All being well I may have this game out by the end of the day. It’s a quick/simple board game of mech-smashing action based on some rules I found while tidying up some notepads. I’d made a game based on Robot Jox (1989! Crotch chainsaw!). Of course, it now has much more of a Steampunk twist.
Here’s a taster in the meantime. The construction mech, The Brunel.
A cooperative, self-constructed boardgame of zombie herding in Victorian Society.
Can you recapture the flesh-hungry fiends, protect Old London Town AND maintain a proper sense of Victorian decorum, all at the same time?
It was a strange and beautiful event when, in the mid eighteen-hundreds, the Earth passed through a strange and luminous cloud. For several nights the atmosphere from pole to pole and east to west shone like the Northern Lights with a strange, pinkish pallor to the illuminations.
Scientists were at a loss, postulating that we were passing through some band of particles or radiation though none of our Earth-bound devices could tell us much about it. Photographic equipment would not function correctly, images coming out covered in blotches or completely white. All we have are memories, paintings and speculation.
The lights lasted for a week. A short enough time to remain remarkable. A long enough time that people stopped standing in the street, mouths agape, looking into the sky until all hours. A short enough time that it didn’t lose its wonder. Then, it abruptly stopped.
People continued to speculate. Scientists with various ideas took the sudden cessation as absolute confirmation of their theories and things got back to normal. At least for a while.
Three nights after the glowing ceased, the Earth burst open and the dead poured forth. Anyone and everyone who had died on or before that night arose from their grave, sepulchre and mortuary and assaulted the living. It was chaos. In many parts of the world cowardice and poor sense led to the living being overwhelmed. In others, such as London, the army made short work of the dead, destroying most of them, capturing others.
Soon, at least within the bounds of the Empire, the crisis was over. The dead – unless killed by one of the walking dead – rose no longer and the overwhelming majority had been destroyed. Those that remained were kept as experiments, destroyed or – in rare sentimental cases – placed within charitable institutions or private sanctuaries retained by the great and the good who had the money, or standing, to put the government in its place.
One such charitable institution is Lady Bexington’s Home for Wayward Zombies, a privately funded charity (much of it via Lady Bexington’s inheritance) which takes in those zombies that don’t have someone to look after them and would otherwise be destroyed.
Lady Bexington cares for them, feeds them, grooms them. They even seem to have come to know and recognise her somehow. She’s absolutely potty, gone in the head, when it comes to zombies. Poor girl.
It doesn’t help that there are scandalous rumours about what she feeds them and that, on occasion, it is said that they escape…