Mason Beck Fiction

In preparation for my group’s upcoming fantasy one-shot, I’ve put together the initial story hook. The title of this adventure gives away a bit too much, so I will hold that back until after my players have had their chance to run through it. Once they do, I’ll share the full write-up, including the stylized session recap and the complete encounter details.

I’ll also be posting the stat blocks I’m using. I am running this in Cypher, but if time permits I may include D&D 5e versions as well.

I hope you enjoy!

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You ragtag bunch of miscreants, vagabonds, and ne’er-do-wells have been chasing the adventuring life for a while now, with… mixed results. Your latest brush with fate was a masterclass in unfortunate timing. What began as a simple case of wrong place, wrong time, then blossomed into mistaken identity, and finally flowered into a full-blown episode of catastrophic miscommunication, ended with you killing the Queen’s nephew and his entire guard.

You were paid handsomely for it. That part wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that the lords who hired you had meant to hire a different group entirely. A band of actual professionals who happened to bear a passing resemblance to your sorry lot. Those adventurers arrived a day late to the same tavern and were supposed to protect the nephew from an incoming assault, not leave him as an unrecognizable smear on the flagstones. It was an easy mistake to make. They said, “Take care of him.” And that is exactly what you did.

Without him the eastern bridge and its trade routes fell wide open.

The marauders showed up expecting a fight and instead found the aftermath of your enthusiastic handiwork. They were surprised but opportunistic enough to burn the bridge seize the trade road and ransack the countryside while no one stood in their way.

You arrived back in the kingdom with the nephew’s seal and collected your reward from the provisioner who was not known for being the first or even the hundredth to hear about current events. You left town just in time to see the original band of adventurers being led in chains to the gallows for the murder of the queen’s nephew. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, you slipped out of the kingdom with only moments to spare before anyone realized the mixup.

So here you are on the long western road. Not the main western road, of course, but one of the many side paths you have taken to avoid being detected. The few times you wandered back toward the main road you were reminded of how fast bad news travels, and how wanted posters seem to travel faster.

Luckily you are only a couple of days from the next empire, and all that remains is to cross the Great Western Bridge or take one of the long winding trails that add at least three more days but avoid the inevitable immigration check. You study your maps and find a little used trail that avoids any chance of running into the king’s men and, somehow, puts you closer to the next empire’s capital than the main trade road ever would.

Over the mountain you go and into the lush valley beyond. Strangely, this part of the trail is more worn than any other section before it, yet you never encounter another soul. Another day passes, and as you near the far edge of the valley you spot something lying in the road ahead.

Perception check. Depending on the difficulty you beat:

Difficulty 3 reveals a body.
Difficulty 4 reveals a hairy body.
Difficulty 5 reveals a bloody, hairy, and still breathing body.

A closer look uncovers a badly beaten Harengon, alive but hanging on by instinct alone. His clothes are torn. Every pocket and pouch has been sliced open and emptied. All he has left is a single scroll, bloody and ripped, held tight in one shaking hand as if it was the only thing that mattered.

The scroll reads:

To the Great and Powerful Magus,
The people of the Heather Valley Warren are in desperate need of your aid once again. The winds of purple clouds have returned and have begun sweeping through the village. We beg you to act before we are overtaken as we were once before. We hope you will accept the humble tribute we are able to provide as fitting recompense.

Forever in your debt,
Mayor Fabian Lapin

Scattered around the beaten Harengon are broken carrots, crushed cabbages, and other vegetables tossed across the path. Shattered jars of preserves and jarred fruits glisten in the dirt. Tracks are stamped into the ground in every direction, most of them leading farther down the road. You also notice several patches of purple flowers. If examined, each patch forms the rough outline of a humanoid shape, as though something once stood there and simply dissolved.

If the party manages to revive the Harengon, he begs them to take the note to the Magus. If not, they will soon spot a tall tower rising over a distant hill, with a faint, barely used trail cutting through the tall grass toward it. Either way, the poor Harengon passes away.

If they try to track down the cart, they eventually find a pack of gnolls tearing into what is left of it. Vegetables, jars, and splintered wood are scattered everywhere as the creatures devour anything they can get their claws on. A few of the gnolls have patches of purple flowers growing out of their fur and along the open wounds on their arms and necks. The heather has rooted itself in them like a parasite.

If the party chooses to fight them, they risk being infected by the same purple veins of heather that have taken hold of the gnolls.

When they finally reach the tower, the grounds are beautiful and immaculate, almost unsettlingly so. The grass is trimmed, the stones are spotless, and the garden paths wind in perfect order. Yet from several of the upper windows spill strange colors of smoke and drifting mist. Sparkling wisps shimmer in and out of sight like startled fireflies.

A sudden crash echoes across the grounds. Then a scream. Then a boom. Then the sharp, unmistakable sound of frantic… honking? A crack of lightning, a burst of fire and thunder follows, rattling the panes. The tower falls quiet for a breath or two before the next wave of chaos rises again, louder than before.

When they knock or try to enter, the door creaks open to reveal not one creature but three. They stand on each other’s shoulders in a swaying, unnatural column of limbs and robes. Their bodies are long and thin, too thin, and their necks seem a little too flexible, like reeds bending in a breeze. Their large, glassy eyes blink out of sync. All three mouths smile at once, but none of the smiles match.

They lean in as one, faces shifting in a slow, unsettling ripple.

“The Magus,” said the first.
“Is currently busy,” said the second.
“Very busy,” said the third.

“You should,” said the first.
“Come back later,” said the second.
“Much later,” said the third.

A tremendous crash of metal rings out from above. Something honks in a frantic, pained burst. A shout of triumph follows, sharp and delighted. All three creatures tilt their heads at the same unnatural angle, listening in perfect stillness.

“It seems,” said the first.
“The Magus has finished,” said the second.
“His appointment,” said the third.

“You may,” said the first.
“Come inside,” said the second.
“He will see you shortly,” said the third.

They guide the party up a spiraling staircase, their bodies moving in an odd, swaying rhythm, as though the three share bones instead of simply balance.

At the top waits a laboratory in a state of glorious disaster. Strange liquids hiss in cracked flasks. Acrid smoke curls from burnt runes etched into the stone. Feathers drift through the air like lazy snowfall. The smell is sharp, metallic, and strangely sweet.

In the center stands a small gnomish man in a torn and burned robe. He is laughing uncontrollably, a wild, delighted sound, as he slams the butt of his staff against a metal cage.

Inside the cage is a beautiful white goose. It huddles in a corner, shaking. When it sees the party, it lifts its head and lets out a long, miserable, heartbroken honk that feels almost human in its pleading.

The magus whirls around, eyes wild.

The magus hears the party behind him and spins with a sudden burst of motion, planting his feet in a dramatic kung fu stance that would be impressive if it was not so chaotic. One hand crackles with little arcs of static that bite at the air. The other hand burns with small flickering flames that crawl up his fingers like eager pets.

“Do not move,” he snarls, eyes wide. “Who the hell are you?”

The goose gives a pathetic, trembling honk, a sound so miserable it almost wobbles the air.

The magus jabs a finger at the cage without looking away from the party.

“He is full of shit. Do not fall for it. Piece of shit.”

He punctuates each word with a twitch of flame or a pop of static, as though the magic itself cannot decide how to behave around him.

He punctuates each sentence by banging the cage again. Then he thrusts the end of his staff through the bars to jab the goose hard in the side. The goose cries out, feathers flying.

The room around them shudders slightly with every impact. Something spills. Something pops. Something hums that should not hum.

The magus does not seem to notice any of it.

The magus lowers his stance a little and waves the flaming hand in the air as if swatting away an invisible annoyance.

“All right,” he grumbles. “Fine. You want to know why that idiot rabbit was in my road.”

He stomps toward a cluttered table, kicking aside a feather-covered book.

“The stupid Harengons,” he says, stabbing his staff against the floor for emphasis, “moved into that field of Heather without realizing that certain times of the year the veil between the material realm and an elementally unstable region of Pandemonium gets thin. Very thin. Paper thin.”

He wiggles his fingers to demonstrate thinness, sparks jumping between them.

“And when that happens it spits out storms. Random storms. Unpredictable storms. Big purple clouds of elemental nonsense that make the Heather grow aggressive and hungry. And what do those furry little morons do?”

He looks at the party expectantly, as if waiting for someone to say it.

“They eat it,” he answers for them. “They find it delicious. Absolutely delicious.”

He throws both hands in the air, one scattering embers, the other crackling like a cheap lantern.

“They could move,” he says. “They could walk across the road. Across the road. But no. They stay. They build bigger houses. They plant more fields. And then they come waddling up the hill to beg me, every single year, to put up another barrier around their precious little warren.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I tell them I will come when I can,” he says. “When I feel like dealing with it. And I expect my candied peaches. That is the agreement. That is the contract. Candied peaches for magical labor. Very simple.”

He spreads his hands in exasperation.

“Do they ever bring enough peaches? Of course they do not. They bring two jars. Two. For a whole village. I am a magus, not a charity.”

Behind him, the goose gives a small, pitiful honk.

“Shut up,” the magus snaps at the cage. “Piece of shit…”

Over the conversation the magus never stops harassing the goose. Every few sentences he turns and bangs the cage with the butt of his staff. Sometimes he jabs at it through the bars. Sometimes he rattles the entire cage just to hear the goose panic. Each time feathers drift down like sad little reminders of his temper.

The goose keeps honking at the party, pitiful and desperate, its eyes wide and pleading. It clings to the bars whenever a party member approaches, as if begging for rescue in the only language it has.

In the middle of yet another rant from the magus the goose lets out a strangled cry and lays an egg. A shining golden egg settles into the straw, glowing faintly like warm sunlight.

The magus does not acknowledge it. Not a glance. Not a pause.

It is as if the miracle is common, or beneath his notice.

If one of the party members complains about how he is treating the goose, the magus spins on them with offended disbelief.

“Mind your business,” he snaps. “It is not a goose. It is a goddamn monster. Do not let it fool you.”

The goose honks softly at the party, pressing its body over the golden egg as if trying to shield it.

The magus jabs the staff toward the cage again.

“Look at that face. That is not innocence. That is guilt. That is manipulation. It knows exactly what it is doing.”

He turns back to his scattered tables, muttering to himself.

“Piece of shit. Always pretending. Always trying something.”

One way or another the party needs to leave that tower with the goose. They might convince the magus to part with it, they might buy it, they might distract him long enough to walk out with the cage, or the goose might charm one of them in its own way.

Not magically.
Just through sheer, weaponized charisma.

It watches them with wide, shimmering eyes. It honks pitifully at exactly the right moment. It leans against the bars like a child begging for rescue. It knows exactly who the soft one is. It knows who hesitates first. And it plays them like a lute.

Meanwhile the magus resists the idea loudly and theatrically. He complains. He rants. He calls them idiots for even considering helping the creature. But with enough pressure, enough coin, or enough misdirection, he relents.

Grudgingly.
Loudly.
And with a warning they will absolutely not take seriously.

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Stay tuned for the rest in December!