The following is prewritten content from my Dungeons and Dragons campaign that I have put together as Dungeon Master for my players to set the scene and engage them in the world of fantasy and adventure I hope to create for them. Between each portion, my players have interactions of their own that allows them to immerse themselves into their characters, as well as find a level of connection to the world around them. I have placed this content here in the hopes of inspiring other DMs or players and to hopefully spark some level of imagination. There will be portions that dramatically cut from one scene to another, and some context that may be missing, since these moments are created in game.
Keep in mind, that all of this is told over a small dining room table with a group of friends sitting together, trying to enjoy a bit of respite from real life and spend time together laughing and killing beasts.
If you wish to use any of the content in your own RPs, please remember to ask permission, give credit to and link to the original creator. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy.
Welcome to the country of Falbreak on the continent of Pyrella, the center of the civilized world; a country of sophistication, arts, and learning. You find yourselves in the shining capital of the country, Storm March, inside of a dimly lit gathering hall, filled with smoke from candles and pipes alike. The tables at which you are seated are stacked high with a variety of foods (cooked chickens and hams, warm breads with pads of butter lavishly spread across them, various puddings, potato dishes, and gravies) all spread before you to eat freely. For some of you, this is the most food you have seen in quite some time, and you each have large, golden platters, filled to overflowing with your own choices of the delicious dishes. The aroma of warm, well seasoned goods wafts about you tantalizingly, but you dare not eat yet, as an imposing man stands at the head of the room, dressed in well worn leather armor with a gleaming pauldron in the shape of a glowering bear on his shoulder. His brown hair is pulled back into a long braid that hangs down to the middle of his back and a bronze, simple circlet crosses his brow. His one good eye (his other destroyed by a long scar that travels across his forehead and down to below his cheek) scans the room as he places his thick, calloused hands against his hips. He makes sure he has everyone’s full attention before speaking.
“Welcome warriors and travelers to Storm March and the Winter’s Run,” his voice bellows deeply over the silenced tables filled with men and women in an array of leathers and armor, though none carry any weapons at their sides. “I am Blade Wielder Tamreet Urnrend, and I will be your guide on this year’s Run. You have all come here to find something within yourselves; to go into the wild Rawon Woods and to come back changed. If you are skilled enough to make it, that is.” He pauses, his eye travelling over the room, brows knit together in tense scrutiny, and in the moment his gaze lands upon each of you, you feel him almost reach into the depths of your souls, weighing your skills without even seeing you in action.
“Each of you will approach the dais,” he continues, “at which point you will place your hand into the brazier. The gods of the hunt will give you your quarry within the flames. Others may or may not be given the same creatures as you. The choice to fight with or against those tasked with the creatures you hunt is yours. The hunt is designed to show not only your abilities as warriors, hunters, and trackers, but also your purpose under the hands of the Gods. Be attentive to what you learn about yourselves as well as those seated next to you within this hall. You have come for different purposes, and the tests you face tomorrow will provide you with the answers you seek. At dawn, your Winter’s Run begins. Now,” he pauses, his eyes travelling over the room once more, “who’s first?”
A tall human woman with a shaved head and swirling, banded tattoos covering her right arm steps forward. A large medallion rests over her leather jerkin, embossed with a mask of oak leaves and acorns.
As you watch, she moves to the podium and with a nod from Blade Wielder Tamreet, she stretches her hand into the flames. There is a slight gasp and murmur from those in the hall, but the woman stands unmoved as her hand is engulfed in flames. Her body stiffens for a moment, and you hear her inhale sharply before she withdraws her hand from the fire and steps back shakily.
“The wolf!” Tamreet calls out loudly, and the Great Hall erupts in cheers as the woman walks uneasily back to her table, those sitting there stand and clap her on the back with wide grins and offer ale to help steady her.
One by one, those gathered together in the hall make their way to the brazier. The heat of the flame washes over each of you as you find your turn in the line of those who have queued to learn their quarry. As you reach out your hands into the flames, some of you more tentative than others, you feel instead of extreme warmth, a sharp cold envelop your fingertips and your wrists, rushing up your arms and into the extremities of your body. Your vision goes dark and for a moment, you feel as though time itself ceases to exist. In your mind’s eye, you are rushed out of the Great Hall, high above the city of Storm March, and out down a road east, away from the citadel, towards a dark wood. Deep within the woods, next to a large, clear lake, the image of a monstrous bear, larger than any normal beast, lifts before your eyes. You see it rise on its haunches and in your mind you hear a deep roar that rattles your bones and makes you grit your jaw involuntarily. Your teeth creak with the pressure. Suddenly, the vision fades from your eyes and you find yourselves gasping heavily, facing the room and the many other hunters before you.
“The bear!” calls Tamreet Urnrend, “Your hunt is chosen.”
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You wake in the morning after the assignment ritual to a cold, dark day, light snow drifting gently from the grey and clouded sky. The road outside of the great hall where you have found lodgings is muddy and nearly empty in the early dawn light. The other warriors, mages, hunters, and gentry who gathered for the Winter’s Run with you the night before now stand in small groups or alone, retrieving their weapons from the Blade Wielder Initiate who had collected them from all who chose to enter at the door of the Great Hall. You see a variety of longswords, bows, staffs, sickles, clubs, javelins, and other both impressive and meager weapons passed back to their owners before your own items are given to each of you. As you clean your gear, ensuring that all is accounted for and properly readied for the task ahead, you hear a low drum beat begin to sound as an obscured and greyed dawn sunlight crests the city walls. The beat grows louder and faster before a low horn shatters the air, signaling the beginning of this year’s Winter’s Run.
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You leave the city walls, the Blue Ridge Trail stretching before you; the path to the Rawon Woods. About a quarter of a mile outside of the gleaming capital of Falbreak, large oaks begin to stretch their bows across the path. It takes you about an hour and a half before you reach the solid tree line of the woods, and several other groups who have travelled the path alongside of you either pause on the outskirts or delve immediately into the dark forest ahead.
Some of you feel nerves tickling the back of your throats, a shiver crossing down your back. Others feel excitement at the prospect of the beginning of the hunt and the promise of destiny and a challenging kill. As you enter the woods, the already dim winter morning light fades as the shadows of the leaves and branches overhead obscure the sky from view. Light mists swirl among the bases of the ancient trees and as you walk. Shadows seem to slip through the haze, though you’re not sure if it is simply a trick of the light and your nerves, or wildlife disturbed by the footsteps of the hunters around you.
The Hunt begins.
That Kelly Nicole 