I'm making a lot of stylistic touches. This campaign is a conglomeration of moments I've experienced, PCs I've met, characters I've made, other campaigns I've run (and played), and everything I love about D&D (and over-the-top writing).
It's both the collective detritus of over a decade spent wasting my time on stories and games as well as an absurd labor of love.
I apologize in advance if it seems pretentious. I am opening my head and allowing the contents to leak out. This is the result. Consider it a writing experiment--or merely an effort to excise a menagerie of writing demons from my skull.
Read at your own risk.
"Time is an illusion. Nothing exists but the beginning and the end."
A red-headed woman in blood-splattered studded leather stands. Her body is a tapestry of scars; her eyes blaze with a scalding heat that can scorch flesh from bone. Though battered and bruised, she holds her stance and wields a single silver-etched sword. Her current look can be best described as 'murderously murdering murder'.
"In the beginning, there was nothing. Then came the Equation--Existence--the Multiverse."
A pale-skinned fair-haired elven boy stares forward with piercing blue eyes. Every inch of him below the neck is encased in gleaming high-collared gunmetal blue armor wreathed with a tattered indigo cloak. In either hand, he wields an ornately decorated six-shooter pistol; the barrels smolder with pungent smoke, freshly spent rounds clattering to his feet as he unloads the chambers with a quick snap of the wrists. His stare is determined, but thoughtful.
"In an instant, the Equation is solved. Its completion marks the end."
Swarmed from head to toe in filthy gray wraps of every size, a living heap of soiled fabric spins about, both gloved hands clutching battered and chipped katana. It is clear that he has no idea how to wield these weapons, yet hacks with such sincere intensity that it scarcely matters. Not a stitch of his skin can be seen--only his eyes, glowing a bright inquisitive yellow beneath his feathered hood's plume, with a broken dandelion flower-pot sitting atop his head. Around his neck is a crude sign that reads--"ASASIN: WIL WERK 4 CHEEP".
"Everything that happens in between--all your pain, all your suffering, all your joy, all your grief--everything--is contained in the span of that single instant. And none of it matters."
A handsome young man dressed in lavish black and gold holds out his hand, peering intently at an intricate pocketwatch. To his back stands an ancient white-haired wizard, dressed in fading grays, staring into his own hand at an identical pocketwatch. The old man's gaze is weary and sad, as if remembering some long forgotten sin.
"Everything you know. Everything you are. Everything you love--will be washed away. For there is only the beginning and the end."
A black-skinned dark-elf stares, sinking low into a stance. His white hair has been hacked short, and his torso is exposed--strips and pieces of his cloak still cling the broad breadth of his shoulders. A dozen or more slashes gleam wetly along the length of him, with a wickedly curved long-sword forged of shimmering crystal clutched in both hands. At his feet are the shattered remains of another sword--his stare is at once a combination of wretched malevolence and calm acceptance.
"And nothing lies between."
Tread carefully, for you walk on hallowed ground.
You will not find this place marked upon any planar map or book of lore. No one speaks of it--it is sacred in all respects that something can be.
This where dead heroes lie.
There--fifteen gravestones west and three gravestones north of the center. Do you see it? A marker, just like any other. Perhaps this stone belongs to one of the six brave souls who made a final stand at the caverns of Tiazan against the Tanar'ri hordes. Or perhaps it belongs to a penitent priest who spent her life praying for the lost souls of the Waste. Or perhaps by a lowly flower-girl who committed one unselfish act before her death.
You cannot know. Here, everyone is the same. There are no words writ upon the countless markers that line the grassy field. No names, no epitaphs, no flowers. Nothing distinguishes one marker from the next.
Nothing but memory.
It is difficult to tell the red-headed girl's age. She could be young and lovely if it were not for all the scars. They gather in covetous streaks along her bronzed arms, hungrily gorging themselves upon the sleek length of razor-sharp sinew. Though she is hard in all the places she should be soft, she possesses a ferocious magnetism about her--like the attraction of a tigress ready to pounce.
She drops low now, kneeling to touch the stone. A slithering serpent with viridian scales and smoldering eyes is tattooed to her arm, emerging from her sleeve as if roused from a slumber. Its fangs ending at her index and ring finger. When she brings the fingers to touch the marker, it briefly burns.
"You know I ain't too sharp with speeches, so I'll keep this short."
Her voice is quick and deft, and as sharp as a sword. It has the trembling ring of a singer and the quiet lurking strength of a killer.
"I'm leaving--you know the drill. 'Verse in trouble. Fiends on the move. Loths plottin'. Same old, same old."
A slow wind stirs distant reeds from their lethargy, drawing from them the rich scent of morning.
"They'll keep you well, here. Place is a gods-damn--uh, 'scuse me. Devils-damned museum. Had to rattle me sword just t'get through. Heh."
She smiles, but it is brief and forced.
"Truth is, I can't stand this place. Everyone here's got a whole tree-trunk stuck up their arse. Pardon me tongue, dear, but it's the damn truth."
At last, she moves to stand. Where her fingers had laid, two soot marks now stain the rock. She knows that it will be noticed--she knows that it will be fixed. But for now, it will do.
"But I'll come back. Every year. I won't forget. You know that--"
An uncharacteristic flush stains her cheeks into dark apples. For a moment, she appears as young as she is.
"You know how I felt about you. I hope you did. I--uh. I've got to go," she murmurs.
Feeling immensely silly, she turns.
And as she leaves to face her many enemies, she thinks to herself:
Will I do the right thing?
And here, in a restaurant nestled away in some mudball Prime-World, a boy prepares a delicious dish of fried liver and onions.
If that doesn't sound appetizing, it's only because you've never had his fried liver and onions. If anything, his ability to make the dish even tolerable is a testament to his exceptional skills as a chef.
And as he prepares the meal, he considers his decision, as well as the announcement he plans to make. And as he carries the food out to his father and friends, he thinks to himself:
Am I doing the right thing?
And here, lurking in an enclosed planar prison of ice and shadow, an old man ponders Fate.
Around him, ancient glaciers crack and crumble in an intolerable yawning blackness; the plane itself is nothing but shattered fragments of ice forever suspended in an infinite void.
He himself is old--implausibly, impossibly, ridiculously old--the sort of old that makes universes look like impertinent young whippersnappers and would make Ao go 'gods-damn boy, you're old'. He is also powerful, but only in certain ways--for instance, he cannot leave this place.
His role in this story is all ready complete, but that is because his role is very complex. This is often the case when you are traveling backwards through time.
And as he travels from the end to the beginning, forever alone, he thinks to himself:
Have I done the right thing?
"I want to know her story, Wally."
Wally peered. The captain sighed.
"Gods damn it, I want to know what happened."
I do, too. More, please.
BoGr Guide to Missile Combat:
1) Equip a bow or crossbow.
2) Roll a natural 1 on d20.
3) ?????
4) Profit!