Chapter 14: It is not fire — devils, dark, or anything

E4:A2 of my solo Cairn campaign

Opening the session

Welcome to Episode 4, Act 2 of my solo Cairn campaign.

Last session, Sysa and Ramil narrowly escaped a brutal fight with the peccary freaks and their grotesque god: the snallygaster. Sysa suffered some witchy fatigue and Ramil suffered a cracked skull. Even with witchcraft, Ramil needs rest.

In their rush to flee, the two strayed off the trail and became lost. I opened this session with them looking for the next POI on the map. In game terms, that’s an Explore move and +1 level of fatigue. That’s not terrible — they lost most of their equipment when Eveleen bolted.

After bookkeeping, I rolled my theme, weather, and checked for a random event:

• Theme: “Labyrinthine” and “Stag”

• Weather: “Calm & Pleasant”

• Random Event: Yes…

Random events in The Wenderweald

I roll a d6 and The Dread Die (a d4 to start). If they’re equal, there’s a random event. It happens roughly 1-in-6 rolls.

From there, I roll on my events table: “Miracle Harvest.”

Finally, I roll to see who it affects and how it affects them. I roll 2d6.

• Even result: PC

• Odd result: NPC

• 7-12: positive

• 3-6: negative

• 2: terrible for everyone

This Miracle Harvest turned out to be positive for a band of pilgrims.

I didn’t know what that meant yet, but I jotted it down and trusted the dice to find a place for it during the game.

Here’s how it played out.

“It is not fire — devils, dark, or anything”

They were well lost before they stopped running. The Wenderweald clawed at their clothes and mud filled their boots. The anemic sky faded into a dreamy, starless gloaming. Sysa, gasping for breath, set Ramil down on a rotten log.

“I need to stop,” she said. Her feet were blood puddings from all the running. Her back ached. She was famished. Ramil didn’t argue though it was clear he would have but for his cracked skull.

“Can’t ss-stay here,” he mumbled. He wasn’t sure if his words came out in the right order. He looked to Sysa for reassurance.

“How’s your head?” she asked. That was answer enough.

“S’fine,” he lied. And she knew it. He was made of iron, her Ram. Half as sharp and twice as strong. She moved around him to check his bandages.

“I can’t stop the pain, but it should keep death waiting.”

“Said s’fine. We keep moving.” He reached for his waterskin. That was gone too. They had nothing left — all gone with Eveleen. She was likely meat for the freaks now.

They walked in silence, each step heavier — aching, bleeding, gnawing.

I made a Travel move to find the next POI, triggering a couple rolls. One to see if they get lost (they didn’t) and a hazard die (environment shift)

The sky above dimmed, never fully dark, just... rotting.

“There’s no sun here,” Ramil groaned. He stood and Sysa laced her arms under his bulk to keep him from toppling over the log.

“No,” she agreed. She strained to help him forward. “Razvan said there was once. But it’s dead now.”

“Your sister is a damn fool to hide out here.”

Sysa sniped back sharper than she meant to. “You think it’s safer back there for her? For me?”

“For us, love.”

“You’re not a witch, Ram. They won’t burn you.”

“They’ll burn me same as you. Same as Razvan. When we find her — and we will find her — you need to tell her that. We need to be far from The Reach.”

“Where the fuck—”

A twig snapped. They both dropped to the loam beneath the dun ferns. They listened in silence and held their breath together. They waited. Nothing.

Ramil stood slowly, axe in hand.

“A deer?” he whispered.

“Not deer. Not here— not exactly,” Sysa answered.

“C’mon.”

In Cairn, trails are marked by signs and they lead to new POIs. I made a list of my own to fit The Wenderweald. It’s at the end of this article.

I rolled the trail marker: smoke. The POI: a bootlegger’s still. In The Wenderweald, magic is illegal, but bootleggers make it and sell it for a high price in The Reach.

Sysa caught the scent of something sweet and pungent — perfumed almost.

“Ram — you smell that?”

“Smell what?”

She lifted him up again, and they pushed through the brambles and sinking mud. Down in a gulley, a fur-clad man toiled over a smoking still. The pipe belched pink and yellow smoke flecked with green sparks.

“Bootlegger,” Sysa hissed.

“Out here?” Ramil asked. He wouldn’t dig a grave out here — let alone set a cabin.

“Where else.” Some bootleggers took in travelers. Most were insane.

She looked back at Ramil. He set his broken head against a tree, willing himself to find his balance.

“Do you think Eve…?” Ramil started, but words failed him. Even his thoughts seemed to be painful.

“Get up, Ram. We have to move.” The two descended into open view for the bootlegger.

Reaction roll: curious. I rolled up some details for this bootlegger (Unther) and carried on.

“Oi! Who’s that then?” the man barked, but it was a pitiful, reed-thin demand just like him. A boy. No more than fifteen.

“My husband is hurt,” she grunted.

The youth rushed forward to help but stopped to find the dagger on his belt.

“Are you folk witches?” he asked. Always that question first. Always the enemy first. Never safe, even out here.

“You fucking better hope not, boy. Now help me!”

Oracle: will he help? Yes

The boy relented, eased off his knife, and moved under Ramil’s shoulders opposite Sysa. She felt his weight lift and air rush back into her lungs.

“Inside. I’ve got a cot.”

The three shuffled sluggishly to the youth’s steading and let Ramil’s bulk collapse onto the pine-bough cot.

Sysa fell to her seat on the dirt floor beside him.

The youth stood over Ramil and made to inspect his wound.

“Leave it!” Sysa said. It was dressed up with witchcraft, and any bootlegger would spot it in a heartbeat.

“What happened to him? Did witches get him?”

Sysa was too exhausted to explain. She just shook her head.

“Is he…”

“He’ll be fine. Just needs rest.”

The youth puffed his chest. “You’re welcome to my cabin, good woman. Keep away from the still, though, eh? It’s at a delicate stage.”

Sysa rolled her eyes and glanced outside where the copper contraption steamed.

“What are you brewing?”

Oracle: What is he brewing “Decaying…Philter.”

“Witchbane,” the boy said, excitedly. Kills witches on contact. Burns them and their vile contagion!”

“Does it work?” Sysa asked. She pawed for Ramil’s axe blindly.

Oracle: Does it work? No, but...

“No, but I think I’m close. This latest batch is promising.”

It occurred to me that Unther couldn’t have been out here alone. That’s when I remembered the random event — Pilgrims looking for a Miracle Harvest — and my theme: Labyrinthine Stag.

Oracle: are there Stag Knights out here? Yes.

Sysa’s hackles rose. There was no way he built all this alone.

“You’re alone out here?” she asked, stepping toward the doorframe, the axe behind her.

“No. I came with Grim Enoch’s company. They’re looking for witches.”

“Stag Knights? How many?”

d66 roll…

“Counting me…sixty-three.”

Sysa felt sick. Sixty-three zealots, hunting witches. Hunting her. She couldn’t stay here. Not long. And not with this boy prying.

Ending the session

Sysa must be terrified and furious she’s stuck here — again — at the mercy of mad zealots. She has to wait out the “night” for now, and hope she doesn’t run into a company of crusaders the next day.

Until next time, stay close, and watch for the Wenderweald watching.

Want to use the Wenderweald in your game?

I made a zine for this setting that’s PWYW on itch.io.

Check it out — Witches of the Wenderweald