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

[Judd]

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.

Kemlin was amazed at Raemos’ injuries. With little nourishment and a hard march, his body continued to repair itself. A fortnight on the road showed him as whole as when they had joined the field at Steel Hill, though much thinner. Those with grievous injuries were assisted or carried for the Lady would give no quarter. A hard pace she had promised and a hard pace it was.

One fortnight turned into two. Hauberks hung from meager frames, feet shuffled, and beards grew wild. They were a host of wastrels, an army of beggars traveling the southerly road. Had the Dark Host risen up behind them, Kemlin wondered if they even had strength left to raise their blades.

Past the second fortnight, days blurred – each one the same as the last and the one to come. Dust covered their feet and legs, fair skin had turned a dark tan. And then, one morning, a rider appeared on the horizon. Gradually, his small shadow filled with detail as he approached. Mailed and armed with spear, he wore the azure and crimson of House Redguard and in the distance, the rest of his patrol followed.

He checked his mount, turning it sideways across the path, “From where does this host come?”

“From the city that was once Steel Hill.”, the Lady said, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looked up.

“That was once Steel Hill? It stands yet. What do you mean?”

“It has been overrun by the greenskins – claimed by Izrador.”

The man smirked, “Has it? Who leads this party?”

A short silence ensued but Raemos broke it, “Our Lady of House Falon.”

The dirty woman who would have once answered to that name, turned and shot the big man a glare.

She addressed the rider again, “None lead us. We are simply the refugees of Steel Hill.”

The man gave her a discerning look and then rode back to his patrol. In the distance, the riders split – half disappearing into the horizon and half returning. They rode on either side of the company as they marched, making conversation and asking questions. And though it had never been spoken, no man or woman mentioned The Betrayer or his part in the fall of the city that had been Steel Hill. Their city had simply been overrun.

That night, the riders camped with them, offering what they could of their own provisions and water. In the morning, the camp took to the road again though only a few hours passed before a caravan of wagons could be seen in the distance. The rider that had met them yesterday rode at the head of the caravan, “You have walked far enough. Let you ride the rest of the way.”

So numerous were the wagons that every man and woman found room aboard them and the injured were given their rest. Kemlin lay there, eyes closed while his head shook with the uneven road. Somewhere in the distance, he heard conversation between two of the riders.

“Look at them. They’re too weak to even make the march.”

“Aye. It’s little wonder their city fell.”

Beside him, Kemlin heard Raemos shift.

“I wonder what they’ll trade when they get to town.”

There was a soft chuckle, “Perhaps I’ll get a hill-forged blade this season.”

“Or they’ll trade their rings for lodging at the hall.”

Raemos struggled to sit up and the pair looked over at him.

“I have brought my two fists and my back and with them I would carry these people.”

“I doubt you can even carry yourself.”

Raemos scowled, “You do not know where we have been or what we have done. You are fools.”

One of the rider’s reddened and spoke through clenched teeth, “If you did not look like wastrel children, we would have cut you down where you stood.”

Raemos shrugged, “Does this blade look like that of child’s? Your fire would burn but a little – ride on, fools.”

Raemos lay back down without seeing the rider’s outraged expression. The other rider worked quickly to calm his companion and they rode further up along the caravan.

It was night by the time the wagons reached the gates of Nalford. The men and woman of Steel Hill took to their feet again and were addressed by gatemaster, atop the city wall, “In the morning, the Lord would hear your tale. But until then, let it not be said that Nalford is a poor host. You will find a meal and rest at the Feasting Hall.”

“The Lady and I will meet with the Lord in the morning.”, Raemos shouted.

The gatemaster nodded and they were led to a large building, outfitted with long wooden tables and benches that ran on either side. A hot stew and bread were served along with flagons of ale – and both cup and bowl were refilled without question.

When they had finished eating, many took to the floor to sleep in warmth and without the fear of a Shadowkin raid. It was then that the Lady found Kemlin and Raemos sitting across from one another.

She settled onto the bench near Kemlin, her eyes focused on Raemos, “There is no Lady Falon, only Cerowyn. If you wish to tell the tale to the Lord, that is your choice but I do not go to see him.”

Raemos set his flagon on the table with controlled force, eyes ablaze, “We do not have time for petty titles and self-pity. You are our leader, you are our hope…with or without a House that has not changed.”

“I came to Nalford with reason.”, Kemlin said quietly, “A promise was made to those who came with you and you must keep it.”

“I promised nothing and said as much. The city that held Izrador at bay is lost – if you wish to bear that news to the Lord, do so but I will not be there.”

Raemos placed both of his hands flat on the table and leaned forward, “Oh, you will be there. I will see you in the morning.”

“We will see.”, she said flatly. She rose from her seat and left their table, picking her way across the sleeping forms on the floor.

Kemlin woke with the first rays of dawn, though the rest of the hall slumbered on. His stomach in knots, he said his prayers and had time to return to his sleep before the morning meal was served. Gray and porridge-like, it had little flavor but weighed heavily in the Sarcosan’s belly. When he and Raemos had finished, they sought out the Lady.

She ate by herself, in a distant corner of the Feasting Hall and ignored their approach.

“I see you have will enough to eat.”, Raemos said, crossing his arms.

She put the spoonful of gruel into her mouth and then set the bowl on the table. She spoke slowly and turned to face him, “And what about you? How much will do you have, Raemos? How far are you prepared to go?”

Raemos shrugged, “To the end, to go to my father.”

She shook her head, “No. How far will you take this? Can you slay a child? Kill a man? Spill blood of crimson instead of black?”

Raemos narrowed his eyes, “You mean the children of The Betrayer and his company? The traitors?”

She nodded every so slightly.

“Traitors are not men. They will burn in the fire with the greenskins.”

“Would you lose your honor to enact this….this….justice? Can you do what is wrong in order to achieve what is right?”

“I will do what I must. I will sleep in my own bed again.”

She looked at Kemlin who had remained quiet, “Give me your blade.”

The ranger glanced at Raemos and then slid the kukri from its sheath and placed the hilt in her hand. Turning, she grabbed the Sergeant’s wrist and forced the handle into his hand. She turned again so as to show the breadth of her back to Raemos, “Cut it.”

Her long auburn ponytail ran nearly to her waist. A fist sized ring wrapped itself around the woven braid. Delicately carven into its surface were the words and history of House Falon.

“Cut it.”, she said again without moving.

Raemos jammed the kurki into the table, refusing to sever her braid and acklowedge her self-proclaimed failure. He crossed his powerful arms.

She twisted so that she sat straight again and picked up her bowl, “Then I go no where.”

“So we are lost. So many died for-“

“I KNOW HOW MANY HAVE DIED.”, she whipped around on the bench.

Raemos’ shout matched her own, “THEN DO NOT LET THEIR DEATHS BE IN VAIN.”

Kemlin raised open hands between them, remembering Azrith’s words. All things need new beginnings, a fresh day, a new dawn.

The ranger drew his knife from the table, “Cerowyn, if you wish a new beginning I will grant you that…but then you will lead these men and women. That is the bargain.”

She said nothing, only returned her bowl to the table and twisted her back to face the Sarcosan. With one gloved hand, he held the base of the ponytail and cut across its base with the other. It came free and the remains of her hair fell to either side of her face as she turned, “Give me the ring.”

Raemos pulled the fist sized ring from the ponytail and placed it in her outstretched hand. He tossed the hair into a nearby fireplace and sat down beside her.

When the runner came, only Raemos and Cerowyn went to the Lord Redguard’s chambers. Kemlin went to the market, in hopes that Azrith would be peddling his candles for if not, he had no idea how to find him.

He wandered through the stalls, amidst the sounds and bustle, and was comforted in its likeness to the bazaars of the South. Before he realized it, he stood before a tinkerer’s stall. His eyes washed over the man’s offerings, a plain leather belt, the unused hilt of a dagger, one well-worn boot and…a ring. Sized for a man’s finger, its dark, husky hue spoke of its shoddy origins – of impure iron and a hasty jeweler.

The Sarcosan produced the knife he kept stuck in his boot and held it out for the weathered Dorn to see, “A trade. I am in need of a ring.”

The men eyed the blade and took it gently from Kemlin’s hand. He slid back the sheath to reveal the southern-forged blade and then glanced at the ring. He pretended to think about it before answering, “Fair’s fair. A ring you’ve won.”

And while Kemlin’s steps took him to the Feasting Hall, Raemos and Cerowyn’s carried them to Lord Redguard. They were conveyed to a small antechamber, functional with little decoration. They waited for a time before the door before them was opened and they were bid enter.

A second, simple room stood beyond. A large, wooden chair occupied its center and in it, a man of average countenance and size. His dark red hair was plaited and spilled out across his shoulders. Though simple, a multitude of rings glittered among the braids as he shifted in his seat. A guard stood to either side of him and a servant waited near a small table that had been prepared.

He gestured, “Welcome to Nalford. Please, your road has been long, drink your fill.”

The servant poured two flagons of ale and stepped back from the table. Cerowyn and Raemos seated themselves.

Lord Redguard leaned forward in his chair, “I have heard it said that Steel Hill has fallen?”

“It has. Overrun by the Kin of Izrador.”, Raemos said formally.

The Lord sat back, “And how was that done? The walls of Steel Hill are ancient and unbroken.”

“They held the night above us. Fought in the darkness.”

He chuckled, “You wish me to believe that Izrador has brought eternal darkness to the north?”

The pair at the table nodded and the mirth faded from Lord Redguard.

“And what if it is some madness, brought on by your lack of provisions? I understand that such an illness takes time to cure once fare is taken again.”

“We are the Wordbringers. Do we look as if madness holds us? Say yes and we will leave you.”

Redguard’s eyes narrowed, “What proof do I have that you are even from Steel Hill? That you yourself have not overtaken their walls and raided them?”

Raemos opened his mouth but Cerowyn’s fist came down on the table before he could speak. When she withdrew her hand, her Brother-Ring lay on the table. The guards tensed as she suddenly stood and began to unbuckle her sword belt. When she had finished, she laid the white-hilted longsword across the table and retook her seat.

“This is the blade and ring of House Falon, passed from father to child since the First Age – since the earliest days of our House. These I will trade to you for arms and provisions for my men.”

Lord Redguard did his best to hide the surprise in his features.

Cerowyn stood, “If you choose not to believe us, then so be it. I do not care if you think us mad. But mark my words, each town will fall to the Shadow – one by one. Yours is the closest, perhaps…it will be first.”

“Come. We are done here.”, she looked at Raemos and then to Lord Redguard, “Send word of your offer.”

Without being dismissed, they opened the doors and made their way back across town.

“I hope we have made the right decision this day.”, Cerowyn said without looking at her Sergeant.

“Trust me, my Lady,” the big man grinned, “We have.”

They found Kemlin outside of the Feasting Hall, watching the traffic that passed by. Cerowyn nodded at him and continued past while Raemos slowed to a stop.
For the second time in one day, Raemos’ wrist was grabbed and his hand forced open.

Kemlin smiled as he deposited the iron-forged ring into his friend’s palm, “I thought I should replace it.”

“I cannot help but feel cheated.”, the big man held the ring up in the sunlight and grinned, ”The one I gave shone much brighter in the light.”

He looked at Kemlin, clenched the ring in his fist, and then slapped his friend on the shoulder with a hearty laugh. They wandered inside to find the midday meal being served.

In its wake, the runner came again, bearing a letter sealed with wax and the Redguard sigil. Cerowyn read it in silence and then settled her gaze on the boy, “Tell him I will prepare a list but I will need ink and paper.”

The boy turned to go and her hand shot out, gripping his shoulder, “And a bolt of white cloth to be brought at once.”

The boy nodded and raced out door, disappearing into the streets. Some time later, he returned, bearing a quantity of white cloth, folded cleanly into a square. Cerowyn took it from him and reached out an empty hand towards Kemlin.

The kukri went into her grasp and she began to cut strips from the cloth. Whispers grew in the Hall and the men and women who had followed her to Nalford gathered around. When she had cut a dozen strips, she plunged the knife into the bench and took two steps to stand atop the table near her.

“Today, I have traded my blade for yours. I have traded my name; my house; my honor so that we may begin again - so that we may bring word of Izrador to the lands outside of our own. So that one day, we can return to the place that was called Steel Hill!”

A cry went up from the men and women gathered around her and fists raised in the air.

She shook the white strips in her hand, “The white blade of House Falon was forged to fight the Shadow, to keep the lands beyond it safe. As of this day, it no longer belongs to me - but its purpose lives in us yet.”

She looked down at Raemos, “Give me your blade.”

Holding the scabbard, he placed the hilt and handle before for. She reached out and tied one of the snow-white pieces around its grip, “Each of us will bear its likeness and know that so long as we do, there is hope.”

She looked up, and motioned for the next man’s blade.

[Wuxing]

Well, maybe if I actually had a screen to be behind I could say that, but you get the picture. The longest post to date and this was about a 3 to 3.5 hour pure roleplaying session. I can't honestly think of a single time that they picked up the dice to roll.

So there really isn't a "How did Burning Wheel hold up?" section to add. I'll only say that the road of starvation was handle by health reductions. I originally was doing Fort tests and applying wounds, but we talked that through and health hits were decided on. I'm not sure what this will effect in game, but I'm sure as I review the books I will come up with something.

The characters are starting to come into their own, they are certainly center stage at the table and are pushing themselves to the center stage of world politics. It's interesting since that's what they explicitly set out NOT to do and they are doing it anyway. Without prodding from me, I should add.

Session two of this second chapter is being "prepped" now and will be playing on Thursday. I expect another longer piece as it seems to be headed to a pure roleplaying session as well.

[foxandwarlock]

When Cerowyn had tied the last piece of white linen to the last man’s weapon, she looked up and addressed the crowd, “Take this day to think and tonight we will speak of the future.”

With a murmur of conversation, the crowd before her began to drift apart into smaller groups. Some stayed and asked questions of her, others returned to their tables, and a few even ventured into the streets of Nalford. Raemos and Kemlin spoke briefly before the Sarcosan slipped off to the market for a second time that day.

He hoped that he had only missed Azrith when he had visited the stalls earlier that day. He walked from one end of the market to the other and back again, without sight or sound of his mentor. The sun rose higher and higher in the afternoon sky, drenching the streets in its husky warmth and turning men into long shadows against the dirt streets. When he had convinced himself that Azrith was absent among the peddlers, the man before him caught his eye. He had marched south with them from Steel Hill and a small boy, perhaps eight or nine, gripped his hand tightly.

“Hold a moment.”, Kemlin said lightly, hurrying to catch up with the pair.

The man turned ready for a confrontation but his features relaxed as he recognized the Sarcosan, “What word?”

“I see you have met someone.”, Kemlin said, smiling.

A glimmer of pride welled in the man’s eyes as he nodded, “This is my son, Turyn.”

The ranger pulled the glove from his hand and extended it, “Well met, Turyn. I am called Kemlin.”

The boy beamed as he gripped Kemlin’s wrist in greeting. Kemlin held his gaze for a moment then looked up at his father, “Where are the others from the caravan?”

“Scattered. The young have taken to what means were offered – some work in the ale houses, others scavenge, and some have even been”, the man scowled, “apprenticed to the smiths.”

“What of the aged?”

The man shrugged, “Do you seek someone?”

Kemlin nodded, “A southerner of an uncle’s age. He wears a smile always.”

The father shook his head, “I do not know him.”

“Azrith is his name.”

The boy jerked on his father’s hand excitedly which earned him a scowl, “I know him! I know him!”

Kemlin raised his eyebrows expectantly and smiled.

“He is always by the inn telling stories!”, the boy pointed.

The father looked from his son to Kemlin and nodded, “There. You have your answer. I hope you find him well.”

“My thanks, Turyn.”, Kemlin looked to the man, “And yours.”

The man nodded again and the pair wandered off to rejoin the fading crowds. Kemlin found his mentor where Turyn had said, seated on a small stool in front of an ale house with three young boys at his feet. The boys sat, mouths open in anticipation, listening intently to whatever tale Azrith spun. Kemlin stood silently nearby, close enough for Azrith to see but not close enough to interrupt. The story came to its conclusion faster then Kemlin recalled and Azrith was suddenly standing, “Now, to your fathers with you for it seems my oldest son has come home.”

They embraced heartily, as much mentor and student as father and son. Azrith grasped him by the shoulder, still smiling and held him at arm’s length, “The children have told me of your arrival.”

Kemlin nodded, “We have come with ill tidings. Steel Hill has fallen.”

Azrith nodded, “They have said as much.”

“When we came north, I knew why. I knew what I was to do here.”, the words that had been building in him for nearly a full month tumbled out, “But now, with this, I cannot see where my road takes me. I feel without.”

Azrith smiled, “One need only see the road to walk it. If there is light enough to do that, then you are well.”

Kemlin glanced from side to side before speaking again. He wet his lips with his tongue, “They were betrayed…by a Sarcosan.”

Azrith did his best to hide his surprise, shaking his head numbly from side to side.

“They tell no one. No one speaks his name or counts him among the fate of Steel Hill.”

“And wisely at that. A war between Dorn and Sarcosan we do not need.”

Kemlin ran a hand over his face, “I…I sought to befriend him out of loneliness. He and his seemed to be something I knew in a land that I did not. But…but I did not see his intentions.”

Azrith put a hand on his student’s shoulder, “Then he was hidden in Darkness.”

The ranger looked up at the peddler-priest, “And what of the next man who is hidden? How should I see him? If he fooled me so easily, what of other men?”

“Are you so sure he was truly a man?”

A cold expression washed over Kemlin, “You…you mean that he was some other beast fashioned in the shape of a man? Do…do such magics exist?”

Azrith laughed lightly, “Many things exist that I do not know of, that you do not know of. If you were to ask me a season ago if I thought the Firstborns still lived, I would give you pause but I have seen them ride through this very town.”

The man’s mirth was lost on Kemlin, “No. They were men. They were too plentiful to be cloaked with such magics…and if Izrador has taken men as allies…”

“Then the road will be darker then we expected.”

Kemlin licked his lips again and swallowed, “Never has the Dark Lord done this – not in your retellings of the Histories or in my own dreams.”

Azrith’s eyes gleamed warmly, “That is why your own light must burn brighter - to bring hope to the darkened road.”

Kemlin nodded blankly, “I thought that that Steel Hill would show them…but Lord Redguard does not believe us. He does not believe that the fort-city has met its fate.”

“Many people do not believe a great many things but it does not stop them from being true.”, Azrith wrapped an arm around Kemlin’s shoulders, “Come, let us eat. I would hear the account of your days since I saw your last.”

The self-made priest guided his student into the ale house where they ate and spoke of days apart. When they had finished, they returned to the Feasting Hall where the survivors of the fort-city gathered.

Conversation and good spirits filled the air, reminding Kemlin of his first night spent in the ale-houses of Steel Hill. Throughout the Hall, men introduced their sons to one another, clasped shoulders and spoke of the day that their city would be reclaimed. Those without children claimed the orphans of Steel Hill as their own, sharing their name and starting life anew. Before the Sarcosan’s eyes, the wounds of the small community began to heal and although there was no laughter, not a single face in the Feasting Hall wore heavy brow or sad eyes. Pride and hope welled up in the voices around him – the spirit of Steel Hill had lived through the march.

The newly arrived pair settled in among Raemos and his men. Azrith smiled when he recognized the big man from their initial journey and extended his hand. Surprisingly, Raemos did the same, grinning broadly before taking the hand in his own.

“I believe you are wearing off on him, Kemlin.”, Azrith said as he sat down.

“He just might be.”, Raemos half-laughed as he slapped Kemlin’s back.

Around them, the hum of conversation continued and more then a few men introduced their sons to Raemos and his group. There was name-giving and the promising of future deeds and then the door to the Hall closed. Silence took the Hall slowly, creeping over the collected men and women.

Cerowyn walked to the center of the Feasting Hall, and half-leaned, half-sat against the end of a table.

She crossed her arms and looked out at the faces, “On the road to Nalford, I released those who had made oaths to House Falon and to Steel Hill. I do the same to those who came before us in the caravans – your lives are your own. Those of you who wish to stay and make a life for yourself in Nalford, you are welcome to it. I will provide what help I can to make it possible. Go with my blessing.”

She leaned forward, coming fully to her feet, “Those of you who would still serve a cause, stand now.”

Across the Hall, men and women stood – old and young alike – among them Raemos and his company.

Cerowyn Falon turned slowly where she stood, surveying the volounteers, “We will continue the war.”

A shout went up from the those who stood.

“We will carry news of Izrador to all those who would hear us.”

A second shout.

“And we will make those who would not hear us…listen!”

A third shout filled the Hall as fists were thrown in the air.

“In the coming days, horses will be made ready and provisions supplied, but until then, rest, eat your fill and enjoy your wives. We will speak again when Lord Redguard has fulfilled his bargain.”

As people returned to their seats, servants brought forth leather jacks filled with ale. The Feasting Hall grew loud with laughter and conversation. Those who were absent were honored with tales of their deeds and boys were given their first jacks of ale.

Raemos took a long pull from his drink, “Well, what do you say, Kemlin? Where should we ride?”

“The Pantry. Izrador has a great forge in Steel Hill but they will still need provisions to feed their host.”

Neiman leaned in across the table, “Who says they don’t just eat each other?”

“True. But the men who have joined them will need food and drink.”, Azrith said calmly.

“Settled. We ride to The Pantry.”, Raemos’ words echoed as he spoke into his raised jack.

The corner of the Sarcosan’s mouth rose in a feral grin, “But first, I would turn the mines of Steel Hill into a grave. If they so desire the steel, let them die for it.”

“What do you mean?”, Raemos narrowed his eyes.

The other men of Raemos’ company ceased their conversation to listen to the Sarcosan’s answer.

“I mean to collapse the mines.”

“And how would you do that? Do you have some magick you have kept hidden from us?”

Kemlin shrugged but continued to grin, “If men can build it, surely they can unbuild it.”

Raemos drained the last from his jack, “I am no miner.”

“Nor am I. But someone here”, the Sarcosan gestured to the room around them, “is.”

Raemos slowly nodded his head, and then slapped Kemlin’s shoulder with a laugh, “By your words but I hope you know what you are doing!”

For a week, they did exactly as Cerowyn had bid them. They rested. They ate and drank and enjoyed the dying days of Summer. Mail and bodies were mended, blades sharpened, arrows fletched. They spoke to the few miners among the survivors and found no way a man could destroy the mines. So they agreed to ride on to Highwall and its libraries to search for a solution - after warning The Pantry. Eight days later, Raemos took six of the first horses that Cerowyn offered to the Wordbearers.

They met her at the stable the next morning where she gestured to the mounts, “Where do you ride?”

“Through the Pantry; to Bastion.”, Raemos said as the others guided their animals from their stalls.

She nodded, “Twice in each year we will meet: High Winter and High Summer. When the time comes, ride for Nalford and seek out Fiaman. He is too old to ride but he has agreed to see to our missives. If you have news or need, send word to him.”

Raemos nodded as Neiman handed him the reigns to a horse. There was a long moment as the Sergeant and his former liege looked at each other. And then they embraced in the Steel Hill way; shield arm wrapped around the other’s back and the sword hand gripping the other’s hilt. Cerowyn went to each of them and repeated the act, recognizing each of them by name. When she had finished, she walked back to where Raemos sat astride his mount.

“Here.”, she tossed him a small pouch that sounded of coin, “It is not much but it is some. Ride well.”

“You will see our smoke in the North. It will be either the mines or our fires.”

Her eyes narrowed, “Stay clear of Steel Hill. I mean to see you in the High Winter.”

Raemos nodded and the half-dozen riders began their trek North. For two weeks, they rode at a leisurely pace, supplementing their trail rations with the odd rabbit or field game. They kept both campfires and watches until they neared the easterly road that would take them to Bastion and House Pender. When they at last reached it, it was decided that Kemlin should strike north to see what he could of Steel Hill.

For nearly four days, the scout travelled through waist-high grass, crossing the landscape as he was meant to. He saw no one, no trace of man or Shadowkin and late in the afternoon of the third day, he spied the outline of Steel Hill’s walls set against blue skies. Blue skies. The darkness had vanished, and the city looked undisturbed; as peaceful as it had been nearly two months ago. He had seen all that he needed and now the Sarcosan raced back across the plains. He knew that his week had drawn up; that Raemos and his company would be saddling horses and moving on from their camp – counting the ranger lost or forcing him to catch them.

And catch them he did. On their second day along the East Road, the Sarcosan overtook them and made good all that he had seen. They rode with purpose now, their hatred and drive reawakened by the scout’s news. Each day that they travelled, seemed to be cooler then the last but never cold. They welcomed the morning sun for the nights forced them to pull their cloaks close. Around them, green fields stretched to the horizon, filled with crops and the farmers that collected them.

Shouted greetings were traded, hands waved but never did Raemos’ company stop for longer then a few moments. They warned those who would listen and ignored those who would not.

And then they rode on.

The sun sank earlier with each passing day. When they could, they spent their nights in villages, trading a few hours labor for a warm meal and a bed. They heard rumors of bandits to the North, who stole their season’s labor in the night.

And then they rode on.

Bastion rose out the horizon like a leviathon out of an endless green sea. Slow but determined; smoke plumes followed by the roofs of its longhouses and then the buildings themselves. The sun that blazed overhead had light but offered little warmth and spoke of the coming Autumn. A two story longhouse, made of stone, marked the home of House Pender and the very center of The Pantry.

It was here that they met with Lord Pender himself. He fed them from his bountiful table and listened with pursed lips to their news. The fall of Steel Hill, the rising of Izrador’s shadow, and the destruction of House Falon. More food and drink came, and now it was Lord Pender who spoke – telling tales of missing crops and bandits in the night.

“Their work is plain to the eye….but no man has yet seen them.”

The Riders of the White Sash stilled instantly at his words. Quiet fell across the room as Kemlin and Raemos stared hard at each other from behind raised cups.

It had begun.

[Wuxing]

GM Intermission

I don't mind saying this was one stinker of a session. The fiction reads well enough though. This is the most fictionalized of everything posted so far. We all have those off sessions every once in a while, here was ours. Luckily I have a fairly skilled writer to make the ugliness of the session look pretty. :twisted:

One pure RP session proved to be enough, and this second session on it's heels was too much I think. Raemos was ready to "do something" and we just couldn't make anything flow at the table. It didn't help when we couldn't for the life us think of a way that they could take down the mines. The minute the table turned from that plan, the mood went south in a big way. This session quickly started moving towards everyone wanting to "do something" and nothing was happening. Piss poor GMing on my part, but what can you do about it after the fact? I swear next time I will have goblin spider riders ready to toss at them and hope the threat of their character deaths will liven things up. Piss poor GMing, but what's a poor guy to do, cause random character death? :(

Nice thing though, we needed to take a week or so off due to life and were able to let it sit for a little bit of time. We'll be resuming in a week or so. We're likely better off since we did talk about what was going on and hopefully how to "fix" it.

I can happily, and honestly, report it had nothing to do with BW as a game system. So, we game on and the slaughter of the innocent greenskins by the malicious races of men will continue! :twisted:

[foxandwarlock]

Based on Wuxing's comments, I thought it was appropriate that I put a plug in here for the relationship between fiction writing and role-playing. For a good long while now, the two have been intermixed for our group. It started during a long running (multi-year) Shadowrun campaign in which Wuxing offered Karma for fiction - and it turned into a rotating weekly assignment. Each week, a player came with a short fiction piece recapping the last session's events from the character's perspective - including how the character felt or thought about them. It had a bunch of benefits:

a) players found voices for their characters while writing which helped them when they sat down each week to play

b) characters took on depth as the other players got to hear their internal thoughts and feelings about stuff that would never come up in play

c) it provided the ice-breaker for the week's sessions, brought everyone back to the moment where we had ended and generally set the mood

d) allowed people to stretch their creative muscles; for people who had never written, they started, they grew and for people who had they got a chance to practice and to contribute to the group in another way

It was extremely productive and each of us now have a bound book (thanks to Wuxing) of those pieces - chronicling the rise and story of our characters. You can read pieces and vividly recall what was happening and how you felt at the table - there are some downright scary pieces in there.

Since then, we've never gone back to the weekly assignment but fiction writing never quite disappeared either. And I think this most recent post is yet another example of the benefits of intertwining them. The session was lackluster, we hauled ourselves from scene to scene without inspiration or drive once we had lost the mine idea. When we finished, the momentum for the campaign was at a standstill. But now, reading the piece (and writing it) I'm able to get excited again about the campaign. I forget the table talk and all the player/gm discussion and get to focus on the story that we told. And all of a sudden, the ball is rolling again. Raemos has said on a number of occassions that all he has to do is go back and read some of the stuff in order to get pumped up for that week's session.

I read Wuxing's post last night and thought about it how the momentum of the piece was so different from the session and realized that the fiction writing was just another trick up our gaming sleeve. Another way to motivate, to bring back focus, to keep people engaged as Wuxing and Abzu like to say. And if someone else can take what we accidentally discovered and put it to use, then we've contributed to the hobby we so enjoy.

[foxandwarlock]

For three days, Lord Pender led them north through the fields that belonged to his House. Here and there, he stopped to inspect a row of corn, or run his hand through the grain that had been collected. He lectured on the histories of certain homesteads and the colors of a plant that indicated its quality. He waved to the men and women tending the fields and spoke with those that he knew by name. And when he was not speaking, his two bodyguards chatted idly with the group, asking about Nalford and their travels. They rode and ate without haste, taking in the clean air and the bright Autumn sun. It was easy to forget what task they rode to, why they had come to Basion in the first place – Izrador’s threat seemed so far away from the simplicity that surrounded them. But it was always Raemos that brought them back to their purpose with some sharp-edged comment regarding the thefts.

It was on the fourth day, near dusk, that they reached the groundskeeper’s house. Here, their horses were stabled in a roughshod barn and they ate a simple but fresh evening meal. At Lord Pender’s insistence, Pert and his family ate with the rest of the company but they soon slipped off to the barn, surrendering the dwelling to their liege. It was not long before Kemlin, Neiman, Bidi and Saren had joined them around a campfire in the yard.

Nervous at first, both groups warmed to each other as they traded tales and laughter over the fire. When his wife and children had gone to bed, Pert produced a jug filled with strong, homemade brew - which made its way around the circle as the taletelling continued.

While the campfire blazed, Raemos and Indrez stalked around the perimeter of the homestead, staring out into the darkness beyond. They shared a moment of silence before Indrez turned to his Sergeant, “If we are looking for bandits, we should be out there – not in here.”

Raemos crossed his arms and nodded, “I pity these people. They know nothing of the fate that awaits them.”

Indrez shook his head and returned his gaze to the darkened fields. For a time, they stood there, saying nothing – their silence broken only by the drifting laughter from the campfire.

The night passed and soon the pre-dawn light crept over the two buildings. Kemlin’s eyes fluttered open and he was greeted by the smell of both horse and hay. He hugged his cloak close to him in the chill Autumn air and sat up to find the sleeping forms of his companions nearby.

The Sarcosan slowly took to his feet and stretched, straining towards the roof of the barn. He felt more whole – more rested – then he had in months. The weariness and fatigue that had dogged him for weeks was gone. The tension in his shoulders and neck, vanished. For the first time in a long time, he had spent the day and night without his hauberk. The cool air licked at his skin – reminding him that he was alive. He could not remember when he had last smiled and laughed as much as he had the night before.

Outside, he faced the rising sun and kneeled against the cold earth. He whispered his prayers and asked Aman-Ra to bless Pert’s house and those who lived within it. And when he had finished, he did what he could to assist in the preparation of the morning meal.

When the company had eaten and saddled their horses, they set out from the homestead. This time, however, they were led by Pert’s eldest son, Trevyn. Broad-shouldered and deeply tanned from his days in the sun, he was a man by only a few months.

Lord Pender inquired greatly of the boy – asking about particular plots of land, and other farmers, the healthiness of the crops and his coming of age. And though Kemlin’s hauberk had returned, it had done nothing to diminish his mood. He sat up straight in the saddle, smiling in the morning sun as he listened to Trevyn eagerly answer each question.

“I have heard it said that your lands feed all of the North. Is such a rumor true, Lord Pender?”, Kemlin asked during a break in their conversation.

The Dornish Lord laughed, “Aye and if there were the means for fast travel, the South too.”

Kemlin looked up at the sun and closed his eyes - the past four days weighed heavy on his thoughts. He looked out at the fields that stretched to the horizon and drank in their color. He remembered the smiling faces they had seen since they left Bastion and the simple contentment that seemed to hang in the air.

“Your lands are beautiful.”, Kemlin said quietly as he shifted in his saddle, “Hope lives here still.”

Lord Pender looked at the ranger in mild surprise but Raemos broke the silence, “That is why we will defend it. Let us hope the bandits waited for us.”

By midday, they had reached the border of Pert’s fields and the work of the thieves was clear. Portions of the field had been stripped of their crops and the empty stalks and plants had been crushed underfoot.

“I leave you to your work.”, Lord Pender turned his horse, “When you catch them, if they are men of House Pender, take their left hand.”

“And if they are not?”, Kemlin slid from his saddle.

“Then treat them as criminals.”

The Sarcosan looked from the Dornish Lord to the Sergeant, “I do not know how criminals are treated in the North.”

“Let us say that they will not bother House Pender again.”, Raemos’ face was stern.

Lord Pender furrowed his brows, “That is a harsh punishment and I would not wish it upon them for a few ears of corn.”

“Do not worry. None of us truly believe they are men anyway.”, Raemos waved a hand as he dismounted, “It is time I feel useful again.”

And as Lord Pender began his trek back through the fields to Pert’s house, Kemlin Vargo went to work. He stepped carefully, methodically through the field, back and forth, eyes downcast and scouring the ground for secrets. He felt the sun beat on the back of his neck as it rose to its zenith. The others had set up a rough camp waiting for him to find the trail.

Time and the Autumn rains made his work difficult, stripping the scene of the detail that the ranger needed. It was near dark when he was able to piece the tale together.

“More then four of them. They came from the north.”, he pointed in a direction.

“Then we will have to wait for the morning.”, Raemos said as he looked up, obviously displeased, “Indrez and I have first watch.”

The sliver of a moon rose out of the darkness, shedding what paltry light it could over the fields. Even Kemlin’s sharp eyes could not follow the trail in the gloom, despite his best efforts. Surrendering to defeat, he joined the others and fell asleep.

They crept through the fields, aided by the weak light and the rustling of the cornstalks. Raemos neither heard nor saw them until a hiss caught his attention. Indrez had been dragged to his feet, a strong arm wrapped around his neck from behind. His own hands gripped the arm in protest as the blade of a dagger pressed firmly to his neck.

“On your feet.”, the figure hissed at Raemos.

The big man looked around in time to see half a dozen more men materialize from the corn. Their drawn blades glinted in the weak moonlight.

Raemos laughed.

The figure shook Indrez and pressed the knife in closer, “On your feet now!”

Raemos slowly shambled to his feet, leaving his blade on the ground. The others had begun to wake from the man’s shout.

“So Pender has hired his own bandits, now?”, the man growled over Indrez’s shoulder.

Steel Hill. The accent was clear in Raemos’ ears as he ignored the question, “Where is Kym? Step out coward!”

“Kym? Fallen or fled south. Why are you here?”

Kemlin began to slowly reach a hand across his waist for the kukri but a voice nearby told him to roll onto his belly. He complied when he saw naked steel.

"You have fought too long. Can you not see I am a man? You are mad."

“You travel with a Sarcosan. It is you who is mad.”

“We have come from Lady Falon herself to spread word of Izrador.”

The man made a disgusted sound, “Get on your knees.”

“Why steal it?”

“Because we will not last the winter without provisions.”

“These fields belong to all, all you need do is ask.”

“Ask who? They do not believe.”

“Then you must convince them.”

The man slowly shook his head in the darkness, “Get on your knees.”

Raemos laughed again.

“GET ON YOUR KNEES!”, the man made a small cut across Indrez’s neck, forcing the Dorn to stiffen and the blood to flow.

The laugh caught in Raemos' throat as Indrez locked eyes with the big man. The message was clear.

The Sergeant took one giant step forward and threw his hand out past Indrez’s shoulder. The big fist clipped the man across the cheek, forcing him to take a step back. Indrez pushed his way free of the man’s grip and stumbled off.

The rest of the camp seemed to react in slow motion to the surprise attack. Kemlin was the first to find his senses, his feet scrambling in the dirt to propel himself up and forward.

The man’s hands flailed after Indrez and Raemos swung a second time to a land another glancing blow.

Kemlin came fully to his feet and slid the kukri from its sheath. He saw the blade a half second to late, raising his own in a meager attempt to parry. The sword thudded heavily against his hauberk but turned against the leather.

A third swing from the Sergeant stunned his opponent even as the man’s dagger raked across his mail. Raemos twisted his head wildly, trying to find where he had abandoned his own blade. He turned just in time to see another man bring an axe to bear.

Kemlin sidestepped another attack as the rest of the camp struggled to their feet and fended off their attackers.

Raemos put a foot on the hostage-taker’s chest, intending to topple him but a wild axe swing forced him to withdraw. Metal rang against metal as the edge of the axe scraped against the side of his mail.

In the wake of another attack, Kemlin stepped inside of the man’s reach and smashed the hilt of his kukri against his head. As the man began to reel, Kemlin pushed him backwards into the dirt.

And the axe thudded heavily against Raemos’ shoulder as the big man once again tried to locate his lost blade. He growled in frustration as the glint caught his eye from the ground.

Kemlin took four quick paces to collide with another man who had knocked Saren down. The butt of the kukri came down on the back of the man’s head as the Sarcosan pushed forward with his forearm. Another of their attacker’s fell stunned to the ground.

Raemos bent down quickly and had time to wrap a single hand around the blade before the axe struck him across sqaurely across the back. Hill-forged steel met Hill-forged steel. The impact reached from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, and sent waves of shock through his muscles. A gutteral sound tore from his throat – half warcry, half rage. His back arched as the links threatened to burst but held. His second hand gripped the blade and he swung up while he turned, lifting it from the ground.

He knew the man’s fist struck him across the face as he turned but Raemos of House Redguard did not feel it. The poorly aimed swing dragged across the man’s hauberk but did little harm and the big man brought the blade around in a great arc. The other man pulled his axe back and swung. Raemos did not feel the impact of the axe head against his mail – only the sensation that rippled down his blade as tore through leather and flesh, opening the man from the base of his neck to his belt. Entrails and lifeblood spilled out filling the air with the smell of gore.

“ENOUGH!”, Raemos bellowed, as he stomped towards another man and pushed him down.

One of their attackers turned and fled but the others stayed where they stood or had fallen.

Raemos returned to the dead man while the rest of the camp handled their prisoners. Steam rose from the gore that had spilled out and Raemos bent down to better see the man’s face.

“Did you know him?”, Kemlin covered his mouth with a gloved hand to keep from being sick.

“No better then any other man of Steel Hill.”, the big man’s face was expresionless. Lost.

Numbly, Raemos cut the three rings from the man’s hair and slid them onto his fingers, “Build a pyre.”

As the others worked to execute his order, the Sergeant sat by the man he had slain. He stared blankly at the work his blade had done and asked himself a hundred questions. Never had his blade shed man’s blood.

When the pyre was ready, Raemos carried the man to it and set it alight. He looked at no one and said nothing. Of his men, only Indrez stood near him, momentarily squeezing his shoulder with a strong hand. The others kept their distance from the big man, as if they feared him. When the fire had begun its work, the Sergeant returned to the other men who had been treated and bound.

“Knife.”

Kemlin put the kukri in the Dorn’s hand and watched as he bent down and cut the rings from the men’s hair. They struggled as much as they could.

“You have no right.”

“You cannot take what you did not give.”

He dropped each man’s rings on his chest, severing only his braid to mark their failure. From prisoner to prisoner, he went – without word, without expression – ignoring whatever protests and insults they hurled at him.

When he had finished, he threw their braids in the pyre and sat down beside it to pass the night.

Kemlin rose at dawn to find Raemos staring at the smoldering embers of the pyre. He said his prayers, asking Aman-Ra to help his friend overcome his grief and for guidance. When he had finished, and the sun had risen above the edge of the world, he walked over to where his companion still sat.

He put a gloved hand on his shoulder, “Combat is madness, no man can control it. Worse accidents have happened.”

“This day, there is one less to stand against the Shadow.”

“There would be one less today even if you had not done it. They would have made Indrez or I that one. Five live to see a new day.”

Raemos continued to stare straight ahead.

“One is not so bad if you think on what could have happened last night.”, Kemlin squeezed his friend’s shoulder and left him to his thoughts.

When the rest of the camp had risen, Raemos took Kemlin’s knife and freed the men from their bindings.

The man who had taken Indrez hostage rubbed his wrists and motioned with his head towards the pyre, “And how will you free Karok?”

“He is free.”, Raemos said flatly as he watched them buckle their swordbelts.

“Where will you go now?”, Neiman squinted against the morning light.

“North. To the wall - where we will wait until we can use our blades against Izrador again.”

Kemlin offered one of the men a large sack filled with provisions and he took it without meeting the Sarcosan’s eyes. The small campsite fell into silence as the men finished with their belongings, and looked around one last time before walking off into the waist-high grass.

Pert’s son leapt in front of Raemos, “What? What are you doing? You can’t let them just…just leave. What if they come back? What will you tell Lord Pender?”

“They will not come back.”, Raemos did not look down when he spoke, “And we will not tell Lord Pender anything, you will tell Lord Pender of what happened here. We do not go back. Tell him to care for our horses, and we will care for his.”

The boy’s face turned red but he knew better then to argue with the big man. Instead, he simply stormed off into fields towards his home.

The rest of Raemos’ company packed up their things and readied their horses.

“Where do you take us if not to Highwall?”, Kemlin asked as he threw his saddlebags over his horse.

“North. Our place is in the north, as we have always known.”

“To make a grave of the mines?”, Kemlin said, the corner of his mouth turning up.

Raemos shrugged and the nodded, “If that is where our road takes us.”

Kemlin turned to face the others, “We take the hard road. There are no comforts in the wild and no shame if that is not the road for you. If you would rather spread the word of Izrador’s coming, then go now.”

Saren and Bidi exchanged a look and then turned to Neiman. They each gave him the Warrior’s Embrace, shield arm around his back and sword arm gripping the hilt of his blade. They did the same to everyone in turn, save Raemos. When they reached him, they turned to return to their horses.

“Embrace this man.”, Kemlin stepped forward to point at Raemos, “One deed does not undo all the others. One day ago, you would have embraced him and now you shun him over one deed - one mistake, one accident.”

Bidi looked down at his boots and then stepped forward to embrace the Sergeant but Saren didn’t move.

“It waits for him in High Winter at Nalford, if I see the man I once knew.”, Saren walked to his horse and looked back over his shoulder, “Your rage can undo it all.”

The two men mounted their steeds and began to pick their way back down the trail that had led them here. And the four that remained, stood in silence, watching until they disappeared from sight.

[Wuxing]

GM Thoughts

The power of hesitation became reality once again. Kemlin was all over the small combat area knocking down people who hesitated. Without a good reflexes, being knocked down is essentially a death kiss since you can't get up fast enough and your defense suffers madly on the ground. So effectively once they were knocked down they weren't getting up. If you want to be a "hero" in this situation you better have artha to spend, because you will need it. BW handled in a nice, clean fashion that was completely in line with the feel of the game we are running.

Since the death of our chronicler early in the game, we've lost a handful of liked NPCs, almost lost Kemlin and this session we almost lost Raemos. Much artha was spent to survive his rage filled attempt to "free" Indrez. Deed point, Persona point and fate point all spent to make an armor save. It may not come out in this piece, but it's neat to see Raemos honestly looking at what's worth fighting for.

Story-wise I'll point out that the Steel Hill men are less likely to spill the blood of men, since they are more focused on the greenskin threat to the North. It becomes important since Raemos slew not only man, but a man of Steel Hill. Raemos' player was struggling with this. You could almost see he was feaking out behind his calm exterior. NPC reactions were good too, I think. It has been a fwe sessions since something the NPCs did almost screamed something to you about that NPC. It was great to see.

Not that this is important to anyone but me, but I also found Kemlin trying to smooth things over interesting. Again, it's not important, but was that Kemlin trying to help Raemos, or foxandwarlock lending a hand to Raemos because he was mentally freaking out over the repurcussions of what just happened. Interesting to me at least.

We also quit when it became obvious that we couldn't push this further, since the table wasn't mentally prepared to go where we were going. A decent to good session. B+ to A- territory, I think. Now if I knew how we are going to put a close on chapter two, I might feel better. I'm leaning towards giant spider riding orcs, but it might be a bit over the top. :twisted:

[foxandwarlock]

Can I say thank you for a lucky Steel Test and B5 Reflexes? Even though I realize now that I probably wasn't in any life-threatening danger.


Not that this is important to anyone but me, but I also found Kemlin trying to smooth things over interesting. Again, it's not important, but was that Kemlin trying to help Raemos, or foxandwarlock lending a hand to Raemos because he was mentally freaking out over the repurcussions of what just happened. Interesting to me at least.

Its the second time Kemlin's played that role. He tried to help Brindell deal with his emotions after he killed his first Shadowkin. To me, thats instrinsic to Kemlin's religious doctrines. Its the whole "new day" concept, that you have to pass through the night to get to the morning. So yeah, it looks really bad, you just killed that guy, but look at it from a fresh perspective in a new day - there could have been a lot more people dead. Don't get bogged down in grief because you're still alive - live life.

And put that hand in hand with the fact that Kemlin's never really had any "friends" (outside of a mentor in Azrith) and now Kemlin's trying to help what is probably his first real companion.

So, to me, it didn't have anything to do with my and Raemos' relationship - it was all Kemlin and the Big Man.

Chapter Conclusion Ideas? How about Raemos' throttling the life out of Aschef? Or the dark priests falling to my blade like wheat on Harvest Day? Chop, chop, chop.

Or, you know Giant spiders - that's cool too.

My Ride skill covers that, right? :twisted:

[Bob Goat]

Hey,

I have a request. Could you maybe post the named characters and who they are outside the protagonists? I'm enjoying this immensely and can't wait to play in it, but I am a bit confused on who is who etc...:oops:

Keith

[foxandwarlock]

Lady Cerowyn Falon was originally the head of House Falon and ruler of Steel Hill. She has since lost her city, disbanded her House, and sold her ancestral sword and brother-ring in order to outfit the survivors. Those loyal to her after the fall of Steel Hill have become the Riders of the White Sash.

Lord Redguard is head of House Redguard and rules from Nalford. It was Lord Redguard who heard the tale of the fall of Steel Hill and purchased Lady Falon's ancestral items from her in exchange for provisions and arms.

Lord Pender is head of House Pender and rules from Bastion, the largest city in The Pantry. He has only recently been made aware of the rising threat of Izrador by Raemos' company (i.e. PC's).

Azrith Vargo is Kemlin's mentor and father figure. A peddler turned priest through self-study - he was Kemlin's only companion for most of his life. He is currently in Nalford but has agreed to help Cerowyn Falon and her Riders of the White Sash.

Roehn and Alwyn were originally members of Raemos' squad who fought with the PC's during the first battle of the siege. They were murdered when the city was taken from the inside.

Neiman is one of Raemos' contacts. I, personally, don't know the story (neither does Kemlin) but Neiman is devoutly loyal over something that happened in the past. He's been with us since the first session - he was the wagoneer that came down to Nalford with Raemos. Usually uses just a sword.

Indrez joined our ranks when we set out to track the Shadowkin who raided the carvan. He was one of the "volunteers" from the Steel Hill militia and has been with us ever since. He wields usually uses an axe and shield in combat. He's the one that actually sundered the Siege Tower wheel during the attack on Steel Hill.

Bidi and Saren were a couple of the nameless NPC's that belonged to Raemos' squad of 10 but since we lost all the named characters who we cared about - we got names for them from Wuxing. They never really distinguished themselves as NPC's - just two more bodies and the roll for them to decide to stay or go was totally random. Wuxing rolled a DOF for each and they both decided to leave.

Wordbringers, Wordbearers, the White Riders, Riders of the White Sash, and the Snowblades are all terms used to identify the group that was born in Nalford under Cerowyn Falon, after the fall of Steel Hill.

I think that's everyone in immediate proximity to the protagonists[/b]

[Raemos]

This recent session most certainly had the most emotional content for both myself, and the character. When I burned the character I had a very specific picture of the guy I wanted to play. Starting with the very first session most of the concept I started with went right out the window. It’s been amazing to watch him change throughout the sessions. It’s almost as if I’m simply along for the ride, with my own character.

This session saw Raemos kill his first “man”, outside of drunken bar fights long past. The fight seemed to escalate out of Raemos’s control, which says something about having the Brutal trait, and a belief of ‘fight first, ask questions later’. Everyone at the table saw these things come to life and what the consequences of such actions are.

Raemos had a very different outcome in mind with the altercation until a NPC tried to bury an axe in the middle of his back. This is where BW really began to shine and added flavor to the session. A Deed point, Persona point and Fate point were all spent to make the armor save. I look back at what it took to earn those specific points and it’s great to see the mechanics coming into play to let me make happen what needed to happen. Truly heroic.

What happened next was outside of anyone’s control. I still don’t know if it was the blatant attempt at Ramos’s life or the high price I had to pay for the armor save. Sword skill of 5, aggressive stance, fork in brawling, and setup for a great strike. With a single swing, in a fit of rage, Raemos opened the man from neck to belt. In an instant the color drained from both our faces (mine and the character’s). We decided to end the session just after that while we all came to grips with the intensity of what had just happened. It is one of those special moments that changes a character’s life. I can’t wait until we vote on traits again. :twisted:

-R

[luke]

Raemos had a very different outcome in mind with the altercation until a NPC tried to bury an axe in the middle of his back. This is where BW really began to shine and added flavor to the session. A Deed point, Persona point and Fate point were all spent to make the armor save. I look back at what it took to earn those specific points and it’s great to see the mechanics coming into play to let me make happen what needed to happen. Truly heroic.

Sa-weeeeeet.

sounds brilliant,
-L

[foxandwarlock]

They rode in silence – four, somber silhouttes set against the endless, rolling green of The Pantry. They passed no farmers, and saw no birds. The quiet that had been restful only a day ago, was now haunting. It was as if they were the last four men in all of the North.

On the second day, when the sun threatened to disappear beyond the edge of the world and the fields had turned the color of flame, the sound reached their ears. Shouting and the ringing sound of metal on metal…and the gutteral grunting they knew so well.

They urged their horses on and drew weapons as the picture before them unfolded. What was a dark group of fighters became a dozen figures. Hooves thundered beneath them and the dozen figures became Kin and Man – seven of one and five of the other.

A warcry went up from Neiman as the horses cleared the last of the distance. Kemlin pulled his mount to the outside, passing the melee and readying his kukri. When one of the creatures passed his mount, he leapt from the saddle, attempting to take the creature to the ground.

Neiman and Indrez pulled hard on their reigns. Their mounts shook their heads but slid to a halt as Raemos raced by. Untrained for war, his horse fought against riding into the battle but the big man bent it to his will. He did not even feel the creature struggle against him – he saw only one thing. The head of a great waraxe and the Shadowkin, nearly his rival in size, that held it. Focused on the Dorn before him, the creature did not even look up to see the giant that rode down on him. Raemos brought the blade down in a sweeping arc to find that, with the horses’ speed, he had already passed his intended victim.

Kemlin hit the ground only a pace from where he had intended, rolling with the impact to come to his feet. He took another step as the creature turned in slow motion to face him and there was a crack as the kukri embedded itself in its head. It reeled back, pulling the blade from Kemlin’s gloved fist. The Sarcosan gave the creature a two-handed shove to send it onto its back.

Raemos snapped the reigns back and slid from the saddle without waiting for the creature to fully stop. Around him, men screamed in pain and death but Raemos did not hear them. He took two big strides and brought his blade down on the back of the large Shadowkin. Hill forged steel cut a gouge down the back of the hauberk but the leather held and Raemos cursed.

The creature ignored the attack, continuing to trade blows with the man before it. It brought the axe to bear but a deft blade twisted it aside and found purchase yet again in the creature’s armor; black blood ran anew.

Kemlin pulled the long dagger free from his belt and took a step forward, as he looked up. The single step became a second and then a sprint as he took off after a Shadowkin who had already abandoned the fight. A dozen paces from the battle, he hit the creature in the back with outstretched hands, sending it sprawling forward.

Raemos turned his sword sideways, gripped the blade with his free hand and shoved the large creature forwards. It took a great, staggering step forward, throwing its attack out of place and opening it for yet another wound delivered by the man who faced it. Momentarily stunned, the axe dropped to the creature’s side, held loosely by only a single hand. Raemos put a boot atop the butt of the weapon and snapped it out of the creature’s grasp, trapping it beneath his foot on the ground.

As the creature attempted to stumble back to its feet, Kemlin grabbed the
nape of the creature’s hauberk and held it place. Controlling the creature with one hand, the other drove the dagger deep in the creature’s neck. Black blood followed the dagger out of the wound as Kemlin drove it back in a second time and let loose of the creature’s armor.

With a calmness born of countless battles, Raemos looked up to survey the scene despite the enemy in front of him. Nearby, Neiman and Indrez finished a Shadowkin who had slain the last of the other men and a single, fleeing Shadowkin was painted against the red skyline.

Raemos felt something scrape against his knees and land across boots. He looked down to find the creature laying flat on its back, eyes still glazed from the latest injury. Across the fallen creature, the two Dorns locked eyes for the first time and both men brought blades to bear.

Raemos’ blade pulled back over his head, “For Karok!”

His blade severed the creature’s head and the other man’s bit deep into its torso. Without turning his eyes from the other man, Raemos raised a single hand and pointed to the creature that fled, “KEMLIN!”

Somewhere in the distance, the Sarcosan looked up from the Shadowkin at his feet and sprinted off in the direction that was indicated. Raemos dropped the hand to his side, “You are lucky.”

The man that faced him had long, red hair, three shades lighter then Indrez’ blood red locks and a short, well kept beard. When he bent down to inspect his shattered shield, the setting sun glittered across a silver ring in his hair and another fashioned from bone.

He looked up at the big man and grinned, “It is not luck. Such is the way it was written.”

Around them, the setting sun painted the scene in orange and red. Close to a score of bodies littered the field around them, and the auburn light danced across bloodied blades and spent shields.

Raemos stuck his blade in the ground as Neiman and Indrez drifted over to listen to the conversation. The big man extended a hand, “I am Raemos.”

He jerked a thumb at the other men, “This is Neiman. And Indrez.”

The red-haired man sheathed his blade, a smile still on his lips, “I am called Skeld, often the Joyous.”

There was a crunching sound nearby as Kemlin put his boot across the creature’s head and pulled his kukri free. He wiped the blade clean and slid it back into its sheath as he joined the group.

“And this is Kemlin Vargo.”

The Sarcosan smiled and shook the man’s extended hand as he surveyed the scene, “Ill tidings. Shadowkin knee-deep in the Pantry.”

“Ill tidings for them.”, Neiman motioned towards the fallen men.

Skeld waved a hand dismissively, “Ill or not, it is the fate that the All-Father wrote for them.”

“From where do you come?”, Kemlin nodded at a small grouping of horses nearby.

“Davindale.”

Kemlin furrowed his brows at the name of the city, “And where do you go?”

“North.”, Skeld grinned again, “Ever north.”

“And you return to a camp there?”

Neiman’s face turned gray and Indrez sighed loudly as he turned and walked away.

“Make a pyre.”, Raemos said to Neiman and Indrez without calling them by name.

The two men broke off from the conversation and began their work.

Red eyebrows lifted, “Camp?”

“There is a camp of men to the north who battle Izrador.”

Skeld shook his head, “No. I have no camp to return to. A few arcs ago, my warband was destroyed by a host of Shadowkin north of the fort-wall. Five of us escaped when the warhost moved on, and we went our own ways to gather volunteers. I went to Davindale.”

“Steel Hill fell to this host.”, Raemos crossed his arms.

“Ill tidings, indeed.”, the smile returned, “But what can be done – it is the way it was meant to be.”

“And where do you meet your companions?”

“Meet? We set no place. If the All-Father decides that we shall meet again on the field, then so it will be. If not, then I have wished them good lives.”

“Madness.”, Neiman whispered, loud enough for Raemos to hear.

“We go to Steel Hill. You are welcome to ride with us but our work is hard.”, the
Sarcosan wiped the sweat from his brow with a forearm.

The red-haired Dorn slapped Kemlin’s shoulder, “All work is hard, friend, else it would not be called work.”

Kemlin smiled at the jest, “We go to the mines, to make a grave of them and free those we believe are held as slaves.”

“For vengeance.”, Raemos cut in.

The other man shook his red mane, “There is no glory in vengeance but great deeds are done in the name of justice. We got for justice!”

“I do not care about deeds; only the men and women of who suffer beneath Izrador’s hand.”

The auburn haired Dorn did not offer a response beyond his continued smilel. Instead, the small camp fell into silence as they worked to build the pyres and strip the dead of their wargear. The blades of the fallen men were thrust into the ground around the pyre, as they would have been in Steel Hill. When the work was done and the Shadowkin aflame, Indrez brought the torch to Skeld who paused.
Raemos leaned in, “They are your companions. It your right to light their fires.”

With a smirk, the red-haired man took the torch from Indrez, and stood at the head of the simple pyre. He cleared his throat and in a bellowing voice that took them by surprise, began to call out the names of the dead. With each name, he gave the man’s lineage and spoke about the deeds attributed to his family. For those with none, he spoke of deeds that could have been if the All-Father had not called them home.

Kemlin had never seen a Dorn act in such a way. He leaned over to Raemos, “What is Davindale like?”

Standing with his arms crossed, Raemos shrugged, “I think we have another Mapmaker.”

“Handles a blade better, already.”, Neiman moved over to where they stood.

When words were spoken and the fire blazed, Neiman began loading what provisions and wargear were still usable.

Skeld caught his eye, “You steal armor from the dead?”

Neiman turned slowly and took a step towards the newcomer, “I steal nothing.”

“Well said, for a thief.”

Neiman bristled and took another step forward but Raemos’ deep voice held him in check, “What was used, will be used again.”

“It is the way of Steel Hill. Those that have only lived there do not know how the world sees it.”, Indrez said coolly from where he stood.

Kemlin saw the ire rising in Neiman, “It is the way of the wild. We take what we can use. In the winter, when your leggings have worn through, you will be thankful for another pair. When your blade breaks in battle, you will be glad that there is another.”

Skeld grinned, “When your blade breaks in battle, you take the blade of your fallen enemy.”

“My sword has fought in many battles before me.”, Raemos interjected again, “And will fight many after.”

“And I would rather have the blade of my Brother then that of a greenskin.”

“So you have no sword of your own?”, he was toying with Neiman now.

“That is enough.”, Raemos took a step towards both of them.

“I will not stand here and be insulted.”

“When you are insulted, you will know it – because I will do it.”, the big man turned and walked back to his gear, “First watch is mine.”

And while Raemos stood, facing out into the darkness, Indrez and Kemlin drank Skeld’s mead and listened to his tales. Neiman sat as far from them as he dared without losing the warmth of the campfire. And in that way, they passed the night. For ten more days, they rode west through the Pantry while listening to Skeld bellow both song and prose from his saddle. They followed what few clues remained of the Shadowkin’s trail, in an attempt to find where they had come from and on the morning of the eleventh day, they found it.

A path of flattened grass wide enough for six wagons abreast and running north and south as far as the eye could see.bbKemlin slid from his saddle and walked the area, bending close here and there to note what few details he could. The others sat atop their horses, who stomped and whinnied nervously from the scents left behind.

Kemlin looked up at the rest of his company and pointed south, “There are markings here of both boots and feet. One week ahead of us, maybe two.”

“Maybe Steel Hill will be easier to take then we thought.”, Raemos said grimly as he looked where the Sarcosan pointed.

Indrez shifted in his saddle, “Perhaps we should send a rider…to warn them.”

“I send no man to his death; besides that is not our business now. We have warned the south already. Our place is in the north; at Steel Hill.”

Raemos shook his reigns and his horse began to plod forward.

Kemlin watched the first few steps of the horse, remembering dreams from years gone by. Men and women cut down while they fled, overrun by the hordes of Izrador, screaming and blood; scenes from life he could not remember. A strange ache of sadness stole into his heart as he swung into his saddle.

“Can you find your way to Steel Hill?”

The big man checked his horse and looked straight up into the sky, jaw clenched and eyes shut. He murmured something too quiet for anyone to hear before turning his horse to face the dark skinned Sarcosan. His eyes burned, and the tightness of his jaw drew long lines across his cheeks but he said nothing.

“Make for the mines.”, Kemlin smiled at his friend, “I will catch you; I always do.”

Then the ranger turned his horse so that he could see Skeld, “And you, keep them alive.”

The Sarcosan hoped that he had not misjudged the Dorn; that Skeld the Joyous would earn his name and the keep the spirits of his companions alive. And then the he turned his horse for a second time and galloped off.

Raemos turned to face the others, eyes still blazing, “If any of you wish to join him in his foolishness, I will burn you now and save us the trouble. He and he alone goes.”

Without waiting for their response, the big man wheeled his horse around and urged it westward, once again. And behind him, the others followed. For ten more days, they rode and ate and slept, only to rise and do it again. There were no songs from Skeld, and no barbs from Neiman. They were once again, the last four men riding in silence atop the world.



For more then a fortnight, Kemlin Vargo raced against the unknown. Each morning when he rose, he gave prayer to Aman-Ra and hoped that he would find the marching host but each night he fell asleep having seen nothing but open fields. And then on the twelfth day, when the Eye of Aman-Ra had dipped low in the sky, he saw them – a dark blur against the horizon. He trailed them as long as he dared and then he slept.

And he dreamt.

Of stone and darkness and the men in the ochre robes. Six they numbered as they wove their magics and fed their cauldron with the blood of children. And when the dawn called him from his slumber, his hot sweat was mixed with cold morning dew. His heart cried out to hunt those that Aman-Ra had revealed twice now in his dreams but he could do little without passing the host before him. He knew that it must be done while the Eye of Aman-Ra blazed above for it blinded the Kin of Izrador. He knew that this day, he must overtake the host for if he did not, they would find him in the darkness. He pushed the vision from his mind, committing what he could to memory and then knelt down to pray.

“Morninglord, open my eyes,
So that I may see your glory.
Let me worship you,
For in you I am renewed.

Aman-Ra, keep my life safe,
For I am faithful,
And my heart glad,
For to you I have raised it.

Teach me your paths,
And I will see the road in your new day.
Make my heart hopeful and free
So that it honors your name.

Prince of Tomorrow, Aman-Ra,
I give glory to your name forever,
For you have rescued me from the darkness.

Look upon me
And give your strength and protection
To your servant.
The dawn will come again.”

He opened his eyes to look at the rising sun and then Kemlin Vargo saddled his horse. He settled into the well-worn leather of the harness, stroked the creature’s neck and then spurred his mount into motion. He thundered across the plains, keeping the horde as far to his left before losing sight of them.

The fields turned from gray to burnished gold around him, warming the cold air.

But the host stretched on beside him.

In the noon sun, burnished gold gave way to brilliant yellow. His legs ached from clenching them close to the horse.

But the host stretched on beside him.

Yellow became auburn as Kemlin raced against the descending Eye of Aman-Ra The beast beneath him tired; a sleek coat of sweat covered its hide and its breaths came loudly

But the host stretched on beside him.

In the dying light of sunset, the Sarcosan checked his mount. Beneath him, the creature shuddered and wheezed and far to his west, the endless horde marched on, painted in the deep reds and shadows of the setting sun. With the burning
light behind them, he saw the dark host stretch from one horizon to the other; a great black snake traveling through the plains. He knew now that the host that had come to Steel Hill was but a fraction of the horde before him.

And Kemlin Vargo readied himself for the coming darkness.



When Raemos and his company passed the crossroads that led north to Steel Hill, they stopped.

“There will be scouts.”, Indrez said as he surveyed the surroundings.

Raemos nodded, “We give the city a wide berth. One day, we will return to Steel Hill but today is not that day.”

The followed the road north, riding in a loose spearhead while keeping their eyes on the plains that surrounded them. On the second day north of the crossroads, they came to one of the small forts that gave the Fort Wall its name. Little more then a large stone building, a stable and walled courtyard, the wooden doors had been torn open and still hung loosely by a few hinges. The smell of death and carrion wafted over the chilled northern air.

Despite the horses stomping, they urged their mounts forward to follow Raemos. Only Skeld slipped from his saddle and led his mount through the gate. The rest lowered their heads to pass beneath it, and lifted them only to find a gore-stricken courtyard. Men lay scattered across the yard, their arms and legs broken and twisted; many had seen the work of the ravens already. The stench filled their noses and twisted their stomachs. The postures of the men were not those of fallen warriors; they had been placed in such a fashion.

And then the first figure appeared in the doorway. His mouth had been torn open at the corner and the skin of his chin and lower lip flapped against exposed teeth. Around the open wounds in his torso, the skin had shriveled with infection and his hands were stained with dried blood and dirt. Two more followed the first through the doorway.

They sat stunned in their saddles; Skeld rooted to where he stood.

The figure shuffled towards Raemos and lifted a hand, mouthing quiet words. He raked long, dirty fingernails across the horse’s chest, as Raemos’ hand found his hilt. The smell of fresh blood filled the air as the claws opened flesh and exposed muscle. The horse reared back, throwing the big man from the saddle and freeing his blade. He landed flat on his back, and the weight of his mail pushed the air from his lungs. Without thinking, he swung the blade at the approaching figure, dragging the tip of the blade across the creature’s side.

It took another step, bent down and wrapped decaying hands around the big man’s throat. For the first time, he heard the words and the familiar voice that spoke them, “Y…ou….you.”

Raemos’ mind reeled as he struggled to pry the creature’s fingers from his throat. In the distance, the big man saw Skeld appear behind the creature and strike the back of its head with his blade.

It slashed long, broken fingernails across Raemos’ face, leaving bloody grooves in his cheek, “Trai…tor.”

Raemos narrowed his eyes as he recognized the voice that had once belonged to the man named Kym. Skeld bashed the pommel of his sword against the creature’s head to little effect. Dead hands gripped the Sergeant’s neck for a second time with vice-like strength. Raemos struggled to breath as he dropped his sword in order to use both hands. Skeld’s blade fell again and Raemos pulled against the undying grip, but the hands held tight to his throat.

“No fire…”, the creature croaked.

The red-haired Dorn bashed the creature again with his pommel.

“….for you.”

Rage washed over Raemos, turning his muscles to fire and deadening pain. He could no longer feel the dead fingers around his neck as he closed his own hands around Kym’s throat.

“I told you”, he ground the words out between clenched teeth, “to die where I could find you.”

The claws found his face again but Raemos only blinked away the blood and pain. Skeld shouldered the creature to the side, staggering it a step before Neiman hit it at a full run. The impact of two Dorns knocked a single hand from the Sergeant’s throat and a rush of cool air fueled his lungs.

The other hand released him, slashing his face for a third time but Raemos Redguard would not release his grip. Still holding Kym’s neck, he sat up from the ground. Neiman held the creature in place, stretched to the very length of Raemos’ arms and Skeld hammered away with his blade. Slowly, Raemos hauled himself to his knees, and then his feet, using the creature as a leverage point without releasing its throat.

With his feet beneath him, Raemos stood to his full form, pulling the man that was once Kym into the air so that his toes dangled above the ground. The Sergeant stared at wide, hate filled eyes held at arm’s length and squeezed with all his might. The tendons of his hands stood out against pale flesh as the creaturevstruggled to reach Raemos; his fingernails brushing the big man’s eyelashes. They stared at each other for an eternity.

“You will,” Raemos squeezed the words out between his gritted teeth, “burn.”

There was a dull crack as Neiman buried the base of his blade deep into the creature’s neck from behind. Thin, decaying arms collapsed across Raemos’ own and the though the eyes remained open, the fire in them had fled. The Sergeant opened his hands and the emaciated six foot frame fell to a heap on the floor.

“Help! Now!”, Indrez backpeddled from the door and raised his shield to fend off an outstretched hand.

Skeld, ducked low and spun coming up next to one of the creature and bringing his blade to bear. It sheared through decaying flesh and shattered brittle bone, collapsing the rib cage and tumbling the creature. Indrez reached over the top of his own shield and buried his axe in the shoulder of the other creature, severing the skinny appendage. The creature swayed back and forth for a moment before Neiman’s blade knocked it to the ground.

And the silence of a battlefield settled over them. A quiet, broken only by the twang of a single sword stroke that severed Kym’s head and the sound of a torch as it sputtered to life.

[Bob Goat]

I would just like to point out that the character interaction in this session rocked. I have to say Booming (or Bellowing) Voice rocks as a trait. It was lots of fun and made it easy for me to get a hold of Skeld. Also, the prayer down there was actually read in game, which was totally cool and caught me by surprise.

In short the game rocked and as this was my first game that was not a demo, I found the rules to be very intuative (sp?) and easy to use. However we came across a weird thing with the lock/counter lock rules. I'll ask the other guys to post about it cause I don't remember the details, only that it was hinky...

Oh and named Zombies suck ass. I never want to fight another one of those muthers. You smack and smack but they don't go down. Damn zombies...

Keith

[foxandwarlock]

My neighbors would definitely vote Bellowing Voice off Skeld's sheet. :twisted:

The "zombie" was awesome. It was the first time that I've seen a zombie due EXACTLY what it should be able to do - that is shrug off the abuse from three guys and continue to choke the crap out of somebody. It was a great visual...

Raemos on the ground with his hands around Kym's neck, the zombie stretched out - one arm holding him, one arm flung wide, Neiman wrapped around his chest in a tackle and Skeld sort of pushing, sort of bashing him. Everyone just in a scrambling chaos. Awesome.

[Wuxing]

GM Notes

A decent little session this week. I have to credit everyone with working to make Skeld slide into the group. I think it was handled with as little "cheese" as I could have hoped. I can't express how relieved I was to see Skeld survive the initial combat. It was supposed to be quick and dirty, it came off much more difficult in play than it was supposed to. The combat visuals were there in both combats, only becoming less visual as we tired towards the end. So, BW holds up admirably again (not that I wouldn't expect it to at this point).

The traits came into play immediately with Skeld, with bobgoat trying to work hard towards being what he had on his sheet.

We struggled a little bit with locks this week. If I recall, the book says you have to beat the lock in order to break. I wanted to lean towards the if the roll to break the lock equal dice of the lock then it's broken. Foxandwarlock was on the it says exceed in the book. After some reading on the boards it looks like I was leaning correctly, there are no zero die locks. We handled that by saying you were still inside with no other effects.

Before I mention the zombies, I'll once again say that Raemos is a newer player (a bit over a year now). When the zombies came out and I described them he thought men were being transformed into orcs and goblins. We laughed about it a little afterwards, since we old time players knew exactly what they were. But it's always neat to see what people with "fresh eyes" see when we game. I quietly put the idea in my mental noteback and will feel free to use it at another time. I sort of wish I had rolled with it, since it might have made for a more interesting game.

The zombies had the BW traits of zombies, with Midnight Fell flair. Not quit BW and not quite Midnight. The named zombie, Kym was much much tougher than I expected. The lesser zombies were more easily disposed of. An undead orientated game would be tough as hell. I'll have to watch it in the future.

I can't think of anything else to add at this point. If I do, I will edit in at the end.

[Raemos]

I think new player is a bit of a mischaracterization. I would say new table top player, I have “gamer” in my DNA. I’ve looked, its there.

Admittedly I don’t have the amount of baggage that most players are caring around with them. I still don’t “know” they were zombies. Until a wise old NPC shows up on the scene and tells me, they were freaky dead guys. To me, they were exactly what they should have been, exactly what I would expect from some freaky dead guys. Damn hard to kill. :x


An undead orientated game would be tough as hell. I'll have to watch it in the future.

I’ve read the character death thread, you better not pull any punches :evil:


Over all I think the whole session went well and we opened more doors story wise than in most other sessions. I definitely feel the story shifting away from the shadowkin and the becoming about the relation ship of this group of guys. Some of the physical reactions Raemos had in the story actually happened at the table. And while they were in-character, they were completely instinctive.

[foxandwarlock]

With one hand, he dragged the headless body across the broken cobblestones of the courtyard. It left a smeared, black streak as it went; Kym’s final defiance of his once-kinsman. When he was satisfied with its placement, Raemos stopped and dropped the hungry torch onto the wasted form.

“We rest here today.”

Neiman and Indrez moved automatically, gathering things that could be used to burn the rest of the men scattered across the fort. Raemos waited as barrels were splintered and bodies collected. When at last the fire roared, and the weapons of the dead surrounded it, Raemos tossed Kym’s head into the pyre. He crossed his arms and stared hard into the dancing lights as Skeld bellowed out a war dirge for the dead.

When that work was done, they ransacked the fort for supplies. The largest and best of the weapons had gone with the host but the foodstuffs had gone untouched. Many had rotted but Skeld collected what he could and gave the rest to the fire. Neiman tended to the scratches and furrows that ran across Raemos’ face; doing his best to clean the wounds and stop the bleeding.

And then darkness came to the north, and the cold with it but the smoldering flames of the pyres kept both at bay. Skeld took to what few walls remained, staring out into the northern wilderness and singing for those that had gone to meet their fathers.

Neiman drifted over to where his Sergeant sat. Few words had been spoken between the two men since the murder; and fewer still since Kym’s attack. But now, the rough-hewn second-in-command, leaned in close and nodded in Skeld’s direction, “He will bring them down on us.”

Raemos shrugged; his thoughts clouded by the day’s events.

Neiman sat down beside the big man, “Do you…do you think its best to bring him? To take a newcomer with us?”

The haze slowly melted from Raemos’ eyes, “We will need his blade if we are to face the mines…and what is in them.”

The grizzled man turned gray, “You…you think there will be more of...of… them?”

Raemos turned to look at his sword-brother, “Perhaps. Who better to do their work?”

“You think they work the mines?”, gray features turned pale.

Raemos shrugged and turned his attention back to the stones before him, “We will know soon enough. Bring all the torches you can find.”

In the morning, it was Skeld’s turn to approach the big man as he saddled his horse, “I have been thinking about yesterday and an old tale came to mind.”

Raemos’ froze at the sound of the man’s voice, then turned slowly to face the newcomer. The big man blinked lazily at Skeld, disinterest plain in his features.

“It is the tale of Hergerth the Great and the shambling hordes of Maurig. It is said that he once battled them but not even the blade Glimmerhorn could bite deep enough to fell even one of the shambling horde. It was then that an idea seized him and he took from the wall, a lit torch and gave them battle with fire in one hand and blade in the other. In this way, he destroyed them and I believe this creature is not so unlike those of the shambling horde; perhaps fire is their weakness.”

“Fire is all our weakness. We will all burn.”, he turned back to his horse.

The red-haired Dorn smiled and shrugged, “Well, perhaps it has some truth in it, perhaps not.”

Raemos looked over his shoulder at the other man, “I prefer to keep both hands on my sword – as should you.”

The man’s smile broke into a grin, “Ah but you see mine has room for only one. Where would you have me put the other?”

Cold, blue eyes stared at the man for a moment and then returned to the horse. He buckled the last of the saddlebags, stepped up into the stirrup and settled into place. Around him, the rest of the company was in the midst of doing the same; adjusting weapon belts, and provisions. He waited until they had all taken to their saddles.

“We make for the mines.”, Raemos looked at no one in particular, “These are dark times and we are no longer the Wordbearers; the time for that is passed. The time for hope, for warning is passed. We will bring fire to the mines and burn what we find there.”

As Raemos spurred his horse into motion, Skeld shot Indrez a sidelong glance and cleared his throat, “I am beginning to feel as if there is no plan.”

The other Dorn smirked back, “That’s because there isn’t; they never have one.”




The thinnest of moons shimmered above the Sarcosan as he led his reluctant mount through the fields of blue-silver grass. The horse strained against the reigns in Kemlin’s hand, but the Sarcosan did not have time to pity the animal. Bazhu’mat, he had named him and for nearly half an arc, they had spent each waking moment together; joined as mount and rider.

The Sarcosan tired; he felt the sharpness slipping from his vision but he had little choice but to put one foot after the other, dragging Bazhu’mat behind him. When at last, the dawn came, Kemlin said his prayers, thanking Aman-Ra for his safety through the night and asking that he limit the horse’s suffering. And then, Kemlin Vargo settled into the saddle and rode as fast as the exhausted horse would take him. Before the mid-morning sun had risen to its place in the sky, they had passed the heads of the columns and the smoke of some hapless city could be seen painted against the crisp autumn sky.

Nalford.

The day sped by beneath them and the shape of the city came into view. By early afternoon, the Sarcosan checked his mount at the gates.

“The Host of Izrador comes from Steel Hill!”, he shouted up to the men that looked over the wall at him.

“Why do you think we have sent riders? Your warning is welcomed but perhaps three or four days too late!”

“Nalford cannot fight this host; you must flee!”

“Nalford’s walls will stand! Either get inside and grab a blade or ride on!”
Kemlin felt his jaw clench, “Who is in charge here?”

“Elmen!”

“I wish to speak to him!”

Above him, there was a commotion and the men disappeared from view. A few moments later, one of them appeared beyond the gate, waving him forward. Kemlin led Bazhu’mat by the reigns and quickly scurried after the runner. The young man led the Sarcosan through the city; around him, people loaded wagons or began their trek on foot, loaded down with what they could carry.

He deposited the ranger in front of a squat, stone building with one of its large double doors flung wide. Raised voices echoed from within as Kemlin tied Bazhu’mat to a post and mounted the steps. He followed the voices to a central chamber, where a number of men surrounded a great table spread with papers and maps. Some yelled instructions, others advice and a few even shouted in conversation to one another.

At the head of it all was a man in his fifties; military-made from the way he stood. He leaned forward against the table, palms pressed flat on its surface as he fired off questions and sent men running.

“…How long for the Highwallers to arrive?! And where is Lady Falon when we need her?!”,

“Who is called Emlen?!”, Kemlin had to shout in order to be heard.

The man looked up, “Who is asking?!”

“One of Lady Falon’s men.”, Kemlin cocked his head slightly to one side and smiled, “And she is Lady Falon no longer; she is Cerowyn and she has gone south to spread word of Izrador.”

They locked eyes as the room fell silent, “Why are you here?”

“To warn you. To tell you that you cannot stand against the dark host that marches on Nalford; they will boil over your walls like an unchecked pot.”

The man hung his head, looking down as he spoke, “How many?”

“I could not pass their columns in a day on horseback; perhaps three times the host that sieged Steel Hill.”

The sounds of creaking wood, and rustling fabric filled the quiet. One man cleared his throat quietly.

“We will make our stand here. All those who would hold a blade will fight on Nalford’s walls.”

“You send them to their doom. Retreat to another city.”

The man shook his head, “We fight at Nalford.”

And with his last word, the room exploded back into commotion. They pushed maps before Emlen and began speaking of tactics. Kemlin shook his head and then walked quietly back through the halls, searching for an answer. It came to him as he unwrapped the reigns that held his mount in place. He threw a leg over the saddle and urged Bazhu’mat through the streets of Nalford.

“The Host of Izrador comes! Flee now! Take what you can and go!”

He repeated it over and over, cantering through some streets and racing along others. Men waved, or frantically through the last of their things on wagons, and in some places he was greeted by rocks and rotten fruit, followed by curses of cowardice. But Kemlin Vargo rode on, stopping only when he reached the Hall of the Wordbringers.

There, he threw the single door wide to find the great expanse of tables bare, save for a single figure: Finiman, the one-armed man who had promised to relay missives between the Wordbringers. He looked up and took a moment to recognize the white sash tied to Kemlin’s kukri, “Looks like the meet will be in Highwall this winter.”

Kemlin nodded slightly, “Did Cerowyn leave you a horse?”

“Aye. I’ll be leaving on your trail.”

Kemlin took the few steps towards the man and gave him the Warrior’s Embrace which he returned as best he could. They took a step back and looked at each other.

“There was another Sarocsan, older, a peddler?”, Kemlin asked.

Finiman smiled, “He took south with Cerowyn herself. He’s long since safe and far from here.”

Kemlin returned his smile as he headed for the door, “Then I will see you in Highwall in winter.”

“Aye, you will.”, he heard the man call behind him and then he was on Bazhu’mat again. He twisted through the city, renewing his call. Here and there he stopped to help someone with a wagon or to retrieve a child that had run off. He helped those he could and when he had finished, he flew for the southern gates. The great blasts of Nalford’s horns echoed across the city, the signal that the host could be seen on the horizon.

He rode west from the city, turning Bazhu’mat north only when he knew his path would be clear of the host. The sun fell in the sky as he rode across the plains and the grey dust that marked the approaching horde grew larger in the distance. When night came, he could press the horse no longer and while Bazhu’mat grazed, Kemlin watched Nalford fall.

The deep bass of the drums came first, rolling across the plains; a sound that raised gooseflesh on his arms and stung at his heart as remembered the dark days of Steel Hill and the companions they lost. Then, like fireflies in the distance, the torches sprang up until there was a great burning sea and they washed against the city walls in their first charge. The sounds of the screams echoed through the night, but Kemlin could not look away. And for a second night, Kemlin Vargo went without sleep.

For two days thereafter, Kemlin led Bazhu’mat through the waist-high grass, letting the horse recover and graze at length. The ranger collected what he could from the land; berries, nuts, plants and even a few field rabbits. When at last, both he and Bazhu’mat were rested, Kemlin took his bearing, slid up into the well-worn saddle and whispered into the horse’s ear.

And then, they rode hard for Steel Hill.




For nearly a week, Raemos and his band skirted the roads that belonged to Steel Hill, and pushed into the foothills that would lead them to the mines. They took no measures to conceal themselves, knowing that the horses would give them away but still, they saw no scouts and met no ambushes.

And then one afternoon, a small wagon came into view. Two, small Shadowkin pulled it slowly along the trail, accompanied by half a dozen of their larger cousins. The sharp crack of a whip split the air somewhere in the distance, followed by the gutteral sounds of their dark tongue.

Skeld looked over Raemos with raised eyebrows, “So, what do we do now?”

“CHARGE!”, the big man dug his heels into his horse, spurring it into a run.

The rest of the troupe shook their reigns and kicked their mounts, following the Sergeant in his attack. The wagon came slowly to a halt and though the creature’s looked this way and that, they could not make out the threat until it was upon them. Blinded by the day’s light, furrowed brows turned to shocked features as the men rode down on them. Raemos’ aimed his horse at the largest of the Shadowkin but the mount refused, bolting past his target and leaving the big man to all but leap from his saddle.

Skeld halted his own horse and launched a knife with a wild throw as Neiman and Indrez thundered past. Unwilling to lose the surprise, Neiman struck from horseback while the two red-haired Dorns slid from their saddles to engage the enemy.

Raemos landed on his feet but was carried forward by the momentum of the horse’s charge. He half-ran, half-stumbled into a nearby Shadowkin who lost its head before it had time to recoil. The big man did not even slow his stride as he continued to run past.

Skeld jammed the tip of his blade through the whip-master’s leather hauberk and felt it reach flesh. It growled, displaying discolored fangs, and drew its own dark blade. The red-haired Dorn danced back, parrying blows from the large creature and returning them with nicks of his own. The creature’s jack saved it from injury on more then a few swipes of the Dorn’s blade.

And Raemos pounded around the side of the wagon, seeing Neiman launch himself from his horse onto the creature he was fighting. The intended victim of Raemos’ charge turned in time to see the big man bearing down on him and abandoned the fight, screaming as it fled across the road.

Skeld drew black blood again and the whip-master stumbled back, the ferocity gone from its features. It put a single hand out for distance and then turned and fled from the red-haired Dorn who laughed heartily. The other creatures scattered like bugs, fleeing from the men they fought and abandoning their wagon.

Raemos threw the tarp from the wagon to reveal a load of ore.

“Throw the bodies on the wagon and burn the whole thing.”

Neiman and Indrez did as commanded, setting the wagon ablaze and then collecting the dead Shadowkin. One grabbed the wrists and the other the ankles, as they swung each creature from the ground onto the already flaming wagon. Skeld covered his blade with the soot from the torches, blackening shining steel. And then, without so much as another word, they mounted up and rode on, leaving the wagon as a message to Izrador.




In the distance, a thick plume of oily, black smoke rose above the treeline. Kemlin Vargo chuckled silently to himself, knowing that he was not long behind his companions.

By the time he reached the wagon, it was little more then blackened wood and bleached, white bones. In the setting sun, the ore that had burned through the failing timbers, now glittered on the road, surrounded by ash and burned leather. Kemlin did not have to search long for their trail; four shod horses leading north towards the mines.

Kemlin chuckled a second time and spurred Bazhu’mat on after them. When the sun had completely disappeared behind the mountains, Kemlin followed their trail into the treeline. A few hundred yards from the road, he found four horses tethered to a tree; their saddlebags empty. He took what he needed from his own, whispered his gratitude in Bazhu’mat’s ear, and left him with the rest of the horses.




They crept through the rough terrain of the foothills, bathed in the moon’s weak light. When they were not far from the mines Indrez patted Raemos on the shoulder and leaned in close, “What are we doing? Do you plan to reach the mines at night?”

Before Raemos had time to answer, Skeld’s voice boomed out a reply, “What difference does it make? The mines will be dark with or without the sun.”

The red-haired Dorn had just enough time to smile before Neiman stepped in front of him, “Lower your voice.”

Despite his quiet tone, the bass of Skeld’s voice carried it across the night air, “It is low.”

“Quiet.”, Neiman narrowed his eyes, “Speak quietly.”

“I am speaking quietly.”

“If they come over that hill because of you, I will send you to your father before they send us to ours.”, he hissed between clenched teeth.

Skeld’s hand went to the hilt of his blade before Raemos stepped between them, “Enough.”

“Then tell him to keep his voice down.”

“This is my voice. It goes no lower.”

“Then keep no voice at all.”




Few men moved faster then Kemlin Vargo on foot and it did not take long before the bootprints of his companions were still fresh in the cold, hard earth. Twenty yards ahead of him, he saw their forms, and heard the hissed whispers and rumbling bass of Skeld’s voice.

“This is my voice. It goes no lower.”

Another whisper met the Sarcosan’s ears as his eyes were drawn up by something glittering in the night. On an outcropping above his companions, a Shadowkin began to pull back a bow. Kemlin scooped a rock from the ground, and took a hop-step forward, launching it into the night sky. It rocketed from his hand, sending jolts of pain through his elbow and shoulder – but it flew true.

“Above!”, the Sarcosan shouted as the rock thudded against the creature’s chest. It grunted and then fell prone, all but disappearing from view.




Skeld and Neiman stared hard at each other; the newcomer’s hand had not moved from its position on his blade. Eyes narrowed, mouths drawn tight, they searched for a weakness in the other man’s expression.

“Above!”, the cry came from the night.

Above them, there was a grunt and the commotion of a fall and before they could turn, two arrows whistled out of the darkness, flying wild. Neiman and Indrez went to the ground on instinct but Skeld and Raemos twisted their heads, looking for the ambushers.

Kemlin took off an in instant, arms and legs pumping as he raced through the trees. He mounted the outcropping in leaps and bounds, powered by both his momentum and his god-given speed. He did not slow when he gained the ledge, instead dropping onto the creature which still lay on its belly.

Skeld caught a glimpse of a squat figure as it ducked back behind one of the bushy, pine trees. It was all he needed as he charged through the darkness, catching the creature by surprise with a wild swing of his fist. The Shadowkin dropped its bow as Skeld gave it a two-handed push.

Kemlin landed on the creature’s back, knees straddling its torso. With a single, gloved hand, he reached down and grabbed the creature by the chin, jerking its head backwards and exposing its throat. A hasty swing from the kukri sheared the creature’s ear from its head before cutting deep into its clavicle. A second chop from the blade opened the creature’s throat and the creature went limp in his grip. Black blood pumped out onto the rock, covering Kemlin as he dropped his blade.

The creature dodged Skeld’s first swing but had enough sense to turn when it heard something else approached. Huge, powerful arms wrapped themselves around the creature, pinning its arms to its sides. Raemos stared face to face with the Shadowkin skirmisher. Blue eyes met yellow for a split second before the creature bit at the big man’s neck. He felt the pain and squeezed the creature for all he was worth.

The red-haired Dorn punched the back of the creature’s head with a glancing blow and then backed off to let the big man have his way with the Shadowkin. Skeld drew his blade and turned just in time to see the Shadowkin that plowed into him, shoulder first.

In one smooth motion, Kemlin drew an arrow from the creature’s quiver and snatched the bow from where it lay. He came to his full height as he drew back the Izrador-fletched shaft and drank in the scene below him.

Skeld stumbled backwards with the impact, taking a handful of steps before falling onto his back. The creature in Raemos’ grip continued to struggle, biting at his captor’s face and neck as the big man brought his knee up into the creature’s groin. The other Shadowkin pulled at Raemos’ hands from behind his companion.

Raemos cursed as the Shadowkin in his grip squirmed free, aided by his companion. The other goblin had enough time to swing wildly at the big man before Skeld hit the creature with a charge of his own. The creature locked arms with the red-haired Dorn but did not move and then two shouts cut through the night. Indrez and Neiman charged onto the scene, blade and axe at the ready. The Kin of Izrador turned and fled.

Dark eyes looked down the shaft of the barbed arrow; tracking the creatures as they fled. The shaft shot through the darkness, grazing one of the creature’s arms as it passed. Kemlin cursed, dropped the bow and leapt down onto the rocky slope.

Skeld raced after one of the creatures knocking it into the dirt from behind. Booming laughter filled the air as the red-haired Dorn put a boot atop the creature and ran it through. Raemos breathed hard beneath his mail as he chased the other Shadowkin. It stopped suddenly, looking this way and that - and the big Dorn plowed into it, throwing it forward. It landed on its belly as Kemlin came sliding to a stop beside it.

The two men looked at each other for an electric moment before Raemos put a boot on the creature’s back and pulled its hair towards him. The creature squealed as its torso was stretched backwards and Kemlin’s dagger ran a deep cut across the its throat. Raemos released his grip, letting the gurgling creature fall into the dirt.

They regrouped where Kemlin had first seen them stop to argue.

“You rode fast.”, Neiman smiled.

“I cannot remember a day when I have not been on a horse.”, Kemlin shook the grizzled man’s hand.

He scoffed, “I’ll be glad when we can be rid of them and fight on the ground.”

Kemlin nodded, “Nalford is gone. I helped as many as I could flee, but the guards would not listen.”

“That is the way it was written.”, Skeld slapped the Sarcosan on the shoulder.

Kemlin locked eyes with Raemos, “They are here. The sorcerers are here. Six of them, with orange robes, gathered in the mines.”

Neiman shook his head and made a disgusted sound. An uncomfortable silence settled over the group.

“Sorcercers?”, the red-haired poet raised an eyebrow.

The Sarcosan nodded, “Blood sorcerers; from the Old Histories. They turned the sky black when Izrador sieged Steel Hill.”

“Ah yes, I have heard of them; there are many tales.”

“We have seen stranger things in days past; the dead walk again.”, Raemos said grimly.

Kemlin narrowed his eyes, “The dead?”

“We met Kym again. He was dead but walked again; alive but not living. He is free now.”, the big man’s eyes twinkled like ice.

The Sarcosan shook his head slowly.

“Speaking of the dead, what do we do about them?”, Indrez motioned to the Shadowkin.

“We cannot burn them. We would draw all of Izrador to us.”, Kemlin said, crossing his arms.

“Cut off their heads.”, Skeld said, shrugging.

“And do what with them?”, the Sarcosan cocked his head to one side.

“Throw them over there.”, the red-haired Dorn pointed, “At least if they rise again, they will be blind.”

They all laughed, save Raemos, “I will bury them with my sword if I have to.”

“With your sword?”, Skeld smirked.

Raemos tilted his head to one side slightly, “Or we could use your shovel.”

They all laughed again.

“If there is ore, then they still work the mines. There we can find a shovel.”, Indrez motioned north with his head.

“We will come back for them after we have brought fire to the mines; that is our purpose here.”

Kemlin shook his head and held up two gloved fingers, still wet with black blood, “Twice Aman-Ra has shown these men to me. They are our purpose. They are the secret to this war.”

“Aman-Ra?”, Skeld said expectantly.

“The god I serve.”

“Or the madness in his mind.”, Neiman whispered to the newcomer.

“I see that the Gods of the South still talk to men.”

Kemlin smiled, “When he chooses.”

“Well, the Gods of the North leave men to their business.”

“As it should be.”, Neiman shifted, uncomfortable with the talk of gods and sorcerers, “We should move on.”

“If we do not go back for the horses, we should set them free. They will draw the Shadowkin to us.”

“Agreed.”, Skeld said crossing his arms.

It was Kemlin who dispatched to free their mounts while the rest of the troupe pushed on. The ranger had given them directions; instructions for finding a camp that would keep them hidden from the eyes of Izrador. And when he caught up to them, they had just begun to shrug free of backpacks and swordbelts. Satisfied that Raemos had selected a suitable location, Kemlin too began to unload his wargear. And for the first time in almost a full arc, Kemlin Vargo stood watch while his companions slumbered.

In the morning, they broke their fast early and reshouldered their gear. And though they spoke no more then in days previous, their spirits had returned; buoyed by the auspicious return of their companion. Their loads seemed lighter, the world not yet in the grip of Izrador’s power. Their travel from their camp took them over a handful of small crests and through gatherings of pine trees, until, at last, they crested the final hill. Kemlin heard movement beyond and held up a hand. The others hunched down and moved forward cautiously until they could see the mouth of the mines…

And the orange-robed figure who stood before them.

[luke]

I can almost hear the mechanics clicking away in the background for most of this stuff.

But what happened here?

The rest of the troupe shook their reigns and kicked their mounts, following the Sergeant in his attack. The wagon came slowly to a halt and though the creature’s looked this way and that, they could not make out the threat until it was upon them. Blinded by the day’s light, furrowed brows turned to shocked features as the men rode down on them. Raemos’ aimed his horse at the largest of the Shadowkin but the mount refused, bolting past his target and leaving the big man to all but leap from his saddle.

Skeld halted his own horse and launched a knife with a wild throw as Neiman and Indrez thundered past. Unwilling to lose the surprise, Neiman struck from horseback while the two red-haired Dorns slid from their saddles to engage the enemy.

Raemos landed on his feet but was carried forward by the momentum of the horse’s charge. He half-ran, half-stumbled into a nearby Shadowkin who lost its head before it had time to recoil. The big man did not even slow his stride as he continued to run past.

-L

[foxandwarlock]

If my memory serves me correctly, Raemos wanted to ride down the taskmaster. Wuxing called for a Ride roll, which Raemos did not make. Therefore, his mount did not do what he wanted and had to make a Steel Test for being ridden into the middle of the fray. Obviously, it came up with some Hesitation and so the horse "Ran Screaming"

However, Raemos had already scripted a "Dismount" so he was in the process of trying to get off when the horse bolted, forcing him to make a Speed test to stay on his feet - which he miraculously made (Ob 3 with a B4 Speed). So since he landed cleanly on his feet, he "Sprinted" to the next Shadowkin and cut it down. But from a non-game perspective, here's a guy who was trying to get off his horse when it started moving - so when he get the ground he already had a bunch of momentum so it just carried him forward into the next opponent. And then Raemos essentially banked on a one-shot kill in his script and he had scripted movement for his next Volley. So he ran up, whack, and kept moving.

Neiman and Indrez also failed their Ride checks but they were not trying to ride into the fray, so they ended up not where they wanted to be - the horses stopped short, etc. I think Skeld might have actually made his or he took an Ob penalty to his Throw for the failed Ride.

[Wuxing]

COMMENTS FROM BEHIND THE PROVERBIAL SCREEN

A better session than the last one. Bobgoat/Skeld felt much more comfortable with everyone at the table. We played a little bit with the time that passed for characters to get everyone together again. I don't think anyone wanted to see Kemlin race into the horde of greenskins and die alone. At least I know I didn't want to see that.

If I remember properly BW held up well throughout the session. I can recall only stopping to talk about how someone would pick up a training skill (mounted combat for example). Well come up with something given that they are certainly not stopping to spend time to train or practice.

The horses are untrained riding horses. So when they went charging in, I asked for ride rolls at a +1 Ob is I recall correctly. If they failed, I felt the horses natural instincts would kick in and thus they made steel tests. The horse goes racing off. I mean, I wouldn't hang out there in the middle of a bunch of greenskins if I was a horse! :D We were scripted at this point, so we made rolls that coincided with what was scripted. I think the wiser thing would have been giving up an action and changing things, but I'm not player so...

It's interesting to note that artha is starting to trickle in rather than flow in. It's almost like now that everyone is comfortable in a certain mode of playing we don't feel like rewarding play with artha. Kemlin always races off. Raemos always defiles fallen greenskins. I think I can almost say that it sometimes feels cheap to take the artha for some of this. I want the artha in play, because it really is what allows them to make things happen at the table, but don't know if we can shake that "cheap" feeling. Maybe that's just me at the table though.

Skeld definitely brought that ambush upon the group with his booming voice and in retrospect I should have awarded a persona artha point for it, which I didn't do at thet able.

Oh, one final observation. Combat drags at the end of the sessions, especially if we have had some form of conflict earlier in the session. Part of this is that sometimes I roll EXTREMELY well for prolonged periods of time. This almost makes greenskin armor almost magical in the players eyes. I roll in the open because I don't fudge rolls. That's not a BW concern, just an observation of our actual play. I'll have to keep an eye on that (not that there's much I can do when they decide to go get some greenskins).

[luke]

COMMENTS FROM BEHIND THE PROVERBIAL SCREEN

If I remember properly BW held up well throughout the session. I can recall only stopping to talk about how someone would pick up a training skill (mounted combat for example). Well come up with something given that they are certainly not stopping to spend time to train or practice.


Yes, I strongly reccommend actual training from another character for this. It can be done on the road, but there must be an instructor and it takes the full practice length. Sorry, no montage scenes in which you become a horse-ninja knight pirate.



The horses are untrained riding horses...
A perfect call on your part. I would have thrown the riders, but I'm a bastard. Check out the Mount Burner if you want to get more involved with your horses.



It's interesting to note that artha is starting to trickle in rather than flow in....

Skeld definitely brought that ambush upon the group with his booming voice and in retrospect I should have awarded a persona artha point for it, which I didn't do at thet able.


I do the same thing, once players get comfortable in their roles -- no matter how daring and what not -- I give a little less artha for roleplay. If a player is just doing the same thing everything session, he's likely rewarded early on and then I tell him, "You've been doing the same thing every session. Spice it up, man!"

And Keith, are you listening? The author of the game is lobbying for your Persona point.

Wuxing, you have struck on the heart of that rule: Keith was doing something obnoxious with his character. So you, as GM, "punished" him within the diegesis, as is your right . Such complications keep the atmosphere of the rough world the characters exist in. However, Keith, as a player, did something cool: He stood his ground against his other players, and instigated a dramatic scene around one of his character's traits. For that, he should be rewarded.

You "punish" with one hand, reward with the other. Players, via their BITs and roleplay, tell you when to punish and how to reward. At the same time, in the same scene. It makes the Wheel go 'round.

-L

[Bob Goat]

Luke,

Actually I wasn't listening. Could you say that again?
-------
So, is the idea that you reward players for constantly changing? Doesn't that make it hard for long term games to run smoothly?

Keith

[foxandwarlock]

Kemlin Vargo scrambled down the hill as the last traces of the orange robe disappeared into the mouth of the mines. Behind him, the rest of the company did their best to follow. From their places on the sloping decline, they could see the well-worn wagon path that emerged from the mountainside and disappeared towards Steel Hill. Once, they had traveled that road but those were different days. Around them, the landscape had been stripped; where there had once been large pine trees, there was only stumps and shattered trunks.

Ahead of them, the Sarcosan suddenly threw up a gloved hand and ducked low behind one of the ruined trees. The rest of the company did the same and strained their eyes and ears against the unknown threat; the deep, rumbling growl of a dog came from the mines. Long moments passed as they waited for the beast to emerge; they readied weapons.

“Ahk khan ok leik! Oon nak greik tal!”, the deep voice came from the opening.

The growling ceased, dropping the hillside into silence once more. Kemlin looked back at Raemos before rising to a crouch and skittering diagonally to the mountain wall. The ranger pressed himself flat to the cool stone and slid the shield from his back. He shot Raemos a second look and found that they had moved down the hillside; perhaps twenty or thirty paces separated them. Blue eyes met brown and the Sarcosan began to slowly creep forward towards the entrance.

He put his foot down in the loose gravel, and the growling began anew, as if he had crossed some magical boundary. But no voice reprimanded the animal; only the echoing sound of grating metal and then silence. Kemlin shifted his feet and brought the shield to bear. Only a few feet away, a large wolf’s head emerged from the darkness and turned to look the Sarocsan in the eyes. Kemlin stumbled back as the pony-sized wolf bolted from the cave; another of its kind followed it from the cave.

He had enough time to raise his arm before the first beast darted in. Powerful jaws snapped at his throat but caught on the shield; pressing it tight against his chest and neck. His right arm acted reflexively, cutting the creature before the breath was squeezed out of him by the other wolf. It turned its head sideways and bit into his exposed side, tearing a large hole in the hauberk but causing little harm. His companions raced down the hill; the scene before them unfolding in slow-motion.

A powerful paw raked claws down Kemlin’s torso, failing to find purchase but driving him back yet again. Another bite from the side left more scratches across the Sarcosan’s neck as he narrowly avoided the attack. He backpeddled as they too leap away, leaving more then a wagon’s length between them. The first creature looked left just in time to be struck by three hundred pounds of Northern-born muscle and bone; Raemos staggered the creature with his shoulder as the others raced past to engage its twin.

For a second time, the wolves gave ground, leaping back and baring fangs as they circled the group of men. Yellows eyes flicked back and forth, accompanied by growls as the creatures seemed to communicate. And then they rushed forward. The first creature launched itself at Neiman but the seasoned soldier moved aside as Indrez landed a solid blow along its flanks. The second creature plowed into Raemos, biting at his throat but receiving only a mouthful of Hill-forged mail. The big man could feel the heat of the wolf’s breath as he brought his blade down atop its skull; bone cracked and flesh parted as the force of the blow drove the already-dead creature to the ground.

The remaining creature howled, both for its pain and the death of its pack-mate, and fled down the time-aged road. They stood, gasping for breath, and silently assessing one another. More voices came from inside the entrance to the mines.

“Fight or go?!”, Neiman said forcefully.

“They will not be ready for us.”, the Sarcosan looked at Raemos.

“Bring the torches.”

The rushed to the mouth of the mines and were met by four Shadowkin charging down the entry corridor. Raemos took two large strides and met them mid-charge, cutting one down before it had time to alter its course. Indrez did the same as another ran headlong into his shield only to meet his axe. A third creature lost its weapon and the its head to Raemos as its stumbled back from Skeld.

Kemlin sidestepped the last of the charging Shadowkin who took the opportunity and continued out into the morning light. The Sarcosan pivoted and raced after him; shouldering him aside only a few steps from the entrance. Kemlin managed to put a single hand on the collar of the creature’s hauberk before he saw the flicker of a shadow.
The wolf crashed into him.

It pinned the shield to his side but the thickness of the sun-crested device kept the creature’s maw from reaching his throat; its teeth scraped the base of his neck. His mind went blank, unable to process what had hit him, and somewhere in the distance, he felt the Shadowkin pull free from his grasp.

Kemlin Vargo did not see Neiman run the fleeing Shadowkin into the earth, nor Raemos take a single stride and push the length of his blade through the creature’s ribcage. When next the ranger blinked, he found Neiman standing over the slain goblin and the great beast breathing its last raspy breaths to his side.

No words were exchanged between the three men; that day, Raemos had saved Kemlin and on another the Sarcosan would save his sergeant. It was the way of things. At the mouth of the mines, they found Indrez and Skeld keeping watch over the corridor.

“I will go ahead.”, Kemlin said as he re-shouldered his shield and moved through them.

“There is a split ahead. Left to the storeroom, right leads down to the mines.”, Raemos wiped his blade on one of the fallen Shadowkin.

The entry corridor was strewn with wagons and carts, broken weapons, and refuse; the torches sputtered in their brackets and the air hung heavy with a thick oily haze. They moved down the corridor until Kemlin reached the split.

“How far to the storeroom?”, he whispered.

“Not far. Just around the corner.”

“I do not want to be surprised when we come back this way.”, the Sarcosan whispered and then slipped around the corner.

The big man had not lied. Only a short distance away, the corridor turned and gave way to a large, doorless chamber that was filled with barrels and crates. Beyond it, the gaping darkness of a continuing hallway loomed.

Kemlin returned to the company, “There is a hallway beyond but it is unlit.”

“They cannot see in the darkness.”

The Sarcosan furrowed his brows, “The Shadowkin see in the night.”

“But men do not.”, the big man gave him a serious look, “Who are we here for?”

Kemlin nodded once and then crept past them, heading down the other branch in the corridor. Down they went, deep into the mines of Steel Hill. The walkways grew tighter, the air hot and thick. Sweat beaded beneath hauberks, and matted hair to their heads. The placing of the torches grew in distance, so that the rest of the company saw the silent Sarcosan only when he passed by one of the sputtering flames. What had once been echoes in the stony halls, became sounds as they reached an intersection. To their left, the metal banged on rock accompanied by the deep speech of the Shadowkin; a screeching that sounded of rusty wagon wheels came from the corridor to their right. But ahead of them, there was a scent that battled with the oily haze of the torches. It took Kemlin a moment to recognize what Raemos knew so well; the smell of blood.

They watched as Kemlin scrambled across the intersection ahead of them, and disappeared into the shadows beyond. Raemos made to cross but Neiman put a hand on his arm, “We must see what lies to the left.”

Raemos narrowed his eyes, “I am not here for them. We know why we are here and it is this way.”

“If they are not dealt with, they will come after us. And what of the miners?”

“I did not come here to free miners; that time is past.”

Neiman’s face hardened, “Then I stay. You will know when they come. I will meet you at my Father’s fire, even if flames do not taste my bones.”

A calmness washed over Raemos as Neiman spoke his words. He looked at his long-time friend in the torchlight and knew that his course could not be altered; that Neiman had chosen, and that they were honor-bound to accept it. And then, the two men gave each other the Warrior’s Embrace. Their grips were those of men who know that they will never see their homes again.

When they stepped apart, Neiman pulled the torch from the nearby bracket and snuffed it out, plunging the area into shadows. He did not turn to watch his companions go.

Somewhere in the darkness ahead of them, Kemlin moved with purpose, drawn on by the smell that he knew belonged to the cauldron. In the distance, the hall radiated with faint crimson light; the color of both rising and setting of the sun. The ranger pushed on, fighting to keep his heart in his chest, and when the light had begun to wash against his hauberk, he heard them. Their voices resonating against the stone as they chanted in some strange tongue.

He knelt down where the passage turned and opened into their chamber. The red-orange light came from some source in the ceiling of the room that neither flickered or burned as torchlight but rather shone constant as the sun. A simple black altar dominated the corner of the room, before which five men knelt and chanted. Their voices followed a sixth sorcerer who stood nearby, flanked by two large Shadowkin – their green skin turned black by the crimson light. Scars covered their goblinoid features and they wore mail the color of charcoal. Beside the altar, a large steel cauldron sat undisturbed but filled with the source of the smell.

Behind Kemlin, the rest of the company could see the ranger silhouetted by the dawn-colored light; a black outcropping of the wall shaped like a man. They saw him slide the shield from his back.

The ranger began to a whisper, “Morninglord, open my eyes so that I may see your glory. Grant me your-”

A pair of glittering eyes stared back at him from a ramshackle cage inside of the chamber. Built along the wall closest to him, it held the First-Born that they had escorted to Steel Hill, so many months ago. The elf’s eyes went wide with recognition as Kemlin held a gloved finger to his lips. Shaken by the sight of the prisoner, Kemlin had only enough time to peer back into the room before he heard the clink of Raemos’ chainmail – and so did the Shadowkin. The creature bent down to scoop a shield from the ground as Kemlin exploded into the chamber.

“Feel his wrath! For Aman-Ra!”

In what seemed like a heartbeat, Kemlin stood behind two of the kneeling figures. The kukri struck even as his feet continued to move; the blade bit deep into the first man’s spine, throwing him forward. A second blow sent another sorcerer to the floor.

“Die, manling!”

The first Shadowkin jammed his spiked shield in Kemlin’s direction but the ranger was no longer there. Another step and the kukri fell twice more, sending another sorcerer forward, into the altar. Somewhere far away, Kemlin felt the creature blade bang against the sun-crested shield but his feet continued to move.

The kukri rose and fell again, shining crimson in the room’s light and toppling another sorcerer. For a second time, the dull sensation of impact rose through Kemlin’s arm but he did not notice. The ranger did not hear his friends’ war cry or see them charge into the room. He had not seen Raemos deliver a blow that crushed part of the creature’s skull from behind nor did he see that the creature still stood despite such a wound. He saw only orange robes.

The last man had begun to struggle to his feet as the kukri met him half-way, spilling him sideways onto the floor with a grunt. Kemlin did not see the blade that missed him nor did he see its wielder fall to Raemos’ second blow.

Kemlin looked up for the first time to see Indrez and Skeld battling the second black-helmed orc, and the last sorcerer continuing to chant behind his bodyguard. A burst of speed propelled Kemlin across the distance and into the orange-robed figure; but the man shrugged him off with a single arm, infused with supernatural strength.

Kemlin staggered back as the man pointed to the room. Kemlin screamed as his knees buckled and his back bent; a great invisible, weight fell over the Wordbringers, driving them to the stony floor. From his position on the floor, Kemlin watched the still-standing orc slash at Indrez, as he squirmed on the floor. And as quickly as it had come, the weight vanished.

Kemlin scrambled to his feet, propelling himself forward in a half-stumble. The remaining Shadowkin turned on the ranger and brought his blade to bear. Kemlin flailed his arms, struggling to regain his feet and felt the blow glance off his shield as he stumbled sideways. The last sorcerer raised his hands and took a few steps back as Kemlin kukri lashed out in a vicious arc.

Kemlin did not see the blade that passed above his shield rim. He saw only orange robes as the hooked blade buried itself in the man’s ribcage; the jarring sensation of metal on bone traveled the length of Kemlin’s arm as the orc’s blade cut a furrow across his cheek.

Kemlin’s feet found purchase as he slid to a stop on the stone floor and turned to face the large Shadowkin. Behind the creature, the rest of the company had reclaimed their feet. The Kin of Izrador twisted its great black helm to the left, then the right – and fled for the corridor while shouting in their dark tongue. Raemos’ blade was already in motion, catching the creature as it ran past. Hill-forged steel parted mail and flesh with equal ease, cutting deep into the creature’s clavicle. The guttural shouting was suddenly cut short as the Shadowkin was thrown forward by the force of the blow.

Raemos jerked his blade free as Neiman’s scream echoed down the hallway.

“THEY COME!!”

[Wuxing]

This was a tough session for one big reason. The players had put themselves in the mindset that they MUST get the priests/mages/blood mages/creepy dudes. We've had a few weeks off and even that amount of time didn't change the plan -- a direct assault. It's obviously not over and I do have a twist in mind. But this could be over at any moment.

Where to start? The wargs. I didn't feel like spending time creating a few wolves I knew would be disposed of, so I used the ones in the back of the BW book. Well they changed in the Monster Burner and I likely should have looked at them there before session. Needless to say two wargs were in the process of tearing up five men. Both Raemos and Kemlin were dead if it wasn't for some liberal use of artha (which I've established before I wanted in my game). It happened to both outside the cave, though I think the fiction reads a little weak in regards to the game mechanic there.

Foxandwarlock is a moody player when things are not going his way. The mood of the table dropped and here we are ready to run right into the cave. No roleplay, no discussion, nothing. It was turning into a long combat session. I try to pull them out with little roleplay, prodding them with Neiman. Nothing. So we took a break there before moving on.

I had a few idea coming into session what to throw at them, as I've mentioned before I tend to run without scripting/plotting anything at this point in my life. All of those ideas were forgotten as the table was obsessed with making sure these "mages" were dead. I couldn't bring them out to RP at all, they wanted on thing and they were going to get it. I was not going to go into Dungeon Crawl mode. So the mines were really simple. I tried to build what sense of mood I could and let them go. I gave them a choice via the passages -- "mages", orcs or miners. They were still obsessed with the robes. The best, maybe the only true, role play of the session came at the junction and even that was short. They wanted to get on with it.

I know my players. I suspected that they would lilkely go this route. So I did have a couple bodyguards ready to go. The priests are suprised, which works out perfectly for Kemlin. He literally gets all the priests who were chanting. A pretty nifty feat, which was rewarded with some artha. One of the bodyguards did engage him and he was ready to defend himself until Raemos reminded Kemlin that this was what he was living for to this point. So the single-mindedness continues as he chooses to take blows to keep knocking out priests. Here was another of those Kemlin was struck witha blow that would have killed him had we not used artha liberally, a chunk of artha later he's allowed an armor save and makes it barely (He wrote it as deflected off the shield, choosing to be liberal with the telling).

Raemos interestingly enough, made all the blows that counted this session. Kemlin was saved by him twice this session. Probably a good thing since he encouraged this course of action.

Prayers and faith came into play and they still don't know how it works. All that they saw was that bodyguards were more skillful and they were knocked flat on their asses.

The NPCs that ride with the group play a major role in all this. I am a firm hater of NPCs in groups. I don't like the spotlight taken away from the group at all. That being said I don't know if they could have pulled off some of these things without the NPCs. I don't know if it was needed for our BW experience so far, but it certainly has added. The rolls for them are out in the open like everyone else, so they die, are pathetic or are heroic just like everyone else.

I'm droning on and on, so I will stop after one more comment. Skeld's player wasn't around. We rolled some things for him, there were some close calls but he survived and that's good. It's interesting to note that he certainly could have added to the game if he was around. Not wanted to create friction for bobgoat when he returns, so I kept a lid on Skeld. But he would surely have boomed a voice into the mines and alerted everything to their presence sooner.

I guess that's it for now. Next session is the great escape.

[Bob Goat]

Damn I wish I was there! Reading the write up I saw spots where Skeld would have boomed and laughed and probably bring down the mountain on him and his erstwhile companions. That would have been fun...

Keith

[foxandwarlock]

Actually the mindset started with "let's check out the caves" in a stealthy fashion, then came the dogs. And once that trap was sprung, the guys inside were coming whether we liked it or not and it seemed pretty logical just to take care of them (I mean how many of them could there be with guard dogs like that). And then it simply became an issue of deciding whether we would go away and give them a chance to better fortify or stressing the advantage, we had just paid for with all that Artha and blood. So in we went.

And damn right no discussion! These are five guys on the brink of death; knowing that they might walk into those mines and never walk out again. You can't say that stuff out loud. :twisted:

Its sounds a little weird to say that "They were still obsessed with the robes." since it was really Kemlin (not me) that was driving that boat. Heck, I feel bad sitting at my desk at work about all the people we didn't rescue. As for Raemos (the character), he's just a victim to Kemlin's doctrine and witnessing some heinous events.


One of the bodyguards did engage him and he was ready to defend himself until Raemos reminded Kemlin that this was what he was living for to this point. So the single-mindedness continues as he chooses to take blows to keep knocking out priests.

There was literally an Volley where the Orc had no second action and I had a Strike scripted; and I started to deliberate about who to whack and then Raemos had to give me the "C'mon, dude! You know who Kemlin's here for." and shake me back into Kemlin's head.

I think it goes without saying that the engine was in the red for the five hours of play; we went from bad combat to worse (in terms of danger levels) and burned up most of our Artha to live through the wolves - and whatever else went to send the orange robes to their graves. It was tense enough that other people in the house could feel it when they walked in the room.

But all that aside, I'm stoked to sit down and deal with the consequences of the intersection - Neiman, the First-born, all of it. Who knows what that little pointy-eared fellow can tell us about Izrador or Steel Hill.

*rubs hands together* :twisted:

[foxandwarlock]

Kemlin’s eyes darted up from the fallen orc, to the echoing hallway and then to the cauldron. He hit IT at a run, pushing against its great curved lip and rocking it up onto two of its legs; thick blood sloshed at the sides, threatening to spill over. Indrez rushed to the mouth of the corridor as Raemos brought his great blade down on the ramshackle iron of the cage. The lock gave way beneath his strength and the First-born stepped free.

Kemlin strained against the weight of the black cauldron; the furrows along his face and neck burned as he gritted out the sound, “He-lp.”

Skeld looked from the hallway to the red-faced Sarcosan and lent his weight to the endeavor. The chattering sounds of Shadowkin and the clash of metal echoed down the corridor as Raemos looked up to see his companions struggling. He dropped his free hand onto the lip and pulled the cauldron towards him, spilling the contents onto the dirt floor. They did not watch the outcome of their labor.

Up the corridor they raced, Kemlin’s feet carrying him to the fore of the group as they charged towards the sound of combat. Ten paces, twenty paces, twice that and the rough hewn hallway turned. The sounds of metal on metal were suddenly clearer; as was the voice that died away with a gurgle, “For Steel Hi-ILllllll…”

On they came, flickering torches highlighting their dark features and burnished steel; the corridor filled with the din of their shouting. And like a wave, they cascaded down the hallway and washed into the group. The first creature crashed into Kemlin who raised a suddenly beleaguered shield arm to deflect the creature’s charge.

Undeterred, the Shadowkin lashed out with its blade and Kemlin, once again, knocked the attack aside with his shield. He struck out with a blow of his own that went wide. The marks that covered his neck and cheek burned as sweat rolled over them; the heat and noise of the hallway pushed down on the company as they struggled to hold their ground.

In the rear of their troupe, the First-born had begun to speak a rolling poem aloud. His voice was barely audible were Kemlin stood, shrugging off another series of blows from the small creature. Behind the Shadowkin, the hallway seemed alive; pushing and writhing against the corridor, as if to break free.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kemlin saw the large blade only a moment before Raemos stood beside him. The big man drove his sword into the creature but the hauberk held. The goblin had time to grimace before being pushed to the floor by its kin behind it. The next creature stepped on top of its predecessor.

Only a few steps behind them, the First-born finished his poem as the southern-made kukri flashed white and settled into a soft glow. The former captive did not wait; beginning a second poem on the heels of the first.

Raemos did his best to bring his weapon to bear; confined not only by the size of the hallway but by his companion’s presence beside him. The second creature managed to trade only a few blows with the big man before he met the same fate as the first creature. He disappeared beneath the swelling tide that pushed down the corridor.

The bastard sword took on the same glow as the First-born finished his second verse and a pair of Shadowkin rushed the front line. Kemlin braced for the impact but was suddenly hauled backwards a step as Indrez greeted the creature with his axe. The red-haired Dorn pushed his way past the Sarcosan, parrying a blow from the creature with a raised shield.

The other goblin slammed into Raemos, forcing him back a single step and providing him with the room he needed to drive the blade straight through the creature’s belly. The goblin collapsed and Raemos recovered the distance, taking a step forward and knocking the blade from another’s hand. The creature managed to make a scowl before it was crushed up against the wall by the incensed mob behind it.

Fresh Shadowkin stepped forward through the bodies of their kin. One hit Indrez hard enough to send him back a step into Kemlin and the whole of their company was forced backwards down the hallway.

Closer to him now, the Sarcosan could hear the First-born’s voice as it rose and fell in a song that he did not recognize. The ranger looked out past the shoulders of his companions and, for the first time, truly saw the host that pressed back on them. Metal clanged against metal as Raemos and Indrez battled with the Kin of Izrador. Their fates belonged to the Morninglord now. Kemlin suddenly thought of the other men and women that might be nearby.

“RISE UP!”, the Sarcosan shouted against the din of the hallway.

The First-born sung, men battled, goblins chattered, and blood of both colors ran in the hallway. Kemlin spoke to the men and women that he could not see and to the warriors who surrounded him. And in that moment, the last word fell from the First-born’s lips.

“HOPE LIVES!”

The black host before them ground to a halt. Their movement slowed and then ceased; war chatter turned to squeals and the pushing began anew in the opposite direction. The Kin of Izrador fled back up the hallway away from the Wordbringers; here and there they trampled those who cowered or stood still.

“Go.”, the cool voice said flatly from behind them and the small group surged forward. Kemlin squeezed between the two Dorns and raced up the corridor ahead of them. He dogged the back of the fleeing host, landing blows where he could with the luminescent kukri. Skeld came behind him, finishing off those he left behind and the last three of their troupe ran as a group.

Indrez suddenly pointed, “There!”

Among the trampled Shadowkin bodies that littered the floor, the human sized form stood out. Neiman’s sword lay a few feet from his battered, headlong form. Raemos slid his blade back into its sheath and scooped his long-time companion from the floor and onto his shoulder. Flickering torchlight highlighted his wounds; ruined armor and crushed bone.

Kemlin skidded to a stop in the middle of an intersection as the host spilled away in multiple directions. He looked left, then right, slowly spinning in place until he saw Raemos carrying the still form of a man; and he thought of that day outside of the gates of Steel Hill, where Neiman had once risked his life to do the same thing. He remembered Roen and Alwyn and knew then, that he would give his life to secure his companions’ escape.

“COME TO YOUR DOOM, IZRADOR!”

The first of the Shadowkin barreled back down the corridor at him; their sudden panic gone. Kemlin took a single step sideways and pushed the creature into the wall with his shield. The still-glowing kukri slashed down, opening a gash across the creature’s scalp and sending it scurrying down another hallway.

“THE ROBES ARE DEAD!”

Raemos and the rest of the group passed the Sarcosan as he turned. A goblin crashed into the Sergeant but was pushed back by the big man’s momentum. Kemlin took the two steps, lunging out to cave in the side of the creature’s head with his blade. Raemos stepped over it, never breaking his stride. Behind the big man, the other three formed a defensive line across the hallway; striking down any Shadowkin that caught up to them.

In this way, they raced up the hallway; Kemlin dodging back and forth across the width of the corridor, forging a trail for the big man behind him. Those who avoided the southern-forged blade, met with the unyielding arm of Raemos who pushed them back, away, or over. The horde behind them grew, propelling them forward. They stopped for nothing; Shadowkin that avoided both blade and hand were left behind and trampled by their pursuing kin.

The torches came in greater frequency; their trembling light almost solid; and ahead of them, the last intersection that would lead them to freedom. A group of Shadowkin came into view and the crack of a whip echoed down the corridor.

“FOR NEIMAN!”, the big man bellowed as Kemlin reached the first of them.

The Sarcosan resisted the creature’s attempt to knock him from his feet, turning its momentum against it and slashing it across its face. It reeled back as a second blow dropped it to the stone floor and Raemos pushed two of its companions from his path. Kemlin turned and threw his body sideways, catching one of the recovering goblins with a blow to the back of its head. It squealed and tumbled foward as the Sarcosan stepped past the other creature.

The big man pushed the last of the lesser Shadowkin to the ground, clearing a path to the orc who now dropped his whip and slid a wide blade from its sheath. Raemos hit the creature with his forearm, as its blade shuddered against his mail; the kukri drew blood just above the creature’s ear as Kemlin seemed to appear on the scene. The dusk-colored creature snarled as it threw its weight back into the passing Dorn, “The dead…stay here!”

Raemos braced himself as the Shadowkin slammed into his left side. The creature led with its forearm and then seemed to slide down the big man’s side as Kemlin’s kukri split the back of its skull open. The two men had stopped for only a moment to dispatch the creature and already the rest of their troupe was pushed up against them. The horde beyond their defensive line once again writhed in the confines of the narrow hallway.

They turned and ran for the corridor that smelled of fresh air.

[Wuxing]

Thoughts from the GM

Life has exerted it's influence preventing me from actually commenting earlier. Hopefully I'll be able to remember some of the more interesting things and add something of worth here.

This was another of those instances where we were playing a giant combat session. This is where the group had put itself, so we had no choice but to deal with it. Goblins were goblins and the group really had little fear from individual ones, but you realize very quickly that one single roll (and I can get on a lucky rolling streak that can be amazing to see) could change everything for the group. I can tell you there were a HUGE number of goblins coming for them and that's a lot of rolls that could go against the group.

As the situation became more and more hopeless, and it was certainly headed there. The elf started singing songs to help out a bit. Nothing that I felt was going to upstage the players. As they keep hoping, wishing, asking, that the elf do something I decided to give in. I rolled dice for a song that causes a steel check. The players then added artha to the elf's rolls to make sure the elf was successful! Of course, I roll like crap on that roll, so more artha was spent. A deed point (or two) and two persona points if I recall correctly. That opens up the way out for part of the way. They bought a chance with all that artha. Exactly the kind of thing I wanted them to be able to do.

We did a fast forward through the last portion of the way out. We decided to script two exchanges and apply those general results to the last stretch of the escape, before we got micro again with the Orc and his small gaggle of goblins. The "final" encounter in the mines was almost a required act on my part, I couldn't justify to myself having them get out without something to cap it off. It wasn't really climactic in retrospect, as I was hoping for a jaw dropping sigh of frustration as ANOTHER thing is blocking their way.

I have to admit that I had some vague idea and where to go after this session, but nothing that I would think is interesting enough to my group to keep playing for 12 more sessions or so. I mentally threw my hands in the air and just decided to see what we came up with next week.

[luke]

Hi Wuxing,

Good calls all in all. I like your style.

-L

(Though I'd never let my players spend artha on an NPC's roll... but it's very cool how you got them involved in it.)

[foxandwarlock]

2 Deed Points (still warm from the earning).
1 Persona.

[foxandwarlock]

Five bloody shadows burst into the morning light. They squinted their eyes against the piercing winter sun and stumbled past the fallen bodies. None turned to see if the horde followed them beyond the shadows of the mine; instead, they pushed themselves up the hill that they had descended only a few hours ago. Their breaths came in ragged gasps; their legs burned, chests ached.

And Neiman coughed, forcing a mix of blood, spit and broken tooth from his mouth. Raemos reached the top of the hill and slid the man from his shoulder; Kemlin and Indrez wheeled to face the mines behind them.

One eye was swollen shut and caked with drying blood, but the other managed to open lazily as Raemos leaned in close. The words came slowly from the bloodied mouth, “I…I go to…my father’s fire.”

Raemos stared back at his oldest friend, jaw clenched, and no words came to him. He stumbled to his feet and grabbed the First-born’s shirt with both hands.

“Save him.”, it was a command. A command like none he had ever given or meant. It came from somewhere he did not know; his knuckles whitened and tears welled in his eyes.

“I…he is beyond my skill.”, the First-born tried to stumble back but was held in place.

“You will help him.”, blue eyes bore into him, “Or should I make two fires today?”

“If I were you, I would make sure his last moments were comfortable.”

The big hands that held him in place suddenly shifted and pushed him backwards. Raemos knelt down and put an arm behind his sword-brother’s head.

The eye fluttered open again, “Did….did you…get what you came for?”

Kemlin bent down and pressed Neiman’s sword into the dying man’s hand, “All of them; we slew all six.”

Weak fingers curled around the handle of the blade, “Did they….they….all get out?”

Tears began to roll down the big man’s face as he nodded. His words were quiet, “Yes…yes, everyone.”

The eye closed, as if drinking in a victory, and a visible calm washed over the broken man, “Then…I go to my…father’s fire…I will…save you a…seat at his…fire.”

Raemos’ mouth opened but the words were barely audible, “I will meet you there.”

The half-open eye stared back at him; frozen in time. The man who had fought beside them at the Siege of Steel Hill no longer drew breath; his broken frame still in the morning’s light.

Kemlin wiped the wetness from his eyes and wandered off a distance to give Raemos peace. The First-born did the same, moving to stand beside Indrez and Skeld who still pretended to watch the clearing below them.

After some time, Raemos slung his sword-brother’s body over his shoulder and began to move again. They marched in silence, making for the night’s campsite where the rest of their provisions were hidden. When they arrived, they moved without instruction, gathering wood for their companion’s pyre. The only word was spoken by Raemos when the others stopped collecting timber…and that word was ‘more’

They built a great bed of branches and logs for the man that had been Neiman. They left him his armor and leggings, the rings he had earned in life, and Raemos’ blade; laid aside his right hand. The big man wore Neiman’s swordbelt around his own waist as he took the torch that Indrez offered.

When the first flames licked at the timber, Kemlin placed the sun shaped medallion onto Neiman’s chest. The First-born began a dirge; a dark song that rose and fell and haunted the men who stood around the pyre. And when the song died, Skeld recounted the last days of Neiman and his final stand against the horde. The others stood and listened as the first billows of black smoke took to the afternoon sky; then they shouldered their packs and moved off.

“He guards our escape again.”, Kemlin said quietly as he marched alongside of Raemos.

They knew that the black smoke would draw the Shadowkin and signal their presence to whatever stood in Steel Hill. They crossed the landscape in silence; not with the grim determination that had brought them here but a dour sadness. They marched until the day closed on them and then they made camp.

“I am Ardanim.”, the First-born said as they settled in, “I do not know if I have ever shared my name. But I must share my gratitude; I owe you a great debt.”

Kemlin looked up from the fire, “You do not owe us; you owe the men of Steel Hill.”

The elf closed his eyes and inclined his head in a silent nod.

“Perhaps today, we have restored some of your faith in men.”, Raemos said flatly.

“It is not men that I worry about.”, the First-born looked around the company, “It all living things.”

“How did you come to be in the mines?”, Raemos leaned forward towards the fire.

Ardanim shrugged, “That is where they took me when the city fell.”

“And who sits on the throne of Steel Hill?”, black southern eyes glistened against the fire.

The First-born turned his head to face the ranger, “The one who looks as you do.”

“The Betrayer.”, Kemlin whispered as Raemos growled.

“Tomorrow, I go south to Veradim. The Lady must hear of what has happened here.”, Ardanim broke the strange mood.

“And what about us? Where do we go?”, Indrez asked as he sat down on his bedroll.

“To Steel Hill.”

The words hung in the air; trapped, frozen, daunting. It was a sentence that none of them could endure.

“But I do not go to my death, if that is what you are wondering.”, deep blue eyes met Indrez’s gaze from across the fire. The red haired man shrugged and laid down flat on his bedroll, staring up into the night sky.

“We would welcome you in Veradim.”

Kemlin looked up at the elf, then to Raemos, “Perhaps we could winter there. With snow on the ground, they will track us to our camp. There is no way to hide in the snow.”

“Perhaps we will.”, Raemos said gruffly, “But it is a long walk and I have made it once already. I do not desire to make it again so to Steel Hill for horses.”

And so their night passed; without incident and with one less man to stand guard. When the dawn broke, Kemlin rose to pray and found the First-born waiting for him when he had finished. Ardanim carried little and wore less; a swordbelt stolen from the Shadowkin and the tattered rags they had found him in.

“Kemlin Vargo, we will speak again when the time has come.”

The Sarcosan cocked his head to the side and furrowed his brows, “The time for what?”

“Do you really want to know?”, his eyes danced with light.

Kemlin’s mind reeled; his thoughts raced back to the day that they met the troupe from Nalford. He wondered if this creature before him remembered him as he once was. But before he could speak, the First-born turned and darted off through the sparse tree cover. Around the ranger, the camp slowly woke and when they had fed and packed, they made their way towards Steel Hill.

For three more days, they marched southeast, skirting the areas that they knew would be patrolled. When, at last, they could see Steel Hill on the horizon, they had begun to cross a stretch of plains filled with dying grass, nearly as tall as the Sarcosan’s shoulder.

Kemlin moved far out in front of the group, as he had done since the First-born’s departure. He suddenly held a gloved hand up and hunched down, disappearing from view; Skeld did the same.

Perhaps a hundred feet from them, three Shadowkin made their way through the grass. They held bows in their hands, and moved carelessly. Kemlin fitted a barbed arrow to his bow and pulled it back. He watched them; the way their heads moved as they walked, the shape of their shoulders. The distance shortened between the tip of his arrow and their throats.

And the clinking of mail seemed to chime across their stretch of the plains. The Shadowkin stopped, hunched down and tried to find its source; their hands reading arrpws. They crept forward, heads twisting back and forth, eyes straining in the daylight.

Skeld’s arrow flew wild, shooting past one of the creatures. The red-haired Dorn cursed as the goblin disappeared below the grass. Kemlin loosed his own shaft, catching another of the creatures in the jaw. It too disappeared from view and Kemlin ducked back below the cover of the grass.

Their squeals and grunts echoed through the plains as the Sarcosan fitted another arrow to his bow and made his way to where he had last seen the creature. Skeld, too, wove through the grass but ran headlong into the creature he had missed. The red-haired Dorn stumbled and fell backwards, as the Shadowkin turned and fled.

Kemlin lifted his head high enough to peer above the sea of brown grass and caught a glimpse of red hair as it momentarily appeared and then disappeared. Nearby it, a goblin rose into view, shrieking as it fled towards Steel Hill in the distance. The ranger took a few steps forward and pulled the bow to his ear; the shaft grazed the creature across the cheek as it flew by.

Indrez and Raemos charged through the field, rushing the last creature as it slowly pivoted to find a target. It wheeled and took aim at the two figures thundering towards it. And when the Raemos was only two steps from the creature, it loosed its arrow. The shaft passed harmlessly over the big man’s shoulder as he collided with the creature and rode it into the hard, winter earth.

Kemlin moved methodically through the field, fitting a third arrow to his string as he watched the creature flee. Far to the ranger’s left, Skeld reappeared above the waving see and quickly brought his own bow to bear.

The goblin crashed through the brown grass; passing in only a few minutes what it had taken it an hour to traverse in stealth. It skidded to a halt, and as it turned to check for pursuers, two Hill-crafted arrows struck it in the chest. One tore through its hauberk, burying itself deep in the creature’s heart, while the other quivered in place, stuck fast in the leather. The Shadowkin fell backwards, blank eyes staring up at the northern sky.

Booming laughter echoed across the small stretch of the plains.

And Raemos wrapped a huge hand around the creature’s throat as he straddled it with his legs. He leaned forward, putting his weight on that hand as the creature struggled to draw a blade from its scabbard. Raemos balled his other hand into a fist and slammed it into the creature’s cheek. It flailed at the big man with its blade but to no effect. The fist came down a second time, and a third, a fourth. The creature lay still. A fifth, a sixth blow. Black blood covered his hand and splattered the front of his mail. He pulled his arm back for another blow and Indrez caught it; pulling him backwards.

“Enough! Enough! Its dead!”, the axe-wielding Dorn struggled to contain his Sergeant.

Raemos’ chest heaved, his face and hands flushed red with coursing blood.

Indrez narrowed his eyes, “Your rage will kill us all.”

“No, it will save us.”

“One more will not bring him back.”

“Then I will send more to keep him company! He will have plenty to do.”

Indrez made a disgusted sound and stalked off to recover the shield he had flung aside to seize the big man. Across the field, Kemlin raced off, following the blood trail of the creature he had injured. Skeld had heard the raised voices and saw the two men argue.

He made his way over to Indrez, “What is wrong, friend?”

“He goes to his doom.”

“Though a man should not fear death, he should not throw away his life foolishly. The All-Father does not reward fools.”

“And what about those that follow them?”, Indrez looked off into the distance.

“They are fools, too.”

Indrez snorted and sighed, crossing his arms.

“But I believe, only you can change his mind. You must make him see a different path.”

Indrez turned to look at the poet-warrior, “I hope you are right.”

Kemlin appeared, dragging the last Shadowkin by the collar of its hauberk.

He dropped it near the group and looked up at the sky, then at Steel Hill, “If we go further, we will be caught on the plains at night.”

The group spoke briefly about a plan and agreed that they would camp in the foothills, just beyond the plains. In the morning, Kemlin would scout Steel Hill and return to the group with his news. And so they did, and in the rising sun, Kemlin crept off across the plains towards the city that once belonged to the race of men.

He saw two patrols in his half-day’s journey to the fort, but none saw him. In his native environment, he crossed the flat land as a shadow and as the midday sun blazed overhead, he looked upon Steel Hill’s walls for the first time in nearly a year. Little had changed on the surface of the fort-city save for the patrols of both men and Shadowkin along its battlements. The Sarcosan circled the city, giving its guards a wide berth. He checked several of the drains and waterways that led into the city but they were as secure as when House Falon had abandoned them.

The setting sun blazed orange against the mountains when Kemlin Vargo returned to his companions. He removed the quiver from his back and dropped it, along with his bow, atop his bedroll. Raemos looked at him expectantly.

“The waterways are secured and it is much the way we left it….but man and Shadowkin patrol its walls.”

“Together?!”, the big man sat upright.

Kemlin nodded, “There is no way into the city.”

“Side by side?”

Kemlin nodded a second time at Raemos. The others had moved closer so that now three men stood around the still sitting Sergeant.

“There must be a way in.”, the big man stared into the distance where he thought he the city must be.

Indrez growled, “Oh yes, perhaps we can just scale the walls? Or break open the gates? Or…or better yet, why don’t we just knock? We must go south.”

“Then South it is!”, Skeld slapped Kemlin across the back.

Kemlin looked seriously at Raemos, “There is no way into the city; we should go south.”

The big man slowly turned his gaze from the distance to look at Skeld, “When we vote, I will ask.”

A silence settled over the four men and they drifted apart to their bedrolls. There were no words left to be spoken; each of them had shared their minds. Raemos broke the quiet.

“Fine….but when I tire, you will carry me. We leave in the morning. Skeld, first watch.”

Sometime after dawn, they packed up what little they had and struck a course for Nalford. From Nalford, they would go to Cale and from there, to Veradim. They moved south as the snow fell; four black shadows against the white sheet of the plains. All of them save Skeld, remembered when they had last made the journey – the pains that had haunted belly, mind, and foot. But now, Kemlin hunted hare and they collected what they could from the withering plantlife. They made fires, hidden by embankments, and mended what they could with the extra leathers they had brought with.

Three times they came across Shadowkin patrols and three times the creatures were sent to their dark master. Black blood melted snow where it fell but no fires were lit for the creatures for fear of bringing both cities down on their heads. Stubble grew to beard and beards grew thick; flurries turned to snow-covered ground and hard marching. The North came on in its full winter fury; slapping them with its cutting winds and snow blindness.

When they had drawn near to Nalford, they found a ruined farmhouse; partly burned and collapsed. They took shelter from the winter’s wrath but, again, could light no fire for fear of discovery. Kemlin went to see the city that had once been home to them and, before long, returned to gather the others.

Abandoned.

The ruins of the city were covered with a thick white blanket of snow. The giant gates had been crushed and wrenched from their places and a great hole had been rent in the city walls. Strange shapes littered the streets, their true form hidden by a coating of northern snow; rubble and the remains of buildings lay where they had fallen. The snow crunched beneath their feet; its sound shattering the silence of the dead city.

Pressed into the snow were the tracks of cats and dogs, and even a few horses. Raemos led them through the streets, a shutter banged somewhere in the distance, and suddenly they stood before what had once been the Hall of the Wordbearers. Half of its roof had fallen in, and a light haze of white powder blew around the interior as they stepped inside. On one end of the hall, its tables and benches sat undisturbed, as if the refugees from Steel Hill had arrived only yesterday; the other half stood snow-covered and tossed asunder, crushed by rubble and charred by some unseen fire.

They left the hall with little conversation and set to finding a shelter for the night. Off the main streets, they found a building that had seen little damage. The wood door which serviced the first floor was battered but usable and the roof was largely intact. It lacked a cellar, and had a fireplace, both things which Skeld had insisted upon but did not explain.

Once they had inspected the house, they shrugged off packs and handed out tasks. Indrez would recover usable foodstuffs and supplies, Skeld would find them new boots, cloaks, and blankets, and Kemlin would bring them something that they could roast over their newly found fireplace; Raemos insisted on walking the town.

By noon, they had regrouped at their annexed home. Several pairs of boots and winter cloaks covered one side of the room and Indrez had recovered a bag of oatmeal and a few root vegetables. At the end of the street, Kemlin slaughtered the sheep he had found outside the city. He left what he could not use and hoped that whatever creatures came to investigate would be satisfied with the carcass. Raemos returned, bringing news that he had seen both booted and Shadowkin prints in the snow but that he had been unable to determine where they led or how old they were. They roasted meat and melted snow to drink while they spoke on Raemos’ discovery. And then, they ate the finest meal any of them could recall.

When they had finished, Raemos insisted that they visit Lord Nalford’s chambers; it was a stone structure and immune to the fire that had swept through the city. They rebuckled swordbelts and adjusted armor, donning new cloaks as they stepped out into the wintery streets. The building was as he described it, a small keep unto itself with three stories and great metal doors that had been dented but unbreached. They pushed against the doors but found them locked from the other side; they all exchanged glances.

Raemos slammed the bottom of his fist against the doors, “Shadowkin do not knock!”

It was the loudest sound they had ever heard; Raemos’ words seemed to echo through the streets and the booming of the door carried through the halls behind it.

No reply came.

They stepped back and looked at the face of the keep; the windows of its top floor hung open. It was not long before they had managed to locate a wagon, dust it off and push it over so that it was beneath the open windows. Kemlin clambered up onto the wagon and did his best to locate footholds in the stone wall but the keep was true to its purpose. When he at last gave up, Raemos pounded on the doors again, shrugging at the rest of the men when they looked at him. They waited, and hoped, but the echoes died away without a response. Defeated, they returned to their house and settled in for the evening. The fireplace roared, warming the small room that they shared.

Skeld closed the door and looked around for the bar that had once held it in place. When he could not find it, he sat down with his back against the door, “Why do you think men would lock themselves inside of a keep?”

Kemlin unbuckled his hauberk and pulled it off, “Perhaps they are doing the same thing we are.”

Skeld narrowed his eyes, “But why hide during the day?”

Kemlin opened his mouth and then shut it without making a sound.

Raemos spoke without looking up, “They hide from everything; from life.”

Skeld shook his head in disagreement, “There is something strange here.”

The others did not respond as they stretched out on their bedrolls and his words died away with the crackling of the fire. Before long, they were all asleep, Skeld’s head nodding forward as his weight rested against the door.

Boom.

Their eyes popped open.

Boom.

Hands found weapons and hauberks; fingers fought against buckles.

Boom.

Skeld threw a heavy blanket over the fire, plunging the room into darkness and filling the air with smoke.

Boom.

They stood, unmoving, in the darkness; unable to see, only hear the sound that they knew meant death.

Boom.

Its echo was distant, like the first night Kemlin had ever heard it - in the mountains beyond Steel Hill.

Boom.

The other sounds crept through the windows and door. Screams, and shouting; running feet and the creak of wagons. Babies cried, horses neighed and a faint blow light eeked in through the seams of the shutters and beneath the door. They saw each other now, painted in the pale blue-white light, blades held out before them. They searched for some explanation in each other’s faces and Kemlin began to pray.

Boom.

More screams and slowly the same ghoulish light descended over the walls of the room. It poured down the building like paint, washing over the floor and silhouetting their feet. They pressed themselves against the walls. And a man suddenly materialized in the middle of the room, sword drawn. He was made of the same light that filled the room; pale blue and ethereal. He looked at Indrez and motioned for him to follow before running to the door and opening it; but the true door, made of wood, did not open, only its mirror image made of blue light.

The Sarcosan crept over to the window and opened the shutter wide enough to look out. Before him, the entire city was bathed in the same light and its streets and buildings were filled with the ghostly versions of their true inhabitants. Somewhere in the distance, the orcish drum continued to beat out its warning.

Kemlin waved the others over to the window and they too stared out in amazement and shock. Beyond their dwelling, a man stood by a wagon filled with spears, handing them out to those that passed. Beneath the ghostly image however, there was only a snow-covered lump.

Kemlin Vargo steeled himself and resigned his fate to the Morninglord. And with that, he opened the door and stepped out into the street. People ran past him, men to the walls and women holding screaming babies. The man with the spears ran over to him and offered him one of the ethereal shafts. When Kemlin’s hand touched it, it vanished and the man ran back to his wagon to continue his distribution.

Slowly, one by one, the others joined him in the streets. They half-jogged, half-walked through the madness of the streets; visitors to some place that they did not belong. Kemlin led them to the Lord Nalford’s keep and they arrived in time to see a woman and man ushering children in through the open, ethereal doors. When the last child had passed through, the man drew the doors closed. Raemos ran to the doors and banged his fist against them.

This time, the dying screams of children answered his call. The troupe stumbled back from the door and looked around them, unsure of what to do. Where crumbled buildings had been earlier in the day, now whole ghostly versions stood in their place. They saw, for the first time, the great glow from beyond the city walls; the host that Kemlin had passed so many months ago.

Skeld ran off towards the walls, mounting the steps two at a time. The soldiers that he passed did their best to move aside but where he touched them, he passed harmlessly through. Atop the wall, a man handed him a bow which vanished with his touch. And the red-haired Dorn looked out across the plains; looked at the blue-white dawn that seemed to stretch the width of the city and watched as it rolled closer and closer.

He did not notice that the others had joined him on the battlements. A great boulder flew over them and into the city, thrown by the approaching war machines. It crashed into one of the buildings, crushing its upper portion; its blue-white image now the same as its true ruin. The sounds of the war host reached their ears as they turned their gaze from the city back to the field.

Shadowkin, twice or three times the size of Raemos, pushed siege towers and other dark war machines towards the city. The other Kin of Izrador raced past their gigantic cousins; screeching and waving their blades as they charged. And among them – were men. The small group atop the walls stared in disbelief as ghostly soldiers were cut down around them by Hill-forged arrows. And if the approaching war host was the dawn, now came the sun in the night.

It started small, far out beyond the dark horde…but it came quickly, passing above the approaching lines and growing in size; a vast blue-white spectre set against the black sky. Skeld’s eyes grew wide as his right hand fumbled for an arrow in his quiver. And they saw it – a thing of legend.

“A wyrm.”, Skeld all but whispered as he fit the arrow to his bow.

A massive lizard with a pair of cascading wings; its flesh rotted and missing. Exposed bone laid bare one side of its ribcage, and part of its neck. Half of its head had decayed, leaving only the bright white skull and dull light where the eyes belonged. The wings that had once been whole were in tatters as it soared past them overhead. Skeld’s arrow passed harmlessly through it and into the night sky.

They turned, following its course, as it passed over the city, breathing great gouts of fire and decimating structures. They watched as the Hall of the Wordbearers collapsed beneath the creature’s flames. Far to the south, it turned gracefully in the sky, and made a second pass over the city. Below them, the city that was once Nalford burned with ghostly dragon fire as Shadowkin and men poured over the walls. Kemlin Vargo lifted his kukri to point at the undead beast in the sky.

“He has shown us our purpose!”

[Wuxing]

GM Comments

We're about a week behind on posts, so we have already actually played the next session. I'll try again to remember the high points, add some of my insight (for whatever that's worth) and generally try to put the spotlight on things as they came up.

I felt like a choice had to be made last session, someone "needed" to die. I say that in that you have to drive the critical nature of this situation home kind of way. As we worked and the players obviously were going to be the center of the tale, and though I didn't want to do it, Nieman who had been with the group since day one, took the fall. I tried to do it in a dramatic fashio, without taking spotlight away from where it should have been. It was a good thing story wise. We hadn't really confirmed his death, though I pushed hard that way. Over the week in between sessions it came up, what if he survived long enough for one conversation with Raemos. That was a great idea and we went with it (without telling Raemos we were doing it). So, when we started the session with it Raemos, the player and the character, was completely and totally moved. That single NPC had become important enough to him that without much pushing on my part, he was pushed to the brink of tears (along with the GM, but we won't talk about that). Some people don't play for those kinds of moments, some do. Regardless of where you fall on that issue, when it happens it is a very very cool gaming moment for those touched.

It's interesting to note that there is beginning to be some questioning of Raemos' leadership and commands. Some of it is certainly adding Bobgoat to the table, as players always question one another and Kemlin certainly questions Raemos at times. But Nieman had begun question some decisions and Indrez certainly questions. I'm not really sure where that is going, since it's developing in play. But I suspect that will be a high point of the game when we get there.

The elf was an interesting situation that the players "let go of" when presented with it. They had plenty of questions, but after a handful of basic questions sent him on his way. The players talked about it, made pointed some inconsistencies (purposely done or GM just not thinking it all the way through?), talked a few options, but nothing really came up in character. As I always mention, I don't really plot so there's nothing to be read in that statement other than I mentally an eyebrow raise and hmmm'd.

When they got to Nalford and saw the destruction everyone paused and waited. Everyone knew it was filled with possibilities for "cool" things to happen. Everyone knows we should be seeing zombies, ghosts, vampires and all other manner of undead here. But how do we do it, get something new out of it and get to smile about it later? We all paused kind of waiting for something to happen. There were tons of way to approach it. We stopped and talked a little bit about it as a group. I stole a little bit from Midnight, put a spin on it to make it ours and ran with it. It worked out okay I think. Well, maybe not the end of this session, but certainly by the end of the next session it all worked out.

Aside: You got to wonder how these guys are going to handle civilized society. At least one player has thought about this and you can bet when/if they get back to society I will try to push this.

Turning our attention to BW "system" things, I think they likely earned a fort check for the trip to Nalford, not sure if I gave one or not. I'm pretty casual about checks for skills, at least routine checks. It's not uncommon to hear them say I need X to get Y skill and have me turn and say take it. I figure they been out roughing it for a long period of time, they should really all have learned some basic survival skills by this point.

I've also mentioned before that I want artha being spent to make things happen, so I've gotten in the habit of giving a few artha at the end of sessions if it went well but didn't really hit the player BITs. Not quite canon, but I don't pull punches and if that allows them to alter situations then I'm all for it. The outcome will ultimately feel much more shared, at least in my opinion.

Good stuff really. Next session is already in the books, with fiction close to being posted. We're working towards something that will "allow" us to break to let me actually play something for a bit. Enough babble from me though.

[Bob Goat]

I've also mentioned before that I want artha being spent to make things happen....

I think you got your pound of Artha in the next session....

Keith

[foxandwarlock]

I can say, for me, that I didn't have much to say to the First-born simply because I was mentally struggling with the Death of Neiman. It was one of those powerful moments that you can't go back from; there's no altering it - there's no rezzing powers. He's lying in the cold, winter snow, a million miles from no where and he's used up; and he's going to die in the arms of the guy who he's fought with his whole life. Powerful.

*records Forte check* Um, anyway, about Nalford....yeeeaah. We didn't actually didn't roll any Steel tests because WE were hesitating - yes, the players - when that sound gets made at the table, there's no explanation needed. It conveys so much - you just don't know when that happened - when you started to associate so much to that one word: Boom. It encapsulates struggle, loss, memories of past sessions, artha spent and earned, saving people, watching your city fall, and the death of friends.

Its unfortunate that Bob Goat hasn't been along for the whole ride because, at times, I feel like we get all emotional (excited, freaked out, angry) and he's kind of excluded from that. Just because he doesn't have all the baggage that we do.

[Bob Goat]

Its unfortunate that Bob Goat hasn't been along for the whole ride because, at times, I feel like we get all emotional (excited, freaked out, angry) and he's kind of excluded from that. Just because he doesn't have all the baggage that we do.

But it works ouot cause Skeld hasn't been there the whole time so I get to play with a different perspective than the rest of you...

Keith

[foxandwarlock]

Kemlin’s voice died away as the din of battle rose up around them. They watched as the dark host, aided by the gigantic Shadowkin, breached the city walls and overran its protectors. Up and down the battlements, man and creature died second deaths, as they did each night. And the dark hordes poured into the city; an infection spreading from the wound in the city wall. From their place on the walls, they watched the blue-white flood spill through the city. And without color…man, creature, building and dragonfire blended into a single great halo that seemed to writhe in the streets.

From their place atop the walls, the blue light robbed them of detail and blinded them to the horrors that transpired in the streets below. Those that were caught in the wake of the oncoming hordes were swallowed whole beneath it; slain by blade and crushed underfoot. The dark host trampled over wagons and slew mounts, setting fire to anything that was not already ablaze. The four living men in Nalford watched in utter silence as the Kin of Izrador had their way with the city.

And the horde had finished, they gathered in the center of town and their drum beats began anew. Far fewer ghosts haunted the streets, the glow diminished as each felled citizen disappeared. And when the blue-white halo had gathered in a great circle in the middle of Nalford, the remaining shades disappeared.

Suddenly, only the weak moonlight lit the streets of the dead city; the snow undisturbed by the battle they had just witnessed. Where they had seen men and women fall, they searched beneath the snow but found no bones or bodies. No one spoke of the Betrayer’s men who had cut down the people of Nalford with the very blades forged to protect them.

They stopped their search at a street corner where the market had once been and Skeld turned to face them, “I do not stay the night in this place.”

Raemos snorted, forcing a small cloud of mist from his nose, “You have already stayed half of it.”

“And I will stay no more.”, Skeld turned and walked off towards their annexed home.

Kemlin looked to the distance, “We must be find a way into the keep; you saw them.”

“In the morning.”, Indrez said as he stomped after Skeld.

Raemos nodded with his companion's assessment and walked off after him, leaving the Sarcosan among the snow that had begun to drift down. The big man arrived at the house in time to see Skeld packing his things. The red-haired Dorn moved with speed, jamming a few of the extra blankets into his pack before shoulder it. For a long moment, he looked up at the two men and then he left.

Across town, Kemlin mounted the wagon and tried, once again, to find a foothold in the keep wall. He sighed in frustration as he was forced, time and time again, to leap back down to the wagon before falling. And then he heard it; barely audible as he looked up at the open windows. A soft moan drifted down from the window or perhaps through the great steel doors nearby. He stood still, ears straining, as he heard it again; a soft keening filled with lament and despair. It was the sound of a prisoner.

Kemlin Vargo knew what he needed; one of the simplest, most common tools that a man could build. He had battled war wolves, blood sorcerers and the hordes of the Dark Lord but now, in this place, he was halted by his need for a ladder. For hours the Sarcosan trekked through the city, wandering aimlessly in search of a barn or stables. The destruction was complete; everything that he touched or saw was broken and useless. And then, fallen between a wagon and a wall, he found his ladder.

He marched through the snow-covered streets, dragging the ladder behind him - back to the single house in Nalford in which a fire burned. And there, he knocked on the door and announced himself. Indrez opened the door and Raemos sat up from where he slumbered in his bedroll.

“There is someone in the keep held captive; I am going.”

Indrez furrowed blood-red eyebrows, “And how will you get in? Fly?”

Kemlin pointed a gloved finger at the ladder that lay beside him in the alley. Indrez sighed and backed away from the door, letting the Sarcosan in from the cold.

* * * * * * *

It crept into Skeld’s dreams in the way that sounds do; the scurrying of rats, a dog pawing at the door, a blade on a whetstone. His eyes popped open as he lay on the floor of the deserted farmhouse. Skeld stared into the fire he had started and the sound came through the floorboards, directly beneath head. He shrugged off the blankets as he scrambled to his feet. It was the sound of lazy claws dragging against wood.

He freed his blade from its scabbard and looked around the decimated house. Somewhere outside, he could hear feet breaking the surface of the frozen snow. Skeld waited for the sound to come again and then jammed his blade through the floorboards. It bit deep into something, the feeling rolling up his arm like a knife jammed into a thick steak. The first moan came from beneath the wooden planks as the red-haired Dorn took action. He pulled the flaming timbers from his fire and threw them about the small house. Remembering the tale of Hergerth and the Shambling Hordes, he kept the last of the burning brands and readied it in his off hand as the first creature shambled into the doorway.

It had once been a woman. Half of her hair was torn out or rotted away, her clothes now only rags, kept in place by the seams that remained. Her flesh was the color of death in winter, somewhere between blue and white. She took her first step into the house as Skeld stood, rooted to the spot. He saw every detail of her face, the missing eyebrow and crushed eye socked; pale blue lips and the way her stringy hair hung across her left ear.

She was upon him. His left hand swung reflexively, the makeshift torch cutting a fiery arc through the air between them. She took another step and raised stiff hands as Skeld’s blade opened a small gash across her arm. He danced back to avoid her grasp as he brought the brand down on her shoulder; embers flew as he singed dead flesh.

And he began to laugh.

He hopped to the side to avoid grasping fingers as he delivered a second blow from his blade. She pushed him back a third time, as both flame and blade struck her again and again. And slowly, Skeld felt the heat as the house began to catch fire around him. Flames danced at the edge of his vision as he planted a single boot on her chest and pushed. She took two staggering steps away from him, and fell onto her back. The Davindale Dorn laughed anew as he stepped forward and all but severed her head; she lay still. He looked up as a second figure filled the doorway and the sound of snapping, breaking floorboards came from behind him.

“To the All-Father with you!”

The red-haired Dorn rushed forward, crashing into the once-farmer only a few feet from the door….and staggered back as the creature failed to move. It swiped at him as he regained his feet, but missed. The torch lashed out in return, stinging the creature across its face as it came on undeterred.

Skeld took a single step back and then threw his weight forward, planting his foot on the creature’s abdomen. The blow pushed the creature back and it tumbled, on to the floor. Skeld laughed again as his blade broke the creature’s clavicle where it lay. And it began to pull itself up from the floor, unconcerned with the grinding sound of bone and apparent uselessness of its left arm. Its head had reached waist height when the red-haired Dorn kicked it back to the floor.

The torch bit at the creature’s unfeeling flesh as it once again tried to regain its feet. Skeld’s blade opened another bloodless gash across its chest before a weight cascaded into his back. For less then a single heartbeat, Skeld of Davindale panicked, his grip loosening as two more creatures bumped into him from behind. Sword and torch were lost as he stumbled forward and recovered his wits. Six hands tore at his hauberk and throat as he danced back and to the side. He cursed himself for his lost knife, and ducked beneath another grasping hand.

He laughed now as his feet worked beneath him to keep desiring hands at bay. Where he could, he landed haphazard blows with clenched fists, reminding him of days long past. And then, he saw what he had been waiting for; an opening in through their macabre dance. Around them, the walls and floors were wreathed in flames; black smoke filled the room. Skeld ducked for one last time and then he was free, sprinting through the fire-rimmed doorway and into the cool night. He fled towards Nalford, leaving behind the dead and the blaze that he hoped would consume them.

* * * * * * *

Indrez held the ladder as Kemlin did his best to ascend in silence. He peered into the open window, only to find the bedroom dark and unoccupied. Hauling himself through the opening, he waved the others up after him. Across the room, he pressed his ear to the door and heard the soft keening.

Raemos and Indrez watched as Kemlin opened the door and peered out into the dark hallway.

“What is that sound?”, Indrez narrowed his eyes in the flickering light.

“He thinks someone is held against their will; I doubt it but we will deal with it and move on.”

The pair approached their companion as he shut the door and turned to face them.

Indrez leaned in and all but hissed, “There is no one here to save.”

The Sarcosan raised an eyebrow, “What creature have we seen that makes such a sound? No Shadowkin has ever sounded helpless.”

The blood-haired man snorted and handed a torch to the Sarcosan, “Then you lead.”

They crept out into the icy, black hallway. Its dark corridors had turned cold without the customary braziers designed to make it inhabitable during the winter months. They moved through the keep slowly, periodically stopping to ensure that they were following the sounds. They followed the soft wailing from the third floor to the second - and from the second to the massive stairway that fed into the receiving hall. Here, the moans were closer - but no louder - and pale blue ghost light emanated from somewhere from somewhere below them. They exchanged glances and Kemlin handed his torch back to Indrez.

“I will be back.”, he whispered to Raemos, before creeping off down the stairway.

Within a few moments, he had disappeared, cloaked by the darkness of the keep’s corridors. Down the stairway and into the receiving hall - he moved with cautious steps and hand near his kukri. And there he saw the source of the blue light – a circle of small ghostly forms, perhaps a dozen children. Their ethereal mouths moved but only the single sound escaped them. Beneath their blue shapes, darker forms sat still but the ranger could not be sure.

He edged closer and closer to the children, straining his eyes against the inky darkness and hazy light. He counted them, thirteen, and moved forward. He saw their faces and the bodies beneath the ghostly forms, and moved forward. And then they turned as one, to cast their collective gaze upon him. The Sarcosan stopped and watched as they gathered ethereal tartans and threw them over their shoulders - and then they wailed.

Black dread washed over Kemlin Vargo; plunging him into blindness. He fell backwards, gloved hands clutched over his ears as Raemos thundered down the steps, unphased by their cries. Indrez stood, frozen, atop the staircase as the big man screamed for him to follow.

The ranger writhed on the floor as the pale figures floated towards him. He scrambled backwards towards the staircase, “Keep away!”

Raemos cleared the last step and the two men locked eyes before the ethereal children wailed a second time. Ice washed through Raemos’ veins, rooting him to where he stood as he watched Kemlin tumble back to the stone floor. And through the darkness and terror that filled their minds, they heard the tiny voices shouting, “LEAVE!”

The Sarcosan stumbled onto his feet and raced up the stairway, past Raemos. The big man followed in his wake and ahead of them both, Indrez mounted the steps two at a time. They sprinted through the second floor, their footfalls echoing through the empty hallways. They raced on; up another flight of stairs and down the corridors of the third floor. They threw open the door to the bedroom and breathed in cold, winter air.

Without a moment of hesitation, Indrez threw a leg out the window and began to climb down as Kemlin turned to watch for Raemos. The big man appeared in the doorway to the chamber and made his way to the window.

And the faint call echoed down the black hallway, “He…lp.”

Kemlin through up a gloved hand and shouted into the darkness, “What?!”

“Do not be fooled by the trickery! There is no one to save here.”, Raemos looked from the doorway to Indrez – crouched in the window.

“What?!”, Kemlin called a second time.

Indrez hissed, “This place is cursed, we cannot stay. You have seen it!”

Kemlin looked at Raemos, “You heard it. Someone calls for us; a different voice.”

Raemos shook his head, “We have seen what calls for us. There is nothing here.”

“We cannot stay and speak on it. This place is-“

“GO THEN!”, Kemlin wheeled on Indrez for the first time since they had met.

The axe-wielding Dorn began his descent as Kemlin looked from the window to the door and back again. Raemos waited, refusing to leave his companion behind.

“Go. I am behind you.”, Kemlin said reluctantly and Raemos clambered out onto the ladder.

The remaining two men began to climb down as Indrez held the ladder in place. He heard the sound a split second before Skeld rounded the corner nearby. The poet-warrior came to a stop as Raemos stepped from the ladder and looked at him, “We are leaving the city.”

Skeld laughed, his voice echoing off the side of the keep, as he slapped the big man’s back, “Outside is not much better!”

Raemos cocked his head to one side, waiting for an explanation.

“The dead walk again – as they did at the fort.”

Kemlin hopped from the ladder and Indrez pitched the device purposefully into the snow. Skeld looked around the group, “What has happened here?”

“The keep is cursed; the town is cursed. I am going to pack our things.”, Indrez jerked his head at the stone building.

“The ghosts of children are inside.”, Kemlin turned from Skeld to Raemos, “If someone is held prisoner, we must help them and if it is a creature of Izrador, we must slay it. Either way, we must deal with the keep.”

“There is nothing that can be done. We leave tonight.”

“We know that Izrador holds this town by night but the dawn conquers all.”, Kemlin pointed at the keep, “Would you not send those children to their Father’s fire?”

Raemos stiffened and then nodded slowly, “Fine. We will bring your dawn, but we will not sleep in this city tonight.”

The ranger held two gloved hands up, “Agreed but we must return at first light.”

The big man nodded and it was then that Kemlin noticed the empty scabbard at Skeld’s hip, “Where are your things?”

The tall man grinned, laughed again, and pointed over their shoulders, “There.”

They turned and saw the orange glow somewhere beyond the city walls. Above it, dark clouds blotted out the blue-black sky. None laughed save the man whose possessions burned in the distance.

“You have lost your blade?”, Kemlin turned slowly to face the red-haired Dorn.

“I have all the weapons I need against them.”, Skeld pulled a makeshift torch from his belt, and grinned.

They moved quickly; half-jogging back to their temporary home. There, they packed their things with haste and loaded up the mounts that they had found. Kemlin gave the red-haired Dorn the dagger from his hip as they rode south through the ruined gates of Nalford. And not far from the city, they stopped and made camp among a small copse of withered trees.

Skeld and Kemlin worked swiftly to shield their camp and fire from the wind. The others lay still, hoping to sleep but knowing that they would not. Instead, they watched as the world gave birth to a new day and Kemlin prayed to the Morninglord. He thanked him for seeing them through the night and asked for his guidance and strength to carry them through the deeds of the morning. And then, they rode into Nalford.

They found the ladder where they had left it and each man took two torches; keeping one in his fist and jamming another through his belt. One by one, they climbed the ladder and disappeared through the window. By the time that Indrez joined them, each bracket in the bedroom flickered with a revived torch. The orange glow of the flames mixed with the morning sunlight and transformed the room into what it once was.

They threw open the door to the hallway, expecting some dark creature to meet them - but found none. Up and down the corridor, they opened doors and shutters alike, flooding the third floor of the keep with the Morninglord’s glory; every bracket and brazier they found burned with the fire they carried.

At the far end of the corridor, they found the only room which had been locked. There was no conversation as Skeld and Raemos looked at each other and shouldered the door open. Four men spilled into the room, torches and blades ready – to find a woman’s body on the bed. Frozen and starved, they recognized her as the woman who had led the children inside the keep. For a moment they gathered around her.

“Burn her.”, Raemos said to Indrez.

Skeld held up a hand, “I have recently learned it is best to light buildings on fire when you are leaving. Give me your blade.”

Raemos narrowed his eyes but did not move; neither did Kemlin. But Indrez extended the haft of his axe towards poet-warrior and backed up as Skeld severed the woman’s head.

Raemos growled, and tossed his torch onto the bed; lace curled, and flesh blackened. Skeld noticed the woman’s journal on the nearby desk and slid the small book into his belt; hoping that someday he would learn the woman’s tale and the Last Days of Nalford.

They moved to the second floor and what had begun as cautious and careful became forceful and efficient. They kicked open doors and flung shutters wide, paying no attention to the contents of rooms or threat of possible ambush. And when they had finished with the second floor, they gathered at the great staircase that would take them to the children.

Blue-lipped and frozen in place, thirteen children sat in a circle at the back of the reception hall. Some held blades in their hands, defiant until the end. Raemos and Skeld readied torches until Kemlin held up a hand, “Let them see the sun once more.”

They walked to the front of the reception hall, tossing aside the iron bar and opening the steel doors wide. Bright, morning sunlight flooded the hallway and for what seemed like an eternity, they stared out across the town.

Skeld’s voice brought them back, “Have they seen enough of the sun?”

Raemos and Indrez shattered furniture, creating the timber for a pyre. Skeld opened the door and shutters of the first floor, stumbling across both an armory and pantry. Kemlin checked the dungeon for survivors or worse but returned unscathed and without news.

They gathered in the reception hall and placed the children atop the makeshift pyre. Four torches were thrown onto the wood and they stepped back to watch the fire do its work. Golden morning sunlight washed over their backs and cast their shadows forward. The long, skinny silhouettes reached almost to the orange flames; outlines wavering in the heat. They watch the smoke roll off the pyre, each man silent with his own thoughts.

And then, they rode hard for Cale.

[luke]

So it seems these last two sessions of yours were mostly roleplay oriented. The game functioned in so far as to resolve a few Perception tests, a few Steel tests and a the two dust ups, but most of the time roleplay was in the foreground.

Whatever the reason, these last two posts were by far the most compelling of all the fiction you've posted so far. And I think that's because there's a divide between gaming and fiction. The exciting gamey stuff -- fighting, searching, casting spells, is boring to read. It doesn't have any gravitas. But the character driven interactions are much more interesting -- as the reader I found myself involved in all those little decisions. Of course, at the table I'd probably be sitting back not really paying attention as one or two other players took care of moving the scene forward.

It's an interesting dichotomy. I've tried to write fiction from the game stuff before and found it very difficult. I had to throw out everything that was cool in the game moment and focus on all this description and dialogue and character development! ;)

good job.
Can't wait until you fight the dragon!
-L

[foxandwarlock]

Thanks for the props, Luke. We are lucky to have a good group with interesting characters or else there wouldn't be much to scribe every week. Its funny, we (our group) largely talks among itself in this thread and I sometimes wonder if people are reading it and thinking "look at these pretentious assholes; who cares about their game" or if people are still digging it. So posts like this are a little reality check regardless of content - to let you know people are still involved in what goes on.

The fiction has done some interesting stuff at the table. Sometimes, people make decisions, in game, based on what would be cooler to the story - because they are able to see the "story" every week in black and white. It allows you to step outside of your character sheet and think about what would make the situation more interesting. Its been a cool side effect.

In terms of the actual writing, the group will testify that we have some tricks up our sleeves - what happens behind the stage that the audience never sees. We laughed about it before Bobby G started and wondered about how he would react seeing what happened on a Sunday afternoon and what showed up in the fiction posts.

That's not to say that we alter stuff - that might be the only hard and fast rule - if it happens, it goes in. Everyone can certainly tell you that OCC chatter is fair game for the fiction - since it gives you insight as to what is going on in the character's head. For example, when Skeld was insisting that we not have a cellar in the place we stayed - that was really Bob joking about "having seen this movie" and the zombies being in the basements. All of a sudden, you have a little insight into Skeld - he becomes a little more real - he's got motivations that are outside of the audience's visibility. Its makes him interesting.

So in response to the dichotomy between gaming and fiction, I concur. You don't have to look far (most MMORPG "fiction" forums) to find people who don't make that distinction and think a blow by blow retelling of how they defeated 50 minions is an interesting read to others. I think the stuff in the beginning of the thread reads completely different then the stuff now and it really boils down to having a solid group with good characters. If the characters didn't have depth, you wouldn't have much to develop in terms of the story.

Just a little FYI about the dragon, everyone thinks I'm nuts. :twisted:

[Bob Goat]

Hey,

I know that I am supposed to wait for GM posting about the session but I can't wait!!!! I just wanted to say that Skeld's little combat interlude was the most fun I have ever had in comabt for any game.

Usually I hate combat. It just doesn't interest me as much as everything leading up to it and after it. This time the tension was so real. Each roll of the dice had me on edge. Each time I went to script I was doing it on autopilot and thinking, "How the fuck am I going to get out of this mess?" It has to be the first time ever that during combat I identified with the character.

I can't say that it is the system that allowed for this. It played a part in it, but I think the guys really set this shit on fire. I was the only one involved and they were like fans watching a boxing match. Reminded me of the rush you get when you compete in sports for a team.

Keith

[luke]

I can't say that it is the system that allowed for this.

you would have rather rolled to hit and then for damage on your dodecahedron?

:twisted:

[foxandwarlock]

JAB, SKELD, JAB! MOVE! UPPERCUT!

*shields face as Bob's dice catch on fire*

[Bob Goat]

you would have rather rolled to hit and then for damage on your dodecahedron?

:twisted:

Since when do I play..... Ooooh, this means war!!!!! :twisted:

Keith
My game uses the D6 too...

[foxandwarlock]

JAB, BOB, JAB! MOVE! UPPERCUT!

[luke]

My game uses the D6 too...

8)

[Wuxing]

I can't say that it is the system that allowed for this. It played a part in it, but I think the guys really set this shit on fire. I was the only one involved and they were like fans watching a boxing match. Reminded me of the rush you get when you compete in sports for a team.


I don't have time to do my section, but I will tomorrow. I will say this, we've had talks about the whole being engaged at the table thing. You have to be into, you have to be into your friend playing when it's his spotlight. That means me the "player" or me the GM. When the table is yours make it interesting for everyone, let us all get into it, let us all cheer, let us all groan. It's way more fun for everyone. It's an unspoken thing, I guess. Glad to see you noticed it.

There are better ways to say this, but I don't have time. Sorry for all the piss poor english and grammar above. :P

[Wuxing]

GM Thoughts

This was an interesting session for me. We went in and tried to pick up exactly where we left off. It's sort of hard getting into that mood that you were in last week, so I actually read the end of the fiction post from the previous session out loud. We started joking about something else, so it went for naught, but it was a good idea at the time.

I had three ideas going in about what I thought was in the "keep" and how to handle it. I figured I would choose whatever was appropriate at the moment. I didn't count on the group splitting, which they did. So I had to jump in and meet the expectations of everyone. Bobgoat expected some wild zombie action, so I tried to give him some. Foxandwarlock and Raemos weren't really looking for zombie action, so they didn't get it.

Skeld was the center of attention for the start of the session. Some good artha expenditure, a use of the complication for artha mechanic and some smack talk towards the dumb slow zombies (who somehow couldn't get inside or use their shambling death grip) made for some fun at the table. The complication was taken because it would make for better reading. It all just happened to work out.

I think foxandwarlock is doing better getting character thoughts out there. We do do a lot of talking about where we think the character is coming from, while gaming. So it leaves him free to do that. I feel like we have been reaching "Oh" moments more often. You know when the table stops and everyone bursts out, oooooohhh! It could be excitement. It could be total dismay that someone said/did something. It could be suprise. It's neat and I think leads to some compelling character drama.

I had an angry player moment at the table this week. When the GM pulls some "dirty" trick out and the players have to pause. It was the whole players run in fear from the ghosts situtation. They saw a similar skill to the goblins, with a steel test inducing power. I roll out in the open, so when a bucket load of dice get rolled and players see that.... So it didn't go over to well when I decided to complicate it with a voice crying out help. Character decisions had to be made. Player decisions had to be made. We took a short break there and came back. People can call it dirty or mean or whatever. I say it's creating moments to find out what that player/character is all about. I'm not sure they totally realize it, but they ran. Actually I'm sure they realized it and decided their character's safety was more important than dealing with that cry for help in that moment. They turned and decided to come back when they thought it would be safer.

On the character development note, I'll say again that the sole remaining NPC is taking fewer commands and is exerting more of his independance. It's going somewhere. Where I am not sure. We're still talking about where we are going from here. I'm not sure they really want to tackle an undead dragon, I won't pull punches there. There's the possible trip into elven lands. They still haven't seen civilization in what seems like years. They are ignoring or forgetting their promise to meet in the winter season with "the wordbringers". Hell, Skeld and Kemlin still haven't had their religion conversation. Who knows where this all leads us. They are going through some rough times, being challenged physically and emotionally. How far are they going to go? Someone has to break at some point, don't they?

[foxandwarlock]

Skeld's dice were hot. I mean on fire kind of hot. With a Power 3 he managed to Push down two zombies back to back. There was hand smacking and "whoo"ing everywhere!

As far as the dice rolling/ghost/trick is concerned, I feel obliged to say that I was not upset about the big dice - that was a clear message to be afraid; and we have characters that no nothing about "magic" so that was all good. Prior to be Hesitated the second time, my script actually included actions to leap over the ghost version and whack the bodies that remained. The frustration came over what I interpreted to be a "moral dilemma" - the yelling of help after the ghosts had so soundly "beat" us. So, to me, that was aggravating because there was no moral crisis there because we had just been shown how they would just immobilize us. There was some Kemlin/Raemos sideline talk and we came back to the table to discover the voice had been someone elses. Frustration cured, moral dilemma back in place. It was a tough decision but ultimately, it came down to me looking at my BITs and realizing that we "Have to pass through the night to reach the dawn."


Actually I'm sure they realized it and decided their character's safety was more important than dealing with that cry for help in that moment. They turned and decided to come back when they thought it would be safer.

This is not to say that we decided that in a metagaming way; it was not "i don't want my character to die." For Kemlin, it was about knowing that he couldn't conquer what was down there by himself - he needed the aid of his god but he was going to get it done, hell or high water.

I won't speak for anyone else at the table but I can say that when I put Kemlin on, a lot of tension goes up into my shoulders, so to speak. He's run down, and tired. I wonder what my knife looks like and how dull it is; how stinky we all are after being covered in blood more times then we can count. He's emotionally beat up and the only thing keeping him going is his faith. Its evident in that the outburst at Indrez because it was a real outburst - I just wanted him to shut up. In the wake of Neiman's death, people are grieving but its in that bottled up, quiet, bad way and everyone starting to wear on each other's nerves.

I'm not sure what I'm more afraid of....

That Cale is standing and that there's people who don't believe the Shadow is back....

Or that there is no Cale.

[Raemos]

I'm not sure what I'm more afraid of....

That Cale is standing and that there's people who don't believe the Shadow is back....

Or that there is no Cale.

What if we continue to march south and never see another person, ever again?

[Wuxing]

As far as the dice rolling/ghost/trick is concerned, I feel obliged to say that I was not upset about the big dice - that was a clear message to be afraid; and we have characters that no nothing about "magic" so that was all good. Prior to be Hesitated the second time, my script actually included actions to leap over the ghost version and whack the bodies that remained. The frustration came over what I interpreted to be a "moral dilemma" - the yelling of help after the ghosts had so soundly "beat" us. So, to me, that was aggravating because there was no moral crisis there because we had just been shown how they would just immobilize us. There was some Kemlin/Raemos sideline talk and we came back to the table to discover the voice had been someone elses. Frustration cured, moral dilemma back in place. It was a tough decision but ultimately, it came down to me looking at my BITs and realizing that we "Have to pass through the night to reach the dawn."


Actually I'm sure they realized it and decided their character's safety was more important than dealing with that cry for help in that moment. They turned and decided to come back when they thought it would be safer.

This is not to say that we decided that in a metagaming way; it was not "i don't want my character to die." For Kemlin, it was about knowing that he couldn't conquer what was down there by himself - he needed the aid of his god but he was going to get it done, hell or high water.

Here is where I internally chuckled and we end up in a debate about whether or not it matters if it was a "character" decision or a "player" decision. Seriously though, it was introduced to precisely be a "moral dilemma". You can justify your actions ic or ooc, doesn't really matter. I just wanted to force you to choose something there and you did, simple as that. You look at the BITs and justify that way, I interpret different and justify a different way. Doesn't matter, you made a decision and that's all that matters. :)

[foxandwarlock]

The miles fell away beneath them and disappeared into the snow-bleached horizon at their backs. The first day became the second, and the second the third. They settled into their routine, riding hard through the day and hunting game in the dying light of sunset. Their meals were warm, more often then not, and by all appearances their spirits gathered daily – but a shared thought haunted their every hour. It was an unspoken agreement that none should mention it and it was Indrez who broke that agreement, only a few days from their destination.

“What do we do if Cale is the same as Nalford?”

Kemlin stared past the crackling fire into the horizon, “We do what we have always done – move south.”

“And if there is no one there?”

“Then we will fight Izrador in the lands of my birth.”, the Sarcosan smiled weakly.

Indrez snorted and looked away. None in their company had the strength to wonder about the possibilities – they simply knew that Cale stood, that it had to stand. Not a single man among them could fathom what would become of them if it did not. How much strength did they have left in them? How long before they could not stand the sight of one another? What if a new wall had been built in the south and they were in the Lands of Izrador now? What if they were the last four men in the North? What if they were the last four men alive?

In the days to come their conversation was awkward and uneasy – always laced with the undertones of those few sentences spoken aloud. And then, one afternoon, the spires of Cale pierced the horizon. It rose from the edge of the world, the last place of humanity in their minds. Their conversation died away, each man straining his senses against the falling snow to see if smoke rose or hammers rang. They narrowed eyes against the wind, searching for the men atop the walls or the torches that they would carry.

But Cale was dark.

One side of its great, wooden gates had been pulled outward while the other pushed in. They blinked numbly as they looked upon the same destruction that had befallen Nalford. The Wordbringers had come too late, their warnings still in their throats. They did not herald the coming of the Dark Host but floated in its wake – playing gravediggers to those that they had promised to forewarn. Their white sashes had long since turned the color of ash – the color of their world. Shattered wood and blackened stone had become the legacy of the Wordbringers.

They said nothing as they sat astride their mounts, staring into the city through its ruined gate. And then Kemlin saw it, the flicker of a man as it moved between two buildings.

“I saw someone.”, he said quietly as he slid from his saddle.

The others exchanged looks while the ranger scurried to where the gates had once been. He bent down and looked at the tracks pressed into the white powder and then suddenly Skeld was beside him, bow in hand.

“Men.”, Kemlin whispered as he pointed to boot tracks accompanied by a strange sliding trail, “And they’ve been dragging their game through here.”

The red-haired Dorn scowled as he looked from the ranger to the ruined city, “There are no men here.”

“I saw him there. You go that way, I’ll go this way.”, the ranger pointed twice and then drew an arrow from his quiver.

Indrez and Raemos watched from their mounts as the two scouts exchanged whispers and then disappeared into the city. There was a long moment of silence before Indrez spoke.

“What are we going to do?”

“Follow them.”

Leaving their horses, they stepped through the stone archway, weapons in hand. Raemos had never been much for sneaking around and he led his companion down the middle of the road at a slow, deliberate pace. Each step pressed the snow flat beneath their feet and the crunch seemed to echo through the deserted street. Their eyes scanned the buildings on either side of them and their ears strained against the muffled quiet.

And suddenly only a block ahead of them, Skeld sprinted across the street, hunched low and still holding a readied arrow. Only a moment later, where Skeld had disappeared, Kemlin leaned around the building to wave his companions on. Raemos and Indrez hurried to the corner, only to find the two scouts already engaged in conversation. The Sarcosan looked up as they arrived.

”I saw four men enter that storehouse.”, he pointed.

For a long moment, indecision gripped them. Each man wrestled with his own demons and the six long months it had been since they had seen a friendly face.

“We should burn it.”, Skeld jerked an unlit torch from his belt, “I say again, there are no men here.”

“There are men...”, the Kemlin looked at Raemos, “..but in these days, we do not know where their allegiance lies.”

Above them, the sky rumbled with the sounds of thunder. They looked up to find dark, storm clouds gathering in the dusky sky. Raemos scowled, “Then let us knock and see what kind of men they are. We do not have time for this and my blade has been dry too long.”

The big man turned but the ranger caught him by the arm.

“Wait…I will ready an arrow and stand there.”, Kemlin pointed, “If they are with Izrador, step aside and I will strike the man in the doorway.”

Skeld opened his mouth to speak but thunder split the sky above them; he lit the torch instead as they moved down the street. Lightning flashed above them, whitewashing everything around them for a split second. Kemlin jogged ahead and took his place across the street from the storehouse, readying an arrow as he had promised.

The other three men made their way across the road, weapons and Skeld’s torch held ready. And then, it began to snow…up. All around them, snowflakes drifted skyward – a flurry in reverse. Raemos crossed the remaining distance in a run with Indrez and Skeld behind him. The big man skidded to a stop and planted his boot on the wagon-sized door to open it. It swung wide to reveal the lamp-lit interior and the dozen men and women who stared back at them. Grievous wounds littered their bodies and their eyes held the glossy stare of the dead. The three men in the doorway froze, stunned by their discovery – their weapons slowly dipping earthward.

From across the street, Kemlin could not see past his companions. Holding the arrow in place, he raced across the street, ducking between his companions to cross the threshold of the storehouse. His heart pounded in his ears as dead eyes stared back at him and he lifted the bow to fire. The voice came from his left, at the far end of the storeroom.

“Join…”

The ranger swung his bow to face the sound – a man in orange robes.

“..my..”

The arrow struck him where his neck met his body, a full third of the shaft disappearing beneath orange cloth and flesh. The man reached up and calmly pulled the bloodless shaft free.

“..coven.”

The bow clattered against the stone floor as Kemlin Vargo charged headlong into the room. He dodged the first set of grasping hands as he heard a distant voice, “NILMEK!”

The big man’s shout brought the other two men back to their senses. Skeld cursed and threw the torch onto a nearby grain pile while Indrez swung at the first creature he could reach. Raemos raced into the room after the Sarcosan, shoving aside any of the undying men that threatened his path.

Kemlin Vargo’s world had become the size of one man. He did not see or feel the multitude of hands that reached for him but failed; he did not hear Indrez’s curses or Skeld’s laughter – he saw only the man in the orange robes. And he watched as that man stepped up onto a makeshift altar – a rectangle of black stone the size of a wagon, laid flat.
His gaze settled on the Sarcosan, “Speak with me.”

Skeld planted his boot on the chest of the closest zombie and pushed, knocking it onto its back. Indrez swung at any of the creatures that were within arms’ length, grunting and knocking grasping hands aside with his shield.

The man in the orange robes watched the Sarcosan get closer and closer.

“Come…”

He lifted into the air, hovering a few feet above the stone surface.

“…speak with me.”

Kemlin cleared the last of creatures and jerked his kukri free from its sheath. He planted a single step on the edge of the altar and launched himself into the air towards the man. But the man in the orange robes drifted quickly to the side, and the ranger landed on the altar behind him.

Raemos lifted a tall leg and stepped up onto the altar, following his companion’s charge. He set his feet and swung Neiman’s blade in a vicious arc. Blade met cloth and the robe parted…but the man’s flesh did not. He simply hung in the air, unmoved by the force of the blow and staring down at Raemos. Kemlin struck next, lashing out from the side and dragging his kukri across the man’s neck. The man did not even flinch as the southern steel glided across his skin like water.

The fallen torch had begun its work; one wall of the storehouse had come to life with flames and nearby goods had joined in the conflagration. Beyond it, Skeld and Indrez worked in tandom, hewing limbs and ending second lives with brutal efficiency. In the moments between vicious blows and shield bashes, the two men realized that the creatures before them do not truly fight back. They raised hands to defend themselves and grab their attackers but they did not push forward.

The man in the orange robes lowered himself until the tips of his feet touched the altar, “I sur-“

Kemlin slashed across the man’s throat a second time but with no effect.

“-render.”

Raemos dropped his blade and surged forward as man came to rest fully on the stone altar. He wrapped powerful arms around the orange robes as he tried to drive the man from his feet – but where Raemos’ flesh touched the man, he was wracked with searing pain. The man was once again unmoved as the big man stumbled back to stare at the bloody, burned mess of his hands – already blisters had begun to swell across cracked flesh of his palms.

“Kaeps eugnotrevlis eht tel not od!”, Skeld screamed as he struck another of the unliving.

The man in orange robes stared calmly at the staggering giant and began to kneel down, “You may bind my hands if you wish. I surrender.”

“Ereht si on…”, Skeld shouted again, “…surrender!”

The man touched his forehead to the stone. Raemos snatched Neiman’s blade from where it lay and brought it down in a mighty blow across the back of the man’s outstretched neck. Hill-forged steel slid across his flesh as smoothly as a dulled training blade. Raemos roared and squeezed the handle of the blade, dying the white sash a deep burgundy.

There was a long moment as the two men atop the altar held their weapons before them, threatening the man that lay prostrated before them. Behind them, they could hear Indrez and Skeld’s gruesome work as it continued; the muffled groans of the unliving and exhaled grunts as blows were dealt.

“WHO ARE YOU?”, Kemlin screamed in frustration.

The voice came back, muffled by the man’s position, “I battle against Him as well.”

“Why do you wear his colors?”

“DO NOT LET THE SILVERTONGUE SPEAK!”, Skeld roared, his voice seemed to shake the room.

“I was deceived. I thought my god had risen.”

“QUIET SILVERTONGUE!”

“Who is we?”, Kemlin narrowed his eyes.

“May I rise?”, the man looked up and his gaze hardened, “I am rising.”

The figure in orange did just that and both Kemlin and Raemos took a step back with readied weapons between them. He looked past the two men before him and spoke in the direction of the battle, “They will not fight you. They desire release.”

“I SAID QUIET SILVERTONGUE! HE WILL SPEAK ONLY LIES!”, the red-haired Dorn pushed the last of the zombies to the floor and struck it across its clavicle.

Above them, the fire had spread to the roof and jumped to many of provisions held in the storehouse. The man looked up at the ceiling and then stepped down from the altar, “If you wish to speak, we will do so outside. I will not discuss things in a burning building.”

The man walked past Skeld and Indrez who stood with raging expressions on their faces. The four companions filed out after the man in the orange robes, leaving the corpses of the unliving to burn in the storehouse fire. Outside, the snow no longer drifted upwards and the cool night sky had returned to normal.

They stopped when they had cleared the heat of the flames but the man continued to walk for some distance. He slowly came to a halt more then a dozen paces from them, as if only now remembering that others were present.

He turned to face them, “Come. My house is not far – there we will eat and drink and speak of things.”

Raemos snorted, “Do you think that I would eat and drink with you?”

The four men turned to face each other. They spoke amongst themselves and each man agreed that the man-demon before them could not be trusted.

“Would you wander the countryside fighting what you do not know? I have your answers – I know what you battle.”

“Because you were once among their ranks!”, Skeld looked up from their conversation.

“We were deceived. We thought Talislar had re-awakened and we joined his cause.”

Kemlin’s eyes narrowed, “It is the name of one of the Old Gods – he battled against Izrador.”

Skeld scoffed, “A man can claim to worship any god. The Silvertongue cannot be trusted.”

The man in the orange robes looked up, “Either come with me or do not sleep within the city walls.”

“Do not worry, we will not sleep in your city.”, Raemos looked at the group, “To the horses.”

The stranger walked away and the last four men in the north watched him go. They traced their path back to the main road and at the city gate, they found a stout stick driven into the snow. On one of its branches hung an ornate holy symbol, wrought in the shape of a tree. Beneath it, a folded piece of parchment was held in place by the weight of the necklace. The four men slowed, and then walked by.

They were almost to their horses when Skeld stopped and hurried back to collect the two items. He turned the holy symbol over and over in his hand.

“What tree do you know of that is orange but not dead?”, Kemlin swung into his saddle.

“No good can come of it.”, Indrez mumbled loud enough for all to hear.

Skeld was the last to mount his horse, his face still painted with thought. In front of the gates of Cale, they sat astride their mounts for what seemed like an eternity; no man moved or urged his horse on.
Raemos broke the spell, spurring his horse into a walk around the city wall. Indrez followed and the Sarcosan came behind him.

“I must know.”, Skeld said flatly.

They stopped their horse and turned in their saddles to find him, unmoving before the city gates.

“No good will come of this.”

Skeld shrugged, “If the All-Father wills it, I will see you in Veradim.”

They watched as their companion turned his horse and, for a second time that night, disappeared through the city’s gates. And for another long moment, they sat there, unmoving and in silence. No man among them could make the decision to leave one of their own behind and this time it was Indrez who spoke, “We give him a day and if he has not returned, we leave. He should get the same chance as Kemlin.”

They made camp at the treeline, keeping the ruined city, perhaps, a mile in the distance. Sheltered from the wind by the trees, they started a small fire and settled in for the night.

“This is foolishness.”, Raemos grumbled.

“It is no different then when he leaves us to chase an entire host.”,
Indrez jerked his head towards Kemlin.

The Sarcosan narrowed his eyes, “But I wasn’t going to speak with a creature that controls the unliving…or wears Izrador’s colors.”

“Your decision was still your own…and we abided it. Skeld has made a decision – he should get as much time as any other.”

“But ask yourself”, Kemlin narrowed his eyes across the fire, “if he returns, can you trust him?”

They said no more words and ate their meal and when it was through, Indrez took watch while the other two slumbered lightly.




They were nudged awake by a snowy boot and Indrez’ quiet voice, “Wake up…someone comes.”

With time, Skeld materialized out of the darkness. He felt their eyes on him as he tied his horse with the others and approached the fire. Three men stared back at him.

“Well, did you speak with him?”, Raemos asked the question that hung in the air.

Skeld broke into a big grin, “Aye, I listened to his lies.”

“And how do we know that you are to be trusted now?”

Skeld laughed, “At least I am no coward.”

“Do not trust the Silvertongue.”, Kemlin ground out, mimicking Skeld’s words, “And now only a few hours later it is you that speak with him.”

“He spoke of the Old Tales but he did not expect that I should know them also; so I laughed and called him a liar.”

“And he let you leave?”, Indrez raised his eyebrows, “Unharmed?”

Skeld nodded as if he would expect nothing different.

“Never call any man in this company a coward again.”, Kemlin hissed.
“If I have misspoke then what do you call this?”, Skeld gestured to the location of the camp.

“Hate.”, dark eyes shone across the fire.

“Try loyalty.”, Indrez looked up with a clenched jaw.

The word hung in the air, filling the silence and quieting them all. For a long moment, they stared back at one another - the three met that sat and the fourth that stood before them, washed in the fire's glow

“I spoke wrongly – no man here is a coward.”, the poet-warrior pulled the mead from his pack, “May I sit?”

The two men looked to Raemos who paused for just a moment, and then nodded. Skeld laughed heartily again as he tore the plug free from the wineskin with his teeth. He tipped his head back and took a long draught of the mead before passing it to Indrez. Each man, in turn, drank the honey-wine of Davindale and the things that had passed between them were forgiven.

[foxandwarlock]

They left Cale behind like the setting sun, putting hard miles between themselves and the Silvertongue. They rode south and then west, to avoid the Plains of Erisamon - where it was said that the dead walk. Once, Raemos of Steel Hill would have been unbothered by such tales but he had seen too much and had his fill of the unliving.

Within a few weeks, they had reached the rolling hills which heralded the forests beyond. Snow still covered the earth but the roaring winds from the north were kinder here, lessened by the undulating landscape and barren trees. They passed through the treeline without fanfare or celebration, entering the Veradeim on a path wide enough for three horses abreast.

The air around them was still – silent. They sat up straight in their saddles and stretched, opening eyes which had long since been narrowed against the snow and sun. For the first time in long weeks, the northern wind did not howl against their ears or bite at exposed flesh. When they camped, they made small, controlled fires and found that game was plentiful. Within a few days, the canopy above had grown so thick that the ground before them was bare and bereft of snow. It seemed strange to them that while their breath turned to mist, their eyes told them it should be spring.

They camped and made a midday meal. But it was not until they had finished their fare that they noticed the single, white-fletched arrow – freshly driven into the trail ahead. Between them, they had eight sharp eyes yet not had seen the shaft land or a person place it. It was Skeld who stood, dusted himself off and approached the shaft. And as he bent down to pick it up, a voice echoed from high above, freezing the red-haired Dorn in mid-motion.

“Step beyond the arrow and die.”

Skeld straightened, looked about and belted out a booming laugh at the strange message. He looked over his shoulder, towards his now-ready companions, “It seems we should not move past the arrow! But I am unsure of which way that is!”

As if in response, two more shafts rained down from the canopy above to form a rough ‘v’. Kemlin kept a single hand close to the kukri as his eyes scanned the strange trees, “We are known to Ardanim.”

The voice that echoed back was reserved, “And what proof do you have?”

Skeld put a hand on each of his hips and laughed a second time, “We pulled him from the dark mines of the north!”

“And what are your names?”

“I am called Skeld the Joyous!”

“He will know us. We are the last four men in the north.”, Raemos crossed his arms.

“Your name.”

“Raemos of Steel Hill.”

“Indrez.”

“And Kemlin Vargo.”

There was a long pause before a fourth shaft landed in front of the first.

“There. One arrow for each of you…as long as you carry them you will be safe in the Whispering Wood.”

The four men exchanged glances and then edged forward to each pull a shaft from the ground. When they had all done so, a sleek figure appeared down the trail. Tall and slender, so much like the First-Borns they had met on the road to Nalford.

Skeld held an outstretched hand which the newcomer looked at strangely.

“Its how we greet one another…to show we have no weapon in our hand.”, the jovial man grinned broadly, “Humor me!”

The First-Born gingerly gripped the poet-warrior’s hand and produced a lukewarm smile, “Follow me. We will find somewhere for your mounts and Ardanim will be sent for.”

They packed the rest of their things and did as the First-Born bid them, leading their horses as they walked the trail.

“You know our names…what is yours?”, Skeld did his best to keep pace beside the fey.

“Lorin.”

Kemlin shot Raemos a sidelong glance, “I do not think they will call it the Whispering Wood for long – more like the Echoing Wood.”

Raemos made a sour face as he watched the red-haired Dorn and the First-Born walk ahead of him.

“Don’t talk much do you?!”, Skeld laughed raucously and slapped the fey on his back.

“Or maybe you should talk less.”, the big man said flatly from the behind.

It only made Skeld laugh again, “Don’t mind them! They’re quiet and serious…I think they’ll fit in just fine here!”

“Izrador has not come to your lands?”, Raemos interjected.

“He has never left.”, the First-Born paused, “What news in the lands of man?”

“Izrador pushes south.”, the Sarcosan’s voice was distant; filled with thought.

“And they have awoken a wyrm.”, the red-haired Dorn momentarily lost his mirth.

“Then it is true…Zandrix lives again.”

“That is why we are here.”, Kemlin adjusted his belt, “We seek answers.”

“He was once the greatest of all the dragons.”

Kemlin narrowed dark eyes, “If it was killed once, it can be killed again.”

Skeld rolled his eyes in response and the First-born resumed his march. They walked for the better part of the day, leaving the horses in a small clearing.

“You may take what you need and remove their saddles - they will suffer no harm here. The Witch Queen will find them when they are needed.”

The last four men of the north gave each other quick glances at the name of the legendary woman – it was she that had stirred the resistance against the Shadow’s last incursion. They did as Lorin asked, taking their packs and traveling gear and moving on without their mounts.

And as the sunset filtered through the trees, Lorin came to a stop next to a large tree. Around it, vines had grown in place, creating a slow spiral into the foliage above. He looked at his charges, “Follow me.”

Their guide stepped onto the vines and slowly made his way around the tree, passing higher with each rotation. They did their best to follow but in the end only Kemlin was able to follow in Lorin’s footsteps. There was a sense of disappointment from the First-Born as he realized that he had left the others behind, “I forgot that not everyone is used to such things.”

In time, the others were brought up in a man-sized basket reserved for awkward loads and foodstuffs. And while Raemos and Indrez blushed with embarrassment, Skeld only reveled in the absurdity of it all, “See me now! I am a potato!”

It drew a chuckle from the Sarcosan but Raemos only scowled, “Most potatoes are quiet.”

“Not me!”, the red-haired Dorn laughed as he hopped from the basket onto the wooden platform among the trees.

A war fort unfolded around them, its buildings crafted into the large trees that dotted the grove. Thick rope and wooden planks connected the platforms and formed the battlements of the elevated keep. A familiarity washed over those that had known Steel Hill; soldiers stood along the outermost bridges, a sword belt hung on every hip, and the air was filled with unspoken purpose. They stood transfixed – remembering blue summer skies and the last days of a forgotten city.

“Word has been sent to Ardanim.”, Lorin pulled them from their thoughts, “You are to be our guests until he arrives or sends for you.”

They were shown to a small dwelling, devoid of furniture. A hearth occupied one side of the room, heat radiating from a large flat stone within it. Here, they stowed their packs and made ready their bedrolls, eating and drinking the fare that was delivered to them. When they had finished, Kemlin removed his hauberk and stretched.

“Well, I suppose they can take us whenever they want.”, Indrez took a deep drink of his wine and paused, “.……but the wine’s good.”

Skeld laughed, “Yes, yes it is.”

“You are safer here then you have been in months. The First-Borns have always stood against the Shadow.”, Kemlin unbuckled his weapon belt.

Skeld looked up from his cup, “Do you not think they have had traitors? I know the Old Tales – and they are not perfect.”

“They have always been our ally.”

“Just because they are an ally, does not make them friends.”

“They remember things that we do not and that is why we have come – to find answers.”

“And what answers have you gotten?”, Skeld paused and got to his feet.

“None.”, his voice rose, “They have given us nothing but their food and drink and we sit here waiting.”

“Because you act like impetuous children.”, Lorin’s voice drifted into the room.

Skeld wheeled on the newcomer, “And what have I done that you can call me a that? I do not forget my allies.”

“The race of man forgot us; they are scattered and argue among themselves while we remember the threat of Izrador.”

“What about Steel Hill? Did their men and women forget about Izrador? You cheapen their deaths with your words.”

“Would you like to see our fort wall? Would you like to see our dead? Pale elfkin stand along it and pale elfkin have died holding it. It was men who broke their promise to us.”

“Did I break my promise? Did these men break their promise to you?”, he motioned to the others, “We are not all men so do not speak to me as if we were.”

“We do argue among ourselves.”, the Sarcosan pushed himself off of the wall, ”I rode to Nalford to warn them of the host and they would not listen.”

“Oh, so I should heed every lone rider that comes to my city and tells me that the sky is falling?”

“When you can see the falling sky on the horizon…yes. If they had fled and united with a second city, their chances would have been greater. If that second city had united with a third, better yet - but they do not. Steel Hill called for volunteers each arc and no one came.”

“Bah.”, Skeld waved his hand and turned away, “You are all blinded by your ignorance.”

He walked to his bedroll and collapsed onto it, swallowing the contents of his cup in a single gulp. The others looked at each other in silence and Lorin left without another word.

For nearly a week, they mended armor and sharpened blades but a restlessness, an uneasiness haunted their dwelling. Skeld stayed to himself, saying little and drinking much. And then, Lorin appeared in their doorway one evening, “Ardanim has requested your presence in Duadhon.”

All eyes fell to Skeld, who stared down into his cup and shrugged, “I will see your elf-city.”

Raemos crossed his arms and scowled, “Don’t mind him…his bite is little.”

“And his command is little.”

Lorin looked at the red-haired poet, “I would suggest you are more respectful of Duadhon. It has been long years since your grandfather’s grandfather looked upon it.”

Skeld made a wry face and tipped the cup up to his lips.

Raemos narrowed his eyes and looked at Lorin, “Despite appearances, we are united. We will all go.”

The next morning, they ate and, once again, descended to the forest floor. They found their mounts saddled and ready, looking healthier then when they had last seen them. The trip to Duadhon lasted the better part of a week as they rode deeper into the Veradim.

If the trees that held the war fort were old, then the trees which supported Duadhon were ancient – so large that not even Raemos would be able to wrap his arms around them. They unsaddled their horses, and shouldered their packs, joining Lorin on the vines that would deliver them into the canopy. Each man among them passed into Duadhon as a First-Born would, completing the passage by using the narrow stairway. And for a moment, there was a gleam of satisfaction in their guide’s eye.

Ardanim, dressed in simple brown robes, met them on the next platform. He smiled broadly despite Skeld’s face, “Welcome to Duadhon.”

“We decided to take you up on your offer.”, Kemlin smiled back.

“And I am glad you did.”, he turned and led them further down the walkway, “You have the look of the road on you – you should rest your bodies and rest your souls.”

“We have come for answers.”, Kemlin said quietly.

“And we will discuss them over a meal.”, the former captive turned and motioned to a dwelling, “But for now, take your leave and rest.”

They did as Ardanim asked, settling in to their new home. But where the war fort had the familiarity of Steel Hill, Duadhon seemed altogether different. Decorative designs danced across the dwellings and carvings curled up each of the wooden posts that supported the bridges. The swaying battlements stood devoid of guards, and belts hung without blades.

They waited and with each passing day, their frustration grew. And while the others stared idly at each other or the outside, Skeld drank. During his prayers one morning, it occurred to Kemlin that he and the poet-warrior had fallen prey to the very thing that they had argued about.

When they had eaten their morning meal, Kemlin made his way over to Skeld’s corner. The Davindale Dorn filled his cup – the third of the morning.

“This is not the time for quarrels among men.”, the Sarcosan looked down with serious eyes.

“My quarrel is not with you.”, Skeld slowly drew his eyes up to meet the ranger’s, “The Gods do not look favorably on those who expect reward for charity.”

His words hung in the air and in the hearts of those that heard them. Already, Raemos had thought of the city as great gilded cage – and his hope in soliciting aid had dwindled. Another day passed before Ardanim joined them for their evening meal, “Word has reached us that Hergeth has fallen.”

Kemlin furrowed his brow, “Hergeth?”

“The last of your northern kings.”

The others looked up from their food.

“Where?”, the Sarcosan asked.

“Freeport or Highwall. We cannot be sure.”

“How did it reach you?”

“We send scouts and we see scouts.”

Skeld made a disgusted sound, “Pfh…scouts.”

“Tell me, what progress has Izrador made in the lands of man?”

“It is grim.”, Raemos said flatly, “Nalford and Cale are destroyed.”

“We have seen Zandrix.”, Kemlin twisted in his chair.

“And you live to speak of it?”

“Nalford is haunted. Each night, it relives its destruction – we have seen its shadow.”

“Describe it.”

“It is half flesh and half bone.”

Ardanim muttered something in elvish, “During what you call the Second Age, when all was lost at wall, there arose a flight of dragons. It was Zandrix who led it and when his host fell, both armies scattered to the winds.”

“So when do you ride forth?”, Skeld said as he filled his mouth with wine.

“Do you not believe that Izrador will come here next?”, Raemos crossed his arms.

“Our borders are secure.”

“SO…when do you ride forth? To strike out against the Shadow.”

“Man long ago abandoned his friends.”

“Always easier to blame someone else, isn’t it?”, Skeld stood suddenly, the chair clattering to the floor, “Are you so perfect?! Have you forgotten the meaning of the word friend?!”

“It was man that forgot us.”

“And it is the elves who have forgotten that friend means standing by someone and forgiving their mistakes! Oh, I know when the elves will come to our aid! When Izrador has been pushed back, and the last charge for Steel Hill has come…then…then…the elves will come! And they will say ‘We have come to aid you my brothers!’”

“If the last of the kings has fallen, who would you speak with to restore this pact?”, Kemlin asked quietly.

“It is you that should know the answer to that question.”, the First-Born turned his attention to the Sarcosan.

Skeld slapped an empty palm against his thigh, “Ah, yes! We cannot help you until the pact is restored but we cannot tell you how to restore it! I have had my fill of elven hospitality - I have a war to fight!”

“And some of us have been fighting it for thousands of years.”, Ardanim stood from the table and walked out of the open doorway.

Kemlin hurried after him, catching him outside on the walkway, “Once, you asked me if I was ready – I am ready now.”

“No, you are not…and neither are any of the others.”, the First-Born turned and walked away, leaving the ranger on the swaying bridge.



When Ardanim returned to them the following morning, he found Skeld packing his things. The others paused in their conversation as the First-Born appeared in the doorway.

“I have two pieces of wisdom for you.”, he said.

Skeld sighed and turned to face the newcomer.

“First, the race of man must be brought together. Look to the west and the First-Born know their purpose, look to the east and the Dwarves are united against the Shadow. Man is the weak link in our chain. Secondly, you must look deep and find the strength of man, for it has been lost to time. And when it has been found, you will find a leader.”

“Very…pretty…words.”, Skeld took a step towards the fey, “And I want to thank you for reminding me that the elves will not venture beyond their lands. They will sit in their forests and speak pretty words about chains and other’s failures – but they will not act. So you may talk about weak links and chains but know that there is no chain when one link is broken.”

“When you are ready to depart, please let me know.”

“I am ready now.”, Skeld shouldered his pack.

And so within the hour, the small company ate their morning meal and found their horses waiting for them below. A fresh suit of leather armor had been added to each of their provisions and Lorin sat astride his own mount, “Since it my arrows you carry, it is my duty to see you safely to the edge of our lands.”

The ride back to the fort was faster, and with fewer breaks as if Lorin could sense their desire to be clear of the woods. Skeld rode with a black countenance, his anger evident where Raemos only sat silently astride his mount. Kemlin wrestled with memories that were not his – of old friends and dark days. He had come to the Veradim expecting the friendship he had known so long ago, only to find that it had never really belonged to Kemlin Vargo.

When they reached the war fort, Lorin excused himself and returned, only a short time later, with a heavier cloak and traveling gear.

“What word?”, Kemlin looked at the fey’s wargear.

“What do you mean?”

Raemos slid from his saddle, “A man does not need a full quiver to travel these lands.”

“It is my duty to see you safely to our borders.”

“And then?”, Raemos stood before the thin figure, a knowing look in his eye.

Lorin looked at the Sergeant, “And then we will see.”

The big man wrapped his left arm around the elf, and gripped the delicate sword hilt with his right. Surprise and confusion washed over Lorin’s face, his arms trapped at his sides. When Raemos stepped back, the First-Born did his best to smile and nod, hoping that it was the appropriate response.

In a few days, they had crossed the distance between fort and treeline. And it was here that Lorin stopped and dismounted, “My duty is fulfilled. My arrows please.”

Each man produced the white-fletched shaft he carried. Those that were broken, the First-Born returned to his pack and those that were whole went to his quiver.

Skeld suddenly remembered something as he produced a crumpled piece of parchment, "Lorin, can you read this?"

The First-Born looked up quizzically and took the paper from Skeld. He studied for a few moments and then handed it back to the Davindale Dorn, "Keep this and ask me again on some other night."

The slender scout turned to his saddlebags and withdrew a large, gray cloth. He opened it to reveal four knives, each the size of a poignard. These he offered to each man while explaining, “Your blades have seen many days and been cared for on the road but the blades of my people will hold their edge longer. It is best that each of you should have one when you need it most.”

He folded the cloth and returned it to his bags, “And now…I have a request.”

He turned to face the group, “I would ride with you if you would have me – to ease some of the anger between us…to begin the restoration of trust.”

Again, all eyes went to the red-haired poet.

“I am no lord to give you leave to travel.”

“I go as a brother, not as a servant - and in that way, I ask you for your permission.”

There was a long pause before Skeld answered, “Very well. I am not one to judge a man by his people’s actions.”

A look of relief washed over the First-Born’s face as he climbed back into his saddle, “Where do we ride?”

Raemos urged his horse forward before answering.

“South.”

[Wuxing]

GM Intermission

Sheesh, this is two sessions worth of things to comment on. I should start by saying this is being considered the end of a "chapter" or book. The war is in full swing and mortal races are losing. They are moving south and west, but with no course of action. It'll be interesting to see what happens when we start up in a month or so.

The session before last was a strange one in many ways. They were outclassed by the man in the city. They knew it and the man knew it. At the end no one would deal with him but Skeld. It's a pity everyone but Skeld left the table for the interaction with the old man, since none of it is chronicled here. I suppose I was using the old man as a mouthpiece for information, but the players weren't having it. Heck, if I was a player I wouldn't be having it either. But I had to try since I am on the other side of the screen.

The most current session was short. I went in with the idea that it would likely be a pure rp session. I had a few ideas, knew where I wanted to nudge the conversations and generally wanted to do a feel good type session. Well that didn't really happen. Skeld was personally insulted by comments about men in general. The conversations here are actually much shorter than they were at the table. It was Skeld versus elves the warm up, and then it was Skeld versus Elves the main event. It was a heated little debate at the table. It felt like Bobgoat honestly wouuld have gone outside for a fist fight had I asked,. :lol: On the other hand, I think I shorted Skeld a fate artha point or two.

So everything gets chucked and we're off again. Bobgoat has ideas of what he'd like to see/do next. I'm not sure where everyone else is. I think we should move to something "epic" in feel for the next stage, but who knows what that is right now. We've obviously drifted away from canon Midnight, even further than we had when we started. It's going to be interesting trying to wrap this whole thing up.

Time to get some trait votes done, check to see if anyone is "breathing" on a higher skill (which I'll just let them take if it's something reasonable), take a few weeks off for real life and chance to let me play something, and finally come back and hit this hard. I have to figure out a way to make Lorin Skeld's greatest friend. :lol:

[Bob Goat]

Man, this one had me so fired up. Like Wux said, I was ready to take his ass outside in the cold and beat him with whatever was at hand. Hell I was ready to jump across the table to get his ass. It was awesome. Crazy serious, but awesome.

Keith

[foxandwarlock]

Wuxing is totally right about Skeld's conversations (more like scathing monologues). The stuff reflected above has a few key lines (what we could remember) and the general emotional content and points but is no where near what happened at the table. There was finger jabbing, and pacing, and rabid gesticulation (on the part of the Davindale Dorn). Wuxing, on the other hand, did a good job of playing the calm elf, not really raising his voice or changing his posture at the table.

I kept trying to find a way to work in Kemlin's personal demons about maybe knowing some of the elves (since they live forever) but Skeld had the wheel and he was driving for sure! It was get in, sit down, shut up, and get on the anti-elf train! WHOO-WHOO!

[Bob Goat]

It was get in, sit down, shut up, and get on the anti-elf train! WHOO-WHOO!

Buckle up bitches, cause the cow catcher is on and we are heading for pointy ear town!!!!

Keith

[Wuxing]

I would like it noted that I have been in Elf Haters Anonymous for many years. Try as I might, I cannot get over my hatred of those things. I did however do a pretty good job being as "elfy" as I could be. It was a therapeutic experience.

[jc_madden]

not very anonymous now are we?

[foxandwarlock]

Per Wuxing, it looks like the Ride of the Wordbringers will be resuming as soon as our Revised Editions hit the ground in Chicago. We'll probably be starting a new thread titled for the next "Chapter"

[luke]

awesome!

-L