Chronicles of Esteparon

Entry the Second--In Which Zahra Questions Her Path

Premier, _istuda avaye! _More than ever, I ask myself why I have been brought to this place! So far what I have seen of this world has been like Shadow, only without the dark beauty and the soft edges. We travel through measure after measure of tunnels, which is quite comfortable for me. The darkness and the coolness is similar to our home, as is the lack of food to eat. However, I must admit, Premier, that I began to become concerned about Friend Rend. It is not good for those noble creatures to go without fresh meat, as you know well, my Premier, and he was getting quite hungry. Those of the noble Troll race do tend to become…slightly testy when not well fed. Lucky for us that fresh meat was coming.

How can I describe to you, my Premiere, the shame that I feel, the utter conviction that I have had nothing of value to add to these people with whom I travel? I have tried to add to their safety and see them to their destination in peace and prosperity, and I have failed at every turn—all here are barbarians, only wishing to destroy. How does an Emissary thrive in a place such as this? Many times did I try to avert danger through negotiation, or anticipate the traps that my companions faced, and all the time a failure I was! What they must think of me! How low I have fallen in the estimation of myself and those around me.

It is in moments like these, in my darkest of times, that I wonder if you protected me. Was I really an Emissary of such skill that I rose through the rank and file to the position of Triare, or was it because you were determined to be my guide and my friend? What place is there for an Emissary in a world such as this, where the only currency seems to be blood and death, where all of the creatures here seem determined to destroy, never to create?

I know what you would tell me—you would say to then negotiate the destruction, to find an angle to get an advantage. I am trying, Premier, I assure you. Even now I am trying to save one of this fine group of people from a danger that threatens to destroy him.

Never worry, however, my Premiere, I still remember our Credo—Ecuvarre Esso Ile Nomentico!

Still, it seems that I shall have to hone my ability to blood my sword in combat in this place. The creatures here, they do not have the brains to fill the thimble, Premier, and therefore the only language they speak is the language of violence. I shall have to become better versed in it, I fear, if I am to survive.__

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Journals of Rend ( Partial- end of session V )

sense of danger must have come across Usil for he was screaming, it awakened me. I immediately jumped up and ran outside the room to see what was going on. To the right i saw two creatures heading towards Usil. To the left i recognized this creature. It was the creature i chased through the forest many days ago. My mouth began salivating. I challenged the creature and rushed it with ferocity This time it did not flee, its first mistake. When i reached the creature it seemed unprepared for i sundered its staff into pieces woth my left hand, and with my right i smacked it across the head knocking it to the ground. Luckily for it Zahra had asked me not to kill it. Catalina came quickly to assist by grabbing its wrists and putting its hands behind its back. Zahra approached with mandacles and we bound the creature. Torture was in my mind Its bowels were seconds from my grasp, my mouth watering i had not eatwn for two days. Catalina removed its hood to reveal a strange reptilian creature. The party questioned her ignoring my wish to pull her intestines out inch by inch to find out what it really knows.It simply stated it was here for Usil and would tell us no more. More could have been done but the party doesn’t have a taste for blood like I do. They threw the creature down into the crevice to its death.

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Entry the First--Zahra Finds an Opportunity

“Never in all of my cycles did I imagine that I would find myself where I am now—trapped on a material plane, trudging through a mine shaft with a group of strangers, unable to complete my assignment, cut off from Shadow, and possibly from the League itself!

“And worst of all, my treasured Premier, to lose you. I know you are gone. Did I not watch you butchered, stabbed to death like an animal led to slaughter? Did I not hear your scream? I will never forgive myself for following your orders, Premier. I know, I know, it is the rule—the Triare travels separately in case of a trap. And so it was that I obeyed your order, the last you would ever give to me. You put your hand on my shoulder and said, "Keep to the shadows, my friend. Do not emerge from them unless I give the signal.

“And that is what I did. Even when I heard you scream, I knew what my duty to the League was, and I kept to the shadows. These Drow, what skill they have! Truly, their mastery of the shadow arts, it is the equal of their treachery. Never did I see the ones who were waiting for me. By the time I did, it was too late, too late for us all.

“Premier, you always told me that the life of an Emissary is a lonely one, that there are no friends, no enemies, no family, only opportunities and risks, and that one may easily become the other. It is true that my family has long been dead—Mardone! It has been almost ten years ago that I was left for dead, crushed under a Beliustre stone, watching helplessly while my father’s life blood watered the ground before me. To lose you in the same way—it can scarcely be borne, my Premier.

“You were my friend, my family, my opportunity, and my risk, all taken from me in a cruel twist of fate. When I awoke I thought to die with you, but then I thought to myself, no, Zahra Yzahn, you must go on. You are the only Emissary here, Triare though you be, and there is work for an Emissary here, much work to do! How could I squander your training by not using it to become worthy of your memory, my Premier?

“And so I picked myself up and kept going, knowing that it was my purpose. And what adventures I have already experienced, Premier! I have been rescued by a group of creatures, such bloods they are! I was attacked by a great and hairy spider, and so dizzy was I from the mighty blow that struck me unconscious, I could not save myself. But a cutter with a glowing sword, a creature of the Elven blood, he saved me! And they have welcomed me, a stranger, among them. Most of these creatures who travel together, they are the outcasts, of the mixed blood, or the dubious heritage. And yet, Premier, you and I, we have seen this before, have we not? A band of comrades, bound together by a purpose, and then by companionship, changing the world with their deeds. They are destined for great things, my Premier, I sense it in my bones.

“And so it is that I, Triare Zahra Yzhan, of the Emissary League, will help them achieve this greatness! I will do what an Emissary does best—I will gather information, I will form alliances, I will parley with their enemies, and I will neutralize those who stand in their way.

“Opportunities and risks, my Premier. It is what they shall bring me, and it is all that is left to me.

“That and keeping to the shadows, of course. Only they can shelter me now.”

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Avendale! Part III

As for me, I sprang up to the top of the wagon, took a leap to the back and leveled my crossbow at the orcs. If more of the others had stayed, I probably would’ve pulled out my violin and sang us to arms the way I was taught, but with so few I figured I better try to live up to the lies I’d been feeding the alchemist about my cross-bow-man skills. I really just wanted the high ground so I could take a look around. I took a second to make sure the rest of the orc band were legitimately fleeing, and not circling around to flank us, and to try and see what was chasing the orcs. I could see movement in the thick forest off the side of the road. Something big heading this way. Hopefully something friendlier. I fired but I suppose the tension on the bow was too tight because the bowstring snapped the quarrel in half. Teach me to ride with the bow drawn. Going to have to find some time to practice with that damn thing.

The orcs closed, double speed, but we got another volley off before they crashed into the half-troll. The half-elf buried another arrow into his orc, which still wasn’t slowing, and both the inquisitor and I winged two more. The half-troll lowered his shoulder and accepted the charge stoically, then lashed into them. Three of the orcs met him head on, the one the half-elf was peppering lunged for him and the last one circled around heading for the wagon and me.

The kobold took off backwards out of sight. I stomped on the top of the wagon and yelled at the alchemist to get moving to get some distance between us and them, then fired a bolt at the orc, winging him. Then, suddenly, there was a crack and something smashed into the orc’s shoulder, knocking him off stride. The shoulder-plate of the orcs make-shift armor sprang free and wobbled off into the trees. Both the orc and I took a glance where the shot had come from and found the kobold winding up his sling for another shot. That was a hell of of rock he had there. This was no normal kobold.

The kobold disappeared around the other side of the wagon, and the orc, apparently unwilling to believe a kobold just hurt him, ignored him and stepped forward to take a whack at me. Luckily I had the high ground and could avoid him easily, dancing over his axe as he tried to sweep me off the wagon’s roof. The half-troll noticed the wagon was being attacked and came running over, getting cut from behind. He charged into the orc attacking me, sending him stumbling away. Rend was hurt. I could tell. But he was still going strong, ignoring the wounds. Trolls heal quick, I was hoping half-trolls healed quick too.

Elsewhere, the Inquisitor had stepped back into the cover of the woods and was taking shots where he could find them. Beomar dropped his bow and drew that beautiful curved blade of his and, snicker-snack, just like that, he dropped his orc. That sword of his was like liquid sunlight. No, it was like the sliver of light you get when one of the sky-plates slides in front of the sun just before it goes dark. He stepped forward over the body to meet the rest. The orcs split, two of them flanking the half-elf and the other one coming over to attack the half-troll from behind. The kobold reappeared and sent another rock cracking through the air, whizzing over the half-troll’s head, missing his target. I’m afraid my efforts weren’t any better. Both the Inquisitor and I sent our bolts into the ground.

But the half-troll. Well, I think he’d had enough getting hacked at from behind. He swept the legs out from under one of the orcs and slammed down on top of it, burying his blade deep it its chest, practically eviscerating it. The other orc raised its axe up to try and finish the troll off, but the kobold’s third sling bullet caught it in the back of the head with a messy explosion. The orc fell forward on the half-troll who shrugged it off, turning to see what else he could kill.

On the other side of the combat, the half-elf and the inquisitor finished off one of the other two orcs leaving only one left. I figured if I was going to get any answers, it was going to have to be now. I took a glance up and saw that whatever was chasing them was getting closer.

I leapt down from the wagon and crossed the space to the last orc, casting a spell as I went. How was I going to play this? Creatures like this aren’t subtle. They don’t react well to niceties. They only know one thing, only respect one thing. Strength.

“Hey!” I called out, changing my accent, going for something a little down-town. Vulgar cant, the language of mercenaries and scum everywhere. Common peppered with goblin and lots of slang. “What’s your beef!” This guy wasn’t even touched yet, but he had to realize, even in his tiny orc brain, that things weren’t going his way. He turned, looking like he was trying to find a way out. I came up to him and pushed him, then stepped right in, getting in his face. Well. His chest. “What’s wrong with you!? We paid the protection! We’re paid up this month! What the hells are you thinking?”

I could see my charm spell take root in his foggy brain. He’d see me as something other than an enemy now, as long as I could keep him from thinking too hard about it. I just had to tell him who was boss.

“Huh? What money? You not give me money.”

“Of course not, numbnuts. I don’t pay you! I pay the boss!”

“Morgo not give me money either?”

“Of course not! He’s the boss! When boss ever give you money!?”

He seemed to consider that and shrugged. “Yeah. He boss.”

“Now what are you thinking, attacking us! What are you running away from?”

Realization dawned in the orc’s dull eyes. He turned to look back up the trail. “From soldier men.”

The trees parted and a band of armed soldiers on horses burst forth. Cops. Great. Exactly the last kind of attention I needed. Well I suppose it was better than a rival orc tribe. Or at least less likely to mean more fighting for us. Thoughts swirled in my mind. Chances are this was just a random raiding party, just killing and marauding through the local farms. But still. I had time for one more question, and there’s always the possibility of this being something else. They could’ve stolen something specific. They could be working for someone else…

“What? Why? Why are soldier men chasing you? What did you take?”

The orc turned back at me, his mind fogged over from my charm. He blinked, his brow furled. “Take? Take their gold. Take their lives!”

I sighed and stepped back, turning around and walking back toward the wagon. So typical. I shook my head sadly. Behind me, Beomar, who had been watching my interrogation half amused and half bewildered stepped up and sliced the orc across the chest. The charm broke, but before the Orc could so much as raise his weapon, the soldiers were upon him. And then it was all over

I chose to step back and disappear to the wagon, pulling the brim of my hat down and trying not to draw any attention to myself. I noticed the kobold doing the same. He scurried over to the orc he’d killed and began rummaging through his body. The Inquisitor was checking the bodies of two of the others. Probably delivering last rites. I could’ve told him that hell doesn’t stand on formalities. The half-troll was busy beheading the last two corpses and stringing them up from a nearby tree. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what he was doing, but he was humming happily while doing it. That left Beomar to talk to the soldiers. I listened in from the distance. They wanted to know where the others went and the half-elf vaguely waved his blade in that direction. The leader, who was wearing the signet of the captain of the guard, sent his men off then questioned the half-elf with the dull perfunctoriness of lawmen everywhere. Then he told us to haul the bodies into town. Perhaps there might be a reward or a bounty? Rend didn’t look too enthused about losing his trophies, but we piled the bodies into the alchemist’s wagon and headed town-ward, with two of the soldiers accompanying us. Perhaps I can get some answers from them, find out what the climate in town is like before we get there.

Despite it all, I felt a cold weight in my gut. Avendale. Would I find salvation here? Everything was dependant on unpredictable variables. Any first-year student can tell you that the more variables you leave unaccounted for, the harder the spell is to control. That’s good advice for the non magical world as well. Well, I had thrown my dice when I turned toward Avendale instead of crossing the sea. Time to see if it would be box-cars or snake-eyes.

Catalina

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Avendale! Part II

Baelmar. That’s a great name. Baelmar. It makes your chest thrum like a bass chord. Baelmar. He sounds like my crossbow firing. Baelmar. I can’t stop saying it. They guy’s probably ready to kill me because whenever I talk to him I say his name. “Nice day isn’t it, Baelmar?” “Baelmar, look at that bird?” “Baelmar, look at that troll tuck into that deer carcass!” I can’t stop myself. Doesn’t sound elven, does it? It sounds older. It sounds of wooden-ships on the tempest-tossed and frigid sea. A hero’s name. His mom probably cribbed it from some sordid romantic epic. Baelmar the just. Baelmar the cany. Baelmar the glistens-when-sweaty, the ripped-of-abs. Yeah, that a bodice-ripper name. Baelmar.

He kind of looks like he’s aiming for a hero too. A half-elf, dressed in some well-maintained hand-me-down armor, human chain but in an elven design, and wielding this pretty-pretty sword like nothing I’ve ever seen. Its long as a long sword, but curved and slender, like a fishbone. Looks like it should break the first time you swing it but you can tell Baelmar knows how to use it. Baelmar’s quiet most days, but he’ll talk to you if you talk to him. I noticed him sitting by the fire at night and when he isn’t polishing his steel or oiling his bow (listen to me, I sound like a bodice ripper now) he’s reading through scrolls and books he keeps tucked in the bottom of his backpack. I got a glimpse at them once and that was enough to know what they are. All those years of the house tutors drilling it into you, you recognize magical texts when you see them. Pages of spell-theory and energy dynamics ratio diagrams and gravitational refluxes in the ringal inertia and blah blah blah. So Beomar must be training to be a wizard as well as a warrior then. That’s an interesting idea. Not sure dear old dad would agree with it on principle.

I’m seriously thinking about naming my crossbow “Baelmar” now.

Now let’s see who else, who else. Oh yeah. Him. The Inquisitor. Don’t know his name. He’s just “The Inquisitor” to pretty much everyone. He stands out really. With his dusky skin like packed earth, his fingers and hands cracked like clay, and those heavy robes over his armor. Not a typical priest robes though. Cut for movement and for action. He’s not quite human, I don’t think. A traveller, from far away, some southern land of exotic spices and empty desert plains. He didn’t recognize me but I recognized him. He showed up months ago in the Derncape court demanding an audience with Zylstra. Just one of the countless throngs that do, but he stood out and not just because of his foreign airs. You could tell he didn’t want to be there. That the wizards disgusted him. He was like that other story —the young soldier come into the lion’s den. Whatever he was looking for, whatever brought him to the court of the foremost diviner of this generation, had to be something important for him to be there in the very den of his enemy asking for help to find it. A soldier of God come to the devil as a beggar. Anyone who comes for Zilstra’s help ends up being put off for days, sometimes weeks. The actual time depends on how important your friends are or how much money you’re willing to slide in the right palms. Its all part of the ritual. This guy had neither friends or money. Most give up and go home. Only the truly committed stay. He stayed for weeks, showing up outside the audience court every day and staying until the doors closed. Yeah. He was easy to remember. Then one day he was gone. Never did find out if he found what he was looking for. I doubt it. Zilstra probably just jerked his chain as long as he dared, then sent him packing with a vague prophecy if he gave him anything. Imagine my surprise, and my panic, when I stumbled upon him in this caravan. Of course he didn’t remember me. I was just one more face in the crowded throngs of the Ducal court and the Hazard’s home as far as he was concerned. One of hundreds. Still, its better to keep a distance between him and me. Those religious zealots can be set off by the smallest things. And they are harder to reason with than an orc. Still, he seems to keep to himself, lost in his quest. I’ve heard him get into one passionate conversation with one of the others in the caravan. His voice, when he’s not using that sinister whisper that inquisitors are known for, is musical. A deep baritone boom, like the sound of echoes in canyons. Deep hearty rolls on the bottom of vowels. I bet he knows some great foreign songs. Wonder how I can get him to sing.

The actual trip went like clockwork. The caravan was nicely sized, the road was being well patrolled. Every now and then one of the woodsmen would point out a trail of activity going in or off the road, but the only traffic we passed were locals. The hearty men of Avendale who find a way to live in the woods. Lumberers and hidesmen. I’m sure we passed a couple ambushes who left us alone. In fact we had nothing happen until today. Midday we pulled up on a hill and the alchemist let us know we were only a few hours away. We’d get there before dusk. There was a general sigh of relief from the weary throngs. That’s when things went wrong.

The woods behind us rustled and we turned as a massive band of Orcs emerged, running at full clip. I certainly wasn’t expecting that many, this close to the walls of Avendale. The orcs were as startled as we were. The big one in charge pointed at us, ordered an attack and then took off in another direction with the bulk of his men following him. Obviously the brains of the outfit. He only left five behind, or I should say, five followed his order and stayed. We vastly outnumbered them, but that didn’t do us any good when everyone just started screaming and running. Wagons pushed by us, the reins fell out of the alchemist’s hands and we suddenly found ourselves at the back of the group. Even I know you don’t abandon the caravan. That’s basic gypsy policy. I think. Luckily a handful remained or we would’ve been in real trouble.

The giant hunk of meat, Rend, lumbered forward taking up a position between us and the orcs. The Inquisitor stepped out to the side and yelled out an invocation. “Hear me, my brothers in this moment, let the good power of the earth flow through your fists and let us throw down justice upon these vile monsters, as sure as an avalanche throws down the mountainside!!” He stretched out the “side” in mountainside into like four syllables. “Saiii-eee—-iiiiddd-eee.” Old time preachery. I don’t much brook for proselytizing but in that baritone of his, rumbling up from deep, even I could feel a surge of power rising up inside me. The half-elf took a step to the side, knocked his bow and let fly an arrow that found first blood in one of the orcs. It didn’t really slow him down. The kobold skittered backwards fumbling rocks out of his pouch mumbling something….

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Avendale!

From the personal journal of Catalina -

“The woods of Avendale are dark and deep, the roads long, the hills steep; an in those woods, in the dark, ancient evils sleep.”

That’s a line from a song-poem that I only partially remember. I can’t remember if the last word is sleep, seep or creep. Maybe its all three depending on whose singing it. When I was younger, my mother’s people would laugh at that poem, then nod and wink. The old gypsy men would agree, “but is okay” they would say, “because we are old too and older than the evils.” Some even laughed and whispered not to be afraid because we WERE the evil the song talked about. And that Evil is not always so easy to see.

Maybe that’s true, maybe I don’t have to be afraid, but I’m also not stupid. Trying to take the route from the coast to Avendale alone is suicide. The only way to travel safely is in numbers. I hitched my way to a crossroads way-station at the mouth of the Avendale highway and waited for a few days before enough travellers gathered to make safe passage. It was cheaper than paying a caravan fee or buying an escort. Cheap’s good. Travelling in anonymity is better.

One of the wagon-owners, a travelling alchemist, told me that it was seven days if the weather stayed nice. That’s some weary feet. I’d made my way so far by foot, by horse, by carriage, by boat. I’d gotten good and finding ways to make the passage easier. By day three I’d talked my way onto her wagon, riding ”cross-bow”. She’s nice and I’ve picked up a lot about alchemy from her. Seems like a lot looser that wizardry. Not that different than the gypsy potions and cure-alls the old women of the family made.

There was a half dozen wagons, an equal number of paid guards each working one of the wagons, and a couple dozen stragglers walking along side. No caravan master, no leader, everyone just kind of works out their place in the order. I’m always watching people, trying to find the ones with interesting stories to tell.

I’ll be honest, the reason I picked the alchemist was because of her troll. Well, I guess it’s a half-troll. Big ol’ slab of beef whatever he is. Not sure I want to know what THAT household was like growing up. I remember one of the gypsy men getting drunk one night, when I was seven or eight, and waking up with a dwarf. He swore off whiskey for the next fortnight. Not enough whiskey in the world to forget, he said, then something about hair not being anything like fur. I didn’t get it at the time, but I get it now. The alchemist’s wagon guard is this eight-foot tall troll monster, dressed in ragged scrapped hide and dented metal plate. They sell these cheesy penny dreadfuls at stands in Derncape with bad illustrations on the cover of half-naked barbarians, greased up and wearing skull cod pieces. He kind of looked like that only with more realistic coverage. Don’t know who, or what, pounded him out a breastplate, but it kind of looked like two breastplates fused together. I think I can still make out the blood of the previous owners in the seam. The troll’s name is Rend. I spent the first half the trip thinking it was “Wren” because of his accent— he tends to drop the hard “d”— which I thought was a pretty unusual name for a troll. “Hey BloodGutter, he have a whelp pup, what should we call him?” “Well my beloved Mangleface, it should be something fearsome and gutteral. Something to strike fear in the hearts of his enemies!” “I know, we can name him after fearsome beast?” “Ah! Like Tiger! Or Direpig! Or Diretigerpig!” “Yes, we will name him after the most feared and powerful of songbirds! The Wren!”

Rend makes a lot more sense. It’s a satisfyingly simple name. Like when a baker is named “Baker” or a shoemaker named “Cobbler”. Rend rends. He seems good at his job. Very attentive. Everyone gives him a wide berth. He’s got this giant chain, looks like it might’ve been an anchor chain on a frigate at one point, with jagged metal forged to the links, that he carries slung over his shoulder. At first I thought it was to tow the wagon out of mud, but I found out later its actually his weapon. Yikes. He likes his “trophies” too. A grisly assortment of bits and pieces and scalps hanging from his belts and stuffed into sacks. Despite all of that, I do have to say that he’s one of the more polite and friendly monsters I’ve ever met. He jumps to when the alchemist calls and he’s certainly the most dutious of any of the guards. He seems to like it when I play my violin and he certainly joins in when I try a roudier drinking song even if he doesn’t know the words. Voice like a rock tumbler though, poor guy. The first couple days the other wagon owners were very angry about the alchemist hiring him, but after he’d dragged the third wagon out of the mud after the heavy rain on day three, they stopped talking about it. Of course, they might’ve shut up because you can hear his stomach growling half a mile up the road. The couple of game-hunters walking with us can’t bring in enough grouse and rabbits to feed him. The only time he seemed full was when we found what the wolves had left of that week-old deer carcass. Note to self. Do not look like food.

He’s not the only monster either. There’s this scrubbly looking kobold underfoot. The first couple days I thought he belonged to the alchemist as well. He was always running around under the wagon, always close by. Kind of like one of the camp-dogs following the gypsy caravan around. At night, when we circle up a camp, you’d see him squatting on the edge of the firelight before making a nest in a thorn thicket or up a tree to sleep. Kobolds are nocturnal right? It must be hard on him walking all day when he’d rather be sleeping. I doubt anyone’s going to let him nest in a wagon though. When I started to ride with the alchemist I asked her about him and she had no idea. Hadn’t even noticed him. That’s when I realized that the kobold was doing his best to LOOK like he belonged. It was working too. A few people would throw a disgusted glance his way, but no one messed with him. So, in short, doing the exact same thing as me. Clever guy. I tried to talk to him a couple times, but he just scampers away. Not sure what he’s hoping to find in Avendale, my experience says that he won’t find much but people eager to kill him. But more power too him. He’s clever enough, he just might make it. The weirdest thing about him though… One night I managed to pass by a thorn bush while we was arranging his nest and I heard him muttering to himself. I couldn’t make out the words but it sounded like praying. You know, doing your nightly prayers, that kind of thing. Except he made it seem more like he was talking to someone who was talking back. Creepy.

Other than those two, there aren’t a lot of stand outs. Except maybe Baelmar…

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Welcome to your Adventure Log!
A blog for your campaign

Every campaign gets an Adventure Log, a blog for your adventures!

While the wiki is great for organizing your campaign world, it’s not the best way to chronicle your adventures. For that purpose, you need a blog!

The Adventure Log will allow you to chronologically order the happenings of your campaign. It serves as the record of what has passed. After each gaming session, come to the Adventure Log and write up what happened. In time, it will grow into a great story!

Best of all, each Adventure Log post is also a wiki page! You can link back and forth with your wiki, characters, and so forth as you wish.

One final tip: Before you jump in and try to write up the entire history for your campaign, take a deep breath. Rather than spending days writing and getting exhausted, I would suggest writing a quick “Story So Far” with only a summary. Then, get back to gaming! Grow your Adventure Log over time, rather than all at once.

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