The Bloody Marches - Session One, Part One

Arkadi Rylov

An adventuring party stood on the Brood Snatcher, a riverboat crewed by lizardmen and buccaneers. Their destination, the Bloody Marches. An untamed land of twisting waterways, dense swamps, primordial forests and dead civilizations.

• Gavel, Fighter 3.
• Godwin the Green, Fighter 3.
• Heiwae Mann, Thief 3.
• Robin, Cleric 1 of Phantom Limb.
• Burned Leaves, Elf 1 (retainer of Godwin).
• Dewyd the Pious, Friar 1 of Beer & Bread (absentee player).

Gathered around a freshly drawn map, the party noted the location of Serpentman ruins deep in the Marches. Robin, acting as their local guide, cautioned the area would be filled with superpredators, unnatural horrors and tribes of hostile monstermen. Best pursue some easier jobs first, lest they get turned inside out by an overlevelled random encounter.

The gang turned their attention to the snake eggs in the cargo hold. They'd received a whispering wind message from the majordomo of a local wizard, an offer to purchase the oversized zygotes. 

The seneschal had also proposed a side quest: transport some "construction materials" from a nearby town into his master's flooded subbasement. The reward for fixing the tower's sinking foundations was too tempting to pass up. 5,000 gold pieces and the opportunity to freely loot a wizard's basement. 

The Brood Snatcher set course for the stronghold of Ingmaind the Ascending.

The crew soon spotted their first sign of civilisation. Pollution. The Redriver was marred with alchemical runoff and chunks of offal. The corruption flowed from a meatcamp on the riverbank.

The butchery was staffed by Orcs. A green child waved at the passing riverboat with a carcinised arm. A hogman in a black surcoat cuffed the girl's head, ordering her to keep squeezing exudate from castor sacs. The adventurers noted the meatcamp wasn't the pollution's source; a contaminated tributary ran through the camp, originating somewhere in the mountains.

Once they rowed beyond the corruption, the surroundings shifted from trackless wilds to farmland. Fortified homesteads dotted the rolling hills, waterwheels hugged the riverbank. 

The frontier town of Fort Southfur appeared on the horizon. A cluster of timber and stone buildings straddling the river, surrounded by earthworks thick enough to absorb cannonfire. Black-uniforms patrolled the chemin de rondes, armed with matchlocks and basket-hilted swords. It resembled an old hill fort, maybe a greenman burh, rebuilt with modern fortifications.

Robin briefed the party as the Brood Snatcher sailed into city limits. Though Southfur was a county palatine of House Attis, their tenants were the de facto sovereigns. The Honourable Guild of Respected Agrimancers. Commonly known as the Druid Mafia, a syndicate of sorcerers that paid lip service to Gaianism as they took what they wanted and killed anyone in their way.

Philip Armstrong

After docking, the party drafted a contract with the Brood Snatcher's captain, Steps-On-Sandy-Shores. It was agreed the lizardman would handle the expedition's beancounting - adventuring gear, provisions, repairs and ammunition. With the basics covered, the gang went shopping.

• Robin, mendicant of a dead faith, had no equipment beyond a burlap sack and warhammer. Gavel lent them a purse of gold to purchase munitions armour and miscellaneous gear.

• Godwin bought a wheellock from Gnomish weapons manufacturer, Mimblewimble Arms.

• Heiwae Mann visited the Gun & Rose, the Mafia's combination guild hall and tavern, to purchase a Potion of Waterbreathing. He learnt the Druids had cornered the potion market, and dealt with competitors harshly. 

• Gavel went carousing, gleaning strange rumours about intelligent spellcasting mustelids and a stretch of the Redriver that sailors said was cursed.

Resupplied, they met Heiwae Mann in the Gun & Rose's taproom to pick up Ingmaind's delivery. A party of overpowered adventurers eyeballed them as they talked to the bartender. 

Their plus ones and twos glittering, the goon squad quaffed potions as they leered. A Halfling held a muzzled Harpy on a silver chain. The caster wore a Carrion Crawler like a scarf. The fighter was a creature of metal and bulging muscle, potion sickness making his skin glisten like a fresh bruise.

The killer carried no weapon. It didn't look like he needed one.

Jakub Rozalski

Once cleared for entry, the party was led past a fortune in pelts, monster parts and potions into a backroom. A werewolf in a tailored suit turned to greet them, grinning toothily.

The beast shaved with a silver razor as a servant zapped cursed hairs with a Wand of Prestidigitation. The wolfman asked if they were here for the wizard's package. They said they were. The mafioso pointed a claw to a wriggling sack, obliquely refencing it being lycanthrope hide without a shred of irony. With the smiling beast unwilling to introduce himself or explain what was contained therein, the adventurers hauled the mystery package back to the Brood Snatcher. 

After a night's rest, Godwin roused the hungover buccaneers with orders to set sail. Half a day's travel put them near the edge of human settlement, pastures giving way to swamps and old growth forests. The last outpost of civilisation was a riverside castle, Legless Mount. The fortification had been recently attacked: its walls pockmarked with strange stains, the surrounding countryside riddled with destroyed buildings and dead cattle.

The barbican belonged to House Attis, warrior princes who'd carved their palatinates from the dying Serpent Empire. The Druids were technically their tenants, but this was no country for old kings. Feudal lords played second fiddle to multinational joint-stock companies and their ilk.

Curious what befell the impoverished margraves, the adventurers moored the Brood Snatcher to the castle's wharf. Nervous fisherman stowed their rods and retreated to a nearby tower, warning the garrison of their arrival. A trio of longbow-toting yeomen sallied out to meet the shore party.

 Zvíkov Castle

Godwin shouted a greeting. The guards stared at his matted beard, gauntlets of snake-metal and bandolier of strange potions. They weren't impressed. Thankfully, their expressions softened at the sight of Father Dewyd's tonsured head and Robin's phantom arm. Knuckling their foreheads to the Filler of Bellies and Lord of the Hunt, the soldiers told the party to state their business.

They asked what happened to the castle. Dragon attack. Green fucker came down from the skies, ate some proles, trashed a few farms and nearly killed the Baron. Then it kidnapped Crown Prince Aeson. The royal heir was visiting the Marches in an attempt to reign in the Druids when he was snatched from the battlements and carried to gods-knows-where.

Godwin asked if they could help. The soldiers snorted. Did he see any tombs to plunder? What the barony needed was clerical magic to heal the peasantry and bless the crops. The Baron's household priestess had been pressganged by vestal knights, sisters of Prince Aeson on a genderbent quest to rescue a damsel in distress. The party volunteered to return the nun. The soldiers said the virgin cataphracts would be hard to miss. They rode armoured unicorns and travelled on "The Gelded Lion", a trireme crewed by warrior eunuchs.

Wishing them luck rebuilding, the party boarded the Brood Snatcher and pushed onwards.