That, my friends, is a great start to a game!

(I often write an intro like this to set the first scene before play starts. It's a lot better than saying, "You all meet in an inn." Again.)

In the shadowed corner of the Black Gull Inn…

The fire spits, casting long shadows across the rough planks of the table. Outside, a storm has arisen, rain lashes against shuttered windows, and the roar of the sea mixes with drunken laughter. The four companions lean close, voices hushed, as the first outlines of their plan begin to take shape.

Voldar of Valgard slams his tankard down, froth spilling. “Enough whispering like thieves. We go in, cut down the frog-men, and take this shard Zuuthusu keeps prattling about. Steel and strength — that’s how we win glory.”

Raul of Tyrus shakes his head slowly, eyes narrowing. “And drown in the swamp? No. That temple sits in Festrel’s marshes, and I’ve seen men vanish into the muck before their screams carried. Brute force will get us killed before we ever reach its gates. We’ll need care… and silence.”

Daliya of Malakut leans back, the hint of a smile on her lips. “At last, a man with sense. The temple is full of cultists and worse — mutants, if the whispers are true. You’d have us all march in the front door, barbarian? No, no. A thief’s path: shadows, poison, and quick hands. We slit the priests’ throats before they ever see us.”

Voldar growls, his scarred hands tightening around the hilt of his great sword. “Cowards’ talk. Steel rings true — knives in the dark are the tools of cowards.”

Daliya’s eyes flash, her voice cold as a dagger’s edge. “And what is slavery in the arena, but being butchered for the amusement of cowards?”

For a heartbeat, the air grows taut. Voldar’s hand twitches toward his weapon.

Zuuthusu of Zalut raises one long-fingered hand, his tone smooth, words laced with the faint resonance of arcane knowledge. “Children. You bicker over tools when the true danger is the relic itself. The Obsidian Lens Shard is no bauble — it warps the will, feeds on the mind. If we survive the swamp, survive the cult, the shard will test us more than any foe. I require it intact. Do you understand? Not stolen, not broken — intact.”

Raul snorts, his voice sharp. “And why should we trust you, sorcerer? You speak as though it already belongs to you. What if this ‘shard’ consumes you, and we are left with a monster greater than any frog-god?”

Zuuthusu leans forward, eyes glinting. “Then you had best hope your arrows fly true, hunter. But I will not be denied.”

A tense silence. The fire pops.

Daliya breaks it with a low chuckle. “Good. I like a little madness in my employers. Keeps things interesting.”

Raul exhales, steadying himself. “Very well. Here is how it must be done: I’ll guide us through the marsh — avoid the quicksand, the sinkholes. We move by night. Daliya scouts ahead, deals with traps and sentries. Voldar… you’ll hold the line if they find us. And sorcerer…” He fixes Zuuthusu with a hard stare. “You keep your tricks pointed at the enemy, or I put an arrow through your heart.”

Zuuthusu only smiles faintly. “A fair bargain.”

The four sit in silence, the storm rattling the shutters. A company forged not in trust, but in necessity. Each with their own path, their own hunger. And somewhere in the drowned marshes of Festrel, the frog-god waits.

Last edited by Otto Harkaman (8/21/2025 9:04 pm)

A friend of ours is using AI (I think ChatGPT) to put together some adventures.  He is working on a Hyborian age adventure for us to play in.  We are going to use the Shadowdark RPG rules for it.  

The premise is that we start on a boat, the boat crashes or sinks, and we end up on an island... we will see what come out of it.  Scheduled for our next monthly game session.

He has already made the portraits for our characters, they were pretty good too.  I am going to have to look into this ChatGPT thing, if it can do stuff with BoL, it might be fun.

The Festrel Marshes greeted them not with open arms, but with a breath of rot and whispering reeds. The gulf’s salt winds fell away behind them, replaced by a damp stillness, the air heavy as sodden cloth. What little sun filtered through the cloud-thick sky turned the waters bronze and green, so that even the reflections seemed corrupted.

Voldar of Valgard trudged first, his great sword sheathed but hand never far from its hilt. The barbarian’s boots sank deep into black mud, each step a growl of protest from the earth. He muttered curses under his breath, words guttural as the wolves of his homeland.
“Marshes,” he spat. “This is no place for men. The ground itself wishes to swallow us.”

Daliya moved behind him, light where he was heavy, slipping from tuft to tuft of dry ground with practiced precision. Her eyes darted constantly, sharp as the quarrel resting in her crossbow. She was city-born, but danger was danger, and in her world vigilance kept you breathing. She glanced at Zuuthusu, whose pale features seemed to blend with the marsh mist.
“Are we certain this is the way?” she asked. “I’ve seen back alleys with more promise than this place.”

Zuuthusu’s hollow eyes fixed on the horizon, where broken pillars jutted from the mire like teeth. His voice was quiet, yet carried an unease that silenced the swamp itself.
“The Sorcerer-Kings raised sanctums here, long before your guildmasters learned to pick a lock, Daliya. Their knowledge seeped into the water, the stone, the air itself. If secrets remain, they will be found here.”

Raul lingered at the rear, bow in hand, an arrow nocked though not yet drawn. His gaze never left the treeline where mangroves knotted into black silhouettes. A crow cried once and was gone.
“Secrets,” he said, his tone like frost. “I see no secrets. I see death. This place stinks of it. And if your kings left their shadows here, better we burn it than uncover it.”

Voldar grunted agreement, though his grip on his sword eased. “Aye. Give me an enemy of flesh, not water and whispers. At least I can cut that down.”

Zuuthusu did not turn. His voice lowered, almost reverent, as though speaking to something beyond them.
“You mistake ruin for silence. Listen closely, and you will hear them. The marsh remembers.”

The company halted then, for the waters ahead quivered though no wind stirred. Circles rippled outward as though something vast and unseen moved beneath. Frogs and insects fell into sudden quiet.

Daliya raised her crossbow. “I don’t like that.”

Raul’s arrow tightened against the string. “We’re not alone.”

From the reeds came shapes—thin and lurching, half-man, half-reed, their limbs coated in moss and dripping with stagnant water. Eyes glowed faintly, like lanterns snuffed too soon.

Voldar bared his teeth in a smile that was more snarl than mirth. “At last—something to strike!” He tore the great sword free, the blade singing as though eager for blood.

But Zuuthusu lifted a hand, palm outward, and the creatures froze, swaying as though tethered to invisible strings. The sorcerer’s whisper became command, syllables old as the drowned towers. The marsh hushed around him, waiting.

Raul hissed, lowering his bow only an inch. “Do not speak to them, sorcerer. They are wrong things.”

Zuuthusu’s hollow eyes reflected the marshlight. “They are fragments. Echoes of what was. If they remember, they will guide us deeper.”

Daliya’s finger tightened on the trigger. “And if they don’t?”

Zuuthusu smiled faintly, and the water seemed to darken at his feet.
“Then they will feed the marsh, as all things must.”

The creatures stirred, the ripples widening, and the Festrel Marshes swallowed the company further into its secrets.

Last edited by Otto Harkaman (8/23/2025 6:42 pm)