From Scrapper to Mapper

Turning over the smoothed down but formally crumpled sheet of parchment, Captain DeLeón traces his elegantly manicured fingertip over the crudely hand-drawn map.

“Bitboh wood… Scarp Burrow… The Tannery.”

The spelling is shaky and the penmanship appalling, but the map is still interesting, if not entirely accurate. Rather than miles, the distances seem to be measured in something called ‘horse-ride-days’. A few of the scribbled annotations like; ‘Rattman’ are less fun though, as beside ‘Scarp Burrow’, the mapper’s scrawled; ‘Captain De Liar!’ and ‘Posho De-Dick-face’.

Pushing aside his annoyance at the unsubtle slurs, he’s curious why the amateur cartographer had written ‘Scarp Burrow’ rather than the commonly accepted ‘Scarborough’ though, as no one’s referred to this village by its original name for almost thirty years.

The map is freshly drawn, so what does it mean?

Unfortunately, Captain DeLeón‘s men had confirmed that, whoever made the map, left with the adventurer group. It certainly wasn’t any of his men or Cookie the wagoneer and it was highly unlikely that the educated Dwarf; Banaal or the urbane ‘Slightly-Elf’; Rifkin had anything to do with it. That left the earthy smelling, cauliflower-eared Halfling and the scar-faced, heavily-armoured Human Gladiator. Considering the last conversation he’d had with them, his money was on Fortu.

Glancing down at the map again, Captain DeLeón finds himself suddenly sniggering, despite his earlier annoyance, as he notices the arrow pointing East towards…

‘FART-Haven!’

Nature vs Nurture

The two gods, so different in physical stature and appearance yet equal in power, regard each-other coldly. Yondalla; highest of the Halfling gods, looks up at her single-eyed Orcish opposite and meets his gaze, eyes to eye.

“He’s my champion Gruumsh. How dare you think you have any influence here?”

The large, battle scarred Orcish god snarls.

“Your champion? He’s been raised among Orcs since infancy. He has no knowledge, exposure or understanding of what it is to be Halfling.”

Stepping forward and deliberately invading Gruumsh’s space, Yondalla’s voice hardens.

“It’s not just his body that makes him Halfling. His soul belongs to me. It’s what dragged him, unwittingly, back to the Halfling lands!”

Gruumsh chuckles throatily.

“Ex-Halfling lands, you mean. His small body is scarred and battered by his harsh Orcish upbringing. His weak Halfling flesh toughened and forged strong by Orcish discipline. Don’t bore me with prattle of ‘Halfling Souls’. Despite your obvious machinations, his heart and spirit belong to the Dark-Star tribe. My Dark-Star tribe.”

Yondalla flares angrily.

“Your Dark-Star tribe?! They’re done. Gone. That tribe, like so many of your tribes, is lost. Almost entirely wiped out by the Demon army!”

Gruumsh, stung by the remark, squats low to put their heads on the same level. Noses almost touching.

“They fought hard and died bravely. They never surrendered and won their forever places by my side.”

The Halfling goddess’ scowl drops.

“I’m sorry but that just isn’t true, is it? The Demon Prince has corrupted your captured Orcs and blackened their souls to his own purpose.”

Old One-Eye slowly straightens up.

“And that is why I’ll keep my hand on the shoulder of ‘our’ little champion.”

Refusing to allow herself to be intimidated, the Halfling goddess holds her space.

“A champion can not have two… Patrons.”

The mighty Gruumsh shrugs.

“Why not? It seems to be working out pretty well for the Human Gladiator.”

Locket, Chape and Ringo

Morning Boys,

Just so you don’t think (by stealing away your evil Henchies) I’d deliberately sabotaged your Party’s combat abilities, here’s your new (good) guard’s stats.

Please take one each. You can decide between yourselves who controls who.

These three new NPCs are markedly simpler than your previous ones, but as two of your actual characters have become extraordinarily more complicated than they used to be, this seems fair and sensible to me.

I did find it interesting how all three of you kept track of the previous Henchies though.

Scott’s sly Barbella was kept on a laptop and on-screen, David had carefully handwritten defensive Henshaw down (including tactics) and Assif had lovingly recreated the idiotic Doberman and printed him out as a full character sheet, including his blob-fish-faced picture!

Transfer these ones from here to you as you wish.

Locket, Chape and Ringo
(Identical triplets)

Human
Fighter
Level: 4

Age: 24
Alignment: Neutral good
Initiative: +1
Str: 16: +3
Int: 12: +1
Wis: 10
Dex: 12: +1
Con: 12: +1
Cha: 12: +1

Hps: 35
Ac: 18
Move: 20’

Height: 6’

Weight: 14 stone (196lbs)
Languages: Common/Orc
Attack:
MW Longsword:+9 to hit
Damage: 1d8+5 (crit x2 on 19)
Light Crossbow: +5 to hit
Damage: 1d8 (crit x2 on 19)
Range: 80’
Feats:
Weapon focus: Longsword
Weapon specialisation: Longsword
Athletic
Power attack
Improved Bull Rush
Acrobatic
Skills:
Climb:+12
Swim:+12
Jump:+12
Ride:+5
Handle animal:+5
Tumble:+5
(Shield and Armour penalty: -6)
Equipment:
MW Long sword
Breastplate armour
Large steel shield
Light crossbow
10 crossbow bolts.

10gp

Although they are all brave, good and kind by nature, with a friendly disposition, they are not fools and their loyalty stands firmly in order of: 

1) Their Brothers.

2) Lord Urdurel.

3) The Party.

A Servant of Two Masters

It’s the third night out from Scarborough toward Cottis, and despite spending the night under the sloping thatched roof of the huge, outlying; Clark & Sons farmyard barn, the added security of their three new Lord Urdurel guards and the comfort of Cookie’s large, covered wagon, the perpetually angry Fortu has another of his hyper-vivid dreams. Or perhaps, this time, it’s just a nightmare bound to the recent loss/theft of the three Briefadel mercenaries they’d saved months ago, combined with two distorted and disturbing memories…

After mercilessly cutting down the runaway soldier during Spider Murphy’s forest ambush, Fortu suddenly and inexplicably finds himself in a warm, sunlit glade, facing the beautiful Fey goddess; Estrid. They stand, face to face, eye to eye, mouths… lips just inches apart, close enough to kiss, yet her expression reveals a combination of consternation and confusion. 

"You slaughtered that defenceless human! He’d dropped his sword and surrendered. Surrendered! I don't see how a good person could do such a thing?"

Over Estrid’s pale shoulder, Fortu recognises a couple of armoured figures standing silently in the distance. The larger of them is male, beastial and warlike, while the other is feminine, refined but, perversely, also warlike. Of the two though, only the beast-like one is smiling with approval.

Eyes snapping open, Fortu hears those words echoing in his mind. But in truth, she hadn’t said them. She’d never said them. He had. They were his words, said months ago, to the eighth-Elf; Rifkin, when the goddess Estrid had ordered the merciless execution of four of the surrendered Human invaders of her glade.

Why then, had he murdered that unarmed and cowering soldier? What was the difference? What was his defence? Was it somehow morally justifiable when he did it but not when she had? Was it true for the beaten, bound and broken Wizard Moody too?

Glancing around the large, lantern-lit barn and his sleeping teammates, he becomes uncomfortably aware that he’d been far out of sight of the others when he’d caught up to that soldier and they’d never really questioned him on what’d happened. 

Fortu guessed that his teammates had assumed it was just a desperate encounter, man verses man, sword against sword but, for whatever reason, he’d not expanded upon that presumed falsehood or revealed the actual truth.

But what was the truth?

The truth was that soldier had laid in wait, with dozens of his sword-mates and crossbowmen, to ambush and kill him and his companions.

A greater truth was that the outclassed soldier had fled too late and raised his hands, only when cornered.

The absolute truth though, was that he’d butchered a defenceless young man after he’d dropped his sword in terror and unconditionally surrendered.

Wiping away the patina of sweat from his furrowed brow, Fortu silently asks himself the obvious question:

‘Was Estrid right to execute the surrendered men who’d invaded her glade and slaughtered her people, or was he just a hypocrite for doing the exact same thing, not just once now, but twice?!’

Then, the deeper and more profound one:

‘After all his of protestations, all his claims of honour and righteousness, despite his brutal, loveless upbringing; did he actually crave violence? Did he seek it out? Was he, in fact… an evil man?”

And so the rage builds

 Fortu had never felt such a simmering rage, in the pits the rage and violence was explosive, then over - win or loss. But in the days after they left Scar Burrow and the very nearly terminal meeting with Deleon he felt a pressure building. He attempted to vent at the soldiers escorting them, accompanying them whenever they arrived at an overnight stop, his looming brooding presence unsettling the hosts rather than the ever professional guards. Try as he might he could not fault their manner or the way they handled the caravan, by now Barbella would have stolen half the supplies and Doberman eaten the other half.

He tried to distract himself showing interest in the little shrines they past, learning from Banaal and Rifkin the meanings and gods involved. None settled him. By the time they entered into the small village of 'FarHaven' he was on edge, even the calm plodding of Maurice was annoying.

He was hoping that a night in a good inn, dry bedding and good old human stodge food washed down with ale would ease the tension he felt at every step.

The locals hushed as Fortu and his friends entered the tavern, blatant looks of  'who the frik are you' before returning to their own company. Fortu noticed a couple of men over at the back who didn't have the typical farmers homespun clothing and their gaze lingered just a moment longer than was polite.

'those two - kill them'

Grabbing two tankards of ale Fortu pushed his way over to their table. It was evident they had no desire for him to join them but he dragged over an extra chair and sat. The same red haze and low base hum descended. Fortu could not remember exactly what was said but as their hands reached for knives his fist lashed out, clumsily missing the closest. With trained reflexes the two pulled knives free and moved either side of Fortu, the one in front slashed out but it was easily deflected by his armour. The one who had slipped behind stabbed high and with a remarkable precision found a gap. The sharp pain was like a bucket of ice water to the face, the haze lifted and the hum went quiet. A lifetime of training kicked in, he went from rage fuelled brute to efficient killer. The man in front died in two quick strokes, spinning he drew the 'awesome' blade to a stop at the throat of the other.

The gasps and whispers from the crowd reminded Fortu of just where he was 'now we take this outside and you answer my questions and maybe that will be the end of bloodshed tonight' 

'no kill more'

Outside in the stables Fortu felt the others were mightily relieved when the remaining knifeman admitted he was working for the witches and even more relieved and a bit surprised when he left him alive.

'ah my son you think you are free, we the many will show you real freedom'

All paths lead to trubble

 'Yo Riffers, you got time for a bit more lettering?'

'Always time for you my friend'

'Great, so you know that when Liga Bur was more.....about the woods rather than of the woods, he was teaching  me how to pathfind and read maps. So I've been drawing out our route over the past few months. Just wanted you to check my wordings.'

Rifkin spread out the very crumpled sheet and was impressed by the artwork, the spelling - well considering that Fortu had only learnt to write a year ago it wasn't too bad.

'There's only one T in Ratman, its "here" not "hear" be elixir of life pond and do we really need to say stuck up fey bitch?'

'Well she didn't like me'

'Really good Fortu, I think that even I could find my way using this. Do you want some more sheets to keep practicing?'

'Cheers Riffers, I'd appreciate that.' 

Fortu was diligent in his practice, not so in where he left the copies......

Divine Frienenemies

“That was a mean trick Abbathor.”

Without furniture or other creatures to create a frame of reference for scale comparison, the two ‘men’ seem like normal… normalish Dwarves, talking to each other in the gloom of an endless void. To a casual onlooker, it would be impossible to comprehend the colossal size of these two squat seeming figures.

“You needed an agent. I just made sure a suitably appropriate one was available to you, in the right place and at the right time.”

The first speaker glowers. The huge war-hammer held tightly in his large, clenched fist, glowing red hot.

“You possessed one of my high-priests and subjected that child to a horrific ordeal!”

The second Dwarf, larger but by dint of fatness rather than muscle, rolls his sunken eyes and smiles greasily.

“Relax my Brother; It was all just for show. Nothing actually happened beyond a little light exposure. No innocent little Dwarf boy was harmed in the making of this… escapade.”

Stroking his thick white beard with his free hand, Moradin considers his Brother’s weaselly words.

“Your cleverness is often useful and what you say is true; I did need an Avatar in the Fey realm, but your methods turn my stomach. You corrupt the good for your own nefarious purposes and leave your victims lessened or broken ever after.”

Jaundiced eyes flashing with a spark of indignation, Abbathor answers quickly, barely disguising the bite in his retort.

“I merely revealed your high-priest’s previously hidden and distasteful predilections. I didn’t create them. As for the child; I wiped all memories of the event from his mind. Only your pervert priest remembers what he almost did.”

The near Molten glow of Moradin’s war-hammer dims a little.

“And Banaal. You damaged his faith in me, even as I need him to do my bidding.”

The fatter and paler of the two Dwarven deities merely shrugs.

“Your young priest already had a strong connection to where you needed him to be and he was already searching for an excuse to leave the mountain. For the sake of saving the whole world; Good, Bad, Dwarven, Human and Elven, I’m sure he’ll find a way to overcome his exaggerated trauma.”