Doggerland - the Final Turn

Peace, at last, comes to Doggerland. Bran mak Morn, the lord of Cantwara, managed to win the support of the other warlords to become overlord of Doggerland. Here is the final map of the campaign which includes all details of how the forces lined up in that final turn before the capitulation of the lord Bjarni...

Here is a skeleton map of the final land divisions. Each empire has its own colour to distinguish it from the others...

Finally, here is the map with all territory names and the fortresses and earthworks that were still standing at the end of the game...

I am currently playing in Tavern Knights of Legend 2, run by my one of my long term gaming buddies. This will probably run throughout the summer, but when this ends I will be starting on the next game in the land of Dogger. This will be on a smaller scale where individual armies can be represented on the tabletop. In Doggerland, the armies were just known as 'warbands'. These warbands were an imginary unit that consists of vast swathes of either footmen, cavalry, mercenaries or a mixture of all with chariots thrown in - not really something that could be represented easily on the gaming table despite my best efforts. The next game will be far more easy to represent as each 'county' will be part of just one of the above territories, so an economic unit will buy a points value of troops to be chosen from set lists that relate to that particular county's peculiar troop type. The game will be set more on a village scale within one 'county', with each player having a set amount of villages from which to draw their revenue an dthus build their troops. Combat will be different and most likely will be able to be run on the tabletop - better get my 15mm figures painted by then I suppose!

I didn't get any painting done today, but should get back into the swing of things from next weekend when life returns to normal in the Odo household.

TKoL on new website

Tavern Knights of Legend has now moved lock, stock and (two smoking?) barrel to the new website...

Knights of Legend

I will be updating TKoL on the new website from now on, allowing me to concentrate on miniature gaming stuff on this blog.


Update...

I haven't got much done recently, painting wise, but by next weekend there should be something to put up. I managed to get started on the two giants but I had three very late nights at work this week as well as a trip to watch a rugby match in Manchester (Sale versus Wasps - which was cancelled due to poor pitch conditions) on Friday/Saturday. The trip wound up being just a get together between a few of us - a very nice evening, but a long way to go for just a few pints!

Knights of Legend website update

I have updated the new Knights of Legend website. See it here...

Knights of Legend website

The data conversion from the old style website to the new one has been quite a challenge - more boring and long winded than technically difficult. I will be working on Tavern Knights next - Hopefully that will be done within the next couple of weeks and then it will be updated directly there in future.

K-KoL Turn 15 Mid-day Report

Bash the Cleric and Rollo the Barbarian shrouded in white mist, could hear nothing but the crashing of the Coleburn Falls. Communicating in gestures and covered by Strongbow, they cautiously picked their way from one mossy rock to the next until they reached the eastern bank. There, with weapons ready and their eyes honed on the tree line, they waited for the mercenary archer to join them. The feared ambush never came. Judging they were safe, they sought dry wood to kindle a fire.
“Lunch time!” declared Bash, his broad hands rubbing his questionably empty belly.

Xox the Ranger glanced back towards the village of Cragganmore. Goblin warriors frantically searched the buildings and outhouses, overturned wains and barrels, but their quarry had fled. Crouching low and running just off the road, Xox headed north.
The sun was at its zenith when flitting between the tight shadows, Xox the Ranger crept into the ruins of Edradour. He paused, breathing lightly. He heard the clatter of a cooking pot and the lilt of a broken melody playing on unseen lips. Winding between the crumbling walls, he followed the tempting smell of rabbit stew, his feet noiseless on the fallen stones. At last, ahead in a small hollow, he saw Sirrus the cutthroat. His back was turned as he leant, ladle in hand over the pot. The whistling stopped as he raised the stew to his lips. He never tasted his meal, for a bright arrow, whistling its own swift song of death, slammed into his back. Sirrus shuddered and fell, turning the pot over and sending its contents hissing into the fire. Xox swore. He was hungry and that stew would have been a welcome, additional bounty.
Casually Xox walked forward and retrieving the arrow from the dead cutthroat whose purse yielded a single gold coin. Xox pocketed the money and set about the task of pulling rabbit meat from the wet ashes.

Secundus the Mage rested his hand on the ancient, lichen-speckled stone door of the crypt. His fingers traced the worn indentations that were once deep-cut runes. The rumours were true. These markings proclaimed to all those who could decipher their meaning, that this was indeed where, in ages long passed, the Shadowsphere was buried. By whom and why, no one this side of the grave knew, but Secundus the Mage was here now, in sight of Longmorn Pass, to bring it back from its long, uninterrupted sleep.
The cold door yielded to the gentle pressure of his palm. Then, with his staff glowing with magical light, Secundus cautiously stepped into the black maw of the tomb.
Carved deep into the solid rock, the tunnel led down deep into mountain. Secundus walked on. Finally the passage opened into a square-cut chamber. The Mage held his glowing staff forward, casting rays of glittering light on to the low ceiling and solid walls. Only the far end appeared shrouded in darkness. Secondus stepped forward, yet still the blackness held. He then understood, for while the mage’s light penetrated the darkness, in that sepulchral shroud the light stayed, devoured by the all-absorbing artifact that was the Shadowsphere.
Suddenly a shrill scream shattered the silence. From the wall of dead black burst the twisted, near-human forms of snarling goblins, their savage blades shimmering in the magical half-light, their wide eyes burning with rage. Caught off-guard and awestruck, Secundus spat words of power, but the fiends were upon him. The first blade struck, carving deep and crimson. The mage’s staff fell. Its light fled into the hungry void.
The subterranean night closed, granting nothing but pain and screaming death.

T-KoL Turn 14 (Dawn)

T-KoL Turn 13 (Night) Report Omission

An owl screeched. Xox the Ranger stopped, breathed a sigh of relief and slowly crept forward. Cautiously he approached Cragganmore's inn. Bright yellow light shone through the leaded windows. He carefully avoided its beam until he stood pressed to the cold wall next to the closed casement. The ragged sounds of revelry, shrill, inhuman singing and the wanton smashing of bar-room furniture crashed into the night. Xox leaned into the light, peering through the rippled glass. A scowl passed over his illuminated face for the inn was full of cruel, swaggering goblins, who though full of drink and plundered meat were hungry for bloodshed and full of the savage powers of the night. Xox skulked back into the blackness and into the shelter of an abandoned stable.

T-KoL Turn 14 (Dawn) Report

A stair creaked beneath the heavy weight of an armoured boot. Xox the Ranger's eyes flashed open. Again a wooden groan broke the silence. It was no dream. Swiftly Xox sprang to his feet. In a single motion he stood, his short-sword naked in the half-light. Suddenly, the goblins were upon him, their eyes wide; foul, unintelligible curses on their black, curled-back lips. Xox's blade flashed, smashing the goblins' wild strikes aside and forcing a wide gap between them. He plunged forward into the open rift and through the yawning window. Down he fell, landing softly in the soft load of an abandoned haywain. He roiled and in an instant was on his feet again on the hard, wheel-rutted road.

After pocketing the gold, Rollo the Barbarian sheathed his sword and exclaimed "The dust from those cadavers has left a foul taste in my mouth and your magics have left my head reeling. I need a drink. Let's off to the Black Bottle inn where we can purchase a fine flagon of ale and spin some tales of our famous victory."

"Meeeee?" gasped Bash the Cleric with feigned horror, "Me, head towards an inn?" It was not only Strongbow the hireling archer whose eyebrow noticeably raised. "Well," continued the holy man, "since dawn is now breaking, I'm sure we can all benefit from a hearty breakfast. You've convinced me!"

Rollo laughed and slapped his companion firmly on the back. Bash stood up, dusted himself down and led the way.

It was a tiring trek along the steep and winding track of the Linkwood Forest Road. Unable to bear the maiden An Cnoc’s incessant whining, Rollo the Barbarian finally hoister her onto his broad, manly shoulders and carried her, saving her delicate feet from further trauma. Strongbow the hireling archer redoubled his watch, scanning the tightly packed, moss-hung trees crowding their path, wary for any signs of lurking foes. Finally, scouting just ahead, Strongbow silently signaled to the party to halt. Rollo lowered An Cnoc gently to the ground. She thanked him with a coy smile and gentle blush.

Rollo and Bash crept forward. Through the trees ahead they saw the Black Bottle Inn and staring back at them, Cobra the cutthroat, his long, curved dagger drawn. The corners of his mouth curled wickedly. Bash swiftly recited an ancient canticle and a strange stillness descended. The sly smile fell from Cobra’s lips. He frowned and gritted his teeth, yet soon the passing discomfort dissolved. The cutthroat’s eyes gleamed once more and before Strongbow had strung an arrow the morning air clouded before Cobra as a black swarm of blood bats gathered at his command. An Cnoc swooned. Rollo drew his sword and roaring like a bear at bay plunged into the screaming fog, his shimmering blade whirling before him like a stream of liquid silver until drenched in scarlet rain he stood seething before the lone cutthroat. The bats silent, slaughtered and now nothing more than a quivering crimson carpet at the barbarian’s sandaled feet.

Bash rushed forward his quarterstaff raised. With a treacherous sneer, Cobra the cutthroat lunged with his long, curving dagger towards Rollo’s unguarded loins. Swift and agile as a cat, the barbarian thrust the hilt of his heavy sword hard against the flashing blade. The dagger struck hard steel and shivered. The force of the parry threw the cutthroat back, his hand torn beneath his glove. Then Cobra froze. His wide eyes fell in startled amazement to his chest, pain-wracked and transfixed with the quivering arrow of Strongbow the archer. He struggled to curse his killers but only a crimson flood passed his lips and he fell silent to move no more.

An Cnoc was carried to the inn where the patrons cheered their deliverers. Strongbow took the cutthroat’s purse and split its two Gold Pieces evenly between the heroes Bash the Cleric and Rollo the Barbarian.

Knights of Legend sites back up

Hopefully the Knights of Legend site on 110Mb.com is back up again for good now. I didn't get a reply from the Tech Support guys, so hopefully they read my plea and were happy that I was not using the site as a data store and decided to put it back up again. I am glad it is back up as I can now crack on and get the rest of the 2nd story up and running on there, then get to work on moving the third game...

Knights of Legend

I won't have much time during this week to work on figure painting or the web site above, as I am on a geophysical survey on a WW1 / WW2 site in south London. There won't be any photos for that I am afraid as the data will just be of the surveys and not for the public domain - yet. If there is any publishable material, I'll try to put it up as it may be of interest to those gamers whose period is as above.

KoL sites are all gone!

Oh no! All of my Knights of Legend sites have been removed. Disaster!

Geocities shutdown 2 of my old sites on Monday - I was expecting that - but the new one that I spent nearly two days updating with the old data has also been deleted. I have sent an email to the host asking why and am waiting for a response. I hope it is just a misunderstanding as they stipulate in their T&Cs that if a site is used as a data store then it will be deleted. I am hoping that I have given them a reasonable excuse for the volume of uploaded material - maybe I put on too much too soon? Hopefully their tech support will get back to me with an explanation and with a bit of luck put it back up on the web. If not, I'll have to look around for another host and spend another couple of days uploading the pages again.

Anyway, rant over and back to the miniature figures. I am out of Araldite at the moment, so am a bit stymied on sticking some more minis onto round bases. That should be resolved by the weekend, so I can sort out more minis for basing. I have plenty of undercoated minis to start on, so should have some to photograph and display in my next update. I think the first ones finished should be the last few villagers and another troll. I also have some old sci-fi minis that I will just be rebasing. Alex has been busy painting some 40K Space Marines, so they may be ready by the weekend too. Plenty to come over the next few weeks for sure.

T-KoL Turn 13 (Night)

Rollo the Barbarian ripped his sword free of its scabbard. A yard of shimmering steel glinted in the pale moonlight. An Cnoc cowered behind him, clinging to his broad shoulders, unable to tear her terror-filled eyes from the horror ahead. Gulping back his superstitious unease, Rollo stepped boldly forward, the hard point of his great-sword pointing at the hollow ribcage of the dreadful abomination slowly shambling towards him. He halted. An Cnoc screamed. Unable to further bear the living nightmare, she finally fainted as from the blackness each side of the endarkened path, staggered another clawing, fleshless cadaver. His jaw fixed, his teeth gritted, Rollo swung his bright blade high above his head and rushed forward. There was a blinding flash and the barbarian fell to his knees. His head swimming, he shook free his confusion and stood, raising his blade once more, but he saw no skeletons before him, but a figure that while fully clothed, was by anyone’s measure, clearly not lacking flesh.
“Bash?”
“None other!” replied the Cleric who walked past the dazed barbarian and knelt over the swooned maiden. He mopped her brow and her eyes flashed open. Her waking terror fled as she saw the holy man’s generous features. Grateful for her deliverance, she threw her arms around him and wept.
Rollo stoically shrugged.
Bash turned his head, “You guarded the maiden well Barbarian, but we must now dice for the single Gold Piece worth of treasure my hireling Strongbow has gathered from the piles of bone-dust scattered here about”. Rollo smiled and the two heroes rolled dice. Rollo gleefully pocketed the treasure. Fate and the gods it would seem saw fit to grant him at least some compensation.

Secundus the Mage saw he was surrounded. Calmly he raised his staff above his head as the wind filled with his words of arcane calling. Flames shot from dark earth about him, forming a perfect circle of fire. There he stood, defiant, protected by the scorching blaze as beyond its flickering, orange light the skeleton warriors stood, unceasingly beating their shields.

Knights of Legend

The Geocities websites for the old Knights of Legend adventures will go offline at midnight tonight, so I have had to create a replacement for them. Here is the link to the new wip site...

http://tkol.110mb.com/

The first story is up and ready for viewing and the other two KoL adventures will be uploaded over the next couple of weeks.

T-KoL Turn 12-13 (Evening/Night)

T-KoL Turn 12 (Evening) REPORT

After spending what seemed an eternity waiting for Xox the Ranger to catch him up to see why he was being followed, Rollo the Barbarian slaked his thirst at Dewar's Well before striding on to the Linkwood Forest Road.


T-KoL Turn 13 (Night)

Rollo the Barbarian had not gone far along the Linkwood Forest Road, when up ahead, in the dappled, golden light of sunset, he saw a young woman. His eyes widened with unabashed appreciation of her lissome form as the slanting rays shone through her muslin dress. She stopped, terrified.
“Fear not, pretty maid!” Rollo held out his open palms to reassure her, “I am no footpad or forest thief, but a brave blade in the service of the Laird. I am pledged to bring order and to protect the peoples of his fief!”
Her eyes still wide with terror, An Cnoc the maiden staggered backwards. Too fearful to speak, she merely pointed.
Rollo looked down at himself and saw nothing that had ever inspired such terror. What was it about him that terrified her so?
An Cnoc pointed again, this time frantically stabbing the air.
Finally, concluding he could not be the cause of such unfettered horror, Rollo followed the line of her finger and turned. He gasped, for there in the deepening darkness, following in his very footsteps, shambling and staggering disjointedly behind him was the animated bare bones of a long decayed cadaver. Fleshless fingers clawed the cold, black air. Its jaw fell and in a voice torn from beyond the grave, the skeleton screamed, demanding their very souls.

“So this is Dewar’s Well, at last?” Strongbow, sighed and placed his pack on the floor and looked up to the darkening sky.
“Just a resting-point in our journey, young man,” replied Bash the Cleric, “take a seat, you deserve it.”
Strongbow rested against the wall of the well. There was a crack and he nearly fell as a stone gave way beneath his hand, falling to the ground.
“Are you hurt?” asked the cleric.
“No, only startled.” Strongbow bent down and picked up the stone. He stopped, and began brushing the decayed mortar from the underside of the stone. “Look, there are strange marks on it!” he held the stone out for Bash to see.
“That,” observed the cleric, “is known as writing,” he paused. “Let me have a closer look, it appears to be a quite ancient script!”
Muttering a few words, Bash’s sacred talisman glowed, and by its holy light, he slowly traced the letters with his finger. “It is ancient,” he confirmed, “but it is legible to one as learned as I. It tells of a passage built half way down the wall of this very well. This corridor leads to chamber that houses a shrine mounting the famous ‘Pearl of Wisdom’!”
“Can it be true?” gasped Strongbow.
“Do we have,’ asked Bash, “any reason to doubt?”

Secundus the Mage felt uneasy. Darkness had crept upon him quite suddenly. The crags towering over Longmorn pass crowded the sky, blotting out its feeble light. Staff in hand, he kept walking. Perhaps he would arrive at somewhere less unnerving by midnight. Then he stopped. All around him small stones and pebbles clattered down the endarkened screes. The clamour grew as one skeleton warrior after another pulled itself from its forgotten grave, to stand bold and erect, silent in the cold night air. Then, one by one, with long-rusted blades they began beating their mouldering shields. Thud! Thud! Thud! Each beat louder than the last as yet another dead warrior joined the dire, dreaded rhythm of the decayed.

T-KoL Turn 11 (Mid-day)

After hearing the news of the battle at Dewar's Well, Rollo downed his flagon of mead in one gulp, let out a mighty belch, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and strode out into the morning sunlight declaring, "I am off to join the friar on his mission of death-dealing as he seems to be the only man in Glenfiddich capable of putting up a decent fight and thus worthy of my company".
“I for one agree with the barbarian!” declared Xox the Ranger taking up his bow and following Rollo through the still gaping tavern door.

Before Strongbow and the Blue Nun had looked away the rotund silhouette of Bash the Cleric filled the doorway. The bar then filled with his stentorian voice, “Greetings friends!”
“Where did you come from?” asked the Nun, “a couple of heroes just went north in search of you!”
“I was with traders,” he replied taking a seat at the table, “turning wolf-pelts and trinkets into currency!” He placed three gold coins on the table. “So, Strongbow,” Bash smiled, “are you and your weapon for hire?”
“As sure as is my aim master!” he beamed and the deal was struck.

My Hero (and his new mate)

Here's a larger image of my new T-KoL character. Once again Arlo has done a fantastic job.

And here's the replacement for another of the characters killed a few turns back. Just one more to go and we are back to our full fighting strength again.

New T-KoL Heroes

Once again we have a new batch of heroes to fight the good fight and free Glenfiddich from the legions of Kahlua. Let's hope they last the night!

Invaders from the north

These two have been on the almost ready pile for quite some time. The first picture is of Rollo; a barbarian from the frozen north who has popped over the ocean to Glenfiddich in search of adventure and fame. He is to be my next character to replace the ill-fated Esme and Kenny. The environs of Glenfiddich are proving to be a real testing ground for new characters. The mini is an old Citadel fighter/barbarian.



This is an old Ral Partha Storm Giant. I have decided to paint him up in various shades of red and have him represent one of the old Norse Fire Giants.

Here is a picture of Rollo about to be surprised by a fire giant. I hope he turns round in time!

T-KoL Turn 10 (Morning)

“You couldn’t just lend a hand could you?” begged Bash the Cleric as he struggled with folds and folds of inked velum.
“Sorry mate,” replied Strongbow the hireling archer picking the meat from between his teeth with a broken chicken bone, “I only work for money.”
“What is it you’ve got there anyway?” asked the Blue Nun leaning forward for a better look.
“It’s a map of the highlands,” sighed Bash, “and it’s damnably enormous!”
“You’re not kidding,” said Strongbow discarding the broken bone, “it’s swamping the table. It’s near two Megs, and they’re not going to be happy if it starts dipping itself into their soup!”
“I take it,” enquired Bash’ “that piece of advice was free?”

Leaving the Inn table straining under the weight of the map, Bash picked up his staff and strode out into the morning sun, leaving the door swinging freely behind him.
The Blue Nun, Strongbow and the Two Megs looked up to see a cloaked figure step in through the same door and without speaking cross the room to a secluded table in the corner.
“Who’s he?” asked the Blue Nun.
“Beats me,” replied Strongbow, “but by his cloak and that bow he’s got across his shoulder, I’d guess he’s a Ranger! Looks a bit scary though.”
“In that case you had better not look now, there’s a savage looking barbarian in the other corner!”

The sun was warm, but as Bash the Cleric approached Dewar’s Well the air palpably cooled. Grey shadows shifted. The gathering wolves howled. Riding on their backs, their dead, fleshless hands gripping night-black scythes, sat Kahlua’s skeleton cavalry. Frigid witch-fire burning dimly in their naked eye-sockets, glowed brighter as they raised their heads high, hissed dryly and spurred their lupine mounts to charge the lone cleric.
Quickly, but precisely Bash recited an ancient psalm while raising his hand gently holding a sacred amulet. Frosty light swirled from the trinket. Then like a tidal wave it gushed forth, soaking the malevolent, unholy bones with fractured light. Bash winced as his ears filled with deafening screams and the skeletons crumbled to dust, their soulless remains dashed to mere spindrift on the wind. The wolves suddenly without direction, seeking to restore their own feral order, began fighting amongst themselves. Bash’s judgement was swift and unerring, his staff ruthless. He struck with all his strength, crushing their savage skulls.
Breathing heavily, Bash mopped his brow and rested before skinning the wolves and searching the heather for spoils. He found two dusty rings, each worth a gold piece.

T-KoL Turn 9 (Night)

Onan the Barbarian, Strepos the Ranger and Kenny the Fighter were speechless as the cold, dark hand of doom tightened its unforgiving grip around their naked throats.
The grim horn sounded once more and the wolf-mounted goblins charged screaming, loosing dark arrows as they came. Strepos drew his sword as the skeletons ran mindlessly towards him. The fist arrow slammed into his chest. He gasped bloodily as his body numbed and his sword fell from his nerveless hand. He staggered like a rag doll, barely aware as the rust blunted blades tore into his flesh again and again, until at last he fell lifeless to the cold, damp ground.
“Frigg!” ejaculated Onan as the wild wolves bore down, their jaws wide and slavering. Falling before the leader, he grimly jammed his axe-shaft between its gnashing teeth, holding firm as the wolf struggled to rip it from his hands. The goblin wolf-rider, grinning, leaned forward over the wolf’s grey head and sent a single black shaft slamming cruelly down into the warrior’s muscle-chorded throat. Onan’s head fell back as his life-blood, thick and black in the moonlight, gushed like a torrent from the savage wound. His grip failed and the wolf tore hungrily into his dead remains.
Past him and onward the other wolves charged. Kenny thrust his pitchfork before him and gritted his teeth, but his courage and lust for vengeance stood for naught as an unstoppable wave of slavering fury ripped him from his feet and bore him on to a pitiless death.

Second sight was upon Secundus the Mage who suddenly sat bolt-upright in his straw bed, “Oh no!” he gasped, “They’ve killed Kenny!”

As bloody red sun rose above the dark mountains the news from Grant’s Gibbet reached Glen Fiddich.
The Blue Nun wept.
“Ruddy hilarious Motley!” announced the Laird, “Ruddy hilarious! You are a comic genius! What do you have for us next?”
Beyond the walls of Glen Fiddich a new age of chaos reigned.

T-KoL Turn 8 (Evening)

With every strand of his soul screaming for vengeance, Kenny the fighter left the unwelcoming villagers of Cragganmore behind and strode, teeth clenched, towards Grant’s Gibbet. With his heart crying for retribution he failed to notice that Secundus the Mage was not with him.

“Hello big boy,” gushed a fur-coated Cragganmore wench, “is that a magic staff in your hands or are you just pleased to see me?”

“Look!” Onan the Barbarian pointed to a lone figure approaching along the Gragganmore road.
“A sturdy looking fellow,” observed Strepos the ranger, ”and by the way he is carrying that pitch-fork he appears intent on doing someone some mischief!”
Onan spat.
“Hail warriors of Neame!” shouted the stranger.
“Hail to you also!” replied Strepos, “but be kind to tell me who hails us, for we are hard at work killing monsters this day!”
“I am Kenny the fighter, brother of Esme the mage, cruelly slain on this very field. I come to reap vengeance upon Black Tusk the boar!”
“Well met then young man, for in your task you are not alone!”
The three bravoes shook hands by their own customs and together began scouring the heather for the foul boar. Slowly the shadows began to lengthen.
Suddenly like a dark, screeching cloud, the blood bats rose, swirling like smoke before plunging down like a striking snake enveloping the three adventurers in a swarm of spite. Swiftly the men tore forth their weapons, stabbing and slicing, carving crimson swathes in the fluttering darkness as all around them the stricken bats fell like autumn leaves. Yet onwards they came, oblivious to the steel doom that awaited them, swarming, screeching, until finally the air cleared and splattered with feral gore Onan, Strepos and Kenny surveyed their twitching crimson harvest littering the heather all around them. They had triumphed, but where was Black Tusk?

As the angry sun set behind the twisted mountain peaks the chill air cracked, split by the torturing scream of a hunting horn, it’s tone was inhuman, like nothing the three had ever heard. Involuntarily they drew together.
Then a bestial cheer, a war-cry, echoed through the deepening blackness, joined by the howling of wild wolves as over the rise came riding a blood-crazed band of goblin archers, each astride a ravenous wolf, each with a straining bow raised, poised to fill the night air with venomous shafts.
Then as the full moon peeked through the eastern pass and struck the gibbet with frigid light, a cruel laugh, loaded with vitriol, pierced the darkness and the gibbet cage began to rattle and sway as the moldering bones of its eternal captive began to stir, its skull aglow with spectral flames of sapphire. All around the thin earth began to wrack and rupture as sword-bearing fists of bone punched through the thin mountain clay and tumbled the loose stones of forgotten cairns from beneath as Grant’s slain warriors answered his call to rise.
It was only then that the adventurers saw, swathed in moonlight, the dark tower to the west, the same tower whose image scarred the goblins’ savage shields. It was clear the goblins had waited and now at the bidding of their unseen overlord, under the foul reign of night, they had sprung their trap.

“Thank all that is Holy that you are safe!” gasped the Blue Nun as Bash the cleric closed the door of the inn behind him, shutting out the darkness.
“I hear,” continued the nun, “that Kahlua’s dread cavalry are about this night!” She turned to Strongbow the archer, who nodded his agreement.
“But that is not all,” pitched in the bowman, “for I hear a shepherd’s boy stumbled upon a strange, concealed door in the hillside near Longmorn Pass.
Bash’s brow knotted.
“And from the reports and by own studies”, the nun added before pausing, blushing modestly, “I believe that behind that door is the very crypt where was laid the very Shadowsphere!” “My, my!” exclaimed Bash heaving his baggage off his back and on to the table, “but before I consider an expedition, I need to find a worthy fell monger who will convert these heavy wolf-pelts to ready gold!”

T-KoL Turn 7 (Mid Day)

Two reports in quick succession. It was my fault as I was a bit slack in getting the previous turn up on time. Anyway, here's the latest write up of our forays into the northern realms of Neame...

Bash pondered, "Alas, my hearing fades due to my toils as a campen… campo… camper. - Bell ringer! I would face those bats with my hearing of old as I could listen to their cries and use my Holy Magic to confuddle them into flying against each other. I have an almighty thirst to quench and will return to the well. I wonder if some brave soul will join me and vanquish the foes beyond Linkwood?"

Footsore and tired, Kenny the Fighter and Secundus the Mage arrived at the remote, mountain village of Cragganmore. They were greeted coldly with the suspicion-loaded glances of nervous crofters.
Secundus turned to Kenny, “I fear’ poor travelers such as we can expect little hospitality here.”
Kenny nodded solemnly and looked southwards to where, beyond the mountains an evil presence lurked.

With blood-bats fluttering high above them, Onan the Barbarian and Strepos the Ranger picked their way cautiously along the interweaving animal trails surrounding Grant’s Gibbet. The Ranger’s keen eyes flitted purposefully between the darting bats, but they were too high and flying too erratically to hazard an arrow and risk being helpless for even a moment.
With a crash, Black Tusk the boar burst from the bracken. An arrow whistling past his ear, Onan brought his broad axe-blade down, instantly covering his loins from the spite of the dark, savage tusks. The boar’s skull slammed hard against the stern steel, hurling both beast and barbarian tumbling apart with the shattering impact of the charge. Onan unharmed, rolled dizzily and thudded to a halt, his ears ringing, nay hissing with the shock. He looked up and then he realised. His eyes narrowed, for above him, its gaze cold, its long, needle-like fangs naked but for the shimmering jewels of burning venom, the snake drew back to strike. With a steel-spring crack, the deathblow came. Onan winced and twisted his dagger transfixing the serpent’s baleful jaws from the puncture in its soft under-scales to where the blade-point stood, stark as a crimson horn crowning its broken skull. The snake’s baleful eyes turned misty white and Onan’s arm was washed with a sudden gush of gelid blood.
The big snake was dead, but the fight was far from over.

T-KoL Turn 6 (Morning)

The Sun broke over the mountains, warming the night-chilled bones of Strepos the Ranger still standing his own sentinel on the high beam of Grant’s gibbet. He waited until the sun had climbed higher, banishing the shadows from the dusty ground way beneath his feet. He leapt down. Then rising to a crouch, he bid his silent companion goodbye and wary of wild animals, made his way north to where his services were direly needed.

As the rising sun cast fingers of gentle light through the branches, Bash the Cleric, with a hymn on his lips, was climbing the winding road through the Linkwood Forest. Soon he realised the chattering accompaniment of the woodland finches had ceased. Something malevolent lurked in the forest ahead. This time Bash was prepared. More cautiously, holding his staff before him, his voice still clearly cleaving the silence, he advanced.
A long howl echoed among the tree trunks and from each side the wild wolves charged. Driving his staff firmly into the ground, Bash calmly drew a small, glass flask from his rope belt. With the water within glittering like crystal in the sunlight, he gave a final blessing and threw the tiny vessel high into the air. The wolves, their tongues lolling hungrily, their teeth bared, bore down upon the lone cleric. Bash turned and bellowed, calling on the blessed power of all that is good and holy. Above him the glass shattered, spreading an opalescent mist, glistening like a thousand rainbows and falling in a kaleidoscopic cloud down through the outstretched branches as if through empty air, down upon the charging wolves. Instantly the wolves’ angry howls twisted, contorting to cries of agony, their eyes burning, their mouths foaming and their spines bending back further and further until their bones cracked and their screams fell to silence.
Bash the Cleric thanked the holy light and began the task of skinning his defeated foes for their valuable pelts.

Spitting in disgust, Onan the Barbarian gave up his search. The lone cutthroat could wait to become better acquainted with his axe, for in the valley below a more urgent meeting beckoned.
With the speed of a wild stallion, with the grace of a mountain cat, Onan raced towards the woe-beset village of Cragganmore. Sweating hard beneath his wolf pelts his rage began to stir, rising fast. His vision narrowed until the tawny hills shone angry red in his unfettered wrath, and at last, roaring like a frenzied lion, his steel claws drawn in fury, Onan the Barbarian pitched into the village, lusting for blood.
The goblins cursed, dropped their quarry and jumped clear to draw their barbed, serrated swords, when suddenly an arrow struck. A goblin screamed, clawing at the shaft impaling his black, bloody throat, its head dark with death. Already, running, Strepos the Ranger sent another shaft screeching through the death-laden air. Shocked, the goblins turned, but Onan, wracked with anger was upon them, his axe flaying wildly, cleaving, carving flesh and tearing bones clean from their sockets amidst a storm of arrows felling the feral night-brood struggling in a mass about him.
At last the last goblin fell, twice over fatally maimed. Onan tore his axe clear from the goblin’s arrow-skewered corpse. “By Frigg, we have done well here today!”
“In battle maybe,” replied Strepos, “but the pickings are meager, we have but one gold piece between us, here, you toss!”
Onan did the honours, but lost and the coin was returned to the ranger’s wiry hand.
Tia Maria, dishevelled but still the most comely of maids, stirred and cast her grateful eyes upon her heroic deliverers. The townsfolk rushed from their houses, cheering. Their gratitude was great, but not as great or as complete as that of the rescued wench.
“Phew!” exclaimed Strepos the Ranger, “and this morning I thought I’d only be roasting a boar!”

T-KoL Turn 5 (Night)

“My,” gasped Bash the Cleric, “This is thirsty work! Me thinks it is time I went to Dewar’s Well to quench the fire in my throat and collect water to bless!” Slowly he backed along the winding forest road, keeping the wolves at bay with his sturdy staff, until finally, where the trees thinned to bramble, he was beyond their dominion. They sat watching and as he turned the black hills echoed with their mocking howls.

“Hmm,” mused Secundus the Mage, “perhaps we should set out for Dewar's Well immediately. If the tree of us are unlucky enough to be ambushed,” he paused and ran his fingers through his lustrous beard, “for I predict Bash will prefer the risk of ambush in Dewar's Well to near certain death fighting wolves in the dark,” he watched the Blue Nunn relax once more, “we should be able to prevail and Tia Maria should not have to wait longer than necessary for our rescue party!”
Torchlight flared suddenly from the darkness deep behind Kenny the Fighter’s eyes, for the plight that awaited the maid of Cragganmore was not to him too distant from that which befell his dear sister. “To deliver salvation,” he attested, “is sweeter than to serve revenge, and revenge I aver, can wait!”
With that, the two men stood and with a blessing from the Blue Nunn speeding their departure, they left their cups and ventured into the night.

Limned in moonlight and agile as a cat, Sirrus the cutthroat crept through the tumbled, age-worn walls off Edradour. His eyes burning with malevolent fire were fixed on the broad-thewed back of Onan the Barbarian. Closer he crept, his long blade naked, glinting venomously in the moonlight. He thrust. Suddenly Onan turned, roaring, his own savage, off-hand dagger drawn. The knives clashed in the darkness, striking hot, fiery sparks, for an instant lighting the gloom with their angry cry. Thrown off guard, Sirrus had time only to tear his dagger free before the moon-caught edge of Onan’s axe swung ruthlessly down towards the footpad’s defenceless vitals. Swiftly Sirrus leapt clear, wincing as the broad blade fanned his skin through the fresh slash in his black worsted shirt. Cursing but unhurt he landed on his toes and seeing the raging black mass bearing down upon him, he leapt once more and fled into the darkness. The hunter was now the hunted and the wolves’ skins now far less in question than his own.

“Well I see,” uttered Strepos the Ranger “I have a fine range of monsters against me!” He was outnumbered and for once the darkness was not to be his friend. Hiding offered no escape. Swiftly he sent two arrows whistling into the black mass of blood-bats marring the moon. The arrows’ slight silhouettes traveled on, striking nothing. Strepos held the oath on his lips as he saw that they were not without effect. Maybe it was the blood he had not found time to wipe from the arrowheads, but what ever it was, the bats appeared confused, dipping and spiraling erratically. He watched waiting for their bafflement to subside, but it endured. He seized his chance. In two bounds he was at the base off the grim gibbet. He leapt once more, seizing the scaffold with both hands, swinging himself up high to the top of the bar. There he stood defiant, black against the moon.
“If this be my last fight,” he swore drawing back on his string, “let it be a mighty one! My bow shall sing and my blade shall drink deep!”
Though he feared the boar may charge the gibbet itself and throw him from his perch and the black snake could slither its way to its top, the ground around him was bare and offered no shelter from the doom he would rain down upon any foe that dared to cross his deadly domain.
Ever watchful, arrow strung, Strepos waited as the moon, without pity, edged slowly across the star emblazoned sky.

Bash the Cleric placed his tin cup down next to him on the wall of Dewar’s Well and gave a refreshed gasp. The water was good, cool and sweet.
Before long he saw two shapes approaching from the south. The moon soon revealed them to be Kenny the Fighter and Secundus the Mage. It was clear that they had seen him too.
A single voice cut through the silence, “Well met!”
The other two heroes groaned, for surely such poor humour should not be endured, even in trying times.