Cinerarium
First Post
Seriously Destan, that's the best single post I've read in an EN-World Story Hour.
Wow.
Wow.
Sins of Our Fathers - 2/10 - Final Update
Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
darkbard said:
Well, Cin is biased since I have the life of his own character in my hands in another campaign.
Plus, I regularly pay readers to post comments like that.
But, actually, we've both read Sep's SH. Last session we spent the final twenty minutes discussing it. That SH has defined the "high level" genre for me, personally, and makes me not quite as frightened of reaching those new heights.
It's a tale of near-epic heroes written by an epic writer. Comparatively, we're still around 3rd level here - characters and writer both.
The check's in the mail.
Enjoy your weekend, folks!
Little D
P.S. I plan to post a little "behind the DM screen" synopsis when I get a chance, since we're this close to when our first gaming session ended.
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LuYangShih
First Post
I like this much better than Sepulchraves story hour. But then, I never really cared for that story hour in the first place. This is definitely one of the best story hours in the forums, perhaps the best. I look forward to reading more.
Cinerarium
First Post
darkbard said:
well, clearly you've never read sepulchrave's story hours.
I'm a HUGE fan of Sep's SH, though I'm only about 2/3 through the Heretic of Wyre chapter. Sep's world and plotline are better than Destan's (no offense, big D, and please don't kill off Tryn).
I just thought Destan's last story post had all of the elements of a great story hour post -- great pacing, action, and use of the language, ended with a nice cliffhanger.
Sep's SH is for me about a great world and a great ongoing story, but it's rare that one single post makes me sit back and think about how nicely-paced the action was or how descriptive the language is. Maybe I'll be proved wrong as I get fully caught up, but I think it's the nature of the beast with the kind of high-level campaign he's got going on.
And besides, like Destan says, I'm really just sucking up so he'll let me have a cool cohort with Tryn's new Leadership feat.
Cinerarium
Cinerarium
First Post
And one other thing...
I just noticed that the ratio of posts/page views is getting to be about the same for this story hour and Sep's. Destan, you're catching up!.
I just noticed that the ratio of posts/page views is getting to be about the same for this story hour and Sep's. Destan, you're catching up!.
Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
The Slaughter of Olgotha
Once the party reached the ridgeline, the end was all but written.
The dark dwarves were limited in their speed and mobility, much less deadly with crossbows than with axes. Theirs was a race bred for fighting in the black confines of Deepearth, not the sprawling meadows of central Valusia. After a pair of failed assaults against the party’s position, the dwem broke. Their northerly retreat – organized at first – soon became a rout.
Vath and Raylin were much faster than the black-armored dwarves. Half-troll and Larren clansman cut them down, one after another, like hounds dispatching frightened foxes. Eventually only a handful of dwem remained, and this small force sought to gather en masse some four hundred paces from the Mound.
The party drew together once again. Vath’s green skin was shining with sweat, and Raylin’s chest heaved from the chase. A lull descended as all watched the last band of dark dwarves flee across a narrow stream, axes held high as water exploded around their boots. Most had already dropped crossbows and shields, but those few that had not did so now.
Vath clenched and unclenched his fists, coiled like a spring. “Why do we wait?” His tone held a hint of disdain.
“Let them gather,” Raylin answered. He sheathed his swords and sat down heavily on the body of a dwem axeman, sweat running down his unshaven cheeks. “It will be easier for us in the end.”
The dwem had chosen a defensible position to make their final stand. The land, still shrouded with wisps of morning mist, rose steeply to their backs. The stream would act as a natural line of defense, but the meadow where they would die was narrow and bereft of tree and rock. And, Raylin realized, unless the dwem crossed the stream once again, there was no where for them to run.
Kellus removed his helm. His hair was plastered to his head despite the cold breeze. The priest glanced at Baden. “I thought your folk feared the water.”
“They fear dying,” Baden answered. And then, “They are not my folk.”
The companions watched as a dwem warrior – the last to cross – struggled to gain dry ground on the far bank. The water was up to his armpits. The dwarf clutched at roots but pulled too strongly in his desperation – each came loose from the ground, causing him to slide downward into the stream again and again. He had already dropped his axe - doubtless it lay forgotten on the streambed – but his armor was an anchor that promised a watery grave should he lose his footing.
John had gathered three dozen black-feathered shafts from the bodies of the dwem they had slain. He held the bolts to his chest like a farmer might sheafs of wheat. The Pellman gazed at the lone dwem in the water. “Will his fellows not aid him?”
“Does it matter?” Baden turned from the sight. He knelt and began to wipe gore from his axe with tufts of dying grass. When he stood, the final dwem was no longer in the stream, nor was he with the huddled mass of dark dwarves on the far side.
Vath slid down the bank, muddy and soft from the passage of the fleeing dwem, and began to wade through the water toward the far side.
“Hold, Brother Vath,” John called. The Pellman jerked his head toward a lone outcropping of rock, not more than five paces downstream on the party’s side of the water. “They will be within my range from there.”
The half-troll squinted at the natural pillar then looked to Raylin. The ranger nodded. “The dwem are dead, friend. They know as much. It would be a hard fight gaining the far bank.”
Silence blanketed the scene as the party’s bloodlust receded. The battle was won, certainly. There would be no glory. Not now.
The dwem were the first to move. The dark dwarves formed a thin rank a stone’s throw from the water. A few of the braver ones, those who still held their axes, raised their weapons and urged the party forward in their own guttural tongue.
“Let us finish this.” Amelyssan had wrapped Margate’s Staff in a riding blanket, and tied the cloth with strips of leather. He leaned upon it now, face pallid and cheeks sunken. “Do not forget these are the race of Borbidan Elfkiller.”
John nodded and strode toward the rocks. He tucked the quarrels under one arm and nimbly climbed to the top. There he set the bolts down, drew his crossbow, and lay down upon his stomach. He began to fire.
The end was a long time in coming. Amelyssan was forced to gather more bolts for John. The range was long, and the dwem heavily armored. It took time to kill them all. A few of the dark dwarves, near the end, charged into the brook with weapons high. Three drowned, two were pierced by John’s bolts, and another was kicked back into the churning water by the half-troll.
The sun was not yet completely over the Balantir Cor when the slaughter at Olgotha ended, for battle it was none.
Once the party reached the ridgeline, the end was all but written.
The dark dwarves were limited in their speed and mobility, much less deadly with crossbows than with axes. Theirs was a race bred for fighting in the black confines of Deepearth, not the sprawling meadows of central Valusia. After a pair of failed assaults against the party’s position, the dwem broke. Their northerly retreat – organized at first – soon became a rout.
Vath and Raylin were much faster than the black-armored dwarves. Half-troll and Larren clansman cut them down, one after another, like hounds dispatching frightened foxes. Eventually only a handful of dwem remained, and this small force sought to gather en masse some four hundred paces from the Mound.
The party drew together once again. Vath’s green skin was shining with sweat, and Raylin’s chest heaved from the chase. A lull descended as all watched the last band of dark dwarves flee across a narrow stream, axes held high as water exploded around their boots. Most had already dropped crossbows and shields, but those few that had not did so now.
Vath clenched and unclenched his fists, coiled like a spring. “Why do we wait?” His tone held a hint of disdain.
“Let them gather,” Raylin answered. He sheathed his swords and sat down heavily on the body of a dwem axeman, sweat running down his unshaven cheeks. “It will be easier for us in the end.”
The dwem had chosen a defensible position to make their final stand. The land, still shrouded with wisps of morning mist, rose steeply to their backs. The stream would act as a natural line of defense, but the meadow where they would die was narrow and bereft of tree and rock. And, Raylin realized, unless the dwem crossed the stream once again, there was no where for them to run.
Kellus removed his helm. His hair was plastered to his head despite the cold breeze. The priest glanced at Baden. “I thought your folk feared the water.”
“They fear dying,” Baden answered. And then, “They are not my folk.”
The companions watched as a dwem warrior – the last to cross – struggled to gain dry ground on the far bank. The water was up to his armpits. The dwarf clutched at roots but pulled too strongly in his desperation – each came loose from the ground, causing him to slide downward into the stream again and again. He had already dropped his axe - doubtless it lay forgotten on the streambed – but his armor was an anchor that promised a watery grave should he lose his footing.
John had gathered three dozen black-feathered shafts from the bodies of the dwem they had slain. He held the bolts to his chest like a farmer might sheafs of wheat. The Pellman gazed at the lone dwem in the water. “Will his fellows not aid him?”
“Does it matter?” Baden turned from the sight. He knelt and began to wipe gore from his axe with tufts of dying grass. When he stood, the final dwem was no longer in the stream, nor was he with the huddled mass of dark dwarves on the far side.
Vath slid down the bank, muddy and soft from the passage of the fleeing dwem, and began to wade through the water toward the far side.
“Hold, Brother Vath,” John called. The Pellman jerked his head toward a lone outcropping of rock, not more than five paces downstream on the party’s side of the water. “They will be within my range from there.”
The half-troll squinted at the natural pillar then looked to Raylin. The ranger nodded. “The dwem are dead, friend. They know as much. It would be a hard fight gaining the far bank.”
Silence blanketed the scene as the party’s bloodlust receded. The battle was won, certainly. There would be no glory. Not now.
The dwem were the first to move. The dark dwarves formed a thin rank a stone’s throw from the water. A few of the braver ones, those who still held their axes, raised their weapons and urged the party forward in their own guttural tongue.
“Let us finish this.” Amelyssan had wrapped Margate’s Staff in a riding blanket, and tied the cloth with strips of leather. He leaned upon it now, face pallid and cheeks sunken. “Do not forget these are the race of Borbidan Elfkiller.”
John nodded and strode toward the rocks. He tucked the quarrels under one arm and nimbly climbed to the top. There he set the bolts down, drew his crossbow, and lay down upon his stomach. He began to fire.
The end was a long time in coming. Amelyssan was forced to gather more bolts for John. The range was long, and the dwem heavily armored. It took time to kill them all. A few of the dark dwarves, near the end, charged into the brook with weapons high. Three drowned, two were pierced by John’s bolts, and another was kicked back into the churning water by the half-troll.
The sun was not yet completely over the Balantir Cor when the slaughter at Olgotha ended, for battle it was none.
Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
Behind the DM Screen
First, my apologies for the shortness of the most recent update. I intended to have that post be the last snippet of the previous update, but it was late and I was outta gas.
This concludes the group's First Session. If I recall correctly, we had started playing on a Friday night back in early September of 2001, and ended in the wee hours of Saturday morning. I may be wrong. Most of our sessions since that time have been longer in duration - usually from Thursday night until early Sunday morning. When those marathon sessions end, I can honestly say it's one of the very few times when I'm ready to put the D&D books and dice aside.
That feeling only lasts for a day or two, usually.
A couple of notes, now. As mentioned previously, we weren't playing under 3E rules during that initial get-together. We are now, and thus any updates following this one will be from our 3E sessions.
There was a funny out-of-character episode that took place while the party was on Olgotha Mound. Kellus' player saw Aramin kill himself and - for some reason known only to him - decided that he was supposed to then kill himself with the same ceremonial dagger. When his initiative came up, he uttered words that the group has yet to forget, "I plunge the dagger into my chest!"
It was the only time that I can recall where I had to use DM fiat and say, "Um, no you don't. Really."
The group, when we made the transition to 3E, was comprised of third level characters, I think. I'd rather not say what level they are now, but I will say that they're significantly more powerful - and, of course, not all of these orginal characters are still around. This is supposed to be a grim world, afterall; we can't have every would-be hero living until the final showdown.
The comments on the plot and theme of the campaign are understood and warranted. I only ask that you, gentle readers, stick with me as we move forward. At this point in the campaign it was very much "we go here, we kill this" - I don't think I'm being too off-base to say that things, soon enough, get very, eh, political. And religious. And confusing.
Hell, at this point in time, there really isn't a plot, is there? That'll change, I promise.
I have a feeling my two-week hiatus may have caused some readers to head off to other pastures. I'm gonna endeavor to win you back with more frequent updates, real-life willing.
Sometime this week I intend to start posting updates from the Second Session. We'll see the return of some faces the group thought lost in memory, and we'll see the introduction of new entities whose sole purpose is to make the players generate new characters.
And, of course, we may start to get glimpses of the fellow who I quote at the very beginning of this story hour. Or at least those who work for Him.
Keep gaming, keep posting, and - most of all - please keep reading. I can't do this without you.
Cheers,
D
First, my apologies for the shortness of the most recent update. I intended to have that post be the last snippet of the previous update, but it was late and I was outta gas.
This concludes the group's First Session. If I recall correctly, we had started playing on a Friday night back in early September of 2001, and ended in the wee hours of Saturday morning. I may be wrong. Most of our sessions since that time have been longer in duration - usually from Thursday night until early Sunday morning. When those marathon sessions end, I can honestly say it's one of the very few times when I'm ready to put the D&D books and dice aside.
That feeling only lasts for a day or two, usually.
A couple of notes, now. As mentioned previously, we weren't playing under 3E rules during that initial get-together. We are now, and thus any updates following this one will be from our 3E sessions.
There was a funny out-of-character episode that took place while the party was on Olgotha Mound. Kellus' player saw Aramin kill himself and - for some reason known only to him - decided that he was supposed to then kill himself with the same ceremonial dagger. When his initiative came up, he uttered words that the group has yet to forget, "I plunge the dagger into my chest!"
It was the only time that I can recall where I had to use DM fiat and say, "Um, no you don't. Really."
The group, when we made the transition to 3E, was comprised of third level characters, I think. I'd rather not say what level they are now, but I will say that they're significantly more powerful - and, of course, not all of these orginal characters are still around. This is supposed to be a grim world, afterall; we can't have every would-be hero living until the final showdown.
The comments on the plot and theme of the campaign are understood and warranted. I only ask that you, gentle readers, stick with me as we move forward. At this point in the campaign it was very much "we go here, we kill this" - I don't think I'm being too off-base to say that things, soon enough, get very, eh, political. And religious. And confusing.
Hell, at this point in time, there really isn't a plot, is there? That'll change, I promise.
I have a feeling my two-week hiatus may have caused some readers to head off to other pastures. I'm gonna endeavor to win you back with more frequent updates, real-life willing.
Sometime this week I intend to start posting updates from the Second Session. We'll see the return of some faces the group thought lost in memory, and we'll see the introduction of new entities whose sole purpose is to make the players generate new characters.
And, of course, we may start to get glimpses of the fellow who I quote at the very beginning of this story hour. Or at least those who work for Him.
Keep gaming, keep posting, and - most of all - please keep reading. I can't do this without you.
Cheers,
D
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