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Farcaster's Musings

"The Damned II" Introduction

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I've decided to try my hand at something I have never done before by writing up a campaign log for my currently running campaign. This campaign originally began in January 2008, but the story (and the characters) became a little mangled in our attempt to switch from D&D 3.5e to 4e. So, we decided to hard-reset the game and start from the beginning on a fresh 4th edition slate. Although the introduction remains the same, however, this will not be the same story that the players embarked on almost one year ago to-date. So, in honor of all (bad?) sequels, I have called this campaign "The Damned II." And just like the movie industry is wont to do, this will be a different take on pretty much the same idea.

What follows is the original introduction given to the players describing their character's first memories:

You awake as if from a horrid nightmare, unable to breathe. You try to scream, but instead find yourself on your hands and knees retching forth what seems like an endless torrent of something foul and oily. Your entire body convulses with pain as the last of the fetid, crimson tinged fluid spills from your lips. You cry out in agony and confusion, but your voice is little more than a whisper in the howling, crackling wind.

Above you, streams of black smoke streak across the hazy red sky--tails left in the wake of gigantic flaming balls of pitch. A field of broken, charred and dangerously sharp rock rises in a daunting slope before you, meeting shortly with a blackened cliff that towers for hundreds of feet. Here and there, the cliff face is cut by what appear to be thin streams of blood that flow down and eventually join an oil-slicked crimson river that rages only a dozen or more feet beneath the precipice of jagged rock you now find yourself on.

Your mind races, trying to recall how you might have come to be here, or for that matter any thing at all. You remember nothing. Your first and only memories are of clawing your way from the putrid water of the river below, from which the stench of death and decay is overpowering.

As you look back towards the foul waters, you spy several ragged figures trying desperately to pull themselves free of its violent embrace. One of the lot suddenly looses his grip and is smashed viciously against a jagged boulder before being swept away. A smear of gore leaves no question as to whether he survived.

Those few that do survive soon join you on the rocky shore. They, as you, are adorned only in tattered undergarments. And their wrists, as yours, are raw and bleeding, suggesting you may have been a prisoner of some sort, some how freed. As their agonized cries ring in your ears, you feel, truly this must be hell...

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