West Marches at the Board N Brew

Winter has come and gone... Its finally summer and its a scorcher out there! To bring your internal temperature down, here are some cool new thoughts and ideas for season 3 based on player feedback and my own experience. Reflections from Season 2 Winter is cool and all, but my "overarching plot" ideal didn't really pay off like I had hoped. My intention was to have a central goal for everyone to work towards, but it seemed that the smaller scale, personal arcs were more intriguing and engaging. This is just from my own observations because I myself found it more fun to prep little hints here and there that led towards players discovering aspects within their characters backstory that we crafted together, albeit in an indirect fashion. In addition, with our style of game, the "campaign" play-style is very difficult if not impossible to facilitate with drop-in rotating players and parties. I think just embracing the West Marches style and marrying that wit

Cazzo receives a delivery from a courier. There is little explanation, but there is this letter. Anton, Forgive my familiarity, sir. I only know your given name as relayed to me by your nephew, Milo. I am his friend and write to you because I know not what else I should do. After Milo left us, this package arrived for him. It is from Angelo Threesisters, a sagacious man from the east. He is an archivist, if you will, a lover of books and antiquity. This is why Milo sought his council, epistolarily, at no small cost. Milo suffered from terrible nightmares. He would bemoan black smoke worms, tendrils that he swore plucked thoughts from his head. He wailed the name Mordecai, the one whom he swore cursed him. He would despair inconsolably. There were also good days, but with declining frequency. Mr. Threesisters was paid to provide lore and insight from the annals of history, especially with regard to the an elevated point miles south of the ruined city of Rhest. Milo called th

Cazzo had finished with sending out letters. He got up from his desk and went to his wardrobe, flinging it open. Gingerly, he began to pull on the green leather duster from its hanger and brought it over to his desk and laid it flat. The leather had acquired some stiffness while it had hung for the past four years. Cazzo returned to the wardrobe and retrieved a bottle of oil. He poured some on the cloth wrapped around his right hand and returning to his old coat, began to massage it. Pain shot up his arm from the wound on his palm. Arthritis had set into the fingers in his right hand and wrist, and his nerves squealed as he forced his hand to press the oil into the hide. Each stroke was agony, but he pushed on. His vision began to blur and several tears fell onto the leather coat. They were not born of the pain in his hand but of a deeper older pain. " Barbagal left when it was still dark," Stroke , " dili din don dilidon poura mi." Stroke. "W ith his cap o

From the Chronicles of the Peacemakers. Events of the 12th of Rain's Hand, 836 P.S. The party - Aramir, Tordek, Haakon, Murmarsaryese, Echo, and Tulgey - hear of refugees arriving from the North-east. The people speak of ambushes and abductions en route, reports of fiendish creatures, devils. The party proceeds, discovers a crenelated tower in the Darkinwood. Roughly humanoid, winged figures fly around it, in and out of windows. Another flock of the creatures approach with an abductee, party hide in treeline while Haakon and Aramir stand in a clearing and try to lure them down. The fiends ignore them, drop off abductee at tower, return to the clearing with more numbers. Hidden party members are immediately spotted and set upon. Party dispatches the devils, their corpses begin to decay rapidly into noxious, sulphurous smoke. Tulgey is sickened for a time. They move away from the site. Approaching the tower, they find it attached to a small, thatch roofed building. Echo sens

There are several new figures in Tempered Vale. One is a petite, pale young woman in white and gold clerical vestments, marked with a symbol of a path winding into a sunrise. Her voluminous cloaks conceal a well-maintained crossbow and side quiver, and outdoor and in she wears a hooded winter cloak or monk-like habit. She doesn't say much, or look people in the eye, and in fact rarely raises her hooded head at all. Sometimes she seems to be praying, sometimes tending to the feather-winged orange cat in her lap, sometimes toying with an amber amulet. Sometimes it looks like she's pretending one of those things, so as not to look up. She spends most of her time in a small private room at the inn, but early risers may see her leave the inn shortly before sunrise each day. Thereafter she can't be found, until a little after sunrise, where she prays at the small, outdoor shrine of Lathander and leaves a gold coin as offering. Unless someone else is at the shrine, then she wait

“Wow, it's beautiful, Grognak. Thank you.” Tulgey took the new staff of carved and polished pale wood, clasped it together with his old, unworked staff of aged and mossy yew and inspected the pair carefully. “Yes, this should do it… Thanks, Grog! I’ll be back to show you later.” The half-orc scratched his head quizzically as the gnome scurried off towards the fields outside of town. Tulgey took the staves to the orchard where Haakon’s small wooden bear totem still stood. The ritual had helped, it seemed, and new shoots were starting to form on the old pear tree. Clearing a patch of snow with some flame conjuration, he planted the ends of each staff so they stood upright in the earth. From a pouch, he took a sprig of yew: flat, dark needles and red berries; and an oak twig: broad, lobed leaves and acorns. He braided the stems together, around and between the pair of staves, forming an intricate knot. He stepped back and looked over the display. Something was missing. “Stability