WotBS Bonus Time's Burning Sky

[VicsHacienda]

Osnald Swiftwillow

NG Lightfoot Halfling, Male Bard, Criminal/Spy Background
Connection: [[Thieves' Guild]]

STR 8 DEX 16 CON 10 INT 13 WIS 12 CHA 16

HEART You were raised by a found family. taken in members of he thieves guild
ELDER A person of great authority with the ear of many. [[Baret]] the Bard
A Hero Emerges: Asked for or not; they have arrived. he must fill the gap left behind in order to help the other street urchins

Family murdered
Has other family.

 

[VicsHacienda]

The Nock family, hm?

Yes. Why "hm"?

 

[RangerWickett]

My name's Ryan Nock.

 

[Fuzzybear]

My name's Ryan Nock.

No relation you say? Hmm.

 

[VicsHacienda]

No relation you say? Hmm.

Checking...

 

[VicsHacienda]

Defending the Fend, Begging the Question of What A Fend Is​

[For this section, I asked the players to play Gallo's units and play their PC if they rolled a "6" on a d6. This allowed them to take command of units and have their own PCs influence the battle.]
We awake refreshed in Gallo's Fend, after having delivered the last of the fleeing villagers from Middleton. The fortress itself is well constructed, settled in a loop of the Nashham River. Just south lies a long square rise called Wicked Hill. The Lobann Forest and Itnevel Wood lie to the south and east. Steppengard's forces have gathered beyond the latter.

Many other people in Otharil Vale have abandoned their homes, retreating to a city of tents between the small fort town of Markhold and Wicked Hill.

Duke Gallo suggests that the citizens of Gallo should fight alongside his forces and rasps, half-jokingly, that if they leave now they’ll regret not being the ones who save the day. I doubt sincerely they will take the bait.

Ten thousand soldiers are spread throughout Gallo's Fend, many stationed in hidden forts on Wicked Hill or in similar bunkers throughout Otharil Vale. Bolstering us are a thousand cavalry and two thousand infantry from Dashgoban. Lady Timor has sent aid as well: fifty war mages, eight hundred infantry, and two hundred cavalry, plus the elder xorn Tupof Dzequifs, whatever an elder xorn named Tupof Dzequifs might be.

Duke Gallo, in a sudden fit of generosity, wants us to lead one of the many groups of twenty to fifty soldiers, keeping our stretch of land from being invaded. We hadn't asked for the honor, but I suppose he likes us and that's his way of rewarding people.

So we assemble, and find we are in charge of the indefatigable Commander Hertiage (whom I hope we can keep a leash on), two chaplains (whose use I cannot imagine unless they have some clerical war magic like our friend), two squads of archers (which is highly useful), and three squads of knights from Dashgoban and two war mages from Timor, the addition of which makes me feel a little easier. There is also a rust monster named Granule, waving its feathery antennae, making Fafnir nervous until we realize Granule has a handler named Woody Rust-Wrangler, which makes me wonder whether he got the name after choosing that profession, or whether he figured he should became a wrangler of rust monsters with such a name. Comes from a long line of rust-wranglers, perhaps, but I don't ask.

We also have some one-use magic item that, if tossed onto the ground, will summon the elder xorn Tupof Dzequifs, which should tunnel up from below and wreak some proper havoc. I don't know when to loose that particular shaft, but I'll leave it to the more tactically minded (e.g., Fafnir and Trevor).

I am put in charge of the two squads of archers, which I can't complain of. They carry longbows, which is good news. I give them the names of Hawk's Raiders and Hawk's Roughnecks. One of the war mages, Leona, joins me and says she's under my command. This is fascinating to me but I don't have time to explore that kind of nicety right now.

Drums and horns and snapping banners announce impending battle. Steppengard and Gallo are assembled and ready. Fog hangs over the landscape, turning everything gray and blurred. We see terrible shapes and visions within the fog. Osnald feels that the veil between this place and the Shadowfell is thin. Things are around that aren't from here, perhaps to witness this battle.

As I look across the field, from time to time I could swear I see my uncle Gavintar's face appear among the commanders. I cannot be sure, but my hand tightens on the grip of the Taranesti bow. I don't know what I want for him... or for me.

A horn blast sounds the enemy's advance. Soldiers march on grass. Wheels squeak, likely siege engines we haven't taken out. Our horses stamp and whinny. We see griffons emerge from the gray, and squads of soldiers with flails running toward us. A catapult stone bursts from the fog and crashes behind our lines, bouncing and smashing but missing our troops. They're firing blind, which is fine by me.

Then a tiny point of light appears, exploding in a fireball amidst Osnald's soldier squads and knights. Osnald and Hertiage is among them, and one of the chaplains. The Steppengardians have casters too.

Trevor, leading two squad of soldiers, charges out onto the battlefield beyond the spiked barriers, forming them into a semicircle. They stand ready. He brings forward his knights, their hooves thundering, positioned before the soldiers.

I beckon Leona, the war mage under my command, to come forward with me. "Aim right there," I point, and she drops her own fireball among the enemy casters, as well as two squads of knights and a squad of soldiers. We trade smiles.

The casters shake off the fire, and a man clad in white clerical garments casts something, perhaps a healing spell.

"Roughnecks!" I call, and a volley of shafts soars over the field into the casters, who dodge desperately.

Trevor's war mage (whom he calls Thumor because he didn't ask her name), points and delivers her own fireball into the same burnt area, wrapping the knights, soldiers, and casters again in flame. The white-clad cleric goes down.

Our own chaplains dash back and forth, healing the burned.

We see bull-headed creatures rush from the fog. Minotaurs.

"Raiders!" I direct another volley at the spellcasters, and the archers take down a commander, who falls onto his face in the minotaur’s wake. The mage behind him looks worse for wear, and the knights take more arrows in their armor. Another commander appears and runs forward while the knights back up into the fog. Rather unsporting, I think, to use their soldiers as fodder while their cavalry stays protected.

Two griffons dive-bomb toward Fafnir's and Trevor's soldiers, who brace with their spears.

Suddenly a lion-shaped winged creature with the features of a woman appears, hauling the enemy mage back into the fog. I have no idea what that creature is, but at least it's engaged in saving others instead of doing whatever it does best.

I cast longstrider on Leona and drop back toward my Roughnecks. Osnald's knights canter forward to meet an onrush of Steppengardian soldiers. A griffon drops onto Trevor's mage, met with flail strikes by his soldiers and lances from his knights. The griffon falls in a bloody clump of feathers.

Leona sends a flaming sphere rolling into oncoming soldiers, before quickly striding back toward me. I stand before her.

Trevor's troops spear enemy troops, and retreat with points raised. More soldiers run at us. Osnald brings forth his mightiest and most dubious spell, lovesick, enveloping two squads of soldiers. He then quaffs a healing potion in style.

Fafnir brings a crusader's mantle and moves among his knights, his aura glowing.

 

[VicsHacienda]

Trevor Strathmore, is a lean young man prone to drink and bar brawls (if he isn't left alone).
Connection: [[Thieves' Guild]]
NG, Variant Human, Fighter (uses the whip), Inheritor background, association with the Thieves Guild.

S: 10 C: 12 D: 16 I: 13 W: 15 Ch: 8

Trevor’s family lived and maintained an estate renowned for its library. They were a lore-keeping house and their hold was long dedicated to that endeavor. He knows his family was banished from their home long ago and he was raised and trained in secret by his father. His mother died at his birth and his father recently died. Trevor has lived in Gate Pass doing odd jobs, mostly acting as a lookout/muscle, and reluctantly follows the Oath of Healing. (Maybe his family has a link to the [[Aquiline Cross]], but Trevor is unsure. He doesn’t recall how he learned it, but it guides him no matter how much he tries to avoid it.) Trevor is associated with the [[Thieves' Guild]] as a lookout. Trevor’s family crest is the Eagle.

Legacy fragment: Loss: Your home was taken long ago and many still fight to reclaim it. His family was pushed from their home by the [[inquisitors]].
Bond fragment: Zealot: Supreme Inquisitor Leska.
Catalyst fragment: A Dynasty Diminished:

He secretly wishes to be relevant, like his family once was.

- Right now, the person most suited to help Trevor would be Hawk because she’s passionate about this Resistance thing. It seems the proverbial naughty word has hit the fan and sides should be taken. Trevor thinks he knows which side he should be on, but still tries to remain aloof–he tries to laugh about it, covering it all up with lies.

## Family
tried to run back to get my mom, but my father yanked me by the scruff of my neck before I got far. I got burned a bit. I always wished I had been stronger, then I could rescue her. But that’s just a child’s fantasy. What was I gonna do? Hold the naughty word flames at bay? Stupid kid. I got a second chance at that rescue. My father and I were living on the lam, when Inquisitors caught up to us. They burned the place we were staying. I was older–in my teens, still idealistic, still stupid. I rushed to help my father escape, but again he prevented me. He pushed me back and barked at me to “get the hell out of here.” Reluctantly, I did what he said. For several months I half expected him to find me, or that I would find him. That was about 30 years ago. Still haven’t found him

 

[VicsHacienda]

[This entry brought to you by Viggo. Bio follows entry]

Oh yes. Viggo. Viggo saw it all.

Or most of it. Or enough of it, through the vitreous jelly of one good eye and the psychically inverted echo of his own ribcage. Viggo relays what he sees telepathically to a clerk of the court of Gallo. He has been told to write down everything as it is telepathically relayed to him. The clerk does so because he prefers his organs to remain inside his body. Let us begin his chronicle, written in ink and sweat and a little blood from that one papercut he refuses to treat.

---

“The Battle of Gallo’s Fend, as Interpreted Through a Telepathic Link to a Gallo Clerk”

It begins, as most moments of war do, with the sky tearing.

Feathers. Feathers and bone. Hawk, goddess of femur and fury, draws her bow. Twice. And twice the sky screams. A griffon cartwheels down like a broken marionette, its clavicles no longer cohabiting in harmony. Hawk doesn’t even flinch. She’s adjusting her spine. A pelvic tilt of command. She owns the curvature of this battle.

Look at her muscles. Look at that back, shoulders broad from firing that heavy bow. I would like to graft some wings on there. I wonder what kind of wings she would like.

Below, Osnald’s knights, so many muscular legs among them, charge. Dashgoban lancers, their arms driven by centuries of wrist memory and halfling luck. They spear through Steppengardian sternums like meat on festival skewers. The enemy reels, vertebrae unstrung, spinal columns in a drama of tragedy. Bones shatter. Blood sprays. Only a few remain upright, their brains defiantly still in the fight, though their bodies clearly filed for resignation.

Filthy Billy, I know what you did, nasty Billy! What did you do with the baby Billy?

One commander breaks ranks. I saw his calcaneus twitch before the cowardice took him. I marked it. It was artless.

Then--poisoned air. Kelkin’s cloudkill billows like an angry ghost. Everyone leaves, except Fafnir. Oh, Fafnir. That orc has lungs like a cathedral. He coughs, but he coughs intentionally. The kind of cough that unsettles stomachs and silences birds. He stays in that miasma like he paid rent on it.

I want to meet Kelkin. I’m going to scalp him of his skin, wear it like a costume, and perform the Rocky Horror Picture Show in its entirety while he watches. I’m going to remove his phalanges one by one and force-feed them to him fondue style.

Meanwhile, the Gallo dwarves advance. Their bones low and heavy, dense like hardwood roots. Shields raised, tibias locked. Trevor’s squad charges, swinging—not weapons—but expectations. Sadly, expectations miss too. Armor deflects dreams as easily as steel.

But there are trolls now. Stupid trolls. Eight feet of knotted cartilage and emotional neglect. They lurch out of Tim’s sleet storm, wet as newborns and just as cranky. I wonder if Trolls have toes. How do their toes know which way to go? Do their toes have brains? I’ll find out.

Wait, who the hell is Tim?

Fafnir’s elite squad strikes next. Their weapons? Bohemian earspoons, long and sharp and elegant like the medical instrument of nightmares. They pivot. Pivot! Dwarves shouldn’t pivot! But they do. Joints well-oiled, spines supple as serpents. They flank, stab, twist, and the Steppengard commander doesn't see the pikes coming. Not until three pierce his back and he’s crawling away with only willpower still carrying him forward. A trail of blood-stained snow and mud in his wake.

Trevor’s squad of Dashgoban knights sees the dwarves under Fafnir’s command doing some acrobatics. Inspired, they charge at the group of Steppengard soldiers who have all dropped their shields, clearly affected by Osnald’s lovelorn spell. They charge in, but clearly confused by the Steppengardians’ strange behavior, miss entirely. They were probably expecting some resistance, but their aim was off, and the Steppengard squad took minimal damage, if any at all. The knights wheeled around and regrouped, shaking their heads in disbelief.

Boom!

Leona. My flame queen, my alchemist of the aorta. Fireball. It blossoms in the enemy line like a sun screaming through a keyhole. Trolls and cavalry are cooked—a hat trick of failure. Their skin tightens like drumheads. Beautiful. Someone writes a love letter with a longbow volley—Hawk’s Roughnecks. The enemy doesn’t read it. They just bleed on it. Big Mama’s handing out biscuits, get some!

No wonder she’s Hawk’s favorite spellcaster!

Leona moves forward and repositions her flaming sphere to scald some enemies. The smell of burning flesh fills my nostrils.

Osnald, the brave little halfling, runs toward the battle and casts vicious mockery on the Steppengard commander. “Hey you!” he shouts above the din of the battle, clinking on a dinner glass with a spoon, “Yeah, you!” The commander turns to see the plucky little halfling a ways off. Osnald continues, “You know who’s awesome? NOT YOU! You’re a naughty word!” The commander reels from Osnald’s words, but he still fights, with a visible tear running down his Steppengard cheek.

That halfling's voice is a tiny bell ringing in the cathedral of war. The commander hears him. And dies inside before the arrows even find him.

Yellow shouldn’t even be considered a color. It’s just a wimpy version of brown.

Fafnir, wheezing from the poison in his lungs, steps out of the cloud of green vapor and heals his squad of soldiers, so they can stay in the fight. I can see the blood coursing through Fafnir’s veins. Like a subtle reminder of his power, just gliding just below the surface of his skin.

The squad of archers, known as Hawk’s Roughnecks, lob a volley toward the group of Steppengard soldiers and the commander imbedded within. The sky is blackened by arrows and the commander is running around trying to avoid being shot. Trying to rally the soldiers around him, he is ignored by them. The commander scuttles north, and the squad moves south. Just then, the arrows descend from the heavens and lacerate the commander, tearing through him. He dies, his body bent awkwardly and partially supported by several unbroken arrow shafts sticking out of the ground.

Tim, the mage from Timor, having cast the sleet storm, concentrates on leaving that up and harassing the enemy at their line. Tim’s shield spell disappears, having done its job. He moves away from the griffon, running up toward the fencing and casting a flaming sphere, drops it in the midst of a group of Steppengard soldiers.

I think I’ll order the soup tonight. Last night I didn’t order it, but it looked delicious.

Hertiage, our old pal, pounds on his shield and wills his allies to move and attack. “For the Duchy!” Encouraged by the commander’s heartfelt words, Osnald’s squad of Dashgoban knights charges the enemy squad but is ineffective against the heavy armor. Likewise, Osnald’s squad of dwarves moves forward and scowls with futility at the enemy soldiers.

I probably should go relieve myself at some point, too much water. Or was it wine? I’m starting to wonder if I can just walk off the battlefield. If I go will they stop and wait for me? It would be polite.

Nearby, the Steppengard soldiers attack Fafnir’s elite squad, dealing significant casualties. They step in and around the dwarven unit, causing havoc among the ranks. Seeing a need for his divine magic, Grumde, the Gallo chaplain, runs over there to stay some of the bleeding. Lots of blood, blood-caked hair. F-Troop misses their charge, bless their hearts and their overly polished kneecaps. But Fafnir forgives. He thumbs-up like the orc-father they never had. “Doing great, guys!” the orc yells.

The trolls under the Steppengard command run forward toward our line of defense. A squad of Steppengard cavalry likewise charges in and is mere yards away from engaging with the Dashgoban knights.

Yes, Viggo. Among the rust monster, near the fence. Owlmo by my side, biding its time. My breastplate hot and bothered. I speak a word—an ancient word. Arcane. The sun flares in response. I beckon it. And like an obedient star, it spears the field with burning radiation. Snow melts and the sun glitters off armor—hot and bright. The Steppengard cavalry roast. Trolls blister. The sun is intense, melting the snow and searing the flesh of three squads of Steppengard cavalry as well as the two trolls unfortunate enough to be in the large area.

A group of Steppengard flail-wielders, having seen too much battle already, and running back in a “strategic withdrawal,” get caught in the bright, hot sun. The air warps with impossible heat. They unsuccessfully try to remove all their armor as it begins to smoke. They die, shriveled and burnt, the heat was already inside their marrow. The exposed skin wrinkled and dark, dry as brick. They melt. I taste copper in the air. It’s delicious.

Fafnir’s squad of Dashgoban knights, dubbed the F-Troop, charge at a Steppengard cleric, but miss-time their lances and hit nothing but air. Some of their lances harmlessly glance off the cleric’s shield. The cleric mumbles a quick prayer. The F-Troop looks back at Fafnir sheepishly.

The other Gallo chaplain heals himself a little and moves to embed himself amid the squads of knights and soldiers on the left.

One time, I ate a hamburger and then, like an hour later, I started sneezing. But I don’t think it had anything to do with the hamburger.

Trevor sees the griffon in front of him, hovering slightly above. He whips at the griffon with the Aquiline Heart, hitting a talon, but failing to snag it. He deftly pulls the whip back and then, with a quick hand movement, the lash strikes out again at the griffon, hitting it again. The griffon maneuvers slightly out of the way so the whip does not grab it. Screeching and flapping madly, the griffon’s talons try to snatch at him.

Just as the griffon thinks the onslaught has paused, Trevor’s stance shifts. Muscles tighten. Focus sharpens. With a snap of leather and a glint in his eye, Trevor steps into a deadly rhythm. The whip coils and cracks through the air like a serpent unleashed, striking again. Trevor’s movements are a dance of violence—controlled and graceful, but deadly. For a moment, time bends to Trevor’s will, and the griffon realizes too late that it was never in control.

The whip snaps the griffon right across its beak and wraps around its neck. Trevor expertly yanks the whip and griffon to the ground, smashing it against the frozen earth. Trevor looks up confidently among the fluttering feathers and says, “Next fucker?”

It’s poetry. Violent, horny poetry.

Oo! I want those griffon wings! Or talons. I bet I could do something interesting with them.

With what?

With inhuman speed, Trevor runs up and attacks the lovelorn squad of Steppengard soldiers.

Trevor doesn’t have any parents. I wonder if he should get new ones. I wonder where you can get parents. Does a shopkeeper sell those? I like making jokes about orphans. What are they going to do? Tell their parents?

That squad of soldiers, overcome with jealousy from the lovesick spell, attacks the nearby Steppengard knights. They run in, savaging their comrades with the fury of a lover scorned. The squad of knights reel from the unexpected attack, many of their group overcome by their injuries.

Fafnir’s First squad of Gallo soldiers rush in and charge at the enemy, with full confidence based on their past performance. Fafnir, trying to boost their morale, yells at them, distracting the formerly capable squad. Trying to prove their value, many of the First Squad try to stab the enemy but fail miserably.

Then—Gallo's pike phalanx moves. Shields interlock like the bones of a spine. Osnald’s voice in their ears like a song made of ambition. They lunge. Crotch shots! Surgical and unapologetic.

With Fafnir’s crusader’s mantle in effect and augmenting the damage inflicted, the Gallo soldiers rout the squad of Steppengardians. They valiantly step forward, filling the spaces in between Fafnir’s ineffective squad and the wavering enemy. They lunge forward and with shields locked and pikes leveled like a wall of iron thorns. The Gallo phalanx advances with grim determination, Osnald’s inspiring words still ringing in their ears. Their boots pound the blood-soaked snow in perfect unison, a thunderous rhythm. The Steppengardians collapse. A wretched, scattered pile of regret and pelvic fractures.

“Push forward!” Osnald commands. And they do. Earspoons like sewing needles, knitting new destinies into enemy flesh.

I want an earspoon. Would it fit in an ear? What about a big ear?

The Steppengard cleric flees toward a troll like a drunk man toward a bad idea. I want to get some troll blood.

And Hawk’s Raiders stiffen in their stance and rain arrows again—like truth. Sharp, inevitable, and coming for your vital organs.

The field is a graveyard for the unworthy. A clavicle here, a dislocated hip there. The anatomy of triumph is messy, but oh gods, it's mine to witness.

—Viggo, Proprietor of Too Many Teeth and Not Enough Boundaries.

 

[VicsHacienda]

Viggo​

(1 artificer/7 biomancy wizard)

In the heart of the city of Bresk, amidst towering spires and enchanted forests, lived a figure of notorious repute: Viggo Stormforge. Once a celebrated inventor and alchemist, Viggo was known for his brilliant contraptions and strange concoctions that defied the laws of both nature and reason. His workshop, a labyrinthine tower on the outskirts of the city, was filled with ticking gears, bubbling potions, and peculiar artifacts that glittered with eldritch energy.
Viggo’s brilliance came with a touch of madness. His eyes, perpetually wide with frenetic excitement, sparkled with the secrets of arcane science and forbidden lore. He had a dream—to harness the power of the Elemental Convergence, an ancient phenomenon that occurred once every three hundred years when the forces of earth, air, fire, and water aligned perfectly. Such an event, he believed, could grant him unimaginable knowledge and power, and he worked tirelessly to create a device that would channel its energy.
His obsession with the Convergence consumed him. For years, he toiled in near isolation, his work becoming increasingly erratic and dangerous. His devoted wife Elena was his only connection to the outside world. He crafted intricate machines, mixed volatile alchemical reagents, and invoked ancient runes with wild abandon. But his single-minded pursuit blinded him to the perils of his experiments.
The fateful day of the Convergence arrived, and Viggo’s contraption was ready. In a secluded valley where the elemental forces converged, he activated his device with trembling hands. At first, everything seemed to be working—the air crackled with magic, and the ground trembled with power. But then, something went terribly wrong. A catastrophic feedback of elemental energy surged through the device, creating a maelstrom of fire, ice, lightning, and earth. The explosion was cataclysmic, obliterating the tower and surrounding valley and sending a shockwave that rippled through Bresk.
The incident left Viggo devastated. Not only had his grand experiment failed, but it had also caused the death of his beloved wife, Elena. She had been his muse, his confidante, and his partner in both life and work. Her loss shattered Viggo’s world.
Viggo suffered brain damage in the explosion as well. Once perhaps he was articulate and refined, a true gentleman, Viggo became mad and taken to frequent babbling and incoherent ramblings. He also suffered from terrible amnesia–forgetting more knowledge than most people would have learned in a lifetime. He doesn't remember much from his earlier life. He lost the ability to perform high-level magic, and had to relearn even rudimentary spells.
Consumed by grief and guilt, Viggo abandoned his once-cherished experiments. He set out on a quest, driven by a desperate need for redemption and the hope of finding a way to undo the harm he had caused. His journey took him through enchanted lands and ancient ruins, seeking knowledge and artifacts that could help him atone for his mistakes. Along the way, he encountered strange beings and made uneasy alliances, all while wrestling with his own inner demons.
Viggo Stormforge became a wandering figure of legend—part mad scientist, part tragic hero—whose tragic past and relentless quest for redemption made him a complex and enigmatic character in the annals of Bresk.