I often write boxed text for new in-game events and locations. I find it easier to think through the sights, smells, and other sensations during GM prep and write them out, rather than improv’ing when I’m trying to write a game. Here’s one such moment.
The party arrives in a collection of ruins built on the side of a tall mountain, and the bard casts Legend Lore to discover what happened here:
A dwarven lookout peers through a spyglass at the top of a marble tower. He surveys across the forested valley below, looking for signs that the armies of the Free Peoples are moving into the Damycians.
Most of the people here in this valley are farmers or guides or hunters. Nobody is ready for war. They can merely hope the armies of the Elven Empires hold them off, maybe hope that Bhal Garum can take them in as refugees. Maybe, one day, when the wars are over, they can return.
There is smoke on the horizon. Dark, black smoke. And his heart sinks.
He sounds the alarm, and the people of Fal Ohlim gather in the town square. They take a long, final look at their town, and then make the short trek up the mountain. They pull open a set of massive stone doors inset into a rock wall, and the caravan of refugees files into the darkness below.
Your vision blurs as you leap ahead in time. Giants, living in the rougher areas of the valley and the surrounding peaks and ridges make their way to Fal Ohlim. The dwarves are gone. The buildings are empty. There is no peace to keep with their neighbors, no reason why they can’t take it for their own.
Once more, your vision is clouded as you pass into the recent past, and when it clears you see a familiar face. Captain Heidreck Blacke. “Rosewind.” He is marching forward with his troops. They walk into the center of Fal Ohlim without a second thought.
Helvius, led by a couple of Imperial engineers, surveys the destroyed stonework with curiosity and more than a bit of grief over so much history lost here.
Suddenly, the ground rumbles as a giant emerges from across a hill. He looks down at the Imperials, shouting at them, demanding to know why they are here, demanding they leave the giants’ territory. He points violently with his club–the size of a small tree–as he speaks.
One of the soldiers at the front of the formation gets spooked. He sees the club pass directly overhead, draws his rifle, and fires out of sheer instinct. Rosewind sighs, clearly exasperated at the lack of discipline. The giant screams in pain, bleeding from his eye, and clubs the soldier that shot him, smearing him across the gravel road.
Rosewind turns to look at his soldiers, gives an order, and several of them open fire in sync.