A journalist is preparing a story on Agency 17. Predictably, the Agency would like it if the story died...
The players are sent on their first mission for Agency 17: Stealing Sarin from a right-wing militia group in rural Texas
Someone wants Prince Philoj dead. Or?
Set a number of decades after part one.
Prince Tibalt survived his unique birth into the world and is now grown into the King of Jaegerwald. Jaegerwald is no stranger to werewolves, but when members of the kings staff and council start transforming with no apprent contact with werewolves, the PCs are charged with finding and destroying this hidden monster.
Set in a heavily wooded kingdom of reknown werewolf hunters.
A princess on a hunt goes missing. Rumors of a new, more fierce werewolf surface. The party needs to find the princess before she or her seven month pregnancy are in danger.
The village of Far Tragin is deep within the dangerous Northen wastes. Yet somehow it has avoided destruction by the monsters who dwell there. The PCs discover that it is a deal with an unlikly ally that protects this town. However, this deal may be failing and Far Tragin is in jeoprady.
Wytchwolde-Under-Ash, once a great Thorpe, was razed to the ground by the ruthless, and truth told more than slightly deranged, Porcelain Princess and her henchmen, the Purifiers. When the flames had at last subsided, and a kaleidoscope of swirling, dull-gray ash choked the sky, nine hundred acres of old growth iron spruce, black larch and weeping birch, was burned to utter cinders, along with the entire coven of witches comprising the Sisterhood of the Silver Teat.
Now, centuries later, the forests are somewhat re-grown, and the town of Foolswater stands where Wytchwolde-Under-Ash once did. It is said that even to this day, one can still find ashes in the otherwise potable well-water of this village. Once a year during the Winter Solstice, the “Ash-Wind” comes to Foolswater, a suffocating black cloud that passes quickly but leaves dead birds and animals in its wake, darkening the trees, and staining the sky with black snow. The inhabitants of the village know better than to be caught outside during the day-long Ash-Wind. Everyone is locked snugly inside, singing old hymns that curse and re-curse the burned witches who once called this place home.