Let's play some Fuckin' D&D, part III

Chronicles of Stone & Blood – Part II

After clawing their way out of the ossuary’s grip, the Saintly Bastards returned to Greymire with battered limbs and quiet minds. For all their swagger and cynicism, something in that tomb had whispered to them. Something had watched.

The town greeted them with little more than flickering lanterns and muddy streets. It was a place on the edge—of the hills, of history, and now, of something darker. While Grobnar, Sleevax, and Pimm made straight for the Saucy Tart tavern, Sister Malady sought solitude and reflection.

In the quiet upstairs room of the Dustmere Inn, Malady laid out the cursed relics they’d claimed: the whispering skull amulet, the gilded hand, and the cold black iron hand. The candlelight danced over them like spirits. Then came the tapping—soft and deliberate at her window. Unstartled, she approached, candle in hand, and drew the curtain.

There was nothing outside. Yet the window was fogged from the outside, and traced across its surface was a sigil: a perfect circle, crossed by three vertical slashes. As she watched, the symbol pulsed with a cold, pale light. The skull amulet whispered in response, its voice like many murmuring as one.

Malady saw a vision—not reflected, but revealed. A stone throne buried deep beneath the earth. A mass of shadow coiled around it, too many eyes watching from its folds. Upon the throne sat a figure wrapped in iron and linen. One hand of gold. One of black iron.

She recorded it all in her journal before extinguishing the candle and surrendering to sleep, her god’s sigil gripped tightly in her palm.

Back at the Saucy Tart, the others sought comfort in drink, meat, and exaggeration.

The tavern was a sagging two-story structure of dark wood and low ceilings, thick with pipe smoke and the scent of spilled ale. The hearth roared with a greedy flame, its glow painting every wall in gold and shadow. A stuffed wyvern’s head hung over the mantle, its glass eyes dulled by time and grime. The floor creaked like an old boat, and the air buzzed with the hum of half-drunken conversation.

At one table, a pair of caravan guards argued over dice and debts. Near the bar, a merchant’s clerk loudly recounted how he once chased off a bandit with nothing but a ledger and a mean stare. Two locals nursed mugs in silence, eyes flicking toward the Bastards with something like respect—or fear.

Grobnar slumped into a bench like a sack of boulders, banging his tankard on the table. “Meat,” he growled. “Bleeding if possible.”

Pimm flopped beside him, pulling out his lute and plucking at it with distracted fingers. “Don’t expect applause. This crowd has no taste.”

Sleevax, naturally, occupied the best seat—boots on the bench, arms stretched wide, speaking just loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear. “So there we were, facing down a wall of shrieking bones, and who do you think takes the first swing? Not Grob. Not Sister Doom. Me.” He grinned. “Naturally.”

A barmaid named Kella brought their plates—mutton pies steaming and lopsided, trenchers of thick brown stew, and a round of foamy local ale that tasted like old boots but hit like a crossbow.

“That thing over the fire ever move?” Grobnar asked, eyeing the wyvern head.

“Only when you’ve had enough to make it interesting,” Kella said, smirking. “First round’s on the house. Second’ll cost you your soul or a song.”

Pimm grinned. “We’re already short on souls. Better make it a song.”

But even in the noise and warmth, the Bastards felt a hollow edge to the evening. The bone dust was still under their fingernails. The air outside still carried the breath of the tomb.

That’s when Pimm saw the old man.

He sat in the farthest corner, half-shadowed, nursing a mug of something dark and bitter. His eyes didn’t wander. They studied.

Curious as ever, Pimm rose and snatched Sleevax’s mug right out from under the elf. Now armed with two drinks, Pimm wandered over. Behind him, he heard Sleevax bark, ‘Hey, you damn little gnome! That was mine!’

He offered it without preamble. “For the thirst,” he said, sliding onto the bench. “You look like a man who’s seen more than most and talks less than he should.”

The man took the drink. Didn’t thank him. But after a long pause, he spoke.

“You one of ‘em?”

Pimm nodded. “From the tomb. And you?”

The man’s story spilled out in pieces—of a cave found years ago, of a throne buried in ash, of the gold and iron hands laid like relics on an altar. Of a humming in the dark that felt like a memory trying to surface.

“The gold one whispers,” the man said. “And if you pick wrong… you won’t die. You’ll wish you had.”

Pimm’s smile faltered, just slightly. “Charming fellow. Bet you’re great at parties.”

The old man looked into the fire, lost in it. He did not utter another word.

Pimm returned to Grobnar and Sleevax with the tale. No one laughed. No one finished their drink.

They left the tavern in silence and made for bed, each haunted by a sigil none of them had drawn. No one laughed. No one finished their drink. The night was lost.

They left the tavern in silence and made for bed, each haunted by a sigil none of them had drawn.

Dawn came like a verdict. And the tomb still waited beneath the hills, whispering through stone and bone.

Let's play some Fuckin' D&D, part II

 

“Ain’t no gods here, just gold and ghosts.” – Grobnar, probably

HELL. YES. The Saintly Bastards are geared, drunk, and morally compromised enough to kick in the tomb door of the Fuckin’ Lich King himself. Presented here in all-natural, RAW fashion. Enjoy.

The Tomb of the Fuckin' Lich King

Part One

They called themselves the Saintly Bastards—four vagabonds bonded by coin, sarcasm, and a mutual dislike of authority. Their journey began not with a trumpet blast or a royal summons, but with a half-remembered tavern tale and a map stained with ale and regret. Beneath the jagged hills of the Dunmarch lay the whispered resting place of the Fuckin’ Lich King, a name spoken with equal parts dread and drunken laughter.

Grobnar the Hateful led the way—an ogre-blooded brute whose solution to most things involved smashing them. Behind him stalked Sister Malady, a Tiefling cleric draped in faith and menace, her whispered prayers often sounding like threats. Sleevax the Bastard, ever-smirking, ever-armed, followed with blade and innuendo ready. Pimm Whistlesprocket brought up the rear, his gnomish frame light, but his ego far heavier.

“You sure this place is loaded with treasure?” Sleevax muttered, eying the shadows. “The last ruin you dragged us through cost more in bribes and bandages than it paid out.”

“And it smelled like wet goblin balls,” Pimm added with a scowl. “Grob’s hair still smells like ass.”

“Shut it,” Grobnar growled. “This one’s different. Feels right. Smells wrong.”

“That’s probably you,” Sleevax said, smirking.

Sister Malady ignored them all. “Keep bickering. I’ll save your souls—if there’s anything left worth saving.”

The tomb’s entrance was a mouth of shadow. They stepped inside, torches sputtering, the air thick with ancient dust and distant echoes. The first chamber—the Screaming Foyer—lived up to its name. Grotesque stone faces lined the walls, erupting into ear-shattering howls every few seconds. The Bastards spread out cautiously, inspecting the grim decor.

Malady’s sharp eyes found a hidden prize—a skull-shaped amulet that whispered secrets only she seemed to hear. “Ooh,” she murmured. “I can feel the power inside this! It whispers to me.”

Sleevax stepped back. “Yeah, no thanks. That thing’s giving me bad vibes. You keep it, Sister Creepy.”

With torchlight flickering and bones vibrating from the infernal shrieking, Pimm deciphered the arcane riddle etched above a sealed iron gate. He grinned. “I remember now—‘Pay in pain or piss in blood.’ Said it was just a joke, but look at that…”

Grobnar squinted at the gate as it melted. “Bitchin’. Guess I didn’t need to bash it down... this time.”

Beyond it lay the Hall of the Bone Choir.

Dozens of skeletons stood frozen in macabre performance, mouths agape and arms poised with decayed instruments. It was a trap—they knew it instinctively. But Grobnar, ever the impatient, scuffed a bone with his boot.

The choir erupted into a death hymn, a hellish cacophony of scraping bone and phantom shrieks that split the air like a blade to the brain. The sound clawed into their skulls, unraveling thought with each discordant note. Pimm clutched his ears, swaying as blood trickled from his nose. Sister Malady dropped to one knee, her lips moving in a half-formed prayer. Grobnar roared, more from rage than pain, and swung blindly at the air. Only Sleevax stood still, face pale but eyes sharp, lips curling into a grimace. Blood trickled from ears. Only Sleevax kept his footing.

“That is mildly annoying. Slightly out of tone, if you ask me,” Sleevax said, unfazed.

The Bastards reacted the only way they knew how: with violence. Grobnar charged first, bellowing with rage, his greatsword cleaving through ribcages like firewood. Bone splinters rained across the chamber. Sister Malady followed in righteous fury, her mace cracking skulls while scripture poured from her lips like a litany of vengeance. Pimm, nimble and feral, darted between the chaos, using his sling and short blade with surprising precision, occasionally pausing to kick a tibia out of his path with a gleeful snarl. Sleevax danced through the fray like a shadow, his rapier flicking between joints, separating limbs from torsos with surgical grace. The skeletons retaliated with unnatural coordination, their fingers clawing and instruments wailing as if mourning their own destruction. Dust rose thick as the last of the choir fell silent, shattered beneath the Bastards’ fury. Bones shattered beneath Grobnar’s swings, Sister Malady’s mace, and Pimm’s boots.

Between the chaos, Sleevax had retrieved a scroll. “Didn’t you once play Khawkaskie’s Melodies for a princess, Pimm? Or were you just boasting and full of shit?”

“Yes and yes,” Pimm grinned. “But I did play it. She cried. Could’ve been the hangover, though.”

With Sleevax’s cunning and Pimm’s theatrical performance, the cursed organ at the far end yielded to song rather than brute force. A stairwell opened.

Below, the Ossuary of Hands awaited.

Walls, ceiling, and floor writhed with skeletal arms nailed in eternal reaching, their yellowed bones twitching in fits and starts as though some buried instinct still lingered. The fingers flexed with impossible coordination, some grasping, others clawing at unseen enemies, the nails scratched raw and rust-colored. Each motion was jagged, like puppets animated by broken strings. The air stank of mildew, dust, and something older—like long-sealed crypts exhaling after centuries. The corridor pulsed with a kind of dread rhythm, as if the room itself waited to snatch the unwary into its brittle embrace. A narrow path beckoned. Sleevax led, Grobnar behind with the torch, then Malady and Pimm.

“Fuckin’ creepy guys,” Grobnar muttered.

“Think of all the people who gave up an arm to decorate this place,” Pimm whispered with a chuckle.

Grobnar, half-listening, reached out and brushed a wall.

The arms responded.

With a sudden lurch, the wall came alive—hundreds of skeletal arms erupting from their frozen poses. Grobnar had barely touched the surface when the nearest hand snapped around his wrist like a vice. Others followed, climbing over one another, clawing up his body, latching onto armor, flesh, and hair. They surged in waves, rattling like dry branches in a storm, dragging him backward into the wall itself.

He shouted—once—a guttural bellow of fury that turned quickly to a strangled grunt. The arms piled higher, smothering him, burying him in bone until the wall seemed to collapse inward, swallowing the brute whole beneath a tide of ancient limbs.

"Grobnar!" Malady hissed, already moving. The others were on him in an instant, pulling, hacking, kicking limbs away. The wall resisted, arms flailing and seizing anything they could reach.

With a final heave, they yanked him free, battered, bloodied, and limp. His chest barely moved.

Malady dropped to her knees beside him, fingers glowing with celestial fire. She pressed her palm to his sternum. With a whispered curse and prayer woven into one, the divine energy surged into his chest.

Grobnar groaned, his eyes fluttering open. "Ugh... fuckin’ arms..."

"You’re welcome," Malady muttered, already standing, her hand still faintly aglow.

Vax kicked him lightly. “Up and at it, big guy. That wench at the Saucy Tart’s waiting for me.”

“Hope she likes blood and bone dust,” Grobnar grumbled.

Sleevax drew his rapier and made a vaguely lewd gesture. “That’ll be the least of her worries. You coming, or do I have to do all the hard work?”

The arms calmed. Malady’s gaze swept the carnage, drawn to a strange glint beneath the shifting bones. She knelt and gently pried loose a gilded skeletal hand, its golden surface dulled by dust but worn smooth at the fingertips—as if reverently touched by generations. Not far from it, a second artifact caught her eye: a hand forged of black iron, unnaturally cold even in the close, torch-lit air. She hesitated before grasping it, a flicker of unease tugging at her gut. These weren’t mere decorations. They had been placed here with intent, and whatever lay beyond would demand their use.

They lingered at the edge of the room, ash and bone still settling in the torchlight. Sleevax was the first to speak. “We heading back, or are we letting Sister Creepy sniff another relic?”

“I say we press on,” Malady said, eyes locked on the darkened path beyond. “The auras here are ancient. Hungry. We’re close to something sacred—or damned.”

Grobnar grunted from his seat against the wall. “I nearly got turned into bonemeal. I’m gettin’ an ale and a nap. In that order.”

Sleevax scoffed. “You soft bastard. But fine. We’ll go tuck you in.” He turned and added with a wink, “Besides, that pretty little barmaid at the Saucy Tart promised to cry if I didn’t make it back.”

“Cry from relief, maybe,” Pimm muttered, rolling his eyes.

The Bastards gathered their gear, battered and bruised but not broken, and turned toward the exit. They would rest. Regroup. Return to town to drink, sharpen steel, and forget the song that still echoed faintly in the back of their minds.

The tomb had only begun to open.

And the Fuckin’ Lich King was still waiting.

Bored...Let's play some Fuckin' D&D, part I

 

I have had this PDF forever and never played it, suddenly had the itch after getting suckered into Joe's livestream last night, stumbled upon this, and well...magic happened. The mood of the game felt about right after the week I have had so I went with it. Came up with a few drunk fuckers who wanted to go get rich, or die tryin'.

 

Here is the party:

The Saintly Bastards

A crew of questionable heroes delving into the Tomb of the Fuckin' Lich King. Yes, I understand these are generic stock fantasy images but I don't fucking care. ;-)

---

Grobnar the Hateful
Lvl 1 Half-Orc Barbarian
AC 13, MV 9, HD 1d10, HP 10, #ATT 1
Gear: Chainmail, greatsword (d10), broken bottle (d4)
Bonuses: +1 to hit with any weapon (Half-Orc), +1 to hit with large weapons (Barbarian)
Backstory: Mean-as-hell berserker who bit his dad in a duel. Can’t read, won’t try. Loves smashing idols.

Pimm Whistlesprocket
Lvl 1 Gnome Bard  (yes....a fucking gnome...FLM)
AC 12, MV 9, HD 1d8, HP 8, #ATT 1
Gear: Leather armor, sling (d4), dagger (d4)
Bonuses: Can speak with woodland creatures (Gnome), casts all magic through song (Bard)
Spells (Today’s Rolls): TBD
Backstory: Overconfident gnome with a flute and foul mouth. Performs filthy limericks that cast spells. Insults animals.

Sister Malady
Lvl 1 Tiefling Cleric
AC 14, MV 6, HD 1d6, HP 6, #ATT 1
Gear: Chainmail, shield, mace (d8)
Bonuses: Darkvision and 1/day Darkness (Tiefling), +1 damage to undead (Cleric)
Spells (Today’s Rolls): TBD
Backstory: Cult escapee turned zealot. Glowing red eyes. Whispers prayers that sound like threats.

Sleevax the Bastard
Lvl 1 Elf Rogue
AC 13, MV 11, HD 1d8, HP 8, #ATT 1
Gear: Leather armor, rapier (d8), throwing knives (d6)
Bonuses: Never sleeps, creepy +2 to Lore (Elf), sneak attack x3 damage (Rogue)
Backstory: Smooth, smug, and dangerous. Robbed a noble, seduced their spouse, and stole the horse. Writes poetry about it.

24xx: The Deep

I have been interested in the 24xx series and wanted to play them but I could never get anyone I have been interested in the 24xx series and wanted to play them but I could never get anyone interested in them. Yesterday my wife wanted to head to mall for some shopping, I knew I would likely end up sitting in the middle section on a couch. I threw the PDF in Chat and asked Lyra to run a game for me. It is a long read, but what a wonderful game session!

The Deep on Itch.io

Sacrifice

 

Thank you to all paid the ultimate price to ensure our freedom and that our amazing country shall endure the tests of time.

A long, wonderful life

This week my wife and I said goodbye to one of our babies. Maddie had just hit 17 years old on Monday and left us on Thursday. It was heartbreaking as we watched her slowly decline over the last year. About a month ago things took a turn for the worse and we knew the end was near.. She was my constant companion over the last four years of divorce, depression, loneliness, and then the joy of a new marriage. My new wife took such good care of her in her very, very elderly years, treating her with kindness and love as the days got harder and harder.

She will be missed dearly every day, but I am glad of the time we had with her and the love she gave us. We all loved you, Maddie, and thank you for everything over the last 17 years. 

Maddie Jackson, May 5, 2008 - May 8 2025

Grimwall - new writing project?

 

Been doing a bunch of writing lately and I was perusing the ol' blog here and I came across the post with the grimdark pictures from the end of last year and it got my noggin' spinning with ideas. Trying for a The Blade Itself by Joe Abercrombie kind of feel. Bleak, gritty, grimdark...but with furry animals! 

Arneson Gaming

 

For whatever reason, this little game I wrote has suddenly become of interest around the world. Creators has translated the game into Portuguese, Czech, Italian, and now French!

Check it out here: https://mattjackson.itch.io/arneson-gaming

Update: Rock Johnson

 

Updated cover, courtesy of HuckSawyer'S excellent eye for editry.

ALSO:

I made my wife read it. I made her promise to tell the truth. She said it was actually pretty good. I made her swear it was the truth. 

A few typos to fix, a wee few things to tweak, and it will be ready for the presses!

And a sneak peek at a few pages!

Rock, printed at home

 

I printed this at home yesterday evening, and I have to say it is a wonder to hold in my hand, I absolutely love it. This is at about a A5 size but I would actually like to make it slightly smaller, to mirror the old pulp paperbacks my dad and uncles probably read back in the day.

The return of Rock Johnson...?

 
Just finished up the cover for that Rock Johnson story I played around with last year. 

I essentially rewrote the entire story to be much much better, and tighter. And yeah, had to raise the price from 25 cents to 75, sorry about that. Darn inflation!

I am not sure I will do anything with this. I might share with a few friends, more of a fun creative exercise than anything else, but I had a blast doing it.

Fog Diver’s Personal Log — SCV12

Operator: J. Taran | Date: Cycle 2447.98 | Vessel: SCV 12 “Bleeding Mercy”

I woke to the sound of the filtration alarms coughing again—three dry pulses, then nothing. Always three. Always before we drop. Can't say if it’s superstition or just the Mercy keeping rhythm with my heart. I’ve stopped reporting it to engineering. If it's trying to warn me, I’m past the point of caring.

Atmosphere outside reads stable. As stable as fog-soup ever gets.

Turret Command picked up a flicker overnight—something big and cold about 12 clicks out. It was moving but slow, and then it wasn't. Like a shadow trying to remember where it left itself. Could be thermal echoes. Could be one of the other diggers. Could be something else. No one said anything over comms, but the crew was quiet this morning. Even Kovics skipped his pre-dive grumbling, and that bastard complains like it’s sacred ritual.

We launched at 05:12.

The fog pressed in thick today, more than usual. Sensors cut out five minutes into descent. By now, I’m used to flying half-blind, running silent, just the orange glow of the interior lighting and the hum of the hull keeping me company. It’s like being in the womb of a dying god. Everything out here feels old, like it's been waiting for us a long time.

At 08:37, we hit payload.

The Mercy’s arms snagged a tangled chunk of stratum webbing—root-veined and humming low, like it was dreaming in static. Scry-Tech says it’s singing, some kind of harmonic signature we haven’t catalogued before. She recorded it. The sound loops in my head now, like a memory I didn’t live.

I was about to call for containment drones when one of the newer grabbers locked up. Arm #3, the thin one we installed last week. Just froze mid-pull like it saw something in the dark. That’s the second mechanical freeze this week.

While running diagnostics, I glanced up through the fogline and swear I saw movement above the Mercy—something massive, turning slow in the distance. The officers in the turret didn’t report visual. No heat signature, no signal trail. But I know what I saw. Or maybe I don’t. I don’t know anymore.

We processed and sealed the stratum chunk by 09:11. Orders are to bring it back to Platform A. R&D wants eyes on it, and the Scry-Tech thinks it’s got roots in something older than the ruins.

I can’t help but feel like we pulled a tooth from something we shouldn’t have touched.

End of Entry

Note to self: Check containment seals. And maybe... say something to Kovics. If it really was a shape above us, and not just my head playing fog games, someone else must have seen it.

I just don’t want to be the only one that does. Again.

Flat

A moment can feel strangely flat if it exists solely in itself.

The Dopamine Trap (link)

This is brilliant, you should read it:

https://codexgigaspress.substack.com/p/the-dopamine-trap-why-your-brain

Niv Lova, s3 (solo AP)

 

This is a continuing playtest of the Niv Lova (link)RPG playtest. Previous sessions: Session 0, Session 1, session 2.

The Borderlands (solo), part 5

 

As a GM I love when a simple random encounter ends up not only being interesting and exciting as it unfolds, but ends up being a campaign defining moment...

Previous sessions: Zero, one, one.five, two, three, four

The Borderlands (solo), part 4

Previous sessions: Zero, one, one.five, two, three

The Borderlands (solo), part 3

 

I feel like this is going much better than my previous attempt, it seems more smooth and logical. The NPCs, though there are many more to deal with, are being played logically by the AI. I really like how interactions with the NPCs is so strongly part of the game and this is not just simple combat and back and forth. 

Previous sessions: Zero, one, one.five, two

---

Session Three Begins – Return to the Keep

The journey back to the Keep on the Borderlands is uneventful, the wildlands eerily quiet as Aldric and his company march across the rolling hills. The weight of their coin purses and the mystery of their spoils sit heavy in their minds, but the thought of warm food and strong drink pushes them forward.

As they approach the Keep’s gate, the familiar sight of blue-tabarded guards standing watch greets them.

One of the guards nods in recognition, eyeing their dust-covered gear. "Back in one piece, eh? Not all of your kind do."

Dain grins, adjusting his sword belt. "We’re not like most."

The guard chuckles, waving them through. "Better head to the Traveller’s Rest, then. A hot meal and a strong drink’ll do you good."

Aldric leads the party through the Keep’s bustling square, the scent of fresh bread and roasting meat filling the air. Merchants call out their wares, while a patrol of soldiers drills in the yard.

---

Securing Rooms for the Night

At the Traveller’s Rest Tavern, Gregor the barkeep raises an eyebrow as they walk in. "Back so soon? I expected your bones to be feeding the crows by now."

Wyllow grins, tossing a coin onto the bar. "Not this time, my good man. Two rooms, and keep the ale coming."

Gregor pockets the coin and nods. "Two rooms upstairs. You know the way."

The party secures their lodging, the upstairs rooms small but warm, the beds far better than stone floors and the cold ground.

---

A Well-Earned Meal & Drink

Settling into a corner of the tavern, the four adventurers order a feast—roasted venison, fresh bread, and a round of ale.

As they begin their meal, the tavern buzzes with talk, a mix of mercenaries, traders, and adventurers swapping stories of the wilds.

Rumors & Opportunities in the Tavern

As they eat and drink, Aldric and his company overhear various conversations.

• A merchant is complaining about missing caravans—supplies vanishing on the road, possibly due to bandits or worse.

• A pair of mercenaries at a nearby table discuss a job escorting a noble’s courier through dangerous territory.

• A drunk adventurer speaks of an old ruin further north of the Keep—not the one they explored, but something older, deeper in the hills.

• The Keep’s garrison commander is rumored to be looking for capable fighters for an upcoming raid.

---

What Does Aldric Do?

1. Relax and Enjoy the Night. Focus on rest before seeking new work.

2. Listen for More Information. Try to pick up more details about the rumors.

3. Talk to the Merchant. Missing caravans mean potential work.

4. Approach the Mercenaries. Escorting a noble’s courier could be quick coin.

5. Investigate the Drunken Adventurer’s Tale. Another ruin could mean another treasure.

6. Consider Meeting with the Garrison Commander. If they need fighters, it could be an opportunity.

What’s Aldric’s next move?

You said:

Aldric will approach Gregor and inquire about someone to take a look at the sword, rune box (and gem within), and the crumbling scroll. He would like a sage, priest, or knowledgeable merchant who could study and possibly purchase the goods.

ChatGPT said:

Seeking an Expert – A Conversation with Gregor

Aldric rises from the table, leaving Dain and Roderic to their meal, while Wyllow leans back in his chair, already halfway into his second mug of ale.

Stepping to the bar, he catches Gregor’s attention with a nod.

The barkeep eyes him knowingly, wiping down a mug before speaking. “You’ve got the look of a man with something valuable—something you don’t quite understand.”

Aldric leans in slightly, keeping his voice low. “I need someone who knows things. Old things. Swords, scrolls, and relics. Someone who might be interested in a trade, too.”

Gregor grunts, setting the mug down.

“That depends. You want someone who can study what you’ve got, or someone who’ll buy it, no questions asked?”

“Both,” Aldric replies simply.

Gregor chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, that narrows it down.”

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice.

Gregor’s Suggestions:

1. Brother Aldwine – The Keep’s Chapel Priest.
   
   

• A scholar of old texts, familiar with ancient symbols.

• Might recognize the runes on the sword or the box.

• Not likely to buy, but could reveal its purpose.

2. Orin the Sage – A Recluse in the Keep.
   
   

• Knows history, magic, and forgotten lore.

• Might recognize the artifacts, but he’s eccentric and unpredictable.

• May want payment or a favor before helping.

3. Master Varek – A Wealthy Merchant.
   
   

• Buys and sells rare items, no questions asked.

• Less concerned with knowledge, more with profit.

• Might offer a good price, but won’t explain what he’s buying.

4. Captain Beric – Garrison Commander.
   
   

• Not a scholar, but has seen many strange relics from expeditions.

• Might help identify them, but he’ll expect a favor in return.

Gregor leans back, arms crossed. “You’ve got options. Just depends what you want out of this.”

---

Aldric’s Choices:

1. Visit Brother Aldwine at the Chapel. Seek knowledge first.

2. Speak with Orin the Sage. Might be the most knowledgeable, but unpredictable.

3. Go to Master Varek, the Merchant. If gold is the goal, he’s the best bet.

4. Meet with Captain Beric. Might have insights, but will likely want something in return.

What does Aldric decide?

You said:

Aldric thanks Gregor, tosses him a coin, and heads back to their table. He passed the information to the company to discuss who they think they should see, and as a group determine their future path.

ChatGPT said:

Planning Their Next Move – The Company Decides

Aldric tosses a coin onto the bar, which Gregor catches mid-air with a nod. “Good luck with your little mystery,” the barkeep says, before turning to refill a drink for another patron.

Aldric returns to the table, pulling out a chair and sitting back down. The others look up from their meal, the warmth of the tavern contrasting sharply with the cold mystery of the relics they now carry.

“Gregor gave me some names,” Aldric begins, keeping his voice low enough not to draw attention. “A priest, a sage, a merchant, and a soldier. Each has their own use. Let’s decide how we handle this.”

He lays out their options clearly, watching his companions' reactions as they consider.

---

The Company’s Thoughts

Dain: (Practical, likes straightforward deals)

• “If we just want coin, we should go to the merchant. The sooner we sell, the sooner we can move on.”

• “We don’t owe these relics anything. They don’t owe us. Let’s take our cut and be done with it.”

Roderic: (Curious, but wary of risk)

• “If that sword and box were sealed away, someone had a reason to do it.”

• “I wouldn’t mind knowing what we’re carrying before selling it. The priest or the sage might help.”

• “That said, a favor owed is still a debt. I don’t like debts.”

Wyllow: (Opportunistic, but cautious about magic)

• “That sage sounds like he knows things. I like knowing things.”

• “The merchant would be easy, but we’d never know if we sold something worth ten times what he paid us.”

• “The priest? I dunno… last thing I need is a holy man telling me I’ve got a cursed dagger.”

---

Final Decision – Where to Go?

1. Brother Aldwine (Priest) – If they want knowledge first, especially about the runes and possible curses.

2. Orin the Sage – If they want expertise in ancient lore and magical artifacts.

3. Master Varek (Merchant) – If they want quick gold, no questions asked.

4. Captain Beric (Garrison Commander) – If they want a seasoned warrior’s perspective and potential work.

After some discussion, all eyes turn to Aldric. “So, what’s the call?”

What does Aldric decide?

You said:

"I say we speak to the sage," he says, finishing the last of his ale. "It is still early, shall we find this Orin the Sage? Then we will have an idea of what we are dealing with....and its real value. We can sell to the highest bidder, collect some true coin!"

ChatGPT said:

Seeking Orin the Sage – A Step into the Unknown

Dain grunts, finishing the last bite of his meal. “Fine. But if this old man starts rambling nonsense, we cut our losses and find the merchant.”

Roderic nods thoughtfully. “Knowledge is worth something. If he knows what we have, we’ll know what it’s really worth. Could be more than just gold.”

Wyllow leans back, arms crossed, a knowing smirk on his face. “Ah, Aldric, always the tactician. A fine plan, my friend—squeeze every coin we can from these dusty relics. Let’s see what this ‘sage’ has to say.”

Finding Orin the Sage

Orin is known to keep to himself, his residence tucked away from the central square of the Keep. The group gathers their belongings, leaving the warmth of the tavern behind, stepping into the mid-morning bustle of the Keep’s inner district.

Following Gregor’s directions, they move through narrow stone alleys until they come upon a squat, slanted-roof dwelling near the northern wall. Smoke drifts lazily from a small chimney, and bundles of dried herbs hang outside the door, their scents mixing in the cool air.

A wooden sign, aged and barely legible, hangs near the entrance. The carved letters read: "ORIN – SAGE & SCRIBE".

Wyllow nudges Aldric. “Friendly-looking place. You think he charges by the word?”

Dain huffs. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Roderic knocks on the door.

After a long pause, there is a shuffling of movement from inside.

Then—a sharp voice calls out.

"If you’re here for love potions, I’m fresh out. If you’re here to sell me an ‘ancient relic of untold power,’ I’ll be the judge of that. State your business!"

---

How Does Aldric Respond?

1. Be Direct – "We have artifacts that need identification."

2. Be Subtle – "We seek knowledge of old things. You seem like the man to ask."

3. Play to His Ego – "Gregor said you were the only one worth speaking to."

4. Test His Knowledge – "If you’re truly a sage, you’ll want to see what we’ve found."

5. Mention Potential Payment – "There’s coin in it if your information is good."

What approach does Aldric take?

You said:

Keep track of time in the game, not exact, but general time is good. It should currently be late afternoon in the game.

ChatGPT said:

Late Afternoon – Meeting the Sage

Aldric glances up at the sky, noting the fading light—late afternoon, edging toward evening. If they take too long here, they’ll be discussing ancient artifacts by candlelight.

Inside the sage’s home, footsteps shuffle closer. The voice remains impatient, but waiting.

Aldric steps forward, choosing his words carefully.

Response:

"Gregor said you were the only one worth speaking to."

There’s a long pause. Then, the sound of a bolt sliding back. The wooden door creaks open just enough to reveal a pair of sharp, calculating eyes set into a wrinkled face.

The man squints at Aldric, then at the group behind him. His hair is wild, streaked with gray, and his long coat is dusted with ink stains.

"Hmph." He eyes Aldric critically. "You don’t look like a merchant. You look like a man who gets blood on his boots."

He sniffs, rubbing his chin.

"Very well. If Gregor sent you, you’re not entirely a fool. Come inside—but if you touch anything, I’ll turn you into a toad."

Wyllow grins. “I like him already.”

The door swings open fully, revealing a cluttered chamber filled with books, scrolls, strange trinkets, and the unmistakable scent of aged parchment.

Inside Orin’s Study

As the group steps in, the door closes behind them with a heavy thunk. The room is dimly lit, filled with shelves of ancient tomes, glass vials, and strange metallic contraptions.

Orin moves to a desk piled high with books, sitting down with a heavy sigh.

"Alright. Show me what you have, and I’ll decide if it’s worth my time."

---

What Does Aldric Present First?

1. The Runed Sword – Let’s see what this weapon is.

2. The Sealed Box – The most mysterious item.

3. The Scroll – Ancient texts are a sage’s specialty.

4. All Three at Once – Let him examine everything together.

What does Aldric do?

You said:

Aldric hands over the scroll first, testing Orin. He wants to see if the old sage is on the up and up.

ChatGPT said:

Testing the Sage – The Scroll’s Secrets

Aldric reaches into his satchel, pulling forth the crumbling, timeworn scroll. He does not hand over the runed sword or the sealed box yet—this is a test.

He places the scroll on Orin’s desk, watching the sage’s reaction closely.

“We found this in an old ruin. Thought you might have the knowledge to make sense of it.”

Orin raises an eyebrow, his fingers already moving toward the parchment with a delicate touch.

“Hmph. Testing me, are you?” he mutters, half to himself. “Smart.”

He leans forward, carefully unrolling the fragile parchment, his sharp eyes scanning the ancient script. The room falls into a quiet tension as he studies the document, running his fingers over the faded ink, occasionally murmuring under his breath.

---

What Orin Discovers

After a few long moments, Orin exhales through his nose, shaking his head.

“This… is older than the Keep itself.” His fingers trace the faded lines of text. “A record, or a warning. This was written in an ancient form of the Old Kingdom’s script.”

Aldric leans in slightly. “Can you read it?”

Orin snorts. “Not entirely. But I can tell you this—whoever wrote this was desperate.”

He taps at a particular line, muttering a rough translation.

“…bound in shadow… chained by will… death is no prison, only a veil.”

Orin frowns, rubbing his temples.

“It speaks of something sealed away, not just buried, but intentionally locked beyond reach. This wasn’t some ordinary tomb, it was a place of containment.”

Dain crosses his arms, unimpressed. “So we found a ruin meant to keep something locked away. Great. That worked out well.”

Orin narrows his eyes at the warrior. “You don’t understand. If this is from the Old Kingdom, then whatever was sealed there was important enough to be forgotten.”

He sits back, considering. “I’d need more time to properly translate this. But whatever you pulled from that place—be careful. It wasn’t meant to be found.”

Aldric studies Orin’s expression carefully. The sage seems genuinely interested in the scroll, not trying to deceive them. He could be trusted… for now.

---

What’s Next?

1. Hand Over the Runed Sword Next – See what he makes of it.

2. Show Him the Sealed Box – The most dangerous mystery.

3. Ask Him to Keep Translating the Scroll – There may be more to uncover.

4. Offer to Sell the Scroll to Him – If it’s valuable, they might as well make coin.

What does Aldric do?

You said:

"And these then," he asks as he hands over the sword and the rune box.

ChatGPT said:

Revealing the Sword & The Sealed Box

Aldric reaches down, gripping the rune-covered sword first. He places it gently onto Orin’s desk, the ancient weapon glinting in the dim candlelight. Then, after a pause, he retrieves the sealed metal box, placing it beside the sword.

“And these then,” he says simply, watching the sage’s reaction.

Orin pushes the scroll aside, his gaze sharpening as he looks at the two artifacts. His fingers twitch slightly—whether from curiosity or unease, Aldric isn’t sure.

The sage studies the sword first, running his fingers along the faint carvings etched into its corroded metal. His expression darkens slightly.

“This…” he mutters. “This is no mere relic.”

He leans in, carefully inspecting the runes, tracing them with deliberate care.

What Orin Uncovers About the Sword

• The runes are tied to binding and control.

• It was not meant to be wielded by just anyone.

• The script suggests it was crafted to fight something unnatural.

• The blade’s purpose is unclear, but it may be part of a greater ritual or key.

Orin exhales through his nose. “A weapon forged for a singular purpose. This was never meant for ordinary battle.”

He looks up at Aldric. “You drew this from the ruins, didn’t you?”

Aldric nods.

Orin grunts. “Then something was meant to wield it… or be kept away by it.”

Turning to the Sealed Box

The sage adjusts his posture before addressing the box. He does not touch it immediately.

Instead, he watches it.

Dain notices. “What is it? You afraid to open it?”

Orin shoots him a glare. “Afraid? No. Wary? Always.”

He leans in, his fingers hovering over the runes. His lips press into a tight line as he mutters something in a tongue none of them recognize.

Then, finally, he speaks.

What Orin Uncovers About the Box & Gem

• This was meant to contain something. It is a vessel of imprisonment.

• The runes are stronger than those on the sword. This box was crafted by skilled hands, using methods no longer practiced.

• The gem inside vibrates with latent energy. It is not inert—it is holding something, even now.

• Opening the box without understanding its purpose is dangerous.

Orin finally leans back, exhaling deeply.

“This is dangerous.”

Wyllow scoffs. “Everything we carry is dangerous. The world is dangerous. What specifically should we be worried about?”

Orin looks directly at Aldric.

“This isn’t just treasure, warrior. This is a locked door… and you’re holding the key.”

Aldric remains silent, letting the words settle.

---

What Does Aldric Ask or Do Next?

1. “Can you open the box safely?” – Take the risk of knowing what’s inside.

2. “What would it take to translate all of this?” – Knowledge first, then action.

3. “Who would buy something like this?” – See if there’s a market for it.

4. “Can we destroy it?” – If it’s too dangerous to keep, should it be destroyed?

5. “Then what do you suggest we do with it?” – Let Orin give his best advice.

What does Aldric do?

You said:

5

ChatGPT said:

A Sage’s Advice – What Should Be Done?

Aldric leans forward slightly, his voice steady.

“Then what do you suggest we do with it?”

Orin meets Aldric’s gaze, his expression unreadable for a long moment. Then, he exhales and leans back, crossing his arms.

“That depends on how much trouble you want to invite into your life.”

His eyes flick between the sword and the sealed box.

“You have two options. You can leave these things buried in some forgotten corner of the world, never speak of them again, and let them fade back into history.” He gestures to the box. “Because if this was meant to contain something, that means someone made it. And if they made it, there’s a good chance that someone—or something—is still looking for it.”

He pauses, then continues in a lower voice. “Or… you can follow this mystery to its end. Find out what this sword was meant to slay. Find out what this box was meant to contain. If you do that, you might unearth something very valuable… or something best left forgotten.”

He steeples his fingers.

“If you want my advice, keep the sword. It was made to fight. If trouble comes, you’ll want it in your hands. But the box?” He shakes his head. “If I were you, I’d get rid of it. And fast.”

The Party Reacts

Dain frowns, arms crossed. “That’s all well and good, but who do we give it to? If we sell it, it’ll just end up in someone else’s hands. If we keep it, we have a target on our backs.”

Roderic nods in agreement. “Exactly. And if it’s worth something, it’s worth something to someone.”

Wyllow, surprisingly serious, taps the table. “We could find a buyer who does understand what it is. A noble collector, a powerful mage, or some shadowy cult that loves cursed relics. Someone out there wants this.”

Orin grunts. “That’s true. You could sell it to the right people for a fortune. But be warned—those who trade in such things rarely deal cleanly.”

---

Options Before Aldric & The Party

1. Find a Buyer & Sell the Box – If it’s valuable, they might as well profit.

2. Hide It Somewhere Safe – Bury it where no one will find it.

3. Destroy It – If it’s a prison, breaking it might not be wise… but it might be necessary.

4. Seek Out More Knowledge – There may be others who know more about what they’ve found.

5. Keep It & See What Happens – If something is searching for it, they’ll find out soon enough.

Orin leans back, watching them carefully. “Whatever you choose, do it soon. Some relics do not like to be kept waiting.”

What does Aldric decide?

You said:

Aldric turns to his companions. "Let us leave this parchment with Orin, if he would translate the rest for us, we would be grateful. The chest I suggest goes to the priest for safe keeping until we can learn more...hopefully from the translation of the scroll." He nods to Orin and adds. "The sword, one of you shall keep. It was made for fighting and with luck, it will keep fighting until it's true nature is revealed to us." He looks at his companions," Agreed?"

ChatGPT said:

Aldric’s Plan – The Group Decides

Orin nods at the decision regarding the scroll. "I’ll translate what I can, though it’ll take time. These old texts aren’t meant to be rushed."

He carefully rolls the parchment back up, securing it among the stacks of his desk.

“Come back in a few days. I should have more for you then.”

---

The Company’s Response

Dain crosses his arms. "The chest going to the priest is a good idea. I don’t trust it, and I don’t trust people who would want it."

Roderic nods. "Agreed. Let the holy man deal with whatever’s inside. If it was meant to be sealed, best keep it that way."

Wyllow, however, looks amused. “Aye, fine, fine, let’s dump the cursed box on a man of faith. That’s one way to handle it.”

Then, Aldric brings up the sword.

A brief silence falls over the group as each man considers the weight of the responsibility.

Who should wield it?

Dain grunts, looking at the blade. "It’s a weapon. A fighter should carry it. I’ll take it if no one else will."

Roderic tilts his head. "It was meant for something specific. If we don’t know what, then wielding it comes with risks."

Wyllow raises his hands in mock surrender. "Oh, don’t look at me. I deal in daggers, not grand swords of destiny."

The decision comes down to Aldric, Dain, or Roderic.

---

Who Should Carry the Runed Sword?

1. Aldric – The party leader, already a skilled swordsman.

2. Dain – The hard-hitting warrior, most practical in battle.

3. Roderic – The most tactical, though more spear-focused.

4. Hold Onto It Until They Know More – No one wields it yet.

Aldric has laid out the plan—but who takes the blade?

You said:

"Dain, the blade is yours, I have my father's sword and care not for another," he scratches his chin. "Off to meet this holy man then."

ChatGPT said:

Memory updated

The Sword’s New Wielder – Dain Accepts the Blade

Dain grips the hilt of the runed sword, testing its weight. The blade is old, but balanced, made for something beyond common battle.

He gives a short nod. “Fine by me. If something needs cutting down, I’ll see to it.”

Wyllow grins. “Just don’t start glowing or speaking in tongues. I’d rather not deal with possessed swords.”

Dain snorts. “If the damn thing starts whispering, I’ll throw it in the nearest river.”

Aldric gives one last look at the sage. “We’ll return for the translation.”

Orin waves a hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, I’ll be here. If the priest tells you to burn that box, I suggest you listen.”

With that, the company gathers their belongings and leaves Orin’s cluttered chamber, stepping back into the late afternoon air of the Keep.

---

To the Chapel – Seeking Brother Aldwine

The chapel sits near the Keep’s inner walls, its stone structure simple but sturdy, its wooden doors worn from years of service. The ringing of a small bell echoes faintly from within, and the scent of burning incense drifts through the air.

As they step inside, they find a dimly lit sanctuary, where a few faithful kneel in quiet prayer. The altar at the far end is adorned with a simple iron-bound tome and a hanging lantern, its light flickering with each passing breeze.

A man in a humble gray robe, balding with streaks of white in his beard, turns to regard the newcomers. His deep-set eyes are kind, but sharp, taking in Aldric and his companions with measured curiosity.

“Travelers,” he says, his voice calm and steady. “What brings you to the house of the Divine?”

Aldric steps forward, the sealed box still securely in Wyllow’s satchel.

“Brother Aldwine, we need your help.”

The priest studies them, his gaze lingering on the satchel. He can already sense something is amiss.

“Then speak, my sons. What troubles you?”

---

How Does Aldric Approach This?

1. Be Direct – “We recovered something old and dangerous. We need you to keep it safe.”

2. Test His Knowledge First – “What do you know of ancient bindings?”

3. Be Subtle – “We found a relic we wish to entrust to the Church.”

4. Gauge His Reaction – “We carry a burden, but we do not yet know its weight.”

How does Aldric explain their purpose?

You said:

"We found a relic we wish to entrust to the Church, until such time as we can discover a way to destroy it," he bows his head slightly in reverence. "At this time we know only that the relic is dangerous and want to ensure it is safely hidden away. Can we trust the church to secure it until we can uncover the knowledge?"

ChatGPT said:

Memory updated

Entrusting the Church – A Sacred Burden

Brother Aldwine listens intently, his gaze steady as Aldric speaks.

When the warrior bows his head in reverence, the priest inclines his own slightly in return, a mark of mutual respect.

At the mention of a dangerous relic, Aldwine’s expression tightens, though he does not seem surprised.

“The Church has safeguarded many burdens over the years,” he says, stepping forward. “And we do not take such matters lightly.”

He gestures toward a side chamber off the main sanctuary. “Come with me.”

---

The Reliquary – A Place for the Sealed Box

The party follows Brother Aldwine through a small arched doorway, descending a narrow spiral stair into a stone chamber below the chapel.

It is not a grand vault, but a simple and secure reliquary, where aged books and artifacts rest upon shelves, wrapped in cloth or bound in iron chains.

The priest stops before a heavy wooden chest, its lock secured with both iron and silver bindings.

“Place the relic here.” His voice is calm, but there is a note of gravity.

Wyllow pulls the sealed box from his satchel, giving it one last glance before handing it over. “Feels like we’re leaving behind a storm before it breaks,” he mutters.

Brother Aldwine places the box inside the chest, closing the heavy lid with care. He retrieves a small vial of clear oil from a shelf, pressing his fingers together in prayer before tracing a symbol over the lock.

The air feels lighter—or perhaps, less heavy.

---

Aldwine’s Warning & Promise

Turning back to Aldric, the priest meets his gaze.

“This will remain here, under the eyes of the Divine, until you return with the knowledge you seek.”

His voice grows more solemn.

“But understand this, my son—if what you say is true, then this relic was not meant to be found. And if it was found by you, it may already be calling to others.”

Dain grunts. “So you’re saying we should expect trouble?”

Aldwine nods. “That, I cannot say. But relics of power do not remain untouched forever. If it was sealed away once, then something had cause to do so.”

“Let us pray that whatever hands built this prison are not the same hands that come to unmake it.”

---

The Box is Now Secure – What’s Next?

With the sealed relic entrusted to the Church, the group has cleared one burden from their hands—but new questions remain.

The scroll is being translated by Orin the Sage, and the runed sword remains with Dain, its purpose still unknown.

The day is fading into early evening—soon, the Keep will become quieter, the shops closing, and the tavern filling with nighttime travelers, traders, and mercenaries.

Aldric’s Next Move:

1. Return to the Tavern & Rest – The day has been long, and they can plan their next steps in the morning.

2. Seek Out More Information on the Keep’s History – Perhaps someone else knows of past events tied to these relics.

3. Look for Work or Coin – They still have plenty of fight left in them, and danger always brings wealth.

4. Check in with the Garrison – Captain Beric may have word of trouble beyond the Keep’s walls.

What does Aldric decide?

You said:

"I need a soft bed to rest my head, now heavy with worry," he steps towards the tavern. "Tomorrow I wish to return to the watchtower and venture into it's depths again. See if we can learn more before Orin finishes his translation. If we are lucky, we may yet find more gold beneath its walls." He stops and looks at each of his companions. "Will you join me?"

ChatGPT said:

Memory updated

Aldric’s Proposal – Back to the Watchtower

Dain cracks his knuckles, smirking. “I’m always up for more treasure. If that place had one hidden chamber, it might have more.”

Roderic leans on his spear, considering. “We’re making a habit of stirring up old ghosts, but… aye, I’ll go. Better to know what we’re dealing with than wait for trouble to find us.”

Wyllow scoffs, taking a few light steps ahead. “Ah, yes, let’s willingly walk back into a place full of things that want to kill us. What a brilliant idea.”

Then, with a grin, he tosses a coin in the air and catches it. “But gold is gold, and if there’s more to be found, I’ll be there to help spend it.”

The company is set on their course—tomorrow, they return to the ruins.

---

A Night at the Tavern – Rest Before the Road

As the tavern doors swing open, the familiar warmth of firelight and ale welcomes them back. The common room is livelier than before, filled with travelers, merchants, and mercenaries settling in for the evening.

Gregor grunts in acknowledgment from behind the bar. “Back again? You lot look like you could use stronger drink and softer beds.”

Wyllow tosses him a coin. “You’re a man of wisdom, Gregor.”

Rooms are secured, drinks are poured, and for the first time in a long while, the group allows themselves to relax, if only for a few hours.

Tomorrow, the depths of the watchtower await.

---

SESSION THREE ENDS.

• The sealed box is in the Church’s hands.

• Orin is working on translating the scroll.

• Dain carries the runed sword.

• The party will return to the watchtower ruins in the morning.

Rest well, for tomorrow brings new dangers. ☠️🏰

Let me know when you’re ready to start Session Four! 🎲🔥