How to convert published adventures to Quill: White Box scenarios

The Quill: White Box book contains scenarios to get you well on your way to adventure, but there's more you can do once you've completed those. I want to talk about how to turn those published modules for other fantasy games into Quill letters.

Your objective is determined by the module

Do you have to free a village from a spellplague? Kill an undead giant? Whatever the objective is, this also feeds into your letter's objective. In most adventures you will have been hired by someone, so the idea is that you're relaying information back to them with your letters. Even if you're in the bowels of a dungeon, you're given a magical raven that delivers your letters. You need to tell them how far away you are from achieving your goal, theories you have about the dungeon/story and what has happened in that section.

Split the module into manageable sections

Most modules will be cut into parts, whether it's a wilderness section or new dungeon level. Take each logical part of the module and read through it. It doesn't matter if you know things you're not supposed to know, this will offer flavour and inspiration for your letters. If I have a dungeon, I'll split it by level. Or if it's a huge dungeon, I'll split into segments. The number of segments is important to determining your final score. You must have at least 5 sections in an adventure. The more sections, the more treasure, but also the more chance of dying.

Sections become your ink pots

For each section, create an ink pot of ten words using the words in that section. Nouns work well for this, particularly monster names, traps and items. Remember to have an inferior version of the word and superior version. So if I saw a beholder in one room, I might have eye monster/beholder as one word in the ink pot.

Score yourself after each section

So now we know a section is one letter. You will be scoring as you go, so score yourself after a section. The scores are:

5 or less: you have fallen afoul of something in the section. Lose either one item, or if you can't you perish.

6-9: you have scraped through and find 2d6gp

10+: you have told your tale of bravery well. Find 2d6gp x [section number]

Calculate your final score

If the majority of your scores were 5 or less, you have failed. Lose all items. If you cannot, you die.

If the majority of your scores were 6-9 or there was no majority, you have scraped through. Gain 1d6x[final section number] gp.

If the majority of your scores are 10+, you have had great success. Gain 3d6x[final section number]gp.

Quill: White Box - Warlock

A magic-user who pulls magic not from dusty tomes and yellowed scrolls, but from a pact made with the hellgods themselves is known as a Warlock. They wield a primal power, but walk a fine line between sanity and lunacy.

Warlocks in Quill: White Box are temperamental and often quite mad. They know that once their time has come their soul will be bound to the demon they made an agreement with, so they make every word count.

Penmanship: Poor
Language: Average
Heart: Good

Class Ability

Demonic Pact: At the beginning of the letter you may choose one attribute and roll two  dice. The highest result you roll is the automatic result for any test using that attribute in this letter. This cannot be re-rolled.

Brunnar the Mighty: Chapter II

When Brunnar opened his eyes he twisted and violently coughed up water onto the snow. He heard a familiar voice and felt a hand on his shoulder. Standing over him the blurry vision of Jotun came into view, who smiled, kissed the hammer-shaped talisman around his neck and thanked the gods. "It looks like the gods have seen fit to spare you, old friend," boomed Jotun, grinning. Brunnar sat up wearily and grasped his friend on the shoulder, laughing shakily. 
"I thought you had gone to the underworld," croaked Brunnar, his eyes gleaming at the sight of his comrade. "Should have known the underworld couldn't hold the likes of you." The two of them laughed, but the bitter wind wasn't letting up, so Jotun advised they find shelter for the night. It soon became clear that despite the experience the two broad-shouldered men had in the icy wilds, they couldn't be sure how far away their village was and how long it would take them to get there. 

Several hours had past in the blackest night Brunnar had experienced. The shivering wing hummed over the grey mountains which loomed to the west, a place that Brunnar knew to be the home of dread spirits in waiting for flesh. He prayed to Kaleetha, goddess of good fortune, that both he and his companion return safely to the village where his beautiful wife Freja would be waiting with open arms and soft lips. A nerve-shattering howl rang out in the dark and Jotun stopped dead in his tracks. "Wolves are abroad this night," he said in a hushed voice. Brunnar felt his back and realised with relief that his axe was still firmly strapped on. Through the cold and aching he had not noticed the weight of Northwind but he was glad to have it. 
"Then we shall have furs to keep us warm," said Brunnar with a grin. They continued their journey, though they knew not where they were going save for Jotun occasionally pointing out the brightest star in the sky. Soon the oppressive mountains were at their backs as Jotun guided the two of them further into the wasteland. 

A roar echoed in the darkness. Three hulking wolves crept out of the shadows, their backs hunched menacingly and rows of jagged teeth on full display. They were gargantuan beasts, twice the size of a normal wolf. "Doomwolves," whispered Jotun. He drew his blade though he feared that he could see little in the darkness. Brunner unlatched Northwind from his back and grasped the hand tightly. The wolves snapped their jaws and rumbled, closing ever in on the warriors. One leaped at Brunnar like a lightening flash, but his axe connected with its skull, throwing viscera onto the crisp snow. The wolf went limp, half of its head missing. "Come on then you dogs," cried Brunnar, "Come and greet the mighty Northwind." In the space of a heartbeat a second wolf pounced at Jotun, knocking the blade from his hand and pinning him with its mighty paws. The beast gnashed at him in a fiery rage while Jotun struggled to keep its mouth away from his throat. Brunnar swung Northwind in a brutal arc, catching the wolf on its flank and wounding it severely. Before he could land the killing blow he felt himself being forced to the ground, turning to see the ferocious muzzle of the third monstrous wolf. He thrust his axe hilt into the creature's maw  to prevent it from biting and looked back at Jotun, who, despite the wounds Brunnar had inflicted, was still being assaulted. Suddenly, Brunnar heard a loud yelp and craned his neck to see a massive pile of bloodied fur beside his friend. The wolf who was frantically trying to rend Brunnar's face was then tossed to the side in a cloud of blood. Something had killed them. Then Brunnar realised who their unlikely saviour was. A white bear towered over the dead wolf, its giant paws caked in blood. It turned to face the men, who gathered themselves in preparation for what was to come. The bear roared loud enough to bring down the mountains  and reared up, eyes fixed on its prey.

Brunnar the Mighty: Chapter I

Brunnar the Mighty is my first pulp story in the science fantasy tradition. Follow the entire story through the blog.

The blizzard wind blasted against the chapped skin of a hulking figure clothed in tattered bear furs, grasping in his massive hands a great axe he called Northwind. It had been three days since the rune warrior Brunnar had caught glimpse of a soul, though in his exhaustion there had been times when he thought he had spotted three figures hovering in the distance. He had surmised that these figures were not those of his living kin, but ghostly ancestors watching his plight through the vast snowy wastes of northern Krun. Ancestors only appeared to those who were nearing the end of their journey in this mortal realm, but even with this thought in his mind the goliath trudged onwards determined that this say wouldn't be his last. 

Four days ago Brunnar had every reason to be joyful. After a particularly fruitful raid on the Ytuk tribe, of whom his own Gortan tribe were sworn enemies, he and his companions spent their time on their return home aboard the longboat feasting, dancing and drinking wine. Brunnar and his lifelong friend Jotun traded stories of their childhood and tales of their many gods, chugging back their wineskins with laughter in their eyes. Jotun was a fierce warrior with dark skin and eyes like ice pools. The tattoos that adorned his body told the story of his ancestors, just like all adults men and women of the Gortan tribe. Despite Brunnar being two years Jotun's senior, he looked up to his friend as a wise and cunning man with a good heart.

Later that night a violet wind pummeled the longboat, sending icy waves thrashing over the sides. The men were tossed around like ragdolls, many cursing the Ytuk who they decided had cast an enchantment on the sea that night. In the frozen blackness the boat broke under the weight of a terrible wave, fractured in two pieces sending warriors to their depths in that damned abyss. Brunnar managed to keep his head above water as he clung onto a floating plank but he could not see his friend. He called Jotun's name through the chaotic din, but there came no response. He saw two shadowy figures close by bobbing in the water like buoys and heard the cries of his men. Before Brunnar could swim closer he felt the full force of another wave crash into his body, sending him into a spiral. He felt himself slipping down, down into the depths to meet the sea gods and merfolk of his mother's tales. He could see nothing now apart from the black void and could do nothing for his muscles were frozen. His mind went back to his wife and daughter waiting back home and the cooked stew that would be bubbling in the pot. He lost all sense of time as he drifted. His time had finally come. 

Why I love old books (and 10 recommendations)

If someone were to ask me what my literary jam was, I'd answer pre-1970s horror, sci-fi and fantasy. More specifically, that sweet spot between the late 1800s and mid 1900s - the pulps.

For me this was the pinnacle of high adventure and horror experimentation, where science had not yet uncovered the atmosphere on Venus, so authors were free to set their stories on these alien worlds. These were the days of giants known and unknown at their time - Burroughs, Lovecraft, Howard, Machen, Poe, Carter, James, Ashton-Smith, Dunsany, Chambers, Hodgson. These authors became the cornerstones of genre fiction, paving the way towards the pop culture of today - from Sherlock to Star Wars, Alien to True Detective. The weight of these texts altered the future, in only ways the most significant creatives can do.

While I do read more contemporary authors, I always find myself cleansing the palette with the short stories of Algernon Blackwood, or the sublime Jack Vance. When I'm down I lose myself in The Tower of the Elephant, or cross the Mountains of Madness themselves to pick myself back up. The escapism older stories offer is something quite special and only achieved irregularly in contemporary fiction (Philip Pullman is a modern master of escapism - I highly recommend his latest book, La Belle Sauvage).

This isn't to say that I don't recognize the problematic aspects of these stories. Female characters with agency are few and far between, most of them relegated to list interests or not in the picture at all. Races other than Caucasian are usually treated either harshly or with novelty, with some authors being more xenophobic than others (looking at you, Lovecraft). This all makes some stories difficult to swallow and can taint an otherwise thrilling read. I don't suggest that any reader ignore these problems, nor do I think we should cast them out wholesale because of these issues as they can force us to reflect on our own values. It's good to be critical of otherwise fine work.

This brings me to the final part - recommendations. This isn't a definitive list, but instead I've noted some of my favourite authors and stories to keep you entertained.

The Pit and the Pendulum by Edgar Allan Poe

Those who may not have read Poe beyond The Raven might believe him to be a 'safe' horror writer. After all, how can stories written so long ago still strike fear into our hearts a century later? But Poe is a master of terror and his work is every bit as fresh and frightening as it was back in the day. The Pit and the Pendulum is a claustrophobic tale that stuck in my gut long after reading it. In this story of a Spanish Inquisition torture victim, Poe manipulates the senses to evoke a horrific scenario - so much so that you'll feel like you're right there in the dark with him.

The King in Yellow by Robert W Chambers

Chambers is my favourite writer of weird fiction and it's a shame he didn't stick with it. The King in Yellow is a collection of short stories, four of which are tied to what we now call the Carcosa mythos. The common thread running through these stories is a play called The King in Yellow, which, after reading the second act, breaks people's minds. The universe Chambers creates with the sinister yellow signs, the dim city of Carcosa, lake Hali and the titular monarch, is cruel and terrifying, and a big influence on Lovecraft. Essential reading for those interested in weird horror. Read them all.

The Fortress Unvanquishable Save for Sacnoth by Lord Dunsany

Without Dunsany we may have never had Tolkien, that's how important he was to the fantasy genre. Dunsany's prose are lush and musical, making his melancholic dreamlike stories of fantasy a joy to read. The Fortress Unvanquishable is arguably the first sword and sorcery story ever. In it, a young hero must face trials, defeat an iron dragon to forge a sword to face down an evil wizard in his tower to stop nightmares from plaguing his village. Absolutely stunning.

The Tower of the Elephant by Robert E Howard

If Dunsany started the sword and sorcery genre, Howard perfected it and The Tower of the Elephant is a masterclass. Conan has discovered that hidden away in the tower of an evil sorceror is a jewel called the Heart of the Elephant, so he decides to steal it. This is heart-pounding adventure at its best, with giant spiders, a prince of thieves, lions, and a pretty great ending.

The Willows by Algernon Blackwood

Even Lovecraft himself said that in The Willows Blackwood had crafted the perfect weird fiction story and I have to agree. This is plodding, creeping terror at its best. Two travellers canoe up the Danube and find themselves in the heart of a tale of cosmic terror where the trees themselves create an oppressive atmosphere and where strange things are occurring. Unsettling and unforgettable - one of the greatest horror stories ever told.

The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

At last, a female author! Published in 1892, The Yellow Wallpaper is a psychological horror story about the wife of a physician who, after a hysterical episode, is forbidden from working. They rent a mansion, where she spends her time in a room with bars on the window, covered in yellow wallpaper. After lack of stimulation she begins to lose her mind, believing there is a woman living in the wallpaper. This culminates is a creepy as hell ending.

Dagon by H.P Lovecraft

This is the shortest story on the list and one readers will probably have already read, but for me this is distilled Lovecraft. A sailor finds himself on a once-sunken island containing an obelisk that tells a tale of strange fish people and their awful god. Then the massive creature emerges and scares the shit out of him. The ending, after awaking in hospital is one of my favourites from Lovecraft.

A Princess of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs

Knowing my readers, I'd imagine a fair few have already read this, but as the pinnacle in sword and planet stories, it's worth a re-read. John Carter, a soldier in the civil war, finds himself wounded in a cave and is visited by a mysterious creature and transported to Mars (or Barsoom), which hosts a semi-medieval feudal society of warring aliens. It's a story of fast-paced action - gladiatorial combat, treachery, battling white apes, romance - this has it all. So much better than the Disney flick.

The Novel of the Black Seal by Arthur Machen

Tentacles. Check. Ancient forgotten creatures. Check. A strange child who isn't what he seems. Check. Those might sound like the themes behind a Lovecraft story, but Machen did it all first with The Novel of the Black Seal. Deep in the Welsh hills hides a race of strange creatures with their own language and the story sees the protagonist slowly uncovering the nature of these beings as well as a strange boy. Lovecraft borrowed heavily from this story, particularly with The Shadow over Innsmouth, The Dunwich Horror and At the Mountains of Madness.

The Dying Earth by Jack Vance

I can't choose a single story from The Dying Earth, so read them all. Each story revolves around our world thousands of years in the future where the sun is at the end of its lifespan. Stories are loosely connected, revolving around magic (yep, this is where Vancian magic comes from in D&D). The plots and characters are nuts, dealing with miniature wizards and people with names like Chun the Unavoidable. But seriously, these stories are awesome, especially for roleplaying fans.

Thuruun - people of the wyrm

Under the red sun where the black mount spears the sky and golden eagles screech their dusk hymns, the people of the wyrm work. Neither fully human nor fully dragon, the people of the wyrm possess the rugged bodies of man with the scaly necks and heads of lizards. Black, gold, white, scarlet and azure these beings cloak themselves in, their lush scales commanding attention from even the most haughty of nobles.

By the eyes of the moon they take flight, riding solemn winds over the shadow realm. The day walkers call them Thuruun and they are venerated by those with sense, for the Thuruun leave great emerald eggs in village greens each solstice as a gift to their followers. Their flight is accompanied by the sound of flutes playing songs lost in time, which the gods once sang in the fair fields below. 

The Thuruun are the greatest of magicians whose magic emanates from the magma within the black mount. Monthly they must sup on the magma in the communion of the wyrm and fill their bellies with heat. Once at full vigour they write annual runes in their cavernous homesteads so that should a wandering daywalker, curious and adventurous, came upon their homes, it would be as if naught was there. 

In the old days of darkness the Thuruun took up arms against the treacherous god Kom who would destroy all dragonkind. For seventy years they cast runes on their mighty foe, gouged him with obsidian spears of Theth and sliced him with scimitars of the Four Sands. When Kom fell there was great rejoicing, but a decision was made by the Thuruun to never pick up arms again, for too much blood had been shed. To this day the Thuruun elders in their ancient wisdom do not allow weapons and in peace they live. Those who forsake their elders and leave the black mount in search of adventure and treasure are labelled Skaff and are not heeded or seen.