The SisterWorlds site is dedicated to the collective writings of nearly a hundred Dungeons and Dragons players, all playing under one campaign world. Ron Johnson once called the campaigns, “The America of fantasy worlds,” for its mixing pot mentality, challenges to the status quo, and the impacts of the players on the evolving story they create together with their Dungeon Master.
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Exerpt from Cleo's Journal by Harry Mackenzie:
I find some hand and footholds, and I climb aboard. It isn’t difficult, as the deck is only about six feet above the water. As I climb over the rail, I take in the sights around me. I’m on the back part of the ship (the quarterdeck, I think Seamus calls it) and there are five men here with me. I take a minute to study them – three of them are archers, with longbows, one looks like a common sailor, and one is barking orders and trying to make sense out of the chaos.
He’s probably the captain. An idea forms in my mind as I begin to move towards him. I stop, draw my dagger, and plunge it into the left kidney area of the nearest archer. He goes down with a grunt of pain. Now my path is clear – no one between me and the man shouting orders. I cross the space quickly, returning the dagger to it’s place.
I come up behind him and slip my arms around him. I nuzzle my face against the side of his neck and lightly run my tongue over the pulse I feel there – he feels my fangs graze his neck when I do so, and he freezes.
“Mmmm…. Tasty. If you want to live… surrender this vessel now… otherwise… I’ll have to kill everyone on board.” I whisper to him huskily.
He is a smart man, fortunately. He can’t see anything, but he can feel me, and he felt the touch of fangs on his neck, and smells the coppery scent of blood from the archer I stabbed, so he concludes that I must be a vampire. His sword clatters to the deck, and he tries to speak, but all that comes out is a squeak. He tries again.
“Alright… I’ll surrender the ship.” He manages to gasp out. I smile and begin running my hands over his chest.