Bright Crescent Company — Prologue
Preparing the Assault into Hell
Bright Crescent Company is my up-coming solo TTRPG where you take on the role of a Commander leading their Company into the Burning Lands. While only the Commander has stats, each company member provides various benefits: advantage against certain types of enemies, healing, protection from damage, or easier navigation.
This will be a hybrid mechanics discussion and playthrough, where the bulk of the fiction will come from excerpts from the Company’s campaign log. I won’t display all the rolls, but I will discuss those that introduce new mechanics or otherwise result in interesting (or deadly) events.
NOTE: there will be mechanic changes exhibited in these posts issues arise and require fixing.
Griffid fidgeted with the hem of his commander’s half-cloak while the Archmage known only as the Eagle droned on and on about the coming mission. He was honored, truly, to be the one to lead the small team of fighters into the depths of the Burning Lands. It was left unsaid that they were not expected to make it back, even still the reality hung like a heavy cloud over the gathering.
Lun’s magnificent round table was crowded with lords, dukes, generals and strategists from every kingdom and duchy within traveling distance. Usually a reserved space, where all were treated as equals, today it was awash with anxiety, tension, and, on occasion, outbursts of frustration. Griffid could relate. He itched for more action, less talk.
“I think that is enough for today,” the Archmage finally said, clapping his wiry hands together to silence any further discussion. “Commander Griffid knows his company’s part, Lord Lun is prepared to descend by way of the back gate I have devised. The rest of you know your roles. Tomorrow is a day of reckoning. We will put a stop to the incursions of the Demon King and his minions. Dismissed.”
Griffid waited for the gathered lords, dukes, and generals to depart before he forced himself to his feet, suddenly weary. His armor, heavy chainmail burnished to a bright sheen by his man-at-arms, clinked with each step toward the front of the room where the imposing Lord Lun stood gazing up at a portrait of his family: the infant daughter, Arcaria, in the arms of her mother, Ifined, and the young heir, Daron posed nobly alongside the mighty Lun.
“We do this thing for our families, and the families of our people,” the burly warrior said out loud. “Do you have a family, Griffid?”
“Yes, milord. A wife and daughter, not much older than your youngest.”
“Have you spoken with them? I know the mission we send you on may well end in death, and were there another way, I would not ask it of anyone—least of all a young father.”
“I have, milord. My parents will look after them if I do not make it back.”
“Good lad. Family is the most valuable treasure we have. It is worth fighting for.”
“Have faith, milord. We will return, and you will be victorious. There is no greater warrior.”
“Great strength, and skill at arms may not be a match for the Demon King.”
“I do not believe that, sire. Nor does the Archmage.”
“Quite right, quite right,” the Eagle said, appearing out of thin air to stand beside Lun. “Our commander here is a bright lad, and knows the truth of it. You will prevail, my friend, and I will be there to aid you.”
Lun offered his old friend a weak smile and returned his attention to the portrait.
“Commander, I have taken the liberty of appointing one of my most skilled hydromancers to your unit.”
A pinprick of watery light glowed in the space between Griffid and the Archmage, growing brighter and larger until a woman clad in blue robes materialized. Water seemed to flow off her fingers as she brought her traveling spell to an end. The Table Chamber smelled faintly of a woodland stream for a moment, or so it seemed to Griffid.
“Well met, Idril,” the Archmage said with a crooked smile.
The mage turned her gaze to Griffid and bowed, sending her loose silver hair cascading like a waterfall over her shoulders.
“I am Idril, apprentice to the Osprey of the Feathered Circle, at your service.”
“And I am at yours,” Griffid replied with a slight bow of his own.
Mages held no noble rank, yet they were afforded much the same deference as any noble on account of their mystical skills. Griffid had only met a handful of such folk in his time, and respected their abilities in the same way he respected a skilled fighter or archer.
“You will need a few more companions, but I shall leave that choice up to you, Commander,” the Archmage turned to Lun, effectively dismissing Griffid and Idril. “Lun, we must speak before the evening meal.”
Griffid led the way down the wide corridor in silence. His mind was pulled toward thoughts of his beloved wife, Ingrid, and his young daughter, Yscold. There was very little chance that he’d make it home from this mission. He knew that. Ingrid knew it. But that didn’t make the reality any easier to bear.
“I suggest we approach a skilled chirugeon,” Idril’s calm voice interrupted his thoughts. “There’s to be no shortage of skirmishes in the Burning Lands, and being able to patch ourselves up will raise our chances of survival.”
“Well said, Lady Idril. I know just the man. Come along, I am certain we will find him at the infirmary.”
The walk out to the infirmary tents was a short one, and Griffid quickly located the deep voiced Afdan by sound alone. The two men had known each other since serving under Lord Dyfrrd in the border skirmishes with Mortarigan of Godsbeam, and Afdan had saved Griffid’s life on a number of occasions.
“What brings you ‘ere, boy-o?” Afdan rumbled, slapping Griffid on the shoulder.
“You’ve heard of my mission, yes?”
“Who hasn’t. Sending you into the Burning Lands as a diversion, eh?”
“That they are.”
“Then ye’ll be needin’ someone what can put ye back together ‘gain af’r the demons get ‘hold of ye?”
“Indeed. What say you?”
“Count me in, ol’ friend, count me in.”
“Well met, Afdan. We leave at dawn.”
“I’ll be ready.”
They left Afdan to finish up his tasks at the infirmary, and set out toward the castle’s training grounds where Griffid knew he’d be able to find the last two members of his company. He had an eye on a young officer with great skill with a pike, Ryderch of Redfield, and a grizzled veteran warrior he’d served under during the border campaign, Morfel, the Hammer of Houndon.
Morfel was serving as Master-at-Arms for the Army of the Moon. Griffid could hear her shouting orders at trainees as he and Idril navigated the rough-hewn steps leading down into the bowl of the training field. Ryderch, he was glad to see, was also among a group of soldiers sparring in the rings scattered around the field.
“Morfel the Hammer! Ryderch of Redfield!” he called from the edge of the training yard.
Ryderch was nearly knocked to the ground by his sparring opponent when he turned to look. Morfel cursed the interruption, but, upon seeing who disrupted her drills, called a halt to the day’s training and trotted over to where Griffid waited with the hydromancer.
“Commander Griffid,” Morfel said, pounding a fist against her chest in salute. “What brings you to the training yard this dreadful afternoon.”
“I believe you already know, ma’am,” Griffid fell back into his accustomed address of the stern warrior, despite technically being her superior.
“You don’t serve under me anymore, Griff,” she said with a small, and uncomfortable looking, smile. “Morfel is fine. Or Captain, if you must. And yes, I do know. You want me to go into hell with you.”
“What say you?”
“It will likely be our death.”
“It will.”
“But it could be instrumental in ending the demon threat,” she paused, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “Very well, I’ll follow you into hell.”
“That…was easier than I expected,” Idril whispered.
“I’m bored, mage. Training recruits is important and all that, but it’s dreadful boring.”
Ryderch trotted up, somewhat winded from ending his sparring match and the jog across the training field. “You summoned me, Commander?”
“Indeed. Ryderch of Redfield, I’ve heard much about you. You are said to be courageous, dedicated, and skilled with that pike.”
“Your words are kind, Commander, but I could not speak to the truth of them. Only that I do my duty to the best of my ability.”
“The lad’s humble too, Griff,” Morfel interjected. “He’s a right demon with that spear. I’ve seen him fight.”
“Considering where we are going, fighting like a demon might be the best recommendation you could have,” Griffid said, trying to fight off a smirk at Morfel’s comparison.
“What do you mean, sir?”
“I have been tasked with leading a small force into the Burning Lands as a diversion. Idril, Master-at-Arms Morfel, Chirugeon-Master Afdan, and I will be delving into the demon’s hell at dawn. I would like you to be among our ranks.”
“Way to sugar coat it,” Morfel muttered. “Boy will piss his codpiece.”
Ryderch shot the Master-at-Arms a surprised look. “I suspect we won’t make it back?”
“Odds are not in our favor.”
“But we would be doing a great service to our people.”
“We would be a distraction, drawing out the Demon King’s minions so that Lord Lun can challenge him.”
“I’m in.”
“Just like that? Oh to be young and stupid once more,” Morfel muttered again.
“We leave from the Kirxelene Stones at dawn. Say your goodbyes and settle your affairs.”
“Thank you, sir. I will be ready.”
Griffid dismissed the three, and wandered the grounds of Caernlun alone until the sun dipped behind the horizon. His family were a two dozen leagues away, safe for the moment from the demonic incursions. He hoped his sacrifice would mean they would be safe from the threat of demon invasion forever, though the cost was high. He took small solace in knowing that his father would protect Ingrid and Yscold for as long as he possibly could if the mission should fail.
At some point after moonrise, he found himself in front of his tent. He knew sleep would not come easily, but went inside and took off his armor anyway. A gulp of mint liquor from the flask he kept under his cot sent a warmth through him that helped chase away the gnawing cold of fear long enough for him to settle into the lumpy, grass-filled mattress and fall into a restless sleep.
...so it begins....