Concerning Fobbits

“In a hole in the ground there lived a fobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a fobbit-hole, and that means comfort.”

“Fobbit \’fä-bit\, noun. Definition: A U.S. soldier stationed at a Forward Operating Base who avoids combat by remaining at the base, esp. during Operation Iraqi Freedom (2003-2011). Pejorative.”

Now, a Fobbit may not be the tip of the spear, the haft, or even the handle, but make no mistake, they’re worth their weight in gold. Sure you can hire torchbearers and guides, guards and mules, but a fobbit is where it’s at. They are so much more than just greengrocers, scribes, quartermasters, hostelry sweepers, and iron mongers. They are quiet lot, much their like their cousins that are to be found over the water. They too are connoisseurs of the finer things in life, like tobacco, ale, and several first-rate meals a day. Adventures? Gold? Glory? Dragons? Not so much… they tend to be nasty, dangerous things that make you late for tea. Don’t be put off by the fobbit and his reticence for high adventure, nay, it is in the rear with the gear that they really shine.

A fobbit knows things, lots of things. A fobbit also knows people, lots of people, and when you combine these two things, something miraculous happens. Having a fobbit in your party (albeit lurking at the back, trying his best not to squeak or die of fright) gives you access to all relevant and current information wherever you are, and I mean wherever. So much so, that when a fobbit rolls on any rumour table, he rolls 1d4 + 2. That alone is fairly handy, but when you combine it with their innate sense of what is real and what’s horse-crap, a fobbit can tell you 75% of the time whether any particular rumour is true or not.

They know how to bargain. When you let a fully, dialled-in, fobbit loose on a market place, he automatically knows where the goods are, and not just the usual rubbish they pass off to tourists either, they get you the good stuff, and they get it cheap. If a fobbit is doing the purchasing for you, rest assured you will be buying everything at 33% cheaper than the listed price, and, there is a 5% chance that anything they buy is magical. Need a repeating crossbow that fires silver bolts? Ask the fobbit, they know where all the latest gear is to be had.

Got some merchandise you want to sell? Even if it may be just a tad, hot? No worries, a fobbit will not only be able to sell the goods, he can get you 10% more than you would of got having done it yourself, they also know where all the best ‘fences’ are, so purloined goods won’t raise any suspicions, or the local guard.

They also know how to stretch a meal. In the capable hands of a fobbit, iron rations are some seriously gourmet s&%t! Seven days of rations becomes fourteen in the hands of these little miracle workers. They can forage the same as any Ranger can, and not just out in the wild, the fobbit forages in an urban environment as well. 

Turning this...

Into this!

Travel pass not up to speed? Fobbits can forge documents that will stand up to the severest of scrutiny, and if that doesn’t work, they are a dab hand at blackmail and insinuation. They can find out the peculiar peccadillos of just about anyone, from the lowest bottle-boy, to the Huzzar herself.

Now, there a few things that Fobbits are not good at. Combat, not their strong suit, and if they draw their weapon, you had best steer clear. They fight at -2 on their ‘to-hit-rolls’, and there is a 30% that they might actually hit the closest party member. Nor are they as stealthy as their Hobbit cousins. In fact they generate noise at an alarming rate, and can be heard coming from miles away. They also require XP more than most. At the end of an encounter, the Fobbit claims not just his share (even if they didn’t actually kill anything) but they take an extra 20% of the top.

So, there you go, all this and more for only 100gp a week. Fobbit!

Gulch. If the fallen angels don't get you, the whores will

It begins, as it so often does, in the darkness, in the nothing, under a heavy blanket of silence.

There’s an almost epochal stillness between the breaths, or the screams, as old collapses into fiery oblivion and gives way to the new.

 (It all depends on what kind of day the universe is having)

At first it is just void, then there is something tiny, yes, understandably so, but a fuck lot bigger than what was there three seconds ago. Three seconds ago, there was absolutely, bloody, nothing.

The something twists, and turns, and grows, and surrounds itself with an embryonic sac of light, and it is the first, of the first things, to grow.

Soon, others will follow.

It has become. It thinks. It thinks, ‘I am hungry’.

But there is nothing for it to eat because that has not been created yet. All in good time, all in good process. Strange fruit will sadly come to bear.

Then it cries. Loudly. And all hell breaks loose.

More light, more sparks, more creating, more, everything. Anything to shut it up. It smells the nourishment all around, as it darts its heads forward, pecking at the universe. It eats till it can eat no more, and then it retches.

The contents of its innumerable guts flow out into the spaces around it; stuffing vast, purple, cavernous stretches of emptiness, like deserts of midnight, with celestial vomit.

Spinning droplets are coalescing, becoming moons, becoming planets, just thrilled to be becoming something, rather than endless, nothing.

It grows, as it should. It is now fully formed and large in thought and kinetic deed. For what would be the purpose of tiny, inconsequential, creators? They must govern entirely, or not govern at all.

 Its breath frosts in the cold, creating the stars, fixing the heavens.

It is now the largest being in existence. It comprehends its heft and finds it good. It cups its genitals and finds it even better. It is both light, and dark. The beginning, and the end. The taker, and the sustainer. It is life, and life begets life.

It shoots it seed out into the void.

Countless, glowing, spiraling spermatozoa, like shooting stars, are sprayed into the dark to seek the thrumming, squirming, eggs that lie at the centre of the planets. The asteroids scour the endless cold for the warmth of a liquid core; their tails corkscrewing them onward to fulfill what they were made to do.

And when the pulse of warmth is felt, when a planet displays its heated nucleus to the heavens, the asteroids adjust their path accordingly, and slam into that surface with the force of the cosmic rut that begot it. The space travelers winnow their way down through the seas and sediments, until they can go no further.

Of such dalliances, gods are made.

And when they are ready to be expelled (the gods, fully-formed, with a willingness to govern and have others follow) their planets explode, massively, sending them off into the universe to find another home and make a kingdom for themselves. A place to call their own. They leave behind naught but debris, and a hole so black and powerful that not even light can escape its clutches.

But they are jealous gods, and will often go to war, because they seek to become the dominant force and sole focus of adoration and endless, ululating, worship.

But who knows their ways and paths better than themselves? Not I, I wouldn’t dare, lest they smite as they see fit. It is not for me to report on that, I tell all I’ve been privy too.

However, what I can state, with a certain degree of certainty, is that not all asteroids make it all the way down to the swollen, vulgar, baboon buttocks, at the centre of a world.

Some die, flopping and gasping, like a fish out of water on the surface, or just below it.

Over time it fossilises, and is known as Aether, by the elves, Manna by the dwarves, Godsmack or Godspit by the clergy, and Angeldust by the humans. It is the most costly element in the universe. And it attracts all sorts of madmen and women to try and find it. It is hailed as a ‘God-in- a-bottle’ and its restorative qualities are legend.

It can be mined, like its poorer cousin gold, it can also be panned in the rivers and streams of the high places, lying there, glittering, glowing…

 It is everywhere, you just need to know where to look for it.

One place it was rumoured to be, in abundance, was north of the Vergil Corridor, on the Highveld, in a small settlement called, Gulch. A rough and ready place if ever there was, and believe you me, if the fallen angels didn’t get you, the whores would…

People of Gulch

Gunther Glass: Mayor of Gulch and first known discoverer of Godspit. Ranger 5th)

Gunther Glass, a trapper, near death from parasites and bear trauma, rolls off his mule and falls head first into a freezing mountain stream. He goes under, several times, each one longer than the last. He feels the warm embrace of death on his august frame and is ready to surrender to its inevitability. His hands drop to his sides and rest upon the stream’s floor. Someway, somehow, he makes one last attempt to live, and his frozen hand grabs a nugget of pure Godspit from the bottom of the stream. He described it later to me, as if he had been hit by a bolt of pure lightning. He told me that he fairly flew out of the chilled mountain and onto the bank to thrash about blindly, like a trout on a hook.

He said he’d never felt so alive. Just by holding the glowing rock, he had given himself a new lease on life. He had the energy to build himself a fire, make a shelter, and hunt down a pair of klipspringers (rock jumpers) for his supper. In the morning he was up before the sun examining the element that had made him whole again.

The early morning light had robbed it of its ghostly glow, but it still shone brightly, none the less. It was verdant green, with flecks of mercurial silver, and banded by stripes of urgent red. There were many other hues to behold but his untrained eye grasped the obvious ones first. After he eats his breakfast he heads back to the stream to find more, and spends the morning panning but to no avail. There was none to be found. Six days later though, higher up the tributary, and using a rock pool to create a primitive sluice, he uncovers a chunk the size of the palm of his hand, and when he reaches out to grab it, he is rewarded by the familiar shock of pure energy, and the wild taste of sweating copper in his mouth. After several weeks of panning and primitive mining, he needs to frequent a town of sorts so that he may purchase enough supplies to see him through the upcoming winter, as well as aid him in further exploration for this most holy of minerals.

I do not know how much he got for those first few, fragile, ounces of Godspit, but he was wise enough to not flood a non-existent market with all he had. It was enough however, to see him return to that place with a wagon, mules, lumber, and suitable supplies for the task that lay ahead.

It wasn’t all plain sailing for Gunther, far from it. The mountains are dangerous at the best of times, doubly so when you have your head in the ground seeking what the gods have cast asunder. Orc, ogre, wolf, both dire and timber, all tried- unsuccessfully- I may add, to snuff out Gunther once and for all, but the nuggets of pure Godspit he kept on his person had somehow managed to change him, to heighten his senses, and make him more than capable of seeing off any would be aggressors.

Once though he lost a great deal of his right thigh muscle in a savage fight against several wolves who were hunting below the snow line. He thought he was done for, as help lay many, many leagues away. But in his pain and delirium, he heard a voice as if coming from above, and it told him what to do. He crumbled one of the smaller pieces of the Godspit into a fine powder then added boiling water to it so that it became a paste of sorts. He plugged the wound with it, covered it with torn strips of cloak, and waited. Less than a week later it was if nothing had happened. His leg had not only had fully recovered, but had never been stronger. He truly felt as if he were getting younger, and stronger.

And so it went for at least two years, Gunther mined where he could and sold what he had, but always slowly, he didn’t want to give the game away. But the Godspit had entered society (albeit on the extreme fringes) and people talk. A loose tongue is more dangerous than an unsheathed sword any day of the week. The Godspit was sold by the local merchant (who had taken to grinding it up and sniffing it, to experience the most incredible sense of euphoria he had ever felt) to a wandering mage, who tried some in a fiery conflagration spell and nearly burnt down an entire forest instead of just roasting a horde of attacking goblins.

 Godspit, like most things, should be used in moderation. But these were early days, heady times, where people were still in the experimental phase and paid no heed to the potential consequences, and believe me when I tell you, that there were consequences aplenty; with fallen angels being the least of them…

(To be continued)

Healers. Curing haemorrhoids, one hot poker at a time.

"We got the kingdom, we got the key

We got the empire, now as then

We don't doubt, we don't take direction

Lucretia, my reflection, dance the ghost with me"

Leviathan: Verse VII.

Not all who are drawn to the service of the gods are blessed with the ability to cast spells. For some, all they have is their devotion when it comes to making a difference. None more so than the Sisters of Mercy.

The Sisters are a sect of cloistered healers dotted around the realm in some of the most extreme locations imaginable. The order is old, hierarchical, and completely unrecognised by the larger churches who merely pretend to do good work among the poor and the impoverished. The Sisters work tirelessly in the frontier towns and borderlands healing the sick without spells, scrolls, phylacteries, or potions. Instead, they practice the unsanctioned art of medicine.

At the head of the Order of The Sisters of Mercy is the, Lucretia.  A title awarded to only the most devout, the Lucretia oversees the day to day operations of the Sisters, traveling from province to province visiting the temples, and assisting where she can. She is accompanied by her second-in-command, the Mortal Penitent.

The Sisters specialise in mostly mundane medical procedures like fixing broken bones or curing colds and humours, but some procedures require a more modern approach.

Cataract Removal. Initially, before the Sisters of Mercy perfected this treatment, a large needle was stuck through the cornea removing the lens from the eye pushing it all the way to the bottom of the socket. One misstep, and the sufferer was apt to be blinded instead of cured. However, a Sister who had returned from the Burning Lands used a different approach. A large hypodermic needle was inserted into the eyeball and the cataract was sucked out, instead of just being moved. This proved to be almost effective every time it was done. The cataracts would then be placed in a dish of warm milk, seasoned with cat urine, and sold onto magic users for spell components.

Haemorrhoids (also colloquially known as ’the goblin who lives in my anus’).  There are many treatments for this affliction, one is as simple as paying a halfling to  pull them off, but what has become even more effective, is the hot poker. The subject must disrobe, bend over, pull their cheeks apart and try not to move (or scream) as a large, hot poker, is inserted into the afflicted area. Cauterisation begins immediately. They say you haven’t lived until you have had this treatment. I’ve spoken to someone who’s taken an axe to the head as well as the poker treatment. He said he’d gladly take the axe, every time. 

Bloodletting. If you’ve been bitten by a giant rat, or spider, or anything that causes disease, then bloodletting is generally the only cure. A more sedate way of combating any blood borne malady is by using leeches, or tiny flail-snails. The critters are placed on the afflicted area and left to suck the blood from the patient. A quicker, more sure-fire way is of course, venesection. A vein is opened up and the blood is drained into a bowl. After 18 bowls have been drained, the patient will become faint, and collapse to the floor in good health. Bed rest and light duty is required for the rest of the month. No combat.

Arrow removal. Who hasn’t been hit by an arrow? Every adventurer worth his salt has a few scars to show. But what actually happens to the arrow heads once the party cleric has cast ‘Cure Wounds’? Are they still stuck inside? Most arrows are attached to the shaft by warm bees wax. When the wax has set, the arrow can be handled as normal, but when it is inside someone, and they pull on the shaft to try and remove it, the head comes off. Again, another invention from the Burning Lands has the answers: the arrow spoon. The spoon is inserted into the wound and covers the arrowhead completely, thus allowing it to be pulled out without doing further damage.

Constipation. A common ailment among deep delvers and dungeoneers is constipation. Surviving on iron rations for weeks at a time will do that to you. A Clyster is the answer. A Clyster is a long metal tube with a cup on the end to hold the appropriate liquid medication. The thin end of the tube is inserted where the sun doesn’t shine, and several cups of tepid boar’s bile, is poured into the cup. If this doesn’t do the trick, nothing will.

Flesh wounds. Axes, swords, daggers, they all leave their mark. Urine and vinegar is applied directly to the wound to clean out any bits of skin or amour before the wound is closed. If it is shallow enough, the wound can be sewn back together with catgut. If deeper however, then cauterisation is your only answer. And yes, it’s the same poker they use for combating haemorrhoids.

Head wounds. If the skull is damaged, it inevitably leads to brain swelling, and death. In order to alleviate the pressure, a hole is drilled into the skull. This was invented by sister Trepanus, hence the procedure is known as Trepanning. It is also effective in banishing demons and ending Charm spells. A tight fitting cloth cap must be worn at all times to stop birds from using the hole as a nest.

Anesthetic. A healthy dose of hemlock, mixed with arsenic and goats vomit  is  prescribed to kill the pain. If none of these are available, then consume an inordinate amount of ale, wine, or spirits. 

  

Back adjustment from years of wearing heavy armour and sleeping on the ground.

Bloodletting.

A Clyster

Hemorrhoid removal

Trepanning

  

 

Arrow spoon

P.I.T.C.H.F.O.R.K : Not your usual mob of angry villagers.

I 'aint afraid of no, P.I.T.C.H.F.O.R.K!

Sacked by a horde of marauding outriders as early as 153AL, the tiny sea-side town of Strathburl lay abandoned and neglected for centuries, until a small group of exiles made it their home.  It grew, albeit slowly, into a haven for refugees; those who had no chance of ever returning from where they were driven. It was a beacon of hope in an otherwise darkened land.  A place where people could try and put their lives back together. They became known as the Free Folk, and the town a haven for those who had ever suffered at the callous hands of others.

Out of this sense of civic wellbeing grew the will to turn the tables on the oppressors, and so rose P.I.T.C.H.F.O.R.K, a loose collection of individuals united in their quest to overthrow the yoke of tyranny everywhere. No madman, vampire, despotic overlord, mad scientist, or evil conjurer would ever feel safe again…

The Founding Members of P.I.T.C.H.F.O.R.K

Piter

He was seven when the war finally came to his village. Piter only survived by hiding in the barn under a huge pile of hay while feral dog-soldiers searched the village for believers. He was lucky. His family, and the rest of the farming community were marched off to the castle and imprisoned until either death, or the rats took them.

He never saw them again.

 Piter was saved by an iterant ranger who had been dogging the steps of the war band looking for survivors. After three hundred miles, seventeen hamlets, and one large village, Piter was the only one he came across. They escaped on foot heading north, travelling only at night and hiding during the day. They arrived eventually at their destination, the village of Strathburl on the coast of the Ageless Sea; and it was here that Piter was trained in the art of combat by a retired Fighting Man called, Sir Bellush the Angry. Because of his agrarian background and skill with farming implements, he chose a rather unconventional piece of kit as his weapon… a pitchfork. Piter modified it heavily of course, adding several fiendish innovations to its simple form. Tipped in purest silver with a haft of ash wood, it could pierce a steel breastplate as if it were the shell on a soft boiled crab. He smeared the prongs with the fermented residue of the hunter bush, guaranteed to cause paralysis in even the largest of opponents. Piter grew up to become the leader of this motley bunch of do-gooders, and is exceptionally zealous when championing the underdog.

Isla

Sold into slavery at the tender age of six, she spent her formative years in the vile clutches of the Bishop of Barton Hollow, a corpulent, slothful, pederast, whom she dispatched one evening with a dagger ‘borrowed’ from one of his bodyguards. She sliced open his more than ample gut and strangled him with his own quivering intestines.

 No one was sad to see the bastard go, not even his guards.

 They packed young Isla off with a bag of coin, a weapon, and a map on how to get to Strathburl. Despite their supposed ‘kindness’, she returned later that evening and did for them as well. It was retribution for years of sitting idly by while she and a host of others suffered the pawing’s of the lecherous cleric.

 When she had wiped the blood from her blade she set fire to the church and razed it to the ground. She danced wildly as the carven effigies of fallen gods exploded in a shower of sparks and hypocrisy.

Isla loathes the clergy. Hates them. She wields the fallen Bishop’s mace and wears boiled leather armour, daubed in the blood of her fallen enemies. Isla wears the heads of her enemies around her belt, and on the bridle of her horse. She enjoys the noise they make when she is in full gallop. Isla makes it her mission to steal from churches, and she uses the purloined loot to fund their enterprise against the unjust. Her war cry is ‘Fides Amplius’ which means, Faith No More, in the common tongue.

Tanner

Chained to a rowing bench since he was old enough to hold an oar, Tanner found his freedom when his galley was sunk in the Ageless Sea. He survived by clinging to a piece of broken hull. For three weeks he was at sea, living on rainwater and whatever fish he could catch with his bare hands. Eventually, when he was just about to give up and let the water roll over his head, he spied a light to the west. Tanner gathered whatever resolve he had left and struck out toward it. He made landfall four hours later and staggered into the firelight of the local tavern, collapsing at the tavern keeper’s feet. When he was better he began his training under the firm hand of Sir Bellush. Years of constant rowing have left Tanner exceptionally strong. He prefers the feel of wood in his hands so he has chosen the staff as his weapon of retribution. His years at sea have given him a keen understanding of the weather and its ever-shifting patterns. Tanner can predict rainfall almost to the second. Oh, and he hates boats. Vehemently.

Coleen

A living blood-bank for a half-vampire, half-thrall, Coleen spent her youth in the rat infested cellar of a châteaux, halfway between the Free City of Cologne and the Port o’ Fears. Every third day she was brought up from her hole in the ground, to give sustenance to him-who-shies- from- the-sun. She filled his lifeless veins with her scarlet nectar, rolling back the years on that terrifying face, until he was but a youngish man in his early twenties with his whole life ahead of him. He looked almost human too, where it not for the ivory fangs that danced in his bloody maw. But Coleen saw him for the beast he was when she managed to slip her iron fetters and rammed a foot of hard wood through the creature’s heart. Oh, how she laughed as her tormentor writhed and flopped on the once plush carpet like a fish out of water. When his body had finally succumb to all the years he had stolen, she scooped his once powerful teeth into her pinafore and left the house forever. She found her way to Strathburl, just as all the others did. On her travels she had sewn the teeth into a necklace that she wore proudly around her ravaged throat. She had a look in her eye that made you forget any questions you might have about her wounds.  Because of her constant bloodletting, and infection from vampire spittle, she is now able to smell a vampire’s lair from at least five or six miles away, depending on how the wind is blowing. She can see in the dark, as well as hear at least ten times better than any rogue could ever wish for. She is also immune to any gaze/charm attacks a vampire may be hiding up his foppish, velvet sleeve. She hunts with hammer, stake, garlic, holy water, and wears a brace of crossbows on her belt.

Hengest

Once a Bard with a melodic voice, young Hengest ran afoul of Lord Ghasthorne for a supposed dalliance with his wife. The lovesick Lord had Hengest’s tongue ripped out for his imaginary sins. Robbed of his livelihood, he fell in with a group of teenage runaways heading to Strathburl. Hengest no longer plays any instruments and abhors the sound of music or singing. Clad in a black cloak with the cowl always covering his bald pate, this silent and stealthy boy tends to do his work in the shadows, forever fearing the lights of the stage. He is skilled in the art of the quiet kill, preferring the garrotte and the dagger to do his work for him. He has yet to pay Lord Ghasthorne a visit and settle the score.  But he will…soon.

Farouk

Sold by his father for lotus resin, young Farouk grew up in the desert. The environment was hard and merciless, much like his master. He was apprenticed to a sadistic Djinn weaver who beat and berated the boy daily, until one day, he could stand the punishment no more. Applying everything he had ever overheard from his master’s lotus stained lips, he summoned a Dust Devil that promptly ate his master and shat out his bones. Farouk escaped that evening, running as fast as his young legs would carry him. He has no recollection on how far he journeyed or where, all he knows is that he fell in with some kindly merchants, and after many months of travel found himself alone in the Inner Kingdoms on the outskirts of Strathburl. He has taken to studying the arcane art of summoning and creation, and the Dust Devil that slew his master is now a constant companion in their struggle to right the world’s wrongs. He calls it Faheem, the eater of black souls.

Ostra

Once a hallowed Temple virgin, Ostra was defiled by drunken priests in a supposed ‘religious’ ceremony. Bloodied, bruised, she killed them while they snored and spluttered in a drunken heap. Fleeing the temple she happened across an angelic embassy of her god asking why she has killed the High Priests of the Temple. She laughed, then laughed some more, then spat in his face and plunged her curved blade in his eye. They wrestled, and bit, and kicked, and fought for hours until eventually she won, forcing the angel to lick her bloody feet before going back to his mistress.  She turned her back on her old life, and when she found the village she fell wholeheartedly into P.I.T.C.H.F.O.R.K.

 It was possibly after their fifth or sixth mission together, that she crossed swords with her angel again. But this time, after she bested him, he too turned his back on his old life and bent his head in service to her. He is known to the group as Oculus the Fallen.

Revel

An honorary title given to the newest member of the party in honour of Revel the Harlequin, who fell in bloody battle against the Shadow Sorcerer, Bethomet. Whoever fills Revel’s place wears his colourful armour and mask of bells in remembrance of this once famed circus performer.

Kincaid

A certified genius, Kincaid fled the inhuman practices of Victor the Flesh-Joiner before he was to be cut limb from limb, and reconfigured… Kincaid brews potions, poisons, heals broken bodies, and assists wherever he can. He seeks out his nemesis’ creation, a monster built from the body parts of Victor’s family, and galvanised into living by massive amounts of lightning. The monster is neither living nor dead, it merely, is.  It terrorises lonely pockets of humanity before slinking back into the shadows. But Kincaid has received word that it’s been spotted mere miles away in the hamlet of Macsen’s Delve, and so, it is to this destination that the members of P.I.T.C.H.F.O.R.K are riding post haste, to see how they may assist. Fides Amplius!

Heavy hangs the head that wears the crown

“Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose?

To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude;

And in the calmest and most stillest night,

With all appliances and means to boot,

Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down!

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown…”

Henry IV Act III, Scene 1

“Dawn bleeds, so too do the soldiers below. Slaughter. Ambush. Early morning carnage. A young mage lies grievously wounded, legs smashed to pieces by the weighty sledge of a Warhammer. He crawls, broken limbed, leaving a crimson trail behind him. Words fail him, magic escapes him. All he has is the pain to keep him going, keep him searching for a place to hide.

The attack is over as soon as it is begun. Edvard hears the victors finishing off the survivors, one bloody scream at a time. He pulls two bodies on top of him, and for the first time in his life, he prays. He closes his eyes and waits for fate to deal her hand. Miraculously, he sleeps, and is awoken hours later by the peck-peck-peck of a carrion crow slivering his cheeks. He is alive. Never has anything felt that good to the young sorcerer.

He rolls from under the dead weight and raises himself to scan his surroundings. The sun is setting, the day is done, there’s blood in the sky and on the ground. He sees a familiar face and croaks until he is noticed. Relief washes over him, as his man-at-arms picks up his destroyed body. He passes out.

When he awakes again, he is alone in the dark. His mind returns to the attack and knows that such a brazen act could mean only one thing: betrayal. In the morning he summons what’s left of his father’s army. A quick head-count reveals who is not among them. The traitor now has a name. Prince Edvard leads them to the coast and across the sea to The Isle, and it is here that he waits for his revenge…” The Chronicles of the Lich Liege

And wait he did. Ten years became twenty. Twenty grew to forty, and still, he did not stir. His army grew, so too did his power; and when death came knocking again, he laughed in its cowled face, spat on the ground, and continued hating, continued planning.

 Then, one day, he unleashed the hate…

They spread quickly, like a plague, and over the water they came. Ships blackened the ocean and when they landed, fire and flame blackened the rest.  Edvard, the Lich Liege, rode at the head of the invaders and left none to live. The land was raised, the people destroyed, and the traitors made to pay for their deeds of yore.

 Edvard had not forgotten, nor had he forgiven, and even though these men were now very old indeed, he tortured them over as many days as their weakened frames might allow; and when they thought they were safe in death’s blessed embrace, he had them raised so he could kill them again. And again, and again, and again…

Edvard, finally King of his own lands, sat on his father’s throne and saw that it was good.

He ruled with a bloody fist.

 His reign of damnation knew no bounds. All that was, was no more. Only his castle now stood, the place of his birth, with the blood of the treacherous dripping from its walls, while the wind blew merry tunes through the eye-sockets of the fallen.

The castle became a symbol of evil, a blight on the ground from which it rose. It was dubbed the Maw, because once you went in, you never came out.

 He repopulated the land with his own people from The Isle, people he could trust. They wore his mark on their hands and around their necks; a seven pointed sign that came to signify pain and suffering on an unimaginable scale.

 His power grew even more, but so too did his distrust. Sedition, he imagined, was everywhere. He let slip his clergy on the lands to the south and they rode day and night seeking out those that would thwart their lich liege’s plans, or take up arms and turn their weapons against him.

Do-gooders, saints, fair of face and glad of heart had no place under the rule of the Lich Liege. All that was good was to be destroyed. The forces of Light fell quickly. The rule of law left the land. His clergy, or the Skinners, as they soon come to be known, were single-minded in their purpose. Driven to torture and to wear the skins of their victims over their own, they quickly turned the lands around Edvards kingdom to nought but waste.

But Edvard’s paranoia knew no bounds, he imagined he saw spies and agents of misfortune everywhere, even in those closest to him. He decimated his most loyal followers and thinned out the ranks of his armies until even they could not stand to live under his oppressive yoke.

Where there had once been nothing but dark devotion to their master, they sought to free themselves, and the land, of this, their ruinous Lich Lord. Those wearing the sigil of the Lich turned their hearts against him and stormed the very castle they had long protected. Edvard, betrayed by a revolution of his own making, watched in disbelief as his castle fell and was reduced to rubble all around him.

No one knows if he was vanquished that day, no corpse was ever found. The castle was soon deserted and left for the wilds to do with as they pleased. Stunted, misshapen trees now guard the hallways and meeting halls. Crows and rooks nest in the Black Tower and look down disdainfully at what was once the throne room of Edvard, the Lich Liege.

But true evil never dies… it lies waiting in hellish slumber for those fools brave enough to disturb its nightmarish sleep. Rumours abound of the treasures that were left behind, fortunes a thousand times over. Heaps of coin, barrels of gems, bolts of silk and other such finery all there for the taking.

And what of Edvard? Who knows, but it is said that a hollow figure dressed in ragged raiment walks the halls, planning… ever planning… his final revenge...

The Crow Road.

In Scotland the phrase, “The Crow Road” means death, as in, “Poor wee Tam, that last goblin checkpoint was just a bridge too far. He’s awa’ the Crow Road”.

In my game world, it’s a stone walled, sod roofed, howff, found on the lee-side of Stormness Harbour. A harbour that looks out onto a bit of sea called the Milch, with the low brown scrim of the Scapa Isles way off in the distance.

The Crow Road was built a hundred years ago, about the time the harbour was completed. It serves the local fishing community come rain or shine; and believe me, this far north, there’s more rain than shine. Famous for its food and stout, it’s known up and down the Highlands, and the Lowlands. Even the King has blessed this simple tavern with his regal presence and proclaimed the porter the finest beverage he’s ever tasted. In fact, a wagon-full heads south to Dumbarton castle monthly.

The owner, and brewer, and chief-cook ‘n’ bottle washer, is a strapping Highlander by the name of Angus McKay. He used to be an adventurer but gave it up after a near-death experience at the hands/ tentacles of some flesh-eating, otherworldly horror. He decided then and there, that he would sooner die in his own bed, than be little pink chunks strewn around the bottom of some obscure dungeon while grubbing for coin. Sod that for a game of soldiers were his exact words.

He bought the Crow Road off the then current owner for the sum of 500 gp and several head of Highland cattle. He built a small brewery at the back off the tavern, in the woods, close to a fast running stream. He buys his barley and hops from a local farmer and the rest is history. He blackens the barley to give his porter its distinctive colour, taste and aroma, and serves it as cold as possible by storing his barrels down in the cellar.

The howff is a busy one. Locals, wanderers, adventurers, off to try their hands at the ruins of Cunsmore Castle only sixteen miles along the muddy, wheel rutted road. There’s a dungeon there, a big one, goes down for miles apparently. Level upon level of coin and creatures, in the dark, waiting.

The locals are fishermen for the most part. Farmers, woodcutters, carpenters, boat builders, fishmongers. The usual sort it takes to make a town successful. The area is safer than most because the Regent is enamoured with what’s brewed here, so he’s stationed a full garrison to protect the village, especially the Crow Road.

Ceilidhs happen every fifth night around a roaring fire until the sun splits the sky and the hangovers start to split the head. There’s a wee group of minstrels who come up from the Bards College in the south to perform for everyone. They play the pipes and drums and the noise is truly something to hear. That’s when the Crow Road is at its busiest, full to the rafters with everyone in the hamlet, having a good time drinking, singing, and telling tales.

Here’s just a few people you might encounter on a wet and windy night at the Crow Road.

Fergus Conner.

Local lad and struggling artist. He’s taken to being a painter, much against his father’s wishes. He prowls the surrounding areas looking for inspiration, waiting for something to move him so that he might paint his next masterpiece. He has talent, that’s for sure, and he’s even managed to sell a few pieces here and there.  Nothing major, no royal or high-born commissions just yet, but give time he might just become incredibly popular if he finds a wealthy sponsor. He has done some private work that he keeps a secret. Some rather risqué pieces for Lady Hayes, full-length nudes of her Ladyship reclining in her boudoir. She sends them monthly to her ex-husband, Lord Hayes, so he can be reminded just what he is missing out on. She has taken young Fergus as a clandestine lover. He only hopes she will adopt his cause and get him to paint something other than her more than ample bosom.

Tam Broon.

Local farmer. His lands were once the site of the Battle of Culloden, where the King-over-the-Water faced defeat at the hands of the Sassenach invaders. He’s aye picking up bits-and-bobs from the battlefield and turning them into farming implements. His lands are haunted. Heavily haunted. You can’t turn sideways without bumping into some ghost or another. At night, especially when the moon is full, you can see them all lined up on either sides of his wheat fields, waiting for the order to charge. They are done come sun-up, but every evening they return to the fields to do bloody battle with each other. Most of the dead are harmless, but every once in a while, a Wraith will claw its way through from the other side and get up to all manner of mischief. Killing the cattle, eviscerating the sheep. It’s then that Tam has to call for the local Cleric to rid his land of the unwelcome visitor. Tam is married, seven children, all girls and the spitting image of their mother. Between the ghosts and the unwelcome suitors, Tam’s not shy to lets his hair down at the Ceilidh.

Father Colin McGuire

Local Cleric and arbiter in all matters that can’t be settled by themselves. Elderly, portly, but highly gifted and devout in his calling. He has a strong right arm, and many the times he’s had to use it. He was married, once, but she died when he was away in the Burning Lands. He never forgave himself, and neither did she. She haunts the woods surrounding the wee village. She has become a bansidhe and mourns for her love, nightly. He can’t stomach the thought of having to try and turn her, so he lets her moan and wail and slip forlornly through the trees. He likes to carve bits of driftwood into life-like replicas of the angelic horde. These he sells at the monthly market and spends the proceeds in repairing the local kirk. It needs a whole new roof, and Father McGuire won’t stop till it has one. In the basement of the kirk is a wealth of maps, books, strange weaponry and bizarre pieces of armour from his time abroad in the Burning Lands. He likes to go down there at night and relive his youth. He also keeps jars filled with large scorpions, spiders, lizards and other desert creatures.

Stewart Rennie

Local gravedigger. He’s a quiet lad, keeps himself to himself. Took over from his father when he passed away a few years back. He maintains the grounds surrounding the local kirk and ensures the gravestones are still standing after the sudden gusts and gales. But Stewart has a secret, a dark one. Every few weeks he heads south to the city for a few days. While he’s there, he kills people with his bare hands. He likes to strangle the life right out of them, see the fires die in their eyes. Then he dismembers the bodies bringing only the heads back home. The rest he leaves for the local watch to stumble over. He keeps the heads on wooden shelves in his cellar. He is a minor necromancer and uses a simple cantrip to keep the heads from rotting. He likes to cradle them in his lap while he brushes their hair. One hundred strokes precisely.

Morag Black

Known as the mistress of the Milch, Morag owns a fleet of highly successful fishing vessels, and is undoubtedly the richest person in the area. Not that you would know it though. She lives plainly, and simply, and is extremely charitable with her coin. She doesn’t believe in the gods so she won’t contribute to the rebuilding of the kirk, but she will help the Father with his orphanage work. She is a hard worker and her men would do anything for her. She pays well, on time, and with real gold. They would follow her to the gates of hell if they had too. Her only extravagance is a pair of gold earrings that she wears constantly. These she says she would use to pay the ferryman if she were ever drowned at sea. She makes sure her men do the same. She too has a secret. Once, when she was but a girl, she went out on her father’s row-boat to check the gill-nets. She pulled in a Merman who had become entangled during a storm the night before. He thanked her, and offered up his heart to her. She accepted and when she was of age the wed in secret. He can only come aboard her boat at night as he transforms into a normal man, but in the morning he must be gone.

 Next week I’ll type up a few more.

If you go down to the woods today... you're sure of a big surprise.

“If you go down to the woods today,

You're sure of a big surprise.

If you go down to the woods today,

You'd better go in disguise…”

I enjoy coming up with interesting places and people. So far we’ve been to Swamp City, Nazawrath, and met with the Midnight Ramblers. This week we’re off to the forests for some arboreal adventures and to listen to the songs from the wood. Ramble on!

Bestiary and Persons of Interest

Ghillies

More apex-predator than bucolic forest dweller, the Ghillies are unparalleled in stalking, hunting, and killing. If by the off chance you walk into some while traipsing through the woods, they are never surprised, ever. In turn, they always surprise, 100% of the time. It doesn’t matter how many rangers you have in the party, no one ever sees a Ghillie coming. In combat they favour bows and short blades, seldom using long swords or weapons of that ilk because they prefer to do their killing silently. They craft their arrow points from bone, and their stabbing/slashing weapons from flint and antler. They clothe themselves in the colours and the materials of the forest thus making them nigh impossible to spot. They use a plethora of poisons on their blades and arrows, ranging from the relatively benign to the downright deadly. Class all movement as silent, and visibility as if they were garbed like elves in their wooded environs. Because of their stealth and use of their natural environment, treat the first time they strike an opponent as if their enemy had been successfully backstabbed, even if the Ghillie was attacking from the front.

It’s rumoured they operate under impunity granted by the Arch-Druid himself, and are in essence assassins under his druidic control. They never attack without provocation though, and prefer to lay waste to bands of marauding orcs, goblins, bandits or anything else that may cause the forest and her inhabitants harm. However, if they feel cornered, or in any way threatened, they will attack. They sometimes perform bodyguard duties to high ranking Druids who have business far from their own forest holds.

They weave no spells, instead they rely on their natural skills and abilities of tracking and hunting that have been passed down from generation to generation. They are a nomadic peoples the Ghillie, preferring to spend each night in a different place, leaving before the sun rises. The Ghillie are rare, no one is very sure just how many there are in the realm, nor are they sure of their exact make up. They never mix with anyone else save the Druids, and the Druids are forbidden to speak of them. They are a mystery the Ghillie, a window into an older time, because surely, these primordial forest children were there when the first acorn was planted?

The Ghillie can be found in any forest, wood, wald, or woud there is. It’s not known if they use anything for transportation except their own feet, but they travel light and rely on the forest for food, shelter and medicine. Their language is not known outside of Ghillie or Druidic circles and they can also communicate in their own version of Thieves Cant. They also make fiendish traps to ward off people from areas that they would see protected.

Ghillie Spike Trap

For every ten Ghillie encountered, one will be at least a fifth level fighter. For every thirty Ghillie you come across there will be two fifth level fighters and one eighth level. Just who is in charge is anyone’s guess, and it’s said that men and women can lead a pack of Ghillie, they make no distinction between the sexes, and even the very youngest fight as a level 1 warrior. It’s said that those that survive an attack by the Ghillie are offered up in bloody sacrifice to Herne the Hunter, Protector- Deity of the forests. They also worship the Jack-in-the-Green, and are always a part of the Ceremony of the Green Slumber. (More on this below)

Ghillie Man-Trap

As far as treasure is concerned, they have no use for shiny coins or gaudy baubles, and these will be scattered around the corpses of the fallen as a mark of disrespect to their vanquished foes. They communicate with forest animals and use them to pass word from one group to another. They prefer dealing with badgers and squirrels for short distance message carrying, and crows for anything more than several leagues.

Jack in the Green

‘Have you seen Jack-In-The-Green?

With his long tail hanging down.

He sits quietly under every tree

 in the folds of his velvet gown.

He drinks from the empty, acorn cup

the dew that dawn sweetly bestows.

And taps his cane upon the ground

signals the snowdrops it's time to grow.

It's no fun being Jack-In-The-Green

no place to dance, no time for song.

He wears the colours of the summer soldier

And carries the green flag all the winter long.’

A rare and powerful guardian of the forest, the Jack in the Green is a sworn protector of all that live there. Incredibly tall, incredibly strong, he answers to no one, not even the druids. Jack is, as Jack does, and gods protect you, if you get on his bad side. Jack never dies, and Jack never sleeps, instead he patrols the forest for hours on end ensuring that all is well in his realm. He uses the birds and the beasts as his eyes and ears and he utilises the special skills of the Ghillie where needs be. Jack is a living thing, created from the flora of the Slumbering Green, and were his physical form ever damaged, or destroyed, it is to the Slumbering Green he returns to await the cycle of rebirth. While in this state, the Ghillie set watch in the Glade of Shadows where this magical transformation takes place. When in combat, Jack summons Tree-Kin, Ghillies and Swathe Elementals to his aide, as well as the regular denizens of the forest. He uses the grass, roots and trees to Entangle his foes, then douses them in Faerie Fire for added effect. Jack casts druidic spells as if he were a fifth level druid but prefers to duke it out old school. Jack can meld with the Root Mind of the living world, and travel vast distances to where he is needed most. He will sink into the earth and reappear wherever there is plant life.

Wildman of the Woods

Not much is known about the Wildman, except that he is shy and will do anything to avoid being seen. We know he exists, because the famed ranger, Greenslade Fane, has been studying them for years. Males stand between 8-10 feet tall, while the females are only marginally smaller. They tend to live in caves in the forest, near a source of fresh running water. They hibernate in the winter. Their diet consists of berries, roots and very occasionally meat, but this is the exception rather than the rule. They weigh around 350 pounds and one swat from their ham-sized hands would be enough to break your neck. If you see one coming, better turn the other way. They are peaceful for the most part, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Herne the Hunter

“Sometime a keeper here in Windsor Forest,

Doth all the winter-time, at still midnight,

Walk round about an oak, with great ragg'd horns;

And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle,

And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain

In a most hideous and dreadful manner.

You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know

The superstitious idle-headed eld

Receiv'd, and did deliver to our age,

This tale of Herne the Hunter for a truth.”

— William Shakespeare, The Merry Wives of Windsor

A woodland deity, bloody, bold and resolute. He is primal savagery given flesh, and, just like nature, he is red in tooth and claw. Clad in a helm of antlers, wearing armour of bone, and wielding a sword of ice, the Hunter and his pack of hounds stalk the wilds in search of wrongdoers to punish for their misdeeds, no matter how slight those wrongs may be. All transgressions are met with swift punishment, the severity thereof depends on Herne’s whim. Sometimes they would pay with their life, sometimes with the promise to do something for the horned hunter. Whenever the gods would track someone across any of the plains of existence, it is Herne they set on their quarry. He is a master tracker that sees all, not even invisibility could work against him and his hounds. Herne also ushers in the change in the seasons, and his celestial passing is tracked with great interest by the druids, who use their dolmens and standing stones to great effect. Lustful and wild the one moment, slothful and melancholy the next, Herne is a true servant of the Great Cycle.

The Hounds of Winter

“I still see her face

As beautiful as day

It's easy to remember

Remember my love that way

All I hear is that lonesome sound

The Hounds of Winter

They harry me down…”

Sting

Great hounds, massive beasts with tongues and breathe of wintery cold with flanks the hue of fallen snow, and their eyes! Their eyes are as blue as the icicles that hang from the boughs of the World Tree, and they sparkle and flash like lightning out of a vaulted winter sky. In addition to the terrible damage wrought by their sharp claws (1d8) and fearsome bite (1d10) they can breathe out gouts of frost (1d12) that will slow their opponent. Like Herne, they are keen hunters and nothing escapes their keen sense of sight, or smell. Not even being invisible can shake these dread hounds from your tail.

The Green Knight

A burly Knight of the Wood who journeys far and wide teaching the uninitiated in the ways of Chivalry and Honour, (and some say stupidity) through his use of the ancient ‘Beheading Game’. The Green Knight approaches those in need of the lesson more than most, and proposes that if they are brave enough, they may cut his head from his shoulders using his emerald axe. Not many take the Green Knight up on his bizarre offer because the caveat is as follows: that the Green Knight will return in a year and a day to do the same to them. If the player accepts the dare then he will indeed sever the Green Knights head from his massive shoulders, but the knight will not die, instead, he will pick his bloody head up by the hair, and say through his now bloodless lips, that he shall return in a year and a day to collect on his bargain. And so, no matter what happens, he will return, and if the person refuse to kneel and stretch their neck before him, they will be cut down and killed where they stand. However, if they acquiesce, then they are spared the fate of a beheading. Just what the lesson is in all of this is lost on most scholars, but the most famous player of this ‘game’ was Sir Gawain of Arthurian Legend.

Swathe Elementals

The fury of the forest given form. The swathe elemental can only be summoned by Jack in the Green, or by Herne the Hunter. Not even the Arch Druid has access to such mighty creations. Unlike most elementals, they are far from stupid, and do not resent being summoned to do their Master’s bidding. When angry, they appear like a large tree covered with snapping, thorn filled branches, as well as long vines for entangling and strangling their foes. When at ease, they appear as a human carved from wood, resting in the shade of a tree. There is no duration to how long a swathe elemental may walk the earth, only being dispelled by their creator will send them back to the Slumbering Green. So, they could be set to watch a particular area in the forest for many years without anyone being the wiser. They can only be struck by weapons of magic, and fire does double damage to them. When reduced to one hp or less, the life-blood of the swathe elemental is jettisoned into the ground through its roots to give life to the Slumbering Green, if it is needed, so, in essence, they never die, they are recycled and thus go onto to feed the next one.

The Vagabond King

A charismatic chap who rambles the greensward in search of easy marks. He does not use violence though, and abhors killing, much preferring to knock someone unconscious with his blackjack than stab someone with his dagger. He likes to target fat, slothful, merchants and bankers who have more than they could possibly spend. He travels with four extremely viscous Halflings though, who have no compunction about killing. Their names are Neeps, Tatties, Kith and Kin. The Vagabond King has to give them extra shares of the loot to sway their killing hands. He only keeps them by his side as he swore a dying oath to their mother. Were it not for that, he would be glad to see the last of their little bloodthirsty backs. There is a high bounty for the King, and an even higher one for his pack of feral Halflings, and the forest is littered with the bodies of those who have tried to collect, and failed. Be careful when you meet the King and his Halflings, you never know how it may go.

Oddities & Rarities

Chapel in the Green

An ancient place that was old when the lands were young. Many have worshipped here over the years, and the gods to which the chapel has been dedicated to, number in the thousands. It is a holy place, but it was built in honour of the Slumbering Green, as opposed to a god. There is always a caretaker set to guard the chapel and offer succour to those that need it. Once a person is inside the chapel, no bad deed can be performed there because of the overwhelming goodness of the Slumbering Green, and thus, this turns an evil mind who would hurt, to one that would help. Once such a person leaves the Chapel, that initial sense of euphoria and wellbeing will fade away, leaving the chaotic person somewhat dazed and confused. The caretaker is bound to house, feed and heal anyone who needs it, and will gladly accept any donations that the party (or persons) will make. Unbeknownst to nearly everyone, (except the caretaker) there is a swathe elemental right outside the front door that will aid the caretaker and the chapel if need be. If a person were to spend the night and pay a small tithe, they would receive a plus one to all their Saving Throws for that evening, and the following day.

Sword in the Stone

A moss covered boulder that does indeed have a sword sticking out of it. There is a motif of a sleeping dragon carved into the stone. The sword is a permanent illusion though, and it will disappear the moment someone tries to grab it, and draw it forth. However, that being said, let the players roll percentage dice, and, if one of them rolls a 1% then the sword is indeed real! It is Caliburn, a sword of legend. A longsword of +3/+5 vs. Dragons. It will vibrate and hum whenever a dragon is near. The wielder will automatically take only half damage from dragons’ breath and is immune to its charm.

The Hop

That’s what happens every seventh day, the people of the forest gather right after sunset to listen to music, swop stories, and generally catch up with all the news. The entertainment is provided by a singing group called The Beetles, which are famous throughout the greenbelt. The get-together is called a Hop, in honour of a type of dance that is performed to the music.

The Trees of Cloth

A tradition to mark the passing of a loved one, a piece of the deceased’s hair, or clothing is tied to a tree and left. It is done to ensure that the soul of their loved one makes the journey to the other side successfully. It is bad luck to remove any item of clothing from any of the trees.

The Trees of Coin

Unanswered prayers? Well head to the Tree of Coin to remedy that. When you feel that things are just not going your way, drive a coin into the boughs of the Tree of Coins, say aloud what it is that you are looking for, then leave. Hopefully your luck will change for the better. You may only hammer in one coin per new moon. It goes without saying that taking from the Tree of Coin would be a bad, bad, thing. The kind of thing that might even get you on Herne’s bad side if you were ever to cross paths.

Random Encounters/Plot Hooks

Centaurs

You stumble across the slain bodies of several centaurs. A local druid beseeches your help in tracking down, and bringing to justice, their killer.

Dryads

A Dryad spirit has been kidnapped by an evil entity that has set up home in the forest. Find out what it is, destroy it, and help the Dryad back to its kind.

Bear with a sore head

A bear is seemingly responsible for several fatal attacks in the past few weeks. Find out what’s going on.

Prince

A prince has escaped his tyrannical father and fled to the forest. Help guide the boy to his mother, the queen, without being caught by the Kings bloodthirsty bondsmen.

Greys

I’m not really one to mix Sci-Fi with my Fantasy, but I couldn’t resist a nod to E.T. Help a group of Greys find their friend who disappeared over a week ago while exploring  the forest. Perhaps he was captured by an evil witch? If she gets her warty little hands on any of his alien technology, she could become damn near unstoppable.

Sit back and listen to the songs from the wood.           

 

Lost and VERY far from home.