Dungeons and Warhammers (updated March 17th)

[NiTessine]

This is my new story hour. Yeah, I know, the last one didn't work out, but that was because I delegated the writing of chapter 1 to a player, and you know what lazy buggers they can be.
But, now, the players elected we start a new campaign, again in the Warhammer World, and who am I to object?
This time, I'll be writing the tale, and with regular updates, too. To start with, here is the party. I may or may not post more detailed character sheets to Rogues' Gallery.

Cast of Characters

Franz Hoffmann
LN male human Clr2 of Sigmar
An arrogant priest who has a thing against most everything not Sigmarite and/or human from the Empire. That thing is a warhammer.
Born and bred in Altdorf, and a firm believer in the letter, if not the spirit, of the Sigmarite dogma, he greatly resents being in the frozen wastelands of Kislev, a country led by a woman, no less. DECEASED.

Frederich
CN male human Bbn1/Ftr2
Another Sigmarite, but considerably more tolerant than Franz. He was born in Nuln, and has since found his way up north, to Kislev, where he has fought against Chaos alongside the local warriors and learned the ways of the berserkers.
With his short sword and battle axe, he is a truly fearsome man in combat.

Kase Galanodel
NG elf male Clr2 of Isha
Kase is a hermit priest from the woods. Raised by elves, hunted by orcs, and teached by dwarves, he has learned the ways of all three races. Unfortunately, this has led to a hole in his education, and thus he cannot speak a word of Common.
Like most people of his race, he is an expert with the bow, and not bad with his longsword, either. DECEASED.

Fisibbei Furfoot
N halfling male Drd3
Fisibbei is probably the strangest of this bunch. He is a hermitic halfling druid, ostracized by his kinfolk in the Moot, and now seeking strange herbs in the northern reaches of Kislev. He is accompanied by a great wolf, which can act as a steed for him, if needed. He acts as Kase's interpreter. In combat, he lets his sickle talk.

Khaelas
NG elf male Sor3
Khaelas is the mysterious, green-clad elf who joined the group in Sarbas. He speaks little of his past, but has proved himself as a skilled offensive spellcaster. He keeps to himself, but yet, for some reason of his own, has chosen to attach himself to the group.

Ranland
CG elf male Rog3
Ranland is one of the sea elves of Lothern. Despite his upbringing, however, he is at home not only in settings nautical, but also urban and rural. Especially urban, where there are many fat purses to steal...

 

[madriel]

Hey, cool idea. I don't think I've seen a Warhammer SH before. I played in a Warhammer campaign in my early 20s. It'll be fun to revisit my group's old stomping grounds.

 

[NiTessine]

Chapter 1: The Cold, Trackless Wasteland

This tale, like so many other, begins in a bar. This particular bar is located in the northern city of Praag, in the land of Kislev.

Now, I could name our story "The Tales of Hoffman", but I'm afraid that not many would get the joke, and anyway, Hoffman is neither writing the story (thank gods), nor is he the primary character (despite what he might think).

But I digress.

Inside the bar, there was an extraordinary amount of people, so that four quite different travellers from quite different places had been forced to take seats in the same table. After they had eyed each other for a few moments of localized silence, one of them, a large man with reddish-brown hair and a short beard of the same colour, spoke:
"Greetings, fellows. I am Frederich, of Nuln. What brings you here to the cold north?"
"Fisibbei Furfoot is my name, and I am here in search of a particular herb," answered the halfling, clad in a plain brown robe. "He," the halfling continued, indicating the third man, a golden-haired elf, "is Kase Galanodel. He does not speak Old Worlder, so I have to translate for him."
The other human in the table was a bald, hawk-nosed man, clad in shining scale mail with not a speck of rust. From his neck hung a small silver hammer, the symbol of Sigmar. With a clipped Reiklander accent he replied:
"Sigmar's blessings to you. I am Franz Hoffmann of Altdorf, and I have been here seeking for an Arch Lector of our church for the past three months. He has disappeared somewhere Kislev, and I fear he might be dead."
"Adventurers everyone, then?" Frederich asked with a broad grin. As reply, he got a number of curt nods.

Finally, one of the few barmaids in this overcrowded and undermanned establishment made her way to the table of our protagonists.
"And vat shall you haff?" the woman asked, in a thick Kislevite accent.
"I'll have an ale," was Franz's reply.
"Zhat vill be two gold crowns."
"Two gold! That's the most expensive drink I've ever had!"
"I am sorry, but ve get our ale from a tribe to zhe east, who are in zhe middle of a var."
"A war? With whom?" asked Fisibbei, in a concerned tone of voice.
"Anozer tribe, one led by zhe varlord Viseslav. Igor, zhe leader of zhe tribe vho makes our ale iz badly outnumbered, zhey tell me."
"Why did this Viseslav attack his tribe? Or was Igor the instigator?" Fisibbei continued.
"Viseslav persecutes his tribe, for Igor follows zhe god Sigmar, and not Ulric, vho is traditionally vorshipped here in zhe north," the serving wench replied.
"A tribe of Sigmarites? Bah, they're probably all heretics anyway," Franz scoffed, his sharp features twisting into a sneer.
"You're thinking going to help?" Frederich asked the halfling druid. Fisibbei nodded solemnly.
"And I Kase will be joining me. Your help would be appreciated, naturally."
"I like you, little man. You are brave, and so is he," Frederich said, gesturing at the elf. "I will lend you my axe and my sword."
"And you? You look like a capable man, and it would be an honour to have you with us," Fisibbei said to the Sigmarite priest.
"And why would I be concerned over the fate of a few barbarians who have chosen to live out there in the cold, trackless wasteland?"
"But they are you brothers in faith. Would it not be right for you to aid them?"
"As I said, they are probably heretics anyway, with a debased religion centred around a hammer, or something."
The priest spat on the floor in disgust.
"But in that case, should you not try to show them the correct way of worshiping, or to destroy the infidels? And, if you are seeking for the Arch Lector, and have not found him in the cities, would it not be logical to seek him out in the wasteland?"
"The good halfling has a point, priest," Frederich said. "I have lived many years with the Kislevite tribes, and they miss little that happens in their lands."
For a moment, indecision wavered on Franz's face. Then, he spoke:
"Fine, then. You've convinced me. I shall join you, and may Sigmar be with us."
With that, the bald priest rose, and walked out of the tavern into the fresh air. Shrugging, the others followed.

* * *

For a few hours, the party of not-exactly-heroes wandered the town, seeking a horse trader. They found one in the outskirts of the city, marked by a great bit sign, with the text "Crazy Ivan's Horses for Hire".

History does not tell what the intrepid adventurers were thinking at the moment, but out of either stupidity or a sense of hurry, they decided to deal with the red-bearded fellow inside. Even his sales speech did not deter them, and they wound up hiring a wagon in reasonable condition, and two horses to drag it.

And thus, they left the questionable comfort and debatable safety of the city of Praag, the agony-contorted faces of the dead staring down at them from the walls.

 

[Little_Buddha]

Mmmmmmm... Warhammer adventures

 

[NiTessine]

That was the first part of the first session... I'll post the second part once I finish it. Should be before Monday, since we have our next game then.

 

[NiTessine]

And thus, they travelled for seven days, each mile taking them further away from Praag, and deeper into the lawless wilds, ruled by the Ice Queen only in name. Perhaps they were indeed watched over by Sigmar Heldenhammer, for they encountered no perils on their way. In the evening of the seventh day, the walls of Ovotsk, Igor's fortified village, stood in sight.

The village was a loose cluster of houses and small farms, spread around a hill fort. The party noticed a great crowd had gathered to the south of the hill fort. Stopping their wagon, they went to investigate.
As they came closer, they saw a ship, placed atop a great mound. A middle-aged woman in a white robe, with dark blond hair and fair skin, held a torch. There was another woman, an old crone, circling the boat and reciting ancient chants of mourning.
Fisibbei stepped forward, lightly tugging on the sleeve of one of the men gathered.
"Who has passed away?" he asked quietly.
"Our brave lord and protector, Igor Jaroslavich, in a cowardly ambush by zhe troops of Viseslav," the man replied reverently, and then turned back to viewing the funeral ceremony. Now, the blond-haired woman walked up to the boat, and carefully placed the torch in the kindling set around the ship. In silence, the people of Ovotsk watched as the flames took their former leader to the next world.

Franz gazed at the flames with a disapproving expression.
"These heretics do not observe proper Sigmarite funeral traditions," he said quietly to Frederich.
"Old habits die hard, priest. Besides, you can't dig a grave in here. The ground is frozen solid for ten months of the year. The faith of Sigmar is not in the ceremonies, but in the beliefs. They certainly wear the symbols," the big man replied quietly, nodding at the white-robed woman. Indeed, the clasp of her cloak was a small silver hammer.
Franz stayed silent.

The townsfolk stayed there for a long time, standing in respectful silence as the fire died down, leaving only the charred remains of the ship behind. Then, the crowd quietly dispersed.

Soon afterwards, the travellers were making their way to the local alehouse, when a member of the local militia came to them.
"Hold, adventurers. Lady Predeslava would speak vith you."
Glancing at each other, the adventurers nodded, and followed. They were led into a large building, obviously the chieftain's hall. Inside was a wooden throne, covered with furs, and on the throne sat a woman. It was the blond-haired woman they had seen at the pyre, though her attire was now changed. Gone was the white robe, replaced by red and blue woollens, and a great bearskin cloak over her shoulders. It was held in place by a silver clasp in the shape of a warhammer.

"Greetings, travellers," she began. "Sigmar's blessings to you. You look like able and experienced varriors. I could use people like you. Do you know vhat has happened in Ovotsk in recent months?"
"Yes, milady, we have heard," Frederich answered.
"Zhen I vill not bozher to go over it again. Suffice to say, I need help. Ve need help. I vill pay you, each, 800 gold crowns, if you vill stay in Ovotsk, and help my people keep the swine Viseslav's raiders at bay until my brother Ottakar returns from zhe lands to zhe south vith his men. Vill you agree?"
Before any of the others could speak, Fisibbei stepped forward.
"Indeed, Lady, to protect your town and tribe was our very reason of journeying here from Praag. We will protect this town, and its people, until Ottakar's army returns, or until Viseslav is defeated for good."
A faint smile appeared on Predeslava's face.
"Good," she said. "You will be shown to your house, and given food. Now go… I must rest. These have been trying times, and have taken a heavy toll."

As they left the room, a man came to them. He had a remarkably long moustache.
"Good day to you, travellers. I am Boian, a former warrior of Igor. On behalf of the local militia, I vould like to velcome you to Ovotsk."
"Good day, Boian," Fisibbei replied. "You were a close man of Igor's, then?"
"Yes. I vas vith him vhen ve vere ambushed. I vas knocked in zhe head and fell dovn… Vlaseslav's men left me for dead. It vas a great shame. A good varrior dies vith his master." Boian shaked his head. "If you vill excuse me. I have… things to do."

* * *

And thus, a week passed, as the party of no longer travellers spent their time in the fort. There was little to do, but Franz, Fisibbei and Kase found more than enough entertainment in prayer and contemplation. Frederich trained with his axe and sword.

Then, one day, a rider arrived in the village. He was fatigued, and had almost ridden his steed to death. People in the village began shouting. Then, the alarm was raised. The heroes were watching from the top of the palisade, as a dozen horsemen galloped over the ridge south of the town, drawn scimitars flashing in the morning sun and warcries at their lips. They descended upon the fleeing villagers who tried to make it to the fort, slashing at their exposed backs and herding them in the other direction.
"We cannot just stand here while they get slaughtered!" said Frederich, unshouldering his great axe and drawing his sword. Kase nocked an arrow and let fly, hitting the dirt in front of one of the riders. The man wore chainmail, and had many gold and silver bracelets. He was obviously the leader.

From the open gates of the hill fort, stepped an enraged Frederich, flanked by the grim-looking Fisibbei and stern Franz. Hefting their weapons high, they charged at the mounted warriors.

Franz ducked a scimitar slash at his head, whirling around and bringing his heavy warhammer in an arc at his enemy's stomach. The powerful blow smashed him off the saddle, killing him instantly. Four other horsemen, including the chieftain, charged at the heroes. They were no match for the blades of their opponents, though, and soon Frederich had downed the second man, his axe glistening red with the fallen opponent's blood. In the battlements, Kase realized it'd be futile to try shooting into the raging melee, and quickly joined his friends outside the fort.

Fisibbei was a small whirlwind of death. The small halfling and his sharp sickle slashed open the throat of a horse, its rider only barely avoiding being crushed by the falling steed. This did not help him, for Kase was there to meet him, and sank his sword into the man's gut.

The diminutive druid claimed his second kill in that battle as Franz smashed the kneecap of the last horseman. Fisibbei came from the other side, disembowelling him with a swift slash.

Soon, only the leader was left. Fearlessly, he charged, hefting his scimitar high, and scoring a slash across Kase's scalp. However, the elf got back, thrusting his blade deep in the man's thigh. Frederich came from the other side, his sword leaving a red streak in the man's side. The last thing Mundiak the Chieftain saw, as he was lying on the ground, his other foot still in the slashed stirrup, was the descending sickle of the halfling druid.

And there, as the noon sun bathed them in its rays, they cried out their victory.

 

[Horacio]

Warhammer! Warhammer!



I like the Old World, I like Warhammer stories. I want to see Skavens!

 

[Carnifex]

Yes, skaven! Skaven are great!

 

[Horacio]

Skaven aren't great! They are little, they are cunny, they are evil!
But not great!

I like Skaven!

 

[NiTessine]

Well... There was no game on Monday. That can be blamed to a communications glitch, which can be safely blamed on my little brother, the pest.
But the good news is that we have a game today. So, this Story Hour will be getting an update sometime during the next week. I'll try to bang it up today and tomorrow, if I have the time.