Quote:The Blackmoor calendar has thirty-seven (37) weeks, with each week lasting a ten-day (10). Every character is allowed thirty seven (37) time units (each unit being a week) for the Dave Arneson’s Blackmoor: The MMRPG campaign year (January 1 to January 1). Playing this event is a cost of one (1) time unit.

Quote:The miles stretch behind you. Boggy Bottom was where you made your ford and the ferryman who brought you across the river smiled grimly as he spoke. “’Eadin’ south among the ‘eathen are ye?” His eyes measured each of you. “Sleep light and keep a double guard. The Peshwuh’ll gut ye as soon as look at ye.” He responded to your silence with a smirk. Like all the residents of Boggy Bottom, he made your hand creep towards your weapon and made you think caution was in order. His advice, however, was sound.
It was three hard days around the Ash Hills to the remnants of the Gold Road. Two more days took you around the edge of the Blasted Forest and across the foothills of the Wyverns. This last crossing was the most disturbing so far.
Twice you sighted the creatures that give the hills their name, slowly circling overhead, looking for prey. Once, one fell, plummeting to the brush some eight bowshots from you. Some beast screamed in the distance as the wyvern struck and then began to feed.
Three more days have past since you entered the High Hak. The land is awash in waist to chest high grasses and low rolling hills. The rise and fall of the land feels more like a sea than dry land.
There are Peshwah about. Of this, you are certain. You have heard the soft whicker of horses. Once, you saw a lone rider observe you for long minutes, only to dash off at a gallop as soon as you began to approach. Huge one-horned grazers lumbered past in a large herd. The dominant bull eyed you warily and snorting his displeasure at your scent. He seems to think you do not belong here.
Today, the sunrise brought flowers. The grasses that you had been traveling through began to bloom. The blossoms are white and pale blue, each with a deep red mark on the petals. The green of the grass was crowned with white caps of flower, dappled blue and blood red. As the heat of the day came on, the flowers gave up their dust, the red pollen blowing in crimson clouds. Some of you sniff and wheeze under the onslaught. Others grin grimly under the bloody stain.
The pollen sticks to your gear and everything has a fine coating of dust, dust the color of blood. The wind, ever present, seems to carry a red mist. It is unsettling.