Frostgrave: The Night Before

The icy wind rattled the old knight's armor, and Amuron Owlkey looked his brother's way. Though almost ten years his senior and grey of beard, Amuron knew Hadrian's slouch was not one of frailty but of thoughtfulness. Sitting on a frost-bitten log, the knight sat staring into the fire, his blue-grey hood drawn up over his head. Nearby, Hadrian's sword lay next to him on the log and out of the snow. Snow which covered every tree, rock and inch of ground in the clearing they had chosen to camp in.

Amuron chuckled softly. Hadrian had always been the sensible one, the disciplined one. No one had been surprised when he had taken up the knightly order. He was a natural protector and Amuron admired that about his brother. It would also be something he would rely on very soon.

By contrast, there was nearly shock when Amuron enrolled in the colleges of magic. He had not taken it personally, since he knew his own impetuousness, his impatience and his quick (though short-lived) temper. But now, nearly thirty years later, he sat an accomplished wizard. In the snow. Staring at his brother.

Noticing Amuron's gaze, Hadrian shifted. He glowered out of his hood.

"Is something amusing?" he growled.

The wizard chuckled again, realizing he had heard him the first time. Amuron smiled broadly.

"You look cold. And troubled, brother."

Hadrian glowered harder, if that were possible, and pulled back his hood. The fire cast an orange glow over his snowy hair, almost returning it to the flaming red of his youth. Combined with his still-strong frame, he almost looked thirty again.

"Is she going to be warm enough?" Hadrian said, cocking his head in the direction of Amuron's apprentice. Elizabelle was setting up her tent, struggling a bit to get it raised. Though a few of the other men offered to help her, she refused. She was stronger than she looked. And she also looked very under-dressed, with her bare legs and low-cut tunic. Amuron chuckled again, knowing that was the provocation for his brother's comment.

"She knows the warmth charm as well as I do at this point," he said, smiling. "And it works very well. You aren't cold, are you?"

Hadrian stiffened at the implication. "No, I am not cold. I just don't know why you would bring this girl out here."

Amuron put on an exaggerated leer and leaned in toward his brother. "She has her uses."

The look on the old knight's face was priceless and the wizard nearly doubled over, his laughter echoing through the snow-covered rocks and trees. A few of the men looked their direction. Elizabelle still struggled with her tent, well used to her master's boisterous nature. When he finally recovered, he shook his head, smiling still.

"You know me better than that, Sir Owlkey. She is here because I will need her help and because first-hand experience is the best teacher. Those spells of hers will do her no good locked up in my tower. And she is harder than she appears."

Too hard, in Amuron's opinion, though she had right to be. When he had found her, it had been at the side of the road near-dead, with a good portion of her face burned by the thugs who had assaulted her. He had done the best he could to heal her, but healing was never his strong suit, and the scars remained. The wizard returned her to her farm, where her father promptly turned her out because she would never marry. So Amuron took her in, and so far he could not have asked for a brighter, more capable apprentice.

"We have done a fine job assessing who is cold and who is not," the wizard continued, "But you have still not told me what troubles you."

Hadrian's features returned to his glower. "I am not troubled," he grumbled out, "I am concerned. Felstadt is no place for grown men, let alone a girl of barely nineteen. Many wizards have entered the frozen city. Few have returned. Fewer still have returned unchanged. It is a dangerous place. I do not know if even I can protect you there."

Amuron's smile tightened, then drooped. "Having second thoughts about leaving the order?"

Hadrian's face softened, and it was his turn to smile, if slightly sadly. "No. The order can get by without me. The bonds of blood are stronger than any vow. Besides, what kind of brother would I be if I let you get eviscerated by demons?"

Amuron laughed again, stroking his thick brown beard. "Let us hope that most of the stories are exaggerated. I've seen demons at the colleges. They are not pretty. Well, some are, but they are the most dangerous ones. In any case, I think we will find more danger in other wizards."

"That is true," the knight agreed. "Avarice is always a dangerous thing. I still do not understand why you must go into the ruins. Gold and ambition have never appealed to you. Why are you risking your life in Frostgrave for scrolls and trinkets?"

Amuron turned thoughtful and it was his turn to stare into the fire. "I'm not," he said, his voice low and hushed, "They think I am." He waved a hand toward the handful of men he had brought with him. They were hard men. Strong men. Men motivated by wealth and the willingness to fight for it.

"That is another thing," said Hadrian "Can you trust these men? They are warriors, yes. But they are also thieves. Murderers. Blaggards. They could turn on you out there in the ruins."

The wizard smiled again. "Trust them? Not completely, no. But they are loyal. More than a few of them owe me their lives. Others owe me debts in other ways. And they know I fulfill my promises. I don't need to trust them. They trust me."

Hadrian scowled again and Amuron laughed. "Besides, if it goes south, well, I am a wizard after all."

"You can't cast spells in your sleep," Hadrian growled, "Unless you have a charm against slit throats. But you still have not answered me. What are you looking for?"

The wizard looked into his eyes, an uncommon seriousness settling over him. "I don't know. Ever since the snows receded and the city rediscovered, wizards and treasure seekers have been braving the dangers there. The promise of gold and glory is enough for any man, and the knowledge there priceless for any mage. It is no surprise that some test their luck and risk their lives."

Amuron shifted, looking back into the flames. "But I think there is more to it. I think something is drawing those with magic there. More and more wizards are flocking to the ruins. I don't think they really know why they are going anymore. Something is pulling them...us...to it. I want to know what that is."

The knight nodded. "Then, whatever it is, you are playing right into it's hands."

Amuron chuckled again. "Maybe so. For now we should get some rest. We will reach the outskirts of the city by early morning. Sleep well, brother."

The wizard stood, shaking some of the snow from his cloak and robes and began walking toward the camp proper. Elizabelle had finally raised her tent, and he intended to do the same to his, only with a little magical help. He looked back at his brother brooding into the fire, smiled then kept walking, hoping he had not doomed them all.

Son of the Great White North

I haven't had much time for hobby projects lately, and posting the bloggings even less, so yeah. Recently, however, I was invited into a new roleplaying group for a Pathfinder campaign. Well I say new, but Jay, our GM, is a close friend of mine. Jay and I have been through many a campaign before, both run by him and as battle-brothers in quests run my others in our old RPG group. Most of that group is scattered to the winds these days, so it was a real privilege to get to adventure with him again.

This image was both awesomer and sadder before I got married.

I have always loved playing in Jay's campaigns because he has an impressive attention to detail, especially so in his Luth setting. He has run games for others in this setting, but I have never been involved in one, though I have heard the stories. I'm very excited to finally get to experience the world. So excited that I resolved to paint up a whole new character mini for the campaign.

Luth has a land filled with Viking-esque people called Oebriens, and the people of the Great White North stood out to me because some of them could talk to their dead ancestors. In game this manifests as being able to cast Augury a few times a week. I wanted to take it a bit further and make my character a barbarian so devoted to his ancestors that he gained divine magic. Thus Boros the Redhand was born.

Of course I went to my gigantic pile of Bones minis immediately. I found an amazing muscle-bound figure with a huge axe and a tiny head that was perfect.

I was able to get a surprising amount of detail out of the figure. I chose a red/brass scheme as a cue from the name Redhand and because the demon-faced axe reminded me of something and old school Khornate Chaos Warrior would carry. Overall I am very happy with the result.

I also couldn't resist writing up a short character history.

Boros Mikkelson, The Redhand (Barbarian 2/Cleric 1)

The Great White North is a harsh and unforgiving place. None know this more than the Oebrien barbarians who live there. Villages are small, food scarce and warmth scarcer still. However, this harshness binds the Northerners together, sharing everything they have with each other and inducing a friendliness that, while overbearing at times, can make outsiders feel welcome. Northerners enjoy life to its fullest, with feasts and celebrations all year long. Ancestors are praised, mead is drunk and everyone lives each day as if it could be their last. In the Great White North, this could well be true.

Because farming and raising livestock are so hard in the North, many Northerners turn to raiding southern villages to feed their families. This does little to endear them to the peoples they raid, but the Northerners try to take as little as possible to survive, knowing well how it feels to have nothing. Only the wealthiest towns and villages are chosen, with poorer families spared if possible. Of course violence is inevitable and the Northerners have become renowned as fierce and savage warriors. Many towns work out a system of tribute to avoid bloodshed and some even hire Northerners as mercenaries to protect them against other would-be raiders.

It is into this world that Boros, son of Mikkel was born, in a tiny fishing village called Sutvarsk. Boros was huge, growing to almost six feet by his fourteenth birthday. His father was an accomplished raider, teaching Boros the way of the axe and it was something the boy excelled at. It was not long before Boros joined the raids himself, earning his own name next to his fathers as the Redhand. His berserk fury on the battlefield soon caught the eye of a small band of mercenaries called the Blackblades and he quickly found himself roaming far from home to the southern lands.

Boros has developed a taste for the foods of the south and enjoys cooking in that style, even having gone as far as carrying cooking tools and spices with him. The Blackblades have no objection to this, of course, and enjoy many of the Northern dishes he prepares as well.

Boros is particulary reverent to his ancestors, and communes with them often in the way of his people. So strong is his connection to the dead that some say he occasionally converses with the Great Father himself, the one common ancestor that those from the Great White North claim all men are descended from. Only Boros himself can say whether this is true for certain, but lately he has shown the ability to call on divine powers to bolster his allies and heal the wounded. Boros claims none of this power for himself, saying it is his ancestors guiding and protecting him and his allies.

For now Boros travels with the Blackblades, but his visions seem to have him troubled of late. Who knows where is ancestors will guide him next?

Boros in Deep Dark Dungeons

Of course Boros will probably find himself in my own dungeon crawling games. The following stats will work for both Song of Blades & Heroes and my own Deep Dark Dungeons supplement to those rules.

Boros, the Redhand.....76 Points

Quality 3+  Combat 4

Cleric, Dashing

That's all for now. I hope you have enjoyed hearing about Boros and maybe soon I will be able to tell more of his adventures.

Happy gaming!

Strange Astronomy

I don't usually work in public. The noise, curious onlookers and general disruption is simply not conducive. But the sun was shining and an empty stomach can be just as much a distraction or more. So I packed up my papers with a few books and went down to university cafe.

I was halfway through my cup of coffee and scribbling in my notebook when I noticed him. A young man had seated himself across from me at my otherwise secluded table. I'm sure I scowled as I pushed my barely nibbled sandwich to the side, making a bit of room. Despite this, he smiled warmly.

"Doctor Iverson?" he said, extending a hand which I grudgingly took. "I'm an admirer of your work. I couldn't help but come over and say hello."

I was surprised, certainly. He was young, but not quite young enough to be one of my students. He was certainly not old enough to be the kind to consort with the sort of stodgy, aged academia that would be interested in the few papers I had published. His blue-grey suit and fedora combination certainly didn't lend itself to that conclusion. Despite it being eleven o'clock in the morning, he looked ready for a night on the town. With a raised eyebrow, I shook his hand.

"Astronomy doesn't get many admirers," I replied. "Certainly not my brand of theoretical astronomy. I'm not even sure my colleagues appreciate my efforts." I chuckled, though half serious in my sentiments.

He smiled again, and it struck me oddly, as if his mouth were abnormally wide. As I looked him over more, he seemed sickly pale. His large eyes, which at first I had taken for sparkling with interest, now seemed glassy. The hand he had proffered suddenly felt clammy and I withdrew my own, surreptitiously wiping my palm on my pants under the table. If he noticed and was offended, he made no sign.

"Someday they will understand, Doctor," he said, his voice sounding serious in contrast with his outward demeanor. "There are more things in heaven and earth..." he paused mid-sentence, making a gulping sound before continuing, "than you could ever dream of. Your work has the potential to touch the gods themselves."

At this statement I did laugh. "Well, I don't know about that. All I am doing is trying to find stars we can't see yet, the ones beyond our telescopes. Charting gravity wells and the like. If God exists, sir, I doubt he cares much about my work, mister..." I trailed off, realizing he hadn't given his name.

"Wells," he replied, "John Wells. God exists, Doctor, and is much different than we imagine. It was a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Iverson. I really must be going." He made that strange gulping sound again then stood, smiling that odd smile, and strode away with an odd, bow-legged gait that caused him to bob through a crowd of students before disappearing.

Bewildered, I shook my head and went back to my work. Unfortunately, I ended up returning to my sandwich as I could not finish my notes. In addition to being thoroughly disrupted, I had left my star charts in my office, though I thought I had brought them with me.  I'm still having trouble locating them and fear I may have lost them on the way to the cafe.

It simply does not pay to work in public.

Moonshine

My family has always been a clan of moonshiners. Myself, I haven't mixed up a batch in a few years. I don't touch the stuff anymore. I haven't had a drop of any strong drink of any kind in almost 30 years. Not since that night.

It was not uncommon, back then, for a group of us to gather out at my cousin's still to party and drink. Deep in the woods, we were far from the law and could hoop and holler as loud as we wanted. We would drink, fight, sing and laugh long into the wee hours of the night. Most of the time we would all crash on the floor of the shack that housed the still. If we were feeling particularly brave, some of us would pile into the old truck and drive, swerving wildly and dangerously, back toward our various homes for a warm bed. I am still amazed we all made it in one piece over the years, because each drive was a harrowing afterthought when dawn finally broke, bringing pounding heads with it.

One night, however, I decided that I was drunk enough and that I would walk home. I couldn't tell you now why I made such a decision. Walking home was something we never did. It would be all too easy to get lost among the trees and the area was famously known for bears and coyotes. And knowing I would be talked out of it, I didn't bother to tell anyone. I simply filled my flask with some shine for the road and toddled off out the door and past the treeline.

I do still miss that flask. It was a beautiful thing made of crystal with a stainless steel cap, purchased by my father in France after the Great War. It passed it to me after his death and I kept it as full as he did. I wish I could still pass it to my son, but then if it weren't for that flask, I probably wouldn't be here to pass it along anyway.

As expected, I was soon wandering among the trees, all turned about. I was more angry than panicked, filled with a fair amount of liquid courage already and taking the occasional bracing sip as I stumbled along through the brush. I was a lucky bastard, though, and soon ran across the old train tracks. Abandoned years ago when the old bridge finally gave in and collapsed, I knew I could follow them back to civilization without fear of being run over by a train in the dark.

I began walking along the tracks, occasionally tripping over the ties and singing loudly, though I don't remember what now. It was maybe 20 minutes before I ran into the old tunnel, black and gaping, which of course meant I had been walking in the wrong direction.

Cursing and swearing, I began to turn to go the other direction when I spied something down the tunnel. It was two pinpoints of light low to the ground, like the shine off of a cat's eyes in the dark. That must be what I had decided it was, because in my drunken state I crouched down and began making clicking and cooing noises, trying to coax it out into the open so I could pet it. And that's when whatever it was stood up.

The pinpoints suddenly widened to large, saucer-sized pools of pale light and began to rise from ground level until they floated about five feet high in the darkness of the tunnel. Spooked, I also rose, my hand clutched tight around my flask, my body tensed. I did not know what I was looking at, but I was scared to make any sudden movements.

Suddenly those round, pale saucers began to bob down the tunnel towards me at speed, and I could hear the heavy thumps of limbs pounding against the ground, belonging to something big. I panicked and hurled the first thing I had at hand down the tunnel toward it, my crystal flask. I missed it, but I must have come close because I heard it crash against the ground and the thing stopped short. The cap must have hit a rock or a metal spike because there was a spark and a sudden whoosh of flame as the moonshine inside caught fire.

In the light of the flame I caught of glimpse of a pale shape, something akin to a gaunt, naked ape with huge eyes and long, sharp teeth, its skin covered in patches of greasy black hair. The fire caught some of that fur and the beast began to burn, the flames quickly covering its body. Howling, it began to run away toward the other end of the tunnel, its screams echoing down the length. As it went, the orange light of the flames bounced off the walls in the dark, faintly illuminating other shadowy shapes that scurried away as it passed. More points of light appeared in the darkness.

I turned and ran. I do not remember how I got home, only that I was glad that I had. I tried for many days to dismiss it as a drunken fantasy, but I could not forget those pale eyes in the dark. I still can't. I don't go walking in the woods anymore. And I don't drink.

Enoch's Kin

I have a terrible track record of getting things painted. I enjoy painting as a hobby, but I am not a very dedicated painter. The thought of painting a whole army of miniatures exactly the same way, all at the same time makes me a little queasy. I tend to flit from project to project, leave some half finished, work on something else and eventually come back to them. If I were to paint any one of my several great grey hordes to a decent standard it would probably take me 20 years.

I guess what I'm saying is I'm lazy.

So, when I bought the models from Hasslefree for this project, it was actually over a year ago. I received them On February 1st, 2012 and promptly primed and base coated them. And then I moved onto something else. I would come back, paint a few things her or there, then work on something else. I finished them 2 days ago. It took me over a year to paint 5 models that should have been done in a week.

So I present to you, Enoch Whately and his family, cultists of Cthulhu:

Enoch Whately

Patience Whately

Their sons Ezekiel (Zeke), Jedidiah (Jed) and Barnabas (Barney)

Of course, being such a big Lovecraft fan, I couldn't let my happy little family get away without a little of their own fiction (warning: some of this is a tad grisly).

Enoch's Kin

Looking up, the starry sky was ringed by leaves, the circle of the clearing in which he stood. Enoch Whately gazed out into the darkness, the moon itself hidden away by the forest around him. It would not be witness to what happened here tonight.

He dropped his gaze to the stone before him, a massive piece of rock that had stood on this land long before the Whately family had settled these parts some seven generations ago. And it had always borne the same sinister countenance that leered back at him now. Squat and humanoid, it sat with clawed hands on drawn up knees, its bat-like wings folded. The surface was weathered and pitted, but scales could clearly be made out across the skin. But most odd was its round, dead-eyed face which had a cluster of tentacles where the mouth should be, as if some great cephalopod had taken up residence on its shoulders.

Looking to his right he saw his wife, Patience, hooded and robed in purple, holding the brazier to light their work. The sickly green flame that flickered there gave the clearing an eldritch pall. Scanning around her saw his three sons, Barney, Zeke and Jed. Also in purple robes, they droned behind their hoods, intoning the same chant he had once used to assist his father before him.

Finally his eyes dropped to the girl on the ground before him, bound and unclothed as per the rites. She was just barely a woman, maybe fifteen or so years old. Not many people traveled through those parts, but some lost their way in their rush to more civilized areas. He was glad she and her family had come along when they had because the other local families got mighty worked up when one of their own went missing.

The panic was clearly visible in her eyes when he raised the thick-handled knife he held above her. Those same eyes widened when her plunged the blade into her chest, her screaming muffled by her thick gag, though there was no one around to hear. And those eyes went dead as Enoch cut her heart from her chest.

Enoch held the heart up before the stone face, the throes of its last beats sending rivulets of the girl's blood down his arm. Staring into the tentacled face, he began the intonation:

"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn..."

A Little Bit Of Lovecraftian Horror

I haven't been as productive of late, so I haven't been posting as much. Life has been busy and on top of it I have been sick. Hopefully I will be able to post up a couple of game reviews and some painting projects, but in the meantime, here's a blurb of Lovecraftian horror that may inspire you in some way.

All at once a sound echoed down the tunnel, something like the scrabbling of a thousand rats fleeing some disaster over the stone floor. We angled the torch behind us and stood frozen as some "thing" slid into the light, rearing up as it was confronted by the brightness.

Its snake-like, chitinous body was black, the smooth scales shining in the glow of the torch. It had no legs, but was instead propelled forward on millions of pink tendrils that writhed and skittered on the tunnel floor. It was long enough that the tail was lost in the darkness behind it, but the part that was revealed to us was at least ten feet in length. Most horrible of all, where the head would have been grew only a cluster of tongue-like projections, wiggling obscenely as it drooled a thick, viscous liquid that hissed as it dripped on the stone below it.

We stared at it as it swayed away from our light, then suddenly it surged forward with a choked gurgling sound...