Breathe

To breathe was the first and last thing a person ever did. All things could be built on that single foundation - to be mindful of every breath, to be centered by and then freed by that one single act, was the first lesson for a novice and the final step of learning for a master.

And she was so tired. The alhoon didn’t need rest. It didn’t need to breathe. Wave after wave of energy pounded her as it alternated between innate mental powers and the magic it had used to escape into undeath, forever free from the elder brain’s control.

Just one more breath

She was going to die. Tashi, desperately calling on the very depths of his art to keep the reanimated monks from overwhelming her, was going to die. His breaths came in ragged spurts as he fought on despite the ruin they had made of his face and arm, buying her second after precious second.

But she could uphold the unspoken pact between them. She could uphold the sacred vow she'd made to safeguard the souls of all within the monastery, even if this was not what the vow had been meant to mean. As the miasma that had been released burned at her gut, as the edges of her vision began to go black, she took one more breath. Through her exhaustion she focused only on reaching the next breath as she fended off stroke after stroke intended to fell them both.

Breathe

She would not be taken. She felt her death creeping through her veins, breathing down her neck, so close now that she could taste its fetid breath. But in her last moment she would muster all her concentration to overchannel one final power and be destroyed, denying him her mind and soul. But not yet. He might expect something like that from her, but she knew she was outmatched - she would be calm, and rational, and she would attempt to destroy his minions instead. She would die at peace, something he could not take from her.

She hoped Tashi had the ability to do something similar. She desperately wished she had taken the time to learn more of the battlemind's art instead of dismissing it for its worldly focus, and she wondered at the discipline that let him fight on through the agony he must be feeling. With new appreciation, she scanned the bold tattoos wrapped around his back as it rose and fell in shuddering motions, a deep sorrow twisting in her soul her that she would never get the chance to tell him she finally understood his path.

"HE WHO STANDS WITH ME WILL BE MY BROTHER"

Breathe, my brother. Take one more breath. Please

She had never had clutchmates, had come from a single egg. But she had one now and she prayed desperately for him as his breathing grew more and more strained and she drew the strength to continue from his determination. One breath after the other, she bought time for the abbess to rally the monks or for the survivors to escape or whatever was going on in the monastery behind her.

Breathe, and have faith

Tashi blurred and shifted between the throng surrounding him, a single man who had dedicated his life to protecting others spending the using its last moments and a lifetime of skill of it to buy the only thing he considered worth purchasing with it. But though his concentration never faltered his body did, and with a dreadful tearing sound he disappeared under a pile of ravening beasts.

There was no time to mourn as one leapt over the writhing mass toward her, and she fell to her knees as she crushed him and flung him far away, sheer force with no time for subtlety. But the effort cost her and agony flooded through her mind as the alhoon exploited the momentary gap to bring their confrontation to a close. Chuckling, it stepped past the mass of feasting ghouls toward her - and a hand lunged out from under it, seizing its ankle.

BREATHE

She drew in one more desperate breath as he did, his eyes on hers while he held grimly on to its ankle with his remaining hand even as his flesh was torn away in ragged chunks. The surprise meant an opening and she took it in a heartbeat, preparing a deluge of psionic energy for one last strike at the abomination's mind. Tashi's eyes widened as she did and she had a brief moment to wonder why before with a deafening crash the monastery gates behind her burst open.

For a brief moment hope blossomed in her chest, but it was swiftly replaced there by the agony of blunt teeth digging into her. The alhoon effortlessly passed through her defenses as she weakened and she knew the true end had come, with no chance of getting past his barriers with her mind crumbling. With a thrill of terror in her final moments she realised that she did not even have the time to enact her plan and destroy herself.

He would have her, body and soul. Just as he would have Tashi, who surely would have done something of that nature by now if he could.

Tashi.

Breathe. Can't breathe, throat rattles

His eyes were on her and now, with no hope the last dregs of power could be put to better use, he gently touched his mind to hers. In that last touch she felt love and acceptance course through her, a brother's final gift to a woman who had only been his sister for minutes.

Turn it on yourself.

Seven words tumbled into her head, the last gambit of a man who knew that the energy she had been preparing could never fulfill its original use.

And be free.

And as they both tumbled into the void, she realised that she could never join him there, that they could not both die free.

And so

the last thing she would ever do

she turned it on him

in one final act of mercy. And then there was agony, and darkness.

And then she stood, a hunger that could never be sated gnawing her gut, and she managed a keening whine as her body lurched off to feed a hunger beyond her control.

Can't breathe

Can'tbreathecan'tbreathecan'tbreathe

And in the darkness she choked as putrid flesh slid down her throat, gasping for a breath that would never come.

In our session the evil empire destroyed a city named borgo grano (literally wheat village) in effort to help the people now with nothing me(lv10 necromancer) and my friend (lv3 sorcerer lv7 cronomancer) tried, inspired by Warhammer, to create some orks to defend them by some mushrooms. It went wrong, we created some goombas instead, so my friend thought it was a good idea to give them more potion, they all united in one very muscular entity who was able to talk only in Spanish( DM idea don't ask why). We named it Hongo(mushrooms in Spanish), once again my friend decided do poure more potion on our Hispanic mushroom servant, but this time the potion just made his wiener grow to 42cm.

NOW WE HAD THE IDEA, we gathered all the male survivors and unalived them, then gathered all the women in the pleasure house with Hongo and ordered him to create more of him. Before he started we create our commencements for him and his descendants : 1 YOU WILL TRUST ONLY SIGISMUND AND ASTORIAS(our pgs)

2 YOU AND YOUR SONS WILL REBUILD THE CITY WITH THE NAME OF BORGOLONGO(long village)

3 YOU WILL CREATE AN EMPIRE AND A GREAT ARMY

then we left and made him do his duties.

My characters name is Diego and is a Mexican paladin of the mundane and works for the Mexican cartel as a chili🌶 supplier. My personality is spicy food🌶 I even have an ability called chili🌶 cast and what it does is I throw Chili's🌶 in my enemy's eyes, blind them for three turns and deals a d4 of damage . And I'm begging my DM( u/great-response-7325 )for healing tacos🌮🤣

I already posted about this on r/dnd, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to tell the story again.

So my friends and I are fairly new at D&D. For Halloween, I created a oneshot for us. It involved my players trying to escape a haunted house. In order to give them a reason that they were in the house, I told them that a fisherman named Dave had told them that they could stay in the haunted house for the night, as all the other places that they could stay were full.

So of course, they kept bringing him up. He wasn't meant to play a big part or anything, but they were now fixtated on him. After they finally escaped the house, they went and beat him up.

Now skip to last month. My friend and I were planning out a Christmas oneshot. My friend then suggested that we make Santa's real name Dave. From there things only got weirder. In short, we now have an entire homebrew species named Dave. Every male is named Dave and every female some variation of Dave, such as Davette. They have their own sports, religion, everything. Exiled Daves are renamed David. Daves are 100% going to appear in every campaign and oneshot we run from now on.

You may be wondering: why the name Dave? To be honest, I don't know. I didn't care enough to spend too much time on naming the NPC (if it's a vital character, I spend ages trying to find the right name). I had just gone and asked one of my friends to give me a random name, and she said Dave.

From the beginning...

Cast (Recently updated!)

Part 2, Chapter 35

The next day, Task Force Chimera and Azathar gather at the top of the stairs to the valley far below. “We could cast Featherfall and gently float down,” suggests Dagrim.

“How long do you intend to fall like a feather? Doesn’t that spell only last a few moments?” asks Dillium, who knows she can Fly.

“Do they have a balloon that they can put us in?” asks Zander, who saw such a contraption once, manned by tinker gnomes.

“Do they look like they have balloons?” replies Dillium.

Dagrim says, “Maybe they have a sled, and we could just slide all the way down.”

“Do they look like they have a sled?”

By this time, Mel and Azathar have already begun the long climb down. The descent is only marginally easier than the ascent, with frequent rest breaks. Just before midday, they break through the clouds and can look down on the valley. A light snow covers the upper portions of the mountain but thins out to nothing before the bottom of the staircase. By early afternoon, the group reaches the last step, tired and bruised.

“The clouds above, they mock my pain, And laugh to see my hope wane. Oh endless stairs, your mock'ry keen, A ceaseless, stony, gray machine.” Dagrim sings under his breath.

Azathar throws himself to the ground melodramatically. Mel stoops to kiss the dirt below the last step. Arthur notes to nobody in particular that his lack of armor means he won’t spend a week trying to get all the scuffs out. The group continues the debate of where to go next. Azathar recommends avoiding all of the valley’s residents, sticking to the hills as they make their way to the Damaran Gate. Arthur reminds everyone that Sir Daffid Rodencranz suggested they travel only at night. [1] Zander tells Azathar that their mounts are in town, along with some of their gear. The group settles on returning to Virdin to collect their belongings, then setting out that night. After taking a moment to think, Mel points out the direction of the town, and the party sets out.

Azathar suddenly stops. “There are people ahead. Black armor. They are poking around.”

“What are they looking for?” asks Dagrim.

“How should I know? All I can tell is they appear to be looking.” Azathar’s owl takes a convenient perch some way from the group and watches. The group hunkers down behind the cover of a rise to watch. A single man in shiny black armor directs a group of eight soldiers as they poke through the overgrowth. The soldiers wear dark armor and carry spears. A horse grazes listlessly nearby. Any words the shiny armored man might have don’t carry as far as the group. Still, they whisper among themselves.

“This isn’t far from where we fought the gryphons,” Mel observes idly.

“We don’t need this. We should skirt around and head back to town.”

“Very well.” Azathar thinks for a moment, and the weave moves subtly. He backs down the hill, then sets off, without making a sound. One by one the others follow, quietly.

“Oh, no you don’t,” the wind carries off a whisper. A cacophony erupts as though a herd of cattle were stomping through inconveniently placed sticks and leaves. The noise is loud and prolonged enough to attract the attention of the soldiers. With a shout, they form up into two ranks, spears at the ready, as the shiny-armored man follows, bellowing orders.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Dagrim says as wiggles his fingers at the approaching line. The weave moves, and a Hypnotic Pattern hits the squad*.* In brief confusion, the troop falters. The leader of the soldiers shouts and points at the party, now standing and clearly visible. It is in this moment of confusion that Azathar casts a Fireball at the soldiers. Most fall over, smoke rising from their corpses.

“Into the jaws of kinda’ death,” Arthur mutters as he and Azathar stride boldly down the slope toward those that remain.

The others have their own problems. Cloaked shadow-like figures appear and attack Dagrim and Dillium. Each blow saps their strength as cold tendrils shoot through their bones. With the party split, each turns to their own problems. Arthur and Az race forward to confront the dark-clad men, while Dagrim, Dillium, Mel, and Zander battle the shadows.

Arthur, a fearful aura about him, smashes one of the soldiers, Smiting him again and again until he falls to the ground lifeless. Az dispatches the other with cold efficiency and turns on the leader. Spells are cast and Counterspelled, then Az casts Heat Metal on the shiny black armor before turning away. With a roar, Arthur Smites the gesturing man in a frenzy. Abruptly, the black-armored man disappears. After a moment, Arthur turns his attention back to the rest of the group.

Meanwhile, the rest of the group struggles. A huge shadowy dragon appears as if from the ground and attacks Zander, who has successfully dispatched one of the cloaked shadows, but not before hitting Dillium with another round of intense, strength-sapping attacks. Mel manages to hit the one attacking Dagrim, but others have already appeared to take its place. The shadow dragon leans down and nearly engulfs Zander, but in a moment of peace, Dagrim Slows the apparition. More shadows appear, surrounding each of the party members. Zander slashes at the dragon, his fiery sword seeming particularly effective. Dillium manages to get off a few healing spells. Dagrim casts another spell, but it does not find a target. Mel, beset by shadows of her own, drops her bow in favor of a short sword she carries. Finally, Zander, with a cry, stabs his sword deep into the chest of the dragon, dispatching it. It dissipates into a smoky haze that is quickly carried away in the slight breeze.

Then tragedy strikes. Dillium falls to the ground with a cry. Dagrim manages to speak a Healing Word to her, which seems to help somewhat, but then shadows hit him from all sides and he simply disappears. Mel and Zander fight on, but Arthur and Az, returning from dealing with the soldiers, attract their own shadow attackers.

“It’s that thrice-damned Jester again!” Arthur spits as he flails about with his mace.

“What jester is that?” Az asks in confusion.

As if on cue, Mel retrieves her bow and fires off two arrows, seemingly at nothing. She’s seen something from the corner of her eye and takes the opportunity when it is presented. Sure enough, the Jester himself appears, blinking as he looks at the arrow in his side. “You!” He screams in a high-pitched reedy voice as he points at Mel. He makes a motion like pulling a bowstring on an invisible bow, and she flinches as a bolt of shadow streaks toward her, hitting her squarely in the chest. With Zander standing over a collapsed Dillium fighting shadows, and Dagrim nowhere to be found, and Az fighting two off, Arthur turns on the Jester. Az casts a spell that doesn’t seem to land, but Arthur’s mace strikes home. With one last cackle and a half-completed threat, he dissipates into a fine smoky mist, taking the last of his shadows with him.

The group takes stock. All the black-armored soldiers are dead. Arthur picks through the bodies and retrieves a couple of pieces of armor that, while singed, nearly fit him. He takes a few minutes to loosen straps and punch an extra hole or two in the leather bindings to get something that nearly works. Az retrieves the horse, branded with a Vaasan army logo and wearing a saddle embossed with a strange ring-like sigil. Az Speaks with the horse, who agrees to accompany the party back to a warm stable and plenty of feed.

The shiny-armored soldier and Dagrim have disappeared, along with all the shadow-figures. There are no bodies to retrieve and no blood trails to follow. They search around, but nobody dares call out, in case there are more soldiers or shadow-creatures. Mel finds a trinket on the ground, and recognizes it as Dilliums, handing it to her, she asks if there is anything to do to find Dagrim, since there are no tracks for her to follow. Dillium shakes her head sadly, barely strong enough to say that she hasn’t a spell for that.

Dillium is barely conscious, and both Mel and Zander are weakened by their battles with the shadows. Arthur and Az manage to help Dillium onto the horse, but they have to support her to keep her upright the whole way back to Virdin. Azathar casts a minor glamour over the horse as they near the village, making it appear to be any other horse than an obviously Vaasan army beast. Azathar and Arthur haul Dillium down off the horse and a wounded and weary party makes its way into the tavern.

Glathos awaits them in the taproom. He wears a gaudy dark red vest embroidered with shiny black thread, and a light grey shirt underneath. “Ah, I see you have finally returned. You look terrible. Trouble with the giants?”

Arthur responds curtly, “No, no trouble at all.”

Glathos, who is seated with his legs crossed and resting on a box, taps it with his heel. “Well, I have your gold, and a little extra besides—wait, where is your dwarf?”

“He is no longer with us.”

“Yes, I can see that. Just as I can see you’ve traded up for another elf.”

“I’m not really with these people,” Azathar responds quickly.

“Well, with them or not, you want to take care of your priest. Dillium looks much the worse for wear.” He gestures to the publican to bring over food and drinks.

“We had some trouble with a creature called the Jester. I don’t suppose he’s one of yours?” Arthur asks acidly.

“Jester? Never heard of him. We Vaasans don’t go much for humor these days.” He takes his feet off the chest and sits up. “So my offer stands. I will buy the Sword from you and relieve you of this burden of being attacked constantly. Twenty-five thousand, plus a little something extra for each of you.”

“What will you do with this sword?” Azathar asks.

“Why, I’ll put an end to this squabble between Damara and Vaasa, of course.”

“That sounds promising. And how will you do that? By turning it over to the Ironfell Council?”

“Of course not. They would undoubtedly squander its power on petty rivalries and infighting. Only I have the intelligence and wisdom to use the Sword effectively.”

“To take over the council,” Arthur adds.

“No, but to bend it to my will so that we can be done with this…” he waves his hand as if he is at a loss for words. “… This inefficient border skirmish. Then on to the real job at hand.”

“I see. What is the real job at hand?”

Glathos' lips curves into a practiced smile. "The details needn't concern you." He lifts the chest's lid, letting the taproom’s dim lamplight dance across heaps of gold and polished jewels. "Think instead of warm beaches, willing companions..." His eyes linger on each party member in turn, measuring their resolve. "Whatever pleasures your hearts desire, far from this frozen land."

“We will not. We have been entrusted to carry this off for safe keeping for the future,” Arthur says when Glathos’ eye rests on him.

“Are you sure? It sounds as if you intend to take it to your wretched queen and her equally odious chancellor.”

“Ah, no, actually. We’ve already had the chance to give it to the chancellor, and we turned him down,” Zander replies. “He didn’t take it well.”

“I see. That explains a few things. Where then? To Impiltur? Windsong? I imagine you aren’t going to take it to Thay. If not there, then where?”

Zander says, “I assure you that the Sword will not be used against Vaasa.”

“It will be stored for safekeeping,” Arthur intones.

“Safe keeping can only last as long as the security of the resting place is assured. Where would you find that, other than with me?”

“We have a place in mind.”

“Care to share it with me?” Glathos asks. “You know I will find out eventually anyway. You might as well tell me and save the suspense.”

“No, I think we like keeping you in suspense,” Zander interjects.

“As you like. The offer will remain open for a while. Feel free to take me up on it when you tire of your burden.”

The group turns toward their rooms. Azathar turns back. “Just one question. What age are we in?”

“Beg pardon?” Glathos seems surprised.

“What age are we in? The giants said something of a Third Age, and we assume that the first age was during the war of the giants and dragons. I was wondering if we are still in that age, or have passed into another.”

“I have no idea how giants count time. Today we are in sardal 1567 by the Damaran Reckoning.” [2]

Azathar, Zander, and Arthur set up a watch over the Sword of the North that provides everyone an opportunity to rest, but no chance for thieves to break in during the night again. Arthur resists the urge to polish the thin black armor, but does clean it up a bit. In the morning their weariness is a bad memory, though an undercurrent of unease and anxiety in their dreams left them tired in the morning.

***

“We intended to travel last night.”

“None of us were in any shape to travel last night.”

“Are we going to just wait here all day?”

“Are we going to move out this morning and stay off the roads?”

“It will take us all day to stay up in the hills, and we can’t be sure we will not be seen.”

“What if we just made it as far as that village down the valley, Waukashire, or somesuch? I think Novos once had a puzzle box made there.” [3]

“That sounds like a good idea. What’s there?”

Mel pipes up. “Waukeshire is a halfling settlement. They are artisans and farmers. They famously aided Gareth Dragonsbane in battle many years ago. [4] They might aid us.”

With the decision made, the group gathers their things and heads out the door. Just across the rude track that suffices as the street, the soldier in shiny black armor talks animatedly with a tall figure in black spiky armor. His helmet is tucked under one arm, allowing everyone to see that this is Glathos.

“Uh, oh.”

“Quick, duck back inside before they see us.” Just then, the soldier in shiny black armor sees them and points to them, raising his voice. Shaking his head, Glathos and the soldier stride across the street. Glathos’ full cape billows out behind him, and a ring-symbol is clearly emblazoned on his armor.

“Knight-Executor Kraxiis tells me you attacked him and his squad yesterday, killing eight brave Vaasan soldiers. They have families, you know. Wives. Children.”

“I’m sure the hills are full of people who would like to kill your soldiers,” Zander begins.

“And he tells me his horse is stabled in the tavern’s stable. Would those hills full of people also happen to be patrons of the tavern?”

“I would say it is a free country, but we all know differently. It’s pure coincidence,” Arthur says.

“You are wearing the armor you stole from my spearmen!” Knight-Executor Kraxiis exclaims, in a voice much higher in timbre than you might expect. Turning to Glathos, he says, “They were probably responsible for the loss of Gryphon Wing Kabal, as well, which you know I was sent out to investigate.”

Glathos sighs. “I can have you executed for this.”

“Would it be possible to negotiate an exile?” Zander asks. “I’m reasonably certain we can agree never to return.”

"We will not turn over the Sword," Arthur says menacingly.

Glathos shakes his head. “I must consider this. In the meantime, you must disarm and,” he says pointedly to Arthur, “dis-armor. Return to your rooms and confine yourselves there until I return. Do I have your word, Master Roaringhorn?” He looks directly at Zander, who hesitates.

“Master Roaringhorn. Have. I. Your. Word?”

End of Chapter 35.

[1] Part 2, Chapter 30.

[2] Damaran Reckoning, or the Impilturan Calendar

[3] Part 1, Chapter 24. Waukeshire.

[4] https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Bloodstone_Wars#Gareth's_Gamble

Edited in Lex. https://lex.page/

All text is written without AI assist. It’s all my fault.

So this was before I had started my first campaign.

I was gathering my friends in a discord server so we could play and everyone was required to use DnD Beyond.

One friend wanted to join us, but in the group was someone he didn’t get along with. So to avoid in-fighting both in and outside the game, I told him no. He proceeded to throw a massive tantrum which he always did when he couldn’t join us for things. This was the last straw so I had to cut him out.

The person he didn’t get along with showed his true colors afterwards. He wanted a super tragic character (a half-Drow, half-tiefling rogue) which I was willing to allow. But he refused to use DnD Beyond and fought with us about it so we had to remove him too. We started the campaign after that and everyone has been having a great time without either of those toxic individuals.

TL;DR 2 man children gave me problems as the DM so I had to remove them from my life.

Day 9: The Gnarled Hollow

The caravan rumbles into the village, a welcome sight for the weary townsfolk. Cheers erupt as the wagons roll through the gates, laden with supplies and festive decorations. Children scamper alongside, their eyes wide with excitement, eager for the Winter Festival to begin.

Grimbold greets the caravan with a gruff smile, his relief evident. "Welcome back, Torvin," he says, clapping the caravan leader on the shoulder. "Glad to see you made it through in one piece."

Torvin nods, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Aye, Grimbold, we had a bit of excitement on the road. But thanks to your sharp-witted guard here," he gestures towards you, "we managed to fend off those pesky bandits."

Grimbold's gaze turns to you, a flicker of pride in his eyes. "Well done, lad/lass. You've proven yourself a valuable asset to this village."

He turns to address the gathered villagers. "Let this be a reminder to us all," he announces, his voice ringing with authority, "that even in the face of adversity, the spirit of community and the courage of a few can overcome any obstacle."

The villagers erupt in cheers, their voices a testament to their resilience and their gratitude for the safe arrival of the caravan. The Winter Festival preparations resume with renewed vigor, the promise of celebration and joy casting a warm glow over the village.

As the festivities begin to unfold, you find yourself caught in a whirlwind of activity. Villagers approach you with thanks and praise, children tug at your sleeves with eager questions, and the aroma of festive treats fills the air. The weight of recent events momentarily fades, replaced by a sense of shared joy and anticipation.

But amidst the merriment, a nagging unease lingers. The whispers of the Great Winter, the presence of the Order of the Celestial Compass, and the search for the amulet remain at the forefront of your mind. The battle against the bandits has proven your strength and courage, but the true challenges lie ahead.

The fate of the village, the balance of the realms, and the very essence of winter hang in the balance. The journey continues, and you stand ready to face whatever trials await, your resolve strengthened by the spirit of the Winter Festival and the unwavering support of the community you have sworn to protect.

The morning sun struggles to pierce the frost-covered windows of the barracks, casting a dim light on your restless sleep. Dreams of shadowy figures and cryptic warnings haunt your slumber, leaving you with a sense of foreboding.

As you rise and join your fellow guards for a meager breakfast, a hushed conversation catches your attention. Two guards whisper anxiously about a new decree issued by the Order of the Celestial Compass: The Gnarled Hollow, or Rotfang Glen as the children call it, is now strictly off-limits to all villagers.

"Something's not right," one guard mutters, his brow furrowed with worry. "Why would the Order suddenly take such an interest in that old, forgotten place?"

The other guard nods in agreement. "Aye, there's something they're not telling us. Something they're hiding."

Their words ignite a spark of curiosity within you. The ruins you discovered in Rotfang Glen, the inscription with its chilling warning, and now this sudden decree from the Order – it all points to a hidden truth, a secret that could hold the key to understanding the recent events and preventing further tragedies.

Despite the lingering fatigue from the previous day's encounter with the bandits, a sense of duty compels you to investigate. As you set out on your morning patrol, your mind races with possibilities. What secrets lie hidden within the Gnarled Hollow? What is the Order's true motive for sealing it off? And how does this all connect to the search for the amulet and the looming threat of the Great Winter?

You adjust your route, veering towards the forbidden zone. The air grows heavy with anticipation as you approach the edge of Rotfang Glen. The trees seem to loom closer, their gnarled branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. A sense of unease washes over you, but your resolve remains firm. You will uncover the truth, no matter the cost.

Stealthily, you slip past the makeshift barricade erected by the Order, venturing into the forbidden territory. The whispers of the wind seem to carry warnings and secrets, urging you forward. The path ahead is uncertain, but you are determined to follow it, guided by your instincts and the unwavering belief that the answers you seek lie hidden within the heart of the Gnarled Hollow.

The Gnarled Hollow embraces you with its unsettling silence, a stark contrast to the usual bustle of the Whispering Woods. The air hangs heavy with an unnatural stillness, broken only by the soft crunch of leaves beneath your feet. Sunlight struggles to penetrate the dense canopy of twisted branches, casting long, dancing shadows that play tricks on your eyes.

As you venture deeper into the forbidden zone, a delicate melody drifts through the air, a haunting lullaby sung in a language you don't understand. Following the sound, you come across a clearing bathed in an ethereal glow. A tiny fey creature, no bigger than your hand, flits among the branches, its iridescent wings catching the dim light. It hums to itself, its voice like the tinkling of tiny bells, as it examines the surrounding flora and fauna with wide, curious eyes.

Small birds and squirrels gather at the edge of the clearing, drawn by the fey's enchanting presence. They chirp and chatter, their curiosity battling with their instinctive caution. Suddenly, the fey creature swoops down, snatching a tiny field mouse in its delicate claws. It ascends to the highest branches, disappearing into the dense foliage. Moments later, it returns, seemingly carefree, but the mouse is nowhere to be seen.

The fey creature notices your presence, its eyes widening in surprise. It flits down, hovering before you with a curious tilt of its head.

"Greetings, traveler," it says, its voice like the chime of wind chimes. "Do you know Niamh?"

The question hangs in the air, a pivotal moment in your quest. Do you reveal your connection to Niamh, risking the wrath of this unknown fey creature? Or do you conceal your knowledge, hoping to gain more information before revealing your true purpose?

The choice is yours, and the path you choose will shape the course of your adventure.

I do not know Niamh:

You meet the fey creature's gaze with a carefully neutral expression. "Niamh?" you echo, feigning ignorance. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

The fey's eyes narrow, its delicate features hardening with suspicion. "Truly?" it asks, its voice losing its melodic quality. "You wander these forbidden woods, yet you've never heard of Niamh? Strange indeed..."

It circles you, its iridescent wings blurring as it moves. A sense of unease prickles your skin. This creature, despite its diminutive size, exudes an aura of power, a hint of something ancient and dangerous lurking beneath its enchanting facade.

Suddenly, it raises its hand, and a faint glow emanates from its fingertips. Before you can react, a shimmering bolt of energy streaks towards you, striking you in the chest. You stumble backward, your hand instinctively reaching for your weapon. But the attack, though unsettling, seems to have no immediate effect.

The fey creature lets out a shrill cry, its voice filled with disdain. "Begone, deceiver!" it shrieks. "May your lies bring you nothing but misfortune!"

With a final flick of its wings, it disappears into the dense foliage, leaving you alone in the unsettling silence of the Gnarled Hollow. You examine yourself, searching for any sign of injury or lingering magic, but find nothing.

Confused and wary, you decide to return to the village, your mission to uncover the Order's secrets momentarily forgotten. As you make your way through the Whispering Woods, a strange itching sensation begins to spread across your scalp. You scratch at your head, dismissing it as a lingering effect of the fey's attack.

But as you approach the village gates, the itching intensifies, becoming an unbearable torment. You reach up to scratch again, and your fingers brush against something small and crawling. You pull your hand away, your heart sinking as you see a tiny, dark shape wriggling on your fingertip.

A louse.

The realization hits you like a wave of nausea. The fey creature's attack wasn't harmless; it was a curse, a subtle and insidious affliction. You are infested with lice, a constant reminder of your encounter in the forbidden woods and a potential source of embarrassment and discomfort.

The itching becomes unbearable, a constant torment that distracts you from your duties and draws unwanted attention from the villagers. Whispers and stifled laughter follow you as you patrol the streets, your reputation as a respected guard quickly eroding.

Desperate for relief, you seek out the village's wise woman, Old Elara. Her small cottage, nestled at the edge of the Whispering Woods, is known for its fragrant herbs and the gentle clinking of glass vials. Elara, with her weathered face and knowing eyes, is renowned for her knowledge of ancient remedies and her ability to mend ailments both physical and magical.

You approach her cottage with a mixture of hope and trepidation. As you knock on the weathered door, you can't help but scratch at your scalp, a nervous habit that has become all too familiar.

Elara greets you with a warm smile, but her eyes quickly discern your affliction. "Ah, a curse of the Feywild, I see," she says, her voice laced with understanding. "A mischievous prank, but not without its consequences."

She leads you inside, her cottage filled with the soothing aroma of dried herbs and simmering potions. She examines your scalp, her fingers gently parting your hair, a frown creasing her brow.

"A potent curse indeed," she murmurs. "It will take a powerful concoction to break its hold."

Elara gathers various ingredients from her shelves – rare herbs, shimmering crystals, and the iridescent wing of a moon moth. She grinds, mixes, and brews, her movements precise and practiced. Finally, she presents you with a small vial filled with a viscous, emerald-green liquid.

"Drink this," she instructs, "and the curse shall be lifted. But be warned, the Feywild does not bestow its gifts lightly. A price must be paid."

She names her price, 5 gold – a hefty sum, but one you are willing to pay to rid yourself of this torment. You hand over the coins, your heart heavy but your resolve firm. You down the potion in a single gulp, its bitter taste lingering on your tongue.

Within moments, a wave of relief washes over you. The itching subsides, the crawling sensation vanishes. You run your fingers through your hair, a smile spreading across your face. The curse is broken, the lice banished.

Elara observes you with a knowing smile. "Remember this lesson, young one," she says, her voice gentle but firm. "The Feywild is a realm of wonder and danger. Treat its inhabitants with respect, and be mindful of the consequences of your actions."

You thank Elara for her aid, your heart filled with gratitude. You leave her cottage, your step lighter, your mind clearer. The curse is lifted, but the encounter serves as a reminder of the hidden forces at play, the delicate balance between the human realm and the Feywild. The search for the amulet continues, and you face the challenges ahead with renewed determination, your resolve strengthened by the knowledge that even the most insidious curses can be overcome.

I know Niamh:

"Niamh?" you reply, a flicker of recognition in your eyes. "Yes, I know her. Why do you ask?"

The fey creature's expression softens, a hint of relief replacing its initial suspicion. "Ah, a friend of Niamh's," it says, its voice regaining its melodic quality. "She spoke of you. Said you were a kind soul, a protector of this realm."

It flits closer, its iridescent wings brushing against your cheek. "Come," it whispers, "I will show you something."

The fey creature leads you deeper into the Gnarled Hollow, its tiny form darting through the undergrowth with surprising agility. You follow closely, your curiosity piqued. The path winds through dense thickets and gnarled trees, the air growing heavy with an ancient, almost forgotten magic.

Finally, you arrive at a familiar clearing. The crumbling ruins stand before you, their weathered stones whispering tales of a forgotten past. But something is different. A figure clad in the gleaming armor of the Order of the Celestial Compass stands amidst the ruins, her back turned towards you.

It's Seraphina.

She wields a heavy hammer, its head glinting in the dim light. With each swing, she strikes the inscribed stones, chipping away at the ancient text, erasing the warnings of the past. A wave of anger washes over you. How dare she desecrate this sacred site, obliterate the lessons of history?

The fey creature beside you lets out a mournful cry. "See?" it whispers, its voice filled with sorrow. "This is the Order's true nature. They seek to control, to manipulate, to erase any trace of that which they do not understand."

It turns to you, its eyes filled with a wisdom that belies its diminutive size. "Do not trust them," it warns. "They are not the protectors they claim to be. Their thirst for power blinds them to the consequences of their actions."

The fey creature's words echo the warnings you received from Niamh. The Order's deception runs deep, their motives shrouded in secrecy. You watch as Seraphina continues her destructive work, a sense of urgency growing within you. You must find the amulet, protect it from the Order's grasp, and restore balance to the realms before it's too late.

But how? Where do you begin your search? And how can you outmaneuver an organization as powerful and cunning as the Order of the Celestial Compass?

The fey creature, its mission complete, guides you back to the edge of the Gnarled Hollow. As you reach the boundary, it pauses, its iridescent wings fluttering softly.

"The amulet," it whispers, its voice barely audible above the rustling leaves, "lies hidden in a place of beginnings, where water meets earth and sky. Seek the source, the heart of the flow, and there you shall find what you seek."

With a final, enigmatic smile, the fey creature disappears into the depths of the forest, leaving you to ponder its cryptic words. A place of beginnings... where water meets earth and sky... the source, the heart of the flow... What could it mean?

You gaze out at the familiar landscape, your mind racing. Where could such a place be? Is it a hidden spring deep within the Whispering Woods? A sacred pool high in the mountains? Or perhaps a forgotten wellspring beneath the village itself?

The search for the amulet has taken a new turn, a cryptic clue guiding your path. But with the Order of the Celestial Compass actively working against you, time is of the essence. You must decipher the fey creature's riddle and locate the amulet before it falls into the wrong hands.

If you want to hear it read aloud, I do so here.

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Day 8: The caravan

The morning sun casts long shadows across the frost-covered village as you report for duty. Grimbold, his brow furrowed with concern, greets you with a sense of urgency.

"We have a critical task for you today," he says, his voice grave. "A caravan carrying vital supplies for the Winter Festival is due to arrive this afternoon. They'll be carrying food, medicine, and other necessities we can't afford to lose."

He pauses, his gaze fixed on yours. "Bandit activity has been on the rise lately. We suspect they might be targeting this caravan. Your mission is to intercept them before they reach the village and ensure their safe passage."

Grimbold hands you a map marked with the caravan's route and a heavy silver ring bearing his family crest. "This will identify you to the caravan guards," he explains. "Show them the ring, and they'll know you're there to help."

You set off with a determined stride, the weight of responsibility settling upon your shoulders. As you follow the caravan's path, your eyes scan the surrounding landscape, alert for any signs of an ambush. The road winds through rolling hills and dense thickets, offering numerous hiding spots for would-be attackers.

You take note of several potential ambush sites:

• The Narrow Pass: A tight defile between two rocky outcrops, offering a chokepoint where bandits could easily block the caravan's progress. Scratches on the rocks and broken branches hint at recent activity.
• The Hidden Grove: A secluded clearing just off the main road, concealed by a thick curtain of evergreen trees. The remnants of a campfire and scattered animal bones suggest a temporary encampment.
• The Overhanging Cliff: A treacherous stretch of road where the path hugs a steep cliff face. Loose rocks and unstable ground could be easily dislodged to create a landslide, trapping the caravan below.

Though you find no immediate signs of bandits, the potential for danger is palpable. You continue your journey, your senses heightened, your hand resting on the hilt of your weapon.

As the afternoon sun begins to dip towards the horizon, you spot the caravan in the distance. A long line of wagons creaks along the road, escorted by a contingent of armed guards. You quicken your pace, eager to make contact and assess the situation.

Upon your approach, the caravan guards immediately react, forming a protective circle around the wagons. Their leader, a grizzled veteran with a wary expression, steps forward, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

"Hold there, stranger!" he commands. "State your business."

You raise your hands in a gesture of peace, displaying Grimbold's ring prominently. "I come on behalf of the village guard," you announce. "Captain Grimbold sent me to ensure your safe passage."

The guard's eyes narrow as he examines the ring. "Grimbold's seal," he mutters, a hint of suspicion lingering in his voice. "Why would he send a lone guard to meet us? This could be a trick."

You explain the concerns about bandit activity and your mission to scout the road ahead. You describe the potential ambush sites you discovered, emphasizing the need for vigilance.

The guard listens intently, his expression gradually softening. "Well, you seem to know what you're talking about," he admits. "But I'll be keeping a close eye on you. One wrong move, and you'll be facing my blade."

He gestures towards the caravan. "We appreciate the warning. We'll be on our guard. You're welcome to join us for the rest of the journey. Strength in numbers, as they say."

As the caravan slowly makes its way along the road, you fall into step beside the caravan leader, a seasoned warrior named Torvin. He eyes you cautiously, but a hint of respect has replaced the initial suspicion.

"So, you're from the village, eh?" Torvin asks, his voice gruff but curious. "Been a guard long?"

You tell him about your recent training in Eldoria and your return to the village to take up your post. You mention the tragic events of the past few days and the encounter with the Bramblefang.

Torvin nods sympathetically. "Aye, those creatures are a menace," he says, shaking his head. "We've had a few run-ins with them ourselves. Nasty pieces of work."

He gestures towards the guards surrounding the caravan. "That's why we're always prepared. We've got a good mix of fighters and archers here. We can handle ourselves in a scrap."

The conversation turns to the upcoming Winter Festival, a welcome distraction from the grim realities of the road. You inquire about the goods they're carrying, and Torvin's eyes light up with pride.

"We've got everything you could possibly need for a proper celebration," he boasts. "Fine wines from the south, spices from the east, toys and trinkets for the children. We even managed to secure a shipment of those fancy Eldorian candles everyone's raving about."

He lowers his voice conspiratorially. "And between you and me, we've got a few surprises tucked away in the back. Special deliveries for some of the village's more... discerning clientele."

As you approach the Overhanging Cliff, the landscape takes on a more ominous feel. The road narrows, the cliff face looming above, casting a long shadow across the path. You recall the potential for a landslide here, the unstable ground a constant threat.

"This is a treacherous spot," you warn Torvin, pointing towards the loose rocks and fissures in the cliff face. "We need to be extra vigilant here."

Torvin nods in agreement. "Aye, this is where we lost a wagon a few years back. Rockslide came out of nowhere. Buried the poor driver and his horses."

He raises his voice, addressing the guards. "Eyes sharp, lads! Watch for any movement on the cliff. And keep those wagons close together. No straggling!"

The caravan proceeds cautiously, the guards' eyes scanning the cliff face for any signs of danger. The tension is palpable, the silence broken only by the creaking of wagon wheels and the occasional nervous cough.

A collective gasp rises from the caravan as the rocks clatter down the mountainside. Horses whinny nervously, and hands instinctively reach for weapons. You exchange a worried glance with Torvin, your eyes scanning the cliff face for any sign of an attacker.

But then, a collective sigh of relief sweeps through the caravan. Perched halfway up the cliff, a majestic mountain goat observes the commotion with an air of indifference. Its presence confirms that the rockfall was a natural occurrence, not a deliberate act of sabotage.

Torvin chuckles, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. "Seems like even the mountain itself wants to join the festivities," he jokes, attempting to lighten the mood. "Well, that's one less thing to worry about."

He claps you on the shoulder, a grin spreading across his face. "Good eye, lad/lass. You've got a keen sense of danger. Grimbold chose well sending you with us."

The caravan continues its journey, the tension easing as the Overhanging Cliff recedes into the distance. The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. The air grows colder, but the warmth of camaraderie fills the growing darkness.

As the first stars begin to twinkle in the night sky, you share stories and laughter with the caravan guards around a crackling campfire. The shared experience of facing potential danger has forged a bond between you, a sense of unity in the face of uncertainty.

The journey continues, the village lights twinkling in the distance like beacons of hope. The Winter Festival awaits, a celebration of resilience and community spirit, a testament to the enduring strength of the human heart.

"Ah, the Hidden Grove," Torvin says with a wistful sigh, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Brings back memories, that place does."

He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Grimbold and I, we were quite the pair when we were lads. Always getting into scrapes, testing the limits."

He chuckles, a deep rumble in his chest. "One time, we decided to play a prank on old Man Hemwick, the beekeeper. He was a grumpy sort, always yelling at us for getting too close to his hives."

Torvin's grin widens. "So, we hatched a plan. We found a wasp nest, a big one, mind you, and carefully moved it to the roof of his shed. Then, we waited."

He pauses for dramatic effect, his eyes gleaming with the memory. "Hemwick came out, unsuspecting, and bam! He bumped the nest, and those wasps swarmed him something fierce."

Torvin bursts into laughter, the sound echoing through the twilight. "He was running around, swatting at the air, yelling like a banshee. We couldn't stop laughing, even though we knew we were in for it when he caught us."

He shakes his head, a hint of remorse in his voice. "Looking back, it was a bit cruel, I suppose. But we were young and foolish. Hemwick, bless his soul, he never found out it was us. Though he did give us a wide berth after that."

The story brings a smile to your face, a welcome reminder of the carefree days of youth. Even amidst the dangers and uncertainties of the present, the memory of shared laughter and youthful mischief offers a comforting sense of connection and nostalgia.

"Torvin," you say, your voice serious, "I'm particularly worried about the Narrow Pass. It's the perfect spot for an ambush." You describe the signs of recent activity you observed – the scratches on the rocks, the broken branches – and emphasize the need for caution.

Torvin nods, his expression hardening. "You're right, lad/lass. We'll be ready for them." He barks orders to his guards, instructing them to reinforce the rear of the caravan and keep a watchful eye on the surrounding cliffs.

As the caravan enters the narrowest point of the pass, a sudden shout shatters the quiet. "Out of the way, this is a robbery!"

Round 1:

The first volley of crossbow bolts catches the rear guard off guard. One bolt thuds into a wagon's side, splintering wood. Another grazes a guard's arm, drawing a cry of pain. The third bolt, however, finds its mark, striking a guard squarely in the chest. He stumbles backward, clutching the wound, his face contorted in pain.

A group of four bandits bursts from behind the rocks on the right flank, weapons drawn and eyes gleaming with greed. They move with surprising agility, targeting the last two wagons in the caravan, which carry the most valuable goods.

The caravan guards, though surprised, quickly rally. They draw their swords and shields, preparing to defend the wagons. Shouts and the clang of steel fill the narrow pass as the bandits charge forward, scimitars flashing in the fading light.

The bandits press their advantage, their initial volley throwing the rear guard into disarray. Bandits 1 and 3, emboldened by their successful strikes, scramble onto the back of the rearmost wagon. With vicious kicks and snarling threats, they shove the terrified driver from his seat, sending him tumbling onto the road.

Bandits 2 and 4, scimitars gleaming, charge towards the remaining guard, their intent clear: seize control of the wagon and its valuable cargo. The guard raises his shield, bracing for the onslaught, but he is outnumbered and outmaneuvered.

The fate of the caravan hangs in the balance. You must act swiftly!

Do you:

• Loose an arrow or bolt: Take aim at one of the bandits attempting to commandeer the wagon, hoping to disrupt their plans and buy time for the guards. (Continue to round 2)
• Rush to the guards' aid: Charge into the melee, lending your strength and skill to the outnumbered guards, engaging the bandits in close combat. (Continue to round 4)

The choice is yours. Each option carries its own risks and rewards. Choose wisely, for the safety of the caravan and its precious cargo depends on your actions.

Round 2:

You take aim at one of the bandits attempting to commandeer the wagon, hoping to disrupt their plans and buy time for the guards.
To hit a Bandit Thug, roll a d20.
Elara needs to roll a 7 or higher. If you succeed, the bandit takes 1d8 +2 damage.Lysander needs to roll a 5 or higher. If you succeed, the bandit takes 1d8+3 damage.

The remaining guard fights with a desperate fury, his sword clashing against the bandits' scimitars. The guard manages to land a solid blow on Bandit 2.
The guard's blow against Bandit 2 lands with a satisfying clang, dealing 6 slashing damage.
Bandit 2 staggers back, his snarl turning into a grimace of pain.

However, he is overwhelmed by Bandit 4's relentless attacks, his shield splintering under the onslaught.

Meanwhile, the driver of the second-to-last wagon, his face pale with terror, abandons his post and flees towards the safety of the forward wagons. Bandits 1 and 3, having seized control of the rearmost wagon, struggle to turn it around in the narrow pass, their efforts hampered by the panicked horses and the uneven terrain.

Seeing their opportunity, two of the caravan guards on the flanks take aim with their crossbows. Bolts fly through the air, one narrowly missing Bandit 1's head, the other striking Bandit 3 in the shoulder. He cries out in pain, his grip on the reins loosening.

The bolt that strikes Bandit 3 in the shoulder deals 5 piercing damage*.* He winces and curses, clutching the wound, but his determination to escape with the wagon remains undeterred.

The air crackles with tension as the battle intensifies. You push aside the fear that threatens to paralyze you, your focus narrowing to a single, desperate goal: reach the remaining guard before he falls.

Round 3:

Adrenaline surges through your veins as you weave through the chaos, your boots pounding against the hard-packed earth. You vault over a fallen crate, narrowly avoiding a stray scimitar swing. The panicked cries of the caravan drivers and the terrified whinnies of the horses blend with the clash of steel and the snarls of the bandits, creating a symphony of chaos.

Your eyes lock onto the lone guard battling desperately against two assailants. He parries a blow, his shield groaning under the force, but his stance falters. Another bandit closes in, scimitar raised for a killing strike.

With a burst of speed, you sprint towards the fray, your weapon drawn. The bandits, focused on their prey, fail to notice your approach. You leap over a fallen guard, your heart pounding in your chest, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

Just as the bandit's scimitar descends, you arrive, your presence a sudden shock in the midst of the chaos. The fate of the guard, the caravan, and perhaps even the Winter Festival hangs in the balance, suspended in this moment of desperate action.

Round 4:

The bandits, caught off guard by your sudden arrival, momentarily falter. Their surprise gives you the advantage, a precious opportunity to strike before they can regroup.

Bandit 2, wounded and disoriented, presents an easy target. His defenses are weakened, and his attention is focused on the guard he's trying to overpower. A swift strike could take him out of the fight, evening the odds.

However, Bandit 4 poses a more immediate threat. His flanking position gives him a clear advantage over the guard, who is already struggling to defend himself. If left unchecked, Bandit 4 could deliver a fatal blow, leaving you to face two opponents alone.

The decision is yours:

• Strike at the weakened Bandit 2: Eliminate a wounded opponent, reducing their numbers and potentially demoralizing the remaining bandits.
• Intercept Bandit 4: Protect the guard, preventing him from falling and maintaining a numerical advantage in the fight.

Which path will you choose? The fate of the caravan hangs in the balance.

Strike at the weakened Bandit 2:

You shift your grip on your weapon, abandoning the bow/crossbow in favor of your trusty sword. The element of surprise is on your side, and the close quarters of the Narrow Pass favor a swift and decisive strike.

Attack Roll:

• Roll two d20s (advantage due to the surprise attack) and take the higher result.
• Add your character's melee attack bonus:
  • Elara: +5 (Strength modifier + proficiency bonus)
  • Lysander: +5 (Strength modifier + proficiency bonus)
• If the total equals or exceeds Bandit 2's Armor Class (12), the attack hits!

Damage:

• On a successful hit, roll for damage based on your weapon:
  • Elara: 1d8 + 1 slashing damage (longsword)
  • Lysander: 1d6 + 3 slashing damage (shortsword)

May your blade find its mark and bring justice to this bandit!

Bandit 4, sensing an opportunity to finish off the guard, lunges forward with a vicious snarl. His scimitar flashes in the fading light, aimed at the guard's exposed side.

The guard cries out as the scimitar slices through his defenses, leaving a deep gash in his side. He stumbles, his grip on his sword weakening. He's clearly in dire straits.

Round 5:

If your attack on bandit 2 succeeds, he crumples to the ground, his lifeblood staining the snow crimson. One bandit down, one to go.

Otherwise, both bandits will attack you.

Bandit 4, seeing his comrade attacked, roars in fury. He abandons his attack on the fallen guard and turns his attention to you, his scimitar a whirlwind of deadly intent.

"You'll pay for that, you meddling whelp!" he snarls, spitting a mouthful of curses.

He lunges forward, his attack a flurry of blows aimed at your head and torso. You raise your sword in defense, parrying his strikes with a series of sharp clangs. The clash of steel echoes through the Narrow Pass, a deadly dance under the fading light.

The battle is far from over, but the tide seems to be turning. Now, it's a test of skill, endurance, and determination.

Let the duel commence! (Continue to Round 5)

Intercept Bandit 4:

Round 5:

Seeing the immediate danger to the guard, you lunge towards Bandit 4, your sword aimed at his exposed back. He's so focused on finishing off the guard that he doesn't notice your approach until it's too late.

Attack Roll:

• Roll two d20s (advantage due to the surprise attack) and take the higher result.
• Add your character's melee attack bonus:
  • Elara: +5 (Strength modifier + proficiency bonus)
  • Lysander: +5 (Strength modifier + proficiency bonus)
• If the total equals or exceeds Bandit 4's Armor Class (12), the attack hits!

Damage:

• On a successful hit, roll for damage based on your weapon:
  • Elara: 1d8 + 1 slashing damage (longsword)
  • Lysander: 1d6 + 3 slashing damage (shortsword)

Let's see if you can save the guard and turn the tide of this fight! (Continue to Round 5)

Round 6:

• Bandit 2/4 Attacks: Roll a d20 for his attack, add his +3 attack bonus, and see if he hits your character's AC (16 for Elara, 15 for Lysander). If he hits, roll 1d6+2 slashing damage.
• Guard attack (if alive): Roll a d20 for his attack, add his +3 attack bonus. If he hits AC 12, roll 2d6+2 slashing damage. Starts with 6 HP remaining
• You Attack: Roll a d20 for your attack, add your +5 attack bonus, and see if you hit Bandit 4's AC (12). If you hit, roll for damage:
  • Elara: 1d8 + 1 slashing damage (longsword)
  • Lysander: 1d6 + 3 slashing damage (shortsword)

We'll continue this back-and-forth until the bandits are defeated or you fall. May the best warrior prevail!

End combat:

With Bandit 4 and Bandit 2 dispatched, a surge of adrenaline and relief washes over you. But the battle is far from over. Your gaze sweeps across the chaotic scene, assessing the situation.

The two remaining bandits, having successfully turned the stolen wagon, attempt to flee through the narrow pass. However, their escape is hampered by the pursuing caravan guards. Two guards maintain a steady barrage of crossbow bolts, peppering the fleeing wagon with projectiles. One bolt strikes a bandit in the leg, causing him to cry out in pain. Another shatters the wagon's lantern, plunging the escapees into partial darkness.

Meanwhile, the other guards close in, their swords drawn and their faces grim. They swarm the wagon, engaging the bandits in a fierce melee. The narrow pass becomes a whirlwind of steel and fury, the clash of swords echoing off the rocky walls.

Despite their initial success, the bandits are overwhelmed. One bandit falls with a cry, his chest pierced by a guard's blade. The other, cornered and wounded, attempts to fight on, but he is quickly subdued and disarmed.

The remaining guards secure the stolen wagon and its valuable cargo. They tend to their wounded comrades, their faces etched with relief and gratitude. The caravan, though shaken, is safe. The Winter Festival supplies will reach the village, thanks to your bravery and the courage of the caravan guards.

Torvin approaches you, his expression a mixture of admiration and gratitude. "You saved our hides back there, lad/lass," he says, clapping you on the shoulder. "Grimbold was right to send you. You're a true hero."

He gestures towards the captured bandits. "We'll take these scoundrels back to the village and let Grimbold deal with them. They'll face justice for their crimes."

The caravan resumes its journey, the Narrow Pass fading into the distance. The threat of the bandits has been neutralized, but the encounter serves as a stark reminder of the dangers that lurk in the shadows. The whispers of the Great Winter, the presence of the Order of the Celestial Compass, and the search for the amulet still weigh heavily on your mind. The road ahead remains uncertain, but you face it with renewed determination, your resolve strengthened by the knowledge that you have protected the innocent and upheld your duty as a guardian of the village.

If you want to hear it read aloud, I do so here.

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From the beginning...

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Part 2, Chapter 34

“I guess we need to get some supplies. Where is the general store?”

“Food first. I’m hungry.”

Zander gestures to one of the cloud servants. It looks like a floating, vaguely humanoid-shaped cloud, carrying a large tray. “Hey, can you tell us – er – point us to an inn where we can eat?” The cloud shrugs. “He doesn’t know, I guess. Probably just a palace cloud.”

A large goliath, large even by that race’s standards, comes over. “I am called Trax. Perhaps I can help.”

“Yes, this cloud won’t tell us where there is an inn, a public house, or even a restaurant. We’re entirely famished. We’ve had a hard day today!”

Trax laughs deeply. “Yes, that’s doubly a problem. The servants can’t talk. They have no mouths, as you can see. Also, there are no inns in the city.”

“We were told we could stay the night, though. Don’t giants sleep?”

“Of course they sleep, in great giant beds!” Trax chuckles again. “We have but few visitors, and we take care of them. Come, I will take you to a place of eating and sleeping.” It would be unfair to call the place ‘servants quarters’, as the goliaths and other creatures are not servants, nor are they ill-treated. The city itself is one large interconnected building, with soaring walls and impressive doors of bronze and iron. Trax leads them to a structure only slightly smaller, where the doors are a mere twenty-five feet tall and the windows could grace a cathedral in a human city. The tables are massive, with chairs that even Zander and Arthur must scramble up into. Dagrin has to be boosted up and chooses to eat standing in the chair.

All around are goliaths, half-giants, and other assorted very large creatures. The smallest still dwarf the largest of the humans. “Is there anyone normal-sized around here?” Zander wonders aloud.

Trax guffaws. “We are all quite normal. Look around you. It appears that it is you who are tiny in comparison!” The meal is quite filling, if mostly vegetables in a rich stock. Trax, whose whole name is Traxendal Stormcaller, is relatively new to Aetherholm, having arrived after the last snowfall of the previous winter. He tells the group that he’s content, allowed to produce his art (intricately painted pottery), and that he’s not interested in leaving. He doesn’t know anything much about the Vaasan army, though others from other tables join into the conversation, telling stories of the wanton pillaging and murder that has been the hallmark of the army as a whole.

“I reckon the Vaasans are no better nor worser than anyone else. My uncle used to live in Vaasa back when.” “Damara used to send bounty hunters and settlers inta’ Vaasa. They are probably part of the army now.” “Yeah, it’s the Warlocks what make all the trouble.” “Them and their tricksy godling.”

Arthur asks, “Godling?”

“I never heard of Telas, or some such. But all the Warlock Knights follow him. Him and the Mouth.”

“Tell me about t’ Mouth,” Dagrim says.

“Not much to tell. He is the Mouth of Telos, and the Ironfell Council reports to him.”

“I’ve never heard of this ‘Mouth of Telos’. Where is he?”

“How should I know? He’s probably in Vaasa somewhere!”

***

The party is led off to a set of rooms, nearly dormitory style, except that they are spacious, huge, and have larger-than-expected furniture. The group considers setting a watch but decides against it, though Arthur still wakes for his midnight prayers and the two elves trance for part of the night.

In the morning, over bowls of honey-sweetened porridge, the group discusses their next move. With the information about the Warlock Knight leadership fresh in their minds, Azathar suggests seeking out the sun elf from the Paramount's chamber. "An elf living among giants? There's more to his story, and he might know something about these Warlock Knights."

"Agreed," Dagrim says, pushing away his half-finished bowl. "And I don' like how ‘e watched us during t’ audience. Better t’ know what he's about before we leave."  Azathar, Dagrim and Zander agree to go to see the elf, while Arthur, Dillium, and Mel stay behind.

He isn’t terribly hard to find. He has his own building, slightly separated from the others with fewer interconnections to the larger ones. The building itself is only slightly oversized, as if designed for someone smaller than a giant, but still larger than a human. It does not have any of the elegance normally expected of an elf structure, though a small banner in front proclaims that Lord Rahsh is in residence.

As they wait to be admitted, Azathar says, “That’s an odd name. That’s… not really elven.”

Lord Rahsh’s apartment has a sparsely furnished interior. The audience chamber contains a single cushioned chair and a small table. Tapestries line the walls and lush carpets lie scattered on the floor. Shelves and cases fill the walls with knickknacks and obnoxiously large gems with small lights strategically placed to illuminate them. The room is open to the sky, with no roof overhead. The warmth of the city is magnified, making Lord Rahsh’s apartment positively hot.

In a low voice, Azathar says, “Im'm ú- with hi húd. Im'v just govannen hain, a -o hi magol -o th.” (I'm not really with this group. I've just met them, and know nothing of this sword of theirs.)

“Ther amarth na- ú- nin worrui ” Lord Rahsh replies with a bit of a lisp. (Their fate is not my concern.)

“Perhapss we should discuss in a common tongue?” says Lord Rahsh.

“How is it ye come t’ be here amongst t’ giants?” Dagrim asks.

“It beatss a cave in the side of a mountain.”

“That it does. Yet I wonder if there aren’t other places you might be more comfortable.”

“The location is usseful to me.”

“Useful? In what way?” asks Azathar.

“It allowss me to keep an eye on thingss.”

“Why would you need to keep an eye on things?”

“It iss my task. The Lord of Justice commandss it, and I find it less odiouss to comply than fight about it. Kallishara’nara hass given me this area.”

“Well, if t’ Lord of Justice commanded it…” Dagrim says, dubiously.

Abruptly, Lord Rahsh says to Zander, “You are the one called Roaringhorn, yess?”

“Yes, Zander Roaringhorn, of Cormyr. How do you know of me?”

“Kallishara’nara asked me to look out for you.”

“Who is this Kalli-whatsits? I don’t think I’ve ever met him.”

“It is Kallishara’nara who … coordinatess the watcherss in this region,” Rahsh responded carefully.

“He is Vaasan?”

Rahsh laughs the high, thin laugh of a sun elf. “Hardly. She has taken the duke as her concubine.”

“Which duke? I’m aware of at least three in Damara alone,” Zander asks.

“Who can keep track of them? They come and go, and live short, brutal, pointless little livess.”

“So what are you meant to do if you see me and my company? We are no longer employed by anyone in Damara,” Zander asks.

“Oh, I’ll jusst let her know that I’ve seen you here, and the circumstances. You obviously don’t require any aid I might be able to provide.”

“You need not tell her of the Sword. We are maintaining a low profile.”

“Oh, but I musst. It is in my instructionss. This definitely countss as something of import, and there is little elsse to report in these cold dayss.”

“What ca’ we do to convince ye not t’ report our whereabouts, and that of the Sword? We intend t’ be on our way in t’ morning,” Dagrim asks.

“You cannot. It is more than my hide is worth. Perhapss, though…” Rahsh muses.

“I’m sure we can make it worth your time.”

“Time. Yess. I suppose I could put off my report until next week. Perhapss the week after.”

“What can we give you in return?” Azathar asks.

“Information. I need information on the Guild. And, it might be useful to you as well.”

“Which guild? There are hundreds.”

“The. Guild.”

Dagrim nods. “Aye, we ca’ do that.” Dagrim suddenly has an idea which ‘guild’ Lord Rahsh is referring to.

After a few more verbal jousts, the trio take their leave. Azathar asks, “Do you guys get the impression he’s spying for the Warlock Knights?”

“Aye. He’s thick in it, ‘e is,” Dagrim replies.

***

Azathar, Dagrim, and Zander go to look for Paramount Thalrad, hoping to get more information or perhaps to get him to change his mind about the Sword. They find him in his apartment, listening to one of the goliaths read from a scroll. It appears to be an epic historical telling from the days of the kingdom of Ostoria, [1] but Thalrad shushes the goliath so he can talk with the trio of elf, dwarf, and human.

They don’t convince him of anything, but he does get them each to tell their histories, explaining where they come from, how they arrived here at Aetherholm, and everything in between. Each in turn tells his story, as the goliath makes notes on a scroll and Thalrad appears to be memorizing each story.  The group talks well into the night before the Paramount releases the trio to return to their rooms for a decent night’s sleep. It might be their last decent sleep for a while. Their night is peaceful, with no hint of nightmares.

End of Chapter 34.

[1] The ancient giant kingdom. It's now buried under the Great Glacier.

Edited in Lex. https://lex.page/

All text is written without AI assist. It’s all my fault.

Day 7: On patrol

The encounter with Niamh leaves you reeling, her words echoing in your mind as you continue your patrol. The weight of responsibility settles heavily on your shoulders. The fate of the village, perhaps even the world, hinges on finding the amulet.

As you traverse the outskirts of the Whispering Woods, a flash of movement catches your eye. A small, furry creature darts across your path, disappearing into a thicket of brambles. Curiosity piqued, you cautiously approach the thicket, parting the thorny branches.

There, nestled amongst the tangled vines, you find a family of Flitterlings – tiny, squirrel-like creatures with iridescent wings. They chirp and chatter, their eyes wide with fear. One of the Flitterlings, smaller than the others, appears to be trapped, its wing caught in a thorny snare.

The Flitterlings chirp frantically, their distress evident. It's a simple task to carefully release the trapped creature, freeing its delicate wing from the snare. The Flitterlings erupt in a chorus of grateful chirps, their iridescent wings fluttering excitedly. They gather around you, nuzzling your hand in thanks before disappearing back into the undergrowth.

This brief encounter, though seemingly insignificant, offers a moment of respite amidst the growing tension. It reminds you of the interconnectedness of all living things and the importance of compassion, even in the face of greater threats.

With a renewed sense of purpose, you complete your patrol and return to the village. The weight of the missing child's death still hangs heavy in the air, but a glimmer of hope shines through the gloom. You have a mission, a purpose that transcends your duties as a guard.

You arrive at Grimbold's office, ready to report your findings and seek his guidance. He looks up as you enter, his weathered face etched with concern.

"What did you find out there?" he asks, his voice gruff but laced with anticipation.

You begin to recount your patrol findings to Grimbold, describing the eerie stillness of Rotfang Glen and the unsettling discovery of the ancient ruins. As you mention the inscription and its chilling warning, a voice cuts through the room, sharp and dismissive.

"Old wives' tales and superstitious ramblings!"

You turn to see Seraphina, seated in a shadowed corner of the room, her expression a mixture of disdain and amusement. Grimbold scowls, clearly annoyed by the interruption.

"Seraphina," he growls, "perhaps you could allow the guard to finish their report before offering your... commentary."

Seraphina waves a dismissive hand. "Forgive my interruption, Captain, but I couldn't help but overhear this... fanciful tale. These inscriptions the guard speaks of are nothing more than local folklore, exaggerated stories meant to frighten children."

She leans forward, her voice taking on an authoritative tone. "The truth of the matter, Captain, is far simpler. The thinning of the veil, the long winter, the monstrous creatures – all of these are consequences of the amulet being returned to the Feywild, not kept within our realm."

She continues, her voice laced with conviction. "The amulet, you see, is not merely a key to the fey realm; it is a source of immense power, a conduit for the very essence of winter. When it resides in the Feywild, its power is contained, its influence balanced. But when it is brought into our world, it disrupts the natural order, unleashing a wave of frigid energy that can plunge the land into an eternal winter."

Seraphina fixes you with a piercing gaze. "The inscription you found likely describes a time when the amulet was misused, its power unleashed upon this world. The Order of the Celestial Compass understands these dangers, and we are committed to ensuring that such a catastrophe never happens again."

Grimbold, though visibly irritated by Seraphina's interruption, seems intrigued by her explanation. He strokes his beard thoughtfully, his eyes flickering between you and the knight.

"So, you believe the amulet should remain in our world?" he asks, his voice laced with curiosity.

Seraphina nods firmly. "Indeed, Captain. It is the only way to protect our realm from the bitter cold of the Feywild, to maintain the delicate balance of the seasons."

The room hangs heavy with tension. Seraphina's words contradict everything Niamh told you. Who is telling the truth? Is the Order truly seeking to protect the village, or do they have a hidden agenda? And how will you navigate this web of conflicting information, with the fate of the village hanging in the balance?

Later that evening, after the unsettling encounter with Seraphina and Grimbold, you find yourself alone in the barracks, contemplating the conflicting information and the weight of your responsibility. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the room.

Suddenly, a flurry of wings and a frantic chirping disrupt the quiet solitude. A Frost Robin, its breast feathers the color of glacial ice, bursts through the open window, fluttering anxiously around your head. It carries a small, tightly rolled parchment tied to its leg, its panicked chirps filling the room.

The robin lands on the table before you, its tiny body trembling. With gentle care, you untie the scroll and carefully unfurl it. The message, written in Niamh's flowing script, is a desperate plea:

"Please, you must be careful! The Order's lies run deep. They twist the truth, painting themselves as saviors while harboring a thirst for power. They covet the amulet, not for the protection of this world, but for the dominion it offers. They will stop at nothing to possess it, even if it means plunging both our realms into chaos. I implore you, do not let them deceive you. Find the amulet. Safeguard it. The fate of countless lives hangs in the balance."

The robin, its message delivered, lets out a final, mournful chirp before taking flight, disappearing into the night. Niamh's warning leaves you with a heavy heart and a renewed sense of urgency. The Order's deception runs deeper than you imagined. You must tread carefully, for every step you take could lead you closer to danger or closer to the truth.

If you want to hear it read aloud, I do so here.

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Day 6: On patrol

The morning after the attack, a somber mood hangs over the village. Grimbold, his face etched with worry, summons you to his office.

"We can't let fear cripple us," he says, his voice grave. "We need to know if there are more of those creatures lurking nearby. I'm sending you on a patrol of the surrounding area. Be vigilant, and report back anything you find."

He hands you a map marked with the patrol route. Your path circles the village, venturing into the outskirts of the Whispering Woods. As you study the map, your eyes are drawn to a particular area marked with a stark warning: "The Gnarled Hollow - Forbidden."

A shiver runs down your spine. You remember this place from your childhood – a dense, overgrown section of the woods, shrouded in local legends and whispered warnings. The adults called it "The Gnarled Hollow," but the children had a different name for it: "Rotfang Glen." It was said to be a place where trees twisted into monstrous shapes, where whispers carried on the wind spoke of lost souls and forgotten horrors, and where creatures with rotting fangs lurked in the shadows.

Despite the unease that grips you, duty compels you forward. You venture into the Whispering Woods, following the designated patrol route. As you approach Rotfang Glen, the air grows heavy with an unnatural stillness. The trees seem to lean inwards, their branches forming a dense canopy that blocks out the sunlight. The ground is soft and spongy beneath your feet, a carpet of decaying leaves and moss.

You push deeper into the glen, your senses heightened. The silence is broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant cawing of a crow. Then, you see it – a crumbling stone structure, half-hidden amongst the trees. It's an ancient ruin, its walls covered in moss and vines, its stones weathered and cracked.

Curiosity overcomes your apprehension. You approach the ruin, drawn by an inexplicable sense of familiarity. As you examine the crumbling walls, you notice fragments of text etched into the stone, their script faded but still legible.

You decipher the words, your heart pounding in your chest. The inscription speaks of a time long ago, when the veil between the worlds thinned, and fey creatures crossed into the human realm. It describes a creature, twisted by magic, that terrorized the village, snatching children from their homes. And it tells of a war that erupted between humans and fey, a conflict that brought suffering and devastation to both worlds.

The inscription ends with a chilling warning: "Beware the thinning of the veil. Beware the creatures that lurk in the shadows. Beware the echoes of the past, for they may foretell the future."

A sense of dread washes over you. The events described in the inscription bear an eerie resemblance to the recent tragedy. Is history repeating itself? Is the village on the brink of another war with the fey?

You leave the ruin, the inscription etched into your memory. The patrol continues, but your mind races with questions. What secrets does Rotfang Glen hold? What is the connection between this ancient ruin and the current events? And how can you prevent the village from suffering the same fate as it did in the past?

As you emerge from the ruins, a sense of unease clings to you like a shroud. The inscription's warning echoes in your mind, its chilling prophecy casting a shadow over the once-familiar woods. You glance over your shoulder, half-expecting to see a monstrous figure emerge from the twisted trees.

Suddenly, a voice cuts through the silence, sending a jolt of surprise through your nerves.

"Lost in thought, are we?"

You whirl around to find Niamh standing before you, her ethereal beauty a stark contrast to the grim surroundings. Her eyes sparkle with amusement, but a hint of concern lingers in their depths.

"I sensed your presence nearby," she says, her voice like the tinkling of winter chimes. "It seems you've stumbled upon a place steeped in sorrow and regret."

She gestures towards the ruins, her expression turning somber. "This place holds the echoes of a dark past, a time when the veil between our worlds frayed, and chaos ensued."

Niamh explains that the creature you encountered, the Bramblefang, was not a deliberate attack but a consequence of the thinning veil. "When the barrier between our worlds weakens," she says, "the magic of the Feywild can seep into your realm, twisting and corrupting your creatures."

She steps closer, her gaze intense. "The only way to restore the balance, to prevent further tragedies, is to find the amulet. It is the key to mending the veil, to restoring harmony between our worlds."

Niamh then recounts a tale from long ago, a time when the Order of the Celestial Compass held sway over these lands. "They discovered the amulet," she says, her voice filled with bitterness, "but they refused to return it to the Feywild. They sought to harness its power for their own gain, blind to the consequences of their actions."

"Their greed," she continues, "prolonged the thinning of the veil, allowing Feywild magic to seep into your world. The winter grew harsh and unforgiving, the land became barren, and creatures were twisted into monstrous forms. A war erupted, fueled by fear and mistrust, a conflict that brought suffering to both our worlds."

Niamh's words hang heavy in the air, their chilling implications sinking deep into your heart. The Order, the very organization tasked with protecting the realm, is responsible for the long winter and the suffering it caused. And now, they seek to repeat their past mistakes, their greed blinding them to the potential consequences.

"You must find the amulet," Niamh urges, her voice filled with urgency. "Do not let the Order repeat the errors of the past. The fate of both our worlds hangs in the balance."

Her words leave you with a renewed sense of purpose. The search for the amulet is no longer just a personal quest; it is a mission to protect the village, to prevent a war, and to restore balance to the world. But how can you trust Niamh? Is she truly being forthright, or is she manipulating you for her own ends? And how can you outmaneuver the Order, an organization with vast resources and a hidden agenda?

The path ahead is fraught with uncertainty, but you are determined to follow it, guided by the whispers of the past and the hope of a brighter future.

If you want to hear it read aloud, I do so here.

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So, I'm a DM and I'm running a pretty large game at a club I created, we have 7 people (including me), 2 of which joined later, so we have 6 actual players. I thought that I'd start them with something nice and easy, with the Lost mines of Phandelver, spent the entirety of session 0 making sure that their Characters were pretty strong, seeing as this was their first time playing and I wanted to make it a little easier on them. I made it so that the stat distribution was like this. 1 stat gets 16 as a base stat, one gets 14 and the rest get 15. So safe to say they are pretty strong for level one characters.

Initially I played as a DMPC before (for some unknown reason they, my friends, all collectively decided to excommunicate him) and I was a Paladin, aka the only one with any healing spells/abilities, the party has no barbarians, no clerics, no Paladins, 1 rogue, 1 druid, 1 fighter, 1 wizard and 2 Sorcerers, the Rogue plays as 2 gnomes in a trenchcoat calling themselves George W Bush that refuses to use any weapons outside of the *Presidential Punch* (Renamed Unarmed Strike) and *Presidential Contextual Button Prompt* which is renamed Sneak Attack. And the Fighter is the one that tries to kill the rogue later in this story.

After some shenanigans in the starting village and a bonus fight that I adapted from the Intro to storm wreck Isle they got to the Triboar Trail (IDK if I'm writing the names correctly) they are able to defeat the goblins by using control water on their urine and dealing a bit of poison damage, then one dude casts frostbite, which causes a goblin to evolve because it gets a Nat 20 at resisting the spell. They are soon able to dispatch the goblins, take a long rest and go along their merry way, having reached level 2 (4 of them) they are able to get to cragmaw hideout without any incident where they are at the entrance and find the 2 additional players.

The next session (the sessions are very short) one of the newbies isn't here so he's just sleeping on the ground. 2 players decide to use control water, use the DBZ fusion dance and part the stream. Then three go to the other side and fight some (2) goblins while two members stay on the opposite side of the stream, they all roll initiative and one of the dudes that is on the non-goblin side decides to stick his hand into the stream to try and fish. I scramble through internet stat-blocks to find fish and I finally find some, and without reading everything and by using their passive perception they are able to stop him from stealthing from them (fisherman is a rogue and rolled terribly despite having +7) and therefore fails at catching the river barracuda swarm.

The other three on the other side are next, one misses a fire damage based chromatic orb, but seeing as they are in the thorn & bramble/ wood bit it sets them and the goblins on fire, and they all take some damage. Then one of them decides to throw a firebolt that kills one of the goblins.

One of my other players decides that his turn he will kick the fisherman rogue into the fish infested water, that immediately deals 36 damage, due to a high roll, with luck it didn't insta kill the character because he was on full hp but he still got put into death saves.

The remaining goblin attacks the dude that threw the firebolt, dealing enough damage to get him to 1hp (for some reason during this time, none of the dudes that were on fire tried to go into the water or put themselves out) then the turn ends and he gets into a critical (death saves) state. And another on fire dude almost burns to death (left on 1hp), fortunately the fire also kills the goblin and a new session with the last party member (the only one proficient with medicine) allows for both party members in death saves range to be saved.

Then, the party splits with the only medicine guy going to the right of the cave and the rest going up, I'll be fun to see what happens next session as they struggle to survive without any way to heal themselves.

As a result, I believe that they have officially beat DND within the first 5 or so hours of playing as I feel dead inside and I've just started the campaign.

Hello, and sorry for any bad english, this is a repost of myself from /DnD:

as the title says, im trying to run a Yuan-ti tribe, in my homebrew campaign, that was supposed to have a secret hidden by a lie that the whole tribe believed to be true.

The plot being the party gets captured and a Yuan-ti helps them escape if they agree to help uncover whats the tribes secret. This plot was written 1 year ago and I lost my notes from back then, so I ask for help in what should be the secret.

The idea being that it should be a player choise of:

-Tell the NPC disclose the bitter truth that could ruin the tribe forever.
-Keep it a secret for the good of the tribe.

or something like that.

My Bard character Yarnuk is neglected adhd ridden nobles son who is adventureing to finf himself. Hes basically a rich kid on holiday. He has the common sense of a kobold. Hes a green dragonborn and a Necromancer bard. We had gotten back to our town and him and his friend Ace were goin to go check if the cult occupation had damaged our magic bean stalk. We came acrossed a field of looked like mushrooms. Rolled for investigation its a 5. Yarnuk is 100% sure these our mushrooms. Ace watchs in horror as what Yarnuk thought were mushrooms was a packof 30 half buried giant slugs. Yarnuk is quickly swarmed. I probably couldve handled them onmy own but ace steps in to help and moon beams the two that grabed yarnuk as well as yarnuk. He rolls max damage basically nukeing Yarnuk and the snails. The snails die and Yarnuk tries to run. I forget the disengage action and am grapled by another two snail im knoked by another critical moon beam and the get mauled to death by the slugs. Luckily i owed the red wizard a favor and i wasnt getting off that easily.

Day 5: The boy

Your patrol proceeds without incident, the village seemingly at peace. You exchange greetings with familiar faces, observe the merchants tending to their stalls, and note the children playing in the snow, their laughter echoing through the crisp winter air.

Yet, beneath the surface of this normalcy, a lingering tension persists. The encounter with Seraphina, the whispers of the Great Winter, and the strange tracks in the woods weigh heavily on your mind. As the day draws to a close, you retire to the guard barracks, seeking respite in sleep.

But sleep offers no escape. A chilling nightmare grips you, plunging you into a realm of shadows and fear. You find yourself in a dense forest, the trees gnarled and twisted, their branches reaching like skeletal claws. A woman's voice, hauntingly familiar, calls out to you from the depths of the woods. "Help me!" she cries, her voice laced with desperation.

You rush towards the sound, your heart pounding in your chest. But as you draw closer, a dark figure emerges from the shadows, its form shifting and indistinct. The woman screams, her voice cut short by a chilling silence. You try to reach her, but your limbs feel heavy, your movements sluggish.

Suddenly, you jolt awake, bathed in a cold sweat. The barracks are dark and silent, but the echoes of the nightmare linger. Then, you hear it—a scream, piercing the night, a scream filled with terror and despair. It's coming from the village.

You burst out of the barracks and into the chaos of the village square. Villagers huddle together, their faces etched with fear and confusion. You push through the crowd, demanding answers.

"What happened? Who screamed?"

A distraught mother points towards a nearby cottage, her voice trembling. "A monster! It snatched my boy through the window!"

You race towards the cottage, your heart pounding. The window is shattered, shards of glass glinting in the moonlight. Inside, the room is in disarray, furniture overturned and belongings scattered across the floor. You examine the window frame, finding traces of mud and what appear to be claw marks.

Outside, the faint imprint of large paws leads away from the cottage, disappearing into the darkness beyond the village perimeter. You follow the trail, your senses heightened, your grip tightening on your weapon.

The tracks lead you deep into the woods, the silence broken only by the crunch of snow beneath your feet. The air grows heavy with an unnatural chill, and a sense of dread washes over you. Finally, you arrive at a clearing, where a gnarled, hollow tree stands silhouetted against the moonlit sky.

You hear a whimper coming from inside the tree. You approach cautiously, peering into the hollow. There, huddled in the darkness, is the missing boy, eyes wide with terror. And standing guard over them, a creature twisted by magic, its form vaguely familiar yet grotesquely distorted.

It's a Bramblefang, a once-gentle badger transformed into a monstrous predator. Thorns protrude from its fur, its claws elongated and sharp, its eyes glowing with an eerie green light. It snarls at you, its teeth bared, ready to defend its prey.

Bramblefang

• Armor Class 13
• Hit Points 32 (7d6 + 7)
• Speed 30 ft.

Skills Perception +2, Stealth +0

Senses darkvision 60 ft., passive Perception 12

Challenge 1/2 (100 XP)

Actions

• Multiattack. The bramblefang makes two attacks: one with its bite and one with its claws.
• Bite. Melee Weapon Attack: +4 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 61 (1d8 + 3) piercing damage.
• Claws. Melee Weapon Attack: +4 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 7 (2d4 + 3) slashing damage.

Reactions

• Thorny Retaliation. When the bramblefang is hit by an attack, the attacker takes 3 (1d6) piercing damage.

Combat begins!!!

Choose whether to start with a ranged attack or close in on the Bramblefang.

Depending on your choice, the Bramblefang does the following:

Bramblefang's Attacks (Close Combat)

• Round 1: The Bramblefang lunges at you with surprising speed, its thorny hide bristling. It snaps its jaws, aiming for your leg with a vicious bite. (Bite attack)
• Round 2: Enraged by your resistance, the Bramblefang rakes its claws across your chest, leaving bloody furrows in its wake. (Claw attack)
• Round 3: It circles you, its eyes glowing with predatory intent. With a sudden burst of speed, it leaps towards you, attempting to knock you off balance with its thorny body. (Bite attack, followed by an attempt to shove you prone if the bite hits) Continue with round 3 until combat is over.

Bramblefang's Attacks (Ranged Combat)

• Round 1: Sensing your distance, the Bramblefang lets out a guttural growl and charges towards you, thorns extended like a living shield. (It attempts to close the distance, using its movement to get within melee range)
• Round 2: If you maintain your distance, it hurls itself at you in a desperate leap, attempting to close the gap and unleash its claws. (If it reaches you, it uses its Multiattack. If not, it ends its turn frustrated, snarling and snapping its jaws.)
• Round 3: Frustrated by its inability to reach you, the Bramblefang tears at the hollow tree in a frenzy, ripping bark and splintering wood. This causes the tree to start swaying. Round 3 repeats until ranged combat is over. If this is repeated a third time, the tree will collapse, killing the boy and bramblefang.

Bramblefang's Reactions (to Ranged Attacks)

• Thorny Retaliation: Each time an arrow or bolt finds its mark, the Bramblefang lets out a pained screech. Thorns erupt from its hide, some flying towards you with surprising force. (The attacker takes the piercing damage from Thorny Retaliation, and the Bramblefang uses its reaction to move slightly, repositioning itself to protect the boy.)
• Enraged Defense: If severely wounded by a ranged attack, the Bramblefang becomes enraged. It thrashes wildly, its thorns lashing out in all directions. Make a Dexterity saving throw to avoid taking 3 piercing damage.

Remember to use your character's abilities strategically and consider the environment to your advantage. Good luck!

After combat:

If the tree did not collapse:

The Bramblefang falls with a final, shuddering gasp, its thorny form collapsing into the snow. The eerie green glow fades from its eyes, leaving behind the empty shell of a creature twisted by magic.

You cautiously approach the hollow tree, peering inside. The boy, huddled in the darkness, looks up at you with wide, tear-filled eyes. You offer a reassuring smile and gently lift them from their hiding place.

The boy clings to you, his small body trembling. You wrap them in your cloak, offering words of comfort as you make your way back through the moonlit woods.

Upon reaching the village, you are met with a wave of relief and gratitude. The boy's mother rushes towards you, her face etched with worry. She scoops her boy into her arms, tears streaming down her face.

"Thank you," she whispers, her voice choked with emotion. "You saved my boy."

The villagers gather around, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of lanterns. They shower you with praise and thanks, their voices filled with admiration for your bravery. You stand amidst the crowd, a sense of quiet satisfaction warming your heart. You have faced danger and protected the innocent, fulfilling your duty as a guardian of the village.

Grimbold, the gruff guard captain, claps you on the shoulder, a rare smile gracing his lips. "Well done, lad/lass," he says, his voice gruff but approving. "You've proven yourself worthy of the badge you wear."

As the commotion subsides and the villagers return to their homes, you take a moment to reflect on the night's events. The encounter with the Bramblefang, the rescue of the boy, the gratitude of the villagers – these experiences solidify your resolve to protect this community, to stand against the darkness that threatens to consume it.

But the mystery of the strange tracks, the whispers of the Great Winter, and the presence of the Order of the Celestial Compass still linger in your mind. The night's adventure has only deepened your commitment to uncovering the truth and safeguarding the village from the dangers that lie ahead.

If the tree collapses:

The third volley of arrows finds its mark, but the enraged Bramblefang thrashes violently, its thorns tearing at the already weakened tree trunk. With a sickening crack, the ancient tree collapses inward, the hollow where the boy cowered crushed beneath the weight of the falling timber.

A heavy silence descends upon the clearing. The Bramblefang lies motionless, its life extinguished. But your victory feels hollow, replaced by a sickening dread. You rush towards the fallen tree, frantically pushing aside branches and debris.

When you finally reach the boy, their small form is limp and lifeless, crushed beneath the weight of the collapsed tree. The sight sends a wave of grief and guilt washing over you. You failed to protect them.

With a heavy heart, you gently lift the boy's body and carry them back towards the village. The journey feels endless, each step a burden. As you approach the village square, the anxious faces of the villagers turn to horror as they realize the tragic outcome.

The boy's mother collapses at the sight, her cries of anguish echoing through the night. Anger and despair mingle in the eyes of the villagers, their initial gratitude replaced by accusations and blame. You stand amidst the turmoil, bearing the weight of their grief and your own failure.

Grimbold approaches, his face etched with sorrow. He places a hand on your shoulder, his voice heavy with understanding. "It was a valiant effort, lad/lass," he says, "but sometimes even the bravest hearts cannot prevail against fate."

The night ends in mourning, the joyous anticipation of the Winter Festival replaced by a somber pall. The boy's death casts a shadow over the village, a stark reminder of the fragility of life and the ever-present threat of darkness.

You retire to the barracks, haunted by the image of the lifeless boy and the weight of your responsibility. The guilt gnaws at you, fueling a burning determination to prevent such tragedies in the future. You vow to uncover the truth behind the strange occurrences, to protect the village from the forces that seek to harm it, and to honor the memory of the boy you failed to save.

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Day 4: The order of the Celestial Compass

Day 4 dawns with a sense of foreboding. The encounter with Finn and the strange tracks have stirred a deep unease within you. As you begin your morning patrol, a sense of anticipation hangs heavy in the air.

A commotion in the town square draws your attention. A figure clad in gleaming armor, bearing the insignia of the Order of the Celestial Compass, has arrived. The knight, a stern-faced woman with piercing blue eyes, introduces herself as Seraphina. She addresses the gathered villagers, her voice ringing with authority.

"Greetings, good people. I am here on behalf of the Order to ensure the safety and well-being of your community. We have received reports of unusual occurrences in this region... whispers of fey activity and disturbances in the natural order."

Seraphina's gaze sweeps across the crowd, lingering on each face. "Have any of you witnessed anything out of the ordinary? Strange creatures? Unseasonal weather? Any signs of magic or enchantment?"

A hush falls over the crowd. Villagers exchange nervous glances, but no one speaks. Seraphina's eyes meet yours, a flicker of suspicion in their depths.

What will you do?

Option 1: Focus on the Tracks

You tell Seraphina about the strange tracks Finn the trapper found in the woods. You describe their unusual size and shape, emphasizing the possibility of fey involvement.

Intrigued by your report of the strange tracks, Seraphina's expression shifts from suspicion to thoughtful consideration. "Those tracks... they bear resemblance to descriptions found in our ancient archives," she reveals, her voice hushed. "Legends speak of fey creatures that once roamed this land, forming bonds with humans in times of need."

She describes a creature known as a Winter Sprite. Smaller than the average human, with delicate features and wings like frost patterns, these sprites possess a deep connection to the winter elements. They are said to be fiercely loyal to those they befriend, capable of wielding ice magic and guiding travelers through treacherous snowy terrain.

"If these tracks indeed belong to a Winter Sprite," Seraphina continues, "it could be a powerful ally in these uncertain times. Keep a watchful eye, and should you encounter this creature, approach with respect and an open heart."

She then provides you with a small, intricately carved wooden whistle. "This whistle," she explains, "is attuned to the Winter Sprite's essence. Should you find yourself in need of assistance, blow it with a clear intention, and the sprite may answer your call."

Option 2: Highlight the Weather
You mention the recent unseasonal snowstorm, suggesting that it might be a sign of magical interference. You express your concern about the possibility of a prolonged winter and the hardship it could bring to the village.

Seraphina nods approvingly as you express your concerns about the unseasonal snowstorm. "Your vigilance is commendable," she says, her voice firm but laced with a hint of warmth. "The Order values those who prioritize the well-being of their community."

She reaches into a pouch at her belt and produces a small, crystal vial filled with a shimmering, blue liquid. "This potion," she explains, "will grant you temporary resistance to the biting cold. It should prove useful should the winter become harsher than expected."

She hands you the potion, her gaze steady. "Use it wisely, and may it aid you in protecting this village from harm."

Potion of Cold Resistance:

• When consumed, this potion grants the drinker resistance to cold damage for one hour.
• This means that any damage taken from cold sources (such as ice spells, freezing winds, or creatures with icy attacks) is halved.

Option 3: Feigned Ignorance
You feign ignorance, claiming that you haven't noticed anything unusual. You assure Seraphina that the village is peaceful and that you are diligently performing your duties.

You meet Seraphina's inquisitive gaze with a calm demeanor, feigning ignorance of any unusual events. "I assure you, Seraphina," you state, "the village is peaceful, and I have encountered nothing out of the ordinary."

Seraphina observes you intently, her expression unreadable. "Very well," she replies, her voice laced with a hint of skepticism. "However, I will remain vigilant. The Order takes all reports seriously, and I trust you will inform me should anything concerning arise."

With a subtle nod, she dismisses you, but you sense her watchful eye following your movements. This encounter, while seemingly uneventful, plants a seed of doubt in Seraphina's mind. Your evasiveness, though intended to protect Niamh, has inadvertently piqued her curiosity.

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So this thing happened about two years ago. We were a party of four at level 6 (my dumbass was level 5 because I joined the campaign later, and this was my first D&D character, so I decided to start from level 1). There was me, Desmond, the party wizard (Human); Fero, our barbarian (Human); Kastez, our rogue (Human); and QueenRoss, our sorcerer (Wood Elf).

We had just cleared a haunted mansion dungeon, and as loot, we got a Necklace of Fireballs as shared loot, a broken homebrew Dragonslayer-like greatsword (from Berserk) for our barbarian, a Bloodveil Vial (rare) for our sorcerer, a mysterious cursed ring that tries to possess its user for me, and a magical robe and dagger (both homebrew) for our rogue.

When we cleared it, we were supposed to share the loot, but our sorcerer had other plans. Since he was the one who found the ring, he decided to use the cursed ring, and he said, "Finders keepers," when I wanted to attune to the ring. We weren’t good friends then, more like rivals, so I got stuck with the necklace. Well, his joy was short-lived when he learned the ring was cursed. And the funny part was, he couldn’t end the curse. I cast Remove Curse multiple times, but it didn’t work. Turns out we needed a 9th-level upcast or a legendary item to end the curse because the ring's power was so potent it bonded with his soul. It was really funny to mess with him.

When we left the dungeon, we decided to camp because we were far from the nearest city. We hunted a deer, cooked it, and—let’s be honest—burnt it a bit. Then I had the greatest idea. I was a little salty with the sorcerer, so I cast Prestidigitation on his food and changed its taste to literal crap—just for shits and giggles.

It went sideways fast. Things got heated real quick, and before I knew it, we were fighting. Then it happened: he cast Fireball on me, himself, and the rogue who had nothing to do with our shenanigans and was just eating his meal peacefully.

Well, I survived because I cast Absorb Elements and had decent HP left (20-ish). So I turned to him and said, "You’re so unlucky I survived that." Then I threw the 9-beaded necklace on the ground.

I somehow survived that too, with 1 HP left. Our sorcerer? Burnt to a crisp. But it came at a cost: our rogue. He was already down after the first Fireball, and after the necklace went off, there was nothing left but cinders and ash.

We laughed our asses off that day, Also we called his character "ash baby" for a good while.

Day 3: Snow balls

The crisp winter air invigorates you as you continue your patrol. The village bustles with activity, despite the chill. Smoke curls from chimneys, the scent of woodsmoke mingling with the sweet aroma of baking bread. You pass by a group of children playing in a snow-covered field, their laughter echoing through the streets.

Suddenly, a snowball whizzes past your ear, narrowly missing its mark. You turn to see the children engaged in a spirited snowball fight, their faces flushed with excitement. One of them, a mischievous-looking boy with a gap-toothed grin, points at you and shouts, "Incoming!"

Before you can react, another snowball explodes against your chest. The children erupt in laughter. A playful spark ignites within you, a reminder of carefree days. You scoop up a handful of snow, pack it into a tight ball, and launch it towards the boy.

He ducks just in time, the snowball sailing over his head and landing with a thud against a nearby tree. The children cheer, their eyes gleaming with challenge.

The Snowball Fight:

Choose:

Do you join the fray?

Or
Do you maintain a stoic demeanor and continue your patrol?

Joining the Fun: You engage in a playful snowball fight with the children, dodging, ducking, and launching snowballs with surprising accuracy. Their laughter is infectious, and for a moment, you forget the weight of your duties and the looming threat of the Great Winter. You all end up in a pile trying to shove snow down the back of everyone else.

Maintaining stoic demeanor: You politely decline to participate, but your stern expression softens with a hint of amusement. You remind them to be careful and continue on your patrol, leaving the children to their games.

Continuing the Patrol:

The snowball fight leaves you amused about the childrens antics, a welcome break from the weight of your duties. But the encounter with Martha and the whispers of the Great Winter still linger in your mind. You decide to seek out Finn the trapper, hoping to learn more about the strange tracks he discovered in the woods.

You find Finn in his workshop, sharpening his tools with a practiced hand. He looks up as you enter, his weathered face creased with a cautious frown. "Something you need, guard?"

You explain that you heard about the unusual tracks he found and inquire about their nature. Finn hesitates, his eyes flickering towards the darkened corners of his workshop. "Aye, strange tracks they were," he admits, his voice low. "Unlike any creature I've encountered in all my years in these woods."

He describes the tracks in detail: unusually large, with elongated toes and a hint of a claw mark. "They weren't made by any wolf or bear I know," he says, shaking his head. "And the way they moved... it was as if they were dancing through the snow, leaving barely a trace."

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Some say they belong to fey creatures... drawn to places where the veil between worlds is thin. Perhaps they're searching for something... or someone."

A chill runs down your spine. Could these tracks be connected to Niamh? Are other fey creatures aware of her presence in the village?

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Day 2: The Yule Tree Riddle Contest

Your character, eager to please Niamh, declares that the dispute will be settled according to tradition: a riddle contest! The Millers and the Smiths, momentarily forgetting their animosity, agree to the challenge. A small crowd gathers, excited by the prospect of a good contest.

Round 1:
The Millers go first. Old Man Miller strokes his beard and proclaims:
"I have cities, but no houses; forests, but no trees; water, but no fish. What am I?"

The Smiths huddle together, whispering amongst themselves. Young Elspeth Smith, known for her quick wit, steps forward with a confident grin.
"A map!" she declares.

The crowd murmurs in approval. The Millers nod, accepting their defeat in the first round.

Round 2:
It's the Smiths' turn to pose a riddle. Elspeth clears her throat and recites:
"Alive without breath, cold as death, never thirsty, ever drinking, all in mail never clinking. What am I?"

The Millers seem stumped. They glance at each other, scratching their heads. Finally, Mrs. Miller ventures a guess: "A suit of armor?"

Elspeth shakes her head. "Not quite!"

The crowd waits in anticipation. This is a tough one! Does your character have any ideas?

Round 3:
If your player solved the riddle, the Millers are impressed and grateful. If not, they're simply relieved to have another chance. It's their turn again. This time, young Thomas Miller steps forward, determined to redeem his family's honor. He presents a riddle he learned from a traveling bard:
"I am always coming, but never arrive. I am always present, but never here. I am always moving, but never changing. What am I?"

The Smiths are perplexed. Even Elspeth seems unsure. The crowd is silent, pondering the riddle's meaning. This is a true test of wit! Will your character crack this one?

Resolution:
If your player solves the final riddle, they gain the respect of both families and establish themselves as a clever and capable guard. If not, the Millers win the contest, but acknowledge the Smiths' valiant effort.

Regardless of the outcome, your character ensures a peaceful resolution to the dispute. The Yule tree is awarded to the victors, and the crowd disperses, satisfied with the day's entertainment.

Returning to Grimbold:

Grimbold grunts as you report back, a flicker of approval in his eye. "Settled the tree dispute, did you? Good. No bloodshed, I trust?" He pauses, then adds, "Heard you even managed to entertain the crowd with a riddle contest. Not bad, for a rookie."

He hands you a small pouch of coins. "Here's your pay for the morning. Now get out there and patrol the village. Keep your eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary."

With a nod, you head towards the bakery, the aroma of fresh bread drawing you in. Old Martha greets you with a warm smile. "Well, if it isn't our new guard! Come in, come in. What can I get for you?"

As you purchase a loaf of her delicious rye bread, you inquire about any news in the village. Martha, always eager for a chat, leans in conspiratorially. "Have you heard about the strange tracks Finn the trapper found in the woods? Some say they belong to fey creatures... drawn by the thinning of the veil between worlds." She lowers her voice. "And then there's the old legend... about the Great Winter when the veil tore... a time when the cold nearly consumed us all."

She glances around, as if afraid someone might overhear. "They say it had something to do with the fey folk... a powerful artifact that kept the cold at bay. But that's just an old tale, isn't it?"

Intrigued by Martha's words, you press her for more information. "This legend about the Great Winter... and the artifact. Do you know any details?"

Martha hesitates, her eyes darting towards the door. "It's just an old story," she says, wringing her hands. "But they say... they say the artifact was kept here, in our world. And that when it was finally returned to the fey realm, the winter grew fierce, lasting for years. Many perished from the cold and hunger."

She leans closer, her voice barely a whisper. "Some say the Order of the Celestial Compass knows more about this... that they have records of those ancient times. But they keep their secrets well guarded."

A shiver runs down your spine. The legend, the artifact, the Order... it all seems connected to Niamh and her quest. You thank Martha for the bread and information, your mind racing with questions.

Round 2 Answer: A fish
Round 3 Answer: Time

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From the beginning...

Cast (Just updated!)

Part 2, Chapter 33

The team spends some time at the battle scene. Arthur surveys the battlefield, testing fallen riders' armor against his frame. Too small—these warriors were built like children compared to him. He manages only to salvage a mismatched set of shin guards, tossing them aside with a grunt of disgust. Zander thinks that someone is watching them, but no one is around apart from some crows and a mountain goat. Mel spends time skinning one of the gryphons in hopes of making a cloak or something. Dagrim looks for pockets, though he ends up getting bloody for his trouble. Dillium merely arranges the bodies in a way that seems respectful, and she and Zander debate whether to burn the corpses or leave them for the army to find. Mathrik, jittery, eventually goads the team back into traveling up the hill.

An hour later, they spot what can only be a giant staircase heading up into the clouds. The staircase is still an hour away, and on another hill, but the size of the stairs is plain to see. The team again debates how they will ascend, but they come to no conclusions by the time they reach the first step. Mathrik announces that he’ll ‘have no truck with no giants,’ and Zander pays him his fee. The team sets up on the hill in sight of the step, wary of the guard of the stair that they were told of. The crows have gone, but there are still mountain goats around. Dagrim says in passing that giants are fond of goats, but nobody wants to kill one to take as a gift if they have to haul it up the stairs.

The stairs loom heavily in their minds. They consist of huge stone blocks set into the ground, though further up Arthur notes that they appear to be hewn from the mountain’s stone itself. Each step is four feet tall, five feet deep, and thirty feet wide. Nobody except Dagrim thinks it would be hard to get up the first dozen steps, but even in the waning light there are hundreds to be seen. Mathrik opines that there must be a thousand or more, as they go up far enough to disappear into the clouds. Everyone groans.

One of the goats wanders into the camp. Mel muses that the wool is a little thin and wonders if that means the winter will be milder than normal. Dagrim points out that battle goats are a fine addition to any dwarven army and wonders if a goat steed would be better than the pony he’s been riding around on. Arthur is just about to shoo the beast away when it stands up on its hind legs. The party watches in astonishment as it turns into an elf! Before the transformation is complete, swords are drawn and arrows readied. The elf stands to find himself surrounded by heavily armed adventurers.

“Explain yourself,” Arthur commands.

The elf says in a thin accent, “I am Azathar. I have observed your activities over the last two days and believe you are not of the Vaasan army.

“D’ye think? Wha' gave it away?” Dagrim asks.

“Perhaps it is the lack of black spiky armor, or the fact you came to the aid of the Hin [1] when they were being hunted for sport. Perhaps it is the wood elf in your midst.” Indeed, though tall for an elf, Azathar is a wood elf like Dillium. “I might ask what you are doing here in the lands of the warlocks.”

“We have this cursed demon sword---” Zander starts.

“Don’t talk about the sword,” Arthur says in a loud whisper.

“But it turns out that the cursed demon sword is actually owned by another group, The Dragon Force. They definitely have it. And not us.”

“I see. That is good to know, I guess.”

Arthur offers, "We are, in fact, going to the giant city of Aetherholm, at the top of those stairs.”

With some reservations, the party invites Azathar to sup with them. That turns into a long discussion about the giant stair, and he offers to accompany them in the morning. Seeing no reason to decline, the group agrees.

The rest of the night passes slowly. It is bitterly cold, with only light clouds in the sky, except around the tops of the mountains. Azathar is tormented in his trance by visions of bloody death and the destruction of his beloved wood. The others in the party, somewhat used to vivid nightmares, are nonetheless shocked at the depravity of the unseen shapes in their dreams attacking them, cities, farms, their homes, and other random locations. A giant of a man wields the Sword of the North as he stands toe to toe with a huge gold dragon. They trade blows, the sword easily blocking the dragon. It breathes fire on man and sword, but the sword seems to suck the fire into itself. With a cry, the man stabs the dragon, the blade easily piercing the thick scales of its belly. Pulling it out, he chops, taking the dragon’s head off in a geyser of blood and ichor.

***

Morning dawns cold. A light snow has fallen that melts at first light. The small fire is enough to keep water hot for morning tea, and Zander thoughtfully begins making a thick porridge for breakfast. Breath visible in the cold air, the group continues the discussion about the ascent. Finally, Azathar transforms back into a (larger) goat with Dagrim on his back while Dillium Flies carrying Mel, and Arthur and Zander begin the arduous task of climbing.

Hours pass. Muscles ache. Knees, elbows, and shins have less skin than they had in the morning. Magical energy wanes as Dillium attempts to keep the worst of the pain away. Exhaustion sets in. Rests come every other step as Zander and Arthur alternately boost each other up, then pull the other. Looking back, it seems that their hours of effort have gotten them very little. Occasionally, Dillium rides on the giant goat with Dagrim, but it is clear that Azathar struggles with the extra weight. A break for a mid-day meal comes early and turns into a longer rest than intended on the cold wind-swept stone step. Groans accompany aching muscles as the team climbs to their feet and resumes their upward trek.

As they climb, they attempt to take their minds off the arduous task by swapping stories of how they came to be climbing a huge stone staircase up the side of a mountain in the wintertime. [2] Azathar speaks to his past, of the druid circle that is carefully planning to reject the overtures of some human duke, and how he feels the need to understand the problems of the region more thoroughly before rejecting the human duke’s offers. Hearing of the impending invasion, xxx made his way to the Bloodstone Pass to see for himself what the Vaasan army was about. So far he’s not impressed.

By mid-afternoon, everyone is rethinking their life choices. Dagrim begins to lament his birth.

The Lament of the Long Ascent

(As sung by Dagrim the Bard, with dramatic flair and more than a touch of self-pity)

I

Oh, cursed morn when first I cried,
Upon this earth where stairs abide,
No stairway there to meet my fate,
But now they rise, my cursed hate.

With aching limbs and spirit torn,

I rue the day that I was born.
Oh why, great gods, did you decree,
A mountain path to humble me?

II

Step by step, the cruel ascent,
Each stone a torment, heaven-sent.
My hands are raw, my knees are bare,
And yet this path still mounts the air.

The clouds above, they mock my pain,

And laugh to see my hope wane.
Oh endless stairs, your mock'ry keen,
A ceaseless, stony, gray machine.

III

My companions strong, they press ahead,
While I but wish to find a bed.
Their shoulders square, their eyes afire,
My heart is filled with dark desire.

Would that I’d wings to take to flight,

To soar above this wretched height.
But nay, I crawl like worm in dirt,
Each step a blow, each breath a hurt.

IV

Oh bards of old, sing not of love,
Nor battles fought with gods above.
Instead, let verse immortalize,
The cursed stair that scrapes the skies.

For heroes climb and fools aspire,

But none escape this stony mire.
The giants, it seems, have little care,
For mortals bound to endless stair.

V

And should I fall, oh let it be,
To find a grave of earth, not sea.
For waters might soothe my aching skin,
But stairs in death would call me in.

So up I crawl, though hope may fade,

A song of woe my hand has made.
And if I crest this cursed climb,
The gods shall rue their wasted time.

VI

Oh, friends, endure, though hearts be sore,
For there must be some heavenly door!
Atop this stair, this spire so tall,
Perhaps the giants will catch my fall.

But if they don't, and we all die,

My song shall echo 'neath the sky.
A tale of woe, a bard’s lament,
The stairs, my grave—a life well spent.

Zander is the first to notice the eerily silent descent of a giant as he floats gently down from the clouds. He’s never seen anything so huge before. The giants he’s encountered in their travels [3] have been large, but this one is positively giant-sized, easily thirty feet tall. As he drifts down, Zander notes the scale armor, but each scale must be the size of a dinner plate. The sword strapped across his back is better measured in paces than in arm spans. A creature that size must weigh tons, but he drifts down as if he weighs nothing at all. Landing gently on the stair above the group, he looks down on the group as they look waaaaay up at him in awe.

“Ho, ho. What have we here? Mice come to steal from my cupboard, perhaps?” His voice booms, like thunder, though he has a slight smile on his face. No doubt it is because there is a giant goat in the party.

“Not at all. We are on a quest to deliver an artifact to the giants of Aetherholm,” Arthur attempts to boom back.

“We have this cursed demon sword---” Zander starts.

“Don’t talk about the sword until we get there,” Arthur says in a loud whisper as he elbows Zander in the side.

“Do you know where the giants of Aetherholm are?” Dagrim asks.

“Certainly, I do. Just keep up this small staircase and you can’t miss it. I’ll even walk with you to show you the way.”

The party struggles up the stairs for another three hours, getting slower and slower. The giant, who calls himself Volrik Stormhewn, patiently waits for them at each step, saying little but responding to questions. Finally, the clouds part and they can see the city of Aetherholm. The walls are easily two hundred feet tall and seventy feet wide at the base, though to Arthur’s eye they aren’t particularly functional other than being dominating. The stairway ends a scant fifty feet from a formidable gatehouse with three portcullises. The group, exhausted, shambles behind Volrik as he leads them to a giant-scaled palace. Mel notices that the temperature has risen—the city is warm and the party quickly stops shivering.

The palace is made of marble and bloodstone, with granite columns that stretch up hundreds of feet to create a sense of a limitless expanse above. In the main hall, upon a round dais set in the center of the room, an ornate chair carved from a single boulder holds an older-looking giant, dressed in a tunic of fine linen. Next to him, in a chair that appears to be a cloud, sits a young giant woman. A half dozen other giants stand around, listening raptly to her speak. An elf and several goliaths stand at the periphery, while cloud-like figures putter around cleaning and holding trays of golden goblets. When the Volrik and the party enter the room, the woman finishes what she is saying (in Giant) and looks up, expectantly.

“Tochen wagächrd vom eßtzucgen,” Volrik says.

Dagrim perks his ears and quietly translates. “He says, ‘These are the invaders from the staircase.’”

“It is rude to speak in the tongue our guests are un-equipped to comprehend. WELCOME!” The giant in the ornate chair booms a greeting that nearly deafens ears un-equipped to withstand the noise. “I am the Paramount Thalrad, the Thunderborn, chief of the giants in this city. This is Serissa.” He gestures to the woman seated next to him. “What brings small ones to our city?”

“We have this cursed demon sword—” Zander starts, then stops and looks at Arthur. He shrugs as if to say, ‘go on.’ “This old hermit, Tamarand, told us that it doesn’t like him and that we should bring it to you instead.”

“This sword you bear, tell me of it.” The giant woman seems more curious than interested.

Zander gives a fantastical recounting of Task Force Chimera’s history with the sword, starting with their battle with the demon and ending with the midnight theft in the town below. “So we would really like you to take it off our hands, because it gives us nightmares. No, literal nightmares that make it hard to sleep at night.”

“Could na’ have said it better meself, lad,” Dagrim says with a grin.

“Well, let us see this wonder,” Thalrad booms. “Where is Kaelthar? Where is the Runecrafter?”

Kaelthar is present and approaches the party. As Arthur unwraps the bundle, he says, “Do be careful. It has a tendency to –” Kaelthar sinks to one knee and sketches a rune in the air above the sword as Arthur works. As he offers the sword up, Kaelthar grasps the hilt and runs his hand down the blade. Under his hand, the blade lengthens visibly, grows broader, and brightens as if Pocky had shined it for a week. Runes, hitherto unseen, gleam blue in the blade. Standing, he looks in awe as he presents it to the woman, Serissa. She looks at it curiously and touches the blade.

“What is this?” she asks.

“M’Lady, this is Stórmeistar Rúnskera Drekaflár. He is the master runeblade Dragons-Doom.” [4] Scattered gasps are heard around the room.

“I am … unfamiliar with such a thing. What is it?”

“This is the blade that was called Scaledoom, Skysweeper, Dragon-Ruiner, and Dragonfall. It was forged during the Thousand Years War [5] by Thrymir Dragonsbane and Ragnar Stormcaller to destroy the hated dragons once and for all. It was lost, and regained, and lost again. Finally it has returned to us.” A gleam in Kaelthar’s eye says exactly what he thinks it should be used for. Babble in the giant’s language is heard around the room.

Serissa silences them all. “The ordning is at an end, and with it, the age of the giants shall pass. Already we have not the people to rebuild Ostoria. Myndra Cloudseer, what do you see? What is the proper path?”

The ancient giantess rises like a mountain at twilight, her withered form casting long shadows across the marble floor. Her silver hair streams behind her like a comet's tail, and her milky eyes roll back until only white shows. The temperature in the hall plummets. Frost creeps across the stone floor, spreading from where her gnarled feet touch the ground. When she speaks, her voice echoes with the weight of centuries, as if every giant who had ever lived speaks through her:

"The threads of fate twist in my hands, and I see... I see..." Her body shudders, and when she continues, the words seem torn from her throat:

"Hear now, ye who walk the paths of destiny, for a time shall come, far beyond the memories of the living, when the ancient bloodlines shall fade to whispers. In the Third Age, the mighty will be brought low. Then the mighty Giant-kind and the wrathful Dragon-kind will be but tales told in shadowed halls, and the elves will have fled to their far eastern isles. I see the halls of our ancestors empty, our songs forgotten, our glory faded to dust. Dragon-fire will gutter and die, and the elven woods will stand empty, their music silenced. Then the peoples of Faerûn shall groan under the weight of chains wrought by cruel tyranny and unholy oppression, and the skies will weep blood.

"When the last light gutters and dies, when the chains of tyranny bind all lands, a hero shall rise from the dirt of common folk, forged not in the fires of noble birth but in the crucible of pure resolve. This hero shall bear a name that rings through the annals of fate, and high shall they lift the blade known as Drekahrafn, the raven of doom to all oppressors. Yet, in their hand, it shall be called Dawnspire, for with its light shall the dark be sundered. And it shall be hailed as Justicaris, for through its edge will justice be dealt. Its wielder shall not wield mere steel but the will of the gods and the cry of the free. And in the tongues of all peoples, they shall be known as Liberathar, the Bringer of Freedom.

The giantess's voice rises to a thunderous crescendo, her hands clawing at the air as if grasping invisible threads. "I see the blade! It burns like a star fallen to earth, cutting through darkness like lightning through storm clouds! The chains of tyranny shatter where it strikes! The oppressors' fortresses crumble! The—" She stumbles, catching herself on the tree trunk she uses as a cane. When she speaks again, her voice is barely a whisper, but it carries to every corner of the suddenly silent hall:

"Remember this moment. Remember this blade. For when the last hope dies, when the last fortress falls, when the last free voice is silenced... that is when Drekaflár will choose its true wielder, and the dawn will break again." The frost recedes from the floor. Color returns to the giantess's face as she sinks back, exhausted, into the arms of her attendant. “Remember well: When all seems lost, the blade shall shine brightest.”

Paramount Thalrad stands. He lifts the blade from his queen’s hands and makes his pronouncement. “IT IS AS IT IS,” he booms. “You must take Stórmeistar Rúnskera Drekaflár to a place of safety, where it must be held into the Third Age. Take him to the human monastery high on the glacier. Give him to the flower master for he will know what to do.” With a gentleness that borders on reverence, Thalrad places the sword back in Arthur’s bundled hands, ready to be re-wrapped.

“Na’ to be a spoilsport, but couldn’t ye take the sword there yerself?” Dagrim asks.

“This charge I do place upon you and this geas I command of you. This is no longer our story to tell, and it is not our burden to bear.”

"Can you at least tell it to stop the nightmares?" Zander asks, his voice carrying an edge of desperation.

"Can you tell the wind to cease blowing, or the snow to stop falling?" The giant's voice softens, almost sympathetic. "Fate is as you find it, not as you would have it. Drekaflár tests those who carry it. If the nightmares cease, it means you've failed its test—or worse, succumbed to its influence. ”

“Are you sure it must be us that bears this … burden?” Arthur asks.

“Come,” he says, “you must be on your way on the morrow, but until then, you have the hospitality of our city.” He claps his hands, and the sound is like thunder. “Take care of our guests and see that they are made comfortable.”

End of Chapter 33.

[1] The name the halflings of the Forgotten Realms use.

[2] Generally, the amusing bits, from the character’s perspective, up to this point. Start at the beginning.

[3] Such as the one in Part 2, Chapter 25, and the ogres in Chapters 23 and 24

[4] Dagrim’s version is in Part 2, Chapter 17. The Sword of the North

[4] The Thousand Year War

Extensively edited in Lex.  https://lex.page/

The Lament of the Long Ascent written in ChatGPT and edited heavily. 

All other text is written without AI assist.  It’s all my fault.

This story takes the form of a christmas calendar ending on christmas ever.

You are a newly trained town guard returned from the nearby city of Eldoria.

In Eldoria you trained with the Order of The Celestial Compass to learn the duties of a town guard.

While the training was strict, it also included taking part in hunting bandits and patrolling the city. The experience means you are now level 3.

Characters

To start the adventure, choose between these two characters:

The disciplined fighter, Elara:

Elara is a seasoned veteran of the town guard. She carries herself with an air of quiet authority. Elara is known for her unwavering dedication to duty and her mastery of sword and shield techniques. She's a woman of few words, but her actions speak volumes. Think of her as the reliable, steady presence that keeps the guard organized and efficient.

Strength: 12 (+1)
Dexterity: 14 (+2)
Constitution: 15 (+2)
Intelligence: 10 (+0)
Wisdom: 13 (+1)
Charisma: 8 (-1)
AC: 16
HP: 26

Skills: Athletics +3, Perception +3, Intimidation +0

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Personality Traits: Disciplined, observant, reserved, wary
Ideals: Order, protection, duty
Bonds: A younger sibling she's trying to protect, a mentor who retired from the guard
Flaws: Slow to trust, can be inflexible in her thinking

Gear: Chain shirt , Shield , Longsword , 20 crossbow bolts , Light crossbow , Backpack with basic supplies (rations, tinderbox, 50 feet of hempen rope) , Town Guard uniform , Whistle , Manacles , Pouch with 15 gp

The resourceful ranger, Lysander:

Lysander is a relative newcomer to the guard, but he's already proven his worth with his incredible archery skills and his deep knowledge of the surrounding wilderness. He's a keen observer, able to track even the faintest trail and anticipate his enemy's moves. Lysander has a strong connection to nature, which sometimes puts him at odds with the more rigid structure of the town guard.

Strength: 16 (+3)
Dexterity: 17 (+3)
Constitution: 13 (+1)
Intelligence: 11 (+0)
Wisdom: 15 (+2)
Charisma: 10 (+0)
AC: 15
HP: 26

Skills: Athletics +5, Acrobatics +5, Stealth +5, Survival +4, Perception +4

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Personality Traits: Perceptive, quick-witted, independent, impatient
Ideals: Freedom, balance, the natural world
Bonds: A family of hunters and trappers outside of town
Flaws: Restless, can be reckless when following his instincts

Gear: Leather armor , Longbow with 20 arrows , Shortsword , Hunting knife , Backpack with basic supplies (rations, tinderbox, 50 feet of hempen rope, hunting trap) , Town Guard uniform (modified for ease of movement) , Whistle , Manacles , Pouch with 10 gp

Feel free to complete the character sheets if you wish.

Day 1: The First Day on the Job

The crisp winter air bites at your character's face as they walk through the familiar streets of their hometown. After months of rigorous training in Eldoria, they have returned to take up their post as a member of the town guard.

The guard captain, a grizzled veteran named Grimbold, greets them with a gruff welcome.

"So, you're back, eh? Eldoria softened you up too much? We'll see about that." He eyes them critically, then gestures towards a sturdy guardsman with a friendly face. "This is Aella. She'll show you the ropes."

Aella gives a warm smile. "Welcome back! Things have been quiet lately, but you never know what might happen, especially with the Winter Festival coming up."

Aella leads your character on a tour of the town, pointing out key locations: the guard barracks, the town square, the main roads, and any areas known for trouble. (This is a chance for you to familiarize yourself with the town's layout.)

Your character is introduced to the other members of the guard. There's Borin, the blacksmith's son with a booming laugh; Kaia, the sharp-tongued archer; and old Finn, who's been with the guard longer than anyone can remember. (Get a feel for the personalities within the guard.)

Grimbold inspects your character's gear, grunting his approval. "Looks like Eldoria taught you something. Keep it in good shape." He then assigns them their first task.

Grimbold's Orders:

"There's been a bit of a... disagreement... between two families over a prized Yule tree. Head over to Miller's farm and make sure things don't get out of hand. And try not to make things worse."

As your chosen character approaches Miller's farm, they hear a commotion. Two families, the Millers and the Smiths, are engaged in a heated argument, each claiming ownership of a magnificent Yule tree that stands between their properties.

But something else catches your character's attention. A figure stands near the tree, seemingly observing the dispute with amusement. It's a woman, or at least appears to be, with an otherworldly beauty. Her laughter, like the tinkling of winter icicles, seems to weave through the angry voices, calming them momentarily.

As your character draws closer, the woman turns, her eyes locking with theirs. The world seems to shift, the angry shouts fading into a distant hum. Her gaze holds an irresistible allure, and your character feels an inexplicable urge to help her, to do her bidding.

The woman smiles, her voice a mesmerizing melody. "Greetings, traveler. I am Niamh. It seems I've stumbled upon a... disagreement. Perhaps you could assist me?"

Niamh's Request:

She explains that she is searching for a lost amulet, a small trinket of silver and ice, shaped like a snowflake. She believes it may be hidden somewhere on Miller's farm. She asks your character to help her find it, promising a reward for their assistance.

If you want to hear it read aloud, I do so here.

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so, i was DM-ing for my two friends and due to some crazy stupid events my friend got turned into a frog and my other friend (a gnome) strapped him to a crossbow arrow, shot him into the air, grabbed it mid-air with mage hands, brought him back, waterboarded him! strapped him to a horse! waterboarded him with VOMIT AND MAYO!!!!!!!!

In my first campaign, I was with a group of people who were also new to DND, so we formed a quick one shot just to help familiarize ourselves. I, being new, had heard Ranger was easy, so I chose the free Ranger off of DND Beyond. It had roughly 11 HP, and an armor class of 15. My group went with a Bard and a Monk, although we didn't go too far into detail on each others characters. The campaign started with a quick combat encounter against a Dire Wolf, who for the first turn had called reinforcement from a single, ordinary Wolf. After we all made our attacks (all of them missed or simply didn't work, like casting Sleep on the Dire Wolf to no effect). Once our turns were done, it went back to the Dire Wolf's turn, who targeted me. The attack roll was a natural 20, then rolled a 13 for hit die, resulting in 26 points of damage. I pretty much did a mixture of imploding, exploding, and decapitation. My team mates both did horribly as well, and in the end the Dire Wolf had pretty much killed my entire team, while only receiving about 4 points of damage. Because I had spent all weekend working on my character, I ended up introducing my characters "twin brother", simply because it wasn't nearly enough play time for a character. So, going to my question, is this normal for beginners? Is this a skill issue, a DM issue, or just the worst luck?

So in my current Campaign we rolled for our stats I new I wanted to play a druid my rolls were pretty average highest being 15 but I had one VERY low roll of 6 (3 twos and a 1) I decide to dump it in charisma since druids don't really need charisma but I had an idea, I told GM "I have an idea, since my charisma is soo bad how about when I wild shape I have to roll a d4 if I roll a 1 my head would remain that of a halfling (my chosen race) if that were to happen I have to roll a persuasion check to try a trick others I was actually said animal I was trying to wild shape into" he taught that was hilarious and agreed.

today I regret to inform you that my PC died today having rolled a 1 while trying to transform into a cat to past some guards, my pc tried meow to persuade the guards I was a cat. I failed, they freaked and I was soon died, too far from my party to help it did create a distraction to help them escape