"The Club" A Mobile Barracks in an undisclosed location near the front. It is a gray afternoon, the air moistened by a light drizzle. The mood in the HQ is appropriately somber. The fighting has gone on for weeks without an advance on either side. Some scattered troops sit at the tables. Support staff bustles around them - cooks, medics and squires.
Everyone chatters among themselves between pulls of ale and bites of plain bread. You're able to pick up snippets of news from the barracks staff - none of it particularly encouraging. Rumors of new flying machines and more horseless vehicles, maybe more monsters add an ominous new element to the already dire conflict.
Heads turn to the creaking of the entrance door as it opens. The newcomer is a male Gnome in the uniform of the Messenger Service. He stomps in with high black boots and a long combat knife hung slackly on his belt (by Gnomish proportions). His drab olive fatigues have splotches of mud on them. He wears a harness over his chest to which several small vials - presumably potions - are clipped. He deftly unrolls a scroll and speaks in a high, tinny voice that somehow carries through the room.
"News on the war. The Lorsan Flatlands has been overrun. The 1st and 3rd Armies were forced to make a tactical withdrawal. High Command insists this was a minor setback."
Groans, mumbles and head shaking come from some of the staff. The messenger continues. "An all points bulletin has been issued to announce the loss of Sir Trath, hero of the Battle of Stogrilm Field. Maybe he rest in peace. That is all." The messenger rolls up his scroll, tucks it through his belt, does an about face and exits the barracks.
On one of the cots by the back wall, August Colborn wakes up.
Waking up had become a startling ordeal, like someone coming up for their first breath of air after being swept under a tide. In many ways it was, considering the dreams that were continually trying to pull him under and perhaps claim him permanently.
Taking a moment to collect himself, August adjusted the band that covered his empty eye socket, a gift from the halfling medic who had been tending to him a few weeks ago. Actual eye patches were reserved for officers he had learned, and to even think of any kind of regeneration was probably a punishable offense. Apparently this was an unremarkable injury, something else learned, as eye gouging was a common attack against armored soldiers from all types - enemies, monsters, scared villagers, and so on.
Most paid him no mind as he moved to grab some bread from one of the support staff piling loafs on a nearby table, the daily rations that formulated a soldier’s diet. Ever since his return to the barracks and active duty he had been regarded with the usual indifference, common to his rank, with some flickers of surprise and amusement. The closest thing he had gotten in terms of a debriefing was from his captain who merely stated that he was ‘bloody lucky’ and took his lapsed memory of the details as typical fighters’ amnesia. ‘Common in the field, give it time. Might come back, might not. And maybe for the better.’
Lucky yet maimed, perhaps in more ways than physically apparent. However, looking around at the chatting group inside the barracks it occurred to August that he now resembled more his fellow troopers. Almost everyone bore some physical mark, save the freshest of recruits and even they possessed the bruises and cuts from training.
August grabbed himself a mug of ale as he made his way through the staff towards the assortment of troops at the tables, eavesdropping on the conversations — flying machines or armored dragons, a wizard’s illusion perhaps? — as he pushed the last remnants of his troubled dreams from his thoughts.
“To Sir Trath,” August said in the usual soldier’s salute to no one in particular in way of trying to join the conversation, rising his mug slightly before taking a drink of the lukewarm ale to wash down the bread he had earlier. They were troopers, not knights, yet some degree of the social graces existing in war remained.
"Just a flesh wound," August chuckled softly to himself as he nodded once in thanks to the dwarf worker refilling his mug. Politeness being an ingrained habit, 'like a lord' as many had previously sarcastically noted, a trait taught from his late mother.
"Any idea what caused the lines to break so easily? These metallic, lifeless creatures? A windmill could kill a careless man sure, but I don't see it inspiring fear."
"It is usually magic," he said grimly, repeating a mantra he had learn the past years as a soldier. Was it weird? Unexplainable? Magic. Was it something your command didn't want to explain to a bunch of cannon fodder villagers turned troopers? Definitely magic. Always magic.
"I for one would not want my father hearing that his only son was killed in battle by a frog. Nor would Sir Trath's I'd imagine." A pause, another swing of ale, the social elixir of the commons. "Did any of you slay one?"
Wilhelm Cragheart"You can't kill what was not there. People that saw frogs were just seeing things!"
Eric Schenkle "I ran at least three of them frogs or frog things with my sword blade! I know what I saw!"
John Wyvern "Our foes are men, humanoids. People with two arms, two legs and a head. That i who are foes are...not frogs! People!"
Gilbert Grimm "It was the scary magic sound! Making everyone think they saw scary frogs!"
Balthor Flameblade "That is all battle ashes! No spellcaster would make scary frogs. What is scary about a frog? If it was an illusion why not make make them scary animals? Likes snakes!"
Uryaen Caellae "You all know nothing! The creatures were not frogs! They were Ceremorphs!"
"Ceremorphs?" He repeated the word with curiosity and another sensation he could not describe, shifting his attention to the new arrival to the group's conversation. He did his best to ignore the brief itching in his eye socket that quickly faded to a dull ache towards the back of his head, something mentally written off as residing discomfort from the injury. The injury he could barely remember getting.
Uryaen Caellae"It's how mid flayers reproduce. The word comes from the Elder Tongue—cere means "brain." andmorphmeans "form." They The burrows into its victim's brain, quickly consuming much of the gray matter and replacing the consumed brain with its own squalid tissue. In effect, they melds with the un- eaten lower brain stem of the victim, k i l l i n g all remnants of the personality and spirit of the victim, w h i l e leaving the physical body a l i v e for the tadpole to use as its own body."
Mizzet the Astronomer "Vile soft fur rats! Stealing and using the neo-born!"
Balthor Flameblade"That is a nice scary story for younglings. "
"Ah," August let out in something of a reply as he tipped back his ale and drained the remainder of it. In the darkness behind where his eye once was, at that moment, he could almost swear he could make out something.. was it teeth? Tentacles? He might have been startled were it not for the ale and many nights of restless dreams ebbing his nerves.
"So a lecture from a wizard made physical. Or a hangover." It was meant as sarcasm, deflecting some of the seriousness about the topic like the others. There was something to be said about being overly eager and curious. Or was he just being paranoid? "Speaking of lectures and wizards though, where did you hear this.. ah, intel from? One of their lot?"
Uryaen Caellae"I have read a number of books....it must have been in one. "
Mizzet the Astronomer"Far Beyond the Dark in the Outer Lands the Caves of Thought pulse with all knowledge!"
A human male in nicer leather clothing : Captain Loxus Shackraos "Well, good to find you all in good spirits. At ease, don't get up. The army is a mess. We can't field even a single unit. And we have a problem. A supply wagon train is struck in a grove a bit south of here. The enemy has a force encamped right off the road. The wagons will never get by them.
We.......need to distract them. The seventh wagon has some secret healing potions for the rich officers that got some cuts and bruises in the battle. So we nend out a force to get them away from the road. But we don't have an organized force. I'm going to lead that force.....and I'm looking for volunteers."
Wilhelm Cragheart, Eric Schenkle, John Wyvern, and Gilbert Grimm each stand and volunteer
He had stood with the rest of them to volunteer, because what really was the alternative? Stay sitting and looking feeble? No one might say anything to him but the mark would remain. He'd probably be peeling potatoes with the support staff as no one would trust him enough to have their back.
It would be six of them by August's count, enough to provide a distraction and not get slaughtered.. just like last time. Six made for delicious odds.
He grimaced at the thought and pushed it aside, unnerved by its origin, the vague words of the medic coming back to him once more. Something about guilt and lost of comrades. He hadn't been paying attention because his head had ached at the time but now it offered a comfort in the sense of an explanation. The horrors of battle were not unique to him. Getting back out there, out doing what he was trained to, would be a beneficial distraction. A first step in healing.
Captain Loxus Shackraos"Good to see you all are still ready for some battle. Drink up....but get some rest. We head out at first light. Meet up at the field south of camp. See you then, men."
Captain Loxus Shackraos turns and leaves the room. Once he is far enough away:
Wilhelm Cragheart"All right, action!"
OOC:Unless you want to do something, we can fast forward to first light at the field.
First light had come quickly after gathering up the usual supplies - weapons, armor, etc - and arriving at south field. Like the rest August could feel and resonated a similar energy mixed between excitement and anxious reservation, 'the arousal of battle' an old training hand had termed it. As Cragheart had mentioned earlier, it was a chance for action, a possibility to do what soldiers were meant to.
Captain Loxus Shackraos is waiting in the field with a group of thirty five troops. He waits a bit for everyone to come into the circle.
Captain Loxus Shackraos"All right, listen up. This is primary a diversion. We need to draw their force away from the caravan road. What is left of the first battalion will move in across the grasslands to get their attention. They will strike and fall back, getting the enemy to break their lines and follow them. What is left of the reserve unit will move to strike their camp.
WE will be right in the middle, to break their lines. Once they stretch out....we strike. Cut them into two groups, then we strike down at whatever group is bigger...and keep it up.
And our wagons get through. Everyone got it?"
Everyone gives a quick "hurrazz"
Then it's the classic solders curse: Hurry up and wait. Your group of over fifty now spreads out behind a hill of high grass. And wait. For hours until:
"Too arms!" As running through the grass comes the bloody first battalion, and they circle around past the hill....being followed closely by enemy troops in leather.
Hell was definitely waiting. While the discipline of a soldier had been instilled into all of them, patience was a virtue that few of them were blessed with. By the time the call to action came it was a welcomed relief, the sound of metal scrapping out of its scabbards echoing from trooper to trooper as the first bloodied battalion ran past. August had followed suit, longsword removed from the scabbard across his back as he readied himself into position for the volley of approaching enemy combatants.
August was not a man of high bloodlust yet the thrill of battle never eased to creep though his veins. It was a life of adventure with the risk of death or a life of contentment with the risk of boredom. In his mind, the choice was easy.
The bloody first battalion, and they circle around past the hill, with the enemy troops right behind. The mass of unorganized troops just run forward at random. They all look like fast skirmishers: a mix of humans, orcs and half orcs all in light leather armor, most have spears, a couple have a sword or axe.
Two half orcs, in leather armor and with spears, move to run right by Wilhelm Cragheart, and he comes right out at them....
Wilhelm Cragheart initiative: 3
Half orc skirmishers 1017
Wilhelm Cragheart makes a wide swinging attack 20
Wilhelm Cragheart slips over his own feet and it slows him down and throws off his swing. He dodges the first spear strike at him, but the second spear hits him right in the thigh for a bloody wound.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
By the time August sees Cragheart go down in the vicinity he has already moved to engage the passing skirmishers, his longsword slashing out as the pair of half orcs move pass.
Attack Attack: 6 Damage: 0
(OOC: if I've messed any of this up let me know, I'm a beginner in the game mechanics)
"The Club" A Mobile Barracks in an undisclosed location near the front. It is a gray afternoon, the air moistened by a light drizzle. The mood in the HQ is appropriately somber. The fighting has gone on for weeks without an advance on either side. Some scattered troops sit at the tables. Support staff bustles around them - cooks, medics and squires.
Everyone chatters among themselves between pulls of ale and bites of plain bread. You're able to pick up snippets of news from the barracks staff - none of it particularly encouraging. Rumors of new flying machines and more horseless vehicles, maybe more monsters add an ominous new element to the already dire conflict.
Heads turn to the creaking of the entrance door as it opens. The newcomer is a male Gnome in the uniform of the Messenger Service. He stomps in with high black boots and a long combat knife hung slackly on his belt (by Gnomish proportions). His drab olive fatigues have splotches of mud on them. He wears a harness over his chest to which several small vials - presumably potions - are clipped. He deftly unrolls a scroll and speaks in a high, tinny voice that somehow carries through the room.
"News on the war. The Lorsan Flatlands has been overrun. The 1st and 3rd Armies were forced to make a tactical withdrawal. High Command insists this was a minor setback."
Groans, mumbles and head shaking come from some of the staff. The messenger continues. "An all points bulletin has been issued to announce the loss of Sir Trath, hero of the Battle of Stogrilm Field. Maybe he rest in peace. That is all." The messenger rolls up his scroll, tucks it through his belt, does an about face and exits the barracks.
On one of the cots by the back wall, August Colborn wakes up.
Waking up had become a startling ordeal, like someone coming up for their first breath of air after being swept under a tide. In many ways it was, considering the dreams that were continually trying to pull him under and perhaps claim him permanently.
Taking a moment to collect himself, August adjusted the band that covered his empty eye socket, a gift from the halfling medic who had been tending to him a few weeks ago. Actual eye patches were reserved for officers he had learned, and to even think of any kind of regeneration was probably a punishable offense. Apparently this was an unremarkable injury, something else learned, as eye gouging was a common attack against armored soldiers from all types - enemies, monsters, scared villagers, and so on.
Most paid him no mind as he moved to grab some bread from one of the support staff piling loafs on a nearby table, the daily rations that formulated a soldier’s diet. Ever since his return to the barracks and active duty he had been regarded with the usual indifference, common to his rank, with some flickers of surprise and amusement. The closest thing he had gotten in terms of a debriefing was from his captain who merely stated that he was ‘bloody lucky’ and took his lapsed memory of the details as typical fighters’ amnesia. ‘Common in the field, give it time. Might come back, might not. And maybe for the better.’
Lucky yet maimed, perhaps in more ways than physically apparent. However, looking around at the chatting group inside the barracks it occurred to August that he now resembled more his fellow troopers. Almost everyone bore some physical mark, save the freshest of recruits and even they possessed the bruises and cuts from training.
August grabbed himself a mug of ale as he made his way through the staff towards the assortment of troops at the tables, eavesdropping on the conversations — flying machines or armored dragons, a wizard’s illusion perhaps? — as he pushed the last remnants of his troubled dreams from his thoughts.
“To Sir Trath,” August said in the usual soldier’s salute to no one in particular in way of trying to join the conversation, rising his mug slightly before taking a drink of the lukewarm ale to wash down the bread he had earlier. They were troopers, not knights, yet some degree of the social graces existing in war remained.
Durlan Daynore "Look what rot grub finally rolled out of the cot. Take a seat August. We are no liberty, until the long beards figure things out. "
John Wyvern "The healers said you might be off your feet for a couple days. Not too many though"
Wilhelm Cragheart "We lost a lot of troops in that last fight. Not killed.Routed. Lots of lines broke and troops scattered."
Eric Schenkle "Not counting all the deserters. Cowards running off to save themselves."
Gilbert Grimm "Our whole unit is gone. Some dead sure, but mostly just scattered."
The dwarf worker comes over to refill everyones mug.
"Just a flesh wound," August chuckled softly to himself as he nodded once in thanks to the dwarf worker refilling his mug. Politeness being an ingrained habit, 'like a lord' as many had previously sarcastically noted, a trait taught from his late mother.
"Any idea what caused the lines to break so easily? These metallic, lifeless creatures? A windmill could kill a careless man sure, but I don't see it inspiring fear."
Gilbert Grimm "Seems a bit much. Some people heard a scary sound, but most think it might have been magic"
Durlan Daynore " Or them frogs...them scary frogs with the spikes in the tongues!"
Wilhelm Cragheart "There were not any blasted frogs on the battle field"
Eric Schenkle "Right as fight, them things were not frogs...they was something else"
John Wyvern "That is all dragon dung! It was just poor discipline!"
"It is usually magic," he said grimly, repeating a mantra he had learn the past years as a soldier. Was it weird? Unexplainable? Magic. Was it something your command didn't want to explain to a bunch of cannon fodder villagers turned troopers? Definitely magic. Always magic.
"I for one would not want my father hearing that his only son was killed in battle by a frog. Nor would Sir Trath's I'd imagine." A pause, another swing of ale, the social elixir of the commons. "Did any of you slay one?"
Wilhelm Cragheart "You can't kill what was not there. People that saw frogs were just seeing things!"
Eric Schenkle "I ran at least three of them frogs or frog things with my sword blade! I know what I saw!"
John Wyvern "Our foes are men, humanoids. People with two arms, two legs and a head. That i who are foes are...not frogs! People!"
Gilbert Grimm "It was the scary magic sound! Making everyone think they saw scary frogs!"
Balthor Flameblade "That is all battle ashes! No spellcaster would make scary frogs. What is scary about a frog? If it was an illusion why not make make them scary animals? Likes snakes!"
Uryaen Caellae "You all know nothing! The creatures were not frogs! They were Ceremorphs!"
"Ceremorphs?" He repeated the word with curiosity and another sensation he could not describe, shifting his attention to the new arrival to the group's conversation. He did his best to ignore the brief itching in his eye socket that quickly faded to a dull ache towards the back of his head, something mentally written off as residing discomfort from the injury. The injury he could barely remember getting.
"Please, enlighten us."
Uryaen Caellae "It's how mid flayers reproduce. The word comes from the Elder Tongue—cere means "brain." and morph means
"form." They The burrows into its victim's brain, quickly consuming much of the gray matter and replacing the consumed brain with its own squalid tissue. In effect, they melds with the un- eaten lower brain stem of the victim, k i l l i n g all remnants of the personality and spirit of the victim, w h i l e leaving the physical body a l i v e for the tadpole to use as its own body."
Mizzet the Astronomer "Vile soft fur rats! Stealing and using the neo-born!"
Balthor Flameblade "That is a nice scary story for younglings. "
"Ah," August let out in something of a reply as he tipped back his ale and drained the remainder of it. In the darkness behind where his eye once was, at that moment, he could almost swear he could make out something.. was it teeth? Tentacles? He might have been startled were it not for the ale and many nights of restless dreams ebbing his nerves.
"So a lecture from a wizard made physical. Or a hangover." It was meant as sarcasm, deflecting some of the seriousness about the topic like the others. There was something to be said about being overly eager and curious. Or was he just being paranoid? "Speaking of lectures and wizards though, where did you hear this.. ah, intel from? One of their lot?"
Uryaen Caellae "I have read a number of books....it must have been in one. "
Mizzet the Astronomer "Far Beyond the Dark in the Outer Lands the Caves of Thought pulse with all knowledge!"
A human male in nicer leather clothing : Captain Loxus Shackraos "Well, good to find you all in good spirits. At ease, don't get up. The army is a mess. We can't field even a single unit. And we have a problem. A supply wagon train is struck in a grove a bit south of here. The enemy has a force encamped right off the road. The wagons will never get by them.
We.......need to distract them. The seventh wagon has some secret healing potions for the rich officers that got some cuts and bruises in the battle. So we nend out a force to get them away from the road. But we don't have an organized force. I'm going to lead that force.....and I'm looking for volunteers."
Wilhelm Cragheart, Eric Schenkle, John Wyvern, and Gilbert Grimm each stand and volunteer
He had stood with the rest of them to volunteer, because what really was the alternative? Stay sitting and looking feeble? No one might say anything to him but the mark would remain. He'd probably be peeling potatoes with the support staff as no one would trust him enough to have their back.
It would be six of them by August's count, enough to provide a distraction and not get slaughtered.. just like last time. Six made for delicious odds.
He grimaced at the thought and pushed it aside, unnerved by its origin, the vague words of the medic coming back to him once more. Something about guilt and lost of comrades. He hadn't been paying attention because his head had ached at the time but now it offered a comfort in the sense of an explanation. The horrors of battle were not unique to him. Getting back out there, out doing what he was trained to, would be a beneficial distraction. A first step in healing.
Captain Loxus Shackraos "Good to see you all are still ready for some battle. Drink up....but get some rest. We head out at first light. Meet up at the field south of camp. See you then, men."
Captain Loxus Shackraos turns and leaves the room. Once he is far enough away:
Wilhelm Cragheart "All right, action!"
OOC: Unless you want to do something, we can fast forward to first light at the field.
OOC: Sounds great!
First light had come quickly after gathering up the usual supplies - weapons, armor, etc - and arriving at south field. Like the rest August could feel and resonated a similar energy mixed between excitement and anxious reservation, 'the arousal of battle' an old training hand had termed it. As Cragheart had mentioned earlier, it was a chance for action, a possibility to do what soldiers were meant to.
Captain Loxus Shackraos is waiting in the field with a group of thirty five troops. He waits a bit for everyone to come into the circle.
Captain Loxus Shackraos "All right, listen up. This is primary a diversion. We need to draw their force away from the caravan road. What is left of the first battalion will move in across the grasslands to get their attention. They will strike and fall back, getting the enemy to break their lines and follow them. What is left of the reserve unit will move to strike their camp.
WE will be right in the middle, to break their lines. Once they stretch out....we strike. Cut them into two groups, then we strike down at whatever group is bigger...and keep it up.
And our wagons get through. Everyone got it?"
Everyone gives a quick "hurrazz"
Then it's the classic solders curse: Hurry up and wait. Your group of over fifty now spreads out behind a hill of high grass. And wait. For hours until:
"Too arms!" As running through the grass comes the bloody first battalion, and they circle around past the hill....being followed closely by enemy troops in leather.
"Attack!"
Hell was definitely waiting. While the discipline of a soldier had been instilled into all of them, patience was a virtue that few of them were blessed with. By the time the call to action came it was a welcomed relief, the sound of metal scrapping out of its scabbards echoing from trooper to trooper as the first bloodied battalion ran past. August had followed suit, longsword removed from the scabbard across his back as he readied himself into position for the volley of approaching enemy combatants.
August was not a man of high bloodlust yet the thrill of battle never eased to creep though his veins. It was a life of adventure with the risk of death or a life of contentment with the risk of boredom. In his mind, the choice was easy.
The bloody first battalion, and they circle around past the hill, with the enemy troops right behind. The mass of unorganized troops just run forward at random. They all look like fast skirmishers: a mix of humans, orcs and half orcs all in light leather armor, most have spears, a couple have a sword or axe.
Two half orcs, in leather armor and with spears, move to run right by Wilhelm Cragheart, and he comes right out at them....
Wilhelm Cragheart initiative: 3
Half orc skirmishers 10 17
Wilhelm Cragheart makes a wide swinging attack 20
Wilhelm Cragheart slips over his own feet and it slows him down and throws off his swing. He dodges the first spear strike at him, but the second spear hits him right in the thigh for a bloody wound.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Two (more) half orcs, in leather armor and with spears, move to run right by you
Half orc skirmishers initiative 8 18
Initiative 17
By the time August sees Cragheart go down in the vicinity he has already moved to engage the passing skirmishers, his longsword slashing out as the pair of half orcs move pass.
Attack Attack: 6 Damage: 0
(OOC: if I've messed any of this up let me know, I'm a beginner in the game mechanics)
August's swing goes wide and does not hit anything
Half orc skirmisher 1 13 4
Half orc skirmisher 1 14 4
Both half orcs also miss....
Round 2