Dark Sun: The Price of Freedom

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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The Chronicler Dreams

The Chronicler rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and opened his journal. It was his fifth one to fill out. Most were of wondrous worlds of fantasy, magic, heroism, and conflicts of godly proportions. He had recorded several stories, in volumes, usually of adventurers hunting for justice. They became nearly gods they did. Some fell, some rose, and some just faded.

He turned to the first blank page, and began writing. He did not see the players in this dream yet but he saw the world. It was a barren world. A world of unrelenting brutality. The magic and wonder are replaced with predatory instincts and desire to survive.

He could feel the heat of the desert sun beating down on him, and he know that it was always that way. He knew that magic killed this world, because it siphoned all life from it. The Chronicler always felt some child-like amusement from the idea of magic having so much power. But the magic here felt withheld and selfish.

The elves and dwarves and halflings became something else. Bred to survive this harsh world, they became, feral, duplicitous, and focused. Hopelessness came over him when he dreamed. He felt like the world held him in its mouth and it was only a matter of when it’s teeth carved into you in a animalistic death.

Luckily the dream was short, so he only lost an hour of sleep. He put a small cloth bookmark in his journal, and just before closing the book, wrote a single question. He slept pondering the question.

What will you give to be free?

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The Chronicler's Dreams
Hope flourishes

The Chronicler yawned himself awake to the rising sun. He slept the whole night, but it was fitful and tense. It was about the desert world again, but this time he saw faces and souls. Prominently, he felt sorrow for these people (which was a loosely used term in this case).

Dipping his quill into the ink, he entered another journal log. The heroes…he crossed out that word. Heroes didn’t feel appropriate. Survivors. That was the right word to describe this group. Survivors driven by revenge and instinct.

The survivors were in an arena, fighting in games of death. The Chronicler had heard of pit fighting, but this was far more grandiose. It was part of a whole festival, in the city of Tyr (the Chronicler imagined a teardrop when he wrote this name) where freedom is a madman’s dream. Hope was more precious than water in this world.

They fought, and they survived, but was was important was the event that day. A king fell. The Chronicler tried to imagine a man on a throne with vassals, fat on his wealth, but this king was a tyrant of destruction. Most talk of tyrants sowing death, but that description was not a metaphor, but a reality for this king. His magic killed. It wasn’t in the way a sword kills or fire. It was in the way starvation and dehydration kills. The Chronicler didn’t much understand this alien power the king had, but he rarely understood his dreams even with proper stories.

The king was felled by a man (half-dwarf, which the Chronicler-as far as he knew-didn’t think existed) with an artifact teeming with verdance. The power of it to provide life was unmatched by the king’s power to take it. A great tree grew in the place where he was struck, bloomed and withered, as if a lifetime passed in moments. He saw hope blossom with death of this tree. It was only in a few souls, but their hope was a shining beacon that could outshine a thousand Dark Suns.

The chronicler found his last statement odd, but gave it just a passing thought. the sun had been awake for an hour, and he supposed that was all there was to his dream, for now.

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