A TRUE AND HONEST ACCOUNT OF THE TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS OF HERR SIEGFRIED SCHWIMMER.
BY GOSPARD OF NULN
(with permission of the Protagonist)
(Sponsored by the Prancing Cockrel and Wolf Runner Coaches)
Part the First:
Our tale begins in the year of the Storm of Chaos, that terrible period when cities were laid ruin and poor scribes (and poorer) humble scholars were forced to rummage in the dirt for scraps of parchment and candle stubs with which to pursue our noble endeavour.
Our hero, Seigfried, being a man of good taste and character, and by means a man desperately fleeing a likely lynching at the hands of an angered husband or pilfered priest, was driven off a roadway in darkest Stirland by the poor and overly-enthusiastic driving of a scurrulous coachman. Who, I have no doubt, worked for those poor and slovenly Altdrof lines, who have so often overcharged me, and not the Wolf Runner coaches whom my patron, the aforementioned good Herr Seigfried, is overly quick and loud to praise.
There, into the mean ditch, he fell upon the meaner form of a fellow bedraggled traveller. This gentleman, Berthold by name, had taken to alight within said ditch to take shelter from the rain under the broad leaves therein. It was from this young and worthy scribe that my patron learned of the happy proximity of the Prancing Cockrel. A happiness leavened only by the sad knowledge that his favourite bow had been rather ill-treated by the fall and could now serve him best as mere kindling.
Adroitly our determined duo departed the unfortunate dirty ditch in whence they lay and proceeded through the driving lane to the welcome shelter of the inn (where good ale can still be had for but a penny and a shilling).
Therin, within that merry edifice did our two weary chief protagonists find their rest – and also those who would soon join their fine company, bringing it into repute all the more remarkable. For within, the two young men found, seated at the same table, a man, an elf and two dwarves. This, spoke Berthold airily, would make the beginnings of a fine joke. My master, perhaps bedraggled from the rain and the fall, said nothing, but gave gentle Berthold good cause to believe the joke was not to his temper.
With nary a seat in sight, the two youths, hero's bold, took seat beside the strange company and there learned of the feats of Dieter, road-warden, Alana the elf maiden (not-so) fair and the stout dwarven folk, Mordrin and Grundi. Already this strange quadrilogy had experienced a fair venture of their own, having saved that very day an innocent man from hanging by the neck until he be verilyy, nay. irretrievably dead. Dead. DEAD!
And so gentle readers, we have the meeting of our fine warriors in a place of safety and rest and ale and much drinking and merriment did ensue. And, of highest import, the consumption of much, fine ale (for but a shilling and a penny). It seemed this mighty foursome were awaiting the arrival of a river boat, already some days late, with which to carry them to to their destination. Conscious of the driving, nay, never ending rain and the high and unreasonable cost of Altdorf lines coaches, they two young men resolved also to travel via this wondrous floating lump of wood and resolved to set forth southwards themselves in the hope that travel upon this boat could be procured at a price much more reasonable in return for succour against whatever trials upon the river had delayed its precipitous arrival.
All that is, save for the good dwarf Moradrin, a coachman himself (late of Altdorf lines) but who had sampled one ale at a shilling and a penny too many a day or to before and had perforce been left behind by his more temperate colleague. Alas, this worthy would again demonstrate his fondness for ale by roaring out dwarven drinking songs at the top of his (not very tall) lungs, leaving it up to his kinsman dwarf, the rather older Grundi, to proclaim his agreement also.
Morning dawned, on the most impropiatus night of Geheimsnacht, when evil and seductive creatures scantily clad in only the shearest silks and leathers prey upon those weak in soul and devotion to Sigmar, bringing them to dark places in the world where they are forced to undertake and participate in unwholesome and pleasurable rites for the dark and distasteful pleasures of their insane half-human captors!
But alas, this fate did not befall our brave and fateful band (for I would have sold more copies of this broadsheet had it did). Instead, a darker fate awaited them. One which would summon our heroes to the heights of...the heights of...um... heroism?
The merry band set forth from the Prancing Cock that very morn, light-hearted. For surely had the rain lessoned somewhat in the face of these mighty warriors, for no rain should fall upon so dedicated and masterful a band, even one led by a man who could do with paying his faithful scribe a few more coppers a bushel!
They stopped to partake of a fine repast around noon of that fateful day, before carrying on swiftly southwards, mystified that they had not yet come upon the boat heading north to meet them. Sped on by the sound of hungry wolves, the party came upon a ruined watchouse, more a tollbooth my master tells me, where they did not linger despite the fine shelter it would provide. For such ruins are to be avoided, all wise men know, and the hour was still to early for camping.
Shortly thereafter, they came upon a strange procession, a band of wounded monks who had been beset by bandits upon the road and who carried their wounded in covered wagons. These did attest that they had crushed said bandits utterly, and that the travellers need be watchful only for a few wounded remnants of that foul band. Thinking nothing of it, save to loosen swords and axes in their sheathes, the brave band continued southward.
Yet no more or less than a single hour had past (or so my patron tells me) when they did come upon the sight of this “battle,” though massacre it may have been termed in truth. For no bandits had been slain here, only good men and women lay fallen about the trail – and of their wagons, there was no sign.
Though not, so he tells me, a vengeful man it seems, my patron took great umbrage upon witnessing this sight and wished to set off in immediate pursuit of said brigands. No stranger to violence or even theft he, even at this youthful age. Yet it seems that for brigands he harboured an especial hatred, having seen many good folk come to ruin at the hands of such during the long war against Chaos.
Pausing only to loot, er, I mean search, the bodies that he might acquire a replacement for his tragically shorn bow, my patron and his ilk sett off determinedly northwards at a gentle lope (or at least, the taller folk did. Those shorter did needs verily sprint indeed to match the pace set by my good master). Now while this humble scribe was informed by no less a personage than the esteemed Berthold himself that his poor master did indeed “chuck up his lunch” at this woeful sight, I can now revela the truth (as my master tells it). It seems that the good Herr Schimmer had stuck within his craw a morsel of meat, which chose at that point to work itself use and cause him to appear to gag in disgust at this terrible display of wanton butchery before him. Once again I, Gospard of Nuln, am first to bring the truth of such things to the ears of the discerning public.
More terrible tale of terrifying travels on the back sheet.
Yes, you`ve guessed it. This is a WFRP Journal. Before you all gasp and recoil in shock and horror, please give it a good read first. I promise you might like it.
It`s not an ongoing campaign, but one I uncovered in my archives. Since I know your all a bunch of journal junkies like myself, I thought I`d share it with you. The majority of it consists of the journal as written by me, for me. The DM kept his own journal and I`ve included some of his notes, comments, and thoughts, as a matter of interest.
Note that I havent been able to contact him to establish permission to do so. But since he posted these comments on his public blog himself, I cant see it becoming a problem. Even so, if they start to disappear, you`ll know why.
Game System: Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay Second Edition.
Time Span - Late 2005 - Early 2007.
The Characters (in the words of the DM)
Alane:
Elven wizards apprentice. Witch-born under the Witchling Star and with the unusual background of having been brought up by a human Bright Wizard. A cold and distant old man who couldn't save Alane's mother from a hideous (and as yet undisclosed) fate. A bit nutso with the winds of magic already. Has the lowest fellowship rating in the party. Thinks and acts more like a prissy school marm than a classic elf "babe".
Bertholdt:
Puny mincing scribe (yes, he actually does mince) from yokel-land with an untranslated dwarven chapbook and a taste for avoiding injury. Tends to keep his mouth shut, except to tell the other characters how stupid they are. Still gets dragged into far too many of Seigfrieds escapes for his own comfort.
Mordrin:
Imperial Dwarven runerunner with a shady family, a taste for the pipe, and a much cooler temperament than he first gave reason to expect. Younger than Grundi but more reasoned in his actions. Likes to get drunk and chop thigs with his axe (not neccesarily in that order).
Grundi:
Aging coachman whose life changed forever the day he first smote with Ulric's Fury and clove a mutant near in two. Mad, bad, and dangerous to know. Also owns a blunderbuss. Nuts. Completly nuts. As in trollslayer nuts. If he was human, he`d be a flagellant. Leading candidate for the froathing mad orange-hair-and-blue-tatoo brigade.
Siegfried:
Murdering lowlife theiving trash with pretentions to the petty nobility. Has a heart of gold though, big girl's blouse that he is. Born under the sign of The 'Greased Goat'. Cold, ruthless, calculating... and rather too rash for his own good. Tries to be a hard-nosed scum-bag, but has cuddly soft-spot for the weak and downtrodden.
I`ll update with a new post from Gospard tomorrow or (more likely) Wedensday
^^ Looks like fun!
It truly was. John (the DM) possessed a Masterful blend of grim storytelling ability and black humour that had the rest of us rolling with laughter on the floor and matched exactly the feel of the Old World with its dark intensity and humour.
I miss that group very much. Though my current group is every bit as good (even more so, even). I`ve done by best to capture that morbid bleak humour in "Gospard's" Journal.
Note that Ive learned from my earlier mistake of posting six or seven pages of text once a week or so. Ill be posting much smaller excerpts every day or so.
Speaking of which...
PAGE THE SECOND, BEING A TRUE AND HONEST ACCOUNT OF THE FIELD OF CARNAGE AND THE RESCUE OF FAIR BIANCA.
Though stout dwarven Moradrin and my most angry Master did solemnly press upon the others the need for haste to come upon those scurrolous dogs who had most foully umdertaken this dark and foul deed of theft and murder, t'was Deiter, Alane, Bertholdt and Grundi who prevailed in with their council.
Thus, when further searching the field of woe and verily preparing both graves and bodies for burial, did the young scribe Bertholdt of Stirland come across the dying form of an elderly Frau still clinging to life and a scrap of blue cloth. Letting out a mighty cry, Bertholdt caused the others to rush to his defence, yet seeing no swordplay was necessary, the brave Grundi, though possessing but little skill in the healing arts (as all his surviving campaigns can repeatedly attest), set to tending the Frau's wounds. Yet it was clear even to young and sheltered Beltholdt that little could be done.
The dying woman clutched tightly upon the arm of the young man, clawing deep wounds upon his flesh in her icily determined grip upon fading life. She did doth spoke unto him, placing upon the companions a might quest to save the life of a young girl, Bianca, the natural born daughter of Graf Von Radiditch in Helmsdorf. Grimly did Bertholdt clutch the a thin sealed parchment produced by the Frau and placed into the hands of the young scribe as the proud and honoured Frau – who had not even spoken her own name unto the heroes- breathed her last.
With young life now at at stake, Siegfried and Mordrin, now even more determined to abandon the efforts of burial in their haste, did press upon the others the need for swift departure. My Masters anger was, he tells me, of the most righteous sort and though in other circumstances a man of certain acquisitiveness and greed, in this dire regard he was driven by no thought's of reward, but bloody vengeance and gentle compassion (something most certainly hard to believe of my master, had not the wise and truthful Bertholdt declared it so. For verily doth he seem a fierce man, and not one given to pity or remorse for any creature, let alone a poor scribe with many hungry mouths in his home).
In the face of such reasoned and determined argument, the other four companions could not help but acqueas. Though by now light was fading under the dark eaves of the Forest, the six determined souls set off with great speed in the direction from whence they had came, all thoughts of seeking the lost boat driven from their minds by the urgency of this new plight.
Spurred on by swiftly building anger, the group deducted that the Bandit band they had encountered in the guise of innocent travellers would camp by the Tollbooth ruins. In this they were correct, for, although they came upon that sight well into that shadowy twilight period of dusk made most magical by the twinkling reflections of light playing upon shiny leaves and through voids in the woven tapestry of green branches, they could see clearly the many wagons gathered and collect by the foe. Yet Herr Schwimmer, by cunning and wise master and paying patron, was pricked by the absence of fire and movement from the camp. Leaving the others a short distance away, armed and primed with pistol, crossbow and blunderbuss at the ready, he proceeded to scout the camp in amost brave and worthy manner.
But not at all a great deal of time had passed, perhaps as long as the time required for one of the aforementioned leaves from the topmost branches of the mighty forest to float to its gentle repast upon the earth, before the man of Middenheim, my patron and an Ulrican-true, did enjoinder upon the others to meet within at the camp.
There their eyes befall a second grisly sight, yet not one which presented much grief, for seemingly all the bandits had been slain, with no trace of any tracks leading away from the camp to safety – save those of goblins and wolves. Pausing only to collect some weapons as might still be useful- and to kick a goblin body or two- the party did search excitedly for some trace of the girl. Though nothing could be found in camp during the dying of the light, it was Grundi who, trapsing morosely into the wounds to relieve himself of his burden of pickled ale pie from that wondrous and cheaply priced coaching inn, the Prancing Cockerel, did come upon a small scrap of blue dress left, quite deliberately it seemed, impaled upon a small yet barren branch ofunderbrush.
Joyfully did Grundi call out to his companions, who remarked that their quarry, or the little girl at least, for they were not so foolish as to think the goblins had left so deliberate a trail, was a canny and resourceful one indeed. Thus, their hopes brightened by the prospect of the continued chase, they were soon dashed by the final setting of the sun and nightfall upon the forest.
Thus did my master find himself, on the Night of Mystery, that darkest and most dangerous of times when Daemons may walk the Empires holy earth unhindered, encamped in the darkest forest of the Old World, surrounded by enemies, encamped mere dwarf-throw's away from the scene of a massacre with it's ancient hungry ghosts now joined by the blood of a dozen deservingly murdered bandits.
It was a grim night, though one which, thanks the Gods, passed seemingly without incident, though the heroes were woken often by the howl of wolves and other (often unspeakable) things passing in the night, not the least of which being the hideous bowel movements of a dawrven coachman (which I can attest personally doth rent the air foully with both smell and noise of squishy moistness).
Next Edition in one (1) weeke:
Fire and Bloodshed. A Hero Falls. A Girl is Saved. Much Celebration and Rejoicing for a Shilling and a Penny.
Sorry for the delay in this journal folks. I have a tight 31st of March deadline for a piece of short-fiction to meet. The StarWars Journal is easy enough given that I type the notes as we play and barely edit them after. But for this journal I`m essentially re-working my existing paper journal so that the story is told by in the voice of Gospard. In the old paper journal only the introduction to each "chapter" was actually written in the voice of Gospard.
The rest was in the far more straight-forward and to-the-point style of Seigfried himself (and sometimes even told in the third person).
Actually, I wonder if people enjoy Gospards rather windy style, or if they would prefer a straightforward journal? I might end up having to write in the latter style regardless anyway, depending on work and writing dead-line pressures.
Sorry for the delay in this journal folks. I have a tight 31st of March deadline for a piece of short-fiction to meet. The StarWars Journal is easy enough given that I type the notes as we play and barely edit them after. But for this journal I`m essentially re-working my existing paper journal so that the story is told by in the voice of Gospard. In the old paper journal only the introduction to each "chapter" was actually written in the voice of Gospard.
The rest was in the far more straight-forward and to-the-point style of Seigfried himself (and sometimes even told in the third person).
Actually, I wonder if people enjoy Gospards rather windy style, or if they would prefer a straightforward journal? I might end up having to write in the latter style regardless anyway, depending on work and writing dead-line pressures.
Since you're doing this as a labor of love, I recommend sticking to Gospard's take, doing this when you can.
Thanks for the suggestion Turin. That`s just what I`ll do.