I intend to run this adventure for my group. I've done a playtesting session with Gemini being the DM and here's the first part of it summarized. It features my Barbarian Dwarf character, Bolnir Stonecarver. The AI DM is handling the adventure a bit differently than I will for my players but it has been a very fun solo experience thus far and I'm enjoying seeing my creation come to life. Without further ado....
The Tithe of Alpenhaus
A Chronicles of Bolnir Stonecarver Tale
The mountain did not want them there. The wind howled through the narrow pass of the Grey Peaks, carrying a bite that could turn a man’s blood to slush. Bolnir Stonecarver, a son of the stone built broad and unyielding, lowered his head against the gale. His long brown beard, braided and stiff with frost, flowed like a frozen river over his chest.
"To the gates!" he roared. Behind him, his companions—the Tiefling wizard, the elven scout, and the grim cleric—struggled to keep pace. As they passed beneath the heavy timber archway of Alpenhaus, the wind died with an unnatural suddenness. The village felt entombed.
They found a flicker of life at The Frosted Flagon. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasting meat and woodsmoke, but it lacked the warmth of a true hearth. The patrons sat in hushed clusters, their eyes following the strangers with a rhythmic, predatory stillness.
Bolnir approached the bar. The barkeep, a massive ox of a man named Jorgan, offered a smile that was too wide and eyes that were too cold. "Welcome, travelers," the man boomed. He did not know the name Stonecarver, nor did he care. To him, they were merely fresh meat.
The dwarf didn't hesitate when the silver mirror behind the bar revealed the truth: the patrons were empty shadows, and Jorgan was a monster in a man's skin.
The Death of Jorgan
"Lila! Keth!" Bolnir’s voice cracked like a whip.
The tavern erupted. Jorgan lunged across the bar, his hands locking onto Bolnir's shoulders with the strength of iron shackles. The dwarf let out a guttural roar, his center of gravity dropping as he fought the beast's grip. With a sudden, explosive surge of mountain-bred strength, Bolnir broke the hold and sent the massive barkeep crashing into his own shelves.
Jorgan scrambled up, dripping in spilled rotgut and his own foul, black ichor, and turned to flee toward the kitchen. He never made it. Bolnir’s greataxe hummed through the air in a devastating arc. The blade bit deep into Jorgan's spine, nearly severing the creature in two. The barkeep slammed into the doorframe, his yellow eyes fading as he slid to the floor in a heap of ruin.
Snatching a heavy iron key and a blood-stained ledger from the corpse, Bolnir turned toward the door. "To the church! Now!"
The Belfry and the Brand
They found the church under siege. While his companions held the sanctified doors against the slavering horde, Bolnir scaled the frozen masonry of the tower. He crested the ledge just as a winged Wraith—once a priest of this parish—prepared to drain the life from Father Thaddeus.
Bolnir dove between them, his axe shearing through spectral ribs. He shielded the dying priest with his own body, ignoring the necrotic chill that seeped into his marrow. As the Wraith retreated into the blizzard, Bolnir signaled the party below with the great bell.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
The tolling brought more than just the party. Through the graveyard marched five armored women—the Crimson Brand. They moved with military precision, silvered blades drawn. Beside them walked a woman in crimson leather, her eyes sharp and predatory.
"Identify yourself, Dwarf!" the lead Inquisitor shouted up at the belfry. Her heavy crossbowmen leveled their weapons at Bolnir’s chest. "Is the Father turned? If he bears the mark, he dies with the monsters!"
Bolnir heaved the unconscious priest to the ledge, exposing his neck. "The fall will kill him! Here, see? The blood is red, not black! I don't let my charges turn while I've got breath in my lungs!"
The woman in crimson leather—the one the others called 'Ella—narrowed her eyes. "His hands are steady, Vespera," she noted quietly. "A man possessed by the hunger doesn't tend to wounds. The dwarf speaks truth."
The Inquisitor, Vespera, raised a gauntleted hand. "Bring him down. If he breathes, we will take him to the sanctum. But mark me—if he so much as hisses at the dawn, I will execute him, and you for protecting him."
The Sanctuary
Bolnir carried the priest down the winding stone throat of the tower and into the sanctuary. The interior was a haunting space of timber beams and cold ash. As the party tumbled inside, bolting the heavy oak doors against the scratching shadows outside, the Inquisitors followed.
Bolnir slumped into a pew, his strength finally failing. The necrotic damage felt like a hollow void in his chest. He pulled Jorgan’s ledger from his pack and flipped to the final pages. Names were struck through with crimson wax—the Mayor, the Barkeep, the children of the village.
"The village wasn't conquered," Bolnir grunted, his voice a low rumble in the hallowed silence as the Inquisitors approached. "It was sold."
Vespera Vane looked at the book, then at the cowering villagers. "We cannot stay here. If the Master’s tax collectors come at dawn, this sanctuary will become a pyre. Move to the catacombs. Now."
Bolnir leaned his head against the cold stone of the pew. The mountain was still screaming, but for now, the Stonecarver needed the silence of the earth.
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| The arrival to the tavern and the fight at the church. |
