Richardson
CAN YOU HEAR THE PEOPLE SING?
- Location
- Yes
What, like Aragorn walking in with jangling spurs and a revolver on one hip and Anduril on the other? Elves based on native americans?
all fictions
I hate you! (it's not against the rules!)
- Location
- Mons Regius
- Pronouns
- He/Him
A gritty atmosphere such as the Far West should have lots of dwarves in it. Lots and lots of dwarves.
I can see a lot of interesting parallels to be made with the Third Age and a piece set in the decline of the Wild West like Red Dead Redemption did: a last quest in an once great land filled with mystery, a ragtag bunch of goodies, baddies, and ambiguous, people tied to the old ways and fearful of the new unknown era, the disappearance of great (good or evil) men and great feats, etc.
I can see a lot of interesting parallels to be made with the Third Age and a piece set in the decline of the Wild West like Red Dead Redemption did: a last quest in an once great land filled with mystery, a ragtag bunch of goodies, baddies, and ambiguous, people tied to the old ways and fearful of the new unknown era, the disappearance of great (good or evil) men and great feats, etc.
Or have his guns forged from Anduril à la Roland Deschain.
Idea: It's alternate far-future version of Middle Earth where the other races never fully left or faded away. The events of LOTR are both true and known historical facts.
I see the Dwarves as doing quite well and heavily involved with technology. They are the ones who run the railroads and do the mining for example. Picture a Dwarven-run train crossing the wild lands with a Dwarf-manned gatling gun on top of the train engine.
I see the Dwarves as doing quite well and heavily involved with technology. They are the ones who run the railroads and do the mining for example. Picture a Dwarven-run train crossing the wild lands with a Dwarf-manned gatling gun on top of the train engine.
- Location
- Brittany, France
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Something like this?
The Stranger rode into Azakh-Band and all the mirth of the dwarves faded as they watched him. Oh, Azakh-Band was a mirthful city indeed; it had been called the City of Molten Steel, a wonder carved into the rock of the mountain, its foundries spewing black smoke and ochre light. Ten thousand dwarves toiled under its clouds, in a place with no sun or moon - only the orange glow of the forges, always alight. This was a place of forgetting, where men without past walked to find a new life. Beaten on the anvil, they were; the weaker were spewed out after a month, the strong endured, and they laughed and dance and drank and revelled after each of their shifts, burning their money at gambling tables and in drinking dens and in the arms of a sweet-faced youth of one night. It was a raucous city, a boisterous city; it was built too big, even by dwarven standards, as if it wanted to be a statement. "In these wastes, at the frontier, we have forged a beacon of industry and pride."
Azakh-Band saw many strangers pass, some with sweet smiles and dark designs, some with outward strength but hidden wounds, and it accepted them all if they could withstand its heat. But the Stranger, it did not accept: this was a man like an open wound, his features bearing in every wrinkle, every intent frown, every bitter curling of the lip, the low-burning flame of violent intent. This was a man like a loaded gun.
The Stranger's horse was left to drink outside the saloon - it was a mighty fine beast, all muscle and strength under a soft brown robe. He stepped into the saloon, and smiles faded as people watched him. He made his way to a table in a corner of the room, where he sat alone with the bottle of bourbon he'd ordered. For a while, nobody came to join him, and all conversations in the room fell to hushed tones. Then the one all the patrons were both fearing and expecting entered the room: Alin, son of Gaïn, a dwarf of five feet and two hundred pounds, his black moustache worn proudly waxed, his hat tilted, the silver star on his breast marking him as the Sheriff of Azakh-Band.
"Do you bring us news of the world, stranger?" the dwarf asked, casually settling in the chair facing the Stranger. The man looked up from his drink - his black hair was worn short, and he too wore his hat tilted to an odd angle; he had not removed it entering the room, and so neither had the sheriff.
"Only what I have seen crossing this country in my quest," the man said, and his voice was both deep and strangely distant. Alin nodded sagely.
"What of the war?" he asked.
"The war goes on. I have ridden across hundreds of miles of plantations burning in the night; I have seen the Grey Riders on their mounts scurrying across the landscapes to destinations unseen, the smell of rot in their wake. I have walked in the Mere of Dead Men, where ten thousand of each army were struck down and fell into the waters; even now the water is red with their blood, and their shades haunt the swamps. I have watched as dwarves carved runes into the surface of cannonballs, and I have beheld the Ironclad, first of its kind, firing these cannonballs into the walls of a fortress and unleashing the spells therein, until it was brought down."
The dwarf stared grimly at the Stranger. "Is the world wasting away, then? Is there nothing but blood and death beyond our walls?"
"Not so," the man said shaking his head. "I have eaten at the table of a hobbit of the Old World; there was a lazy grace to his features, and his mansion was beautiful and adorned with paintings. His yard was full of flowers, and the pine trees cast a pleasing shadow as we drank our tea; yet from his terrasse I could see the dozens of slaves toiling in his fields, and the drink went sour in my mouth. I have walked the streets of a city of the New World; it was a wretched place, one of confusion and fear, yet all people I met would look me askance for openly carrying this gun. I bought the news from a crier, and I sat in the chamber of congress as elected officials passed the law of the land, and I felt out of place, for I have always lived in places where the law is what men of will make it. I understood neither the mansion nor the city, and so I left both in turn and rode on."
"Some say you look like a man of ill intent; some of my here constituents fear you have come to our peaceful, hard-working city to cause trouble. That so?"
The man smiled sadly, and took off his hat; and without its shadow obscuring his face, Alin saw the jagged scar that ran all around his throat.
"A year ago to this day, my best friend and I robbed the Northshire Express. A hundred pounds of gold in cast ingots; we were to be the richest bandits in all the New World. But greed drove us apart; my friend betrayed me, and he left in the night with both our horses and all the gold after having given me up to the Northshire's mercs. On foot, I could not escape; they caught me, and not finding the gold with me they grew enraged and hanged me from a willow tree. But I was too angry to die. Betrayal burned in me; I held on to life. Three days and three nights I spent swinging in the wind from that willow branch; and on the third night a man came to me, his skin pale and white and translucent, with the long ears of elves, wearing a cloak of shadow. And he told me...
'I was once called the Necromancer, and I was once called the First Servant, and I was once called the Eye. All these names have faded in time, like memories of my deeds. This world has forgotten me, and I have chosen you to remind it of the glory I once held. I will cut this rope, and I will give you a horse, and a coat, and a gun; but you will belong to me body and soul. Will you agree to this pact?'
I could not speak, owing to the rope around my neck and my tongue all blue and thick. But my soul said yes, and as if he could read it, the man cut the rope, and I fell down; he took the rope off my neck, and all my injuries seemed to melt like snow under the sun. And he gave me a horse, and a coat, and a gun; and he sent me on my way. And I rode for almost an entire year; and now I have found the city where my friend went to spend his gold. And I have seen the pictures you have of him on the wall: "councillor," you call him. A politician now. An important man, and wealthy. And I? I am the Wraith - a ghost of the gun, who should have died once but can die no more, haunting the roads of this war-torn nation. It ain't just."
"And what do you intend to do about it?" the dwarf said grimly.
"I intend to take this here gun," the Stranger said, tapping the ebony handle at his waist, "and I intend to stride into his estate and challenge him in duel. And if he agrees, I will kill him; and if he doesn't, I will still kill him, but it will be without grace. And those who will witness this killing will know it was righteous, but they'll be afeared; and they will spread the name of the shade that came to me when I was hanging from this tree, and he will be happy to know his name is spread once more."
Sheriff Alin nodded, his face an odd mixture of sadness and resignation. "Figured it'd be like that. But you know boy, I can't let you go around killing councillors: this city may be an ugly mess to look out, but it has order, and it has its beauty and its joy; and there is a law, which I uphold, which is the foundation of this order and joy. And the law says you can't go around killing people."
"I understand," the Stranger said, and his face was the same mixture of sadness and resignation. "But I will kill him all the same."
"Aye. Nothing to be done about it, then."
"We all do what we gotta do," the Stranger said.
For a moment, the two men faced each other, a strange sense of longing and regret in their eyes; and a few of the patrons who were still there, and who had lived long enough to be savvy to such things, scurried out of the saloon, while others leaned closer to the table, staring in wonder and expectation, not knowing what was to happen. And the Stranger smiled; and the Sheriff shook his head.
There were five bangs, drowned out by the sounds of the foundries and the ruccus of the streets; a patron screamed in shock, and another in fright. And of the two men who had entered, only one walked out.
Azakh-Band saw many strangers pass, some with sweet smiles and dark designs, some with outward strength but hidden wounds, and it accepted them all if they could withstand its heat. But the Stranger, it did not accept: this was a man like an open wound, his features bearing in every wrinkle, every intent frown, every bitter curling of the lip, the low-burning flame of violent intent. This was a man like a loaded gun.
The Stranger's horse was left to drink outside the saloon - it was a mighty fine beast, all muscle and strength under a soft brown robe. He stepped into the saloon, and smiles faded as people watched him. He made his way to a table in a corner of the room, where he sat alone with the bottle of bourbon he'd ordered. For a while, nobody came to join him, and all conversations in the room fell to hushed tones. Then the one all the patrons were both fearing and expecting entered the room: Alin, son of Gaïn, a dwarf of five feet and two hundred pounds, his black moustache worn proudly waxed, his hat tilted, the silver star on his breast marking him as the Sheriff of Azakh-Band.
"Do you bring us news of the world, stranger?" the dwarf asked, casually settling in the chair facing the Stranger. The man looked up from his drink - his black hair was worn short, and he too wore his hat tilted to an odd angle; he had not removed it entering the room, and so neither had the sheriff.
"Only what I have seen crossing this country in my quest," the man said, and his voice was both deep and strangely distant. Alin nodded sagely.
"What of the war?" he asked.
"The war goes on. I have ridden across hundreds of miles of plantations burning in the night; I have seen the Grey Riders on their mounts scurrying across the landscapes to destinations unseen, the smell of rot in their wake. I have walked in the Mere of Dead Men, where ten thousand of each army were struck down and fell into the waters; even now the water is red with their blood, and their shades haunt the swamps. I have watched as dwarves carved runes into the surface of cannonballs, and I have beheld the Ironclad, first of its kind, firing these cannonballs into the walls of a fortress and unleashing the spells therein, until it was brought down."
The dwarf stared grimly at the Stranger. "Is the world wasting away, then? Is there nothing but blood and death beyond our walls?"
"Not so," the man said shaking his head. "I have eaten at the table of a hobbit of the Old World; there was a lazy grace to his features, and his mansion was beautiful and adorned with paintings. His yard was full of flowers, and the pine trees cast a pleasing shadow as we drank our tea; yet from his terrasse I could see the dozens of slaves toiling in his fields, and the drink went sour in my mouth. I have walked the streets of a city of the New World; it was a wretched place, one of confusion and fear, yet all people I met would look me askance for openly carrying this gun. I bought the news from a crier, and I sat in the chamber of congress as elected officials passed the law of the land, and I felt out of place, for I have always lived in places where the law is what men of will make it. I understood neither the mansion nor the city, and so I left both in turn and rode on."
"Some say you look like a man of ill intent; some of my here constituents fear you have come to our peaceful, hard-working city to cause trouble. That so?"
The man smiled sadly, and took off his hat; and without its shadow obscuring his face, Alin saw the jagged scar that ran all around his throat.
"A year ago to this day, my best friend and I robbed the Northshire Express. A hundred pounds of gold in cast ingots; we were to be the richest bandits in all the New World. But greed drove us apart; my friend betrayed me, and he left in the night with both our horses and all the gold after having given me up to the Northshire's mercs. On foot, I could not escape; they caught me, and not finding the gold with me they grew enraged and hanged me from a willow tree. But I was too angry to die. Betrayal burned in me; I held on to life. Three days and three nights I spent swinging in the wind from that willow branch; and on the third night a man came to me, his skin pale and white and translucent, with the long ears of elves, wearing a cloak of shadow. And he told me...
'I was once called the Necromancer, and I was once called the First Servant, and I was once called the Eye. All these names have faded in time, like memories of my deeds. This world has forgotten me, and I have chosen you to remind it of the glory I once held. I will cut this rope, and I will give you a horse, and a coat, and a gun; but you will belong to me body and soul. Will you agree to this pact?'
I could not speak, owing to the rope around my neck and my tongue all blue and thick. But my soul said yes, and as if he could read it, the man cut the rope, and I fell down; he took the rope off my neck, and all my injuries seemed to melt like snow under the sun. And he gave me a horse, and a coat, and a gun; and he sent me on my way. And I rode for almost an entire year; and now I have found the city where my friend went to spend his gold. And I have seen the pictures you have of him on the wall: "councillor," you call him. A politician now. An important man, and wealthy. And I? I am the Wraith - a ghost of the gun, who should have died once but can die no more, haunting the roads of this war-torn nation. It ain't just."
"And what do you intend to do about it?" the dwarf said grimly.
"I intend to take this here gun," the Stranger said, tapping the ebony handle at his waist, "and I intend to stride into his estate and challenge him in duel. And if he agrees, I will kill him; and if he doesn't, I will still kill him, but it will be without grace. And those who will witness this killing will know it was righteous, but they'll be afeared; and they will spread the name of the shade that came to me when I was hanging from this tree, and he will be happy to know his name is spread once more."
Sheriff Alin nodded, his face an odd mixture of sadness and resignation. "Figured it'd be like that. But you know boy, I can't let you go around killing councillors: this city may be an ugly mess to look out, but it has order, and it has its beauty and its joy; and there is a law, which I uphold, which is the foundation of this order and joy. And the law says you can't go around killing people."
"I understand," the Stranger said, and his face was the same mixture of sadness and resignation. "But I will kill him all the same."
"Aye. Nothing to be done about it, then."
"We all do what we gotta do," the Stranger said.
For a moment, the two men faced each other, a strange sense of longing and regret in their eyes; and a few of the patrons who were still there, and who had lived long enough to be savvy to such things, scurried out of the saloon, while others leaned closer to the table, staring in wonder and expectation, not knowing what was to happen. And the Stranger smiled; and the Sheriff shook his head.
There were five bangs, drowned out by the sounds of the foundries and the ruccus of the streets; a patron screamed in shock, and another in fright. And of the two men who had entered, only one walked out.
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Jace911
Spider-Dork
- Location
- The Gold-Bricking State
Thematically you would want to combine the adventurous spirit of the Wild West with the exploration and wonder of fantasy; those seem like your best points of connectivity.
Alternatively, as has been said, you could portray the world as once having been full of wonder and secrets but is now quickly filling up as people expand into the edges of the map, much like the death of the Old West with the railroad and the automobile. Sort of a deconstructive lament that shows the death of common fantasy tropes and themes as they come face to face with industrialization and civilization; examples could include a story about a posse being organized to hunt down the last known dragon, or a once fearsome tribe of orcs being reduced to cattle rustling.
Alternatively, as has been said, you could portray the world as once having been full of wonder and secrets but is now quickly filling up as people expand into the edges of the map, much like the death of the Old West with the railroad and the automobile. Sort of a deconstructive lament that shows the death of common fantasy tropes and themes as they come face to face with industrialization and civilization; examples could include a story about a posse being organized to hunt down the last known dragon, or a once fearsome tribe of orcs being reduced to cattle rustling.
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- Location
- the Literature Club
This is pretty much the Dark Tower, then.
Although if we're going strictly LotR, it's not really deconstructive to have the time of heroes and high deeds fading. The entire trilogy is basically a nostalgic lament for lovely things lost.
That is true,' said Legolas. `But the Elves of this land were of a race strange to us of the silvan folk, and the trees and the grass do not now remember them: Only I hear the stones lament them: deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they builded us; but they are gone. They are gone. They sought the Havens long ago.'
Although if we're going strictly LotR, it's not really deconstructive to have the time of heroes and high deeds fading. The entire trilogy is basically a nostalgic lament for lovely things lost.
That is true,' said Legolas. `But the Elves of this land were of a race strange to us of the silvan folk, and the trees and the grass do not now remember them: Only I hear the stones lament them: deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they builded us; but they are gone. They are gone. They sought the Havens long ago.'
- Pronouns
- He/Him
it's not specifically LOTR, it's just LOTR Style fantasy
Linked for inspiration (and the next five or so comics).
http://www.somethingpositive.net/sp04032006.shtml
http://www.somethingpositive.net/sp04032006.shtml
Gimili wields a double barrel shotgun. Alongside his family ax.
Triggerhappy
Stick with Trigger and You'll Make it Through
- Location
- SoCal
Talking themes the encroachment of industrial civilization into the last frontier would likely be a theme to consider. The west was civilized by the railroads as much as anything.
The legend of the gunslinger fading as better and better weapons and proto industrial warfare render him irrelevant. A man's word being replaced by contracts. The impersonal and effective arm of civilized law overtaking the old style sheriffs.
The legend of the gunslinger fading as better and better weapons and proto industrial warfare render him irrelevant. A man's word being replaced by contracts. The impersonal and effective arm of civilized law overtaking the old style sheriffs.
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Dragonskyt
Ashen one, hearest thou my voice, still?
- Location
- Kiln of the First Flame
Could it be a story how a Railroad is being built, but along the way they meet all kinds of wonders?
Just like Star Trek did with their own travels.
Just like Star Trek did with their own travels.
Triggerhappy
Stick with Trigger and You'll Make it Through
- Location
- SoCal
Not sure. The problem is that a railroad is a, comparatively, fast line back to civilization. Part of the exhilaration and wonder of a grand adventure into the unknown is that there isn't anyone at your back you can rely on. You have to keep pressing forward.