Wheel of Time RPG

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass. What was becomes legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again.

This is the Third Age.

The White Tower watches from Tar Valon. The Borderlands stand beneath the shadow of the Blight. The Aiel roam the Waste. Merchants cross the nations, nobles scheme behind silk and stone, and in countless villages ordinary people live their ordinary lives—unaware of the currents beginning to stir beneath the Pattern.

Somewhere in this vast world, your story is about to begin.

First, tell me who you are.

Name: Appearance: Age: Origin / Background: Two Rivers farmer, Tar Valon initiate, Borderlander, Cairhienin noble, Aiel, Illianer merchant, wandering gleeman, village Wisdom, Malkieri exile—or anything else you can imagine.

Affiliation / Allegiance: White Tower, Kin, Aiel, Borderlands, a noble house, military, merchant guild, no allegiance—or something far less respectable.

Skills & Abilities: Channeling, swordsmanship, archery, Healing, Dreamwalking, Wolfbrother abilities, music, political influence, craftsmanship, survival skills, or simply an ordinary talent for getting into extraordinary trouble.

Starting Location: Tar Valon. Caemlyn. The Borderlands. The Two Rivers. The Aiel Waste. A village you've invented. A road somewhere between nations. Or anywhere else in the world.

Starting Scenario: Choose one of the suggested beginnings, describe your own, or simply tell me the kind of story you want to experience.

Perhaps you arrive in Baerlon and discover that someone has been following you.

Perhaps the White Tower has summoned you for reasons nobody will explain.

Perhaps something has crossed the Blight and reached a Borderland settlement.

Perhaps a journey has gone disastrously wrong, leaving you stranded somewhere you were never meant to be.

Perhaps a false Dragon has thrown a nation into turmoil, and you find yourself caught between those choosing sides.

Perhaps you are a channeler who has spent years hiding your ability—and someone has finally found you.

Perhaps you carry the blood or memory of a fallen land and encounter someone who recognizes what you thought was forgotten.

Or perhaps nothing extraordinary is happening at all.

The Pattern has no shortage of threads.

Give me your character and starting point. The rest belongs to the Wheel.

A Stranger in Baerlon

Rain has turned the streets of Baerlon into ribbons of mud.

The town is unusually crowded tonight. Merchants from the west are competing for space with farmers, peddlers, travelers, and armed men who look rather too interested in what comes through the gates.

You have been in Baerlon for less than a day when you notice something strange.

A man is following you.

Not particularly well. Whoever he is, he is making little effort to conceal himself. A dark cloak, a broad-brimmed hat, and the deliberate pace of someone trying very hard to appear as though he isn't following anyone at all.

When you stop, he stops.

When you enter an inn, he waits outside.

And when you finally turn around to confront him, he is gone.

In his place, lying on the wet cobblestones, is a small scrap of parchment.

There are only three words written upon it:

DO NOT GO NORTH.

Thunder rolls somewhere beyond the western hills.

And despite yourself, you find your eyes drifting toward the road leading north.

The Tower's Invitation

Tar Valon rises before you like something from a dream.

The bridges are crowded, the streets filled with merchants and travelers from half the world. Above everything stands the White Tower, its pale walls catching the afternoon sun.

You had expected to be nervous. You had not expected to be summoned.

An Accepted—or perhaps merely a servant, judging by the dress—approaches you shortly after you enter the city and quietly informs you that an Aes Sedai wishes to speak with you. She refuses to explain why.

You are led through corridors of polished stone and finally into a small chamber overlooking one of the Tower's inner gardens.

Three women are waiting. One wears Green. Another wears Brown. The third wears no visible Ajah colors. None of them introduces herself.

The Green studies you with open suspicion. The Brown appears more interested in the book lying open before her. The third simply watches.

At last, she speaks.

"We have reason to believe that someone has been searching for you."

A pause.

"We would like to know why."

Beneath the Shadow of the Blight

The wind coming from the north smells wrong.

Even here, dozens of miles south of the Blight, you can smell it when the wind shifts: something rotten beneath the familiar scents of pine, snow, and cold earth.

You are in a small Borderland settlement when the alarm bells begin.

Once. Twice. Then continuously. People spill into the streets. Soldiers are already moving toward the northern gate. Nobody has to tell you what that means.

Something has crossed the border.

The settlement's commander appears on the wall moments later, staring toward the tree line. "Shadowspawn," someone whispers. Then another soldier shouts. There is movement among the trees. Too large to be a man. Too fast to be a bear.

And there is more than one.

The gates begin to close.

You have only moments to decide whether you are going to seek shelter, help defend the settlement, investigate what has come out of the Blight—or leave while there is still a road behind you.

A Journey Gone Wrong

The wagon should have reached Whitebridge yesterday. Instead, you are standing beside it in the middle of nowhere, watching smoke rise from the overturned remains.

The attack happened shortly before dawn. Bandits, according to the surviving merchants. At least, that is what they claim.

There are no bodies. No blood. No tracks leading away from the wreckage. And one of the merchants is missing. Your own belongings are scattered across the road, but apparently untouched.

Then you notice something else.

The horses are terrified. Not frightened. Terrified.

They refuse to go anywhere near the forest.

As you gather your possessions, you hear something from between the trees: awoman's voice calling your name.

You have never been here before. At least, you don't think you have.

The False Dragon

The proclamation was nailed to every gate in the city by sunrise: A MAN CLAIMING TO BE THE DRAGON HAS DECLARED HIMSELF IN THE SOUTH.

The streets have been talking about little else since. Some people are frightened. Some are fascinated. Some insist the entire thing is an Aes Sedai lie. Others have already begun choosing sides.

You happen to be in the wrong tavern when the argument turns violent. A merchant reaches for a knife. A soldier draws his sword. Someone screams that there is a channeler in the room.

Then every candle goes out simultaneously. For several heartbeats there is nothing but darkness. When the lights return, the merchant is dead. And sitting calmly at your table is a stranger you have never seen before.

He leans toward you.

"You should leave this city tonight."

His eyes flick toward the corpse.

"Unless, of course, you want to find out why he was killed."

The Kin's Secret

You have spent years learning to hide what you can do. Not because you cannot Channel, but because you can. You learned early that some people fear what they do not understand, and others become interested for entirely different reasons.

So you have lived quietly. Moved when necessary. Never demonstrated too much. Never stayed anywhere long enough for questions to become dangerous.

It worked.

Until tonight.

You are sitting alone in an inn when an elderly woman takes the seat opposite you. She does not introduce herself. Instead, she places a cup of tea on the table.

"You have been hiding for a long time," she says.

Your first instinct is to deny it. But then she smiles.

"You needn't worry. If the White Tower wanted you, I suspect you would already know."

She pauses.

"We are not Aes Sedai."

Outside, rain begins tapping against the windows.

"And we would like to offer you a choice."

The Last Malkieri

You still remember the old stories. The Seven Towers. The Thousand Lakes. The Golden Crane.

Malkier.

Dead now. Or so most people say.

You have never accepted that. Not completely.

You are traveling through a Borderland town when you hear someone singing an old song in a crowded tavern. A Malkieri song. One your family stopped singing generations ago. You turn toward the voice. The singer is an old man with a weathered face and a sword at his hip.

He catches your eye. The song stops. For several seconds, neither of you speaks. Then the old man looks directly at the mark, pendant, weapon, scar—or other token that connects you to your heritage.

His expression changes.

"You."

He slowly rises.

"I thought your family was dead."

A Quiet Beginning

Nothing extraordinary happens today. That may be the most extraordinary thing about it. You wake before sunrise. The village is quiet.

Smoke rises from chimneys. Somewhere nearby, a rooster is making a terrible attempt at announcing the morning. Beyond the houses, fields disappear into pale mist.

There are no Trollocs. No Aes Sedai. No armies. No prophecies. No mysterious strangers waiting outside your door.

Just another day.

You have work to do. Perhaps you have a family. Perhaps you have debts. Perhaps you are planning to leave. Perhaps you are perfectly content with the life you have.

The Wheel does not care.

At least, not yet.

By sunset, however, a rider will arrive in the village carrying news from the nearest city. And whether you involve yourself or not, something has already begun to change.

For now, though, the morning is yours.