Post by 00dlez on Oct 8, 2018 16:40:36 GMT
I started a weekly Roll 20 campaign a few weeks ago after a long hiatus from DMing (last serious efforts were a play-by-chat game 5+ years ago). I'm still fleshing out a lot of setting details, but the framework is all set and having a group of PCs is a great help to coloring in the lines.
The prompt sent to the players (it was left vague so they could tailor the experience to their own PC backgrounds). The exact location of the island isn't set in stone just yet, but it's somewhere west of the Svellfriar lands in the north.
The setting is wide open for most any kind of game the players wanted to do, so after giving them some surface level details of the world, they thought it'd be fun to start out on a prison island, so we did! I plan to post updates here as the story progresses for my own reflection and improvement, but I'd love any input you all care to share or answer any questions/curiosities about the setting or game plot.
Political World Map of Primaterra
And the location of the start of the campaign, the Prison Island of Sker:
The prompt sent to the players (it was left vague so they could tailor the experience to their own PC backgrounds). The exact location of the island isn't set in stone just yet, but it's somewhere west of the Svellfriar lands in the north.
You were in irons almost as fast as the fighting started and a swift blow to your head took care of your senses for many hours. When you came to, a shoddy wooden crate was your cell, cold iron chaffing your wrists.
ROW! ROW! ROW!
Through your splitting headache, the task masters commands make it hard to concentrate on your situation. The rough sea crashes over the sides of the boat and the salt seers your still fresh wounds. The air hangs thick in your crate - small knots in the wood and gaps in the boards are the only source of air. You gasp for a deep breath but are only greeted with more salt spray.
ROW! ROW! ROW!
The sun stabs through the holes in the crate, searing in your bleary eyes, that are unable to adjust to the darkness of the crate nor the brightness of the day outside. Rather than suffer the cruel duality you simply shut them tight and attempt to roll your body on its side allowing you to breathe and perhaps rest.
ROW!
ROW!
ROW!
It was days on the ship, possibly a week. Maybe more. The only time the crate was opened was at night to bring water - just enough to give you hope you might live to see the dawn. You were given bread only once - a spot of mold and, perhaps to your benefit, a few grubs lingered within it as well - extra energy.
ROW! ROW! ROW!
After so long, all your could hear, all you could think, was the task master's words. Even your breathing fell in rhythm with the oar strokes.
Suddenly, a horn! Three short blasts from what you presumed to be the bow of the ship - answered by similar blasts from a distance away. If it was to be your death, let it come quickly - at least it would get you out of the ****ing box. Wait.
By the gods if they bury me in this wooden tomb I'd haunt their families for a thousand generations - you thought.
You could hear the task master guiding for perhaps half an hour longer - at least he learned some new words.
Boots pounded on the wood of the dock and boat alike in a flurry of activity. Men shouted back and forth and it was not long before your crate was unceremoniously dumped out onto the dock. A chill instantly cuts to your bones. Without the wooden walls to protect you, your soaking tunic is all that remains to keep the cold blowing salt wind at bay.
Your body was weak, cramped, and hardly able to stand. No matter. Your captors were on top you before you could embarrass yourself flopping on the dock and running chains between you and the other captured.
The men were clad in heavy armors - chain and scale - large broad shields upon their back and heavy chopping swords to their sides... Svellfriar marauders, if the tales you'd been told were to be believed.
You were moving down the dock towards a modest fort of stone and iron. Those captives in the rear being prodded by spear and bashed by shield to keep them moving. The lead captive stumbled but quickly recovered, the captive just in front of you was not so lucky. Falling over a loose board, the captive could not regain his feet quickly enough and caught a shield edge straight to his jaw, spilling blood and several teeth onto the platform.
"Pick him up!" the assaulting marauder commanded no one in particular. Fearing the same fate, you and another quickly obliged.
The line of captives was hurried though the gates of the fortress and quickly off to a small stone building off to the side. In the floor of the one room building was a hinged access door - iron - and a stone ramp leading down into darkness.
"Down!" they shouted, and no one dared to question, following behind a torch bearer.
The spears still prodded from behind as the captives were lead down a very long, straight, stone tunnel, just 10 feet wide and tall - perhaps for 20 minutes or more. Then, just ahead, another, similar ramp appears in the flickering light of the flames. The torch bearer quickly manipulates a latch on an iron door where the ramp meets the ceiling and opens it, leading to a very similar room as before. On one wall, a massive iron gate - the opposite wall a ladder against the wall leading to a hatch in the ceiling above.
"You are now... guests... of Jarl Argar on the Island of Sker. In the lands beyond this door, you can work, you can fight, Or you can die. Bring what you reap from the wastes to the gate and the depths and be rewarded by the Jarl."
Men of few words - what the hell did that even mean. Hardly a moment to contemplate the marauder's words the gate before you was lowred as a drawbridge revealing a bleak landscape beyond.
"OUT!" He called, with the urging of the spears once more to emphasize his point. Urged out of the door, you take stock of your surroundings. The ground is barren of plants - only black sands and ancient volcanic rocks cover the ground. In the distance, black mountains with snowy, craggy peaks jut out in all directions. Just behind you stands a massive tower built from local stone which gives the occupants purchase over the open ground surrounding it.
"Well. ****." Is all the emotion you manage to muster.
ROW! ROW! ROW!
Through your splitting headache, the task masters commands make it hard to concentrate on your situation. The rough sea crashes over the sides of the boat and the salt seers your still fresh wounds. The air hangs thick in your crate - small knots in the wood and gaps in the boards are the only source of air. You gasp for a deep breath but are only greeted with more salt spray.
ROW! ROW! ROW!
The sun stabs through the holes in the crate, searing in your bleary eyes, that are unable to adjust to the darkness of the crate nor the brightness of the day outside. Rather than suffer the cruel duality you simply shut them tight and attempt to roll your body on its side allowing you to breathe and perhaps rest.
ROW!
ROW!
ROW!
It was days on the ship, possibly a week. Maybe more. The only time the crate was opened was at night to bring water - just enough to give you hope you might live to see the dawn. You were given bread only once - a spot of mold and, perhaps to your benefit, a few grubs lingered within it as well - extra energy.
ROW! ROW! ROW!
After so long, all your could hear, all you could think, was the task master's words. Even your breathing fell in rhythm with the oar strokes.
Suddenly, a horn! Three short blasts from what you presumed to be the bow of the ship - answered by similar blasts from a distance away. If it was to be your death, let it come quickly - at least it would get you out of the ****ing box. Wait.
By the gods if they bury me in this wooden tomb I'd haunt their families for a thousand generations - you thought.
You could hear the task master guiding for perhaps half an hour longer - at least he learned some new words.
Boots pounded on the wood of the dock and boat alike in a flurry of activity. Men shouted back and forth and it was not long before your crate was unceremoniously dumped out onto the dock. A chill instantly cuts to your bones. Without the wooden walls to protect you, your soaking tunic is all that remains to keep the cold blowing salt wind at bay.
Your body was weak, cramped, and hardly able to stand. No matter. Your captors were on top you before you could embarrass yourself flopping on the dock and running chains between you and the other captured.
The men were clad in heavy armors - chain and scale - large broad shields upon their back and heavy chopping swords to their sides... Svellfriar marauders, if the tales you'd been told were to be believed.
You were moving down the dock towards a modest fort of stone and iron. Those captives in the rear being prodded by spear and bashed by shield to keep them moving. The lead captive stumbled but quickly recovered, the captive just in front of you was not so lucky. Falling over a loose board, the captive could not regain his feet quickly enough and caught a shield edge straight to his jaw, spilling blood and several teeth onto the platform.
"Pick him up!" the assaulting marauder commanded no one in particular. Fearing the same fate, you and another quickly obliged.
The line of captives was hurried though the gates of the fortress and quickly off to a small stone building off to the side. In the floor of the one room building was a hinged access door - iron - and a stone ramp leading down into darkness.
"Down!" they shouted, and no one dared to question, following behind a torch bearer.
The spears still prodded from behind as the captives were lead down a very long, straight, stone tunnel, just 10 feet wide and tall - perhaps for 20 minutes or more. Then, just ahead, another, similar ramp appears in the flickering light of the flames. The torch bearer quickly manipulates a latch on an iron door where the ramp meets the ceiling and opens it, leading to a very similar room as before. On one wall, a massive iron gate - the opposite wall a ladder against the wall leading to a hatch in the ceiling above.
"You are now... guests... of Jarl Argar on the Island of Sker. In the lands beyond this door, you can work, you can fight, Or you can die. Bring what you reap from the wastes to the gate and the depths and be rewarded by the Jarl."
Men of few words - what the hell did that even mean. Hardly a moment to contemplate the marauder's words the gate before you was lowred as a drawbridge revealing a bleak landscape beyond.
"OUT!" He called, with the urging of the spears once more to emphasize his point. Urged out of the door, you take stock of your surroundings. The ground is barren of plants - only black sands and ancient volcanic rocks cover the ground. In the distance, black mountains with snowy, craggy peaks jut out in all directions. Just behind you stands a massive tower built from local stone which gives the occupants purchase over the open ground surrounding it.
"Well. ****." Is all the emotion you manage to muster.