The White Cloaks: Tales of Borr

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Session One, Part One

The soft whir of slings spinning cuts through the thick rattle of the rainfall on the wagon, a small hail of stone bullets following soon after, though the rain makes accuracy near impossible. The cry goes up from all three wagons – Raiders! To Arms! – and the small unit of raw recruits standing guard on the midst of the line are scanning the hills for targets. There are three of them, black shapes against the rainfall, wild-men of the Flint Hills with their savage dogs at heel. Others surge from further away, attacking the wagons before and after, but the unit’s orders are clear – you guard your wagon and trust your fellows to do the same.

The dawn-priest, Eirik, unleashes a blast of thunder alongside his cry of warning. Ling Hou is less pyrotechnic, slinging the star-knife of his homeland in an underhanded throw that slices foliage and little else. Rain falls, heavy and fast, as melee is joined – the kobold, Lik, leaping from wagon to ledge with his curved dragon-blade drawn and ready, disemboweling the first attacker who meets him with an efficient swipe of the blade; Vlad Kalamgrove calls on his heritage to summon bolts of fire that ignite the landscape. Accuracy is difficult in the thick rain, luring the wild-men in with axes and dogs to harry the young soldiers and panic the horses.

One closes on Lik, slashing wildly, but the kobold is small and fast to dodge, retaliating with precise slashes of his sword that are far more accurate than the wild man’s chaotic swings. The other leaps for the wagon, finding himself at the mercy of an angry priest who meets his axe with shield and shortsword. Knives and mage-fire make short work of the dogs, and their owners last only seconds longer. There is an all-clear called from the wagon behind them – Ollandra in the driver’s seat, ready to push the horses; her summoned hound seated next to her for a few scant seconds before it faded into starlight.

Ahead the battle is even shorter; Father Osterbolger, a priest and veteran soldier, has made short work of the few men who attacked the line. He prays, voicing a tonal chant to his patron saint that unleashes a burst of healing energy to soothe the horses savaged by dog bites. The call goes down the line – press on, fast and steady.

There is a quick scramble for loot before the caravan starts off, everyone on alert with Father Osterbolger’s earlier returning unbidden: if there’s trouble on this trip, it’ll be in the Flint Hills. There are bandits and wild-men aplenty in those parts, and these supplies will be a tempting target with winter coming on.

 

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Notes for the Interested​

• This is ostensibly the same world that I used in my last storyhour (left unfinished way back in 2005 after players relocated), though it's been advanced 500 years and I'm stealing stealing elements liberally from any source that seems interesting.
• Heck, even the campaign hook is blatently stolen from Piratecat - the players are new recruits to the White Cloak Legion, an military force based on the French Foreign Legion that's primarily joined by the desperate, the deranged and the criminal. Although in my defence, I had introduced such an organisation in the dying days of the last campaign.
• The System of choice is Pathfinder (Beta presently, but we'll upgrade) with some modifications made to cater to campaign history (kobolds as a viable player character race). Players are state and hit-point heavy to make up for numbers and the slow advancement rate we're working with.
• Published products that are likely to show up somewhere along the line: Elements of the Rise of the Runelords & Age of Worms adventure paths, innumerable dungeon adventures, Monte Cook's Dungeon-a-Day mega-dungon, and possibly elements of Return to the Temple of Elemental Evil depending on which threads the players are most interested in following.

The Cast​

Eirik Magnusson: A cleric of Eoster, goddes of the Dawn and New Beginnings, from the kingdom of Norne. Ostensibly a good man, prone to charity and fighting for the weak, but haunted by his past and seeking redemption.

Lik: A kobold samurai (fighter) from the provinces of Drakken-Yi, a small kingdom of civilized kobolds known for its monks, samurai, and holy assassins. Lik left his homeland in disgrace and joined the Legion in the hopes of redeeming himself. Agile, accurate and hard to hit, but prone to doing lots of small hits rather than the big-damage smiting of other fighters.

Ling Huo: A rogue from the Ironlands, a hard coastal region where small kingdoms cling to the sea and subsist on fish. Ling's of noble birth but his behaviour left his father with no choice - the young wastrel was forced to join the Legion or be disowned. Ling's good with thrown daggers and the starblade of his homeland. He's also collecting iron rings to mark his kills, in order to demonstrate his worth as a warrior.

Vlad Kalamgrove: A lazy good-for-nothing from Norne whose life was transformed when he discovered he was a sorcere, courtesy of fire-elemental blood in his family line. Joined the Legion after his indescretions made life in Norne difficult; capable of spinning a good lie and a variety of magical attacks, but very fond of throwing bolts of fire at his enemies.

The Player Handout​

Before they created characters, I gave the players a short campaign pitch and nine important things to know about the world. The pitch is included below; the nine important things I'll probably space out between updates rather than take up space here.

The last campaign in this setting focused on Borr as a fledgling colony of a decadent empire. This campaign shifts the focus a little – its five hundred years later, the magical curse that afflicted the continent in eternal winter has lifted, and the small colony has grown into a loose federation of kingdoms that have succeeded from the Empire. Rather than focusing on the fight for survival, the campaign looks at the cracks starting to form now that the war against the Empire no longer unifies the young nations. After nearly a hundred years of unity, the cracks are starting to form as individual nations flex their muscles and search for dominance.

This campaign takes place nearly five hundred years after the previous, and Borr has now become a tight Federation of nations that swear fealty to the High Kings of Borr (there are two – one is the High King of the actual country, and the other is High King of the Federations spiritual matters – kind of like a Pope*). The Federation consists of about forty-seven nations.

*credit where credit's due - this idea's stolen from Ptolus and adapted to the campaign history. Given that we were heading for a religious schism led by a cleric angling for noblehood, it seemed fairly logical.

 

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A brief side-note needed to make sense of the following - there are a number of other new recruits attached to the caravan, all of them assigned to guarding the other two wagons. The other recruits travelling with our heroes are:

• Boris Kelvach, a former apprentice blacksmith who sports one of the biggest crossbows any of them have ever seen.
• Hallas Irontus, a half-orc rogue armed with a mean-looking morning star,
• Ollana, a half-elf sorcerer whose powers are the result of a divine blessing
• Stig Svenson, a scholarly cleric of Wotan who carries a warhammer with surprising ease given his background.

They slog through the rain, wary eyes on hilltops, but there is no further sign of ambush. A sense of relief spreads through everyone as Father Osterbolger sends the order down the line, telling people to slow the pace and starting looking for a decent campsite. It's a tough proposition, given the unfamiliar terrain and the size of the convoy, but the combined efforts of Lik and Eirik turn up a sizable cave that promises to keep them dry and relatively secure.

The camp falls into a familiar routine, one honed by several weeks spent travelling together on the road – Osterbolger checking the cargo while everyone secures the area and prepares the evening meal, the two units diciding amongst themselves who cooks, cleans and keeps watch. Everyone notes that despite his command position, the old priest isn’t much for giving orders.

Big, broad-shouldered Boris takes up the cooking duties for his unit, prompting a momentary flash of panic; Boris’s previous attempts at culinary duties have been marked by more enthusiasm than flavor, and Eirik positions himself by the campfire so he’s ready to offer helpful suggestions. “Try some salt,” the cleric ventures.

“Salt?” Boris wrinkles his forehead and searches through a pack. “You sure? My ma, she just used to boil the ‘taters and the meat.”

“Your Ma wasn’t a good cook, then?”

“No, she was great. Best in the world.” Boris picks up a handful of salt and prepares to dump in the stew, but fortunately Eirik spots the mistake before it happens.

“Pinches,” He says. “Start with pinches and work your way up.”
Boris beams, happy as a clam to be guided.

Hallas heads to the front of the cave, nominating himself as lookout as he’s done every night regardless of whether his unit is on watch duty. This leaves the other four members of the convoy to go searching for busy-work in order to engage in the activity that’s marked every evening since they left Zobeck a few weeks earlier – avoiding the overly-curious Stig Svenson and his annoyingly jovial attempts to strike up a conversation.

There is a moment of tension as Stig returns from brushing down the horses and looks across the cave. Everyone who doesn’t have a job is doing their best to look busy: Lik’s sharpening his sword with a whet-stone; Olanna’s meditating; Vlad is tending the campfire while Boris cooks; and Ling is running through various routines with his daggers in order to keep his hands nimble. Stig pauses and picks his target – Ling – then settles down on a small rock next to the lean rogue.

“So,” Stig says, “you’re from the Ironlands. What’s that like?”

Ling rolls a dagger hilt across the back of his hand. “Alright.”

“Lots of fish?”

“Yep.”

“And the rings? The rings are native to there?”

Ling shrugs and holds up his left hand, showing off the steel rings around his thumb and index finger. “One for every man I’ve killed.”

Stig gives no indication that he’s noticed the threatening undertone in Ling’s voice, but everyone else does. . “Impressive, but I gather we’ll all get a chance to even that tally. So why’d you join? I mean, there’s no rule against it, but I always heard the savages of the Ironlands don’t travel much.”

Vlad Kalamgrove decides to interfere before things gets out of hand. He flutters his fingers, using magic to increase the temperature of the rock Stig’s seated on. The young cleric fidgets as he continues trying to draw Ling into a conversation, eventually asking if anyone else is feeling overly warm.

“Nope,” Vlad says. “Actually, I’m feeling a little chill.”

Eirik picks up on the prompt immediately. “Perhaps you should move a little further away from the fire,” he says. “Spend a few minutes with Hallas on watch.”

Stig nods, all enthusiasm, but his relocation earns the group a dirty look from Hallas.

With Stig out of the way, the group around the dinner fire is rejoined by Father Osterbolger. The veteran hands out a little advice, warning Vlad to restrain his impulse towards pranks once they reach the keep: “The Legion takes everyone,” he says. “No matter where they come from or what they’ve done. And the boys take care of their own, if you know what I’m saying – try something like that in the wrong crowd and you could find yourself hanging the wrong way from a flagpole.”

It’s the most social the Father has been in weeks of travel thus far, so the group takes the opportunity to press him for details about life at the fort. They learn that their new commanding officer is an aging half-elf named Captain Braddick who actually fought in the war against the Empire as a recruit; the Fort itself is an old dwarf construct, with the barracks and quarters situated in the mountain behind the fortifications; and there’s an ancient monument nearby with a dungeon complex underneath it, dubbed the Dragon’s Delve.

The most surprising answer comes when Vlad asks how much longer Osterbolger has in his thirty-year hitch with the legion: “ended four or five years back,” the Father says. “Didn’t seem much point in leaving; nothin’ for me at home, and I’m not good for much but hauling cargo and breaking in new recruits. The Legion’s my life, may as well end it that way.”

There’s a silence after that; for the first time people start considering what a thirty-year hitch means and where they’ll be afterwards. Fortunately, dinner is served before the mood plummets and, thanks to Eirik’s intervention and advice, it proves to palatable.

That is, until Lik’s given the job of taking a plate out to Hallas on watch. As the kobold hands over the tin bowl full of stew, Hallas takes a moment to gesture into the darkness with his jaw. “Over there; you see anything?”

Lik squints, peering into the rain, but he can’t make anything out. He glances back at Hallas.

“We’re being watched,” Hallas says. “I can’t make out what, but there’s something back there.”

 

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Lik returns to the group around the campfire, moving as casually as he can. Fortunately the tradition-bound kobold is always a bit stiff and formal in his movements, so his attempts at subtlety aren't too bad; he delivers the news in a low voice, prompting a brief discussion about what might be out there. Father Osterbolger suggests verifying the sighting and Eirik sidles up to the entrance, settling in next to Hallas with a casual discussion about the rain. The subtext is clear: "Where are they?"

Hallas flicks his eyes in the direction and Eirik peers into the downpour - he's got pretty good vision, but he fails to see anything but rain and shadows. "You're sure?" he whispers, keeping his voice.

"No," says Hallas. "But I got some pretty strong suspicions. There's this itch I get, when I'm being watched."

Eirik nods and disappears into the cave. Rather than raise suspicions by sending further people to join Hallas and scour the perimeter, they come up with an alternative plan - Vlad will cause a distraction just outside the cave while Ling slinks off into the darkness and tries to circle around and catch a good look at who’s out there.

As plans go, it works spectacularly well. Vlad is a distracting kind of guy at the best of times, but when he joins Hallas he starts singing an off-key rendition of The Mad Dwarf Wizard of Ol' Copper Town and punctuating every line with a pyrotechnic burst of arcane fire it's hard to watch anything else. In a matter of moments Ling is crawling through the mad on his hands and knees, slinking from bush to bush as he keeps out of the light and away from prying eyes. The good news is that he disappears from the watchful eyes of his comrades before he's a few feet out of the cave, which hopefully bodes well for his ability to do the same with their foes.

Yet for all his abilities at stealth and skullduggery, Ling isn't the most observant guy. He's almost dangerously close to the watchers before he sees them in the rain, only a little further than twenty feet. He falls flat on his stomach immediately, wincing as the mud beneath him splashes out from the impact and hoping the bush prevents the three shadowy figures from pinpointing him. He lies stock-still, fingertips itching to reach for a dagger, and watches as the hunched figures start arguing. He can't make out their hissed words through the rain, but the obvious shoving match that ensues leaves little doubt as to what's happening.

Or, for that matter, any doubt as to whether they're wild men from the hills. While the darkness precludes any chance to get details description, it's obvious from the silhouettes that there's something very inhuman about the trio watching the cave - they're almost cadaverously thin, moving with a hunched gait that's fluid despite their posture. When they skulk back into the darkness it takes a matter of seconds before Ling looses sight of them, and it takes every ounce of willpower he has to hold steady rather than flee towards the cave at top speed. He holds still for a twenty-count before he risks a crawl again, edging back towards the cave as slowly as he left it, and reports what he's seen.

The news leaves everyone a little on edge, especially Osterbolger. "We're crossing a river tomorrow," the Father says. "The ford will be bad enough after all this rain, but it'll be worse if we're being followed and they decide to attack." He looks out over the gathered groups of recruits, tapping the wooden peg that replaces his right leg against the stonework as he thinks. "It's your skins we're risking; thoughts?"

"Give them another option," Eirik says. "If we head out looking sloppy tomorrow, as though we're sitting ducks, we might be able to lure them into an ambush before the river."

"It's a thought," Father Osterbolger says. He looks at the others, but they come up with nothing. "Right then, sloppy and slovenly it is. Svenson, Kalamgrove, you're setting up the wagon's tomorrow. I'll assume you're both capable of your usual good work. Sleep light tonight, and keep the usual watch schedule."

The veteran limps off towards the back of the cave and crawls into his blanket, putting his longsword in easy reach nearby. Vlad looks to the other recruits. "My usual good work? That was sarcasm, right? I should be trying to make it look bad"

"I don't think so," Eirik says. "We want to look sloppy, but you get to push it if the horses come free of the harness. Set it up the same way you ordinarily would and everything'll be fine."

It takes Vlad a few seconds to pick up on that. Everyone else is in the midst of getting ready to catch some shut-up when it suddenly clicks into place with a loud "Hey!"

It's a long, nervous night's sleep. They take watch in pairs, stamping against the cold that settles in as the night wears on. Fortunately the shadowy figures don't return; even more fortunately, Lik finds a way to make it through his turn at watch with Stig: he fakes a limited command of common, relying on the Southerner's inability to read kobold facial expression. After a few baffling answers in Draconic, Stig shuts up and watches the darkness in sullen silence.

Lik, on the other hand, is extraordinarily pleased with himself and resolves to speak even less than usual.