Wielda’s Call – Session 1

outside a tavern in a fantasy town

Ok, so on to the first session of “Wielda’s Call“, my first real playthrough of the Mythic GM Emulator 2nd Edition using the Symbaroum setting and rules. If you haven’t read the character description in Session 0, I would highly recommend you to do so.

I will provide the Chaos Factor and the type for each Scene I play, and when something groundbraking happens, I will also provide the relevant Fate Questions and corresponding dice results in an as unintrusive way as possible.

DISCLAIMER: Be aware that my style of roleplaying is not always fun and flower-picking. Though I don’t like overly gory descriptions in roleplaying games, I like the dark themes and dismal topics from the bottom of my heart. Please consider this post M rated and not always for the fait of heart.

And now, let Iskade’s story commence …

A night of mirth, a night of transience

Scene 1 (initial), Chaos Factor 5

Somewhere in the murky depth of a gloom-laden tavern, you sit solitary on a crackling stool, your head on the table. In the mights of your revelry, an inebriated haze envelops your senses, weaving a tapestry of disorientation and mirth. The room, once steadfast and clear now dances with a playful chaos that mocks your attempts at focus. Your movements, once precise, betray a certain languor as the intoxicating elixir takes hold of your faculties.

The laughter and echoes around you, once a harmonious symphony, now sounds distant and distored, as if filtered through the bottom of a murky goblet. Your perceptions waver, and the boundaries between jest and solemnity blur in a hazy amalgamation. The camaraderie of your fellow patrons, though sincere, feels like a distant echo from a world slightly askew.

As you navigate the terrain of inebriation, a whimsical lightheadedness accompanies each step, turning even the most mundane gestures into a precarious ballet. Conversations become a playful jumble of words, each syllable wraped in a ribbon of merriment and confusion.

Yet, amidst your euphoria, there lingers a subtle undercurrent of vulnerability. The edges of your consciousness are softened, and a fleeting introspection may seize you, like a passing whisper of sobriety in the midst of the revelrous storm. In these moments, the gaiety that surrounds you becomes a fleeting mirage, and a sense of temporal detachment takes root.

In the aftermath of indulgence, as the night wears on, you may find yourself oscillating between moments of unbridled joy and the quiet realization that the intoxicating mirth is but a transient respite from the sobriety awaiting at the dawn. The warmth that alcohol imparts may cloak you in a temporary cocoon, yet the dawn shall reveal the ephemeral nature of this spirited journey, leaving you with the lingering traces of a night steeped in both revelry and introspection.

Good lady, it grieveth me to convey, but thou hast partaken in excess of the fermented spirits, and the effect thereof upon thy comportment doth raise concern.“, the inkeeper says. “The time hath come, with all due respect, to kindly beseech thee to take thy leave from this establishment. The balance of conviviality hath been perturbed, and it is in the interest of both thyself and fellow patrons that a respite from further indulgence be sought.

With a nod to the inevitable, you rise from your perch in the dimly-lit tavern. The journey to the threshold becomes a delicate traverse, each step echoing the weight of excess within you. The door, a creaking guardian between realms, yields to your departure, releasing a gust of cold night air that heralds your transition.

Outside, the moon and stars cast a spectral glow upon the cobblestones, which stretch before you like a monochromatic path. The cold night air, a sharp contrast to the warmth left behind, greets you with a gentle but brisk embrace. As you stagger into the narrow alley adjacent, shadows dance upon the ancient stones, painting a picture of clandestine rendezvous between the buildings.

The uneven cobblestones beneath your unsteady feet play a discordant melody, echoing the inner tumult that accompanies your ungraceful departure. The small alley, flanked by leaning structures, wraps you in an intimate shroud of darkness, punctuated only by the distant glimmer of moonlight.

The dwindling glow of the tavern windows fades as you venture deeper into the alley, the cool night air weaving through the narrow passage. A soft breeze carries the scent of damp stone and a distant promise of adventure, while the night seems to cradle you in its cool and enigmatic arms.

As you navigate this nocturnal labyrinth, Thristle Hold whispers its secrets in the rustling leaves and distant footsteps. The world beyond unfolds in muted hues, bathed in the veiled glow of celestial luminaries. In this unsteady ballet between the intoxication lingering within and the cold sobriety of the night, you become a solitary figure, stumbling through the shadows and echoes of a town’s nocturnal embrace.

Amidst the hushed canvas of the night, as you traverse the winding paths and dimly-lit alleys, a discordant symphony begins to unfold upon the ambient air. The echoes of a distant altercation reach your ears, an irregular percussion of clashing forces punctuated by the sharp staccato of heated exchanges.

At first, the sounds seem to manifest as mere ripples in the quietude, distant disturbances that tickle the edges of perception. Yet, as you press on through the nocturnal tapestry, the distant turmoil asserts itself with greater prominence. Faint shuffles of hurried footsteps, like the rustling of leaves in the wind, meld with the percussive cadence of fists meeting flesh.

The distant clamor, a testament to the unseen clash beyond your immediate sphere, holds a certain allure—an invitation to curiosity that dances with caution. The night, once a silent observer, becomes a stage for the unseen drama, and the sounds of the skirmish form a narrative that resonates through the nocturnal ambiance, leaving you to contemplate the mysteries concealed in the shadows.

thugs attacking a young noble in a dark alley in thristle hold
Thugs attacking the young noble in a dark alley of Thrisle Hold

Driven by a drunken but earnest sense of valor, you stumble toward the tumult, a chaotic guardian in the night. In the crucible of conflict, you emerge as an unyielding force, a harbinger of unrelenting resolve. No trace of mercy lingers within the chambers of your heart as you confront your adversaries.

With eyes ablaze and purpose unwavering, you advance upon the battlefield, a specter of determined ferocity. The clash of steel reverberates, each strike bearing witness to your relentless pursuit of victory. In the heat of combat, you are a tempest, a whirlwind of unyielding fury that brooks no quarter.

Your movements, a dance of calculated aggression, speak of a soul unburdened by the weight of mercy. Foes caught in the tempest of your wrath find no respite in the unrelenting cadence of your onslaught. Each encounter becomes a declaration, a stark proclamation that within the theater of conflict, compassion holds no sway.

In the aftermath of battle, the vanquished bear witness to the unyielding nature of your vendetta. The aura surrounding you, tinged with the residue of unforgiving resolve, paints a tableau of a warrior who knows no mercy—a relentless force untouched by the pleas of the fallen.

Upon the unforgiving ground, a young nobleman lies supine, his once regal attire now rendered a canvas of somber hues by the cruel artistry of spilled blood. The pallor of his countenance, drained of vitality, bears witness to the toll exacted by a harrowing ordeal. Crimson rivulets meander across the contours of his form, an intricate tapestry of suffering etched upon his once-immaculate garb.

The air, heavy with the metallic tang of spilled life, seems to mourn the fall of a noble soul. The nobleman, though now ensconced in the cruel grip of mortality, retains an aura of quiet dignity amidst the chaos. His form, blood-soaked and prone, speaks of a valiant struggle against the inexorable forces that conspired to mar his once-unblemished existence. In the twilight’s embrace, he lies as a testament to the fragility of nobility and the merciless whims of fate.

With humble grace and a countenance touched by gratitude, the noble youth extends his heartfelt thanks. His voice, melodious and filled with noble poise, resounds in appreciation. “I … I extend my deepest gratitude to thee, noble savior, for thy valiant rescue. Thy gallant deeds … have secured … mine freedom, and for this, I am profoundly beholden. May the heavens favor thee in kind for thy chivalrous intervention.

With a solemn nod to the noble, you acknowledge the gravity of the moment. The visage of blood-soaked valor etched in your memory, you navigate the night’s shadowy expanse with a determined yet weary stride. Each step, marked by the weight of sacrifice, propels you towards the sanctuary of shelter, leaving behind a tableau of noble resilience amidst the encroaching darkness.

In the quiet aftermath and comfort of your room, you cleanse your female form of the sanguine remnants from the clash. The water, a purifying cascade, washes away the echoes of conflict, leaving your body free from the stains of battle. With an unsteady gait, a lingering effect of intoxication, you retire to your bed.

The embrace of the mattress welcomes you as you surrender to the weariness that accompanies both the physical exertion and the lingering influence of inebriation. Drifting into the realm of dreams, you find solace in the ephemeral sanctuary of sleep, leaving behind the night’s tumult in favor of a restful respite.

… and the day dawned, when the spawn of the Serpent took to arms, when the crimes of countless days must be counted and atoned for, horn by horn, fang by fang.

And the sinners wept with blinded eyes, they moaned with severed throats, they fled on fractured limbs.

And Symbaroum fell, into dreamless sleep …

Huldra Aroaleta