BW 1: Chapter Three


As you step into the room, the room slowly fills with a dim orange light; not from the runes, and from no source you can see. The illumination wavers, cascading across the stone as if you stood atop a deep pool of water. It is a small chamber, nearly three paces deep, with a small shelf against the back wall. Atop the shelf, there is something beside the familiar moldered corpse pile you so often find: A full sack the size of an apple, its neck cinched tight.

I check the shelf. What kind of books are on it? I immediately go for the sack and investigate.

[Books? No books unless you really want some there. Do you?]

[Old books would be cool. Yes, please.]

[Can do! This place is ancient; as in, the dead bodies are likely humans who gave their own significance to the undercity, and those bodies are dust. I will add some, but there will definitely be a catch!]

Great. I check out the sack on the shelf.

As you grab it, the knot comes undone and a cloud of opalescent dust billows out. It smells somehow old, the familiar scent of opyon dulled by age. Your eyes sting and tear as you blink the dust away.

The sack in your hands is about half-full, and strangely heavy. A slight movement catches your eye, and you look up to the pair of books. They stand still, but the ancient runes along their spines glimmers orange and gold.

I look at the symbols and try to read them.

[Symbology B2, no forks that I can think of.]

I pull a book from the shelf and examine the runes. I open it up ignoring the opalescent dust.

[Roll your Symbology, Ob 3]

[I roll a 3 and a 6, with one success, two less than the requirement.]

I squint at the symbols. I think I make out some numbers, but it looks totally illegible. Maybe if I flip a few of the pages and see if there are any leafs of loose paper or maps in here.

You only know it is an elven script similar to the undercity’s pervasive runes. The pages are rife with images, beautiful renderings of impossible beast, dream-like flora, but most prevalent are the pages upon pages of precise and angular diagrams. You cannot tell whether these last are maps, magical symbols or something else entirely.

As you delicately turn the brittle paper, your senses begin to flutter. Letters on the page opposite your focus writhe slowly, but are still on attention. A dusty yellow light gleams in the corner of your vision.


Zak Zak

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