Write-up by Dangerous Brian
Compassionately, they do not disclose the fate of the living Dalish hauled from the cages by the dark-spawn. Though the party -and especially Iah- feel the plight of the Dalish tug upon their heart-strings, Lothryn and Laria press upon the others to look to the safety of the living -and in particular, the threat faced by their own folk, with but three untested knights and a handful of farmers to defend them. With some haste they forgo the climbing route and instead make their way along the caltrop laden trail, Laria carefully sweeping the fiendish devices from their path with the aid of her quarterstaff.
Once again however, the log bridge proves a formidable obstacle. Iah and Ogden cross without incident, Ogden taking up a defensive position on the opposite side. Yet keen-eyed Laria is no more than half-way across when she spots the absence of a great many dead birds and the recent additions of several silken threads hanging from the trees near Ogden and Iah. Laria calls out to the others that something appears to be wrong and, with directions from Laria, Iah's own eyes soon fall upon the threads. Suddenly terrified, the apostate whispers that these are the webs of horse spiders – a cat-sized breed of spiders known to jump the length of a grown man and outrun the swiftest horse!
(OOC: Think Camel Spiders, only meaner!. Actually, the scenario calls for a single giant spider. However, working on the basis that the only thing scary than one big spider is a swarm of big spiders, I down-sized the beastie and decided to give it some friends)
Iah very quietly passes on this news to Ogden and suggests they both begin to back away onto the log and find another route. As they do so, Iah notices a number of beady black eyes regarding her from the various treetops. Laria, too turns on the log in a bid to make her way safely back the way they came. Alas, her foot slips on the mossy surface, and though her fingernails scrabble and claw deep gouges into the rotten bark in a bid to halt her fall, Laria plummets into the poisonous thorns below. Though her leather armour protects her from the worst of it, her exposed hands, throat and legs are ripped and torn, the pus coloured toxins of foul blighted plant-life pumping deep into her grizzly wounds. Yet she feels no pain from her savage injuries, seeking to fall into the quiet, peaceful embrace of a deadly sleep.
(She fails a Con check against poison. I adapt the rules for bleeding to death and informed Laria's player that her Con has been reduced to zero by the poison and that she will loose another point of con each round until she dies at -3 con. Glum faces all round from the worried players.)
Reacting almost immediately, Lothryn, closer than the others given that he has yet to set foot on the log and well-protected by his mail armour and gauntlets, lowers himself down to the gulley floor (about twenty feet below), dropping the last twelve feet or so. He sets about hacking a way through the blighted rose-bushes with his blade, cleaving a path to rescue the fair, distressed maiden.
Between the noise of Laria's rather impressive fall and Iah's sudden shout of dismay, a great racket disturbs nearby birds and wildlife within the forest – and does not fail to attract the attention of said arachnids. As Ogden watches, axe hanging at his side in limp horror, a dozen or more of the largest, hairiest spiders he has ever seen begin lowering themselves from the top branches of the trees before him. He quickly pats Iah's shoulder to gain her attention before practically propelling her backwards and onto the log. Thinking quickly, he removes the last bladder on oil from her belt and sets to creating a circular sheet of flame around his side of the log. The approaching spiders chitter in frustration and begin washing their palps with greedy anticipation.
At this same moment, Lothryn, thankfully unharmed by the thorny vines which lash out at him with a feral, unthinking will, cleaves his way to Laria's side. Yet the lass in embedded in a veritable field of barbed thorns, he realises that freeing the lass without causing her further harmful injuries may be well night impossible.
Above, Ogden and Iah scamper across the log to safety, both nearly slip and fall themselves, but manage to leap the final distance to lay spread-eagled upon safe ground while the log bridge tumbles and rolls into the gulley below, thankfully missing both Lothryn and Laria in the process.
The Knight steals himself to painfully rip Laria from her thorny bed, reasoning that, with her flesh so pale and cold, any further delay might finish her regardless. Applying his great strength he pulls her from her thorny prison and runs back in the direction from which he came, towards Iah and the healing herbs he knows her pack contains.
Ogden lowers Iah down to the waiting Ser Lothryn, who steadies her as she falls the last of the twelve feet or so to the gulley floor. There, without pause, she swiftly sets to tending Laria's wounds with herbs and pungent poultices. Her healing efforts are successful. All three gasp in delight when a deathly pale Laria sucks in a great breath of air and moans her agony. Yet the lass remains unconscious.
(In actual fact, if it weren't for Laria's place in the initiative order -after Iah- and the fact that Iah had selected the novice healing talent at first level -allowing her to use the heal skill as a minor, rather than a major, action- we'd have had our first PC death there and then. That 3 points in constitution rather than strength worked out well for her after all).
Lothryn, reasoning that the flames around the log will not be enough to stop the horse spiders from approaching them via the gulley itself, quickly lights a torch and sets himself to setting the dry, diseased rosebushes themselves alight. This plan works well, as revealed by the sibilant, pained hissing noises that erupt from the vicinity of the burning foliage.
Night falls while Iah continues tending to her friend, doing all that is possible to make the comatose woman more comfortable. Yet the angry chittering noises continue, though at a much reduced volume, implying that the numbers of the swarm have been much reduced by Lothryn and Ogden's fire-raising efforts. The two males (dwarf and human) fashion a make-shift litter from fallen tree branches and old cloaks. With Laria thus supported between the two warriors and Iah keeping a torch-lit watch, the party begins moving along the gulley floor, looking for a way up.
Eventually the gulley slopes upwards to meet the forest floor. Using the stars now-visible between the tree-tops, Lothryn sets the party on the path towards Vintiver. Finally making the boundary of the forest after many hours of distraught travel, Lothryn begins to realise that something is wrong even before they reach the edge of the treeline. With the smell of all too abundnant woods-smoke fragrant in the night-time air, Lothryn signals for the others to wait while he creeps forwards to the forest edge. Using his shield to ward his torch-flame from sight, he soon crosses a rise, to reveal the Chantry steeple of Vintiver outlined against the glow of flames. Vintiver is burning, and tiny, armed figures mill around in deadly battle outside the chantry.
~ Inside the Chantry ~
Sister Arda (played by Andy) gathers the huddled women and children together by the brazier of the Eternal Flame. Standing by her pulpit, she speaks rousing words of hope and solidarity in the face of evil, testifying that Andraste herself did not weep in fear when besieged by the force of the ancient Imperium. That she instead gave vocal prayers to the Maker and extolled the men to fight on for the lives of their families and their loved ones. While the orange glow of the burning town shines through the stained glass of the Chantry windows, she organises the womenfolk of Vintiver into teams ready to fight the flames and others ready to tend the wounded men-folk who fall in the defence of the town.
(OOC: The successful Communications roll included a 5 on the Dragon Dice. Unbeknown to the players, I began recording the number on the dragon dice for successful Military Lore and Communication checks made in defence of the Chantry or to inspire the villagers. The course of the battle would be determined by how well they could convince the terrified farmers to fight - and by how well they could lead them).
Meanwhile, the three knights, (Shelby, Fossett and Garrett, played by Caroline, Silv and Aimee respectively) stand bloodied and soot stained by the Chantry doors, now braced and barred. The three newly raised squires profess their plans for the defence of the Chantry, attempting to persuade the aggressive and near-maddened Cobden that to charge forth now would be suicide. The mighty smith, his arms stained with the blood of many dark-spawn, ignores the impassioned pleas of Shelby and (the far-less coherent, lisping) Garrett but succumbs to Fossett's far more reasoned, if undiplomatic protests. Yet, though persuaded that attack is not yet an option, he flatly refuses to accept the leadership of the knights, calling them upstarts and puppies, reminding them that he, not they, is Alderman of Vintiver.
Fossett's subsequent response is both undiplomatic and unhelpful, and though his assessment of Cobden as a clueless ass is no doubt both accurate and precise, it does little to diffuse the tensions amidst the leadership. Even as the first, dreadful reverberations of the dark-spawn ram shake the rafters of the Chantry, Sister Arda makes her way to the conferring warriors and yea, verily, deliver unto Cobden something of a dressing down. She goes so far as to remind the Alderman that, while these three may be young for knights, they did not earn their early anointing by pounding metal pigs in a bloody forge. Cowed, Cobden relents and agrees to follow Fossett's orders.
(Again, some good Communication rolls from Arda and -surprisingly- Fossett, contributing to their overall chance of survival).
The rafters shake again. Cracks begin to appear in the Chantry doors. Women weep. Children cry. Amidst the background of this panicked tumult, Cobden agrees to send some young lads with hunting bows up to the bell tower. Meanwhile, Shelby, having remembered the side chambers, presses upon Arda to provide keys for the Vestry and her living quarters. On inspecting the rooms in question, he determines that the arrow-slit window in the priestesses' bedroom is secure enough, posting only a single young lad here to watch for burning brands thrust through the opening. The other chamber he finds far more worrying, for it contains the back door. He calls a party of six farmers to him. Immediately they set about bracing the doors and piling furniture and religious paraphenelia into a barricade before this weak-point.
(Thereby preventing a rather substantial deduction of “dragon dice points” from their chance of winning).
Satisified that all the approaches are now protected (he can do little about the high glass windows) Shelby -via Fossett- orders the remaining male villagers to form up in two lines before the main doors, shoulder to shoulder, with whatever weapons they can find or have to hand. His speech is both passionate and stirring, calling the warrior hidden in the breast of every man, as he pledges to save the village or die trying. He publicly flatters Cobden a great deal, swearing that he could ask for no better man to stand beside in battle, and persuades the normally taciturn man to make a speech of his own.
Cobden's own speech is less apt, not as flowery perhaps, but delivered from the heart. Moreover, the black-smith is a local and a hero, well known as a brave man and able brawler. He swears that help is coming, that the “lord” Ser Lothryn will see the flames, as will their neighbour Ser Giles, and that even now all knights within the old Restenford lands are bearing down upon the foe.
The cheers of the assembled villagers raise the rafters, drowning out, if only for an instant, the terrible, inevitable boom, of the darkspwan ram.
Tthe doors begin to splinter...
*****************************************************************
Three miles to the westward, an exhausted Lothryn runs in his mail, as swift and sure as if the hounds of hell itself were in pursuit. Ahead, in the near-distance, he can smell the freshly cut hay from the fields of Oakenfield. As he crests a rise, the village itself comes into view into the far distance. And yet... closer still, the welcome sight of horseflesh and the glint of moonlight on steel. Lots of steel. Oakenfield is riding to war.
*****************************************************************
Elsewhere-
Iah, Ogden and Laria crash through the open door of a small thorpe, taking shelter while the sky remains lit to the north by the rape of Vintiver. Lights still burn within, the foul smell of cheap candles permeating the air, expunging the far finer smells that emanate from cooked food still set out at the table, ready to be eaten. Of the occupants, there is no sign, save that of a hasty departure.
Carefully, Ogden sets an unconscious Laria down upon a pallet in one corner of the single-roomed hovel. Iah rushes to the fireplace to build up the fire, knowing that light may give them away, but equally aware that without heat, her childhood companion may not live out the night. Outside, she hears the sound of conversation from the direction of the barn. Shushing Ogden, she creeps to the rear window, taking position beneath, and peels back her hair to better hear what is said outside. The voice she hears is a welcome one. Outside, two cultured voices speak of needing more knights, while a younger, more rustic voice, frets on the fate of his parents. With a gleeful shout, she spring up to peer out the window, coming face to face with a young Vintiver farmer and an older, blonde-haired, bearded knight. Yet Iah has eyes only for the third man, grizzled and weary. Ser Farradin. Laria's father and protector of her childhood home.
(Remember those riders Lothryn sent out? Going by how ardently Andy punched the air, Lothryn's player certainly did!)
Atop skull hill, Lothryn and the balding, aging Ser Giles exchange brusk greetings. Neither has time for platitudes on so fell a night. Giles has but six men at arms , all commoners, well-armed and trained to the lance and saddle. But few, far too few to save Vintiver. And yet Ser Giles intends to try. The old knight is still hale, his visor pulled back to reveal a many-scarred face and fierce, flinty eyes. So formidable is this proud warriors name, that Lothryn almost believes Ser Giles alone might win the day. But even with the award of a remount to his fellow knight, the band of rescuers will still number only six – for Ser Giles has sent one man north to Brigton, another south to Restenford. Even if all his men fall tonight, Ser Giles swears that Restenford and the other towns shall not be caught unprepared. Pumping his arms thrice into the air, Ser Giles calls “For the Oak and the Blade!”. The defenders of Oakenfield ride to battle. And Ser Lothryn rides with them.
Iah, Ogden and Laria crash through the open door of a small thorpe, taking shelter while the sky remains lit to the north by the rape of Vintiver. Lights still burn within, the foul smell of cheap candles permeating the air, expunging the far finer smells that emanate from cooked food still set out at the table, ready to be eaten. Of the occupants, there is no sign, save that of a hasty departure.
Carefully, Ogden sets an unconscious Laria down upon a pallet in one corner of the single-roomed hovel. Iah rushes to the fireplace to build up the fire, knowing that light may give them away, but equally aware that without heat, her childhood companion may not live out the night. Outside, she hears the sound of conversation from the direction of the barn. Shushing Ogden, she creeps to the rear window, taking position beneath, and peels back her hair to better hear what is said outside. The voice she hears is a welcome one. Outside, two cultured voices speak of needing more knights, while a younger, more rustic voice, frets on the fate of his parents. With a gleeful shout, she spring up to peer out the window, coming face to face with a young Vintiver farmer and an older, blonde-haired, bearded knight. Yet Iah has eyes only for the third man, grizzled and weary. Ser Farradin. Laria's father and protector of her childhood home.
(Remember those riders Lothryn sent out? Going by how ardently Andy punched the air, Lothryn's player certainly did!)
Atop skull hill, Lothryn and the balding, aging Ser Giles exchange brusk greetings. Neither has time for platitudes on so fell a night. Giles has but six men at arms , all commoners, well-armed and trained to the lance and saddle. But few, far too few to save Vintiver. And yet Ser Giles intends to try. The old knight is still hale, his visor pulled back to reveal a many-scarred face and fierce, flinty eyes. So formidable is this proud warriors name, that Lothryn almost believes Ser Giles alone might win the day. But even with the award of a remount to his fellow knight, the band of rescuers will still number only six – for Ser Giles has sent one man north to Brigton, another south to Restenford. Even if all his men fall tonight, Ser Giles swears that Restenford and the other towns shall not be caught unprepared. Pumping his arms thrice into the air, Ser Giles calls “For the Oak and the Blade!”. The defenders of Oakenfield ride to battle. And Ser Lothryn rides with them.
******************************************
In the thorpe, Iah and Ser Farradin embrace through the window. “We had feared you all lost. Iah, tell me, where is my daughter?” Iah leads a frantic templar to his daughters sickbed. He weeps for a moment, holding her close, begging her to live. Yet when he raises his eyes from his daughter's prostrate form, they blaze with fury. At his demand, Iah explains what happened. Grimly, he stiffles a noise, somewhere between laughter and a sob, "My daughter, of all daughters, laid low by a bush." He turns his glare upon Iah. “When I return, you will give me a full accounting of events.” It is not a request. Angrily putting spur to horse, he yells for the farm boy to guard Laria and Iah.
Farradin and his companion, Ser Florin, Castellan of Restenford, ride northwards to battle. Inside the hovel, Iah wipes a wet cloth across the brow of her friend, sending a silent prayer heavenword for the people of Vintiver. Outside, a still gravely wounded Ogden looks gleefully at the farmboy's horse – Ser Lothryn's spare mount- and smiles.
****************************************************
To the west, six riders watch a band of wolves and dark-spawn, some fifty or sixty strong, frolic and romp through the burning homes, none further than a short run from the barred, closed Chantry doors. A smaller band set their backs to ramming the doors again and again, already light leaks out from inside, showing through several large cracks in the doors.
Ser Giles: “We cannot ride against that and live.”
Orange and yellow lights leap and dance across his craggy, veteran's face. The flames reflected there by the polished steel of the helm he holds in weathered, calloused hands.
Ser Lothyrn can only growl and nod. He too, is determined to try nonetheless.
Placing his helm on his head, Ser Giles flexes the shoulder joints of his armour, once. Twice. Fiercely, he growls:. “When the doors are down. We ride. Take the bastards in the rear. With the Makers grace, they'll break.”
Lothryn nods again.
Ser Giles nudges his mount forward. A patchwork beast of fur and so-many scars it would almost seem a childs hand-sewn toy from a distance, this veteran beast almost as old as the knight himself, snorts its anticipation at the bloodletting to come. Atop this veritable avatar of war itself, Ser Giles rides proud before his men, like a Prince addressing an army rather than a single knight addressing a small, hard-bitten, desperate band. Back straight. Sword held out and high before him clasping the hand of each man with him for the last time as he passes by.
Below, with a crash like the sound of hell itself bursting forth, the doors to the Chantry fall, ablaze. The roar of the dark-spawn horde echoes through the fields, only to be drowned into oblivion by the fierce call of Ser Giles:
“All men know fear”. His eyes capture those of his men this one final time. “As you love Andraste! Cloak fear with courage and FOLLOW ME!”
**************************************************************
Ser Giles: “We cannot ride against that and live.”
Orange and yellow lights leap and dance across his craggy, veteran's face. The flames reflected there by the polished steel of the helm he holds in weathered, calloused hands.
Ser Lothyrn can only growl and nod. He too, is determined to try nonetheless.
Placing his helm on his head, Ser Giles flexes the shoulder joints of his armour, once. Twice. Fiercely, he growls:. “When the doors are down. We ride. Take the bastards in the rear. With the Makers grace, they'll break.”
Lothryn nods again.
Ser Giles nudges his mount forward. A patchwork beast of fur and so-many scars it would almost seem a childs hand-sewn toy from a distance, this veteran beast almost as old as the knight himself, snorts its anticipation at the bloodletting to come. Atop this veritable avatar of war itself, Ser Giles rides proud before his men, like a Prince addressing an army rather than a single knight addressing a small, hard-bitten, desperate band. Back straight. Sword held out and high before him clasping the hand of each man with him for the last time as he passes by.
Below, with a crash like the sound of hell itself bursting forth, the doors to the Chantry fall, ablaze. The roar of the dark-spawn horde echoes through the fields, only to be drowned into oblivion by the fierce call of Ser Giles:
“All men know fear”. His eyes capture those of his men this one final time. “As you love Andraste! Cloak fear with courage and FOLLOW ME!”
**************************************************************
In the Vestry, Shelby roars at the first blighted wolves to leap through the shattered side-door. Through the stained glass of the Chantry windows, Fossett sees the dark silhouettes of dark-spawn hauling themselves onto the roof. At the main doors, Garrett and Cobden roar defiance at the dark spawn pouring in. By the altar, Arda leads her flock in prayer.
The Battle for Vintiver is about to begin
Having taken command of the fighters in the Vestry, Shelby roars into the gaping, frothing maw of the first blighted, mangy wolf to leap through the shattered side-door. Through the shattered windows, Fossett spots the dark silhouettes of dark-spawn climbing siege-ropes on their way onto the roof. By the main doors, flanked by the terrified but stalwart men of the village, Garrett and Cobden scream defiance into the teeth and weapons of the dark spawn pouring in. Above the sudden sounds of clashing arms and terrifying combat, a new, hopeful sound rises, the singing of the women and children, led by a tearful but unbowed Sister Arda.
“Hold the line” comes Garrett's call, even as he meets the teeth of the first blighted wolf to leap through the flames of the barricade on his shield, for the time being he concentrates on weathering the onslaught rather than taking the lives of his foes, even as more of the foe pour in through the shattered doors. Beside him, the defenders recoil, but the line does not shatter, a few men fall only to be hoisted once again to their feet by those behind, the oncoming darkspawn met by a hedge of spear points, sharpened scythes and other farm implements. Beside him, darkspawn break against the stoic Cobden like a wave upon the rocks, but the mighty smith stands his ground, hammer swinging left and right, shattering limbs and frothing, wild maws.
In the vestry, Shelby's wolf lunges again, yet the knight once again raises his shield in time to knock the beasts head aside. Fossett meanwhile, leaps up the belfry stairs, arriving in time to see one of the youths stationed there desperately fend off a darkspawn scimitar with the stave of his bow. Grabbing the youth by his shoulder, Fossett yanks the youth back down the stairs, stepping into his place. While the straight steel of his knight's blade meets the rusty iron of the the darkspawn, he shrugs his left shoulder, his shield falling into place on his left arm.
Below, the female elf screams for mercy, cowering behind the altar as good men fight all around her. With a howl she leaps to her feet, scrabbling towards the fighting at the main doors. Sister Arda leaps forward, grabbing her and bearing the desperate, panicking elf maid to the stone floor. There, she spies and odd gleam of silver in the elf maiden's hand.
“They're just dogs boys!” Shelby calls to the men next to him, “And they'll die like dogs too” As though to prove his own words, Shelby swings mightily, his blade severing the muzzle of one blighted-wolf, the follow through severing it's throat. In a spray of dark, tainted blood, the animal falls. Around him, the men defending the vestry grit their teeth, inspired by the young knights example, and lay into their foes.
Above, Fossett takes a blow on his helm, though he recovers well, a staggering step nudges one of the boys fighting beside him, using his bow stave like a staff. Alas, the miss-step costs the boy dear, forcing his belly onto the point of another Darkspawn's scimitar. As the boy falls, Fossett orders the other lad behind him on the stairs back into the Belfry. To the lad's surprise, as much as the knight's, he obeys and sets about avenging his fallen friend.
Still beset, his fighting skills hindered by the loss of so many fingers, Garrett continues to parry blows than seeking to strike, defending both himself and the unshielded Cobden by his side. The Blacksmith however, already covered in small, minor wounds, drops a wolf with every blow, anchoring the line, inspiring the villagers with his deeds even as Garrett and the singing of the women continue to bolster their courage with words alone.
Behind the line, on the stone floor, the elf and the priestess grapple, the elf maid desperate to flee the church, the priestess equally determined not to allow the witless lass to throw her life away in her fear.
“You're not a damn wolf, you're a damned pussy!” Shelby roars, his blow severing the spine of another tainted wolf. He strides forward, crushing the beats last breath from its chest beneath his armoured boot, the might of his onslaught pushing back a second wolf until he stands, alone, in the shattered doorframe, facing a wall of eager, waiting darkspawn. Behind him, the men of his guard finish off the remaining wolves in the vestry, stepping up to stand behind the seemingly mighty warrior warding the doorway like a titan. “Come on then!” The young knight roars at the waiting ranks of darkspawn, wiping away tainted blood from his jaw with the back of a chain gauntletted hand. “Which of you bastards is next?”
Atop the bell-tower, Fossett takes a minor wound to his thigh, saved by his armour. Yet the boys next to him are younger even than he, and lack both his protective chainmail and any training in battle. Not wishing to see them die needlessly, he orders the boys back down the stairs and takes position by the belfry door. Alone, he faces down the three darkspawn who share the belfry with him, all too aware that, even now, a second group are making their way up the siege ropes towards him.
Below, Garrett yells for oil. The older boys dash forward from behind the ranks of the men, pouring pitch and oil onto the wooden furniture and bales of straw piled up by the doors. In moments, the barricade has become an inferno, but still the maddened darkspawn leap the flames and into the fray, careless of their own burning limbs
Outside, Lothryn and the mounted knights of Oakenfield charge down slope, the hooves of their mighty warmounts drumming against the hard ground, moonlight glinting from sword, mail and lance alike. To his left, the knight see's two more armoured knights ride from the south to join their line, Ser Florin and the Templar Farradin -and not far behind them, a third figure, bouncing madly atop a horse wide-eyed with fear. A figure that is all arms and stick out legs. A figure that has clearly never before rode a horse to war and has no notion of the use of a stirrup.
Ogden.
Before he can utter a sound, a single, mad voice rises up in laughter, carrying above the sounds of battle and burning homes alike. Ser Giles waves his sword in the air above him, catching the red of flames and the silver of the moon alike.
“For Oakenfield, for Andraste and for all Ferelden!”
Riding knee to knee, lance-points unwavering before them, the knights charge home.
[next] session seven
[background] life of lady nimue
No comments:
Post a Comment