Sword and Spell: A Warhammer fantasy general quest

Sighing through your nose, you take a moment to examine your forces in more detail before heading out. Unlike most Ogres, you actually sometimes think a little about what you have at your disposal. Proper Straw-Tea-jackal, so the Tyrant calls you. Whatever. You don't care what the word for it is, you like winning, and to win, you have to know what yer workin' with.

There are the Maneaters, of course. Done up in their feathered hats, vests several sizes too small, and pantaloons dyed all manner of colors. Copying human fashion is an affectation many of the older members of your tribe have adopted. Personally, you've never understood the point of it. It just makes them look silly.

Not that you would risk voicing that opinion out loud. They may be odd-looking, and they may only number three, but each of them has seen decades of mercenary work across the old world. They've battled men and dwarves, goblins and Giants, Ephemeral ghosts and horrific Daemons, even a rival Ogre tribe once or twice. Fearless veterans, with the scars and the superior skills to prove it. You can count on them to punch above their weight, and considering their size, that's saying something.

In addition to the massive human-made pistols each proudly displays strapped to his grizzled chest, or bulging hip, the Maneaters are a diverse lot, and they often bring something different to the table.

Select 3 of the following, (each option can be taken multiple times):

[] Armour Piercing (1)
One of the Maneaters has, quite creatively, armed himself with an Anchor that used to belong to a small human ship, and swings it around like a gigantic Pickaxe. The sheer force concentrated behind it's piercing tips rips right through armor.

[] Devastating Charge
This Maneater has not mellowed with age. In fact, he's incredibly energetic and eager to get to grips with the enemy. He puts extra effort into every charge.

[] Hatred
Nobody knows what's made this Maneater so scornful and grumpy. Whatever the cause, he has a horrible temper, and seems to despise the very world around him.

[] Killing Blow
This Maneater is an expert at debilitating strong foes with a good stab to the vital organs, or a targeted bash to the skull.

[] Multiple Wounds (D3)
This Maneater has covered his weapons in a truly unnecessary number of spikes, enabling him to clip multiple foes with each swing.

[] Parry (6+)
This Maneater has picked up skills that might generously be compared to human fencing forms, and can bat aside enemy attacks with his weapon.

[] Poisoned Attacks
Nobody is quite certain where this Maneater gets his seemingly endless supply of alchemical poisons, or how he manages not to kill himself when applying them to his cleaver, but what's not in doubt is the effect it has upon his victims.

[] Strength Bonus (1)
Glutting on decades of success has allowed this Ogre to grow larger than normal, and his massive weight lends even more strength to the charge.

Not far away, loitering in their own little cluster, are the bulls. The young and bloodthirsty Ogres you managed to wrangle into your own little crew, hotheaded and eager to prove themselves. They, at least, look up to you as their leader and an inspiration in whose footsteps they wish to follow, each dreaming of the day they might cover themselves in glory and rise to your station. They are much of an age with you, actually, and you knew most of them before your promotion.

Collectively, the five of them make up the largest share of mass in your army, and you went out of your way to make sure they were kitted out. You managed to nab a set of Ironfists for the lot, and it is they who carry the banner. Your personal banner. The very sight of it fills you with pride, though the hide is worn and ragged, the symbol stands out loud and proud:

[] A spinal cord cloven in twain, White on Red

[] A horned helmet, surrounded by the mawteeth, Black on white.

[] Crossed cleavers, Red on Gray

[] A huge handprint, White on Black.

[] Write-In

Atop that tall bannerpole is built a tiny crow's nest, like on the mast of a ship, in which a Gnoblar, chosen for it's keen eyesight and sensitive ears, snores. Come the time to fight, it will scream warnings to the Ogres below it of threats they might otherwise miss.

It is not the only Gnoblar here, though it might as well be. You barely spare a glance for the pathetic handful of Gnoblar assistants and slaves who scurry around, a mere seven dregs to be prodded into battle as meat-shields. More useful to carry your things than as infantry.

And that's it. Nine Ogres, including yourself, and somehow an even smaller number of Gnoblars. That's what you have to work with to kill whatever's blocking up the river.

Hefting your great hammer up onto one shoulder, you shove two massive, sausagelike fingers into your mouth to unleash a shrill whistle, gathering the attention of the warband. The bulls look up at you attentively, while the Gnoblars are forced to cover their ears and shirk back. The Maneaters, for their part, glance over their shoulders with indifference.

"Grab yer bits and pieces-" Your voice is deep, but smooth compared to most Ogres. It cracks through the air, sure and sharp. You won't admit it out loud of course, but you've actually been practicing your 'Boss Voice' in private just so that the others would listen to you more.

"-Were movin' out."

And, without further hesitation, you stomp off past them, heading out past the camp's stake perimeter towards the direction of the river. Gratified to hear a cavalcade of thunderous footsteps following in your wake not a moment later.

An Ogre march is like a ponderous landslide or a collection of boulders rolling their way across the land. Rather than the strict marching columns formed by more disciplined human forces, Ogres simply fall into natural mobs by familiarity (Of kinship or unit) and sidle on after the one leading the pack, which, in this case, is you. Like ducklings following their mother, they trod after the deep imprints on the earth left by your each step, creating a series of staggered thumping sounds with every tread, like muffled gunshots ringing out.

Directly behind you are the Maneaters, still gossiping with one another about what they are going to do the next time they hit a big-city market, and behind them the bulls, only occasionally grunting and complaining about the heat. The Gnoblars scuttle off to either side, not wanting to be crushed underfoot by a careless or inattentive Ogre's foot.

In this way do you traverse the countryside, slowly but surely picking your way up and down the hillside paths, surrounded on either side by rolling groves of Olive trees planted in neat rows, the sun beating down upon you mercilessly as you crest each new rise.

It is a long, boring, and hungry few hours of a trek, your feet aching and your stomach beginning to rumble as you press ever onwards. Occasionally, one of your Gnoblars runs up a nearby tree to saw a branch off before hastily rushing back to deliver it into the hands of an impatient bull (if the Ogre has not simply ripped the branch down themselves), so that he might chew on fistfulls of ripening olives, or, in one case, oranges whose juice dribbles down your chin. Technically, you don't have permission to just steal produce from under the noses of the local landowners, but it's the kind of thing Ogre mercenaries just sort of do, and is an expected risk of hiring your tribe. At least, by any humans with brains to spare.

The scavenged fruit is hardly filling to your insatiable stomachs, and it has nothing on a good man-meat roast, but it tides you over for the half-day it takes until you arrive at the village of Rigano.

It's a small place, but old and well built. One to two hundred homes clustered together in one the flatter pieces of land at the bottom of a small valley, their whitewashed plaster walls cracked and yellowed slightly with age, revealing the gray bricks beneath, but still strong enough to hold up slanting rooves of fire-red clay tiles. Most are only one story tall, although those positioned towards the sloping hillsides are occasionally terraced atop one another.

Cobblestone pathways, weathered but still functional, connect these homes in a criss-crossing labyrinth towards the market square at the center, the central hub of the settlement, and it is this square you lead your troop towards.

For their part, the villagers scramble to avoid your party, fearfully locking themselves indoors or hiding in the alleyways too small for an Ogre to walk down. They are aware of your purpose here and that you are, strictly speaking, allies in the employ of their government. That does not make the presence of several massive, man-eating monsters any less disconcerting to the average peasant.

At last you come out onto the square, and finally pause your march with a raised fist, taking a moment to look round.

The large rectangle of cobblestone, open to the sky, is the center of village life, just like it is in countless other settlements in Tilea and beyond. It shows, too. The edges of the square are lined with modest cloth stalls to sell everyday items, drink and clothes and household goods imported from the craftsmen of the city that cannot be made locally in exchange for vast sums of fruit and olives and sheep's wool and other agricultural products paid in tithe. Each and every stall is in the process of hurriedly being packed up by its owner to get out of your way.

Across from the road you entered through stands the largest and most well maintained building in the settlement. A small temple or chapel of some sort, though to which of the many human gods you could not dare a guess. It takes up extra space, surrounded by a modest garden of apple trees and berry bushes. An extension off to one side connects it to a large, round stone building that you assume must be the local granary. The plaster of it's walls are more pristine than the surrounding buildings, and it's roof is painted a rich, deep green.

The most dominant feature, however, is the fountain in the center. A monument of stone, the multi-tiered device is carved with small gargoyles and intricate details, but has clearly seen better days. Bits and pieces of it have broken off over time, and rust climbs the wrought-iron statue at it's top, degrading its features past the point of recognition. Still, under normal circumstances, cool clean water should be gushing forth from its faucets.

But the basin of the fountain is bone-dry.

Still, it's as good a place as any to rest, so you order your troops to sit down, take a load off, and break out the rations.

Bundles of Salted pork, strips of jerkied beef, entire fistfulls of mashed up cheese and bread are swallowed whole and gorged upon as your Ogres sit down in a little circle, pulling open the small packs carried at their hips. Caskets of rotgut grog are downed, or splashed over heads to relieve reddening, blistering skin. Leftover scraps are messily tossed aside for the Gnoblars to fight over.

It is altogether about as compact and efficient a lunch break that can be expected of your kind. You, personally, are interrupted in the middle of digging into a slab of lamb by the Crusher who leads your Bulls. Kurgg, an old mate of yours before your promotion, and possessed of a harder head and stronger guts than most of the others.

"Oi, Bragg!"

You grunt in annoyance, wiping your hands off on your trousers. "Whatsit now? Already told ya the grogs all spent."

"Nah, this is bizness-like. Gotsa little'un who wants to talk to ya."

A human? Curious, you laboriously heft yourself back up onto your feet and wave the petitioner forwards. Kurgg steps aside to reveal an elderly human woman, whose long, gray braid slips out from beneath her yellow and green hood.

Nervously, she steps forward. Hands wringing as she falls under your massive shadow.

"You are the … condottieri, sent by the city, yes?"

You snort. "Were wots got sent to fix yer river problem, if'n that's what you mean."

She nods. "Yes, yes that's good only … err, well, how long, exactly, will you be staying in town for? It's just … we sre a small place, you see, and the people gets antsy with … with such as yourself around …"

"Almost done 'ere." You look over her shoulder towards where your force is busy polishing off the remains of their meal. You had to get moving again soon anyway, if you wanted to make it upriver before nightfall.

"Would it be helpful if I showed you to the river?"

You blink in surprise at the offer, but it makes sense after a moment's thought. The sooner you find your path, the sooner you get out of their hair. You give the woman a nod, and she begins to lead you off to one side, explaining as she goes.

"It started about a month ago, you see, but it wasn't too bad at first. We noticed the water-level was a bit lower than the riverbanks, but thought nothing of it. Some level of variation is natural. Over the following weeks though, it kept dropping lower and lower, and we started noticing pieces of wood and debris floating along in the stream. Our first thought was the greenskins, the raiders come down from the mountains every year … but they come to loot and pillage, not to block up rivers. It's not the kind of thing they normally do. We sent word to Trantio, of course, but it took them so long to respond and when they finally do they send- Ah! Here we are!"

You had started to tune the human out about one sentence into her little speech. The mundanities of little'un life held little interest to you. What was interesting, however, was the riverbed she had brought you to.

Located not far from the village square, doubtless the river was once the lifeblood of the hamlet, it's waters, pouring down from mountain snowmelt, vital for keeping crops and people alike alive. It separated Rigano in two, with a curved stone bridge connecting the gap.

The river had apparently been deeper than it was wide, and in its disappearance it left behind something like a miniature ravine with steep, muddy sides. The length of its bottom dotted with stones, rotting fish, and the occasional piece of wood. Curious, you leap over the side of the bridge, landing below with a deafening whump and giving your human escort quite the startle.

Leaning down, you pick up the piece of wood in one massive hand and turn it over from side to side, examining it. Rather than a log or driftwood, it's shaped like a perfectly square plank, albeit one splintered in half. One end is driven through with a rusty iron nail. This is not natural wood.

Someone is building, or has built something up there. But what?

Well, only one way to find out, you suppose.

It does not take you long to gather the band up and get marching once again, using the riverbed as a little road to guide your path further up the hills, closer towards the distant peaks of the Apuccini mountains that form the vast spine of Tilea.

Technically speaking, it's a shorter distance overland to where you end up stopping than it is from the camp to Rigano, but the riverbed makes for rough terrain, mud slipping and sliding on your boots, and a great deal of it is uphill too, as you reverse-track the river's course flowing downwards from its source. Altogether, it takes you most of the rest of the day before you finally find what you are looking for, and the evening sun is beginning to head towards the horizon.

After hours of trekking up through the riverbed, painting your arms in mud to fend off the sun, you come across the beginnings of still-flowing liquid. Tiny trickles at first, carving spiderweb paths through the drying dirt, before coming together into slightly larger rivulets, and then, at last, a single small stream filling the bottom of the crevasse, pathetic compared to what the river should be, but evidence that it is not entirely gone.

Over the next hill, you hear a sound. A heavy metallic Ka-Chunk, Ka-Chunk, Ka-Chunk, and the sloshing of gallons of water.

Whatever is blocking the river, it's directly up ahead. All that's left is for you to decide how to approach it. You can't simply loiter around, lest the foe, whoever they are, catch you with your trousers down.

Select one of the following:
[] Send Gnoblars as Scouts
Gnoblars are small, dextrous, and occasionally sneaky. They might be able to scout out your foe so that you understand what you are up against, giving you a better idea of enemy numbers and disposition. Sure, some of them might die, but you honestly couldn't care less. They're expendable, the lives of proper Ogre warriors are not. The only real issue is that if they're caught, they might alert the enemy, giving them more time to prepare.

Your unit of Gnoblars will go ahead of the main force to scout out the enemy. Each of the seven Gnoblars will make a dangerous terrain test with a small chance of dying (1 in six chances of failure). If any are "Caught" in this way, the enemy force will be alerted to your presence, and gain a small amount of extra time to prepare.

Any survivors of the Gnoblar unit (likely the majority) will return and give you a mostly-accurate assessment of the enemy army and the terrain. Afterwards, you will get another vote on how to deploy with the benefit of more information at your disposal.

[] Attack!
There's no point in wasting time, or giving it to the enemy. You will forge right up the riverbed as fast as you can to take the foe by surprise and crush them beneath your forces in a direct attack.

This option will start the battle immediately. You will be forced to deploy inside the riverbed, but your enemy, taken by surprise, will also be out of position and be unable to prepare any defenses.

[] Intimidation
There's nothing to start a fight like a good warcry. Your warriors will sally up the riverbed at a moderate pace, screaming and bellowing and beating their chests, waving your banner for all it's worth. It will alert the enemy to your presence, but that won't be a problem when they're shaking in their boots.

This option will start the battle. The enemy will have a moderate amount of time to prepare as they hear your approach, but also have a good chance of suffering a debilitating fear penalty.

[] Reposition
It doesn't take a genius to guess that fighting from inside the trench that is the riverbed while your foes rain missiles down upon you is … suboptimal. You will take your time to climb out and deploy in a more advantageous position.

This option will start the battle. The enemy will see you moving, and have a moderate amount of time to prepare, but you will be able to deploy your own troops in a far better position.

[] Intimidate & Reposition
Why not both?

This option will start the battle. It allows you to both reposition your troops and potentially intimidate the enemy as both other options combined, but in exchange, they will have even more time to prepare.