Session Recap
A thick mist rolled in on the third moon of harvest, dampening the skies of The Cut in a sickly, jaundiced glow.
We found our heroes in the most dire of circumstances - bound, beaten and shackled together behind the rusted iron bars of a Sovereign prison wagon driven by two legionnaires. One by one, they awoke from their delirium in various states of disarray. With the memories of their last moments fresh in their collective minds, they turned to one another to make sense of their newly-found circumstances.
A daring escape:
As Bird Ferguson identified their general whereabouts - the far reaches of The Wilds, Hugh Mann and Wiseguy Steve began discussing the logistics of their escape. This was all a bit too much for their Goff companion, as David Hasselgoff flew into a blinding rage and hurled himself into the locked doors of the cart. As the materials began to buckle, our heroes seized the opportunity, uniting as one to finally smash the aging wood away from its thick metal frame. Their elation was short-lived as they tumbled over the winding quarry road behind them and down the edge of its steep banks to the forests below.
The shouts of the Legion guards above were quickly followed by a storm of bolts and arrows wizzing through the tree tops. Our heroes ran as fast as their legs would carry into the cover of the forest canopy above, bound together at the wrists and ankles by the thick metal shackles. They marched for what seemed like hours as the hooves of Sovereign patrol horses thundered along the road above them, searching for the fugitives. As all hope seemed lost, they spotted the waning light of a nearby settlement - the stopover hamlet of Switchwickett.
A glimmer of hope:
With a menagerie of crimson Legion banners swaying above the guard posts and a brightly lit Sovereign garrison at the center of town, our crew was understandably hesitant to enter its boundaries. With desperation at their backs and hunger in their bellies, they hatched a plan to sneak into the nearby stables. This was quickly interrupted by a heavy thud behind them and a booming voice demanding they identify themselves.
“WHO YOU?”
Deborah, a mountainous Goff guardswoman wielding a toothed maul, pressed them for an explanation. At the sight of their sad, bound state, she took pity on our heroes and led them with force through the darkened alleyways past the Sovereign garrison. Our heroes arrived at a small building at the north of town plastered with Sovereign propaganda. Her thumps on the doorframe were met with a curt reply:
“Fuck”
A helping hand:
Oldrick, a broad, white-bearded man in his sixties stood unevenly on a strange prosthetic leg. Seemingly distraught by some other event, the arrival of four haggard prisoners was clearly an unexpected turn for the old man on this evening. Finally relenting, he let the group in from the cold and drew them each bowls of fresh Springbuck stew from the warmth of the hearth fire. As they filled their hollow bellies, he drew a strange metallic pick from its sheath and struck down on the shackles that bound them, shattering them almost instantly with a high-pitched ringing.
As the bindings fell away, the party was met with the sight of deeply-scarred branding on each of their wrists: The seal of the Sovereign Saint. Oldrick recoiled, a knowing look washing over his time-worn face. He pulled his bracer aside to reveal an identical brand of his own, faded with time. This man, though adorned in Sovereign cloth, was clearly more than met the eye.
“You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourselves into. There’s so much we must discuss”
These answers would have to wait, for he had other, more pressing matters at hand on this evening. He explained that his wife Rose had been taken from the riverside by a particularly savage group of reavers, The Red Hand. After the initial rescue party went missing, Oldrick was preparing to scout out their last known camp by himself.
He would find his wife in Briarheart or die trying.
Pulling back a thick throw rug to reveal a hidden cellar door, Oldrick offered lodging and supplies to the heroes before ducking out into the cold night air. Filled with a much-needed meal and weary from their long journey, the heroes settled into the cellar to rest their aching bones. Inside, they found some basic equipment, weapons and clothing - a much needed bit of security. As they collapsed, exhausted on the cots that lined the hidden cellar, they heard the local installment of Legionaries as their horses and carts made their way out of town.
A new day:
Our heroes awoke the following evening as the light had once again begun to fade, rejuvenated by their long rest. Their mission was clear: meet up with Oldrick and help him save Rose from The Red Hand. With the aid of a local map, they located the estate of Briarheart to the south.
They headed back upstairs to find Deborah preparing for the journey ahead. With stern focus, she led the group out of the sleepy town and southward down the kings road. Along the way, the party crossed a crumbling King’s bridge one-by-one, narrowly avoiding a tumble into the Spoonbill river below. Darkness fell as they approached the estate of Briarheart.
As they came upon the perimeter of the estate grounds, the group found it abandoned and in ruin. A strange noise from a nearby bramble prompted a swift kick from David - an understandable reaction given the dangerous circumstances. On further inspection they found not danger, but Oldrick, deeply wounded from multiple knife wounds and coughing up blood.
“Fuck, the bastards got me.”
A just cause:
In an act of selflessness, Steve sacrificed his one and only healing salve to stabilize the dying man, while Hugh and David studied the corpses of his attackers. The fiend’s telltale red hoods and black stitching left little doubt of their identities. Bird noted several cloaked figures darting among the darkened estate buildings as he searched the horizon with his spotter’s glass.
With Oldrick now pulled back from the very brink of death, the group urged Deborah to escort him back home to ensure his safe passage. She cradled his wounded frame lovingly as she returned North on the King’s road, his final words echoing in our heroes ears:
“Watch out for the little one.”
With a powerful ally out of the fight and a mysterious foe ahead, our heroes sought revenge on these Red Hand monsters.
Rose’s very life hung in the balance…
Advancing on the ruined homestead of Briarheart, our heroes approached the compound under cover of darkness.
As they inched their way closer through the brambles, trees and upturned carts, they begin to hear sickly screams rising out above the thick canopy. The torchlight of the camp bouncing off of the abandoned farmhouse and dilapidated granary towers illuminated a number of Red Hand reavers within.
Upon entering one of these towers, the party discovered strange, moaning horrors caged within. Their gaunt, deeply scarred figures thrashed about against their bindings. With Red Hand guards approaching, and an increasing sense of urgency from the cries beyond, Hugh Mann smashed the rusted locks, freeing these monstrosities in an attempt to gain the upper hand.
Hell breaks loose:
The Red Hand reavers, taken by surprise with the sickening roar of their captive’s escape, were too preoccupied to notice the party in their midst. Bird Ferguson used his tactical positioning to gain a critical strike on his enemy, downing a swordsman in one swift shot. With the knock of the arrow still reverberating in the enemy’s skull, Wiseguy Steve released a torrent of toxic bolts from a hidden device, poisoning another. David Hasselgoff used his newly-found dual axes to cleave the ill-stricken combatants in a flurry of sinew and bone. Curiously, the caged figures seem to ignore the party, opting instead to attack their captors and flee into the surrounding forests.
With the fighting now raised to a fever-pitch, Bird used the opportunity to advance on the homestead toward the back of the encampment. As the screams of of a woman continued with increasing urgency, Bird inched closer to the window of the structure. Unsettlingly soft giggles could be heard amidst the horrific cries.
From the shadows:
With David and Hugh both entrenched in melee combat, Steve threw a cluster of grapeshot into the fray, damaging friend and foe alike, but downing the last of the combatants. The party advanced on the building, hoping to find Rose alive as the front door slowly opened. The sound of manic giggling began to echo through the trees - as if all around them before it spoke.
“I’m gonna wear your eyelids!”
Suddenly, a small blue figure flashed through the darkness, sinking twin piercing daggers into Bird’s keel before vanishing in a puff of smoke. As if by some foul magic, the figure appeared as quickly as he’d gone, this time striking David and Hugh in quick succession before again retreating under cover of darkness. One cannot defeat what one cannot see.
With the party in disarray, and their elusive target still somewhere in their midst, Steve took a moment of clarity to think back to his early teachings. He’d seen this pattern somewhere before, he knew it. The combination of stealth and guerrilla, stick-and-move combat were textbook Shrike ambush tactics from the Great War. With a deep breath, he calculated the most likely path for a follow-up strike and landed a well-placed grapeshot bomb right at the figure’s center of mass.
A tiny terror:
Now revealed by a well placed strike, the mysterious figure slowly emerged from the cloud of dust and debris - a small, 3’ tall Hummingkin with iridescent blue-green plumage stood defiantly against our party. His tailored black cloak and talon-shaped pin sent a shock of grim recognition down Bird’s spine. Though clearly marked as a member of The Red Hand, he recognized the unique insignia as one of The Shade Talons, a renegade hunting troupe of Mistveil Keep. This band of First Kin revolutionaries were shunned by their brood for their extreme and often inhumane acts during the Great War - a ferocity on full display this day.
“That’s a bad touch! You fucked up now!”
With the advantage of stealth waning, and an entire party baring down, the mysterious Shrike opted to flee from combat, flipping into the underbrush with an unnaturally quick reaction. Our intrepid heroes had been victorious this day. An eerie set of final words echoed from far away in the deep wood:
“We’re going to find you. Just you wait.”
Free at last:
With the bandits lain low and their mysterious attacker now gone, the group turned their attention to the now eerily-silent hut camp. After some deliberation, Hugh Mann entered the main building, shield-forward to find their quarry - Rose - bound and bleeding out atop a buckskin bed. In a true act of selflessness, he opted to give his last remaining salve to stabilize the dying woman. Who knew what horrors she had endured, or what would have come of her were the party a moment too late. But here and now, she was alive thanks to the daring rescue of our heroes.
With one of the strange horrors still caged, Bird attempted to free the pitiful soul. His kindness was met with wild, animalistic attacks, striking him about the face and chest. With monumental restraint, Bird opted not to retaliate as the figure eventually slowed, collapsed and wept uncontrollably. Whatever damage they had inflicted to the party in their confused flurry had already been given to them a hundred fold - a sad sight indeed. Freeing the creature, and removing its cruel copper helm, the deeply-scarred man sat as a stunning parody of the human form. Slowly realizing this kindness, the gift of his life, the prisoner looked deeply into Bird’s eyes before fleeing into the surrounding woods of The Wilds.
Gathering what supplies they could find from the ruined carts and stolen goods, the party finds a strange note, likely dropped by their assailant:
Troubling signs:
With this cryptic communication now pointing to Mistveil Keep, and Rose stabilized aboard a salvaged wagon, the party ventured back East on the King’s road toward to the town of Switchwickett. Though troubled by the mysteries set before them, the party rejoiced at a successful battle. They had won this day.
While Hugh, David and Steve kept to the cart, regaling each other with tales of battle, Bird Ferguson opted to scout ahead of the party on their trek back to town - a tactful move from a native of The Wilds. As night gave way to the warmth of the sun, a sense of tentative optimism filled his spirit. Nearing Switchwickett, his thoughts drifted to those of home in Mistveil Keep, the tragedy of his late mentor Cypress Downe and the hope of his new-found family. This brief respite was quickly interrupted as the first flakes of ash began to fall on his jet-black plumage.
A massacre:
Thick columns of black smoke rose high above the ridge line, blanketing the landscape in a layer of ash fine as fresh-fallen snow. As he quickened his pace, Bird’s eyes began to sting with the overwhelming scent of burned lumber. His heart racing, he rounded the western bend into town. Gazing in horror, he beheld the small, stopover town - now engulfed in flame and blood. The frame of an old, white bearded man, now soiled with blood, hung from the town sign at the crossroads.
As they approached the ruined township that once granted them refuge, the party was overtaken by the scent of ash, blood and burned pitch.
With caution, they approached the village to find Bird’s report to be true. Switchwickett was all but destroyed, its citizens slaughtered like sheep by an unknown foe. Curiously, Oldrick’s body was nowhere to be found, removed from the sign at the crossroads.
A thick trail of blood filled the deep ruts carved by heavy carts and foot soldiers heading west. With this mystery fresh in their minds, the party had but one direction: forward. Rounding the bend at the entrance of town, they beheld a sight most horrifying. The peaceful citizens of Switchwickett lied butchered in all manner of cruel positions - most certainly a targeted attack, perhaps even a message.
Further on, a pile of bodies unlike those of the townsfolk lie neatly in a pile toward the center of town. These figures, dressed in all black with sheer cloth masks, were almost certainly of the invading forces that acted here. Upon removing their masks, they were revealed to be an all-Goff strike force - strange for the often cloistered native culture. After some investigation, the party found a pressed metal amulet with the Ancestral symbol of Hargoff, the homeland of the Goff. With more questions than answers, they pressed onward into the burning rubble.
As they continued into the center of town, the mystery of Oldrick’s disappearance was quickly answered. With bolt and arrow still firmly lodged in her flesh, Deborah went about bathing Oldrick’s body in the town well. Her unbreaking focus akin to some sort of meditative state as she prepared him for a proper burial. As she raised her head to meet the new arrivals, her eye locked with Rose’s figure, unconscious in the cart. In a rare moment of joy and relief, Deborah embraced her body tightly, quickly carrying her to one of the few buildings left standing: the stables at the far side of town.
With their initial quest completed and their patron now dead, the party turned to the ruined village for answers as to its fate.
Wiseguy Steve:
Following Deborah to the stables, Steve watched as she gently placed Rose on a bale of hay, covering her with a tattered blanket. She retrieved a small box from the belongings here and approached Steve.
”Thank you - Oldrick. Thank you - Rose. He want you have. Take.”
Inside, Steve found various items, seemingly collected for him by Oldrick himself:
Cultures, Creeds & Kin of The Wilds - a set of field notes by one Stephen Scuttlebug Sr.
Mysterious notes on Mantid biology - A cryptic illustration of a mantid figure from egg to larvae, larvae to mantid. A mysterious fourth figure is prematurely ended by the tear of the page.
Oldrick’s Pick - The strange metallic pick Oldrick used to free the party from their bindings. Its pointed tip, made entirely of slag, hummed with a resonant energy.
—
Bird Ferguson:
While Steve tended to Deborah, both Bird and David took to the smoldering remains of Oldrick’s home where they spent their first night here as escapees, searching for any shred of information they may find. With keen insight, bird ran his finger under the lip of the hand-carved desk in the entryway, revealing a hidden latch. Inside, he found:
A healing salve
Various resources, wood, and iron ingot.
A set of fine thieves tools, unbreakable and master-crafted
With these tools in hand, Bird took to unlocking the storehouse at the head of the farm, revealing even more goods for the party that had been hidden away.
—
David Hasselgoff:
While Bird took to exploring the top level of the building, David headed down to the cellar to explore their hiding place from the night before. Upon finding a fine silk garment, fit for a Librarian, he started back up the creaky steps to the ground floor of the home.
As his head passed the threshold of the floorboards above, an otherworldly cold fell over his body. A subtle image faded into view, shaking before his vision as if double-exposed and out of focus. He shifted his large eye to concentrate on the image as the sights of Switchwickett faded from view. In this new vision, a dark image crystalized:
David saw a darkened room, interrupted by stray beams of light peeking in from darkened curtains. The smell of earth and wet leather hung heavily in the air.
The back of a massive figure, head and shoulders above the average man, stood before a grand table. The rough-hewn tabletop was almost completely overtaken by scrolls of parchment and flickering candles. Hazy figures stood just out of eyesight on the other side of the room.
With his elbow perched on the hilt of an obscenely large cleaver, the man leaned to one side, revealing the remains of his left arm, amputated just below the elbow. A deep baritone voice echoed through this place as he began to speak:
”They took what is MINE! Find them or you’ll be next, Ringer. I don’t need any complications when he gets-”Suddenly, the figure cocked his head, as if aware of some presence here. He wheeled around in an instant, thick cords of muscle firing against the weight of his heavy frame. Locking eyes with David, a look of shock slowly shifted to recognition - from recognition to fury.
”YOU!”
The planks of the floor shuddered under his lumbering footsteps as the man grabbed the neck of David’s shirt, gripping the fabric between thick, muscled fingers. As he braced for impact, he felt a sharp tug forward, then suddenly - nothing.
The vision snapped out of focus as quickly as it had come. Whatever strange, cold sensation had hold over him was gone as he found himself still standing in the warmth of Oldrick’s hut. Was this a vision? A hallucination? He couldn’t be sure.
As he pondered the meaning of this vision and the identity of this ghost from his past, he looked down to discover the frayed fabric of his torn shirt.
—
Hugh Mann: Hugh broke from the party, following an odd set of tracks that split from the main group heading out of town. These tracks snaked their way through the watchtowers and to the woods behind the Farm at odd angles. Soon, drops of fresh blood became visible on the parted grass as the party joined him in his pursuit of this unknown quarry.
Facing the woods, Hugh rounded the base of an old oak stump to discover a single Red Hand soldier, impaled through the ribs by a long, Sovereign spear. As his breath rattled in his chest, the soldier locked eyes with Hugh and began to chuckle. He forced out his words between coughs and fits.
“You’re.. too late.. He’ll.. never stop.. The Red Hand-”
Whatever warning he had meant to deliver was cut short as Hugh quickly removed the long blade from the man’s torso with a twist. His lungs instantly filled with blood as the life left his body, still slumped over on the oak stump.
Taking what valuables he had, Hugh cloaked himself in the red-hooded leathers, finally finding a slim comfort in the well-balanced weapon in his hand. Dragging the corpse from the wood through the town center, Hugh attempted to connect with Deborah. Strangely, his act of ritual mutilation was ill-received. After yet another failed attempt to woo their Goff companion, Hugh resigned to hanging the body back at the crossroads - a warning for all to see.
With the remains of the village fully exhumed and mysteries abound, the party met back at the town center, where Deb was just finishing preparation for Oldrick’s funeral. His blood-soaked beard, now washed and pure white resting against the tan weave of his linens. He looked regal - peaceful even - in the dewy light of the mid-morning sun. They accompanied her as she set his body atop a prepared pyre of lumber, expecting some words, or at least a moment of silence. The party was surprised by the abrupt, almost unceremonious lighting of the kindling. As his body became engulfed in flame, she nodded her head and marched on to the stables to tend to Rose. Clearly, this Goff mourns in her own way.
Gathering in the warmth of the stables, the party settled in for some much needed rest after yet another long day of combat, mystery and mourning. As Bird gathered hay for a makeshift nest, they discussed their plan moving forward. With many new clues at their disposal and double the questions, they decided to head North to the nearby township of Miller’s Bend. With the late morning sun rising in the sky, the crew finally settled in for a long rest.
With new energy and strengthened resolve, the party rose from their rest - their sights set on Miller’s Bend. Their convoy departed from the ashes of Switchwickett with Rose in tow, hoping to find some medical care in the portside town.
The somber scene was cut by a strange, rhythmic sound - softly at first, then louder. A deep bass hum echoed out from Steve’s carapace, bouncing off the walls of the winding quarry road and outward into the skies above. His bright, musical performance was a welcome respite from the somber days behind them. As they marched, they felt the first tinge of optimism since first finding themselves here in the unforgiving Wilds.
This optimism was short lived, unfortunately. As the last bass drop rang out over the treetops, the sudden snap of a limb and flap of a cardinal’s wing stopped Bird in his tracks. A familiar, soft giggling could be heard from the underbrush ahead as the bolt of a crossbow found purchase in David’s shoulder. From the berm at their shoulder, a woman’s voice called out to this mysterious attacker.
“Get ‘em Pinky!”
The figure of a woman, cloaked and wielding an illuminated bell, stood overhead, silhouetted by the evening sun behind her. As the party scrambled to act, they were bombarded by pots of flaming pitch, catching the cart and those around it fast in flame.
Enraged by this ambush, David rushed the strange woman, followed closely by Deb and David. His violent flurry of strikes spun her armor in place, allowing the rest of the party to attack the gaps in her plate. Suddenly, more Red Hand reavers sprung from the woods beyond, attempting to blindside the party. David’s axes made quick work of one as Bird polished off another from the tree above. Steve fought a third as they attempted to take Rose from the cart. By the time Deborah made it up the berm, the woman was at death’s door. A mighty strike from her toothed hammer drove the attacker’s skull into her chest like a nail into lumber as she lie in a pool of her own blood.
Suddenly outnumbered, their old foe Pinky fled to the shadows once more. This time, however, Bird was ready. A well placed shot into the canopy above found purchase, downing the Hummingkin fanatic and ending his violent reign once and for all. Finally, it seemed, The Red Hand attacker had been vanquished.
