Three weeks ago I started a new blog called Dungeons & Destinations with the idea of taking pictures of the real world and using them as inspiration for D&D related material. Thus far I have utilized pictures from several family vacations on two continents and an island, with plans in the future for pictures from all over this incredible world we call home.
As a result of this new blog, I will not be posting on this blog every week. I will still be posting material from the shared game world that my friend and I built as well as material from the campaign in it that I am running, but instead of posting every week I will be posting once a month. This blog is more of a hobby for me while I plan to turn Dungeons and Destinations into my primary income so I need to devote more time to it over this one. However, I will be making the posts on this blog longer to make up for only posting once a month instead of once a week.
Wednesday, March 28, 2018
Wednesday, March 21, 2018
A Spirit of Winter: The Ghost Town
This post is the first in a series where I will be providing a stylized version of the campaign that I have been running. It takes place in the northern forests of Sylvanor, centered around the village of Lumberfall run by the dwarven druid Edric Greenbeard. The PCs consist of Alaina, a half-elf ranger and member of the Order of the Black Arrow, Thoradin, a dwarf paladin of Argovas, Immaril, a wood elf druid, and Eleanor, a wood elf bard. Each post in the series I'll be switching between PCs as the perspective character.
With that said, let's begin!
The roar of an army filled the air, dew dripping off the leaves as the fog-shrouded valley churned with the movement of hundreds of charging bodies. Atop a hill, a dark-skinned human, his arms bound and his torso bare, was forcefully knelt before three chalk-skinned, red-eyed, silver-haired elves. A male, his hair cut to accentuate his ears, dressed in gold-lined vestments the color of blood, stepped behind the human.
Black smoke danced around the elf's arm, swirling, churning, coming to a point in front of his palm. Using the point of smoke, the elf carved pictographs that burned with dark, eldritch power into the human's back. Placing both hands upon the shoulders of the screaming, paralyzed human, the elf tore his hands upwards and following them, the human's blood ripped itself from his body to pool in the air before the elf.
A similarly dressed elf woman stepped forward, a chalice made from the fanged skull of a large beast in hand. Holding out the grim chalice in front of her, her gaze remained locked to the ground as the male brought the blood over and poured it into the receptacle. Herbs are sprinkled into the blood, which bursts into a dark, purple flame.
~*~
His eyes snapped open as Thoradin launched himself up from his bedroll. The tent's other occupant, one of the village druids named Immaril, leaned over a bucket in a cold sweat, having vomited up supper. Fumbling for a side-pouch in his pack, Thoradin struggled to maintain his composure as he pulled out a bottle he was saving for when they reached Golstatt and took a pull almost before he had the cork out.
"Wel' tha's the wors' dream I've evva had," Thoradin muttered to himself as he recorked the drink.
"Unless it involved a blood-ritual atop a fog-shrouded hill I do not want to know," Immaril snarked, still recovering from his nausea.
Thoradin started at Immaril before he slowly asked, "How'd ye know?"
His tent-mate's gaze snapped to Toradin, a hint of worry and fear in his eyes, "I had a vision of that while meditating."
"Oh, is tha' wha' ye call elf-snorin'? By my beard, I swear ye wer' sawin' logs when my shif' ended," he had to snark, because not snarking meant acknowledging that they both shared a vision, and visions never bode well.
Immaril's response was a glare, but as he opened his mouth to retort, an unearthly shriek, like the fury of the damned, from the forest tore them from their banter. Running out of the tent, grabbing his shield and ax along the way, Thoradin snarled as a trio of undead elves came racing out of the tree line.
"I see tha' th' firs' death didn't stick, lemme help ye there!" Thoradin yelled as he charged at the three, ebony-skinned, zombies. He had fought zombies before, three would be easy to deal with.
At least, that's what he thought before the outer zombies moved around him as the middle one ducked under his ax swing. As Thoradin pulled his ax back and raised his shield against the reaching arms of the zombie to his lift, the zombie to his right leaned back and let out a soul-piercing wail. The sound cut through to his heart, causing an unnatural chill to settle on his bones.
As the middle zombie reached out for Thoradin, an arrow flew over his shoulder and slammed into the zombie's nose cavity. At the same time, roots, moss, and grass grew wild and latched onto both Thoradin's and the zombies' feet, anchoring them in place.
"Next time you run into a fight, wear armor," called the half-elf that moved into the village roughly three years prior.
'Must...resist...snark...' Thoradin thought to himself as his ax bit into the hip of the zombie.
As more of the caravan woke up, the zombies were easily dispatched by the crew of druid trainees and lumberjacks. The trainees burned the remains as the rest got started on preparing tea, coffee, and breakfast. Thoradin found himself sharing a cooking fire with the half-elf that shot over his shoulder, Immaril, and Eleanor.
"So, how'd the pub entertain'r end up slummin' with th' res' of us? Ol' Scale-face gett'n tired of ye?" Thoradin asked before taking a sip of tea. Not his favorite drink, but he had a limited supply of Old Back on this trip and he had to make it last.
"I'm picking up some new material in Golstatt, an old friend who lives there writes songs and said he had some new ones that I'd like," Eleanor answered with a giggle.
As Immaril returned to the fire from burning the zombies, the half-elf asked him a question, "Something wrong?"
"It is those undead, in life they were elves though I have never heard of elves with such a skin tone. From my admittedly limited knowledge of necromancy, I do not believe that their ebony skin was the result of being animated, nor did they look like they were suffering from frostbite," Immaril responded as he poured himself a cup of coffee.
The caravan soon finished their breakfast, and set out to get the lumber that they were transporting to Golstatt. The small mining town needed the lumber for braces and supports, and in exchange Lumberfall was getting a supply of ore. It was a trade that was made every few months, and the ones to make the journey were on a rotating list.
Four hours later, the caravan cleared the treeline to see the sleepy village of Golstatt in the distance. It was only as they approached that they noticed something amiss: not a single chimney had smoke coming from it. Thoradin and those that he shared breakfast with raced ahead to scout the village, and arrived to the scene of a massacre.
There were no bodies, but every door was splintered and splattered with blood. Not a soul was to be found, not even the children.
With that said, let's begin!
The roar of an army filled the air, dew dripping off the leaves as the fog-shrouded valley churned with the movement of hundreds of charging bodies. Atop a hill, a dark-skinned human, his arms bound and his torso bare, was forcefully knelt before three chalk-skinned, red-eyed, silver-haired elves. A male, his hair cut to accentuate his ears, dressed in gold-lined vestments the color of blood, stepped behind the human.
Black smoke danced around the elf's arm, swirling, churning, coming to a point in front of his palm. Using the point of smoke, the elf carved pictographs that burned with dark, eldritch power into the human's back. Placing both hands upon the shoulders of the screaming, paralyzed human, the elf tore his hands upwards and following them, the human's blood ripped itself from his body to pool in the air before the elf.
A similarly dressed elf woman stepped forward, a chalice made from the fanged skull of a large beast in hand. Holding out the grim chalice in front of her, her gaze remained locked to the ground as the male brought the blood over and poured it into the receptacle. Herbs are sprinkled into the blood, which bursts into a dark, purple flame.
~*~
His eyes snapped open as Thoradin launched himself up from his bedroll. The tent's other occupant, one of the village druids named Immaril, leaned over a bucket in a cold sweat, having vomited up supper. Fumbling for a side-pouch in his pack, Thoradin struggled to maintain his composure as he pulled out a bottle he was saving for when they reached Golstatt and took a pull almost before he had the cork out.
"Wel' tha's the wors' dream I've evva had," Thoradin muttered to himself as he recorked the drink.
"Unless it involved a blood-ritual atop a fog-shrouded hill I do not want to know," Immaril snarked, still recovering from his nausea.
Thoradin started at Immaril before he slowly asked, "How'd ye know?"
His tent-mate's gaze snapped to Toradin, a hint of worry and fear in his eyes, "I had a vision of that while meditating."
"Oh, is tha' wha' ye call elf-snorin'? By my beard, I swear ye wer' sawin' logs when my shif' ended," he had to snark, because not snarking meant acknowledging that they both shared a vision, and visions never bode well.
Immaril's response was a glare, but as he opened his mouth to retort, an unearthly shriek, like the fury of the damned, from the forest tore them from their banter. Running out of the tent, grabbing his shield and ax along the way, Thoradin snarled as a trio of undead elves came racing out of the tree line.
"I see tha' th' firs' death didn't stick, lemme help ye there!" Thoradin yelled as he charged at the three, ebony-skinned, zombies. He had fought zombies before, three would be easy to deal with.
At least, that's what he thought before the outer zombies moved around him as the middle one ducked under his ax swing. As Thoradin pulled his ax back and raised his shield against the reaching arms of the zombie to his lift, the zombie to his right leaned back and let out a soul-piercing wail. The sound cut through to his heart, causing an unnatural chill to settle on his bones.
As the middle zombie reached out for Thoradin, an arrow flew over his shoulder and slammed into the zombie's nose cavity. At the same time, roots, moss, and grass grew wild and latched onto both Thoradin's and the zombies' feet, anchoring them in place.
"Next time you run into a fight, wear armor," called the half-elf that moved into the village roughly three years prior.
'Must...resist...snark...' Thoradin thought to himself as his ax bit into the hip of the zombie.
As more of the caravan woke up, the zombies were easily dispatched by the crew of druid trainees and lumberjacks. The trainees burned the remains as the rest got started on preparing tea, coffee, and breakfast. Thoradin found himself sharing a cooking fire with the half-elf that shot over his shoulder, Immaril, and Eleanor.
"So, how'd the pub entertain'r end up slummin' with th' res' of us? Ol' Scale-face gett'n tired of ye?" Thoradin asked before taking a sip of tea. Not his favorite drink, but he had a limited supply of Old Back on this trip and he had to make it last.
"I'm picking up some new material in Golstatt, an old friend who lives there writes songs and said he had some new ones that I'd like," Eleanor answered with a giggle.
As Immaril returned to the fire from burning the zombies, the half-elf asked him a question, "Something wrong?"
"It is those undead, in life they were elves though I have never heard of elves with such a skin tone. From my admittedly limited knowledge of necromancy, I do not believe that their ebony skin was the result of being animated, nor did they look like they were suffering from frostbite," Immaril responded as he poured himself a cup of coffee.
The caravan soon finished their breakfast, and set out to get the lumber that they were transporting to Golstatt. The small mining town needed the lumber for braces and supports, and in exchange Lumberfall was getting a supply of ore. It was a trade that was made every few months, and the ones to make the journey were on a rotating list.
Four hours later, the caravan cleared the treeline to see the sleepy village of Golstatt in the distance. It was only as they approached that they noticed something amiss: not a single chimney had smoke coming from it. Thoradin and those that he shared breakfast with raced ahead to scout the village, and arrived to the scene of a massacre.
There were no bodies, but every door was splintered and splattered with blood. Not a soul was to be found, not even the children.
Wednesday, March 14, 2018
Bloody Tides
Enough was enough, "Does anyone wanna explain why we’re standing on the beach, at night, with three crates of meat, staring out into the ocean?"
The orc-blooded merchant glanced back at the hired guard, surprised that an elf would be so impatient at a five-minute wait, before he answered, "T’was in the contract you signed, you read it, did you not?"
"Course I read it, but I don’t recall anything about standing out in the cold not a hundred yards from the biggest glacier in the world, at night," he snapped, neglecting to mention that he was drunk when he signed the contract and was still suffering from the hangover.
Wednesday, March 7, 2018
Lesser Gods: Archrist and Bagold
Here, I'll be introducing two gods that aren't as widely known as the ones listed on the deities page.
Archrist
Lesser Deity
Superiors: Argovas and Orlag
Symbol: A blank scroll
Home: Dune-Swept Library of Scienterna
Alignment: Lawful Neutral
Portfolio: records, finances,
knowledge, written word
Worshipers: scribes, librarians, merchants
Domains: Knowledge,
Law, Luck, Rune
Favored Weapon: Rapier
The scribe and archivist of both
Argovas and Orlag, Archrist spends most of his days recording information of
any sort. Unlike many of his fellow gods, Archrist hates mortal worship. He
taught the early races the first written language and promptly lost interest in
them.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)