Blood, Plunder and D&D

Lost Anchorage A Ghost Story  As Told By Guy as The Dungeon Master Gene as Ricmo the Halfling Thief Daniel as Merus the Elven Ranger and Whisperleaf the Elven Druid Paul as Dakhir the Tiefling Warlock and The Sturg Tony as Fantastic Freddy the Tiefling Bard Chapter 1: On the Heels of a Storm Chapter 2: Whist with the Living Dead Chapter 3: Shadows Lengthen  Chapter 4: The Music of the Spheres Chapter 5: Interpreting Dreams Chapter 6: Shadows Rise Chapter 7: Into the Underworld Chapter 8: The Wood of Suicides Chapter 9: A Song for Ophelia Chapter 10: Going Home

  My intention was to run a pirate ghost story but not your standard Flying Dutchmen ghost story. How I got there was a bit convoluted , while doing the world building research for the D&D Pirate campaign, I read a lot of books on the 17th century Caribbean and one of the stories that particularly caught my attention was the 1692 earthquake that destroyed Port Royal, one of the principle ports of the region. The first hand accounts were chilling and epic, and all I kept thinking was "can you imagine the ghosts all that must have created? And thus the seed was planted. It also seemed like a great way to start to introduce some of the Shadowlands concepts that I was homebrewing, in addition to some of the backstory for the long dead Empire of Annwyn, both subjects that were going to play a major role in the campaign.  And so the former Imperial port of Lost Anchorage was born. Cold, desolate, remote and abandoned, well off the major shipping lanes, a haven of last resort for...

  Ophelia died, but she did not end. Her body plunged from the parapet of the lighthouse, and as it hit the cold water of the sea a hundred feet below, her death was instant, but her fall had only begun. Her spirit, and that of her neverborn daughter, continued their plunge, deeper and deeper into the darkness of the Otherworld. Their twin souls blazed like falling stars across that always-night sky, interrupting momentarily with their brilliance the forever, unmoving constellations of the stars-that-never-set. And something noticed their fall. Something older then time, something that had floated in black oblivion since before the light of the first star, since before the beginning of creation. Something that was neither alive nor dead, but waiting. Something that craved light and warmth and life.  There are many theories on the origins of the Atropal, the Unborn. Shards of gods that had almost been. Left over echoes of the song of creation. Shadows cast by the first dawn. Di...