Since I’ve been going on for some weeks now about the work I’m doing running Dungeons & Dragons for middle schoolers at my local library (see here, here, here, and here), and because I’m in the middle of another play-by-post forum game, I’ve been motivated to look back at some of the older materials I’ve kept on file these many years. I’ve put a lot of effort into my gaming across a fairly decent spread of time at this point, and while I’ve had thoughts from time to time of what I could have gotten done had I focused on other things instead, it’s also been the case that I’ve built and maintained friendships through roleplaying games that have sustained me. I value them, and I’d not have them had I not done what I did before, so I’m grateful to have what I have.

One of the things I found while looking was my record of a campaign in which I played while living in Lafayette, Louisiana. It’s one of those “be the party scribe for XP” things I’ve noted in earlier posts, as well as being practice in verse-forms for me. (I had some need to do so at the time. Perhaps that need persists.) The campaign stopped before it ended, more’s the pity, so the poem is incomplete, joining a number of other records in being so. What I have of it, all thirteen thirty-six-line fitts, I give here, only lightly edited from how I had it before. It shows influences and derivations, of course, but also progression, and I think it might well serve as an example of one of the things roleplaying games can do; being art, they can inspire other art.

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Hreðe Clammeshearra, hard is that man,
Fierce in the fight, that fiend of the chain.
But long before his broadly-known days
As champion of chains, when he was a child
His father was felled, Fæst Hnæfessunu
Who fought through the fire against many foes.
He died as was destined, his doom was foretold
As sages had said; he sought out the deathlands,
His ancestors accepted him after his deeds.
He left behind life, lost then his wife,
The beautiful Cwenlic who bore him the boy
Who would become Hreðe; hard was that day!
For with Fæst gone, fatherless youth,
Hreðe had not the help of a man
In learning the man-lore and living’s best way.
Fierce burned the fires fueled by his heart
And against all people he often struck out,
Making of all folk foes and fierce hate-men;
Out he was cast, adrift and alone.
Such is the fate for those who fight kinsmen.
Better instead to be as a brother
To brothers and blood than to bruise one’s own kin.
Sorrowful solitude followed his steps;
Haunted was Hreðe by mocking home-thoughts.
Not strewn with flowers is the far-reaching fate
Of men kinless made, no more for the young
Than for warriors proven. While Hreðe wandered,
Seeking safe dwelling and a seat among men,
Some from the southlands sought to take women
And men who might fight in manacles cold,
To treat them as cattle and trade them for treasure
For lust and for leisure of the lazy rich.
To Hreðe a dark day was delivered harshly
When summer had sped and autumn was summoned;
The callow youth cast-out came upon slavers
And chains then first met him.

To the wandering youth the wardens of wyrd
Were less than good. Not light was the lifting
Of chains for Hreðe; they chafed and his chest.
The breast of a boy, broad as a twig,
Hreðe still had when heavy irons
First wrapped his wrists and rattled his steps.
At first Hreðe fought against fetters hard,
Seeking to slay the slave-binding men.
Of knot-ropes and nails he knew the pain then,
As soft southern tongues slaver-words taught him.
Long was the walk, the labor in lands
Where men might own men and make of them beasts.
Under stern steel-weights Hreðe grew stronger
And wise in the ways of work-forced folk,
In the south city he soon knew himself
To be a man grown though by manacles mastered.
Years of his youth yearned to be free
While in pit and peril he performed a craft,
Coming to kill in contest and sport
For those who fought not but feasted and laughed
As slave battled slave and one slew the other.
Chains still chafed Hreðe and cheated his freedom,
But they also became the best of his tools
And gave him his name of Clammeshearra;
If Hreðe had them, hard would he fight,
Making of men meat with the fetters.
Soon it was known in the southern city
That Hreðe was highest and hardest of those
Who fought for the fun of fat, lazy men.
His name became known; none failed to speak it,
Yet for all his fame, he still was not free.
Not the worst in small war, not the smallest of wounds
Did he deliver, of deaths not the fewest
From his hand fell, and not the first taste
Of free air could find him, fettered as he was.
That would soon change.

The wardens of wyrd watched the young exile,
Fallen Fæst’s son far in the south,
Captured kinslayer, captain of slaves.
Winters fifteen when he began wandering
The boy had seen. Seven slave-years
In pit and in peril paid for his crimes;
The gods ask no more, those givers of gifts.
While Hreðe warred as lazy men watched
The earth masters made a mighty thing happen,
Great work of gods; in the ground a cleft
Opened beneath all the unmanning walls
Where lazy men watched slave-warriors fight.
Stones came to stand where staring men were
Before they could be in a better place.
The walls fell to waste. Men watched no more.
The hand of Hreðe held death aloft
When the walls fell. He wasted the stroke,
Dealt then no death as did he before,
Bowed to the blessing of the bounty-lords,
Stayed the hard stroke and strayed from the pit.
None could now keep him from knowing free air.
Chains he took with him, champion fighter.
Hreðe tight-held to hard iron bands,
Solid fight-servants in his slave-days long.
Not long did he linger in long-hated place,
But went into the world where he could find deeds
Of warrior-glory, the work that he knew.
The fiend of the chain found before long
Fighting-man work in freedom to do.
For weak men he willingly waged a hard battle
Between the slave city and a seemlier place.
He traveled the trails, truest of fighters,
Forgiven his faults, the folly of youth.
The last joy of Cwenlic came to the coast,
Saw there a city, strode to its doors.
He went then inside.

The domain of Dockston did Hreðe enter,
Gathered with Guildsmen for glory and honor.
Hreðe the Hall of Heroes entered;
A summons had sent him to that city’s heart
To face a fair test and his fate to measure,
To find in the Fever Glades of fen-roads the best.
East went the eager one and even companions
When next the sun rose, a good road to seek
Through fens of Fever Glades, the fiend of the chains,
Where flowed the water upon the world’s face.
They traveled not silent, but spoke many words,
The fiercest of fighters and his dear friends,
Pious Dwarf prayer-man and pointed-ear sage,
No less the little man on rapid-step legs.
Their speech then was split by a scream in the fields
As the fiend of the chain and his friends happened by.
Lizards had lashed against little people
And so they were slain and sent out in fear
With fire and chain and one well-flung stone.
A help to the Halflings Hreðe became
With his worthy friends, a weal for the good.
A stain on the soil was spilled Lizard blood
When wounded by Hreðe, one left this life,
And fire and stone slew yet another.
Old Orchard Meadows opened its arms
To the wandering warriors and welcomed them in.
The citizens spoke of slinking new troubles;
Them Hreðe heard and his wise companions,
Sought out the source of the new sorrows.
Fens then found out the fiend of the chain.
In muck and mire, the man and friends trod
Until the attack of oversized vermin
Halted their haste. It hindered them little;
Their fate was not fixed to fall in that time
But that of the beast was bound to its end,
And for the scale-men at the mill.

Life had left lizards at the mill.
Hreðe and his folk hiked on the path;
Slow was the swamp-way as they slogged along.
To the place of the peatcutter the party soon came
And faced a new fight on the fen’s edge.
In a fan made of flame a foul plant-thing died,
But a beast of bile battled them then,
Spitting foul speech, sputum of death;
It, too, was slain, served no stout fight.
Rich was the reward and real was the joy
Orchard Meadows felt at the fiend of the chains
And for his friends from what they had done
And had yet to do; hard work was ahead.
The swamp-way was sought by soldiers again,
Foul-smelling fenlands. In faith they worked
To make Orchard Meadows for men a good place.
As the group went to gather together
A spell suddenly on the select fell;
His friends had to hold Hreðe from leaping
Into cool currents– compulsion befell him.
A spell after slew the sprite who had made it
And they then went on into the wood.
A spider sprang out and sought to attack.
Daggers and chains and a dart well-placed
Suddenly slew it. The spider fell quickly.
After spider was slain, the seekers came
To the lizard lands, where lived the scale-folk.
An elder of egg-born escorted them
To know Nanami, the name of their leader.
Words then were passed and stories woven.
Foul deeds came forth and found redress.
The evils of office were all undone
In Orchard Meadows. Applebottom had
Worked foul in the fens and fathered deceit.
And end was put to it, and to him as well.
There are worse things in the world.

They departed for Dockston in dourness none,
Reached their rewards, new robes among them.
The stealthy small one, swift-handed Milo,
The talented Taren, tall and wise,
Priest great in praise-work, the preacher called Mott,
And heart-strong Hreðe, hero of chains
And fiend in the fight, found a new name.
Explorer Acolyte all later called them
When they had returned from whence they set out.
Great was the glory given them then.
Their journey to Jesric was joyous indeed;
All knew their names with no small pride.
After the accolade the Acolytes new
Were bound for Blackston for battle again.
Zarlag had studied, searched for new lore,
Then left it alone. To look for it then
The fiend of the fight and his fellow-searchers
Were sent for success. All seemed well at first.
The seeming soon ended; others sought out
The hero of chains and hand-swift stealth-man,
Praiseworthy priest, and practitioner arcane.
The beasts of the barrens bore down on the group,
Surrounded the seekers, sought a new meal.
A griffon descended, grabbed at the horse
That Hreðe had brought to haul all the things
That serve success well— save for great valor,
For that the four had in full-hearted measure.
The worker of woe on wings dropped down,
Tore at the ties, the tethers of life;
Great was the grief the griffon found
At the attack, which Acolytes gave.
It fled in fear; its fury was spent.
The horse had been hurt; healing came to it
By workings of wyrd against woe untimely.
The party packed up, pressed on steadfastly.
There was much yet to be done.

Gone then was the griffon and gathered were they
Together at trail-head. They took up watches
And waited as wardens while others slept.
Ants made attack in early-dark morning;
Mott and small Milo, they met the beasts bravely.
Taren then took up a titan’s struggle
And Hreðe, the hard man, was hero that time;
The Fiend of the Fetters flung chains about him,
And with a loud whirling went ants to their deaths,
To graves after grappling with the ground-near small man.
Hreðe Clammeshearra helped Milo live,
Ended the argument with iron and thew.
When after, at noon-tide more ants appeared,
Besetting a brave one who bestrode a stone,
The Chain-lord charged in, the child of Fæst,
Rescued then Ralgor from rage of the creatures.
The Great Forge was grateful, and grand was his welcome
Of Hreðe and Mott, and Milo his kinsman,
With Taren the tall. He took them with him
To seek out his sleep-place, their stories to hear.
When they arrived there, thieves awaited them,
Halflings half ant-folk with hardened red skin;
The mark of their maker and of Mithril Fort
They bore on their breasts before they attacked.
The fight was a fierce one, but fate was not with them
Who had the Halfling hoped to despoil.
They claimed that their queen would come and redeem them,
Bring sorrow to stout hearts and seek all their dooms.
The boasting was bombast; they were beaten well.
The wardens of wyrd wanted no more
To permit the pair to peer at the sun.
Hreðe then halted the lives of the Halflings,
Sent them to seek what solace they could,
Then turned towards his own and went to the table.
The Great Forge’s graces went to groundhog stew;
It was a fine meal.

Morning must come to men in all lands,
And it came upon Hreðe as is expected.
Rightly did Ralgor set their feet running
To the old tower to which they were sent.
Tall, in two stories, the tower stood there,
Old home of the asker who ancient lore sought,
Bleak then and barren where once banners hung,
And sealed was the stonework of Zalgar’s old home,
Riding near ridges. Right so Taren saw
Emerging far off ants from the ground
And making for the east, unaware of heroes.
They moved to assail them, the Acolytes new.
Milo did much to mask their advance;
The small man was skilled in stealthy arts.
Into the earth all four of them passed,
The great ones, the bold ones; they feared no peril,
But pressed ahead proudly as princes of cities.
Ants would assail them, and ants would then die
To fire and dagger and doughty-swung mace,
But the Chains’ Champion as chaff from the wheat
Severed the six-legs from seeking their prey
In whirling death-windmills. They went from life quickly.
Through tunnels and trials, they trudged ahead,
Ridding the ridge-lands of rambling vermin
Both new and to come; not for long after
Was wariness there where they had fought.
Soon then the ant-queen came into their view,
And as with her children, the mother to chains
Fell in the fight; the fetters collected life
From one who had owed it. It was soon done,
Hreðe a hero and his folk the victors.
A test for the true-hearted, a tunnel remained
Which in heroes’ haste had not yet been taken.
They wound their way to it, the war-mighty ones,
Made progress up it. Powers awaited.
More fights were coming.

In divergent directions the ant-delving wandered.
The tunnel not trod the heroes then took,
Searching for secrets and seeking the tower,
For they knew that formian foes as yet held it.
The Champion of Chains a charnel-house found
Full of the dead and food no good to them.
Tunnel turned away, taking them forward.
A giant half-ant guarded the gate to their goal.
Milo thought him mighty and made to attack;
Though worthy and wily, wood swung by giants
Is no easy thing to endure in arms.
To Milo Mott soon made with his healing
And Taren took aim at twin-headed peril,
Solemn war-sorceress sought its undoing.
The fierce son of Fæst entered the fight,
Brought down the beast and battered it greatly;
When it would seek to rise, it wound up on the floor,
Tripped, taken down, and of treasures stripped.
The door bore a device the ettin died before;
The ant-mark appeared there, and so they went on,
Opened and attacked against the foul there.
More of the man-ants made as to slay them,
But they were unworthy as warriors for life;
They failed in the fight. So may all our foes!
The brave ones sought beds after that battle,
And when they woke it was to more war.
As happens so often, the hardy were given
In war by the wardens of wyrd the victory;
Such was their skill that few stood before them
And those not for long. Of such things come legends
And glory and gold, gifts of all kinds.
Much yet remained, though much had been done
By the explorers in tunnel and trial.
No foes frightened them, fast in their valor,
And eager in heart, they moved ahead.
Heroes should always act thus.

When rest and relief the righteous ones found,
The praiseworthy priest had prayers intoned,
The solemn sorceress centered her power,
The small sneaking one settled his blades,
And Fiend of the Fetters fight-ready was,
They looked for the leavings of looters now dead.
A hard fight and Halflings held as slaves they found,
Breath-of-pain beetles and beating-wing flier
Attacked and assailed them. All of those died;
Broken and battered, the beetles fell quickly
To priest and pocket-scout; a powerful leap
Sent Hreðe in hatred at high-flying ant;
He bore it to bottom of tunnel and beat it.
The Halfings were happy that they had been saved;
Walnuts and wine went off in their joy, 
And four went on forward with fighting to do.
Ascending and searching, they scouted on forward,
More formians found and fought them to death,
Then reaped the rewards for rightness in valor:
Gemstones and jewels and the journal sought.
Taren then took it and told of its words,
The black blood-writ volume; the book they sought told
Of death-god’s devices and deeds to attain them.
Words then of worry were spoken among them,
Of fair and of foul and feats yet to do,
The tome they had taken, their task had fulfilled,
Yet formian foes remained to be fought
Who sought to make slaves and so deserved death.
Mott who was holy and Hreðe agreed;
Such evil should not survive in the world.
The priest of great praise and pit-fighter knew
That in this as one, they would work well.
One door remained. One door was closed,
And on would they go, the excellent four
To finish the fight and leave no foes living.
Such is the way of the worthy.

The closed door was opened, and in went the heroes.
There they saw sights strange and uncouth.
In a wizard’s workroom, a weird scene appeared
Of shelves and substances, and strapped to a table,
A dark deformed ant-thing in depraved guise.
Near the board-burden, on the floor beside,
Stood a strong challenge that spoke to the four:
“Leave now my love, and laden with treasure
You may go freely. Give her no pain;
She has had enough of harm in this place.”
So spoke the ant-man as stood the four,
But still from the burden blood-potions came
And slaves made of small ones; such is not meet
Save for death alone. And death came then to them.
Fierce was the fight, but it finished quickly,
And the warriors worthy won then the day.
Yet one more fight remained to them then;
They searched out the high-room, striving by stealth,
Then with hard hits, to halt the advance
Of unfit dominion and unclean control.
The mother of misery and her last minion
Were sent to the sunless, sorrowful land;
One was redeemed, though without comfort,
From that fierce fight, fought against magic
And a queen who assumed unsolid forms.
The last of the tower was taken as treasure
And those who survived the slavers’ attempts
Were gathered together and led to their lands.
The travel was smooth, and swiftly they went
From tower to tunnel to treading under heaven.
For Mithril Fort, they followed the path
Until, stained by smoke, the sky ahead showed
Where wrack and ruin had razed the strong place;
Orcs had attacked, and abomination
Of size supreme and scarce to be believed.
A new threat arose to be faced.

The Fall of Fort Mithril found some relief
From Mott the most worthy and Milo the deft,
From Taren the titan of terrible lore,
From Hreðe, the hard man, the hero of chains.
Young, yearning knights, the yore-heroes’ heirs, 
Gave word of Gheydalin, a gathering-place
Soon now to suffer the sorrows of war.
Mott then to mercy, and manful deeds Hreðe,
Were moved and moved on to meet the new need.
Swiftly they strode across silent lands,
Seeking to succor the sylvan-land folk;
Before the brave heroes a barking then sounded
Of orcs and their orders— an awful sound.
A patrolling orc-party, apart from the horde,
Warg-riders and wagon-men, waited to die.
The heroes then helped them; Hreðe cut their wait short
Along with the others in all of their skill.
Then, too, there came to them a thing not foreseen,
Beast-man and beast to battle the orcs;
Tekk, who transformed to tear at the throats
Of enemy orcs, and his own companion,
Greeted them gladly, gave them his pledge
Of friendship and faith; they followed his words
And gained then Gheydalin in the green woods.
Walls tall and wooden wound around the village
As Mott the merciful and mighty Hreðe
Called up the council and cautioned attack:
“A beast of soul-blackness bears down upon you;
An army of orcs is after your land.
Gather your good-folk, your goods leave behind,
Flee into the forest before the flames come
Of war and of woe. The warning please heed.”
At Mott’s mild words and the mean eyes of Hreðe
The people, not panicked, proceeded along
And fled their fair village before the flames came.
Gheydalin still perished.

With Gheydalin gone and given to ruin,
The heroes for Haarston hastily traveled.
The night-watch showed nothing. The next gave them rest;
Watersong wound through woods to their ears
And bars stood before them, man-barded guards.
Their lord, Ludovico, was loath to hear counsel,
A drunkard debauched, no diligent man
To rule a right people against ruin coming.
Milo went merry to make him to hear;
The lord, Ludovico, listened then not.
Hreðe then held him with hand-grip on throat
As Taren the talented his teeth held closed.
Ludovico listened, and led were the folk,
The Haarston home-dwellers, hardly away
Before came the beast to break all the town.
To Linham the lost-folk led then would be;
Hendrix thanked heroes and heard their words,
But Milo and Mott and mighty Hreðe,
Taren the talented and Tekk the wood-wise,
Gathered together would go thence to Jowston;
The city yet stood in sorrow’s intent.
Two days they traveled until at the city
They arrived in honor and opened the court.
The warden would stop them, wished to deny
The power and promise presented to him;
Still heroes sought to say their new tidings
And wake with new warnings the warrior people.
Their message was made and magistrate said,
“Gather together in glory the folk;
Secure the city against sorrow oncoming.
Tend to the tasks where your talents lie
And all thanks and honor for all of your deeds.”
The heroes then headed, they heard the good words,
To do then the deeds to deliver Jowston.
Night approached newly and nothing remained
Except to face the beast.

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