8XXX{0}====> (Sword)'s The Defenders of Marshdale

[8XXX{0}====>]

Hey! I'm a high schooler who's been wanting to DM for a long time, but never quite found the right group. But i had all this material for an adventure, and nothing really to do with it. I had a homebrew world, the Kingdom of Haloria, and a whole bunch of adventures ready to go. I even had an astrology calender worked out, but NO PLAYERS!

So I decided to make up my own. I rolled up some first level characters, and ran them through the first adventure as even handedly as possible, the dice falling where they may.

I took notes, and so now i'm writing up the adventures of the non-existant party, the Defenders of Marshdale.

Lets see, some things about the world before i get started:
The people of Haloria chiefly worship Heronious, the god of strength and valor, and Pela, the female godess of the Sun (Pelor only femenine). Horthol is the name of the single moon. And raskas are a sort of lizard cow thing.

So... here i go...

 

[8XXX{0}====>]

Sunday, March 3, MV 1622
St. Blothor’s Day, Serra Accendant, Horthol Waning


The sun broke beautifully on the horizon that day, but went unnoticed.

All of Marshdale Valley was swimming in a deep, clinging fog. Everything was damp in Durk Daggarbreak’s pack. The flat-bread was positively ruined, and the half-eaten raska-cheese certainly had seen dryer days. But no matter, town was but a few more throws away. No, no, not throws. No one throws a dwarf, especially this one. Did the kingdom really need such blatantly racist measurements? Really. Treefells were a perfectly good measurement, albeit elven. And the gnomish cogmarches certainly had a nice ring to them…

Durk’s boots squished in the half mud, and the sheep could here him coming a throw away. The shepherdess herself was nowhere to be found, but the sheep didn’t care much. They had a hill full of grass to worry over. The path he walked was one of the paved roads that wound throughout the empire. Paved indeed, for Durk had seen mudslides that were better paved than this. Not a good cobble in sight! No matter, there were but paces left to the town wall. Durk could see the spiked wooden palisade rise up through the swirling mist, and could just barely make out an armor-bedecked sentry standing to one side of the gate.

Durk called out.

“Soldier, you got any warm food on you? Or better, some ale?”

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Hank Acorn woke up first of his kin, like every day. First up gets first pick of chores. Hank didn’t like chores, and since the easiest chores always got picked first, Hank was always the first picker. Today, he decided to work on the south wall. He could smell the mist, and thought it would be a nice day to work outside.

He swung out of his bunk bed and jumped, landing softly on the floor. Being youngest, he had the top bunk, and after years of being first up, he knew how to keep quiet enough to stay first up. He had slept in his cloths, since they were only three days worn, and could be tolerably worn for another ten. Hank slipped on his leather moli, the slipper-shoes that were common among his race. Hank was, of course, a halfling.

He crept quietly across the wood floor of his family’s home, running his hand along the smooth, warm stone walls. It was so good of his father to build their hill with a heating system. It got so cold in the winter, and walking through a cold hall just minutes after you woke was not a pleasant experience. The round door was just ahead, the coat pegs on the walls next to it, which when unburdened by cloth were shaped like great dragon heads, scaled and beautiful.

Hank grabbed his fog-coat (halflings have clothing for every kind of weather, especially the cold kind), opened and went through the round door into the much cooler boot room, closing the door behind him. He stuck his feet, moli and all, into his boots, which were oak-tree brown and had his initials embroidered into the sock-lining (halflings are very lazy, and most of their shoes have the socks attached). He undid the board on the grey door, which lay across from the round door, went through, and again closed the door behind him.

Now he was in the inner mudroom. The floor here was covered with a special grass that his father had brought home from one of his adventures. It sucked up all the moisture around it. His father called it eloshi elven for dryness. When it was dry, it was a sort of dead brownish color, and utterly brittle. But on a day like this, when moisture seeped in all the way from the outside, through the outer bailey, the inner bailey, the outer mudroom, and finally into here, the inner mudroom, it perked up, and became soft and green. In any case, it worked wonders cleaning the bottoms of shoes.

Hank had simply to shuffle his feet, and the grass would dry up the mud, and then scrape it off. Wonderful stuff. It was poor that it didn’t grow elsewhere.

After lacing up his boots, Hank shuffled across the room, into the outer mudroom (much like the inner one, with taller grass (more moisture), to the inner bailey (which had a thick wooden gate with a peephole, very fun to taunt siblings from, down into the outer bailey (there were steps down), and finally outside.

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To be continued...

 

[8XXX{0}====>]

Sunday, March 3, MV 1622 - Continued
St. Blothor’s Day, Serra Accendant, Horthol Waning

Janus didn’t sleep at all that night. Torra’s moon, Horthal, was waning, and that always made him queasy. Something about that great silver disc pulled on his innards, and for a week or two out of every other month, sleep just wasn’t possible.

So he sat in the cramped library of the Hall of the Faithful, surrounded by books, and burning tallow like nobody’s business. He hated the dark, and regardless of whatever fire hazards he might cause, always tried to keep the room brightly lit. He propped up his slippered feet on the single desk, and with a book in his lap, whiled away the time reading.

Some days he studied Old Man Galus’s spellbook, some days Marshdale’s copy of the Annuls of the Faithful, the holy book of the Heronious-bound guards of Haloria, named for Archangel Halor, once a man, the greatest of Heronious’s saints, and also champion of Heronious’s bride, Pela, the sun goddess.

It was interesting reading, full of thees and thous and forasmuches, and always high on adventure and faith. It told of the life of Halor and his companions, and in the later chapters of his various descendants, and other holy men and women, all of them strong, or brave, or faithful, and all with tales of the greatness of Heronious or Pela.

The morning bell rang. Janus heard the groans and clanks of his fellow soldiers rising from bed in the garrison, just down the hallway. He could smell the cooks stoking the fires of the oven, and the scent of garlic being chopped for the flat-bread. Old Galus would probably be wanting him soon, and so Janus closed up the book he was reading, “Tales of Adventure, as related by Bolin Twoblade.” For dwarven writing, it was remarkably fluid and subtle. Well, as subtle as you could be in dwarven.

Janus was so wrapped up in thinking about Bolin’s latest adventure that he didn’t notice running into his friend Sorrell until he had bounced of the young woman’s armor and was sprawled on the floor.

“Pela’s Light! I’m so sorry Second Mage Janus!”

“Here, let me help you up!”

Sorell’s heavy steel armor creaked as she leaned over to help the young mage up. He scuttled away from her, and got up on his own, indignant.

“Watch where you’re going, soldier,” he spat, and stormed off.

Or would have, if Sorell hadn’t grabbed him by the robes with her gauntleted hand.

“Now, Second Mage Janus, what do you say when you leave someone’s presence?”

“Pela’s light guide you, Ser Sorell Morthel. May the Dawnbringer shine on you always.”

“Pela’s light shine on you also, Second Mage Janus. May the Radiant One bring you peace. And happy St. Blothor’s Day!”

“St. Blothor? Who?”

“St. Blothor was a gnome merchant of some standing who one day gave all his money away to the poor of Haloria proper in the most miraculous way. He prayed to Pela, who turned all his gold coins into fish, and…”

“… he released them into the aqueducts of Haloria, where people caught them from the fountains. I remember now. Neat trick.”

“Its called a miracle. Good day Second Mage Janus.”

They went their ways. Just out of earshot, Janus muttered to himself. “And don’t call me Second Mage.”

| X--X--X--X--X {-O-} ==============================>
To be continued…

 

[8XXX{0}====>]

Sunday, March 3, MV 1622 - Continued
St. Blothor’s Day, Serra Accendant, Horthol Waning

“Name and business first, sir. Pela willing I’ll trade you some of my warm flat-bread for some conversation. Job’s necessary, but right dull. Serves me right for getting in a scuffle on inspection day.”

Durk closed the remaining distance between him and the sentry. He looked up at the guard, his blue eyes smiling with hunger.

“Name’s Durk Daggerbreak, and my business is that of exploration and wealth rediscovery. And I’ll tell you my sins from the first to the last for some warm food.”

“An adventurer, Mr. Daggerbreak. Dangerous trade you ply,” the guard said as he walked inside the gatehouse, reemerging with a plate of steaming bread. “Papers, Mr. Daggerbreak? And any news from Waterdale?”

Durk took a slice of bread with one hand, and handed over his papers with the other. He ate as he talked.

“Mmm, I goot nuws from Watrdaal. ‘Few leddars for the townfulk, mmm, the rivr der is almost fudding, highest ids been in dwendy years, they say.”

He finished the bread in four huge bites.

“Belltime came and went, and the Midwinter festival was nothing special seeing as everyone was cooped up inside. Are you Fourth Vorn?”

“I’m Third Vorn now. Why?”

“Jenna sends her affection. She said for me to tell you how much she liked the swim.”

Third Vorn blushed.

“You’re paper’s seem to be in order. Kingdom laws are enforced here. All weapons visible, drawing them without undo cause is frowned upon. No fighting, no vulgarity, nothing that would upset the peace. You seem like a nice enough person, Mr. Daggerbreak, but the moment you do something not quite legal, my blade will be your new best friend.”

“Right enough, Third Vorn. I know the Laws just as well as anyone, and follow them twice as well.”

“The Town Hall is on Main Street, just follow this path. There’s no inn here in Marshdale, but the Hall of the Faithful is mighty comfortable. Standard kingdom rates for a night there. Town ‘ll be pretty empty right now. Here the bells? Its Sunday, and most everyone in town is at the Ceremony of the Light. Fine day for it to, the fogs thicker than Moradin’s accen- err… flat-bread soup.”

“It’s alright soldier. Never was a pious man. Anyone in town I can talk to about commissioning a weapon?”

“John Adder is the local smithy. He’s older than I care to think about, but strong as a raska. But his hands, his hands are like those of a fair maiden. He makes the most beautiful things. I think you’ll like the work he does. What kind of weapon you thinking about?”

“Do you know what a Stone Spike is, Vorn?”

“No? Some sort of dagger?”

“It’s a creature that lives deep in the bowels of the world, an elemental. Made out of the earth itself, all spikes and shards and cold, hard stone. My kin sometimes encounter them in the deepest veins, where they chew on the thick, hard rocks. They don’t mind people much, long as they have something to munch on. Granite’s real good, diamonds are better. But when it runs out of food, they get angry, and they start spinning. Whirl up a storm of sand with the rocks they spin on, and lash out with great stone arms brimming with the shards of a thousand diamonds. Sharp as dragons-teeth, long as your hand.”

“And you want Adder to make you one of these?”

“No, I want him to make me a spiked chain My ancestors saw the power stone spikes have, and made these weapons to honor them. It is a ring, with two chains attached. Each chain has, on every few links, spikes of iron. It’s damn hard to use, but also damn painful to be hit by. And since each chain is a good six or seven feet, it has a longer reach than all but the biggest great swords. Nasty, eh?”

“Sound’s painful, but effective. How long does it take to train to use it?”

“Years. Sometimes decades, if the pupil is slow.”

“Could you teach me?”

“I don’t know if I’m good enough. I could try, though.”

“That’s all I would ask. I’ve never in my days heard of a stranger weapon, but something about it appeals to me.”

“Good man. I better head into town. My money sack is never full, and right now, its feeling the pinch of Jaccin’s Bane. And I have to pay for my commission, don’t I?”

“Everybody’s looking for something, Mr. Daggerbreak.”

“Indeed, soldier.”

| X--X--X--X--X {-O-} ==============================>
To be continued…

 

[Skade]

Hey, keep the updates coming. I like what I see so far.