Blistonia Conflict Chronicles - Great Continent

Contact! The Living Dead
Jamestown - Festival day

The events unfolded thusly;

  • The players were at the Festival, when it was attacked by a large group of skeletons
  • All armed guards and some armed civilians went to fight the incursion – some of the players too.
  • Chris' Dwarf Ragus charged into battle with  the skeletons, killing two but also getting very injured
  • Bec's Elf Maritza gained a vantage point on a ledge and fired into the fray from afar, killing 1 skeleton
  • Dart's Half Elf Kobaine ran to the melee and cast Thunderwave, killing 3 of the 4 remaining skeletons
  • Nathan's Tiefling Ekemon watched from a hiding spot, surveying the scene, trying to make sense of the madness as it unfolded.

After the skeletons were slain, immediately more sprung into their place from further in the alley. Before the rag-tag militia of civilians and guards were overrun, a white wispy aparition came to the rescue, casting a wall of bale-fire on the skeletons – driving them back to oblivion.

The aparition took the shape of a wizard who did not introduce himself – instead addressing Kobaine. He asked Kobaine to follow his wisp, as he had a very important task – to track down the necromancer who had summoned these terrors. However he could not leave "something precious to him" undefended and put the task to Kobaine. The wizard looked plainly at the heroes each in turn, all in the square, then back to Kobaine before leaving.

His wisp slowly started up the street, a sweet melodious sound faintly jingling from it's glimmering light. Kobaine asked the brave dwarf Ragus to join him – and the elf ranger Maritza came too. Behind them, just out of sight, the wizard Ekemon followed as well as he could.

The party was awarded 65 XP Each.

The Festival
Chronicle of the Great Continent

The town bell rings, letting all within earshot know that the Festival is beginning in earnest. The ringing carries across the calm surface of the river and up into the hills – stragglers still making the last few miles of the trek to Jamestown quicken their step, smiles on their faces as they nostalgically think of the old bard's tale about the Feasting with the Bells of the Jamestown Festival.

Closer to the city which grew from a fishing village into a rich coastal port, we see the colourful flags of Harvest and the Grunite Kingdoms banner cheerfully whipping in the breeze, the sun and clear sky painting the picture of a perfect day. This first day of the festival will be clear – no storm clouds on the horizon and the ocean peaceful.

The babble of talk, song and laughter resound through the stone and cobble streets, with the uncommon sight of unshuttered windows and open doors. The fresh enticing smells of baking spiced fruit bread from the first fruits of the Harvest hang in the air, and children run and play underfoot as their parents or wards keep watch, sparkling ciders and ales in hand.

The mood isn't all bright – the parents keep a noticeably keen eye on their children, years of disappearances and other strange happenings not quite forgotten even in this impossibly good-spirited place. Seen in the alleys and atop the walls and garrison roofs are a large portion of town guard, supplemented by a regiment from Madron-don. The soldiers from the capital are not the black and red cloaked elite from the border, but their grim-set jaws indicate no sense of the joy of this place – only the tension of years of struggling to keep the peace. A keen eye will note that the military force here is far greater than what a first glance might reveal. The garrisons have only a score of men at arms, but the barracks stables are overflowing with what must be more than 100 warhorses.

These numbers pale in comparison to the sheer amount of pilgrims now filling the city, with every tavern at standing room only, no-vacancy signs hastily hung at doors. Entrepreneurs were renting any space available to the tourists, and the beachfront was its own sea of tents and bivouacs.

You find yourself having just arrived recently in the city in the market square. It has been cleared of all of the stalls for this day, a small riser built out of timber with two guards standing to attention, surveying the crowd. As the bell finishes ringing, a portly dwarf climbs the stairs to the riser, steps in front of the guards, and addresses his audience with a surreal booming voice.

"Travellers, Pilgrims, Visitors and Townsfolk alike, let me welcome you to the first revival of the Jamestown Inaugural Harvest Festival!" His next words are lost in the roaring and cheering, as the people carry on with their general merriment, focussed in on this centre stage.

"..From all around have come this week to gather our harvest – Jamestown, nay, Grunite's most prosperous Harvest in living memory!"

There was more cheering from the crowd, they were rife with excitement – the seething masses of people swelling and rolling in a tidal crush. Incomprehensible shouts and cheering mix together and again drown out the speaker, who raises his voice – thunderous and now almost deafening.

"So glad we are the people of Jamestown to welcome you to join us in celebrating our Harvest. Please stay civil, spend your coin well and wisely, and bring news of the things you witness here in Jamestown to all corners of the lands!"

The screaming crowd is elevated, the banging of fists on chests, the stamping of feet on the stones, and the smug look on the speakers face changes only a moment after that of the guards behind him – they draw their swords moments apart and crouch. Those closer to the stage see this and stop revelling – looking for a would-be assassin, the speaker statuesque on stage.

There, at the back of the crowd – the screaming and yelling and bashing, previously lost in the muddle of revelry is now clearer. The sun now beating down in the middle of the day, the flash of a bloody sword is glimpsed atop the crowd. Panic sets in and the crush of people begin to stampede as guards and soldier try in vain to push against the flow of the crowd to whatever is going on.

The Song
Chronicle of the Great Continent

For the last living memory, soldiers have been few, crime has been rife, crops have been stunted, and what was left of governments corrupt. Stories handed down from Generation to Generation tell of how bad it was after the Great War. Nearly all Libraries, Schools, Universities and Private Collections were laid to waste and much history and learning – that which was not preserved in song – was lost.

The survivors of the short but devastating conflict had to put out fires, salvage farmland and livestock, and begin the slow process of rebuilding nations. What stories they had to share, they shared with music and poems, chanted by the firelight to keep the creeping darkness at bay.

Once such song, that is told more or less the same in all corners of The Great Continent is known to pretty much everyone though by different names, and any bard worth their salt can easily recite it:


Kings and Lords leaned forward from their High Thrones

Tremored as they watched with greed

Soldiers their borders expand, betrayed

Century alliances unmade


Wilful though destruction t'was

Whispered in ears the evil came

From up on high the

Teeth of the World o'ershadowed in pain


As men cried their last

The clash of steel and beast and fire

From up on high the

Teeth of the World our heroes went fast


The Darkness had reached a peak

Surely all we would know defeat

And the long embrace of black night

At the Teeth of the World our heroes still did fight


All at once there was a call

Untellable terrible horrible thrall

From up on high at the Teeth of the World

Our Heroes stood tall


Though the darkness in the skies have faded

And merriment may be known once more

Remember true the time they gave us

From up on High, Teeth of the World

Those who fought for us all.

The Journey
Chronicle of the Great Continent

For some of you it's a crier. For others it's a heated, excited conversation overheard or involved with in the local tavern. Some have seen bulletins, posters, news articles or heard songs – there's something happening in Jamestown, Grunite Kingdom. Something great and wonderful. The story goes that they have had a successful harvest, the most successful in 10 score years or more. To celebrate, they're reviving the Grunite tradition of the Jamestown Harvest Festival.

You feel compelled to go – you pack your essentials, tag on to the nearest trader caravan, pilgrimage, or take the lonely road west. As far west as you can go.

The warmer months have come and the lands of the Grunite Kingdom are beautiful. Unlike the population here, or the government, the land has really recovered from the Great War. Long green grasses, rich and flowering, grow besides the roads and rivers. Trees, all but cut down to feed the war machine, have regrown in copses and are altogether starting to resemble the forests that this land was once famous for.

The Harvest day is quickly approaching, and Jamestown is just a day’s travel away. The travellers started off as just loose threads, winding in from all places, and have become streams, and have become throngs, and are becoming a congregation of people with one goal – arrive at Jamestown and witness the greatest occasion; history in the making. Bards will write new songs about this day, signifying new growth, recovery and rebirth, and such joy should be felt throughout the land.

You who come know that you will be taking part in history.

News of Hope
Chronicle of the Great Continent

The year is 1703 MS, and the war-ravaged lands of the Grunite Kingdom have still not recovered from the invasion that laid it low close to 200 years ago. However perhaps for the first time there is a sign of hope – in the farther reaches of the land the coastal city of Jamestown is reviving its inaugural harvest festival, not run since before the Great War.

Word has spread quickly, and travellers from all over the country and indeed all over the continent have gathered in great numbers, heading all for Jamestown to support the city's revival of the old traditions, and unite in the hope that the people can all begin to feel the effects of recovery after the long generations spent rebuilding and restoring the land.

Each of you have come from your own place, drawn to Jamestown and the prosperity that it brings – some of you with trading caravans, entertainers, farmers, fishers, or nobles. You may know a few others making the pilgrimage to Jamestown, and you may not. One thing is certain – the dark cloud that has clung to The Great Continent for the last 200 years feels as if, for the first time, it might be lifting.

The Intro
Chronicle of the Great Continent

The date is 1703 Ms, and two hundred years have passed since the Great War that shook the whole continent. Fragile alliances have since either faded into cold indifference, or borders have receded as nations crippled by the war rebuilt.

Stories of the heroes that slew evil on the top of the mountain, on the teeth of the world, have become legends, then song, then stories, and are now mostly forgotten.

But evil never forgets and it does not slumber any longer. Dark things, quick in the night, take unwary travellers from the roads never to be seen again. Whole rivers of fish have washed up dead and rotten on the shores. Civil unrest and disease are rife in the few remaining vestiges of civilization.


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