We have begun playing Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay, for my first time. Montmorency 'Doily' Butterbean is a well-cushioned halfling chef in the employ of Annetta von Loningheim, a merchant whose well-to-do family is rather less well these days and in need of new markets, stat. He is 3'2" tall, and excels in Trade (Cook) and Sleight of Hand. This being Warhammer, that means he has exactly a 50% chance of succeeding at either. As a servant, he isn't mechanically allowed to learn fighting, and he's also as burly as a particularly malnourished dishrag, so hopefully this campaign in the notoriously peaceful setting of, er, The Old World, will revolve around square meals and petty theft.
Session the First
It’s Jahrdrung, and through some curious benediction of Sigmar, it’s not raining. We converge on the nearest coaching inn for our various reasons. M’lady Annetta von Loningheim is en route to Altdorf on the family’s behalf, so, so is my humble self. Our travelling-companions include a stern gentleman calling himself Barnabus Sommerfeld, Karl the docker, and a rough-looking guard called Werther. We're still in plenty of time to catch the Four Seasons line carriage heading for Altdorf.
The aforesaid coach accelerates out of the gate as we approach, much to our discomfort. It pays no heed to our pleas and indeed, the chap on top waves his blunderbuss at Werther to get him out of the path. We’re peeved. Distinctly peeved.
Inside the fence, there’s a sign for Ratchet Lines the coach company. The porter says the coach is trying to make up time after breaking a wheel earlier in the day. They’re aiming for Middenheim but won’t get there any time soon, least of all by night. There’s coachmen inside having a drink and a bite to eat - employees of the Ratchet Line, a rival firm. A finely-dressed young woman with a beefy female bodyguard and a possible governess. A young scholar of some kind. A fancy chap at the bar, with an evaluating eye. There’s a landlord with a pet crow, Gustav.
Werther manages to haggle the coachmen into getting a cheap journey on the next morning's coach. They're stubborn folk, largely because they have devised a nigh-flawless system of converting coach tickets into money and the latter seamlessly into ale. One ticket, as they point out, is therefore worth eight flagons of ale. Mistress easily convinces the landlord to give her a good deal on the rooms, and after Doily pointed out the distinct lack of a chef, he was happy enough (or wise enough) to let the halfling take over the kitchen. Much clattering of pots and pans ensues, mostly of Karl helping wash up.
The fancy chap wanders over and makes small talk, before producing a deck of cards with which he is noticeably clumsy. Surely, an innocent fellow merely in search of entertainment. Alas, none of us are at the juxtaposition of willingness to play and possessed of any coin, while the stranger can’t foresee any pleasure in a game without stakes. ‘Tis like that parable with the comb, the pocket watch, and the priest of Sigmar’s trousers.
Narrowly avoiding setting the place ablaze, Doily rustles up a decent meal. In the course of feeding it to the tipsy coachmen, he convinces them that they forgot to give him his ticket. Twice. Awfully careless of ‘em, good thing he was around to jog their memories. He keeps them supplied with hearty food and encourages the landlord to keep their beers coming. Everyone knows you drive better with a hangover.
By the end of the evening, Barnabus has pointed out the importance of a blessing for a safe coach journey and that they don’t seem to have the right number of tickets vs. schillings, while Doily has paid an honest two schillings for his, er, three tickets, and rustled up a damn fine breakfast (and some snacks to keep them going on the way). His capacious pockets are not full of ill-gotten turnips, and no you may not look inside them. The very idea!
The journey is uneventful, and damp. It’s dark by the time we get to our intended inn - which proves to be tied to the Four Seasons, so as Ratchet Line travellers, we can’t go there! We reluctantly continue further on, and round a bend to find a humanoid figure crouched over a limp body. It turns round, revealing – oh horror! - a human hand within its mouth!
The figure rushes towards us, green gunk dripping from its eyes. Karl gives a cry of horrified recognition – “Rolph!” as it charges. The horses panic and bolt, but Gunnar slams the brakes down – the reins snap and the beasts flee, Holtz still hanging on for dear life.
Everyone leaps to the coach’s defence, although in Doily’s case it involves flinging hat-boxes (belonging to the other lady, who will be miffed – Sigmar forbid he thrown her Ladyship’s property around!). This is a less than effective method of combat, but it does have the enormous advantage of keeping him at the greatest possible distance from the cannibal. Our would-be witch-hunter finishes it off, skewering the accursed thing with his sword.
Session the Second
Werther and Barnabus immediately rush after the horses. They hears something crashing through the undergrowth and a bestial cry. A figure bursts out and calls “it’s me! don’t shoot!”. It’s Holtz, somewhat the worse for wear. There’s another coach around the corner, on its side. It's the Four Seasons line, perhaps the very one that barged past us last night! Two horses are trying to break free. Something with huge muscles is swiping at them with an axe. There are bodies everywhere. The scream comes from the dog-headed, wounded man next to the carriage; another mutant is trying to bandage it. A fourth else is rummaging through bodies, and a fifth taking a quick ‘snack’ on one of those selfsame bodies.
After a hurried (well, somewhat hurried. Hurried in a leisurely sort of fashion, one might say) discussion, some of us start sneaking towards them while Karl acts as a distraction. Werther is not terribly stealthy, however – or perhaps rather better said, is terribly stealthy – and draws their attention.
Sneaking up to the “medic”, Doily flings a rock – which misses dramatically, bounces off the carriage wheel, and catches him in the eye as he turns to look at it. Already injured, it’s too much for him and he keels over. Meanwhile, Werther fells the largest of them – a hulk of a man with a tiny head – with a single flawless swing of his warhammer, caving in its arm and sternum. He fixes the other with a ferocious glare, and it pegs it in the opposite direction. The leader tries to aim a crossbow at Barnabus, shakes so badly that the bolt falls out, and also flees.
Much circumspection is employed in approaching the carriage, lest something ‘orrible, or some jittery crossbow-wielding survivor, be crouching there. It proves unnecessary. Inside the carriage are two bodies, one of whom looks a lot like Barnabus, though in less witch-huntery-y clothes. Both are dead. The other bodies nearby seem to be assorted artisans and a coachman, and all are equally dead – and, perhaps worse, apparently pre-plundered by the leader who has already fled the scene, the miserable thieving scoundrel.
After calming down the horses, we look around and spot our own grazing nearby. Our coachmen are able to coax them back, and use them to bring our coach up to this one. A few other passengers reluctantly disembark to help us right the fallen coach (well, I say “us”). The chap inside is a spitting image of our Barnabus and has a rather bloodstained parchment - a letter from a lawyer, stating he’s the last heir to an enormous fortune. Poor bloke, eh? There is much debate between our small group as to what should be done, which ends with Barnabus nobly agreeing to take care of the lawyer's letter, a couple of sworn affidavits, and other important legal papers that one wouldn't want to see getting misplaced or accidentally interred along with all these corpses.
Hooves thunder and a patrol of road wardens arrive. They ask a few questions but are convinced by the evidence of the dead beastmen. They escort us to the next inn, where there’s gossip about a minor nobleman being condemned for witchcraft, having repeatedly been heard exhorting his mischievous cat to “drink his bloody milk in Hell’s name”. What a terrible waste of good milk.
At last, we see the spires of Altdorf arising in the distance. It’s huge! The vast Wolf Gate is being maintained, but still magnificent beneath all the scaffolding. We feel a sense of relief at safely arriving at last.
