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.
If a PC casts Legend Lore in the ruins of this old town nestled in a dark, dangerous forest, they receive the following vision:
You close your eyes, focusing on the stonework around you, and when you open them again, you see a little village situated in the Gloamwood. It’s well-tended, with underbrush neatly trimmed. Thin beams of sunlight streak down through the canopy. Quaint stone and wood cottages dot the forest.
As the villagers mill about, you see a few elves in brass or gold armor standing around. Some have spears at their back; others have swords at their belts.
Suddenly, another solider on horseback comes rushing down the road and stops.
“My lord, scouts report a contingent of the barbarians working their way south through the Gloamwood Ravine,” he says.
“As expected, though I’m surprised they moved so soon. With our brethren holding them off in the east, I suspect they’re looking for some easy wins while they marshal reinforcements.”
“What command should I carry back to my companions?”
“Meet up with us north of town. We’ll ambush them from the ravine, and hopefully hold them before they get this far.”
Another one of the soldiers spits on the ground in contempt. “We have to hold them off there. If the low-born curs make it here to Minathrin, it will surely be a bloodbath.”
“Silence, Aramil,” the commander says sternly. “Do not the ancients say that there is no hierarchy among those species capable of reason? But if they want war, it is our duty to ensure it does not extend here.”
Mists swirl across your vision, and you flash forward into the future.
A sign, a magical flare, bursts across the vision of an orc hiding behind a rock outcropping. He nods knowingly. The Elven Horde that were in Minathrin have taken the bait and engaged his compatriots to the north. He gathers his rag-tag band of Free Peoples and moves into the village.
Once again, mists swirl across your vision, and you flash forward briefly into the future.
“Minathrin is now the Free People’s territory, and we have no qualms with you peaceful townsfolk and your way of life,” a halfling in battle-worn leather armor sneers, as his hulking human companion holds a captive elven woman with her child just to the side, tears of desperation streaking down her face.
“Our alliance is welcoming, and big enough for all, so long as you cooperate. But if you betray us when your elven overlords return,” he points to his companion, “then we will consider you to have taken up lot with them.”
Somewhere in the crowd, a young elf stands in forest green robes. Anger surges over his face, and he does his best to stifle it. He raises his hand. Sparks flicker across his fingertips as a ray of magic slams into the halfling, cutting a scorched scar across his cheek that weeps the barest bit of blood.
The halfling’s human companion dutifully lifts the elven woman and tosses her down the town’s well. A scream echoes through the forest, you hear a sharp crack, and then silence.
The halfling rubs two fingers across his wound. “So you have chosen,” and the rest of the Free People file out into the crowd, issuing forth their judgment.