Author: Paul Drussel

I told my players they could mark XP if they wrote up each session from their characters perspective 🙂

The Priest’s Tale part 2

In morning, the adventurers gathered in the church to discuss the details of the party. Realising that it would be wise to take a guide, Sinathel introduced a local ranger who was keen to make a coin or two. Baking several loaves of bread to an old recipe taught him by the ascetics of Worley, the priest carefully prepared provisions for the party, wrapping the fish that the strange blue-haired elf women brought back from the ocean. The elf-woman stared at the holy man with a look of uncertainty, hesitancy even, as though something was troubling her.

As morning turned into mid-day, the reformed rogue, honest Jack, pushed the door to the chapel open, wincing slightly. “Are we… err… going to get out of here any time soon?” he inquired.

Heading out across the dune ridge and keeping the stinking swamp to their left, the intrepid group made their way towards the distant hills, hopefully following the footsteps of Father Michael. As the edge of the large, watery red sun touched the horizon, the ranger, who was taking the high ground a few hundred yards away from the main party, whistled a note of warning. Against the setting sun, the outline of a dozen or so crocodile-beaked creatures could be seen moving out of the swamp and towards the party. The spear-wielding swamp dwellers stood off on the far side of a small tributary and it was clear that they meant to attack. Their leader, a slightly taller creature whose appearance was even more foul and ugly than his companions if such a thing were possible, signalled to the rest in a series of barks and arm movements. A group of three split off along the left flank, and another headed right towards Honest Jack, who had let out a cry revealing his attempt to out-flank the swamp kobolds.

The priest stepped forward and raised his hand. Intoning a plea to Allus to reveal “his” might to the savage animals, he swept the air in front of him with his bouquet of thorns and a rain of blue, thorn shaped flashes streaked down from the sky onto the disgusting chief. A cry of surprise and pain was cut short by the savage energy that the cleric’s spell had released, but the explosion of the crocodile skinned beast only served to enrage the others, who charged at the priest. Jack raised his bow and loosed a volley of arrows which struck down another of the creatures heading towards him. As the kobolds reached the priest, the cavalier and dapper “The Hawke” drew his sabre and cut at the beasts. A roar drew their attention as a blue-maned bear materialised behind them and tore into the horrid animals.  A volley of arrows on the right flank signalled that the ranger had joined the affray, slaying another attacker, but at the cost of drawing attention to himself.

The priest stepped forwards, towards Jack, swinging his holy mace of thorns and reciting verses from the Book of Painful Restitution. Bringing the heavy weapon down onto the kobolds head, the beast’s skull crumbled under the onslaught, but not before the foul creature had managed to jab a spear into the cleric’s shoulder. With a cry of thanks to Allus, Father Mullah saw Jack catch the throat of the last kobold in that group with a jagged-edged knife. Young Jack ran towards the still smoking remains of the kobold captain and started rifling the beast’s body whilst the priest lectured him on the dangers of allowing himself to succumb to the urges of greed.

Meanwhile, the rest of the party, in a flurry of bear claws, arrows, swordsmanship and naked steel dispatched the fleeing animals, but at a cost. Wounded heavily, the elf-woman refused any aid and instead grabbed the crocodile-faced beast, tore a limb off to eat whilst she dragged the remains behind her. The foolish Jack attempted to skin one of the beasts, but the foul smell made him wretch and give up. Quickly moving to the shelter of a small copse of trees in the foothills some two miles south of the battlefield, the priest sanctified the ground with prayers and spices whilst the others cleaned their weapons, made a fire and broke bread.

Intoning a plea to Allus to bring to close the lesson, the cleric bound the wounds of Sinathel using an impregnated bandage. The edges of the wounds left by the kobold spears knitted together in front of the elf’s almond shaped eyes, leaving her slightly amazed. Looking at the holy man with somewhat more respect than earlier (though still not very much), she invited him to move to a more private location where they might talk. As they moved off, Jack shadowed them, unseen by his targets, but watched carefully by the rest. Out of earshot of the others, Sinathel delivered her sinister warning. A dark and evil shadow was following the priest from over the water. The spirits of the land, air and sea had warned the elf of this. The priest clearly misunderstood the severity of the warning, believing himself protected by his deity, but he thanked the elf anyway and attempted to persuade her to listen to some tales of Allus and his disciples. She cut the conversation short, secure in the knowledge that she had at least delivered the warning.

On returning to the camp, the priest rested a while, communing with his deity, before laying healing hands on the others as the daylight gave way to the stars.

I told my players they could mark XP if they wrote up each session from their characters perspective 🙂

The Priest’s Tale part 1

Some two months or so after landing at New Town in the New World, the three humans, Jack, Father Mullah and “The Hawke”, who had formed a loose bond on the trip southwards, found themselves in The Full Flagon – an inn come hostel built by ex-pats and decked out inside as a reminder of the land they left behind, an oasis of nostalgia amongst unfamiliar environs. Like most of the buildings in New Town it was built from reedwood, the stalks of the bullrushes which stood as much as five times the height of a man above the salt-water swamps which formed the eastern edge of the settlement. Father Mullah arrived shortly after evenswail in order to procure another bottle of wine for communion; strange how a congregation of only four managed to empty a whole clavelin of wine in a single service.

Hailing his kinsmen, the cleric noted they were teasing one of the more peculiar looking natives he had seen arrive in the town a few days earlier, a scrawny looking female elf-type with wild blue hair and a voice like waves crashing against a pebble beach. The elf’s slurring words floated, like her stench of seaweed, above the background hubbub of the bar and it was apparent she was upset about having lost a shark’s tooth necklace which was apparently a sacred badge of rank amongst their tribe. The mystery of the missing communion wine seemed solved when the priest saw the form of the elf-woman dissolve and reform as a shark which flopped around on the floor of the bar for a few moments. It was apparent that the good father was going to have to pay more for the wine in future to be sure it was free of whatever contaminant was causing such delusions! Either that, or this was a land of shape-shifting demon savages, definitely in need civilisation by the word of Allus. What other surprises did this strange, new world hold?

Jack, the young locksmith and handyman who had so kindly assisted with repairing the locks on the reedwood chapel and who would regularly help out the church with small errands and large donations, was plying the female with liquor, a practise the father frowned upon. Jack slipped clumsily from his stool and stumbled against the tall, red-haired stranger (Bernard the Red) who had just collected a drink from the bar. In the ensuing confusion of spilled drinks and broken tables, Bernard the Red’s purse fell to the floor and an accusation of cut-purse was levelled at the priest’s friend.

Despite the efforts of the trustworthy and charismatic “The Hawke” to diffuse the tension, the situation descended into a typical frontier town bar-room brawl, which was only brought to an end by the barkeep’s (Frank) shout of despair when a kilderkin of fine ale, freshly racked at the end of the bar and nearly full (he said), was brought crashing to the ground by the drunken brawlers. Holding aloft his wrought crown of thorns, the father intoned a plea to Allus for peace amongst brethren, for did not Allus forgive the blacksmith who tossed him into the briar patch of Klatch, causing His leg to be severed? With a promise to pay the barkeep the 50 coin cost of the spilled ale by the end of the week, and the replacement of Bernard The Red’s drink, the conversation turned to local superstition and the story of how Father Michael had set off on the trail of a band of opportunist adventurers who had discovered a hidden trove of coin and other valuables, reputedly hidden ages past by a long dead band of pirates who stole a shipment of bulk coin destined as pay for the armies of the emperor during not the last war, or the one before that, but the one prior to the one before that. Father Mullah’s attempt to enlist the assistance of the blue-haired elf in translating the symbols on the map scrawled in Father Michael’s diary was met with scorn, derision and a soggy diary, yet the band of misfits agreed that it was worth tracking down their kinsmen who had set off into the wilderness, and so they were to meet again the following afternoon outside the general store and provisioners, equipped for a trek south. 

Jack slipped quietly away to check on his uncle Rodriguez, not his real uncle of course, but Jack was a caretaker by both trade and heart. Rodriguez was still recovering from having both legs broken in an unfortunate accident involving the local militia, a cartload of grain and a case of mistaken identity.

Walking back to the chapel in silent prayer and contemplation, Father Mullah stood for a moment at the edge of the ramshackle town stroking his prodigious beard thoughtfully, listening to the creaking song of the dune-crickets and looking out towards the distant line of trees silhouetted against the star-strewn tapestry of the southern sky. The light from the tiki-torches standing along the town’s rough and ready stockade reached less than sixty feet into the gloom, sending the criss-cross shadows of  sharpened reedwood stakes dancing to the tops of the grass-covered dunes. He wondered what lay ahead for them in that unknown and uncharted land. Their future was surely in the hands of Allus, he was certain of this, but Allus moves in mysterious ways… The bleating of the hungry goats must have drawn him back to the moment as he resumed his meandering in the vague direction of the chapel. In the flickering light of the torches along what passed for a main street in the town, he saw young Jack returning to the bar/hostel, where the cavalier “The Hawke” was probably right now busy vouchsafing the honour of the inebriated, fish-scented Sinathel to whom he had sworn an oath and promptly taken back to his room for ‘safekeeping’.

After tending to the goats and chickens in the chapel yard, collecting a few eggs for the morning breaking of the fast, the Father returned to the chapel intent on getting a good night’s prayer and suffrage in. The most devout amongst the followers of Allus had a curious practise of inserting pin-sharp metal thorns into the skin of the arms, hands and thighs whilst intoning their Lord in return for guidance, protection and the power to do the good works that Allus laid out for them in the Holy Pamphlet of Semita; Father Mullah was no exception to this. With a sad sigh and a shake of his head, the good father noted that the silver candlesticks entwined with golden thornberry vines that had brought with him from the Old World were missing from the altar.

“Allus! Bring wisdom to those who would be misguided enough to steal from you and save them from themselves. Show pity upon them at the time of the rain of thorns. Aye may it be.”

Lighting the last of his cinnamon and thornberry scented votives, the priest removed his cloak revealing the one legged trouser of the devout. He withdrew from one of the robe’s inner pockets a small thornwood prayerbox, a legacy left to him by his grandfather, and settled down on the low bier in the middle of his quarters. Removing the silver embroidered, blood-soaked prayer rag, and taking the wooden-handled penance thorn from its slot in the lid of the box, the first of a series, he began a low, droning chant which seemed to start from somewhere below the very basement of the soul and which drifted, echoing, away into the long, dark night.

I told my players they could mark XP if they wrote up each session from their characters perspective 🙂

The Druids Tale part 1

A shadow passed across the waters of the bay.  Sinathel felt the darkness pass above her, and she shuddered. A powerful flick of her tail drove her to the surface. When her dorsal fin broke the waves, she surged upwards, a shark leaping from the water, then suddenly shifted form – a seagull, flying high into the clear blue sky. Sinathel looked down, with black marble eyes.  Another great boat from the north… she thought. More humans, come to seek their fortune. But this time it brought something else… something wrong, something dark and dangerous, she could feel it.  

Sinathel banked to her right, sliding across the sky, dropping back down to glide unnoticed beside the great boat.  A man stood at the bows looking out towards the land, her land.  He stared forward towards the coast; his long beard tugged by the wind, flowing robes whipping around his thin body.  Sinathel watched the man, and a feeling of dread and foreboding slowly crept over her.  It was not the man himself that she feared, but something that followed him.  With a keening cry, the gull shifted in the wind and soared high again, turning and gliding back towards the Great Forest which lined the coast to the west of the bay.

—————-

The light of the full moon bathed the Heart of the Forest in silver – the ancient earthworks and standing stones, born in the dawn of time were lit by an ethereal glow.  All around, the peaceful darkness of the forest surrounded the site; the trees whispering quietly in the gentle breeze. Sinathel walked silently, slowly to the centre of the stone circle.  Seated on the ground at the very centre of the innermost ring was The Ancient – an old careworn elf, antlers protruding from his long grey hair. He looked up and spoke as the younger elf approached. 

“Sinathel, Shark’s Sister, Ocean-born, what troubles you child?”

Sinathel stopped and was silent for some time.  “Something bad is coming – the spirits revealed it to me. I felt it pass over the seas and enter the human’s settlement. It follows a man in robes.”

The Ancient pondered this for some time.  “Yes.  You are correct. I too have felt a change. Something dark, something unnatural.”  Picking up a twisted oaken staff, The Ancient pulled himself wearily to his feet. “Sinathel – you must go amongst the humans, and find out what this shadow is.  Find this man in robes, seek out this darkness that we may understand it.”

“Understand it and destroy it.” Sinathel nodded grimly. “These humans know nothing of our lands, they bring only trouble and woe.”

The Ancient smiled sadly and shook his head. “Sinathel, you are always too hasty, too willing to destroy. Life is balance, you need to understand this.”

The Ancient thought for a moment, then bowed his head and took a leather thong hung with three giant shark’s teeth from his neck. “Take this… when you are lost it will guide you. When you need wisdom, it will provide it. Go amongst the humans, find this robed man and seek out the Shadow…”

—————-

How the fuck did it come to this..?  Sinathel opened her eyes.  It was painfully bright, and only made her head pound more, so she closed them again.  What happened last night??

She was curled up in a metal tub in a human dwelling.  Her head was pounding, she felt sick and her mouth tasted of badger fur.  Sinathel groaned and concentrated on not throwing up.  There was the sound of movement in the room, Sinathel opened her eyes a crack and peered out over the edge of the tub.  The human swordsman known as The Hawke from the night before emerged from the next door room…  

“Fetch the village wise-woman” croaked Sinathel  “I have the burning fever…”  

The Hawke laughed.  “You have no fever, Elf.  Only the payback for an evening well spent!  Come! All the cure you require awaits us downstairs at the tavern breakfast table… You’ll need some good solid food after last night!”

Last night…  Sinathel had entered the town, and begun to search for the bearded, robed man.  She’d found herself in the tavern, talking to a young human male named Jack.  He’d offered her a glass of water – well it looked like water anyway, it tasted like fire – and things had become hazy after that.

She remembered an argument, some kind of disagreement over drinks with a red haired human. She remembered smashing the tavern table with the awesome might of her shark-form.  Sinathel smiled briefly before grimacing as her stomach turned over again.  She remembered telling them the tales of Father Michael, the human priest who had wandered into the South in search of gold.  She remembered Father Michael’s replacement – Father Mullah – the robed and bearded man!  Sinathel sat up suddenly in the metal tub, and immediately clutched her head and moaned as a flash of pain hit her between the eyes.  Whatever had caused her sickness this morning, at least she’d found Father Mullah.  She climbed out of the tub and stood up.  Then she span round rapidly, knelt down and vomited into the tub.  

Slowly the sickness subsided.  Sinathel pulled her hair back from her face, and froze… something was missing.

The shark’s tooth necklace was gone….  Sinathel growled like a wolf, and slowly made her way downstairs.