Ravenloft Odds and Ends (Sidequests)

[Five]

"Love Conquers All"

Combat: Low
Social: High

After the dirt and most of the grime has been wiped away you see that the leather is still in remarkably good condition, a true testament to the craftsmanship of the obviously antiquated item. It takes but a moment more to clean and loose the buckle holding it shut.

Inside the satchel, if you can call it that, is a large stack of what must be hundreds of yellowish dog-eared papers. The unmistakable musty smell that hits your nostrils further confirms that this find is from a time well before your own.

You take a handful of papers out and on the first page you see that it is a letter that begins with "To My Dearest Love"...

The papers behind the first all start with the same line and all look to be written by the same hand.



The PC has found an old bag of love letters. Literally hundreds of them (4d100). If anyone starts to read even one of the letters then they cannot stop until they read the letter in its entirety. And then the curse activates.

Within 1d6 hours a ghost will appear to the character. Age, gender, background all to be determined by DM for customisation purposes. The ghost is ecstatic at finding their lost love and gushes unrestrained love and affection to the PC. They ignore everyone and everything but the PC, and it should become obvious to all in short order that it is an extremely awkward case of mistaken identity. The ghost cannot be convinced otherwise, no matter what the PCs do.

The ghost is ultimately harmless, but quickly can it frustrate the PC as it continues to show its affection (holding hands, standing intimately close, gently/playfully pulling the PC into a walk, etc.).

The ghost will never name its true love. It uses pet names and other such words of legitimate affection. The true name can only be found by digging through the papers (2 minutes per letter).

But as time goes on the curse becomes more sinister: the PC begins to age one year for every hour that passes after they first made contact with lovestruck ghost. This is due to the fact that the long lost love (age, gender, background again to be determined by the DM) is actually the one behind the curse. For every year that the PC ages its long-dead body regenerates a like amount of time. Only when the bag of letters is lain at its grave, essentially delivered, can the curse be broken. That, or when the PC reaches the end of their natural lifespan and drops dead. The resurrected lover will find the ghost writer within 1d3 hours of that happening. This lethal outcome is one likely to happen if the targeted PC decides to roleplay the ghost's lover and deceive it into believing that the relationship has ended. If this happens, you can make the breakup a difficult one, as the ghost will be extremely reluctant to accept closure and let go of both the love it has and the love that was shared.

It's a race against the clock as the PCs must discover not only the name of the lover, but the location of their unmarked burial site, all while one of their own is inching towards death. The burial site is intentionally unmarked, forgotten about, and stricken from all public records for a very good reason. PCs must carefully interview the guarded townsfolk to get the exact, or even general, location out of them.

To help dial in the sense of danger after the PC has noticed their unnatural aging, you could have the ghost leave the PC from time to time and return bearing phantom gifts in whatever time is needed to keep the PC on edge. Flowers, food for a picnic, etc You could also use the ghost to drops hints at what is happening to the PC with each visit through references to the letters. "What did you mean by...?", "I was worried about you because you said...", etc.

The long lost love, sorrowful but ever hopeful as all star-crossed lovers are, swore that not even death could keep the two apart, that they would if need be defiantly return time after time to the world of the living and continue waiting for the reunion that had to be. Cost was nothing. But when their twisted occult consultations, their perverse insurance policy if you will, became public knowledge the locals ended any such happy ending. The last thing the misguided lover screamed for as they burned at the stake was not even their lover's name: it was for the bag of letters...

It's up to the DM to decide if the town's accusations of witchcraft were based on irrefutable evidence (a possessive lover's curse), or if the reticent townsfolk are hiding, or being hid, from familial sins (a naive lover's curse). Either way, openly talking about evil doings, past or present, is a surefire way to drawing unwanted, potentially violent attention to the PCs. Or worse, they could be jailed, interrogated, and await a seemingly lengthy trial for bogus supernaturally-based crimes. It's time that the already short-of-time PC doesn't have...

And that's pretty much the gist of this thread: throw out any ideas you may have for other DMs to sift through and use as sidequests for their PCs. I leave stats out so there is no conversion neccessary for anybody reading and wanting to use any stuff I offer, but that's just me. You do as you do. The Combat and Social suggestions are just that: suggestions. Change them if it pleases you, along with anything else.

Next up: "Three Dog Night".

[Five]

"Three Dog Night"

Combat: High
Social: Moderate

Summary: The party accidentally discovers the existence of a human trafficking ring and their knowledge marks them as targets for murder. But its not just sadistic mercenaries that they need to neutralise in order to see the next sunrise. They must survive old money ambitions with a dark and disturbing secret...

The tavern the PCs have chosen to visit this night is packed with bodies. The servers are running ragged and cannot be bothered with idle conversation. A barking giant of a barman won't let them, so it should be obvious that this individual is one source of information. The struggling young keghands, who could always use an excuse for a break irregardless of a smack upside the head, are another fairly obvious choice. Questioning either will reveal that a Borcan bankers convention is being held tomorrow, that it will be for two days and nights, and that they have run of the town in regards to room and board and other such accommodations.

The lot here, aside from one or two more adventurous bankers "slumming it" (and not quite fitting in to those with an eye for such a thing), are by and large the bankers' entourage, and of the usual sorts. It's loud, rowdy, and always on the knife's edge of good times and dangerously explosive. The thickset bouncers appear to be generally uninterested in anything but sitting down at the wood and drinking their fill, flirting with staff, or chatting it up with the barkeep.

Pick the PC most likely to get involved with and/or survive a fight. This PC's teeth are floating and they need to relieve themselves ASAP. The tavern's soil box is crammed full of drunken idiots, so make it clear that some have taken to going outside and using the alley as an alternative.



You are just finishing your business in the vacant and thankfully quiet alley when, towards the rear of the tavern, you hear the unmistakably sounds of a horse-drawn cart being hastily maneuvered into position. Heavy boots hit the ground then:

"Quickly now lads! In and out. In and out."

Weak light spills out from a door opening moments later and a soft, weak voice carries to your ears.

"No...I...mustn't. I...want to... go home..."

"Easy now m'lady, home is where we're taking you. It's all right. We have you. There we go. One foot, two..see? There's our ride."

"Home...I want...home..."

A chuckle.

"Oh you're going home soon enough. To your new home, and right..."

"Mouth shut, you (DM's choice)!", is the hissed retort. "Get her in and let's be off..."

The sounds of a door opening, of grunts of physical exertion, and a door closing all transpire in the next few moments. A few seconds after, the outline of a figure is seen as they step into and look down the alley in your direction. It begins walking towards you, and as they do you can't help but notice the telltale sound of jingling mail.

"What the (DM's choice) are you lookin' at, (DM's choice)?"

"Boys, we got us a peeker..", he calls over his shoulder.

"(DM's choice)! You, you. Deal with it. We'll meet up after."

The horses are whipped and wooden wheels begin to rumble away.

Another silhouette appears in the alley to join the first and both begin a slow, menacing, shoulder to shoulder walk towards you. Although you cannot make out the detail in the darkened alley, experience tells you that their hands are on their weapons.

The sound of heavy boots, hobnailed if you're not mistaken, draws your attention back towards the front of the tavern and you see another figure walking towards you. Who ever these clowns are, they must have dropped off another in an effort to trap you in the alley. This last one is clearly holding a dagger in each hand.

There is no doubt about it: there is only one language to be spoken in this piss-stained alley tonight...

This three-on-one fight should be brutal and relatively quick. If it drags out too long, the PC is clearly not going to survive, or something of equally disastrous effect looms over this introduction, then you could easily have one of the other PCs venture into the alley and help even the odds, have another patron do likewise and raise the alarm, or something like that to involve the other PCs.

The lop-sided fight should also serve as the first insight into the operational mindset of the slavers. They are willing to employ more than enough resources to cover their trail (the pay is great), yet, as the PCs may soon find out, as with most mercenary-minded folk there is a cutoff point where self-preservation takes precedence over the job itself.

All non-commanding officers will be brutal individuals with unshakable morale...as long as they remain over 25% hit points and they at least match their opponents in numbers. After this they will first attempt to run away (stay employed) or, failing that, surrender. No mercenary under the rank of captain knows anything of the operation other than pickup and dropoff points, though speculation as to their target's destination is wild amongst themselves. Captains will have in addition to this information the name/alias of a person with whom to hand over the kidnapped person and the drop location of their payment. In truth and unknown to the kidnappers, another company, an elite team calling itself "Black Star", takes command of the operation above this.

The operation in itself is fairly straightforward. The Black Star, a group equal in number as the PCs, are ex-Falkovnian soldiers (deserters) who have secured a contract (and in turn subcontracted the "menial work" to another group) that involves the drugging, kidnapping, and delivery of specifically-targeted townsfolk (DMs choice as to what domain) to a floundering and near broke noble family, who originally ransomed them back to their well-to-do families. But lately the kidnappings are more frequent and less specific. There is no ransom. The victims are prey, sustenance, for the matriarch of the once noble family, who has been turned into a vrykolaka. Her unaffected son, desperate for his mother's attention and the restoration of his family's prestige and holdings beyond the ancestral home in the surrounding hills, is the true mastermind of this newest development.

Searching the thugs will reveal two important clues: an empty vial and a peculiar coin. The vial was used for drugging this newest victim and the substance used can only be determined by a PC with appropriate knowledge, or visiting and interrogating the local apothecary. They are innocent but do reveal that two people inquired about that particular mix in recent months, though she doesn't know names and is vague with descriptions (one was hard-looking, the other average "never seen him before", etc) so it's no real help outside of this. She will, however, tell them that the hard-looking one paid for her consultation with "old gold" (outdated mint), and that she kept the coin because of this fact. She will trade the coin for equal value, or settle on three times its value (after her original offer of five) if the PCs were exceptionally rough. One of the visitors was the mercenary leader, the other a Borcan banker's Asset Protection Agent, who was sent out to turn rocks over and find dirt on a particular old money family. Either way, if the party follows up on this gold lead, they will be told that it was minted during a time when the (old money family) still owned and leased the majority of the land the town sits on, and if prompted give a speculative account of their financial decline, and location of their ancestral home.

The coin is a copper coin with a unique symbol etched into it (DM's choice). It is used by the kidnappers in an effort to randomise their crimes. The coin, one half of a set, is given to the would-be victim by one of the town's proprietor accomplices (all with historic ties to old money family) and the thugs move in using their coin to magically track them (the coins grow warmer the closer they get to one another). As it is a unique item, only the faint magic can be identified by a PC. Visiting the local pawn shop/antique dealer, cracking the skulls of its bodyguards, and roughing up the scumbag owner will tell them more. And get the local thieves guild's hackles up. If it goes far enough the guild has no involvement with this operation and will forgive the PCs their transgressions in exchange for a name of one involved in this illegitimate racket, not including the shop "owner" (they disappear for good shortly after, if the PCs don't make a play to save/flip them).

Due to the PC's involvement in this latest abduction the coin handn't yet been handed over to the captain to get put back into circulation, so the operation has been stalled. For now. This should give the party time to conduct their investigation, though saving the woman may take priority for others so getting the rendezvous point out of the mercenaries is essential...assuming they weren't all killed in the alley.

The Black Star mercenaries are highly-trained and work very well together. So well in fact that they have plans of expansion and are currently grooming recruits in the Falkovnian army. They have contingency plans for just about anything and should be an equal one-on-one match for the PCs. They know the ins and outs of their new base of operations and surrounding environs almost better than their employer and will, for all intents and purposes, be on guard for an assault day and night. They know the contract can't continue for much longer given the financial situation of their employer, and they are fully aware of the Borcan banker's investigation. They know because they have recently signed a contract with them. Their orders are to uphold the terms of the original contract, continue to bleed their client's (borrowed) assets, and provide intelligence reports to the Asset Protection Agent assigned to the case. The banker has plans to report the whereabouts of the deserters to the Falkovnian Ministry of Intelligence should they prove too much of a headache.

The Borcan banker (name, details DMs choice) was assigned to take over this operation when their predecessor, and their APA, were both "retired" for "gross negligence". About a year ago the agent failed to notice and report the old family's bid on a town tender for (DMs choice) and as a result a fifty year contract was signed. The bank-placed majority of town council, unaware of the regional banker's overall plans, could only have assumed that this was the intended outcome. They were wrong, and the banker, whose priorities became those of the self-indulgent kind, was held accountable.

The original banker's plan was to take chunk after chunk of land from the untouchable family over a span of years, decades if need be, and slowly assert bank dominance over the township by proxy. And for the most part it worked out well. A few substantive loans here, several debauched parties (and new highly addictive substances) there, and the materialistic family scions would remain oblivious to the ground shift. The new contract however provided a lifeline for the old money family when they were supposed to have been snuffed.

The Borcan banker convention is a coincidence but could easily be a behind the scenes player in that the current banker is showing off to a rival in and through a sort of live play-by-play. Arrogant to be sure. Could be cut scened, if so inclined, as two individuals talking over expensive wine, explaining what the PCs are doing as they are doing it.

As to the vrykolaka, she's just an extra challenge for the party. If the Black Star mercenaries are being overrun by the PCs then they will do a tactical retreat in an effort to guide them to her ghastly underground lair and lock them in. If she doesn't take care of them then surely she'll whittle them down for an easy mop-up.

If the party destroys the operation but doesn't come into contact with her (ie: saved the only victim known to them, assume the son and/or Black Star to be the sole monsters involved in the plot, etc) then one of two things may happen. If her son maintains his freedom then he'll become destitute and completely unhinged. A diesease-born rampage will haunt the town in the near future. If only the vrykolaka remains then a less organised but much more feral rampage will take place. Think Jack the Ripper meets Dawn of the Dead.

The town will offhandedly reward the party a banquet (all they can eat and drink) and a pound of silver (total) for services rendered. As the banker's convention has the town's hospitality services full-up, there is no other fanfare to be had. In fact, while they were out investigating they have lost any rooms that they may have previously procured! "Sorry, no refunds. Cost covers relocation of personal effects." "They will be forced to sleep in a stable with the stablehands and their charges if they plan on spending the night. And it's a very, very cold night...


Next up: "The Farmer's Attic"

[Five]

"The Farmer's Attic", Part One

Combat: Moderate
Social: Moderate

Summary: A farmer who wants nothing more than to start a family and work his land is being kept awake at night by something terrifying in his attic, causing his mind to fray...

This one is a true sidequest and is fairly straight-forward.

A paladin is currently under vampiric influence and thinks he is a simple farmer who has just recently purchased a plot of land, which he intends to farm for the local lord. He and his pregnant wife are as isolated from their neighbours as most such folk are, so the locals know the couple only in passing. Their interactions are by and large limited to supply runs in town and the infrequent night out at the local public house. Simply put, not much is known about this new couple other than they seem like a lovely and loving young couple, he is a determined young man, she a steadfast wife, and that the locals hope their entrepreneurial dreams turn out well.

What nobody knows is that the pregnant wife was killed and brought back as a vampire several weeks ago and that she is under the influence of her master, as he schemes to bring about the blessed man's complete and utter destruction.

The unborn child is the focal point of the master's plan, as he intends to create his own blasphemously unholy warrior that can efficiently operate during both day and night. The child, who currently straddles holy and unholy lineage, is to be conditioned and weaponised for future plans against the church that so grievously insulted the master decades ago. The paladin is just a means to an end. A proving point.

But the vampire lord, one of his lieutenants to be precise, miscalculated. The mind control experiment succeeded nicely and according to plan, but the paladin's holy sword has turned out to be a major problem. None of the undead minions can get near enough to it without enduring soul-churning pain, let alone physically remove it from the farmhouse. The pregnant wife was turned before the issue came to light, and as she is still maintaining her cover identity it has fallen to her to arrange a way to get the thing removed without drawing too much attention as it is feared that the sight of it, or another minion, will be enough to break the spell that is plaguing her charge. A thrall was employed with the task but bumbled the job while trying to sneak it out without being seen. The paladin, hearing what he thought to be a burglar, gave chase and the sword remains in the attic after the thrall abandoned the heist.

Another plan to remove it is being hatched, but in the time that has since passed a second unanticipated event has occured: the relatively close presence of the holy sword is starting to dispel the mind cloud hovering over the paladin. Right now it is appealing to the man subconsciously as he sleeps. Its message however is being distorted into recurring nightmares of increasing intensity. Nightmares that has his undead wife perplexed. She has to find a way to maintain the charade, for this mental struggle is now outwardly affecting her husband. It'll be only a matter of time before the neighbours' suspicions will be roused and the master's plan completely ruined. And she's not quite ready to deliver his spawn into the world just yet...

A message was sent out to her vampiric handler, and she currently awaits the reply.

Enter the PCs.

Somehow they intercept the letter. The postilion drops it as they pass the PCs on the road. Maybe they accidentally discover the drop point. However they discover it, it is written in vague terms and shouldn't reveal anything about the vampire plot.

"(My husband) has taken a turn for the worse. Rest is beyond him as terrible night terrors are keeping him awake at night. It is heartbreaking to hear his dreadful nightly battle with such imagined horrors, and to see him in such an addled state during his wakeful hours tortures my very soul! Nothing I do can put his mind at peace. Please help! His continued ranting about the Thing in the attic is, my heart of heart fears, going to commit him to the madhouse. Make haste and help me restore his mind so that we can resume our shared dream of a blissful and prosperous future! Your servant, (Wife)"

Something along those lines.

If the party is not the type to involve themselves in the affairs of strangers when unasked, then you'll need to coax them towards the farmhouse. If they ask around, the local cleric/physician/healer may be off doing their regional rounds, or, have yet to arrive to conduct one. This will leave the PCs as a likely fill-in, especially if one of them is a cleric/physician/healer. If that's a bit too thin, then have the local healer out of town, but a junior assistant available. This person should appear to the PCs as being extremely incompetent, lacking confidence, or the like to help them think that their expertise/help might be needed. You could even have this budding healer ask the party flat out to assist them, especially if again there is a healer PC. In that case they will defer entirely to the PC and simply lead the party to the farmhouse and vouch for their character when asked by the pregnant vampire wife. After that they'll stand to the side for the most part taking notes, more to keep their senior mentors' proverbial whip off their back than anything.

The farmer is obviously sleep-deprived. Although fit of body his shoulders are sagging, his eyes bloodshot, and his skin pale. The mental battle playing out in his mind has him confused but the holy sword hasn't been able to make enough progress yet to stir any memories in his conscious mind. He'll ramble about the terrible sounds coming from above, though his wife will deny hearing anything of the sort, and he'll nod off from time to time out of pure exhaustion. The wife will play her part well.

After this initial (and ideally frustrating) interview, the party will no doubt want to investigate the attic. It's a large space that they can walk comfortably in without stooping and filled with an assortment of typical household sentimental clutter: old furniture covered in sheets, travel chests filled with clothes, abandoned woodwork (two rocking chairs that were finished but never passed the sit test), some family heirlooms of all shapes and sizes, toddler toys and other things related to children (a mixture of family treasures and gifts for the unborn child; the marriage and family plans are or were real before the wife's murder and unholy return to the living), a plain-looking sword with a battered and rusty blade wrapped in heavy cloth (the holy sword, whose true appearance only reveals itself when wielded by a holy paragon of (faith)),...

It's up to the DM if the sword's magical nature can be detected by the party. It could very well be what it looks to be, and only become a magic weapon when paired with a pious warrior. Either way, it is a holy relic of the church and was bestowed upon this particular paladin.

When night falls, the investigation should continue. This night a PC (pick or roll) hears not only the farmer's night terror battle but the occasional scratching coming from above (it's a two-storied house, three if you count the attic space). It starts, then stops. Starts and stops. Slooow scratches (the tip of the blade has become exposed from its cloth wrap and the thrall thief is too terrified of the weapon to touch it/wrap it back up, thanks to the fear put in them by the vampire lieutenant).

If the PCs react quickly enough then tonight is the night the vampire plot becomes exposed. If not, then no big deal. The following night will be another attempted theft and the reveal. Fill out the day with dead-end leads, speculation, or even a day of farm work for the PCs (the farm can't be run in its entirety by the pregnant wife, more significantly because she's a vampire. And shame on the party if they don't have the decency to offer to help the poor "fatigued woman"!).

After the confrontation of the thrall-thief has resolved, you can throw in a moment or two of doubt. It should be made obvious that the thief is emotional distraught. One minute they are angry, the next they're sobbing. Then fear, then anger.

"Fools!", they yell at you (assuming the PCs didn't kill them outright).

"Do you know what you've done?!"

In the (source's) light you can make out not only the trail of tears streaking their face but also the wild, fevered eyes. Spit flies from their mouth and drool drips from their teeth.

"That...thing...it's evil! Evil!"

The thrall is stalling for time, but their fear is real, of both the sword and it's master. Backup soon arrives and it's a tooth and fang war. In the ensuing chaos the wife will reveal her true nature, the farm will go up in flames, and the paladin will slowly come to their senses, more quickly if given the sword. After a wave of sudden realisation his faith will completely consume him and he will zero in on his once wife. Nothing of the master plan will be mentioned. The "master" is the vampire lieutenant as far as anybody knows (who may or may not escape the PCs). In an orchestrated last surge of holy wrath he will impale her and drive both into the inferno that is all that is left of his dreams. The sword can be retrieved in time to be delivered to the paladin's church once the fire burns itself out (or with the PC's help) for a reward. However, once the PCs leave the farmstead there is a cut scene that leads to Part Two:



Evening. Stars pepper the sky with their light, a few slow-moving clouds their only adversary. The moon, uncaring, is dutifully rising. The farmstead, now a blackened heap, still smolders in places, its tears rising to bring its grievances to the heavens above. All is silent this far from town, this far from neighbours. This far from the living.

Shadows materialise from the soon-to-be night sky and somehow morph into humanoid form. The large one points to the home of shattered dreams but does not speak aloud. The smaller one begins to rummage through the rubble, tossing materials aside with a strength that should not be. Within minutes a charred body is found. Staring eyes narrow, nostrils twitch, and a wicked smile tugs at the corner of his perfectly, almost too perfectly, sculpted mouth.

"To me.", he commands in a voice that is strangely seductive and primal at the same time.

The Lesser walks forward and offers the corpse with reverence. She is silent in both movement and speech.

An exquisite glove is removed, a finger extended, and a manicured nail extends into an apex claw. It casually traces its way down the corpse's body, from the lower chest to the pelvis. Wisps of steam breaks free as the charred flesh is cut and the hand reaches in. With a sound that would make a butcher cringe it searches for a moment, then exits holding the still form of a baby. Its flesh is missing, having been partially boiled into a palette of black and red. Its eyes are closed. It doesn't move.

The Lesser tosses the corpse to the side and stands waiting. She knows the moment is not hers.

Uncaring eyes look at the stillborn for a moment. A palm is bit and placed in its tiny mouth. Time passes, then, the eyelids open. Red begins to worm across eyes the colour of the moon above. If the Master cared to know he would know that the infant's eyes are his father's eyes. But he doesn't care. The eyes look blindly towards the Master. Then, tiny teeth bite into the life-giving palm. For sustenance or out of defence, only Nature knows. The Master smiles.

"Yes.", he whispers to the infant. "Excellent."

The palm is pulled away and the baby is dangled unceremoniously by one foot.

"Take him and prepare the Ritual."

As the command is given the child is tossed to the Lesser, who catches him delicately. Not out of maternal instinct, but out of fear. Fear of displeasing her Master. She nods.

"As you wish."

With supernatural speed she turns, sprints for some distance, then leaps into the air to disappear in the shadow of the moon.

The Master on the other hand lingers a moment, looking down at his palm, watching the tiny wound fade. Another smirk and he too disappears, his form falling to merge with the shadows of the ground below...

Part Two Cont.

[Five]

"Witches' Valley"

Combat: DM's choice
Social: DM's choice

So if you ever get to Witches' Valley
Don't dream or close your eyes
And never trust your shadow in the dark
'Cause there's a lady I know who takes your vision
And turns it all around
The things you see are what to be, lost and never found

- Lady Evil, song by Black Sabbath



Summary: While investigating a rural legend involving a secluded valley, the PCs settle into their first night of sleep under the stars and wake to find themselves anthropomorphic animals with no memories of their real lives. Savage predators, natural disasters, and a brewing war are just a few things they must contend with if they are to return to their true forms.

The PCs overhear some locals make mention, in whispered tones, of a place they call "Witches' Valley". If asked they'll speak no further of it. If pestered they will tell the PCs to seek out (name), a wizened old woman who lives just outside of town/village. Vistani, witch, druidess, old ranger, it doesn't matter. Flavour her to the domain you want this to take place in. She'll eyeball the PCs very carefully before inviting them into her dwelling. As she begins to tell her version of the tale, and all during it, she watches them all with a flat neutral, soul-penetrating gaze. Almost as if she is reading their inner selves...

Cont.

[Five]

"The House of Eternal Dawn"

Combat: Low-Moderate
Social: High

Summary: During their travels the PCs stumble upon a sprawling mansion and its majestic environs, and as they explore more and more of its interior they each risk becoming overwhelmed by crippling feelings of euphoria: visits of loved ones long lost to them, reliving the fondest of childhood memories, and other such deeply personal moments of their lives. Unless they can break the illusions and regain their willpower they will each fall victim and be devoured by the nastiest of nightmares: a reality-bending balhannoth (5E Mordenkainen's Tome of Foes) who is nursing (and is being amplified by) an injured elder brain (5E Volo's Guide to Monsters,), and its emotion-draining joystealer servants (3E Monster Manual IV).

Cont.

((Before I forget))

[Five]

"Harvest Moon"

Combat: Moderate-High
Social: Moderate

Summary: Some years ago a cultist fled from Vorostokov and found himself in Falkovnia, where he launched an ingenious plan to corrupt the superstitious rural folk in several domains in order to rebuild a cult in the name of his dark god, Sakkoth the Harvester. Over the span of this year he will have Dread Harvesters placed in Mordent ("Sloughfingers" - Flesh/Slug, during Imbolc), Dementlieu ("Immol" - Ash/Fire, during Beltane), Richemulot ("Maw" - Soul/?, during Lughnasadh), and Borca ("Deadcrow" - Bone/Insects, during Samhain), who will reap the necessary souls for their master's unholy rebirth, unless the PCs can stop them and destroy the Harvest Moon Cult in its entirety.

Visual aides for the Dread Harvesters that I'm using:

"Sloughfingers" (the Husk): http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OQ4tIM0S520/T ... shion3.jpg
"Sloughfingers" (Harvest): https://www.this-is-cool.co.uk/wp-conte ... rae-20.jpg
"Sloughfingers" (Herself): https://www.deviantart.com/akreon/art/G ... -777365617

"Immol" : https://www.deviantart.com/gilleskettin ... -584378991
https://cdna.artstation.com/p/assets/im ... 1498849603
https://www.deviantart.com/hyokka/art/i ... -589531122
https://www.deviantart.com/besar13/art/ ... -601380311

"Maw":
https://www.deviantart.com/fervenom/art ... -522813081
https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/cont ... rmat=2500w
https://www.deviantart.com/eemeling/art ... -386910741

"Deadcrow":
https://www.artstation.com/artwork/Zkwgw
https://www.deviantart.com/marcsimonett ... -114645279

"Sakkoth reborn" (Two minutes to midnight):
https://www.artstation.com/artwork/0PKBy

Cont.

[Mephisto of the FoS]

Candlekeep Mysteries could be adapted as the once Great? Library of the University of Ill Aluk or another Ravenloft city I guess.

[Five]

Candlekeep Mysteries could be adapted as the once Great? Library of the University of Ill Aluk or another Ravenloft city I guess.

Why not? Depending on the wants of the table and the willingness of the DM to shave the circle to fit the square, any adventure, from any edition, can be used. 5E Wizards has been encouraging in such alternative settings (some a bit more than others), and that's a good thing. I hope they continue to do so, to make the current publication open to all tables, but without lengthy or too brief a space within the book itself.

Want Curse of Strahd in Dark Sun for some post-apocalyptic horror? Jam Barovia somewhere west/southwest of the Misty Border in the Jagged Cliffs Region (which will backdrop Castle Ravenloft). Want Icewind Dale or Ten-Towns in Ravenloft and you don't want to create your own domain? Jam it somewhere in the Frozen Reaches and activate Rime of the Frostmaiden.

As to re-flavouring, that too, like everything in this game, is optional.

I've had side quests in my RL campaign that didn't involve a featured creature. Or, non-Ravenloft adventures in Ravenloft. It was an intentional break, a statement that even though the PCs are the most likely individuals to encounter the dark side of Ravenloft as they go about flipping rocks and stumbling into horror/the Weird like moths to a flame, sometimes they get to live normal lives (for adventurers). It was my RL version of role-playing a visit to the marketplace in other settings. Sometimes I'd crank the heat right back up, before full recovery, but that's just me. Haha I'm a DM who believes that only players can kill their characters (if I'm being heavy-handed instead of challenging then I fudge to undo it), so it's not as harsh as it might read.

Point I'm trying to make is that even if very few of the seventeen adventures found in Candlekeep, even if the storyline itself, is not "easy Ravenloft", it doesn't mean you can't break it out and serve it to your crew straight-up.

Ravenloft does reach out into other worlds/realities, so I wouldn't worry too much about any rough edges.

Good call.

[Five]

"In the Shadows of Saints"

Combat: Low
Social: Moderate-High

Summary: One by one, missing town residents are turning up, their bodies ravaged almost beyond recognition. The PCs are asked by one of the victim's relatives to investigate the grisly murders and it soon becomes evident that a werewolf is on the loose. However, the identity of this blood-cursed soul isn't the town's deepest and darkest secret that the party will uncover. The local church is using this particular werewolf as an experimental "holy hound", which they are manipulating in order to hunt down heretics and sinners alike...

Cont.

[Five]

"The Doom That Visited Redmond's Falls"

Combat: High
Social: Low

Summary: The party has been secretly hired by a member of the Treaty of the Four Towers for a fairly simple gig: escort a supply ship destined for a far-off island colony that nobody has ever heard of. When they arrive, they find the tropical town completely deserted, almost as if its inhabitants vanished in the middle of their daily routines. And to make matters worse, while they are investigating town their ship offshore will be wrecked and sunk. As night falls, the inhabitants return...as ghoulish lunar cannibals. The PCs must survive several nightly assaults, find out why they were setup and by whom, and find a way off the ghastly island...

Cont.

[Five]

"Stone Cold Angels"

Combat: Low
Social: High

Summary: The Lamplighters of Mordent (a friend/lover/sibling/correspondent etc to one of the PCs) request the help of the PCs in regards to a case now beyond their ability to solve. What started off as natural-occurring property damage had quickly escalated to bizarre murder: two bodies have now been recovered from inside masterfully-sculpted statues. Stumped and without any clues to follow up on, the stalwart sleuths had no choice but to let the case cool. Recently however an anonymous tip re-opened the case and leads to the prestigious University of Dementlieu (or L' Academie de Richemulot if you prefer). But as the organisation's directive is that of domestic matters, and also because of the sad truth of poor relations with their across the border brothers and sisters, who have not responded to the Lamplighter's inquiries (but have placed their own agent undercover within the university), they are powerless to follow up. False identities, credentials and further operational advice such as maps and the names of a few unlikely but friendly sources can be provided by their resident Troubleshooter (2E The Complete Thief's Handbook; security consultant/law-turned thief for those without access to that book) should the PCs accept the case, as they will have to go in undercover and pick up the trail without disturbing the current delicate peace between nations. Peace tabled by the senior relatives of some of the students they will be investigating.

The PCs must go deep undercover, duck weave and dodge the numerous traps and dangers of elite society, surreptitiously investigate and gather evidence that will lead to the identity and guilt of the sick killer, extract them without raising the alarm, and bring them back to Mordent so that the grieving families of the victims can get the justice that they deserve.

Of course, should their covers be blown the Lamplighters will have no choice but to deny any and all knowledge of the PCs...

[Five]

"The Prophets of Emptiness"

Combat: Moderate
Social: Moderate

Summary: The party has been kidnapped. Too much drink led to a drop in their guard and they are left with nasty headaches and fleeting memories. An explosion of pain from the backs of their skulls. Hoods pulled over their heads. Hands painfully bound. Rough hands and a bone-jarring ride. Being manhandled again. Smell of earth. Forced to their knees. Liquid forced down their throats. Many voices whispering, chanting. Shirts torn. Sharp pain tracing between their shoulderblades and the trickling of their own blood. More liquid, being poured over the backs of their necks. Feverish chanting. The grinding of stone. A hard kick to the back. Falling...

One PC is woke by the sound of feathered wings in sudden flight. Their hands are no longer bound. Once the hood is removed sunlight assaults their eyes, blinding them temporarily. Hot sand burns their exposed skin. Once their eyesight is restored they'll see their unmoving mates scattered about them. A figure wearing long robes, their head and face covered in cloth, is attempting to pull the boots off of one of them. A spear is on the sand next to (PC)...the scavenger hasn't yet noticed the PC coming to.

The party is now in the middle of a desert. They have nothing on them but the underarmour clothes they wore while out celebrating. Their kidnappers have shredded their shirts to a person, though for decency's sake leave enough for any female player to not get offended or feel awkward (unless they have no issue, in which case treat all characters the same: exposed to the elements). Securing water, food, shelter and weapons will be of utmost importance once the party reassembles, and depending on your will this survival theme can either be highlighted or simply touched upon. I'll continue assuming that most DMs don't want to get bogged-down with such details, though I will highlight opportunities to introduce the grind, mostly because that's of interest to my table.

As always, let the PC handle the situation however they will. However, should the scavenger ever see the marking carved into their back (each PC has been marked but the others are currently laying in various positions with their backs to the sand) then their eyes will widen in absolute horror and they will drop the spear and fall to their knees into an almost religious plea of forgiveness. Unless the PC speaks Akiri or Pharazian then they won't have a clue as to what this person is saying. Ideally, a language barrier will be erected in this side quest but that's up to your tale. If it is then increase the social factor, as the party will have to find both the time and a way to communicate with the natives. Spells and psionics can help of course, if it falls within your themes.

What are these skin marks and who are the kidnappers? That I'll leave up to you. The kidnappers could be "good" Vistani who, hearing of a possible future from their raunie, are taking steps to prevent this reality from happening. The marks on the PCs could have been carved into the PCs to identify them to the knowing few that they are the chosen ones that will help divert disaster, and thus bypassing initial language barriers (hardcore but effective!). They could be "evil" Vistani, working for Strahd and through Madame Eva, who are taking steps to do the opposite and set into motion events that will see that possible future turn into reality, the marks likewise identifying them to those few that are in league with Stahd's ambitions. Or, maybe the kidnappers are a secret sect of the Amber Wastes that have been exploring the Mists for some years now, and they are sending heroes, or fools, (unique skill sets as embodied by the PCs) back home. Maybe the marks are mystic travel runes. Up to you. Either way, the people responsible clearly won't take no for an answer...

The scavenger is just that: a greedy individual who is more practical than spiritual, but their fear of "the others" is so great that they will do what needs to be done. Their only true defence is that they were told to look for the mark and deliver the individuals, in secret, to a specified location; that the people carrying the marks would be foreigners was information not told to them. Everything else out of this person will be excuses and spontaneous lies. If they are killed in combat then so be it. The PCs will have to move on, surviving the brutal desert long enough to find the nearest oasis/population centre. The scavenger has enough food and water for three days on them, so the party will have to ration that until they can somehow resupply. Combined with the lack of mount, it's also a pretty good indicator that this person's home isn't all that far from their current location. Resourceful PCs who act fast enough may be able to determine in what general direction this place lies by examining the person's footprints, though they are quickly disappearing with the blowing sand.

If the scavenger is not killed, then they will indicate to the PCs to follow them. They will help bring the others about, but only grudgingly share their rations. The Others never told them to do that, but again, fear of angering them will temporarily override their selfishness if the party insists.

This NPC is a vehicle for the PCs to bypass any survival roleplaying that you don't want to get into. To move the story on. If you want to inject more survival and they survived the PC's initial reaction, then have them killed off in some horrible way, to highlight the dangers of this particular desert. A tentacled sand horror, a poisonous cactus needle fired from afar, quicksand, whatever it takes to further strand the party. Clues to general location of nearest reprieve remain the same.

For weapons, be fair and stingy. Give the party a fighting chance by appealing to their proficiencies, but limit the quality of materials and design. Half-buried bones of all shapes and sizes can be stumbled upon, as well as sand-scrubbed rocks of whatever composition you want to give them. Belts, laces and shredded cloth can bind, and basic weapon maintenance can keep edges and structural integrity.

For water and food, again, be fair and stingy. Water can be got by those brave or smart enough to investigate the sparse vegetation and by digging. Have a few non-monstrous animals show or able to be tracked; blood can be ruled to be a partial slake and flesh of most kinds gnawed on. Food poisoning is good for slowing down/stopping a string of lucky rolls (sometimes the PCs neglect the prep). Just keep the party stressed. Hunger pains, dizziness, parched throats, give them all the classic scenes. Do this as long as it takes to wear down the numbers on the character sheets, then it's time to move on: they find or are shown the oasis (in all its forms).

This first destination is an encampment of tents surrounding a large pool of sparkling blue water, all ringed by vegetation. Four sandy paths lead into four clearings all linked by a common pathway. Open firepits sit outside of each of the four larger tents, which are in turn surrounded by six smaller tents. There is no sign of any of its inhabitants until the party just about completes a full circle. They will not be approached even if they explore the water or other tents; they must walk to the last clearing (regardless of whatever direction they entered). There, sitting on the sand outside the last large tent is a pale-skinned middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair wearing brown desert robes. A strip of cloth is wrapped around his forehead and over his right eye, the untied end hanging loose down the left-side of his face. A bamboo stick is casually resting on his left shoulder. He doesn't say anything as the PCs approach, as if he has yet to notice them or that he is simply uninterested in their presence.

If the scavenger is still with the party:

"Pfft." They spit. "Bahram, paleskin dog: where is he?"

"..."

Your guide becomes irate and stamps towards the sitting man.

"You [i]will[/i] answer me, you...grruhk!"

With blinding speed a long thin blade is removed from the walking stick and thrust hilt-deep into (your guide's) throat. Blood spurts out and onto the sand. The one-eyed man is standing now, calmly removes his blade, and allows the body to fall to the ground with a soft thud. He cleans the blade on (guide's) robes before sheathing it and turning to you.

"Enter. The Master is expecting you..." He motions towards the tent, parts the entrance, and bows to you all with a politeness that belies the horrible violence that just played out before your eyes.

If the party has no way of understanding the scavenger's language then the exchange between the two will be more of a physical and emotive one. Dress it up as such. However, when the killer speaks he speaks in whatever language the PCs' speak. If the scavenger was killed, then have the party be met by a single individual at the oasis or just before. This scene is one that will help promote the secret nature of the party's current circumstances.

This NPC can act as a translator for the party if you feel it will make things easier. And as foreign slaves are quite common in the Amber Wastes, such an NPC is not really out of the ordinary.

Inside the tent are objects that will highlight a culture (Arabic and Ancient Egyptian-flavoured) unknown to the party, or if a PC has a relevant Knowledge skill, mundane objects that will help bring that knowledge to life. It is well-lit and pleasantly cooler than outside. Sitting at a table is a hunchbacked figure dressed in bright blue cloth. Their uncovered face and hands are ancient, almost as if carved from wood. They are busy scratching at a thickly-bound book with a quill of some sort and do not acknowledge the party. A tall well-built man wearing white robes framed by pieces of leather armour stands over their scrawny shoulder, and looks up as they enter. He, like the scribe, is dark-complexioned. Candlelight reflects off the hilt of a long curved knife that is far from ornamental. It is tucked into a thick leather waistband, girdle really, wrapped around his body. He smiles at the party and extends his hands in a welcoming gesture. Combined with his hard features and physicality it justifiably keeps your collective nerves on edge.

"Ah-ha! Welcome, welcome. Please, make yourselves at home. What's mine is yours. And I do mean that. I trust your journey hasn't been too unkind?", he says in a fairly fluent (PCs' language). He indicates to a table off to the side. "Please. Food. Drink."

A look is given to the manservant killer after the party responds (but before any of their questions will be answered. A strong hand will be held up to temporarily disrupt conversation if need be).

"Safwan/Shifa (if the scavenger was female)?"

A shrug. "Walked into my blade..."

Laughter erupts, then, seeing the PCs' faces, stops suddenly.

"Forgive me. That (DMs' choice) was a spy, a traitor!, and knowledge of your appearance would not have been good for those of us attempting to bring water to this... wasteland. 'Dead men tell no tales', as your saying goes, no?"

He motions with a dismissive hand. "(He/she) will be jackal (DM's choice) soon enough."

A nod and One-Eye moves to leave the tent.

The party as a whole will undoubtedly be upset at their brutal abduction (and painful tattoos) so now is the time for some of their questions to be answered. If the PCs attack, then the hunchback scribe will utter a power word that will painfully shock their nervous systems by activating their tattoos and the PCs will be effectively neutralised. Bahram sincerely believes it is the will of his god that is being played out with the party, that the events set into motion are beyond mortal comprehension. The marks are from a religious sect (DM's choice of deity), his superiors, that he dares not question even if he could ascertain the truth of the PCs' accusations. He will be genuinely shocked at any anger aimed at him or his organisation. He will remain calm, respectful, and hospitable throughout the conversation. Any questions pertaining to the religious sect not involving a basic but devout layman's understanding will have to wait for (DM's choice) days and nights, as a procession of its elite is currently on its way to "Silver Spring" (the translation of the party's current location, in Pharazia) to meet with the PCs. Bahram is a captain in a band of nomadic warriors whose sacred mission is to ensure the safety of their priestess and all under her God-given charge. They are the Sword of God. As he dutifully follows orders, and because of his rank, he is not privy to the world of the Godborn. As to this current situation all he knows is that he, and the other captains, were charged with finding the Godmarked and to keep them protected until the Godborn arrived.

While they wait the party has unrestricted access to the oasis, can choose whatever tents/area they desire, and clothes and food will be provided. The wizened scribe, Mus'ad, can answer just about any question pertaining to history, culture, and geography of the region, with the help of either Bahram or One-Eye as a translator. He will be a stern, no-nonsense teacher but very knowledgeable.

After however many days and nights that the DM has allotted for downtime has passed the entourage will arrive. The oasis will be at full capacity, food and camels plentiful. An impromptu bazaar will be erected and trade conducted. It should be clear to the PCs that there are several groups that make up this gathering. The atmosphere is that of celebration, though the Godborn's personal attendants will be grim-faced and keep to themselves.

The Godborn, a dark-eyed and dark-haired girl of maybe sixteen, will ignore the PCs completely for one day and one night before summoning them to her heavily-guarded tent (the tent where they first met One-Eye, Bahram and Mus'ad). There she will dismiss all but One-Eye who, once commanded, will open a hidden trap door that will lead to a surprisingly deep underground complex carved out of stone. It appears to be built in the same shape as that of the tented area above. Several rooms lead off from the main passageway and they are led into one in particular. In it is a candlelit table set with food, drink and sturdy chairs that will seat everybody gathered. There the Godborn will visibly relax, assume a demeanor much more typical of a sixteen year old girl, and address the party.

"Gods below, this place gives me the creeps. I mean, at least it's cool here, but still..."

One-Eye looks to you, shakes his head, and places the lamp in his hand in an unoccupied spot on the table . "Tatoya. Stop with the (DM's choice). Tell these people why they have been brought here. It's the least you could do given the (DM's choice) you've put them through..."

The girl pouts, thinks for a second, then points a finger at One-Eye. Her voice trembles slightly, enough to make you think that she is somehow afraid of him. "You tell them. I was just born into this. I never asked for any if this. Nobody asked me what I..."

A sigh. "All right. Enough. Sit down and shut up. I'll tell them. The [i]whole[/i] story..."

The Godborn, Tatoya, huffs before taking a seat and begins helping herself to some dates. One-Eye looks almost as if he is about to apologise but stops himself and turns to you.

Fifty-four years ago Tatoya's grandmother, a wandering Vistani named Bayana, had found herself alone in Pharazia and in no time enslaved by a particular tribe of nomads. When her Vistani talents were discovered she was met with both fear and awe. Almost reverence. Seeing her newfound status Bayana, a storyteller's storyteller, embellished her abilities and became the scribe of her own tale. Playing on the nomad's fears she became the Godborn, an emissary for (DM's choice). This charade she kept up right until her death. But she would continue her deception by bestowing that honour upon her daughter Pavlena. No hand would ever touch her child but the hand of a lover chosen. This she swore, and this security she bestowed.

However, in her youth Pavlena would develop what she would later describe in private as a personal curse that was impossible to break: she would often have vivid dreams of Time Yet To Be. A monstrous giant bipedal lizard devastating the landscape and people alike. Humanity huddling behind walls, fearful of both the outside world and of the chains that lay within. A landscape eerily similar to that of the Amber Wastes but blasted beyond recognition. A wasted land drained of Life and injected with Death. So much Death! These and many other horrific visions would haunt Pavlena her entire life, but it wasn't a completely paralyzing fear, for one dream was, although as real as all the others, a revelation of Hope. A single thread trailing from the tapestry of that Future that leads to here, the Present. If cut, then this Future does not have to be. And so Pavlena swore it would not be. Her entire life then shifted, to do all in her power to trace this thread and cut it clean. She would maintain and cultivate the role of Godborn and utilise the influence it has on the nomadic believers. She would send them out, her Faithful, and they would help search for that thread in the places she could not personally go, for time is of the essence and there simply is too much ground to cover for one alone. And seven years ago, after thirty-two years of searching, she finally found that thread.

One-Eye stops (your version of this tale) and looks to the party. "I know, sounds like a (DM's choice) tale. The ravings of a lunatic. But it's not. It's true. I know because I am from that future..."

He helps himself to a date.

Pavlena discovered what turned out to be a library of the Ancients. Buried in the foothills north and west of the Southern Oasis in Sebua, it was a truly remarkable find. An entire city forgotten by all, buried by Time. But its discovery would remain a secret as treachery and murder would later stake its claim. An ancient tablet, translated roughly as "The Dreams of Huh" , was discovered and naively read aloud. Instantly, a swirling vortex of black space (a "starseed") materialised and two figures emerged: Mearedes and Razturok (One-Eye). They, in the future, were also exploring the ruins of the library of Ancients, the difference being Mearedes was studying a tablet loosely translated as "the Hand of Hemsut". He too activated a starseed and it was an insatiable thirst for knowledge that had him boldly enter the void. Razturok, one of a small group of explorers hired to protect both mission and man, reached out to pull him back but was instead sucked in.

It didn't take long for the madness to hit. A side effect of travelling through a starseed is that the traveller sees two realities at the same time, one reality through each eye. Razturok, taking a great blow to the face by a knee-jerk defensive strike by one of Pavlena's expedition, was fortunate. Mearedes, on the other hand, went mad by the horrible visions assaulting his brain. Being from the Future, his vision of those from the Past was of an ever-shifting amalgamation of several millennia of descendants. Faces and bodies constantly twisting, growing, shrinking, swirling in a gross mass of churning flesh.

He too would strike out, with both spells and the powers of his mind. This full-out surprise assault was too much for Pavlena's party to withstand. They died in the most horrific of ways. Pavlena survived only for a black eye. Razturok, his Future Sight eye swollen shut, regained his wits and seeing those being slaughtered in their true forms by a monstrosity (Mearedes in his forebearers' forms/Millennia Form) ultimately took a different side and slew the crazed wizard through a surprise attack. All told, only Pavlena, Razturok, and a mage named Jubair survived the incident at the Library of the Ancients. The three would eventually recover and leave the buried city behind, each to their only thoughts, but together through survival in the face of the harsh hand of the Amber Wastes.

For Pavlena, the manifestation of her dreams was all-consuming. She began to have new dreams: a giant mass of flowers intertwined with various other plants of every imaginable type, pulsating as if a beating heart. Each night she would explore more and more of that dream, and soon she realised that what she was dreaming of was not a vision to be analysed and interpreted, but of an actual beating heart. A most divine creation, and its exact location. This was the Life-Shaper, the key to life not only in the Amber Wastes, but of the distant future as well. From its pulsating essence is the birth, growth, death, and rebirth of the land's flora. But those dreams also revealed a shockingly sad truth: the Life-Shaper has been poisoned and is dying an agonisingly slow death. All of this Pavlena told three people: the mage Jubair, Razturok, and her then nine year old daughter Tatoya.

It was Jubair's treacherous dagger that plunged into Pavlena, thus ending the life of the second Godborn. He fled into the desert when his attempt on Tatoya's life was foiled, but he was quickly hunted down and captured by Razturok, Bahram, and the tribe's chief scout, Ode Zinsou. Jubair's sentence was the removal of both hands and banishment. Those who act alone must walk alone: so it is written, and so it was done. This was almost two years ago.

Uknown to the grieving tribe the power-hungry wizard did not die. Not of thirst, not of hunger, not of Man, and not of Beast. For the cunning Jubair had traced his way back to the Library of the Ancients some time before he hatched that murderous scheme. What started as a search for knowledge quickly turned into a baptism of power: he found Mearedes' book of spells. And in its blasphemous pages he eventually learned of ways to power and amplify his magic by stealing and converting the very life force of plants, animals, and of the Amber Wastes itself. For unbeknownst to even Razturok, Mearedes was secretly a defiler, the most reviled practitioner of all of the known wizardly magics of the Future. Thus Jubair was reborn. Some might say transformed.

Now he lurks in the time-ravaged ruins dotting the western foothills of Sebua, commanding an undying horde of desiccated corpses; those nomads and animals unfortunate enough to cross his wicked path. His robes are tattered and blood-stained, his black beard and hair wild and ragged, and his body near skeletal in appearance. His severed hands perch spider-like upon scrawny shoulders, and other sunbaked hands dangle, fingers twitching, from a rope belt. A staff of twisted and fused bones is his only other possession, which he uses as a crutch. The stumps where his hands used to be sometimes ooze a tarlike substance that hisses as it drips onto the ground. He and his ever-growing undead army are tirelessly searching the entire western range of Sebua for the ultimate power source that could elevate him to godhood: the Life-Shaper.

The Life-Shaper can be a real object/entity, and could be whatever you want it to be. It could be the natural heart of Sebua, placed there by a god or goddess long-since forgotten. It could be a foreign entity hidden in a pocket of reality in that domain, trying to heal what it senses as desolation, but dying as it is essentially cutoff from its native world. Maybe it's the result of a very powerful drudic circle's "all-in" magical attempt at fighting back the ever-expanding wasteland...

At the same time, it could be that the Life-Shaper is simply a figment of Pavlena's then newfound zealotry; as one dream beheld a cosmic truth another is quite mistakenly attributed a cosmic truth...

Either way, that's for you to decide.

The PCs are being compelled to accompany the tribe currently gathered at the Silver Spring oasis, and lend their individual and collective expertise at delving deep into the Library of Ancients. The bulk of the tribe will act as decoys to throw any others off their trail, for skirmishes with the other nomadic tribes of Pharazia, traditional tribes that don't recognise the Godborn as anything other than charlatan, are all too commonplace. Given the distance to be travelled this is inevitable. The PCs, along with Razturok, Tatoya, and Ode Zinsou (a pacifist rogue/alchemist if the party doesn't have one, or as a possible trainer if you want to bring some cool exotic to a PC's skill set), will break off in the dust and chaos and make haste towards southwestern Sebua, where they will search the Library of Ancients for information regarding the nature and location of the Life-Shaper. Once this information is discovered they will then journey to the Life-Shaper's location and do all that they can in order to purge the poison from it.

Of course, it's not going to be that simple. Following is a list of encounters that can be thrown at the party to spice things up a bit. I'll quote sources, but give a brief description in case anybody doesn't have access to that book. As with this sidequest these are all optional.

AD&D Wilderness Survival Guide (1E) is a great book if you want to inject some grit into a wilderness adventure and don't mind doing some extra calculations to bring that grit. For this sidequest I recommend looking over the sections Dressing For The Weather (highlighting Personal Temperature, and Table 3: Effects Of Clothing And Armor On Personal Temperature), and Effects Of The Environment (highlighting Table 4: Temperature Effects, Damage From Heat and Cold/Table 9: Temperature Damage To Characters, and Effects On Equipment/Effects of Blowing Sand or Dust).

If you want to tone things down a bit then take a look at 2E's Al-Qadim Arabian Adventures, Chapter 5: Perils of Adventure. Table 6: Armor Class Ratings and Penalties, and the section Desert Survival (Dehydration and Wind and Sand) in particular. The section Calling Upon Fate could be a cool option for your PCs too, regardless of whether or not they are spiritual individuals. Who knows, maybe they'll become "enlightened"...?

The Dark Sun Campaign Setting Rules Book (2E), Chapter 14: Time and Movement is another go-to. The Alternate Materials for armor section found in Chapter 6: Money and Equipment is also a great option if you want to bring a workable heavy look to the Amber Wastes. Even if it is just for one absolutely brutal tribe of mountain/ruin dwellers...

3E's Sandstorm is a great read. I'm going to lean heavy on Chapter 1: The Waste. Natural Waste Hazards and Supernatural Waste Hazards in particular.

((Will start new post as I don't know how much more I can fit in this one))

Cont.

[Five]

]"The Prophets of Emptiness" (Cont.)


In the Deserts of the Amber Wastes



1. Food And Water (from 1E Wilderness Survival Guide):

Minimum Daily Requirement Of Food: 2 pounds (medium-sized characters)

Going Without Food:
Combined Strength and Constitution score is:
15 or less: 4 days
16 to 19: 5 days
20 to 24: 6 days
25 to 30: 7 days
31 to 35: 8 days
36 or more: 10 days

Minimum Daily Requirement Of Water (inactive to heavy activity; rounded down): 0.5 to 1 gal (1 to 3 L) below 50°F/10°C (night); 1 to 2 gal (3 to 7 L) above 90°F/32°C (day)

If you want to include Sandstorm (3E), then daytime temperatures in the range of 91 to 110 °F/32 to 43°C requires double the daily requirement of water: 2 to 4 gal (7 to 15 L). At the extreme daytime temperature range of the Amber Wastes, 111 to 140 °F/43 to 60 °C, add another gallon to the minimum requirement: 3 to 5 gal/11 to 18 L. Again, these numbers are for inactive and heavy activity in the given temperature range.

Going Without Water: 3 days.
+2 if eating food with a high water content (standard rations)
+1 if character is over 200 lbs, weighs more than average for their race, or if they are of average weight but less than average height
+1 if character is female,
+1 if character does not engage in strenuous activity
-1 if temperature is over 90°F/32°C
-1 if character doesn't eat at least one meal per day while going without water
-1 if Strength or Constitution is below 8.

Effects Of Going Without Food, Dehydration/Rehydration: Pick whatever ruleset you like.



Survival Days (Campaign Option):

Dark Sun Campaign Setting (4E) has a pretty neat and uncomplicated system for keeping track of rations, if you don't want to grind. Supplied characters must consume their daily requirements for food and water to avoid starvation and dehydration. Unsupplied characters must manage to do without daily requirements.

To be supplied the character must:
- Spend at least a part of the day in a city, village, outpost, or oasis.
- Expend a survival day worth of supplies.
- hunt or forage successfully.

Obtaining Survival Days:
- Offer survival days for purchase at the rate of 5 gp each.
- Combine food and water requirements for one day. Gathering such supplies might carry no cost in an area where water is available and food can be hunted.
- Grant survival days as quest rewards or as payment for undertaking adventures.

Expending Survival Days: After each extended rest, a character can expend a survival day to become supplied until the next extended rest or until 24 hours pass, whichever occurs first. Supplied characters are not susceptible to sun sickness.

Selling Survival Days: In the desert, survival days are valuable enough to be sold or traded at their normal value (5 gp each). Indeed, an explorer dying of thirst would likely pay a king’s ransom for a single survival day. Where people are near sources of water and food, however, they can obtain supplies for far less than 5 gp per day’s worth. In those areas, survival days aren’t easy to sell.

Putting all that together can give you and the PCs group rations, or group survival days, which obviously will dwindle as they adventure across the Amber Wastes. Once that gets dangerously low (consumption, theft, greed, neglect, etc) you can kick-up the roleplaying and get into the nitty gritty of group conflict (in addition to survival mode), if that sort of thing appeals to your table.



2. Mounts And Beasts Of Burden - Camels (1E Wilderness Survival Guide):

Going Without Food Or Water: 14 days (7 days if you prefer 2E Al-Qadim: Arabian Adventures). After the first week however its carrying capacity is reduced to one-half. An "empty" camel requires ten times as much food (plants) and twenty times as much water as the daily requirements of the characters. Must be fed and watered at least once every two weeks.



The following lists are meant to inspire DMs, to help them own the Amber Wastes so that they in turn can help tell a unique tale. Include, exclude, or ignore what you will.



3. Natural Hazards ((this list will expand and includes 3E Sandstorm material)): sandstorms, duststorm, flensing sandstorm, whirlwinds, sand dunes (collapsing, blowout), quicksand, sand (shallow, deep, sand crust), sun glare, sun burn, heatstroke, flash floods, mirages, getting lost, dehydration, starvation, disease, poison, oases (dry, foul), drowning, suffocation,...



4. Supernatural Hazards ((this list will expand, and includes 3E Sandstorm material)): Devil Dunes, Disease (Sandeyes, Volcanic Fever, The Wasting, Mummy Rot), Fey Oases, Flamestorms, Flaywind, Furnace Wind, Leech Salt Flats, Phantom Cities, Phantom Voices, Poison, Shadow Sand, Slumber Sand, Softsand, Wailing Waste ...

Devil Dune: The devil dune moves under its own magical power, rolling like great waves of sand to pursue, envelope, and suffocate those that trespass against it. Measuring 100 feet long, 50 feet wide, and 40 feet high, it moves at a rate of 60 feet per round. DC 15 Reflex save when it enters a character's space; failure and they're buried. 1d6 points of nonlethal damage per minute. An unconscious character thus buried must succeed DC15 Constitution check each minute or take 3d6 points of lethal damage until free or dead. No ordinary damage can stop it. A soften earth and stone spell will reduce its speed by half for the duration of the spell. An earthquake spell breaks the devil dune apart, which then takes weeks for it to reform.

Disease:
- Sandeyes: a creeping blindness caused by desiccated eye tissue. Contact, DC 14, 1 day incubation, 1d4 Charisma damage (if more than 2 points of damage, Fortitude save is needed or the blindness is permanent).

- Volcanic Fever: spreads through inhalation of ash, which causes victim's body temperature to rise to unearthly heat (181 to 210°F/82 to 98°C). A character killed by volcanic fever crumbles into fine ash in 24 hours. Inhaled, DC 17, 1d3 days incubation, 1d6 Constitution damage.

- The Wasting: Supernatural disease spread by demons and other foul creatures of the waste. Skin and tissues dry and toughen, eventually mummifying the victim. Injury, DC 19, 1 day incubation, 1d4 Dexterity/1d4 Constitution damage. Must make three successful saving throws in a row to recover.

Fey Oases: Appears as any other oasis, with a rich caravan encamped. All members of the caravan are fey creatures, though they appear mortal just as a barren stretch of desert appears to be a verdant glen of fresh water and date trees. Always appears at dusk and disappears at dawn, taking with it anyone foolish enough to stay in camp that long. When it reappears in the future those abducted reappear as well, as a mirage mullah. They are now bound to the "oasis" like the rest of the fey...

Flamestorm: Dark rain clouds form in the sky (DC 15 Survival check says they're not), flashes of lightning rolling somewhere within (DC 15 Spot check reveals flashes are more reddish-orange than ordinary lightning, a DC 5 Spot check reveals the darkness under the approaching cloud is streaking a ruddy light). Eventually it overtakes the caravan, and begins to rain down fire on their heads. 2d6 fire damage each round to every creature in the area. Flammable items automatically ignite. The crackling and low roar of the falling fire provides a -4 penalty on Listen checks, and ranged weapons constructed, even partially, of wood are made with -2 penalty. The flames are not magical but the rain cloud is. It lasts for 5d6 rounds.

Flaywind: Flaywinds are storms that spews sand with such ferocity that it works a living creature to bare bones in hours, and exposed bone to a fine powder in a matter of days. A flaywind exists either on its own or as the sinister core of a larger sandstorm ((or a Closing the Borders replacement)). It typically lasts 1d4×10 hours, but some flaywinds are said to have lasted for days.

Creatures caught in a flaywind, or any object with a hardness less than 5, takes 1d4 points of lethal damage per round. Wearing heavy clothing (or any form of armor) reduces the damage to 1d3 points per round, but it cannot protect entirely from the abrasion. Hard shelter in the form of a barricade or enclosed space is the only proven protection. Creatures about to be ravaged by a flaywind can make a DC 20 Survival check to detect the approaching danger 1 minute before it hits. It might not be enough time to get out of the storm’s path, but it could provide an opportunity to seek shelter or make other preparations.

Furnace Wind: When a furnace wind blows, all open water dries up and flammable material ignites. It hits hard at midday, scorches the land and everything in it, then passes as if nothing happened. A typical wind of this sort usually lasts 4d4 rounds. Damage varies by the force of wind behind it. Windstorms deal 1d6 fire damage per round, Fort DC 14 for half damage. Hurricanes deal 2d6 fire damage per round, Fort DC 18 for half damage. A tornado deals 4d6 fire damage per round, Fort DC 22 for half damage.

Creatures in an area about to be blasted by furnace winds can make a DC 20 Survival check to detect the approaching danger 1 minute before it strikes. This might not be enough time to get out of its way, but it could provide an opportunity to seek shelter or make other preparations.

Leech Salt Flats: These areas look like any other salt flats, but they do radiate a faint necromantic aura. Living creatures that try to traverse a leech salt flat require five times their daily requirement of water to avoid becoming dehydrated, as the enriched area syphons moisture from their bodies. After a number of hours equal to its Constitution score + 4, the creature must make a successful Constitution check (DC 10, +1 for each previous check) or take 1d6 points of dessication damage. A creature that takes dessication damage from leech salts is dehydrated. The creature must repeat this check every 10 minutes until receiving at least their daily requirement of water or until death. Leaving the leech salt flats extends the time between these checks to 1 hour. Leech salts magically dehydrate victims, which means that creatures need not receive long-term care to become rehydrated; simply receiving adequate water clears the dehydrated state. Nonlethal damage from thirst cannot be recovered until a creature gets at least their daily requirement of water. Not even magical healing heals such damage until this condition is met.

Phantom Cities:



5. Animals ((this list will expand)):

2E Monstrous Compendium Al-Qadim (and other 2E MCs referenced): Ant (giant), Ant Lion (giant), Baboon (wild), Bat (common, giant), Beetle (fire), Camel (desert, mountain, racing, war), Cats (great - cheetah, jaguar, leopard, lion, tiger), Centipede (giant, huge, megalo), Crocodile (and giant), Eagle (and giant), Hawk (large, small, blood hawk), Hornet (wasp), Hyena, Jackal, Lizard (fire, giant, minotaur), Mason Wasp (giant), Rat (common, giant), Scorpion (large, huge, giant), Snake (all types), Spider (all types), Vulture (all types),...

3E Sandstorm: CR 1/4: Horned Lizard; CR 1/3: Giant Termite (worker), Vulture; CR1: Dromedary Camel, Giant Termite (queen), Two-Humped Camel, Serval (Savannah Wildcat); CR 2: Giant Termite (soldier), War Camel; CR 3: Brine Swimmer; CR 5: Giant Ant Lion; CR 6: Hippopotamus,...



6. Monsters ((this list will expand)):

2E Monstrous Compendiums (Al-Qadim; Dark Sun I, II; Ravenloft I, II, III;): Ashira, Carnivorous Plant (cactus, vampire), Carrion Stalker, Debbi, Dhaot, Dune Trapper, Elemental (air, earth, fire, water), Fael, Ghost (raaig), Ghost Mount, Ghoul (lord), Ghul (great, lesser), Ghul-kin, Golem (sand, salt), Hag (annis, green, night, sea), Harpy, Haunt, Heway, Lich (kaisharga), Lycanthrope (werebat, werehyena, werejackal, werejaguar, wereleopard, werelion, weretiger), Maskhi, Medusa, Mummy (greater, meorty), Naga, Nasnas, Paka, Recluse, Rom, Sabu Lords, Sakina, Sand Bride/Sand Mother, Scarab Beetle (giant, grave, monstrous), Serpent (winged), Shadow, Shadow Asp, Silats, Skeleton, Skin Thieves, Spectre, Spider Cactus, Stone Maidens, Thrax, Vampire (desert), Water Weird, Zin, Zombie (cannibal, desert, lord),...

3E Sandstorm: CR 1: Porcupine Cactus; CR 2: Ashworm, Dire Jackal; CR 3: Ashen Husk, Dire Vulture, Dustblight, Dust Twister, Sand Hunter, Tumbling Mound; CR 4: Chekryan, Dune Hag, Forlorn Husk, Lycanthrope - Werecrocodile; CR 5: Scorpion Swarm; CR 6: Brine Ooze; CR 7: Death Scarab Swarm, Giant Banded Lizard, Mirage Mullah; CR 10: Dunewinder; CR 11: Crawling Apocalypse; CR 12: Sand Golem; CR 18: Dry Lich,...



7. People: Har'Akiri, Pharazian (city dwellers, nomads), wild children, Terrakin (raiders, traders, nomads), foreign slaves,...

The Terrakin. The name instills fear, horror, and begrudging respect in those that call the Amber Wastes home. They are a tribe of nomads, raiders, and traders, a tribe of tribes really, that have been wandering the Amber Wastes for (some say) hundreds of years, setting up camp wherever they see fit and with self-proclaimed and fiercely enforced squatter's rights. This city of tents, which they call "Terra-kai", is typically situated in the various ruins dotting the wastes and lasts anywhere from three months to a year, with necessity being the main deciding factor as to how long they actually settle. The tribe that has accumulated the greatest amount of wealth while wandering the wastes, "First Tribe", has first choice of encampment, chooses where to set up the always vast bazaar, and gets a small cut of all sealed deals, in addition to the right of first bid on all goods brought to Terra-kai. The tribe that neutralises the threats where Terra-kai is to be located is always "Second Tribe" and receives benefits such as second choice, second bid, etc. Terra-kai can be stricken and on the move in hours, with each tribe gathering its belongings and heading their separate ways. This tribal migration period can last several years or until the location of a new Terra-kai is decided upon, at which point the tribes converge once more.

Theirs is a culture based almost exclusively on trade. Aggressive masters of trading and expert appraisers (even the young can tell whether something is junk or not), but a friendly and hospitable people while settled. What is theirs is yours when it comes to food and water, but business is business. Outsiders are judged by both the value of the possessions they are carrying and by their individual skills and talents. A real "make a good deal, get a good deal" vibe to the culture.

All that changes while the individual tribes are out roaming the wastes and looking for the next Terra-kai. There the Terrakin perfectly adapt to the brutal and unforgiving landscape by becoming barbaric raiders and scavengers. The hunters and gatherers (the adults) ruthlessly murder and steal what they want from whomever possesses it, including the other Terrakin tribes. Ironic in the sense that anybody committing such violent acts in Terra-kai are instantly put to death. But out in the wastes it is expected, and honourable to do so. They are as easily skilled in the art of war as they are in the art of trade. It is a sport to them; kill, steal, and defend to trade. Everybody and everything is fair game to them when wandering, and it is no surprise that they have a long list of enemies, including other Terrakin tribes. And it is there in the open land that the ongoing feuds between the various tribes reach their bloody peak, as it is only there where it is accepted by all. Laws are for Terra-kai and only Terra-kai, anywhere else they are a vile infringement of freedom.

Superficially, there isn't much that can be said of the Terrakin to define them as a separate people. Skin, hair, and eye colour run the entire spectrum, for it is said that they were originally founded by escaped slaves. As the Terrakin place no value on the past, none can be sure of the amount of truth to such speculation. Physically, there are two types of Terrakin: lean-muscled, and heavy-muscled. Due to their beliefs and lifestyle there are no over or under weight members in any of the tribes. Simply put, such people have no value as they will not last the migration period. The tribe is, after all, only as good as its weakest member.

Men and women, along with their animals, are treated the same: they either have a use or they don't. Hunters hunt, gatherers gather, herders herd, thieves steal, traders trade, and so on down the line. Both men and women, when not fulfilling their duties to the tribe (as determined by their indivdual skills and talents), breed with who they want and when they want, in or out of the rutting tents (the Terrakin do not enslave; some people have nothing but their bodies, or the skills of their bodies, to offer the tribes in return for personal survival). Husbands and wives as a concept, while understood, is not put to practise.

Hairstyles and clothing of both genders vary wildly. Some consciously put in effort to stand out from those in their tribes, others subconsciously, others still are possessed with a utilitarian outlook. Shorn temples, wild manes, dreadlocks, topknots, clean-shaven,...; loose light robes, heavy dark robes (both reinforced with various heat-reducing materials from trophy kills), wastelander's outfits (large hooded cloak, multiple layers of heat-resistant, porous cloth, and reinforced leather padding designed to protect against blowing sand, sharp rocks, and the ever-present cacti needles - from Dark Sun 3.5),...it's a patchwork of sights of a patchwork of people. The warriors of the tribes generally wear their gruesome trophy kills out of great pride, both personal and of the tribe as a whole. Brutal but efficiently repurposed chitin or shellplate armour, grim bone helmets (most with fangs and horns) and wickedly-forged weapons of practically every type is a common enough attribution of these fearsome individuals.

It is the tribe as a whole that cares for the children. At the age of 5, the child's "Determining Age", they are fully expected to assist the tribe in its day-to-day activities. They are given some leeway, so that they can demonstrate to the rest of the tribe their natural abilities. By the age of 12 the child has learned to read and write, can hunt and forage and find water, knows how to ride, understands the basics of fighting, and is an accomplished appraiser, among other things. Then, at the age of 13, the child is expelled from the tribe to hone all that they have learned. This is their "Age of Reckoning". With nothing but the clothes on their backs and a few days worth of rations the youths are sent out into the deadly wastes where they must search (scavenge, steal, etc) for items of unique value ((this used to be steel weapons, as the Terrakin were originally created for our Dark Sun campaign)), according to their individual tribe's interests. They are forbidden, on pain of death, to return empty-handed. Stealing from their own tribe, or any other tribe in this one instance, is an equally-punishable offense. Any help from outsiders depreciates the object, and its new value to the tribe must be recalculated according to methods the child has learned. Sometimes the youths spend years (or decades) searching for such an item, should they prove skillful enough in surviving that long. Returning to the tribe involves the survivors finding and reaching the next Terra-kai, where they will face their tribe in their "Evaluation Age". Once the transaction and accounting of their deeds is complete the youth, now likely an adult, is welcomed back into the tribe in a full display of love and glory. They are now a proven member within their tribe, take on a new name, and the process continues.



"Blood, Sweat, And Steel: Let The Day Begin"

His breath is laboured and he can hear and feel the blood pounding in his ears. Even though the sun has yet to begin its brutal patrol, his body is covered in a sheen of sweat. Calloused hands grip the blade of the sword dug into the sunbaked ground before him, but he doesn't notice the blood trickling down its wicked edge. His lacerated forehead is resting against the hilt as he catches his second wind.

"(DM's choice) lucky..", he mumbles between clenched teeth. He can already feel the sweat turning into a chill but he ignores it for now.

"Lucky?" is the response. "Accomplishing what you set yourself to do is skill, not luck. It is dead, and you are alive."

A grunt.

"Although your level of skill is still (DM's choice). Not so bad in offence, it's improving, but (DM's choice) horrible in defence. You're reckless. Look at yourself."

He looks down at his gore-covered chest and, unable to visually separate his blood from that of the creature's, lazily slops it all away. Five holes in his bare chest ooze fresh blood. One hole from each of the things' fingers as it tried to rip his heart out. He smirks at the memory of the bitch screaming, as he turned her hand into a spraying stump.

"You laugh now, but it was a close call. And do you know why?"

"..."

"Your hair is too long. Get rid of it. All it does is provide an advantage for those that see you as today's feast. You, even at this level, are too good for that. What would the others think? Matahuir Gewalt, survived the Wastes day after day after day, on his own, for four years, only to end up hag (DM's choice) because his hair got pulled..."

"..."

"Now, get the (DM's choice) up. This is today's lesson. Learn it well, and tomorrow will be another day that you get to see, fight, and explore."

He nods and stands with a wince. After completing a quick series of learned stretches he pulls the blade out of the ground, wipes it clean, and slides it back into a scabbard of his own design.

A small pouch is taken from his belt, opened, and a precious gulp of water from his waterskin is added to the dry powder within. A quick finger mix, a scrutinising look, then the paste is used to fill the dripping holes in his chest and the other tears in his flesh. His teeth are gritted but there is no sound of pain. Not anymore. The burning of the paste, of his wounds, he knows, is a good thing. Pain is Life. Once the pouch is completely emptied, cleaned, and tied again to his belt, he looks to the corpse. Eyes narrow. A hand reaches behind his back and pulls a knife free.

"You remember that freaky old bastard hermit in that (DM's choice) up cave, right?", a new voice asks.

"Yeah. I'm on it."

"Eyes, skull, and blood: he said he'd pay for them all. Double standard, if they're fresh and clean. And hair. Don't forget the hair. "

"I said I'm on it..."

"Okay, okay. Relax. I'm just telling you to take your time and cut clean."

"..."

He kneels in the dusty ground and places a hand on the dead hag's monstrously gross head. He pauses, looking for the best first cut, and is caught off guard when he looks at its dead eyes. The baleful glare in them is somehow defying death. The flesh of its body is ravaged and lifeless but somehow...

"Don't mind that. That's why they're worth what they're worth. Freaks love freaky things, it's as simple as that."

A grunt.

"Now, the first cut must always be..."

In no time his grim harvest of the dead hag is complete. Eyes in a waterproofed pouch, blood in three vials, and the decapitated head in a sack, all secured to his belt. A drink of water and a mouthful of dried meat is consumed during a quick break, but only after he skins the hair from his head and inspects the edges on his weapons.

Today's lessons learned, he glances around the moonlit, boulderstrewn clearing and eyeballs the gaping black hole that is the entrance to the witches' lair.

"Freaks love freaky things. Yeah, let's see what else this (DM's choice)'s got kicking around that (DM's choice)..."

A torch is sparked, and his sword hisses back to life. One slow breath is released, then he walks forward, trying his best not to be unnerved by the pile of skulls to the right of the entrance, nor the staked skulls to the left. Some grin and others are frozen in fear when the torchlight comes to pass over them, but all whisper a multitude of warnings that jumble together to end up sounding like a sudden rush of moaning wind. Somehow he pushes past and enters the Dark.

The tunnel expands in height the further he walks, before settling to about the height of two adults, if one were to stand on the shoulders of the other. The stone is worn smooth, but the flickering shadows makes it seem like a long tunnel constructed of massive earthen rings. Crumbled rock lies in irregular piles from either side of the tunnel, but other than this the floor is, eerily, clean. Almost as if it were swept...

Falling pebbles and floating dust both do their part to keep him on edge from time to time, but onward he walks.

The tunnel gradually curves, and leads into a dimly-lighted cavern. The torchlight eventually reveals all: chains and ropes of varying widths and lengths hanging from a root-tangled ceiling, some ending with a wicked hook still carrying gory bits of their last victims; large earthenware casks lined up against what looks to be a low bricked wall, on the other side of which a large cauldron gurgles (it is here, from the fire beneath it, where the light of the place flickers); shelves, some crudely crafted from wood that is warped with age, others from flat tiles of stone, are recessed opposite the cauldron and hold jars of every shape and size, containing every sort of liquid not known to most of humanity; over there, a smooth-topped stone table upon which sits large a mortar and pestle, bunched herbs piled here, dangling there; and stuffed sacks are strewn all about the place, some small enough to hold a rat, others large enough to hold a grown man...

In this place he doesn't linger long. A cut bag or two, a sniff, a poke, there was nothing here that he could even possibly hope to put value to. And because of that fact it was all dead weight.

Not able to find the belongings of the hag's victims, he curses. And in the moment of silence that follows his ears pick up a sound that causes his heart to skip a beat.

Something in the tunnel. Dragging? Muttering?

Another curse. The battle with the hag has taken more of a toil on his body than he'd like to admit. The paste hasn't mended his flesh yet. He was a fool for coming in here so soon after! Does he even have another battle like that in him? No, definitely not...

The sound is getting closer. Something is being dragged, and the muttering is in no language that he's ever heard.

He looks frantically about the room, looking for something, anything, that will give him an edge. Nothing. (DM's choice) hole!

A nervous hand flips the sword in his hand as his mind begins to settle on his last stand. Doom begins to stain his thoughts. Seventeen years and this is the end...

Then, he sees the small wooden double door nestled beneath the shelves. It's maybe two and a half feet in height and about three feet in width. Storage? Crawlspace?

Nearer and nearer comes the dragging and muttering (or is it some sort of grotesque tune?), and he stomps on his torch, pulls the doors open by their heavy iron rings (thankfully with very little noise), and crawls inside the odd-smelling place (herbs?), pausing just long enough to free the much longer and heavier of the two knives from behind his back. The door is carefully closed and he waits, unblinking eyes fixed on a slight gap between two of the narrow planks of wood. The low-burning fire flickering beneath the old crusted cauldron is now his visual world.

The dragging and muttering continues, agonisingly, until he knows it is in the cavern with him. A heavy thud. Chains are struck, and rattle as they sway. More of that infernal language. A sick wet sound and the chains rattle again. Shuffling. Muttering. And nothing but flames licking the bottom of the cauldron can he see. That, and being confined in the small storage space begins to unnerve him.

He tries to slowly, quietly, calm his breathing in order to steady his nerves. He fights the need to flee, knowing, even in his youth, that he must use this fear, control it, and convert it for that single moment that will undoubtedly determine life or death.

Another look through the crack. He now sees an inhumanly large foot, a sick greenish-brown, ending in sharp blackish nails. An anklet gleams as it shuffles towards the cauldron. Filthy robes, stained with who knows what.

His breath stolen, he freezes and closes his eyes. He feels then focuses his thoughts on the knife in his hand. It is a personal treasure of his, a great find out in the wastes. Narrow pattern welded steel almost two feet in length, excluding its masterfully engraved horn hilt, with a straight back that angles sharply to a single edge, it is a work of art almost as much as it is lethal weapon. It has served him well for almost a year, and now it brings him a cold sort of comfort.

"Hold.", it says to him. Never was it much for words or lessons. It was just always ready. He liked that about it. No (DM's choice).

Something plopping into the cauldron draws his attention back to the gap in the planks.

The ugly gnarled feet shuffle, and more guttural mumbling. Other things being dropped in the vile brew. Then, the feet disappear out of sight.

He closes his eyes for a second and slowly shifts his stiffening body. Doubt, despair, flashes through his mind.

"Hold."

He nods to himself and repositions the knife, trying hard to ignore the grisly, telltale sounds of breaking bones and flesh being chopped, sounds he knows all too well.

Such sounds continue for some time, compounded with an almost droning of whatever language it is that hags speak. He feels ready to explode into violent action or puke his guts up, a byproduct of trying to contain personal fear. Yet somehow, amazingly, he manages to remain there in the confines of the cramped storage space without doing either.

A feeling of a muscle spasm in his upper thigh irritates him but he ignores it. More droning. Another spasm. He begins to ignore that too but eyes narrow in horrific realisation: the spasm isn't from his thigh.

He rolls to his back and looks down his body. He is blocking the slivers of light from the cauldron in this new position. He reaches down. His hand finds one of his pouches. His heart just about stops. The hag's eyes. They're...moving...?

He grimaces with disgust and looks to the lighted gap in the doors as he tries desperately to comprehend the situation. ..and is startled to see a sickly pale yet somehow almost glowing pupiless eye staring at him.

"I see you...", she hisses, her putrid carrion-laden breath washing over him in a gagging wave of nausea.

She begins to cackle. Whether at her own perverse joke or to further season her newfound prey in absolute fear, it is a question without answer.

"Now!"

The knife is thrust without thought through the small gap in the planked door. The hag shrieks and howls in monstrous pain as it plunges into her eye.

The doors explode open with panicked violence and he scrambles out of the cramped space...and is launched a good three feet in the air from a vicious kick to his side. He hears the crunch, but he doesn't feel it. Not in this state.

He regains his feet and flies into a rage, charging the much larger hag. She might be taller and heavier, but he is scared. He knocks her off-balance and into the side of the boiling cauldron with a loud thud. Still holding her wounded eye with one clawed hand she swings wildly with the other. It misses and he slices her across her stomach. Her shriek is drowned out as he begins to stab her in a berserk frenzy of blood. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six times. Seven. Eight.

She falls. He, for whatever reason, is unable to weaponise any more of his fear, so he turns and runs.


((Cont.))



8. Ruins And Other Places Of Interest ((this list will expand)): The Library of the Ancients, The Temple of Sutekh, the Books of Ma'at, The Tower of Endless Waste,...