Marcherlands

About

Four adventurers creep along through the dim and dank of the subterranean labyrinth, nervous at every distant sound, every moving shadow beyond the faltering torchlight. At the head of the gang is a lithe, hooded man, two daggers and a cinquedea girt at his belt, shod with soft slippers which made no noise as he walked; a thief. They came to a door. The thief halts, draws his blade, and puts his ear to the keyhole. After a moment he shifts, peeping one shifty hazel eye through the aperture. "Coast's clear!" he hisses. "Good," replies one of his fellows—a dwarf shouldering a crowsbeak; "Now, get the door open." The thief nods, producing a set of picks with which he begins to work the lock. After mere seconds, there is a click, the door swings open; and an arrow comes whistling out of the dark, glancing off the dwarf's helmet. "Coast's clear my arse!" someone shouts.

Proofed all in gleaming steel, adorned with a black tabard bearing a golden eagle, a knight spurs on his charging destrier, reins clutched tight in his left gauntlet, lance held fast in his right. To either side of him are his fellow lancers, full-armoured and bearing their ancestral arms, doughty and noble warriors astride thundering steeds. Through the slit of his sallet, he can see the approach of the enemy troop; the gleam of sunlight on polished steel, the gay colours of their tabards, the flutter of their banners, the froth of horses champing their bits, the bristling of long lances. The rain-swollen grass of the battlefield is torn and crushed beneath shodden hooves as the two lines converge. Shouts of battle fury fill the air as a rousing cacophony, the very choir of Death. The knight couches his lance and braces for impact.

The moon beams silvern in her placitude, a pale pearl bedecking the ebon veil of night. It is a quiet evening, almost silent save for the crackling of the campfire as its red tendrils dance and writhe. After many days of miserable rain and fighting their way through bandit-infested territory, the adventurers are relieved to encamp in a dry clearing and sup peacefully beneath the stars. But the calm was not to last. As the companions dole out the stew, their horses begin to whinny in terror. Grabbing his bow, the party's ranger leaps to his feet, rushing to investigate. The party's burglar, a round-cheeked halfling, draws his dagger and huddles close to his larger, more martially-inclined companions. After a moment which feels like an eternity, the ranger reëmerges from shadow, firelight illuminating his grave countenance; "Orcs!" he hisses. The adventurers ready their arms. From beyond the glow of the dancing flames, they can see red eyes piercing the nocturn dark.

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If any of the above inspires you with excitement and wanderlust, Marcherlands may be the table-top roleplaying game for you! Marcherlands is a gritty, low-magic, dark fantasy system designed to produce a game which is authentically medieval and brimming with the peril of classic sword-and-sorcery. The basic rules should be familiar to players of the Advanced Dungeons & Dragons game, but with more refined combat, highly-detailed survival mechanics, and a fully new roster of beats and brigands to imperil doughty adventurers.

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Adventures