Vale
— County of Broken Keeps —The seat of the old confederation. Now its towers list at the angles of fallen knights. Wolves rule the high passes; pilgrims walk only at noon.
A gazetteer of the realm Dicebound is set in — its broken kingdoms, its surviving heroes, the things that wait beneath. Read at your own risk. The dungeons read back.
The seat of the old confederation. Now its towers list at the angles of fallen knights. Wolves rule the high passes; pilgrims walk only at noon.
A mountain that is more vault than peak. The seal cracked here in the first winter of the new age. The dead wear the names of the living.
Burned in the second war and never replanted. The fields glow at night. Witches come here to listen for what the soil remembers.
The smiths who quenched their iron in the river still work the bellows. Their orders come on parchment older than any of them. They do not stop.
Sunk in the third reckoning. Bell-towers still chime the hours from beneath the lake. Fishermen do not row here. The fish row themselves.
The trade highway that held the old realm together. Now it is a single road of mile-markers carved with the names of the dead. Walk it carefully.
Once the holiest county in the realm. Now its bells toll only at random. Brother Aldwyn's home; he does not speak of it kindly.
A wall of thornwood five centuries grown. It is not clear which side is meant to be kept out. The hedge is patient. The hedge has time.
There were nine counties. There are nine counties. Yet the maps mark a tenth seal, a twelfth vow, a number missing from every census. Reroll required.
“I traded my name for the spell. I would not trade it back.”
Born in Ash Reach, the second of seven daughters in a line of cunning women whose names the church has been crossing out for three hundred years. She does not remember her birth-name. The hex took it as collateral, and the hex collects.
She fights from the back rank, throwing crimson threads of curse that mark the foe and stack until the body forgets how to be a body. Her affliction is Curse-Bound — the more enemies she hexes, the more of her own blood the spells require.
3d6 magic2d4 + Curse5d8 magic“I missed a shot once. Six years and four hundred miles ago. I do not intend to miss the second.”
Twelve years the Earl's huntress, three of them spent before she ever drew on a man. The county knew her for venison and clean shots; it knows her now for a single missed arrow she keeps in the back of her quiver, fletching half-eaten by the beech that caught it.
Long-rank skirmisher. Trades volume for distance — every shot that hits at extreme range stacks Mark on the target, and a Marked foe cannot break line of sight from her without taking the arrow she has been carrying.
2d8 + DEXStack · 1–412d8“I do not know what the spell will be until it is already happening. I am sorry. I am very sorry. I am trying.”
Pulled out of the Suncairn high pasture two months ago and read the prophecy of the Last Vow on the cathedral steps in front of seven hundred witnesses, none of whom he knew. He still asks after the goats. The temple does not know what happened to the goats.
Mid-rank caster, wildly off-rota. His spells roll twice on the surge table — once for shape, once for cost — and the cost is sometimes paid by the wrong person in the room. When the dice favour him, the floor opens. When they do not, he apologises.
Roll 2d201d6 healing · Self8d10 mixed“I swore an oath to a dead king. I keep it anyway. The dead are the only ones who do not move the goalposts.”
Captain of the Vale Wardens until the night the seal cracked. He stood the gate alone for three hours. He does not remember those three hours. The chronicle remembers them in his place; he carries the page in his shield.
Front rank, heavy steel, slow as a vow. He cannot dodge — but the page in his shield grants him a single reroll against any blow that would otherwise kill him. The page is not infinite.
0 dmg · Reaction2d8 + STR1 reroll“My god has gone silent. I am very loud. The chapel is empty. I sing anyway.”
The last cleric in good standing of the Greychapel order. He prays out of habit, heals out of stubbornness, and curses out of grief.
Mid-rank support. His healing rolls suffer because the channel is uncertain — but every successful heal stacks Faith, which on a d20 of 20 returns the channel for one perfect, terrible round.
2d6 healing3d6 radiantOnce“I do not steal. I relocate the inheritance of the dead. The dead do not need eight golden teeth. I do.”
Raised in the alleys behind the Hollowmarsh Customs House, Quill learned three trades — picking pockets, picking locks, and picking the right moment. The third is the one that keeps her alive.
Mid-rank skirmisher. Trades raw damage for positioning, lockpicking, and the singular ability to convert any failed roll into a successful steal — provided there's a corpse, a chest, or a careless pocket within reach.
3d4 + DEX1d20 + DEX vs DCReactionA chorus of skeletons whose song stacks the curse die. Easy to break. Loud as they break.
Marrow that has remembered shape. Ignore the shape. Strike the femur.
Not a creature. A flower. It rolls a d20 each turn. On a 20 it is no longer a flower.
A bell that drags itself by its rope. Each toll deals psychic damage to all within hearing.
Thornhalt's children. They count steps. If you take more than seven without rolling, they catch up.
Eats your spellbook one prayer at a time. Leaves the cover. Always leaves the cover.
A drowned knight risen from Drown. The water still inside its helm forms its responses to things you say.
An entity that lives between turns. It is what asks are you sure? when your dice come up wrong.
The Nine Counties wager their souls against the Old Gods on a single roll. The kings claim it was a draw. The dice are sealed beneath Mount Hollow as collateral.
Brassmarch agrees to forge the seal-bands. The smiths sign on for ninety years. They are still working.
The third reckoning. The lake rises in a single night. The bells did not stop ringing for forty years.
The second war is fought entirely in Ash Reach. No fortress remains. The witches return.
The Greychapel order's god ceases to answer. Brother Aldwyn is born this year.
An unknown party — fool, hero, or both — breaks the seal beneath Mount Hollow. The dice begin to fall on their own.
The fellowship is gathered. The first floor is mapped. The dice are loose. The first roll is yours.