This game follows on from our last,
Ambush at the Border. With this game and the next we want to segue into the summer campaign, so that come the end of September we can return to our story here and have lots of fresh new narrative to play with.
Links to other games in the campaign:
Game 1,
Game 3,
Edge of the Abyss
And now, to set the scene (after all, this is a narrative campaign!):
Prince
Ingemon of house Enneiros stepped off the boat and onto the peer with
practised ease. Walking along the recently-restored masonry, his
stride was at once detached and focused, bearing him swiftly toward
his goal. Soldiers were disembarking behind him, golden crescents
resplendent on their helms, while dock labourers tethered the small
landing craft. In the distance a larger ship could be seen. It was an
elegant vessel, whose slim form suggested the capacity for great
speed. Its sails displayed the head of an eagle, the symbol of house
Enneiros. Mere feet off the starboard bow lay the diffused point of a
great shadow, projected to the north-west by the early morning sun.
Even in its semi-ruined state, the tallest tower of the island-fort
Tiriant Dalath stretched towards the heavens, dominating the
horizon. Signs of repair were visible on many buildings as well as on
the outer walls, with patches of clean stonework blending into
weather-worn, and wooden scaffolds attesting to the ongoing work.
Captain
Sæwon stood ready to greet Ingemon at the harbour. He made a quick
assessment of the approaching prince and noted that, despite his
youth, he wore his battle-armour with confidence. Whether or not such
undeniable self-possession is deserved, Sæwon thought, remains to be
seen. The captain had fought in many campaigns, and served under all
sorts of characters drawn from among the nobility of his kin.
Self-belief is a vital trait for leadership, and far from lacking
among the ruling class, he thought wryly. The hint of a smile touched
his lips, and then was gone. Prince Ingemon had almost reached him.
“My
Lord Ingemon, we are honoured to receive you. I am Sæwon, captain of
the fort's garrison, it is a pleasure to...” Ingemon strode past
him, his pace unchanged. Frowning, Sæwon followed just behind,
attempting to lock step with the prince's determined rhythm. So the
prince was that sort.
“I am sorry that we are unable to provide a more befitting
reception, but as you can see, we are still in the midst of
rebuilding the fort. Perhaps, my Lord, if we had received word-”
“Word
was sent when we departed Walldeep.”
This
surprised Sæwon, as the communications of their kin rarely lost
their way. He recovered quickly.
“Of
course, my Lord, only we have received no messages of any kind for
almost four months, nor responses to our own. When Master Iólon ran
out of birds to send, he-”
“Where
is the mage? Set up in the tower I expect?” They had passed through
the main square and were swiftly making their way towards the steps
leading up to the keep. Along their path elves paused in their work
to watch the pair stride by. Others had come to visit the island-fort
since it had been reclaimed six months past, but Ingemon was the
first royal to do so.
“Not
presently, my Lord, no. Master Iólon left Tiriant Dalath
just over a week ago.”
Ingemon,
who had just begun to mount the steps, stopped. It
was clear this had been the last thing he had expected to
hear. He turned to face
Sæwon, who braced himself to
receive the prince's ire, but
Ingemon's
eyes showed only alarm.
“Where?”
The word was spoken with concern, and
the captain realised he may have to revisit his earlier
assessment of
the prince.
“North,
to the lands of men. As I was saying, my Lord, he
sent numerous requests
to the King's court asking for permission to make
contact with a populace
calling itself
the League of Rhordia, and
once he ran out of messenger birds, well...”
Sæwon wasn't sure how to
end; it did not
bode well to discuss
the matters of mages, nor nobles for that matter.
“I
see. So he decided to go anyway.” Ingemon resumed climbing the
steps, but more slowly, apparently
deep in thought.
Sæwon followed, content to
await the prince's next words. He
did not
have to wait long. At the top of the steps and
before the great door,
Ingemon stopped.
“He
has left me no choice.”
He
turned once again to Sæwon.
“I shall have to pursue him. My men and I will need supplies for
the journey, as well as all the information you have on the local
territories.”
“At once, my Lord.”
Ingemon
inclined his head appreciatively, and
turned towards the door. Folding his arms, he looked up at the
building
before him. At around six hundred feet, the tower at Tiriant Dalath
was an uncommonly large
structure this far north, but was as
an ant
to a mammoth when compared to Therennia Adar,
in whose shadow rests the
great city of the Sea-Kindred.
“I
shall also require half your garrison.”
Now
it was Sæwon's
turn to be alarmed. “But my Lord, that would make the fort near
indefensible!”
“Nevertheless,
it is what I require.” He
turned to face
Sæwon. “Do not worry
yourself,
captain, I am reasonably
certain that the fort will be
untroubled by
the war.”
“The
war, my Lord?”
Ingemon
nodded. “A great war.
Perhaps the greatest since winter's rage itself.” He
paused. “A war of change at the very least, although
what kind of
change remains to be seen.”
He turned and pushed open the
door. “I shall be in the mage's study, alert me when my men have
been supplied with what we will need.”
“As
you wish, my Lord.”
Before
he began his descent, Sæwon
noted that Ingemon
once again moved with focus:
the prince
was confident of his decision.
***
Unbeknownst
to Prince Ingemon, he was not the only one in pursuit of Iólon. Far
to the north, goblin biggit Grotti-khan had rallied a handful of his
mounted gits and set off in pursuit of the elf. Even carrying the
wounded mage, Iólon's tallspear soldiers covered ground quickly, and
by the time Grotti-khan got the gits together they were beyond sight.
No matter, he thought, Rip-fang has them. His wolf knew the stink of
elves well, and would not lose their trail.
Among
his assembled crew were two other wolf-mounted goblins, and three
riding great spiders. Good enough for raiding a lone merchant,
perhaps, or even an ill-prepared convoy, but Grotti-khan had his
doubts about rushing head-on at this group of elves. That said, the
mage-elf had burned him. He had burned his wolf. His eyes narrowed.
That had hurt. Nobody hurt him and lived, not this elf, and not those
orcs. They had beaten Grotti-khan, many times, and he had killed
them, killed them all, knife in the throat while they slept...
He
shook himself from the memory. Besides, the elves had loot, good
loot, and we never lets good loot go, no no no. They outnumbered him
now, it's true, but many more goblins followed him. He just had to
keep tracking the elves, and wait for the moment to strike.
Rip-fang
stopped for a moment and began investigating. Grotti-khan stroked his
mane. This was not so much an act of affection as it was respect.
While the biggit felt the sting of fear about as much as the rest of
his kind, this wolf was near fearless, and Grotti-khan drew on that,
found steel in it.
They
pressed on, and soon enough a small farming settlement appeared on
the horizon. Smoke rose from a number of buildings, and the fields
too showed signs of having been burned. While some might have
mistaken this for the aftermath of a raid, Grotti-khan suspected
that, like many of the other settlements they had come across, it was
committed by the population itself as they abandoned their lands.
Suddenly
Rip-fang's head shot up, sniffing at the air. With a whimper it
shrank back, its ears flat. The two other wolves displayed similar
agitation. A new smell had been carried by the wind, one that had
struck fear into the beasts, even into the near-fearless Rip-fang.
Grotti-khan stood up in his saddle and looked around, straining his
neck for any hint as to what might have provoked them.
“There!”
cried one of the gits, pointing west. Grotti-khan looked, and for a
moment saw nothing, until he realised that the dark cloud emerging
over the horizon was not natural. Nor was it the dust of an army
marching. It was far faster, and far worse. Pestilence.
He
looked again at the settlement. There was one building, a large hovel,
that was unscathed by the flames, and was almost certainly where the
elves had established themselves. To have them right there, only for
those things to interfere... Slowly, a malicious smile began to form
on his face. The death the mage-elf is going to suffer at their hands
will surely be terrible beyond imagining, and though neither the
revenge nor the loot would be his, this at least was a comforting
thought. He turned Rip-fang away from the settlement.
“We're
done here.”
***
Inside
the hovel, Sergeant Pennor woke from sleep. The twenty-five elves
shifted positions like clockwork, some taking up sentry posts at
various vantage points while those relieved of this duty prepared to rest. They did not actually need to sleep – they could remain
awake for several days if necessary – but since the situation
demanded they stay put, there was no reason not to take advantage of
it. The small building provided little room for comfort, especially
for so many, but it was undamaged and had good lines of sight to the
surrounding area. Pennor inspected the men. In their flight from the
goblins his tallspears had managed to join up with the surviving
kindred archers. While spirits could not be described as high, their
discipline and determination remained firm. They would get their
charge to safety. His gaze shifted to the mage. Iólon had been
placed on the only bed in the building, and it was there the elves
had patched his wounds as best they could, removing the vicious
goblin's arrow from his chest. The bleeding had stopped quickly, and
his heart had slowed to a crawl. One would be forgiven for thinking
the mage at death's door, but Iólon's lack of consciousness was
actually a meditative state, an act of self-healing, common enough
among those elves educated in the ways of magic.
A
sharp whisper broke the silence of the homestead: “Sergeant!”
Pennor
moved swiftly to the elf that had spoken. “Movement?” The elf
nodded, and moved aside. Pennor peered through the small window. He
could see a narrow path between two hovels, and a heavily damaged
stable on the other side. He watched for several seconds, but there
was nothing. “Where did you-”
A
small arrow leapt from the shadows of the damaged stable, and stuck
fast in the window frame. “Goblins!” yelled Pennor, and the elves
were up in an flash, tallspears making ready to pour out of the
single doorway with precision, the archers preparing themselves at
the windows.
There
was a shout from outside. The language sounded harsh to Pennor's
ears, but it was also unlike any goblin tongue he had ever heard. The
elves stood ready, and for a moment there was quiet. Then the shout
came again, repeating its demand (it certainly sounded like a
demand). Pennor was sure now; whoever they were, they were not
goblins. He decided to yell back, tell them to show themselves, but
before he had begun filling his lungs he felt a hand on his shoulder.
He turned to find the mage had awoken, and was standing at his side.
“They
want us to identify ourselves,” Iólon said, before releasing a
great length of syllables through the window, sounds that closely
resembled the newcomers' speech. There was a pause, and then a single
word was returned. Before Pennor realised what was happening, Iólon
had opened the door and stepped outside. Inwardly cursing the mage, the
sergeant signaled his men to follow quickly. They flowed through the
doorway like water in a stream, and moved to form a defensive
formation. When they attempted to interpose themselves between the
mage and the source of the voice, Iólon flung out his arms, yelling
“Back! Keep your weapons down!” before once again addressing the
hidden speaker.
Slowly,
a group of very short, human-like men emerged. Pennor blinked. It was
as if they had been hiding in plain sight, so obvious should they
have been in their chosen hiding spots, but even his keen elven
eyesight had missed them completely. They carried bows that were
knocked with arrows, although undrawn and pointing to the ground.
They wore uniform blue coats that were dirty from mud and navigating
rough terrain – they were clearly scouts. Their faces bore looks of
total astonishment. It was clear that not one among them had ever
seen an elf in the flesh before, not to mention a regiment of
Sea-Kindred soldiers, resplendent in their gilded, ruby-inlaid
armour.
One
of the halfmen stepped forward. Unlike the others his coat was a deep
green, although he wore a blue broad-rimmed hat with a long white
feather, fastened to it by a bronze pin in the shape of a skull. In
place of a bow he carried a sling, which he held casually and without
threat, though Pennor had the sense that this could change in an
instant. Focusing on his face he saw that, while the halfman was
clearly surprised by what had emerged from the dwelling, he was not
so much awed as amused. He spoke, addressing himself to Iólon in
what sounded like polite, if somewhat informal tones. They began to
converse, the conversation remaining friendly despite the occasional
difficulty in communication; it appeared the tongues were close but
not an exact match. More halfmen began to emerge from behind the
scouts, these ones being equipped with a variety of melee weapons.
Some men (full-sized) also appeared, hefting great polearms on their
shoulders. Men and halfmen alike wore a variety of blue garments, and
Pennor realised that this must be a militia.
The
dialogue stopped and both turned back to their men. Iólon approached
Pennor, “Well, we have found men of the League at last.
Specifically a band led by Master Sergeant Gotthard Zeeman Visser-”
on hearing his name the halfman turned to the elves and bowed low,
“they are marching to join forces with their duke, and have been
checking settlements on the way, both for survivors and to make
certain that nothing has been left to the goblins. Although the word
he used was closer to 'vermin', which works just as well I suppose.
He spoke of a war, which I assume is the one being inflicted on them
by the 'vermin'. He also mentioned that they are being rallied to
'the wall', which I assumed was some sort of fortress but he said no,
and then nothing much he said after that made sense. Regardless, we
shall join them. They will take us to this duke and I will begin
discussions with him.”
“But
Master Iólon, begging your forgiveness, these lands are utterly
blighted! What value could there possibly be in-”
Iólon
waved him silent, and was about to say something when a commotion
broke out among the League militia. Iólon turned, and (Pennor
presumed) asked what was wrong. Gotthard spoke rapidly, and turned
back to the men, by the looks of it giving them orders. They began to
gather in formation, facing west. “Master Iólon?” Pennor asked.
“He
says the 'vermin' are coming fast, into the village square. Get your
men ready, sergeant.”
In a
matter of moments the elves were arranged into fighting formation.
Pride swelled in Pennor's heart upon seeing his Star Shields arrayed
before him. He hefted the regiment's banner, and gave a blast on his horn. They began to march.
We decided to play a 650pts game of Dominate, which would introduce
the Ratkin and League of Rhordia to our campaign. Since we were
playing at a small points level we used a smaller board, although we
still kept the deployment zones 24'' apart.
The Ratkin raiding
force consisted of:
Regiment of Blight
Regiment of Brutes
w. Helm of Confidence
Regiment of Warriors
2x Regiment of
Vermintide
Blight Lord w. Soul
Drain and Weakness
In the Elf/League
Alliance, we had:
Regiment of Kindred
Tallspears
Troop of Kindred
Archers
Elven Mage w.
Inspiring Talisman
Regiment of Halfling
Braves
Troop of City
Militia
Troop of Halfling
Scouts
Halfling Master
Sergeant w. Bow
 |
| Deployment Overview |
Elves & League
Turn 1:
Seizing the
initiative, the elf/man/halfling alliance moved to defend the
settlement.
The melee forces
pushed up while the archers readied a volley.
The troop of militia
circled the house, hoping to catch the enemy's flank exposed.
Leaning over the
obstacles, both the elf and halfling archers targeted the two
vermintide regiments. The swarm targeted by the elves shrugged off
the hail of arrows sent their way but the others, despite receiving
only 2 damage from the halfling scouts, panicked and broke for the
hills (double 6 on the nerve roll!).
Ratkin Turn 1:
The verminous horde
moved forward, careful to maintain formation.
The surviving
vermintide pressed towards the elven archers, who would have one last
turn to halt their advance...
Elves & League
Turn 2:
As
he led the Star Shields into the square, Sergeant Pennor was finally
able to take in the enemy that was pouring towards them. Disgust
clawed at his mind – these were not the goblin hordes they had
encountered many times before. Walking on two legs in a mockery of
the higher races were huge rats, equipped with an assortment of
weapons and shields. They were descending upon the square with
horrifying speed. Around half of them appeared loaded with disease,
their eyes bleeding and their mouths frothing, in frayed yellow-green
rags and carrying rusted armaments.
Gotthard
began shouting, making sure he had Iólon's attention. When he was
done Iólon gave a nod, and turned to Pennor.
“We
are going to draw them in and surround them. The halfmen are the
bait, get ready!”
“Understood!”
Pennor cried, “Star Shields, wall!” The tallspears formed a
phalanx around the sergeant, and awaited the order to advance.
On each flank the
trap was set. The militia prepared to catch the blight off-guard,
while the tallspears readied to spring on the warriors. True to their
name, the halfling braves boldly claimed the centre, moving into the
charge range of the ratkin and daring them to attack.
The elven archers
once again targeted the vermintide, and this time were able to waver
them. The halfling master sergeant and the scouts combined their fire
into the blight, and despite the noxious cloud shrouding them the
blight suffered 2 damage, although it was not enough to deter them.
The halfling master sergeant and the scouts combined their fire
into the blight, and despite the noxious cloud shrouding them the
blight suffered 2 damage, although it was not enough to deter them.
Ratkin Turn 2:
Plague Lord Festeek
was hungry. They were all hungry. The pink-things had burned
everything. They had burned the food! It made no sense, it was total
insanity. But it's fine, he thought, totally fine. Because pink-ones
are delicious.
Especially the
little ones.
And here they were,
on a platter. A big, square platter. He didn't even have to give the
order, his ratkin had surged forward with famished glee. As he ran
behind them, however, he spotted something out of the corner of his eye.
Taller pink-ones had appeared from behind one of their surface-boxes
and were preparing to attack the ratkin flank. It was a trap!
There was no use
trying to alert his kin, so all consuming was their hunger for what
stood before them. He tried to cast magicks at the sneaky
pink-ones, but it was rushed and clumsy, and the spell failed to
materialise. This could be bad.
Charge! The warriors
and the blight descended upon the halflings with glee. The wavered
vermintide on the flank made good use of their nimble to hide behind
the tower, enough to claim cover at least.
The brutes moved to join
the fray at the earliest opportunity. The blight lord attempted to
cast Weakness on the militia, but the spell failed.
In the combat the
ratmen underperformed, causing only 4 damage, but with a decent nerve
roll were at least able to waver the braves.
Elves & League
Turn 3:
The trap was sprung,
with the tallspears and militia charging into flanks. The halfling
scouts spied the brutes over the combat and managed to inflict 1
damage, which the brutes ignored. The elven archers hopped the
obstacle and put another volley into the vermintide, which was enough
to send them scurrying.
In the combats, the
tallspears inflicted 11 damage on the warriors and broke them, while
the militia managed 7 on the blight and sent them packing. With the
ratkin front line collapsed, the men and elves turned to face the
remaining rats.
Ratkin Turn 3:
The brutes charged
into the tallspears, failing to regenerate their 1 damage in the
process. The blight lord moved to protect the brutes' flank from the
militia, casting Soul Drain into the tallspears as he did so. He only
managed to inflict 1 damage, but was at least able to heal the brutes
in the process.
There
was no time for celebration. As they scattered the rat-filth before
them, a grotesque roar sounded to the Star Shields' left. “Left!”
ordered Pennor, and he gave a blast on his horn. In a flash, the
phalanx reformed to face the source. Pennor had barely a second to
process the nightmare before their eyes. The brutes slammed forward,
and the formation was shattered.
The brutes rolled
well in the combat, inflicting 5 damage on the elves. They then
rolled high for nerve twice, getting a 9 the second time which with
the help of brutal forced a rout! With the elves scattered before
them, they turned to face the inevitable counter charge.
Elves & League
Turn 4:
Once again true to
their name, the halfling braves charged past the fleeing elves into
the brutes. The militia decided to try their luck with the blight
lord, in the hopes of at least shutting down his magic, while
everything else closed in on the centre.
The militia scored 3
damage on the blight lord, disrupting his magic. The halfmen put 3
damage on the brutes, which was not enough to halt their rampage.
Ratkin Turn 4:
Both the blight lord
and the brutes counter charged, the brutes regen bringing them back
to 1 damage. The lord only managing 1 point on the militia, which
they ignored. The brutes rolled abysmally, managing only 1 damage,
bringing the halflings up to 5. Some lucky rolls on the nerve
combined with brutal was once again just enough to send them fleeing,
however.
Elves & League
Turn 5:
While the militia
continued to trade blows with the blight lord, the rest of the army
had lined up to combine fire on the brutes. Through combined fire
they inflicted 6 damage, bringing the total to 7 and, despite the
Helm of Confidence, routing the unit. The militia brought the blight
lord up to 6 damage but were unable to remove him.
Festeek dodged
another swing from a taller pink-one. Grabbing the polearm, he
pulled its owner toward him and sunk his teeth into his neck.
Deliiicious. He ripped back, taking as much flesh with him as he
could. As the pink-one fell gurgling to the ground, his comrades were
frozen for a moment by the sheer horror. Festeek surveyed the battle.
His kin were in disarray, dead or in full flight. For a moment his
sheer rage at defeat wrestled with his fear of death, but eventually
fear won, as it always did with his kind. He uttered a quick
incantation, and a noxious cloud flooded the air around, causing his
enemies to back away coughing. He made his escape.
At this point my
brother decided that the blight lord would no doubt cut his losses
and high-tail it (probably with a little help from pestilent
magicks). Elves and League win!
As
soon as he realised what was happening, Iólon cast a blast of air at
the green cloud. It seemed to resist pulling apart, but began to
disperse nonetheless. Their leader was gone.
The
halfmen scouts ran forward and began cutting the throats of wounded
rats, shooting arrows into those that still looked like they might
have fight in them. Gotthard approached the mage.
“Well
fought, Master Iólon. I see the tales of elven valour are not
exaggerated.” His tone was respectful, but there was just a hint of
mockery in his eyes. Behind them Sergeant Pennor's horn could be
heard as he rallied the surviving tallspears.
“And
well fought to you, Master Sergeant. I take it you have encountered
these creatures before?”
He
nodded grimly. “I first heard word of them last year, but I didn't
believe any of it. Their attacks began several weeks ago. Add that to
the recent upsurge in goblin numbers and, well, let's just say we've
seen better days.” The scouts were finishing their work, and the
elves were occupying themselves with the wounded.
“Your
wounded are in good hands,” said Iólon, “I will see to them
myself. I hope we have sufficiently demonstrated our good
intentions.”
“Of
course, Master Iólon.” He scanned the battlefield. “We will need
to burn the dead. They'll return to eat them if we don't.”
“I'm
sure. We, however, will deal with our own.”
Gotthard
nodded. “I understand. We'll leave when the wounded are ready. I
will take you to see the duke.” Iólon followed the halfling's gaze
to the statue standing in the square. The mage realised that this was
Primovantian in origin, likely a rendering of Mescator, Celestian and
God of Justice. It was smeared with ratkin blood. When he turned back
to Gotthard, the halfling was looking at him. He wore a curious
smile. “You'll like the duke, I think. He is... an interesting
man.”
