The War of Dragonfires Homebrew (Inactive)

Game Master Choon

Thread open for dots.

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Early Spring. The third year of the War.

The enemy, Galbar, has been held in a stalemate for the last months of winter, but now rumors speak of two fresh armies coming to join the fight, and your small city state of Calfon is being forced into a war of attrition that it can ill afford. The propaganda machine has been in full swing for years now, and each new atrocity of the Galbarian army is broadcast large in every village and town. Men and women flock to recruitment stations to sign up and do their part for the war.

Whether you were conscripted, drafted, or voulenteered, you are now on your way to the front as part of a hastily formed Furious 42nd. Your battalion has just a few months of field training and no gear to speak of, though you were allowed to keep one item from home. Most pick a favored weapon, armor, or lucky talisman.

You arrive at the forward command post and are shoved out of the carts by the cart's guard. From there your unit commanders start barking and you rush off to the supply tents. It is raining and the ground is thick with sticky, smelly mud. There is no keeping dry. In between the fat drops a thick mist prevails over the whole area.

You are given a shirt of mail, a small shield, a short spear, and a light crossbow along with a pack containing a canteen, three days of rations, a small untility shovel, and a blanket. Then you are lined up and you begin your march forward into the echoing booms and dancing flashes from your new home.

Feel free to check in with a bit of reaction RP from now on. :)

Viktor the Human Paladin

Viktor straightens up, his large, handsome frame surveying the command post. He has a reassuring air about him, something straight from the stories. A big, tall man who can fight, but who still looks dashing. That coupled with the monster of a tower shield on his back make him seem like somebody you want next to you in the heat of battle.

His attention returns to the present as one of the commanders barks at him. "Yes sir!" He booms out, moving with a swift strut over to the supply tents. He sloshes through the mud, either blissfully unaware of it or not caring.

All in all, he's one of those annoying optimists.

Viktor slips on the mail, shaking his head at the puny shield, and gives a frown at the weapon. I suppose we are just grunts right now. He outfits himself with the rest with an approving nod. He pushes down his protest at the weapon, but doesn't entirely keep his mouth shut. "Sir! I have a request, would it be too much for a dagger or knife, at least one per squad? It could be useful to have something that can cut, say if we need to perform first aid or cut a rope."

Look at the edge of that spear, Brownie! You think that can't cut! The commander snarls. The spear does have sharp edges designed for helping it penetrate through a surface.

I've changed my alias line so that everybody knows the name of my current character.

Viktor shrugs. Just a pain to skin something or whittle with a spear. He reasons it probably won't be hard to trade something for a dagger. Maybe the little puny shield.

.

Aniolas, Female Barbarian

When they were shoved out of the carts, Aniolas jumped, landing on her feet with a slight crouch. Her hair was damp, tied back as it was in a low, short tail, and having known where they were headed, she held a handaxe casually in her left hand, unreadied. These outdoors were not unfamiliar to her, but she was not allowed that much time to orient as the barking of the commanders started and startled her.

The gear was piled in her arms a bit callously, and she had to drop some of it, fitting the mail over her head. The spear was eyed, not something she would have chosen to use, but still, not unfamiliar. The rest of the gear was sorted out and tested as it was donned. 'Necessary.. This is Necessary..', she reminded herself, her new mantra. Conscription was not the way she would have chosen to join this war, but that was how it went.

The young man emerged from the tent, his papers in hand. The deed was done, his name signed. He'd just done something unusual in this day and age; he'd volunteered. He felt satisfied with his decision, and even if they had not given him the chance to demonstrate his skills on the spot, he recognized that opportunities for such would come. How were supposed to be able to tell, at a glance, the difference between peasants armed with sharpened scythes and pitchforks, and dandies waving scented handkerchiefs, when there were plenty of each and everything else in-between here in the camp. Time would tell soon enough who the human refuse were, while the elite, such as himself, were given the chance to rise to the top, to display their skills, and to receive the recognition they deserved and then win this war!

He took his commission to the equipment tent as instructed, and waited his turn in line to get some of the extra gear he had not been able to bring along. He had brought his own bow, finely crafted and extremely deadly, as well as his outdoor gear, but he lacked for armour and a weapon for up close. He thought about what he would request as he stood in line, picturing himself with a stout, short blade, perfect for springing from the shadows, or perhaps a long rapier, to complement his quick hand and cool coordination. For armour, soft leathers, thick, but dyed deep and dark, green like the forest or black like the night. As he reached the head of the line, the sergeant there looked him up and down once, didn't even bother to check his papers, handed him a heaped heavy bundle of metal linked armour and then draped the baldric of a sword over his neck and shoulder as his hands were now full. The sword was nearly as tall as he was. York opened his mouth to comment, but the sergeant was already concentrating on the next soldier, shouting, "Next!" York caught his arm and said, "Sorry, you don't understand, I'm a scout; a sapper, I can't move through the woods with this thing (indicating the sword) it's bigger than I am."

The sergeant looked him up and down and merely said, "Bo||ocks. Look at those arms. Those arms would be wasted on anything mincy, so you get the longswerd. Now sod off. Next!"

York stumbled away from the armsman, taken off guard at the reaction, but recovering quickly, again remembering that these people had no way of knowing what he was going to be able to accomplish for them in the coming days, and the deeds he was going to become known for. This was going to require a great deal of patience.

He sighed and headed in the general direction of his assigned billet. Best find his unit. The 42nd, it looked like...

Gaspard.

The wiry man was in the proccess of stuffing his shirt of mail into his backpack as he joined the line.
F@+$ing War. F~#!ing two-bit fence, selling me a dud of a document. I copied it perfectly! F#!$ing uneducated bastard of a 'recruitment officer' saying there was no such thing as shops vital to the war effort. No good thug, that's what he was.

He got the shirt all the way into the pack with an angry push. Hoisting his shield on the side of the thing so it wouldn't get in the way of his casting, and hanging the spear, crossbow and bolts on his belt where he could get to them. At least he wasn't completely useless with a crossbow.
He was too angry to be scared. He'd been that way ever since he got hauled onto the cart.

He drew the hood of his grey cloak up and shuddered.

F%!&ing rain.

Last stop for the coach.

Thomas jumped out, as the group of men and women disembarked for the front lines. He looked about, rather downcast. Father, I know our clan promised fighters for the war effort, with our unique skills and such, but I am beginning to think that most of us that come here are never going to make it back.

Going to the quartermaster's tent, he turned in his letter and was given his basic supplies. He took inventory of what he had then spoke to the man. "Uhm, Sir..., Thomas Groundpounder? I was told to requisition a field medic's kit when I arrived?"

The quartermaster grumbled, but looked over his letter and after confirming his position, he handed him a shoulder bag, while not the best quality goods, Thomas found that everything he needed was in fact there, and well kept.

The air is so depressing here. Frankly, at this point, Its going to be lucky if we see tomorrow.

Viktor watches the other members of the 42nd file in and get armed. To his surprise a woman is the first one in behind him. He hesitates as she walks in, but she looks every bit as strong and tough as he does. The next man that comes in quickly gets Viktor's approval. Then the wiry man not wearing his armor steps in and Viktor muses over him for a moment. Probably a caster. I hope he's not a coward. The last person he wasn't sure what to make of. Looks tough, but not strong at all.

When everybody gets in he announces himself to the group. He's a tall, broad man with a casual, comforting smile and a reassuring presence. He easily shoulders the weight of the tower shield on his back, and he looks every bit the soldier strait from the stories. "Evening men! And woman." He gives a nod to Aniolas. "Name's Viktor, Paladin of Erastil. Can't wait to be fightin' at your side."

You march for about a mile before the terrain starts changing from filthy, degrading supply roads to front line supply dumps. Crates of various weapons litter the area in an organized chaos that only a quartermaster could navigate. Every once in a while you march past a pile of battle damaged armor, shattered shields, or swords shorn cleanly in half. That is the first sign.

Then you pass the lines of the dead. They are all covered in long sheets, but each is blood stained and filthy. There are dozens laid in neat rows. The second sign.

As you march, the flashes get louder and the ground starts to shudder with the roar of fire and explosions. Just about then you march past the forward aid hospitals. They need no signs. The screams of the wounded mark each tent better than any words on wood ever could. The third sign.

From here the ground quickly forms into a series of deep trenches. The roar of fire spells and the hiss of acid are close now. Uncomfortably so. You are led up to the front where your company, Badger, is assigned to a 50 ft section of trench with a low built, hardened stone structure on either side. The men you relieve are tired, pale, and wounded to a man. They take one look at your fresh faces and laugh before falling back with sarcastic wishes of luck and congratulations.

Your trench is muddy, cold, and simple. Little more than a man-sized hole in the ground that is rapidly collecting water. As you spread out to your assigned posts, a huge ball of fire erupts across the ceiling of the building to your right. A man pops his head over the edge of the trench to get a position on the mage, but as soon as his head is visible a shining blast of force takes half his face off. He falls limp and splashes into the water you're standing in. Well, you suddenly hope that's water...

The danger is close.

.

Gaspard

The wiry man spoke a few arcane words, and subtly glowing blue panes of force came into being over his soaked, grey cloak, forming barriers protecting his head and torso.

He looks around. "Viktor, huh? What'd you do to get stuck in this s@#$hole?"

He takes in the carnage. "That looks like a mage. More powerful than me, too. My proffessional advice is that we stay here untill he believes he got us, and finds somewhere else to take his fireballs."

"Volunteered. Want to be a commander one day." Viktor declares proudly. "So today we're holding the line. Gotta take turns looking out to make sure we don't get any surprises. I'll go first." Leading by example, Viktor plants his tower shield towards the enemy and peeks out from behind it.

Because of the height of the trench, Victor has to plant his shield sideways, but plant it he does. 1d20 ⇒ 3
What he sees is a scarred hellscape that used to be a farm, once upon a time. Mages duel back and forth while the ordinary rank and file stay in their trenches and embankments. Both lines stretch to the horizon in both directions, but the action seems to be centered around your position.

That's all he has time to see before his shield is impacted by three heavy crossbow quarrels almost simultaneously.

Viktor grunts and comes back down, roaring with laughter. "Patient bastards were waiting for me! When you go up to check, take this girl with you unless you want to look like a porcupine!" He breaks the bolts off his tower shield, trying to use the angle to tell where they came from. "Mages are at it heavily. Next time somebody peeks do it from a different location, want to keep me guessing. We need to locate them archers and return fire, or even creep up and hamstring them if we can."

Gaspard

"Ehh, they know we're in here. 'Way I see it, they'll keep right on knowing we're in here even if we leave, yeah? The only instance where if we get important is in case someone stupid makes a run for our trench. Say, can anyone see a good way to get into their trenches? I bet they would be hesitant to fire at someone running around down there. We could walk all the way up to them and gut 'em, most like."

Despite himself, there was something about the situation that excited Gaspard. Maybe it was the rush of fear, he couln't say, but he was feeling less down by the second.

"Light alive, do you think they are preparing to move this way? I mean..., three bolts just for peaking up your head?"

Thomas shivers as he prepares himself for the worst. Certainly not what I expected when I left home. I sure hope this doesn't get us all killed.

Thomas spends his time preparing, and trying to attune himself with the earth around him, knowing it will be his weapon, and his shield when the time comes. "Don't suppose we need our packs with us for this fight do we? Just keep weapons handy?"

"Doubt it, we're just small fish to them. Keep your packs on you if you can shoulder the weight easily."

Aniolas, Female Barbarian

This was very different than what she was used to. They had given each of them a crossbow, but if there were others waiting for them when they raised their heads, what good were they? Her pack had been slung on her back more securely, the handaxe thrust through one of the loops. Barefoot, she did not mind the mud, but the water was going to be a problem if they were here too long. For now, she bore the rain like the others, thankful that the rain was washing away the smells. "So we're waiting for the mages to run out of magic?"

She did not understand what they were doing here, especially if there were bigger distractions than them. They needed a way to see that was not risking themselves needlessly.. As grisly as it was, she began checking the bodies in the trench for anything useful, collecting any spare spears as well. This place was a far cry from the low hills of her home, and the conditions were going to get worse, she knew.

"Considering we just relieved another group, I don't think that's likely to happen soon." Viktor frowned. You think they would have given us more information. Viktor moves down to the opposite end of the trench, then plants his tower shield and looks up again. This time he focuses on trying to see where the arrows are coming from.

Perception: 1d20 ⇒ 19

He peeks around and immediately spots the source. Several men armed with large repeating crossbows mounted on pivoting tripods are stationed in a tower opposite your left flank bunker. The center one spots him and swings his contraption around.
1d20 ⇒ 9
The thing starts spring quarrels at an alarming rate, much faster than a normal crossbow.
1d20 ⇒ 5
Four more quarrels bury themselves in the shield before Victor is able to pull it back. Thankfully, none impact him.

Gaspard visibly jumps as the bolts make their impact.

"What did you see?!" He was fidling with his own crossbow, not consciouss of what his fingers were doing.

Viktor ducks back down and breaks the projectiles off. "Repeating crossbows mounted on tripods opposite our left flank bunker. They're putting down a lot of pressure. We need to spread thin their attacks and either pick them off or get close. Getting close could lead to a lot of casualties."

You hear a low rush of wind and a huge boulder smashes against your left flank bunker, sending shards of stone everywhere and throwing a cloud of dust into the air momentarily. The rain quickly goes to work solving that issue.
1d100 ⇒ 32
The structure appears to be mostly unfazed by the impact, but the boulder has caused a partial collapse of the trench level entrance! If it's not cleared quick you'll have a dangerous break of communication along the Line!

How wide is the obstruction and how exposed to the archers do we need to be to repair it?

At the moment, you have almost no exposure to the bows thanks to the cloud of rock dust, but the rain is diminishing that quickly. The obstruction is as wide as the trench and consists of several heavy chunks of stone blocking the entry. There is another entry, but you need to fall back a whole trench level to access it which would take several minutes and surely waste your rapidly dissipating cover, not to mention possible accusations of abandoning your post.

"Damn it all, we need to get that rubble cleared! I need one man on lookout for ambushes and the cover from dust, the rest of us need to get that crap moved! Grab your shovels!"

Thomas starts to use his powers over earth to try and gather larger amounts of the rubble and move them out of the way. "Let me try and work on it. I can move larger amounts of this rubble than a normal man with a shovel. Tell me Vik, how far off do you think those bows are?"

Thomas goes to work diligently, trying to clear the rubble as quickly as he can.

"Those kinds of crossbows can't shoot accurately farther than a bit over a hundred feet."

GM, do we have a distance?

You haven't had much time to get a good look, but if you had to guess from the way your shield has been hit, the distance would be 80-100ft.

"They're within range. Speed is of the essence. This is important, communication is paramount during war time!"

"I'll do lookout, can't swing a shovel for the life o' me. Use the dust as cover or volleys at the crossbow nest?"

"You can't take on a nest of them, just keep a lookout and let us know when our cover is about to drop."

Con check from Thomas and Str check from anyone else working on the blockage. Perception check from Gaspard.

Strength: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (19) + 2 = 21

Gaspard's eyes dart to and fro, trying to keep track of the fog and potential threats as he holds his crossbow in a white-knuckled grip.

Perception: 1d20 + 0 ⇒ (11) + 0 = 11

Illusion is so much more useful than evocation as battle magic when you're a scrub. I even thought of that when making the character -.-'

Strength: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (5) + 2 = 7

York runs up to the pile if rubble, grabbing a couple of small pieces, but looking distracted.

"The dust might provide cover further out as well; if it's only 80-100 ft to the archers, we might be able to cover a good deal of that distance under the cloud before they see us. Either that, or I could camouflage, and get into position, buried in the mud. I'll move into a flanking position and rush the tower when I see the lot of you make your move."

plasters himself against the rock as small as possible while trying to use it as cover and look like I am doing my best to move it Morgrym looks around and says,
"Damn how did I get in this trench instead of doing the digging of the officers latrines again?

1d20 ⇒ 6

You can feel more huge stones impact around you. Some impact fortifications with a sharp crack while others send tremors through the ground when they miss. You hear one structure beyond you collapse, but can't see which one. One of the stones, probably aimed at the emplacement you're trying to repair, skips off the dirt just in front of Gaspard!
Gaspard, DC 14 or be blinded by flying mud as the Dirty Trick maneuver! It will take several seconds to clear your eyes.

The impact sends a shower of mud and clumps of earth training down upon you all, except for Mr Black, who's cowering saved his cleanliness. Well, what's left of it.

The rocks are shifting, but you need more oomph. Which may come from Thomas, we will see.

Is it a reflex save? It seems like it'd be a reflex save.

Gaspard tries shield his face with the sleeve of his grey cloak. It was getting more brown by the second.

reflex: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (12) + 2 = 14

It is, yes. Sorry

Con Check: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (1) + 3 = 4

Thomas is trying to move the stones and rock, but the instability caused by other impacts and shifting in the ground seems to be distracting him.

In some instances, I will give your foe a benefit or advantage they would not have had if you fail a task. This is one such case. It could be for the short term or long, visible to you or not. In these instances, I'll usually say "enemy front advanced". That may or may not mean the actual physical front of the war. It means their cause, "front", has been advanced slightly. This is one of those cases.
Enemy front advanced.

You manage to shift one of the boulders out of the way, but it is far from clear when Gespard shouts the alarm and bolts start arcing your way.
1d20 ⇒ 9

You all dive back into cover as quarrels nip at your heels. Morgrym's cover saved his life and Victor's shield is gaining iron content by the minute.

The barrage of catapult fire lasts for several minutes. Many stones land near you and one unlucky man catches one that skipped right into your trench.

Then, a suspicious fog rolls over your lines and a great roar from hundreds if not thousands of voices goes up from the enemy's side. The men who managed to survive in the bunkers open up into the fog, firing blindly at what everyone knows is coming.

Curse whoever didn't think to dig out holes to hide in during barages. Bastards. He pokes his head over the edge of their trench as the fog rolled in. At least the crossbowmen couldn't see him now either.

Sodding small blessings...

Still, no reason to be where his enemies expected him to be.

"I have an idea!"

He hoisted himself up from the trench with some difficulty, ran ten feet or so forward, before he dropped into the mud, rolled around to cover himself, and laid facedown, his cloak concealing most of him. If he was lucky, the charge would go right past him, and he could come at them from behind.

If he wasn't lucky...

I f+~&ing hope I'm lucky.

He laid as still as he could.

Aniolas, Female Barbarian

Aniolas was scrounging for extra weapons when the bunker was hit and collapsed. She had collected perhaps a couple extra spears from those that were not picked up by the other newcomers, but she had found that she was acclimating to the sense of where she was, currently. What nagged at her was that on the way, she had not seen any crossbow emplacements like the one that was near their position.. Which, not knowing anything about regimented warfare, bothered her. So, rather than going to the sergeants, she headed towards that soldier that said he wanted to be a commander while she was nearby.

Then it began raining boulders.

She ducked reflexively, but it still took her a couple of seconds to make sense of things. Once she regained her wits, the fog came rolling in, along with the roaring.
___________________
Did our side have any emplacements?

seeing the fog rolling I and then seeing someone climb out of the trench into the mud and throw themselves into it Morgrym figures that perhaps that guy isn't so stupid after all so he finds the last guy who didn't make it from the rock coming in and uses the fellows poor corpse as a concealment bonus along with the rock for cover and pulls himself into the bodies mess using the stone and body to hide from the oncoming advance.

(please make me a stealth roll as I cannot seem to master it yet)