>>6347834
I choose to draw my weapon and tell the other survivors to stand back.

[STATS]

LEADER: Ember. A princess once. Not that it matters now.

POPULATION: 4,612 souls. The final tally.

LOCATION: The Bleak Shore. Between the Drowned City and the Black Sands.

MORALE: Crushed. You are the only spark left.

RESOURCES:

Supplies: 21 days of hardtack and brackish water. Less, if shared.

Arms: 317 functional blades, 42 bows, little enough arrow-wood. 11 suits of salvageable plate.

Tools: Hammers, saws, a few anvils. What was saved, not what was needed.

Lore: The Old King's personal scroll-case. Heavy. Possibly useless.

Curiosities: The Crown of Unyielding Stone. Your father's. It's just a crown.

The Unquantifiable: Your word. Their silent, desperate hope.

IMMEDIATE THREAT: Movement in the ash. It has seen you. The sands do not forget.

>>6347835


You move, not like a princess, but like a blade.

The sound of your steel is the loudest noise on the Bleak Shore. It’s a signal. It’s a promise. Behind you, there is a ripple of tension. People scramble quietly. You hear the soft thud of knees hitting the sand as they pull back, forming a fragile half-circle behind you.

You step forward, alone, into the gap between your people and the unknown. The wind over the Black Sands howls, lifting spirals of fine ash that sting your eyes. You squint into the gloom. The movement slows now. It is deliberate. A shape, darker than the surrounding ash, starts to come into focus—not charging, but moving closer.

You tighten your grip on the hilt. The dying sun glimmers off your blade, a small, defiant star in the growing darkness. Your people hold their breath. You are the line.

What is the shape in the ash?

> A silhouette too tall and thin to be human, moving with a jointless, swaying gait.
> A low, broad mass, like a hunting cat made of solidified shadow and cinders.
> Not one, but many. Dozens of small, skittering forms that move as one shifting cloud.
> A hunched figure in a tattered cloak, one arm raised not in threat, but in a slow, deliberate gesture.
> Write in

I'm available today for a few hours, so I'll run a session if there are enough answers.

Otherwise, I'll resort to posting once a day or so.

This new captcha is ridiculous.

>>6347837
> A silhouette too tall and thin to be human, moving with a jointless, swaying gait.

>>6347837
>> A hunched figure in a tattered cloak, one arm raised not in threat, but in a slow, deliberate gesture.
agreed the captcha is fucking weird

>>6347842
>>6347845

The ash-figure pauses, a stark exclamation mark against the grey waste. It doesn't breathe, doesn't shift. Then, in a motion faster than a striking serpent, it lunges, not the full distance, but a sudden, shocking blur that closes half the gap in a heartbeat. It stops just as abruptly, the ash it displaces billowing around its impossibly long legs.

You stand your ground, blade raised. It has no face you can see, only a suggestion of a head atop that willowy frame. Its voice erupts, not from a mouth, but from the air around it, crystal clear and resonant, shaking the grit on the ground.

"YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF OUR TREATY. TURN BACK NOW, OR THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES."

The words hang in the air, heavier than the Crown in your pack. Treaty? Your people knew of no treaties. The scrolls spoke of a dead land. The Old King’s prophecies muttered of sunken gods and dying stars, never of accords with… things that walk the ash.

Behind you, a muffled gasp. A child begins to whimper before being hushed. Every single survivor is now a witness to this impossibility. Your authority, your very understanding of the world, is being challenged in a language of law you never knew existed.

How do you respond?

> "We know of no treaty. Your sands are all that remain. We do not turn back."
> Slowly lower your blade, but do not sheathe it. "We are survivors of a drowned world, not invaders. Explain this treaty."
> "The signatory king is dead. I am his heir. The treaty must be reviewed."
> You don't negotiate with monsters from the ash. You signal your archers silently, preparing a volley.
> Write in

>>6347846
> "The signatory king is dead. I am his heir. The treaty must be reviewed."

Gets through the point that we have the power to negotiate on behalf of our people. Sorta committing to bluffing or obscuring our circumstances though.

>>6347846
> Slowly lower your blade, but do not sheathe it. "We are survivors of a drowned world, not invaders. Explain this treaty."

Rolled 1 (1d2)

>>6347848 1
>>6347852 2

>>6347848
>>6347852
>>6347856


"The signatory king is no more. I am his successor. We will have to reconsider the treaty."

The creature’s laugh is dry and rasping, like stones tumbling down a cliff. It lifts its arm and point to a direction deep into the ash lands. It then starts to walk away.

"SEEK THE TEMPLE CITY," it says, the words already fading as it walks away. "OUR KING IS THERE."

Its shape dissolves into the shifting grey. For a long moment, nobody moves. The only sound is the wind and the quiet, shaky breath of the people behind you.

You let your sword arm drop. It feels heavy. The adrenaline bleeds out, leaving a cold, hollow feeling in your gut. Temple City. Ash-King. Treaty. The words mean nothing, but they now define everything.

An old woman, Maise, steps up beside you, her hand on your elbow. Her fingers are trembling. "Ember?" she whispers, not to the princess, but to the girl she helped raise. "What do we do?"

Everyone is looking at you. Not at your blade, but at your face. They are waiting for you to make the silence make sense.

What do you do?

> "We can't stay here." Your voice is rough. You point with your sword at the fading tracks in the ash. "A few of the hunters, with me. We see where it leads. The rest of you... make what shelter you can. Just for tonight."
> You kneel right there in the grit, shrugging off your pack. The scroll-case thuds on the ground. "We look. Now. Before we take another step. My father... he must have known something. Help me."
> You take a deep breath, turning to face them all. "We walk. Together. If there's a king, then we go as a people, not beggars. Anyone who can't walk, we carry. We don't look back."
> You look from their tired faces to the vast, empty sands to the side of the creature's path. "It expects us to follow its orders like dogs." You shake your head. "We go, but not where it pointed. We find our own way."
> Write in

>>6347859
> You take a deep breath, turning to face them all. "We walk. Together. If there's a king, then we go as a people, not beggars. Anyone who can't walk, we carry. We don't look back."

>>6347859
>> You take a deep breath, turning to face them all. "We walk. Together. If there's a king, then we go as a people, not beggars. Anyone who can't walk, we carry. We don't look back."

>>6347866
>>6347868


You take a deep breath, turning to face them all. "We walk. Together. If there's a king, then we go as a people, not beggars. Anyone who can't walk, we carry. We don't look back."

The march is a slow, grinding misery. The days bake you in your own sweat, the armor and packs becoming torture. The nights steal the heat from your bones, the cold sinking deep. On the second night, the howls began: distant, multipitched things that don't sound like any beast from the old forests. They circle just beyond the firelight.

On the third night, you run out of firewood.

The darkness becomes absolute, a living thing. The few torches you keep lit are feeble, pathetic things that push back the black by only a few paces. The howls seem closer. No one sleeps. You can hear the chattering of teeth, the soft cries of children. You stand your watch at the edge of the light, blade in hand, staring into nothing.

The next morning, people are moving slowly. Coughs rack the line. Fevers bloom. The old and the very young are fading before your eyes. The hopelessness is a thicker poison than the ash.

You send your last able scouts ahead with a desperate order: Find anything that burns.

They return at noon, their faces cracked with dust but their eyes alight. "Water," one gasps, pointing east. "A river. Real water, cutting through the ash. And... trees. Like bones, but they're wood."

A river. Sustenance. Fire. Life.

But it lies east. The ash-creature’s fading tracks, and the direction it implied for the Temple City, lead almost due north, into the deepest, most barren part of the wastes.

What is the order?

> The creature gave you a destination. To deviate is to show weakness, to invite worse than howls. You press on, leaving the river behind. The strong will carry the weak, or they will be left behind. The King awaits.
> Survival comes first. You lead the people to the riverbank. You make proper fires, boil water, let the sick recover. You secure this lifeline, then decide your next move. The King can wait.
> Rivers have sources. Upstream might lead to higher ground, cleaner water, perhaps even a place of strength. It is a path of exploration, but it is a path away from the immediate directive.
> Rivers lead to confluences, to lakes, to places where people might gather. If there is a Temple City, it would need water. Downstream could lead you to it by a different, more sustainable route.
> Write in

>>6347873
> Rivers have sources. Upstream might lead to higher ground, cleaner water, perhaps even a place of strength. It is a path of exploration, but it is a path away from the immediate directive.

Securing the source, and making sure the water is clean, unpolluted by detritus or feces are top priorities. If the temple is an unknown distance into the most barren parts of the desert, then we need to stock up on clean water for the journey.

>>6347873
>> Survival comes first. You lead the people to the riverbank. You make proper fires, boil water, let the sick recover. You secure this lifeline, then decide your next move. The King can wait.

>>6347873
I'll switch to support >>6347886
Better to make sure our sick recover first, before we come to a decision.

>>6347874
>>6347886
>>6347890


The river is a scar of life in the dead land. You lead the staggering column toward it, a final, desperate lunge. The water is clear and cold, a miracle. The trees along its bank are stark white and leafless, but their wood is solid and burns with a clean, hot flame.

For a day, there is hope. Fires roar. Pots boil. The steam from broth and washed bandages hangs in the air. The sick are laid close to the warmth. You feel the tightness in your own chest begin to ease. You made the right choice.

It happens on the second night.

They emerge from the black water without a splash: long, sinuous shapes the color of deep silt, with too many needle-teeth and eyes that reflect the firelight like cold coins. They move with terrifying speed, lunging from the shallows to drag the unwary into the depths.

Screams rip through the camp. It’s not a battle; it’s a panicked, bloody rout. You fight back with torch and spear, driving the creatures into the river with sheer, desperate violence. When the water stills, twenty of your people are gone. The river runs red in the moonlight.

In the chaos, you manage to pin one. It got greedy, lunging for a child, and took a spear in its side. It’s now thrashing weakly in a net of ropes, a serpentine form as long as two men. Its scales are slick, its wounds oozing dark fluid. It doesn't speak, only lets out a piercing, chittering screech that hurts your ears.

And around its neck, plain as day, is a collar. A simple band of what looks like mother-of-pearl, seamless and obviously crafted. Intelligent. Owned.

Your people stare at it, panting, their faces smeared with ash and blood and grief. The river, your lifeline, is now a grave.

What do you do with the captive?

> It's intelligent. It can be made to communicate. Use gestures, show it the collar, point north toward the Temple City. Apply pressure to its wound if you must. You need to know who it serves.
> A gesture of peace. Or a calculated gamble. Treat its wound, offer it water. The collar means it has a master. Sending it back alive sends a very different message than sending its body.
> Your people need vengeance. They need to see strength. Execute the creature on the riverbank, cut the collar off as a trophy, and let its kin in the water see what happens to those who prey on you.
> Release It. Let it go, with the collar. A message of your own. You are not beasts to be culled; you are people who show mercy, but who also fight back. See what, or who, it returns to.
> Write in

>>6347900
> It's intelligent. It can be made to communicate. Use gestures, show it the collar, point north toward the Temple City. Apply pressure to its wound if you must. You need to know who it serves.

Nah, it went after a child. We don't need to execute it, but mercy is more than it deserves. A little pressure is fine, to find its master.

>>6347900
> It's intelligent. It can be made to communicate. Use gestures, show it the collar, point north toward the Temple City. Apply pressure to its wound if you must. You need to know who it serves.

Rolled 15 (1d100)

>>6347900
>> Write in
Eat it.

>>6347902
>>6347906
>>6347907


Your efforts are futile. Gestures, threats, pointing north—the creature only watches with hateful, alien eyes, hissing and screeching. Finally, desperation curdling into something darker, you resort to more direct methods. It endures, a disturbing resilience in its agony.

It’s only when you lift the pearl collar, holding it before its eyes, that you see true emotion: panic. Its body coils tight. It begins to rasp, a stream of sibilant, spit-filled syllables. One word rises above the others, repeated like a chant or a curse: "Szasss... Szasss-th! Szasss!"

“Szass?” you demand, leaning close. “What is Szass?”

The creature flinches violently at your pronunciation, its eyes blazing with fresh fury. A name. You’re sure of it. Its master, its god, its king.

You press the advantage. You call for a stone hammer, holding it poised over the luminous band. The serpent-being thrashes wildly, a piercing, desperate shriek tearing from its throat. It’s not afraid for its life now; it’s terrified for the collar.

Why? Is it a mark of rank? A magical focus? Its very soul?

The answer matters. You hold its purpose in your hands.

What is your judgement?

> Smash the pearl band to dust before its eyes. If it is their power or their bond, sever it. See what happens to the creature, and what message its shattered master receives.
> Sheathe the hammer. Use the intact collar as leverage. Point north, then to the collar, then to the creature. A clear trade: guidance for its treasure. Release it with the collar only if it leads you.
> Kill the creature. Butcher it. If its people see you as beasts, act as predators. Study its anatomy. Take the collar for your scholars to decipher. Its meat might feed the hungry, a grim necessity.
> Send a different message. You are civilized. You respect property, even of your enemies. You let it go, wounded, with its precious collar. Let it report to its "Szass" that you are not mindless savages, but a people with honor and restraint.
> Write in

>>6348156
>> Smash the pearl band to dust before its eyes. If it is their power or their bond, sever it. See what happens to the creature, and what message its shattered master receives.

>>6348156
> Sheathe the hammer. Use the intact collar as leverage. Point north, then to the collar, then to the creature. A clear trade: guidance for its treasure. Release it with the collar only if it leads you.

Rolled 78 (1d100)

>>6348156
>Put on the pearl band

>>6348156
> Sheathe the hammer. Use the intact collar as leverage. Point north, then to the collar, then to the creature. A clear trade: guidance for its treasure. Release it with the collar only if it leads you.

>>6348169
>>6348195
>>6348290
>>6348320

You lower the hammer. The creature goes still, its vertical-slitted eyes locked on the pearly band in your other hand.

Slowly, deliberately, you point north with the hammer's haft. Then you point to the collar. Then you point to the creature itself. You sheath the hammer, holding the collar out—a clear offer.

The serpent-being stares. It seems to weigh its terror against some deep-seated instinct. Finally, it gives a single, sharp nod of its wedge-shaped head.

You follow it, leaving the riverbank with a hundred of your most capable warriors. The creature moves swiftly over the ash, leading you northeast for hours until you crest a rise.

Below, nestled in a canyon where the black sands give way to grey stone, is a village. Huts of woven reeds and mud hug a thermal spring, steam rising into the air. Dozens of the serpent-people move between them. They see you instantly.

A chorus of hostile hisses erupts. Warriors scramble, raising spears tipped with sharpened black stone. Your century of hardened survivors tightens ranks, shields locking, blades bared. You outnumber their fighters two to one.

Before blood can be spilled, a figure emerges from the largest hut. An elderly serpent-woman, her scales dulled with age, leaning on a staff. She moves to the front of her trembling people and looks at you, not with fear, but with weary recognition.

Her voice is dry, like scales over sand, and the words are archaic, but unmistakably your tongue.

"Humans," she rasps. "Should not be here."

Her gaze flicks to your guide, to the pearl collar still in your grip, then back to your face. There is history in her eyes, and a quiet, terrible certainty.

What do you do?

> They are hostile, they attacked you at the river, and they know of a treaty you didn't. Eliminate the threat, take their village and its life-giving spring for your people. Let the Ash-King see your resolve.
> Hold your ground. "We are here because we were told to be. Speak of the treaty. Speak of Ssass. Speak of the Temple City. Or we will take the answers from the ruins of your homes."
> Lower your weapons. You have leverage: the captive, the collar, and superior force. Offer a trade: safe return of their warrior and the collar, in exchange for information, safe passage, and an end to hostilities.
> You are a heir to a sunken kingdom. Draw the Crown of Unyielding Stone from your pack. Display it to her. "We are not just 'humans.' We are the last of a signatory people. Take us to your master."
> Write in

>>6348495
>Hold your ground. "We are here because we were told to be. Speak of the treaty. Speak of Ssass. Speak of the Temple City. Or we will take the answers from the ruins of your homes."
These things eat children, so I don't think we should trust them or treat them delicately at all.

>>6348495
>Hold your ground. "We are here because we were told to be. Speak of the treaty. Speak of Ssass. Speak of the Temple City. Or we will take the answers from the ruins of your homes."

>>6348538
>>6348543


You do not flinch. You let the silence stretch, your warriors a wall of grim patience at your back.

"We are here," you say, your voice cutting the arid air, "because we were told to be. Speak of the treaty. Speak of Ssass. Speak of the Temple City. Or we will take the answers from the ruins of your homes."

The old serpent-woman’s tongue flicks out, tasting the threat. She stares, unblinking, for a long, punishing minute. When she speaks again, it is with the flat tone of reciting law.

"Humans are to be killed on sight. Orders of the Ash King. Ancient treaty. We do not enter your Drowned Lands, you do not enter our Ash. Ssass-th...” she hisses the name properly. “Is a Scion-Lord. You would call him a Duke. Son of a true Dragon. He rules this reach of ash."

Her head tilts. "Who told you that you could come here?"

You describe the towering, jointless creature on the Bleak Shore, its booming voice, its command to seek the Temple City.

The elder processes this, her aged eyes clouding with a dawning, almost pitying understanding. "Ah," she rasps. "You spoke to a Border Ghoul. There are hundreds. They are ancient. Mindless guardians. They have one command: turn back trespassers, or tell them to go to the King if they are... persistent. If you were told to go, then go."

She gestures a clawed hand toward your captive. "Release our son. Then leave this place. Your treaty violation is already written. Your only hope is the King's mercy, which does not exist."

What is your command?

> A lesson in consequences. "You attack us, then hide behind ancient words? No. We take payment for our dead, and we leave your 'son' as a message for your Scion-Lord." Kill the prisoner, then march north.
> You are in a web of ancient rules. Play the game. Return their warrior unharmed, but demand one of their people, perhaps this elder herself, guide your main column to the Temple City. An act of "good faith" that also gives you a hostage and a translator.
> The Ghoul's command is void. The treaty is void. You need this spring, this shelter. Order the attack. Wipe out the warriors, enslave the rest, and secure a permanent foothold in the ash. Let the Scion-Lord come to you.
> The elder’s words have the ring of truth. You are walking into a trap laid by a mindless thing. Cut your losses. Release their warrior and return to your people at the river, and plot a new course, perhaps following the river away from this cursed directive.
> Write in

>>6348564
>You are in a web of ancient rules. Play the game. Return their warrior unharmed, but demand one of their people, perhaps this elder herself, guide your main column to the Temple City. An act of "good faith" that also gives you a hostage and a translator.

>>6348571

You signal your warriors. They shove the captive forward. He stumbles back to his kin, the pearl collar still around his neck. The hissing from the village subsides into wary silence.

You lock eyes with the elder. "You will guide us. You yourself."

Another long, silent calculation passes over her scaled face. She turns and speaks to her people in their sibilant tongue. A heated, whispered debate ensues. Finally, she turns back, her posture one of grim resignation.

"I will show the way," she says. "But you cannot go as you are. The direct path to the Temple City crosses the Wolf-Valley. The Ulden ride there. They are... herdsmen. They see a column like yours, they will cull it like game. You will never reach the King."

She points a claw to the jagged, dark mountains in the far north-east. "There is another path. The Mines of Inkal. Ancient tunnels. They cut beneath the wastes, straight to the foundations of the capital. A back door."

A heavy pause hangs in the air. Her tongue flicks out nervously.

"But... the Spectre dwells there. The guardian of the deep way. It will ask a toll in life. It is old, and it remembers the treaty’s terms. To let humans pass... it will demand a human sacrifice. Willing. Or it will take its toll from all of you."

She leaves the terrible choice hanging before you. The dangerous wastes with your entire people, or a dark, haunted shortcut that requires a pound of flesh paid in advance.

What is your decision?

> Take your entire people and chance the Wolf-Valley. You will face the Ulden as a united people, relying on your numbers and strength. The elder will guide you above ground, or die.
> You cannot risk everyone on an old snake’s word. You, the elder, and a small band of your best, twenty at most, will enter the Mines. The rest of your people will remain at the river to await your return or signal.
> You will take your entire column a hundred men strong through the Mines. You'll tell the old snake to bring some escort. When the Spectre demands its price, you will offer it one of the serpent-warriors instead. Let the toll be paid in the blood of those who attacked you first.
> Split your forces. The majority of your people, visibly, will head for the Wolf-Valley with many torches and noise, drawing the attention of the Ulden. Meanwhile, you, the elder, and a crucial few will slip through the Mines unnoticed.
> Write in

>>6348582
>Write-in
Take the elder and our people in neither direction until we are out of the village's sight, so they cannot readily determine our course.

Call our people together and ask if there is one among them that would offer their life to secure safe passage to the Temple for our clan. If none are willing, we will all march as one through the Wolf Valley at first light.

>>6348582
>Write-in
Back away to a safe spot with the captive first. Can't trust them monsters who just killed some of us moments ago

>>6348582
>Return to camp and tell our people to follow the river upstream until they reach its source and make semi-permanent camp. If they are assailed, they may counter-attack at their discretion. We will take 20 warriors and a volunteer willing to die, then proceed with the elder into the mines.

>>6348591
I'll back this.