Midhaf

Session 1

Beginnings and a Test of Might

Sometimes dust trails appear on the horizon, towards the unclaimed mountain regions to the south and east. Always, though, Vixxelcurisk turns them in to lunch. Never have the progressed for so many days uninterrupted, marching towards Midhaf.

The clerics have used a powerful magic, horded and long reserved for an emergency, to spy upon Vixxelcurisk, nervous at the approaching line miscreants. They've spied the ancient wyrm flying over a coastline. A coastline - that certainly can't be anywhere Midhaf.

A few days pass - scant time for preparation. No one in Midhaf has thought about self defense in generations. Ha. Probably in a generation of generations. Except for a few kids .. with a strange penchant for the martial and budding, unusual talents.

A town meeting is called, and the group of youngsters speak out, attempting to rally the town's populace to their cause. For the most part, the stirring words of valorous deeds yet to be done dall on deaf ears; many in the town flee the pending doom.

At the headquarters of the local militia, Bruk, with Kiranth at his side, draw up some simple plans. Marilena offers whatever meager magics she can - not meager to Midhaf of course - quite grand really. But maybe not so impressive to the line of armed Orcs and Goblins your outriders have counted approaching. They are joined by whatshisname, an outcast dwarven Cleric of Pelor sent to Midhaf from the firetips to help look after the shrine and act as some sort of cultural liaison.


As evening creeps in upon the small town, the few members of the militia still around walk among the townspeople, handing out weapons and dividing them into groups - archers, spearmen... and victims. There is much muttered talk of times past and friends remembered.

A battle ensues - the town surrounded. The party is tasked with holding the critical juncture - alarge gap in the town's decrepit wall system. As the goblin horde charges the walls, and the terrified archers and spearmen loft their volleys and set to repel the charge, the band rides forth to break the goblinoid front.

In the center of the enemy formation, a goblinoid wearing a skull mask is carried on a large chair. The grotesque leering grin broadcasts an eerie wave of dread across the battlefield. No time for worries, though, because the first wave attacks. Goblins armed with spears and crates rush forward. They unleash rat swarms on the party, who manage to fend them off with a little difficulty. The goblins press in, engaging with melee weapons. The fight is joined. The party manages to funnel the goblin fighters into a corner, forcing them to engage around a break in the crumbling wall. Confident in his impending victory, the goblin leader dismounts, revealing himself to be a hobgoblin *war lord or something*.

He rallies his troops, and charges the party, who hold him off, fighting for every inch of ground. Finally, he is frozen in place by magicks unleashed by Marilena, allowing Bruk and Kiranth to advance toe-to-toe with him. In a wave of gore, Kiranth cuts down the bulk of his vanguard, leaving Bruk facing the hobgoblin. A well-placed strike leaves the invader open to the blows of Bruk's allies, which is more opportunity than they need. As the reality of his situation dawns on him, he squeaks out a last 'I surrender?'; Bruk shakes his head sadly as Kiranth deftly bifurcates the hapless invader chieftain.

The newly-minted heroes catch their breath and cast their gaze around the battlefield. Their leader fallen, the tide of battle shows more and more evidence of turning against the invaders. The party collects their gear and starts to drawn back inside the town walls. Enemy bodies squirm and die around you, many of Midhaf's boldest meet an end upon a rusty javelin or well worn broadsword. But finally, a solemn victory is yours.

The town is not overrun.

The stragglers of the invasion are chased back into the plain.

The first goblin squad to successfully cross the plain in living memory has been defeated. A week or so passes as you gather the wretched remainds of the enemies and burn the corpses well outside of town. In the process of dragging them to the pyre, you find 440gp in gems and coin. You can convert this to any form of currency you wish - Midhaf has shop keeps that will gladly exchange gems for coin or v.v.


Many candles are lit at Pelor's shrine for the lost. The folks of Midhaf do not pause long for emotion, though, and even as the last grave is covered, construction of a proper defensive wall begins. A deep channel is cut around the town, the removed dirt mixed with water and sand and baked under the plain's sun into large bricks. These are mortared behind the channel - stacked 20 feet tall. From the ramparts, widows fasten long woven banners extolling the virtues of the lost, calling on the glory of Pelor to guide their souls, damning their enemies.

They fly freely in the hot wind, prayers and memory.

Within a month, construction is complete. The usual timeless rhythm returns. Until Rayshenton?, head cleric of the shrine, invites you to a private meeting. . .