"Var-esh: Ashes to Ashes" is a narrative retelling of a single-player Dungeons & Dragons campaign run by ChatGPT. The images included in this post were created by ChatGPT's image generator, Sora, based on descriptions provided throughout the campaign, and the story was driven by AI and shaped by decisions made by a human and his dice rolls along the way.
Var-esh, the young red Dragonborn paladin, cast out of his home after the
Seige of Saurothax, trudged down a rutted dirt path under a bright morning sky. But the peaceful veneer of the surrounding woods was shattered when he caught sight of several shambling figures dragging themselves from the shadows—undead. Their decayed limbs and soulless stares turned the once serene forest into a waking nightmare.
Initially, Var-esh lingered, sizing up the grotesque creatures. Their movements were slow, their moans low and hollow. But the scene darkened when four ghouls suddenly jerked toward him, their hunger palpable, their rotten claws reaching for his flesh. There was no time for hesitation. He sprang into action, steel flashing, his breath weapon igniting the air with searing heat. The clash was brutal, the stench of charred rot filling his nostrils as he hacked and scorched his way through the pack.
But amid the carnage, one ghoul stood apart. "Zombie 5," as Var-esh would later dub the creature, was quiet—a forlorn figure that seemed bound not by rage, but by sorrow. Its hollow eyes carried a weight that felt hauntingly human, its stance tentative as though fighting an inner torment. The undead horror made no move to attack, and Var-esh hesitated, struck by the sheer oddity of its demeanor. For the first time in days, his weapon faltered. Var-esh clutched the jeweled pendant around his neck—the sacred relic known as the Dragon's Heart—as he muttered a prayer for a soul long lost. What made this creature different? What secrets lay beneath its decaying shell?
Zombie 5 loomed near a weathered tombstone, its posture stiff, almost... protective? The gravestone, cracked and worn by time, bore a single name carved deep into its surface: Vellin.
Just beside the grave yawned a partially collapsed hole, the earth around it clawed and raw. From the depths of the grave, a faint, unnatural light pulsed, casting eerie shadows that seemed to dance in the morning light on the undead's decaying frame.
Var-esh’s eyes narrowed as unease settled over him. Was this creature—the same pitiful, broken thing that had refused to attack him—standing watch over whatever lay buried beneath? The thought was as haunting as the being itself. Against reason, against every instinct honed through blood and flame, the paladin dared something unheard of. He lowered his blade and tried to communicate with the undead.
The creature twitched, its head jerking spasmodically toward him. Its gurgling voice spilled fragmented words, wet and ragged: “Vellin... was...” But before the cryptic phrase could be finished, Zombie 5 collapsed with a sudden, lifeless thud, its grotesque form crumpling at Var-esh’s feet. The magical light from the grave flickered, and Var-esh stood there in grim silence, his unease deepening.
Var-esh drove his longsword into the earth, wielding it not as a weapon, but as a crude shovel, and he began to dig up whatever was in that hole. Each thrust sent damp soil scattering, the blade biting into the ground with a purposeful defiance that mirrored its master. After a grueling effort, the dirt gave way to something ancient—a spiral of stone steps, descending into the gloom like the maw of a long-dead beast. Var-esh hesitated, the air suddenly colder, heavier. But curiosity—or perhaps duty—dragged him forward.
The staircase led to a tomb steeped in foreboding history. Shadows clung to the walls, where faded murals told a story half-drowned in moss and decay. Var-esh traced the figures with a wary eye. The images depicted a tiefling man—perhaps Vellin—etched into the stone like a whisper of glory long forgotten. In one mural, the horned protector stood among his people, his posture noble. In another, he wielded a serpent-crowned staff, seemingly healing the sick. But the scenes darkened. The third image showed him in a state of intense mourning—his anguish palpable even through cracked stone. And then came the fourth: his expression twisted, his staff altered and bent in a sinister way, his fury blazing through time itself. And above Vellin (if this was truly him), a symbol that looked like a twisted tree surrounded by a jagged circle.
What truths did these murals speak? Var-esh could only wonder, the weight of their story pressing down on him like the tomb itself.
Across the chamber, something caught his eye: an ornate pedestal, where a tome rested open and exposed. Its pages crawled with magical runes, their forms incomplete as though abandoned mid-ritual. The air around the book crackled faintly, hinting at dark practices—twisted spells woven through the fabric of life and death. A pulsating purple glow spilled faintly from a stone doorway at the far end of the tomb, cracked just enough to reveal its unnatural light.
Var-esh, no master of magic, felt unmoored in the face of the arcane. He grabbed the leatherbound book, its worn cover protesting under his grip, and turned away from the glow, choosing to leave the ominous mysteries for an expert to decipher. As he ascended the stairs, the silent pulse of the tomb followed him, a sinister reminder that whatever truth lay buried here would not stay buried forever.
Var-esh made his way back to the winding dirt path, his boots heavy with the weight of what he had just unearthed. Ahead lay the outline of a small town, its modest charm standing in stark contrast to the horrors he’d faced. A finely carved wooden sign creaked on rusted hinges, bearing the name “Gavinsboro” in delicate script. The paladin’s eyes scanned the quiet streets, his guard still raised.
The first building he approached was the Resting Roost Inn, its weathered facade lending additional charm to this quaint little town. Inside, a sharp-eyed innkeeper greeted him—a woman whose friendly demeanor belied her rough exterior and the scars on her hands, as if she’d known her share of battles. When Var-esh inquired about someone versed in deciphering magical runes, she pointed him toward Jasper, a local historian and eccentric known for his obsession with forgotten lore, who was sitting alone at a small table toward the back of the lobby.
Following her advice, Var-esh made his way toward the man. The scribe was unmistakable—a wiry man wrapped in patched robes, his fingers stained with ink, his eyes alight with a peculiar gleam. He seemed to radiate an energy that teetered on the edge of brilliance and madness. After a brief but charged exchange, Var-esh mentioned the unsettling events just beyond the town’s borders—the undead, the tomb, the name Vellin. At this, Jasper froze, his eccentricity melting into a razor-sharp focus.
Producing the tome, Var-esh watched as Jasper’s nimble fingers traced the worn pages, his muttered incantations barely audible over the low hum of the tavern. The scrawny scribe promised to transcribe what he could, his voice tinged with equal parts curiosity and dread. Whatever secrets lingered in those crumbling pages, they would not be uncovered lightly.
As Jasper hunched over the tome, his quill scratching feverishly against parchment, Var-esh roamed the town, restless.
The town noticeboard stood at a crossroads, its wooden planks battered by wind and time. The noble paladin scanned the clutter of faded posters and curling parchment, the ink smudged from years of neglect. One notice, fresher than the others, caught his eye:
“MISSING – Thomas Darrin, Age 8. Last seen near Gavinsboro Woods.”
The news struck a chord deep in Var-esh’s chest, dredging up memories of the Siege of Saurothax and the family he had lost to its treachery and flames. The notice’s crude sketch of a boy with wide, hopeful eyes lingered in his mind as Var-esh turned and scanned the town for help. Not long thereafter, he spotted a sign that pointed him to his next destination: the sheriff’s station.
A man sat behind a desk inside the building. He introduced himself as Sheriff Renlow. He reached out to shake Var-esh's hand. The sheriff was a man cut from stone, his face weathered and his demeanor unyielding. Yet beneath his stoicism, there was a keen awareness, a practical mind honed by years of guarding a fragile peace.
When Var-esh mentioned the missing child—and the zombies—Renlow’s jaw tightened. The undead were no common pest in Gavinsboro, and their sudden presence reeked of something unnatural. The sheriff listened as Var-esh laid out his suspicions, his words laced with grim certainty: the undead, the rituals, and the ominous name Vellin were threads of the same dark tapestry.
Renlow’s brow furrowed as he considered the paladin’s findings. “If what you’re saying is true,” the sheriff muttered, his voice low, “then this is bigger than one missing boy.” He agreed to head back to the Resting Roost with Var-esh to regroup with Jasper once the tome’s secrets were revealed. A flicker of determination broke through the sheriff's hardened expression.
As they turned toward the Resting Roost, Var-esh couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on him. This was no longer a simple hunt for the source of the undead. The tomb, the glowing light, the missing child—they were fragments of a puzzle far more sinister. And as a gentle breeze blew through the empty streets of Gavinsboro, Var-esh couldn’t help but feel the something sinister clawing its way toward him, tangled with the fate of this town and the shadow of his own experiences.
Var-esh, accompanied by Sheriff Renlow, headed back to the
Resting Roost, where they regrouped with
Jasper, who was still poring over the mysterious tome found in Vellin’s tomb. Jasper and Renlow explained to Var-esh the disturbing patterns of missing children
in Gavinsboro, particularly focusing on Thomas Darrin and a young girl name Celia Markham, both
of whom had vanished under strange circumstances.
After their conversation, Var-esh and the sheriff visited Thomas’s mother,
Mrs. Darrin, and learned that Thomas had been particularly interested in
dragons, even possessing a carved dragon toy before his disappearance. He also
learned about a strange map with an "X" marked on it, leading Var-esh
to suspect that the forest might hold answers.
Var-esh then visited Lydia Markham to investigate her daughter Celia’s
disappearance. Mrs. Markham was an odd woman who lived in a home full of strange artifacts. One item in particular grabbed Var-esh's attention—a wind chime that hung above the front porch; it appeared to be made of animal bones and it made an unsettling noise, even without the presence of wind. Var-esh, fearful that this strange piece of decor may be tied to the mysterious happenings around Gavinsboro, asked Mrs. Markham if she wouldn't mind parting with the chime. Reluctantly, she agreed to give it to Var-esh, who wrapped it in cloth and packed it away. Later, Mrs. Markham described her daughter’s last known
activities, prior to vanishing several years ago.
Throughout the conversations, Var-esh’s divine sense and
suspicions grew, particularly regarding the strange wind chime and the eerie
connection it seemed to have to the otherworldly elements surrounding the
disappearances. Var-esh became more convinced that these events were connected
to dark rituals and possible foul magic.
Afterward, Var-esh led Sheriff Renlow and Jasper out of the town to Vellin’s
tomb to continue their investigation. There, they reviewed the murals depicting
Vellin’s history, with their disturbing imagery of a serpent staff, healing magic,
and a broken artifact. Var-esh had an odd feeling about the wind chime and
decided to hang it in the tomb’s archway, hoping it might unlock some answers. Alas, nothing came of the gesture and the wind chime's purpose remained a secret—for now.
The group agreed that there was more to uncover, and Var-esh expressed his need
to rest, with plans to continue the investigation in the morning. Jasper and Sheriff Renlow agreed to meet the following morning to
further investigate the missing children and the dark forces that seemed to be
at work in the town of Gavinsboro.
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