And so it was that Prince Von, last scion of the great and noble caravan kingdom of Tveland-Mors, trudged through the endless mire of Kergüs, his once fine boots now sodden with murk-wet and partially disintegrating. Not for the first time, Von lamented the great and terrible set of calamities that resulted in him losing that which was dear to him– his lands, his wealth, his horse, his concubines, his horse’s concubines…

All he had left to him was the sword. A notched rapier, carried by his father, and his father’s father before him, and his father’s father’s father before him, and his father’s father’s father’s father’s hired bodyguard before him. It was was a once glorious blade, which still had a razor sharp edge and plenty of lethality. It also mocked him relentlessly; it was a cruel blade made for cruel times, constantly calling him names, denigrating his noble status, his intelligence, his parentage, his terrible life choices, and so on.

He also had the horn. It was an old trumpet, battered, once carried by the Schwesig lords. Von had repeatedly tried to sell the damned thing, but no one in Galgenbeck would take it. It was his to carry, his curse to bear. Along with the sword, which even now, in its scabbard, hissed malevolently for blood, mocked his poor swordsmanship and called him a cuckold.

Not that anyone else could hear the sword. Well, except of course for Börda.

“No, Börda, I insist it is this way!” Von huffed as he trudged through the mire. He could swear he was beginning to develop trench foot. He would need to get these nobly fitted boots repaired soon. Or replaced with other boots. Possibly he would have to find some vagabonds and relieve them of their boots after besting them, nobly and heroically, in combat. Yes, yes that would befit a man of his heroic disposition. Why, they should simply offer their boots upon gazing at his noble countenance!

“Of course I am not lost!” Von huffed further. “I cannot possibly be lost! I am Prince of Tveland-Mors! I am a prince and you are a fool, and that means that I am always right! Besides, the Basilisks would not have given me this quest if I was not right!”

The Two-Headed Basilisks. The gods of the realm, bringers of the dread pronouncement of the end times. Von, since the fall of his noble kingdom, had been wandering the world as a hero, righting wrongs, fighting Goblins, punishing insolent peasant curs, and there was that one time he had encountered a Troll…the Troll had run from him, by the way, not the other way around…when he had stumbled, quite literally, into the Valley of the Unfortunate Undead. There, he had beheld the great Twin-Headed Basilisk, HE, and that dread beast had imparted upon him a most heroic and important quest.

“What? No, I have no idea what a Basilisk would want with the first-born goat of the summer!” Von huffed as Börda, as usual, became insolent. “Presumably to eat, of course! I imagine Basilisks get hungry from time to time! Or perhaps HE wishes to use it in some divine ritual. Or perhaps there is some divine essence to goats that we mere mortals know nothing of. It’s not important! What matters is that the Basilisk needs it, and so I– Scion of Tveland-Mors, Wielder of the Saugenbrucke Blade, Bearer of the Horn of the Schwesig Lords, and Most Well Endowed Man in all Tveland, must undertake this noble que- FUCK!”

He stumbled at that point as his boot sank into a particularly reeksome sinkhole. Spitting curses, he wrenched his foot free. Unfortunately, the sinkhole kep the boot.

“Blast!” he hissed. His foot, pale skin now exposed to the cold, felt numb. He needed a fire soon, or he was going to freeze.

“Shut up!” he snapped as the sword began to laugh at him, again, denouncing him naught more than a bastard, a dilution of the Tveland-Mors bloodline, as a coward, and as also possessing tiny nethers.

“Yes, Börda, I did quite like that boot,” Von, muttered. He glanced ahead. There was a farmhouse directly ahead of them, almost black in the approaching sunset, lights on, smoke billowing from the chimney invitingly. “But fear not, the object of our quest is at hand!”

And so, heroically, Von strode forth towards the farmhouse and kicked down the door. The farmer and his family were in the middle of supper, and could only stare up at Von in what Von assumed was awe at his princely magnificence.

“I,” he declared, “am Prince Von, Last Scion of the Great Kingdom of Tveland-Mors; Wielder of the Saugebrucke Blade, Bearer of the Horn of the Schewsig Lords, and Hero of the Land. I come on a personal quest from the Two-Headed Basilisks themselves; I, good farmers, have come to lay claim to your goat.”

For a moment, the family stared, mid-meal, at Von, too awestruck by his magnificent and not-at-all filth covered appearance. It was the youngest child of the family, a boy no older than six, who broke the silence.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing up at the object crowning Von’s backpack.

“That,” Von declared, “is Börda, my companion and personal jester! He says hello.”

“That’s a skull,” the uneducated and undoubtedly inbred little urchin piped up.

“YOU’RE a skull!” Von snapped in response. He calmed down, and resumed his princely bearing. “Anyway! The goat, if you please. I require it. HE requires it.”

For a moment, the family was quiet. Then the farmer piped up.

“Um…well….the goat is here, m’lord,” he said, gesturing to his table. It was then, that Von realized what kind of meat the family had been eating for their meal. Correction, had already eaten: the bones were there, plain to see.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Von grumbled. “Stop laughing, Börda!”

And with that, he drew the sword, which hissed and giggled at the prospect of bloodshed.

“Yes, Börda,” he muttered, “I’ll have to act now, before they’ve digested.”

*****

Character Name: Prince Von

Class: Wretched Royalty

HP: 5/5

Omens: 1

Background: Things were going so well, until your caravan kingdom of Tveland fell into penury.

Bowed down only by the memories of your own lost glory, you could never submit to anyone else. Not you, of noble blood! (Not that you expect any of these peons to understand the depths of your sorrow.)

Endlessly aggravated and Suspicious. Starved: gaunt and pale. Best friend is a skull. Carry it with you, tell it everything, you trust no one more. Being tracked and observed by a golem after an agreement which you know has been wiped from your mind.

Items:

The Blade of your Ancestors– This magnificent and clearly magical talking sword is foppish, unreliable and quietly despises you. It taunts your failures and, if continually disappointed, develops a 1 in 6 chance to ‘accidentally’ attack you or your companions. Deals d6+1 damage. Attack/Defence DR is 10.

Horn of the Schleswig Lords!– Once per day release a blare from this dented old trumpet and test Presence DR12. One creature may make their next non-combat test an automatic success.

Abilities:

• Strength±0
• Agility+1
• Presence±0
• Toughness+1

Equipment

• Waterskin and 2 days’ worth of food
• Shortsword d4 damage
• Fur armor -d2 damage, tier 1
• Skull, a trusted friend
• Backpack for 7 normal-sized items
• A bottle of red poison 2 doses (Toughness DR12 or d10 damage)
• Crowbar d4 damage
• 90 silver

*****

Mörk Borg bears the distinct honour of being one of the most batshit insane RPGs I have ever read. The setting is so relentlessly grim and horrific as to be almost a parody of all dark fantasy everywhere, and it bills itself– quite successfully, I might add– as capturing the vibe of the artwork you tend to find on doom metal album covers. In short, it is excessively violent and excessively grim to the point of being quite silly, and I cannot help but appreciate this level of derangement in an RPG world.

While this is a system where you can carefully and deliberately make a character from scratch, it also has very good autogeneration tools, and it would have felt like an outright sin not to use them. Hence, I made use of the game’s online character generator, Scvmbirther, to randomly generate a not-so-heroic hero. The end result is as above: Von, a member of Wretched Royalty, a hideous, paranoid, easily aggravated and possibly insane man who is as far removed from the “heroic lost prince” archetype as you can get. And you can have an entire party of similarly mad, deranged or degenerate wretches in just such a party. What can I say, with the right player group, Mörk Borg feels like it would be hilarious to play.

Of course, in my humble opinon, a game of Mörk Borg absolutely has to be played while adopting the most deranged of Swedish accents. I humbly submit Brava Alfabusa and the gents of Text-To-Speech for reference. Also just posting this link because Turnip28 is a similarly deranged game that deserves attention.

Next Week: Star Trek Adventures