Sven and Orgoth: 10'ft pole squires:

[Spearmint]

and live crickets too. Wondered if you would pick up in that.

Fringe of Barrowmoor.
Early Evening.
Weather: misty visibility reduced to 60ft, cool breeze, cloudy.

Orgoth torch in one hand, reaches over his shoulder to grab a javelin which he hurls at a marauding raptor. The javelin missed as does the jaws of the snapping beast as it charges by.

The squire wall of Eddy, Leomane & Martell is assailed by a horde of voracious nippers. They woefully flail to hit any of them. Gilles stabs unsuccessfully and the hapless Franc is once more grappled by critters. Two who lick lips and grin toothy feral grimaces in anticipation of some rump or shoulder steak. They bite, one tearing a morsel of butt cheek from the prone squire. (-1hp)

Sven casts his spell and a cricket over a designated area which numbs the hyped up senses of the raptors into a peaceful lullaby and the group visibly wilt to the floor, heavy heads and eyelids drooping to curl up at the adventurers feet.

Squires swords [1d20]=7 [1d20]=12 [1d20]=11
Squires swords [1d20]=2 [1d20]=5
Sleep on critters [4d4]=9

This melee looks over very quickly apart from the two on Francs back. The squires kill the sleeping ones. The one past Orgoth follows the fleeing crickets. With almost half the pack instantly silenced, the others yelp and swerve you, to join the insect hunt.

Next actions please.

You can retrieve javelin easily.

[OGRE MAGE]

Loved it!

If there are any more crickets to deal with near him, Sven flails at them with about as much skill as can be expected from a teenage mage.

Staff Attack [1d20]=2 Damage [1d6]=4

Once the threat is over, Sven looks at the squires with a concerned look. "That was.....unimpressive to say the least. Maybe you should have brought along those thousand men you keep stammering on about. I will be leaving this encounter out of my writings, thank you very much."

To Orgoth, he continues. "Are you all right friend? Were you bitten?"

"Could you chop the head off one of these raptors for me please? I.......have an idea."

[Rex]

Orgoth

"I am fine thanks Sven, how about you?" He will retrieve his javelin first then chop off a head for Sven.

Handing him the head, speaking low enough the others can't hear, "Carrying this heavy weight isn't exactly helping my martial skill, which after see them fight is probably just as good as they are."

[OGRE MAGE]

Sven spends a few moments looking over the dead bodies to see if there is anything to learn or collect. “I wasn’t injured, thanks. You know, you have far better manners than any halforc I’ve ever known.....which is...not that many, I suppose.”

Sven props the severed head up on a branch or giant cricket carcass, whatever’s nearby. He uses his knife to carve Orgoth’s name in the top of the skull. “Since you’re doing all the heavy lifting, I’ll give you credit for one of these. I’m trying to set up markers we might be able to follow back out of this mist. Hey....wait a sec......”

The boy moves to inspect the keg of ale, just to make sure it is what the squires said it is.

[Spearmint]

Fringe of Barrowmoor.
Early Evening.
Weather: misty visibility reduced to 60ft, cool breeze, cloudy.

The keg of ale is ale.

Franc lets out a load of expletives, his buttocks bare and bloody. The chirping and barking fade into the mist. Around you the bodies of half eaten crickets and hacked raptors.

"Are they edible?" asks a squire. You certainly have enough bush meat. They set about carving up joints to roast later.

Sven can collect a few hand sized crickets, sticking them in a matchbox in his pouch.

The squires boast about their faux prowess, declaring the raptors 'probably t-rexsaurus' or some remnant of supposedly extinct creatures that once inhabited the moors. Eddy at least recognises the game changer didn't come from the point of a sword.

'It seems the pen is mightier than the sword. Our scribe appears more than a scholar."

In the middle of nowhere, the misty fog rolling in around you, the group face a logical question. Which way now?

actions and comments please.

[OGRE MAGE]

Sven nudges Orgoth in private. "Lets let them carry around the chunks of bloody meat, eh?"

Nodding at Eddy's comment and trying to ignore the others braggadocio, Sven replies to their leader. "I do possess a bit of arcane power in me, but I certainly cant wave a sword around as well as you guys do. Perhaps when we stop to sup upon roasted t-rex later, we can enjoy a bit of the ale you brought as well? Lift some spirits while we lighten our loads, so to speak?"

"Do you fellas have a plan from this point on? Or are we simply exploring at the moment?"

[Rex]

Orgoth

"Some ale for sure."

[Spearmint]

Fringe of Barrowmoor.
Early Evening.
Weather: misty visibility reduced to 60ft, cool breeze, cloudy.

"Some ale yes. A toast to our first victory over the creatures of the moor." Tankards are filled and a huddle formed as Eddy toasts the slaying of the 'saurus's'. A good portion of meat is harvested from the slain creatures, Martell showing better butchery carving skills than martial.

"I heard that the bestial hordes rode such creatures in this region before the Founding. There were battles, elves and men fought the abominations. From the Moon Peaks to the Thornswild." Leomane shares his scholarly knowledge. His and Orgoth's torches splutter, new ones are lit.

"The plan is to raid the crypts. But we must find them first. Preferably before nightfall." Eddy announces and figuring his directions from the way the wind blows it the stars align, declares ,"This is the way. Lead on Leo." The group nod, all encouraged by the ale and first blood, save for Franc who has had to stitch his garb and buttocks with needle and thread.

You tramp in single file behind Leomane's torchlight, Orgoth bringing up the rear, squelching in ankle deep sodden peat as you enter further into the Barrowlands. The evening trek becomes dreary and wearisome. Cold, clammy mist still holds sway upon this forsaken moor. The livid green of scumweed blight the surfaces of the boulders, fungi spreads like a corrupting disease upon the fallen forms of once mighty trees. Dead grasses and rotting reeds loom up in the mists like ragged shadows of long forgotten summers. Deep pools of murky black water beset your paths. There is no discernible trail ahead and little evidence of your passage.

Despite a nagging hunch you may be followed, no wolf is seen that may haunt your steps. Evening descends with the starlight faint above you. A screech owl flies by, the croaking of frog's and buzzing of insects fill the grasses. Several hours have elapsed since you left the comforts of the tavern. you are somewhere near the middle of the hex below Helix. The last hour has been hard going, slow, oftentimes retreating over your steps to path-find better ground. A third pair of torches are lit. It becomes clear, though unspoken, that without specialist knowledge, the trek across moors is extremely challenging.

Even so, the squires remain in good spirits ...

unlike the shuffling gaunt figures which lurch towards you out of the mist.

actions Sven & Orgoth please.

[OGRE MAGE]

Sven helps Orgoth remove his keg so he can better fight against the oncoming threat, staying clear of any soggy melee himself.

“Okay squires! Now’s the time to prove your skills in battle! Make this fight something to write about!!!”

[Spearmint]

Mistwalkers on the Moor.

Barrowmoor.
Evening: around 8.00pm.
Weather: misty visibility reduced to 60ft, cool breeze, cloudy.
Light sources: Torches (1hr duration Leo & Org)
Starlight.

Orgoth slips the keg out of the quick release belt and draws his sword, swishing it in squire-like fashion. Gilles swashes his buckle to no avail. Franc proves to be an ace with the mace. Eddy shows his leadership, Leomane and Martell need more practice.

Sven keeps a record. So far 1 - 0 to the squires.

Orgoth longsword [1d20+1]=5+1=6 damage [1d8+3]=4+3=7
Gilles shortswords [1d20-2]=8-2=6 [1d20-4]=9-4=5 damage [1d6]=2 [1d6]=1
Franc mace melee [1d20]=20 damage [1d6]=4
Eddy [1d20+1]=17+1=18[1d8]=3 Leomane [1d20]=2[1d8]=5 Martell [1d20]=10[1d8]=4

Then the gaunt cadavers, wretched remains of half decayed flesh, reeking of putrid corruption and devoid of life, just having one instinctive nature to feast on the living, attack. The unnatural strength of these creatures gives them sufficient violence to parry blades and shields, sunder chainmail armour and tear into the comrades.

Gilles takes a minor wound -1hp
Eddy is ravaged -7hp
Leomane savaged -7hp

The shield wall buckles but the squires still stand but are fighting for their lives.

Zombie assault [1d20]=5 [1d20]=11 [1d20]=5 [1d20]=20 [1d20]=16 [1d20]=1
Zombie damage [1d8]=1 [1d8]=7 [1d8]=7

next actions Sven

hope we keep Orgoth alive til Rex comes back from holiday ...

[OGRE MAGE]

It becomes clear, though unspoken, that without specialist knowledge, the trek across moors is extremely challenging.

I guess I was under the impression starting out that these fellows actually had some experience out there, but this is more like the blind leading the blind at this point.

And if an 11 hits for the zombies, the squires are likely already doomed.

Sven stays close to Orgoth, but tries to remain out of reach of the shambling horrors. Unsure if his magic will be effective against the undead, Sven pulls out a vail of holy water, splashing the contents upon the monster fighting against his friend.

Thrown Item [1d20+1]=15+1=16

[Spearmint]

Mistwalkers on the Moor.

Barrowmoor.
Evening: around 8.05pm.
Weather: misty visibility reduced to 60ft, cool breeze, cloudy.
Light sources: Torches (.55mins duration Leo & Org). Starlight.

Despite taking a fearful battering, the onslaught of hungry zombies is held and this time more blades find a cutting edge.

Orgoth cleaves one in two from chest to navel, Eddy cuts the head off another and Gilles severs the spine of a third. Sven wages holy water to baptise the head of a fourth whose head melts as quick as a salted slug.

Keeping score, 5-0 to the squires.

The two remaining zombies are relentless in their pursuit of the living, mindless automatons driven by an internal desire. They overwhelm Martell -8hp and chomp upon him, oblivious to the blades poised to give them a second death.

Orgoth longsword [1d20+1]=20+1=21 damage [1d8+3]=6+3=9
Gilles shortswords [1d20-2]=19-2=17 [1d20-4]=14-4=10 damage [1d6]=6 [1d6]=3
Franc mace melee [1d20]=11 damage [1d6]=6
Eddy [1d20+1]=15+1=16[1d8]=6 Leomane [1d20]=12[1d8]=2 Martell [1d20]=11[1d8]=1
Sven's holy moly [2d4]=7

Zombie assault [1d20]=2 [1d8]=5 [1d20]=17 [1d8]=8

actions Sven please.

[OGRE MAGE]

Sven stays behind the whirring blades of his comrades, saving the rest of his holy water for when the really bad monsters come along.

Reduced to cheering at this point, that is what he does.

YES! Nice one guys! Great job! Oh, sorry bout that one Martell, that's gotta hurt!"

"Keep it up, friends! Only 2 more left to slay!"

The curious mage starts to look over the dead bodies to see if he can tell who these men once were.

[Spearmint]

Mistwalkers on the Moor.

Barrowmoor.
Evening: around 8.06pm.
Weather: misty visibility reduced to 60ft, cool breeze, cloudy.
Light sources: Torches (.54mins duration Leo & Org). Starlight.

Sven minus pom-poms, cheers leads, "Give us an E, give us a D".

A closer inspection of the zombies could be done later but you notice that they wear the ragged remains of traditional garb such that fellow adventurers wear. So not the ancient helms and armour of buried warriors of yore. How long they have been undead is hard to tell, the bodies would normally decompose at a slower rate buried in peat bogs than normal soil. Certainly leatherwear such as boots and belts are months rather than decades old. You are reminded of collegiate graduates who pitched ideas of coming to the moor,

Face devilish traps, exotic encounters, build your reputation and notoriety or die in unlauded ignominy. Come back to life as a wandering undead.

It takes several frantic minutes, hacking, slashing, biting, clawing, kicking and screaming before the zombies are subdued. 18 attack macros. I won't post but you can follow in dice roller.

Franc -2hp takes another bite in the buttocks.

The cheers, ragged and hoarse goes up from the squires. The encounter brutal. Morale is high but some members have critical wounds. Stuck in the Barrowmoor, you have a dilemma of what next?

Sven actions please.

[Spearmint]

A search of the zombies reveals some minor collectibles:

Equipment: a thieves tool kit. Some large boots with a heel dagger pouch. The scabbard has some flint stone edges which might sharpen daggers sheathed inside. A bandolier of crossbow bolts.

Jewellery: one has an opal inset ring. Another a silver torc around his neck which ends in two open palms. Loose coinage from pouches and pockets amounts to 2gp, 26sp and 355cp.

[OGRE MAGE]

"Nicely done squires! And nobody even died!" Sven exclaims once the battle is won.

He watches the actions of the tenpoles carefully, wondering if they have means to heal themselves, or at least apply first aid to their severe wounds.

"I think this calls for another round of ales, no?"

Keeping an ear out for any more trouble, the boy collects the spoils, documenting each item and keeping a running tab on the 6 shares. (unless they object)

[Spearmint]

Mistwalkers on the Moor.

Barrowmoor.
Evening: around 10.00pm.
Weather: misty visibility reduced to 60ft, cool breeze, cloudy.
Light sources: Torches (.54mins duration Leo & Org). Starlight.

Gilles take the thieves tools. You think by the way he sports two weapons and unlike the others wears studded leather not chainmail, he might have more proficiency with such equipment. The rest is noted in the expedition accounts. If a character wishes to 'step into a dead man's shoes' and exchange footwear you may. Without an assayer to value the other items, they are pouched for later. None contain any inscription or marks that would indicate they are 'extra' rather than ordinary.

The squires debate and conclude though injuries are severe, going back would be an admittance of defeat. Choosing 'any way as long as it is forward' you set off again to trek the moor. This time more aware of dangers lurking just beyond your sight in the mist.

After an hour or so of tramping through boggy ground you are heckled by the loud cackling of a flock of carrion birds which take flight as you approach. They peck morsels from a dead pony carcass which is half sunk in a boggy mud pond. The saddle pack weighting it down. Spade handles poke out of bulky panniers, along with ropes and a half smashed wooden crate. A short distance away is a small rise overgrown with bracken and ferns. A group of fallen flat stones and one still upright circle the hump. The place looks to have been used as a campsite, canvas remnants of tents droop as lean-to's and a tripod with rusty cooking pots dangle over a blackened ash filled pit. While not a covered or secure area, this might be as good as you get for stumbling upon suitable places to camp, if any place was deemed suitable or secure. Did the zombies camp here pre-undeath?

A camp sets up amid the stones, saurus bush meat roasted, another round of ale drank.

"I wonder if the freshly killed raptor meat was what drew the zombies to us or we just randomly stumbled together?" muses one squire. Maybe the fire and smell of cooking will bring more, maybe the rotting carcass is enough anyway or the sweat from unwashed bodies exerting themselves in adventure?

actions please

[OGRE MAGE]

Sven nods at the idea of Gilles taking the toolkit, he and Orgoth having no need for such things, out here anyway. "May they open every tomb you seek, young squire."

Agreeing that their fire and cooking meat may well attract more unwanted visitors, the young mage stresses that a good watch order is of utmost importance as they rest.

"Lets keep two people on watch throughout the night. Do you badly wounded chaps want to take first watch so you can try to sleep through the rest of the night? I strongly suggest we investigate that sunken pack animal back there at first light. There may be something in those saddlebags that will come in handy for us out here."

Sven will take any watch that is recommended to him, using his sleep magic on anyone who is too sore from combat to find sleep naturally. He tries to stagger his watch with Orgoth, so at least one of them can be awake at a time for most of the night.

"Do we have enough rope and noisemakers to set up an early warning system around these rocks? It might be nice to hear things coming before they are upon us."

Sven spends his watch shift carving a hole into all of the dino claws he collected and making them into necklaces, thinking they may make a nice memento for each of them to remember this trip by. He ties some twine around his crickets so they can move around the area to eat without escaping. He also tucks away bits of meat and greens into a shoulder pouch, apparently feeding another as of yet unseen pet.

[Spearmint]

A dark night on the Barrowmoor.

Hours after midnight:
Weather: very misty, visibility reduced to 30ft, cool breeze.
Light sources: embers of campfire, Starlight.

The squires set to, making the best of a rudimentary camp and feasting on the raptor bushmeat butchered earlier. Dry bracken is cut to soften your sleep, brief as it is for the restlessness of the night keeps you on edge. The embers, glowing in the pit give a small radiance of warmth, enough only to keep the chill and dampness away. A search of the camp finds you several mess tins, tankards, loose cutlery and rusted away weapons to create a perimeter of jingly-jangly items that would rattle should a clumsy intruder not step over the tripwires. The canvas tarpaulins stretched across a length of tied rope to shelter you. Taking it in turn to sleep or guard, the night hours slowly pass.

Outside of your view you hear croaking from bullfrogs, some brave enough to hop into the camp puff out their throat sacs and risk a mating call to any amorous females in the moor pools and quickly scampering away, a squawk of some birds, twigs breaking and a rattle but nothing insidious.

It is in the predawn hours that your camp is approached. At least the "Who goes there?" call is sounded to a rattle of jugs. There is no verbal reply that comes back, just a croak of another bullfrog looking for love.

actions Sven and Orgoth please

[OGRE MAGE]

Sven quickly rouses from his limited slumber, waking Orgoth and any sleeping squires, before readying his cricket and the lone spell still lingering in the recesses of his limited memory.

“Friend or foe? State your business,” he exclaims into the darkness, hoping the approaching noise is nothing more than a lost traveler or some harmless animal.

He stays close to his larger friend in case his optimism turns out to be more wishful thinking.