Wench of the Orient

🎭 A noir RPG set in 1930s Shanghai, China 🇹🇼

The year is 1936, corruption in Shanghai ran deep like a rotting root; a shiny pearl under the hands of Western powers, filled with mob crime & political troubles. The authoritarian Kuomintang Party (KMT) under Chiang Kai-shek’s regime ruthlessly puts down labor movements to suppress communism, while the International Police Force attempts to maintain the peace, but are often bribed by the mob & the KMT to turn the other cheek.

(Based on the scrapped Team Bondi game "The Whore of the Orient")

⬇️ Lore below: ⬇️

================

—Prologue—

The year is 1936, corruption in the Pearl of the Orient ran deep like a rotting root.

Shanghai, a pearl clutched in the sweaty palm of Western imperialism, carved up into sectors that ooze their own vices into the city. The Triads, Chinese mobs operating as secret societies, lurked in the shadows, their whispers law louder than any statute. The authoritarian Kuomintang Party (KMT) under Chiang Kai-shek’s regime ruthlessly puts down labor movements in order to suppress Communism, while the International Police Force tries to keep the peace, but are often bribed to look the other way.

================

—Shanghai, the Wench of the Orient—

The year is 1936. Shanghai. The name itself whispers of silk and shadows, a city where fortunes were made and lives were broken in the same rain-slicked alley. It was a divided metropolis, a pearl clutched in the sweaty palm of Western imperialism.

The International Settlement sprawled like a bloated tick, pumping out its vice like a disease. The warm rain of the city is not the gentle kiss of a spring shower. It’s a greasy shroud, clinging to the neon glow that bled across the slick cobblestones of the International Settlement. A city carved in thirds, each slice a festering wound that oozes their own vice— the French Concession, a den of opium dreams and whispered secrets; the International Settlement, a gaudy stage for Western ambition and Chinese desperation; and the Chinese City, a labyrinth of shadows where the Triads held court, their whispers law louder than any statute.

The air hung thick with the scent of jasmine and coal smoke, a perfume masking the rot beneath. Western powers, fat and complacent in their Bund mansions, sipped their brandies and pretended not to hear the screams echoing from the alleyways. They called it progress, this relentless extraction of wealth, this casual disregard for the teeming millions (humans and anthros alike) who scraped by in the shadows of their grandeur.

But beyond the concessions, the real Shanghai pulsed with a desperate energy. The Chinese city, a sprawling warren of humanity, teemed with life, poverty, and the ever-present threat of violence. It was here that the Triads held sway. The Green Gang, the Red Gang – a hydra-headed beast whose tendrils reached into every corner of the city. Opium dens, gambling parlors, protection rackets – their empire was built on vice and fear, with their fingers in every pie from dockside smuggling to the lucrative opium trade, were the undisputed kings of this underworld. Their enforcers, the infamous "dues collectors," moved through the crowded streets like wraiths, their whispers carrying more weight than any official decree.

Chiang Kai-shek's Kuomintang (KMT) ruled with an iron fist. Their blue-uniformed soldiers were a constant reminder of the regime's power like a malevolent dragon, their methods brutal and efficient. They crushed any hint of dissent, any gathering of workers that dared to dream of a better future. Communism was the phantom they hunted, and any suspected "sympathizer" (humans and anthros alike) was met with swift and merciless justice. The KMT's grip extended into every facet of life, their corruption a disease that festered in the halls of power.

Caught in the middle was the International Police Force. A motley crew of nationalities, often more concerned with their own survival (and their next bribe) than with upholding any semblance of justice. Some were idealistic, haunted by the moral decay that surrounded them. Most, however, had learned to turn a blind eye, to navigate the city's treacherous currents with a mixture of cynicism and pragmatism. They were the supposed guardians of peace, but in reality, they were often just another cog in the city's corrupt machine.

The Huangpu River, a muddy artery, snaked through the heart of the city, carrying the flotsam and jetsam of Shanghai's underbelly: the bodies of the unlucky, the dreams of the desperate, and the secrets that no one dared to speak aloud. Shanghai was truly a city on the edge, a powder keg waiting for a spark. It was a city of contrasts, of beauty and brutality, of hope and despair. It was a city where life was cheap, and death was always just a shadow away.

It’s no wonder why some call Shanghai the "Wench of the Orient".