Engel of God's Will

Short trimmed blond hair shines with an almost golden halo which is reflected also within his soft baby blue eyes and charming smile. The brightness, warmth of this Michaelite is open for all to see and feel comforted by. His presence is strong, drawing all eyes even though he says little, but when he does speak it is with the authority of our Lord above to convince all but the most closed mind. Golden yellow robes cling to his rather large and tall frame, bound in votiv-cloths of honor and blessing as well as a rather awe-inspiring crafted shoulder shield bearing the golden eye and gentle hand of our Lord above who sees all, knows all and guides all according to his will. A longsword is bound always to his waist, ready to meet the minions of the Lord of Flies in protection of the faithful and the Angelitic Church. From his back spread incredible wings of the purest white.