Emiricol
Registered User
This is for my Midnight campaign, which uses Riddle of Steel instead of D&D for the mechanics, and Ars Magica (modified) for the magic system. It gives a very epic feel, with combat that is both bloody and encourages PCs to fight for causes (not cash). I think the tone suits Midnight perfectly
Prolog Part I
It had been a cold winter, the frozen North seemingly bent on swallowing up the Plains of Eris Aman. Unfortunately, thought Olaf bitterly, the cold came not with snow, or rather, not enough. Snow erased their tracks, and without it they had to move slowly to avoid leaving a trail any twice-damned Oruk could follow with ease.
Olaf sat for now at the low, well-hidden fire the bandits had made to fight the chill. A glance over to the sentry showed the man had the same priority he himself did, but of course could not leave his post. Watch was the longest hour of the night, without doubt. With a chuckle, Olaf tore a bit of steaming, dripping flesh off the hare he had caught earlier. He noted one of the bandits eyeing the scrawny carcass longingly.
Better to make friends, if I must travel with bandits. At least the only ones with anything worth taking are the bastards of Shadow. His finger traced lightly upon the spear next to him - if it came to that, this spear had taken at least two Oruk last night, when he'd met up with these rough Men more or less by accident, as they were ambushing a couple dozen Oruk on patrol. It could just as easily take the bandit watching him.
Yes, better to make friends...
Olaf smiled at the man and nodded. "Aye, come then. Have a leg, and some wamth in your belly man."
The other came over and nodded. He tossed him an Oruk tusk, the best he could offer in payment. "Dornhild. I saw you fighting last night, when the Oruk broke from the killing ground and rushed the hill we were on. Two, right?"
Olaf nodded. Counting kills was fun, but hardly what he wanted to talk about with food before him. The other continued, his gruff voice almost a whisper, as was the habit of all of these men. Loud conversation drew the enemy, after all. So would the smell of rabbit, but a Man had to eat... "Fine hare. Well cooked. I'm glad you decided to join us. I have a feeling more than one escaped last night, and your spear is going to be a welcome addition before too much longer, I suspect."
The man froze, then. Eyes narrowed, hard as iron. "We are being watched. There, in that copse of pitiful pines. One. Taller than a goblin, shorter than an Oruk."
Olaf frowned. "You are a Northman. We've all heard the tales," he said with caution. It was a touchy subject.
The other man spit. "Bah. Don't be getting me started on the tales of women! No one's seen one of them. Not in my lifetime, if ever they did exist."
Olaf smiled. "We're close to the forest of the snow ghosts. Who knows what manner of Fey might still live in those woods? Men don't go there, nor does Shadow. Why? I say it's a curse or it's *them*."
Dornhild was smiling, about to slap him on the shoulder with a laugh, when the twig snapped. They had laid out twigs from the nearby trees in a circle around the encampment in the little depression they were in, a makeshift alarm.
Then another snap, over there.
And another from the far side.
Olaf had his spear in hand before he even realized it, before his mind could decipher the simple meaning of twigs breaking, and he kicked over the firebasket, releasing its dirt onto the fire to eliminate the light and smell. Dornhild, spear somewhere else, drew his axe and crouched. The sentry was nowhere to be found. Where was the sentry?
The smell of blood wafted across their position, a probable explanation for the missing bandit sentry.
Fear crept into Olaf, cold and clamy with a grip he could not squirm his mind free of. Izraedor's curse, but we're surrounded! He found himself suddenly back to back with the dozen other men he had joined with. Most had spears out, some had shield and axe. The axemen did their best to cover the spearmen next to them, as well.
They waited. The sounds of the night were gone, insects silent or fleeing, birds no longer crawing in the darkness. Even the fire, which crackled merrily just moments before despite the dirt of the firebasket, in his mind seemed somehow diminished in its volume. The only thing loud was the rushing thunder of blood in his ears, and the deep thud of his dry throat trying reflexively to swallow. Dry mouth. Dry throat.
Somewhere behind Olaf, one of the men shifted his weight to get a better balance. Almost as if on cue with this, a rain of a dozen javelins streaked toward them in a deadly arc, aimed entirely at the shield-wielding axemen.
Orc javelins, these. No Oruk, thankfully. A small blessing, however - even as his mind collected these thoughts, one javelin bounced off the shield of the man to his right. To his left, the man who had fed off his rabbit was struck in the shin, the javelin passing clean through the limb - bone included by the sickening sound of it - and he gasped and fell, tripped by the length of wood now protruding from his leg.
All around Olaf this was the story, but he had not time to see to them, nor gauge their state, for the Orcs were now charging forth from the darkness, their long wicked cleaver-like Vardach swords raised over their heads as they cried out their warcries and moved in to engage the seven Men who remained standing, spears readied.
Typical Orc fashion, only half charged, the other half staying ready to pick off any Man who fled, or if the battle should turn against them, ready to flee to bring word to the nearest twice-damned Legate. May I live to slay a hundred of them!
The Orc that rushed Olaf had a deep scar across his face and left eye, clearly a veteran of combat. The raw fear of the moment prompted Olaf to take an offensive stance, lashing out at the Orc long before it could reach him. It struck the creature under the ribs, speartip sliding deeply in despite the tough hide of his foe.
Olaf spared a quick thought to thank the stars that this one didn't have a shield or armor, or it may not have been injured at all. As it worked out, however, Olaf was certain that the blow hit this creature's liver, a mortal wound. The Orc screamed as his momentum kept his feet going while his body slid slowly off the spear. Olaf had not much time to consider this, however, for around him the battle still raged.
An Orc had finished off the spearman next to him, and spotting Olaf gut one of their number, charged him to close the distance. Olaf broke ranks with his fellow spearmen to avoid the powerful blow, coming as it did before he was well prepared to receive the charge.
The two circled, for the moment unable to care about or focus on the cries of anguish and the stench of blood all around them. The Orc let out a snarl and charged, just as Olaf did the same, and only the longer length of his spear kept the orc from striking him simultaneously. Olaf aimed for the chest once more, the Orc knocked the speartip aside and moved to strike the human with his cruel vardach. With a quick shuffle back and to the left, Olaf avoided the blow and then suddenly reversed direction, moving in low to take the orc in the gut while momentum favored him. The tip of the spear slid past the Orc's guard and embedded into his upper hip, a gout of blood pouring from the wound while this orc, too, cried out. He staggered, and the internal bleeding would finish this orc off if nothing else did, but Olaf wasn't giving it a chance. He simply thrust once more at the thing, and it didn't have the strength to defend. A spear through the eye and it was all over.
Glancing around the field of battle, Olaf saw that of the six orcs who had charged, three remained standing, while five of his spear-wielding companions did. Ha! We may win this yet, you bloody grey bastards! As the two sides circled around and tried to regroup - just for a moment - another hail of accursed javelins rained down upon the remaining Humans. Damn, I forgot about them! Here they come! Oh, bloody..
Olaf watched the javelins coming, fear forgotten in the heat of the moment. He raised his spear to try to deflect it, but in one sickening moment he realized it would hit - he was too high... The javelin tip rent his leg, piercing the knee directly and embedding itself up to the wood, and an inch beyond. Bone shattered, piercing his skin further. Olaf looked down, dazed, noting in an almost detached fashion the bones protruding from his leg. It took him a moment to realize he was on his side, on the ground.
And another moment to realize there was an Orc rushing at him. With all the effort he could muster, he raised his spear, hoping to take the bastard with him - there was no way he could fight for long. He put everything he had into driving the speartip into the rushing Orc's gut.
He watched in glee as his speartip swung into position a moment before the orc reached him... and his spirits sank as he realized he had not the strength to follow through with the attack. The toothy Orc grinned, a grin any predator would immediately recognize. He batted the speartip aside with distain, and howling, swung at Olaf's head with that meatcleaver they used as swords, nearly as long as a man is tall - his Vardach.
Olaf felt the blade hit his skull. Felt himself falling over backwards from the impact as the light drained into blackness. He never felt himself hit the snow. Somewhere, an Orc screamed in victory...
Prolog Part I
It had been a cold winter, the frozen North seemingly bent on swallowing up the Plains of Eris Aman. Unfortunately, thought Olaf bitterly, the cold came not with snow, or rather, not enough. Snow erased their tracks, and without it they had to move slowly to avoid leaving a trail any twice-damned Oruk could follow with ease.
Olaf sat for now at the low, well-hidden fire the bandits had made to fight the chill. A glance over to the sentry showed the man had the same priority he himself did, but of course could not leave his post. Watch was the longest hour of the night, without doubt. With a chuckle, Olaf tore a bit of steaming, dripping flesh off the hare he had caught earlier. He noted one of the bandits eyeing the scrawny carcass longingly.
Better to make friends, if I must travel with bandits. At least the only ones with anything worth taking are the bastards of Shadow. His finger traced lightly upon the spear next to him - if it came to that, this spear had taken at least two Oruk last night, when he'd met up with these rough Men more or less by accident, as they were ambushing a couple dozen Oruk on patrol. It could just as easily take the bandit watching him.
Yes, better to make friends...
Olaf smiled at the man and nodded. "Aye, come then. Have a leg, and some wamth in your belly man."
The other came over and nodded. He tossed him an Oruk tusk, the best he could offer in payment. "Dornhild. I saw you fighting last night, when the Oruk broke from the killing ground and rushed the hill we were on. Two, right?"
Olaf nodded. Counting kills was fun, but hardly what he wanted to talk about with food before him. The other continued, his gruff voice almost a whisper, as was the habit of all of these men. Loud conversation drew the enemy, after all. So would the smell of rabbit, but a Man had to eat... "Fine hare. Well cooked. I'm glad you decided to join us. I have a feeling more than one escaped last night, and your spear is going to be a welcome addition before too much longer, I suspect."
The man froze, then. Eyes narrowed, hard as iron. "We are being watched. There, in that copse of pitiful pines. One. Taller than a goblin, shorter than an Oruk."
Olaf frowned. "You are a Northman. We've all heard the tales," he said with caution. It was a touchy subject.
The other man spit. "Bah. Don't be getting me started on the tales of women! No one's seen one of them. Not in my lifetime, if ever they did exist."
Olaf smiled. "We're close to the forest of the snow ghosts. Who knows what manner of Fey might still live in those woods? Men don't go there, nor does Shadow. Why? I say it's a curse or it's *them*."
Dornhild was smiling, about to slap him on the shoulder with a laugh, when the twig snapped. They had laid out twigs from the nearby trees in a circle around the encampment in the little depression they were in, a makeshift alarm.
Then another snap, over there.
And another from the far side.
Olaf had his spear in hand before he even realized it, before his mind could decipher the simple meaning of twigs breaking, and he kicked over the firebasket, releasing its dirt onto the fire to eliminate the light and smell. Dornhild, spear somewhere else, drew his axe and crouched. The sentry was nowhere to be found. Where was the sentry?
The smell of blood wafted across their position, a probable explanation for the missing bandit sentry.
Fear crept into Olaf, cold and clamy with a grip he could not squirm his mind free of. Izraedor's curse, but we're surrounded! He found himself suddenly back to back with the dozen other men he had joined with. Most had spears out, some had shield and axe. The axemen did their best to cover the spearmen next to them, as well.
They waited. The sounds of the night were gone, insects silent or fleeing, birds no longer crawing in the darkness. Even the fire, which crackled merrily just moments before despite the dirt of the firebasket, in his mind seemed somehow diminished in its volume. The only thing loud was the rushing thunder of blood in his ears, and the deep thud of his dry throat trying reflexively to swallow. Dry mouth. Dry throat.
Somewhere behind Olaf, one of the men shifted his weight to get a better balance. Almost as if on cue with this, a rain of a dozen javelins streaked toward them in a deadly arc, aimed entirely at the shield-wielding axemen.
Orc javelins, these. No Oruk, thankfully. A small blessing, however - even as his mind collected these thoughts, one javelin bounced off the shield of the man to his right. To his left, the man who had fed off his rabbit was struck in the shin, the javelin passing clean through the limb - bone included by the sickening sound of it - and he gasped and fell, tripped by the length of wood now protruding from his leg.
All around Olaf this was the story, but he had not time to see to them, nor gauge their state, for the Orcs were now charging forth from the darkness, their long wicked cleaver-like Vardach swords raised over their heads as they cried out their warcries and moved in to engage the seven Men who remained standing, spears readied.
Typical Orc fashion, only half charged, the other half staying ready to pick off any Man who fled, or if the battle should turn against them, ready to flee to bring word to the nearest twice-damned Legate. May I live to slay a hundred of them!
The Orc that rushed Olaf had a deep scar across his face and left eye, clearly a veteran of combat. The raw fear of the moment prompted Olaf to take an offensive stance, lashing out at the Orc long before it could reach him. It struck the creature under the ribs, speartip sliding deeply in despite the tough hide of his foe.
Olaf spared a quick thought to thank the stars that this one didn't have a shield or armor, or it may not have been injured at all. As it worked out, however, Olaf was certain that the blow hit this creature's liver, a mortal wound. The Orc screamed as his momentum kept his feet going while his body slid slowly off the spear. Olaf had not much time to consider this, however, for around him the battle still raged.
An Orc had finished off the spearman next to him, and spotting Olaf gut one of their number, charged him to close the distance. Olaf broke ranks with his fellow spearmen to avoid the powerful blow, coming as it did before he was well prepared to receive the charge.
The two circled, for the moment unable to care about or focus on the cries of anguish and the stench of blood all around them. The Orc let out a snarl and charged, just as Olaf did the same, and only the longer length of his spear kept the orc from striking him simultaneously. Olaf aimed for the chest once more, the Orc knocked the speartip aside and moved to strike the human with his cruel vardach. With a quick shuffle back and to the left, Olaf avoided the blow and then suddenly reversed direction, moving in low to take the orc in the gut while momentum favored him. The tip of the spear slid past the Orc's guard and embedded into his upper hip, a gout of blood pouring from the wound while this orc, too, cried out. He staggered, and the internal bleeding would finish this orc off if nothing else did, but Olaf wasn't giving it a chance. He simply thrust once more at the thing, and it didn't have the strength to defend. A spear through the eye and it was all over.
Glancing around the field of battle, Olaf saw that of the six orcs who had charged, three remained standing, while five of his spear-wielding companions did. Ha! We may win this yet, you bloody grey bastards! As the two sides circled around and tried to regroup - just for a moment - another hail of accursed javelins rained down upon the remaining Humans. Damn, I forgot about them! Here they come! Oh, bloody..
Olaf watched the javelins coming, fear forgotten in the heat of the moment. He raised his spear to try to deflect it, but in one sickening moment he realized it would hit - he was too high... The javelin tip rent his leg, piercing the knee directly and embedding itself up to the wood, and an inch beyond. Bone shattered, piercing his skin further. Olaf looked down, dazed, noting in an almost detached fashion the bones protruding from his leg. It took him a moment to realize he was on his side, on the ground.
And another moment to realize there was an Orc rushing at him. With all the effort he could muster, he raised his spear, hoping to take the bastard with him - there was no way he could fight for long. He put everything he had into driving the speartip into the rushing Orc's gut.
He watched in glee as his speartip swung into position a moment before the orc reached him... and his spirits sank as he realized he had not the strength to follow through with the attack. The toothy Orc grinned, a grin any predator would immediately recognize. He batted the speartip aside with distain, and howling, swung at Olaf's head with that meatcleaver they used as swords, nearly as long as a man is tall - his Vardach.
Olaf felt the blade hit his skull. Felt himself falling over backwards from the impact as the light drained into blackness. He never felt himself hit the snow. Somewhere, an Orc screamed in victory...
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