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( 09.01.2010 )
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( 09.01.2010 )
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( 01.08.2009 )
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( 17.07.2009 )
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Swamp Rat Campaign Journal
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Top level
Gæa
Campaign Notes
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Author: Tony Den
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Publishing date: 17.07.2009 13:55
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Occasional campaign journal for The Swamp Rat Century and by extension, Centurion Skwibs Cavalry.
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Place: North Dalatia
Date: Taramis 5 – Early winter / Imperium ????
Who: The horse troop that was once the Swamp Rats.
Characters: Centurion Skwib, Bork the Northman Carl, Greer the Northman Trader.
Special Task: Spot the GM’s mistake.
Previously
Skwib gained the blessing of the beloved and comely Queen Taramis to for a new unit of horse soldiers. Finances being tight, his mandate was initially to recruit new soldiers who could preferable bring their own horse and grow the troop into a sizeable fighting unit. To this end the unit of a few stalwart Swamp Rats who had decided to take on the cavalry life as well as some new recruits were dispatched north, to the distant fortress town of Dun Atholl.
This Adventure
Skwib and co had arrived late the previous day and presented their letter of passage to the captain of the guard. They had been billeted in the visitors barracks, which was situated some distance from the main gate of the fortress.
Dun Atholl is situated on a low hill, overlooking a small lake which was formed by the influx of the local river into a depression. Over the years the Dun’s original purpose as guardian of the north has softened and a small trading town has sprung up between it and the docks on the lake.
Early the next day, as Skwib’s cavalry are enjoying a meagre breakfast under the glowering appraisal of the local master of horse, word comes of a Northman long ship that has put in for a spot of trading. It is late in the season for sure, already some mild snows have visited, dusting the countryside white.
With sweet nothing to occupy them, Skwib and some of his comrades mosey down to the docks for a look at these Northmen and what they may have to sell. A bit of trading ensues and after a while Skwib et al find themselves in possession, inter alia, of some small barrels of mead and the companionship of two Northman, going y the names of Bork and Greer. The mead is drunk, and is soon followed by ale and spirits and a night of carousing and feeling wenches up in the local tavern.
Some hours after day break, as the hung-over punters are going about reviving their dulled wits, it comes to pass that captain Snorri has pushed off with his long ship, eager to return to his homeland before the real winter storms start. Bork and Greer are left behind, having not returned in time. Over the following month the two Northmen make friends among the visiting cavalry, who in turn set about training under the Dun’s master of horse. At first it is fun to watch the green cavalry flail about and fall off their horses, but that novelty soon passes.
When word comes of the need for a sortie to the nearby village of Litz, which Skwib’s men are volunteered for, the Northmen do not hesitate to join in. The mission is a simple one, escort the Dun’s healer and tax collector to Litz and once their duties have been performed, escort them back.
The trip to Litz was uneventful, but word came the next day that a healer was urgently needed further north, at a farmers croft. Rather than wait around gambling and drinking, Skwib, Bork and Greer escorted the healer to the farm.
The farm was in the form of a wooden walled skally, and the home of an elderly horse breeder who had taken ill. The healer tended him but the shortening day was dying by the time she was ready to depart. A light snow had started to fall, so the adventurers decided to stay overnight and depart the next day. Some time after dusk, there came a booming knock at the skallys gate. The knock was answered and eftsoons the gate had closed did a short man get escorted into the warm longhouse.
The man, besides being short of stature, was unlike anyone they had encountered before. Once he shrugged off heavy furs, they beheld a sturdy, slightly bow legged figure. Though old, the strength in his muscles was quite evident. His face was wide, with deep set eyes shadowed by heavy brow ridges which were topped with a sloped forehead.
The old farmer, who feeling somewhat better after being tended by the healer, had by this time made his way to the table, recognised the visitor as being from a people who dwelled far to the north. He claimed to have briefly stayed with them in his youth, while adventuring into the northern wild lands. And forsooth, the aged visitor did speak. None could understand is language, even the old farmer, who had only stayed with these primitive people briefly decades before. It was fortunate though, that the old primitive spoke Nar-Haaz orc. Though Skwib had a smattering of the language, he as unable to make out what was being said due to the old mans guttural accent. Fortunately one of the farmers hands spake Nar-Haaz, having spent some time as a slave of that brutal orcish race.
And the ancient primitive spake: “I come from the land of ice and snow, where the sun shines dim, and the grass grows low.” He spoke more, though his words were brief, they were powerful. His tale was of how his tribe had been forced south from their homeland by a monstrous beast that had killed many of their hunters. Though they had fled, the beast had apparently followed them. He had left his tribe encamped some days march away and come south, to seek help from the tall men.
Though he could offer nothing by way of payment, his plight struck a cord with all present. Each came from a harsh land where the most basic law of survival was that of helping ones neighbour. Were there any doubt about helping the Snow Bear Clan (for that is whom the ancient primitive identified as being), it soon passed as with dawn arrived another.
This new arrival was no visitor, but the farmer’s son, bearing a tale of woe and destruction from the north pasture. During the night, as he had slept, the horses under his charge had started shrieking in terror and pain. He and his friend had burst from the lodge in which they had been sleeping, but it was already too late. The newly covered meadow had been painted red by the blood and gore that was once seven horses. Of their assailant, nothing but a set of massive, unidentifiable tracks remained.
His friend has started off following the beast, while he had come here to bring the bad tidings. Ill was the news, the old farmer called for his long sword, and it was only his wife and the healer please that kept him from rushing forth, to avenge his dead livestock and suddenly shrunken purse.
Horses are loaned to the Northmen, others are despatched back to Lutz to fetch more cavalry and without further ado, Skwib, Greer, Bork, the old primitive and the farmers son sally forth, heading north. They come upon the sons friend at the edge of a strange landscape which stretches across a wide, shallow valley. It is a forest of petrified trees, but not like any trees any of them have encountered before. They are forced to leave their horses as they make their way down narrow, darkened paths, taking care not to be cut on the razor share petrified branches.
Deep within the forest, they were when a troop of gibbering goblins attached tem. Emaciated and twisted from a life in this bleak terrain, they stupidly hoped to eat of succulent human flesh. Swords of iron prevailed and the goblins were soon dispatched, but alas, the scent of blood spilt had attracted a far more dangerous foe.
Towards our heroes they floated, their lethal tentacles dangling at head height to ensnare and immobilise any flesh they may encounter. Torches flared, swords were swung and they were seen off, but not before Bork had felt the icy burn of a baleful tendril across his face.
It was with considerable relief when the heroes stepped from the petrified forest and onto the open, snow blanketed northern plain. A short march brought them to the Snow Bear encampment, where they received hospitality from the pitiful survivors of the beasts predations. Few were the men who remained alive and of those remaining, only a handful were able bodied hunters. It was time to turn ofn the beast and destroy it, before it destroyed these simple people.
But first, spiritual preparedness was required. The heroes and hunters stripped down and entered the low skin tent. Within was a fire and stones, which were sprinkled with snow and pungent herbs to create steam. As they sweated and mentally prepared for the hunt, they found themselves feeling light headed. One moment they were in the tent, the next they were already on the hunt. But something was not right. Overhead the sky was red, while dark clouds blotted out the sun. They sensed their prey more than saw it, feeling its heartbeat as they stalked it, or was it stalking them. A feeling of ancient malevolence washed over them as some unknown horror watched them, waiting.
Slowly the came back to reality, in the vision tent. The dream had been invigorating and disturbing at the same time. Its affect on the primitive hunters was visible as they eagerly reached for their bone shafted spears and made ready to depart.
The hunt took them north east where the snow grew deeper and colder with each passing hour. Dark clouds were overhead and the sun was low on the horizon when they came upon the beast. One moment nothing was there, then next a great white bulk of fur and long pointed teeth exploded into them, instantly impaling one hunter on a long, sharp spike of ivory. Initial chaos soon gave way to a planned assault as the primitive hunters spread out, gripping their bone thrusting spears. Our heroes stepped in, tossing javelins and shooting bows before stepping in to engage in close combat.
Ill the timing was for Greer, as he stepping in with sword drawn. Too early did he engage, too late did he realise his mistake and the beasts spike pierced his chest and came out his back. Blood bubbled from his mouth as the beast shook its head to dislodge him. Light faded as the cold took him. When he opened his eyes, he found himself of a long dark path. Others were there, some walking fast, others slower. Nearby was the primitive who had died moments before. Greer felt a pull, as if someone called him. He closed his eyes and when they opened, he was back in the snow, the ancient primitive magician looking down at him, hand on his chest. But scarce had his eyes focussed when a cough brought a gush of blood from his mouth and he slumped back, back to the long dark path.
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to the recently deceased Greer, the battle raged on. Though struck many time, by javelin, spear and arrow, and bleeding from many small wounds, the beast raged on, lashing out with its strange long mouth filled with rows of razor teeth. It stomped the ground with its massive hairy feet and reared and plunged, but the primitive hunters were weary, rushing in to thrust at its soft underbelly. Sword and axe in hand, Skwib, Bork and the farmers son also stepped in. Much hacking and flailing occurred, until the beasts, worn out from a hundreds small wounds, crashed to the ground.
Our heroes did not tarry to butcher the bears. They returned to the camp with their dead comrade. At the camp they beheld a strange man, while as the snow in countenance, with large, totally black eyes. The stranger had been found by the Snow Bear Clan, and cared for, though he had been unconscious since they found him. Much was the suspicion of our heroes that he was somehow linked to the beast, but they spake not of it, choosing instead to return to the farm and further to Dun Atholl as soon as possible.
Outstanding tasks: Find a name for the horse company.
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