The Far Reaches (Fantasy Travelogue)

[Lacco]

What lies behind that hill? Beyond that valley?

Let's find out together!

The world is a sword & sorcery, gritty and dangerous, low-magic to no-magic. Mysterious valley covered in dark forests that contains several ancient barrows in octagonal pattern are great, floating cities not so much.

It's also sparsely populated - larger cities exist, usually connected by trade routes. These are spots of civilization, but decaying and decadent.

And to make it a bit more interesting, let's start at one location - and make it a travelogue! So write the descriptions as if a traveler described them in a journal.

I'm mainly after interesting ideas, names of locations, but also description!

Village on Crossroads

The first thing you notice is the lack of roads leading to the village or out of it. The village is small, consists only of few families living in mud huts, with one longhouse in the center, serving both as tavern and meeting place.

The people are unfriendly and xenophobic, but are more than willing to trade. Their major form of entertainment consists of travelers, so if you tell them a story, or bring some gossip, you will be treated to a friendly reception and maybe even free meal.

However, after one or two days the locals usually start being a bit pushy.

---

Now, pick a direction and let's see what we can build here!

[Eldan]

Like this?

Spring 692

Though the village had looked pleasant from a distance, the villagers soon proved to be a rather rude lot. In no uncertain terms, they told me to move along when it turned out I had neither a lot of stories nor trade to make.
I stocked up on grain and salt fish, though, and purchased a new pair of boots, my last pair still in tatters after my misadventure on the pass.
After some consultation, I decided to make my way north along the small River the locals called the Travet, which they assured me would curve around the most desolate parts of the moorlands and still lead me where I needed to go.
In actual practice, the river turned out to be flanked for the better part of two day's travel by willow thickets and steep, chalky banks, meaning there had to be much more climbing than I had anticipated.
Exhausted, and having traveled perhaps half as much distance than I would have hoped, I made camp on the second evening on a wide expanse of gravel in a bend of the river, thinking of perhaps changing my travel plans.

[QuintonBeck]

18th, New Twig, 692
I write this entry with a shaking hand as I review the events of the prior evening. Shortly after nightfall while I lay camped upon the gravel beach beside the Travet I became aware of a presence amid the thickets beyond my campfire's light. In an instant I found myself set upon by a feral pack of wolves that I feared myself and my sword would not last long against. My suspicions may have yet borne true if not for the timely arrival of half a dozen arrows sinking into the hindquarters of my attackers. I did not pause to question this fortune and in short order, with another bout of arrows finding their way from the trees, the wolves were dead. It was then I met my saviors. Elves.

The Elves speak little of my tongue but from what I understand these who have aided me are part of a scouting party for a greater host. Finding me seems to have excited them for some reason. They have joined my camp and while they have allowed me to retain my weapon and my equipment I feel that they see me as a prisoner of sorts. They have informed me in the morning we shall make our way into the woods to a site called "Vaermenia" which I understand to be their base. I have little choice but to comply and I do owe them my life for their aid against the wolves. It will be a wonder to see even a glimpse of the Elven world.

[Thunderfist12]

19, New Twig, 692

I am beginning to reconsider my thoughts on the Fair Folk.

This morning I'd awoken to the sound of padded, heavy footfalls and the slow, rattling squeals of caravans. My head felt like it was filled with mud, and my every movement felt as though it were through sand. Once I opened my eyes, I found I was in a caged cart covered in a thin white sheet, all my weapons gone. Sillhouettes of armored elf-men flutter against the open, filtered light. I know naught of our drafting beast save that its head looks in shape similar to a hawk, or perhaps a vulture. My captors have been talking and laughing without end. Such energy astounds me - we've been moving constantly as long as I've been awake, and the changes in my cell's angles show we've been moving through hill country. The movement of sunlight tells that we have moved North and West for the better part of the day. If memory serves, we are headed into the barrows.

One thing I have learned from the night before: never take mead from an elf.

[Lacco]

23rd New Twig, 692

I lost two days of writing when one of the elves noticed me sketching him. Shouted something and tore the two pages apart. I do not mind very much. These two days were rather uneventful - the only interesting moment was when the caravan was joined by a larger one.

Now I have a new companion, an academic of sorts. Araiel is rather pleasant fellow, a good companion, and even knows a bit of elven language - which helps a bit but currently is not very talkative.

He managed to mispronounce the name of one of the elves and currently has to eat only porridge. Poor guy.

The laughter and pleasant talks stopped today. We entered another part of the forest - and I don't know how to say this but...

...it hates the elves.

I know it is irrational to provide a forest with "will" of some sort, but ever since we entered it, it has been dark, the trees loom above, some fall across the trail we are following (I have been able to chart the progression due to the night sky and we have been going almost straight northeast) and even the wildlife is... wilder than usual.

When I asked Araiel about this - he told me he discussed the reason we are held with the elves - he only muttered something about "tribute", "offering" and "the entity that gives them power".

I think I understand, but I dislike the idea. The barrows are now near - sometimes I even feel them, sometimes I notice their silhouette against the sky when the forest gives us a moment to breathe. It indeed does everything in its powers to stop the elves. And they know it.

---

@Eldan: exactly like that!

Great stuff, guys!

[Thunderfist12]

28 New Twig, 692nd Cycle of the Red Sun

There isn't much time, so I must be brief.

My captors clapped me in irons at daybreak and blindfolded me. My fellow captive and I were prodded on by spears and swords for miles, stumbling over the stony, ashen soil. I heard voices negotiating with the elves. Voices I would recognize anywhere. Orcs.

From what I remember of their tongue, they were asking for payment in blood as a tribute of some sort. Or something like that. In the end, both my companion and I were thrown into cells opposite each other in what I gather is the far chamber halls of a barrow mound. Only then were our blinds removed.

The wall is covered in scratchings and bloodstains, some fresh, and clean picked skeletons - elven I'd guess - lie in positions of torment and fear.

Guard is coming. More tomorrow.

[QuintonBeck]

4 Water Down, 692nd in the Cycle of the Red Sun

I had nearly lost all hope we might ever see the outside world again after the third day of captivity and torture at the hands of the Orcs. They beat us daily and left us starved and thirsting for hours on end, respite coming only in the disgusting plates of writhing insects and rancid meats accompanied by sour smelling water brought at nightfall. At night we were safe, the Orcs seemed to fear being apart from their clan then, and it was only because of Araiel's company that I held my sanity as we discussed plans for escape. Araiel. My dear friend who now lies broken and dying for the sacrifice he made for our freedom.

It was this morning, when the Orc with only one eye came to unlock our cells and begin the day's beatings that Araiel announced in Orcish his intent to defile our captor's mother, sisters, and even grandmother "assuming the old grey bag was still wheezing." Needless to say the orc was driven to a fury and laid into my companion with a ferocity that made my stomach churn. The furious creature was ranting and raving about our time being up and the arrival of "Vaermenia" in the night. We had discussed this plan the night before and days of tireless work had at last seen by hands, bloodied and scraped raw by the process, slipped free of bondage. I had the orc's axe from his back as quickly as I could manage and before he had a chance to respond I had driven it through his skull, splitting his head wide. Araiel was barely alive but I could not risk being seen beside him and crept to the shadows to wait. No other orc came. For hours I waited, my only companion the pained breathing of Araiel only a few yards from where I stood.

At last I could not bear to wait any longer and ran to the entrance from which the orcs had come to torture us. In the room beyond I saw what could only be an abandoned camp. It was clearly of size for a small tribe but there was only enough supplies to explain one orc's presence, no doubt the deceased monocular torturer. Now, given the time to contemplate and write with the immediate threats to Araiel's life stemmed I fear what may come for us this night. I have erected a barricade of stone and what little brush I could gather from the eerie oppressive woods outside the cave to seal our chamber off from assault but I do not know if it will be enough. The supplies the orc had carried will only provide myself and Araiel enough for a few days though I fear Araiel may not last long enough to see their end. We must escape this cave and this damned forest but first we must survive the night...

OOC: While not my intent our protag seems like he could die pretty easily between this point and escaping the woods. Perhaps this travelogue is an anthology of traveler's logs from all over the world? This one could be a warning about this particular forest/its inhabitants and we could potentially have others with different tones (Lighthearted, bureaucratic, etc.) for different areas. Or maybe this protag will live, thrive, and survive to explore the whole world, I'm fine with that too!

[Thunderfist12]

@QuentonBeck OOC: We'll find a way to have him survive. Maybe we should only kill off the caracters if a) they have a living companion or b) someone inherits it from an older/dying writer. Which can help build up a rich history.

[Thunderfist12]

5th Water Down, 692nd in the Cycle of the Red Sun

Lost. V attacked in the night. Smoke and shadows. Fire rained down. Teeth like swords, claws like spears. Leg broken in rockslide. Araiel helps me walk. Says there's a fishing town three leagues out. He grows feverish. The forest confuses us. The road appears and vanishes like a mirage.

Writing is painful. Arms sore and blistered. Must rest.

Angels guide us.

[Eldan]

9th Water Down, 692nd in the Cycle of the Red Sun

Somehow, we lost three days. At least that's what the woodcutters told us when we woke up. They had found us, delirious and ranting, stumbling out of the forest. They assure me the Travet is 40 miles east, though last I knew, we had been on the eastern banks when captured by elves and then orcs.

They will let me stay for a few more days, they say. A mercy that, at least, for my leg is badly broken and might take weeks to heal. Araiel is slipping in and out of consciousness. His fever is high and the healer says something in his skull is broken and swelling. She gives him two days.

I should perhaps give a more full account of what happened that night in the barrow, though my hand trembles badly to think of it. Other travelers on the banks of the Travet and the barrowlands beyond will have to know.

Every child learns how to turn a wraith, those nebulous spirits that sometimes arise from the barrows and I need not repeat here the songs. But this was no mere wraith. This creature was to a wraith as a wyrm is to a rock snake. Wraiths can not touch that which is not alive. This creature tore through the orcish camp, setting fire to anything it touched. If it had not at first fallen on the dead orc...

For a moment, it looked at me, with eyes like embers. "Thou art a man", it said. "But blood of traitors dost not flow in thy veins. Thou mayest live yet for a time." It laughed, then.

I will never forget that laugh.

[QuintonBeck]

13th Water Down, 692nd in the Cycle of the Red Sun

Araiel passed yesterday. With the help of the locals I saw him buried and grave marked with a stack of spirit stones. I shall not forget my companion's sacrifice and, gods willing, no one else will follow in his footsteps. I've talked with the locals who have told me that a city exists about five days ride north from this hamlet. My leg is still in poor condition but I cannot continue to impose upon the people here and I have an obligation to inform someone of what I have seen near the Travet. Elves and Orcs plotting with wraiths could portend doom for us all.

The locals say the city is called Carro and is ruled by a 'Duke Umen' though they profess little knowledge of its politics or power beyond that. They do some trading with the city, mostly in the logs felled by the local woodsmen for finished goods, but have little interaction beyond the merchant quarter. I'm hopeful this Duke will take some interest in my tale. If not, it shall be up to me to avenge my fallen comrade alone.

The hamlet is sending an envoy to the city tomorrow for trade and I have asked to join them, promising an appropriate payment for the trouble. I have little to pay with now and while I do not know this city it is my hope that in it I may find work or trade to pay my obligations. Until this leg heals fully there's little I can do but wait and write though I worry I may soon write only of that persistent nightmare that is my memory of the Orcish cave. Perhaps I might find work as a scribe to keep my mind occupied...

[Thunderfist12]

14th Water Down, 692nd in the Cycle of the Red Sun

A cloud has loomed over me this day, one that brings both rain and sorrow.

In early morning I visited Araiel, standing awhile over his grave. Only the undertakers and myself were present, and none of us spoke any rites, for I knew of none to say. So he was left in silence with only his beartooth necklace, hung upon the hilt of my old long-knife, to mark the grave. Poor soul.

The rain began on my way to the caravans. They were eight carts covered in canvas, pulled by stout, wooly oxen, each capable of holding thirty. Men garbed in sackcloth and hemp that covered every feature occupied the driving seats and a few chain-clad guardsmen were loading the last unfilled cart. They left the back half open, and before the back canvas was tied down, I was seated among the guardsmen.

The journey has since been uneventful, save for a simple meal of bread and sour wine. The red-haired one, Turin, handed me a spare targe and spear from the cart's stock. I haven't said a word to these folks - I cannot bear to. For now, I can only wallow and wait.

[Thunderfist12]

Edit: I noticed I accidentally had Araiel buried a second time. Oops.

[Eldan]

15th Water Down, 692nd in the Cycle of the Red Sun

A day passed without more incident than a brawl between two guardsmen and a drover over a game of dice. We are leaving the woods behind now, and the landscape is changing to exactly what most readers will picture when they think of the Westerlands.

We are fully upon the moors now. A desolate, blasted place of sickly looking grass and mosses clinging to bare rock, with only heather and some kind of thorny juniper bushes giving some colour in the hollows. The sky is an oppressive grey and it has not stopped drizzling since yesterday morning. At least the road is marked well, with carefully stacked cairns every half mile. One could not bear the idea of getting lost here.

A few times, the guards have tried striking up a conversation, but I can not bear to be more than monosyllabic, and they quickly learned to leave me alone and turn back to their bone games.

[D20ragon]

18th Water Down, 692nd in the Cycle of the Red Sun

Although, as I understand it, we should have arrived in Carro, the heath stretches on, flat and grey as old hide. Something has gone wrong. We all are aware of it, I am sure, though none have yet given voice to our misgivings: the sky is too vast, our voices stretch too thin across the endless grasses. The cairns have grown less frequent. My knees and fingers ache and I cannot keep them still. I yearn to break something, to shout, and at the same time am overwhelmed the futility of this desire.

The guards (I have not learned their names, nor given mine) have a new game. One draws a pattern of dots on a scrap of parchment with charcoal, while the others take turns guessing what the drawing was intended to represent. I have played only once. A man with silver hair on his knuckles handed the scrap to me, his fingers stained black. Uncomprehending, I gazed at the dots through the wet haze of the air. They were meaningless. Scattered randomly, black, ugly and chaotic. In the damp, each mark was smeared. I felt sick to my stomach, and pressed the scrap back into the dirty hand of the guardsmen.


Watching the land roll by, I had the feeling that we were passing the same terrain over and over, but I could discern no landmarks to either confirm nor deny my hunch. I have tried and failed three times now to get drunk on the wine we have with us.


Before I slept, one of the guardsmen told me that the dots I had seen represented a youthful wedding, but that all his friends had supposed it to be a whore and a man in a back alley.
"Now I know" I said. Then I pretended to sleep.

[Eldan]

19th Water Down, 692nd in the Cycle of the Red Sun

I awoke bleary-eyed and tired. The inside of my mouth tastes of rotten meet and feels stuffed with wool. My limbs, not just the broken leg, ache abominably. All night, I awoke in fits and starts, feeling as if I was falling off the cart, or that I had heard strange sounds.

My companions fare not much better and morale is miserable. A fist fight broke out between a guard and a drover when one knocked over the other's porridge bowl while sitting down. A woman tried to sing a song and stopped after half a verse of I Awoke on a Morning Fair, when her voice petered out, hoarse and reedy under the open sky.

The drizzling rain has stopped, but it is but a small blessing. The air is just as moist and impenetrable bands of fog lie heavy in every creek and hollow, turning the hills into small islands. Instead, a wind has picked up, icy cold and penetrating, with an endless, keening sound.

We all know we are lost. The captain won't yet admit it, but he has gathered two veterans with him and they walked off to a low-hill, bent low over a map. What they use to navigate, I do not know, we haven't seen the sun or stars clearly in three days.

There is muttering that we are cursed, or haunted. The silver-knuckled guard has begun throwing pinches of salt into the wind, so they scatter back over the wagons, claiming loudly that doing so will turn away this evil. I don't think I believe it.


(Man, things are getting bleak here.)

[Thunderfist12]

OOC: This is definitely turning out as horror/dark fantasy and it's AWESOME

[Eldan]

(Our main character does have quite bad luck though, I'd imagine. Going from being tortured by orcs to being lost in the desert inside of a week.)

[D20ragon]

(Hey all. Thunderfist, good to see ya, many thanks for pointing me over here. Eldan, Quinton, it's been a minute since I've done anything with either of you, always a pleasure. Lacco, many thanks for this idea, it's absolutely brilliant. In any case, the poor fellow does seem to have very little going for him. How far do we want to take him? I don't foresee dropping him anytime too soon, but I really like the idea of doing many authors, as one traveler finds the book on another's corpse, someone purchases the book from an antique store, etc.)

[Thunderfist12]

Day Unknown, 692nd in the Cycle of the Red Sun
It's been days since I last wrote an entry, though I cannot tell how many. The heath has grown stony and dry, and the sky is perpetually grey and dusky. Turin calls this place Ghenea Mesche, the Ashman's Walk. It matters not to me what it is called. We are running out of water. The silver knuckled guard got into a tussle with a drover over the last bottle of wine and ended up killing the poor fellow. He went stumbling off into the wastes shortly after.

A madness has taken many of our men. While the cairns have returned, they all seem identical, and the drovers suspect we are going in circles. Turin, the red-haired one, has been cowering in the cart, muttering prayers in Orcish and clutching his amulet, a Hammer of Årnam. One of the guardsmen has taken to gnawing on an old tunic from the stock, and his teeth have gone loose and bloodied.

As if that wasn't enough, the back axle on our personnel cart shattered when we rode over a large stone. We cannot move now unless by foot. But first, we must rest.

[Eldan]

(Well, so far, he hasn't really done anything. He's been almost entirely passive, other than killing a single orc. Perhaps he ought to be given some agency and some skills?)

[Thunderfist12]

(Well, so far, he hasn't really done anything. He's been almost entirely passive, other than killing a single orc. Perhaps he ought to be given some agency and some skills?)

My opinion: I think so far he's not a very experienced traveller, maybe more of a chronicler or a cartographer. We could probably have him learn some magic from a travelling wizard, or maybe have him as a rogue type (his only attack was a sneak attack after all). Or both.Maybe a guardsman joins him in his travels and teaches him to fight for himself. Idk.

[Lleban]

31st??? Water Down, 692nd in the Cycle of the Red Sun

The fog is thick, so thick its nearly impossible to tell the time of day. In fact the only thing that penetrates the fog is a periodic long high pitched hum emanating from all sides. Fortunately or perhaps unfortunately the guards have become much quieter, only occasionally muttering about "Skifters."

I haven't seen the captain in several hours and nobody seems to notice. When I brought it up with the Turin he sheepishly moved his head to the left and tried to change to subject. Two other guards had a similar reaction when I asked, foul play is probably afoot.

[D20ragon]

3rd? Bright Bird, 692nd in the Cycle of the Red Sun

Two days have gone by without noticeable progress, due, I believe, to the captains absence The day before last was spent in quiet desperation and bitter, whispered discussions. I heard the word "Skifter" again, and did not ask what I meant. Yesterday, in a manic reversal, we lit a fire with wood we brought with us from the broken cart. One of the drovers revealed that he had several bottles of wine, much finer stuff than what we had been drinking, concealed under a loose plank in the wagon.
"A gift for my girl in Carro" he said. "Wine from the Irban Coast, a vintage before the orcish civil war. A refugee, orc, of barely seventeen, traded me them for a hot meal and concealment from the band who was after him. Black Boots, you know." He had handed round the bottles as he was speaking, and nobody, including myself, cared about his story. But my writers sensibilities demanded I hear him out, just as they demanded I record his tale. "I sold him out the next day," the drover said. "Orcs 've killed too many to expect charity from me." I was unsurprised. It was one of those stories that everyone in wartime tells.

I began to drink. The wine was sweet and warmed my hands. The drover died for nothing after all, and the silver-knuckled guard sits alone and thirsty in the gorse. I hope he has found some way to end his life. Nobody mentioned either of those men, and so I kept silent as well.

Despite drinking until my stomach felt leaden, I remained sober. I think perhaps I will never get drunk again. In my current situation, this seems a hilariously cruel fate.

Turin tried to discuss the drovers story with me as the fire burned down. He had spent some time in Irban, he said, which is where he had picked up Orcish, as well as his amulet. He spoke about the savage beauty of the orchish cities, and how even in the months that he had spent there, well before the civil war, the Black Boots were already beginning to murder priests. I told him to his face that the troubles of the orcish people did not interest me. What little sympathy I have I will not waste on my captors.

It is morning, I hope, as I write this. Most of us are hungover. Fortunately, I am not, and am impatient to leave, wounded as I am. I have developed an intense hatred of the spot where we have spent the last few days, and the smell of smoke in the mist is nauseating.

[QuintonBeck]

OOC: If I might speculate, I think there's a reticence to step on toes by over-defining our POV character since he's being illustrated by multiple authors but I think we should feel freer to add agency to the Traveler as Eldan suggests so long as it doesn't suggest some level of ability never before mentioned that could have been relevant before. Personally I see this Traveler as relatively inexperienced but not fresh off the farm. He did start off with a weapon and he does have one kill to his name. Seeing as things are starting to get more dire perhaps its time to start getting more proactive and possibly violent if necessary.

4th? Bright Bird, 692nd in the Cycle of the Red Sun
Just four of us left now. Turin the red, two drovers, and myself. Nothing has changed but the weather, oscillating between chilling fog and shivering rain as we continue down this path that leads nowhere. The last guard to disappear had a heated conversation with Turin but in whispered voices that made it difficult to hear. I tried to ask Turin after the guard went away what they spoke of and received only muttered superstitions and prayers as a reply. Turin blames the Skifters for disappearing our compatriots. Says they snatched them in the night and hauled them off to sacrifice to their queen. I know more than a few were killed by rivals in the group but Turin insists it was the Skifters. Says the Skifters are desert spirits, wraiths by another name, intent to capture and destroy mortals who invade their lands. He can't be right but I'm not so sure he's entirely wrong...

For the past few hours (or maybe its been days) the memory of Vaermenia's laugh has returned to a state of ever-presence in my mind as it was so soon after I first heard it. The words that wicked spirit spoke run through my head and I can't help but wonder if the silver-knuckled guard was right about a curse, just wrong about its target. Perhaps it is my presence that has doomed this expedition. The drovers are speaking of plans to try and turn around, as if that could even be possible. I am working on my own plan, though I hesitate to enact it. Perhaps, perhaps my companions must be stripped away to escape this curse. Would it not be better they die by my hand than tortured by maddened desert spirits? If all is lost there is nothing left to lose. My heart aches to consider these thoughts but I cannot help but to desire seeing it to the end. Turin first, then the drovers. I must help them find peace and bring about an end to this long journey.

[D20ragon]

(Agreed, I have been viewing and writing him as man of some small experience who is being driven to the brink by the current series of events. I imagine he's been in fight or two before all this, but the wolves at the beginning were a large a threat as any he'd seen, and orcs and elves and wraiths had, up until now been thoroughly not his problem. I'd also suggest we begin to work in a bit of background for him over the course of the next posts.)

[Lacco]

7th Bright Bird, 692nd in the Cycle of the Red Sun; Mariner's Tear Rising

I finally know exactly what day it is. However, knowing it made the surroundings even more dangerous and my companions are already lamenting their doom.

The Mariner's Tear arose today. For next few days we will be bathed in the blue radiance of the accursed moon, that changes the world around us into... ah, well.

I never was a superstitious man. Never believed that the moon is actually cursed or that it brings terrifying things to our relatively civilized world.

But here...

...its light shows us exactly our surroundings.

We have been going in circles. We now can see the spirits that laugh at us, with their gaping mouths voicelessly taunting us. Leading us astray.

And we can also see our... guide. The reason why it happened.

I had a dream tonight. I was offered... safe passage. She has shown me my leg, healthy, stepping on green grass, away from the gray desolation we walk now. She asked me a question - not asked. I understood the question and am contemplating it now. She wants to take all and leave me. Why does she have to ask?

The lady of the wasted land. The legends were true, at least for this.

If someone finds this set of scrolls, know that the choice I made was the wrong one...(Well, guys... I leave you for few days here... and you manage to do AWESOME!

@D20ragon: Thank you all for giving my idea some actual content . It's 100 times better than anything I have imagined.

My original thought was that he mostly evades stuff and only describes what he saw - not taking too much proactive approach so that the area we all create can be used as basis for some exploration adventure.

And originally I thought there will be several travelers, each going different way, telling different stories. In the end, I planned drawing a large map of the whole "world" we create... I've been learning how to draw maps lately, but ran out of ideas

As for this traveler: let's assume he has weapon training, but no experience with actual combat... but learns quickly )

[Thunderfist12]

If someone finds this set of scrolls, know that the choice I made was the wrong one..

Wait. Wait. Is the writer dead?

[D20ragon]

(I think that's up to whoever goes next to interpret. They very well could be, or they could have done the unspeakable deed they were pondering, for example.)

[Lleban]

Yeah our traveler strikes me as pretty competent....just catastrophically unlucky. This feels like one of the old choose your own adventure books. I thought he was pretty passive during most of Wet down because his leg was broken, which would put anyone out of action.