Tales around the Campfire

[Sparky]

Good Reader, what follows are tales so great the mountains are shadowed, so noble the celestials weep, so roving the wind howls in envy - so patently embroidered that textile merchants swoon. Take a seat, Dear Reader, take a seat and enjoy Tales around the Campfire!

*****************************************

The Caravan Master has called a halt for the evening. It is not long before the horses are picketed and cookfires leap and crack. Another night on the trail. Can't beat it really... the stars, the wind, the freedom of it all. After dinner the Caravan Master sends over a prized cask of Valan Port. Tongues loosen and memories stir. Children crowd near and adults gather, grinning and elbowing one another as they wait for yet another tale of high adventure from the most famous adventurers they've ever met.

Calls ring out from those gathered, "Tell us tha one 'bout Princess Ulma's Pink Pantalooons!"

Another voice cries, "It's The Purple Petticoats of Princess Pelma and they told it only last week - I wanna hear The Caliph, The Camel and the Magic Slippers!"

And another, one of the children, "Tell us how you all met and became Adventurers!"

OOC: Other 'NPCs' may make suggestions on tales they'd like to hear - anyone surfing by may call something out so long as it is 'in character.' And, certainly, egging on the Players and DM with comments like, "Oh... what happened next!?" or "And then you let them have it, right?" or "You didn't take that from a kobold, did you!?" is certainly welcome, though do try to keep the adventure focused.

OOC

 

[doghead]

Location

Hella looks around the clamouring cluster of children surrounding them. She raises a finger to her lips and slowly they fall silent beneath her stern gaze.

"Are you sure you want to hear it? Its not a pretty tale like your mother will tell you. This tale will chill your bones and give you nightmares if you are not a brave heart."

There is a moments silence and the childern quail before Hella's stern gaze.

"I'm not afraid. I wanna hear the story," pipes up Joss, always the adventurous one. And then they are all clamouring to hear the story. Hella nods. Given that most of the children around her are taller than she, Hella decides to seek higher ground. She lightly vaults up onto the table, and sits herself crosslegged upon it, whipping out a longbladed knife as she does and slamming it down into an apple resting nearby. The flash of steel and thudding of the blade into timber evokes several starled yelps from of her audience.

Hella plucks the knife from the timber, the apple neatly skewered on the blade and takes a bite of it. As she chews, she gives them a considered look.

"Are you sure," she whispers quietly. Again, although more quietly this time, they insist that they are. Hella considers their assurance carefully, head tilted to one side, just so, then nods her head once more and the children fall silent.

There we were warming our tired bones before a great roaring fire and refreshing our weary spirits with some fine ale in charming little inn in the small town of Killith. We were only two more days away from the great seaport of Thean. We had spent the last few days slogging, and sometimes fighting, our way through the dark hills of Haddacc and had done so without the loss of a single soul. But the price had been eternal vigilance, nights spent in armour and days spent on the move. So it was a great relief to be able to relax a little for the first time in far too long a long time.

 

[Sparky]

Total silence falls as Hella takes her perch and begins. She knows the beat-up, old table puzzles most of the nomad merchants. They are used to travelling with little in the way of solid, heavy furniture. Whispered talk around the caravan has assigned the old thing magical powers. It is smoothed from age and marred from the blades of many knives. Hella's mind soars back to the first time she saw its comforting, gnarled bulk in a small inn two day's march from Thean... it seems a world and a lifetime away.

Everyone settles in for the tale, shifting quietly and getting comfortable. A scarred and nasty-looking wagon-driver freezes as he lifts his daughter up onto the seat of his wagon at the mention of Haddacc. He is not alone; gasps and sketched holy-signs flutter through the gathering.

But they listen and watch, wide-eyed, waiting for the next bit of the story...

 

[Ferrix]

The rattle of chains sends a whisper of fear through the crowd, from behind one of the wagons the crack of a hard-soled footfall pushes the children farther back. Then silence and the wind carries a voice like cold stones grating together to the crowd, "and those many days in the dark hills had left a graven chill in our souls, so we drank spirits to warm our bodies and reveled with buxom young lasses to warm our hearts." A hush falls over the crowd but eager Deryn nudged his compatriot Fend at the mention of young ladies, the two boys just now growing into that welcoming age, and was met with a grunt and quickly the crowd turned on them shushing their antics. And then the chains started rattling again, the footfalls drew nearer and those gathered darted their eyes nervously about.

And from the shadows did a tall figure slip into the firelight, a spiked chain of some dark burnt metal hung about his shoulders and the affair of clothing he wore twisted and turned with the flickering shadows.

He began again slowly advancing upon the crowd, "surrounded by our companions we felt no fear in that small inn that night," taking another step forward, this drawing the crowds attention mercifully before him, "but we should have," another step, "for that night the merciless shadow of the Nightlord fell across the town of Killith," drawing himself up to his full dark height, "and we were there to see it."

 

[Sparky]

Slate enjoys a wealth of personal space as the listeners fall back before him, making haste to clear out of his way and filling timidly in behind him so that they don't miss a word of the lean whipcord man's story. The campfire cracks suddenly, sending up a gout of sparks and flame, eliciting some shrieks and gasps after Slate's slow, clanking arrival and grim words.

One brave soul, the young girl who called for the story, raises her hand meekly with a look of determination on her face.

She stands bobbing a curtsey first to Hella and then Slate, "But, Hella, ma'am, and Slate, sir," she pauses gathering herself, "How is this the story of how you met if you already knew eachother?" She braces herself, shocked she has spoken. She flushes furiously but remains stands her ground.

The Nightlord... Haddacc... Stumbin sits on a stump nearby, eyeing the girl from under his deep shadowed hood. His thick, muscled form sits hunched, the butt of a long-bladed, wicked looking scythe planted between his feet. He spins the haft slowly one way and slowly the other way. Back and forth. Ebb and flow. Breath in... ...and out. In and out. The rythm of all things. The end of the scythe blade whips in cruel arcs. He remains content to sit in silence while the others tell the tale, but under the cowl his white teeth show in a grin that none can see. No, brave child, this is not when we met. But it is the beginning...

 

[doghead]

Goal

Goal

Hella pauses with her knife resting lightly against the apple. She looks at the little girl with a quiet smile. That one has spirit. Something to keep in mind. Hella glances around the group looking for the telltale signs that would indicate the mother, then returns her attention to the girl.

"Well, thats a good question. And good questions should be asked."

Hella takes a moment to enjoy the beaming smile that lights up the girls small face.

"I can't speak for the others, but this is how it seem to me. There is knowing someone, and then there is knowing someone. Our journey through the the Haddacc hills had been organised by another. So it was, when we first met I knew nothing of the others except a name and what I could see with my own eyes. And that, in my humble opinion, is not enough to get the measure of a person by. Of course, by the time we reached Killith the names of Masters Slate and the others had become familier enough, and I had seen enough to respect what they could do. But I didn't really know what kind of people they were.

"But it was in Killith that everything changed. It was there, in that inn that we left one path, and embarked down another. We went from being strangers brought together by another, to companions tied together by a common bond. It was there that we were tested and it was there that we got to see a little of the real person inside.

"It was a simple enough task we had been charged with. And even in those relatively peaceful days a common enough one. We were to see two people, an old scholar and his young assistant, safely to Thean. I can not speak for the others but at the time I didn't have enough coins in my pouch to play a game of checkers with. So the prospect of enough gold to see me through the winter was a pleasing one. The fact that I would get the chance to spend some of that coin in Thean made it even more so.

"But as we enjoyed the music and song, the food and drink, the tales and laughter of that delightful little inn in Killith, forces were moving into place to see that our charges never saw another sunrise. And perhaps, if it were not for the fact that Master Reck of the Wicked Great Scythe can be as ornery as an old troll at times, perhaps that night would not have been the beginning but the end."

 

[DrZombie]

Little did we know

"Beginning, end.... It's all alike." You can hear a voice from the back say. As the people make room for the speaker you can see a bald tanned male with a 40-carat smile dresses is gaudy silks, a scimitar and a curved dagger at his side.

Those with keen eares can hear a muffled conversation in the background.
- "Look, it's mustafah-al-rasheed'
- "Yeah, and he's wearing his magic trousers"
- "magic trousers?"
- "Yeah, I hear miss Wilkins tell miss Rogers he's got magic in his pants"
- "waaw really?"
- Yes, 'cause when I told me mum she slapped me 'round the ear and no mistake. She said I shouldn't say such things."
- "Cor, if she slapped you it's gotta be a secret."
- "yeah, and if it's a secret it's gotta be true"
- "I wonder what it does"
- "Maybe we should go ask miss Wilkins"

"It matters little. Did we know each other then, do we know each other now? Back then you lot thought I was a lazy thief, not to be trusted." He waits for a second, waiting for the remark he knows will come.
"We still think you're a lazy thief, Mustafah" a heckler in the background says. Laughter.
"Well yes, but now it's an informed decision, based upon observation, back then it was just prejudice" Mustafah replies with an easy grin and a wink in the direction of miss Wilkins and miss Rogers.

"Anyway, there we were in the tavern, merilly drinking and singing. Our two charges were with us, enjoying my friendly company and my superb sense of humour, as always. Little did we know that at that very moment the forces of darkness were gathering, rising from their dusty graves, their empty hearts filled with hatred against the living.
As a matter of fact, If I hadn't been charming the maid that our good friend there had his eye on, he wouldn't have been his usual trolly self, and he wouldn't have gone outside to get some air, and we wouldn't have been warned of the impending ambush. So, as a matter of fact, once again it was I that, indirectly, saved the day."

 

[Sparky]

Unwilling to let Mustafah and Hella's words go unchallenged, Stumbin rises to his feet, an eerie motion that doesn't seem to properly reflect the weight and impact of the tree-like man's graceless, efficient movements. The grate of heavy mail plates is muffled by thick, floor-length dark robes of red-trimmed, purest black. The plates grind and clink, punctuated by a sharp rap as the butt of the scythe plants with every step. The man joins the assembling crew with a look over his shoulder... Wonder where Elial has gotten to... and pulls back his hood to reveal a harsh face.

High, broad cheekbones and deep-set flint-gray eyes glare out from under a fierce, creased brow. A hawkish, blade of a nose and thick crop of dark, short hair - nothing to get a fistful of. His mouth is drawn into a hard line, unrelenting and unforgiving. He stares at Mustafah. He glares at Hella. A thick beard and mustache give little relief to the cragginess of his face, making him appear wild rather than scholarly. A large ruby, mounted in a ring of black metal winks firelight, throwing shattered sparks onto the upturned faces at Stumbin's feet. He looks around, severe eyes taking in all assembled and breaks into a smile that transforms his face utterly.

"Reports of my temper are greatly exaggerated," he scratches the corner of his jaw, deep in his thick beard and chuckles, "I did take myself rather more seriously than I should have in those days."

The chipped flint eyes vanish into warmth and a bright smile breaks and reassembles the hard planes of his face into something much friendlier. And... Reassuring. Stumbin carries reassuring around with him like a shining banner. Never-you-mind the ruby, skull-shaped, holy symbol winking firelight from his ring finger on a hand rapped around a scythe with a blade longer than your arm.

He chuckles, "But can you blame me, Hella? Or you, O Great Mustafah-al-Rasheed, walker in mist, wanted-in-eight-nations-for-deeds-unnumbered?" He shakes his head smiling broadly, "I had so many things to prove." A look flickers between Stumbin and Hella, he barely inclines his head at the young girl, now seated, before walking over to the tall, hard warrior clapping him on the back, "Slate." He squeezes the tall warrior on the shoulder, brows registering puzzlement, yet again, that you just can't squeeze the man's shoulder. Hard as stone.

OOC: We just need a title and then we're off!

 

[WizWrm]

"Right here, Stumbin," says Elial, his gravelly voice indicating his presence beneath a nearby tree. The dwarf sits there, whittling away at a small wooden animal of some sort - the carving's exact nature has become moot at this point, thanks to several defomities and a trio of obviously unintended gouges. "Bah," he says, glaring at it. Elial tosses it aside and sheathes the knife, then stands to his full height (a fairly unimpressive sight) as he brushes himself off.

The dwarf is clad in reasonably well-made hide armor, made of a strangely thick and slightly discolored leather. An axe sits in a weather-beaten harness upon his back, and he wears a belt with several pouches and holsters attached, including two knives. Elial's hair is cut to less than two or three inches, but he wears a dark yellow beret perched jauntily on his head, which seems quite out of place given the rest of his attire. A twisting brown tattoo reaches down from his left temple to grapple with a scar on his cheek, ending about two inches away from his curly goatee.

"I still blame that cursed scholar for the ambush. I suppose there came good out of it, in retrospect, but it didn't seem like it might turn out the way it did at the time," Elial says, snapping his fingers at the end of the sentence to accent it. "A fascinating chapter in my journal, it was. This is the one I call, 'The Undead's Umbra.' Short and simple, just like the story wasn't."

He casts a glance at Stumbin, nodding in acknowledgement. "Indeed, everything was much more serious, and of much greater import, in those days. We hadn't really learned to relax yet - I suppose because we didn't really have any sort of trust for each other yet. That's what they mean by knowing someone. Trust." He nods to himself.

 

[Sparky]

The Tale of the Undead's Umbra

The story unfolds and captures listeners and tellers alike in a spell as ancient as voice itself...


*********************

Outside the sky is dark, deepening as the sun’s glow vanishes in the west. Stars flicker, thickening as the night darkens. The moon is a slim sliver of a thing… ‘Ymaerh’s toenail clipping’ someone called it. Nobody remembers who… Two day’s to the north and west is Thean. And two unthinkable, unsleeping days east across an out flung arm of the Haddacc is Groen Keep, where for varying reasons, you all answered the clarion call of adventure. Pressed with unexplained urgency and the promise of coin in Thean when the scholar and his assistant arrived safely you made the hair-raising trek across the Twilight Hills to the nearest village.

Even now, safe within Killith and the Oaken Horn, the Haddacc glimmers in the distance, emitting an eerie light and tugging your bodies and minds with relentless dream-wrought hands. Memories of the Twilight Hills are fading… as they do… and the warmth and pleasure at being alive and well and safe, for now, spills out into the cheery common room...



The Tale of the Undead's Umbra


A fire crackles merrily in the hearth and the smoke smells just like autumn. The innkeeper bustles about the small common room, busting at the seams to have ‘Real Honest To Goodness Adventurers’ to serve his arguably famous hot, spiced cider to.

"And after two harrowing days crossing the Haddacc - it is a marvel they are on their feet! Isn’t it Sharra?"

He grins as his wife bustles over Elial and Mustafah, seeing to the wounds they won in fighting to Killith, "Oh shush, you, you’ve gone and made this handsome one all shy," she grins and plucks the chin of a brightly garbed, slip of a young man, who leans around the plump woman’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of the scholar’s fair assistant.

The girl is tall for her age, and trim. Her long reddish-blonde hair is caught into a loose braid that hangs far down her back. She wears a rather remarkably ill-fitting set of leather armor, and worries its buckles and catches with long, fine-boned fingers. She bites her lip as she watches the man dressed in rough field clothes before her pace back and forth, glancing between him and the dubious characters sent to escort the two of them to Thean. The man is holding a one-sided argument with no apparent adversary. His thinning hair is pale and strands in wild wisps that do little to give him any more respectability. She sighs and studies her hands, momentarily still, in her lap.

This is the ‘scholar’ you were meant to see to Thean. His assistant looks up and catches Mustafah’s glance – she looks down quickly and then back at the man pacing anxiously before the fire.


Stumbin, stands in the corner and has repeatedly refused succor of any kind. He remains standing by what must be the grace of his goddess alone.

“A Warden of the Dark Gate is ever-vigilant!” is all anyone can get him to say.

His ‘vigilant’ gaze is vaguely focused in the direction of their charges… particularly the assistant, though when he catches his gaze wandering to her he shakes himself back to attention. He had a rough time coming across the Haddacc.


“Well, I’m done with you two,” Sharra clucks, standing and shaking her head as she gathers the billows of her skirts and her kit of herbs and salves that she affectionately calls her knitting basket, “Amazing that you all made it with little more than scratches. A rest in our good beds should have the lot of you fit as fiddles come the morning.” She nods her head and bobs a slight curtsy in parting, humming as she disappears into the kitchens.

The innkeep himself yawns mightily. It seems he’s up past his bed time. He picks up an empty plate from one of the tables and bids goodnight to the last of many villagers that tramped through the common room ‘ta see the ‘Venturers.’

Across the room a shout - “Yes!” the scholar rushes over to the dark table that dominates the center of the room. The innkeep yelps and leaps out of the scruffy man’s way as the rapidly muttering man picks up mugs and hands them to Hella and Elial and Slate and anyone else who will let him pile them into their hands. He traces the grains of the wood, leaning down over the table his face so close his breath fogs its gleaming surface. “Yes, of course!” He turns to address everyone, fists balled in excitement. He grabs Slate’s collar in both fists, “Of course, my boy, how could I not have seen it before?” He hops around the common room spinning.

Give me Spot and Listen Checks please.