Choose Your Adventure
Pick a prepared story or conjure a new one. The AI Dungeon Master runs you through it beat by beat — a real beginning, middle, and end.
⚔️ Campaigns (26)
The Seven Wishing Stars
In the market square of Millhaven, a scarred old peddler presses a warm, star-shaped orb into your hands, gasping that six more are scattered across the world and that 'they' are already coming for it — before three black-sashed enforcers cut him down in the street. The orb hums faintly, warm as a heartbeat. Somewhere, something enormous just noticed you exist.
Bright martial-arts wander-epic — tournaments, training, big appetites
The Band of the Brand
You are blooded veterans of the Ashwolf Free Company, the mercenary band that broke the siege of Camarthal and put a queen on her throne. Tonight the company camps in the Hollow of Aggar to celebrate a contract fulfilled and a war finally won. Commander Voren Kess has promised a feast, and Voren Kess always keeps his promises — though never in the shape you expect.
Grim mercenary epic — ambition, betrayal, and the cost of dreams
The Hundred-Floor Crown
Six months into the Spire, the party has learned the two unbreakable rules of survival: never fight above your floor, and never trust anyone in red. Then the Vanguard Compact's assault on the Floor 47 boss, the Ashen Maw, goes wrong in a way that isn't supposed to be possible — the beast fights like it already knows the raid's formation. Nineteen real people die in four minutes. Guildmaster Bellamy Rourke, down to a skeleton crew and desperate, offers the party full front-line status and a share of the Compact's rations if they'll fill the dead ranks and help him find out how the Maw knew. What they find will drag them from the tent-cities of Anchorhold to the Crown Throne on Floor 100, and force them to ask what kind of person builds a hundred-floor coffin for ten thousand people and calls it a game.
Trapped-in-the-tower survival — clean blades, real stakes, small mercies
The License Trial
An invitation arrives however it must: a black-lacquered token pressed into the party's hands by a stranger who then vanishes, a debt called in, a rumor chased down at the docks. All it says is SUNKEN PORT, DAWN OF THE LONG TIDE, SPEAK THE WORD 'CONCORD.' Those who go find seventy-two other hopefuls, a barge with no visible captain, and a smiling old woman named Chief Examiner Rathmoor Cade who informs them all, cheerfully, that most of them will not be Hunters by the week's end — and that a few of them, this year, will not survive to fail.
Exam-arc gauntlet — cleverness over strength, monstrous whimsy
Nineteen Left
The party are students at the Kessho Institute of Barrier Sorcery when a routine curse-containment call at the condemned Nakaba Dormitory goes wrong: a special-grade curse born from decades of children's fear has grown fat enough to bite through steel doors. Trapped inside is first-year Emi Tsurugi and, in the dormitory's sealed basement shrine, a lead reliquary box that was never supposed to be opened. It opens. Inside is a single mummified finger, radiating cursed energy like a struck bell. There is exactly one way to generate enough power in the next six seconds to save Emi's life. It involves swallowing the finger. Someone at the table is about to do that.
Modern-occult horror-action — cursed, stylish, doomed and funny about it
The Gifted Academy: Starfall
Nine in ten people are born with a Gift. You weren't one of them. Tonight you failed your third and final Provisional Trial at Meridian Crown Academy — no Gift, no license track, no future as a champion — and you're sitting in the rain behind the Gymnasium Array when Solace Kestrel, the Steadfast, the greatest hero alive, drops out of the sky in front of you coughing blood into a handkerchief. 'I've been dying for two years,' she says, like it's small talk, 'and I have something that's going to kill you slower.' She presses a shard of cold, star-bright light into your sternum. It sinks into your bones like it's always belonged there. 'It's called Starfall. It isn't really a Gift — it's a debt I've been carrying. Use it and it will break you. Don't use it and someone worse than me will come looking for it.' Then she's gone, and your hand is glowing, and you have six days before the make-up trials decide whether you have any place at this academy at all.
Big-hearted academy shonen — earnestness, rivalry, what makes a hero
Embers of the Hollow Choir
Graduation day at the Emberhollow Academy ends not with a parade but with an assignment roster: the party is bound into a three-person genin cell alongside Wren Ashcombe, the orphan every other family in the village crosses the street to avoid. Before the ink is dry on the roster, Jonin-sensei Rasa Vellamori pulls the new cell aside and says the thing no one else will: 'Half this village wants that kid gone. The other half wants to know what's sealed inside them. Your job is to make sure neither half gets their way.'
Ninja-clan warfare with a beating heart — outcasts, bonds, legacy
The Devil's Tide
It is the tenth anniversary of the Laughing King's execution, and Port Gallowmere is throwing the Navy's favorite holiday: Gallows Day, when they re-enact Cassian Vane's hanging in the square where it happened, complete with a wax effigy that grins the same grin he did. The party is in port for reasons of their own — a debt, a job, a dare, a funeral — when a real fight breaks out at the scaffold. Someone has stolen a fragment of oilskin chart from the Navy museum case beneath the gallows, the same case that's held it, mocked and unread, for a decade. Marines lock the harbor down island-wide. The only unguarded boat left at the docks is a sorry little cutter nobody's claimed in years. It still has a name painted on the hull, half-scraped-off: FOOL'S LUCK.
Salt-sprayed found-family adventure — freedom, absurdity, loyalty
The Perfect Coin
In the border town of Hollow Ward, a young man with a brass-and-bone right arm and a leg of articulated steel pays the party's tavern tab and asks for help escorting his sister to a ruined transmutation site outside town. His sister turns out to be a seven-foot suit of alchemical plate that walks, speaks, and grieves — because the girl who used to live in flesh is sealed inside it, soul bound to hollow metal by a resurrection ritual that went catastrophically, unforgivably wrong. Corvin and Liora Ashwright aren't asking for charity. They're asking for help finding the one thing rumored to violate alchemy's iron law — the Perfect Coin, said to grant transmutation with no equal price paid. The party's investigation into a nearby leyline anomaly is about to make them enemies of the most powerful institution in the Concordat.
Tragic arcane brotherhood — cost, consequence, and hope anyway
The Slayer's Breath
On the night of the Ember Vigil, a starving demon slips into the village of Emberreach between one held breath and the next. By dawn, one of the party's own — a beloved sibling — is dead in every way but the one that matters: she still remembers her own name. A wandering slayer named Beck Thorne teaches the party the old trick of a sun-iron box and wisteria-flower oil, buying her a few more days of selfhood, and points them toward the Reed Hall, where the Corps of breath-sworn swordsmen might teach them how to save her — or how to end her mercifully. Every mile they walk together is borrowed time.
Lyrical blade-and-demon tragedy — beauty, breath, and grief
The Last Wall
The party has just sworn the oath of the Survey Wings — humanity's suicide corps, the only soldiers who fly cable-and-winch rigs out past the walls to map the Deadlands and buy the city years of peace with their bodies. Their first live expedition beyond Wall Aurum goes wrong when a lone Hollow, cresting a ridge of bones, stops, tilts its head at them, and smiles like it recognizes them. Nothing that size has ever smiled before.
Claustrophobic military dark fantasy — dread, sacrifice, revelation
ARISE: The Sovereign Gate
The Ashwatch Concord — the Delver guild of Virengard — has one job nobody wants: babysit the 'cleared' D-rank Gate under Millhaven Quarter until cleanup crews seal it. It's grunt work, which is why it goes to the lowest-ranked licensed Delvers alive. When the party (and their friend, fellow E-rank hopeful Petra Wick) descend to log the all-clear, the Gate turns out to have a second layer nobody scanned for — and it's crawling with Ashfang Ghouls answering to something far worse. Petra dies buying the others three seconds. As the last of the party goes down under the Butcher of the Second Layer's claws, a voice with no mouth says: 'Qualification met. Arise.' They wake up on the cavern floor, alone among the dead, with numbers hanging in the air that only they can see.
Anime power-fantasy — grind, glow-up, and the loneliness of becoming strong
Shattersky: The Last Free Skies
The party is aboard the privateer airship Gallowsong, running cargo (or contraband) near the free port of Tallow's Reach, when the horizon fills with a sound no one has heard in a generation: a sky-whale screaming. An Aurelian Concord flensing barge has harpooned a Chorister mid-song less than a mile from Tallow's Reach's mooring spires. As the whale's voice cuts out, the island's own hum falters — dust sifts from the harbor stones, gulls scatter, and somewhere below, a support strut groans like a dying giant. Tallow's Reach has maybe an hour before it starts to fall. The Gallowsong is the only ship close enough, fast enough, and reckless enough to do anything about it.
Swashbuckling wonder with a darkening edge
The Keyring Crew
Madam Ostrine Vey, broker of the Left-Handed Exchange, presses an iron keyring into your hands — five keys, none of which fit any lock you've ever seen — and a single job: retrieve a mason jar containing a live hurricane from the guarded rookery of the Choir of Winds. The pay is absurd. The client is anonymous. The brass token that arrives with your fee is stamped with a tailor's sigil: a needle through a keyhole, and the words CRAY & CO., BESPOKE. It will not be the last job, and it will not be the last token.
Planar heist caper, stylish and strange
The Unchained Circuit
The party wakes in the holding pens beneath the Pit of Qesh-Amara — sold, conscripted, or condemned by the Ashlar Dominion's courts — with fresh collars at their throats and a fight card that lists them for the evening bout. Survive the sand, and a scarred veteran named Kessa Vane will find a way to talk to them: there's a way out of the collar that doesn't end in an unmarked grave, if they're willing to bleed for people who aren't themselves.
Sand, blood, and rising hope — a revolt epic
The Greenway
In the capital of Vessmoor, the Lord Protector's agents intercept the party with grim news: the border village of Hollow Fen didn't grow a mile of Greenway overnight like every other settlement in its path — it grew four, and vanished under blossom before dawn. Something is accelerating. The Crown needs people who can travel fast, ask hard questions, and reach whatever is planting the Greenway before it reaches Vessmoor's gates — because at its current pace, that's twenty days away, and no one in the palace will say out loud why they're afraid of what happens when it gets there.
Pilgrimage-road wonder shading into creeping botanical horror
The War of Bells
The party is in Camarath's Cathedral Plaza for the Ember Toll, the ritual ringing meant to secure the god Solenne's blessing before the city's next offensive against its sister-enemy Ostrehaven. For the first time in living memory, Ostrehaven's Widow's Iron tolls at the exact same hour, across the strait, in open violation of a hundred years of doctrine that only one city's prayer can be answered at a time. Both cities report visions. Both report victory promised. Ravens drop dead from the sky mid-flight over the Silent Fathom; every piece of brass in Camarath hums on its own for eleven seconds; petitioners closest to the Ember Bell find their tears have turned to a fine bronze dust. That night a Camarath archivist named Sister Mireille Corvain sends the party a smuggled ledger page and a plea: she needs people who owe nothing to either altar, because what she has found will get her killed by either church equally.
Apocalyptic religious epic, brass and thunder
Mortuary University: The First Cohort
Each character receives two letters in the same week. The first is cream vellum stamped with a grinning skull sigil: 'You have been accepted to Blackthorn Mortuary University's inaugural cohort, tuition waived, room and board provided, in recognition of exceptional aptitude.' The second arrives by less official means — a temple elder, a city magistrate, a guild patron, or a grieving noble family, depending on the character — asking quietly for one more thing: go to Blackthorn, learn its secrets, and send word if the Reaper of Thistlemoor is building something worse than a school.
Dark academia comedy with genuine dread underneath
Wyrm & Underwriters: The Cinderwrought Clause
Drakehold Mutual Assurance is down two adjusters (one quit, one is 'unavailable for comment after the Thistlewood incident'), and the claims are piling up on your desk faster than the coffee can cut the smell of singed parchment. Guild Director Ostrata Vell drops a stack of open files on your table with the practiced weariness of someone who has seen every kind of lie a client can tell an insurer. 'Congratulations,' she says. 'You're field adjusters now. Go find out who's lying to me, and try not to get eaten doing it.'
Noir comedy — claims adjusters with crossbows
The Thirty-Year Waltz
The party arrives at Vellemarch — as traders, exiles, treasure-seekers, or simply travelers who took a wrong turn off the frozen road — to find the duchy exactly as legend describes it: a valley of permanent midwinter, its capital city of Isenmarl glittering under hoarfrost, its people frozen in place like statues caught mid-gesture, eyes open, breath fogged and unmoving in the air. But this year the icicles are dripping. A frozen fountain in the lower square has begun to trickle. And somewhere in the palace above the city, a clock that has not ticked in thirty years just chimed once. Whatever spell held Vellemarch still is failing, and the players are the only things in the whole duchy currently capable of walking away from where they stand.
Fey fairytale, bittersweet, snow-quiet
The Long Dark Road
The Duskweave Concern needs blades for its year-long crossing of the Underdark — a route that touches every port of call between Zhoreth-Mai, the Choral Spire, and Vhoruun, the Ashcap Dominion, two fungal city-states one bad tunnel away from open war. The pay is a fortune in Starcap shares. The catch: Caravan-Mistress Yssa Thorne has taken on a sealed, insured, no-questions cargo crate from a stranger who paid triple the going rate, and a soft-spoken Choral missionary has bought passage with a smile that never quite reaches his eyes.
Weird, luminous, claustrophobic — a trade epic in the dark
The Ninth Tide
In the fishing town of Sallow Cove, three days before the Ninth Tide, the sea gives up Mara Finch — soaked, gray-lipped, seaweed in her hair, walking dead up the tideline and pointing at the crowd. The trouble is Mara Finch is standing right there in the crowd too, very much alive, screaming louder than anyone. The drowned Mara says only one thing before the Choir of the Undertow drags her off to be tested: 'You let me drown. It hasn't happened yet. But you let me.' The Crown's tax wardens want her seized as unclaimed property. The Church wants her exorcised as heresy. And somewhere in a locked cellar, a man named Cadmus Rell is counting silver he was never supposed to spend.
Salt-soaked gothic, mournful, defiant
Death Is a Doorway
It was supposed to be a simple bounty in the kingdom of Greenhollow. Nobody mentioned that the first time one of them died, the sky would tear open like cloth and swallow the whole party — and that dying would become their way of traveling.
Anime-flavored multiversal fantasy — wonder, whiplash, found family
The Carnival of Masks
In the town of Merrowmead, the party finds a woman weeping over a portrait of a boy she can't name. Half the town has small, precise holes in their memories — and every one of them wears a paper wristband from 'The Carnival Ineffable', which packed up two nights ago. Tonight, its lights appear on the hill outside town. It has never returned to a town twice.
Fey whimsy over a cold undertow; beautiful, unfair bargains
Embers of the Dragon Throne
The village of Cinderfall's harvest festival is broken up by cultists in ash-grey masks burning the granary as 'first tribute — the Matriarch wakes!' In the chaos, the party saves a stablehand, Ryn, whose burn-scar birthmark flares gold in the firelight — the exact sigil on the old kingdom's ruined throne.
Heroic epic, rising stakes, fire and loyalty
The Sunless Citadel
Every winter the Hucrele family sent their children Talgen and Sharwyn down into the Sunless Citadel to buy a strange, restorative apple from a hidden grove. This year they didn't come back. Their mother Kerowyn offers 250 gold for their return — or proof of their fate.
Classic dungeon-delve, mystery, dark fey
🎲 One-Shots (16)
Health & Hazards: The Gravehollow Deep Compliance Audit
A courier badge, a clipboard heavier than a mace, and a royal writ: the Crown's Bureau of Subterranean Standards has never once inspected Gravehollow Deep, a 200-year-old deathtrap dungeon operated under a grandfathered charter by the necromancer Lord Alaric Vaultbrach. Forty years of unanswered complaint forms finally reached a desk that cared. The party is deputized as Inspectors Third Class, handed a checklist of four required violations to document, and given until sundown to file the completed audit at the dungeon's own registered address — inside the dungeon. If they don't file in time, the charter auto-renews for another century and everyone currently trapped inside (workers included) stays trapped. If the dungeon collapses before they file, that's also a paperwork nightmare, mostly for whoever is still inside it.
Workplace comedy in a dungeon
The Star in the Barley
The party is passing the crossroads above Barrowmill when a girl no older than twelve comes sprinting up the cart track, out of breath, dragging a lantern she forgot to light. Her name is Wren Hollis, and she's not asking for help so much as recruiting: something fell into her father's field last night, it's still warm, it's starting to move, and men with swords are already asking around the village about 'the light in the Hollis barley.' She needs people who aren't from around here — people the crown and the church haven't bought yet.
Rural wonder, first-adventure warmth
The Pale Escort
At the edge of Duskmere — a city drowned in a decades-old curse called the Wound, where anything pure of heart sickens and dies slower than everything else — a dying knight named Mother Cael Vane stops the party at the Beggar's Sump shrine. Wrapped in a filthy grey cloak beside her is a foal-sized unicorn, the last of her kind, coat dimmed with soot but still faintly luminous beneath the grime. Cael was bringing her to the Silvergate, a ring of standing stones on the city's far side that can open a path out of the Wound's reach — but the sickness she caught crossing the Weeping Quarter has caught up to her. She presses a stone token and a whispered warning into the party's hands: 'Her light gives you away. The sick will grab at her thinking she's a cure. The Guild will grab at her because she's worth a kingdom. And the city itself — the Wound — wants her most of all. Get her to the stones by the grey hour before dawn, or she dies here like everything good does.' Then Cael's grip goes slack.
Grim procession with a shining center
Festival of the Turning Wheel
The party arrives in Wickhollow on the evening of the Festival of the Turning Wheel, drawn by rumors of free cider, a famous pie contest, and (for at least one of them) a promised meeting that never quite happens. At midnight, the whole village gathers at Ashgrove Mill to spin the great grinding wheel — now hung with ribbons and dried wheat — and whisper wishes into the millpond as it turns. Fireworks crack overhead. The wheel groans through one full turn. And then the world hiccups: the fireworks are still hanging in the sky, unlit, the sun is setting for the second time, and every villager is repeating conversations the party already heard, word for word. Only the party remembers the loop.
Bittersweet time-loop comedy
The Unfinished Aria
The party is hired in the storm-battered harbor town of Sallowmere by Contessa Ilaria Vesk, an elderly patroness of the arts whose family fortune sank with the opera house of Vermerin two centuries ago during a tidal cataclysm. She has secured a battered brass diving bell and a barge, and she needs escorts who won't panic when they hear singing at the bottom of the sea. She says she wants only 'one small thing' recovered from the wreck: a locket. She is lying — what she truly wants sits in the vault beneath the stage, and she has heard the aria in her dreams every night of her life, counting down verses toward a note she both craves and dreads.
Sunken-baroque wonder, aria-haunted
The Long Ropes: A Giant's Funeral
Six days ago, King Ymrek Stormkeel — 'the Last Thunder,' the storm giant who broke the Frostmaw Armada and made peace hold along three coastlines for forty years — was found cold in his chair, an untouched cup of mead in his hand. Storm giant law demands his body be borne on foot from his hold at Skytoll to the ancestral burial ground at the Cinderthrone, six days' walk across three kingdoms, and that six mortal 'small folk' — representatives of the little races he protected — carry the ceremonial mourning cords tied to his bier the entire way. It is a colossal honor, a colossal inconvenience, and (whisper it) a colossal insurance policy: no giant clan will risk war while smallfolk witnesses walk the road. The party has been chosen. Refusal is not really an option — not if they want the goodwill of every giant from here to the Cinderthrone, and not with the gold, the letters of passage, and the boon promised by whichever heir takes the throne. They take up the ropes. They do not yet know that King Ymrek's heart is still, faintly, beating.
Solemn, enormous, quietly funny
The Long Night at the Wolfshead
The party is crossing the Kestrel's Tooth pass — as guards, couriers, or simply travelers unlucky enough to be on the road — when a whiteout blizzard drops without warning. The only shelter within miles is a squat stone-and-timber waystation called the Wolfshead Inn, its windows already lit gold against the dark. Getting inside is easy. Getting back out, they'll soon learn, is not.
Snowbound paranoia thriller
The Last Light
Portmaster Yveline Cray of Salthollow hires the party for a simple relief run: sail out to the Last Light on the Widow's Spine, spell the keeper, restock his larder, and bring back the logbook for the Harbor Guild's insurers. Three ships have limped into port this month under full sail with not a soul aboard — no blood, no wreckage, no ransom notes, just empty decks and cold breakfasts. The lighthouse has never gone dark in a hundred years. Cray needs someone to find out why it's started taking payment for staying lit — and she has a reason of her own she isn't saying out loud yet.
Maritime cosmic horror, lantern-lit
The Goblin Market
In the marsh-town of Wick's Hollow, a weaver named Sela Marrow corners the party outside the tavern, her hands raw from wringing them. Two winters ago her daughter Tansy was dying of the wasting fever. A peddler with too many teeth told her about a market that opens at the crossroads once a season, where anything can be bought — for the right price. Sela sold a year of Tansy's life to save the rest of them. Tansy lived. But now she is eight years old with a hole in her where seven-going-on-eight should be: she doesn't remember her last birthday, can't recall the dog that died, stares blankly when neighbors mention the flood that nearly took the mill. Tonight the market opens again — the last night it will open before the year fully ripens and is lost for good. Sela has eleven silver crowns, her wedding ring, and nowhere else to turn. She begs the party to go where she cannot go twice, and bring her daughter's year home.
Midnight fairytale, tender and sharp
The Reading of the Will
The Solemn Ledger — the guild of magically-bound notaries whose signature carries the literal weight of law — has retained the party as Bonded Witnesses for the reading of Archwizard Ossian Marrow's last will and testament. It's standard practice for estates this large and families this poisonous: an impartial party to watch the notary work, so no one can later claim the reading was rigged. The fee is good, the job is supposed to be boring, and the tower is supposed to just sit there and be haunted, not opinionated. None of that turns out to be true.
Locked-tower murder mystery, wry
The House Always Wanders
A dapper, unbothered fence named Mister Aldous Coats slides a contract across a tavern table: 10,000 gold for a single item called the Ember Yolk, kept somewhere inside Clatterclaw Manor — a witch's mansion that has walked the Greywicker Downs on two enormous taloned legs for forty years, never once stopping to rest. Coats has already secured a way to catch up to it. He does not mention who his client is, or why they want it so badly. He also doesn't mention that another crew has the same contract.
Fairytale heist, headlong and absurd
Something Borrowed, Something Dead
You are guests at the wedding of Rosalind Halloway — adventurer, occasional client, and the only person at this ceremony who has ever bought you a drink without expecting to be rescued from something afterward. The vows are lovely. The vineyard is gorgeous, all silvered fog and black-leafed vines. Then the officiant reaches 'speak now or forever hold your peace,' and a woman in a rotted wedding gown rises out of the altar's living lattice of grapevines, soaked in thirty-year-old wine, holding up a sprig of hemlock like a bouquet. She says one word — 'Objection' — and the temperature in the chapel drops forty degrees. Then she's gone, and Rosalind's future mother-in-law is fainting into the hors d'oeuvres, and the wedding planner is gripping your arm hard enough to bruise, whispering that she knows what you three did last spring with the ghoul in the tasting room, and could you please, please do that again before the final toast — because in about three hours, Château Noirvigne's most famous vintage, thirty years in the barrel and finally ready to pour, is going in front of a hundred guests, and she has a very bad feeling about what's actually in the bottle.
Romantic gothic comedy
Terror on the Sapphire Tide
Guildmistress Corva offers triple pay for guards on the Sapphire Tide's pearl run — the last three ships on this route never arrived, and the only wreckage found was a single lifeboat, clawed from BELOW. The crew is jumpy, the captain is hiding something, and the sea is far too quiet.
Nautical dread, storm-lashed action, Jaws with a crew manifest
A Feast for the Bone Queen
Snowbound in Hollowash, the party wakes to find the whole village silently preparing an enormous feast no one will admit to. The innkeeper's daughter, Nettie, slips them a warning: 'Don't eat, don't sing, and don't tell her your name.' That night, the offering plate outside the shrine bears one of the party members' names, scratched in a child's hand.
Folk horror, creeping dread, a candle against the dark
The Midnight Heist of the Gilded Griffon
Widow Merrows, about to lose the bakery her family has run for a century, begs the party to recover her stolen deed before it's auctioned at midnight inside the Gilded Griffon — a casino owned by the Velvet Hand crime family. She can pay 50 gold. The deed is worth two thousand. What the party 'finds' along the way is theirs.
Fast, witty, tense — Ocean's Eleven with crossbows
The Bell of Saint Vurloss
A soaked, frightened acolyte named Pell stumbles into the party's camp: the lost Chapel of Saint Vurloss has surfaced from the Mirefen for the first time in thirty years, and his master walked in at dusk and never came back. He'll pay everything he has — and the saint's old reliquary is said to still hang in the tower.
Gothic, eerie, bittersweet