Lords of RPG

Once a Nobleman

Capitaine François Jean Louis Moreau, a nobleman hailing from Dijon, France held the distinguished rank of Captain primarily due to his aristocratic lineage. He was third in line to inherit the ancestral castle and manor that stood tall for centuries, a testament to the Moreau family's legacy. However, his privileged upbringing had molded him into a man of contradictions – cruel, spoiled, and arrogant, yet undeniably generous, clever, and tenacious.

As he traversed the Atlantic to North America, fate wove a tale that would forever alter the course of François' life. The French Revolution erupted, leaving his homeland in chaos. His family, entangled in the political turmoil, faced the grim consequences of the guillotine. François, far from the turmoil, received the heart-wrenching news while stationed in the wilderness of North America.

The once prideful nobleman now found himself an orphan, bereft of his family and his noble standing back in France. He sought solace in his military duty, where his skill and cunning earned him the respect of his comrades. However, the shadows of the revolution cast a perpetual gloom over his heart.

With the passing years, François shifted his focus to the vast expanses of Louisiana, near Baton Rouge. He became a landowner, establishing a sprawling plantation that echoed the opulence of his lost heritage. Yet, the scars of the past lingered, and the man who once reveled in his nobility now carried a burdened and lonely soul.

As the years passed and the plantation grew, François frequently found himself in New Orleans, a city brimming with vibrant energy and untold mysteries. It was there that he encountered a peculiar opportunity – a reeducation school of strong and perhaps even magical natives. Drawn by both curiosity and the desire to possess something extraordinary, François impulsively made the purchase…a young couple…a breeding pair.

As he embarked on the journey back to his plantation, the enslaved creatures in tow, François contemplated the twists of fate that had led him to this moment. The rhythmic clatter of hooves against the dusty trail echoed the cadence of his ruminations. The natives, with their ethereal grace, seemed to carry an air of mystery that transcended the mundane. François, once arrogant and spoiled, felt a profound jealousy in the presence of these enigmatic beings. Perhaps it was the whims of fate or the universe's way of reminding the man who had lost everything that he had no family of his own. The Louisiana sun dipped below the horizon as François and his new slaves approached the plantation, marking the beginning of a new chapter in his tumultuous life.

The Frenchman’s Academy

The Moreau Plantation, or the French Academy, as they referred to themselves, professed to take in native children and condition them for functioning in civilized society, while in reality they abducted or purchased natives and bred them in captivity trying to condition them to be unpaid servants and slaves. As breeding had failed to produce any results, the rumors of “special powers” or a “curse” only meant they were cheaper to purchase in the city.

Named Margaret by one of the nuns, she had always been a bit of an outsider and didn’t often see her siblings, but they still warned her, as their parents had warned them. Be wary of beauty...it is not always a gift. She saw the way the men stared at her and knew what it meant. When the time came, she would be sold to breed, not to work…not until she was done breedin.

Her parents had been split and sold separately shortly after her youngest sister had been born. As soon as the doctor announced that, “this un won’t be havin any more baybies” in his slow southern drawl. She had no idea where they were…probably dead. Her older siblings had all been sold as soon as they entered puberty…she had no idea where they were, well except for one…she had seen him hangin. Eventually, the time came for her as it had for her parents and siblings.

Purchased by Stephane LeClerc, who had served with Captaine Moreau, Margaret was kept in chains and shackles, but dressed in the finest clothes. Given a large room in the basement of the manor house, walls adorned with tapestries and paintings, floors covered with the finest rugs, but never allowed to leave. Fed the finest food, but never allowed to handle a knife. Raped almost every night, while being told she should feel lucky and, “maybe I’ll let your spawn use the family name.”

Years ago, when she was still little, her brother had warned her before he left…before he was hanging from the gallows, “If you git the gift, what ma said g’ma had, then run…run and never come back…and if they follow, kill’em. Kill’em all. These are all bad people and we owe them nudding.”

She didn’t know why she had waited so long, why she hadn’t done it sooner, but when she overheard the conversation or enough of it, the decision was made…set in stone. Two years had passed and still no children…she was to be sold to a field master and replaced by her own sister.

It’s where her mind was as she pulled the blade out of Stephen’s heart. She had ported into his room while he was on his way to hers and then ported back. The look of shock on his face as she stabbed him with his own sabre brought a smile to hers. She hadn’t even bothered to take her shackles off.

“Perhaps I’ll name my horse after you.” She looked down at him and laughed as his life slipped away.

The Wandering Years

A year after Margaret left the LeClerc residence she found herself out west. Wandering from place to place she practiced and trained her gifts and talents all the while assuming that she was wanted. So, even though she’d seen no posters or signs, she was ready when the Bounty Hunter arrived.

Hired by Captaine Moreau six months prior, the unfortunate man had spent a long time tracking her down only to find she refused to be captured. Rifle in hand when she had attacked him, he was able to stave off the first couple of blows before her blade found that nice little spot between his ribs. Buried in an unmarked grave, he would be sending no reports back to the Captaine.

Except for a couple gashes, the rifle he had carried looked nice, so she slung it over her back for future training and use. The heavy duster he wore seemed a bit used, but would keep her dress from gettin dirty and the mule seemed happier now that the unnamed bounty hunter was dead, so Margaret grabbed the reins, mounted the animal, and gently patted its head.

“I think I’ll name you Stephen.”