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In: Curse of Innistrahd, Dungeons and Dragons 5th Ed

Magic is a fickle thing. All practitioners know this whether their origins are holy or otherwise. Their intricacies twist and unravel into infinite threads of possibility, from which those lucky strands that are able to be made manifest coalesce as force. From mana to spell. From spell to action.

Viktor hated magic. Not the power it gave him, no that was useful. That let him be more than his skinny frame could be as he trudged the dark hills toward the sleeping giant of the windmill. What he hated was the esoteric rules. They way it pushed back against him. He drifted up the tired worn wooden steps to move to rap on the door.

He had done so much correct and so much still escaped him. The circle he made failed, sending wait staff in pieces to his yards. His undead creations limited and small cramped up in the attic, mostly the bodies of cats he took from the town. But he had practiced and learned. He waited, heart in throat as the noise of shuffling footsteps approached him. Hopefully those sacrifices were enough to prove himself, as the door creaked open.
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In: Deadlands, Fallen Flags

Dear Diary, or whatever one is supposed to say in the entires to their journals: I believe I’ve tracked down the group of people surrounding my employer’s gun to a small town in the center of what is now known as the Disputed Lands. My employer has warned me to be careful, as this area marks both a hotly contested territory for the great rail companies, as well as one of the far edges of my jurisdiction. It’s unlikely that the local authorities will be much help – doubly so because word is traveling through town like a brushfire in May about some sort of haunted fort along an apparently unusually dangerous river. These things are, of course, no matter. Finding them is objective one, and tradition dictates that one should visit the local tavern for information. What, dear Diary, is the worst that could happen?

-Recovered from a dust-stained page in the diary of an unnamed debt collector, written mid-August, 1877

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In: Deadlands, Fallen Flags

The year is 1877, and the end of Summer is nearing fast. One of the warmest on record, we’re told in the margins surrounding yet another set of “suspicious disappearances” and “freak accidents.” At least in all the papers that used to be worth the paper they were printed on. Nowadays, it seems like the tabloids are the more reliable source. Eleven years ago, the West Coast fell into the sea, leaving spires of so called Ghost Rock. This material proved far more powerful than coal, attracting rail barons, industrialists and scientists alike to the new maze of waterways. Since that day, ghost stories, legends, monsters, myths, have been exploding across the States. And as near as anyone can tell, the truth is becoming stranger than fiction. Back east, the cemeteries are even reportedly cracking open to leave otherwise decisive battles in this War Between the States stalemates, leaving no end in sight. Both sides, North and South, have laid out a bounty, offering immense wealth and connection for whoever first builds a railroad across the continent to what used to be California. Sometimes, in pursuit of these Rail Wars, the ambitious rail companies hire agents, both to deal with these new supernatural phenomena, and with each other. And worst of all, one of those agents has one of my employer’s guns. August is going to be a long month.

-Recovered from the diary of an unnamed debt collector, written mid-August, 1877.

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In: Curse of Innistrahd, Dungeons and Dragons 5th Ed

Death is not a mystery. Not exactly. The people of Innistrad welcomed its inevitability, the idea of a freedom and reprieve. But yet they feared that fall, that curtain keeping them apart as the rest drew close.

And who can blame them dear listener? It is not I who would proclaim to have no fear of what lies in my eternal slumber, be it dream or nightmare. But that realm must be peaceful, lest the geists not try so hard to grasp onto it, and those even whose bodies are raised by ghoul callers don’t even see need to always return.

The demons and angels play with the hearts and souls of the people. But we know better. We know how to be kind. We know how to be vicious How to work for a life. How to earn our death. That’s why mortality and morality falls to us. I can only hope we are fit for it. And dear listener, I can only hope you and our adventurers deserve it.
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In: Curse of Innistrahd, Dungeons and Dragons 5th Ed

Rest was a luxury. It wasn’t something you idly did, a section of day carved out to doing very little. In the towns the workers drank themselves to nothing to forget the rest of their worries. On the road it was a time of paranoia and focus, a fitful attempt to regain one’s strength. But in Heron’s Light Hold it was a different matter. Rest was omnipresent, but just out of reach. The careful watchers in their ragged armor and gaunt faces stayed resolute, but stoic. Surrounded by decay, languishing in valor. Rest would not be there. And they were so very tired.
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