DF Novices Team-B, Session 2 - Diary of Yorgen Gant

     This session took place last week. Here is a write-up from the player of Yorgen. 

Session Date:    Thursday 20 July 2023

Party roster:

Yorgen Gant, human knight, 65 points (PC)
Ulokk, half-ogre thief, 64 points (PC)
Maximilian "Stout" Grupher III, goblin cleric, 65 points (PC)

Campaign Date:    27 and 28 June, Year 645 of the Vycenaean Empire.

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Diary of Yorgen Gant:

I am reminded, often, on how Ser Landonn could always find nobility in someone. Even the most downtrodden. In truth, I know he did so to remember his own humble beginnings, but he fully embraced the idea that any man, no matter his status in life, has an innate nobility. A nobility, moreover, which Ser Landonn often says is lacking in those supposedly born to it.

As you can imagine, this does not make him a welcome guest with the more hidebound of hosts, and were it not for his status and skill with a sword, I am convinced he would have been turned away at many a hall.

Equally, I cannot, and must not, ever forget that I am where I am only because Ser Landonn saw that nobility in me. That I am here, now, because a knight saw the clumsy attempts of a young boy to become something more, and believed that it was truly possible for the son of a stablemaster to become a knight. Where Ser Landonn saw that nobility in me, I must remember to search for that nobility in others.

And, Gods forgive me, it is sometimes hard to do. It is, to give but a simple example, hard not to strike down a town guard for insolence when they casually refuse entry to my stalwart friend Ulokk simply for the fact of his birth. That Ulokk is a half ogre has no bearing to the nobility in his heart, but the casual hatred shown by that guard shows that the man's own heart contains little of that nobility. I must contain my anger.

And, behold, Gods be praised, just as I begin to despair as to how we will pass the night, another of the downtrodden appears before us, a man in rags and hood, shaking his cup and begging for coin. Of coin I have little, but half of what little I have is for this poor creature, who introduces himself as The Old Troll. 

That is, apparently, what the townsfolk call him. Gods give me strength!

Old Troll, so it does transpire, has a shelter nearby, under the old bridge, and is more than willing to share the comforts of it. This generous soul had already shared his meager abode with another unfortunate traveller, and my heart did skip a beat for one moment when I beheld the visage of a goblin.

Had one of the tribe we had so recently decimated come out? I am, naturally, loathe to offer violence in the home of another, no matter how humble, and consider then my surprise when this goblin turns to us and introduces himself in perfectly understandable Common.

No mere goblin he, but Maximillian Grupher the third. A long name for a short being, for even for a goblin Maximillian is quite small. I have yet to shake the feeling that this small one is a child. But luckily we are soon on friendly terms, and he vouchsafes that his friends call him Stout.

Thus, Stout it is.

This Stout, by his own words a priest of sorts, soon seeks only to assist us with our wounds. I accept his offer of assistance gladly, although I must confess a moment of moral weakness where I inquired as to which Deity Stout intended to beseech.

In my mind, I could think only of some foul goblin god that Maximillian would invoke, and I readily admit that I do not know how I would have reacted then. But no, I am proven wrong, and not ashamed to say I felt quite chastised, when Stout revealed himself to be a priest of Ishtanna.

Imagine that.

Gods be praised indeed!

Our wounds healed, we share a meal, and get to talking. Our host Old Troll, now revealed to be an Orc, asks us for our intentions. I admit to my quest, and that I was hoping to find more information in town. But Old Troll offers a better possibility... to go find his friend, the one they call the Ranger. If this Ranger is a friend of Old Troll, then he is clearly a man who sees the nobility in all, and such a man is most likely to have attracted the attention of Ser Landonn, be that now or in some distant past.

That morning we set out, Stout in tow for it seems the young priest has chosen to follow us. I must say that I am relieved by this. Not only to have clergy of Ishtanna nearby, but also to have small Stout where I can see him. For he is small and clearly weak.

It is my duty to protect those who are small, weak, or defenseless.

After a few hours of trekking along the river, we espy a man in the distance, and hail him with some caution. The caution is reciprocated, and him and I meet in the middle distance, weapons ready but not drawn. In his case rather literally, as this man casually hefts a bow with a studied ease.

He admits to knowing the Ranger, although is not he. But our conversation convinces him that we are of no threat to him or his master, for the Ranger is his master, and then enlists our aid to find this fabled Ranger.

The man, named Fenn, claims to be but a simple farmer, but his expertise and clear familiarity with weapons belies his statements to a squire such as I. But I do not press him on this clear lie. Each man carries within him a reason for his falsehoods, and it is best not disturbed until the matter becomes truly pressing. This is not that time.

We learn, with some amusement, that young Stout does not like boats. The young priest clings to my leg during the entire crossing of the river, and Fenn then sets us off in search of the orcs his master was supposedly tracking.

I tarry but for a moment to reflect on the odd circumstance that leads me to be in the company of a goblin and half ogre, having spent a pleasant night in the hovel of a friendly Orc, hunting Orcs with a human.

But these Orcs, when we run across them, make their intentions abundantly clear, and it becomes obvious that violence must ensue, and only a clash of arms will decide this meeting.

It takes less than twenty seconds again, before the matter is settled. Two Orcs lie dead, their falchions near their corpses, while a third is swiftly dying on an outcrop nearby, next to his own bow and falchion.

Perhaps, had we met under different circumstances, we would have shared a meal. But I have the feeling that the only meal these Orcs would have offered me would have been my own limbs.

Our quest continues.