The Righteous Follow the Light of a Dark Star

In the gloom of Megarna’s thatched hut, the young Witch; Kasandra deeply inhales the herb infused smoke and stares intensely at the blood-soaked knuckle bones in the wooden bowl.

“Our enemies fate will depend upon whether they follow the light of a dark star.”

Megarna scowls.

“Yes, yes. I know all about the Halfling’s importance. He is the only one who truly understands how we plan to upset the balance of this world and the others trust him to lead them in the right direction. What else?”

Kasandra breathes in the thick, aromatic smoke once more.

“I see that the Dark-star has changed. He has turned from the crimson of the Orcs to the celadon of the Druids.”

Megarna’s brow furrows.

“Changed direction? To their benefit or ours?”

The young auger cowers under the penetrating glare of the High Crone of her recently joined Coven.

“To theirs my Mistress. To theirs.”

'he fled too late'

 For a few moments, as Henshaw led Barbella and Doberman through the group heading to stand with their old buddies, Fortu felt the rage of betrayal. Already cursing his own failure at spotting the well planned ambush, the old Liga Bur would never have been so clumsy but Fortu still had a lot to learn, he'd thought that by now the trio were firm members of the group. As he turned to face them, his hand dropping to the hilt of his 'awesome' sword, murderous thoughts of killing all three, he saw Henshaw's wink. Based on his years in the fight pit and the tells taught him by Liga Bur and maybe just a naïve desire to believe he trusted their actions.

As they moved forward he took up their position to the rear, he counted eight bandits - four pup orcs and four guardsmen. Rolling his shoulders he unsheathed his sword ready for the havoc of battle.

Fortu was lucky to be able to close the distance to his foes and meet them at the edge of the clearing, this meant that although outnumbered he could only be faced by four at a time. The young orcs we keen but untried, feinting high he struck low taking the foremost orc in the thigh his return swing slicing across the now dead orcs throat, as he'd been trained in the pits the return swing cleaved into the next orc just below the ribs.

Fortu saw that his opponents were heavily out classed; his training, better armour and of course awesome sword assured Fortu of the outcome. The orcs would fight to the death, their honour code permitted giving or receiving no quarter, but the guards were just like Henshaw maybe they would see reason. Yelling as he swung 'awesome' "flee now or die, you will not win" He'd hoped that the sight of him cleaving through the orcs, blood and viscera splattering freely would set the guards to flee but the fools didn't. Maybe they thought their numbers and the archers in the trees would sway the fight but behind him Banal, Liga Bur and (eventually) Henshaw and the boys had diminished the ranks of the other guards. With each swing of 'awesome' he shouted for them to flee until only two remained. It was then that they realised defeat was imminent and fled. Sensibly in different directions, they fled into the overgrown forest. But Fortu was now passed caring for their well being, he'd taken a couple of arrows and the orcs with their great axes had also wounded him. In pain and battle rage he crashed into the woods, his armoured figure easily catching one guard slowed by the thickness of vegetation. The guard on hearing Fortu's pursuit stopped and turned, his face may have shown fear his actions were definitely of surrender but all Fortu saw in his anger was an enemy. His left hand raised, his thumb horizontal wavering, then just like so many times in the pits it dropped down.

As he withdrew the blade and returned to the others he was unsure but thought he heard whispered a mans voice "that's my boy"

No Honour Among Sleaze

The skirmish is over almost as fast as it began and Spider Murphy and his rag-tag band of mercenaries and cut-throats are either dead or driven off. 

After calming down the over-excited Doberman, blonde mopped Henshaw turns to Barbella.

“Why’d ya do it? Why did you betray your old friend O’Malley? I thought you said that you were only ‘Doing what you were told, for the sake of all the gold’?”

The smaller, swarthier Barbella shrugs.

“You trust the adventurers, so I trust the adventurers.”

Henshaw beams at his old friend.

“You secret softy. I knew I hung around you for a reason.”

Baring his teeth and exposing the occasional gold replacement, Barbella smiles tightly.

“You realise that I did it for you, not them and on top of that, I wouldn’t trust Spider Murphy further than I could throw ‘im’”

Henshaw raises his eyebrows in response.

“That’s fair. Safer to associate with the good you know, than a self-serving psychopath!”

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.