In 1798 Calcutta is a city expanding rapidly under the rule of the Honorable British East India Company. This is the time of great Indian trade fortunes, everyone from the lowliest clerk to the governors council is out to amass wealth. A man must keep his wits about him to prosper despite the corruption, the intrigue, and shrewd local traders.Run by GM 3rd-I
Calcutta '€" 1798 'œ... But we here behold
A prodigy of power, transcending all
The conquests, and the governments, of old,
An empire of the Sun, a gorgeous realm of gold.
For us in half a century, India blooms
The garden of Hesperides, and we
Placed in its porch, Calcutta, with its tombs
And dazzling splendors, towering peerlessly,
May taste its sweets, yet bitters too there be
Under attractive seeming. Drink again
The frothy draught, and reveal joyously;
From the gay round of pleasure, why refrain!
Thou'rt on the brink of death, luxuriate on thy bane.
I stood a wandering stranger at the Ghaut,
And, gazing round, beheld the pomp of spires
And palaces, to view like magic brought;
All glittering in the sun-beam ...'
From 'œCalcutta: City of Palaces'
J P Losty 1824The city of Calcutta lies on the northern bank of the River Hoogly in Bengal, eastern India. The Hoogly is but one of the many mouths of the great Ganges, the great river flowing all the way from Dehli to the Bay of Bengal, and bringing with it to Calcutta all the wealth of Hindustan.
It is evening but even now, in the failing light of the low sun, the river heaves with the traffic of hundreds of ships and boats of every size and design. Small barges float down stream with the current, bringing in the last of the day's shipments of silk, cotton, indigo, spices and saltpetre. Meanwhile the tall ships of the Honourable British East India Company set their sails and commence the four month voyage home to the docklands of London.
To the east of the city the Company's colours fly high over the imposing walls of Fort William. The fort casts a stern gaze over the city's inhabitants, a persistent remainder of the unquestionable authority of the Company. The white walled, ordered splendour of the European quarters with its broad clean roads contrasts sharply with bustling chaos and sprawling squalor of the native town.
On the south bank of the Hoogly, opposite the main body of the city are the docklands of the country traders. These independent enterprises, often the ventures of former company officials, shun the long trade lanes with Europe in favour of more localised coastal trade. One such company is the recently started Bengal Bay Trading Company. This enterprise, the brainchild of the retired Colonel Morris Hilton, is no more than two years old but has successfully established a foothold in the city. It is based on the south banks, operating from a small walled compound with a private jetty and several warehouses. To date its fleet consists of little more than a handful of small single-masted Dhows.
Inside the main building of the compound, six of Hilton's employees wait in the hallway outside the Colonel's office. At the end of a hard day's work they have been given summons to meet with Hilton by his assistant Maladhar, though none know the reason why. Maladhar stands upright and motionless, smartly dressed in a white Ghoti, and blouse, a red turban covering his head. He glances at the assembled members of the group, as they talk quietly amongst themselves, waiting for the Colonel to finish with his current business.
'œSuch a motley band' he thinks to himself. 'œMercenaries, thugs and scholars mixed. What could the Colonel possibly want with the six of them?'
He grins a moment, remembering a phrase his mother would repeat often to him as a child.
'œChapti dhul ni jaroor pade' '€" 'œSometimes, a pinch of sand is all you need.'
Welcome to the game everone! A quick chance to describe yourself and perhaps whatever is on your character's mind today.
The last couple of outstanding items I'm after from players are:
Wayloss: Any requests for tweaks to your pre-gen.
JohnnyWierd: I think you were going to do some stat changes with the points you had free? And confirmation of your equipment list.
Trogdor: Think I'm waiting on an equipment list for you too.
But nothing that stops us from getting started.
The only bad news (sort of) is I'm on holiday 19th-27th July, so we've only got a week then I'm away for a bit. I'll try and get the game quickly to a point where I can leave you with a few things to think about while I'm away.
On a couch, farthest away from any doors and windows, sits a young man, clad in dark green, middle-class clothes and brown leather boots. He keeps his bright green eyes fixed on the door that leads to the Colonel's office and he adds a comment or two about today's work to the conversation. His short brown hair stays almost motionless as he turns his head towards the speaker.
Ryan Payne, the Irish man who was a soldier in the British Army, has only the loaded pistol at his belt and his precious rifle stands in a far corner of the hallway. And if Maladhar will tell him to elave it here too, he will do so, since he has a lot of trust to his employer, Colonel Morris Hilton. But now Payne is more excited why all this men are summoned at the same time.
Dr. Ian Sinclair stands by a window looking out at the courtyard of the trading company's compound. He's a short, thin man with close-cropped sandy hair who probably only tops seven stone when dripping wet in a boat cloak. He's wearing the long black coat of a naval surgeon - the most formal thing he owns at present - with his hands clasped behind his back.
He offers greetings to the others when he arrives, his voice immediately proclaiming his Scottish origin, but seems lost in thought otherwise. In fact, he's more interested in reviewing the dissection he'd performed this afternoon than worrying about the meeting to come. He'd been fortunate to get the body of the poor beggar from the hospital. Typically some member of the family came to claim the body. But today he'd been lucky and had been able to confirm some of van Buren's observations about the spleen.
He does glance up every few moments, however, to look at the colonel's door and pass his eyes over Maladhar to see if there's any sign that they're to be let in.
Gregory Blackstone sits near Payne on a simple chair. He has a hard expression below thick raven black hair, bushy eyebrows, and deep set green eyes.
Unlike the doctor, he has a lack of formality about him, wearing a simple brown shirt with the sleeves rolled up above the elbows. The buttons are only buttoned just above the middle of his chest, allowing chest hair to be seen. Obviously, the man is dressed for comfort in the heat, not formality in the least.
His pants are standard issue for the British army, but have been tattered and torn in several places, including both knees. The man's boots are scuffed and sliced as well, but each problem area has been repaired. The repairs are not pretty, but seem to be functional. He has no gun at the present, but hanging off his belt is a scabbard filled with an European saber. Gregory waits patiently for the audience.
"Kings have no friends, only subjects and enemies."
At first glance, the young woman who waits with these men seems indistinguishable from the thousands that teem Calcutta. Her skin is a touch lighter, perhaps, as of some distant subcontinental kingdom, but her plain clothes and sandals in the Indian style are well-maintained, if not fine.
Closer inspection, though - and in the company of men what young woman goes uninspected? - reveals she is more than a townswoman. The revealed skin of her left arm reveals an elaborate scene tattooed - some heathen demon fighting a prince. Her lower calves display a Hindu god in contemplation on the right and a spreading of flowers on the left. The licentious might speculate that such art marks much of her body...
Between this feature and the well-made dagger at her side, combined with the smooth grace in her motions, it is clear that there is more to this woman than a Calcutta goodwife.
Her satchel on her lap, she sits indifferently for several minutes before impatience conquers her concern.
"Might I be correct, sirs," she says, deferrential in her tone, acknowledging her role as woman and colonial, "in assuming that we all await a meeting with Colonel Hilton at his request?"
"Ye wouldn't be sitting an' waiting here if it weren't so," Payne says leaning forward with the elbows resting on the knees to get a better view of the woman. He scrutinizes the woman with a slightly brazen look. Though it might not look like it, he ponders how she might move while travelling or how she might lean against at a wall waiting for somebody or something. "I didn't quite catch yer name, miss. Might've missed it."
"All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."
The short man folds his hands together and faces the woman. "Namaste, Miss Nair," he says with a slight bow of his head. "My name is Dr. Ian Sinclair, late a ship's surgeon for the Royal Navy, but now at liberty. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"Yah, right. Nice to meet ye Miss Nair," Payne says with a crooked smile. Then he introduces himself with a gesture to the rifle with a long brass scope mounted above the barrel, which stands in a corner of the hallway. "Ryan Payne, former Rifleman in the British Army," he says with a quick glance to Blackstone.
"All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."
'œ... But we here behold 
