a ballad of times session 1

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session notes 13th Age Vikings/Saxons game

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Ballad of Times Past

BackgroundThe forty-two-year-old King Athelred rules the theods of Sufland. The first of his line, Athelred deposed the previous Cyning, Penda, when barely twenty-one. He is a capable and fairly popular ruler, still strong despite his years. Under him, he has managed to hold the land from the triumvirate threats of Frisca, the Westlund theods, and the Realingas.

A Tale of Woe, Session 1

First Part:In the Great Hall of HreodThe Suflandseaxe Tn of Beorsca, seat of the Scira of Gesith Offa and the Wintertid court of Cyning Athelred

Eamon and his cynn, drengas from the east, and their small retinue, travellers from upriver, have come early to the fortified hall of Hreod, in the Tn of Beorsca, in the Scira of Gesith Offa. Their two wheezing hunt-ceorls carry a huge stag on their shoulders, a gift of venison for the lords table. (There is a vale, Eamon claims, of perpetual Somertid, a manifestation of the Otherworld, surely.) They announce themselves at the timber gate, which swings open. Gladness for their gift fills the mead-hall. They trudge up the muddy ramp toward it. They announce themselves again at the rune-carved oaken door: proud words, proud welcome.

Inside, the hall-rls untie the drengas wool cloaks colourful shoulder-draped blankets, now dark and wet from the trip. The hunt-ceorls untie their own hide cloaks, worn skin-side out. Eamon removes his helmet and pulls the twigs from his long brown hair; the other ceorls remove their bell-shaped snoods. All the men unwrap leather leg-bands, crusted with snow, from their plain trousers. They swap their leather shoes for baggy woollen soccs and accept fresh grey tunics - long, with gold-scalloped hems at knee level - and hand their weapons to the hall-ceorl who governs the hall-slaves.

The timber hall is warmed by a fire-pit running down its length. The pit is surrounded by a long U-shaped table. Around it, many benches are fixed to the floor, each one carved with runes from the ealdorman that sent it here in submission.

Eamon and the drengas take their bench - not at the head of the table, where the lords wife will serve his Cyning and Heah-gerefa and their thegns, nor not at the ends, where slaves bring chicken broth to tired ceorls, but in the middle, opposite the fyrdmann Jormun, a cynn-less warrior, by the look of him. They drink spiced beer and praise the trophies (Wildling spears, Aelfcynn bows, elk antlers, an unusually wide-browed skull) that adorn the walls. The Gesiths daughter, his sister-in-law, and his niece heat up cheese-curd pastries in the fire pit, and ask about distant news and relatives.

The lords red-braided daughter wears a simple green gown with silver hems, fastened by a saucer-shaped broach at each shoulder and cinched at the waist by a small belt hidden in its folds. The sister-in-law and niece come from a treaty marriage and have the strange ways of Friscan women. They wear linen gowns under wool gowns, under blue-dyed shawls, clasped with cruciform brooches.

Both thegns and nobles wives glint with jewellery: armbands, bracelets, buckles, brooches, and gift-rings on many fingers (the more rings, the more rewards). The women hang silver spoons and amber beads from their belts, and the Friscan wife hangs a crystal, to see her cynns future.

At the doorway, an old heorthgeneat leans on his spear watching the men and women. Though crippled, and always drunk, he is still fast against troublemakers.

The Jutish slave girl who tends the fire has a broken nose. Jormun is reminded that, in Jutland courts, they allow love-talking - the women are not safe from flirting guests, even with husbands nearby! The Friscan daughter chastely picks away a curd from Eamons drooping brown moustache, and another from his braids. Eamon and his cynn drink silently, looking around. It is good to see fine things after a long, cold trip.

By days end, ealdormen, thegns, and ceorls fill the hall. The deer is cleaned, cooked, and served with jelly. Some ceorls bring fennel and trout to grill and the Gesiths wife pours mead after each boast, until it is half gone (but better to serve it all at once than to cheat guests with weak beer or berry wine.) By midniht, the men cannot pronounce their praise-words, and many ceorls are snoring.

A song would serve well before bed, but this lords sceop was killed last month by a nithing (The nithing was, in turn, strangled for his crime, according to the lords justice, and head removed before cremation).

The wandering balladeer, Skuli pulls a harp from his shoulder-bag and sings staves he has practiced:

Widsuth the Wanderer saw many mead-halls (the Scyldings, the Volsungs, the Friscan Cynings), but saw none so fine as this. . .

After the song, the Gesith smiles, handing Skuli a silver ring, and the drunken men struggle to their feet in praise. The Cyning, Athelred, himself, bids Skuli continue:

"It was a time of hardship,and everywhere the anger of the old wormwas seen in burnt barns and barren fields.Then two close companions, worthy hall-heroes,came hard against the walls of the welkin,scaling high peaks to put an end to fear.One, golden-haired with eyes of grey,his comrade, with blue eyes burning;they advanced to face their foe.Of blood but three drops sufficed to win that battle,and parley and word-play were the only soundswhile steel remained sheathed and shields unlimbered.Soon the heroes' labours won peace,and when the dragon's brood was returned once moreit was a time for the giving of gifts.The golden one savoured but a sip fromthat spring waters where he glimpsed and grasped his destiny.His friend favoured a future drawn in dust."

During Skulis ballad, Athelreds usual gusto and ebullience slip away. By the end, he is listening intently, sombre-faced and sober. There is silence. The bemused Skuli makes way for some tumblers while Athelred rises shakily and leaves the hall on the shoulder of his eldest son, Wybert. The best and most stalwart of the hearthweru also rise and file out.

Outside the cynings chamber, the warriors are met by Cwen Gudrun and the royal ealdwita (sage), an old thegn named Hengist.

Gudrun tells the warriors, Your liege is troubled and has retired to his chambers. If the cyning needs you I will send for you. Hengist, realising that something of great import is in the offing, sends for the godere, Thorwald for a divination.

Some hours after midnight, there is a commotion as Athelred comes striding from his chamber. Half-slumbering men-at-arms rouse: Gudrun throws a fur cloak across his shoulders as he marches out into the snow pursued by Wybert, Hengist and some men-at-arms (perhaps including some player characters). Athelred, stone-faced and intent, strides toward the guest-house oblivious to the biting cold and the protests of Hengist. Some of the minstrels rise to their feet, bewildered and a little alarmed at the visitation.

Athelred steps up to the crackling fire and grimly confronts Skulithe slender balladeer in his rough clothes; the old king towering above him in fine furs. The ballad that you sang, growls the king softly, Whence came it?

Sire, almost a month since, I had the fever. Before it broke, I dreamt the words as though they were whispered to me in some hot, dark, secret place.

Athelred strokes his beard. And did you sing it all or was there more? Skuli hesitates. Suddenly the king grasps him with huge hands, hauling him up so their eyes are level. Speak, damn you! Or by the sacred heavens...

Sire! Offa leaps to restrain the king. You make this good man sore afraid with such words.

Athelreds sudden rage leaves him and he sets the balladeer down with gruff apologies. Skuli nods. There was more, sire, that I did not deem fit to sing on such a joyous festival. Seeing the determination in the kings eyes, Skuli takes up his lyre and sings:

"The passage of years sits heavy on men's shoulders,but counts for little in the dragon's unblinking eye.In such a time, the tide of treachery can rise.Blue eyes now glint with greed; hatred dwells in the heart.He who had been a hero, a sinister sorcerer now,seeks to steal and shatter the unhinged box.With the blood-oath broken, grief shall fly across the land,and he who put on the mantle of the monarch,that one shall mourn his golden son."

The words are a hammer-blow to Athelred. He stands dazed; staring into the fire. At last, he raises his head, saying to his men:

Many years ago, before I was king, Beorsca was troubled by a dragon who dwelt in the nor west mountains and came down to steal away cattle. Many were the heroes who sallied into the old worms lair nevermore to see the light of day. Two young warriors came at last, hoping to win fame and fortune. The warrior with eyes like the cloudless sky was Caedmon. I was the other.

We entered the caverns to put an end to the dragon or die in the attempt. But when we met her, she spoke to us in a honeyed tongue, and so we parleyed with her. Her unborn cynn, she said, cocooned in its shell, had been snatched from its eyrie by a band of wicked treasure-seekers. If we would help her recover her egg, she pledged, she would agree to never more trouble the coastal lowlands, but also to add gifts of our choosing. We agreed, her words too sorrowful to ignore, and were victorious against the thieves. The egg was returned to its mother, and she, it turn, honoured her word. In her lair was a pool of such otherworldly radiance, I requested that I might drink of it and received a single sip which showed me dreams of things to come. This knowledge stood me in good stead when I wrested the cyningdom from corrupt old Penda. My friend, Caedmon, who had some dark knowledge even then, saw a golden dust in the lair, fragments of an unhatched dragons egg shattered by a warrior years before. He desired this for its mystical properties, and the dragon gave him half-a-hundred pinches.

Caedmon and I stayed a week with the dragon and sealed a bond in blood. The dragon called herself merely Firstborn (ttorsceaa). She said that as long as we were true to that bond, we were as siblings. Now, somehow, whether by design or accident, she has sent this message to me through this balladeer. Hengist! How read you these signs?

Clearly, sire, replies the sage, the golden son is Lord Osric, your firstborn whose fourteenth birthday and coming-of -age falls on winter solstice in three days time. The ballad warns that his life is imperilled, just as Caedmon threatens the offspring of the worm, herselfwho is, as you have told us, sire, your sibling by an oath of mingled blood.

The king is thoughtful. Although he was my friend, Caedmon was a secret and dark-souled man who never turned to the new gods. Though I have never seen him since, I have heard that he dwells in a tower across the bleak Wadwo Downs.

Thorwald! How read you the portents? Select some heroes to trek, though it be the grip of Wintertid, to the Dracan Scylf itself, if need be, to the very lair of the worm and protect her and her unhatched offspring from Caedmon. Make all haste, for the villainous Caedmon, who from this moment forth I declare tlaga, must be already on his way! It is not only because of my oath that I charge you thus, but because I fear that somehow our destinies are interwoven, hers and mine. Any harm which befalls her fledgling may bring down doom upon my own house.

The godere Thorwalds test:

Before you learn to count the moons, O Worthies, before you can collect the tithings due, and muster the fyrd, you must first show you can count on your fingers.

See the chickens in these cages. There are as many cages as you have hands, and as many chickens as you have fingers. You can leave your nose alone. It takes three weeks for my chickens to hatch three and twenty eggs.

Imagine, young heroes, that I craft a third cage and put in it as many chickens as you have toes on your left foot.

How much time will it take the chickens in my cages to hatch 23 eggs?

Whosoever solves the enigma may select warriors of his choosing to embark on the glorious mission for the Cyning.

After a few hours sleep, the party takes a light meal and prepares to depart. Because there are few ponies at the castle, the time of year, and the terrain which lies ahead, the journey will be on foot. Characters may have any armour up to mail armour and any standard weapons and shields.

Hengist also tells of something he has read in one of his books: Those who are true of heart need fear no harm from the dragons inferno.... The book was penned by Ulrich, a Friscan monk, by whose advice Hengist sets great store. Finally, he hands the party a rough map which he helped the cyning to prepare; but Athelred warns that years have passed since he took this route, and the map is uncertain in places.

ttorsceaas Lament:

Sorrow binds me still I thinkSadness in the silence.My heart a voidThat cant be filled.I know not where to turnListening, I fancy,Faintly falling footstepsIn the Distance.Waiting.The sounds form substance:Two from the land of men confront me.

A golden one with eyes of grey.Another by his side,Blue eyes blazing.Solid young saplingsSignalThey would speak with me.

Such is my distress,That I would discussWith any that will hear me.My plight portrayed,I perceivePity within their hearts.Should we restoreThis ancestral mere,Bonded with our bloodsWe beg to bargain.Grief gave wayto agreement.And when what was lostReturned once more,These giftsI gave them:

The golden oneSavoured but a sipFrom the wondrous waters' vision.His friend favouredA futureDrawn in dust.

Second Part: Waylaid at the Mead Hall

You set off north, towards Crowhurst, part of the Hide of the Ealdorman Beornhelm. You will know it by the oak trees which crown the hill above the Ham.

By Undern (mid-morning) you near a tributary of one of the rivers, still some hours downstream from your destination, when the howling sea-borne wintertid winds are punctuated by the war-cries, and the battle is joined.

The wind offers some protection from the battle-drug laced arrows of the cowardly Gfllybb, who are forced to close lest their arrows blow off course, but the eager Geoguschere, drunk on mead and unconcerned for his own safety, followed by the Plegscildas, waste no time in falling upon the heroes.

Encounter

3 Gfllybb (mooks)4Plegscildas1Geoguschere

Among the loot (poorly-made cloaks, clasps, pins, is an amulet containing a finger bone.

In the early evening (Gelotendg) of the first day, you reach the junction of two rivers, cutting through oak-crowned hills. There are a few crofters cottages, animal pens, a modest mead-hall, and three boats down by the river, which is not frozen over. The trip would be much easier by boat

The low-ceilinged inn is murky with smoke from the fire in the grate, but gloriously warm. One or two figures sit drinking at crude wooden benches, one of them a Wuduweard, by the look of him. They have clearly been drinking. The hall-rls attend you as you take your place by the hearth-fire, as you are brought cups of mulled wine.

As the wine arrives, two of the other patrons leave. But another figure you hadnt noticed sits alone in the shadows away from the fire. He is dressed in a rough garment like a monks habit, with the cowl pulled over his head. His face is not visible, but with a sudden tension you feel sure he is watching you. Abruptly, he straightens and raises his clenched right hand. You stare directly into his eyes; clear, sky blue, and alive with glittering malice. He begins the words of some invocation. A sparkling dust falls from his fingers...

Encounter

Caedmon, the Scinnlca (Large 3rd level monster, +6 Initiative; HP 90, AC 14, PD 13, MD 17)

Powers manifested:

Grave-bound+8 vs. PD; restrains 1-3 Nearby targets, Save (16+) endsEldritch Lightning+8 vs. PD; stuns one target, Save (11+) ends; recharge 11+