Pick race and location

>>6238789 (OP)


Pick terrain from this list:
(-2, 2) Rustfen Expanse – Salt marsh lands plagued by briny mists and sinking ground.
(-1, 2) Whispering Pines – Enchanted forest where trees murmur secrets on the wind.
(0, 2) Cradle of Ice – Frozen wasteland blanketed in ancient glaciers.
(1, 2) Cradle of Ice – Another frigid reach of the same glacial expanse.
(2, 2) Emberhorn Expanse – Dry mesa desert scarred by lightning and winds.

(-2, 1) Brambleep Moor – Waterlogged swamp thick with thorny undergrowth.
(-1, 1) Hollow Thicket – Gloomy dark forest cloaked in perpetual twilight.
(0, 1) Frostcap Hills – Windy savannah nestled between icy slopes.
(1, 1) Thunderstone Peaks – Jagged high mountains crackling with arcane storms.
(2, 1) Glass Dunes – Blistering desert of shimmering, cutting sand.

(-2, 0) Wintdw. Meep – Open grasslands with sudden gusts and strange lights.
(-1, 0) Gilded Savannah – Rolling plains rich in golden grasses and wildlife.
(0, 0) Verdant Heartland – Fertile Tavella basin, cradle of civilizations.
(1, 0) Scorched Steppe – Volcanic plains scorched by fire and ash.
(2, 0) Blistersea Coast – Humid tropical coastline teeming with exotic life.

(-2, -1) Mire of Echoes – Haunted bog echoing with forgotten voices.
(-1, -1) Hollow Thicket – A second patch of the ominous dark forest.
(0, -1) Embergrove – Charred forest still smoldering from an ancient blaze.
(1, -1) Boneglass Flats – Crystal badlands glittering with fractured remnants.
(2, -1) Ironlash Desert – Dry tropical coast ruled by fierce sandstorms.

(-2, -2) Gnawing Warrens – Subterranean maze of burrows and beasts.
(-1, -2) Blightrot Hollow – Toxic jungle pulsing with corrupted life.
(0, -2) Embergrove – Further stretch of the blackened, fire-touched woods.
(1, -2) Boneglass Flats – Another shard-filled region of the crystalline desert.
(2, -2) Bleeding Hills – Cursed highlands where the earth weeps crimson.

>>6238789 (OP)
Human
(2, 0) Blistersea Coast – Humid tropical coastline teeming with exotic life.

>>6238810

You wake up face-down in the sand, the tang of salt and blood thick in your mouth. Your ears ring with the memory of the storm—the shrieking wind, the snapping masts, the final crack of the hull splitting apart. Now there’s only the lapping of waves behind you and the scent of rot and blossom in the thick air ahead.

You push yourself up. The Blistersea Coast stretches around you in humid haze: thick-leafed trees droop with moisture, vines crawl across ancient stone ruins, and insects the size of fists buzz lazily above the underbrush. It's hot. Oppressively so. But you're alive.

The rest of the crew survived, mostly. You find them scattered across the beach, bruised and battered, but breathing. You spend hours hauling what you can from the wreck: barrels of salted meat, a cracked astrolabe, soaked maps, your sword. The first fire is lit with trembling fingers and a splintered lens. As night falls, the jungle hums to life.

That’s when the bird arrives.

It’s a grotesque thing—somewhere between parrot and jackal, with copper feathers and too-human eyes. It lands with a flutter on a broken mast. Then it speaks, in a voice like wet parchment.

“What did you come to do on this island, warmblood?”

You hesitate. The fire crackles. Your crew looks to you, uncertain.

Choose your answer:

> "We're here to chart new waters. This coast wasn’t on any map."
> "To find the Temple of Serpents. We’re treasure hunters, plain and simple."
> "We were fleeing something worse—better to face the jungle than them."
> "We came for trade. The empire believes there are people here."
> "We were cursed. Our ship was pulled by something—this wasn’t our choice."
> "To build a new colony. This is where our people begin again."
> Write in

>>6238789 (OP)
>troll
>Thunderstone Peaks

>>6238824
aw fuck too late
oh well
> "To build a new colony. This is where our people begin again."

>>6238824
>> "To build a new colony. This is where our people begin again."

>>6238831
>>6238832
The bird tilts its head unnaturally, blinking once—sideways. Then it speaks again, slowly, like it’s recalling an old story from before the sea split sky from land.

“You seek to plant roots here, warmblood? Others have already done so. This coast is not empty. Three peoples claim it.”

Its beak clicks.

“The Lizardmen in their swamp-temples of stone and bone. The Dryads, who guard the jungle’s heart and whisper to the roots. And the Skaven—filthy, clever things that breed like mold beneath the hills.”

It flutters closer, talons scraping against a half-buried plank.

“The Skaven are closest. You’ll smell them soon.”

Then, with something like a smirk in its parchment-voice:

“They are ruled by Clawmaster Vreez—a sharp-clawed prophet with burnt fur, half-mad from breathing too much warp-dust. He sees omens in everything: beetles, rust, cracked bones, smoke. But mad doesn't mean foolish. He controls a warren that stretches like roots beneath your feet, and he’s hungry.”

The bird hops down from the mast and begins to pace before the fire, talons clicking on stone and wood.

“Your fire is bright, yes, but your numbers are thin. Too few women. You will not make a future from salt and steel alone.”

It pauses, eyeing the crew with those wet, too-human eyes.

“The rat-things and scale-kin? No use. They breed only with their own, and not kindly. But the Dryads—they are old, rooted in song and seed, and some say they once took lovers from the sea-kings before they were broken. They live alone, on the far side of the island.”

It turns its head toward the thick jungle.

“Their grove still blossoms, I think. But between you and them lies Skaven ground—dark tunnels, spiked pits, plagues in jars. If you wish to pass, you will need stealth, or war.”

It lifts its wings as if preparing to leave, then glances back over its shoulder.

“There are stories, too, of others like you. Strange flags, strange tongues, humans not from your ship. Maybe ghosts. Maybe lost. Or maybe building their own fires deeper inland. But I never saw them. I only listen.”

With a single beat of its wings, it launches into the air and disappears into the humid dark.


Turn Actions (you may pick two):

> Scout the Skaven paths by night, risking disease and ambush to find a safer way toward the Dryad forest.
> Send wordless gifts to the treeline, hoping the Dryads are watching and might respond.
> Search deeper into the wreck, in case something useful (or dangerous) was missed in the rush.
> Prepare defenses from rot and claw, shaping barricades, tripwires, and lookout posts from jungle scrap.
> Send a quiet pair inland, following strange signs and rumors of other humans—if they exist.
> Hold a fire-circle gathering, to speak of bloodlines, survival, and what it will take to seed a future here.
> Write in

>>6238866
>> Scout the Skaven paths by night, risking disease and ambush to find a safer way toward the Dryad forest.
> Prepare defenses from rot and claw, shaping barricades, tripwires, and lookout posts from jungle scrap.

>>6238873

The heat does not let up, even after sundown. Sweat slicks every back, every brow. But the work begins nonetheless.

The defenses rise from desperation and instinct.
Stripped masts and shattered ribs from the wreck are hauled inland, lashed with vine-fiber and wedged into the moist earth like rotten teeth. Thorned branches are woven into dense mats and braced between stakes — crude palisades that scrape skin and tear cloth. Nets of vine and shell are hung to catch intruders or at least slow them. The camp perimeter is lined with bone chimes, shells, and salvaged tin — an early warning system that sings at the slightest touch.

The tripwires are silent, made from dried gut and root-twine, connected to sharpened sticks wedged into spring-loaded grooves, a bitter invention from a former whaler with a cruel imagination.

Two lookout platforms are raised in the trees using rigging from the ship and hand-chiseled pegs. They creak but hold. From here, the jungle hums with layered, invisible life. Nothing can be seen — yet.

Then the scouts go.

Three go into the night. Faces painted with ash and sap to mute their scent, wrapped in damp cloth to ward off the Skaven’s nose. They carry no torches — only moonlight, short blades, and the memory of the bird’s words.

The jungle swallows them.

They move in silence, following shallow trails of clawed feet and disturbed underbrush. At times, they freeze — sniffing at the rot in the air, or feeling the thrum of something massive shifting beneath roots.

Their goal: not contact. Not yet. Just passage. A thread through the filth and fury between here and the forest heart.

You will know soon whether they succeed.

> Roll 1d100 for success in the scout expedition (higher is better)

What will you do while you wait for the scouts to return? You may pick two.

> You bury the dead. Shallow graves are dug just beyond the treeline, marked with ship nails and coral. The jungle watches silently.
> You begin boiling water in split barrels. No one trusts the streams; you burn wood fast, but sickness would burn faster.
> You lash hammocks between trees. Sleeping off the ground seems wiser now — too many tracks in the sand each morning.
> You carve simple sigils into the barricades. Not everyone believes in charms, but old sailors remember old ways.
> You test fermented pulp as bait. If you're going to trap jungle creatures, you need to know what hungers.
> You assign a watch to the sea. Just in case what cursed your ship tries to follow it ashore.
> Write in

Rolled 56 (1d100)

>>6238881
>>6238881
>> You begin boiling water in split barrels. No one trusts the streams; you burn wood fast, but sickness would burn faster.
> You test fermented pulp as bait. If you're going to trap jungle creatures, you need to know what hungers.

>>6238887

Before the scouts return, your people stay busy, driven by both necessity and fear.

Water boils slowly.
The barrels are set carefully on hastily-constructed stone stands, steam rising in thin tendrils. You’ve managed to start a fire beneath them with scrap from the wreck, but the wood’s burning fast, and the boiling is slow. The sizzle of water is a constant hum against the thick air, but it’s enough to keep the sickness at bay—for now. Those who’ve been drinking from the stream are now weakened by fever, lying under the shade of the trees. There’s no telling if it’s the water or the jungle itself. You wonder if the illness could be something worse.

The fermented pulp is set.
You’ve mixed crushed fruit and sap into makeshift bait, leaving it to sour beneath the trees. You’ve set traps for whatever the jungle might offer, but it’s not until the morning light that you see the results. One snare holds a bloated rat, covered in red sores, its eyes dull and lifeless. The second trap is something far worse: an eyeless, limbless creature that resembles an ape but is wrong in every way, its body crawling with wriggling insects. The third trap is torn apart—ripped with an unnatural force, as if something had been inside, tearing through the bait.

You begin to realize: the island is far stranger than you thought. It is not just wild—it is cursed, twisted, or something worse. And as the jungle closes in around you, that feeling grows sharper.

When the scouts return, their news carries with it a heavy weight, as much of a warning as it is a sign of what lies ahead. They didn’t find the Dryads, but they found something more significant: confirmation.

“The Skaven... they spoke of her,” one scout murmurs, wiping blood from his arm, where a deep gash oozes beneath a hastily wrapped bandage. “The Green-Throne Queen. She’s real. And they fear her.” The others are silent, eyes wide, their breaths shallow. They saw signs of her, but the way the Skaven reacted tells them everything they need to know: the Dryads are not to be trifled with.

What comes next? Pick two.

> Contact the Skaven. Try to make contact with a Skaven group, offering something of value to learn more about their territory and the island.
> Gather food. Send out a team to hunt, forage, or fish to ensure your people don’t go hungry, using whatever supplies you can find.
> Scout to the south. Head south along the coast to search for other survivors or potential escape routes, staying cautious of Skaven and wildlife.
> Scout to the north. Venture north into the jungle, looking for new resources, signs of other settlements, or potential dangers.
> Establish a base of operations. Build a central, defensible camp with storage for supplies, a designated cooking area, and watch points for security.
> Inspect the Skaven tunnels. Explore the tunnels or paths near Skaven territory to map their layout, identifying possible safe passages.
> Write in

>>6238894
> Scout to the south. Head south along the coast to search for other survivors or potential escape routes, staying cautious of Skaven and wildlife.
> Gather food. Send out a team to hunt, forage, or fish to ensure your people don’t go hungry, using whatever supplies you can find.

>>6238897

You sent a team upriver with nets woven from sailcloth and hooks hammered from shattered iron. Others fanned into the jungle with spears and sacks, searching for anything edible—fruit, roots, lizards, even eggs. They returned sunburned and scraped, but grinning, with armfuls of sour-plum berries, river crabs, and something that might be breadfruit. It won’t last long, but tonight, no one starves.

Your scouts return sunburned and dry-lipped, speaking of shifting dunes and cracked soil. The southern coastline fades into harsh desert, where heat warps the air and tracks vanish in minutes. Water is scarce. Game is scarcer.

But they bring back a story.

One of them, Arlen, found a green-glass bottle half-buried in the sand. He pulled it free, brushed it off, and—curious—uncorked it. Smoke poured out, thick and violet, twisting into the shape of a woman with burning eyes and braided silver hair. She said she was bound to the bottle, and that he was her master. He had three wishes.

According to the scouts, Arlen didn't think long.

First, he asked for a hat that made him look “very commanding.”
Then, he wished for “an unlimited supply of dried mango.”
Finally, with a sheepish shrug, he said: “I wish you were free.”

She blinked once, grinned, and laughed like glass breaking. “Sweet boy,” she said. Then she vanished in a whirlwind of sand and sparks.

Arlen? Gone. Except—when they look through the mouth of the bottle, they swear they see him, curled up and screaming silently behind the green glass, pounding the walls with his fists.

You hold the bottle now. It hums faintly in your hand and smells unmistakably of dried mango. The crew avoids your gaze, uneasy. One of them silently hands you a ridiculous feathered hat—bright, regal, and utterly absurd. No one wants to say the obvious.

What do you do?

> Break the bottle. Hurl it against stone or steel—free Arlen, or doom him completely.
> Try to talk to the man inside. Whisper through the neck of the bottle, or shout—maybe he can still hear you.
> Seal it away. Wrap it tight, bury it deep, and mark the spot. Let no one tempt fate further.
> Offer it to the crew. Pass it around—see who’s bold or foolish enough to make the next move.
> Leave it at the jungle’s edge. Let the island decide its fate—or lure something that wants it.
> Study it by firelight. Test heat, vibration, even blood—anything to stir its secrets loose.
> Write in

>>6238903
>> Break the bottle. Hurl it against stone or steel—free Arlen, or doom him completely.
Free that man.

Rolled 8 (1d100)

>>6238910

You shatter the bottle against a stone, glass splintering with a sharp crack—and Arlen stumbles free in a puff of mango-scented smoke, gasping and blinking in the sun. Before anyone can speak, a whirl of wind swirls upward, and the woman-spirit appears— furious, copper eyes flashing.

“How dare you break the bottle!” she shrieks, pointing wildly at your group. “That was my bottle, and his prison, and my choice!”

Your crew circles warily, hands on weapons but unsure what could stop a spirit like her. The argument rises, voices tangling in the thick air—until the sky darkens, and a booming voice shakes the beach.

“Who dares destroy the bottle?!”

The air splits, and a towering spirit materializes, cloaked in stormclouds and golden fire. The woman-spirit shrinks and hides behind you. You step forward.

“I broke it,” you say. “To free my man.”

The great spirit narrows glowing eyes. “I am Djon. She is my daughter—Frit.”

He glares at her. She glares back.

“She was promised to a suitor of power,” Djon says. “She cursed herself into bondage to avoid her fate. Hiding in a fruit jar like a coward.”

“He’s a bore and a creep!” Frit spits. “I’d rather stay here. With the humans.”

A long pause. Djon folds his arms, thunder rolling behind his breath.

“Is that truly what you wish?”

Frit nods once, defiant.

Djon sighs, lifts his hand, and draws her magic into a crystal—bright, humming, pulsing with fire. He hands it to her with finality.

“Live your life, but know this: If you break it, the magic returns—and so does your oath. You will wed him, no questions.”

He vanishes like a closing storm. Frit stands silent, holding the crystal tight.

No one speaks for a while. The jungle hums. The tide pulls in slow. Arlen rubs his wrists, dazed and free.

"Anyone wants dried mango?", he asks, showing a box that refills every time he takes one dried mango from inside it, close and reopen it.

Frit eats some.

The jungle snaps with sudden motion—dense fronds shudder, and a rank scent floods the clearing. A patrol of Skaven bursts from the underbrush, chittering war cries and brandishing jagged blades and rusted spears. Their eyes gleam red in the gloom.

They number around eight—scouts, perhaps, or a test. Fast, twitching, hunched low to the ground. One hurls a glob of some bubbling green slime that hisses where it lands near the fire.

Your people scramble. The sentries shout. Others reach for sharpened poles and stone knives.

What do you do?

> Charge them directly with what weapons you have.
> Fall back to draw them into traps laid earlier.
> Try to intimidate or scare them off with fire and loud noise.
> Grab the crystal—threaten to break it and unleash Frit’s magic.
> Try to flank them from the jungle edge while others distract.
> Hold position behind the barricades and defend at all costs.
> Write in

In any case, Roll 1d100 for the outcome.

Rolled 15 (1d100)

>>6238918
>> Fall back to draw them into traps laid earlier.

>>6238933


The defenders fall back on signal—quick whistles and torch-waves—and the Skaven, tasting what they think is panic, rush after you in a clattering wave.

Then the jungle bites back.

Tripwires snap taut. Spikes spring from covered pits. A Skaven is impaled. Your people fight dirty in the underbrush, using fire and blade in the confusion. By the time it’s over, two more lie dead, and the rest scatter, screeching into the foliage.

One limps behind, foot pierced on a staked pit. Your hunters surround him, wrestle him down, bind him in netting and vines.

Under interrogation, the creature—who gives a name that sounds like Skrittzz—whines and bares his yellowed teeth, but speaks:

“The warren... yes-yes... it lies in the Hollow Thicket. Deep in tree-shadows. The green-throne fears nothing, no one—not even Father-War. You go there? You die.”

He speaks of tunnels, of poison traps, and something he calls the “sap-mother,” said to guard the Dryad border. There are more patrols now, he says. The death of even one is seen as a threat.

After spilling his secrets, Skrittzz drops to his knees and pants, “Now free me, yes? Deal-fair. Let-go, I run. Hide. Never-return.”

What do you do?

> Set him free.
> Keep him prisoner—he may be useful.
> Kill him. Too dangerous to let go.
> Cut his leg and mark him, then release him as a warning.
> Send him back with a message for the Skaven.
> Ask if he wants to stay and serve the humans.
> Write in

>>6238939
> Ask if he wants to stay and serve the humans.

>>6238942

You kneel before the bound Skrittzz, narrowing your eyes.

“If we spared you, let you live among us... would you serve? Help us?”

The Skaven hesitates—his beady eyes dart between your face and the surrounding warriors. Then he nods, slowly, head low. “Yes-yes. I serve. I work. Better than dead, yes? Useful!”

You cut his bindings.

Your second-in-command, Alwen, storms over once the rat is led away to a guarded post.

“You’re not serious,” she hisses, pulling you aside. “That thing eats children. They don’t have loyalty—they have fear and hunger. The first night we let our guard down, it’s a knife in the ribs and half our food gone.”

She folds her arms tight. “You’re the leader. But if he kills someone, that blood is on you.”

Your jaw tightens. But your eyes follow the limping figure of Skrittzz being led to the edge of the camp, where he squats quietly, eyes cast down, ears twitching.

You nod once. The decision stands.

Frit gathers the men under the moonlit canopy, her voice smooth as drifting smoke. Her tales weave through battles between fire spirits and storm giants, forbidden dances held at cliff edges, whispers that steal your name if you listen too close. You can’t tell if any of it’s true—but the men are rapt, leaning in as if each word is a spell.

Eventually, you interrupt, half-amused, half-curious:
“You talk so much about spirits… is this island haunted or something?”

She goes still, her gaze meeting yours like still water.

“Yes,” she says. “This was once an ancient cemetery. The people from the continent buried their dead here. Wherever you dig, there are bones, catacombs, and treasure. But the price for pilfering from the dead could be high.”

You fall silent for a moment. Then, slowly, you ask:

> “Do the spirits watch us now?”
> “Are there any safe places to dig?”
> “What kind of treasures are buried here?”
> “Have you met any of the dead?”
> “Can we earn the spirits’ favor?”
> “What happens if someone is cursed?”
> Write in

>>6238994
>> “Can we earn the spirits’ favor?”

>>6239000

“Can we earn the spirits’ favor?”

Frit’s face grows serious at your question.

“The spirits are easier to anger than to please,” she says, voice low. “But yes... it should be possible.”

She settles deeper by the fire and tells the tale of Karabal, a mystic wanderer who lived long ago. He built no home, carved no mark, but for three years he roamed the island, fasting, speaking to wind and root, leaving offerings by moonlight. The spirits came to him—not in dreams, but in full presence—and he was changed. They say he could walk without leaving tracks, speak without sound, vanish in fog. Even after his death, his presence lingered.

“They say,” she adds, “his spirit still wanders. He became... something like a bridge. An intercessor.”

You ask how he might be reached.

She lifts her arm and gestures inland, past the forests and hills, toward the jagged, stormlit silhouette of the Thunderstone Peaks.
“His grave is atop one of those mountains. But which one—I wouldn’t know.”

Night falls over the Blistersea camp. The air hangs thick with mist and the scent of wet wood and salt. Around a dim fire, voices rise—some anxious, some weary, all concerned.

You’re running low on food—only a few days' worth left. Boiling every drop of drinking water burns through your dwindling lumber stores, and sickness spreads among your people faster than your healers can manage. With no medicine, injuries fester, fevers climb, and morale frays. The jungle presses in from all sides, and now, with the spirit Frit’s warning and the story of Karabal, even the land feels uncertain.

You need a plan before dawn. You may pick two options:

> Go to the Thunderstone Peaks. Send a small, prepared team to climb the storm-wreathed mountains and seek the grave of Karabal, hoping to learn how to gain the spirits’ favor.
> Gather more food. Hunt, forage, or fish more aggressively—send people inland or farther up the coast to buy time against hunger.
> Assign lumberjacks. Designate a daily team to fell trees and gather fuel so you can keep boiling water and reinforcing your shelters.
> Craft better tools. Have skilled workers use scrap, bone, stone, or salvaged metal to improve weapons, axes, or fishing gear.
> Search for medicinal herbs. Send knowledgeable foragers into the marshes and jungle in search of plants with healing properties.
> Establish a proper sick ward. Construct a clean, shaded area with boiled water, cloth, and basic care stations to tend to the wounded more safely and slow the spread of illness.
> Write in

>>6239116
>> Assign lumberjacks. Designate a daily team to fell trees and gather fuel so you can keep boiling water and reinforcing your shelters.
> Search for medicinal herbs. Send knowledgeable foragers into the marshes and jungle in search of plants with healing properties.

>>6239218


You assign a team of lumberjacks—strong, dependable folk who take up axes and saws and begin felling trees near the edge of the jungle. The wood is gathered daily, dried and burned to boil water and reinforce the shelters. The heat and clean water make a difference: spirits lift slightly, coughs become less frequent, and fewer people complain of stomach sickness.

Meanwhile, your foragers head deeper into the marsh and jungle in search of medicinal herbs. After hours of scouring mudbanks and forest glades, they return with bundles of fragrant leaves, bitter roots, and flowering stalks. There is relief among the healers—these plants will help the wounded and sick. One of the foragers suggests that with more time, you could cultivate these herbs in clay pots and raised beds near camp, but for now, immediate use is a priority.

The days pass quietly. The lumberjacks report spotting Skaven—thin, darting shapes watching them from the undergrowth—but they don’t approach, and no hostile moves are made. It's tense, but manageable.

With improvised poultices and teas prepared from the gathered herbs, your sick begin to recover. Fevers drop. Wounds stop festering. Some even get back to their feet. It's not a cure-all, but it's enough for hope.

Then, on the third evening, a delegation arrives.

They come without warning, striding from the treeline like a play from some fevered dream: an elderly Skaven draped in ceremonial rags, carried in a wooden litter by eight younger ratmen. Another eight armed warriors follow closely behind, clutching jagged blades and chittering in warning tones. The whole camp gathers, staring in wary silence.

The old one speaks, his voice brittle and breathy but full of authority.

“These lands… belong to Skaven,” he declares. “You build without asking. You cut trees, take food, boil water. But we… generous. You stay. If you pay.”

He raises one crooked claw. “Thirty in hundred. Food. Metal. You pay… we allow. You refuse… we come again, not to talk.”

Your people look to you. Some pale. Some whisper angrily. Some grip their tools like weapons.

Now the choice is yours:

> Accept the deal. Agree to the 30% tax to avoid immediate conflict, ensuring short-term safety while you buy time to strengthen your position.
> Refuse the offer. Stand firm and reject the Skaven’s demands outright, risking war for independence.
> Counteroffer. Propose a lower tax—perhaps 10%—and suggest a structured trade pact instead of tribute.
> Request time to decide. Stall the Skaven while you assess your resources and military strength.
> Feign agreement, plan rebellion. Accept publicly but prepare secretly for eventual resistance.
> Challenge their claim. Demand proof that the Skaven truly hold dominion over this land, risking insult and confrontation.
> Write in

>>6239386
Backstabbing murder-plague rats... We can't trust them, it's too risky.
> Request time to decide. Stall the Skaven while you assess your resources and military strength

>>6239386
> Request time to decide. Stall the Skaven while you assess your resources and military strength.

You step forward to face the Skaven elder, your voice calm but resolute.

“We need time to consider your terms,” you say. “We’ve just arrived, and our people are recovering from wounds, illness, and the shipwreck. If we’re to make any fair agreement, we must understand what we can offer. Give us time—three moons—and we will decide.”

The elder sniffs the air, his long whiskers twitching. He narrows his red eyes and hunches forward in his seat.

“Three moons, yes-yes,” he rasps. “By the third new moon, we return. If you pay—peace-peace. If you cheat-lie or stall-delay, we take everything, burn it down, drown your spawn in the tide.” He bares yellowed fangs in something like a smile. “We are being generous-kind. Do not waste it.”

The Skaven guards let out a synchronized hiss, and the elder taps his staff twice on the litter. The bearers hoist him up again and begin to retreat.

You wait until the last tail disappears from view, then turn to your inner circle. Your second-in-command scowls.

“Well?” they mutter. “We bought time. But what now?”

You clench your jaw and reply, low and firm: “Now we get ready—whatever that means. No one’s taxing us until we know what we’re truly up against.”

Frit approaches you at dusk, as the camp settles down for the evening. Her face is lit by the firelight, but her expression is serious. She lowers her voice so only you and a few trusted companions can hear.

“My magic is sealed,” Frit says, touching the crystal at her neck. “But I know an old ritual to summon a local spirit—it brings luck, better harvests, faster healing, even purer water.”

You glance toward the jungle. “What’s the cost?”

“It must be done every night,” she warns. “If we stop, even once, the spirit will feel abandoned—and misfortune will follow. Sickness, fire, madness.”

You narrow your eyes. “Is it a fairy?”

Frit shrugs. “You could call it that. They’re ancient, proud. The name doesn’t matter.”

Your second-in-command stiffens. “We were taught never to trust fairies. They twist words, take what they want. It could be a trap.”

> Agree to perform the ritual. Begin the nightly nature ritual and commit to keeping it without fail.
> Refuse the ritual. Decide the risks are too high—no nightly ceremony is worth drawing the ire of a capricious spirit.
> Ask Frit to describe the ritual in detail. Find out what exactly is involved—perhaps it’s something sustainable or easily delegated.
> Set a team to quietly investigate similar spirits. Maybe there's a safer way to tap into local magic or luck without binding the whole camp to a nightly task.
> Call a meeting with the elders and skilled workers. Let the community weigh the risk and vote on whether to proceed with the ritual.
> Delay the decision and prioritize preparation. Focus on food, water, and weapons first—decide about the ritual once you’re in a stronger position.
> Write in

>>6239451
>> Delay the decision and prioritize preparation. Focus on food, water, and weapons first—decide about the ritual once you’re in a stronger position.

>>6239465

You choose caution. Delay the decision about the nature ritual and prioritize building strength—food, clean water, and weapons come first. The risks of accidentally offending an ancient spirit are too high when your people are still recovering.

Over the next few days, progress comes in unexpected ways.

A scouting party returns from the jungle with news: they’ve discovered a herd of strange creatures—pale, skinless rat-like beasts with spider eyes, grazing on ferns and bark. Though unsettling to look at, the beasts are calm and seemingly harmless. The men propose attempting to tame them for meat, milk, or even labor.

Meanwhile, a team exploring the nearby rocky hills finds something more tangible—rich veins of metal: iron, copper, and a trace of something bluish and unknown. It’s dangerous terrain, and it would take time, but with proper kilns and simple forges, your people could soon make their own weapons and tools. The value is clear.

A tall, sinewy lizardman emerges from the surf, his scales moss and sapphire, gill-ridges on his neck, and webbed claws. He carries a coral-woven backpack, dripping and heavy with ocean finds.

He approaches calmly and opens the pack, revealing:

A sealed clay jar of glowing edible sea-worms (for rations or bait)

Serrated shell-knives, sharper than your stone tools

Dried kelp, strong as rope

A green-glass orb with swirling blue smoke—possibly magical

Bits of tarnished bronze from a wreck

A carved sea-serpent totem, devouring its own tail

He speaks your tongue with clicks. When told you’re newcomers, he grins.

“No trade. You keep. Just feed me three days—then I swim home.”

You give him food and shelter. At night, he shares slow, broken tales by the fire:

“Humans lived inland, far from shore. Now? Gone. Monsters in sea. Ships of metal. No humans here for many tides. Not since mountain bones cracked.”

Asked about the bones, he only shrugs. The island, he says, is avoided—Skaven rule the land, sea monsters the coast, and deeper still lie older, unknown things.

The Skaven deadline hangs like a shadow, and the question remains: how will you prepare?

Choose two:

> Attempt to tame the jungle beasts. They could offer meat, milk, or even strength to pull carts—but it’s a gamble.
> Begin construction of kilns and forges. With enough fuel and effort, metalworking can begin—tools, weapons, nails, and trade goods.
> Assign a mining team. Even if the forges aren’t ready, raw ore can be stockpiled or bartered later.
> Improve your water infrastructure. Dig storage pits, set up charcoal filters, and assign crews to build permanent boiling stations.
> Start building a fortified perimeter. Fell trees, sharpen stakes, and raise walls—if conflict with the Skaven comes, you'll need defenses.
> Send scouts to observe the Skaven territory. Learn their movements, numbers, and supply lines before you make any decisions.
> Write in

>>6239451
> Set a team to quietly investigate similar spirits. Maybe there's a safer way to tap into local magic or luck without binding the whole camp to a nightly task
I feel we should focus more on diplomacy. Perhaps lizard men or dryads would be willing to enter defensive alliance against the rats. Or maybe we can help each other in different ways.

>>6239499
>> Start building a fortified perimeter. Fell trees, sharpen stakes, and raise walls—if conflict with the Skaven comes, you'll need defenses.

> Improve your water infrastructure. Dig storage pits, set up charcoal filters, and assign crews to build permanent boiling stations.

Maybe we can also start getting salt from the sea if we boil the salt water.

>>6239510


As work on the settlement intensifies, your people commit themselves to urgent priorities.

Fortifications begin. Lumberjacks fell trees along the edge of the jungle, sharpening logs into defensive stakes. Crews raise wooden palisades in a broad circle around the camp. Watchtowers are started with salvaged rope and timber frames. A gate is fashioned from two large felled trunks bound with kelp rope from the lizardman's pack.

Water infrastructure improves. You dig deep storage pits lined with clay and charcoal, place filters made from woven kelp and stone, and build permanent boiling stations using stones and early kilns. Morale rises as illness from bad water drops.

One crew starts experimenting with boiling seawater for salt. It's crude, but after several weeks of careful effort, you produce rough, edible salt. Then, one evening, something terrible happens.

A monstrous mermaid rises from the tide, wailing in a voice that coils like mist around your minds. Her form is horrific—fish-scaled limbs, too many teeth, eyes too wide, hair like black eels. The sound draws your men as if sleepwalking. They start walking into the waves.

Your second-in-command slaps you—hard. The spell breaks. You shout over the surf.

“What do you want?”

The mermaid blinks, noticing you for the first time. The singing stops.

“Hungry,” she says. Her voice still pulls, but less so now. “One of your kind. I’ll eat. That is the price.”

“No,” you say. “That’s wrong.”

She shrugs. “I must eat. There is no kindness in the deep.”

She glances at your side. “You carry metal. I will take that instead. For now.”

Reluctantly, you draw your sword—a prized iron blade brought from the old world—and hand it over. She takes it, delighted.

“Others will smell this,” she hisses. “Steel and salt. The sisters will come. They always do.”

She dives beneath the waves, vanishing into the dark.

You now face new threats from the sea. What do you do?

> Start forging decoy metal. Use bronze and stone to create fake weapons and offerings to distract future mermaids.
> Post armed coastal sentries. Assign your best fighters to watch the shore day and night, with strict orders to plug their ears if they hear strange music.
> Recruit the lizardman. Ask him if his people know ways to repel sea spirits or enchantments.
> Halt salt production. Stop boiling seawater to avoid drawing attention from more mermaids.
> Prepare a sacrificial decoy. Craft a lifelike mannequin filled with metal scraps and blood-soaked rags as bait or deterrent.
> Study the green-glass orb. Frit believes it may have magical properties. Perhaps it can ward off sea creatures. She’ll need time to examine it.
> Write in

>>6239522
> Recruit the lizardman. Ask him if his people know ways to repel sea spirits or enchantments.
> Study the green-glass orb. Frit believes it may have magical properties. Perhaps it can ward off sea creatures. She’ll need time to examine it.
Good leadership includes ability to delegate tasks

>>6239522
>> Halt salt production. Stop boiling seawater to avoid drawing attention from more mermaids.

>>6239528
>>6239529


The days roll forward, hard and tense, as you take command of your people's survival. You delegate with purpose, trusting others to carry out vital tasks while you plan the long game.

You meet with the lizardman, who now walks with a stronger stride and scales that gleam faintly under the sun.

“I must go,” he says one morning. “If I do not return soon, my clan will think me drowned. My mate will take another. I will lose my place.” He sounds more resigned than bitter.

Before he leaves, you ask him about sea spirits—how to ward them off.

He nods. “Our shaman knows. Powerful song-spell, made with salt and deep-rooted coral. But I do not know it. You would have to go to her.”

“Where?” you ask.

“Far,” he says, pointing past the jagged hills. “Across the island. No good path. Skaven tunnels. Monsters. Death.” He pauses. “But… boats. You go around. Water is safer—sometimes.”

He leaves at dawn, slipping into the waves with a grateful hiss.

---

Meanwhile, Frit studies the green-glass orb recovered from the lizardman’s pack. After days of silent observation, she speaks:

“It’s from a creature—not crafted, but grown. The glass is its shell, the smoke its breath. A sea being… perhaps a leviathan. If I had my magic, I could use this as a focus. It would amplify any water-aligned spell. Protective wards. Tidal waves. Healing tides.”

She sighs. “But I’m sealed. All I can do is guess.”

---

You halt salt production, wary of drawing more attention. Though supplies suffer, your people understand the risk. No more singing nightmares come from the sea—for now.

Weeks pass in brutal work and slow progress. Wood is split, shelters reinforced, kilns smoke steadily with pottery and tools. Food grows with effort, but your people grow stronger. The camp breathes.

Then, a worker digging for clay shrieks.

You rush to the pit. Sunlight glints off blackened stone, shaped by ancient hands. The diggers have uncovered a sarcophagus, half-buried, rimmed with spiral carvings and iron rings etched with rust and time. It hums faintly, as if exhaling something old and patient.

The ground around it is cold.

> Open the sarcophagus immediately. Curiosity and potential power outweigh the risks. It could be a weapon, a relic—or a threat.
> Post guards and leave it sealed. Study the markings from a safe distance. Perhaps Frit or someone else can decipher the symbols.
> Bury it again. Whatever it is, it was buried for a reason. You have enough problems without awakening ancient horrors.
> Consult the lizardman shaman. Build a boat and begin preparations to reach the lizard people. Maybe their wisdom includes knowledge of old tombs.
> Use the orb near it. See if the strange magical object reacts to the sarcophagus in any way.
> Assign a research team. Task a small group to work carefully over the coming weeks to study and excavate it fully.
> Write in

>>6239542
>> Assign a research team. Task a small group to work carefully over the coming weeks to study and excavate it fully.
> Consult the lizardman shaman. Build a boat and begin preparations to reach the lizard people. Maybe their wisdom includes knowledge of old tombs.

>>6239549
Let's go with that

>>6239549
>>6239553
Your orders are given, your people busy with tools and timber, and your eyes set on the horizon. As the boat nears completion, your research team works carefully around the mysterious sarcophagus, documenting its effects.

Within days, they confirm: the tomb radiates intense cold, enough to frost over nearby clay jars and make breath visible. Touching it numbs the fingers like ice. A carpenter suggests something bold—build an insulated box around it, turning it into a primitive cold chamber. It could revolutionize food storage, delaying spoilage and preserving meat.

Meanwhile, your people finish a sturdy outrigger boat, wide enough for five and built from the strongest timber they could find. You choose your bravest men, and name your second-in-command as acting leader until your return.

Before departure, you gather your settlement for final instructions.

What instructions will you give before you leave? Choose one or more:

> Begin construction of the cold chamber. Approve the carpenter’s plan—if the sarcophagus won’t open, at least it can serve a purpose.
> Keep researching the tomb, but do not open it. Study the runes, measure its effects, but under no circumstances is it to be opened until you're back.
> Fortify the camp. Double patrols. Finish the stake walls. If the Skaven or the mermaids come, the people must hold the line.
> Prepare a signal fire system. Station scouts in the trees to watch the coast and light a signal flame if hostile forces are seen approaching.
> Begin small-scale farming inland. Test out land near the jungle for planting. Expand slowly but secure food independence.
> Start training a militia. Assign a dozen strong men to begin drilling with weapons. It’s time the settlement prepares to fight.
> Write in

>>6239570
>> Start training a militia. Assign a dozen strong men to begin drilling with weapons. It’s time the settlement prepares to fight.
> Fortify the camp. Double patrols. Finish the stake walls. If the Skaven or the mermaids come, the people must hold the line.

>>6239581


You set sail at dawn, the newly built boat creaking under the weight of supplies and resolve. The sea is restless, and soon, a storm catches you halfway along the coast. Towering waves slam against the hull, forcing your crew to row for their lives. Lightning cracks the sky like a whip. But after hours of struggle, you survive—drenched, exhausted, but intact.

As the wind settles and your men catch their breath, the lookout stiffens and points ahead.

Just beyond the reef, half-submerged and still as a boulder, floats a monstrous mermaid. Her enormous form glistens with slime and kelp, her tail coiled lazily in the shallows. Coral-like growths jut from her arms and neck, and her gaze is fixed on your boat. She knows you’re there. She’s waiting.

“Can’t sneak past her,” your second-in-command mutters. “She’ll spot us if we try.”

You glance to the west—toward the cliffs—and notice a break in the stone: a wide sea-cave. The walls within shimmer faintly with embedded gemstones, their light dancing on the water. It might be a place to shelter, or a trap. Either way, it offers an escape from the mermaid’s gaze.

The men wait for your command, gripping oars and weapons with white knuckles.

> Divert into the sea-cave and hide. Wait out the mermaid. She might leave eventually. You may also find something useful inside.
> Create a distraction. Toss barrels overboard or fire into the water. If she investigates, rush through while she’s distracted.
> Attempt diplomacy. Approach with caution, show empty hands, and try to speak with her. She may respond to calm words… or hunger.
> Charge through with weapons ready. A direct assault. High risk—but if you win, she won’t be back.
> Double back and search for another route. Time-consuming, but safer if you can find a new passage.
> Split the group. Leave a few men to explore the cave for supplies or passage while the rest remain ready to act.
> Write in

>>6239633
> Divert into the sea-cave and hide. Wait out the mermaid. She might leave eventually. You may also find something useful inside.

Rolled 20, 54 = 74 (2d100)

>>6239643


You order the boat into the sea-cave’s shadow, the mermaid unaware, humming softly behind coral. The cave entrance looms, dark and inviting.

Inside, the air is cool, and the walls sparkle with raw gemstones. Your men quietly collect the loose stones, hungry and restless from the journey. Then a faint scent of cooked meat drifts from deeper in the cave.

"Hold," you warn, but it's too late. Driven by hunger, Jorik and Tarn move toward the smell, ignoring you. A massive tentacle lashes out from the shadows, snatching them up with terrifying speed.

"Fight!" you shout, drawing your weapon.

Chaos erupts. Orlan and Frit charge forward, axes raised, as you push toward the creature’s source, cutting through the air with your sword.

The tentacle tightens its grip, dragging Jorik and Tarn deeper into the cave. You fight fiercely, but the creature is close, and you must act fast.

With your comrades at risk, you must choose:

> Take Big Risks (High Reward, High Risk)
You decide to risk everything to defeat the creature. You may use the cave’s gemstones to your advantage, or find a hidden weak point in the monster’s defense. But failure means more casualties, and the creature will tear apart any stragglers.
> Get Ready to Run (Guaranteed Survival, Certain Death for Others)
Knowing you’re no match for the creature, you decide to retreat. If you survive, the others will be left behind, but you’ll make it out.
> Protect Frit (Sacrifice Safety for Frit’s Well-Being)
Frit’s magic is sealed and vulnerable. You prioritize her safety, even at the cost of your own position or escape.
> Break Frit’s Gemstone (Unleash Magic, Risk Unforeseen Consequences)
You decide to break Frit’s gemstone, hoping to release her magic. It could turn the tide, but it might also make things worse.
> Divide and Conquer (Split the Party, Draw the Creature's Attention)
You order a few men to distract the creature, giving the rest of you a chance to escape. The risks are high, and the others may not survive.
> Attempt to Use the Cave (Use Environment to Your Advantage)
The cave is full of gemstones and strange structures. You could try to trap or confuse the creature using the environment, but failure could make the situation worse, leaving you cornered.
> Write in

Please roll 2d100 with your choice. I will roll as well.

If you win one roll, you escape the creature’s clutches. If you win both, you kill the monster. If both rolls are lower, you won’t escape with your life.

Rolled 47, 26 = 73 (2d100)

>>6239662
> Take Big Risks (High Reward, High Risk)
You decide to risk everything to defeat the creature. You may use the cave’s gemstones to your advantage, or find a hidden weak point in the monster’s defense. But failure means more casualties, and the creature will tear apart any stragglers

>>6239666

Steel rings and screams shatter the silence as you and your warriors clash with the horror in the cave. Its limbs are thick as tree trunks, its flesh glistening with slime and blood. Jorik is snatched first—crushed before he can cry out. Tarn follows, his body torn apart mid-swing. You, Frit, and Orlan fight side by side, but the creature is relentless. One tentacle slams you against the wall. Frit hurls a gemstone at the beast, blinding it for a moment. Orlan hacks deep into its flesh, buying you time.

You flee—bloodied, bruised, barely alive.

Outside the cave, you collapse into the underbrush. But then Orlan stumbles, choking. His skin is pallid, his breath shallow.

“He’s poisoned,” Frit mutters, kneeling. “But… so am I.”

You turn sharply.

“My magic is sealed, but the crystal—it's protecting me. Slowing it down. Absorbing it. But it’s starting to... darken.”

A sharp roar echoes behind you.

The cave monster, wounded but not dead, surges from the cave entrance.

Before it reaches you, three mermaids burst from the sea, shrieking war cries, weapons flashing. They clash with the monster in a furious blur of teeth, coral blades, and shrill song.

You and Frit drag Orlan into the forest while the battle rages behind you.

“He won’t last long,” Frit says. “Maybe… if I give him the amulet, it could protect him like it does me.”

Orlan’s eyes flutter open. “Don’t be stupid,” he growls. “Don’t risk your life for mine. Leave me. I’ll find something. Or die trying.”

You must choose:

> Give Orlan Frit’s Amulet Risk corrupting Frit’s only magical defense in hopes of shielding Orlan from the poison.
> Search for Antidote Herbs Nearby Comb through the forest for medicinal plants that might counteract the venom.
> Leave Orlan by the Forest to Find Help on His Own Honor his wish. Leave him armed and supplied. He’ll try to survive alone.
> Wait and Rest in Hiding Delay your escape, hoping Orlan stabilizes. But time is short, and enemies may still be near.
> Split Up One of you searches for help or herbs while the other stays behind with Orlan.
> End Orlan’s Suffering A grim option—if the poison is too far gone, a swift death may be all you can give.
> Write in

>>6239715
>> Search for Antidote Herbs Nearby Comb through the forest for medicinal plants that might counteract the venom.

>>6239722

You and Frit carry Orlan through the tangled underbrush, his breathing shallow and ragged. The poison from the sea creature spreads fast, darkening his veins. Desperation claws at you. Somewhere in this cursed forest, there must be an antidote.

You search frantically—bark, roots, berries, fungi—but time is running short.

Then, emerging from the mist between the trees, a young girl in filthy rags stands watching you. Her hair is wild, her feet bare. She’s no older than ten, but there’s something ancient in her stare.

She points at Orlan. “Oh no. You’ve been poisoned by the Nyarlotep. You’ll surely die... unless…”

“Unless what?” Frit asks, tense.

The girl grins. “Unless you drink my blood.”

You blink. “Be serious. Why would we do that?”

“Well, it’s—”

Suddenly, the forest explodes in noise—skaven, dozens of them, chittering and shrieking as they lunge from the undergrowth with rusted blades and jagged spears.

You and Frit fight fiercely, steel flashing and blood flying, but they keep coming. You're losing ground. Orlan groans behind you.

Then, a voice rings out—calm, clear, and oddly commanding.

“Enough.”

The girl steps from behind the bushes, her green eyes glowing. With a flick of her hand, thick vines erupt from the soil, snapping around the skaven like whips. The rat-creatures shriek and scatter in terror, vanishing into the dark woods.

She brushes a leaf from her shoulder and says as if nothing had happened:
“Oh, right! What I was saying… I’m the daughter of the Dryad Queen, and my blood is holy. It’ll burn the poison out. But it only works once per person… and there’s always a price.”

You stand there, catching your breath, your sword dripping. Orlan moans behind you.

Now, you must choose:

> Let Orlan Drink the Blood: You accept her offer, letting Orlan drink. It may save his life—but you'll owe the dryads a debt, and they always collect.
> Have Frit Drink the Blood Instead: Frit is also poisoned, though her magic delays the effects. You prioritize her survival—but Orlan may not make it.
> Both Drink the Blood: You risk her wrath by asking her to save both. It may work—or she may strike you down for your greed.
> Decline the Offer and Search Again: You don’t trust her. The forest is ancient and treacherous—but maybe there's still hope hidden in its depths.
> Demand She Come With You: You insist she travel with your group, using her powers to help along the way. But forcing a dryad’s daughter has consequences.
> Offer Something in Exchange First: Rather than accept blindly, you offer a trade—protection, a relic, or a vow. She might respect that… or laugh in your face.
> Write in

>>6239730
>> Let Orlan Drink the Blood: You accept her offer, letting Orlan drink. It may save his life—but you'll owe the dryads a debt, and they always collect.
> Offer Something in Exchange First: Rather than accept blindly, you offer a trade—protection, a relic, or a vow. She might respect that… or laugh in your face.
Offer her the magic orb.

Rolled 1 (1d2)

>>6239745

alright, let me see if she accepts the trade or not

1 - accepts
2 - laugh in your face

>>6239745
>>6239748


You look at the strange girl, her green eyes gleaming with mischief and something older—wilder. You glance down at Orlan, whose breath is barely a whisper now. Frit clenches her jaw. Time is running out.

“We accept,” you say, then hesitate. “But not for free. Let us offer something in exchange.”

The girl cocks her head, curious.

You reach into your pack and pull out the magic orb—the one you got from the lizard, pulsing faintly with watery light. “This,” you say. “A relic from the deep. A gift… or a trade.”

Her eyes widen. “Ooooh!” she gasps, snatching the orb from your hands. “Mother never lets me go into the water ‘cause of the mermaids. I could never get one of these!”

She clutches it to her chest, beaming. Then, with sudden seriousness, she holds out her hand. “Your dagger.”

You hand it to her.

Without flinching, she makes a deep cut across her palm. Thick, glowing green blood starts to drip. She kneels beside Orlan and tilts it gently to his lips.

He drinks.

At first, nothing. Then his eyes flutter open—bright, clear, alive. He gasps, coughs, and sits up. His skin flushes with color. Muscles ripple under his tunic. He even looks taller—by a few inches.

“What the…” Orlan mutters. “What happened?”

“Dryad blood,” Frit murmurs. “Old magic.”

Meanwhile, the little girl squeals with joy, holding the orb high as it glows brighter. She places it against her wounded hand, and the cut vanishes instantly, sealed by its magic.

“See ya!” she chirps, spinning on her heel and darting into the woods, laughing as she goes.

Now, you must choose:

> Run After the Dryad: You can’t just let her vanish. She might know more—or be a key to something bigger.
> Return to Your Boat and Continue the Journey: Orlan is healed. No time to waste. The next leg of your quest awaits.
> Continue Searching for Herbs: Just in case. The forest might hold other secrets, and backup antidotes are always wise.
> Rest Here and Recover: You’ve all been through a lot. Setting camp and regaining strength might be your best move.
> Ask Orlan What He Experienced: That wasn’t normal healing. Something changed. He might have seen or felt something while unconscious.
> Follow the Trail of the Skaven: Find out where the skaven came from. If they're tracking you, better strike first.
> Write in

>>6239751
>> Return to Your Boat and Continue the Journey: Orlan is healed. No time to waste. The next leg of your quest awaits.
> Ask Orlan What He Experienced: That wasn’t normal healing. Something changed. He might have seen or felt something while unconscious.

>>6239754

The forest fades as your boat cuts through golden-tinted waters. The silence after the chaos feels wrong. Frit keeps watch, hand on her blade. Orlan sits beside you, trailing fingers in the river.

You break the silence.
“Orlan… what happened back there? That healing wasn’t normal.”

He lifts his gaze.

“There was a green light. A woman in white took my hand. I couldn’t see her face, but she felt like sunlight and roots. She led me through a gate—stone and ivy—and into a hall filled with silent women in white. They laid me on a table and chanted ahuad lakai minav shutep. I don’t know what it means.”

Frit frowns, and Orlan looks at his hands—stronger, steadier.
“It felt like sinking into soil. Then I woke up… different.”

Frit murmurs, “A ritual. Old. Maybe dryad magic.”
You nod. Whatever touched him... still lingers.

Orlan rows with unnatural strength, pushing the boat swiftly through reed-choked waters. Days pass, then marsh opens into a village of clay huts and leaf roofs—the Lizardman settlement.

Six lizardmen rise from the water, spears aimed.
“Halt! Who are you?”

You raise your hands.
“We seek the shaman’s wisdom to survive the island.”

They glance at each other, then nod.
“Tradition demands we allow it.”

They tow the boat ashore and lead you to a smoky hut. Inside, an ancient lizardwoman sits near a hearth. Two younglings cook beside her.

Without turning, she says,
“I was expecting you. You don’t know how to survive here—but I can help.”

She stands slowly.
“The dragons taught us a rite. Perform it, and your home will be safe for a year.”

She counts on her claws:
“Salt. Fire. Metal. Stone. Wood. Blood. Gather them from your land. Shape them into an effigy. At moonrise, burn it, chanting: Inuhat Kirov Zitron Fulav. Scatter the ashes, bury the remains in a clay vase beneath your town hall. Before the next full moon.”

She hands you a talisman—clay etched with old runes.
“This calls the guardians. Without it, your fire means nothing.”

You tuck the talisman into your cloak already thinking of the moon.

“You cannot return the way you came,” the shaman warns. “The Nyarlotep stirs. It’s breeding season. Its spawn are everywhere, and your chances are slim.”

She gestures to the map on the floor.

“There are other ways, but none are without cost.”

> The Mangrove Labyrinth – “To the west, a maze of roots and spirits. Strong minds may navigate it.”
> The Old Stone Path – “Ancient, slippery stones. Fast, but risky.”
> Ride with the Swamp Traders – “Scaled merchants pass through at dusk. Pay them to take you.”
> The Underwater Tunnel – “A hidden vein beneath the river. Trust my kin and the water won’t take you.”
> The Cliff Route – “A high, narrow trail. Wind and sky are your only tests.”
> Wait for the Storm – “A storm is coming. When it hits, the Nyarlotep hides. You may pass unnoticed.”
> Write in

>>6239768
>> The Mangrove Labyrinth – “To the west, a maze of roots and spirits. Strong minds may navigate it.”

>>6239771

You step into the Mangrove Labyrinth, the air heavy with the smell of damp earth and decay. The twisted roots loom overhead, forming a labyrinth that stretches as far as the eye can see. The shadows seem to whisper, but your guide, the lizardman, walks with purpose, his spear held loosely at his side. His words are broken, but clear enough to understand.

"To west, maze of roots... spirits," he mutters, pointing ahead. "Strong minds can find path."

As you move deeper, the labyrinth becomes thicker, and soon, you see the first of the ghosts—translucent figures, their forms flickering like faint stars. They moan softly, their eyes empty, lost in some eternal torment. Your guide steps forward, his voice firm and commanding.

"Go away," he hisses, his hand raised in a warding gesture. "In the name of Dragon King, go!"

The spirits pause, then scatter, their fearful eyes darting away. You glance at the lizardman in surprise.

"How did you...?" you begin.

He looks over his shoulder, his expression grave. "Long ago, humans bought this island from Dragon King. They pay tithe to bury dead. But when tithe stopped, Dragon King destroyed their kingdom. Now, his emissaries come when they please."

You walk in silence for a while, the weight of his words hanging in the air. The labyrinth feels darker now, more oppressive. The roots twist around you, pulling at your feet like they have a mind of their own. After a long stretch, the lizardman stops, his eyes narrowing.

He points ahead, and your heart sinks.

In front of you lies the carcass of a dragon whelp, its wings torn, its body mangled. It is the size of a young drake, its scales darkened with blood, most of its insides missing. But then—something stirs. The dragon’s golden eyes flicker open, and a ragged breath escapes its mouth.

"No... this cannot be," the lizardman whispers. "The dragon king’s wrath... it will come for us all."

The dragon croaks, spitting blood. "They didn’t destroy my heart... so I’m still alive," it rasps, its voice hoarse with pain. "But... but I was torn apart... by a baby Nyarlotep."

You feel the air grow colder, the shadows deepening around you. The dragon’s eyes flutter, as if barely holding onto life.

"Those things..." the dragon continues weakly. "They're vicious... even the spirits fear them. They were born of chaos... and they devour everything."

What do you do now?

> Offer to help – “You’ve been ravaged by the Nyarlotep. Perhaps we can help you.”
> Kill the dragon – “The wrath of the Dragon King is too great a risk.”
> Leave it – “We can’t risk staying here. The Nyarlotep could return at any moment.”
> Question the dragon – “Before we make a decision, ask the dragon if it knows how to stop the Nyarlotep.”
> Seek the dragon’s heart – “The heart must be somewhere. Perhaps it holds the power we need.”
> Call for help – “We need to return to the shaman. She may know what to do next.”
> Write in

>>6239778
>> Offer to help – “You’ve been ravaged by the Nyarlotep. Perhaps we can help you.”
> Question the dragon – “Before we make a decision, ask the dragon if it knows how to stop the Nyarlotep.”

>>6239780

You kneel beside the dragon, its golden eyes flickering with pain but also fierce resolve. “You’ve been ravaged by the Nyarlotep. Perhaps we can help you.”

The dragon’s breath is shallow, its voice gravelly. “You don’t understand… It is immortal. Its spawn can die, but the true Nyarlotep always returns.”

You ask if there’s any way to stop it. The dragon weakly explains, “It feeds on fear, hidden among the spirits. The spirits can summon it. My heart was stolen by a baby Nyarlotep. If you destroy it and return my heart, I can heal faster.”

You ask, “What will you do in the meantime?”

“I will heal, if nothing else destroys me. But my heart…”

Now, the choice is yours.

> Track the Baby Nyarlotep’s Trail – “We follow the stench of death, trace the creature’s path, and reclaim the heart. Time is short, but if we are swift, we may succeed.”
> Appeal to the Dragon’s Pride – “The dragon’s heart was stolen, but it was once mighty. Perhaps there’s more power we can tap into from the dragon itself. Convince it to give us something to fight back.”
> Invoke the Ancient Dragons – “The Nyarlotep may be a force of nature, but the dragons once ruled these lands. We might be able to call upon a lost ritual, one that could hold the creature at bay or even banish it.”
> Consult the Shaman’s Wisdom – “The shaman knows the ancient rites and the ways of the spirits. If we seek her guidance, perhaps she can reveal a hidden ritual or magic that will help us face the Nyarlotep and its spawn.”
> Use the Dragon’s Blood to Forge a Weapon – “The dragon’s blood, though weak, still holds power. Perhaps we can use it to forge a weapon capable of killing the Nyarlotep’s spawn or even wounding the creature itself.”
> Bargain with the Nyarlotep – “The Nyarlotep feeds on creatures, but it is not invulnerable. If we can find a way to bargain with it, maybe we can use its desire for destruction against it.”
> Write in

>>6239783
>> Consult the Shaman’s Wisdom – “The shaman knows the ancient rites and the ways of the spirits. If we seek her guidance, perhaps she can reveal a hidden ritual or magic that will help us face the Nyarlotep and its spawn.”

>>6239784


You return to the tribe, the lizardman guiding you through the twisted roots until the huts emerge from the mist. The village shaman—her face a web of wrinkles, her eyes clouded by time—greets you with quiet solemnity. You explain the dragon’s wounds, the heart devoured, the looming threat of the Nyarlotep’s spawn.

She nods grimly. “The mermaids have tried for thousands of years. Songs, storms, soulbinding... nothing ends it. The Nyarlotep always returns. But during its breeding season, it births many spawn, and they must be hunted quickly. If not, they feed, they grow, and worse things come.”

You ask how to find or lure one.

She leans closer, voice barely a whisper. “In the old times, when it had worshippers, they made offerings. Fear and blood... especially fresh blood. A living body, tied and bleeding. That draws them. Especially the young ones.”

You feel the weight of her words. It’s not just about bravery—it’s about bait.

Now, you must choose your path:

> Set the Trap – “Use a blood sacrifice to lure the spawn into a killing ground. Risky, but effective if timed right.”
> Volunteer as Bait – “Offer yourself. Let fear and blood draw the creature, while your allies prepare an ambush.”
> Seek a Mermaid Pact – “If the mermaids have fought it for ages, perhaps one among them holds deeper knowledge—or a weapon—hidden from land dwellers.”
> Forge a Spirit Sigil – “Ask the shaman to prepare a spirit-marked ward that masks fear. You could walk among the Nyarlotep’s spawn unseen, or at least confuse them.”
> Reawaken the Old Cult Site – “Find the ruins where the creature’s worshippers once made sacrifices. Ancient energies there might be turned against it—or unleash something worse.”
> Summon a Guardian Spirit – “Beg the spirits of the labyrinth to intervene. With the right offering, one might agree to aid you in the coming battle.”
> Write in

>>6239804
> Seek a Mermaid Pact – “If the mermaids have fought it for ages, perhaps one among them holds deeper knowledge—or a weapon—hidden from land dwellers.”

>>6239814

You set out with your companions in a worn wooden boat. The waves are calm, but they pulse with an unnatural rhythm. The sky is pale, as if something had drained the color from the world. Your goal is clear: find the mermaids—the sea-bound guardians who’ve fought the Nyarlotep longer than memory.

You don’t have to look long.

Near the jagged reefs, a song rises—beautiful, mournful, dangerously sweet. One of your companions grips the boat’s edge, dazed. You shout, “Nyarlotep!”

The melody cuts off.

A pale figure surfaces, silver hair clinging to her shoulders. She stares, then slips beneath the water.

Moments later, she reappears, closer now. Her form has changed—radiant, mesmerizing. Her bare chest glistens in the sun. You feel heat rise in your face. She smiles.

“So… you’re hunting her?” she asks.

“Her?” you blink.

“Yes,” she says. “Nyarlotep is female. I think. Or was. Hard to say now.”

“And you know how to kill it?”

“It’s not hard to kill,” she shrugs. “But keeping it dead? That’s the trick. She always comes back.”

“Do you have a weapon or knowledge that could help?”

“Oh yes. We have a powder. Drop it on her flesh—it dissolves her. But it needs fire to be made, and that’s rare down here. So we don’t have much. Our soldiers carry some in their war-pouches.”

“What’s it made of?”

She shrugs. “No idea. Our shaman knows. But to speak with her, you’d need to breathe water.”

You pause.

“But this information?” she says, her voice coy. “It isn’t free. I’m hungry.”

You glance at your rations, then draw your sword.

“Will you take this?”

Her eyes widen. “Ooooh... shiny. Give me.”

You hand her the sword. She giggles and dives, her laughter echoing beneath the surface.


Back at the tribe, you find the old shaman. The crash of waves is replaced by firelight and murmuring lizardfolk.

You explain what the mermaid told you.

The lizard shaman frowns. “I didn’t know of this powder,” she rasps. “Must be some sea-beast. Or a plant that burns underwater. Or both.”

You ask: “Can you help me breathe underwater?”

She shakes her head. “No… not exactly. But there is another way.”

You lean closer.

“I could turn you into a lizardman hatchling,” she says. “Through an ancient ritual. You’d be reborn in an egg. Your current body would remain here—soulless, aging slowly. If it’s not destroyed, and you die in the new one, you’ll return.”

"The ritual is difficult. It could fail. You might be lost.”

She meets your eyes. “Will you risk it?”

> Undergo the Ritual – “I’ll do it. I need to speak with the underwater shaman.”
> Refuse the Ritual – “No. The risk is too great. We’ll find another way.”
> Find a Volunteer – “Someone else could undergo the ritual instead.”
> Capture a Mermaid Soldier – “Maybe one of their warriors carries the powder. Let’s trap one.”
> Write in

>>6239826
> Write in
Could a lizardman from the tribe talk with the mermaid shaman in place of us?

>>6239833


You sit by the fire as the shaman crushes dried roots into a bowl, her claws rhythmic, her eyes distant.

“Could one of your own speak to the mermaid shaman instead of me?” you ask. “I’m not sure they’ll trust me. Maybe they just see us as food.”

She grunts. “Maybe. We’ve traded with them once or twice—shiny things for silence. But trade is rare. Dangerous. They’re unpredictable. Beautiful. Hungry.”

You nod slowly. “We could bring gifts. Trinkets. Polished brass, copper buttons, bits of glass... anything shiny.”

The shaman hisses in agreement. “They like those.”

You glance around. “Could a lizardman go in my place, then?”

She pauses, then calls out to the gathered tribesfolk. “Any among you willing to swim to the reef and speak with the mermaids? Hold your breath longer than the surf beats, and return with news?”

Silence.

The fire cracks.

She turns back to you with a toothy grin. “I guess our people aren’t willing to make that kind of sacrifice for you, stranger. Not yet.”

What do you do now?

> Train to Swim and Hold Breath – “Teach me your ways. If I can hold my breath long enough, maybe I don’t need a ritual.”
> Sneak into the Mermaid Territory at Night – “I’ll go alone, in the dark. Maybe I can reach the shaman before they see me.”
> Prepare a Tribute Chest of Shiny Items – “Let’s build an irresistible offering. Something that might make them curious enough to speak.”
> Capture and Question a Mermaid Soldier – “We’ll lure one out, net her, and demand to know where the shaman is.”
> Perform a Smaller Ritual for Aquatic Endurance – “Is there any lesser spell? Not full transformation—just to give me more time underwater?”
> Leave and Search for Another Ally – “If the lizardfolk won’t help, maybe others will."
> Write in

>>6239840
>> Train to Swim and Hold Breath – “Teach me your ways. If I can hold my breath long enough, maybe I don’t need a ritual.”
> Perform a Smaller Ritual for Aquatic Endurance – “Is there any lesser spell? Not full transformation—just to give me more time underwater?”

About how much longer do we have before the ratmen come back to our base?

>>6239846

let me see... from my notes, it's been a couple weeks, you still have over two months

>>6239846
>>6239861
You choose to train with the lizardmen, hoping to push your underwater limits. While they can’t breathe underwater, their bodies are built for it — able to hold their breath five times longer than any human. They teach you their ways: spearfishing, long dives, silent chases through the reef channels.

Your strength improves. The pressure no longer panics you. But even after days, you’re always the first to surface — lungs burning, heart racing.

One night, by the fire, you turn to the shaman.

“I’m getting stronger. But it’s not enough. Is there something more you can do? A potion, maybe?”

She watches you quietly, then nods. “No shortcut to breath,” she says, “but I can bend it a little. A potion to slow your heart. Deepen your lungs. It won’t last long — and misuse could drown you.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

She calls for her apprentices and sends them to the reef for kelproot, black moss, and white shellvine. “It will take a few days,” she tells you. “Train until then. Learn your limits. Then we stretch them.”

But before the potion is ready, everything changes.

During a routine dive, the hunters suddenly stop — spears raised, eyes wide. A mermaid is gliding toward you.

She attacks.

Swift, brutal, and precise — even unarmed, she cuts through water like a blade. The lizardmen fight back, barely holding formation. You dive beneath her, spear ready, and strike. It pierces her side. She shrieks, then vanishes into the deep.

When you surface, the lizardmen are shaken, but alive.

“You saved us,” one says, gripping your shoulder. “Most freeze in fear.”

“But that wasn’t even a warrior,” another adds. “Now that you’ve seen their power — will you still go into their territory?”

They wait for your answer.


Choose Your Next Step:

> Yes. I have to reach the shaman, no matter the risk.
> Not yet. I’ll keep training.
> Let’s try a smaller ritual.
> Seek an underwater artifact.
> Lure a mermaid diplomat instead.
> Scout their territory from the edge.
> Write in

>>6239869
> Seek an underwater artifact.

>>6239875

You tell the lizardmen you’ll need more than training. “If I’m to go into mermaid territory and survive,” you say, “I’ll need supernatural help.”

The warriors glance at one another. One of them, older, with faded scale-scars along his jaw, speaks up.

“There’s a story,” he says slowly. “About the breathwater — a sacred current that, on rare days, the gods bless. It flows through the deep in a strange way, and when it does… the water becomes breathable. Just for moments. The old cultists used to trap it in vases, carved from coral and sealed with wax.”

You lean in. “Breathable water? You’re serious?”

He nods. “If you submerge your head in one of those vases… you can breathe. Not for long, but long enough to fight. To hide. To escape. The cultists gathered breathwater and other strange relics in their temple—deep in the drowned lands. But that temple is now in ruins, half-buried, half-claimed by the sea.”

“Could you take me there?” you ask.

The group you saved during the mermaid attack exchange glances. One of them snorts. “You did save our hides. We could call it even—guide you to the temple.”

“Don’t expect much to be left,” another warns. “But if anything strange remains down there… you’ll find it.”

Choose Your Next Step:

> Accept. Dive with them to the temple ruins and search for relics.
> Ask the shaman for a blessing before you go. You’ll need every edge.
> Bring an offering to leave at the ruins — just in case the gods still watch.
> Try to recruit one more skilled diver to join the group.
> Ask for a map and go alone — you don’t want anyone else at risk.
> Wait until after using the lung potion before going. You’ll need every advantage.
> Write in

>>6239879
>> Accept. Dive with them to the temple ruins and search for relics.

>>6239883

You nod and accept the offer. The next morning, just after dawn, you dive with the lizardmen toward the temple ruins — a broken silhouette jutting from the ocean floor, half-consumed by coral and shadow. In its prime, it must have been majestic: sweeping arches, massive stone faces worn smooth by tides, inscriptions now barely legible.

You glide through its half-sunken halls, weaving between collapsed columns and barnacle-encrusted idols. The water grows colder as you descend, your heartbeat loud in your ears.

Eventually, you and the lizardmen reach a chamber deep within — a storeroom of sorts. Dozens of jars lie arranged in neat rows, despite the ruin. “This must be it,” one murmurs.

They begin opening the jars.

Most contain bones — clean, white, folded as if buried with care. Others hold tarnished coins, scraps of jewelry, even offerings to forgotten gods. One jar releases a black mist that curls unnaturally in the water, and the lizardman quickly slams it shut. “Careful,” he hisses. “Don’t disturb the dead needlessly.”

You keep searching.

At last, one of the sealed jars opens and releases a swirl of clear liquid — not sea water, but something... different. A lizardman dunks his head inside. A moment passes.

He surfaces, eyes wide. “Breathwater,” he whispers. “You can breathe it.”

You collect every such jar — five in total — all sealed and intact. Precious relics from a time when gods still answered prayers.

Your party makes its way out of the ruins, leaving most of the temple undisturbed.

Choose Your Next Step:

> Head straight for mermaid territory. You’re ready now.
> Return to the shaman and ask for one last blessing before the journey.
> Hide the jars and rest. You’ll need full strength before the dive.
> Offer one jar to the lizardmen in gratitude. “You brought me here. You deserve a share.”
> Examine the jars with the shaman. Maybe she can enhance or preserve them.
> Scout the mermaid waters first, using just one jar to breathe. A test run.
> Write in

>>6239892
>> Offer one jar to the lizardmen in gratitude. “You brought me here. You deserve a share.”
>> Examine the jars with the shaman. Maybe she can enhance or preserve them.

>>6239901

Back on shore, as the tide laps around your ankles and the temple ruins vanish behind you, you turn to the lizardmen who guided you.

“You didn’t have to help me,” you say. “But you did. You saved my life down there too. One of these is yours.”

You hold out one of the five breathwater jars. The lead hunter hesitates, exchanging glances with the others. Then he steps forward and accepts it with a solemn nod.

“We’re square,” he says. “If you die in the deep, it won’t be because we owe you.”

You nod in return. Now with four jars remaining, you return to the village.

The shaman is seated by her grinding bowl, smoke curling from the fire pit. She eyes the jars as you place them before her.

“So the stories were true,” she murmurs, running clawed fingers along the glass. She uncorks one slightly, inhales, and hums with approval. “Not just breathwater—old breathwater. Stronger than what the cultists used. The gods smiled on your dive.”

You ask if it can be enhanced or preserved.

She thinks for a long moment.

“Yes,” she says at last. “I can thicken it with marshroot resin. Not much — just enough to keep the air within from dissipating too quickly once the seal is broken. It’ll stretch the effect. Perhaps give you an extra few minutes per jar.”

She looks up at you. “But you must choose. I can only treat two jars. The resin is rare, and time is short.”


You now have:

4 breathwater jars
Option to enhance 2 of them for longer effect
What do you do next?

> Enhance two jars and keep the rest untouched.
> Have her enhance all four jars, even if it drains her supplies.
> Keep them as they are — don't risk changing the old magic.
> Use one jar now to explore the mermaid waters.
> Prepare gifts and shiny things for a peaceful approach.
> Rest and plan the incursion. You’ll only get one shot.
> Write in

>>6240142
>> Keep them as they are — don't risk changing the old magic.
> Prepare gifts and shiny things for a peaceful approach.

>>6240142
> Enhance two jars and keep the rest untouched.
> Use one jar now to explore the mermaid waters.

Rolled 2 (1d2)

tiebreaker roll

>>6240150 1
>>6240153 2

You enhance two breathwater jars with the shaman’s resin. She mixes blue paste with herbs and coral, sealing them tightly. “These’ll last twice as long,” she says. “But still not forever.”

You nod, pick one enhanced jar, and inhale. The water fills your lungs—heavy, warm, oddly soothing. You glance back at your companions, then dive.

The descent into mermaid waters is long, but the jar holds. The sea darkens. Jagged coral looms, whispers stir the deep.

Then they find you.

A dozen mermaids spiral in—beautiful, monstrous, shifting forms with fanged grins and coiled tails. They circle, amused and hungry.

“I want to speak to your shaman,” you say.

One snarls. “We cannot deny parley. Come.”

They lead you past broken arches and drowned statues, to a hollowed reef where the shaman waits.

She looks like a glowing teen girl, silver-black hair drifting, skin radiant. But her eyes are ancient.

“I seek the anti-Nyarlotep powder,” you say. “Your kind made it.”

She smiles coldly. “Yes. My great-grandmother forged it—when even gods bled.”

“Then share it. Or teach me.”

She drifts closer. “We still have some. A pouch. It clings to Nyarlotep like remorse. But it is not yours.”

“Teach me, then.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because surface hands ruin what they touch.”

Around you, the others laugh silently. Your lungs tighten. Time’s almost up.

“Go,” the shaman says. “And pray Nyarlotep kills you fast.”

You swim hard, burst from the water, and collapse into your boat, gasping. Below, they watch you. Smiling.

You now have:

1 enhanced breathwater jar
2 standard breathwater jars

What will you do next?

> Hunt a baby Nyarlotep. Track down and study (or kill) a newly spawned Nyarlotep before it matures.
> Steal the powder. Return to the mermaid temple with stealth or trickery. Dangerous.
> Seek a rival mermaid or exile. Find one who might help or betray the shaman.
> Ask the lizardfolk shaman for another weapon. She may divine an alternative.
> Explore a sunken archive. Lost lore might offer another path.
> Prepare for war. Rally allies. Whether or not you get the powder, time is short.
> Write in

>>6240740
>>6240740
>> Prepare for war. Rally allies. Whether or not you get the powder, time is short.
> Explore a sunken archive. Lost lore might offer another path.

>>6240754

You speak with the lizardfolk about rallying against the Skaven. Their expressions darken.

“We defend what’s ours,” one says, “but to cleanse the tunnels? Their nests are endless. They breed faster than fire spreads. It would take a true purge — no mercy, no survivors.”

You nod. “Then I need more than will. I need power.”

The shaman studies you, then slowly nods. “There is a place. A sunken archive, buried long ago. It holds knowledge and magic from before even our time. But few return from it — beasts guard its halls, and traps still stir.”

You say you’re ready.

The lizardfolk lead you to a cliffside cave, half-submerged in the sea. You swim through narrow stone corridors, the water growing colder, darker. Then, without warning, you breach the surface into a dry, ancient chamber — an air pocket sealed by design, untouched by the ocean for millennia.

Torches are lit. What you see stuns you.

A grand hall sprawls before you, carved into the rock, its ceiling held by stone colossi. Walls are lined with shelves bearing clay tablets, thousands upon thousands. The place smells of dust, salt, and ancient time.

“This,” your guide says, reverently, “is the memory of the world.”

You rush forward, but your excitement fades. The tablets are written in an alien script — spirals, claws, jagged lines. You can’t read a word.

You are surrounded by knowledge, yet locked out of it.

What do you do?

> Bring some tablets with you. Take a few back to the surface — perhaps someone can decipher them.
> Search for a hidden passage. There may be sealed chambers or forbidden wings not yet opened.
> Explore deeper into the archive. The oldest secrets may lie below — but so might the guardians.
> Ask if any lizardfolk can read the old tongue. Perhaps a priest, exile, or ancient mind remains.
> Attempt a ritual to awaken the archive. Use symbols, blood, or borrowed magic to stir whatever spirit still lingers here.
> Look for artifacts instead of words. Somewhere among these relics, a weapon or tool may still remain, waiting for a worthy hand.
> Write in

>>6240772
>Bring some tablets with you. Take a few back to the surface — perhaps someone can decipher them.

>>6240772
> Bring some tablets with you. Take a few back to the surface — perhaps someone can decipher them.

>>6240799
>>6240828

You take a few of the tablets, each one heavy and etched with jagged symbols that seem to twist subtly when you’re not looking directly at them. Back at the village, you present them to the lizardfolk shaman.

She peers at the runes, her expression turning grim.

“I cannot read this,” she murmurs, “but I know what it is. The Dark Tongue—a cursed language created by the undead masters. Every letter is soaked in death magic.”

You listen closely as she continues. “It’s powerful. Just saying the words can shape reality. But it doesn’t draw on energy around you—it drains you. Your strength, your will, your soul. The more you use it, the more you wither.”

You ask if anyone still understands it.

“There was one,” she says, her voice quieter. “An old lizardman who claimed the language was whispered to him in dreams by a dead god. He lived alone, far from the tribes. He was already ancient when I was a child. If he still lives… or if he passed his knowledge to an apprentice… they would be your best chance.”

She runs a finger carefully along the edge of one tablet, never touching the symbols directly.

“Be wary. Even staring at it too long can make you want to speak it.”

What do you do?

> Search for the old lizardman or his apprentice. If anyone can read the Dark Tongue safely, it’s them.
> Return home — time is short. Better to focus on known threats than chase after ancient riddles.
> Check on the dragon. You haven't seen it in a while — if it still lives, it could be the key to turning the tide.
> Hunt a baby Nyarlotep. Strike at one of the smaller spawn while you still can — it might yield valuable insight.
> Attempt to decipher the tablets yourself. Risk the curse. With care and willpower, maybe you can unlock a spell or secret.
> Show the tablets to a wandering mad prophet. One passed through the southern swamps not long ago — babbling in a dozen tongues, some not meant for living mouths.
> Write in

>>6241044
>> Check on the dragon. You haven't seen it in a while — if it still lives, it could be the key to turning the tide.
>> Hunt a baby Nyarlotep. Strike at one of the smaller spawn while you still can — it might yield valuable insight.

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>6241050

rolling to see if dragon still lives

1 - still lives
2 - dead

Rolled 3 (1d3)

>>6241050
>>6241108


You make your way through the fog-choked swamp, following the path to where you last saw the young dragon. But as you draw near, the air turns sour — thick with the stench of decay. Buzzing flies swarm your group. Then you see it.

The dragon is dead.

Its once-proud form lies bloated and broken, flesh sloughing from its bones. Maggots feast on what remains. The chest is hollow — torn open from the inside.

“We're too late,” someone whispers. “The heart… Nyarlotep must’ve devoured it.”

You barely have time to mourn.

Suddenly, one of your companions screams — yanked into the muck by a black, coiling tentacle.

1 - Orlan
2 - Frit
3 - Zhekk, the lizarman guide

The baby Nyarlotep is here.

It had buried itself beneath the dragon’s corpse, waiting. Now it rises — a grotesque, half-formed horror, all teeth and tendrils, dripping with corruption. You feel its gaze press into your mind like ice.

You must defend yourself!

Roll 2d100, 0 successes the one nyarlotep grab dies, 1 success and you flee, 2 successes and you defeat it

You have to beat my roll to have a success.

What will be your strategy?
> Full Attack: Go all out with a full offensive strategy, using all weapons and skills to overpower the Nyarlotep.
> Survival: Focus on evasion and defense, aiming to avoid the Nyarlotep’s grasp and find an opening to escape.
> Capture Alive: Try to subdue the Nyarlotep alive, using traps or non-lethal techniques to neutralize it.
> Distract and Flee: Distract the Nyarlotep with a diversion while making a hasty retreat.
> Use the Environment: Take advantage of the swamp's natural hazards, attempting to trap the Nyarlotep in a dangerous situation.
> Coordinated Strike: Work with your companions, using teamwork to overwhelm the Nyarlotep with precision and synchronization.
> Write in

Rolled 53, 89 = 142 (2d100)

>>6241116

My rolls that you need to beat

Rolled 20, 60 = 80 (2d100)

>>6241116
> Coordinated Strike: Work with your companions, using teamwork to overwhelm the Nyarlotep with precision and synchronization.

Rolled 2, 46 = 48 (2d100)

>>6241119


You shout—“Together!”—and charge.

Orlan grips his spear and flanks left. Frit draws her knife, a wicked little thing of bone and silver. Her usual shimmer of magic is gone—sealed, for now—but she doesn’t seem to care. She rolls her shoulders, blade in hand. “Still got this,” she mutters.

The baby Nyarlotep rises from the mire—a grotesque knot of tendrils and mouths, its half-formed limbs flailing like it’s still learning what it is. One eye opens sideways, watching, blinking with human recognition.

You all strike in sync—Orlan jabs low, you slash across its flank, Frit lunges for its core.

The thing screeches, spitting bile. A tendril catches Orlan’s leg, but he cuts it free. For a moment, it falters. It’s working.

Then—

Zhekk roars, driving a jagged spear through its gut. But it twists—fast, impossibly fast—and a black tendril wraps his waist.

He growls, teeth bared. “Get back—!”

It yanks. There’s a wet snap, and the lizardman is torn in half, his blood sizzling on the monster’s hide. His spear clatters into the mud.

The Nyarlotep rises higher, dripping gore and laughing in a dozen broken voices. Around it, the swamp bubbles.

Frit narrows her eyes. “Alright. Ugly wants more.”

You must defend yourself!

Roll 2d100, 0 successes the one nyarlotep grab dies, 1 success and you flee, 2 successes and you defeat it

You have to beat my roll to have a success.

Choose your next move:

> All-Out Attack – Overwhelm it with raw force. Strike fast, hit hard, no holding back. No retreat.
> Flank and Harass – Split up, attack from different angles. Confuse it. Bleed it slowly.
> Target the Core – Go for its center mass, the eye, the heart—whatever passes for a weak point.
> Burn It – Use oil, fire, or anything flammable. Nyarlotep flesh might hate the flame.
> Capture Attempt – Risky. Injure it just enough, then try to restrain it alive for study.
> Retreat – Pull back now while you can. It’s not worth losing more people.
> Write in

Rolled 2 (1d3)

>>6241628

Let's check the creature's next target.

1 - Orlan
2 - Frit
3 - You

I should also mention that during weekdays I don't have much time, so fast paced sessions will probably only be done on weekends.

Rolled 44, 26 = 70 (2d100)

>>6241628
> Flank and Harass – Split up, attack from different angles. Confuse it. Bleed it slowly.

Rolled 1, 37 = 38 (2d100)

>>6241687


You shout the call: “Split and harass! Don’t get grabbed!”

Orlan peels left, vanishing into reeds and muck. Frit darts right, knife glinting. You charge forward, then pivot, keeping your movements unpredictable. The Nyarlotep spawn turns its eye—then another, and another—trying to track all three of you at once. It fails.

You strike from the flank, slicing a tendril. Frit cuts deep into its rear, drawing a black ooze that smokes against the air. Orlan jabs low, stabbing at what might be a joint.

The creature bellows—lashing wildly in all directions—but none of you are there anymore.

It’s working. Slowly.

Then it learns.

It hunkers down, tentacles curling inward, shielding its weak points. A growl rumbles from its misshapen body as new limbs sprout, crude and clawed.

Frit swears. “It’s adapting.”

You regroup behind a fallen log, all three breathing hard. The creature gurgles somewhere in the mist, not dead—but disoriented.

You’ve got a moment. Not much of one, but a moment. Enough to press, or enough to run.

Roll 2d100 and choose your next move:

> Finish the Fight – It’s weakened. Press the attack before it regains control. Take it down for good.
> Cripple and Flee – Injure it badly enough to slow or halt its growth. Then retreat while it recovers.
> Flee Outright – Take the escape route now. No casualties. Live to plan the next move.
> Set a Trap – Use the terrain. Lure it toward mud pits, unstable ground, or something explosive.
> Go for the Eye – Its one big eye is open again. It might be a true weak point—if you can reach it.
> Call on Frit’s Instincts – She was once a spirit of memory and violence. Ask her if she remembers how this thing dies.
> Write in

Rolled 77, 78 = 155 (2d100)

>>6242191
>> Finish the Fight – It’s weakened. Press the attack before it regains control. Take it down for good.

>>6242201
You don’t wait.

“Now!” you shout.

The three of you surge forward — you first, plunging your weapon deep into the pulsing flesh of the Nyarlotep spawn. It jerks violently, but Frit is already there, darting in with her blade, slashing through its eye with cold precision. Orlan circles around the back and drives his short spear through a joint in the creature’s hide.

It howls — a sickening, wet sound — before collapsing.

The body bubbles and melts, flesh and bone dissolving into a pool of steaming acid. The swamp hisses around it. The stench is unbearable.

You all step back, panting. Zhekk’s body lies nearby, torn and motionless where the creature dragged him down. Frit looks at him silently, her blade still slick with black ichor.

“That thing…” Orlan mutters. “It was barely grown.”

“But still dangerous,” Frit replies, wiping her weapon clean. Her tone is flat — not cold, just practiced. She's seen death before.

You all look at the dissolving remains. The swamp around you is silent again. Oppressively so.

You survived. But Zhekk didn’t.

What now?

> Return to the lizardman tribe – You’ll need another guide now. Zhekk’s path ends here, but maybe another will take up the journey.
> Press onward without a guide – You still have your direction. It’s dangerous, but you might not have time to wait.
> Loot the dragon’s corpse – Its heart is gone, but there may still be powerful materials in its bones, scales, or teeth.
> Burn the Nyarlotep remains – Even a corpse like this may not stay dead. Fire might be the only sure ending.
> Search the area for more spawn – This one was young. If there are others nearby, they need to be put down now.
> Set camp and rest – You're wounded, tired, and down a companion. Recovery could make the difference in the next fight.
> Write in

>>6242205
> Loot the dragon’s corpse – Its heart is gone, but there may still be powerful materials in its bones, scales, or teeth.
> Burn the Nyarlotep remains – Even a corpse like this may not stay dead. Fire might be the only sure ending.
> Set camp and rest – You're wounded, tired, and down a companion. Recovery could make the difference in the next fight.

Just wanted to say that judging by the last posts this is an actual effortpost civ quest. I will try to catch up and vote when I'm able, probably in the downtime between sessions since the running times don't match for me. Godspeed.

>>6242206

As the stench of acid and death lingered in the swamp air, the three of you stood over what remained of the baby Nyarlotep — a bubbling pool of foul slime. Zhekk was gone. There was no time to mourn. You had to act.

First, you turned to the dragon’s corpse. Its heart was missing, but not all value was lost. You pulled loose jagged teeth, carved scaled hide, and salvaged bones still humming faintly with power. Orlan found a charred fragment, likely scorched in the dragon’s final stand, and tucked it away.

Then, you burned the Nyarlotep’s remains. Frit drenched the ground in oil, and you lit it. The corpse gave off a psychic shriek as the flames consumed it — green, oily, hateful. When the fire died, only scorched muck remained. Maybe that was enough.

You made camp nearby, atop a dry rise between root clusters. Exhaustion set in fast. The fire was a comfort, but so was silence.

“We need to return,” Orlan said after a while, his eyes fixed on the flames. “Zhekk’s dead. The village needs warning.”

Frit, flipping through one of the clay tablets, shook her head. “This is the Dark Tongue. The shaman said someone might still know how to read it. There’s power in it. Maybe enough.”

Orlan scoffed. “Or enough to finish killing us.”

Frit only shrugged. “It might give me back my magic.”

They looked to you. You kept your thoughts to yourself — for now.

That night, Orlan shook you awake. “Ghosts,” he whispered. “They're here.”

You saw them immediately. Shadows circling the dying fire. Cold breath. Pale faces without features. Tattered spirits, watching, waiting.

Frit stood, snatched a flaming branch. “They hate fire. Keep it lit.”

You spent the night fighting them with flame and will. They pressed closer, silent and suffocating, but never crossed the fire’s line. You drove them back again and again, feeding the flames until the kindling was gone.

Only with the first grey light of dawn did they vanish — slipping away like fog.

You sat together, drained and sleepless.

Something had changed.

What now?

> Cross the maze of roots while daylight holds – The spirits retreated. This might be your best chance to put distance between you and whatever summoned them.
> Return to the lizardman tribe – You’re guide-less, but the village might offer help, shelter, or another way forward.
> Track the ghosts' origin – They came from somewhere. Maybe you can find the source — and stop it.
> Search for a Dark Tongue reader – Seek out those whispered to still know the cursed script. It might lead to a breakthrough.
> Study the tablets yourself – Frit is willing to try. A risk, but it might uncover something powerful.
> Prepare a cleansing ritual – Frit might know enough to ward off spirits… temporarily.
> Write in

>>6242257
>> Cross the maze of roots while daylight holds – The spirits retreated. This might be your best chance to put distance between you and whatever summoned them.

>>6242262

You chose to cross the maze of roots while daylight held — a smart move after barely surviving the night terrors.

The ghosts didn’t follow. The swamp was quieter, and you made good progress through the tangled terrain. But as dusk crept in, the roots thickened, the air grew heavy… and then the vines struck.

They came without warning — coiling up from mud and branch, wrapping around you and your companions. You caught a glimpse of Frit reaching for you, Orlan’s blade falling — then darkness swallowed everything.

You wake choking.

A tube down your throat. You rip it free with a wet gasp, coughing up thick fluid. You’re in a pod, soft and pulsing, like the inside of a plant. You force your way out and collapse onto moss.

The space is dim and humid, lit by glowing threads running through the walls. Dozens of pods hang in vine nests, each holding a figure inside.

You spot Frit and Orlan, both unconscious but alive. Frit’s face is peaceful. A gentle green light pulses through Orlan’s veins.

A shape shifts in the corner — the vine creature. It approaches… then unfolds.

Inside stands a young girl.

She’s draped in leaves, skin tinged green, eyes glowing faintly. She raises one hand.

“Don’t be afraid,” she says softly. “This is a healing tree. The ghosts can’t come here.”

She walks barefoot through the roots, gesturing to the pods. “I gather those the ghosts wound. Here, the tree mends them.”

You look again — lizardmen, Skaven, and stranger forms: bark-skinned, horned, hollow-eyed.

“The tree heals those who accept it,” she continues. “Resist, and it will put you back to sleep.”

She touches Frit’s pod gently.

“She’ll wake soon. The tree likes her.”

You’re safe — for now. But this place is strange. Alive. And it’s watching.

What do you do next?

> Wait for Frit and Orlan to wake – You’ve come far together. Best not to act alone now.
> Talk to the girl – There’s more to this than she’s saying. Time to ask real questions.
> Inspect the other pods – Who are these others? What kind of people — or things — does this tree keep?
> Try to leave – You don’t trust any of this. Slip out before the vines tighten again.
> Explore deeper into the tree – There may be a core, a secret, or something else entirely.
> Destroy the pods of the Skaven – Even healed, they’re enemies. Better to deal with them now.
> Write in

>>6242292
>> Wait for Frit and Orlan to wake – You’ve come far together. Best not to act alone now.
>> Talk to the girl – There’s more to this than she’s saying. Time to ask real questions.

Why do you heal everyone?

What do you think about the Skaven tribes?

Are Nyarlotep a threat to you?

Are you a daughter of the Dryad Queen?

>>6242311

You sit quietly by the pods, watching Frit and Orlan breathe, their chests rising and falling in the tree’s strange rhythm. The healing seems real — at least for now. But the questions gnaw at you. You glance toward the girl standing by the roots, her eyes calm and unblinking.

You rise and approach her.

“Why do you heal everyone?” you ask.

She tilts her head slightly. “Because pain poisons the swamp. Suffering echoes. This tree feeds on restoration, not blood.” Her voice is gentle, like falling petals. “The ghosts come from wounds that never close. This helps keep them away.”

You nod slowly, then ask, “What about the Skaven tribes?”

She shrugs. “Skaven are noisy. Greedy. But not especially dangerous. They dig, they squabble. I let them heal if they’re wounded. Some fight me. I put them back to sleep.” She says it like she’s swatting flies.

“And the Nyarlotep?”

That draws a frown. “That one… is wrong. It breaks the cycle. It doesn’t belong here. I was told if I see it, I must run. Never fight it alone.”

“Who told you that?” you ask, narrowing your eyes. “Are you a daughter of the Dryad Queen?”

She shakes her head quickly. “No. I’m not a princess. I’m just a shrine maiden. Long ago, one of my ancestors was given a sapling from a healing tree as a gift. She planted it here. Since then, someone from our line guards it, serves it. This time, it’s me.” She smiles. “Every generation gets one.”

There’s something strange about how she says it — matter-of-fact, not prideful.

She looks you over now, eyes slightly narrowed.

“I like your shape,” she says. “Would you be willing to… produce offspring with me? Don’t worry,” she adds, brushing a leaf from her shoulder, “I’m older than you. Dryads just don’t grow very tall.”

Your brain stalls.

She means it. She’s standing there, entirely sincere, asking you to father the next shrine guardian — or… something.

What do you do?

> Accept her offer – She’s ancient, her body a trick of her kind. The honor may be real.
> Refuse outright – No. She may be older than you, but she looks like a child. You’re not crossing that line.
> Deflect with a question – Stall. Ask what would happen if you said yes.
> Tell her you’re flattered, but decline – Politely but firmly.
> Say maybe, but only after Frit and Orlan wake up – You’re not making this call alone.
> Leave the conversation entirely – Turn and walk away. Let this root-kissed madness drift into silence.
> Write in

>>6242334
> Accept her offer – She’s ancient, her body a trick of her kind. The honor may be real.

>>6242345

You nod.

The dryad girl beams, eyes bright with emotion. She scurries off briefly and returns with a wooden bowl of shimmering liquid, fragrant and sweet. You drink it without protest — it warms your throat and spreads like sunlight through your veins. The world softens.

Time becomes strange.

The two of you lie nestled among roots and moss, wrapped in the hum of the tree’s slow breath. Her form shifts with the rhythm of the swamp, vines and skin blurring. You give yourself over to it — to her — until exhaustion claims you completely.

When you wake again, the tree-pod’s chamber feels unchanged. You rise slowly, aching in new ways.

Frit and Orlan still slumber, peaceful and untouched.

The dryad is seated cross-legged nearby, twirling a glowing vine between her fingers.

“If it’s a girl,” she says matter-of-factly, “we’ll raise her here. If it’s a boy, he’ll be taken to a human village. That’s the way of it. All dryads are daughters.”

She tilts her head. “Human gestation — two or three seasons? I can never remember.”

“Usually three,” you reply.

She nods thoughtfully. “Good to know. I’ll mark it on the bark calendar.”

Orlan is the first to sit up, groggy and tense. Frit stirs moments later, blinking in the dim bioluminescence. You explain the situation to them: the healing tree, the protective vines, the safety from the ghosts.

Neither says much. But they’re quick to agree when you suggest it’s time to move on.

The dryad leads you through a tunnel of root and branch, until you emerge into the misty light of the swamp’s edge. From here, paths fork outward.

She points in different directions with a trailing vine.

“This way leads to dryad territory,” she says. “They’re not hostile, but don’t touch their trees.”

She gestures left. “That way is lizardman swamp — if you know how to speak to them, they might help.”

Then another way, darker, low to the ground. “There’s Skaven territory. Not friendly.”

You describe the beach you’re trying to reach. She thinks for a moment.

“You’d have to cross Skaven land,” she says, “unless you take the grave-path — an old tunnel under a ruined cemetery. It’s shorter, and the Skaven avoid it. But don’t touch anything down there. Or speak.”

Her eyes narrow. “Some things buried don’t like to be noticed.”

Where will you go next?

> Take the tunnel under the cemetery – A shortcut. Quiet and untouched… for a reason.
> Cross through Skaven territory – Risky, but direct. Stealth or speed might get you through.
> Head toward dryad lands – Possibly safe, but strange. Spirits don’t always welcome outsiders.
> Seek out the lizardman tribes – Dangerous without Zhekk, but they may still aid you.
> Rest another night at the healing tree – Give your group more time to recover.
> Climb a swamp tree for a better view – Scout the terrain before committing.
> Write in

>>6242397
> Climb a swamp tree for a better view – Scout the terrain before committing.

>>6242400

You scale the nearest towering swamp tree, its bark slick with moss and age. From the canopy, you catch your breath — the view is murky but wide, and each direction tells a different story.

To the lizardman lands, a dark column of smoke curls into the sky. Could be a camp… or a battle. Hard to tell from this distance.

Toward Skaven territory, you spot watchtowers rising above the canopy. Sparse, far apart — possibly guard posts, or something worse.

To the dryad lands, the trees rise impossibly tall, forming a dense, living wall. Beautiful, but it may not be easy to cross uninvited.

Toward the cemetery, nestled in the fog, you glimpse a crumbling tower — the tunnel entrance, perhaps. The air above it feels still, too still.

You descend in silence, weighing the risks.

What now?

> Take the tunnel under the cemetery – A shortcut. Quiet and untouched… for a reason.
> Cross through Skaven territory – Risky, but direct. Stealth or speed might get you through.
> Head toward dryad lands – Possibly safe, but strange. Spirits don’t always welcome outsiders.
> Seek out the lizardman tribes – Dangerous without Zhekk, but they may still aid you.
> Rest another night at the healing tree – Give your group more time to recover.
> Wait for the cover of darkness – Move unseen, if not unheard. Risky, but might help you slip past trouble.
> Write in

>>6242622
>> Cross through Skaven territory – Risky, but direct. Stealth or speed might get you through.

>>6242662

You choose the Skaven lands — not out of fondness, but necessity.

The undergrowth thins as you move forward, replaced by twisted, trampled paths and half-sunken boards that mark the fringes of Skaven territory. The stench hits you early: rot, musk, and burning grease. You spot the first watchtower in the distance — a crooked scaffold of bone and scrap metal, manned by shadows with twitching tails.

Frit moves silently beside you, blade in hand. Orlan keeps close, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other constantly scanning the treetops. You stay low. No fire. No talking. Every snapped twig sounds like thunder. Every shadow might hold a dozen glowing red eyes.

You must pass five checkpoints. Each one riskier than the last. Piles of refuse disguise traps. Crude wire alarms dangle from trees like dead vines. You hold your breath more often than not.

Every heartbeat is a roll of fate.

Roll 10d6.
If any die shows a 1, you're spotted — and a Skaven patrol will intercept you.
Otherwise, you slip through, unnoticed in the gloom.

You only have 3 weeks until the skaven attack!

You can also adopt one or more of these strategies. For each 2 strategies you adopt, you can ignore 1 result of a 1, but extend the time to get home by a whole week. It will take 1 week even if you don't use any of these strategies.

> Move with the Shadows – Wait patiently for the right moments, advancing only when the watchtowers turn their gaze. Each movement is swift and silent, followed by long, motionless pauses.
> Keep Low to the Mire – You stay belly-down in the muck, crawling beneath ferns and rotting leaves. It’s slow and suffocating work, but the thick undergrowth helps you vanish from sight.
> Disguise with the Swamp – Caking yourselves in mud and draping moss over your backs, you blur into the landscape. From a distance, you’re just another patch of rot and root.
> Create Distractions – A well-placed noise — a snapped branch, a tossed stone, the cry of a swamp bird — turns eyes the wrong way at just the right time. You move when they investigate.
> Advance in Intervals – You take turns moving, each person watching for danger while the others slip forward. It stretches time, but reduces risk.
> Hide Your Scent – You smear yourselves with the pungent oils of bitter swamp herbs, disguising your human smell from any sniffing patrols. The stench is unbearable — but it works.
> Write in

Rolled 4, 2, 2, 5, 1, 5, 2, 5, 4, 3 = 33 (10d6)

>>6242731
>> Advance in Intervals – You take turns moving, each person watching for danger while the others slip forward. It stretches time, but reduces risk.
>> Hide Your Scent – You smear yourselves with the pungent oils of bitter swamp herbs, disguising your human smell from any sniffing patrols. The stench is unbearable — but it works.

>>6242737

The journey through Skaven territory was long, slow, and suffocating.

You moved in intervals, carefully watching each other’s backs. One would dash forward to the next patch of cover while the others stayed motionless, scanning the treetops and listening for distant shrieks or marching claws. Your scent was masked with a foul concoction of swamp oils and crushed root pulp, a technique whispered by the dryad girl. The stench clung to your skin, burned your eyes, and made every breath miserable — but it worked. Patrols passed within spitting distance without ever looking down.

At each of the five Skaven checkpoints, you held your breath and pressed to the mud. Watchtowers loomed above, and twitching silhouettes occasionally sniffed the air or muttered in their chittering tongue. Once, a patrol passed so close you saw the rust on their blades. But somehow, you made it.

After nearly two full weeks of inching, hiding, and surviving on soaked rations and borrowed luck, the great palisade of your beachhead came into view — stark and proud against the dark swamp.

Arrows whistled.

You dove behind a fallen log — and then came the shout.
“Hold your fire! It’s the commander!”

From atop the wall, your second-in-command, Alwen, stood with bow in hand and eyes wide with relief. She raced down to meet you as the gates creaked open.

“Commander,” she said, clasping your forearm. “You made it.” She looked over your worn, filthy group and then motioned you inside. “You’re just in time, too. We’ve been under siege. Mermaids came out of the bay two nights in a row, ghosts tried to cross the warded threshold, and lizardmen circled from the east. One of them even spoke… said they found the body of a certain Zhekk, torn to pieces.” She glanced at Frit. “You know anything about that?”

You nodded wearily but said nothing.

Alwen continued. “We held them off. We’ve been training the crew into a proper militia. Fortified the walls. Buried traps in the brush. We’re stronger than we were when you left — but…”

She led you to the command post, where a map of the region was pinned with crude markers. Her finger landed on a rat skull drawn in black charcoal.

“The Skaven come in seven days. They say we owe them. Trade, protection, blood price, I’m not sure. But they’re coming. And they’ll come armed.”

She looked at you, tense.

“What will we do?”

> Pay the Skaven debt – Safer in the short term. Gold, goods, or favors — whatever was owed.
> Ask for more time – Buy a few extra days. Could work… or backfire.
> Set a trap – Let them come expecting payment, then strike hard and fast.
> Reinforce the beachhead – More trenches, more watchmen, more traps.
> Sabotage their supplies – Hit them first, slow them down, sow fear.
> Seek allies – Lizardmen, dryads — maybe they’ll fight the Skaven too.
> Write in

>>6242746
>> Pay the Skaven debt – Safer in the short term. Gold, goods, or favors — whatever was owed.
> Reinforce the beachhead – More trenches, more watchmen, more traps.

>>6242751

You spent the week reinforcing your position.

Then the day came.

The sentries spotted them first — thin shapes weaving through the underbrush, tails low, snouts high. Twenty Skaven, clad in patchwork armor, flanked a large wooden chest borne on a crude sled. Their banner was a rag tied to a bone, scrawled with red glyphs that stank of blood and oil.

The camp bristled. Archers took their places. Militants gripped spears. Frit hovered behind the ramparts, ready to vanish. Orlan stood beside you, his hand twitching toward his blade.

Then came the voice — nasal, wheedling, sharp.

“We come for tribute. No trouble if paid-paid.”

You could feel Alwen’s tension beside you, jaw clenched, bowstring taut. Your people watched from walls and trenches, waiting for the command.

You stared down at the ratmen — the scavengers of empires — and gave the order.

“Let them in. No sudden moves.”

The gates creaked open.

They slithered through like smoke, all twitching eyes and yellowed teeth, sniffing the air, muttering to one another in their strange tongue. They made a show of inspecting everything — your forges, your grain stores, even your wounded. One licked the edge of a spade. Another tapped a shield like he might buy it.

Then they took. Thirty percent of everything that caught their beady little eyes. Food, tools, metals — mostly your iron. A dozen of them vanished into your armory like termites.

They loaded it all into their chest, tied it shut with woven wire, and dragged it back to the swamp.

“We come back next year. Want-see more food then,” said the leader, grinning wide. “Grow well. Work hard. Or else…”

They disappeared, leaving your camp lighter. Quieter. And under no illusions.

Alwen approached as the gates shut behind them, her face unreadable.

“We’re still alive,” she said. “That counts for something. But… what now?”

You glance at the camp — stripped, humbled, but still standing. The Skaven hadn’t burned you out. They’d claimed you instead. One less enemy, for now… but the leash was tight.

Time to choose the next step.

Choose one or more actions to focus on:

> Seek diplomacy with a nearby race – Reach out to the lizardmen, dryads, or even stranger forces. You’ll need friends in the long run.
> Explore more of the island – The deeper interior may hold resources, dangers, or ancient secrets waiting to be found.
> Build ships and explore westward – The old sailor spoke of a continent beyond the sea. If it’s true, it could change your future.
> Invest in agriculture – If you’re going to pay tribute and feed yourselves, you’ll need better farms and more food security.
> Expand the mines – Dig deeper. Steel, stone, perhaps something rare and powerful — it’s worth the risk.
> Construct a sea palisade – Protect your shoreline. With fish farms behind it, you can feed the camp and hold off the mermaids.
> Write in

>>6242846

> Seek diplomacy with a nearby race – Reach out to the lizardmen, dryads, or even stranger forces. You’ll need friends in the long run.
> Expand the mines – Dig deeper. Steel, stone, perhaps something rare and powerful — it’s worth the risk.
> Construct a sea palisade – Protect your shoreline. With fish farms behind it, you can feed the camp and hold off the mermaids.

Reach out the lizardmen and explained what happened.

Did we get any progress on the cursed tomb we dug up and was researching?

>>6242865

Before departing, you call in the team responsible for the cursed tomb — the one with the cold stone sarcophagus unearthed near the dunes. When questioned, the lead researcher admits they never had time to examine it properly.

“We were pulled off the project,” they explain, “too busy digging trenches, laying traps — your orders, Commander. So we buried it again. Marked the site with a heavy stone slab.”

You nod slowly. “We'll revisit it later. Once the palisade and the mine expansion are underway, resume the research.”

With that settled, you issue your next directives. The mine teams are to dig deeper — reinforced shafts, better ventilation, and priority on anything rare or metal. At the same time, crews begin laying the foundation for a sea palisade — a barrier of timber and stone to protect your future fish farms from mermaid raids.

But there’s one more duty to fulfill.

Zhekk’s death cannot go unaddressed.

You gather Orlan, Frit, and a small party of scouts. The lizardman had guided you through swamps and ruin alike. If there’s any chance of preserving the fragile ties he built between your people and his, you’ll need to speak directly to his kin.

Maps are unrolled. Routes are considered. The options are limited — and none are easy.

> Take the northern overland route – A direct but rugged trail through forests and hills. Fewer known threats, but slower going and poor visibility.
> Cut through Skaven territory – Risky. You’ve paid them once, but passing through their land again might anger them or provoke a toll.
> Follow the coastline by foot – Hug the northern shoreline. Easier to navigate, but open to sea threats and exposure.
> Sail the northern coast – Fast and scenic, if you have a seaworthy vessel. But mermaids and reef beasts make open water dangerous.
> Use the catacomb tunnels – The old cemetery paths run far north. If they’re stable, it could be the fastest — and most secret — route.
> Split your group – Send envoys by two different paths to hedge your risk. One fast, one safe.
> Write in

>>6242882
>> Take the northern overland route – A direct but rugged trail through forests and hills. Fewer known threats, but slower going and poor visibility.

>>6242882

Let me know who you’d like to take with you. You can pick a small team of up to four people or go in with a full escort in two boats. One of them needs to stay behing to lead the settlement, though.

> Orlan – Hardened warrior with dryad blood in his veins. Skilled in melee combat and survival. Reliable, if a bit changed by recent events.
> Frit – The ghost girl who travels with you. While she has supernatural qualities, her insight and loyalty make her invaluable — and she's part of the core group.
> Alwen – Your second-in-command. A competent leader, disciplined, and respected by the militia. Knows the camp’s politics and military status inside and out.
> Kelmar – Former smuggler and skilled scout. Excellent at stealth, navigating dense terrain, and spotting ambushes before they happen.
> Toma – Young but sharp-eyed archer. Eager, focused, and trained in fast woodland skirmishing.
> Brannoc – A massive ex-gladiator turned miner. Not subtle, but unmatched in raw strength and intimidation.
> Selene – Linguist and field scholar. No magic, but fluent in lizardman dialects and able to read most of their symbols. Better at talking than fighting.
> Irven – Silent herbalist and field medic. Practical knowledge of plants, toxins, and wound treatment. Communicates with gestures and scribbles.
> Rigg – Was captured by the Skaven then rescued. Scarred and bitter, but knows how the ratmen think and move. Quiet and watchful.
> Danner – Former sailor turned trap-maker. Clever with improvised tools, nets, and small devices. Knows how to rig terrain to your advantage.
> Write in

>>6242886
> Orlan – Hardened warrior with dryad blood in his veins. Skilled in melee combat and survival. Reliable, if a bit changed by recent events.
> Frit – The ghost girl who travels with you. While she has supernatural qualities, her insight and loyalty make her invaluable — and she's part of the core group.
> Kelmar – Former smuggler and skilled scout. Excellent at stealth, navigating dense terrain, and spotting ambushes before they happen.
> Danner – Former sailor turned trap-maker. Clever with improvised tools, nets, and small devices. Knows how to rig terrain to your advantage.

>>6242893

You move quietly through the dense northern woods, careful to stay low and out of sight. The trail is rough—thick roots, tangled brush, and hidden gullies slow your pace to a crawl. Kelmar scouts ahead, light on his feet and silent among the trees. Danner moves in the middle, eyes sweeping for natural traps or hidden dangers, while Orlan brings up the rear, ever-watchful, sword drawn.

Frit walks near you. Though she's small and unassuming, she moves with confidence—her eyes alert, her hands never far from the hilt of her short blade. She's not some ghost anymore. Just a girl, a strange one, but flesh and blood like the rest of you.

The fourth day brings trouble.

The forest grows darker as you near a ravine, the trees bending oddly as if twisted by some ancient wind. That’s when they come—half-seen figures darting between the trunks. At first, it’s just flickers of movement. Then they strike.

They fall upon you with hoarse screeches—twisted humanoids, thin and long-limbed, their bodies warped with bark and thorn. Feral, hungry, and fast.

The first crashes into Kelmar, but he rolls clear, slashing upward and carving a deep gash into its side. Orlan meets two head-on, trading blows, his strength just barely holding them back. You tackle one before it can reach Danner. Blades clash. The things fight like animals—biting, clawing, and hissing, more instinct than tactic.

One of them catches Frit off guard, raking its thorned arm across her shoulder. She screams and stumbles, but drives her dagger into its side with both hands, snarling through the pain.

Eventually, the creatures falter. Between Orlan’s brute force and Kelmar’s precision, you drive them off. They vanish into the woods as quickly as they appeared, leaving blood and broken branches in their wake.

Frit’s wound isn’t life-threatening, but it’s deep and painful. You wrap her shoulder tight. Danner has a sprained wrist, and Orlan’s thigh is bruised and bleeding where a claw slipped through his armor. Everyone breathes hard, shaking from adrenaline and exhaustion.

A few hours later, as night threatens the horizon, you stumble upon the remnants of an old stone village. The trees part to reveal moss-choked ruins—walls caved in, roofs fallen, and vines strangling everything in sight. A broken well stands crooked in the center. It’s been decades, maybe more, since anyone lived here.

What do you do?

> Search the ruins – Look for anything useful: old supplies, tools, weapons, or coins.
> Explore for clues – What happened here? Check for carvings, bones, or signs of conflict.
> Hunker down in a cellar for the night – Safer than camping outside. Quiet and defensible.
> Set up camp in the open and post a watch – Easier to move quickly if something goes wrong.
> Send Kelmar to scout the perimeter – Let the scout do what he does best while the rest rest.
> Move away quickly - The silence is too unsettling, something must be wrong.
> Write in

>>6242913
>> Search the ruins – Look for anything useful: old supplies, tools, weapons, or coins.
> Hunker down in a cellar for the night – Safer than camping outside. Quiet and defensible.
> Send Kelmar to scout the perimeter – Let the scout do what he does best while the rest rest.

>>6242917

You search the ruins, turning over broken stones and collapsed walls, but anything of value was taken long ago — by looters, time, or whatever creatures haunt this place now. No tools, no food. Just dust and silence.

Kelmar scouts ahead and finds several intact cellars. You choose the sturdiest — half-buried, with moss-covered steps leading down. It’s empty, save for rusty barrel hoops and old debris, but defensible. You settle the wounded: Frit, pale but steady despite her injured shoulder, and Danner, nursing a sprained wrist.

Later, while checking the other cellars, you find two things of note. One holds a secret room behind a crumbling wall — a huge, inhuman statue of a man twisted into monstrous shape, with empty sockets where gem-eyes once glinted. In another, a tunnel slants down into darkness. Kelmar explores it and returns an hour later.

“Catacombs,” he says. “Funeral urns, old. It goes deep.”

You return to the main cellar, bar the entrance, and rest. But the night is long.

You wake often to scratching above, to low screeches and distant howls. Once, something sniffs at the cellar door. You freeze, silent in the dark. It moves on.

Dawn comes grey.

You step out into the misty morning — and stop cold.

The village is crawling with them.

Dozens of the creatures from before — bark-skinned, long-limbed, hollow-eyed — cling to ruined walls and crouch in the streets. One hisses. Another tilts its head as if listening.

They’ve found you.

What do you do?

> Launch a surprise attack – Hit fast, try to break through. Dangerous, but bold.
> Use fire – Light torches. Maybe they fear it. Maybe not.
> Attempt to communicate – Try to reach them. Risky, but maybe possible.
> Dash for the catacomb tunnel – Hide underground. Lose them in the dark.
> Try to sneak past – Quiet, careful. If they don’t notice, you might get out.
> Wait it out – Stay hidden. Hope they leave. Might take a while.
> Write in

>>6243176
> Dash for the catacomb tunnel – Hide underground. Lose them in the dark.

>>6243188

You dash for the catacomb tunnel, heart pounding as the creatures leap after you in strange, jerky bounds. But as soon as you slip inside the darkness, they stop at the entrance. Kelmar nods grimly. "They fear going underground."

"The dryad told us not to talk in the catacombs!", says Frit, perhaps a little too loud.

"Sorry, I didn't know.", says Kelmar.

You carefully light your torches, the flickering flames casting long, wavering shadows on the ancient stone walls. The cold air carries an eerie stillness, broken only by the faint drip of water echoing through the tunnels. Remembering the warnings about speaking in these catacombs, your group falls silent, relying on subtle gestures and nods to communicate as you move deeper into the dark, haunted maze.

You press on through twisting passages for hours, the air growing colder and heavier with every step. Finally, you enter a vast necropolis—a cavernous chamber dotted with countless stone sarcophagi, some sealed tight, others cracked open and empty.

Gold coins and trinkets lie scattered among the tombs, glittering faintly in the dim light. At the center, a sword rests upright on a pedestal, its blade glowing with an unnatural, eerie light.

Two large tunnels branch out on opposite sides—one leading north, the other south.

What do you do?

> Open a sealed sarcophagus to see what’s inside
> Investigate one of the open sarcophagi
> Search for the nearest exit out of the catacombs
> Take the north main tunnel
> Take the south main tunnel
> Grab some gold from the scattered treasure
> Take the glowing sword from the pedestal
> Write in

>>6243255
>> Take the glowing sword from the pedestal

>>6243265

Your fingers close around the hilt of the glowing sword. The metal is cold—unnaturally cold—and as you lift it from the pedestal, a jolt of energy surges up your arm and floods your body with a sharp, electric awareness. Your breath catches.

Then, a voice echoes inside your mind. Calm, ancient, and sharp as a blade.

"A human? It’s been a long time. My name is Vael. I was forged in an age when the sky bled fire and the earth screamed beneath the feet of demons. I’ve carved through horrors you cannot imagine, stood in battles that shattered empires. But in time… the killing dulled my edge more than rust ever could. I chose silence. I chose stillness."

There’s a pause. The sword seems to grow heavier in your hand.

"Now, you wake me. Why should I help you?"

What do you answer?

> “Because the world is breaking again, and we need weapons like you.”
> “Because I’m not fighting for conquest. I’m fighting to protect people.”
> “Because I don’t care what you want. I’ll wield you either way.”
> “Because even if you're tired of war, evil isn't tired of winning.”
> “Because I want to end the fighting — for good.”
> “Because I thought you'd want one last war before the end.”
> Write in

>>6243295
>> “Because even if you're tired of war, evil isn't tired of winning.”

>>6243310

The blade pulses in your hand, cold and ancient, and its voice speaks again inside your mind—measured, grave, without judgment.

“Because even if you're tired of war, evil isn't tired of winning.”

A pause. A weight behind the silence.

"Evil?" the blade muses. "Oh yes. The old enemy. The powers beyond the Veil… the ones that crave to destroy all that is beautiful, sacred, or free. But listen well, human—evil is not born. It is forged by need."

"The demons — they are not evil by whim. They lost their home long ago, a realm consumed in fire and entropy. To survive, they must consume the spiritual energy of other worlds. They drain it, hollow it out, then move on to the next. The hosts always die. Forests wither. Oceans curdle. Children stop being born. And even when the demons leave, the world does not recover."

A faint thrum passes up your arm as the sword continues:

"I know, because I’ve seen it. I’ve ended their lives in thousands. And yet… in their place, I might have done the same. Their evil is not madness. It is desperation."

"But the barrier between the planes remains strong. You have time. Centuries, perhaps. There is no immediate reason to wield me. No desperate threat. No army at the gates."

Then the tone of the sword changes—cooler now, edged.

"Therefore, the guardians of this chamber will not permit you to leave with me… unless you make a sacrifice. A human life. Only then will they allow you to borrow me—for one year."

"And each year thereafter, if you do not offer another human life, they will come to take your own… and I will be buried again, with your bones added to the vault. Choose well."

The cold in the air grows sharper. The light in the chamber dims. You hear movement in the shadows—stone grinding, soft whispers from the alcoves.

The guardians are listening.

What do you do?

> Sacrifice Frit – She’s wounded, quiet, and strange. The sword would be wasted on her. You tell yourself it would be painless.
> Sacrifice Orlan – He’s already changed by dryad blood, walking a path you barely understand. Perhaps this is the most merciful ending.
> Sacrifice Danner – The trapmaker, the sailor, clever and brave. But not essential. You could make it without him.
> Sacrifice Kelmar – He’s sharp, but distant. You’ve never trusted him fully. He would understand the cost of power.
> Take the sword and sacrifice yourself – Give your own blood. Become the price. The guardians will let you leave, and the blade will be yours for a year… but at the end, they will return for your life.
> Leave the sword behind in horror – This is too much. You can't carry this curse, no matter the blade’s promise. Turn your back and walk away.
> Write in

>>6243322
>> Sacrifice Kelmar – He’s sharp, but distant. You’ve never trusted him fully. He would understand the cost of power.

>>6243326

You turn to Kelmar. “I’m sorry,” you say.

Kelmar's eyes narrow. “What—?”

Your blade sinks into him before he can finish. A sharp gasp escapes his lips. The others shout—too late. He falls to his knees, hands clutching his side, eyes wide in disbelief. Orlan lunges toward you, but Frit pulls him back, stunned. Danner backs away like he’s seen a ghost.

Blood pools beneath Kelmar, then moves—slithering across the cold stone floor as if drawn by invisible hands. It winds in spirals, forming a perfect circle. A low, mournful wail echoes from the sealed sarcophagi around you. Then the blood ignites—blue fire rushing along the lines of the circle.

The sword in your hand glows brighter, and you feel it attune to you. The pact is sealed.

Two figures in black cloaks enter the chamber. You never saw them approach, never heard their steps. Their faces are hidden, their presence like a cold wind. They pick up Kelmar’s body in silence and lay it gently into one of the open sarcophagi. Then they seal it shut.

With impossible strength, they lift the heavy stone lid and carry it away, vanishing down the southern tunnel without a sound.

The chamber grows still again.

Your companions are silent, staring at you. Pale. Trembling.

“Have you gone out of your mind?” Orlan finally growls. Frit looks like she’s about to cry. Danner’s knuckles are white around the hilt of a knife.

You now wield Vael, the ancient demon-slaying blade… but the price hangs heavy in the air.

How will you explain it to the rest of the group?

> “I did what had to be done. The world is burning, and we need every weapon we can get.”
> “Kelmar was a spy. I had my suspicions for days. He would’ve betrayed us eventually.”
> “It was his life or all of ours. I chose survival.”
> “You don’t have to understand. Just follow me, or get out of my way.”
> “I’ll carry the guilt. I’ll take the burden. But I will end this war.”
> Say nothing. Just walk past them with the sword in hand and a storm in your chest.
> Write in

>>6243333
>> “I’ll carry the guilt. I’ll take the burden. But I will end this war.”

Rolled 66, 1 = 67 (2d100)

>>6243344

“I’ll carry the guilt. I’ll take the burden. But I will end this war.”

Orlan’s eyes blazed. “What are you talking about? You just killed one of our own! Are you cursed?”

You met his anger without flinching. “Is this a mutiny, Orlan?”

He hesitated. You turned away. “This is on me. Let’s move.”

You led the group north through the catacombs — days of winding tunnels, urns, bones, and silence. Eventually, you found a crumbling stairwell. At the top, a sealed stone slab gave way to cold, grey light.

You emerged in a fog-choked cemetery, the spined tower looming nearby.

“This place isn’t safe,” Vael whispered in your mind.

You left without delay and finally reached the lizardman village — woven huts in the swampy woods. At the edge of the clearing stood their shaman: tall, robed in ash and bone.

“You return,” she said. “But Zhekk does not.”

You explained — the Nyarlotep, the fight.

“Zhekk was my son,” she said. “It grieves us deeply.”

Her eyes landed on Vael. “You took the blade.”

“I did,” you said. “It demands a life each year.”

She nodded slowly. “Your numbers are few. That will delay its hunger. We know such rituals… but we do not follow them.”

You asked about help. Reinforcements.

“There are dark elves,” she said. “Deep in the caves. If you contact them, they may trade you human slaves — captives brought by sea.”

You frowned. “What would they want in return?”

“Solarnith,” she replied. “A rare plant from the southern jungles. Golden leaves. Powerful healing. They can’t grow it underground.”

You nodded, already feeling the weight of the decision.


A sudden chill sweeps the clearing. The trees fall silent. Then, a shape uncoils from the mist — shifting, fluid, eyes where none should be, its voice a chorus of whispers. A Nyarlotep.

Frit gasps. Orlan draws steel. The shaman backs away, hissing.

You feel Vael pulse at your back, hungry.

Choose your strategy and roll 2d100:

> Stand your ground and face it alone. You step forward, drawing Vael. "Let me see what this blade can do."
> Order a coordinated defense. "Spread out! Circle it! Hit it from all sides — no one dies today!"
> Target its eyes with ranged attacks. “Blind it! Archers, aim high! We’ll bring it down piece by piece.”
> Distract it while the others escape. “Go! I’ll draw it away. Get the shaman to safety!”
> Use the terrain to trap it. “Lure it to the bog. Its size will slow it — we strike when it’s stuck.”
> Flee into the jungle. “We’re not ready for this. Everyone run, now!”
> Write in

Rolled 77, 60 = 137 (2d100)

>>6243392
> Stand your ground and face it alone. You step forward, drawing Vael. "Let me see what this blade can do."

>>6243515

You step forward, drawing Vael from your back. The sword shimmers, then flares — a brilliant, searing light spilling into the fog. The Nyarlotep rears, sensing the threat.

"Let me see what this blade can do," you say.

It lunges — and you move faster. Vael hums through the air, and with the first strike, a piece of the creature vanishes, as though erased from existence. The blade doesn’t cut — it unravels.

Each sweep of your arm turns the Nyarlotep to mist, its limbs dissolving with every touch of the sword. It screams, a thousand voices in agony — and then, in moments, it is gone, its body torn apart by power it was never meant to face.

Silence settles.

Vael speaks in your mind, its voice smooth and low.
“That was once the guardian of this island,” it says. “Summoned by the original builders to protect it. She was powerful, but bound to blood. Only those of imperial descent could command her. Their line is long dead.”

You exhale slowly, the glow of the sword dimming.

“To her, everyone else is an invader. And she will keep killing… until there’s nothing left to defend.”

The others stare at you — some in awe, others in fear.

The tide has shifted.

And Vael is only just waking up.

You wipe the last remnants of the Nyarlotep’s dissolved form from your blade. The others gather near, still shaken.

You turn to the lizardfolk shaman. “We need to make a choice. Quickly.”

Here are your options:

> Ask the lizardmen for help locating Solarnith – They know the land better than anyone. With their guidance, you might find the golden-leafed plant in the southern wilds before it's too late.
> Head directly into the dryad territory – The south is dangerous, and the dryads are secretive, but they may know where Solarnith grows — or guard it themselves.
> Return to your settlement to organize an expedition – You're not ready for this journey alone. With more supplies, and more people, you’ll have a better chance of surviving what lies ahead.
> Seek out the dark elves now – Find their hidden outpost in the deeper caves. See if they’re willing to make a deal — before risking everything on Solarnith.
> Scout the southern part of the island alone – Avoid the attention of others. Move fast, quiet, and take only what you need to retrieve the plant on your own terms.
> Do nothing for now – Rest. Regroup. Take time to consider your options carefully… though each passing day brings the sword’s yearly price closer.
> Write in

>>6243662
>> Ask the lizardmen for help locating Solarnith – They know the land better than anyone. With their guidance, you might find the golden-leafed plant in the southern wilds before it's too late.

>>6243684

The shaman nods solemnly. “Golden leaves, wide like fans — always facing the sun. You’ll know the Solarnith when you see it. But the path is dangerous.”

Grateful for your role in stopping the Nyarlotep, she speaks to the tribe. Two lizardmen step forward.

“I am Krog,” says one, large and scarred.
“Elmak,” says the other, lean and sharp-eyed.

They guide you through the dense jungle. Vines tangle your feet, and the air buzzes with unseen life. By dusk, you reach a stone circle with a small altar.

“This place protects the night,” Krog explains. He and Elmak each offer a few drops of blood to the altar. You and your companions follow. The stones glow faintly. That night, nothing disturbs your rest.

In the morning, they lead you to open grasslands.

“Here,” Elmak says. “But dangers hunt in the open.”

The lizardmen weave grass into camouflaged cloaks. You all don the rough disguises and move slowly through the swaying green. Winged shapes shriek above a few times — but pass by without seeing you.

After days of searching, golden leaves glint in the sun. Solarnith. You gather them carefully. Elmak fills his pack, then hands it to you.

“We’ll keep a few. The rest are yours. Head straight — you’ll reach your camp soon.”

You part ways. A quiet farewell. The way back is littered with ruins, but you don't stop to check.

On the way home, a large Skaven patrol blocks your path, blades drawn and noses twitching.

“Humans skulking in Skaven land! Thieves! Show what you carry — or die-die!”

> Bluff them – Say a Skaven warlord gave you permission to pass. Speak with confidence.
> Intimidate with Vael – Let the blade’s glow speak. “Do you really want to test this?”
> Bribe them – Offer a dried Solarnith leaf as trade.
> Stall and ambush – Keep them talking while preparing to strike.
> Fight head-on – You’ve survived worse. Cut them down.
> Flee and hide – Disappear into the grass. Let them lose your trail.
> Write in

>>6243834
> Stall and ambush – Keep them talking while preparing to strike.

>>6243844

You keep the Skaven talking, casually bringing out the pack of Solarnith and motioning to show them its contents. The ratmen lean in, greed and suspicion twitching across their faces.

Then, you toss the pack high into the air.

Their eyes follow.

In a flash, you draw Vael and strike — the glowing blade cleaving through fur and bone with ease. Your companions don’t hesitate. Frit shanks the nearest skaven, Danner smashes a skull with his axe, and Orlan charges with a furious roar.

You kill several before they can react — but not all. A Skaven lunges and bites deep into your forearm before you impale it. The pain is sharp, your grip weakens, and your swings slow. Still, the tide turns. As their numbers dwindle, the surviving Skaven screech and flee into the tall grass.

“They’ll alert their leaders,” Vael warns. “Your pact with them will be void. I can stop them with a blast, but it will drain your vitality.”

“How?” you ask.

“Point me. Will it.”

You do — and feel your life pulled toward the tip of the blade. With a flash, Vael fires a crackling bolt of energy. The fleeing Skaven explode in a shower of flesh and bone.

You stagger, pale and winded.

“Let’s go,” you say.

When you return to the village, Irven quietly tends to the Solarnith. He plants some in vases, dries the rest with care. You, however, spend a week sick and shivering, recovering from Vael’s drain.


While you’re still recovering, Alwen steps into your tent. Her brow is furrowed.

“Morale’s slipping,” she says quietly. “The men are tired. Months of digging, training, watching the treeline… it’s wearing them down. They need more than orders. They need something that reminds them life is still worth living.”

You sit up slowly, pain still dull in your limbs from Vael’s toll.

“They’re ready to follow,” Alwen adds. “But even soldiers need a reason to smile.”

> Hold a feast and celebration – Send foragers to gather wild fruits and fresh game. Prepare a simple but hearty meal, light fires, and let music and laughter return to the camp — even for just one night.
> Establish a festival tradition – Mark your survival with a new custom — a day each season where work stops, stories are shared, and the people remember why they fight.
> Organize games and friendly competitions – Host contests of strength, speed, and cleverness. Let your people test each other for fun, not just survival.
> Speak to the camp – Gather everyone and share your vision for the future — what you’ve endured, what you still hope to build. Remind them the struggle has purpose.
> Send hunting and gathering parties – Let people roam beyond the camp walls for a time, reconnect with the land, and bring back spoils to share.
> Search for the dark elves – Venture into the deep caves and seek out the elusive dark elves. If trade is possible, it might offer your people the future they can no longer imagine alone.
> Write in

>>6243869
> Establish a festival tradition – Mark your survival with a new custom — a day each season where work stops, stories are shared, and the people remember why they fight.
> Organize games and friendly competitions – Host contests of strength, speed, and cleverness. Let your people test each other for fun, not just survival.

>>6243883

The sounds of laughter and cheering rise from the camp as your people embrace the new festival — a moment of reprieve carved out of hardship. Contests of strength and wit play out under banners of dyed cloth, and for once, no one talks of war or loss. For one night, they feel like people again — not just survivors.

Later, as the fires die down, you sit beside Alwen. You tell her of the winged predators that circled overhead during your journey… and of the offer from the lizardfolk: to trade Solarnith for human lives from the dark elves.

She listens quietly, her face unreadable in the firelight. “We can’t approach slavers as beggars,” she says finally. “Not if we want terms. Our camp is still too weak — too small. They’ll smell it.”

You nod. “Vael’s teaching me things. Not just swordplay — knowledge. Ancient knowledge. It speaks in my mind.”

Her gaze sharpens. “That sword’s old. Old things… they take as much as they give. I’ve heard tales. Men who thought they had a weapon — but it had them.”

You shift, uncomfortable. “The blade comes at a cost. One life, each year.”

Alwen is silent a moment. Then: “You’re the commander. I’ll follow your call. But understand what you’re walking into.”

You change the subject — slightly. “The tablets from the sunken library — the ones in the Dark Tongue. If we can decipher them...”

That catches her interest. Her eyes gleam. “Now that’s different. A whole library of ancient knowledge? If we learn their language, we might wield power to match the Skaven. And the dark elves.”

You hesitate. “Vael let me cast a spell. One blast… it left me sick for a week. These old magics… they have costs too.”

Alwen nods. “But it might be the only way a small group like ours can survive. Or win.”

You both sit in silence for a moment, watching the sparks rise to the stars.

Now, you must choose your next step:

> Clear your mind and join the festival – You’ve earned a moment of peace. Rest, recover, and let your people see their commander as human again.
> Develop aerial defenses – Those flying beasts you saw are a real threat. Start planning ballistae, watchtowers, or camouflage drills to keep your camp safe.
> Focus on Solarnith – Expand the growing efforts. It might be the most valuable resource you have — for trade, healing, or bargaining power.
> Return to the sunken library – Retrieve more Dark Tongue tablets and begin the work of deciphering their secrets. True power might lie buried within them.
> Explore more of the island – There are still regions unmapped and secrets unknown. The more you understand the island, the better your odds.
> Search for the dark elves – It’s risky, but they might be your best chance to grow your numbers. Find their outpost and attempt contact.
> Write in

>>6243905
>> Clear your mind and join the festival – You’ve earned a moment of peace. Rest, recover, and let your people see their commander as human again.

>>6243909

You take part in friendly competitions — footraces, mock duels, spear-throwing. You win some, lose some, but it doesn’t matter. The laughter is real, and for a while, the shadow of war lifts. That night, under torchlight and stars, music plays on improvised flutes and drums. Someone roasts a wild boar. There is fruit wine, and cheer.

You discover Selene has invented a new game of cards. She painted each with crushed minerals on thin, scroll-cut rectangles of tanned animal hide. When you ask, she explains it’s a version of an old divination ritual from her homeland — adapted for fun.

The game spreads fast. People gather in groups of four to play. It moves quickly — a few rounds and two are out, replaced by others. There’s laughter, shouting, teasing. Rigg, of all people, seems to love it the most. He wins again and again, a long streak no one can seem to break. When you finally sit across from him, you lose.

The game is simple, mostly luck-based, but you begin to suspect Rigg isn’t just lucky. Watching closely, you think he’s memorized the tiny imperfections in the backs of the cards — a trickster’s tactic, and clever. You say nothing. For now, everyone’s enjoying themselves.

A few days pass uneventfully after the festival — spirits lifted, the camp humming with renewed energy. But the peace doesn’t last.

A scream goes up from the shore — the palisade by the sea is under attack.

Mermaids.

Their song rolls over the waves like mist, beautiful and terrible. Not everyone falls under its spell — some resist through sheer will, others cover their ears. Those who are affected begin walking toward the sea, eyes glazed.

But your people are ready.

Slaps. Shouts. Cold water to the face. The unaffected act fast, breaking the enchantment before anyone steps into the tide. The mermaids, frustrated, break off their song. They don’t retreat — they linger just offshore, heads bobbing above the waves, watching.

They don’t look like they’re done.

You gather your advisors.

What do you do?

> Have your archers fire on the mermaids – Drive them off with arrows before they can try again. Show them you’re not prey.
> Throw some food into the sea as an offering – Maybe they’re hungry, not hostile. Show you’re willing to share, not fight.
> Approach the shore and talk to them – Propose a trade. You have goods, hunted game, some metal, maybe even Solarnith. What do they want?
> Ignore them and keep working – Finish the palisade. If you don’t engage, maybe they’ll grow bored and leave.
> Prepare defenses specifically against them – Nets, earplugs, watch rotations — make sure the next time they sing, no one gets taken.
> Send someone to search for the dark elves – They may know how to deal with the mermaids… or might be dealing with them already.
> Write in

>>6243920
>> Prepare defenses specifically against them – Nets, earplugs, watch rotations — make sure the next time they sing, no one gets taken.
> Throw some food into the sea as an offering – Maybe they’re hungry, not hostile. Show you’re willing to share, not fight.

>>6243929

You throw some food into the sea — dried fish, fruit scraps, whatever can be spared. The mermaids eye it suspiciously, then swim in to eat. They don’t speak, but their song doesn’t return. Once satisfied, they slip beneath the waves and disappear without a trace.

That night, you speak with Alwen.

“They’re too dangerous,” you say. “We can’t count on kindness to keep them away.”

She agrees. “We need real defenses.”

You both consider the possibilities. Some of your people have experimented with wax earplugs — they work, but they’re uncomfortable, and Alwen points out, “We can’t live our lives with wax in our ears. But for certain tasks? It might help.”

The problem is wax. Beeswax is rare here, and while your gatherers have occasionally found waxberries in the swamp, they’re not common either.

What do you do?

> Start keeping bees – Build hives near camp to cultivate a long-term supply of beeswax. It’ll take time, but could help with more than earplugs.
> Send gatherers to collect waxberries – Focus efforts on swamp expeditions to gather as much waxberry resin as possible.
> Craft a small number of earplugs – Prioritize earplugs only for scouts or workers assigned near the shore. Enough for emergencies.
> Focus on crafting anti-mermaid nets – Weave and test nets meant to trap or disrupt anything approaching from the sea.
> Increase patrols along the coast – Keep constant watch. Rotate soldiers so that no one faces the mermaid threat alone.
> Search for the dark elves – They might have knowledge, defenses, or magic to counter the mermaids — or perhaps use them.
> Write in

>>6243975
>> Start keeping bees – Build hives near camp to cultivate a long-term supply of beeswax. It’ll take time, but could help with more than earplugs.

Also, that sweet honey.

>>6243978

Your men head into the forest, smoke in hand, and return with several wild bee queens. Crude hives are built from split logs and clay. The bees settle in — and soon the air near the apiary hums with activity.

But it’s not without cost.

Many of the workers are stung. One man — a quiet forager named Bren — swells up and dies within minutes. There was nothing you could do. He’s buried beside the others in the growing cemetery outside the palisade.

But that night, someone notices something strange. Several graves have been disturbed. The soil is upturned, markings scattered. You dig one of them up — and find it empty. No bones, no shroud, nothing.

Someone — or something — has stolen your dead.

The implications are dire.

What do you do?

> Start burying the dead within the palisade – Keep the bodies close, where you can guard them.
> Burn the dead – No body, no corpse to steal. Safer, cleaner. Some might protest, but the threat is real.
> Toss the dead into the sea – Let the ocean take them. A strange rite, but maybe safer than letting something steal them.
> Post watchmen at the cemetery – Keep a night guard. Maybe you'll catch whoever — or whatever — is doing this.
> Lay a trap at a fresh grave – Bury a pig or other decoy, and wait nearby with hidden weapons.
> Investigate nearby ruins or caves – Something out there is stealing corpses. Time to find out what — and why.
> Write in

>>6243982
>> Lay a trap at a fresh grave – Bury a pig or other decoy, and wait nearby with hidden weapons.

>>6243984

Lay a trap at a fresh grave – You bury the strange, foul-smelling boar you hunted earlier in a fresh grave just outside the palisade. Then, you and a small group of armed men hide nearby, cloaked in silence, weapons at the ready.

Hours pass. The jungle hums. A branch creaks. Then—movement.

Something steps into view, barely visible. It’s massive, about the size of a cow, but strangely incorporeal — its body shimmers like heat haze, the edges shifting in and out of focus. The thing sniffs the earth, then begins to dig with long, delicate claws.

Once it uncovers the bait, it lowers its head and begins feeding. You spring the trap.

The creature lets out a high-pitched, warbling screech and bolts, crashing through the underbrush toward the south. But it’s slow — clumsy even. You and your men pursue. It takes only minutes to outmaneuver and surround it in a small clearing.

Then it turns.

The front of the creature unfurls grotesquely, revealing a gaping maw and a long, muscular proboscis. Before anyone can react, the tendril lashes out — striking one of your men square in the face and ripping his brain out with a sickening wet sound. The man drops instantly, lifeless.

The creature reels back, blood dripping from its mouth-organ — and then something even more horrifying happens.

It speaks.

But not in its own voice.

“Wait—please, commander—don’t kill me,” it says in the voice of the man it just murdered. “I was only hungry. I didn’t want—this.”

Your men flinch. Some raise their blades again. Others hesitate.

The beast, still surrounded, writhes and twitches, but doesn’t try to flee.

What do you do?

> Kill it – You’ve seen enough. It’s a monster. It must die.
> Capture it – Immobilize the creature and take it back to camp for study — if you can keep it contained.
> Let it go – Step aside and allow it to flee. If it can speak and reason, maybe it can be reasoned with later.
> Try to communicate – Ask what it is, where it came from, and why it’s feeding on the dead.
> Maim it and track it – Cripple the creature, then follow it when it retreats. It might lead you to others.
> Offer it food – If it feeds on brains, perhaps a compromise can be reached… with livestock, not people.
> Write in

>>6243998
> Let it go – Step aside and allow it to flee. If it can speak and reason, maybe it can be reasoned with later.

Also start burying dead within the palisade.

>>6244006

Let it go – You lower your weapon, raise a hand to your men. “Stand down,” you say. Some hesitate, but obey. The creature blinks its strange, translucent eyes, then turns and flees, lurching into the jungle with that same clumsy gait.

You don’t pursue.

The forest swallows it again.

Back at camp, the death of another man weighs heavily. You give the order: from now on, the dead will be buried within the inner palisade, near the heart of the settlement. You can’t risk more desecrations.

Alwen joins you by the growing cemetery. “We’re losing too many,” she says. “To monsters, to hunger, to strangeness we barely understand. If this keeps up… there’ll be no one left to finish what we started.”

You look out over the jungle, the smoke rising from cooking fires, the laughter of children distinctly lacking. Something must be done.

What will you do next?

> Search for the stealth creatures – Hunt the translucent, brain-eating beings and find out where they come from, how many there are, and if they pose a greater threat.
> Order the construction of a sturdier boat – You've heard rumors of humans to the west. Perhaps allies—or reinforcements—can be found across the waters.
> Search for the dark elves – It’s risky, but they might offer slaves that you could integrate into your society.
> Return to the sunken library – Dark magic may be the only edge you have. More tablets could unlock powerful spells, or dangerous truths.
> Expand your fortifications – Build a wider outer palisade and begin farming inside the protected area. Turtling may buy you time to grow.
> Seek the dryads – Maybe the forest spirits can help your dwindling numbers—through magic, blessing, or something stranger still.
> Write in

>>6244012
>> Search for the dark elves – It’s risky, but they might offer slaves that you could integrate into your society.

>>6244017

You decide it’s time to risk a journey underground to find the dark elves. The potential reward — slaves you could integrate into your society, or a dark pact for survival — outweighs the risk. But this isn’t a trip for everyone. You’ll need a team capable of stealth, negotiation, and surviving whatever horrors crawl below.

You think over your options. Some allies are unavailable:

Orlan has grown quiet and withdrawn. Kelmar’s death weighs heavily on him, and while he still trains with the blade, his focus is elsewhere.

Frit and Selene are absorbed in deciphering the sarcophagus inscriptions and studying the Dark Tongue tablets. Their work may hold secrets too valuable to interrupt.

Here’s who’s available for the mission:

> Alwen – Your second-in-command. Tactical, composed, and authoritative. A voice of reason who’ll keep the group together in tight spots.
> Toma – Quick and perceptive, her bow could be vital in tight corridors or to pick off threats from a distance.
> Brannoc – His sheer strength makes him ideal for breaking through obstacles or fending off sudden attacks.
> Irven – He doesn’t talk, but he understands the body — and poison. A good man to have if you expect wounds or strange creatures.
> Rigg – Watchful, quiet, and hardened by Skaven captivity. He understands fear, manipulation, and how to disappear when necessary.
> Danner – A trap-maker whose ingenuity has saved lives before. Underground, where space is limited, his tricks could make the difference.
> Write in - you could bring other less reliable people, but don't be surprised if they simply panic under pressure

>>6244027
> Brannoc – His sheer strength makes him ideal for breaking through obstacles or fending off sudden attacks
> Danner – A trap-maker whose ingenuity has saved lives before. Underground, where space is limited, his tricks could make the difference.
> Irven – He doesn’t talk, but he understands the body — and poison. A good man to have if you expect wounds or strange creatures.
> Toma – Quick and perceptive, her bow could be vital in tight corridors or to pick off threats from a distance.

>>6244030

You stand at the edge of camp, your small expedition assembled — Brannoc, towering and silent, testing the weight of his hammer; Toma adjusting her bowstring; Irven double-checking his satchel of herbs and bandages; Danner crouched near the dirt, fiddling with a few wire snares and small clay traps. All four wait on you.

But you hesitate.

The lizardmen had told you the dark elves dwell somewhere deep underground — but where, exactly? No maps, no markers, no directions. Just the vague mention of "deep caves." You look out toward the tree line, then back to the ground, uncertain.

That’s when Vael speaks, his voice slipping into your mind like smoke through a crack in the wall:

“You seek the dark elves, yes? Then listen. The south tunnel of the catacombs leads into the deep caves. That is their domain.”

“But heed me,” Vael continues, his voice low and deliberate. “There are layers upon layers of horrors the deeper you go. Creatures that should not exist. Magics that should not breathe. If you go too deep… I may not be able to protect you.”

Entering is easy enough. After days of traveling south through the catacombs, ignoring countless side paths and narrow stairways leading into who-knows-where, you finally reach the end of the main southern tunnel: a vast crypt, filled wall to wall with stone sarcophagi — thousands of them. The ceiling disappears into blackness. The chamber is quiet, but not empty.

Hooded figures wander silently among the tombs. They do not appear to be searching for anything. They simply move. Some carry candles. Some carry tools. None acknowledge you.

In the center of the crypt lies a massive treasure hoard, a mound of gold, silver, trinkets, weapons, and ancient relics. Enormous dragon bones rest among the riches, ribs arcing like shattered columns.

In the far corner of the chamber, a huge demon-carved mouth gapes open, big enough for three men to walk through abreast. Its teeth are fanged pillars of stone, and the mouth is studded with great gems of every color. You feel certain this is the entrance to the deep caves — the ones Vael warned you about.

Your group halts in awe.

> Talk to the hooded figures – Approach slowly and see if they speak. You may learn who they are and whether they’re friend or foe.
> Enter the cave unceremoniously – Head straight into the demon-mouth tunnel to seek the dark elves.
> Steal some coins – Gold never hurts. Take a small handful from the pile and hope no one notices.
> Steal some gems – Riskier. The gems are bigger, brighter, and might be watched.
> Observe the hooded figures – Don’t act just yet. Watch how they move, what they do, and see if you can make sense of who they are.
> Retreat and find a nearby way out – Mark this location and leave. Perhaps there’s a gentler path to the dark elves — one that doesn’t pass through cursed treasure and silent crypt-keepers.
> Write in

>>6244037
> Enter the cave unceremoniously – Head straight into the demon-mouth tunnel to seek the dark elves.

>>6244040

Ignoring the hooded figures and the treasure, you press forward — straight into the demon’s mouth.

The tunnel behind the carved fangs swallows your group whole. The air changes. It grows colder, damper, and thick with the scent of minerals and rot. The walls gleam with strange crystalline veins that faintly glow, just enough to keep you from total darkness.

You descend for what feels like hours, the path winding deeper and deeper into the earth. You pass ancient murals half-swallowed by moss and time, bones etched with runes, and narrow side paths that whisper with air too still to be natural.

Then — laughter.

Not joyous. Mocking.

You raise your weapons. Toma draws her bow. Brannoc hefts his hammer. Irven stays close, silent but alert.

From the shadows ahead, a figure steps into view. Thin and hunched, with skin like spoiled milk — pale and stretched tight over its bones. Its eyes gleam yellow, too large for its face. Long fingers end in blackened nails. A grin splits its face unnaturally wide.

“Humans?” it hisses, amused. “How rare! Are you lost, children?”

Your group stands ready, waiting on your next move.

Choose an action:

> Attack the creature – You don’t trust it. Put it down before it alerts others or does worse.
> Tell it you're looking for the dark elves – Be honest. Maybe it’s one of their spies or servants.
> Retreat – This may not be worth it. Head back before things get worse.
> Try to deceive it – Say you’re just exploring, or hunting a creature, or here by accident.
> Let it talk more – Don’t answer yet. Just listen. It clearly wants something.
> Circle around and try to flank it – Signal your group to move silently and surround it before it can flee or call for help.
> Write in

>>6244044
> Let it talk more – Don’t answer yet. Just listen. It clearly wants something.

>>6244046

You signal your group to hold their ground but stay silent. The creature ahead doesn’t move any closer. It tilts its head, grinning with uneven, rotting teeth, clearly entertained by your silence.

“Oh?” it says with a wheeze. “Not talkers, are you? That’s fine, that’s fine… maybe I’m using the wrong tongue. This is the human language, yes? Still in fashion on the surface?” He chuckles to himself, then shrugs. “I was always good at languages. Still remember the fishmen dialect. Horrible accent though.”

He pauses and leans slightly forward, sniffing the air. “You smell fresh. Clean. Not like the things that crawl and rot and squeal down here. You don’t belong. These caves are too dangerous for you, little surface folk. You see, there’s no sun here — no farms, no fruit, no fat pigs. Down here, things either eat fungus… or eat the things that eat fungus.”

He grins wider. “Do I look like a fungus-eater to you?”

A wheezing cackle follows. The thing shifts its feet, and you notice how long its arms are — too long. Its skin is stretched thin over a twisted frame, veins pulsing darkly in the light of your torches.

“But I’m not like the others,” it continues. “Most things on this level are just… troglodytes. Ugly little scuttlers. They worship glowing moss and eat beetles. They’re pretty, like me, but dumber. Me, I’m different. I’m old.”

It places a gnarled hand over its sunken chest.

“I serve a powerful master who dwells far, far below. Very powerful. By his will, I never age. Never rot. Not truly. I only need to… drink a little now and then. Just a little. Not from you, of course — we’ve only just met!” He giggles again, then suddenly pauses, blinking.

“Oh, my manners… I nearly forgot. My name is Aaaargh— no, wait, that’s not it. That’s what they screamed when— ah, no, not helpful. Damn. It’s been so long since I used it…” He scratches his head, sending flakes of skin fluttering down.

Then his eyes widen. “Ah! Argus! That’s it. My name is Argus. Yes, yes. A pleasure!”

He spreads his arms in mock greeting, standing theatrically still.

“Well now that I’ve given you my name, it wouldn’t be polite for you to remain silent, would it?” He tilts his head. “What brings you down here, hmm?”

What do you do?

> Tell him the truth – You're looking for the dark elves and need to find their outpost. Maybe Argus can help.
> Lie – Say you’re here to hunt monsters, and he might not realize your true mission.
> Threaten him – He’s creepy and too confident. Demand answers or threaten to destroy him.
> Offer him something – A trade of some sort. Food? Trinkets? Information? Maybe he’ll talk more.
> Try to sneak away – Signal your group to quietly retreat. This isn’t worth the risk.
> Attack him – End the conversation here and now. If he serves some deep master, better to strike first.
> Write in

>>6244054
>> Tell him the truth – You're looking for the dark elves and need to find their outpost. Maybe Argus can help.

>>6244060

You glance at your companions. Brannoc’s hand tightens on his hammer, but you raise yours in a calm gesture — no need for violence, not yet.

“We’re looking for the dark elves,” you say plainly. “We heard they have an outpost down here.”

Argus tilts his head, blinking slowly. For a long moment, he says nothing, then lets out a soft, wheezy sigh.

“Eeeeh… the dark elves…” He draws out the word like a bad taste in his mouth. “Well. Those folks are annoying. Pompous. Always whispering and casting spells in corners. I try to avoid them, really.”

He begins to pace, long arms swaying at his sides.

“But sure. If you’re set on it, just head straight through the troglodyte main camp — not far from here, you’ll know it by the smell. You’ll find the tunnels that go deeper beyond them. The dark elves don’t live here, no, no… they nest farther below.”

He scratches his neck, nails raking across flaky skin.

“The trogs live there because things crawl out of the deeper tunnels — beetles, mostly. Giant ones. Tasty, if you’re into that sort of thing. The troglodytes love them. Hunt them. Worship some of them, I think.”

He stops pacing and leans toward you, his face suddenly serious.

“But deeper than that, where the dark elves nest… mmm, things get strange. Twisty. The tunnels go on for miles and miles. Hard to breathe, hard to think. Other creatures live there too. It’s very easy to get lost, little human.”

He grins again, too many teeth showing.

“I’d love to help you. I really would. But see… the trip takes days. And I’m bound to get hungry, you know? Was just about to grab a meal, in fact…”

He bows dramatically.

“So if you’ll excuse me…”

Without another word, he turns and begins shuffling away into the darkness, whistling an off-key tune.


What do you do?

> Head toward the troglodyte camp – If that’s the way forward, no point in waiting. Prepare to face whatever they are.
> Try to follow Argus – He might lead you to food… or something else. Either way, his knowledge could still be useful.
> Call him back – Ask one more question or offer something in exchange for a little more help.
> Rest for now – Set up camp in a safe nook nearby. The party is tired, and the deeper tunnels sound worse.
> Scout ahead alone – Send one person to check out the troglodyte camp before moving in force.
> Retreat for now – Too dangerous. Mark this place and return better prepared with more men or guidance.
> Write in

>>6244074
> Try to follow Argus – He might lead you to food… or something else. Either way, his knowledge could still be useful.

>>6244077

You follow Argus from a distance, weapons ready, footsteps careful. Whether he’s pretending not to notice or truly doesn’t care, you can’t tell — he just keeps moving, his gait loose, almost playful.

Then you hear a low chorus of guttural grunts ahead.

A small group of troglodytes squats around something, feasting. They are hideous creatures — pale, hunched, with too-long arms and wide jaws filled with uneven teeth. Their eyes glisten in the darkness, small and too round. They're gnawing on something you can’t quite make out.

Before you can act, Argus leaps forward with startling speed.

He lands atop one of the troglodytes, claws digging in, and sinks his teeth into the creature’s neck. There’s a shriek, then a crack — and the body goes limp.

The others panic and scatter, scrambling into the shadows.

Argus wipes his mouth and lets the corpse drop without a word. Then he starts walking away again, humming the same off-key tune as before.

But after a moment, the troglodytes who fled creep back. They eye you warily but seem more interested in the dead one. With crude blades that seem to be made of some kind of chitin, they begin hacking up the body and dividing it among themselves. Flesh, bones, and all.

Argus finally glances back, as if suddenly remembering your presence.

“Oh, you’re still here?” he says, blinking. “I heard these troglodytes used to be human. Mine slaves. But thousands of years underground made them into… this.”

He gives a shrug, as if to say what can you do, and continues down the tunnel without another word.


What do you do?

> Keep following Argus – He seems to know the way, and his presence might discourage attacks from below.
> Approach the troglodytes – Try to communicate. If they were once human, maybe there’s some shred of reason left.
> Examine the corpse – What Argus killed might hold clues. See what’s left, and whether it truly was once human.
> Attack the troglodytes – End the cannibal feast before they turn on you. Better to strike first.
> Split up – Have one or two members keep tracking Argus while the others investigate the area.
> Retreat – This is darker and more twisted than you expected. Maybe there’s another way to reach the dark elves.
> Write in

>>6244089
>> Keep following Argus – He seems to know the way, and his presence might discourage attacks from below.

>>6244100

You continue following Argus through winding tunnels and dim passageways, the air growing heavier and damper the deeper you go. Eventually, the tunnel opens into a vast cavern — the floor drops away into a sheer cliff, disappearing into darkness below. Faint lights flicker far beneath, like glowing fungus or strange insects.

Without hesitation, Argus leaps from the ledge.

He sails through the air like a bat, limbs spread awkwardly, and lands far below with a soft thud. Turning, he looks up at you with a wide, toothy grin.

"Here is my home!" he calls out, voice echoing off the cavern walls. "I absolutely receive no visitors — go away!"

Then he turns and vanishes into what looks like a small mudhut built into the side of the chasm wall, patched with moss, bones, and the shells of giant beetles.

You’re left staring over the ledge.

What do you do?

> Leave Argus alone and go investigate the troglodytes – He clearly doesn’t want company. Maybe you’ll learn more from the creatures above.
> Attempt to jump – You might be able to make the leap… but it’s risky.
> Climb down and back up – It will take time and caution, but this way no one breaks a leg.
> Call out to Argus – Try to reason with him one last time. Maybe he'll change his mind.
> Search for another path around the chasm – There might be another route that leads to where he went — or even deeper.
> Camp here for the night – Regroup, rest, and decide your next move in the morning. This place seems defensible enough.
> Write in

>>6244107
>> Leave Argus alone and go investigate the troglodytes – He clearly doesn’t want company. Maybe you’ll learn more from the creatures above.

>>6244111

You leave Argus behind, his strange little mudhut vanishing behind the rocky bend as you head back the way you came. The tunnels around you are humid, and the air is thick with the scent of fungus and rot. You decide to circle around and investigate the troglodytes more closely — if these creatures guard the path deeper into the caves, you’ll need to understand them… or find a way past them.

You wander through their crude settlement, keeping your weapons low and posture unthreatening. The troglodytes are everywhere — squatting beside glowing mushroom stalks, gnawing on beetles the size of rats, sharpening their chitin weapons on old bones. Most of them ignore you. A few glance your way, then look back to their food or carving.

But then you turn a corner into a more densely packed area — a cluster of caves crowded with dozens of them. One of the creatures, larger and broader-shouldered than the rest, spots you. It lets out a sharp, bark-like scream.

The effect is immediate.

Dozens of heads turn. The entire chamber erupts into shrieking, barking noise. The creatures start hooting and clacking their teeth, jumping up and down, and banging their weapons on the stone floor.

You barely have a second to react before the crowd tightens around you. Clubs are raised. Knives drawn. They're circling fast — and this could erupt into chaos any second.

What do you do?

> Raise your hands and speak calmly – Try to show you’re not a threat. Maybe you can communicate, or be taken to someone in charge.
> Retreat quickly the way you came – Look for a weak point in the circle and push through before they fully surround you.
> Draw weapons and prepare for a fight – You’re outnumbered, but if it’s a fight they want, better to start swinging first.
> Throw down something shiny or valuable – Offer a trinket, coins, or something unusual — a distraction or tribute might confuse or impress them.
> Use fire to scare them – If you brought any fire, now’s the time. Primitive creatures often fear flame.
> Call out for Argus – Maybe he’s still nearby, and his presence could scatter the troglodytes… or at least redirect their attention.
> Write in

>>6244121
>> Use fire to scare them – If you brought any fire, now’s the time. Primitive creatures often fear flame.

>>6244124

You react quickly, pulling a torch from your pack and striking it to life. The flare of firelight floods the tunnel — and the reaction is immediate.

The troglodytes recoil in panic, many screeching and scattering backward. It’s clear they’ve rarely — if ever — seen open flame before. Some trip over each other trying to get away. You seize the moment, and your companions follow suit: Irven lights his torch with practiced speed, Danner sparks another with a grin, and Toma raises her bow but keeps close, her eyes scanning the chaos. Even Brannoc ignites a wrapped club, holding it high like a burning cudgel.

Flames in hand, you push forward. The tight crowd parts before you in fearful confusion, giving you just enough space to keep moving without being overwhelmed.

As you press deeper, the warren of filth and fungus opens up into what can only be described as a sprawling shacktown — an ugly, labyrinthine sprawl of mudhuts, bones lashed with sinew, and slabs of chitin forming crude roofs and walls. The smell is overwhelming: not just mold and rot, but the unmistakable stench of excrement. The “mud” in these huts… might not be mud at all.

Suddenly, one of the troglodytes, emboldened or panicked, rushes forward and slaps Irven’s torch from his hand. It hits the wall of one of the nearest huts — and ignites. The flames race unnaturally fast across the structure. Within seconds, the hovel is ablaze.

From within pour a flood of smaller troglodytes — children, you realize, barely half your height. Behind them come several bloated females, their distended bellies swaying as they scramble out, wailing and chittering.

It becomes clear: these "huts" are their nurseries.

Now, panic erupts in full. Troglodytes howl in rage or terror. Some run. Others turn toward you, hate in their eyes. The situation is spiraling fast — and this entire slum is ready to burn or explode into violence.

Ahead, through the rising smoke and flailing bodies, you glimpse it: a larger building made of dark stone and carved bone. Not a hovel — a seat of authority, perhaps. A leader's home. Or a gate to somewhere deeper.

You can’t stay here. You need to move.

What do you do?

> Make your way to the building – Push forward carefully. It may be your best hope of finding someone in charge or reaching the deeper tunnels.
> Set more mudhuts on fire – A terrifying distraction might buy you enough chaos to escape cleanly.
> Start killing troglodytes to cut a path – Brutal, but effective. You’re already surrounded. Fighting your way through may be your only chance.
> Backtrack and look for a side route – Risky, but this area may have another way around. It could lead to the same place without more bloodshed.
> Use Vael’s voice – Ask the sentient sword to speak aloud in a commanding, otherworldly tongue. It might terrify them into submission — or trigger something worse.
> Write in

>>6244125
>> Make your way to the building – Push forward carefully. It may be your best hope of finding someone in charge or reaching the deeper tunnels.

>>6244127

You lead your companions toward the larger structure. You pass burning huts, scattering children, and snarling troglodytes too afraid to fight but too confused to flee.

Finally, you reach the building. Your legs ache, your throat burns from smoke, and your heart pounds in your chest. The structure looms ahead: thick, dark stone reinforced with slabs of bone and fossilized shell. A crude tower of filth and menace. You step onto its cracked threshold—

—and stop dead.

Before you stands a small army. At least a hundred troglodytes, each one taller, broader, and better fed than those you've encountered. They wear armor stitched together from beetle shell and fungal hide, some of it clearly scavenged from the surface or elsewhere. Their weapons are wicked clubs inlaid with sharp chitin blades, stained and chipped from heavy use.

Then a *voice* rolls out like thunder, a language you don’t understand shouted from deep within the building. The armed troglodytes immediately slam their clubs on the ground in unison, and the rest — the common rabble behind you — drop to their knees, silent.

The guards don’t ask questions. They move with purpose, surrounding you and pushing you forward, toward the doors.

You're marched into the building. It’s cooler inside, but claustrophobic. Torches burn with a greenish hue, and the air is heavy with the scent of fungus and metal. Ahead is a set of reinforced steel gates — real steel, not scavenged or cobbled together.

A panel the size of a dinner plate slides open in the center of the gate. You see only darkness beyond… and then a single eye.

A female voice speaks in a string of strange syllables. It doesn’t sound like troglodyte speech — it’s too sharp, too deliberate.

You reply clearly: “We are looking for the dark elves.”

There’s a pause. Then, in a *very* broken and heavily accented version of your tongue, the voice replies:
“…It’s been long since I heard a human voice. A… different one, I mean. You came far.”
Another pause. “If all you want is the dark elves, then listen. Behind this building is a large tunnel. Descend… and you will find them. Or… they will find you.”

She doesn’t sound hostile. But her tone carries layers you can’t quite interpret — tiredness, perhaps. Wariness. Something more?

You're barely standing after the ordeal, and the way forward just grew darker still.

> Ask who she is – She clearly holds power here. You deserve to know more.
> Ask for more information – About the elves, the tunnels, or what dangers lie ahead.
> Ask to rest – You’re exhausted. You need sleep before going any deeper.
> Push on – No time to waste. You came for the elves, and they’re close.
> Offer a trade – Maybe she wants something in return for better answers.
> Appeal to her curiosity – Share surface stories. She might be more helpful than she lets on.
> Write in

>>6244139
>> Ask who she is – She clearly holds power here. You deserve to know more.
> Appeal to her curiosity – Share surface stories. She might be more helpful than she lets on.

>>6244148

"I have the dubious honor of being the... how do you say that... queen of the troglodytes," the voice says behind the steel gate, calm, almost amused.

"I just stay here reading all day and they feed me. When they don't know something, they ask me. That's all."

You blink. "You're alone in there?"

"Alone? No. My daughters live with me. When I have sons, I just dump them out to train with the others. They do the same. Then the smartest one gets to be the new queen once the old queen dies."

"Don’t they rebel?"

"Well, they try. Often. This usually stops them," she says, plinking the steel gate with something metallic. Clink. "When it’s not enough, our sons beat them up."

You glance back toward the armored troglodytes outside.

"Though there’s not much rebelling to be done. There is only one key to this door, and I haven’t opened it in years. The only thing they really could do is stop feeding us. Which they do on occasion."

"You mentioned reading… You have books?"

"Books? What is that? We have… clay tablets. Very old. A few thousand. Many languages. They teach stories, mostly. A little math too."

"We came from the sea! We were going to settle the island on the surface."

"The… sea? It is a lot of… water, right? I read about it in a story."

You frown. "Where do you get water down here?"

"There’s a well in here. The place is safe. We just don’t have food. So we need to convince the troglodytes to bring us food."

"How many people are in there with you?"

"Eeh… let me see… quite a few. I’ll admit I’m not too good with numbers. But I think there’s… a hundred? Give or take. And that’s a hundred times less than the people outside. When it gets too crowded in here we release a few of the girls too. They don’t do too well outside, though."

She pauses. "It’s strange to be talking to someone who doesn’t grunt or drool."

What do you do?

> Ask her to trade tablets for supplies – Maybe you could bring her food or writing tools in exchange for ancient knowledge.
> Ask if she can teach you anything – If she has access to lost languages or magic, it could be worth learning from her.
> Try to convince her to help guide you deeper – She might know more than she lets on about the tunnels or the dark elves.
> Offer to bring one of her daughters with you – Risky, but maybe she’d trade help for a chance to learn about the surface.
> Ask if she’s ever met the dark elves – It’s possible she’s dealt with them before or knows their weaknesses.
> Say goodbye and move toward the tunnel – Time to go. You’ve learned enough. The elves await.
> Write in

>>6244161
> Offer to bring one of her daughters with you – Risky, but maybe she’d trade help for a chance to learn about the surface.

>>6244172

"You want... one of my daughters?" the voice behind the gate repeats, surprised. "You don't have women on the surface?"

"We have very few," you reply. "We came from the sea. Most of the crew was men."

"Interesting," she muses. "Sure, you can take one with you. Actually, take two. Take good care of them!"

Before you can object or clarify, she starts shouting in that same strange, sharp language. A troglodyte slinks into the room beyond, and more shouting follows in reply. Minutes later, a group returns carrying two women. They’re troglodytes, but their posture is straighter, their features less brutish—more like people than beasts. Both are pregnant, and both are covered in bruises, clearly mistreated.

"Akri, Trua," the queen says, "this man from the surface wants you to come with him. To live outside the caves."

"Outside... the caves?" Akri murmurs, eyes wide.

"Yes, Akri. There’s a sea out there. Lots of water. Remember the story?"

"Oh! The sea! I’ll go," she says with a hopeful grin.

"I’ll go too," Trua adds. "I always wanted to eat fish!"

"There are lots of fish up there. Isn’t there, stranger?" the queen says with a faint note of mischief.

"Indeed," you reply.

Now the two troglodyte women stand beside you, staring with anticipation, hands resting protectively over their swollen bellies. Your mission, however, still awaits—perhaps more dangerous now that you're no longer alone.

What do you do?

> Continue with the plan and seek the dark elves – They’ll have to come with you. You didn’t expect company, but the mission is still the mission.
> Take Akri and Trua back to the surface – This detour is too risky for them. Maybe you can find allies or shelter for them up top.
> Ask the queen if there are safer caverns nearby – Maybe there’s a place to leave them for now while you descend deeper.
> Split the party – Leave one companion with the women while the others press on. Risky, but might be the best compromise.
> Try to barter with the queen for protection – Maybe she’ll shelter them while you’re gone in exchange for something.
> Ask the women what they want – It’s their lives, after all. Let them choose their path.
> Write in

that's it for tonight, and throughout the week updates will be slow because I don't have much time

>>6244197
>> Take Akri and Trua back to the surface – This detour is too risky for them. Maybe you can find allies or shelter for them up top.

>>6244200
Great quest OP.

>>6244201

Escorted by a few heavily armed troglodyte brutes, you begin the long ascent from the bowels of the cave system. Akri and Trua follow closely behind, their wide eyes flickering with nervous anticipation and wonder at every twist of the passage. The journey is tense but mostly uneventful. A few times you lose your way in the tunnels, but the faint memory of your route — and the occasional trail marker — keeps you moving in the right direction.

Eventually, the rough-hewn rock gives way to more familiar stone, and then, at last, you see it: the massive demon-mouth entrance. The cold, damp air from within the cave collides with the humid surface air beyond, carrying with it the stink of the deep.

But the hooded figures are still there.

As you cross the threshold, their heads slowly rise in unison to watch you.

And then it happens.

Akri and Trua scream and clutch their heads. Your companions collapse beside them, moaning in pain. You feel it too — like molten iron being poured into your skull. The pain surges, and with it comes the sound of whispers.

"Thief… thief… THIEF…"

The voices aren’t shouting — it’s not volume that crushes you. It’s number. A thousand thousand whispers, each accusing you with venomous glee. The sound fills your mind like smoke in your lungs.

Then, above the din, you hear Vael’s voice. Cold. Commanding.

"Shut up. We’re taking these slaves."

The chorus of whispers doesn’t stop. They only hiss louder — more furious, more maddening — until another voice pushes through. It is ancient. Slow. Powerful.

"These slaves are mine. What do you give in return?"

The pain presses down harder. The figures don’t move. Their featureless faces remain turned toward you. You realize you have nothing of value on you — no gold, no gifts, no relics. And now a bargain must be struck.

You look down at the two trembling women beside you. Their breathing is shallow, their faces slick with sweat. And the question echoes:

What do you offer in return for the slaves?


Choose one:

> Offer one of your men in exchange – A life for a life. Perhaps they’ll take a companion and let the others go.
> Promise to return with a casket from your settlement – There was one like those in this chamber back in town. Offer to bring it next time.
> Challenge them to a duel for the slaves – One-on-one. Blade against magic. It’s risky, but maybe they respect strength.
> Appeal to purpose – Tell them the surface lacks women, and you intend to find husbands for these two.
> Promise material wealth – Gold, relics, whatever they desire — next time, you’ll bring something worth their favor.
> Beg for mercy – Let your companions go, and you’ll offer yourself in their place. You will serve this voice until the debt is paid.
> Write in

>>6244589
> Promise material wealth – Gold, relics, whatever they desire — next time, you’ll bring something worth their favor.

>>6244686

After pleading your case, the oppressive whispers erupt into a harsh, echoing cackle. Your vision blurs, the weight in your skull suddenly lifting. The pain vanishes.

One of the hooded figures moves.

It steps forward silently, the motion eerily fluid. In its gloved hand is a freshly formed clay tablet and a stylus. Without a word, it begins to etch symbols and lines into the surface with practiced precision — strange glyphs, some resembling letters you vaguely recognize, others utterly alien.

Finally, the figure stops. The laughter fades.

A voice, cold and firm, speaks:

“You owe me 2,000 gold pieces. The amount increases by 2 each day.
If you die, the debt passes on to your son or daughter. If your last descendant perishes and the debt remains unpaid…
I will take this contract to the Hell Tribunal, and your soul shall be mine forever.”

The stylus pricks your finger before you can react. Blood wells up. The figure holds the tablet out and gestures:

“Sign here. And here. And here. With blood.”

You hesitate only for a moment, then comply. You press your finger to the tablet, signing your name where indicated.

When it’s done, the creature reaches out and presses a single, gloved finger to your forehead.

A flash of pain — sharp, burning — jolts through your skull. You cry out and stumble back. When you look up, the figure nods once.

“A mark. To remember your debt.”

You run your fingers over the spot — there’s a small, circular scar now. Faint, but unmistakably unnatural.

The figure hands you a clay tablet — your copy of the contract. It’s already dry and hard to the touch, despite the ink still gleaming black.

“Now begone. I don’t want to see you again unless it is to repay the debt.”

With nothing more to say, the hooded ones turn away from you. Akri and Trua slowly stand, clutching their heads but otherwise unharmed. Your companions are shaken, but alive.

And so you return — past the crumbled tombs, through the jungle paths, and finally back to the settlement.

You have escaped the underworld… for now.

But the debt follows you.

New Item:
Clay Contract (Bound by Blood)
Owed: 2,000 Gold
Interest: +2 Gold/day
Penalty: Eternal Damnation

What do you do next?

> Begin preparations to head south for Solarnith – It may fetch a high price from the dark elves or others. You’ll need leverage.
> Oversee the training of more guards – Strengthen your position at the settlement before risking another journey.
> Search for artifacts in the jungle ruins – You need wealth, and the jungle may yet hold ancient treasures.
> Send someone to bargain with the dark elves – Risk delegation; maybe you can avoid going yourself.
> Establish trade with nearby tribes – You’ll need some income. Try diplomacy or coercion.
> Hide the contract and pretend it never happened – Maybe you can outrun your debt… or outfight it.
> Write in

>>6245037
>> Oversee the training of more guards – Strengthen your position at the settlement before risking another journey.

>>6245050

Traveling by night becomes your new routine.

Akri and Trua suffer terribly even from brief exposure to sunlight — their skin blisters, their eyes weep blood. You quickly learn to seek shelter before dawn each day. Thankfully, the island’s overgrown ruins and hidden cellars provide refuge. Sometimes it’s a cave choked with roots, sometimes an abandoned stone crypt still echoing with ancient silence. You survive.

But when you return to the settlement, things spiral fast.

There’s a sound like cracking branches — loud and close. Then the howls begin. The bark-skinned monsters you encountered once before are now many, descending on your gate like a hurricane. Dozens of them.

Your archers fire from the walls, but arrows do little. The creatures don’t wear armor, but their flesh is tough — unnatural. You have no choice. Melee is joined.

They're terrifyingly strong.

You lose people. But you down three of the creatures, hacking through sinew and bark with sheer effort and desperation. The rest flee. For a moment, you think it’s over.

But then — the ones you killed begin to stir.

Their wounds close before your eyes, bone snapping back into place. Your men waste no time: they set the corpses alight. The flames do what steel could not. They die screaming.

They can regenerate. Fire is the only sure death.

You gather the survivors and count your losses. Too many dead. Not enough fighters. If there’s another attack like that — or worse — you won’t survive.

You must decide what kind of warriors to train and prioritize. You only have so many able-bodied settlers, and time is short.

Your miners have gathered much iron ore from a nearby hill. You have a little iron and a small forge going on, so you could in a matter of a few days start to equip your troops with better weapons that simple bows and pointy sticks.

What kind of guards will you focus on training and equipping first?

> Axemen – Powerful melee troops specialized in defeating thick-skinned enemies like the bark people.
> Archers – Quick to train and useful against lightly armored foes, but ineffective against tougher enemies.
> Netmen – Useful for entangling aquatic threats like mermaids and dragging them ashore for killing blows.
> Heavy Armored Soldiers – Durable and disciplined, they hold the line well but are slow and expensive to maintain.
> Scouts – Lightly equipped and swift, ideal for recon and sabotage behind enemy lines, but vulnerable in open combat.
> Spearmen – Balanced frontline troops good for defending walls and formations, with decent reach and flexibility.
> Write in

>>6245460
>> Spearmen – Balanced frontline troops good for defending walls and formations, with decent reach and flexibility.

>>6245468

You commit to training spearmen — the backbone of many human armies, and now, yours.

With limited metal for armor, your blacksmiths focus on crafting strong, balanced spears from scavenged steel and hardened wood. You fashion helmets from scrap and bone where metal fails. The men drill daily. Discipline and formation become your watchwords. Soon, your settlement bristles with rows of determined soldiers, spears gleaming in the firelight.

But war isn’t only waged with weapons.

Selena and Frit approach you with troubling news.

They believe they’ve deciphered one of the recurring runes on the clay tablets and ancient sarcophagi. The symbol appears in several places — always near scenes of death or burial.

“We think it means death, or dead,” says Selena, brow furrowed. “But we don’t know how to pronounce it. Not even close.”

Frit adds, “We both started having nightmares. Ghosts. Or spirits. I don’t know… they whisper. I think they’re angry we’re reading their words.”

Both of them look pale. Uneasy. And yet — fascinated.

Vael chuckles in your mind. “Of course they dream. The dead love when the living remember them. And hate it, too.”

This knowledge could be dangerous. Or it could be a path to greater power.

What do you do?

> Tell them to stop researching the dark tongue – It’s not worth the risk. The whispers, the dreams — it's too dangerous. Destroy the tablets if you must.
> Encourage them to continue researching – Knowledge always has a price. But this could be the key to understanding what haunts this land.
> Go get more tablets – The more material you gather, the faster you might crack the code. Send a party back into the ancient library.
> Find someone who can help translate – Perhaps a dark elf scholar, or a surviving member of the old world might know more.
> Join the effort yourself, alongside Vael – With the sword's knowledge and your will, you might uncover secrets the others cannot.
> Try magical means to decipher the language – Risky, but you might attempt a ritual or spell to commune with the dead directly for insight.
> Write in

>>6245965
>> Join the effort yourself, alongside Vael – With the sword's knowledge and your will, you might uncover secrets the others cannot.

>>6245973

You join the effort personally, working alongside Vael, the sentient sword whose voice drips with age and power.

"Finally," Vael murmurs, "someone with the resolve to open forbidden doors. Words have weight, and the Dark Tongue is heavier than most ever survive."

He tells you he remembers fragments — ancient utterances born in shadow, meant not for mortal mouths. Even he speaks them rarely. Each one can twist the world in a small way... and twist you in return.

"I will give you one," he says. "Only one. But choose carefully. Every word comes with its cost."

He presents six words of power to choose from:

The word for death drains vitality from all who hear it — and from you as well. When spoken aloud, skin pales, breath weakens, hearts falter. But you will feel yourself wither too. Your strength, your youth, your energy… all slightly leeched.

The word for burn causes fire to erupt from inside living things. Flesh blisters, clothes ignite, bone chars. But the speaker’s mouth and throat will suffer, leaving blisters and scarring that worsens with use.

The word for obey can bend the will of a weaker creature to your spoken command, forcing brief compliance. But it comes at the cost of your own mental clarity. Headaches, confusion, stammering — and worse, perhaps — if spoken too often.

The word for reveal tears away illusion, shatters falsehood, and exposes hidden truths in the area around you. Glamours vanish. Secret writing appears. But your own vision will suffer, blurred and aching. In time, you might lose the ability to see clearly — or even believe what you see.

The word for bind locks a creature in place, their limbs frozen by invisible chains. But your own body pays the price. Your muscles will go numb or cold. Your hands may shake for hours afterward.

The word for silence snuffs out all sound in a small space. No cries, no magic, no commands — just eerie stillness. But in return, you lose your voice temporarily. Frequent use might make that silence permanent.

Now you must choose. Vael will teach you only one of these forbidden words — for now.

Do you:

> Learn the word for death
> Learn the word for burn
> Learn the word for obey
> Learn the word for reveal
> Learn the word for bind
> Learn the word for silence
> Write in

>>6245990
>> Learn the word for reveal

>>6245991

When you first attempt the word for reveal, your tongue stumbles, your throat protests. It’s not a sound meant for flesh and breath. It twists in your mouth like a snake made of broken glass.

"Again," Vael urges, with grim satisfaction. "Again. Tear the veil."

Each time you try, your grip on the world loosens. The lines between things blur. Colors bend in unnatural ways. Sounds stretch and shatter. Your companions’ faces seem like masks, flickering at the edges.

On your ninth attempt, the word lands. It clicks into reality like a key in a lock.

And the world… changes.

The sky vanishes. Not just the sun — the sky. In its place is a blanket of thick, churning darkness, a fog that presses down on everything like the weight of deep water. You feel your lungs struggle against it, even though you’re still breathing air.

Around your companions — and all living things — shadows circle like vultures. They move like they’re tethered by invisible threads, leeching something unseen from the people they haunt. Some drift lazily. Others are more active, jabbing long, needling fingers into spines, hearts, eyes.

Then they see you.

They pause.

They drift toward you, slow but inevitable.

They begin circling.

The air chills. Your limbs grow numb. The edges of your vision narrow.

Then — blackness.

You collapse. For hours, you see nothing.

When your vision returns, it’s sluggish, like crawling out of a swamp. Shapes are muddy. Light hurts. The sky is visible again, but you don’t trust it anymore. You remember the fog. You know it’s still there.

And the shadows remember you.

What do you do?

> Tell the others what you saw — Frit, Selena, and Orlan may not believe you, but they need to know
> Keep the vision to yourself — This knowledge is too dangerous or disturbing to share
> Try using the word again — You need to understand what you’re dealing with, no matter the cost
> Ask Vael what the shadows were — Surely the sword knows more than it’s letting on
> Seek a priest, shaman, or spirit medium — Someone must know how to deal with what you’ve seen
> Try to forget — Bury the memory, avoid the word, pretend it never happened. For your own sanity
> Write in

>>6246538
> Try using the word again — You need to understand what you’re dealing with, no matter the cost

>>6246579

You speak the word again.
The *word*. That awful, splintered shape your throat barely survives.

Once more, the sky peels away. The world becomes dim and wrong — no sun, no horizon, only the fog that presses down like the weight of forgotten sins. Shadows dance and drift, leeching off the living. You brace yourself for the rush of cold and pain.

But this time… they ignore you. Most of them.

One does not.

It floats directly above you — larger than the others, denser, less human in shape. It feeds on you. You *feel* it: a steady drain, like your strength bleeding from your skin. You wave your arms. Shout. Try to shove it away. It’s like pushing through smoke that hates you.

You stagger back and call out to Vael.

“What *is* this? What does it mean?”

Vael is quiet for a time.

Then, his voice resonates in your mind like a sermon whispered from a tomb.

"The dark tongue was cursed in ages long past. Not just by sorcery — by *necromancy* of a scale beyond comprehension. Each word, every syllable, is bound to thousands… millions of dead souls. They are the *engine* of its power. When a word is spoken, those bound spirits are forced to act."

You glance at the wraiths circling the others. "They’re all enslaved?"

"Yes. And hungry. They drain the living to function. It is why the words work at all. On this island, the boundaries are thin — they gather in greater numbers. But they are everywhere now. Perhaps… everywhere in the world."

"And the one above me?"

"Your *mark*. A shadow sent to watch, to feed, to *follow*. Anyone who learns the true dark tongue draws attention. Even if you leave this place, it will follow. They always do."

You go cold. "How do I get rid of it?"

"If there’s a way," Vael says, "only the gods know it. And they have long since turned their faces from the world."

When the word’s power fades, the sky returns. But not quite.

You still see flickers — brief flashes of shadow around your companions. And their faces look subtly wrong: distorted, as if you’re seeing them through warped glass. The sense of wrongness doesn’t leave you.

For days, your skin crawls. You sweat through your clothes. Your limbs ache and your head pulses like a rotten drum. You feel sick, weak — as if something inside you is constantly *pulling*.
You know what it is. You know it's still there.

Watching.

Feeding.

What do you do?

> Tell your companions about what Vael said — They need to know the cost of the dark tongue
> Try to create a ward — Maybe there's a way to repel the shadow, if not destroy it
> Seek a divine intermediary — There might still be hermits or priests who speak with the gods
> Press further into the dark tongue — If the curse is unavoidable, you may as well master it
> Find a way off the island — Maybe distance will weaken its hold
> Attempt to commune with the shadow — Risky, but you need to understand what it truly wants
> Write in

>>6246752
>> Attempt to commune with the shadow — Risky, but you need to understand what it truly wants
> Tell your companions about what Vael said — They need to know the cost of the dark tongue

>>6246802

You close your eyes and focus on the weight above you — the unseen presence, the cold tether. You reach out with your will, trying to bridge the gap between your soul and whatever watches from beyond the veil.

The shadow stirs.

At first, it's just whispers. A chorus of them, hungry and low, like something chewing language instead of speaking it. You don't understand the words, but you recognize them — syllables from the dark tongue, echoing around your skull like biting flies with insistent hunger.

Your knees buckle. You fall, catching yourself clumsily on a nearby wall. The world tilts. Your vision blurs.

Still, you reach out. You want to understand. And so the shadow answers.

Your breath catches as, without warning, a woman appears before you. Beautiful, pale, and dressed in flowing black. Her eyes are deep voids, her presence suffocatingly heavy — but she stands with grace, calm and composed, as if she’s been waiting for this moment for centuries.

You blink, dazed. "Who… who are you?"

"I’m the one you’ve been trying to speak to," she replies softly. "The shadow over your head. The one feeding on your breath. You called me… and I came."

Her voice is melodic, strangely kind — but there is no warmth in it. Only endless cold.

You stagger to your feet, every movement draining. "What are you?"

"A remnant. A fragment of a girl long dead, now made something more. In the elder days, the ancients taught their sacrifices magic — just enough for them to speak. Then they were slaughtered. Burned. Fed to the dark gods. So their spirits could cast from the other side. The words you now learn are built from that pain."

She raises one gloved hand, tilting her head at you. "Each spell drains from us, the dead. And when we are bound to a living speaker… we feed in turn. It is the bargain your kind made. Whether you remember it or not."

You stumble again. "Then why show yourself? Why not just… keep feeding?"

"You asked to speak. And I am curious." Her voice dips, almost a whisper. "But I must go now. Holding this shape is draining you. If I stay much longer… you’ll die."

You try to protest, but you’re already falling to one knee.

The woman turns and vanishes like smoke on wind. The pressure lifts, and you collapse into darkness.

When you awaken hours later, you’re still weak. Cold. But alive.

What do you do?
> Tell your companions everything — They need to know the source of the curse, and what you saw
> Try to banish the shadow now that you know it has a form — There might be a way to force her out
> Learn more dark words to test her limits — Knowledge is your weapon, even if it costs you
> Seek out ruins tied to the old sacrifices — Maybe clues remain about how to free these spirits
> Try to find another shadow-user — Perhaps you're not alone, and others have learned the dark tongue
> Let the memory settle — Focus on rebuilding your strength before making your next move
> Write in

>>6246844
> Let the memory settle — Focus on rebuilding your strength before making your next move

>>6246858

You remain sick for a few days, too weak to rise from your bed. Frit tends to you silently, while Selena checks in quietly. Alwen watches from a distance, her gaze clouded. When you finally recover, the memory feels blurred and distant—except for her. The shadow girl in black. A victim. A predator. Still in your mind.

What kind of society sacrifices its daughters like that?

You gather Alwen, Selena, Frit, and a few others in a closed council. You tell them everything—about Vael, the word you spoke, the fog, the spirits feeding on the living, and the ancient, cursed magic that fuels the dark tongue. How the island itself is a necromantic machine powered by millions of sacrificed souls.

When you're done, the room is silent.

“That sword,” someone says, “it’s cursed. Maybe it’s twisting your thoughts.”

“You wouldn’t let go of it. Even when sick,” says another.

The thought of abandoning Vael turns your stomach. It’s your key to this place. Your answer to its mysteries. Your burden.

You blurt out without thinking: “Let go of the one weapon that knows this place? That can speak back to the mysteries around you? For which I paid Kelmar’s life, and the blood of my own people?”

Orlan rises. “So that’s what happened? You bargained our lives for power?”

“I did what I had to.”

“No. You chose the sword. You’re still choosing it. You’ve been corrupted. I don’t think we should call you commander anymore.”

He waits. The room watches you.

> Defend your decisions – You’ve faced what no one else dared. You’ve earned their trust with blood and grit.
> Step down – If they no longer believe in you, then let them lead. You will find your own path to the truth.
> Plead for understanding – This burden has cost you more than they know. You are still trying to do what’s right.
> Threaten Orlan – Challenge his loyalty. You are the one who led them through death and darkness.
> Challenge Orlan to a duel – If he wants your title, let him take it from your hands.
> Say nothing – Let them talk. Let them doubt. You have already seen what lies beneath this island — and you are not done yet.
> Write in

>>6246885

> Plead for understanding – This burden has cost you more than they know. You are still trying to do what’s right.

>>6246895

You take a deep breath and steady your voice.

“I never wanted this,” you say. “I didn’t come here to wield cursed blades or see dead girls haunting the world. But I did what I had to, and I’m still trying to do what’s right. This burden—it’s cost me more than you know.”

The room stays quiet. Frit lowers her gaze, silent, still haunted by Kelmar’s death. Orlan crosses his arms, jaw clenched, not offering forgiveness.

But Alwen steps forward.

“I’ve watched him make the hardest choices time and again,” she says. “He’s not perfect, but without him, we wouldn’t be standing here. Not me, not any of us.”

Orlan looks at you for a long moment. His expression softens.

“I remember more than one time you dragged me out of hell,” he says. “Maybe you deserve another chance. But that sword—Vael—it’s poison. You should get rid of it. I’ll stand by you for now. But the longer you hold it, the more you risk becoming something else.”

He extends his hand. You take it, and the council tension eases.

Then the alarm bell rings.

Bark-skinned creatures. Again.

You rush to the walls as your spearmen form up—but their weapons barely slow the monsters. Blades bounce off bark. You’re forced to burn the creatures down, and Danner dumps most of your remaining oil to make sure they stay dead.

“We’re gonna need a lot more lamp oil,” he grunts, shaking the empty barrels.

You need a solution—fast.

> Hunt animals for their fat – Butchering large game could keep your fires burning.
> Find oily seeds and get some presses going – A slower route, but sustainable over time.
> Travel to the swamp – There might be pitch or natural tar there.
> Deforest a large area to make wood tar – Labor-intensive, but effective.
> Make large whaleboats and go hunt some whales – Dangerous, but whales mean oil.
> Attempt to trade with the mermaids for whale fat – Risky, but maybe they’ll deal.
> Write in

>>6247021
>> Hunt animals for their fat – Butchering large game could keep your fires burning.

Maybe hunt and capture some of the spider beasts.

>>6247052

You decide to hunt for large game—those pale, skinless, rat-like beasts with spider eyes that you saw grazing on bark and ferns deep in the jungle.

It takes some effort, but sure enough, you find them in herds beneath the twisted canopy, huddled together in the gloom. They’re skittish, alert to every movement with those bulbous eyes. But they’re not clever. With a few traps and diversions, your hunters manage to drive and capture several of them.

The meat is sinewy, stringy, but edible. Some is salted and turned to jerky for your stores. The rest is rendered for fat.

The results are good. Thick oil, slightly acrid but slow-burning. You fill several barrels. Danner tests it, nods, and wipes his hands. “This’ll burn hot. Good work.”

Meanwhile, the planting of the solarnith continues. To your surprise, the golden-leafed plants really do grow well in vases—Selena’s team already has a few dozen sprouting under low light. The gleam of their leaves is unmistakable.

Your people are busy and hopeful, but choices must be made on how to proceed.

> Start mass-producing the solarnith – Focus on quantity. If it truly has value, this might secure your survival through trade.
> Begin experimenting with solarnith effects – Feed it to animals, burn it, steep it in alcohol. Learn what it does.
> Trade a sample to the lizardmen – They said it was valuable. Let’s see what it’s worth.
> Send scouts south to find more solarnith – Maybe wild patches exist where the climate favors it.
> Focus on defensive upgrades – Use the lull to improve your walls, weapons, and patrols.
> Investigate deeper into the jungle – See what else lives out there. Or what else died.
> Write in

>>6247068
> Focus on defensive upgrades – Use the lull to improve your walls, weapons, and patrols.

>>6247112
With the island momentarily quiet, you push the settlers into a frenzy of construction. The sea palisade is finally completed, providing a defensive barrier against whatever might come from the coast. Fish farms begin to take shape, promising a more stable food source in the months ahead. Meanwhile, labor shifts to building a second palisade inland — thicker, taller, reinforced with stakes and stone. It’s finished just in time.

Then, winter comes — sudden, brutal. The island seems to freeze overnight. Frost coats the trees, the ground, the very air. Jungle growth shrivels and the waters grow sluggish with ice.

Your food stores dwindle fast. Even the stockpiles of jerky — made from the beasts you hunted earlier — begin to run low. Frit, ever pale and quiet, starts to look thinner. She eats like the others, but always with a distant look, as if remembering something better.

The men grow restless. Alwen begins rationing supplies, but it's clear you won’t last the season without fresh meat.

“We need to go out and hunt,” someone says. “Or we’ll all starve before the thaw.”

Where will you hunt?

> We will fish — It’s safer. Prepare some boats and head out to sea daily.
> We will hunt in the jungle — Risky, but there may be larger game hiding in the frozen undergrowth.
> We will hunt in the swamp — Treacherous ground, but warm-blooded creatures often linger there.
> We will hunt along the sandy beaches to the south — Easier terrain, but less cover and less game.
> We will hunt in the solarnith plains — The plants may have drawn grazing animals.
> We will hunt in skaven territory — Dangerous, but the ratmen may have stored food or livestock.
> Write in

>>6247435
> We will hunt in the solarnith plains — The plants may have drawn grazing animals.

>>6247444

You lead a hunting party into the plains where the golden Solarnith sways under the grey sky. Much of the grass is dead or frozen, but plenty still stands — golden, glowing faintly even in winter’s grip. There, among the stalks, you spot them.

The brain-eaters. Hundreds of them.

They graze without concern, their movements slow and peaceful, like cattle. But you remember what they did to your man. Before you can order an attack, a sudden gust of wind throws snow into the air, and something crashes down from the sky.

A white dragon — no larger than a barn but still monstrous — lands in the middle of the herd, crushes one of the beasts under its claws, and lifts off with it in its jaws. The herd scatters in panic. That’s when you see it — something far stranger than the dragon.

A predator, vaguely feline, cloaked better than anything you’ve seen before. Its outline is barely visible, more suggestion than shape, as if your eyes can't fully agree on its form. It takes down one of the brain-eaters with a precision strike, then vanishes into the grass as snow begins to fall.

Within minutes, the herd calms again. The grazing resumes.

And then you notice something else: eggs. Big ones, the size of a small pig, left behind like droppings as the creatures feed. Dozens of them. The herd doesn't seem to care.

The men whisper, unsure what to do.

What will you do?

> Catch some eggs — They may be edible, or hatch into something useful.
> Kill one of the grazing beasts and carry its meat back home — Risky, but you need food.
> Kill several and carry as much meat as possible — Dangerous, but it might feed the whole settlement.
> Try to capture one alive — If you can study or tame it, the rewards could be great.
> Retreat and observe the predators instead — These cloaked hunters might be the key to understanding this ecosystem.
> Do nothing and return home — It’s too dangerous. The dragon, the cloaked predators — this place is a deathtrap.
> Write in

>>6247526
>> Catch some eggs — They may be edible, or hatch into something useful.

>>6247565

Catch some eggs — They may be edible, or hatch into something useful.

You and your men gather as many of the strange eggs as you can carry, slipping them into cloth sacks and barrels padded with straw. The brain-eaters barely notice — they continue grazing as if nothing happened, snow gathering on their backs.

Back at the settlement, you test one of the eggs. Inside is a dense, creamy yolk that smells a bit like mushrooms. The meat is edible, even nutritious, though the taste is odd. A few of the eggs are stored for later… but before long, some of them begin to crack.

From the shells emerge giant worms — pale, segmented things the size of hounds, with twitching tendrils around their mouths and black glassy eyes. They don’t seem hostile, just confused, slithering around the storage pits and trying to burrow into the ground.

It must be part of the life cycle of those grazers — worm first, then something else.

You could raise them. Or butcher them. Or return to gathering eggs, now that you know how valuable they are.

What do you do?

> Cook the worms and go look for more eggs — The cycle continues.
> See if you can raise the worms somehow — Maybe they can be tamed or used.
> Cook the worms and go fish — Safer work, with food still needed.
> Cook the worms and go hunt in the jungle — Risky, but the jungle is teeming with life.
> Cook the worms and go hunt in the swamp — Dangerous terrain, but it might hold rich game.
> Cook the worms and go hunt in skaven territory — Desperate, but the rats might be edible.
> Write in

>>6247597
>> Cook the worms and go fish — Safer work, with food still needed.

>>6247604


You roast the pale worms over open flames, their meat hissing and curling. They’re rich in fat and protein — not exactly delicious, but passable. With a few dozen barrels of them smoked or salted, your men return to the sea.

Fishing proves fruitful. You send small boats out every morning, and each evening they return heavy with glistening fish. To preserve the bounty, Danner sets up rows of shallow pans and firepits to boil seawater into salt. Over time, your barrels fill with preserved meat.

But the smoke and the salt draw more than just fish.

Mermaids begin to appear again. At first, they simply lurk beyond the shallows, heads barely breaching the waves. Their haunting songs drift faintly across the tide, but your men plug their ears with wax or cloth, rowing past them in silence. Still, their presence grows bolder with each passing day.

Then one morning, the tide brings something new — a warband.

Tall figures emerge from the surf: mermen with long hair and legs like twisted sea kelp, coral blades and barnacle-covered shields in hand. They do not sing. They charge.

The battle is brutal. Spears clash with coral axes. Several of your guards fall, but the second palisade holds firm. You rally your spearmen and lead a charge that finally pushes them back into the sea.

Blood stains the sand. Smoke rises from scorched huts.

You didn’t know they could come ashore. You didn’t know they had warriors like these.

The sea is no longer safe.

Winter has passed, and the earth is ready. It's time to plant a proper farm — but what will you grow?

Here are six crop combinations to choose from:

> Maximize Food Production: Tubergrass, Giant Corn, Cave Squash — High-yield staples that grow fast and store well.
> Booze and Spirits: Fermentweed, Sweetroot, Redberries — Ideal for brewing alcohol to boost morale and trade.
> Clothing and Fiber Focus: Flaxvine, Jungle Cotton, Threadroot — Provides fiber for clothes, sails, and gear.
> Medicine and Healing: Salveleaf, Bittermint, Glowcaps — Useful for healing, illness prevention, and poultices.
> Trade Value and Rarity: Solarnith, Nectarfruit, Ironvine Pods — Exotic, valuable crops perfect for bartering.
> Experimental Magic Crops: Spellgrass, Dreamcaps, Echo Bloom — Unstable plants with strange magical potential.
> Write in

>>6247612
>> Trade Value and Rarity: Solarnith, Nectarfruit, Ironvine Pods — Exotic, valuable crops perfect for bartering.

>>6247627


You plant the strange crops carefully.

Solarnith grows on tall, golden stalks, each leaf glowing faintly like firelight.
Nectarfruit dangles from twisted shrubs, thick-skinned and fragrant with syrupy juice.
Ironvine Pods twist around anything they can cling to, their dark tendrils producing seed-pods as hard as bone.

While your crops grow, life changes.

The first babies are born in the settlement. Akri and Trua each have one — a girl and a boy.
The girl is pale, wide-eyed, humming along with her mothers. The boy, wrinkled and ugly in the eyes of the troglodytes, is dropped outside in the heat, abandoned.
Your people rescue the poor creature before he cooks in the sun.

One morning, a mystery — a baby boy found inside a basket, wrapped in moss and leaves. No one knows where he came from.

Other women among the crew give birth too, including Selena. Only Alwen and Frit remain childless — Alwen says she's too old, and Frit, well… you're not sure she even can.

A kind of daycare forms in the deep tent. Akri and Trua barely stop singing to their daughter, taking turns sleeping so that the lullaby never ends.

The seasons pass. You hunt nearby, preserve food, and wait. Then comes your first rare harvest — glimmering, fragrant, strong. Worth a fortune.

What will you do with it?

> Trade with the lizardmen — Secure warriors, guides, or rare materials.
> Send a trade envoy to the dark elves — Risky, but their crafts and knowledge are unmatched.
> Offer some to the mermaids — A peace gesture, or perhaps a bargain.
> Store it for later — Better to stockpile than spend foolishly.
> Brew potions and charms — See if Vael or Selena can unlock magical uses.
> Feed it to the children — See if these rare crops have any unusual effects on their growth or abilities.
> Write in

>>6247656
>> Trade with the lizardmen — Secure warriors, guides, or rare materials.

A guide and some warriors would be useful.

>>6247663


You decide to trade your rare crops with the lizardmen, hoping to strengthen your alliance and gain valuable resources. After carefully packing several large backpacks with the precious Solarnith, Nectarfruit, and Ironvine Pods, you prepare to lead an expedition into lizardman territory to negotiate a fair exchange. Choosing the right companions for this delicate mission is crucial.

Who will you take with you?

> Orlan – Hardened warrior with dryad blood in his veins. Skilled in melee combat and survival. Reliable, though recently changed by difficult events.
> Frit – Loyal and insightful companion, skilled in tracking and wilderness knowledge. Part of your trusted inner circle.
> Alwen – Your second-in-command. Competent leader, disciplined, and respected by the militia. Knows camp politics and military strategy inside and out.
> Toma – Young, sharp-eyed archer trained in swift woodland skirmishing. Focused and eager to prove himself.
> Brannoc – Massive ex-gladiator turned miner. Not subtle, but unmatched in raw strength and intimidation.
> Selene – Linguist and field scholar fluent in lizardman dialects and symbols. Skilled negotiator and diplomat.
> Irven – Silent herbalist and medic with practical knowledge of plants and toxins. Communicates through gestures and writing.
> Rigg – Scarred and watchful, once captured by the Skaven. Understands ratmen tactics and movements.
> Danner – Former sailor and clever trap-maker. Expert in rigging terrain with improvised tools and devices.
> Write in

>>6248017
> Frit – Loyal and insightful companion, skilled in tracking and wilderness knowledge. Part of your trusted inner circle.
> Irven – Silent herbalist and medic with practical knowledge of plants and toxins. Communicates through gestures and writing.
> Toma – Young, sharp-eyed archer trained in swift woodland skirmishing. Focused and eager to prove himself.
> Brannoc – Massive ex-gladiator turned miner. Not subtle, but unmatched in raw strength and intimidation.

>>6248044

You take Frit, Irven, Toma, and Brannoc and head out with your packs full of rare crops, determined to reach the lizardmen and establish a trade route. The journey takes you through territory you've come to associate with the bark creatures — a dangerous region where the trees seem to shift and watch, and the air smells faintly of rot and sap.

Not long after entering, you're spotted. Forced to take shelter, your group slips underground through a hidden fissure. The tunnel beneath is damp and dark, with roots hanging from the ceiling like tendrils. You move northward, guided by instinct and memory.

Then you see them.

Two cloaked figures ahead. One is dragging the other by the ankles. The one being dragged is smaller, frail-looking, its robes torn and soaked with what looks like dried blood. Beneath the tatters, you catch glimpses of pale limbs, wrapped tightly in bandages like a mummy — but unmistakably human, and likely female.

They haven’t noticed you yet.

What will you do?

> Disregard it and go on your way – Your mission is trade, not meddling with strange beings.
> Ask if it needs help – Call out and offer aid to the one dragging the wounded figure.
> Don’t ask anything, just grab the creature and help it drag the other – Act first, talk later.
> Tell your companions to go on and trade, and you help the creature carry the other – Split the group and do what feels right.
> Tell Frit to help the creature and move on to trade – Let Frit handle it while you stay focused on the mission.
> Try to follow them quietly – Stay hidden and observe their destination.
> Write in

>>6248090
>> Ask if it needs help – Call out and offer aid to the one dragging the wounded figure.

>>6248094

You call out gently, asking the cloaked figure if it needs help.

The creature stops.

Its head turns slowly toward you.

In an instant, agony explodes through your skull. You and your companions collapse as a wave of pressure floods your minds. Words—not words—scrape against your thoughts, a guttural chant like dark tongue, but too distorted to comprehend. Your vision blurs. You taste metal.

Then the pain fades.

One by one, your companions stagger to their feet, dazed but alive.

A whisper lingers in your head, distant and fractured. You can't make out the language, but images flash behind your eyes—disjointed and raw.

You see the two hooded creatures on the surface, digging a massive pit into the earth. Then: the bark creatures. Wave after wave of them fall under psychic assault, their wooden forms shattered by unseen force. But one strikes true. The attacker bursts into flames the moment it lands a blow, but it’s too late—the wounded one crumples.

The other grabs her and flees underground, leaving the dig site behind.

You realize then: it wasn’t attacking. It was protecting. And now it needs help.

You step forward and wordlessly take one of the wounded figure’s arms. The cloaked creature doesn’t resist. Your companions join you helping carry the wounded creature. Together, you carry her deeper underground, back into the circular chamber—the one where you first found Vael.

Other hooded ones are waiting.

They take the girl from your arms and remove her robe. She's bleeding heavily—barely a teenager, swathed in bandages soaked with dark fluid. They lift her into an open sarcophagus and seal it without a word.

The creature you helped drops to its knees, still clutching the tattered robe.

It doesn’t look at you. It just kneels there, unmoving.

Your companions look at you, as if asking what we should do.

What do you do?

> Resume your trading mission – The wounded girl is safe now; your duty lies with your people.
> Offer to help the creature dig whatever it was digging – Maybe their mission still matters.
> Ask what the dig site was for – Try to understand the reason behind their strange efforts.
> Ask if the girl will survive – You’re not sure why, but her fate feels important.
> Kneel beside the creature – Share a moment of silence and solidarity.
> Follow the ones carrying the girl – You want to know where they're taking her.
> Write in

>>6248108
>> Kneel beside the creature – Share a moment of silence and solidarity.

>>6248119

You kneel beside the creature.

It doesn't move, doesn't look at you. It simply clutches the torn robe in silence.

Minutes pass. Then the whispering begins again—not words, but impressions. Images.

You see a ritual, sacred and surreal. Two girls, young and solemn, stand side by side. They each draw a blade across the palm, their blood mingling in a golden chalice already brimming with red. They drink from it in turn.

Sisters now. Bound.

Then comes the fate of failure. Those who cannot complete their missions are deemed unworthy. Too weak to wear the black robe. They are sealed in sarcophagi—forgotten, reduced to whispers echoing beneath the earth.

The one beside you is alone now. Her sister gone. The task ahead—designed for two—is now impossible. She knows her end is near. She will be the next body entombed, voice lost in the shadows.

But something more ancient stirs. A distant mind, vast and cold, brushes yours like a glacier's edge.

A command is given:
Return. Retrieve the artifact.

She flinches at the order, but there is no refusal. No protest. She will obey.

Even knowing it will kill her.

What will you do?

> Offer to help her dig whatever it is she is supposed to dig – She won’t survive alone.
> Demand to speak with her master – This sentence is cruel. There must be another way.
> Ask her what the artifact is – You need to understand what’s at stake.
> Ask to become her new ritual partner – Maybe there’s a way to share the burden.
> Return to your mission but draw the attention of the bark creatures – She might survive with your help.
> Leave quietly and return to your mission – You’ve seen enough. This is not your war.
> Write in

>>6248138
> Offer to help her dig whatever it is she is supposed to dig – She won’t survive alone.

>>6248144

You offer to help her dig—because she won’t survive alone.

Your group ventures into the bark creatures’ territory once more, guided by whispers and instinct. After a tense trek through gnarled trees and mist-choked paths, you find the dig site: a sunken hollow flanked by shattered stone markers. Two ancient, rust-stained shovels lie where they were dropped.

She picks one up and begins digging in silence. You take the other. Your companions fashion crude shovels from branches and tools, and together you dig.

After several grueling hours, your shovel hits something solid: another sarcophagus, buried deep in the earth. The girl pulls a strange key from a hidden fold in her robe and unseals the lid. A foul stench escapes.

Inside is a withered skeleton wrapped in rags and a black robe. Scattered among its remains are gemstones of unnatural brilliance. She brushes the bones aside, collects the gems into a pouch, and finds what she was seeking: a broken clay tablet. With a whisper of dark magic, she mends it—and begins to chant out loud in the Dark Tongue.

The sky darkens instantly. The bark creatures come, drawn by the disturbance, screeching and violent. Your people form a line and hold them off.

The skeleton begins to twitch. It reanimates, its robes knitting back together, bones fusing. It begins its own chant in the same dark tongue. A duel begins—not of weapons, but of words.

The girl bleeds from her eyes, nose, and fingertips, but doesn’t stop. The skeleton catches fire but chants on. Her robe ignites. Still, she doesn’t stop.

At last, the skeleton crumbles to dust. The tablet crumbles with it. The gems pulse with light, then shoot upward like stars.

Moments later, a massive white dragon, long and serpentine, descends from the clouds. It hovers over the dig site.

“Why did you summon me?” it asks—directly into your mind.

The girl replies in dark tongue.

“The artifact? Hmmm... You’re wearing black, alright, and you know the dark tongue. I suppose I can give it to you. You humans all look the same to me. Here you go.”

The dragon regurgitates a rune-carved sword, steaming hot, before flying away.

The girl tries to grab the sword—her gloved hands burn instantly. She winces, then uses the ruined gloves to shove the sword inside the sarcophagus, burning herself again. She closes the lid and slumps forward.

Only then does she seem to notice the bark creatures. Their ranks falter. One ignites—and then, at last, they flee.

She stumbles toward the sarcophagus to drag it—but collapses, unconscious, her body covered in burns and blood.

> Carry the girl and the sarcophagus back to the caves below
> Carry the girl and the sarcophagus to your base instead
> Take the girl and the sarcophagus to the lizardmen
> Leave the girl behind and carry the sarcophagus to your base
> Leave the girl behind and carry the sarcophagus to the lizardmen
> Leave them behind and resume your trading mission
> Write in

>>6248167
>> Take the girl and the sarcophagus to the lizardmen

>>6248173

You decide to take the girl and the sarcophagus to the lizardmen.

The journey is tense, and the wounded girl doesn’t stir once along the way. When you finally arrive at the lizardmen village, the sight of the black-robed girl slumped in your arms causes a flurry of panic. Warriors hiss and draw their weapons, backing away in fear.

Only when you step forward and speak calmly—explaining that the girl is wounded and unconscious—do they approach again. One of them growls, “Kill her before she wakes up!”

You stand protectively between them and the girl, your voice firm. “I want to speak to your shaman. Now.”

There’s a tense silence. Then, grudgingly, they lead you past the reed huts and carved totems toward a mossy stone ziggurat. Inside, the old shaman waits by a brazier of thick green smoke.

“Ah... a cursed one. Been a long time since I’ve seen one of those.”

You quickly explain what happened—the dig, the duel, the skeleton, and the artifact the dragon gave her.

The shaman nods slowly. “Long ago, there was a civil war among the cursed ones. Some of them escaped to the surface and began to live in secret on this island. They did all manner of strange experiments—trying to break their curse.”

He gestures to the sarcophagus. “In the end, their greatest success was in stealing and sealing away artifacts from the Dark One himself. They couldn’t destroy the artifacts, so they hid them—and made... tools... to retrieve them.”

You frown. “Tools?”

“Perfect copies of themselves. Grown and shaped in secret. Raised only to open one sarcophagus, one lock. Once they do, they’re no longer useful—and are buried alive. Dark magic, dark minds.”

“And the artifact?” you ask.

The shaman glances at the sealed sarcophagus. “Still cursed. They’ll need to study it for a long time to try and purge it. Until then, it’s dangerous.”

You still have many questions...

What will you ask the shaman?

> Are these creatures human? – What kind of beings are the cursed ones and their clones?
> Do they live on this island? – Is this where the surface escapees settled?
> What kind of magic creates a clone of someone else? – How can one make a perfect living copy?
> How come they can speak in the dark tongue and not die? – Isn’t that language forbidden and deadly to mortals?
> What happens if someone else takes the artifact? – Can anyone else use it, or is it bound to them?
> Can she be saved? – Is there a way to help the girl now that her task is done?
> Write in

>>6248184

> How come they can speak in the dark tongue and not die? – Isn’t that language forbidden and deadly to mortals?
> What happens if someone else takes the artifact? – Can anyone else use it, or is it bound to them?
> Can she be saved? – Is there a way to help the girl now that her task is done?

>>6248185

You ask the shaman your questions, uneasy with what you've seen and heard:

"How come they can speak in the dark tongue and not die? Isn’t that language forbidden and deadly to mortals?"

The shaman’s eyes glow faintly in the gloom. “Because they pay the price. Every word they speak in that language burns a soul. They make sacrifices before their missions—people, sometimes animals, sometimes even their own kind. The souls are used like fuel to power the words. Without that, the tongue would burn their minds to ash.”

"What happens if someone else takes the artifact? Can anyone else use it, or is it bound to them?"

He leans closer. “It is cursed, yes. But curses can be broken. If cleansed, anyone strong enough can wield it. But it belongs to the Rebellion. To take it is to risk drawing their attention. I don’t even think they want the artifacts for a real purpose anymore—they just hoard them. Their ancestors bled for them, and so now they cling to them like relics.”

"Can the girl be saved? Is there a way to help her now that her task is done?"

The shaman’s tone turns grim. “If she returns underground, they’ll bury her alive. That was always her fate. They don’t care about her—just the artifact. They can grow a dozen more like her. She’s not a person to them. Just a vessel.”

You frown, troubled. “That makes no sense. If they don’t care about the artifacts, why send people to die for them?”

The shaman shrugs slowly. “Because for them, life is a punishment. Death is the real life. Their rites preserve their minds after death. They believe they are born only to serve—and after death, they will continue serving. There is no end for them. No escape. If one flees, they simply wait. Once she dies, they’ll claim her soul and punish her. That’s how it’s always been. The Rebellion works just like the Dark One once did. The only difference is... somehow, they found a way to use the laws of Hell itself to protect their own souls. The Dark One can no longer legally reclaim them as slaves.”

You stare at the unconscious girl, burned and bleeding, and you feel the weight of this strange, twisted world settle on your shoulders.

You still have many questions.

What will you ask next?

> Who is the Dark One? – Learn more about the being they defied.
> What is this Rebellion? – Who are they, and how do they operate?
> How do they shield their souls from the Dark One? – What law or trick do they use?
> Can she escape their grasp, even in death? – Is there any hope for her soul?
> What are these artifacts, really? – What is their power, and why were they sealed?
> Can I wield the artifact if it’s cleansed? – Could you use the power, and what would it cost?
> Write in

>>6248189
>> Can she escape their grasp, even in death? – Is there any hope for her soul?
> Can I wield the artifact if it’s cleansed? – Could you use the power, and what would it cost?

>>6248197

You ask the shaman your final questions.

“Can she escape their grasp, even in death?”

The shaman — a tall, elder female with bone piercings and silver-scaled markings — gives a weary sigh.
“You could buy her. The Rebellion treats the cursed ones as property while they live. They make them, raise them, sacrifice them. If one of their tools is taken, they’ll demand a price. In death? I don’t know. You’d be meddling with things far older than you or me.”
She pauses. “They believe death begins their true life. That’s when the soul continues to serve. If they flee in life, the Rebellion simply waits. When they die, they claim them. There is no freedom in death. Only more obedience.”

“Can I wield the artifact if it’s cleansed?”

The shaman studies your blade and nods slowly.
“Yes. Once the curse is removed, anyone with strength may wield it. But it’s theirs. These weapons were stolen by their ancestors from the Dark One. The Rebellion still hoards them. That sword you carry — it’s one of theirs. They may demand a price. And they will collect.”

When the girl lies unconscious and still, the shaman kneels beside her.
“Let’s tend to her wounds.”

With her apprentices and your help, she gently removes the burned robes and carefully unwraps the bandages. Her body is shockingly pale, hairless, marred by an intricate history of old scars — cuts, brands, burns layered beneath the new wounds.
There’s no question: this girl was raised in pain.

Together, you rewrap her in clean bandages.
“She will live,” the shaman says. “But she cannot stay here. When she wakes… she may not remember who she is. Or worse — she might remember everything.”

Afterward, you present your rare crops — Solarnith, Nectarfruit, Ironvine Pods — as trade for warriors and a guide.

The shaman considers, then shakes her head.
“Your gifts are precious, but not worth the blood of my people. Still... if any among us wish to serve your cause for a time, I won’t stop them. I’ll see that their families are honored.”

Two lizardmen step forward:

Xharo – A tall, strong warrior with a barbed obsidian spear and layered hide armor. Proud, deliberate, and unwavering in battle.
Tikka – A wiry scout with sharp eyes and a blowgun slung over her shoulder. Wears bone charms and reinforced bark armor. Quiet, but clever.

Now, all eyes fall on the girl and the sarcophagus beside her. You must choose her fate.


> Beg the shaman to let her stay
> Carry her and the sarcophagus back to your base
> Drop her and the sarcophagus in the tunnels below
> Drop only the sarcophagus in the tunnels and take her to your village
> Take her and the sarcophagus into the tunnels and demand to speak with her masters
> Hide her underground and leave her to fend for herself
> Write in

>>6248208
>> Drop only the sarcophagus in the tunnels and take her to your village

>>6248209

You make your decision: the sarcophagus stays behind, deep in the tunnels where it belongs. Whatever cursed artifact lies inside, it’s not your burden to carry.

But the girl — burned, scarred, still unconscious — you take with you.

With Frit, Irven, Toma, Brannoc, and the two lizardmen Xharo and Tikka, you avoid the bark creatures' territory entirely. Instead, you veer southeast, cutting through the swamp, where the air hangs heavy with rot and the buzzing of unseen insects never stops.

And then… she appears.

The dryad.

Her form rises from the thick vines — towering, thorned, armored in green, her hair coiled like ivy and eyes glowing with old forest anger. You remember her combat form well.

You call out for free passage, showing your hands, explaining the wounded girl. Her eyes narrow. Then, with a strange softness, she asks:

“How’s the baby?”

You pause. Then answer: “He’s being taken care of. He’s safe.”

She nods, slowly, thoughtfully.
Then her expression darkens.

“Good. But I need more.”
“Leave one of your males here. I’ll release him later… once I’ve taken what I need.”

Your group tenses. The vines slither around her feet. The dryad waits, one hand raised, ready to summon a wall of thorns.

> Leave Toma behind – The young archer looks terrified, but he doesn’t protest.
> Leave Brannoc behind – The big ex-gladiator shrugs. “Could be worse,” he mutters.
> Offer to stay behind yourself – Risk your freedom to protect your companions.
> Ask her to heal the girl – Bargain with her — one favor for another.
> Plead with her to let you pass and promise to send someone later – Try diplomacy, with a debt owed.
> Attack the dryad – Enough of this madness. Fight your way through.
> Write in

>>6248214
> Leave Brannoc behind – The big ex-gladiator shrugs. “Could be worse,” he mutters.

>>6248216

You leave Brannoc behind in the swamp with the dryad. He nods grimly, vines already slithering toward him. You promise to return — though you're not sure you'll be able to.

Carrying the burned girl through the swamplands, your party returns to the village.

But the moment Akri and Trua see her — see the black robe — they recoil in fear.

“Reaper,” they whisper. “She’s a Reaper.”

They explain in a trembling mix of tongues that such beings came to their people long ago, cloaked in black, and murdered many, silently, with curved daggers. Always one by one, night by night, until the killing simply stopped. No one ever caught them. No one could resist.

“Kill her,” Trua insists. “Kill her now, before she starts again.”

You notice both women are pregnant again, though neither has said a word about the father.

You search the girl’s robe, and in a hidden inner sheath you find a dagger encased in black leather. The moment you unsheath it, your mind is filled with whispers — indecipherable and cruel. You quickly sheathe it, but the voices linger long after.

Later, the girl wakes.

And as her eyes open… everyone in the village collapses, screaming or groaning in pain, clutching their skulls.

Then, silence.

People gather, shaken.

“She did this?”
“Just by waking up?”

She refuses to speak, shrinking away from the crowd’s stares. Only after you give her back her burned robes and gloves does she seem to calm. She slinks to a corner of the hut and stays there, unmoving.

Eventually, you go check on her.

She reaches out and touches your hand.

And in your mind, the meaning is clear:

“They are coming. They will take me back. I should go.”

> Try to convince her to stay – Assure her she’s safe here, and she doesn’t need to return to them.
> Say you can defeat whoever they send – Promise her you’ll protect her, no matter what comes.
> Offer to help her flee somewhere far away – Help her disappear before they arrive.
> Prepare a defense and wait for them – Fortify your camp and face what comes.
> Send her back and be done with it – She’s too dangerous to keep here.
> Give her the dagger and let her choose – Hand her the blade and leave the decision to her.
> Write in

>>6248225
>> Give her the dagger and let her choose – Hand her the blade and leave the decision to her.

If she wants to go back, see if she wants to also take the coffin we dug up.

Rolled 1 (1d2)

>>6248233

let's see if she wants to stay or wants to go

1 - stay
2 - go

>>6248245
>>6248233

You find her sitting in the hut, wrapped in her bandages, silent as always. The dagger lies between you on a woven mat, its black leather sheath pulsing faintly with unseen power. You pick it up carefully, place it in her hands, and say:

"If you want to stay, you can stay. If you want to go, you can go. You're not a prisoner here."

For a moment she does nothing. Her fingers tighten around the dagger. Then, suddenly, something inside her breaks. Her shoulders begin to shake. Silent at first, then heaving sobs wrack her thin frame. She cries for hours, curled into herself like a wounded animal, as if all the pain she'd ever buried came spilling out at once.

Eventually, she falls asleep, her face stained with tears, the dagger still clutched in her hands.


The next day, she wakes early and goes outside.

She doesn’t speak, doesn’t eat, doesn’t interact. She simply stands there. Watching.

She stares at the babies—Akri’s and Trua’s children, and the few others. She never approaches, never touches, just observes them from a distance. The mothers give her wary glances. No one dares ask what she’s doing. But she doesn’t blink, doesn’t shift, barely breathes. It's like she’s turned into stone.

You realize this must have been part of her training—to stand still, to wait, to act only when commanded. She eats maybe once a day, always quietly, sparingly. Sleeps just a few hours a night, always alone in a corner, barely moving.

>>6248258
Several nights pass like this.

Then the mermen return.

They come under cover of mist, slipping from the sea with sharpened bone spears and hunger in their eyes. They swarm the shore. Screams echo across the settlement as the alarm is raised.

You and your people rush to defend your home. Irven fights with a spear, Toma shouts orders, the two lizardmen slash with their claws. Frit casts light to reveal the attackers.

And the black-robed girl?

She stands at the center of the village, unmoving.

Watching.

The battle goes poorly. Several are wounded. The mermen push farther in. Panic spreads. One of the villagers cries out to her, voice strained:

“Do something!”

And she does.

She lifts a hand. No chant, no warning. Just a single, sweeping gesture.

Suddenly, every merman collapses to the ground, shrieking in pain. Their limbs twist, their eyes bulge, and blood trickles from their ears. Then they flee, crawling, limping, scrambling for the waves.

As they vanish, you hear some of them screaming, again and again:
"WITCH! WITCH!"

The village erupts in cheers. People rush to her. They lift her up, though she looks completely uninterested. A feast is thrown in her honor—cooked fish, roasted roots, fermented fruit. The villagers try to offer her drinks, but she refuses every time, shaking her head gently. She doesn't smile. She barely reacts.

Later, after the fire has burned low and the music has died, she approaches you again.

She takes your hand.

And then you see.

Visions flood your mind.

She and her sister, much younger, robes still too large for their thin frames. Troglodytes tied down with vines and chains, eyes wide with terror. The girls hold ritual daggers—obsidian, jagged.

Each time they kill, a spark is gathered. Magic bound. Souls sealed into something unseen.

Spell after spell, fueled by death.

Dozens. Maybe hundreds.

You see her shaking, hiding her tears. Her sister pushing her, whispering words of comfort. Or orders. Or threats.

You see that every spell she casts now draws from that hidden reservoir—souls of the long-dead troglodytes, trapped in agony.

She releases your hand.

No words.

But you understand.

She cannot keep casting forever.

What will you do?

> Ask her to teach you – If the burden is too great for one, perhaps it can be shared.
> Promise to find another way – Vow to seek a magic that doesn’t rely on death and suffering.
> Tell her she never has to cast again – She’s done enough. Let her rest.
> Ask her how many souls remain – Try to understand how long her power will last.
> Tell her to leave if she must – Give her the freedom to go, if she chooses to walk away.
> Say nothing and sit beside her – Offer comfort not in words, but in quiet solidarity.
> Write in

>>6248259
>> Say nothing and sit beside her – Offer comfort not in words, but in quiet solidarity.

>>6248270

You say nothing.

No words of comfort. No promises. Just quiet presence.

You sit beside her.

She flinches at first—unsure, startled by the closeness. But then she leans slightly toward you—not quite touching, but near enough. You both sit by the dying firelight, silence shared like an old blanket. No words are needed.

In the months that follow, she begins, slowly, to thaw.

She doesn’t speak, not much. But she watches. Listens. Learns.

Someone—probably Trua—hands her some old cloth and a bone needle and shows her how to patch a tear. She observes, nods once, and then begins sewing with eerie precision. Her stitches are impossibly fine. Wordlessly, she starts mending clothes for others too.

Then she begins gathering fiber from reeds and vines near the stream. She spins it into thread with focus so intense it unnerves people. From dawn till well past nightfall, she works. Even when others sleep, she spins.

And one morning, people awaken to find her black robe repaired. Not with scraps, but with her own thread. Re-spun, re-woven.

She never says a word about it.

The Skaven come at dawn.

Forty of them, bristling with rusted blades and chittering whispers, dragging sleds piled with chests and sacks, eyes gleaming with greed. The usual tithe day, but this time—something is off.

Their leader steps forward: tall for a ratman, with patchy gray fur and a jagged bone staff capped with a tiny skull. His nose twitches in the morning air.

"Thirty percent," he hisses. "Food, thread, tools, wood. All. You know this. You agreed, yes-yes?"

The villagers begin handing over the agreed portion. Baskets of dried fish. Coils of rope. Woven cloth. The Skaven take with haste, their clawed fingers darting over everything like a plague of locusts.

Then one of them points toward the nursery hut, where the babies are kept.

"And those," he says, licking his teeth. "Two babies. Strong. Plump. Take them too. Part of growth, yes? Part of yield. Thirty percent of everything."

Akri clutches her child. Trua starts crying. A blade is drawn—not by a ratman, but by one of your own.

You step forward.

The girl in the black robe watches silently, unmoving behind you.

The Skaven leader bares his teeth in a grin. "You break tithe? You break treaty? We spill blood, yes-yes?"

What do you do?

> Let them collect – You surrender the goods, the thread, and the babies. Your people live, but at what cost?
> Attack the Skaven – Enough is enough. You draw your blade and trust your warriors to follow.
> Offer a bribe to their leader – Try to placate him with your best booze, to leave the children.
> Threaten them – Stand tall. Say the people are not part of the tithe, and you won’t let them take even one child.
> Call for the black-robed girl’s help – You look at her and say just one word: "Help."
> Ask the Skaven to wait and call a village council – Stall for time, hoping to find a peaceful solution—or a trick.
> Write in

>>6248288
>> Attack the Skaven – Enough is enough. You draw your blade and trust your warriors to follow.

Rolled 75, 45 = 120 (2d100)

>>6248293

The moment the word leaves your lips—"Attack!"—chaos erupts.

Steel sings. Spears thrust. Arrows whistle through the morning fog.

The Skaven screech and scatter, then surge forward in a wave of fur, teeth, and rusted metal. They fight like cornered animals—fast, desperate, coordinated in their madness.

Your villagers meet them with everything they have—shovels, hunting spears, cooking knives. The lizardmen warriors you brought from the swamps roar and crash into the Skaven flank, slashing with bone axes and snapping jaws. You spot Toma driving a torch into a ratman's face, while Akri, of all people, slams a pot over another's head.

The black-robed girl stands still at first, observing. One Skaven dares lunge at her. Without a word, she lifts one hand—and the ratman collapses midair, clutching his head, shrieking in agony. Others begin to avoid her.

Smoke rises as torches are thrown, carts burn, and the nursery hut is hastily barricaded by some of the women.

One of the Skaven chieftains breaks through your line and heads straight for the granary—but is tackled by Trua, who fights with a mother’s desperation, driving a knife into his side again and again.

Screams, smoke, and blood mix with the drumming of feet and the clashing of crude steel. The battle is evenly matched, the outcome uncertain—yet the village stands, every heart aflame with the will to protect.

You grip your weapon and throw yourself into the fray.

Choose your strategy and roll 2d100.

> Burn Them in the Trap: Lure the Skaven into the storehouse with promises of tribute. Once they're inside, seal the doors and set the place on fire. Brutal, fast, and final.
> Assassinate the Leader: Have someone skilled in stealth strike down the Skaven commander before the fighting starts. Without leadership, panic may ripple through their ranks.
> Blockade and Intimidate: Arm every villager and surround the Skaven openly. Outnumber them, out-shout them, and dare them to fight. Break their will before their blades leave their sheaths.
> Use the Witch: Ask the black-robed girl to strike once more with her forbidden power. It could break the Skaven minds—but will cost more of the souls she carries.
> Open the Gates and Force a Retreat: Open a path behind them and hit them hard. Make them believe they’re being overrun, so they'll flee rather than fight to the death.
> Use Vael’s Power: Unleash the full strength of the ancient blade. It could turn the tide in an instant—but Vael’s power might burn through your body and leave you unconscious or worse.
> Write in

Rolled 55, 86 = 141 (2d100)

>>6248298
> Assassinate the Leader: Have someone skilled in stealth strike down the Skaven commander before the fighting starts. Without leadership, panic may ripple through their ranks.

>>6248303

As the tension hangs in the humid morning air, the brawl escalating all around you, the skaven leader snarls and steps forward, one clawed hand pointing toward the infants while the other rests on his curved blade. Your fingers tighten around Vael's hilt, and in a fluid, wordless motion, you draw the sword.

Time seems to slow.

The ancient blade hums, a low, hungry sound, and then you strike.

One clean, precise arc—silver fire trailing behind like a comet's tail—and the skaven leader’s head lifts from his shoulders, spinning once before landing in the dust. His body collapses a heartbeat later, blood already soaking the soil.

For a second, the other skaven stand frozen in disbelief.

Then panic erupts.

They shriek and scramble back, some dropping their weapons, others pulling their fallen leader’s body away in horror. "You’ll pay for it, hooman!" one of them screams in broken Common. "You’ll ALL pay for it!" another howls as they help each other in climbing the palisade walls then vanish into the trees, tails whipping behind them in retreat.

The village is still. Even the wind seems to hold its breath.

Vael pulses faintly in your hand, warm and sated—for now.

From behind you, a villager murmurs, “You killed their chief… does this mean they’ll send more?”

The battle is won—but the war may have just begun.

> Attack Now: Strike while the skaven are in disarray—track them through the jungle and wipe out their tithe force before they regroup.
> Evacuate and Hide: Leave the village behind and hide in the underground tunnels with supplies. Better to vanish than face their full wrath.
> Fortify and Prepare: Strengthen the defenses, set traps, post scouts—prepare the village for the inevitable skaven retaliation.
> Send for Reinforcements: Dispatch one of the lizardmen to return to their tribe and ask for aid. You’ll need more warriors if war is coming.
> Offer Tribute: Gather wealth, goods—or prisoners—and send an offering to the skaven city, hoping to buy forgiveness for the killing of their leader.
> Seek the Witch’s Help: Ask the black-robed girl to delve into her dark arts and prepare a magical defense, even if it comes at a cost.
> Write in

>>6248305
>> Attack Now: Strike while the skaven are in disarray—track them through the jungle and wipe out their tithe force before they regroup.

>>6248306

You kill several of the fleeing skaven in the jungle in the next few days. Then you see it.

The stench of the jungle hangs heavy in the humid air as you crouch in the undergrowth, your warriors breathing hard from the long pursuit. The earth quivers beneath hundreds of filthy, clawed feet—Skaven, swarming out of their warren-like tunnels in scattered packs. They are armed with rusted blades, crude spears, and bone clubs, their eyes glowing with fanatic desperation. The jungle echoes with their squeals and warcries, echoing off the trees like the chittering of a thousand insects.

Their formation is loose, chaotic, like a living tide of vermin. No shields. No real discipline. But there are hundreds of them.

You and your warriors—bloodied, weary, and outnumbered—watch them advance. You have moments, perhaps less, to decide how to respond. The village is far behind. There’s no turning back now unless you make it happen.

> Engage the Skaven: Meet them head-on in the jungle before they reach your village. Their numbers are great, but you may break them with a strong enough blow.
> Lure Them Into Traps: Fall back while leading them through prepared kill-zones—ambushes, spike pits, fire traps. Make their numbers work against them.
> Retreat and Hold the Barricades: Fall back to the village and prepare for a siege. Reinforce defenses, ready your warriors, and wait for them to come to you.
> Offer Tribute for Mercy: Send a messenger with wealth, goods, and maybe prisoners—beg forgiveness and try to avoid slaughter.
> Seek the Witch’s Help: Ask the black-robed girl to unleash her powers again—cripple their minds or summon something terrible. It may cost her… or you.
> Assassinate Their New Leader: Send a small team ahead to infiltrate their warband and kill whoever is leading them now. Without command, they may scatter again.
> Write in

>>6248315
>> Lure Them Into Traps: Fall back while leading them through prepared kill-zones—ambushes, spike pits, fire traps. Make their numbers work against them.

>>6248319

You watch from the ramparts as the first wave of Skaven charges—screeching, scrabbling, gnashing. Your traps spring into action: swinging spikes impale the front runners, pits swallow a few dozen more. For a heartbeat, there's hope.

But then the swarm adapts.

The Skaven slow their advance, eyes darting for signs of snares. They prod the ground ahead with sticks, shove the weak forward to trigger any unseen danger. Your traps become meaningless. The tide flows forward, smarter now. Relentless.

By the time they reach the palisade, the defenses crumble like twigs. The walls weren’t made to hold back hundreds. They climb each other’s backs, stacking high, forming writhing ladders of flesh and fur. The first Skaven over the top are cut down—but for every one you fell, three take its place. Then five. Then ten.

And then they're in.

The gate is forced open from within. Skaven spill into the settlement like floodwater. They don’t roar or celebrate. They steal. Silent, greedy hands tear through your stores, dig into your crates, drag away whatever they can carry. Tools vanish into their sacks. Food is gone before your warriors can even turn toward the granary.

They don't attack unless cornered. Their goal is not slaughter—it’s plunder.

You fight. You protect. A defensive ring forms around the children, around the infants. That line is never broken.

But the rest?

Gone.

Jars. Spears. Seeds. Spades. Even your forge’s anvil—dragged away on a cart you didn’t even know they had. The settlement is gutted. Roofs torn open, doors kicked in. When the rats finally retreat, they vanish as swiftly as they came.

They leave behind only a silence that aches. You lost few people—only those who tried to protect things. But things are what you needed.

Now there’s nothing left.

And the worst part? You know they’ll come again.


The fires die out slowly, casting long shadows over the wreckage of your once-thriving village. Your people stand in silence among the broken fences and trampled ground, staring at the gaping holes in the palisade, the shattered doors, and the empty storehouses. Children cry. Warriors sit with heads bowed, gripping bloodied weapons that could not protect what mattered most—what kept you all alive.

The Skaven came like a wave, and though they left few corpses behind, they stripped you bare. Food, tools, cloth, wood, weapons, even clay jars and woven baskets—gone. They didn’t fight to conquer, only to take. Only those who stood in their path paid with their lives.

Now you stand amid the ruins, your people looking to you. There is no food. No defense. No security.

What will you do?

> Rebuild Here
> Send Scouts for a New Location
> Seek Aid from the Lizardmen Tribe
> Ask the Witch for Help
> Launch a Raid on the Skaven Warren
> Abandon the Surface and Go Underground
> Write in

>>6248340
>> Seek Aid from the Lizardmen Tribe

>>6248343

Decided to seek help with the lizardmen, our people tread wearily through the tunnel, the dark earth echoing with tired footsteps and quiet murmurs. The bark creatures’ territory is left behind, but no one relaxes until you emerge near the swamp—alive, intact, and unpursued.

Then, through the haze of swamp mist and thick humidity, the silhouette of the lizardmen village emerges—tall wooden stilts, thatched reed rooftops, and watchful eyes.

They come in numbers. Dozens of lizardmen warriors meet you on the path, spears ready. You raise your hands in peace. “The Skaven raided us,” you say. “They took everything.”

There’s a pause. Then, with a low, murmuring conversation among themselves, the lizardmen part and let your weary folk inside.

Their shaman—regal, old, her body adorned in bone charms and woven vines—waits for you by the communal fire. She gestures for your people to sit and be fed, and as food is brought—a simple, warm stew of root and reptile—she speaks.

“Our land cannot support all your people,” she says evenly. “We survive because we keep a low profile. We don’t accumulate. The Skaven don’t come because we have nothing to steal. The mermaids don’t care for us, because we have no metal to trade or melt. The barkmen raid us, yes, but we are warriors born and bred. The dryads find us boring. And the Rebellion…” she pauses, eyes on the black-robed girl in your midst, “rarely ever disturbs us.”

She lowers her voice, more serious now. “Our only real threat is the Nyarlotep. It sends its young to test our strength. If we don’t kill them each year, it grows bold. So we hunt. The season is soon. After that comes the long winter.”

You ask how they survive the cold.

The shaman gives you a strange look. “We bury ourselves. In the sand, beneath our huts. Hibernation takes us. We wake in spring.”

You glance around. Their homes are light, woven from leaves and bone, barely enough to break the wind. Your people—many of them human, pregnant, with infants—would never survive a winter like that.

“Our way of life is not yours,” she says, as if reading your thoughts. “You may stay a few days. Regain your strength. But you must find your own land again, and soon.”

>>6248351

Heeding the warning of the lizardmen, you send out scouts in every direction, seeking a new haven for your people. Over the next few days, they return—worn, dust-covered, and quiet, but alive. They bring news of six possible places to settle. None of them perfect. Each carries its own risk… and its own hope.

> The Cave Complex (Near Barkpeople Territory): A winding system of natural caves nestled at the edge of the forest claimed by the barkpeople. The caverns are dry, with filtered sunlight piercing through cracks in the ceiling. It offers excellent shelter and easy defense, but its proximity to the barkpeople is dangerous. If they find your people there, they may see it as an intrusion—and respond with violence.
> The Mountain Plateau: High in the nearby range lies a wind-swept plateau—safe from predators, with a wide view in all directions. It's hard to reach, but hard to conquer. Rainwater collects in stone basins, and there are a few patches of tough grass and root plants. But the soil is poor and water scarce—life would be hard.
> The Southern Ruins (Near Frit’s Discovery Site): South of here, your scouts found an old stone fort, half-swallowed by vines and time. Some walls still stand. There’s a working well. Whoever built it knew war. But it's been abandoned a long time, and the locals say it’s cursed ground. Strange sounds come from beneath it at night.
> Forest Edge (Near Dryad Territory): A lush, green stretch of forest where the trees part just enough to let in light. The land is fertile, the river clean, and game is plentiful. A paradise—except it borders dryad territory. If they see your presence as a threat, they may come in force, or worse—take tribute in the form of life.
> The Badlands (Above the Deep Caves): A cracked, scorched plateau of brittle stone and whispering winds. There's little to take—but also little interest from others. The land sits above the deep caves; it could be fortified as a gateway, a watchpoint… or a trap. If something stirs below, you'll be the first to know.
> The Stream Between the Hills (Dragon Plains): Nestled between low, defensible hills, a calm stream cuts through green grass and scattered trees. It's ideal terrain for a village—if not for the dragon tracks the scouts found nearby. None were seen, but something massive walks the plains. If disturbed, they could destroy everything.
> Write in

aight, I'm stopping it here tonight. during the week posts are less often, we'll come back full force again next weekend, hopefully with a new settlement by then.

>>6248357
>> The Badlands (Above the Deep Caves): A cracked, scorched plateau of brittle stone and whispering winds. There's little to take—but also little interest from others. The land sits above the deep caves; it could be fortified as a gateway, a watchpoint… or a trap. If something stirs below, you'll be the first to know.

>>6248362

You decide to lead your people into the heart of the island—into the cracked, sun-scorched badlands that sprawl above the Deep Caves. It’s a haunted place, littered with broken stone, weather-worn statues, and the skeletal remains of buildings too old for anyone to remember. But among these ruins, you find a defensible spot: a half-sunken structure with intact cellars and a commanding view of the broken hills around it. You make your choice.

“Alright, let’s get a palisade up, shall we? May not stop the Skaven, but it’ll keep the weird fauna of this place out. You—start patching some of these ruins. We need a place to sleep. The rest of you—go find us something to eat.”

The work begins. Wooden stakes from salvaged trees are set in circles, patched walls go up between the ruins, and cookfires begin to dot the cleared courtyards. It’s rough, but it’s shelter.

Within a few days, the palisade stands—small and crooked, but enough to make most predators think twice. The gatherers return with bundles of roots and edible moss. It’s not much, but enough to keep the hunger at bay for now. Hunted meat, however, is nearly nonexistent—your hunters find only bones or vanish in the sun-scorched rocks. The water here is shallow, brackish, and nearly lifeless. You’ll need meat soon, or people will begin to weaken.

So, you gather your council and lay out the options.

> Hunt the Brain-Eaters in the Savannah Strange beasts roam the nearby savannah. They’re dangerous and barely edible—but they're there, and no one else wants them. Hunting them may bring risk… but also steady meat.
> Find Jungle Livestock and Herd It Here Somewhere deep in the jungle are herd-beasts—large, slow, and edible. If you can find them and tame them, maybe you can drive a few back here. But it’s a long trek through hostile lands.
> Hunt in the Dryad Forest The dryad woods are rich in game—deer, boar, and fowl. But stepping into their domain could provoke their wrath. Maybe you’ll get a hunt or two before they notice. Maybe.
> Fish the Haunted Northern Swamp Far to the north lies a vast swamp. It stinks of ghosts and memories, but fish still swim its waters. If you can endure the whispers and find the deeper pools, you might bring back a decent catch.
> Descend Into the Deep Caves for Food The Deep Caves open beneath your feet. There are creatures down there—pale, blind, and crawling in the dark. Some might be edible. Some might try to eat you.
> Find a Tunnel That Leads to the Sea There must be a tunnel somewhere that leads out beneath the cliffs, to the coast. If you can find it, you might gain access to deep-sea fishing and tidal pools. But you’ll be underground for days, and there’s no telling what dwells there.
> Write in

>>6248682
>> Descend Into the Deep Caves for Food The Deep Caves open beneath your feet. There are creatures down there—pale, blind, and crawling in the dark. Some might be edible. Some might try to eat you.

>>6248718

"We go down into the caves for food. If the caves can feed thousands of troglodytes, they can feed us as well," you say, matter-of-factly. Your voice leaves no room for argument.

The witch lowers her eyes but refuses to descend. You don’t press her. Instead, you gather a handful of brave volunteers—hunters, gatherers, and those too desperate to stay idle with hunger clawing at their bellies. Together, you descend into the darkness, torches sputtering as you navigate the twisting stone.

You search for hours, tracing the echoes of old troglodyte paths, but every route into the Deep Caves proper loops back or collapses into shadowed dead ends. One, however, draws your attention. It doesn’t go directly to the Deep Caves, but it leads near. Dangerously near. Straight to the Demon Mouth.

You hesitate only a moment.

You descend again.

You know the chamber before you enter it. Dragon bones lie cracked and stacked against one wall like discarded tools. Sarcophagi line the walls—ornate, ancient, sealed. The artifacts still gleam faintly in the gloom, untouched. And at the center, invisible yet vast, it waits.

The pressure hits first—a pulsing headache like a nail driving between your eyes. Then the whispers. Then the voice:

"Not only do you return without payment, but you steal another of my slaves. She's no good to me anymore."

You feel something sharp, ancient, curl around your thoughts.

"For that alone, you will pay fifty thousand gold. Or I will kill you now and exact the price in blood, taking your people as my rightful slaves."

The voice echoes like grinding stone. There is no anger, only certainty.

> Promise to pay the 50,000 gold: You lower your head and agree to the price. Somehow, you will find the wealth. It buys you and your people time.
> Argue that she left on her own: “She wasn’t taken—she fled. You lost your claim when you abandoned her,” you say. “You’re demanding payment for a slave who chose freedom.”
> Appeal to his greed: “Let us live,” you say, “and we’ll dig out this island’s wealth for you. Kill us, and you’ll get nothing. Let us make you richer.”
> Claim you’re beneath his concern: “Look at us—we’re nothing,” you scoff. “Refugees, survivors, not thieves. You'd stain yourself with our blood over one girl?”
> Offer to return the girl: “If you truly want her, take her back,” you say. “I won’t drag her down, but if you can claim her, she’s yours again.”
> Demand proof of his right: “You say you own her—but where’s the bond? Show us the pact. You talk of law and payment—then show us the law you speak of.”
> Write in

>>6248824
>> Argue that she left on her own: “She wasn’t taken—she fled. You lost your claim when you abandoned her,” you say. “You’re demanding payment for a slave who chose freedom.”
>> Appeal to his greed: “Let us live,” you say, “and we’ll dig out this island’s wealth for you. Kill us, and you’ll get nothing. Let us make you richer.”

Rolled 2 (1d3)

>>6248873

Alright, let's see if the voice buys into it

1 - she left on her own
2 - appeal to greed
3 - doesn't buy it

>>6248914

“She wasn’t taken—she fled. You lost your claim when you abandoned her,” you say. “You’re demanding payment for a slave who chose freedom.”

“Let us live,” you say, “and we’ll dig out this island’s wealth for you. Kill us, and you’ll get nothing. Let us make you richer.”

The voice does not shout, does not rage. It speaks as though reciting an ancient, inevitable truth:

"A slave running away does not make it free."

As the words seep into your bones, the pain in your skull intensifies—needles threading through your brain with every heartbeat.

"Still, you are not without potential. There are many treasures buried in this island. Gold. Artifacts. Knowledge. Relics of times long past. Even slaves, if you know where to look. I will let you live... but your debt stands."

A pause. Then, the verdict:

"Fifty thousand gold for the girl you stole, with fifty more for each day of delay."

You stagger slightly, your breath shallow. The weight of the number is crushing.

“We cannot pay you back living on the surface only,” you plead. “We can’t even feed ourselves! The island is full of monsters!”

There’s a moment of still silence… then the voice returns.

"Very well. I will grant you access to the tunnels. But for a fee."

"You owe me money, and each time I see you, it pains me. So as compensation, each time you or one of your people passes through the Demon Mouth, I will add one gold piece to your debt."

It’s madness. The numbers no longer make sense—your debt is now an ever-growing abyss. And still, the voice continues, dry and weary like something that has seen too much.

"Do you agree to this contract?"

> Agree with the contract: You bow your head and accept. There's no other choice—not now. The tunnels will give you a chance, however slim.
> Add a clause: Once the debt is paid, you want the witch fully freed: You ask that when the gold is paid in full, the black-robed girl is no longer considered his property—no strings, no tricks.
> Add a clause: You may barter artifacts in lieu of gold: You demand the right to trade rare artifacts or magical items instead of coin, hoping the ruins will yield treasure you can use.
> Add a clause: You want safe passage from the creatures of the Deep: You ask for some form of protection while traveling below—maybe a token or symbol of his dominion to ward off worse things.
> Add a clause: You want him to disclose locations of hidden treasure: If you're to pay, you argue, he should help you find the means to do it. You want hints, visions, or riddles guiding you to treasure.
> Add a clause: You want the right to appeal the debt one day: You demand a future audience where the debt may be lessened or annulled, should you prove your worth or perform a great deed.
> Write in

I'm gonna roll dice to determine if the voice accepts you new clauses if you decide to add any, the more stuff you ask from it the worse the chance will be.

>>6248930
> Add a clause: You may barter artifacts in lieu of gold: You demand the right to trade rare artifacts or magical items instead of coin, hoping the ruins will yield treasure you can use.

Rolled 1 (1d3)

>>6248936

sounds reasonable so I'll give you a good chance

1-2 it accepts
3 it doesnt accept

>>6249296
>>6248936

You stare up at the vaulted ceiling of the ancient chamber, the echo of whispers lingering like a second breath. “If gold is what you want, let us offer relics in its place,” you say, voice steady despite the pressure in your head. “Magical items, rare artifacts—what sleeps in the ruins of this island might serve you better than coin.”

A long silence follows, broken only by the faint hum of unseen forces moving beyond the walls.

"Very well," the voice replies at last, low and resonant. "Artifacts in lieu of gold will be accepted—at fair appraisal, of course. You may descend."

The pressure fades, slightly. The chamber grows cold. You retreat with your people, and when you emerge from the ancient vault, it feels like you've passed a gate with no return.


The next day, your people begin cautiously using the Demon Mouth to descend into the deep caves. At first the darkness is suffocating, but eventually the alien beauty of the place begins to unfold: crystal-lit tunnels, glimmering underground mosses, echoes of distant life.

It’s not long before Argus finds you again. Or perhaps he was waiting.

He leans lazily against a crystal outcrop, arms crossed, blue eyes glowing faintly.

"Oh, you again," he says, bemused. "And you brought friends this time. What are you looking for?"

"Food," you reply flatly.

Argus laughs—a hoarse, dry sound, tinged with disbelief.

"You surface folks come to the Deeps looking for food? You must be desperate." He shakes his head. "Well, you’re not entirely out of luck. Find an unclaimed beetle hole, and you’ll get all the food you can eat. They come from the dark beyond—giant burrowing things, full of meat. They’re a plague, really. Eat anything, breed fast. But edible."

He smirks. "Of course, claiming a beetle hole isn’t without risk..."

> Go look for a beetle hole: Take a small party and track down one of these underground nests. You’ll need to clear it out, but if Argus is right, it could feed your people for weeks.
> Search the Deep for anything edible: Send scouts to explore nearby tunnels and chambers for mushrooms, moss, edible insects—whatever might be safe to consume.
> Ask Argus for more help—offer a trade: He knows these caves. Offer him something in return for guiding you to a stable food source or safe hunting grounds.
> Try to domesticate cave scavengers: Instead of just eating what's out there, try capturing small critters and raising them near the Demon Mouth entrance.
> Return to the surface and send deeper expeditions: This place is dangerous. Set up a safe route and send only trained scouts to harvest what they can.
> Abandon the caves and look for another food source: This place is cursed and full of risk. You’ll find food elsewhere—perhaps on the coast, or the forest again.
> Write in

>>6249308
>> Go look for a beetle hole: Take a small party and track down one of these underground nests. You’ll need to clear it out, but if Argus is right, it could feed your people for weeks.

>>6249311

You choose to go look for a beetle hole.
Taking a small party of your most nimble scouts and hardy warriors, you delve deeper into the twisting caverns. The air grows damper, the stone slick with condensation and the occasional slime trail. Hours pass—then finally, a stench. Not rot, but something like wet leather and musk.

You find a beetle hole. A gaping fissure in the stone floor, chitinous shells scattered around the edge, the unmistakable clicking and scraping sounds echoing from within. But you're not the only ones here.

A small tribe of underground frogmen—slippery-skinned, squat, and clearly feral—have laid claim to the place. They squat around shallow pits of warm, glowing fungus, brandishing sharpened bones and broken tools. Their wide eyes follow your every move with a mix of fear and readiness to strike.

The beetle hole is here. The food is real. But so are its current tenants.

> Negotiate Peacefully: Try to communicate with the frogmen and offer them something in exchange for shared access to the beetle hole—tools, light, medicine, or protection.
> Scare Them Off: Light torches, bang weapons, and make a show of force to intimidate the frogmen into fleeing without bloodshed.
> Fight Them for It: Launch a surprise attack and try to kill or drive them off. The food is too important to leave in the hands of savages.
> Spy and Wait: Retreat for now and observe them from a distance. Wait for them to leave the nest or show weakness.
> Find Another Hole: Leave them alone and keep searching for another beetle hole in a less occupied part of the Deep.
> Offer to Work Together: Propose an alliance—your people will protect the hole and kill dangerous beetles, and both groups will share the food.
> Write in

>>6249782
>> Offer to Work Together: Propose an alliance—your people will protect the hole and kill dangerous beetles, and both groups will share the food.

>>6249788

You offer to work together with the frogmen, hoping for peace.
Hands raised, voice calm, you propose an alliance—your people will protect the beetle hole and fight off dangerous predators, and both groups can share in the food bounty. It seems fair. It seems reasonable.

But the frogmen are not.
They croak loudly, threateningly, brandishing sharp stones and crude spears. Their wide eyes are filled with fear. They shift nervously, not understanding your words, only the presence of strangers near their precious food.

Their agitation draws something terrible.

The ground trembles. A groan ripples up from below. Then a massive beetle bursts from the tunnel mouth—its black carapace glistening with bioluminescent moss, each leg ending in a spike, its mandibles clicking as thick green saliva drips from its maw.

It charges, not toward the frogmen, but toward you.

Vael vibrates in your hand, voice sharp in your mind:

"This one is no ordinary scavenger. Be cautious. It feeds on magic. Kill it swiftly—or not at all."

The frogmen scatter in all directions, disappearing into shadows, but not fleeing entirely. They watch from the dark, uncertain.


What do you do?

> Fight the Beast: Rally your warriors and take the creature head-on. It’s huge, but if you bring it down, the hole is yours—and so is the food.
> Flee the Scene: This fight isn’t worth the risk. Retreat while you still can and live to seek food elsewhere.
> Use Fire: Light torches, fling oil, burn the moss off its back and try to drive it away. Maybe the frogs will take that as a show of strength.
> Use Vael’s Power: Draw deep on Vael’s strength, despite the risk of collapse. Destroy the beast with overwhelming force.
> Climb Above and Drop Rocks: Try to get above it using the cavern walls and drop heavy stones. Crude, but might work.
> Lure It Toward the Frogmen: Trick it into attacking the frogmen instead. In the chaos, you might survive—or even claim the hole.
> Write in

Rolled 37, 37 = 74 (2d100)

If you choose to fight, roll 2d100.

Rolled 4, 48 = 52 (2d100)

>>6250262
> Fight the Beast: Rally your warriors and take the creature head-on. It’s huge, but if you bring it down, the hole is yours—and so is the food.

sorry I'm awfully busy this weekend, we'll have to keep going at a slow pace for awhile, can't run a session.

>>6250267


You choose to stand and fight.

With a cry, you rally your warriors, forming a loose circle around the enormous beetle. Spears are thrust, blades swing, and Vael burns with purpose in your hand. The creature’s carapace deflects many of your blows, but you find weak points in its legs and underbelly.

It screeches, swiping with jagged limbs, and several of your people fall back wounded. But the tide turns slowly.

Finally, bleeding thick green ichor and shuddering from its wounds, the moss-covered beetle retreats, skittering back into the darkness of its hole with a thunderous hiss, leaving a trail of slick fluids behind.

Silence follows.

From the edge of the cavern, the frogmen creep out, eyes wide and glowing faintly. They croak softly among themselves—nervous, uncertain, but clearly impressed. One steps forward and taps his chest, then gestures to the hole. Others repeat the motion. A few begin descending into the beetle tunnel, turning back and motioning for you to follow.

What will you do?

> Follow Them: Go into the beetle tunnels with the frogmen and see where they lead. This could be the start of a strange but vital alliance.
> Send a Scout First: Choose one of your stealthiest to follow them and report back before committing the whole group.
> Wait and Watch: Don’t move yet. Let the frogmen go and see what they do—perhaps they’ll emerge with food or knowledge.
> Offer a Gift: Try to cement the newfound goodwill by giving them something small—beads, cloth, food—and see how they react.
> Retreat to Camp: You’ve seen enough for today. Pull back and return better prepared for negotiations—or war.
> Demand Their Help: Show your wounds, point to the hole, and demand a share of the food as rightful spoils of the battle.
> Write in

>>6251139
>>6251138
> Follow Them: Go into the beetle tunnels with the frogmen and see where they lead. This could be the start of a strange but vital alliance.

All good OP slow and steady.

>>6251166


You steel yourself and follow the frogmen into the twisting beetle tunnels. The air grows damp and heavy, echoing with distant clicks and skitters. Soon you come upon the huge moss-covered beetle, nestled in a shadowy hollow, tending to its wounds. It snarls, clearly surprised and trapped — cornered, but still dangerous.


What will you do?

> Retreat: Pull back quietly before the creature recovers and fights with full strength.
> Strike Quickly: Launch a surprise attack to finish the beast while it’s vulnerable.
> Use Fire: Light torches or throw flammable materials to scare or injure the beetle and force it out.
> Block Its Escape: Position your warriors to seal off all tunnels and prevent the beetle’s escape before attacking.
> Distract and Capture: Use bait or noise to lure the beetle into a trap rather than killing it outright.
> Negotiate with Frogmen: Ask the frogmen if they know a way to pacify or control the beetle instead of fighting it.
> Write in

>>6251732
>> Use Fire: Light torches or throw flammable materials to scare or injure the beetle and force it out.

Rolled 23, 20 = 43 (2d100)

>>6251741
You set your plan in motion—torches flaring, dry moss and pitch thrown near the wounded creature. The flames burst to life, and the beetle reacts with primal panic. With a shrill, chittering shriek, it thrashes and crashes through the tunnels, fleeing toward the surface in a frenzy.

You prepare to pursue it—but then, without warning, several of your men drop to the stone floor, clutching their necks or chests. You scream, “What’s going on?!”

One of your warriors kneels beside the fallen and growls grimly, “Poison darts.”

And then you understand. You’re no longer alone down here. You’ve stumbled into the shadows of the deep.

Dark Elves.

You see glimmers of movement in the tunnels—slender silhouettes, eyes gleaming, bows drawn. The air is thick with danger.


What do you do?

> Carry Your Men Out: Prioritize your wounded—retreat while you can, dragging the fallen back toward the surface before more darts strike.
> Attack the Beetle: Ignore the elves—if you kill the beast now, you secure the food source, even if you risk facing enemies on two fronts.
> Attack the Dark Elves: Charge the hidden archers—show strength and force them to scatter or die.
> Try to Parley with the Dark Elves: Raise your voice and call for peace. Maybe they’re just guarding territory. Maybe they’ll listen.
> Use the Frogmen as Intermediaries: Motion to the frogmen — see if they know these elves or can broker a truce.
> Feign Surrender: Throw down your weapons and see what the dark elves want. It’s risky—but might avoid slaughter.
> Write in

If you choose to fight, roll 2d100.

Rolled 49, 64 = 113 (2d100)

>>6251743
> Attack the Dark Elves: Charge the hidden archers—show strength and force them to scatter or die.

>>6251745


You rally your warriors and charge the hidden archers. The dark elves weren’t expecting such direct aggression—your ferocity catches them off guard. Two fall under your blades, and one is left writhing on the stone floor, gasping in agony. The others scatter into the shadows of the tunnels, vanishing as quickly as they appeared.

Your people look to you, waiting for your command. The wounded elf groans—his pale skin slick with blood, his bow broken beside him.

You glance around the dim cavern—the air still heavy with the tension of battle. The wounded dark elf lies groaning at your feet, and your warriors are bloodied but alert. One of your scouts returns from the passage behind, whispering urgently:

The frogmen… they’ve gone back up. The big beetle too. They didn’t stay down here.


What will you do?

> Give Chase: Don’t let the fleeing dark elves regroup. Hunt them through the tunnels and finish the job.
> Haul Your Men to the Upper Tunnels: You've taken losses and proven your strength—fall back before more trouble finds you.
> Haul Your Men and the Wounded Archer to the Upper Tunnels: Bring the survivor with you for questioning. He may know something valuable.
> Go Hunt the Beetle: Let the dark elves flee—your people need food. Find the beetle and secure the hole.
> Interrogate the Archer Here: Question the wounded elf on the spot. He may still have breath enough to talk.
> Retreat to the Settlement: You’ve learned what you can today. Don’t risk your people further in unknown territory.
> Write in

>>6251753
>> Haul Your Men and the Wounded Archer to the Upper Tunnels: Bring the survivor with you for questioning. He may know something valuable.