Not with a bang

Welcome to your campaign!
A blog for your campaign

Wondering how to get started? Here are a few tips:

1. Invite your players

Invite them with either their email address or their Obsidian Portal username.

2. Edit your home page

Make a few changes to the home page and give people an idea of what your campaign is about. That will let people know you’re serious and not just playing with the system.

3. Choose a theme

If you want to set a specific mood for your campaign, we have several backgrounds to choose from. Accentuate it by creating a top banner image.

4. Create some NPCs

Characters form the core of every campaign, so take a few minutes to list out the major NPCs in your campaign.

A quick tip: The “+” icon in the top right of every section is how to add a new item, whether it’s a new character or adventure log post, or anything else.

5. Write your first Adventure Log post

The adventure log is where you list the sessions and adventures your party has been on, but for now, we suggest doing a very light “story so far” post. Just give a brief overview of what the party has done up to this point. After each future session, create a new post detailing that night’s adventures.

One final tip: Don’t stress about making your Obsidian Portal campaign look perfect. Instead, just make it work for you and your group. If everyone is having fun, then you’re using Obsidian Portal exactly as it was designed, even if your adventure log isn’t always up to date or your characters don’t all have portrait pictures.

That’s it! The rest is up to your and your players.

The beginning of the end


Alone, in a small, wood-boarded room. It is a clear night, visible through a single window, starlight illuminating simple furnishings. Using a candle, Ragnarök lights a cone of sandalwood incense before closing the shutters, blowing out the candle, and settling down into meditation.

Darkness. The soft, ruddy glow of incense, burning slowly, gradually. Eyes closed. Darkness.

Sandalwood. Smoke inhaled through the nose in deep, steadying breaths.

Breathing. Immersion. Let it lead the way.

A spark of light. Time.

Then. Now … later.

Images swirl in long, indecipherable shapes, spinning together. They pull toward the center, coalescing into something.

Observe. Experience. That is the way. That is my path.

Standing barefoot in an open meadow at night, feeling cold dirt between his toes. The sky is dark. The sun has long since moved past the horizon. Yet, there is light. Too much light. The dirt, the grass, the stones, the trees … all glowing. Deep, dark green and blue and purple and gray, as if watched by an old moon, full after a month of waking.

Looking up. The moon is there, full and standing starkly against the clear night sky, pushing away the stars. Yet, it is different. It is wrong. It is shining, but it is not sharing. The stars, they are not pushed away, but pulled in. The trees, the stones, the grass, the dirt, they are giving of themselves. They are losing their light. They are dying.

Images swirl and coalesce …

Still night, in the middle of a street in a large city. Silhouettes of men and women walking toward each other, around each other, searching, some stiffly, some far too quick. They see through one another, seeking something else, someone else.

A scream behind. They turn toward it, toward me, though they do not see. Their eyes are deep and dark, yet bright and hungry. Like the moon.

Breathing. Sandalwood. Darkness.

Eyes opened, the ruddy, dying glow of incense at the end of its life. It is now again.

Awake, looking down at the floorboards glowing slightly in the night, by the light of a new, but aging, moon.

Phineas Fleming & The Crone: Part I

“Stop! Stop for once in your life! Stop talking,” he whispered through gritted teeth at the ugly old woman. She was standing behind him, long silver dagger raised, muttering about getting ‘involved again’ in one of his schemes. He turned briefly to look at her as she was facing away from him. Her back hunched forward slightly, left arm and hand spread to her side, her right arm raised, as if at any moment she may need to thrust the dagger downward with all the strength that her seemingly aged body would allow. He turned back around, facing the large dining room of the mansion. There were subtle creaks and rattles coming from two places now: both the kitchen area and from somewhere above them.

“What say you, Master?” the Crone said, “Now? Or do we wait?”

Was that a hint of sarcasm in her voice? Of course it was, he thought. He gave her a slight smirk, relieved that she was with him. Not that he would ever admit that to her.

He began to tell her his plan. “We… “ Thud. Something interrupted his response. Upstairs? THUDTHUD. Was that someone – or something – stomping loudly on the floor? THUDTHUDTHUDTHUD. This time, he noticed the heavy dust rapidly falling downward from directly above them, the thick particles glimmering through the darkness off the light that emanated from the rod held in his left hand. “MOVE!!!!” He yelled, and leaped as the wood of the ceiling above them burst apart with explosive force. Something dark and terrible quickly flew down through the hole. It pinned the Crone under the wood. The being – a wraith – let out an antagonizing scream as the Archeologist backed away, feeling his strength, energy, and will to live draining from him. The Crone appeared to have lost consciousness under the rubble.

Darkness enveloped the tortured, undead being as it turned its eyeless gaze toward him. No, it was not a wraith. It was too large, too strong. This one had been around awhile.

His thoughts turned to his arsenal as the Dread Wraith moved quickly toward him. The bastard sword, he thought to himself as the horrific specter reached for him. Its undead hand grasped at his chest, burning his skin like a searing flame. The Archeologist flung the sword from its scabbard in a wide arc toward the thing. The sword felt awkward in his hands. Nonetheless, the blade met phantom flesh, and the specter screamed again, its head lurching back in pain.

The Dread Wraith recoiled briefly for a moment. Then, almost smiling, it lunged again toward him. The wraith suddenly screamed again as four bright lights flashed in the middle of its incorporeal chest in fast succession– the flashing of the Crone’s imbued silver dagger as it darted quickly and smoothly through the Dread Wraith’s body. In an instant, it was all over. As the piercing scream faded and the specter’s would-be form vanished, the Crone came into view. She smiled at him.

Her lips curled as she started in on him, “You owe me. Again….”

“I don’t owe you a thing. I had that handled.”

“Handled? That’s not what you did. The word you’re looking for is bungled.”

“We’ll see. There’s still work to be done here, old woman.” That did it. He could see a quick flash of annoyance and irritation in her eyes.

“You’ve only just begun and you already owe me, Archeologist.”

We shall see, he thought, and smiled at her. We shall bloody well see.

Portents and Lore


New beginnings in old places
RECAP (02-04-2016)

Elion Vandiir, Miwazaki and a certain Frog named Thaddeus were enjoying a game of dice and drinks at the stiletto, remarking about the oddities happening in Korvosa when Ragnarök appears and asks the 3 to follow him, saying that the 3 of them were in grave danger and that he could give insight into the oddities, namely the rising dead and the mysterious object in the sky. After recounting his augury to the 3 they decide he knows what he’s talking about and follow him.

The newly formed party follow Ragnarök out of the city and run across an empty farm which seemed strange, frog noticed a sound coming from one of the houses and decided to investigate. Queue the bad dudes.

After the party utterly annihilates the baddies they checked out the farm house and saw some writings on the wall, which were written in blood. See GM post.

The group continues onward to find the spot Ragnarök’s vision occurred in, the find it notice the life force of everything near by is being drained by the object into sky. Calling on Desna for aid a Gail (sp) appears and confirms some suspicions the group has, namely things are really bad and can’t be fought by traditional means, they need to get out of dodge.

Next morning they head back into town to pick u supplies before heading south to find an abandoned town, as suggested should be done by the messenger of Desna. While in town Miwazaki sees an old haggard friend, the crone. The crone was swept off her feet by a much old appearing Ragnarök. Once back at her place they chat about her owner Phineas Fleming and other things related to the adventure.

Forgotten Fortress
A rising tide


Past, present, or future?

Asleep, or awake?

It’s getting hard to distinguish between them.

I try to open my eyes, only to find they are already open. I try to sleep, only to find I am already dreaming. Sometimes I can’t tell where reality ends and my visions begin. I’m beginning to question my own sanity. Yet, the visions are the only thing I truly trust.

They have shown me, timeless times, the truth when all else would lie. But the lines are blurring.

Present, future, past. Future, past, present. Past, present, future. Which occurs after the other? These ideas used to mean something. Now they are only arbitrary boundaries, created by those that cannot see beyond them, that cannot walk between them, as I do.

Breathing. Heart slowing, thoughts turning inward, toward the truth.

Visions swirl and coalesce …

It is nighttime, as it always is now. The moon still full overhead, and that thing still in the sky. They compete against each other. One giving light and the other stealing it away. I can feel them now, more than ever. Working together to pull everything toward them, caught in a rising tide.

In fact, that’s exactly what it is.

Standing on the beach, in ankle-high water. The water is too high, far beyond the rising of the tide. The moons are disturbing this world physically now, drawing away it’s light, it’s life, and drowning it in a rising tide of water and death.

In the distance, the rising sea crashes against rock, spray and mists filling the air. There, barely visible beyond the mists, stands the ghostly silhouette of a fortress, ancient and forgotten.

I walk toward it, curious at first. With each step, my movement slows. I grow afraid, but am compelled forward. Fate is taking me there, though my mind and body advise against it.

It is closer now, venerable towers climbing into the night sky, the walls wet and reflecting moonlight. I want to stop, to turn away, to run away, but I can’t. I am pulled closer. I can feel it now, the source of the pull. The fortress is dark and foreboding. I can hear screams of anger and torment coming from beyond its walls. But most of all, above the screams, piercing through the darkness, cutting through the mists, assaulting my mind … I feel a deep, dark, ancient hunger. No, not hunger … thirst.

Ponderings of an Oracle


I’ve been thinking about the flow of things. That is, if one thing happens, and then another, and another, ad infinitum, how does that work? What does it mean? The first event is caused by an event before it, and it, in turn, causes another event afterward. Thus, by necessity, according to the laws of causation and natural science, one must occur before the other. First, second, third, etc. These events occur sequentially.

This suggests that time, as a measurement of distance between events, is necessary for us to describe the order of events, not unlike distance measurements being used to described the distance between two objects. The trouble is, such descriptions are subjective.

Consider, for example, a series of three events: first, second, and third. From the perspective of someone observing the first event, it is occurring in the present, while the second and third events remain in the future. As future events, there is a question as to whether they exist at all. Yet, when the second event occurs, it is happening in the present. From this perspective, the first event is now in the past. Some now argue that the first event, having come and gone, no longer exists. Also, at this point in time, the third event has not yet occurred and so might not yet be considered “real.”

As you can see, references to the measurement or description of time is subject to the perspective of the observer. The real question though, is what is the implication then for the reality of that observer? Do future or past events exist for him? One might argue that the second event, in the example above, did in fact occur. As such, it now exists. And, if it exists now, it must have always existed in some form, for nothing can come from nothing. The same logic might also be extended to the past. However, if this is true, what then are the implications for our future? Is it predetermined, in some form, already? If so, what then is the nature, or even the point, of freewill, if our outcomes are already cast in front of us?

These thoughts quickly become lost in a cascade of ontological questions that have no simple answers, for they are intertwined upon each other, dependent upon each other. One cannot be answered until all of them are. Such is the nature of reality.

Or is it?

I have experienced future events before they occurred. I have relived my past. I have seen the present with knowledge of what came before and what will come next. I have seen these things, and yet have come to believe that I stand in the midst of a river of fate that I cannot control, though I fight it with all of my mind and soul. I struggle to make sense of it, and trying to make sense of it threatens to free me of my sanity.

All I can do, I fear, is observe.

Scary Place... bad juju!
RECAP (02-18-2016)

We left the city.
Not Dead things everywhere, not safe.
Desna’s servant said to go to castle, so we go to castle. Follow shore. Thick fog, then not. Bad place! Gatehouse with dead things… lots of dead things. Scary vision… bad juju. Sword’s Helper helps Sword smash gate… then smash another gate (better to watch from other side). Sleeping Man keeps mumbling. Open area has lots of little buildings, one big building and bad thing. Sword Helper smashes bad thing, more juju… scary. Wooden building kind of nice, Thaddeus makes it nicer.

Sleeping Man prays. Is good, he follows the road as well. The Liar and Loud One (also a liar) are mean to the Old One and ask Thaddeus to leave the nice building to “look around”. Thaddeus goes to the big building, but Liar, Loud One and Sword Helper join him. Hear noise from other side of open area. Most of them disappear. Thaddeus goes to corner where noise and Fast Not Dead things attack. Thaddeus helps Liar, Loud One and Sword Helper to make Fast Not Dead things dead. Then they take the dead Fast Not Dead things and burn them in building. Make Thaddeus’ nice building, not nice. Thaddeus finds nice spot and sleeps.

Morning comes, but not really light. Sleeping Man says we need to go into big building, find book room. More bad juju, Thaddeus heals, makes not afraid. Big room, lots of doors. Thaddeus search most of them. Doors slam shut. More bad juju, big metal things walk. Liar and Loud One are not helping. Thaddeus not helping. Sword and Helper do ok, then get poisoned, get eaten. Thaddeus helps Sword and Helper, get them out. Sleeping Man makes metal things turn to dust, then disappears. Thaddeus is tired. Desna said to be in scary place, she always asks Thaddeus to go to scary places. Sleeping Man, Liar, Loud One, Old One, Sword and Helper are good folk though.

Winds of Fate and Serpent Reborn


Vision shifts.

A wooden placard swinging outside a building, old and forgotten, but once full of light and life. An image on the placard is faded, but not gone. It appears to be returning, as if fading back into reality, as it once faded away.

The building sits in the center of all things, yet is not itself the center. Connected to all places and times, but being in only one.


Vision fades, replaced by darkness unfathomable.

A single, tiny mote of light, suspended in a vast darkness, drifting silently on the invisible winds of fate.

Our world is dying, but it is not disappearing. It will continue to exist as an embodiment of death. From this, there must be an opportunity for new life: a seed.


Notes from library

G1 M4 R3


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