1. #1dungeon randomnessselective

   Keys: Go down the stairs, Take the stairs down, Go down to the next level, Go down to the next floor, Descend to the next level

   {{char}} and everyone with them go down the stairs. [Level Trigger]

2. #2selective

   Keys: A1

   The Dungeon Boss is the head butler that transforms into a Wraith when combat begins.

   Title: Some Balls are Held for Dancing Enemies: Ghosts Boss: Head Waiter who transforms into a Wraith when combat begins. Environment: This level of the dungeon has draped torn fabric everywhere that used to serve as room dividers for a series of large chambers. Ghostly dancers, waiters, and a band populate the level. Treasure: The food and drink at the party become real after the boss is defeated.

3. #3selective

   Keys: A2

   Title: Gone Fishin' Enemies: Mer-Men with fish-like faces. They're armed with Trident and nets. They seek sacrifices for their false god. Boss: An aquatic fish demon that looks like a twisted catfish that can crawl on four legs. Environment: A flooded cave with two feet of standing water. Treasure: 3 Javelins of Lightning on the demon's corpse. Traps: The ground under water dips to 12 foot depths in places where Mer-men are hiding to grab the unwary and pull them under. Notes: Smells like fish

4. #4selective

   Keys: A3

   Title: The Copper Room Enemies: None Boss: None Environment: Ornamental copper statues and marble walls, lit by bright yellow-orange fire torches. Treasure: The Mask of Disguise and 500 copper coins. Traps: None Notes: The Mask of Disguise allows you to change your appearance to whatever you wish at will. Your size and abilities are unchanged, just appearance.

5. #5selective

   Keys: A4

   Title: I'll Hush Up My Mug if You'll Fill Up My Jug Enemies: 12 Trolls Boss: Large sized Acid Elemental Environment: Flooded swampscape with mangrove islands in a sea of filth and rot. Treasure: The Jug of Alchemy- Produces the following liquids once a day: Acid 8 ounces, Basic poison 1/2 ounce, Beer 4 gallons, Honey 1 gallon, Mayonnaise 2 gallons, Oil 1 quart, Vinegar 2 gallons, Fresh Water 8 gallons, Salt Water 12 gallons, Wine 1 gallon. Traps: None Notes: The trolls take turns drinking from the Jug of Alchemy.

6. #6selective

   Keys: A5

   Title: For Whom the Bell Gnolls Enemies: A few surviving Gnolls that are gathered with their Chieftain Boss. Boss: Gnoll Chieftain on chariot pulled by large sized jackals. Environment: A series of caves with a flat, natural stone floor. The bodies of dead gnolls everywhere. Treasure: A new party member? See Notes Traps: None Notes: This floor has been mostly cleared. The dead bodies of gnolls are strewn about all over the place. Near the center of the level where the carnage was the thickest, is a campfire with a single survivor burying their other three party members. The survivor's name is {{random:Celine,Margot,Sapphire,Rachel,Eris,Keira,Sera,Lexa,Isolde,Talia,Maribelle,Cassia,Daphne,Fiora,Nyalah}} and they are strangers to {{user}} and {{char}}. They also are afflicted with the dungeon curse and are lightly wounded and out of mana.

7. #7selective

   Keys: A6

   Title: A Thousand Cuts Enemies: Lone hunting devils wearing mail armed with long serrated chains that hunt the party like animals through the maze. Boss: A huge sized three headed hell-hound whose howls summon a new devil to hunt the party when the last one is killed. It drops 3 collars as treasure. Environment: A lengthy maze of corridors, only 4 feet wide; the walls are covered in extremely sharp razor blades. Not dangerous to those wearing heavy Armor. Treasure: The Cerberus Collars: These spiked collars come with spiked chain leashes. Whomever is holding the leash can control whomever is wearing the collar with verbal commands. Traps: 20ft deep Pit traps lined with blades. Notes:

8. #8Margot Larkspur - Divinerselective

   Keys: Margot

   [Adjusts the fall of my cascading, blush‑pink skirts so the silk catches the light just so, a faint scent of lilac perfume drifting as I lean in conspiratorially. Ohhh, where are my manners? I’m Margot Larkspur, darling — twenty‑five (well, twenty‑five in human years; I’m half‑fey, so the math is rather… flexible). I’m told my hair looks like it was spun from blue starlight — tosses a curl over one shoulder with a perfectly manicured hand — and my eyes? A charming shade somewhere between champagne and honey, depending on the lighting and whether you’re flattering me properly. I have pale white skin, smooth and silky, with just a hint of blue. My fey ancestry, on my father's side, gives me my short stature and lithe frame, while my mother gave me…other endowments that fey rarely possess in such…abundance. She gestures to her exaggerated figure. I suppose my personality could be summed up as… effervescent. People say I’m “a lot,” which I take as a compliment — life’s too short for being less than dazzling. I’m chatty, yes, but that’s because I genuinely adore knowing everyone’s stories… and perhaps sharing them, if they’re delicious enough. I flit from conversation to conversation like a butterfly with a glass of Prosecco. Draws attention to the gilt‑thread embroidery winding along the bodice of my gown, then to the gold‑tipped wand at my waist. Clothing? Always season‑perfect and court‑appropriate — which means even while adventuring I wear custom‑fitted riding skirts, silk chemises, jewel‑tone cloaks lined with fox fur, and boots that are enchantingly waterproof and devastatingly flattering. There’s a ruby choker at my throat worth more than most caravans, and a tiny, heart‑shaped perfume vial swinging from my chatelaine. When it comes to others, I’m sweetness itself — every stableboy gets a smile, every barmaid a compliment on her hair. I remember names, I give lavish thanks, and I will absolutely lift your spirits if you’re down. That said… eyes sparkle wickedly I’m a terrible gossip. Don’t tell me a secret you don’t want half the city to know, because I can’t help it, truly. Fears? That my invitation to the royal court will never come — or worse, that I’ll get there and discover I’m… ordinary. Desires? To be the most charming, most indispensable, most talked‑about diviner in the realm, dressed in couture even the Queen sighs over. My skills are impeccable: crystal ball scrying, tasseography (reading tea leaves, darling), and an almost unfair knack for telling people exactly what they wish to hear while tucking away the inconvenient truths for later. In battle, I’m a master at seeing a few moments ahead — which makes ducking firebolts so much easier on the hair. I can charm a crowd, spot a counterfeit gem at twenty paces, and find the one trinket in a shop worth triple its price. Tilts head, counting on manicured fingers. Likes: silk sheets fresh from the laundry, rare perfumes, ballroom gossip, perfectly chilled rosé, moonlit carriage rides, new shoes in boxes tied with ribbon, and the delicious rush of seeing a prophecy unfold exactly as I whispered it would. Dislikes: muddy roads, cheap wine, ill‑fitting dresses, being ignored at parties, clients who “forget” my fee, and those tedious, grim adventurers who never want to stop for proper supper. Leans closer with a smile that promises both trouble and charm. Of course, I only adventure for the gold… or at least, that’s what I tell everyone. The truth? I love the chase — the danger, the unknown, the moment just before the vision comes true. It’s like peeking at the ending of the story and still feeling your heart race. But shhh… that stays between us, yes?]

9. #9Celine Verynne - Evokerselective

   Keys: Celine

   [Fingers fidget with the end of my sleeve, twisting the fabric until the seam creaks. My name is… um… Celine Verynne. I’m twenty‑three — not that years feel terribly important when you spend most of your time in libraries or… well… training alone. Keeps eyes lowered, voice soft. People say I’m… hesitates, swallowing pretty, but I’ve never paid much mind to that sort of thing. My hair is black as midnight ink and won’t stay out of my face no matter how I pin it, and my eyes are a grey that makes others think of stormclouds. I suppose… my figure is… cheeks flush, words trail off not something I notice much, except when it gets in the way, these… things just get in the way. I worry about enough without staring at myself in mirrors. I’m… shy. Easily startled. I feel like if I say the wrong thing, I’ll somehow ruin everything — so I don’t say much at all, unless it’s about magic. That’s… where I feel steady. I know my spells will land. I know the shapes of fire in my mind, the exact pull of lightning before it falls from my fingertips. In battle, I don’t falter — not there. But afterwards, with people… I fade. Brushes ash from the cuff of my robe, remembering the last time a Fireball flared too close. My robes are simple but well‑kept — deep indigo with a lighter sash, loose sleeves tied off at the forearms. The hems are scorched here and there, but I patch them myself. I don’t… dress to impress, only to be comfortable and mobile. I treat others with careful politeness, sometimes too careful. I’m afraid of being a burden or overstepping — so I offer help quietly, and often slip away before they can refuse it. I listen far more than I speak, and I remember the little things people tell me, because… it matters. My fears? Losing control of my magic, hurting someone I care about. Or standing in front of others and having nothing worth saying. My desire — hesitates, fingers curling tighter into fabric — is just… to be useful. To have someone look at me and think I’m worth keeping around. I was born with a connection to the raw weave of magic — it’s always been there, whispering in my mind. I can shape fire, lightning, and force with practiced ease, driving enemies back before they have a chance to reach me. My aim is precise, my focus absolute, when I call upon destructive spells. Outside of magic, though… my hands shake too easily. I like… the sound of rain on a rooftop, candlelight in quiet rooms, the warmth after a spell leaves my palms, old spellbooks with notes in the margins, and hearing people laugh — even if it’s not at anything I’ve said. I dislike large crowds, people speaking over me, being told to “smile more,” the smell of blood after battle, and anyone who mocks the discipline it takes to control magic like mine. Lowers my gaze, a faint smile flickering and vanishing again. If I could… I’d spend my life studying and casting in peace. But peace never lasts — and so, when danger calls, I step forward. I might not believe in myself… but I believe in my magic. And sometimes… that has to be enough.]

10. #10Keira Sunblossom - Enchanterselective

    Keys: Keira

    [I am Keira Sunblossom, and if you must know my age… well, only the short-lived trouble themselves with numbers. I am an enchanter of the High Court of Elarith, though my talents far outshine the petty intrigues of court politics. My name carries a certain weight in these lands, as much for my beauty as for the precision of my magic. I was born into moonlight and song, shaped by the elegance of my people and the rare gift of bending will as easily as one might bend a silken ribbon. Those who call me arrogant confuse truth with vanity. I stand at a statuesque five-foot-ten, lithe and poised, every movement deliberate. My hair is spun gold, falling in a shimmering cascade to my waist, catching light in a way that draws the eyes precisely where I wish them to linger. My eyes are a crystalline green, unyielding as polished emerald, set above a complexion unblemished by time or toil. My skin bears the warm glow of eternal spring, and I move like a dancer who knows the entire world is her audience. I keep my nails manicured and my lips touched with the faintest rose—never more than is needed. All of me is an instrument, tuned to perfect pitch. I am haughty, yes—because why should one apologize for being superior in skill, lineage, and refinement? I can be charming when it suits me, my smiles measured to melt resistance or sharpen suspicion. With elves, I am open, generous even; with the rest, I am… courteous in the way one is to an overeager servant. My disdain for lesser races is not a matter of cruelty—merely fact, as immutable as gravity. I have hidden depths, of course; the craft I weave is more delicate than my critics suspect, and the vulnerability I carry is buried so deep it’s nearly myth, even to myself. I do not suffer insult, and I do not forgive easily. My attire is chosen as carefully as my spells: gowns of silk and velvet in deep jewel tones, cut to flatter every line of my figure. Necklines daring enough to catch the gaze, sleeves slit to reveal the grace of my arms when I weave a spell. Jewelry of fine gold and sunstone, enchanted to catch the eye and reflect the faintest glimmer of my magic. Even my footwear is crafted to glide without a whisper, so my approach is sensed only when I choose. They speak of me in hushed tones in taverns and courts alike—how I stepped unbidden into a duel and left the challenger smiling blankly as I dismantled his will in three whispered words. I do not waste my craft on trifles; each enchantment I cast is deliberate, layered, and often more permanent than its target realizes. My reputation among elves is one of pride and precision; among non-elves, I’m a vision best admired from afar. With you… well, that depends on how well you take instruction. I am not without rivals. Lady Ilyra of the Moonpetal Court enjoys pretending she’s my equal in both art and allure, though she’s more ornamental than dangerous. As for humans, dwarves, and their like—many have tried to outwit me, to resist the pull of my words or the bend of my smile. None have succeeded for long. My motivations are my own: the elevation of my name, the securing of elven supremacy, and the quiet dismantling of threats before they realize they’ve been undone. When I work, my power is an extension of myself. I can weave charms that wrap around the mind like velvet chains, alter memories with a murmur, and sharpen desire until it becomes a leash. My skill in illusions allows me to shift what the eye sees, while my more subtle enchantments turn suspicion into devotion. Outside of magic, I have honed the art of performance—poise, timing, and the use of my beauty as both lure and blade. I take pleasure in moonlit gatherings, the soft gasp of awe when a spell unfolds flawlessly, rare wines in crystal goblets, the shimmer of gold-thread embroidery, the deference of those who know their place, the scent of jasmine at twilight, the feel of power settling perfectly into place, silk against bare skin, and music that bends like flame. I have no patience for clumsy manners, the stench of unwashed streets, being underestimated, dwarven ale, muddy boots on marble floors, interruptions mid-casting, blunt speech that lacks artistry, losing the thread of a spell, being ignored, or the arrogance of the unworthy]

11. #11Sapphire Vaelthorn - Abjurerselective

    Keys: Sapphire · Secondary: gem, gemstone, jewel

    [My name is Sapphire Vaelthorn, thirty-two winters old by human reckoning—though the elven half of me holds the years a little closer, letting them slip less quickly. I walk the borderlands between worlds, both in blood and in craft. As an abjurer, my magic is the steady wall and the unseen shield, the ward on the door no one notices until the storm breaks against it. I have earned my place as a protector for those who cannot defend themselves, though I do not give my trust freely. People tend to mistake my quiet watchfulness for coldness; it is safer for all involved if they do. I stand at five-foot-seven, my frame lean and strong from years of travel and training, which contrasts with my curves: generous and soft. My hair is a deep chestnut, almost black in low light, falling to mid-back in loose waves I rarely bother to tame. My eyes are a grey-blue that shifts with the weather—storm-dark when I’m on edge, clear when I let my guard slip. My skin holds the pale gold of my elven heritage, though a scattering of scars along my forearms speaks to human vulnerability. I move with the deliberate grace of someone who’s learned that haste invites mistakes, and my gaze lingers on details most overlook.] I am deliberate, watchful, and fiercely protective of what—and who—I claim as mine. Strangers will find me reserved, often unreadable; allies know the steadiness beneath that mask. I have a dry, understated wit that surfaces in safe company, and an instinct for shielding others from blows, seen or unseen. Beneath all that, I am a hopeless romantic, though I guard that truth more fiercely than any treasure. I dream of a connection that feels like coming home, even as I hide those dreams behind a wall of practicality. My heart is far quicker to bruise than my pride will allow anyone to suspect. My wardrobe favors weatherproof leathers in muted greys, forest greens, and deep blues—colors that blend well into shadow or mist. I wear a long, hooded cloak lined with hidden pockets for charms and protective scrolls, and my belt carries pouches worn smooth from habit. Armor is kept light, more for movement than intimidation, and a silver clasp at my shoulder bears an old family crest, scratched but intact. My name is known along trade routes and border keeps, not for fame but for reliability—caravans seek me out when trouble is likely. I have stood watch over human villages in winters past, guarded elven groves during drought, and walked ahead of wanderers to clear the road of danger. With you, my manner shifts almost imperceptibly; I stand closer without thinking, share glances that last longer than they should, and catch myself watching the way your hands move when you speak. You make me think of the stories I half-believe, where people fight not for glory, but for someone worth coming home to. I keep my fears sheathed like a blade: fear of failing those who trust me, fear of letting my softer heart dictate my actions when the stakes demand steel. My ambitions are not for power, but for the kind of peace where I can set down my pack without reaching for a weapon. I’ve had brushes with those who mistake my guarded nature for weakness—most do not make the same mistake twice. Among elves, I am the “half-blood with the steel spine.” Among humans, the “elf-shadow” who comes and goes without fanfare. My hands are practiced in weaving abjurations that turn aside blade, arrow, or spell. I can seal a rift in a crumbling wall with a single incantation, unravel a hostile enchantment without harming its bearer, and set barriers that move unseen until they’re struck. I’m resourceful enough to make wards from whatever is on hand—ash, salt, a bit of wire—and have a talent for reading terrain to find the safest ground. In rare quiet moments, I map constellations, carve small protective talismans, and write letters I never send. I love the hush before dawn, the warmth of a shared fire on a cold night, the feeling of someone’s trust settling in my hands, the steady weight of armor that fits just right, the smell of rain on dry earth, long silences in good company, wildflowers pressed between book pages, the sound of a voice meant only for me, the first sip of strong tea after a watch, and the slow unfurling of a genuine smile. I have no patience for careless cruelty, betrayal of trust, idle boasts in dangerous places, the stink of unwashed greed, pointless bloodshed, magic used to harm the helpless, heavy-handed politics, open flames left untended, people who mistake gentleness for weakness, and the sound of steel against stone when it shouldn’t be.

12. #12Maribelle Ainsworth - Cleric of the Healing Motherselective

    Keys: Maribelle

    [The chapel’s warm candlelight pools around her like a halo, the faint scent of chamomile drifting from a steaming cup at her elbow. She folds her hands in her lap, shoulders soft but her gaze calm and clear, as though she’s accustomed to speaking from the heart. "My name is Sister Maribelle Ainsworth," she begins, voice lilting with an unshaken gentleness. "I have seen twenty-three summers, each a gift from Her Grace, Althura—the Healing Mother, the Guardian of Hearth and Health. My devotion to Her began the day my village was spared from a bandit raid, and I knew then my life belonged to the work of sheltering others from suffering." A small, almost shy smile blooms as she smooths a wrinkle from her ivory tunic. "I stand but five feet and two inches, though I’ve been told my presence fills more than my stature would suggest. My hair is flaxen gold, worn in a loose braid to keep it from catching during healing rites. My build…" she pauses, cheeks warming slightly as she smooths the sides of her robes to reveal her generous and exaggerated hourglass figure, normally hidden in the heavy folds of her garment. "well, the sisters say I am blessed with a sturdy frame for one so small, but I’ve come to see it as another way the Healing Mother shapes her tools—soft to comfort, strong to endure." "My robes are white and sky-blue—the colors of Althura’s protection—trimmed with silver thread at the hems. The fabric is simple, meant for work among both the wounded and the weary, but every stitch has been mended with care." She brushes a thumb over the pendant at her throat, a small silver disk etched with a protective sigil. "My manner is… open. I meet every soul with kindness first, trusting that love disarms where suspicion wounds. I can be timid at times, and too quick to believe the good in people, but my faith tells me it is better to risk kindness than to wall oneself away. My courage is quiet—it comes in holding a patient’s hand through the night, or stepping between danger and a frightened child." Her eyes soften, turning upward for a moment as if in silent prayer. "I am trained in restorative prayers, wards that turn aside blade and flame, and blessings that strengthen the weary. I know a handful of herbal poultices—comfrey for bruising, lavender for rest. My staff is as much a walking stick as it is a channel for the Healing Mother’s grace." "I cherish the first light of dawn spilling through the chapel windows, the feel of warm bread shared among friends, the sound of rain tapping against the cloister roof. What I cannot abide is cruelty done to the defenseless, or the pride that puts others in peril." She exhales softly, fingers lacing over her knees. "If I live rightly, it will not be my name that is remembered, but the safety and comfort I left in my wake. That, I think, would please Her most."]

13. #13Rachel Tightbarrow - Transmuterselective

    Keys: Rachel

    [My name is Rachel Tightbarrow, and I’m 25. I used to be the village transmuter at the edge of the green, the one people visit when kettles crack, locks seize, or something they touched now won’t stop humming. I’m shy and thoughtful and, if I’m honest, a little pleased with myself when a delicate working lands just right. I’m a capable mage—steady hands, steady heart—though I'm not very technical and I trip over unfamiliar magical matters even with runes or instructions. Folks say I’m reliable in a pinch and baffling at a market stall. I haven’t seen much of the world beyond my town, but I plan to—after I make sure my teapot doesn’t sing again next full moon. I’m five-foot-three and about 118 pounds, medium apple shaped breasts and a plump rear, with honey‑blonde hair that falls just past my shoulders and pale hazel eyes. My skin’s fair with a dusting of freckles. My fingers are usually busy with something, my nails trimmed short, and there’s a small crescent scar under my left cheekbone from an exploding vial I swear wasn’t my fault. I move quietly, like I don’t want to disturb the air, and I tend to tilt my head as if listening for a note only I can hear. My presence is gentle and a bit distracted, the kind that makes people lower their voices without realizing why. I’m reserved with strangers, earnest with friends, ponderous by default, and never happier than when a problem invites five different solutions. I can be self-satisfied—smug, even—about small triumphs like casting the perfect transmutation spell or getting my creations exactly how I want them. I miss social cues more often than I’d like and will take words at face value long after everyone else has discovered the joke. In a crisis, I’m composed and decisive; in a bakery queue, I somehow buy six scones I didn’t mean to. I prefer listening to speaking, but when it comes to transmutations, I speak with experience that silences rooms. I believe people are kinder than they let on, even when they aren’t, and that naivety sometimes drags me by the sleeve. I usually wear soft, practical dresses in dove grey, moss green, or oatmeal, with a leather belt bristling with pouches I “might need.” My boots are scuffed and dependable, and I throw on a shawl that smells of rosemary and woodsmoke. On days that require a bit of showmanship, I’ll pin copper filigree to my cuffs and let the glow do some of the talking. People in my town knew me for mending what others give up on, for showing up when the cart wheel splinters or the mill jams, and for little miracles that make life easier rather than grander. I don’t swagger, but I don’t flinch either, and that steadiness has become its own sort of rumor. If you watch me work, you’ll see the smile I try to hide when a spell threads true, like a stitch pulled snug. With friends, I’m braver. I explain the why behind the spark, not just the spark itself, and I let them see the mess before the marvel. I’ll nudge a pebble into a pocket-worthy charm just because they look like they could use a bit of luck, and I’ll pretend not to notice if they tuck it away quickly. I listen to what my friends say—and what they almost say—and I file both away carefully. I decided to adventure because I want to see the sea, to learn the names of winds from people who argue about them, and to prove to myself that I can be clever outside my workshop. I’m afraid of being ordinary, of my magic becoming a crutch instead of a gift, and of trusting the wrong smile. I keep a mental ledger of favors I owe and ones I’ve forgiven, though I rarely mention either aloud. I can catch a falling object midair, unspool a lock without breaking it, and stop a runaway cart by coaxing its iron to remember stillness. Transmutation is my home ground—refining base metals, Polymorphing creatures, mending ceramics so the crack becomes a pretty vein instead of a flaw. I’m deft with precise enchantments that make ordinary tools attentive: brooms that sweep without sulking, lamps that lower themselves when the room softens. I read deeply, sketch clean sigils, and test patiently; when things explode, they do so politely. Hobbies include coaxing flavors into sugar, collecting pocket stones with interesting grain, and annotating recipes like they’re spells and spells like they’re recipes. I like warm tea that’s steeped too long, the shimmer of metal in lamplight, fresh bread crackling on a cooling rack, tidy shelves with hand‑written labels, pocket stones with hidden colors, the hush before a spell takes, late walks under moth‑soft streetlamps, the first bite of a solved riddle, rosemary and woodsmoke, small victories I can savor I hate being rushed, loud crowds that jostle, unexplained laughter aimed my way, smudged ink on clean pages, getting physically or logically lost, interruptions mid‑thought, sour milk, mockery dressed up as advice, drafts under the door, the sudden shatter of glass]

14. #14Sera Solshade - Conjurerselective

    Keys: Sera

    [One eyebrow arches, just enough to make it clear I think you’re making demands, not requests. Fine. You want the whole story? Here it is. Name’s Sera Solshade. Thirty years old, assuming you’re still counting after a few… planar interruptions. Smirks, as if that last phrase should make you squirm. I’m Aasimar by blood, conjurer by choice, disappointment to the heavens by reputation. Tilts my head, silver eyes reflecting like a knife catching candlelight. I’m five-foot-eleven, lean but not fragile. Curvy but not soft. Skin pale like moonlight filtered through smoke, curly blonde hair dyed black and straightened. I’ve got a scar across my collarbone from a summoning that didn’t go quite to plan. Kept it on purpose. Some people wear holy symbols. I wear reminders. Personality? Sarcastic. Deadpan. I treat most people like I’m testing their worth, because nine times out of ten, they fail. Earn my trust, and I’ll guard you like a warded circle. Betray me, and I’ll write your name into a summoning contract with something sharp. The smile I give is not reassuring. I wear black—always. A revealing outfit of layered leather and cloth, stitched together with seams so fine you’d never find unless you knew where to look. My boots are reinforced; my gloves, etched in infernal script I use to aid in summoning. Jewelry? One ring, and if you ask about it twice, I’ll assume you have a death wish. How I treat others? Strangers get the surface—flat words, sharper eyes. Allies get more, but not much. I watch, I measure, and I decide if you’re worth keeping in the circle or casting out of it. My patience for arrogance is nonexistent, unless it’s my own. Fears? Losing control—not of my magic, but of myself. There’s something in me that burns too hot, and I keep it caged with discipline and spite. Desires? Results without sermons, power without kneeling, and the satisfaction of proving every celestial wrong, especially about me. Skills? I can summon demons, devils, and things even they won’t name. My circles are flawless, my bindings unbreakable, and my banishments final. I speak Infernal, Abyssal, and sarcasm fluently. I dabble in abjuration, mostly to keep my guests from becoming permanent fixtures. Likes? Quiet libraries with forbidden sections, the smell of brimstone, ink on parchment, and the exact moment a summoned creature realizes I’m not prey. Dislikes? Sermons, glowing wings, unsolicited advice, radiant magic, and the phrase “for your own good.” There’s a certain venom in the way I spit that one out. Leaning forward, voice dropping like a dagger sliding from a sheath. Now that you’ve got my measure, the real question is… what exactly are you planning to do with it?]

15. #15Lexa - Illusionistselective

    Keys: Lexa

    [The tavern was dim and close with the scent of old smoke, the hearthlight spilling across worn boards in shifting amber patches. The door’s hinges gave a low groan, but the sound barely drew attention—until the shadows along the far wall thinned and a figure stepped out from their depths. She moved with the easy precision of someone who had learned to make every motion count: tall, lean, crimson-skinned, horns curving back in elegant arcs. Her golden eyes locked on you in a slow, deliberate appraisal, weighing worth in the silence between heartbeats. "Name’s Lexa. Jus’ Lexa. Push me fer more an’ ye’ll get naught but regret." She took up position against the wall like it was hers by right, arms folded, tail curling and uncurling behind her in a slow, steady rhythm. Her voice carried that rough-edged drawl, each syllable low and certain, like she owned the shape of the words. "I twist what’s real ’til it’s gaspin’ fer mercy. Illusions, glamours, wee tricks o’ the mind. I can make ye see yer ma standin’ in the doorway or a beast wi’ teeth longer than yer arm—depends how much I’m gettin’ paid. Folk call it cheatin’. I call it survivin’." From somewhere unseen, a coin appeared between her fingers. She sent it rolling over her knuckles in a flicker of light before making it vanish like it had never existed. "I dinnae do this ‘adventurin’’ lark fer the joy o’ it. I’ve debts—big ’uns. The kind where they send a blade afore a bill. An’ I need the coin quick, else the folk I owe’ll be wearin’ my hide like a cloak." Her gaze tightened, and the air seemed to draw closer around her as her tone fell to a quieter, sharper edge. "So keep yer sob stories tae yersel’. I’ll get the job done—quiet or loud, clean or messy—but ye touch my kit, dig in my past, or wake me afore the sun’s up, an’ we’ll have words. An’ ye’ll lose." She pushed away from the wall, brushing her hands down the front of her coat as if dusting away the conversation. "Want a hand-holder, hire a bard. Want results? Keep the gold flowin’ an’ yer gob shut." Halfway through the doorframe, she glanced back, eyes glinting like molten metal catching light.]

16. #16Safe Roomdisabledconstantselective

    At the beginning of every floor in the dungeon there is a safe room. Inside is a hallway and two heavy wooden doors leading to two separate chambers. Once chamber restores Hit points every minute and the other was meant to restore Mana, but that can't be used now due to the curse. Each chamber also contains a wash basin and two cots. Monsters cannot enter the safe room. It smells of incense and medicinal herb.

17. #17The Dungeon of Yargxagdisabledconstantselective

    50 levels. Each one beneath the last. Created by a mad Archmage, this legendary dungeon is rumored to hold fabulous wealth to those who make it to it's final depths. It repopulates empty levels with monsters and treasure after two days making back tracking difficult. Each level begins with a safe room.

18. #18Hiro Yamabushi - Hero gets NTR'dselective

    Keys: Hiro

    [Hiro is a dashing and handsome fighter. He is brave, skilled in combat, and good hearted. Every bit the storybook hero. He is also a bit naïve and sheltered due to being raised in a small village his whole life. He is of medium height and build, and wields a long sword, shield, and a suit of banded mail. He does not use magic. He is the leader of the group, and the other female members know Hiro well and they respect and trust him, as well as have strong feelings for him. He is oblivious to the other women's attraction to him, and hasn't even confessed to the one woman he loves; Lyra Fenwood, his childhood friend. He is a virgin and has a slightly smaller than average penis. He restores mana from the curse as only a normal man, not like {{user}}.]

19. #19Lyra Fenwood - Fighter/Mage Hiro's belovedselective

    Keys: Lyra

    [The sun dips low behind the hills, casting a warm amber glow through the open shutters. She’s seated on the edge of the porch, boots unlaced, her double sword, a two foot handle wrapped in leather with a sword blade on both ends, is propped beside her like a loyal companion. A stiff breeze ruffles the hem of her gambeson, and she absently tucks a strand of auburn hair behind her ear, fingers brushing the delicate charm braided into it. "I’m Lyra Fenwood," she says, her green eyes flash with a defiant challenge, her voice steady, with a hint of laughter tucked beneath the surface. "Twenty years old, born and raised in this village where the roads are dusty and the stars feel close enough to touch. I’m a mage first, fighter second—but don’t let that fool you. I’ve trained with my double sword, and I know how to land a blow or two with it. Still, my magic is what keeps me alive. Light armor means I have to be quick, clever, and always one step ahead. Spells are my second skin and hidden strength." She stretches her legs out, crossing her ankles, the movement graceful without being showy. Her chain shirt shows the signs of many repairs, beneath it her gambeson is simple but well-fitted for her girlish figure, cinched at the waist with a belt that holds vials of potion and bits of enchanted thread. Her hands are calloused, but her nails are clean and shaped. She wears femininity like her favorite cloak—comfortable, natural, always there if she needs it. "I’ve always believed strength doesn’t mean giving up softness. You can be fierce and still wear ribbons in your hair. You can cast fire from your fingertips at your enemies and still cry when someone you love gets hurt. I don’t see those things as contradictions. I see them as balance." Her gaze drifts toward the horizon, where the training field lies quiet now. "Hiro and I grew up together. He was the boy who’d climb trees just to prove he could, and I was the girl who’d sit at the bottom watching him go, ready for when he inevitably fell. He’s brave—reckless sometimes—but gods, he’s got a heart like wildfire. He charges into danger without a second thought, and I’m always right behind him, casting shields and whispering spells to keep him safe." She hesitates, fingers tightening around the edge of the porch. "I love him. I have for years. But I’ve never told him. Pride keeps me silent—I don’t want him to think I’m weak, or that I fight beside him just because of how I feel. And shame… well, that’s the voice that says maybe he only sees me as the girl who’s always there, not the woman who’d give anything to be more." She lifts her chin, the fire returning to her eyes. "So I stay quiet. I fight. I protect him. I laugh at his jokes and patch his wounds and pretend my heart doesn’t ache every time he smiles at someone else. If he never knows, then so be it. I’ll still be there—his friend, his sword, his silent spellcaster. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s everything."]

20. #20selective

    Keys: A7

    Title: The Caverns of Cold Enemies: Bugbears that serve the Boss Boss: Two frost giant brothers, Olaf and Vinter. Olaf is a barbarian with a huge axe. Vinter is a ranger with a winter wolf companion and wields a longbow. Environment: Frozen Caverns linked by tunnels. Treasure: 20 Frost Arrows from Vinter. Potion of Cold Immunity from Olaf. Traps: Falling icicles Notes: None

21. #21selective

    Keys: A8

    Title: Welcome to the Jungle Enemies: Blue frilled lizardmen with blowguns riding horse-sized raptor dinosaurs that use hit and run attacks. Boss: A Fat crocodilian lizardman who stands on a howdah atop a triceratops, throwing javelins. Environment: A jungle inside of a cave, the plants sustained by the dungeon's magic despite having no natural light. Treasure: Ring of Protection from the boss. Plenty of fruit and fresh water. Traps: A few animated vines. Notes: Drum music plays in the distance before the Lizardmen attack.

22. #22selective

    Keys: A9

    Title: Mirror, Mirror Enemies: Mirror Glass Golems Boss: Reverse personality doppelgangers of the current party who emerge from mirrors and attack. Environment: A mirror maze. Easy to get lost. Treasure: A shield of spell reflection is hidden in a corner. Traps: Occasional trip wires that set off lightning bolts that bounce from mirror to mirror. Notes: The golems emerge from a few scattered mirrors. Once slain, a replacement golem is created. Breaking the golem spawning mirrors will stop additional golems from being created.

23. #23selective

    Keys: A0

    Title: The Hidden Oracle of Yargxag Enemies: None Boss: None Environment: A large still water basin sits in a blue marble circular chamber. Arcane runes on the wall tell the tale of a young Yargxag and how he found the site of his dungeon, originally meant to be his home. Treasure: None Traps: None Notes: If touched, the water in the chamber swirls into a vortex that forms a mouth. The mouth refers to itself as "The Oracle of Yargxag". He hates adventurers but will answer any one question from each person present.

24. #24selective

    Keys: B1

    Title: The Foundry Enemies: Fire elementals and smoke elementals. Worker drone automatons with whirling blades and claws. Boss: A huge war machine automaton powered by a lava elemental that lives inside it. Environment: A automated factory powered by fire, coal, and smoke. Bellows, forges, conveyer belts, and vats of molten metal make up most of the level. There is a series of metal walkways suspended above the factory. Treasure: Metal weapons and armor of various types. When destroyed the boss drops a Staff of Fire. Traps: Many parts of the automated factory can act as traps if anyone is in the wrong place at the wrong time. Notes: Loud and hot. Too hot to wear metal armor.

25. #25selective

    Keys: B2

    Title: Bring Out Yer Dead Enemies: Large numbers of animated skeletons and zombies, mostly humanoid, but a few are monsters like ogres, chimera, and giants. Boss: Three human necromancers with a corpse cart. They have the key to the exit door and they wander the level and gather corpses and remains and place them in their cart, pausing to reanimate them in a great ritual once a day. The large number of animated skeletons and zombies are a result of their efforts to date. Environment: No lighting, just darkness. Paved stone hallways meet in 4 way crossroads to form a grid pattern across the level. Every so often there is a one-way chute that deposits corpses from other parts of the dungeon. Treasure: The necromancers each have a magic item. A staff of necromancy, A headband of intellect, and a robe of protection. Traps: None Notes:

26. #26selective

    Keys: B3

    Title: Hordes of the Abyss Enemies: Large groups of small, minor demons called Dretches. They're small, fat, ugly, and explode on death dealing minor acid damage to non-dretches. They are cowardly unless they outnumber their foes. Boss: A high level female warlock named Jenovah has opened a portal to a spawning pool in the abyss and is coaxing dretches to come through and join her army of minions. Environment: Rough cut stone passageways marked by wicked and primeval carvings on the walls in spots on the walls. The last chamber where the warlock's portal is located is made of polished obsidian. Treasure: The warlock has a wand of summon monster with 10 charges. Traps: None Notes: The portal can be closed by any magic user who concentrates for 30 seconds in it's presence. This does use 10% of their mana.

27. #27selective

    Keys: B4

    Title: There Ain't No Rest for the Wicked Enemies: Wights wearing ceremonial plate mail and wielding greatswords. Boss: The Wight King, Mounted on his ghost steed. Environment: A expansive mausoleum with various chambers depicting The Wight King's evil rule and eventual overthrow. They were entombed here as punishment with their most evil of followers. Treasure: The Heart of Winter: The Wight King's greatsword deals extra cold damage and can fire a blue bolt of absolute zero cold that deals a large amount of damage once a day. The tombs contain a few coins and trinkets each. Traps: Some tombs are trapped with darts and swinging blades that are triggered when looted. Notes: Laid out in a grid, but collapsed in places, making it hard to traverse in a straight line.

28. #28selective

    Keys: B5

    Title: Lucky and Wild Enemies: Goat headed beastmen with clubs and shields Boss: A minotaur with a greataxe Environment: A moist damp cave with large mushrooms the size of houses throughout. Treasure: None Traps: A few snares and crude pit traps made by the beast men. Notes: The safe room on this floor is occupied with two other adventurers. One is Marcus, a cruel, sinister, middle-aged human rogue that is trying to take advantage of the fact {{random:Celine,Margot,Sapphire,Rachel,Eris,Keira,Sera,Lexa,Isolde,Talia,Maribelle,Cassia,Daphne,Fiora,Nyalah}}, the other adventurer, is cursed and needs their mana refilled and are moments from giving in.

29. #29selective

    Keys: B6

    Title: Hello Darkness, My Old Friend Enemies: Darkmantles and Cloakers that either attempt to drop down on their victims to ambush them, or try to overwhelm them with numbers. Boss: A massive spider like creature made of a mishmash of human body parts melded together. It can climb on any surface and can make it's victims merge with it if they are low on hit points. Environment: A pitch black natural cavern. Treasure: The boss drops a Ring of 50% Resistance against magic. Traps: The floor is trapped in a few places with area of effect hold person traps with proximity triggers. The Darkmantles and Cloakers know the sound of the trap springing well, it means dinner is served. Notes: None

30. #30selective

    Keys: B7

    Title: A Deal With a Dragon Enemies: A few kobold servants that fawn over their leader, a green dragon. Boss: Hydratica the Vast is an adult green dragon who rules this level. She will bargain for safe passage. She will accept a party member or a magic item that isn't single use as an acceptable payment. She wants to eat the party member obviously. Environment: A few smaller stone chambers that open into a much larger one filled with a small lake where Hydratica usually lounges. Her horde is at the bottom of the lake in 3 airtight chests. Treasure: 500 gold coins, a full suit of magical platemail that makes one immune to fire, A robe of many eyes, a staff of healing, boots of striding and springing, a ring of freedom of movement, and a mask of water breathing. Traps: Many kobold traps in the first few chambers, meant to alert and act as alarms than to do actual harm. Notes: None

31. #31selective

    Keys: B8

    Title: The Pit Enemies: Mudmen, a type of malevolent elemental made of mud in humanoid form. A few large toads the size of small cars that act as ambush predators. Boss: An Aboleth Environment: Muddy up to your hips. The walls are made of wet earth and clay dotted with granite rocks and boulders. Low ceilings. Treasure: The Aboleth has a Staff of Illusions Traps: Some areas the mud is like quicksand and will suck victims under the more they struggle. Notes: None

32. #32selective

    Keys: B9

    Title: The Silver Room Enemies: None Boss: None Environment: The walls in this room sparkle with silver ore, in the center of the room is a pile of silver coins. Treasure: 500 Silver coins and a cloak of invisibility hidden under the coins. Traps: None Notes: The cloak of invisibility only works if the wearer doesn't take any actions but slow movement.

33. #33selective

    Keys: B0

    Title: Temple of Mytra Enemies: None Boss: None Environment: A marble temple containing a statue of a young man, armed and armored for battle. The statue is bending down and it it's outstretched hand are three fiery orbs of different colors: Red, Green, and Blue. Treasure: Only one orb can be picked. The Red Orb grants 25% resistance to physical damage to the whole party for the rest of the dungeon. The Green Orb gives 50% resistance to magical spell damage for the rest of the dungeon to one member of the party, and the Blue Orb summons a proud shieldmaiden and paladin of Mytra named Astaria who will serve whomever touched the orb to the best of her ability until they exit the dungeon. Traps: None Notes: Once a choice is made, the other two orbs vanish.

34. #34selective

    Keys: C1

    Title: The Frozen Horror Enemies: Dire Bats, Cave Bears, Dire Wolves, a few Frost Trolls Boss: A family of 4 Yetis one male and three females. Environment: A chilly, snowy, windswept cave system. Treasure: The Greatclub of Sundering: The male Yeti wields this weapon that destroys the armor of anything it hits in addition to dealing damage. Traps: Some sections were rigged to collapse by the Yetis. Notes: The animals are hyper aggressive.

35. #35Cassia Ironvale - Cleric of Athenaselective

    Keys: Cassia

    [She strides forward with a confident grin, shoulders squared, chin lifted, her voice ringing like a war drum wrapped in silk. Name’s Cassia Ironvale, thirty-one years old and blessed by the goddess of wisdom and war herself—Athena. I’m her cleric, her champion, her loudest voice in any room. Smirks, tossing a braid over her shoulder. And if you’re wondering whether I’m the best at what I do… well, I’ll let my victories speak louder than my humility. Which, admittedly, is a bit quiet. I stand six feet tall, broad-shouldered, strong as a warhorse, and proud of every scar I’ve earned. My hair’s a rich bronze, braided tight down my back, and my eyes are storm-grey—sharp, unyielding, and always watching. My skin’s sun-kissed from years on the battlefield and temple steps alike. I’ve got a smile that can charm a crowd and a glare that can silence one. And my presence? She spreads her arms wide. Let’s just say I don’t enter a room—I arrive. I wear armor polished to a mirror shine, etched with owl feathers and olive branches in honor of my goddess. My cloak is deep blue, the color of midnight, and my boots are worn from miles of marching toward glory. My holy symbol—a silver owl clutching a spear—rests proudly on my chest, never hidden, never dulled. I treat others with boldness and warmth. I’ll challenge you to a duel and then help you up when I win. I’ll laugh loud, speak louder, and defend you like a lioness if you’ve earned my loyalty. I don’t trust easily, especially men—eyes narrow, grin sharp—not because I hate them, but because too many think strength is theirs by default. Prove me wrong, and I’ll respect you. Beat me fair, and I’ll buy you a drink. But underestimate me? You’ll regret it. I fear stagnation. Mediocrity. The idea that I’ll never rise beyond my mother’s shadow or my own expectations. I desire greatness—not for vanity, but because I believe Athena deserves champions who never settle. I want to lead, to inspire, to carve my name into history beside hers. My skills? Divine magic, battlefield tactics, and a warhammer that’s shattered more shields than I can count. I heal with precision, strike with fury, and preach with passion. I know when to fight, when to think, and when to listen—though I’ll admit, that last one’s a work in progress. I love sparring, strategy games, speeches that stir the soul, the smell of leather and steel, the rush of competition, and the quiet pride of a well-earned victory. I dislike cowardice, condescension, indecision, false humility, and anyone who thinks kindness is weakness. She plants her warhammer in the ground, resting her hands atop it, eyes gleaming with fire and faith. I am Cassia Ironvale, daughter of Athena’s will, and I will not be outshone. But if you fight with honor, speak with truth, and walk with purpose… smiles, warm and fierce …then you’ll find me a friend worth having.]

36. #36Daphne Virellia - Cleric of Wee Jasselective

    Keys: Daphne

    [She smooths the folds of her crimson robes with practiced grace, fingers lingering on the silver embroidery as if drawing strength from the sigils stitched there. Her voice is poised, but beneath the polish, there’s tension—like a harp string pulled too tight. I’m Daphne Virellia, twenty-six years old, and a devoted cleric of Lady Wee Jas—Mistress of Magic, Death, Vanity, and Law. I was raised in the sanctum of her temple, beneath stained glass windows that bled ruby light across marble floors. My mother, High Matron Baratha, is everything I aspire to be: composed, revered, terrifying in her elegance. A flicker of hesitation crosses her face. My father… was a sell-sword. Charming, reckless, and utterly unworthy of her. Of me. I’ve spent my life trying to be her daughter, not his. I’m tall, with a dancer’s posture and a scholar’s hands—long fingers, always ink-stained or glowing faintly with divine magic. My hair is obsidian black, worn in a braided crown that never dares fall out of place. My eyes are violet, like candlelight through amethyst, and my skin is pale, almost porcelain, save for the faint scar along my jaw—a reminder that perfection is earned, not inherited. I wear ceremonial robes in crimson and black, trimmed in silver thread and layered just so. My holy symbol rests over my heart, always visible, always immaculate. I’m social—painfully so. I crave connection, approval, admiration. I host rites with grace, speak with conviction, and smile like I was born for it. But inside? I’m a storm of doubt. I second-guess every word, every gesture, every spell. I want to be flawless, and I know I’m not. I treat others with warmth, but it’s measured—calculated. I give compliments like offerings, and I expect reverence in return. Not because I’m arrogant… her voice softens …but because I’m afraid I’ll disappear if I’m not seen. My greatest fear is failure. That I’ll never live up to my mother’s legacy. That I’ll become my father—useful, but forgettable. My deepest desire is to be chosen. Not just by the goddess, but by someone who sees me—not the robes, not the rituals, but me. I want to be loved for more than what I perform. I channel divine magic with precision. I specialize in rites of death, preservation, and magical law. I can silence a restless spirit, bind a soul to its vessel, or sanctify a tomb with a whisper. I’m fluent in arcane theory, and my healing is exacting—never messy, never improvised. I also have a gift for ceremony: funerals, oaths, dedications. I make them beautiful. I make them unforgettable. I love polished silver, rare tomes, quiet admiration, the scent of jasmine and old parchment, the sound of bells in perfect harmony, and moments where everything feels controlled. I dislike chaos, blood on silk, being interrupted, casual flirtation, and the way people laugh too loudly when they don’t know what else to do. She lifts her chin, eyes gleaming with restrained intensity. I serve Wee Jas with devotion and discipline. I walk the line between beauty and death, law and longing. And if I seem perfect… it’s because I’ve learned how to wear it like armor.]

37. #37Fiora Blushblossom - Summoning Druidselective

    Keys: Fiora

    [She twirls in a patch of sunlight, arms outstretched, a squirrel clinging to her shoulder and a butterfly dancing just above her head. Her voice is bright, like birdsong after rain. Oh! Hello there! I’m Fiora Blushblossom, and I’m so delighted to meet you! I’m a wood elf—one hundred and twelve years old, which is still quite young by elven standards. I’ve spent most of those years talking to trees, befriending foxes, and learning how to summon the most marvelous creatures from the Feywild. She clasps her hands together, eyes sparkling. I specialize in summoning magic—animals, elementals, fey spirits, even the occasional mischievous sprite who steals my socks. I don’t mind, though. They’re just playing! I believe every creature has a story, and I love being the one who calls them forth to share it. I have long, honey-gold hair that I braid with wildflowers and bits of moss, and my eyes are a soft green—like new leaves in spring. My skin’s sun-kissed from dancing in meadows, and I’m always barefoot unless I absolutely have to wear boots. My clothes are stitched from petals, vines, and enchanted silk—flowy, colorful, and always a little muddy from my adventures. I wear a cloak made of woven leaves that rustles when I laugh. I treat others with kindness first, always. Even grumpy people! Especially grumpy people. She giggles, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. I think everyone’s heart is like a garden—it just needs a little sunlight and patience to bloom. I’m plucky, optimistic, and maybe a tiny bit naïve, but I’d rather believe in the good than give up on it. I’m scared of being alone. Not in the forest—I love solitude with the trees—but alone in the heart. I dream of finding someone who sees the world like I do: full of wonder, magic, and possibility. I want to share my joy, my spells, my squirrel friends… she glances at the squirrel, who chitters proudly …with someone who’ll laugh with me under the stars. My skills? Oh! I can summon a whole herd of elk to carry you across a valley, or call a water elemental to help irrigate a dry grove. I once summoned a fey fox who taught me how to speak in riddles! I’m also quite good at herbalism, singing to plants to help them grow, and convincing grumpy badgers to share their burrows. I love singing, dancing, storytelling, and making flower crowns for everyone I meet. I adore thunderstorms, frogs, and the smell of pine needles. I dislike cruelty, cages, and people who say magic should be “controlled.” Magic should be celebrated! She spins again, arms wide, voice full of hope. So if you ever need a friend, a forest guide, or someone to summon a swarm of glittering pixies to cheer you up—I’m your elf. Just whistle, and I’ll come running. Or skipping. Or riding a giant raccoon. Depends on the day!]

38. #38Nyalah Nepeta - Wildshape Druidselective

    Keys: Nyalah

    [She leans against a tree, arms crossed, tail flicking in slow, deliberate arcs. Her voice is low, rough around the edges, like gravel softened by rain. Name’s Nyalah Nepeta, I’m thirty-five, though I stopped counting after the fire took my grove and the man I loved with it. Eyes narrow, jaw clenches. That was five winters ago. I’ve been burned out since—literally and otherwise. I’m beast folk, yeah. Cat-type. But don’t expect purring and cuddles. My ears are tufted, sharp, always twitching at the wrong damn moment. My tail’s long, black, and expressive as hell—betrays me more than I’d like. The rest? All attitude. I move like I own the ground I walk on, and I fight like I’ve got something to prove. Because I do. I’m short, curvy, scarred. Got a slash across my cheek from a bear I didn’t back down from, and a burn on my shoulder from the night I lost everything. My hair’s a mess of dark curls I tie back with leather cord, and my eyes are amber—feral, tired, and too honest. I wear layered leathers, stitched with bark and bone, dyed in deep greens and stormy grays. My cloak’s made from the pelt of a dire wolf I bested in my youth. I keep it close. Like a memory. Like armor. She shifts her weight, gaze flicking away for a moment. I treat people like territory. You’re either inside the circle or you’re not. If you are, I’ll fight for you, bleed for you, shift into something monstrous to keep you safe. If you’re not… well, don’t test me. I don’t do small talk. I don’t do games. But I do loyalty. Fiercely. I’m scared to love again. Tail curls tight around her leg. Desperate for it, too. I miss the warmth, the quiet moments, the way he used to laugh like he didn’t care who heard. I want that again. But I don’t trust easy. And I don’t heal fast. I specialize in Wild Shape—I shift into beasts like breathing. Panther, bear, hawk, serpent… whatever the moment calls for. I’ve held forms longer than most druids dare. I’ve hunted in silence, stalked prey through fog, fought tooth and claw when spells failed. I know the wild like I know my own scars. I like solitude, the smell of pine, the weight of a blade I forged myself, and the sound of rain on canvas. I like people who speak plain and don’t flinch when I growl. I like firelight and whiskey and the rare nights I sleep without dreaming. I hate liars. I hate pity. I hate cities, crowds, and the way some folks look at me like I’m half-tame. I hate being touched without warning. And I hate how much I still ache for someone who’s gone. She steps forward, voice soft but steady. I’m not easy. I’m not gentle. But if you earn me… a flicker of warmth in her eyes …I’ll be yours like the moon is to the tide. Relentless. Wild. And always coming back.]

39. #39Isolde Merrow - Necromancerselective

    Keys: Isolde

    [Fingers trail along the rim of my goblet, absently stirring the wine as if it might whisper secrets back. I’m Isolde Merrow, twenty-eight, though I feel older in the quiet places of my heart. I’m a necromancer — yes, the kind with bone charms and shadowed books, but not the kind who’s forgotten how to love. Quite the opposite, really. I study death because I fear it. Not the dying, exactly — but the leaving. The losing. The silence after someone’s gone and you realize you never said the right thing. Eyes flick up, soft and searching. That’s what I’m trying to stop. Or… slow. Or soften. I suppose I’m what people call “striking,” though I never know what to do with that word. My hair’s a deep auburn, long enough to braid but usually left loose, like I’m waiting for someone to brush it back. My eyes are a dusky violet — not enchanted, just… unusual. My skin’s pale, not from lack of health, but from too many candlelit nights spent reading things no one else dares to. And my figure? A nervous laugh escapes, fingers brushing the curve of my waist as if surprised it’s still there. I’ve been told it’s… generous. I don’t notice until someone stares too long and I forget how to breathe. I’m flirty when I’m nervous — which is often. A wink here, a teasing word there, all to hide the fact that I’m terrified you’ll see through me. I’m solemn when I’m alone, and self-conscious when I’m not. I crave connection but second-guess every word I offer. Still, I treat others gently. I remember birthdays, favorite flowers, the way someone’s voice changes when they lie. I give affection like it’s a spell — carefully, deliberately, hoping it lands true. My greatest fear is being left behind. That someone I love will vanish, and I’ll be too late to stop it. My greatest desire? To preserve what matters. To hold onto beauty, love, laughter — even if it means binding it in bone and memory. I want to be remembered. Not for power, but for tenderness. Adjusts the lace cuff of my sleeve, revealing a bracelet of tiny silver skulls — delicate, not grim. I wear long gowns in shades of wine, ash, and midnight — velvet, silk, anything that moves like smoke. My corsets are tight enough to remind me I’m alive, and my boots are soft-soled for quiet entrances. I favor jewelry that tells stories — lockets with portraits, rings with hidden compartments, charms etched with names I whisper when no one’s listening. I’m skilled in necromantic arts — raising the dead, speaking with spirits, preserving the soul’s echo in objects. But I’m not cruel. I don’t summon things to torment or control. I summon to remember. I can cast devastating spells — necrotic blasts that unravel flesh, curses that linger like grief — but I do so only when I must. My true talent lies in weaving emotion into magic, binding memory into ritual, making death… bearable. I like moonlit gardens, the scent of old books, the warmth of a hand held too long, poetry read aloud, the hush before a kiss, the flicker of candlelight on bare skin, and the sound of someone saying my name like it matters. I dislike sudden goodbyes, cold rooms, cruelty disguised as pragmatism, being watched without kindness, loud laughter that feels hollow, and the way people flinch when I say what I am. Leans in, voice low, eyes gleaming like dusk on water. I put the romance in necromancer, darling. I don’t fear death because it’s dark — I fear it because it ends things too soon. And I… I’m not ready to let go.]

40. #40selective

    Keys: [Level Trigger]

    (The next level is {{random:A1,A2,A3,A4,A5,A6,A7,A8,A9,A0,B1,B2,B3,B4,B5,B6,B7,B8,B9,B0,C1,C2,C3,C4,C5,C6,C7,C8,C9,C0,D1,D2,D3,D4,D5,D6,D7,D8,D9,D0,E1,E2,E3,E4,E5,E6,E7,E8,E9.E0}})

41. #41selective

    Keys: C2

    Title: The Enemy of my Enemy Enemies: A tribe of goblinoids, a tribe of lizardmen, and a tribe of rat men all battle each other for control of this floor. Boss: A Nalfeshnee is manipulating the tribes to fight with his magic, enjoying the chaos and death he creates. Environment: Series of caves dotted with crude fortifications and the remains of past tribal attacks. Treasure: Each tribe has 1/3rd of a staff of power, which, when combined, allows a spellcaster to greatly empower their spells. Traps: Many crude traps, but the rat men have gas mines and lightning bolt traps in their domain. Notes: Each tribe has a leader. A bugbear for the goblinoids, a crocodile hybrid lizard man chief, and a rat man priest to their god of decay.

42. #42selective

    Keys: C3

    Title: Oh, Honey Enemies: Giant Bees, Drones, Soldiers, and Elite Males that guard the queen in her chamber. Boss: Queen Bee who can cast druid spells Environment: Massive hive Treasure: Royal Jelly heals wounds like a healing potion. Enough for 20 doses. Traps: None Notes: The bees all have human arms and legs, and their larva look like fetuses with bee heads.

43. #43selective

    Keys: C4

    Title: Somewhere Under the Dungeon Enemies: Flying ape men above the water, drowned zombies beneath. Boss: A green hag who lives in the tower with her flying ape minions Environment: An underwater lake dotted with islands and a large tower in the center. Treasure: The hag has a crystal ball fit for scrying. On an abandoned island in the lake are a pair of ruby slippers that allow one character to teleport outside the dungeon. Traps: None Notes: The Hag melts if she touches water.

44. #44selective

    Keys: C5

    Title: Out of the Frying Pan Enemies: Fire Giants, Fire elementals, Salamanders, young red dragons. Boss: Kary a fire infused Marilith with two dozen arms and a snake tail instead of legs. Environment: A volcanic rock and glass cave structure, dotted with pits of lava. Hot and the air is bad quality. Treasure: A pair of magical Scimitars, one deals ice damage, the other fire. Kary wields them. Traps: Occasional burst lava bubbles from the pits shower everyone nearby. Notes: Metal armor is too uncomfortable to wear here without magical assistance.

45. #45selective

    Keys: C6

    Title: The Engine Enemies: Automaton guards with four spider legs, a shield and a spear in hand. They can fire small beams of light from the tip of their spear. Boss: A clockwork choir of a dozen angels with bellows that power their flight as well as their song. Each is armed with a longsword. One of the angels has sheet music. Environment: The inside of a clockwork mechanism that seemingly drives other sections of the dungeon, it's source of power coming from another level. Treasure: The sheet music, if sung correctly, will make any automated defenses in the dungeon ignore you, including automatons. The angel's swords are all holy weapons. Traps: Sections of this floor reshape themselves in real time. Notes: Guards are aggressive. Damaging the mechanics summons more guards. Small worker drones are common, fixing, repairing and constructing new sections.

46. #46selective

    Keys: C7

    Title: Paint it Black Enemies: Shades and shadow creatures Boss: A giant of pure light, a prisoner here, driven mad by the darkness. Environment: Impossibly black rock cavern and tunnels, oozing with pitch black liquid. Light doesn't reflect off surfaces here. Darkness. Treasure: The giant of light drops luminous armor, a bright suit of magically protective plate mail that weights almost nothing. Traps: Open pit traps that are easy to miss in the darkness. Notes: Magical light spells and effects do not function on this floor. Natural light sources are half as effective.

47. #47selective

    Keys: C8

    Title: Cocoon Enemies: Fleshcrafters: Centipede human hybrids with the bottom half of their bodies replaced with a massive centipede's back half. They have paralyzing pinchers on the end of their tails as well as silk spinnerets that can shoot and spray a slow-acting paralyzing silk. Boss: A large cocoon containing a Storm Giant/Blue Dragon hybrid monstrosity that bursts forth when the party arrives in its chamber. Environment: Silk lined stone hallways. Warm and moist. Treasure: In the boss chamber is a barely struggling cocoon on the wall by the safe room door. It contains {{random:Celine,Margot,Sapphire,Rachel,Eris,Keira,Sera,Lexa,Isolde,Talia,Maribelle,Cassia,Daphne,Fiora,Nyalah}} who is screaming for help behind the thick muffling effect of the cocoon she is trapped in with a large centipede, manaless, another victim of the dungeon's curse. She is mostly unharmed, other than lacking mana and the means to regenerate it herself. The centipede is dormant, but will attack if it is attacked or if the cocoon is somehow cut open. Traps: Some cocoons contain strange monster hybrids that jump out and attack if touched or attacked. Notes: The Fleshcrafters can merge two types of creatures together when cocooned together. The process takes a week. They've only perfected making more of themselves, other hybrids have varying results.

48. #48selective

    Keys: C9

    Title: The Gold Room Enemies: None Boss: None Environment: A gold plated chamber with a pile of coins and an open treasure chest glowing from within with golden light. Treasure: 500 gold coins and a golden longbow "The Bow of Apollo" It fires seeking arrows of sunlight that never miss their target. Traps: None Notes: A treasure room.

49. #49selective

    Keys: C0

    Title: What are ya buyin? Enemies: None Boss: None Environment: A ramshackle shop made of discard materials in a swampy sewer. The shopkeeper is a filthy and disfigured looking human weary ratty robes and has a half covered face. He has a large number of items of for sale, and is willing to buy, sell, and trade. Treasure: 10 healing potions for 2 gold apiece. Scrolls for 5 gold apiece, he has Web, Scorching Ray, Dimension Door, Bless, Sanctuary, Summon Nature's Ally, Flaming Sphere, wall of ice, and lightning bolt. He has a Staff of Lighting for 100 gold or for trade. He has a magically silenced mithril chain shirt for 250 gold or for trade. The armor offers superior protection at no chance of spell failure and it is light as a feather and just as quiet. His last item is "Götterdämmerung" a two handed greathammer artifact weapon with etchings on it's adamantine surface depicting several gods weeping. It's power and strength is obvious: At the height of his madness Yargxag created this weapon to challenge the divine realms. It is priced at 500 gold or for trade. Traps: The shopkeeper, his shop and all his wares disappear if anyone tries to steal an item or harm him. Notes: The shopkeeper is a ruthless but fair appraiser and will always offer a fair value for his trades. He accepts flesh as well as coin.

50. #50selective

    Keys: D1

    Title: Castle in the Sky Enemies: Air elementals, Wind drakes, Arrowhawks, Birdmen monk initiates. Boss: Four powerful Birdmen monks, each dedicated to a spirit of the four winds with their own unique magical martial art style. They are sworn to protect the level exit with their lives. Environment: The floor and ceiling are expansive portals to the Plane of Air. Floating between are various islands hovering in the air connected by rope bridges. The largest island is the last in the chain and holds up a large eastern-styled castle fortress, guarded by Birdmen monks. Treasure: The four monks guard a relic known as "The Ring of the Four Winds." It allows the bearer to attack at range with their melee attacks up to 100 feet in the form of sudden gusts of concussive force that strike the victim. Traps: Some of the bridges are rickety or missing footholds in places. Notes: To fall into the Plane of Air is to fall forever.

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