WFRP Campaign Log Update and Blood Bowl League

Dearly beloved has finished recording the last three chapters of Book 2 of the group's WFRP 3rd edition campaign on her blog, here.

Also, we've started playing in the Lead Legion Bloodbowl League. You can read the first month's highlights on the Lead Legion blog, here.

Vann Tancred Sword

Dearly beloved's adventure journal of last nights WFRP 3rd ed game in now up for our reading pleasure.
Link.

Fetch Me a Mop and a Rather Large Bucket! I've Morr's Work to be Doing.

The story behind this rather odd statement can be found here.

Feeling lousy. Laid up with the flu and had to cancel tonight's Earth-shaker game. So there'll be no posts from me for a while. In the meantime, dearly beloved has been faithfully recording the events of our WFRP campaign - a game I actually get to play in. Although, alas, I doubt I'll be able to make that one tomorrow either. I hate being ill. It really interferes with my fantasy life.

The Van Tanncred Sword

After years of hard-luck "why am I always the GM, other than the fact I enjoy it" stories, I've finally got myself a game as a player. In a game of WFRP 3rd edition, no less. Dearly Beloved has very kindly taken it upon herself to record a very fine player's journal, as told by her character, Anya. It's really good. Take a look here.

I play Stefan the Initiate of Morr, by the way. The journal doesn't explain a great deal about the back-story, primarily because Anya does not yet know it. However, until last Thursday, it was a solo campaign with one DM and one player. The first half of the campaign came to a close with a climatic sword-fight in the middle of what turned out to be Stefan's graveyard. Having witnessed a dwarf and a human take down a vampire in his very own shrine, Stefan patches up the two half-dead warriors in his own townhouse. Later, he learns that not only are they Witch-hunters from the Empire operating in Marienburg illegally, there are more undead out there. Unable to bring this to the attention of his superiors for obvious reasons (not wanting to be hung for helping a pair of Imperial spies chief among them) Stefan insists that it is his duty as a servant of Morr to accompany them. Unfortunately (for Stefan), his uppity, shrewish maid Danielle (Aimee's character) "over-hears" the whole conversation and insists on coming along too. It's shortly after these events that Anya has her unfortunate encounter with the chief Witch-hunter, Pieter.

WFRP Log: Session I Expose

We actually managed to get a great deal more done in that first (well, technically second since I joined a week late) session of the WFRP campaign which I've recently been posting about. However, the morning after Geheimsnacht seems the natural place to stop for the first promised interlude. Needless to say, certain things will happen in Seigfried's career that he will not be too keen to trumpet for all to see on the pages of a broadsheet. Any such omissions from the "true and honest account", will be revealed in summary's such as this.

So, without further ado here follows the truth behind the eminent scribblings of the scribe Gospard of Nuln thus far.

33rd of Fore-Mystery (The Dwarven Night of Saga's)

A few hours before sunset, Siegfried “von” Schwimmer (as he likes to call himself) is driven off the road by a passing coach and into a ditch where a fellow traveller manages to simultaneously break Siegfried's fall and break Siegfried's favourite (and only) bow. Bertholdt, a rather weedy looking scribe who actually minces as he walks (don't you just love some of the random tables in WFRP character generation?) soon calms the irate young man with promises of a drink at a nearby coaching inn, the Prancing Cock.

The pair soon reach the inn to find it crowded with a variety of strange and unusual looking characters, including a small party of road wardens, a party of rough looking vagabonds (read: other adventurers - these guys will become important later) a noble's entourage (recently disembarked from a certain coach) and a single table occupied by an elf, a man and two dwarfs.

Bertholdt does make a joke and yes, Siegfried does punch him (albiet gently) for his troubles.

Strangely, though such an odd assembly would normally be given a wide berth and sullen looks by all present (being superstitious peasants and surly nobles) they are sat in pride-of-place at the largest table closest to the fire. It seems not even the noblewomen and their escorts have been able to shift them. But given how deep into their cups the two dwarfs are, and how often the locals seem to toast the strange party, perhaps that is not altogether unsurprising.

As the two travelers enter the taproom, the dwarfs appear to be taking turns to sing alternate verses about ancient dwarf heroes, while the other takes the opportunity for a long swig of ale. The human at the table, seemingly another road-warden by the device of Stirland he wears on an armband, taps his foot in time while the elf woman – who appears slight and rather, well, boyish, even for an elf- peers prissily over her spectacles at a large leather bound book.

As the dwarfs seem to be having a rare old time and, given there is not another seat to found anywhere in the taproom, the two young men head over to join this strange group of travelers.

The Road-warden, Dieter (whose players only made the first few sessions due to the publication of his first book and subsequent book tours) quickly brings the two travelers up to speed on the groups recent exploits. He also introduces Siegfried and Bertholdt (soon christened Siggy and Berty by the dwarfs, who don't seem entirely oblivious to the fact that Siggy is, in fact, a girls name) to the rest of his unusual company.

The discussion quickly turns to future travel plans. Happily, all five are travelling south for various reasons and they decide that river travel is a far better option given the unpleasant weather. Alas, the regular boat from the south (which turns round and heads back the way it came at the inn) is already running late. The cash strapped company decide they could save a few pennies off the fare if they happened to rescue the boat from whatever was the cause of the delay and agree to head south on the morrow. Though by this time Mordrin is a little too drunk to actually follow the conversation, let alone agree to anything, so Grundi accepts the plan on his fellow dwarf's behalf.

Before going to bed, Siegfried spends some time getting to know a few of the Vagabonds (adventurers) and Road Wardens, trying to learn a little more about the lay of the land, despite Dieters assurances that he knows the road well. He finds himself forming a very quick bond with another street-wise young traveler in the vagabond party, a somewhat slight and soft-featured fellow named Baur. The stranger is a rather pretty youth, and the handsome young Siegfried suddenly calls the conversation short when he begins to realize that, not only is the youth flirting with him, but he himself seems to be (rather unconsciously) flirting back. Siegfried gets very little sleep that night, being somewhat horrified at himself. Needless to say this part of the tale never makes it into Gospard's papers.

Geheimsnacht:
Travelling south through the forest and along the river Stir they next morning, they pass an old ruined, tollbooth which, fearing ghosts, they hurry past. They soon encounter a bedraggled group of monk returning to their priory following the recent march of Sylvania's undead armies through the Province. Many bear wounds which they ascribe to having fought off a group of bandits. Much to the fury of the characters however, they soon find that the so-called bandits were a column of women and children -the real refugee column. Siegfried and Mordrin are all set for tearing off after the real bandits immediately, but the others realise there will be plenty of time to catch up with the rogues. After all, their wagons wont be moving quickly in the muddy roads and heavy downpour. So they set to burying the dead while Siegfried searches around for a new bow and a few arrows to fill his empty quiver.

Bertholdt comes across an elderly frau clutching a piece of blue ribbon and a sealed parchment, already somewhat damp due to the rain. Grundi (the only character with the heal skill, Sigmar save us) does his best to heal the women but only serves to make her condition worse.

(Grundi only has an eighteen percent chance of passing a heal test. Ulric save us. His medical bumbling quickly becomes a running joke throughout the campaign as he consistently manages to reopen healing wounds with his ham-fingers and stuff his dirty fingernails where they shouldn't go).

In true heroic fashion, with her dying breath (or rather breaths. She actually rambles on for quite a bit given the fact Grundi has just killed her with a 00 on his heal check) the frau tells of her young charge, taken by the bandits, a noblemans bastard girl-child by the name of Bianca and begs the group to rescue her.

For reasons that will become apparent later (remember that “von” Siegfried is constantly bandying about) Siegfried in particular is touched by this girls plight, especially considering that, as the Graf's only surviving child, she has been recognised as his daughter and is proclaimed heir. An elevation to which the Fraul's piece of parchment attests (once Bertholdt finally reads it about three sessions later,  that is). "Siggy" is already striding back up the path in a frenzied, angry run before the Frau can gasp out that she recognised the “bandits” as mercenaries in the employ of the girl's uncle, who no doubt hopes to take the Graf's title for himself.

With no further discussion needed, the others quickly follow.

They reach the tollbooth just after nightfall and upon scouting, Siegfried finds it empty save for the corpses of the bandits and a few dead goblins. He kicks a few dead green-skins in despair and is all but inconsolable until Grundi finds a piece of blue ribbon impaled conveniantly on the bare twigs of a nearby tree.

Even Siegfried is not so rash as to pursue the young maiden into the depths of the forest on the Night of Mystery however, and so the party makes camp until morning. For the most part the night is uneventful, save for the creation of dwarf night-soil, yet the group is rudely awakened when a perplexingly happy Seigfired suddenly sits bolts upright in his blanket and shouts: "It was a GIRL!"

In fact,the whole Baur is really a man became a long running IC and OOC joke for years. John
was using the pre-gen PC's from the GM's Pack as NPC vagabonds and had completely failed to notice that "Herr" Baur had breasts. Despite this, he was playing Baur as being a little bit too interested in handsome young Siegfried and played "him" more like a seductive female- so maybe he had subconsciously picked up on the characters true gender after all. Because I made an off-hand comment about Baur "fancying" Siegfried John showed me the picture, whereupon I pointed out that "Herr" Baur had breasts. We all had a good laugh about John's oversight at the time, along with a lot of jokey references to the Blackadder episode when Lord Blackadder falls in love with a woman dressed as a man. We thought nothing of the incident after that - but John wasn't about to let an excellent opportunity such as that go to waste. Expect to find yourself reading a lot more about Baur later in these campaign reports. Although, by this point, only Seigfried has actually figured out IC that he is, in fact, a she. That's Baur's picture at the top of the article, by the way. See? Breasts!

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 undertaken this dark and foul deed of theft and murder, t'was Deiter, Alane, Bertholdt and Grundi who prevailed with their council to first search the field for friend and foe.

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 Bertholdt (being but eighteen and having led the sheltered life of a scribe) 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 mighty 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 to whom he pays only a few coppers a bushel).

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, my cunning and wise master and paying patron, was prickled about his neck hairs 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 a most 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 a true servant of Ulric did enjoinder upon the others to meet him 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, traipsing 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 the arrival of 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:
Fire and Bloodshed. A Hero Falls. A Girl is Saved. Much Celebration and Rejoicing and drinking of ale for a Shilling and a Penny.

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)

Yes, you`ve guessed it. This is a WFRP 2nd edition 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 of my old campaign journals 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 my notes consists of the journal as written by me, for me. Rather than post them "as is" I`ve decided to present them in the format of a "penny nasty", a cheap serialization as might be found on the Streets of any of the Old World's largest cities. A more traditional journal summary of each session will follow after the serialization of each session.

Please note that John, our DM, kept his own journal on his blog "Roll Dice and Kiss Ass." 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 use his material here. But since he posted these comments on his public blog himself, I cant see it becoming a problem. Even so, if parts of this journal are suddenly deleted, you`ll know why.

Game System: Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay Second Edition.
Time Span - Late 2005 - Early 2007.
Set shortly after the Storm of Chaos.

The Characters (in the words of the DM, as written up after our first few sessions):

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 Seigfried's escapades 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 dwarf 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 frothing mad orange-hair-and-blue-tatoo brigade.

Siegfried (played by me - and one of the most entertaining, fun characters I ever had the priviledge of roleplaying):
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.

Part the First:

Our tale begins late in the last year of the Storm of Chaos, that terrible period when cities were laid ruin and poor scribes (and even poorer) humble scholars such as I were forced to rummage in the dirt for scraps of parchment and candle stubs with which to pursue their noble endeavour.

Our hero, Seigfried, being a man of good taste and character, and by no 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 coaching 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 rightfully 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 canopic leaves of the trees therein. It was from this young and worthy scribe that my patron learned of the happy proximity of the Prancing Cockrel coaching inn. 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 rain 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 another seat in sight, the two youths, heroes bold, took seat beside the strange company and there learned of the strange 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 veriliy, nay, irretrievably dead. Dead. DEAD!

(Cals note: Me and Berty joined the campaign at the beginning of session 2 after the other characters had all met and foiled a foul plot to hang an innocent man)

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 and wine (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, the two young men resolved also to travel via this wondrous floating lump of wood and resolved to set forth southwards themselves (with these four fine others) on the morrow 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 to be left behind by his more temperate colleague due to the foul runny-ness of his vitals. 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 day 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 lurid, sensual 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 heroism?

The merry band set forth from the Prancing Cockrel 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 more than a few 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 (or 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 of a mere nineteen summers. Yet it seems that for brigands he harboured an especial hatred, having seen many good folk come to ruin at the hands of such folk 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 set 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). More on this to follow.

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 the woeful sight of this wretched caravan so recently left behind in our narrative, I can now reveal 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 the point of coming across said massacre to work itself loose 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.