Be Like A Crow, Gothic Crow: Entry 5

Knowing the general heading Aisling was taking, I wend my way southwest. My quarry started this hunt with the advantage of invisibility, but the rain may go some way towards balancing the scales. In the soft, muddy streets coursing through the ruins below, I'm able to discern tracks making their way to the edge of the former town.

As I reach the beginning of the blighted fields, her trail becomes harder to follow. The earth here is preternaturally dry, the raindrops leaving no trace upon the dirt. My eyes strain as slow to a glide. Though I know that her destination is the swampland, I do not know where the conclave may be hidden within. I can feel in my craw that if I lose her trail now, I will not find it again. 

There is way around it; I land on the ground. From here, I hope to have more luck finding her path once more.

I do my best to keep a watchful gaze on my surroundings, lest a predator take advantage of my situation. Being moored as I am is never comfortable to one of my kind, but the lingering touch of these afflicted lands has my nerves near screaming.

There! One of Aisling's tracks, near the fallen corpse of a petrified tree. In my anxious state, I let my discomfort get the best of me, Hopping forward in a rush. I land to the side of her footprint, taking no heed of anything but the clue before me.

Having picked up her trail, I flap my wings, but find myself held fast; creeping from beneath the tree's husk are thin, blackened vines, armed with curved thorns. Fool that I am, I landed ankle-deep in these briars. Whether it be by capricious fate or the tendings of a dark will, my feet have become thoroughly entangled.

My breathing picks up its pace as a small voice in the back of my mind begins to keen. Trapped! Defenseless, on the ground! Black spots swim in my vision as my head feels light. With a force of will, I close my eyes, and force myself to take one deep, laborious breath after another. Even this does little to calm me. Blinded, I make myself yet more of an easy target should any creature should pass this way.
As my heart pummels my breast from within, I can feel the moment slipping from my grasp. Before I sink too far into despair, I conjure once more a weathered memory. Four kind eyes, two doting smiles. One family, despite what time has wrought.

I let loose a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, and open my eyes. No foul beast has come to claim me. The vines, though viciously barbed, are not inescapable. This will not be my doom.
It is the work of many hours to unravel myself from these cloying bonds. What pale sunlight had once lit this day has already descended to its grave by the time I am free. One of the thorns had pierced deeply in the gap between two of my toes, and, even once it has been removed, I feel its mark burning still. I consider using the last of my Blood Ivy as a balm, but something tells me I will have greater need of it in the hours to come.

Now that I am free, I follow Aisling's steps until I am certain of the direction she has gone. Something white catches my eye as I prepare to take flight; discarded amongst some brush is a thin, splintered bone. Closer inspection reveals it to be the femur of a cat, its many lives finally spent. Here is an example of a hard-bought lesson: even in death, mortals can still affect the world around us. 

If I were able to mend the splintering slightly, this bone may come in handy. Unfortunately, my best efforts are in vain, my broken foot too clumsy. With time, I may find someone with more deftness to affect this change. I take up my piece of Blood Ivy in my beak, and gently take hold of the splintered femur with my good foot. With a downwards thrust, I finally release myself into the gloaming above. 

Now that I have spent so much time studying the marks Aisling left in her travels, they appear to glow dimly in my vision. My wings cut through the murky sky as I continue further South. The scent of the Swamp has begun to pervade the area, and, faintly, I swear I can hear what sounds like crying up ahead.
There are many wonders in this world. Even in the small patches of land I have traveled, I have seen countless mysteries, marveled at the impossible etched real. Before me now, another dark miracle has revealed itself to the night.

All along the edge of the swamp, small sparks in motley hues swat gently on the breeze. They fall to the ground in slow motion like maple samaras, fading away without a sound. Amidst these glimmering lights, Aisling is sitting at the edge of a small pond, staring wistfully into its mirrored surface. Every few seconds, a new tear drips off of her beak, cataclysmically rearranging the reflected stars.
My landing is audible in the relative quiet of the night around us, but she does not acknowledge my presence for some time. Only when the pond's surface finally remains still does Aisling look my way. Where before I had seen fear in her eyes, now I only saw guilt and shame. The wisps swirl around us in a silent dance as she begins to recount her tale.

Aisling, like all of her congregation, is sworn to protect any and all life she encounters. No matter the species, creed, or beliefs, all lives are judged as equal to those who tread the Salted Path. In this dying world of gloom & greed, they choose to be act as a flickering candlelight of hope. Thus, I find myself at a loss for words when Aisling tells me that she fears the reason her powers wane is because she intentionally let a supplicant die of their wounds.

I press as gently as I can, wishing not to cause her any undue pain. Merely a week ago, she had come across a scene of great carnage, on the outskirts of the Dead Forest. Broken bodies lay so thick upon the grass that not a hint of green could be seen. Whatever wasn't hidden by the corpses was instead stained wine red. As she found her senses assaulted by the wanton death, she made a crushing observation: each and every one of the bodies belonged to a young chick, babes cut down like wheat.

Before she could come to her senses, a wavering shadow loomed over her. She turned, seeing an old, wounded rooster, seemingly the sole survivor of whatever had transpired here. The rooster, introducing himself as King Rhaib, was barely standing under his own power. Aisling asked him what had taken place, but he refused to answer until she began had tended to him. With no other option, she had him lie prone before her.

It was not difficult to find the tears she needed to help Rhaib recover, given the blood-soaked down surrounding them. In a few hours time, when the rooster had fallen asleep, Aisling stared at the battlefield in horror. Unwilling to let herself rest in the face of such tragedy, she instead began to slowly dig graves for the fallen children.

The monotony of the efforts allowed her mind to drift away from conscious thought. When the sun began to rise anew, Rhaib let out a weak and guttural cry, heralding the dawn. Aisling paid him no heed, and continued with her grim work, until she heard him begin to weakly chuckle behind her.
Eyes dried of tears, Aisling turned in his direction in shock. Rhaib had forced himself to his feet, and was limping his way towards one of the graves that still lay open. It was foolish, he said, to bury the honorable dead who had perished at his command. To leave their cast-off shells open to the sky would serve as a reminder to all of his foes the power he wielded. With no will left to interrupt, Aisling stood still as he continued on.

Rhaib, born with a clangorous voice, had deemed himself fit to rule all others. At first, he engaged in reckless battles to steal away hens into his harem. Once they began to provide him with heirs, his lust for power grew; each newborn was taken from their mother and raised to follow Rhaib's instructions to the letter. Their sole purpose was to spread his empire, their grandest destiny to fight to the last in his name.

When his brood grew large enough, Rhaib began to lead his sons & daughters south towards the Dead Forest. Each new mile, every new step closer, was paid for in their blood. The night before, he had commanded the children to engage a den of snakes that lay claim to the border. Wave after wave of his own flesh and blood were marched to their doom, and the snakes had gorged mightily. As the last of his soldiers had fallen, Rhaib strode forward to deal the final blows to his foes. The snakes, swollen from their feast, put up a weak resistance to Rhaib's attacks, but all had fallen in the end.

As Rhaib turned his eyes to the horizon, he began to explain how much stronger his next army would be, when many of their number would be born from a powerful Brined healer. Eyes bone dry, expression blank, Aisling lunged forward. Her tackle took the weary Rhaib by surprise, and knocked him flat into the open grave he stood by. Already injured, the fall wiped out what little energy Aisling had returned to him with her tears the night before.

The enraged Rhaib cried out in a shade of his once-powerful voice, telling her, commanding her to help him from the pit and heal him further. Broken, Aisling walked to the edge of the grave, and stared at the rooster with a vacant expression. When the sounds of his weakening shouts finally faded behind her, Aisling collapsed from exhaustion. 

She awoke from a dreamless sleep at dusk. The sun was already mostly eaten by the horizon, when an echoing clamor sang out from the abattoir she had left. The cry ruse in pitch and intensity, before trailing off into the newborn night. Mere seconds later, the voice rang out again, so eerily identical to the first that it appeared nearly as an echo. With each note in the dirge, a blue-limned shape moved inexorably closer. Rhaib had risen, his vitriolic spite somehow transforming him into a vengeful spirit.

Her story complete, Aisling falls into silence once more. I cannot tell if it's my imagination or not, but the night seems more oppressive somehow, the colors of the wisps muted by the dark. What can I say to her that she has not already told herself? We both know that she as good as killed Rhaib, and I suspected we both knew that had been a kindness to the world. Guilt surrounds her like water, threatening to sweep her away. I know this feeling all too well. 

Words refusing to come to my tongue, I instead sidle closer to her hunched form. I am not much larger than she, but my wing is large enough to wrap around her back in support. 

I awake some time later, the sky still dark. A chill begins forming in my marrow; what had woken me? I recall the sound of bells in my dreams......but, no. No, it wasn't a dream, was it? Faintly, ever so faintly, I hear it ring out again. Rhaib's scornful keening passes through the brush and muck around us.

 He is no longer hunting for her: Rhaib is here.

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Prompt 10: Create your own event or draw again on this table. "Your target is taking efforts to elude you. Make a [Search] check to stay on course. On a Success, take your next turn as normal. On a Fail, you must land in your current Hex to pick up fresh tracks." Failed.

Prompt 11: The terrain becomes difficult. Make a successful Hop check, or you become stuck for several hours and take on injury. Failed, received an Injury.

Prompt 12: You find [A fractured cat femur: it's broken, but it's handy. When using this item, make a Use Tool check with Authority.] that is broken. Make a Use Tool check to see if you can fix it. If you fail, it can't be used until you find someone who can fix it. You can choose to discard or keep it. Failed, but chose to carry the bone until I can have it mended.

Be Like A Crow, Gothic Crow: Entry 4

The tenseness in my shoulders trails from my feathers as I ascend through the pleasing rain. Unsure of which direction to travel, I wheel gently by angling the tips of my wings. All around me, petrichor blooms like so many saplings, purging any malingering malodor of corrupting magics. I think briefly on what a shame it is that there is no one but myself to witness this slow rebirth, only to be immediately proven wrong.

There is magic at work here, but I can feel no malignancy nearby. It takes but a few moments for me to realize that what I cannot feel is the vital clue itself; an unnatural absence lurks here, a glamour of stealth and silence. Here is a spell most prized indeed.

With an effort of will, I unfocus my gaze, rendering the world a kaleidoscopic display. There! In my peripheral vision, I can just barely intuit a shape picking its way through the ruined streets. Wherever it stands, the rain seems to disappear entirely upon contact with my visitor's outline. I take care not to allow my shadow to pass over the hidden figure below, and call out a greeting.

This is a risk, but a necessary one. To all but the wisest of humans, my kind are seen as a auger of ill portent, not to mention the other soilbound who dream of the marrow in my bones. If this being hails from moral seas blacker than mine, announcing myself thusly is to invite danger. Yet, if they needed aid, how could I face the dreams of my humans if I had simply walked away?

I begin whispering a rhythmic spell of shielding while awaiting a response. My hackles begin to rise but slightly. With a popping noise, the visitor's obscuring glamour drops.

A large orpington hen peers up at my silhouette. Her feathers are rust-orange, dappled with white, and she bears a collar of ethereal sapphire. Even with but a glance, I can tell the collar houses whatever protective spell the hen had employed. We lock eyes, and each consider the other. I know but a scant few phrases in the fowl language of Gallin. Saving me from revealing this embarrassment, she replies to me in a strained version of my own tongue.

Her name, she tells me, is Aisling the Brined, a follower of the Salted Path. I have heard tales of the selfless deeds her order is known for, but have not encountered such a pilgrim until now. It is said that the tears of her people can be shed to turn poison & set bone, among other great wonders. Humbled, I bow my head in deference while coiling closer to the ground.

Aisling explains to me that she has found the potency of her healing declining of late, waning with each new day. To the south, nestled in the Dismal Swamp, a conclave of the most wizened Brined nest in a concrete human shell. If anyone can help her readjust the flow of her thaumaturgy, it will be them.

I open my beak to offer my company and support, but she seems to have guessed the contents of my mind; before I get through the first word, she rebuffs me. The conclave lays but a day's journey away, she claims, and one of my......"station", would simply draw attention to her endeavor. I can hear the bite in her comment, meant to turn me away, but her eyes are telling a different story. Within them, buried just beneath the surface, I can see great fear.

It does not matter, in the end. Though we are from vastly different worlds, I can tell that her spine, like my own, was not prone to bending. No surprise echoes in my mind as she slips intangible once more.

There are many things my winged brethren say about ravens in private. To some, we are inscrutable cousins, shaped as we have been to thrive alongside humanity. Others cast us as the basest of creatures, insatiable gullets who devour the bodies and souls of the deceased. I have heard countless opinions on who my people are, and why we behave the way we do. No one, it seems has ever understood that simplest truth: within each raven's breast is a heart not full of blood, but curiosity. 

I had seen the unmistakable signs of mortal dread eddying around Aisling, felt the lingering mildew of the grave in her footsteps. I would not leave her to stand alone. I pump my wings in unison, lifting myself into the light clouds above. Enveloped now in my own obfuscating garb, I glide my way south.

 
She would be difficult to track, but I knew now the signs of her passing. Even a great healer can be hounded by foes, daggers waiting in the dark. If any such blades struck at Aisling, I would be poised, ready to intervene. 

No matter the risk.

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Objective 2: [An Invisible Hen] needs escorting to [the sewers beneath the city] for a meeting of their elders, but watch out for [a Lost Banshee] who is trying to scupper their plans.

Be Like A Crow, Gothic Crow: Entry 3

Throughout the ashes and fallen timbers, I can detect not a single heartbeat. Most of these buildings are but frameworks, the vaguest hints of what they may have once been. More than once, bones can be discerned beneath the rubble, buried like the foulest form of treasure.

I have no knowledge of what caused this town to suffer such a fate, nor what it may once have been called. It does not matter; it would avail me naught. Gristle clicks his beak softly as he trails me, a nervous tic. It is not within me to usher him to silence, knowing what lies ahead. This darkness, I fear, has already sensed our approach. 

It does not take long to find the center of the pall draped across the soot and dust.  The Abandoned Theater lies seemingly still, perhaps the only building nearby with any standing walls. No light can be seen through its burnt out windows. The roof, caved in some years past, sits in wait like a starving maw, eager to be fed. 

I alight on rubble across the causeway from the theater, motioning for Gristle to follow my lead. Words fall from my beak like so many pebbles, hoping to quell the fear I can see taking hold of him. I am no poet. With each further syllable I croak out, the same thought tolls throughout my mind: is this for him? Or for myself?

Such questions lie beyond the ken of my heart, so I cut my speech short. The best support I can offer Gristle will be my swift action and position as vanguard. Our wings beat out as one, lifting us to circle above the gaping chasm of the theater's roof. Slowly, faking an easiness that does not reach my core, I spiral down.

The first thing I notice is the smell. The thick, heady scent of decay and death shrouds this place as a lover's veil. More on reflex than conscious effort, I land on a moldy rafter, half-fallen into the audience seats. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the shadows. The second Gristle's talons land beside me, pink flames birth themselves across the stage. 

If the smell was distracting before, now it is near to a siren's call. The scent helps me make sense of the strange hue these lights cast: the torches are wrapped in human flesh. I can make out snatches of facial features, hair & skin of myriad colors. No cut of meat was spared by this butcher's blade.

Gristle lets out an unconscious cry, a call to feed. He would have taken wing, if I had not darted forward to grasp his tail with my good claw. I can feel myself puncture his skin slightly, and as the blood begins to flow, the hunger leaves his eyes. Reacting to me, he whips around, beak poised to jab, as I cuff his head with my wing.

His rebuttal dies on his tongue as a sound begins to emanate from the stage. It is that unforgettable, singular sound of human machinery- ah, how to describe it!-, the turning of wheels, the clangor of metal. One last light blossoms where the ghosts of humans still tread the boards. Rising to the height of a small child, an automaton unfurls itself from where it lay in wait beneath a pile of bones. 

The creature seems malformed, half-complete. The gears powering it can be seen, rusted and green, against the motley assortment of hides it wears. Gristle gags to my right. Somehow, the abomination must have ached for whatever was missing from its construction; stretched taut in some places, hanging loosely in others, a ragged mesh of skins cloaked the doll's burnished copper. Adhering to its limbs, fat as leeches, are what appear to be human entrails that disappear into the fly lofts above.

I consider my options as the entrails pull taut, lifting the figure to float ten feet above the ground. First one arm, then the other, raise in a mockery of a pirouette. The doll's sparking eyes stay locked on me, even as its waist begins to rotate back to front. Each turn, its skeletal legs kick at an angle too harsh for a human, and each kick lifts it closer to our perch.

Puffed up and terrified, Gristle tries to hide behind my form. It is his touch that brings me back to my senses. I recall the weight I accepted by allowing him to join me, to take the place by my side left bloody by my failures. My eyes narrow, as my membranes close across them. I leave my bit of Blood Ivy on the rafter, taking up my typewriter key in my beak.

If my intuition was correct, I would have exactly one shot at ending this quickly, without risk of reprisal. I lean forwards, tensed and ready to surrender to gravity. There! The moment just as its kick descends, it opens the lips sewn together on its face, and I see the minute cogs turning within.

I let go of the rafter, and hunch my shoulders close. I would need to be fast to hit my target, and lucky beyond what any mortal can hope for. Nonetheless, I give myself to the fall, my beak aiming true.

The automaton's leg comes sweeping down on my left, brushing the pinions I'm keeping furled. I release the typewriter key, and tilt myself to the side, rolling away from its grasp. As I flare my wings wide to cease my descent, I can hear that my attempt has borne fruit.

Slowly at first, then with increasing frequency, hiccups begin to interrupt my foe's movement. I wheel about to face the foul creation. The entrails begin to spasm, and smoke begins to pool in the doll's mouth like saliva. 

There is one last, echoing clack as the typewriter key jams itself solidly into place. As if it were nothing more than a child's plaything, the creature falls limp into the audience seats. The entrails land in coils surrounding it, cut from the power of whatever dark puppeteer had been at work. 

Adrenaline continues to coarse through my veins, unable to believe the encounter had been finished so quickly. I find myself shaking, a chill wicking itself off of me, replaced with a gentle warmth. The doll has been put down.

With a cry of joy, Gristle flapped his way towards me as I set down on the bloody stage. For him, this was over, and the evil banished. The complete emptiness of the fly loft spoke with certainty on that matter to my eyes. Someone had imbued this cast-off shell with will and want, and I doubt the hand behind this spun only one plate.

I let Gristle have this moment, do not tell him what tempers the triumph in my breast. Leaving him to guard the stage, I hop into the wings, searching for any further clues. All I find is madness.

Partially skinned bodies lay in heaps behind the soot-streaked curtains. Some, I can see, have been......remade, limbs of various size sewn together in a facsimile of the human form. I tell myself that these mortals had been dead before meeting the dread automaton, doing my best to ignore the freshness of the corpses. Seeing nothing more of merit to be found, I take off towards the broken roof after collecting my Blood Ivy, calling Gristle to me as I go.

Cleansing raindrops begin to fall from the blue-grey skies above, a promise that all wounds of this earth can be healed in time. The sickening aura that had greeted us on our arrival could no longer be felt. 

I find us a spot to land somewhat shaded from the downpour, thanking Gristle for his company and assistance. When he attempts to downplay his role, I upbraid him; though he may not have engaged with the wretch directly, it was his presence that gave me the courage to take decisive action.

I bid him to return to his flock, as he promises to sing forth the tale of what we encountered this day. I find it difficult to imagine what sorts of music could be made from this dismal affair, but I bow my head to him regardless. With a promise of future aid if needed, Gristle takes wing, leaving me alone amongst the wash. I sigh deeply when he disappears from sight. 

My eyes close, and I picture how they would have praised me, the feel of their fingers tickling my neck. I allow myself this indulgence, this window into what could have been. My spirits will have need of whatever balm I can manage. As I feel the love in their smiles like the warmth of a distant star, I open my eyes, and set my shoulders. I will do no good sulking in this grave. It is time to seek the next shadow I can dispel.

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Objective 1: A Living Doll is trying to create an army of undead cultists. Head to the abandoned theater and try to stop them. COMPLETE

No prompts used for this entry. All that occurred mechanically was a round of combat on the living doll, which had an injury capacity of  1. I was thankful for Gristle's assistance lending authority: I drew a 3, then a King for my attack. The living doll drew an 8 for their evade, meaning my King won out.

Be Like A Crow, Gothic Crow: Entry 2

I've barely made up my mind about the odd locket when a strong breeze fills my pinions. Some force, it seems, is pleased at my lack of avarice, and I let the winds carry me Southeast.

Whatever breath adds speed to my flight seems quickly fickle; on the Eastern shore of the Inner Sea, the new dawn has spread a contagion of mist. My clear eyelids keep my vision clear of the cloying dew. Just enough sunlight pierces through the mist to keep me from losing my heading.

I breathe a sigh of relief upon finding myself in clear skies once more. Below me, I spy a blue jay, a distant cousin, carrying something within its claws. I hail them with a croak before gentle lowering myself to their altitude. As I become level with them, I can make out more of the object's appearance: a strange, flat circle of metal, emblazoned with the human rune that represents my name, the S. I remember seeing my humans use such devices to cast their messages onto paper with liquid shadow.

Surely, the appearance of such a sigil must be providence. The blue jay bows its head in deference, but I can see a jealous glint in its eyes. I speak quickly and quietly, in the mother tongue of all corvids. I see her head twitch as she considers my story. I'm convinced she will flee without response, until I can see her studying my rings. Even to the uninitiated, the binding I cast upon them is faintly visible. With a wish for safe winds, she rolls mid-flight, and tosses the "S" key to me. It nearly slips from my grasp as I grab it with my damaged claw.

I spend the next few miles alone, a single dark blot in an otherwise blue sky. I know I am drawing near to the Ghost Town. The land beneath me has the touch of wither upon it, and all of the soilbound going about their lives are gaunt, sickly. My crop rises at the thought of eating any of the tainted offerings this land provides.

Wheeling slowly nearby I spot a conspiracy of my fellows. The magic I can see on them is slow, and primal; no initiates are amongst this flock. I know enough to intuit their stageplay movements are precise steps in a healing ritual. On the ground beneath them lies a wounded doe, heavy with her young. A broken arrow is lodged in her thigh, and her breathing is clearly labored. The weight of the rings upon my ankle seems momentarily heavier, so I add myself to their performance.

Their distrust is immediately apparent. Undeterred, I let the ancient rhymes begin to flow from my beak. My spells act as a smithy's hammer, beating in time to hone their untempered spell. With every syllable, the rings feel lighter. I find myself so lost in the effort that it takes me a few moments to realize I now sing alone.

With a clatter, the arrow falls to the marshland, & the doe weakly pushes herself to her feet. She will not die in the blighted land, at least, not this day. Before I can react, the conspiracy begins to encircle me, a feathered whirlwind peering into my soul. If they decide to make a move on me, there is little I can do in defense. Their bodies blur into one mass of black shrouding me from the caress of the sun.

I dip my head in expectation of the first blow, and do not open them again until I hear departing wingbeats. I see, glinting in the space vacated by the doe, a small glass bottle of luminous spider venom. If my oncoming meeting were with a creature of flesh and bone, I would gladly collect this valuable tool. As things stand, I can do nothing more than mentally mark its location, in the hopes I can search for it again.

The charred remains of the Ghost Town have become visible before me. A dim field of malice encircles the ruins, more felt than seen. I steel myself to breach the barrier, when a small cry reaches my ears from behind. A young jackdaw, his wings pumping quickly, falls into place at my side.

It seems the wild ravens have spoken of my quest to their kin. This jackdaw, who introduces himself as Gristle, begs leave to lend me aid. He is younger than I, but not by much. Perhaps I can teach him by example the lessons I had to learn through blood. My conscience protests, but my heart is too gladdened to have company in this dismal place to pay much heed. I tell him to follow my slipstream, and we begin to explore the settlement's remains. 

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Prompt 5: A tailwind gives you haste. Advance immediately to any adjacent hex.

Prompt 6: You fly into low cloud or mist. Make a navigation check. On a failure you become lost and must take another turn in the current hex.

Prompt 7: Another bird joins you in flight. They are carrying [a typewriter key: a letter of your choice]. You can persuade them to give it to you with a successful befriend check. Alternatively, fight them for it.

Prompt 8: A conspiracy of ravens are performing an airborne healing ritual. Join them and make a dance or sing check. If you succeed, you can remove one injury tick and they will gift you with [a miniature vial of spider venom. Use this in place of an attack to automatically inflict one injury on a creature (three uses).]

Prompt 9: You meet a jackdaw who offers to accompany you and help you at your next location. In the current and next hex you visit, make all checks with authority. They will leave you after you leave the next location.

Be Like A Crow, Gothic Crow: Entry 1

I'm playing through a game of Be Like A Crow, and will be recording my entries here. 

After the narrative portion of each Entry I'll make a list of the Prompts I drew during that section. My plan is to avoid/redraw duplicate prompts, unless they make narrative sense to run a second time. (Ex. a recurring enemy.) Staying true to the guidance in the book, I'll adjust some prompts in minor ways to ensure they fit narratively. In that vein, I mention the vampire bat familiar that Juveniles gain in the Gothic setting in this entry, although I'm not yet factoring in his stat benefits. I figured it makes more sense to have the character already present, then later gain the ability to summon them when advancing to the next lifestage.

 

Setting: Gothic Crow

Name: Slipshade the Raven
 

Age: Fledgling
 

Description: Undersized for a raven, with clouded eyes. Missing one toe on my left foot. A pair of human wedding rings encircle my right ankle.

 

The Nest I created is cradled amongst the jagged peaks to the North of the Inner Sea. My humans had a name for this place, before they faded into the aether; I know it no longer. An eerily silent waterfall surges beneath my tree. I cannot hear the falling stream make contact with the greater pool beneath. The tree is of that rare breed that never offers its leaves to the changing of the seasons, and was, I am convinced, grown here through some ancient magic. It is the only tree of its kind amongst these lonely mountaintops. 

The library had never been lonely, filled as it was with their works and scents. The mages raised me from my hatching to accompany them on their hunts. He taught me the means to recognize the sickening taste of dark magic; she taught me how to bury it away. 

I am still young. If I were not, then perhaps they would not have fallen while I watched in horror. If I were a wiser bird, a braver friend, I would not be wearing their rings as a constant reminder of my failure. Besides the blood, only these metal circlets had remained when the beasts had eaten their fill. Shame burned through me as I recovered them, and helped me work the spell of binding upon them.
 

These rings will not be loosed until I have done the good they would have given to the world. I fear they will adorn the bones I leave behind. 

 No good can come of my brooding. The foul caress of the unseen ruffles my neck feathers, as it does every dawn. Crepus, my vampire bat familiar, looms in my vision seemingly from nowhere. His nightly patrol brings news of trouble at the Ghost Town to the South.

I flex my mangled foot, shake away the memories, both good and bad, and take wing.

I fly Southeast, above the waterfall. Nearly as soon as the wind first begins to grant me lift, I am hounded by a mundane terror. It seems a hostile gull has begun to build a nest along the cliff edge. If I did not have an evil to quell, perhaps I would be drawn into the gull's display of violence. As it stands, I tilt my wings to the right, hoping to circle far enough away to evade its ire. Too little, too late, it seems. 

The gull leaps into the sky, its beak charting a course towards my breast. Thankfully, the altitude is on my side; I sidestep the gull's thrust, and peck at its exposed back, injuring the fool. I almost mock it with a caw before its webbed foot injures me in turn. Shaken, my second jab goes wide. The gull is slow on its turn, and I'm able to recover before it can take advantage of my stupor. While it tries to gain altitude for a second pass, I quickly fold my wings tight, and plummet parallel to the waterfall to escape.

When I open my wings mere feet above the Inner Sea, I let the cool winds carry me Southeast along the coast. I keep a keen eye on the shoreline to search for anything of interest. I recognize the flash of red in an instant; teaching me how to recover with the usage of Blood Ivy was one of the first things my humans had done.

I swoop low to snatch the Ivy. As I float gently in circles above the water, I immediately crush some of the seedpods with my beak. Rubbing the juices into my injury causes the pain to slowly ebb away. The bounty was plentiful, and I keep the remaining Blood Ivy clutched in my beak. The ability to heal is only ignored by minds clouded with stupidity or pride, and I choked mine down when I left them to their final rest.

The wind coming down from the mountains above carries me further along the coast with minimal effort. Seemingly from nowhere, a rusted locket streaks towards me, carried by an eldritch breeze. I evade it more on instinct, and it brushes my wingtips as it hurtles towards the Inner Sea. As it splashes into the waves, the chain gets caught on a floating piece of driftwood. I consider taking this shiny for my own, but there is something unsavory about its aura that convinces me to carry on.

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Objective 1: A Living Doll is trying to create an army of undead cultists. Head to the abandoned theater and try to stop them.

Prompt 1: A hostile gull is protecting their territory. Enter combat or make an evade check to avoid then. If you choose to evade, you must travel to a hex immediately to your left and right before taking another turn.

Prompt 2: Create your own event or draw again from this table. "Make a Search check to see if you spot anything useful along the coast." Success: Found [a red ivy root: this rare plant has healing properties. Each ration heals one injury (two uses).]

Prompt 3: A tailwind gives you haste. Advance immediately to any adjacent hex.

Prompt 4: [A locket with a torn photograph. Whilst carrying this, you feel an enormous sense of dread. Your first turn in a new hex must be made with a penalty.] comes hurtling towards you on the breeze. Make a successful evade check, or it hits you causing one injury. The object falls to the ground and you can land in your current hex to retrieve it.