Burning Midnight

[Wuxing]

My group and I just started a Burning Wheel campaign. We tried approaching this campaign as a group, each person talking about what they wanted/expected from the game. As the talk became more focused, I started looking for settings that would take some of the work away from me. We settled on Fantasy Flight Games' Midnight.

Midnight is essentially LoTR if Sauron won. We rolled the timeline back some, as we thought it would be more fun. We mixed up the timeline a litte bit, purely by poor editting on the handouts by me. We took out gnomes and halfers. Then we attempted to "burn" the setting.

Since one of my players decided to post his character here, http://burningwheel.org/forum/viewtopic.php?t=507, I thought I should at least post campaign notes, actual play reports and whatever else comes up. Comments are most welcomed.

BURNING MIDNIGHT

Intro
Twice before he has come. Twice the world has stood on the brink of an eternal night. Twice have the elder races of Eredane held and drove back the night. Yet, the Shadow in the North waits. The prayers of the faithful fall on deaf ears, the gods long ago abandoning these lands. Izrador, the Shadow is all that remains.

Eight hundred and ninety three years have passed since he was last defeated. But the price of the last victory was costly indeed. Civil war in the north and diminishing trade in the south continually divide the lands of man, Erenland. Few dwarven homesteads remain, trade all but ceased and many believing the race is almost extinct. Elves retreat into the Whispering Wood, a land said to be alive with the spirits of elves no longer in this world. Little contact remains between humans and elves, mostly yearly trade of good and information in the City of Cale and perhaps scouts along the Fort Wall.

The stirs begin, again, from the north. War parties of Black Tribe and Dark Mother orcs have increased their raids on the lands of Eredane. Three times in the previous three years has the fort wall city, Steel Hill, stood on the brink of destruction. A shadow of a great winged beast spied, hovering on the horizon, during the last battle. The ghosts of the past grow restless, wandering the lands near the place of their death, increasingly agitated and aggressive. The Shadow in the North is awakening. The call has gone out, “Who will stand against The Shadow?” You have answered the call.

Keep in Mind
Think Lord of the Rings, Crabs on the wall in Legends of the Five Rings and Songs of Fire and Ice, all mixed into one. Death can come in the form of a single arrow or sword strike. The darkness IS coming. The defenses have stood before, each time the price more steep. Will they hold once more? How, and more importantly, why does your character fight the Shadow? Perhaps hope, honor, or the chance to have your name sung in the songs of bards.

[Wuxing]

Dornish History and Culture
Arriving in Eredane during the First Age, the Dorns claimed the lands due to their aggressive nature and strength of their sword arms. Eventually negotiation peace with elves and dwarves, they claimed the plains as their home. It was then that the true battle against the Shadow was fought. Elf, dwarf and man fought side by side, eventually turning back Izrador’s minions at the Battle of Three Kingdoms on the Plains of Eris Aman. Thus ended the First Age.

The coming of the Sarcosans, those who drove them from their lands to begin with brought war again to the lands of Eredane. Skilled riders, the Sarcosans eventually dominated the plains. Marriage and the Battle of Twin Crowns, on the Plains of Erenland, signal the end of hostilities.

As a unified human kingdom is formed, Elves enlist men with construction of the Fortress Wall. The Dorns, great supporters of the wall, considered manning the fortresses a great honor. Construction is completed in time for the second coming of the Shadow. Dragons filled the skies as the elder races unite to fight together once again. Both sides break at the great Battle at the Fortress Wall, signaling the end of the war. None suffered larger losses of life and resources than the Northmen, and thus ended the second age.

In this the third age, the House alliances begin to crack. Ages old conflicts between Houses erupt in periodic civil war. Many of the human manned forts of the Fort Wall are allowed to fall apart. Three Old Kings declare independence, before making peace again with the High King Kalif Kari. Promises are made and broken with the elves. The dwarves have retreated into the mountains and elves into the forest. The Shadow stirs in the North, once again. Skirmishes at the Fort Wall have become a common occurrence. The call for reinforcements has gone out, though some believe it may be too late.

The dead are cremated in huge pyres within large rings of standing stone. The ashes are scattered within the ring, to rest forever with their ancestors. Each homestead erects their own Ancestor Ring, usually near the homestead. Spirits are isolated from their celestial homes however and shades, unable to rest, are known to inhabit the rings after dark. Most homesteads erect multiple rings, each consecutively farther to prevent a large collection of weary spirits. Tales are spread of warriors seeking the council of their elders, at dawn and dusk, within the rings. Indeed, every dornish man and woman knows someone who claims to have dealt with the spirits within the stones. Most however avoid the rings after nightfall.

Steeped in a proud warrior tradition, quick to laugh and quick to anger, every Northman can trace their lineage to one of the Great Houses of the Dorns. Tall and pale, with eyes that range from green to blue they typically wear their hair long bound with metal rings to commemorate each battle a deed of bravery was performed in. The more precious the metal and intricately made, the greater the deed.

Great Houses
House Baden: The house least steeped in classic dornish traditions. Resourceful and successful traders, they are renown for their tacticians and scholars.

House Chander: Smallest of the great houses, with the “poorest” land in Northern Erenland. They are fiercely loyal to each other and their king.

House Dale: Based at Fort Riismark, facing out into the Northern Marches and the Vale of Tears. Steeped on the traditions of the Old Kings, seeking honor and glory in the marches and the vale.

House Davin: Based in the City of Davindale near the Fortress Wall. Many Davin warriors have found great honor at Fort Moric.

House Esben: Smaller house known for its good hearted, hard working ruling family. They house the second largest port in the north and are largely responsible for transporting the agricultural goods from House Pender.

House Falon: Renown orc hunters, miners and smiths, their war has never ended with the Shadow. Lady Cerowyn Falon sits on the throne in Fort Steel Hill, the only female ever to hold a throne of great house.

House Norfall: Warrior sailor traditions, greatest sailors and shipwrights within Erenland.

House Orin: Easternmost House that has seemingly vanished along with the dwarves. Once known blacksmiths, armor smiths and miners.

House Pender: “Pantry of the Northlands” House with the most fertile lands. House Pender is largely responsible for feeding the North and thus less warrior code focused than other houses.

House Redgard: House with the closest proximity and most contact to the elves due to the city of Cale. Redgard take pride in the city that was twice under siege by Izrador and has never fallen.

House Sedrig: Most “noble” of the houses and direct decendants from Sedrig the Sly who founded a monastery of learning which eventually becomes the Scholars Academy. Controls the most diverse and large area of land, including Highwall and the trading city of White Cliff.

House Torbauld: Steeped in traditions of the Old Kings, House Torbauld lies on the south side of the Sea of Pelluria. Successfully integrated healthy trade with old warrior traditions.

[Wuxing]

Sarcosan History and Culture
Arriving in Eredane during the Second Age, the Sarcosans brought horses changing the manner war was waged and the ease with which trade was conducted. Sarcosan mounted cavalry eventually gained control of most of the plains south of the Sea of Pelluria, before signing treaties of peace with dorn, elf and dwarf.

Marriage and treaties with Dornish kings, forged a single human kingdom. The Lands of Erenland were born and the rule of the Old Kingdom was thrown off. The capital city of Alvedra was founded, as Elves enlist men with construction of the Fortress Wall. The Dorns, who had previously fought the shadow strongly supported these efforts. The wall was completed in time for the second coming of the Shadow. Dragons filled the skies as the elder races united to fight together once again. Both sides break at the great Battle at the Fortress Wall, signaling the end of the war. The war raged primarily in the Northern Marches and none suffered larger losses of life and resources than the Northmen, and thus ended the second age.

In this the third age, the Dornish House alliances begin to crack, erupting in periodic civil war. These wars slowly drained the military resources of the Southmen and cut off vital trade routes. Many of the human manned forts of the Fort Wall were allowed to fall apart. Three Old Kings declared independence, before making peace again with the High King Kalif Kari. Promises were made and broken with the elves. The dwarves retreated into the mountains and elves into the forest. The Shadow begins to stir in the North, once again. Skirmishes at the Fort Wall have become a common occurrence. The call for reinforcements has gone out, though some believe it may be too late.

Sarcosan dead are cremated. The ashes are then mixed with the feed of the horses. This is believed to pass the finer qualities of the deceased onto the steed and give them an extra measure of speed and endurance. The ancient celestial homes closed to them, spirits have been known to wander familiar places and locations of great battles during dusk and dawn. Many Sarcosans avoid these weary spirits, as they have been increasingly unpredictable.

Sarcosans are leaner than the Northmen, with dark skin and hair. Narrow eyes grant them a hard look when angry and a bright smile when pleased. Sarcosans follow a strict caste system based on merit, allowing movement between castes. Once sworn, they paint their skin with herbal salves, that bleach intricate pale designs onto their faces, arms and chests for nothing more than the beauty it creates.

Sarcosan cities are open and spacious, typically buildings are no higher than one or two floors (a remnant of their old nomad culture). One badrua, star tower, stands tall over all other buildings. It is thought to be a modern manisfestation of ancient spirit poles and is the center of worship within the city. Worship is multi denominational, with worship based on current need.

Sarcosan Caste System
The caste system confers privileges upon each individual. The system is strictly based on merit, allowing everyone, Sarcosan and others alike, to move within the system. Ranks are granted or removed only by command of a Sussar or the High King.

Sheol is the lowest caste, typically reserved for beggars, criminals, unsworn and foriegnors. Asara are sworn farmers, herders, fishermen and peasant. Beeshi rank is typical of merchants, traders, soldiers and craftsmen. Uruush is the highest rank a non-sarcosan can achieve, typically priests and nobles with long, exceptional service. Shari is reserved for those groomed to be sussars. Sussars are the “sworn riders” of the Sarcosans. They are charged with governance of lands, military units and any other task assigned them by the High King.

Basic Great Houses of the Dorns
House Falon: Renown orc hunters, miners and smiths, their war has never ended with the Shadow. Lady Cerowyn Falon sits on the throne in Fort Steel Hill, the only female ever to hold a throne of great house.

House Norfall: Warrior sailor traditions, greatest sailors and shipwrights within Erenland.

House Redgard: House with the closest proximity and most contact to the elves due to the city of Cale

House Sedrig: Founder of the Scholars Academy. Control Highwall and the trading city of White Cliff.

House Torbauld: Lies on the south side of the Sea of Pelluria. Successfully integrated healthy trade with old warrior traditions.

[Wuxing]

The numbers are all reasonable. We placed a cap on skills of B4 and although we didn't cap stats, only one player took a stat over B4. We set a cap on five life paths with no repeats. We talked a bit of this through to try to prevent characters that would "break" the game we were trying to play. We wanted to watch them grow and learn and those numbers will help facilitate that. With that in mind I won't be posting stat blocks. I'll post BITs and maybe a comment or two.

Kemlin Vargo (who is posted in the character section at the link a few posts above). Peasant ->Pilgrim->Cultist->Ranger->Scout
Beliefs: The enemy of my god is my enemy, Izrador will be pushed back when man unites, The first strike should always be a suprise and One must pass through night to reach the dawn.
Instincts: Wear gloves, Watch the sunrise, Look and Listen
Traits: Reincarnated (lived through one of the last wars against the Shadow), Dreamer (glimpes of the past life?), Rabble Rouser (faith is lost in this world, so by virtue of having it this will come into play), Road Weary (will likely be gone due to play), Alms Taker (will likely be gone due to play).

Raemos City ->Laborer->Guard->Foot Soldier->Sergeant
Beliefs:A mug of ale can cure all problems, The only good greenskin is a dead one
Instincts:Fight first and ask questions later, Always wipe your blade clean, Never trust a woman
Traits:Mindnumbing Labor, Drunkeness, Tough as Nails, Brutal, World Weary

Brindell City->Page->Student->Chronicler
Beliefs: Learn from mistakes, Try be at the center of events
Instincts: Keep writing materials protected, Always have a quill
Traits:Fearless, Insomniac, Academic, Righteous

We fully expect these things to change. The players designed with an eye on change. Kemlin expects to be cranked up a few notches in play, Raemos expects to become humane in play, Brindell expects to be hardened with the horrors of war.

Edits to add BITs

[luke]

The numbers are all reasonable. We placed a cap on skills of B4 and although we didn't cap stats, only one player took a stat over B4. We set a cap on five life paths with no repeats. We talked a bit of this through to try to prevent characters that would "break" the game we were trying to play. We wanted to watch them grow and learn and those numbers will help facilitate that. With that in mind I won't be posting stat blocks. I'll post BITs and maybe a comment or two.

this is a GREAT WAY to handle a Burning Wheel game. You've got a lot of options, but by trimming them down you can better focus on what YOU want out of the game.

-L

[foxandwarlock]

CHAPTER 1: STEEL HILL

June 20th, 2004

The missive had even reached them in the South - a call for aid, an appeal for arms, the men to wield them, and a challenge to those who believed that the war with the Shadow had ended. It had been carried by rider and by foot, by trade route and by whisper, as news traded over a meal in crowded inns, and as gossip in the bazaar. Those who spoke of it, swore to its origins - the very throne of Steel Hill. The instructions were clear, and unaltered in their retellings, “Volunteers gather at Nalford.”

And so they went North. Spring became Summer while they traveled the roads of the South and before Kemlin Vargo and Azrith had reached Nalford, the days had become long and the nights short. But instead of a host at Nalford, they found only one man - Brindell Mars. A chronicler from the scholar city of Highwall – acclaimed in education and quick to introduce himself.

It was the custom of House Falon that they should send a man each arc to Nalford and collect what volunteers had arrived. And so Raemos, of House Redguard, and Neiman were sent with those same instructions. Grumbling, they had loaded supplies into the aged wagon at Nalford and said little to the trio of men they had found there, beyond their plans for departure.

And when that day came, it found Azrith and Brindell seated in the rear of the wagon and the two men of Steel Hill guiding it. Kemlin Vargo walked beside it, periodically boarding the wagon to rest his legs before resuming his trek. Always the man from Highwall spoke on and on, his voice as constant as the creaking of the wagon wheels. He spoke of things only Azrith understood and so Kemlin learned to ignore the man’s voice, except when the scholar spoke directly to him. In that way, their days passed, and the air grew cooler though never cold.

A fortnight into their journey, as bedrolls were being undone and a fire started, Raemos declared that there would be a watch and that he would be the first to stand it. There was no discussion of the order, only a quiet meal and a quick retirement as the newcomers wondered why a watch should be started so late in their travels.

It was far into the night when Raemos woke him. A less then soft nudge from a boot and Kemlin’s dark eyes opened, instantly alert. Raemos had already moved onto the next sleeping form as Kemlin sat up to survey the scene. Not far off, the bobbing lights of half a dozen torches continued towards their camp. The sound of a bestial tongue echoed through the night, faint but discernable. Kemlin lept to his feet and checked the kukri at his waist, as the camp came to life around him. He snatched his bow and quiver from where they lay and darted off into the night. Hunched over, he scrambled through the darkness, out and then around so as to approach the torchbearers from the rear.

Somewhere behind him, he could hear the sounds of men readying and the hiss of whispered conversation. A single glance over his shoulder showed the silhouettes of his companions, illuminated by their campfire. He slowed his pace as he approached the torchbearers, fitting an arrow to his bow. Patiently… cautiously he crept forward – his own breathing loud in his ears and then the moon drifted from behind a cloud.

Silver light shown down across the tall, plains grass and illuminated the creatures that held the torches - of little less then a man’s height, with dark skin and disheveled hair of the same hue. Long, pointed teeth jutted from their mouths and black claws tipped their fingers. Seven of them in total, six bearing torches and the last a whip. Kemlin was held frozen – transfixed by the sight of the very creatures that had haunted his dreams since his earliest years. His nightmares stood before him, made true by flesh and bone.

Before him, they marched in time and the torches began a mesmerizing dance, up and down in the dark of the night. Fear became terror as the creatures screamed, dropped their torches and charged the similarly effected campsite. Only Raemos screamed, “Come to me!” and beckoned them with steel of his great two-handed blade.

The seventh creature, larger and more muscular then the rest, strolled languidly behind the charge. Still Kemlin Vargo, could not move or find resolve enough to pull back the string of his bow. He watched the creatures bowl over his companions and bring rough-hewn cudgels to bear. The smaller creatures had run past Raemos and now the whip-bearer pointed to him as he approached. Hill-forged steel sung and dark leather cracked as the weapons fought to find a weakness in the other’s defense.

And then, suddenly, Kemlin felt the fletching of his arrow between his fingers. He leveled the bow and brought the arrow back to his ear, letting loose the shaft. It flew true through the night and thudded into the creature’s hauberk. The creature issued a guttural yell and broke from the melee, fleeing into the darkness beyond the campsite.

Raemos turned and caught a smaller creature unprepared, slaying it with a single stroke. Beyond him, Kemlin could see the creatures as they beat Azrith and the man known as Brindell with their clubs. Kemlin let the bow fall from his hand as he charged back towards the camp. His knife appeared in his hand as he bowled the first creature over and struck it. Brindell reeled backwards and freed his own blade from his scabbard.

Raemos felled another with a punch that broke the creature’s teeth and Kemlin struck the back of another. On the other side of the campfire, Neiman scrambled back to his feet and traded blows with the creature that had charged him. Raemos ran another through as it tried to flee and a second chop from the kukri forced the last to the ground. The sounds of combat settled into uneasy silence, pierced by the heavy breathing of all involved. Neiman leaned on his blade, while Brindell checked on Azrith. Almost immediately, Raemos laid down on his bedroll and pointed at Neiman, “You’re watch.”

Kemlin’s heart pounded, the blood in his veins had turned to fire. One had escaped – he could not fail Aman-Ra in his first test. He had sworn a vow and painted the sign of the Morninglord on his flesh. The Sarcosan worked the edge of the camp as his companions talked among themselves. His eyes sought the flight of the creature, the bent grass that it would leave in its wake.

There. By the wagon.

The pounding of his heart redoubled and Kemlin sprinted off into the night. The cool, north wind blew across the plains, turning the fields of grass into a sea of waving silver. Beneath him, his feet pounded furiously against the uneven dirt. The silver sea stretched to the horizon, and on its edge a small dark shadow darted across it. Kemlin Vargo sprinted after it.

Miles passed beneath his feet, the hours changed, night gave way to dawn and still Kemlin Vargo ran on. As he shadowed the creature in the pre-dawn light, he cursed himself for his forgotten bow.

Between panting breaths he found the words, “Morninglord, in the dawn that is to come, I will do your work. Grant me your strength and aid so that I may bring glory to your name.”

The ranger’s lungs threatened to burst, his legs burned, his shoulders ached and his eyes stung. The gray of pre-dawn slowly gave way to the first rays of red and gold and Kemlin struck out far to the creature’s left and passed it. Ahead of it, he found a place where the earth gave way, creating a natural ditch. In it, he crouched, drew his kukri and waited for the Shadowkin’s approach.

He felt each breath as his chest heaved. Around him, nothing seemed to move as the silver grass turned fiery gold beneath the rising sun. There was nothing but silence…and then the heavy thud of footfalls against the earth. He felt his legs tense, readying for the spring that must come and heard the creature’s labored breaths. He felt the sweat of his palm against the leather wrapped hilt and then the creature’s shadow fell across him.

Weary legs pushed the ranger up and at the creature, taking it by surprise. The blade left a cut across the creature’s cheek as it stumbled away from the threat. Kemlin came on as the creature continued to reel, slashing at every opportunity. Two more cuts opened across its neck and face. It turned and ran back the way it had come. But what it did not know, is that it could not escape.

The heavy, southern-style blade landed solidly across the creature’s back, stripping pieces from its hauberk. Five, ten, twenty steps they ran before the creature stopped suddenly. It turned and lunged at the ranger, tears streaming down its face from the morning sun. Almost lazily the ranger, moved aside and struck the Shadowkin yet again. Dark blood welled across the cut as the creature’s eyes went wide and it stumbled back for a second time.

Around them, the grass had blossomed into color, greens and browns awash with the warmth of the morning light. The creature raised hands only to feel the bite of the knife as the blade avoided them. It broke and ran for a second time, driven by fear alone. And for a second time, Kemlin landed blow after blow across its back. It howled in pain, in fear, in frustration and the kukri fell a final time, burying itself deep in the base of the creature’s neck.

The Shadowkin pitched forward, pulling the blade from Kemlin’s unsuspecting hand, as it careened face-first into the hard earth. Chest heaving, Kemlin put one boot on the creature’s back, tore his blade free and took inventory of himself. Black blood covered his well-worn gloves and hauberk. Streaks of it stained the bright silver of his blade as he examined it in the light.

His muscles and mind screamed for rest…..but the body. The body must be burned. He shuffled a short distance before luckily discovering the type of rock he sought. Clutching it in one gloved hand, he returned to the body and struck it a glancing blow with his kukri – to no effect.

He collapsed onto his knees and looked up at sun, “Prince of Tomorrow, lend me the heat of a summer day and the fire of your eyes. Make true your gaze upon me this morning.”

He struck the rock again, and just a few sparks flew from the contact. He gathered a small pile of dried grass. A third, a fourth, a fifth strike. A half a dozen more and the small pile caught alight. He shielded it with his hands and nurtured the flame and when it was large enough spread it to the grass around the body. With four heavy blows, he severed the creature’s head and held it by its long, black hair while he waited for the flames to set the body ablaze.

When he was satisfied, he wandered as far as his legs would carry him and collapsed down into the warm, golden grass.

Before Kemlin had begun his battle with the Shadowkin, the ashes of the other creatures had grown cold at the camp and the wagon was readied for the day’s travel.

“What about Kemlin?”, Brindell motioned to empty horizon, “We cannot leave him.”

“Fool’s dead.”, Raemos said as he tightened the harness on one of the horses.

Azrith smiled as he climbed into the wagon, “Fear not, Master Mars. As the sun rises each morning, so shall Kemlin Vargo.”

Raemos shot Neiman a sidelong glance and snorted, “He’s not coming back and we’re not waiting. Load up.”

With pursed lips the chronicler did as he was ordered, climbing aboard beside a still smiling Azrith. In a few moments they had left their campsite behind and as the morning passed, a plume of greasy black smoke became visible in the distance.

“Only one thing that makes smoke like that.”, Neiman said as he shook the reigns.

Beside him, the Sergeant shrugged and Brindell made his way to the front of the wagon, “Perhaps Kemlin has slain the creature and that is its pyre.”

Raemos turned and leveled a dead stare at the chronicler, “Why don’t you go and find him then.”

The big man reached a hand out and grabbed the reigns, checking the horses, “One hour, and then we leave without you.”

Brindell narrowed his eyes and scrambled down from the wagon in a huff. They watched him as he grew smaller and smaller, eventually disappearing to distance and the tall grass.

“Ought to just leave him. He’s no use to anyone at the Hill.”, Raemos said in a hushed voice.

Neiman motioned to the old man with his eyes, “Then we’ve just got one old man to show for our troubles.”

Raemos scowled, “You’re right. Suppose we’ve got to wait for the fool now.”

The fire was not hard to find. Black blood covered the grass in a trail more then fifty paces long before ending in the pyre. Brindell turned on his feet, sword held ready, looking for some sign of his companion.

“Kemlin!”, he moved a few steps, “Kemlin!”

His name drifted through his sleep, gently at first and then with greater force. His eyes fluttered open and he saw the crystal blue, summer sky of the North. One hand clutched his kukri, the other the long black hair of the creature he had killed. He slowly remembered where he lay.

“Kemlin!”

The Sarcosan hopped to his feet, suddenly appearing above the grass and startling Brindell. No more then thirty or forty paces separated them. Kemlin ran over to the chronicler, “Quiet. Or you will bring the whole of them down on us.”

His face flushed with red, “I…I thought you might still be alive. I saw the smoke and thought…”

“Where is the wagon?”, dark eyes darted back and forth.

Brindell pointed.

“Let us go quickly.”, Kemlin began to stride off.

For the first time, Brindell realized what the ranger carried in his hand as he hurried after him. When they returned to the wagon, Raemos gave the pair a lazy eye, “Hour’s up.”

Brindell climbed into the wagon with a sour face but Kemlin brandished the creature’s head. Black war paint covered its face, streaked by the creature’s tears.

“What? You think you’re important ‘cause you killed a greenskin?”, Raemos folded his arms across his chest.

Kemlin’s voice was quiet, “No. I want to know what the markings mean.”

“Black Tribe.”

Kemlin nodded and tossed the head into the grass before climbing up into the wagon beside Azrith. He exchanged greetings with his mentor, then stretched out and gave in to sleep for a second time that morning.

Raemos leaned in close to his friend before whispering.

“That one might be worth something yet.”

June 27th, 2004

After meeting the southbound caravan and sending Azrith with it, there had been a brief discussion between the Sergeant and the wagoneer. They spoke again when dusk approached and the mountains loomed large on the horizon. And while their decision had gone unspoken, it was understood by the other two occupants in the wagon when they did not stop to make camp or meal. The wagon rattled through the setting of the sun and into the night when torches had been lit to aid the horses’ sight.
Brindell, robbed of the light needed to scribe and render, stared out idly into the dark attempting, periodically, to strike up conversation with the Sarcosan who shared the back of the wagon. Ahead of them, the two men of House Redguard laughed heartily at unheard stories while they directed the team of horses.

Kemlin Vargo tried to take in as much of the night sounds as he could, while the scholar rattled on next to him. The mountains had transfixed him before being lost to darkness- never had he seen a land that was not flat to the horizon. And then, faintly, the sound met his ears. Steel on steel and shouting. He put a gloved hand up to silence Brindell as the other one went to the kukri which rested on his hip.

The wagon ground to a halt and Neiman, still holding the reins, looked over his shoulder, “Best get that sword ready, boy.”

“It…it is.”, Brindell fumbled with the buckle as if to make sure his words were true.

Beside Neiman, the Sergeant settled his monstrous, two-handed blade across his lap…and grinned. The wagon jerked into motion again, rocking slightly with the canter of the horses. The sounds went from whispers on the wind to a clamour, overtaking the silence of the night. Kemlin slid his kukri from its sheath and stuck it, point first, in a nearby crate.

Ahead of them, the silhouette of a walled city came into view, dancing in the torchlight that illuminated it. Outside of its gates, a battle raged, its participants lost to the darkness that clung to the base of the wall. The wagon, once again, ground to a stop as Kemlin readied an arrow.

“What are we doing?”, he hissed over the bow.

Neiman turned on the bench, “Well, you can either try to fight your way into the city or you can wait for Steel Hill to turn ‘em.”

Without a word, the Sarcosan let the pull from his bow, slid the kukri back into its sheath and hopped from the wagon. He looked at Brindell and then darted off into the darkness.

He raced through the knee-high grass never feeling the crisp Northern wind that shook it. Somewhere in the distance he heard the galloping of hooves and the rattle of the wagon he had left. What little moonlight there was filtered through the clouds, turning the grass to pale silver as he moved through it. The figures became clearer. Around the perimeter of the skirmish, torches had been lit and tossed out so that the men of Steel Hill could see. And in their flickering light the carnage of war assailed the Sarocosan for the first time in his life- bloodied faces, lost appendages, dead un-staring eyes and gore. He felt the tension slip from his fingers and the bow relax as he stood, unable to take his eyes from the slaughter.

Moments passed and then at the edge of his vision, he saw the huge form of the Sergeant, plow into the melee with a war cry. Like water, the lines parted for him, half giving, half being pushed. And Kemlin Vargo came to his senses.

Hunched down, he circled behind the horde of goblins and orcs so that he stood perhaps thirty paces from their rear. Invisible among the grass, he pulled the first yellow fletched shaft to his ear and the sounds of battle disappeared from his ears.

A streak of yellow in the night, it flew straight but skittered across the leather cuirass of an orc as it twisted to crack its whip. His eyes stayed focused while his hand found the next shaft and fitted it to his bow. The mountain winds blew through him, and his distance from the battle made him feel as if he were watching it in one of his dreams.

He readied the second shaft, “Light of The Morning, lead me and guide my hand.”

A lightning bolt of yellow, it thudded into the back of the same orc, spinning him around and taking him to the ground. Kemlin did not wait to see if his target rose, instead he hunched down and ran. He emerged, arrow ready, perhaps a dozen paces to the east to find that the tide of the battle had turned. A charge had been led and the Shadowkin had begun to flee.

“Light of The Morning, lead me and my guide my hand.”
Zzzzzzppp.

The arrow caught a goblin in the neck who had just turned to flee. Overwhelmed by a charge ahead and an archer behind, those Shadowkin around the slain goblin simply fell to the ground and cowered. Kemlin’s eyes searched the scene while his hand retrieved yet another arrow.

There.
The forerunners of the retreat, two goblins who had left their kin behind.

The scout took off in a sprint, parallelling the creatures. As he ran, he nocked the arrow. He passed them and sprinted on. He drew the bow without raising it to his eye and suddenly cut right, crossing into the goblins’ path.

The arrow caught the goblin in the chest, less then ten steps from Kemlin. The other creature, wide eyed and wailing, continued to pump its arms and legs. Nine steps, eight steps, seven steps, Kemlin felt the bow fall from his grasp, six steps, five, four, the same hand found the hilt of his kukri, three, two, one. The creature passed him as he pulled the kukri free of its sheath.

His own feet seemed to move in slow motion, each step equalling two of the goblin’s. Kemlin lowed his head and plowed into the back of the creature, riding it into the grass and hard packed dirt. He put his left hand in the middle of the creature’s back and pushed himself onto his knees which straddled the goblin. Beneath him, the small form struggled and squirmed as he brought the kukri up over his own head and down onto the goblin’s. Instantly, everything went still…..silence….save for the sound of the wind rustling through the eye-level grass….and his own breathing. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back and gripped the small sun shaped medallion in his off hand.

“Morninglord, I give you thanks this night for while I cannot see your grace, it has led me and seen me to your work. The Dawn will come again.”

[Wuxing]

I had asked my group to use the BW boards, and this thread in particular, to chronicle the game as we went along. Obviously we’re not trying to do a blow by blow, session by session thing, but I wanted them to post what they thought. I wanted them to post it in small bits of fictionalized accounts of play, bits of scenes, descriptions of how the game affected play, etc. In other words a potpourri of all things related to our Burning Midnight campaign. I’m currently GMing, so a bit of general “story” and then my reactions in italics.


The Lady King of House Falon was spied on the field, rallying her warriors. Raemos, brutal and skilled, cut large paths through the greenskins, rallying the warriors around him as he fought. Kemlin, the stealthy and speedy Southman, worked on the fringes of the battle, closing only when there was little choice. The Dornish chronicler, Brindell, forced into battle drew a sword and fought in the rear edge of the battle, consciously taking life for the first time in his life.

The battle at Steel Hill was easily won. The greenskins, orcs and goblins weren’t organized. Only twice in recent memory have they posed a true risk to the Fort Wall. Word, however, has been sent to the surrounding area. The calls do not go out frequently, the Dornish men and women of Steel Hill preferring to stand on their own. House Falon will defend Steel Hill and the lands surrounding it, or die trying.

The warriors are hardened and each man, regardless of culture, is judged by the honor he would bring his ancestors while in battle. The calls of war tighten command structure, but overall the term army can hardly be applied. The warriors know when it is time to fight, fight with valor, and strive to earn as many rings of honor as they can before going to meet their ancestors in the afterlife. The fort city is more city than fort when battle is not joined. At least the city had been before the women, children and elderly, who do not fight, had been sent south and west to safety, as word had reached Lady Falon of the approaching shadow.

The lineage of Kemlin and Brindell is recorded as they “join” the warriors of Steel Hill. Kemlin meets others of his people, holding positions of authority and respect, among the Dorn warriors. Brindell, a Dorn, is largely ignored or treated with contempt. His attempts at a suggestion and meaningful conversation, blocked. Raemos drinks and waits for the next fight. Word comes of conflicts in the mines and a caravan that was headed to safety. As the discussion begins one voice decisively adds, “We go after the caravan, they will pay for attacking them.” The choice was made, and Raemos chose the women, children and elderly. Volunteers are gathered and they are off in the morning.

The remains of the caravan were found, bodies were burned in a pyre and a trail was discovered. The tracks however seem headed into civilization and they seem to have human tracks mixed in, some obviously children. The group follows for much of the day, but the greenskins seem to have a whip at their back, as they maintain a lead so large they cannot be spotted on the plains. Night falls and the storm clouds begin rolling in from the mountains. The group cannot fight them in the night and must stop. Kemlin, driven by his god refuses and races after the shadow minions on foot, vowing to leave a trail that can be followed even after the rains…



How Burning Wheel Handled
I left out battle descriptions, likely the most interesting parts, out of this. I'll let the players expand as they see fit. Kemlin obviously pictured things in a very particular way, as noted above. The comhbat, though the numbers were large, was handled well, even with the scripting. A couple things though, I treated it in my old school style, whenever enough time passes more baddies drop and more good guys drop (and I randomize with a die to make it less gm determined). I have not yet found mass combat rules that are satisfying to players and handle smoothly. BW is no exception. Didn't I read Luke was testing some of these out somewhere? Hopefully he can solve this.

Steel, which was discussed heavily the first session, seemed to really shine this time. Brindell actually raised his steel from everything that came out of being in mass melee and being a "green" character. It was great to see a change already in session two.

Combat was early in the session, and it's so engaging that afterwards the role playing seems to fall off. It's looking to be tough to bring it back for my group. We discovered later we were playing the armor protection rules wrong, but it did lead to some joking about the source of the magnificent animal that the orcs made leather armor from. Well that and I roll incredibly well on six siders (and I roll in the open).

Letting skill/stat tests ride for a scene has worked for the group so far. They have not yet been "screwed" by this, but overall I'm glad it's stressed in the rulebook.

We're using variant artha rules, and I'll go further and say I encourage variant uses of the variant rules. Raemos wanted a war horse to ride off after the caravan with and since he was a ranking warrior, I let him "have" it for a fate point after the fact. No biggie really, but I try to let it flow and want them using it in more to get more out and put more in to the game. I hope that makes sense.

[foxandwarlock]

July 11, 2004

In the wake of the battle, two great fires burned at Steel Hill. One outside of the city walls, piled high with the carcasses of the Shadowkin and a second, set within a deep pit at the city’s center. Within its flames, the fallen men and women of Steel Hill went to their ancestors and brought honor to their families. Their weapons, driven into the earth surrounding the pit, would stay until someone claimed them out of love or need. In that way, the blades of Steel Hill carried a history of their own, passing from hand to hand and family to family.

It was the way it had always been.

And when the labor was done, the city celebrated. It drank for its dead, for its victory, and for another day stood against the Shadow. On the Burning Nights, no coin was needed at the drinking houses – every man and woman had paid for their fare with blood and sweat.

It was the way it had always been.

And it was the way that Brindell Mars and Kemlin Vargo spent their first night in fort-city – in the corner of a tavern filled with the fighting men of the North. The Sarcosan took pity on the young man and his grief over the taking of life only a few hours previous. And when there were no more words of encouragement or despair to be spoken, the chronicler excused himself and slipped out the door.

Their names and lineage were recorded in the great black books of Steel Hill and for nearly a week, the cool Summer days passed without incident. They heard the tales of Shadowkin raids and of the caravans sent south to Nalford and east to The Pantry, filled with those both too old and too young to fight. Brindell spent his days in the training yard, having heard one too many Dornish jests about the quill that always seemed to be in his hand. And Kemlin found that he had little to do with himself save stare out at the great mountains that fascinated him and gird himself against the cold air. For Raemos, life went on as he had always known it.

On the sixth day, two riders arrived at Steel Hill, their mounts wild-eyed and spent. An elderly woman lay across one of their saddles and as she was carried off to be tended, their news passed across town like a dark wind. The Pantry-bound caravan had been attacked…massacred by the Kin of Izrador – all that could be accounted for were dead. Mothers wept, brothers clenched fists, fathers cursed, and Lady Falon called for volunteers.

Only a short while passed before Raemos stood in the doorway to the barracks, “I want four men at the gate tomorrow at dawn. We ride for the caravan and track the greenskins from there. Kemlin, Mapmaker consider yourselves volunteered.”

And so it was at dawn the next day, that the Sergeant of House Falon found seven mounts at the gate and six men sitting astride them. The last horse, a great war mount of North, stood riderless. Raemos hauled himself up into the saddle for the first time in all his days and led his group from the gates.

They rode across the plains, clinging loosely to the road that would lead them to lush fields of The Pantry. It was in the afternoon that they found the remains of the caravan, half-burned with barrels and debris thrown asunder. The pyre that the riders had built had long since burned away taking the victims to their ancestors and leaving only ashes. Dark patches blotted the tall grass and dirt road.

They slid from their saddles.

“Damn the greenskins.”, Raemos rolled a barrel aside with his foot to discover a child’s toy, “We’ll give them their due.”

Roehn lifted the shaft of a broken spear, “They fought until the end. They died proud.”

“But what would they be doing so far east of Steel Hill?”, Brindell shielded his eyes as he surveyed the horizon.

“No one cares for your musings, Mapmaker.”, Neiman sneered from where he stood by the slain horses, “They are vermin, who cares for their reasons.”

Brindell sighed and let his arms fall heavily to his sides.

Kemlin said nothing only fixed his eyes on the dirt. Too many steps, too many feet had traveled it to make any sense of the tracks. And so while the others argued and cast names at Brindell, Kemlin strayed from the caravan. Further and further he waded into the grass until he found the blades, broken and bent, that told the story he sought.

He was suddenly aware of a silence behind him and he found the rest of the group staring at him when he looked back.

“What did you find?”, Raemos hollered.

Kemlin held up a gloved hand and followed the trail a bit further, “A dozen of them. Perhaps more.”

The Sarcosan wandered a few more steps and then pointed to the southeast, “That way. And they have prisoners, some children perhaps.”

Kemlin led them now, at a pace slow enough that he could watch for the trail. They rode until nightfall and, then hard the next day so sure was the Sarcosan of their trail. The sun had risen to its peak when they found a man’s body laying amongst the grass. His neck and arm looked as if they had been gnawed and the flies were thick upon him. Kemlin rode on.

“Stop. We must burn him.”

The Sarcosan looked back at the Sergeant, “It will only make their lead longer.”

“That is the way it must be. He burns.”

Without another word, Neiman, Alwyn, Roehn, and Indrez slid from their saddles and began to gather the makings of a pyre. Kemlin reluctantly joined them but not before he grabbed the reigns of Brindell’s mount, “If you can ride as you say you can, go a distance and search the horizon. Perhaps they have been slow.”

The young man nodded and spurred his horse on across the plains. By the time he returned, the man’s body was ablaze. Kemlin received only a shake of the chronicler’s head when he looked at him, and then they rode on. Dusk came a few hours later, and with it, the dark clouds of a storm. Kemlin knew the feel of the air well.

He dismounted as the group came to a halt, and handed his reigns to Raemos, “In the morning, look for my signal and follow it.”

“It is night and you chase greenskins. This is a fool’s errand.”

“If we wait, there will be no trail.”

“He has already proven he is resourceful.”, Brindell chimed in, “Let him-“

“No one cares for your vote, Ringless.”, Neiman spit.

For a second time in two days, Brindell’s jaw clenched and he held his tongue. He watched as Raemos and Kemlin stared at each other for a long moment before the big man spoke without turning away, “Make camp. We leave at light.”

Kemlin shouldered his pack and ran off into the thickening night. Across the vastness of the plains, he raced against the storm clouds. Darkness came quickly, and the rains followed it. But they had come too late.

Ahead of him, Kemlin could make out the man-sized shapes as they moved across the fields. Lightning crashed through the sky, white-washing them against the darkness and revealing their tusks and dark skin - fifteen he counted. He followed them as they marched, knowing that they would overtake him if he attacked - and then their trail would be lost to the others. He knew he must wait and so he did.

In the deep of night, the creatures set a rough camp. A fire was lit for warmth and food, though no tents were set. Kemlin sat some distance away, his cloak tucked through his belt to stop it from flapping in the wind. It clung to him like a wet rag, soaked through twice over but Kemlin Vargo had been wet before. He waited.

He waited until the child’s cry pierced his unintended sleep. He stirred and crept forward until he could see the creatures who stood around the fire. One creature held a small boy upside down by his ankle while brandishing a knife. Kemlin’s hand went to his quiver and retrieved a sun-fletched shaft. He fitted to his bow, whispered a hopeful prayer to Aman-Ra and let the arrow fly.

It skimmed across the creature’s neck, leaving a line of blood and startling it. It dropped the child and clasped its hand to the wound while looking frantically back and forth. The camp erupted into activity and Kemlin fled backwards across the fields. Out came the Kin of Izrador, swatting the tall grass with drawn blades and axes. Kemlin continued his retreat and the Shadowkin followed with their search.

The ranger fled until their campfire was the size of torch in the distance. Only then did he lose sight of the dark creatures who pursued him. And then, like a candle being blown out, the campfire disappeared. Rain beat against him as he crouched among the grass. He could see little and hear less as the drops crashed against his ears.

In time, he circled around to where he believed the campsite was. All he found was the rain-soaked remains of a campfire, and two small, pale fingers. Bile swelled in his throat, rebelled against his empty stomach and the exhaustion he felt. He staggered from the scene and retched.

When his stomach had settled, he found their new trail easily – the grass crushed beneath hasty footfalls. He followed it while the night slipped away. The hard rain turned to mist when he caught the shadow of movement in his peripheral vision. His hand had almost reached his quiver when the two Shadowkin burst from their hiding places among the grass.

Kemlin Vargo panicked. The bow slipped from his grasp as he stumbled backwards. One creature held a blade in its hand, the other a bow. The Sarcosan turned and ran back down the trail he had followed. The first creature pounded furiously after him, grunting and gnashing its teeth. They raced step for step, Kemlin slowly putting distance between them. Somewhere in the night, a bow let loose and an arrow zipped past the ranger. Onward, they raced across the uneven, broken ground of the plains – across mud and slick, wet grass. They ran until it was all that Kemlin Vargo remembered, no longer could he feel his feet or legs, or the way his lungs once burned long ago. And then, he looked behind him and found that the creature was no longer there.

The first rays of the morning sun threatened the horizon and the ranger had no idea where he was or what direction he had run in. The moisture on his face was his own sweat, not the mist of the night previous. He slowed to a walk and his knees buckled. Kemlin collapsed and felt the pain he had discarded somewhere in the night. He gasped for breath and rested his head against the cool earth.

When he had recovered, he said his prayers, struggled to his feet and set about discovering where he was. As best he could, he tracked his own steps back across the plains. The dawn gave way to morning and the dew had vanished when he found his bow where he had dropped it. He gave a weak smile, chopped a small pile of still-wet grass and set it alight. And then he lay down not far from it and gave in to sleep.

They had passed the morning in uneasy silence waiting for the ranger’s signal to draw them to him. But none had come at dawn, when they knew he would normally rise. None came at breakfast. It was mid-morning when Brindell spotted the tendril of hazy smoke on the horizon. They saddled horses with haste and thundered across the empty plains.

By noon, they had reached the fire, amazed at the amount of distance their companion had covered. They found Kemlin sprawled out in the grass, kukri still gripped in one gloved hand and his wet cloak stuck to his body.

“Kemlin. Wake up.”, Brindell dismounted from his horse.

The olive skinned man’s eyes struggled open and he propped himself up on his elbows, with a blank stare.

“Twice you have run off into the night and twice we have found you sleeping by the fire. You will have to tell me of this Southern habit.”, Raemos grinned atop his warhorse.

Kemlin smiled faintly as if he failed to comprehend what they were saying and then recognition returned to his eyes. He hefted himself to his feet and slid the kukri back into its sheath, “They are a half-day’s travel ahead. We stand on their trail as we speak.”

“Then make haste.”, Alwyn said, standing in his saddle to survey the horizon.

Kemlin stepped into the stirrup and swung onto the horse. His legs burned with the effort but he steadied himself and they were off. By mid-afternoon, the Shadowkin camp was visible in the distance – a black speck of tents against the flat sea of amber. They spurred their horses on and readied weapons.

When they were close enough to make out the dark forms, a flight of arrows cut through the air. Poorly aimed, they struck neither horse nor rider and did little to slow the impending charge. The group thundered closer, and a second flight of hastily launched arrows flew wild.

And then they were among them. Roehn and Alwyn fought with spear and blade from horseback while the others slid, leapt and otherwise dismounted in order to engage the Enemy. The creatures gave battle with short blades and screams but to little effect – for the Kin of Izrador could see little in the day’s light. Hill-forged steel sung in the air and black blood ran freely. Those Shadowkin that survived longer then a few moments were cut down as they tried to run.

Among the tents, were two more half-eaten bodies – a man and a woman.

“There. They make for the mountains!”, Rohen stood in his saddle and pointed to the west, drawing the group’s attention away from their gruesome discovery.

Already small in the distance, the remaining Shadowkin had fled across the fields, leaving their companions to slow their pursuers. The others remounted their horses and checked weapons, readying for a second charge.

“Wait.”, Brindell held out a hand, “Wait. There are no children here so they may yet live. If they hear our approach, surely they will slay them to be rid of their burden.”

Raemos waved a hand as his warhorse stomped impatiently, “Then what, Mapmaker?”

“If we could just ride out and around,” the chronicler made a movement with his hand, “Then perhaps we could cut them off and surprise them.”

“Too much time and they would still hear us coming.”, the big man looked back to the horizon.

“I’m sure if-“

“The answer’s no and that’s the end of it, Ringless. Take your orders or I’ll shut you up myself.”, Neiman glared at Brindell.

Brindell looked away, red-faced.

“They escape. Let us act now.”, Kemlin turned his horse towards the fleeing Shadowkin.

“Then let us…..CHARGE!”, Raemos spurred his horse into a run and the others followed – behind him Brindell silently cursed them all.

A shrill cry pierced the afternoon as they thundered after the creatures and Brindell Mars felt his spirits fall. Roehn and Alwyn reached them first and like rats, the Kin of Izrador scattered, shrieking, before them. They rode them down with little effort and doubled back to where Brindell stooped among the grass.

The bodies of two children lay by his feet and he looked up at the riders with angry eyes. The first child had only a stump for a hand and a bloody rag to cover it – his death had been a release. The second was pale but her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. Her neck was chaffed red, evidence of her attempted throttling and bruises had already begun to form where powerful hands had clasped her.

Raemos dismounted and slid great arms beneath her tiny frame. For a moment, he looked at her, perhaps listening to her breath, and then strode to where Roehn still sat atop his horse.

“Ride for Steel Hill. If you stop to rest or water your horse, I will burn you myself.”

And so Roehn took her as carefully as he could, and sped away across the field. They carried the boy’s body back to the Shadowkin’s camp and burned him alongside of the man and woman they had found. A separate fire was set for the Shadowkin and in that way, they labored until it was dark.

There had been little talk through the afternoon and evening meal. What few words were spoken revolved around how far the creature’s had penetrated past Steel Hill.

Kemlin settled down next to the gray-faced chronicler, “Brindell, may I ask you something?”

“Oh, someone desires my opinion now?”

“It was not my argument to settle. My words would have done little.”

“I suppose that is true.”, he turned his gaze from the fire to Kemlin, “Because I have no ring in my hair, children died today. Where is the sense in that?”

“We would not have caught them on foot and the horses would be heard no matter what approach.”

Brindell sighed, “Surely there was someway to avoid the harm.”

Kemlin put a hand on the young man’s shoulder, “Take heart, even now she rides to Steel Hill – she will see another day. She will live where others have not.”

Brindell made a weak smile, “I will visit with her family when we return. Perhaps I will record her tale when she is well enough to tell it.”

Kemlin smiled.

“My thanks for lightening my heart. Now what is your question, my friend?”

Kemlin took a deep breath. Never had he spoken to others of his dreams since he had met Azrith. Now, the dark visions of the past few days swirled in his mind and he needed answers. Brindell stared at him expectantly.

“Have you ever read of men garbed in robes of black and red? Perhaps in the writings of old?”

The young man’s brow furrowed and he tilted his head to one side. He answered slowly, “Yes. I…I believe I remember a bit from the Histories. They were...priests, perhaps. Or….”

Kemlin waited without expression, afraid of what words would come next.

“Or…no, they were sorcercers…who used blood to weave their magicks. Yes, that’s it. Blood sorcercers.”

Kemlin nodded and began to rise.

“Why?”, Brindell looked up at him and caught his wrist, “Kemlin, how do you know of such men? Have you seen them?”

Dark eyes looked down at the chronicler, “Some of us remember things.”


July 18, 2004

At Raemos’ instruction, they rode west and then south along the road that led to Nalford. They needed word of the other caravan before returning to the Lady, for the Sergeant was sure she would ask. But on the morning of their second day, riders appeared in the distance, coming north along the same well-worn path.

As they neared, Roehn took the count at eighteen, nearly a score of men and horses. They moved at a traveling pace, without urgency or caution, and the two groups met as the midday sun blazed overhead.

A dozen of the riders fanned out, as if to shield the six behind them. They wore Nalford’s colors and wargear that had seen use.

A wiry man, not unlike Kemlin save for the color of his skin, rode out from the line, “I am Caerys of Nalford. From where do you come?”

The Sergeant urged the war-mount forward, “From Steel Hill. A caravan bound for The Pantry was attacked by greenskins – we slew them the day before last.”

A murmur went through the six riders in the rear.

Raemos paid them no attention, “Did our caravan reach Nalford?”

Caerys nodded, “A few days past - without trouble.”

“There was a man among them, Azrith, is he well?”, Kemlin shifted in his saddle.

“I do not know of him but all who arrived are hale.”

“The road north is clear.”, Raemos motioned with his head, “And we return the same way – do not waste your patrol.”

“We go north to Steel Hill.”

“On what business?”

“Business of our own.”

Raemos narrowed his eyes but before he had time to speak, a calm voice came from the rearmost riders, “How are you named, Rider of Steel Hill?”

“Raemos of House Redguard and Sergeant of this company.”, the big man said between clenched teeth.

The hooded speaker came forward, parting the men from Nalford into two lines of six. When his horse stood beside Caerys’, thin hands reached up to reveal his face – the thin, fair face of a Firstborn.

Cool, sky-blue eyes met Raemos, “We journey north beyond Steel Hill, son of Cale, but would see the Lady before our sojourn.”

The riders from Steel Hill sat in shocked silence at the presence of the Firstborns. Only Raemos seemed unaffected though the hardness of his voice had vanished, “My name is known to the Lady. I will see you to her.”

The Firstborn nodded in acceptance and it was not long before the two groups travelled the road as a single company. North they went, with Raemos and his riders at the front – save Brindell who dogged the Firstborns with queries and tales. They spoke few words in response, which seemed only to spark more conversation from the chronicler.

Ahead of him, Kemlin rode in silent amazement as he wrestled with countless thoughts. Had he fought beside them when the Shadow broke? Did they recognize him? Had he called one of them friend in days now forgotten? He felt as if the keys to his past - to his dreams - rode only a few horses behind but he could not form the words.

For five days, they rode and the Summer weather held. The men from Nalford and their wards were quiet and reserved – as if they had resigned themselves to some fate. Their somberness stole over the others, quieting even Brindell’s talkative nature. By the time they reached Steel Hill, they rode in silence save for the sound of their mounts and the greetings exchanged between Raemos and the Gatemaster.

Men were summoned, mounts taken, rooms prepared and Raemos did as he had promised – taking the Firstborns to the Lady’s chambers. There, before his charges, he told his tale to the Lady – recounted their hunt across the plains and the strange way the greenskins had handled their prisoners. She sat and listened, her eyes concentrating on some far off thing, and gave him thanks when he had finished.

In the wake of the Firstborns' arrival, the days moved lazily by and the guesting party was given their own barracks – both for privacy and for comfort. Raemos returned to his duties, Brindell to the yard and Kemlin to his thoughts. Lonely mornings atop the walls, surrounded by men he did not know or understand and always the images of the men in their black and red robes haunted him. He stared out across the waving fields of grass, he followed the shapes of the mountains into the clouds and wondered where they hid. Somewhere, near or far, they conducted their ill business and he sat and waited atop this accursed wall. The thoughts that chased him during his waking hours, soon pursued him through the night. It was then, that he sought out Brindell.

He found him bearing sword, shield and helm, in the dirt patch that served as the training yard. Old Yarac stood nearby, thick arms crossed as he observed his pupils. From time to time, he would bark out clipped words denouncing one student’s skill or another’s form.

“Brindell!”, Kemlin motioned for the young man to join him on the side.

The chronicler traded a handful of blows before backing up and disengaging from his opponent. He stuck the sword in the dirt, indicating a pause in the sparring and pulled the helm from his head.

“Highwaller! The greenskins won’t let you walk away!”

Brindell scowled in response but said nothing to Yarac. His blond hair was matted to his head with sweat and he shook it as he approached his companion on the side.

His chest laborered, “What news, Kemlin?”

Kemlin smiled, “I came here to fight Izrador – and I can wait no longer. I go North into the Lands of Shadow. Perhaps I will go with the Firstborns if they will have me but I will not wait long for them.”

Brindell’s eyes widened, “You might encounter a vast army of Shadowkin, not the small groups we have seen.”

“Then I will work slowly.”, a wicked grin flashed across the ranger’s lips.

“Well, I…I suppose I should come with you. Will you have me?”

“If you can keep my pace.”, Kemlin grinned again.

The young chronicler smiled back, “Well, I will do my best but I have seen you move and I promise nothing.”

“Fair enough.”, Kemlin’s grin turned into a broad smile and he slapped Brindell on the shoulder.

They found Raemos in the drinking houses, eating oatmeal mixed with ale. He looked up, and let the wooden spoon in his hand drop back into the bowl.

“I go north into the wastelands…and Brindell goes with me. I thought you should know.”

The big man leaned back in his chair, “Do you? To what end?”

“To fight the Shadow - I cannot sit and wait for the Kin to come to us.”

“Restless, eh? Well, I might have something to say about that.”, Raemos hauled himself to his feet.

Kemlin felt Brindell tense with anger as the Sergeant came around the table to stand near them.

“Not a day after we left, outriders found a dead miner – greenskin arrow stuck in him. Since then, the smiths haven’t heard from the mines – four days west. No deliveries. So the Lady sent some volunteers, only they haven’t sent word either. What do you say to that?”

Kemlin considered the big man’s words. The mines would be secluded and the sorcercers could work there undisturbed – they could house their raiding parties in the dark tunnels as well, “To the mines then and if all is well, Brindell and I go on.”

Raemos nodded, “Alright. Let me get some of the boys together. We ride at midday.”

And so Raemos collected his riders and they rode from the yawning gates of Steel Hill. West, across the grasslands and then into the foothills of the mountains on the third day. They set a rough camp and drew lots for watches, two men standing at any time.

“No fire.”, Raemos growled as he lay down to sleep. He cast a baleful look at Brindell who had drawn the second watch with Kemlin.

The chronicler cursed softly under his breath and looked out into the darkness. He cursed a second time.

“Give it a moment. Your eyes will change for the night.”

They settled into silence as the hours passed. Only a sliver of a moon had risen in the distance and dark clouds seem to hang upon it. Cold winds came down the mountain behind them and swept through their camp and Kemlin’s senses came alive. Their presence was felt rather then seen or heard.

In the darkness, to the right of the camp, Kemlin saw the flicker of movement and followed it with his eyes. Man sized and hunched low to remain hidden, it held a bow in its hand. Kemlin fitted an arrow to his own bow without thinking and walked over to where Brindell sat. He spoke calmly while scanning the area and spotted a second creature, “Wake them now.”

The ranger glanced up at the first creature he had seen and their eyes locked. Both man and creature pulled bowstrings taut and leveled shafts at one another but the Sarcosan was faster. The yellow-fletched arrow buried itself in the creature’s throat, just above it its hauberk and the dark arrow flew wild.

Kemlin did not wait for the others to rise. He pivoted where he stood and caught sight of the other creature - twenty paces from him, and reading an arrow of its own. The ranger raced forward, his hand drawing a second shaft from his quiver. The arrow flew from the Shadowkin’s bow and Kemlin darted left to avoid it.

Now the Sarcosan drew back his own bow as he moved. Ten steps, nine, eight. The creature fumbled with another arrow as it watched him approach. A soft twang and the ranger’s arrow shot past the creature, leaving only a cut across its cheek. The bow fell from Kemlin’s hand as he rushed forward. Five steps, four, the creature raised its bow and the head of the arrow seemed to loom before him. Another step and the shaft surged from its resting place. The ranger twisted as he ran, unable to change his path and the arrow skittered off the shoulder of his hauberk. Another step and he ran headlong into the creature, tackling it around its waist.

The camp exploded in confusion. Roehn and Alwyn readied shields and weapons, waiting for a charge that they could not see. Brindell screamed for Kemlin and Raemos raced off into the darkness, towards the only thing his eyes could make out – the yellow of Kemlin’s shaft stuck strong in the creature’s fallen body. Roehn struggled to light a torch in the night winds and out of the darkness, came the sounds of struggle – low grunts and curses.

“HERE!”, Kemlin screamed.

The creature had dropped its own bow in the impact but had refused to fall. Kemlin wrestled with it, chest to chest, as arms flailed. He saw its hand reach for the short blade on its hip and Kemlin twisted the other arm with all his strength. It forced the creature to lean to one side. Its fingertips brushed against the pommel of the blade but could not grasp it. They stared into each other’s eyes, yellow orbs met dark fires and each bared teeth at the other.

Raemos charged through the darkness towards the sound. The light of a torch welled up from the camp and Roehn took a few steps forward before throwing it towards Kemlin’s voice. The camp surged forward in its fiery wake.

And Kemlin felt the impact of a blade on his side, though his hauberk had turned it. He felt a second creature’s hot breath on his neck as another blow was halted by his armor. He cursed and danced back, releasing the first Shadowkin and reaching for his own blade.

Before they could follow, however, Raemos exploded out of the night at a full run, sending one of the creatures sprawling. Wide-eyed the remaining creature went down beneath the approaching blades of Alwyn and Brindell. The other creature scrambled to its feet, and made for the darkness beyond.

Kemlin, Roehn and Neiman leapt after it, tackling the creature and driving it into the hard earth of the foothills. The four of them rolled around in the dirt, scuffling for position until the streaming silver of Raemos’ blade ran the creature through, front to back. The men hauled themselves back to their feet as the Sergeant withdrew his blade and wiped it on the creature.

Silence settled into the foothills….and then the drums began.

Boom.

Deep and foreboding the first beat seemed to steal the breath from their lungs. They looked back and forth, trying to see its source.

Boom.

Alwyn’s face paled as he recognized the sound.

Boom.

“Put out that torch! Ride! To the horses and ride!”, he yelled.

Boom.

Without question, the group raced back to their campsite. Brindell fumbled with his books and papers while Alwyn threw the saddle across his horse.

“Leave it!”, he hissed.

Boom.

The others grabbed what they could and took to their mounts. The horses neighed and fought their rider’s urgings, fearful of both the night and the sounds. Man struggled to control horse as they took to the path. They had gone only a short distance when Kemlin checked his mount and tossed the reigns to Brindell.

Boom.

“Where are you going?”, the chronicler whispered forcefully as his mount came to a halt.

Kemlin only looked at him before disappearing into the darkness.

Raemos rode past, "Keep riding, mapmaker! We do not wait for his madness!"

Kemlin picked his way through the sparse cover the foothills offered, letting the noise guide him to its source. Though he saw no others in his travels, he felt them as he slipped across the countryside. In time, the drums drew him to a small rise and a valley rolled out beneath him.

And the Kin of Izrador stretched the length of it. He put a gloved hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. Shadowkin beyond count, marched to the bass rhythm of the drums. This was no raiding party – it was a war host. Kemlin did not know how long he crouched there, watching with blank eyes as rank after rank of Shadowkin marched beneath him. When his senses returned, he said a silent prayer to Aman-Ra and made his way back through the foothills.

He found Brindell waiting for him, still holding the reigns on his animal.

“I feared that you would not return.”, Brindell smiled weakly as he handed the reigns to Kemlin, “What did you see?”

The ranger slid up into the saddle and fixed his companion with a dead gaze, “Ride swiftly, and do not look back. The Dark Host comes behind


July 25, 2004

For three days, Steel Hill came to life - heedless of the difference between night and day. Forges blazed, hammers fell, barrels rolled, and blades were readied. By the dawn of the fourth day, the smell of the approaching host had reached the city. It hung in the air and haunted the streets – a damp musk that reeked of swamp and sweat.

For the first time since his arrival in the fort town, Kemlin Vargo had slept with a roof over his head – driven inside by the sounds of industry. His dreams, vivid and filled with images of battle beneath a pitch-hued sky, chased him to wakefulness. He dressed and slipped from the barracks in the gray light of the not-yet-dawn. That morning, he said his prayers seated at the bank of the River Blys as the blazing Eye of Aman-Ra took its place in the morning sky. When the last of the words had left him, he stood and stripped methodically, folding each article of clothing with ceremony before placing it on the stones. He waded into the still-cold water, moving slowly until it reached his chest. And then he washed both body and hair, and shaved the dark beard that had begun to grow in his first Arc in the North. When he was clean of body and face, he returned to the shore, unfolded his clothes, and donned them with as much care as he had removed them. When he had finished, he waited for sun to dry his dark hair, plaited it, and returned to the city.

Around him, men and women were taking the places of those who had labored throughout the night. And while few truly smiled, fear did not run in the streets of Steel Hill. Its people had long ago buried such a notion. Kemlin watched those that he passed, a foreigner still to this land of mountains and cold nights and knew that they did not regret their lives in this place. No missed opportunities haunted them - for each man and woman in this city had lived each day knowing that it could be their last - and had done so willingly. No such place existed in the lands he had traveled beside Azrith.

“Shield, Sarc? You gotta’ shield?”, the voice was deep and cut through Kemlin’s thoughts.

The scout turned to face the speaker with a blank-eyed stare as his senses returned to him, “No. I…do not.”

“Ought to. Take one.”, the blacksmith still wore his leather apron as he shoved a shield towards Kemlin, “And a helm. Take one of them too.” He pointed to a barrel filled with them.

Kemlin nodded, grasping the shield, “My thanks.”

The big man looked at him for a moment, put his hands on his hips, and nodded once. Then he turned and disappeared back inside of the building.

Kemlin slid the shield onto his arm and gripped the straps tentatively. He swung his arm back and forth, watching it as if it were someone else's.

"Hmph."

* * * * * * * * *

By midday, a sea of dark clouds threatened the horizon, causing those atop the walls to momentarily cease their work. And as the hours passed, the darkness marched in time with its masters, a marker in the sky for the approaching host. The once-dim horizon had been lost to the prenatural darkness - the deep blue Summer sky of the North vanished beneath the blackest of Winter’s nights.

Afternoon faded to dusk and what remained of the daylight went with it. The great bell tolled; once, twice, thrice…and the city came alive. Men and women flocked to the city walls, donning helmets and buckling sword belts. Kemlin had stood through the afternoon, watching the pitch hued sky from his perch upon the parapets. He looked over at his shield, the dawn painted on its face in bright yellow…and knew his purpose; understood why Aman-Ra had sent him to this place. He was the light in the coming darkness, the promised-dawn in the eternal night.

Someone stepped up beside him, too close to be a stranger, “They’re coming.” Raemos folded his arms over his chest.

Kemlin turned to look at his Sergeant and nodded slightly. It was the first time that Kemlin had ever seen the big man wear a helm.

Raemos looked the scout over in turn, his eyes caught the shield by the man’s feet. He couldn’t tell if the Kin-Killer was calm or just numb with fear. It didn’t really matter – he’d seen men live and die with both attitudes, “Where’s the map-maker?”

Kemlin’s brow furrowed for a moment, “I haven’t seen Brindell. His things are gone but his bed was slept in.”

Raemos turned his attention back to the field, “Probably took his horse and ran for his life.” He spit over the wall.

Kemlin put his hands on the parapet, “He wanted to go with the outriders. That’s where he is.”

“Outriders are all back.”, his voice was final.

The great bass of a drum beat filled the air and the first torch came to life in the darkness beyond Steel Hill. Then a second, a third, and suddenly a line that stretched the width of the city. They bobbed through the darkness in time with the drums, slowly, methodically. Kemlin felt the terror take hold in his heart, as it had that first night on the road to Steel Hill. He closed his eyes, “Morninglord, Prince of Tomorrow, take my fear and let me wield it as your weapon.”

The sensation washed over the city and around him, Kemlin heard the cries of fear and doubt.

“We’re doomed!”

“They’ve come at last!”

“Steel Hill is no more!”

Beside him, even Raemos ceased to move. He would not fail the people of Steel Hill. Kemlin snatched his bow from the wall and nocked one of the oil-wrapped arrows. Firing in it in the brazier beside him, he let loose into the darkness before him – a single flame, a glimmer of resistance in the darkness.

“Not while I live!”, Raemos bellowed and slapped the man’s back next to him.

The torches broke into a run, the beat behind them dissolved and the Lady’s voice cried out in the night, “LOOSE!”

Kemlin loosed a second time, his arrow lost among the many flaming embers set against the dark sky. The first wave of Shadowkin dropped their torches and loosed their own shafts, many bouncing harmlessly against the great walls.

A second cry cut the night, “SIEGE TOWERS!”

Men scrambled, peering out into the night and Kemlin watched the great rolling towers shamble from the darkness. Four of them. They were equal in height to the city’s walls and covered in dark hides. Both their wheels and the creatures that manned them, protected by a mobile shield wall provided by more of their kind.

“Imlin! Merik! All squads!”, Aschef shouted, “To the gate!”

A ripple of movement went through the crowds atop the walls and gathered in the streets. The men and women who reported to the two Master Sargeants threaded through onlookers and archers, moving towards the gate.

Raemos waited for Kemlin to loose his arrow and then slapped him on the shoulder. The wiry man turned to find Raemos grinning, “That’s us. C’mon.” They made their way down the great stone stairs with Raemos yelling and pushing for people to get out of his way.

At the gate, the men and women of Imlin and Merik’s legions had begun to form up. Raemos took his position at the front of his squad and Kemlin smiled and slapped the shoulders of the men he knew. He hefted the shield with his arm, feeling its weight once more and then drew the kukri from his belt. The three score men that surrounded him stood without sound, a silent eye to the storm of chaos that surrounded them. Men screamed, arrows flew, Shadowkin grunted, and the great catapults shook the earth around them. Shoddy arrows clattered harmlessly around them in the streets, their momentum spent overcoming the wall.

Kemlin felt the heat of the bodies around him. He looked ahead to the enormous wooden gate. Only a few handwidths of wood separated them from total chaos, a host that had shook the fields. Beyond that gate, there was no safe haven, nowhere to rest or hide or sneak away to – beyond that gate, was death or glory for Aman-Ra.

Merik appeared between the group and the gate. Large in stature, with a great black patch over one eye he carried a hand axe which he waved over his head, “My men will take the towers! Imlin’s men, keep ‘em off us!”

He pulled a second hand axe from his belt with his other hand and turned to face the gate as Imlin trotted up beside him and readied his own sword and shield. Those men with shields began to pound their weapons against them and Kemlin joined in. And then with a shout, thick ropes were pulled taut and the gates came to life. They creaked open, and the combined legions tumbled out onto the field.

[Wuxing]

GM INTERMISSION

One note, our scholar Brindell, decided to head out and scout the forces even though he wasn't a scout. He was caught by orc scouts and eventually drowned in a river. I tried having the conversation about BW being a very deadly system, before session, gave him "outs" in session, but he wasn't having it. Three on one odds are just not beatable. So he disappears from the telling of the tales, branded a coward by some.

I fudged the steel test slightly for the orc raze skill. My players rolled stupendously and I couldn't take it away from them, even if the number of orcs out there was remarkably large.

It's interesting to note that we're essentially flying by the seat of our pants here. We know sieges don't really work this way historically, but dammit this is fantasy roleplaying! BW did lend some very very visuals due to the wound system. This was a bloody, brutal, costly attack on the orcs by the humans. Healing isn't easy, they lost men and injured many more. The army is still outside their wall. This is going to be fun.

[Kublai]

Damn! Drowned? Must've been a good tale, that one! Keep up the great writing! I am on the edge of my seat.

[foxandwarlock]

Above him flaming arrows arced like shooting stars against the dark sky. Each step was an eternity. Unable to feel his legs, he knew that he still ran only by the shock of each footfall meeting hard earth. The sounds around him had vanished and been replaced only by the pounding of blood. His stomach rode high in his chest and the men around him moved in slow motion, their cries and voices muted and deformed.

And then the world returned like a dam breaking. The air filled with the clatter of metal on metal and body against body. Grunts, shouts, squeals and cries sounded above the din and Kemlin Vargo felt the impact of his charge against his shield. Somewhere beyond the tower shield that he had struck, legs buckled with a grunt and Kemlin Vargo kept going. His next foot was already atop the tower shield as the Shadowkin fell backwards. A second step on the shield, a third in the dirt and he was beyond the line that protected the tower.

Above his shield rim, he could see the side of the great shambling engine. Eight logs protruded from its side, each manned by a single, straining Shadowkin. With terrifying speed, his legs pumped as he watched the first Shadowkin get closer and closer until he found himself with the creature pinned to the side of the tower beneath his shield. His hand pulled back and dropped, burying the kukri just below the shield rim in the creature’s thigh. It squealed, and slid down from behind the shield, disappearing beneath the siege engine.

The ranger turned and watched as the rest of his unit smashed into the creatures manning the tower. Raemos’ thick blade rose and fell in the flickering light of flaming arrows and dropped torches. Kemlin Vargo felt the air change around him. He turned, and raised his left arm, bringing the shield to bear. Dark, shoddy metal struck its face as the Shadowkin pulled its weapon back to strike again. The Sarcosan sprung forward, pushing the shield into the creature and forcing it to backpeddle. The creature swung wild a second time and Kemlin pushed the blade aside with his shield. He stepped inside of the creature’s reach and ran his kukri deep along its neck. Eyes whitewashed with shock, the creature’s hand had begun its trip to its own neck when a second strike landed, forcing the creature to the ground.

Kemlin turned in time to see a Shadowkin strike his hilt across Roen’s face, dislocating the man’s jaw. Roen’s arms went slack.

“Roen!”, the ranger was already in motion. Two quick steps put him within arms reach of the creature. The kukri clipped the side of its head. It turned, bared it teeth and swung its blade in a wide arc as Kemlin danced back. A second strike from the kukri and a third – the creature fell.

“INDREZ!”, it was Raemos’ voice, “WHEEL!”

Kemlin turned to find Indrez but instead saw Raemos lumbering towards a large orc in the rear. It unfurled its whip at his approach, pulled its arm back…and slumped under the weight of Raemos’ blade as it thudded deep into its clavicle. The big man’s other hand shot out, jamming the dagger into the creature’s face as it collapsed. He let the dagger go with the orc.

The death of their taskmaster washed over the surrounding Shadowkin like a wave. They flew, scrambling backwards with parries before turning and sprinting off back across the field. Indrez chopped at the wheel as others cut down what Kin they could reach. Kemlin tossed a nearby torch into the tower, “Aman-Ra take you.”

The great bellowing call of the North Horn echoed out across the fields. Its deep throaty sound came a second time. Indrez’s axe shattered the rim of the wheel. In the distance, the dark host had pressed past their own engines and swelled against Imlin’s men who had stayed back to guarantee a safe retreat. Already, their numbers crumbled as the creatures pushed against them.

“SPEARHEAD!”, Raemos screamed as lifted his blade from the back of a fleeing goblin.

The ten men of Raemos’ squad pulled back to the ruined tower. Many bled from cuts, and claw marks and Roen staggered on his feet. Raemos jogged back and with one powerful arm, swept Roen from his feet and over his shoulder. He nodded to Kemlin to take the point position and the squad was off.

To their left, the rest of Merik’s men also raced for the gate, a horde of Shadowkin at their heels. And ahead, more and more of Imlin’s men disappeared beneath the dark tide of the host. The passage of safe retreat continued to narrow, forcing Kemlin to whisper a prayer. In the center of the formation, blade in one hand and holding Roen in place with the other, Raemos yelled, “Run!”

Kemlin watched with each step – watched the avenue of their retreat slowly disappearing – watched the men and women of Steel Hill fighting against all odds to hold their ground. The gate seemed twenty leagues from them and they could not run fast enough. A few Shadowkin had wrapped around the end of Imlin’s legions by the time all of Merik’s men had reached them.

The gate had opened and more men spilled out to reinforce the retreat. Kemlin had almost reached them when Raemos yelled. The Sarcosan looked over his shoulder to find Neiman, and Alwyn standing over the fallen forms of two other men from their squad. Shadowkin swarmed around them, pressing in from all sides. Kemlin sheathed his kukri and turned, letting Raemos past him and into the gate. He sprinted back to fallen men, “Morninglord, in you I am renewed.”

He slid to a stop and raised the shield, catching a downward swing from a goblin as he bent down. With both hands he gripped the leather of the man’s cuirass and slung him over his shoulder as Raemos had. His legs strained, lungs burned but his body did as he bid it and he stood with the man. The shield fended off another blow as Kemlin raced back to the gate.

He passed Raemos who had left Roen to stumble the last few feet to safety. He took his place among Neiman and Alwyn, heaving large swings with his blade to keep the Kin back. But despite his efforts, the host pushed in. A blade cut across his cheek, Alwyn fell to another.

And Kemlin was back, fending off blows with the dawn-etched shield while shouldering a second man. Raemos gave the goblin ahead of him a two handed shove and scooped Alwyn from the ground while the creature reeled, “Go!”

They crossed the threshold of the gates, followed by those who had fought to keep the way clear. The great wooden doors slammed shut behind them, muffling the grunts and clatter of wargear. Men and women took the wounded on stretchers.

Kemlin was doubled over, chest heaving with his hands on his thighs and Raemos slapped his back, “We will make you a warrior yet.”

* * * * * * * *

Kemlin woke from his sleep to find that dawn had not arrived – instead the night prevailed. He placed the shield where he knew the dawn should be, prayed to that in its stead and then went to wall.

When Raemos found him later, the sun had still failed to appear. The men along the wall whispered and spoke of magic. Raemos spoke to the Lady before drifting down to where Kemlin stood, leaning forward against the parapets. The Sarcosan stared out into the darkness beyond the battlefields. Raemos could tell the wiry man was watching something out there in the darkness.

He nudged the emblazoned shield with his boot, “Tell me about this.”

Kemlin turned to face him with a smile, “It’s a shield. You should think about one.”

The Dorn’s features soured, “You know something more. Tell me of it. What is this about?”

The mirth went out from other man’s features, “It is the beginning of the Third War. The Dark Lord marches again.”

“Fairy tales? That is why you have come?”, the Sargeant folded his arms.

“I am a paladin, sworn to service in the name of my god. That is why I am here. I am the last of my Order.”

The dark haired Dorn narrowed his eyes, “So tell me what has happened to the sun, then.”

“Among them, are men.”, he waited for the expression of doubt to leave the big man’s face, “They are sorcercers. The men and women kidnapped from the caravans have gone to their altars. Their blood holds this darkness in place.”

Kemlin turned to face the darkness. In the distance, he could see the outline of the dark hosts’ camp. Moments passed in silence.

“You should get your helm.”, Kemlin said with a smile as he looked back at his friend.

“You will speak to the Lady of this.”

Kemlin could see movement in the orc camp, “Perhaps now is not the right time.”

“Or I will throw you off the wall myself. You will speak to her this time…and now.”

Kemlin sighed and followed his Sargeant back to where the Lady and her Captains stood. Raemos stood quietly until she looked up from her maps and behind him Kemlin stood with downcast eyes.

“You know me, Lady.”

“Yes, Raemos of House Redguard.”

“I have fought well.”

“Exceptionally so, I dare say. You make your ancestors proud.”

“Then I ask you listen to this man. He is not like the others. Something greater moves him. He speaks of the stolen day.”

Her eyebrows raised expectantly, “Tell me of this thing that robs my men of their courage and steals their heart.”

There was a silence as Kemlin worked up the courage to speak to his betters, “Lady, among the dark host are men.”

“He is mad!”, Captain Simn motioned to the city below, “Send him to the herbalist.”

She raised a pale hand, “We will hear him.”

“They are sorcerers. They keep this night in place and pay for it with the blood of those kidnapped from the caravans.”

“Madness!”

“They have taken others in the past but this has never happened.”, she stood upright and crossed her arms.

Kemlin raised his hands, “Lady, you do not owe me this but you must believe me. If you were to find the chronicler, I am sure he could speak of these men. They are present in the histories.”

“What is his name?”

“Brindell. Brindell Mars.”

She looked over her shoulder at a runner, “Bring Brindell Mars to me.”

“He has not been seen since the fighting started, Lady.”, Kemlin looked up at her.

“If he is in Steel Hill, he will be found.”

Kemlin nodded and backed out of the command post to return to where his shield and bow lay against the wall. Raemos followed a few moments later. They stood in silence.

“The others will live? Alwyn? Roen?”

“They will not burn today.”

Kemlin nodded, “They are forming ranks. You should –“

The great bell rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

Raemos slid his helm over his head.

“I am surprised your head fits in it after all the ale you drank last night.”

“Bah.”, the Dorn banged his fist against the helm, “We will have you drunk before you earn your first ring and became a man. Besides it keeps me warm.”

“Warm. That is an idea in this land of cold winds and frosty mornings. Warm is summer breezes off the inland sea and fields of golden grass. It is green skinned apples and clotted goat’s milk.”

“Sounds like it’s for children.”

Kemlin laughed, “It is for Sussars and weddings.”

“Well then, may you find fortune enough to drink it again.”

Raised voices drew their attention. At the command post, the Lady and Aschef were engaged in heated conversation. They gestured and hissed at one another before she stormed away from him. The Sarcosan Captain followed behind her and gave the command to his runner, “My legion is to report to the gate.”

The Lady caught the runner by the arm, “Bring me my mail and helm.”

Kemlin’s eyes grew wide as he turned to look at Raemos, only to find the Dorn’s expression the same as his. The city had once again come to life at the sound of the bells. Word passed through the ranks and two hundred men and women of Aschef’s legion reported to the gate. Ahead of them, a servant armored the Lady with a shirt of fine chain. When she was ready, he offered her her helm and swordbelt.

Kemlin recognized the hilt from his dreams and turned to put a hand across Raemos’ chest, “If she leaves the city today, she will not return.”

“More fairy tales?”

The Sarcosan looked at him with intense brown eyes.

“Fine. I will heed your advice and keep her close.”

And for the second time in two days, Kemlin Vargo waited behind the great wooden gates of Steel Hill. Around him were many of the same men and women from last night and a great many more that he did not recognize. Movement above him caught his eye and he looked up to see Alwyn and Roen atop the wall, bandaged but standing. Kemlin met their own raised hands with one of his own. Ahead of him, Lady Falon strapped her helm into place.

“If they will not give us a dawn, we will make one! We will make one with the fire from their corpses piled high in the field!”

A cry went up and the Lady turned to face the gate. She looked upwards, waiting for some signal from Aschef. And when he gave it, thick ropes were pulled taut and the gates came to life. They creaked open, and the Lady’s legion tumbled out onto the field.

[Wuxing]

More GM Type Stuff

First I have to say, I'm lucky to have someone in the group who can take what happened and craft it into a nice piece of writing. It's fictionalized a tiny bit, but it's as accurate as it gets. It's nice to see lines delivered at the table delivered in these pieces.

I haven't hidden the fact that I want Artha spent. I think it's the life blood of the game. I was extremely pleased to see artha being spent like mad during the retreat. It was awesome to see it being spent to save some npc's, that at that time were nameless schmucks. They were going in there fully aware that they could likely die. Between the dice being hot and the artha flowing they were showing what they were made of. It was one of those sessions that created stories that they will talk about for a long long time. I thought, and so did the group after some talk, that this all lead to one thing... a deed point for each of them. It was a good day. :D

The second part here was the next session, and only part done in this retelling. Brindell was in fact brought up at the table (I'll chronicle his last moments at some point) and I have no idea where we are going at this point. We throw caution to the wind and move forward. The "king" of Steel Hill, Lady Falon does what she needs to do to strengthen the will of her troops and heads out onto the field.

I have to admit a few things here. I am GMing with no notes at this point (and it's awesome). It's also a challenge making sure that the players, who aren't the biggest, baddest, most important people in the siege, are treated at the table like they are the biggest, baddest, most important people at the siege. Every moment has to be important to them, but their actions might not be of ground shaking importance. They seem really excited about not being "THE" guys in the history of world since they are "THE" guys in the story we are creating. It's nifty, I don't mind saying. I'm not ashamed to admit that I too am curious to see how this whole thing turns out. :shock: :lol:

[foxandwarlock]

Lady Falon, white-hilted blade held high, led the charge that crashed into the corner of the Dark Host’s lines. The men and women of Steel Hill threw themselves headlong against Izrador’s shield wall but the Shadowkin lines held fast.

Kemlin Vargo slammed into a goblin, his own shield meeting the creature’s. It staggered back a step but regained its footing, blocking a second strike from the Southman. Around him, the Dark Host pushed back against the Dornish charge. Kemlin twisted, attempting to bypass the creature’s shield but instead met with its face. For a second time, shield clashed against shield and this time it was Kemlin’s turn to stagger back.

The shield wall had begun to shift and the goblin ahead of Kemlin turned, allowing the creature behind it through the opening. Kemlin stepped forward to meet the advancing goblin, shield raised high. When the blade echoed dully against it, he pushed the creature’s arm out and rushed forward. Standing nearly face to face with the creature, the Sarcosan’s kukri lashed out landing a solid blow across the creature’s face. He felt blade meet flesh and then a piercing pain as the goblin bit through the leather on his forearm. He jerked his arm from the dazed creature’s mouth and dealt it a second blow, sending it earthward.

Beside him, he heard Raemos grunt as a shieldbearer gave way to his blade. The ranger pivoted left to face his original opponent. Surprised, it could not move fast enough as he stepped between the goblin’s body and it’s tower shield. With his own dawn-etched target, Kemlin pushed against the back of the creature’s shield, stretching the goblin’s arm our before him. The kukri flashed twice, nearly severing the limb at the elbow and sending the creature sprawling.

Something skittered across his cuirass as he turned to look for the Lady. Another Shadowkin pulled its own dark blade back for a second thrust as Kemlin stepped towards it, pushing the shield against its body and trapping its arm. Two more quick steps forward sent the creature onto its back in the mud. Raemos grunted a second time and Kemlin looked up to see a smear of crimson across the side of his mail. A satisfied goblin danced back, blade still bloody, before taking the big man’s boot in its face.

“FORM UP AND RETREAT!”, Lady Falon screamed over the din of battle.

Kemlin parried blows with both shield and blade as the Dorns around him slowly worked to reform their own lines. Raemos battled with a larger Shadowkin, while the Lady slowly led the formation backwards. The men and women of Steel Hill fought a disciplined retreat, one step at a time. Raemos put the creature down but a second hit him at a full run as he scrambled to join the retreat. Off balance, he reeled backwards but was caught by the Dornish line and pushed back onto his feet. He braced his sword against his hip and let the momentum carry him forward, skewering the surprised creature where it stood. Its dark green lips curled back in a feral grin as the life crept out of it and Raemos felt the dull pain in his side. More blood spilled out from the hole in his mail, a second cut that worsened the first. Two more Shadowkin leapt from their lines to overtake the beleaguered Dorn.

Kemlin and Neiman broke forward from their own ranks and raced to their Sergeant. Neiman rammed the first with his shoulder, staggering the creature before beginning to trade blows with it. Kemlin shook the shield from his arm as he blocked the Shadowkin’s blade with his kukri.

“Raemos! Take it!”, he held the shield towards the big man.

A second time, kukri met Izrador steel. Beside him, Raemos’ body simply failed to respond. His arm reached across in slow motion as Kemlin knocked a third strike aside. Neiman slashed and parried, attempting to put the creature down before more of its ilk joined the fray.

Thick, Dornish hands clenched the edge of the yellow-painted shield, lifting it from Kemlin’s grasp. His second hand freed, the Sarcosan knocked his creature to the earth but another of its kind lept forward to take its place. Its blade lashed out at the big man who struggled to slide the shield into place – and missed. A second and third time it swung but simply could not seem to hit the Dornish Sergeant, as he finished gripping the shield. Its blade pulled back for another attempt before Raemos’ dropped the heavy hilt of his blade atop its head. With a grunt, it collapsed.

The three men moved without speaking, sliding their feet backwards in an attempt to rejoin their fading ranks. As they backed away, the Shadowkin held fast to their formation. None raced forward to stop the retreat, no arrows flew from their ranks, no charge sounded – they simply stopped marching. Kemlin, Raemos and Neiman backed into the rear-most rank with slaps of greeting from those that surrounded them. Their respite was broken by the ringing of Steel Hill’s bell. Around them, heads turned in confusion and a murmur washed over the Lady’s contingent. A second time the bell rang, a third and somewhere behind them a man screamed. Kemlin Vargo went numb, his dream realized.

“Traitors! The city is taken from within!”, someone cried behind them.

And the Shadowkin charged.

Their front rank became a great black tide, and the Lady’s voice rose against the thunder of their feet, “TO THE GATE!”

Raemos centered the shield, his arm sluggish from the wounds, “REARGUARD. HOLD FAST!”

To either side, men and women set their feet and readied weapons as the Dark Host crashed into the Dornish line. The fighting became a blur - arms, blades, claws and shields clashed. Shadowkin pressed in from the front, crushing their fallen kin beneath them. Kemlin’s body reacted faster then he could think, knocking aside anything that came before him as he continued to shuffle backwards. Moments bled to years and still the horde threatened to swallow them. Kemlin wondered how much distance they had covered.

The first arrow caught the man beside him in the back, pitching him forward into the horde. Arrows zipped around them, fired from the city walls now turned against them. Kemlin glanced over his shoulder to find that they had fought until their backs were nearly to the gate. He turned in time to catch a goblin’s claws rake across his face.

“ACROSS THE BRIDGE!”, her powerful voice came again from the distance.

More arrows rained down on them, striking Shadowkin and man alike. The Dorns gave final parries and pushes before turning and racing past the gate of their own city. The Kin of Izrador followed, a boiling tide at their heels, as they crossed the only bridge South. With each step, more men and women disappeared beneath the horde, felled by arrow or blade. Kemlin stumbled, and an arrow zipped past, intended for where his body had been. They ran like they had never run before.

Across the bridge, only the most battle-crazed of the Kin chased them beyond the arrows’ range. These met their deaths at the hands of the Lady’s rearguard who fought quickly and then raced to return to the group. When the torches of Steel Hill were candles in the distance, the run transformed into a walk. Raemos shuffled along at the back of the group, aided by Neiman who supported him beneath his left arm.

“We go to Nalford at a hard pace!”, Lady Falon spoke while walking.

Their breaths returning, another murmur went through the men and women that yet survived. Bruised, bloodied and angry, their speculation fueled the fires that already burned within. Suddenly, man next to Kemlin turned and pointed a calloused finger at him, “Aschef did this! Your people did this!”

Kemlin raised his hands, “Calm yourself. I am-“

The man swung a fist at Kemlin who danced back mid-sentence. Raemos’ lifted his head to see what was happening. The man came at Kemlin again and for a second time, the Sarcosan dodged the attack, “I am among you, not them!”

“You did this! Your people betrayed us!”, the man’s lips curled back in a sneer and he pulled his sword from its scabbard.

Raemos pushed himself forward off of Neiman’s support, his eyes white with rage. Kemlin dodged the first swing from the man’s blade. Around them, more men and women backed away from the conflict. Kemlin danced left and then right, trying to get inside of the sword’s reach. It glanced off of the ranger’s cuirass, forcing him back.

Raemos reached the conflict as the Lady voice cut through the darkness, “Enough! Sheath your blade.”

As the man stalked to the side, Raemos stepped through the crowd to stand next to Kemlin. A great hand reached out and clutched the Sarcosan’s arm, pulling him alongside of the Dorn.

“This man…”, Raemos tore a metal ring free from his hair and jammed it into Kemlin’s palm, “fights for me.”

Still holding his sword, the man cursed as he spit and walked away. Without another word, the group of Dorns reformed and slowly resumed their march, leaving the Sarcosan where he stood – silently staring down at the metal ring in his hand.

[Wuxing]

GM Throws In His Two Cents

Well there it went. I was calling this the end of a chapter and it ended like one. NPC's that had become as much part of the group as the PC's that were wounded last session were inside as the city was taken. When it became clear they were sold out one of my players had a visceral feeling of anger and hatred. It was a great thing.

As far as how BW held up... Artha was well spent yet again. Big artha was spent to cause one reroll and thus prevent a character death. It's a bit of rules drift, but it's my game so... :P We played again in the old school, loose scripting for the main players sort of way. The shield had artha invested in it and funny things happened with it. The shield was saving the player's ass left and right. The shield is handed over and then the rolls went all in that players favor. That shield is becoming important and all of this is happening at the table in front of everyone's eyes.

Hmmm, what else? We finally did some trait voting after this session. The freebie traits that weren't in their character concept but in the lifepaths were voted out. One trait that paid for during creation was voted off, as the player said sounded great at the time but never manifested in play. They both earned two traits since it was looking like we couldn't agree on one for each player. One player was pushing for future traits (driven) since he saw the other character becoming that way in the next chapter. We agree not to do that, but it's an interesting piece of rules drift to consider.

Still the most fun we've had gaming in quite some time. Now it's time for a 2-3 week break (vacations and Gen Con) before gearing back up for another 6-7 session chapter. The future burns brightly. :D[/i]

[luke]

good stuff, guys. keep it coming.

-L

[Paka]

I wrote up my Midnight game and ran most of it with TROS.

I'm hooked on the format of this thread. The blend of story writing and GM's input is fantastic.

I hope there's more to come.

[foxandwarlock]

There most certainly is. Everyone is on fire (no pun intended) about this campaign but we unfortunately, have a 4 week break while people vacation with wives and girlfriends, attend conventions, and generally do that thing that regular people call "life" However, play resumes Thursday, September 2 - hell or high water.

[foxandwarlock]

Well, since returning from GenCon and discovering that at least a handful of people are going on the Burning Midnight ride with us, I figure the least we can do is fill you guys in on the full story. So, with that in mind, I went back and wrote some fiction to cover the sessions that did not initially earn any.

And since I can't really insert posts, I've edited my first fiction post and broken the pieces up by session dates. Session 1 is up and I'm working on #3 and #4.

So Kublai, Abzu, Paka and whoever else is reading this stuff....thanks for the feedback and enjoy.

[Wuxing]

Bah! You ruin the flow of the GM Section you story telling maniac!! We all know that my section, the GM section, The Section of He Most Holy At The Table, He Who Rules With An Iron Fist, is the most important! Bah, I say! Bah! :twisted:

(All of the above was bullshit. I don't believe this in the very least and that's why it's funny.)

[luke]

hey, yeah! Don't edit those original posts. just repost with an addendum. Don't be like George Lucas, man!

-L

[foxandwarlock]

Okay, since I'm not sure how I post an addendum to an existing post, I have gone back and edited my second fiction post. The new pieces were inserted before the Siege begins and are separated by date. There are two of them (Labelled July 11th and 18th respectively).

I hope that I have not broken any kind of forum/board etiquette with the editting but I know if I was reading the thread as a newcomer, I would want to see the "story" in chronological order. Hope everyone is cool with that. Abzu, please do not ban me from the boards and I hope you continue to read our thread, even though we are now 3 pages. :twisted:

[Wuxing]

Holy crap it's all there now! I'm not going back to add edits to GM notes. But it does flow well. I'll say again, it's neat to see lines delivered at the table in the pieces.

You went into mythical tale telling mode in some of the pieces. "It was the way it had always been." It's awesome, but lends itself to a certain feel. I wish I had come up with it at the table instead of hoping you picked that up.

The first session of Chapter Two happened tonight, even though there was some real life stress and a sick GM. It was short, with a lot of rp and some definite breaks in the flow due to sickness. But you know, we needed to get our Burn on. :twisted:

[foxandwarlock]

CHAPTER 2: THE RIDE OF THE WORDBRINGERS

They marched hard until they had cleared the preternatural darkness that clouded the skies of their once-home. For a full day and half of another, the Lady drove them on with her silent determination. When at last they rested, they numbered a rough four score men and women with little but blades and hauberks for wealth.

There had been no speech since Raemos’ ring-giving and the fight that had preceeded it. They marched, sat, ate and rose in somber silence – speaking only when necessary to give instructions or share what food they had foraged. Nearly a week passed, half of it beneath blue skies, before the Lady gathered them to her campfire.

“I have failed to protect the city that was my father’s and his father’s before him. House Falon has fallen, Steel Hill is no more. Those that swore oaths to either, I release you from them so that you may find your fortune in the world…with whatever time remains. In the morning, I make hard for Nalford though I do not know what I will do when I arrive. Those who would go with me, go not as men with their lord but as companions.”

She looked out over the the faces that stared back at her, turned slowly and began to make her way through the crowd.

A calm voice cut through the silence, “Lady, wait.”

She stopped but did not turn around to face the speaker.

Kemlin Vargo stepped through the crowd to stand by the fire. He steeled himself against the many eyes that watched him, “You have not failed, you have been chosen. You are the Wordbringer – you carry the news of Izrador’s shadow and behind you the host of Man will form.”

She whirled now, fire blazing in her eyes, “And how many answered our call in the last arc?! In the last three arcs?! How many came to our aid and listened to our warnings?!”

“They did not believe but Steel Hill’s fate will be the beacon; it will be your proof that Izrador is no longer the stuff of fairy tales. It will be the light in the dark. They will listen and for that, I go with you to Nalford.”

“House or no, my blade goes with you to Nalford, Lady.”, Raemos yelled.

She snorted and spoke loudly, “You have this night; take your rest and decide in the morning.”

She disappeared into the crowd and it slowly dispersed. One campfire became a dozen as groups of four and five gathered to discuss her words.
Kemlin found Kym sitting with three other men and their conversation stopped short at his arrival. The man who had attempted to kill him only a week earlier glared up at the Sarcosan.

Kemlin did not let his gaze deter him, “If in the morning, we part, I wish you to know that I have no ill will towards you. Now is not the time for quarrels among men, a greater enemy threatens us.”

The fair skinned dorn all but sneered, “I seem to remember a man on that wall. A Southman who betrayed us – maybe it is the time for quarrels between men.”

“Between those who stand with the Shadow and those who do not, yes – but not between us.”, Kemlin extended his hand.

Kym stared hard at it and then spit at the ranger’s feet.

Kemlin nodded slightly, “Travel well and may hope find you.”

The Sarcosan left the men where he had found them and returned to his own campsite. Raemos lay stretched out, grateful for a chance to rest his wounds and Neiman sat nearby with Bidi and Saren.

“So we go south in the morning?”, Kemlin sat down beside the fire.

Raemos opened his eyes lazily and smiled, “Where else would we go? We will return to the north in time. I will sleep in my own bed again.”

Neiman raised an eyebrow, “Maybe a greenskin sleeps there now.”

“Pray that he is still there when I return.”

It drew a hard fought laugh from his company and one by one, those around the campfire fell asleep. Kemlin rose in the morning and watched as Lady Falon collected herself and marched south down the trail. Thirty paces from the camp, she drew her white-hilted blade, plunged it into the earth and sat down, awaiting those that would join her.

Raemos and his company went to her picket, jamming their own weapons into the earth beside hers. For every two men that came to the Lady’s camp, one drifted north just beyond where they had slept. All told, perhaps a third of the survivors joined Kym and his plans to return to north.

“Where do you go?”, Kemlin said loudly, hoping that his words would not be in vain.

“To our fathers, Southman, to honorable deaths. Something you and yours would not understand!”, the slim man shouted back.

“You will not go to your father’s for I will not be there to light your fires.”, Raemos’ deep voice joined the others.

A momentary silence washed over the northern bound company.

“At least we will die with a blade in our hand, not fleeing south as cowards!”, Kym broke the silence.

“Cowards? I go south with the Lady to raise an army!”

“The Lady dishonors herself. She shames her House and her father-before-her.”, Kym turned and began to walk away.

His group slowly shook loose of where they stood and drifted in behind him.

“Pray you fall where I can find you!”, Raemos shouted at their backs.

Around them, the Lady and her followers did much the same, beginning their trek southwards.

Kemlin looked at the Sergeant, “I still do not understand your people.”

“Your people. You are a Man-Of-The-North now.”, the big man pointed to the ring in the ranger’s black hair.

Kemlin smiled, “Even worse, then - I do not even understand my own people.”

Raemos chuckled and the pair quickened their step to catch up with the already marching group. With a week’s travel under their belt and no provisions, their meals had consisted of only what they could find while on the move. Already, frames were leaner and faces thinned.

Three long days passed. Not a man or woman faced north when they camped or gave pause to look over their shoulder. They would not recognize the direction from which they had come. The fare continued - a handful of berries, and what water could be salvaged from the roots of known plants - but still they marched on. Lean turned thin, thin to gaunt. Muscles melted away like the snows come Spring but the Lady did not falter nor her pace change.

Kem