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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Steverooo" data-source="post: 1083259" data-attributes="member: 9410">[This is the log of a Campaign gone wrong...  While I was actively trying to induce a sense of paranoia in the PCs, I did too good a job, and that - coupled with uncooperative players and a mistake in forwarding a note that should have gone only to Karl's player to EVERYONE - disrupted ANY semblance of party unity!  As a result, the "Bodysnatched" came to a bad end!  Read on, and you will see!This game used another rules set (not D&D).  Paragraphs in parentesis () are notes from players to me.  My responses are in square brackets [].A Note on Races: This system takes a slightly different view of the various races.  Elves are divided into Ilfs (much like D&D Elves), Alfs, Wylves (Wild Elves), etc.  Orc are "Dark and Vile" Alfar.  Dwarves resemble D&D Dwarves, but aren't as resistant to magic, and take more damage from poison.  Kobolds are - literally - little green men, and the most magically-powerful PC race.  Wylves are always psychic, to some extent, although few actually have the Psychogenic skill.  Likewise, all Kobolds have at least one magical or psychic talent, and can turn invisible!...This game used a percentile system for all rolls.  The skill system is much different.  The Scrutiny skill, for instance, is used to cover both Spot and Listen in D&D terms.  So in other words, things are different, in this world, than you might be used to!  Read on, and enjoy the misadventures of Karl & Company!]KARL BELFORD's STORY:Karl Belford, Knight Arrant, has heard rumors of Dwarf-forged weapons; swords capable of cutting the legs off a Stone Troll with ease. Naturally, he was interested in following up these rumours, and set off for the Blue Mountains (where the Dwarves supposedly made such wonders) in late summer. He searched for some time, speaking with a goodly number, but was never able to find any Dwarves who could (or would) tell him where such wondrous weapons were made... Now, as winter begins, he has sadly given up the search for this year, and is hurrying home, rather than face winter in the wilds. Travelling along, he meets a man upon the desolate road that he is travelling. Oddly enough, the traveller greets him as "Lord Belford". Odd, because Karl's father's lands are many leagues hence. Naturally, Karl stops to chat. "Oh, I recognize ye, sirrah, by yer livery, sire. I be a tinker, by trade, and ha' been in many lands, including yer fathers, to be sure! No, before ye asks, I dinna know anything 'bout Dwarf-forged swords, or such like, but if I hear ought, I'll send ye a post. Perhaps ye might remember me with a small reward..." "Aye, I be wishin' I were in yer father's lands, now! A well-tended estate, where a tinker's worth his pay, not this dreary road, with winter coming on... Naye! I'd best hurry along! There be no place hereabout worth camping in, and even the nearest town, called Forlorn Corners, in no place I'd want to pass through, ifn I had a choice! Nought but a crossin' of this-here desolate road and a dreary track heading north!" "Well, good morrow to ye, stranger! Be wary of where ye camp, there are wolves hereabout, at nights, and things is strange, in this part of the world! The wilderland is close, here, even moreso than in them mountains ye has been in! Take care!" He refuses Karl's offer of coin, shoulders his pack and hurries off. Karl climbs back on your destrier, kicking him into a trot up the road, pulling his cloak around him to block out the blustering of the wintry wind. He wonders how far ahead this town is, and whether or not there's any place to stay. Looking at the leaden sky, he starts to wonder if he'll make it home before the snows come. Riding down the road, the light seems to dim. This is desolate, ugly country, even the plants seem somehow unhealthy in the cold and dim light. Things seem to grow darker, as Karl heads east... On the lookout for wolves, he foregoes camping at all, and pushes his poor horse, looking for that town! Along the way, he comes upon another traveller, low and behold, another young Noble, an Esquire nearing Knighthood, one Relgan Tow! Glad for the company, they join together for the nonce, and continue up the road, looking for an Inn. Finally, up ahead in the distance, the two see some buildings. The place deserves its name. A few unhealthy-looking trees, tangled hedges, scraggly gardens,... even the outlying fields seem to be struggling. There are a mere handful of buildings where the road is crossed by a track. All are run-down, drab, and the whole scene is unattractive, even to a weary traveller such as the Knights. If it weren't growing on towards evening, they'd be tempted to keep right on travelling!Looking around, they can see only one person (apparently a traveller, like themselves) up by the well where the northern track enters the town (if you can call it that). This person catches Karlsattention because he can tell (rolling a 13 vs Chivalry) that his horse is a Courser (Medium War Horse), and he has a steel bow and buckler on his back. Coming to the "crossroads" (if you can dignify this place with the name), they can hear the clanging of someone pounding metal - apparently a blacksmith at work in his forge. There is a stable nearby, and no one outside. Besides a few cottages, huts, and outbuildings, there're what appear to be a general mercantile, and perhaps an Inn and Tavern... Relgan says that he's beat, so he'll head to the stable, and see if there's stabling for the horses. Karl tells him that he's going to the well, and will check out the Inn, afterwards. They agree to meet at the Tavern, when done, for a bite of whatever the locals cook... Turning north, Karl passes the other buildings, and some sort of ashrine (fairly large for a burg like this), and comes to the well. The fellow there watering his courser turns out to be a Wylf, who's none too friendly, eyeing you suspiciously. Having dealt with these xenophobic sorts before, though, Karl takes no offense. He's heard them called "Cave Creeps", "Beanpoles" and other such names, but he knows they're just suspicious folks, until they get to know you. After that, some are okay.  Finally remembering one of the non-offensive forms of address, Karl greets him. "Hail, moon friend! Well met!" The elfkin eyes you warily, from the other side of the well... "Greetings, stranger..." he replies, taking in your plate. He is dressed in half-plate, himself, field-blackened, and oddly formed in the shape of an eagle, with the beak forming a visored helm. His clothing is a dark "stoneflage", and looks new, as does his pack and the tack on his horse. The bow and armor look well-used, however. Rolling a 12 against Chivalry, Karl judges this fellow must be a Wylven warrior, of some description, recently mustered out... This is borne out by the new boots, he thinks...                    THE OX's TALE:Poor Ox is a Major Oaf. Big, strong, clumsy (but working on it), and not nearly as dumb as most folks think he is... That's fine by him, as being under estimated can be a fine asset to have, at times! It doesn't help him towards his life-long ambition of joining the priesthood, though... Even so, faith will take you a long ways, and Ox is the perfect example: He has learned to read and write, learned an Invocation, and even a ritual or two... He still has a long, hard road ahead of him, but he has faith that the good Lord loves even Oafs, and is always looking for a way around the obstacles... Surely SOMEWHERE, there's an old priest willing to take him on as an apprentice! One day, he hears about a little squat in a desolate place that's run by a sole caretaker.   Apparently, this fella is half-Wylf and half something-else, and is about as socially-outcast as Ox himself.  Maybe he'd be interested in help, or at least a little friendly conversation... Ox gets the directions, and after stomping through the woods for several weeks, finally finds the place. Hmmm... Odd place, but it's got a big-sized shrine for such a hick-town!  Ox heads on in, looking for the caretaker...                    CARILLA's STORY:Lost in the woods after a disastrous near-encounter with too many brigands, Carilla is lost, and a bit stumped about what to do about it... Finally, she huddles in her cloak and misery, sitting on a stump in the middle of nowhere... After a long while, she hears an odd flapping sound... getting closer... She sits up, listening, reaching for her bow. Have the brigands followed her here? As she's wondering, an enormous, ugly Oaf comes huffing and puffing out of the woods, sees her, nods, and runs on past... "HEY! WAIT a minute, you Oaf!" Carilla yells at him. "Huh?" says the Oaf, stopping and turning around, "You talkin' to me?" "You see anyone else here?" Carilla asks, sarcastically. The Oaf looks around, brows beetling. "Nope." "Then I must be talking to you, Oaf. Where are you going?" "Forlorn Corners, Miss. I hear there's a shrine, there." "Do you know the way? How far is it?" "Well, I think so," the Oaf replies, scratching his head, "and I don't know, never been there, before." "Well, do you mind if I come with you?" Carilla asks, figuring being with a Major Oaf is no worse than being lost. "No, ma'am," the Oaf replies, bowing, then turns and crashes back into the brush. "Hey, WAIT!" Carilla calls after him, grabbing her gear...                    RELGAN TOW's STORY:Relgan Tow, Esquire, would be a Knight. For a poor, younger son of rustic petty nobles, this would seem a tall feat, but Relgan isn't the type to take "No" for an answer... That being the case, he is out looking for feats of derring-do to do, maidens in need of rescue, and perhaps even small dragons to slay... So far, all he's gotten for his trouble is a cold. He's heard rumours, lately, of some savage beast that has been be-deviling the farmers of the desolate lands near the mountains, and figures a hunt is in order! Wherever the creature roams, however, it seems to be avoiding civilization (what little there is), though, because he's heard nothing more about it for nearlya fortnight. With winter drawing nigh, Relgan is debating whether this tale is true, or not, and whether he should keep looking, or head home for the winter... More recently, Relgan has begun hearing tales of a handsome Knight Arrant, riding the land in search of the legendary Dwarf-forged blades. At first, he assumed that this was an erroneous reference to himself, then perhaps an old legend, but three days ago, he met a Dwarven miner on the road (more garrulous thanmost of his ilk because he had fortified himself for the trip with a few too many tankards of brew), who had talked to the Knight, himself! Relgan pumps the good fellow for all he's worth, and gets nothing on the swords, but does get a description of the Knight - a REAL person, it would seem! The Dwarf even remembers that his name was Carl, or Jarl, of the Belfreys, or somesuch! Relgan thanks him, gives him enough coin for a tankard at the next Inn, and makes sure that the little fellow remembers HIS name correctly... at least until he reaches the next tavern! Stopping for lunch half a day's ride from the mountains, Relgan puts on a pot of rabbit stew, for himself, and some mash for his horse. The fire is wonderful, after the cold, dreary ride, and leaving it is hard...  Feeling very lethargic and road-weary, Relgan makes little headway, the rest of the day, his mind wandering, and his head stuffy... Along about evening, he is jolted to his senses; the sound of heavy hoof-beats coming up the road behind him, a horse being driven at a steady but quick pace! He looks back, unable to see anything in the gloom and scrub. Pulling to in the center of the road, he wheels, lance up, and tries to present as Knightly a figure as possible to whatever fellow-traveller on the road - or brigand about to get his come-uppance - as might appear... Out of the gloomy landscape appears a figure of myth and legend... A Knight Arrant, clad in metal full-plate armor (worth a fortune, in itself), astride a mighty destrier, bristling with weapons! Relgan manages to keep his jaw from dropping. A KNIGHT! HERE! "Greetings, Sir Knight! I am Relgan Tow, Esquire, defender of these lands! Stand, Sir, and be recognized!" The stranger pulls his horse to a halt, looking at Relgan, then dismounts, and throws back his cloak, revealing the emblazoned surcoat over his armor. Relgan squints, trying to recognize it, in the poor light...  Rolling a 95, he hasn't a clue, since the lands of Lord Belford are so far from his home. Putting the best face on it, he speaks before Karl can: "Greeting, Lord Belfry! Be you Carl, the Knight Arrant?" "No," Karl replies, "I am Karl Belford, Knight Errant, seeking the Dwarves who forge..." "Aye, Lord, I've heard of your quest, although I thought it a legend of old. Is it true, then? Have you found blades of Dwarf-make?" "Well, no..." Karl admits, "but the quest continues... So what be you doing here, Squire?" "Forgive me, Lord," the Squire says, bowing and displaying his own livery as he approaches, sheathing his lance. "I am Relgan Tow, and I have been seeking a mighty beast that some say stalks this land, although I have seen not a hair of it, this fortnight past. I did not know if you were friend or foe, so I stopped you, Sire." "Hmmm! I had not heard that there was another Noble hereabouts, either! Oh well, no harm done." Rolling a 34 on Chivalry, even with the penalty for being well away from his homeland, Karl recognizes the livery of the House of Tow... petty country gentry of the "Gentleman Farmer" types; rustic estates, up against the northern walls of the Blue Mountains... Did he ride through their estates, this summer? He can't recall. In any case, a friendly-if-stolid lot, with naught bad to say against them, if he's remembering his Heraldry classes correctly... Relgan must be doing rather well, to be a Squire. "So, where is your Knight, Squire?" Karl asks. The Squire looks down, for a moment. "Oh, we have no Knights here, Lord, and few enough Nobles of any sort. But where is your Squire, Sir Knight?" "Ha!" laughs Karl, "I have never had one! Well, well met upon the road, fellow traveller! I be headed east, back towards more civilized lands, what of you?" "I, too, and headed that way, Lord, perhaps we could ride together for a while?" "Splendid!" says Karl, "I understand that there's a town not too far from here... If we hurry, perhaps we can reach it before nightfall! Mount, and let us ride, Squire Tow! I would enjoy some Noble company! Tell me of this `Questing Beast' that you hunt, and how long you've been after it!" The rest of the day is spent looking for wolves, beasts, and any place to spend the oncoming evening, warmed only slightly by the best company either young man has had in many long, weary weeks...                    A RYE TALE:Having fallen in with a band of Brigands who thought they knew the ways of the world, Kachas Rye was more than a match for them... After a display of pure, elemental power, they were a bit cowed, and Kachas was right at home... Instead of trying to effect a getaway, Kachas negotiated himself a deal... He would join their little bandit league, in return for a share of the loot, and provide them with... services... As expected, the head galoot bit hard, and soon had Kachas in a private parley with only him and his lieutenants. There, Kachas hinted darkly at his knowledge and power, selling the bandits on what HE could do for THEM, but how he was poor, and hampered by lack of equipment... They practically forced their help upon him, in return for his promises of aid, in the very near future! Kachas, or course, lied with ease, and noted all the small, easily portable treasures that he'd like to acquire from the leader's tent. A day or two later, he helped himself, dug a hole under the roots of a willow, and stashed it all. On his way back to camp, though, the noise of a great commotion warned him off. "Find me that little thief, you varlets! I want his EARS!" the leader roared. "Oops! Time to take cover!" Kachas thought to himself... He did, and the woods were soon full of eyes (and brigands). He waited until it was pretty quiet where he was, then crawled into a shrub, covering himself with leaves along the way. He spent the next hour trying not to sneeze... Sometime after that, he saw a pretty little Ilf girl go by, looking very freaked-out, wary, and more than a little bit dangerous... "My enemies' enemy isn't necessarily my friend", he thought to himself. He let her pass, then silently slithered forth, and stealed away... In time, he found a small track, and followed it south, to a town. Wondering if the brigands visited the tavern, here, he was about to skirt the place, when the sounds of a horse on the road behind him urged him on... Better the unknown in front of you than the enemy behind! He ran for the first building that looked public, making it to the door before the courser and its rider appeared. The lone figure astride it paused at the bend in the road, looking around. After a few moments, he headed for the well and dismounted, warily keeping watch while he watered his steed.                    A TALE OF SORROW:Having mustered out of the 61rst Elite Watchers after an embarrassing incident with a certain Lord (who shall remain nameless), Morchaint-Din had nowhere especially to go, but it was "suggested" (all too firmly) that he not remain in his current location. Well, he had other interests in life, besides the military, and if he could no longer watch the lands where he had dwelt, then perhaps it was time to dwell in the sunlit upper lands, and explore the world, and those other interests, a bit farther. Taking the gear that he'd gotten as "mustering out pay" (and just a few months prior to being commissioned as a Percepton, he thought), he made his way into the world of men and other races, learning about sunburn, deserts, winter, starry skies, and a million other everyday phenomenon. Making his way to a great city, he made use of the great library, there, and learned many hard lessons about greed, commerce, and the value of coin... In all too short a time, he was poorer but a bit wiser, a great deal more disdainful of cities, and perhaps even a touch more xenophobic than before he entered... He returned to the stonelands where survival depended upon the decisions one made for himself, instead of those others made for him! Along the way, with no food and water, he was forced to move slowly, avoiding the cities and towns, foraging for roots, tubers, and the few berries that remained on the bushes this late in the year. After a time, the mountains closed in upon him, forcing him to turn south, looking for a pass. If he was lucky, perhaps he could find an unoccupied mountain valley to winter in, someplace with an empty cave to call home. "With my luck, I'll probably make a light snack for a Cave Bear!", he laughed to himself. He shrugged, sighed, and rode on. Winter had begun, and things were getting colder and dimmer... These mountains seemed to trap the clouds near them. The days were getting colder without the sun, and without even a cloak to his name, Morchaint-Din was beginning to feel the chill in the air, during the nights.  Still, the winter must be cold, indeed, to kill a Wylf, so he hacked some birch bark off a toppled tree, and made a covering to keep the wind off, staking it down with tent pegs made of notched pieces split from small branches. After many days' travel, he came to an especially blighted-looking area. All the plants seemed poisonous, here, somehow... He dismounted, and took a pinch of soil between his forefinger and thumb, sniffing it... He let the scent coil around, lingering inside his nose. He detected nothing unusual; nothing to explain the plants... He rode on, for a while... After a time, he came to a point in the track where many people had crossed it, heading into the woods on the SE side... He pulled his bowkler as he dismounted, drawing two arrows. Nocking one, he put the other between his teeth, and stood, leaning against his horse, listening; looking... After a long time of that (hearing only the sounds of the forest), he cautiously advanced, and checked the tracks... A bands of 20 or so men, some armored, had crossed here; many of them twice... The winds had been from the SW all day. The men had crossed the road, then come back about an hour later, by the look of things. There were also the prints of a little barefoot Kobold who had crossed before the men, and hadn'treturned. He wandered if he'd discover a body, if he followed the tracks. With only a dozen arrows and a barteaux machete, he decided not to go looking for trouble, especially since he had no way to re-equip. He looked down the tracks as far as he could see, then put his arrow back in the quiver, keeping the other one knocked. He remounted his steed, and rode on. Not too long afterward, as he came around a bend, he heard the sound of running feet... Bare feet, small, like a child's... or a Kobold's! Warily, he edged out around the bend, to see the outskirts of a small village or hamlet. He saw no one, although he could see a well, and hear the bludgeoning of a blacksmith's hammer on some piece of steel. As he approached, he saw where the Kobold's tracks left the woods to the left of the road, and headed to the door of one of the larger buildings.  Rolling a 90 against Scrutiny, he failed to perceive whether or not the door was still swinging. Deciding to avoid any inter-racial strife, he went over to the well, and walked around it, checking things out.  He saw no signs, so assumed that these humans didn't charge for water. He dropped the bucket into the well, then winched it up. The water smelled and tasted okay, so he drank some, then filled the trough for his horse. While doing that, he heard two heavy horses coming up the west road. Two armored Knights stopped at the crossing, then one went into the barn, the other making his way north up the track, towards him. He could not hear what passed between the two, but one had pointed towards HIM!Morchaint-Din put the well between himself and the armored Knight, making sure he had running/fighting room, if need be. He smoothed his courser's coat, as it drank, and watched the man approach. The Knight had a destrier; tougher in a fight, but slower in the chase. Running looked the best option. Karl rode up, dismounted slowly, his legs creaking a bit after the long ride. He and the wary Wylf eyed each other as he removed his helmet, then flashed his best smile. "Greetings, moon friend! Well met!" Obviously a Human Noble, Morchaint-Din thought, and one acquainted with Wylves, apparently. Well, no sense being rude... "Greetings, stranger..." he replied, no hint of a smile, and never letting go of the bowkler, or nocked arrow pointing towards the ground... No sense being stupid, or trusting someone who hasn't earned it, either!</blockquote>

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