2970, Winter (The One Ring 2e - Strider Mode)

2970, Winter

Darling Sister,

Excuse the brevity of this letter. The winter thaw has begun and my journey draws near, the preparations for which has caused me to forget my promise to write you.

I sincerely hope you had a cheerful Yuletide. As you may recall my plans from the letter back in late Autumn, I had spent the winter in these great, fading Halls of Harmelt. Pomma, my host, graciously chaperoned me through a myriad of holiday sacraments observed in the Halls. A great tree was brought into the center of the hall and adorn with fascinating and delicate baubles. Large lanterns were lit, the baubles causing their lights to dance across the Hall in majestic patterns and rhythms. The children would use chalk and trace the path of these patterns, creating a chaotic, yet ordered, array of constellations. I was enchanted. These ancestral practices refreshed my spirit, renewing my willpower to bring the knowledge of our forebearers to light and help the plight of our kin.

Pomma had noticed my enchantment by these ceremonies. Prior to the great Yuletide feast, she gathered me to a little forge where she mentored me in creating a bauble of my own. Never had I learned so much from such a simple craft. The shapes, the alloys, the process! They all conveyed a sense of joy, of comfort. They possessed a power, a magic! Enclosed with this letter is a small silver charm, crafted with these magics. Wear it wherever you need to bring an aura of happiness and amenity.

My only source of disquiet during this winter concerned the old lore-master Hjolin. He recused himself greatly during this time. It was rumored more than once that he could be heard giving a low chanting incantation, presumably some ancient and esoteric Yuletide rituals regurgitated from those dust caked tomes. When he was seen, the lore-master was bearing queer packages wrapped in paper and twine, their shapes giving no hints to the contents within. A chill seemed to follow in his wake.

But this chill could not dispel the blazing fire that was Pomma’s vitality. Her presence of the winter warmed my heart on the most frigid and frosty days. It is with immense pleasure that I shall have her as my companion during this voyage north. With the snow fading fast, I presume it shall commence soon. I shall write again upon my return to these Halls and share with you my findings in these ancestral mines.

Affectionately,
Rori

2970, Autumn (The One Ring 2e - Strider Mode)

 

2970, Autumn

Dear Sister,

I dearly hope you’ve had a bountiful Autumn. The weather here has started to chill and a day does not go by that I do not think of warming my heart your impeccable brews. There are thoughts that the snow will come early this year, so I now rush to write you before the post is frozen. I currently occupy a small room in the Halls of Harmlet, and it is here that I intend to endure the fast approaching winter.

My host, Pomma, was the scholar of principal interest in my coming to these Halls, as you undoubtedly remember. 13 years my senior, but possessing a youthful and adventurous esprit, I eventually located Pomma within a small study. Glasses covered in dust and soot, she pushed her nose from the tome on the table to greet me. She was very excited, for a strider looking for answers must be in possession of a mystery unique and alluring.

But alas, the mystery proved too elusive for my host. She possessed some ability to translate the ancient texts, but to comprehend in full their meaning was beyond her current abilities. You see, she had studied, or should I rather put it, is studying under the old lore-master Hjolin. It was Hjolin who initially instructed her on these old runes, hoping that she would be able to assist him in some great and secret quest. As the years passed by, Pomma recounted to me, Hjolin deeper air of reticence, sometimes disappearing for weeks at a time. Upon his return, he would provide no answers and make no statements for his disappearances. As Pomma’s instructor descended deeper into some unknown fissure, her mentoring grew erratic and she eventually committed herself to a different area of study regarding relic maps.

It was, however, that Pomma’s spirit would not allow the lore-master’s detached state sway her away from asking for council on my matters. As part of a clever scheme, quality pipe weed was acquired, intended as a gift to Hjolin, which would hopefully keep the old dwarf engaged in our conversation. It worked!

We approached Hjolin in his study the following evening after supper. The circular study was poorly lit aside from a lantern and dust lay thickly over nearly every surface that wasn’t the desk and chair in the center of the room. The study was ringed by numerous bookshelves hidden beneath long, thick curtains to obscure their contents. Oh, how I wish I could know what volumes reside behind those burgundy shrouds! A large supper had left Hjolin in a more pliable state. As he greeted Pomma and myself, I could hardly see his eyes behind dirty spectacles.

He inquired who I was and I replied with the gift of pipe weed and my story to this point. With lit pipes, I presented him with the silver bar which I had found. He snatched it from my grasp, hobbled into the chair beside the lantern lit desk, and examined it closely. For the entire time that he examined that piece, Hjolin never spoke a word. But he did not need to. As he puffed upon his pipe, an eldritch air in the room formed his thoughts in the smoke! I have no explanation for this trick other than the extreme concentration of timeworn and mystic tomes. The smoke waft about, forming words and pictures that were clearing in the mind of Hjolin. Too busy wrapped up in the bar before him, only Pomma and I noticed this magic, and only Pomma recognized the names of the books which the smoke relayed.

Upon completion of Hjolin’s study of the silver bar, he simply returned it to me with a long, low sigh. He claimed that it would require further study to unlock the mysteries of the bar, but our insight could detect his dishonesty. However, we did not press the matter, for we did not wish to arouse the ire of possibly the only being who could help crack the ancestral codes.

Soon after, we left Hjolin to his own devices and retired back to my host’s accommodations. It was then we discussed the events that took place in that curtain lined study. You can imagine my surprise, though not so much after spending more time with her, when Pomma started to shape a plan to liberate the books that the room’s magic had clearly shown us. Fortunately, this plan would never need to be put into action, as the next morning Hjolin was nowhere to be found. Without their master around to guard them, Pomma confidently strolled into the lore-master’s study and grabbed the three books from behind their dusty curtains.

We spent the next week reviewing these texts, only stopping for meals. What we uncovered during this study was that the silver bars were from an ancient dwarven mine, further north up the Blue Mountains. At one point in time, there had been a strong presence of our ancestors there, but some shadowy force had exiled them from their mountain home. This had fascinated us, and the allure of further secrets deep in these mines burned white hot. Once it became apparent that our desire to reach this ancient mine had reached a point of no return we decided to plot and prepare for the journey.

As part of these preparations, it was concluded that we should reach out for financing of such a perilous endeavor. The principal person we pursued in this effort was the master of the great Hall of Harmelt, Mjolin. Elder brother to Hjolin, Mjolin was much more approachable and receptive to us. We had caught him examining the Hall’s ancient golden metal works which adorn the great hall proper. He seemed displeased at them though, then, I could not understand why.

We relayed the story to present and proposed our expedition to the old dwarven mines. I was filled with ire when Mjolin responded that he had just heard the same story, and same proposed expedition, from his brother Hjolin the day prior. Mjolin had apparently denied his brother’s request for fear that his brother may have passed the age of harrowing adventuring. In return, I told of the challenges that I had overcome over the past few seasons to bring this information to light. Mjolin sighed, and stated that, if there were any chance of saving this great Hall, Pomma and myself were currently offered the best opportunity. He accepted our proposal!

Now we wait for winter to come and go. Over the winter we will study, train, and acquire the requisite gear for the treacherous journey North. I will send another letter prior to our departure, once the thaw starts to begin.

Affectionately,
Rori

2970, Summer (The One Ring 2e - Strider Mode)

 

2970, Summer

Darling Sister,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. This summer’s heat has been oppressive, but it is with great delight that I find myself in cool shelter within of the Halls of Harmlet nestled in Blue Mountains. I had arrived here not but two weeks ago after a rather pleasant journey from Bree, my path taking me through the lands of the Hobbits, up through Grey Haven and Mithlond, and finally North along the mountains to our the Hall.

Prior to my departure from Bree, I set about the town searching for answers regarding the deep burning questions present by my discoveries in spring. It was a rather elderly gentleman of the town guard that pointed me in the direction of the ancient hall. He had witnessed, in the past, a young dwarf travel through the town bearing jewelry marvelously marked with runes similar to what I have in my possession. This dwarf’s jewelry, who I had later learned to be named Pomma, seemed to entrance the guard who, young in his day, assisted her in locating bed and breakfast. Pomma enchanted him so, and the impression left a deep mark in his memory. In learning that Pomma had come from the Halls of Harmelt in the North-West, I had made it my assignment to travel there to find if Pomma, or anyone for the matter, could help me unearth secrets of what I possessed.

My planned route to the Halls would take me West across the Great East Road, over the Brandywine, and through the Shire. I would rest in Hobbiton a day before journeying off the road to Grey Haven where I would be required to find passage across the Lune to Mithlond. In Mithlond I would again take a day or two to rest before traveling North through the rough country to my final destination.

On the day of departure, I acquired, at the last moment, a pony to assist me. Annabelle is a sweet thing, a beautiful golden brown with a few white spots to adorn her breast. Trusting beyond doubt, our bond grew strong when our travels became difficult.

We proceeded with rapidity towards the Brandywine, the roads in good repair and the weather pleasant. We only dilly dallied for a moment when we came upon that familiar fen where in the Spring those courting frogs had once mesmerized me. I sat and had a pipe upon the same rise as before, closing my eyes and dreaming of that fanciful night. There, half by automation as I had sung this song in my leisure since first hearing it, I sung those guttural notes of the polliwog’s song. As I did, I could swear that the ground around me echoed those notes, joining me in chorus and refrain. But I did not open my eyes, for if it were a dream, I did not wish to leave it. We camped in this spot that night, and as the sun went down those resident amphibians emerged, but only in sound.

In the morning we continued West across the Brandywine and soon found ourselves in Hobbiton. The Hobbits are a curious folk. They seem lively and courteous, but also distrustful, as though they believe me to carry them away from their peaceful homes to some dangerous quest. Perturbed by this, I mainly kept to myself and took delight in fishing The Water which ran nearby.

It was in this brief indulgence of activity that a disconcerting event took place. In a sudden caprice, I had lost grip on my line and my rod was pulled into the water. I had become angry with myself for this sudden lackadaisical daydreaming, and waded into the water to find my rod and line. It was when I plunged my head beneath the water to search for my tools that an ominous horror came. As I dipped my head beneath, the sound of rushing water filled my head. Then faintly, but ever growing, a cry of anguish could be discerned amongst the cacophony of water. Quickly snatching my rod, I thrust above the surface and frantically searched for those cries. But my search divulged no creator of such noise, nor any other persons around. The episode had stirred me, and the tranquil clearing I had once stood held no more peace for me. I retired for the remainder of the day, preparing to set out in the morning.

The remaining days of travel through Arthedain passed by comfortably, the only event of note being my meeting with a grouchy little Hobbit who called himself Winx. He had a small camp on top of a hill and, upon seeing my figure crest the ridge, beckoned me over with enthusiasm. Although being my host, he offered me no tea and only pressed me for information regarding the Elves. He had been camping here for two weeks now, waiting to catch a glimpse of a rumored Elven caravan moving west towards Grey Haven. Enthralled by the Elves, he could speak of nothing else, and when I attempted to discuss my current quest regarding our ancestral history the Hobbit protested. “Why not let the dead lie,” he exclaimed? Eventually, annoyed and angered with my host, I returned to my journey in a sour mood.

My arrival in Grey Haven was two days earlier than planned, such had been my good fortune up to this point. The plan being to recuperate on the opposite side of the Lune in Mithlond, and in much need of recuperation, I quickly set about to find a ship. In the seaside tavern Forget Me Knot, I identified a sailor that presented extreme confidence in her craft and inquired to employ her services. Mariel, the brilliant sailor, expressed her condolences. While she would have liked to sail us across the Lune, her vessel was in need of repair. Discussion commenced in which I offered my abilities in repairing her vessel for passage to Mithlond, which she agreed to. I spent the following day in a forge, crafting two exquisite pulleys for Mariel’s vessel. By that evening, we had set off from Grey Haven and arrived in Mithlond shortly after sun down. Watching the sun set over the gulf was one of the most majestic events I’ve witnessed.

I rested a week in Mithlond, preparing myself for the final stint of my journey. I ate and drank my fill, for I knew that the country ahead would be the roughest yet. It was in my respite when, by fortune, I happened to meet a fellow dwarf who was traveling from the Halls of Harmlet. Over a few suppers, he reciprocated the meals with information regarding a stable and safe path to follow. It would require me to travel closer to the mountains than I had anticipated, but I held a primeval trust in him.

The day I commenced on the final leg, the searing heat of summer arrived in fury. My only blessings were the few hours when the sun dipped below the mountains and cast long shadows across the hills. In addition to this, if the path recommended by our kin was the safe and stable one I dare not imagine what the other paths might be! The way was rocky and dry, not a stream or creek with water suitable for drink. Annabelle began to suffer dearly in these wretched conditions and the lack of water exacerbated the situation. Annabelle’s situation became so dire, that I remitted the last of my water for her for the final two days or journey. You can imagine the joy we felt upon our first glimpse of the Halls of Harmlet!

We were welcomed in, and, the resident observing our pitiful state, tended to us with mineral water and cool stones. It book us both a full day of recovery before Annabelle and I returned to our full faculties. It was then that I was able to observe this Hall in all its glory! How magnificent!

I have heard that Pomma still resides in the Hall, and when ready I shall progress to greet her and present my story. I shall inform you of the outcome of this meeting once achieved. Until then, I wish you a joyous summer and reprieve from this wrathful heat.

Affectionately,

Rori

2970, Spring (The One Ring 2e - Strider Mode)

2970, Spring

Dearest Sister,

It is with great interest that I share with you the peculiar and daring events which unfolded in my presence this past Spring and the mystery which now occupies my consciousness in my down time. Although these happenings were perilous in the extreme, I do not wish to cause any grievance unto you and I am safely in the confines of a sturdy inn within the walls of Bree.

This series of proceedings all started along the Brandywine, near where the river forks and runs towards Annuminas. I had stopped for a respite and a meal, the fish were plentiful and my bounty came with relative ease. It was during this time when I spied a series of papers floating downstream. My curiosity amused, I fished some of the papers from the river and noticed that they were written in an ancient form of Dwarvish! Oh, how I wish I could read them!

I hastily packed camp and started up river, searching anxiously for their origin. That is when I came across an old water mill structure, it’s water wheel immobile and it’s door ajar. I knocked on the door, to no reply, then cautiously entered the mill. To my surprise I discovered it wasn’t a mill at all, but rather a forge, the water wheel powering immense bellows. The inside of this forge was scattered with more papers and smithing artifacts, many of these in that same ancient tongue of our ancestors. Alas, I eventually found whom I believe to be the resident. He was an elderly man in the peaceful everlasting repose of his cot.

Startled by this discovery, I had nearly forgotten my excitement when I heard the low call of a cat above me. Up in the rafters above there sat a fat, round cat as orange as the sun and nearly as old. It stared at me as it mewed, and as I looked back I saw a small silver key strung around its neck. In searching for what it might belong to, I found a small iron safe, the size of a cabbage, immaculately crafted, and immensely heavy. I beckoned the feline down with some of my earlier bounty and snatched the key as it feast.

The treasure found inside the safe was breathtaking to a scholar like myself. There were seven silver bars, each weighing 3 ounces and each stamped with more of that ancient Dwarvish! What value of both treasure and history to our people! I took them along with as many of those ancient papers that I could carry, returning them to their proper inheritor. Giddy with excitement, I planned to set off to Bree to see if I could find someone knowledgeable to provide guidance in these artifacts.

But this, dear sister, is where fortunes ended for me. For the journey to Bree was rife with peril.

As I traveled south along the Brandywine, towards the road that runs East to Bree, I was besieged by a pair of highwaymen. I was determined not to forfeit my freshly acquired treasures and a barbarous fight proceeded. I swung my axe hard, the strength of our forebearers behind me, and fell one of the brigands. However, the other riposte and dislodged my weapon into the nearby river. Left with only my walking stick, I fought with all my courage and used all my strength. I was weary, but I held the upper hand! That was, until I heard the cries of more wretches heading towards the melee, undoubtedly to assist the one before me.

I fled! With what natural speed born to us, I fled south ahead of my adversaries. But those fools drew closer! I searched for a place to disappear and found a small hollow near the bank and withdrew inside it. Oh! How I wish I never found that hollow! You see, it was a ghastly tomb! I laid there as still and silent as the tomb’s awful denizens until those of the living dispersed into the wilds. I quickly scuttled out of the grave, and washed my face in the clean waters.

I continued to move south quickly, not wishing to run into my pursuers. When I finally made that road, everything felt safe and I reassured myself that the travel by road wouldn’t provide as pitiful an experience.

However, the first day on the road had produced a terrible series of storms! I swiftly found a small hovel in a series of trees, thinking it a safe shelter until I noticed it situated in a small wetland and the water rising around it. I had started to curse my luck, when a strange and mesmerizing occurrence took place. From out of those flooding reeds, a hundred or so frogs appeared hopping and croaking. They appeared to be dancing and singing in this rain, courting and celebrating! Can you imagine that? I still cannot, and I witnessed this! The festivities continued, but the singing lulled me to sleep. In the morning, the water had receded, and there was no signs of those astonishing amphibians.

Spirits renewed, I pushed on towards Bree. When I finally arrived, I was weary and my spirits were low, but the warmth of a hearth and a bowl of chowder has restored me. Now, I look for someone who can assist me in my pursuits while I pour over and ponder these discovered papers. The silver has been remitted to a treasurer for safe keeping, at the request that it does not leave Bree for other debts.

I am anxious to hear from you, sister. I will remain in Bree until mid summer, by when I expect to embark on an adventure to unearth more of our ancestral heritage. I will write to you when I have discovered more. May the rest of your spring be generous.

Affectionately,

Rori

 

Pour It On ‘Em! - A WWII skirmish war game

 An iteration of the Bullpup system, Pour It On ‘Em! is a WWII war game ruleset players can use to pit squads of 3-10 units against each other in a quick and simple battle! 

Download the Alpha here!

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1zR6tsZkHmUGF2YlABkoVmo32Bntxua4V/view?usp=drivesdk

Bullpup - A One Page Skirmish War Game

Bullpup

Bullpup is my attempt and creating a condense and concise miniature war game.

Download the game below.

Print/Pamphlet Version

Web/Mobile Version

End Zone

December, 1967
They say we had no idea they were coming. I say we've known about them for years. Hell, why do you think the Russians and us wanted to get up there so suddenly. They wanted a better look at the thing. Billions of dollars they spent to get a look at it first and now the whole world can see it for free every night. Sure the mustache, that's what my grand daughter calls it, caused a hell of a lot of panic. I'd never seen so many people packed into St. Catherine's that Sunday, but it also amazed and wondered. We, humans that is, suddenly weren't alone anymore. For a lot of people that was fine as long as they stayed up there, but then they decided to drop in and introduce themselves.

Not only did they decide to drop in, but everyone started losing it because it was the night of Christmas eve. "Angels," they cried. That was before the Christmas day massacre. I'm not sure what exactly happened, but whatever it was it pissed them off enough to vaporize anyone who got near their ship. That was it, people snapped. They packed up what they had and got the hell out of Dodge.

Chaos descended onto land, and I'm not just talking about the people. The landscape started to change and funny things started to happen. The egghead on the radio said that they use stuff from a perpendicular dimension and that it pokes holes in our dimension like a needle in cloth or something like that. She also said that those holes may continue to tear the more visitors we get. The tearing causes weird phenomena and the other worldly relics left by the visitors create a deadly attraction to people.That's why the government brass set up the End Zone.

As for right now, the city is quiet, which I'm happy with. It's a pain that Ivan decided to try and nuke a couple of the saucers after the massacre and now winter is a month longer. But every few weeks another ship comes down, not afraid of us a damn bit, stays for a week, and bugs off again. Then, as usual, you get the influx of people, like yourselves, who managed to slip by or pay off the military. The End Zone is a magnet for scientists looking to make a name for themselves, and criminals who want theirs forgotten. Spiritualists and treasure hunters looking for their salvation. But the End Zone is as deadly as it is tempting. A woman came by few weeks ago showing off what she thought was one of those perpetual batteries you've probably seen and in the process it blew her head and arm clean off.

As for me, I was born in Detroit, I was raised in Detroit, and, by God, I'm going to die in Detroit. My only hope is that there's still a spot left for me when the time comes.