Story HourPost your ongoing tales from your campaigns, and read those from others for inspiration. Lots of other RPG boards post "Story Hours", but this is where it started!
DARK•HERITAGE -- 16 installments to date, updated April 20th
Banner courtesy of shadowlight.
Now that my Dark•Matter Story Hour is complete, and done, I thought it'd be fun to start one up on the campaign I'm currently running, the Dark•Heritage Campaign. Dark•Heritage has been a fun game for me so far, although we're still only a few play sessions into it. I hesitate to call the game D&D, as there are so many changes to the rules that it's almost unrecognizable (the link above explains the changes, for those interested in those kinds of things.) Basically the setting assumes a lower level of magic than core D&D, at least in terms of what characters have access to, as I've replaced most of the classes with classes that do not have access to spells. The setting is intended to be a high-octane swashbuckling type of game, though, with flying ships, floating islands, flintlock pistols, and occasional odd steamtech devices. Imagine a combination of Warhammer Fantasy Roleplaying with Pirates of the Caribbean and John Carter of Mars and you've got a pretty good idea of the setting.
My players are all members of the boards here: Quickbeam, shadowlight and Stockdale. All of us are in our early to mid thirties, we're married, we all have kids; so we end up not playing quite as often as I'd like to, but after we get through the summer, and our various vacation schedules, we may improve in that regard, with any luck.
The story hour itself is not a faithful game log, in some ways. I'll be adding interludes and cut scenes from time to time, I don't really recall much of the specific dialogue or combat actions or that kind of detail anymore, so I'll be recreating most of that from scratch. However, other than that, the story hour will be pretty faithful to the actual course of the game, as much as possible. It's quite likely, and indeed I hope so, that my players may pop in and comment from time to time as well.
Without further ado, let's get this party started!
(The following is a cut scene/flashback and was not part of the game itself...)
"And so you see, friends and colleagues, that these slight modifications to Nimlanâth's charm's, using the research I published earlier in The Annual Review of Advances in Thaumaturgical Science do indeed make the summoning of creatures from the Shadow Realm not only possible, but quite safe for the Mage who casts the spell. The implications for our understanding of the Shadow Realm moving forward, and our ability to advance the art, speak for themselves. Thank you."
Zimurrun bowed slightly to indicate that his presentation was over, and smiled to himself at the sound of applause. He was at the bottom of a large indoor arena, converted over for this conference. A hardwood stand was placed on the sands at the bottom of the arena, and dark hardwood benches and paneling rose around him in a ring, row after row. Probably two hundred of his colleagues, fellow students of the magical arts, had risen to their feet and were clapping enthusiastically. His summoned daemon bellowed at the applause, and raged within the carefully prepared pentagram he had placed on the hardwood floor. He was still surprised at what had come in response to his summoning, but was gratified that it was such an imposing creature. Grotesquely obese, covered with brownish scales and bristling with ridges and spines, the creature bellowed again. A fetid odor wafted from its wide, froglike, but wickedly toothed mouth, and four beady eyes came to rest again on him as the author of the creature's current helpless condition.
Zimurrun turned slightly weak under that baleful gaze, and his hands shook. He smiled unconvincingly at the creature and spoke the words that would banish it, although he cringed to hear his voice crack, higher pitched than his normal silky lecturing voice. The daemon's outline turned smoky then, and it looked around confused and a bit alarmed, to Zimurrun's satisfaction. He kept his eyes on it as the outline began to break up, and the massive bulk began to fade, and didn't look away again until it was completely gone. He then realized he hadn't taken a breath either while watching it fade. He panted slightly, as his lungs struggled to catch up again.
He looked up again, and nodded and smiled, waving even to a few familiar faces, as the other Magi filed from the room. His was the last presentation of the evening, and most of them would either be heading for bed, or heading for the taverns. His presentation had been a complete success, and he could see most of them talking animatedly about his demonstration.
Well, except for one. Probably the youngest Mage invited to the convention, Virrun Salthukk was an enigma to most. He sat near the top of the seats, unmoving as the rest of his colleagues gradually filed out. He had a small frown, and was looking carefully at Zimurrun with his sharp blue eyes, who couldn't help but feel a bit self-conscious under the intense scrutiny. Virrun Salthukk was a smallish man, pasty faced and thin, with slick black hair pulled back from his face. Finally, he stood, and with a final chewing of his lip as he watched Zimurrun pack away his materials, he left and the converted lecture hall was empty.
Zimurrun let out another sigh. His eyes turned slightly shifty themselves. He bounded up the stairs, taking two at a time, until he was level with the doors. Poking his head around the corner, he couldn't see anyone in the corridors beyond, and the sound of muted conversation was fading quickly. None of the other Magi had remained. Shaking slightly, he shut the doors and locked them. Then he walked around the circular landing that ringed the arena checking all the doors and locking them, as well as extinguishing all the oil lamps at that level. In a few minutes, he was confident that he had ensured himself of privacy. More slowly now he walked down the darkened steps to the hardwood floor and the pentagram that he had inscribed earlier. A feeling of dread filled him, and he questioned whether what he was doing was really wise. Although the summoning he had demonstrated to the convention of Magi had been successful, it had been more difficult than he imagined to control such a powerful, malevolent entity, and his will had been shaken. He imagined that he could hear a dark, murmuring rustling sound behind him, and he whirled.
Nothing.
The murmuring seemed almost to he laughing at him. He knew that no one was there, knew that he was hearing things. Knew that he should not attempt another summoning, especially of so powerful a being as he intended, until he had recovered, rested, let his sanity gradually seep back in. Magic of such a powerful nature always impacted the caster to the point where he became confused, he hallucinated, his mind and will could be broken if he was not careful.
But no, he had very carefully prepared this room for this event. Although his earlier summoning had been spectacular, that was really only the warm-up. Being able to showcase his new theories was a bonus, not the end result. The ultimate goal was to summon a creature capable of striking a bargain that would make him the most powerful Mage ever; one who did not need to fear death, one who could rule forever, as the Magi were meant to do. The accolades of his colleagues would be hollow at that point. He would be far beyond the need of them.
He had reached the bottom of the arena again, and he felt very small. He trudged through the sand to the steps of the lecture platform. There were two lamps here, that gave a fair amount of light to the arena floor, but beyond a row or two of the seating, the rest of the room vanished into pitch blackness.
Zimurrun nervously shuffled his parchment notes, making sure he had everything he needed. Most of what was required for this summoning was in his head, of course, and most of the ritual had been completed hours before, but he double checked his formulae one final time. A fleeting panic crossed his mind again that he was not in a good enough state of mind to go through with this, but he quashed such thoughts. He had prepared for this moment for months, and he wasn't going to let cold feet bring a stop to his plans now.
He carefully relit the candles at the junction points of his pentagram as he chanted slowly under his breath in a strange tongue. He nearly winced at the smell as he scattered crushed brimstone around the inner layer of the pentagram, continuing his chanting slightly louder and faster now. Next to each candle he placed a rat skull, deliberately and stiffly. Even louder and faster his voice rolled over the unnatural sounds of the words of magic. Then he reached into a small, dark wooden box that he had cached innocuously next to his notes.
Earlier he had killed a slave as part of the ritual, a teenage girl who's body was surely even now being rent and devoured by feral dogs in the grim alleyways of the city. Inside the box was her heart, which he had brutally ripped from her ribcage using a small saw and his hands. The heart still beat faintly, even after hours of sitting in the box. A strongly unpleasant smell swept up from the heart, and it suddenly began beating more strongly, and very quickly. A trickle of blood seeped from the organ to run down his forearm. Zimurrun's chanting was now a feverish shout, but his voice had gone somewhat hoarse. He set the beating heart in the center of the pentagram, turned and walked back out of it. He thought he could hear the murmuring voices again, stronger now, but he knew that it was probably not his imagination this time. So close to completion of the ritual, the Veil between the Shadow Realm and the Material Realm was parchment-thin.
Suddenly the pounding heart in the center of the pentagram burst into flame. A cold sweat drenched Zimurrun's face and back, but his hoarse voice continued to chant. Greasy black smoke starting pouring from the fiery heart, filling the room quickly, but all the while contained by the mystic boundaries of the pentagram. And then glowing eyes appeared in the smoke, first one pair, then another, and then another. The smoke faded and dissipated, and Zimurrun's voice stopped with a gurgling rattle in his throat.
The entity before him was blasphemous in every sense of the word. It was huge; swelling up into the dark recesses of the arena, and was only vaguely humanoid. It was the color of a week-old bruise; purple and yellowish. Scaly wings stretched from its back to scrape plaster from the ceiling. Its hideous, daemonic head had three faces, and the central pair had its eyes fixed hungrily on the mage who had summoned him. A long, slavering tongue writhed from a leering, grinning mouth. And then the thing spoke.
Zimurrun abruptly stopped sweating and turned as dry as he could imagine. His mouth was so desiccated that he could barely open it. He felt the blood drain from his face, and a hot flash of panic surged through him, but he seemed unable to move. The daemon spoke with all three of its mouths at once, and although the words were the same, the three voices were all different. One voice was a rumbling deep bass, and the words that spilled from that unnatural mouth seemed curiously malformed, as if it was unable to form the sounds used by mortal mouths. Another voice was a ghastly shrieking, as of a man having his eyes burned out of his sockets. And the final voice was the worst of all; a penetrating chilled whisper, colder than the grave.
"You are daring, mortal, to summon me to the your Realm. Surely you did not think to control me with this pathetic scrawl on the floor?"
Zimurrun was blasted by the voice; his eyes rolled up in his head, and his catatonia became complete. He pitched forward on his face. His forearm fell across the border of the pentagram.
Unseen, but most certainly not unsensed by the daemonic entity, Virrun Salthukk crouched behind the benches, watching in horror. The daemon grabbed almost daintily at Zimurrun's arm and pulled him completely into the pentagram. A long claw disemboweled the hapless mage, and three tongues shot from the beast's mouths to lap up the insides of the man. Salthukk realized with horror that each of the tongues had a ringed toothy maw at the end. He heard a sickening fleshy crunch from the writhing body of Zimurrun, and in just a few seconds he was reduced to a bloody but emptied skin.
Salthukk lost his composure then, he wasn't aware of anything for many hours, he finally came to himself to find that he had been screaming for the god's knew how long. His voice was long gone; his throat damaged beyond repair from the constant screaming. He was still covered in cold sweat and stale vomit, and he stank of stark, naked terror.
He looked around wildly, but the spell had faded and the daemon was gone. In the center of the pentagram was a book, bound in pale leather. Salthukk heaved dryly for several more minutes, his stomach spasming uncontrollably as he realized that it was made from Zimurrun's skin, and that his face -- locked forever in a silent scream -- decorated the cover.
(The following prologue was actually played out by the players; I gave them some pre-generated characters to use for the better part of our first session.)
“Wanna fried tomato?” Acton asked. In his hand, he had a battered iron skillet with a silvered wooden handle. It still sizzled invitingly, as he speared the breaded and fried fruit with an equally battered fork and put one on Dacey’s and Toren’s wooden plates. Then he sat down next to them on a hard, dried log. The three of them silently chewed their food for a minute, watching the caravan porters finish setting up the small camp. Maybe caravan was too generous a word for what this was; three wagons, and as near as the hired muscle could tell, only one of them had any cargo. The owner, an obviously wealthy, yet suspicious and secretive fellow named Chauncey d’Albereau stalked by the guards, giving them a frown before turning aside again.
Toren spat. “Five silver marks says he tries to sneak whatever he’s got in that trunk in the hard way. He’ll pay us and let us go right before we get to Razina, mark my words. He don’t want our eyes around when he bribes the gatekeepers.”
Dacey burped and waved nonchalantly. “As long as he does pay us, I don’t care if the trunk is full of haoma. Since when have you cared anyway? As I recall you were a two bit bandit six months ago.”
Toren sneered. “A little honest thievery’s one thing, but this bloke’s up to his arse in something worse than that.”
Acton nodded his agreement. “Yeah, haven’t you heard the porters? They’re dead scared of whatever he’s carrying in there. Rumor is he pulled something off the plateau of Leng. Don’t wanna stick your poke in anything from there.”
Toren laughed, although a bit nervously, as he struck a match on a nearby reddish piece of sandstone and lit up a large brown cigar. “The dread plateau of Leng!” he said sarcastically, waving his hands mysteriously with his eyes open wide. He spat again, and chomped down on the cigar. “There ain’t no such place.”
Acton had an indignant look on his face; clearly he was about to lay into his fellow guard with a scathing argument, but Dacey elbowed him. He was staring upward into the sky. “Oi, what’s that?”
All three of them stood. For a moment, it was hard to make out what Dacey had seen. The ground was dry and dusty; a rusted orange-red color, and the dust particles that were constantly suspended in the air gave the sky the same color. It not only made the horizon seem to disappear, but it also cut down in visibility considerably. But they could soon all see a large shape drifting slowly, almost lazily towards them. It was a ship, but a battered, dusty, and moldering one. It looked like it had been abandoned for years, floating aimlessly from who knew which island. It was a miracle that it was passing over them at all, and even more miraculous that the magic that suspended the ship hadn’t faded, sending it plummeting into the void.
But miracle or not, it was clearly coming right for them, and would drift right over their heads no more than thirty or forty feet up.
Acton suddenly had his heavy flintlock pistol in his hand, checking the loaded charge and ball. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he said, not taking his eyes off the ship.
“Oh, c’mon! That’s clearly just a derelict…” Toren started to say. He thought he saw movement on the deck of the ship, which would be directly overhead in mere minutes.
Dacey spat. “That’s what comes of meddling with Leng,” he said, drawing his sword. The ship was slowing down, and now ropes were dropping from its deck to hang down near them. The porters had all stopped working, staring wide-eyed at the old ship. And then people were disembarking, coming down the ropes slowly. But something was wrong with them. They moved jerkily, and seemed to be malformed. He couldn’t place what it was until they came down to the ground. Then he screamed.
The figures were all dead. Desiccated, mummified faces, with grinning, skull-like countenances and blank eye sockets regarded the screaming and running porters. But that wasn’t all – the walking corpses had been “modified” by some insane genius. Tubes and pipes burst from their torsos, and their hands were replaced by huge, spiked and vicious metallic claws, like grotesquely oversized boxing gloves made of cold steel. The corpses clanked and hissed as they moved, and their dried flesh rustled like parchment in the wind. And they were slaughtering the caravan with powerful blows from their mechanical hands. Chauncey d’Albereau came out of the wagon, screamed and fired a pistol shot at one, right in its face. The skull exploded, and the creature fell to the ground, but another one gripped the man’s extended pistol arm and ripped it from its socket in a spray of blood. Then another blow crushed his ribcage, and he fell in a red splatter to the rusty dirt, and did not get back up.
The three guards saw the hideous corpses coming their way, and drew their weapons. Dacey screamed as he shot one that jerked backwards from the force of his ball, but did not stop. With shaking hands he started reloading his gun. Acton was diving under a wagon.
Then Dacey and Toren noticed that someone was suddenly standing next to them. Toren stepped back with a start. The someone was a person of a race that he did not recognize. She was tall, and had soot-colored skin and piercing blue eyes. She smiled at him, showing teeth that seemed unnaturally white against her dark skin. Her head was shaved, and she wore strange black clothes; a tight leather tunic that fitted her like an ophidian skin, and extremely voluminous trousers. She had two large curved swords hanging low on her hips, but even as she smiled they seemed to leap almost of their own accord into her hands. Toren shouted, “I don’t think so!” as he loosed a blast with his own pistol directly at her chest, but she wasn’t there – she had melted into the shadow of the wagon. Instantly she reappeared behind him, leaping out of another shadow nearby, and her swords flashed so quickly that they were mere blurs. Toren fell to the ground stone dead.
Acton got out from under his wagon as the strange steam-powered mummies smashed it to splinters. His sword chopped down one of them before he took a resounding blow that spun him around. He shook his head, spitting blood and tried to rise, but fell again under the pummeling fists of three of the creatures. His screams were short-lived.
Dacey had given up trying to reload his pistol, and tossed it to the ground, running as fast as he could for Chauncey’s wagon. The shadow woman was suddenly next to him, slashing at him, but he dived to the ground, avoiding all but a stinging blow from her sword, and he was back up again, scrabbling into the wagon. There was the chest; the valuable cargo that they had been hired to protect. With a shout, he chopped with his sword, and the lid of the chest flipped open. Inside was a book. Just a book.
Disbelieving, he picked it up, but as he did he suddenly shivered in terror. The book was made of human skin, and a stretched face was on the cover. He thought for an instant that he saw the face mouthing obscenities at him. He quickly put it down where he wouldn’t have to look at it anymore.
And then he saw that the dark woman was standing right behind him, an amused smirk on her face. He stumbled backward, holding the book in front of him like a shield. She jammed one of the swords into the floor of the wagon to watch him for a minute, chuckling slightly to herself, and shaking her head and her finger at him. “I don’t think so, hero. Give me the book.”
Dacey tried to speak, but his mouth had gone dry, and only a hoarse rattle came from his throat. Then he turned and ran. The dark woman’s face hardened, no longer amused.
He leaped madly for one of the ropes hanging from the flying ship. If the entire “crew” were here on the ground, he might just escape if he could hijack their ship before they could reboard. He began shimmying up the rope as fast as he could. He felt the boat wobble slightly, and he looked around. Several mechanical zombies were also climbing ropes. He would be hard pressed to cut their ropes and get the ship underway before the deck was swarming with the things again.
Breathing heavily, he clambered up on the deck. It was deserted. He cast his eyes about desperately for a knife, or sword, or anything he could use to cut the ropes. And then the dark woman stepped nonchalantly from out of the shadow of the sail. She smiled mirthlessly at Dacey as she slit his throat with the end of one of her swords. He was still choking on his own blood as she pitched him over the side to smash to the hard ground below.
Hey Josh, I just wanted you to know that I'd stopped in. I haven't had a chance to read anything beyond your initial announcement post (that will come later tonight), but I'm here nonetheless.
I can tell you that your efforts herein may prompt me to resume the Call of Cthulhu Story Hour I began long ago. Heck, if you can have fun at my expense as a player in your game (not to mention stockdale and shadowlight), I should probably attempt to return the favor .
Glad to have you! As the player of the one temp player who gave me a lot of trouble (instead of dying gratuitously like the rest of them) represented above by Dacey (can't remember if those guys even had names or not, much less what they were, so I made up new ones) it'd be great to have some commentary!
Oh, so very cool. I can't wait to see how this develops, I'm very much wanting to play/GM a game similar to this sometime soon. Nice work setting the tone so far.
*grabs his own popcorn and coke, rushes to take a seat two down from Barsoomcore before the place fills up*
__________________ Check out the Medallions d20 Modern Story hour by OldDrewId! --"You guys are an inspiration. That's it, no more no less. Pure unadulterated inspiration." -Fenzer
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Check out Pierce's new d20 Modern 80's cop action movie story hour: Action Squad!
The Blue Dart was an unfortunately named ship, but the Captain had taken her in with good graces, even making sure the bright blue paint that coated the hull was smooth and unblemished. And the little ship did dart, as it turns out -- she was a fast ship, although small. So the Captain had decided that his niche was in passage, not cargo. Airships were already few and expensive, so if one wanted to travel between the islands, booking passage on a freelance ship like his was the best way to go.
This particular voyage was not one of his better ones; the passenger hold had only three takers for a four day flight to Razina, one of the most important towns in the kingdom of Cassant, and one that was perched on the very edge of the Great Island, a continent sized chunk of rock that floats unmoving in the Day Realm. The Blue Dart was making good time, and if his navigation was accurate, the Captain believed he'd beat his schedule, arriving in just a few hours. He put the glass to his eye again, scanning the sky in front of him to see if there was any sign of his destination.
Clear, brilliant light bathed the entire world around him; far below was a puffy floor of clouds that stretched out as far as the eye could see -- which in this clear air was very far indeed -- in every direction. Above him, the brilliant yellowish white sun made him squint; although he saw the brightly striated orange and tan globe of Fallare suspended like a gigantic moon in the sky. Later today, it would obscure the sun, giving a relatively short nightfall; an event that only occurred once a week in Razina. A small chunk of rock; an island no more than a few miles across, rose off his port bow. Through the glass, he could see a bank of gray fog ahead, dank, forbidding and cold. He shivered a bit, but accepted that his destination most likely was lying just within that bank of fog.
He heard the ringing of the cook's bell; the passenger's meal was served. He stuffed the glass under his belt, and determined that as the Captain, he should share this final meal with them, and tell them the news that he expected to arrive before lunch. He clambered down the stairs into the passenger's hold. Three small cots were folded up and out of the way, and three sat at a table bolted to the floor, talking and eating a meal of salt pork sandwiches, liberally seasoned with lemon juice, and reasonably fresh water. The fare on ship wasn't great, but it was healthy enough. The Captain decided he would seek out a good hot meal as soon as he was berthed.
"Good morning, fellows!" he said as he sat next to them. They nodded and continued eating. The three passengers were nothing if not an unusual group, but they seemed to have hit it off fairly well during the course of their journey, and were now talking animatedly of seeking lodgings in the same inn, and even helping each other in their various goals in Razina.
"Good morning to you, Cap'n," said Tson, clapping him on the back. Tson was a hulk; one of the Bred folk. His ancestors had been selected for their strength, endurance, and ability to withstand harsh conditions. He was fairly large, as were most of his race, and the sharp definition of his enormous muscles was hidden by a fine layer of down-like fur. Tson was albino, however, and instead of the reddish brown that most of the hulks sported, his fur was a strange pale gray. The large fellow was normally taciturn, and the Captain had not expected him to give him the first friendly welcome. Rumor had it that he was an escaped, or perhaps freed, slave in some far-off place, where he fought as a gladiator. He rarely wore more than a ragged kilt around his waist, belted with a chain, and the Captain could believe that he was a former gladiator. His unclothed chest was criss-crossed with a fine network of scars, most of them old.
"Indeed, 'tis a fine morning! The view from the deck was spectacular," acknowledged Roshan Boh. Also one of the Bred folk, Boh was in many ways a complete opposite of Tson. He was quite garrulous, to the point of often not knowing when to shut up. The Captain was initially suspicious of having a gray on the ship, but Roshan was a friendly enough sort, and the Captain had come to like him over the course of the last few days. He was short, and quite gracile, with chalky, colorless skin, piercing blue eyes that darted about like a hyper-alert hawk as he spoke. His short hair was dark, and his body was wiry yet hard and supple. He did not speak of his background, and the Captain wondered what this one used to do, although he privately suspected he had been trained as a spy, assassin, or both at some point in his life. Regardless, his motives for traveling to Razina seemed to be his own.
The final traveler was also a quiet one for the most part, Konrad, the only Unbred human of the bunch. The Captain privately wished he could follow him around for a while to see how he reacted to life in the extremely large and populous city of Razina. Konrad clearly had not spent much time in high society; he was dressed in leathers, and had more hair on his head and face than any four other men the Captain had ever seen. When he did speak, as often as not he made some obscure reference to outdoor life, as if the others could possibly understand metaphors or sayings related to the mating habits of a wild thuin, or the truculence of a herd of inwns.
Still, for all their idiosyncrasies, they were a good lot, and the Captain had enjoyed giving them passage more than many he had booked over the years. He would almost be sad to reach his destination and drop them off in the urban wilds of Razina. "We're making better time than I expected," he said, which prompted an impromptu toast with their water cups. "This'll be our last meal on the Blue Dart, I'm afraid, so I thought I should spend a few minutes with..."
He stopped as Collins came barreling down the stair, his face flushed and nervous. "Cap'n!" he said. "Another ship, off the port bow and up 30 degrees. They're heading is straight for us."
The Captain stood, his face a bit nervous. "If you'll excuse me a moment, gentlemen..." then he walked upstairs. The three passengers watched him go, only Tson continuing to wolf down his food as fast as he could.
"That doesn't sound good," said Konrad sourly. "Suppose we should see what's up?"
Roshan waved aside the suggestion. "Surely the Captain and his crew are qualified to deal with these types of things more than we. There's no reason we should interrupt our last meal on the Dart is there?"
Tson grunted. "If it does mean trouble, we'll be glad we ate, anyway." Indeed, Tson had finished his food, and began rummaging through the hold looking for anything they could use as a weapon. He found a long chain, rusted and dirty, but made of heavy iron. "Here, Roshan, this little girl's sword looks like it might be your style." He handed the gray a slim blade, with bad balance and dotted with orange rust. Roshan smiled mirthlessly. Indeed, he did prefer the dancing rapier to the next shoddy blade Roshan found in a chest, a huge piece that Konrad looked pleased with.
"What's that for, chopping wood?" Roshan asked innocently. "Because I can't imagine that would do you any good in a fight."
"Wood or bones, what's the difference?" Konrad leered, but their banter was interrupted by a sudden lurch in the floor that sent them crashing. The heard a sickening splintering sound, and the Dart did not right herself.
Tson was the first to hop up, but all three quickly followed up the stairs. "Glad we found these; I could feel trouble coming..." the large man said. They burst out on the tilted deck to see that they had been nicely rammed and grappled by a larger ship. The Captain stood on the deck shouting orders to his small crew, who were valiantly trying to hold off a swarm of boarders. Collins was the first to go down, hit by a pirate swinging on a line, and pushed over the side. His screams took a long time to fade as he plunged into the void. Then Bradburn was shot in the face with an enormous blast from a pistol that another of the pirates wielded. The tide of invaders rushed their deck; at least six or seven.
Tson swung his chain in a wide arc, first causing the one with the pistol to duck, then catching his arm on the return stroke. The pistol fell from his arm to slide across the deck, and Tson yanked the man down, where he slid as well to land at Tson's feet. The hulk kicked him cruelly, a blow designed to break his neck. Then he waded into the melee, his chain sending the pirates flying. Roshan Boh also dived into combat with a grin on his face. The sword he had was not good, but he wielded it like a dervish. It danced through the pirates, leaving pierced lungs, slashed throats and severed hamstrings in its wake. Konrad, on the other hand, decided he needed to take the battle to the enemy, so he leapt into the air with one of the pirate's own grappling lines in his hand. He slipped attempting this bit of derring-do, though, and slammed into the side of their ship. Only through purest luck, he was able to grab the edge of their deck with his fingertips, where he held on for dear life, the echoes of Collins' screams as he disappeared into the void filling his ears.
Everyone paused for a moment as a strange, clunking noise came from the bowels of the Blue Dart, followed immediately by "Rat" Galloway, one of the nastier members of the crew. "The lift engines!" he shouted hysterically. "They're gonna blow!" For the less ship-savvy passengers, the meaning of this was not clear, but obviously it was not good news. Even the pirates who still stood blanched, turned and ran back to their own vessel. Tson and Roshan knew how to take a cue from them, and climbed along the great wooden ram to climb up on the deck of the pirate ship. The Captain and the Rat also pitched themselves over the railing just as the lift engines exploded with a thunderous blast. Everyone was thrown to the deck, even Konrad, who was lifted over the railing by the explosion, landed heavily on top of one of the pirates. Then the deck tilted sharply downward.
The two ships were stuck together, and with the lift engines gone on the Dart, it was dead weight. The pirate ship angled sharply, as everybody and everything loose slid along the deck to smash into the front railing. Konrad pitched one of the pirates who had slid into him over the side. Then with a lurch, the ship righted and seemed to bounce for a moment. The ram had broken finally, and the Dart had fallen. The Captain sobbed slightly as he leaned over the rail, watching his fortune plummet down into the cloudbank, many hundreds of feet below them, to finally disappear for good.
The three passengers stood and shook their heads. There were only two pirates left; a dispirited and wounded group that offered no more fight. Roshan Boh took his crappy rapier and held it under the chin of one of the pirates. "Maybe you can tell me what the meaning of this is?" he said quietly, but very chillingly.
"Right," said Tson. "Konrad and I will just see if this barge has anything of value we can loot, eh?" The two larger men disappeared into the bowels of the pirate ship, while the Captain and the Rat went to inspect the ship they found themselves on. In just a moment, the Captain came running back upstairs, his face slightly green.
Roshan Boh turned from his uncommunicative prisoner to see what the problem was. "Well, now I know why they were so desperate to board us," the Captain said. "Their lift engine's going out. We'll be lucky if we can make it to land in this piece of junk." With that, the ship suddenly dropped ten feet before straining to catch itself.
Ahh - Konrad Jones - I know him well. Konrad here is a Wildlander, which is way out of the norm for me; I prefer to play spellcasters. In fact, all the players selected character classes that they normally would not play.
This was a fun session. It was the first time, we, the players got to test out our characters. I thought for sure that ole' Konrad was a goner at the start and finish of this combat between the poorly executed swing onto the attacking vessel and the lurching of the Blue Dart. However, the combat inbetween those two events was quite exciting, and, a credit to Josh's style, I used almost all of Konrad's feats and skills in this encounter.
Josh - this is a great little story you have going here. You certainly capture the feel of the game in the retelling.
This was a fun session. It was the first time, we, the players got to test out our characters. I thought for sure that ole' Konrad was a goner at the start and finish of this combat between the poorly executed swing onto the attacking vessel and the lurching of the Blue Dart. However, the combat inbetween those two events was quite exciting, and, a credit to Josh's style, I used almost all of Konrad's feats and skills in this encounter.
Ole Konrad probably should have been a gonner, but I couldn't have you lose him ten minutes into playing him for the first time. You better be careful now, though -- you've got several sessions under you, so I consider him fair game.
Incidentally, you might want to invest in a new d20; you do seem to have pretty rotten luck with yours.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Stockdale
Josh - this is a great little story you have going here. You certainly capture the feel of the game in the retelling.
Thanks! That's all I can capture, since the details are too hazy anymore for me...
"Well, do you have any bright ideas?" Roshan asked the Captain. Apparently he didn't, as all he did was dart his eyes back and forth across the deck as if hoping a solution would miraculously manifest itself.
"I...," he started. "Well, we could look for that big rock I saw floating up above us earlier..." However they were now ensconced in the fog bank, whether because the ship or the fog drifted was unknown. Visibility was too bad to find the little floating island again. But Roshan Boh had another idea.
"Shhh! Do you hear that?" he said. Both he and the Captain went still. The muffled silence of the fog bank was oppressively smothering. For a moment the only thing either of them could hear was the sounds of Konrad and Tson below decks moving things and talking to each other. An occasionally woody creaking sound, or flapping sail came from their ship, but seemed to fall quiet more quickly than expected, as if the fog were eating the sound. Then, very faintly, they heard a voice calling out.
"Ahoy! Ahoy there!"
The Captain began shouting to get the attention of whomever it was that called out of the fog, and then without warning a massive ship of the line appeared from the fog as suddenly as if the hands of the gods had suddenly placed it there. The massive vehicle turned then, and pulled up alongside. Roshan Boh had never seen such a large ship; multiple gun decks bristled on the side of it, and multiple crew decks clearly made up a significant portion of the rest of it. The poop deck and fo'c's'le were also several stories tall and well adorned. Fluted mahogany carvings decorated every exposed surface on the massive ship, and large areas of the ship, especially in the rear and on the poop deck were actually gilded. Three finely embroidered flags, shot through with gold and silver thread, adorned the masts of the ship.
"That's the flag of the kingdom of Cassant," said the Captain, indicating the foremost mast. "And that's the flag of the duchy of Razina, and that...," his face went white and he swallowed hard. "That last one means this is an Inquisition ship."
Tson and Konrad and "Rat" Galloway all came clumping up the stairs to see what all the commotion was about. They gaped at the massive ship, now just a few yards off their starboard side. They could now see the crew, staring silently at them as the ship came to a slow stop, it's much larger sides looming over them like a cliff. A handsome young face smiled at them from the middle of the ship.
"Ahoy there!" he said in a silky voice. "Well met! You may not have seen us, but I watched your handling of those pirates through my glass, and I'm suitably impressed." He held up his spyglass as evidence that he had indeed been watching them. "Might I invite you aboard before the ship you are on plunges into the void?" His face moved aside, but within a few seconds, a wooden ramp was extended by the crew to connect the two ships. Roshan Boh looked at the others, smiled and shrugged his shoulders and led them aboard, walking carefully on the thin planks of wood across the gap that fell into nothingness below.
Their host was waiting to greet them. He had a black velvet tunic shot through with silver threads, and a fine silvery cloak. His trousers and boots were made of soft, black leather. His head was bare, showing his dark hair and blue eyes, and he had a thin moustache and small beard on just his chin. He smiled at them again. "Welcome aboard The Monarch's Justice!" he said, "finest ship in the fleet of Cassant. I am Lord Gauvain FitzGilbert d'Aubigne, High Inquisitor of Razina, and if I may say so, it's damn lucky for you that we were coming this way when we did."
The group all inclined their heads slightly and shook his hand. "Let me introduce also my sister, the Lady Alainna FitzGilbert d'Aubigne, gentlewoman of leisure, and my most trusted companion and counselor, who will also be your host for the time being." He indicated a woman next to him, also young -- late twenties or early thirties at the most -- and she stepped forward to give them a limp wrist to kiss.
"Charmed," she said with a small, insincere smile. She was obviously Gauvain's sister, as the two looked remarkably alike; both very beautiful, with pale white skin and dark hair. Their sharp blue eyes that were mirrors of each other took in the strange little group. Her outfit was made to be the female version of Gauvain's -- black velvet dress, with silver threads in the same pattern as his tunic decorated her bodice. A silver net held her hair in a magnificent coif, although the humidity of the fog bank was quickly added a limp element to her hair that no doubt was not the stylist's intention.
"If you don't mind waiting in my quarters," Gauvain continued, "I'd love to talk to you three momentarily. I do, however, have the pressing need to see to the disposition of this salvage and your prisoner." The remaining pirate, under the barrels of several pistols, gulped loudly. "I'll just let Ramsley show you the way."
A straight-faced, older man, also in a black uniform, although of plain material stepped forward. "If you'll be so kind as to follow," he said, and then turned and started walking towards the doors of the poop deck without looking to see if they actually were following or not. Tson, Konrad and Roshan made sure to stick close on his heels.
The poop deck itself opened to a receiving area. An elderly clerk, also in a black uniform, half-stood as they entered, saw that it was merely Ramsley with three very odd (but not really important-looking) individuals and sat back down, his attention on the parchments in front of him. A door to the rear of that room led to a narrow and steep staircase with a gilded handrail. Ramsley led them into a richly furnished and relatively spacious room, surrounded on three sides by large panes of glass that lent the room a light and airy appearance. Silk upholstery bedecked several extremely comfortable-appearing chairs, and the three each took a seat. Ramsley presented them with silver-rimmed goblets and poured them a light wine from a bejeweled crystal decanter.
"Will you be requiring anything else?" he asked.
"Do you have anything we can eat?" Tson asked.
Ramsley bowed low and walked out of the room. "Do you think that means he's getting me something? I hope it's not some fairy aristocrat food; y'know, a few dainty bites of some disgusting vegetable. I want a good, solid 60 oz. steak..."
But before Ramsley came back, they could hear some faint sounds coming from outside the room; cries of pain. Then a long shriek that gradually faded; moving away from them as if its author had been thrown off the ship. "So, that must have been our pirate friend?" asked Roshan Boh with an innocent smile.
Within a minute or two, Gauvain, followed by his constant shadow Alainna came into the room. Gauvain sat casually amongst the three adventurers and poured himself a glass of wine while Alainna stood quietly in a corner. Once poured, he handed the decanter to his sister, who to everyone's surprise (except evidently Gauvain's) downed the rest of the wine in the decanter, wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, and set the empty crystal down.
"Well, my friends," said Gauvain slowly, "as I said, I was very impressed with your little maneuver on the pirate's ship. You demonstrated that you are savvy combatants, quick thinking, and handy in a tight spot." He absently swirled his drink, staring into the wine. "You have another advantage as well, at least to me," he said, almost to himself.
Then he looked up, more alert again, his eyes bright and his face smiling. "So, I have a proposition for you. I can offer you some good freelance employment in an item that my own men are too scant to resolve."
The three glanced at each other quickly. This sounded somewhat suspicious. Roshan Boh suspected that Gauvain also didn't trust his own men, and was glad to have an excuse to hire some outsiders who couldn't yet have been reached by some source of corruption. He sat up, nodding at Gauvain's words. He thrived on this type of implied intrigue.
"A few days ago, a caravan bound for Razina from Cassant was ambushed and its cargo raided. The cargo was very secret, and very sensitive, and it was an important Inquisitorial matter that needed to arrive in front of my desk. I believe that is in Razina now, but I need some operatives to locate this cargo and bring it back to me. In return, I can set you up with a safe house (complete with fully trained butler) and any equipment you might need to complete this task. In addition, you will have a pass to carry weapons in the city as part of this assignment."
Konrad missed the subtleties of the conversation, but went for the direct response. "So, what's the cargo that got stolen, anyway?"
Gauvain glanced at his sister almost imperceptibly before answering. "It was a book. A highly illegal book, as a matter of fact, known as the Book of Eibon. It's full of sorcery and heretical teachings, but it's also rumored to be powerful, and even to reveal a potential weakness of the Monarch himself, may all the god's bless him forever."
The three of them were stunned. The Book of Eibon was legendary; they hadn't really believed that it existed at all. Roshan Boh spoke slowly after a while. "And it was a very secret cargo, known only to the Inquisition, and yet it was robbed en route anyway?" Gauvain's face pained slightly at the implied accusation of someone in his organization.
"Yes, and the utmost discretion is necessary. I'm afraid I can't offer you any direct aid from the Inquisition, partly for your own protection. I'm not sure who is after it, but I fear he has penetrated my ranks. If you need to communicate anything to me, trust the butler only; he can transmit a message to me without fear of corruption. That's why it's so important that talented outsiders be my men for this job. Of course, after its successful completion, I can offer you better and more stable employment as well. Talented operatives are worth their weight in gold."
"Aren't there any leads you can give us to start with?" asked Konrad. "So far the trail is too faint for a blue-nosed sagovarr to follow."
Gauvain looked blankly at the rural metaphor, but answered quickly enough. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do have something. Yesterday, a man claiming to be a porter on the ambushed caravan was seen in a local tavern known as The Singing Sword. He seemed paranoid; frightened out of his wits, and he didn't last long before he left the tavern in a rush. But he did leave a detail or two about the attack, if it's accurate.
"Apparently, the attacker was some kind of dark sorceress herself; able to disappear and reappear at will on the battlefield, and she had a number of corpse-demons with her that rent the caravan's defenders like they were nothing. This sorceress, if she exists, has a description -- a tall, dark-skinned woman with a shaved head. She must be a Bred human, although I don't recognize the breed; he said her skin was black as smoke, and she had two wicked swords with which she murdered several of the caravan's defenders personally.
"And the odd thing is; rumors of other caravans, commercial caravans that is, having been robbed by a figure matching this description have also started to surface. I think that's where you should start. The Singing Sword is a tavern known for its patronage by traveling bravos; caravan guards, mercenaries and the like."
The three travelers looked at each other, but each saw the same gleam in the eyes of the others.
"Lord Gauvain," Roshan Boh said, standing and bowing stiffly to him, "we gladly accept your charge to track down and return to you this stolen cargo."
'Coz although I try to pretend I'm not, at heart I'm a bit of a softie as a GM. It seemed too cruel to kill the only character that the player had made ahead of time...
But now, of course, everyone has had time to play out their PCs for a little while. The kid gloves come off...
Roshan, Tson and Konrad had climbed to the crow's nest, on Gauvain's invitation, and the three were crammed in the small wooden bucket, but they had an unparalleled view of Razina as it approached in the mists. They also had a virtual guarantee of privacy. They were silent for a moment as the first houses and buildings of Razina came into view like islands or small boats poking their tops up through the thick mists. The first wave was on the terraced slopes, and was the dwellings of the wealthy and important. Although they couldn't see it, below the lowest of the buildings the giant floating continent dropped off in a sheer cliff face that fell for many miles before curling inwards.
"So, Roshan, take a look at what we found on that pirate ship," Tson said quietly, and he carefully handed the gray an old, battered book. He flipped through it for just a moment, looking around cautiously to make sure nobody was watching him. The book was written in a script that looked familiar, although cramped and archaic. Whether the language itself was one he knew he couldn't determine from a simple glance at the book. But one thing was for sure; the book was ancient. Quite likely, it was written before the founding of Cassant itself. And that meant there was a good chance that it was illegal and heretical both. Roshan smiled as he tucked it into a pocket in his cloak.
"Yes, that looks intriguing. And just maybe," he confided quietly to Tson, "it will have some information on our origins. But we don't want our new Inquisitorial buddy finding that out, since they'd love us to believe that Cassant has always been a glowing, legendary bastion of everything good and proper, don't they?" Konrad snorted at that.
More of the city of Razina was starting to march into view as their ship sailed peacefully over the rooftops, all strangely muffled by the thick mist. Now they could see the rim of the great continent, and perched atop it like a bloated, squatting vulture was an enormous, soot-stained brick building. All three of them gaped as it came closer and they realized just how big the building was. They had heard of Bricktown before, but the reality was more than they had expected. Many stories tall, sprawling over many square miles, and built like a giant brick and smokestack patchwork, Bricktown was an entire ward of the city of Razina that had been paved over with vaulted brick ceilings covering the streets and alleyways, converting the entire area into a gigantic building of sorts. Their ship took a course designed to sail to the side of Bricktown, but they could all see the forest of myriad smokestacks, hovels and other strange structures made the rooftop of Bricktown. It was said that an entire ecology of squatters, beggars, fighters and gangsters made their homes on the rooftops, and indeed, they could see tiny forms like people moving about on the enormous structure. The rooftop was perpetually blighted by the black vomit of smokestacks, belching the product of never-ending coal and oil-burning fires into the sky over Bricktown.
Roshan, Konrad and Tson all climbed down from the crow's nest to stand next to Gauvain and Alainna on the deck. The dark parasitic growth that was Bricktown was now behind them, and they could see a middle-class ward that was pegged tightly up against Bricktown, stretching away across the plain into the interior. Beyond that ward, they could see a strange greenish smudge, which gradually turned into the brownish red of the desert highlands beyond. "What's that?" Tson asked, pointing at the green patch, which was distant enough that to show as prominently as it did, it must stretch for miles.
"The Razina Marshes," said Gauvain. "In the center of it, there is a giant pump, of ancient manufacture, that pulls water up from the giant aquifer below ground, and brings it to Razina. The pipes have leaked a fair amount over the years, creating that marsh, which fades away into the desert beyond. But I don't expect you'll have any need to go in there," he said quietly. "It has a foul reputation."
They all fell silent again as the deck became a beehive of activity. The ship was slowing as it approached a tall, needle-like spire that shot into the air. Upon getting closer, they realized that the spire was dotted with large openings, each fronted by a flat dock of sorts. At many of these were berthed airships, securely tied to the docks, while others were still vacant. The Monarch's Justice pulled into a large dock that was the highest on the spire many hundreds of yards above the ground. Broad, flat gangplanks quickly followed the many ropes that secured the ship to the dock. The deckhands still buzzed about busily, furling the sales, shoring the lift engines and cooling down the boilers. A rush of steam blasted from vents in the lower part of the hull on either side of the airship. Gauvain and Alainna ignored the blast as they strode regally across the gangplank, gesturing Konrad, Tson and Roshan to follow them. However, they promptly ignored them to find their own way to the address Gauvain had given them earlier for their safe house. A large contingent of officials, lined by formal Inquisitorial guards, looking extremely fierce in their shiny armor was waiting for them, and they were quickly ushered out of sight.
The three freelancers, on the other hand, walked quietly and alone to the entrance into the spire itself. Along the outside edge, a long, winding staircase brought them finally down the ground, their knees aching from the long descent. Konrad in particular gawked at Razina at ground level; his background in the wilderness of the Twilight layer had not prepared him for the urban wilderness of Cassant. The streets below were literally packed with people; most of them humans, of course, but great red-furred hulks, slight grays and manikins, dark sanders, and even a few breeds that they did not recognize bustled about the city as well. The buildings were generally made of grim brick and were flat-roofed, and the streets were all cobbled and hard, funneling whatever water and sewer there was through channels where it did not disturb the pedestrians. Strange, two-legged and leathery creatures with sharp quills protruding from the backs of their heads and serrated beaks clacking angrily at passers-by pulled carriages that served as cabs for those willing to part with their gold in favor of convenience. Other cabs were pulled by steam and coal-smoke belching constructs and clanked their way through the streets. Strange birds croaked harsh sounds overhead and squabbled for scraps of food and trash on the street, grubby carnivorous and feral monkeys screamed as they fought for the same scraps, and tiny clockwork creatures like brass insects the size of cats scuttled across the walls, delivering messages and small packages.
Roshan Boh was the only one of the three who was more or less accustomed to the wilds of a large city, so he led the others with a minimum of gawking as they sought out their assigned safe house. Konrad, however, had a nervous feeling. There was a man; tall and thin with a shock of blonde hair, who he saw behind them many times. He could never be sure they were being followed, as he always was looking the other way when he surreptitiously glanced back at him, and yet he continued to stay the same distance behind them. Konrad suddenly veered towards a vending stall, pretending to look at rather poorly made steel knives and other utensils.
"Ah, my good sir, I can see you have a taste for finer…"
"Shut up!" Konrad growled at the obsequious shopkeeper, who quailed under his harsh gaze. Tson and Roshan came up behind him.
"What's going on?" said Tson a bit irritated. He was obviously in a hurry to reach their destination. Konrad took another cautious gaze, and saw that the blonde man had also stopped, and was talking casually with a salesman of parchment bulletins. Some coin changed hands, but the man stayed where he was, looking slightly interested in perhaps picking up another bulletin.
"See that gangly fellow with the sickly yellow hair back there?" he said, pointing slightly with his chin. "He's been following us for at least a quarter mile. I stopped here to see if he's really following us, or just coincidentally going the same direction. And what do you know; he made sure not to pass us up."
Tson cracked his knuckles and took a step towards the man, but Roshan stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Not a good idea at the moment, my overly direct friend," he said quietly. "We're close to where he need to go; this is 45th West we're on and the street ahead is 13th North. We only need three more streets straight ahead and six more to the right to arrive at the address I have. Let's split up and see what he does, and meet there." Tson nodded.
So the three of them took separate routes to the house. None of them saw the blonde man, but Roshan worried that was because they hadn't been discreet enough and tipped their hand. He headed in a zigzagging route that took him through the neighborhood, while Konrad headed straight for the house. Tson was the last to arrive, having taken a large spiral route that also gave him an overview of the entire neighborhood at least. He felt much more comfortable about getting around without getting lost for his troubles, although the street numbering system did help in that regard.
Their safe house turned out to be a three-story structure on a relatively quiet residential street, sandwiched carefully between two other buildings. It did have several advantages, however. A large iron-bounded wood front door was the main entrance, but an unobtrusive back door led out into an even quieter alley behind the house. Better yet, there was a roof entrance, and cached unobtrusively on the roof were a number of long ropes with grappling hooks, enabling quick emergency escapes to the ground, or even neighboring rooftops if it came to that. And finally, on the second floor was another heavy iron door that only opened one way, but which when examined, led directly to the abandoned warehouse next door.
"This will do quite nicely," said Roshan, already imagining all kinds of dire consequences of their actions. Their host in the house was a tall, stiffly polite and quiet man named Elroy, who was dressed in a dark uniform.
"I am here to see to your every need," he said stiffly. "Lord Gauvain gave me advance notice that you would be arriving." He indicated a clockwork bug, its movements now quite slow and painful. It needed to be wound quite badly. "I have drawn baths, if that is what you require."
That sounded good to all three of them, so for the next hour or so, they all were quietly soaking in their tubs. Some more quietly than others. "Elroy, can I get something to eat while I'm in here?" called Tson. Afterwards, they were all clothed in clean cloaks and new clothes, although Konrad still preferred his trusty woodsman's garb. They then hit up Elroy for equipment that would come in handy for their investigation.
He led them to a small armory, in which extremely well crafted weapons of various types were stored. Each of the three of them strapped on a gun belt with a pistol, while Tson picked up a wickedly spiked chain, Roshan picked up a light steel rapier, and Konrad hefted a heavy mace with a spiked head. He casually crushed a wooden chair, and then nodded his approval. "Please, sir, that chair is very expensive," said Elroy in a flat voice.
"Any armor here in the ...armory?" asked Tson, but there was not.
"I can commission to have some made for you if I take your measurements, but it will take a few days," said Elroy. Both Tson and Roshan opted to ask for leather jerkins, but Konrad merely sneered at the idea.
They then found a box for petty cash for them to use. "That's your allowance for a week," Elroy said. Roshan emptied all the gold marks and divvied them up amongst the three of them.
Now feeling considerably more confident, as well as cleaner and fuller, the three of them started to discuss strategy. Tson elected to go to the Singing Sword right away to talk to the proprietor before the later shift ended and the tavern became more crowded. They all agreed they should arrive separately. Konrad decided to take a nap.
Looking out from the rooftop for anyone suspicious before he went, Tson satisfied himself that the blonde man was nowhere to be seen and no one else looked like he was up to anything untoward. Then he departed on his own towards Bricktown. The Singing Sword was close to the dark, heavily guarded gates to that blighted ward of the city.
I had hoped to do one more update, and show Konrad's relatively robust sanity start dropping faster than Bill Clinton's pants, but my vacation starts in a few hours, and I'll be away for two and a half weeks. It's looking increasingly clear that I won't get to it today, which means I won't get to it until the 21st or so of July.
I've made a few updates to the campaign website, including mirroring the story there, and tomorrow (and the next day, if necessary) I plan on writing another update. We're still only about halfway to where we are in game (if that) and, with any luck, another game session coming up next week.
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