Fate Comes to Call

Sleeping in a Graveyard

What timing since everyone nearly died

We go into the morning, searching fruitlessly for the end of our quest in this twisted land. One of the prophecies lands us in a graveyard. Of course, something always happens to Axe.

Jolias snickers every time something happens to Axe. Really anybody in the party. It makes him feel useful. The center of attention.

“It feels good to have someone ask you for your services. Puts you higher than everyone.”

Axe gets strangled by some creatures that I cannot comprehend but Dakras just made it his slave. After searching all day for the legendary Sun Sword, we found a clue. Now this clue led us into the ground.

This ground, filled with corpses. As soon as we found a clue, monsters attacked. Ultimately we persevered. However, we had to sleep. Like the corpses around, we made the ground our home. Ironic, how most of the party died a few days ago, but now we sleep like corpses.

A green light has shined. From the Castle Ravenloft, not hope but reassurance of our everlasting doom. As we watch the specters of previous adventurers march toward the castle. Later as we dug up the Sun Sword, the sword, without it’s radiance, only matches the despair this world is in. There is no hope anymore.

“Let true despair fill my cup now. As there is no hope but despair for everyone and for everything in this mortal folly.”


They Went Forth to Battle but They
Always Fell

They went forth to battle but they always fell.
Something they saw above the sullen shields.
Nobly they fought and bravely, but not well,
And sank heart-wounded by a subtle spell.
They knew not fear that to the foeman yields,
They were not weak, as one who vainly wields
A faltering weapon; yet the old tales tell
How on the hard-fought field they always fell.

It was a secret music that they heard,

The murmurous voice of pity and of peace,

And that which pierced the heart was but a word,

Though the white breast was red-lipped where the sword

Pressed a fierce cruel kiss and did not cease

Till its hot thirst was surfeited. Ah these

By an unwarlike troubling doubt were stirred,

And died for hearing what no foeman heard.

They went forth to battle but they always fell.
Their might was not the might of lifted spears.
Over the battle-clamor came a spell
Of troubling music, and they fought not well.
Their wreaths are willows and their tribute, tears.
Their names are old sad stories in men’s ears.
Yet they will scatter the red hordes of Hell,
Who went to battle forth and always fell.

Shaemas O’Sheel

Sleeping in a Graveyard
LycanthropianDM pablothelatino

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