Games Logs

The last of the wolves goes down in a wash of fire, Crystal and Abi's spells silencing the pack's howls. Smoke curls off scorched fur and drifts low across the frost-stiffened grass near the windmill, and for a moment nobody speaks — just the tick of embers cooling and the distant creak of the mill's broken sails turning in the wind. They take stock. Packs are checked, blades wiped clean, potions counted against what's left of the road ahead. They set out on a curiously un

On the grounds of Maladomini’s Carnival Eternal, there is tension between the friends and a group of violent clowns. But as quickly as they descended, the clowns are gone — folded back into the crowd like a trick of the light. They leave only chalk dust settling in the churned mud and the faint, retreating jingle of bells. The friends stand a moment, catching their breath, before the Carnival Eternal reasserts itself around them: calliope music, the tang of sulfur-sweet ca

Aurora waits by the door while KFC hands off Otto, and Dr MacDonald is effusive about it. "Well done," he says, studying the dog and then studying KFC a beat too long, like he's checking the math on something. Uncomfortably, KFC fills the silence. "He's still pretty smelly. I tried to wash him, but I didn't have any soap…" She spreads her wing to gesture at Otto. Beaming, MacDonald tells her, "I've heard things about you, and none of that's true. You're perfectly lovely

Orbart pounds down the hall and finds Bayleaf braced in a bedroom doorway, weapon up. The minotaur rounds the corner into the room and stops. The one who called himself Viktor lies where he fell. His daughter is gone. The Vistana swordsman stands at the ready, a dangerous glint in his eye. Bayleaf comes in beside Orbart, and his blade lands, knocking the elbow of the Vistana, who swears. Together they drive the swordsman back, and for the first time something moves behind t

Dawn breaks over Strixhaven, and KFC is smuggling a twelve-foot shambling mound down five flights of spiral staircase underneath a carpet. This is, she will insist to anyone who asks, a school project. Quintilius asks. He is coming up the stairs after an all-night band practice, guitar case flattened against the wall, and he wants to know why the project smells like something decomposing. KFC explains that it is a project *about* how magical creatures decompose, which is the

So your kid came home talking about goblins, twenty-sided dice, and someone named "the DM" — and now you're wondering what exactly you're in for. Welcome, Traveler! You're in the right place. Consider this your parent-friendly field guide to Dungeons & Dragons for the 9–13 crowd: what it is, why it's genuinely good for growing brains, and how to get your young adventurer to their first game.

The safe house reeks of blood and lamp oil. Bayleaf hauls himself over the table wedged across the hallway, his own blood slicking the wood beneath his hands. Krelldutt is down. Torgan is down. Somewhere behind a splintered door, Viktor lies dying, and Dag has not yet returned from Vallaki with help. The paladin does not know if help is coming at all. The Vistani lieutenant snarls threats at Violet Robin, who has fought his way back into the hallway, bleeding badly and ref

Morning light struggles through the shutters of the Blue Water Inn, catching the dust motes above tables still scarred from the werewolf assault. The companions gather in the main room, battle-worn but resolute, and lay out their plan to Urwin Martikov: back to the old windmill, to hunt down the last of the night hags. Urwin listens, wiping the same tankard he’s been wiping for the better part of ten minutes. “You’re going back there,” he says. It isn’t quite a question. “We

The bloated devil calling itself Gratchis looms over the battered rogue, robes stiff as sheet metal, a tall orange feather quill coiled at the ready above one pudgy hand. "On the authority vested by the Grace of his Excellent Excellency, Lord Baalzebub, on behalf of the Kingdom of Maladomini," the amnizu intones, "you are required to present Fissure Crossing Permit J54-T, completed in triplicate and signed by the responsible party or parties."

The Blue Water Inn is in disarray — overturned tables, shattered glass glittering in the lamplight, the copper stink of blood soaking into good Vallaki floorboards. The last of the werewolves know the fight is lost. Two of them — Lawrence and Curlew, if the pack keeps names at all — bolt through the kitchen, scattering pots and pride in equal measure. Mohsen takes the more theatrical exit, hurling himself through the front window in a spray of glass, and is gone into the nigh

In the fissure between Malbolge and Maladomini, the truck — reinflated, humming, improbably intact — sits balanced on a narrow ledge outside a crumbling structure. It hovers on its magical horseshoes, a fortunate circumstance given the decrepit state of the scaffolding suspended high above the arid Maladominian valley below. Two of the party were stone, but have been relieved of the condition thanks to their friend Thunk, the cleric, who has restored them. One other, howev

The safe house is too small for a battle, but a battle has come anyway. In the narrow hallway, a Vistani swordmaster lunges at Bayleaf, his blade flickering once, twice. The paladin answers in kind, and on the second cut, a surge of divine power skitters up his sword's edge. For one blinding instant the corridor is lit white, every face carved from shadow. Torgan, bleeding from a half a dozen wounds, hefts his greataxe against a Vistani lieutenant. "If I go down," he growl