On A Break

The GM (Me) is on a well deserved break, so for anyone who regularly checks out the blog, there will be no game till sometime in October. Or November. Really depends on how much I’m enjoying my time off from gming and prepwork for the next part of the campaign.

Would also like to bring closure to the deaths of Tafwick and Durgin in a quick summary. Unfortunately the two players who were meant to write up their own perspectives of what happened can’t due to time constraints and whatnot (just being lazy if you ask me :P) I’ll give a very quick summary of what happened to them.

Summary:

Durgin disembarks the barge and intends on dealing with the undead menace that is now rising from the grave in Wittgendorf. Tafwick wishes to go with him, being his rememberer an all… but Durgin ends up knocking him out, not wishing to have another rememberer’s death on his hands.

Durgin makes his way up to Castle Wittgenstein, and there, he sees a mutated troll fighting swarms of undead corpses all the while using Eckhardt’s halberd.

wittgenstein-troll

Durgin immediately engages the troll, stepping over the dead body of Margarrite von Wittgenstein, the Baroness’s daughter.

Its a fierce fight, but a very one-sided one at that. Durgin’s strikes are ineffective as the troll heals itself after each blow, yet Durgin does not possess this remarkable regenerative ability as the troll pounds on him. Durgin falls, dropping his axe as his spine is pulverized by the troll and he’s tossed to the ground. Yet Durgin is not filled with sorrow or despair but joy that he will finally get the death that he so craves for. A death that every slayer dreams of having at the hands of a mighty foe, and trolls are indeed mighty opponents.

And so the troll raises its fist after having dropped Eckhardts halberd, and prepares to deliver the killing blow to Durgin as it swings down towards his body, only to stop short in reaction to a sudden new sensation… That sudden new sensation is a flicker of pain surging through its arm as an arrow flies across the castle courtyard and pierces the troll’s arm. It stops short of killing Durgin, and looks towards this new interest. Across the way, it sees Tafwick standing on the battlements, who is busy trying to taunt it over.

Thus, the troll thoroughly distracted, gives chase to the little halfling who obviously was not content with staying on the barge. Suffice to say, Durgin was not happy. Not happy that he was cheated from a glorious death by his rememberer, who thought he was probably doing Durgin a favor. Lots of expletives were used. In fact Durgin exhausted his entire vocabulary shouting curses at Tafwick.

As the troll gave chase in what would soon be a cat and mouse game between Tafwick and the troll, Durgin lay on the ground, his spine pulverized, unable to move and only thing he could look forward to now was a slow pitiful painful death.

As fate would have it… his death would not be slow, although perhaps pitiful and painful it might be, but certainly not slow. As he lay staring up at the sky, he noticed something odd staring back at him. Up high on the battlements directly over him, he saw hundreds of little red beady eyes… One by one those beady red eyes jumped off the battlements collectively down towards Durgin, and at that moment, Durgin could not help but recall his dooming, ‘It will fall when you least expect it…”

And indeed it did fall, and unexpected it was, as dozens upon dozens of Skaven jumped down, each one wielding dirty rusty knives, daggers and cleavers and Durgin got quite intimate with the daggers as each Skaven took turns stabbing him, no doubt revenge for killing their Grey Seer earlier.

By the time Tafwick got back, Durgin was already dead. By then, he ended up as troll food as Tafwick realized that Durgins fate was sealed.

As for Tafwick, fate was equally unkind to him. Tafwick tried to help the poor folk of Wittgendorf who were scared and unsure what to do. Tafwick tried to warn them that the witch hunters would be coming, and that they should flee.

In the end, the little outsider with his stumpy legs proved to be a perfect scapegoat for the villagers anger, and Tafwick’s fate ended in Wittgendorf; dangling from a rope in the middle of the town, under an old oak tree.

 

 

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