Rel's Faded Glory III: Glory Reborn (FINAL UPDATE 6/22 - SHE'S DONE, BABY!!)
Jon Potter
First Post
So, Rel, I assume that the "stupid" dragon men were dragonkin. Correct? Their ability to "smell" magic seems to support that theory.
But what is the albino guy? Celestial Dragonkin or something else entirely?
But what is the albino guy? Celestial Dragonkin or something else entirely?
Rel
Liquid Awesome
BardStephenFox said:I have a few ideas, but perhaps that would be a better discussion for a different thread? Rel, do you have a Super Secret - Your Players Stay Out thread?
Nope. I either keep my mouth shut or I am perfectly willing for the players to know what the bad guys are. They won't use that information in ways that their characters wouldn't. That's one of the reasons I love my players.
Those were indeed Dragonkin. The "Albino" was a White Abishai sent by Tiamut to help keep the "Abominators" away from the Egg. Probably best that Marcus wasn't there that session. He has an aversion to negotiating with known evil.
BSF
Explorer
Rel said:Nope. I either keep my mouth shut or I am perfectly willing for the players to know what the bad guys are. They won't use that information in ways that their characters wouldn't. That's one of the reasons I love my players.
Those were indeed Dragonkin. The "Albino" was a White Abishai sent by Tiamut to help keep the "Abominators" away from the Egg. Probably best that Marcus wasn't there that session. He has an aversion to negotiating with known evil.
Heh! I thought it was an Abishai.
I had a cleric that never made a Will save. It was hilarious when he failed his will save against hold person ... at 11th level.
He had a penchant for rolling ones.In the same group, I watched 3 players all fail Fortitude saves, one after the other. The Fighter/Cleric, the Paladin and the Barbarian all started their roll with the fatal words "So long as I roll higher than 3..."
Saving throw dice are so fickle!
Darklone
Registered User
Yeah. Know those. Aladar "the Untouchable" self-declared group leader and hero lately failed (unharmed till then) his Will save against a puny DC 14 will save after the same fatal words.
Luckily for him: I still use the houserule that you have to roll for CDGs... and he's not called Untouchable for nothing: because I roll bad against him... a natural 1 for the dude who wanted to chop his head off.
Luckily for him: I still use the houserule that you have to roll for CDGs... and he's not called Untouchable for nothing: because I roll bad against him... a natural 1 for the dude who wanted to chop his head off.
Rel
Liquid Awesome
I figured I had one more chance to post an update before the holidays were over and I'm back to work. So I hope you enjoy this one. It is somewhat special in that it is something that most of the players didn't get to see. This is what happened to Marcus while the rest of the party was off fighting dragon-men and allying themselves with creatures of Hell :
Interlude: Heritage of a Warrior
Marcus departed the burgeoning town of Hrongar’s Hill and headed east in the company of two warriors of the Brigante tribe. The natives exchanged jokes in their tongue, making fun of how slowly the heavily armored Imperial moved. How could so many of their people have been taken as slaves by those who walked like turtles and were not even capable of running?
Marcus did not understand the words they used, but he got the distinct impression that they were not being complementary. But his stoicism and dedication to the task at hand turned aside their jibes in much the manner that his armor had turned aside so many lethal blows over the years. He walked onward, enduring their jokes.
15 hours later when he walked into the village of Rilaga, the two warriors traveling with him were too exhausted to joke or speak in any manner at all. Marcus set up the small tent that he had purchased in Hrongar’s Hill and lay down for a brief nap near midnight. He awoke a couple of hours later and spent the remaining time until dawn cleaning his armor and weapons. He was here on his own behalf but his actions and appearance reflected on the Church of St. Cuthbert. He took that duty seriously, just as he did all his others.
He presented himself at the mead hall of Hrothan, son of Hrongar, the chieftain of the Coritani since his father’s death the previous winter. Hrothan had to be fetched from his hut and showed some signs of having spent much of the evening consuming generous amounts of the sorts of beverages that Marcus felt should be taken in moderation. But Marcus knew that his customs were not shared by many of his fellow Imperial citizens, much less the folk of the Western Wilds.
Hrothan regarded the adherent of St. Cuthbert with suspicion. His lands had been visited early in the year by another pair of men of the same faith. Those “Inquisitors” had asked pointed questions and made it clear that they were not in the habit of failing to retrieve the answers. Those questions had called into question the honor of some of the men who had fought along side his father at the Battle of Hrongar’s Hill. When the Inquisitors departed back across the Fodor, they had said they found nothing that would “incriminate without question” the lads from Glynden who had traveled so far to aid those they didn’t know. But that did little to take away the bitter taste left in the mouths of the Coritani.
“What is it you seek here, Imperial,” asked the Chief of the Coritani.
“I come humbly seeking information about my mother. I believe that she was once a member of your tribe. I wish to learn more about her and about the people she came from.”
“Your mother was of the Coritani?! What makes you believe this? Who was she?” asked Hrothan, clearly having received an unexpected answer to his initial query.
“I’m afraid I do not know her name. I was orphaned as a child and raised in the Monastery of St. Cuthbert in Oar. My father was once a member of that religious order but had retired in the Northlands and taken a wife. All that anyone knew was that she came from the west, probably from one of the barbarian tribes.”
Hrothan started to bristle at his people being referred to as “barbaric” but he was far too intrigued at the Knight of St. Cuthbert’s story. “Why were you sent here and not to one of the other tribes?”
“I spoke to Irdgar, shaman of the Brigantes. He told me that he thought he recalled a tale of a young woman who was an outcast of the Coritani tribe that would have been the right age to have been my mother.”
The young chief paused for a moment to consider this before giving a brief order to one of his bodyguards, “Fetch Krusk.” He invited Marcus to sit at his table and share breakfast while the shaman of the Coritani was brought to the mead hall. Marcus did not require the offered food but he felt that if he were going to gain some insight to the people of his mother it was best if he shared in a few of their customs. He sat.
A few minutes later as he and Hrothan ate some course black bread smeared with goat cheese and some tasty salmon from the Fodor, Krusk entered the mead hall. The shaman pulled up a chair and turned his attention to the other two men. It was obvious that the bodyguard had told him why Marcus was here, “Your mother, was she tall and strong with long blonde hair?”
Marcus looked at the man for a moment, thoughtful, “I’m sorry. She was killed when I was very young and I don’t recall much of her appearance. But for as long as I can remember, I’ve always thought of her as having golden hair.”
“And how old are you,” asked Krusk intently.
“Twenty Five years as they are counted by the Imperial calendar.”
Krusk looked over at Hrothan for a moment and back to Marcus. He began to speak about the mother that Marcus had never known:
Her name was Sigra. Her father, Ilgar, was one of the more powerful hunters of the tribe and well respected among his peers. When Sigra came of age, she married another powerful man named Bolverk. Bolverk was a hulking warrior who was best known in his youth for killing a pair of wolves with only his hunting knife. He was never a brilliant man but he made up for it in sheer violence.
Sigra was ambitious and she encouraged her husband to use his power as a warrior to gain the good graces of the chieftain, Hragar, father of Hrongar. Hragar was also a man of hot temper, one of the berserker warriors that the barbarians are know for. Under Hragar’s direction, the Coritani raided across the Fodor almost every year, pillaging farms and destroying some of the scattered fortified towers that the Imperial Legions had built across the Northlands. Bolverk participated in a great many of these raids and earned a reputation as a ruthless, dangerous warrior who would never retreat or surrender.
But a short time later, Hragar died from wounds received in the battle against Greenspire. The position of Chieftain was taken up by Hrongar who most felt was very capable in that role. But Hrongar differed from his father in that he had greater vision. He could see that the constant raiding brought back a great deal of plunder for his people, but it also cost them warriors that they were slow to replace. He felt it would be better to conserve the strength and power of the tribe by raiding less frequently and doing so in a more carefully planned manner.
This outlook caused some of the more aggressive warriors to bristle. They had built their reputations on being fighting men and were afraid that less fighting would cost them some of the stature they had earned. Chief among those who protested was Bolverk. But Hrongar was resolute in addition to far-sighted and stuck to his convictions.
One night while the men of the tribe drank in Hrongar’s mead-hall, Bolverk, full of alcohol and bluster, declared that the real reason that Hrongar wanted fewer battles was because he feared death. Things escalated quickly and Bolverk challenged Hrongar to a duel for the Chieftaincy. Hrongar did not hesitate to accept this challenge, feeling that if he could best the leader of his opposition within the tribe that he could better unite them. And if he couldn’t beat him, well, it was better than having to sleep with one eye open.
The men spilled out into the night and each drew his sword but there their resemblances halted. Bolverk attacked like a madman, heedless of his own safety or any semblance of artifice. Hrongar was more patient. He dodged and ducked, only occasionally making a thrust at Bolverk, but each time drawing a bit of blood. In less than a minute, Bolverk found himself tiring and unable to continue his wild rage. Then Hrongar began to attack in earnest. He landed several solid blows against the mighty warrior and these, combined with the cuts he had taken earlier in the fight, brought him to his knees. Hrongar looked briefly into Bolverk’s eyes and then stabbed him through the heart.
Among the Corritani, there is no stigma attached to someone who is a relative of a criminal and Sigra had no reason to feel shamed. But she could not live with the thought that she may have driven Bolverk to take such a rash act that could have led to conflict within the tribe. She disappeared one night and was not seen or heard from again.
Marcus listened to the tale of his mother’s former life unfold. He wondered how it was that she came to meet his father and how they fell in love and decided to settle down to start a family that would ultimately be cut short at a single son. But these were answers he would never know until he was reunited with his parents in Celestia. That was alright with him. He could wait.
Marcus shared what little he knew about Sigra’s fate after she left the Coritani. Hrothan and Krusk both seemed genuinely glad that she had found love and happiness, if only for a while. They both frowned in knowing sadness at the tale of how Marcus’ parents were killed by a roving band of Orcs. Both men had lost close friends and family in the Winter War to the savage sub-humans.
With that thought hanging thickly in the air, Marcus arose from his seat, “I must depart and rejoin my friends. Thank you for what you have told me about my past. I am honored to share the blood of those of the Coritani tribe. I will go now and see if I can repay your kindness by seeking out the heart of those who marched against you last winter.” He gave a shallow bow to each man and departed.
Hrothan and Krusk watched the broad back of the steel-clad warrior of the south as he moved toward the door. He may have the trappings and training of an Imperial, but they were carried by the stout and strong body of a man who would have looked right at home in a Coritani hunting party. His body was made to withstand and deliver punishment. They looked at each other and shared a wan smile. Neither had any doubts about what would happen when Marcus found the heart of their enemies.
NEXT: The Sad Song of the River
:Interlude: Heritage of a Warrior
Marcus departed the burgeoning town of Hrongar’s Hill and headed east in the company of two warriors of the Brigante tribe. The natives exchanged jokes in their tongue, making fun of how slowly the heavily armored Imperial moved. How could so many of their people have been taken as slaves by those who walked like turtles and were not even capable of running?
Marcus did not understand the words they used, but he got the distinct impression that they were not being complementary. But his stoicism and dedication to the task at hand turned aside their jibes in much the manner that his armor had turned aside so many lethal blows over the years. He walked onward, enduring their jokes.
15 hours later when he walked into the village of Rilaga, the two warriors traveling with him were too exhausted to joke or speak in any manner at all. Marcus set up the small tent that he had purchased in Hrongar’s Hill and lay down for a brief nap near midnight. He awoke a couple of hours later and spent the remaining time until dawn cleaning his armor and weapons. He was here on his own behalf but his actions and appearance reflected on the Church of St. Cuthbert. He took that duty seriously, just as he did all his others.
He presented himself at the mead hall of Hrothan, son of Hrongar, the chieftain of the Coritani since his father’s death the previous winter. Hrothan had to be fetched from his hut and showed some signs of having spent much of the evening consuming generous amounts of the sorts of beverages that Marcus felt should be taken in moderation. But Marcus knew that his customs were not shared by many of his fellow Imperial citizens, much less the folk of the Western Wilds.
Hrothan regarded the adherent of St. Cuthbert with suspicion. His lands had been visited early in the year by another pair of men of the same faith. Those “Inquisitors” had asked pointed questions and made it clear that they were not in the habit of failing to retrieve the answers. Those questions had called into question the honor of some of the men who had fought along side his father at the Battle of Hrongar’s Hill. When the Inquisitors departed back across the Fodor, they had said they found nothing that would “incriminate without question” the lads from Glynden who had traveled so far to aid those they didn’t know. But that did little to take away the bitter taste left in the mouths of the Coritani.
“What is it you seek here, Imperial,” asked the Chief of the Coritani.
“I come humbly seeking information about my mother. I believe that she was once a member of your tribe. I wish to learn more about her and about the people she came from.”
“Your mother was of the Coritani?! What makes you believe this? Who was she?” asked Hrothan, clearly having received an unexpected answer to his initial query.
“I’m afraid I do not know her name. I was orphaned as a child and raised in the Monastery of St. Cuthbert in Oar. My father was once a member of that religious order but had retired in the Northlands and taken a wife. All that anyone knew was that she came from the west, probably from one of the barbarian tribes.”
Hrothan started to bristle at his people being referred to as “barbaric” but he was far too intrigued at the Knight of St. Cuthbert’s story. “Why were you sent here and not to one of the other tribes?”
“I spoke to Irdgar, shaman of the Brigantes. He told me that he thought he recalled a tale of a young woman who was an outcast of the Coritani tribe that would have been the right age to have been my mother.”
The young chief paused for a moment to consider this before giving a brief order to one of his bodyguards, “Fetch Krusk.” He invited Marcus to sit at his table and share breakfast while the shaman of the Coritani was brought to the mead hall. Marcus did not require the offered food but he felt that if he were going to gain some insight to the people of his mother it was best if he shared in a few of their customs. He sat.
A few minutes later as he and Hrothan ate some course black bread smeared with goat cheese and some tasty salmon from the Fodor, Krusk entered the mead hall. The shaman pulled up a chair and turned his attention to the other two men. It was obvious that the bodyguard had told him why Marcus was here, “Your mother, was she tall and strong with long blonde hair?”
Marcus looked at the man for a moment, thoughtful, “I’m sorry. She was killed when I was very young and I don’t recall much of her appearance. But for as long as I can remember, I’ve always thought of her as having golden hair.”
“And how old are you,” asked Krusk intently.
“Twenty Five years as they are counted by the Imperial calendar.”
Krusk looked over at Hrothan for a moment and back to Marcus. He began to speak about the mother that Marcus had never known:
Her name was Sigra. Her father, Ilgar, was one of the more powerful hunters of the tribe and well respected among his peers. When Sigra came of age, she married another powerful man named Bolverk. Bolverk was a hulking warrior who was best known in his youth for killing a pair of wolves with only his hunting knife. He was never a brilliant man but he made up for it in sheer violence.
Sigra was ambitious and she encouraged her husband to use his power as a warrior to gain the good graces of the chieftain, Hragar, father of Hrongar. Hragar was also a man of hot temper, one of the berserker warriors that the barbarians are know for. Under Hragar’s direction, the Coritani raided across the Fodor almost every year, pillaging farms and destroying some of the scattered fortified towers that the Imperial Legions had built across the Northlands. Bolverk participated in a great many of these raids and earned a reputation as a ruthless, dangerous warrior who would never retreat or surrender.
But a short time later, Hragar died from wounds received in the battle against Greenspire. The position of Chieftain was taken up by Hrongar who most felt was very capable in that role. But Hrongar differed from his father in that he had greater vision. He could see that the constant raiding brought back a great deal of plunder for his people, but it also cost them warriors that they were slow to replace. He felt it would be better to conserve the strength and power of the tribe by raiding less frequently and doing so in a more carefully planned manner.
This outlook caused some of the more aggressive warriors to bristle. They had built their reputations on being fighting men and were afraid that less fighting would cost them some of the stature they had earned. Chief among those who protested was Bolverk. But Hrongar was resolute in addition to far-sighted and stuck to his convictions.
One night while the men of the tribe drank in Hrongar’s mead-hall, Bolverk, full of alcohol and bluster, declared that the real reason that Hrongar wanted fewer battles was because he feared death. Things escalated quickly and Bolverk challenged Hrongar to a duel for the Chieftaincy. Hrongar did not hesitate to accept this challenge, feeling that if he could best the leader of his opposition within the tribe that he could better unite them. And if he couldn’t beat him, well, it was better than having to sleep with one eye open.
The men spilled out into the night and each drew his sword but there their resemblances halted. Bolverk attacked like a madman, heedless of his own safety or any semblance of artifice. Hrongar was more patient. He dodged and ducked, only occasionally making a thrust at Bolverk, but each time drawing a bit of blood. In less than a minute, Bolverk found himself tiring and unable to continue his wild rage. Then Hrongar began to attack in earnest. He landed several solid blows against the mighty warrior and these, combined with the cuts he had taken earlier in the fight, brought him to his knees. Hrongar looked briefly into Bolverk’s eyes and then stabbed him through the heart.
Among the Corritani, there is no stigma attached to someone who is a relative of a criminal and Sigra had no reason to feel shamed. But she could not live with the thought that she may have driven Bolverk to take such a rash act that could have led to conflict within the tribe. She disappeared one night and was not seen or heard from again.
Marcus listened to the tale of his mother’s former life unfold. He wondered how it was that she came to meet his father and how they fell in love and decided to settle down to start a family that would ultimately be cut short at a single son. But these were answers he would never know until he was reunited with his parents in Celestia. That was alright with him. He could wait.
Marcus shared what little he knew about Sigra’s fate after she left the Coritani. Hrothan and Krusk both seemed genuinely glad that she had found love and happiness, if only for a while. They both frowned in knowing sadness at the tale of how Marcus’ parents were killed by a roving band of Orcs. Both men had lost close friends and family in the Winter War to the savage sub-humans.
With that thought hanging thickly in the air, Marcus arose from his seat, “I must depart and rejoin my friends. Thank you for what you have told me about my past. I am honored to share the blood of those of the Coritani tribe. I will go now and see if I can repay your kindness by seeking out the heart of those who marched against you last winter.” He gave a shallow bow to each man and departed.
Hrothan and Krusk watched the broad back of the steel-clad warrior of the south as he moved toward the door. He may have the trappings and training of an Imperial, but they were carried by the stout and strong body of a man who would have looked right at home in a Coritani hunting party. His body was made to withstand and deliver punishment. They looked at each other and shared a wan smile. Neither had any doubts about what would happen when Marcus found the heart of their enemies.
NEXT: The Sad Song of the River
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