Black Sails of the Old Empire

Confound this lingering cold.

Time is running out! Kal and I are in need of getting the Kracken Bastard’s illegal cargo off the ship asap. The imperial inspection will be at the dock in a matter of hours. We’ve decided to move it to our 2nd ship, the White Whale, to buy time such as it is is docked at the most southern docks in the slum district of Sigh.

Piecing together some city rumors and with some ideas of our own, we have a plan to get the cargo past 4 checkpoints that will surely take note of us moving a caravan of crates.

Checkpoint 1: Kal will pose as an exotic trader, and I his guard, with certain goods required by an Imperial lieutenant and his current mistress.

Checkpoint 2: Our caravan is moving much needed weapons to the Imperial garrison.

Checkpoint 3: We have gathered a hodge podge of ship crew and former slaves to stand in as the new Imperial Marching band for the purpose of distraction.

Checkpoint 4: We have sent Fang ahead to keep an eye on things and will figure it out on the fly!

Our plan finally devised, we ready the goods and head down the dock. However, before we reach the end of the dock, we see a most peculiar event. Another ship’s crew is unceremoniously tossing an enclosed barrel off into the ocean with muffled sounds coming from within. Sharing a confused look with Kal and a shrug, I dive in after this barrel and get it back up on the dock. Through a peephole we soon realize a person has been stuffed inside and coughing up sea water. Prying open the lid, a shaken gnome emerges, clad in all kinds of armor and weaponry. He introduces himself as one Molgar, new to this city and having himself a tongue that gets him into trouble. Fresh out of work, we offer him a position in our cargo ruse if he follows our instructions and our lead. He fits in nicely as quite the exotic man servant from the Fey world, surely good entertainment for any well-to-do mistress.

We are able to bluff/maneuver/slip by the first 3 checkpoints with such effectiveness and guile that by the time we reach the 4th, our confidence is at an all-time high. We decide to have some fun with Molgar, and instruct him to approach the last checkpoint (filled with 5-6 guards) while yelling obscenities about Fang’s mother and sister. As expected Fang crashes into Molgar from his hidden location with such ferocity that every guard’s attention has been diverted! Before they decide to break up the brawl, I make the quick decision of stepping up and start rooting and betting on the our little gnome to pull off an upset win. The guards, always looking to deepen their pockets begin to take up these bets.

All the while Kal is tip toeing across the other side of the docks on his way to the White Whale. It is in this moment that I sense a guard beginning to look around, and in a fit of panic call out “Let’s make this fight a little more interesting!”, as I whip forward my staff and call upon the elements to soak through the dockboards and began pestering both Fang and Molgar in swirls of seawater. Instead of bolstering the betting, it unfortunately has the opposite effect as the guard captain is immediately wary that I am no common townsfolk. Swords are drawn as the guards begin to notice their surroundings again and Kal is caught mid tiptoe in a most suspicious way. Oops.

I have just enough time to spit out in Draconic to Fang about our ruse gone awry before blows are being thrown at us, and we are fighting for our lives and secrecy of our task. A guard or two begin to run away for reinforcements but Fang is always there to pounce on the poor souls and tear into them. The rest who stand their ground put up a decent fight, but let’s face it. The are fighting a dragonborn druid, a bullywug assassin, and a gnome weapon master. One by one they are cut down before Captain yields.

We pull away the bodies, get our cargo onboard the ship, and toss the captain into a jail cell down below. We form up a few of our crewmembers with the guard outfits and have them man the checkpoint until they are relieved. Our illicit cargo is safe for now, and the Imperials know none the better.

Drink up, me matey’s, yo ho :)

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Diary of a Southern Gentleman: Chapter 4
The Perils of Rudeness

On the long and arduous path to becoming a true Gentleman, I have often been forced to – now how shall I put this – enlighten those less fortunate than myself on the drawbacks of their social ills. Though there are those wiser folks with ears to hear and a brain to listen, for whom my eloquent speech proves sufficiently educational, the greater masses require efforts of a, hmm, sharper nature.

I am no crusader, and no proselytizer. My words are gospel only to those foolish enough to think me immortal, or those who have had the good fortune to hear my bedded sermons.

And yet, there are times when certain points must be emphasized, when certain examples must be made, when certain dams in the general flow of Goodness that permeates this diverse world must be broken. And though not terribly clever, I reckon an orange smashed into certain uncouth mugs drives a point home pretty damn well.

‘Course, the Maul ain’t known for propagating any outstanding ideals, nor breeding the most upstanding of citizens – and this from a professional smuggler. As we learned in the previous chapter, there are goods meant for specialized trading, and there are those that to “trade” makes the trader an arbiter of Evil. Slaves bein’ a fine example of that.

Kidnappin’ is another of those things frowned upon by the true Gentleman, it bein’ not much more than low rent slavin’, so to see that pathetic Maul softie march into the ‘Safe, boasting of kidnapped daughters and demanding ship-sized ransoms, it’s no wonder my instincts at enlightenment took over. Words came first, of course, as is rightful in the grand scheme o’ things, but fate took it upon herself to present me the little gift of hurled citrus, and I ain’t never one to turn down a kind offering from that stingy bitch.

From afar, the projectile proved little bother for our intrusive and rude companion; crushed into his smoke-wrinkled eyes, the annoyance proved quite painfully effective. Amazin’ how what tastes so sweet can sting quite so fierce; but, I suppose, if you know Cherry, that ain’t no surprise at all.

Much as when recounting a night spent in the company of a fine young Southern lady, post-brawl details are best left vague, expressionistic, evocative without being squirm-inducing. For your sake, kind reader, I won’t deign to describe anything below that might spoil the fine meal you have most assuredly just finished devouring.

Suffice it to say that Therion and I (and damn am I glad to have found this sonuvabitch) dole out fear as consummately as Reverend Ral’houn does his “healing breast exams.” Post orange smash, every glance left engendered an horrific vision – cascading waters, paralyzing lightning, beasts from the netherworld, and I swear I saw Jarx’s ex-wife in there somewhere; every glance right brought with it visions of Therion’s frightful staff cracking skulls. With all this lookin’ around, mind, turns out I weren’t doin’ too much fighting, and I soon found myself on the ground, woozier than after a night of Broy Boys and Cherry’s Pie.

If you’ve been payin’ much attention at all through the course of this here manifesto, you’ll remember a couple ‘a key points ’bout your humble narrator. For one, though I may go down at a right constant clip, you damn well better believe that I’m underneath plotting a new scheme while you’re off celebrating your “victory”. For two, I ain’t below playing dead for a few minutes so that I might be better positioned to remove your testicles.

And for three, when my rapier enters your ass, you’re damn likely to find it comin’ out your mouth right quick.

Beyond that, all I might say is that some poisons were thrown, some stools were smashed, some bets were made, and in the end, Therion, Jarx, and yours truly stood tall, while two crippled fools and a permanently insane “Captain” limped back to Mr. Chalk chock full of lessons on being a proper Gentleman.

For all the lessons we True Gentlemen offer, there are still evils that remain behind, impervious to the Truth of Goodness. Talk as much as I do, and you’re liable to effect some sort of change, reducin’ some of these negativities and maintaining a mild balance. For the evils that the gods have seen fit to make deaf, some more direct action is necessary.

Schemin’ ain’t necessarily one of my strong suits. Communicatin’, drinkin’, and fuckin’ seem to be my most effective skills, and any combination of those three are usually sufficient to mask my inefficient and incoherent plans. And here I am, alive, presenting this guide for you, so somethin’ must be going right Here’s hoping young Therion here’s got as strong of a brain in that ugly mug of his as the fear that courses through his veins. A young lass we must un-kidnap, but how to achieve such a thing? Sounds like an ideal job for a True Gentleman smuggler, if you ask me.

But before we delve into those secrets, in our next chapter we will deal with another one of fate’s most unpleasant tendencies – pilin’ on the bullshit just when you thought your nose couldn’t stand one more whiff.

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Be wary the Captain's Badge

We’ve busied ourselves the last few days “securing” a weapons cache from a rival smuggler’s warehouse and moved it onboard the Bastard’s Kraken, commandeered by Captain Jarx. He is finding our mettle more and more to his liking. The only thing left to do is procure a writ of passage for his schooner to leave port, which has been in lockdown ever since I snuck through the city gates days ago.

My naivety has no doubt been amusing to my southern toad friend, Kalboo Tatteredsail. Despite this, I’d say the reputation of our Dragonborn/Bullywug pairing is growing in this port city of Sigh. Don’t let that giant belly of his or his poor taste in women get the best of you, that’s all I can say. An ill placed jab here and an untimely blink there and you’ll find his garrote choking the life out of you. I’ve been fortunate to land in his good company. And when is good company is about, there are always a few drinks around to drive home that very point at the Crow’s Nest.

One such recent long night of drinking at the Crow’s Nest woke me on the floor of Kalboo’s room, conveniently located above the bar. To my disdain, Cherry, the whore he fancies above all others, was still there. Who knows what my poor ears had witnessed through the night. In any case, she let us know that Jarx left word downstairs he needed to meet with us asap on his ship.

As we left the slums and headed down towards the market docks, we became aware of a large imperial unit marching our way themselves with aggressive intent in their eyes. Sharing a glance and nod with Kal, we slipped in with the throng of townspeople following behind. Once arrived at the docks, one Captain Reginald, acting imperial officer of the unit, climbed to a town crier position and announced some very disturbing news.

A cargo of particular interest to the Imperial Command has been tipped off to be stowed aboard one of the docked ships at port. A mandatory inspection and freeze of all goods will be occurring the next three days for every ship, no matter the history of the vessel or what connections their captain(s) may have. Inspections will begin promptly starting at the northernmost dock heading south to the slum docks. Needless to say, angry outbursts are shouted by townspeople and sailors alike.

As I am discussed this turn of events with Kalboo, a particularly vocal captain had begun crying foul directly at Captain Reginald. It is apparently the wrong day to challenge an Imperial officer, as he was promptly executed with a spear through the neck and unceremoniously dumped into the ocean. As shockingly quick as this was to me, something pulled me to the edge of the dock to investigate this dead captain and so jumped in after, changing into a large squid along the way. I can only imagine the shaking of Kalboo’s head once he saw me voluntarily jump into the dirty bay water. On the body of the captain, I was able to pull off a decorated captain’s badge, recently smelted by the looks of it.

Back on the dock, Silva (first mate of the Kraken’s Bastard) has expressed the ships precarious position to Kalboo. Although we have no idea what the Imperials are looking for, we sure as hell have a lot of illegal cargo that needs be moved before inspection. Kalboo insists there has to be another way without disturbing the Bastard’s cargo, and asks for 5 hours to come up with the details. Silva OK’s this and lets us know we can find Jarx at the Gambler’s Safe. Silva is also kind enough to point out which ship my newly acquired captain’s badge belongs to, the White Whale, docked near the slums.

The slums being near the Gambler’s Safe, it’s decided there is no hurt to checkin’ on the White Whale, and see if the badge can procure us any favors. Perhaps our dead captain’s last protests were a clue to this missing Imperial shipment. Upon approaching the ship (much smaller than the Bastard), we realize word of the captain’s early demise has beaten us there. A duel is already in progress between the 1st mate and a smuggler named Notch, both vying for the captain’s recently vacated position.

In attempts to diffuse the situation, Kalboo and I find ourselves unable to calm the situation down and bargain like reasonable men. This is mostly due to Notch out cries and challenges. Having grown tired of the faceoff, Kalboo decides to enter his garrote into the negotiations and quickly has a choked Notch in his grasps. In a most dishonorable move, the 1st mate attempts to capitalize on this by thrusting his sword into Notch’s midsection. This honorless stab sends me over the edge. Fire rushes from my nostrils all around the man and as he is dazed I grab him with a strangle hold. It is clear that neither of these two are fit for captain and Kalboo offers the crew their own decision. A deckhand soon rises among the crew to call himself Captain Davey, who instructs his crew to take the two dueler’s below deck for lockdown. We offer him the captain’s badge as a token of goodwill.

Surely this Davey will feel indebted to us, and so Kalboo and I bring up the notion of compensation and a quick look about into their cargo hold. We strike a deal that the two persons we incapacitated were equal to any two items from his cargo. With high hopes for some good loot, we head into the depths of the ship only to find the true nature of the goods… this is a slaver’s vessel. The cargo consists of persons from all lots in life. Prisoners, warriors, young girls, and even simple common folk unlucky enough to be from foreign lands. I could see Kalboo’s eyes begin to smolder at the sight, perhaps he had been a slave in a former life. The mistreatment of these persons was obvious, and Davey didn’t miss a beat in continuing that theme as he was showed off his “wares”. He even began to give us lip and attitude with our questions concerning the captives as if he weren’t a lowly deckhand just moments before his unexpected rise to power. In determining our two “prizes”, I was able convince Captain Davey and his small honor guard of scallywags to stand off a ways as we wanted speak with a few of the slaves in private.

Two in particular caught our eyes. One a fierce and muzzled dragonborn, constantly fighting to spit fire and rake at his captivity. The other was a very large and burly man by the name of Byron Stonefist. Bryon told us of his blacksmithing background and the injustice of this slavery to him and those around him. Kalboo may be a shadowy character, with his hands in many an illegal trade, but he certainly draws the line slavery, and as do I. With this in mind, Kalboo re-assures Bryon to ready himself at the proper moment as he deftly slips him a dagger. Following his lead, I warn the dragonborn in draconic that a fight would ensue soon enough.

We signal Davey and his crew that we are finished. In his wit and guile, Kalboo successfully insists that every profitable transaction deserves a few drinks, and so whiskeys are poured all around. After a few rounds of cheers, Davey has laxed in his security and soon ready’s the prisoners for transport. As soon as both cages have been unlocked, the party is over. Within seconds, several of the guards have either been assassinated or taken out by mine own druid magic. Davey himself is smote so quickly he never reaches his sword. Byron and Fang the Dragonborn finish the two leftover deckhands left with the crushing of their shackles or vicious stomps to the head. Kalboo plucks the captain’s badge and tosses it me with a wink. Time for “Captain” Therion to put this ship in order, starting with this ship’s emancipation.

All freed prisoners (except Notch and the 1st mate) were subsequently lead up to the deck where Kalboo announces a new direction for this ship. All hands are free to go as they please but if you’re looking for good “honest and honorable” smuggling work, see Captain Jarx at the Kraken’s Bastard. The White Whale is under new ownership and will outfitted as needed by this one Captain Jarx. Byron Stonefist and Fang offer to stay aboard the ship to mull over their freedom and assure this change of the ship’s guard. Fang has calmed down quite a bit since being relieved of his cell. There is still that deadly aura about him though, which makes me happy he is currently on our side.

How unexpected it is to wear the White Whale captain’s badge myself, as my sea sense is no better than a deck hand at the moment. It’s recent bloody history of ill timed captains fresh in my mind. I had better get myself a proper hat and pet parrot to scream my obscenities. Kalboo and I finally head down to the Smuggler’s Safe to let Jarx in on our new acquisition and set up a plan for the well being of the Kraken’s Bastard. We find him inside having just lost another gambling bout against Raul, his most “friendly” rival smuggler acquaintance. However, just as we are about to approach his table several Imperials and their cohorts have knocked down the door behind us. How terribly rude…

-Therion Khal

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Diary of a Southern Gentleman: Chapter 1
-By Kalboo Tatteredsail

For the true Southern Gentleman, there exists a compendium of unspoken rules – words by which to live, truths to uphold – guiding his actions, leading him forward, maintaining his progress down the path of spiritual satisfaction. A tip of the cap, a yes’uh no ma’am, or a kindly welcoming to a weary stranger all suffice in showcasing the pure well-bred Southerner within, no matter what the exterior may suggest.

I tend to follow a different sort of book.

Now, I must confess that I do consider myself a Southern Gentleman, and have that reputation to uphold amongst my many…admirers. However, there are slight deviations to my lifestyle that prop me up above those who strive for so much Southern goodness, and it is my desire that in offering you a slice of my life (we’ll save the pie for later), you might best begin to understand the true way to live a Southern life.

The first rule I’ve come to live by is that you mustn’t ever let your wellbeing be dictated by that whore, fate. We’ve all got fates being thrown our way: obstacles to overcome, hurts to bury, storms to weather, backstabbers whose throats need slitting. Facing off against these challenges, it is the man who harnesses the luck he makes for himself along the way to overcome the rolling tides who will lead a truly great life, in whatever form that may take. Though your ships may crash (and indeed, most of mine have been taken permanent hostage by the ever-greedy sea), there is always a way to escape, a route to survival. And as you climb from the icy bitch’s grasp, sand gritting in your teeth, shivering from water’s bitter grasp on your lungs and the fading adrenaline seeping out into the foggy night air, take what is rightfully yours – mementos, charms, souvenirs, whatever you wanna call it – and keep them close. Mine hang from fishing line around my neck, so that with every breath I take, they press against my chest, and I am reminded of fate’s inability to dictate my life.

The second rule to follow is this: there is no one, and especially no woman, who can resist a little charm in order to get what you want. Steal people’s hearts and you will have a puppeteer’s access to the strings pulling their flimsy arms and legs.

Third: Arrogance is the most underrated and underappreciated tool a man has in living a truly great Southern life. And though it can be downplayed by many guises and misdirections, confident flattery is the best filter through which to focus the appreciation you are really placing back on yourself. See also: rule two.

Finally, should life begin to get what seems like the beginnings of an upper hand on you, don’t be afraid to admit temporary defeat. Nothing is more disarming to an enemy than a false sense of satisfaction, offering the best chance for a retaliatory knuckle to his jaw, or better yet, a handshake sealing a new business partnerships. Former enemies make the best friends.

But what with all this blabbering on, I can see you getting confused, sidetracked. Truths are best demonstrated, not told, and so I shall begin, your humble narrator for a brief chapter of my life.


Betting on anything in a town as dismally named as Sigh seems self-defeating, as though the only reward you’re likely to find within is offered right on that rickety sign just to the northeast. Still, being stuck in port for several days leaves one little else to do to pass the time – the whores abound, of course, and there is always the manipulative maintenance of your reputation to undertake, but soon there seems little better to do than watch two idiotic young brutes smack each other silly. It is here that our story begins, tucked into a shadowy and dingy back alley. From my normal vantage point I stood and watched, head cloaked lest any undesirable Imperial idiots should nose around where they know they aren’t wanted, as Lysander and Tuck took turns amateurishly pummeling one another.

Though scrappy young gents, quite familiar in the not-so-underground fighting rings so prevalent within the squalid paths connecting wharves and piers, taverns and brothels, both boys lacked the killer panache needed to put a quick end to the fight. Though Lysander dominated damn near the whole three rounds, as I well knew he should, ol’ Tuckster needed just the one last swing of his unassuming left hook to send the ugly kid to his backside. The spray of bloody teeth spit from Lysander’s crushed mouth reminded me I was lucky only to be losing a few marks, but the sight of his cracked incisor and the emptiness in my pocket left a sour taste in my mouth.

It’s funny how sometimes in life you look around for something, only for it to come up and offer a handshake and beer when you least expect it. A young Dragonborn, looking just cocky enough for me to know that he must be new in town, stood in front of me. The boy introduced himself as Therion Khal, as he searched within the folds of his faded and bloodied armor for a spot to stick his winnings. I know me a good fighter when I see one, and I know me a green recruit to this gritty lump of a town whose cocksure offer barely conceals a bit of needing a companion who knows his way around, and a bigger bit of being scared and alone. I ain’t one to turn down an armored Dragonborn to watch my back, and certainly ain’t one to turn down a drink or three, and so we headed off across the bloodied cobblestones on our way to the finest establishment I knew who would still let me in their doors, the Crow’s Nest.

Beneath the familiar salt-faded and failing beams, a tankard of broy nursing away any trailing bitterness, Therion entertained me with a nervous chatter, and as young men are wont to do, his boastful storytelling revealed more than was appropriate given the audience: a cloaked, bulbous, and mysterious creature, who smelled quite potently of just-spoiled fish. It seemed that the youthful Dragonborn, having no rightful writ of entry into the city, undertook a bit of magical tomfoolery as he temporarily transformed himself into a rather convincing ox. Hitching himself up to the wagon of a particularly brave (some might say idiotic, others opportunistic) farmer, Therion paraded on in under the nose of the guards, pausing, one would hope, to pile a might heap of shit beneath their Imperialistic boots. Safely in town, he had wandered around blindly, stumbling upon the back-corner brawl with what some might call luck, but what I call an opportunistic nose for gambling success. A true Southern Gentleman this kid may yet be.

Proving that as soon as you start relaxin’ a bit, letttin’ the sweet black numbness settle over your achey body, fate’s gonna come throw her shit your way once again, a couple of punk Imperials pushed their way into the tavern and began an abrupt conversation with smuggler who sat across the bar. I knew Rip from…business associations, and though as shady as anyone would expect from a man with perfectly good eyesight who chose to wear a blindfold around, I knew that any trouble he felt was likely to ripple on down my way. I pulled Therion into a quieter corner as we watched a molasses thick tension fill the rowdy bar.

Sure enough, Rip had had enough lip before the guards had even begun to open their mouths, and soon tables were flying and chairs crashing, and I found my hands gripping a garrote tight across the neck of some pasty-skinned Imperial. Proving that the Crow’s Nest houses some of the finest Southern Gentlemen to be found in these parts, a brash sailor stood up from the bar and proceeded to rearrange the choking fool’s facial features with a thoroughly vicious fist to the face. From there all hell broke loose.

An honest-to-goodness whirlpool seeped up from the floor, and I noticed Therion looking all focused-like, as I bounded about with my rapier and dagger in hand. As any Southern Gentleman is always prepared for a good fight, I had vials of my homemade poison ready to go, and soon the Imperial fools had a riptide outside and inside their bodies to worry them. With Rip’s help, and the hearty cheers echoing from behind the makeshift cover of the bar that now protected the tavern’s braver patrons, the Imperial scum soon perished a rampant and violent defeat. Just as soon as it had started, the fighting died down, and a crew of trusty smugglers came in to do the requisite clean up. Drinking resumed as normal.

Now, Rip, cognizant of the unrequested aid we had just provided for him, offered a fresh top up to my new comrade in arms and me, plopping his faded trousers down onto the weathered ash stool next to me. After the requisite thanks and commendations on a fight well-won, that perpetually present conversation thread “business” peeked its head in onto our buzzed tongues. It seemed that Rip had procured a bit of valuable information regarding some goods to be smuggled, and was looking for additional hands in moving the shipment. Unwilling to talk further at the moment (and preferring to drink, of course), we decided to discuss details under the rosy glow of sunset’s gaze the following morning on Dock3. Rip stood a bit woozily, post-adrenal and alcohol-fueled dizziness in full effect, lifted his blindfold to reveal two very active and twinkling eyes, and with a conspiratorial wink and grin, made his way out into the increasingly chilly evening.

Business opportunities, as you may begin to see, course throughout this odd world more pervasively than is immediately apparent. To an untrained eye, our chance encounter with Rip and the ensuing profitability might seem dictated by nothing more than blind luck. An hour sooner, a different tavern, one ballsy patron less, and I might have been riding the same shitwave of feeble cash inflow and inflating boredom that had been tailing me for a solid two weeks. But simpleminded reasoning like this strips away the ingenuity of my actions – it takes a smart man to be in the right place at the right time. An acumen for profitable locations, a social web of potential associates, and the deftness of fist and rapier to manicure any hangnails, so to speak, allow me to get what I want (and need) from this life. And if a kindly fellow Gentleman should take note of my proactive nature and offer a night’s stay in his worn down yet thoroughly comfortable lodgings, well, you certainly won’t hear me complaining.

As it happened, Ol’ Sam, bartender and proprietor of the fine Crow’s Nest and a Gentleman through and through, provided my bravura-fueled companion and me just such a place to sleep our bruises and boozes away. Therion, eager for more fire in his belly, opted to stay tippling for a few more hours. Aching for a fire somewhere slightly lower down, I sweet-talked a night’s romp with the dulcet gem prowling around the tavern for lonely and sad fools. Aptly known as Cherry, her juices are surely sweet. Though some fools would need to pay for such a tasty treat, my charm seems irresistible to women like her, just one more of the many benefits to living the truly Southern life. Plump like the best tarts, Cherry in bed is like the Surender wind in a skip’s sails: fierce, powerful, and liable to blow you all goddam night.

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Welcome to your Adventure Log!
A blog for your campaign

Every campaign gets an Adventure Log, a blog for your adventures!

While the wiki is great for organizing your campaign world, it’s not the best way to chronicle your adventures. For that purpose, you need a blog!

The Adventure Log will allow you to chronologically order the happenings of your campaign. It serves as the record of what has passed. After each gaming session, come to the Adventure Log and write up what happened. In time, it will grow into a great story!

Best of all, each Adventure Log post is also a wiki page! You can link back and forth with your wiki, characters, and so forth as you wish.

One final tip: Before you jump in and try to write up the entire history for your campaign, take a deep breath. Rather than spending days writing and getting exhausted, I would suggest writing a quick “Story So Far” with only a summary. Then, get back to gaming! Grow your Adventure Log over time, rather than all at once.

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