Return to the Cottage of Doom!

Much to my surprise, our abject failure to find a free date for an online session in October has somehow motivated us into playing in person for an entire weekend at the cottage in November!

Saturday the 1st of November 2025

I’ll continue posting the Saturday stories but I’d better get planning. My usual three pre-arranged encounters won’t be enough! 

See you all at around midday!

No, No, No, November?

With October a bust, let’s try November. 

Scott’s efficiently provided his availability and David’s provisionally approved them. After taking my few pre-bookings away, we’re still left with:

Saturday the 1st of November.

Sunday the 2nd of November.

Saturday the 8th of November.

Sunday the 9th of November.

Sunday the 16th of November.

Saturday the 22nd of November.

Sunday the 30th of November.

Assif, our fate is in your hands…

Assif has spoken and we have a date!

Sunday the 2nd of November.

9am.

October Turnaround?

As we only managed to make it through three days travelling, one big messy combat encounter and didn’t get to anywhere near reaching Lord Urdurel, let’s aim for less than a month between sessions.

I’ll give myself at least a fortnight’s breather though as I’ve got a couple of busy weekends and simultaneously running thirty assorted bad guys, one good but cowardly Bard and three morally dubious, will-they-or-won’t-they-betray-you, henchmen was exhausting!

Any of these morning dates possible for everyone?

9am, Saturday morning, the 11th of October, 2025.

9am, Sunday morning, the 12th of October, 2025.

9am, Saturday morning, the 18th of October, 2025.

9am, Sunday morning, the 19th of October, 2025.

9am, Saturday morning, the 25th of October, 2025.

9am, Sunday morning, the 26th of October, 2025.

Next session may be more role-playey but I can guarantee you nothing.

Well that didn’t work out! I’ll try for November…

Moving Pieces

A disembodied voice, feminine and small, yet strong and resolute, speaks into the featureless ether.

“Our strategy isn’t working. The Demon Prince’s  plan bounds way ahead.”

A refined, musical and oddly asexual Elven voice responds.

“You are mistaken. One of my champions is on his way to recruit the legions of the Grey as we speak, while the other maintains a watch over your two.”

Two voices call out, almost simultaneously, from the mist. One deep, gruff and animalistic, the other higher pitched  but just as commanding.

“And ours is returning to the Human realms to help instigate the unification of their armies.”

The first voice replies once more.

“It’s not enough. Pampered Elves, unrefined Humans and my poor, tortured Halfling champion won’t be enough. It’s time we involved the Dwarves.”

…

It’s the androgynous Elven voice that responds first, but only after a lengthy silence. 

“If we must. I suppose a champion of Moradin is an acceptable alternative to recruiting an uncouth agent of Old One Eye.”

Somewhere though, in the background, a guttural and echoey laugh can be faintly heard.

Mule or Fuel?

The strange group of fleshy creatures had long departed with a few of its root-retrieved trinkets, but the Lightning tree still finds itself mulling over their last baffling encounter.

The heavily armoured Human had been gone for considerably longer than the sentient tree had initially anticipated but Fortu had finally returned to keep his word.

The concept of time is relative though, especially to one as long lived as the Lightning tree. One week, one month, one year; what does it matter, as long as the promise was eventually fulfilled?

Fortu’s timing had been extremely fortuitous though. Arriving with a considerable amount of ‘gift meat’ just when it’d been arguing with a Dwarf about the very definition of food and that ‘meat wasn’t murder’ unless the animal could speak.

The Dwarf; Banal had vehemently disagreed, claiming that his mule wasn’t food but actually his trusted steed and companion. This made little sense though as the Halfling, Liga Bur had previously gone to great lengths to explain the difference during their previous meeting. 

‘Intelligent meaty creatures are not food but, simple minded, grazing animals and scavengers were. If it can talk, it’s not food but instead a potential friend or ally.’

This would make the braying creature, that it had scooped up in its branches, definitely fall into the category of ‘morally edible’, so why did the Dwarf object so fiercely?

Perhaps because the Mule had been taught a few tricks and was being used to carry Banal’s equipment?

Ultimately, it didn’t really matter though. Fortu had honoured his promise to return with meat and so consuming the mule had become unnecessary. The four deer carcasses, now interred deeply beneath it, would rot slowly and provide sustenance for months to come. 

Alone again, the Lightning tree begins to absorb the slowly releasing nutrients through its tendril-like roots and considers the conundrum.

Perhaps it’s simply that unintelligent creatures, like the Dwarf’s mule; Murmul or the Halfling’s hound; Mir Hundur, are not to be considered to be merely food, if they’d been given an actual name?

Opposing Magic Numbers

In the draped gloom of her heavy, circular, travelling tent, Megarna stares into her crystal ball sat in the centre of the small, round table.

“I’ve been tracking them since they returned to Fissa, as you asked me to, Mistress.”

In the centre of the glassy orb a face can be dimly seen. An ancient, grotesque and evil face.

“And their number remains seven?”

Megarna, her eyes slightly averted from the intensity of the expression on Hetzabah’s true face..

“Yes, despite the Elven Archer leaving them, his place has been almost immediately taken up by a Dwarven Cleric of Moriden.”

Hetzabah spits.

“Four Humans, a Halfling, a Demi-Elf and their new Dwarven recruit. Seven is a bad number for us. A terrible omen. A fated powerful number for the Gods of Law and Good.”

Megarna tries to meet her Mistress’s eyes.

“But our Coven has reached eleven. Only two more recruits needed to reach the equally powerful number thirteen. A magnifier for the powers of evil.”

In the core of the crystal ball, Hetzabah cackles.

“True enough my loyal servant. This game still goes our way. These ‘heroes’ barely comprehend the stakes of their involvement.”