Show Posts

This section allows you to view all posts made by this member. Note that you can only see posts made in areas you currently have access to.


Messages - Phoenixguard09

Pages: 1 [2] 3 4 ... 204
16
Norbayne / Re: Norbayne Character Creation
« on: June 22, 2021, 12:23:58 PM »
Quote from: Enchanter
The Enchanter is primarily a utility and support class which has the ability to create artifice which lets them perform several different roles on a limited basis. This is achieved through their use of Rune Crafting and Enchanting. While the Enchanter interacts with magic through these, and often channels specific magics while doing so, they are not considered a caster class. The interaction is limited to a purely scientific base, though the use of the wand artifice lets them essentially moonlight as a caster given enough preparation. The Enchanter is restricted to wearing Light armour and may only wield Common weapons, excluding their apparatus. Outside of combat the Enchanter has the ability to create rare and extremely lucrative pieces of magic equipment, though the resource investment and clients in need of such specific artifice can be a challenge in certain regions.

Class Statistic Modifiers
+1 Health every 2nd Level
-1 Initiative
+1 Soulfire
+5 Dexterity or Intelligence
+3 Intelligence or Willpower
Light armour only.
Access to Common weapon list.
1 Common Weapon Proficiency.

Class Skills:
- Study
- Craft (Apparatus)
- Craft (Enchantment)
- Craft (Runes)
- Craft (Transmutation)
- Academic Knowledge (Enchantment)
- Academic Knowledge (Magic)
- Academic Knowledge (Otherworld)
- Academic Knowledge (Sidhe)
- Common Knowledge (Technology)
- Contacts (Mage)
- Contacts (Merchant)
- Contacts (Noble)

Class Mechanics
Enchantment

Transmutation

Leylines

Spoiler: Class Talents: (click to show/hide)

Spoiler: Class Rewards (click to show/hide)




Quote from: Guardian
The Guardian is primarily a tank class, although it is easy to create a Guardian which is good at causing damage too. The Guardian works best in a mixed support and tank role, able to provide the rest of the party with beneficial shielding effects, while also attracting the attention of the enemy's heaviest hitters and shrugging it off. The Guardian is a caster class, with access to the Arcane Magic (Petty) and (Guardian) Spheres. The Guardian is able to wear any armour and wield most weapons, with access to the martial weapons list. Outside combat, the Guardian is quite limited, but in combat, they are fantastic.

Class Statistic Modifiers
+1 Health every 2nd Level
+0 Initiative
+3 Strength or Dexterity
+3 Willpower or Toughness
No armour restrictions.
Access to Common and Martial weapon lists.
1x rank in Unarmed, 1 Common Weapon and 1 Common or Martial Weapon Proficiency.

Class Skills:
- Channelling
- Grappling
- Taunt
- Channelling
- Wytchsight
- Common Knowledge (War)
- Contacts (Noble)
- Contacts (Mercenary Company)

Class Mechanics


Class Magic:
The Guardian has access to the Arcane Magic system of casting. A Guardian taking their first Magic Level receives the Arcane Magic (Petty) Sphere and one Spell from that list.
The Guardian has access to the following Magic Spheres:
- Arcane Magic (Petty)
- Arcane Magic (Guardian)

Spoiler: Class Talents: (click to show/hide)

Spoiler: Class Rewards (click to show/hide)



17
Been a while since this has been updated. My apologies, life has got in the way a little. The next chapter should be coming shortly, but until then I shall provide you with some pictures of our band of intrepid adventurers, as crafted on Heroforge, largely by the miscreants behind the characters.

Spoiler: Brynhildr Gyldenskinn (click to show/hide)

Spoiler: Michael McFyfe (click to show/hide)

Spoiler: Ailbhe Blackrose (click to show/hide)

Spoiler: Syntherion Voiculescu (click to show/hide)

Spoiler: Ignus Gritsword (click to show/hide)



Spoiler: Shadow (click to show/hide)

Spoiler: Charlie Gwyn Valdemar (click to show/hide)

18
Inquisition is pretty good. I preferred most of the Inquisition companions to those in DA2. For what it's worth, it is also a very pretty game.

Personally, I think I preferred the gameplay of DA2 to the others. Inquisition is pretty damn simple, and while DA2 certainly is more simplistic in that way than Origins was, at least it was fast paced and felt somewhat interesting. Despite (or perhaps because of) all the flashy lights in Inquisition, the combat had a tendency to feel bland for me. Obviously, others' mileage may vary.

The companions in Inquisition are generally very good.

19
Norbayne / Re: Norbayne Short Stories
« on: April 03, 2021, 09:55:09 AM »
Spoiler: Our Light (click to show/hide)

20
I'm honoured. Well done to everyone who entered this year, there's some fantastic pieces of work up there.

Probably going to pinch Agaming's On a Bright and Twisted Night and tweak it to run for my Norbayne group in the near future. A very cool premise.

21
Session 1.1: A Dark Night

”Oh wow, it’s a real adventurer.

I can’t believe this. I’m in a s***** little town, in the middle of a crisis. I’ve just met with an adventurer in a tavern. This is just like the stories.

I am so hyped right now.

It’s finally happening. YES!”

- Ailbhe Blackrose’s internal monologue upon meeting Michael McFyfe.

Welcome to the first real session of Seven Stones and a Pale Shadow. Tonight, we have our full allotment of players, the whole kit and caboodle, so to speak. What exciting times we live in.

“You’ve lost The Game.” – Ladyhawk.
“Great.” – Redshirt.
“Have to keep the tradition alive.” – Ladyhawk.


The busy confines of the Pallid Mare ring with the general clamour of an eating and drinking establishment packed to the rafters, the sounds of slightly subdued merriment and over it all, the wailing notes of Syntherion Voiculescu’s psaltery accompanied by his clear vocals as the young Jeleni completes his rendition of a famous folk-tune.

There is scattered applause from around the inn as the music draws to a close. A slightly-built Leathe girl with merle fur stops trying to pull her companion, a heavy-set bearded Highlander with russet-brown hair, out of his seat to dance with her and clambers upon the table instead, clapping with great enthusiasm. She whistles her appreciation as Synth stands and bows to the crowd, most of whom have already turned their attention elsewhere.

“Ailbhe has been un-ironically just bopping. ‘This is so cultural.’ She’s just living for it.” – LD.
“Synth is probably a little bit taken aback by the existence of applause.” – Sins.

As an aside, whether it be the acoustics of where we played on the night or merely where we had the recording device set up, listening to the recording, whenever either LaPD or Redshirt laughs, my ears bleed. Yohan made a reference early on about how high the recording spiked when LaPD laughed during the introduction and it only got worse from there.

Also, the train which passes by every half an hour is not particularly welcome either.

So gentle reader, you owe me. I’m coming for your young. :D


Sitting at the booth in between the one belonging to the rambunctious Leathe and her companion, and Synth’s stage, an elderly dwarf and a raven-haired Danann share a drink and a bite to eat. The dwarf shakes his head.

“I’m regretting telling him to go up there now.” – Ignus, gruff.

Hadrina doesn’t respond, but merely grins, an expression of good humour perhaps, baring her fangs. It would be off-putting to anyone who doesn’t know her, but she need not worry about such with Ignus.

She takes a long pull from the tankard of ale before her. It isn’t terrible, if perhaps a little watery. Then the music starts up once more and she feels as if the ale isn’t strong enough.

* * *

Outside the tavern, on the stone streets of the town, all movement has ceased. All afternoon the cry had been taken up by the clergy of the Triad. Tonight, is the fated night, the dreaded Chéserquine. Windows and doors throughout the township have been boarded up, the better to withstand the spectral hunt which will blow through the settlement, sweeping up any and all who are unprotected and bear them away into the dark to join the Mesnee d’Hellequin.

Now, with the sun almost entirely dipped down below the horizon, the shadows lengthen across the countryside. Any who would brave the encroaching darkness would note the shadows almost dancing of their own accord, fell lights glimmering in the darkened woods of the Viltshaws. None, however, dare venture outdoors now for miles around.

Deep in the woods, a chittering begins, soft, faint, susurrating. It grows slowly, into a dull drone. Shrieks and cries echo through the still woodland, alien and terrifying. The power of the Chéserquine grows.

* * *

Brynhildr, safe now within the sturdy walls of the Or’Saer Emporium, sits upon the floor near the door, her back against the stone wall, absent-mindedly throwing a pinecone to a small shaggy mammoth calf. The mammoth trots after the pinecone, picking it up tenderly with his prehensile trunk and carries it back to the tall woman, depositing it in her lap for her to throw again.

While engaged in this game, she inspects the fine runes carved into the threshold of the doorway. They are narrow, small lines intersecting cleanly with each other, forming precise geometric patterns, each little rune equidistant from the next in succession. To her witchsight, the charcoal grey of her eyes giving way to an almost icy frost for a moment, the sigils gleam with a slight trace of magic, though she does not recognise it.

“Marwolaeth, did you carve these?” – Bryn, calling to the woman behind the Emporium’s front counter.

The stocky apothecary and her sister had provided a simple dinner for their guests and now, while Shadow cleaned up after dinner, Marwolaeth was reading the letters she had retrieved from the Stonebridge mail-house.

“I’m sorry, carve what? Oh those? No, they were there when we first rented the place. They’re on all the windowsills too.” – Marwolaeth, shrugging, then returning to her reading.

Caitrin emerges from the stairway, her breathing slightly ragged, her pale and gaunt features somewhat softened by the warm lantern-light illuminating the room.

“I have locked up everything upstairs. Is there anything you would like me to do while you check everything over?” – Caitrin, to Marwoaleth.

“No dear, just rest for me. I quite like the look of this applicant though, so if you’re happy to try him out, we’ll get in touch with him in the morning.” – Marwolaeth, handing the letter of application to her sister before tramping upstairs herself.

Caitrin sits down behind the counter to read the letter, sparing an amused smile for the shape of Venn who comes barrelling around the corner after a thrown pinecone.

“Does she take her shoes off?” – Pugsley, for the second time that night.
“Why are you so obsessed with this character’s feet?” – Dev.
“Pugsley, we’ve been playing for all of about ten minutes and you’ve already developed a foot fetish.” – Yohan.
“It’ll all make sense later.” – LaPD, laughing.
“I don’t really want it to.” – Yohan.
“He’s an undercover fashion designer?” – Sins.
“Undercover? Mate, I’m not hiding it.” – Pugsley.

LaPD then went into detail about how Shadow Fashion Industries would work, with a hidden designer secretively going about their business, the model with their back turned and unable to feel any clothes upon them. Finally, impatient and confused, they turn around to see Shadow, laying clothes out upon the ground, over the model’s own shadow. He exclaims they have ruined his masterpiece, performs the Shadow Gang hand sign and disappears in a huff.

It was very funny, but the train went by as she described it, so unfortunately, I cannot transcribe it word for word.


* * *

“Okay love, that’s enough now!” – Mallida, the stout innkeeper of the Pallid Mare, waving her hand to Syntherion.

The youth brings the music to a crescendo, then bows and leaves the raised stage, the last note of his psaltery hanging, hauntingly in the air. Silence descends upon the tavern, as the reality of the night sets in. He sits next to Hadrina in the booth, even his incorrigible spirits seemingly dampened somewhat by the tension within the establishment.

Tail twitching with excitement, the Leathe girl, Ailbhe Blackrose, stands and moves towards one of the boarded-up windows and peeks out between the wooden slats, oblivious to the horrified looks she is receiving from the other patrons. Outside, on the darkened streets, she can see a heavy fog billowing in the night. As she watches, shrieks and whoops, as if every creature of the forest were outside, split the night, a nightmarish mash of sound. The fog billows and shifts, as if disturbed by something moving unseen and a creaking sound emanates forth from it, almost like wood moving and shifting under extreme duress. She notices a glimpse, here and there, of antlers, like those of a stag, the icy shafts of spears, spectral pennants blowing in an unnatural breeze. She sees eyes glowing bright red in the night and wisps of movement all through the fog as it eddies, ripples and shifts almost like water. Here and there the shapes of low-slung creatures stalk, eyes and fangs glinting in the dim light, through the fog.

She feels a slight tremble of trepidation as the raven-haired Danann moves to join her from the booth next to her own. Hadrina says nothing to the Leathe, merely standing beside her, staring out into the night, cat’s eyes gleaming with a faint emerald green light.

“What are they?” – Ailbhe, quietly, almost to herself.

“Sidhe of the forest. Just spirits of the wild.” – Hadrina, solemnly. For just a brief moment more, she continues to look out the window.

The reverie is broken by the sound of the door of the Pallid Mare creaking open and an old man, a stout Midlander with greying hair, strides out into the embrace of the night. There are a few shocked gasps as the door swings open and the mist starts to billow in.

“Quick, close the door!” – Mallida, a note of panic in her voice. 

A few patrons of the inn move to the doorway, Michael and Ailbhe among them, but none are swifter than the Danann who darts to the wooden door where it has been left swaying gently in the cold night air. She closes it, and as she does so, her eyes land upon the figure of the grey-haired old man as he stumbles into the mist. As the fog begins to envelope him fully, another figure emerges from the darkness. Tall, unnaturally so, blacker than the night around it and wearing what appears to be a tall crown of brambles and branches silhouetted against the night sky, the figure is nightmarish in aspect and rides upon a steed of some kind, as fell and dark as the rider itself. The fog raises around the apparition, sweeping the old man up in its wake, and the rider and steed burst into the night sky above, the thunderous report of hooves beating across the roof of the inn as Hadrina slams the door shut.

The Danann sinks to the floor, her back to the closed door. She makes a conscious effort to steady her breathing and regain some composure before her green eyes glare out at the rest of the horrified clientele.

“No one else is going outside until this whole thing is over.” – Hadrina, and while her tone is harsh, her close companions, Ignus and Syntherion, can detect just the slightest quaver in her voice.

Outside, there is a heavy crash of thunder and rain begins to fall steadily from the dark clouds above.

* * *

Boarded up within the Or’Saer Emporium, Bryn watches on as Venn happily enjoys Caitrin’s company. The slight woman has built a small bed for the mammoth calf, almost a soft nest of blankets and cushions, and she sits down next to it, petting the little creature. She looks up at Bryn and smiles gently as the mammoth rolls over on his back, nudging her hand with his trunk to get some good scritches on his belly.

Venn’s mannerisms are basically those of our dog, Zeus.

Thunder crashes in the sky above and the rain begins to fall over Stonebridge. The sudden noise causes Venn to stir slightly in his nest, coming to his feet with a little trumpet of alarm, and Bryn kneels beside Caitrin to soothe the little creature’s panic.

“He’s a beautiful little thing.” – Caitrin, quietly, as Venn tramples the bedding in a circle before setting himself down to rest once more. His trunk extends, questing for the familiarity of Bryn’s hand.

“He is. We’ve been through a lot together already.” – Bryn, gently taking the little mammoth’s trunk in her hand and allowing him to hold on to her as both the rain and the Mesnee d’Hellequin descend upon the darkened streets of Stonebridge.

* * *

“Who was he?” – Hadrina, to Mallida.

Behind her, Ignus has pulled one of the long bench seats out from their booth and propped it against the door. He has also taken a long, sturdy iron bar from his packed belongings and wedged it between the doorframe, across the door, barring access. Now he sits upon it, a flagon of ale in one hand and a curious looking hammer in the other, his clouded eyes surveying the firelit room. Despite his stout legs swinging in the air from the seat, he still cuts a somewhat imposing figure.

“A traveller, I did not learn his name. He has been here for a few days now and paid well to stay in a room upstairs. As far as I know, he had hardly left his room until tonight, except to silently take a meal.” – Mallida, helplessly.

Where most of the Pallid Mare’s denizens seem to be caught in a variety of states between panic and shock, Syntherion is far from it. His eyes dart around the tavern excitedly, and he marvels at the fury of the storm outside and the thunder of the hooves beating upon the cobblestone streets and the rooves of the buildings all around. Silently, he begins to compose a song to himself.

Ailbhe seats herself beside the stout form of Ignus, the old dwarf pointedly ignoring both the Leathe’s presence and her friendly nod of greeting.

“So, do you take taverns hostage often?” – Ailbhe, guilelessly.

She is ignored, and she sniffs and turns away, but remains seated upon the bench.

* * *

The hours pass and finally the howling cacophony, thunderous hoofbeats and swirling gale of wind and mist begin to recede, the Chéserquine retreating into the forested hills of the Viltshaws to await the next astrological anomaly which would allow them to wage their hunt across the surrounding lands once more.

The impact of the rain drumming a gentle pattern upon the exterior of the Or’Saer Emporium is the only sound which remains. That, and the softly whiffling snoring of Venn, curled up in the nest Caitrin made for him. Gently, so as not wake him, Bryn extricates her hand and forearm from his grasp and clambers to her feet. She walks across the front room of the Emporium, to where Marwolaeth and Caitrin sit in companionable silence, behind the shop counter.

“Is it over?” – Brynhildr, her quiet, accented voice breaking the silence of the dimly-lit room.

Wordlessly, Marwolaeth rises from her seat and crosses over to the doorway. She stands there for a moment with her ear against the wooden door, listening intently.  Beyond, there is only the rainfall, and the soft breeze wafting through the streets, nothing alike to the howling gale which accompanied the Chéserquine.

With a whisper, Marwolaeth opens the front door, revealing the darkened streets of the south-bank of Stonebridge. The rain starts to lessen, and the dark clouds begin to disperse somewhat, allowing the light of the twin moons to bathe the town in faint silvery light. The unnatural fog is gone.

“I think that might be it. Congratulations on surviving your first Chéserquine.” – Marwolaeth, her tone quiet and on edge, still wary, belying her flippant words.

“Congratulations on surviving your first Chéserquine.” – Another voice, cadence and intonation nearly the same, coming from the blackbird nestled in a nest upon the windowsill. The voice is remarkably alike to Marwolaeth’s own, but it almost seems to have a mocking quality to it.

Both Shadow and Bryn move to join Marwolaeth at the open doorway and look out into the night. It is peaceful now, and quiet, save for the steady drizzle of rain which continues to fall upon the town.

“Is that smoke? Yes, it is, look.” – Shadow, taking a sniff of the night air before pointing across the way. A faint orange glow illuminates the sky, growing stronger with every second.

It would seem one of the dwellings here upon the southern bank of Stonebridge has caught alight. Faint trails of smoke begin to lift from the site of the fire.

“Venn, stay here.” – Bryn, to the little mammoth, as she and Marwolaeth take off into the darkened streets.

Caitrin moves to the door to stand alongside Shadow as the man watches the other two women dart off into the night.

“Should we go with them?” – Caitrin, a note of concern in her reedy voice.

“Perhaps it is best you stay here, stand guard and all that. Hold the door.” – Shadow, his hands on her thin shoulders, as he gently moves her back a few paces from the doorway. He then turns and dashes off into the night himself, closing the door behind him.

“Caitrin looks down and realises he has taken her shoes.” – Dev.

* * *

As the thunder from outside begins to recede, the inhabitants of the Pallid Mare begin to stir. Mallida slowly makes her way to the window and risks a peek outside. There is nothing to be seen, beyond the slight drifting haze of gentle rain.

“I think it is over, everyone.” – Mallida, who slumps against the wooden windowsill.

There is a ragged cheer from a handful of throats at her words, and slowly, wearily, a select few of the denizens of the inn start to pack their belongings and make their way out the door and into the night. Many others start to head to the bar, Michael among them, where Mallida returns and takes their drink orders. The majority either relax, sit back and converse quietly with their fellows a little more freely, relief writ large upon their faces, or begin to bed down properly for the night.

* * *

As Bryn and Marwolaeth run through the streets at pace, the orange glow in the sky above grows stronger and clearer. As they approach the fire, the cries of those fighting to contain and control the blaze can be heard, as can panicked screams. This close to the keep, the inhabitants of this district are more affluent and well-to-do than those in other parts of the town.

Marwolaeth and Brynhildr come to a stop, Shadow joining them only a few moments later. Before stands a tall mansion, clearly the home of a prominent family of Stonebridge. The house is a blazing pillar of light, white-hot flames licking up the stone supports to consume the wooden beams and majority of the structure.

Marwolaeth briefly remembers back to when she first arrived in Stonebridge, just after she had set up the Emporium. She had been called to this mansion to treat the son of the head of the family, quite young at the time. What was their family name again?

She cannot remember, though it matters little now.

A handful of citizens of the town have set up a chain of people, passing buckets along the line between a town-well to the east and those casting the water onto the flames. Marwolaethe approaches one of them.

“Do you know if there’s still anyone inside?” – Marwolaeth, a note of urgency in her voice.

“Yes! There is! We could hear the screams. No one can get inside though, look at it!” – One of the volunteers, receiving a bucket from the man further along the chain from him. He takes the heavy vessel and strides as close as he can to the mansion, about to cast the water over the flames.

There is a piercing scream, a child’s voice from within the house, and the first floor’s ceiling caves in, the bright flames increasing in intensity as the wood and stone smashes to the ground. The team of firefighters shy back, away from the explosion as flames roar out the front windows.

“No, don’t stop! There’s still a child in there!” – Marwolaeth, taking a small vial of a viscous, dark liquid from the satchel at her side.

The diminutive woman pulls the stopper from the vial and downs the liquid within, wincing as she does so. The pain is incredible, as her lungs physically transmute within her chest, expanding in size and altering in their composition, becoming far more efficient. She takes an inhumanly deep breath, holds it, and dashes to the front door of the mansion, taking the burning wood in her thick-gloved hands. She tries to pull it open, but it will not budge. She starts to push against it, but again, it does not shift. Eventually she begins to slam her shoulder into the door again and again, losing precious seconds of saved air.

The door still refuses to give way.

Tying a strip of cloth over his mouth and nose, Shadow join Marwolaeth at the door, having taken a bucket full of water from the chain of volunteers, risking closer proximity to the flames than they were able to manage. He douses the door in water and turns back, tossing the empty bucket to the firefighters, awaiting the next loaded bucket.

Marwolaeth spies a window, blasted open by the furious inferno, and makes her way to it, clambering over the shattered glass, and into the interior of the manse. Her teeth grit as a shard of glass slices through the thick leather of one of her gloves, and into the flesh of her hand within.

Outside, Brynhildr joins Shadow at the end of the chain, and together they venture in closer to the house than others would dare, trying to keep an eye on Marwolaeth as best they can.

As for Marwolaeth, it is incredibly difficult to get her bearings. The sound of the flames consuming the house around her is immense, as is the unbearable heat and the shifting heat-haze. Before her lies what is left of communal living area of sorts, though the elements which would distinguish it as such are swiftly being consumed. There is a door too, closed, which presumably leads further into the mansion.

She opens the door, and as she does so, a substantial wooden beam crashes down from the ceiling above, falling at a diagonal angle across the long hallway beyond. It is heavily aflame, and Marwolaeth is forced back a touch by the flaring of the flames as the beam falls. She lets out a cry of pain as the flames reach for her, letting out yet more precious air as she does so.

Carefully, she picks her way past the fallen beam, keeping her eyes peeled for any sign of life around her.

“Hello! Can anyone here me?” – Marwolaeth, calling desperately, trying to pitch her voice above the roaring inferno.

There is no answering voice, not leastwise, one she can hear, but at the end of the hallway, opposite the caved in staircase, there is a pile of debris and rubble, obscuring a doorway. She thinks, maybe, she can hear the scraping of stone rubble being shifted.

Marwolaeth makes her way down the hallway and attempts to clamber over the fallen rubble and debris. She slips and falls, and as the burning debris clatters down around her, she utters a curse as she burns herself. She staggers upright again and, with the difficulty she experiences in doing so, looks down and notes a knife-like shard of stone has punched through the flesh of her lower leg, blood welling up around the puncture wound.

LaPimpDaddy failed the Climb Check to pass over the pile of debris by a fair amount and then took the maximum environmental damage for the round too.

I offered to take a Luck Point to re-roll the environmental damage, which brought the result down by 1. Marwolaeth still took 4 Damage from the house crumbling and burning around her.

“My, how generous you are.” – LaPD.
“Tell you what, that’s a pretty poor return for a Luck Point. I’ll allow you to re-roll your Climb Check too.”

The re-roll results in a straight success.


Again she attempts to clamber over the rubble, and this time she is successful, falling over the other side. There, in the room, caught under a light pile of smouldering debris, lies the unconscious form of a small, maybe twelve-year-old sandy-haired boy. She remembers his name as she sees his face. Tomas.

Urgently, she pulls the boy free of the rubble and tries to pick him, but she trips and falls, burning herself a little in the process. With difficulty, her strength failing as the last of her breath begins to escape her, Marwolaeth takes an arm and attempts to drag the limp body of the boy along the floor.

Outside, Shadow and Bryn abandon their efforts with the buckets, the outermost flames quelled enough now for others to take their place in close proximity to the house. They circuit around the mansion, looking for another point of egress, or even better, a sign of Marwolaeth. Eventually, through a window around the back, Shadow spies her, weakly dragging the limp body of a child. Above her, a wooden beam crumbles and falls, and the house shifts and groans.

“Bryn! Around here!” – Shadow, calling out as he draws one of his curved blades and smashes the grimy window with a single heavy strike with the pommel. He takes his cloak and wraps it around his hand to protect it, and uses the makeshift covering to smash aside the remaining glass shards in the window-frame.

Brynhildr skids to a stop, having broken into a run at Shadow’s call and mutters a quick incantation under her breath. Glimmering silver and pale blue ice rimes her form, sparkling iridescent in the flickering firelight. She manages, with some difficulty to clamber through the broken window, shards of ice chipping off her and spitting away into the flames.

“Take the boy! The boy!” – Marwolaeth, desperately trying to hand the boy to her larger companion, using the last of her air.

Bryn fumbles in the heat, feeling her armour literally melting around her. Together, they are able to, with difficulty, haul the boy out through the window, dropping him into Shadow’s arms.

The two women follow the boy out, Marwolaeth first. She slips as she clambers out and would have fallen back into the house if it weren’t for Shadow, who takes her arms and pulls her out bodily. Brynhildr follows behind momentarily, unable to perceive any signs of anyone else trapped in the inferno over the roaring flames and the cries of those outside, attempting to fight the blaze.

“Where are we while all this happening? Is there a chance we would have heard any of this?” – Yohan.
“We’re on the other side of the town.” – LD.
“The fun side of town. The party side of town.” – Dev.


Marwolaeth rips her coat off and throws it on the ground, stamping on the smouldering garment. She coughs, a wretched hacking thing, her throat torn up by the smoke in the air.

“Are you okay?” – Shadow, to Marwolaeth, genuine concern in his tone.

She ignores him and continues to stamp on her coat before suddenly looking up at him, a stricken expression on her face.

“The boy? Where’s the boy?” – Marwolaeth, panicked.

Shadow had taken the boy and dragged him over to the side wall of the neighbouring house, leaving him there on his back while he returned to assist Marwolaeth and Brynhildr in their own escape from the burning mansion.

“With a dagger in his chest.” – Redshirt.
“He appears to have suffered a heart attack, brought about by the knife, embedded in his chest.”


Marwolaeth’s eyes lock on the small figure and she staggers towards him. Falling to her knees on the packed dirt ground, she rolls him on his side. She is relieved to note there is a pulse and Tomas is breathing, albeit faintly. The breathing is wheezy and laboured and he is covered in various minor burns, but for the most part, other than being unconscious, the boy seems to be okay.

In fact, for the most part, his injuries seem to be lesser than Marwolaeth’s own.

“Is he still alive?” – Shadow.

“Yes, but he will need significant care. We need to take him back to the apothecary.” – Marwolaeth.

* * *

Within the now somewhat lively Pallid Mare, Ailbhe sidles over to where Syntherion sits in a booth seat, excitedly jotting down his newly composed lyrics on a napkin with a small charcoal stick.

“Hi! What’s your name?” – Ailbhe, cheerfully extending a hand in greeting.

“Syntherion, yours?” – Synth, equally cheerful.

“Ailbhe. Your name is a little hard to pronounce. Do you have a nickname?” – Ailbhe, trying to surreptitiously crane her neck a little to see Synth’s composition, and failing miserably.

“Yeah, Synth… Do you have a nickname? Are you looking forward to the Festivale? Do you know if we need tickets?” – Synth, a flood of questions bubbling forth. He has absolutely no idea Ailbhe is trying to read his lyrics.

“No nickname, but I’d like one. Maybe you can give me one? Very much looking forward to it Synt’ and no, I don’t think you need a ticket to go. I’m pretty sure you just turn up and join the party.” – Ailbhe, whose accent doesn’t do the ‘-th’ sound very well. Also, she has no idea as to the ticketing situation of the Festivale. She’s right, but she is totally just making it up.

“I’d love to give you one. I’m already working on it. I’ll let you know what I come up with. I’m really looking forward to the Festivale too, it’s going to be great fun. I hope there’s plenty of food and music and dancing and fireworks and above all, I’m just glad I won’t need a ticket, because I haven’t bought one and I wouldn’t know where to do so.” – Synth, excited to have found just about the only person in Stonebridge capable of keeping up with his scattered approach to conversation.

While this is happening, Michael at the bar feels a stout presence behind him, at his elbow. He turns slightly to see a heavy-set dwarf of considerable years with a long, well-maintained salt-and-pepper grey beard. His bare arms are corded with hard muscle, an artefact of decades of hard work at the forge. His eyes are a cloudy white, but the dwarf seems to be able to see without any difficulty.

“I see the kids are getting along well.” – The dwarf, gruffly, jerking his head back in the direction of Syntherion and Ailbhe in the booth, their conversation growing louder and more excited by the minute.

“They’re chattering away like a house on fire!” – LD, before dissolving into a helpless fit of laughter.

“Seems to be the case, friend. Michael.” – Michael, extending a hand in greeting towards the dwarf, who takes it in a grasp which feels like it could crack a brick.

“Ignus. The lad is Syntherion, the Danann, Hadrina.” – Ignus, indicating the two other members of his little ‘family’.

“Well met.” – Michael, who receives his drink and then decides to wait for Ignus to order his own.

“Two ales please and I also have a question. The man who took off into the night before, what room was he staying in?” – Ignus, handing over a few coppers.

“I suppose he won’t be coming back for anything in there. Third floor, second door on your right. Let me know if you find anything worthwhile.” – Mallida, pouring two flagons of frothy ale. 

Receiving the ales, Ignus and Michael make their way back to the booth, joining Syntherion, Ailbhe and an increasingly annoyed Hadrina.

“Okay, we have the innkeeper’s permission to go check out that man’s room upstairs. Who wants to help me search it?” – Ignus, directing his question to Synth and Ailbhe, who both nod with some excitement.

“Sure.” – Michael, taking a draught of ale. Leaning against the wall in the booth, Hadrina nods too.

Together, the five traipse upstairs, Ignus swiftly falling behind, in part due to his stocky build and advanced age, and in part due to both Synth and Ailbhe fair racing one another up the staircase.

Eventually, Ignus joins them at the room, with a disgruntled expression upon his face, and withdraws the key Mallida gave him.

Opening the door reveals a small, simple room. There is a single bed, made, pushed against the far wall. There is a dresser too, a washbasin and a small table with a single wooden chair next to it.

“Here, look.” – Hadrina, pulling a small slip of paper from where it is tucked beneath the side of the thin mattress. She unfolds it, reads it and hands it to Ignus.

I hear them – The note, thin lettering written in black ink in a spidery hand.

“Nice writing. Looks educated.” – Synth, looking at the note over Ignus’ shoulder.

Other than the note, there is little of any consequence. No signs of belongings the man has left behind, nor of any other writing.

“The bed’s made. Doesn’t even look disturbed at all. How long did the innkeep say he was here? Three days, no?” – Michael, puzzled.

“Aye, there abouts. Look at the dust everywhere too.” – Ignus, running a single finger on the beaten pillow upon the bed. It comes away with a thin layer of dust.

“The only thing not covered in dust is this chair over here.” – Hadrina, pulling the chair out to inspect it.

“Mood.” – LD.
“Yeah, that’s just me going to work. I go in the room, sit down and just wait to die.” – Yohan.


“What do you think he could hear?” – Ailbhe, reading the note herself. No one answers her, though Ignus, Hadrina and Michael all share a dark look.

“He must have known he was going to die and wanted to go out on his own terms. It’s really the only thing I can think of. He must have been planning this for a while.” – Hadrina, quietly.

They continue to search for anything of note in the room but turn up nothing. Eventually, the companions troop out of the room, leaving Hadrina as the last.

The Danann sighs, disappointed, and follows the others back downstairs to the common room.

Within the tavern, the rest of the night passes otherwise uneventfully. After some time getting to know one another over a few drinks, the five eventually retire to their respective rooms.

* * *

“Quick, quick, come in, come in.” – Caitrin, holding open the front door for the three companions.

Having brought the limp body of Tomas to the safety of the Or’Saer Emporium, Marwolaeth begins to set about the task of preparing a place to treat the boy. She takes off her coat and gloves, putting them aside, wincing as she disturbs her burn-wounds.

“You need to have them looked at yourself Marwolaeth.” – Caitrin, gesturing to the substantial injuries her sister bears.

“Not until the boy’s looked after.” – Marwolaeth, who proceeds to do exactly that.

The next hour passes swiftly as Marwolaeth, with the assistance of Caitrin, ensures the boy’s survival. Eventually, bleary-eyed and weary, Marwolaeth is convinced the boy will make it. His airways are clear, but his breathing is still weak, and she can hear the stress of his scarred lungs with every breath he takes.

He has, thankfully, not been too severely burned. In fact, her own wounds are worse in such regard, as she correctly surmised earlier. With the boy now resting fitfully in a cot, Marwolaeth allows Caitrin to attend to her own burns. Shadow offers a hand too, holding equipment and salves for Caitrin as she deftly cleans and dresses Marwolaeth’s injuries. She also must clean and stitch the glass laceration to Marwolaeth’s hand and the puncture wound to her calf. It is slow going in the uncertain light as Shadow hands Marwolaeth a very strong drink to take the sting away and then holds a candle close to the wounds for Caitrin to work by.

Outside the infirmary, Bryn has removed her own outer-coat, frowning at the singeing and burn-marks upon it. She sits behind the front-counter, Venn curled up on the ground at her feet, feeling helpless. It is an unusual feeling for her.

She doesn’t like it.

* * *

And that is not where we left it, but I’m doing the thing where I sit on a piece of work for months without really getting anywhere with it, so I’ve decided to split this session in half…

The Wrap-Up:
There we have it, the Chéserquine has passed over the region of Stonebridge. This was a good little introductory session I feel. Everyone seemed to enjoy it and we even managed to get two of the groups to sort of join each other. :P

Obviously, there is more interaction between the two groups in the second half of the session which covers the day after the Chéserquine, but I felt the end of the night was a pretty good place to leave our tale for now.

Also, our next write-up will be Session 0.5: The Good Brother, which will be our last prologue, set contemporaneously with Session 1.1 and 1.2, which will see Charlie introduced into the group.

In addition to this, we will also be playing Session 1.3 this weekend, all going well, which is very exciting. We are expecting the full complement of players too, which is always nice.

Thank you for reading,




22
Norbayne / Re: Norbayne Short Stories
« on: January 25, 2021, 11:40:10 AM »
Spoiler: Addiction (click to show/hide)

23
Announcements! The Town Crier! / Re: WINTER CREATIVE COMPETITION: AURORA!
« on: January 12, 2021, 04:12:49 AM »
Alright, entry has been submitted. :)

24
Definitely in agreeance that the original Necron theme was definitely going for Egypt rather than, say, Mesopotamian or Mesoamerican. Or perhaps, rather than ancient Egypt in general, so much as Egypt specifically in a way which was inspired by the Mummy films of the 90's (which I think is a big part of the inspiration behind the Tomb Kings from WHFB, or at least the direction they went in over time in that game)

Immediately upon seeing the topic here, Star Gate was the first thing I thought of. Admittedly, beyond that, I didn't really think of too much else. I didn't even click with Necrons to be honest, because I personally kind of lump 40k in with fantasy rather than SF.

25
Tabletop Design - The Senet House / Re: Warhammer: Tides Of The Old World
« on: December 07, 2020, 03:10:06 AM »
Jubs, not sure if I should say this publicly and if you want to delete this comment, please do, but [snip].

Also forgot say, fantastic work Baragon. I'm looking forward to the High Elf book specifically, but will throw my vote in for Empire again as Jubal is correct in suggesting that is often the 'central hub' of a game.

26
Hope the Kickstarter is successful mate. I've backed it, unfortunately not as high a tier as I wanted to, but work has been a bitch lately.

Good luck! :)

27
Announcements! The Town Crier! / Re: Tourney: Kickstarter Now Live!
« on: November 23, 2020, 12:10:51 AM »
Good luck Tusky. Will be backing it pretty shortly. :)

28
General Chatter - The Boozer / Re: Exilian Discord Server
« on: November 19, 2020, 09:25:46 AM »
Hey Jubs, could I get an invite please?

Also, pretty sure you can change a setting to make an invitation indefinitely. Not certain on that count, but I think it is the case.

29
I would have loved to delve into the rats, but I waffle on far too much for a 300 word wrap-up at the best of times. :P

30
The Welcome Hall - Start Here! / Re: Meet the shantyman!
« on: October 31, 2020, 11:46:55 PM »
Good to see you Owlman. Hope you find some cool stuff here and enjoy the community. :)

Pages: 1 [2] 3 4 ... 204