The Accidental Explorer's Journal (Pt.2)

A Cartograph Playthrough

Welcome back to tales from the tabletop! If you're just joining us, you might want to check out part 1 of The Accidental Explorer's Journal, where our intrepid (and often bewildered) Nomad, Jovar Thane, began his cartographic journey through a land utterly devoid of decent maps.

Previously on The Accidental Explorer's Journal

Jovar landed in the mysterious Dark Grove, hunted giant behemoths, encountered a helpful (if cryptic) traveller, discovered the scholarly city of Greatleaf (and its explosive Seasonal Harmoniser), and navigated the reality-bending streets of Wendrift. All while meticulously (well, mostly meticulously) charting his progress on a map that's becoming increasingly vital to his survival.

Now, with his pockets full of strange trinkets, his head full of even stranger tales, and his back still twinging from a minor run in and new injury, Jovar sets his sights on the next leg of his journey. Let the charting – and the chaos – continue!

The Adventure continued…

Day 5: Echo Ridge

The storm clouds had gathered once more, casting a gloomy pall over the land as we departed Wendrift – a departure that felt less like leaving a city and more like escaping the fever dream of a particularly imaginative deity. The wind howled like a vengeful spirit, or perhaps a banshee with a particularly bad head cold, driving the rain before it in sheets that stung like icy needles. Our path, once clearly marked (or as clearly marked as anything ever was in that part of the world), was now a treacherous morass, a muddy testament to the weather's foul mood.

We pressed on, heads bowed against the elements, our boots sinking into the mire with each squelching step. The coastline, once a source of wonder with its shimmering, otherworldly vistas, was now a menacing barrier, a grim reminder of the sea's untamed power. The waves crashed against the cliffs with the force of a battering ram, their fury echoing across the desolate landscape like the groans of a dying giant.

As we rounded a bend in the path – a bend that seemed determined to be as slippery and treacherous as possible – disaster struck, as it so often does when one least expects it. A sudden gust of wind, a mischievous flick of the storm's wrist, caught me off guard. I stumbled, my arm twisting beneath me with a sickening crack that echoed even above the wind's howl. A sharp pain, like a white-hot poker, shot through my elbow, and I cried out in agony – a cry that was promptly swallowed by the storm.

My companions, bless their sturdy souls, rushed to my aid, their faces etched with concern – a concern that, I suspect, was partly for my well-being and partly for the prospect of having to carry me. They helped me to my feet, their hands surprisingly gentle as they examined my injured arm. The elbow was already swelling, turning a rather alarming shade of purple, the pain throbbing with each pulse of blood like a relentless drumbeat.

We continued on, our pace slowed to a crawl by my injury, the storm raging unabated, the wind and rain a constant, stinging torment. It was the sort of weather that made one question the wisdom of ever leaving one's bed, let alone venturing into a wilderness populated by mythical beasts and unpredictable weather patterns. As night fell, with the dramatic flair of a stage curtain dropping on a particularly tragic play, we finally reached our destination: a town named Echo Ridge. Or rather, what was left of it.

The town had been ravaged by some unknown calamity – a catastrophe that had left it nothing more than a desolate ruin, a skeleton picked clean by time and the elements. Buildings lay in ruins, their walls crumbling into dust like forgotten dreams. Debris littered the streets, a jumbled mess of broken wood and shattered stone, a testament to the destruction that had been wrought. The vegetation, ever opportunistic, had begun to reclaim the town, its tendrils snaking through the rubble like the grasping fingers of the dead.

On the outskirts of the ruins, amidst the wreckage and the encroaching wilderness, we encountered a lone traveller. She had made camp near the remnants of a collapsed building, a small, flickering fire her only defence against the encroaching darkness. Her face, etched with a mixture of sadness and a steely determination that spoke of a spirit unbroken, was illuminated by the firelight.

I approached her cautiously, I couldn't help but feel curious and sorry for her at the same time; an interloper in her grief. She greeted me with a weary smile, a flicker of warmth in the desolate landscape, her eyes filled with a wisdom that belied her years, a wisdom born of hardship and loss.

We spent the night sharing stories, our voices mingling with the mournful cries of the wind – a chorus of shared sorrow. She told me of the day the town had been destroyed, a day that lived on in the whispers of the wind, a day of fire and shadow and unimaginable loss. She spoke of the people who had been lost, their memories etched into the very stones of the ruins, their spirits lingering in the air like a faint, mournful song. As the night wore on, huddled around the dwindling fire, I felt a deep connection to this woman, a fellow traveller on the road of life, a kindred spirit in a world of chaos and uncertainty. I offered her a coin as a token of my gratitude – a small, inadequate gesture in the face of such profound loss – and she accepted it with a grateful nod, her fingers brushing mine.

The next morning, we parted ways, our paths diverging once more, like streams flowing towards different seas. Yet, the memory of our encounter lingered, a poignant reminder of the resilience of the human spirit in the face of adversity, a small spark of hope in the gathering darkness. A reminder, too, that even in the most desolate of ruins, life, in some form, endures.

Day 6 & 7: Tangledrift

The trip south was a humbling experience, and not in the "learning-a-valuable-lesson" sort of way. More in the "tripping-over-your-own-feet-and-landing-face-first-in-a-puddle-of-mud" sort of way. I had, apparently, offended the sentient city of Wendrift with my careless disregard for its customs – specifically, by attempting to pay for a piece of fruit that, as it turned out, was a sacred offering to the city's spirit. A minor infraction, one might think, but in a city where the architecture rearranged itself based on your mood, even minor infractions had… consequences. As a result, Wendrift's streets and alleyways had conspired against us, leading us on a merry chase through its labyrinthine heart, a chase that ended only when we'd offered a profuse (and rather embarrassing) apology to a particularly imposing gargoyle.

With our reputations tarnished and our pride considerably wounded, we left Wendrift behind – or rather, it allowed us to leave – and continued south-east along the coast. The storm had finally broken, leaving behind a world washed clean and sparkling, almost mockingly cheerful. The sun beat down upon us, its warmth a welcome contrast to the chill of the previous days, and a stark reminder that we were, in fact, still alive.

As we rounded a bend in the coastline, we stumbled upon a sight that didn't just defy logic, it assaulted it. A town, its buildings a riot of impossible angles and Escher-esque paradoxes, sprawled before us like a mad architect's fever dream. Its name, Tangledrift, seemed almost understated, for it was a place where the laws of physics seemed to have not just taken a holiday, but emigrated entirely. This wasn't the subtle sentience of Wendrift; this was outright chaos, a place where up could be down, left could be right, and tomorrow could be yesterday, depending on which way the wind was blowing.

We entered the town with a mixture of trepidation and the grim fascination one feels when watching a particularly gruesome accident. Its inhabitants, their faces obscured by bizarre masks that seemed to shift and change with their expressions, regarded us with a wary curiosity, or perhaps it was amusement – it was hard to tell. Their speech was a jumble of riddles and non sequiturs, their customs a baffling mix of the mundane and the bizarre, as if a committee of lunatics had been put in charge of designing a society.

Our goal, as it turned out, was to find a specific cartographer, a master of mapping the unmappable – a skill, one would think, highly valued in a place like Tangledrift. The directions we'd been given were… less than helpful. "Follow the street that isn't there, until you reach the house that's inside-out, then turn left at the right angle that bends backwards." It sounded like a joke, but in Tangledrift, it was probably literal.

We spent the day wandering through Tangledrift's streets, our minds reeling from the sheer impossibility of it all. Houses balanced precariously on stilts, their roofs defying gravity with an almost contemptuous ease. Streets twisted and turned, doubling back on themselves, leading us on a merry chase through the town's heart – a chase that seemed to have no purpose other than to disorient and confuse. And the town's inhabitants, their movements as fluid as water, seemed to glide through the air with effortless grace, occasionally vanishing into thin air and reappearing several feet away, as if the very concept of linear movement was an insult to them.

At one point, I swear I saw a street sign that read, "This Way to Nowhere (Probably)." Another sign, hanging upside-down from a building that was itself sideways, declared, "Beware of the Time-Travelling Squirrels." I decided it was best not to ask.

We found ourselves drawn, more out of desperation than anything else, to a building that looked like a giant, twisted knot. Inside and outside seemed interchangeable. We chose a wall that was currently behaving like a door. We entered. Inside we found the cartographer, and what transpired was the most frustrating hour of my life. It became obvious that the only way to understand the map was to go on a mini quest.

The map itself needed to be activated, and that was only achieved through a small trial. The old coot gave us a riddle: "I have cities, but no houses, forests, but no trees, and water, but no fish; what am I?"

"A map," I retorted, rolling my eyes at the simplicity.

"Wrong!" Shouted the cartographer.

With a click of his fingers, a door, which was just a painting on a wall that was currently the ceiling, opened, and we were sucked into a dark void.

This continued for hours, puzzles, small battles, chases, all the while the map and the cartographer taunted us, until we finally gave the right answer, and we returned to the room.

With our heads spinning and our pockets considerably lighter (the cartographer, it turned out, charged by the paradox), we retired to a nearby inn. The innkeeper, his face hidden behind a grotesque mask that appeared to be made of living wood, greeted us with a toothy grin that was more unsettling than welcoming. He led us to our room, its walls adorned with bizarre murals that seemed to shift and change before our very eyes – a constant reminder that we were in a place where the laws of reality were merely suggestions.

We spent the night tossing and turning, our dreams filled with the impossible visions of Tangledrift – streets that folded in on themselves, buildings that breathed, and squirrels that chattered in reverse. The next morning, we awoke with a profound sense of relief. We had survived our encounter with the town of paradoxes, our sanity mostly intact. We had the map, though whether it would be of any use remained to be seen. Leaving Tangledrift felt less like departing a town and more like escaping a particularly persistent hallucination.

Day 8: Havenwood

The road to Havenwood proved to be less a road and more a particularly malicious obstacle course designed by a sadist with a fondness for bandits. Said bandits, their faces hidden behind crude masks that did little to conceal their general air of unpleasantness, ambushed us as we traversed a narrow pass – a classic move, really. They swarmed over us, their swords flashing in the sunlight like the teeth of particularly ill-tempered sharks.

I fought back with the ferocity of a cornered badger – which, I'll admit, is somewhat less impressive than a lion, but considerably more accurate given my current state of exhaustion and general disgruntlement. My trusty blade, more accustomed to slicing behemoth jerky than fending off brigands, sang a slightly off-key song of death, but a song nonetheless. Yet, despite my best efforts (and a few rather undignified yelps), I was wounded. A bandit's blade, with the unerring aim of a drunken dart thrower, found its mark, leaving a deep gash across my back that stung like a swarm of angry wasps.

My companions, their skills honed by years of training and, presumably, a higher tolerance for pain, fought bravely by my side. They drove back the bandits, their arrows finding their marks with a satisfying thwack, leaving a trail of blood and carnage that would have made a butcher proud.

We emerged from the battle battered, bruised, and smelling strongly of sweat and fear, but victorious. I tended to my wounds, the pain a constant, throbbing reminder of the dangers we faced, and a rather unwelcome addition to my collection of scars. The gash, thankfully, wasn't life-threatening, but it did make sitting down a rather unpleasant experience.

As the sun began its descent, painting the sky in hues of bruised purple and angry orange – a fitting backdrop to our current mood – we finally reached our destination: a cave dwelling nestled in the side of a mountain, looking remarkably like a tooth in a very large, rocky jaw. A warm light spilled from its entrance, beckoning us closer like a siren's song, or perhaps a particularly enticing pub.

We approached cautiously, weapons at the ready – a sensible precaution, given our recent experiences. Yet, as we drew near, we realised that the cave was occupied by a creature unlike any we had ever encountered, and certainly not one we'd expected to find guarding a mountain pass.

It was a majestic being, its wings spread wide like those of a great white owl, though considerably larger and radiating an aura of ancient wisdom that made you want to sit up straight and pay attention. Its eyes, pools of aged wisdom that seemed to see right through you, regarded us with a mixture of curiosity and a compassion that was almost unnerving.

The being invited us into its dwelling, its voice a melodious symphony that seemed to soothe the very air around us. We entered the cave, our eyes widening in amazement, and perhaps a touch of apprehension. This was no ordinary cave.

The cave was adorned with tapestries and murals, their colours vibrant and alive, depicting scenes of the forest and its creatures in a style that was both beautiful and strangely unsettling. Books, their pages filled with strange symbols that seemed to writhe and shift in the firelight, lined the walls. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the chamber, making the murals seem to come alive. The air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke, herbs, and something else… something ancient and indefinably magical.

The entity introduced itself as Meridian, a guardian of the forest – a title that seemed both grand and strangely understated, given her appearance. She had been watching over us since our arrival, her heart filled with concern for our safety, which, given our track record, was entirely justified.

Meridian offered to help us on our quest, her wisdom a guiding light in the darkness, or at least a slightly less dim bulb than our own intuition. She shared her knowledge of the land, her words painting vivid pictures in our minds, weaving tales of ancient battles, forgotten gods, and the delicate balance of nature.

We spent the night in Meridian's company, our hearts filled with gratitude for her kindness, and our stomachs filled with something considerably more palatable than behemoth jerky – a stew of herbs and roots that tasted surprisingly delicious and seemed to ease the ache in my wounded back. The next morning, we awoke refreshed and invigorated, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, or at least to face them with slightly less complaining.

With Meridian's guidance, a cryptic map drawn on what appeared to be cured behemoth hide (a rather ironic touch, I thought), and a few cryptic warnings about "the dangers of upsetting the natural order," we continued our journey, our steps filled with a newfound confidence. The road ahead was still long and uncertain, but we knew that we were not alone. And, perhaps more importantly, we had a decent map.

Conclusion

So, the map is complete. Or, as complete as any map ever truly is, especially when crafted by a Nomad with a questionable sense of direction and a knack for attracting trouble. Jovar Thane's journey has come to an end (for now, at least), leaving behind a trail of bewildered scholars, annoyed city spirits, and one very relieved owl-being. Below, you'll find the fruits of his (and my) labours – a map that's probably about 70% accurate and 100% unique. I've scanned a clean copy for your downloading pleasure. Use it, abuse it, add your own bizarre landmarks, and let it inspire your own tabletop tales. Looking back, this Cartograph Atlas Edition playthrough has been a blast. It's a game that truly embraces the unexpected, forcing you to think on your feet and weave a story from the threads of chance. And, let's be honest, who doesn't love drawing a map? Highly recommended, even if you end up with a mountain range that looks suspiciously like a caterpillar. I have also included a crumpled version of the map like the one seen above here: crumpled map variation, enjoy!