The dragon’s rotten lips parted, a fetid cloud of swamp gas leaking from the beast’s depths. “So,” the monster spoke, “you’ve come to kill me, haven’t you?”

Vic opened her mouth in shock before she could collect her wits. “I’m here for the bullet,” she said at last, reaching out a hand to steady herself against a tree.

“Yes, then,” the dragon slowly uncoiled, its head snaking forward. “Well, I’m not interested in fighting today, so I suppose I’ll just let you have it.”

“What?” Vic could scarcely believe it. Was the dragon being honest? She certainly wasn’t feeling up for a fight, much less with a dragon and without her rifle. Would it really be that easy?

The dragon hissed, sending a spray of burning liquid over Vic’s face. “You heard me. I’m going to give you one of the six legendary bullets. You can pluck it straight from my forehead and I won’t even eat you for your trouble. How does that sound?”

This poem was made using the solo RPG Cemetery of Swords, by Efarrisgames. I decided to devote myself to three stanzas for every pull, as I thought this would give me enough time to establish the circumstances of the pull and detail the character’s reactions. What follows are the pulls and die rolls that created the poem:

The following is one of the Songs of the Thousand Thousand, a series of epic poems detailing the histories of the many blades surrendered at the end of the Great Battle.

For those unfamiliar: During the Era of Conflict, the Great Battle was fought in the three-square league fields outside the town of Radivale. While the instigation of the battle is lost to history, knights, warriors, and mercenaries from all over the world came to take part as multiple factions, kingdoms, and armies sought to test both their opponents mettle and their own. Heroes and legends were born and killed in equal measure as new troops constantly joined the fray.

The Great Battle ended when one of the greatest heroes of the era, the Blade-maiden and Bearer of the Seven Star Fulcrum, Ell Kidarkhi, thrust her sword into the earth and walked through the surrounding conflict untouched, surrendering the battle to her fellows. She was the first of many, as each of the thousands of warriors in turn thrust their own sword into the earth and quit the field. The Great Battle, having lasted for five-hundred and twenty-three days, ended that very hour.

The swords themselves remained on the field for generations until memories of the Great Battle began to fade. Then, eager sellswords and ambitious warlords claimed these relics for their own, imbued as they were with the indomitable spirits of battle. These cursed swords brought victory and suffering to their wielders, until all who claimed the weapons either perished or renounced their bloodthirsty ways.

The Songs of the Thousand Thousand detail the journey of each of these stolen swords, and how they returned to their rightful place in the field known as The Cemetery of Swords.

The way was dark and cold. A rusted lantern with a small slosh of ancient oil provided enough light to see by and not much else. The sound of dripping water echoed through the depths. The darkness was unyielding, drawing Vic further and further away from the light. She had never ventured into the caves and abandoned mines of the Borderlands; the monsters that roamed the land above were bad enough, and there was little of worth in the dark underground. It was all Vic could do to not shiver.

The passages twisted and wound across each other like writhing snakes. Were it not for Vic’s compass, she would have been completely lost.

No, not completely. Every once in a while, the pull of the fifth bullet dragged at her stomach, tugging her down this tunnel or that. She was hunting on instinct now, navigating the maze of tunnels with little more than hope spurring her on.

At long last, a faint glimmer of natural light shone through the darkness. She crept forward, ducking through the small passage until she reached a large fissure in the rock, stretching up to the surface and down deeper into the earth.

The lake water looked cold, but the singer payed it no mind.

The rising sun was slowly warming the nighttime air, the first piercing rays striking the singer full in the face, but it paid no mind to the sun either. It’s eyes had long since rotted away to a shrivled milky white. Loose teeth rattled in its skull as its head fell from side to side, a sound that was half a moan and half a hymn drifting across the gently rippling lake.

Whoever they were, they died years ago. Now, all they were was a fountain of suffering that drew the living and trapped them in their own nightmares. There were ten of them, at least. They rocked back and forth, their eyes squeezed tight, their faces frozen masks of pain, fear, and despair.

Vic rubbed her mouth as she studied the scene from her hiding spot. It would be hard to get everyone away from the monster without being seen, but the walking dead were harder to kill than most. Besides, she was running low on supplies and still had to get the ten people back home.

Humans didn’t last long in the Borderlands. The air was bad, it made you sick. Monsters hunted silently, and claimed their pray with sudden and clear fierceness. The few who survived for any length of time, did so because of either extensive training or a guide who had the same, and they rarely stayed longer than a week before returning to the safety of civilization.

Vic opened her pack and pulled out the last of her herbs. Surely, she had to have something useful that could keep the weathered zombie busy while she fled with its captives.

This poem was made using the solo RPG Gentleman Bandit, by Allison Arth. I used the Mode variant, and played three times, rolling on the Poker Play table after each. What follows are the card pulls and rolls I made for each of the three poems.

This poem was made using the solo RPG Gentleman Bandit, by Allison Arth. I used the Mode variant, and played three times, rolling on the Poker Play table after each.

“Ah!” The sands settled for only a moment. “Brave and bold! There is little you could offer us, child. We who flit through the air know all things that the air touches. We hear all things whispered and see all things seen.”

Vic smiled. Her mother had called it a curse; the elementals had great power but cared for nothing. All the secrets they knew, and they didn’t want for any of them. “Then you know where the legendary bullets lie?”

“Hmm…” The air seemed to think, though it had no mind to think with. “We know of one. I lies buried deep in this very desert.”

Vic’s heart skipped a beat. “Can you tell me where? Show me where it’s buried?”

The airy sprite swung back and forth, a windy kind of childish smile. “Why should we do that?”

Vic took a slow breath. She had never dealt with an elemental directly before, but she had listed to plenty of her elders describe their own dealings. She had come prepared.

“I’ll race you.”

Vic checked the map. “Shit.”

The southern wetlands were not the best mapped areas in the Borderlands. The marshes and soggy soil kept most people away, and there were plenty of monsters who hunted and scavenged in the land. Fewer places were less hospitable; it was too easy to lose your way only to find yourself drawn down to a watery grave by a misplaced foot. Add to this the fact that the wetlands were more likely than others to shift and change, and maps were difficult to make and rarely useful for any length of time.

Ironically, there were many reasons for Hunters to visit the wetlands; herbs of all kinds grew here, special ingredients of an arcane nature. Roots and barks, fresh leaves and buds from flowers, even certain kinds of mud were useful. It took a keen eye and a sharp mind to harvest the rarest, and a few were known only to the Monster Hunters. The chance of collecting these herbs alone was reason enough to risk a muddy grave.

Of course, there used to be people whose job it was to forage for the vital and rare ingredients, people who knew the land and its treacheries. Now, there was only Vic, and she was having a hard time of it.

Previously on Oddscrawl…

Two Truths and a Lycanthrope is a hastily thrown-together one-page system I made from a friend’s pun. I didn’t spend too much time on the system, not thinking it’d go anywhere.

Thing was, the idea stuck in my head.

Things do that, sometimes. It’s like getting musical earworms, but about thoughts instead of music. I turn ideas around and around in my head, sometimes repeating the same phrase over and over again. Cognition has its own rhythms, melodies, and syncopations. The system we had made came from a joke, but the /rest of the conversation…well…

We had talked about White Wolf a bit, my friend and I. We discussed how Vampires grab the spotlight in American culture, somehow, while werewolves are generally overlooked. I thought about Vampire: the Masquerade and Werewolf: the Apocalypse, and how there are a lot of Vampire games out there right now, but not a whole lot of werewolf games. I wondered if there was space for a game like Fanged, but for Werewolf instead of Vampire.

So I started working on one.