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Don't worry about doing what you have to do. I caught a glimpse of the high quality of this game and was consistently impressed with your writing. If you find your burdens easing in coming months, please send me a message if you decide to return to this game or another. I've had to close games before (Kingmaker of Korvosa being especially heartbreaking), so I understand completely.
Doctor Montgomery finishes reloading his musket, several beats slower than when he was in his prime. His fingers tremble as he pours in the gunpowder, stiff and slow because of the cold. He rams the bullet in and pulls the butt of the musket back up to his shoulder. Aiming down the barrel, he fires into the melee before him. With two of the zombies already down and the other less of a threat than before, his choice is clear. He shoots at the one that Marina is locked in battle with. The bullet blows through its chest, leaving a small entry wound - and no exit wound. Still, the shot seems to have almost no effect at all on the walking dead man. Montgomery softly curses and begins the slow and laborious reloading process.
As soon as the first of the zombie creatures pours out of the carriage, Montgomery squeezes the trigger of his musket. It is a slow and steady squeeze, simultaneous with the release of a misty breath on the cold air. The long gun releases a spray of fire and smoke, roaring loudly. His ears ring with the sound, though the adrenaline keeps the worst of the pain at bay. His steady aim sends the musket ball straight in the head of the shambling corpse that attacked Kyrianna. It falls briefly, but raises itself back up and presses onward. A spray of stagnant blood from the back of its head leads to a steady ooze. Montgomery backs up, pulling the horn of gunpowder from his bandolier. "Contact!" He shouts to the others gruffly, ensuring that no one is unaware of the life-and-death battle going on. He continues backing up to a distance that might make it hard for a slow zombie to approach him as he continues the long process of measuring and pouring the precise amount of gunpowder into the smoking barrel of the musket.
Doctor Montgomery drops his pack into the snow, pulling his musket off his shoulder and into his hands in one fluid motion - despite the icy stiffening of his bones. He looks down the length of the barrel, aiming it at the door to the carriage. "Be careful. The dead men here were killed not by blades, but by some sort of needle-like projectiles. Kyrianna, get ready to open it." He gives the most difficult task to her because he knows that she is a warrior and the sort of person who can handle facing the terror of the unknown.
Stupid cold temperatures. Screwing everything up. My corpses don't have to deal with the cold. Still, rigor is not developed immediately at the point of death. The body sticks in the position that it fell. Sometimes a corpse will stick in the position of death, but that is technically a cadaveric spasm - not rigor mortis. Cadaveric spasms are caused when a death is sudden and violent with extreme and immediate damage to the central nervous system. Death in battle might certainly cause it.
Montgomery feels the energy sap from his muscles as they hike overland. The hours pass as the temperature drops. In his prime, Montgomery was capable of marching dozens of miles without feeling it. Even now, he slips into the comfortable cadence of 140 paces a minute, though they slow considerably as they hit the snow banks. His uniform coat protects him from the cold, but he feels it bite into him and steal his strength. He carries the strap of his musket - loaded with both powder and ammunition - over his right shoulder. His bandolier straps cross his chest, with all the ammunition he might need and a pair of full powder horns, along with a bayonet and dagger. The rest of his gear, including his physician's tools and various types of medication, is efficiently packed into his backpack. Should they go into combat, he should be able to shed his backpack (and its included encumerant weight) and bring his musket up within a mere moment.
Montgomery breathes hard in the cold as they arrive at the site of the massacre, sending forth a steady stream of mist from his mouth. He walks alongside Marina , scanning the bodies on the ground for signs of injuries. He kneels next to the first body, brushing snow out of the way to better examine the corpse. The bodies don't bother him, though the cold that stiffens his fingers still does. "Keep your eyes open," he advises the others. "Sometimes they'll leave scouts back to ambush those who come to investigate."
Montgomery checks Yuln's vital indicators as the warrior speaks, ensuring that his condition has stabilized. "I'm an old man, Yuln. I don't know how that happened. One minute I was a soldier fighting for my country, and the next I blinked and found myself with discharge papers in hand and nothing to show for the years but bad memories. You should take some time to do something more than fight. Heldren's a great place to discover that you can be meant for more than to die alone on a blood-soaked field." Matthew takes the sword from Yuln's gear, admiring its craftsmanship. The blade's Ulfen style differs from the Andoran - themselves derivative of Chelaxian models - swords that is used to wielding. The wooden hilt is utilitarian and smooth, while the pommel and guard both have ornate carvings in the Skald alphabet (derived mostly from dwarven runes). The sharp blade carries a groove down its straight length, cutting down on its weight and giving it extra flexibility to reduce its chance of breaking. Montgomery has seen many weapons over the years - including rune-written magical swords wielded by the champions of the armies he fought with - yet he still admires this one greatly. "Thank you. I may have to give it to Kyrianna to ensure that it gets to kill something. There's not a lot of strength left in my bones. Wait here," he extols. Matthew heads into his bedroom and shuts the door behind him. He takes out his old outfit and lays it on his bed. Montgomery lets a rare smile crack his gruff countenance - likely because no one can see him - as he runs his fingers down the sides of his uniform. The uniform of the Andoran Continental Army is a woolen blue greatcoat with golden eagles on each shoulder. Gold-threaded piping runs along both arms, creating a "V" shape on the forearms, while white strips cross in the back and front. He quickly and efficiently puts on the uniform, starting with the white woolen trousers and heavy linen shirt. He shrugs on the greatcoat, quickly buttoning it and closing it with the straps. He stands straight - straighter than he has in months, truth be told - and examines himself in his mirror. The habits of putting his uniform on make him forget for a moment about his age, and he is surprised to see an old man wearing his uniform in the mirror. The moment of surprise fades, leaving him with the impression of a warrior long past his prime. "I can still shoot," he mutters to himself. He looks at his rifle for a long moment, but doesn't pick it back up. That can wait until when they leave in the morning. He emerges from his bedroom to speak with Yuln again. "I may be gone a while, and you need to stay here and rest. I think you'll find the village grow on you the longer you stay here. You're free to stay in my house until my return on two conditions. First, keep my house in order and keep it safe. Second, defend the village if they call upon you. Do we have a deal?"
Before they leave his house-cum-office, Montgomery hands his patient a cup of whiskey and ushers him to a more comfortable cot. "You need to get rest. That ought to help. I'll be back in a little while to check on you, but I'll tie you down if I find you walking around. Got it?" He puts on his heavy coat, hat, and heads out to the meeting with the others. After Ionnia's explanation, Doctor Montgomery finds a few eyes looking his way. His military experience is no secret in the city, and people seem to trust his judgment. He grumbles to himself, "I'm retired..." With a grimace, he stands up to give his advice to Ionnia and the town proper. "With an unknown force, it would be somewhat foolish to send out the entire militia and leave the town undefended against who-knows-what. On the other hand, it would be foolish to cover our eyes and hope the problem gets better. We need scouts to figure out what exactly we're up against, while the rest of the militia stays here on alert." His countenance grows grim as he continues. "You all know that I was a soldier in Andoran, and that life's behind me since I'm an old man now. But I know when it's time to take up arms in defense of one's home. I may not have been born here, but Heldren is my home now. I will volunteer to lead the scouting party. Is anyone with me?" He can already feel the aches in his bones and the pain in his joints as he speaks.
Montgomery scoffs at Neela's plea. "That might be the only thing that would get them interested in something other than dancing and drinking wine, thinking that they're better than the rest of us because of their father's name. If this were a peasant girl, there'd be precisely zero-point-zero chance of them lifting a finger. As it is, how would they know who it is? Yuln doesn't know her name. Places like this are on their own. Kyrianna, you need to tell Isker, who can rally the militia."
The grizzled doctor takes in the tale of the mercenary from the north. He'd fought alongside a few Ulfen over the years, and they were always extraordinary warriors. "Don't apologize for surviving," Montgomery says definitively. "Better to realize when you've lost a battle and make the decision to survive it." He moves to check Yuln's pulse, pressing past his discomfort. "Tell me more about the man that did this to you," he brusquely demands as he checks the mysterious wound in his chest, "and the blade. Did he speak? Was the blade magical or poisoned? Mother Theodora identified the disease as glacier plague. Are you familiar with it? I don't know what it might be called in your language." He glances over at Neela for some assistance in translation.
Montgomery snaps peevishly at the man whose life he had worked through the night to save. "Put that down! You won't have the strength to stand much longer, much less gut anyone! We saved your life, so show a little gratitude!" The doctor doesn't go for a weapon or instrument of his own, waiting for the man's reaction. "You rode into our town with terrible injuries. We did what we had to do to save your life."
Montgomery doesn't shy away from the disease. He has been around plenty of diseases in his time, and his sanitary practices have kept him from infection most of the time. He finds the soap and water near the stove and gives each of his helpers soap and a bowl with which to use. He scribe his hands thoroughly, preparing himself for the long night of keeping the man in good health. "I expect he was attacked," he answers Marina. "These contusions on his face would be difficult to come by through something mundane like a fall. The laceration doesn't have jagged edges, so it appears that he fell victim to violence at the edge of a sharp sword. I can't say much about the plague he carries, as I am not familiar with it. Theodora, what are the symptoms, so that I can treat them?"
Montgomery pulls out his equipment and begins methodically treating the frostbite. He has to decide what needs treatment first. The injuries range from severe to tolerable, but the frostbite will kill him if left untreated. With the help of Ehren and Marina - both capable of magical healing that tends to the worst of his immediate injuries - he quickly has the Ulfen man in a tub of hot water. He looks for the telltale signs of frostbite - yellow, hardened skin, especially at the extremities - and spots them. As he warms up, parts of his frostbitten extremities turn black. He will have to amputate them soon, but for now Matthew can turn his attention to the other problems. It will be many hours before his temperature is back to normal.
Montgomery removes the sticky, bloody bandages on his arm. The wound itself has begun to heal thanks to the magical treatment from the gods. He uses a scalpel to open the wound back up. "Sometimes an infected wound that receives magical healing will seal in the infection. I've seen many a man think they had survived battle thanks to the blessings of the divine, only to have their blood on fire within days." He has Ehren and Marina hold the rider down while he scours the wound with a sulferous combination of minerals and herbs. He quickly stitches the wound back up after finishing its cleaning. "It will leave less of a scar as well," he says to the clerics. With that done, he turns to the wound to his stomach. He begins to probe it, running his finger along the edge and trying to determine what the nature of the wound is. He hopes that it is not a magical wound, as that may be beyond his skill as a surgeon.
Montgomery pushes through the snow to his front door. The hanging sign advertising his services - painted white, with "Dr. M. Montgomery, Physician" in black block letters - threatens to blow off in the frigid tempest. Letting Ehren take most of the man's weight, the doctor opens his front door. The small residence - purchased with the remnants of his veteran's pension - was outfitted to act primarily as his office, with hardly more than a bedroom and a privy in the back to himself. The front room serves as his examination room, with an old dining room table in the center. "Put him on that," he directs. "I need some light to see how bad it is. We need to get him out of his clothes and into a hot bath. I have a large tub in the next room. His body temperature needs to go up. I may have to amputate if any of the flesh is insalvageable."
As he begins to look over his patient, a look of confusion crosses his face. "That's... I must be..."
Montgomery feels the weight of the man upon him. In his youth, he could throw an armored warrior over his shoulders and carry him miles to safety. Now, he struggles to keep his own balance as he tries to prevent the rider from hitting the icy pavement. He pulls one armored arm over a shoulder, grimacing at the man's ice cold body. "He has hypothermia. We need to get him to my house. I can treat him there. Ehren, take his other shoulder. Kaelifax, you too! Someone keep his legs from dragging." Matthew raises his voice to get Marina's attention. A cleric would supplement his healing very well. "Marina! We need your help! Come to my home!"
Montgomery rushes into the cold. Running into danger was his specialty for many years, so he feels a strange twinge of nostalgia in the adrenaline. The blast of icy air hits him like a wall, and the pelting of hail against his tired body feels like a half-dozen halflings with pin hammers. He makes it to the rider's side, shielding his face with his arm. "Get him off the saddle and into shelter! Kyrianna, keep the horse still." His voice carries over the howling wind, accustomed to shouting orders from inside the maw of chaos. He reaches up and grabs the rider by his ice-cold armor, trying to get him down.
Doctor Montgomery stands up and gets his coat when the hail starts to hammer the roof of the inn. The icy grip tightens around the town, but Montgtomery tries his best to be as comfortable as possible. He pulls it tightly around his body and places his hat on the table. When the door blows open, he shields himself from the cold blast of arctic wind. "Maybe we should..." he shouts over the din of the hail, only to stop when he hears the sound of hooves outisde. "Who would be out in this mess?" he asks no one in particular. He walks up to the window and wipes away some of the condensation to peek outside, half-listening to Marina's words as he does.
He spots a man riding a horse in the town square. With his years of experience, he can tell just by looking at him that the rider is badly injured. The way that he slumps in the saddle, barely keeping his balance, is a telltale sign. "There's a man outside, and he's hurt!" He shouts as loudly as he can as he goes to grab his hat. "You!" He points at Ehren, who seems wholly inured to the cold. "We've got to get him out or he'll die of exposure in minutes. Come on!"
Montgomery's face darkens momentarily when Kyrianna asks him about the dark clouds. It is a look they've seen before at times, when his mind slips to some bloody memory of years ago. "It isn't like anything I've ever seen before. Some powerful magicians can change the weather like this, but why would they do it here? Being a sleepy little hamlet is what drew me here in the first place." He shrugs hopefully as he sips his ale. "Maybe it will pass. My old bones don't care for the cold at all." He gestures at the musician as he finishes. "Unlike this one, who looks like he could sleep in the snow without so much as a second thought."
Montgomery shakes the young woman's hand, giving her a grandfatherly smile as she takes a seat. "You ain't got to shake my hand every time like we're being introduced, Kyrianna." He lets out a brief chuckle at her formality towards him. "Jonah's a tough boy. You'll need to keep an eye on him. He needs at least three days of rest without straining his leg, but I know he'll be out trying to climb a tree or ride one of the horses in no time if you don't stop him." His Andoran accent seems slightly out of place here in Taldor, like an uncultured squire at court. It sounds homespun and from the frontier - which is how most Taldans considers Andorans anyway. "I've been to the north before and experienced bitter cold firsthand. Folks get sick more often and are more prone to slips and aches and everything. I'll be lucky if I get a minute's rest. Have you heard if Isker is canceling the militia drills on account of the weather? I hope not. I like to watch you all practice."
Doctor Matthew Montgomery wrings the exhaustion out of himself, pushing and pulling the skin of his face with his weathered hands. His bloody gloves - made of a thin leather - sit in a pot of boiling water in his small preparation room. A hard lifetime of forced marches, uncomfortable cots, and lengthy deployments wear heavily on his slumped shoulders. Where had his youthful vigor gone? The strength began its flight from his muscles a few years ago. The doctor exercises daily, trying to slow the grip of age on his body, but today his body simply aches. Despite his exhaustion, Matthew must press on daily. There are people to heal. Medicine was an accidental calling for him. Most of those who went into the healing arts did so intentionally and joined a faith to channel healing to those in need. Some learned alchemy to produce potions that could knit wounds and heal injuries in a mere moment's time. For Matthew, it was a desire not to see another soldier die in his arms. During the War of Independence from Cheliax, he was sent to snatch wounded men from the front lines. Too many of them died. He did all that he could to keep them alive long enough for the underfunded army's medics - usually just someone with a healer's wand and a bit of training - to save. He learned where to hold pressure and how to stitch up a wound. Over the years, he added more skills: how to set a bone, how to treat contagion, how to determine a cause of death, and how to improvise a solution to save lives. But that life - a life spent in battles - is behind him now. Matthew's days consist of checking on expectant mothers, stitching up farm injuries, and treating minor childhood ailments. The bizarre cold snap has sent a half-dozen a day into his home with frostbite and broken bones from falls. He has just finished stitching up a nasty gouge in the leg of Jonah Carrington, the stable boy who assists Sophia Imirras. Doctor Montgomery uses tongs to remove the gloves from the water and hangs them up, enjoying the steamy heat from the boiling water as his hands pass over it. He removes the pot of water by the handle and takes it outside, carefully spilling out the boiling contents onto the ground. The uncharacteristic snow hisses as it melts under the water. He boils another pot of water and methodically cleans his instruments. He found out the difficult way many years before that leaving blood or dirt on cutting tools - a very common state during a time of war - would often cause them to do more harm than good to his patients. Once his instruments are clean, he carefully washes his hands again in another set of water. Fortunately, Xanthippe - the blacksmith's daughter - drops off water from the well for him during her own trips there for her father. He and the blacksmith, Isker Euphram, get along quite well; they have spent many evenings swapping war stories in the tavern. Doctor Montgomery puts on an extra layer of clothing before he pulls on the heaviest jacket he owns. He stops for a moment and looks at the uniform jacket and long-barreled firearm displayed in his bedroom. Myriad emotions flow through him - pride, anger, sadness, nostalgia. He shakes his head and closes his bedroom door. That life is behind him. He leaves his front door unlocked as he leaves for supper at the Silver Stoat. He trudges across the snow-covered roadway to the tavern in the town square from his modest home and office at the edge of town. He passes the statue in the town center, tipping his tricorn hat at the stone form of a beautiful woman. The six o'clock bell rings above him from the town hall as he passes. He steps into the Stoat, letting the warmth of the homey place wash over him. He spends most of his evenings in here, as making a proper meal is not a skill that he possesses. He spent his entire adult life being handed his rations and food, and never learned beyond the basics of hunt-and-cook. Fortunately, he and the owners, Menander and Kale Garimos, had arranged a bartering arrangement of his care of her chronic health problems. He hangs up his coat and hat, smiling at the other villagers who have already arrived before him. He does his best to ignore the sour glare of Argus Goldtooth, the barber whose medical business he stole (according to the dwarf) upon his arrival nearly three years ago. Matthew sits at the large table in the center of the tavern, already beginning to fill up. The owner walks up to take his order. "Menander, how are you tonight?"
So I should express my expectations here. I applied for this game because Malefactor seems to have a similar concept of what PBP should be to what I feel. I feel that I should explain and get everyone to buy in. I run two games here on the boards. One is Skull and Shackles (which has been going since January 2013) and the other is Kingmaker (which has been going since January 2011). My Kingmaker game has just one of the original players (though a few characters present in the initial party were inherited by new players) and myself, but we've kept it going. I am very, very proud of both games. My Kingmaker campaign is closing in on 5000 posts, and Skull & Shackles just passed 1000. Most of these posts are lengthy, meaty pieces of quality writing. Here's an example from the middle of Skull & Shackles, to show that it continues throughout the campaign. It takes a fair amount of time and effort, but PBP is a format that really allows a character to grow and for a story to take shape.
DM Barcas here. I decided on a very different path: a retired soldier who acts as the town doctor. Pushing sixty years old, Matthew is a gruff and ornery figure with a lifetime of memories he would prefer not to have. He's a crack shot with his musket but thinks of himself primarily as a doctor. He does have a very strong and established moral center, with a particular desire to help the downtrodden and helpless. History: --------------------
HISTORY -------------------- When Doctor Montgomery moved into Heldren two years ago, the town was pleased to have a real doctor. Argus Goldtooth complained bitterly at the competition, but Montgomery brought a wealth of knowledge and healing expertise. The gruff, grandfatherly doctor could set bones, mend wounds, treat disease, deliver children, or tend to fevers. For most of the people in Heldren, he was considerably more affordable than magical treatment. Doctor Montgomery would heal any person who came forward with a need, asking for nothing beyond that which they could truly afford. He explained that he was retired and needed little - though he would not explain what he was retired from even when asked. After some time, he relented and told them his story: Montgomery fought for Andoran during the People’s Revolt in 4669 as a young man. After the civil war in Cheliax left House Thrune ascendant, the people of Andoran began a war of independence. Not even fifteen years old, Matthew joined the revolutionary army. Because of his youth, he was assigned as a medic. He was expected to do little more than drag the dead and wounded back from the front lines, where clerics would perform triage and heal those who could be saved. He developed a talent for using traditional medicine to save lives in battle, teaching himself through necessity what many doctors learn through schooling. He also found that he was a crack shot with a crossbow, as the Chelish armies made little distinction between a medic and a warrior. The Andorans won their freedom from Cheliax, but Montgomery did not leave his brothers in arms. He spent time in the Andoran Navy, freeing slaves and battling pirates in the Inner Sea. It was during one of these raids that he found himself fighting for his life on a slaver ship from exotic Katapesh. Running out of crossbow bolts, he picked up a strange long weapon that some of the slavers had used. Following their example, he quickly developed an affinity for the musket. Similar to the crossbow in its use but far deadlier, he carried the black powder firearm for the rest of his military career. Montgomery stayed in the army for well over thirty-five years, fighting in various wars and skirmishes until retiring with war decorations and bad memories. He neither married nor fathered any children (that he knows of) in his years as a soldier. He prefers not to speak of his lifetime at war, but occasionally he will tell a story or two with a drink and good company. He sold the land his military pension entitled him to and wandered east to Taldor, where he eventually settled. The burden of his lifetime of war has eased somewhat, as he has forgotten much of his life as a soldier and settled into the ebb and flow of life as the town doctor. His military uniform, armor, and musket still maintain their shined appearance, however, in his private quarters. |
