Sheathing the sword - not a move to be recommended

The first time I saw Fortu fight was that final pit fight for freedom, I'd been commissioned to provide entertainment for some of the richer patrons up in the galleries, so had a clear if distant view.

The four surviving fighters entered together, the three others were the current 'gods' of the arena;

Roth, a 7' berzerker who wielded two long handled hammers as easily as I used a knife and fork.

Koil, the current prime gladiator who with his two longswords was as quick as a serpent and just as poisonous.

Rigea, a boastful youth with long wavy hair tied back - adept at the net and trident.

The odds were flowing up in the gallery and never once did I hear anyone back the unknown Fortu.

Koil and Rigea were from the same house and immediately joined to attack Fortu, but waiting wasn't the style of Roth who charged at his closest target -Koil.

Faced again with a net fighter, Fortu slowly edged them away from the wild swings of Roth. They exchanged a few blows before Fortu saw the slight dropping of Rigea's net hand, he remembered this from his last encounter and knowing what to expect rolled down to his right - the engulfing net safely passing over him. Rigea was already extending to thrust an expected tangled opponent. Off balance and caught by surprise he had no time to avoid Fortu's blade as it glanced across the top of his shoulder guard and buried itself into his neck.

The crowd erupted into cheers and for the first time Fortu's name was chanted.

Roth was bellowing in pain and anger, blood was flowing freely from numerous cuts and he was now using one hammer two handed. Koil seemed total unconcerned, stepping neatly in to inflict another minor cut before stepping back as Roth wildly swung at where he had been standing.

The big man was tiring, the loss of blood causing him to stagger occasionally. Seeing that Fortu had finished Rigea, Koil nodded to the crowd and lunged in, both longswords pierced into Roth's stomach and with a negligent twist both ripped sideways. The big man took two more steps before realising the entrails he was treading on were his own. The thud as he hit ground was the prelude to even more cheers from the blood thirsty crowd.

It was only later on the ship, as Fortu explained, that I fully understood what had then happened.

Fortu knew who Koil was, knew he played to the crowd and was so arrogant he always wanted to humble his opponent.

Fortu told me he believed that Koil's first blow would be to hurt, draw blood and draw the adulation of the crowd. So Fortu stepped into it, he parried the obvious high feint and took the other longsword into his side, releasing his two handed grip on his own sword he trapped Koil's weapon, reversed his parry and stepped back.

The crowd's cheering for Koil continued a moment before he fell to his knees. The reversed parry had drawn the edge of Fortu's sword across the throat of Koil. As his eyes dimmed his normal disdainful sneer changed to one of immense surprise.

After a short time, while the bodies were cleared and the blood sanded over, the freedom ceremony was carried out. The emperors representative, Yorgos Mihalis, presented Fortu with the silver disc on which was dated the year of his freedom - 1990 in the year of Emperor Major.

Part three - I'm going home, to be continued

The Exodus

Liga Bur brushed back the heavy tarpaulin cover of his chieftan's teepee. Madh Boss waited inside, in the relative cool the shelter provided sat upon the few rugs they had managed to keep from the Red Eyes as they retreated.

Madh Boss sat silently staring at Liga Bur for what felt an eternity until, with no apparent warning he spoke...

"We need leave. We no go back. Red Eyes kill us if do. But we die here if no go forward. We need go through desert."

Liga Bur understood the significance of such a decision. The desert was deadly enough here at the edge, but no one knew how much worse it would get - or for how long - until it would end on the other side. And who knew what they would find there?!

As Liga But opened his mouth to speak, Madh Boss raised a hand to silence him.  "Me know. Dangerous journey. Many orcs will die. Only strongest live. Dis why you no come."

Stunned and open mouthed Liga Bur could find no response, and Madh Boss continued.  "When me found you as youngling, me took you in and raised you like orc. Other orcs said Madh Boss crazy, but Madh Boss is bigger and me prove dem wrong. Me train you in how to be good orc and you is one of best scout in Darkstar Clan. You is good hunter. Have heart and soul of orc. Dis not happy choice for me. But you is not really orc, you is half-man and you is too small for desert crossing. You too weak. Me make choice to save you."

Reaching behind him, Madh Boss brought out a chainmail shirt which looked tiny in his large hands. "Me wanted to give you dis, but was no good time. Now you have. Is sparkly elf make and protect you in future. Now you go. You leave camp and you go find life in man-land. We go into desert and we live or we die." The finality in Madh Boss' voice told Liga Bur the audience was over and he withrew from the tent. 

Outside Madh Boss' wife was waiting with Mir Hundur already saddled and ready for travelling. As she handed over the reins, she slapped him on the back so heavily that Liga Bur lost his breath and had to be helped into the saddle. Sensing the mood, Mir Hundur whined quietly as he slowly left the campsite.

Liga Bur did not look back. That was not the orc way. But he knew he would never see his adopted family again, and he would now have to find a new way as a halfling in the world of men.

All that glitters is not gold

As he came around Arowe became slowly aware of his new friends crowding over him.  The bulk of Jamko's brutish and handsome face was in front and someone was gently shaking him.
"You OK pink?"
"ugh...", was all Arowe found at the back of his throat. It must have been Jamko saying that,  the brute was always calling him names. It's fine though it was the kind of hurt he could brush off - unlike the crushing in his chest.
"He took it good Jam! Two of the buggers, and that last cut should have gone right through him."

Arowe started to remember.  All they were going to do was explore the entrance to the cave, but they were ambushed by a bunch of Orcs and their pet Ogre.  Jamko was swinging as good as anyone and Litto had cast an enchantment almost right away that seemed to confuse the orcs. Nevertheless Arowe found himself in the thick of it.  Up till now providing ranged support was his thing.  But you never know when things can turn.
"Look!" said Jamko, "Ain't that a fancy shirt! All shiny and glittery like the trinket stuff he wears. Might have that."
Arowe reacted instinctively. He was quick. And despite the advantage the massive man had over him, he was quickly out from under.  Arowe rolled and swept to his feet. "Yeah, I like to look good, got a problem with that?"
Dizzy, Jamko reached for his sword, but saw that Arowe had both of his hands on those ridiculous needles he calls weapons.  They had killed as good as any sword though and Jamko hesitated - and then just laughed. "Take it easy dude, we still frens!"

Later when no one was looking, he fixed it up so the beautiful chain undershirt wouldn't show through the striking pink silken blouse.  He would have to take out his sewing kit and fix it properly, but that would be for another time.  The shirt was a present from his mother.  She was royalty in all but name, and she still had the stately dwellings and finery from her family, despite Arowe's dad's attempt to spend it all!  She knew he would need the protecting hand of the Arwenthail family, and it was surely the shirt of Elven mithril that saved him today. 

The Hunt

Liga Bur could remember when the hunting was good. But the grass on these plains was dead and brown, and the only vegetation that clung to the dry, dusty soil was a type of thick gorse that provided little nourishment to the few beasts that still roamed. Concealed in a hollow next to a patch of the gorse, Liga gramaced to himself. Hiding like a snake and waiting for some poor wretch of an animal, starved and parched like himself, was no way to hunt.

It had been different when he was a youngling. The tribe had commanded lands full of green grass and thick woodlands, with all the meat a young warrior could possibly want. Liga licked his cracked lips at the memory of the suckling boars, wild cattle, and even succulent rabbits he had gorged himself on.  

Since that fateful battle the Darkstar had retreated further still from their territory until all the Red Eyes had left them was a parched and barren wasteland. But there was no hope of mounting a conter attack. He still had nightmares about the way the enemy dead had risen in front of him. If only water wasn't so precious these days, he would spit on the ground and curse the Red Eyes name to Gruumsh.

Mir Hundur stirred beside him, nose twitching having caught a scent on the air. Moments later a lone antelope came into view, staggering towards the dried up oasis in which Liga Bur was hiding.

In one swift movement Liga Bur leaped up and onto the dogs saddle. With one mind, Mir Hunder took this as his queue to rise and, snarling with the joy of the hunt, took off in anticipation of the chase.

The antelope was fast but weak and Mir Hundur soon drew level with the beast. As he did so, Liga Bur drew back the string on his bow and let fly an arrow straight into his prey's chest. The animal stumbled, and as Mir Hunder ran in front of its path Liga Bur shot again almost splitting his first shot in two. As the antelope collapsed to the ground, Mir Hundur slowed and brought Liga Bur back around to their kill.

The antelope was more skin and bone than muscle but Liga Bur dutifully butchered the animal with his kukri, tossing the sweet breads to Mir Hunder who gladly gobbled them down. 

Heaving the carcass onto a sled tied behind Mir Hundur, Liga Bur remounted and they headed back to camp. The tribe would not eat well tonight, but at least they would eat.

I am the answer, but what is the question?

Standing at the bottom of the gang plank I was relieved to be home after two months at sea. I glanced across at the other dis-embarking passenger and thought I saw a tear in his eye, for if his tale was true it was twenty years since he last stood on these shores.
I then noticed the slight rain and realised there were no tears left in the scared faced man.

At over 6' he was imposing; I'd seen that most of his body was covered in scars, those visible were the ones on his face. One running horizontal under his left eye stopping just before his nose. The other a puckered circle on his right cheek. Over the two month voyage he'd told me the tales of all of them.

He was saying his farewells to the crew, even the first mate who now had a broken nose from their - disagreement. I'd noticed he was friendly to everyone, but friends with no-one.
The fight with the 'mate had happened the first day, as we were signing on board, the 'mate had laughed when the warrior had spelt out his name.
I new him as Fortu, he spelt it 42. It was not his birth name, but the slave number he was given when he was six and sold to the slave fighting pit owner.

The first few years of his life as a slave consisted of him cleaning and looking after the older pit fighters, he had no formal education and it had given me pleasure to teach him in the evenings on the ship.
His teen years had seen him put on muscle and start to learn the forms of various weapons. When he reached 6' he'd been given training with several two-handed weapons, his favoured being the bastard sword.
At twenty-one he fought in the pits for the first time. Team battles to start, against other pit slaves or exotic animals. He began to prove himself, being successful meant staying alive, he gain notoriety and started to fight in the pairs.
This is were he learned to be friendly to all, slave life is tough why make more hardship.
But no true friends, for who new when you would have to fight and kill each other.

In the country where he was a slave they had a religious festival every ten years, dedicated to their god of war. The festival ended with a pit fight tournament, the best fighters from each house fighting in a series of battles culminating in the final last man standing event. The winner would be favoured of the God and therefore no longer a slave.
Fortu had been selected with others of his house. It was during the lead up events that he'd received the puckered scar to his cheek. Faced against a net and trident fighter he'd become entangled, managing to just avoid a direct thrust, a side tine had ripped into his mouth. Sensing victory his opponent had released his hold on the net freeing Fortu enough to crash them both to the ground.
Whether is was loss of blood from the gouged eyes or bitten out tongue Fortu didnt know, but he was the only one to stand after.


Part two - Pit fighter freedom, to be continued

The Battle

Liga Bur sat astride Mir Hundur alongside the rest of the cavalry. The wargs his tribal brothers and sisters rode were wild and unruly brutes but Mir Hunder was calm beneath him, aside from the occasional snarl as he scented the Red Eyes arrayed before them on what would become the bloodiest of fields.

Only months before, The Red Eye tribe had descended from the mountains with no warning and unnatural speed, and quickly overrun their camp. Ever since, the Darkstars had been pushed back and harried and it seemed that no matter which way they turned the Red Eyes were there as if they had some magical ability to know where to lie in wait. 

Now, pushed back to the very edge of their territory, and with nowhere else to run besides into the barren desert, Madh Boss had finally decided it was time to stop running. The Red Eyes had whittled his tribe down piece by piece and now was the time to make a last stand, whether it broke the Darkstar Clan or not. The Clan was half broken already anyway, butchered, enslaved or scattered to the winds.

The Darkstars had managed finally managed to outmaneouvre their foes, and as they crested the hilltop they could see the Red Eyes were gathered in the valley below. The Darkstar war horns sounded, waking Liga Bur from his memories. A brief check was all he needed to make sure his equipmeent was where it should be. He sat his saddle proudly with bow and longsword carefully stowed but in easy reach. His buckler was strapped firmly to his arm, and his well balanced lance tapered to a wickedly sharp point. 

A moment later the horns sounded again, and this time the barely contained cavalry leapt to the charge. Using the descent into the valley to their advantage Liga Bur and the rest of the Darkstar Clan gathered such speed that the enemy rose up to meet them quicker than he expected. 

Sighting a particularly crazed looking Red Eye, Liga Bur lowered his lance and applied his knees to nudge Mir Hundur in the right direction. The orc before him was dead before he hit the ground... Liga Bur's lance had struck unerringly true and the body was left behind as Mir Hunder continued his charge into the horde. 

Battle was well and truly joined, but the momentum of the charge had been spent and as the warg cavalry risked becoming bogged down, Liga Bur discarded his battered and now useless lance. An enemy foot-orc launched himself against Mir Hundur's flank and grabbed desperately to pull Liga Burg from his saddle. Almost as one, Liga Bur and Mir Hunder countered. Liga Bur battered the attacking orc off with his buckler who, now already dazed and stumbling, was tripped to the ground by Mir Hundur. As his enemy tried to rise, Liga Bur drew his longsword and carved a fatal slash across the Red Eye's throat.

The battle raged for what seemed like hours, but eventually Liga Bur noticed the space and quiet around him. The fight was over. The Darkstar Clan had won the victory and he raised his own voice alongside his brethren in a howl of victory.

As their cries died down, an unnatural quiet passed over the field. A chill wind blew and a purple mist rose from the ground to cover their ankles. Slowly and quietly at first, the bodies of the Red Eyes twitched and began to rise. 

A supernatural laugh began to echo across the battlefield and the Darkstar Clan, almost as one, realised that whilst the battle may have been won he war was finally lost, and they routed - fleeing as quickly as possible from an enemy they now knew they could never hope to beat.

Straight as an Arowe

"I love that play, it is so uplifting!" Arowe enthusiastically said to Jen, his long suffering companion.  "I can just imagine myself out in the Badlands fighting disgusting Orcs and camping down with my buddies for the evening while we regale tales of our swash-buckling adventures"

"Really? 'Dancing with Death - A musical adventure with magic and faries' - I do worry about you sometimes Arowe. You just aren't cut out for that life. Do you love me at all?"

"Look, it is over; I am going, OK" said Arowe defiantly. "It doesn't matter what you or my oaf of a father say, I can do it and I will!  I've already picked out my outfit and my Uncle's gift of his ceremonial rapier swords just completes the picture! One day they will write a song and dance musical about me and my steadfast brothers in arms!"

Events moved fast and just a short week later Arowe was leaving Glendorne.  He was true to his word indeed.  But, within a day he knew it was going to be hard when, trying to meet some adventuring companions in a tavern, he was robbed of his purse of gold.  Still, he would not give up and soon enough he found some work helping to guard a delivery of mining equipment. That was the day he spotted and killed his very first Orc bandit.  It was a special skill and his companions knew it was worth keeping him around for his amazing ability with a bow.  The pink shirt could be dulled down under some armour, surely.

And so the tale of Arowe the unlikely Elf Fighter with his stunning bow began.  Soon he would be able to do more; when his friends saw him fight off two particularly nasty ruffians with a sword in either hand, they had to concede that despite his slight frame and his rather mincing walk, he was a useful chap in a pinch.  Just don't get withing pinching range!

Module 1

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A wish fulfilling lark or Shakespeare in the park?

There was a fair bit of chat today about what your new characters should be?
Daring Paladins, Shape-changing Druids, Glass Kobold Wizards?
Please feel free to choose whatever, whichever, whoever you want!
Will you be comrades-in-arms, scarred from a year long foreign crusade for an ungrateful King?
Three treacherous Assassins on a shared but deadly mission?
Perhaps just the traditional 'met in-a bar, rag-tag band of misfits, bound together by fate'?
The adventure's not even written yet and can easily be adjusted as we go.
Shall we play for laughs?
Will we go full method?
Maybe fall somewhere in the middle?
Personally, I'm not much of a role-player. As a player I mostly just play an idealised Ranger version of myself.
As a DM though, I can be a bit better. It helps that I only have to maintain character for a few minutes at a time but it's fun to try.
I'm looking forward to seeing what you come up with but remember, just like before, I'm happy for a little adjustment after the first couple of sessions.
Good luck and get scribbling.
:)

New Character Creation!

Not sure how often or how long we'll be playing but let's again forego the usual feeble levels and skip straight to third.

Same rules as before.
(D&D 3.5 core books only)

Hit Points: Maximum for 1st level. i.e. Barbarians get 12 + constitution bonus. Wizards get 4 + constitution bonus etc. After that, everyone gets 3/4 their class average rounded down per new level. i.e. Barbarians get: 9 + constitution bonus, Wizards get: 3+ constitution bonus (if any) and the annoying HP classes with a D6 get cheated with a 4+ constitution bonus etc.

Equipment: everyone comes with a full set of normal clothes and a shed load of money to spend on whatever they want (including Master-work equipment or magical items).

Attributes: Strength, Intelligence, Wisdom, Dexterity, Constitution and Charisma all start at: 8.
Raising costs points and you all start with: 32.

9 costs 1
10 costs 2
11 costs 3
12 costs 4
13 costs 5
14 costs 6
15 costs 8
16 costs 10
17. Costs 13
18 costs 16 (Maximum)

Gold: Stating money depends partially what class you choose.

Barbarians and Bards: 2,860gp
Monks: 2,720gp
Sorcery and Wizards: 2,820gp
Clerics and Thieves: 2,900gp
Druids: 2,780gp
Paladins, Fighters and Rangers: 2,940gp

Be whatever you want. A Fighter, a Wizard and a Rogue! Three savage, blood-thirsty Barbarians! Three suicidal Halfling Experts with anger management issues!

As your characters are going to be third level, I will expect your back stories posted up before we start play.

Again though, you may even want to create back-up characters for when I laugh and kill you.

Happy character creation!

Return to the Fissanian Planet

Welcome back to the world of Fissa gentle (and not so gentle) men!
For slightly over a hundred years, life has been good.
Since the long ago death of the Dragon queen, there have (apparently) been no major wars, natural disasters or evil, potentially world destroying, plots.
During this last century, the peoples of Fissa have all flourished. The Elves have prospered in their forests, the Dwarven ranks have grown beneath their underground Kingdoms and even the Orcish hordes (since their near total annihilation under Thereanthor's heel) have swollen back to near their previous numbers.
Fortunately, for the other races, the Orcs have mostly stayed within their traditional 'broken' lands, with the numerous tribes battling each-other, rather than mounting wars beyond their own borders.
None of the other races though have been as prolific as the clever and versatile Humans. Their rapidly expanding population and influence have spread throughout the known lands and advanced even further into the uncharted wilds...