The
road through the fogbound heath was deserted, and the company travelled alone.
The stolen horses bearing Huberic’s brand were a problem, but a little mud and
strategically placed blankets concealed them as well as it was possible.
By
the afternoon, the grey stone walls of Gont rose in the distance. There was a
small ruined building a bowshot from the gates, and while abandoned, it also
seemed to be interesting to investigate. While the others remained on the road
to watch, Jonlar Zilv, Sufulgor and Einar Sigurdsson investigated the interior,
finding a half-collapsed set of stairs descending into a dank cellar. By the
light of a lantern, they saw the crumbling bas-relief of what looked like a
thin, scorpion-tailed dragon, the rotted remains of pews that had once been
arranged in two rows, and... Jonlar Zilv discovered a patch of earth that had
recently been disturbed. Faded letters around the dragon spelled a single word:
“FERANOLT”.
“The watch is coming to see what you are
doing in there! Come up!” came the warning for above, so Jonlar Zilv dug
quickly, grabbing a bag of short, heavy objects from the uncovered hiding place
just in time to climb back out and face the group of soldiers eyeing them
suspiciously.
“In the name of Lord Gramantik, state your
business! What were you doing in that building?”
“I can explain it, Sir”, Jonlar Zilv
stepped forward, and fished out the small symbol of Irlan the Merciful from the folds of his clothing (which he had
found on the body of a bandit a day before). “I was investigating this place to see if any poor beggars or travellers
were resting here, so that I might distribute a few coins among them, that’s
all.”
The
man in the grey cloak did not like the answer much, but relaxed his grip on his
harpoon. “Gont is an orderly town, and we
do not like beggars, especially on our outskirts. And we keep an eye out for
troublemakers.”
“Excellent! We understand perfectly. We were
looking for a place to rest, and to sell off some merchandise – where may we
find these in town?”
“The
Torn-Off Hand and The Sink are the two places where
strangers are allowed to sleep. One is near the harbour, and the other
overlooks the Chaining Stone, where criminals set to be executed are tied at
low tide. There is also The Lump
near the New Graveyard, but I recommend you to stay away from it, since it is
frequented by a rough crowd.”
 |
| Gont |
They
paid a few silvers at the gate, and went off to find the Torn-Off Hand. They
found the smoky establishment to the south, more a tavern for sailors and
fishermen than an actual inn. They were greeted by Hagguk the Meaty, a burly half-orc behind the counter, his eyes
flashing with interest as he examined the golden crown worn by Harmand the
Reckless. He was eager to rent them a room on the middle floor, and when they
inquired about a place to sell a few horses, he lit up.
“Sounds like you are looking for Mersin the Lame. He will always give
you a good deal. You’ll find him by the southern walls.”
While
the company settled in the rooms, Jonlar Zilv finally examined the bag he had
found in the ruined building. The bag contained eight brass wands, each tipped
with globes on both ends and decorated with spiral motifs. They tried to
discern their function, but couldn’t find out what they were looking at.
Meanwhile,
Harmand sauntered down to the tavern to order a beer and speak a little more
with Hagguk, who was still impressed by his crown. After some talk, Harmand
turned to the important matters.
“We are looking to sell a few horses; right.
But we are also looking for something more. We may have a much more exclusive
item, if there was a buyer...”
Hagguk
scratched his fat chin, then carefully answered. “It depends. If it is serious…”
“The real deal, a very expensive treasure. It
was recently found in a ruin, and looks to be an ancient druidic vessel.”
“In that case, you may want to deal with Grave-Wight. I can try to contact
him...”
Harmand
slipped some coins on the counter, and Hagguk continued: “Well, well, well. I will try to set up a meeting. Be here after
midnight, and if he is interested, he will make contact on his own terms.”
They
sold the stolen horses for a few coins at a small stable and smithy operated by
Mersin the Lame, and returned to the Torn-Off Hand to wait until the evening.
Both Sufulgor and Einar had the feeling they were being watched; and they had spotted
a few fishermen who looked like they were shadowing them. Some rested, while
some traded gossip with a group of locals complaining of the declining catch, the
sharkmen plaguing the islands, and the increasing pirate activity between Gont
and Baklin. It looked like the seas were getting increasingly dangerous these
days, and most fishermen wouldn’t embark on a longer voyage. Sufulgor was
approached by a suspicious man introducing himself as Serpek the Unblessed, who wanted to have a curse placed on a
business rival: but suspecting an invitation into an ambush, they considered
the deal too risky and didn’t give a positive response.
It
was already late at night and the tavern was becoming empty when a sailor sat
down next to them and indicated Grave-Wight was willing to talk to them. He
beckoned, and they followed him along the dark harbour, and into the barely lit
streets. The man deftly avoided the patrols and passers-by, escorting the
company until they arrived at a set of stairs leading to an old cellar door. He
produced a heavy iron key, and lighting a lantern, they descended into a series
of damp cellars, rats squeaking in the corners and recesses, and brackish water
rippling between the wet planks used for walking. They made multiple turns,
until they came to another door, and were escorted first into a small hall with
multiple doors and decaying seating arrangements, then into a locked side
chamber. Rotting tapestries covered the walls, and simple decorations livened
up the atmosphere. Behind a set of bars in the opposite wall, they could make
out the outline of a man behind a curtain.
“I am Grave-Wight. I heard you have something
to sell me. I will consider your offer.”
They
produced the druidic bowl, and after a short negotiation, Grave-Wight made an
offer for 700 gp. The bowl was exchanged for heavy bags of coins handed through
the curtain.
“And the brass wands?” asked Gadur Yir
greedily. Grave-Wight’s interest was piqued, and they showed him the small
items found in the ruined building, mentioning their possible connection to the
inscription spelling “Feranolt”.
“Feranolt is a familiar name,” mused
Grave-Wight. “It is the name of an old
and prestigious noble family. Like many others, they originated in Kassadia,
and came to the Isle of Erillion during the war against the Wraith Queen
Arxenia 350 years ago. They no longer live near Gont, but they still maintain a
villa on a nearby island called ‘The Dwelling’. I don’t know the purpose of the
wands, and they don’t seem interesting to me.”
Gadur
Yir was also eager to know more: “While
we are at it – are you familiar with the name ‘Vitus Bonifaces’?”
“Should I be? It seems familiar, but I can’t
recall...”
Gadur Yir produced one of the mysterious letters, handing it to the man
behind the curtain. “We all received an
invitation like this. Identical in every detail.”
Grave-Wight
paused and thought a little, then spoke again: “Maybe you would have to speak with Garrodik the Seer. I am unable to
help you with this issue.”
They
said their goodbyes, and left the room, bags of gold in their hands. They found
a new guide, a young lad they recognised as one of the fishermen from the tavern.
The boy led them through a different door than they entered, and they descended
even deeper below Gont, traversing a set of cold passages with recesses filled
with mouldering bones. At last they climbed a long set of stairs again, and the
lad, Gadik escorted them to an octagonal chamber with multiple iron doors, and
light shining through portholes in the peaked ceiling.
“We are here. I will have to return whence I
came. You must knock four times on the third door to be let out.”
They obeyed,
and Gadik locked the door behind him, descending back down the stairs. They
knocked on the iron door as instructed.
“Are you all there?” came a hushed voice
from the other side.
“Yes.”
“Good...” came the answer, and they heard
a weird hissing sound as an inky purplish cloud flooded the room through hidden
holes. Harmand cursed and threw his weight against the door, which broke down
under his assault, revealing two cloaked figures. But it was too late, and one
by one, they fell and lost consciousness.
“...Kurlakum... the bastard’s soul can be
yours...” growled Sufulgor, but to no avail. Everything was dark.
(…)
“How
could we be this idiotic?”
“We
showed him both the brass wands and
the letter.”
“We truly got fucked over, didn’t we.”
(…)
“It is a matter of motivation! Work is easy
when you put your hearts and souls into it. You there! You look like you aren’t
pulling your weight. Care to tell me if you have any problems? Don’t be shy. I’m
listening!”
The
crack of the whip roused them, and they saw a hairy giant of a man towering
above them from a long plank. Fourteen pairs of oars and a set of sails
propelled the dragonship in an unknown direction under a grey sky, the cold
wind and salty foam biting into their faces. They were securely chained to the
benches with long chains, and saw rows of backs before them. The brutal
supervisor was on them, distributing lashes liberally with his long whip. Both he
and his companions were tall, red-haired Northmen clad in furs and boots. There
was no sight of land except smaller rock outcroppings, and Einar sensed they
were going north – far north!
Things
shortly settled into a routine of backbreaking work, and they could get a
better look at their small world. There were around a dozen heavily armed men,
and twice as many chained slaves. Most seemed to be ordinary, if hardened
commoners, but three looked more interesting: a man with braided black hair and
slanted eyes, an older half-orc with a paunch and baggy green pants, and a
sickly dwarf. The dwarf was at the end of his wits, and shortly collapsed among
the chains: he was beaten savagely and left to recover on his own.
“His kind should be thrown into the sea!”
hissed Sufulgor.
“You should be thrown into the sea!”
growled a chained slave next to him, giving him the evil eye.
Jonlar
Zilv had an idea. When the supervisor walked by again, he called to him:
“I am a good musician, Sir, and I would be
happy to sing a heroic song for you if you just unchained me for a little.”
The
brute turned and grinned. “We shall see
about that.” He gave Jonlar multiple lashes, laughing as he could not help
but cry out, “You already sing beautifully.
Why should I stop you?”
Einar
cried: “Know that I, Einar Sigurdsson, am
your kin, and your ancestors are my ancestors! I will gladly fight with you and
join your adventures.”
The
response was more cynical laughter from the fighters, and one answered: “You should tell that to Geranith. Maybe she
will listen to your pleas.”
The
forward cabin opened, and out strode a young woman with the bearings of a queen,
wearing a chain shirt and the furs of her fellow barbarians.
A
roar came from a dozen mouths: “All hail Princess Geranith, Daughter of Queen
Brith and bride to Sogmund the Red!”
The
supervisor bellowed: “Bow down, you dogs,
bow before your future queen, and pray that you shall not be the ones who will
be sacrificed on her wedding!”
Geranith
cast an icy look on the deck, surveying the slaves. Then, paying no heed to anyone,
turned and returned to the cabin as the supervisor whipped those who did not
bend low enough.
Night
was falling and the slaves received their bowls of food and watered beer while
the warriors drank heartily. While they were allowed to rest, Harmand managed
to break his chains, but sat still until he could make a good move. The
opportunity came soon enough as Einar called out, again.
“Let me out of my chains, Geranith! You need
a real man, a true Northerner! My family comes from the icy lands where men are
men, not like your dogs! Come out!”
The
Northmens’ interest was piqued by the audacity, and they all watched with
interest as the furious Princess Geranith emerged from her cabin, her eyes
filled with plain hatred.
“Untie him”, she barked, and threw her
sword into the air. “May your ancestors
be merciful to your shade, for I shall now kill you!”
Einar
and Geranith squared off on the central plank off the ship, watched eagerly by
both slaves and Northmen. The exchange was unequal, showing her to be a far superior
fighter. Einar could not even close with her while she rapidly inflicted three light
wounds.
“This was just the warmup”, she spat. “Prepare for death!”
Sufulgor
stood up on his bench, casting a hold
person spell on the princess. She froze where she stood with a snarl on her
face, and before the shocked men could react, Einar was at her throat with a
dagger.
“Drop your weapons or she dies!” he
cried.
Harmand
the Reckless leaped upon the deck, blocking the Northmen’s way.
“You shall not get through me! Surrender!”
The hardened
killers growled and cursed, but did not dare to act. They threw their weapons
on the deck while Einar tied Geranith to the mast.
“I like it much better this way, darling”
he laughed. Gernaith’s eyes gave the only answer, and Einar was glad she couldn’t
move.
They
retrieved the ring of keys carried by the supervisor, and freed the slaves one
by one, including Barzig the Nomad
(the man with the braided black hair), Ragout
(the old half-orc), and the barely alive Killorn
Stonefist (the sickly dwarf). The weapons of the Northmen were distributed
among the slaves, while the erstwhile captors became captives. Geranith watched
in icy silence. Einar finally hung the keys around his own neck.
“Long live Einar the Liberator! Down with the
northern dogs!”, exclaimed Brusuf the Servant, and he was joined by a
chorus of the grateful oarsmen. Snatching up the whip, Gadur Yir tested it on a
few of the northerners.
Now
that they have finished their takeover, it became apparent three men were missing.
One was the barrel-chested supervisor, and two more of his followers. A search
around the dragonship didn’t reveal their hiding place, or whether they were on
the ship at all anymore. The cabin was a small place stacked with supplies and
a few personal effects. Geranith didn’t have her dowry with her, only a small locked
chest. Jonlar Zilv walked to the tied-up princess and started to speak:
“Let me attempt to explain this, Princess...”
“Now you can see how a northern man deals with
issues!” gloated Einar.
“...and this is how the civilised man does
the same...”, smirked the minstrel, singing “I hope I will not fall in love with you” (charm person) to the captive.
Einar
exclaimed his intentions to the crew, a band of 40 men: “It is I, your new captain speaking! We have captured this ship, and
regained our freedom. If you obey me, you shall have that and more – much more.
As for the princess, she is my prisoner, and I swear by all my ancestors that she
is under my protection, and no harm should come to her.”
The
chest in the cabin was a small cache with 300 silver coins, 700 electrum, five
gemstones and a valuable pitcher decorated with Northman motifs. There was also
a message in the form of a rune-stick. The brief message, addressed to Sogmund
the Red, was simple: by request of “Lord Feranolt”, the prisoners named Gadur
Yir, Jonlar Zilv, Harmand the Reckless, and Einar Sigurdsson should be among
the sacrifices on Princess Geranith’s wedding. (“Nobody even thought of me?!” complained Sufulgor) The message also
noted that someone named Filodont would make a visit to the North, and should
be accommodated.
“Feranolt!” snapped Jonlar Zilv. “We should have known! Grave-Wight must be no
other than this Lord Feranolt!”
“Seems we have unfinished business with
Grave-Wight.”
“And that kid.”
“And half the town.”
“I will disembowel all the fuckers in Gont”,
swore Einar.
They
contemplated plans of looting the Dwelling mentioned by Grave-Wight, to find
some leverage on Lord Feranolt. As for the princess, opinions were divided.
Some advocated selling her into slavery, while Einar said she should simply be
put ashore with some of her men at the right spot – a good deed is oft
rewarded. Jonlar Zilv was in agreement, noting that their company was small
fish among the Northmen thanes, and should not arouse their ire. Harmand and
Gadur Yir were strongly opposed – if freed, the furious Geranith would do all
in her power to hunt them down for her humiliation, and they should kill her while
they had the chance. Sufulgor darkly noted that his dark master, Kurlakum of
the Seven Misfortunes would have to have his due for their triumph, and
Geranith’s blood should serve as a worthy sacrifice. In the end, Einar offered
to relinquish his share of the treasure in exchange for Geranith’s freedom, but
not his men – they would have to bargain with the rest of the group.
There
was a shrill shriek from outside, and they rushed to the deck to find Ragout
the half-orc next to the mast, trying to have his way with the captive
princess. Einar grabbed him, and with a cry and a heave, threw the hapless
half-orc into the dark waves. Gadur Yir tried to throw the wretch a rope, but
when he pulled it back, it was empty: the seas had swallowed the miscreant. Now
that Einar had dealt with the challenge to his authority, the freed men were completely
under his command. The company swore an oath on the division of spoils before
the eyes of Geranith, and they retired to rest before their new ventures.
(Session
date 31 October 2016).
***
Notable quotes:
Sufulgor:
“I will use my healing powers to cure
Gadur Yir. I lay my hands on him and channel those energies.”
GM: “...all right. Roll the dice.”
Sufulgor:
“2 Hp!”
GM: “You cause 2 points of damage.”
Gadur
Yir: “Ow!”
Sufulgor:
“…”
Jonlar
Zilv’s player: “I hope you do remember you are the cleric of a
Chaotic Evil deity, and you cause wounds
instead of healing them?”
Sufulgor:
“...oh. … Well, know it, puny mortal,
that the powers of darkness are unpredictable.”
(…)
Sufulgor
(slightly later): “Could I heal people
with my Poison Brewing skill?”
Others:
“NO.”
Jonlar
Zilv: “If I sold you lot out to Lord
Gramantik, I bet my alignment would shift towards good.”
***
Referee’s notes: Multiple reversals
of fortune, an escape from dire circumstances brought about by carelessness,
and a conclusion leading to new adventures – all in a good afternoon’s work. In
the first episode, the players struck out on their own to find something
outside their expected frame of action; in the second, they entered mapped
territory but got much more than they’d bargained for almost immediately once
they’d settled into basic routines – and were off the maps once again.
Sometimes, you are careless and get lucky. At other times, you hit an iceberg
(and the game becomes really interesting once
you do that).
This
session also highlights an interesting feature of sandbox games: the way
existing sandbox elements can indirectly influence plot development outside
their regular scope. Preparation before the session was focused on Gont and its
environment (peppered with a few
leads, some linked to the campaign’s central mysteries, some not), and almost none of
that was featured in our game. And yet, things were still there in a sense, suggesting what might happen in the undetailed spaces the company entered, and
where the action might go. Like a black hole, they were invisible but still
affecting things with their field of gravity. Setting logic, combined with
player decisions and a few off-the-cuff ideas gave a basic picture that was
more than ‘here there be lions’. And as for Terra Incognita: a few established
ideas (the Confederacy’s independent, warring Northman kingdoms; their ancestor
worship and barbarian ways of life; seas and longships) provided a foundation
to build on.
