Forward

  A forward from the author!

  Real quick. I’ll be brief.

  Terria is a systemic world I built for play with a Dungeons and Dragons Fifth Edition rulebook.

  It is a world meant to capture both the complexities of a real place and the wonder of a fantasy tale. Worry not if that sounds daunting: this is the correct book to learn the basics of Terria.

  These books are not transcriptions of tabletop events. They are original prose.

  For this first book, let us have a session zero of sorts. Dungeon one will introduce our wizard and fighter, while dungeon two will show us our rogue and cleric. We will learn how Terria operates, and by the end, be perfectly positioned to bring everyone together for the Draconic Enlightenment.

  A final note: these first two dungeons were initially separate novellas. They have been combined for this first entry. Future books will move between dungeons with more fluidity.

  Dungeon 1 – Rooted in Fairyland

  Chapter 1 – Creative Bureaucracy

  Jezza

  A homecoming was cliché, yet, here the magister went.

  The acrid scent of sunned fish in the cooling late autumn air overpowered the smoky notes of burning coal along Porter’s Passage. The road, which led to the docks from Metalworks Square, brimmed with trade; bustled with people stocking up on saltfish and oil for the coming cold months. Hooded cloaks, now back in style, draped myriads of shoulders – longer ones, wider ones, some with slits for tails. Most of them were dyed vivid green, brown, and gold: the local colors of Woodpine City; however, some were of a surrounding lord’s or distant family’s colors. One cloak in particular, quite small indeed, flitted between groups of shoppers just below waist height; and most didn’t even see the fine gilded design etched into its intricate purple-blue dye pattern. Those that did notice likely weren’t familiar enough with academic tradition to know this design: it marked the gnome woman who wore it as a magister of Woodpine University.

  Magister Jezza Belle-Birdsong-Puddlegum, as the full chain went.

  Despite Jezza’s title, prestige, and doing nothing to hide her presence, she found herself needing to weave down the street giving wide berth to tallfolk who never noticed her. The gnome realized it had been some time since she’d done this leg-dodging routine. After settling into her professor’s life, she’d scarcely had reason to leave the sprawling campus she called home, where there would be too many arcanists following her with questions to go unnoticed between lectures. Still, semesters had to end, and whenever they did, she would find herself with five open weeks. At first, Jezza had been using them to further her independent research; but, at the fervent request of her colleague Rafflesia, she’d promised to spend this Yuletime break visiting her family, meaning: mom.

  That meant taking old man Brandybill’s ferry, as her rural hometown of Berr was tucked away in the Lacian Mountains, annoyingly far from any established teleportation circle. The kindly old halfling had been the one to first take Jezza from Berr to Woodpine back when she’d first been accepted as an arcanist; then again upon her graduation for a visit home. Jezza felt a pang of guilt while passing docks bustling with seamen and cargo – eleven years was a very long stretch without visiting in person, even if she had been writing back and forth to her mom the whole time. It was long enough that she’d had an entire adventuring career (and all the experience and damage that goes with it) since last she saw the simple folks from her childhood years.

  Jezza hoped she could manage seeing those people again.

  Entering the harbormaster’s building, Jezza waited behind other travelers until space cleared at the long counter inside. Approaching it, a young half-elf woman with purple hair on the other side gave her a disinterested glance, before returning her gaze to the middle distance.

  “Hello there,” Jezza greeted the woman warmly despite her nonchalance.

  Nothing. Not even a shrug.

  “I’m looking for passage on old Brandybill’s next ferry,” Jezza continued, reminded of how her general education lectures landed.

  “Who?” asked the woman, sounding as bored as she looked.

  “Gregor Brandybill,” Jezza said, “he runs a ferry from here to Berr, past the Lacians.” She pronounced the mountain range as latch-yuns.

  “The where?” the woman replied. “Never heard of any of that. Been here a whole year and never heard that.”

  Jezza bit her lip, stomach sinking. That wasn’t a good sign.

  “Can you go get someone that’s been here more than a year, then?” Jezza asked. She was rewarded with an eye roll, followed by the woman dramatically standing and motioning to another, older, harbor official with a pointed beard. Looking annoyed, he strode over in a hurry, though his expression softened and turned professional when he saw Jezza and her cloak.

  “How may I help you today, magister?” he asked. That’s kind of nice, Jezza preened, unaccustomed to hearing her title off campus.

  “I’m looking for the ferry past the Lacians,” she repeated, “has old Brandybill been around?”

  “Apologies,” his disappointed face told the whole story. “Gregor stopped running it a little over a year ago. We don’t have a ferry running past the Lacians anymore.”

  “What?” Jezza felt queasy. The rumblings of a logistics problem loomed. “Why not hire another captain?”

  “So, we weren’t paying Gregor,” the harbormaster replied. “I don’t know if you know, but that whole side of the Lacians is not a common destination, and that ferry was his second home. Once a month, maybe, he’d have a passenger; rest of the time he was just floating himself back and forth. Giving his wife space, I think he said once.”

  “Yeah, that – that makes sense,” Jezza trailed off, realizing no other ferry she’d taken since had been so empty. “Okay, how about a cargo ship?”

  The harbormaster shook his head and said: “it has to slip through some river narrows to get to sea; you need a skiff or sloop.”

  “Right,” Jezza smiled, “I’d like to charter a skiff, then!”

  “Alright,” said the harbormaster, “I’ll need the name of your captain and their ship.”

  “Er,” she immediately felt out of her depth, “is there like a list?”

  The harbormaster couldn’t hide a grin, saying: “that’s not how this works, you’re arranging private transportation. You’ll have to find someone willing first.”

  “Alright, thanks,” Jezza said, defeated. She tried to avoid her usual characteristic sulk when faced with dead ends, but it must have shown – the harbormaster apologized while she shuffled back out toward the docks. Returned to the open air, Jezza gathered her thoughts.

  How silly, she thought, you should have anticipated that. Now what?

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Jezza’s adventuring instinct, rusty but not dormant, supplied her with an answer: tavern time.

  The sulk left her shoulders, and she once again flittered through crowds, this time in search of the most populated riverside taverns. It didn’t take long to find an alehouse by the docks, brimming with sailors and dockworkers rousing each other over lunch. Jezza paused for a moment; eyes fixed on the rough-and-tumble crowd inside and out. A few of them were the type to call out crudely to passersby. It was perfect.

  Her face hardened subtly. Her eyes grew cold and strong. Her movements became deliberate. Jezza sank herself into memories of hard travel and bitter fights. By the time she reached the door, she was no kind teacher, but fully again the image of a skilled wizard not to be trifled with. It showed, and she knew it showed, as the rough sailors she passed skipped their heckling on her in lieu of distrustful side-eye. She’d long learned the value of appearing dangerous at times; though, it wasn’t mere play-act. Catching fireballs hurt.

  Hopefully, she thought, enough to not get laughed out of here.

  Jezza strode inside, taking instant stock of the clientele. Several dozen burly, tanned commonfolk in various states of inebriation looked her way at once. Moving with purpose, avoiding sheepish gesture, she fixed her gaze on the raised bar at the far end along with its one-eyed elven bartender. There were grumblings on the way to an open stool, but her icy projection must have worked: otherwise, someone would have firmly told her where to find a scholar’s joint. Once she clambered onto the taller stool, the elf behind the bar gave her an unfriendly look.

  “What’s a magister want here?” He barked.

  “Information,” Jezza replied.

  “This ain’t some kind of adventure bar, lady,” he groused. “I pour grog for piles of shit in sailor slacks.”

  “Fine,” Jezza maintained eye contact, plucking three gold coins from her purse – about four days’ pay for him, she calculated – and placed it on the bar-top. “Get me a glass of whatever wine you have and then tell me which piles of shit call themselves captains here.”

  The elf smirked with amusement. Palmed the coins into his pocket. Then said: “I’ll get your wine, princess; but for your other question – hey, which one of you lot is a cap’n!?”

  The bar erupted in chorus. Everyone shouted: “I’m a captain!”

  I’m a captain, it would seem, was how a certain shipper’s jig started, which everyone joined in on.

  Jezza got her wine, drinking in glowering silence in front of the smug-faced bartender, who clearly intended to tell her nothing. Yeah, she told herself, that’s about a three-gold mistake. I’ve had worse. The singing did give her time to examine the crowd, trying to determine for herself who could help her. Most of these folks were dockworkers, she realized – their uniforms were supplied by the city union. The sailing crews stood out, wearing styles from out-of-town or in some cases wearing little at all. Spirits did seem high from the catchy jig, which made the lone wolf-folk woman seated sullen in the corner look all the more out of place.

  Beastfolk tended to be tall, and the woman was no exception – six feet of lean muscle and chestnut fur armored in a tarnished and abused breastplate. Her darker brown head-hair lay matted down to her back, hiding the only colorful piece of clothing she wore: a red scarf around her neck, bundled into her breastplate. A brown tail, severed near the base (uncleanly – likely in combat), curled aside her heavy greaves. The wolf’s eyes, a predatory gold, betrayed a distant sadness; though, Jezza thought she might have seen the woman glancing her way for a fraction of a second.

  Recognition – Jezza realized she’d seen this woman before. It’d been years, but this was definitely the wolf-folk with her during an investigation into a desert ruin. She was an adventurer, and a damn good one. She had a name, Jezza tapped her temple, that’s – Djanara. Now the recognition was painted on Djanara’s face as well, except she immediately sighed and glanced away. The universal language of wanting to be left alone.

  Oh, too bad, Jezza thought, cradling her wine on the way to Djanara’s table. I’m coming over there. Djanara muttered an unheard curse as Jezza approached, sighed, and finally met eyes with her fully.

  “Do I know you?” Djanara grumbled with a deep, raspy voice; easy to hear over the second verse of I’m a captain.

  “You do,” Jezza was matter-of-fact, “The D’janarae desert. That pyramid with the prewar artifact in it?”

  “Hm,” Djanara grunted. She then tapped the edge of her beer mug. “Weren’t you the one that we had to cut out of the salamander’s stomach?”

  “No,” Jezza blanched, “you’re thinking of that halfling ranger that was with us. I was the one who cleared that scarab swarm.”

  “Oh, right,” Djanara said. Her voice was plain, but Jezza saw a few things happening in Djanara’s eyes. The first of which was renewed recognition, followed by a mild amount of respect. “Jezza, was it?”

  “That’s right, and you’re Djanara,” Jezza smiled, letting her guard fully drop. “I’m impressed you remember me after all that time!”

  “You were decent,” Djanara shrugged. “Better than the one who got eaten, at least.”

  Jezza briefly thought about pointing out how much skill Djanara had shown but concluded the warrior likely wouldn’t care about compliments. Instead, she tried getting her more engaged: “how have your adventures been?”

  “Adventures?” Djanara made a mix of chuckle and scoff. “I guess you could call cargo running an adventure, sure.”

  “Cargo running?” Jezza frowned. “Did something happen? How is that beating out adventuring guild work?”

  “By – beating out adventuring guild work,” Djanara stated. “Ships always need hands, meanwhile I can get on an adventuring gig twice a year if I’m lucky.”

  “What?” Jezza was confused. There were always adventure postings as the need for skillful people willing to risk their lives tended to outweigh the supply. Even making a career out of simple resource gathering missions would be kind to the coin purse. Unless: “did you never get your Guilder’s Certification?”

  “Nah,” Djanara shrugged. “The one time I was offered to go on a certifiable adventure, the whole thing turned out to be a bunk scheme by some pirates to get my ship. Which succeeded.”

  “Fuckers,” Jezza swore – not just empathy, but genuine disdain for the situation. It must’ve come out strong, Djanara smirked in response. The Guilder’s Certification was meant to be a small speed bump for new adventurers. Without one, an adventurer couldn’t officially join the more lucrative and difficult operations undertaken by the guilds. Jezza had gotten hers before even graduating as part of Woodpine’s initiative to produce more adventuring wizards. It made her angry to hear Djanara’s trouble with it.

  “Guess you’re having a better time of it,” Djanara said. “Handing out gold?”

  “Hey, that was a lot for me too,” Jezza countered, “I’m not adventuring anymore either. I’m a lecturing magister now.”

  “Well then,” Djanara grunted, “as two former adventurers, it was nice catching up. Glad you aren’t dead. Bye now.”

  “Now hold on,” Jezza began to speak, but paused to drain the rest of her wine, as the angry look she got stalled her confidence.

  “What?” Djanara glared at her. Feeling just bold enough from the liquid courage, Jezza held her ground.

  “You said you lost your ship,” Jezza asked, “so how are you getting yourself around?”

  “The longboat,” Djanara said, “off of my old Lady. It’s how I escaped once they took it. The Li’l Lady O’Sorrow.”

  “Is that like a skiff or sloop?” Jezza asked. Djanara stared at her. Ah yeah, total landlubber question, Jezza thought.

  “Yes,” came a weary answer.

  This was it. All the pieces were here. Just one last rhetorical push.

  “Well, I have a proposition then,” Jezza said, ready for the coming denial.

  “Think you can beat union rates?” Djanara grunted. “If three gold was a lot for you, nope.”

  “How about a Guilder’s Certificate?” Jezza asked. Djanara did not have an expressive face, but there was a small shift in her eyes. Jezza pressed: “certified adventurers – especially a magister like me – can initiate certifiable adventures. You’ll finally be able to earn your worth!”

  Djanara didn’t respond immediately. That was good. Jezza watched her think about it. That was great. As an educated gnome, it was all too easy to dismiss the earthlier types as vacant or stupid. The truth she’d found in her adventures was only some were this way. Brash, reactionary types who had no respect for her sagacious ways. But other “simple” folks, like Djanara, did have an internal world – just not one built from foundational theory. The warrior was likely evaluating Jezza for any sign of misdirection or dishonesty; as well as whether or not she would be any kind of decent party mate.

  After a long deliberation, Djanara finally sat her mug back on the table and asked: “Okay. Fine. What did you have in mind?”

  Victory. Time to roll down the hill.

  “I need passage to the far side of the Lacians,” Jezza explained, “I’m bound for Berr, but the overland route is impassable this time of year.”

  “Down the Crescent into the Spirean, all the way around Bavol?” Djanara looked unimpressed. “Other than the mud-floods, that’s piss. What’s the adventure in Berr?”

  “That’s it,” Jezza smiled. “The adventure is just getting me to Berr and back.”

  “And that’s,” Djanara furrowed her brow, “a certifiable adventure?”

  “With a bit of creative bureaucracy!” Jezza said, letting her elation show. “I’ll just run down to the guild hall to do the paperwork, and we should be good to set out before sundown!”

  Djanara was silent again for a long, long moment. Remembering the amount of martial discipline the wolf-folk displayed, Jezza guessed this was the moment she was deciding to fully commit to or fully reject her. The decision would be final. She didn’t know all the details, but it had seemed like Djanara felt some sense of responsibility for everyone’s safety in the pyramid. Most adventuring parties were a group of individuals, but that one had become closer to a unit by the time they disbanded – mostly thanks to Djanara’s commanding presence. It had to be more than captainship, Jezza decided, this unassuming shipper was probably some kind of soldier at some point.

  And if that’s true, she held a restrained smile, then you were paying attention to who had your back.

  “You’re lucky I saw how you work,” Djanara sighed. “Alright. Deal.”

  They wasted little time after that, Djanara showing Jezza where the longboat was moored. It was a simple sloop with tiller and sail, as well as a small living space below the deck. She then hurried herself to the adventuring guild. With some embellishments, she drafted the parameters of the “adventure,” and was soon on her way back to the docks, feeling a whole foot taller than she was. She’d solved her problem and was helping out someone deserving using nothing but her own wit – she wasn’t above pride.

  The magister hummed to herself while reapproaching the docks, having the first daydreams of home.