A Dungeons & Dragons Campaign Zine
The Mystery of the Starfall Crater
Chapters 1 - 4
You wake up one day. You realize your phone is gone. Your clothes are different and Vic is wearing a crown.
You're at a tavern (or is it an inn?). Why is everyone wearing peasant clothes — and tell me again why Vic is wearing that crown? And why is he in a regal chair elevated above everyone else at his table?
There's a banner above the timber-framed tavern's hearth. It says Five Points Tavern and Inn. The air smells of roasted meat, ale, and woodsmoke. You look around the table and see the familiar but unnamed faces of your neighbors — except their hair is kept differently, in a fashion that matches their peasantly garb.
You're sitting at a round table under a crooked chandelier. The tavern is bustling with chatter, except for the people at your table who seem a bit bewildered.
A barmaid dressed in a green dress with flame-red hair approaches your table.
"Afternoon, strangers. Ye were out cold when the patrol brought ye in. Let me fetch ye some drink."
As the barmaid walks away, you surveil the room more closely. A heavy wooden door creaks as it swings inward, and the warm noise of the tavern washes over you. Firelight flickers across thick oak beams that crisscross the ceiling, darkened by years of smoke.
Scattered through the room are several sturdy square tables, each crowded with villagers nursing their drinks. At the tables closest to the center of the room, townsfolk laugh loudly over cards and half-finished mugs. A few of them glance your way with curious looks before returning to their conversations. They occasionally glance toward the far corner of the room.
And that corner is hard to ignore.
A larger table has been cleared near the wall, giving its occupants more space than anyone else in the tavern. Two armored guards stand watch nearby, their arms folded as they scan the room. Seated between them is Vic… wearing a crown.
The crown itself is simple but unmistakable — silver, set with faintly glimmering stones that catch the firelight. Every so often a villager passing by lowers their head respectfully or mutters a quick, "Your Grace."
Vic doesn't notice your eyes fixed on him or that you've even entered the tavern at all. He leans over and mutters something to the henchmen.
Something is happening across the room. What you overhear depends on how you roll.
The party's highest roll: 19
Behind the long oak bar stands a broad-shouldered barman with a thick, copper-red beard that hangs down over his chest. The beard is braided in two short ties near the bottom, and a few streaks of gray run through it like threads of silver. His sleeves are rolled high on his forearms, revealing strong hands and the kind of knuckles that look like they've settled more than one tavern dispute. A faded green waistcoat hangs open over a linen shirt, and a worn wooden rosary-like charm dangles from his belt beside a rag he uses to wipe mugs clean.
He approaches your table.
"Welcome travelers. Katherine should be over in a moment with your drinks."
Connolly glances between the four of you, studying your faces.
"Whatever she brings you, take whichever calls to ye. Folk tend to find the drink they're meant for."
His smile widens beneath the beard.
"And once ye've had it… well… sometimes a drink tells a person more about themselves than they knew to ask. Until then, feel free to stretch your legs and chat with the townsfolk. Most of our regulars don't bite."
As you surveil the room, each table looks friendly enough — besides Vic's table, which has two burly men preventing you from reaching him. The rest of the room seems engrossed in chatter about the unique and uncommon recent events of Rockport Hamlet.
Players roll for initiative to decide the order of who visits which table.
Four tables. Four conversations. The village has been talking about nothing else since the star fell.
At the table nearest the bar sit two broad-shouldered farmers, one older, one younger, both with sun-darkened skin and rough hands that look more suited for plows than tankards. Their clothes are simple wool and patched leather, still dusted with dried mud from the fields.
The younger one scratches at the back of his neck, clearly unsettled. "I'm tellin' you, Thom… it ain't natural. Three of 'em now. Three stars fallin' out of the sky in a single month?"
The older farmer grunts into his ale. "Stars fall sometimes. My grandfather used to say they were bits of the heavens shakin' loose."
"Aye, maybe one. But every time same thing happens. Sky turns green, thunder rolls like the gods are breakin' barrels over our heads… then lightning for hours."
Thom frowns and glances toward the tavern door, lowering his voice even further. "Storm ain't the worst part."
"Every time one of those stars falls, the woods feel wrong afterward. Like the world's… shifted somehow."
The younger farmer is silent. Thom grips his mug. "The last one fell west of here somewhere in The Gallowshade Forest and the storm just now passed."
"Gallowshade Forest? Couldn'ta picked a better spot to land? The horrors in that forest probably swallowed the falling star whole."
"At least it ain't in our town. The last crater caused quite a stir." Thom grips his mug. "Best we hope the next one lands somewhere far away."
At a table near the hearth sit three hunters, their cloaks draped over the backs of their chairs and their longbows resting within easy reach. The smell of wet leather and pine clings to them, as if they've only just come in from the forest.
One of them, a broad man with a tangled brown beard, studies the edge of a hunting knife while he speaks in a low, serious voice. Across from him sits a younger hunter with sharp eyes and restless hands, drumming his fingers against a mug of ale. The third is an older woman with iron-gray hair braided down her back — a wolf pelt resting across her shoulders — watching the other two with the steady patience of someone who has seen far too many hunts go wrong.
"Storm like that one last night stirs things up," the younger man mutters. "Game'll be moving today."
"Storm did more than knock branches down," the woman says. "Caught poor Brindle wrong when the thunder hit. Bolt of something cracked a pine not twenty paces from us. Tree came down and he took the worst of it."
She shakes her head. "Leg's bad. Not broken, I think… but he can barely put weight on it."
"Then why're you even thinking of hunting today? Take him to the kennelmaster."
She frowns, clearly torn. "Today will be the best hunt of the year — could make two month's salary this afternoon alone. What I would give for someone to take poor Brindle west to the kennel while I go out and hunt."
At a nearby table sit two townsfolk of very different trades, though both wear the tired look of people who rise before dawn.
One is a farmer, broad-shouldered and sun-browned, his tunic a faded green worn toward gray, dried mud clinging stubbornly to his boots and trousers. A wide straw hat, patched from many seasons, rests on the table beside his mug. Across from him sits a merchant — her clothes noticeably finer though still practical for travel. A dark blue wool dress beneath a fitted leather vest with many small pockets. A red scarf wrapped loosely around her neck, a small ledger open beside her cup, brass scales at her belt.
The farmer gestures with a chunk of stale bread. "I was there when the first star came down, mind you. Whole sky split open like a cracked lantern. Lightning everywhere. Never seen the like of it."
The merchant raises an eyebrow. "Is that so? I was three roads away delivering cloth when the storm hit. Came out of nowhere. Nearly lost a wagon to it."
"Aye. Storm rolled in so fast the hens stopped layin' for two days after."
"But the strange part wasn't the storm, was it?"
The farmer lowers his voice. "No… it was what it left behind."
"The pit?"
"Aye. The pit. Smokin' hole right in the center of town. Earth all black and glassy like it'd been melted."
The merchant glances across the tavern toward Vic. "And that crown…"
"Aye! The Old Crown of Rockport. Gone for centuries. Then all of a sudden, shinin' there in the middle of that crater like it'd been placed gentle as you please." He takes a long drink. "Nobody wanted to go near it at first. Ground was still sparkin' with lightning and such. Then that fella Vic walks right up and climbs down into the hole like it's nothin'."
The merchant frowns slightly. "Strange thing about him."
"What's that?"
She taps her finger on the table, thinking. "I travel through Rockport often enough. Sell spices, tools, cloth. I know most faces in this hamlet." She glances again toward Vic. "But I swear by road and coin… I never saw that man before that night."
The farmer pauses mid-drink. "Huh."
"Still," the farmer says with a shrug, "crown chose him, didn't it? That's what folk say."
The merchant tilts her head slightly. "Funny thing though."
"What's that?"
She says slowly, "Before that storm… this hamlet didn't have a petty baron."
The farmer shrugs and lifts his mug. "Well… guess we do now."
Across the room, Vic laughs loudly at something one of his attendants says, raising a goblet while someone quickly refills it.
One person sits alone at a table with two leatherbound tomes stacked neatly next to an unrolled scroll. The two books concern astronomy; the third is a starchart. He is dressed differently than everyone else — circular wire-rimmed spectacles, a blue doublet with tarnished white fringe at the collar. A collapsible brass-and-leather spyglass hangs at his belt. The man looks slightly disheveled, bags below his eyes.
"You saw it, didn't you? The streak across the heavens last night? Of course you did! Unless you were sleeping through the most significant celestial event of the decade… in which case I envy you tremendously, because I haven't slept at all. But hey, the life of a professor is a tireless one — until I reach tenure, that is."
He gestures wildly toward the door, nearly knocking over his stack of books.
"A meteor though! A genuine extraterrestrial body! It fell somewhere in the western lowlands — precisely where that catastrophic lightning storm decided to redecorate the landscape into a bog. My assistants refused to come. Claimed 'unsafe conditions,' 'collapsing roads,' 'lightning trauma,' and 'unexplainable happenings triggered by the storm' — academia is in decline, I tell you."
He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
"The composition alone could revolutionize our understanding of planetary formation. Or explode. Possibly both. Either way, I — Professor Eldrich Wizzlewink — must reach it before scavengers, opportunists, or — worse — other scholars get there."
"I require — no, I desperately require — an escort. Time is of the essence and the mud is, frankly, unconscionable."
He straightens, attempting dignity, but sneezes.
"I will, of course, compensate you. Generously! Well… proportionally. There may also be academic recognition, which is priceless if you value prestige over coin. No? Coin it is, then."
He points dramatically outward.
"So! You, brave individuals — escort me through the mud, the flooded roads, and whatever unfortunate perils the storm has awakened. Deliver me to that crater, so that history — and my tenure review — shall remember your names!"
"The only thing standing in our way is the fact that I only know how to get part of the way to the meteor. It looks to be located in the less than pleasant Gallowshade Forest, which I — nor anyone I know — has any insight into. I'm sure we'll figure it out though. What do you say?"
After some discussion, the party says yes.
The energy of the tavern shifts.
Your attention is pulled to the far corner of the room, where the firelight barely reaches and the shadows seem to deepen. At first it looks like nothing more than darkness pooling against the wall… but slowly the shape resolves into a figure sitting perfectly still.
The shadows seem reluctant to let the figure go. They part to reveal an old woman.
She sits hunched at a small table in a space that had seemed empty moments before. A dark cloak hangs around her shoulders, its hem interwoven with bits of twig and briar. Long gray hair spills over the collar of the cloak, and thin fingers cradle a steaming mug that has gone untouched.
Her withered lips blow the steam from the mug before she takes a sip.
"If guidance through Gallowshade is what you seek, I can aid you. Though not in person. You see, two sorts walk beneath Gallowshade's branches: fools… and those brave enough to learn why they shouldn't."
"I wonder: which are you?"
"I roll but am not round. I roar but draw no breath. I clap but have no hands. Who am I?"
Although most of the party seems confused and repeatedly says "Say it again, but slower" — Leah quickly guesses correct: Thunder.
"You seem cunning enough, but what type of heroes you are remains to be seen. So I will give you the guidance you seek."
"Follow the Stoneyriver southwest until you come upon a bridge — the professor can take you that far. Impossible things have been happening near this bridge, so be on your guard. If you can get across, travel north. You'll come upon a clearing — look to the one with many arms, but no hands. One that stands with no legs. This one lives with a black hole in his chest, and therein you'll find your guide to the fallen star of Gallowshade."
The low murmur of the tavern drifts through the warm air as footsteps approach your table. The barmaid moves with the easy confidence of someone who has worked a busy tavern for years, balancing the tray effortlessly in one hand.
"The storm brought you to us,"
she says, her voice carrying the lilting rhythm of the western coast.
"And when strangers arrive under circumstances like last night's… well, it's tradition to let the tavern decide what sort of folk they'll be."
One by one, she sets the drinks before you.
Players roll for initiative to decide the order of drink selection.
Initiative order: Christa, Lex, Mike, Kevin, Leah
A thick stone mug of dark ale, the foam rolling slowly over the rim. Favored by soldiers and stubborn fools. Strong enough to put iron in your bones.
As the ale burns down your throat, warmth spreads through your chest like a forge being stoked. For a moment the tavern fades — flashes of battle, shields locked, blades clashing, the thunder of marching boots. The weight of a sword suddenly feels familiar in your hand, as though you have carried one your entire life. Somewhere deep inside, you know one thing with certainty: you were meant to fight.
A small goblet of golden mead, warm and fragrant with herbs. Priests swear it clears the mind and steadies the hands.
A gentle warmth spreads through you, calm and steady. The noise of the tavern fades to a distant murmur as soft golden light fills your vision. For an instant you feel an unseen presence — comforting, guiding. A quiet voice, too distant to understand, whispers through your mind like a prayer carried on the wind. When the vision fades, you feel strangely centered. Your hands now carry the power to heal… or to call upon divine strength in battle.
A tall glass of pale cider, cool and bright, a sprig of mint floating lazily at the top. Hunters and wanderers seem fond of it.
As you drink, the world around you sharpens. Every candle flicker, every scrape of boots on the floor, every quiet murmur — all suddenly stand out with startling clarity. A loose coin sliding across a nearby table. The bartender slipping a key beneath the bar. The way the guards near Vic keep glancing toward the door. The shadows feel almost welcoming, like old friends waiting for you to step into them. You move a little quieter… and see a little more than most people do.
A slender cup of deep violet wine. In the firelight, tiny flecks inside shimmer faintly like distant stars. Best not to ask what goes into it. Scholars and hedge-wizards claim it helps them think.
Cool and strange, almost metallic. As it reaches your stomach, the room seems to tilt slightly. The tavern dissolves into darkness scattered with points of light — like stars stretching across a black sky. Strange symbols drift through the air around you, glowing softly before fading away. Vast knowledge brushes the edge of your mind. When the vision collapses back to the tavern, you sense patterns hidden beneath the world — invisible threads waiting to be pulled. Magic is real… and somehow, you can touch it.
She rests her hands on the edge of the table and looks at each of you in turn.
"Now then… choose your drink… and we'll see what sort of fate Rockport has poured for ye tonight."
As the last of the drinks is set down, the air in the tavern turns tight. The candles flicker — not a gentle sway from a passing draft, but a sudden, violent flutter as though a storm wind has rushed through the room.
The hearth fire pops loudly, sending a spray of sparks into the air. The walls of the tavern seem to stretch and warp like reflections in disturbed water. A strange darkness ripples through the air — shadows that do not belong to anyone in the room. These shapes flicker and vanish before the mind can understand them.
Then Vic's crown flares brightly. A sharp crack like distant thunder echoes through the tavern.
Everything turns quiet.
A moment — or many — pass before the tavern noise slowly returns. The conversations seem unbroken, as if the patrons haven't experienced the disturbance at all. More time has passed than apparent.
The red-haired barmaid studies the empty cups and smiles knowingly.
"Well now… seems like Rockport has decided what sort of heroes it's getting."
Character sheets are distributed.
You feel disoriented. The tavern has changed in the moments that have slipped by since the drink. Vic and the hunters are now gone.