A Bowl of Temporal Soup on Kickstarter!

It feels almost surreal for it to finally be here. I’ve spent the last 6 months neglecting every other hobby I’ve collected over the years and put all that time into this one bizarre game instead.

It’s weird, and silly, and fun.

I’m so excited to finally share it.

See you Souptember 1st!

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/tackynowacki/a-bowl-of-temporal-soup-a-solo-rpg-of-anachronism-stew

Wow. Who would’ve thought that my silly little PocketQuest game jam submission would keep me so busy over the next several months working on it pretty much full time?

Not me.

And Now? It’s completely finished and going into pre-launch on Kickstarter.

Temporal Soup began its life as nothing more than a silly idea I had when presented with the jam’s theme, Time Travel.

It was the first and only idea I’d come up with: What if you travel through time, but something goes wrong with your time machine, and you end up sent somewhere where all points in time converge into a single messed up place?

Woodland elves and space elves. Wizards. Cowboys. Robots. Dinosaurs.

What if there’s a whole bunch of one guy named Dave, and he’s the only person there who recognizes just how messed up all this is?

It took away any pressure I might have felt about making something.

I was free.

It was silly and stupid, and reminded me of being a kid playing with toys, telling stories with different characters from all sorts of franchises and universes. It wasn’t bound by logic. Only fun.

I wrote too much, however, as PocketQuest has a strict limit of 25 pages. It is called PocketQuest after all.

What had been a 60 page google doc turned into a fun, little, 25 page solo RPG, tightly packed into every bit of those 25 pages. I was proud of the work I’d managed to do, and everything I’d learned in just under two months, but the game was far from what I knew it could be. I just wasn’t done with it yet. Thus, Temporal Soup was split into Cup and Bowl.

What had been only 25 pages now sits at about 184 pages. Black and white art became full color art, and each section got built upon and expanded in ways I never even thought I’d be able to pull off. It’s finally the game I thought it could be.

4 months ago, I’d never really even touched Adobe inDesign before. Now I’m publishing my second game.

I can’t wait to share it with you all.

Please click the “Notify me on launch” button on the pre-launch page if you’re interested in learning more! Even if you can’t back A Bowl of Temporal Soup on launch, each follow will still help it gain a little traction.

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/tackynowacki/a-bowl-of-temporal-soup-a-solo-rpg-of-anachronism-stew

And if you do back it… you may just get a little Cup of Temporal Soup thrown in for free.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention and thank the people who helped me along the way. Please give those of them on SubStack a follow if you’re not following them already!

for being a MASSIVE help throughout this process, playtesting the game, writing up a killer actual play series, and letting me generally bounce ideas off of them.

Garrett “Don’t blame me for any mistakes” Mann, for thoroughly reading through BoTS, page by page, spotting an ungodly amount of typos.

for being super supportive of my writing since my first weeks on SubStack and writing up a really thoughtful review on A Cup of Temporal Soup.

for continued support of these soupy games, and their feedback on A Cup of Temporal Soup!

for including A Cup of Temporal Soup in his series, The Weekend One Shot. Paul’s post gave me a huge push to get to work on Bowl once Cup was done.

and for giving me the low down on all things printing physical copies! It was ‘s advice that ultimately pushed me toward doing a Kickstarter!

Lastly - my tabletop games mentor, Phil Gross! Without Phil, I’m not sure I’d have started playtesting when I did, and I almost certainly wouldn’t be looking at a finished copy of A Bowl of Temporal Soup today. Be sure to check out Phil’s games!

Thank you all, so much!

And thank you to everyone who has read, liked, or shared any of my posts or notes along this journey. I deeply appreciate every one of you.

Thanks for reading! I hope to see you over there!

I’m breaking that cycle.

Over the course of my relationship with my wife, I’ve expressed to her, ad nauseam, this desire I have to “make things.” I’ve come to her with so many ideas, she started referring to them as my “schemes.” I’d get excited about something I saw or read about, dive into it fully for a month or two, and then never talk about it again.

I got into winemaking.

I learned programming.

I dove into 3D game development.

Nothing really stuck. Nothing kept my attention. I’d put countless hours into numerous projects, and yet I had nothing to show for it.

November 2024

Freshly married, and with the new year right around the corner, I’d once again expressed to my wife this desire to embark on a creative pursuit. It was something she’d heard a million times, but I told her, confidently, “2025 is going to be the year I do it. I’m going to make stuff.”

She wasn’t going to let me forget it.

December 2024

Just over a month later, on Christmas day, I opened a box that had a folded slip of paper inside with handwritten text that said, “One Year of Accountability Workshops with Lara Smith.”

Lara is a friend of ours who also happens to be a business coach for creatives, and has a track record of turning small things into… much bigger things.

I would highly recommend working with her.

https://www.laratsmith.com

I was excited, and admittedly, nervous. This was to be a year-long workshop where I’d meet with Lara and other creatives, once a month, to discuss our goals and keep each other on-track. It was suddenly going to be a lot harder to be “all talk.”

January 2025

The first accountability workshop was approaching. It was 2025. I’d promised myself, and my wife, that this would be the year.

About a week before it was to begin, I’d received an email from Lara regarding the workshop.

I’d been the only person to sign up.

Rather than simply refund the cost or reschedule the workshop to a later date when more people might attend, Lara honored the purchase and offered to meet with me 1-on-1, if that was something I’d be interested in.

Of course I said yes.

Instead of being a small part of a larger group, we’d spend a dedicated hour each month discussing my creative goals, progress, and how I could best position myself to achieve those goals. I didn’t just have an accountability group — I had someone to who was taking an active interest in the projects I wanted to work on.

I had a few ideas, including a t-shirt brand and a series of snack review videos, but one idea in particular stuck out to Lara: I wanted to create an audio series for people to fall asleep to as an alternative to sleep meditations. I wanted to create a “fun” way to fall asleep.

I’d write stories in the second person, read them aloud, record the audio, and add low-volume scoring and sound effects to create an immersive experience. I wanted it to feel like playing D&D as you fell asleep. As someone who often needs to listen to something in order to fall asleep, it felt like something I could really get behind.

It was time to get to work.

Spring 2025

To kick things off, we’d set a writing goal for me of just 15 minutes every day. It was a relatively low commitment, and often 15 minutes would turn to 20, 30, or even an hour. To keep me on track, Lara put me onto an app called “Streaks.” I no longer use that particular app, but it gamified accomplishing tasks in a way that really resonated with me.

Now I use an even more gamified habit tracker called Levla. It’s amazing, and basically Runescape for tracking habits and keeping a to-do list.

I really like watching “number go up.”

I wrote a lot, but struggled with prose. I’d written a lot of technical and marketing copy over the last decade or so, but it had been a really long time since I’d written anything creative.

I had to face it: I needed to start reading again too.

I’d loved reading as a kid, and while there were stints where I’d read a few books here and there in my earlier adult years, it was something I rarely made time for anymore. After all, like everyone else, I was constantly being inundated with new TV series to watch and videogames to play.

Besides, where would I even begin?

Sword & Sorcery

I’d always been interested in fantasy works, but somehow the terms “Sword & Sorcery” had never entered my sphere. I grew up watching the 1980s Conan the Barbarian movies, but I knew little about the character beyond the two films, or the genre at large. To me, Conan was just a brute played by Arnold Schwarzenegger who loved steel and Crom. I didn’t really care to know more.

Then, one evening, Reddit fed me a post from the Sword & Sorcery subreddit. Someone had shared an image of The Sword and the Sorcerer’s movie poster. I’d never seen the movie, but its art captivated me.

It was enough to get me to dig deeper. The subreddit had an ongoing book club, and they were about to begin reading Echoes of Valor, an anthology including stories by Fritz Leiber and Henry Kuttner, as well as a Conan story by Conan’s creator, Robert E. Howard.

I’d found something to read.

And boy, did I read.

Summer–Fall 2025

Story after story, I powered through every piece of Conan written by Howard. While I wasn’t particularly inspired by some of his viewpoints (some of Howard’s writing is… certainly a product of his 1930s mindset), I was inspired by his worldbuilding and the care he took in detailing his characters.

It fueled and inspired much of my writing at the time, pushing me to write about 90,000 words in an unreleased story, A Warrior Out of Time.

The jury is still out on whether that will ever be released.

Through my desire to write, my passion for reading had been reignited. Soon, I’d stumbled upon and powered through each of the Dungeon Crawler Carl books too. Shortly after that, I discovered Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series and began working through it as well.

(Ook)

My tastes changed. They evolved. My writing at the beginning of this now 90,000 word project was much different from what I wanted to write by the time I’d hit that benchmark. I’d poured so much time into A Warrior Out of Time, but I was struggling to keep going.

Very fortunately, I had my meetings with Lara to keep me on track.

I wasn’t going to give up on it. I just needed something to keep me inspired. I needed something to keep me writing.

Winter 2025, and the Birth of a New Hyperfixation

In early November, a video title “Solo journaling rpgs, writing, and YOU! They’re awesome!” by Michael Regina popped into my YouTube feed.

Solo… journaling… RPGs?

I was intrigued.

Not sold, but intrigued.

Michael’s video covers a bunch of different games, and ultimately had me convinced that solo journaling games might be something I could get behind. The video, however, didn’t cover anything that felt quite close enough to what I wanted to write or spend time on.

If I could play a game and keep working on my “sleep stories” project at the same time…

I’d be unstoppable.

I kid.

But I did think it would be pretty cool.

I was now on the search for the “perfect game.” I read every “What game should I play?” thread on the Solo Roleplaying subreddit (of which there are plenty), and consumed just about every video published by Man Alone and The Dungeon Dive. The amount of options were overwhelming. Plus, there were a ton of non-journaling solo RPGs.

I just wanted to write.

…or so I thought.

Playing Solo RPGs

While it didn’t perfectly align with what I was hoping to find, I eventually grabbed a community copy of Thousand Year Old Vampire by Tim Hutchings. It became part of my daily routine to write a few journal entries, and I had a good time with it. Still, I yearned for something different.

Before long, I picked up a copy of Shawn Tomkin’s Ironsworn, as many of us did early on in our solo RPG journey. Constant recommendations make it difficult to avoid. Unfortunately, I could not wrap my head around it at the time. I recall thinking, “I’m just… supposed to make things up?”

I’ve since come to respect and appreciate the Ironsworn products, although they’re far from what I would recommend to someone new to solo roleplaying. For that, I would recommend…

NoteQuest.

NoteQuest really opened my mind about solo roleplaying. At its core, it’s a simple dungeon crawler with few real RPG elements, but it’s incredibly accessible. Roleplaying isn’t baked into the gameplay loop, but I found myself narrating each of my character’s thoughts, feelings, and experiences. I was procedurally moving through a dungeon as a character, and I loved it. NoteQuest is a simple game, however, and I wanted more.

That’s when I’d found 2D6 Dungeon.

2D6 Dungeon, to me, is the perfect evolution of the gameplay experience provided by NoteQuest. It shares a similar gameplay loop but adds a lot more variety to the experience. You have more choice as a character and more freedom as a player. Playing 2D6 Dungeon, I filled page after page with narration, despite a similar lack of baked-in roleplay elements.

By this point, what my ideal game looked like had shifted. I didn’t want a journaling game. It turned out I didn’t need a journaling game to write, after all.

Scarlet Heroes and Cyprian the Thief

I now knew what I wanted: A game — a true roleplaying game — with all of the tools to procedurally generate dungeons, quests, and more. From everything I looked at, it seemed that game was Kevin Crawford’s Scarlet Heroes.

In the beginning, I still struggled a bit to fully comprehend exactly how a solo RPG worked, and despite being familiar with D&D fifth edition, some of Scarlet Heroes’ rules were pretty foreign to me. Ultimately, I have Tom, aka Lone Horizons, and his series of Scarlet Heroes videos to thank for helping me get it all figured out.

I loved that Scarlet Heroes made it easy to play a game with a single player character, and that it provided all of the tools to play any sort of adventure you could want, all wrapped up in a single package.

I didn’t, however, love the setting.

Again, I wanted to play something that aligned with the world I’d spent nearly a year writing stories in. Back then, it was called “Kolvaris,” but its name has since become “Krolestwo,” the country to the north of Gród, where my character Cyprian’s story takes place. Kolvaris was a fantasy setting inspired by Polish and slavic folklore, while Scarlet Heroes’ “Red Tide” setting had a heavy pseudo east-asian influence.

Right away, I was changing a lot. Much of the bestiary had to be reshaped right away, and the spells list was swapped out first for the White Box: FMAG spells, then, eventually, the BFRPG spells list.

I began playing and writing Cyprian’s story. The more I played Scarlet Heroes, the more I changed it. I loved it. All of it. I loved playing, and writing, and drawing artwork inspired by each of my play sessions. I loved sharing each chapter of Cyprian’s story here, on Substack.

(Huge shoutout to and for reviewing my first Substack post before it was published, giving me confidence that it was something worthwhile.)

I even loved reworking the game. I loved making each change and shaping it into something new. I had a desire to create a fully separate game out of my work, but it was a slow process. I had no experience with game design. Not really. Everything was split between Google Sheets and a haphazardly constructed Google Doc. There was nothing pushing me to work on the game beyond playing it, and the positive response my actual plays were receiving.

Then came the PocketQuest 2026 game jam.

PocketQuest and Temporal Soup

I wish I could remember where I’d first seen PocketQuest mentioned. I’d never participated in a game jam before. I’d joined game jams for video games, but always lost momentum by the time they’d started.

PocketQuest couldn’t have come around at a more perfect time. I was fully immersed in solo roleplaying at that point, and it was a great excuse to really get some work done on Gród, the title I’d settled on for my solo game. PocketQuest’s theme, however, was “Time Travel,” which… Gród didn’t exactly fit into.

My plan was simple: I’ll build a silly, 25 page game for PocketQuest, and repurpose the core rules for the game I really wanted to make. I came up with the basic premise for Temporal Soup, which was originally titled “Temporal Stew,” almost instantly.

I thought it was funny, cliche, and absolute nonsense. It turned out to be really fun.

I put Cyprian’s story on pause (for longer than I would have liked, I’ll admit), pretty much stopped playing videogames, and filled a google doc with 65 pages of paradoxical madness over the next two months. I’d created a setting that was so flexible it could take any idea I had. I wasn’t afraid to try things. I’d given myself a playground in which anything was possible, and nothing was too stupid or off limits. I added a character named Dave who seems to be the only person to recognize how messed up and twisted the world around him is.

I let Dave take on my worries so I could just enjoy writing the game.

I was finally, truly, making something.

A Cup, A Bowl, and Beyond

65 pages, you might be thinking, is too many pages for a game jam with a 25 page limit.

You’re correct to think that.

I hadn’t intended for Temporal Soup to grow into anything more than a game jam submission, but it had begun its life serving two purposes already. As I began to fall in love with the world of Temporal Soup and its setting, Bigos, I figured I might as well tack a third purpose onto the game.

The idea, again, was simple: I’d write as much as I could for a game that would be called “A Bowl of Temporal Soup,” distill it down to 25 pages for PocketQuest as “A Cup of Temporal Soup,” and end up with something that could “easily” be reworked into Gród.

Three games for the price of one.

Genius.

As it turns out, it’s actually pretty difficult to cut down and compress 65 pages of content into just 25. I’d also never used Adobe inDesign before. I knew how to use Adobe Photoshop, however, and I figured it couldn’t be that different.

It was.

I was wrong.

I thought it would take me roughly an afternoon to get it chopped down, and only an hour or so to get a simple layout put together.

Not quite.

It took me all week, pretty much all day, every day, leading right up to the the moment it went live, to get A Cup of Temporal Soup completed. It was not a relaxing time.

But,

I had done it. I made something.

Something I’d made was out in the world.

The promise I’d made to myself, and my wife, all those months ago, had finally been fulfilled. I’d proven to myself that I could finish a project. I’d proven that I could see something to the finish line.

Finally, I could relax.

…

…

…

So I got to work on A Bowl of Temporal Soup right away.

Now, a little over two months later, I’m really excited to say that it, too, is almost complete.

I sent out playtest copies a little over a week ago, and with some really amazing and encouraging feedback from (please go check out their posts and give them a subscribe if you’re not subscribed already), it’s steadily approaching the finish line. It’s tempting to keep adding onto the game, and continue building onto its existing systems or replace them with deeper ones, but I’m worried I might find myself in that place forever if I don’t let it go.

And hey — I can always release an expansion or a supplement or two, right? I don’t think I’m ready to be done with Temporal Soup quite yet anyway. I’m just ready to share some of it.

Soup is a very shareable food, after all.

What’s Next

The next item on the to-do list is to make a few final edits and additions, then get started on Bowl’s artwork. I’ve got about 48 placeholders to replace, and I’ve only just begun working on the cover. I’m (optimistically) hoping to have it all wrapped up in the coming weeks.

In the meantime, please let me know if you’re interested in playtesting before the full release! I’d love to get some more eyes on it before it goes live.

Leave a comment

Once I’ve got it all wrapped up (and likely before then, if I’m being honest), I’m going to pick Stach’s story back up and begin sharing actual play posts again. The next time we see Cyprian, it’ll be a Gród actual play instead of a Scarlet Heroes one. I’m really looking forward to getting back to that too.

Down the Pipeline

I teased a game titled Mörk Borscht a few months ago, a “Borg” set in the world of Bigos/Temporal Soup. That’s definitely still in the works, and a decent amount of work has actually already been done to get that project off the ground. If it gains any more interest once BoTS releases, I may work a little harder to get that finished once Gród is done.

Otherwise, I’ll probably tackle supplements for the other games first. I’d love to write a proper campaign setting book for Temporal Soup, and there are already some areas I can see that I’d like to expand.

Beyond these, there are a few more projects I plan to take on, each related to solo roleplaying:

1. Fulfilling the goal of creating a “sleep stories” audio series. Rather than writing something totally separate for these, I intend on recording audio versions of my written actual plays moving forward, and going back to create audio versions of my previously written sessions.

2. I recently built a setup to create video content, with the intention of recording a slightly more free-form, off-the-rails actual play series. The plan is to use Temporal Soup’s system to facilitate gameplay, but source all of the NPC names, magic items, etc., from the audience. I’m really excited about this and will share more details soon!

3. Lastly, I’ve been prototyping a system of micro-scale miniatures and terrain designed specifically for solo play. Minis are fun. Why should they be exclusive to group games? The goal is to make something that can fit on your desktop, and be easily stored away when not in use.

Final Thoughts

Solo RPGs are the best. I hope you think so too.

It did not disappoint.

In DWARF, you play a dwarf who’s been separated from their home by some tragic event or night of too much Merriment (an actual, in-game mechanic). Your goal is simple: journey home.

The worldbuilding in DWARF is rich with flavor despite being delivered in a somewhat appropriately-sized package of only 48 pages. The playtest lays it out plain: “Magic users are crackheads, Fairies are always white girl wasted, Goblins are always f***ing with you, and you can die a violent death.”

It’s… an oddly refreshing take.

The book presents 4 truths of being a dwarf, explained in the opening pages:
1. You are a Dwarf.
2. You hate Goblins.
3. You Indulge.
4. You are good with your hands.

There’s even a table to roll on if you party too hard.

DWARF doesn’t have classes. Just DWARF(s).

Combat is smooth and straightforward, and the player-facing rolls for both attacking and defending really streamline encounters. Instead of targeting AC, you roll 1d20 to “Test Strength” and determine if your melee attack lands, Presence for ranged attacks, and Dexterity to dodge an enemy’s attack. Each roll uses a target of 12 for success, while a character’s armor reduces the total damage a character receives after an attack lands.

Additionally, there are excellent tools for hexcrawling, which is a major part of the DWARF experience. Encounters aren’t presented as a simple list of monsters, but an extensive table of scenarios.

With the included quick-start guide, character sheet, and two hex maps, DWARF comes packaged with everything you need to jump in right away.

Subscribe now

Now, how about we see DWARF in action…

Scully Hammersmith: Dwarf Thought Dead

“Blarrrgggh,” I moan, peeling my face from the muck. Feels like someone’s split my block.

The dull buzz of flies almost distracts from the stench. Right.

The battle.

Not a living soul besides myself sits upon the battlefield. Dead shield-brothers lay all ‘round me. A blast’d shame.

Yet, the numbers are wrong. Too few dead for there to be no other survivors. And yet, the enemy’s side looks just right.

Those bastards.

Too damn drunk to see I was still breathin’! They thought I, Scully Hammersmith, dead?

Oh, they’ll wish it ‘twer so, whence I clobber those bawbags.

Better find my things. It’s to be a long walk.

It’s sunny, with few clouds in the sky.

I locate the familiar pile of leaf litter.

“Please...” I mutter.

I shuffle through the foliage...

Yes.

Right where I left ‘er.

I take my compass and a hunk of dried beef from my pack, then sling it over my broad shoulders.

North.

“Gods be. Would you look at that?”

I walk alongside it, hidden from that which lurks in the forest, for hours.

“Massive brute,” I say, reaching its end at last.

No wonder the beast died. This whole forest couldn’t feed such an appetite.

Gah. Swamp’s no place for a dwarf — but up to my waist in filth.

“Ugh.”

‘S no good place to rest in a swamp. No great way to stay dry. Still, I make do, and secure a decent spot to unravel my bedroll and make fire.

At least I have a mushroom.

Always a comfort, they are.

“Please!”

The scream comes from mere feet away.

A man’s.

And just as I was about to enjoy my mushroom.

“Help me, please!” he screams once more.

“Blast!” I shout. “Quit yer screamin’ lest ye wish to wake the whole damned swamp!”

I draw my short, bladed weapon.

“Now,” I say, quiet but firm. “What is it ye want?”

He enters the fire’s warm glow. Blood flows down his arm.

“Hells,” I say, seeing the blood pouring from him. “Let’s get you patched up, lad.”

“I — I’ll be fine,” he says. “It’s my friend. He’s — well, he’s stuck — trapped. It’s hard to explain. Please, just come see.”

“Argh,” I grunt, pointing my weapon to his neck. “This best not be some trick.”

“I swear it.”

Despite his urgency, I help the lad bandage his arm. Corban, he’s called. He leads me to the—

“What in the hells?”

“It’s a portal,” he says. We saw its glow from our boat and came ashore for a closer look.

I’d been too shocked to notice the nearby river or the ferry on its bank.

“I shouldn’t have touched it,” he adds. “Aldric came in after me — to save me.”

“So you were able to leave,” I reply. “Why didn’t he come with you?”

“We were attacked by a… monster. It took him. It took Aldric.“

I want, more than anything, to let this be. To not get involved. But my shield-brothers abandoned me. I shan’t do the same to another.

“You have a weapon?” I ask.

“Nay,” he says, weakly. “Nor did Aldric. He stood no chance against that undead horror.”

“Undea — ?,” I begin. “Feck it.”

I touch the portal.

Everything spins. All I see is bright white light.

For a moment, I was certain I was dead.

I appear inside a room of stone brickwork, with a single wooden door and a dimming torch resting in a sconce in the corner. A trail of blood leads to the door and passes underneath it.

Corban appears beside me in a similar flash of light.

“That door wasn’t closed before,” he says. “This is where we—”

I reach for the door’s handle.

Locked.

“Blast.”

I take a deep inhale to calm myself.

“Hold this,” I tell Corban, handing him my seax.

I thrust my heel into the door.

THUD!

“GAH!”

It’s no good.

Again.

CRRRR — ACKKKKK!

The door swings from its hinges. Splinters fly in every direction.

“Done...” I say, fighting to catch my breath. I take a torch from my pack, light it on the other hanging on the wall, and hand it to Corban. “My weapon?”

“Right,” he says, handing it back.

Not just dead weight now.

I grip my weapon’ firmly, take another breath, then proceed through the doorway.

Ach. Another door. It’s stuck.

Ugh.

I take some time to break it down, just like the last.

CRUNCH!

The bloody trail thins as we continue into the next room. Something in it, however, shines under the torchlight.

“That’s… Aldric’s,” Corban chokes, as I lift a silver, blood-stained pocket watch from the floor. “It was his father’s. He’d never just leave it behind.”

“Then you best return it to him,” I say as I wipe away the red and place it in his hands.

The trail’s too thin to determine which direction they went. I try the first door, which, to my relief, opens.

“Onward.”

Torchlight washes across the pale white skin of something — someone — lurking in the dark. Someone... and their fangs.

“Gah!!” I scream. “The watch — give it to me! Now!”

I hold the silver pocket watch outward, brandishing in the face of the hellish creature.

I’d swear I’d heard something ‘bout vampires hatin’ silver.

Hope it’s true.

“Hcchhhhh!” it — he — hisses, fully revealing a set of long, yellowed teeth.

“Back!” I shout. “Come no further!”

“Please...” he whispers, raising his long-nailed hands and backing away. “I am no threat to you.”

There’s a sadness to his words. Humanity.

“You smell like him,” he whispers, shifting his focus toward Corban. Fire dances in his amber eyes.

“You bastard!” Corban screams.

Whoosh!

The torch arcs wide as Corban swings it at the man-beast. The vampire flinches.

“You took him! That’s the monster who took Aldric! What did you do to him??”

“No,” it replies. “Not I.”

“Liar!” Corban shouts, swinging the torch again.

“My sister,” the vampire replies. “I didn’t wish to watch while she... prepares.”

“Where is he then?” I ask, stepping between him and Corban.

“Downstairs,” he says. “In her lair.”

He pulls something from beneath his cloak.

A key.

“This will help,” he says, holding it between two bony fingers. “It will get you through every door on this floor.”

I take it.

“How about something to help us fight her?” I ask.

“Hmph. I’m afraid I have no means to assist in such a task,” he says. “That watch , however, may continue to serve you well.”

“Why help us?” I ask.

“I may be cursed, but I am no monster. It was her wish to summon prey here — not mine. Now go. Quickly.“

Ugh. At least he’s alive.

I insert the key in the following door and continue on.

Another vampire. More monstrous than the last, but it appears to be in a sort of… trance.

A female.

Could it be?

I take my chance and attack.

I slash at her pallid flesh. It does little, but it’s something. I’m glad she didn’t see us coming.

She ignites in flames. In her wild state, however, she hardly seems to notice.

Her bladed weapon grazes my dwarven plate mail. Thanks to fine dwarven craftsmanship, I’m unscathed.

It’s too difficult to get close with the flames roaring away, try as we may.

The flames — they blind her. She swings wildly.

We exchange blows. I cleave the creature, Corban strikes true, and her blade meets my exposed knuckles.

I’ll barely be able to fight in this state.

The flames, which she now wears like a cloak, refuse to be ignored. They burn, bright, swallowing her whole.

“Gods!” I shout, covering my eyes.

A horrid screech explodes from within her.

It echoes all ‘round us. I can feel it in my bones.

The flame dies out. As does Corban’s torch.

In a panicked frenzy, and with hands wetted with blood, I manage to locate my flint and steel in the dark of the labyrinth.

I relight the torch.

“What the —” Corban says through trembling lips.

There’s no sign of her body. Not even ash.

“Is she?”

“Dead?” a familiar yet surprising voice replies.

The male vampire hangs in the doorway.

“No,” he says. “Merely a facsimile. An alarm. Be certain though — she knows you’re here now.”

Blast. Not but a damned phantom.

“But why?” I ask.

“She’s not fed in an era. ‘Twould shock her withered body to feed without… preparation. Such things take time, and this process must not be disturbed. If her shadow still stalks these halls, your friend lives yet. There’s still time. Make haste.”

Ugh.

I think it’s time for a mushroom.

When we last saw Stash, he’d just followed Dr. Bulion and the time crystals into the portal, unsure of what he’ll find on the other side…

Missed Session 0? Check it out here!

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Session 1: Eustachius

Yeeeeeeeooooooowww!

w!

w!

w!

w!

As I step through the portal, I’m pulled into a million little strings, my fibers twisted and tugged taut in a long rope. I watch from outside my body as our world skips me like a jump rope, joined by another world just like it before long. Another joins them with each rotation, until my rope becomes long and thin, making massive loops over thousands of mirrored worlds.

Spinning.

…and spinning.

When, suddenly, there’s just one.

My rope disappears, and I find myself — as me, Stash — floating out in space, looking out at this odd, merged planet.

Extending from it is a big, blinking neon sign.

It says one word:

≡ Bigos ≡

A strange sensation washes over me: I’m not alone out here.

I realize I’m one member of an endless line of people who look...

…like me.

They’re all me, but each of them has their subtle differences. Some are taller, some shorter. Some have brown hair, or blonde hair. Brown eyes or... pig noses?

What the hell?

It clicks.

Together, we were the rope.

I sit in this realization for fractions of a second.

Then…

…we converge.

Or rather, they converge on me.

Thousands of explosions erupt from my singular point in the aether, propelling me toward the strange planet, plummeting through its atmosphere down to a vast mountain range.

From what little I can see, the land makes no sense.

There’s no consistency. No cohesion. Swamps border deserts flanked by icy wastes.

What is this place?

Day 1 Starting Hex: 1d20[7] + 1d6[3] = J | 1d12[10] + 1d4[3] = 13
Hex: J13
Terrain: 1d10[5] = Mountains
Weather: 1d6[3] = Cloudy

Wind whips across the steep mountainside, blowing through its tall grasses and vibrant wildflowers.

I’m standing.

My mouth feels weird. It tastes weird.

Everything feels strange, actually. And my—

Oh my god. My hands are pink.

Not hot pink. Fleshy pink.

And my face. My cheeks feel swollen. And my no—

…

Oh NO.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!”

I... I have a snout.

WHAT THE F—

“UUHHHHHHHHH!!”

My screams echo down the mountainside.

Birds scatter, fleeing my pained screams.

I’ve got to keep it together.

I take inventory of myself.

I’m wearing thick, belted leather.

I have a sword. And a gun.

“Oh. Umm. Okay.”

I’ve got a backpack, but it’s not mine from home.

Inside, there’s:

...and an ID.

Pictured is a pig man, roughly my age, just like the ones I saw out there, ears, snout, and all. Underneath the obvious differences, strangely enough, I still see myself in the picture.

His name — or my name — is Eustachius.

“Stash.”

I draw a deep breath and eye a narrow path leading down the steep, rocky mountainside.

I need to find those crystals.

Time of day: 1d6[6] = Night (oh my god)

I don’t make it far before the sun — no — the great neon sign begins to disappear behind the mountains.

Night is falling.

I’m glad Eustachius — I — have a tent. And food.

“Wait — where did my chips go??”

Night Encounter: 1d8[2] = No
Rations: 10 → 9
Escalation Threshold (ET): 1 → 2

It’s hard to fall asleep, not knowing what might be lurking just beyond the tent’s thin canvas flaps.

Still, merging with your alternate self is pretty tiring...

Day 2 Hex J13 → I13
Heading: 1d8[3] = NW
Weather: 1d6[2] = Windy
ET: 2 | Encounter? 1d8[6] = No | Feature? 1d8[7] = No

Oracle: Could I see what kind of terrain I was heading toward? 3d8, keep 2 highest [6,6,3] = 12 = Yes Next terrain: d8[7] = Different | d10[4] = Hill Plains

Oracle: Could I see any settlements from the mountain? 2d8[6] = No

The big neon sign rises again, impossible to ignore even from inside my tent.

It’s time to get moving and face this bizarre place once and for all.

Entering I13: Plains | ~6 miles of travel left

It takes most of the day, but I manage to descend the mountain safely.

Maybe this place isn’t so bad after all?

I keep pushing. I bet I can get a few more miles in before...

Sign-set.

ET: 2 | Encounter? 1d8[6] = No | Feature? 1d8[3] = No

Leaving I13 Plains NW → H12
Terrain: 1d8[1] = Same type (Hill Plains)
ET: 2 | Encounter? 1d8[1] = Yes! | Feature? 1d8[4] = No

Encounter (Hill Plains): 1d20[19] = Poludnica

Opposing Check:
Stash: 2d8[7] + KNO[0] = 7
vs.
Poludnica: 2d8[11] + SKI[3] = 14 = She catches me by surprise.

Sign-set arrives just in time. I’m tired too, so that’s fine with me.

I’ve been here a whole day, yet I’ve seen nothing. Maybe I’m in this place all alo—

Poludnica’s Attack (sickle): 1d20[4] + ATK[3] = 7 vs. 13 = MISS

“Whoosh!”

The sound comes from overhead just as I lean down to remove my backpack.

As I turn, I find myself face to face with a ghostly woman holding a long, curved sickle. Her eyes are colorless. Her translucent skin is gray.

Reflexively — and to my own surprise — I draw the revolver from my belt and fire off a round.

Stash’s Attack (revolver): 1d20[12] + DEX[1] + ATK[1] = 14 vs. 14 = HIT
Damage: 1d8[1] + DEX[1] = 2 = 1 damage

“WrAAAAAhhh!” she hisses as the bullet grazes her phantom torso.

Poludnica HD: 6 → 5

I think I just pissed it off.

It hisses again, lifting the curved implement once more.

Poludnica’s Attack: 1d20[8] + ATK[3] = 11 vs. 13 = Miss

I dodge.

I’ve never so much as fought a person, let alone a ghost. It seems Pig-Stash can handle himself!

Stash’s Attack: 1d20[1!] + 2 = CRITICAL MISS

CLICK

Oh, no. It’s empty.

I don’t have time to reload. I holster it.

Poludnica’s Attack: 1d20[6] + ATK[3] = 9 = Miss

I draw the short sword.

Stash’s Attack: 1d20[20] + 2 = CRITICAL HIT
Damage: 1d6[4] = 4+1 = 5 × 2 = 2 damage

Poludnica HD: 5 → 3

Poludnica Morale Check: 2d6[11] vs. 10 = FAILED!

I slash her twice in quick succession, desperate to prevent a premature end by way of a furious foul.

Still, it’s little use. She scratches and lunges once again just as the sign sets in the distance.

As darkness washes over the land, she too is swept away.

“What the hell was THAT?” I shout, half expecting her to pop back up at any moment.

My heart pounds. This place is nuts.

Interested in playing A Cup of Temporal Soup? It’s available now on DriveThruRPG!

Session 0, A Little About A Cup of Temporal Soup, and Stepping Into Bigos

Hello, reader! Thank you for taking a chance on the inaugural session of my latest actual play series, Eustachius - A Cup of Temporal Soup solo RPG Actual Play.

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What is A Cup of Temporal Soup?

A Cup of Temporal Soup is a 25 page, all-in-one, single-player sci-fantasy table-top roleplaying game that sets the player on a journey through a twisted, paradoxical landscape formed from the sudden convergence of the past, present, and future.

The game’s hook is this:

It’s also the first TTRPG I’ve written.

A Cup of Temporal Soup owes its conception to the PocketQuest 2026 game jam, without which I may never have strayed from my other major solo RPG project, Cyprian the Thief, and its setting, Gród.

You can pick up your own copy of A Cup of Temporal Soup here!

Following the hook is totally optional, and the game provides a sandbox to make it entirely your own. For this playthrough, however, I’m going to use this as my character’s backstory and setup.

Once you go through the portal, you land in a place formed from the sudden convergence of different time periods and timelines, finding you too have fused with alternate versions of yourself. As such, I’m going to randomly roll my stats, race, background, etc., and see where it takes me.

Onto the Actual Play! Session 0:

That’s all there is to it!

Time to get playing.

“Today’s the day, lad! Aha!”

...

“Lad?”

...

“Lad??”

…

…

“STASH!”

Huh?

“Sorry, Dr. Bulion!” I say, lifting my head from the boxy gray computer monitor.

“Coming!”

Stash.

A nickname I’ve had since grade school, as I’ve always got a “stash.”

It’s nothing nefarious — I’ve just always had a habit of collecting stuff. Hobbies, snacks, distractions...

“Stash!?”

“Sorry!”

Today is the day. The day that’s supposed to “make everything and nothing matter, all at once,” whatever that means. This machine, the Time Portal, is Dr. Bulion’s life’s work, and today we’re powering it on for the first time. It’s been his sole focus in the six months I’ve worked for him. I thought I was taking a job at a computer repair shop.

I was wrong.

“Place the temporal batteries in their mounting brackets. Remember: It’s Initium, Medium, then Finis.”

Huey, Dewey, and Louie. I call ‘em that because of their distinct colors.

The Time Crystals.

“All set!” I shout as I return to the cramped computer terminal.

“Power it on lad!” Dr. Bulion replies, donning his thick, bug-like goggles.

It’s a lot of heavy “whirs” and whines. It’s loud.

And the colors.

Electricity surges up the outer edge of the portal’s copper-lined frame, up into each of the crystals’ housing units. Huey lights up first, followed by Louie, then Dewey.

The empty space within the frame becomes a psychedelic swirl of pinks and greens. It becomes impossible to see through.

The air is electric.

“Let me know when to shut her down!” I yell, hoping he can hear me over all the noise.

A loose paper — a doodle I’d been working on — gets sucked off the desk and right into the portal, disappearing.

Oh, no.

“Not today, Stash!” he replies, stepping in front of the device.

An otherworldly display of color dances around his thin silhouette.

“Today is the day I make history!”

There’s no time to react.

One moment, he’s there. The next…

He’s gone.

“No, no, no,” I say, kicking the tiny stool out from under me.

I don’t know what to do.

The room shakes.

The world shakes.

Do I shut it down?

What about Dr. Bulion??

Dewey’s bracket buckles forward, twisting free from its position along the portal’s metal frame.

It’s like a cartoon banana being squeezed out of its peel.

PLONK!

It goes airborne, disappearing into the swirling portal.

I bring my hands back to the keyboard.

Nothing.

Another tremor.

...

The other crystals break free from their brackets, sucked into the portal.

First Huey. Then Louie.

Left and right, pieces of equipment are pulled in, followed by a sound unlike anything I’ve ever heard.

Jagged tears, like claw marks, form in the air surrounding the portal, filled with the same colorful swirls.

The Time Crystals.

…

Man…

…

I have to go in and get them.

---

I grab a wrench for protection and fill my backpack with bags of chips from the laboratory kitchen.

I’ll need something to eat…

… if I survive.

I take a deep breath.

And step into the portal.

Yeeeeeeeooooooowww!

w!

w!

w!

w!

w!

Why “A Cup”? And What’s Next for Temporal Soup?

While the game began its life as a little project I was going to make for PocketQuest, it quickly evolved into… much more. While PocketQuest limits submissions to 25 pages or less, by the time I’d finished writing Temporal Soup, it was sitting at around 65 pages. Even then, it still didn’t feel quite complete. Hence, a “Cup.”

I’ve carefully packed every single thing I could into the 25 pages that are A Cup of Temporal Soup, but I’m not done working on it just yet. There are two more versions I hope to release in the future: A Bowl of Temporal Soup (The complete, extended package, fully-illustrated bestiary and all), and Mörk Borscht: A Temporal Soup Game of Beeting the Apocalypse.

Both are already in development, as is Gród: A Slavic Fantasy-Inspired Solo TTRPG.

I can’t wait to share them.

Not sure what’s going on here? Check out the previous sessions!

Cyprian the Thief (Sessions 0 & 1)

Cyprian the Thief (Session 2)

Cyprian the Thief (Session 3)

Cyprian the Thief (Session 4)

Cyprian the Thief (Session 5)

Session 6:

Cyprian still doesn’t understand exactly what happened in Bogumil’s shop, or what this strange new power means for his future. Tonight, he and Tulio will get some rest. Tomorrow? It’s off to Mundus to face Gracjan and free the orklin people.

Day 8: Night: The Lonely Cup — Royal Hold

It comes back in flashes — that fever dream Bogumil sent me through. What happened to me? What was that? I’d be thrilled about this new power if it didn’t scare me so much.

Ugh. The Dagger of Dazbog.

A thousand gold pieces — gone.

Tulio makes little snorts as he scrapes the thick gray sludge from his plate straight into his mouth. The Lonely Cup is no fine dining, and Brajan behind the bar is no chef, but this is a great place to lay low for the evening and avoid any attention. Besides, the kid is clearly starving.

I doubt Gracjan’s well-connected enough to have eyes in the city, and I sincerely doubt he’d spend even a copper looking for a kid. Still, an Orklin child is a rare sight, and word around here couldn’t travel faster on horseback.

“Oy,” a someone says, startling me.

I look up to find a man — a worker, based on the dirt caked to his clothes — standing over our table. Tulio’s large eyes stare up at him, barely visible behind the plate held to his tiny face. Behind a mask of filth, the man smiles.

“Yeah?” I say, addressing him. He reeks of dried flowers, likely an attempt to mask some other odor.

“Yous seem to be doin’ alright, that fancy sword you got there.”

Don’t do anything stupid.

“What do you say? Lend me a couple coins, ehh?”

Phew. If that’s all he wants, I’d say we’re getting off easy.

“Sure thing,” I say, handing over two gold pieces. Enough for a meal and a room for the night, with a couple silver to spare.

“Hey… you’re alright! Thanks, mate!” he says, saluting with the two coins pinched between his fingers.

“Finish up, kid. It’s time we call it a night.”

“Brajan,” I call to the bartender. “We’ll take two rooms.”

-1gp (Meal x2)

-2gp (Room x2)

-2gp (Bar Patron)

I stare at the half-melted beeswax candle sitting atop the crooked nightstand of my room. The bed isn’t much to brag about, but it beats a bedroll on a stone cave floor or the dry mud of the swamp.

I listen for a moment — quiet. Sounds like everyone’s turned in.

I pull a single coin from my bag, carefully rolling it between my fingers before dropping it into my palm.

Let’s try this again.

I focus on it — just like the boy from the memory.

A button. No. A thimble.

I try to think of anything to transform the coin into.

Ooh. A diamond.

Pressure builds behind my temples.

Change, dammit.

Change.

Oracle Question:
Does it change into a diamond?
→ Yes, but…
Mythic GME : D10[4] → interrupt scene.

The coin flickers — not unlike the candle — its metal surface becoming translucent and angular for just a moment.

My heart races.

Incredible.

Random Event Bonus Table: D100[34] = NPC action
NPC (d3[3]): Bar Patron
Actions table (d100[82]): Separate

Oracle Question:
Has the man taken Tulio outside already?
→ No.

There’s a thump downstairs, like a stool falling on hardwood floor.

Probably nothing. Still, I better check.

I ease my door open. There’s no one there, but a door slams just below. Hmm.

I turn.

Tulio’s door. It’s open.

He’s missing.

I shove my bag beneath my bed and arm myself with my blade. My feet glide across the stairs as I descend them, and I reach the door in seconds.

Oracle Questions:
Is there any sign of them outside? (likely):
→ Yes

How far are they? d4[2]:
→ Close enough to touch.

It’s the man from the bar. He leans down from a cart towards Tulio with an outstretched hand.

“Come on lad. Get in then,” he says. “Oh—”

His eyes catch mine. I grab Tulio by his pack, pulling him out of the man’s reach.

“Go Bóz,” he shouts to the cart’s drive. “Look, we was just tryin’ to get your little friend home, that’s all,” he calls out as the cart pulls away. “Seems you’ve got it under control. Cheers!”

The cart’s wooden wheels rattle along the cobblestone street as it disappears into the night.

“Let’s go, kid.”

”Yes sir.”

Hmph.

Day 9: Morning — Royal Hold

Oracle Question:

Do we make it out of the city without issue? Likely:
→ Yes.

I tell Tulio to keep his door latched and not to answer for anyone but me.

We’re lucky to make it through the night without any more surprises. The warmth of the bed feels earned.

In the morning, I cut his sheets into a makeshift cloak and leave a few extra coins behind for Brajan’s trouble.

Anything to draw less attention on our way out of town.

He looks like a tiny scarecrow under the frayed hood, but he’s properly concealed. We make it out of town unharassed, passing through the northern gate with ease.

Ahead lies the River Brudny, and our direct path to Mundus, Tulio’s home.

Thanks for reading! This was one of the shortest entries yet, but it all picks up from here. Stay tuned for the next session, coming soon!

Not sure what’s going on here? Check out the previous sessions!

Cyprian the Thief (Sessions 0 & 1)

Cyprian the Thief (Session 2)

Cyprian the Thief (Session 3)

Cyprian the Thief (Session 4)

Session 5:

Cyprian has been around long enough to know that he should always expect the unexpected — especially in his line of work. However, when you’re dealing with cultists and ancient prophecies of long dead lizardmen in the bowels of a tomb, running into a child still… pretty surprising.

Day 7: Wuskee’s Tomb: The Altar Hall

Tulio, the boy tells us he’s called, explains everything.

He tells us of Mundus, his home, a village nestled along the eastern edge of the River Brudny, not far to the northeast.

Mundus is a peaceful place, home to a large population of orklin, a pig-like people. Tulio’s mother is an orklin, but his father’s a krasnal, like Fink. The orklin live in seclusion, largely separated from the rest of Gród. I can’t blame them — people can be cruel, especially to those different from them. Many compare the orklin to the animal they resemble, and treat them in kind. Until this moment, I’ve never even met one.

Tricked into lowering their gates, Mundus has been infiltrated by a group of brigands led by a man called Gracjan the Patient. People say he earned this nickname after hiding in the ceiling of a house he was trying to rob for five straight days. Apparently, the owner, who had fallen ill, was taking an extended stay at the healers. Gracjan was surprised to find he’d come home early, and even more surprised to find he’d be under 24/7 care.

Oracle Question: Do I know him? (Gracjan)
Likely (Thief class)
Answer: Yes [19]

Oracle Question: How do I know him?
Crime partner (d100[27])

Gracjan.

He and I used to work together — mostly small jobs. Before I took up graverobbing, I earned my coin liberating the occasional tavern safe, manor vault, or museum. I was always good at getting in and out of places unseen. Some of that boils down to talent. Most of it’s about knowing when to quit.

Gracjan was no rookie thief, but he always got greedy. That’s how he really earned his nickname. His mark hadn’t gotten home early, Gracjan just lost track of time. He was too busy filling his pockets to notice the sun had come up.

Any job we did together, he’d make it his mission to walk out with the most coin. Every. Single. Time. More often than not, he’d cut it too close. He never needed to make the bigger score — he wanted to. He wanted me, and everyone else, to know that Gracjan was the “best of the best.” He wasn’t a bad thief, but he was foolish.

On our last job, things got bad. I haven’t seen him since. I hoped to never see him again.

Now he’s taken Tulio’s village hostage, and his father as his personal prisoner, promising their release on one condition: they give up their most precious valuables. Tulio says they’ve given him everything they have, but he still isn’t satisfied. Typical Gracjan.

If his demands aren’t met, Tulio fears Gracjan will kill his father. Considering how things went the last time we met, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Having heard stories of Wuskee’s tomb, the little half-orklin came here searching for magical artifacts he might use to buy his father’s freedom. Artifacts like Wuskee’s ring.

Unfortunately, the bone cultists appeared shortly after he arrived, forcing him deeper into the tomb, trapped. He hid behind the lizardman’s statue, grateful to discover a space through which he could fit and no one else. As days passed, the altar room became his home. While he’d made attempts to escape, the cultists blocked the entrance — exactly where we found them.

---

With Tulio in tow, Fink and I make quick work of the rest of the tomb, finding little else of interest or concern. There's a mysterious potion in the fountain of a shroom-lit garden connected to the altar hall, and a storeroom filled with useless, mildew-ridden trash. The potion’s bottle is bulbous and round, filled not with liquid, but a tiny cumulus cloud. I'll look into that later. Right now, our primary goal is getting Tulio out safely.

Before long we reach the exit.

Outside Wuskee’s Tomb

The sun hangs low over Gród, and night falls upon the land. We'd spent nearly the full day in there.

"Fink, I hate to say it, but—"

"We'd better make camp inside. At least we know what to expect in there."

We sleep in the vault, managing to secure the entrance and guarantee our safety for the night. Tulio uses his tiny backpack for a pillow, while gentle snores vibrate his pig-like snout. I can’t believe he survived down here alone for all that time, never knowing when the cultists might discover him. The kid’s got guts.

Day 8: Hex: M5 (Outside Wuskee’s Tomb)
Rations → 7

It was a much needed night of sleep. My body feels restored, better than I thought possible after a day like that.

Fink saved my life. I’ll never forget it. I’d crossed the threshold toward death and he pulled me back to the realm of the living.

Thinking about it gives me chills.

I have the ring. I should just head back to Royal Hold, collect my reward, and enjoy the pile of gold we just secured.

Then again,

the boy.

He’s so small, yet he was ready to do whatever he needed in order to save his family and protect his home.

I glance over my map. If Tulio’s correct about Mundus’ location, I could make a quick detour to Royal Hold, drop off the ring, and then head north to deal with this… Gracjan problem.

Ugh. Why must I always stick my neck out? Can’t I pick the selfish option for once?

No.

“Tulio, wait!”

He’s already begun his departure, ready to brave the wilds once more. Alone and empty-handed, yet without a second thought.

“Come with me to Royal Hold. I just need to drop something off. Then, we’ll head to Mundus to save your father. Together.

“Mr. Cy—Cyprian, do you mean it? You’ll help me save everyone?”

“I mean it. We’ll save your father. And your village.”

Tears well in his oversized eyes.

“Well, blast! If you’re goin’, I’m goin’. Count me in too!” Fink says with an affirmative nod.

I smile.

“I can’t ask you to do that, Fink. You’ve done enough. Truly. Besides, I know this jerk, Gracjan, and how to handle him. Get back to your family with that gold. Safely. You’ve got a home to rebuild.”

He begins to respond, but hesitates.

“Aye. But you best pay us a visit once you’re done. We’ve both got reasons to be grateful to the other.”

“I’d drink to that.”

“Aye! You bet we will! Aha!”

We part ways. I have a feeling it’s going to be a while before we share that drink. It’s true that I know Gracjan, but I’m not really sure how I’m going to handle him just yet.

I take one of the daggers I’d grabbed off the fallen cultists and hand it to Tulio.

“Just in case,” I say.

“Yes sir.”

Starting hex: M5
Heading southeast → N5 (Swamp) (-3 hours)
Encounter: No
ET (Event threshold): 2 → 3, FT (Feature threshold): 4 → 5

In just a few hours, we’re back in the swamp, not far from where I first met Fink and the other krasnals. Tulio’s tiny legs struggle to traverse the thick muck, but he perseveres. It’s strange to think that the run-in with the ogres happened just two days ago.

I hope the krasnals made it home safe. Fink should be there soon.

Starting hex: N5
Heading southeast → O6 (Swamp) (-4 hours)

Encounter: Yes! (d6[1!])

“Umm, Cyprian?” Tulio says, pointing into the distance. “What’s that?”

“Well, my boy. That’s Royal Ho-”

No.

Between us and the city, the dead walk.

Encounter (d20[6])=
Topielec/Bog Zombie
AC: 8, Hit Dice(HD): 1, Attack bonus: +1, Damage: 1d6

Who sees who first?
Bog Zombie [2d8+1= 8] vs Cyprian [2d8+1= 9] = Cyprian

Distance?
2d6(10) = 10 x 50 ft = 500 ft

“A bog zombie,” I say, grabbing my bow and nocking an arrow. “The swamps are riddled with them.”

He gulps.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” I say. “Watch.”

It stumbles through the mud, completely unaware of its fate.

Cyprian’s Attack: = 25! (SUCCESS)
Damage: 1d6[3] + 1 = 4 = 1 damage

Bog Zombie (HD) = 1 → 0(!)

“Hoh!”

Tulio gasps. The bog zombie plummets into the muck.

“Close your eyes,” I tell him as we near it. Something attached to its arm glimmers in the sunlight.

*Treasure roll*

Hmm.

A bracelet. Cheap gold, and poor craftsmanship. Still, it may fetch us a few coins.(worth 50gp)

“Keep ‘em closed just a little longer. I’ll tell you when it’s clear.”

“Yes sir. Thank you.”

Royal Hold
“The Swamp Kingdom”
Population: ~7500

I finally made it. We made it.

What should’ve been an easy job took 8 days. And now I’m back — with a kid.

Bogumil’s gonna get a kick out of this.

The city bears no walls — Royal Hold is no great fortress. Buildings of every shape and size sprout from the hundreds of inter-connected platforms suspended over the swampland. Royal Hold doesn’t need walls. No army would dare brave the swamps.

“Cyprian… This, umm...” Tulio says, taking it all in. “…doesn’t look much like a kingdom.”

“Ha!” I laugh, patting the little tuft of brown hair atop his head. “It sure doesn’t, does it?”

Two guards eye us as we ascend the western ramp toward the warehouse district. I know the drill and toss a coin to the closest. He waves us in without a second look.

Charging an entry fee to get into a place like this?

It’s robbery.

Ability Check (Charisma DC[9]): d20(3)+1 = 4 (FAILURE)

The guards are one thing. The residents of Royal Hold are another. They have no shame. No manners. I hear their whispers and laughs as they set their hate-filled eyes upon the boy, with no concern for the child’s heart. I thank the gods for his naivete, too distracted by each new sight and sound to notice.

We exit the warehouse district and soon reach the outskirts of Market Town. Strange scents fill the air — a blend of every food being peddled at the market stalls just down the way.

This is where Bogumil lives, above his shop of “wonders.”

“We’re here,” I say, glancing at the crude, hand-painted sign.

“Don’t touch anything in here, okay? There’s no telling what any of it actually does.”

Tulio looks up at me and nods, quickly turning his attention back to the unfamiliar city.

Bogumil’s Shop

A melody plays as we cross the threshold, performed by unseen strings: an enchantment placed by Bogumil, and far from the shop’s greatest peculiarity. Hundreds of items, imbued with any combination of enchantments and curses, cover the room from floor to ceiling.

“Cyprian!” Bogumil’s bassy voice echoes through the storefront. “You have returned!”

He rounds the corner into the narrow hallway formed by the tightly placed shelves. He’s large — not quite giant-sized, but larger than any man I’ve ever known, practically filling the space. Each object resting on the shelves wobbles and spins, carelessly bumped into by Bogumil as he lumbers toward us. I panic at the thought of any of these things falling and hitting the ground.

“And not empty handed, I hope!” he says, turning his attention to the half-orklin child at my hip.

Tulio buries into me, clearly taken aback by the man’s towering stature.

“Oh.” Bogumil says softly, lowering himself to a knee and bumping several more objects in the process. “And who might this be?”

“A fellow grave robber,” I say. “Bogumil, meet Tulio. Tulio, Bogumil.”

“H- H- Hello, sir.”

“Oh-ho-ho! Would you look at that?” Bogumil says eagerly, easing into his appropriately sized chair. “The ring of the great Wuskee.”

He places the ring upon the tip of his large pinkie finger.

“Uh —” I gasp.

His round pupils turn into horizontal slits. He looks around the room in wonder. Tulio looks at me with concern. I just shake my head and shrug.

Bogumil’s attention turns to his desk. He stares down at it for a moment.

“An interesting item you have there,” he says, looking at me.

“Huh?”

“The stone dagger. In your bag,” he says. “May I see it?”

Ahh. The ring.

I’m guessing it allows him to see through solid objects. I don’t like the implication of it. He must see the citrine dagger I found.

I reach into my bag, past the other various trinkets I’ve acquired over the last week or so, and grab the smooth stone artifact.

“The dagger of—”

“Dazbog, yes.” He cuts me off and takes it into his large mitts. “Not magical, no, but a fantastic find... How much?”

I laugh.

“I think you and I both know the good thane has his eyes set on just this sort of thing.”

“Mm, Blago, yes.” he says, handing it back without as much as an argument. “Deep pockets. Oh well.”

“I came to collect on your promise. That thing about my “past in the mystic arts,” I believe it was?”

“Ah, yes. Of course. Your elven gift,” he says, rising from his chair and dropping the ring into his pocket. “Quite a powerful mage you were in a previous life. He left you something. Stand.”

“Oh, sure,” I say, standing. “If something happens to me, kid, take my bag and bring this dagger to Thane Blago in the keep. He’ll—”

Bogumil presses a finger into each of my temples. It feels as if my soul is being torn from my body.

I’m back.

Back in Bogumil’s office, drenched in sweat. He’s smiling. Tulio looks nervous.

My hands are freezing.

I look down at them, holding the Dagger of Dazbog — its stone surface transformed into ice.

It slips from my numb fingers.

And shatters against the floor.

“Ugh.”

Session 6 is published!

Looking for the previous sessions? Check ‘em out!

Cyprian the Thief (Sessions 0 & 1)

Cyprian the Thief (Session 2)

Cyprian the Thief (Session 3)

Session 4:

Cyprian had never known comfort. His parents disappeared before he could walk, abandoning him in the port city of Velusto. He remembered the ship they’d arrived on and the cold, wet boards upon which they slept during that long journey. He remembered his mother’s desperate attempts to soothe his cries, lest the ship captain hear them and toss the starving stowaways overboard.

His body was ice; colder now than it had been those many years ago. It was wet, not with water, but with blood. His own. Cyprian was not born into comfort. He’d always hoped to at least die in it.

Day 7: Wuskee’s Tomb

Cyprian remains caught in Wuskee’s grip.

I’m done for.

As Wuskee retracts his dagger-tipped claw from my abdomen, I feel each of his five, bony fingers exit my feeble body one-by-one. I’m too weak to move, and my rapier, my only means of defense, sits firmly locked in Wuskee’s other barbed mitt.

Ruby drops of my fresh, half-elf blood glisten in the torchlight, trickling down the reaper’s scythe as it swings once more, ready to bring me home.

I draw the cold crypt air into my blood-soaked chest one last time.

…

…

…

Huh?

I’m yanked backwards, my death defied by tiny, sausage-like fingers clasped around the loose fabric at the back of my tunic.

Everything slows. I watch Wuskee’s claws sheer the ends of my eyelashes, splintering each and every hair. His scaly brow furrows in bewildered rage, and he makes a fatal mistake. He retracts his claws and lets out a bloodthirsty roar, releasing my rapier in the process.

With every last ounce of strength, I flourish, twisting the point forward toward my mark. My arm becomes a cannon, blasting the blade deep into his maw. Bones crack and shatter, making space for my blade as it splits Wuskee’s skull. He gags violently, unable to close his mouth fully around my rapier’s round guard.

Cyprian’s Attack: 1d20[18] + 1[Attack bonus] + 4[AC] + 1[rapier] = 24(Success!)
Damage: 1d6(6!) + 7! = 2!

Wuskee HD: 2 → 0!

That was it.

Everything I had.

My legs crumble under the weight of my weakened body. As I collapse onto my back, I watch the great lizard stumble, struggling and confused. My breaths slow. As does his stumbling.

His eyes catch mine. Their vibrant yellow hue fades and dulls, as I witness the fire behind them extinguish. For a brief moment, he’s frozen: a sad reflection of the lifelike statue that preceded this very encounter. Just as mine did, his legs buckle.

He, too, collapses.

Right on top of me.

“HNNNGGG!”

There’s a heavy grunt as the weight of Wuskee’s body rolls off of my chest.

“Oh, blessed be. Yer alive!” Fink exclaims, his tiny frame looking down upon me as he offers an outstretched hand.

“Y-ouch!” I cry. My wounds need dressing. Lucky for me, it seems Wuskee’s heavy body stopped the bleed.

“It’s a bit of a shock to me too,” I say as Fink pulls me to my feet. “It’s all thanks to you. Thanks for not running off on me.”

He chuckles.

“It’s just a damn shame you woke up before I managed to peel that backpack off ya.”

We share a laugh. It feels good. I can’t believe I’m alive to laugh.

Gods bless this krasnal. He saved my life.

I wrap my wounds in fresh bandages. Before I’ve even finished, Fink starts down the revealed passageway.

“Umm… Fink?”

“What?” He replies, steady on his path and torch in hand. “It’s not like there’s gonna be two of ‘em.”

Room 10: Cemetery (Crypt) (d20[4])
Encounter: YES (d6[6!])
TREASURE: YES (d10[10])
No: Hazards or Features.
1 additional exit.

I follow him down the blood-stained corridor and into a wide, rectangular room. An uneasy feeling washes over me. My hairs stand on end.

“Fink—“

He lights a torch hanging on the inner wall, illuminating the contents of the room: Eight large marble sarcophagi, the largest sitting against the far wall with its lid resting on the floor.

“Oh,” he says.

Six tiny flames materialize alongside each stone box, washing them in a pale white glow.

“I think I spoke too s—“

The heavy stone lids shift and slide, scraping loudly against their bases. All of Gród must’ve felt them rumble to the floor.

A bony, razor-tipped hand rises from the first, then the second, until we’re face to face with 7 undead gadzi. Unlike Wuskee, they’re nothing but skeletons.

“K-YEHHH!” they screech, bones clacking as the stumble toward us.

I rest a hand upon my bandaged chest, and the other on my rapier.

Ugh.

Enemies: 6 minions (Gadzi Skeletons), 1 elite (Gadzi Skeletal Bodyguard)
Gadzi Skeletons:
AC: 7, Hit Dice(HD): 1, Attack Bonus: +1, Damage: 1d6

Gadzi Skeletal Bodyguard:
AC: 5, Hit Dice(HD): 1, Attack Bonus: +1, Damage: 1d10

I strike at the closest of them.

Cyprian’s attack: 17 (FAILURE)

My timing is all wrong. I need rest. I’m in no state for another fight.

Vibrations tear through my hand as steel meets stone and my rapier’s blade clangs against the sarcophagus. The largest of the skeletons is rapidly upon me, but I’m not finished yet.

Fray attack: 1d6[3] = 1 damage

I shove the vibrating, steel-tipped pommel into its brittle bone head.

Gadzi Skeleton Bodyguard 1 (HD) = 1 → 0(!)
(6 enemies remain. 6 Gadzi Skeletons)

The others pounce, claws bared.

Gadzi Skeleton 1’s Attack: 26 (SUCCESS)
Damage: 1d6[6!] = 2 damage

Cyprian (HP): 6 → 4

They tear into my side, bypassing my leather padding and fresh bandages.

As I reel in pain, a hammer whizzes over my shoulder, narrowly missing my head.

Huh?

Fink’s attack: d20[17] + AC [7] + 1 + 1  =  25 (SUCCESS)
Damage: 1d4[2] = 1 damage

Gadzi Skeleton 1 (HD) = 1 → 0(!)
(5 Gadzi Skeletons remain.)

The nearest skeleton greets the hammer with its face, reduced to a cloud of fine white powder.

Fink.

“Go!” I shout. “Get out of here!”

He didn’t save me just so he could die here.

Cyprian’s attack: 28 (SUCCESS)
Damage: d6[3] + 1  =  4 = 1 damage

Gadzi Skeleton 2 (HD) = 1 → 0(!)
(4 Gadzi Skeletons remain.)

Fray Attack: 1d6[5] = 1 damage

Gadzi Skeleton 3 (HD) = 1 → 0(!)
(3 Gadzi Skeletons remain.)

Two more fall. Their bones tumble like dominoes, crushed under the approaching feet of the remaining undead lizards.

Gadzi Skeleton Attack: 23 (SUCCESS)
Damage: 1d6(4) = 1 damage

Cyprian (HP): 4 → 3

“GAH!”

Sharp teeth dig deep into my forearm.

WHOOSH!

A femur swings through the air, not belonging to anything still standing. To my right, Fink clutches the staggeringly large bone, panting.

Cyprian’s attack: 22 (SUCCESS)

Teeth splinter and snap free from their roots as I rip my arm free of the gadzi’s closed jaw, pulling its head off its shoulders.

Damage: 1d6[5] + 1 = 6 = 2 damage

Gadzi Skeleton 4 (HD) = 1 → 0(!)
(2 Gadzi Skeletons remain.)

There’s one point of damage left over from that attack.

I follow through on the swing, dragging my blade through the next gadzi’s exposed ribs. It cuts clean from shoulder to hip, perfectly bisecting the crumbling mass.

Gadzi Skeleton 5 (HD) = 1 → 0(!)
(1 Gadzi Skeleton remains)

The last skeleton’s teeth chatter, preparing to inflict a matching wound on my opposite arm.

I defy it.

Fray Attack: 1d6[4] = 1 damage

Gadzi Skeleton 6 (HD) = 1 → 0(!)
(0 enemies remaining.)

As the final bone shatters against the stone floor, the room quiets. All I hear are Fink’s labored breaths.

“I’m sorry,” Fink says, composing himself. “I know, you said —”

“Thank you, Fink. Again.” I say, interrupting him. “Just warn me next time you decide to throw a hammer past my head, ok?”

He smiles with a nod.

I retrieve his hammer and kick the wide pile of bones to clear a path. My side throbs. My wrist burns.

I need a moment.

I pull out my healer’s kit, covering my new wounds and replacing the soiled bandages of the old. Beneath my armor, my body is nearly covered in them. Needless to say, I’ll be happy to not see any lizardfolk, living or otherwise, for a long time.

+2 HP recovered

Cyprian (HP): 3 → 5

“Let’s see what they were protecting,” I say, peering into the nearest sarcophagus.

Treasure: m2 (substantial cash amount: 2d4 x 100gp)

The lesser boxes bear no coin, but a small stone chest lay hidden at the feet of Wuskee’s.

“Aha!” I say, revealing a coin to Fink.

He grins.

We split the small fortune of 400 coins, adding them to our already substantial pile of loot. My bag feels as heavy as my body. I’m ready for a full night of sleep. In a bed for a change.

I glance to my right, at the set of stone doors on the western side of the room, then back to the narrow passageway from which we entered. One path leads to safety. The other: The unknown. I stand tall and stretch my battered, bandaged body.

Surely the threats end here.

Uh oh. I’m beginning to sound like Fink.

I press my hand firmly against the nearest door and push it open with caution. Fink nods and we proceed into the next chamber.

Room 11: Altar Hall
Feature: YES
No: Encounter, Treasure, or Hazards.

Feature: 1d8[1]: Non-combatant inhabitant
Motivation: Scout the site for an outside power
NPC: Rolled.

Cast from the glow of Fink’s torch, my shadow stretches the length of the grand altar hall. Before Wuskee’s burial, this was likely a great hub of gadzi worship.

Oracle Question: Am I well educated on gadzi culture and religion? Likely (Ruin explorer/Eidetic memory)
Answer: Yes [14]

Two elaborate murals, ceiling high, span the entirety of the long walls to my left and right. The leftmost mural is briefly broken by a single stone door, and 5 small, stone altars line each of them. At the opposite end of the room, similar to the crypt, a single, larger altar sits, separated from the rest.

Each mural tells a story, the basis of which I’m vaguely familiar. The left tells the account of Wuskee’s life, depicting his reign of the Great Gadzi tribe for over 200 years. The right mural is prophetic: a depiction of events to come after Wuskee’s reign.

“Hmmph.”

I imagine much of what’s depicted is pure hyperbole. Still, they do hold some truth.

From what I’ve been told, gadzi leadership and governance was not built on hereditary rule, but on the idea of “Silne pisklę,” the “strong hatchling.” The gadzi believed every hatchling was born at their full potential, their destiny set in stone the moment they leave their shell. These were qualities, they believed, that must be tested early.

Each mural begins the same: depicting a nest of eggs, laid by different mothers, crackling and hatching under the warm glow of the rising sun. As the young gadzi break free, they’re faced with their challenge: defeating their birth brothers and sisters in a fight to the death. It’s their only hope of survival — killing and feeding on their fallen rivals. He or she who lives will rule the gadzi until their cycle ends and the next begins, uncontested.

Wuskee’s life is represented in full on the mural to my left, but the right mural, while similar, tells a different tale. It depicts the story of a monstrous gadzi towering over his kinsman and rising to conquer the lands of men.

Ha.

Can’t say I remember that happening. Wuskee was the gadzi’s last known chief. They’ve since been reduced to a few minor clans on the fringes of Gród, rapidly approaching extinction. They’re hardly a threat.

“Cyprian,” Fink says. “Look.”

He points to the basin at the center of the nearest minor shrine. Crumbled white pieces — like those of a broken vase — sit in a small mound. I glance to the next shrine, the one after that, and so on. They all feature the same broken... shells.

“The eggs,” I say, stepping back. “They brought them here?”

“It’s like in the paintings.”

“Right.”

I look at the murals. Each depicts ten eggs. Ten eggs. Ten shrines.

Each shrine, same as the last, is filled with pieces of broken shell.

They all hatched. Well, that’s a relief.

“Must’ve all killed each other.” I say.

“Or maybe Wuskee ate ‘em.” Fink replies. “Poor creatures.”

“But how would they—”

There’s rustling behind the main altar. Oh no.

The altar glows as an orange, cannonball-sized orb rises from its basin. Its light is blinding, and fills every crack and crevice in the room.

“Gods!” I yell, shielding my eyes.

It hangs there, suspended in the air, making it impossible to see a thing.

“Gods be right!” Finks yells from somewhere in the sea of light. “They recreated the bloody sun!”

It moves again — the creature behind the altar — scurrying — fleeing — toward the stone door. It’s small, but it’s too bright in here to make out its form. I think of the monstrous gadzi conqueror depicted in the mural. Could it be?

The light fades as the orb descends back into the altar. The creature struggles to move the heavy stone door. Fink charges it.

“Fink, wait!” I scream, chasing him. Prophecy or not, I have a policy against harming children.

It squeals. Not like a lizard. Like a pig.

“Please don’t!” a tiny voice cries out. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!!”

It’s scared.

“Well, I... uh.” Fink stutters. “I — we — We’re not gonna hurt...”

Fink turns to me as I inch forward, his face riddled with uncertainty and guilt. Torchlight shines brightly onto the pink, tear-streaked face of the tiny cornered humanoid.

It’s small, even for a child. A narrow patch of brown hair sits upon his little head like an upside down goatee flanked by two droopy, pointed ears. His button of a nose sits flat and pushed up, as if he’d run into a wall and it’d just stayed that way.

He’s… adorable.

“No need to be afraid, little one” I say, lowering myself to the ground. “You just startled us, is all. Are you an... orklin?”

“H— h— half o— o— orklin,“ he stutters between sobs, wiping snot from his tiny snout. “H— half kr— kr— krasnal.”

I raise my eyebrows, and turn back to Fink with a smirk.

“Oh, hell mate,” he says, shaking his head.

I can see his cheeks turn crimson, even under the warm glow of the torch.

“’es not mine.”

“What are you doing in this place?” I ask the whimpering child. “And how did you get back here?”

Missed the previous posts? No worries!

Cyprian the Thief (Sessions 0 & 1)

Cyprian the Thief (Session 2)

Session 3: Into Wuskee’s Tomb

After a week of searching the treacherous swamps of Gród, Cyprian’s destination is finally within arms reach: Wuskee’s Tomb. In exchange for his help in defeating the ogres that once plagued the krasnal village, Fink, a young krasnal male, has offered to lead Cyprian right to its front door.

Day 7: Starting hex: N5 (Swamp)

“Ahh, I see.” Fink says. “Your map’s mostly right — just flipped. You went southwest. Needed to go northwest.”

Dammit, Bogumil.

“We’re actually not too far now, thank Zevana. Let’s get to it.”

Hex: N5 (Swamp). Moving Northwest → M5: Plains)

ET (Event Threshold): 1 → 2, FT (Feature Threshold): 3 → 4, Rations: 9 → 8

We cross the plains to the northwest, luckily avoiding danger as we approach the ruins.

At long last.

Time has not been kind to the lizardman Wuskee’s tomb, as only a small mausoleum stands amongst the rubble. This place, now practically flattened, may have once been a grand display of ancient culture.

“Well, here we are,” Fink says with a nod.

“Interested in joining me?” I ask.

2d6[7]: Yes

“Hmm,” he says, nervously eying the stone door. “Well… you did help us with two ogres, when we only asked for help with one…”

“Ehh?” I say, grinning.

“Fine!” he says, brushing past me as he opens his pack. “But I’m only carrying the torch!”

Dust falls as we pry open the ancient door.

Room 1: Entrance: Meditation room (d20[9])
MacGuffin: No (d20[14]) — on a 20, I find the ring.
Additional Exits: 3 (d6[3])
Encounter: YES! (d6[6!])
Treasure: No (d10[5])
Hazard: No (d10[3])
Feature: No (d10[8])

Fink and I descend the stone staircase deep into the tomb. A faint murmur echoes through the stairwell, and torchlight dances along the bottom steps. Someone, or something, lurks in the room ahead just of us.

I place a palm on Fink’s chest.

“Wait,” I whisper, tiptoeing forward with my bow in hand.

Stealth check: 2d8[8+7] + dex[1] = 16 = success.

I nock an arrow just as my foot lands on the final step. A pair of eyes, belonging to one of the eight robed figures seated on the floor, looks up at me from a meditative pose. His eyes meet mine. I release the arrow. He gasps.

“Run, Fink!”

Enemies: 6 minions (Initiates), 2 elites (Templars)
Initiates:
AC: 7, Hit Dice(HD): 1, Attack bonus: +1, Damage: 1d6

Templars:
AC: 5, Hit Dice(HD): 1, Attack bonus: +1, Damage: 1d10

The shot is clean. He has no time to react before the arrow punctures his neck.

Cyprian’s Attack: (d20[9] + AC[5] + Bow[1] + Attack bonus[1] + Sneak Attack[4]) = 20 (SUCCESS)
Damage: 1d8[3] + 1 = 4 = 1 damage

Templar 1 (HD) = 1 → 0(!)

Killing my fellow man brings me no pleasure, but based on their attire, these are no men of peace. The skulls they wear upon their cloaks make it clear: they’re Bone Cultists, set on reviving the dark sorcerer Koschei. If I don’t defeat them now, there’s no chance they’ll allow me to escape. Or live. They, too, must be here for Wuskee’s ring.

The other cultists rise, pulling short, jagged blades from their corded belts. Only one other cultist’s garb matches that of the man who lies dead. The rest, while donning the same wretched symbol, wear mere peasant rags. They’re only initiates. It appears I’ve killed one of their ranking members.

“Destroy him!” one screams, as the group charges me. “Let his soul fill lord Koschei’s chalice!”

I drop the bow and draw my rapier before the bow has even struck the ground. My needle-like blade swings in a wide arc.

Fray Attack: 1d6[6!] = 2 damage

Initiate 1 (HD) = 1 → 0(!)

Initiate 2 (HD) = 1 → 0(!)
(5 enemies remain. 1 Templar, 4 Initiates)

A cloud of red mist forms in the air as I slice the throats of two more cultists. Their blood paints the gray stone red.

The others are on me like flies. Daggers appear from every direction. I’m fast, but there are simply too many. One connects.

Initiate 3’s Attack: 22 (SUCCESS)
Damage: 1d6[2] = 1 damage

Cyprian (HP): 5 → 4

It hurts, but it’s shallow.

Another connects — the Templar’s.

It cuts deep.

Templar 2’s Attack: 26 (SUCCESS)
Damage: 1d10[9] = 2 damage

Cyprian (HP): 5 → 2(!)

“Gahhh!” I scream, as the dagger’s jagged edge tears into my shoulder.

Am I going to die here?

I lunge at the remaining templar, ready to enact my revenge.

Cyprian’s Attack: 11 (FAILURE)

I miss.

I am going to die here.

Reeling from the pain, I struggle to find solid footing on the spilt blood. In a last ditch effort, I spin, place my back against the far wall, and clumsily flail at my assailants.

Fray Attack: 1d6[6!] = 2 damage!

That did the trick.

The remaining templar and another initiate are caught in my frenzy. The templar, perfectly disemboweled, collapses to the floor. The lowly initiate catches a glancing blow to the neck. It’s lethal.

Templar 2 (HD) = 1 → 0(!)

Initiate 3 (HD) = 1 → 0(!)
(3 enemies remain. 3 Initiates)

Blade after blade clangs against the hard stone wall. Miraculously, I dodge every one.

I crouch low, take a discarded dagger from the floor, and dash between them.

Cyprian’s Attack: (d20[13] + AC[7] + Dagger[1] + Attack bonus[1] = 22 (SUCCESS)
Damage: 1d4[2] + 1 = 3 = 1 damage

I slam it into the closest initiate’s back, sheathing it deep within his flesh.

Initiate 4 (HD) = 1 → 0(!)
(2 enemies remain. 2 Initiates)

I cut through the other two like paper. They hadn’t even seen what I’d done with the dagger before I bring my rapier across their backs.

Fray Attack: 1d6[6!] = 2 damage

Initiate 5 (HD) = 1 → 0(!)

Initiate 6 (HD) = 1 → 0(!)
(0 enemies remain.)

My lungs sting as I grasp for breath and collapse into the eastern wall. I just… need a moment to rest.

+2 HP recovered

“By Zevana… you slaughtered them.”

A small, familiar humanoid peeks out from the stairwell.

“Fink,” I cough. “I told you to —”

“I know,” he replies. “It just didn’t seem right to…”

“Thank you,” I say, extending a hand. Fink helps me to my feet.

I search the cultists’ bodies in hopes they’ve saved me the trouble of finding the ring myself. No such luck.

Amongst them, there’s eleven loose gold (11gp), a cheap bronze ring (worth 30gp), and a cheap bronze brooch (worth 80gp). At least it’s something.

There are three paths out of the room. One to the west, north, and east. I’m closest to the west exit, so I head in that direction. Carefully.

“Let’s go.”

Room 2: Minor Shrine (d20[10])
No: MacGuffin, Encounter, Hazard, or Feature.
Treasure: 20gp
Dead end.

It’s a small room with a stone, birdbath-like structure at its center.

“A shrine…” Fink says.

Brittle flowers and a small pouch rest upon its base. Within the pouch, there’s 20 gold. I share half with Fink.

“The gods continue to smile upon us.”

---

We head back to the meditation chamber and take the northern path.

Room 3: Meditation Room (d20[9])
No: MacGuffin, Encounter, Treasure, Hazard, or Feature.
1 additional exit.

It’s another meditation room. Fortunately, there are no cultists in sight. A single exit awaits us at the room’s northern end. We take it.

Room 4: Vault (d20[18])
No: MacGuffin, Encounter, Hazard, or Feature.
Treasure: Roll on C1 and ÷ 10
Dead end.

Oracle Question: Is the vault intact? (Unlikely)
Answer: No. (d20[4])

We enter a round vault, split into two halves. Each side is — or was — once separated by an iron cage reduced to a twisted, rust-covered pile. The smell of mildew hangs in the air, presumably belonging to the few pieces of ornate furniture left behind when this place was looted by previous explorers. An empty vault doesn’t bode well for my chances of finding Wuskee’s ring.

Fink hops into one of the chairs as I pace the room and contemplate our next move. A single sparkling coin rolls out from under it. We watch, transfixed, as the coin falls through the drain at the center of the room.

“Fink.” I say, walking toward him. “Get up for a moment.”

“Ayy,” he replies, leaping up and stepping aside.

I flip the heavy chair over, revealing bright green fabric indicative of what it might’ve looked like once upon a time, underneath a century of dust and grime. A small tear in the fabric is the source of our mysterious coin. I pull a dagger from my belt and slice it corner-to-corner. Fink and I share a grin.

“Talk about sittin’ on a gold mine, ehh?” He says, eying the small fortune.

In all, the chair contains about 200 gold pieces, a costly silver necklace (worth 150gp), and a bright red spinel (worth 200gp). I split the gold with fink, but hold onto the necklace and jewel. Fink takes it without a word, but I can tell he’s overjoyed. I feel it too. If this was looked over, who knows what else might have been left behind?

Unsurprisingly, the vault is a dead end. We head back to the entrance and take the remaining path: east.

Room 5: Acolyte’s Cells (d20[1])
No: MacGuffin, Encounter, Hazard, or Feature.
Treasure: 60gp
1 additional exit.

I nearly trip over an empty bedroll as we enter the next room. Several line the floor, accompanied by a few sacks, a handful of discarded robes, and a small chest. This must be where they’ve been sleeping. We don’t encounter any cultists, but we do find roughly 60 pieces of gold amongst their things. Works for me.

I place half in my bag and toss the rest to fink. This time, he seems taken aback.

“Cyprian, this is really more than I ever thought. You don’t —”

“Listen. Just being here is dangerous. You’re earning that gold every second.”

He nods and drops the coins in his pouch. We press forward.

Room 6: Workroom (d20[20])
No: MacGuffin, Encounter, Treasure, or Hazard.
Feature: Obscenely defaced furnishings (d10[9])
1 additional exit.

The barracks connect to a small workroom, likely where the tomb’s shrines were once carved. Little remains intact, unfortunately, but the damage appears recent. Hammers and chisels lay scattered across the room, bent and broken. The cultists abhor everything holy. If they hadn’t foolishly destroyed the tools, they may have gotten to the western shrine as well.

“Bloody hells,” Fink says, shaking his head.

We exit through a door to the northwest.

Room 7: Workroom (Washroom) (d20[20])
No: MacGuffin, Encounter, Treasure, or Hazard.
Feature: A piece of artwork, known to be wanted by a local noble (d10[10])
1 additional exit.

Oracle Questions:
Is the artwork a painting? No. (d20[4])
Is it something I can carry? Yes. (d20[20!])
Is it made of metal? No, but… it’s golden in color. (d20[9])

We enter a washroom, where stone basins still trickle with crystal-clear water after all this time. I take the opportunity to fill my waterskin, but notice something strange about this particular fountain. Most of the basins have flat bottoms, but this one’s marked with a cross. I inspect it while my waterskin fills, and swear I see an amber glint beneath the water’s surface, coming from the cross. As Fink’s torch flickers, I see it again.

Without delay, I roll up my sleeve and plunge my arm into the shallow pool. Grey sediment drips from the strange citrine dagger as I pull it from the water.

I recognize it from a book — the dagger of Dazbog, the god of the sun and prosperity. It’s purely symbolic, but quite valuable nonetheless. Thane Blago, the Swamp King of Royal Hold, has a collection of artifacts just like this. I bet he’d pay handsomely for it. I tuck it into my pack as we exit through the single door to the northeast.

Room 8: Vestry (d20[19])
No: MacGuffin, Encounter, Treasure, Hazard, or Feature.
1 additional exit.

We walk through a vestry, tightly spaced and lined with ancient, dust-ridden robes. These don’t belong to the cultists — they must have been used by the gadzi priests who laid Wuskee to rest. We’re getting close now. I can feel it.

Room 9: Minor Shrine (d20[10])

Feature: A Furnishing Blocking an Exit (d10[10])
1 Additional exit.

As we round the corner out of the vestry, we come face to face with the stony likeness of an aged lizardman. The craftsmanship is perfect: You almost expect his chest to move as he breathes. This must be a statue of Wuskee.

His hands are raised as if he’s praying, but I see no ring. Damn. It’s a dead end too. The cultists must have it before we’d arrived and sent it off somewhere.

“Skinny tail, ehh?” Fink says, snapping me out of my daze. “Must’ve run out of stone.”

“What? Out of — No. Fink, it doesn’t work like —”

Of course.

“Sorry, Wuskee,” I say as I approach the lifelike statue. I reach my hand under his marble skirt. There.

I feel something smooth and metallic wrapped around the base of his tail, and slide it down, around, up, and, finally, off the pointed tip. It’s impossibly mirror-like and perfectly reflective, as if shaped from liquid mercury. Wuskee’s ring.

“Wow…” Fink says, leaning in to inspect. “That’s what you came for, right? Well, let’s g—”

The ground rumbles beneath our feet, and Wuskee’s marble facsimile lurches backwards, scraping across the stone floor. It sinks suddenly, revealing a hidden passageway behind it.

Before I can react, a horrible, reptilian cry shatters any illusion of getting out of here safely. Fink drops the torch in surprise. Its light shines brightly on the pale green scales and yellow eyes of the beast standing in the corridor.

TURN ORDER: Cyprian → Fink → Wuskee

Cyprian:
Current HP: 4/5

Wuskee:
Hit Dice(HD): 4, AC: 5, Attack bonus: +4, Damage: 2d8

Fink:
Hit Dice(HD): 1, AC: 9, Attack bonus: +1, Damage: 1d4

There’s no time to waste. I draw my rapier and slash at the lumbering monstrosity, tearing through its ancient robes and sending dark brown blood spilling onto them like mud.

Cyprian’s Attack: (d20[15] + AC[4] + Rapier[1] + Attack bonus[1] = 21 (SUCCESS!)
Damage: 1d6[5] + 1 = 6 = 2 damage

Before I can warn him, Fink’s small body flies forward, his hammer arching through the air. He nearly catches the beast in the jaw, but its pained writhing makes its movement unpredictable.

“SSS-SNAP!”

Wuskee’s Attack: (d20[7] + AC[7] + Attack bonus[4] = 18 (FAILURE)

It retaliates, viciously clamping its massive teeth together mere inches from my face.

“What the hell —”

Cyprian’s Attack: 17 (FAILURE)

As I swing my rapier upward, its blade becomes caught in one of the great lizard’s dagger-length claws.

I watch, in horror, as Fink’s hammer bounces off its scaly hide.

Fink’s Attack: (d20[14] + AC[4] + Attack bonus[1] = 19 (FAILURE)

“Fink —”

Pain surges through me as a razer-sharp claw — the one not currently wrapped around my sword — plunges into my abdomen.

Wuskee’s Attack: 27 (SUCCESS)
Damage: 2d8[3 + 4] = 7 = 2 damage

Cyprian (HP): 4 → 2(!)

I… I have to find an opening. I can barely see.

Cyprian’s Attack: (d20[8] + AC[4] + Rapier[1] + Attack bonus[1] = 14 (FAILURE)

My blade sits firmly in his grip.

A clawed hand swings forth.

Wuskee’s Attack: (d20[10] + AC[7] + Attack bonus[4] = 21 (SUCCESS)
Damage: 2d8[8 + 2] = 10 = 4 DAMAGE.

Missed Cyprian’s introduction? No worries! Check out the first session(s) below.

Cyprian the Thief (Sessions 0 & 1)

Session 2: Horrors in the Swamp

When we last saw Cyprian, he was in the middle of his quest to find the tomb of Wuskee, a long-dead Gadzi (lizardman) chief. He’s just departed from a dilapidated cabin, hidden deep in the swamplands of Gród, where he met Kacper, a traveling merchant. Kacper was grateful to see a friendly face, and Cyprian was more than happy to replenish his supplies and spend a night indoors.

Day 5: Starting hex: M7 (Swamp). Moving North → M6 (d10[2] : Plains)

Encounter: No

ET: 5 → 6, FT: 1 → 2, Rations: 10 → 9

The cabin drifts from view, once again concealed beneath a blanket of cypresses. Despite spending the night with a roof over my head — a luxury I haven’t known for the better part of a week — my skull throbs from the over-indulgence of cheap mead. This feeling, unpleasant enough as is, is compounded by the sickening stench of the swamp.

Perhaps the gods are as quick to answer a complaint as a prayer, as only a few miles in, mud turns to grass and swamp to plains. The cool, dry air is sobering, and the wide, sun-drenched landscape lends comfort. Someone would need to be damn near invisible to sneak up on me out here. As night falls, I gather kindling to build a small fire and make camp. Wolves howl under the glow of the silver moon and lull me to sleep.

Day 6: M6 (Plains). Moving Northeast → N5 (d10[3] : Swamp)

Encounter: Yes! (d6[1!])

I awaken, renewed and eager to complete my task. I find myself barely fazed as dry land shifts back to swamp. Each step carries me closer to my goal. Each foot — Each foot is — being grabbed by something.

Encounters table: (d20[6])
Topielec (“The Drowned One” or “Bog Zombie”)
AC: 8, Hit Dice(HD): 1, Attack bonus: +1, Damage: 1d6

Beneath the surface of the brown sludge, sharp fingers dig into my heels. Reflexively, I unsheathe my rapier, whipping its razor-sharp point through the thick muck at each of my sides. It’s like slicing into an undercooked cake. The tension dissolves, and I twist free of the unseen creature’s grasp, leaping back to ready my weapon once more. I watch, in abject horror, as it rises from the swamp. Flesh and mud dangle and drip from exposed intestine and bone, while cold, pale blue eyes stare forth from the sunken pits of its undead face. It carefully examines its two, newly-fingerless hands. A horrible shriek explodes from its mouth as it lunges toward me. I do not hesitate.

Attack roll: (d20[18] + AC[8] + Rapier[1] + Attack bonus[1])= 28 (SUCCESS)

Damage: 1d6[3] + 1 = 4 = 1 damage

Bog Zombie HD = 1 → 0(!)

I strike in a figure 8, first removing the right arm, then the left, in one swift motion. It stands, dumbfounded, as it tries — and fails — to bring its nonexistent arms down onto me. One more swipe, and I remove its head.

Poor creature. The cursed remains of one whose life was lost to the swamp, burdened with bringing others a similar fate. I cannot help but pity it. I cut a small pouch from its tattered rags. 4 gold. The price of mercy.

Something shimmers in the muck, not far from its feet. More coin? No. A chain?

A Event! (d8[1!])

Type: (d6[2]) Terrain Event
(d12[2]) Something emerges from the mu—

The chain disappears into the muck. A small humanoid — a krasnal (people akin to halflings or gnomes) — springs out from the swamp with a smile on his face and the chain in his hand. I draw my rapier.

“Ho there!” he calls. White teeth shine brightly under the caked on mud.

7 more krasnals emerge, each landing gently atop the mud’s surface.

I ready my blade.

I’m severely outnumbered.

Their attitude toward the hero is…:
“Zealous friendliness” (2d8[16])

“Hold, sir! We’re peaceful — we swear!” he shouts once more, dropping the chain and waving his thick-fingered hands.

“Well, to people, that is,” another chimes in.

He nods.

Oracle Questions:
Are they trying to trap an animal? No, but… (d20[9])
→ An ogre (encounters table (d20[10])

Do they want help? Yes (d20[17])

“I’m afraid I can’t get sidetracked,” I tell them. “I’ve been searching for a lizardman tomb for 6 days now. I can’t afford to lose more time.”

As I describe my destination, Fink, the first krasnal that sprang forth, tells me he recognizes the tomb’s description.

“Listen,” he says. “This ogre’s destroyed our crops. Driven us from home. You bring that skinny sword, and those fancy moves of yours, and help us kill this beast: I’ll take you to that tomb.”

“Deal.”

Oracle Questions:
I help them search for 5 hours. Do we find the Ogre? Yes, but… (d20[11])

Hours pass as we search the swamplands. An occasional half-eaten fish floating in the swamp keeps us optimistic we’re getting close. Half the krasnals carry shortswords and hand axes — others wield farm implements. Spades and rakes. Fink carries a carpenter’s hammer. Strength in numbers. At least it’s only one o—

Loud grunts and heavy sloshes stop us in our tracks. I urge the group to wait while I sneak ahead to identify the source.

Gods.

Two massive ogres sit in a pool of muck some 10 meters away. One sits, violently tearing into a giant catfish, while the other stands, pouring handfuls of swamp water into its gaping mouth. Their recklessness leaves them vulnerable and easily sneaked up on. I beckon the krasnals over and nock an arrow onto my bowstring.

Ogre (x2)
AC: 5, Hit Dice(HD): 4, Attack bonus: +4, Damage: 1d6

Ogre 1 (HD): 4
Ogre 2 (HD): 4

THWAP!

Attack roll: (d20[19] + AC[5] + Bow[1] + Attack bonus[1]) = 26 (SUCCESS)

Damage: 1d8[6] + 1 = 7 = 2 damage

Ogre 1 (HD): 4 → 2

I let the arrow fly, launching it deep into the closest ogre’s back. It roars in pain as emerald green blood spills from its meaty gray flesh.

They know we’re here now. And they’re not happy.

Krasnal Commoners’ Attack: (d20[12] +AC[5] +Attack bonus[1]) = 18 (FAILURE)

The four, tool-wielding krasnals flood past me, their makeshift weapons raised as they skip across the pond surface. Their dull tools are worthless against the ogre’s thick skin. It barely notices as it clumsily struggles to reach the arrow lodged in the center of its back.

The other krasnals swarm like ants. Their swords and axes are sharper, more capable of rending flesh from bone than the others’ simple tools.

Krasnal Mercenaries’ Attack: (d20[16] +AC[5] +Attack bonus[2]) = 23 (SUCCESS)

Damage: 1d8(4) + 2 = 6 = 2 damage

Ogre 1 (HD): 2 → 0(!)

Its heavy body collapses into the water, face down and lifeless. The sudden impact sends a shockwave through the water toward the krasnals, but they maintain their balance and land safely on their feet.

The remaining ogre lumbers forward, wildly swinging its hulking arms at the assailants. In its rage, it stumbles over its fallen companion’s body, redirecting its attack onto the water’s surface.

Ogre 2’s Attack: (d20[6] +AC(Krasnal Commoners)[9] +Attack bonus[4]) = 19 (FAILURE)

Discarding my bow, I draw my rapier and rush forward. I hold it, couched in my grip like a tiny lance, and bury the blade up to its guard in the ogre’s abdomen.

Attack roll: (d20[17] + AC[5] + Rapier[1] + Attack bonus[1]) = 24 (SUCCESS)

Damage: 1d6(4) + 2 = 6 = 2 damage

Ogre 2 (HD): 4 → 2

As it yowls in pain, I narrowly dodge its tree-trunk arms and dislodge the sword from its side. It sways back and forth, breathing short, labored breaths.

The krasnals attack once more with their tools, this time successfully tearing into the weakened creature’s battered flesh.

Krasnal Commoners’ Attack: (d20[15] +AC[5] +Attack bonus[1]) = 21 (SUCCESS)

Damage: 1d4(2) = 2 = 1 damage

Ogre 2 (HD): 2 → 1

It drops to a knee, wet with blood and swamp. The other krasnals brandish their weapons and charge, ready to land the killing blow and seize victory.

Huh?

The ogre violently thrusts its head upward and a horrible smile spreads across its bloodied face. It launches its massive body into the air, sending a massive wall of brown water exploding into the krasnals.

Krasnal Mercenaries’ Attack: (d20[11] +AC[5] +Attack bonus[2]) = 18 (FAILURE)

Ogre 2’s Attack: (d20[9] +AC(Krasnal Mercenaries)[4] +Attack bonus[4]) = 19 (FAILURE)

They split into two distinct, perfectly coordinated groups, diving in each direction to escape the ogre’s meteoric descent. It crashes down with a thunderous boom, coating everything in putrid brown liquid.

As it wipes the gunk from its eyes, its head hangs low and vulnerable. I dash forward with my rapier locked at my side, quickly closing the gap between the ogre and I. Its eyes open for only a moment before I plunge the rapier into its soft, fleshy neck.

Attack roll: (d20[19] + AC[5] + Rapier[1] + Attack bonus[1]) = 26 (SUCCESS)

Ogre 2 (HD): 1 → 0(!)

It attempts to scream, but no sound can escape its lips. Its final breath lays trapped behind my blade.

The krasnals and I stand over the once-imposing corpses, miraculously unscathed. Cheers erupt all around. I spot a tiny sack resting against a nearby tree, surrounded by a dozen half-chewed fish carcasses. Inside, I find 30 gold pieces, a cheap bronze necklace (100gp), and a costly gold ring (200gp). I tell the krasnals of my discovery, but they dismiss me. They’re just happy the ogres are dead.

“You don’t know how grateful we are,” Fink says with a half-smile. “We never knew there was a second ogre. If we’d done this alone, there’s no telling how many of our own we’d be burying today.”

“I’m glad I could help,” I reply. I mean it, too. Just a couple short fights, and I’m already looking at some decent coin. This was certainly worth the detour. However, I still have a job to do. “It’s time for you to hold your end of the bargain.”

“Sure, sure,” he says.

I hear the “plonk!” of a cork being pulled from a bottle of wine.

“But first,” he says, grinning. “We celebrate.”

Ugh.

If you’re here, it means you’ve taken a chance on me. I’ve spent the last year writing something every single day, but this is the first piece I’ve shared with anyone. I hope you enjoy the first of what I plan to be many more actual plays, episodic stories, and more. Thanks for popping by.

What is this?

What you’re about to read is a narrative account, commonly referred to as an “actual play,” of my first solo session(s) of the tabletop role-playing game (TTRPG) Scarlet Heroes. Unlike your typical session of a TTRPG like Dungeons & Dragons, where a Dungeon/Game Master controls the action, most events in a solo RPG are determined by random dice rolls on tables and “oracles” that answer yes/no questions. What you see here are the actual dice rolls and journal entries I made during this session, translated from notebook scribbles to screen.

Session 0. Player Character and Setting Details:

I’ll keep this part brief so we can get to the fun stuff. I’m playing Kevin Crawford’s Scarlet Heroes RPG, albeit slightly modified with the White Box RPG spells list, general changes to the bestiary, and my own personal setting. I’ll be playing a Half-Elf thief named Cyprian, whose name I pulled from a database of Slavic first names. You’ll see a lot of this. His class, most of his traits, and background were built using Scarlet Heroes’ rules, based on what I thought would make the most fun and interesting solo experience. His ability scores were generated using the typical roll 4d6 and drop the lowest method as laid out in the SH rulebook.

Now, let’s get to it!

The Character:

Name: Cyprian

Race: Half-elf (Homebrewed. Elf traits.)

Class: Thief / “Ruin Explorer”

Lvl: 1

Max HP: 5 / Current HP: 5

Armor Class: 7 (Scarlet Heroes uses descending AC, so this isn’t too bad!)

Attack Bonus: +1

Fray Die: 1d6

Ability Scores:

• STR: 8 (OOF. Heavily resisted the temptation to reroll)

• DEX: 15

• CON: 13

• INT: 15

• WIS: 12

• CHA: 15

Traits and Abilities:

• Ruin Explorer (3)

• Elven Senses (1) (Automatically given to elves in Scarlet Heroes. Provides visibility in low-light)

• Court Wizard (1) (Linked to Cyprian’s elven “Past Life,” a trait given to elves in Scarlet Heroes)

• Friend to a Secret Society (1) (randomly rolled)

• Eidetic Memory (1) (randomly rolled)

• Lightning Reflexes (1) (randomly rolled)

Treasure:

Starting Gold: 3d6x10 = (4+4+6)*10 = 140gp / 37gp after gear purchase

Gear:

• rapier (10gp)

• leather armor (10gp)

• backpack (2gp)

• camp gear (5gp)

• rope (hemp) (2gp)

• waterskin, gallon, full (1gp)

• rations x10 (3gp)

• healer’s bag (10gp)

• bow (40gp)

• artisan’s tools (fletching) (10gp)

Weapons:

rapier: +2 ATK, 1d6+1 DMG

bow: +2 ATK, 1d8+1 DMG

The Setting:

This campaign takes place in my own fictional setting, specifically its southern country, Gród. Gród is the untamed territory, known as the “Savage Lands” by its northern counterpart. Tribal villages lay tucked away from the greater world, undiscovered and unmolested by modern tradition. There is no single ruling body in Gród, but plenty lay claim to enough wealth and resources to call themselves lords and ladies, or other self-appointed titles. Magic is wild in Gród, often taking form in enchanted artifacts left behind by peoples of a bygone era.

Cyprian’s story begins near the swamps of “Royal Hold,” a city not-so-lovingly referred to by most as the “Swamp Kingdom.” Were Gród a unified country, Royal Hold might call itself the capital, thanks to its central location. Its ruler, however, Thane Blago, the Swamp King, has numerous enemies who would fight that claim. This has never been an issue, as Blago’s sights are too set on acquiring the next piece in his collection to concern himself with such trivialities.

Session 1. Cyprian the Thief:

I am Cyprian. “Thief.” In truth, I make my fortune in treasures long abandoned. I risk life and limb to procure relics from ancient ruins and hidden temples. There is no one place I call home. I live… everywhere.

I’ve been hired by an old mage named Bogumil from Royal Hold. He’s tasked me with venturing out to some Gadzi (lizardman) tomb to retrieve a ring once belonging to Wuskee, a Gadzi chief from the previous age. The pay? He’ll awaken my “latent magic abilities,” apparently a remnant from my “previous life.” I’m told this is the blessing of being born half elf. Sounds like a crock, but he paid a nice little pile of coin up front. And hey — that’s all the convincing I need. He’s given me a crude map, and it seems it’s only a few miles away. Should be an easy job.

Day 1: Starting hex: O6 (Royal Hold). Moving west → N6. Temperate climate table: d10 = 3 (Swamp)

Encounter: No (must roll a 1 on d6)

ET (Event Threshold): 1 → 2, FT (Feature Threshold): 1 → 2, Rations: 10 → 9 (Rising thresholds mean I’ve rolled above the current threshold number on each d8. Rolling below the threshold means something interesting may happen.)

I travel west, deeper into the swamp. Great cypress trees dot the land every 10-15 feet. In fairness, I suppose I’d rather see trees than danger. The air is dense and smells of rot. The thick, knee-high muck makes travel slow, and night falls quickly. I rest.

Day 2: Starting hex: N6 (Swamp). Moving southeast → O7 (d10[3] : Swamp)

Encounter: No

ET: 2 → 3, FT: 2 → 3, Rations: 9 → 8

The swamp stretches on, as does the unrelenting stink. This must be where flies come to vacation. I waste another day wandering, in hopes of finding the ruins or any change in scenery. I’m beginning to lose faith in Bogumil’s hand-drawn map. I make camp at the base of a large cypress, lucky to find some semi-dry ground.

Day 3: Starting hex: O7 (Swamp). Moving southwest → N7 (d10[8] : Mountains)

Encounter: No

ET: 3 → 4, FT: 3 → 4, Rations: 8 → 7

At last, I’ve reached the end of the swamp, met with a sprawling mountain range. I fear I’ve gone too far, however, as the map doesn’t indicate mountains anywhere near the tomb. Still, I’m grateful to spend some time on dry land. I search the landscape to no avail. The day grows short. I’ll head north in the morning.

Day 4: Starting hex: N7 (Mountains). Moving northwest → M7 (d10[3] : Swamp)

Encounter: No

ET: 4 → 5, FT: 4 → 1!

I’ve discovered a feature!

Type: Structure (d8[5]): Plantation (d10[6])

I march northwest, careful not to retrace my steps and waste more time. It’s back to the swamp for me, but I’m confident the tomb must be in this direction. I can’t say I missed the constant layer of grime on my skin and waterlogged boots. The tree line ahead is broken by a structure: something man-made, and not belonging to the swamp. It appears to be a cottage of sorts — a farmhouse.

Oracle Questions:

Is it in good shape/livable? No (d20[5])

Is there a door? Yes (d20[16])

It’s in no livable shape, but it’ll provide better shelter for the evening than the swamp trees, I’m sure. And perhaps the previous tenants left something behind? I sneak forward and carefully press the door open.

Is anyone inside? No (d20[1])

I enter and begin to search the dilapidated homestead.

Is there anything of value? No, but… (d20[7])

Oh no. I hear the door creak as I raise a loose board from the dirt-riddled floor. It slips from my fingers as I turn in surprise. There’s someone else here. It’s a human, male, middle-aged with dark hair and darker eyes. At least ten bags of various sizes hang from his outstretched arms.

“Ho there,” I say, raising a disarming hand. “You’ve caught me unawares, but I assure you I’m of no danger to you.”

The bags fall from his hands and shoulders onto the floor. I grip the hilt of my sword. He breathes a heavy sigh of relief as he plops down onto what looks to have once been a bed.

“Thank the gods, old and new,” he says. “A marauder’s the last thing I need right now.”

“Well met. I’m Cyprian.”

“Kacper. Nice to meetcha,” he says, sitting up and offering a hand.

He tells me he’s a traveling merchant, peddling wares between the central settlements.

“Most folks don’t care to brave the swamplands,” he says. “Makes for less competition, and more coin in my pocket.”

This shack isn’t home to him, but a common rest stop on his trade route.

“Been abandoned as long as I’ve been hiking these parts. Better part of the last ten seasons. Can’t say I’ve had many bunkmates out here though,” Kacper laughs.

We split a bottle of cheap mead as I look over his wares. The timing is perfect — my rations were low, and swamp water makes poor drink. I take three rations, half a bottle of mead, and refill my waterskin. In all, it costs a single gold piece. Not bad. I ask if he knows of Wuskee’s tomb, but no luck. He’s never heard of it. Damn. We each claim a corner of the shack and part with a nod come morning. I’m grateful for the respite — I suspect rest won’t come easy in the days ahead.