March-ing Past February

Hi Boys,

Glad that my running the 'Map-cam' worked out to everyone’s satisfaction. I weirdly found that my face being off camera, was liberating rather than distracting. In addition, I was able to set everything up in advance, so there was no need for poor Assif to worry about unwrapping multiple packages in real time and tracking EVERYONE'S movement, especially all my NPCs!

In the future, it’ll also save me the trouble of driving up to St Albans to drop of or collect the boxloads of minis and models in advance of every session.

While Assif's two camera setup is definitely superior to my old webcam toggling system, the stresses are still much easier for me.

Role-play = My face. Combat = Map-cam.

Everyone was very generous with healing potions and spells for poor, clumsy Doberman last session, but a lot of you got minor injuries. Perhaps not the canny Liga Bur or the cowardly Rifkin, but Fortu, Arowe, Doberman, Henshaw and Barbella definitely took some minor spear, acid or sonic damage. Liga Bur’s summoned boar certainly saved Henshaw’s, Doberman's and Barbella's lives!

So, while still fresh-ish in your minds, could you also all please note down your PCs and NPCS hit points, potions, spells and arrows used while you’ve still got the scraps of paper to hand.

Arowe only fired two arrows in the last session and Liga Bur only one in the session before but I’d still like you both to track your quivers. I suspect Arowe’s last normal one is about to run out and I’ve completely lost track of Liga Bur’s.

Like always, I flubbed some of the encounter descriptions but, like always, I'll compensate for my in-game panic by writing expositional Orange Inn posts. As Assif's away, Coachman-holidaying in the Algarve for the entirety of February, I'll have plenty of time to post up more stories and information.

That said, as I've already taken back responsibility for the map-cam, I might as well relieve Scott of the scheduling too. Better that I do it now than spend weeks fretting that no-one wants to play.

We've already done January, Assif's away working all through February and, as he'll probably still be unpacking/readjusting on the first weekend of March, I suggest the following 8.30am (UK) dates...

Saturday the 9th March

Sunday the 10th March

Saturday the 16th March

Sunday the 17th March

Saturday the 30th March

Sunday the 31st March

Between seven to ten weeks between sessions, I'd prefer earlier rather than later but I'm currently free for all these dates. As soon as we can reach a consensus though, we can cement the date in.

Will Arowe be able to make another impossible shot to loosen the emerald semi-hidden in the smaller spinning orb?

Will Liga Bur sacrifice anymore of his summoned creatures to get the Party out of problematic jams/slimes?

Will Fortu spend the rest of the campaign using his ‘Awesome’ new sword to cut through various stone and metal traps and doors?

Did we decide whether ‘Undoubtably’ Was a word yet?

I'm already looking forward to the next session!

Edit: Nice quick turnaround. Next game session: Saturday the 9th of March. Assume an 8.30am UK start unless informed otherwise.

Confusing and Incorrect Game Date Reminder

Too Fat too Furious!

With the flame creature; Dijonn burning hot and bright from the torch held tightly in his fist, Liga Bur leads his teammates up the cold, slightly spiralling, stone steps. At the top, they come to an open doorway but, sensing danger, the Halfling allows his bigger comrades; Fortu and Doberman to stride past him and into the vast, windowless but worryingly empty room. There's nothing there though, no walls other than the outer ones and no furniture of any description. No furnishings at all except a series of oversized, gold framed paintings lining those otherwise bare outer walls.

As Fortu enters, his newly illuminated Bastard-sword also helps light the dark chamber but only the sensitive eyed Arowe is able to make out all of the paintings clearly. On each of the four tall walls, hang three or four large and skilfully painted portraits. Undoubtably masterpieces by Human standards. Each of them depicting the same beautiful woman in various poses; Riding side-saddle atop a powerful white horse, fussing an enormous dog, walking hand in hand with a solemn looking crowned man and, the largest one, depicting her cradling a rosy-cheeked, new-born baby. She is perhaps somewhere in her thirties in all these paintings but beyond her long fair hair and full bosom, it's her gentle smile that catches your attention. Warm and wise, yet Arowe gets the distinct feeling that the artist somehow, despite their obvious skill, still failed to do it justice.

It wasn't the oversized paintings that had triggered Liga Bur's 'danger sense' though, it was the soft growl from Mir Hundur and the black and grey checkerboard flagstones on the floor. An unnecessary pattern seemingly dividing the empty room into sixty-four separate sections. It's just a feeling though and although he pauses, sensing a possible trick, it's not enough to prevent the less concerned Arowe following the more heavily armoured Fortu and Doberman through the stone doorway.

Fortu gets about a third-way across the room towards the exit on the opposite corner, when there's an ominous click from above...

Spears suddenly spike down at Fortu and Arowe. The Elf gracefully dances back into the safety of the doorframe but Fortu lurches forward out of the way of the first one, only to spring a second and then a third! Now sprawled on the floor, Fortu's forced to rely on his heavy, enchanted armour to turn the spear's metal tip, and thankfully it does. Looking back up, the Human Gladiator realises that he's less than twenty feet from the next doorway and stairwell. He's closer to that one than the one he entered from but the spear-traps behind him are sprung and therefore safe for the moment.

The rotund Doberman though, suffers a different fate. The dark flagstone slab beneath him literally splits open and he falls downward and out of sight before he even has a chance to react. Bellowing in anger rather than fear, the screaming Doberman falls much further than he expected to. Far, far downward, accompanied by a shower of tiny, brightly coloured gemstones. Sliding down for maybe thirty feet, the wide-eyed, roly-poly, rage-filled Warrior's wide-set frame starts to grind against the smooth stone tube, slowing him enough, that he's able to grab onto the suddenly open lip of the wide vertical pipe.

Hanging in the darkness by just his chubby fingertips, the fat Warrior hears the gemstone gravel land with a series of gentle plops and sploshes onto something way down below him. Something wet!

With his stubby legs thrashing uselessly in the dank air under him, Doberman gazes back upwards through the long vertical tube at the tiny spot of light high above him. Adjusting his grip and his attitude, the now frightened Fighter, unsure how long he'll be able to hold on, calls upward. 

"Hey yoooou guys!"

Forty feet above him, even as the heavily armoured Fortu struggles back to his feet, the five sprung traps suddenly reset. The four triggered spears retract back into their hidden ceiling holes and the star-shaped pit trap snaps closed again, sharply and instantly cutting off Doberman's plaintive cries. The joins are so perfect, it's almost impossible for Liga Bur to see that they were there at all!

It Liga Burns!

The battle is over and the four Mace-hand-maidens lie slashed, smashed and broken but still weirdly upright on their bronze rods and rails. The newly rescued and fiercely flaming Dijonn dims down slightly to preserve the remainder of his already mostly used-up torch, allowing Liga Bur to relax his slightly singed but rigidly straight arm and unsquint his eyes against the heat and brightness. 

With now no immediate threat, the alert Elves, Arowe and Rifkin search the dank, moss covered walls for any hidden mechanisms or traps, while Fortu and the three Scarborough soldiers stand guard. Liga Bur though, takes the opportunity to learn what he can from his newly acquired 'servant'. Dijonn's bigger than before but his burning form is completely translucent with no physical body beneath his Orange flame and when he speaks, his voice is like the hiss and crackle of burning logs and sticks.

"I've been imprisoned here for what feels like a century by the vile Lord Urdurel. His son passed through here perhaps a week ago but ignored me, even as I pleaded for his help. Like Father, like scum, I suppose!"

"How could I tell? They looked alike, although the son seemed strangely older than his father. Actually, in hindsight, it has been a long time. Perhaps Lord Urdurel is long dead by now..."

"This Tower. 'Dulcetta's Tower' was named after his first wife and enchanted and booby-trapped by Gnomish arcane engineers, before being transported here... Wherever 'Here' is? It's a prison for Hetzabah; Lord Urdurel's second wife. Punishment for murdering his first wife and his teenage daughter; Lamenta."

As soon as Arowe finishes sabotaging all the secret mechanisms he'd found, he signals the all-clear and Liga Bur uses Dijonn's fiery light to lead them all up the steep, curving, stone stairway. The Gimlet-eyed Halfling leads them upwards, rather than down after heeding Dijonn's fearful warning of "The horrible Wetness" below. 

As the Party slowly ascend, centipedes and beetles scuttle into cracks in the stonework and several small black rats scamper away from the noise of the heavy, armoured footfall and the light of Dijonn's searing flame.

A Thorn(berg)y Issue

With his heavy brow knitted in a suspicious frown, the Druid Thornberg transports himself and his massive bear from the goddess Estrid's grove, through the mystical green pathway. The journey is quick but not instantaneous and the very large Druid is puffing heavily by the time he and his animal companion emerge from the single large Oak tree in the Three-Quarterling's far distant, hidden and magical glade.

Thornberg is a truly massive man; dressed in the simple brown vestments of his brotherhood. A head and shoulders taller than the six-foot tall plus Fortu and at least a hundred pounds heavier, but he's still dwarfed by his brown furred guardian. The mighty Grizzly bear sniffs the air and grunts softly and Thornberg's broad shoulders relax. If Bamse's trusty nose senses no danger, then there's no danger to sense.

There are a few bizarre looking creatures milling around by the pond but none of them make any threatening movements or show any signs of aggression. Mostly untroublesome insect mixes but there are a collection of about a dozen curiously quacking fox/duck hybrids that waddle on their webbed feet towards him.

Thornberg can't help but smile momentarily, despite the sombre reason for his visit.

A flock of Fucks!

His grin abruptly fades though as he turns and directs his attention back to the grim task at hand. The big man and bigger bear spend the next ten minutes or so, retracing the Three-Quarterling's last few hours of life but Thornberg curses when he comes across the bodies of the tiny, smeared and dismembered Scorcion and arrow peppered, feathered horse Howl, before finally discovering the unmarked mound of soil covering the pulped remains of his small friend. There's barely enough of him left to recognise and far too much time has passed for any sort of reincarnation spell. The mixed Halfling/Human is beyond his powers to save.

Despite this though, Thornberg still continues with his investigation. From previously speaking to the simple souled, winged Dork, he was already certain that the adventurers were lying about what happened here and was determined to discover the full truth. After instructing his bear Bamse to guard the entrance, Thornberg ducks his head and squeezes his bulky frame through the unlocked, arched door in the cave, deep behind the vertical rocky wall. Bending low to accommodate for the much smaller Druids dwelling, Thornberg searches the place as best as he's able. There was no battle here but the place has obviously been searched, with desks broken into and secret hatches and hiding places found. No battle that is, until he discovers the yellow and black striped corpse of the poisonous Beer lying in the iron-barred cellar below. Sword slashes across its chitinous torso and four arrows still protruding from the creatures shaggy head, one of them piercing deep through its big, buggy, compound eye and into its tiny brain.

Four finely fletched Elven arrows...

Pushing back outside and into the sunlight, Thornberg finally whispers a few secret Druidic incantations and breathes a semblance of sentience into the tree he'd recently emerged from.

"Tell me friend Oak... What exactly did you see here?"