The Accidental Explorer's Journal (Pt.1)

A Cartograph Playthrough

Greetings, fellow adventurers! It's me again, back with a slightly different kind of tale from the tabletop. This time, we're venturing far beyond the familiar (and perpetually gloomy) streets of Wotta Rue, and into a land so new, it doesn't even have a proper name yet. Prepare to trade your daggers and dark alleys for compasses and… well, slightly less dark clearings, as we embark on a journey of exploration with Cartograph Atlas Edition!

Before we dive in, a bit of context for the uninitiated. Cartograph Atlas Edition isn't your typical TTRPG. It's an "artefact game," meaning that the game itself creates something tangible as you play. In this case, it's a map – a literal and metaphorical chart of your character's journey through an unknown land. The game cleverly blends narrative prompts with mapmaking mechanics, so you're not just telling a story, you're drawing it, piece by unpredictable piece. You won't be dictating every detail; the dice and the game's prompts will decide what landmarks, creatures, and encounters populate your world, leaving you to react and adapt. It's a truly solo experience, a conversation between you and the game itself, where combat takes a backseat to exploration, discovery, and the sheer, delightful randomness of charting the unknown.

You do create a character, a lone explorer sent to this new land with minimal resources – in my case, a meagre 1 coin, 1 mysterious "ware," and 1 unit of (thankfully edible) food. The game then helps you flesh out this blank slate. Meet Jovar Thane, a Nomad driven by Generosity, known for his Audacious disposition. He hails from a depleted, yet beautiful land, forced to leave behind a lifelong companion to undertake this expedition for his company. Picture him: wide, flat nose, immaculately clean gown (for now, at least!), and a past marked by a painful voyage via a mysterious vehicle—a journey marred by betrayal.

Now, due to the rather extensive nature of Jovar's cartographic endeavours (and the sheer volume of unexpected events he encountered), I'll be presenting this playthrough in two parts. Think of it as two chapters in an unfolding saga. But don’t worry, we will be returning to the grim and grimy world of Wotta Rue and our beloved Boroth Sunderman very shortly.

Remember, Cartograph Atlas Edition is all about creating an artefact. In this case, that artefact is a map – a tangible record of Jovar's journey, complete with all its glorious (and inglorious) details. I'll be sharing the evolution of this map alongside the journal entries, so you can witness the cartographic chaos firsthand. And, I'll make the final version available for download at the end. Feel free to use it, adapt it, or let it inspire your own TTRPG adventures! (Personal use only).

Day 1: Into the Dark Grove

We touched down in the heart of a vast and verdant forest, a stark contrast to the depleted lands of my homeland. The air here crackles with an unseen energy, a symphony of life unlike anything I've ever encountered. Our landing site, nestled amongst the towering trees, proved to be a timeworn sanctuary. Strange effigies, etched into the bark of the sentinels, spoke of a druidic people who once held dominion over this domain. Symbols of the Green Man, the elements, and the animal kingdom whispered of a deep connection to the natural world.

As the alien sun dipped below the horizon, we set out to replenish our provisions. Following a well-worn trail, we soon stumbled upon a sight that would make even the most seasoned hunter gawk. A herd of behemoths, their clay-like hides a patchwork of earthy hues, grazed peacefully in the thickets. Each footstep left an imprint larger than my outstretched hand, their immense bulk rivalling the primordial beasts of legend. Yet, their small, wagging tails and hippo-like heads lent them an air of surprising gentleness.

We fanned out, our movements as silent as the falling leaves. Taking cover behind the gnarled trunks, we notched our arrows, the taut strings humming with anticipation. I took aim on the lead beast, its massive head a tempting target. A silent prayer to whatever gods ruled this land, and then the twang of bowstrings. Six of the giants crumpled, their bellows echoing through the twilight. Tonight, we will feast.

As the flames licked at the succulent meat, a lone traveller emerged from the shadows. With my usual audacity, I beckoned him to join our impromptu feast. He approached cautiously, his eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. Settling on a fallen log, he shared tales of a bygone era, a time when the Vivolkar, shapeshifting druids, roamed these lands. Their legacy lived on in the effigies that adorned the trees, their meanings now clear thanks to our guest's wisdom.

The night deepened, filled with the crackling of the fire and the murmur of shared stories. Tomorrow, we would venture deeper into this wondrous land, our hearts filled with a sense of hope and excitement.

Day 2: The City of Greatleaf

Dawn broke, painting the ancient boughs with hues of gold and crimson – a sight almost pretty enough to make one forget the behemoth jerky churning uneasily in one's stomach. Our erstwhile companion, a creature of the shadows and whispered secrets, had vanished with the first light, leaving us to our explorations. With a breakfast that would make a barbarian blush – more of the aforementioned jerky, surprisingly palatable after a night's curing – we struck camp and plunged deeper into the emerald embrace of the Dark Grove. The forest floor, a treacherous tapestry of moss and fern that seemed determined to twist an ankle, offered footing only slightly less reliable than a politician's promise. The air, thick with the drone of unseen insects and the cloying scent of damp earth, promised a day of, shall we say, vigorous exploration.

For hours, we pressed on, our path a frustrating dance with a tangle of vines that seemed to possess a malevolent sentience, and fallen logs that appeared to have been strategically placed by some mischievous forest sprite. While hunger wasn't precisely gnawing – we were, after all, practically swimming in dried behemoth – a certain monotony of flavour was beginning to set in. We pressed on, though, and we found ourselves grateful for the supply.

Finally, as the sun began its descent, the forest grudgingly yielded, opening onto a vista that stole what little breath remained in our weary lungs. A city, its spires piercing the twilight sky like the accusing fingers of a particularly judgemental god, sprawled before us. Its walls, crafted from some pale, unyielding stone that seemed to drink the light, shimmered with an inner, almost unsettling glow. A steady stream of figures, clad in the sombre hues of academia – the universal uniform of those who prefer books to sunlight – flowed through its gates. Their voices, a low, murmuring symphony of scholarly discourse, drifted on the wind like the rustling of dry leaves.

We approached with a mixture of trepidation and the desperate hope for a decent meal that didn't involve jerky. The city's name, Greatleaf, seemed a cruel jest, given its stark, almost brutalist architecture and the distinct lack of anything resembling foliage within its walls. Yet, as we ventured deeper into its labyrinthine streets, we began to understand – or at least, to suspect we understood – the source of its moniker.

The city's inhabitants, a curious breed of scholars and mages with the pale complexions of creatures who hadn't seen the sun in centuries, devoted their lives to unravelling the mysteries of the seasons. Not in the practical, "will-my-turnips-grow" sense, but in the "can-we-bend-time-and-space-to-our-whims" sort of way. Their libraries overflowed with arcane texts bound in the skin of creatures I'd rather not contemplate, and strange contraptions that hummed with an energy that made the hairs on my arms stand on end.

We found ourselves drawn to a particular building, larger than the rest, from which emanated a rhythmic thump-thump-thump. Curiosity, that most dangerous of human (or otherwise) traits, got the better of us. Inside, we discovered a vast chamber dominated by a colossal, intricate machine. It was a chaotic symphony of gears, pipes, crystals, and what appeared to be a rather large, and very annoyed, captive seasonal sprite.

An elderly mage, his beard so long it seemed to be in danger of becoming entangled in the machinery, noticed our bewildered expressions. He introduced himself, with a sigh that suggested he'd explained this a thousand times before, as Archivist Hemlock. The machine, he explained, was the "Seasonal Harmoniser," designed to – and I quote – "regulate the temporal flow of elemental energies and ensure the equitable distribution of meteorological phenomena." In simpler terms, they were trying to control the weather. Which, given the state of my homeland, I have mixed feelings about.

The thump-thump-thump was, apparently, the sound of the Harmoniser "harmonising." Or, more accurately, the sound of the captive sprite protesting its imprisonment.

Hemlock, with the weary air of a man who had long since given up on common sense, invited us to "observe the process." This involved standing very close to a machine that looked as though it might explode at any moment, while listening to the increasingly frantic cries of the sprite.

Suddenly, the thumping intensified. The machine began to shake violently. Sparks flew. Hemlock, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and academic fascination, muttered something about "unforeseen harmonic resonance."

Then, with a deafening BANG, the machine exploded. Not in a fiery, destructive way, but in a burst of pure, concentrated spring. Flowers erupted from every crack and crevice. Vines sprouted from the walls. The air filled with the scent of blossoms and the buzzing of bees. The captive sprite, now free and considerably less annoyed, gave us a mischievous wink before vanishing in a shower of petals.

Hemlock, covered in pollen and looking utterly defeated, simply stared at the chaos. We, on the other hand, decided that discretion was the better part of valour and made a hasty retreat.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of slightly less explosive, but no less bizarre, sights and sounds. We haggled with wizened merchants, their stalls overflowing with exotic wares that probably contravened several laws of nature. We marvelled at the intricate, and often incomprehensible, devices on display in the workshops. And we listened, spellbound, to the tales of the city's elders, their voices raspy with age and the dust of a thousand forgotten scrolls.

As night fell, smelling faintly of spring and feeling rather lucky to be alive, we found ourselves drawn to a bustling tavern. The air inside was thick with the scent of ale and roasted meat – a welcome change from the ubiquitous aroma of behemoth jerky – and the raucous laughter of patrons filled our ears. We secured a table in a dimly lit corner, far from anything that looked remotely like a "Harmoniser," and settled in for a night of well-deserved revelry. And maybe, just maybe, a few answers to the question of why anyone would build a city dedicated to controlling the weather in the middle of a perfectly good forest.

Day 3: Return to the Grove

Yet, even amidst the gloom, a spark of wonder – or perhaps a bloody miracle, given our luck – ignited. As we trudged through the sodden undergrowth, a beacon of light, like a drunken constellation, pierced the gloom. It hovered in the distance, a shimmering orb of fireflies, dancing in the twilight with a rhythm that seemed to mock the storm's fury. We approached cautiously, our hearts pounding a rhythm of their own – a primal drumbeat of anticipation and, let's be honest, a healthy dose of fear.

As we drew near, the light flared, bathing the forest in an ethereal glow, as if the Green Man himself had decided to grace us with his presence. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished, leaving behind a trail of shimmering dust, like the powdered dreams of a forgotten god. The dust, warm to the touch, hummed with a faint, internal light, and smelled faintly of ozone and something indescribably old.

We gathered the dust, our fingers tracing the intricate, almost microscopic patterns that adorned its surface. It felt strangely alive, a tiny universe contained within each grain. A tentative touch to the skin, and a wave of… well, not pain, for a change. Our aches and pains, the souvenirs of our ill-advised adventure, seemed to melt away like snow in a summer furnace.

Day 4: The Shifting City of Wendrift

The next morning, we set out with a renewed sense of purpose, though "purpose" might be a strong word for "not getting hopelessly lost in the woods again." Our path led us through the heart of the Dark Grove, its emerald embrace a welcome respite from the harsh realities of our expedition – and a blessed break from the endless vista of, well, anything that wasn't trees. As we ventured deeper into its depths, we stumbled upon a sight that defied all expectations, and possibly several laws of physics.

A city, its walls crafted from some shimmering, iridescent material that seemed to ripple like heat haze, materialised before us. Not "appeared," mind you, but materialised, as if the very air had decided to coalesce into a metropolis. Its buildings, a riot of organic shapes and impossible angles, seemed to writhe and shift before our very eyes – a dizzying display that made one question one's sanity, or at least one's breakfast. The city's name, Wendrift, seemed apt, for it felt as if the very fabric of reality was in flux within its boundaries, like a dream struggling to maintain coherence.

We approached cautiously, our senses reeling from the sensory overload. It wasn't just the visual strangeness; the air itself hummed with a low, almost subsonic thrum, and the ground beneath our feet felt… responsive, somehow. The city's inhabitants, a curious blend of human and something… other, regarded us with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Their eyes, pools of liquid silver, seemed to pierce our very souls, assessing us with an unnerving intelligence.

As we ventured deeper into the city's labyrinthine streets, we learned of its unique sentience – a concept that would make a philosopher's head explode. The city, it seemed, was a living entity, its moods and whims reflected in the shifting architecture. Those who approached with ill intent, we were told in hushed whispers, found themselves trapped in a maze of dead ends and shifting alleyways, a concrete embodiment of their own twisted desires. Yet, those who came in peace… Well, they might just find things a little easier.

We were, at this point, attempting to locate a specific purveyor of rare herbs – a task that, in a normal city, would be challenging enough. In Wendrift, it felt akin to finding a specific grain of sand on a particularly large beach. We wandered for what felt like hours, the streets twisting and turning with no discernible logic. Just as I was about to declare the whole endeavour a fool's errand and suggest we return to the relative sanity of the behemoth-infested forest, we rounded a corner and… there it was.

The herb shop, nestled between a building that appeared to be upside-down and another that seemed to be constructed entirely of stained glass, was exactly as it had been described to us. A small, unassuming sign, depicting a sprig of some unidentifiable plant, hung above the door. It was almost too easy.

As we entered, a faint, almost imperceptible shift occurred in the air around us. The low thrumming intensified momentarily, and a subtle warmth seemed to emanate from the floorboards. It was as if the city itself had given a tiny, approving nod.

The shopkeeper, a woman with eyes that held the wisdom of centuries, greeted us with a knowing smile. "Looking for something specific?" she asked, her voice a low, melodious hum.

We spent the rest of the day within the peculiar embrace of Wendrift. Our minds reeled from the sheer impossibility of it all. We bartered for strange trinkets in the marketplace, our coins exchanged for objects that seemed to defy the laws of physics – a box that was bigger on the inside, a feather that wrote in shimmering ink, a stone that whispered forgotten prophecies. We listened to tales of the city's origins, our imaginations fired by the sheer audacity of its creation – stories of ancient druids, powerful elementals, and a pact forged with the very spirit of the land.

As night fell, we found ourselves drawn to a cosy tavern, the air inside thick with the scent of exotic spices and the murmur of conversation – a welcome change from the unsettling quiet of the shifting streets. We secured a table near the hearth, a comforting island of normalcy in a sea of the bizarre, and settled in for a night of storytelling, hoping to glean some further understanding of this impossible place. Or, at the very least, to get pleasantly drunk.

The next morning, we awoke with a sense of disorientation, as if waking from a particularly vivid dream. Wendrift, with its shifting realities and sentient architecture, had challenged our perceptions of the world, perhaps permanently. Yet, we left with a newfound appreciation for the boundless possibilities of existence, and a sneaking suspicion that the city had, in its own subtle way, approved of us. Or, at the very least, hadn't found us worthy of being trapped in an infinite loop of geometrically impossible alleyways. Which, in Wendrift, was probably the highest compliment one could receive.

To be continued…

Thus concludes the first leg of Jovar Thane's cartographic misadventures. He's survived giant behemoths, a city full of scholars with a penchant for exploding machinery, and a metropolis that seems to actively dislike straight lines. But can he survive… the rest of the map? Find out later today in Part 2, where the dangers get (probably) worse, the maps get (possibly) more accurate, and the jerky supply (hopefully) remains intact!