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.