I've found myself with time in excess of what I am accustom, therefore I have began writing out journals, notes and stories for my campaign. Quite often in campaigns I find a journal has brief descriptions (rightly so, as the DM will just pass on relevant information); However, I have wrote out around 28 full journals and notes now, and feel quite good about them. Instead of the shortcut of "This journal describe so and so" I have instead wrote out actual journal entries and stories to add real life and to entertain lore loving players. For characters that don't read, do not worry, the DM summary will still work, but if they have any questions, perhaps now their character can truly read and feel the author in the pages. If you have a campaign that you wish to add real, fully written notes and journals to, please entertain me by requesting it of me. I am not a professional writer, but I am an avid reader with some credible ability with the English language. Read some of my current available journals which I have made public as both examples, and to be used if you can find a fit in your campaign. I tend to avoid names of people and places when possible, unless asked to do otherwise, as the less direct the naming is, the more useful the journal is to everyone. I am posting a link to my first set of journals I am still writing out, depicting the story of the side "enemy" of the campaign. It is a depiction outlining her experiences with the world, and extend out over roughly 51 years, though are not dated (These were written with the idea they were for her to personally reread in future times, as she has a character trait of obsessing over decisions she has made and her pension to push memories aside for the ones that truly torment her.

I wrote them out in form of journals to be found to give the party the ability to learn their enemy to possibly find a way to appeal to the good-nature she used to hold. Journals 1-3 are written shortly between one another, the 4th is after the journal of the Count, and the 5th-8 spread out, first over years, then decades. The interrupting journal is of the Count, whom is a participant in the events early on.

Journal 1 https://www.dndbeyond.com/magic-items/1474461-journal-of-the-adventurer-pt-1

2 https://www.dndbeyond.com/magic-items/1474475-journal-of-the-adventurer-pt-2

3 https://www.dndbeyond.com/magic-items/1474496-journal-of-the-adventurer-pt-3

Journal of the Count https://www.dndbeyond.com/magic-items/1474555-journal-of-c-c

4 https://www.dndbeyond.com/magic-items/1475383-journal-of-the-adventurer-pt-4

5 https://www.dndbeyond.com/magic-items/1475474-journal-of-the-adventurer-pt-5

6 https://www.dndbeyond.com/magic-items/1475507-journal-of-the-adventurer-pt-6

7 https://www.dndbeyond.com/magic-items/1475533-journal-of-the-adventurer-pt-7

8 https://www.dndbeyond.com/magic-items/1477024-journal-of-the-adventurer-pt-8

And yes, there are a lot more of these journals coming, to complete the full arc of her development to feed her own anger and let her heart grow hard to anything but hatred.

As someone who was looking for a journal for a character to come across that didn'tnecessarily need to tie into anything, I appreciate this very much. Thank you!

Try my blood warlock ranger gunslinger on for size, and tips and corrections are much appreciated. Please actively ignore grammatical mistakes. I don’t have a matching campaign, but the backstory and theme of the cowboy is in my opinion, well fleshed out. It’s pretty long so if interests aren’t piqued or lost, please appreciate the alliteration. I am a big fan of runon sentences. Slight plagiarism and inspiration from The Castlevania, Soulsborne and Bloodborne, and Hellsing Ultimate series.Viewer discretion is advised, (always wanted to say that), but fr brutal and graphic adult themes are present. I love to yap and thanks for the time if it does catch your eye.

He is a Con/Str/Cha/Wis all rounder, and has a slightly op arsenal that may be shaved down for gameplays sake. His clothes are a red bandana, brown outlaw clothes and a pair of white gloves and a pair of sickly yellow glasses. He has the wildshape ability to shapeshift into a chain devil, and a hell hound called Bucky which was a pair of very cool options that fit the themes very well. The idea behind him is redemption and the struggle with anger issues and inner wrath, and to conquer his other demons. He has a bad news shotgun named Abraham, and twin silver and enony revolvers, both named trouble (I’m a genius😈), he also wields an trick morningstar called Gorriester, inspired from IHNMAIMS. Has the cantrip create spike, silence, beast bond and hunters mark.

As a young a boy he lived on a desert farm with small and short crop seasons and profits. He worked the farms everyday with his father and brother and drank lemonade with his dog on his homey, worn down porch. He loved coming home to a kind sister and loving mother finishing his delicious dinner. His family was fairly loving and his mother never wore a frown around him, even in the roughest of times. His brother was a typical older brother. A loving bully, and a reliable bigger man and his only friend besides his sister and dog, and girl he knew from across his nearby woods. As a boy if 8 or 9 years, he would often sneak out and see her in the small hours. His father was a prideful, and hubristic man. He picked up some bad habits from him, such as the drinking and smoking, and his sorrowful, tired eyes. He would often hold his dog or sister as he snuck around his fighting parents. His father was an abuser, and often hit his sister and mother. One day his father came home very late from the local pub, and was obviously, abysmally drunk and trying pathetically to hide it. He began shouting and things soon turned to panic, and items were hurled and glass shattered. With reckless abandon and lager on his breath, he reeled back to back hand his all too tolerant wife. Out of the blue, a large figure loomed behind his father, now taller than him. Aaron still remembers the fear on his drunken face as his brother glared him down with the most intimidating look he’s ever seen. Even on the devils and werewolves he tracks, he hasn’t seen anything compare. His brother caught his large, weathered hand and threw him back on his ass. Enraged by his sons interference, he smacked him against the dresser. Immediately, with little hesitation Aaron jumped on his father and began to hold him down, and eventually had to beat him down with his brother, all the while the dog barking wildly. His father stormed off after grabbing his shooter and almost shot his sons, and left and unloaded into the ground, and left his home in shambles. A tragic night, but his recklessness would result in an unsuspecting turning point would occur a quarter after the 3rd chime, signifying the time of 3:00 AM, and a irreversible change to his entire life. His father began to retreat to lick his wounds and a pub or his friends shack. Later in the night, after cleaning and treating his sister and mother, a broken back door and lights of the fireplace led a pack of bandits right to their property. With shining blades and gleaming shooters, they began to loot and wreck the place they just made up, his home, crumbling away at the baseboards. His sister was grabbed and his family was overwhelmed. They had numbers and weapons. His dog with a great leap, pounced on the attackers and bit one’s face, scaring him permanently. After hearing the piercing yelp of his dog, the cries of his mother and sister, and his brother pleading for their lives, and his low life father nowhere to be found after inviting them right inside, he realized how totally helpless he was. At this moment, outside in the night sky spread out like a beast lain on his back, a red star gleamed, and something in Aaron seemed to click like popping knuckles. With a redish glare in his bloodshot eyes and bruised face, he slowly, wobbling and shaky, brought himself to his feet; something he would quickly have to become accustomed. Like a beast or animal of unholy nature, he sprang past two men, kicking one in the balls and dropping the other, gripping him by his hair and slamming his face into splintery, loose floorboards, eventually shoving his whole head into the lower level of the floor like an ostrich. He ran to the kitchen and grabbed a knife. Like a rabid wolf in danger of being hunted, he gave the three or four men surrounding and begging to tease and toy with his poor sister and mother, and when they turned to look at his face, two of the four men went pale and gaunt, and another took steps back. Literally foaming at the mouth and bloodied, drenched in nervous sweat and spit, he sprung up to the closest man and stabbed him directly in the arm, dropping his gun and firing, hitting his mother. He grit his teeth and began to grip the blade so hard his hand cracked and went white. He kicked the gun to his brother, who promptly grabbed it. He flew into a blind rage and bit the gunman’s nose clean of his face, and butchered the other gunman defending his sister with a revolver. Blood on his face, and the 1000 yard state of a tortured feind, the last one standing near the doorway, gripping his sister by the neck, backed away and was terrified of the uncanny power of his strange child. Cuts on his no longer childish face, and almost passing out from blood loss, he simply stood and stared at the man with the gun with such hate and deep loathing, that it piqued the interest of nearby a crimson comet, looking closely at what was conspiring. The man was visibly shaking and was overtaken with fright. Glaring daggers from his retinas, a strange feeling overtook him, and looking right through everything the man put up in desperate defense. The grisly, man’s-man of a ranger shook and stood, paused, and dropped the pistol and girl and took off for the hills, as if being chased by a bugbear. He almost gave chase to finish the job, but he came back to reality, dusted himself off, spat the blood out of his cheeks, and rushed to cut his sister free, and help her to a ruined chair. As he picked up the pieces and looked about his ruined, beginning to be flaming home, he contemplated his inner rage and the new hate that opened up in him. A pit of burning, blood red hate opened up in his gut this day.The bottom of his diaphragm boiled and gurgled with flaming blood, as if a hole to hell itself bore it’s teeth right through him and opened it’s maw in his stomach. He would never be hunted again. By his father, or raiders, or monsters or anything that would touch his family. He wouldn’t allow it, he would be strong and never let anyone belittle, or hurt him or his loved ones again. He cased the room and comforted him mother. They weighed their options and decided that there was nothing here for them anymore. They gathered their items and left to the west, staying safe of the fire, and fled, out of the bright, toppling house, into the bright desert sky, to a town called, Alibaba. They still reside their to this day, with his 62 year old mom’s many cats, as well as his sister, with her not so minor arcane obsessions. They never let their father know they left, and Aaron often joked with his brother, Gîle about his father stumbling back home the next morning to a burned down, empty, torn down shack, and his destroyed livelihood. They left him to his misery, and one day he received a telegram, singed “Jake, G, B, McGullien”. he promotly laughed it off , chucked it into his bonfire, and swigged back his whiskey bottle. He wandered the plains and eventually, with little remorse and a sense of world-weariness; he told his family he would be leaving. They agreed. He ran into his woman before he left for the west, and cried to her and explained everything, he was rarely weak after this, except for his mother, sister and her, and a future woman, but that’s yet to unfold. She coddled him and gave him hope, before leaving forever. Through a tearful farewell, and a sniffling smile, he promised he would wait for her, and joked if he met anyone else he wouldn’t settle for anything permanent, until he inevitably found her, and in recent days, he has had her in his mind. He stumbled from town to town and place to place, searching for something he didn’t know where to look for, and one day, on the outskirts of a nowhere town in the cool desert night. He met and had a brisk chat over campfire with a medium sized woman in a dark red cloak. Covered with jewels and symbolic relics, fair, dark skin and striking red lipstick, she insulted him and even spat in his can of beans, although in a exotic, luscious accent. He nearly shot her to death in a bright, violent duel of sparks and, surprising to him, blood magic. After the fight he passed out, and woke up to all his things being tied in a bundle and her leaving. From his bonds he claimed he had dust in his eye and offered her a drink. She hesitated and, after earning her trust, untied the lonesome, and to her quite strapping Cowboy. After a few shots of burbon, he began to slightly open up to this fling-ish, attractive stranger. He pried and came to learn she was collecting funds for her small cult off the edge of the city. A neighborhood of tents and ramshackle buildings from an old, abandoned village, close to a landmark named Tequila Peak, and Talulla Gorge. She revealed her ties, and her intense connection with a fierce blood god, named Dagon, The Butcher, Goreia. The man blushed and claimed he’s not all that, and his mangood was probably larger. She laughed and as the night grew, and the stars reallined their positions; he found himself with a pounding headache, and awoke at around 6:00 in the morning. He was surprised to see an exposed, barely covered by blanket and bedroll, beautiful woman who he remembered not much, but noticed her robes and his clothes haphazardly strewn about his camp, and the smudged up lipstick of the girl, splotched on her face. He grinned as his drunken mind put two and two together, and stretched out to finish his drink which was slightly spilled in the commotion. He felt a tinge of guilt for his past lover, and waited for daybreak. He reawakened to the smell of eggs and bacon, albeit his eggs and bacon, but hell, he had a witch girl cooking his breakfast. Her eyes lit up as he emerged from his bear like den and itches his areas, as she and inquired about his sleep. He responded dryly, and reposted an inquiry about the night prior. She giggled and tucked her cloaked head. They ate in good company and she offered to take him to her camp, and after much persuasion and the promise of booze and lunch, he begrudgingly accepted. They arrived and he witnessed great feats of ruby red gleams of light, and cherry colored spears and bright crimson spines and splashes, sprouting out of hands and flying in the air. He arrived at her assumed tent and sat down, with his hat beside him respectfully. Her father was a small, extremely wise and interesting looking man. Bright hair and red feathers and matching robes, he was obviously some kind of top dog here, at that the wrinkliest one. He glared at him and he didn’t show aggression, but didn’t step off as well, standing his ground and sipping a small glass of something fruity and red he didn’t care to ask about. The elder vicar revealed all his questions, after considering him, about him and her and the cult. This was the girls father, which made his back straighten instantly. He was a powerful sorcer, and revealed that almost everyone here was a warlock or blood cleric, and would drain him gaunt if he even looked like he was reaching for a weapon. He put his belt with holsters down and laid his shotgun across the floor. Eventually, after an exchanging of glares and tension so thick, the daughter had to step out to get a drink, he eventually was offered and partook in a sort of peace pipe, free tabacco, of course. He shortly regretted this. Whatever it was, he could feel it moving though his blood, and when it hit his brain, he fell back and began to drool. The daughter returned and gasped, asking if using blood-lily tabaco was truly necessary. The father grinned a slightly twisted smile and uttered, “he must learn.. Tenriś…”. In his vivid, unreal nightmare, he stood in a great, dark void. After a minute of walking, the mere man bore witness to a great evil, a huge, slimy, bloody being at least the size of a giant, if not bigger. He still sized it up and even gave it a hostile look, before composing himself. The thing glared down steeply at the, comparatively, punily small man and with the terror of a thousand of battlefields and sting of bloody deathly, eyes, he stared at him, with 4 mighty, crimson comet eyes attached on 2, opposite facing, wicked heads, both giving eerily symmetrical, sanguine smiles with sharp, blood stained teeth. The stars grew red and purple, and colors began to surround his body and strange events began to take place over his mind. He remembered the farm, and the red bloody dust of the day he lost everything, and this pit in him he could no longer ignore, sprang up like an underdark well. Death and hate washed over him as the thing invaded his mind, and soon he was incomparably small, and being chased by a tsunami of blood. He was swept away off his very feet and huddled, wet and scared, like a boy in a corner of a torn apart farmhouse. The thing was asserting dominance over him, and he knew it. It had an unholy reverence about it, it must’ve been daedric of abbysal, or something worse. It rang out then, with an abyssal boom and a great gust of power. It sang out in a shrieking chorus, and the ring of a explosive gunshot. It spoke, and laid down the rules of his domain. “………You….weak one…stand……”. “What now”? Silence, the thing looks at him ominously. He slowly stands. A dark, red boon of blood and the thoughts, against his will, enters his thoughts. He is bombarded with images of flood and horrible fire and gore. Thoughts of regret over past battles batter his mind. “Stop you…whatever you are…get out of my head”. “You….are mine now….”. “I offer you….hapless one…my boon”. “Your…..hmmm”? He snapped with a painful wear in his voice. “……A pact, written in blood…an exchange….my scarlet ichor….in every vein and organ of my warriors,…and all others in the occult of blood sorcery….”. It beckoned. “Let me out…that pipe had a little too much in it”. “Ahhh, the red, bloody-lily mixture. A gift to you humanoids, from daemons and impish playthings…of worlds to you unknown, yet never too far, like a stalking wolf just out of sight…”. “You’re creepin me out man…..can I go…”. “Yes, I grant you permission to leave…..”. As McGuillien begins to sober up the sky shook and meathooks and blood red mist blows on his blood red face. “Only…..”. Dagon’s tremor like voice boomed. “On one condition….you accept…the power of the lifeblood…my lifeblood…”. A frightened pause….The sky quaked again and and this time a grand, silver lined pool of blood opened in the ground before him, like a great pit of hell before him. Elaborate carvings, lined with broken swords and spears and skulls as fire me magma shot out of the hole. “Blood…is in all things. Mighty, ….or less so”. With a disrespectful tinge. “Take it, accept my will with humility, and go forth and wreak and sow seeds of scarlet begonias and bloody lilies”. “…that is actually kind of tempting”. “I’ve seen you, you are weak, but a scared boy…I did see you that day…do you not remember…”. “Ahhh…”. Utters a pained Aaron. “Hhh-hey, zip it…”. “Recall it Aaron. The rage…the rush. The hate and pain and violence”. Aaron thrashed in the floor. “End this..NOW FOOL”! The things explodes. “Stop! Get out.. of my head”! He yells out. The merciless god chuckles with the coldness of a sharp blade. “I am so much more powerful than you, by such inconsiderable margins. Yet you still resist”. “I knew…my choice would prove…fruitful”. “Choice”??…. “Ahhh, yes. Do you remember…on that dark day. I was watching, from beyond anything you could know or see, through my universal looking glass, I stared down at you from that bright…red…star…..”. “Oh god, you know,…he knew…stay out of my memories”. ….”Fall”. He drops to his hands and knees”. “…now…..bow”. “you..shall bow down…to your new sanguine king….”. “I bow to no one”. Despite his best efforts, his mind wants to ,refuse but almost too naturally, his head lowers to the ground if his palace. He stays for 1 uninterrupted minute, seething with embarrassment and shame. “Yes…”. Laughed the two faced abomination among gods. “You shall know your place…but a worm…a thing for me to use, just like the other fools”. He grits his teeth so hard they hurt. “Now…do you yield …”. His power grows and a pressure as if a cow is lain on his back. “Yes…you monstrous….thing”. “I accept”. “Good…now…..”. The floor opens further to reveal demons and fiends, and things belows to him, frightfully dancing and clawing and spitting poison and flame, out of reach. “Submerge yourself in the vital liquid of war and passion”. “Submit yourself to my will…bend thy knee and kneel before you hurl yourself into the lake of blood….and into a new, glorious existance…”. Again, this time of his own defeated volition, steps to the pool and glares disgusted at his own reflection in the liquid. “You may have power, but to me…you’re just a big red, fool”. Thunder and flame erupts from his hands and eyes and throne. “Excuse me!!!!?…did I mishear you. Arron literally crouches and covered his mouth. “Such insolence will not be accepted in my keep of crimson. I am the lord of blood, the father of the ichor of daemon life. I give you meaning, love, passion and rage. Without me, you would be a pathetic, useless gun slinger with no true value”.!.!. It boomed. He scowles and hides his face from the bloody being. “You…are the fool. You have not the skill nor power to think of making a difference, and you cannot protect anyone”. He but his lip so hard it bled, being lost among the rest on his face. “You…shall be branded now…”. He looks up, with a wide expression across his face. “……what now…”. He squeaks. “Lay back and take it, vile creature of the earth. You have offended my title. For this I must punish thee, and thou closest to you. From this night onward, you are a danger to yourself and everyone you love….”. “God…just leave me be, all I want is peace”. “Another lie from the murderer, that’s a wicked untruth. I know you better than your own mother now…you belong to me… and this is your last day of “peace”... The things presses his psyche..”I know what you’re capable of, foolish one. Remember, I saw….everything…on that…day…”. “Oh, sweet hell..Stop this” he nearly begged. “The way stood your ground and beat your father out of the house”. “Shut up”! He screamed out, holding himself. “And how you gave that man a fear he wouldn’t forget for a lifetime…do you know I could see him too..he had nightmares of a child for weeks and weeks…”. He heartily laughed. “You are now mine…and I will keep a close eye on thee…you are now marked…you…..are now branded with the mark of Dagon. The bloody mark of The Blood Meledict…the boon of blood and brimstone”. “My Hunter’s Mark…….”. A deep sigh. “I don’t care about your voodoo, butcher….”. “Then, jump into the pool….look over the precipice of great power and influence. All the talent of a gunman, with the ageless, daedric power of blood, the lifeblood of countess worlds and endless beings from far lands you’ll never see”. “Now….step into the world of scarlet. Let it all deep though your clothes, and your skin….know thy place among me, and live for though life, and my endless power…now….end your weakness,….for..ever……and Bend….To My Will”. He, after contemplation, gave in and decided to just make this bad trip end and go back to drinking”. He steeled himself. Gazed into the sanguine lake. And lept forewarn. The blood that washed over him both burnt and soothed, and left like being submerged in ice after a bad sun blister, or jumping into a salty pool covered cuts. He let it wash over him, and breathed it deep into himself. Up his nose and mouth, he drank it down and let it enter his bloodstream. He awoke with a sweaty fright and saw the girl from before washing his clothes. She comforted him and they almost began to kiss before the elder entered and have them both a glance. With a shy look and a straightened back, the old man laughed and waltzed up to his cot by the deep, dark red fireplace. He gave him a look, like he was testing him. Looking in his eye for a glare or sheen that wasn’t there before. And I’m his eyes, he saw red, hostile tinge in his eye, like he wanted to howl out after waking from his lucid dream. The old man laughed and gave the fool a pint of alcohol and meat he had hid to appease the beast, which worked well. “Thanthks Grahmpsh”. He fettered out of his eating maw. “His neck father, he….he got….that”…..”his neck hmmm…oh my, she’s right..”. “What’s wrong with my neck…..oh shit, is it a hickey? girl I said you - “No”…the old man shot. “It’s no love mark…..it’s much worse than a scolding my friend….Tal…get this one another drink…the whole bottle actually. He will direly need it”. This greatly worried Aaron as he felt his neck. Blood? A tattoo he didn’t remember getting? He was given a shiny platter. A hard to miss, medium sized mark of a strange, crossing and etch-like Nordic, (more likely infernal), symbol on his neck, surrounded by smaller markings. It was bright crimson and looked burned into his skin, although he remembered no pain. “That……my unfortunate friend….is The mark of Dagon”…….”….Dagon?…wait…Dagon?!?…it wasn’t a dream….god damnit”. He thought to himself, stuck in the reflection of the plate. “This is too freaky, I think I’ll get out of y’all’s hai- as the old man buckled his knee with his staff and made him collapse back to his bed. “You….cursed one….aren’t going anywhere”. “The hell I ain’t, said the man as he felt trapped and attacked. It may have escalated before Tenris lept to her fathers aid between to two of them. “Hey, mud for brains! None of that shit! If it’s like that, me before my father”, and readied a scarlet whip, with tassels and gems sewn in. That thing caught his eye, it was mean. He sat down. “Now…she says with a sideye…as my father was saying…”. He chuckled and sat next to man. “You will stay with us for now”. “Well thsts uneccedary amigo…a kind offer but I’m not one to mooch. I won’t just be another mouth to feed Mr.”….”ahh, worry not, it’s fun to have a town drunk”, he snuck in and they both shared a brief smile. “In all reality you don’t have a choice, boy. You are now marked. In addition to you being weary and will see hallucinations for at least the next week. You are marked now. Do you understand what that means…..”. “What’s it mean, sir”. “Every fiend, ghoul and imp within 100 mile radius of you will know your exact location, like a giant arrow in the sky. That mark…attracts devils…and the beasts of Dagon….”. “Holy hell! You mean after I drank that crap now I’m a monster magnet!?!”! “‘Twas‘nt a simple recreational brew…it was a catalyst. A gateway. I never expected you to earn the mark of Dagon…that one’s on you”, he smiled through the gravity of his situation, trying to keep spirits up. “What does this mean, gramps”? “It means…your life is different now, your world is changed…forever, you may never a wink of peace again”. “…..We’ll….”. the man stands and, trying to look cool in front of the old man, smoothly replies. “Not too different from before. Don’t know why…but I feel like this ain’t my first curse…not too bad if I say so myself…just more daemons”. “Yes my friend…snickered the old man, lots of them”. “The old man cased him up and down, his back to the old man. As the wrinkled elder saw his tattoos and battle scars, and now the mark of Dagon the Butcher, he rose like an old man would and smiled. Tenriś brought a good one. “Get this fool some clothes”, he sad to his daughter who was outside as he left the two. She was just in earshot and overheard the whole thing. “How much of that did you hear…”. “Why…all of it…Mr. Big Cowboy”. She fired away at him while a, little too handsy, placed red robes on his lap. He threw in the beautiful, fanciful crimson robes and looked proudly at himself. The woman at the tarp doorway beckoned him with a finger, and he followed like being led by a cartoonish pie. He was busy staring at the girl to realize where he was. Must’ve been the village training grounds. “We’ll start right away, Cowboy”. “Yehehe”, he sneered as his nose almost bled. “With what dollface” he grinned.“With…drills…”. She sighed. He began to show off his hunter skills, and adeptness at wielding firearms. She introduced th concept of blood magic, and showed him a low level cantrip. He tried it and promptly face planted. After more training he was making something happen, but feintes from bloodloss. “Hey…could you….get me some….water…maybe”? He puffed on the ground. She giggled and fetched him some drink. He spent many years with this camp, training as learnt the ways of blood magic. He later had to leave this cult sect, even after being appointed vicariously by her father himself. Some say he just had to keep wandering. But most assume something more sinister, perhaps related to his recent skyrocketing bounty due to an event that occurred during the waning of the moon, at the raider campground, Tequila Peak. It’s said a great beast of blood and vitality gored the camp beyond reckonishion, and they never bothered the nearby town or blood cult camp again. He currently is laying low in a small town called Sandwater Springs, where the bounty hunter game is slower. He and his newfound dog friend, Bucky. A mutt just like him, who enjoys campfire and ringing guitar strings. He took to religion and is kind of a righteous religious nut, sometimes drunk and desperately trying to repent at confessionals to women he sobs and tries to woo. He bears a large silver cross pendant. Loves unique and exotic food, drink and women.

Hope you enjoyed the gorey themes and bloody rites. Please leave feedback and will only accept kind/snarky constructive criticism. Thanks and may you have a nat 20 day!

You want tips and suggestions? Break that huge wall of text into paragraphs so it’s easier to read.

TL;DR

How long did it take for you to type all that out BillScarsbarde, lol. Its very long