Welcome to this written chronicle of a full tabletop roleplaying game session, set in the Pathfinder universe. Throughout this series, we follow step by step the official adventure Crypt of the Everflame, with real dialogue between players, Game Master descriptions, dice rolls, tactical decisions, and moments of pure narrative roleplay. The story unfolds in the village of Kassen and its legendary crypt, in a campaign that’s perfect for both newcomers to Pathfinder and fans of immersive, interactive dark fantasy. Each chapter captures what truly happened at the table—unfiltered, filled with tension, drama, and dice.
Join us in this Pathfinder 1e adventure, told like a living novel.
This adventure is played using the rules of Pathfinder First Edition.
DM: 3rd of Neth. The first winds of winter gently whip through the trees of Fangwood. Red and gold leaves spin in the air like dying embers. The sky is gray, but in the town of Kassen, every heart burns with a special warmth: tomorrow is the eve of the Day of the Pilgrimage.
For years, you’ve watched it. Every autumn, when the leaves fell like golden ash over Kassen’s rooftops, the whole town would gather in this very square. The elders would speak of Ekat Kassen, of the fire that never died, of the old crypt beneath root and stone.
And you, children back then, would peer between legs and barrels, dreaming of being the next ones. You spoke of it a thousand times—between stick-sword duels, imaginary spells, and races through the market alleys.
“When it’s our turn, I’ll go in first.” “I’ll solve the hardest riddle.” “I’ll be the one to carry the lantern!”
Some of those friends are gone now. Others moved away. And some will be in the crowd tomorrow, watching you—with pride or with envy. But this is no longer a game.
DM: Harlon, today—like every morning—you woke before dawn. The cold seeps through the cracks in the window, but you’re already dressed. Your scale shirt hangs from the post like a metallic skin, ready to cover you. You fasten the belt with your dulled training sword, and your boots strike the wooden floor like drums announcing routine.
Outside, Kassen wakes slowly. The air smells of damp firewood and freshly baked bread. A few hens peck at the frost in the alleys, and a lone dog barks at you from afar. No one else walks the streets at this hour, except the old fisherman by the river, who barely lifts his eyes as you pass.
Your path to the barracks is always the same: three alleys, a turn before the temple, then the low wooden building with the carved crest above the door.
But today, something feels different. Not the grey sky, nor the sharper whistle of the wind. It’s what you don’t see. The absence. No Kir in the watchtower. No captain yet in the yard. Just you—and the sound of your own footsteps.
And yet, you know they’re there. Waiting. Watching. Today you’ll train as always. But you’re no longer a recruit.
You are one of the Four.
And the barracks—like all of Kassen—knows it.
DM: Well, Harlon, here you are—in the watchtower—waiting to begin your morning training. Seated on the barracks bench, elbow resting on an old table scarred by years of poorly sheathed swords, you listen to the distant creaking of the waking garrison. The wood complains with every step. Practice weapons rattle gently in their racks. The air smells of dried sweat, leather, and that wheat soup the cook insists on serving for breakfast.
Harlon Denset is a young warrior, barely twenty winters old, but his body already shows the strength tempered by years of physical labor and discipline. He stands about 5’8” (1.73 meters) tall, weighing a solid 174 pounds (79 kilos), with a compact, athletic build. His back is broad, his arms marked by effort, and his movements—though still a bit rough—hint at restrained power.
His hair is dark brown, usually kept short or tied back in a practical fashion, contrasting with his light blue eyes—calm yet intense, always seeming to search for justice or danger. His face, still youthful, already bears the early lines of discipline, not of laughter. He wears the scale mail issued by the Kassen garrison—not for comfort, but out of duty. Though it lacks the gleam of a ceremonial armor, he wears its signs of use with pride.
His posture is upright, almost military, and his expression is often serious, resolute. Though he lacks dazzling charm or refined education, he commands respect through sheer presence. In combat, he blends brute strength with straightforward technique. Outside of battle, he is known for his lawful demeanor, his faith in Erastil, and his unwavering sense of duty.
DM: Captain Wisslo hasn’t arrived yet. Kir hums softly from the tower. And you… you have a few minutes of silence. Like every morning. But this might be the last routine before tomorrow’s adventure. What do you do?
Harlon: What are my current duties as a guard?
DM: Your duties, as an apprentice, aren’t those of a full guard just yet—but the barracks doesn’t tolerate idleness. Every morning, you inspect the practice weapons and shields in the yard: check for splinters, test the grips, make sure the training ropes are properly tightened.
Then comes your patrol. Two laps around the barracks—no more, no less—by order of Captain Wisslo. You’re not authorized to intervene in disputes, but you are expected to report them. He always says, “A guard who watches well lives longer than one who acts poorly.”
After that, if there are no extra tasks, it’s time for training—alone or with whoever’s available. And in the afternoons, you’re usually assigned to clean the mess hall or take stock of supplies.
It’s not glorious… but you know every task has its purpose.
Harlon: Alright then. I stick to my routine and check the training gear.
DM: You rise from the bench, roll your shoulders, and cross the barracks to the main locker. The wood creaks with that familiar sound—not broken, not old… just used. Like everything in Kassen.
You open the armory door—and there they are:
Three practice swords—two wooden, one blunted metal.
A pair of shields with chipped paint.
And several training breastplates hanging like ownerless torsos.
You start with the metal sword.
Make a skill check: [Craft (Weapons)] DC 10
Harlon: 🎲 Dice roll: 17 + 0 = 17
DM: The balance is slightly off… Kir probably dropped it again. You place it back in its spot and make a mental note.
Next, you check the round shield: there’s a fine crack near the edge. Nothing dangerous, but you mark it with a bit of chalk.
The breastplates are in decent shape, though one of them smells like it hasn’t been washed since last winter.
Nothing urgent, but you make a note to mention it to Wisslo or leave a report for the sergeant.
As you finish the inspection, a sound catches your ear—the thud of a spear striking the stone in the yard.
You glance out the window—and there he is. Standing in the center of the courtyard, still as a statue chiseled from raw stone.
Gregor Wisslo, captain of the Kassen town guard. Tall, broad-shouldered, his gray hair tied back in a simple braid that falls down his neck. His arms are crossed over his chest, clad in a chain shirt that has seen more winters than most people in town. His cloak is short, practical, and his shield is always nearby—though no one has seen him use it in years. His face is a wall without cracks: trimmed beard, steely eyes, and deep wrinkles carved by frowns, not by laughter. There’s a faint tremor in his right leg, barely noticeable—a legacy of a winter when he stopped three orcs with a single spear and a shattered knee.
You recall an old story every recruit knows. It happened about six years ago, when a group of drunken teenagers thought it would be funny to blow the town’s alarm horn “just for fun.” Wisslo appeared before the echo had even faded. He didn’t run. He didn’t shout. He simply walked toward them—with the same slow, deliberate pace he always uses to cross the yard. And by the time he reached them, every one of those boys stood at attention, firm, as if they’d been trained for years.
He never said a word. Just handed each of them a bucket and a brush, and ordered them to paint the inside of the palisade. Every board. Three coats. Since then, no one has touched that horn again.
And those boys—now grown men—still greet each other with a salute, just in case.
Wisslo: “All in order, Harlon?” —he asks, without moving.
Harlon: “Training gear inspected. I’ve noted the damages found.”
DM: Captain Wisslo watches you from the center of the yard as you step through the barracks door. He doesn’t move toward you. It’s you who must close the distance.
When you reach him, he gives the slightest nod.
Wisslo: “Punctual. That’s more than I can say for half this town.” He folds his arms and looks up at the gray sky. “Tomorrow you’ll carry a lantern into the crypt. Today, you carry the weight of routine. And while I’m here, you’ll train as if that flame had to ignite in your chest.”
Harlon: I nod silently, awaiting orders.
Wisslo: “Kir!”
DM: From the watchtower comes a stumble, a muffled curse—and after a few seconds, Golfond Kir appears, grinning like an oversized, happy dog.
Golfond Kir doesn’t look like a soldier—at least, not at first glance. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and always wears his armor slightly off, as if he’s never quite sure which strap goes where.
His helmet is usually crooked. His boots, mismatched. And when he climbs down from the watchtower, he does it as if every step is a test of agility… one he often fails.
But Kir is a guard. One of the most dependable at the barracks. He has a big, honest smile and eyes that always seem to be searching for something beautiful in the world around him. He speaks simply, directly, and sometimes clumsily—but no one in town doubts his kindness.
As a child, a horse kicked him in the head. Since then, Kir bears invisible scars that many mistake for stupidity. Some laugh behind his back. Others make him the target of cruel jokes. Kir never responds with anger. Only with a smile, a goofy laugh… and sometimes, a story about what he learned that day.
Wisslo never coddles him. He expects from Kir what he expects from any other. He gives orders. He corrects. And Kir obeys with an exaggerated bow and a blind faith that sometimes moves more than it unsettles.
When he’s not on patrol, he’s often helping his elderly mother with errands in the market or playing wooden sword fights with the town’s children. And though he makes mistakes… he never lies. Never.
Golfond Kir is the kind of person everyone feels they need to protect—until they see him stand between a villager and a raging boar with a training spear and a poorly shouted war cry.
Wisslo: “I want a quick drill before patrol. Begin.”
DM: The captain turns on his heel and walks away without waiting for a response—like his voice alone carries enough weight to set the world in motion.
Kir scratches the back of his neck, grinning with that mix of nerves and childlike excitement, then plants himself in front of you in the center of the courtyard. He raises his practice sword—one of the old wooden ones, chipped and worn by generations of trainees—and takes a defensive stance… slightly off balance.
Kir: “Alright, Harlon. Just so you know, this is my special stance. I call it ‘The Deer Ready to Leap.’ Don’t laugh… it works. Sometimes.”
The sun is high. The air smells of cold earth and old sweat. The only sounds are the distant creaking of the watchtower… and the expectant silence of training.
Non-lethal sparring combat begins. First one to deal 10 points of damage wins.
COMBAT
Determine which characters are aware: All
| Character | Roll | Total |
|---|---|---|
| Harlon | 🎲 10 + 1 | 11 |
| Kir | 🎲 7 + 0 | 7 |
Initiative Rolls:
Wooden Sword (treated as a club): 1d6 + STR (bludgeoning, non-lethal)
📍 Round 1
Harlon: I move up to Kir, drop into a low guard, and strike directly with the wooden sword.
🎲 Attack roll: 8 + 5 = 13
DM: Kir manages to raise his sword just in time, blocking the blow with a clumsy but effective clack. The guard smiles, tilts his head, and replies with his usual enthusiasm.
Kir: “My turn!”
🎲 Attack roll: 16 + 3 = 19 → Hit
🎲 Damage: 1 + 3 = 4 points of damage
💥 Harlon: Total damage taken: 4
📍 Round 2
Harlon: I grit my teeth and counter, aiming for the exposed shoulder of his armor.
🎲 Attack roll: 12 + 5 = 17 → Hit
🎲 Damage: 1 + 4 = 5 points of damage
💥 Kir: Total damage taken: 5
DM: Your training sword lands a clean hit to Kir’s chest, but rather than falter, his grin widens like it’s all part of the fun.
Kir: “Nice hit! Now here comes mine!”
🎲 Attack roll: 19 + 5 = 24 → Hit
🎲 Damage: 6 + 3 = 9 points of damage
💥 Harlon: 4 + 9 = 13 total damage taken
DM: Kir’s strike is precise and solid. The wood of his sword echoes as it slams into your side, knocking you off balance. You hit the ground, the world spinning for a second as dust rises around you.
Kir: Offering a hand-“Oops… You okay? I think I got a bit carried away…”
DM: From a corner of the yard, Captain Wisslo’s firm voice breaks the silence:
Wisslo: “Never underestimate Kir. He’s not in the guard because I like him. Harlon—follow me.”
DM: You watch as Wisslo walks into the barracks without another word, disappearing through the doorway that leads to his office corridor. The sound of his boots echoes against the stone with martial precision. What do you do, Harlon?
Harlon: I follow him. Seems like he wants to talk to me.
DM: You follow the captain down the narrow hallway, passing a training bench until you reach a small room, furnished simply—old, but functional. Wisslo doesn’t turn around. He walks straight to a sturdy oak cabinet, unlocks it with an iron key, and after a few moments of silence, takes something out wrapped in dark cloth. He turns to you—not with harshness, but with the calm that comes before important decisions.
Wisslo: “There can be no mistakes tomorrow, Harlon. No hesitation. You know that, don’t you?”
Harlon: Serious, nodding –“Yes, captain. I know. I won’t fail.”
DM: Wisslo nods slightly. He unwraps the cloth, revealing a bastard sword—well-maintained, sturdy, with a grip wrapped in dark leather. You recognize it. You’ve trained with it many times. It always went back on the rack. But not today.
Wisslo: “You remember her?”
Harlon: With respect, and a hint of emotion: “Of course. I never thought… are you giving it to me?”
Wisslo: His voice hardens, not out of severity, but respect “I’m not lending it to you, Harlon. I’m giving it to you. This isn’t a ceremonial blade, nor was it forged by dwarves with long names. It’s a tool. Like you. Like me. And it’s ready to fulfill its purpose.” He pauses. Holds it out to you, grip first. “Take it. And prove I wasn’t wrong about you.”
Harlon: Receives the sword with both hands, almost reverently “I will, captain. For you… and for Kassen.”
Wisslo: Nods, allowing the shadow of a smile: “For yourself, Harlon. The rest comes later. Now go. And sleep with it. Let it get used to your weight. Tomorrow… you’ll need it. You have the rest of the day off.”
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