Welcome to the second OOC thread. We're already well into the penultimate chapter of TLOLH, so I certainly don't see us running to three threads like THAM - enjoy it while it lasts! Please don't forget to re-post your character sheets, either.
Being a controversial and unsettling account of the events that caused the civil unrest that plagued the Imperial city of Delberz in the winter of 2522 I.C., and led to the destruction of the great Cathedral of Sigmar built there. Thread IThread IIThread III
At Your Mercy: Should one character be at another’s mercy (i.e. in a hold with a knife to their throat/back), the character holding the other hostage may make an attack against them under this condition. The attack will automatically hit the location of the hostage-holder’s choice. The damage is resolved as normal: however, in addition, it triggers a Critical Hit of the same value as if the victim had been at 0 wounds when the attack was made.
This condition applies solely at the GM’s discretion, and cannot be triggered simply by moving into contact with a character and declaring that you are holding them hostage: they must first either be overpowered by force or successfully snuck up upon.
Magic In Melee: A spellcaster who is engaged in combat must make a successful concentration (WP) test in order to cast a spell. Spells with multiple-round casting times require a concentration test every round that the spellcaster is engaged in combat.
Magic missiles may not be cast out of combat, although they may be cast on the wizard’s own attacker/s.
Point Blank Shots
Symmetrically to the -20% penalty for shooting a missile weapon at long range, a shot at Point Blank range (within 6 yards/3 squares) receives a +20% bonus. Pistol-type weapons fired in close combat do not receive this bonus.
Swift Attacks
All-out Attacks and Guarded Attacks can be made in conjunction with a Swift Attack, each remaining a Full Action and allowing the attacker to attack a number of times equal to his Attacks characteristic. The +20% from an AOA only applies to the first attack made; the -10% from a Guarded Attack applies to both attacks.
Critical Hits: ‘Medical Attention’
Wherever the rules specify a condition “until medical attention has been received,” this refers to a successful Heal test.
Mounted Combat House Rules
Spoiler
A rider and mount move as one unit. The rider essentially substitutes the mount's Movement score for his own; the mount acts as an extension to the rider at the rider's Initiative.
Mounts are split into two categories: trained for combat, and not trained for combat.
Failure Modes: Ways To Fall Off Your Horse
In combat, when riding a mount not trained for combat, making any of the following actions requires a Ride Check:
Charge Attack
Disengage
Jump/Leap
If the check is failed, the desired action may not be taken, and a half action is lost. If the check is failed by three degrees or more, the mount throws its rider and bolts: he will require a Stand action to get back to his feet, and may suffer falling damage if the mount is tall enough.
A rider who does not have Ride trained must test Ride (Ride being a Basic Skill) to perform the following actions, regardless of whether his mount is combat-trained:
Run (test at +30)
Jump/Leap
If the check is failed, he falls from the saddle, as described above. If the check is failed by 3 degrees or more, the mount also bolts.
In a situation where an untrained rider is riding an untrained mount, the second list takes priority over the first (i.e. should the rider fail a Ride check to induce his mount to Jump/Leap, he will fall from the saddle regardless of his degrees of failure).
Should a mount be killed while still being ridden, the rider must make an Ag test. A pass means he falls freely to the ground, exactly as if he had been thrown; a failure means he falls under the mount's body. Freeing himself is a full action, requiring a successful Strength test – he cannot stand or move from the spot where he has fallen until he is free.
Fighting From Horseback
When attacking enemies on foot, being mounted grants the Higher Ground bonus (+10%).
A mount counts as another friendly character for the purposes of Outnumbering.
Opponents in combat with a mounted combatant may choose freely to target either the rider or the mount.
One may not use the Dodge Blow skill while mounted.
When making a Charge Attack, a mounted character may make the attack at any point in his movement. The two squares before the attack is made must still be in a straight line, and there must still be at least two squares between the start of the move and the target for the move to qualify as a charge. Using the remaining movement to move on and out of contact does not trigger a free attack from the target.
If the rider made a Charge Attack, a combat-trained mount may make a Charge Attack alongside him. Otherwise, if the mount and rider have moved no further than would be allowed by a Half Move, it may make a Standard Attack; if it has not moved at all, it may make a Swift Attack.
Untrained mounts will not attack alongside the rider.
While mounted, the following actions may be combined with a Half or Full Move:
Aim (missile weapons only)
Standard Attack (missile weapons only)
Cast
Ready
Reload
Use a Skill
Should any of the above be taken as extended actions (e.g. a casting or reload time of more than one Full Action), they require a successful Ride check to avoid automatic failure.
No scale because scales are the bane of nice wishy-washy GMing, but it's about five to six hours' walk from the place where you found the two dead men to the village.
NPCs
Aloysius Faulebrand
A merchant miller who has evidently done very well for himself. Hired the party as guards on the road from Rosche. Mr Faulebrand is very full of his own importance, and longs to supplant Mils Verloren as the effective governor of Hohlesbruck.
Alexa Faulebrand
The daughter of Aloysius; engaged to Ricard Talberg. Fell ill at her engagement feast, is currently confined to her room with a fever.
Leopold Faulebrand
Aloysius' estranged son. The estrangement seems to be mutual: Leopold has been spending the last few years travelling the cities of the Empire, and has only recently returned to Hohlesbruck to see his sister married. He seems suspicious both of Ricard's motives for marrying her, and his father's for marrying her off.
Ricard Talberg
A young nobleman from out of town; engaged to Alexa Faulebrand, was previously engaged to Esther Verloren. Served in a pistolier corps during Archaon's invasion.
Mils Verloren
Hohlesbruck's Lord of the Manor. A widower, and father of one daughter, Esther. Maintains his position as the figurehead for the village despite the greatly reduced circumstances of his family, and seems well-respected, while not held in awe by the common folk.
Esther Verloren
The daughter of Mils. Once a widely-courted beauty, she was engaged to be married to Ricard Talberg. While Ricard was away during Archaon's Invasion, she fell ill with the Green Pox, and though she survived was permanently scarred. Discovering this on his return, Ricard threw her over in favour of Alexa Faulebrand. Now spends almost all her time inside the walls of the Manor.
Mother Yilese (Deceased)
The village wise-woman. Lived alone in a cottage with a herb garden on the other side of the River Taalbruck. Didn't seem too keen on outsiders, particularly outsiders with a mind to go poking about in the woods. Murdered by Dionyse Ribault.
Doctor Stefan Reifennen
A physician from Altdorf, passing through Hohlesbruck on his way to the east counties. Claims he was accosted by bandits on the road, and saved by the roadwardens. Took Aloysius Faulebrand as a client, tending to his sick daughter, and is lodging with the Flychers in the centre of Hohlesbruck. Strongly suspected of being pretty villainous, one way or another.
Dionyse Ribault (Deceased)
A expatriate Bretonnian of criminal (some would say psychopathic) leanings. Was idling in Hohlesbruck as an inside man for Abel's highwaymen, but threw over their enterprise in favour of a scheme of blackmail for much higher stakes.
"Abel" (Deceased)
Leader of the robbers preying on the Rosche road, in league with Ribault. Killed by the knight.
The Flychers
Mr Flycher is Hohlesbruck's resident butcher, and a rather surly fellow. Mrs Flycher is his extremely quiet wife.
Wulli Hofstadter – innkeeper of the Heartless Man
Hanna Hofstadter – Wulli’s wife
Ellie – a young woman of the village
Abi - a young woman of the village
Arne - a young man who appears to like Ellie - and therefore dislikes fancy-pants Pieter with his city-slicker ways and cunning tricks like 'actually talking to her'.
Gerolf - Lord Verloren's bailiff. A man in his late forties or early fifties, with a grizzled grey beard.
Wilbur – village elder
Herwin - village elder, tried to mediate in the stand-off outside the Faulebrands' house.
Mathias - a villager in his 30s, spokesperson for the "string up the wizards" campaign.
Ernst and Jorn - two villagers who 'volunteered' to help Mathias guard the doctor.
Name: Pieter (no last name) Race: Human (Imperial / Strigany) Age: 22 Career: Demagogue (ex-Initiate of Ranald)
Appearance: Pieter is tall and wiry, but his furtive, cat-like stance makes him appear somewhat shorter than he actually is. His Strigany ancestry shows in his unruly dark hair and his darker-than-average skin, although his eyes are green rather than black. His sharp, slightly androgynous features often wear a lazy smile. Usually he dresses in well-made but nondescript travel clothes, but when preaching, he puts on his hooded brown robes and displays the magpie pendant that proves his devotion to Ranald.
Personality: Just like the god he serves, Pieter is roguish, carefree and cheerfully disdainful of authority. His insatiable curiosity thankfully kept in check by a keen survival instinct, he seems to be at the same time daring and cowardly: eager to get in trouble, then just as eager to get out of it. He is a consummate liar and takes pleasure in fooling people just because he can. As might be expected from a cleric of Ranald, Pieter is more likely to be found in a tavern or brothel than in a temple, and is more adept at picking pockets than he is at reading and interpreting books of theology. This is not to say that he eschews his duties as a servant of the Trickster: in between his gambling and womanizing, Pieter is more than able (and willing) to deliver passionate sermons to the masses about freedom, charity and non-violence. He knows there is not much he can do to change the world, but this does not keep him from trying. He shows very little patience with stupidity and often acts in a sarcastic and patronizing manner towards anyone he perceives as less intelligent than he is (i.e., quite a few people).
Background: Pieter makes no secret of the fact that he is the son of a Strigany whore: to the contrary he is proud of it, for he believes that a man who claws his way up from the gutters and earns his own place in the world is more worthy of admiration than one who always had it easy. He grew up in the poorest streets of Nuln and quickly had to pick pockets for the local Thieves' Guild just to survive. He eventually caught the eye of Berthold Browncloak, an elderly priest of Ranald and prominent member of the Thieves' Guild. The old man became the boy's mentor and taught him the ways of the Trickster. When the initiate reached adulthood, Berthold told him to go see the world, learn from it and come back to him in five years.
So Pieter left Nuln and travelled far and wide, and he saw the full extent of misery and injustice in the Empire. Worst of all, he now saw not only misery but also incredible wealth and power: rich women strutted about with jewels worth a hundred meals and lords lived in great castles mortared with the sweat and blood of those who barely had a roof over their heads. Priests of Sigmar were the worst: not only were they greedy, selfish and warlike, but they were also hypocrites, claiming to serve the people of the Empire but ultimately working to maintain an unfair system. Convinced of the rightness of his chosen path, Pieter began preaching the word of Ranald wherever he went. He was not so foolish as to openly denounce the aristocracy and the Sigmarites, but he held on to the hope that converting the common people to the Trickster would make them turn away from the hammer-wielding god and his corrupt church.
During the past year, Pieter has been busier than ever, working ceaselessly to bring comfort and hope to the victims of the Storm of Chaos and help them rebuild their ruined villages. More recently he was embroiled in the Delberz revolt and, along with a few other adventurers of his ilk, helped uncover and thwart a Skaven ritual that would likely have changed the face of the world.
Ithelus padded softly down the hallway of the mansion, checking over his shoulder every now and then to check his two accomplices were keeping up. As he reached a branch in the passageway he nodded to them quickly and the both stopped. 'This one?' he signed to them, 'No, two doors along' One of them signed back. Ithelus nodded and crept down the hallway until he reached a very sturdy large oak door. In the flicker of the torchlight it almost seemed alive as the shadows danced across its surface. Ithelus dropped to one knee and pulled out a worn cloth bundle, and selected a few picks from it. Working with the silent efficiency of a true thief he set about shifting the tumblers and with a faint 'click' the lock gave in. Grinning widely he stood up, and with a flamboyant sweep he opened the door.
The guards seemed as shocked as Ithelus was. The three of them were relaxing around a table with some cards. Ithelus slammed the door shut and looked at his two bemused accomplices, ‘Wrong room’ He said and chewed his cheek with a thoughtful expression for a few seconds. His eyes suddenly lit up and he smiled, ‘Run!’ he said plainly and legged it down the hall as the door was pulled open and the guards flew out, swords drawn.
Personality:
Spoiler
Ithelus is slightly unusual for an Elf in that he is very at home in Human society. Despite the fact that he is not that well accepted he is a firm believer in 'things could always be worse, right?' principle. He is a fairly easy going character, and tries to get along with most people because to be honest he needs all the friends he can get. He is pretty smart, and his sharp mind has kept him alive on numerous occasions. Despite his sharp mind Ithelus does not have a strong will, and is easily addicted to things, specifically gambling, although recently he has not had enough money to fuel his habit.
When it comes to his profession Ithelus adheres to the 'Steal from the rich and give to the poor' ideal, specifically, the poor being himself. He hates any sort of physical confrontation and only sheds blood when his life depends on it. Indeed, blood makes him slightly queasy and he will go out of his way to avoid it.
Since events leading up to and during the belltower Ithelus has hardened somewhat and is, worryingly, far more happy to kill someone if it meets his needs. Afterall your own life is expensive, it's other's lives who are cheap.
Backgroud:
Spoiler
Despite any stories that Ithelus might spin his background is actually very normal, something which he perhaps resents slightly. He was born to two elves who were traveling with a circus, indeed in the happier days before the coming of chaos. He received a rudimentary education from his parents and the other circus folk and even took part in a few of the acts, his athletic body showing in his favor. When he had matured into a young, headstrong adult, which was after quite a while compared to his human friends, he left the troupe to go travel for a bit, and subsequently got lost in the forest. He had a very romantic side and loved the idea of becoming a hunter who lived in the forest and helped other travelers. What he had not considered is how much things bleed when you kill them, that put him off. A lot.
Giving up on his envisioned life he went to the cities, and discovered that not all humans were as accepting of him as the circus troupe and, after becoming addicted to gambling and losing what little money he had he turned to petty theft to make ends meet. And well, you know how it goes right? You start with a little pickpocketing, and then maybe a large bit of pickpocketing. Then a dab of theft, breaking and entering and things, and well, you get good at it you know? The next thing you know you are working with a few friends to get some nice shiny objects. With his successes in the underworld have also come much trouble, and Ithelus's friendly personality and gambling addiction has gotten him in a lot trouble on numerous occasions. He has earned himself a fair few enemies, including the Nuln thieves guild, something to do with a botched job and three of their best members arrested, really petty right? Now they offer a fine reward for his head, and an even finer one for him alive. And they made it very clear to Ithelus that there are 'O so many ways you can still be alive when your bloody body is rolled out of a sack and onto the floor in front of the guild master.'
More recently after Ithelus chanced across Illiiya he has tried to take up more honest means of living, and whilst he will always be a thief at heart it is nice to earn some money without having to run away all the time. He has also decided he wants to see more of the world, and has decided to go traveling. For this reason he was taken up the escort job, it is nice to travel with a group of people after all. His focus has shifted more from coin and dice to exploreing the world, and making a few good friends along the way. He is also keeping his ear open for any word of a traveling circus with two Elven acrobats, it would be nice to see Mom and Dad again.
During his short time in Delbrez Ithelus was put under a large amount of stress, mentally and physically. He has a few new scars, and a few new insecurities. His originally jolly personality has changed slightly, more pessimistic. Since the horrific events in the belltower Ithelus has taken up smoking Sap, a drug that is made from dried sap that is mixed with pipe weed and smoked. The drug serves to calm him, and keep a level head, even if it does make him a little apathetic.
For the past month or so Ithelus has been sullen, and perhaps not approved of certain... Group interactions. He has been desperately craving something to do other than just travel mindlessly.
Description:
Spoiler
Ithelus is a fairly average looking elf, pale with long blonde hair. His slender frame disguising his athletic and sinew-strength build. He won't go round winning arm-wrestles but he won't lose too easily either. His movements are very sharp and quick, which some find unnerving. He is dressed in fairly shabby and basic black clothes, and wears a brimmed black hat with a raven's feather in it. He carries most of his belongings in a bag over his shoulders, however, he keeps a knife in his boot and three throwing daggers in a sheathe tied to his forearm under his shirt sleeve.
Stats
Spoiler
Elf
Primary Characteristic....
Value
Weapon Skill
35 (45)
Ballistic Skill
42 (52)
Strength
35 (40)
Toughness
38 (43)
Agility
44 (69)
Intelligence
31 (46)
Will Power
25
Fellowship
36 (46)
Secondary Characteristic
Value
Attacks
1
Wounds
9/13
Strength Bonus
+4
Toughness Bonus
+4
Movement
5
Magic
0
Insanity Points
2
Fate Points
1
Skills:
Read/Write
Gamble - 46 (56)
Speak Language (Eltharian) - 46
Speak Language (Reikspiel) - 46
Scale Sheer Surface - 40
Evaluate - 46
Pick Lock - 69
Slight of Hand - 69
Concealment - 69 (79 in urban areas)
Perception - 46 (56 on ones involving sight or lip reading) (66 on ones involving Estimation)
Search - 46
Secret Language (Thief) - 46
Silent Move - 69 (79 in urban areas)
Talents:
Alley Cat
Savvy
Super Numerate
Excellent Vision
Night Vision
Specialist Weapon Group (Throwing)
Trappings
Leather armour
Sack
Lockpicks
Sickle (hand weapon)
Dagger
3 Throwing knives
Backpack
Blanket
Wooden Cutlery
2 Pairs of bone dice.
Rigged deck of cards
87 gc (122gc including Illiiya's share)
15 s
Cloak
10 yard rope with grappling hook x2
climbing spikes x4
Crossbow (12 bolts)
Hammer
Height: 5' 1"
Weight: 102lbs
Hair: Dark Chestnut brown
Eyes: Light blue
Physical Appearance: Illiiya is a pale, slender thing... standing at just a touch over five feet tall and weighing roughly a hundred pounds while soaking wet. Her hair is a dark chestnut brown and long... falling to around the small of her back. Her build is delicate and frail, and her formerly unblemished skin is now host to more than a few scars and marks. Across her right cheek is a jagged scar she gained from the claws of a summoned daemon during her initiation and her legs are marred with blotches of discolored skin from a near-successful attempt to burn her as a witch.
Personality: Describing Illiiya as sane would be a stretch. She is at the least highly bipolar, prone to sudden, violent shifts in mood and demeanor. For a considerable time after being found by Ithelus in the ruins of Gavinsburough, she was a timid, broken shell... recoiling from shadows and sounds that only she could hear. In truth, her amnesia was short lived... and instead she was so terrified of the person she had been that she had forced herself to believe that those memories were but one of the many hallucinations she was prone to and that she was in earnest a good person. She was wrong.
Background:(Spoilered for Length)
Spoiler
In the bleak city of Clar Karond, a streak of lightning lit the darkened sky. High atop the jagged spire of the covenant, a trial took place under the open sky. Frigid air whipped past, sending a chill up the slender woman's spine as she looked up into the storm-wracked sky. She cast a quick glance to the two sorceress that stood off to her side. They watched with cruel amusement from their position, both observing her final trial... and preventing her escape.
A screech from overhead quickly drew her attention. She turned, scanning the sky above her and finding little. She could hear them overhead, but the sky was unnaturally dark and storm clouds rolled... threatening to break with each passing moment. She grit her teeth and bore the freezing winds as best she could... knowing that one mistake was all it would take to end her. The storm flashed with a crack of lightning, and she saw them as they descended upon her. The sky was thick with them... furies. Drawn to the scent of magic upon her, the cloud of daemons descended on her in a screeching flock of claws, fangs and ragged leathery wings.
Calling out to the Dhar, she willed the winds of magic to heed her... reaching an outstretched hand to the sky. The sky was again alight, but this time, the dull glow rose from her, as the winds took notice, and lashed out at her foes. The wind shifted and a wave of enveloping darkness rushed from her up to the sky above. The Daemons tried to scatter too slowly, as the Dhar surged over them. The sky went dark again as it tore at their very essence, ripping body and spirit apart at once. Allowing herself a slight smile, she reveled in the hisses of the dying above, as their forms were torn apart and flung back to the hell they came from. Her smug confidence was short-lived however... when the surviving daemons swarmed down at her from the sky in a screaming mass.
Her smile turned to panic as they lunged at her, and she struggled to respond with another spell before they were upon her. She called out to the winds in haste... a simple incantation that she had already mastered. The first daemon to swoop at her met her awaiting hand, wreathed in dark, seething energy. It's bulk knocked her down hard on the stone roof beneath her, claws raking at her arms even as the Dhar consumed it... ripping the daemon apart as if by unseen hands. It showered not gore, but a thick, fetid fluid that would likely take more than one bath to be fully rid of, but she had more than that to fear at the moment. As she got to her feet, the remaining two Furies swooped at her in a rage, shrieking and raking at her pale flesh with their jagged claws. One scored deeply across her face... leaving a deep gash down her cheek that burned like fire. Mustering her willpower and fighting back the pain, she chanted one last spell... calling to the Dhar one last time in desperation. She refused to die as a failure! Her body seared in pain as she called upon forces she could barely control... the energy rippling through her, threatening to rip her apart, should her will for a moment falter. In a violent rush of energy, the winds of magic surged and tore across the spire, and for a moment... all was darkness.
----------------
"Let it be known that Illiiya, daughter of Azarael of the house Jaelrae, has passed her twelfth trial and proved herself in the eyes of the Khaela Mensha Khaine... the bloody handed lord of murder." The high sorceress spoke before the kneeling young woman, "From this day forth, she is a member of the sixth covenant, and as such... wed of the Witch King himself. May she take no other husband and sire no child, upon pain of death. Do you accept this blessing?"
"May I serve my master in all ways... until I cease to draw breath." Illiiya spoke, her head bowed before the high mistress of the coven. Her face still bore the scar of the daemon's touch... and even now, after all the other wounds had mended, did it still burn faintly. The touch of chaos lingers... and she knew that the scar would never fully heal... nor would it's faint pain ever leave her. To her... it was reminded of what she was, and what she would become.
-----------------
"Lord Kray sends word! We have need of you mistress!" The young druchii yelled over the din of the battle below. "There is a wizard among their number!"
Illiiya glared fiercely at the young warrior. Never in a half-century of raiding had she seen a simple attack on a simple town go so poorly. Had the covenant not tasked her with the assistance of the arrogant young noble, she would never have left Naggaroth. Amon Kray... the son of a great family of Har Ganeth... He had promise, but too much pride. His father had given much to the covenant to secure their aid, and it had been an honor that she was chosen to ensure the success of his raids. Over the years, the task had become less appealing... but she endured the discomforts of the sea as well as Amon's wandering eyes and occasional offers to share his bed. That the young lord thought he had a chance only proved his foolish arrogance.
From her position upon the hill she could see the fires burning in the village. Most were from homes of thatch and wood, set alight by the druchii raiders as they rode down their prey in the night. The village had seemed an easy target, and the raiders had swept in under cover of night to drag off slaves. Something, it seemed, had gone wrong. Even from her position above the village, she could see the winds of magic swirl... pulled towards the village by unseen hands. She could feel the winds rush past her as she mounted her steed. Whomever was below was potent indeed... a rare trait for a human wizard. Their magicks were usually far more clumsy and unrefined. A dark worry built in her mind, but was pushed aside as she spurred her horse to a run, and headed down the hill towards the battle.
Fire and the stench of blood greeted her as she rode into the village. Following the winds to their source, she came across a sight that made her lips curl in a sadistic smile. No sooner had she arrived then a gout of sorcerer's fire tore across the small village, striking Amon off his steed, and leaving the beast a charred wreck. Around him his bodyguard lie dead and burning. The young lord moved still... protected from the worst of the flames by his heavy plate armor and shield. The sorcerer who opposed him stepped forward, the winds of magic swirling around him even now, as he prepared the spell that would finish off his foe. She briefly toyed with the idea of letting fate take it's course, and waiting until Amon was dead before striking the sorcerer down. Her plans changed the instant Amon's attacker stepped into the light. The fire mage was an Asur.
Before he could finish his spell, Illiiya screamed a curse and released the Dhar upon him. A simple incantation was all she had time for... but she would NOT let a Druchii... not even one as fool as Amon... be slain by an Asur while she could prevent it. The winds tore from her at the Asur, screeching like the souls of the dead around her as they struck the robed elf. He lurched and almost fell... pain ripping through his body as the winds tore at his body. The asur turned, bleeding from dozens of small tears across his fair skin. His lip curled... his spell ruined, and stood despite the pain of his cuts. They were distraction... nothing more... but they seemed to have done their job.
"Leave this place Druchii!" The Asur yelled to her, "Your force is broken!"
"But you are not." Illiiya said with a sadistic twist to her lips, "So I stay."
There would be no quarter given... they both knew. The Asur was no master, she could tell... or he would have struck Amon dead rather than wounding him. She was no high sorceress... but would see herself dead before she would call an Asur her equal. She called to the Dhar, and saw the look of fear flit through his eyes as he realized his peril. The Asur were weak... They feared to call upon the winds in their raw form. Her people had no such drawback. She lashed out at him with the shrieking winds of the Dhar again... though this time, the Asur was ready... he resisted her... the result a literal storm of energy as the two powers crashed against one another. Amon climbed to his feet as the wind whipped through the small village. Drawing his blade, he strode towards the Asur, only to be held at bay by the searing winds that whipped around him. His armor buckled and cracked as he neared the nexus of power... searing his flesh beneath. The young lord was in over his head... and the sudden revelation of it filled him. As the two fought, he slipped off... retreating to the remainder of his men.
The asur was faltering... his power waning. He was no magister... He had never even studied at the libraries of Hoeth. He could feel the Dhar tearing at him... and he knew that the battle was lost. In his last moments... he decided that if he were to die this day... he would ensure that the sorceress harmed no one else. He felt the raw power she was wielding. He knew it's strength... and that it could only corrupt and destroy. But he would be destroyed in either case... and so he abandoned himself of fear, and called out to it himself. Illiiya felt her power shift, and was forced to redouble her efforts to keep the sudden surge from her foe to overtake her. Fire licked at her feet... and searing hot wind rushed against her skin. She felt the Dhar move to his will, and for a moment, she feared. Her outstretched hand burned as blood flowed from cuts that opened across her pale flesh. She could not believe the bastard Asur was winning. She had studied for a century to master the raw winds of magic as she did. She would not lose. She sneered... blood running down her face as a wound appeared across her forehead of it's own free will. She drew on the Dhar deeper than she ever had before... determined to show who was the true master. With one last sneer, she forced the energy to shape at her command.... and rip her foe's soul asunder. She felt the power reply, and had only a moment to revel in her victory, before something broke. Something inside her.
The explosion was intense... a vortex of fire and raw magic that could be heard a half mile away. Amon Kray looked back at the devastated village. He was no fool... Neither of them could have survived.
"General?" A young raider asked as he marched wearily onto the hill.
"Gather what is left of our force and head for the ark." Amon said coldly... the burns across his face stinging with each move of his lips.
"And the village sir? What of the slaves?"
Amon glared at the warrior with an intensity that could melt ice... the young druchii actually taking a step back in shock.
"It is lost. The sorceress has cost us this place." He said in a tone that would not be questioned, "There is nothing down there that yet lives."
The battle was lost far before Illiiya's arrival, but he saw no reason to bear the blame for this defeat. She would make a fine scapegoat... and he considered it a fine punishment for her arrogance around him... as well as for denying him for so long. The coven would not be pleased... but none could doubt his story. It was clearly sorcery that destroyed that village. He took a mount from it's rider, and swung himself into the saddle to leave this wretched place. If the vortex of power had not killed her for some reason, being stranded here surely would...
-----------------
"It's an elf... A lady elf." A human's voice reached her ears through the pain and darkness, and something touched her roughly. "It's pretty."
"Don' touch it Ewan! Elves is all witches! You'll get th' trots." A second human said in a slurred voice.
"Ah don' care! Look at 'er. 'S worth the trots!"
The sound of ripping cloth and another rough hand on her pulled her from the darkness a little more. The world seemed faint and distant, and she struggled to return to it.
"You there! What are you doing?!" A loud voice rung out.
The two dirty men crouched over her panicked. One turned to run... but Ewan stood and pulled a knife from his ratty cloth belt.
"She's ours! We found 'er!" Ewan yelled out at the stranger, trying to make himself sound as menacing as possible.
The newcomer was a trim, elven man in a dark, shabby tunic and hat with a very disapproving look on his face. Unlike the ragged peasant who threatened him, he was trim and athletic in build, and armed with something more than a worn knife. Who he was, they did not know, but he was fey, and the two men knew full well that fey were dangerous. What's more, he was here alone, suggesting he was skilled enough to survive alone. The elven man drew his blade with a florish, moving faster than any human the two bone-pickers had ever seen, and pointed his weapon to them.
"Go on then. Try your luck." The newcomer said sternly, giving the peasant only a moments to reconsider himself.
Ewan cursed his luck and fled with his companion... neither of them willing to face down the fey in combat. Once the two had fled, the newcomer lowered his weapon suddenly, a look of relief crossing his face. He wasn't entirely certain what he'd have done if they'd called his bluff. His name was Ithelus, and he was no warrior... just a thief and a vagabond, wandering aimlessly about. He put away his blade and approached the thing that the two bone pickers had been huddled over, only to have his eyes widen in shock. Of all the things to find out here, this was likely the last thing he expected. Here before him in the rubble of a collapsed barn, lay an elven woman, battered and burned... but alive. She was pale and slender, and the two bone-pickers had torn her already tattered clothing into something that would make most whores feel exposed. Ithelus had heard that there was an elven magus who lived out in these parts... and had hoped to con himself a day or two of hospitality out of "elven pride" or some such nonsense, but he had expected to find a man. How the fragile-looking thing had survived whatever fire had consumed the rest of the village was beyond him. The village was filled with naught but charred bodies... most unidentifiable... and far more than should have been living in a village this small. Kneeling beside the woman, he tossed over her his cloak and scooped her up. If he expected any kind of payment for finding out what happened to the village... she was likely the only one who witnessed it.
---------------
Ithelus poked at the meat cooking over his fire. Going over the entire town had turned up little of use to him... just a handful of coin and some meager supplies. Whatever force had scalded the town had done it's job well. He found few bodies that had not been blasted into ash. The damage was such that he could not even tell man from woman. There was a reason that most sane men feared sorcery. Ithelus was no battle hardened man, and he'd been all to eager to leave the town for looters with stronger stomachs. After the smell of the dead and burned... he had little taste for the badly cooked meat. He mused for a second if the elven woman could cook... It might be reason enough to keep her around. Turning idly to check on her, he nearly spit out his food in surprise. The woman was awake and sitting upright... staring directly at him.
"Sweet gods woman! Don't do that!" He said in surprise, his hand slipping unconsciously towards his sword on the ground beside him.
"I.... What?" She muttered. She looked confused and scared, which eased him a bit. He removed his hand from his blade and looked at her again.
"You're a bit indecent there." He said... prompting the woman to look down at her tattered clothing. "I got a spare shirt you can use until we reach Hochland."
"Where...?" She said looking around. He'd seen drunks with a less befuddled look on their faces.
"Are you alright? You're the only one that was alive here." He asked her, standing up from the tree-stump that had been his seat. "You were here. What happened?"
"I... was?"
Ithelus blinked, looking at her in genuine concern. "Yes. You were here. I found you in the village. You're the only one who's not dead and burnt. What happened?"
"Did you... rip my shirt?" She asked disjointedly, looking still at her torn clothes. She was either touched in the head... or she was looking to be struck in it.
"Don't worry 'bout that! The town! That town right down there!" He said, pointing down the hill to the smoldering remains of Gavinburough, "What happened to it?!"
"I.... don't know..." She replied, shrinking from his stern tone.
"What? You don't know?" Ithelus asked in confusion, "But you were there."
Illiiya looked down the hill at the remains and tried to remember. The more and more she thought, the more she realized that she was not simply confused... She could truly not remember. Not the town... Not the man yelling at her... Not even who she was. Panic filled her mind as she struggled to recall something... anything about what had happened. She saw something dark, and painful... fire... all around her... and something worse... something that didn't just burn her flesh... it felt as if it tore at her mind... her soul. Hazy visions of a thousand screeching nightmares filled her head, and she screamed. Ithelus near lept from his seat in surprise as she screamed and retreated from something he could not see... and for a moment, he swore he felt something there beside them. Like the foul presence that the priests and witch-hunters preached warnings about. And just like that, it was gone... and the woman was sitting... back against his stump, staring wide eyed and terrified... as panicked sobs shook her delicate figure.
He looked down at her, and in a voice muted by the sudden realization of what may have just happened, spoke. "You know what? Forget I asked."
-------------------
The next day's sun brought slightly more peace to his mind. The night's events had made him more than a little nervous around the woman... but he also felt sorry for her. She could just have likely been a victim of what happened to Gavinburough as well. Something had clearly affected her mind to the point where she knew not even who she was or how she got to be here. Ithelus had heard tales of how sorcery could drive men mad, blasting their minds, bodies and souls alike. It was enough to make him shudder and thank the fates that he was no sorcerer, despite the common misconception that all elves were witches. The woman certainly seemed not to be faking. She was scared and confused, and as best as he could tell... haunted by whatever horrible thing had destroyed Gavinburough. As much as he wanted to ignore her plight... it felt wrong of him to leave her out in the wilds, half-naked and alone. It wasn't in him to leave a woman in peril. So as the sun rose, and he readied to set out...
"Come on then." Ithelus said, tossing her his spare shirt and a skin of water from the last rain.
"What?" She said confused... She looked shaky, like she hadn't slept all night.
"I can't just leave you here. Come on. It's a long walk to Hochland." Ithelus told her as he gathered his things. "Once we're there... I'll get you something to warmer to wear that wasn't made for a man."
"I.... Thank you." She said with the closest he'd seen to a smile since he pulled her out of the rubble.
"You can thank me later. For now, let's get moving." He said, more than eager to put Gavinburough far, far behind him, "My name's Ithelus. Do you... remember yours?"
She paused for a long moment as she pulled the loose shirt on. It fit her more like a dress than anything else... but it was warmer than her tattered tunic and skirt.
"It's.... Illiiya."
"Illiiya then. That's pretty." Ithelus said with a smirk, "Well it's a long ways to where we're going... maybe you'll remember something else..."
Aerthyric Attunement (+10% to channeling and Magical Sense)
Coolheaded (+5% Willpower)
Excellent Vision (+10% to sight-related perception skills)
Night Vision (Lessens penalties due to darkness)
Fast Hands (+10% WS when using touch attacks)
Dark Magic (One extra magic die when using the Dhar. Drops the lowest roll and all dice count for miscasts)
Petty Magic (Arcane)
Savvy (+5% Intelligence)
Lesser Magic: Aethyric Armor
Mighty Missile
Very Resilient (+5% Toughness)
Trappings: Two good quality dresses, Cloak (common), 2 healing balms, Dagger.
Misc. Info: Illiiya was a more skilled sorceress previously, though prone to pushing her limits too far and drawing too heavily on the Dhar out of a desperate desire not to fail. Her duel in Gavinsburough was a fumble of epic proportions, with both casters desperately drawing on the winds with all their might to best the other and miscasting badly. The Asur's fire magic unleashed a conflagration (of doom!) that raged out of control, while Illiiya's channeling of the Dhar drew dark attentions and drew the place a little too close to chaos... with dark things tearing into the souls of everyone there. As far as she knows, she is the only one to survive that place... but any others who did would likely be just as affected as she. To date, Gavinsburough is still regarded as a haunted ghost town... the badly burnt ruins sitting empty. Travellers avoid the place, claiming you can the screams of both men and... "other things" there at night.
The general Illiiya formerly served under was a gloriously arrogant young lord named Amon Kray. While a very skilled warrior, he was demanding and cruel, and took and instant disliking to Illiiya after she rebuffed his very forceful sexual advances. His family is powerful on Naggaroth, and the failed raid on Gavinsburough was likely little more than a setback that he blamed squarely upon her. He is still raiding to this day... taking slaves and plunder from up and down the coasts of the old world, Cathay and even Lustria.
Illiiya was heavily involved in the incident at Delberz, and has gone through a striking change in personality since then. Her fearful tendencies have calm somewhat and she is more outgoing and confident, though she only speaks openly with her close friends and companions. She has also become more prone to striking changes of mood, whipping between timid, calm and frantic with little warning. She is still fiercely defensive of her friends, but seems to realize that her way of acting tends to be irrational and she look to them for what she should do when she feels herself growing angry or upset.
__________________
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Physical appearance: Lothar is tall and solidly built and moves with the heaviness of a man who knows these things. His wavy hair and uneven beard are the colour of copper, framing his eyes and the tanned skin of an outdoorsman. His grin reveals pipe-stained teeth and shows off pocked scars on his right cheek. Another scar marrs his forehead, crinkling with the deserter's expression.
These scars are faded and benign next to the ring of garish, ragged scars that cover the left side of the big man's face. In a rough semi-circle, extending from just below his hairline through one eye and across his cheek, are a series of jagged marks. They have obviously been left by crooked, pointed teeth. The scars dance across an empty, ragged socket. The bright green of his remaining eye serves as a stark contrast to the socket's hollowness.
A pair of swords hang from his belt. One is clearly marked as once belonging to an imperial regiment; it matches the kite shield and musket he has slung over his back. The other is finer, a gentleman's sword. Beneath his patchwork chainmail armour is a faded uniform- the original colours have been patched and sun-bleached beyond recognition.
Personality: Easy-going for a veteran of the War, Lothar grins readily, particularly when winning at a game of dice or telling improbable tales of heroism in battles against beastmen in the forests. He loves –in no particular order- gambling, women, and getting paid. He’ll end a fight if one starts, but prefers to bully or charm his way out of danger. An obvious fondness for his family tinges much of his speech, as do hints of his northern background- the occasional word in Kislev or Norse, or fisherman slang. As for faith, if Lothar has one, it is the polytheistic faith of a lifelong soldier. He bears a wolf tooth on a cord about his throat, while a copper ring on his right hand has a twin-tailed comet pressed into the metal and his belt is marked with the crosses of Ranald.
Background: The son of a fisherman (a prosperous one, with his own boat!), Lothar hails from Hargensdorf, a riverside market town in Nordland, and never quite got the hang of boating. He joined a swordsman regiment when they came a-recruitin’ when he was sixteen. Never quick on his feet, he was quick with his hands and a decent shot, and so was given mixed arms training for use in the regiment’s blackpowder detachment. He cut his teeth on skirmishes with Norse pirates raiding upriver in the years leading to the War.
While happy to give lengthy war stories, particularly to distract opponents when dicing or while drinking, Lothar avoids discussion of why exactly he is no longer part of the Nordland 11th ‘Iron Fishes’ Swordsmen regiment. His shield has been recovered with plain tan leather, and his old uniform is battered and patched beyond recognition, but he still carries his regimental sword (and, until recently, an extra one) and firearm.
Those closer to him know that he feigned death after being wounded in a minor skirmish during the War against Chaos. Afterward, he drifted about avoiding his responsibilities. When pressed on why he took up arms in Delberz, he changes the subject to his only sister and youngest sibling, Elfriede (Elfi), who recently joined the imperial fleet after the recruiters starting caring –in the wake of the War- more about warm bodies than regarding the parts with which said bodies came.
Since the war ended Lothar has worked as a mercenary, who are sought after with the dearth of fighting men left both alive and sane. Most of his work has been exactly the sort of thing that has him joining the company on the route to Delberz- guarding caravans. He seems particularly pleased to be helping ferry stoneworks meant for a Temple to Sigmar, although that could just be that much of the company seem to enjoy a game of dice and a smoke as much as he does.
During the investigations of the group, first into the explosion which levelled the Temple of Sigmar, then into the strange sorcerous murders about town, Lothar revealed himself as friendly and helpful. He told stories to small children, he chatted to other gamblers, and he tried to help clean the poisoned wells of the north-west. He also proved to be a fierce fighter- together with Raffy the Sparrowhawk, the soldier killed the mutants responsible for the Temple explosion, personally skewing the leader, Puderbrand.
In the incident at Judge's Square, the former soldier's respect for his fellow armsman restricted him from drawing steel- and his quick tongue helped Captain von Brucker convince the Lector not to set Illiiya Jaelrae alight. In the aftermath he was ordererd to watch Illiiya while she was imprisoned, and a poorly-conceived escape plan from Rafaele 'the Sparrowhawk' and Pieter led to the entire group being on the run.
Eventually, although tragically too late, the party discovered that some of the murders were the work of the noblewoman Maria Samztunge and her Slaaneshian chaos cult. More importantly, that they were only acting to stop a greater threat: the Grey Seer Morrsleek the Magnificent, who planned to turn all Delberz into a plaything for the Skaven.
Desperate, the group allied with a local bandit, Ilsa the Wolf, and kidnapped the Lector von Kemperbad who had been implicated in the Grey Seers plans. Together, the group forced a confrontation at Delberz' Cathedral. Lothar was overwhelmed by Stormvermin and almost killed; Raffy was killed, and it fell to the sorceress Illiiya to, desperately, kill Morrsleek.
Afterward the group was told in no uncertain terms that they were no longer welcome in Delberz, and it would be best if they left. Since that time, they have made their way north, toward the soldier's home province.
They are currently swept up among events in the village of Hohlesbruck where dark forces in league with the Lord of the Flies plot and poison and plague the town. The village has lost a lord. Lothar has lost an eye.
Primary Characteristics
Weapon Skill 30 [50]
Ballistic Skill 35 [50] [30]
Strength 34 [44]
Toughness 32
Agility 31 [41]
Intelligence 32
Will Power 26 [31]
Fellowship 34 [39]
Secondary Characteristics
Attacks 1 [2]
Wounds 13 [15]
Strength Bonus 4 [5]
Toughness Bonus 3
Movement 4
Magic 0
Insanity Points 3
Fate Points 1
Skills: Common Knowledge (the Empire), Gossip, Speak Language (Reikspiel), Heal, Perception, Dodge Blow, Row, Gamble, Intimidate, Command, Academic Knowledge (Strategy/Tactics), Secret Language (Battle Tongue).
Trappings: Marius' sword (Good craftsmanship), an Iron Fishes regimental sword, and a dagger all hang from a weapon-belt. A spare dagger is kept in a boot sheath. Over his shoulder the soldier carries his regimental shield and firearm [ammunition for 12 shots]. In situations requiring it, he also wears a sleeved mail shirt, recently-repaired mail leggings, and a similarly antique coif.
As well as the standard traveller's fare, Lothar carries a pipe with tobacco, a tinderbox, a fishing line, a week's rations, a flask of very cheap spirits, and a lewd book he cannot read. He has recently bought himself some higher quality clothing; Best Clothing (poor quality). He wears this when required by social situations, but generally gets about in his battered old uniform. His old travelling clothing was consumed by fire.
Coin: 55 gelt, 21 silver, and 7 bits of shrapnel.
Advances: +5 WS x4; +5 BS x3; +5 S x2 +5 Ag x2; +5 WP; +5 Fel x1; +1 A; +2 W [noted in profile]
Current Wounds: 9/15.
Daily Fortune Points: 1/1
Unspent XP: 50
=
forma
Spoiler
The soldier crouched in the field. He was younger then, although still bearded, and his fingers had a slight tremble in them as they loaded his gun. He could not smell the scent of the river where he grew up, and the forest was oppressive. The long fingers of the forest curved overhead, sharp and cruel. The sky was grey.
Before him opened a wide clearing, where the road had withered away. Traces remained of what had once been a village, deep in the Drakwald. Uneven lumps lurked beneath the pale, pale grass, sharp corners that were once walls and deep pits that had, once, been long houses. Now all was faded grass and fallen leaves and tumbled clay, long overgrown with moss.
All, that is, save for the carven lump of black rock, looming in the centre of this pace. The soldier was no local, but he did not need to be to know that there was no stone such as this for leagues in any direction. The monolith was alien to this place, as alien as men. The jagged cthonic phallus was as unnatural as the creatures across the field belonged here, their smooth fur and ragged faces matching the gloom of this place as well as the soldier's father's hands on a line.
The creatures bellowed, waving hooks and iron blades. They had no even lines, no disciplined ranks of men with swords and spears and halberds, no lords astride nervous destriers who patted their animals with mailed hands. The animals bunched together in packs, grinning feral grins and running their iron over the tongues of their lessers, cowering at their greaters and bellowing at the alien men who dared to enter the forest.
The soldier licked his lips, and his fingers shook. Around him, prayers were given to the gods but he had no voice, no breath to give to the Daughter, no fire for the Hammer. He could just focus and found himself wishing for the salt of fish instead of the aftertaste of yesterday's rations between his teeth.
Then it began.
oþer
Spoiler
It was red, he remembered later. Red and bright and clean and sharp, thrown into relief against the pallid nettles, matting the sturdy leather. The patterns were the whorls and curves of his fingers, the ripples from that stone sinking into the sea, the lines of his mother's resigned disappointment. Red, sticky and arching, a vermillion rainbow paused in a perfect chill sky.
The axe had sheared through Alex's throat, Alex who always lost at dice, Alex who had a sister that curved like that, Alex the man always next to him in the training. Alex who had not even raised his gun before the little scout-goat had thrown the spinning, iron-carved hatchet that ended his life.
Somewhere to their left the scions of richer men, clad in the winter colour of the lupine god, had hefted their hammers and were thundering across a row of house-impressions. To the right, swordsmen were bringing up too-thin wooden shields and bracing, teeth bared for a charge of sweaty iron and horned fur. Here, the thin line of yellow-and-blue raised their rifles, and fired as one.
The soldier knew that he killed one. Not the one that murdered Alex, dancing an obscene parody of a jig as the skirmishers moved around the line of civilisation, taunting and hurling missiles. Others were closing on those, local mercenaries, bearded types in rough wool and carrying yellow bows. Afterwards, he'd find the needle-toothed thing, and spit in the remaining eye.
Right now, he stepped back, tasting Alex on his lips, and tried to remember how to make his hands move. The new line fired, and there was red among the incoming tide of fur.
þridda
Spoiler
It was chaos. Blood matted the grasses, soaked the fur, even as ichor sprayed across Teutogen flesh and Nordland steel. The wave of grey-furred monstrosity had crashed against the shore of men, and their swords cut into gnarled flesh and severed limbs from outstretched necks. The iron fish emblazoned on wood slammed against writhing steel limb-faces, splintered under bronze fangs, tumbled to the ground as men and thing writhed across one another, stabbing and braying and grinning, bloody-mouthed and victorious. The line wavered, fluttering flag twisted around a trembling flagstaff.
Away, the soldier's detachment held their line, the shouts of months-ago drill sergeants pounded into their bones. Step forward, fire. Hold, reload. Step forward, fire. At each step, halved yellow-blue trousers creased, and the fire of civilisation was brought to the Drakwald woods. Alien things died, gleaming imperfect roses blossoming in the untilled fur. Somewhere behind them, mercenaries and skirmisher things played with each other's knives.
The tide of spawn was not endless and even as it washed upon imperial steel-and-shot it was thinning; isles of wintered grass appeared here and there; some mutant thing with a face of teeth and limbs of eyes would fall and not be replaced. They came on, desperate to defend their twisted tower, and the host splintered like a arrow against a keep. Shards came forth, slender packets of angry beastmen.
The soldier stepped forward to the new line, knelt and raised his gun; and spear-carriers were nearly upon them, neutered horns gleaming in the weak light, followed by heavier fellows with axes and great scimitars in their ungulate grasp. His eyes widened at the haste of their approach - the shot misfired, and he cried out as the burning earth, angry and hot, burned into his cheek like a wasp.
Other musketeers slid steel from scabbards.
The scent of his beard aflame followed Lothar to the ground.
feorþa
Spoiler
Later, he would claim that he had fallen. That the tramp of boots and cleft feet had stomped upon his head. He remembered nothing, he would later say, except the misfired gun and then a pain behind his eyes. Later, he would lie.
It was not a whole lie. As the faces of the things that assailed his brothers, his friends, were nearly human, so too would his claim be nearly truth. The ground was chaos in microcosm. Every blade of grass was spattered with reddish mud, every moment a wriggling, writhing, wretched attempt to escape the treading thud of blackened hoof and peeling boot.
Other bodies covered him. Some wore the blue-and-red-and-yellow of the soldier, others the decorated-in-scarlet furs of the halfman savage. Under these, the mortared bricks of skirmish, the deserter wriggled.
The lie is better, for all that it sears the tongue. Better a lie that turns cowardice into ill-luck than a truth which transforms a brave son of Nordland into a wriggling, corpse-hidden worm. The one is merely an accident of war. The other is worthless even as bait for fish.
__________________ Games:
[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart, reprising Lothar Fischer, Nordlander deserter.
The son of a Marienburg banker, Sigurd learned the basics of accounting and finance at a young age. Although his early business ventures went well enough, he couldn't settle for a simple burgher's life. After beholding a magic crystal ball at an auction, he became obsessed with ancient artefacts. He used his initial profits to send himself to school, learning history and taking an interest in foreign matters and travel.
Ultimately, he chose to give up his office and warehouse, abandoning the family business to travel in search of lost antiquities. He has already picked up a few rare and valuable items, and intends to seek out more. His journeys have taken him out of the lap of luxury and into the life of a wandering peddler, but his commitment and curiosity remain untarnished.
His one constant companion on his journeys is his hound, Indigo. Aside from protection Indigo provides a trusted friend on the road.
Appearance: Sigurd is a lean, middle-aged man with grey streaks in his hair. He wears a wide-brimmed, waxed hat and carries a cane.
Indigo is a large blonde mastiff, whose shaggy, curly hair makes her look a little shabby despite Sigurd's excellent care for her.
TALENTS
Random - Resistance to Disease
Random - Very Strong
Burgh - Dealmaker
Burgh - Savvy
Merch - Streetwise
Merch - Super Numerate
Primary Characteristic....
Value
Weapon Skill
29
Ballistic Skill
35
Strength
38
Toughness
41 (51 vs. Disease)
Agility
47
Intelligence
51
Will Power
45
Fellowship
35
Secondary Characteristic
Value
Attacks
1
Wounds
14
Strength Bonus
3
Toughness Bonus
4
Movement
4
Magic
0
Insanity Points
0
Fate Points
3
PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS
Height = 6' even
Weight = 180 lbs
Hair Colour = was brown (going grey now)
Eye Colour = hazel w/ gold specks
Distinguishing marks - none
Star Sign = Gnuthus the Ox, Sign of Dutiful Service
TALENTS
Random - Resistance to Disease
Random - Very Strong
Appre - Aethyric Attunement
Appre - Petty Magic (Arcane)
Appre - Savvy
Journ - Arcane Lore (Shadow Elemental)
Journ - Very Resilient
Journ - Lesser Magic (Skywalk)
Journ - Mighty Missile
ADVANCES
Free - Mag +1
0100 - WP +5%
0200 - WP +5%
0300 - WP +5%
0400 - Ag +5%
0500 - Fel +5%
0600 - Int +5%
0700 - Int +5%
0800 - W +1
0900 - W +1
1000 - CAREER HOP!
1100 - Arcane Lore (Shadow Elemental)
1200 - Academic Knowledge (History)
1300 - Mag +1
1400 - Ag +5%
1500 - Toughness +5%
1600 - Very Resilient
--end chapter one--
1700 - Lesser Magic (Skywalk)
1800 - Intimidate
1900 - Mighty Missile
--end chapter two--
2000 - Ride (not purchased till after the horse incident)
--end chapter three--
2100 - Fel +5%
--end chapter four--
2200 - Int +5%
2300 - Int +5%
2400 - W +1
Note: All Percentile Stats decreased -5% by disease. Enjoy!
Primary Characteristic....
Value
Weapon Skill
29
Ballistic Skill
35
Strength
33 (38 with Very Strong)
Toughness
41 (51 vs. Disease)
Agility
47
Intelligence
61
Will Power
45
Fellowship
40
Secondary Characteristic
Value
Attacks
1
Wounds
00/15
Strength Bonus
3
Toughness Bonus
4
Movement
4
Magic
2
Insanity Points
1
Fate Points
0/2
TRAPPINGS
Fancy Cane with owl of Verena on the top hidden dirk in top & compartment in tip
1 crossbow with 2 bolts (presently unloaded); damage +4
Satchel
Wide-brimmed waxed hat
Book: History of the Southern States
Book: A Bretonnian Summer (travelogue)
Grimoire (contains The Impossible March of the Damned)
Writing Kit
Rations for trip, half gone (dried meat & fruit only)
Lantern
10' rope
Flint/steel
35 gc 0 sch 0p
Smoking pipe & hand-mixed weed
Jar of woad
Knife (in satchel)
Smoking pipe & weed
Jar of woad
Small wooden box of spices
Flask of ale (see below)
Brandy bottle that may or may not contain trace essences of demonic ichor
Smaller flask of Bretonnian single-malt "scotch" Wrapped up piece of food from Alexa's potentially poisoned meal (thrown away)
----
TRADE GOODS:
1 beast man shaman staff:
Spoiler
Weapon
Enc
Group
Damage
Qualities
sBraystaffs
60
sTwo-handeds
SB-1
sDefensive, Impact, Slows
It's a pretty dodgy-looking staff, though:
Spoiler
[/quote]
Antique quill, w/ pink plumage
Small copper cube
Non-functioning mantle clock with funny numbers
----
Small wooden box with material components:
Charcoal (enough for 5 pinches)
A lock of Beast Man hair (1)
A flask of ale (1/2 pint; full) (not in the box obviously)
The eyes of a newt (1 pair, preserved in oil)
3 bottles from Yilese's hut:
One labeled "H. Tonic," dusty & unused, full of which Sigurd has used 10 drops with no apparent effect; given to Mrs. Hofstadter
One labeled "Not To Be Tampered With," contains "one or two capfuls of something blue-green and salty-smelling," not used in some time;
One random, unlabeled bottle.
Additional Books:
A book of recipes Yilese seems to have written herself... for medicines or cooking, it’s not clear, as every page is just a list of ingredients and quantities, with no title or description;
“Drakwald Nursery Tales”, written by one Erik Mann;
A fourth- or fifth-hand copy of Todfel’s Peerage, looking very much the worse for wear and describing the family trees of the noble families that rule the area surrounding Hohlesbruck.
One map of the area around Hohlesbruck hand-drawn by Yilese. It’s covered with blots and crosses, meaning unknown; though one seems to mark where the murdered men were found on the road into town.
Map Updates:
An image of the map is found here, with Q&A following;
Interpretation is given here.
PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS
Height = 6' even
Weight = 180 lbs
Hair Colour = was brown (going grey now)
Eye Colour = was hazel, now has golden glimmer to it
Distinguishing marks - none
Star Sign = Gnuthus the Ox, Sign of Dutiful Service
The Story of Sigurd Waite
Spoiler
Sigurd Waite is the son of a Marienburg banker. As a boy of ten, he traveled along the river to Eilhart on a business trip with his father. Neither the elder nor younger Waite could have predicted the sight that would greet them on arrival: a wizened old man, as thin as a starved cat and half as shabby again, in the stockade of Eilhart Common. And beside that, a massive rectangular pile stacked high with split logs.
An unlicensed spell-caster, to be put to death by the Templars that very day at noon.
Waite, Esquire forced his son past the scene, but the boy wandered back while his father was engaged in business. He couldn't help but think the doomed man had fixed his eyes on him the whole time he was in the square. Cautiously, the boy approached the criminal, staring hard at him.
Whereupon the condemned man spoke to him.
"I'll be on the wind soon," he said. "And when they ask, I'll say, it was worth it."
The boy backed away and fled the square, but he heard the man holler after him: "It's worth it!"
Young Master Waite couldn't forget the witch or his words. He began to read and memorize romances about magisters and spirit-hunters. His teachers reported that he slipped in all of his studies except history. At the age of 14, he began talking about the Colleges in Altdorf.
The elder Waite wanted none of it. But he could no longer keep track of his son, who seemed to appear only when he desired. After the third time Mr. Waite had to calm a shrieking housekeeper over an invisible dish or half-glimpsed face in the silver, the banker began to worry. Not just for his son, but for the safety of his house and household. That autumn Sigurd did not return to his preparatory school, but boarded a coach to Altdorf. It was the last time father and son would see each other.
Having spent most of his life tucked away in boarding school, Sigurd took easily to the cloistered life of an apprentice. He corresponded with his mother and father occasionally, but sensed his father's resentment. Upon graduating to journeyman, Sigurd sent his father a weight of gold to repay all of his tuition costs with interest. Waite, Esquirwe wrote to the young Magister Waite to ask where he got it, but Sigurd never communicated further.
Drawn into his own dream-like aspirations and secret purposes, he set out from Altdorf with dispensation to assist in the recovery of an arcane artefact. Although the artefact went to the Grey College, the trip landed him the freedom to travel, which after a few dangerous missions he put to good use searching for a familiar. Eventually he procured a hound-sized puppy, Indigo. From that day forward, the pair would always find an excuse or loophole to continue on to one more quest, one more hunt for lost things. His reports to the Grey College are rare and cryptic--but they mean the right things to the right people.
Appearance:Sigurd is a lean, middle-aged man with grey streaks in his hair. He wears a wide-brimmed, waxed hat and carries a cane.
Indigo is a large blonde mastiff, whose shaggy, curly hair makes her look a little shabby despite Sigurd's excellent care for her.
SPECIAL ABILITY: Lucky Charm, has 2 Fortune Points that she or Sigurd can use.
ADVANCES
Free: Dodge Blow
Free: WS +5%
---Indi's gets 100 Xp for every 200 Sigurd earns; her advances cost 100 XP or 300 for a familiar ability.---
100 - Int +5%
200 - Speak Arcane Language (Magick)
--end chapter 4 (no longer alive)--
300 - Int +5%
400 - Int +5%
Indigo effectively had 200 XP to spend at the end of Chapter 4, and "ghost Indigo" spent it. She now has 0 XP.
Pip, I've done two things that may be unconventional in my post.
First, I aimed a Magic Dart at an item held by an opponent, rather than an opponent himself. If you won't allow that, then I'll simply aim it off into the sky above their heads; if even that's not allowed, then consider it aimed at any peasant of your choosing who hasn't already been wounded.
Second, I flavored Sigurd's dart as looking like a two-tailed comet of Sigmar. I've mentioned before that Sigurd knows "three different versions" of Magic Dart, which is my way of explaining his Mighty Missile talent, and I thought it would be cool if the colleges have one that's all religious and what not. If this is overstepping let me know.
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In real life I quit my job and left my home to become a professional adventurer. The Great Adventure
To be clear, the second the villagers stop making grapple or attack rolls at me and mine, I stop the fireworks. Not before.
Besides, spades in WFRP are like pots in Zelda. If you break them open there are goodies inside.
edit: Although I'll admit I'm confused by how the last round was resolved. According to Pip's post, diplomacy got the peasants to stop attacking, but then Indigo broke the peace by lunging at someone. But Indigo's readied action was set to trigger only if the peasants attacked, so I'm not sure how that's possible.
The whole point of Sigurd's actions is to be defensive only, and not to break peace if they leave off.
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In real life I quit my job and left my home to become a professional adventurer. The Great Adventure
So yeah, if the peasants keep attacking me, I'll keep fighting, and warning shots are over. Next round it's time to start opening up new up real estate in Hohlesbruck.
On the plus side, if I wipe out any peasant families that don't have heirs, I believe the land returns by default to the Verlorens, which will help assuage their dwindling finances.
I'm a hero!
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In real life I quit my job and left my home to become a professional adventurer. The Great Adventure
No, you certainly can't use Magic Dart to smash weapons people are holding: that's not supported by the rules and entirely too powerful for a Petty Magic spell. Compare the Disarm talent and Curse of Rust from the Lore of Metal. I'm surprised you thought this one would fly.
Yes, I'm OK with personalising the visual effects of spells like Magic Dart - for flavour's sake. Illiiya has stuck with one style, and she has Mighty Missile too... saying this is 'explaining' that talent makes me raise an eyebrow right off my face. The rulebook entry for Mighty Missile says "you know how to target magic missiles to inflict maximum damage", which seems to me to have little to do with their appearance.
My main worry is that these 'three types' you've invented are each going to show up exactly when you need them, having been undefined beforehand. I don't have the energy to go searching right now, but I have a vague memory that we've already had an encounter where Sigurd pulled out Magic Dart (possibly when he was scarifying Ribault as Yilese?), and that I mentioned to you then (possibly by PM) that you should choose an aesthetic for the spell and stick with it. I don't remember you saying anything about varying the appearance then, but then I don't remember the whole thing well enough to even be 100% sure I actually said it, so you might've.
At the end of the day, I like having flashy, personalised spells, but I really don't want to crack open a can of worms by setting a precedent here. Altering spell appearances to suit circumstances could get really messy in terms of game balance... I can already think of a half-dozen examples where freely altering the visuals of a spell would give it a barrel of new uses. At the end of the day, we ought to leave the illusions where they belong, in the Lore of Shadow, or else the Lore of Shadow is going to become a terribly emasculated thing.
So, sorry, but no again on that front. I'd appreciate it if you could edit your post so that the magic missile is A) a warning shot, not a spade-smasher and B) not a comet, but whatever Sigurd's Missile looks like.
A late evening at work and the amount of time it's taken me to puzzle this through properly have unfortunately led to it getting pretty late here. I'm afraid the update's going to have to wait... got some important stuff going on tomorrow, need to get to bed at a good time. Sorry!
Would an Intimidate test on Sigurd's part make any difference here? (Granted, the difference might just be that the peasants will try to kill him instead of capturing him...)
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Ponytar of myself by MeanMrsMustard.
No, you certainly can't use Magic Dart to smash weapons people are holding: that's not supported by the rules and entirely too powerful for a Petty Magic spell. Compare the Disarm talent and Curse of Rust from the Lore of Metal. I'm surprised you thought this one would fly.
I'm surprised in the other way; you seem to react very strongly to it and I hope I didn't upset you. I thought the answer might be "no" only because Magic Missile in D&D can target creatures but not objects, and maybe it's some kind of sacred cow. So I knew you might say no and I totally accept the ruling, I just didn't think it would be a big deal to ask.
Quote:
My main worry is that these 'three types' you've invented are each going to show up exactly when you need them, having been undefined beforehand.
I can totally understand that worry. I didn't necessarily mean that he knows how to make it look three different ways - just that he knows different sets of magic words that produce the effect. I meant it to be mechanically identical.
I hadn't thought of the advantage two different appearances would offer, but I totally see your point.
Quote:
I'd appreciate it if you could edit your post so that the magic missile is A) a warning shot, not a spade-smasher and B) not a comet, but whatever Sigurd's Missile looks like.
I'm happy to do so.
To clarify - you're saying I can shoot if off into the sky or whizz it past someone's head as a warning shot, as long as I don't target their weapons?
Assuming that is correct, then consider my post to have a magic dart shoot past the head of the peasant with the shovel. I've got a cold and am going to go sleep for an hour before I have to go out, so I won't edit till later, but yes it's just a warning shot. it's been edited.
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In real life I quit my job and left my home to become a professional adventurer. The Great Adventure
Sentinel is right, I should roll Initimidate. Pip, I believe you had said this can come off of different stats depending on how it's used: if this is Fel, it's versus 40; if you think WP would make sense here, 45.
(1d100)[27]
Exeson: Are you confused by my write up? I ran away from the peasants and called Indigo over to stand in front of me. She's attacking no one at present, and won't unless they attack me or Illiiya first.
You act ahead of me in the initiative order, so you can see that I do this after you speak to me.
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In real life I quit my job and left my home to become a professional adventurer. The Great Adventure
Exeson: Are you confused by my write up? I ran away from the peasants and called Indigo over to stand in front of me. She's attacking no one at present, and won't unless they attack me or Illiiya first.
You act ahead of me in the initiative order, so you can see that I do this after you speak to me.
And yet in your description she is growling and baying with what i can only assume is aggression. That in my head is the same as someone having weapons drawn but not attacking, something that Ithelus was doing but was still considered by the peasants as aggression.
And yet in your description she is growling and baying with what i can only assume is aggression. That in my head is the same as someone having weapons drawn but not attacking, something that Ithelus was doing but was still considered by the peasants as aggression.
Fair enough.
I'm feeling a little sensitive right now because I'm afraid the group is misunderstanding Sigurd's actions (I mean my fellow players OOC).
Every round, the peasants have attacked first, even when diplomacy got them to leave the rest of you alone they kept attacking me. Yet Pip wrote that up as:
"The fragile peace of reason was broken almost immediately as Indigo lunged again at her masters’ attackers."
I was confused by that and I'm afraid others are too. Pip has since confirmed that the peasants attacked first, and even pointed to the rolls in the OOC spoiler.
Nonetheless, since that post 3 of the PCs have said something to the effect that Sigurd and his dog are the ones causing the problem.
Maybe I'm overreacting, but it feels kind of like being on the ground being kicked by a gang of 5 thugs and being told by my friends to "stop bullying them."
:/
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In real life I quit my job and left my home to become a professional adventurer. The Great Adventure
You act ahead of me in the initiative order, so you can see that I do this after you speak to me.
We've always been fairly fluid with Initiative within the group 'block' - for sake of ease with PBP play, I think it's fine to assume Ithelus just slid down the order this turn.
I won't respond to the post above - I don't think it's productive for me as GM to step out from behind the eyes of the NPCs and provide OOC commentary here. Safe to say the villagers, at least, see it differently.
Buggeration, I completely forgot about the Intimidate test.
Intimidate is always Fel or Str, so yes, this'd be Fel I guess. Nice roll - gonna oppose it with a collective WP check from the villagers. Degrees of success/failure will determine the number who are checked by Sigurd's warning shot.
(1d100)[21]
Sigurd passed by 13, villagers pass by 9. Not enough for a full degree of success, but enough to stop one villager in his tracks.
Double buggeration, I forgot the 'attacks of opportunity' as Sigurd moves out of contact too.
Sigurd has moved out of contact with 3 peasants: 3 grapple attempts. 1 only triggers after he's moved out of contact with the first 2, so only the first 2 gain the 3:1 bonus.
(1d100)[48] - missed Ag - (1d100)[54]
(1d100)[77] - missed Ag - (1d100)[76]
(1d100)[32] - missed (no bonuses) Ag - (1d100)[88]
EDIT: Triple buggeration, I was just checking the house rules spoiler to be sure Sigurd's targeting was OK, and I saw this:
Quote:
A spellcaster who is engaged in combat must make a successful concentration (WP) test in order to cast a spell.
I guess we'll forget about that one. A house rule that I can't remember to enforce isn't a very good house rule.
I won't respond to the post above - I don't think it's productive for me as GM to step out from behind the eyes of the NPCs and provide OOC commentary here. Safe to say the villagers, at least, see it differently.
I'll answer what I think, then:
Quote:
Originally Posted by Another_Poet
Maybe I'm overreacting, but it feels kind of like being on the ground being kicked by a gang of 5 thugs and being told by my friends to "stop bullying them."
Except that the villagers originally didn't want to kick you, they just wanted us to surrender peacefully until the situation was sorted out. If they were cops, Sigurd would be resisting arrest and they would be justified in using force against him.
If Sigurd keeps resisting, it's his own damn choice, but he shouldn't expect any help from Pieter (and, I suspect, the other PCs) either during or after the fight.
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Ponytar of myself by MeanMrsMustard.
Except that the villagers originally didn't want to kick you, they just wanted us to surrender peacefully until the situation was sorted out. If they were cops, Sigurd would be resisting arrest and they would be justified in using force against him.
If Sigurd keeps resisting, it's his own damn choice, but he shouldn't expect any help from Pieter (and, I suspect, the other PCs) either during or after the fight.
I concur with Sentinel, and I think Lothar's comment on the matter speaks for itself. It feels like a massive over-reaction on Sigurd's part (which is fine, I ain't criticisin' the RP here; do what you want, Thor).
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LCP, before I make a post: when Lothar barged the door before, did he break the latch? What am I asking is if I need to force the door again, or if it would open at a push?
Or would I need to try it to know?
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[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart, reprising Lothar Fischer, Nordlander deserter.
Thanks guys; it does actually help to know that. It's reassuring to know you correctly understand that Sigurd is defending himself, and think it's an over-reaction. I was worried his actions were coming across as being on the attack.
That said, can I ask what exactly makes you think this:
Quote:
the villagers originally didn't want to kick you, they just wanted us to surrender peacefully until the situation was sorted out.
?
The actual order of events was: the doctor accused us of mass murder; Sigurd claimed he was a wizard; the peasants converged on Sigurd with weapons and tried to grab him.
What exactly makes you think they wouldn't hang him from the tree next to Ribault, if they succeeded? Or use the ready-made pyre and burn him alive?
I never once saw a sign from them that they wanted to "sort things out" (they even ignored the suggestion of taking it to Mils) - is there a reason you guys were so sure that's all they wanted?
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In real life I quit my job and left my home to become a professional adventurer. The Great Adventure
What exactly makes you think they wouldn't hang [Sigurd] from the tree next to [the outlaw], if they succeeded? Or use the ready-made pyre and burn him alive?
Fancy witch-burnings are mostly the work of witch hunters, who want to set an example in front of large crowds and spread a sinister reputation. I doubt peasants would go to such lengths when their target is someone who can (or so they think) incinerate them with but a word; chances are they would want the wizard dead before he can open his mouth. In short, if they intended to kill Sigurd, they would have attacked him with weapons (not grapples) from the beginning.
*shrug* Just my theory. Sigurd is free to believe whatever he wants.
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Ponytar of myself by MeanMrsMustard.
What exactly makes you think they wouldn't hang him from the tree next to Ribault, if they succeeded? Or use the ready-made pyre and burn him alive?
Aside from the fact that they weren't shouting 'burn the witch' is the fact that you hadn't tried to set any of them on fire yet. They were just acting to stop what looked like a band of dangerous criminals (us) and an admitted liar (you) from murdering a doctor.
You started with the lethal force- even Ithelus didn't knife anyone (although to be fair, he tried).
__________________ Games:
[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart, reprising Lothar Fischer, Nordlander deserter.
I would have to be suicidal to lay down and let these peasants carry me off to gods-know-what.
Lothar seemed to think the same, since when they turned toward Illiiya you threatened physical violence to protect her. But Sigurd should lay down and take it.
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In real life I quit my job and left my home to become a professional adventurer. The Great Adventure
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[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart OOC (II)
. Pity it didn't pass.
