I have been cajoling / bribing my players into writing a chronicle of each session and they are rather good. I use something called Fate Points in my game, which work a bit like Fate pooints in WFRP. Anyhow - fate points are a rare and valuable resource and whomever writes up the chronicle gets a fate point. My PCs are
Hadamar - elf, mage from Mierani forest, but came to Sandpoint 10 years ago. Relatyed to Hannah Velerin
Rowena - half orc, monk dancing girl adopted by VArisian tribe. Uses bladed scarf as monk weapon.
Cam - human, ranger from Velashu uplands
Zinaida - elan, lurk from Magnimar.
The Swallow Tail Festival...
Dear Mother,
And you thought my short trip down here would not be exciting! This past week has been a strange culmination of events in deed, almost as if the recent unpleasantness is more recent than many would like to believe.
I think something is on the horizon, I feel myself being drawn towards it, it is the same as when I felt I had to leave Celwynvian. Two weeks ago Auntie Hannah and I were out collecting and came across a tribesman from Storval Plateau, he had been set upon by goblins, thankfully they must have thought him already dead, we managed to bring him around and brought him down to Sandpoint to rest up. This week a travelling troupe came in to town for the celebrations of the recently rebuilt cathedral's dedication. Travelling with them was non-other than half-orc girl Auntie Hannah and I helped deliver in the plains near the Yondabakari River.
And then today, at the dedication, Sandpoint was attacked by goblins, I am sure their goal was to burn it down again. Everything was going along nicely and then we heard the screams, shortly followed by a goblin chant as they came straight for the cathedral, it was a short bloody battle but we defeated them and with no damage to the cathedral. We also managed to keep one alive for questioning, as I write he is still unconscious, the Mayor wants to wake him and but Auntie Hannah said the shock could kill him, and then we would have nothing. He will be awake soon enough; patience is one thing these humans have never had.
I will write again soon.
Haldamar
Mayhem at the White Deer
"You saw it all you say?" The young man asked eagerly, leaning forward to hear over the bustle of The White Deer.
"Ay." The man took a sip of ale, "The whole thing, just outside of here. Caught me a fair bruise too." He gestured to an angry welt on his forehead, "but it wer worth et."
The conversations lulled as ears strained to catch his words. "I've heard fancy sword-work called the dance of death before, but this was the only time that description has ever made sense. You've never seen a half-orc move like that, I can tell you. The whole thing was like an heroic story. She twirls in with them tribal warscarves, deflecting a burning branch into a nearby trough, before doing a handstand, kicking the blighter in the head and then flipping over to punch him straight onto a burning pole, all before he has a chance to blink. In the meantime, that Varisian cousin of the Mayor's is loosing arrows, hitting goblins right, left and centre before toppling this enormous cart onto them, squished one goblin to jam it did. Before the others have a chance to do anything in return, one of em is impaled on his sword and the other has had its neck broken by another deadly swirl of the dancer's scarf. The leader of the blasted things gets shot straight through the head by the Varisian, who gets a rat-dog’s teeth in his leg for his trouble before the mangy cur is sliced open by even more fancy twirling."
The man chuckled. "I tell you, I wouldn't want to be on the front row of any dancing show she is in." Taking a last sip from his ale he leaned forward to the now rapt room. "All the while this is going on, this lady in leather armour is shooting arrows to distract the goblins before rushing one of them with a water trough, single-handedly grabbing the scrawny beast by its neck, and then holding it, kicking and screaming under the water until it drowned."
He leaned back triumphantly, a freshly drawn glass of ale now in front of him. He smiled as the questions began; he would be dining out on this tale for weeks.
Elsewhere, the Sheriff and Mayor discuss the potential danger to the city should the goblins tribes be ganging up, a lonely gravedigger sets about cleaning up the old priest's grave, and our hapless heroes get themselves some well earned food and drink, on the house, in the company of a very grateful Aldern Foxglove.