The Module!

What a sorry bunch of heroes

So, I’ve got all your character sheets and I’ve had a quick scan through.

I think it’s safe to say that you guys won’t be rescuing any damsels in distress.

…

Unless there’s a cash incentive involved.

Also, I’ve finally settled on an adventure concept.

Rest assured though that my DM insider knowledge of your characters, has in no way affected my adventure design.

Apologies in advance and have back up characters ready.

;P

The History of Fissa: Part 2

THE SECOND GREAT ORCAN HORDE

One hundred years ago, or a hundred years later, depending on your temporal point of view, after seemingly being crushed into the very rocks of Fissa, the great Orc horde rose again.

Despite Theranthor’s absolute and uncontested rule and the introduction of her first clutch onto the world, Theranthor’s reign came to a sudden end.

Seemingly out of nowhere they reappeared. A massed army of all the reunified tribes. Thousands upon thousands of them: The Bone Crunchers, The Meat Drippers, The Blood Bottlers amongst countless others and led by the greatest of all the tribes; the Broken Lancers.

And at their head, the legendary Never-was-chief; Aurelious.

Even now, no-one knows where they were hiding or how their numbers grew so vast.

Even the normally shrewd Dragon tyrant was caught unprepared. Her armies stretched thin throughout the world.

They converged upon her mountain fortress from all directions. Well armed and armoured against her and wielding fantastic weapons of mass destruction.

After her legions of Dragon-borns and Black cloaks were defeated, the mighty dragon, sensing her doom, tried to fly from the battle, only to be brought back down with ballistas and gigantic metallic nets.

These weapons have been divined to have been supplied by the ingenious Gnomes of Snafang. Even after another century though, the Gnomes, have neither confirmed nor denied this.

After she was snared, it was the mighty Bodan of the Broken Lancers, most mighty of all the orcs, who made the final blow. Boden, second only to his chief Orestis. With magical battle-axe held high above his powerful shoulders, he chopped through the Blue dragon’s neck in just three mighty blows sending arcs of lightning in every direction.

It was then that the dimensional rift faltered. For two hundred years the rift between dimensions had been held open by the ancient dragon’s magic but at her death, the very sky moaned in protest.

Soon a void opened up in the heavens and the massive dragon’s carcass and her draconic army, both dead and alive, were dragged upwards and through it before it crashed shut.

All over the world, similar rifts opened up and violently pulled in any that didn’t belong.

Theranthor’s few surviving children managed to hold on, as though they were born of the dragon, they were birthed on Fissa.

Some say that a handful of the dragon-born and demonic Tieflings managed to find a way to cling to this world but, other than in rumours, neither race has been seen for decades.

The Dragon Tyrant: Theranthor is now, for the Humans and Halflings, nothing but a half forgotten memory. A story to scare naughty children with at bedtime.

The other, longer lived races still remember though. Still remember and shudder.

Some of them had parents who lived through these terrible times. The most ancient races: The Elves and Dwarves saw them for themselves.

The orcs though, rather than be embraced as the heroes of the world, fell immediately back into their barbaric, warmongering ways. The great unification of the tribes splintered immediately and within a few years, as was their god: Gruumsh's will, they began waring upon each other again.

A century later, the only physical reminder left of that time, is the massive skeletal head of the ancient dragon, displayed as a symbol of power in the land of the orcan Broken Lancers.

The History of Fissa: Part 1

THE FIRST GREAT ORCAN HORDE

Two hundred years ago, the ancient blue dragon: Theranthor, with the self-serving but necessary aid of the imprisoned devil prince: Zartak, managed to harness their combined magical might and tear a rip between dimensions.

A rip that they both exploited to gain access to this world and through this breach, thousands of other creatures were pulled in their wake: The fiendish, half-devil Tieflings and the bipedal, blue scaled Dragon-born. 

Both races, pure poison to the lands of Fissa.

At this time, only two of the races of this world anticipated and attempted to prevent their initial intrusion: the secretive and mystical Grey elves and countless hordes of Orcs. Even now, historians and academics argue over how the inherently unruly Orcs managed to organise themselves so well. 

Despite their sacrifice though, the Dragon and the Devil were triumphant. The Grey elves retreated back into their high mountains and the massed legions of Orcs were slaughtered.

With terrifying speed, these two god-like creatures, led their ever growing armies across the globe, conquering every land and native race they fell upon.

Eventually, the immortal Devil and the ancient Dragon had cleaved the world in two and it was only then that their unholy alliance came to an end.

The battle for supremacy waged for decades between the mighty armies of the Blue Dragon and the fiendish forces of the Prince of Hell. 

The entire world trembled under the assault and it was a perverse blessing of sorts when the Blue Dragon proved victorious and the eternal Red Devil banished from this plane.

Then followed almost a century of dark oppression. All the races of Fissa suffered greatly but the Orcs most of all.

Out of necessity, the major races of the world were forced to accept the Dragon’s dominion or were crushed under her clawed heel. 

The Orcs though, despite their terrible losses, would not be cowed. They were the ones who defied her the most openly. Tribe after tribe resisted her but always to the same result… Annihilation.

It was because of this constant insolence, that Theranthor finally decreed that no group or settlement of Orcs could contain more than thirty males of fighting age.

It was the time of the ‘Sundered Tribes’.

Orcs being Orcs, of course resisted, but outmatched by the Dragon’s sorcerous Black cloaks and loyal half-dragon warriors, they all met the same fate.

This was how the Orcs all but disappeared from Fissa. ‘No loss’, some would say but what had replaced them was far, far worse.

Game Date. AGAIN!

As Scott asked me to confirm which weekend in January we're playing on yesterday, I thought I'd post a little reminder...

Saturday the 18th of February!

Put it in your brand new 2017 diaries as soon as you own them!

I've given you all three months notice so there'll be no excuses...

Unless it's me. In which case: 

Soz boys!

;)

Volkon and the orcs - part 3

Standing in front of the burning camp orcs all around him, it was then that the real flame ignited and Volkon flew into a vicious frenzy. A volcano had erupted and it was hurling destruction. He was beating them left and right with his club without a thought as to how or why. He found new strength with every blow and soon had a pile of bodies in front of him.

But it was not over. In front of him stood the biggest - and meanest - orc that Volkon had ever seen.  Their leader surely.
    "You boy, prepare to die"
the Orc spoke in a guttural common as he raised his great hammer into the air and charged. The sight nearly knocked Volkon over, but the fire was still raging inside him and instead he took a step forward.

Volkon struck the orc a blow big enough to fell a giant, but it was not enough to down the monstrous orc and he felt the hammer connect with his rib-cage, knocking the wind out of him. He dropped to the floor knowing that it was probably all over.

When the death blow didn’t come, Volkon looked up and saw Greyclaw’s powerful jaws clamped around the orc's wrist and with a twist of his powerful body the arm snapped and the hammer fell.  Volkon didn't have time to be thankful - he just struck upwards with all his might and dealt the orc a fatal blow.

---- ~oOo~ ----

With his wounds healed, Volkon prepared to leave the village.   He would never forget these kind people, nor they him.  They stood waiting to see him off and the elder presented Volkon with a gift.
     "It is yours, earned. But with it bestowed, is our gratitude."
Almost unrecognisable the great hammer was placed into Volkon's hands.

The blacksmith had cleaned the orc’s weapon and found that it was unusually well constructed and charmed by magic.
     "Such a weapon should be weild now for good, not evil."
Volkon, reluctant, politely accepted the gift as he absent-mindedly stroked his side where he had felt it’s power.  But as he held it in his hands, he felt it’s energy meld with his, and he knew it would serve him well.

Nitendae at the orc camp

Nite' had been studying the orc camp for several hours. Perched high on the overlooking hill, near invisible in the shadows.
His current patron, the Sorcerer, had 'requested' that he retrieve a small book that the orcs had acquired on one of their raids across the area. But the orc camp was too random, too volatile, no set routines to plan by and no non-lethal avenues to enter by.
Resigning himself to the need for 'wet' work he was made aware of other bodies on the ridge, Cogitari, his small grey kitten, had become extremely tense - the bond between them alive with warning.
Easing deeper into the shadows Nite' began to notice other men studying the orc camp and it was only after noticing these men that he finally spotted the young flame haired boy in charge.
Nite' hoped that he would have spotted the boy alone, but wasn't convinced that he would have.

Several cold, damp, miserable nights later spent hiding from orcs and the flame haired boy -who to Nites' disbelief seemed to have a bloody great wolf as a pet - Nitendae was relieved when the the boy and his band of farmers/ townsfolk finally attacked the orc camp.
A simple plan, set fire from the rear forcing the orcs to flee to a killing field, all well and good if you weren't looking for a highly flammable book in the orc camp.
Nitendae didn't have much time to observe if the attack was successful. Covered in a soaked heavy cloak, Cogitari tucked deep in a pocket, Nite' slid/ tumbled, jumped/ fell into the camp. Heading for the leaders tent he avoided madly fleeing orcs and was relieved to finally duck inside.
As is inevitable, even at times when his camp was on fire, there was an orc who put treasure above safety. Frantically stuffing coins, silverware and a gold clasp book into a sack he was not aware of Nitendae's arrival. The stunned and slightly quizzical look as Nitendae plunged a dagger deep into his back the last he ever made.
Grabbing the sack and seeking safety rather than more treasure, Nite' departed the tent. Avoiding a few orc stragglers he made his way to the rear ridge wall, searching for the blackened silk rope he had left hanging. Checking both Cogitari and the sack were safe he made the climb back up. Safely back at his hidden camp he studied the on going work of the flame haired boy......


-Hope you don't mind me tagging your story Assif :-}

Nitendae.

Nitendae.
1/2Elf. Rogue/Sorcerer

Nitendae was raised by his elven mother, but as he grew he was mocked and ridiculed by his elf peers for seeming ‘clumsy and uncouth’ compared to ‘true’ elves. It was thought prudent for him to move and live with his father after the infamous “Day of broken noses”. To this day Nitendae believes most elves are looking down their noses at him and deserve -said noses- broken.

He arrived at his father’s town to discover that his father had been killed a few weeks earlier in a dispute with a local slaver. All properties mysteriously now owned by the slaving group.
Having no place to stay and very little gold he ended up living on the streets, he survived as best he could until he was found my the master of the local thieves guild, a master Fai-gin. Discovering a natural aptitude for 2nd storey work Nitendae did well and embraced and honed his abilities. Coupled with his inherited talents he was silent as a thought and agile as a cat.
Times were good until a fateful job on the residence of a local mage, who the informant said was away. Caught by the mage, Nitendae expected the worst. Although instead of calling the authorities , the sorcerer was impressed at how far the thief had penetrated passing traps and minor spells and recognised the potential spark of inherent magic. Hoping to utilise Nitendae’s other skills for his own benefits the sorcerer has begun instructing him in the arts. His first task was the summoning of a familiar, without any real idea on what to summon, he was rewarded by the arrival of a small silver grey kitten – Cogitari.

Volkon and the orcs - part 2

Volkon wasted no time and organised the men to strike at first light - when the orc band was exhausted from a night carousing and raiding.  Two men were stationed above the encampment with tangled balls of briar held together with pitch ready to release them aflame into the heart of the encampment.

The orcs had organised themselves so they could only be attacked head on, but that would also be the only exit for them when their camp was on fire. Ahead of the camp was undergrowth and bushes to either side of a good path. Volkon encanted an enchantment on the plants to rise up and entangle any that should try to pass.  He stationed the men with spears and slings ready for their sitting prey.  Hidden from sight, Greyclaw and Volkon, with his club in hand, were ready to receive any that should make it through the plants in front.

Finally he gave the signal - the plaintive howl of the wolf - and the fun began.

They say any plan does not survive contact with the enemy, but this was so simple it couldn’t fail. It relied on setting the camp alight, and that part went well; before long the camp was blazing and the orcs were running.  They hurtled panicked into the entangled briars and death rained down upon them as sling bullets and spears. But, of course, there were too many. And quickly they found routes around the patch. Soon this was a fight hand to hand, and Volkon would have to rely on the fighting spirit of oppressed farmhands.

Greyclaw herded the the stragglers like sheep and pushed them back towards the killing grounds.  But, like rabid rats, they just kept coming and coming.  Volkon and the men were becoming overwhelmed.  As he stared defeat in the face, he wondered if he had done the right thing. Not just here in this battle, but in leaving his home in the first place.  He should be in the grotto learning the ways of the creatures and plants of the woodland not out here facing death at the hands of these stinking creatures.

... more soon ...