DF Novices Team-B, Session 3 - Diary of Yorgen Gant

 Here is a write-up from the player of Yorgen of the B-Team session from last week. 

Session Date:    Thursday 3 August 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:    28 June, Year 645 of the Vycenaean Empire.

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Diary of Yorgen Gant:

It is my stern and certain ambition not to fill these pages with a blow by blow of my every martial encounter, if only to save myself the cost of ink and paper that such an endeavour would require. A great many things may, can, and indeed do happen in the space of a scant few seconds on a battlefield, where the difference between death and success is often determined by the width of a single blade. But this encounter I will record, even if only to remind myself of the mistake I made in days to come. And to admit, to myself, that I have a long way to travel before I may become someone Ser Landonn can be proud of.

This entry begins, then, with the discovery of more Orcs. Fenn, our inimitable tracker friend, followed the tracks of this particular band and we soon came upon them in a lightly forested area. The terrain favoured neither, and I soon identified a perfectly defensible position from whence we could defend ourselves from the Orcs. The discovery that at least two of them were archers was unwelcome news, but to be borne stoically as with all things. As long as we remained in the prepared position, we could easily outfight the swordsmen, and then press the fight to the archers. My chosen position? Just to the west of a patch of loose shale at the base of a slight rise. Anyone setting foot on that treacherous terrain would almost certainly be off balance, and footwork often counts for much in a direct confrontation between equals.

Fenn loosed arrow after arrow, and succeeded in drawing two Orcs to our position. He withdrew just in time to let Ulokk deal with the first swordsman, and deal with him my stalwart friend did quite admirably. It is then that I lost my head and made the gravest tactical blunder of my life thus far. Very nearly it was my last.

Seeing one of their own slain, two Orc archers drew closer, nearly taunting us with their presence, and I identified what I believed was the perfect opportunity to spring a trap. So I launched myself over the shale, leapt up the slight rise, and sought to assault the nearest archer. My overconfident attack allowed a swordsman to slip past me, and to my great shame my hasty swing missed my foe by quite some margin. So focused on this attack was I, that I only then noticed one further swordsman from the corner of my eye. Allowing the archer to flee my rapid assault, I flung myself upon this swordsman. Our blades rang together, and I only scarcely avoided being eviscerated by his counter blow, my own sword still engaged from my own attack. Thus was revealed to me my grave mistake.

I found myself fighting an Orc quite skilled with the blade, while myself wielding a cheap blade that fitted poorly in my hand and with which I was proficient but not comfortable. I vastly prefer the deft, cutting strikes of the broadsword over the swift jabs and slices of a shortsword. My opponent felt no such discomfort, it seemed, and quickly drove me back. Back towards the rise, and towards his compatriot that has slipped past me and was now being engaged by an equally hard pressed Ulokk. Of Stout there was no sign, although I could hear his shouted encouragements from the nearby foliage. Smart of him to hide, for this battlefield was soon becoming unhealthy.

Driven nearly into the foliage myself, I found myself encumbered by undergrowth when, of a sudden, the second Orc burst from my left flank and struck me a dire blow with his serrated falchion. The Orcs, I notice, tend to favour such brutal weapons for the sheer size of the wounds they create, and I found myself the recipient of such a wound now, unable to bring my shield to bear in time.

As my blood gushed onto the grass, the Orc I was fighting seemed to turn away in contempt. I drew my blade back to strike him down for such an insult, when of a sudden my shield seemed to weigh more than my arm could bear, and my sword arm became devoid of all strength. For a moment I tried to resist the inevitable, but soon all was black and I knew no more.

I was thus unconscious, surrounded by enemies, and entirely at the mercy of a species not known for possessing such a quality. In fact, a species proverbial for not having any mercy within them whatsoever, Old Troll notwithstanding. In short, I should have died there, perished due to my own overconfidence.

But I did not.

My next sight was of as unusual a saviour as one can imagine. Chosen of Ishtanna Stout may be, but to see him upon waking after a near death experience is nevertheless... peculiar.

For one, I knew for a fact I was still alive. No vision of the afterlife he.

Around me the Orcs lay dead, although Stout seemed curiously reluctant to explain how. He clings to the fiction that I must have slain them all myself. I know this not to be true, and I am very certain he knows this not to be true either.

I begged him not to tell Ser Landonn of this blunder of mine when we encounter him, and Stout readily agreed.

But I will keep this memory in writing, to warn myself once and for all, that patience is a virtue. Patience, and a better bloody sense of my own limitations.