Last Post Campaign Diary I
This is the first campaign diary for my 5th Edition campaign, The Last Post. Heavily influenced by Gary Gygax's famous B2 Keep on the Borderlands.
The Last Post is a play-by-chat game that runs every week on Roll20. The party are venturing forth from the forbidding Keep, into the untamed wilderness of the Western Hinterlands.
The below is an edited log from of our in-character
chat channel. We've added annotations so you can follow what's going on. Please enjoy!

Arrival at the Keep
It is with some relief that the party spy the Keep rising between the hills that border the Western Hinterlands. It perches on a rocky outcrop. Ivy chokes its high walls, vibrant green against its grey stones.
Within its walls a pile of gables, chimney stacks, and towers huddle together. They rise in a steep incline to a forbidding fortress.
A stone bridge ascends to a gatehouse, spanning a treacherous ravine.
- Flint
- looks up at the giant walls..quickly checking his seeming in a little mirror he keeps on his person.
- Alic
-
hobbles up to the bridge. short and scruffy. Limping on his left leg. Grumbling terribly
By father.. stoopid... pissin' poxy leg... cobbles everywhere... stupid walk this is.
- Strik
-
cocks their head.
It's awfully big isn't it? Something about it...
shakes their head and doesn't continue.
- Flint
-
nods.
Big... and very cramped
looks uncomfortable and pulls his hood instinctively.
- Strik
- Full of all sorts of... interesting people. I'm sure.
- Alic
-
pushes past Strik and Flint.
Get outta me way.
grumbles and stumbles forward a bit.
- Strik
- follows Alic quietly.
- Flint
-
rolls his eyes at Alic.
We should find an inn.
- Alic
- snorts derogatorily,
- Alic
- Yeh, o'righ bluebell.
The party make their way across the steep bridge. With the sun directly above them, its flagstones blaze with heat.
The gatehouse here stands over the ravine. A crow's cage hangs from the outside walls containing a corpse, blackened by decay. The rushing of water can be heard far below.
Beneath a precipitous drop falls beneath the gate house. Beyond, another stone bridge spans the rest of the gulf to the Keep itself.
A solitary guard slouches here, sweat covering his brow. He stands up as the party approach, a hard look on his face. Behind him the gates stand firmly shut.
- Bailiff
-
Who goes there?
I don't know you.
- Flint
-
Just travellers, weary from the road, hoping to rest for an evening or two
Sorry for the bother.
- Alic
- glares up at bailiff, irritated.
- Alic
- The Queen of frikin' Sheba, what's it to you? Lemme in so I can sit.
- Bailiff
-
sneers at Alic.
Settle down, I need your names first.
Out with it!
- Bailiff
- wipes his brow with his sleeve.
- Flint
- does a small bow.
- Strik
-
nods their head to Bailiff.
I am Strik, ser bailiff.
- Alic
-
wipes his wet nose.
Jafu.
- Bailiff
-
nods, but seems unsatisfied by the answer.
And what is your trade here?
Come on, speak up!
- Flint
-
looks to the other two quizzically.
Work I suppose.
Manual labour.
- Strik
- waits quietly for the others to answer first.
- Alic
-
Murderer, blackmailer and general irritable little man. And I play cards.
smirks.
- Bailiff
- eyes go wide.
- Strik
- takes a step away from Alic.
- Bailiff
-
He moves so close to Alic, you can smell his foetid breath.
What did you say, pal?
- Alic
-
raises an eyebrow to Bailiff.
You think if i was any of those id just say it? By the Father, I'm a crippled little man, tired and thirsty trying to get in. I have no special work due to this...
motions to his leg.
Now for the love of everything please may I pass. Standing still is the worst.
- Bailiff
- pokes Alic in the chest.
- Alic
- Get ya' mangy hands off me.
- Bailiff
- You only enter by the authority of the Castellan.
- Alic
- grumbles under his breath.
- Bailiff
-
starts to clench his fist around his poleaxe.
And I'm 'er representative, pal.
- Alic
- bows Thank ye muchly.
- Flint
- I am sorry, ser... this poor cripple has been travelling a long time and has become irritable... he didn't mean anything by it.
- Bailiff
-
I'll ask you one more time... what's your business here?
Because you ain't manual labourers.
- Flint
- I am looking for any kind of work... fetching, labouring, grunt work if you will.
- Strik
-
clears their throat.
Ser. We do indeed seek work. Of whatever kind if available. I also seek word of my family.
- Alic
-
rolls eyes. I don't know these well, I'm lookin for a chance for coin. Nothin for a cripple out there is there. I'd be more like food for somethin else.
motions behind him.
- Bailiff
-
looks you over carefully, considering.
I'll need to search those bags and packs first.
- Alic
- lifts arms Ain't got anythin' someone else wouldn't.
- Flint
-
Of course.
opens his bag and removes his dagger.
- Alic
- turns round and mutters obscenities under his breath
- Flint
- shows the guard.
- Strik
- un-slings their pack and offers it over.
- Bailiff
-
points at Flint's dagger.
You'll need to stow those weapons whilst you're 'ere.
starts riffling through the bags.
- Flint
- nods his head in a bow Of course.
- Alic
- rolls eyes Fine.
- Bailiff
-
sneers.
The Castellan takes a tithe, mind you. Anything over five score crowns, she takes one score.
Not that you lot have much coin to your names.
- Bailiff
- slings your bags back at you.
- Strik
- We are modest folk.
- Alic
- rolls eyes again, clearly not listening to this prick.
- Bailiff
-
eyes Strik and Flint up and down, sniffing the air suspiciously.
You're sorcerers aren't you? Tell me.
- Flint
-
raises an eye brow.
Not at all, ser.
- Strik
- What is a sorcerer, ser?
- Alic
- pauses a moment and tilts his head to listen.
- Bailiff
-
You better not be lying. All those who practice must report to the Royal Society of Magic.
points to a tall tower poking above the rambling roofs of the Keep.
- Flint
- Thank you for all your help.
- Strik
- You are wise, ser.
- Bailiff
- reluctantly opens the gate for you, signalling to the main gate to raise the portcullis.
- Flint
- moves on eyes often drifting to the tower.
- Alic
- trudges passed Bailiff still muttering under his breath.
As you pass, he leans forward over Alic, standing far too close again.
- Bailiff
-
grabs his arm.
I've got my eye on you, pal. Step out of line...
points to the crow's cage.
- Alic
-
in a very put on accent.
Oh of course sir, yes sir, hope you buy me dinner first sir.
pulls arm free and slowly slumps off.
- Strik
- pulls their dagger and sling from their belt and tucks them into the pack as the bailiff returns it.
- Alic
- Jumped up.... i coulda.... 'e asn't a clu.... prick.
- Flint
-
Sooo... shall we just head to an inn? any clue where we might actually find work in this place
looks a little dumb struck with the scope of the keep.
- Strik
- resettles their pack on their shoulders and follows along quietly.
The party make their way across the second bridge, into the Keep itself.
As they approach they hear screaming, shouting and booing. They find themselves in a small square where all, wooden stake stands.
A platform has been constructed at the base of the post. A chopping block stained with blood sits atop.
An execution appears to be taking place. A crowd of peasants has assembled and are booing as a burly executioner drags a monk onto the platform.
- The monk
- PLEASE, HAVE MERCY ON ME.
A barrel chested man with a bushy, black beard and a bald pate appears to be supervising. He wears an eye-patch covering a nasty looking scar.
- Alic
-
looks up with a grim smile,
Friend o' yers?
- Strik
- What gives you that idea?
- Alic
- Notin'. Notin' at all.
- The monk
- PLEASE, SPARE ME.
The executioner drags the monk kneeling in front of the chopping block.
The burly officer nods, and turns to the crowd, waiting for the shouting and booing so subside.
- Gyles
-
On this day, the first of Summer, I, Lieutenant Gyles, Commander of the Bailiff, do hereby sentence this man for the crime of heresy.
points to a sign that hangs from the post.
The sign reads as follows:
By the order of the Castellan of the Keep, Countess Erys of House Graye, the laws are as follows:
Pay the Tax
No Killing
No Stealing
No Adultery
No Witchcraft
- Gyles
- This post has stood for centuries, as does the the law of the Low Kingdoms. The rules are few, but the punishment is the same.
The crowd roar at this, chanting Chop him, chop him!
- Gyles
- Can anyone speak in the defence of this apostate?
The crowd boos.
- Gyles
- nods to the executioner.
- The monk
- NO, HAVE MERCY, BY THE MO....
There is a loud crack. A heavy thud, and the monk speaks no more. A loud cheer goes up.
- Alic
-
shouts up with the crowd.
Kill 'im.
With the excitement over, the crowd start to disperse, happily chatting amongst themselves.
The Command of Bailiff marches off, while the executioner starts to pick up the pieces of the monk.
This gives you time to examine your surroundings.
To the south is a stables.
A cobbled street runes westwards.
And to the north a crooked, three story building leans awkwardly. A sign outside proudly declares it is The Last Post.
To be continued...