Rolled 8 (1d100)
>>6238910You shatter the bottle against a stone, glass splintering with a sharp crack—and Arlen stumbles free in a puff of mango-scented smoke, gasping and blinking in the sun. Before anyone can speak, a whirl of wind swirls upward, and the woman-spirit appears— furious, copper eyes flashing.
“How dare you break the bottle!” she shrieks, pointing wildly at your group. “That was my bottle, and his prison, and my choice!”
Your crew circles warily, hands on weapons but unsure what could stop a spirit like her. The argument rises, voices tangling in the thick air—until the sky darkens, and a booming voice shakes the beach.
“Who dares destroy the bottle?!”
The air splits, and a towering spirit materializes, cloaked in stormclouds and golden fire. The woman-spirit shrinks and hides behind you. You step forward.
“I broke it,” you say. “To free my man.”
The great spirit narrows glowing eyes. “I am Djon. She is my daughter—Frit.”
He glares at her. She glares back.
“She was promised to a suitor of power,” Djon says. “She cursed herself into bondage to avoid her fate. Hiding in a fruit jar like a coward.”
“He’s a bore and a creep!” Frit spits. “I’d rather stay here. With the humans.”
A long pause. Djon folds his arms, thunder rolling behind his breath.
“Is that truly what you wish?”
Frit nods once, defiant.
Djon sighs, lifts his hand, and draws her magic into a crystal—bright, humming, pulsing with fire. He hands it to her with finality.
“Live your life, but know this: If you break it, the magic returns—and so does your oath. You will wed him, no questions.”
He vanishes like a closing storm. Frit stands silent, holding the crystal tight.
No one speaks for a while. The jungle hums. The tide pulls in slow. Arlen rubs his wrists, dazed and free.
"Anyone wants dried mango?", he asks, showing a box that refills every time he takes one dried mango from inside it, close and reopen it.
Frit eats some.
The jungle snaps with sudden motion—dense fronds shudder, and a rank scent floods the clearing. A patrol of Skaven bursts from the underbrush, chittering war cries and brandishing jagged blades and rusted spears. Their eyes gleam red in the gloom.
They number around eight—scouts, perhaps, or a test. Fast, twitching, hunched low to the ground. One hurls a glob of some bubbling green slime that hisses where it lands near the fire.
Your people scramble. The sentries shout. Others reach for sharpened poles and stone knives.
What do you do?
> Charge them directly with what weapons you have.> Fall back to draw them into traps laid earlier.> Try to intimidate or scare them off with fire and loud noise.> Grab the crystal—threaten to break it and unleash Frit’s magic.> Try to flank them from the jungle edge while others distract.> Hold position behind the barricades and defend at all costs.> Write inIn any case, Roll 1d100 for the outcome.
