Play report 11/6/2025
An expedition to the northeastern mountains
Serjeant Michael tugged down his woolen scarf and blew his nose loudly, savoring the crisp winter air against his jutting nose and bushy moustache. His scalecoat jingled as he walked, his gait that of a man who had taken an arrow to the knee some decades prior. His brown hair had begun graying in recent years, and tumbled down the nape of his neck in heavy, clumped curls. The streets of the burgh which he had patrolled for the last decade were a strict grid pattern, with narrow canals alongside for sewage and water runoff. The buildings were almost all of them new, only a handful of the old-style longhouses remained. Now the majority of homes were wide, timber-built cabins with greased animal hides keeping the early winter air out, and the smokey warm air within.
Michael and his squad turned a corner, and headed for the town watering hole. Once, some wit had asked Michael, “Where’re ya’ll going, over them mountains where jotuns reign and trolls lurk?” "To the great ungnome!” Michael had answered, and he still smirked with pride when he thought of making his men, and his lord, laugh as they mounted their horses. “the Great Ungnome” became a running joke, and when they had returned from their last adventure (many men fewer) it was decided that no better name could be had for remembering times good and bad.
Michael kicked the hard mud from his boots, then paused midstride as he looked ‘round the taproom. The usual locals turned and hailed him with their biersteins, but these outlanders were new.
Michael took his usual seat, near the door, between Jakob the lumberjack, and Michael the miller. He took his usual ‘stein of ale, and his usual pot of warm oatmeal with nuts and berries from the cellar. His squad unbuckled their armor and groaned as they sat and relaxed. Michael turned to blond-haired, brown-eyed, heavy set Jakob.
“So who are these new fellows I see? And why’s a tunnel-rat with ‘em?”
Michael pointed at the red-scaled, shifty-eyed, lizard-tongued biped which barely came up to a man’s belly.
Jakob blinks from behind his ‘stein, slammed it onto the bar, and coughed wetly. Michael helpfully pounded his back.
“Woof… tanks much, Mich’. Ya, da tunnel rat dere’s named Oggo, heard tell e’ wos workin’ for ‘em chicken-lookin’ knights, somethin’ ‘bout da rat was gonna be hanged down sout’ den dey 'said “nah we’ll takim nort’ wid us.””
I had better detail a pair to keep an eye on that rat. Michael thinks to himself.
“Chicken Knights..? Ah! The Griffin Order”.
“Ya! Dat’s dem. Da Griffin Order.”
“Came upriver in a big boat, black an yella colors and erry’ting, big as you please” Chimes in Ansgar, coming in from outside.
“Any bodies on the boat? Arms or armor to sell?” Michael queried in between sips of his ‘stein.
“Nah, dey just paid Gilbert’s coin an’ den split up”.
Michael frowned. “There’s more of them?”
“Ya” Jakob belched, then went back to slamming ‘steins.
No arms for sale can mean three things. They’re keeping it for themselves, they somehow got past the man eating wolves down south without killing a bunch on their boat…. or they made friends with the same, Michael ponders.
Any way the tree falls, I’m gonna have to pick up the mess…