R.W. Krpoun's Blog, page 23

Gamer Story VI

I’ve always had a web site devoted to my gaming campaign to help my players keep track of events. In the early days I wrote short stories based on the PCs and posted them on the site for my player’s amusement. This campaign was the Hackmaster system set in the Kingdoms of Kalamar setting.

 

The Orc pawed at Loki’s face with one clawed hand as its life ebbed away around the Fhokki’s axe-head embedded in his chest; the impact of the Talon’s stroke had knocked the Orc’s angled sword from its grip. Twisting the haft as he jerked it back, Loki levered open the gash in the dying Orc’s chest, speeding its withdrawal into actionless shock.

He caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and spun, but he was too slow: the Orkin war-dog clamped its slathering jaws tight on his left thigh, the searing pain from his wounded muscles wringing a shocked gasp from the big warrior. Lashing out by instinct, he shattered the creature’s spine with a shoulder-popping blow, then decapitated it as he staggered back, grunting every time his weight came down on the wounded leg.

Worse than the pain and weakness was the rate at which blood was pouring from the ragged tears in his mauled thigh; putting his back to a handy post, Loki bellowed the ‘wounded’ cry, a newly instituted practice amongst the Talons after a misunderstanding during a fight with Grimlocks nearly undid the Talon fighting line. Twenty key words in Pixie-Fairy (a language unlikely to be used, or understood, by their foes) were keyed to specific actions and requests.

Tylwyth had taken refuge on a nearby Tavern sign, where he shouted insults after firing off his limited supply of ammunition (his main quivers were still strapped to Silky’s saddle, which, like the moth, were in his room at the Tripping Trident). Hearing a mangled Pixie-Fairy word shouted in a Human voice, he looked about and spotted the badly bleeding Loki. Deploying his wings, he swept off to help.

Loki waited, vigilant, while Tylwyth pronounced the cant which scarlessly Healed the wounds in his thigh, banished all infections, and restored some of the lost blood. Annoying as the little churchman could be, in battle his covering fire and unhesitating willingness to (literally) fly into the hottest melee to Heal his comrades made him a highly respected Talon.

The fight had come to them without warning. Max had insisted that no one go about Prompeldia in groups of less than four, and thus the entire company had set out together at mid-morning to run some basic errands. Prompeldia was a rough place, lacking any sort of regulations regarding arms and armor, and street-fights were hardly uncommon. Every Talon had worn his or her armor, although shields, helms, and missile weapons (save Tylwyth’s crossbow, and slings) had been left at the Tripping Trident Inn.

They had been walking across the intersection of two streets when a band of Orcs (civilized, from their dress and arms) and a pack of Orkin war-dogs had poured out of alley-mouths and tavern-doors, throwing themselves upon the startled Talons without warning.

Fortunately, out of ingrained habit they had been walking in a modified patrol formation, eyes outboard and hands close to weapons; Tylwyth flitted out of reach and plied his crossbow while the rest of the Talons piled onto the foe. The Orc rush had shattered any semblance of a formation, but Tylwyth had picked off the Orc leader and a sub-leader before they could exploit this advantage, and the fight had degenerated into a wild street brawl.

Healed, Loki stepped back into the fray, of which little remained: all of the Orc’s war dogs were dead; Dwalin and Merrick were back-to-back near a handcart which had been knocked on its side, Balrog nearby worrying a war-dog’s corpse among a circle of corpses that surrounded them. Pale Rider was kneeling on an Orc’s chest holding a dagger to its throat while Ta’Chala watched his back; the Fhokki nodded approvingly at the sight: prisoners were a valuable commodity, and you could rely upon the pale Deyj to think on his feet.

Max had a dying Orc in a headlock in his strong left arm as a shield while he clove an Orc’s skull in twain with an overhand stroke; Osila had climbed atop a wagon nearby and was using her sling to good effect, although she inevitably focused on targets near the Talon’s leader. Norbert and Felosithe were a two-headed engine of destruction, expertly double-teaming foes, the woodman working in close with his short swords while the Grel used her spear to good effect from a longer distance.

Other than the dead and dying, and Pale’s prisoner, no Orcs remained on their feet and ready to face the Talons; those still mobile had taken to their heels.

“Who’s wounded?” Max bellowed, his voice harsh with the effort of speaking with lungs burning for air.

“Here,” Ta’Chala called; Tylwyth immediately darted to him. Dwalin was already attending Merrick’s wounds before Healing his own.

“I’ve a couple small cuts when there’s time,” Norbert called.

Loki planted his foot on the Orc’s chest. “Check the fallen, and get their gear, Pale. Osila! Grab that hand-cart there and follow Pale. Norbert, have Felosithe give Pale a hand.”

The Orc eyed the big Fhokki with hate burning bright in its amber eyes. The Talon hefted his bloody axe, unconcerned. “You speak the Merchant’s Cant?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Why did you attack us?”

“We are the Silver-Takers.”

“Ah. Bounty-hunters, the Goretusker reward on the Black Talons.”

“Five thousand Kalamarian crowns.”

“Doesn’t sound like so much right now, eh?” Loke glanced at Merrick, who was sauntering up, Balrog at his heels. When he was sure the mage was looking at him, Loki instructed him to guard the Orc, and moved off to see how things were going. As Quartermaster, Loki was the second-in-command of the company, so guarding prisoners was not the proper duty for him until all the details were sorted out. “Hey, you! Are you in charge?”

Loki turned to the irate smith who had called him. “Mostly. What do you want?”

“That girl took my ‘barrow. She’s one of yours, isn’t she?”

The Fhokki followed the carbon-grimed finger to where Osila stood with a wheel barrow loaded with weapons, armor, and equipment; nearby, Pale was kicking some beggars off a dead Silver-Taker. “Yes. We need to rent it.”

“Sell it’s more likely; there’ll be blood and such in it now, and how do I know you’ll bring it back?”

“How much?” Loki sighed.

“Twenty Kalamarian crowns.”

The big Talon haggled him down to five, which was one more than a new barrow cost, but which wasn’t bad under the circumstances. When he had finished he found several other tradesmen waiting for him.

“My handcart got knocked over in the fight; six pounds of sausages, a brazier full of coal, and condiments were ruined. I demand payment!”

“Who knocked it over, them or us?”

“Your men did it, that Dwarf with the big sword!” It cost a crown to get that tradesman to go away.

“Sling bullets pulped eight of my melons! Don’t think you can do that sort of thing and walk away!”

Six shillings exchanged hands.

“What are you going to do about all those dead Orcs?”

“Nothing.” Loki watched while the dogs’ corpses were hastily loaded up onto a rag-picker’s cart. They were well on their way to being fur, cheap sausages, and bone meal.

“The hell you say! You can’t go starting battles in the street and then leave a dozen corpses lying around to drive off trade! You’ll have to dispose of them.”

“Look,” Loki jabbed a bloody finger at the angry cobbler. “We didn’t start this fight; we were walking down the street minding our own business, and they jumped us. Go ask what’s left of the Silver-takers to move the bodies.”

“That’s not good enough! I’m losing business here,” the man persisted, face ruddy with anger. “You’ve got to take care of this.”

“YOU take care of this,” the Talon drew himself up to his full height. “What am I gonna do with a dozen dead Orcs? Put them in my belt pouch? Hire a wagon.”

“What’s going on?” Max inquired mildly.

“Who are you?” the cobbler snapped.

“Derren Maxwell, commander of the Black Talons,” Max announced with his wide, easy grin. “And you are?”

“Yusef…Yusef the owner of Yusef’s Shoes,” the cobbler muttered, taken aback by the expansive (and large) Talon leader. He gestured vaguely toward his tiny shop. “Look, these bodies are bad for business….”

 

“Yes they are,” Max nodded enthusiastically. “And for that reason alone they should be gotten rid of. As a local merchant of no mean repute, no doubt you could recommend a hauler who is nearby and reasonably priced.”

“Well…Akred has his cart, he’s just around the corner….” the cobbler saw his momentum fading, but was uncertain why.

“Excellent. Let’s you and I go and make arrangements with him to dispose of the bodies.” Max beckoned for Loki to follow. “And as a concerned local businessman, I’m sure you won’t mind helping us get a better rate from your friend. After all, it’s going to help your business…”

***

“The ability to parley is everything,” Max observed a bit smugly.

“All right, it was impressive, you getting him to pay half the hauling cost,” Loki conceded. “After getting the cart-owner to give us a discount price.”

“It’s all how you present your case…what have we got going, Pale?”

“Four chain shirts, four ring mail tunics, and a couple leather shirts not too badly hacked up; five swords of various styles, a war hammer, four maces, a flail, and fourteen short-edged weapons of various makes.”

“Liked a bit of variety, eh?” Loki observed, scribbling rapidly in his ledger. “Did you get the scabbards?”

“Yep. Plus twelve belts, nine belt pouches (the beggars around here are damned quick), and eight helms in useable condition. And one prisoner.”

“Good. Have someone go through the pouches and sort out the contents.”

“Merrick’s doing it.”

“Fine. Now, what to do about our captive?” Max mused, leaning to one side as he dug at the waistline of his belt where something was caught between his armor and his belt.

“I could get him talking,” Loki offered.

“Without cutting parts off?” Pale asked.

“What’s the point if you don’t lop a few bits off?”

“What could he tell us other than they wanted the bounty the Goretuskers put on us?” Pale Rider wondered. “Besides the ago-old question of ‘how many fingers and toes can you cut off before they bleed to death‘?”

“Look, that was an accident….” Loki began, but subsided at Max’s impatient wave.

“Enough about that cultist business; it could have happened to anyone. Torture is not the way of the Traveler.” Max paused piously, still digging at his belt. “Besides, Orcs are tough, it could take all day, and I just want to get this blood washed off. Find out how they knew when and where to ambush us, knock him around a bit, and let him go.”

“Intact?” Loki was not pleased.

“Break his arm, then, when you’re done.”

“All right.”

Osila slinked up as Loki and Pale set about their tasks. “That was horrible,” she observed in her rich, purring voice. “Why did they attack us?”

“They thought we were easy money,” Max answered absently, eyeing the severed Orc thumb that had been lodged under his belt. “You know, this is the reason I’m growing to dislike melee.”

“What is?”

“The messy nature of it, that’s what.” He tossed the digit to a stray dog. “You get showered in bits and pieces.”

“That’s why I use my sling,” Osila observed primly. “It’s much more civilized.”

“So would I, if they could invent a sling that fired a lot faster, like about two dozen balls a minute; then we could resolve these matters cleanly at a distance. Until then, we must get in close and mix it up like savages.”

“You need a bath,” Osila crinkled her pert nose. “I suppose I could, too.”

“A capitol idea,” Max grinned. “We should be done here in a few minutes. Dwalin, take Merrick and Ta’Chala and go back to the Tripping Trident; advise them that we’ll need a lot of hot water for bathing and cleaning shortly, so they’d best start stoking the boilers now.”

“Bath,” Felosithe nodded mournfully; a throat-strike had sent a jet of Orcen blood across her lower face and torso, and while she had done the best she could with dirt and a stick, clots of black blood still clung to her every seam and button. Worse, her face and neck paint had been completely ruined.

“You know, it’s a bad sign when you can’t walk across town without getting into a bloody brawl,” Pale observed to Loki as the quartermaster sent the battered Orc on its way. “What’s the world coming to?”

“Civilization isn’t all its cracked up to be,” the big Fhokki agreed.

Gamer Story V

I’ve always had a web site devoted to my gaming campaign to help my players keep track of events. In the early days I wrote short stories based on the PCs and posted them on the site for my player’s amusement. This campaign was the Hackmaster system set in the Kingdoms of Kalamar setting.

The late afternoon sun was beating down like a smith’s hammer forged of pure heat. Norbert Kuth slumped forward in his saddle, sweat dripping from his chin onto the salt-stained forward crown of his war saddle. Mechanically he unslung the canteen from the upswept ‘horn’ of the saddle and swallowed three long drafts of the blood-warm fluid that tasted equally of mud and vinegar, his blood-shot eyes never ceasing their roving across the heat-blasted terrain on either side of the gravel-surfaced road.

“Sherma,” Felosite muttered beside him.

“Yep, hot indeed,” the woodsman agreed. He jerked his unshaven chin towards the east, their direction of travel, where a dark smudge marred the line of the horizon. “But there’s the city walls; another two hours and we’re there.”

The dusty Grel nodded, a faint smile tugging at her sun-burnt face.

***

Max came up in time to see Felosithe tilt her helm back and take a long drink of fresh arterial blood. “What in the name of the Traveler is she doing?”

“She cut its throat; waste not, want not,” Norbert shrugged.

“We’re an hour out; wasn’t there any chance of saving it?” The Talon leader eyed the horse’s still-twitching corpse.

“Nope; too many miles on too little feed and water. We’re lucky it lasted as long as it had.”

“Damn. Well, it was free.” The Talons had set out with four pack mules; they had captured six more mules and two riding horses in the course of their operations in the Great Rift. The extra mules had been loaded with loot, while the horses had served as mounts for the scouts. “How’s the other one?”

“Blown. Best let it walk the rest of the way unburdened. We ought to dump the saddle unless one of the mules has room.”

“No, they’re worn down as well; might as well dump the saddle,” Max sighed. He glared up at the brassy sky. “This is the last time we come out here. Too hot, too dry, and too many flies. And everything’s got poison on it somewhere.” He studied the city wall, just a line of vague shapes on the horizon. “About what, three miles?”

“Thereabouts.”

“Well, it’s not getting any closer. Let’s go. You two can rejoin the main group; no point in scouts anymore.”

***

“I hate this place.” Dwalin booted a rock across the roadway, narrowly missing Ta’Chala’s leg.

“Really?” Norbert managed to sound surprised; beside him, Felosithe rolled her eyes.

“Yes, really,” the Dwarf nodded emphatically. “I’ve said so before, I’m sure.”

“A time or two dozen, perhaps,” the woodsman nodded sagely.

“I hate these damned mules, too.”

“I think you’ve mentioned that as well, along with the shortage of ale.”

“How was I to know that the heat would do that? The keg exploded like it had a fire elemental in it.”

“I remember.”

Ta’Chala strode along, humming a tune, Tylwyth perched on one broad shoulder. “What a week; what a month,” the cleric muttered. “I hate this place.”

“Oh, the heat’s not so bad,” the monk observed cheerfully. “At least its dry heat, hardly noticeable. You ought to see it in my homeland: you don’t so much breathe as drink.”

“Oh, I don’t mind the heat so much, it’s the damned ground-breezes: they shift more than a belly-dancer’s costume. I’ve never had so much trouble staying aloft as I did here.”

“Ah. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

***

“I want a long soak in a tub of clean water, with ice added,” Osila sighed. “And clean clothes, not ones leather-stiff with sweat and sand. I’m chafed in places that don’t bear discussing.”

“It’s been a hard trip,” Max agreed, slapping at a hungry horse fly. “Still, there’s the gates.”

“Yes, but the city stinks, there’s not a breath of breeze, and we’re a good hour from the inn, what with all the details.”

“Profit is in the details.”

“How ya doing, Merrick?” Loki boomed as he trotted to the head of the mule string.

The Elf, flushed and weaving, ignored the hulking Fhokki.

The quartermaster joined Arca and Pale Rider at the head of the line of mules. “They’re holding up all right.”

“They wouldn’t if we had stayed out another day,” Arca shook his head. Their guide was a wizened Deyj much-marked by sun and wind, a squat, bow-legged man of sour disposition. “Why you needed to haul off that junk is beyond me.”

“Junk? Hardly. Those are antiques,” Pale Rider observed. The slender albino wore a light linen dust-cape, a wide-brimmed hat, a silk scarf wrapped around his ears and throat, and a heavy coat of axle grease wherever bare skin might be touched by the sun.

“Looked like badly-carved stone panels you pried off some wall.”

“Ah, yes, but they’re very old badly-carved panels. And Dwalin removed them with careful Dwarven skill,” Pale explained. “Cultural types like to have very old badly-carved panels about to show how smart they are.”

“As opposed to ordinary people, who buy beautifully-carved panels that are freshly-made, for a tenth of the price,” Loki agreed. “And thus, we took ’em.”

***

The gate guards eyed the battered mercenaries and their heavily laden mules as they trudged through the gates, but made no move to interfere with them.

“All right, I need to stop by Ahmed’s and deal with the animals,” Loki advised Max. “You want to head back with the rest?”

“Yeah. Take Pale, Dwalin, Norbert, and Felosithe; Osilia, Tlywyth, Ta’Chala, Merrick, and Balrog will come with me. See you at the inn.” He tossed Arca a pouch. “There. Thanks.”

The nomad examined the coins the pouch contained, then sketched a salute, grabbed his pack off a mule’s pack saddle, and sauntered off into the street-throngs.

***

“Don’t squint at me like that, Ahmed,” Loki warned the wizened purveyor of livestock. “I bought four mules and pack saddles from you three weeks ago.”

“I thought the desert would kill you.” Ahmed didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“There was killing aplenty, but we were on the right side of it. I’ve got your mules and saddles to sell back, plus six more of each, and a light war horse.”

“You’ve treated them horribly: look at them, nearly dead on their feet.”

“Make me an offer.”

“Five crowns for each mule and saddle, twenty for the horse.”

“Nine apiece, and ninety for the horse.”

The two haggled for a bit, settling on six crowns apiece for the mules and saddles, and thirty for the horse.

“Fine,” Loki agreed. “Send a couple boys with me to the Tripping Trident, Ahmed; I need to off-load the cargo there.”

“How did we do?” Pale asked as Loki joined them counting coins.

“Fair; we had fifty crowns in our four and tack, and Ahmed just paid me ninety. Of course, he’ll sell the lot for a couple hundred once they’ve recovered, but that’s the nature of the game.”

Pale thought about it. “They almost paid for our expenses this trip.”

“Yeah, we did all right. Here’s Ahmed’s boys, let’s get going. There’s a quart of cool ale at the Trident that’s waiting for me, with a bunch of friends right behind it.”

“I’m going get a hot bath, the red-headed whore from the place across the street, and three gallons of wine,” the Deyj mused. “All at the same time.”

“Bath,” Felosithe agreed, knocking a cloud of dust from her hair with a slap of one dirty hand. “Long bath.”

***

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” A burly man detached himself from a group of similar toughs loitering at a street corner. “Ten mules wearing out our fine street, and not a sign of a road-toll pass on any of ’em. Now that’s a…”

The flat of one of Norbert’s swords caught him crisply alongside the ear, the woodsman’s adder-quick blow staggering him with both its speed and savage pain. Felosithe promptly kicked him square in the groin, then grabbed his ears and head-butted him into oblivion. Pale deftly undid the man’s belt as he walked past the unconscious thug’s form, carrying off his belt pouch and sheathed weapons.

“Amateurs,” Norbert shook his head.

***

Max tossed off the dregs of his mug and waved for a refill. It was cool and dim in the Tripping Trident’s common room, and the freshly-bathed Talon commander felt peaceful and right with the world. Osila was perched on the bar at his elbow, playing her harp and singing in a clear, crisp voice about the Talon’s battle at Frugelhofen. Dwalin, bare-chested and bathed, was dancing atop a table, some sort of complex jig, waving a tankard in one hand and a hand axe in the other.

Loki was tossing back ale at Dwalin’s table; next to him a bemused Ta’Chala sipped wine while he watched the Dwarf. Tylwyth was at a corner table haranguing a trio of dock workers about the joys of service to the Traveler. The three prospective converts were listening because the tiny cleric was buying the rounds. Pale Rider was at another corner table trading breath with a busty red-head perched in his lap. Merrick was upstairs, having unwisely taken one of his own herbal remedies for his sun-induced headache, while Norbert and Felosithe were likewise upstairs stress-testing a bedframe.

The loot was stashed in a room rented from the obliging tavern-keeper, and guarded by both a hired mercenary and Balrog, who was sleeping inside the room. Everyone had been Healed of their combat wounds, bathed, and cleanly dressed; the Trident’s laundry maids had a daunting task before them with the clothing the Talons had turned in for washing, but a fistful of silver had dealt with any complaints they might have had.

Max tilted his fresh mug and grinned tiredly. They had pulled off another one; tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, they would set about selling off their loot, and begin examining their next move. For tonight, however, they would enjoy themselves.

Gamer Story IV

I’ve always had a web site devoted to my gaming campaign to help my players keep track of events. In the early days I wrote short stories based on the PCs and posted them on the site for my player’s amusement. This campaign was the Hackmaster system set in the Kingdoms of Kalamar setting.

Pale Rider eased forward a cautious step at a time, watching the corridor ahead for any signs of danger; specifically, he was watching for any signs of traps. Overhead, a lantern hung under Silky illuminated the corridor both ahead and behind, the lantern’s elevated position reducing the shadows far better than a light at shoulder-height would have. Tylwyth would be watching for an ambush from his mount, leaving the Dejy to watch for dangers of a more ordinary sort. Of the Talons, Pale Rider was the undisputed master at such tasks, and he was careful to use his skills to their best effect, thus further enhancing his reputation.

Thus far, he had located and disarmed a covered pit, a sprinkling of rusty caltrops (whose very minor wounds would have carried disease and infection), and a trip-wire activated crossbow on a swivel-mount. Inasmuch as this corridor was a seldom-used ‘back-way’ into the ruins inhabited by the Goretusker (Hobgoblin) tribe, more traps could be expected.

Up ahead, an irregularity in the surface of the corridor floor caught his attention. Motioning for a halt (knowing Norbert would be keeping a close eye upon him in order to relay such direction back to the party), Pale edged a few steps closer and halted. The corridor they were traversing was a simple tube hacked through the living rock by tools and perhaps enchantments, with a ceiling that averaged ten to twelve feet in height (to allow air passage through into the deeper complex), and half that in width. The walls and ceiling were still fairly rough and tool-marked, and much-furred by old, dust-laden cobwebs; the floor had seen an effort made to smooth the tool-marks, and had been further smoothed by centuries of traffic, both foot and cart. Dust and dirt overlay the actual floor, years undisturbed until the Talon’s arrival.

Easing forward another step, Pale studied the walls and ceiling, looking for signs of mechanical devices, deadfalls, or similar objects; from his training and experience, the nomad knew that distraction items were often positioned to hold a watcher’s attention; while the watcher circled away from the item, they would encounter the actual trap trigger.

The walls and ceiling looked clear; Pale eased forward another step, examining the floor carefully before moving his feet, occasionally employing a small bellows to blow dust and dirt away from suspicious irregularities.

“What is it?” Merrick’s overloud voice made him jump. Being deaf, the mage generally talked with more volume and less tone than most.

“It looks like a belt buckle lying in the center of the floor.”

“It’s a belt,” Merrick advised Max and Loki, who had moved up to see what was going on.

“A belt? Where?” The Talon commander knelt alongside Pale.

“Not a belt, a belt buckle, see, there in the dust. Likes like an old, brass buckle. Probably just junk.”

“I know seventy-two types of arcane lore,” Merrick mused in his toneless manner. “Let me consider this.”

“What if it isn’t an arcane buckle?” Loki asked innocently.

“Could it be trapped?” Max asked Pale.

“Might,” the Dejy shrugged. “More likely, it’s just trash.”

“I could hover over it and hook it up,” Tylwyth offered.

“Hook it up with what?” Loki asked.

“With a rope and hook.”

“We’ve got rope, but no hooks,” Max observed, standing up. “Could it be that distraction thing you were telling us about, Pale?”

“I could cast Detect Magic on it,” Merrick offered.

“Save the spell,” Max shook his head.

“Ta’Chala could bend a few spikes into a hook shape,” Tylwyth suggested.

“It’s probably just junk,” Pale said, easing forward another step.

“We need all the spikes we’ve got,” Loki objected. “Nobody’s bending up some spikes over a stupid belt buckle. Spikes don’t grow on trees.”

“What about that ferret? It could drag the buckle here,” Max mused to the moth-borne cleric.

“Kane? I doubt Ta’Chala would risk him.”

“How about Teleport?” Merrick waved the scroll.

“I’ve told you, that’s Company property; you don’t cast anything off that scroll without authorization of the Quartermaster,” Loki warned the mage.

“I’m the only real spell-caster we’ve got,” the Elf snapped. “The distribution and use of magical items should be under my control.”

“Loki is right: the Quartermaster makes those determinations, just as the Charter says,” Max sighs.

“So some big lummox from the tundra decides when and how enchanted items are going to be employed? Ridicious!” Merrick roared. “I trained for twenty-six years to reach my present state of expertise, and…”

“And you’ll do as you’re told!” Max bellowed. “Discussion over!”

“What about a spear? I might be able to hook it up with a spear,” Tylwyth suggested into the hostile silence that followed Max’s declaration.

Pale Rider eased forward another careful step.

“A spear? How would you hook it up with a spear?” Loki wondered.

“I could come at it at an angle.”

“How about tying a rope to a stick and using it to drag the buckle over here?” Merrick suggested.

“Where are we going to get a stick? We’re buried underneath a mountain,” Tylwyth snapped.

“I don’t know; we could use an arrow. At least it’s an idea; everyone keeps trashing my suggestions, I don’t know why I still bother. I come up with an idea and everyone tears it to pieces, and we end up using it anyway,” Merrick snarled.

“You mean like the time you cast Burning Hands during that Gnoll ambush and nearly set my horse on fire? I was lucky to stay in the saddle!” Max reminded the mage.

“It all worked out for the best,” the Elf shrugged.

“The best what, is what I would like to know,” the Talon commander muttered half to himself.

Pale eased forward one more step, leaned forward, and picked up the buckle. Standing, he tossed it to Max. “Just a piece of junk.”

Gamer Story III

I’ve always had a web site devoted to my gaming campaign to help my players keep track of events. In the early days I wrote short stories based on the PCs and posted them on the site for my player’s amusement. This campaign was the Hackmaster system set in the Kingdoms of Kalamar setting.

Loki stopped at the door and turned to survey the Talons. “All right, one more time, why are we coming here?”

“To get drunk!” Dwalin roared.

“To obtain information,” Osila sighed, rolling her eyes.

“Very good. And what are we going to do?”

“Get drunk?” Dwalin’s brow was creased with the effort of thought.

“Be on our best behavior,” Max reminded them. “Especially you, Dwalin, and you, Felosithe.”

The Grel eyed him sullenly.

“Right, then, Loki’s in charge, the contact is a Fhokki, so let him do the talking, act natural, and above all, behave!” Max tried to grin but couldn’t quite pull it off.

“But getting drunk is what I naturally do in a tavern,” Dwalin objected. “I mean, anywhere there’s strong drink, in fact.”

“Don’t I know it,” Merrick sighed.

***

The Blue Gull’s interior was fairly dark, with painted-over windows dimming the place so that the candles on each table threw weak yellow pools of light that failed to connect with each other. The floor was packed dirt, the better to soak up spilled drink, blood, and vomit, while the tables and benches were made from rough-hewn timbers too heavy to be effectively used as weapons. The score or so of customers were a rough lot even for Bet Urala’s docks area, all appearing to be fighting men of the type who did not ask many morally-based questions before taking a job.

Max led the Talons (less Ta’Chala, who was standing guard on their belongings back at the warehouse) to a long table while Loki moved to a smaller table where a one-armed man of Fhokki descent sat nursing a mug.

“Ale!” Dwalin roared. “Ale in a bucket! For me, anyway.”

“Four mugs of ale, a bottle of white wine, and a bucket of your strongest ale,” Max politely informed the slovenly, gap-toothed serving girl who wandered over.

“We don’t allow pets,” she mumbled, eyeing Tlywyth, who was sitting cross-legged on the table at the opposite end from Felosithe.

“You shouldn’t allow fat, toothless old harlots in here either, but you do,” the cleric shot back, his high-pitched voice carrying exceptionally well, as it often did.

There was a measurable drop in the volume of the background noise as a hulking slab of a man rose from his bench and trudged over to the table. “What exactly were you saying about our Bess, little fly?”

“He was saying he wanted to buy you a drink,” Max grinned easily at the stranger. “As opposed to spilling your guts out on the floor.”

The big man took in the arm Max had casually draped around Osila’s narrow waist, the hairy paw ending almost atop the standard-bearer’s sword hilt; further down, Felosithe was grinning at him, a particularly evil grin made worse by the two-inch-wide band of scarlet that was painted horizontally across her temples and eyelids. “A drink sounds good.”

“As it should. Bess, a mug of your best for my new friend, and here’s a bright silver shilling for your trouble.”

“Sit down, Burt,” Bess patted the big man on his shoulder. “No harm done.”

***

“Just once, one time, I wish you could keep your mouth shut,” Max hissed to Tlywyth, who was unconcernedly carving a proverb of the Traveler’s into the table top.

“I am a member of a proud and noble race…” the cleric began, only to be interrupted by Dwalin drumming his hand-axes on the table top.

“Ale! Ale! Ale!” the Dwarf roared. “By the ‘Rager, Ale!”

“Blasted hairy ape,” Tlywyth snarled, but his comment passed unnoticed as Bess arrived with their drinks.

***

“I don’t speak much of the old tongue,” the one-armed man replied in fluent Kalamarian accented with Bet Urala’s twang to Loki’s formal Fhokki greeting. “Born and raised here, just like my mom. Dad was from the tundra, leaned what little I know of it from him. What do ya want?”

“We’re a group who markets goods from Prompeldia.”

“So?” Up close, Loki could see the man was a good two inches taller than himself, average height for a Fhokki. His features weren’t marked by the elements as a true northerner’s would have been, but rather, were scarred by hard living and brawls.

“So, we are looking for a new market. I hear you can provide one.”

“What sort of goods?”

“Sharp ones, short, middlin’, or long, as the customer wants. I hear you can put us in touch with a customer who likes short ones.”

“Sellin’ arms to humanoids gets you the axe, here in the Greater Empire of Kalamar, ‘case you didn’t know.”

Loki shrugged as he accepted a mug from Bess. “So?”

***

“Felosite BORED.”

“Maybe I should play something?” Osila suggested, uncasing her harp.

“No, we’re supposed to be inconspicuous. Norbert, get your woman under control.”

“What’s this?” Dwalin thumped his bucket onto the table top and fished in it with one hand, bringing out a dead mouse. “Thought so. Here ya go, Norbert.”

Norbert caught the mouse, eyed the Dwarf thoughtfully, then calmly ate the dead rodent.

“HAH! See? that’s what a real warrior does in a bar,” Dwalin cheerfully advised Tlywyth.

“Anybody can eat a rat.”

“At least he don’t order goats-milk like that bald puffin you hired.”

“He’s not a puffin, he’s a churchman like you and I.”

“Not like I, that’s for damned sure.” Dwalin tilted his bucket up and took a long drink. “Damned nancy-boy, if you asked me.”

“Nobody did,” Tlywyth snapped.

Dwalin belched loudly. “Well, they might, and if they did, that’s what I would say: a damned goats-milk-drinking puffin nancy-boy the color of tar. With no hair.”

While Norbert was distracted by Dwalin’s challenge, Felosithe had been carefully making a series of threatening and insulting gestures to Burt, who was mulling over the injustices of the world at the next table. Irked, the big man slammed his mug down and leapt to his feet.

Before he had taken a full step from his table Felosithe had flowed from her seat on the bench, crossed the distance between them, and kicked him twice in the belly, solid blows she counter-balanced by bending sideways at the hip. Leaping into the air, she slammed the heel of her left foot into Burt’s nose, sending a gush of blood across his filthy shirtfront, and then axe-kicked him in the groin, making every male in the place hunch and moan in sympathy. Grabbing two fistfuls of greasy hair as the big man doubled over, the Grel jerked him forward as she viciously head-butted him in the temple, dropping Burt senseless on the floor.

A couple locals had stood, hands on weapons, as the Burt had leapt up; seeing his swift and painful defeat, they hesitated, then slowly sat back down.

Face aglow, Felosithe returned to her place on the bench.

***

“So, did we make the connection?” Max asked Loki as the Talons trooped out of the Blue Gull, Merrick and Pale Rider carrying Dwalin, who was singing lustily.

“Yep. They think we’re arms dealers from Prompedlia; that’ll get us in the front door, anyway.”

“That’s all we really need; if there’s one thing this bunch is good at, its raising Chaos in a short amount of time.”

Gamer Story II

I’ve always had a web site devoted to my gaming campaign to help my players keep track of events. In the early days I wrote short stories based on the PCs and posted them on the site for my player’s amusement. This campaign was the Hackmaster system set in the Kingdoms of Kalamar setting. 

The round, dome-roofed chamber was carved from living rock, its walls and ceiling still showing traces of the plaster that once concealed the bare rock. The only decoration on the walls now were patches of moss and crude drawings scraped into the stone; underfoot bits of old bone, mud tracked from the puddles of dank water that gathered in every dip and depression, and detritus littered the floor. Normally Tlywyth would have taken an interest in the details of such a place, as the wonder of travel and new sights had yet to be worn away by the hundreds of miles he had ridden, walked, sailed, and flown while a member of the Black Talons.

However, the seemingly endless numbers of howling humanoids pouring out of two of the four doorways in the chamber (which were neatly positioned at each compass-point) held his attention firmly fixed. They were Grimlocks, vaguely Human-like creatures clad in rags so stiff with filth as to be leather-like, their blind eyes glowing like pearls in the light cast by the lantern slung beneath the cleric’s moth mount. They poured out of the chamber-openings in a screaming, raging tide, brandishing rusty-bladed swords as they howled like madmen.

Tlywyth’s moth-mount (which, by tradition, he had not named, but which his comrades called Silky) hovered near the apex of the shallow domed ceiling, canting itself forward at an angle to give its master a clear shot at the tide of stinking Grimlocks.

Below, the Talons had been caught in the act of clearing away what they had thought was simply a ‘Lock guard point; led by Loki, who had vaulted their waist-high barricade at the south entrance in grand style, the free-swords had cut down the humanoids with the intent of turning down the west corridor to their goal, only to have the north and east entrances release a flood of enemy. The barricade they had cleared, it now appeared, was the Grimlock’s main line of defense, and the entire tribe was pouring out to repel the invasion.

Slapping another pair of bolts into his crossbow, Tlywyth set the stock to his shoulder and sighted in on a ‘Lock who seemed to be issuing orders, or at least was bellowing in what seemed to be a more varied pattern than the rest. Taking in a breath, he released half of it, steadied his aim, and squeezed. The twin darts took the Grimlock square in the chest, plunging in at a deep angle. It wasn’t enough to slay the creature outright, but it certainly caused him serious harm.

As he reached for more bolts, the cleric leaned out to examine the fighting line, where the hoarse roaring of the Grimlocks was broken up by the rattle of weapon-use, the meaty impact of steel on flesh, and the agonized screams of the wounded and dying.

Max anchored the left wing, wielding sword and shield in the offensive style he liked to call ‘sword and board’, smashing his foes off-balance with the iron rim of his shield and then following up with a vicious stroke of his sword. To his right Norbert, a short sword in either hand, was a leaping, darting engine of death, relying on speed and sword-play to make up for his lighter armor.

To Norbert’s right was his wife, Felosithe Thornweld. At five feet, she was short for a Grel, or feral Elf, but pretty and well-formed, and certainly as lethal as any of her kin; even at this height, Tlywyth had to repress a shudder at the sight of one of his racial foes. As Felosithe had lost or broken her spear; she had stunned a Grimlock, with a head-butt, no doubt, and now held his limp form in front of her as a shield with her left arm while she plied a viper-quick dagger in her right.

To the Grel’s right was Loki, the center of the fighting line. The hulking barbarian towered over his shorter foes, hewing down a Grimlock with nearly every stroke, and often wounding a second on his recovery. So great was his prowess that the corpses and dying lying in front of his position had to be dragged away in order to allow fresh ‘Locks to engage him. Such was the ferocity of the humanoids that he never lacked for foes.

Merrick was to Loki’s right, having expended his ability to cast spells; the Elf wielded his sword in counterpoint to war-dog Balrog’s lunging attacks, and between the two of them they were accounting for a fair number of enemy.

To Merrick’s right was Ta’chala, a burly Svimozian follower of the speaker of the Word, and Tlywyth’s henchman (or, as he preferred to think of it, his Grel insurance). He fought with the bare-handed style known to a few of his people; as the cleric reloaded, he observed the monk grab a Grimlock’s sword arm and wrench it from its socket as he simultaneously kicked the humaniod twice in the pelvis. Grabbing the ‘Lock, Ta’Chala spun him horizontally before heaving him bodily into two more foes.

The action wasn’t quite fast enough, however: a rusty sword licked in and laid the monk’s armor-less side open. Hissing a curse, Tlywyth hung his crossbow on his saddle, whistled a command to Silky, and rolled off his mount, expertly extending his own wings to turn his fall into a graceful swoop that ended with him hovering over the wounded monk. Shouting the single-word warning-cry the Talons used for such situation, Tlywyth clamped both hands onto the monks shaved pate and barked the proper cant, healing the man’s wounds.

Dwalin Bloodbeard, the line’s right anchor, could heal his own wounds, being a cleric of the Battle Rager, but predictably the maniac Dwarf was too enraptured with wielding his two hand axes and paid no attention to his growing number of wounds. Muttering, Tlywyth twisted away from a ‘Lock’s sword and flitted to a point behind the roaring, gore-covered Dwarf. Ducking the Dwarf’s back-swing, he darted in and slapped both hands onto Dwalin’s sweaty neck while repeating his cant. Putting his back into it, he zipped away and upwards, back to the patient Silky.

Behind the short line, Pale Rider and Osila Ranga were standing on the barricade giving covering fire. Pale Rider plied his bow with a coolness befitting a race known for its archery and horsemanship skills, while the lovely blond-headed Osila employed her sling with rather less aplomb. At least Max’s girlfriend had insured that the Company standard was upright.

***

Loki jerked his head back from peeking around the corner and instant before a rock whipped past. “They’re forming up for another try, looks like.”

“Why exactly did we end up fighting these bastards, anyway?” Max wondered out loud while Osila fussed over a minor cut on his arm. “I mean, all we want to do is get into the west half of this complex. They live in the east half.”

“They started it,” Tlywyth reminded him.

“I don’t think throwing a rock at you constitutes starting a battle,” Norbert objected. “You should have said something to them instead of just high-tailing it back to the main body.”

“Throwing a rock is a solid signal that they don’t want to talk,” the cleric replied hotly. “If you want to talk, you yell ‘hey, you’, or ‘hello‘, or something similar. Pitching a rock means you want a fight.”

“Maybe they thought you were a bird,” the ranger suggested; Felosithe chuckled.

“Oh, I see, wait until after I’ve Healed you before you decide to make fun, you half-wit!”

“Actually, Loki bound up my wounds; all you did was mutter over them, and they’re still scabbed over, not fully Healed,” Norbert pointed out. “And they itch.”

“I’m running out of power for the moment,” Tlywyth snapped. “At least I’m trying, which is more than I can say for some clerics around here!”

“Inn-keeper, another round! And make it the tall mugs,” the delirious Dwalin roared from where he lay in a fairly grime-free corner, swathed in bandages. “Have at ’em lads! Damned snakes!”

“We went through them like a hot knife through butter,” Pale Rider observed to Max, covertly glancing down Osila’s unlaced front; the standard-bearer had loosened her armor after the fight to cool off. “Must be fifty of them dead. What a stench.” It did indeed sink, with the odors of feces, vomit, and above all the hot, brassy smell of freshly-shed blood now overlaying the rotting-garbage stench that had initially graced the chamber.

“We did all right,” Max conceded. “Although Dwalin and Balrog are out of the fight and everybody’s carrying some wounds.”

“We should have hit ’em with the Beads of Force,” Merrick observed. “That would have made it short and sweet.”

“It would have made it long and tedious while we waited for them to thaw out,” Loki objected.

“And we need those things for big stuff,” Pale Rider shrugged.

“Max made the right decision,” Osila observed loyally. “Max always makes the right decision.”

“He isn’t perfect on that score; after all, he decided to keep dragging you around, for reasons I can’t understand,” Tlywyth snapped, having never cared for the standard-bearer.

“I’m very useful to this party,” Osila snarled, her green eyes glowing. “As much as any little winged twit.”

“She’s very useful to Max, anyway,” Pale Rider muttered to Loki, leering at Osila’s shapely legs, which were well-displayed in her tight moleskin breeches. The big Fokki chuckled.

“Looks like they want to negotiate,” Ta’Chala observed from his watch-point.

“I don’t know why,” Max sighed as he moved to join the monk. “Five more minutes of talking and we’ll finish ourselves off without any outside help.”

Gamer Story I

I’ve always had a web site devoted to my gaming campaign to help my players keep track of events. In the early days I wrote short stories based on the PCs and posted them on the site for my player’s amusement. This campaign was the Hackmaster system set in the Kingdoms of Kalamar setting. 

Derren Maxwell, better known as Max, finished lacing his left boot and leaned back against the keg, one hand absently scratching the pelt of reddish-brown hair that coated his barrel chest. The east was a golden slash through the trees, and the pre-dawn stillness lay on the land like a fog, making noises seem sharper and echoless. A sudden touch on his bare shoulder sent his hand darting to the hilt of the sheathed bastard sword lying across his legs, until he realized that it was a large grasshopper, its rest disturbed by the camp activity.

Carefully closing a ham-like hand around it, he reached behind himself and dislodged the barrel’s lid, dropping the still-living grasshopper within before nudging  the lid back into place. The barrel’s grumbling brought a grin to his unshaven face.

“Morning, Knub,” he hailed a sleep-worn male Halfling, towel and shaving bag in his single hand (his right; the left arm was missing below the elbow) as he stumbled by, heading towards the creek, sword belt slung over one shoulder. Knub Garfoot, former Imperial slinger and more recently Company torch-bearer, grunted and continued on his way.

Sighing, Max heaved himself to his feet (an impressive sight, as he stood two inches over six feet), and pulled his shirt off the cart’s tailgate. He had finished tucking in the garment and was strapping on the broad sword belt that supported his bastard sword, dagger, and pouches when the lid of the barrel lifted off and slid to the ground. The wood cask rocked as a two-foot-tall male Pixie-Fairy clad only in breeches and boots levered himself out of the container and onto the grass.

“I suppose you thing you’re pretty funny,” the Pixie eyed the Human with disdain.

“You mean the grasshopper?” Max asked innocently.

“Of course I meant the grasshopper; throw a grasshopper in for Tlywyth, har, har, har.”

“So you didn’t eat it.”

“Of course I ate it, idiot, that’s not the point. The point is, quit trying to be humorous. I can catch my own blasted breakfast without your help, and I certainly don’t need it while I’m grooming.”

“I thought maybe gathering Fairy dust worked up an appetite.”

“Its Pixie dander while its at the bottom of the keg; gather enough, mix it with virgin soil, and then its Pixie Dust, suitable for bulk Healing, and something I will definitely never waste upon your mountainous carcass.” Tylwyth hammered the lid back onto the keg as he spoke. Each morning and night he groomed himself in the barrel, which was tightly sealed so that the precious dander would not be wasted. Being creatures born and bred of magic, virtually all of a Pixie-fairy’s being was potentially enchanted. “Here, put this back on the cart; I’m going to look for breakfast.”

“Loki stocked up on Pixie rations,” Max pointed out as he lifted the keg onto the cart.

“Dried stuff; I saw some mushrooms that looked about right as we rode in last night.” The diminutive clergyman of the Traveler grabbed his shirt, sword belt, and crossbow as he strode off into the trees.

Max served as the elected commander of the Black Talons adventuring company; while his exact title was still a hotly debated point, he preferred to think of himself as its Thegan, the term for Captain from his homeland along the coast of the Renaarian Bay. The position carried with it undisputed military command of the company, an extra three shares of loot, and more headaches than he could ever have imagined.

“Where’s Tylwyth going?” Loki Obernon trudged up, a slender Fhokki barbarian who stood three inches taller than Max.

“After breakfast.”

“I packed enough rations for him.” Loki was the Company Quartermaster, a position which included second-in-command, book-keeper, and loot assessor in addition to the normal logistical duties associated with a quartermaster. The blond barbarian took his duties seriously, and it never failed to amuse Max to see Loki hunched over a tally book, his battle axe ready beside him and his blond mustaches twisted into a snarl of concentration as he struggled with the inventory lists.

“He wanted fresh.”

“Don’t we all. Beer?”

“Might as well.” Spirits and vinegar-purified water prevented the dangers of bad water while in the field, although ale before dawn was something Max had yet to fully adjust to.

Norbert Kuth had, predictably, gotten the banked coals built up into a fire and had the provisions unpacked. The handsome Ranger was shorter than either Company officer by several inches, but was not by any reckoning a small man. Certainly his physical appetites were greater than either; Loki had long since learned to carry extra rations to accommodate Norbert. In his defense, the outdoorsman’s skill with bow and the pair of short swords he wore, and his abilities in the woods, more than offset his eating habits.

Merrick Baleeze was crouched next to the fire warming his hands, his war dog Balrog by his side glaring yellow-eyed at the world in general; Balrog did not like mornings. Merrick was a slender High Elf in his early adult years, a Battle Mage fresh from his schooling. Deaf for some years, Merrick retained the ability to speak with enough precision to invoke spells, and had had Balrog specially trained to respond to strange noises so as to alert his master. Being an Elf would have isolated Merrick under any circumstances, but his deafness drew him even further apart from his comrades, although by now all had learned to check to see if the mage was looking before trying to speak with him.

A life in gaming

When I was a kid we went to a carnival once a year, a travelling carnival with rides. When I was 12 (early 1970s) or so they included a tent of very primitive video games, and that became the highlight of the annual event for me.

A few years later a friend in school introduced me to war games, of maps and cardboard chipts. From then until 1980 I was an avid mover of stacks of chits, joining a college wargaming club as well.

College also re-introduced me  to video games: Space Invaders in particular. I spent countless quarters at the game.

I was losing interest in the war gaming despite the appearance of higher-quality games such as Squad Leader (yes, there was to ‘A’ in front of the name back then) because finding players who would not cheat, argue about rules, or lose interest at the first difficulties was tough. But in the same room as the war gamers met we started seeing other people showing up, talking about ‘Traveller’ and D&D (likewise, no ‘A’ back then.

These new games were harder to understand (first question: what are the victory conditions?), but the players were easier to find and while there was still plenty of arguing about rules, it was less frustrating and more part of the game.

In the Army video games were common; we had Space Defenders in a bar twenty feet from my first unit barracks, and RPGs caught on fast in an environment where over a hundred people lived in the same building and had the same schedule. War gaming was not, oddly enough, popular.

When I got out of the regular army in the mid-80s I found an RPG group easily enough, but war gaming was nowhere to be found, and video arcades were less interesting.

When I bought my first PC around 1990 (VHS monitor, 286 processor, 40mb hard drive, $2000) I discovered Red Baron, Secret Weapons of the Luftwaffe, and others. A new venue opened up for me.

A move due to a job change in 1992 ended my RPG group, but I still had a succession of ever-better PCs and computer games, including a return to war games, now playing against an AI, or by email with a banker in Luxembourg.

In 2002 I stumbled across a RPG group looking for a GM, and I agreed to run a campaign; as of 2018 I am still GMing weekly, changing games every 12-14 months. Two of my five players are alumni of that original 2002 group.

In 2009 I purchased my first game console, an Xbox 360, and my PC ceased to be a major gaming platform for me (except for the Hearts of Iron and Civilization series). Later, I transitioned to a PS4.

How did gaming affect my life? Well, besides being a hobby that brought me countless hours of enjoyment (and cost me a lot of money), it brought history alive for me, and history was a love of mine before I started gaming.  It also led me to learn to use a PC, something that was of tremendous help to me in my career; I am certain that I would never have purchased a home computer if it wasn’t for games.

But most of all it fulfilled and nurtured my love of storytelling, and the computer skills it taught me  brought me to the author’s single greatest asset since the printing press: word processing. Without gaming I would never have honed the skills (however limited they might be) that has led me to having eighteen novels in print and more being worked upon.

I am not saying that gaming is for everyone, but it has been a good part of my life since my pre-teens, and thanks to that hobby I was able to fulfill one of my greatest dreams, which was to be an author.

Writing again

My wife, who is as tough as an old boot, is walking around without a walker or cane (three weeks after surgery), and I am able to concentrate on writing again. I’m not up to my old standard, but I am getting there.

After a quarter-century of marriage, my advice is when choosing a spouse, seek one who would do well in a zombie outbreak. Should the day come when you are called to take part in Mankind’s final stand you don’t want to spend your last moments with someone who isn’t up to the task.

Quick update

My wife had a needed surgery earlier this month, and much of my time is being taken up by caring for her (the surgery was a success, and she is recovering quickly). I am still writing, but my free time has been curtailed. Another two weeks ought to see things back to normal.

Buffalo Riders is Published!

It should be available around noon on November 1 once Amazon processes the files.

It was actually ready to go two days ago, (I made my deadline!) but I figured Halloween was not a good book sales sale, so I waited until just after midnight to plug the book into Amazon.

Here’s hoping it will sell, and get positive reviews.