Chronicles of Yore: Teachin' Song of Blades

The nice thing about Song of Blades and other games sharing the 'small game, simple rules' philosophy is that new players can pick them up rapidly, even over the course of their first game. So when I invited a friend over to game (sometime in August, I think) and he wound up bringing two of his friends, I knew there was only really one choice.

I grabbed my deck of character cards and had each player choose a couple hundred points-worth of regular characters as well as a personality, just based on which figures appealed to them. Meanwhile I rolled out my gaming mat and some walls, cairns, trees, and stone heads. Then followed a bloody four-player brawl in two parts:

Once every year and a day rises over the 'wold the vermilion moon like the eye of  a dissipated god. It is said to awaken a hunger in man and dwimmer-beast alike, so that they spend the night in bloody carousal. Few, it is said, wake to see the sanguine dawn, but those that do awake renewed, with the knowledge that they have survived to see another foul year.

Among hollow cairns in the northeast, a party of dwimmer-beasts emerge in search of sacrifice. They close on a band of baleful men, sure in the advantage of darkness and surprise. But the men have the insight of the blood moon's rising. They seek struggle. They welcome strife.

Meanwhile in the Southwest, Dire men ride besotted, seeking the glory and bliss of death under the red moon's spell. Fortunately, Bilebroke's hunchymen are about and willing to oblige.

The struggle is joyous and desperate. The stones watch and chuckle their approbation.

At last, and one by one, the dwimmer-beasts are hunted down, and sent squealing back to the pit, while the hunchymen withdraw in terror and ecstasy into the night.

Barely sated, the maddened riders continue their charge across the fells, and the hunting party is glad of the change in sport. The red moon begins to set in the west, and each breath before the carnage stretches interminably like the streaks of red moonlight through the shivering trees. Soon the morning will come, and a new year will bestow it's ghastly, mocking smile upon the 'wold. But for the rest of this glorious witching hour, we all are lost.

Happy new year.

Chronicles of Yore: Song of Blades at Next Dimension Games

I seem to be developing a biannual tradition of shoving my poor blog under a rock and doing something else for a while. I think it might be part of a greater cosmic rythm in which I am helplessly enfolded. But now I'm back, I think. Merry Christmas.

Part of this return to blogging always involves going through the backlog of posts, several of which are batreps and AARs, that I couldn't bring myself to write (part of the reason the blog went dark in the first place), and that in the interrim have been swallowed in the mists of my less-than-perfect memory.

I'm calling these the Chronicles of Yore, and below is one such battle report from, I think, July. We had just discovered a wonderful little game store called Next Dimension Games, which was conveniently situated right along my commute from work. They had lots of gaming space, plenty of terrain, and friendly staff, and were, of course, defunct like two weeks later.

So enjoy some forgotten deeds from a land that is lost:

The puckish magician Glendywr had once more taken to trickery, stealing some arcane bauble from the Warder of Wyrd's purse o' gimcracks. Away he danced o'er the fields and into the lonesome fief.

So sent forth the sorcerer his nefarious clan to ride the hunchy-imp down. 

But to Glendywr's aid came a cadre of dark-livery'd knights.

Their liege had made pact with the stunted conjuror, offering amnesty in exchange for majicks most black.

Swift as night and dark as wind, these foul paladins swept the Fell Glendywr away.

The Tainted Thegn, Fulgid Glim

The Tainted Thegn is come again, he sweeps South to the fulgent lands.

All his reign is knavery; a tide of blood is in his hands.

In all the years we've not seen one who shined as bright as him

when stood at the gates while Helmrood burned...

...and sang, did Fulgid Glim.

Thjornig Marrow

When Thjornig Redmane touched his axe

A vision passed before his eyes.

He saw not how, nor when, nor why,

But he knew that he would die

Drowned in a black fen, left to lie

Until the worms crawled out his eyes...

When Thjornig Marrow rides to war,

There comes a sorrow to his eyes

to see his foes, to list' their cries,

For they know not that they will die

where in the mud they're left ot lie.

...Oh how they wish they wouldn't die.

Ullidge Brood

Their throats will crack, the crows will feast

in paean to our kindly beast.

We'll make them crawl, we'll make them sing

and praise the many-eyed, mumbling thing.

I hold it now, like Krell before.

I hold this flag till I am sore.

The staff is rough, it's splinters sting.

I hate the many-eyed mumbling thing.

Toller Brigg

Toller Brigg, that righteous pig,

whose brain is grey and fallow...

he rides alone past brake and stone,

through darkling glade and hollow....

Though leagues apart, he hears your heart

and every time you swallow;

Though he be dense, bereft of sense,

That Toller Brigg will follow...

Preparing the Dire Men

So I've finally gotten to the point where I can start showing off my new SoBH warband. The figures are all painted, I've made the cards, but, since I am no magic man, this all came together several weeks after the start of the CSW's summer SoBH campaign. 

...which means I have some WiP shots of my Dire Men (EM-4 miniatures mounted barbarians. Check them out) that I would feel silly posting after the painted versions of the same. So today's post is something of a filler/teaser until I start unveiling my grime-punk masterpieces.

Fulgid Glim and his Dire Men have, however, already participated in a couple of battles, so for the impatient you can check out the figures and their deeds so far here...

...and also here.

Why so many WiP shots, you ask? Well, I had originally planned to make a tutorial on my entire painting process, but as usually happens, the deadline for finishing the band got the better of me/ I got too excited and involved in the actual painting to document it properly.

And so the futility of my endeavours is perpetuated. I pass it on to you in this largely useless post. You can do the same for others by leaving a comment below. The more fatuous, the better.

Vildeburg & the Lands of Qaarra

Just a quick post today to let you know that this week might be somewhat light on posts.

Here's why:

Yes, I'm about to embark on my first CSW summer campaingn for SoBH. You should check it out. Pat has put together a really nice, fluffy background that is very much in my wheelhouse. The only thing is that means I've got six more riders to paint for my warband in the space of two evenings. So blogging might fall back a little bit.

Above is a map that I drew of the Lands of Qaarra, as devised by Pat. I couldn't resist trying my hand at it, especially after I spent some time reading the tutorials section of the fantasticmaps blog.

I'll try and post at least once more this week, but no promises. But after this week? Well, there will be some kick-ass new characters for my campaign warband that I'm really excited to show off, as well as several exciting battle reports, I'm sure.

In the meantime, feel free to post your thoughts in the comments box located South by Southwest. Don't get lost.

N

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Brittleghast the Cut-Pate

                                                 Beware the cut-pate's jovial axe.
                                                 It furrows brows with hilarious tracks,
                                                 vexes crowns with giggling seams,
                                                 lights Brittleghast's eyes with a mawkish gleam.

                                                 While stricken, bleeding onlookers drool,
                                                 he juggles his axe like a glorious fool
                                                 And - rather than ruin this act with a grin - 
                                                 lets the arc of his axe tell the story for him.

                                                 Sweating with mirth and convulsed with delight,
                                                 To watch Brittleghast work is a wonderful fright.
                                                 He shows us the thrill of such exquisite dread;
                                                 He shows us the joke in a well-cloven head;

                                                 Shows us how masters work only in red
                                                 Long after more reasonable colors have fled;

                                                 Heaps jest upon jest with the sweep of his axe.
                                                 ... Oh God help us, he's at it again.

Felbray Trow & Felzig Hurl

Hard of heart, fierce of mind,

False of word to oath unbind,

Swift of wit, slow of tongue,

Deaf to songs of glories sung.

In wait behind a withered tree,

or stalking 'cross the stinking lea.

A trap to spring 'midst the cairns

to drown you in their sacred tairns

 Be you ware upon the wold--

be you not rash or over-bold--

For within the shadow come the beasts

a-waiting for a soggy feast.