College football will provide my Friday game of choice. The Villanova Wildcats are scheduled to play the Louisville Cardinals in a game starting at 6:00 PM CDT, and I plan to be listening to the radio call.

And the adventure continues.

We in the West are living in the midst of a jihad, and most of us don’t even realize it — because it’s a brand of jihad that’s barely a generation old. Islam divides the world into two parts. The part governed by sharia, or Islamic law, is called the Dar al-Islam, or House of Submission. Everything else is the Dar al-Harb, or House of War. It’s called the House of War because it, too, according to the Koran, is destined to be governed by sharia, and it will take war — holy war, jihad — to bring it into the House of Submission.

— Bruce Bawer, Surrender (2009)

Note: While certainly no ally of traditionalists and conservatives, Bawer certainly got this right. But don't take his or my word for it, read it for yourself in Reliance of the Traveler, a classic interpretation of Sharia Law. I'm glad to lend my copy to the curious. Do the work. Read primary sources, not the news.

#history #politics #theology

In writing The Campervan, my intent was to expose the invisible friction that exists between static belonging and dynamic mobility. A tension that is quietly defining modern Irish life. Mary and her unnamed visitor represent two entirely contrasting responses to the same foundational crisis: the sudden, altering reality of loss. Mary chooses the architecture of stasis. Her “exit road” from bereavement is built on preservation, strict domestic routines, and an aggressive defense of her physical boundaries – her view, her sea, her husband’s old preferences. To Mary, the encroaching campervans are not merely an aesthetic nuisance; they are mobile symbols of a fluid, modern world that threatens to overwrite her memories.

Conversely, the traveler’s exit road is one of motion and confrontation. He drives the very object of his grief back to the place of its making, using mobility as a mechanism for closure and eventual release. When these two perspectives collide over a simple kettle of water, the narrative shifts from a dispute about spatial intrusion to a shared recognition of human vulnerability. It is a reminder that the modern forces we often perceive as disruptions to our traditional heritage are frequently piloted by individuals carrying the exact same timeless griefs, histories, and traditions as our own.

If we are to successfully transform Ireland's communities, our policy frameworks must become as flexible and hospitable as Mary's kitchen table – capable of holding space for both those who need to stand fast, and those who need to move through.

The Campervan can be found at https://rvw.ie/the-campervan

Addendum

Temporal Friction and the Lived Experience of Governance

Transforming Ireland is the title I have chosen for a forthcoming series of the opportunities and the impact of the circular economy. And the Campervan is an experiment on how I might use fiction to illustrate those impacts.

In The Campervan, my aim was to look past the technical vocabulary of spatial planning and examine the human impact of what policy analysts call “temporal friction.” This friction occurs when macro-level regional development frameworks move at one speed, while the socio-emotional landscape of an established community moves at another.

Mary’s sudden exasperation – captured in her plea that “The Council should do something about it, it's not fair” – is a classic manifestation of this disconnect. To an administrator looking at a map or an infrastructure portfolio, the influx of mobile domestic tourism along our coastline represents a successful activation of public assets or a metric of regional economic diversification. However, to the resident on the ground, it can feel like a sudden, unmediated disruption of local spatial heritage and personal stasis.

References:

https://www.gov.ie/en/department-of-housing-local-government-and-heritage/press-releases/report-on-national-coastal-change-management-strategy-sets-out-long-term-blueprint-to-deal-with-future-coastal-change/

https://irishgeography.ie/index.php/irishgeography/article/download/1484/1194/6030)

This tension underscores a core finding in recent spatial analyses, such as the OECD Rural Policy Review of Ireland. The report notes that Ireland's highly centralized administrative structures often lack the “spatial differentiation” required to fully account for how local people actually experience change. When national planning goals; whether under the National Planning Framework or coastal management strategies; are handed down to local authorities, the system often defaults to regulating spaces rather than facilitating the community transitions within them.

References:

https://assets.gov.ie/static/documents/1f40d206-report-of-the-inter-departmental-group-on-national-coastal-change-management-.pdf

https://www.gov.ie/en/department-of-housing-local-government-and-heritage/publications/overview-of-planning-in-ireland/

https://www.oecd.org/en/publications/rural-policy-review-of-ireland-2026_d53ea78f-en/full-report/making-rural-policy-work-from-strategy-to-delivery_388f48d4.html

The story does not seek to arbitrate whether Mary’s desire for preservation or the traveler’s right to mobility is the “correct” use of the strand. Rather, it serves as an observation of a structural dilemma. If our evolving governance systems are to navigate the transformation of rural and coastal Ireland successfully, they must find a way to reconcile the swift, fluid movement of modern policy and tourism with the slower, deeply human timelines of the people who call those places home.

References:

https://www.oecd.org/en/publications/rural-policy-review-of-ireland-2026_d53ea78f-en/full-report/making-rural-policy-work-from-strategy-to-delivery_388f48d4.html

Regular readers of this space or Marshall On Policy, know that my work usually wrestles with the structural, economic, and policy frameworks required to navigate a transforming Ireland. Yet, policy documents and data models can only capture the mechanics of change; they rarely capture the human friction of living through it. In this post, I am stepping sideways from the traditional essay and briefing format into short fiction.

The Campervan is an exploration of perspective. When we debate community, local governance, and changing landscapes, we are ultimately debating how people adapt to the erosion of the familiar. This short story is an attempt to look at the invisible, internal boundaries we build when our outer world begins to shift, and how the “exit roads” we choose to navigate personal loss often mirror the ways we handle societal change. I hope you will indulge this departure, and as always, I welcome your reflections...

---

The Campervan

Oh George, there's another one o' them campervans outside the window again. I know how you hate 'em. Blocking out the view of the sunrise. Hiding us from the sea. I've a good mind to go out and give 'em a piece of my mind. Great hunkin' lumps of steel. They shouldn't be allowed. Mary finishes opening up the curtains and worries away with a small damp cloth at some debris an insect seems to have left behind. Kettle boiled, cooker on and a short while later she takes out a tray of breakfast and places it on an old cast-iron and terracotta table, midway between front door and garden gate; the centre piece of her seaside patio. She wipes the chairs and arranges the table. A brightly striped seaside linen table cloth and a posy of daisies in a small white vase.

Out again. – Yes cries Mary, makin' the best of it while we can. Summer never seems to last long. And when it does there's always them pesky mosquitoes. While flinging one arm in the direction of the campervan parked just beyond her gate. Mary notices a hold-all and a couple of cardboard cartons. Going away Maureen? – Oh, just to my sister's place for a couple of days. Mum and dad are coming to visit so we thought we'd all get together for the weekend. – Oh how lovely. It's aways nice to get together with family. How's your dad doin' now, any better? – Oh much Mary, they 'ave 'im on a new drug and it seems to be workin' wonders. – Grand. Give 'em all our best wishes. – Will do Mary. See you in a couple of days.

Mary returns to her breakfast, a brief conversation with George, and opens a book. The chapters glide by, the tide visits, the gleeful shouts of kids on holiday subside, and the evening and night pass by.

It's morning of the following weekend, and a small spider, comfortable in an upper corner of the window has clearly spent the early hours weaving and casting a delicate web. It scurries to conceal itself in its corner as the tread of Mary's feet announce her arrival at the window. She opens the curtain. It's still there George. Her shoulders slump. A sharp intake of breath and a long sigh. There's so many of them now, all up and down the strand. The Council should do something about it, it's not fair. This is our home, our sea. I know how you hate it George. She drags forcefully at the curtain and fails to notice the spider or its web.

She opens the front door. Better let the day in. Then I'll get breakfast as usual. – Alexa, give me some music. Modern music spills from a smart speaker on a mantlepiece. No No NO. Alexa stop the music. The music ends abruptly. Mary laughs and shakes her head. Great present George, but you really needed to set it up properly. Alexa play Local FM. – Soothing Sounds from Seaside FM, announces a voice from the speaker. Better. Mary mumbles, and hums and sings. She works seamlessly, as breakfast begins to appear. Tea and toasted tea cakes. I know she says, extravagant, but it's the weekend. And weekend is cleaning. After a lifetime as a working wife, it's a habit she just can't break. Work in the week, housework at the weekend. Afternoon arrives with dusting and vacuuming in the front room. It is rhythmically punctuated by glances through the window and scowls toward the campervan. Damned ugly things. Shouldn't be allowed. And the litany repeated. I'm gonna have to do something, have to do something Mary declared.

The doorbell rings. Followed by a couple of knocks. She looks up and through the window. Who could…. She switches off the vacuum, stows the handle and heads for the door. It's still open. A stranger. A man, tall, but a little casual. Not exactly a holiday maker, but not a door to door salesman either. He has a kettle in his hand. An ordinary hot water kettle. The council workers working on the sea defences used to come and ask for boiling water for their tea-break, but that was decades ago. Besides, he's got creases in his trousers, his brogues are highly polished and that's definitely not a council workman's shirt. He looks anxious, she thinks. Ah well if he's anxious, maybe I don't have to be. – Yes can I help you? – Oh please, he almost coughs it out. Yes, enquires Mary. – I've run out of gas. She repeats him, You've run out of gas. But this, more as a statement than a query. Well this is not a shop, I don't sell it here. His face turns pale, she traces the contours, she recognizes the anguish. He begins to turn away. Well what is it you want. She's surprised by the tone of her own demand. She tries to recover it and offers a smile. It works. He stops his turn and looks towards her. He raises his left arm, kettle in his hand. Water, hot water. – Mary almost laughs, his words sound just like a kettle when it's full of too much boiling water and it just won't pour. Oh, give it here. I'll pop it on the stove. She takes it from him and starts to laugh. But you didn't need to bring your own water, I would have given you some.

She beckons him to follow her into the kitchen and she places the kettle on the stove. Take the weight off your legs. She points at an unpolished beach chair. You should be comfortable in that, my George made it. Would you like a cuppa whilst you wait. – No, I shouldn't trouble... – Well you going to get one, I'm ready for my afternoon cuppa anyway. Mary busies herself tidying away the cleaning tools, arranging the table and making the tea. The man sits quietly in the unpolished beach chair. He seems to be a man practiced at waiting, like something has silenced him without warning, and the shock is slowly settling; so now all he can do is wait. In contrast Mary's cycling back and forth between the small domestic tasks echoes a train building up a head of steam. And I suppose that's your monstrosity out there is it? She points through the open door down the hallway, out through the front door, directly at the campervan. He half raises himself from the chair to lean and peer toward the van. Yes, yes I'm afraid it is. My wife and I bought it just under a couple of years ago. It's our retirement treat.

She looks directly at him. It's a damned monstrosity, is what it is. Huge hunkin piece of metal spoilin' the morning sun and blockin the view of the sea. You shouldn't be allowed. What were you thinkin'. Did you think we wus a factory and the view didn't matter. – Ah You weren't thinkin were you … thoughtless – spoiled our week that has.

Still staring at him, she blinked. He was struggling to speak. Dazed, he couldn't articulate. I, I. He began. Well you should think more. Softly this time, and passes him a mug for his tea, as she interogates herself. What's wrong with him, he's dazed – I wasn't that nasty. -So you bought the campervan when you retired? Where've you been? There's lots of gorgeous spots along this coast. George and I were avid cyclists when we were younger. Avid. Cycled all up and down this area. Sunday picnics and what not, You know the kind of thing. – Yes, yes, we would do the same. We had a tandem and a bit of picnic basket. It was great, sometimes on our own, sometimes with the club. Sundays were great back then. – Yes they were echoed Mary, adding If we weren't cycling we all used to play cricket or rounders on the beach. Great times.

So where's your wife now? Do you want to fetch her, I'll get another cuppa and some biscuits and we can chat. She watched the colour drain from his face and the contours of anguish return. She, she's not travelling with me now. His hands work their way around the mug. Mary watches, caught up in his demeanour; grip intense, knuckles white. He lifts the mug towards his mouth. And rotates the handle away from him, slowly as he gazes into the drink, looking, for something. We only ever came here. This spot was our first holiday in the van, last year. Oh we had a fabulous time. Revisiting all those old cycling haunts, and finding new ones, restaurants, café's, coastline walks. It was really really great.

Mary presses her question. So where is she now then, if you had such a good time? The contours grew deeper, the skin grew paler, the twinkle left his eyes as drops began easing slowly from them. It was. it was just after. Another stall, a splutter, a stutter and then. She died. Silence. A moment passed. Neither moved, neither spoke. So I thought I'd sell the van, but one, one last trip here, just to remember. Mary, without moving, without breathing, watched him grind to a halt. The tears and the shaking in full flow now.

I'm sorry about the view… She put her arms around him in the chair. Hush, hush she whispered, no need to be bothered about such things now. Slowly recovered. I must be going, I have promises to keep. – Are you OK to drive? Do you know where you are going. – Yes, Yes I'll be fine… Thankyou so much for your hospitality and again my sincere apologies. – Forget it, I mean it. She ushered him gently through the door and watched as he packed away and regained his composure until he was sitting ready to drive. Mary waived him away. She stood at the gate as the tide made its visit. Eventually she returned into the house and closed the front door.

Crossing the front room to the mantle piece, her hand extended forwards past the smart speaker which had now fallen silent, and took hold of a leather frame with the photo of a man, Oh George.

___

Further reading

A a note from The Essayists Notebook https://esy.ie/the-shared-landscape-of-grief

I went to Costco and I was dressed like a bum because I took the day off, last night I got home Late and I had the Taco Bell Baja blast that apparently has a pretty substantial amount of caffeine to it. As a result, I could not sleep at all due to restless leg. I ended up actually getting up at 3:30 out of my bed because I could not sleep and going on a jog around the neighborhood shirtless. I eventually was able to sleep, but I called out of work because I felt like there was no way I could’ve been productive. But I digress, the thing I was asked in Costco, however, was about the macros on the chicken bakes that I got, and they commented about how it’s obvious I lift. I told him honestly I don’t really know, I am not locked in on my diet like that, and he was shocked and taken aback by that. I feel like I get that pretty often, and honestly, I’m not completely sure why I am able to have the body I do while still eating like trash. But part of me feels guilty because when I tell people that I don’t know if this is necessarily reasonable for everyone or if this is another spot where I’ve gotten incredibly genetically lucky. I think about how maybe my metabolism is pretty good, but I also did get very overweight or I guess very overweight compared to what I was used to when I truly ate horribly. But now I exercise very consistently and for a lot of time. Typically I just end up saying because I work at very hard. That’s why I get the benefits that I have, but I’m not sure if this applies to everyone. It’s one of those things I’m grateful for and fortunate with, but I’m not sure if it is fair if that makes sense. It’s one of those things that I don’t want anyone to be envious of.

25 years ago I worked in a factory that was on the edge of a small town. I remember going out the back door that morning, 25 years ago. I was looking at the cloudless blue sky like I was expecting to see something. The events were still unfolding. Had just begun. All I saw out that back door was clear blue sky, and a field.

Back inside there was not much work being done. People were standing around near radios. When I first heard about what was happening I thought I was being told a joke. Sort of waiting for the punchline. After a few seconds I realized it was no joke.

Terrorism was not where my mind went. I thought it was a disgruntled airline pilot, maybe pissed off about something, and just fed up with life. A dramatic suicide. Until the second plane.

The world changed, and really not for the better. I type that with 25 years of hindsight between that morning, and this one. What can be said about the days, the months, the years between then and now? A lot I suppose.

I'm sure there are a lot of intelligent people out there in the world saying intelligent things about it today. And I'm typing this.

I remember right after, like within a few days, when we were being told, stop being so nice to each other. Get back to normal, and start buying things again. Get the economy back on track... or the terrorists won. The economy, man. The economy. Don't worry, we'll blow shit up soon. Just please, please get back to normal. That is all.

I didn't feel like that was the right reaction to have. It felt to me like saying, pretend that didn't happen. What then? What do I think the right reaction should have, or could have been? I don't know. Maybe figure out why it happened. Find the root cause, and prioritize fixing that instead of meeting the violence with more violence.

Don't most people (99%) on earth just want peace, and to have a good life for themselves and their families? A handful (1%) of shitty psychopaths have all the power and make life a terrible ordeal to suffer through for too many people. Stoking the fire of fear. Gimme, gimme gimme. Do this. Do that. Don't do that. Fear them. Fear us. Division. Distraction. Manipulation. Control. Endless conflict.

For fucking what? Is there an end goal those awful people have that is worth all this blatant neglect of our habitat, and all this death, destruction, division, hate, and ?

That's just fucking stupid. I'm out of coffee and out time. I know that I'm a dreamer. I got lost in the technocratic fantasy land in my mind where everything can be solved with diplomacy. Learning to work together, changing, growing up instead of blowing shit up, slaughtering each other, and destroying the planet.

This is my road to becoming.

Now, I can finally live................

I once thought healing would come with all the answers. That eventually I would understand why certain people hurt me. Why some stayed only long enough to leave a mark. Why I fought so hard for things that were already slipping through my hands.

I thought if I could understand it all, I could finally put it down.

But my healing was never hiding inside the answers.

Maybe it was waiting for the moment I stopped asking the questions.

There are things I may never understand.

Conversations I will never get to have. Apologies I may never hear. Versions of the story that will always belong to someone else.

And now, I can live with that.

Not everything needs to make sense before I am allowed to continue.

Some things simply happened.

Some things hurt.

Some things changed me.

And some things I carried much longer than they deserved to be carried.

So I am putting them down.

Not because they didn't matter.

Because they did.

They mattered enough to become these pages.

But they do not get to become everything that comes after them.

And something did come after them.

I found a job.

I got a place of my own.

A place where my children and I could walk through the door and finally say,

We're home.

Those may sound like ordinary things to someone else.

To me, they are everything.

Because there were days when I couldn't see this life from where I was standing.

There were doors I knocked on that never opened. Times I heard no. Times I wondered how many more disappointments I could take before I stopped trying altogether.

But I kept knocking.

And that is something I want anyone reading these pages to remember:

A door can slam in your face and still not be the end of the hallway.

Knock on another one.

And another.

And another.

Cry if you need to. Rest when you're tired. Be disappointed when something doesn't work out.

But don't mistake a closed door for a finished story.

Keep trying.

Because sometimes life doesn't fall into place all at once.

Sometimes it happens piece by piece, so quietly that you don't realize you're rebuilding until one day you look around and see how far you've come.

I believe God has a plan for each of us.

I also believe his timing doesn't always look like ours.

There were things I prayed for that didn't happen when I wanted them to. There were moments when I couldn't understand why I was being asked to wait. There were losses I would never have chosen.

But looking back, I can see that the waiting wasn't empty.

I was changing inside it.

I was learning.

I was becoming ready for a life I couldn't see yet.

Maybe some doors stayed closed because they weren't mine to walk through.

Maybe some endings had to happen so there would finally be room for something new.

I don't have all the answers.

I don't think I need them anymore.

What I have is a job.

A home.

My children.

My faith.

And another morning waiting for me.

There is still so much of my life I haven't met yet.

For once, that doesn't scare me.

It feels like possibility.

So if you're reading this from a place where nothing seems to be working, where every door seems locked and you're wondering how much longer you're supposed to keep trying,

please keep going.

Your life can look completely different from the place where you're standing right now.

Keep knocking.

Keep believing.

Keep showing up for yourself.

Trust that what is meant for you will find you when the time is right.

And when that door finally opens,

walk through it.

You fought hard enough to get there.

Inbetweeners 18- Source Material: The Torment Quest

The Torment represents the first real quest the players had outside of “the rooms” content in the campaign. It was the culmination of Uzo's bow curse intersecting with Zariel and new characters Elythos and Lurian, angelic lovers. Lurian becomes an incredibly important NPC in the campaign, though at the time of writing this questline I didn't really have any plans for him. I think I will start with the raw document I referenced for the questline, typos, half baked ideas and all. This was the first major quest document I wrote up outside the main Inbetweeners Rooms campaign doc. Note that some things were changed on the fly. In the next post I'll craft a narrative explaining what actually transpired and how it effected the story, but for now, the raw, unredacted version of, The Torment:

---

The Torment is a nickname for a prison deep in the lowest layer of Hades. A particularly vile Yugoloth known as the jailer runs the prison and delights in torturing souls over the course of centuries. In particular, the Jailer delights in angels and good aligned souls, but he takes all kinds. Uzo’s bow and curse are attached to a Crusader who has been trapped in the prison for centuries, impaled on a spike that constantly regenerates him so he cannot die and instead faces constant pain. There is also an angel named Lurian trapped here. The Jailer keeps Lurian alive and tortured for his own amusement, frequently locking him away in a box for years on end. Lurian’s lover and battle partner, Elythos, has tried to gather a heavenly host to rescue him but his superiors refuse to risk angelic lives pushing that far into Hades. As the battleground of the Blood War, they do not want to risk drawing attention of demon or devil armies as they clash.

Elythos uses the Deva stat block and Lurian uses the Planetar stat block, but will be heavily weakened if rescued.

Lurian- Planetar Statblock, starts at 70 hp and is severely injured, can heal himself or heal a group but doesn’t have enough magic to do both. Additionally may cast Sunburst once per day. His sword is summoned.

Getting to the Torment is not easy, it is located in Pluton, the lowest layer of Hades. The interloper can do it, albeit indirectly:

The Interloper- Can tear a series of portals through various portions of Hades that will lead directly to The Torment, but these portals are one way and may expose the group to many dangers.

The plot starts with Elythos arriving in the Grey Room and imploring for help rescuing his lover, Lurian. (What the group doesn’t know is that Elythos has promised his soul to Zariel in return for getting Lurian out, she tipped him off. He won’t be forthcoming with this). Elythos was given directions and an amulet by Cervi, who just wanted to stay out of it and stick around the afterlife.

At the same time, Xivora awaits in the market for Uzo. To the group, Xiv is an interplanar freelance mercenary. She uses the statblock of an Eyrines but with the following changes:

Xiv

-has Rope of Entanglement -Longsword is +2 Keen (crit 19-20) (gift from Zariel) deals 1d8 + 6 + 3d8 poison -Can cast firebolt as 13th level caster (3d10 fire damage or 17) as cantrip -Can cast greater invisibility once per day -Can cast dimension door once per day -Can shapeshift (only in Eiryines form or human form, and due to Zariel’s blessing the human form masks any detection magic of her fiendish origin (not from Angels though) -In dire situation, she can consume a soul in a jar, fully healing her but reverting her to her original devil form, permanently.

Group has to decide if they want to bring Xivora or Elythos- cannot take both. Xivora will tout her knowledge of the lower planes lending her to be a better guide. Elythos will admit less knowledge but can promise healing. If Elythos is chosen, Xivora will leave. If Xivora is chosen, Elythos will stay between the Grey Room and the Beeple Hive, monitoring the groups progress.

If questioned, Xivora will state she has been retained by Uzo to help lift the bows curse. In return for payment he will allow her to directly deal with the Interloper to seek further employment opportunities and the ability to travel like the group does. (Truth is she is working for Zariel).

-Interloper route will take them through at least 6 scenes in Hades. All portals are 1 way, including:

I- Bloodwar Battle

A grey dreary sky overlooks a grey wasteland. There is no color here– just ash, waste and death. The sound of thunder is in the distance but no rain. An abyssal army clashes with an army of devils. The demons are far greater in number, but their attacks are chaotic and unorganized. The devils fight in lockstep, and the group can do a perception check to notice some familiar pieces:

-The troops bear the mark of Zariel (burning wings)

– The destabilize spell is being used frequently against the demons. The abominations that form as a result are quickly put down with devil fire. They seem to have found a way to cast it en masse.

– Warped weapons are wielded by a number of the rank and file devil infantry. They miss often but when they hit they deal incredible damage. Also some of the weapons appear augmented with various abilities.

-Some demonic prisoners are being taken alive

– New spells are being used that have the interloper’s fingerprints such as a swirling ball of 4D blades that shreds through the enemies.

– Injured soldiers are being healed with the undo wounds spell and sent back to the field of battle. Occasionally one is instead instantly killed and turned into an undead creature that is promptly slain.

-Some war constructs are being used by the devils that bear the 4D markings of the Interloper. They blink in and out of existence like Dolly, stymying demon attacks.

The portal through is in the center of the pitched battle. The group can wait and hide or try to fight their way through. If with Xiv she will have them wait and be able to talk to any of the devils to gain free passage. Elythos will be attacked on sight. The battle will resolve relatively quickly with the devil army triumphing and annihilating the demon attack. They press forward, seemingly taking territory with a bliztkrieg speed.

_______________________

II- River Styx Crossing

The River slithers through the grey landscape like a gaping wound, its waters thick with ink-black darkness and the spectral whispers of lost souls. A sickly, phosphorescent mist clings to its surface, writhing in tortured patterns as if the river itself breathes in agony. Its banks are jagged and crumbling, slick with the ichor of forgotten oaths. The corpses of unidentifiable fallen horrors float downstream.

Portal is in the center of the river (about 300 yards). Xiv will warn them not to touch it, as it will require a Wisdom Save (DC 15) or wipe out all memories of the past.

A Merranloth can help them cross by boat. It speaks in a low whisper, and demands payment. The group will have to make an offer, but coin is of little use to it. https://5e.tools/bestiary/merrenoloth-mpmm.html

Without a Merranloth creatures will try to pull them into the waters. If they wait too long by the shore they may encounter random undead (Wights, Spectres and Shadow Demons are among the mix)

_________________________________________

III- Possessed Giant Massacring Yugoloths

Describe barren field where a demonic goliath is eviscerating Yugoloths in a frenzy. He seems to be enjoying himself a great deal. If they choose to interact, his name is Rungus, and he isn’t sure how he ended up here. He is very powerful (CR 19 Half Fiend Barbarian- use Drangus statblock) and generally friendly. He may even join the group for a bit but will wander off before the Torment. He is facing off against 3 Nycaloths and 7 Mezoloths, but there is the body of another Nycaloth and several mezoloths dead on the ground.

IV- Forest of Souls

A sparse forest with pale trees under reddish grey sky. The trees bark, upon closer inspection appears unnaturally fleshy.

The group will find harpies tearing into one of the trees causing it to bleed. The tree cries out with a humanoid voice in pain. The group will discover these trees can talk, only if they are bleeding. They can talk to as many as they want, but must cause injury to do so. The trees are souls of those who took their own life and were rejected by their gods as a result. The portal to leave is not immediately visible.

-The tree attacked by harpies is made from the soul of an impressed sailor who was forced to worship the drowned god. He took his own life after months of cruel slavery being forced to row and was punished by his new god and placed here.

Other tree ideas:

-Noble girl who killed herself to avoid marriage to a dreadful lord -Jealous lover who did it to cause misery to his ex -gnomish investor who lost his money in a bad investment -An elderly man who suffered from an incurable disease -A knight who failed his sacred duties -A wizard who lost his eyesight

There are multiple ways for the group to find the portal:

1- Free seven souls (each soul must either narratively be freed, blessed or destroyed) 2- Find one that doesn’t belong (Must specifically look for it, investigation or other relevant check 20) 3- Destroy enough of the surrounding ground to upset the forest itself.

Whichever one of these is done, one tree will be revealed to be fake. Within it is the portal, must slay a Yolocho to access it.

-Also, Uzo may start turning into a tree due to the curse

V- Yugoloth Market

Can buy almost anything here, but merchants will look to betray and rip you off and thieves and pickpockets are abound. Souls are the preferred currency but they will barter almost anything. Portal is uncontested here. Mercenaries that guard are loyal to the vendors that pay the most and care not what happens to the group.

-Tent where memories are restored (for a price) -Many merchants eager to trade in souls -A merchant will offer the group a free sample of “venom.” It creates a berserk like state for 1 minute (+1 melee attack, +4 dmg and attack rolls, +4 to strength saves, stacks with rage) but withdrawal afterwards is intense. Immediately afterwards disadvantage on any checks involving mental acuity. After a day get -2 to Cha/Wis/Int and a deep desire to have more venom. Addiction will naturally subside within a week or with a restoration spell immediately. Merchant gets you hooked and then sells more for a huge markup. -Mercs available for hire -Many spoils of the blood war -Recruitment posters for the blood war -A company of Giff are present, seemingly negotiating to be hired for the bloodwar.

(add pickpockets and guard statistics)

VI- Souls to Damnation

A massive soul barge is gathering souls floating around Pluton. The portal is attached to a spire on top of the barge (100 feet up) sending souls off plane. so it will need to be boarded or taken down. Xiv will tell you this barge was abandoned and co-opted by a renegade group smuggling souls. The barge will be full of Goat Demons and one really tough boss:

https://www.dandwiki.com/wiki/Dark_Tormentor_(5e_Creature)

https://5ecompendium.github.io/bestiary/creature/mehrim

The group will need to decide how to board the ship. They are on a ridge, but it is too far to jump. They can attempt to climb the ship, but it will require athletics or acrobatics check DC 17 to do successfully. Take 2d6 damage (half fire half physical) on each failed save. Flying is another option. Unless they make a lot of ruckus the group can sneak aboard.

See battle map.. The barge will have barrels with souls trapped in them that can be blown up, the souls will attack enemies nearby like magic missiles that deal necrotic damage. Each launches 3d6 missiles each dealing 5 necrotic damage, will spread out among targets, focusing on Mehrim first. Souls will not go near the Dark Tormentor.

The spire, while active, will deal 2d8 necrotic damage per round to anyone near it. It can be shut off manually via the ship but will take a few rounds to figure out how to do so.

This creature basically took over an abandon demon barge– unclear what happened to the previous owner but it has forced a small army of goat demons to man the ship as they collect souls and sell them offworld. The Dark Tormentor is relentless in defending its ship and delights in tormenting its foes.

VII- Palace of Forbidden Wealth

*Maybe leave this one out

Halls lined to the ceiling with mountains of gold, silver and valuables. The portal is simply on the other side of the hall. If the group touches the treasure though– it becomes something else entirely.

https://www.dandwiki.com/wiki/Great_Mimic_(5e_Creature)

Will get the attention of a 1d4 + 1 Driders who prey on the creatures caught by it.

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The Torment Once they reach the Torment Prison, they appear on a sky platform. Below is the grey/red glow of lava flows thousands and thousands of feet below them. They sit near the top of an absolutely massive structure with no windows. It is made of black iron and grey stone. Telepathically, the group will see the Jailer’s wicked grin and hear a message: “You should never have come here.” Everyone who has this vision will need to make a Wisdom saving throw or be temporarily overcome with fear until snapped out of it by a teammate. Uzo will not have this vision, instead, he will just feel a warm feeling like he’s coming home. If Uzo is wounded, his wounds knit. He is close. There is a large set up double doors, unlocked but heavy, made of black steel inlaid with tungsten. They look like they were made to withstand a bomb blast.

This long hallway has two doors at either end and two doors along each wall. These doors are heavy, metal prison doors with a tiny slit to see what’s inside. The floor is made of mixed red and black obsidian and the hallway is lit by an amber glow of long, meandering lines of yellow stone that seems designed intentionally to disorient. When the group enters, a prison guard (a wicked looking fiend with a distended jaw and a cudgel thrumming with red, static energy) laughs and opens the door to cell block 3 and then disappears.

The first cell contains a Flesh Golem and the door is not locked. The guard releases it upon the party and then disappears. The creature wails incoherently and seems stitched together from the parts of many different creatures, some humanoid and some fiendish. Upon killing it or stopping it, laughter can be heard. Investigation check finds dessicated bits of bone and flesh. High investigation shows the room appears that it can move, like it is on tracks.

https://roll20.net/compendium/dnd5e/Flesh%20Golem#content

A being bound in chains is suspended in the center of the room. A faint, weak voice whispers “help me.” Everyone in the group must make a wisdom saving through (DC 14). Failure and they will recognize the being as a loved one or ally. The door is not locked. If the group opens it and goes to undo the chains, the trap unleashes and they must fight a Chain Devil. Laughter will be heard upon the conclusion of the encounter.

https://www.dndbeyond.com/monsters/16822-chain-devil?srsltid=AfmBOooJKEVWLhrfTJ-sbhw_DY-b1qId9UGPJNAXR4yoxlG02GMwGhIb

A small child in an outfit of the wealthy but in a very outdated style is playing with a few toys carved out of bone. Perception revealed the child is very pale and not breathing. Her name is Lil and she will beg for its freedom and offer to help the group, even admitting it's a vampire if it has to. However, she may betray the group at the worst possible time. Her goal is to escape The Torment at any cost. She has a +1 dagger that deals 2d6 additional necrotic damage +2d6 healing to wielder in her possession.

https://roll20.net/compendium/dnd5e/Vampire#content

The skeleton of some sort of infernal creature is in this cell. Put some sort of treasure here if the group investigates. His bones are encrusted with gems. 3080 gold worth of gems if the entire skeleton is scoured.

When the group enters, they are beset by visions of prisoners being lined up against the walls by dozens of fiendish guards. Among them is a group of red skinned, brutish looking soldiers who are badly beaten. It looks like a new group being intaken into the prison. An angel stands out among them. Despite being bound, he manages to trip one of the guards and smash is head with radiant energy. The rest set upon him, bashing him with glee in their eye. Laughter is heard and then the vision ends. Uzo has a different vision, one of the Crusader being stitched back together by a surgeon, only to them be impaled on a spike covered in runes and suffused with dark magic.

Once the vision ends the group is in a similar hallway that can go north, south, east or west. Doors to north, south and east and a staircase is visible to the west.

This spiral staircase appears to go up and down quite a distance. As soon as one enters they lose sight of the way they got onto the staircase and are stuck to move up or down endlessly without making progress. Must make a check (wisdom or intelligence DC 15) to leave the staircase. Each failure gives a point of exhaustion or 2d6 psychic damage.

This room has a single massive mirror in the center. The first character to look in one will have to name their greatest fear. It spawns in the room and the group must face it, the doors disappear until it's done. The jailers laughter can be heard in the minds of the group. The other doors aren’t visible to the group unless they have true seeing or some other method or deal with the mirror. It shatters when the trial is finished. The door to the north is unlocked, but the door to the south is locked. (DC 25 to break down, DC 20 to lock pick)

Two mezzoloths guard the cell at the end of this hallway. They will say this hallway is off limits but the Jailer is eager to see them if they head north. They will fight to the death to defend the cell at the end of the hallway.

This is a small guard barracks. Two nycoloths and three more mezzoloths are in here and will join the two mezzoloths in room 10 if they enter combat. Loot includes 3 torment cudgels (+1 maces that deal 1d6 psychic damage, will make good aligned creatures nauseous) and a cooler full of a consume (fleshly liquid). If group drinks it it heals them. 12 servings, each heals 2d6.

Five figures are suspended in x patterns, nailed or chained to metal X’s. Three are dead and flayed, one is mid flay and the last is waiting and horrified. The beings are humanoid but with red skin, some race the group does not recognize. A Chasme (a massive, horsed sized insect with a giant probiscus and sickly blue chitin) is gleefully peeling away at the flesh of the being and will ignore the group unless interrupted. The one being tortured will be too weak to help unless healed, but the other one is okay and will join the group if freed. Use Ogre statblock but immune to fire. They were part of a captured merc group fighting on the side of a devil lord.

This door is locked, but one of the Mezzoloths has a key. Otherwise the door can be broken down or picked (DC 20). Lurian has been stuffed into a cage far too small for his massive, adonis like body. The cage is barbed and heated, and the barbs face inward cutting into his flesh in many places with trickles of golden blood pouring out. DC 15 strength to break open the cage if they don’t have the key, but will take 1d8 fire damage. His wings have been removed and nailed to the wall. A mirror faces him that shows images of the heavens burning and overrun with fiends. He will initially think the group is there to further his torture, but upon hearing Elythos name he will join the group. He won’t have a weapon and is incapable of flight, and will have only 70 hitpoints (instead of 200) due to his injuries. If provided a weapon he will fight for the group. They can also choose to have him heal himself or heal their wounds, but he only has 4 healings (30 hp each) (see stat block for Planetar).

This large room has skeletons/corpses on the floor in various states of decay. Magical wards will trigger music to pipe in from speakers in the ceiling as a toxic gas to release. The music acts as Otto’s irresistible dance on all players (DC 17) to snap out of it. The gas deals 1d6 acid and 1d6 necrotic damage per turn con save DC 17 each turn. There is door to the north, south (entered from) and east.

Fake treasure room with mimics and driders. The path forward is blocked by a wall of force. Nothing happens until the group interacts with the mountains of gold and gems piled along the walls. Turns into two mimics, with Driders showing up soon after.

Long catwalk over a seemingly endless chasm. Countless stories of prison cells go down and each is in a modular cube that seems to be able to rearrange through magical force. Fiends fly up and down tending to them but pay the players no mind.

Observation Room

The Operator waits here. He is impossible gaunt, pale skin that shows his blue veins throughout his body. Has goggles grafted to his face and wears a leather apron seemingly made from the flesh of… something. He constantly smiles and greets the group, happily explaining the operations. If they become hostile he will dimension door away but won’t fight. He will express how excited the Jailer is to meet them and point the way. He is also happy to show them some of the prisoners.

Pain is our currency

Suffering is legendary

Eyes aren’t needed to see here

The Torment has always been and always will be

Death is no escape

The angels and gods know we are necessary, they dare not tread here

The Observation room is a large room with a control console and seating, like a surgical observation room in a medical school. Everything is a sickly pale green marble color earily sanitized. The modular, cube shaped prison cells can be brought up here one at a time, releasing a prisoner into a glass chamber where ostensibly the “surgery” will take place.

The group can try to operate the console but it is all infernal and very difficult to understand (Int 21 or knowledge/arcana 25). They can use it to locate Lurian or bring up other cubes– just wing it based on what the group decides.

Path of the damned. The group hears tormented whispers of their own voices or voices of those they knew in the past, begging for help.

Thogg hears Cervi saying they got him in heaven and brought him here, and they took his eyes.

Domilia (if present) hears the Beeple queen saying they have the entire hive and are eating them.

Rotlog hears himself, begging for it to end.

Bruce hears the voice of his lover, gargling and begging.

Uzos eyes fill with black blood, his eyes are all pupils. In his mind he hears again and again “YOU ARE HOME” and with more certainty than ever he feels his entire life has led to this moment. He must fight.

Xiv will warn that whatever they are about to face will be really bad. Through grim determination she shows fear.

Lurian says the Jailer is ahead, and never has he met a creature of such malice and evil. It must be put down, no matter the cost.

The Blood Door. It says in Abyssal and Infernal The Blood of the Willing Makes Way for the Damned” There is a basin with nine arm holes full of blades. The group can put their arms in and it starts draining blood (1 hp/hit die per turn). Once it fills with 100 hitpoints of blood the door opens. Angel can’t help because his blood won’t work and Xiv can’t but will make up an excuse why she won’t to avoid blowing her cover.

Boss Fight- The Jailer

Jailer will get the first round since it knows players are coming. It may use “Help” action twice to spawn two flesh golems. See created image. It has various torture impliments in pockets along its apron.

The Jailer (CR 18- 20000 exp) AC: 19 (+5 dex, +4 apron (acts at magic leather armor) HP: 242 HD: 23d10 + 115 Speed: 40 ft Initiative: +5

STR: 18 DEX: 20 CON: 20 INT: 18 WIS: 16 CHA: 18

Saving throws: ability modifier +5 Damage Resistances: Immune to Necrotic and Poison

Can take 2 actions per turn from the following:

Hold: Casts hold monster (WIS DC 18) on a single creature Chain: DEX 18: 1d4 + 2 chains appear and attach into a player. Failed dex save and each chain requires a strength check (DC 13) to rip out and deals 1d6 +1 damage. Failed save ends turn. Player is considered grappled until this is done. Held creatures automatically fail save. Imprison: WIS 18- Player appears in a cell deep in the torment prison (cool down 6) Banish: Player is sent back to the grey room (WIS 18), Xiv or Lurian will go to Hell/Heaven respectively- use this to balance if fight is going wrong way Go To Work: Paralyzed Character is subjected to gruesome mutilation. Takes 6d6 damage and gets -2 cha until restored, regenerated, etc. Can only be used once per turn. Siphon: Paralyzed creature takes 4d6 necrotic damage and jailer heals that much Help: Abomination drops from the ceiling to aid. Statblock is flesh golem. Saw: Produces a hellish, spinning blade that does a melee attack: +9 to hit, 4d8 + 5 (23 dmg) Move: Teleports to another place in the arena.

Desperation: Upon dropping below 100 hitpoints, the Jailer goes up to 3 actions per turn.

Defeating the Jailer will cause a prison cube to open up on a nearby wall with Uzo’s impaled prisoner. Upon destroying the spike the soul is released and the curse is lifted. The Bow, along with a considerable amount of black goo, ashes away from Uzo’s body as he feels vindicated. In its place, is a radiant amulet that adds +1 dmg/attack and advantage on curses. If Lurian hasn’t been freed, a second cube will move up to an empty slot along the wall if the group asks for him.

-The Jailer itself is half machine at this point. The components can be salvaged and later sold for 2000 gold or given to the Interloper. (if the bring the entire body through the portal the interloper might find a use for it)

A portal will open up and a voice of The Warden will call the group interlopers that do not belong here. They should leave at once with their angel, lest they be subjected to some of the most brutal and horrific tortures imaginable. The group can choose to leave, or head down a hall deeper into the torment…

21- The group reaches a large chamber with dozens of various dead outsiders and beings suspended in glass chambers full of a thick, preservative liquid.

On the way there, shadow demons rutterkins and Mezzoloths will descend upon the group but Ziv and Lurian can annihilate them with ease (no combat rolls necessary.) Behind a mammoth control console, the size of a large room itself, a Sibriex (CR 18- 20000 exp). It will say telepathically from the group that it hasn’t fought in eons, but will delight in reducing their flesh down to its raw ingredients.

The Sibriex has summoned The Four, a group of infamous Nycoloth Mercenaries, to protect him from the group. Use Nycoloth Stat Block, but with the following modifications:

Armor- One of the Nycoloths looks like he is made out of chrome and has an AC of 23

Regenerator- One of the Nycoloths heals 50 hit points per turn, rapidly regenerating any wounds. Its flesh looks like a sinewy liquid.

Whirling Dervish- Makes four attacks per turn.

Voidtouched- this Nycoloth is pure black. Any melee strikes against it force a Con saving throw or take ½ damage back as necrotic damage. Also deals +10 necrotic damage on all attacks.

Each yields 7000 exp instead of 5000 due to these buffs.

Since these are Mercenaries, they can potentially be bought with a better offer…

LORE: This Demon came from the Abyss eons ago and took over a small prison in Hades, turning it into The Torment. Over the millenia it has continually added on to the prison, making it into a massive place where demons, devils and yugoloths alike can dump prisoners who they want nothing other than for them to suffer. The Warden has a pact with the fiendlords not to attack the torment, and will occasionally release prisoners in return for engineers, guards, or materials needed to run and expand the prison.

Once the group has defeated The Warden, they can use the console to open all cells int he torment, leading the guards and prisoners to fight, destroying the prison in the process.

LOOT:

Tome of Torment- This book had everything the Sibriex needed to build and control the torment. Spells for building the walls, schematics for the cells, spells to bind and torture and siphon energy from it. Group can use it (really evil) or sell it as it would be of great worth to Zariel (to use) the Interloper (to study) or celestials (to destroy). Also has instructions for building horrific fiendish constructs like The Jailer.

Barrel of Souls- 723 tormented souls are trapped in this barrel. Group can do as they like– huge value in lower planes markets.

Rod of Torment- Ziv will try to snatch this one up. It has 6 charges per day and can use the following abilities:

Inflict Wounds (3rd Level- 5d10 necrotic damage)– 1 charge Hold Monster- 2 Charges Finger of Death- 3 Charges Imprison- 5 Charges

DC on all saves is 17.

Helm of Domination- Once per day, may attempt to enslave another creature. The creature gets a Wis Save DC 17. On Failure, the creature is fully enslaved. Wearer may only have one thrall at a time. If the creature succeeds its saving throw, the Wearer must make a Wis saving throw DC 17. If they fail, they take 1d6 psychic damage per HD of the creature they were trying to control. The enslaved creature must do anything the wearer commands, but it can attempt to break free if it is ordered to do something that puts it in serious harm's way by making another saving throw.

Bag of Void- Like a bag of holding… but the things never come back (unless they can planeshift). Goes to a plane of existence meant for rubbish, though living creatures are exiled there as well. It is cold, rocky, always twilight and devoid of any native life.

Torture Orb- When activated, every living being in 30 foot radius of the orb must make a con save DC 15. Failure and they take 2d6 damage and cannot act that turn. Active until orb is turned off or shattered. Constructs and undead are immune to this effect, as is the individual attuned to it.

________________________________

The group destroyed the Warden and the Jailer, freed Lurian and set all the prisoners free. The prisoners and guards proceeded to tear each other apart, ultimately the surviving guards looted what they could and fled the Torment. Most of the prisoners died, but some of the survivors are spreading out across Hades and others decided to make lairs in the Torment. Uzo’s spell caught the attention of the Protectors, who sent an eyebot to examine. When they discovered the Torment had fallen into chaos, they sent an elite investigative team to figure out what happened. They managed to bring back the mind of the Sibriex long enough to interrogate it. Wishing horrible vengeance upon the group, it gave what information it could. The Protectors kept a small force there in case the group returned, and would later seek out the Four, regenerating after their defeat. They do not die when slain, but instead regrow in their lair where they must be killed to be permanently destroyed. The Four, realizing the Marut traveling with the investigative team is far beyond them, cooperates as well. The Protectors realize this group they are tracking is far more formidable than they previous realized, and have elevated their threat level and the resources allocated to tracking them immensely.

Inbetweeners 17- Zariel

So originally I thought it would be fun to have one of the rooms directly attached to the Grey Room to lead to a catastrophically powerful enemy. Like something absurd, that even with loaded dice that only rolled natural 20s and unlimited prep, the players would be absolutely doomed. I thought Zariel's War Room would be an excellent choice for this.

For those of you not familiar with the 5e Lore about Zariel, she was originally an angel who became convinced that Heaven’s refusal to intervene directly in the Blood War was basically moral cowardice. She led an unauthorized crusade into Avernus with the mortal Hellriders, but the campaign collapsed when much of her army fled back through the portal and abandoned her. Zariel was captured, and Asmodeus offered her the thing she had wanted all along: the power to wage the Blood War properly. She accepted, fell, and eventually became Archduke of Avernus. In 5e she is essentially a corrupted zealot, still fighting the same war she believed justified her rebellion, just now as one of Hell’s greatest generals.

So I leaned hard into her focus on winning the Blood War being the only way to purge the multiverse of evil. In her mind, she is the greater good. However, her focus is entirely myopic. Anything for the cause, anything that let's her power and ability to wage war improve is worth it. This is what made her and the Interloper crossing paths so dangerous. When the players first entered her chamber, what they encountered for like level 3 or 4 players was beyond terrifying:

“The very air thrums with malevolent energy. The room is dominated by a massive obsidian table, etched with arcane symbols and surrounded by high-backed, crimson chairs. The walls are lined with maps of mortal and infernal territories, marked with strategic points and stained with blood. Dim, flickering flames in sconces cast an eerie red glow, illuminating racks of wicked, barbed weapons and trophies of unholy conflicts. The atmosphere is thick with the scent of brimstone and the echo of infernal whispers. A large window overlooks a burning hellscape, the glass made of a flexible, translucent obsidian that seems to flow like liquid. Everything is hot to the touch and the only colors that seem to stand out are blood red, black and yellow of flames.

At the table are two large, winged creatures with massive horns pouring over battlefield maps. Overseeing them is an even larger, hulking beast covered in interlocking armored plates with a whiplike tail, mammoth wings that can surround its entire body, and a terrifying head that seems infernal and draconic, with fangs and gleaming yellow-red eyes. Off to the side is an insectlike monster seemingly made of ice and metal and two beings clad in jet black armor with crimson hawk like wings, twistedly beautiful faces and horns. All turn their heads, surprised to see the group as a fear and panic fills each of your hearts like you have never felt before in your life. “

Initially, there were 2 Erinyes, 2 Horned Devils, 1 Ice Devil and 1 Pitfiend in the room, with an entire team of Chain Devils in the next room over that could be called in in a moments notice. Now you might first ask, why wouldn't they just kill the players? Any one of these devils could make quick work of them. The answer is that this is the inner sanctum of Zariel's fortress, which I conceived as a flying fortress over the burning landscape of Avernus. It has magical warding and protection against any sort of plane shift or teleportation magic, and is viewed as impregnable. Zariel is obsessed with security, so these “spies” seeming able to bypass all the defenses and make it into the most sensitive room in the entire fortress begs questions. The devils first instinct is to just haul the players off to the torture room to extract answers to these questions. The problem with this strategy is that the players simply teleport back into the room if they are moved in any way. At this point, they contact Zariel immediately knowing she will want to interrogate the group directly.

So potent are the wards against teleportation that not even Zariel herself can teleport into her own war room. Instead, she teleports on to a platform outside, and enters the room. The players ability to do what she can not is of great interest to her, and she interrogates them thoroughly. The dramatic irony here is that the Interloper repeatedly asked the players to bring him “interesting” test subjects. Interesting means powerful, and so long as they aren't aligned with Mechanus he will glady accept them. And the rewards scale with the level of “interest” he has in a subject, so the players are simultaneously terrified they are about to be killed and elated that they might make a massive payday. They explain the situation to Zariel, leaving the part out about the 4 dimensional being wanting to dissect her, and invite her to come meet their employer. She wants to get to the bottom of this and is fairly head strong and overconfident, the same traits that led her to hell in the first place, so she agrees. They grant her an amulet that lets her follow them and bring her to the Grey Room. A staircase appears and she walks up it.

Now every other “participant” the group brought to the Grey Room never came back. They were promptly dissected by the Interloper. The one time they needed someone back, they got his body... “reconstructed” and with no soul. So they assumed he was going to have a field day with her, or she'd kill him and they'd have a new boss. But instead, she simply leaves after some time, completely laden with 4 dimensional artifacts, the very flavor of gifts that the Interloper grants to the players. The Interloper is delighted, effusively thanking the players for bring her to meet him. This was the first time he ever let a “participant” leave, and this taught the players something: powerful enough entities could directly treat with the Interloper. He cut a deal with Zariel, he would furnish her weapons and spells to help her war effort, and she would bring him more “participants.” It was a beautiful deal for both sides. The Interloper got an endless supply of test subjects as well as experimental data from all of his inventions being used on the battlefield. Zariel already had more prisoners than she knew what to do with, so she simply walked them through the portal and was given weapons that previously had never existed in this mulitverse—the ultimate edge against her enemies. Each side gives up something they want to give away in return for something they really want. Truly a match made in hell.

From here on out, the Grey Room had an endless procession coming from Hell. when the players would return they might see a group of chain devils leading through an entire legion of chained, bound and severely wounded demons. Sometimes it would be one massive demon. Sometimes enslaved mortals. Othertimes they'd be carrying out entire wagon loads of 4 dimensional weapons. Zariel had to move her War Room and turn that room into essentially a loading dock to move things to and from the Grey Room. The size and spectacle of what they brought through consistently increased with time. Zariel's appetite for the Interlopers weapons increased as his appetite for her test subjects did. Both made each other more powerful... and power hungry. The most extreme case was when the Interloper made a specific request, he wanted one of Tiamat's consorts. He would've taken Tiamat herself but realized that Zariel lacked the power to subdue and capture her.

I kind of let this all evolve diegetically. Originally I just put Zariel in there without a plan for how to she'd be involved in the plot. The Desecrated Temple was connected to her, and the Shadow of Torm wanted to kill her (though this was added in after the fact) but everything else followed from the players actions. What was most interesting was how the Interloper's powers effected her plotline. His spells and weapons were incredibly potent but had substantial drawbacks and unpredictable effects. To the players, this made some of them prohibitive. Zariel simply worked these effects into her risk calculations on the battlefield.

During the Torment Questline (which I will get to soon), the players get to see Zariel's legions in action with the Interloper's new toys. They used the destabilize spell against the demons and quickly burned the gibbering mouthers that would appear when they transformed. The warped weapons missed often, but there were enough infantry that when they did hit, the intense damage made up for it, improving the armies overall ability. Instead of just slaughtering demons, there was a concerted effort to take as many alive as possible— more to trade for more weapons. Other spells, like the 4D blades, were used to tear through enemy formations. Injured soldiers were pulled back and had undo wounds cast on them, but casters were ready to incinerate them if they came back wrong. Furthermore, massive war constructs made of 4D materials that resembled Dolly's aesthetic were employed. These war machines blinked in and out of existence, making them difficult for enemies to hit while simultaneously inflicting incredible damage on the demons. All of this leads to the demon armies being routed. Zariel is able to make more progress in the Blood War post meeting the Interloper in a matter of weeks than she had in decades prior. I'll get into the implications of this in a later post.

So, a lot was going on in the background the players weren't aware of as an implication of Zariel and the Interloper's new alliance. First off, the planes, and Mechanus specifically, depending on balance in the Blood War. The entire point was there is no winner, and the fiends exhaust themselves. Zariel turning the tide suddenly brought a lot of attention. Demons wanted access to the weapons she had. Asmodeus was curious as to her newfound power so watched and waited to see how it unfolded. Other devil generals and lords were jealous and sought to betray her. Angels were mixed, liked that she was killing so many demons but feared what would happen if she gained to much power. Most importantly, Mechanus realizes there is Far Realm influence here and starts more intensely searching for the Interloper. The Interloper realized he was risking a lot, but the allure of so much data and material was too much for him to turn down. He'd figure out how to mitigate the consequences later.

For the players it was interesting because Uzo wanted to work with Zariel, she was his retirement plan after the Interloper. Domilia hated her because she was a fiend and wanted to smite her. Rotlog didn't like her but basically wanted to not die, however that was possible. Cervi (RIP) and Thogg were more on the fence. She grew to be a very important NPC in the campaign with quite an arc. I'll leave it with this. As alluded to in a previous post, Callie's parasite was given to the Interloper along with a note from Zariel. She wanted it weaponized. He wanted a consort of Tiamat. An impossibly dangerous request for an impossibly enticing reward. We will get into the outcome in a future post.

Also, one of the players pointed this out. I have a penchant for scary, powerful women in my campaign. The Lady of Pain, Zariel, Grandma Nettles, Xivora, The Beeple Queen, etc. And sort of bumbling men: Mobius Torrent, The Interloper, The king in the throne room. I realize I haven't introduced some of these characters yet, but I will. Point is, there is probably a lot to read into my own psychology for this—but I'll save that for a future post.

Chapter 1: The Morning You Decide to Look Fine

There are mornings when you stand in the bathroom longer than usual because you are trying to decide what kind of face you can manage for the day. Nothing dramatic happens in that moment. The coffee is getting cold in the kitchen, your phone is already showing messages, and somebody may be waiting for you to leave the house. Still, there is a private pause where you know you are carrying more than anyone around you can see. That hidden weight is why how Jesus teaches us to notice what people carry in silence matters so much to me.

Maybe nobody would guess what is happening inside you because you have become good at functioning. You answer the email, make the drive, take the call, pay the bill, or ask somebody else how they are doing. You may even laugh and mean it. That is part of what makes hidden burdens so confusing. Pain does not always remove a person’s ability to keep moving, and giving grace when you do not know the full story can matter long before anybody explains what is wrong.

I have learned that we often expect suffering to announce itself in a form we recognize. We look for tears, missed work, visible fear, or a voice that sounds broken. When those signs are absent, we assume the person is fine. Jesus did not seem to need that kind of proof before He paid attention. He noticed people others moved past, listened to questions that carried more than the words being asked, and treated human beings as more than the condition or reputation everyone else could see.

That changes the way I think about ordinary encounters. A friend sends a short reply and my first instinct may be to wonder whether I did something wrong. A coworker seems distracted and I can decide they do not care. Someone at the store moves slowly and I can turn their difficult moment into my inconvenience. Most of the time, I do not know enough to make those judgments. I know only what reached me.

There is a quiet freedom in admitting that because not knowing the whole story does not make me helpless. It changes what I am responsible for. I may not know why someone seems distant, tired, impatient, or unusually quiet, but I can decide not to make the moment heavier than it already is. I can ask a question before making an accusation. I can leave room for an explanation I have not heard yet. I can speak in a way that would still feel decent if I later learned the person had been carrying something painful all day.

That sounds simple until the person is someone close to us. Strangers sometimes receive more patience because we do not have history with them. The people we love are easier to interpret. We know their habits, their weaknesses, and the things that have frustrated us before, so one small moment can collect years of meaning.

A husband walks into the kitchen and notices his wife has forgotten something they discussed that morning. He could say, “You forgot.” That is a fact. He could also say, “You never listen to me.” That is an interpretation, and it places a much larger weight on the moment. The forgotten thing may still need to be handled, but the marriage does not need a character trial every time somebody makes a mistake.

I think this is one of the places where following Jesus becomes very practical. Grace is not pretending that nothing matters. It is refusing to add condemnation where truth will do. Jesus could be direct without stripping people of dignity. He could confront what was wrong while still seeing the person in front of Him as someone worth speaking to, touching, restoring, or inviting forward.

That matters to the person who is already carrying private shame. A man who has made a financial mistake may know exactly what he did wrong. He may be opening bills every night and wondering how he will repair it. If he tells someone he trusts, he may need honest help. What he may not need is another person treating the mistake as proof that he is foolish in every part of life.

The same is true when the burden is not self-created. A woman caring for an aging parent may be tired enough to forget things she normally remembers. A teenager may be quieter because a friendship has fallen apart. A dependable employee may suddenly seem less focused because something serious is happening at home. We should not invent stories for people, but we should remember that visible behavior is often only the surface.

Jesus gives us a powerful example of this in the way He handled the woman caught in adultery in John 8. The passage has a complicated manuscript history, so I do not use it carelessly, but the scene has shaped Christian reflection for centuries because of the posture it shows. A woman is placed publicly in front of Jesus while others are interested in accusation. Jesus does not deny that sin matters, yet He refuses to let the crowd reduce her to a spectacle.

That difference stays with me because people are often already aware of the worst thing in their story. They do not need us to pretend it is harmless, but neither do they need us to turn it into their entire identity. There is a way to tell the truth that leaves a person standing. There is also a way to tell the truth that feels more interested in punishment than restoration.

When I think about hidden burdens, I keep returning to that choice. Will I become another person someone has to brace against, or can I become someone around whom they do not have to perform strength quite so hard? Sometimes the answer looks almost insignificant. It can be letting a friend finish a sentence without rushing to fix it, asking, “Are you okay?” and accepting “I do not want to talk about it yet” without taking offense, or giving somebody another day to answer without assuming the relationship is in trouble.

Those small moments matter because people who carry hidden burdens become skilled at reading whether a room feels safe. They notice whether a question is really curiosity, judgment, or care. They notice whether your kindness disappears when their answer becomes inconvenient. They notice whether you listen or simply wait for your turn to speak.

There was a time when I thought helping meant having something useful to say. I am less convinced of that now because sometimes the useful thing is restraint. Sometimes it is refusing to fill the silence, and sometimes it is allowing somebody to be a person before they become a problem to solve. Fixing gives us a role, while listening can leave us close to something we cannot control.

Jesus did not avoid people whose lives were messy because He could not reduce them to a clean explanation. He entered those moments with truth, compassion, and presence. I cannot do what Jesus did in the way He did it, but I can learn from the way He looked at people.

That may be where this begins for us too. Before we try to solve what another person carries, we can stop adding to it. Before we demand proof, we can choose kindness. Before we decide what someone’s behavior means, we can leave room for the part of the story we cannot see. Some days, that may be the grace we need from someone else, and other days, it may be the grace we are being asked to give.

Chapter 2: The Kind of Grace That Does Not Need an Explanation

A man sits in his truck outside his house after work with both hands resting on the steering wheel. The engine is off, but he does not go inside yet. He loves the people in that house, and nothing terrible has happened. He simply knows that the moment he opens the door, somebody will ask a question, the dog will need to go out, dinner will need attention, and the evening will begin moving. He needs five quiet minutes because the day took more out of him than he knows how to explain. If his wife looks through the window and sees him sitting there, she could decide he is avoiding the family, or she could let five quiet minutes remain five quiet minutes until there is a reason to believe they mean more.

That kind of restraint may be one of the most loving forms of grace we can offer. Not every unusual behavior has a hidden tragedy behind it. Sometimes a person is simply tired, disappointed, embarrassed, hungry, worried, or trying to get their thoughts together before speaking. We do not need to invent a dramatic reason in order to treat them gently. I think compassion becomes strangely conditional when we are patient only after we learn about the diagnosis, the funeral, the job loss, or the family crisis. Before we know those things, we may be impatient, as though suffering has to become serious enough to earn kindness.

Jesus makes me question that instinct. In Matthew 11, He speaks directly to people who are weary and burdened and invites them to come to Him for rest. He describes Himself as gentle and humble in heart. I keep returning to those words because gentleness is not weakness, and humility is not uncertainty. Gentleness is strength that does not need to crush, while humility remembers that I do not know everything. That changes the way I want to respond when someone is hard to understand. A friend can disappoint me without my deciding that the friendship means nothing to them, and a family member can speak badly in one moment without that moment becoming the entire truth about their character.

A woman sends her sister a message asking whether she can talk. Hours pass without a response, and by late afternoon she has created an entire explanation in her mind. Her sister must be upset. Something from last week must have caused it. Maybe the relationship has changed, or maybe she is being ignored on purpose. That evening the sister calls and apologizes because her phone had been in a desk drawer during a long training session. The woman realizes that most of the pain she carried all afternoon came from a story built around missing information. The mind hates empty space, so it fills the unknown quickly, and the explanation it invents is often harsher than the truth.

Grace sometimes means leaving that blank space blank. It can sound as simple as, “I do not know why they have not answered yet.” That is not denial; it is accuracy. The same practice matters when somebody really does disappoint us. If a person repeatedly breaks commitments, trust may need to change. If a relationship becomes harmful, boundaries may be necessary. If a coworker continually fails to complete work, accountability still matters. The point is not to become naive. The point is to work with what is true instead of adding motives we cannot prove. “You missed the deadline again” gives us something real to address. “You do not care about this team” may be a story we added.

A father learns this with his teenage son. The boy comes home one afternoon, walks past everyone, and closes his bedroom door. The father almost follows immediately because the behavior feels disrespectful, but he waits twenty minutes and knocks. When he asks whether the day was rough, his son admits that a friend embarrassed him in front of other students. The closed door was not rejection of the family. It was a teenager trying to regain his balance before speaking. The father still has rules about how people treat one another in the house, but he chose curiosity before accusation, and that choice gave the truth somewhere to land.

I think Jesus teaches us to make that kind of room more often than we notice. He asks people questions even when He understands far more than they do. He asks Bartimaeus what he wants Him to do, asks the disciples who they say He is, and asks the man at Bethesda whether he wants to get well. Questions can create room for a person to speak from where they really are. That matters especially for people who have become used to carrying things privately, because they often know the difference between a question that invites honesty and one that is really an accusation wearing polite clothes.

A woman has become the dependable person in her family. Everyone calls when a problem appears. She remembers birthdays, helps an aging parent with appointments, assists a sibling with paperwork, and somehow remains the person who sounds calm on the phone. One Saturday she ignores several messages and spends most of the morning reading on the couch. Her brother later jokes that she disappeared, and she laughs with him, but the truth is that she needed three hours in which nobody required anything from her. The family may never fully understand how much she carries because she has become good at carrying it, and that is exactly why she needs people who do not demand a dramatic explanation before respecting a little space.

We cannot solve this by becoming suspicious of every smile or trying to uncover hidden pain everywhere we go. People deserve privacy too. What we can do is make fewer demands for proof. If a friend says they are tired, we do not always need to know why before accepting it. If someone says they need space, we can respect that without making them pay for it emotionally. If a coworker says there is a family matter they need to handle, the details may not belong to us. This kind of respect tells another person that they do not have to perform pain convincingly before they are allowed to be human.

There is another side to this that I have had to learn, because sometimes the person whose hidden burden I misunderstand is me. I can be harsher with myself than I would ever be with someone else. A difficult week becomes evidence that I am failing, needing rest begins to look like laziness, and uncertainty starts sounding like proof that I should have prepared better. Then I realize I have created the same problem internally that I am trying to avoid with other people. I am demanding an explanation before allowing myself grace.

Grace toward ourselves still has to be honest. I can make excuses, avoid responsibility, and call it self-compassion if I am not careful. But honesty also includes recognizing human limits. I can be tired because I have been carrying a lot. I can need help without becoming helpless. I can have a bad day without turning it into an identity, and I can trust God while still wishing a situation were different. Love for other people does not require unlimited availability, and faith does not require pretending that fear, sadness, or weariness never enter the room.

The more I look at Jesus, the less interested I become in the kind of spirituality that makes people hide their humanity. Jesus met people in hunger, exhaustion, grief, fear, confusion, sickness, shame, and ordinary need. He did not wait for them to become impressive before engaging them. That changes what I think Christian encouragement should feel like. It should point toward Christ without making the reader prove that the burden is heavy enough, and it should leave room for someone to tell the truth before rushing them toward a lesson.

Maybe that is what some of us need today. We may not need a dramatic answer or a promise that everything will change by morning. We may need permission to admit that something is heavy and to stop apologizing for needing a little quiet. We may also need to offer somebody else the same kindness, especially when we do not yet understand what their behavior means. The goal is not to excuse everything. It is to become slower to add weight where truth has not asked us to add it.

The man sitting in his truck finally opens the door and walks into the house. His wife looks up from the kitchen and asks whether it was a long day. He nods, and she does not demand the whole story. She puts a plate on the table and lets him arrive. A few minutes later, he starts talking on his own because safety often works that way. It does not force the truth out of people. It makes room for truth to come when they are ready.

We cannot know everything another person carries, and we do not have to know everything before choosing not to make the load heavier. When we are the ones carrying something we cannot explain neatly, we can remember the same truth for ourselves. Jesus does not require a polished reason before He invites the weary to come near, and perhaps following Him begins with learning to offer a little of that same gentleness to the person in front of us and to the person we meet when we are finally alone.

Your friend,

Douglas Vandergraph

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No one talks enough about that strange, melancholy, nostalgic, bittersweet place in time. It is the horizon where grief has not completely faded but no longer consumes you, either.

It arrives in waves and quiet little hums. And sometimes, when you least expect it, the wave still crashes violently onto the shore. The clouds grow dark and heavy, the sky opens, and suddenly, the tears you thought you had already spent return.

It is brief.

It rarely lasts long.

But grief does not necessarily mean regret. Perhaps it simply means that something was precious. That it mattered. That the life you once knew has changed, and growth is guiding you in the direction already ordained for you. A part of you still mourns what was, what could have been, and what you once hoped it might become.

Healing is not linear, they say.

No kidding!

But no one talks enough about the glimmers of hope there, either.

The unexpected relief.

The return of a cognitive and emotional freedom you had almost forgotten existed. The first full, deep breath you permit yourself to take after years of shallow, measured breathing. Learning to sprint on an open road where you had once been tiptoeing and walking on eggshells.

It is a place where possibility feels expansive, even when its edges are still shrouded in remnants of fear. A place where joy and hope, though still fragile, can exist alongside uncertainty.

Cautious optimism, perhaps? Where optimism is appealing  but occasionally still feels a little foolish.

A place where you begin to recognize yourself again. Not merely the version of you who learned to survive. But the woman who existed before …somehow more resilient, more beautiful, and wiser now.

It is the edge of something. The beginning of the unknown. Of feeling so alive, yet sometimes so profoundly alone.

The gray zone, if you will.

Or maybe it is blue.

Like a blend of the blue of the sky and the teal of the ocean.

The blue that exists somewhere between the red you had been living in for longer than anyone ever knew…and the green you are still afraid to step into, even though some part of you dreamt of it long before.

And somewhere in that blue, you begin to understand that arriving here was not a simple  matter of fault or failure. God knows it was after the very best of your efforts, patience, and intentions. And  somehow you no longer feel the need to prove that to anybody.

Such is life, I suppose.

Strangely, clarity can come even amid messy transition. Perhaps clarity is not always knowing exactly what happens next. Perhaps sometimes, it is simply knowing that you can no longer remain where you were.

In this blue, the days can be bright. Pain and doubt may still show their faces, but they no longer rule.

One moment, you are driving alone in your car, wiping away tears. The next, a song blares through your speakers, and you catch a glimpse of your children’s faces in the rearview mirror.

You remember the kindness of the family and friends who held you, witnessed and stood beside you. You think of the people you only recently met who, unknowingly, are healing something within you in ways you never thought possible.

One endearing look, one kind word, one warm embrace at a time.

Your heart starts to feel whole again.

The clouds part just enough to let a little light through.

And in that moment, your faith gently reminds you of what you have somehow always known:

You will be okay.

You rest in knowing that the greatest and most perfect love you seek already lives within you and that it is one of God’s greatest gifts.

In this blue, you have found your way back home to yourself.

You are going to be okay.

Today was busy and I got a lot accomplished! I did not wake up early, but I did go for a run even though I really did not want to. I haven’t run in almost six months since my last half marathon. I DID NOT ANSWER EMAILS. I don’t know why I keep procrastinating that, but I really need to get on it.

The next few things got switched around – I had my haircut, then went to pottery, then bought a few groceries and the rest did not really get done. I forgot I had a meeting in the evening, so I skipped kickball to do that instead. Anyway, most of the day kept me preoccupied and busy so I did not even check the status of my thing, but I imagine there isn’t any change. I did however, think about my crush quite a bit. I don’t know if I am romanticizing in my head, or if there may really be something there.

The plan for Day 93:

• Take my dog to daycare (with a dose of trazodone)
• Breakfast and coffee on the go
• Pottery
• Pick up dog for dog sitting gig
• Pick my dog up from daycare
• Dinner with a friend :)
• Put laundry away
• Walk my dog

I took my laundry out but still needs to be put away!

Thank you for your message. I am currently out of office with no set return date. I will get back to you when the time is right.