The group turned on our pursuers who retreated towards the familiar territory of the Ungol Vale. They wanted home advantage, it seemed, and our blood was up so we were happy for them to have it. They reached the cover of their Fey-haunted wood, but we were not giving up so easily, and resolved to make them regret ever bothering us...
The cursed woods of the Ungol Vale would be our battlefield for today.
Ominous and frightening, few have returned from under those dark eaves to tell tale of it.
But today there were no faint hearts. The Exiles advanced confidently. Arrows began to whistle past us, though happily none found their marks. This would have given lesser adventurers pause, for the Cult of Spiridon are famed for their dread envenomed blades and darts, harvested from the Spider-Things they worship.
But not the Exiles. Not today.
Lenore and
Wicklow Pottler, our halfling mystic, charged into the shadowy wood, while
Iago and new party member
Sir Godfrey of Ham turned to face the Ungol-Men on their flank.
Morgaunt the Slightly Fey and
Neville provided support with their bows. Two shots from Morgaunt's mighty longbow found their mark, wounding a brace of enemies. But they were still in the fight for now.
Morgaunt yelled "It's people like you that give the Fey a bad name! And you silly sods aren't even bloody Fey! Go back to your farms and villages and cease this folly!"
This did not have the desired effect. More poisoned arrows flew from the wood. Morgaunt sighed, saying,
"Well, you can't say you weren't given a chance" and drew back her bowstring once more.
Lenore clashed with a brutish cultist under the green leaves of the wood. They exchanged blows briefly. Lenore forced him back, but then he gained the upper hand, thrusting his barbed, envenomed spear into her stomach. It was time finally for our hearts to be in our mouths. We had forgotten the lessons of previous battles and were somewhat overconfident again by now. All that was needed was for the spear to overcome her armour and she would fall because of the spider-venom
(Over the past few games Lenore has received a couple of advances and is now very tough indeed, but that toughness doesn't protect one from venom).But no, we need not have worried. This was our day. The blow was turned by her armour, leaving her unhurt. His own armour did not prove so strong, for the next second Lenore's blade was poking out through his back and his life was over.
His nearby comrade was not cowed by the sight of his friend's death, nor the fact that he had one of Morgaunt's arrows sticking out of his arm (brave lads these, if somewhat religiously compromised). He advanced through the brush, aimed his bow and launched an arrow at point blank range while yelling a curse in some forbidden tongue.
"Good thing I've got this armour" thought Lenore as the arrow sped at her. It's also good that he missed.
Pottler screwed up his face into a mask of malice, channelling his anger at seeing his friend in danger into a hateful spell of rending arteries and the deepening of wounds. At this the archer's arrow-punctured arm began to gush blood like a waterfall.
(This was the Bleed spell, which when cast on a wounded enemy has a chance to make them bleed to death in each subsequent Tracking Phase of the game.)
Nearby events were moving quickly. Sir Godfrey and Iago raised their swords and charged with yells of "Heathen dogs!" and "For True Religion and the Pontiarch!" Their blood was up and they were young and full of vigour and confidence. It was all over in seconds. The poor cultists never stood a chance.
Back in the wood the cultist archer felt his legs going wobbly under him and so leaned against the nearest tree. Rather pathetically he squeaked,
"I don't feel very well," and breathed his last.
(Sickers had only rolled a 6 on the Bleed spell! First time he had ever used it in a game and it came through for us.)Only one cultist remained, their second archer, and he was wounded. It seemed like it was all over. And then suddenly it was. Another of Morgaunt's arrows brought him down. She really is becoming rather reliable in that department.
The group made camp on the edge of the vale, feeling rather satisfied with their efforts, and happy that nobody had been harmed. Their thoughts turned to their next moves, and they discussed this around the campfire. Morgaunt had noticed some strange tracks, and they decided to see where they led. But as they were settling down to sleep a sudden cry of terror pierced the night. One of the dread spider-things, no doubt enraged at the deaths of its worshippers, had leapt out of the gloom and into the fire light. Before anyone could react it had pounced on Wicklow and given him a nasty bite. The others managed to chase it back into the woods, but in the dark nobody felt like pursuing it. Taking up the wounded Pottler they moved their camp further from the eerie and dangerous treeline. Nobody slept that night and all eyes peered into the night, imagining legions of monsters and cultists creeping out of the darkness. Happily no more attacks occurred.
(This was a random event, which left us with a wounded halfling and it had also somehow broken his bow. He would be out for one campaign turn. Luckily we had a couple of doses of tonic so he took one. This allowed him to recover more quickly and be ready for immediate action next turn.)Next morning our intrepid band gathered their gear and set off to follow the strange tracks. Where would they lead? Find out soon.
04 February 2008, 09:15:08 AM