Disclaimer: Any identifiable elements of Dungeons & Dragons are the property of their respective creators and trademark holders.
DM's Note: Hello, welcome to Whirlwind, the literary adaptation of the Dungeons & Dragons adventure I've been running.
I've kept a meticulous record of the sessions, so dialogue is, to the best of my ability, a word-for-word recreation of what was said in-game. Fight scenes are essentially a blow-by-blow of in-game combat, hopefully actually fun to read. Intended to be just a bare-bones recap of precisely what happened for the benefit of current and future players, the prose isn't going to be especially meaty, but I do still want it to be an interesting read, so I'll put the effort into evocative visual descriptions, if nothing else.
Our system of choice is 4th Edition, which, as I'm sure you know, is a system which emphasizes cinematic action sequences a bit too much for any other storytelling aspect to really shine, but we're gonna stick with it; I do appreciate the edition for its design intent, and while we're currently playing by-the-book I'll be changing whatever rules I need to change in order to make for a more fun experience. It'd probably be even more fun to just change to 5th Edition, but we all took the effort to learn 4th and it's the one edition that really can't be converted into another mid-stream. It'll be fine. The rules will just adapt and grow to suit the campaign's needs.
No one I've played with yet knew the first thing about D&D when we started, which has its good and bad sides. For one thing, I've been so familiar with it from a very young age that I often don't realize something is going over someone's head and needs to be explained. And when it's brought to my attention, I don't even know how to explain something I've taken as a given for most of my life. On the other hand, it's really awesome that they're not savvy about the setting, storytelling conventions, creatures—everything's a surprise to them, and that's delightful. Based on all the stories and comics, it would seem like DMing for people who've played before would be incredibly depressing, like all they do is crack jokes and cause chaos.
The campaign world is, well, nobody really knows yet. I can tell you that it's based mostly on the core 4th Edition setting and takes elements from every campaign setting that I'm aware of, and exists in neither conformity nor defiance to any aspect of the overall D&D multiverse. I'm giving every rule and concept my own loose, personal interpretation. So, no big picture yet, but lots of big ideas.
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WHIRLWIND
Chapter 1: Formation of a Whirlwind
Episode 1: People Who Wear Masks
"I think we all wear masks, my friend. Only in the dark are any of us who we truly are."
Asner Adgard, human soldier, 110 years after the fall
~0~0~0~
The skies were darkening over the rooftops of Sheradon, the stars beginning to appear, tiny shimmering orbs in many sizes and every imaginable color, while the silver-blue moon hung overhead, as large as a chariot wheel, halfway through the process of waxing.
From her vantage point, pacing back and forth on a rooftop above the rather pathetic community garden, Anwen could see her entire neighborhood, the small cluster of buildings tucked into the northeastern corner of Sheradon. Her permanent snarl etched into her face, she scanned the streets, this squalid niche of the city coated in years of dust, the homes ramshackle and crumbling.
Anwen was a frail-looking woman, eighteen years of age and little over five feet tall; her bluntly-pointed ears revealed her as a half-elf, while her face strongly favored her elven heritage, narrow and angled with oversized, slanted eyes of a dazzling emerald green.
She wore a tunic of boiled leather, studded with metal rivets, but it was more a fashion statement than a suit of armor, as it was alluringly low-cut and contoured to her slender elven figure. A large battle-axe was held loosely at her side, her bony arm lifting it with unsettling ease, while a sword in a curved scabbard rested at her left hip. Her face and hair were coated with the grease and dirt of more than a tenday.
After another brief scan of the plaza below, she turned on her heel, pacing the other way along the narrow rooftop, ever alert.
"Well, this is just sad."
Anwen turned. Approaching her from the ground was an unfamiliar man, his long, shaggy brown hair more well-groomed than any resident of this neighborhood, wearing green-tinted glasses and a crisp suit with fiery patterns.
"So it's true," he continued in a smooth, confident voice, pausing occasionally to take a puff on a cigar. "The spitting image of Rachael Ma'Sijor spends her days puttering around the slums district. Pitiful."
Anwen grasped her axe in both hands. "How do you know…?" she said quickly.
"I've been looking for you for a while," said the man. "It was a dark time when the world lost your parents, the two finest rangers ever to roam the wilderness. It's darker times still when their daughter spends her life beating up back alley thugs." He grinned nastily, leering at her over his shades. "I shudder to think what they would say if they could see you now."
"I don't need you to lecture me on my life choices," Anwen said tersely. "Not like anyone else is going to make it safer."
"Perish the thought," he said. "But how much can one young person do?"
Anwen said nothing, but her lips curled back in a sneer.
Unfazed, the man held up a small slip of parchment. "My name is Semaj Oklahim. I knew Rolen and Rachael Ma'Sijor when they lived. I'm something of an investor, and I'd like to invest… in you."
Anwen's grip on her axe tightened. "What do you know?" she said quietly.
Semaj toyed with his cigar, twirling it in his fingers over and over. "I know a lot. I make it a point to know things. But I didn't know where you were until recently, when the slums district started a-buzzin' about your feats of justice. Just the kind of young woman I was hoping I'd find, but such a waste of potential…"
"What are you getting at, by stalking and insulting?" Anwen demanded. "Why am I still listening to you…?"
He spread his arms graciously. "The world needs heroes, Miss Ma'Sijor," he said grandly. "I'm hoping to put a little team together. How about you join me and… give your life a bit of meaning?"
"I'm already giving myself meaning."
"You may see it that way," he said, "but I think that's only because you don't know just how much real meaning you could have. I must insist you take my card." He stretched his arm out toward her, the small slip of parchment held between his fingers.
Anwen took a single step and jumped off the rooftop, landing heavily on the cracked, dirty cobblestones. She stepped forward and snatched the card, glaring at him a bit before taking a look at it. After a brief scan, her eyes widened with recognition, and Semaj smirked.
She sighed, looking back at him. "Who are you?" she asked grudgingly.
"Exactly who I said," he stated, his smug smile billowing as much as his cigar smoke. "Semaj Oklahim, investor. Was never an adventurer or a hero myself, but I respect the profession. And you're clearly going nowhere on your own initiative, so…" He let that hang, gesturing with his cigar.
Anwen sneered at him, but dropped her axe to the ground and offered him her hand.
He shook it vigorously with his own, pulling her close and grinning. "Fantastic, Miss Ma'Sijor. With your pedigree, I think we can make the world a much better place. We'll be in touch." He saluted her as he turned to leave.
"I suppose so," Anwen said reluctantly, staring after him as he disappeared into the encroaching night.
She didn't have long to think about it before she heard fearful whimpering coming from a nearby back alley, and didn't hesitate for a second before scooping up her axe and running straight toward the sound.
Stopping at the mouth of the narrow alley, she saw an emaciated, filth-encrusted old man, his back pressed against the wall, pinned there by two young women.
Atasha was an eladrin, a high elf; tall and pale, with needle-sharp elven ears and her golden hair tied back with twine. Like all elves, she looked no older than twenty but had an air of being much older. She was clad in a gray tunic of hide and fur with a wide neckline cut all the way down to her sternum, and casually leaned against a wall, looming over the old man.
To the man's side was Rhea, a tiefling girl in her teens, crouched in a bestial stance and blocking his escape. Appearing mostly human, her skin was powder-blue and dotted with vibrant blue freckles, her waist-length hair was voluminous and bright purple, a long, twitching reptilian tail protruded from the back of her leather dress, and shiny black horns extended from her brow.
"Hey!" Anwen barked, drawing her scimitar and bringing both of her weapons to bear. "Back. Off."
"Oh hey, Ma'Sijor," Atasha said casually in her musical, lilting voice. "Nothing to see here, good buddy, we just saved this gentleman's life and are discussing what he can do to repay us."
"Is that why he's cowering?" Anwen retorted, lowering her weapons.
"Well, he's just being a bit stubborn," Atasha said sweetly, pinching the man's cheek. She turned her gaze to Anwen, her large, pupil-less purple eyes looking her over with amusement. From a sheath slung across her back, Atasha drew a scimitar of her own, and twirled it artfully as she strutted in Anwen's direction. "I dunno. How do you get people to pay you?"
"I don't," Anwen said quietly. "Nothing more rewarding than someone living another day."
Atasha shrugged. "Well, maybe virtue is its own reward for you, but we like to think about things like, you know, how we live another day. Rhea, darling, do make sure the client doesn't skip out on us."
Obliging, Rhea hissed at the man, keeping him pinned to the wall with fear of her fangs and talon-like fingernails, her glittering red eyes narrowed.
"I've tried to be nice," Anwen said calmly, pointing her sword toward Rhea.
"Easy," said Atasha, gently pushing down the blade of Anwen's weapon with her own. "No one wants to start a fight. We're just trying to earn our keep. Surely you understand. How do you support yourself, anyway?"
Anwen glared.
Atasha leaned in close to her. "Won't you please help us?" she whispered. "We're only trying to make an honest living. You know better than anyone how tough the hero business can be."
"I do," Anwen said, fury bubbling up within her. "But you know something? The 'client' isn't obligated to reward you."
The eladrin placed her hands on Anwen's shoulders. "Then what's it all for, my dear lady? What's… it all… for?"
Anwen's sneer intensified. Rhea's menacing stance began to falter as she stared at Anwen in fascination. Seeing an opening, the old man made a break for it, running for the alley's opposite end. Rhea did a double take, then stared meekly at Atasha's back.
Atasha merely rolled her eyes. "Damn it, Rhea."
Anwen smirked and coolly slipped her scimitar back into its scabbard. "Well, it was nice talking to you ladies. I'm sure we'll do this again." She turned her back to them and walked away.
"What the damn hell, Rhea?" she heard Atasha snap.
"I'm thorry!" Rhea said desperately.
At this point, the night had arrived completely. In the darkness, Anwen gravitated toward the only light source in the slums district: a single towering lamppost, overlooking an empty plaza.
A man leaned against the lamppost. He was dressed all in black, up to his sloppily-dyed tangle of long hair, and held a gnarled wooden staff in hand. As she entered the light cast by the lantern atop the tall iron pole, he turned his face toward her. He wore a mask, which bore a horrible resemblance to the front of a human skull. Anwen stopped in her tracks and tightened her grip on her axe, looking over the stranger cautiously.
He waved his free hand, and the lamppost was instantly snuffed out, leaving the plaza in total darkness. A moment later, a black orb laced with glowing red light appeared in the air beside Anwen's head, illuminating her and her surroundings while the masked man remained concealed in the darkness somewhere ahead.
From the darkness, a missile of pure magical energy shot forward and struck her in the chest. Barely reacting to the blow, she raised her axe and marched into the darkness, aimed unerringly for the very spot where he had been standing.
Alarmed at her direct charge, he flicked a wand at her, and a fireball exploded at Anwen's feet. When the flames dissipated, she could hear beating feet running away from her. She sprang off in that direction and narrowly missed him with a wide swipe of her axe.
He ducked under a second swipe and leapt out of her reach, and his next spell created a concussive thunderclap that cracked the cobblestones beneath Anwen's feet. Muscling her way through the blast, Anwen listened once again for him in the darkness, and realized he was taking refuge in the gazebo, a neighborhood landmark tucked into the northeastern corner of the very city. She made her way to the gazebo's stairs, her scimitar slipping effortlessly out of its sheathe and arcing through the air, slicing into the masked man's forearm. He took a single step back, shooting a blast of icy air at her, while she twirled around, hitting him only with the flat of her axe blade.
The man's outline blurred, and he darted away from Anwen at an impossible speed, disappearing somewhere into the dark streets. A moment later, a pink mist filled the gazebo, making Anwen's head feel foggy. She shook her head rapidly, fighting her way past the sleepy effects of the spell as she determinedly strode out into the streets after him, having absolutely no idea where he was, swinging her axe randomly at nothing at all.
He cast his fire spell again, catching her in the explosion. The fire burned at her midriff, leaving shining, smoking holes in her leather. Exhausted now and breathing heavily, she briefly caught a glimpse of him in the light of the fireball, and viciously charged at him, her feet pounding and her scimitar swiftly knifing into his shoulder.
Speaking for the first time, the stranger muttered, "Enough of this." He sidestepped her and darted away—into the midst of his light spell. Bathed in red light, he turned around and gazed out into the darkness, scanning it for signs of Anwen.
Anwen's breath came in heaves as she stared after him, confused. Taking a deep breath, she slowly and cautiously moved toward the light, lingering just outside the reach of it. She waited for him to take some kind of action, but he did nothing.
"But…" she muttered out loud, stopping herself before saying anymore. Sighing at her own blunder, she took a chance. "What's going on?" she called to him.
The instant she called out, his hand lunged out and another burst of fire enveloped her. Growling with anger, Anwen snapped her fingers sharply, igniting a burst of flame in the air. He casually sidestepped it.
Grumbling, Anwen entered the light, stomping toward him. He stepped back, firing a lightning bolt at her from his fingertip, leaving a massive bleeding wound on her chest. Desperate, she slashed at his face with her scimitar, but it was deflected by his mask. In return, he whacked her across the forehead with his staff. Beaten down, she slowly swung her scimitar, slashing his chest.
He took a step back and shot another magical dart at her. It hit her squarely between the eyes, and she collapsed, flat on her back in the streets, unconscious. The man stood over her patiently, listening carefully to her strained breathing.
Thirty-six seconds later, Anwen died in a pool of her own blood.
~0~0~0~
DM's Note: This was a reboot of a campaign I put together in early 2014. It was my first serious stab at being a Dungeon Master and everyone else's first time playing. As the months passed, we got a few sessions in, but eventually schedules required us to start doing it in a play-by-post format, which was nice and convenient for everyone who wasn't the DM, but for me, turned DMing into even more of a full-time job than it already is, so I called it quits. A year later, I sought to start it over from the beginning, hoping that what we learned from the campaign would bring about a better story, more balanced characters, ultimately the same campaign but cooler and realer. One big decision was to start the story in a more subtle fashion than just putting the band together in a tavern, hence this little Anwen solo adventure.
We had all but finished prepping the characters again after a few weeks of work when Meredith, the original player for Anwen, decided she shouldn't play D&D anymore for religious reasons. It was a harsh blow, but it was one I'd had a feeling was coming, so I recovered quickly. I sought out McKenzie, creator of a character intended to be introduced later, and asked her to take over the role of Anwen, since most of the early material relied heavily on having Anwen in the lead role. It worked well! McKenzie syncs up with the gaming and storytelling style, and I hadn't even realized before Meredith left that I'd been tiptoeing around all the violent, sexy, and mythic aspects I'd truly wanted the new story to have. And apparently Meredith's husband has gotten her back into the game, so no harm done. Perhaps we'll even see her return to this campaign someday.
Although McKenzie had to wonder if I was motivated by revenge against Meredith when I deliberately got Anwen killed in the first session. But no, that had been my plan from the beginning as a way to start the story, to introduce the world to players (and fanfic readers) unaccustomed to certain assumptions that come easily to D&D players—assumptions such as death being a surmountable obstacle. She'll be right back.
Anyway, the first four entries of this story are adapted from the sessions we played back in mid-to-late 2016 before stopping once again. The creation of this story is part of the process of getting us hyped up for a return to the campaign.