DF Novices Team-B, Session 6 - Diary of Yorgen Gant

    I have just received an in-character report from Yorgen's player for session 6 of his adventure with the B-Team. This game actually took place a while back, but it was the end of that adventure and then we moved on to play in a different game afterwards. With that said, we may yet see Yorgen again soon.

    As always, I am giving out an Impulse Point to any player who writes a summary for the blog.

Session Date:    Thursday 24 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)
Fenn, human scout, 98 points (NPC)
Oleanne, human druid, unknown points (NPC)
- 2 grey wolves, unknown points (Oleanne's "pets")

Campaign Date:    28 and 29 June, Year 645 of the Vycenaean Empire.

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Diary of Yorgen Gant:

It has been several days now, and I still scarcely believe what has transpired. All seems unreal, and as I sit in these bucolic surroundings of a farm beyond the frontier, much appears like a dream. Fragments of incoherence coalesceing briefly into a picture of violence and madness, before these pictures flee my memory. But I must write now, while I remember those chaotic few moments of that fight, in which so much has changed.

Recall then the scene, as I left it last. An Orc ambush left our band of stalwarts in a vice of steel and oak, a desperate struggle to hold the tide of Orcish violence at a ridgeline, and the appearance of an Orc Chieftain breaking through our lines and all but murdering the small goblin priest Stout. I can recall, to this moment, the sight of Stout laying there, bleeding, while the Orc turned his attention back on me. The useless straps of my shattered shield still entangle my left arm, while our swords clang together in a chorus of unrestrained violence. Never before have I met any who could match my skill, and rarely have I been this certain that my time has finally come. This Orc, this Chieftain or Champion, was sure to be the death of me.

Yet 'lo and behold, Ishtanna be blessed, Ulokk wades into the fray from the Orc's disengaged side, the battle for the ridgeline now all but over thanks to our lupine allies and the mysterious lady Oleanne. If ever, like me, you've seen an unfortunate falling victim to a pack of wolves, you can imagine the relief of knowing that these predators of the wild are fighting alongside you. But I must blot the sound of wolves worrying their victims from my mind and focus on the last few seconds of that fight.

With Ulokk engaging the Orc, the creature finally is overmatched, and must make desperate attempts to get away and get clear. His warband has been roundly defeated, and only our two blades stand between him and safety. And so began what I shall forever remember as a dance of death. Stroke and counter stroke, parry, withdraw and return, strike and riposte, it was a fight fit for Champions, a challenge worthy of a true Knight. I must do honour to my opponent, vile though his designs may have been... though his mind was, come the end, clearly on escape, he never once shirked the opportunity to end us. Ulokk, brave Ulokk, did not then and does not now possess my skill with a blade, and it began to tell. Mighty though my stalwart friend is, even he cannot stand against the full fury of this vile Orc, and so much withdraw whenever a well aimed swing of that broadsword comes at him. Not once does this creature give me an opportunity to make good on such an opening, and frequently I myself am pushed back, but always cognisant to incline to the Orc's side, forcing him to turn, trying to bring his blind side towards Ulokk while my quick witted friend does the same for me.

And in an instant, all changes.

Looking back then, it is clear that we became tired and overconfident. Skilled though this Orc was, we still outnumbered him two to one, a fight which with any other opponent could have only ended one way. But we were complacent, and forgot that we were not facing a mere minion of evil and darkness, but a true Champion of that vile cause. I can recall the moment now, though my memory has blotted it for some time, and with sudden clarity I can feel the sting of sweat in my eyes, the burning of my muscles as I push them to yet another final exertion, my mind awash with thoughts of the next quarter second to avoid being gutted. Above all, I remember the sudden fear.

For this Orc, this Champion or Chieftain, suddenly disdained to parry a wild slash from Ulokk, and instead stepped in towards me. Towards my own blind side. Too late to turn, I can see his sword come at me, and the cheap shortsword which is all that remains of my meagre armaments feeling like lead in my tired hand. I cannot parry. It is too late. This is where I die.

And yet I did not.

Like a bolt of divine vengeance, Fenn aimed true. This brave man had been taking shots at the Orc for some time now, but his aim had been either sadly astray or the arrows failed to make an impression on the Orc's immaculate armour. Not so now. The arrow, undoubtedly guided by divine hand, flew straight and true, sinking up to the flights in the Orc's torso, having unerringly found a small imperfection in that gleaming armour.

The blow I feared never came, and I can now well recall the sudden look of surprise on the Orc's face. For a moment it stood there, as if trying to make sense of what had just happened, before collapsing in a heap. And just like that, in an instant of almost impossible deliverance, the creature was defeated.

It is a thing which still makes no sense to me. How I, after having earned my death through carelessness, should be spared to fight another day? For long seconds I stood, rooted to the spot with indecision and incredulity, until reality returned with a violent report of all my senses. I pushed the memories of that fight away then, and no doubt they have lingered in my mind since, waiting for me to have time to consider them. To write them down, as now I should. Perhaps now, after committing these memories to paper, can I sleep again.

Admittedly, this sleep will be greatly aided by the succour our host is providing us. The captive of the Orcish warband turned out to be none other than the Ranger himself, somewhat the worse for wear but none the worse in mind or spirit. He insisted to be called simply farmer Kuipos, and I recognise that burning need to forget something that is painful, so as Kuipos I shall henceforth address him.

The farmer, as he is now, invited us to his farm to recover, in thanks for freeing him. Being at the end of our strength and, I can now admit, me at the end of my wits, we gladly accepted this proposal. Young Stout, after all, would need significant care though, Ishtanna be praised, he survived his encounter with the Orc's blade.

A blade which, I freely admit, I recovered from the battlefield along with the Orc's armour. I cared not then for the intricate filligree of its pommel nor the rich decoration of its crossguard, only seeing a functional weapon with which my hand and arm are so very familiar. It is good to heft a broadsword again, and even better to know that this weapon was won from a formidable opponent. I shall keep it, and remember while I wield it that I should have died on that field, and all I do now is time granted to me by the gods themselves.

For the nonce, my greatest challenge is to keep young Stout in his bed, for he has the most distressing habit of getting up and trying to help around the farm. I understand it, I share it, but I at least am in the shape to do so whereas the young goblin cleric is grievously wounded. In his gratitude, Kuipos has offered to teach me how to read the land, how to live on it and how to survive by it. I came to him looking for a purpose, and I suspect that in a way, I have found it.

For the rest of the treasure the Orcs carried I care not one whit. Let Ulokk and Stout have it, aye and Fenn his share too. I have found something greater.

I have found life, and a purpose.