Bath Imaginable

Adventure Design, Storytelling, Reflections

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  • The Forgotten Coast | Duel

    Screeching panic reverberates between enamel walls. Fragile geometry bends and flexes like the sticky organs of a beast that got you whole. All of you.

    Darkness. A pop. A hiss through your skull. Pressure so heavy that your belly scrapes gritty concrete. When the hiss fades, there is only your heart and the clicking of your paws on stone.

    Now the world is blinding.

    You lift your head from the grass. The others are scattered, no longer pressed into the suffocating depths. Tiny, biting things land on your stark white fur. You rub your face in the dirt, but the chemical smell persists. It haunts you.

    You go alone.

    Effervescent bugs rise from oily soil, glowing as they drift into the Living Stars. They watch you as they leave this world.

    You follow the brightest one. The ground beneath your paws turns brittle, blackened stone.

    A scream–metal through bone-dry copper–makes you duck into the reeds. Something passes overhead; fast, toxic, reeking of wet wood and burned rubber.

    Death.

    Its light reddens, then vanishes beyond the pale horizon.

    THE CAST
    Collectively, they owe £10,000 to the People’s Paperworks.

    Numeron
    Investment Centurion
    3 HP, 8 STR, 10 DEX, 12 CHA

    Nika
    Failed Criminal Bureaucrat
    5 HP, 8 STR, 8 DEX, 8 CHA

    Flinch & Hamish (Hawk)
    Street Judge
    Armour 1, 1 HP, 10 STR, 11 DEX, 6 CHA

    *** Read the Pilot Episode here.

    THE FARM TRAIL
    The Banshee throws dirt as it claws its way out of Orlane. Its taillights vanish into lowlands where sun heats metal and melts plastic in the mud. The road sinks into saltwater marsh.

    The firs and spruce stand crooked; they blur past through opaque, bug-stained windows. Nika presses her face into the glass–cold and wet. She’s gone clammy from the blood loss.

    Flinch grips the steering wheel with white knuckles. Ahead, the sluggish mud gives way to moss-covered logs laid flat. It’s a makeshift, sinking road.

    “Can that support our car?” Flinch hovers his boot over the brake pedal.

    “It has to,” Numeron says. He grits his teeth, braces his foot against the floor.

    The car begins to vibrate.

    Hamish stretches out his wings, silent.

    Numeron unknots his tie. He watches the road through the rear window while wrapping the silk around his wounded hand. When he clenches his fist, the pink and yellow flowers turn to crimson. “There’s no one following us,” he says.

    “For now,” Nika coughs.

    They drive until the sky darkens. The road ahead disappears into an emerald haze. This swamp extends at least five hecksleagues before it spills its filth out onto the salt-stained coast.

    The group intends to hide. They pull over, tuck the Banshee in a thicket of moss-covered trees, and cover her with branches.

    Hamish flies to the tallest tree.

    “He’ll watch us from the treetops,” Flinch reassures the group. “Let’s get some rest.”

    HEADLIGHTS IN THE DARK
    In her dreams, Nika is trapped, clawing to break free. The screeching of the iron bars thins and distorts, melting into the electronic hiss of the radio inside the Banshee. It’s picking up a signal.

    Hamish squawks now too. A warning. Something must be coming on the road from Orlane.

    Numeron turns the knob; two men argue over the line: “Turner, Turner, you copy? It’s Ibley,” one says. They recognize his voice from the night they stayed at the mill.

    “Go ahead.” A muffled reply.

    “Where the fuck are you going? You’re supposed to be in Bastion. Why am I hearing from Joshi that you took your lorry east?”

    “I had some… personal business to deal with, first. Don’t worry about it.”

    “Don’t worry about it? Who the fuck–” Ibley sighs. “Damn it, Turner, get your ass back to the Mill. Now.”

    The radio cuts out.

    The Banshee shakes. The trees begin to glow. Something massive approaches. It’s fast. Unstoppable.

    They duck low in their seats. Hamish hides between the branches. Through the windshield they see shadows rake past as the sterile white headlights wash over them. Its rumbling shakes the Banshee. A couple of the branches used to hide her break loose and slide right off.

    A lorry shakes the forest as it passes. It carries a wave of mist and toxic-smelling wind in its awesome wake. Its red taillights dim in the dark mist beyond the bend.

    “That must be Turner,” Flinch says. He turns the key; the Banshee starts to purr. “That means the mill is wrapped up in all this too.”

    “Keep the headlights off,” Numeron says.

    “I know.”

    Choosing exhaustion over safety, the Bastionites decide to follow the massive lumber lorry through the night. Hamish swoops down from his perch and into the driver’s window. Flinch rolls it closed.

    “Keep your distance…” Nika cautions from the back seat, “we can’t afford to get into a fight right now.” She holds her glove over her wounded ribs. She stretches the damp leather of her vest. The bleeding has stopped. She half expected to see fur.

    As they follow red taillights they see bright orange embers flash and fade into the turbulent mist falling from the lorry. There are two people in there, at least. A sound starts to haunt their radio; after more than an hour the voice becomes all too recognizable.

    It’s Roman, the hermit they met in Orlane. He’s slurring curses and humming what sounds like a muffled, half-remembered lullaby.

    As the sky lightens, they see beneath the flapping tarp covering the logs. There’s someone in there. Wrapped in a bag and chained tightly to the topmost log.

    Not someone. Roman.

    Flinch begins to slow the car.

    “What are you doing?” Numeron asks, “that must be Roman! We need to help him.”

    “I know,” Flinch says, “but it’s getting light out. We need to back off, or they’ll see us.”

    “He’s right,” Nika says, “we’ll watch where they go. We’ll get Roman and Winnie at the same time.”

    The lorry descends into the swamp, turns northwest through a chain-link fence onto a muddy trail. There’s something in the distance out there in the swamp where all the tracks from heavy machinery converge. They pull over to rest until it’s dark.

    WHITE RABBITS
    Nika bandages her wounds with a salt-crusted wrap and quickly falls asleep. She’s the first to wake. She isn’t sure if she’s still dreaming when she sees two well-dressed men catching rabbits on the road. There are a dozen bleach-white bunnies, maybe more. Some are sniffing at the door.

    The men release a bunny. Catch another. They’re looking for a specific one.

    “Is anyone else seeing this?”

    Numeron opens his eyes, his breath fogging the glass, “I am.” He sinks into his seat.

    “Stay low,” they whisper.

    From the cover of some dense, wet foliage, they watch the men pick up a bunny and bag it. They smile and whistle as they go. Eventually, the rabbits move on too; their light slowly fades out across the field as the sun is swallowed by the coast.

    THE GATE
    The wall is made of rusted vehicles and disemboweled machinery sinking into the grassy mud. It’s all paint-peeled and covered with fruiting vines. At its centre is a jagged archway into the dark. Too narrow for the Banshee, but wide enough for men to carry lumber from the lorry parked outside.

    On the other side is a quarry. A great, gaping hole in the swamp; the saltwater marsh is held back by handmade dykes. Foamy water bubbles between barnacle-crusted logs in the deepest reaches of the awful pit. In the centre of the quarry is the entrance to a stairwell, propped up by logs like the entrance to a mine. Constable Grover watches tireless farmers hauling lumber from a pile and sliding it down into the earth.

    Outside the wall, the Bastionites crouch in tall grass. They left the safety of the Banshee; they watch the lorry now. The lumber–and Roman–have already vanished into the earth.

    Turner, the driver, sits in the cab with his boots dangling out the window, lost in a book. He doesn’t hear the hawk. Hamish dives toward the far side of the palisade, screaming a predatory warning. Turner leans forward, squinting through the bug-spattered glass.

    As the hawk circles, he drops it: a small, rubbery shape that thuds into the mire.

    Turner’s curiosity wins. He climbs down. His boots squelch. He picks up the child’s toy: the Compulsion Cube.

    Its buttons hum with a forgotten frequency.

    “This is ridiculous,” he mutters, his thumbs already dancing over the plastic. He loses himself, smiling in the rain.

    He never feels Numeron behind him.

    The struggle is a wet, frantic thing. Numeron’s letter opener is a golden flash.

    Turner chokes. “It’s… mine…” and breaks free, his own pocket knife slicing a hand-stitched button from Numeron’s chest.

    Then comes the gavel. Flinch’s strike is heavy, but Nika is final. She avoids the pistol–no guns–and brings the crowbar down.

    It’s fast. It’s quiet. It’s messy.

    Numeron hauls himself into the driver’s seat. The engine turns over with a sickly scream. Violent, defiant. Flinch slams into the passenger side. “Get as much speed as you can–“

    “I know.”

    Numeron punches the pedal. The gears are stiff, grinding like the ancient bones of some great leviathan, but they catch. The lorry shreds the gate and tips into the descent, a screaming slide of metal toward the pit’s floor. Sparks and broken vines are launched into the twilight sky.

    Below, the farmers hear an engine. They hear a wretched crash. They see mud fly up toward the stars as a tidal wave of machinery crashes down on them.

    Constable Grover dives. The farmers are flattened by the tide, their bones breaking and depressing into the mud. The lorry hits the stairwell with a catastrophic, bone-shaking crunch. The windshield turns to a kaleidoscope of crystal; Numeron signs it with his skull. He’s left a heap of bleeding velvet in the footwell.

    Flinch is shielded by the humming shard in his pocket–the guardian shield–he crawls over Numeron and out of the wreckage. He’s trapped between the bed of the lorry and the slimy, quarry walls.

    “Thank you, Hamish,” he kisses the arcana gifted to him by his loyal friend.

    The air is thick with the scent of ruptured metal and ozone.

    Grover is already up, marching through the debris with his shotgun leveled.

    From the hilltop, Nika lets out a roar, her pistol raised. She fires three times, bullets spark off Grover’s heavy plate. He ducks, circling the engine block as it sinks into the rot.

    Flinch is pinned against the dyke. He looks up into the twin dark eyes of the shotgun.

    The Guardian Shield flares–a blinding, geometric sun–then shatters like golden glass. The force throws Flinch back into the mud.

    Grover smiles, his teeth yellow in the gloom. He reloads with practiced, mechanical grace.

    “You’re fighters,” Grover purrs. “She will love you.”

    He levels the gun at Flinch’s head.

    “Shit,” Flinch closes his eyes.

    Nika’s shot catches Grover in the shoulder, spinning him like a broken toy.

    Flinch doesn’t wait. He lunges, wresting the shotgun from Grover’s grip, and turns the cold steel back on the Constable.

    “Where is Roman?”

    Grover chokes on his own blood. A wet, bubbling sound. “Down there… with Her. Go. See for yourself.”

    “Who is she?”

    “Explictica Defilus. Explictica Defilus…” Grover’s eyes roll back inside his skull.

    Flinch pulls the trigger.

    The question of Grover is answered in a spray of red and a splash of mud. Silence returns to the pit, heavy and suffocating.

    Numeron pulls himself from the cab, his face a mask of red. They stand at the edge of the stairwell, looking into the dark. The wooden steps are slick with the slime of a thousand logs.

    “Roman!”

    “Winnie!”

    No answer. Only the smell. The sweet, cloying stench of the swamp, and the heavy, metallic rot of something far older.

    Map

    THE FERRY
    The Banshee limps through the mire, her chassis groaning from the impact and her burgundy paint now choked by a thick, sedimentary crust of swamp filth. Inside the cabin, no one speaks; they simply watch the passage of the wipers against the slime, leaving Roman and Winnie to the darkness and the silence behind them. They can’t pay off their debt if they’re dead inside a Reptile God’s stinking death-hole.

    To Hendenburgh. To follow their lead. To find Anna. To get back to Bastion.

    To be free.

    After hours driving through the dark, they find a cracked asphalt boat launch and a leaning, corrugated metal boathouse. The ferry is a dark shape growing larger through the fog. Also waiting is a delivery van; the driver sits calmly, smoking and reading a book of 100 Cool New Jokes.

    Flinch checks out the van; inside is a metal tank covered with a tarp. A clipboard on the passenger seat says “Lab.” Numerous lines redacted.

    The driver meets his eyes.

    Blood starts pouring from his nose. It drips onto his book. He leans his head back in his seat, and Flinch gets back into the Banshee.

    The ferry is an iron dredger with a two-storey wheelhouse overlooking a large empty deck. It could probably fit half a dozen vehicles, but tonight it’s just the van and the Bastionites in the Banshee.

    One of the three Ferrymen runs his hand along the car.

    “This is a fine car,” he says.

    “Yeah, she’s a beaut’,” Numeron grins.

    “Where are you headed?”

    “Hendenburgh.”

    “What’s in Hendenburgh?” The Ferryman asks.

    “We’re just seeing the sights,” says Nika, “we’re from Bastion.”

    “Any weapons?” The Ferryman asks. He’s wearing a revolver on his hip.

    “None.”

    The Ferryman looks up to his accomplice leaning on the railing above. He rubs his fingers together–the universal sign for a heavy purse–and gives a thumbs up.

    The ferry groans through the night, a rhythmic, iron heartbeat against the black water. In the pre-dawn chill, Flinch wakes to a voice. Thin and shivering. It scratches inside his ears: “Free me.”

    He creeps toward the delivery van. It’s unlocked.

    He opens the door.

    “Free me…”

    Beneath the tarp, a heavy metal shutter covers a porthole.

    He slides it open.

    Six pale, translucent suckers flatten against the glass, pulsing with a faint, sickly bioluminescence.

    “Please,” the voice weeps. “I don’t belong in here. Tip me into the sea. You know it’s the right thing to do.”

    “It’s not right,” a voice whispers behind him. Flinch spins. The van driver is there, his eyes bloodshot, his book forgotten on the dash.

    “It promised me a fortune,” the driver says, his hands already on the tank’s edge. “Help me.”

    The iron deck becomes a chaotic slide of mud and madness. Flinch and the driver heave against the tank, the metal screeching against the van’s floor.

    “Flinch! Stop!” Numeron’s voice cracks the air. He and Nika tackle Flinch, pinning him to the cold, vibrating floor.

    “It’s a trick!” Nika hisses, her crowbar held like a barrier between them and the tank.

    Three hammers cock in the darkness. The Ferrymen stand in the shadows of the wheelhouse, their hands on their revolvers on their hips.

    The lead Ferryman spits into the water, “Sly George says messes on his deck cost extra.”

    Numeron stands, smoothing his ruined velvet jacket with trembling hands. He looks at the tank; through the porthole is an inky eye. A flurry of tiny bubbles precedes another tentacle with strobing suckers. He looks at the Ferryman. He flashes a bloody, salesman smile.

    Flinch’s nose starts to bleed.

    “Sly George?” Numeron laughs.

    “That’s what they call him. It’s like a stage name. He owns the ferry.”

    “The tank is leaking psychic rot, Captain,” Numeron says, his voice pure city authority. “We were just making sure it’s safe. Let’s call this extra work we did for Sly George your tip. We’re even now. Yeah?”

    The Ferryman eyes the Banshee, then the tank, and he gives a jagged nod.

    COASTAL HWY
    The ferry hits the northern shore with a dull thud. The delivery van peels away, its heavy tires screaming toward a brutalist concrete behemoth perched on the cliffside–the Lab.

    The Banshee turns northeast, disappearing into the choking mists of the Kryptwood. Inside the cabin, the silence is heavy until the radio begins to spit and crackle.

    “George, George, copy?” It’s the lead Ferryman’s voice.

    “Yeah?”

    “Let those city folk go. The van is five minutes behind them, and it’s got a delivery for the Lab. Fellas were fighting over it. You’ve still got time to hit it. Driver’s unarmed.”

    “Copy.”

    ROADSIDE SPARK TABLE
    Roll 2d20 and combine.

    Spark 1
    1. Billboard
    2. Fusebox
    3. Guest Book
    4. Engine Block
    5. Tarpaulin
    6. Tidal Pool
    7. Potted Plant
    8. Magazine Stand
    9. Phone Booth
    10. Filing Cabinet
    11. Foghorn
    12. Photo Album
    13. Tractor
    14. Bicycle
    15. Vending Machine
    16. Rowboat
    17. Playground
    18. Picnic Table
    19. Mannequin
    20. Television

    Spark 2
    1. Chain Link
    2. Salt-Crusted
    3. Humming
    4. Fading
    5. Fruiting
    6. Incandescent
    7. Enamel
    8. Eroding
    9. Hypnotic
    10. Brittle
    11. Vibrating
    12. Nauseating
    13. Gravitational
    14. Corrugated
    15. Inverted
    16. Overgrown
    17. Liquefied
    18. Stuttering
    19. Perforated
    20. Inviting

    EXAMPLES
    Tractor, Enamel. A hollow memorial statue of a beloved piece of farming equipment. Polished turquoise, a golden placard reads “Lesley.”

    Mannequin, Overgrown. A field of over two-dozen headless mannequins. No clothes. Overgrown with grasping weeds.

    Bicycle, Stuttering. Abandoned bicycle in the ditch. Warped frame, bent wheels. Noisy and difficult to ride.

  • The Song of the Celestial Tower | Mythic Bastionland One Shot

    A Company of Knights are sent by the Frozen Seer into the Boreal Valley, an unfamiliar realm to the North.

    The Barbed Knight has broken her oath. She rules illegitimately from atop the Celestial Tower. No one knows why she assassinated the previous ruler, the True Knight, but this revelation cannot go unjudged. Confront the Barbed Knight, talk her down from her tower if you can, or dispense judgement as you see fit.

    THE COMPANY
    Tarquin, The Ring Knight
    Trogdor, The Cosmic Knight
    Fae, The Fox Knight
    Heron, The Pigeon Knight
    Guy, The Mock Knight
    Todd, The Fanged Knight

    The Company camps on the smooth rocks of a cold riverbed. Their steeds drink from crystal clear water.

    Tarquin, the Ring Knight, fills her wineskin and takes a seat beside the Fox Knight, Fae, staring into the smoldering embers. She begins to speak, but the Fox Knight leans away—shrinks, somehow, and dissolves into a scattering of brittle leaves.

    “Here I am,” the Fox Knight smiles, stepping out from behind a distant tree. She tosses an apple jovially before taking a greedy bite.

    “How fun,” says Guy, the Mock Knight, “I love a jest.”

    A tinny, metallic laughter is produced from somewhere deep within its core; the ancient laughter of some long-dead tavern-goers. Dark water splashes at the edges of its tin mug as the Mock Knight lifts it to its painted lips. It spills the tea onto the tiny pebbles between its boots while steam dampens its silkmade face.

    “Mmm…” it hums.

    Todd, the Fanged Knight, sits across the fire, the dark edges of his face unmoving. The ancient scroll of parchment given to him by the Frozen Seer before their departure now feels heavy in his hands. How will he know when it’s time to read it?

    Trogdor, the Cosmic Knight, puts an arm around Heron, the Pigeon Knight, ruffling the feathers of his cloak. He begins to explain the constellations that are slowly dimming on the horizon, but the Pigeon Knight brushes him aside—”I already know the way,” he says, “look.”

    As the light of dawn reaches the eastern mountains, the Boreal Valley blooms before the Company. The river cuts through snowcapped mountain ranges rising toward a great, mist-shrouded lake. To the east, smoke darkens the sky above a wooden village on the horizon before the trees.

    “Woodsmoke,” the Pigeon Knight says, “two hecksleagues northeast.”

    THE TRAVELLING MUSICIAN
    The Company rides through the mist, following the river. They hear distant drumming on the wind, the faint low notes of a singer’s voice. They see a shape against the pale; sunbeams flash on the metal filigree of his fanciful dress.

    It’s a travelling musician.

    “Spoil the loaf, taint the wine—to starve a friend is most divine!” The singer jaunts. He pounds on a drum he wears over his shoulders, “the winged one grows and we are the feast!”

    He stops when he sees the Knights. He protests it’s just a song. Forgets where he heard it.

    “Keork,” he introduces himself, “and who are the fine Knights I’m honoured to stand with?”

    When he learns their names, he begins to drum—”Sing for me!” he shouts.

    The Mock Knight lifts its head—a rhythmic clicking precedes ghostly operatic chords—but Keork stops his drumming.

    “No, no, no…” He puts his palm to his face. “I want to hear his singing—Heron, the Pigeon Knight.”

    The Pigeon Knight’s voice breaks like the squawking of something doomed. Keork doubles over laughing. He loves it, and he rewards them with gossip about the Celestial Tower.

    “I am travelling from that region,” he says. “I heard that the Barbed Knight killed the True Knight, but the Council and the courtiers have accepted the Barbed Knight’s legitimacy… All but one. The True Knight’s envoy, Wella Gall, left the tower in a vicious anger.”

    “Why was the True Knight killed? How could the Council allow it?” The Company is eager to pass judgement.

    “He refused to help his people,” Keork frowns, “or so they say. He would do nothing but gaze upon the Stars. Said the shortening spring is inevitable, but his people wanted action.”

    Keork swiftly departs: “This place is doomed if you ask me,” he sings as he drums to the rhythm of his footsteps.

    As the Company approaches Woodsmoke, they see a herd of cows grazing in a field. A small flurry of snow begins. The cowherd still sleeps lazily in the tree.

    The Company is welcome, and as the gates of the ornate wooden palisade surrounding Woodsmoke open, a thunderous rumble begins.

    The steeds are startled, save the Cosmic Knight’s boneless steed. It braces, its wobbly legs absorbing the reverberations from below. Someone screams from behind them.

    The Knights turn and watch the herd of cows stampeding from the village. The cowherd jumps down from the tree; he curses and rubs his hands against his head.

    “Let’s get them,” the Ring Knight says.

    A frigid breeze blasts across the trail.

    “We don’t have time,” someone says, “we need to eat.”

    “We could gallop and herd them back toward town at least,” the Ring Knight continues.

    “Our horses need rest,” the Cosmic Knight says. His steeds wobbles in the increasing winds.

    “Are we not Knights of Gallantry?” She pleads. The Ring Knight’s voice breaks across the falling snow, but none turn to meet her gaze.

    HOSPITALITY AND TRADITION
    The Company is welcomed by Woodsmoke’s Ruler, the Reliquary Knight. They watch him feast with his hands, licking grease from his elbows.

    “Eat, eat,” he keeps saying, “please, it is tradition. We are Knights; we are more deserving than the commoners.”

    The Ring Knight pushes away her plate.

    The Company eats little as they hear more about the shortening spring and resulting famine.

    The Mock Knight lifts its spoon up and down with a precise clockwork rhythm, pausing occasionally to comment on the warmth of the hearth behind him, but the food remains uneaten.

    The Reliquary Knight continues to eat. Behind him is an ornate wooden box that seems to pull the candlelight.

    “I don’t concern myself with the troubles of the Celestial Tower,” he says. “Not everyone will survive what’s coming, but I will protect and provide for my people as best I can.”

    He licks his plate.

    “You should make your pilgrimage to the Celestial Tower, and go.”

    THE PILGRIMAGE
    The Company rides deep into the mountains, where the air grows colder and thinner with each passing hoofstep.

    “Brr…” the Mock Knight vibrates. It cinches its patchwork hood.

    The Company becomes lost in dark smoke and stumbles through a scorched farm. The heat comes from below the ground.

    In the distance is the Ashen Forge, its chemical trails disappear above the clouds.

    The Ruler refuses an audience with the Company but offers them due hospitality. The Forge is runs at all hours making machines of war. To prepare for what’s coming.

    The Ruler’s courtiers explain the sheriff of the Celestial Tower, Radlef, is gathering a militia to destroy the bat.

    “It is what is shortening spring, after all—it is self-evident.”

    The Company rides with haste now. They become lost in a maze of crags within the mountains.

    The Ring Knight begins to panic, but the Pigeon Knight knows the way.

    As they exit the maze, they see a warning carved into the cliffside: “All Knights Will Feel the Axe.”

    As they descend from the mountains toward the coast, they see grounded birds that seem to grovel at the boiling storm clouds overhead.

    “It’s the bat!” The Ring Knight cowers at the sky. The Pigeon Knight tightens his grip on the reins of his steed.

    “This isn’t right,” he says, surveying the tundra. He locks eyes with an owl, “This isn’t right at all.”

    Further along the misty coast, the Company finds a group of commoners—two dozen or more men, women, and children—seated for a formal feast. They ride closer and see bowls of worms writhing in the dirt.

    A group of musicians sing the very song the Company heard Keork sing weeks earlier: “Spoil the loaf, taint the wine—to starve a friend is most divine.”

    When the music stops, the commoners begin to eat. The only sound is the crashing waves and the slurping of wet mouthfuls.

    The Pigeon Knight sits to taste the grey, segmented lengths. Sweet dirt and actinic metal.

    “Good,” the old man next to him nods, picking a worm from his beard and licking it off his thumb, “this feast will keep us safe from the Bat.”

    THE PIT AND THE PROPHECY
    At the base of a cliff, the Company finds a group of men and women armed with farm tools. They light fires and fan the smoke into a cliffside cave several metres high above the ground.

    The Knights approach. They see a man with a bow leading the others. Says his name is Radlef, he and his group know the bat is in the cave. They intend to smoke it out.

    “Wouldn’t it be more strategic to fight the Bat within the cave?” The Fanged Knight suggests.

    “If you brave Knights are willing to go in there, then perhaps,” Radlef says. “I won’t stand in the way of your Glory.”

    The Fanged Knight lifts the ancient scroll from his pocket cracks the brittle wax. His face goes pale as he reads it. It tells of the Pigeon Knight’s demise, in a cave.

    The Pigeon Knight looks at his feet. He looks up into the cave. Like the reliquary, it pulls the light inward.

    “So be it,” he says, “the sky is for the feathered.”

    As the Company dismounts and climbs into the cave, the Ring Knight stands in the entrance and draws a circle with white chalk.

    “This will keep the Bat from escaping,” she tells the others.

    Inside is a shallow pool, surrounded by stinking guano; a massive bat cowers in the dark reaches of the cave, shielding its face from the Company’s torchlights.

    “Kill it!”

    The Knights crash against it. They break its wings and hack them to pieces.

    The Bat tries to escape. It crawls toward the entrance of the cave, but the Ring Knight presses her mace into the rock.

    The chalk begins to glow—the Bat turns back, it can’t stomach the high-pitch screech. Nails against stone.

    The Bat thrashes its torn wings to fight the Company, but they pin it down and swiftly decapitate it.

    They leave the cave and hold the severed bat head high. The militia cheers. Their cheers turn to songs.

    The Pigeon Knight breathes a sigh of relief.

    Radlef and his militia travel with the Company to the Celestial Tower. They raise the severed bat head high and ride through muddy roads converging toward the tower. Crowds of commoners gather in the icy rain. They whisper about the strange Knights. Heroes from the Southern Realms.

    The Company rides through an orchard when the Celestial Tower first comes into view. Dizzying stone with metal battlements and a golden dome at its peak.

    Someone screams in pain. The sound is coming from the tower.

    The Company rides ahead. Radlef follows close behind them.

    There’s a wounded Knight sitting in the mud—the Tankard Knight—his arm is severed.

    “Godrick,” Radlef gasps, “who did this to you?”

    “It was Wella Gall,” the wounded knight proclaims, “she says she will destroy us all… But why did she spare me?”

    “She wants us to know,” The Cosmic Knight looks up at the sky.

    THE BARBED COURT
    Before they’re allowed to meet with the Barbed Knight, the Company must spill their blood upon individual scrolls of parchment.

    The Ruler’s envoy rolls each one carefully and seals them with a length of coloured ribbon. A different colour for each of the six Knights.

    As each of them cuts their hand, the Mock Knight looks down at its padded mitts. It slowly steps away. The clockwork ticking within it begins to hasten.

    “Something wrong?” The envoys asks.

    “I just need my dagger…” the Mock Knight says, reaching its hand into the saddlebag dripping with the Bat’s brains and blood.

    “Oh never mind, here it is.” It pats its blood-soaked cotton hand on the parchment and quickly turns away, mimicking a tinny, copper whistle.

    A mechanical lift brings the Company to the top of the Celestial Tower, where strange machinery made of metal and mirrors casts light onto flat discs of glass, leaving impressions of the stars.

    The Barbed Knight sits at a desk twirling an arrow with a needle-like point.

    “I know why you’re here,” she says apathetically, “you’ve come to judge me. Fine, ask your questions. Make your verdict.”

    She admits she killed the True Knight and stole his holding from him, but it’s because he refused to act. “He insisted the shortening spring was due to the movement of the so-called Living Stars…”

    “And you believe it was the Bat?”

    “Why not? My predecessor believed it was these panes of glass—” she says. She kicks a stack of stained glass, each one depicts the movement of stars across the sky—”why is it so absurd to claim it is the Bat?”

    The Company is quiet.

    “It doesn’t matter what I believe,” the Barbed Knight says. She looks out from her tower upon the commoners celebrating in the taverns and in the streets below. “If they are doomed, let them die fighting. Happy.”

    “I say we demand her help with the Axebearer,” the Ring Knight suggests, “she created this whole situation. That seems just.”

    “That has nothing to do with why we’re here,” the Fanged Knight says, “our duty is to pass judgement on her. She killed the True Knight without honour. What do we do about that?”

    “Death,” the Company announces. “Trial by combat.”

    “Fine,” the Barbed Knight stands, “and who is your champion for this duel?”

    “This is your home, your holding,” the Company agrees, “you choose which one of us you will face.”

    The Barbed Knight giggles; she inspects the group, making eye contact with each one while pressing the thin metal tip of her arrow against her lower lip.

    “You,” she says, pointing with the arrow, “the Pigeon Knight, to the Dueling Cave.”

    The Company gasps.

    THE DUEL
    Deep below the tower is a stone pillar overlooking a chasm of darkness.

    The Ring Knight places a ring on the Pigeon Knight’s finger before the fight, closes his hand into a fist, and covers it with hers.

    “You have my Clarity,” she tells him. The Pigeon Knight’s hand shakes as he secures his plates.

    The Company watches from an amphitheater overlooking the cave.

    The Barbed Knight restrings her bow. A servant carries one of the scrolls soaked with the Company’s blood—the blue one, the Pigeon Knight’s. She unrolls it and dips her arrow into the parchment; the blood on the page is absorbed into the tip of her arrow, and the parchment is cast aside. She kisses the arrow, whispers to it: “go home.”

    Before the duel begins, the Knights exchange a solemn nod.

    The Pigeon Knight commits to a killing blow, throwing himself toward the Barbed Knight and swinging his polearm powerfully toward her head.

    The Barbed Knight ducks. She slides beneath the blade and digs her knee into the stone.

    The Pigeon Knight is struck beneath his outstretched arm. A mortal wound, directly in his heart. Blood and feathers spill onto the stone.

    “The Celestial Tower is mine,” the Barbed Knight says. She doesn’t look at the Pigeon Knight’s face as she pulls the arrow from between his ribs.

    The Ring Knight stands over the Pigeon Knight, watching his final, rapid breaths. His fist is clenched around the ring she had loaned to him.

    THE AXEBEARER
    The Company has lost a Brother. They have no business in the Boreal Valley, save their oath.

    Seek the Myths.

    The proper rites are performed. They join Radlef and his militia.

    They hunt for the Axebearer, Wella Gall.

    “I feel nothing,” the Mock Knight finally admits as they ride without their guide for the first time.

    They ride west into the mountains across the valley floor. In hushed whispers, they hear the militia suggest the Knights should lay down their lives to appease the Axebearer.

    The militia is scared.

    They follow the path of fallen trees until they find the massive, musclebound Lady, Wella Gall. She stands atop a cliff, felling trees in singular strikes.

    “Knights!” Wella Gall announces, “as tools of humble lumberjack they split the log and stone, this one is made to cleave the knights and castles that they own!”

    She strikes the earth, sending a great shockwave across the forest.

    The horses begin to panic, save the Cosmic Knight’s boneless steed. It absorbs the shockwaves as the Cosmic Knight stares up to the evening, twilight sky. The first few stars have already started to appear. They shine brightest just before the Cosmic Knight disappears.

    He leaves behind a glowing pebble, and a wobbling horse.

    What’s left of the Company regain control of their horses.

    Wella Gall raises her axe, prepared to cleave the world in two.

    The Company charges. They crash upon her like a terrible metallic wave and pin her axe to the ground.

    She thrusts her axe from beneath the pile of polearms. She pushes it forward and into the face of the Mock Knight. It shatters. Porcelain and shredded silk are scattered in the wind.

    The Fanged Knight grabs Wella Gall and sinks his teeth into her throat. Her eyes begin to close.

    Before she succumbs to his bite and falls into a deep sleep, she offers him the axe—”Do the honourable thing,” she begs him.

    The Fanged Knight takes the axe.

    The Mock Knight reflexively covers its face. Behind padded mitts, its gears turn.

    It sees Wella Gall is bleeding, dying. It lowers its mitts and lifts some cotton stuffing from its neck hole. It presses the stuffing into Wella Gall’s neck. The cotton soaks the blood.

    The Fox Knight and the Ring Knight kneel, pressing their hands over the wound. The bleeding stops. They feel someone standing behind them.

    It’s their Brother, the Fanged Knight. He grips the axe, blood dripping from his mouth. He stands over them, blocking the sunlight.

    AFTERMATH
    The Company brings Wella Gall back to the Celestial Tower to be judged by the Ruler. The Barbed Knight is proven just through trial by combat. The Cosmic Knight is never seen again.

    Under moonlight, after countless sleepless nights, the Fanged Knight is sharpening the Axe. He hums to himself, “…all Knights will feel the axe.”

  • The Forgotten Coast | Pilot

    Our story begins in Bastion, in the shadowy parking lot beneath the offices of the People’s Paperworks…

    “Paper is serious business. I don’t blame Anna for running away, but it’s time for me to name my successor. No doubt she’s staying with her dear friend in Hendenburgh, Valerie. Start there.”
    – Arthur People

    The Cast
    Collectively, they owe £10,000 to the People’s Paperworks.

    Numeron
    Investment Centurion
    1 HP, 8 STR, 10 DEX, 12 CHA

    Nika
    Failed Criminal Bureaucrat
    5 HP, 8 STR, 8 DEX, 8 CHA

    Flinch & Hamish (Hawk)
    Street Judge
    A1, 1 HP, 10 STR, 11 DEX, 6 CHA

    Red Ghost stopped making carriages in ’25. They tried tires for a while, but the market was already owned. In ’42, the executives made a choice that changed the borough: they built a machine designed to outrun the city.

    They made a series of automobiles with combustion engines that would last longer and drive further than the modern electric car. Their flagship model, the Banshee, was manufactured in Bastion from ’44 to ’57 until the allegedly-toxic fumes of the Deep Country Machinery turned the city against the entire borough. Still, curiosity compilers and machine whisperers alike hold the RG Banshees produced in that time in high regard as a safe and reliable way of travelling outside of Bastion. But who would ever do that?

    BASTION, ’73
    The lift doors open to reveal a long corridor into darkness. Our characters step out, they look disheveled and broken-down under the crushing weight of debt. A hawk flies out first, surveying the corridor. It smells like paint and rain.

    Under an amber spotlight is the ’47 RG Banshee; Numeron tosses Flinch the keys. The eight-ball-keychain feels heavy in his hand. Denser than it should. The Banshee is warm to the touch, while the surrounding cars remain cold, dusty, and untouched.

    When the headlights turn on, a figure moves behind a concrete pillar, just out of view.

    “Let’s go.”

    The characters drive toward the light, but they’re blocked by an aluminum barrier arm and an intense parking attendant. He holds a clipboard in his hand, and demands the stub.

    The characters open the glove compartment, Nika reaches in and feels the weight of the parking stub’s premium paper.

    “How old is that?” Flinch asks.

    “Nine years… eight months.” Nika reads. Wow, the paper retains its high gloss finish, even after all these years.

    “Parking costs £7 per week,” the attendant says, “that’s £3,192. Unauthorized vehicles will be towed at your expense.”

    “No way,” Numeron says, leaning forward from the backseat. Hamish ruffles his feathers, “call Arthur, we’re not paying for this. This is his car, we work for him.”

    The parking attendant slides the glass window closed. He picks up the phone: “yeah, uh-huh, ok, I’ll tell them,” he opens the window. “He says maybe you aren’t the right people for the job, if you can’t figure this out.”

    Flinch turns to the others, “what do we do?”

    “If you can’t afford to pay,” the attendant says excitedly, “you can always fill out a Form 27-B.”

    “What’s that?”

    “A declaration of financial hardship.”

    Numeron lifts a coin from his pocket. A substantially lucky coin. He offers to wager: “Flip the coin, call it. If we win, you let us out. If we lose, we fill out the form.”

    The parking attendant scans the group. He sees a pistol concealed beneath Nika’s vest. He sees the predatory gaze of a hawk. He sees a desperate pettiness in Numeron’s eyes as he holds the coin. A simmering lust for violence.

    “Fine.”

    The coin is flipped, the arm lifts, and as the group drives away, they see the parking attendant is crying.

    THE FORGOTTEN COAST
    The characters drive for hours through the humming tunnel lit by yellow sodium-vapor. The white haze is blinding as they emerge on the Forgotten Coast. A cracked asphalt highway cuts through a suffocating mountain forest.

    A strange smell occurs on the road. Familiar, but indescribable. There’s nothing but static on the radio.

    It’s late evening when the Banshee turns off the highway onto a muddy road with deep tracks. On the mountainside is a lumber mill surrounded by a sheet metal gate. The owner, Ibley, is contractually obligated to shelter the characters.

    They ask around about a specialist to look at their car. The dead-eyed, broke-back mill workers point them toward a garage and the light spills out from the open door. Inside is the machinist, Bale. He inspects the car.

    “I can’t find anything wrong with the car,” he says, running a gangly, grease-covered arm through his thick dark hair, “these old RG models are built to last, that’s for sure.” He runs his hand across the hood tenderly.

    “Tell you what though, you look in on my cousin Winnie in Orlane–it’s on your way to Hendenburgh, and I’ll fix any future issues that come up,” he pats the car, “it’s a damn fine machine.”

    Winnie owns the Foaming Mug in Orlane, “I’m sure she’s fine,” the machinist keeps saying, but he looks like his worries are eating him alive. He’s a man in mid-disappearance, his reflection not even visible in the dark windows behind him.

    Flinch reaches a hand and places it on Bale’s shoulder, just to check–he’s there, in the flesh, warm and damp with sweat.

    “We’ll look in on Winnie, don’t worry,” Flinch says.

    ROAD TO ORLANE
    The characters wake up in a cottage overcrowded with reams of paper–ultra high gloss, heavyweight. The good stuff. They leave for Orlane, turning off of HWY 1 and onto the dirt road, Ferry Dr.

    ORLANE
    The first sign they see says MOTEL. A smaller, ornate wooden sign hanging below it reads the Golden Grain Inn. Flinch and Nika wait in the car, Numeron runs inside. The bartender smiles, wiping a rag across the polished wooden bar. The bumpkins within turn in unison. He feels out of place in his office wear, but approaches the bar.

    The bartender smiles warmly. Like it’s a long-awaited homecoming.

    “I’m looking for Winnie,” Numeron says.

    “Don’t know her,” the man turns his head, “would you like a drink?”

    “No thanks,” Numeron looks around the room. The bumpkins only stare. He rattles his fingers on the bar, “where’s the Foaming Mug?”

    “Foaming Mug…” the bartender leans his head back, like he’s trying to swallow the words but they’re too big and too sharp to get down, “never heard of it.”

    “Fucking liar,” Numeron spits as he slams the Banshee door behind him, “he just wants us to stay at his inn. Let’s keep driving.”

    Flinch rolls the Banshee forward, Nika scans the streets. Numeron wipes a small white spot on his trousers, smearing hawk poop deeper into the wool.

    The group sees a small, industrial farming town. Broken down farming equipment, overgrown yards, numerous boarded up shops. They see a young man cutting wood, they roll down the window and wave him over.

    “Foaming Mug? Never heard of it,” he says, sticking his head in the car to get a good look at each of them.

    The group drives until they find a grove of stately elms and a long path rising into the trees. It’s getting dark now, and they have no idea where the Foaming Mug is.

    At the end of the trail is a hermit’s cottage. Drapes pulled tightly closed. The group parks the Banshee and knocks on the door.

    “Go away,” they hear from within.

    “We’re looking for Winnie,” Flinch announces. “Bale sent us,” he adds, hopeful Winnie is in there and the feeling that his guts are sinking into the surrounding swamp will end.

    The door opens slightly, an old man peeks through and takes a look at them, and then he sticks the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun in their face.

    “I’ll let you in, but you need to submit to this.” He pulls a piece of silver from the pocket of his work jacket, it looks like an otoscope but it’s decorated with ornate filigree that flashes in the buzzing porchlight.

    “What is that?”

    “Mind probe,” the old man says, his lips so tight they barely seem to move.

    “Ok,” Numeron says, volunteering to go first.

    “Don’t resist,” the old man warns, shaking the shotgun a little bit.

    Numeron feels his mind invaded, a splinter in the back of his skull widening, burrowing in and looking for his truest self.

    Flinch and Nika watch as the old man’s face lights up with insight; he sees Numeron’s pain, his preoccupation with petty jealousies, and the rage he holds for the traders who sold him out.

    Flinch goes next: he’s a well of guilt, a black hole of shame–he can’t stand the gravity of what he did, all the people he sent to prison and the extra money he took to tip the scales. Finding Anna–this, now; looking for Winnie–it’s redemption.

    Nika feels the steely hot focus of the probe worming its way through her skull, poking around her head meat and looking for her secrets.

    Stop!

    The old man steps back, he feels Nika resist the probe.

    “I said don’t resist!” He raises the gun, “you’re with them aren’t you!”

    “Who?” Nika asks, raising her voice.

    Numeron steps between them, “she’s with us,” he says.

    “We’ve known her for a decade,” Flinch adds.

    The man starts to relax, he finally lets down his guard, blinks for the first time. “Come in, and close the door.”

    He sets the shotgun down on the kitchen table. The place is filthy. He puts his arcana back in his pocket and pours a glass of whiskey.

    “What’s going on around here?” Flinch asks.

    “I don’t know,” Roman grits his teeth and pours another drink, “the whole town’s gone funny. People disappear, then they come back changed. I don’t know who to trust.”

    “We’re looking for Winnie, do you know her?” Nika asks.

    “Yeah, I know Winnie,” he begins. He used to drink at the Foaming Mug regularly, but a few weeks ago there was a fire, it’s been boarded up and Winnie has been missing ever since.

    They borrow Roman’s phone to call Bale. Let him know his cousin’s missing, but they’re “on it.”

    Bale’s drunk, he slurs he knew that he ought to be worried, “no one trusts me since the accident…” he mutters.

    “What accident?”

    He raises his voice, there’s static over the line, “it had a faulty safety mechanism! No one could have seen it coming. Yeah, he lost his arm… but I lost all respect around here. It wasn’t my fault!”

    They hang up. Roman lets the group stay in his yard, but one night only: “You’ll draw too much attention…”

    As they leave Roman’s cottage, and prepare for a rough night’s rest in the Banshee, they decide to check out the burned-down Foaming Mug under the cover of night.

    They find a scorched, overturned sign, and start to walk up the stairs when they hear the racking of a shotgun from behind them.

    “Don’t tell me you’re trespassing,” the man says stone-faced. He wears a star-shaped badge on his modern body armour and casually rests his weapon on his shoulder.

    “Constable Grover,” he says, “it’s dangerous in there, come on down.”

    Flinch steps forward, raises his book of laws, “it’s ok, Constable, I’m a judge. From Bastion. I’m here to inspect the fire damage.”

    Grover spits. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

    The group breaks through the boards and steps inside. Hamish perches on the roof to keep watch. Inside, there’s clear signs of arson.

    “Fire bombs,” Flinch says, pointing at the dots of blackened, scorched wood from a chemical accelerant.

    There’s a rotten smell coming from below, a set of stairs behind the bar leads down into a dark, cramped basement. The group grabs their lantern from the back of the Banshee and prepares to delve below.

    Between the shelves stocked with pickles and dry staples, they can hear the crunching and snapping of breaking bones.

    “It’s probably just a pig,” Flinch says, “from the hog farm around the corner.”

    The group moves closer.

    First, the lantern reflects in the glossy, dripping blood.

    Then it steps forward. A hulking, man-sized crocodile on two legs. It drops the pig and lunges. It grabs Nika and pulls her back into the darkness.

    Flinch sets down the lantern and reaches for his heavy gavel.

    Numeron runs upstairs. There’s a bulky musket hanging behind the bar, he climbs the shelves to reach it.

    Downstairs, the crocodile man drags Nika across the floor by her ankle. Nika reaches into her vest and grabs her pistol.

    A flash of light.

    A percussive blast echoes off the stone walls.

    When her eyes readjust, she sees a tiny bullet is stuck, smoking in the scales of the crocodile man’s flank.

    It retaliates with a swipe. A bright wet gash is carved across Nika’s arm.

    Flinch hammers at the monster’s back. It doesn’t stop.

    “Get back!” Numeron shouts. He raises the musket with both hands.

    Flinch presses himself into the shelves, pickle jars smash on the floor.

    Nika closes her eyes.

    The gunshot vibrates Numeron’s teeth as he’s thrust backward by the musket. Sparks fly out of the barrel and sizzle on the wet floor. He’s blinded by smoke, but the crocodile man is thrown to its side.

    Its scales are blackened by the birdshot. The thing hisses and retreats, slithering out through the basement window.

    “What the fuck,” Nika spits, inspecting the wound on her shoulder, “what the fuck?”

    TEMPLE OF THE STARS
    A search of the basement yields a history book about the Temple of the Stars, and the village’s two-generation history of superstitious worship of the temple’s artefacts. The next morning, the group approaches.

    The temple is the only stone building in the village, surrounded by granite walls. They pound on the wooden doors. A monk in ceremonial robes opens the gate, says the temple is closed for renovations.

    The group barges in, led by Nika, “out of the way,” she says as she steps past the monk.

    The groundskeeper looks up from his task; he’s cutting the hedges with a noisy, smoking chainsaw.

    “If you insist,” the monk says coldly.

    Inside the temple where the domed ceiling is adorned with golden constellations, a heavy tarp obscures more than half the room. A strong-looking, middle aged man with thin hair turns to greet the Bastionites. He’s dressed like a priest.

    “I’m sorry, Father Abramo,” the monk says standing in the doorway, “they just barged in here.”

    “It’s ok,” Father Abramo raises his hand, nods reassuringly, “it’s more than ok… the temple is under construction–it might not be safe at the moment–but we welcome any visitor. It’s your choice. Do you want to see?”

    Nika barges forward, peeling back the tarp. She nearly slips on a layer of dust covering the floor.

    Before her is a mass of granite, wood and steel scaffolding; a partially finished statue depicting a snake with the face of a beautiful, angelic woman.”What is this?” Nika asks.

    “The Reptile God,” Father Abramo says, “anyone who looks upon her is compelled to worship.”

    “Ah shit,” Numeron notices that the monk is blocking the exit.

    “Where’s Winnie?” Flinch demands, dropping all pretenses.

    “She is with Her, our new god,” Abramo says softly, “Would you like me to take you there?”

    “Yes.” Nika growls.

    The monks take a step forward, “but first, a drink.” Abramo says, a second monk steps into the room from an archway beyond the tarp. He carries a bottle of wine and a platter with three silver goblets.

    “Please, have some wine, then we will go,” Abramo says.

    The monk pours from the unlabeled bottle into the silver goblets. He passes one to each of the three Bastionites. They exchange glances.

    Flinch smells the wine. It’s obviously poisoned. He motions for Hamish to create a distraction. The hawk screeches and flies from Flinch’s shoulder to the top of the statue.

    “My word,” Abramo gasps, watching as its shadow moves across the temple floor. The hawk lands on the statue’s head.

    Numeron grabs Abramo and puts his letter opener to his throat: “Tell us where she is or I’ll do it!”

    “Then do it.” Father Abramo says coldly.

    Numeron tries to press the blade against the priest’s throat, but a flash of light between them forces him back, knocking him off his feet.

    Father Abramo brandishes a shard of light in the shape of a shield: “amazing, aren’t they? Arcana–gifts from the stars.”

    Hamish swoops down to grab the light from Abramo’s hand. The monks lift hatchets from beneath their robes.

    Nika raises her pistol, shoots twice at the cultists, and sends one spinning to the floor.

    The other one rushes at her. She turns her pistol and fires again, but the bullet ricochets off his skull. Blood spills into his eyes. He sinks his axe into her chest.

    Flinch runs to close the door. He can still hear the roar of the chainsaw from outside. He slides the iron crossbar closed. Turns to see Nika collapsing on the floor. A cultist stands over her, he’s wiping blood from his face with the sleeve of his dark robes.

    Flinch sprints at the monk, bringing down his gavel and bludgeoning him to a pulp.

    Sparks fly as the groundskeeper starts cutting through the iron holding closed the doors.

    Father Abramo shakes off the hawk struggling for to take his arcana. He draws a ceremonial dagger from its sheath and turns to Numeron.

    From the floor, Numeron fires his musket. The birdshot breaks against the shield of light. Tiny glowing particles are scattered through the air.

    Abramo casts the dimming arcana aside and steps through the smoke, closing the distance. He leans down and rips the musket from Numeron’s hands.

    Numeron extends his arms to protect his face and watches the dagger slide through the back of his hand. Abramo stops before pressing the dagger into Numeron’s chest.

    “There is still time for you,” the priest whispers, unblinking, “for all of you.”

    He pulls the dagger from Numeron’s hand.

    The chainsaw revs. The door swings open. The groundskeeper steps into the temple.

    “Stop!” Abramo shouts to the groundskeeper, “let them go… Let them go to Her. They will see for themselves.”

    The groundskeeper lowers the chainsaw from over his head. Its motor continues choking and coughing blue smoke into the air.

    Numeron crawls back, away from the zealot smiling down on him, and climbs to his feet.

    Abramo gestures toward the dark, “follow the Farm Trail… you will see.”

    Flinch picks Nika up from the floor, helps her walk to the car and places her in the backseat. Her wound is deep.

    The groundskeeper watches with an expressionless gaze as Numeron steps past his growling chainsaw.

    Hamish swoops into the car ahead of Flinch and Numeron. As they climb wearily into the Banshee and close the doors, they see Father Abramo still smiling as they reverse from the temple and turn toward the road.

    ***Read Episode 2 here.

  • Driving in Deep Country

    As I prepare to run my first Electric Bastionland campaign, I look to author/designer Chris McDowell’s follow up game, Mythic Bastionland for travel procedures.

    First I designed a small sandbox with a few adventures dropped in. You might recognize some of these locations from pre-written adventure modules.

    For car travel, I developed the following rules.

    Travel. Measured in Hecksleagues, commonly called Hexes. Travelling consumes a whole Phase of the day and uses one of 3 methods:

    Hike. 1 Hex on foot.
    Drive. 2 Hex on-road by car. 1 Hex off-road by car; lose d6 HP each Phase.
    Speed. 3 Hex on-road by car; lose d6 HP each Phase.

    Characters can spend a Phase to perform Minor Repairs and restore d6 HP. At 0 HP, the car is Broken and requires Major Repairs by a Specialist. There is always a cost.

    Travel Roll. For each Hex of travel, roll d6.

    1 Car Trouble.
    2-3 Impending Trouble. If you roll 2–3 again before Car Trouble occurs, treat it as a 1.
    4-6 All Good.

    Car Trouble d8
    1. Engine Seizure (Broken).
    2. Hot Engine (if Car Trouble occurs again before a Major Repair the car is Broken).
    3. Bad Brakes (-d6 HP each Phase).
    4. Electrical Failure (-3 HP each Phase).
    5. Dead Battery (Broken after next stop).
    6. Flat Tire (-2 HP each Phase).
    7. Sticky Leak (-1 HP each Phase).
    8. Strange Smell (grows stronger on subsequent Strange Smell rolls and never goes away).

    ‘47 RG Banshee A2 (Bulky Frame), 10 HP

    You might already see a problem with these rules–yes, the players’ car is in a constant battle of attrition against a breakdown. Herein lies the thrill: Random Encounters occur when the characters are broken down and vulnerable, pushing them further into the setting and plot. The need to seek a Specialist for major repairs will have them indebted to key NPCs throughout the campaign.

    To offset some of the aches and pains of this system, I’m going introduce a number of charms into the world that the players can hang from their rearview mirror for passive buffs. They’ll start with a set of pink fuzzy Novelty Dice.


    Novelty Dice. Once per day, re-roll a Travel Roll and keep the higher result.

  • Adventures in Deep Country

    This week I played a solo Electric Bastionland adventure using the Clay Shelf by Yochai Gal.

    THE CAST
    This group collectively owes £10k to Flex Restaurant. They are blacklisted from every reputable eatery in Bastion until they pay. The group heard about a valuable artifact hidden in plain sight in the flooded city of Indigo–the Blue Tear. It might be worth enough to help with their debt.

    Noble-in-Waiting
    Vanessa HP 5
    STR 6 | DEX 10 | CHA 13
    £6, fire poker (d6), fur cloak, a box of fancy cigars and bottle of brandy

    Science Mystic
    Katsun HP 6
    STR 14 | DEX 14 | CHA 8
    £1, glue, solvent, multi-setting lamp, useless pink “mind” crystal, ceramic staff (d6, Bulky, non-reactive to chemicals).

    Repressed Psychic
    Gizard HP 6
    STR 12 | DEX 7 | CHA 8
    £1, glass marbles, pick-axe (d6, Bulky), sense motives of anyone you touch.

    UITENHAGE STATION
    They start at Uitenhage Station, just beyond the clay shelf for which the region is (probably) named. It’s a rust-colored weigh station intersecting the Highway; trail signs point to White Lake.

    There’s a line of trucks waiting to be weighed by the baboon at the weigh station, literally. It scratches at its ear as it waves the clanking traffic forward.

    The camera pans to the side of the rundown highway, where Vanessa stretches her legs, smoking a cigarette amidst the tall, dead grass. She looks dangerous; she wears a thick fur coat in the blistering sun. Her escorts, Gizard and Katsun, inspect the motorized-memorial-float they drove from the city.

    Katsun holds his lamp, a cigarette dangles from his mouth. Gizard runs his hand across the cooling metal of the float. It’s covered in dirt, the once-bright streamers are dull and torn. It’s out of electricity.

    “It’s tired,” Gizard says. “I can sense it.”

    Katsun points to the road. There’s a hefty fellow walking between the smoking trucks. He’s speaking loudly at each of the drivers and readjusting the bulky firearm that hangs from his belt.

    “Ask him for a boost.” Katsun grunts.

    “Do they even have electricity out here?” Vanessa asks, lifting her sunglasses for the first time since the group left the city. She squints at the weigh station. Wind scatters the dust between the trio.

    The man smiles as Vanessa approaches, Gizard and Katsun watch from the float.

    Husker Scon
    9hp, CHA 11
    Harmonica pistol (d8, BLAST)

    • Vanessa passes a CHA save for a favorable reaction.

    “You’re from Bastion, right?” The man asks, placing his hands on his hips.

    “How could you tell?” Vanessa lifts a cigarette from her handbag.

    The man stumbles forward to hold out his lighter. It takes a few clicks before it lights–Vanessa inhales deeply–“thanks,” she smiles.

    The man lights a cigarette of his own. The traffic starts to stall behind him.

    “Husker,” the man says. “Husker Scon. Where ya headed?”

    “Indigo,” Vanessa tells him, “but our vehicle has run out of electricity. You wouldn’t be able to, I don’t know, charge it somehow, would you?”

    Husker looks over Vanessa’s shoulder. Sees the float. Sees the men standing with their hands on their hips. City folk.

    “Sure, I could fix it up for you. It might take a day or so. In the mean time, you should see the sights. It’s early, you could walk to Elephant Rock and back before it’s dark.”

    “What’s Elephant Rock?”

    “It’s a big rock.” Husker says.

    “Why would I want to see that?” Vanessa asks.

    “Well, it looks like an elephant. But taller.”

    “Ah.” Vanessa takes a final drag from her cigarette. She drops it in the dirt.

    “Let’s go people!” An impatient driver shouts from his clattering machine. The baboon at the weigh station hoots and snarls at him.

    “Well,” Husker says finishing his cigarette, “I’ll take a look at your vehicle once things slow down around here.”

    “What now?” Gizard asks, “do we just wait?”

    • Vanessa fails a CHA save, and doesn’t realize Husker is untrustworthy.

    “We could check out this big rock he mentioned,” Vanessa suggests.

    “What’s in White Lake?” Katsun asks, pointing at the sign. The trail disappears into the scrublands beyond the horizon.

    “We need to focus on getting to Indigo,” Vanessa says impatiently. “If this Blue Tear is hidden in plain sight it’s only a matter of time until someone else gets it. I won’t let that happen.”

    “It’s not like you need to worry about money,” Gizard scoffs.

    “Hey,” Vanessa scowls, “eight barons–all of them very far from Bastion–still need to die before I’ll be the Faux-Reiner of Trave. I need to take care of myself until then.”

    “Don’t pout.” Katsun says. “I’m sure I can fix this vehicle myself. Besides, I don’t trust anyone who abuses animals.”

    Katsun lifts a pink crystal from his pocket and puts it to his forehead. He runs his hand across the surface of the memorial-float.

    • Katsun fails a CHA save to fix the memorial float.

    “It’s tired, like you said.” Katsun announces. “Gizard, remove this panel.”

    Katsun begins pointing at the memorial-float with his ceramic rod and ordering Gizard to dismantle each section that “doesn’t react.” Only the barest metal frame is left when the two are done, and the sun is high in the sky.

    “I can’t fix this now,” Husker says disapprovingly, standing over a pile of scrap metal and twisted wires. “You’ve wrecked the whole thing.”

    The highway is quiet. The baboon rests its eyes, stooped-comfortably in its stool at the controls of the weigh station. Husker sifts through the scraps, looking for anything of value.

    “Well, thanks for your offer.” Gizard holds out his hand to shake Husker’s.

    • Husker passes a CHA save, prefers to not shake Gizard’s hand. He doesn’t know why.

    “Who’s going to clean all this up?” Husker asks, his hands still in his pockets.

    “Your baboon, I imagine.” Vanessa replies sharply. “Boys, let’s go.”

    • Husker uses his heliotrope to signal Flat Bandits ahead on the road.

    ELEPHANT ROCK
    The group walks along the poorly-maintained road bisecting the region. On either side of them, a vast desert extends until it reaches the distant caldera. The Clay Shelf. Occasionally, loud trucks break the silence as they blast between the despondent walkers.

    • Three Flat Bandits hide behind Elephant Rock, waiting for the marks Husker signaled about.

    Flat Bandit
    HP 3
    £d6, chewing gum, pistol (d6)

    • Luck Roll. Do any of the PCs notice the bandits as they approach? Yes.

    Vanessa stops walking. She remembers the creepy feeling Husker gave her. The way he wouldn’t shake Gizard’s hand.

    “Hey,” Gizard says, “the rock does look like an elephant.”

    “Only taller.” Katsun adds.

    A crash zoom reveals Vanessa’s perspective: a wiry man runs and lays down on the ground behind a boulder, a pistol in his outstretched hand.

    “There’s troublemakers in those rocks.” Vanessa warns the others. “We need to think carefully.”

    “How many?” Katsun asks.

    • Vanessa fails a CHA save. She isn’t confident.

    “At least one…” Vanessa sighs.

    “They probably mean to rob us.” Gizard says. “We should go back, maybe we can hitchhike to Indigo?”

    “It’s not like we have any money,” Vanessa says, “but maybe they’ll just kill us.”

    “What do we do, Boss?” Katsun asks. He crouches by the highway. Squints into the distance. Turns his pink crystal between his thumb and index finger.

    Vanessa lights a cigarette. “Let me think.”

    A flash of insight.

    “Katsun,” Vanessa says, “give me your glue.”

    As the group descends toward Elephant Rock, three figures step out from behind the boulders and form a line blocking the road.

    “Hold it right there,” the wiry leader says in a monotone voice. He holds his pistol at his hip. His jacket is dusty from laying on the ground.

    • Luck Roll. Are the other bandits pointing their pistols? No.

    One of the bandits has an intense stare, and a constellation of tattoos across his shaved head. He keeps his arms crossed.

    The third bandit is a young woman chewing gum, dressed in modern clothes. She keeps her hands on her hips, her pistol tucked in her belt.

    “Empty your pockets.” The wiry leader says.

    Katsun steps forward, he’s holding a fancy box of cigars in one hand, and a bottle of brandy in the other.

    “Please,” he says flatly as he stretches out his arms, “don’t hurt us.”

    “Charli,” the leader says, “grab that shit. The rest of you–” he points the pistol at Gizard, then Vanessa–“I said empty your pockets!”

    Charli steps forward, rolls her eyes at her Boyfriend’s red-blooded display, and reaches for the bottle and the cigars. Katsun smiles weakly. There’s a faint smell of chemicals.

    • Charli passes a CHA save to notice the glue.

    “Ew, what the fuck,” she says, “there’s something sticky all over this stuff, I’m not touching that.”

    Katsun drops the bottle, drops the cigars, and reaches for Charli’s pistol. He rips it from her belt and points it at her head.

    • Katsun passes a DEX save to act before the bandits.
    • Katsun passes a STR save to rip the pistol from Charli.
    • The Boyfriend passes a DEX save to act before the PCs.

    The Boyfriend turns his pistol to Katsun. He takes a sharp inhale and fires. A pink spray explodes from Katsun’s side.

    • The Boyfriend rolls 6 damage, reducing Katsun to 0 HP and causing a Scar (p. 9).
    • Katsun is scarred: A vital organ is in a critical state. If you take CRITICAL DAMAGE before seeing a Specialist you die. If you get it seen to, reroll your Maximum HP on 2d6 and keep the result if higher.

    “Damn it,” Katsun groans, folding in half but staying on his feet. Blood soaks the sand.

    Vanessa rushes the Boyfriend, revealing the wrought-iron fire poker hidden in her jacket. With her lit cigarette in her mouth, she strikes at the Boyfriend in a violent barrage.

    • Vanessa rolls 3 damage, reducing the Boyfriend to 0 HP and STR 9.
    • The Boyfriend critically fails his STR save to avoid CRITICAL DAMAGE.

    The Boyfriend collapses to the ground, Vanessa continues to slash at him, whittling away the flesh on his knuckles as he raises his arms to defend himself.

    The bandit with the tattoos reaches for his pistol; aims it at Vanessa.

    • The Flat Bandit fails his DEX save to act before the PCs.

    Gizard rushes the bandit, brandishing a pick-axe and thrusting it into the bandit’s shoulder.

    • Gizard rolls 6 damage, reducing the Flat Bandit to 0 HP and STR 6.
    • The Flat Bandit fails his STR save to avoid CRITICAL DAMAGE.

    The bandit coughs blood and collapses onto the ground, Gizard falls on top of him. He can sense the bandit’s rage, the bandit’s bloodlust. But also… an intense desire to study the cosmos.

    • Charli passes a CHA save to avoid fleeing.

    Charli runs at Katsun, trying to rip her pistol out his hand.

    • Charli fails a STR save to grab the pistol.

    Katsun pushes Charli back. He steps back several paces, placing both hands on the pistol.

    “Don’t move.” Katsun orders. “Gizard, get their guns.”

    Gizard quickly gets to his feet, collecting both pistols scattered in the dirt.

    Charli looks up at Katsun. Her Boyfriend is disfigured from the fire poker, crying out and spitting blood, Vanessa pants above him.

    “This guy’s bleeding out,” Gizard says, “he’s not going to make it.”

    Vanessa is quiet for a moment. Cicadas buzz in the surrounding shrubs.

    “Vanessa?” Gizard hisses.

    “You should have taken the cigars and the brandy…” Vanessa stomps over the bodies to Gizard.

    “Give me those,” she says.

    “Yes, Boss.”

    Vanessa tucks one of the pistols into her waistband and points the other one at Charli.

    “Did Husker put you up to this?” She asks flatly.

    • Charli fails a CHA save.

    “Yes.”

    Three gunshots echo out across the Clay Shelf.

    “Memento,” Gizard says, “it’s this way.” He puts his hand on Vanessa’s shoulder, “you obviously want to kill Husker,” he says softly, “but we can’t.”

    Vanessa pushes his hand away, “I know. We need to get Katsun to a doctor. We can’t go back.”

    “I’m fine boss,” Katsun says, “let’s go free that baboon.”

    A cold breeze. The first stars are already visible in the sky.

    “No,” Vanessa says firmly. “We’re going to keep moving, to Memento. Fuck Husker. I won’t forget his stupid face.”

    MEMENTO
    Small creek snakes through brightly-colored buildings, a brightly-lit saloon at its center. It’s late when they arrive, they’ve been walking all night.

    THE FOUNDOUK
    A rustic, lamp-shaped inn. Busy and brightly-lit all hours of the night. A constant, electrical buzzing hums from within.

    “We need help!” Vanessa shouts as the group enters the brightly lit saloon. There’s a few people drinking at the bar, and the sound of mechanical whirring from the kitchen.

    Katsun limps in behind Vanessa, he’s propped up by Gizard.

    “Is anyone a doctor?” Vanessa asks the room, her voice softening now.

    • Luck Roll. Is anyone in the saloon willing to look at Katsun’s wounds? Yes.

    The sole patron–a middle-aged woman–stands up. She finishes her dark liquor and sets the glass down, “let me take a look,” she croaks.

    Ines Bell, Archeologist
    3 HP, STR 7, CHA 13
    Luck Tooth. An ancient tooth from a Noble Lioness. Sucks the Luck from others, and gives it to the wearer.

    Gizard rests Katsun on a dusty wooden chair. The woman lifts a penlight from her jacket.

    “You’ve been shot,” she says, shining the penlight over Katsun’s flank. “Who did this?”

    “Bandits,” Vanessa says, “on the road.”

    “Flat Bandits…” the woman snarls, “they’ve been watching me ever since I got here.” She crouches to take a closer look at Katsun’s side.

    • Ines passes a CHA save to assess the injury.

    “Your liver is injured…” The woman slurs, “you won’t survive another injury.”

    “Can you help him?” Vanessa asks.

    “No, I’m not that kind of doctor.” The woman says, tucking her penlight back into her jacket. “There’s a hospital in Indigo. In the Orchard. You should take him there.”

    “We’ll rest here tonight, and leave tomorrow.” Vanessa says.

    “Let’s get a drink,” Katsun adds.

    “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Gizard warns.

    A golden cat sits on the bar.

    “What can I offer you?” It purrs.

    Mr. Bitters, a Spark Cat
    6 HP, DEX 16
    Electric shock (d6)

    “Just a room,” Vanessa says, “are you the owner?”

    “Mr. Bitters,” the cat sits back, “I’m the manager.”

    Gizard turns to the woman, “I didn’t get your name,” he says, placing his hand on her shoulder. He senses her motivation–although dulled by liquor–to learn about the Idir people and the Cerulean Pearl.

    “Ines,” she says sharply, her eyes fixed on the cat.

    “Ines,” Gizard smiles, “what were you saying about the bandits?”

    She turns to make eye contact with Gizard. “Not now,” she hisses.

    • Gizard fails a CHA save to read the room.

    The cat watches from the bar, “five pounds for the room,” it purrs.

    • -£5 for the room.

    “I don’t like that cat,” Katsun says. He peaks through the dusty, burgundy blinds into the brightly lit street below.

    “Let’s just rest,” Vanessa says, pulling a sleep mask over her face, “we’ll go to Indigo as soon as we can.”

    EAST OF THE BONEWATER
    It’s afternoon. The characters walk the poorly-maintained road bisecting the region. A heavy haze obscures a large crowd gathered ahead. They hold long rifles and block the road.

    • Random Encounters on the Road. Whenever the PCs stop to rest, leave a settlement, roll a d6.

    Bandits Detachment.
    9hp, STR 11, CHA 5, long-range rifle (d6).

    • Luck Roll. Do the bandits see the PCs? Yes.

    There’s a distant popping sound. Tiny explosions in the dirt and asphalt at Katsun’s feet.

    “They’re shooting at us!” Gizard cries out.

    • Katsun and Vanessa pass a DEX save to act before the bandits.
    • Gizard fails a DEX save to act before the bandits.

    “Run, run!” Vanessa shouts.

    • Katsun passes a DEX save to run back to Memento.
    • Vanessa fails a DEX save to run back to Memento.

    Katsun turns and runs, disappearing over the hill and leaving a trail of dust. Several more explosions in the dirt, followed by the sounds of distant popping and shouting voices.

    Vanessa stumbles, Gizard barely catches her. The two fall to their knees in the road. A crowd of bandits surround them.

    “Fur coat,” one of them says, “just like Husker said.”

    “Blow them away.” Another says gruffly.

    • The bandits roll 11 damage, reducing Vanessa to 0 HP and STR 0. Vanessa is killed.
    • The bandits roll 9 damage, reducing Gizard to 0 HP and STR 9. Gizard fails a STR save to avoid CRITICAL DAMAGE.

    Vanessa and Gizard are shredded by rifle blasts.

    “Go chase down that other one,” the bandit orders. “No one hurts the Flat Bandits and gets away with it…”

  • SoloDark–Lost Citadel of the Scarlet Minotaur

    I tried playing SoloDark this week with three Level 1 characters delving into the Lost Citadel of the Scarlet Minotaur.

    • Each time I consulted the oracle die is separated from the text.

    ***Some descriptive location text and dungeon elements are adapted from or closely paraphrase the Shadowdark RPG Quickstart Set and the Lost Citadel of the Scarlet Minotaur by Kelsey Dionne. All narration, character actions, and solo play outcomes are my own.

    Yipnag–goblin scholar and robber–has recruited an unlikely duo of dungeon crawlers to help him recover the Essence of Malfune. It’s somewhere within the Lost Citadel, but no one knows where.

    The crawlers? Brom, a dwarf warrior who grew up brawling on city streets and Nimed, an elf acolyte from the forest adorned in wildflowers carrying a knotted staff.

    The group travels across the shimmering, emerald sea to the island of the Lost Citadel. There’s a tiny, coastal village in the shadow of its red cliffs where locals warn of opportunistic, grey-furred beastmen haunting the citadel. It’s rife with secret rooms and passageways.

    Yipnag scrawls notes, pushing his spectacles up his greasy, pointed nose. Brom scoffs–he’s never met a beast or a man he couldn’t intimidate. Nimed looks toward the arid scrublands beyond the village.

    • Is there somewhere safe to stay in the village? No, but Brom is comfortable sleeping on the streets and finds a secure alley between the leaning, sandstone buildings.
    • Is there an encounter in the night? No, but there’s strange noises in the darkness of the city.
    • Rolled on Low District Encounters–100! A dropped magic item glitters inside a filthy gutter.

    Ancient Turtle Armor
    1 Benefit, 1 Curse. 1 Virtue, 1 Flaw.
    Leather Armor with turtle shell plating, +0
    Once per day, deflect range attacks that would hit you.
    Beneficial spells that target you are hard to cast (DC 18).
    Gladly translates primordial for its wearer.
    Insists on being reunited with its creator, living or dead.
    Charming personality.

    • Is the armor’s creator in the village? Yes, but he’s dead.

    Yipnag wears the armor, but quickly understands why it was dropped in the gutter. It’s politely begging to be brought to the graveyard and be reunited with its maker. Yipnag reassures the armor it will be useful for reading primordial in the Lost Citadel, and the group rests.

    Marching to the Lost Citadel
    Cicadas buzz in the arid scrubland around the citadel.

    • Is there anything outside the citadel? No, but there’s tracks leading in.
    • Are they beastman tracks? No, but they are person-sized.
    • Do the characters know about the other entrances? No, but they look around and find them.

    The characters decide to enter the main entrance of the citadel, carved with bucking bulls mid-leap.

    Round 1
    Nimed casts light on his staff and motions for Brom to lead the way. Brom marches toward the door and listens. Yipnag lights a torch.

    • Does Brom hear anything on the other side of the door? Yes, but it’s getting quieter.

    “It’s moving away from us,” Brom hisses. “Let’s wait.”

    Round 2
    Brom opens the door quickly and quietly. The walls are floor-to-ceiling murals painted in vibrant jewel tones. They sparkle in the light of Nimed’s staff. Brom’s bulky shadow is stretched across red pillars, tapered and banded in black marble at the top and bottom. Brom moves to the back of the room to look behind the pillars, and to cover his allies’ entrance.

    “Come on,” he hisses.

    Nimed enters next, fully illuminating the room.

    “All clear,” he announces.

    Yipnag studies the murals by his torchlight. They depict people in white robes kneeling in a room of red pillars before a colossal, onyx bull with horns lowered.

    “Anything about Malfune?” Nimed asks softly.

    “No,” Yipnag says, “but this must be the place.”

    • Does the source of the noise return from Area 2? No.
    • Does anyone notice the hidden niche behind the bull statue? No.

    Round 3
    Nimed leads the way left into a room filled with terracotta jars. The air has a sulfuric smell. There is the sound of faint squeaks and hisses. To the south, white jagged lines gouge the stone. Nimed takes a closer look: “RIP Orwyn the Younger… There might be danger on the other side of this door.” Nimed scans the jars, each sealed with cork and wax. They’re stamped with images of people carving wheat and scythes. “Let’s move on,” Nimed clutches at his holy symbol of Gede–a wooden sheaf of wheat.

    The group keeps moving.

    Twin halls, a weighty stone bowl in each. Murals depict peasants pouring jars of gold coins and wheat into massive, grey bowls. Red-armored warriors with bronze spears supervise.

    “Offering bowls,” Yipnag suggests.

    “Offerings for what?” Brom asks, his hand firm on the hilt of his longsword.

    • Does anyone leave an offering? Yes, but Nimed leaves a flower. No effect.

    Round 4
    “Watch out!” Yipnag hisses, “there’s someone behind the offering bowl!” The goblin crouches and points at a middle-aged human crouched behind the southeast bowl.

    “Don’t hurt me!” The man cries out. He stands up, looks into the offering bowl. He picks up the dried flower. “Lamia’s grass,” he smiles as he eats it. “Please, I’m just an old herbalist, Giuseppe Baldini.”

    “Why are you here?” The group asks.

    “I came in here looking for treasure, what’s it to you?” The crochety old man spits.

    • Does Giuseppe join the group? Yes.

    “It’s not safe here, especially for a weak old man. You should go.” Brom insists.

    Giuseppe isn’t intimidated. He’s seen worse–the Scarlet Minotaur. A savage minotaur drenched in blood stalks the citadel’s halls.

    “We’re safer in a group, trust me…”

    There’s a door to the north, and a door to the west.

    • Does Giuseppe know which way leads to the heart of the Citadel? No, he’s completely lost.

    The characters decide to scout ahead each way, peeking through the north and east doors. Each way is clear of danger, but the east is a labyrinth of narrow, tall corridors. Easy to get lost. The group chooses north.

    Round 5
    The characters march forward through a narrow hall wrapping around the centre of the citadel. It terminates at a wooden door. Yipnag peeks through the door. A lengthy, moonlit central courtyard. A bull statue, twenty-feet tall, black onyx with rippling muscles. Horns lowered and dotted with white.

    The Scarlet Minotaur, a hulking beast covered in shining black blood. It wields a glistening greataxe. Steam rises from its heavy breaths and disappears into the stars above.

    “We should go back,” Giuseppe warns. Yipnag tries to close the door quietly. Everyone holds their breath. Silence.

    “Now what?” Brom mouths.

    Everyone looks to Yipnag.

    “I thought you wanted treasure, Giuseppe?” Yipnag starts, “I saw a good deal of treasure piled at the minotaur’s feet… You should distract it. You got away from it before. The three of us will grab the treasure, and meet you outside.”

    “No way,” Giuseppe says, “I barely got away last time. Why don’t you distract the minotaur, while I grab the treasure. How do you like that?”

    “Fine,” Yipnag says. “I’ll distract the minotaur-“

    “Yipnag, don’t, we can go around.” Nimed suggests.

    “No, I’m small, I can get away from it. No doubt one of those doors circles back around. But that’s not the hard part–your job will be the hard part. You have to search through the treasure and find something that points us toward Malfune.”

    “What’s Malfune?” Giuseppe asks.

    “How will we know it when we find it? You’re the expert,” Brom says.

    “He was a powerful sorcerer,” Yipnag says, “anything magical might have been made by him. Grab anything odd.”

    “Screw that,” Giuseppe spits, “I’m grabbing some of those jewels and scramming.”

    “That’s fine with me,” Yipnag says, “just don’t get in my way.”

    Round 6
    Yipnag swings open the door, stepping into the central courtyard with his torch held high. The minotaur turns and charges before Yipnag can act! It moves shockingly fast, its horns dip low scattering the red dust on the ground. Its horn strikes Yipnag in the chest, goring him in an instant and pinning him against the shattered wall behind him.

    “Gede help us!” Nimed lunges forward, his staff blinding the minotaur as he reaches for Yipnag. He pulls Yipnag from the horns of the beast and places his hands on over the goblin’s bleeding wounds. “Gede, please.” Nimed’s tears fall, sparkling as they descend toward his healing hands. Yipnag’s eyes shoot open. His life restored.

    Brom grabs Giuseppe and barges forward through the doorway. He throws Giuseppe toward the hulking minotaur–“unhand me!” The old man cries as he crumbles to the dirt.

    Brom drags Yipnag back toward the black bull statue at the end of the courtyard. Nimed stands between the minotaur and his allies.

    • Does the minotaur ignore Giuseppe? Yes, but Giuseppe doesn’t leave he hides behind a pillar.

    Round 7 *Chaos Mode–Re-rolled Initiative*
    Yipnag looks behind him, thirty human skulls in various states of rot punched onto horns like necklace beads. Some have traces of grey fur. A pile of trampled and crushed bones, metal, and broken weapons are left at the feet of the statue.

    “We have to run!”

    Yipnag turns to his right and pushes through the door into a bas-relief hall. Brom and Nimed follow. Brom closes the door and begins hammering iron spikes into the ground. “This won’t keep that thing out for long!”

    Nimed pokes his glowing staff against a gangly-furred person sprawled out on the ground facedown. He holds a lumpy burlap sack. Yipnag picks it up and peeks inside.

    “Dead rats.” Yipnag drops the bag onto the floor.

    In the courtyard the minotaur turns on Giuseppe–with a swift swing of its greataxe, Giuseppe is cleaved in two. The minotaur turns toward the door. It won’t budge, but the minotaur swings its axe. The door is mostly broken down after two swings.

    “We are leaving!” Brom shouts at his allies, picking them up from the floor.

    Art by Eric Lofgren

    Round 8 *Chaos Mode–Re-rolled Initiative*
    The beastman on the floor is woken by the smashing door. It jumps to its feet. Sees the characters, its suspicious, but there’s no time. The minotaur is coming!

    “This way,” the beastman hisses. It picks up its bag of dead rats and crawls toward the northwest corner of the room. It pulls back a false piece of the mosaic wall and reveals a secret passage. It slips inside, leaving the passage open.

    Brom and Nimed look to Yipnag. He grips his torn armor, one of its turtle-shell plates is shattered. I just want to be with my maker… Please, I beg you. The armor whispers to him.

    “What choice do we have? Go. Go!” Yipnag shouts. The group slips into the secret passage and closes it behind them. They hear the minotaurs hulking footprints through the false wall. It grows closer and closer until it passes and disappears down the corridor.

    Round 9
    The characters are met with the smell of damp fur and filth. Within the walls of the citadel, fifteen hunched grey-furred humanoids chew on centipedes and snarl in harsh whispers. One lounges on a mat of rat pelts, picking his teeth. The beastman lumbers toward it holding the dead-rat-bag with outstretched paws: “Rogath, for you.”

    Rogath stands, tall and scarred, the biggest beastman by far. “I have enough rats, Brell,” he says softly. He pushes Brell aside and steps forward toward the characters. He lifts his paw to shield his eyes from the light of Nimed’s staff.

    Yipnag extinguishes and discards his torch among the littered bones and splintered wood littering the secret hall.

    “I’m much more interested in these outsiders you’ve brought, who are they?”

    “They were fighting the minotaur, brother.” Brell whispers.

    • Do the characters speak quietly? Yes, but it’s still not quiet enough.

    “We were running from the minotaur, actually.” Brom says.

    “Quiet your voices,” Rogath hisses, baring his fangs, “we survive by staying quiet.” Rogath steps forward. Sniffs Brom’s beard.

    “Watch it,” Brom says.

    “I don’t like you,” Rogath whispers. “I think I’ll eat you once the minotaur has killed you.”

    Brom reaches for his blade.

    “Brom,” Yipnag says, “don’t.” The group is surrounded by snarling beastman. Their leader snarls proudly.

    “Thank you for your hospitality, Rogath, we’ll leave now.” Yipnag whispers.

    “Beetle,” Rogath whispers to a scuttling, almost-hairless beastman, “watch where they go. Bring their meat back for the group.”

    “Tee-hee!”

    Round 10
    The group steps outside the secret passage. Yipnag lights a new torch as the light from Nimed’s staff begins to fade. Nimed whispers a prayer and further restores Yipnag’s wounds. Brom listens for the minotaur.

    • Did the minotaur keep going beyond the next room? No, but its still further from the courtyard.

    The group decides to rush through the broken door, past Giuseppe’s bisected corpse glistening in the moonlight, and through the door across the courtyard.

    • Did the minotaur hear them moving? No.

    Yipnag secures the door behind them with iron spikes. The corridor turns sharply to the left. Yipnag leads the way.

    Round 11
    The group marches straight but there’s the sound of a bloody clash in the corridor ahead. Hissing, yelping, and screeches. Around the corner, two wounded beastmen claw and bite and a lanky spiderfolk–an ettercap.

    • Is the ettercap between the characters and the beastmen? No, but the characters have marched straight between the beastmen and the ettercap.

    “This is our chance to win favor with Rogath,” Yipnag whispers.

    “Stay back, beastmen! Let us kill this wretched thing.” Brom declares.

    The ettercap acts fast, crawling onto the ceiling of the corridor. It sprays a stinking web at Brom. It lands at his feet.

    “Ha!” Brom laughs. “Get down here, you weakling!”

    Brom ties his grappling hook to rope and begins twirling it. “I’m going to get ya!”

    The grappling hook bounces off of the stone as the ettercap skitters back, hissing.

    “Let me try,” Nimed says as he grasps the rope. The grappling hook disappears into the darkness, the rope falls limp on the floor. “Damn it!”

    Yipnag takes a knee, sets his torch carefully on the floor, and readies an arrow. It cracks against stone, missing.

    The beastmen hoot and holler. The whip stones from their slings. The ettercap shrieks.

    • Does it fall to the floor? No, but it almost did. It fails a subsequent morale check.

    The ettercap skuttles away along the ceiling and disappears into the shadows.

    Round 12
    The beastmen are called Bugg and Ludo. Bugg is stooped and short, he scratches at his wounds. Ludo is missing a tooth, he creeps back away from Yipnag’s light.

    “We don’t want to hurt you,” Nimed says.

    “But we will if we have to!” Brom boasts.

    “We’re looking for something,” Yipnag says, “it’s called the Essence of Malfune. Do you know where that is?”

    • Do the beastman know about Malfune? Yes, but they only know he was a great sorcerer-warrior of the past.

    “Long ago,” Bugg explains, “we were warriors. But we must stay in the citadel, stay quiet. There are statues of our ancestors, that way.”

    The beastman point to where the ettercap retreated.

    “Let’s go.”

    Round 13
    The characters proceed to the Hall of Kings, where three alcoves contain bronze, lifelike statues of men on raised pedestals. They’re draped in robes, wearing diadems with pearls. Each holds a weapon. There’s no sign of the ettercap, it must have retreated even further.

    “Finally,” Brom says, “some damn treasure.”

    “Trapped,” Yipnag points to the statues joints. Cracks from repeated articulation.

    “Can you disarm them?” Nimed asks.

    “It’ll take some time…”

    There’s heavy footsteps from down the hall.

    “I don’t know if we have time.” Nimed says. “The minotaur is coming!”

    “It’s perfect!” Yipnag declares, “we can use these traps to kill the minotaur!”

    “Have you lost your damned mind?” Brom replies, “that’s insane, we need to run.”

    The footsteps are growing louder.

    Yipnag sets his torch on the floor of the doorway. Steps back; he nocks an arrow and waits for the minotaur to turn the corner.

    “Position yourselves in the corner,” he orders the others, “force the minotaur to put its back to the traps!”

    The minotaur turns the corner, its damp fur reflects the amber torchlight.

    Round 14 *Chaos Mode–Re-rolled Initiative*
    The minotaur charges! With unnatural speed it hurls itself toward Yipnag with its horns lowered. Yipnag is gored for the second time, the light leaves his eyes.

    • Is the minotaur in position to be struck by the trap? Yes, but Yipnag will be struck as well.

    “Do… it…” Yipnag coughs up blood.

    Brom rushes the minotaur, swinging his longsword and pressing his shield against it, backing it up toward the trap. The minotaur effortlessly deflects his strikes. Yipnag is crushed and killed.

    “Oh no!” Brom gasps.

    Nimed steps around the minotaur and carefully touches his staff to the pearl imbedded in the statue. The statue lunges forward, striking its greataxe toward the minotaur. The minotaur turns in time to deflect the trap with its shimmering axe.

    “This is it…” Nimed gasps, “we’re going to die.”

    Round 15 *Chaos Mode–Re-rolled Initiative*

    The minotaur swings its axe against Brom. The dwarf deflects the first swing with his shield. He’s struck on the backswing, knocking his shield to the side. Brom is struck a third time and brought to his knee.

    “You’re doing great, Brom!” Nimed shouts, “this time the trap will hit him!”

    “Screw this,” Brom says, “I want to live.” He runs from the minotaur, into the next room–into the unknown.

    Nimed follows, casting light upon his staff.

    Round 16 *Chaos Mode–Re-rolled Initiative*

    The cave ahead is chilly and damp, its ceiling high and covered in dripping stalactites. A pool of crimson, murky water occupies the centre of the cave. An injured ettercap clings from the ceiling, hissing at the characters.

    Before they can act, Brom is gored from behind by the stampeding minotaur and killed.

    The ettercap skuttles toward the mouth of the cave, fleeing at the site of the minotaur.

    Nimed rushes to Brom’s side, tries to heal his wounds–manages to barely bring Brom back from the brink of death.

    “We have to move!” Nimed runs for the mouth of the cave, circling around the minotaur.

    Round 17 *Chaos Mode–Re-rolled Initiative*

    Brom rushes to catch up to Nimed, watching as his wounds magically close. The two run as fast as they can straight through the Hall of Kings, jumping over Yipnag’s body, and dashing straight down the hall.

    The minotaur lumbers behind them, roaring and thrashing its axe against the sandstone walls.

    Round 18 *Chaos Mode–Re-rolled Initiative*

    “Brom, I can see light!” As they continue to run, the characters see a shaft of moonlight at the bottom of some crumbling steps ahead. “It’s a way out!”

    A skeleton blocks their path! A dead adventurer, wearing tattered chains. Its bones are stark white in the moonlight.

    Nimed holds his holy symbol out: “be gone, undead fiend!”

    His prayers go unanswered. The skeleton lurches forward.

    “I’ll handle this,” Brom steps forward swinging his sword. He misses, the metal of his blade clinks against the stone. The skeleton swings its shortsword weakly at Brom’s shield, pressing against them and blocking their path in the tight corridor.

    “This fucking skeleton is going to get us killed, Nimed!”

    The minotaur appears behind them, its close enough to charge. It lowers its horns and… Nimed is gored by the minotaur, his ribs flayed open before Brom’s eyes.

    “Saint Terragnis save me,” Brom whispers.

    Round 19 *Chaos Mode–Re-rolled Initiative*
    The minotaur throws Nimed to the side and swings its axe on Brom. Everything goes dark.

  • The Fate of Marin’s Hold

    Seven Level 6 player characters (PCs) finish their adventure in Marin’s Hold…

    When last we left our heroes, they had decided to kill Judge Eamon and help Sister Jules turn Marin’s Hold toward Shune the Vile.

    Yarknig reunites with the group; the priest of Shune that helped destroy Mugdulblub has been hiding in the Bone Cave with the witches.

    “Take her with you,” Sister Jules offers, “she is one of Shune’s most devoted worshippers.”

    The characters return to Marin’s Hold in time for the following sunset. Thanks to Sister Jules’ raven familiar, they know Judge Eamon’s routine–each evening he escorts Reeve Tarley Winters to the Church of Gede for the sunset sermon, but because he can’t stand to listen to the priest he always goes to the Crayfish Tavern to drink alone until the sermon is finished. That’s where the PCs will strike.

    To get through the gate, Leledish casts a spell on a guard on duty near the docks. He opens the gates and lets the group into town before he’s released from Leledish’s grip. With no memory of the last few minutes, he wanders back to his post confused.

    The PCs move directly to the tavern; the half-orcs, Auglud and Grant, make the patrons leave. Ipshroom sits in a wingback chair by the fire. Grant climbs to the rafters and waits above. Yarknig and Auglud sit at the bar, their backs to the entrance. Leledish hides in the stairwell, Röylat ducks behind the bar, and Hald Frogley waits by the door to block the Judge’s exit.

    When Judge Eamon strolls into the bar and sees there’s no bartender, he pours himself to an ale. He takes a sip, and looks around.

    “Where is everyone?” He asks. The foam settles on his brew. Ipshroom watches Judge Eamon’s reflection in a polished platter on the mantle. Yarknig’s eyes flicker to Auglud’s. Now’s their chance!

    But Judge Eamon reaches for his blade.

    Ipshroom jumps to his feet and launches a crossbow bolt straight into Judge Eamon’s chest. Grant drops from above, Röylat lunges over the bar, Auglud and Yarknig tackle Judge Eamon. Judge Eamon masterfully deflects each subsequent attack.

    Hald Frogley steps forward from the shadows behind the door, lifts a wand from his cloak and uses the power of his mind to lift Judge Eamon from the floor. He telekinetically pushes Judge Eamon back into the corner of the room. Judge Eamon curses Ipshroom and Yarknig, both of them grip their heads in blinding pain.

    Once Judge Eamon is held aloft by Hald Frogley’s telekinesis, the group wastes no time. Röylat drives her blade through his chest, Auglud follows with an axe to the spine, and Grant finishes the work with a whisper to Shune the Vile. Judge Eamon’s body twitches, burns from the inside out, and collapses into a heap of scorched armor.

    A shadow crosses the window. Sister Jules arrives, teleporting through her raven familiar. The air ripples as she steps from the bird’s shadow into the room.

    “It’s time,” she says, her silver hair flickering in the candlelight. “The Reeve must be turned to Shune.”

    Outside, Reeve Tarley Winters is on his way back to the hold. Leledish stretches out a trembling hand and speaks a few words of puppeteering magic. The Reeve’s eyes glaze over. His steps falter. Under Leledish’s control, Winters walks into the tavern.

    Guards gather outside, uncertain. Inside, Sister Jules presses her palms to the Reeve’s temples. Black tendrils of smoke curl around her fingers as she whispers vile incantations. When she opens her eyes again, they burn crimson.

    “Reeve Winters,” she commands softly.

    “Yes… my lady,” he answers.

    Outside, the guards hear his voice: “Stand down! Stand down!”

    In the days that follow, Sister Jules consolidates power. The Church of Gede is emptied, the banners of St. Ydris are torn down. Her witches move openly through the streets of Marin’s Hold. The terrified villagers do not resist.

    The PCs meet with Sister Jules in the reclaimed chapel. She outlines their next task: “The Knights of St. Ydris are Almazzat’s tether to the Gloaming. Kill St. Ydris the Unholy, and we sever that link forever.”

    She sends a company of guards north to attack the Greywall Priory. The assault is swift and merciless. The surviving knights retreat to the catacombs below, led by Inquisitor Justinia Morvin.

    When the PCs descend into the candlelit basement, Justinia stands with the last of her Knights, her sword raised.

    “You don’t understand,” she pleads. “St. Ydris is possessed by Almazzat. If you kill him, you free the archdemon. He is the prison.”

    Röylat doesn’t hesitate; she’s come too far to stop now.

    Her blade flashes. Justinia Morvin falls. Hald Frogley raises his hand, lightning crackling from his fingertips, and the remaining knights collapse to the floor, their armor smoking.

    At the heart of the priory, they find St. Ydris, an ancient man chained within a glowing circle, his flesh carved with runes and bleeding endlessly. His eyes are white, he chants in diabolic and taunts the PCs to destroy him.

    The party ignores St. Ydris and loots the vault of gold and relics while Sister Jules and her witches gather the Knights’ sacred texts, the last records of their order. One by one, the grimoires are cast into a growing pile.

    Sister Jules steps forward and touches the saint’s brow. A flash of red light. The scent of sulfur and burning incense. St. Ydris is destroyed, reduced to ash. When the screams end, the silence of the Greywall Priory is absolute.

    The Knights of St. Ydris are no more.

  • Factions in the City

    In my burnout I meander back to Electric Bastionland… Inertia pulls me deeper Into the Odd.

    I want to define some factions before I commit to any locations on my map. I’m thinking there’s 3 big players in this so-far-unnamed mountain borough.

    Mountain Broadcasting Company. Revolutionary youths broadcast weird hypnoses over radio waves. Recently they stole machine parts from the Union. They’re funded by the Syndicate through fronts throughout the borough.

    Machinists’ Union. Consultants ritualistically rearranging the tangled wires of the broken-down gondola and interpreting divine providence from their everchanging conduction patterns. They’re contractually funded by the City of Bastion for another half-century.

    Canal Syndicate. The Canal is ruled by subterranean monsters hoarding treasure in the Underground. They deal in hallucinogenic river eels and smuggled goods. Recently they sabotaged the Highway Tunnel to seize control of the borough.

    So each faction probably has a headquarters on here somewhere. The Mountain Broadcasting Company obviously operates out of the abandoned museum at the top of the mountain, the radio tower is built on the roof.

    It seems only natural that the Machinists’ Union would have their headquarters near the gondola? Well, it was probably cheaper to rent offices further from the canal and they’re in no hurry to get the gondola working so I’m going to put them in the bottom left corner of the map in some distant warehouse and they commute on bike each morning with all their equipment on their backs.

    The Canal Syndicate will operate at the northernmost intersection of the subway/streetcar and the canal, giving them access to both the canal and the underground. I’m thinking most of their territory will be sketchy storefronts with hidden stairs to the underground.

  • Escape from Marin’s Hold

    Our heroes stand bloodied in the aftermath of a fierce battle with Knight Marshal Yslen. Röylat holds her head in her hands. Pounding tension; lost memories return in nauseating waves.

    “We have to get out of here,” Brunhilda says, shivering. “Please, I’ll take you to Sister Jules. She can help you.”

    A young guard stumbles up from below, his tunic torn and his shield splattered with black bile.

    “They’re all dead!” He screams. “We have to-“

    The guard stops when he sees Knight Marshal Yslen dead on the floor. His eyes flicker to the stairs. “I can get you out of here,” the guard says sheepishly.

    The PCs share a look. They lock him in Brunhilda’s cell–“please,” he begs, “you can’t leave me here. It’ll get me.”

    The PCs descend back into the canals below. Back to the Possessed One. Knight Marshal Yslen cools in her armor.

    Below, the Possessed One sits by its runes eating from the chest cavity of a dead man. It uses its free hand to paint diabolic runes in blood while it chews shiny flesh. The summoning ritual is nearly complete.

    “Don’t hurt Wallow, he’s not well!”

    Hald Frogley lifts a Wand of Telekinesis from his bag. Concentrating on Wallow, he lifts him from the floor and suspends him in the air. Röylat and Auglud bind the writhing, demonic mutant catfish. They hand Wallow over to the other mutant catfish waiting below. They can’t save him, but he and his family have a chance.

    Before they resurface, Leledish gives Brunhilda a Potion of Invisibility so she can sneak out of town and meet up with the group outside the walls. The guards outside the sinkhole are none-the-wiser as the PCs emerge, but Judge Eamon is looking for them.

    “He wanted to have a drink with you tonight,” the guards say.

    In the Crayfish Tavern, Judge Eamon sits with a couple of guards, a foaming mug of ale in his hand. “Sit, drink.” He’s hospitable, he asks the group about their investigation at the apothecary.

    The PCs lie for the witches, they say they found nothing. Judge Eamon can see the disgust in Röylat’s eyes. “Let’s take a walk,” he says.

    “I can see you know the truth…” The Judge begins. Outside, he casually confesses that he and the other Knights in Marin’s Hold have broken their oath. Judge Eamon is one of Almazzat’s Blackguard; mortals who betray their own for a place at Almazzat’s feet.

    “Almazzat believes mortals and demons can live in harmony, like wolf and sheep,” Judge Eamon explains, “those of us who are strong can be the shepherds. We will lose some, but that is nature.”

    The PCs (briefly) consider the advantages of siding with Almazzat and the demons before shaking their heads in unison.

    “Almazzat has come to the Gloaming for a reason,” Judge Eamon reveals, “it’s looking for something here. Only it knows what…”

    The PCs manage to save face with Judge Eamon, but they commit to siding with the witches. Outside the walls, they reunite with Brunhilda and travel to the Bone Cave.

    The group waits under Leledish’s starry witch light at the edge of the river and watch as a slow-moving ferry approaches through the mist. The ferryman, now stone-cold and silent, extends his hand–this time there’s a toll.

    The PCs hand over a bag of gold. He spills them into the river and invites them aboard. As he rows upriver, the mist becomes so thick they can barely see. Then, the ferryman is gone.

    Leledish sends his witch light out into the mist ahead. There’s a shadow of a giant being with elongated limbs moving through the river toward the ferry. Someone screams. In a blink it’s gone.

    “What is that?” Brunhilda asks.

    “Don’t look,” Ipshroom warns. “The Willowman…” He describes what happens to those who look. Brunhilda gasps in fear.

    A creaking moan across the river betrays the Willowman’s satisfaction. But still, it moves closer. The ferry begins to rock back and forth turbulently. Grant draws his longsword and takes a defensive stance. Hald Frogley tries to cast a protective ward. Leledish preys to Memnon for guidance.

    The Willowman appears: elongated limbs, no face, each limb a knotted scythe. It raises a finger as thin and wicked as a reed and points at Grant. The branch snaps forward, a precise, needle-like strike aimed at the temple.

    Grant deflects the branch with the flat of his blade. The willowy finger tings against steel and ricochets into the mist. Wood dust rains down like ash.

    Leledish is not so lucky.

    The willowy finger slides through the air with a terrible patience and finds his head. Brain matter and river-spray splash against the raft. The PCs turn in unison, horror flattening their faces.

    Hald Frogley staggers under a third blow but manages to hold on, clutching at his robes. Röylat screams and covers her mouth. Auglud curses and hauls Brunhilda close.

    In a blink, the Willowman is gone again. Not far, though.

    The river is silent, save the group’s pounding heartbeats.

    “It wants fear,” someone whispers.

    Everyone drops to their knees. For a long moment the Willowman stands silently. Another creaking groan. It inhales and, somehow, the mist listens.

    When the fog clears, Leledish is standing. He wipes something from his brow and praises Memnon under his breath. “Not today,” he whispers.

    The Willowman watches them a heartbeat longer and, with a hollow, wood-gnawed sigh, slips into the pale and is gone.

    They reach the Bone Cave, where the exterior is littered with brittle bones. Supposedly it’s home to a pack of werewolves.

    Inside, a dozen witches huddle around a dwindling flame. Their faces are worn, wary, ready. Victoria, the only werewolf left, lounges in the shadows, her eyes are haunted, her voice soft and broken when she speaks of the hag Drusilla and her children stolen into the Fey.

    Sister Jules waits at a candlelit shrine to Shune the Vile. She’s a silver-haired elf with arcane tattoos spiraling over her hands like roots. A raven–the very same that watched the PCs in town–perches on the shrine’s edge and cocks its head.

    “I’ve been watching you,” Sister Jules smiles without warmth.

    She tells them of Shune’s designs: Shune wants Almazzat halted in the Gloaming. There is more at stake than Marin’s Hold. Sister Jules knows the Knights’ secret: St. Ydris has more in common with Almazzat than the people of Marin’s Hold would like.

    “The Knights of St. Ydris must be destroyed,” she declares. “Their blood is Almazzat’s connection to the Gloaming. But first we must take Marin’s Hold…”

    Her proposal is blunt: unmake Judge Eamon’s influence over the Reeve and turn Marin’s Hold toward Shune the Vile. Judge Eamon must be removed.

    The PCs agree.

    Judge Eamon will die tonight.

  • The Witches of Boot Hill

    TROGRUG

    For the crime of HERESY you have been sentenced to die.

    You have chosen death by CRUSADE.

    As ST. YDRIS was judged and found worthy through blood, so may you seek the same mercy in battle.

    Should you survive, report to me in MARIN’S HOLD for your final reward.

    JUDGE EAMON

    By seal and sanction of INQUISITOR JUSTINIA MORVIN I issue this judgement. Go forth, son, and walk the path of St. Ydris the Unholy.

    Five survivors from the Hideous Halls of Mugdulblub make their way to Marin’s Hold. There used to be a bridge, but it was destroyed when demons began hatching from the black marrow trees years ago…

    They wait for the ferryman in the misty grass at the edge of Finimere Lake.

    Hald Frogley, halfling wizard, his third eye bulging behind his left one. Auglud, half-orc fighter with an extra finger poking through her glove. Ipshroom, warlock of the Willowman, branches growing from his face, a third eye in his forehead. Grant, warlock of Shune the Vile, covered in arcane runes. Leledish, Gloaming witch, freed from beneath Bittermold Keep.

    Also waiting for the ferry is Röylat, Knight of St. Ydris, her chainmail shining faintly through the fog.

    The ferryman appears. Jovial, but uneasy. He tells them he doesn’t cross at night, no matter what they hear.

    “Do people say otherwise?” Leledish asks.

    “Oh, people talk,” the ferryman says. “There’s a lot of gossip on the river. I heard of yous, and your work at Bittermold Keep…”

    The lake ripples once, then stills.

    Credit to Jon Cane for reference image.

    Marin’s Hold is a motte-and-bailey where the river meets the bog. The air smells of rot. The farms outside are ruined. A siege tower blocks the gate, and the bridge over the moat has been torn down.

    The guards at the top let them pass, but when the PCs reach the gate, one look is enough.

    “Hell no,” the guard says, and shuts the spyhole.

    Röylat vouches for the others, they present Trogrug’s papers.

    “Go get Judge Eamon,” the guard says.

    Inside, Judge Eamon welcomes them. He’s pleased to see Röylat. The reward: safety, and a place within Marin’s Hold. No gold. No thanks.

    The town is crowded and paranoid. Villagers whisper in small groups. Livestock wander the muddy streets.

    Judge Eamon explains the situation. Demons breached the gates weeks ago. Twenty dead. Witchcraft attracts them. The Knights traced it to the apothecary. Brunhilda, the apothecary’s owner, was taken for questioning. She’ll be burned at Boot Hill in three nights.

    He tells them to stay at the Crayfish Tavern, and to watch for witchcraft.

    Leledish shifts nervously. Röylat is confused, as a Knight of St. Ydris she was trained to use witchcraft to fight evil… Grant stands still in a cold sweat.

    In his dream last night, Grant was wandering through an impossibly large, dark mansion. Trapped in endless twisting halls his only company the squeaking floorboards beneath his sizable feet. With each step he hears a whisper from Shune the Vile.

    A loyal follower needs help in Marin’s Hold.

    The PCs are suspicious of Judge Eamon and decide to learn more about the captured witch. They search the ransacked apothecary and find a bundle of letters hidden beneath a squeaky floorboard. It’s true: Brunhilda has been spying for a coven of witches hiding in the Bone Cave north of town.

    As the PCs leave the apothecary, they notice a suspicious raven watching from the tree above. A bell rings, the townsfolk flee indoors. Demons.

    The PCs rush to the gatehouse and climb to the rooftop. Standing alongside Knight Marshal Breegan, they watch as a group of seven shamble toward the town. Demons? They’re not sure, they look like people.

    Hald Frogley sneaks ahead to get a closer look: half-eaten, hollowed out carcasses worn by gobbly-eyed raptors with slick feathers and oily skin. The halfling misty steps back to town and warns the others: Skrell demons, known for their cleverness.

    The PCs attack!

    When the demons are dead, Judge Eamon inspects the battlefield. He gives a knowing smile.

    “Sometimes you have to do what’s necessary for the greater good,” he tells them. “It’s the only way we’ll survive.”

    As the sun sets behind the tall trees on the horizon, the PCs drink at the tavern and plot their next move. After resting, they decide to rescue Brunhilda from the dungeon and find out what’s really going on in Marin’s Hold.

    After spending the whole day in the tavern hearing patrons argue about the sinkhole out back and whether or not there’s ancient canals beneath the hold, the PCs decide to check it out for themselves.

    A collapsed cottage, two guards standing watch in case of demons coming up from below. Röylat steps forward, declares she and her party are investigating the hole.

    “Go ahead,” the guards chuckle, “just don’t expect us to follow you in there.”

    The PCs descend into a dank wet cellar where the bricks collapse and reveal a deep cavern. Leledish conjures a bobbing, white star that lights the way.

    They crawl through a narrow passage, stalagmites glistening with condensation. The sound of water grows louder until they reach a small waterfall spilling into a bubbling pool. Dark shapes twist beneath the surface. Röylat stabs her javelin into the pool. To her horror, she pulls from the deep a wailing mutant catfish, limbs flailing. She quickly releases it, and three of its kind jump from the water. They hiss. Their barbs quiver.

    The PCs back off, they mean the creatures no harm. But the catfish refuse to leave, they’re here to protect one of their own. The Possessed One, Wallow, is above the waterfall in the underground canal. They won’t leave him behind.

    The PCs offer to help, they know about demons, so they climb up to the moss-covered canals and take a look. In the dark corner they see a frail, decrepit mutant catfish feverishly carving diabolic runes into the stone walls. It’s frothing at the mouth, its beard tendrils flap around wildly.

    Röylat and Leledish read the diabolic runes. Summoning ritual, but it’s not finished.

    They decide to sneak past the Possessed One and climb the stairs to a secret door into the dungeon. Peeking in, they see a table crowded with guards and Knight Marshal Yslen. A prisoner (Brunhilda) stands in the shadows across the dungeon, locked behind iron bars. And three hounds lift their heads and begin sniffing at the shrine hiding the secret door.

    “What’s that?” Knight Marshal Yslen says to the hounds as she stands from the table.

    Leledish sends his mouse familiar running into the dungeon, it climbs one of the brick pillars and the hounds begin jumping and barking towards it.

    “It’s just a mouse,” the guards sigh.

    Röylat pushes through the secret door and enters the room, announcing her presence. She explains to Yslen that she found the sinkhole and the secret passage, and warns the guards of the summoning ritual below. Yslen sends four of the guards into the darkness below to deal with the Possessed One, and sends the fifth up to the hold to collect Judge Eamon.

    The PCs realize it’s now or never–they have to pick a side.

    “We can’t let you do that,” they say, and it’s initiative.

    Yslen orders the guard to keep going, but Auglud and Grant rush him and cut him to pieces before he can flee.

    Leledish jumps out from behind the secret door, flashes his dagger and stabs at the hounds. Bark, yelp, whimper.

    Knight Marshal Yslen fights like a demon–in fact, she taunts Röylat: “You feel it, don’t you? There’s demon blood in your veins. Don’t resist, give in.”

    Röylat’s head pounds. False memories come rushing back. “No!” She screams, “I’m not a demon!” Her eyes turn inky black, her veins bulge, a sulfurous steam rises from her blade.

    When Knight Marshal Yslen is killed, they free Brunhilda.

    She explains that she is helping a coven of witches to save the town. The Knights of St. Ydris are compromised, Judge Eamon serves Almazzat. They’re burning witches and anyone else powerful enough to resist them.

    Röylat learns the truth–her false memories dissolve as she remembers drinking from the sinewy veins of St. Ydris the Unholy, the Possessed.

    It’s true, the blood of Almazzat runs through her veins.