Osric the Lost
Background: Veteran Soldier, Seeking Purpose in Faith
Age: 38
Faith: Recently shaken, believes God saved him for a higher purpose
Appearance: Weathered face, deep scars from past battles, piercing gray eyes
Equipment: Worn mail shirt, a one-handed sword, a wooden cross worn around his neck
Why Are You Here?
(5) Survivor – The last of his kin, fighting to keep his family’s name alive.
What Drives You?
(1) To Serve – Though once a soldier of men, he now wonders if he was saved to serve a higher power.
Stats
(Distribute 4 points among five stats, max +2, can take -1 for an extra point)
Might (MIG) +2 (A hardened warrior)
Endurance (END) +1 (Survived countless wounds)
Agility (AGI) 0
Wits (WIT) 0
Presence (PRE) -1 (Withdrawn and unsure how to speak of his faith)
Starting Health: 6 + END (7 HP)
Gear & Weapons
Sword (d6 damage)
Mail Shirt (+1 Armor)
Traveler’s Pack (Basic rations, flint, waterskin)
Wooden Cross (Symbol of faith, taken from a dead monk after a battle)
Recent Event: The Fall
Osric was once a soldier in the service of a Saxon lord, but after a disastrous skirmish against Norse raiders, he was left for dead. Trying to escape pursuit, he fell from a high ridge into a rocky gorge. Miraculously, he survived. When he awoke, he saw the sky open above him and heard the distant toll of a church bell—though there was no church nearby. He took this as a sign from God.
Since then, he has wandered, seeking what God has spared him for.
Current Goal
Osric now roams the land, looking for answers. He seeks a priest or a monastery where he might gain wisdom—or a sacred relic that might reveal the divine purpose he believes he was saved for.
You said:
Create an establishing scene so that we can begin play. Establish the location, weather, day of the year, etc.
Establishing Scene: The Wanderer’s PathTime & Season
It is the first weeks of autumn, in the Year of Our Lord 850. The air has taken on a crispness, the leaves on the distant oaks turning to amber and rust. The harvest should be beginning in the villages, yet there is an eerie quietness in the land. Crows wheel in the pale gray sky, their caws distant yet persistent.
Location: The Old Pilgrim's Road
You walk a lonely road, once well-traveled by pilgrims, now barely more than a dirt track cutting through the heaths and low hills of western Englaland. To your left, the land slopes downward into a wide, mist-covered fen. To your right, a thick tangle of ancient trees looms, their gnarled roots gripping the earth like withered hands.
The road ahead forks. One path continues toward Fenmark Abbey, a once-sacred place now rumored to be abandoned, looted by Norse raiders. The other veers toward the village of Grimwatch, a settlement known for its wary folk and old superstitions.
Weather & Atmosphere
The sky is overcast, the sun hidden behind a thick shroud of clouds. A faint drizzle has begun, dampening your cloak and making the air heavy with the scent of wet earth. The wind moves sluggishly through the trees, carrying with it the distant peal of a church bell—though you know there should be no church near.
A sense of unease creeps into your bones. Perhaps it is just the changing season, or perhaps something lingers in this place that does not belong.
The State of Osric
Your feet are sore, your provisions dwindling. The sword at your side has seen better days, its leather-wrapped hilt worn smooth from years of battle. Your wooden cross dangles from your neck, a reminder of your newfound faith—or the burden of a calling you do not yet understand.
Decision Point
As you stand at the fork in the road, you feel the weight of fate pressing upon you. Does Osric seek shelter in the village of Grimwatch, hoping for news and warmth? Or does he press on toward the ruins of Fenmark Abbey, seeking answers in the sacred place now left to rot?
Your journey begins. What does Osric do?
You said:
Osric weighs his choices and falls to the weakness of the body, turning down the road toward Grimwatch. He takes a wary look at his surroundings, ensuring there are no highwaymen or bandits before he begins his March to the village.
ChatGPT said:
As Osric makes his choice, he glances warily over his shoulder, scanning the misty fen and the shadowed trees that line the old road. The wilderness is never safe, not in these days of war and heathen raids. His soldier’s instincts remain sharp, honed by years of battle, though weariness tugs at his limbs.
The road toward Grimwatch is a narrow, rutted path, slick with mud from the morning drizzle. The land here is not entirely wild—he passes the remnants of old boundary markers, stones carved with faded crosses, their meaning long forgotten. A few half-rotted wooden posts, perhaps once marking the edges of a lord’s land, stand crooked along the road like broken teeth.
The journey is not long, but each step weighs upon him. The scent of damp earth, rotting leaves, and distant woodsmoke hangs in the air. Somewhere ahead, beyond the rolling mist, he hears the faint bark of a dog, the lowing of cattle—signs of life, signs of Grimwatch.
Yet he does not let down his guard. He grips the hilt of his sword and listens. Roll 2d6 + Wits to spot any dangers before reaching the village.
You said:
5
ChatGPT said:
Osric moves cautiously, his soldier’s instincts warning him to be wary, but the damp air muffles sound, and the mist ahead obscures the road. His eyes scan the tree line, the distant fen, the rise and fall of the land—yet he sees nothing unusual.
And then, just as he lowers his guard, he hears it.
A faint crack—the sound of a branch snapping underfoot. Close. Too close.
Before he can react, a figure emerges from the mist.
A man, wrapped in a tattered cloak, steps onto the road ahead, blocking Osric’s path. His face is shadowed beneath a hood, but Osric catches the glint of steel—a knife, half-hidden in the folds of his cloak. Behind him, another figure shifts in the mist, moving into position.
Bandits.
Not warriors, not trained killers—desperate men, more scavenger than soldier. But desperation is often more dangerous than skill.
The one ahead raises a hand. His voice is hoarse, worn by the elements.
“Hold, traveler. You’re lost, perhaps? Grimwatch is a hard place for strangers. Best you lighten your load before you arrive.”
His companion, a lean man with a jagged scar along his cheek, steps closer from Osric’s right, trying to flank him. They are not expecting a fight—they expect fear, compliance.
Osric has moments to act before they grow bolder. Does he try to talk his way through, ready his blade, or attempt something else?
You said:
Osric widens his feet, taking a warrior’s stance. He doesn’t want a fight, but he will if needed, he moves his hand slowly to the tilt of his sword. He lowers his voice and speaks calmly and firmly. ”Easy, I want no trouble and I have little to my name. Let me pass and God’s grace be upon you.”
ChatGPT said:
The two men hesitate, their eyes flickering between Osric’s stance and the sword at his hip. They had hoped for easy prey—a weary traveler with no fight left in him. Instead, they now find themselves before a seasoned warrior, one who does not flinch at their threats.
The leader, the one with the hooded cloak, watches Osric’s hand as it drifts toward the sword hilt. His own knife remains half-hidden, but Osric sees the twitch in his fingers, the indecision in his stance. This man has killed before, but not soldiers. Not men like Osric.
The scarred one, however, is less composed. His feet shift in the damp earth, betraying his nervousness. He had expected a frightened merchant or a lost monk, not a hardened veteran.
Osric's voice, low and unwavering, carries in the mist. God’s grace. The words settle between them like a weight. The leader glances at his companion, measuring the risk.
Roll 2d6 + Presence to see if Osric’s firm words and steady presence sway them.
You said:
10
ChatGPT said:
The leader's grip on his knife tightens for a moment, but then, slowly, he exhales through his nose and steps back. He glances at Osric's steady stance, the way his hand rests—not gripping, not trembling, but ready—on the hilt of his sword. A man who knows how to kill, who has done so before, and who would do so again if pushed.
The scarred man licks his lips, uneasy. "We—" he starts, but his companion silences him with a sharp look.
A long pause. Then, the hooded leader dips his head ever so slightly. A wary acknowledgment. "No need for blood today," he mutters. "Not for a poor pilgrim like yourself."
With that, he steps off the road, nodding for his companion to do the same. The scarred man hesitates, then spits onto the damp earth before slinking back into the mist.
Osric waits, muscles coiled, until they disappear into the fog. Only when the silence returns does he resume his march toward Grimwatch.
Arrival at Grimwatch
The road curves downward into a shallow valley, where the village of Grimwatch rests in uneasy quiet. A low wooden palisade, battered by time and neglect, surrounds a handful of thatched cottages, a small marketplace, and a central longhouse. A few villagers move between homes, their eyes flicking toward Osric with muted curiosity, but no one approaches.
A bell tolls from a small chapel at the village’s edge, its sound hollow in the mist. A wooden cross stands near its entrance, worn and splintered, as if the elements—and perhaps other hands—have tried to tear it down.
The road splits. He could head toward:
The alehouse, where warmth, food, and rumors flow.
The chapel, where a priest might grant guidance—or demand answers.
The longhouse, where the village reeve might ask questions before offering shelter.
Where does Osric go?
You said:
Osric is torn. His old life pulls him towards the alehouse, where mirth and ale will bring a clouded, jovial mind free of the memories of war. His new life, one of faith and hope of meaningful service will bring a life worth living. He pauses a moment, lost in thought. His fingers brush over the wooden cross around his neck. His mind wanders. What path had this cross taken to end up here, around his neck, in this small village, and like he, for what purpose? Faith. His answer is faith. He turns and walks towards the chapel.
ChatGPT said:
The Chapel of Grimwatch
The wooden door of the chapel creaks as Osric steps inside. The air within is thick with the scent of damp wood, melted tallow, and the faint trace of incense long since burned away. It is a small place, barely more than a hall, its walls lined with simple benches. A rough-hewn altar stands at the far end, adorned with a single wooden cross, its edges worn by time and devotion.
A lone priest, clad in a threadbare robe, kneels before the altar, whispering prayers. He is an older man, thin and wiry, his hands weathered like old parchment. He does not startle at Osric’s presence, only raises his head slightly, as if expecting him. His eyes are sharp despite his age, deep-set within the hollows of his face.
"Many come here seeking warmth," the priest says without turning. His voice is quiet, steady. "Few come seeking faith."
He finally stands, brushing dust from his robe before turning to face Osric. "You are no mere traveler. I see it in your bearing, in your eyes. You have seen war." His gaze flickers to the wooden cross around Osric’s neck. "And yet… you are searching. What is it you hope to find in this place?"
The chapel is silent, save for the faint wind that slips through the cracks in the wood. The priest waits, watching Osric carefully. This is a moment of reflection, of honesty.
What does Osric say?
You said:
A reason to be, priest. I search for a purpose. I believed in my Lord, I gave him fealty, he left me for dead. Yet, the Lord gave me life. I heard church bells and the first thing my eyes fell upon was this very cross around a slain priest’s neck. I took this as a sign, that the Lord has a greater purpose for an old warrior.
ChatGPT said:
The priest listens in silence, his expression unreadable. When Osric finishes, the old man exhales, a slow, measured breath, as if weighing the words.
"You were a man of the sword," he says at last, stepping closer, his eyes sharp with understanding. "You gave yourself to your lord, and he failed you. But God—" He gestures upward, his fingers tracing the air as though outlining something unseen. "God does not promise safety. He does not shield men from suffering. But He does give meaning to the suffering we endure."
He walks toward the altar, running his calloused fingers along its surface. "You say you heard the bells, saw the cross, and believed it a sign. Perhaps it was. Or perhaps it was simply a moment of chance. The question is not whether God has given you a purpose, Osric." He turns back to face him, his voice calm but firm. "The question is whether you are willing to seek it."
He lets the words settle before continuing. "This village is troubled. Not by war, nor by raiders, but by fear. They whisper of strange things in the woods, shadows that move where none should be. The cattle grow sick, and the children wake screaming from dreams of something watching them in the dark. Some say it is the devil’s work. Others…" His lips press into a thin line. "Others blame those who still cling to the old ways."
He looks at Osric with a knowing gaze. "If you wish to serve, to find your purpose, perhaps God has brought you here for a reason. Will you help these people? Will you go into the forest and seek the truth?"
The wind howls faintly outside, rattling the wooden beams. The cross around Osric’s neck feels heavier now, as if waiting for his answer.
Does he accept this calling?
You said:
Osric ponders a moment. He has always served men, in one shape or another, never looking to aid or fill the needs of anyone, just doing the will of his Lord. At his core, he has always ‘believed in a higher power’ but never thought of God having awareness of him. Of a higher power, being aware of him or even having a purpose for him. It is a heavy thing to suddenly be strike his mind. It is heavy and he immediately feels the weight on his shoulders. “Father, might I sit for a moment,” he asks. “I suddenly do not feel well.”
ChatGPT said:
The priest watches Osric closely, his gaze knowing yet patient. He nods once and gestures to one of the rough-hewn benches near the altar.
"Sit, my son. Rest."
Osric lowers himself onto the bench, his muscles aching from the road, but it is not the journey that weighs upon him—it is the thought, the shift in his soul. For years, he had served men. Kings, lords, captains of war. Their orders had been clear: March there. Kill them. Defend this land. Burn that one. There had been no questions, no doubt.
But this—this is different.
If God has purpose for him, that means God has seen him. Not just a nameless soldier, not a piece upon a battlefield, but a soul, a man, a servant of something greater.
The weight of it presses upon him, heavier than mail, heavier than the burdens of war.
The priest sits beside him, resting his hands upon his knees, giving Osric time—space. Outside, the wind moans against the chapel’s old wooden walls, but within, it is quiet.
"You are not the first warrior to struggle with such things," the priest says after a time. His voice is low, steady, without demand. "To serve a lord of flesh and blood is a simple thing. They give orders. You obey. Your path is clear." He looks toward the altar. "But to serve Him… that is harder. He does not shout commands across a battlefield. He does not give you banners to march under. He speaks in whispers, in signs—and He asks you to trust."
He turns back to Osric. "I will not order you into the woods. I am no lord. But I ask you this—if you do nothing, and these people suffer, will you live lighter for it? Or heavier?"
The question lingers. Heavy.
The priest does not press him. The choice is Osric’s.
You said:
“I fear it will be heavier than I can carry, and my life will be wasted,” Osric mutters. His gaze shifts to the large cross on the altar. For a moment his vision blurs and he thinks he sees something, a vision perhaps. What does he see?
ChatGPT said:
Osric's vision wavers. The wooden cross upon the altar seems to shimmer, the edges growing indistinct, as if swallowed by shadow and light all at once. His breath catches, the weight in his chest pressing deeper, heavier.
And then—a vision.
The chapel around him seems to fade, swallowed by mist, the scent of damp wood replaced by something older—earth, stone, blood.
He sees a forest, but not as it is now. It is older, darker, untouched by axe or plow. The trees are ancient, their gnarled limbs stretching toward the sky like twisted fingers. The air is thick, unmoving, and a great shadow moves between the trunks.
A sound—low, guttural breathing.
And then—a glimpse.
A shape, shifting, watching. Eyes that burn like embers in the dark. Not the gleam of a beast, but something knowing, something that sees him just as he sees it.
A voice, not in his ears but in his soul.
"He walks among them still."
A bell tolls, distant yet deafening, shaking him to his core. The vision shatters.
Osric is back in the chapel. The cross is still there. The priest still beside him. The wind howls outside.
The weight upon his shoulders has changed.
He knows now.
There is something in the forest. And it is waiting.
The priest watches him carefully. "You saw something," he says. It is not a question.
What does Osric do?
You said:
Osric gasps, takes in a deep breath. “Yes father.” He tries to put words and names to the images he saw, but struggles. “I saw something dark…and ancient…haunts the forests, stalks the lands.” He rubs his eyes, breathes deeply. He has always served a master, does it matter if this one is in the heavens? He doesn’t know but clearly someone or something wants him here to do something. He is resigned to his fate. “Father, it appears I am here for a reason,” he turns to the priest. Tell me everything you know.”
ChatGPT said:
The priest does not react with surprise or doubt—only a solemn nod, as if he had been waiting for this. He folds his hands before him and exhales.
“I feared as much,” he murmurs. “The people of Grimwatch whisper of something in the woods, but they do not speak its name—not anymore. They call it the Hollow Man, though few agree on what it is. Some say it is a spirit, others a demon, cast into the forest long ago by holy men who sought to bind it with prayer and iron.”
He glances toward the wooden cross upon the altar. “But I have my doubts. I believe it is older still. Something that walked this land before our fathers’ fathers knelt before the Cross. Before the monks built their chapels, before even the Romans set their stones.” His voice grows quieter, as if he fears to speak too loudly. “There are ruins deep within the woods, stones marked with sigils no man alive can read. No one goes there. The last man who did…”
He hesitates.
Osric leans forward. “What happened to him?”
The priest tightens his jaw. “He came back changed. The reeve’s son, a strong man, once full of life. He wandered into the woods on a drunken dare and returned two nights later, silent as a grave. His skin was cold, his eyes hollow, as if he had seen something no man should. He did not speak—not at first. Then, on the third night, he screamed. He clawed at his own flesh, muttering of something watching him, whispering to him from the trees.”
The priest makes the sign of the cross. “The next morning, we found him hanging from the oak at the village’s edge. His eyes… they were gone.”
The chapel is silent, save for the wind pressing against the wooden walls.
“I do not know if what you saw is truly the Hollow Man, or something worse,” the priest admits. “But if God has sent you a vision, then this is no mere superstition. This is real. And it is growing bolder.”
He meets Osric’s gaze. “If you mean to face it, you must be prepared. There is a man in the village who knows the woods—a hunter named Eadric. He has seen things others refuse to believe. He may be able to guide you.”
The choice now stands before Osric. He may seek out Eadric the Hunter, or he may go alone into the dark woods where the Hollow Man waits.
What does Osric do?
You said:
“Father, can you bless my sword, my cross, and me to give me strength to face the dark? Then I will be on my way to find Eadric.”
ChatGPT said:
The priest’s expression is grave, but he nods. “Yes, my son. If you walk into darkness, you shall not do so without the Lord’s blessing.”
He takes Osric’s sword first, lifting it carefully as if it were a sacred relic. A soldier’s blade, now placed into God’s service. He presses the cold steel to his forehead, murmuring a quiet prayer.
"Lord, guide this blade. Let it strike true against the wicked, and falter not in the face of evil. Let the arm that wields it be steady, not for glory, nor for vengeance, but for the good of those who cannot fight."
He traces the sign of the cross upon the blade with trembling fingers, then hands it back to Osric.
Then, he places his palm upon the wooden cross around Osric’s neck. His grip is firm. Grounding.
"Lord, watch over this man, as You have already done once before. Let his heart not be shaken by what he may see. Let his faith be his shield, and his soul unbroken by the horrors he must face. If he has been called to this, give him the strength to stand."
Finally, he places both hands upon Osric’s shoulders, his touch light but steady, as if anchoring him to this place before he must go forth.
"Go with God, Osric. He has saved you once. Do not waste the life He has given you."
The chapel is silent once more, the wind outside momentarily still. The weight on Osric’s shoulders remains—but it is different now. Not the burden of a lost man. The burden of purpose.
The priest steps back, his eyes filled with a quiet sadness. “You will find Eadric by the old smithy,” he says. “But be warned—he is a man who has seen things that no mortal should. Tread carefully with him.”
Osric takes his sword, his cross, and his faith—and steps back out into the village.
Next Steps
Osric now seeks out Eadric the Hunter at the smithy.
Does he approach cautiously, mindful of the man’s troubled past?
Or does he walk forward with confidence, declaring his intent?
You said:
This ends Session One.
Age: 38
Faith: Recently shaken, believes God saved him for a higher purpose
Appearance: Weathered face, deep scars from past battles, piercing gray eyes
Equipment: Worn mail shirt, a one-handed sword, a wooden cross worn around his neck
Might (MIG) +2 (A hardened warrior)
Endurance (END) +1 (Survived countless wounds)
Agility (AGI) 0
Wits (WIT) 0
Presence (PRE) -1 (Withdrawn and unsure how to speak of his faith)
Sword (d6 damage)
Mail Shirt (+1 Armor)
Traveler’s Pack (Basic rations, flint, waterskin)
Wooden Cross (Symbol of faith, taken from a dead monk after a battle)
The alehouse, where warmth, food, and rumors flow.
The chapel, where a priest might grant guidance—or demand answers.
The longhouse, where the village reeve might ask questions before offering shelter.
Does he approach cautiously, mindful of the man’s troubled past?
Or does he walk forward with confidence, declaring his intent?
No comments:
Post a Comment