In a land of magic and mayhem that knows only war, heroes are forged in the heat of battle, wizards and warriors clash over fire and ice, blood and steel, swords and sorcery!
This is a works of fiction based on the 1980's board game Advanced Heroque...
After a brief entanglement with the town's local watch, we settled into the Black Eagle, a large inn made of wood and brick with a plaster façade, as a young lad took our wearied steeds to the adjoining stables for the night.
As we communed around a wooden table, the warmth of the nearby hearth, our table's trencher, the thick, steamy broth in our cudgels, and the dark ale in our tankards gave us a moment's respite after a long arduous trek before we reflected upon our dwindling finances.
Our stay in Mayby had soon proved to be at a premium we had not expected.
Our run-in with the law, led by a rather persnickety fellow by the name of Sir Justin Taag, had cost us of thirty Gold Crowns as he promptly took exception to our carrying of a flask of Greek Fire, which he confiscated of course, in addition to the hefty fine.
And before that, there had also been the ferryman's fee.Haggled we did to the best of our abilities but Brann, as the man was called, led as boring a life as he was shrewd in business.
Finally, we reckoned our stay would each cost us a good ten Gold Crowns, assuming none of the villagers had heard of our exploits. Surely the innkeeper, a retired sailor by the name of Sam, would charge us an additional five Crowns if he'd felt we'd held any fame.Such is the fate of success in the Old World.
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Our barmaid, a luscious wench by the name of Betty who clearly was using most of her charms to convince Sam to marry her (and he'd be a darn fool not to) was most pleasant and brightened our evening with her singular unabashed wit.
We listened intently as locals spoke of long lost dwarven mines. We too had heard such tales. Alas, none could tell us who may possess maps or clues as to their whereabouts. A blessing in disguise for our current lack of gold would have proven a cruel irony given we would first need to uncover treasures before we could afford the maps that lead to them.
Leaving these thoughts aside we resigned ourselves to enjoy the rest of the evening smoking our pipes and reminiscing our stories of old to an incredulous Betty who had seen her fair share of braggarts not to be swayed with tales of high adventure spoken in remote taverns of the land by ragtag groups of would be adventurers.
On the brink of retiring for the night were we when the rumblings of an assembling mob caught our attention. Outside, villagers had gathered, armed with torches and pitchforks. Amidst the clamour, we heard the lamentations of a woman.
"My daughter... please find my daughter!" she implored the gathering populace.
Fate would have it that we had entered Mayby a fortnight prior to Frog swallowing day. Children hunted and collected small frogs common on the later half of summer in preparation for this odd festival. One such child had gone missing.
Call us heartless, but we at once saw our fortune turn. There, we realized, was the answer to our money problems. Not only was this the opportunity to earn back some of our lost Crowns, we had the chance of making a tidy sum for the safe return of the poor lass.
The local watch consisted of only a handful of men-at-arms who had given themselves the titles of sergeants. But leaving the town unprotected as they ventured out to look for the missing child was not something Sir Justin felt comfortable with. What if those responsible had purposely kidnapped the poor lad with such a diversion in mind?
Dare we say, as disagreeable our encounter with the man had been, we couldn't help but agree he made a valid point. Thus the town's misfortune was our golden opportunity to reclaim our precious gold, the irony of which was not lost upon the lawman.
So, offered our services we did to safely return the missing child. When the issue of payment arose an eccentric elf by the name of Avon Limarra, whose manor house stood on top of Druid's Hill, offered to fund our expedition, much to the townsfolk's merriment.
Limarra, some sort of recluse noble we were told he was, promised us the hefty sum of three hundred Gold Crowns, plus whatever treasure we found for us to keep.
Only one condition remained: that we chronicled our tales so we may entertain him and the village with our adventures upon our return. He was particularly adamant we provide him with detailed maps of our expeditions. We quickly nominated one of us as the Expedition's mapper, and thus the deal was sealed.
We agreed to meet the local games keeper at sunrise and travel to the spot where the missing girl was last seen. The locals believed it was possible we may find underground caves near the river's edge.
Perhaps the girl had merely lost herself in their labyrinthine tunnels some said. Or perhaps, as her mother felt, she was being held against her will by things of vile intent.
If she indeed was held hostage, dragged in some subterranean lair by foul creatures of Chaos, we knew that finding her would be the least of our troubles.
Surely the lad, cold and terrified, would not be fit to escape on her own steam, making our ascent a slow-moving nightmare.
Finding her, we reckoned, would be easy. Keeping her alive, that would the rub, the task.
