Hello Westfinder!
We're excited to announce our first game of Season 8: A Fractured Throne, by Jeremy Gleick!

This game will be run on Saturday, September 14th from 10am to 6pm. Cost will be $20, with 50% off for first-time players and those who bring first-time players, and other discounts for those who volunteer to help staff prepare for game. Buying lunch is an additional $5. Money goes to buying materials for props, costuming, and sets; paying staff; and reserving sites when necessary.

The location is Lone Oak Picnic Site in Tilden Park. 

The survey is available here! Please fill it out if you're planning to attend.

And without further ado…

The spoked wagon’s wheels rattled over the ground, the dirt hard in the december cold.  Donovan tightened a strap on his shoulder armor, barely listening to the rambling of the other guard assigned to drive the wagon, Torren.

“The indoctrination for the Indomitable is still a complete secret, you know.  I won’t be able to tell you, once I’m picked as a new recruit.”  

Donovan nodded vaguely to the words.  Torren had been trying to be picked as a recruit for the Indomitable, the greatest of the royal knights, for years.  He was old enough now that it probably would never happen based on his skill, and he didn’t have important enough family to get in on his ancestry or connections.  The heavy wooden cabin, locked and filled with a half-dozen prisoners, bumped and shook on the rocks of the road behind them, several more guards walking formation in front and behind of the cart.  The rebels against the crown had been growing more numerous by the year, and there was only so much the few remaining loyal guards could do for the Old King.  Even the people of the cities, rebellion or not, were starting to act out against the king’s guards.

“I heard that those monks up in the mountains have been-” the scream, or maybe howl is a better term, cut off Torren’s words.  Donovan felt the boards behind his back shaking, as shouts sounded out from inside the back of the prison cart.  He could hear and feel fists banging against the planks.


“Stop the cart!”

“Is there a cleric!?”

Donovan pulled the horses to a stop along the packed dirt road.  Torren frowned over at him.

“Hey, what’re you doing?”

“Stopping the cart, Torren.”

“Why?  They’re just rebel scum.”

“We’re taking them back to trial.  They’re supposed to be alive.”

“Nobody cares about-”  Donovan stepped down off the side of the wagon, stepping around towards the back.  Torren followed, frowning.

Undoing the double locks on the back of the cart, Donovan pulled them open, two guards on either side stepping forward, weapons pointed inward.  One of the prisoners, a small brown haired boy, was on the ground, shaking and screaming. spasming on the wooden floor.  The rest of the prisoners quieted as the door opened, light entering the empty dark wooden box.

“What’s going on?”  Donovan demanded.

The boy abruptly sat up, smiling broadly.  "I just thought this was a lovely place to stop.  Don't you?"

The snapping of branches and rustle of plants filled the road, as two dozen men in brown clothing emerged from the trees, fully surrounding the caravan.  Bowstrings, pulled taught, creaked in the sudden silence that followed.  The boy pulled himself to his feet.  “Weapons on the ground, all of you.”

Donovan, his face still, slowly dropped his sword.  Torren gripped his, knuckles white, fury visible on his face.

“That means you too, Mr. wanna-be Indomitable.  Now.”

Steel clattered onto dirt and rock.

“Thank you.”

A woman stepped from the ranks of rebels surrounding the prison caravan, walking up to the now unarmed guards.

“I’m afraid you have failed in your duties to your king.  And you know that you have two options now, all of you.  You get to decide whether or not you will return to the cities of the kingdom, and report to your king just what happened here, and just how you let the prisoners he was so set on torturing get away.”

Torren snarled, “We’ll never listen to you traitorous-”

The woman continued as if he had not spoken.  “My men and women have their weapons at your throats.  You are completely at their mercy.”  She snapped her fingers.  Swords lowered from the guards’ throats, and bowstrings creaked back to resting.  “And yet, you’re going to walk away from this ambush.”  She turned, stepping back into the trees, the prisoners stepping down and vanishing into the woods.  As the movement vanished, last words echoed back to the guards, standing with the now-empty prison caravan.

“Do you think the Old King will offer you the same, when he learns you’ve failed him?”

Nothing but the noises of the forest sounded through the air.  Torren grabbed his sword from the dirt.  “Sky-Father damn those rebel cowards.  If they think we’re going to-”

“Torren,” Donovan interrupted.  “Shut up.”

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