A couple of months back I started running The One Ring 2e, published by Free League, with a trio of buddies I've been gaming with since the first time I sat in the DM's chair.
I'm a huge fan of Free League's products. The quality behind the recently released second edition of the The One Ring was topshelf. We'd never played the first edition, so everything about the system was new. During session zero, the group got together and settled upon what characters they wanted to play. Those decisions would play a significant role in determining which patron I'd be introducing and the the nature of the first few adventures.
They settled upon a Ranger of the North, a Beorning and an Elf of Mirkwood. Those last two heroic cultures where made available as a pdf stretch goal from the Kickstarter. Before we started play I wrote up some backstories to add a little flavour to the start of the game. It's just something I like to do. They could do with them what they would, and based on their feedback and future goals, elements were added to them. Below is the first tale of the three PCs, Targon, son of Tarthon.
The door crashed open. Your father, sweating and delirious,
stumbled into the dinner table and toppled to the ground, the Spear of Vril-dan
falling from his grasp. You rushed to his side. His clothes were bloodied, left
sleeve torn and wrapped around the stump of his ruined arm.
You dragged him to his bed and checked his dressings as he
taught you. Something had violently ripped apart his left arm below the elbow. The
wound was blackened and blood crusted, infected with some insidious poison. “Black eyes…black eyes…” he mumbled. His skin
was pale and clammy. You doubted he would live the night.
You ran from the cabin towards your neighbours steading, desperately
hoping Cirion or Indril would be home. They would know what to do.
Their cabin came into view,a trio of unknown horses tied up
out front. You screamed for aid. Two rangers rushed forth from the door, bows nocked
scanning for the enemy. Cirion followed. Spotting you, he rushed from the
cabin, seeking word of the danger and news of your father. In shock, you struggled
to speak, to clearly tell the story of your father’s return home. A woman you
had not noticed stepped past Cirion and laid her hands upon your shoulders. You
looked into her calm blue eyes as she whispered soothing words, “Be at peace,
Targon, son of Tarthon. Take me to your father.” The ancient strength of Westernesse
looking down upon you.
Accompanied by her Rangers you rode with haste to your
cabin. Your father yet lived. “Do you have any athelas?” she asked. You rushed
out back and returned with a bundle clutched between shaking hands. With
practiced ease, she took the plant and crushed it, smearing the salve upon your
fathers ruined arm. He stirred and groaned and fell into a troubled sleep as
she whispered in his ear. All through the night she remained by his side,
tending to his wounds and whispering words of healing until his fever broke in
the early morning.
“A terrible poison coursed through your father’s blood. I
have drown it out but he has paid a terrible price. Your father will live but
it will be many months before he regains his strength. Put this salve on his
arm every day with fresh wrappings. May the blessings of the Valar be upon this
house in the days to come, young Targon, son of Tarthon.”
You later learned Gilraen the Fair, wife of Arathorn, had
saved your father’s life. But whatever had misfortune had befallen him, Tarthon’s
strength never returned. Many nights his dreams were haunted by the creature
with the Black Eyes.
The years ahead were hard. You did your duty and cared for
your father but a shadow had fallen upon him, leaving him without hope and he
soon grew old before his years. The passage of time was hard upon your house. When
he could Cirion taught you the ways of a Ranger’s life, trained you in the ways
of the spear.
You returned one night from a hunt, looking upon the cabin
like a prison. You saw your father rocking on his chair on the front porch, a letter
upon his lap. Wordlessly, he stood up and handed it to you before stepping inside.
You opened it.
Targon,
It is time you took up the task so many of our ancestors
have been called to in the past. The lands of Bree and the Shire know peace by
our sacrifice. We ask nothing for this service, taking comfort in knowing by
our deeds the hearts of these folk are free and without care.
Please travel to the village of Bree. A kind stranger awaits
you at the Prancing Pony.
May the blessings of Eärendil guide your way.
Gilrean
You gathered your things. Faint good byes were shared with
your father. You set off out the door, from the lands once known as Rhudaur and
traveled south west, towards what fate you do not know.
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