>>6364853
Your father, Sodel, and your mother, Eini, are not quite sure they agree with your new decision, but they have no real power to stop you. You know that they would love nothing more than to leave this blighted city and enjoy a nice life taking care of a vineyard in the Esmarian countryside in the eastern Empire, far from Anbenncost and the barren island it stands on. In your mind, you think you might as well try.

Your name is…
>Kertog
>Ulrigh
>Athel
>Write-in

Your dwarf clan is…
>Ironbeard [+1 Wound].
>Bloodaxe [+1 Melee Skill]
>Diamondheart [+1 Wit]
>Write-in (Stat will be assigned by DM)

>>6364854
>Athel
>Diamondheart [+1 Wit]

d6 system

STATS
>Characters have stat values that provide Xd6 to roll when faced with challenges.
>Roll DC is 3*Opponent Skill. To beat an opponent with a WS of 2, the dwarf must roll 6 or better. Auto success if DC = Stat value
>If it's not an opponent, a difficulty is assigned to the task between 1 and X. 3*Difficulty
>Stats are buffed by gear and skill increase.
>Skill increases are rarely obtained after intense training by a master or through epic feats, represented by the Aptitude buff. Aptitude buffs to a stat become exponentially more difficult to obtain as they increase, but are permanent.
>Gear is hard to obtain and can be lost but offers instant increases to stats. For example: A sentient being has a base Weapon Skill of 2. Dwarf A gets a +1 to Weapon Skill due to their inclination for melee combat. Dwarf A equips an iron axe, bringing a further +1 to their WS. Total: 4.
>For example: A sentient being has a base Weapon Skill of 2. Dwarf A gets a +1 to Weapon Skill due to their natural inclination for melee combat. Dwarf A equips an iron axe, bringing a further +1 to their WS. Dwarf A chooses to enter a battle frenzy during the battle for +1 to WS. Total: 5.
>Conditional buffs or debuffs exist. A tired dwarf may see a -1 to all their stat checks. A dwarf that knows how to enter a battle frenzy may see a +1 increase to their combat stats.

COMBAT
>Wounds represent a character's health. A character with 3 Wounds has 3 "health".
>When fighting, a failed roll causes a wound to the player, a successful roll causes a wound to the enemy.
>If a degree of success or failure happens (each +6 or -6 over the DC), 1 more wound occurs in the same round.
>Wounds can be Light (if taken from a non-lethal weapon, like fists or clubs) or Grievous (if taken from a lethal weapon like a mace or blade).
>Reaching 0 wounds means you are knocked out and may need medical care depending on the wound taken. If you reach your max Wounds in the negative (so, if you have a maximum of 3 Wounds and reach -3), you are slain no matter the wound type.
>3 round combat rule to avoid slogs. Resolution will depend on the situation.
>In group fights, the system may vary. Very small groups may have each character rolling individually against their opponents. In larger fights, this may be further simplified to a player + key companions rolling their own skill and adding up 3*Skills of other people involved in the fight (So if your ally has WS 2, you add 6 to your roll). Proper battlefields with dozens of opponents should be rare, and will be handled with another simple system (Leader's command stat, troop quality, morale instead of wounds).
>In group fights, wounds will be applied at random to a member of each group.

ROLEPLAY
>Dwarves are extremely proud creatures and have a hard time trusting other races. They consider themselves hardy, steadfast in their beliefs, and strong of body.>Dwarves have a deeply ingrained grudge against orcs, goblins and kobolds. Their initial reaction to them should always be hostile and cold.
>Dwarves get along with humans, they consider them naive, foolhardy and impatient.
>Dwarves mistrust elves, considering them haughty and weak of will and strength.
>Dwarves consider oaths sacred bonds, of which friendship is one of them. Calling someone a friend is a big deal.
>Dwarves are a martial and materialist race. They like to resolve things and settle dues by fighting or by exchanging goods.
>Dwarves have a deepset belief in the sanctity of their lost mountainholds and worship their ancestors. They inherently trust those who share their clan name (and thus their blood).
>Dwarves develop grudges, usually when someone messes too much with any of their above values, or insults them over it.
>Dwarves hate when someone implies they are short of stature.

MENTAL
>The Wit stat is basically Wounds for your mental health.
>Extended adventuring periods and traumatic experiences decrease Wit. It is recovered by taking some time off adventuring, living an average life within a settlement.
>Reaching your max Wit level in the negative (So -2 if you have 2 max Wit), will cause your character to enter a catatonic state and require care until 1 Wit level is recovered.
>Wit maximum can be increased and decreased depending on your current situation. A dwarf that follows a cause, has good friends, or a loving family may see their Wit increase. A lonely dwarf with no goals and no shoulders to stoically be sad on may see their Wit maximum decrease.

SETTING
>It's the world of Anbennar, a fantasy setting created and developed by a community of Paradox gamers for a EU4 mod.
>It will not be a 1 to 1 representation of Anbennar. DM is not a lore erudite of the mod so many liberties will be taken. Think of it more as a platform for adventuring.
>Low fantasy. No healing potions, no easily accessible magic or magic weapons.
>Combination of high medieval into renaissance era. 15th century Europe. Gunpowder is in the early stages and not easily accessible.
>Rule of cool always applies at DM's discretion.

Current Stats:
Wounds: 3/3
Wit: 2/2
Melee Skill: 3 (Renamed from Weapon Skill, forgot to add this to the rules)
Ranged Skill: 1

>>6364854
>Athel
>Diamondheart

>>6364854
>Athel
>Diamondheart [+1 Wit]
Sure, why not? Strike the Earth!

Your name is Athel Diamondheart. Your clan is known for their almost unnatural ability to withstand mental anguish. You’ve heard all kinds of tales about it, that it’s an inherent magical ability of the clan, that it stems from the powers of the ancestor spirits, some say it’s just the culture and that dwarfs are not inherently magical. You’ve indeed always felt that you could keep going when others couldn’t, working in shitty jobs, not breaking the nose of some prick who decided that you should be the objective of their drunken rant, and generally just living in Anbenncost for the better part of 29 years.

You’ve returned home after your last day at your job. Back to the low-roof apartments of the Halfling slums, halflings that weren’t too happy about sharing their already cramped ghetto with dwarf refugees all those years ago. They aren’t happy now either, the situation did not improve much in the few decades since the Greentide. There isn’t that much space within the walls of Anbenncost, and the rise of renewed trade along the coasts of the sea of the Dame is only bringing more and more migrants, while the apartments are just getting more and more stacked.

Your father receives you with a wide smile, his face crooked by the wear of the sun and the ravages of time. He’s not that old for a dwarf, barely in his 100s, but the past few decades have been anything but kind to your parents. His beard and hair is now half platinum, a fixture of the Diamondhearts, rather than greying in the usual way, their hair turns into a sort of shiny metallic grey that may remind someone of the color of diamonds.

Your mother is cooking a pot of mushrooms with old-smelling meat, they tried to have a bit of meat once or twice a week. Hard to come by in the city. You sit down for dinner.

“Are Ulrigh and Kertog not coming?” You ask. Your two brothers were always off somewhere else. They are younger than you, Kertog is 24 and Ulrigh is 20. Your parents had them when they were a little more well off, if this style of living could be called so.

Your father replies as he pours stew in his bowl. “Ulrigh’s at work still. Kertog’s off with his buddies.” He sits down, sips some of the stew, smiles, and takes his hand to your mother’s hand, holding it with love.

“Ancestors save me, what a farewell committee.” You keep your tone to a joke. You know your brothers are busy enough as it is.

Your mother pours you a bowl. “Listen to yourself, Athel. Do you think you’re the High King now? Your little adventure will stay just as that, a little adventure. You’ll get back here, I know it. Just stick to a job, for clan’s sake, and find yourself a nice lady to have children with.”

Children? Bah. You scoffed loudly and caressed your ever more burgeoning beard, it only reached down to your belly button unlike your father’s mightier, wider beard that went all the way down to his groin. “I won’t raise my children in a place where they’ll be bullied and mistreated by manlings.”

When you say the word manling, your mother shoots a terrible stare to your father, the one who taught you it. It’s how they used to call humans back in the hold. “Manlings this, manlings that. You two are the bloody same, you are!” She serves her own bowl and sits down to eat.

Your father breaks a bit of bread to wet in the soup. “I’ve heard caravans heading east need guardin’.” He says as he enjoys the succulent taste of the mushrooms.

“East?” You say, loudly sipping from your wooden spoon. “Where to? Corvuria?”

“Nay, Castanor.”

Castanor, the manling realm that fell to the Greentide. It used to be a huge empire a long, long time ago, then it broke down into kingdoms, then the kingdoms were broken by the Greentide. Now, after the Greentide broke, it’s full of fledgling realms formed by adventurers and greenskin remnants. “That could be a good place to start.” You say.

“Aye.” Your father says.

“Are you listening to yourself, Sodel Diamondheart?! You’d send our child to die off in Castanor?!”

He looks at her with that broad smile of his. “He ain’t gonna die, sweetheart. Athel’s strong stuff.”

“Four dwarfs and not a single she-dwarf in this household, Ancestors save me, all reason has left my kin.” She eats up one of the bits of meat she left for herself, having given you the lion’s share of it. “You two think more with your beards than with your heads!”

You both caress your beards and look at each other with beaming pride. Of course you do, it’s a he-dwarf’s entire raison d’être, as the Lorentish would say. “Worry not mother.” You straighten your back and puff yourself. “I will bring you great riches so we may leave this accursed city and live in a tranquil homestead by an Esmarian river!”

She starts spinning her soup with her spoon. “May the ancestors and the old gods hear your boast and think well of it, son. You will need it.”

Dinner is soon finished, your mother starts cleaning the cooking ware and shelves bowls for your brothers when they come home. Meanwhile, your father has beckoned for you to follow him. He takes you to their room, where he starts rummaging through an old wooden chest of his. His oustretched arm reaches the bottom and his face lights up. He brings it out and shows you his prized possession. An iron axe of dwarven make.

“From the forges of Khugdihr, son.” He says. “You’re firstborn, so it was to be given to you when I passed. My father, ancestors praise him, had it commissioned before the fall of the hold.” He hands it over to you. You’re no expert in dwarven forging techniques, but as you hold it and swing it once or twice, you think of how light it is, how swiftly it pierces the air, and how well it rests in your hand.

Got [Dwarven Axe] +2 to Melee Skill when equipped.

“I thank you for your gift, father.”

“Sleep well, son. And beware the dangers of the wilds, they are many, even among places some consider civilized.” He puts his broad and callused hands to your shoulders. “And hear me, if you ever feel that the life of adventure is not your calling, by all the ancestors, return to us.”

You nod, but have no intention of returning without something to show for it.

You head off to your room. Well, the room you share with your brothers. Rather cramped for three as it is, the amount of stuff the three of you have laying around removes even more of what little space is available. You lay on your shoddy mattress and think of your life in Anbenncost, the life you will soon leave. You recount the great ancestors of clan Diamondheart and their deeds as a mantra to fall asleep and for good luck tomorrow morning, the few ancestors you do know, anyway. You never did pay much attention to the ramblings of uncle Gamri.

Your eyes open wide, you realize you fell asleep when remembering the great troll-slaying of Orgar Diamondheart. Your brothers are in their own bunks, the room reeks of alcohol. Bloody lightbeards went to the tavern again! What little coin they make, they waste away. Foolish children, behaving like manlings. You raise yourself up and put on your gear, some old leather armor you bought with your savings, a backpack that’s almost completely torn, and all the wares you’d packed into it for a long trip. You look once more to your brothers, it’s not like you were any better when you were their age. A broad smile, similar to your father’s, beams from your face, and you sneakily head out to the entrance door.

You slam a fist to your chest. “By the door of the wolf, Khugdihr-am-rak.” You utter, then open the door and leave.

The day is starting to get busy. Dexterous halfling runners heading from one place to another, human merchants setting up their stalls and all kinds of folks walking to their jobs with grim stares. It does not take long for you to reach the adventurer’s guild, though it is still empty at this time of day, it usually turns into a tavern by midday. A manling, likely your age, is removing and adding postings to the noticeboards outside it.

“Excuse me, good man.”

He turns around, looking above you at first, then down. “Oh, good day, dwarf. What is it?”

You tap your boot, bloody manling looked up then down to you. You will have to forgive this transgression. “I seek work as an adventurer. Best if I could start today.”

“Right. Are you registered at the guild?”

“Indeed, did so last week.”

“Good, good.” He says, then scratches his chin as he checks the new announcements he’s just posted. “There’s a caravan looking for guards here, aye.” He says, pointing to a piece of paper. “It’s headin’ east to Castanor. To the republic of Anbenland.”

You heard of it. Anbenland was formed by a band of adventurers from Anbenncost. It prides itself as the gateway to Castanor proper, some would say the limit between civilization and the Castanorian frontier. “Good pay?”

“Good enough for a newbie.” The man says, moving his scratching hand from his chin to an old scar on the side of his face. “If you’d rather stick around here, or have your own pace while heading to Castanor, which I recommend you do if you want proper work, you could take this one.” He points to another paper.

“What’s it?”

“From a village east of the island, folks say their children are getting kidnapped or some such.” He raises an eyebrow. “It is weird, but the reward’s not big enough for the most able to go and check it out. Good enough for a newbie though.”

You cross your arms. Newbie, newbie, newbie! Accursed manling. But it would be best not to cause a fuss among in the guild.

>”I’ll hop onto the caravan that heads to Anbenland.”
>”I’ll check out those disappearing children.”
>”Who are you calling a newbie, accursed manling?!”

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Map of the current situation. You live in the island, the city where the square is. The X marks the village talking about disappearing children. The line is the path the caravan would take you on.

>>6364970
>”I’ll check out those disappearing children.”

We're very proud, yes, but he's not wrong that we are a newbie. Now if he was wrong...well, he'd be in for a tongue lashing.

Anyways, I say try and take the job closer to home. Stay close to the safety net of our family, should things go wrong and we need succour. If all goes well, then we'll be nearby a metropolis after receiving our pay, rather than isolated on the road, with which we can buy better gear to prepare us to head out to Anbenland and beyond to Castanor.

>>6364999
Let's go. Writing

“I’ll check out those disappearing children. Where’s that?”

He looks at you half-surprised, the good kind of surprised, with a smile on him. “Good pick, honestly. Too many crazy newbies head straight off to Castanor.”

“Didn’t you just tell me to go there if I wanted to do proper work, manling?” You raise an dubitative eyebrow.

“Just a little test, that’s all. Not that’s it a death sentence, I mean, but if you start slow it likely means you’re more cautious than the rest.” He realizes that he’s still lightly scratching his scar and stops. He heads inside and calls for you to come in as well, you follow.

The insides of the guild are like a tavern’s, various tables where adventurers are supposed to gather to discuss going on contracts together. When the drinks begin to flow though, it’s more like a party ground. Athel had been in one or two of those, adventurers were a rowdy, loud, and thrill-seeking bunch which fit in with the dwarven notion of a party.

The man had him sign a paper, locally produced at the Anben papermaker’s guild. He picks up the paper and gives it a thorough look. “Athel Diamondheart, is it?”

“Aye.” You puff your chest at the mention of your clan name. “What’s it to you, manling?”

He chuckles. “You shouldn’t go around calling everyone a manling.”

“I think an adventurer like you can take it.”

He nods. “Well, I might, but not others.” He takes the paper and puts it into a folder for the day which was still empty. “Village’s in the east of Dameced. Very near to Varivar, know of it?”

You nod, crossing your arms once more. Varivar, a spot on the island with many forests, elf-land, granted to them when they arrived on the continent almost five hundred years ago and help beat a lich-king of some sort. You don’t know the details, but the elves are wary of those who intrude in their granted lands. “Aye, you think elves are the problem?”

“Everyone spreads tales about elfish kidnappings, but nay, I wouldn’t say that. The elves of Varivar get along rather well with humans.” He accompanies you to the exit. “You know which gate to take?”

“Aye.”

“Want some company on the way? There won’t be much movement today, I feel.”

You shrug. “Do as you wish.”

The main streets are now beginning to see the hubbub of daily life. Stall merchants crying their good wares out to the folks coming in to buy the day’s produce, children running about playing before they begin whatever jobs they may have. The main streets have all manners of folk in them, plenty of humans, of course, but also many dwarves, halflings, even a few gnomes and elves walk about and do their daily tasks. One thing you never think about that much is just how colorful the people living in Anbenncost are, it’s a center of trade, and you heard there’s textile factories and dyers not so far off in the sea of the Dame.

“Are you from the holds, Athel?” The man asks, interrupting your thoughts.

“Aye, well, I was born in Anbenncost, but my parents were from Khugdihr.”

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“Oh, Khugdihr!” He says. “Balgar the Builder was from there, was he not?”

“Yes, about two thousand years ago, when the dwarf lived.”

“What a dwarf, have you seen the white walls of Castanor? I hope you will one day, they are crafted beautifully, grand in height and width. I wonder how they made them withstand the ravages of time so well.”

Stone upon stone, no sturdier way to make something, you smile and nod. “And you, human, where do you hail from?”

“The Reach, far to the north. There are cities there living under the yoke of an orcish kingdom, I wanted none of it, so headed south through Gawed, took a boat at Vertesk and wound up here. The trip took me a long while, I was doing the odd adventuring job along the way, trying to make ends’ meet, tried to live in a few places for a bit. It was a rough couple of years. It’s where I got the scar, goblin ambush while I was out guarding a hunting party in Gardfort.” He seems to recall the events fondly, though the scar seems quite terrible. “They thought I was dead and gone, but an apothecary at the fort was able to take care of me.”

“Must’ve cost you a fortune.” You say.

“The lady of Gardfort was fond of me.” He replies. By the wry smile, you can imagine what he means. Stupid manlings, only thinking with their loins.

There was the gate. “My name is Patrik, by the way, of Alencay.” He says.

“Well, you already know mine. Athel Diamondheart.”

“Thank you for the introduction, dwarf. I wish you good luck in your travels.”

Hard to call this a travel that needs good luck, you think as you walk along the farmlands and hills of the island’s interior. The Damesear was not the most fertile of places, but it was very lived in, towns, villages and homesteads abounded around the city of Anbenncost, feeding it with whatever it may need. You see a party of riders bearing the emblem of the Magisterium pass by at full speed. The Magisterium, a grand council of mages based to the north of Anbenncost, at the other side of the island in a town called Old Damenath. Their power indirectly extends all around the empire as they are the lawmakers when it comes to magic, but these lands they own and tax directly themselves.

You hoist your backpack to a comfortable position as you head further and further inland, getting a few odd and curious looks from the locals. Dwarfs are urban creatures to them, oddities here in the countryside. Some of the children run along the track with you and ask you uncouth questions and you swiftly bellow for them to get out your way, which they do while laughing and mocking you. Accursed manlings! Rein in your devil spawns!

As you approach the border with Varivar, you notice fewer and fewer people and fewer and fewer settlements. You passed by the town of Dameced and headed further inland, away from the roads connecting the east and west of the island and into rural trails. It is not long until you arrive at the village that posted the quest.

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It is a small and unassuming town of woodworkers and subsistence farmers. Things are deafeningly quiet here compared to the constant noise of Anbenncost. You realize just how accustomed you had grown to your home city.

A few young men with axe and seax of varying qualities approach you. “Who are you, dwarf? We do not want trouble.”

“I come from Anbenncost. Regarding the disappearing children.”

They relax when they hear your words. One with a full brown beard takes a step forward. “Only you come? You have not brought any friends?”

You scoff. “With the reward you offer, manling, be grateful that a dwarf has come at all.”

His face twists, taking offense at your comment. “Whatever. Come with me.”

So you do, you are brought to the eastern homesteads in the village. The men and women eye you warily, bringing their children in at the sight of the stranger walking about so close to their homes.

The men stop and the one with the beard points at a house. “Awen and Reanna lived here with their two daughters. Their daughters up and disappeared one night, then they went after them and never came back. Then more children from around the village were gone over the next few days. The Dame have mercy on their poor souls, I fear they may be dead.”

If they haven’t come back in so long, they likely were, but you do not want to feed the man’s fear. “Have you found anything that may help me track them?”

“Only folks from the east side have disappeared.” He says. “There were tracks, but they headed into elf-land. We cannot cross the river that separates our land from the elfs’, but you may.”

“You may cross it in my company, if it is to search for your missing kin.” You say, that much they taught you in the guild. Always good to bring the locals with you if there’s a fight to be had.

“Sorry, dwarf, but that is the reason we’re hiring you. My boys and I will keep the village safe and our numbers are bad enough as they are. I want you to find out what happened to our folk, and put an end to this curse.”

Well, not much more to it. “I will go, if I am not back in a few days, send word to the guild of Anbenncost, if you please.”

“We will.” The man replies. “And thank you, dwarf. It gives us peace of mind that a stout one such as you is here to help us.”

You give a stoic nod, which the man returns, then march into the woods.

The tracks are old, turned into unrecognizable smudges, but they’re clearly paces, some shorter, likely children, some longer, likely adults, some freakishly long, at least so they seem so to you, perhaps an unusually tall man. It is not long before you reach the river that the man mentioned. It is more of a stream, likely descending down from the northern face of the Moonmount, the lonely mountain in Damesear island. You find some hollow part with good stones that can let you pass while only slightly wetting your boots. Likely set up by some locals many years ago.

As you cross into the forest, you can’t help but feel observed. The tales of stalking elves kidnapping children who wander into the forests resonate now in your mind. A few hours pass as you continue to track what little remains of the footsteps you followed up until now. Soon, they seem almost invisible to you. But you must rest your legs, you’ve done nothing but walking for many hours already. Perhaps it would’ve been best to spend the night at the village and tracking during the dawn, though you doubt the locals would’ve agreed to this. Time is of the essence to them, after all.

You settle down to rest for at least half an hour, to drink some good water and have a meal of bread and a pot of mushroom stew your mother had kindly saved up for you this morning. As you were untying the rope that held the pot closed, an arrow whirls to your side, you spring up, unholster your axe and take cover behind a tree. Ancestors! That was far too close for comfort. You check again and another arrow breaks the air heading towards you, you are able to dodge it at the last moment and also see the silhouette of a tall figure covered by a cape and hood bearing the bow, in its belt you also see an angled short sword.

By the ancestors, if it wants a fight, it will have it!

>Roll 3d6, first roll taken. DC is unknown.

Rolled 6, 3, 6 = 15 (3d6)

>>6365086
Naive manling! They dismiss elfish treachery too easily!
>>6365089
Awen and Reanna both sound like feminine names? A pair of widows splitting rent maybe? And it sounds like only females are being targeted? Either a pervert elf, or someone who hates the gentler sex perhaps? Could be a village issue, some woman-hater trying to disguise his killings as the doing of elves. Probably not even a real curse. Or it could just all be coincidence, have nothing to do with women, maybe just wolves.
>>6365091
Die fool!

Roll a further 2d6, forgot about the axe!

Rolled 6, 5 = 11 (2d6)

>>6365112

>>6365114
Total roll: 26. Pretty crazy

Difficulty was 15, so it's a success with a further 1 degree of success.

“Everbeard guide my axe!” You bellow as you come running out from behind the tree towards the figure. It reacts strangely, as if surprised by your words, but redresses itself to fire one more arrow towards you, another miss. But not an opportunity you would let go! Your foe only has time to bring out its short sword and ready itself for your incoming blow, but it will do little against the terrible might of a dwarf , your father’s axe delivers one hit after the other and your opponent can do little more than defend itself. Its posture wavers and you deftly push their sword hand away and deliver a blow to their guts that they are just barely able to dodge, though you hear leather tear and the wetness of warm blood spraying onto your hand.

The warrior in front of you holds its belly, fearful of the blood and clearly confused. Hark, this manling has chosen the wrong opponent! But your task is to return the children to safety, so you choose to avoid killing whoever this may be and rather question them regarding their hideout. You deliver a mighty backhand blow to their face and they fall down with a scream. A rather high pitched scream, which sets you aback at first, but you redress yourself and put a boot at the female’s right shoulder, at which she delivers another yelp.

“Foolish manling!” You yell, spit at your mouth. “You thought you could deliver death unto a dwarf? The proud lineage of Dagrin Everbeard and Goren Diamondheart does not fall so easily!” You bring your axe to the woman’s hood and remove it. “Let us see the face of the criminal!”

You’re slightly taken aback again, as most people are when they see a face such as this one. A beautifully crafted chin, wide emerald eyes that shine with the rays of the sun that filter through the tree branches, a short but thick hair of the brownish red color of autumn leaves. An elf! A she-elf! You seethe at the thought. The elves are behind this?

“She-elf!” You spit out with venom.

Her voice is low pitched and smooth as silk, though the girl’s worn clothes and cape do not give off the same feeling of refinement. “Bastard. Where are the children of my kin? Have thrown them into your mixers to forge runes? I will have your head, and if not me, my folk will, by Falah!” She twists and turns in an attempt to spin back up, but your foot presses down further at her shoulder and she grits her teeth in pain.

“What?!” You utter in rage. “It is you who stole away the children of the men past the river, and you will return them to me!”

“Man-children?” She says. “Could it be? They too have lost kin?” She says. “Who are you, dwarf?”

“Athel Diamondheart.” You proudly boast. “Of the Anbenncost adventurer guild, hired to rescue the children of the manlings.”

“An adventurer?!” She says, she then uses her free hand to rummage through a bag.

You point your axe to her head. “What are you doing?! I will cleave your head without a second thought if you bring out a weapon!”

“It is no weapon.” She says, and brings out a crest made in thick cloth in the shape of a circle. A tree and various moons surrounding it stand on a cyan background. One of two golden swords stands at the side of the moons, the accepted symbol of adventurers in the Empire and its guilds. “I am Merialeth of Moonhaven, a Moon-ranger.”

“Moon-ranger?”

“Elves dedicated to maintaining the peace in the elfrealms of Cannor, those that are descendants of Munas Moonsinger’s remnant fleet.” She returns the crest to her saddlebag. “The Empire has accepted us as an adventurer guild not so long ago.”

You remove your foot from her shoulder and kick away her sword, keeping your axe at a short distance of her head. “Up with you, elf.” You say. “You say you are looking for lost children as well?”

Merialeth gets up ever so slowly, her hands raise to deter you from rash actions. “The elves of Varivar denounced lost children as well. The lords of Wex are far away and will not send their men-at-arms to deal with elf troubles. The headmaster of the Moonhaven chapter has sent me to investigate this matter.” She brings her hands down to her bag once more. You grip your axe hard. “Please, let me bring out the contract for you.” She pleads.

You let her, mostly because your axe is one small swing away from slicing her throat. She brings out the letter written in Imperial Common and shows it to you. “You think me a fool to just read a letter while you stand there? I know elfs are cunning. Read it aloud for me then show me the signature.”

So she does, while the prose is more flowery, the issues depicted are eerily similar to that of the manlings that hired you, it is signed by one Ivrandil Starseeker.

“Please, dwarf. You must believe me. Our cause is the same, we should aid one another and seek out the true culprit.”

Your eyes dart around. You know elves can be cunning and excellent liars, but either she rigged some excellent proof, or she is telling the truth.

>”I believe you, elf, but one wrong move and your death will swift.” You will let her accompany you in your quest. You need a tracker, after all, and elf rangers are reputedly good trackers.
>”I have no need for companions, elf. You go your way, I go mine.” You will let her leave and do whatever she wants. This is a task that you alone will deal with.
>”I do not believe you, elf. Your trickery ends here!” Kill the elf. You will find the children yourself.
>Write-in.

>>6365509
>”I believe you, elf, but one wrong move and your death will swift.” You will let her accompany you in your quest. You need a tracker, after all, and elf rangers are reputedly good trackers.
Her proof looks solid enough. But and it is VERY important "but"
>She owes us an apology for attacking first.
If she isn't willing to apologize,
>” You go your way, I go mine.” You will let her leave and do whatever she wants.

>>6365519
Locked!

“I believe you, elf, but one wrong move and your death will be swift.” You preemptively remove your axe from her neck.

With the immediate threat to her life now slightly farther away from her, she lets out a sigh of contentment and sighs. “Then we will collaborate?”

Your chest heaves and you puff in a quite discontent manner. “A dwarf only collaborates with one who does right by them. You have attacked me, and you owe me an apology!”

She gives you a thorough look, maybe wondering if you’re serious or not. “Alright.” She smiles ever so slightly, a bit of pain on her face from the slash you delivered near her belly earlier. “I apologize, Athel Diamondheart. My earlier actions were rash.”

You nod, content with the meager apology of the elf, not much more could be expected of them, but to go so far is already indicative that she is not as haughty as the usual knife-ear. “Very well. Then let us look to your wound.”

“Thank you, dear Athel. Dusk is upon us anyhow, we will need shelter and warmth for the night.”

You settle down in the very same clearing where you fought. Merialeth’s wound is not life-threatening, but it is a deep cut. She applies some sort of poultice that she had wrapped up in strong leaves, it surprises you how well it staunched the bleeding and how it easily it is applied to the wound. After this comes the stitching, which Merialeth remarks how terrible you are at making them.

“It is the same as stitching together fabric, Athel! By the Gods!” She yelps once more as you pierce her skin with the needle.

“Silence Meri- Meria-, uh… Elf! How can I concentrate with all your complaining?! Let me do my work in silence and peace, you pansy elves yell about anything.”

“Your mother did not teach you to sew, dwarf?! Curse you! Ow.”

When the deed was finally done, you settle down and bring food out of your backpack, as does Merialeth from her own saddlebag. Finally, you could enjoy your mother’s stew while the elf brings out some sort of star-shaped bread along with what seems like cooked poultry meat.

“You may call me Meryl. It is what most call me. Only my parents, when in great anger, name me Merialeth.”

“Very well, Meryl, that I shall call you.”

She offers you some of the bread and chicken. You look at it, then at her. “Go right ahead, Athel. Elves do not eat as much as dwarves.”

“Your body will need it to heal the wound.” You reply.

“Worry not about that.”

Your mouth twists, you grab some of the bread and the slice of poultry she cut for you. It tastes quite good, the bread most of all, it has an excellent texture as well which makes each crunch that much more enjoyable to the senses. “Did you like it?” She asks.

“It is finely crafted.”

A large smile appears on her face, she looks young, but then again, most elves do for at least two or three hundred years. “I will tell our baker back in Moonhaven of it.”

You bring your head up in pride and caress your beard. “Do so, dwarf compliments are hard to come by.”

“So they are.” She says. “What are you eating?”

“My mother’s stew, she prepared a bowl for me before I left Anbenncost today.”

“Your mother made you food your food?”

You huff and puff once more in pride. “Aye, the best food in this ancestors-forsaken island, I’ll say! Quila guides her hand at every step.”

She looks at the food, then back to you. You grumble for a moment, but then relent. “You have a spoon, do you not? Of course you do. Alright, have a taste, and take some mushroom and meat with it.”

Her eyes beam when she eats the stew. “What taste! Begga Goodfingers blessed your mother, dwarf.”

One more puff of pride. “Of course!”

Night came, the elf, armed with bow, arrow and sword, took first and second watch, as she informs you that they need less sleep than most other races of Cannor. She only asks for four hours by the tail end of the night. She awakens you with a few nudges of her boot, complains about your terrible snoring, then falls into a soft, silent sleep herself. You’d almost think she is dead if it weren’t for her chest rising and falling. The night passes uneventfully, with the light of the moon giving good visibility around you, the woods are peaceful, as expected for a forest inhabited by elves and so close to towns and cities.

Bird song declares the coming of a new day. Four hours have passed, more or less, and with the breaking of dawn, Meryl easily awakens and stretches in a prolonged manner. “Good morning, Athel.”

“Good morning, Meryl.”

You both break your fast on elf bread. Meryl offers you some halfling butter as well, it spreads easily on the bread and tastes of glory. Clearly, the elf is knowledgeable on Empire food.

You follow along with Meryl as she seeks and finds tracks you could never have spotted. Her skill and instinct for the task far surpasses yours, it seems it was a good idea to bring her along, though you can still see her clutch her wound from time to time, while the elf poultice clearly had a good effect, she would need time to recover fully. You also saw that she woke up with a nasty bruise on her cheek from the blow you delivered to her face, but she does not seem that bothered by it. Perhaps she is used to it?

A few hours pass and finally you make a breakthrough, finding a long red cloth tied around a tree trunk. “Various tracks converge here.” She says in a low whisper, pointing to spots around you. “This must be a reference point.”

You nod, beyond the tree with the red cloth is a beaten path. You both follow along, but soon Meryl twitches, grabs your hand and has you follow her into the underbrush. She puts a finger to your mouth and points you towards the end of the path.

It takes a bit, but two figures indeed appear.

“Gods, why am I stuck with you?” A masculine voice rings from the end of the path. The only reply it receives is a confused, growl-gargle from something walking on all fours.

Ancestors! You had only heard tales of such things. It is a ghoul! A decrepit humanoid twisted by dark magic, its skin dark purple and rotten-smelling, with boils and cysts oozing pus.

“Can’t he wash you, make you less horrible to walk around with? Half the time we almost get caught from your smell alone, you foul beast.” The voice continues, as it approaches, you distinguish that is very much a man. A human, quite tall and strong, his skin has a greenish tint and small tusks protruding from his lower jaw. A half-orc! He is armed with an axe of his own and a shield, while wearing a set of leather armor.

Meryl signals to you, bringing you out of your stupor. “Listen to me, Athel.” She says. “I will shoot the ghoul and enrage it, it will come for me into the brush and I will keep it distracted. You must take down the half-orc, you have shown me your skill already, I am sure you will be able to take him.”

You look back at your opponents. The half-orc has good bearing, he seems comfortable in the warrior’s garb, but his axe is of poor quality, as is his defensive gear.

“Well, shall we proceed?”

Your team:

Athel Diamondheart | Dwarf Adventurer
Wounds: 3/3
Wit: 2/2
Melee Skill: 3
Ranged Skill: 1
Equipment:
1x Dwarven Axe (+2 MS)
1x Leather Armor (+1 Armor, will soak up 1 wound before it begins affecting your health)

Merialeth of Moonhaven | Elf Moon-ranger
Wounds 2/3
Wit: ?
Melee Skill: 2
Ranged Skill: 3
Equipment:
1x Elf Composite Bow (+2 RS)
1x Short sword (+1 MS)
1x Leather Armor (+1 Armor)


Enemies:

Half-orc Warrior
Wounds: 4/4 (?)
Melee Skill: 3 (?)
Ranged Skill: 1 (?)
Equipment:
1x Iron Axe (+1 MS)
1x Shield (+1 Armor)
1x Leather Armor (+1 Armor)

Ghoul
Wounds: 4/4 (?)
Melee Skill: 2 (?)

>Proceed as Meryl says.
>Perhaps it would be best if we attack the ghoul together first and then overwhelm the orc. Be mindful that you would be the only melee attacker against two melee foes.
>They are clearly leaving from some place, we should let them pass and head for wherever they come from.

>>6365555
>Proceed as Meryl says.
Lets take our chance. Also, nice to see an Anbennar quest.

>>6365555
>Proceed as Meryl says.

On one hand, they are tough, and thus I would like to focus each down one after another. But the elf isn't worth as much in melee, if one gets to grips with her, whereas she could be agile alone in the woods against the ghoul. Peppering an unarmoured foe with 5 ranged skill versus what is probably an unskilled opponent. Though I imagine it has some ghoulish strength of some sort. Holding off two foes while she shoots is probably more liable to get US focused down, before they run the elf down. No, better to go with her plan, on second glance, I favour the stat array for this fight, one on one for each of us.

Following them would likely just see us outnumbered once we meet the ghoul's maker. I suppose we could retreat to the village once we know where the hideout is, they wouldn't need to defend it if they know where the threat is and can come with us to rid themselves of it once and for all. But more realistically they'd just tell us to do what they paid us to do.

Locked!

>>6365567
>>6365564

Roll the following in two separate rolls:
>5d6 for Athel
>5d6 for Meryl

Call out the name if you want to roll for someone specific

Rolled 2, 6, 6, 1, 2 = 17 (5d6)

>>6365595
Rolling for Athel, will leave Meryl to other anons unless hours pass without a roll.

Rolled 1, 3, 1, 1, 5 = 11 (5d6)

>>6365595
Rolling for Athel.

>>6365611
Oop, rolling for Meryl.

“Proceed.” At the sound of your voice, Meryl shows no doubt, she runs off deeper into the woods. You clench your axe’s haft and wait for the arrow. It swiftly comes, whistling as it pierces the wind and lands straight onto the ghoul’s side. The creature lets out a piercing scream of pain, looks into the woods and darts off like a rabid animal seeking revenge.

“What the hell?” You hear the half-orc utter as he pulls out his axe, but you decide to give him no further time to think. You run headfirst towards him. It takes him a moment to register that the strange stunted figure coming at him has an axe in hand and death in its eyes, yet his instincts are strong, he brings up his shield and your axe lands straight onto it, shattering the wood.

You throw blow after blow at the greenskin spawn. Each one deflected or stopped by his shield. His counterattacks you either deftly dodge or parry away with your axe. After a few more exchanges, your foe is able to push you away and put some space between you. The two of you step around each other in circles. The orc discards his ruined shield.

“We’ve got no reason to fight, dwarf.” He says. “Abandon your friend, my patron will pay you well.”

“I do not consort with kidnappers of children.” You reply.

The greenskin displays a twisted smile. “Who cares about a few kids, dwarf? They’re spawns of men and elves. Nothing to do with us mountainfolk.”

A vein in your forehead shows as you feel your blood rush. “You dare compare yourself to me, filthy greenspawn?!” You grip your axe and ready it for another onslaught. “You have nothing of the mountain! The orc blood in you comes from the deepest darkness, where only filth and evil dwells!”

“Silence, dwarf! I see you’re the prattling sort of stunty. I’ll revel at the sight of your guts!”

You hear the bloodcurdling howl of the ghoul far behind you, rather than pain, it seems to be enraged.

>Greedy bastard, child kidnapper, orc-blood! The rage the orc makes you feel! He will pay for his deeds! [Enter a Battle Frenzy! For +2 to your Melee Skill, you lose out on your armor effect (if you take damage, it becomes a wound directly)
>Keep a cool head, do not fall into the orc’s trap. [Attack with Melee Skill]

Got some trips. I'll try to post once a day throughout the week at least, wish I could dedicate more time to writing.

After this is voted, if I get the rolls quick I may sneak in another update. Can't promise much though, will have to get to bed in around 2 hours

>>6366111
>Greedy bastard, child kidnapper, orc-blood! The rage the orc makes you feel! He will pay for his deeds! [Enter a Battle Frenzy! For +2 to your Melee Skill, you lose out on your armor effect (if you take damage, it becomes a wound directly)

Well, he did call us short. Not optimal to pop it before we make use of the effect of our armour, but it is an appropriate reaction to a greenskin insulting us.

>>6366111
>Greedy bastard, child kidnapper, orc-blood! The rage the orc makes you feel! He will pay for his deeds! [Enter a Battle Frenzy! For +2 to your Melee Skill, you lose out on your armor effect (if you take damage, it becomes a wound directly)
Forward toward battle.

>>6366114
>>6366120
It seems the orc is replying with his own frenzy!

>Roll 7d6.

And
>5d6 for Meryl
(If someone rolls another 7d6 for Athel, I'll just take the first 5 dice for Meryl)

Rolled 4, 1, 6, 2, 3 = 16 (5d6)

>>6366126
Rolling for Meryl
Thuck*

Rolled 1, 3, 5, 4, 5, 4, 3 = 25 (7d6)

>>6366126
Rolling for Athel.

The many sins of this greenspawn fills you with unfettered rage, you feel the anger of your ancestors boiling in your veins. The half-orc sees your bloodshot eyes and he too seems to relish the chance to do battle, as his orcblood commands him to do. Kill, pillage, destroy, that is all they are good for.

This time you do not hold back, you let out a mighty bellow as the half-orc snarls back. You use your lower center of gravity and mighty weight to hit the beast with a continuous onslaught of blows, the orc replies with his own, using his own strength and agility to fight you back. Some swings come close to shaving your beard, but soon you begin to predict the primal blows delivered by the half-orc, had it been trained, and given proper gear, perhaps it would be a mighty warrior for you to face, sadly for him, it was not to be.

You deliver a swing towards his forward leg and cut it, blood immediately leaks out as the axe cleaves a path through flesh. The orc yells with a terrible voice.

“Khugdihr-ax-caer!” You yell as you throw another swing which slashes the half-orc’s chest, he barely has time to step back and avoid the axe cleaving his chest.

The half-orc is bleeding profusely but does not seem afraid. “Orgrom desht duri!” He replies, it is orcish, but you do not know the words. He should be collapsing due to his bad leg, but he stands upon it with the same ease as the healthy one. He slams the side of his axe on his shaft repeatedly. “Korgus drahm forsh, drahm victsho!” He delivers a few more swipes towards you, faster and more brutal swings, coupled with faster footwork. How could he fight this hard still?! Perhaps the stories of untiring orcs reveling in battle while covered in their own blood were not so false after all.

Once more, you hear the scream of the beast in the woods, a mixture pain and dark anger permeates the sound. You have not heard Meryl scream, which to you is good news.

You bring up your axe once more.

>Do not let the orcblood abate you, continue your frenzy! [Battle Frenzy! For +2 to your Melee Skill, you lose out on your armor effect (if you take damage, it becomes a wound directly)]
>He will tire himself out, surely. Calm yourself and focus on defense

Athel Diamondheart | Dwarf Adventurer
Wounds: 3/3
Wit: 2/2
Melee Skill: 3
Ranged Skill: 1
Equipment:
1x Dwarven Axe (+2 MS)
1x Leather Armor (+1 Armor, will soak up 1 wound before it begins affecting your health)
Battle Frenzy! (+2 MS)

Total MS: 7 (with Frenzy)

Half-orc Warrior
Wounds: 2/4 (?)
Melee Skill: 3 (?)
Ranged Skill: 1 (?)
Equipment:
1x Iron Axe (+1 MS)
1x Shield (+1 Armor)
1x Leather Armor (+1 Armor)
Orc Rage! (+2 MS, further +2 MS due to wounds taken (?))

Total MS: 8 (With Orc Rage)

>>6366169
>Do not let the orcblood abate you, continue your frenzy! [Battle Frenzy! For +2 to your Melee Skill, you lose out on your armor effect (if you take damage, it becomes a wound directly)]

Though perhaps we should cease our frenzy when the orc is on 1 wound, lest we get carried away and kill him, rather than taking him alive to question him as to where the hideout of his master is. There ought be more downsides to frenzying than merely losing one's defences, after all. Then again, maybe not, since he is only getting stronger with rage the more wounds he takes. Losing a critical dice advantage could prove fatal. Though timing the regaining of our armour's soak and lucidity with him being low could be worth it, if my hunch about us being unable to cease attacking if we knock him unconscious while in a frenzy proves correct. Either way, if things turn against us, I imagine Meryl will be there to save us, provided her opponent doesn't have any tricks up its sleeve.

>>6366187
Taken!

>Roll 7d6 for Athel
>Roll 5d6 for Meryl

Rolled 4, 5, 3, 3, 3, 1, 4 = 23 (7d6)

>>6366525
Rolling for Athel.
Strike the earth!

Rolled 6, 1, 5, 3, 2 = 17 (5d6)

>>6366525
Going to roll for Meryl

>>6366541
>>6366565
Athel rolls 23 VS Half-orc DC 24 (His Melee Skill is 8, so 8*3=24). Fails!

Meryl rolls 17 vs Ghoul DC 16 (4 Melee Skill. 4*3=12). Succeeds!

>>6366881
The half-orc’s onslaught is a dreadful thing to behold. You do your best to counter his blows but soon notice that your defense is getting overwhelmed. His strikes are well-aimed, swift and unrelenting, blows head for your head, your sides, your weapon arm, legs. All good spots for a cut that could cripple you.

Realizing that the half-orc will not let up, you decide to put some space between you and him, you launch swipe towards his chest to have him retreat and then try to step away, to the side where is weapon isn’t. The half-orc sees your movement coming though, and he is able to cut your own forward leg as you did before to him, a surprising swipe of the axe, considering he clearly wasn’t putting this much thought into his own attacks before this.

You grit your teeth as you feel your flesh tear and warm blood pool into your leg and trousers. You were already feeling exhausted by the constant dance of your feet around unsteady ground, your arms are beginning to ache from the constant blows it must hold against and the ones you deliver.

The half-orc still has its eyes blood-shot, frenzied in battle-lust, but he is panting intensely, his chest rising up and down with heavy, forced movements. The blood from your cuts is still pooling on his leg and his lower torso.

His rage is clearly subsiding, it only grants him +1MS now, for a total of 7 MS.

“A good battle, dwarf. Wouldn’t you consider a draw? I swear on Korgus I will leave this place and abandon my contractor. We orcs take our oaths just as seriously as you do.”

He is no orc, at least not a full-blooded one, but you’re not sure if you should insist on this point now lest you spur his rage once more. “Do you, now? How can I trust you will not turn on your word as soon as you are out of sight?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. I have sworn on Korgus I would do so. Take my offer or we fight to the death.”

Korgus, full name Korgus Dookanson. The orc who led the Greentide on Castanor and the siege and destruction of your mountainhome of Khugdihr. He was considered a half-god of some sort by the orcs, then he died in a duel with a human girl named Corin, apparently infused by the strength of a human war god, she was slain by him at the same time. Still, it seems the orc believe that Korgus became a god after his death and still guides the blade of orcs everywhere.

The ghoul shrieks once more, a long shriek of fear, as if it were fearing for its life and desperate to do something about it. Meryl’s battle continues elsewhere.

“Your friend, dwarf.” The orc says, inbetween forceful exhales. “Did you know that ghouls grow stronger the more they are harmed? From the way it’s screaming, I’d wager it’s now stronger than ever.” He aims his axe towards the woods where Meryl is fighting. “Go now, defeat the beast, catch my master, go back home a hero.”

You wince as you feel a pang of pain on your side. “Who is your master? Where did he get these creatures? We’re in the middle of the Empire!”

“I will answer nothing until you swear you will let me go from here.”

You ponder your choices.

>Let the orc go after a short interrogation, then go support Meryl.
>Absolutely not! He has kidnapped children! He must fall here! [Battle continues even though 3 rounds have passed and you are exhausted | -1 Wit].

If you choose to continue fighting, please also choose how you will proceed:
>Battle Frenzy! +2 MS for a roll of 7d6, but your armor is ignored if you receive a blow.
>Proceed with a more cautious approach. Roll will be 5d6, but your armor will take the following blow.
>Focus on defense, Meryl will likely kill the ghoul and join you soon. You will roll your MS + half more rounded up for a total of 8d6, but will cause no damage if you win the roll.

>>6366887
>Absolutely not! He has kidnapped children!
He must fall here! [Battle continues even though 3 rounds have passed and you are exhausted | -1 Wit].

No way he is leaving alive.He is not even some mythical "not-that-bad" greenskin, but a crazed Great Dookan believer.

However, I'm not so sure about approach. If I'm correct, and DC for Ghoul is (2+2*(4-Wounds))*3, the worst Meryl would need to beat is 24. With 5 dices. I am not feeling good about her chanses.
As such, playing defensive feels like a bad option. DC24 with 7 dices is much more viable(in fact, i believe the probability is slightly above 50%). Thus,
>Battle Frenzy! +2 MS for a roll of 7d6, but your armor is ignored if you receive a blow.

>>6366955
We'll keep fighting then!

>Roll 7d6 for Athel,
>Roll 5d6 for Meryl

Rolled 3, 5, 4, 3, 2 = 17 (5d6)

>>6367002
Rolling for Meryl, Spin.