The War in the Willows

Rumours in the Three Feathers.

Maverick and Maximiliano pushed open the door to the Three Feathers, the warm glow and murmur of conversation enveloping them like a shaggy cloak. Maximiliano’s eyes sparkled as he scanned the room, his gaze landing on a comely barmaid. “Ah, cerveza, mi amor,” he murmured, his voice as smooth as satin.

Maverick grunted, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. He nodded to the barkeep, a gruff bear of a fellow, and led Maximiliano to a corner table.

As they sipped their ale, Maverick’s ears perked up, catching a snippet of conversation from a group of locals huddled by the fire. “…saw it with me own eyes, I did. Green lights, dancin’ like sprites, out by the North fields.”

Maximiliano’s ears pricked up, and he leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. “Ah, ¿qué pasa, amigos? What’s this about green lights?”

The speaker, a grizzled old badger, eyed them warily before nodding. “Don’t know what kind o’ sorcery, but it’s not natural. Graves been disturbed, too. Ain’t no one dares go out there after dark.”

Maverick’s expression turned thoughtful, his eyes meeting Maximiliano’s. The Ferret’s eyes sparkled with interest, his grin a whispered promise of mischief.

The badger leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Some say it’s the Necromouser’s work. Say he’s been spotted out there, conjurin’ up the dead.”

Maverick’s grip on his mug tightened, his eyes never leaving Maximiliano’s. This was getting interesting.

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The Journey Back to the Den

As Maverick and Maximiliano stepped out of the Three Feathers, the night air was crisp and quiet, the only sound the distant hooting of an owl. They fell into step, their eyes adjusting to the darkness.

“Poor Mable,” Maximiliano murmured, his voice low. “She was a sweet thing.”

Maverick grunted, his eyes scanning the road ahead. “Focus, Max.”

The Ferret nodded, his eyes sparkling with interest. “Ah, sí, the plot thickens.”

As they walked, they noticed a trail of bootprints, clear in the dirt. Maverick crouched, his eyes following the prints. “Look at this.”

Maximiliano’s eyes widened as he took in the scene. The bootprints began suddenly in the middle of the road, as if someone had dropped from the sky. They led to a cart, the kind used by undertakers, but it was empty. No coffins, no signs of pack insects, no nothing.

Maverick’s expression turned grim. “This ain’t right.”

Maximiliano nodded, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “Ah, mi amigo, it seems we’ve found the first clue.”

Maverick’s eyes narrowed. “And look, the cart’s from Himbleton. There’s an undertaker there, isn’t there?”

Maximiliano’s grin was a flash of white in the darkness. “Ah, sí, let’s go pay him a visit. I have a feeling he has much to tell.”

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Back at Base

The group settled around the table, the flickering candles casting eerie shadows on their faces. Thomas cleared his throat, his eyes scanning the notes on the parchment.

“Alright, let’s get up to speed. The Templars had a run-in with the Necromouser. Didn’t go well. They got beat up, and he escaped.”

Maverick grunted, his expression grim.

Thomas continued, “Other groups have joined the hunt. Word is, the Hunted have become the hunters. One group in particular is closing in on the Necromouser.”

Neville bounced up and down, his eyes shining. “Ooh, are we gonna catch him?”

Morrigan snorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, because we’re the best team ever.”

Thomas shot him a look. “Moving on. Morrigan, I also noted you’ve eaten one more grasshopper shortbread than anyone else this week.”

Morrigan grinned, unrepentant. “Hey, someone’s gotta keep the snacks in check.”

Bramble looked up, her eyes sparkling with amusement, and caught Maximiliano’s gaze. She blushed, looking away quickly.

Maverick nodded, his eyes on the group. “Good work, Max and I got some info from the tavern. Mable, the field mouse, passed away recently. And we found an empty undertaker’s cart, from Himbleton.”

Phillipe’s head jerked up, his eyes fixed on the window. “Zut alors! Ze fog, eet ees pressing in, no? Eet ees heavy, zis fog. We cannot move forward, zis ees madness!”

As the group fell silent, the fog seemed to seep into the room, chilling them to the bone.

Morrigan’s expression turned serious. “Looks like the Necromouser’s got some tricks up his sleeve.”

Maximiliano leaned forward, his eyes glinting. “Ah, amigos, I think it’s time we showed this Necromouser who’s boss.”

Maverick nodded, his eyes fixed on the window. “Let’s gear up. We’re heading out.”

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So, what does all that mean?

Well, I have not been able to play for a couple of weeks due to work commitments.  That, however, has not meant that things have not progressed with this campaign.

The other players have continued to be hot on the tail of the Necromouser, gaining more and more information points.

Also, we have now rolled over into the 2nd story scenario.

Story Quest #2 : The Mists Descend!

Someone is closing in on the Necromouser for the fog presses close now—heavy, suffocating, swallowing sound and sight alike.

Shapes drift at the edge of vision, never still, never fully seen.

Paths once familiar twist into strange, misleading turns, and even the bold feel the weight of unseen eyes upon them.

Every step is guesswork—every breath tastes of cold earth and old sorrow.

To escape this shrouded maze, one must cling to courage… or be claimed by the mist.

All players must now play Quest 9 – Lost in the Fog. No other quest can be played until the fog lifts. This will happen when every player in the campaign has played Quest 9 at least once.

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This sounds like a terrible situation to be in, as there is the potential for party members to wander off the table in the very first turn.  Whatever happens, it’s going to be intense.   We all now have to do our part and get this scenario done so we can move on, or else we may find ourselves fumbling around in the fog for several games if we are not lucky.