Here are the introductions I asked for last time. Mostly told in your own words, though edited or interpolated here and there. Things that once might have been regarded as downright wrong remain. It’s your memory.
On the subject of How To Run This, I talked to a few people at the Edinburgh Hobbymeet (Alex, Gail) who admitted to have played in similar freeform postal FRP. A suggested method to carry the story along more smoothly than the orders/response cycle is for players to extend their orders to the next three steps, where possible. Obviously the later steps may be conditional on the earlier results. Whether it will be possible to be as rigid about this here I doubt, but if you write not just immediate responses to what’s here, but medium term plans too, I guess I carry things forward to the point that I run out of steam for an individual and then get in touch with results-to-date and a request for further instructions. There would probably be less of general report such as there is below, more individual, particularly if you split up.
On the subject of individual reports, you’ll only get one this time if you need one for answers to queries or to pass my queries to you.
I’ve been asked by one or two people not involved in this whether they could see copies of the general reports, such as there are. While I was a bit cautious in the setting up of this, not wishing to have to tell eager ex-NJ players beating a path to my door to beat it elsewhere, I’m not so concerned now things are under way. As I originally mooted this as a fairly private affair though I’d like to have some opinions from you on this. Ta.
The hot afternoon sunshine beat down on Pastor Hartmann’s back as he strolled towards the old church. As usual he had to suppress a strange compulsion to leap over the worn lychgate; mindful of the proper decorum required of a clergyman, he paced carefully through, smiling to himself at the thought. Did it really matter that he behave with elephantine dignity? The answer was obvious of course what might the town think of such godless levity? But still, they could hardly sack him for it. So why worry so much, especially as at this point his reverie was rudely interrupted as he smelt the unmistakable reek of the old, brown mastiff which blocked his way up the path.
Hartmann, a timid man, eyed the beast with suspicion. Perhaps he could walk around the side door? The thought of turning his back on the dog was unappealing. He knew it to be a savage, unpredictable animal. Best just edge past. The hound lolled on a tombstone. As he tiptoed past it peered myopically up at him and wagged its tail. Heart racing, buttocks cringing in anticipation, he gained the shelter of the porch.
Inside, bars of dusty yellow sunlight crossed the interior. One shone on the smooth ancient flagstones at the base of the tower, unblemished except by the passage of many feet over the centuries. Half in, half out of it, a man sat in a nearby pew, lost in thought.
“Good Morning, Herr Von Rhein.” No answer was forthcoming. “Er, Mein Herr, are you quite well?”
Von Rhein looked around. “What? Ha, your pardon Vicar. I was elsewhere.” His pale blue eyes wandered briefly back to the tower floor as he stood up. “I have a message for you.” he said. “Frau Von Rhein is quite prepared to allow Karl and Ezekiel time off from their duties for bell ringing practice.”
Hartmann received this with pleasure. “Splendid! I was sure your wife would prove accommodating, for all that it’s such a time spent away from their duties. What a benefactress she is to our young men to be sure!” Von Rhein favoured him with a sour look. Does he know, then? Hartmann wondered. It was too late to avoid the unlucky turn of phrase now, and in an effort to change the subject the parson blundered on. “How do your livestock progress?”. But that too was tricky. Von Rhein was, after all, a horse breeder, and the subject of stud farming fraught with possible innuendo about Frau Von Rhein’s notorious carnal appetites. These were a secret from nobody except (it was widely believed) her husband. Much to Hartmann’s relief however the gambit worked.
“Why, as to that,” said Von Rhein, his face clearing, “this very day I’ve concluded the purchase of seven acres of prime grazing from Hans Bruckner. I had it at a small price too and why?’ He paused to study the perspiring face before him. What on earth was the matter with the fellow, he looked downright nervous, “Why, it’s because it borders on one of those haunted woods the peasants hold in such terror!” Von Rhein’s weathered brown face split into a grin. “I’ll be riding there today to look the place over.” He turned on his heel and strode away down the aisle.
.o00o.
Mid afternoon. In the distance, the walls of Helstadt rose. On the road, half obscured by the drifting dust, a riderless horse stood, reins drooping as its rider struggled to lift a limp brown form to the saddlebow. Von Rhein was hampered by his missing arm, and the weight of the mastiff. Eventually, however, he succeeded.
.o00o.
“I’m sorry Pieter, but there is nothing I can do for him”.
“His heart you say, Franz? No, I’ll bury him myself. Poor Fenris; he was the last of them. Somehow my dogs always seemed more than just pets you know.”
The shadows were lengthening by the time Von Rhein, grim faced, cleaned the earth from his hand. He called for a fresh horse, and ignoring the ill-concealed smirks form the servants went to a press in the parlour. He drew forth a tall, ochre coloured, stone bottle and thrust it into some saddlebags. Wrapping a great green cloak over his sober russet garments, he swung into the saddle with practised ease. Leaving house, stable yard and grooms (who amused themselves with surreptitious cuckold gestures) behind, he rode off alone under a hunter’s moon.
.o00o.
Deep in the wildwood, the nocturnal prowlers stalked their prey. Men came seldom if at all. There were no paths here. Yet, sprawled against a great oak, a one-armed man drained the last dregs of Hollands and flung the empty bottle away into the dark.
Pieter Van Rijn, sometime Captain-of-the-Blitzpatrol, Citizen of New Jerusalem and Dragon-slayer, was paralytic. Reaching for more gin, he nonetheless chuckled in triumph. He remembered. For the first time in months, he could recall quite clearly who he was, and had been. Savouring the juniper-laden bouquet, he reluctantly turned his mind to the problem. How to stay this way? I can’t stay drunk forever, even though it seems to help. Live here, in the forest? Ridiculous. Get pissed AND live here? Aha! That’s the answer all right! No more of this ‘Helstadt’ crap!
And much later
No, it won’t do. But I have to leave all the same. There’s nothing for me in Helstadt now. Maybe I should just go east; perhaps there may be the borderlands out there, somewhere.
.o00o.
“Is there something amusing you Schwartz? Why not share the joke?”
“Nothing sir. Where shall we put this chest sir?”
“Stow it here in my study, by the window. Jesus! Not so near the fire – never you mind what’s in it. Oh, and I want some Schnapps. Send Helga in with it.” Double barrelled, double action, rifled pistols. A pretty pair! Once belonged to the late Henryk Wolff of course. Hero of a revolution that never was. I must try and keep the real memories this time.
“Sir, there’s a man to see you. Looks like a proper ruffian if you ask me; mind, he’d a very devout way of speaking. Said you’d want to talk to him.”
“Who can that be I wonder? Very well then Helga, show him in and bring some ale. Does this man have a name?’
“Why Sir, I do believe it was something Grimmelshausen.”
“So! Hmm. Better bring a very great deal of ale then”
A splendid repast — I am indebted to you for it — and for the quality of your cellar. I can see you’re very comfortable here. Perhaps you could get your servant to leave the schnapps bottle. A very fine schnapps it is too, an excellent drop of spirit — and I should know, eh? Perhaps you should let the poor chap get to bed. No point in having him hang about while we talk, is there?
So, I’m back. And I have news. Doubtless you suspect that my news will not give you that sense of inner peace, that oneness with Creation, associated with godliness and righteousness in the eyes of the Lord. Well, you’re right, I’m here to imperil your soul again. But as you have opened your door to me I presume you are at least interested in what I have to say.
Got bored eh? Sitting here with your arse getting fatter by the minute — trying to remember how it was. Maybe you’ve convinced yourself that you imagined it all. You might even have genuinely forgotten some of the really strange episodes. Maybe you have become the stolid German burgher whose existence crossed yours when the Change came. But I doubt it — you wouldn’t be here listening to me if that was the case.
My news? Well, I’ve been away for five years now — doing some of the things I’ve just accused you of. But perhaps I’ve got stronger reminders of the old days. Anyway, it came to me one night, sitting in my tent in the middle of a bloody freezing cold Siberian winter, that where I belonged was not here and now, but then. I was born and brought up in New Jerusalem, not Helstadt — town of miserable turnip eaters. I spent a long time destroying godless ‘abominations’ — hell, I had more than most to do with killing the dragon and causing Faerie to retreat — but I realise now that New Jerusalem itself was largely a product of Faerie. All that time we spent ‘saving’ it and look what we ended up doing to it. Well NJ’s gone — but Faerie hasn’t: it’s just shifted. So where’s it shifted to? It’s got to be someplace. Anyway, I figured the best place to start looking had to be this area. I was right.
Rooting around the neighbourhood, after a few false starts, I stumbled upon Boris’s place. You remember Boris Runesinger, the dwarf. Well, I knocks on the door and out he pops, real as you and me — realer maybe. I should have thought of it quicker I suppose. Certainly, he seems to think of me as their saviour, sort of. You see, after the killing of the dragon I’d picked up the elf’s sword and armour — reckoned I had a claim of sorts on it and no-one else seemed bothered. I had to get out of town at that time so I went to stay with Boris. Well he had an idea what was coming, though I think the suddenness of the change caught him on the hop a bit. He reckoned that the elf’s kit was so magical that it could be used to maintain Faerie around the dwarf hold — much as the dragon had maintained the whole Borderland area. I did a trade — wasn’t much good to me anyway.
He was right — they’re still there much as they were — nothing else is. But what they have is just a pocket and it won’t last forever. It stretches about five miles radius from the kit. If Boris leaves that area — he just becomes a stunted human — speaking Polish. (Interesting that — it means that half our Polish peasantry round here are probably ex-hobgoblins!) Basically, he’s marooned. The moment of truth may not arrive for another couple of hundred years, but come it will. So, I’m going to help him look for Faerie.
How it’s to be done, I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll just have to get on my horse and chase after wild tales for the rest of my life. My first throw, however, is nearer to hand. As I learnt during that embarrassing little episode when I mislaid my corporeal self, there is more than one layer to Faerie. ‘Under’ the physical plane — the Borderlands — is a ‘spirit’ plane. This plane has a number of manifestations which I never really sorted out. Around NJ it was peaceful woodland, but further north and east it was first grassland and then a rather dangerous windswept landscape.
Now, Boris can get us physically onto this plane (he won’t come himself — not really his element). The big question is: will we be entering a spirit plane which mirrors the corresponding ‘pocket’ of Borderland? Does it stretch five miles and then stop? If so how, does it end? My hope is that the spirit plane is like a great sea in which Boris’s place is a small island — if we sail the sea perhaps we can reach the mainland — or at least a bigger island.
Well there you have it. I’m proposing that you risk life, limb and indubitably your mortal soul, for er... um. Don’t see any money in it. I suppose the dwarves might express their undying gratitude in hard cash — but then they might not. Won’t bring you the respect and admiration of your fellow men either — in the old days they’d burn you for it, now I suppose they’d lock you in the madhouse. All I can offer is an adventure, a journey of exploration and discovery, a search for truth. Maybe a new life if you want it.
I propose to begin with a reconnaissance into this spirit plane, to find whether there do appear to be finite borders to it — and, if so, how these borders manifest themselves. Then we take it from there. Of course, if you have any other ideas I’m more than willing to listen to them. I intend to set off quite soon — as soon as I’ve finished tidying up my affairs. If you want to think about it you can give the recon a miss. If it goes well I shall be back. I’ve been talking to a few of the others — I expect I’ll get someone mad enough to come with me.
So, what do you reckon?
Captain Praise-the-Lord Grimmelshausen is now 39 years old. When the Change came he was rich, but still had itchy feet. It put paid to what few roots he had in Helstadt and all his public standing as a stalwart sergeant and acknowledged slayer of abominations.He didn’t stay more than a few days after he realised what had happened.
He first went down to the Ukraine, which was in a state of war at the time Poles, Tartars, Russians and revolting peasants. Here he worked as a mercenary/profiteer/information broker/spy and developed a number of contacts, particularly amongst the Russians who had many Thirty Years War veterans in their new standing army. From them he heard tales of Siberia, where bands of adventurers were still opening the wild interior and looting the last strongholds of another Golden Horde.
The following year (1649) he gathered a smallish (up to two dozen) company of veterans a mobile force of mounted infantry, heavily armed with a surprising quantity of firearms, grenades and a couple of light cannon. On arrival in Siberia he adopted exactly the sort of fighting style that had been so successful in New Jerusalem: well-equipped desperados blowing away numerically superior but ill-equipped opposition. For the most part he was working for or in partnership with local trading companies but there would generally be a hidden agenda in terms of trade deals with ‘friendly’ natives, or just plain loot. After some years of moderate success he sold up his interests and has returned to Helstadt.
Physically he’s obviously past his prime, and has a number of ways to predict the weather, but he’s still relatively fit and active. He always led his lads from the front; not enough of them to hide behind anyway. He’s still a formidable figure with halberd, rapier, pistol or beer mug, relying more on craft and experience than speed and stamina now though. He probably suffers from bad guts and liver trouble; too much booze and sausage and the first signs of excess are beginning to show on his features. Unsurprisingly he’s not married. He’s cut down on the drinking since Siberia, but still hits the town from time to time. He is generally amiable but has fits of depression in which he becomes quarrelsome and ready for a good brawl. These are often the result of people disbelieving some of the tales he tells when in his cups. One of his servant’s chief duties is to bail him out where appropriate.
As to what he intends... see above,
At the time of the change in which New Jerusalem reverted once more to being the mundane Polish town of Helstadt, Malachi Stark led the last party of those formerly known as ‘adventurers’ back into town and dismissed them for the last time to their worldly tasks about the streets and fields. They did not go with good grace for all felt that something secret and dear to them had been lost and left their lives cold and grey. However, with time it came to pass that most of them settled to other tasks; and if they did not forget, the memory of their past grew less green.
Malachi Stark himself wished to be rid of their company as soon as might be possible, for the face of each of them reminded him of the days it seemed were now gone. With swift steps but a leaden heart he returned to the arms of Anna, his wife, and his position as a Councillor representing the landholders of Helstadt.
For the next two months he went about his duties and oversaw the work on his own land, and bought more land close to the town; but all the while he was in inner turmoil. His faith told him that at last the Lord, through the actions of his servants in part, and mostly through the Power of His mighty Will, had delivered New Jerusalem (or rather Helstadt) from the foulness and sorcery which had surrounded and threatened it; yet he found that he longed for the return of that sorcery and the savour and excitement which its presence had brought to his life. During this time he spoke to few if it were not of business and only such of the ‘adventurers’ as had achieved respectability similar to his own were permitted to pass within his door.
At the end of two month his decision was made and he put the suggestion to the council that they seek out new trade routes where old ones had lapsed over the years (the construction put on the last ‘adventure’) and offered his services to that end.
Ever quick to see a commercial possibility, and quicker to accept the services of one who asked no remuneration (or almost none: a rather small guaranteed percentage of any wagon train on such a route to be devoted to his merchandise) the Council after a short debate approved his suggestion and for the next year Malachi Stark rode out with a small number of servants (none of the adventuring fraternity) to a number of nearby towns where he was successful in negotiating some minor agreements for occasional trading convoys; but no new major route was discovered and Malachi failed to find what he was really looking for. The servants complained frequently to their drinking companions of a zeal for ‘short cuts’ which lead them into thick woodland or close to the edge of unpleasantly soft ground.
After a year of these small returns, during which the tongues of the gossips were only stilled by Anna’s obvious state when they called upon her, Malachi’s hope began to fade; the trips became less common, and stopped.
To occupy his mind when unable to be about his work he revived his earlier hobby of cartography putting it to use in documenting, exhaustively, his holdings in and around the town, and keeping them up to date as he continued with his policy of buying land close to the town whenever possible using the profits from the further out of his fields. With the landscape outside the field-boundaries he had little truck in this phase; a rough map of the relative positions of nearby towns and the main tracks was all he felt to be of use. Compared to the meticulously measured field boundaries it seemed slap-dash. Folded in a book locked in his study, one of greatest treasures was a map of New Jerusalem as had been; the one he carried on that last trip. All the other copies seemed to have vanished with the elves and Faerie.
Having to some extent ignored many of those who shared his memories he took to seeking them out and reminiscing with them in private of the days that were gone. Those who had always been welcome could look forward to the best of his brandy and cheroots when they visited.
For the remainder of the five years he led an outwardly normal life, settling down to the life of a wealthy landholder and councillor. The cozy chats of past days continued and occasionally he would take it into his mind to ride his boundaries in his armour (in case of banditry). The former Wolfstrangler fancied himself as the ‘Iron Councillor’; the other landholders tolerated this occasional paranoia/eccentricity of armour-wearing so long as he served them well enough in Council. However he left the council at the last elections, replaced by a more influential man.
An occasional adventurer, but going back to the original group in the 1630s. He is nearly as old as Elijah His occasional forays, interspersing years of apparently settled respectability in the innkeeping trade. His last venture was in the company of Grimmelshausen, not long before the Change. After the Change he settled once more, and tended his business, wife and church. However after a couple of years his taste for adventure overwhelmed him again. He travelled widely in the west and south in trade and transport, sending a constant stream of exotic food and drink back to his wife and inn as he went.
Eventually returning, the first first signs of restlessness were beginning to show once more when Captain Grimmelshausen reappeared. Together they rode over old ground, or where the old grounds had lain, as Dethorm had in the immediate aftermath of the Change. But this time, with the Captain, an old thing was found...
Soon after the passing of New Jerusalem he married Imogen Luckentrager, long time employee and a fellow adventurer. Together they set up The Burning Forest inn, taking a property at the western wall of the old abbey. A small establishment, not exactly fashionable, but a reputation for food, particularly when game is in season, provided by Elijah & Imogen’s hunting and the latter’s fancy, spicy Auslander cooking (as Elijah puts it). Some of the bounty of forest and hedgerow goes to The Flying Pig the Richters’ other inn, run by his family. It seems likely that though Elijah is not head of the family, his is the controlling interest.
Though late to take a wife, he and Imogen have been blessed with four children, of whom two survive. Of his own health Elijah has reason to take some care, having a weak chest since a prolonged bout of illness in the early 1640s, and not being a young man any more, in fact the oldest of the group, in his mid forties. So hunting is restricted to good weather, over the summer and early part of autumn, for winter is a succession of cough, chills and fevers.
Though mindful of his charitable duties as a man to whom the Lord has granted prosperity, and conscientious in prayer and study of scripture he no longer preaches having not the pride and presumption to do so when he himself is troubled. Doubtless the result of too much reading of the pre-Christian philosophers and the like.
The plump and rather pretty wife of Elijah, Imogen is a kenspeckle1 face herself amongst various sections of the town and surrounding areas of Helstadt. As mistress of ’The Burning Forest Inn’, she is familiar to her customers as a genial and capable hostess who brooks no trouble; whilst to the godly of the locale, she is known as an experienced and assured Christian, a great believer in Providence, well gifted in prayer, and much given to sermon hearing, Bible reading and godly conference. Her serenity is in striking contrast to the worrying case of her doubt-ridden husband, who was once a noted preacher in the town, though many have forgotten this: sic transit gloria mundi?
There are some however, who would hint that this godly and rather easy-going person has more to her than meets the eye. They would mention perhaps her striking dexterity with any thrown weapon. In particular there are naughty tales of how Imogen, as a young barmaid in some of the less salubrious parts of town, could and would knock a lit cheroot out of the lips of troublemakers with a deftly flicked throwing axe, to the great admiration of all onlookers.
’What a tittle-tattle!’ as Imogen herself might say with a smile, but not to be denied is the fact that she does seem to possess a great familiarity with most weapons, for instance the old blunderbuss kept under the counter for dealing with really annoying customers. Claims that she has used lines like ’Go on punk, make my day’ or ’I may have six balls in this or I may just have a charge of salt that’s for me to know and you to find out: feeling lucky, punk?’ were not found to be threatening when she was hauled before Captain Gerhardt, who while he has firm ideas on law and order also holds publicans responsible for maintaining order in their establishment by whatever means necessary.
It is however true that she does practice various weapons skills with her husband for ’self defence’ but some hint at an ’interesting’ if not scandalous past behind her at the time of the Papist wars. Imogen of course, ignores such aspersions. It is true that nothing to commended her but her honesty, godliness, and capacity for hard work, but the Lord saw fit to bless her with a good husband and children and a comfortable lifestyle Good of the ways of the Lords who will not see the righteous begging for bread especially as some malicious wagging tongues might say if the righteous happen to have a pretty face, a buxom body and a particularly well-developed capability capability with axes firearms and rapiers and grenades, and that rather large and nasty cavalry sword she keeps on the wall If you wanted to start a bar brawl in the environs of Helstadt one for sure you wouldn’t like to pick it with Imogen unless you’re truly tired of life. On the plus side however, she would at least pray over you quite prettily after she smacked you one across the head with a well aimed schnapps bottle.
Ok, some notes on points in your introductory piece. While you ended a councillor in New Jerusalem, and when the change came, thereafter in Helstadt I doubt that you still are. Despite your policy of moving your holding in towards Helstadt, you are mostly a Landholder in the surrounding villages. The fact that Helstadt is surrounded by such settlements, where NJ had only Southfort, argues for the disappearance of your constituency as the (unofficial) Member for Southfort there are now several ‘Southforts’ meriting no special interest group. So all that counts really is the Helstadt land, where you and family are not so large a vote. The trade negotiations may help a little, but as you admit they are not spectacular. As for armour-clad eccentrics, well there is Captain Gerhardt already, and at least he has the excuse of the town’s armed (sometimes) forces, his pride and joy, 30-odd constables and a couple of antique cannon that haven’t been fired in anger in many years. So your political career ends about a year ago. The election defeat wasn’t humiliating; friends, clients and family voted appropriately of course, but the spark of charisma (or whatever reasons they once had for voting for you) people vaguely remember from the last election just isn’t strong enough any more.
In some ways of course this is all to the best in view of current developments, as it leaves you in a position to undertake discreet ventures with far less comment, prying and meddling from your neighbours and political rivals.
As to preaching, Richter has not preached for some years (see main update). Altemann is a bit fervent for the good burgers of Helstadt, whose righteousness seems to have a greater component of comfortable self-satisfaction than you remember from times when a week did not pass without the sound of cannon fire seeing off one of Satan’s Minions to recall the faithful to their prayers for deliverance from the many manifest dangers about them. Altemann now preaches to his natural flock, the peasants and smallholders in the surrounding villages, in chapels and fields. His sermons about casting out demons, the fire of the Lord descending etc. are taken as allegorical by those that hear him. It is difficult to tell how much he believes and how much he remembers. The social gulf between you now is difficult to cross.
For you though there is no great problem in getting yourself invited to preach in rather more suitable and respectable places, in town to a more appropriate congregation.
As you had it on your person the map is still there ok.
As to the Mason’s guild, I’m unsure of the actual situation of guilds in Helstadt. Having married Anna obviously you have strong contacts and a degree of influence if you wish to invest in it. We can look into it more if it becomes relevant.
Certainly your memory seems to be in better shape than most of the others, though the problem seems more to be doubt about the true state of reality than actual forgetfulness to the extent that the general population seem to have suffered. In your case the problem is more trying to remember what reality is currently supposed to have been before the time some of you think of as The Change. Certainly heading east would take you well away from regions that confusion would be embarrassing; making mistakes about Russian history in Siberia just labels you as a typical pig-ignorant German mercenary.
The equipment seems ok. No problem with a couple of grenades somewhere deep in the kitbag.
Better have a name for Böldrek (?) if he’s going to be dragged down to the infernal regions with you, less important if he’s left behind.
As far as the inns go, you have the money and respectability to set up an establishment of good class, well above that of the distinctly disreputable Flying Pig (things haven’t changed that much) without being in any danger of being pretentious. You will have had the opportunity to take a controlling financial interest in the Pig at some point if you wish. You’ll note the location of the Forest is pretty much where you led the charge across the wall of the Temple. Indeed there is one of the back rooms where you always seem to be somewhat short of breath, though no other remarks on this. It is sufficiently dark and claustrophobic that it is generally used as a store.
The bow is not a problem. It may be different from the commonest types of Polish bows in use hereabouts, but longbows of some sort exist. You may well catch yourself thinking of it as Scottish (or similar faraway place) in origin however. It may even be so. Depending on the working life of a bow, you may have had to replace the original with something ‘foreign’ but of similar style.
When you ask the Captain whether there are any strange effects involved he snorts into his ale, “What do you think!”
He does though go on to allow that he noticed nothing strange in just visiting Boris and his mine.
Ok, there you go. You now all have a fair idea of who you are.
The next step appears to be a visit to Boris, and perhaps faerie-proper. Among other things you might let me know is what you take with you; how far are you going (whether you’re going?); how long do you expect to be gone days, weeks (years, centuries?). You’ll get a chance to talk to Boris I expect, before plunging into something that cannot possibly exist You’ve got Christmas to worry about it.