Several hours from the nearest city or town of note lies the backwoods village of Harrow’s Crick. Originally settled by pilgrims and the families of men serving at the nearby Cathedral of Light – the region soon developed from isolated border down into booming new territory.
As people flocked to the region to pray at the ancient temple and attend its world renowned schools, the rapidly expanding town required more and more resources. Nearby Loch Midnight provided plentiful fish for the townsfolk, the fertile fields near the Fenmire were excellent for grazing, and the foreboding Bramblewood generated plenty of income from its exotic Bramble Pine
But all was not well in the region. When the Cathedral of Light had first been built, it had not been by human hands. Indeed, nobody knew where the impressive citadel had come from. Perched as it was at the centre of Loch Midnight, the towering white marble structure had been there when the very first missionaries and pilgrims had pressed east in search of new lands to convert. Legend has it that the great cathedral’s polished floors and elaborate decoration had seemed like a gift from the Gods themselves – and before too long more and more people had flocked east to see the miraculous church.
As more and more people came to the region and more of the mysterious temple was opened up and explored, something was found that should not have been. The burgeoning frontier state suddenly had its fortunes changed.
The fishermen who had enjoyed such success in the crystal clear waters of Loch Midnight suddenly began to bring home misshapen and sickly fish. Worse still, some fishing boats didn’t come back at all.
The fields turned fallow as the Fenmire’s borders expanded and turned more land into useless mud. The Bramblewood, so long the source of the town’s prosperity, became a dangerous place. More and more camps were overrun by raiding goblin bands or simply choked up by thorned weeds. Tales filtered back to the town of strange creatures being seen outside of the town’s walls. Packs of wolves attacked farmers in their fields; crows were said to peck out the eyes of babies left unattended; and every night the area fell under thick mists in which dangerous shapes seemed to lurk.
But the people persisted. Trusting that the Gods were simply testing them, they continued to go about their lives as best they could. Ferries out to the temple continued to run, men continued to scrape out a living in the increasingly difficult soil, and pilgrims arrived daily to pursue their chance at happiness and wealth.
The final straw for the people of Harrow’s Crick came one stormy July evening. With many of the townspeople at the Cathedral for a midsummer vigil – those few who remained in the town went about their business. Men and women in the inn huddled away from the rolling thunder and driving rain, and children were tucked safely into their beds.
Many had taken to barring their doors and windows as soon as the sun had gone down, and parents would eye the door uneasily and sleep with a weapon close at hand. It is said that towards the end, no man walked the streets at night alone – and never unarmed.
At first they had thought it to be the wailing of the wind, but soon the dreadful truth of it sunk in. It was not the wind keening so eerily, but the dying screams of their fellows. Despite the cries of protest and terror from their wives and children, the able bodied men still in town snatched up weapons and rushed to the boats.
The lake protested their coming with rough waters, and some claimed to have seen massive shapes lurking just beneath the surface as they raced to the aid of their fellows.
They came upon the island expecting to find their former friends and family dead. They came expecting orcs or bandits or daemons.
They found nothing. The Citadel’s grounds were silent, so too the small settlement that housed its staff. The well manicured gardens and hedge maze showed no signs of the several hundred townsfolk who had been there, and no sound came from within the vast temple.
Summoning up their courage and uttering prayers to a God they weren’t sure still listened, the men of Harrow’s Crick inched through the vast iron doors of the cathedral and stepped inside.
No blood. No signs of struggle. Only a tremendous sense of terror that unmanned every one of them. Dropping their weapons and fleeing, the good people of Harrow’s Crick fled back to their town and sealed themselves back into their homes. They prayed that the morning sun would bring with it the courage needed to return and investigate further.
Over the years since, many of the town’s men and women have returned to the cathedral in search of some sign of their missing loved ones. But the cathedral belongs to others now, and while very few have been foolish enough to venture inside, many fishermen tell tales of having seen foul creatures emerge from the cathedral. And occasionally, when the air is still, haunting music drifts across the loch and into the village.
In the thirty years since that terrible night the area has fallen into disrepair. The town, once the jewel of the east, has slowly withered away like fruit on the vine. Over time the houses and shopfronts on the outskirts of town have been abandoned and people have moved closer and closer to the village’s overgrown town square.
It is the dying and disappearing that is the cause for greatest concern. The village’s people huddle around its tangled village green like moths around a candle, for those who stubbornly cling to their homes on the town’s fringes have a nasty habit of disappearing overnight. Sometimes there are signs of a struggle. Sometimes, more disturbingly, they disappear from houses locked from the inside.
Still more stories tell of far more visceral deaths. The townsfolk tell tales of young boys literally pecked apart by flocks of crows on the edge of the Bramblewood; of old men found dead in empty fields with their faces contorted in terror; and of women giving birth to horrendously deformed and ill tempered children under the light of the full moon.
These days the logging camps of the Bramblewood are long quiet, and only the most determined or crazed of farmers still till the rough earth outside of the town walls. But people still come. There are the doomsayers and the devout; the adventurers and scavengers; the inquisitors and the hopeless. What had once been a town of the devout and the hopeful has instead become one of paranoia, fear, and desperation.
It is to this harrowed town that the adventurers come one overcast afternoon. In keeping with the town’s dread reputation, the day is oppressive and the air chill. No birdsong exists to break the tension, and the distant palisade that surrounds the town seems to tear at the sky with its jagged wooden teeth.
Whether they have come seeking fame or fortune, they’ll find both in spades. If they can live long enough to bring it back.
Nightmares of a Sleeping God is a throwback to the good old days of dungeon crawling at its very best. I'm not talking orc & pie stuff, but I am definitely talking a step away from baby goblins, working ecologies, and all of that fluff.
There's obviously a back story, and there'll be plenty of opportunity for role play, but I'm aiming to make a game that is fun the way playing used to be. If you've been playing longer than a decade - you'll know what that feels like.
-------
Looking For
The adventure starts at first level and runs through as far as we can go. I've drawn up two 80+ room levels already as well as sub-levels and wilderness, so there'll be no shortage of things to do.
To start we're going to need 4-8 level one characters. We'll be using a 28 point buy system to generate characters.
I've never been one to be picky about races/classes/optional rules - so feel free to run anything by me you might like to try. Just reference what books you're using in your post so I can check up on them before saying yay or nay.
Just remember - level one. 28 points Max starting gold.
Alignment is not important, although if you're going to be evil or chaotic, give me a good reason why you're going to be co-operating with the group.
As people flocked to the region to pray at the ancient temple and attend its world renowned schools, the rapidly expanding town required more and more resources. Nearby Loch Midnight provided plentiful fish for the townsfolk, the fertile fields near the Fenmire were excellent for grazing, and the foreboding Bramblewood generated plenty of income from its exotic Bramble Pine
But all was not well in the region. When the Cathedral of Light had first been built, it had not been by human hands. Indeed, nobody knew where the impressive citadel had come from. Perched as it was at the centre of Loch Midnight, the towering white marble structure had been there when the very first missionaries and pilgrims had pressed east in search of new lands to convert. Legend has it that the great cathedral’s polished floors and elaborate decoration had seemed like a gift from the Gods themselves – and before too long more and more people had flocked east to see the miraculous church.
As more and more people came to the region and more of the mysterious temple was opened up and explored, something was found that should not have been. The burgeoning frontier state suddenly had its fortunes changed.
The fishermen who had enjoyed such success in the crystal clear waters of Loch Midnight suddenly began to bring home misshapen and sickly fish. Worse still, some fishing boats didn’t come back at all.
The fields turned fallow as the Fenmire’s borders expanded and turned more land into useless mud. The Bramblewood, so long the source of the town’s prosperity, became a dangerous place. More and more camps were overrun by raiding goblin bands or simply choked up by thorned weeds. Tales filtered back to the town of strange creatures being seen outside of the town’s walls. Packs of wolves attacked farmers in their fields; crows were said to peck out the eyes of babies left unattended; and every night the area fell under thick mists in which dangerous shapes seemed to lurk.
But the people persisted. Trusting that the Gods were simply testing them, they continued to go about their lives as best they could. Ferries out to the temple continued to run, men continued to scrape out a living in the increasingly difficult soil, and pilgrims arrived daily to pursue their chance at happiness and wealth.
The Temple Falls Silent
The final straw for the people of Harrow’s Crick came one stormy July evening. With many of the townspeople at the Cathedral for a midsummer vigil – those few who remained in the town went about their business. Men and women in the inn huddled away from the rolling thunder and driving rain, and children were tucked safely into their beds.
Many had taken to barring their doors and windows as soon as the sun had gone down, and parents would eye the door uneasily and sleep with a weapon close at hand. It is said that towards the end, no man walked the streets at night alone – and never unarmed.
At first they had thought it to be the wailing of the wind, but soon the dreadful truth of it sunk in. It was not the wind keening so eerily, but the dying screams of their fellows. Despite the cries of protest and terror from their wives and children, the able bodied men still in town snatched up weapons and rushed to the boats.
The lake protested their coming with rough waters, and some claimed to have seen massive shapes lurking just beneath the surface as they raced to the aid of their fellows.
They came upon the island expecting to find their former friends and family dead. They came expecting orcs or bandits or daemons.
They found nothing. The Citadel’s grounds were silent, so too the small settlement that housed its staff. The well manicured gardens and hedge maze showed no signs of the several hundred townsfolk who had been there, and no sound came from within the vast temple.
Summoning up their courage and uttering prayers to a God they weren’t sure still listened, the men of Harrow’s Crick inched through the vast iron doors of the cathedral and stepped inside.
No blood. No signs of struggle. Only a tremendous sense of terror that unmanned every one of them. Dropping their weapons and fleeing, the good people of Harrow’s Crick fled back to their town and sealed themselves back into their homes. They prayed that the morning sun would bring with it the courage needed to return and investigate further.
Over the years since, many of the town’s men and women have returned to the cathedral in search of some sign of their missing loved ones. But the cathedral belongs to others now, and while very few have been foolish enough to venture inside, many fishermen tell tales of having seen foul creatures emerge from the cathedral. And occasionally, when the air is still, haunting music drifts across the loch and into the village.
In the thirty years since that terrible night the area has fallen into disrepair. The town, once the jewel of the east, has slowly withered away like fruit on the vine. Over time the houses and shopfronts on the outskirts of town have been abandoned and people have moved closer and closer to the village’s overgrown town square.
It is the dying and disappearing that is the cause for greatest concern. The village’s people huddle around its tangled village green like moths around a candle, for those who stubbornly cling to their homes on the town’s fringes have a nasty habit of disappearing overnight. Sometimes there are signs of a struggle. Sometimes, more disturbingly, they disappear from houses locked from the inside.
Still more stories tell of far more visceral deaths. The townsfolk tell tales of young boys literally pecked apart by flocks of crows on the edge of the Bramblewood; of old men found dead in empty fields with their faces contorted in terror; and of women giving birth to horrendously deformed and ill tempered children under the light of the full moon.
These days the logging camps of the Bramblewood are long quiet, and only the most determined or crazed of farmers still till the rough earth outside of the town walls. But people still come. There are the doomsayers and the devout; the adventurers and scavengers; the inquisitors and the hopeless. What had once been a town of the devout and the hopeful has instead become one of paranoia, fear, and desperation.
It is to this harrowed town that the adventurers come one overcast afternoon. In keeping with the town’s dread reputation, the day is oppressive and the air chill. No birdsong exists to break the tension, and the distant palisade that surrounds the town seems to tear at the sky with its jagged wooden teeth.
Whether they have come seeking fame or fortune, they’ll find both in spades. If they can live long enough to bring it back.
Nightmares of a Sleeping God is a throwback to the good old days of dungeon crawling at its very best. I'm not talking orc & pie stuff, but I am definitely talking a step away from baby goblins, working ecologies, and all of that fluff.
There's obviously a back story, and there'll be plenty of opportunity for role play, but I'm aiming to make a game that is fun the way playing used to be. If you've been playing longer than a decade - you'll know what that feels like.
-------
Looking For
The adventure starts at first level and runs through as far as we can go. I've drawn up two 80+ room levels already as well as sub-levels and wilderness, so there'll be no shortage of things to do.
To start we're going to need 4-8 level one characters. We'll be using a 28 point buy system to generate characters.
I've never been one to be picky about races/classes/optional rules - so feel free to run anything by me you might like to try. Just reference what books you're using in your post so I can check up on them before saying yay or nay.
Just remember - level one. 28 points Max starting gold.
Alignment is not important, although if you're going to be evil or chaotic, give me a good reason why you're going to be co-operating with the group.
). 
