DF Novices, Team-A, Session 56 - Diary of Yorgen Gant
We played last Tuesday. Here is the in-character report from Yorgen. As always, I am giving out an Impulse Point to any player who writes a summary for the blog.
Party roster:
Ben, half-ogre barbarian, 132 points (PC)
Doran Longbeard, dwarf warrior (knight), 162 points (PC)
Eleanor Bayley, human thief, 196 points (PC)
- Dagne Timar, human priestess of Metallys (cleric), 132 points (NPC Hireling)
- Watch-Sister Telessa, human holy warrior of Pidnos, 62 points (NPC Hireling)
Erizax Ofaris, human wizard, 195 points (PC)
Randall, human veteran (knight), 143 points (NPC)
Yorgen Gant, human squire (knight), 96 points (PC)
Ulokk, half-ogre thief, 85 points (NPC)
Maximilian "Stout" Grupher III, goblin cleric of Ishtanna, 87 points (PC)
Campaign Date: 27 September, Year 645 of the Vycenaean Empire.
------
Diary of Yorgen Gant:
As I lay here in a dimly lit room in the dark recesses of a cursed mine, I cannot help but reflect that the moment of death is never as one imagines it. Indeed, how could anyone imagine their own demise? Those of us who live by the sword, sworn to the defense of the defenseless and the good of the realm, might imagine a glorious last stand, a doomed fight against overwhelming odds, or a charge into an already victorious army to go down with honour intact. Death before dishonour indeed. In all my dark hours, when I pondered my own mortality and the way in which my end would surely come, I had always imagined my death with a sword in my hand, and fighting to my last dying breath against either an implacable foe, or a horde of enemies baying for my blood. There is honour in that sort of death. Over the past few months I have begun to imagine facing the one who has bested my master Ser Landonn, in a doomed fight to avenge him.
And yet when the moment of my death was upon me, it was not as I had been able to imagine it, even in my most febrile dreams. Indeed, how could I have foreseen that an enemy I had refused to even fight so many weeks ago would return to take its vengeance?
To explain how this came to be, I must return to the moment Doran was struck in the legs by an arrow trap my brave companion had so astutely disarmed by triggering it. Suffice to say that such mere punctures didn't discommode Doran the stoic, and Eleanor was quick to find the trigger mechanism and mark it out for us. Yet for reasons of what appeared to me to be perfectly sound reasoning, our group stuck to the walls of the secret room we had so recently uncovered. Within it, shrouded by what may have been decades of undisturbed dust, lay a tomb. Or to be more accurate, a sarcophagus, its lines indistinct under the dust, illuminated by two candelabras that shed a perpetual magical light. Probing for more triggers and traps all the way, Eleanor led the group into the room and along the safe route along the walls, leaving the exploration of the sarcophagus itself to those whose curiosity burned brighter.
Forward then Erizax and Doran, who wasted no time in investigating this final resting place, and whose careful observation led them to the inevitable conclusion that the carvings were undeniably Vycenaean in nature. Neither could make much sense of it, however, and soon enough Eleanor came to find me, with a request from Erizax to join him in deciphering the lid of the sarcophagus. I thus relented my position standing watch in the access corridor and, having given Ben extremely specific instructions, handed my vigil over to Eleanor after a brief discussion regarding the current situation and our security arrangements.
She is a professional, and I will admit that I enjoy working with her. No matter how contentious our initial meeting and interactions may have been, she has earned my respect.
Following the by now very obvious safe path to the sarcophagus in the dusty room, I joined Doran and Erizax in examination, and was drawn almost instantly by the carved image of a warrior in repose on the lid of the tomb. To say that the image was striking is an understatement. Indeed, I doubt if there is any Knight of the Vycenaean Empire that would not have recognised it on first sight. It is an image I have seen countless times before, an image that has seared its way into my memory, as it has for at least two full generations of knights and squires before me.
Within touching range, so close that I could smell the dust on the carved lid, was the final resting place of General Huerin Oralese, hero of the Vycenaean Empire, thought lost to history these past five decades. How this worthy came to be here we did then not know, but I recounted to my group the story of Ser Huerin as I remembered it. Almost immediately, Erizax proposed we open the tomb, and it became quickly apparent to me that this was not out of some desire to study the final days of this giant of Imperial martial history. No, both Doran and Erizax were practically salivating at the thought of robbing the tomb of this lost hero, mere moments after having rediscovered a crucial and mysterious part of the Empire's history. I protested this casual mention of grave robbery, as you might well understand, finding it abhorrent that we should steal from this hero, whom his followers had laid to rest in this remote location. Precisely to avoid just this, I would have imagined, and I dare say that my refusal would have been a great deal more acrimonious and might have resulted in us coming to blows if Ulokk hadn't been the voice of reason just then. He reminded me, in his usual taciturn way, that we desperately needed the coin.
I could not fault him for this, and his logic was sound. My purse was empty, utterly empty, after paying for the food and lodging of the group in town. Honour might keep my spirit from starving, but my body cannot subsist on honour alone. Thus I fell to weakness, and conceded that we might as well open the sarcophagus. I did, however, impress upon my companions the two conditions to secure my cooperation. That they, firstly, only take from the tomb by need rather than greed. And that, secondly, they leave the armour of General Oralese undisturbed. To rob a hero of his armour, in his final resting place, would have been unconscionable. This great man died in combat, died in his armour, and nothing should part him from it. My companions agreed, albeit with some reluctance, and I do not believe that Erizax for one moment would have agreed to these conditions had he truly intended to keep his word. With combine effort, and judicious use of a crowbar, we broke the seal on the tomb and levered the lid off.
It is at that point that I removed myself from the room, having gazed once upon what remained of this hero. Here, then, lay my future in the very best of circumstances. Should I live long enough to die a hero, this is how I would end up... the victim of graverobbers in the fullness of time. This thought was too bleak, and my honour at having participated in this act of desecration too tainted to remain in that room for a moment more, and I rapidly fled back to the corridor. If I cannot see the desecration, then surely I have not participated in it.
Forgive me, Ishtanna, for my hypocrisy.
Before long, Ulokk came to present myself and Eleanor with the sword of Ser Huerin, and I counselled Eleanor that such an item would best be sold to someone either utterly discreet, or directly to the Duke. The Duke, so I opined, would want to know that the final resting place of Ser Huerin Oralese has been found, and found at that within the dukedom under his command. This sword, longer than typical and of a style rarely seen in these parts, would almost certainly be recognised as something unusual if sold to the local smith, and word of it would almost certainly filter back to the Duke at any rate. Best to avoid any potential unpleasantness, and sell it to the Duke directly. He would cheat them on the price, I warned Eleanor fairly, but it would almost certainly buy his attention and possibly even his gratitude, though my experience with the nobility has warned me against expecting anything as ephemeral as the gratitude of a Duke.
It is as we were discussing this that I caught a glimpse of something in the corridor, a faint shimmer where no shimmer should be. I drew my sword instantly, and Eleanor ran to find the others and warn them of a potential enemy. Our holy ones were still in the unholy shrine, cleansing it of taint or resting after doing so, but unlikely to be in harm's way. Thus I stood between my companions and potential danger, and resolved to give a good accounting of myself.
A moment later, my death was upon me.
It came without warning, without as much as a shout or even the courtesy of a snarl. One moment I stood in the corridor, ready to face a foe that was hiding in the darkness, the next I was engulfed in a foul gelatinous mess that held me utterly still. That I closed my eyes on instinct was the only movement I would be allowed, for an instant later my body refused to obey, utterly paralysed from head to toe.
I would like to say that I was not aware of what was happening to me, as this gelatinous creature enveloped me, but I was. Merciful Gods, but I was aware of every moment.
The burning of the viscous goo around me, as it began to slowly digest me.
The pain in my lungs as my air began to run out.
The blows and burning pain as my companions fought the creature with every weapon and magical means at their disposal.
The certainty of death, the numbness as my body began to fail, only to be revived twice by what must have been divine intervention, as almost certainly guided by the stalwart Dagne.
This, then, was my death. This was the moment I was fated to die, a price paid for my desecration of the tomb of Ser Huerin Oralese, my abrogation of duty, the violation of my Oaths. A death well deserved. My mind railed against the inevitable, screaming wordlessly that this was not how it was meant to be, that this was not how I meant to meet my end. But surely my end this must be.
And yet I did not die.
At the moment when all hope was lost, when even my mind had stilled and I commended myself to Ishtanna's judgement, the suffocating pressure of the creature around me fell away. My companions had saved me, against all odds.
Thus here I lay, recovering from the ordeal, scarce able to move and exhausted beyond the point of sleep. All that I had possessed in the world is gone, digested by the creature. I was left with nothing but my sword and my armour.
This then is surely a sign. I have fallen, I have failed, and I have been given a second chance, a chance to redeem myself and become worthy of the title of Knight that I have been seeking since my childhood. I have strayed from the path of righteousness and allowed pride and prejudice to blind me. No more. Never again.
I have my armour. I have my sword. This is all a knight truly needs.
I shall begin anew, by the grace of Ishtanna.
I shall be worthy.
Comments
Post a Comment