See session I here.

Transcript

Orcish Envoy to the Reyan Citadel
A party of orcs arrived at the Reyan Citadel, representing the invaders at Pollee, bearing a token of Etharch Sanaati's beloved nephew, Telenar. Breaking from council, Janis, Lord Protector of the Citadel, railed against the Etharch, cursing the weakness of his grief, the ignobility in tolerating the Orcish presence. At the sight of Jallaie, Janis humbled himself and asked for her confidence.

Sanaati entered, and Janis and his courtiers left the antechamber. Along the leaf-lined skyway, the Etharch instructed his daughter at length to deliver the copy of his scribe to a ranger that waited in the stables below. Jallaie acquiesced with gracious curtsey.

The ranger, Dreie, drew a sharp breath at the sight of lovely Jallaie. He pleaded for a desperate errand that she might grant him some small boon; perhaps a lock of her hair. She asked him to send his friend, the bread maker, in his stead with orders of her own hand, that they might rescue her cousin together.

Outside the outer rings of tower nests, the Orcish envoy sneered and grunted. A rider bearing the raiment of Dreie rode out into the woods to deliver Sanaati's missive. The Etharch turned from the skyways and wept, his courtiers and guardsman ushering him away. Janis scowled and wrung his sword handle. The Etharch's scribe held a scroll with an unbroken royal seal; he seemed confused and tried vainly to cross the throng surrounding his lord. The Etharch Mother called for her youngest and most beautiful daughter, but she could not be found.

Splitting the Loot
Jacob of the White Tower tracked the robber band to their camp in a vale, South and East of Moraber. In a copse outside the site, he came upon the men he remembered as archers, arguing and jostling one another about. One named Boren thrust a green vial of liquid, no more than a swallow, into the other man's hand, one named Artǔs. It had a lid in the shape of a frog's head. Boren told the man that they must act tonight, before the party disbanded for the season.

They returned. Darmet sulked while his looters separated the merchant caravan loot: small purses for the men; saddle bags and bolts of silk for himself. This was no voyage of commerce; the money was meant for a bank vault, and the fine cloth was surely intended to smooth relations with officers of trade. Artǔs offered Darmet a flagon of wine to celebrate their capture. Darmet disdained the civil swill and left abruptly, leading the looter wagon.
- "I make for Moraber. I will find you if I need you."

Jacob emerged from the trees.
- "Behold and be amazed! I am Jacob of the White Tower! Beware my mystic wrath!" The archers wheeled about, spraying wine and fumbling for a dirk. The rhythmic stress of the man's voice matched the swirling of ice crystals in the air. His eyelids flickered, and at once, he gave way. The men approached his fallen form with curiosity.

Shaman of the Firebrands
Surt approached the gates to the hall of the Firebrands. He glared, dully, at the flicker of braziers along the top of the wall. In his company were Dreck, Trophy Killer Chieftain and newly acquired thrall, and a lesser entourage. An orc of middling frame appeared, dressed in ritualistic garb and accoutrements. He was Shargăl, shaman to the Firebrand clan. He addressed Surt by his former title and explained his charge of safety to the warrens below while the horde was emptied onto the marshlands to the West, for the Outpouring of the Cycles was upon them.

Surt bristled and barked with such awful twisting of his gnarled visage that Shargăl whined and beat his brow. The gates drew open. Inside, Surt tore the whelp's ear and charged him to lead an exodus of their breeders into the Looter and Trophy Killer lands; there, he would await command until his return from securing allegiance of the Crow Field Sowers in the ravaged Elvish City of Pollee. This unspeakable dereliction drew protest from Shargăl, and for that, he lost the ear.

Orders from the Bread Maker
Rearguard scouts accompanied a rider from the citadel. He was brought to Vorzell, Lord Protector of Reya's Eastern Woods, and presented a scroll.

[code]
"Dearest uncle,

Leave your men in your captains' charge and ride for Opal in Breha. Relay our plight and convince their leaders to ally unto you a second army, to face our common enemy.

I ride for Pollee and our cherished one, Telenar.

Your Devoted Niece,
Jallaie."
[/code]

Vorzall looked up at the messenger and eyed the corner of an apron, dabbed in flour, hanging below the loose-fitting cuirass. Go to the humans? With the Black Horde at our door? It made no sense.

The Apothecary at Moraber
A round slug of a man rested his paunch on the lip of a heavy oak table. Amid the glow of lanterns, he flicked the braids of his greased beard. A tall, severe woman stood a few paces behind and to the left. Her hands were clasped over the brass ball of a rod. She stared intently at the odd visitor: a half-breed swordsman, with a scarf wound up to his chin, dumping merchant ware out onto the long tables of the hall.
- "Did you spin these sheets yourself?" the man asked. Darmet curled his lip. Thick saliva drooled onto the folds of his scarf. Fantar was his fence in Moraber. He turned the ill-gotten gains of craftsmen into coin that Darmet could stow in his many safe houses. The outcast creature had no use for fine things, nor the company of men who gathered their children and spat at the sight of him.

After some haggling over price, Darmet accompanied Fantar's mistress, Jessica, into her room of ledgers and potions.
- "More poisons for your prey? You still owe for the credit of your man's last purchase." Jessica drew her hand across shelves of jars and vials, past a row of frog-shaped heads and a spot, uncovered by dust. The binding creaked and pages fanned in her book of accounts. Darmet thought of his mother, teaching him letters by candle light in the loft of a Thrumbey farmer's barn, where she had shared her body for a night's shelter. He looked down and read his archer's name. Next to it was the entry: frog's blood. It was a stomach rot that young wives dumped in porridge for their aging Moran husbands, which they ate with kidney meat when ailing in Winter. They would choke to death on the phlegm the stuff caused to bubble up, and the murderous harlot's lover would soon share the house as well.
- "Shall I apply some measure of your payment to clear this balance?" Darmet growled and stamped his feet.

Flowers for the Whores
Jacob had a nightmare that he was thrown from the cliff walls of the Tower Island, his face buffeted by outcropping stones as he fell. He woke, bound and gagged, draped over a horse, behind the saddle, his head bobbing against its flank as a rider urged it on. He could see the moonlit silhouette of a second rider as its glow broke through the trees.

After some time, mercifully, they come to a stop. The horses tethered, the men hauled Jacob onto the porch of a building and dragged him through the door. They were greeted by scented and jeweled women in suggestive dress. The archer robbers promised a magical spectacle for dalliance. The grand dam spoke derisively of this prospect, eyeing Jacob with skepticism. More ladies gathered as curious talk spread.

Artǔs loosened Jacob's bonds. He whispered, "You have the Gift, but you're no Fire Mage. Put on a good show and you'll earn dinner. Fail again, .." He tapped the pommel of his dirk. Jacob stood and worked the blood into his wrists. Ladies caroused about the staircase and parlor floor.

Keen with chagrin, Jacob saw in his mind the velvet petals of a rose, and behold! One appeared before him. He pulled it from the air and handed it to a lovely maiden that eyed him with wonder. But when she reached to grasp the stem, it vanished! She gasped, and sounds of clapping and giggles were heard. Artǔs and Boren grabbed two women apiece and headed up the stairs.
- "Loosen your harness, wenches!" The grand dam sent Jacob to the kitchen where a fat, disheveled man pushed a bowl of beets and mutton across a table. He returned, later, with ale.

A Test of Darkness
Surt rode astride a warg. He was accompanied only by Dreck. Rearguard scouting parties of Orcs ran ahead, reporting his approach. He came upon a thick line of flaming sticks and twine-strung bows. Three rode out ahead.
- "Hail, Dreck, Chieftain of the Trophy Killers." They turned, regarding Surt. "You wear the dress of a Shaman, though it has fallen into disrepair. Are you a messenger from the Troll Lords?" Surt snorted.
- "This one you recognize is less than a few blades of grass. The lords you revere may rot in their stone fortress; I care not. Such is my power. For I am Surt, High Shaman Who Breaks the Mountain, born of the Troll Lord Clan." The center rider spoke, "It cannot be. Troll Lord Dirk Biter carries the shaman's curse for drowning him in the black water pools. Now, none will challenge him, lest his doom pass to them."
- "Your minds are soft as the skulls of men. The knave spreads such lies to gird his weakness of limb. Name your challenge," Surt said. After council, their leader spoke, "Summon a Servant of Darkness."

Surt stood to the side of a wooden bier, roasting the flesh of those wounded by the Elvish swords and the writhing, screaming deserters the Sower riders managed to herd. He raised his remaining arm to the night. The stars seemed to dim and wink out. The sky above the marshland fields sank into a vortex of darkness, coalescing and swirling like tendrils of ink. The gathering of regulars shuddered and howled in witness. With greater and greater fervor, he knotted the muscles of his arm, his chest heaving. Amidst an ocean of silence in his mind, Surt peered into the vast plane of darkness beyond the World Revealled by Light and saw the awful face of One Who Dwells in Darkness. These terrible words broke like the ringing of bells forged by gods, whose great hollows cover the bodies of trolls, to strike the winds and carry their message across the lands of all living things: you are no longer worthy.

The horde mauled him. Surt sank beneath the pile, tearing open many throats.

The Violent Caller at Opal's Keep
A trio of cloaked figures approached the barbican to the Baron of Opal. It had been simple to pass through the city gates, mixing among the peasants, coming to market. Vorzell had been overwhelmed by the dizzying network of buildings and streets. The city was buzzing with military exercises, servants running errands and rich people in exotic dress, engaged in decadent feasts and panting and shouting at sports of blood.

The guard captain refused the Elvish lord in a gruff manner. Already frazzled by sights of foreign wickedness, Vorzell boiled over at this humiliation. He gutted the man in a single stroke. His nature shone as a Thing of the Forest, and the guards cowered in wonderment. After some scrambling among the parapets, Barebi, Seneschal to Opal's Baron, appeared, ringed by a score of crossbowmen.
- "What is your business, Lord Elf? Why have you brought violence to our land?"
- "From what I have seen of your land, it is an engine of violence. Your youths play mock duels in the streets as you load their fathers into harbors of war galleys."
- "Our galleys do not travel to your woods. Be grateful."
- "Bah! Make your wars upon each other. You bear all the evil of the Black Legion; it is hidden in your souls."
- "Begone, Lord Elf! I'll suffer you no longer."

As Vorzell and his company collected their mounts outside the city, a lone rider approached. She dismounted and lowered her hood, revealing flowing tresses of blond curls. Vorzell had never seen such a sight.
- "Lord Elf, I am Shelandra, Lady to Lord Torzel. We know of the Black Devils affront against the People of the Woods. My lord asks that you dine at our estate this night."

Ambush Awry
Approaching Pollee after a hard day's ride, Jallaie and Dreie spotted a forward scout of the enemy, feasting on a doe by a stream. Dreie came at the creature, sword drawn. It scrambled back, spitting flesh, blood dripping from its lips. Dreie advanced and swung wide. The battle-hardened Orc ducked under the arc of the Elf's arm and hooked his limbs into the torso space, stabbing again and again. Jallaie's face went white when she saw the blood flying off its dagger each time the Orc pulled it free. She drew a knife from her belt. Dreie collapsed. Jallaie dropped the knife and ran.

A Rider at the Axe Hand Camp
A band of Axe Hand Raiders finished off the townsfolk who had not fled: those too old to keep up and the mothers alongside the children they couldn't bear to leave behind. Amid the terror of slaughter, a lone rider approached by the main road of the East Moran village. Krieg, the Axe Hand Lord of this band, eyed the cloaked figure with begrudging admiration. His seconds came forward.
- "Let him pass," Krieg said. "I suppose you came to avenge your countrymen. I had hoped to find one good spine among this rabble." Krieg pulled his axe from a ruined pasture fence.

Darmet threw back his hood. Krieg hesitated. Half-breed, he thought.
- "I have work for you lackeys, though your garment betrays some softness of man."
- "I am no lackey. I come with a proposition: ally your men with mine and we shall raze the Ennedorian City of Thrumbey. I will pass my take to you."
- "There is no profit in Thrumbey; it is infected with religion. Besides, the Troll Lords have awarded it for Maw to punish." Darmet shifted uneasily, noticing Krieg's guards draw close. He tossed an open purse of coins at the Axe Hand captain's feet.
- "This is but a taste of the bounty I promise."
- "Are you as a great a fool as you seem, or is there some prize known to you through your dealings with men?" The last word burned in Krieg's mouth. His contempt of humanity and its culture of dialogue choked his throat and incensed his brain.

The Axe Lord guards lunged for Darmet. He stepped aside and drew his sword in passing. Krieg did not give rise. Misunderstanding the ritual, Darmet raised his sword overhead, to strike at Krieg. Astounded, Krieg caught the blow with the haft of his axe as his companions mobbed the sword hand. One embraced the half-breed, binding his free arm and punting the breath from his lungs. Darmet swung wildly, greatly distressed and confused as to his own intentions; nothing was going as planned. An axe gashed his forehead, drowning his eyes. Darmet growled and sweated. He thought of the older boys in Thrumbey and how they used to tie his arms and legs and throw him into the well behind the temple. His sight clouded over.

Drunken Conspirators
- "You .. Y'know, I really love you." Artǔs draped his arm across Jacob's shoulders. He emptied ale mugs with the other arm. Boren leaned back from the kitchen table and burped.
- "You're something else, Jack –"
- "Jacob."
- "Anyways, I'm just saying; I haven't fucked like that since we raided that light follower commune—"
- "Or whatever they're called."
- "—outside of Moraber." It was early morning, and the sun was beginning to peak through the windows.
- "You may not be a Fire Mage, but your mind tricks can really come in handy."
- "You mean I could help more than I have already? And here I was just going to stab you both and take your money." Artǔs and Boren paused for a moment. Then all three laughed at once. Boren clapped his hand on Jacob's shoulder.
- "Seriously, we've got a big fish to fry."
- "And an ugly one, too."
- "You don't mean that tall half-breed, do you?" Artǔs looked at Boren.
- "His name is Darmet. He's a real tough one. No trust in his bitter heart. Has stashes of coin at all these little hideouts he goes to."
- "And you know where they are?" asked Jacob.
- "Never been," Boren said. "Like I said, he trusts no one." Boren pounded the table for emphasis. Jacob raised his hands as if to say, I get it.
- "So how do you plan on getting him to talk?"
- "That's where you come in .."

Chained Among Elves
Surt arose from slumber. His shoulder was a deep pit of pain, shouting at the rest of his body. He dragged his legs up under himself to relieve the strain. The manacles chaffed at his wrist and ankles. Across the way, he could see Dreck, sharing the punishment of his lord. Proper, thought Surt. The worst of his humiliation was proximity to the Pollee war prisoners. The very notion of taking prisoners maddened him. He could only assume they were spared for some future terror.

A group of riders were attended by guards outside the Sower captain's tent. They pointed to a slender, naked boy Elf, who hung limply from his cuffs. It was Telenar, the Ranger of Pollee's militia, who joined ranks with the elite guard to secure the Princess Jallaie's escape during the initial assault. Surt marked the boy. Then he turned his attentions to his own condition. He eyed the bolt that secured the length of his arm chain. It would not hold him.

Negotiations with the Brehan Noble
- "Do try our wine, Lord Vorzell," said Torzel. Vorzell surveyed the opulent hall as he sipped the vinegary liquid. It tasted like wine that had forgotten it was wine. On either side of Torzel were fat, brown-skinned eunuchs wearing white cloaks wrapped about their loins and fanning slender, feathery plant stalks. Vorzell wished that he hadn't inquired as to the servants' nature. Humans were barbarians.

Lord Torzel had impressed Vorzell, initially. He had an even stance and regarded Vorzell directly, without suspicion or dread.
- "I deal with foreigners frequently as part of my shipping enterprise," he explained.

After agreeing to some entertainment for their meal, Vorzell grew more and more impatient, freting over the safety of his army, hoping that Jallaie hadn't involved him in anything foolish. Vorzell endured the sickening spectacle of a human performer prodding a young bear to mimick movements and speech. In the bear's eyes he saw himself, harried by fools to act against his purpose.

At last, Shelandra took notice of his consternation and clapped her hands.
- "Enough! Away with you all." The various performers guffawed and preened their way to exit. Torzel shot her a look.
- "Come, my lord. Must you exhaust our remarkable guests?"
- "Quite right, dear girl." Shelandra leaned near and kissed his temple. At that moment, their difference in age struck Vorzell in an unsettling way.
- "Lord Torzel, I represent nobility within our highest council that seeks your aid by strength of arms in our time of crisis to repel the Orcish invaders."
- "Just so, Lord Vorzell. But what will it profit me?" Flustered, Vorzell replied, "The Orcs are our common enemy. Both our lands border the marshs where they roam."
- "Yes, but the marshlands are for doggerel. And no Orcish army has ever broken our city wall. It is impenetrable." Vorzell suffered in dismal silence. "But the woods of your land, we hear, are rare and of remarkable quality. I would be greatly interested in acquiring license to fell those mighty trees." Vorzell dug his nails into his palms 'til they bled. He stood from the floor cushions and tossed his dining cloth aside.
- "You know little of Elves, Lord of Opal." Vorzell motioned for his company to follow.
- "Are you sure you won't stay? There's going to be a play!"

abzu wrote: [paraphrasing] that's great, but WHAT HAPPENED? How was this BW and not D&D?

"It took 30 minutes to kill that one Ranger."
Yea, that was me. Despite there being 2 characters against the orc, and that I was helping Tracy with the combat.. we had scripted only one thing over the course of 3 volleys. A doom was pronounced, and by the time the doom was uttered the ranger was dead. And *that* took 30 minutes, for essentially a 1 vs 1 fight!

"I hate BW combat."
Probably me also. And I stand by that.

The trip to Breha would have been better if there had been some investment, indeed. Being that this line of the plot was something not born of my own brain, I did not know where it was going. Vorzell was simply following orders from his niece. Upon getting to Breha it did not go as I thought it would. The problems arose from A) no persuasion skill(a fault with character generation/elven skills & songs vs universal skills, etc and not knowing what I could have and not have) B) gearing the character more for combat than social interactions, let alone social interactions with humans.

I had the idea that an elf in human lands would be a rare occurance, and hence acceptance into the palace would be easier. The guard sure did die for his insolence!

I also spent more time questioning Tracy about why I was there in the first place instead of spending time on how to get through the situation and back on a path of my own making. 'Dont worry, just trust me.' Yeah. After that, the explanation of hers that she wanted to gain the help of the humans was alien to me(again, speaking simultaneously IC and OOC) Vorzell, and most elves from what I have read of the BW book think that humans are.. hmmm.. 'unworthy' I guess would be the way to describe it. So it was perplexing at the very least as to why she wanted the human's help, but I just went with it.

A straight-forward approach would have helped greatly, but I was lost trying to think of why I was there, and then what to do about it. I remember that we cut away from this particular thread as I wrestled with the proverbial fork in the road of the plot.

Back to the 30-minute fight, which was absolutely insane. TROS battles can be over verrrrrry quickly with much larger numbers of people, which can also include multiple PC's. Personal bias aside, BW just bogs down at a certain point with the scripting and stuff and does not have the spontaneous aspects that other systems do. Complexity is the enemy of speed, you know. The learning curve with BW's combat is much greater than other systems. By the second session(respectively) we had a handle of both TROS and Traveller, and in the third session we had progressed to the point of trying some of the more advanced aspects of each system.

Here is my theory behind the molasses-like speed of BW combat:
-Forgetting the VA will *really* kick your ass.
-IMS complexity.
-Scripting, figuring out how many actions you have total and then how many you can do per volley.. and then which actions need to be placed before others. Weapon speed affects these things too. Also, if you scripted something but were not in range and expected to be.. you're going to be in a world of hurt. Then you have to call an audible and re-script... adding *more* to both time and complexity.
-Damage. The superficial wound hurts more compared to a flesh wound. Why?! I think it should be the opposite. The victim reacts to being hit superficially via hesitation, 'Ah! I've been hit!', compared to the -1 associated with being *physically* cut, bashed, beaten, shot, etc. from a flesh wound. A flesh wound usually means there's blood.

I think that's all I got for now. It's midnight, I got class in 8 hours.. and a mid-term test to be taken.

Ingenious/Cory