The Marches Campaign

Scott

Today is the spring equinox, the first day of the New Year and the month of Phalodru, and the second day of the Festival of Rudiment. Rudiment takes place yearly from 32nd Tirru to 2nd Phalodru, though this last day is generally devoted more to recovery than celebration. In Tegel, as in other villages of the Marches, Rudiment is marked by copious drinking, gourmandly feasting, sprightly dancing, intercessionary prayers, mummer's plays, acceptably furtive copulation, and the ritual slaughter of a goat clad in the regalia of Winter.

The traditional centerpiece of the feast in Tegel is a helmeted cockerel clad in silver tin-leaf armor and couching a carrot-lance, astride a pig; this toothsome cavalier ensemble is roasted, as is its nemesis, a skinned tapir gilt in red tin-leaf and the mask of a dragon, the effect made more striking by the stuffing of the ersatz dragon's mouth with cotton and camphor, set alight so that the dragon breathes fire. Also in evidence are six baked peacocks, glazed in six different pleasing colors; a great ocean seal, stuffed with lampreys and a pudding of porpoise; spitted pigeons, served with dripping honeycombs; and such sundries as pickled eggs, wheat-cakes, and dumplings, along with the ubiquitous bread trenchers. These delicacies are washed down with sloshing wooden goblets of the wassail for which the White-Horsed Sleigh tavern is justly famed. The statue of grim Sir Rumpole Rump looms over the broad banquet tables, glowering from under the frilly bonnet with which he is annually crowned by punctual but not particularly imaginative pranksters.

Presiding over last night's festivities were the Mayor, Ternelmor, and the village Priest, Father Olath, both of whom seemed preoccupied and spent most of the evening in private counsel apart from the crowd. Sir Runic Rump, Lord of the Manor, did not put in an appearance.

Having indulged last night to whatever extent you favor, you awoke to a beautiful spring day and broke your fast with your fellow villagers, taking advantage of the leftover bounty from the night before and mulling over your individual and collective prospects for the coming year.

Shortly after noon, a figure appeared on the north horizon. As the figure drew closer, it was revealed as a lone walking man, leading a laden donkey. As the entirety of the populace gathered, the man entered the village.

The clergy among you recognized his garb as the traveling frock of a Cleric of some office -- you believe a Vicar or Curate, at the least -- over a mail hauberk. The man leaned on a staff and carried a mace at his side, but was barefoot in the manner of a penitent, his feet a bloody ruin. His beast carried full saddlebags.

His usually red face gone ashen, Father Olath rushed to meet the man at the edge of the village and, after some exchange, the newly arrived Cleric was ushered to the village Church, the doors to which have remained closed until now, the early evening, except to admit the Mayor, and later a small delegation from the Monastery of the Holy Brotherhood south of the village.

The day's traditional affairs have proceeded in desultory fashion, but all eyes are on the doors to the Church.

[You're seated at a small table on the village green. You know each other well, having frequently been assigned to patrol the periphery of the village together. Please describe your character's appearance and manner, and feel free to discuss things among yourselves for a bit. I'm not "starting the action" until Sunday night, but I'll be around to answer questions, etc.]
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The penalty for success is to be bored by the people who used to snub you.

WyzardWhately · (Lars) Joined: 24 Mar 2008 Posts: 260

Lars squints ruefully at the kernels of corn that seem to slip consistently off his fork each time he gets it within two inches of his mouths. Occasional low noises of inchoate dissatisfaction emerge from the general area of his face, generally concealed behind a mass of lank, greasy black hair.

He takes some time to stare in slack-faced wonder at the swaying young lasses of the village, none of whom drank near so much as to dance with him the night prior. Lars, on the other hand, did drink enough to try and dance with all of them, even Marly of the piggish aspect and odd skin condition. His shirt is somewhat spattered with the vomit of last night's carousing, and he's certain in a dim sort of way that it's okay because it's all HIS vomit.

He eventually gives up on the kernels, tricky yellow devils that they are, and moves on to constructing a surprisingly architectural hoagie out of most of the ingredients within reach.

Bhartec Redhands · Posted: Sun Apr 06, 2008 4:12 am Post subject:

Bhartec sits near a fire warming his hands, clearly showing the scar tissue around his wrist where manacles once bit into his flesh. He stares into the fire absently mindedly, his thoughts set on no displeasances. A woolly 'tawny and russet' garb cover his meager frame and matches his stringy black hair and pallid skin. His horse is always within a quick run to reach.

Bhartec avoids the idlymeddlesome talk amongst the village mongrels, and he sits drinking his honeyed mead while pondering which unspoiled village girl would be the best raping. Preferably one that would put up a fight, but not so much as to injure him. Unfortunately the suitable ones have the annoying habit of traveling with burley farmers, a clutch of giggling siblings, or very large dogs.

The arrival of a vomit encrusted Lars snaps Bhartec back to reality, as only Lars can do. It is a labor to speak to Lars, but Bhartec finds no particular distaste for the man considering his last long-time companion was his cell mate, 'eight times a day' Lyenwyryrd. Bhartec willfully tries to set his mind back to happy-ill thoughts - which eventually fail with Lars corn-kernel grunting noises in the background.

Giving up, Bhartec acknowledges Lars, "Your mastership", giving nod and take a drink from his cup.

John Thompson · (Ymmas Ragah) Joined: 25 Mar 2008 Posts: 116

Divad briefly offers thanks to the Unknowable that provides all aspects of this life, and spoons bits of sauced capon and pigeon out of the rift torn in his bread. He avoids the wassail and liquor left over from the previous night's festivities, though, and drinks only water flavored with lemon and honey.

He banters with his neighbors, but his idle chatter has none of its usual force or duration. As devoted as he normally is to the sound of his own voice in jest or pontification, Divad maintains a fitful silence, as his eyes keep returning to the closed doors of the Church.

Scott · Posted: Sun Apr 06, 2008 2:30 pm Post subject:

[How many people, and who, know that Bhartec can cast spells?]
_________________
The penalty for success is to be bored by the people who used to snub you.

Bhartec Redhands · Posted: Sun Apr 06, 2008 2:53 pm Post subject:

Scott · Posted: Sun Apr 06, 2008 2:57 pm Post subject:

TheMyth · Posted: Sun Apr 06, 2008 7:32 pm Post subject:

"My my, what a motley crew I find on this bright Spring day"

The strange girl called Kexy startles the seated men as she approaches, tripping over her long skirt on her way to their table. Her long blond hair is wild and in disarray. She wears a crown of leaves with multi-colored ribbons hanging about her head.

"Two pretty Brothers, a ragamuffin and a lascivious wizard. Just my sort of crowd. Happy Rudiment, boys!" Kexy smiles as she looks each man in the eye. Then she turns to Bhartec and her face becomes gravely serious.

"Bhartec, I should warn you that Jenna Holly is under the mistaken impression that you've put a fix on her. I tried to explain that you would never be so foolish as to do such a thing...again. But, you know women, she insisted on telling her beau, Gutboy. He apparently wants a word with you..." Kexy smirks and cackles softly before turning to the two Brothers of the Great Church.

"So, Brother Sin..." Kexy coos as she brushes a stray hair from Sincolah's brow, "do you know who the traveler is who just arrived? No one will tell me anything...but then what else is new?"

Kexy cackles again as she sits at an empty chair, plucks food from the nearby plates, ignoring the stares and whispers from the villagers around her.

Bhartec Redhands · Posted: Sun Apr 06, 2008 9:15 pm Post subject:

Few things are unsettling to Bhartec, but Kexy the half-breed is one in which he takes a cautious approach with. Partly because of her unearthly origins and partly from resentment that her magic prowess comes so easily. If he had a proper life Bhartec is sure he would want nothing to do with the fey witch at all. A proper life was not to be however, thus it is natural that the collective black sheep congregate.

Towards Kexy, "I pardon your boldness and will not disdain your words," Bhartec is clearly getting light headed from the drink and it takes him a moment to continue, "for I hope they were a temporary lack of judgment on part of the drink rather than a permanent flaw in character - I dare not use the unfathomable might of power unknown to 'fix' that which is clearly beyond repair."

"Besides it is not in my poor power to do so, even it was in my most worshipful desires". Bhartec will nod to Lars, "Fetch the Elfing a fresh cup of her desires Lars, as a gentleman should. If what the villagers say is true, she can turn you into a large marmot if you do not perform her will accordingly, so I recommend haste, ferforth and lythe."

WyzardWhately · (Lars) Joined: 24 Mar 2008 Posts: 260

Lars takes a few bites of his sandwich and cogitates as best he can. He never understands much of what Bhartec says, but he pretends. It's better than looking stupid. "Marmots are just made-up stories for children. They're not real," he intones with solemn gravitas. That'll show Bhartec, trying to scare him with children's stories!

Still, he finds a relatively clean cup and addresses Kexy with his eyes firmly lowered to the table in front of him. "What do you want?"

TheMyth · Posted: Sun Apr 06, 2008 10:13 pm Post subject:

"Oh, Stinky! Ever the gentleman..." Kexy looks over at Lars and smiles. "I am grateful for your willingness to service me, but I bid thee to finish your afternoon repast without interruption."

Kexy then turns back to Bhartec, "And it's not a marmot but a marmoset. Please keep your mythology up to date, dwimmer-crafter. There are enough fallacies about my magical puissance about for more inaccuracies to be proliferated!"

Kexy cackles again and nibbles on some random foodstuff nicked from Divad's plate.

John Thompson · (Ymmas Ragah) Joined: 25 Mar 2008 Posts: 116

Divad grins at Kexy and Bhartec.

Gutboy'd never be stupid enough to try something, with Lars this close, he thinks. Bhartec alone, and Lars far away, possibly.

Of course, after Willa Holly's abrupt marriage some seven months ago and Gutboy's confession of uncertainty about her newborn's sire, I'm not sure how far he's pressing the point anyway.

WyzardWhately · (Lars) Joined: 24 Mar 2008 Posts: 260

Nick · (Sinlocah) Joined: 24 Mar 2008 Posts: 121

Wearing traditional preistly garb (unusually clean after Festival night; but then they always are, what with the young Widow Arlenia being such a good landlandy) this blue eyed, blond haired, rakish youth was the toast of the younger crowd last night. Dancing with all the girls (and even Lars for a bit), telling the funniest jokes, and even being invited for a dance with the Mayor's wife, he made sure everyone had a good time. Sinlocah is freindly to everyone, but not particularly close with anyone.

Scott · Posted: Mon Apr 07, 2008 10:23 pm Post subject:

In due course, the Church doors open to disgorge the parliament of clergy. The monks of the Holy Brotherhood bustle down the south road out of the village towards Savant Scarpe, bearing several cloth-wrapped bundles. Mayor Ternelmor swaggers behind at his own pace, as is his wont, and takes up a position in the inner circle of gathered villagers, where he assumes his usual languid stance and sanguine expression, his hand resting on the handle of his cavalry saber, viewing the subsequent proceedings through hooded eyes as Father Olath looks on, contrite.

The foreign Cleric reveals himself, in a fiery baritone, as one Father Valcerdies, a Curate of the Great Church. His feet bleeding through their bandages and dressings, a pale ring of white flesh exposed around his sunburned face by his doffed mail-coif, Father Valcerdies laments the spiritual blight of Tegel Village and its environs -- for, it seems, this tiny backwater conceals perfidy and iniquity so breathtaking in scope and depth that one scarcely believes it is allowed to fester on the skin of the Earth.

Gnolls! Savages! Serpents! Fair Folk! Boogeymen! Degenerate lords, profligate priests! And most offensive of all, not to be borne, a heathen temple on a hillock within a stone's cast of this supposedly Godly village, where Tegelfolk -- baptized by sacrament of the Church -- openly disport themselves with perfumed pagan doxies under thick clouds of reeking alien incense!

It is made known, in no uncertain terms, that the Great Church of the City Afar considers the souls of the people of Tegel to be in dire peril, if not from the dangers of the wilderness, then from the Ban sure to be imposed if affairs are not put right, and swiftly. Rather than consign the entire wretched plot to eternal perdition, the Church has seen fit to send Valcerdies to shepherd you all back into the Light.

To that end, the Curate has been granted carte blanche to deal with the situation as he sees fit. The wilderness is to be pacified, the ruins cleansed and scourged, and -- if such drastic steps prove necessary -- the Manor emptied.

You shiftless, landless, childless lot, this is your chance to rise up from the muck of your heretofore meaningless existence, for the Ban previously placed upon the nearby ruins is lifted, and all folk granted salvage rights. All spoils taken from heathens, monsters, and other creatures beyond the pale -- arms, armor, gold, jewels -- yours, all yours, to buy yourself some position in the world (allowing, of course, for the tithes to Crown and Church). Take up arms, those of you with the blood for it, and seize something from this life and build a House in the next!

As Father Valcerdies stumps back into the Church, followed by the sheepish Father Olath, Mayor Ternelmor steps up and phlegmatically appends that all duly deputized Defenders of the Faith will be excused from feudal obligations, save militia duty, so long as they tramp the hedges with suitable fervor. This last, you note, piques the interest of at least a dozen other likely (and unlikely) looking fellow villagers.
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The penalty for success is to be bored by the people who used to snub you.