[WFRP2e] The Saga of Jorunn - Part 1 - "That Which Remains"

[bramblefoot]

jorunn nods. "ill see what i can do" he will ask around for a local woodsman

(1d100)[75]

[MrAbdiel]

It's not so hard to find such a man - after some direction you come upon one beyond the bounds of town, by a cluster of tall, branchy trees. He is showcasing his skills already; halfway up the trunk of one nodding, tilted pine; chopping away at its dead branches to preserve the growing whole and to provide a modicum of saleable firewood. You conduct your conversation with him calling down to you from the bough on which he sits, eating the dried fish that is his lunch.

"Climb up the side of the tor over the lake? With the wizards in it? Well... I can climb a wall and throw a rope, sure. Risky, though; don't want to be cursed. I'm afraid I couldn't do it for less than... than... three sceatta."

The young man is trying to put on an indecisive, aloof face; but he probably gets by trading firewood for dried fish and a place to sleep. He is under the impression, you think, that three silver is his highball offer than he expects to be outrageous to you. But he's willing, and has the skills - all that remains is the negotiation.

Leibwen could have gotten him for one sceatta, probably.

[bramblefoot]

"two sceatta if all you do is climb, three sceatta if you stick around and dont bolt the minute some shtuff goes down" jorunn counters

"ill make it five if you'll come with us into the teeth"

(1d100)[61]

[MrAbdiel]

The young man in the tree wipes his brow, and looks down at you. He's reasonably fit, as all men of the north must be; old enough to have gone through his time to become a trained bondsman of the King of the Krejji - or Jarl, or Warlord, or whatever he calls himself. He considers the offer as you escalate it, thumbs at his huge nose for a moment, then agrees.

"Alright. I'll come in with you. Just send me word when it's time, and I'll come through for you - but you're the tip of the spear, friend. There's not enough treasure in the world for me to be the one they see coming first."

His name is Guðbrandr Geirsson, and he climbs down to strike hands with you to make this deal. As it turns out, it's three days of rest before Byjan is hale enough to right; his flesh has mended much of the way, and Ortel assures you that he poses no risk to himself fighting through the pain. It's plenty of time to fill in your confederates on the plan.

* * * * *

Three days later, your warband is assembled in the cool of the morning dark at the foot of the tor. The lake is well frozen, and no trouble to cross; and you, Byjan, Ortel, Marlene and young Guðbrandr gaze up at your destination. A steep, snowcovered slope leads up a typical hill gradient; but at the summit of the hill the rise sharply becomes a singular upright rock formation, punching another hundred feet upward. The climb doesn't look -too- tough; but the punishment for failing, especially toward the top, seems harsh indeed. But the five sceatta set aside to reward your hireling are already doing work. He comes dressed in light leathers and furs, with a variety of axes, pitons, and knotted ropes. And the man does indeed know how to climb. You watch as he scurries up the stone, every twenty feet finding a crevice and hammering in a piton with the back of a handaxe, dangling knotted rope from it for your party to follow. His careful ascent takes about half an hour to prepare your way. Once he has done so, it's less than five minutes for the rest of you to scale the knotted ropes. Below you, the whole way, you see the pits where the monks throw their sacrifices - open wounds in the earth full of bones, and snow. When you pull yourselves up onto the the mesa, from the last rope tethered to a heavy post with from which the pulley for baskets must normally be attached, the sight that greets you is more than you expected. There is a monastery - a fort of mortar and stone in the middle of the broad mesa with two floors and a central tower. But there is also another dozen or more small huts and homes which look lived in. There is indeed a support village here, making do with their lives around this coven of strange spiritists.

The sun is only now beginning to rise and throw light on the mesa; the sound of the morning birds heralds the day. So far, no one has emerged to spot you or make a defence. The first decision comes now - do you race across the mesa to the monastery as swiftly as possible, seeking for haste and shock to carry your offensive... or sneak, hoping to catch the monks entirely unaware, but risking being detected and giving them more warning that a blitz might do.

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

Make a call, warrior. If you want to Blitz, then give me a +0 Agility roll to storm the monastery, and an Initiative roll. If you want to try to sneak in more quietly, you can make a Silent Move roll at +10 (for having a competent sidekick to guide you). If you want to do something else, feel free - just pitch it and I'll assign a roll!

[bramblefoot]

"we blitz" jorunn says, and will sprint across the plain, howling madly. he shifts into his were form, and will charge the monestary.

(1d100)[68]

(1d10+4)[8]

[MrAbdiel]

At full pelt, with your leather straining and its buckles popping as your bones rearrange themselves to accommodate your massive new muscles, you charge forward toward the monastery.

Guðbrandr balks. "Godspit, h-he's moonstruck!"
Byjan grabs him by the shirt and drags him along. "It's fine, talk later - fight now!"

You put your shoulder down and plow through the big carved wooden doors of the monastery. There is some kind of intricate story mapped out in the wood - but your animal hunger must be slaked in blood, and you send that carved saga tumbling back inside the hall beyond, where one of the doors lands and half crushes a man behind it. He is dressed like the other six in the room - in a long woollen robe that might be a bed dress, since you have given them no time at all to prepare.

Screaming fills the building. These men - all past middle aged and furnished with grey hairs and receding hairlines - start fleeing away into other rooms, howling in desperation.

"We're under attack!"
"Someone get to the bell!"
"Stall them, I'm going up!"
"No, YOU stall them! I'll go up!"

They are utterly unprepared for your assault and caught completely off guard. Only a moment of hesitation creeps into the animal drive of your brain.

Spoiler: What now?

Show

You've caught these monks off guard. They don't seem ready to fight. What do you want to do?

1. Run them down and kill them one by one. If that's the case, feel free to make a charge attack against one of the six remaining monks, and your warriors will follow suit.
2. Take hostages. If you think you can leverage the lives of some for the obedience of others, you try an intimidate check and make some demands - but that would cause you to drop from your rage-form, as you cease combat.
3. Try to reach 'the bell'. The monks seem pretty keen on whatever bell is in the tower of the monastery. You could try to race up the stairs and seek to beat them to it - but again, since that is something other than charging and killing people, it would case you to drop from your frenzy.

Or something else you want to do!

[bramblefoot]

jorunn will move to attack one of them. "spread out, and keep them from getting to the bell" he barks

(1d100)[73]

(1d10+7)[9]

[MrAbdiel]

You rage after one of the monks, who has fled into a room full of wooden beds, each laden with furs. They have captured years of smoky incense, and the thick, ritualistic smell bombards your senses before that scent is cut through by the blood you slash from the man's back. His reckless flight from you has saved him from the lethality of the blow, but he hasn't eluded you. You feel Witherbrand shiver in your hand as something like a whisper of blue light traces from the wound to the bloody blade; a robbery confirmed as the panicking monk snatches a staff from here it leans against the wall, turns to confront you with it, and utterly fails to produce any mystical protection at all. He urinates, in his disarmament; while a half dozen other men, bag-eyed and oddly birdlike in their features but across a range of ages, stir from their beds in a variety of states of alarm and fear.

Beyond this room, you hear your allies storming up the stairs, chasing those fleeing toward the bell. You can do nothing to aid in that effort, now. You have given mastery of your needs over to the beast, and the beast demands blood and meat and bone.

Spoiler: OOC: Well...

Show

Frenzy gives you that extra attack, and in your case the bear form; but it also means you have to keep killing until there are no more enemies able to oppose you. You're in a room now with seven (or six and a half, since you whacked one) 'enemies'. It's your turn. They're going to spend this turn waking up, the next turn surprised, and the next grabbing weapons and feebly preparing themselves. They have tricks, but you have three turns of attacks to start working through them before they respond.

So give me three turns worth of swift attacks, which I beleive is a total of nine attacks. We'll assume your attacks can flow on from one downed target to the next without needing move actions because of the cluster of the room; and once we've got that measure of the massacre, we'll see how many are upright to oppose you and whether or not they will be able to oppose you with their 'tricks'.

[bramblefoot]

jorunn bellows, and will start a chopping


(9d100)[95][32][85][49][49][82][100][88][80](660)

(1d10+7)[13]
(1d10+7)[10]
(1d10+7)[10]
(1d10+7)[13]
(1d10+7)[12]
(1d10+7)[9]
(1d10+7)[14]
(1d10+7)[14]
(1d10+7)[17]
(1d10+7)[12]


look at that garbage! my dice had to turn against me one of these days

[MrAbdiel]

You should be tearing through these weak men like a gutting knife through a fish's belly; but your blows, even driven by your killing rage and animal senses, find more air than flesh. A clear and inexplicable instinct inside your hunting mind knows - these are not just old men, not even just old men with some mystical gives, but old men with mystical gifts who are being sponsored and protected by a spiritual power that, even now, is protecting them. But without a body for you to strike at, you will need to contend with it the whole way.

Two of the confused fools, seizing their crooked staves from by their bedsides, find admirable enough courage to stand before you after you have ripped through both the one you chased into the room and the next closed to him; these raise their weapons in defence, trying to fend you back. Their three fellows behind begin conjouring their magics, and this time their calls are answered. From the palms of each comes a buffeting, foul wind; throwing furs and papers around the room like a hurricane and threatening to throw you onto your back, slamming through furniture as you go!

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

Two monks are blocking your way and full defending (no parries on them, but -20% to hit them). The three behind all successfully cast Windblast, which is a little redundant, but not completely. You are knocked prone. You need to make three Toughness Tests against being stunned for one round! You will, however, get a +10% on those tests from your Magic Resistance Talent.

Pass that, and you can act. You'll have to stand up, of course; but as long as you are inside the zone of wind, you're taking another -20% to attack. The monks themselves are outside of it - you can try to move out of the zone, which will require a -20% strength test to accomplish (but also triggering your magic resistance, knocking it down to -10%). It's gonna be a rough battle fighting all these windbags!

In summary, if you manage to avoid stunning, you could spend a fate point to get an extra half action to stand, then try to charge out of the zone to the monks and attack - but you'll still need to make that strength test to do it.

[bramblefoot]

jorunn will attempt to stand, and push past these windbags, but a large book clocks him in the temple, forcing him down.

[MrAbdiel]

Pummelled by winds and debris, you are temporarily powerless with no avenue for your rage. At once, the winds abate - but before you can find your way to your feet, the blur of staves begin battering and pummelling you as you lay!

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

You spend that turn stunned, and the monks are going all out to try to get you - five monks, five all out attacks with their staves. All out, Plus outnumbering 3:1, means +40. Good luck, monks - you'd better make it good. Jorunn can defend while prone - at a -20 penalty!


Oh wait, there's another +10 for attacking a prone target - so I guess those all hit. Your mitigation is 6, so...

Vs75 - (1d100)[67] for (1d10+1)[11] (Confirmed in OOC) Hits for 7 net wounds.
Vs75 - (1d100)[81] for (1d10+1)[9] Hits for a net 3 wounds.
Vs75 - (1d100)[84] for (1d10+1)[4] Bounces off.
Vs75 - (1d100)[28] for (1d10+1)[8] Hits for a net 2 wounds
Vs75 - (1d100)[48] for (1d10+1)[9] Hits for a net 3 wounds.
Vs75 - (1d100)[74] for (1d10+1)[6]
Vs75 - (1d100)[31] for (1d10+1)[5] Bounces off.

Fortunately, your first dodge/parry/lucky charm goes on the first hit! If you survive that, you're free to stand up and attack - or spend, I think, your last daily fate point to stand up and swift attack!

[bramblefoot]

Jorunn will weather the storm of hits, and stand and start making mincemeat out of these old geezers

Parry

(1d100)[27]

Attacks

(3d100)[29][88][33](150)

(1d10+7)[16]
(1d10+7)[10]
(1d10+7)[16]

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

Swift attack! I'll take that to be your last FP to stand up, then swift attack then?

The blows rain down on you, with one particularly vicious blow coming for your head - but you turn it aside, use your jaws to rip the staff from his hand, then smash his face flat against your shield as you stand, hacking another down with a backhand stroke of Witherbrand. Now three remain - and barking in belated bravery, your mangy wolf comes skidding into the room to menace the remaining monks from behind.

One turns to this new aggressor, and attempts to summon the winds of magic to aid him - but they abandon him in the crucial interest, fizzling in his hands with an audible pop, causing his grey hair to stand on end but offering no protective winds. The other pair, now trapped between foes, make their best effort - their castings go off just fine, causing the fingers of their right hands to warp into black, bird-like talons, fit for raking across your beastly skin!

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

One fails to cast entirely, the other two make natural weapon attacks upon Jorunn as their last effort:

vs35 - (1d100)[30] for (1d10+3)[4]
vs35 - (1d100)[94] for (1d10+3)[7].

...Not impressive. A nothing hit, and a miss!

Three left standing - lay them low, warrior - and may your allies have succeeded in their efforts beyond this room!

[bramblefoot]

"good doggo" jorunn grunts, making a swift attack against the geezers. one misses, but he gets one deep strike and one semi-deep strike

(3d100)[81][15][22](118)

(1d10+7)[10]
(1d10+7)[11]
(1d10+7)[15]

[MrAbdiel]

You carve through one of the clawed monks, and slash the back of the one casting to fend off the hound - only for the beast to do its favorite trick, and leap up to the throat of an enemy reeling from one of your blows. Only one remains now, and he puts his all into furious slashes upon you with his wicked talons...

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

(1d100)[92] for (1d10+3)[4],
(1d100)[8] for (1d10+3)[7]!

That is... a scratch! For actual damage!

[bramblefoot]

jorunn will attempt to parry, and move to finish him off

parry
(1d100)[44]

attacks
(3d100)[95][82][4](181)

(1d10+7)[15]
(1d10+7)[14]
(1d10+7)[17]

[MrAbdiel]

A messy end to the last defiant - you plant Winterbrand in hits head, buried with a sharp stab and punching out the back, before withdrawing the steel and letting him slump. The wolf mistakes the twitching for life and savages the throat anyway, but there is a moment's peace for you, battered as you are.

You emerge from the bunk room to the central chamber of the monastery again. The second floor has a balcony around it to its side rooms, giving the main chamber a sort of auditorium design; and the tower above it is hollow, spiraled with a staircase leading up to the bell at its top. A howling monk plunges over the railing and crashes on the floor in a bonebreaking lump, wheezing and gurgling until the wolf dives in to execute him. Peering up, you see Byjan at the top of the stairs near a massive ceramic bell hanging in the tower. The big man is battered again, but alive - and seems to have intercepted that monk almost at his objective. Marlene and Guðbrandr emerge bloody from their own conflicts on the second floor, but seem to be healthy all things considered. Ortel emerges last, dragging a kicking and caterwalling old timer out from a side room and kneeing him in the stomach when he attempts to cast some kind of spell - a prisoner for your interrogation, as the rage-haze clears from your eyes and your allies scour the building to see if there remain any more stragglers. It seems you and your band have torn through perhaps twenty or so men, in this monastery - with one alive.

[bramblefoot]

jorunn will stalk over to the man, and knee him in the stomach. "how many stay here, what defenses are there, where are your valuables, and where is the idol of the free maiden?" he asks gruffly, holding onto the man by the ear with just enough force not to tear it off. if the man doesnt start talking, well he'll start amputating fingers, toes, and other bits till he either sings or is a write off

intimidation roll

(1d100)[78]

[MrAbdiel]

"Defences!? Valuables? We are devoted monks of the wind spirit- we-we- have largely eschewed the things that mmAAAAHH!"

Denuded of a couple of fingers, he is immediately more forthcoming.

"There are a score of us, here - but the guardian is the wind spirit, Botis - Botis the Cryptic. He is drawn to the bell - but he also comes when he pleases, a bodiless spirit of great power! You-you-you should flee while you can!"

On the subject of riches, the prisoner cringes, but wants to keep as much of his hand in tact as possible.

"Our petty wealth, we keep in a coffer - behind the stair that spirals up to the tower. But I don't know anything about such an idol! I swear!"


In your experience, men tell the truth when blood starts to flow. They can be resistant until you start taking pieces of, but no one fights a series of last stands as you work from finger, to wrist, to elbow. They defy, and then they crack.

"There is still time for you to flee!"

[bramblefoot]

"take the valuables, and then search the place" jorunn says offhandedly to his thralls. he'll run the monk through, and move to search the place

(1d100)[34]

[MrAbdiel]

You execute the degenerate captive and cast his body aside, getting about your search. Byjan hauls out a wooden coffer from behind the stairs, where you were told it would be. The monk wasn't lying - it is petty wealth indeed. You gather 22 sceatta from it, but the rest of the 'wealth' within are carved bird bones; talismans that may have some signficance to the strange god of the shrine... but, given your desecration, are unlikely to be particularly protective to you.

It is your personal search that reveals the idol. At the top of the stairs, you examine the frost-dusted stone bell. How such a device makes any worthwhile tone you do not know; but your examination reveals the striker inside the bell is slim silver idol the length of your arm, carved in the style of the Free Maiden; though the idol itself is wrapped in fine chains that have badly scratched and grooved it, and the faceand hair of the idol is battered to an unrecognizable flat from striking the bell.

While at the top of the tower, you get a look at the small village around it, now; the rest of the dwellers on the mesa. A small crowd of peasants are scattered in clusters at their porches and doorways; women peering up where you peer down; children pointing and whispering to each other, being shuffled back indoors by their mothers. The longer you watch, the more obvious it becomes: there are only women and children here. This is some kind of bride-village for the now slain monks, serving and perpetuating their existence, but living quite separate and definitely not anxious to come running to their aid, it would seem.

A clear and inexplicable instinct brings your focus back to the bell - it is itself an icon of the temple's wind-spirit. Disrupting it is likely to anger it... perhaps, even trigger a confrontation...

[bramblefoot]

jorunn will free the idol, and make his way downstairs at speed. "found the idol, and now we leave" he says, chivvying his warband out the door

[MrAbdiel]

As you are retreating out the door you kicked in, clouds are gathering above the mesa; the women and children retreat into their homes and latch their doors while your warband rushes to where the descent ropes remain tied off to the pulley post. But the figure takes shape infront of you before you get there - ethereally interposed between you, and your point of escape.

Its shape is humanoid, though not human; the limbs are too long, the trunk of the body too compact, the head too far forward on the neck. Even hunkering forward on bent knees it must be eight feet tall. But the rest of its description you cannot countenance, because all it seems to be is shape. You see it only because the wind around it pulls up the dust and snow into its shape and it churns about in the humanoid hollow in space before, creating constant soft borders of motion you can pick out with your eyes. When it speaks, the release of wind from its mouth is so sharp it knocks Marlene and Ortel backwards over, while the rest of your warband is forced merely to lower their bodies against the gale.

[bramblefoot]

jorunn will growl low and respond by pulling back his sleeve with the marking from the albion skellyman and baring it at the wind spirit. "i am protected against your magics!" he barks, motioning his warband to stay behind him.

[MrAbdiel]

As your warparty rallies behind you, the daemon-shape seems not quite to strike; but the front face of the shape buckles outward and the hurricane winds contained within it are suddenly roaring out at you. Most of it is powerful, buffeting force trying to throw you on your back; but within that wind there come smaller bursts of wind moving so fast that the air itself strikes you like a thrown stone; and other, finer bursts of air that shear through flesh like knives or bullets.

You feel the mark on your arm growing hot on your flesh, as you endure it. It seems to be protecting you in some measure - but you hate to contemplate what it would be like without that protection to endure such sustained attacks!

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

Strictly speaking this isn't a spell, but it is magical in nature. So for the purpose of this attack, and attacks like it, your Magic Resistance talent (which normally gives +10% to tests to resist a spell) will count towards your toughness to resist the damage, as well; effectively +10% toughness against flat magical damage.

The allies behind you will benefit from your protection to the tune of an effective +20% toughness for you being infront of them, which raises their damage reduction in most cases from 6 to 8. (Byjan to 9; Guðbrandr to 7, wolf to 6).

That's good, because everyone under the daemonwind is taking a Damage 5 Hit; with no chance of fury. They are also making agility tests not to fall prone, as you should, with a +10% bonus for your Magic Resistance Talent.

Jorunn: (1d10+5)[13],
Byjan: (1d10+5)[12], [ROLL=Agi]1d100]/ROLL]
Marlene: (1d10+5)[15], [ROLL=Agi]1d100]/ROLL]
Ortel: (1d10+5)[6], [ROLL=Agi]1d100]/ROLL]
Guðbrandr: (1d10+5)[6], [ROLL=Agi]1d100]/ROLL]
Wolf: (1d10+5)[11], [ROLL=Agi]1d100]/ROLL]

Needless to say, you are in combat - and may take a turn now!

[bramblefoot]

jorunn staggers under the blast, but the green sprig falls and withers, protecting him from the blast. he will stand, and prepare to rage on his next turn

Spoiler: ooc

Show

stand now, rage next turn

[MrAbdiel]

The winds hammer down on you; but you hunker against them. You find it is easier to keep your footing if you turn your shield's edge to the wind; but that does not protect you from the striking, cutting winds within the wind; and so you must turn your shield, the shield Byjan gave you before your first voyage, into the full force of the gale. You stay upright, even if the wind drives you back, and you are forced to effectively stride forward in place not to be blasted over. The winds die down some after this great burst, and over your shoulder you see Byjan, Ortel and the wolf staggering back to their feet. Marlene is upright, and looses an arrow at the daemon-wind; but the shaft passes harmlessly through the space and deviates off on the wild gales, spiralling up and away from the mesa. Guðbrandr features his impressive bravery by charging and hacking forward with his axe; but it bites through the empty space where the shape stands and whocks into the snowy earth beneath it. Mortal weapons harm such a being not.

You make your move. With Witherbrand, you strike out at the figure, but the storming air pushes the flat of your blade away. You use the momentum and spin into a backhand slash across the creature's ill-defined shape; but this time, you feel resistance as the metal sheers into something unseen; and the daemon screams in outrage through the mouth in the ragged wind carved by your blow. You feel the sword pulling some of the magic from the creature's reserves; but this is like bailing a lake with a thimble. This daemon creature is a being of magic - a place where magic pours into the world.

Almost offhandedly, the daemon raises one space that approximates an arm to punish the woodsman for his effort, and a pummelling braid of forces batter him back and away from the melee. You see blood fly where the wind has struck him on the side with force enough to crack ribs and tear skin; but then it lashes at you with one arm, testing your defenses...

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

Attacking with its 'hand weapons'. Vs39 - (1d100)[88] or Vs39 - (1d100)[57], for (1d10+3)[6]. This attack can, and should, be parried.

EDIT: NM, that's a big old miss. Jorunn's action! Raging, or following up on the successful attack with more?

[bramblefoot]

jorunn will hulk out, muscles and bones reshaping themselves into his war form

parry
(1d100)[16]

[MrAbdiel]

Your allies scatter. It's obvious this is not a combat they can assist you in, meaningfully - all they can do is shelter away from the winds, and pray to whatever gods they believe in for your success. As you warp and shift into your monstrous other-form, the daemon howls with baleful opposition; and tears itself open again, as another punishing gale comes raging out against you - this time, only on yourself, but no less furious for it.

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

Another 5 damage hit from the punishing winds - (1d10+5)[7].
(Your mitigation, in this form is 7 off that number). You must also make another Agility test (at +10%) or or be blasted prone!

Edit: BOO. 0 damage. But you may still fall over.