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camwynIf y'all have read my good friend ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cadhla's LJ, or some of the other folks' on my friends list, you know that last night (23 July 2003) cadhla ran an RPG session. Given that there is no League of Extraordinary Gentlemen official game, she kindly adapted the basic White Wolf Storyteller rules and told us to get characters from 1936ish - whether written then, or set in that time frame. I settled on Sergeant Preston of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, from a radio show that first aired in Detroit in 1938. Other characters included Mary Poppins, the Shadow, Dorothy Gale, Hugo Danners (I didn't recognise the name either), Lord Peter Wimsey, and Tom Swift. (Check agrumer's journal for links to more info on each, if you like.)
Sadly, the game was a one-shot, although the chance exists of taking it to play-by-email form. *hopeful look* I enjoyed it thoroughly, although my poor Sergeant did not get to so much as hit anyone, let alone fire his gun or arrest anybody. Such is the chance one takes in a party that includes the inspiration for Doc Savage and an inventor who makes MacGyver look like a patent thief. The game was still resounding in my head when I got home, and my foolish decision to have a chocolate brownie before bed meant that I was up really quite late. As a consequence I had the lunatic idea of writing up the game summary over time from the Sergeant's point of view. I thought, perhaps, I might inflict it upon you here.
Diary of a Mountie
Day One - Saturday, August 8, 1936
Vancouver, British Columbia
Well, here I am. As I write these words I am in the study of a small house just inside the Vancouver city limits, ostensibly on the first day of my first vacation in nearly thirteen years. I don't know if you can really call a day like this part of a vacation, given that I spent most of it on the train. What was left of the day fell victim to the need to unpack - and to convince Yukon Prince that the property was safe. It took him several circuits of the yard and a thorough inspection of the house before he seemed satisfied that nothing smelled out of the ordinary, a finding for which I'm grateful. The property owner said the last resident had left in a suspicious hurry. One hears any number of stories about cities down here. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if the last person to rent the premises had stashed some ill-gotten gains or other contraband in the walls, intending to return for it after the coast was clear. Gold dust, counterfeit money, or other things of that nature - why, all kinds of things might pass through a place like this!
Save for the fact that this isn't the case, of course. I searched myself, confirming Prince's assessment. There's nothing here but the house and the dog run (which Prince shows no interest in - can't blame him - must get some tools and make him a proper kennel as long as we're here). I'll manage, I suppose, but that kind of thinking isn't something you can put on and take off like a hat. Vacation or no.
Day Two - Sunday, August 9
Found the Second United Methodist Church today. The pastor preaches a fair sermon, though longer than Reverend Snyder. Their choir is nothing short of astounding. Makes a man wish he were better at singing.
Afterwards, got out and had a stroll around the city. Prince stayed home and seemed much the better for it. Don't blame him on that either - this is no place for a proper sled dog, not at this time of year. Wish I had Regina here, frankly, but there's no stables on the premises so shank's mare will just have to do. Bit of a bigger town than I'd imagined, really. I find myself comparing it to Dawson City at every other step. Even Calgary wasn't half so big - nor so cosmopolitan. I don't think I've ever seen this many Chinamen in my life. Some of them came to head north for gold, but the majority of them came to stay. Wonder what it must be like back home for them, to come so far to a place like this. They're worse off than Americans when it comes to being foreign, poor devils.
Must find out if there is any kind of opera house in this city. Louise loved opera. The house had a phonograph, I recall - likely there's a seller of music somewhere nearby.
Oh - found lumberyard. Prince will have his kennel by nightfall.
Day Five - Wednesday, August 12
So much for vacation.
Prince wasn't happy this morning, and neither was I. The sun was barely halfway up the sky and already the heat was growing more than a little difficult to tolerate - although I am told it's hardly anything by comparison with the weather they get south of the border. Taking him on my constitutional in the nearest city park did no good what-so-ever, as nothing puts a damper on the enthusiasm of recreationalists like the presence of a seeming wolf. The collar did absolutely nothing to allay their fears. I spent the remainder of the excursion with leash in hand, giving the park-goers my reassurance on the honor of the Northwest Mounted that he was completely harmless so long as he was at my side. In truth I cannot blame them. King was raised by that she-wolf, Old Three Toe. Prince went his grandfather one better, being born to one, and he looks the part. I am given to understand that wolves rarely, if ever, show their faces within miles of the city.
But I digress. Prince and I returned to our lodgings. I'd just finished tidying up from the noonday meal when there was a knock at the door. Since I'd informed the local police of my profession (but given my name to no one else), I assumed it was either the constables or some well-meaning neighbour greeting the new fellow. This was not the case. I opened the door to find a young British woman on my step and the shadow of what I assumed was some over-large cloud across street and yard alike. The fact that Prince had slunk back into the house from the yard ought to have tipped me to the fact that this was not the case, but at the time I was more occupied with inviting the lady in and so did not notice. She was not, in fact, the neighbour. Having confirmed that I was in fact Sergeant Preston of the RCMP, she informed me that her name was Mary Poppins and that the British Government was in need of my services. I am afraid this caught me sufficiently by surprise that all I could think to do was offer Miss Poppins some tea. By the time I'd finished putting up the kettle, she had produced a file from her carpet bag (practical item, that - I ought to get one at some point) bearing the image of the King. I hardly had time to do more than glance at the contents, as she informed me straightaway that she was speaking for the legendary League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.
Understand that when I say 'legendary', I mean 'fantastical'. Stories get up to the Yukon the same as they do to anywhere else in Canada, but there is something about the journey that distorts even the most plain-spoken account. The things one hears about the League tend to be of a sort that make the cremation of Sam McGee sound factual.
This being an impolite thing to say to a lady, of course, I busied myself instead with looking more closely at her file. Miss Poppins was either an excellent forger of government documents, or extremely well connected. I have seen papers from Canadian, British, and even American government offices before. The scanty information she offered on shipping troubles in Glasgow looked genuine. It occurred to me that western Canada was a terribly long way to travel if one were nothing but a forger; Miss Poppins' accent was undeniably British, more so than the few actors I've heard trying to pass for such, so like as not she had in fact come from England at some point. On the other hand Britain does have a native police force; why on Earth would the Crown need to call me across the ocean? Why, they turned me away when I volunteered to join the Great War - said the RCMP was a vital service and I couldn't be spared! Were there no detectives left in Scotland, no officers of the law?
I had been about to ask this of Miss Poppins when I turned the page. There, last of all documents in her folder, lay a Letter of Release to International Service - from the RCMP to the direct service of the Crown, signed by the Prime Minister of Canada and the Commissioner of the Northwest Mounted alike.
I don't think I could have been more thunderstruck if Prince had started reciting Shakespeare. Thank Heaven for whistling kettles; I got up and poured the young lady her tea, but to be frank I rather felt as if steam ought to be coming out of my own ears at that point. I knew that document. There was no way, simply no way, that Letter of Release could have been a forgery. The League might be fantastical, some kind of cover or code name for a more comprehensible organization - but the Letter was real. Quite naturally I had no choice but to accept.
Once I'd packed, tidied up, and convinced Prince to abandon his new kennel, we followed Miss Poppins out into the still-shadowed street. Twice in one day I was struck dumb, for Miss Poppins had apparently arrived in a dirigible, if you can imagine such a thing. And what a dirigible, at that! The behemoth was larger than most of the ships I'd seen at dock in Vancouver. Frankly, the last time I'd seen anything that size it was a feature of the landscape and buried under twenty-two inches of snow. I must have looked a fool or worse, but Miss Poppins was polite enough to look the other way until I finished gaping at the thing. Prince didn't like it one bit, but as neither he nor I had any choice, we rigged a sling for him and hoisted him into the craft ahead of my luggage. He promptly ran for the nearest piece of furniture and hid under it, refusing to come out.
I am writing this in the dirigible's sitting-room - the thing has a sitting room! - somewhere over the province of Alberta. I do not think I will be returning to the Yukon any time soon.
cadhla's LJ, or some of the other folks' on my friends list, you know that last night (23 July 2003) cadhla ran an RPG session. Given that there is no League of Extraordinary Gentlemen official game, she kindly adapted the basic White Wolf Storyteller rules and told us to get characters from 1936ish - whether written then, or set in that time frame. I settled on Sergeant Preston of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, from a radio show that first aired in Detroit in 1938. Other characters included Mary Poppins, the Shadow, Dorothy Gale, Hugo Danners (I didn't recognise the name either), Lord Peter Wimsey, and Tom Swift. (Check agrumer's journal for links to more info on each, if you like.)Sadly, the game was a one-shot, although the chance exists of taking it to play-by-email form. *hopeful look* I enjoyed it thoroughly, although my poor Sergeant did not get to so much as hit anyone, let alone fire his gun or arrest anybody. Such is the chance one takes in a party that includes the inspiration for Doc Savage and an inventor who makes MacGyver look like a patent thief. The game was still resounding in my head when I got home, and my foolish decision to have a chocolate brownie before bed meant that I was up really quite late. As a consequence I had the lunatic idea of writing up the game summary over time from the Sergeant's point of view. I thought, perhaps, I might inflict it upon you here.
Diary of a Mountie
Day One - Saturday, August 8, 1936
Vancouver, British Columbia
Well, here I am. As I write these words I am in the study of a small house just inside the Vancouver city limits, ostensibly on the first day of my first vacation in nearly thirteen years. I don't know if you can really call a day like this part of a vacation, given that I spent most of it on the train. What was left of the day fell victim to the need to unpack - and to convince Yukon Prince that the property was safe. It took him several circuits of the yard and a thorough inspection of the house before he seemed satisfied that nothing smelled out of the ordinary, a finding for which I'm grateful. The property owner said the last resident had left in a suspicious hurry. One hears any number of stories about cities down here. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if the last person to rent the premises had stashed some ill-gotten gains or other contraband in the walls, intending to return for it after the coast was clear. Gold dust, counterfeit money, or other things of that nature - why, all kinds of things might pass through a place like this!
Save for the fact that this isn't the case, of course. I searched myself, confirming Prince's assessment. There's nothing here but the house and the dog run (which Prince shows no interest in - can't blame him - must get some tools and make him a proper kennel as long as we're here). I'll manage, I suppose, but that kind of thinking isn't something you can put on and take off like a hat. Vacation or no.
Day Two - Sunday, August 9
Found the Second United Methodist Church today. The pastor preaches a fair sermon, though longer than Reverend Snyder. Their choir is nothing short of astounding. Makes a man wish he were better at singing.
Afterwards, got out and had a stroll around the city. Prince stayed home and seemed much the better for it. Don't blame him on that either - this is no place for a proper sled dog, not at this time of year. Wish I had Regina here, frankly, but there's no stables on the premises so shank's mare will just have to do. Bit of a bigger town than I'd imagined, really. I find myself comparing it to Dawson City at every other step. Even Calgary wasn't half so big - nor so cosmopolitan. I don't think I've ever seen this many Chinamen in my life. Some of them came to head north for gold, but the majority of them came to stay. Wonder what it must be like back home for them, to come so far to a place like this. They're worse off than Americans when it comes to being foreign, poor devils.
Must find out if there is any kind of opera house in this city. Louise loved opera. The house had a phonograph, I recall - likely there's a seller of music somewhere nearby.
Oh - found lumberyard. Prince will have his kennel by nightfall.
Day Five - Wednesday, August 12
So much for vacation.
Prince wasn't happy this morning, and neither was I. The sun was barely halfway up the sky and already the heat was growing more than a little difficult to tolerate - although I am told it's hardly anything by comparison with the weather they get south of the border. Taking him on my constitutional in the nearest city park did no good what-so-ever, as nothing puts a damper on the enthusiasm of recreationalists like the presence of a seeming wolf. The collar did absolutely nothing to allay their fears. I spent the remainder of the excursion with leash in hand, giving the park-goers my reassurance on the honor of the Northwest Mounted that he was completely harmless so long as he was at my side. In truth I cannot blame them. King was raised by that she-wolf, Old Three Toe. Prince went his grandfather one better, being born to one, and he looks the part. I am given to understand that wolves rarely, if ever, show their faces within miles of the city.
But I digress. Prince and I returned to our lodgings. I'd just finished tidying up from the noonday meal when there was a knock at the door. Since I'd informed the local police of my profession (but given my name to no one else), I assumed it was either the constables or some well-meaning neighbour greeting the new fellow. This was not the case. I opened the door to find a young British woman on my step and the shadow of what I assumed was some over-large cloud across street and yard alike. The fact that Prince had slunk back into the house from the yard ought to have tipped me to the fact that this was not the case, but at the time I was more occupied with inviting the lady in and so did not notice. She was not, in fact, the neighbour. Having confirmed that I was in fact Sergeant Preston of the RCMP, she informed me that her name was Mary Poppins and that the British Government was in need of my services. I am afraid this caught me sufficiently by surprise that all I could think to do was offer Miss Poppins some tea. By the time I'd finished putting up the kettle, she had produced a file from her carpet bag (practical item, that - I ought to get one at some point) bearing the image of the King. I hardly had time to do more than glance at the contents, as she informed me straightaway that she was speaking for the legendary League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.
Understand that when I say 'legendary', I mean 'fantastical'. Stories get up to the Yukon the same as they do to anywhere else in Canada, but there is something about the journey that distorts even the most plain-spoken account. The things one hears about the League tend to be of a sort that make the cremation of Sam McGee sound factual.
This being an impolite thing to say to a lady, of course, I busied myself instead with looking more closely at her file. Miss Poppins was either an excellent forger of government documents, or extremely well connected. I have seen papers from Canadian, British, and even American government offices before. The scanty information she offered on shipping troubles in Glasgow looked genuine. It occurred to me that western Canada was a terribly long way to travel if one were nothing but a forger; Miss Poppins' accent was undeniably British, more so than the few actors I've heard trying to pass for such, so like as not she had in fact come from England at some point. On the other hand Britain does have a native police force; why on Earth would the Crown need to call me across the ocean? Why, they turned me away when I volunteered to join the Great War - said the RCMP was a vital service and I couldn't be spared! Were there no detectives left in Scotland, no officers of the law?
I had been about to ask this of Miss Poppins when I turned the page. There, last of all documents in her folder, lay a Letter of Release to International Service - from the RCMP to the direct service of the Crown, signed by the Prime Minister of Canada and the Commissioner of the Northwest Mounted alike.
I don't think I could have been more thunderstruck if Prince had started reciting Shakespeare. Thank Heaven for whistling kettles; I got up and poured the young lady her tea, but to be frank I rather felt as if steam ought to be coming out of my own ears at that point. I knew that document. There was no way, simply no way, that Letter of Release could have been a forgery. The League might be fantastical, some kind of cover or code name for a more comprehensible organization - but the Letter was real. Quite naturally I had no choice but to accept.
Once I'd packed, tidied up, and convinced Prince to abandon his new kennel, we followed Miss Poppins out into the still-shadowed street. Twice in one day I was struck dumb, for Miss Poppins had apparently arrived in a dirigible, if you can imagine such a thing. And what a dirigible, at that! The behemoth was larger than most of the ships I'd seen at dock in Vancouver. Frankly, the last time I'd seen anything that size it was a feature of the landscape and buried under twenty-two inches of snow. I must have looked a fool or worse, but Miss Poppins was polite enough to look the other way until I finished gaping at the thing. Prince didn't like it one bit, but as neither he nor I had any choice, we rigged a sling for him and hoisted him into the craft ahead of my luggage. He promptly ran for the nearest piece of furniture and hid under it, refusing to come out.
I am writing this in the dirigible's sitting-room - the thing has a sitting room! - somewhere over the province of Alberta. I do not think I will be returning to the Yukon any time soon.
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Hi, no I didn't read it all...
Date: 2003-07-24 09:44 am (UTC)There is sorta, it's called Adventure, and it's by White Wolf, and it's all about Pulp. Very nifty game, if it's played to theme. Only one book, or at least only one book I've seen.
Granted it is the precursor to Aberrant, I guess. But again if played to theme it's rather nifty.
Re: Hi, no I didn't read it all...
Date: 2003-07-24 10:49 am (UTC)Re: Hi, no I didn't read it all...
Date: 2003-07-24 11:13 am (UTC)Re: Hi, no I didn't read it all...
Date: 2003-07-24 11:18 am (UTC)