S-Words

With a sudden lurch to the right, Cookie’s massive wagon comes to an abrupt halt and Rifkin looks to the two soldiers sitting with him in the back.

“What’s happening?”

Chape and Locket don’t answer though and instead, climb out of the open exit without a word. They’d all been on high alert ever since the suspiciously fallen tree about a mile back.

Steeling himself, the Bard clambers out behind them and peeks around the corner of the wagon. There’s an angry voice he doesn’t recognise, shouting near the front but more concerning are the dozen or so armed horse riders galloping towards them. Gritting his teeth, Rifkin mutters to himself under his breath.

“This is it. This is the moment I prove myself more than just a worthless minstrel.”

Drawing Spider Murphy’s magical short sword, Rifkin feels a strange sensation creeping up his wrist, through his arm, all the way to the top of his neck, where it joins with the base of his head and he hears another strange voice. A scratching, metallic whisper of a voice. 

Rifkin stops abruptly, mid-flourish and mentally strains to listen…

“Vampiric touch!”

Lowering the weapon with an involuntary shudder, the Demi-Elven Bard stares wide-eyed at the sinisterly gleaming blade now limply pointing toward the ground.

He’d had his fill of ‘intelligent’ swords, after Arowe’s Dryad-hating, magical rapier; Arogon Feybane. 

It had been fortunate that his Elven friend had been strong willed enough to resist its full influence, but the sword had still tricked them into attacking the beautiful Dryad guardians of Estrid’s mystical glade.

Seconds crawl by while Rifkin stares at the (apparently) inanimate sword held loosely in his hand, before he tentatively raises it up again in his pale fist and tries to ‘listen’ again to the, potentially intelligent, magical short-sword.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be too terrible? After all, wasn’t the recently staff bound, morally ambiguous, fire elemental; Dijonn, now a staunch ally to Liga Bur?

Another few seconds tick by and nothing immediately happens, but then the electrical itch travels up his arm again and he ‘hears’ the same words repeated just as before…

“Vampiric touch!”

The Time of March

We ended the last session at the heavily fortified outer wall of the towering and architecturally striking, Capital city of Cottis. You’d just overcome the psychotic Halfling bandit; Marvin and captured eleven of his ‘Dirty dozen’ plus all of their horses. Now (finally) you’re about to meet the legendary (near) centenarian; Lord Urdurel himself.

We’ve done February, so here are some possible (currently/semi-pathetically all clear for me) 9am weekend game dates for March…

Sunday the 1st

Saturday the 7th

Sunday the 8th

Saturday the 14th

Sunday the 15th

Saturday the 21st

Sunday the 22nd

Saturday the 28th

Sunday the 29th

Dwunken Drarves

Feeling like squat giants, sitting in the low ceilinged Halfling tavern; ‘The Short Stack’, the Dwarven blacksmith; Bunkum and missionary; Vinculum share the last dregs of a precious keg of specially imported, double-brewed ‘Rock-bottom’, Dwarven beer.

The Humans of Thornflek are, mostly, good-natured, tolerable and decent customers but the affable Halflings, in their ‘quarter’ of the town, make everyone feel welcome.

The barrel-chested Bunkum, smooths down his bushy red beard and burps, before raising his slopping tankard.

“It was a great shame that young Banaal could only stay with us for a single night. I’d’ve liked to hear more of his fantastical journey and, more importantly, of what’s happening back home, under Mount Verloren.”

The equally tipsy, Dwarven priest; Vinculum raises his half-full tankard in response.

“Considering his youth, I was impressed by his level of enlightenment. He’s barely half my age but his divine connection to Moradin already far outstrips my own.”

Bunkum, the defacto leader of Thornflek’s small Dwarven enclave, leans forward conspiratorially and whispers.

“From what I understand, they’ll need to be. War is definitely coming and the enemy won’t be fragile Humans or Elves.”

The Dwarven cleric sags a little on his stool, as he clunks his, now emptied, tankard down.

“But what can a single war-priest of Moradin, no matter how gifted, do against the legion of the damned?”

Gold, Gems and Magic Stuff

Lots of gold was made by selling the useless (for you) but valuable loot that Rifkin has been lugging around and then immediately spent by buying magic potions, scrolls and one magic ring last session. While trying to keep track of it, I may have let something slip. Please have a look and let me know if I’m at all mistaken.

Current character wealth (including recently purchased personal magical items and equipment).

Banaal: 

Gold: 863gp

10 gems (worth 100gp each) 

4 gems (worth 50gp each)

Potion of Jump x3

Potion of Fly

Scroll of Water Breathing

Scroll of Wind Wall

Fortu: 

Gold: 1194gp  

6 gems (worth 25gp each)

Potion of Fly

Potion of Cure Light Wounds x5

Potion of Protection from Evil

Liga Bur: 

Gold: 18gp (Owes Rifkin 350gp)

Ring of Protection +1

Potion of Cure Light Wounds x2

Rifkin: 

Gold: 637gp  

7 gems (worth 25gp each)

Nonogonagal’s Magical Emporium

Sweeping the accidentally spilled coins on the floor into a few unequal piles, the Wizard’s spotty apprentice; Mouton sighs squeakily.

“That Halfling was a bit cheeky, wasn’t he? Asking for a 25% discount for that 2,000gp Ring of Protection!”

The older, mostly retired Wizard, turns creakily around with a pained expression etched onto his face.

“Please don’t use that ridiculous ‘modern’ system of yours here; just say ‘a quarter off’. Also, cheekiness is baked into their breed. You can’t blame a Halfling for their intrinsically funny nature.”

Pulling his, too long, lilac coloured robe sleeves back up over his knuckles for the umpteenth time, the apprentice Wizard raises an eyebrow.

“He didn’t seem that ‘funny’ to me and his face looked like it’d been repeatedly used as a football during his, obviously rough, childhood.”

The tall, purple clad; Nonogonagal frowns.

“True; he was ‘funny’ but just not in the usual Halfling sense and his ‘cloth’ surprisingly revealed him to be of the Druidic faith.”

Rex, the heavily armoured guard by the door, is usually a man of very few words, but he adds a few more of them now.

“They were ALL funny, but ‘funny’ in the weird sense, not funny ‘Ha Ha’.

The small owl and the tatty Raven on the counter, add their voices to the conversation. Heralding his comment with a throaty cough, the darker bird caws.

“I’ve seen weirder!”

After which, wide eyed, the small owl asks.

“Whoo?”

Losing Faith

The poster depicts Faith Menschy, a pretty sixteen-year-old girl from a middle-class but not particularly wealthy family. The poster captures a fair likeness, showing her curly mouse coloured hair, pale eyes and a small scar on her right eyebrow.Unlike Lord Urdurel’s mass printed recruitment poster, these are hand drawn and lettered. One hundred gold pieces means a lot to her parents but their daughter obviously means a great deal more.

Recruitment Poster

 

Rifkin examines the recruitment poster with mild amusement. He’d never seen Lord Urdurel in real life, but the face represented in the poster was of a man still in rude health. Perhaps in his early sixties and certainly not the near hundred year old he actually is.

Positive state propaganda he supposes. Better to dupe the people into believing they still have a strong leader, rather than a doddering old man, especially in these terrifying times with a war possibly looming.

The last line is interesting though.

‘Musicians also required’.

A strange addition to an, otherwise standard, army poster…