OSE Solo Campaign #1; Session Report #1: Into the Strange Wilds
It is a cool morning in early fall when our protagonists come to the end of the treacherous mountain pass known as Hangman’s Noose. Fitzhugh and Oglum take the lead, Jessamine hanging back, nervously looking over her shoulder for enemies. As they enter the valley of Uorek’s Rest a mist hangs low over the trees of the Ancient Forest.
“Finally,” Oglum mutters, “we’re free of those damn mountains.”
Jessamine nods, “I expected we’d be followed, but there’s no sign of, well, anyone.”
None of our heroes have disclosed the particulars of their circumstances, but each knows the others wouldn’t be fleeing through Hangman’s Noose if they had any other choice.
“Two weeks in that pass,” Fitzhugh groans, “and another through the forest before we can expect to reach any civilization.”
They continue on, into the Ancient Forest, rumored to be a den of magic.
“As we get into the woods here, be careful to keep to the path,” Fitzhugh warns.
“You’ve been here before?” asks Jessamine.
“Here? No. But places like it.”
Luckily, in the daylight, at the thinner edge of the Forest, its not hard to spot the trail. The trio picks their way carefully through the underbrush and increasingly dense trees.
Jessamine hears the branch snap behind her first, but the bandits are upon them before she can call out, before she can even blink. There’s four of them materializing from the trees, two in front and two behind. They’re armed, weapons drawn.
“Well, well,” the tallest bandit says, “what have we got here?”
Jessamine steps forward, “Just some refugees,” she offers, gesturing to the holy symbol of the Healing Goddess around her neck.
The tall man scoffs, “Anyone can dress up in robes and pretend to be a holy woman.”
The shorter bandit next to him grins, “Never met a cleric coming by way of Hangman’s.”
Oglum has gone pale. Fitzhugh, however, seems collected. Calm.
“Gentlemen, I’m sure we can work out a deal here whereby we pay you a modest sum and you allow us to go about our way.”
“8 gold apiece. 10 for the mouthy ‘sister.’” The leader holds out his hand.
Fitzhugh smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course, good man, of course. Not a problem.”
Producing a small pouch from his belt, he carefully counts out 26gp. “Ah, here we are. And am I to assume this will ensure our continued safety throughout the duration of our journey?”
Taking the coins, the leader shakes his head. “Safe from us, sure. But the Forest? The Forest has its own ideas.”
The robbers disappear into the woods just as quickly and silently as they appeared.
Jessamine lets out a deep breath. “Thank you, Fitz. I don’t have ten gold.”
Fitzhigh bows gallantly. Oglum remains pale.
The rest of the day’s journey passes uneventfully. At a fork in the path, the three make camp, Jessamine meticulously setting up the tent.
A crashing sounds from the West, something or someone running headlong through the underbrush. Oglum shakily draws his sword.
“Steady there, friend,” Jessamine advises, hand on the hilt of her mace.
Suddenly a harried looking young man bursts into the campsite, eyes wide. There are twigs tangled in his hair. He is a youth, but wears the distinctive garb and accouterments of the Royal Cartographer’s Guild. He drops to his knees by the firelight.
“Damn this forest. Damn it all.” The stranger mutters. His clothes are streaked with dirt and brambles stick to his robes.
“Who in the nine hells are you?!” Oglum’s eyebrows shoot up as Jessamine speaks, unaccustomed to such words from a lady of the cloth.
The youth only now seems to see them, his eyes level with Oglum’s drawn sword.
“My n-name is C-C-C-” he stammers, eyes wide.
Fitzhugh tilts his head, something dark crossing his features.
“Clarence?” Fitzhugh asks, “it’s Clarence, isn’t it?”
“Who? Fitzhugh?!” Clarence looks like he’s just seen an angel descend from the heavens in front of him. He leaps up and embraces Fitzhugh.
Fitzhugh, looking torn, awkwardly returns the embrace.
“Where’s your mentor, Clarence? Shouldn’t Thaddeus be out here with you?”
“He left weeks ago – for the Conclave. Something about an artifact. I don’t know. The old man never tells me anything. I thought I’d get ahead on surveying while he was gone, but Fitzhugh, this forest doesn’t make sense. I’ve been lost in here for the better part of a month.”
“Lost?”
“Yes! The paths twist and turn back on themselves, shifting when I sleep!”
Fitzhugh looks skeptical, “You’re saying…”
“I’m saying the Forest isn’t just alive. It’s thinking, feeling. Almost like it’s playing with me.”
Fitzhugh’s fingers twitch toward the dagger on his belt, “So you’re out here on your own?”
Clarence nods, oblivious, “Yes, and half-starved and-”
Oglum cuts them both off, “It makes sense. There’s the Magic Academy around here somewhere. All that arcane power in one place… I hear it can ‘leak’ into the environment. Maybe that’s why this wood is so… strange.”
Clarence looks from Oglum to Jessamine to Fitzhugh.
“Who are you traveling with? And” his brow furrows “why aren’t you in uniform?”
Fitzhugh swallows hard, “Guild business, young one. Top secret.”
Clarence brightens, “Oh wow! Does it have to do with the Conclave – wait! Don’t tell me. I mean, I know you can’t. Who are your friends?”
Jessamine shakes his hand, “Jessamine Febland, initiate of the Church of the Healing Goddess.”
Oglum nods, slowly sheathing his sword, “Just a hired sword. Didn’t know I was working for the Guild, though.”
Fitzhugh looks pained. “We should eat. And rest. Join us, Clarence, and we’ll see you out of this place.
Later that night, Jessamine wakes to agitated whispers in the dark.
Oglum: “Who in the nine hells are you? Because I’m not about to get pulled into some Guild bullshit. And why is a Royal Cartographer fleeing through Hangman’s Noose? I’m in enough trouble without inviting more.”
Fitzhugh: “It’s… complicated. But I am on Guild business. Sheath. Your. Sword.
Oglum: “I don’t. Believe. You.”
Fitzhugh: “You don’t have to. And I don’t have to know what trouble you carry. When we met in the pass we said we’d travel together until Uorek, for safety. If you no longer feel that our strength in numbers outweighs our burdens you are free to leave.”:
A pause.
Oglum: “And the bloody damn teenager? I saw your fingers dancing toward your dagger earlier. Is he going to be a problem?”
Fitzhugh: “For me, maybe. For you? Unlikely.”
Oglum: “Okay. If you lay a hand on that boy, I’ll run you through, understand? Cartographer or not. I’m not here to kill kids.”
Fitzhugh: “… Understood.”
Waking in the morning, the party realizes an immediate problem: despite a beautiful, breezy fall day greeting them, the path has utterly disappeared. Only a clearing surrounded by a blanket of vibrant leaves greets them.
Oglum fumes, “Nicest day I’ve ever seen in my life; feels like this damned forest is mocking us. No trail to be found.”
Jessamine frowns, “Even if there was a wide road, we’ll never get to Uorek before we run out of rations. That’s our bigger problem.”
Clarence pipes up, “The Legion of Orn patrols sections of the Forest… and there’s the Academy… somewhere.”
Packing up the tent, Jessamine sounds frustrated. “I don’t like the notion of just wandering blindly and hoping we stumble across help. Especially with bandits and who knows what else running around.”
Fitzhugh purses his lips.
Oglum grunts, “True, but what choice do we have?”
The thick foliage quickly blots out the sun as they press onward. Clarence carries a torch. The party veers northeast, deeper into the heart of the Forest. Navigating by the rivers and streams they wind through thickets and glens toward the sea, toward the port city of Uorek.
The forest provides no path. No encounters. No food.
The next day the weather sours, spitting a wintry mix. The party fails again to forage. In the distance, in the waning light, they spot the silhouette of a partially collapsed mill.
The weather has not improved when they wake up, and neither has the mood. Everyone is feeling sour. As they approach the mill, overgrown with thorny vines, they spot the corpse of a dead goblin, naked and somehow turned to stone.
“Look-” Oglum points to the nearby river, “a bloody damn cockatrice!”
Sure enough, an injured cockatrice limps toward the water, its back to the party.
“Let’s kill it before it sees us!”
“Hold, Oglum,” Fitzhugh whispers, “these are dangerous beasts. Getting the jump might not be enough.”
Oglum ignores him. He sprints forward, drawing his sword, and utterly misses his target. Jessamine hastily fumbles with her mace, trying to draw it. Fitzhugh, cursing under his breath, attempts to throw his dagger a the target, but it goes wide.
The cockatrice turns around. Oglum stands there, shaking. Jessamine rushes forward, cursing Oglum, and bashes the cockatrice with her mace. Fitzhugh, finding himself now without his dagger, holds position. Clarence, weaponless, hides behind Fitzhugh.
The cockatrice stabs its pointed beak at Oglum, but fails to connect.
Oglum rallies and stabs the cockatrice. The cockatrice panics, but stuck between Oglum and the river it has nowhere to run. Jessamine misses her nervous swing. Fitzhugh charges in, retrieving his dagger.
The cockatrice gores Jessamine, downing her, but she resists the petrification.
With Jessamine downed, the cockatrice, no longer cornered, flees into the woods.
Fitzhugh tears his robes and gets Jessamine stabilized. Calling on their training, Clarence and Fitzhugh are able to backtrack into the woods and find herbs, returning with a poultice.
Carrying Jessamine back toward where they formerly camped, they decide to spend the rest of the day and night resting, then explore the ruined mill tomorrow, hopeful for food.
When they enter the mill they do not find food.
Oglum makes short work of one Rot Grub while Clarence and his torch drive back the rest.
That’s when the Shambling Mound and Carnivorous Vines make themselves known.
The party attempts a retreat. The Mound permits their exit, but the way out is blocked by the vines. Clarence, in a panic, drops his torch, and the wooden floor ignites. Oglum and Fitzhugh use their combined strength to bash through the moldering wall, and the party flees, running ever lower on rations and torches.
The next morning, the weather clears, but there’s still no sign of a path.
“This is bad,” Fitzhugh says over a scant breakfast, “I don’t know whether to press Northward or Eastward, or if we should head back the way we came. I’m not accustomed to being lost. This forest is magic, indeed.”
Oglum agrees, “This way isn’t working. We should try West.”
“North.” Jessamine interrupts. “Surely you mean North.”
Fitzhugh sighs, “Perhaps further East we might find a hunter’s lodge or those Legion of Orn patrols Clarence mentioned.”
Just then Clarence raises a hand, calling for silence.
“Shhh! Do you hear? Sounds like… hooves?”
Beyond the tree line, across the river from the ruined mill, is a man in black plate on horseback. The white horse wears barding indicating an officer of the Legion of Orn. A devotee of the God of Hidden Things.
Flagging him down, the party rushes past the smouldering remains of the mill, looking for a way to cross the river. Jessamine shoves the tent frantically into her pack while running.
The Vines, however, are out for revenge, and the Shambling Mound seems to hold our heroes responsible for the destruction of its decayed home. The Mound shuffles slowly toward them, sharp vines whipping at their ankles.
The cleric across the river spots the madness and raises his hand to the sky to cast a spell...