These are copies of the actual jornals my players keep of our campaign (250xp<lvl 10 and 500xp10-20 keeps them writeing). I unfortuantly didn't start the jornals till a bit into the game so some of the earliest adventures have been lost. Our barbarian Turon gives a short recount...in a style that befits a barbarian
*******
"The Story Thus Far
well, first i learned how to read... that was bit hard for me considering barbarians are supposed to be illiterate
then we kicked orc ass in the trees, and in the forests, then we got our asses kicked by many orcs, then we kicked ship ass, then we kicked traveling north ass, then we kicked Dire Animal ass
kicked 15th level fighter ass, kicked elf ass, kicked orc ass, kicked swamp ass, kicked kobold ass, kicked towns people ass, kicked fishman ass, kicked elf ass, kicked ettin ass, kicked DJ ass, kicked troll ass, ran from troll asskicking. kicked traveling ass, kicked army ass, kicked orc army ass, kicked speech ass, kicked DJ ass."
*******
DJ is a guy we used to play with who had a bad habit of makeing characters that pissed off the rest of the party...
The stories really begin after the party has King Brandir of Gorthal to march his army south and aid the kingdom of Angrenost, in who's army they serve. The fighter/theif Kiernan starts his tale with the last portion of Gorthals march to the aid of Angrenost. It is important to keep in mind that Kiernans most valued posession is a magical ring of his own crafting.
The following is Kiernans history.
********
"You wanna know who I am? Sure, fine. I'm Kiernan. Kiernan Nae'Blac. You want more, I don't want to see the bottom of my cup. We all have wants.
Okay, that's better.
You want the short version, I'm a thief-taker, I'm a scout. I chase down the people that take more than they deserve, and that got caught. And I bring them in to the people that want it back. Sometimes they're humans. Sometimes they're Orcs. Doesn't really matter that much to me, but the Orcs are easier to catch.
You want the long story? Like I said. We all have wants. Mine involves a haunch of roast venison, and another round.
Or two.
Okay. Fine. Here's the long story. I'd recommend not sharing certain parts of this story. It's not exactly a secret, but it's not something I really enjoy people knowing. And did I mention that I hunt down people that hide for a living? Okay. Just checking.
I grew in a small farm, hoeing, sheeping, cowing, whatever. The standard deal. Dad's a farmer. Mom's a corpse. Been that way pretty much since I was born. An Orcish war-party thought our place looked tasty, and came by for a visit. Dad and I were in the fields. Mom was at home. Then it was just Dad and me.
So you can probably guess where this goes. At 13, I ran off to the excitement and wealth of the big city. I'd live on the streets for a while, taking what I could find, then I'd live in the wilderness outside when people noticed. That went on until I was about 16. I made friends with some of the other wild-folk, and I studied under a few of them. They were an odd group. Some of them were veterans of the Orcish invasions, guys that just couldn't live in polite society any more. Some of them were ... less honest folk, we'll say. Some of them were just crazies that no one wanted. I learned to track from them, and more importantly, I learned to fight.
When you live in the forests, there's about three things you can do: You can fight, you can drink, and you can wander around searching for things. I did them all, but I liked the fighting best. Some of those guys used to be in the army. Some of them have a more .... professional interest. I learned from both of them. Picked up a trick or two you won't find in any of the local academies. Picked up a few scars too.
Then there was the last time I stayed in the woods. It was late one night. Most of the guards were drunk. The rest were probably asleep. I was up. I don't sleep much any more. I was sitting on the outskirts of the camp, staring at the stars, and into the bottom of a mug of ale. I heard something skittering around on the outskirts of the camp. I was a little unsteady, but not too bad. So I wander off to check it out. I figured we had a curious critter at best, maybe a lost Orcish scout at the worst. Hmmph.
As I got closer and closer to the sound, I started to reconsider. There was obviously something large out there. Maybe 3-4 Orcs. Still, if I turned back, they might catch us all unaware. So I kept on. They were fast buggers. And they were definately heading towards the camp. I nearly had to run to keep up. By the time I finally got in earshot of the camp, I started shouting at the top of my lungs. I saw something big flash out of the trees beside me. Then I felt my cheek and chest get ripped open, and I passed out.
Huh? Yeah, that's were the scar came from. You're a quick one, eh? Just keep the ale coming, and I'll keep talking. Keep interrupting, and I'll stop. Your choice.
When I came to, I had lost a lot of blood. But I still had more than a lot of the folks around. I had ended up underneath a couple of guys I knew from the city. They were dead. I wasn't. It was about that simple. Through a haze of shock, I saw blurs ripping through our campsite. People were dying. A lot of them. Quickly. And then I passed out again. That was the last night I spend at the camp.
I spent a few days tracking our assailants. Some of my good friends were dead, and some of our best stuff was gone. I wanted revenge for one, and payment for the other. But I never did catch them. Found some signs, some hints. But the fact that I tended to fade out of consciousness every hour or so didn't help.
I've talked to some people since then. Some say that it was definately Orcs. Some say that it was probably werewolves. I'd like to know. I still owe them for the scars. And they still ache at night.
Anyway, some time around 17, I made a bad choice. I was tried of filching apples from overloaded wagons, and talking corrupt merchants into card games. I couldn't head back to the forest. So when the man with the gold rings, the silk clothes, and the drunken slur showed up, it seemed like things were about to pick up. Two hours later, I was in a jail cell, with a lump the size of your fist on my head. Apparently the $powerful_figure doesn't much like to lose at cards. And apparently he _really_ doesn't like to lose at fixed card games. So I got two choices. I worked for him, bringing in some of the less savory folks in the city, or I went on my way, with my hands in a box. Tough choice.
That was ... damn near 4 years ago. I've gotten pretty good at it. I've made a few enemies, but they aren't really the types you run into during the day time, and I make it a habit to be paranoid at night. The rest of them were of the Orcish persuasion, and they're just dead. I've picked up a lot more tricks from fighting folks that don't fight fair. Fighting thieves teaches you real quick that if you're not fast, you're dead. And if you are fast, you're probably only mostly dead. And I've only been mostly dead so far. There is hope. And when you've been fighting off orcs for long enough, you learn a few tricks for cutting them down too.
The $powerful_figure trusts me now, I think. I can pretty much act as I see fit - the assignments come less and less often, and I'm mostly left to my own judgement about who to take, and when to take them. I'm officially a member of the standing army. I think I've got a rank, or something. But I mostly freelance. But when the $powerful_figure calls you, you answer. I can come and go as I please, as long as I'm there when I need to be. I don't spend much time in the wilderness any more, but I still keep up with the tracking skills, at least. I couldn't tell you an elderberry from a blueberry, but I can find the guy that stepped on whatever it was. And I can do a fairly good job of stopping them from going any further.
And tomorrow night, I head out to meet up with a group of poor souls that's already out in the Borderlands. Apparently it's time to do some more scouting, and some more killing. I have been getting a little bored, lately. Maybe it'll give me a chance to work on my technique. Maybe it'll just get me killed. Either way, it's somethin' to do.
So you can write all this down. If I'm dead, I won't care what you say about me. If I come back, it won't hurt to have someone out there that's writing stuff about me down. Hell, I might have a few new stories. Or I might just have a new scar. We'll see, eh?
--
Life in a box is better than no life at all. I expect. You could lie there thinking "Well, at least I'm not dead."
-- Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead
"
And the first of his journals...
********
"Last night scouts arrived at a dinner with the king, his advisors, and us, claiming to be from Angrenost. They told us that Angrenost was in flames. And that 50,000 orcs marched on our position, likely to arrive by nightfall the next day. Turon was, predictably, suspicious of Dwimmerdilk. And I can't say I doubted him. He and I prepared to ride towards Angrenost immediately, to verify their claims. The thief insisted on coming along. Turon commendeered a scouting horse. I ran along side. The thief took his own mount, which was, for some reason, armored in barding, which would prove to be his death.
"As we prepared to set out, one of the advisors suddenly screeched, and dropped to the ground. I rushed to his side, but he was nearly dead already. Turon, sensing danger, proved his iron will by forcing vomit. The thief, made of lesser stuff, did as well, but failed. Within seconds, advisors around the table began clutching their stomachs. I felt a discomfort, as did Turon, but our travels had toughened us to such things. The thief doubled over with the advisors, which I'd expect from a member of the Family of the White Rose. They tend to be weak in the stomach, as well as morals. Brandir was weakened, but not critically so.
"Turon and I did our best to track down the culprit. We found the cook dead of the same poison, beneath his pantry. Several guards were later found murdered, so I can only suspect the assassin escaped. Or at least I hope he did. A clever traitor would make us think he was gone, and still remain. If the thief hadn't taken the brunt of the assault, I would blame him.
"After a short time, the advisors had recovered, or died. The thief was near death, and weak, so was sent to the sick tent, as were several advisors, and Brandir. Another group of scouts arrived, with a conflict report - 10,000 orcs, here by dawn. They seemed a bit more believable.
"Turon and I recalled a battlefield within a few hours ride. There had been a fort atop a highly defensible hill. WIth 10,000 men and 50,000 orcs, we would need an advantage, so we convinced the king to head out immediately.
Turon and I rode ahead, confirming the fort. It was only a short distance away, and we immediately set about constructing a few surprises - rolling rocks, logs, etc. The army has just settled in, and it is nearly dawn. We shall have to see what transpires."
Kiernans next journal tells of the next dawn and the days following the Battle of the Hill.
"The orcs died, as I expected. I began the battle with an arrow shot. One of the shield guard called it "A glorious shot - a single arrow, glowing with flame, streaking into the darkness. A beacon to our people, and a strike from the heavens at the Orcish horde. The orc felled by that arrow was only the first of many." In any case, our traps and logs crushed orcs by the hundreds. True to form, they immediately wheeled about and began fleeing. Our archers cut down hundreds more, and by the time they had fled, nearly 1,500 dead littered the field, with no loss of life on our side.
"We rode hard to Angrenost, scouting ahead, and bringing word.
Turon, the General and I borrowed horses. The thief rode his own.
"After several hours of travel, we came upon an orcish war band. Perhaps 50 in number - 35 or so wolf-riders, and 15 of a type that I had not seen before. They were perhaps 8 feet tall, and seemed to be all limb - their bodies were small, serving primarily as anchors. Their mouths were fanged, and seemed to drip a foul poison. On their hands, they wore gauntlets of steel, with huge talons, which they seemed quite capable of using to rip a body to shreds. They spotted us about the same time we spotted them. The general attempted to setup a diversion, and draw them off, but was only partially successful - perhaps a third of the force split off to follow him. He rode off hard, and eventually eluded them, and made his way to Angrenost.
"That left the rest of the group to us. The wolf-riders could pace us, but I didn't think their mounts would be able to draw up on our horses. The new orcs seemed likely to be able to run at tremendous speeds. 3 against 35 being poor odds, the three of us wheeled about to try to escape the band.
"Quickly, we learned the truth of an old adage - you do not have to out run the bear, just the others with you. Turon, the General and I chose swift horses (Well, Turon and the General did. I merely chose one that could keep up with me). The thief brought his own, which was, inexplicably, laden with barding. I feel sadness for the horse, for the folly of his master. The three of us began riding hard away from the war band. The wolf-riders couldn't keep pace, but were able to loose several volleys of arrows before they dropped out of range, causing minor wounds among our group. Turon felled a few in return with his bow, and then we were out of range. The orcs, which we have named "Leapers," however, easily kept pace.
"After a short while, the wolf pack began to drop behind. Sadly for the thief, so did he. It wasn't long before we easily out paced him. He called out several times for assistance, and we suggested he veer off, and push his horse harder. We also suggested that, in the future, he not take a heavily armored horse on a scouting mission. If the water god does return us to life, mayhaps he'll remember. The time it took the leapers to destroy him in his weakened state let us pull ahead far enough, and we eventually made it to Angrenost.
"The people of Angrenost suffered their own hardships - nearly 2,000 of their own dead, but at the cost of almost 10,000 orcish dead. A good showing. We met with Arani, and told him of our adventure, and of the men coming.
"A few speechs later, we were being hailed as heroes. Our party was granted a tower, promotions, and gold. And the people's spirits were greatly raised by The General.
"We rest now, but Arani and Brandir wish to press on, and destroy the Orcish hordes while they are beaten. "
These are only the first few entries I'll post more tomorrow.
*******
"The Story Thus Far
well, first i learned how to read... that was bit hard for me considering barbarians are supposed to be illiterate
then we kicked orc ass in the trees, and in the forests, then we got our asses kicked by many orcs, then we kicked ship ass, then we kicked traveling north ass, then we kicked Dire Animal ass
kicked 15th level fighter ass, kicked elf ass, kicked orc ass, kicked swamp ass, kicked kobold ass, kicked towns people ass, kicked fishman ass, kicked elf ass, kicked ettin ass, kicked DJ ass, kicked troll ass, ran from troll asskicking. kicked traveling ass, kicked army ass, kicked orc army ass, kicked speech ass, kicked DJ ass."
*******
DJ is a guy we used to play with who had a bad habit of makeing characters that pissed off the rest of the party...
The stories really begin after the party has King Brandir of Gorthal to march his army south and aid the kingdom of Angrenost, in who's army they serve. The fighter/theif Kiernan starts his tale with the last portion of Gorthals march to the aid of Angrenost. It is important to keep in mind that Kiernans most valued posession is a magical ring of his own crafting.
The following is Kiernans history.
********
"You wanna know who I am? Sure, fine. I'm Kiernan. Kiernan Nae'Blac. You want more, I don't want to see the bottom of my cup. We all have wants.
Okay, that's better.
You want the short version, I'm a thief-taker, I'm a scout. I chase down the people that take more than they deserve, and that got caught. And I bring them in to the people that want it back. Sometimes they're humans. Sometimes they're Orcs. Doesn't really matter that much to me, but the Orcs are easier to catch.
You want the long story? Like I said. We all have wants. Mine involves a haunch of roast venison, and another round.
Or two.
Okay. Fine. Here's the long story. I'd recommend not sharing certain parts of this story. It's not exactly a secret, but it's not something I really enjoy people knowing. And did I mention that I hunt down people that hide for a living? Okay. Just checking.
I grew in a small farm, hoeing, sheeping, cowing, whatever. The standard deal. Dad's a farmer. Mom's a corpse. Been that way pretty much since I was born. An Orcish war-party thought our place looked tasty, and came by for a visit. Dad and I were in the fields. Mom was at home. Then it was just Dad and me.
So you can probably guess where this goes. At 13, I ran off to the excitement and wealth of the big city. I'd live on the streets for a while, taking what I could find, then I'd live in the wilderness outside when people noticed. That went on until I was about 16. I made friends with some of the other wild-folk, and I studied under a few of them. They were an odd group. Some of them were veterans of the Orcish invasions, guys that just couldn't live in polite society any more. Some of them were ... less honest folk, we'll say. Some of them were just crazies that no one wanted. I learned to track from them, and more importantly, I learned to fight.
When you live in the forests, there's about three things you can do: You can fight, you can drink, and you can wander around searching for things. I did them all, but I liked the fighting best. Some of those guys used to be in the army. Some of them have a more .... professional interest. I learned from both of them. Picked up a trick or two you won't find in any of the local academies. Picked up a few scars too.
Then there was the last time I stayed in the woods. It was late one night. Most of the guards were drunk. The rest were probably asleep. I was up. I don't sleep much any more. I was sitting on the outskirts of the camp, staring at the stars, and into the bottom of a mug of ale. I heard something skittering around on the outskirts of the camp. I was a little unsteady, but not too bad. So I wander off to check it out. I figured we had a curious critter at best, maybe a lost Orcish scout at the worst. Hmmph.
As I got closer and closer to the sound, I started to reconsider. There was obviously something large out there. Maybe 3-4 Orcs. Still, if I turned back, they might catch us all unaware. So I kept on. They were fast buggers. And they were definately heading towards the camp. I nearly had to run to keep up. By the time I finally got in earshot of the camp, I started shouting at the top of my lungs. I saw something big flash out of the trees beside me. Then I felt my cheek and chest get ripped open, and I passed out.
Huh? Yeah, that's were the scar came from. You're a quick one, eh? Just keep the ale coming, and I'll keep talking. Keep interrupting, and I'll stop. Your choice.
When I came to, I had lost a lot of blood. But I still had more than a lot of the folks around. I had ended up underneath a couple of guys I knew from the city. They were dead. I wasn't. It was about that simple. Through a haze of shock, I saw blurs ripping through our campsite. People were dying. A lot of them. Quickly. And then I passed out again. That was the last night I spend at the camp.
I spent a few days tracking our assailants. Some of my good friends were dead, and some of our best stuff was gone. I wanted revenge for one, and payment for the other. But I never did catch them. Found some signs, some hints. But the fact that I tended to fade out of consciousness every hour or so didn't help.
I've talked to some people since then. Some say that it was definately Orcs. Some say that it was probably werewolves. I'd like to know. I still owe them for the scars. And they still ache at night.
Anyway, some time around 17, I made a bad choice. I was tried of filching apples from overloaded wagons, and talking corrupt merchants into card games. I couldn't head back to the forest. So when the man with the gold rings, the silk clothes, and the drunken slur showed up, it seemed like things were about to pick up. Two hours later, I was in a jail cell, with a lump the size of your fist on my head. Apparently the $powerful_figure doesn't much like to lose at cards. And apparently he _really_ doesn't like to lose at fixed card games. So I got two choices. I worked for him, bringing in some of the less savory folks in the city, or I went on my way, with my hands in a box. Tough choice.
That was ... damn near 4 years ago. I've gotten pretty good at it. I've made a few enemies, but they aren't really the types you run into during the day time, and I make it a habit to be paranoid at night. The rest of them were of the Orcish persuasion, and they're just dead. I've picked up a lot more tricks from fighting folks that don't fight fair. Fighting thieves teaches you real quick that if you're not fast, you're dead. And if you are fast, you're probably only mostly dead. And I've only been mostly dead so far. There is hope. And when you've been fighting off orcs for long enough, you learn a few tricks for cutting them down too.
The $powerful_figure trusts me now, I think. I can pretty much act as I see fit - the assignments come less and less often, and I'm mostly left to my own judgement about who to take, and when to take them. I'm officially a member of the standing army. I think I've got a rank, or something. But I mostly freelance. But when the $powerful_figure calls you, you answer. I can come and go as I please, as long as I'm there when I need to be. I don't spend much time in the wilderness any more, but I still keep up with the tracking skills, at least. I couldn't tell you an elderberry from a blueberry, but I can find the guy that stepped on whatever it was. And I can do a fairly good job of stopping them from going any further.
And tomorrow night, I head out to meet up with a group of poor souls that's already out in the Borderlands. Apparently it's time to do some more scouting, and some more killing. I have been getting a little bored, lately. Maybe it'll give me a chance to work on my technique. Maybe it'll just get me killed. Either way, it's somethin' to do.
So you can write all this down. If I'm dead, I won't care what you say about me. If I come back, it won't hurt to have someone out there that's writing stuff about me down. Hell, I might have a few new stories. Or I might just have a new scar. We'll see, eh?
--
Life in a box is better than no life at all. I expect. You could lie there thinking "Well, at least I'm not dead."
-- Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead
"
And the first of his journals...
********
"Last night scouts arrived at a dinner with the king, his advisors, and us, claiming to be from Angrenost. They told us that Angrenost was in flames. And that 50,000 orcs marched on our position, likely to arrive by nightfall the next day. Turon was, predictably, suspicious of Dwimmerdilk. And I can't say I doubted him. He and I prepared to ride towards Angrenost immediately, to verify their claims. The thief insisted on coming along. Turon commendeered a scouting horse. I ran along side. The thief took his own mount, which was, for some reason, armored in barding, which would prove to be his death.
"As we prepared to set out, one of the advisors suddenly screeched, and dropped to the ground. I rushed to his side, but he was nearly dead already. Turon, sensing danger, proved his iron will by forcing vomit. The thief, made of lesser stuff, did as well, but failed. Within seconds, advisors around the table began clutching their stomachs. I felt a discomfort, as did Turon, but our travels had toughened us to such things. The thief doubled over with the advisors, which I'd expect from a member of the Family of the White Rose. They tend to be weak in the stomach, as well as morals. Brandir was weakened, but not critically so.
"Turon and I did our best to track down the culprit. We found the cook dead of the same poison, beneath his pantry. Several guards were later found murdered, so I can only suspect the assassin escaped. Or at least I hope he did. A clever traitor would make us think he was gone, and still remain. If the thief hadn't taken the brunt of the assault, I would blame him.
"After a short time, the advisors had recovered, or died. The thief was near death, and weak, so was sent to the sick tent, as were several advisors, and Brandir. Another group of scouts arrived, with a conflict report - 10,000 orcs, here by dawn. They seemed a bit more believable.
"Turon and I recalled a battlefield within a few hours ride. There had been a fort atop a highly defensible hill. WIth 10,000 men and 50,000 orcs, we would need an advantage, so we convinced the king to head out immediately.
Turon and I rode ahead, confirming the fort. It was only a short distance away, and we immediately set about constructing a few surprises - rolling rocks, logs, etc. The army has just settled in, and it is nearly dawn. We shall have to see what transpires."
Kiernans next journal tells of the next dawn and the days following the Battle of the Hill.
"The orcs died, as I expected. I began the battle with an arrow shot. One of the shield guard called it "A glorious shot - a single arrow, glowing with flame, streaking into the darkness. A beacon to our people, and a strike from the heavens at the Orcish horde. The orc felled by that arrow was only the first of many." In any case, our traps and logs crushed orcs by the hundreds. True to form, they immediately wheeled about and began fleeing. Our archers cut down hundreds more, and by the time they had fled, nearly 1,500 dead littered the field, with no loss of life on our side.
"We rode hard to Angrenost, scouting ahead, and bringing word.
Turon, the General and I borrowed horses. The thief rode his own.
"After several hours of travel, we came upon an orcish war band. Perhaps 50 in number - 35 or so wolf-riders, and 15 of a type that I had not seen before. They were perhaps 8 feet tall, and seemed to be all limb - their bodies were small, serving primarily as anchors. Their mouths were fanged, and seemed to drip a foul poison. On their hands, they wore gauntlets of steel, with huge talons, which they seemed quite capable of using to rip a body to shreds. They spotted us about the same time we spotted them. The general attempted to setup a diversion, and draw them off, but was only partially successful - perhaps a third of the force split off to follow him. He rode off hard, and eventually eluded them, and made his way to Angrenost.
"That left the rest of the group to us. The wolf-riders could pace us, but I didn't think their mounts would be able to draw up on our horses. The new orcs seemed likely to be able to run at tremendous speeds. 3 against 35 being poor odds, the three of us wheeled about to try to escape the band.
"Quickly, we learned the truth of an old adage - you do not have to out run the bear, just the others with you. Turon, the General and I chose swift horses (Well, Turon and the General did. I merely chose one that could keep up with me). The thief brought his own, which was, inexplicably, laden with barding. I feel sadness for the horse, for the folly of his master. The three of us began riding hard away from the war band. The wolf-riders couldn't keep pace, but were able to loose several volleys of arrows before they dropped out of range, causing minor wounds among our group. Turon felled a few in return with his bow, and then we were out of range. The orcs, which we have named "Leapers," however, easily kept pace.
"After a short while, the wolf pack began to drop behind. Sadly for the thief, so did he. It wasn't long before we easily out paced him. He called out several times for assistance, and we suggested he veer off, and push his horse harder. We also suggested that, in the future, he not take a heavily armored horse on a scouting mission. If the water god does return us to life, mayhaps he'll remember. The time it took the leapers to destroy him in his weakened state let us pull ahead far enough, and we eventually made it to Angrenost.
"The people of Angrenost suffered their own hardships - nearly 2,000 of their own dead, but at the cost of almost 10,000 orcish dead. A good showing. We met with Arani, and told him of our adventure, and of the men coming.
"A few speechs later, we were being hailed as heroes. Our party was granted a tower, promotions, and gold. And the people's spirits were greatly raised by The General.
"We rest now, but Arani and Brandir wish to press on, and destroy the Orcish hordes while they are beaten. "
These are only the first few entries I'll post more tomorrow.
