No pics, sorry. And no embellishments. Well, maybe just a little. This group (three of us) last played two or three years ago, and had no old characters to continue with, since the Heroes had been slaughtered by the Spirit Riders a couple of quests into Return of the Witch Lord.
We didn't feel like playing through all the old quests again, as none of us have ever played through RotWL and I for one have been waiting about twenty years to try it... but the group did want to try a fairly basic quest first to remind themselves of the rules. We settled on 'Quest for the Spirit Blade', reasoning that said weapon was the one item we absolutely needed to get through RotWL. The Morcar player (not me for once) agreed to throw in a few extra goodies now and then to give us enough gold for a couple of items before we headed for the Dead City.
Usually we rotate the Morcar player every couple of Quests. It was my turn to be a Hero, and I was looking forward to sowing some seeds of greed, treachery and general anarchy. As I would be playing two characters, I planned to treat the Dwarf as a team player and the Wizard as... erm... the opposite.
And thus it was that Flash the Barbarian, Grim Lee the Dwarf, Wincewind the Wizzard and Insert Name Here the Elf set out to retrieve the blade of evil's bane yet again. Mentor advised them that the disgruntled sword had most likely magicked itself back to its temple after the previous owners died of a sudden outbreak of skeletal cavalrymen... so off they trotted to the familiar monster-infested ruins. (Honestly, you just can't get decent exterminators these days.)
The air was thick with greed and mistrust, for the lure of the Spirit Blade tempted the heart of each and every Hero. The Quest began accordingly with the Heroes splitting up and rushing ahead in all directions. In their haste, they trusted to luck rather than cautious searching to keep them out of harm's way--the fools! One after another they tumbled into pit traps or spitted themselves on spears that sprang rudely from the walls.
To add insult to injury (not to mention add injury), the crumbling ceilings had a nasty habit of giving way at inopportune moments. The players resorted to marking the dangerous squares with small chocolate Easter eggs. This worked well until they ate the eggs.
Wincewind kept out of harm's way, hatching plans of his own. 'Aha,' thought the wily Wizzard, 'I've pored over maps of this temple and know the blade's location - it's at the top of the map - I'm bound to get there first.'
To his dismay, secret door searches revealed nothing at all. 'Morcar's rearranged the rooms!' he shouted in high dudgeon.
(At this point I realised that I was remembering an alternative map I had seen at the Olde Inn, rather than the original one, and was therefore looking in completely the wrong place... so much for the advantages of being a retired Morcar!
) Meanwhile, Orcs and Goblins scattered (in pieces) as Flash the Barbarian chopped his way through the corridors. )Nobody knows how this formidable Hero acquired his name, and nobody dares to ask in case he shows them.)
Grim Lee the Dwarf had far less success. He seemed incapable of inflicting even a graze on the merest Goblin, suffering wound after wound in return. At last he peered suspiciously at his usually trusty axe, and to his horror realised he had brought the wrong weapon. The axe in his hand had a rubber blade, and bore a label announcing its origin to be 'Bugman's Novelty Shop, 5gc'.
Wincewind, for his part, proved unexpectedly adept with his single-die staff of wooden doom. Skeleton skulls bounced off walls and Goblins staggered away with terminal headaches as the Wizzard made his bid to reach the Spirit Blade first.
'Halt!' roared the Barbarian, blocking the corridor and invoking the Ancient and Honourable European Rule of Pass-Through-Me Permission. 'You... shall not... pass!'
'Tough!' replied Wincewind as he veiled himself in mist. 'Take that, irony!' Like a wraith he slipped unseen into the blue-lit room.
'I claim the Spirit Blade!' he cried.
'Not so fast,' said the mocking disembodied voice of Morcar. 'You have to search for treasure first.'
'What?!' spluttered the Wizzard. 'It's in the centre of the room! You said so a second ago! Right there, look! Bathing in cool blue light like some sort of decadent metal minx! It could hardly be more obvious if you put a big magical flashing arrow over it with a sign saying 'Sheath me, big boy!'
Looking sceptical, not to mention slightly perturbed by the Wizzard's heavy breathing, Morcar consulted his map. 'Well, even so, you don't have enough movement to reach it.'
'It's in the centre of the room. See? The corner of this square? Which I'm standing on right now?'
'Maybe so,' Morcar said, unmoved, 'but the alphabet mark on the map is at the far end.'
There followed a short and mildly violent discussion about whether the description trumped the mark or vice versa, and whether 'centre' meant that anyone standing in the four central squares could claim the blade. The alternative, strongly favoured by the Barbarian, was that the claimant had to stand on a specific square, preferably not the one the Wizzard currently occupied. There's a lot of this sort of thing goes on around here.
In the end, the Wizzard's dastardly bribes to Morcar (i.e. Easter eggs) proved decisive. As he triumphantly held aloft the blade that makes the Witch Lord's knees knock, he thought he heard Flash mutter, 'You're dead, Wizzy.'
Fortunately the Barbarian was preoccupied with a treasure search in the neighbouring room. As the Wizzard strolled nonchalantly by the door, he took the opportunity to sneak a Sleep spell while Flash's back was turned.
To his dismay, the Barbarian shook off the spell and turned with a dangerous gleam in his eye.
'Self-defence!' Wincewind protested, backing away. 'You threatened me! We all heard it!... Look, there must still be treasure to find in here somewhere. If you let me live, I'll follow you and heal you.'
To his relief, Flash relented and led the way.
When the mollified Barbarian was at a safe distance, Wincewind legged it for the spiral stairs with a cry of 'See ya later!' Grim Lee followed, limping and swearing at his axe. Moments later, however, the Wizzard's conscience caught up with him (partly due to the mortally wounded Grim Lee admonishing him for his heartless behaviour, and partly due to the Barbarian player kicking me under the table). Reluctantly, Wincewind turned back to keep his word.
All this while, Insert Name Here had fought on bravely through the foetid dining halls, slaying countless hordes of Orcs and Fimir (okay, three or four). The Elf might have been a little lacking in personality or indeed anything written in his name box, but he did not lack for courage. Joined by a glowering Barbarian in dire need of something to kill, and restored from the brink of death by a breathless and tardy Wincewind's magic, he threw open the last door to reveal a much-coveted treasure chest.
Flash and Insert could never quite agree on what happened next. The Wizzard had said several extremely reasonable and persuasive things very fast, concerning his frail body and urgent need of armoured protection. One or both of them had nodded, or possibly shrugged, or maybe just opened their mouth. The next thing they knew, Wincewind was running off down the corridors with a bag of gold in each hand, laughing with avaricious glee. By the time the Barbarian and Elf began to frown in puzzlement, the Wizzard was already at the top of the stairs, his mind's eye fixed on the gleaming Bracers he'd seen in the local shop...
Yes folks, even when I'm not Morcar, I'm still evil as a sack of Gargoyles.
Boy did I pay for it in the next Quest, mind you.
very vivid!
= white skull, one "hit"
= black skull, one "hit"
= shield, cancels out one "hit"
