Gamer Story X

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.

“All right, settle down, we need to get things organized,” Max banged his mug to get everyone’s attention. The Black Talons had rented the Red Bull’s back room for a planning and discussion session, preferring to do this in more privacy than the common room of the Black Eagle would allow. All ten Talons were present, plus Angus, the war chief of the Orange Stone Clan (of barbarian Brownies); Angus was three inches taller and several pounds heavier than Tylwyth, clad in leather tunic and trousers, a gold piece hung around his neck and a bastard sword (of Brownie size) slung across his back. The latter item had formerly been an enchanted knife of Merrick’s; it had been given to the Orange Stone (with a new hilt crafted by Dwalin) to insure their cooperation. “Let’s get started.”

“Before we start the planning, I would like to have Max and Loki witness my will,” Tylwyth announced, producing a lengthy sheet of parchment, which he passed down to Loki.

“Let’s see, I get his money, Max gets his weapons….”

“Great, a rapier-shaped boot dagger,” Max grinned.

“Felosithe gets his tattoos, Dwalin gets his robes…”

“They won’t fit,” the Dwarf observed. “How about another round, by the way?”

“….and Pale Rider gets Silky.”

“Silky? I get Silky?” Pale looked up from his carving on the table top. “What in the blazes will I do with a big bug?”

“It’s a giant moth steed, not a bug,” Tylwyth snapped.

“Moth, bug, whatever; it can’t lift my body weight, so it’s just an annoyance for me,” the Deyj shrugged.

“Do you know how rare those moths are? Only Pixie-folk can train them.”

“So I could sell it to a Pixie-Fairy?”

“Of course not, they wouldn’t buy a moth which had lost its rider,” Tylwyth rolled his eyes.

“So, how is it valuable if I can’t sell it?” Pale wanted to know.

“Its a keepsake, you idiot!” Tylwyth yelled.

“Like I would want to remember you,” Pale shook his head.

“All right, pass my will back,” the churchman snapped.

“We already signed it,” Max observed.

“All right, addendum to will: Osila gets Silky, Pale Rider gets squat,” Tylwyth muttered, digging out another sheet of parchment and his writing kit. “I’ll have it drawn up in a moment.”

“Maybe I could mount his crossbow on my forearm,” Max mused as the cleric scribbled furiously. “That would be kind of interesting.”

“How would you fire it?” Loki wondered.

“Hey, maybe Osila could train Silky to hover with the standard strapped to it, leave both her hands free,” Pale suggested.

“I’ve known you longer than Dwalin,” Merrick pointed out. “Why is he getting something and not me?”

“You can have his rapier,” Max offered as he signed the addendum to the will.

“No, he can have my books,” Tylwyth snapped, digging out another sheet of parchment.

“You know, years from now we’ll be calling this ‘the Tylwyth docment’,” Max observed to Loki. “It’ll be a stack of addendums a foot thick.” Ignoring the cleric’s black look, he banged his mug again. “Now that everyone knows how much they’ll get when Tylwyth dies…”

“If I die.”

“Hey, now that I know there’s money in it for me, I would definitely term it as ‘when’,” Loki grinned.

“Anyway,” Max banged his mug again as Tylwyth dug out another sheet of parchment. “We need to work up a plan to deal with the Thunderlord Clan of Verbeeg giants. Angus has provided us with a map of their hold and the news that starting at around noon tomorrow, they’ll be holding a feast to honor their Stone Giant allies and to try to get a visiting Scorn Giant to join them.”

“How long is the feast going to last?” Norbert asked.

“Until about midnight,” Angus replied.

“And it gets dark about five hours past noon,” Max pointed out. “I think the best way to attack them during the feast when they’re all gathered in the Great Hall, with a minimum of sentries. Angus says they won’t be armed or armored when they’re feasting.”

“A cunning plan,” Angus rose from the upended mug he had been sitting on at the center of the table. “I’ll get the lads.”

“Ah, no, wait Angus, that’s just the outline,” Max cautioned the Brownie. “There’s more.”

“Ah.” The war chief resumed his seat.

“Could we poison their ale?” Pale wondered.

“Where are we going to get that much poison in less than two days?” Merrick shrugged. By sitting at the corner of the table, he was able to keep track of most of what was being said.

“We could hit once they’re all drunk,” Norbert suggested.

“How long would it take for them to get drunk?” Osila asked.

“Actually, it’s a simple formula….'” Dwalin began.

“Drunk is not good,” Max cautioned them. “They’re less sensitive to pain, far braver, and more unpredictable.” Seeing doubt, he clarified. “Think about Dwalin half-way through a bender.”

“All right, forget waiting,” Norbert flinched at the mental image. “When do we hit?”

“Angus, you said your people can scout the place and get us in? Then about an hour after full dark; the sentries will have been drinking steadily, and we’ll be able to slip up largely unseen. We can leave the cart about two miles or so from the hold, and carry any supplies we need from that point on.”

“A cunning plan,” Angus stood.

“Not yet, Angus. Now, we know that except for the chieftain and the visitors, which are the Stone and Scorn Giants, everyone keeps their arms and armor in these two rooms….”

***

“All right, I think that’s it. Angus, you know what your people are supposed to do?”

“Harry the wolves in the open compound and spike two doors six times.”

“Spike these six doors with two spikes each, quietly.”

“Right, quiet-like.”

“Loki, you get the oil and barrel, I’ll get the lumber, Tylwyth distributes the healing potions, and Dwalin prays as hard as he can. And stays sober. Any questions?”

“Where do we get these spikes?” Angus asked.

“Loki, get Angus some spikes. Anything else?”

“D’ya want us to kill the wolves before harrying them?” Angus asked.

“Yes, that sounds good,” Max said slowly. “All the wolves, once the attack is joined.”

“Aha,” Angus nodded sagely. “A cunnin’ plan if I ever heard one.”

***

Max’s breath puffed out in white clouds in the crisp winter air. “Where the blazes are they? Angus said he’s meet us in this clearing.”

“He’ll show,” Loki grinned. “Angus is strange, but he’s solid.”

Moments later the Talons were surrounded by about sixty heavily-armed Brownies who bodies, hair, and accouterments were painted bright orange.

“Angus, why are you painted orange?” Max asked carefully.

“Clan tradition. We brought some for ya as well, to be sociable-like.” The Brownie offered a pint pot.

Max drew some lines across his face and passed the paint to Loki. “Now, do you remember your part of the plan?”

“Yep. I stays with you ta give ya the benefit ‘o my knowledge. The rest kills the wolves, then harries ’em.”

“And spikes the doors.”

“Damn! I knew I was forgettin’ sumthin! Ya wouldn’t happen to have an extra set of spikes, would ya?”

“Loki?”

“Actually, no, I didn’t buy any extra.”

“Nae problem,” Angus assured Max. “We can find sumtin’ ta use.”

“Bad enough we’re facing giants, now we’re gonna have a herd of two-foot orange maniacs running around shooting up everything that moves. Its turning sour three miles short of the target area,” Pale Rider shook his head.

“I’m excited about this plan-I’m proud to be a part of it,” Max boomed, thumping the Deyj on the shoulder.

“It’s a beauty of a plan,” Angus nodded. “A’course, we’ll all die heroically, but that’s the stuff ballads are made of.”

“I’m getting more confident by the moment,” Pale sighed.