Dragon Fang

Despite his slightly clouded eyes, Lord Urdurel notices Fortu glancing at the blue hilted, cold-iron Longsword sitting flat in the, perfectly carved out recess in the centre of the square tabletop. A table, small enough, to enable Lord Urdurel to reach it’s grip from any side. 

“Yes, the table acts as an oversized scabbard of sorts, I’m too old to lug a weapon around anymore. Do you like the sword nesting within it? ‘Dragon Fang’ I call it; I just recently had it commissioned  and although not a match for the one you now possess, it’s still a powerful blade and there’s a rich kind of poetry attached to it.”

Leaning in, Rifkin moves to stroke the shimmering blade, but then draws his slender, mandolin playing fingers away before reaching it.

“I felt sparks!”

The old man laughs, revealing a greying, but surprisingly still full set of teeth.

“About a year ago, I was informed that some of the great and terrible dragon; Theranthor’s teeth had been recovered by a group of adventurers. They’d apparently stolen them from the Orcish; Broken Lancer’s tribe, after her massive skull had been destroyed. I managed to purchase several of them and had them forged into this enchanted, cold-iron sword. I found it ironic that my last days, might be spent standing against my second wife’s true Master and I wanted to wield a weapon crafted from the last creature to defeat him.”

The Demi-Elven Bard’s semi-almond-shaped eyes widen.

“That truly would be poetic justice, but surely, a man of your advanced years, doesn’t expect to actually join the fray?!”

With some effort, Lord Urdurel pulls himself up and out of his heavy, throne-like chair.

“I’m nearly a hundred years old. I sleep more than wake and my memory is starting to fade but I’ll be damned if I send another soldier to his death without standing, and risking my all, beside them.”

Run Away, Turn Away, Run Away!

 

Fights, Murder, Action!

After our first entirely (despite David) combat free, role-play-talky-talky session, you all (especially Assif) probably need to bash in some heads and loot their bodies. I can promise you nothing but let’s just see what happens next.

Reunited with the Triplets soldiers; Locke, Chape and Ringo, your ex-wagoneer; Cookie and a contingent of Lord Urdurel’s city guards wave you off on your fresh horses, saddlebags fully stocked with food, water and supplies. 

Now in the pay of Lord Urdurel, you’re heading out of capital city; Cottis through the neighbouring Kingdom of Agentia to present yourself to King Lucius (ex-brother-in-law to Lord Urdurel and twin brother to the late; Lady Dulcetta) in their capital city; Cheval and then onwards to the Gnome realm of Fustilarian to present Lord Urdurel’s sincere apology, promise of full financial restitution and plea to King Trololo Strongarm for his help.

April options

Saturday the 11th

Sunday the 12th

Saturday the 18th

Sunday the 19th

Saturday the 25th

Sunday the 26th

I currently don’t have any weekend plans that far in advance in April, beyond the first one, so it’s up to you jet-setters to decide if we get to play next month or not.

Edit: Thanks for the rapid response boys. Two days remained on the option list but, for some reason, I prefer Sundays. See you all (online) on Sunday the 26th at 9am!

No Halfling Measures

Riding in the back of Cookie’s wagon, Rifkin watches Liga Bur trailing far behind, atop his, now disturbingly, huger and slobbier hound; Mir Hindur. Although he’s tried repeatedly over the last few months, the Halfling has always resisted Rifkin’s attempts at closeness. They are friends, but friends from time spent together, rather than the type that shares intimate details of each-other’s lives.

Pulling his precious mandolin into place, Rifkin absent-mindedly strums a few cords as he considers what he really knows about his cauliflower-eared travelling companion…

Liga Bur; a Halfling raised by Orcs, forged strong but without any knowledge of his true ancestry or culture.

After a quarter of a century living in the ‘Broken lands’ with the Orcish Darkstar tribe, he found himself driven from his adoptive family and into the Human lands and then, the overrun Halfling strip.

When Liga Bur encountered a band of travelling Halfling acrobats at the Scarborough fair half a year ago, did he seek to find out more?

When (a very pretty) one of those wandering tumblers secretly passed him a note to meet up with him in private, did he agree?

When, months later on their return, it became apparent that Scarborough was previously a Halfling settlement called Scarp Burrow, did he dig deeper?

When exposed, just a day ago, to the Halfling quarter (sixteenth) in the large Human town of Thornflek, did he introduce himself to the Halfling leadership or book himself a room in the Halfling run inn?

And finally, when he just encountered Marvin, the angry Halfling bandit, potentially old enough to have been his Father, did he try to gather any information from him before he was shish-kabobbed by Fortu?

Considering the mystery of his history, the answers are a surprising ‘no’, ‘no’, ‘no’, ‘no’ and ‘no’!

Could it be that Liga Bur’s brutal upbringing has made him a race denier? Is it possible that, after spending his entire life being beaten and judged by Orc standards, the battle-scarred Halfling is afraid? Afraid to admit to himself even, that he is a Halfling after all?!

Rifkin’s delicate digits stop playing before he registers it.

Is Liga Bur’s rejection of his race any different from his own? True, his Quarter-Elf Father was murdered by his Mother’s inbred relatives and she, in turn, drank herself to an early death, but…

Considering the difference in lifespans, his Half-Elven Grandmother could possibly be still alive and his fully Elven Great-Grandmother would certainly still be, yet he’s done nothing to find them.

If he really thinks that Liga Bur should be interested in his own past and true heritage, surely he should be too? Perhaps he’s avoided those travelling, full-blooded Elves in the last town because he was afraid they’d pity him for his diluted blood, or worse?

Perhaps Liga Bur also fears being judged by his Halfling kin as lesser because of his harsh, uncultured Orcish upbringing?

An Eye for a Lie

Twenty mounted soldiers surround the hidden shack, waiting for Lord Urdurel and Captain Aglet to come back out with their prisoner. It’s taken them over a month to track her down to this forest hideaway, but finally the elusive ‘Queen’ Hetzabah has been cornered.

The soldiers smile grimly to each-other. Her assassins have been killed or driven off and she’s finally trapped and defenceless. A single woman alone against two fully armoured and vengeful knights.

A few minutes pass before the wooden door is wrenched open from the inside and Lord Urdurel staggers out, clutching his, now empty, left eye socket, blood gushing through the gaps between his gauntletted fingers!

Two of the soldiers quickly dismount to aid their liege, as Captain Aglet also lurches out of the shack, face ashen..

“She wasn’t as she appeared! She deceived us all!! She’s a monster; a demon from the deepest pits of Hell!!!”

The Sergeant of the group, drops from his saddle, rushes to the open door, long-sword raised and peers in.

“She’s gone! Where did she go? How in the nine hells could she have escaped us?!”

Taking the Long Road

As the last (Cottage of Doom) campaign finished, we all questioned how Nobles, Priests and Wizards gained their positions and power if they didn’t adventure (kill monsters and steal their stuff) to gain experience.

I was thinking about this recently, as you’re going to meet a few of them soonish, and I think I’ve come up with a plausible, game related solution.

If you take the Experience/Level chart and just substitute the ‘000’ after the initial number for the word ‘years’, it could be applied to study, prayer and practice.

There’s the obvious precedent with the path from zero to first level. Characters train up from nought to first level by practice swordplay under a master or long-term study and prayer. Starting age is a demonstration of this. 

One years dedicated, eight-hour, daily practice gets you to level two.

Two more years (Three in total) practice gets you to level three.

Three more years (Six in total) practice gets you to level four.

This means that if a Wizard studies every day, five days a week, in a dusty tower for forty-five years, he would be around Sixty-Seven-years-old and have attained 10th level.

He would also be classified as Old with -3 to his Strength, Dexterity and Constitution and +2 to his Intelligence, Wisdom and Charisma.

(Slightly terrifying to realise Assif, David and I are also, D&D officially, ‘Old’ men now.)

This would make a kind of sense and explain why these Clerics and Wizards have chosen scholastic, non-combat useful Skills and Feats like ‘Magic item creation’ or why high status Nobles choose ridiculous levels of ‘Diplomacy’ etc.

You could apply this to Fighters too and this would explain why most of my solders are drilled to Second level but third level and above depend more on having seen actual combat or a long military career.

Does this system seem fair and reasonable?

Three Score and Seven Years Ago

The extremely impressive, Moradin mantled, Dwarven couple enter the much less impressive, blocky Human tower. Behind them, holding onto his Father’s trailing robe, scampers a very shy and very young Dwarven child. They’re led up the stone steps and announced to the waiting Lord Urdurel and his young wife; Lady Dulcetta. The beautiful, flaxen-haired woman smiles up at her husband before he addresses the two Dwarven ambassadors.

“Welcome to Cottis; the capital of Stowan and, soon to be, the greatest city in all the world!”

It’s the bigger-bearded of the two that answers, as his wife squeezes his meaty hand in a subtle warning not to be too facetious in his response.

“It is indeed an honour to be invited to oversee this massive… by Human standards, project. Our team of architects and stonemasons will do our best to create a metropolis that surpasses anything Human eyes have ever seen.

Sensing her husbands rising annoyance at their, barely concealed conceit, Lady Dulcetta stands, revealing her bulging pregnancy.

“We’re sure that our combined efforts will result in an awe inspiring marvel that will last the ages, and I hope our children will become firm friends over the coming decade.”

Slightly taken aback, the lesser-bearded of the two Dwarves, smiles warmly and honestly.

“I’m sure little Banaal here will love acting as guardian to your baby, once he or she arrives.”

Lord Urdurel, though remaining seated, also smiles. He knows that it’s only his gold that’s persuaded the Dwarves to send their artisans and emissaries, but he also understands that it’s only with their help, that he can create the towering wonder he wants to build here. 

“It would indeed be a blessing for our coming child to have such a stout defender as brave Banaal.”

Peeping out from behind his Father, Banaal puffs out his little chest in pride. He’s already determined that he’ll do his upmost to protect this fragile Human baby from whoever, or whatever, seeks to do them harm.