Thousand Year Old Vampire: The Chronicle of Thrasamund pt 2

 Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed the first installment in this particular adventure. There's so much more to come for Thrasamund. Exactly what? I have no idea. I know where I want to go with him. The dice and prompts may decide otherwise. Yesterday, I actually wrote two prompts worth of passages. I concluded the one yesterday just to ensure that it wasn't too long. Well, I'm sure you're sympathizing with Thrasamund's plight by now. Let's see what he's been up to since he's killed Nerthuz. 

Flight!

I spent a few days traveling to a small community. I spent the next ten moons sheltered in the forest until I was able to find another cave along these mountain ranges. The passages were dark and narrow, perhaps two men standing side-by-side at the most. There were recesses in which I could rest. As I explored, I realized that there was a large opening into a cavern. The floor had terminated at some point and the drop was treacherous at best, lethal at worst. I didn't explore past the large cavern. From my perspective, this, for better or worse was home for the time being. 

I withdrew for the first two months. I fed only by hunting animals in the forest. Adalrik, my father, taught me that every part of the animal must be used. Were I lucky enough to quickly overtake and fight a deer, I would consume both the blood and the heart. At first, the act disgusted me. I had to remind myself that it was no different than eating venison. Cooking the flesh I was eating would not do in my current state. With no one to reverse the curse now applied to me. I don't know why there's such a difference. It's something that I can not explain. I hadn't seen the Boeman, a fact, for which, I found relief. 

I began taking the rest of the meat, using my dagger to butcher the meat. I would take the hide and wrap the meat that I had harvested. I buried the rest of the offal from the inside of the deer and then, I would take that into town. A local mead hall that served as a tavern seemed surprised that a man would appear in the night with meat for them. I was paid in a few coins, sometimes a small jewel and I was told I could drink my fill. 

I tried. 

Two ales in and I would need to find a reasonable excuse to be sick outside. I learned very quickly, the ale was safe to sip but not to drink as others do. The food, of course, did nothing in the way to satisfy me. 

I still heard the stories from weary travelers stopping in for a moment's rest before moving on. Stories were that of an older man had spent his days telling everyone that his son deserted and fled the battlefield, entered into a dark pact with Frau Hulda to bring Helle itself to Middegeard. 

Part of it was true. Helle was here in Middegeard ...for me. 

Frau Hulda does believe in subtle torments. Her table is a mockery of mortal feasts and it required no crossing of icy realms for me to come to rest within it's gates

At my own dwelling outside of town, I had collected the bones of the animals that I had taken. I still remember the night that Nerthuz died by my own hands. She said her wards would not allow me in. I didn't enter until the Boeman beckoned me and kept urging me to feed, to kill her because she would expose me. She had wards. Perhaps, I could have my own. I began to place them just into the darkness of the cave. I arranged and bound bones together, standing them in twisted mockeries of their former form. 

Understand that I know nothing in the ways of magic, dark or otherwise. Nerthuz, I no longer have doubts, knew. The bag that I had taken from the small table contained nothing but her runes that she had carved herself. I placed them in my pack, not that I wanted to ever truly learn the runes...perhaps I should. I knew the runes enough to communicate with others in languages they may not know. Another language to have to learn. Perhaps one that may be useful. In the meantime, I merely wanted rest and to fend off anyone that would happen upon my sleeping form, accidental or otherwise. 

I had given no one my name. I was doing my level-best at the time to stay as unnoticed and anonymous as possible. 

It was during my sleep that a sound awakened me. One of the bone wards had been kicked, coming apart and scattering bones. I sat up and immediately slipped into a nook across from where I slept in the darkness and waited. I watched as they went by, two at a time. I slowly moved into position. According to my count, twenty men had entered my dark recess. I saw one man lingering behind and immediately I bolted into him, putting him into my alcove where I slept. I slammed him hard against the stone wall, his torch fell from his hand into the room. I clamped my hand over his mouth and nose and immediately, forcefully removed his heart and consumed it. I let him drop to the ground when he began going limp. I extinguished the torch. I used the tactics in which I'd been instructed in Teutoberg Forest. There was no chaos this time. Each man I killed, the act was quick, though not clean. 

To whomever may find this chronicle, it's important to note that, in the consumption of blood, for one such as myself, the flesh and blood of animals, it will sustain me but it is wholly unsatisfying. That from a human such as yourself...there is truly nothing like it. Combined with the consumption of the heart and it is a feast unlike that of which even Wotan can provide. 

I had silently killed four of the twenty but it was on the fifth man that I stopped relying on my stealth and I killed him by forcing my hand through his back and out the front, his heart in my hand. I pulled it back, leaving him to finally drop, the hole in his leather armor and body a glaring reminder to all that saw him when the remaining fifteen turned to find themselves faced with me and I continued devouring his heart as they watched. 

Their expressions were that of surprise mingled with abject terror, despite being armored to a lesser degree but well-armed. 

The corpse of their compatriot whom I'd dropped to the rocky floor was illumnated by the torch he once carried. 

When the first one responded with the fire of courage burning inside, I grinned. I was not armed by traditional means but that hadn't stopped me from killing five of them before anyone truly noticed. In the midst of the war being waged in that narrow corridor, I'd managed to push the force back into the cavern. I did hear one man foolishly not watching as he backed himself right over the precipice, down onto the rocks below. The rest made their stand, eleven out of the fourteen remaining and one had died by his own foolishness. I broke necks, ripped out hears, lacerated throats and even, in one case, completely removed a man's head with mine own hands. Some of them did land glancing blows, I pulled a few crossbow bolts from my own chest and shoulder. Wounds would heal in a matter of hours. 

Some of these men were men from the town at which I'd been selling meat at a price that kept the locals fed. 

One man remained. I turned to face him amidst the torn and wrecked bodies of the dead in that space of darkness, I realized my own father had led this mob into my home with the intention of destroying me. 

"You're not my son," he says, "You're unnatural! An Abomination! You're one of the Alp. What Have You Done With My Son!" 

In his ranting and raving and carrying on, it occurred to me, I wasn't looking him in the eye but slightly down upon him. 

"Let my son's soul go, Alp," he demanded. Some of you are not familiar with that term but it was then that I realized that, between the terrified ramblings of Nerthuz, her stories that she would tell me as a child and Adalrik before me and Adalrik's maddened description of me, I was the embodiment of all that was meant to scare me. 

Alp is a word that has an entirely new meaning today than it did then. When someone mentions Alps, you may think of what you would call Switzerland or Sweden. In those days, an Alp was our word for Elf. 

You may think of elves as being fair of hair with pointed ears, slender builds, magical, mystical and even beautiful. 

The Elf to which my father referred is almost nothing like the referent for the term you have in mind. Pointed ears, intense and fierce silver eyes, pointed, angular features to a severe extent, pale, vampiric, bearing razor-sharp fangs, that is the referent that my father used and he directed it at me, his own son. 

"You are right," I said, "I am not your son. I didn't run from the battle at the forest. I was taken and carried away. You will return home. You found the remains of your son. You provided him a funeral pyre after the men saved you from an ambush in the cavern. I will see to the bodies of these men. No one will be shamed here or ever. That is what you tell anyone who asks. You can say that the stories Nerthuz talked about were mere stories. Your son's murderers are dead. Your son is at peace. ...Go...I would not want you to be the next to be consumed and you still have my mother to look after..."

I allowed him and only him out of that cave. I picked through the bodies to gather supplies that I may need. I managed to find money purses on the men. Though little flowed through the town save for some copper and perhaps bronze coins, I managed to find six hundred and forty-four gold pieces among the men, then, another nine hundred and thirteen pieces of silver and one hundred and thirty-one copper pieces. 

My father could not afford these wages. Who paid these men to accompany my father? 

Night was coming and I needed to make haste if I were to leave successfully. I staged the bodies over the drop into the cavern. I kept many of the torches lit, dropping them on top of the bodies down below. A mass pyre. Fitting for the mob sent to kill me. I combined the valuables and waited for nightfall. As I walked along the river, setting about in my travel, I knew I needed to clean myself up. Blood caked my face, beard and hands, possibly even the tunic I wore. I stopped by the river and suspended my pack and gear up into a tree. I took my clothing off and waded into the river to clean myself. 

Nerthuz used to tell me stories of how Nachzehrer and Alps could not cross running water. This water was still on this moonlit night. I submerged myself into the water, taking my shirt with me. I spend a minute or two under the surface, cleaning the blood off of me and my tunic. I emerge slowly from the water, careful not to disturb the surface so much. I look down into the surface of the near-still water only to see my own silhouette lit by a moon behind me. I emerge from the water only to realize that, despite the autumn chill in the air, I'm not cold. I reach up and touch my ears but they're the same round ears I have always enjoyed. I lick my teeth behind my lips and they are still my normal teeth. I couldn't see anything else. I dress and take my things down from the tree limb, putting it all back on and making my way toward wherever my next home would be. 

Traveling at night, though safe, poses a problem I don't think I have discussed at length. Where to go during the day? 

Caves aren't quite as accessible. I'd been very lucky thus far. I must also remain hidden. My resting places can't be obvious to those passing by for the curious. Some days, I bury myself in three feet of river bank muck. Other days, I am able to make a sort of cocoon that wouldn't look out of place if it's just laying around. This was the farthest I'll have ever been from home and family. The farm, my father's legacy are now, only distant memories. I would have to make my home elsewhere. 

Eventually, I find a region and settle in an inn. I use the coin I'd found to pay for two nights so that I am not disturbed during the day. 

I also had to leave my name behind. I am no longer Thrasamund, son of Adalrik. I simply sign the register as Roderic. 

Thousand Year Old Vampire: The Chronicle of Thrasamund, The Vandal pt. 1

 Author's Note: My apologies for being gone so long, many of the games, I've just been unable to post. For anyone who knows me, I've spent my days settling into a new job lately and that means hardly any video content and, when I play games, I'm just playing Fabled Lands (which I've never posted any of my battle reports from that because I started playing that long before I started this blog) or I've been writing articles in my Substack which you can check out because I post opinions on Tabletop RPGs, reviews of systems and many different articles on a variety of subjects. 

Thousand Year Old Vampire is a solo-journaling game that I just sat down and started playing. I'll post a proper review on it on my Substack which you can read for yourself. In the meantime, the character I created is named Thrasamund, born into a tribe of Vandals in Ancient Europe in 21 BCE. He spent his youth on a farm with his father, Adalrik and his mother, Garsindis. As for the rest of this story. I've rooted it in Ancient History but ended up taking liberties here and there. It's a game, folks and my aims with this vampire may not pan out the way I would like them to go, they might. I don't know. In any case, I'm going to let Thrasamund tell you his story and then, when the time is right, I'll tell all of you about how I played this game, what supplements I used and how I arrived at certain points. I've seen others do the short journaling thing but that's not my style. If I'm going to create a monster and let him tell his story, I'm going to let him tell his story, his way. 

Enjoy. 

Awakening:

I can still remember. I remember early mornings, sunrises, rain, mud. I remember the days of my father teaching me how to tend our herds of both sheep and goats. In the afternoons or evenings, my father would teach me swordplay, stealth and how to manage both myself and my supplies when away from home for long treks on foot. He also taught me the ways of our polytheistic family and that our god was Wotan. Wotan commanded excellence in war, hospitality and the initiation of deeds. This would build a man's reputation, I was told, so we must always do what is right for our tribe, our community, our neighbors and our families. 

My father, Adalrik's favorite words were "Nothing lasts forever." In his opinion, things were better that way. Natural, if you will. The animals we had would eat grass and then fertilize the ground upon which it grew. Everything needed to be sustained in some way, preserved for future generations. We, in turn would fleece the sheep and sometimes, harvest enough for ourselves so that we had meat, milk, and food to sustain us. We would then pass on the knowledge to the next generation along with what he taught me in Wotan's wisdom that our way of life and our reputations would go on. That was the only thing to last forever, well after we had breathed our last. 

Teutoberg Forest is where I thought my own time would end. 

We were commanded to hide among the hills, trees and the foliage. Imperial Romans were going to be redirected into the forest and, only when the last of them entered were we to begin the ambush. Hide we did and we waited. Arminius wanted these Romans to see the error of invading our lands and subjugating our people far too late. The Romans were a threat to every one of our tribes and we couldn't allow them to continue pushing any further. If any were to survive the night, every one of those that did survive, would suffer so immensely, they would be denied sleep until their dying day. 

We waited, silently, with eyes and ears open, weapons ready. I posted myself in a tree and waited. We had prepared for this ambush to commence. We had our rituals, we made our promises to the gods that we would send these men to them for what they'd done. Frau Hulda would be pleased to have them, no doubt. Once within the forest, we struck with Wotan's fury and the strength of Thunor. We were a storm that would rage forever. 

Nothing lasts forever. 

I don't know what today is. The Cloaked Figure that stands hunched and decrepit, as all of the clothing he wears seems to be decayed, merely begins to give me an account of what has occurred. 

We Became The Storm of Thunor. 

I dropped from my tree in which I'd perched and the tip of my sword bit into flesh, the edge ground against armor and bone and the soldier that I'd attempted to kill, howled in surprise and agony, one scream against the many, his nearly drowned out by the howls and roars of my kinsmen fighting along side me. Romans could be heard shouting but I could not make sense of what they were saying. Steel met steel, wood, leather and flesh. Bones broke, voices cried out in the darkness, horses began to panic and try to turn to get away. All sense of anything that may have resembled order was lost. Now, those that referred to us as mere "barbarians" were receiving all that they had wished for and learned that, when addressing us, respect should have been a given. 

It was in the darkness that I fought, taking lives nearly indiscriminately. Frau Hulda would receive all that I'd personally slaughtered. Let her decide what to do with these dead. If I were to be ended this night, my appointment would be kept in Wælhalle. Let the wolf-riders come from Irmansul to claim their faithful and may our songs be sung. 

Something answered the call in my mind as I fought another of the Roman's so-called "legions." It was not, however, Wotan, nor was it his wolf-riders. 

I felt something suddenly bite into my shoulder. Initially, I thought two errant arrows had found their marks, however, there was no weight. I swung with my sword. I went mad with rage, my attack with my sword found only air. I followed suit with my axe only to find the same. Nothing!

The pain only stopped when another began. I felt the Roman's blade pierce me below the sternum. I suddenly found it hard to breathe. I also heard my attacker scream.

It wasn't the scream of my attacker that chilled me to the bone, it was the shriek that I heard from just over my shoulder before, whatever had been attached to me was now detached from me. 

I fell to my knees, blood was running from my exposed shoulder and from the wound just below my sternum. I still found it difficult to breathe. I looked up momentarily  and I still cannot describe with any credibility what it was I saw. 

There was a spectre of sorts. It seemed to give off a soft, faint light. That light was just enough to see the expression of the Roman who had attacked me. He swung wildly, a look of shock and horror on his face. The spectre tore the Roman's throat out. I tried lifting my own weapons but found my own arms simply would not move. 

The darkness consumed me and the sounds of the battle around me faded. 

The Nachzehrer, those undead spectres that Nerthuz told me as a child to frighten me into going to bed had been, until now, a product of fantasy. I had hoped that Wotan would see that I did die in battle, killed by an enemy that I had faced. Two of them, to be exact. Wælhalle was my reward, surely. 

No. Though the recognition of The Boeman wasn't immediate, descendents of Sweartylfehám is recognizeable, once certain. It, this thing, served the Nachzehrer and, because it was the Roman who killed me in his final moments and mine, the Nachzehrer is now attached to me. 

It told me that returning to my home would only see me hunted as a deserter since my body was never recovered among those slain in battle. In that moment, I was believed to have been killed. If I returned, I would not only confirm that I had not been killed in battle but suspicions of desertion would carry more weight. 

It told me that the Nachzehrer needs to be sustained. If I choose otherwise, it will make itself known more and more and will make every attempt to be sustained by force if necessary. 

I began to panic. This is not what I am. I resolved that I would not be a slave to this corrupt and unnatural thing. I swear to the Boeman that I will rid myself of the Nachzehrer and he will be next. I vowed I would send them to Helle where they both belonged. 

I fled the cave. The supplies in my bag, namely the food satisfied nothing at all. The rays of the sun which I loved began to burn me alive. I learned very quickly to find shelter during daylight hours, as anything less would prove to be extremely painful, like being consumed by a fire that I am unable to see but able to feel. I, despite having depleted the food that I had packed, still feel a burning hunger that I am unable to understand. These cravings are still alien to me. The thought of consuming raw flesh or blood, to me, is revolting, though this was part of the Boeman's explanation. In all this time, I have only counted one moon cycle and I am still alive despite having taken in nothing. 

What is it that is sustaining me? 

Homecoming:

Two full cycles of the moon have past before I finally arrive home. Rather than seeking my parents, I first need to speak with Nerthuz. Her house, though small, is on our land. She's an older woman that is steeped in stories, if anyone knows of a weakness to these creatures, it's her. With her help, perhaps I can rid myself of these two evils and restore my good name. 

When I knocked at her door, she opened it, despite the late hour. She looked at me in terror, saying she could see the spectre through me. She claimed her wards would not allow me to enter. 

I try to tell her what happened but she continued to scream at me to stay back. She said I'm not the same man that went off to protect us all. 

I see the Boeman behind her. Damn her wards. They'd failed. He beckons me inside, past the threshold. I can hear Nerthuz's panic-filled responses in my ears but The Boeman also speaks but it's not my ears that hear him. His unnatural and otherworldly voice almost drowns the voice of a terrified Nerthuz. 

"You bear it's eyes!" she cried out over and over and over again. I remember hearing Nerthuz scream and then everything fell silent. 

When my senses returned, I dropped the remains of Nerthuz to the floor of her small house. I had not only drained her of blood, I'd consumed her heart. I had torn it from her body and consumed it like a ravenous beast. I looked out of her window to see someone with a torch in the distance rapidly approaching. I took a small bag from her table and escaped through the back door. 

I am a danger to those I care for most now. I flee my small tribe, having lost them forever. Better to allow my family to believe I was killed rather than to give them the truth. 

I have passed into the Darkness and have been awakened within it. 

Call of Cthulhu - Alone Against The Flames

 From The Journal of Erik Henriksson

July 12, 1924

    I arrived at the bus stop early. It's oppressively hot today and the sun seems to beat everyone underneath it in order to demoralize those who have the misfortune of having to walk beneath it. More so if one were, like myself, carrying these heavy bags. 

    These bags are heavy because they contain what remains of my worldly possessions. Everything I own in two suitcases. 

    I am keeping this journal because, I am, by trade, a journalist. I was born in Bergen, Norway, however, my parents immigrated to the United States when I was merely an infant. I am bilingual in that I am fluent in both Norwegian and English. That being said, I do not possess an accent as one might understand. I am, and have always been, to my knowledge, American. We settled in Providence, Rhode Island and lived our entire lives here. Until now, Providence was home. Everyone I know lives there. My parents, however, chose to move again, favoring the mainland to that of the island. So, it was Arkham, Massachusetts where I would be travelling. I had seen mistrustful faces everywhere and I may have appeared a sight. 

    I am short in stature, barely managing to reach a height of five feet and nine inches. Being educated in Rhode Island, I became keenly aware that, though I can also measure in metric, it is imperial measurements that reign supreme.

    I feel it necessary and important to point out that my career in journalism is centered around my own curiosity. It is insatiable. Seeking answers to mysteries and obtaining a full and objective point of view is why I spend my time in perpetual documentation of anything and everything that only I can verify at any given moment. Upon notice of my intentions to move, the local paper for whom I worked did me the service of sending word ahead to another paper in Arkham in an inquest to see if accomodation among their ranks could be met. There had been a bit of a waiting period until one such news publication had announced that they did, in fact, have room in their pool of fellow journalists for me and I would be able to find employment after I had settled in. I had written a note of thanks, personally, and assured them that it would not take long to settle in. For the moment, I would be remaining with my parents until I had secured accomodations of my own. The promise of being able to contribute within the home was of utmost import to me. Certainly, my mother and father would have no problem accomodating me, however, I insisted on remaining as independent as possible. 

    I had been fanning myself with my hat after putting my suitcases down. As I looked around and took in the scenery around me, a grey motor coach approached to bear me and my belongings via many bus and train trips, into Arkham. I put my hat back upon my head and picked up my suitcases again. 

    Two younger, sullen-looking men emerged from the bus and one of them looked me up and down, as though he were attempting in his mind to weigh odds of some type of outcome about me. The driver emerged behind them. He looked at me. His shirt bearing the bus emblem was stained and then he proceeded around the bus, only to cross the street to the tobacconist across from us. Though many of my peers smoked, I could not bring myself to adopt such a habit. I tried only once, as I recall, I'd become sickened by the smoke, coughing and, as the colleague stated, I was "turning green." Turning green was not ever a fate with which I wanted to revisit. Since then, I have politely declined offers of any further tobacco use. It simply does not suit me. 

    When the driver returned a few moments later, he asked me where I was heading. I showed him my ticket to Ossipee. 

    "Mmm-hm," he said as he finished rolling his cigarette and began reaching for his matches. He lit his cigarette and exhaled a plume of smoke into the still air, directing it to his right, I presume, to politely keep it from exhaling it directly at me. He gestured to the back of the coach, "Luggage rack's up there." 

    I admit that the limit of my physical fitness is that I simply am not strong. To me, the cases were heavy and I did struggle to lift them. Carrying them was something of a task but lifting them, I could feel the sun draining my diminished strength. Out of my periphery, I did see the driver standing there, watching me while enjoying his cigarette for a moment before stepping over to me and aiding me in lifting the cases into the rack to secure them. 

    "Heavy bags for a small'un," he remarked. I remember thinking that his comment was rather rude. Being tired and ready to continue on, I simply thought better than to point out how offended I was and simply responded, conveying my thanks. I boarded the motor coach, thankful to be out of the menacing sun. Again, I removed my hat and began to fan myself. When the driver boarded, thumping the remainder of his cigarette into the gutter, I became aware, much to my relief that I would be the coach's only passenger. As the engine came to life under the driver's key and he began to drive, I watched for a moment as all that I knew and was familiar to me passed and became scenery and locale that would be but a memory, at least for the time being. 

    I watched it all for a moment until the awareness that the inside of the motor coach was becoming stuffy. The driver opened a window close to him. I changed my seat and allowed the breeze to run over my face with relief. I placed my had on the seat beside me. With every bend in the road, my stomach would lurch. I took several deep breaths and pushed away all the thoughts of how I didn't want to leave out of my head. I relaxed into the journey. I remember thinking that perhaps I needed a change and perhaps Arkham would supply such a change. What good is curiosity if it does not occasionally get the better of a man? It is the only way that truth is truly found, is it not? 

    We travelled with cornfields and small hamlets passing us until the bus slowed to a stop to pick up someone else. She was a heavyset woman who took a seat well away from me. She departed at the next stop afterward. 

      I had begun to doze off, sleep threatening to overtake me until there was a sudden and sharp turn of the coach. Immediately, any thought of sleeping for the duration of my journey had been interrupted in a manner most sudden and abrupt. There was the sound of someone yelling and I managed to grab the seat in front of me to keep me from falling out of the seat and onto the floor. As I pulled myself upright, I noticed the driver had arisen from his seat and was out of the door. I collected myself and stood to peer through the windshield to see what the trouble could possibly be. 

    What I had witnessed was a tractor that had broken down on the road. The driver had unleashed a litany of epithets in a tirade against the farmer who was doing what he could where he was. The driver's tirade was awful and, as I was about to depart the bus to offer assistance and hopefully stop the driver's verbal abuse of the farmer, the driver had turned and stormed back into the bus to continue the journey. Slowly, I resumed my seat and looked between the driver and the farmer. The driver slowly threaded the bus around the tractor and continued on. I could hear my pulse in my ears as I wondered if the driver had seen the tractor coming or if this was because, perhaps he hadn't been paying attention and had only looked to see the tractor, narrowly avoiding it. 

    I think the driver noticed my incredulity. 

    "Hey, look pal, sorry about all that before," he said. I detected a sense of earnestness in his apology, "That guy was dumber than a hog. I'm Silas, by the way, what's your name?"

    "Erik," I said, introducing myself from where I sat, "I'm Erik Henriksson. It's a pleasure to meet you, Silas." I didn't think it wise to point out that the near-miss was as much the fault of Silas as it was the farmer stopped in the road due to what I could only possibly assume was mechanical failure. 

    "Where you headed?" he asked me, "I mean where's your last stop?"

    "Oh," I said, "Arkham, Massachusetts. I'll be staying with family. I'm a journalist and I'll be working for a small publication,The Arkham Gazette, investigating stories and reporting on them." 

    "Arkham?" he asked, "Can't say I've been there. Went to Boston once but that place isn't for me. Too much hustle and bustle. Not much for city life, myself." 

    "Understandable," I said. I smiled to myself, "I find it's certainly not for everyone. It's been my observation that some are just acclimated to certain locales. For some, a city would suit them and others prefer a more rural setting. Then there are those who wish for a happy medium of a small town."

    "Yeah!" he said to me nodding as he kept his eyes on the road ahead, "The Townies! You a townie?" 

    "Yes," I replied, grinning and nearly laughing a bit, despite myself, "I suppose I am. At least, that is how I've grown up in Providence."

    "So what were you doing in Providence?" he asked. 

    "I was a journalist there but my stories were mostly whimsical stories and vapid society columns," I said, waving a hand dismissively. 

    "Bet you got to see a lot of parties with those, what did you call them?" he asked, "Society columns?" 

    "Occasionally," I said, nodding, "It was all formal attire kinds of things and what all the wealthy where doing at any moment. Sometimes, it was something as simple as an interview with a local philanthropist or business person whom had enriched themselves. I was, however, discouraged from truly investigating the veracity of their various claims." 

    At once, as we crested the hill of a road, not having made any stops since the incident with the farmer, I beheld a sight that stopped the conversation cold. With my own two eyes, I saw one of the most beautiful vistas I do believe that I've ever beheld. The treeline was simply magnificent with a river snaking it's way through those trees, parting them. My thoughts were immediately of my father and I fishing along those banks of that river, casting baited lines into the water and reeling great and heavy fish from them, preparing them with my mother and then sitting down to a dinner of fish filets baked with herbs and lemon juice afterward. There were white mountains in the background, their summit s disappearing into clouds that seemed to surround them. It seemed untouched by man, save for the road upon which we travelled. Not a single settlement anywhere could be seen, not even a cabin. Birds moved from treetop to treetop and, if I'm not mistaken, I'm certain I could have made out two white-tailed deer. 

    Even Silas had lapsed into silence. Though I wondered if I could have survived out here in the wilderness on my own, I had also wondered if Silas had also seen this magnificent view, himself.

    It was then, as the sky began to darken and the clouds began to display red and pink hues that we crested another hill and I saw a settlement ahead. 

    Was this Ossipee? I certainly did not recall the descriptions matching what I was seeing. Nor did it match the photos I'd seen. As I was contemplating whether or not I should attempt to convince Silas to stop so I could stretch my legs, it would seem that providence interrupted and did not give me the opportunity or perhaps it decided to be even more persuasive than even I could be. The engine began to stutter as we reached the top of the hill. He manipulated the gear shift and uttered something I couldn't seem to make out. He then began to wrestle with the steering wheel as he pulled and grunted, guiding the coach into a bay near some small buildings. These were low, squat buildings and he parked near them, stopping and then departed the coach, heading for the engine compartment. 

    After a few moments, I followed, curious as to what had occurred. I found Silas with both arms in the engine compartment. He seemed frustrated. He withdrew his arms and retrieved a handkerchief, wiping the sweat from his brow. 

    "Dunno what's wrong with 'er," he said, "Could be something with the oil pressure, I really couldn't tell you. It's getting dark, pal and I can't do anything with it until the engine cools. We're probably gonna be here all night. Won't see any help until morning." 

    "Oh," I said, a sense of dread coming over me. I don't think one day would harm anything but a failure in the engine could take longer than one day to repair. Even then, I'm not entirely certain because I do not possess anything in the way of mechanical aptitude. 

    "Listen," he said, possibly noting my dismay, "This is Emberhead. We're miles away from anywhere so, if you want, you can either sleep on the coach or you can head on over to May Ledbetter's place. She usually keeps a spare room for guests and the people here are decent people. May's place is up that alley, turn right and she's the first house on your left. If you're gonna do that, just be sure to meet me here at eight in the morning so we know where we stand."

    I nodded and took my suitcases down from the luggage rack. I made my way to May Ledbetter's house, following Silas' instructions implicitly. The home itself was unassuming, a nameplate hanging from the porch read "Ledbetter" and the sign hanging underneath it read "Lodging Room." 

    I knocked on the door. 

    After a moment I heard footsteps on the other side of the door. I heard a lock being disengaged and then the door opened and what greeted me was a woman with loose curls and a rough-looking house dress standing before me. 

    "Hello," she said greeting me, "Am I to take it that you're looking for a room for the night?" Her voice had a slight Irish lilt to it. 

    "Yes," I said, "I'm Erik Henriksson. I was directed here, what are your rates for the night?"

    "Oh you'll find them more than reasonable," she said, "Come in, come in, let's get your things put away and then get you some tea."

    Inside was a small, cramped house with a low ceiling and the aroma of tea filled the air. There was a small fire in the fireplace and the house itself was warm, almost cozy. 

    "Have you come to Emberhead for the festival?" she asked me. 

    This was the first I'd ever heard of Emberhead or a festival in it. Curious, I decided to press just a little by using a bit of cunning. 

    "Oh yes, Ma'am," I said, "I've been sent specifically for your festival but, I am afraid I don't know all that much about it. Would you be so kind as to tell me more?" 

    She filled our tea cups and we sat and sipped as she explained that there was a Beacon on the cliff. There would be a procession to that cliffside beacon and then it would be lit. It keeps the spirit of the town alive for another year, she explained. 

    "It's a celebration!" she said with a smile, her voice trailing off, "...a celebration. Oh you didn't come to hear me blather on about local affairs, did you?" she said, "Let's get you to your room." 

    When she quoted a rate as low as the one she quoted me, I accepted without hesitation. The room was small but dinner was a hearty stew that May had skillfully prepared herself. I hadn't expected such a modest meal to warm the soul as it did, however, I still had a couple of hours before bed. I decided to press a little more. I had to wonder if such a superstition was something that warranted a celebration on it's anniversary. 

    She spoke at length about life in Emberhead. 

    "My sister's always writing me letters asking how I could be in such a small town without being bored," she said, "She lives in New York City and writes about how she's afraid to walk home at night. I ask you!" 

    I spoke about my hopes of a new life in Arkham, however, it was almost as if she didn't hear me in the least. 

    "It's a small place here, yes," she says, "Everyone here knows everyone. Everyone works together. We have real community here, save for the ones that exclude themselves, of course. I don't think I could live anywhere else now."

    As the hour wore on, she seemed to become more reflective. 

    "It's not always easy. I'm a widow, you know. We have a little money, and of course I appreciate the custom of travelers like yourself. I know we’ll never starve as long as we live here. But I don’t see myself marrying again. I know every man in this village. I know them too well, if you see what I mean.”

    I nodded, understanding what it is she meant indeed. 

    She pushed a hand through her head and her mouth twisted briefly before she yawned.

    "Time for me to turn in," she said to me, "When would you like breakfast?"

    As May stood, I heard a clunk behind me. I looked over my shoulder but all I could see was a wooden door, securely closed. 

    May tutted. 

    “The young lady of the house," she said, "She’ll have been listening to us. Ruth! Come and greet our guest.” 

    There was a short pause, then the door creaked open. Two wide eyes peered at me from the gap, between tousled hair and a rough nightgown. 

    “What do you say?” The eyes blinked. “Pleased to meet you.” 

    “Now get back to bed.” The door closed again. “My daughter Ruth. Ten years this summer. She’s a delight and a torment all in one. Don’t worry, she sleeps in with me. She’ll not disturb you. Good night now.”

    I retired to the room. It was chilly, but I was too tired to worry about lighting the fire. The sheets were clean and the bed soon warmed up. The silence outside was strange after living in a town for so long, but I soon drifted off into sleep. 

Horde Wars: The High-Seas Horror pt. II

 Author's Note: I'm afraid I have come to you all this evening bearing terrible news. It would seem that my character, Drago, has met his end in this particular game of Horde Wars. Now, for the good news, I was able to roll up another character in minutes. Read on from The Ship's Log being diligently kept by one of our party members and to cap off this note before I post the logs from the past two sessions, I wanted all of you to know that you too can now play the game I've been playtesting for months! Simply go to this link at Big Geek Emporium Dot Com to get your copy of Horde Wars Basic d12 for only $5!!!

Day 18

We took the raft over to the pier and found a desiccated orc berserker drained of moisture collapsed over the other corpse.  He stinks terribly and his axe is freshly chipped.  It appears he was starving.

We took 8 hand mirrors, a wizard’s robe, mercenary leathers, unusual brigandine armor made from the scales of creature, a lash with silver thread embedded in it that is mercurial and cold, flint and steel, wool blankets, religious text, 2 antitoxins, 6 healing potions, 1 darkvision potion, 1 water breathing potion, Oswald holding: 2 scrolls of flight, scroll of edwin’s chime, a scroll of cloak of invisibility, 10 Crowns, 120 Marks, a heavy crossbow, and 15 bolts from the shop. 

Day 19

While attempting to return our bounty to the ship, we were attacked by an invisible creature. The creature grabbed them with two claws that froze them and their life was drained out. Oswald and Drago were harmed pretty badly.

Day 20

A bird slams into the mast of the ship and falls. We find a note in its container. The note says someone is trapped in a tower. There is a monster at the bottom of the tower. We send a new note with the same bird back the way it came. The bird slams into the sail, ripping it. The new note confirms that someone is passing notes with us.

We decide to use 3 Flight spells to survey the entire island. Sigfried comes out with the party and explores the island. He finds desiccated people. He then flies to the lighthouse, finds people hit with hammers dead. More shipwrecks all over the coastline.

I found a stone structured castle. There are knights that seem to be illusions or ghosts.This is a fabled castle ruled by a legendary king. The nation doesn’t exist on any map. The name escapes me. By the look of them, they seem to be very old/ancient. 3 miles inland and uphill from the harbor.  There was a ring of dead birds around the invisible wall.

I search around more, and find overgrown outbuildings, homes, barns. Orchards last longer than planted fields. More desiccated corpses, more dead animals are found. Nearly every corpse is desiccated except for the giants, and the birds.

Scroll: Hand of Regulus

Scroll: Lightning Bolt

Scroll: Shapeshift

X USED X Scroll: Disenchant (burst area)

Scroll: Shapeshift

While searching the tower, we were ambushed by the creature. I used the disenchant scroll to make it visible, revealing it to be a banshee. We managed to defeat it but angered the tower gargoyles in the process. Phillip and I got away and returned to the ship but Siegfried ran into the tower. His fate is unknown.

The rest of us crept towards the tower while Siegfried frantically tried to block the door between him and the Gargoyles. A bloody battle ensued at the top of the tower with the gargoyles. Drago died tragically from the wounds he sustained in his attempt to rescue Siegfried. We had no healing potions left. We searched the tower for items and found:

1 Treasure Chest: 300 Marks, 20 Crowns

1 Treasure Chest: 100 Crowns, 350 Marks

1 Decoration: Dragon Glass Obelisk with Elves and Nymphs dancing (300 marks)

1 Decoration: Crystal Platter engraved with a Tree and Seven Stars (750 marks)

1 Artifact Weapon: Enchanted Silver Battleaxe (1d12 slashing, extra die of damage vs. monsters, heavy, ignores displacement and absorption.

Drago was set upon a raft along with his weapons and personal effects. He was set out to sea after the raft was set

ablaze in accordance with what we believe to be customary for one such as him. 

Day 21

Another boat crept upon us in the middle of the night. We were awakened in the night to the sound of goblins. We emerged from our sleep, still tired and worn but alert enough that we were armed and ready to defend the ship. We overheard someone yelling in the distance but were unsure as to what was taking place. The Goblins attacked once discovered. During the fray, a yell could be heard and then a scream and a splash. We busied ourselves defending the ship and were making short work of the goblin attackers. 

A man entered the battle and aided us. Having lost Drago in battle, we weren’t sure at first as to whom the man was

that had boarded our ship. We were able to understand that he wasn’t here to harm us as he ferociously attacked

the goblins, displaying a particular distaste for them. When the fighting was over, we were introduced to the man that aided us. His name is Herger Baldursson, though we know little about him, he did aid us in our time of need. He also aided us in looting the goblin’s longboat. He took the goblin bodies, tossed them onto the longboat that the goblins had used as their pirate vessel and then used one of the goblins’ own torches to set it ablaze after we had pushed it away from us.     

Items found on the Goblin Longboat

Scroll: Elemental Shield

Scroll: Flight

Scroll: Shapeshift

Jewelry 1 - Gold Bracers decorated with Diamonds or Emeralds [3,500 Marks]

Jewelry 2 - Gold Earrings decorated with a Star Sapphire [1,000 marks]

Yogshnark was also discovered unconscious on the Longboat and brought aboard the The Knórr.

Magic Scroll: Elemental Shield - Maneuver

Scroll: Flight

Scroll: Shapeshift

Jewelry 1 - Gold Bracers decorated with Diamonds or Emeralds[3,500 Marks]

Jewelry 2 - Gold Earrings decorated with a Star Sapphire [1,000 marks]

Horde Wars: The High-Seas Horror

 Our heroes, Drago, a Viking Skald, Oswald Hawthorne, a blue/white wizard from Mercia and Phillip Tanner, a huntsman have booked passage on a merchant ship. 

One night, they were awakened by the sounds of something happening on the deck above. They immediately grabbed their gear and headed to the deck of the ship to find that the crew had been slaughtered, leaving only the three of them alive with a ship laden with Iron Ore to steer. 

Drago immediately brought the ship to a stop, the threat seemingly having been over and began the work with Oswald and Phillip to bury the bodies at sea and get the ship moving again. Movement was slow and plodding, but with only three people to commandeer the ship. 

With Drago taking control of the ship, being the only one with any sailing experience, as Captain, Oswald became his First Mate, keeping the log of their adventures. This is that log book in it's entirety...

Day 1

The Crew is dead.  The Mysterious Island is 280 Miles West at Full Speed.  The Crag is 120 miles South at Full Speed. 

Whitehaven is 400 miles East at Full Speed.  We set sail for Caerwyn, 8 Days North at half Speed.  

Day 6

Sea Serpent Encounter.  We drove off two of the Beasts!

Day 8

Land sighted!  We see the white cliffs of Caerwyn. 

We headed north, following the coast along the east side of the island.  

Days 9 & 10

We sailed into the port city of Aberdyfi during the night by sailing between its two lighthouses. 

We took a Full Day’s Rest at a seaside inn.  At the end of the session we recruited three NPC’s:

Asmog an orc seer, Brother Thomas a monk abbott, and Siegfred a Brigmari mercenary commander.

Day 11

We set sail for the mysterious island. Clear skies, good wind at our backs, and we made good time.

We move closer to the Crag using the wind. We are 240 miles from the mysterious island at the end of day 11.

Day 12

We passed a diving bell. We avoided it. We were attacked by giant crabs. We cooked one.

We are now 190 miles from the island.

Day 13

Smooth sailing. We are now 140 miles from the island.

Day 14

Salt water piranhas begin to follow us. At 3:00 in the afternoon, we spot a dorsal fin, it is a megalodon.

The megalodon swallowed Brother Thomas the Monk Abbott whole!

It then swallows Asmog whole and plunges back into the water. We fended off the megalodon, recovered Asmog,

but  Brother Thomas died (shark food). We later encountered more piranhas. We are now 90 miles from the mysterious island.

Day 15

The number of piranhas following our ship is now in the hundreds. We are now 40 miles from the mysterious island.

Day 16

Asmog falls overboard. Drago pulls her back out. Phillip spots the mysterious island in the distance.

We head over to a natural harbor at the island.

Day 17 Morning

We wake up in the morning, anchored in the natural harbor. There is a port town on the shore.

There is a stone dock. No evidence of any people living here anymore.

Phillip noticed a large piece of cloth moving on the ground.

The port town is about 4 buildings deep and about 6 buildings wide.

We find a desiccated corpse seemingly in mid-stride in the street, clutching an old book written in Rundari.

Drago found treasure inside the belt pouch of the corpse.

From the book, Drago was able to read a passage: “I am alone.  Where did all these buildings come from?”

We find a dead body inside the first stone house we encountered.

The body has small pin pricks where its jugular vein would be.

The bodies must have been killed over 100 years ago because the wine Phillip sniffed was already vinegar.

We go upstairs and find a rotted baby in a crib. A family of four used to live in this house.

Phillip suspects that there is some curse involved.

The baby was not murdered, but just died from neglect after its parents died.

We are interrupted by the sound of ravens landing on the roof and watching us.

They fly away when Phillip investigates.

Siegfred suddenly knocks on the front door of the house with news that an orc woman died back on the ship.

He doesn’t remember seeing this orc woman before. We also do not remember seeing this orc woman before.

When we get back to the ship, we find that the orc woman was also mummified as well.

There are a couple of small pin pricks on her neck.

The corpse appearing on our ship was completely random as far as we know.

Oswald asked Siegfred what a flock of ravens spying on us meant.

He says that in his culture it means witches are watching us.

We hear the ravens circling overhead above our ship, cawing to one another. One said the word “invisible.”

Day 17 Afternoon

Pulled back out into the harbor.  Investigated the ship twice to check if the creature was already on board. 

Oswald killed a couple rats we chased out of the bilge. It did not seem to be, but when we used a dampened torch to try to

smoke it out, the rats did not come out of hiding as we expected they would.

As the tide went out, Oswald noticed that there were several shipwrecks in the harbor, all of various sizes and ages,

clustered toward the mouth of the harbor. Among them were an Orcish longship and an Elvish galley.

It would seem we are trapped here. 

Afterward, we noticed two strange reddish boulders on the top of the two cliffs flanking the harbor entrance.

We sailed closer to get a better look, and the boulders started moving. They turned out to be the shells of Siren Snails.

Then something made a blood curdling scream from the direction of the town.

Several flocks of ravens flew out of the town in opposite directions. 

That night something boarded our ship at night while we hid in the cabin. 

There were slurping noises as it wandered the deck.  The creature eventually gave up and left.

Day 18

We took the raft over to the pier and found a desiccated orc berserker drained of moisture collapsed over the other corpse. 

He stinks terribly and his axe is freshly chipped.  It appears he was starving.