The Stennard Chronicles

 

A Living World, a Shared Frontier, and the Brutal Joy of West Marches Play

There are campaigns where heroes arrive, save the day, and move on.

Stennard Chronicles is not one of those.

Stennard is a place you come to out of desperation. A rain-rotted frontier town clinging to survival at the edge of something older, darker, and patient. Crops fail. Roads fade into deer paths. People whisper about what lies west—and they whisper for a reason...

The campaign is built as a West Marches–style living world, where the setting persists whether the players show up or not. The land and the town changes. And the player choices—especially the bad ones—leave scars and have repercusions.

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What Makes Stennard Different

Players choose where to go, who to trust, and how far west is too far west. The world responds accordingly. If a group clears an area of bandits (or worse), the next group hears about it. If a party vanishes, people stop asking questions—and lock their doors earlier.

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Rotating Tables, Persistent Consequences

This is classic West Marches philosophy, sharpened by the teeth of a grim fantasy setting.

• Drop-in friendly: No fixed party. Characters come and go. Players play wehn they can.

• Shared world: Every expedition alters the setting for everyone.

• Player-driven goals: No one tells you what’s important—you decide.

• Time matters: Days pass. Seasons turn. Threats advance while you rest.

The setting does not scale to the character or the levels. It is what it is and waits to see if you’re foolish enough to push your luck.

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Tone: Desperation, Not Destiny

Stennard Chronicles leans hard into:

• Low resources

• Moral compromises

• Unreliable authority

• Villains who don’t need to win today

You are not chosen ones.

You are scavengers, mercenaries, runaways, pilgrims, and fools with just enough hope left to walk into the woods.

Heroism is possible—but it is earned, and it often comes at a cost.

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The West Marches Contract (Unspoken but Real)

There is no safety net. No narrative mercy.

If you die, the world shrugs and keeps going.

And somehow, that makes survival matter more.

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Why It Works

Stennard feels alive....Not because it’s busy—but because it’s uncaring.

The town does not revolve around the players.
The land does not bend for balance.
The horrors to the west do not wait their turn.

Every session adds another layer of shared history:

• “That’s where the last group lost their torchbearer.”

• “Don’t drink the water past the covered bridge.”

• “Someone swore they saw eyes watching from the treeline.”

And slowly, collectively, a legend forms...Not of heroes....But of survivors.

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Final Word

The Stennard Chronicles isn’t about winning.

It’s about:

• Choosing to go out anyway...

• Coming back changed...

• Leaving warnings for the next poor souls...

If you want a campaign where the world pushes back, remembers your name, and doesn’t care if you’re ready—

Stennard is waiting.

Just don’t go into the valley or the woods...or up the hill...unprepared.

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The final things you need to know to play in Stennard...

I. This a low-fantasy, grimdark horror setting.
II. Money is on a copper standard. Goods are limited and expensive.
You will need to acquire every item you wish to possess in-game.
III. Food is scarce. Only high-moisture fruits and vegetables survived
until harvest. Fresh meat, eggs, and dairy consistently spoil.
IV. There are no elves, dwarfs, halflings, or similar species here.
V. Canines are very important to the success of humankind. This is
reflected in their inclusion as player characters. They are still just
dogs as we know them and should be played as such.
VI. Magic is mysterious, dangerous, and feared. Its use is risky and
will draw unwanted and sometimes violent attention.
VII. Magic users will not be handed a list of spells. Lists assume that
magic is understood and controlled. It is not.
VIII. Faith-based magic is accepted, but rare. Performing miracles
will draw the desperate to you. Demanding too much of your deity
will draw their disapproval. Common deities are Delvyr (light &
knowledge), Wyshalar (survival), & Gorhan (valor & vengeance).
IX. Do not attempt to fight every threat. You will not survive. Instead,
you will be rewarded for taking risks and engaging with your
environment. You are here to create memories.
X. Character death is normal. Do not get too attached. Always have
another character waiting to step in. As the final step suggests: live
fully and die gloriously!

1. Session One in the Westmarch Campaign

   They say it was the weather. They say the rain had been coming for days before it happened—real rain, the kind that flattens grain and turns fields into skinless mud. On the night of the full moon, the Harvest Moon of September 25 on the 25th year of the Year of the Rains, the sky finally broke open. Thunder cracked so close it rattled doors in Stennard, and lightning came down again and again out toward the western farms. That’s when Khaneela Farm burned. Or so the story goes. By morning, the barn was a blackened shell, still steaming in the drizzle. Most of the livestock lay dead or missing, scattered or crushed in their pens. The Khaneela family were found where they’d tried to flee—no sign of struggle worth speaking of, no clear marks anyone could agree on. Fire does strange things to bodies. Rain does stranger. Stennard was built in a depression of the low foothills in the western mountains. Its nearest trading partners are Hastrull to the northeast, and Illis to the southeast. Though the town of Stennard boasts a couple dozen buildings at its center, the surrounding farmsteads sprawl out for miles in every direction, bolstering its economic viability. The autumn harvest festival normally brings in traders from neighboring towns, exchanging goods before the long, cold winter. This year is different, with crops failing and game scarce across the region. A leech named Coeder Efra came in with the tale. He’d been traveling west to offer his services to the Protectorate and the town—said there was good coin in famine years for steady hands and clean bandages. He claimed he’d taken shelter near the farm during the storm and found the place already lost. According to him, the night was full of shapes. He talked about eyeless things, about howling like dogs but moving wrong, about marks carved into wood that bled sap instead of splinters. He said the animals were killed on purpose. Said the family had been left that way to be found. He even claimed he’d fought his way free—took a draft horse, fled through the rain, and barely escaped before the barn went up behind him. People listened. People always do. Then they laughed. Someone said lightning must’ve spooked the animals. Another said bandits had come down from the hills, desperate and drunk. A third pointed out that Coeder Efra arrived with a horse he couldn’t prove was his, telling a story that put him nowhere near blame. And fires do start in storms. Everyone knows that. As for the marks on the barn door—well, char and rot can look like anything if you stare long enough. Children see faces in knots. Old men see omens in smoke. So the tale was folded away. By the end of the week, it had changed. Now it’s told as a warning to children not to wander in storms. Or a reminder that the west has always been dangerous. Or a joke about a leech who wanted attention and found it in tragedy. Only a few details stay the same every time it’s told: That it happened on the full moon. That the rain did not put the fire out. And that when the barn burned, nothing came running from it. The story ends there, because anything beyond that makes people uncomfortable. And uncomfortable stories don’t last—not unless they’re true.

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2. Over the next few weeks the children started saying a rhyme that none knew whence it came... Rain, rain, fall down hard, Don’t go west of Khaneela’s yard. Moon so full it split the sky, Barn went black and none ran by. Horses scream and dogs don’t bark, Shut your eyes when it gets dark. Lightning lies and thunder knows, What walks wrong where rainwater flows. Sing it fast and sing it low, Feed the fire, don’t let it go. If the fire dies, don’t you run— Lidless things come two by one. Hush now, hush, the tale is done, Mind your bed till morning sun. But if you hear hooves with no sound… Don’t look out. Don’t turn around.
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4. Session Two in the Westmarch Campaign

   They say it happened again on the quarter moon, four nights after the Harvest Moon of September 25, in the 25th Year of the Year of the Rains. Not like the first time—not loud, not all thunder and flame. This time the night was thin and sharp, the kind that cuts through cloaks and makes even dogs uneasy. For once, the rain had stopped. That’s when the Bushelbearer place was ruined. As night fell, the animals were dead or gone. Pens broken. Coops smashed. The barn door marked with something no one could quite agree on. Some said it was carved. Some said it was blood—but the barn and the mark were burned. Others said the wood looked pressed, like a hand had leaned into it too hard and left a memory behind. The master of the farm—Therace Bushelbearer—was found where he’d stood his ground, gutted like a pig. A good man, people say. Quiet. Kept to himself. Tried to do right by everyone. That sort doesn’t last long these days. What saved the rest were the travelers. A mixed lot, nothing special—traders, laborers, folk looking for work or shelter. They came in after dark, hoping for Xenia, the old courtesy of food and a roof. Folks remember the names different ways, but the ones most often spoken are Lastor—the trader some swear is a smuggler—Galas from Hastrull, Derrill the soldier, Tuckerin just back from Hillcamp, Ara the cheesemonger, Kayl the wheatfarmer who’d lost his land, Derrin the beekeeper with no hives left, and an animal trainer from Illis whose name most people have already forgotten. Instead of supper, they walked into screaming. They say the yard turned to mud and blood. That dogs fought first. That steel rang. That shapes moved wrong in the dark, low and fast, hissing words no one likes to repeat. “Kneel,” the things said. “Kneel.” By the time the noise stopped, most of the travelers were dead. Only Tris, Kayl, Derrin, and Tuckerin lived to walk away. That’s all anyone agrees on. Fighting her way free of the house, Entreen Bushelbearer did what mothers do when the world breaks. She took her children into the outhouse and hid them where nothing decent would think to look. She held them quiet. She waited. She counted on the stink to save them from the things and their dogs. Folks say she’s sharp. Folks say she’s lucky. Folks say luck like that always comes with a price. Then there’s the part that makes the story stretch. They say Lochin Tine came out of the trees as the fighting started to turn against the travelers. Walked like he’d been broken once and never set right. Carried himself like someone who didn’t expect help and didn’t want it. He fought what was left and drove it off toward the west, then vanished again before anyone could ask him a question. Some call him the Ghost of Hastrull. Some say he’s just a man who doesn’t belong anywhere else. After that, the stories start to argue. Some say the Protectorate was just there days before, collecting what was owed. Some say the famine is driving folk east and leaving the west to rot. Some say the old protections don’t hold anymore. Some say blaming storms and witches is easier than admitting no one’s in charge. Parents tell it one way. To children, it’s a lesson: Don’t wander at night. Don’t trust clear skies. Don’t go west. And if you hear voices telling you to kneel—run. In taverns, it’s a joke told too loudly, followed by silence. And around the Common Fire, when the logs burn low and no one wants to be first to leave, someone always says the same thing: “Funny thing about that quarter-moon night…” “The barn was marked.” “The rain didn’t stop it.” “And nothing came running out.” Then the fire gets another log.
5. As fast as it happens and is talked about there is always the children’s chant—short, sharp, and easy to repeat. The kind that gets banned by parents and still shows up whispered on the walk home when the light starts to fail.

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   Quarter-Moon Chant Quarter moon, quarter moon, Don’t go walking out too soon. Bushelbarn burned, doors were marked, Nothing screamed when it got dark. Dogs fought first and dogs all died, Things crawled low where shadows hide. “Kneel,” they hissed in voices thin, Rain or shine, they still get in. Hide in stink and hold your breath, Count to five and cheat at death. If you hear them call your name— Don’t look back. Don’t play the game. Quarter moon, quarter moon, Fire fed or fire gone soon. If the fire dies, run or pray… They’ll come back Another day. ____________________________________________________
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7. Session Three in the Westmarch Campaign
8. A week passed, and Stennard did not shrink. It pressed inward. The town lay cupped in the wooded foothills beneath a massive, impenetrable mountain chain. To the people who lived there, this was the edge of the world. Everything west rose toward stone that could not be climbed and shadows that had never learned to answer questions. Some said the west had been creeping toward Stennard for decades—slow as rot in a beam—and that now it had finally reached the town’s doorstep. There had been a time—long before anyone living could remember—when folk traveled farther west. Roads had been cut into the hills. Farms had crept closer to the rock face. Whatever ambition drove that age had failed. The roads softened into deer paths. The clearings closed. The west took itself back. People say you can still feel it when you cross too far in—that something watches, waiting to see what you’ll give up first. Three months ago, the poor harvest had been predicted. Nothing took root. Fields drowned where they stood. Seed rotted in the ground. Game thinned, then vanished. The rains came and did not stop, and when they finally eased, they left silence instead of relief. Some claimed the signs were obvious even then—that crows lingered too long, that rodents were wrong, that dreams grew heavier the closer winter crept. Stennard had few trading partners, and those it had were suffering the same fate. Winter loomed. Stores ran thin. Wagons left town heading east, loaded with what little families dared to save. Others stayed—stubborn, faithful, or simply unable to imagine another home. Decisions were made that no one liked, but everyone understood. A small band of the town’s most prolific hunters and gatherers pressed west—into lands no one hunted anymore, into hills people spoke of only after drink or prayer. Some say they went too far. Some say they were dared into it by pride or bad counsel. Some insist one of them had no business leading anyone anywhere. They have not returned.

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10. Session Four in the Westmarch Campaign At first, there was patience. A few days meant nothing in those hills. Then worry crept in. A week passed. Then another. No bodies were found. No screams carried on the wind. No signs came back—not even scavengers returning with scraps. Some took that as hope. Others said it was worse. By the time the last reasonable day passed, the Great Hall was full of voices and sharp looks. One man swore the Constable should never have allowed it, that blood would be on her hands. Another spat that the Protectorate should have gone instead, seeing as they took coin for protection. Someone else muttered that the Protectorate’s promises had been empty for years, and that this was simply the cost of believing otherwise. Blame wandered. Some said the west was cursed ground, filled with old monuments and gates better left untouched. Others whispered that people had been seen on the roads lately—men and women who spoke too smoothly, who planted ideas that made good folk think bad thoughts. A few claimed the hunters had found riches and chosen not to come back at all. There were darker accusations too. Someone brought up Vela Correnwood—how death followed her like a shadow, how accidents seemed to bend toward her presence. Another told an old story about a tree falling wrong, about a man crushed while she walked away scarred but breathing. That was proof enough for some. Others shook their heads and said none of that mattered now. What mattered was winter. When the last reasonable hope failed, a call went out—carried by runners, wagons, and desperate mouths to Hastrull, to Illis, to every stead that would listen: “Come to Stennard. We are offering a reward. Find our missing sons and daughters.” The words spread fast. Strangers began to arrive. Some hopeful. Some desperate. Some already half-broken by hunger. The Great Hall filled with talk that never settled—only shifted. One woman swore she’d dreamt the hunters had found something—something that would save the town if only it could be brought back. Another warned that anything coming out of the western hills should never be eaten, touched, or trusted, lest the old magic there take root in flesh and mind alike. A father stood and promised coin, goods—anything—if his son Dallan was returned. An older man quietly said that Stennard wasn’t the first town here. That the original settlement lay west along a creek. That the ancestors had committed unforgivable acts trying to save it. He said this was simply the debt coming due. No one argued with him. The hall hummed with fear and hope in equal measure. No one knows the truth. The expedition is not late. It is not lost. It is simply unaccounted for. And so the paths west open again—not because they are safe, but because there is no other choice. Somewhere beyond the deer paths and swallowed roads, the hills wait. And the silence to the west grows heavier by the day.