TEXT: GM: Johan Nohr 
  Player: Kevin B Adventure by: Karl Druid
  This is a transcript from a Play-by-Post game session on the 
  unoffical Mörk Borg West Marches discord server, and the scenario 
  is a slightly adapted version of an upcoming MÖRK BORG CULT 
  adventure (not really meant for a single 1 HP PC, but what the hell). 
  The transcript mixes in-character and out-of-character messages 
  and is neither proofread nor edited except for the worst typos. 
  A PLAY-BY-POST TRANSCRIPT
  Graves 
  Left 
  Wanting
  MÖRK BORG is © Ockult Örtmästare Games & Stockholm Kartell
  
  2
   
   Meet Wemut, an occult herbmaster lost in the vast graveyard 
  of Graven-Tosk. He is not the strongest character; 1 HP, one 
  Omen and only a crowbar and a femur bone to defend himself 
  with. He also carries a portable laboratory with which he can 
  brew alchemical decoctions if he finds the proper reagents. 
  What follows is the transcript, copied from the chat:
    
  GM 
   A journey across never-ending fields of tombs and graves. 
  An echoing whisper. A chase, or a struggle? All vague memories, 
  flashes of light in the dark. A dream?
   GM 
   You awaken suddenly with a gasp. There’s no telling for how long 
  you’ve been asleep, or what actually happened. The last thing you 
  remember is crossing the gloomy burial grounds of Graven-Tosk in 
  search of ingredients of rare obscurity, far from home. There was 
  a voice, a whisper that sends chills down your spine. But then, you 
  draw blanks. Now, where are you? Your eyes are open but it’s still 
  void-black, and dead quiet. You try to stretch but realize you can’t, 
  as if you’re stuck in a box. In your head, a devil hammering away on 
  a wardrum. In your mouth, a desert. What a lovely day.
   
   What do you do?
  Player 
   Wemut will try to move around, fingers, limbs, head, testing 
  whether that feeling of being stuck in a box is correct—not only 
  whether he’s able to stand up, but whether his body can/will even 
  respond to the mental command to move.
  GM 
   As you move your aching body you come to the claustrophobic 
  realization that you are indeed trapped in a box. Lying on your 
  back. Enclosed in blackness.
   
   You slide your fingers across the cage you’re in, and feel the coarse 
  texture of wooden planks. They give in slightly when your prodding 
  presses them above your head, but there is some force holding you 
  back. A razor sharp line of light appears when you try to push the 
  lid away from you, surrounding it. And a stench of rot and death.
  Player 
   Can I move enough to check if I have any of my equipment/
  supplies with me? Mostly it’s to see if I might have my 
  crowbar, but really anything at all...
  
  3
  GM 
   You move your arms down to check your equipment, or what’s at 
  hand. You feel the chain of the crucifix, still in your belt pouch. 
  Then the head and neck of the femur bone you found. On the other 
  side, you slide down your hands along your side until your fingers 
  touch the cold steel of your trusted crowbar. Reaching for it is really 
  stretching it.
  GM 
   It seems like you also have your water skin with you in this damned 
  confinement.
  Player 
   Unable to get any solid grasp of his crowbar, Wemut attempts to 
  pull his crucifix into his hand. “If you have any power left in you, 
  strengthen my arm.” Clutching the crucifix in one palm, he tries to 
  push away the planks, heaving with both hands in an effort to free 
  himself.
  GM 
   You press the lid up and away from you, and feel its weight shift 
  when something on top of it slides off and crashes to the ground 
  with a dry thump. With the extra weight gone it’s not so strenuous 
  to lift it and you emerge, stumbling. You were in a closed coffin, 
  hammered shut with rusty nails. You cannot for the life of you 
  recall how you ended up there. Now you sit in it, looking around 
  to take in your environment. A misty pit under a moonless night 
  sky. Everywhere are dead bodies in various stages of decay. Men, 
  women, children. Some have been hacked to pieces. You also see 
  the rest of your equipment, strewn around the carnage as if a child 
  had been toying with them. Around you are the pit’s steep slopes, 
  covered in soup like mist. To your left, you see that there’s a tunnel 
  leading further into the underground. 
   
   You now also see what was holding your efforts back. At the base 
  of your coffin lies the dry husk-like corpse of a woman. A skeleton 
  with abscess-covered stretched skin. Still holding a hammer. 
  No movement.
  Player 
   Gulping fresh air—at least compared to inside the coffin—Wemut 
  sits upright before slowly standing. He steps out of the box and 
  stares at the corpse and then at his assorted equipment. Gripping 
  the crowbar in one hand, Wemut will spend a few minutes 
  collecting what components of his portable laboratory he can 
  reach without moving too close to any of the corpses. 
  
  4
  Player 
   If there’s no disruption during that time, he’ll cautiously 
  walk toward the tunnel.
  GM 
   You gather the rest of your equipment, but will have to cross the 
  field of bodies to do so. The stench is nauseating but you steel 
  yourself. You get the unnerving feeling that someone is watching 
  you, but it’s quiet and still. As you approach the tunnel, you see it is 
  chest high, and slightly sloping downward to the dark unknown.
  Player 
   Wemut crouches at the mouth of the tunnel to assess which 
  components in his kit remain viable enough to use for potentially 
  helpful potions.
  GM 
   Roll a d4 to see how many total potions and decoctions 
  you can make/find, and 2d8 to see what kind.
   
   The player rolls a 2 on the d4, and a 4 and 5 on the 2d8; 
  Elixir Vitalis and Spider-Owl Soup. A total of two doses.
    
  Player 
   Spending a few moments to decoct a cup of Spider-Owl Soup, 
  Wemut glances around to try and catch a glimpse of whoever 
  must be watching him, and then he ingests the potion.
  GM 
   Around you are nothing but the grim jumble of dead bodies 
  and the hammer wielding corpse that rested atop your coffin. 
  No movement. Nothing. 
   
   You down the potion and almost gag at the weird, disgusting 
  sensation it makes in your throat. Not really liquid, but more like 
  swallowing a handful of spiders, crawling hurrying down to your 
  gut. Then, it’s as if someone lit a torch. The dark rock lights up, 
  the interior of the tunnel takes form. Your eyes pierce through 
  the darkness as if the long forgotten sun had returned. The tunnel 
  leads on down into the underground and at its base you can see 
  the floor of some room or chamber. Perhaps 20 or so feet from the 
  entrance.
  Player 
   Wemut bends forward until his hands touch the ground. Then, he 
  moves into the tunnel, crawling on awkwardly-splayed limbs along 
  its wall, and then its ceiling, rather than walking on its floor. He 
  moves slowly to take in the sight of the chamber as he approaches it.
  
  5
  GM 
   Crawling on the walls and ceiling of the sloping tunnel you descend 
  to the chamber below. A drifting fog covers the floor of this warm 
  tomb. A large sarcophagus with the image of a mangled man stands 
  pressed against the wall opposite the entrance. The artwork is 
  exquisite but gruesome—a full body relief of a nobleman, his body 
  crushed and twisted as if a giant stepped on him, or as if trampled 
  by the weight of a hundred horses. Framing the sarcophagus on 
  either side are rusty wall sconces with unlit torches. Two passages 
  lead out of this room; a catacomb tunnel on the left hand wall and a 
  tight crawl space on to the right.
  Player 
   Perhaps it’s just a side-effect of the Spider-Owl Soup, but Wemut 
  finds himself drawn to the narrower passage to the right. He contorts 
  himself down the wall to slip into it, skittering as quietly as he can.
  GM 
   As quietly as you can you skitter across the tomb wall toward 
  the crawlspace to the right. Slipping in unnoticed as if the 
  mangled image on the sarcophagus would spot you otherwise. 
  The crawl is tight and low, a tunnel crudely carved out of the dead 
  cold rock. It curves slightly to the left, before breaching into a 
  catacomb corridor stretching seemingly endlessly to the left and 
  right. You sit in the crack where the tunnel eats it way into the 
  corridor. At your feet are dirt and rocks, former parts of the wall. 
  The corridor is lined with niches, giving it the shape of a spine. 
  In each is a skeleton, propped up to a standing position by a metal 
  spike piercing them. Three large urns, each the size of a barrel, 
  are blocking the corridor to the left for those who cannot climb 
  as you can. The area is deadly quiet and quite hot.
  Player 
   Wemut attempts to squeeze himself out of the tunnel and down 
  the corridor wall to stand on the ground, examining the urns. 
   
   Are they emanating the heat here, or does it come from 
  the passage to the left? Or does the heat permeate the 
  catacombs?
  GM 
   Stepping down onto the corridor floor, a cold splash immediately 
  informs you that it’s flooded. Not by much, only to right below 
  your ankle, but enough to test your boots’ ability to keep dry. 
  You approach the closest urn, passing one pair of skeletons, 
  then another, then a third. They stare at each other in silence. 
  
  6
  GM 
   The urn blocks the path and is tall enough to reach your chin, wide 
  like a barrel and seemingly made out of metal or gilded ceramic. 
  Its lid caked with a black, grainy resin.
   
   You can’t really locate the source of the heat from where 
  you are and what you see at the moment.
  Player 
   Fighting a cold shiver despite the heat as he passes by the three 
  pairs of skeleton-bearing niches, Wemut takes a deep breath and 
  tries to push the lid off the closest urn.
  GM 
   The lid doesn’t move as easily as you hoped. It seems like the tarry 
  substance covering it is holding it sealed and stuck.
  Player 
   Cursing quietly under his breath, Wemut sighs and scurries up 
  the wall to maneuver himself into the path blocked by the urns.
  GM 
   To squeeze through you’d have to climb on top of, or just 
  next to, the skeletons in the wall niches beside the urns. 
  Will you do this?
  Player 
   Yes-I’m picturing it that, even with ‘best efforts’ to 
  try to avoid touching them, it’s unavoidable, and Wemut will 
  end up with his hand on a cheekbone or ribcage.
  GM 
   You make your way through the passageway blocked by the three 
  urns. Climbing and crawling across the skeletal displays, trying 
  to avoid touching them more than necessary. When you have 
  passed the third urn the corridor continues before you, ascending 
  ever so slightly. The water on the floor seems to come from 
  wherever this leads. 
   
  I’m assuming you continue down this path?
   
   Beyond the urns, the corridor stretches for another seven pairs of 
  skeleton niches until the walls are simply plain stone. You walk or 
  crawl in the opposite direction of the slow stream of water until you 
  finally reach the end of the corridor—a closed stone door. A small 
  crack at its base allows water to enter this place. Other than that it 
  is featureless.
  Player 
   Wemut stands before the stone door, glancing back behind him to 
  see if any of the passed skeletons watches him. Then, putting his 
  weight into it, he tries to push the door open slowly.
  
  7
  GM 
   Shoulder pressed against the stone slab you push it and it slides 
  open with a low rumbling noise. A gust of cold night air hits 
  your face and you see the vast landscape of tombstones stretch 
  out before you—an immense deathly vista beneath a blackened 
  sky. Everywhere are headstones, crosses, statues and grave 
  markers. You seem to be perched atop a tall cliff or a hill, and 
  can see water trickle down from somewhere further up, forming 
  a puddle just outside the door that spits you out. All is still, but 
  not quiet. You hear the sound of rushing water from above, and… 
  whispering? No, it can’t be.
  Player 
   Wemut looks around for the origin of the water. Observing that it’s 
  dripping down from somewhere further up, he maneuvers about to 
  look for footholds or a path that might lead him to its source. Plus, 
  he thinks, it will—perhaps—keep him that much further from the 
  seemingly endless fields of gravestones below.
  GM 
   The source of the water seems to be further up on the hill, but the 
  climb is steep, wet and slippery. It would surely be easier to climb 
  with the power of your spider-owl soup, but even with its blessing 
  the rushing water could be a problem.
   
   Now you hear it again. It is most definitely a whispering voice, also 
  emanating from the top of the hill. It almost sounded like children 
  laughing.
   
   The soup’s effect is still ongoing for another 10-15 minutes 
  or so, to clarify.
  Player 
   Wemut continues cautiously, trying to make sure he maintains as 
  good a hold as possible with each step, lest the haunting whisper 
  frighten him enough to fall. His nostrils flare as he creeps upward, 
  seeking out purchase for his feet, unsure of what sights await on the 
  summit above.
  GM 
   Give me an Agility roll please. DR 8 or you slip and either 
  fall for damage or drop a random item.
   
   The player rolls a d20 and gets a 19.
    
  
  8
  GM 
   You climb the cliff face toward the source of the water and the 
  increasing wind and trickling water does its best to disrupt your 
  balance, but the glue-like secretion from your palms keeps your 
  grip firm. It doesn’t take long for you to reach the summit. There, 
  you’re met with antiquity and haunting beauty. An overflowing 
  and delicately decorated fountain, surrounded by pillars where 
  marble cherubs vomit a milk-colored mist. It covers the water 
  and the ground close to the fountain. You can swear you hear the 
  whispering sound of children laughing, but as soon as you look at 
  the cherubs it seems to stop. At the fountain’s crest are two statues 
  of robed, ghastly figures. Both holding their skeletal arms high, 
  lifting a simple stone jar toward the dying sky.
  Player 
   Cresting the hill, Wemut freezes for a moment at the site of figures 
  and the sound of laughter, moving only after he realizes the figures 
  are statues. He creeps as quietly as he can toward the fountain, 
  his eyes darting back and forth between the mist belched forth by 
  the cherub-pillars and the stone jar held aloft by the robed statues.
   
   Frowning, he begins to clamber up the back of one of the statues, 
  in search of potential treasure in the jar. To himself, he thinks: 
  “Between this mist and whatever might lie within the stone 
  vessel, I may be on the brink of the most potent decoction I’ve 
  ever brewed—possibly that anyone has.”
  GM 
   The view is magnificent and almost incomprehensible from where 
  you wade through the mist. Endless fields of graves, too many 
  to count, stretching in all directions to the jagged horizon. Few 
  things stand out among the tombs: in one direction, far away, you 
  see a giant oak-like tree breaking out from the graves. In another, 
  you see a mausoleum taller than the rest, surrounded by pillars. 
  You can also make out the plague pit where you first emerged from 
  your coffin. You begin to climb the statues.
   
   Roll another Agility test please to see if you safely 
  reach the jar.
  Player 
   Gritting his teeth, Wemut hugs the figure’s robed form as he 
  continues up toward the jar, one arm out before him as if he could 
  will it to extend even further and reach his desired treasure.
  
  9
   
   The player rolls a d20 and gets a 9.
    
  GM 
   Wanna keep it or use an Omen to reroll?
  Player 
   How about using it to reduce the DR by 4?
  GM 
   You can, sure! If you want.
  Player 
   Ok, let’s do that-even if I still failed the roll.
  GM 
   You nimbly begin to mount the jar-wielding statues but notice 
  immediately that they are slick with mold or algae from the 
  moisture. The water rushing over them doesn’t really help. But you 
  try your best to climb, aided by the spider-soup powers and reach 
  high enough to touch the jar... but then—it’s like the world pauses 
  for a brief moment when your grip betrays you, and you smash 
  your face against the head of one statue. Then tumble down, arms 
  flailing, into the mist and water below. A sudden splash. Freezing 
  cold. A lightning bolt of pain in your neck. The loud mocking 
  laughter of devilish cherubs echoing in your ears. The world spins. 
  Soaking wet and cold you are swallowed by the mist. Then the world 
  goes silent and black.
   
  ..
   
  ...
   
   Your life flashes before your eyes. Flashes of your childhood, your 
  early years. Moments of pain, hope and surrender. But, they’re not 
  quite... yours. Details are slightly altered. Faces distorted. Places 
  shifted. It’s not like you used to remember it. But which one is true? 
   
   You come to your senses again, lying on your back, wet with cold 
  water. Everything hurts. It feels like you’ve been asleep for ages 
  but the fact that you can still see in this dark corridor tells you you 
  haven’t been down for long. You are back at the corridor with the 
  three urns, lying next to the crack in the wall leading to where you 
  first started.
   
   Lower each Ability by 1. You have aged significantly. 
  And your teeth are gone.
  Guest 
   Damn dude.
  
  10
  GM 
   Graven-Tosk is weird.
  Guest 
   You ended this man’s whole career.
  GM 
   Don’t shoot the messenger. :)
   
  Missed the DR by 1.
   
   16 to climb. I gave +2 because of the spider-owl soup.  
  Another 4 for the omen. Rolled a 9...
  Guest 
   You ever just fall down so hard that you become an old man?
  GM 
   Back where you started. Older, confused and toothless. 
  Player 
   Amazing.
  Player 
   Coughing, Wemut heaves himself over onto his side so that he can 
  push himself off of the wet floor and slowly rise. He looks toward 
  the urns and rubs his jaw, feeling for the first time his lack of teeth. 
  Then he notices the wrinkles on the back of his hand and gasps. 
  Glancing once more at the urns, Wemut turns in the opposite 
  direction and shuffles into the dark catacombs.
  GM 
   You stand up, bent and frail. The first step feels like you’ve slept for 
  ages. Head spinning, the dry gums of your mouth feel weird against 
  your tongue. Passing the skeletons standing in the niches you 
  realize they too are toothless. All of them. 
   
   As you walk down the corridor, it gets slightly warmer for every 
  step. There is something lying on the floor before you; a discarded 
  lantern. Hooded, rusty and dented. You hear a low scratching, 
  scurrying noise in front of you like the sound insects make when 
  they’re way too many.
  Player 
   Wemut reaches down for the lantern with one hand, the other 
  seeking out the warhammer hopefully hanging from his belt. 
  He squints, trying to determine whether there is enough oil in the 
  lantern for it to be lit ... somehow.
  GM 
   You pick it up. It is wet, dented and damaged but there seems to be 
  oil left in it.
  Player 
   Opening the lantern, Wemut takes his warhammer and crowbar, 
  striking them against one another in an effort to create enough 
  sparks to ignite the lantern. He glances around as he does, seeking 
  out the source of the scratching sounds.
  
  11
  GM 
   Your back hurts a bit when you bow down to try to produce a spark 
  near the opened lantern. You strike the metal tools together. Clink! 
  No spark. Again. Clank! The moisture makes it impossible to 
  produce a flame. One last time. Clink! 
   
   The nature of the corridor shifts suddenly. A light! At the end of the 
  corridor, it’s as if a torch was lit further away, beyond the curve. At 
  the same time, the rest of the corridor, where you kneel with the 
  lantern, goes completely black. You no longer see in darkness, and 
  perhaps the light further on was always there, but your bewitched 
  sight could not spot it? 
   
  The lantern remains unlit.
  Player 
   Muttering to himself, Wemut slips his crowbar back into a loop on 
  his belt and picks up the unlit lantern, walking toward the light in 
  the distance. His steps are slow, his weight on the rear leg to try and 
  avoid falling face-first into the pitch-black corridor.
   
   GM, knowing what’s coming, rolls 2d6 for reaction.  
  Gets a 10; ‘almost helpful’.
  GM 
   Slowly advancing toward the light, the warmth and the insect 
  noise, you are soon met with a stench so foul you must cover your 
  nose and mouth or vomit. It is clear that whatever lies ahead is 
  rotten, rancid and vile. The corridor turns slightly to the right, a 
  wide bend. As you proceed, you soon see the end of the hallway—an 
  illuminated archway leading into a room lit by torches or lanterns 
  or a fire of some sort. It stinks. And from where you stand you 
  can just make out that the floor seems to shift and move. Like it’s 
  vibrating, or rippling. You take one more cautious step and realize 
  that the ground in the room ahead is completely covered with 
  bugs. They crawl in droves, scurrying about haplessly in the warm 
  light. There is more to the room than you see from where you stand 
  though. You are perhaps 20–30 feet away from the room.
  Player 
   Trying to choke back the sick rising in his throat, Wemut suddenly 
  launches forward, his aging joints aching, to get to one of the lights 
  despite the skittering carpet of bugs. 
  
  12
  Player 
   If it looks like I can grab a lantern, I will, or else try 
  to light the lantern with a torch. Unless it turns out 
  they’re not what I think ...
  GM 
   You rush into the room, trampling centipedes and cockroaches 
  under your foot, their gooey insides squirt and spray like crushed 
  fruit across their brethren. You enter a disgusting lair, an 
  (unfortunately) torch-lit crypt chamber that no man should ever 
  need to witness. Everywhere is shitstained debris crawling with 
  cockroaches of all sizes. Some the size of a thumb, others as large 
  as small dogs or plague-fat rats. In the far corner of the rancid lair 
  is a throne of trash—broken pillars, human bones and skulls, a 
  decapitated statue’s angelic head, clothes, rags and broken caskets. 
  Sitting in this chair is an old, dirty man in tattered rags. His filth-
  crusted hair caked with mud, vomit and shit. His eyes half-blind, 
  arms knitted with scars and warts. He sits upon the throne, resting 
  his head upon his bent knees, petting an oily, fat cockroach in 
  his hand, kissing it now and then. When you barge in, he tilts his 
  head in your direction, inspects you for a second then asks calmly. 
  “Are you alive or dead? Or neither?”
   
   In the other corner of the room, on the opposite side of the throne, 
  is an archway that leads further into the catacombs. From it you 
  can hear the sound of rushing water.
  Player 
   “I am—or was—alive, I thought. But now I fear that may no longer 
  be the case, and I suffer in some nightmarish torment. I am sorry,” 
  Wemut’s eyes widen, and he begins to retch. “I want—I want—” 
  He chokes back vomit from the overwhelming nature of the scene, 
  his senses reeling. Wemut tries to run toward the sound of running 
  water and, he hopes, away from the intense stench of this room. 
  One arm is outstretched in an effort to avoid obstacles that might 
  knock him to the insect-infected ground.
  GM 
   You scramble through the insects toward the nearest exit. Jumping, 
  skipping, dashing in the stench of filth and rot. The man follows 
  you with his gaze, and you can hear his voice as you reach the dark 
  archway. “This life, this whole world is a nightmarish torment. 
  But there’s no running from it. No, my friend. You can’t run.” 
   
   Reaching the passage to the rushing water you realize that it is pitch 
  black. The only light is from the torches illuminating this room.
  
  13
  Player 
   Cursing under his breath, Wemut pauses in the filthy room, 
  standing in the light to try and mix together another cup of Spider-
  Owl Soup. He kicks at any bugs that try to crawl up his legs while 
  doing so. 
   
   This would be decoction dose 2 of 2 if the ingredients 
  weren’t stolen while I was unconscious.
   
   Recognizing the uncomfortable scene of him rummaging for 
  various occult ingredients, Wemut swallows a lump in his throat 
  mid-search and asks the man on the throne, in a quiet voice:  
  “What—who are you? What is this place?”
  GM 
   You’re doing the best you can to cook something up quick while 
  simultaneously kicking and shoving waves upon waves of 
  cockroaches. When you turn to the man in the throne you see 
  that he has released his pet bug and is now taking a step down the 
  throne towards you. The bugs on the floor near him immediately 
  come crawling towards him, climbing up on his legs and into his 
  clothes. He doesn’t seem to mind much.
   
   “What’s the matter, stranger? You seem confused. This place does 
  have a tendency to... get to you. But, there’s no need to be afraid. 
  This chamber of mine is ... safe.”
   
   He is now halfway across the room towards you, about 10 feet from 
  where you stand. You notice that he has a rope or a belt of some sort 
  hanging, curled in his ragged clothes. Then you understand that it 
  must be a whip. Made from dead cockroaches stitched and linked 
  together into a disgusting bug-corpse chain.
  Player 
  This is gross as hell and I love it.
  Player 
   Wemut continues to try and calm himself down from gagging and 
  heaving while he works on his potion, but his eyes are locked on 
  the approaching man. “Please, my lord, please—stay back. I want 
  to believe you, but ... these sights, these creatures ...” He shakes 
  his head. “I cannot stay here. Grant me a torch or let me light my 
  lantern from it, and I will go.”
  GM 
   He stops in his steps. The room is quite loud with the scurrying of a 
  million legs.
  
  14
  GM 
   “Where are you heading then? That way?” He points a finger at 
  the archway behind you “Strong currents and strangling death in 
  there.” Notices a cockroach crawling on the hand he pointed with. 
  Shakes it off.
   
   “You’d be better off leaving the way you came. But tell me... where 
  will you go?”
  Player 
   Thinking for a moment, Wemut shrugs and sighs. “I know not. 
  But if this is no place for me, then I will go elsewhere.” He pauses 
  before continuing. “Do you know what is in the three urns back 
  the way I came?”
  GM 
   ”Ashes and bones I suppose.” He looks a bit concerned.  
  ”Roaches won’t go near them. Something’s wrong with them.”
  Player 
   “I see,” Wemut responds quietly. He roots around in his sack with 
  one hand to retrieve a bit of food, which he holds up and extends 
  toward the man. “This is for you. Thank you for your kindness.” 
  Wemut attempts to hand the man the rations and then move to light 
  his lantern from one of the torches.
  GM 
   The man gives a wide smile, his eyes staring madly at the food, 
  then at you. He begins to stutter. ”F-f-for m-me?” He quickly 
  snatches the food from your hand, and sinks his teeth in it without 
  hesitation. Between bites he looks up at you. ”I have not ... eaten 
  proper ...... food in days ... weeks perhaps.”
   
   You light the lantern from the closest torch, its dented hood 
  focusing the light in a bright cone.
  Player 
   “Take care,” Wemut says, heading back out to the corridor from 
  which he’d arrived, seeking out the urns. As he walks, he frees his 
  crowbar from its loop on his belt. “If the insects are repelled by the 
  urns’ contents, then I will solve the mystery as to why,” he mutters 
  to himself.
  GM 
   You leave the bugs and the filth and the man to his own. Back to the 
  skeleton-bordered corridor, the crack and tunnel in the wall, and 
  the first of the three giant urns.
  Player 
   Setting his lantern on the floor nearby, pointed at the urns, Wemut 
  takes to scraping away what resin he can from the urn lids, looking 
  for enough of a hold to gain leverage and pry the lid free.
  
  15
  GM 
   You begin to work your way through the resin, it cracks and 
  crumbles like dried wax and reveals a simple, flat ceramics lid 
  resting on the urn’s opening. Just as you’ve removed enough to 
  pry it open, the sharp shadow you cast on the urn fades, as another 
  light source approaches from behind. You turn around and see 
  the ragged man following you, torch in hand. ”If you don’t mind, 
  I figure I’d come with you. I really appreciated our talk back there 
  and it feels like we got really close.”
  Player 
   “Ahh, er, of course,” Wemut replies, looking over his shoulder at 
  the man. “If you’ll stay right there for a moment, I’m going to 
  look inside this urn. I’m a collector, you see. Of herbs and eldritch 
  things that I might use. And I get the feeling that something in 
  here will be useful...” He turns his attention back to the urn to 
  pry the lid off with his crowbar.
   
   GM rolls a d4 on a table to see what the first urn contains. 
  Gets a 3. Our first monster encounter.
  GM 
  Oh shit
  Player 
  uh oh
  GM 
   ”As you wish. But, do be careful. You never know what might be 
  buried here.”
   
   and with that—Pling!—the lid flies open and lands cracked with a 
  splash in the ankle deep water. You close in to have a peek and see 
  this:
   
   Curled inside the urn is a decomposed corpse, sitting in a fetal 
  position looking up to the urn opening, face distorted in a 
  terrifying grimace of fear and anguish. The entire torso has been 
  torn to pieces, chewed on and eaten by the creature that also 
  resides here.
   
  ”BZZZZZZ”
   
   Something moves, a cranium sized, bristled lump of rot-black, many 
  legged depravity. And with a buzzing noise, it springs up from the 
  corpse and flies out of the urn to defend its food. A giant fly, wings 
  buzzing like a chainsaw and mandibles dripping with blood and pus.
  
  16
  GM 
   ”Watch out!!” the man cries in the back.
   
  Roll for initiative please
   
   The player rolls a d6, gets a 1. The enemy will go first. 
  Because of different time zones and the Play-by-post format, 
  the GM asks him to also roll for defence. It’s a 1, a fumble. 
   
  The GM then rolls a d4 for damage. A 1. The fumble ruins 
  Wemut’s armor completely, making it useless. It also doubles 
  the damage to a total of 2. Wemut is now at -1 HP. Dead:
  GM 
   You immediately step back to avoid the frenzied corpse fly, tripping 
  on the lantern on the floor. You land on your back in the water, the 
  light cone splash across the corridor ceiling and the urn and the 
  giant, angry insect diving down upon you. It goes straight for the 
  jugular. Digging its razor sharp, barbed mandibles into your flesh. 
  There is a sharp pain and the horrified scream of the man behind 
  you, partly drowned by the deafening buzzing of your executioner’s 
  wings. So. Much. Pain. 
  — 
  You see the blurry silhouette of the man dashing into view, flailing 
  his torch at the fly, sending it flying across the corridor with a 
  ’thud’. You’re still partly alive when he kneels down by your side. 
  Checking pockets, checking pouches. ”Apologies. But I need it 
  more than you do.” Taking the last remaining valuables  you own 
  before leaving you in the dark, damp crypt to bleed out. 
   
  All. Goes. Black. 
   
  
  17
  GM 
   Vague memories. A buzzing noise. A whisper? Just a dream,  
  or a nightmare? What is even reality?
  GM 
   You awaken suddenly with a gasp. There’s no telling for how long 
  you’ve been asleep, or what actually happened. The last thing you 
  remember is crossing the gloomy burial grounds of Graven-Tosk in 
  search of ingredients of rare obscurity, far from home. There was 
  a voice, a whisper that sends chills down your spine. But then, you 
  draw blanks. Now, where are you? Your eyes are open but it’s still 
  void-black, and dead quiet. You try to stretch but realize you can’t, 
  as if you’re stuck in a box. In your head, a devil hammering away on 
  a wardrum. In your mouth, a desert. What a lovely day.
   
   But that is for another Wemut to experience, another 
  time and place. With no memories of what happened earlier. 
  This marks the end of your game I’m afraid.
  GM 
  1 HP is hardcore. Thanks, I had a lot of fun
  Player 
  That was great!
  GM 
   I’d love to post the transcript of the game if you’re 
  cool with it? If anyone wants to read.
  Player 
  Sure!
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/MÖRK BORG/Mork Borg - Mörk Borg Cult - Graves Left Wanting - Transcript.pdf