“Mamma? Mamma?”
“Where’s my new silk shirt?”
“No not the black one. The ‘charcoal’ grey one. It goes so much better with my new leather boots.”
Born the youngest son of a rich merchant and his beautiful third wife, Mendez has lived a life of indulgence and idleness.
Choosing the life of adventure over that of work, he knows that he’ll be fine as fortune always favours the rich and the beautiful.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Friday, September 14, 2007
Bodush - Sorcerer ordinaire
-Mummy? Where are you Mummy?
The little boy's voice rang out over the sound of the fire lapping at the walls of the little cabin. Standing up, his first breath filled his lungs with the acrid smoke, and he fell down to the floor coughing. Somewhere in the distance he heard his mothers voice, screaming. Tears streaming from his eyes, he crawled along the floor trying to reach the doors before the flames would block his path.
Falling down the wooden steps from the cabin, he stared in abject horror at his father's corpse. Blood was still oozing from the many cuts and wounds and slowly dripping from a gash along his throat, his dented militia-sword laying just a few feet away. Looking up his eyes locked with those of his mother, on her knees, two monstrous, porcine humanoids standing above her.
Her mouth moved, he knew she was calling his name, but her words were lost in the noise of the fire, and the guttural growls of the orcs grabbing him, lifting him up.
Then it was as if a spell lifted.
-Don't kill him! Don't kill my boy! Don't kill...
Her voice died away, drowned by the blood filling her mouth. Her lifeless body fell forward as the orc pulled his spear out of her torso. Her glassy eyes stared at the crying boy.
Bodush woke up, the sun was already rising, and the birdsong was slowly drowning out the horrors of his dreams. It must have been at least 13-14 years ago, and it was the only memory he had of his parents, his father's mangled corpse and his mother's dying scream. Why he never heard his name, his real name, the name his parent's gave him, he would probably never know. His name was Bodush, a slave's name.
Still, perhaps it was for the best. The boy who had carried that name was long gone. Not killed in the shock and pain of that night, but wasted away, little by little, killed by his own cowardice.
Life as a slave is never kind, and for a child amongst the orcs, it is lethal. Bodush shook his head, wondering what his mother, as she lay dying, would have thought of her boy, now, if she knew what he would do, what he would become. Bodush remembered the look on Massy's face, the emaciated halfling, caught stealing extra foods from the kitchens, as they fed him to their wargs as punishment. It was funny how the orcs never noticed how the little human never seemed to be hungry or how he would always volunteer for extra duties. While the other slaves working in the kitchen were executed one by one for stealing, Bodush was always there, always loyal, always telling the overseers when the others had secreted some food in their quarters. It was funny how the orcs never noticed that the slaves they thought were stealing food always were on the brink of starvation, while the little human tattletale always was in good health.
Bodush grimaced, thinking of those he had sent to their death. Still, he was alive, they weren't. . He could feel the cool morning heating up, and watch the sun rise over the distant ocean, while they were wargfodder. Who could blame him?
Not the gods. Bodush knew little of the human gods, and had nothing but hate for the gods of the orcs. Oh yes, he had become the personal slave of the tribe's shaman, a senile fool. The shaman had thought Bodush' magical powers, manifesting as they did when his voice changed, were a favour from the orcish gods. He had become less of a slave and more of an apprentice, preparing and sometimes performing the ritual sacrifices, reciting the litanies of hate that the orcish gods require before battles, and, not least, used his growing magical power to trick everyone into thinking that his meagre magics were all signs from the gods.
The shaman was dead. Bodush had shackled him to the altar of the gods and offered him up to Gruumsh as a parting present, before making his way out of the camp and into the lands of the humans.
This murder, the murder of an orc, was the only thing Bodush would feel a tiny sliver of guilt over.
He had made his way into the human lands, living by his wits, sometimes finding employment, mostly just wandering, relearning the language and customs of his own people. It is amazing how useful a well-placed spell and a hard-luck tale is, when your purse is empty and your stomach is growling.
Still...it was no way to live. Looking down on the town of Seawell, Bodush felt his spirits lift. Where there were people, there was money, and where there was money, there would be a job for him. He was ready to make his mark on the world.
After all, what did it matter that his name was forgotten? He was Bodush now, the boy who became a slave, who became a murderer.
He had earned his new name and someday, the whole world would know him by it.
The little boy's voice rang out over the sound of the fire lapping at the walls of the little cabin. Standing up, his first breath filled his lungs with the acrid smoke, and he fell down to the floor coughing. Somewhere in the distance he heard his mothers voice, screaming. Tears streaming from his eyes, he crawled along the floor trying to reach the doors before the flames would block his path.
Falling down the wooden steps from the cabin, he stared in abject horror at his father's corpse. Blood was still oozing from the many cuts and wounds and slowly dripping from a gash along his throat, his dented militia-sword laying just a few feet away. Looking up his eyes locked with those of his mother, on her knees, two monstrous, porcine humanoids standing above her.
Her mouth moved, he knew she was calling his name, but her words were lost in the noise of the fire, and the guttural growls of the orcs grabbing him, lifting him up.
Then it was as if a spell lifted.
-Don't kill him! Don't kill my boy! Don't kill...
Her voice died away, drowned by the blood filling her mouth. Her lifeless body fell forward as the orc pulled his spear out of her torso. Her glassy eyes stared at the crying boy.
*-*-*-*-*-*
Bodush woke up, the sun was already rising, and the birdsong was slowly drowning out the horrors of his dreams. It must have been at least 13-14 years ago, and it was the only memory he had of his parents, his father's mangled corpse and his mother's dying scream. Why he never heard his name, his real name, the name his parent's gave him, he would probably never know. His name was Bodush, a slave's name.
Still, perhaps it was for the best. The boy who had carried that name was long gone. Not killed in the shock and pain of that night, but wasted away, little by little, killed by his own cowardice.
Life as a slave is never kind, and for a child amongst the orcs, it is lethal. Bodush shook his head, wondering what his mother, as she lay dying, would have thought of her boy, now, if she knew what he would do, what he would become. Bodush remembered the look on Massy's face, the emaciated halfling, caught stealing extra foods from the kitchens, as they fed him to their wargs as punishment. It was funny how the orcs never noticed how the little human never seemed to be hungry or how he would always volunteer for extra duties. While the other slaves working in the kitchen were executed one by one for stealing, Bodush was always there, always loyal, always telling the overseers when the others had secreted some food in their quarters. It was funny how the orcs never noticed that the slaves they thought were stealing food always were on the brink of starvation, while the little human tattletale always was in good health.
Bodush grimaced, thinking of those he had sent to their death. Still, he was alive, they weren't. . He could feel the cool morning heating up, and watch the sun rise over the distant ocean, while they were wargfodder. Who could blame him?
Not the gods. Bodush knew little of the human gods, and had nothing but hate for the gods of the orcs. Oh yes, he had become the personal slave of the tribe's shaman, a senile fool. The shaman had thought Bodush' magical powers, manifesting as they did when his voice changed, were a favour from the orcish gods. He had become less of a slave and more of an apprentice, preparing and sometimes performing the ritual sacrifices, reciting the litanies of hate that the orcish gods require before battles, and, not least, used his growing magical power to trick everyone into thinking that his meagre magics were all signs from the gods.
The shaman was dead. Bodush had shackled him to the altar of the gods and offered him up to Gruumsh as a parting present, before making his way out of the camp and into the lands of the humans.
This murder, the murder of an orc, was the only thing Bodush would feel a tiny sliver of guilt over.
He had made his way into the human lands, living by his wits, sometimes finding employment, mostly just wandering, relearning the language and customs of his own people. It is amazing how useful a well-placed spell and a hard-luck tale is, when your purse is empty and your stomach is growling.
Still...it was no way to live. Looking down on the town of Seawell, Bodush felt his spirits lift. Where there were people, there was money, and where there was money, there would be a job for him. He was ready to make his mark on the world.
After all, what did it matter that his name was forgotten? He was Bodush now, the boy who became a slave, who became a murderer.
He had earned his new name and someday, the whole world would know him by it.
Wer Hinterwood
Seeing her arrive from afar would almost think: "nice little piece of woman coming towards you", if it wasn't for that huge dog she is riding without a saddle. Really not bad looking, her quite fair skin, and all those little braids bouncing through the air at every step of her huge newfoundland. She has a bit of the wild touch around her have to admit, leather boots brown baggy breaches light leather armor, big earth colored hide cloak on her back and quarterstaff in her hand.
But when she comes closer something is most definitely wrong... The dog is not that big actually, still quite big but not that big and when she jumps of the black shepherd dog with her big smile and punches you lightly in the thighs in the thighs, you actually realize she is no more than 3 foot high... Darm halfling! She stick her arm fool of wooden bracelets into her satchel, grabs out her wooden pipe, fumbles around one of her numerous pouches and fills her pipe with nice smelling tabacco, a bit more of rummaging, light it and tells you her story.
That is Wer, Wer Hinterwood. And her childhood friend Masena. She left her tribe a couple of month ago on a kind of apprenticeship. Her tribe was a bit unusual for halflings, as opposed to most clans hers, the Hinterwood clan, is not that kind in the cities and towns, but more of the woods and the wilds. They still are of the nomadic and curious ones but instead of the dirty human world they have settle for the world of the woods, they have a lot of contact with all the people of the wild, from the centaurs to the orcs, over the elves, the treemen, the giants and all the others.
Since very young the old wise woman of the tribe noticed her incredible ability to empathize with nature and all of its parts, and her incredible power to impose her will, so set forth to train her to become her heir and one day to lead the woman council of the clan (which as every one knows de facto rules in that kind of subtle way as to let believe the males of the clan that they make the decision *laugh*). Her teacher not being able to teach her much more, it has been decided that the best for her future education is to travel through the big wide world and to come back when she will be ready to lead that bunch of wool-headed stubborn halflingmen of the clan.
So here she is ready for her first adventure, and having finished to smoke her pipe gets out a carved flute and starts some, lets say interesting, notes. Even Masema (her big Newfoundland riding dog, his story will be for an other time), lying against her , hides his head under his huge paws, no music is not her biggest talent for the moment....
But when she comes closer something is most definitely wrong... The dog is not that big actually, still quite big but not that big and when she jumps of the black shepherd dog with her big smile and punches you lightly in the thighs in the thighs, you actually realize she is no more than 3 foot high... Darm halfling! She stick her arm fool of wooden bracelets into her satchel, grabs out her wooden pipe, fumbles around one of her numerous pouches and fills her pipe with nice smelling tabacco, a bit more of rummaging, light it and tells you her story.
That is Wer, Wer Hinterwood. And her childhood friend Masena. She left her tribe a couple of month ago on a kind of apprenticeship. Her tribe was a bit unusual for halflings, as opposed to most clans hers, the Hinterwood clan, is not that kind in the cities and towns, but more of the woods and the wilds. They still are of the nomadic and curious ones but instead of the dirty human world they have settle for the world of the woods, they have a lot of contact with all the people of the wild, from the centaurs to the orcs, over the elves, the treemen, the giants and all the others.
Since very young the old wise woman of the tribe noticed her incredible ability to empathize with nature and all of its parts, and her incredible power to impose her will, so set forth to train her to become her heir and one day to lead the woman council of the clan (which as every one knows de facto rules in that kind of subtle way as to let believe the males of the clan that they make the decision *laugh*). Her teacher not being able to teach her much more, it has been decided that the best for her future education is to travel through the big wide world and to come back when she will be ready to lead that bunch of wool-headed stubborn halflingmen of the clan.
So here she is ready for her first adventure, and having finished to smoke her pipe gets out a carved flute and starts some, lets say interesting, notes. Even Masema (her big Newfoundland riding dog, his story will be for an other time), lying against her , hides his head under his huge paws, no music is not her biggest talent for the moment....
Thursday, September 13, 2007
New characters
A fun-filled afternoon of character creation resulted in some interesting additions to the party.
First off the mark was Dag's Blue-eyed, blonde-haired Orc-hating Human Ranger : "Meynhard Gaertner".
Next (and still being perfected) is Moritz's Halfling Druid "Wer Hinterwood" and his Riding Dog "Masema". Fittingly Masema seems to be better at just about anything than Wer!
Sven brings us his, as yet unnamed,half-elf cleric of St. Cuthbert, the god of retribution. He smites all who disagree with him, but protects his flock with menace.
First off the mark was Dag's Blue-eyed, blonde-haired Orc-hating Human Ranger : "Meynhard Gaertner".
Next (and still being perfected) is Moritz's Halfling Druid "Wer Hinterwood" and his Riding Dog "Masema". Fittingly Masema seems to be better at just about anything than Wer!
Sven brings us his, as yet unnamed,half-elf cleric of St. Cuthbert, the god of retribution. He smites all who disagree with him, but protects his flock with menace.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Banner head
Hopefully Assif will help me post a new Banner head for this site.
It displays the current players and level of monster they face.
I plan to change it frequently. (If Assif will help me frequently.)
New players will be added and the monsters will change as we gain power.
It displays the current players and level of monster they face.
I plan to change it frequently. (If Assif will help me frequently.)
New players will be added and the monsters will change as we gain power.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
DM Dubious has questions
This time, the party was better prepared. They had a plan of action. Mendez would heroically smash the door down and roll deftly into the room while Takis, standing back readies an arrow to strike whatever he sees as soon as the door is down.
Of course, for a new DM grappling with the complex combat rules, this simple action raises a number of questions.
1. This is the most difficult question. I ruled that Takis could get an arrow off with the Kobolds flat-footed, and then we went to initiative. However, I think this ruling is entirely debatable. In the end I ruled in favour of the PCs as at least they were thinking about the combat and trying to do as much as possible to prepare well for the fight instead of just saying "we charge in and kill everyone!"
2. I ruled 10 as he was also kicking down the door.
3. Yeah, he failed didn't he ;)
Of course, for a new DM grappling with the complex combat rules, this simple action raises a number of questions.
- Naturally, Takis has a "readied action" to be triggered on the event of the door opening, and he would fire at whatever he sees. Is this right, or can you only ready an action against an opponent - e.g. "as soon as I see someone I fire at them"?1
- If the Kobolds were ready and waiting, then why should they forgo any initiative roll, just because Takis has decided to "ready" an action?
- What should the Difficulty Class for the tumble check be?2
- What happens when fails his tumble check (which he did!)? Does this mean he falls prone, and is vulnerable, or is he actually still standing and so gets an arrow in the back of the head?
- Should the Kobolds get an attack of opportunity against the prone Mendez?3
1. This is the most difficult question. I ruled that Takis could get an arrow off with the Kobolds flat-footed, and then we went to initiative. However, I think this ruling is entirely debatable. In the end I ruled in favour of the PCs as at least they were thinking about the combat and trying to do as much as possible to prepare well for the fight instead of just saying "we charge in and kill everyone!"
2. I ruled 10 as he was also kicking down the door.
3. Yeah, he failed didn't he ;)
Monday, September 3, 2007
Another taste of the same action
‘You, Battle-Nun. Give us your blessing before we go in.’
Mendez gives orders to Elogyn, as he arrogantly assumes command.
The Elven archer Takis, notches an arrow and stands directly behind the tall and athletic pirate.
Mendez shoulder barges the door and smashes through it easily. His attempts to gracefully tumble into the room and out of the way of the elf, like himself however, fall flat.
Time seems to stop for a moment.
Two Kobolds either side of the door can’t believe their luck. Both jab down with their spears at the prone Mendez. Both draw blood.
Takis however releases his arrow and it pierces the throat of the diminutive Kobold in the centre of the room. It falls to the floor, dead.
Elogyn slips into the room and confronts one of the Kobolds harassing Mendez.
She smashes the child-sized creature with her iron mace and it’s face parts company with the remains of its head.
Mendez slashes at his remaining opponent as he struggles to his feet. The Kobold easily avoids the clumsy stroke.
Takis however, calmly notches another arrow and lets it fly while walking into the room.
Mendez is saved again. This time by the Elf.
Suddenly a cry from the corner of the room alerts them to an additional Kobold. It had been hidden around the corner. It lets fly a sling stone straight at Elogyn, but lands only a glancing blow.
Mendez roars and charges after the cowering Kobold. It attempts to flee are stymied by a closed door and Mendez’s scimitar emerging from it’s stomach.
A quick rummage around the room reveals nothing worth taking.
Elogyn heals Mendez and then herself.
Mendez mutters under his breath; ‘Let’s aim for some money next time.’
Mendez gives orders to Elogyn, as he arrogantly assumes command.
The Elven archer Takis, notches an arrow and stands directly behind the tall and athletic pirate.
Mendez shoulder barges the door and smashes through it easily. His attempts to gracefully tumble into the room and out of the way of the elf, like himself however, fall flat.
Time seems to stop for a moment.
Two Kobolds either side of the door can’t believe their luck. Both jab down with their spears at the prone Mendez. Both draw blood.
Takis however releases his arrow and it pierces the throat of the diminutive Kobold in the centre of the room. It falls to the floor, dead.
Elogyn slips into the room and confronts one of the Kobolds harassing Mendez.
She smashes the child-sized creature with her iron mace and it’s face parts company with the remains of its head.
Mendez slashes at his remaining opponent as he struggles to his feet. The Kobold easily avoids the clumsy stroke.
Takis however, calmly notches another arrow and lets it fly while walking into the room.
Mendez is saved again. This time by the Elf.
Suddenly a cry from the corner of the room alerts them to an additional Kobold. It had been hidden around the corner. It lets fly a sling stone straight at Elogyn, but lands only a glancing blow.
Mendez roars and charges after the cowering Kobold. It attempts to flee are stymied by a closed door and Mendez’s scimitar emerging from it’s stomach.
A quick rummage around the room reveals nothing worth taking.
Elogyn heals Mendez and then herself.
Mendez mutters under his breath; ‘Let’s aim for some money next time.’
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