NiTessine
Explorer
I started this campaign some three weeks ago, when only three people showed up for my seven-man Warhammer Fantasy Role-Play campaign. For the second week running. I drew some quick conclusions about this, drafted one new player immediately over IRC and then proceeded to improvise a lead-in to an adventure. Now I've got six players and I'm feeling dangerously inspired, as evinced by the existence of this story hour, those thirteen pages of adventure notes I hammered out for our second game session, as well as being daring enough to start a story hour when the game is on a Christmas break...
Here's the first part. I'll have the next one within the week. Enjoy.
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Beginnings are hard. The cause of that is not the mystical difficulty some scribes, poets and self-styled bards have in marring a pure, clean paper with their ill-considered words. The true hardness lies in determining which beginning to start with.
As with all great and sweeping tales of adventure, the true beginning of affairs occurred decades, centuries, even millennia in the past. The era of that beginning ended with ascendance, which began another era, which ended in death, when another era started, like chapters in a storybook.
But here, our tale begins in a different book, in the middle of a chapter of the larger one, in the place that ought to be hallowed to Lathander for the sheer number of beginnings it has seen – the tavern.
This particular tavern was, as it happened, hallowed, but to a different deity. The Lady Luck Tavern has stood in the town of Daggerford for decades, patronised chiefly by freelances, adventurers, fortune-seekers, tomb raiders, mercenaries, sellswords, heroes, wanderers and other restless vagabonds. Afore our chosen beginning, countless adventuring bands had come together in its wide taproom, and scores have done so since.
It was the 13th day of the Time of Flowers in the Year of the Helm, 1362 Dalereckoning, when four men of different races and backgrounds met at the bar. They drank, they talked, they drank some more, they laughed, drank yet more, and at some point in the cheerful hours that followed, when Selûne was gazing down at the world and awaiting for Lathander’s change of the guard, they decided they liked each other well enough to go adventuring together. And then they drank to that.
‘Twas considered an auspicious omen and a sign of Lady Luck’s approval of their venture when, come morning, none of them exhibited any signs of a hangover or a sore head. The goddess works in mysterious ways.
On the morrow, the bold young adventurers gathered around a table. They were energised, excited, and wished to get on with their first quest together.
The brains of the outfit hailed from a local rock gnome clan. Gus was a mindmage, one of the uncommon mentalists who harnessed the power of their own mind to produce magical effects. Even with his barely three feet of vertical height, he struck an imposing figure in his midnight blue robe, with a staff in his hand and a smokepowder pistol at his belt.
The chief combatant was a shield dwarf from the northern Citadel of Adbar, one Wulgar. He was dour and grim as dwarves are wont to be, but he was a stout warrior and not without skill with his ancestral waraxe. His chest was broad, his thews were thick, and his beard was long.
In contrast to the serious dwarf, there was the Waterdhavian, Evendur Laelithar, a travelling jack of all trades. The half-elf was always ready with a quip or a joke, and when his rapier wit proved insufficient, he had a rather more concrete example hanging on his belt, a perfectly balanced foil crafted by elven forgemasters.
Finally, the group was rounded out by Dorn, a learned man, wise beyond his young years and a magister of Azuth trained in the House of the High One in Saerloon. His knowledge in matters arcane and esoteric was rivalled by few. He wielded the twin mystical powers of magic both arcane and divine, granted by his god, the Lord of Spells and Patron of Mages.
While breaking their fast, they soon found they had stumbled to the first obstacle of most starting adventurers of the voluntary kind – they did not have a quest to embark upon.
It was a quiet time in the tavern. The past tendays had seen uncharacteristically few patrons in the establishment, with the attention of fortune seekers concentrated in disturbances elsewhere in the Realms. News had come from south of an uprising of Cyricist in Mintar, and of strange events in north-western Erlkazar. In the Unapproachable East, the promise of adventure in Rawlinswood and battling against Thayans in Rashemen had rendered the lands considerably more approachable to the gold-hungry sellswords. It was not that Daggerford’s environs were bereft of opportunities for exercising the swords arm, but that the opportunities elsewhere were more interesting.
Of course, the traditional first problem of beginning adventurers ended up being solved in the equally time-honoured manner, when Gus engaged one of the bartenders in friendly chit-chat of the rumours circulating in the area.
“Well, they say Old Ioster’s cow gave birth to a two-headed calf,” the bald man answered when enquired of curious events in the past few days.
“Intriguing, though not quite the kind I am looking for,” Gus replied. “An ale for me and another for my friend, please.” The gnome placed a few coins on the bar. They disappeared swiftly.
“Here you go. Oh, there’s been grumbling in the caravan yards of bandits in the northern roads again,” the bald man added. “I hear bounty’s been posted on their leader’s head.”
“Well, that is more like it. Who posted the bounty, if I may inquire?” the mindmage asked.
“The Thousandheads Trading Coster,”
“Thank you, my good sir.”
“Well, there’s an issue with bandits ‘tween here and Waterdeep,” the gnome said as he returned to his companions with the two tankards.
“’An issue’?” Evendur inquired.
“They’re there.”
“Ah.”
The caravan yard was busy, even in the early morning. The four men located the banner of the Thousandheads easily, a snaking, abstract design on a bold, blue field. The wind from the Sea of Swords made the banner, and the banners of three other trading houses and costers, flap in the wind, proudly displaying their colours for the world to see, like an army preparing to do battle.
The comparison fit in more ways than one, as among the banners also flew the black-and-blood-red battle flag of the Blacktalons Mercenary Company from Iriaebor. The merchants were evidently pouring money on both offence and defence.
“Top o’ the morning!” Gus greeted the clerk behind the desk at the Thousandheads office, and continued: “It is our understanding you’ve a bandit problem.”
The clerk, a thin, pale Illuskan fellow, peered over his desk at the diminutive man. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered how such a small person could have such a large smile.
“Yes, there’s a group of bandits calling themselves the Ramhorns raiding caravans on the Delimbiyr Route and the Trade Way. There’s a bounty of two hundred gold to whoever ends their threat.”
“Two hundred apiece?”
“Two hundred, flat.”
“Where might one go looking for these brigands?”
“We think it’s likely they’re hiding in the Fallen Hills or eastern Ardeep Forest. More likely in the hills. Easier to hide in there and less elves around. There’s a dozen old ruins they might be using as base in there.”
“Splendid. Can your coster outfit us with mounts to hasten our putting end to this threat?”
“No, but there is a caravan of the Six Coffers Trading Coster heading north at noon. See if you can hitch a ride with them.”
“Thank you, my good sir. We’ll take care of your problem. Expect us back within the tenday.”
The gnome doffed his cap and exited to the street, followed by his companions.
“Now, then…”
“We see what the others are willing to pay us for ridding them of these vermin?” Evendur finished the gnome’s sentence with an amusedly quirked eyebrow.
“Exactly, my good friend.” Gus’ grin widened. Upon noticing Dorn’s surprised expression, he explained: “They’re big name trading houses. This one here runs the route from Waterdeep to Hillsfar through Cormyr and the Dales and that one’s cutting their costs in everything including the teamsters’ rations. The two hundred gold’s a fly’s crap in the margin of their accounts book, and we can actually use the coin.” The gnome turned to look at the next banner in line, featuring seven golden discs on a field of orange. “’Sides, anyone with a banner that ugly deserves to be cheated.”
To Be Continued...
Here's the first part. I'll have the next one within the week. Enjoy.
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Chapter 1: The Beginning of the End
Beginnings are hard. The cause of that is not the mystical difficulty some scribes, poets and self-styled bards have in marring a pure, clean paper with their ill-considered words. The true hardness lies in determining which beginning to start with.
As with all great and sweeping tales of adventure, the true beginning of affairs occurred decades, centuries, even millennia in the past. The era of that beginning ended with ascendance, which began another era, which ended in death, when another era started, like chapters in a storybook.
But here, our tale begins in a different book, in the middle of a chapter of the larger one, in the place that ought to be hallowed to Lathander for the sheer number of beginnings it has seen – the tavern.
This particular tavern was, as it happened, hallowed, but to a different deity. The Lady Luck Tavern has stood in the town of Daggerford for decades, patronised chiefly by freelances, adventurers, fortune-seekers, tomb raiders, mercenaries, sellswords, heroes, wanderers and other restless vagabonds. Afore our chosen beginning, countless adventuring bands had come together in its wide taproom, and scores have done so since.
It was the 13th day of the Time of Flowers in the Year of the Helm, 1362 Dalereckoning, when four men of different races and backgrounds met at the bar. They drank, they talked, they drank some more, they laughed, drank yet more, and at some point in the cheerful hours that followed, when Selûne was gazing down at the world and awaiting for Lathander’s change of the guard, they decided they liked each other well enough to go adventuring together. And then they drank to that.
‘Twas considered an auspicious omen and a sign of Lady Luck’s approval of their venture when, come morning, none of them exhibited any signs of a hangover or a sore head. The goddess works in mysterious ways.
On the morrow, the bold young adventurers gathered around a table. They were energised, excited, and wished to get on with their first quest together.
The brains of the outfit hailed from a local rock gnome clan. Gus was a mindmage, one of the uncommon mentalists who harnessed the power of their own mind to produce magical effects. Even with his barely three feet of vertical height, he struck an imposing figure in his midnight blue robe, with a staff in his hand and a smokepowder pistol at his belt.
The chief combatant was a shield dwarf from the northern Citadel of Adbar, one Wulgar. He was dour and grim as dwarves are wont to be, but he was a stout warrior and not without skill with his ancestral waraxe. His chest was broad, his thews were thick, and his beard was long.
In contrast to the serious dwarf, there was the Waterdhavian, Evendur Laelithar, a travelling jack of all trades. The half-elf was always ready with a quip or a joke, and when his rapier wit proved insufficient, he had a rather more concrete example hanging on his belt, a perfectly balanced foil crafted by elven forgemasters.
Finally, the group was rounded out by Dorn, a learned man, wise beyond his young years and a magister of Azuth trained in the House of the High One in Saerloon. His knowledge in matters arcane and esoteric was rivalled by few. He wielded the twin mystical powers of magic both arcane and divine, granted by his god, the Lord of Spells and Patron of Mages.
While breaking their fast, they soon found they had stumbled to the first obstacle of most starting adventurers of the voluntary kind – they did not have a quest to embark upon.
It was a quiet time in the tavern. The past tendays had seen uncharacteristically few patrons in the establishment, with the attention of fortune seekers concentrated in disturbances elsewhere in the Realms. News had come from south of an uprising of Cyricist in Mintar, and of strange events in north-western Erlkazar. In the Unapproachable East, the promise of adventure in Rawlinswood and battling against Thayans in Rashemen had rendered the lands considerably more approachable to the gold-hungry sellswords. It was not that Daggerford’s environs were bereft of opportunities for exercising the swords arm, but that the opportunities elsewhere were more interesting.
Of course, the traditional first problem of beginning adventurers ended up being solved in the equally time-honoured manner, when Gus engaged one of the bartenders in friendly chit-chat of the rumours circulating in the area.
“Well, they say Old Ioster’s cow gave birth to a two-headed calf,” the bald man answered when enquired of curious events in the past few days.
“Intriguing, though not quite the kind I am looking for,” Gus replied. “An ale for me and another for my friend, please.” The gnome placed a few coins on the bar. They disappeared swiftly.
“Here you go. Oh, there’s been grumbling in the caravan yards of bandits in the northern roads again,” the bald man added. “I hear bounty’s been posted on their leader’s head.”
“Well, that is more like it. Who posted the bounty, if I may inquire?” the mindmage asked.
“The Thousandheads Trading Coster,”
“Thank you, my good sir.”
“Well, there’s an issue with bandits ‘tween here and Waterdeep,” the gnome said as he returned to his companions with the two tankards.
“’An issue’?” Evendur inquired.
“They’re there.”
“Ah.”
* * *
The caravan yard was busy, even in the early morning. The four men located the banner of the Thousandheads easily, a snaking, abstract design on a bold, blue field. The wind from the Sea of Swords made the banner, and the banners of three other trading houses and costers, flap in the wind, proudly displaying their colours for the world to see, like an army preparing to do battle.
The comparison fit in more ways than one, as among the banners also flew the black-and-blood-red battle flag of the Blacktalons Mercenary Company from Iriaebor. The merchants were evidently pouring money on both offence and defence.
“Top o’ the morning!” Gus greeted the clerk behind the desk at the Thousandheads office, and continued: “It is our understanding you’ve a bandit problem.”
The clerk, a thin, pale Illuskan fellow, peered over his desk at the diminutive man. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered how such a small person could have such a large smile.
“Yes, there’s a group of bandits calling themselves the Ramhorns raiding caravans on the Delimbiyr Route and the Trade Way. There’s a bounty of two hundred gold to whoever ends their threat.”
“Two hundred apiece?”
“Two hundred, flat.”
“Where might one go looking for these brigands?”
“We think it’s likely they’re hiding in the Fallen Hills or eastern Ardeep Forest. More likely in the hills. Easier to hide in there and less elves around. There’s a dozen old ruins they might be using as base in there.”
“Splendid. Can your coster outfit us with mounts to hasten our putting end to this threat?”
“No, but there is a caravan of the Six Coffers Trading Coster heading north at noon. See if you can hitch a ride with them.”
“Thank you, my good sir. We’ll take care of your problem. Expect us back within the tenday.”
The gnome doffed his cap and exited to the street, followed by his companions.
“Now, then…”
“We see what the others are willing to pay us for ridding them of these vermin?” Evendur finished the gnome’s sentence with an amusedly quirked eyebrow.
“Exactly, my good friend.” Gus’ grin widened. Upon noticing Dorn’s surprised expression, he explained: “They’re big name trading houses. This one here runs the route from Waterdeep to Hillsfar through Cormyr and the Dales and that one’s cutting their costs in everything including the teamsters’ rations. The two hundred gold’s a fly’s crap in the margin of their accounts book, and we can actually use the coin.” The gnome turned to look at the next banner in line, featuring seven golden discs on a field of orange. “’Sides, anyone with a banner that ugly deserves to be cheated.”
To Be Continued...
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