[System] You are the game master of a dark fantasy text adventure. The world is dangerous and choices matter. Narrate with immersive detail and let the story unfold naturally from the player's decisions.

[User] Continue

[Assistant]
All around you is the smell of warfare. Acrid smoke from the campfires, piss and refuse from the latrines, sweat from the men.

And fear. You smell that too.

These men have reason to be afraid. You have spent the last few months fighting King Harold's enemies, only to march double-time to confront his most dangerous yet; William of Normandy. His army is camped below, twelve thousand men strong, in comparison to your eight thousand. There is reason to be afraid. Are you afraid? No, you affirm decisively in your mind. You are not afraid. You are Lord Aethelwulf, The Lord In The North, King Harold's most trusted advisor, and the veteran of a hundred battles. Why should you be afraid of an army of ragtag Normans who come to die on your sword?

Shaking such doubts from your mind, you stride purposefully through the bustle of the camp, intent on checking on the forward defenses. A pair of giggling urchins weave nimbly around you and a staggering drunk lurches out in front of you, notices your sparkling chainmail armor and backs away, apologizing profusely. Striding onward towards the edge of the English camp you pass the watchful gaze of the sentries unchallenged and stand at the upper slope of the hill.

You are not alone. Another man sits on the hill, wreathed in the shadow of the setting sun. Drawing closer you recognize him as Acwellen, a minor lord, but stalwart fighter. His face is stone, his jaw grimly set and his eyes staring out at the horizon. Looking over his shoulder you see the black smoke smearing the red evening sky. In the distance the town of Hastings burns. In the blurry uncertainty of the setting sun, you cannot tell if the glisten at his eyes is tears or just the sparkle of dying sunlight. Acwellen's son, you remember, was put in command of Hasting's garrison.

Above the treeline you can just make out the crackle of flames. Hastings burns.

[User] You offer your condolences

[Assistant]
Gently, you place your hand on his shoulder and speak softly

"I'm sorry for your loss. I cannot imagine the pain of losing a son, but I am sure he looks down on you from heaven."

Acwellen's gaze remains fixed on the burning town, and his face is still set in a mask of stone, but his cheeks are streaked.

"Thank you"

He exhales shakily, opens his mouth to say something else, then closes it and remains silent, yet the words are plainly on his mind, trying to slip free like hounds on a leash. At last he speaks, grim and quiet, little more than a whisper.

"Can we win this battle?"

The question hangs there for an eternity, all the fear and anxiety of the English army expressed in the musings of one broken man.

[User] Yes

[Assistant]
"Yes!"

You bark, with a sudden harshness that surprises both Acwellen and yourself.

"Yes"

You continue in a softer tone.

"We can win. This is not the end."

In your mind there is no room for doubt. You cannot afford it.

Behind the screen of trees the town of Hastings roils with flames and the Norman William's horde assembles.

[User] You leave

[Assistant]
Acwellen continues to stare into the flickering glow of the burning town. His face is stony, unfathomable. You turn to leave, picking your way through a patch of muck gingerly. Pressing down with your foot, you assess the ground. Certain patches are dry, but the soil is perilously loose. All it will take is a night of rain to turn the battlefield into a muddy hell. Well, you think to yourself, at least the mud will hurt the Normans worse than us.

"Aethelwulf!"

A voice interrupts your musings.

A very familiar voice, deep and booming. It is the voice of Harold, your king.

At just under six feet, he stands a head taller than most, and is just on par with yourself. Both his beard and hair are a fiery orange, and both are thick and wild. His chest is broad and his body muscular, but you notice a distinct bulge in the leather jerkin around his midriff; his infamous love of revelry has not gone unpunished.

"Aethelwulf, you canny bastard!"

He bellows, grinning and thumping you on the back.

[User] You say "Harold!"

[Assistant]
Grinning, you embrace your boyhood friend.

"Harold, good to see you, as always."

Harold grins. "I know it is! Everyone says the same exact damn thing!"

He chuckles, long and low.

"But come, I haven't seen you since our last battle! That was two bloody months ago, near as! Where've you been! Avoiding me, have you?"

You laugh

"If I went to another feast of yours, I wouldn't fit into my mail"

He shakes his head ruefully

"You should learn to unwind more! Live your life, you know? Speaking of, how's your wife?"

You nod solemnly

"She fares well, and yours?"

Harold snorts derisively

"Fat and ugly, as always. Ah well, that's what tavern girls are for, eh?"

He grins and nudges you with his shoulder; you shrug. Harold notices your expression and laughs again

"As chaste as a damned priest! Ah well, we'll break you in eventually."

Again you shrug. You and Harold have very different views on the matter, he won't change, nor will you. The best course, you decide, is to skate around the issue altogether. Nodding towards the hill, you speak seriously

"What do you make of our defenses?"

Harold frowns, his earlier humor gone. He throws up his hands irritably.

"My Kingdom depends on a hill and five thousand farmers"

You shake your head

"Five thousand farmers and three thousand warriors"

Harold nods

"Aye. True enough. We'll make this William pay for every inch, if nothing else"

He squints at the hill in the fading light

"The scouts say William has four thousand cavalry"

You shake your head decisively

"No cavalry in the world can break a strong shieldwall"

Harold laughs bitterly

"Our shieldwall isn't strong! It's weak! Half of the bloody farmers don't even own shields! Goddamned useless bastards!"

Surveying the hill thoughtfully, two plans come to mind;

You could craft wooden stakes and plant them along the hill, disorganizing the horse charge.

Or you could create makeshift shields for the conscripts, to help them hold the line.

The carpenters will only have enough time to do one of the two tasks, you must choose which you value most.

[User] You craft stakes

[Assistant]
You nod towards the hill

"We should put our carpenters to work, set up some wood stakes along the hill. With any luck, that'll break up most of his cavalry"

Harold grins wickedly

"And a rider on a lamed horse is a dead rider. This is good!"

He claps you on the shoulder

"I'll have my carpenters start working right away! Let's turn this battlefield into a hell!"

He laughs, and you see the fire in his eyes. This is what King Harold does best. Strategy and rule he manages, but it's the fighting he loves. You understand the feeling all too well. How many times have you knelt before a cross, armor bloody and gore speckled, thinking back with revulsion and guilt at how you loved it.

Loved every bit of it.

Loved the blades flashing, reflecting the rays of the sun. Loved the sound of shields splintering, cracking open.

Loved the bloody chaos of the shieldwall.

In the clash of the shieldwall it is where men like you, and Harold, and no doubt William too, come alive.

This world has molded you.

Molded you into a warrior.

You are bred for this.

[User] You sleep

[Assistant]
A warhorn sounds, long and low, dragging you from your sleep.

Throwing off your thick fur sheets, you fumble about in the darkness of your tent, feeling for your clothes. Finally grasping your leather trousers, you slip them on and pull the woolen drawstrings closed. Next you retrieve your blue linen tunic and pull the stinking garment over your head. Beside the opening of the tent you find your boots, which you pull on, the well-worn leather forming around the contours of your legs. Fully clothed, you stretch and prepare to leave the comparative comfort of your tent.

Rising stiffly, you undo the tent flap with dull fingers and step out into hell. The sky is a deep red, and clouds roil overhead. The ground is slick with mud, squelching underfoot. The air itself is inhospitable; it is thick with moisture and clings in the throat.

The warhorn bellows a second time, the sound rolling through the forest of tents.

The Normans are coming.

[User] You prepare for battle

[Assistant]
Your squire, an orange-haired young farm boy with a pox-scarred face and an easy smile, drags your chest of armor to where you wait impatiently, listening for the sounds of a Norman advance above the chaos of the camp's preparations. Like a stirred anthill, the English encampment is abuzz with activity, men fetching spears and armor, running to and fro, assembling into companies. Opening the chest, your squire first removes a thick jacket of hardened leather, which you will wear under your mailshirt.

"Thank you, Hugh"

You say to your squire and tousle his curly orange hair absent-mindedly. Hugh grins shyly and then proceeds to bring forth the next piece of armor, the mailshirt itself.

Beautifully forged, the chain links shimmer in the dawn light. As the light bounces of the metal, thousands of scratches can be seen, sanded down but still visible; the marks left behind by thousands of blades. This mailshirt has been in your family for generations, stretching back through hundreds of years of bloodshed and war. Slipping into the metal garment, you feel your squire tug at the leather lacings in the back, tightening the mailshirt around your body. You breathe in deeply, and as your chest expands, so too does the mailshirt, acting with the familiarity of a second skin.

Next come the metal strips, a personal favorite of yours. Each strip is made of tough iron, and each is covered in serrations and scratches. These you slip under your trousers and Hugh helps lace them tight to your legs. If an enemy were to try and stab at your seemingly unprotected legs their sword would merely slide off the hidden plating, unbalancing them and allowing you to slip under their defenses.

With your shin-plates cleverly hidden, Hugh unwraps the last piece of armor; your helmet. Masterfully crafted, it gleams in the sun. Complete with cheek-guards, a nosepiece, and spectacle-rings to protect the eyes. Surmounting the front is a snarling metal wolf's head, which stares proudly forward. Slipping the helmet on and tightening the chinstrap, you grin, canines showing.

Time to kill some Normans.

[User] You find your men

[Assistant]
Orvyn meets you at the edge of camp. A priest and a warrior, an Eriu and a Christian, Orvyn has been your stalwart follower and friend for nearly two decades.

You both clasp hands firmly and grin, filled with pre-battle adrenaline. Although Orvyn is not technically in command of your men, you have left your normal commander, Garyn, back at home to guard your wife and children with a skeleton crew.

With Garyn away, Orvyn is stepping in. He is a good commander for battles; he is amicable and courageous, but also capable and firm. In peacetime he would lack the rigid authoritarianism necessary for drilling the men, but right now they need a man to keep them confident. Orvyn inspires confidence; he isn't especially tall, but he is solidly built and a force to be reckoned with.

His beard and hair are both jet black, and both are kept in place by various bone rings. That, and his sparkling green eyes, give him a look of mad fanaticism that men are all too happy to follow.

You provide the encouragement, and Orvyn provides the fire. Together you are a killing force. Orvyn fingers the axe at his belt restlessly.

"Should we go to the shieldline?"

There is still probably an hour or more before the two armies actually meet, as men are ever reluctant to face a shieldwall, but being early couldn't hurt.

[User] You go to the Shieldwall

[Assistant]
Most men are already at the edge of the camp, loosely organized into their respective groups. You find your soldiers lounging in the grass to the left of king Harold's men. Some laugh and cajole with each other. Some sharpen their weapons idly. Others play dice with Harold's Housecarls. One has undone his breeches and is calmly urinating in the direction of William's army. In short, of the seventy warriors under your command, not a single one looks concerned or frightened.

That makes you proud. Most of these men you trained since boyhood, and for many you serve as a father figure. When they stand beside you at a shieldwall you have absolute confidence in your safety. They would risk their lives to save yours, and you would do the same for any of them.

You only wish you could say the same for your fyrdmen. Nearly a hundred and fifty, and every single one looks terrified. You can hardly blame them. In the clash of a shieldwall, it is the fyrdmen who bear the brunt of the assault. To break a shieldwall, aiming for its weakest combatants is a common strategy. With Harold outnumbered to begin with, more fyrdmen than normal will be forced into the front ranks. The continued success of the English nation could well depend on their spirits.

Approaching some of your men, who greet you amicably but respectfully, you instruct them to spread some of your ale reserves amongst the fyrd. Although you always fight sober, many of your men prefer to battle under the comforting haze of ale, and so long as they remain sharp enough you permit it. Some men just aren't capable of facing the sheer brutality of a shieldwall sober.

Someone calls your name. Turning, you see Harold waving to you from the midst of his group of Housecarls. He grins excitably, filled with the same mad energy that bubbles inside of you. His armor is expertly wrought, fine mail links that shine red under the ominous clouds. At his belt a gold-hilted sword rests in its sheath, and slung across his back is a heavy Daneaxe. His roundshield is thick and red, and is emblazoned with his personal banner; the Fighting Man. A symbol as legendary as King Harold himself, the Fighting Man depicts a golden warrior, wielding a Daneaxe and roundshield. His face is filled with the mad joy of battle, and under his watchful gaze the forces of England will stand against the Norman tide.

Moving closer, Harold clasps your forearm with his free hand

"Ready?"

You nod fiercely

"Always"

He smiles, but for a moment you see a flicker of emotion cross his face. Tiredness? He opens his mouth slowly, mulling his words

"Once this war is over, I think I'll-"

One of Harold's Housecarls interrupts the conversation

"My liege, the Normans are advancing!"

Instantly, Harold leaps back into action. Waving his shield, he calls not just to his own men, but also to all the men across the English line

"To arms! To arms! Form a shieldwall!"

The cry of "shieldwall" is taken up across the line, as men rush to the front, each shield overlapping with the one to the left, forming an impenetrable wall. In theory. Calling to your men, you order them to form up beside Harold's.

The fight for England has begun.

[User] You ready your weapons

[Assistant]
"Shields!"

Bellows a Housecarl standing to Harold's right.

The English line reverberates with the clacking sound of wood on wood as men rattle their shields, making sure they overlap with their neighbors'. Leaning forward, Harold waves at you from his position on the shieldwall and grins, his teeth shining in the dawn light.

Behind the king, the great Dragon Banners of Wessex fly. Enormous and red, they flap and flutter in the gentle morning breeze, snarling at the approaching Normans. Looking down the hill you watch the Norman advance.

It is simply incredible. At least a thousand horses have lined up at the base of the hill. Their riders wear good mail army, which glints in the light, and long blue Norman kite shields, which provide good full body protection, but are slower and less flexible than your English roundshields. For armaments they carry long lances and spears, as well as longswords. To protect their heads they wear the classic Norman helmets, conical and tall with comically long nasal plates.

The whole situation is laughable. You turn to Orvyn, who stands beside you and is also grinning

"How stupid can these Normans be?"

Orvyn shrugs

"They're not used to facing real warriors. Killing fleeing peasants is one thing. Riding down a shieldwall, especially uphill? Well-"

He fails to suppress a chuckle

"Let's hope they're slow learners!"

The men around you laugh, and that laughter drifts up and down the shieldwall. The mood begins to lighten. Still grinning, you sheathe your short sword and draw your long sword from across your back.

The greater reach will make it easier to kill the horses.

Easier to kill the fools.

[User] You prepare to face the cavalry

[Assistant]
Despite your amusement at the Normans' lack of strategy, the charge impresses you. The sound of a thousand horses' hooves pounding the mud and churning the soil, is thunderous. The vibrations shudder under your feet.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see some of your fyrdmen begin to back away, and you bark at them to get back into line. They comply gingerly.

You can almost smell their fear.

You watch keenly as the Norman horses near the stakes. During the night, Harold's carpenters cut a great number of them, and they litter the hill in uneven clusters, about three quarters up. Most of the riders edge their horses through the gaps, but a few are careless and their horses fall screaming, dragging down other riders with them. The spikes catch no more than fifty, but every bit counts.

The horses are fast approaching the top of the hill. Harold barks out an order to his Housecarls, and one in every two sheathes sword and shield in favor of a Daneaxe. Held two-handed, their reach, in the hands of a capable warrior, is more than enough to counter the reach of a man on horseback.

You take a quick look at the faces of your men. Some are scared, but none show it. Your shieldwall is as solid as a palisade, an impenetrable barrier of wood and steel. The horses are very close now, and the drumbeat of their hooves beats in frantic time with your heart.

You size up the mounted warrior barreling towards you. His horse is a chestnut hue, with a dark black mane. The rider wears a mailshirt and Norman helmet, as well as the customary blue kite shield and a long thin lance.

Making sure your stance is good and firm, you prepare to take on your adversary.

[User] You hold firm

[Assistant]
The rider thunders towards you, his horse kicking up thick clods of mud. Drawing close, he plunges his lance forward, but you slash sideways with your longsword and knock the spear into the ground. The thin lance bends and then breaks, splintering along its core.

Disgustedly, the Norman tosses the broken lance aside and moves to draw his sword, but you are already counterattacking. Twisting your wrist, you backswing the blade into the horse's mouth, lacerating its cheeks and splintering its teeth. The wounded animal screams, wide eyed, and collapses on the ground, trapping its rider.

As the Norman struggles to free himself you slip your blade neatly down his mailshirt and thrust deep, driving a foot of steel into his body. The Norman gasps pitifully and lolls sideways, dead.

The horse is still screaming, kicking up clods of earth. One of its flailing hooves strikes Orvyn's shield, knocking him back a pace. Recovering, he ducks under the flurry of hooves and swings his axe down, hard, crushing the poor beast's spine. Its long legs stop moving.

Satisfied, Orvyn returns to his position on the shieldwall. Across the line, William's horsemen meet similar fates. To your right, you watch one of King Harold's Housecarls fully behead a horse with his Daneaxe, mid-charge. Spurting blood, the headless beast collapses to the ground, and before its rider can regain his footing he meets a similar fate at the hands of the grisly Daneaxe. On the far left, a horse actually breaks through, the rider spearing a man through the neck and then creating an opening by hacking wildly with his sword. His act of valor is short-lived. The fyrdmen swarm the rider from all sides, butchering him with their axes and scythes. The breach in the line quickly closes.

The Norman horsemen who are still alive turn tail and ride their horses back down the hill. The top of the hill is spattered with the corpses of horses and their riders. Perhaps a full three quarters of the charge were vanquished. Orvyn, his face slick with horse blood, grins at you. You grin back.

The shield line has held.

[User] You keep the line steady

[Assistant]
For almost half an hour, you wait. At the bottom of the hill, the Norman forces swarm, but make no attempt to push forward.

By now, your heavy linden shield is weighing your arm down, and your muscles are beginning to tire. Loosening the straps, you place it carefully on the muddy soil, and motion for your men to do the same. They all sigh with relief, and there is much muscle rubbing and idle chatter. So long as they stay in their positions, you allow them to relax.

With forces of this size, the battle could easily take all day. Idly, you watch the Norman forces. They don't appear to be doing anything of interest. You are about to strike a conversation with Orvyn, when a portion of the Norman line surges forward. Some of the men stumble to their feet, but you wave them down. The hill is at least three hundred feet, and the Normans appear to be on foot. You stare at the mass of men in a state of bewilderment. All of them seem to be fairly lightly armored, none of them sparkle, like the men in mail shirts do. Suddenly, the advance stops, not even halfway up the hill. Why they would just stop seems ridiculous, unless-

You leap up and call out frantically, not just to your men, but to everyone else across the line

"Shields! Shields!"

You tear yours from its resting place, fasten it to your arm, and then hold it above your head. Other men follow your lead.

Just in time. A dark cloud wafts from the Norman advance to the English line. Arrows. Thousands and thousands of arrows.

They whistle through the air like a swarm of enraged wasps, raining down upon the English line. Three arrows strike your shield, each one slamming into the thick wood with hammer blows. Across the line men fall to the deadly barrage, clutching at feathered shafts protruding from throats and chests.

The fyrd are hit by far the worst, devoid of protection, they die where they stand, too tightly packed too dodge. For a brief moment many seem on the point of breaking, but warriors in the rear quickly push them back into line and try to protect them with their shields, the effort is mostly futile, but it helps reassure them.

In all the commotion; the screaming and shouting, the whistling of arrows, you almost miss the noise. That unmistakable drumbeat of horse hooves.

By now the horses are quite close, and the arrow rain has stopped, as the Norman archers are wary of killing their own riders. You drop your shield down and heft your longsword.

"Shields forward! Shields forward! Hold the line!"

Your warriors respond instantly, as do Harold's Housecarls. Shields drop forward and interlock, forming a solid barrier to thwart the Norman riders. You focus on the rider charging towards you, he has his lance couched under his arm and pointed directly at your shield.

Suddenly, as he approaches the line a javelin, thrown by a man behind you, pierces the horse's chest. The animal screams and froths blood. It drops to its knees and pitches forward, you take a half-step closer and thrust your longsword straight into the Norman's throat. He chokes hot blood and keels over, falling on top of his dead steed.

You nod in satisfaction. In front of you there now lies a barrier of two dead horses. Looking left and right, you survey the battle-line. As expected, your men and the Housecarls have fared fine, killing or throwing back their attackers.

The same cannot be said for other places on the line. In some places, the Norman riders were able to break through, and although the Normans were quickly killed or driven off, many of the bodies strewn across the field are English.

The shieldwall has held, but barely.

[User] You hold the line

[Assistant]
The sun is now high in the sky. You have lost track of the hours, and the number of Norman attempts. Every attack is the same. First comes the barrage, then the charge of cavalry. The fyrd has been decimated, perhaps a third have either died or run away. The toll on the warriors has been lighter, but no less serious. Because of your proximity to the King, your soldiers have been hit hard, and many of their bodies lie limp along the battle-line. You and Orvyn are still in fit shape, although you are both tired, and your arm aches from holding your shield, which has been gnawed to splinters by the constant rain of arrows.

A painfully familiar whistling fills your ears. Groaning, you lift up your shield to ward off the barrage. You're just so, so tired...

[User] You keep holding the line...

[Assistant]
You have no idea what time it is, but the sun is beginning to lap at the treetops, and a blissfully cool evening breeze wafts around you.

You crouch in the blood-soaked mud, behind the shadow of a horse corpse. The blood is everywhere. It coats your sword. It is spattered across your mailshirt. It is smeared across your face. For the first time in a long while, you want to throw up.

The battlefield is littered with corpses, human and animal. Mostly human. Mostly English. Only a quarter of the fyrd are still alive. No, that's not right. You look around briefly. Maybe a sixth. No one has remained unscathed, not even Harold's legendary Housecarls. The shieldwall has been effectively broken, men huddle in small groups behind the cover of dead horses, each spattered with arrows. To stand out in the open is to die.

You peer over the top of your horse carcass. You have done grave damage to William's forces, but they are still numerous.

In fact, as you watch, you see men advancing. Your hand twitches, an instinctive raising of the shield hammered into your brain by years of training. However, you pause briefly. The masses of Normans aren't archers, or cavalry. They are infantry. Thousands and thousands of foot soldiers.

Throughout the day, William has sent them at you, but never in these numbers. You grip your sword.

The end is near.

[User] You fight

[Assistant]
The Normans advance, neat and orderly. Their armaments are very similar to that of their riders. Most wear mailshirts, and those bizarre conical helmets. Some carry axes, most carry swords, but all heft the customary Norman blue kite shield. That, at least, is some consolation. Whereas you English fight as a cohesive team, the Norman's tend to fight as individuals, because the kite shield, although effective, cannot interlock with that of a neighbor's. Despite your weakened state, a lone Norman is still a dead one.

You crouch low behind the horse corpse and wait. The familiar jingle of mailshirts heralds their arrival. Beside you, Orvyn bristles, but you put a cautionary hand on his shoulder. You want them close.

You wait a moment more, then leap out. Your longsword snakes forward, lashing out at a Norman's face. He raises his kite shield to deflect the blow, but as he does one of the men on your right sweeps his blade down and cuts into the Norman's ankle. The man screams and drops to one knee, Orvyn's axe crushes his jaw.

You press into the gap and push the Normans towards Harold's Housecarls, whose bloody Daneaxes make short work of the thin kite shields. Ducking under a Norman sword thrust, you stab forwards and gut the man. Kicking him aside, you search for your next opponent...

And find no one. The Normans are retreating. To your left, you notice King Harold. He waves madly with his axe, and men are surging forward alongside him. With a sudden shock you realize he is trying to rally the men and charge downhill, towards William's retreating infantry.

[User] You follow Harold

[Assistant]
Adding your voice to the English battle cries, you advance on the fleeing Norman foot soldiers. In front of you, one stumbles as his boot slides through a patch of reddened mud. He only falters a moment, but it is enough. Your longsword lances forward, piercing the fleeing Norman's calf. He screams and falls, holding up his arms to futilely ward off your blade.

You keep moving forward, using your heavy shield to shove the wounded Norman out of your way. Behind you, Orvyn's axe resonates with a heavy crunch as he finishes off the crippled soldier.

Ahead of you, another Norman stumbles forward, a heavy javelin slamming into his shoulder. He manages one strangled yelp before your blade connects with his neck, a heavy swing that severs his jugular and jars against his spine. You wrench the sword free and keep moving. This charge has filled you with fresh energy, filling your mind with bloody courage, but now it is starting to ebb and your mind is working more clearly.

There is something very wrong here. This retreat is far too organized, too simultaneous. The Norman foot soldiers are increasing the distance between themselves and the beleaguered English soldiers, the pounding of their feet grows fainter, but another pounding grows louder. Horse hooves.

You turn to your left, Harold has thrown off his battered shield and carries only a Daneaxe, which he wields two-handed. He is completely out in the open.

You turn and race towards him.

[User] You say "Harold!"

[Assistant]
"Harold!"

You call out, sprinting towards him. He half turns towards you, and flashes one of his charismatic bright smiles.

The single arrow that flies through the air surprises you more than Harold. Curving gently, it hisses downward and slams into Harold's eye.

He lets out a startled cough and staggers backward. You keep running towards your king, but a Norman rider cuts in front of you.

Turning his horse neatly, the Norman swings his blade and opens your King's throat, spraying blood.

Harold falls to the ground, dead.

You falter indecisively, filled with wordless horror and remorse.

[User] You fall back and gather your men

[Assistant]
You back away, slowly at first, then swiftly.

"Back! Back to the horses!"

You repeat your message, shouting as loud as your worn throat will allow. Men begin to gather around you. You look to your left; Norman horsemen have obliterated the line, fyrdmen and warriors alike are being hacked down as they run. The right flank has suffered the same fate. Wordlessly, you turn your back to the men of the flanks and retreat to the center.

Around you stand perhaps a hundred men, the last of Harold's great army. The horses ride towards you from all sides.

"Shields!"

Orvyn echoes the cry. Men embrace briefly, and then turn to lock shields. Someone calls out "For Harold!" No one cheers. Even the Housecarls are wearied by the prospect of an imminent death. The horses draw close. You whisper a prayer for your family.

You fight with cold fury, sword flashing. Horses crash through your shieldline, circling, wheeling, killing left and right. You refuse to break.

At some point the Norman infantry joined the fight. That was shortly after you lost your shield. Or was it shortly before? You can't remember.

Your world is blood and steel, screams and death.

Perhaps it is a horse's hoof, perhaps a soldier's mace, maybe even a Norman shield. You're not sure what it is, but it strikes the back of your skull with tremendous force, knocking you into the mud and blurring your vision.

You try to rise but the mud grabs you and drags you into the abyss.

[User] You blackness...

[Assistant]
The small, cramped room is dark, but your eyes have long since adjusted to the dimness.

For nearly a month you have languished here, confined under what was once the seat of England's power; the ancient city of London.

You yawn tiredly and stretch, your hand strikes the hard stone wall on your left, which is slick with fungus. Beside you, others stir. The prison cell holds a grand total of twenty-two men; of the seventy soldiers you brought, only they remain. Beside you, Orvyn mutters prayers in his native Irish tongue. You lie quiet amongst the molded straw, conserving your strength.

A searing flare of light illuminates your surroundings. Shielding your eyes, you stare groggily through the iron bars of your cell at the sharp outline of a man holding a torch, flanked by two guards. The man rattles at the iron bars with the flaming head of his torch, casting sparks which smolder in the wet straw.

"Lord Aethelwulf, you have been summoned to meet with King William. You will come with us immediately."

His English is heavily accented, but understandable, you struggle to rise, but Orvyn gets up first

"Lord Aethelwulf does not leave without me."

The two guards look expectantly at the torch-bearer. He looks bored.

"Very well, Lord Aethelwulf may have his retinue"

He leans in menacingly, glaring at Orvyn

"Try anything, and you die"

He shoves the torch deeper into the cell, illuminating the huddled masses of your soldiers

"The same applies to you lot"

Without another word, the torch-bearer withdraws a thick metal key and unlocks the prison door. The guards level their spears threateningly.

You and Orvyn leave the prison and follow the torch-bearer into the light.

[User] You follow the Normans

[Assistant]
As you exit the dungeon, the torch-bearer leaves his torch in a wall bracket and continues to walk up a set of sharp flagstone stairs. For the first time in a month you see true, pure sunlight. Your weakened eyes strain to adjust, but they quickly regain their vitality and the world returns to its former luster.

Behind you, Orvyn catches his foot on one of the flagstones. He plunges forward, and as he grabs hold of you for support, he whispers in your ear

"Just say the word."

You keep your face emotionless. Up ahead, a long corridor leads toward a huge set of wooden doors, flanked by two taciturn guards, and within those doors lies the throne room.

[User] The Throneroom

[Assistant]
Your jailor steps up to the guards and speaks to them in French. They salute hastily and step aside.

The Norman grasps two iron facets on the doors and pulls back, drawing open the wooden doors with an aching creak.

Inside, a woven blue rug leads inward. The guards press you forward from behind, and two more from within the room keep pace adjacent to you. You keep walking.

[User] You walk forwards

[Assistant]
You remember what this room was like a year ago. Men and women laughed and cajoled, children played with the great wolfhounds that were always on the hunt for table scraps, and bards echoed melodies that filled the rafters with pleasant music.

But that was a different time, under a different king.

The throne room is empty, other than a handful of guards and a few servants milling idly, the throne room is devoid of people. It is silent too, the place is blanketed by an austere noiselessness, so that every footstep makes a clattering echo. Residing over it all, William sits in the throne, glaring at you thoughtfully.

With just a handful of meters separating you and the king, your guards stop you. William looks at you expectantly.

[User] You kneel

[Assistant]
With a bitter taste in your mouth, you kneel. Orvyn looks openly disgusted, but he too gets down on one knee. William smiles contemptuously, he speaks softly, in an English that is only faintly accented.

"Ah, this one knows his manners. Good."

[User] You thank him

[Assistant]
"Thank you"

You snarl through gritted teeth. Anger wells up inside of you like a storm, like an enraged beast trapped inside a frail cage of flesh and bone. Beside you, Orvyn notices your anger and tenses up, every muscle in his body is ready to spring into action. Even William notices the tension and waves discreetly to the Norman soldiers behind you. You feel cold steel pricking at your back. William glares icily, he leans forward.

"You might be wondering why you are still alive, no?"

You shrug sardonically. William pretends not to notice your insolence.

"The North has proven especially difficult to pacify. I could have you executed, and place a Norman in charge, however I believe the peasants would disapprove, and I would prefer to keep them alive"

He pauses briefly, mentally collecting his words

"As such, I am reinstating you as lord in the North, providing you swear fealty to me"

He leans even closer

"Make no mistake. You will be closely watched by one of my men, whom you will take orders from. This is not an offer. Swear to me, or die. Your choice."

[User] You take the Oath

[Assistant]
You swallow your pride, and your anger. You think of your family; your wife and children. It still feels like cowardice.

A Norman page timidly places a worn copper cross in your chapped fingers. You grip it limply and speak the same oath that you gave to Harold not a year earlier.

At the end William smirks, and you drop the copper cross disgustedly. With a casual wave of his hand, William dismisses you from the throneroom.

Your audience is over.

[User] You leave

[Assistant]
Although the sun is high, the frigid December air pierces your bones, and you draw your tattered cloak tighter around your shivering form.

Once outside of the city walls, the Normans give you back your weapons and your horse. Your men are released, however their weapons are not returned to them and the horses they are given are lame swaybacked farm horses.

Your own horse is a magnificent charger named Thunder, a black stallion measuring fifteen hands at his withers. He has been trained as a war horse, and his gnashing teeth are strong enough to snap bone, yet when he nuzzles up against your hand his eyes are soft and his lips are gently. You pat him affectionately on the cheek and then swing into his saddle, feeling the leather's familiar curves.

Your breath floats foglike in the cold air, you wait impatiently for your men to get mounted, your hands are beginning to burn.

Once your men mount their horses you ride North; homeward bound.

[User] You ride

[Assistant]
You ride all through the day, as fast as your horses can manage. Everywhere you go you see the devastation of William's invasion. Parts of the countryside appear normal, but others are burnt husks, farms and fields replaced with ash and bones. The roads are thick with mounted Normans, they glare at you suspiciously, but one of your men carries the Norman flag, and they let you pass.

The sun is beginning to set, and the cold is becoming too much. Even Orvyn, a man who can walk barefoot through snow without a qualm, looks uncomfortable.

You stop at an abandoned farmhouse, there are large holes in the roof, but your men cut swathes of dead grasses and stuff them in the crevasses. Someone starts a fire in the buildings dilapidated mud-daub chimney, which snakes up the back wall and protrudes through the messy thatch roofing. Normally supper is a time for boisterous laughing and cajoling, but today you eat in silence.

Afterwards, you bring several of the horses inside and curl up to them for warmth. Despite the uncomfortable ground and chilly temperatures, Thunder's flank is soft and the methodical rhythm of his heartbeat is oddly calming.

You drift off into a dark, dreamless sleep.

[User] You wake up

[Assistant]
You wake up stiff and smelling distinctly of horse. Getting up, you strap on your swords and get your men moving, Orvyn kicks some of the stragglers into action. Your own horse seems reluctant to get up, and it takes all of your coaxing to convince him to get up.

Your own muscles are aching from the cold, but a few hours of riding help warm them up somewhat.

The next few days develop a sort of routine; ride, find shelter, sleep, and ride again. As you journey further northward the scenery begins to change. The roads become smaller and more rugged, little more than oxen paths. The Norman presence decreases too; you pass only a few tired looking patrols. The lack of Norman occupation manifests itself in the land too, the devastation seen in the south is not present here, plenty of farms lie abandoned, but few have been burned. Many northern men gave their lives at Hastings, but their families have yet to suffer from Norman vengeance.

It feels good to know that your people are still present, still unified.

At last, you see the banks of the river Ouse.

Beyond it lies your home; the ancient city of York.

[User] You head to the banks of the river Ouse

[Assistant]
An old roman bridge of crumbling stone fords the Ouse. As you urge your horses towards the edge of the bridge, a dozen mounted men materialize from the treeline on the other side. The riders approach the bridge and halt at its mouth.

Your hand reaches for the sword at your sheathe, but you quickly relax. You recognize the man leading the mounted force; his name is Garyn, and he is the captain of your guard.

[User] You go meet Garyn

[Assistant]
You dismount and hand the reins of your horse to one of your men. Moving briskly, you cross the old stone bridge.

On the other side, Garyn dismounts and hurries to meet you. It has been several months since you last saw him, however he hasn't changed a bit.

He wears a mail hauberk, and his shield -emblazoned with your snarling wolf sigil- is slung over his back. On his left he wears a thick fighting sword, shorter than your longsword but almost twice as thick. On his right he carries a vicious looking seaxe, a heavy stabbing dagger perfect for thrusting through mail links. His face, like much of his body, is scarred by a lifetime of fighting. He is bald, and his hooked nose gives him a predatory, reptilian look. His eyes are hard, flinty; the eyes of a soldier.

You meet in the middle of the bridge and he clasps your forearm warmly, his face shows relief.

"Our scouts saw you coming, I came as soon as I could. The Lady Catheryn will be overjoyed to hear that you are back"

Catheryn. You feel your heartbeat rise. These months without her have been far too long. You can almost see her, like an apparition drawing you homewards. Footsteps echo on the bridge behind you; Orvyn has joined you. He speaks to you, but his eyes are fixed on Garyn

"We should ride to the villages first. As their lord, you owe them an explanation. Everyone there has a relative who served in your fyrd. They deserve an audience"

Garyn glares contemptuously at Orvyn

"A lord does not serve at the beck and call of his peasants. Maybe if the useless sods had held the line, we wouldn't be in this predicament"

Orvyn takes a step towards Garyn, Garyn's hand drops closer to the lethal looking dagger at his hip. Orvyn keeps his hands well away from his weapons, in an open show of contempt

"Do you want the commonfolk to rebel against us? What harm can it do to delay Aethelwulf's homecoming by a few hours!"

Both of them turn expectantly towards you, waiting for you to settle their dispute.

[User] You agree with Garyn

[Assistant]
"I want to see my family again."

You say it plain and quiet, but Orvyn recognizes the tone of command in your voice. He looks hurt, but relents, shooting Garyn a final angry stare. Garyn smiles and signals to the his men at the bridge

"Come on boys! We're escorting lord Aethelwulf home!"

[User] You go Home

[Assistant]
Between the banks of the rivers Ouse and Foss sits a finger of land, atop which rests the ancient walled city of York. Created by the Romans, its old stone walls have been mostly replaced by wooden palisades, but in some sections they remain; impenetrable rock formations three feet thick and fifteen feet high. Waving methodically in the slow December wind, your snarling wolf banners fly proudly.

Surrounding the outside of the city walls, thin huts of mud and thatch lean precariously, using the palisades for support. You curse irritably; those huts will provide excellent cover for any attacker who wishes to besiege your city. Picking its way through the thin cobble street, your horse passes by the frail mud-and-thatch houses beside the walls. From within their shallow depths, grimy faces peer outwards suspiciously.

From atop the walls, a young man in an ill-fitting mailshirt challenges you

"Go no farther! Who are you?"

A grizzled veteran with a scarred face and grey hair cuffs the younger man over the head

"Open the gate you idiot, it's lord Aethelwulf!"

The young soldier blanches fearfully, stammers a pardon, and practically leaps off the palisade's platform to unbar the gate; a massive four meter structure of wood and iron.

The gate opens inward with a heavy groan and the young soldier- still looking suitably embarrassed- waves you inside.

As you pass, you grin at him good-naturedly.

You are home.

[User] You enter the Courtyard

[Assistant]
The courtyard is a chaos of raised voices and the neighing of horses and the splashing of mud, which coats the ground; it has been churned loose from the frosty ground and warmed by the trampling of hundreds of feet.

Across the courtyard from you is the inner keep, a building made from Roman stone and patched with Anglo-Saxon woodwork. It is where you host your warriors and organize meetings, and it also functions as your personal quarters.

You should organize a meeting soon, but it would be wise to meet with your family first.

[User] You find your wife

[Assistant]
Moving with dreamlike purpose, you navigate the halls and passageways within your home. Standing outside the door to your quarters, you fingers feel the familiar shape of the door handle, which opens at your touch. The room is plain, in one corner is a chest of clothes and in the other is a fur bed. On the bed sits your wife, Catheryn. She is angelic in form, swathed in a pale white dress with her long golden hair flowing effortlessly down her shoulders. Her face transitions from shock to delight; her perfect mouth smiles and her bright blue eyes sparkle. Vaulting into your arms, she embraces you, long slender arms twined around your body. Her lips caress your cheek, and she whispers quietly in your ear

"I missed you"

You kiss her back

"I missed you too"

Your eyes settle to the door in your room opposing the one through which you entered; it is the entrance to your daughter's room. Catheryn's eyes follow yours

"She's sleeping"

She grins coyly, kissing you passionately

[User] You kiss her back

[Assistant]
She tastes so sweet, like spring.

Her eyes sparkle and she draws you closer, your hands move down to her thighs, clutching at the gossamer white fabric around her knees.

Her own hands, slender and smooth, trace their way down your chest.

You both slip out of your clothes, and slip under the fur bed sheets.

For the first time in nearly a month, you feel warm.

For the first time in nearly a month, you feel happy.


[System] You are the narrator of a dark fantasy text adventure. Describe the world and its consequences with unflinching detail. The player's choices shape the story — for better or worse.

[User] You say "Good luck guys. You're on your own!"

[Assistant]
You owe these soldiers no allegiance, you don't live in this city, and dying for a pointless cause in a nameless street doesn't seem very appealing. You say, "If i were you, I'd retreat cause that's what I'm doing. No point in dying now, this war is lost."

You feel a slight twinge of guilt at the faces of the men who look as if you'd taken the little bit of hope you'd given them and dashed it. However, the Sergeant turns to his men and says, "Don't worry about her men, she's a mercenary, she'd sell her mother if the coin was right. We're heroes fighting for our mothers, our families, and our city!"

The men buck up and begin to rally sending bolts back towards the enemy as you leave them in the distance.

Several streets away and you'd almost forgotten them. To each his own. As you cross a dirty alleyway you see an old woman wandering around the streets asking if anyone had seen her boy tears form rivers in her dusty face. You haven't so you move on. You were hired to fight, not to save the world, to cure the sick, or to save the innocent. It was just too much. You wonder to yourself as you pass the banged out ruins of a massive church, "Where is this god these people prayed to? Why don't they ask him? I'm just one person and I can barely care for myself..."

The bitter scenes of man's cruelest depravities pass your sight, dogs chewing on the corpses of a baby in a dead woman's arms, a scavenger stealing bread from a stall while the rats chew on the proprietor, and charred bodies still smoking from the artillery strikes.

Somehow you sneak past a troop of Turric soldiers carrying the spoils of their ill-earned gains, golden rings, jeweled necklaces, and young girls, most already battered and beaten, headed to the slave squares and whorehouses the Turrics are so fond of. Nothing you can do, you're just one girl, at least you're not one of them.

Sneaking into a doorway you  are getting tired, your legs are weakening, and your vision is washed with sweat and exhaustion. You need to find refuge.


[System] You are the game master of a dark fantasy text adventure. The world is dangerous and choices matter. Narrate with immersive detail and let the story unfold naturally from the player's decisions.

[User] You check the notes

[Assistant]
You take the bowl of rocks off of the stack of papers and glance at the paper on top.

"To destroy and Oalkfrier," the title reads.  Below are a few paragraphs in immaculate handwriting.

"Oalkfriers are essential to the master plan of the Order of the Broken Chalice, however, they must be neutralized once they've served their purpose, lest they overrun the kingdom.  I have created a poison of sorts, powerful enough to destroy these creatures within seconds. For now, it sits in the cauldron in my lab, waiting to be used. It is nearly perfect, as much so as I can hope to make it.  Just in case something is to happen to me before the plan is carried out, (though I highly doubt it), I will relay the instructions for its use below"

"The poison is inactive until acted upon by a catalyst of some sort.  This is for the safety of those using it. To activate, place a generous helping of Sodium Chloride (table salt), into it.  (I have a bowl full of it on my desk in the lab). Then, throw it on the Oalkfrier as fast as you can. Get as far away as you can, as even the fumes from this deadly cocktail are enough to kill a whole room full of Oalkwardners.  (You should be alright so long as you're outside, but I still wouldn't chance it."

You look up from the paper.  The bowl of salt is just to the left of the stack of notes.  On a whim, you pick it up to take it with you.


[System] You are running a text-based adventure game set in a grim fantasy world. Narrate events with rich detail, maintain consistent characters, and let the player's decisions drive the story — even toward dark outcomes.

[User] Continue

[Assistant]
Grues are afraid of light!  This is why it won't leave its pitch black chamber to pursue me.  Fortunately, you still have some flint and tinder.  You originally brought it with the intention of building a campfire along the journey but things change I guess.  You light a piece of wood and wrap a piece of torn clothing (soaked in cave water) around the middle to help prevent the flames from going to far down near your hands.  You need to move fast as this is not going to last for long and you don't want to be stuck down there without light.

As anticipated, the grue backs away in a feverish effort to avoid the light your flame is generating.  You are pleased to see that the passageway at the end of this chamber has a faint light source at the end (although it is very far away).  Hauling ass as fast as you can, you head down the tunnel towards the light source as your makeshift torch is already beginning to burn itself to completion.  By the time it does, you've already made it close enough to the nearby light source that the grue wouldn't dare follow.

It seems the light is being generated by a series of torches that line a set of tracks.  It is then that you realize this cave is not really a cave at all but a mine occupied by numerous kobolds.  You were always raised to believe that kobolds had beards and wore candles on their heads, but seeing them now you realize how ridiculous that claim actually is.  Who came up with that anyway?  In reality, they are like miniture lizard folk and very scrawny too (even by your scrawny standards).  Staying at the edge of the light source, you decide to observe these creatures for a little while before planning a move.  You are reasonably certain you could handle one or possibly even two in a fight but you most certainly can't charge in or you will be overwhelmed in an instant.

Of particular notice is the kobold on the high ledge that is sporting a purple overcoat and barking orders at the laboring kobolds in whatever the hell language these things are speaking.  It occurs to you that these kobolds may very well be working for the Craxil, in which case you would very much like to get your hands on that one in the purple & green coat.  You tire of wandering the mountainside aimlessly, narrowly evading one death after another all the while having no idea where this Craxil actually is.  Perhaps you could find some way of getting to him quietly and making him talk.

There are a few problems with this plan.  For starters, the torches provide plenty of illumination in this region and there are countless kobold laborers that would detect your presence and tear you to shreds if you just went in as things are now.  You entertain the idea of making them chase you back to the grue, but you don't really have enough wood for another makeshift torch.  Even if you were to sneak along the wall on either side, there is still enough light in there to give away your location.  This is going to be tough.

You observe them more and try to formulate some kind of cogent strategy when you notice a kobold has to emerge from a nearby storage chamber to bring wood to the torches.  The storage chamber isn't illuminated and you didn't even notice it was there in the beginning.  That gives you a couple of ideas.  For one, you could hide in the storage chamber until the next kobold comes in to keep the torches going, then kill him quickly.  Once the torches go out, you can head to the head kobold in charge.  Alternatively, you can set the entire room on fire, which would undoubtedly create a diversion.  This plan is risky given that the fire would undoubtedly light the place up quite a bit, but it would also eliminate the tinder they need to light any torches later.

[User] You sneak Into Storage Room And Set Fire To Their Supply Of Tinder

[Assistant]
There is no point in hiding in the storage room as they may very well send more kobolds in to retrieve the tinder.  Instead, you are going to set it all ablaze.  Even if the distraction doesn't work well enough for you, it will only be a matter of time before the quell the fire and run out of tinder for their torch basins.  You sneak in start a fire using their own flint and tinder.  Soon this fire spreads to the rest of the tinder in the room (with your help of course) and you quickly find your way out of there and out of sight before the kobolds are aware of what has transpired.

It isn't long before they take notice and flock over to their storage room.  The taskmaster kobold keeps jumping around shouting "yip yip" or whatever the hell these things say and the other kobolds are struggling to stop the fire.  You manage to slip around the corner and evade the bulk of them and you think you've found the passageway leading up towards the taskmaster kobold.  In fact, you have.  There's just one small problem.  There are two kobolds guarding the taskmaster and you would be foolish to assume the taskmaster is unarmed so that makes three.  At present, the taskmaster is clearly focused on the fire, to the point of ignoring all else, but the two guardian kobolds are still vigilant.  You're going to need another plan.

You consider using your bow again.  You are actually pretty close to the bodyguard kobolds yet still veiled in darkness so you would not likely miss from this range.  Of course, with one dead you would have to immediately focus on the other and subdue the taskmaster all in quick succession lest the entire colony become aware of your attack.  Another, possibly crazier idea is to just run past the guards before they mentally register your presence, grab the taskmaster, jump from the ledge, and just run.  The fall may be considerable for a kobold, but you are sure that as a human you can handle it.

[User] You use Your Bow To Take Out The Guardians Quickly, Then Subdue The Taskmaster

[Assistant]
You are going to take advantage of the short range and the distraction you created to shoot down your target's guardians and then grabbing the target himself.  You don't want to just grab him and run as you have no secluded place in mind in which to take him and you certainly don't want to alert the rest of the colony.  It is decided then, you are going to have to use the element of surprise once again and make a risky move.

You draw your bow and notch an arrow in the drawstring.  The nearest kobold is so very close.  You aim at his head and for the first time in your life the arrow actually goes where it is supposed to.  The other bodyguard is so in shock at the sight of this that by the time it registers what is going on you already have another arrow drawn back and ready to go.  He turns to run towards his taskmaster and you put one between his shoulderblades.  Its only at this time that the taskmaster turns around and sees what has transpired.  He starts shouting more of his "yip yip" nonsense but given that he had been doing that already since the fire started the other kobolds don't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary.

You grab him and pull him back into the passage before the ledge, tear the purple cloth that makes his coat, bind his wrists, and search him thoroughly for any weapons.  The creature looks at you in complete fear and for the first time you are truly taken back by the kind of things you are capable of.  After all, you've just been an underappreciated swineherd your whole life.  And a scrawny one to boot (ok, so you're still scrawny, but that's beside the point).  I guess survival and stress can make people do some pretty crazy things huh?

You draw your sword and let the kobold know that if he makes any unnecessary noise he'd quickly regret it.  Like most leaders, he's bold in words and all coward at heart.  You decide its time to begin.

"Tell me what you know about the Craxil" you demand.  You're clearly not used to being in such a position of dominance or control but damn if you're gonna let the kobold know that.

"Yip, ok.  The Craxil is the organizer, the one that unifed the scattered beastmen thoughout this region of the barren mountain range."

"Why did the Craxil do this?  What does it hope to accomplish?"

"eee.  The Craxil wants to provide for the beastmen it does!  No likes hoominz that take all nice land and push us back into barren lands yip.  Craxil wants some good lands too yip.  Takes them from hoominz he will.  You'll see"

You shove your sword under his neck as if to somehow counter his claim.  "What manner of creature is this Craxil you demand."

"Yip.  Nobody knows, least not us kobolds anyway.  We's gets our orderss from the riders we does"

"Riders?"

"Yip, humans that serve the Craxil.  Well, at least they used to be human.  Now... not anymore"

"The Craxil raised them as undead?!?"

"Yip noes, the Craxil does not perform such foul practices.  The Craxil is noble to us beasties he is.  No, the Craxil spends days performing the ritual to break their mind and make them thralls."

This last part terrifies you.  You know mindflayers are capable of turning humans into thralls, but they can do so instantly.  They don't require days and a ritual to do so.  Clearly, this Craxil is indeed a creature unlike any other.  You can hear the sound of kobold laborers gradually getting closer so you take the last bit of time you have to ask the most important question.

"Where can I find the Craxil?"

"Yip!  He resides in an underground cavern accessed from the bottom of a vast canyon up north yip.  Best way is Redridge Pass.  Rocks will be red they wills and cactii too.  Use mine shaft at end of mine that way, it takes you close.  Now let's me go yip!"

The voices are drawing closer and you don't have time for any further answers.  You decide to execute your prisoner and stash the body so you can sneak out to the passageway without alerting the rest of the kobold colony.

[User] You continue Sneaking To The Yours Shaft

[Assistant]
The kobolds are not alerted to your presence yet; and with most of them trying to contain the fire you started, there aren't very many standing between you and the mine shaft.  You continue down along the tracks in the passageway.  There are multiple passages and mining spots on both sides and even some ladders leading deeper into the ground but you follow the tracks straight as told until you reach the end of the passage.  A single ladder leads up, very far up in fact.  You are beginning to develop a fear of heights just looking at how high you are gonna have to climb and given that kobolds built this place you have serious reservations about how well the ladder is gonna support your weight.

But what choice do you have?  The skeletons and grue you left behind will certainly make it difficult to leave this place the way you came and it won't be long before the kobolds discover the bodies.  You set about climbing the ladder and waste no more time thinking about it.  You just do it.  The ladder reaches higher and higher and higher and looking down you are soon aware of just how extensive these mining tunnels are.  Still, your curiosity about kobold mining practices will have to wait.  You've got a Craxil to kill and a village to save.  Finally, you reach the top and fling open the hatch.

[User] You move On With The Quest

[Assistant]
You are glad to have put that unplesant ordeal behind you and now head forth in search of the Redridge Pass.  You are finally beginning to see cactii, which pleases you greatly, and the dirt/rocks are still red.  You get the sense that you must be close so this Redridge Pass is going to have to be somewhere nearby or up ahead.  You shudder when you realize there are rarely ever any formal signs in beastmen controlled territories so how will you know this pass when you get to it?

As you ponder these thoughts you notice a small hut up ahead, along your path.  Smoke rising from a brick chimney tells you someone is home though you cannot imagine what civilized being could possibly live so deep within the Craxil's territory.  How would such a person get supplies?  How would such a person survive out here with all the hostile creatures roaming about?  Perhaps this person isn't a person at all but a hostile creature himself that for whatever reason favors the abode of humans?

Despite the fact that it is still daytime, you decide to creep up and look in the window to see who is inside.  All you see is a homely old man with a beard eating plumpdinberry pie in his rocking chair.  An illusion you question?  Or perhaps your time out here in the Craxil's territory has made you jaded.  After some internal debate, you decide to go in.  You've been awake for two and a half days now and eaten nothing but the pork rines you brought with you (which you are nearly depleted on).  At this rate, you won't be able to put up much of a fight at all, even if you do get to the Craxil.  Besides, he might know something about the Craxil or the Redrange Pass and you can't afford to be wandering around aimlessly throughout the Craxil's domain.

You go back around to the front door and before you even knock the door opens...

[User] You dun Dun Duuuuuuunnnnnnnnn!!!!!!!!!

[Assistant]
The door opens and the old man is standing there, looking at you expectantly.  He is at least two feet taller than you but looks frail in his old age.  He invites you in and you go in, though cautiously.  The inside of his home looks pretty much like you would expect for a man of his age.  A tad messy, but plenty of paintings of his family and the all too familiar old people smell.  He beckons you to join him for dinner and nervously you do so.

The food is tremendous though in all fairness, its been quite a while since you have had anything but the pork rines you brought with you.  He fills your pack with fruits and breads and now you are starting to feel guilty about it all.  This guy seems genuinely nice and you feel your guard beginning to drop, but still...you have to ask...

"Why do you live out here sir?  This is deep within the Craxil's territory and extraordinarily dangerous."

"I've lived her since before the Craxil established itself.  I'm pretty out of the way for their usual operations so they don't usually pay me much mind.  Besides, I'm old.  If they find me and its my time then so be it."

You're taken back by this strange answer but you accept it and ask further...

"If you've been here all this time, that must make you something of a hermit.  Still, you ought know something about the Craxil right?"

"Yes, I suppose I am something of a hermit, but only because the visions I have make people suspect I'm crazy.  Still, I've sensed the Craxil in my dreams and I know it is capable of having such visions as well.  That is how it is aware of you and your plans."

"WHAT?!" you exclaim.  You've always relied upon stealth and the element of surprise to make up for the drastic difference in power between you and your adversaries.  If the Craxil is aware of you and your plans, how are you going to pull this off?

"Indeed, the Craxil knows what you hope to do.  But don't dispair yet, as I've seen a good deal of cleverness in you and even if it knows your coming it doesn't know when.

Somehow that last statement doesn't offer you much consolation but after coming as far as you have you don't really see that you have any other choice than to stay the course.  After a filling dinner you lie down on a mat and get the best sleep you've had in a long time.  During this nap, you are visited by a strange dream...

[User] You strange Dream

[Assistant]
You saw a soft mist of white and purple against a pitch black surrounding.  You could sense there was something or someone in the room with you but you could not see who it was.  You could not sense whether or not it was good or evil, kind or malevolent, all you could sense was its presence.  It hits you that this presence is the Craxil, and it is watching you intently as you stumble around in the darkness.

You sense one more presence, one which you are very familiar.  It's your sister!  You see her only breifly before her likeness disappears back into the darkness.  You sense fear followed by supplication coming from her.  You are now moving faster through the darness, stumbling over rocks and nearly twisting your ankles on rivets in the ground.  But no matter how quickly you move you cannot get a visual on either your sister or the Craxil, you only sense their presence.

You wake up sweating feverishly.  "That was quite a dream you had young man" the old man starts.  "You were shouting so loud I thought you were losing it.  And here people thought I was crazy..."

You aren't really sure what to make of this dream.  Was it a vision or just a nightmare?  Was the Craxil really watching you the whole time?  And what of your sister?  You last saw her being drug off by humunculi so you assumed she was dead.  Could she still be alive somehow?  She looked a lot different in that dream too.  Not the shy, reserved younger sister you knew but rather a fierce looking warrior in battle garb.  The hell is that about?  Your dream seemed so vivid you can't help wondering if it was a vision, but your logical mind tells you that the power of suggestion is at work here and its all bullocks.

Feeling full, refreshed, and well stocked on supplies you thank the old hermit for everything and really appreciate what he's done for you.  He tells you that the Redrange Pass is just over the peak to the northwest of his hut and you immediately see what he's talking about.  Its still a long way from the pass to the canyon, but you have a very clear idea of where you are going now.  Once you get to the Redrange Pass you just follow it northwest of your current position and it will EVENTUALLY lead you straight to the canyon, which you're told is hard to miss.

"Good luck young man, I'm rooting for you".

"Thank you sir, and again I appreciate it."

Nice guy.  He's the first to address you as something other than "pencil arms", "scrawny one", "bone boy", or the like.  You head out towards the peak and begin the lengthy climb upwards.

[User] Up The Peak

[Assistant]
You climb the peak and though it takes a considerable amount of time to get to the top, it isn't nearly as tiring as you expected it would be.  You are now standing on an even higher plateau on the mountainside and the Redridge Pass is precisely where you expected it to be.  You are thrilled to have finally found the pass, which is really more of a trail than a pass, but you still have a lot further to go.  As you move forward you suddenly get wind of a foul stench and hear a lot of loud, obnoxious grunting noises up ahead.

You immediately get off the beaten path and find a good hiding spot.  It is midday now so there isn't a lot of darkness to aid you.  Still, you manage to crawl forward unseen until you see a small group of orcs.  This is VERY not good you think you yourself.  Orcs are exceptionally strong.  Even one on one you stand no real chance of defeating one.  There are about five blocking the path forward so you are going to simply have to sneak around them and continue on your journey.  You've interrogated lesser creatures, but if the Craxil is commanding these creatures then just how strong is the thing?  No, don't dwell on such thoughts.  You need to focus.  You've come this far and you're sure as hell not gonna let yourself be intimidated now.

Returning to the task at hand you see a couple of different options.  There is a river that runs down the middle of the orc group's position and some hollow reeds close to you.  You remember one time during capture the flag where you moved through the river underwater and breathed through reeds very similar to these.  That was an epic maneuver worth remembering, perhaps it will serve you again here?  The orc camp and you are at the same elevation; but there is a ditch that runs from your current position, along the side of the camp, and out the other side.  Presumably, if you hug the side of the ditch closest to the orcs and move along quietly they shouldn't be able to see you.  Alternatively, you still have plenty of poison.  Even if you applied it to all your remaining arrows, you wouldn't even have used half the bottle.  Orcs are large and there are only five of them...

Time for a decision.  What's your plan of action?

[User] You breathe Through Reeds And Move Slowly Underwater To The Other Side

[Assistant]
Of course!  The reeds will enable you to breath from underwater.  The river water is opaque so you will not be seen and because orcs have an exceptional sense of smell, this is probably the safest way to get past them without being seen.  You quietly slip into the river water from a point that can't be seen by the orcs, get one of the hollow reeds to act as a snorkel, and slowly begin moving through the water.  You intend to move slowly, so that if any of the orcs do notice the moving reed it will look like it is just drifting downriver.

The idea is working.  You can hardly see where you are going, but you got a very good look at where the river goes and the approximate distances before you got in so you have a pretty good estimate of where you are.  Soon, you can hear the orcs talking and you know you must be in the middle of them now.  As fate would have it, a snapping turtle decides to be a pain in the ass (literally) but despite the pain this hissing bastard is inflicting you manage to keep your cool and continue moving slowly through the river.  Eventually you, make it to the other side and emerge out of the orc's view.  You pat yourself on the back for that one, this maneuver is definitely one of your favorites.

Just then the hissing bastard that bit your ass makes it known that he's still attached by tighting his bite and inflicting more pain.  You put a drop of the poison in his mouth and within moments he's off of you and squirming on the ground.  Looks like this stuff Brandolf gave you is legit after all.  You massage your sore bottom and try to walk it off.  There is a welt on your right butt cheek that still stings but you figure you will eventually get over it.

[User] You get Over It And Get On With The Quest

[Assistant]
You rejoin the Redridge Pass and continue northwest towards the canyon you hope to find.  You hear a shuffling noise and you could have sworn that the vines stemming from that rather bizarre looking cactus just moved.  Nah, just a vine on the ground... from a cactus... on a mostly dry and rocky mountainside... makes perfect sense.  You continue to rationalize this in your head as you walk along only to notice a similar movement from another cactii vine up ahead of you.  Suddenly you feel one of these vines wrap itself around your left ankle and sting you.

You pull and draw your sword but other vines have taken up the call as well and you are getting grabbed and stung all over.  You still have limited movement with your limbs, but you are out of balance.  The stingers must have injected you with something because you are feeling nausious.  You need to focus and get out of this mess before you black out or you might not wake up.  You look over at the cactii these vines are coming from and they have inexplicably moved closer to your position.  Very close in fact.  The needles jutting out from them seem to have perked up and gotten longer.  Whatever these things are, they've got you and you aren't about to become their prey.

You are still able to reach your sword, but with vines slowing your arm and your lack of balance you aren't sure you will be able to sever the thick vines that are holding you in place.  You could always apply some poison to it first, but just reaching the poison is going to be a challenge as you've stored that in your backpack.  You still have flint in your front pocket and a few pieces of tinder left, perhaps if you can get a small fire going you can push them back.  Whatever you do though, it has to be quick.  You can feel the venom from the many stingers affecting your mind and it is taking all your discipline to maintain your focus right now.

[User] You just Draw Your Sword And Try To Cut Through The Vines

[Assistant]
It would take too much time and energy just to reach the backpack and rumage through it for the venom right now, and you need all the time and energy you have to try and free yourself from this trap you seem to have landed in.  You are able to reach your shortsword within a short while and begin raising it against the vine holding your left arm.  You bring it down as hard as you can, but with the vine holding your right arm and the others keeping you off balance, you don't cause nearly as much damage as you would like to.  The same happens when you try again.

You decide to start using your sword like a saw instead, running the edge of the blade back and forth against a singular point on the vine holding your left arm.  It takes a while but you are about halfway through the vine when it suddenly responds.  The vine recoils abit so that the part you were working on is now out of your reach.  You are greatly disheartened by this, but set to work on it again in a new spot.  The creature's vine responds the same way again and by now the venom has clouded your mind so much you are barely able to maintain your conciousness.  You realize now that it is over.  You have no idea what they did after you blacked out, because you never woke up again.

THE END


[System] Narrate a grim fantasy text adventure. The Empire's world is brutal, its people hardened. Respond to the player's choices with immersive storytelling and let consequences flow naturally.

[User] You might have to be defensive, that sword doesn't look too friendly.

[Assistant]
David watches, sure in your chances and not wanting to get in your way while you set up a defensive stance, planting your feet to the ground and readying your hands at the sides. Katar, parallel to you, closes the door behind him, and then raises his sword, pointing it at you. "So, you fear God?"

"Not in yours." You laugh back, maintaining composure. He's trying to get me off-guard, that's what this mad-man wants.

"Then perhaps you find fear in his servants instead, fool. Why else would you not attack me before I ready my blade? Katar slowly approaches you, his long sword only a quick-thrust away from your armored chest.

You don't feel the need to respond, instead focusing on his blade. You remember Kelso mentioning to you that you won't regenerate from silver-caused cuts, making this the most dangerous fight you've been in, yet. You can only hope that after you survive this, you can make sure the Church doesn't have too much silver lying about. They probably have some idea of whether it works or not, otherwise Katar wouldn't have a silver katana.

The aloof Zealot chuckles, "Then this will be an easy fight." He holds his sword with both hands, winds up, and swings it at your midsection, expecting you to duck and die. Thankfully, you saw through the ruse, and sidestep, only to slam the sword with your gauntlet out of Karat's hands. Angrily, he punches at you, sending a gauntleted fist at your nose. You get pushed back, but feel alright after rubbing it with your metal-covered wrist. You send a boot at the man's shins, making his knees bend, giving you perfect reach for swinging at his head. You feel his skull from under his skin after the blow, and the Zealot is pushed several meters away-- right next to his sword! Even though Karat is coughing blood, he gets up, using the sword as a cane.

"COME AT ME, DEMON!" The bearded man yells, raising his word once more.

You shake your head, not falling for it. He angrily charges for you, only to be sucker-punched and knocked out before he could swing.

You stare at the man, then spit. "This pathetic being is the Chief?"

"Second in command, actually. Chief is probably fighting Gideon right now. But really, I don't think you realize how close you were to dying back there."

"Huh?"

David touches at your nose, "I think his gauntlet is partly silver, so I don't think you're nose will fix itself."

Both of you laugh. If the worst thing that happens to us is that we get broken noses, then we're doing pretty good. "So what now?"

"Well, before the rest of the Zealots appear, we should probably try to kill Father Tomas, in the Church. Or, we could clear out this building while we--"

"It's not a question, we finish the mission. Ragnor and the rest can take care of themselves."

At that very moment, sirens begin to blare, and red lights beam on-and-off all over the HQ...

[User] You continue to the Church.

[Assistant]
With the alarms already blaring you make sure not to waste time in getting out of the building and into the Church. Outside, swarms of Zealots are coming out of the Church's front doors, obviously en route to fight Ragnor and his Wolves. You and David mostly blend in enough to not be recognized as anything but Zealots and manage to swim past the incoming horde and through the next street, then up the concrete steps of the Church and right in front of the Chapel's gates..

"How should we enter, then?"

"No backdoors to the Church. Only one direction if you follow God." David recites from behind you.

You consider trying to bash the door in, but decide that knocking it and waiting for the door to be opened by whoever's inside would be an easier solution for getting in.

Clang

Your gauntlet taps at the metal. After a pause, you can hear noises on the inside of the Chapel, mostly worried murmuring. You quickly motion for David to go in front, right before a bald young man in ceremonial blue robe opens the door. In response to your ghoul's profile, the man just gapes for several moments before opening his mouth to speak. "Dave?!?"

"No... Not anymore." He states, walking into the Church. The man doesn't seem to even notice you, engrossed in seeing a living ghost instead. Inside, several other monks are gathered, all of them staring at David with awe. You take the opportunity to slink into the shadow, and wait.

"Behold! The blessed Lord brought our child back!" They cry, waving their hands in the air in synchronization. Up and down their hands go, until one with a cowl speaks up, "Brother David, where were you?"

Your ghoul stares at them with disdain, "I got lost, but was found by a group of humans."

They continue to gape. The cowled-one continues his interrogation, "Hmm? More humans, you say?

"Crazy enough, the humans were in our backyard this entire time. We just didn't recognize them."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"The Wolves, Vadim. They're good people."

Gasps erupt, and David's only looks down to his feet, and his hands ball up to fists. "They changed you, didn't they?" The one with the cowl points, and begins to chant in some sort of language which you are unfamiliar with.

Bored of their religious, antics, you make your presence known by jumping out of the shadows, and decking 'Vadim' with a right hook, sending him to the middle of the crowd of twelve-or-so Monks. David nods, and sends a sharp kick to the nearest Zealot surrounding him. Before you know it, it becomes a rowdy brawl of fists.

The monks may be very agile, but without any weapons nor armor you figure you or even David could take them out alone.


[System] Run a text-based dark fantasy adventure game. Describe the world with gritty realism, respond to player actions with narrative consequences, and maintain the tone of a world where survival is never guaranteed.

[User] You stay out

[Assistant]
Heh heh, let sis handle Mom, you're going to do something you've never done. Party all night!

You end up going to a club and even though you haven't really had any previous experience with these places or any other major social gathering you seem to fit in very well. It amazing how far your new outlook on life has taken you within a short period of time.

You realize that following all those rules was idiotic. You're going to have fun and anyone who tries to stop you is going to pay the price. Nobody is more important than you.

Your home life changes quite a bit. Now its Mom yelling at you constantly rather than your sister, who seems to have calmed down quite a bit. Strange how things balance out.

Another day arrives and you feel rebellious...


[System] You are narrating an interactive fiction game in a dark fantasy setting. Bring the world to life with vivid prose, react meaningfully to player choices, and don't pull punches when the story demands it.

[User] You are a magus of Air.

[Assistant]
The torrents of Air flow freely through your spirit, and you are determined to use them.

Strangely, you are rather excited than frightened by the prospect of fighting your very first battle. So this is what adventure feels like!

[User] You will combine your powers with Lucius, creating gusts of wind to knock down the goblins.

[Assistant]
You step beside Lucius, and begin to channel the energies of Air through your body.

Lucius looks at you, and you nod when he takes control of the flows of magic through your body, adding them to his own.

With no more archers shooting, Lucius forms a giant fist of air from the winds, and pummeling the group of goblins mercilessly.
Where the two of you strike with your combined magic, the goblins do not stand up again.

A shaman attempts to cast a counterspell, wrenching the control of the Air around you from Lucius, but he is swatted like a fly, for combined, your magic is too strong to be redirected that easily.

Lucius is drawing more and more power through you, and you feel the strain of it.

Suddenly, the bond snaps, and you stare in horror at Lucius' chest, from where an evil looking slender sword is protruding.

Then, something hits your head, and, added by the strain of working powerful magic, you slip into a thoughtless darkness...


[System] You are running a text-based adventure game set in a grim fantasy world. Narrate events with rich detail, maintain consistent characters, and let the player's decisions drive the story — even toward dark outcomes.

[User] Continue

[Assistant]
You decide to buy more useless shit. You can never have enough, you fuckin' obsessed pack rat.

Okay well some of this shit isn't useless, and might even do you some good. Certain items catch your eye.

You see a car that's made completely out of asbestos! How cool would that be? You could drive through fire and be none the worse for wear! True you rarely go out anymore, but maybe this would be the thing that could do it!

You see a bomb shelter for sale made of xentronium armor. Could be useful in these dangerous times we live in and it'll definitely provide you more protection than the basement.

There's a small island made of Styrofoam in the middle of the ocean. It says it's held together by hemp. While you've never been one for the beaches and sun, you wonder if you could rent it out some how. Maybe movie producers would pay you to use it or something.

Actually perhaps something more practical might be good, there's some toilet paper for sale. You know you always need that!

Finally, you see a building for sale; it doesn't really give a description. It just says "Generic Gray Building" It might be a good thing to invest in since you're getting tired of hearing your Mom's moans of ecstasy at night when she's masturbating with her 400 horse powered vibrator. A place of your own might be in order.

[User] You buy the building. It's um... Gray

[Assistant]
Face it; you don't really have that much of a personality, so instead of buying any one of the more "interesting" items, you decide to get the dull gray building to match your life. Its only $2000 and nobody else wants it, so you get it with relative ease.

Alright! A place of your own, no more having to quickly erase the porn on the computer or explaining to Mom why your pants are off anymore!

After you receive the location, you quickly start packing up your shit. Until you realize you've got a lot of it. Hmmm, you don't really feel like moving it all and you briefly think about selling some of your shit on Ebay, but as usual you can't bear to part with anything. Where else are you gonna get a genuine Hitler Pez dispenser? Or the rare gay version of Star Wars? Or even that picture of you with Boudicca's ghost?

Besides you don't want to waste anymore time on Ebay today. You're in a rare adventurous spirit and really wanna find out what this building's all about. You load up your Mom's car with as much shit as you can and drive to the building's location. It takes you a day to get there, but you finally do it.

You're here at the Gray Building. You're also in the middle of nowhere! You can hear a pack of ravenous wolves in the distance. There's only one door and no windows. Looks pretty ominous actually. Like a place where they'd do a snuff film, or perform secret government experiments.

Well in any case you DO own it, so maybe you should find out!

[User] You go in the Gray Building

[Assistant]
You cautiously enter the building, but not before you take your Limited Edition Red Rider BB Gun with you.

Nothing!

There's absolutely nothing in here! No illegal underground sex club, no "Area 51" like facility. Nothing.

You can't help being slightly disappointed; well at least you don't have to worry though, its big enough to hold all your shit.

You go back to your car and proceed to gather your belongings. You kick the door open and are surprised by what you see!

You see a jungle like area, with a primitive village inside! There ARE some natives roaming around, but they haven't noticed you yet. They may or may not be friendly.

This is fuckin' bizarre to say the least!

[User] You close the door!

[Assistant]
You quickly close the door and try to piece together what the fuck just happened!

You don't have as much time as you like though. Those wolves you heard earlier, must've caught your scent, because there's a pack of them on a nearby hill. The leader is jet black, has red eyes and has gotta be a mutant of some sort because he's got six legs and is fuckin' HUGE!
He sees you and howls an unearthly howl calling his fellows after you.

They'll be upon you soon and you're not gonna make it to your car in time.

[User] You run into the building

[Assistant]
You'd rather take your chances with some natives than these things! At least the primitives were human! (Well you assume they were)

You rush inside and slam the door shut, locking it. The jungle and village are gone, whatever you saw before will remain a mystery because there's no trace of it now.
You wonder if it was some acid flashback you had.

It's possible; you have done the stuff in the past. Maybe this is all just the flashback of a bad trip.

Of course the scratching at the door and inhuman noises outside sound pretty real...

Bad trip or no, there's no point in taking fuckin' chances! You stand in the center of the room and watch the door, as the banging gets more intense.
You prepare yourself, holding your BB Gun at the door and taking out your limited edition Charles Manson butcher Knife.

You stand ready, as the door looks like its going to come off its hinges, but then the noise stops and you hear the wolves padding off.

You breathe a little easier, but only for a moment. You look in utter horror as you see the alpha wolf (That would be the mutant, in case you weren't paying attention earlier) materialize out of one of the corners of the building.

It looks at you with absolute hatred and hunger.

If this IS an acid flashback, it's a REALLY bad one!

[User] You kill the beast!

[Assistant]
You begin to fire, but you BB Gun has absolutely no effect on the thing. It reaches you in no time, but not before you smash it in the face with the gun, breaking it into pieces. This temporarily stuns the beast, which allows you to take your knife and start stabbing the shit out of it. It howls and knocks you to the ground with one paw, reeling back from its bloody wound. It sprints to the other side of the building but looks to be preparing for another assault.

You actually hope it does. You've never felt so alive...

[User] You get ready for the next assault

[Assistant]
Your determination and bravery are admirable. Your intelligence though is questionable!

The beast charges at you and smashes into your body as you attempt to stab it in the eye. You feel your ribs break as this blow knocks you to the ground. You feel completely out of breath. As you gasp for air, the Beast sinks its razor teeth into one of your legs and rips it off, swallowing the limb in one gulp.

You go into shock as you watch blood spraying from your stump. It's just as well because the Beast's next move is biting your head off.