Lazybones
Adventurer
Hey there Story Hour forum, been a while.
For those who don’t know me, I was very active on this forum from roughly 2002 through 2010, posting stories that were a mix of fiction and campaign write-ups. Writing these stories was a way of familiarizing myself with new editions and campaign settings; I wrote 3e stories set in the Forgotten Realms, the Shackled City campaign path, and Rappan Athuk, and a 4e story set in some of the early published modules for that ruleset. My last story here was a write-up of an online campaign I ran that was a conversion of the original X-COM game using the 2002 CRPG Neverwinter Nights. Since then I’ve mostly been writing and self-publishing novels (I won’t do any advertising here but if anyone is interested send me a PM).
When 5th edition came out I bought the core books, but haven’t really had a chance to delve into them until recently. I decided to write this story in order to acquaint myself with the new rules. As with most of my past stories this one is fiction based on the rules, I did not actually have players run this or roll dice. I’ll include stat blocks and some of the other game information as appropriate.
When I was active here before I had a reputation as both a frequent poster and the “Cliffhanger King”; I’ll try to live up to both traditions. My current plan is to post updates on a M-W-F schedule.
Here we go.
* * *
Book 1: YOU MUST GATHER YOUR PARTY…
Chapter 1
Two men, one young and one old, were sparring with wooden swords in the enclosed courtyard behind the smithy. They went back and forth in the confined space, their boots kicking up swirls of dust that were caught in the violent sweeps of their weapons. It was obvious from one look that both were smiths from their builds, their arms and chests chiseled with cords of muscle under taut flesh. They had clearly just come from their labors inside, the younger man bare-chested and slick with sweat, the older wearing an old leather apron seared with black marks. But an observer would quickly note that their sparring was not just an idle game. The younger of the two looked to be barely past adolescence but he fought with an intensity that bespoke many long hours of practice. His opponent was at least twice his age, but he too moved with a calm efficiency that caught the youth’s aggressive swings with parries that quickly turned into darting counterattacks.
The pace intensified rather than slowed as the session continued, the clack of blades forming a rapid staccato. The two were so intent on their clash that neither appeared to notice the slender young woman who slipped through the half-open side gate. She did not look like the type of person who would escape notice often. The pale blonde hair that framed her features and toppled onto her shoulders didn’t fully hide the slightly pointed ears that suggested elvish blood in her heritage. She was dressed in a light blue coat in a fashionable cut over gray trousers tucked into knee-high boots. But as she turned through the gate the afternoon sunlight briefly blazed on something she was carrying: an exceptional silver lyre with seven strings.
The flash caught the attention of the younger man, who turned his head just as the elder launched into a decisive backhanded sweep. The youth realized his mistake too late and threw up his weapon in a desperate parry. The older man pulled back his stroke before it would have caromed off his opponent’s forehead, but the impact still knocked the practice sword from the young man’s grasp. It flew across the courtyard and slid to a stop right in front of the visitor.
“Ah… sorry,” she said as both men turned to face her.
“Quite all right, Miss Leliades,” the older smith said. “It appears we need to work on our concentration, in any case.”
The younger man colored slightly as he hurried over to recover his fallen weapon. “Hi, Glori,” he said.
“Hey, Bredan. Master Karras. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I could watch you two fight all day.” She let her eyes flick over the young smith’s muscled torso in a way that had the flush on his cheeks deepening.
“Ah…” Bredan said.
“We were nearly done with the day’s labors, in any case,” the elder smith added. His voice had just a hint of a southern accent, adding a bit of exotic flavor to his words. He looked over at Bredan. “You should go, buy this girl a cool drink. Maybe walk down by the river, where it is pretty now with all the flowers.”
“But uncle, I thought you wanted me to finish working on the hinges for Jofram…”
“Bah!” Karras interrupted. “You would rather stay in the forge then go out into the town? You are a strange boy! Now go, wash up, and put on a clean shirt!”
Bredan shot Glori a wry look before he headed toward the smithy. His uncle tossed him his wooden sword, and the young warrior hung both weapons on the rack beside the door before he went inside. There was a practical armory of simulated arms there, from axes to spears to swords of all size and shape. Most were made of wood, but there were some blunted iron blades as well. From the wear on the two big swords that they’d been using it seemed like the greatsword was the preferred choice for their sparring sessions.
“And how are you, Miss Leliades?” Karras asked once Bredan had gone inside. “Still performing at the Boar’s Tusk?”
“Mostly, though lately I’ve been spending more time in the taverns along Mercantile Way. Things have been pretty slow of late. Not as many caravans coming through.”
“Trade is like the tide, it ebbs and flows,” Karras said, though Crosspath was hundreds of miles from the seacoast. “We keep busy.”
“I’ve heard some reports of trouble in the north,” Glori said, fidgeting with the strap of her lyre while her eyes drifted back toward the closed door where Bredan had gone inside the house that backed onto the smithy. “The caravan guards say that the raids have been stronger than usual. Orcs, goblinoids, maybe worse. Rumor has it that King Dangren’s sending troops north to Adelar.”
Karras was quiet for a moment. “I’ve heard that as well,” he finally said.
Glori shifted her attention back to the old smith. “Do you think there will be a war? The King, he could call upon the elves and dwarves for aid again, like in the time of King Alephron.” She seemed both excited and frightened by the prospect, her pale green eyes all but glowing.
Karras shook his head slowly. “I’ve been in a war,” he said. “I hope you and Bredan never have to know what it is like to be caught in one.”
“But surely the fighting wouldn’t make it this far south…” she began.
“War is like a pestilence,” the smith said. “It spreads rapidly and has an effect that extends well beyond those it touches directly.”
Glori nodded toward the weapon rack. “But you spend all that time preparing, training Bredan to fight.”
“The world is what it is,” Karras said. “I want Bredan to be ready for it. I promised his father.”
“Is he ready?” Glori asked. “I mean, he seems pretty good with that big piece of wood, but I’m not much of a judge of that kind of thing.”
“From what Bredan says, you have some skill with the smallbow.”
“Yeah, well.” She flicked up the hair covering the side of her face. “Comes with the ears, I guess.”
“I have known more than a few elves in my time,” Karras said. “Enough to know that they earn their skills through long and intense practice, the same as everyone else. Archery is not a hereditary trait.”
Her lips twisted in a smirk but before she could come up with a quip in response the door burst open and Bredan reappeared. It was clear he’d washed and changed in a hurry; his shirt, while more or less clean, was still untucked, and his damp hair was a tousled mess. He was buckling on a belt that supported a small purse and a dagger in a plain leather scabbard. Karras shook his head as his nephew kicked the door shut behind him and came over to rejoin them.
“Is there anything you need from town, uncle?” Bredan asked.
“No, no. Go on, have fun.”
“I’ll be back before supper…”
“Bah, I give you leave to go, and you try to argue away your freedom! You are a strange boy. Go, go!”
“I’ll keep an eye on him, Master Karras,” Glori said, decisively taking Bredan by the arm and steering him toward the gate.
For those who don’t know me, I was very active on this forum from roughly 2002 through 2010, posting stories that were a mix of fiction and campaign write-ups. Writing these stories was a way of familiarizing myself with new editions and campaign settings; I wrote 3e stories set in the Forgotten Realms, the Shackled City campaign path, and Rappan Athuk, and a 4e story set in some of the early published modules for that ruleset. My last story here was a write-up of an online campaign I ran that was a conversion of the original X-COM game using the 2002 CRPG Neverwinter Nights. Since then I’ve mostly been writing and self-publishing novels (I won’t do any advertising here but if anyone is interested send me a PM).
When 5th edition came out I bought the core books, but haven’t really had a chance to delve into them until recently. I decided to write this story in order to acquaint myself with the new rules. As with most of my past stories this one is fiction based on the rules, I did not actually have players run this or roll dice. I’ll include stat blocks and some of the other game information as appropriate.
When I was active here before I had a reputation as both a frequent poster and the “Cliffhanger King”; I’ll try to live up to both traditions. My current plan is to post updates on a M-W-F schedule.
Here we go.
* * *
Book 1: YOU MUST GATHER YOUR PARTY…
Chapter 1
Two men, one young and one old, were sparring with wooden swords in the enclosed courtyard behind the smithy. They went back and forth in the confined space, their boots kicking up swirls of dust that were caught in the violent sweeps of their weapons. It was obvious from one look that both were smiths from their builds, their arms and chests chiseled with cords of muscle under taut flesh. They had clearly just come from their labors inside, the younger man bare-chested and slick with sweat, the older wearing an old leather apron seared with black marks. But an observer would quickly note that their sparring was not just an idle game. The younger of the two looked to be barely past adolescence but he fought with an intensity that bespoke many long hours of practice. His opponent was at least twice his age, but he too moved with a calm efficiency that caught the youth’s aggressive swings with parries that quickly turned into darting counterattacks.
The pace intensified rather than slowed as the session continued, the clack of blades forming a rapid staccato. The two were so intent on their clash that neither appeared to notice the slender young woman who slipped through the half-open side gate. She did not look like the type of person who would escape notice often. The pale blonde hair that framed her features and toppled onto her shoulders didn’t fully hide the slightly pointed ears that suggested elvish blood in her heritage. She was dressed in a light blue coat in a fashionable cut over gray trousers tucked into knee-high boots. But as she turned through the gate the afternoon sunlight briefly blazed on something she was carrying: an exceptional silver lyre with seven strings.
The flash caught the attention of the younger man, who turned his head just as the elder launched into a decisive backhanded sweep. The youth realized his mistake too late and threw up his weapon in a desperate parry. The older man pulled back his stroke before it would have caromed off his opponent’s forehead, but the impact still knocked the practice sword from the young man’s grasp. It flew across the courtyard and slid to a stop right in front of the visitor.
“Ah… sorry,” she said as both men turned to face her.
“Quite all right, Miss Leliades,” the older smith said. “It appears we need to work on our concentration, in any case.”
The younger man colored slightly as he hurried over to recover his fallen weapon. “Hi, Glori,” he said.
“Hey, Bredan. Master Karras. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I could watch you two fight all day.” She let her eyes flick over the young smith’s muscled torso in a way that had the flush on his cheeks deepening.
“Ah…” Bredan said.
“We were nearly done with the day’s labors, in any case,” the elder smith added. His voice had just a hint of a southern accent, adding a bit of exotic flavor to his words. He looked over at Bredan. “You should go, buy this girl a cool drink. Maybe walk down by the river, where it is pretty now with all the flowers.”
“But uncle, I thought you wanted me to finish working on the hinges for Jofram…”
“Bah!” Karras interrupted. “You would rather stay in the forge then go out into the town? You are a strange boy! Now go, wash up, and put on a clean shirt!”
Bredan shot Glori a wry look before he headed toward the smithy. His uncle tossed him his wooden sword, and the young warrior hung both weapons on the rack beside the door before he went inside. There was a practical armory of simulated arms there, from axes to spears to swords of all size and shape. Most were made of wood, but there were some blunted iron blades as well. From the wear on the two big swords that they’d been using it seemed like the greatsword was the preferred choice for their sparring sessions.
“And how are you, Miss Leliades?” Karras asked once Bredan had gone inside. “Still performing at the Boar’s Tusk?”
“Mostly, though lately I’ve been spending more time in the taverns along Mercantile Way. Things have been pretty slow of late. Not as many caravans coming through.”
“Trade is like the tide, it ebbs and flows,” Karras said, though Crosspath was hundreds of miles from the seacoast. “We keep busy.”
“I’ve heard some reports of trouble in the north,” Glori said, fidgeting with the strap of her lyre while her eyes drifted back toward the closed door where Bredan had gone inside the house that backed onto the smithy. “The caravan guards say that the raids have been stronger than usual. Orcs, goblinoids, maybe worse. Rumor has it that King Dangren’s sending troops north to Adelar.”
Karras was quiet for a moment. “I’ve heard that as well,” he finally said.
Glori shifted her attention back to the old smith. “Do you think there will be a war? The King, he could call upon the elves and dwarves for aid again, like in the time of King Alephron.” She seemed both excited and frightened by the prospect, her pale green eyes all but glowing.
Karras shook his head slowly. “I’ve been in a war,” he said. “I hope you and Bredan never have to know what it is like to be caught in one.”
“But surely the fighting wouldn’t make it this far south…” she began.
“War is like a pestilence,” the smith said. “It spreads rapidly and has an effect that extends well beyond those it touches directly.”
Glori nodded toward the weapon rack. “But you spend all that time preparing, training Bredan to fight.”
“The world is what it is,” Karras said. “I want Bredan to be ready for it. I promised his father.”
“Is he ready?” Glori asked. “I mean, he seems pretty good with that big piece of wood, but I’m not much of a judge of that kind of thing.”
“From what Bredan says, you have some skill with the smallbow.”
“Yeah, well.” She flicked up the hair covering the side of her face. “Comes with the ears, I guess.”
“I have known more than a few elves in my time,” Karras said. “Enough to know that they earn their skills through long and intense practice, the same as everyone else. Archery is not a hereditary trait.”
Her lips twisted in a smirk but before she could come up with a quip in response the door burst open and Bredan reappeared. It was clear he’d washed and changed in a hurry; his shirt, while more or less clean, was still untucked, and his damp hair was a tousled mess. He was buckling on a belt that supported a small purse and a dagger in a plain leather scabbard. Karras shook his head as his nephew kicked the door shut behind him and came over to rejoin them.
“Is there anything you need from town, uncle?” Bredan asked.
“No, no. Go on, have fun.”
“I’ll be back before supper…”
“Bah, I give you leave to go, and you try to argue away your freedom! You are a strange boy. Go, go!”
“I’ll keep an eye on him, Master Karras,” Glori said, decisively taking Bredan by the arm and steering him toward the gate.