What have I done?
Lately, I’ve been using AI both at work and for world-building in my DC20 campaign. It’s been a blast seeing characters come to life through images generated by ChatGPT, or having it prompt me with questions that help flesh out my fantasy world.
After a recent D&D session, I had the idea to feed my raw session notes into ChatGPT and ask it to write a diary entry in the voice of my character—a half-elf bard. To set the stage, I provided the AI with my character’s backstory, personality, and a few details about the rest of the party. The results were surprisingly vivid. So much so, I then asked ChatGPT to make an image based off the text it created.
Below is the entry and image it created, based on last weekend’s session.
Aaryan’s Diary - Entry 14
Phandalin
Somewhere between a toast and trouble
Ah, Phandalin—sweet little town with a big appetite for heroes! We descended from Dragonspire Peak still smelling faintly of smoke and glory, and lo and behold, the folk of Phandalin greeted us like champions. And who am I to deny them their well-deserved celebration? I sang, I danced, I may have flirted with someone’s aunt. (In my defense, she winked first.)
But the revelry didn’t last long before duty came knocking—literally. One of Harbin Wester’s men interrupted our round of ale and arm-wrestling to summon us for “important business.” I hoped it was a bardic contract or perhaps a parade. Alas, it was a meeting with Sgt. Thalos Krinn of Neverwinter—stern fellow, polished boots, zero sense of humor. He delivered a message from Lord Dagult Neverember himself, offering us a year-long gig protecting the ruins of Leilon. The terms? Three hundred gold upfront, seventy every ten days, and—here’s the juicy part—an acre of land for each of us.
Now, land is a funny thing. You can’t drink it, charm it, or write a ballad about it (well, you can, but it’s mostly dirt). Still, the party agreed to mull it over back at the tavern.
And that’s when she showed up.
Melisora of Waterdeep—cloak like moonlight, voice like a secret. She spun a different tale: that Lord Neverember may have diverted funds meant for Waterdeep into his own city’s coffers. She asked us to play double agent—serve Neverember on the surface, but keep her and her people informed of Leilon’s goings-on. In return, she gave us whispering stones (very convenient), a red ribbon for signaling (charming, but not my color), and enough intrigue to fuel a dozen sonnets.
After some whispered debate (and Dwayne’s surprisingly good impression of a spy), we agreed. I’ve always loved playing both sides of a stage.
The next morning, we met up again with Sgt. Krinn. He gave us our final instruction: when we arrive in Leilon, seek out one Gizzelda Copperwraught.
And so, dear diary, it seems the stage is set. Two cities. One ruin. A band of misfits with a lute, a lot of questions, and some very slippery loyalties. Sounds like the start of another grand adventure. Just the way I like it.
The Wayside Inn
On the road to Leilon, still smelling of wraith guts and roasted peppers
Well, nothing says “welcome to the neighborhood” quite like a zombie siege.
We were making our way toward Leilon—laughing, swapping stories, arguing about whether Vronyo’s last fireball counted as “strategic”—when we saw smoke rising ahead. The Wayside Inn was under attack by five very pushy zombies trying to bash their way inside. Two were clawing at the front, three at the side, and not a single one had the decency to knock.
We leapt in, blades and magic flying—and just when things seemed manageable, two wraiths floated in like bad news on a cold wind. Nasty things, all claws and whispers, and I swear one tried to suck the melody straight out of me. Lifedrain’s no joke. Poor Ezekiel looked like he’d aged five years in five seconds. Then a third wraith showed up, because of course it did. It was one of those fights where your breath is short, your pulse loud, and your songs come out just a little sharper, a little more desperate.
One zombie managed to slip past us and into the inn. My heart nearly stopped—I imagined innocent folk torn apart over ale and stew—but we got there just in time. No casualties except some ruined doors and our pride (thanks, lifedrain).
Once the mess was cleaned up (thanks to Teega the smithy—hardworking gal with a hammer and no patience for nonsense), we headed inside and got to know the survivors. The inn’s barkeep, Bakus—a barrel-chested fellow with a weather-beaten face and a pendant shaped like a trident—told us this undead attack was a first. Martisha, the inn’s owner, looked like she was doing math in her head all night. She’s got plans to trade with Leilon once it's up and running, and undead aren't exactly good for business.
We met a halfling named Silla Sellsweep, all starry eyes and big dreams of working at the fishery in Leilon. Sweet kid—I hope her dream doesn’t get eaten by a ghoul.
But my favorite part? A fellow named Tarban Tau—turns out he’s a fan of me. Said he heard one of my ballads in Waterdeep and has been trying to mimic my fingering technique ever since (on the lute, of course). We sang a duet—he held his own surprisingly well—and we had the whole tavern clapping along.
Dinner was delicious until poor Ezekiel learned that orcish cuisine sometimes comes with fire. One bite of Korra the cook’s spicy stew and he turned redder than a tiefling sunburnt in Avernus. We nearly had to resuscitate him with milk and gentle mockery.
So ends another page of song and shadow: undead at the door, new friends by the fire, and a chorus of laughs to carry us toward Leilon.
Leilon
The Road to Leilon, with bruises, burn marks, and a tune stuck in my head
Some mornings you wake up refreshed and ready to greet the world with a song and a smile. Others... you get nearly trampled by water demons and shot full of arrows before lunch.
We’d just finished a good, long rest—dreams full of duets and dancing lights—when we arrived on the outskirts of Leilon. There we found about fifty frazzled folk milling around like ale-addled festival-goers, no order, no direction, and one very cranky dwarf trying to wrangle them like cats with crossbows. That would be Gizzelda Copperwraught. Stars above, that woman could sour milk just by frowning at it.
Among the chaos stood a half-asleep guardsman who looked like he'd been awake since the Time of Troubles, a halfling cleric named Merrygold dressed in the golden hues of Lathander (sweet smile, probably deadly with a healing spell), and a poised half-elf woman we guessed might be Valdi Estapaar—likely the one in charge of the fishery. We had just started introductions when we heard it: watery hoofbeats thundering from the direction of the ruined city.
Riding toward us were three Dark Tide Knights with the symbols of Talos—god of storms and very poor timing. They rode atop beasts made of roiling water—Abyssal Chargers, we think, though I didn’t exactly stop to ask. Behind them came a wagon of Talosian Archers Cultists, arrows already nocked.
And what did the brave people of Leilon do? They ran. Sensibly. Especially the guardsman, who proved you don’t need armor to sprint like a cheetah with a fire under its tail.
Vronyo, bless his burning soul, lobbed a fireball that lit up the archers but didn’t quite knock them down. We engaged—steel against storm, magic against muscle—and we handled the Abyssal Chargers surprisingly well. The archers, however, were another tale. They picked us off like rotten fruit, and I, dear diary, was their favorite target.
They dropped me. Twice. I fell like a love-struck schoolboy hearing a breakup ballad for the first time. But my friends—brilliant, battle-worn, and slightly reckless—brought me back both times. When I rose that second time, covered in blood, dirt, and a little shame, I hit the final verse of my battle song with such force that even the gods might’ve tapped a toe.
By the time the dust settled and the archers lay defeated, I was half-dead, wholly grateful, and in desperate need of a drink. We turned back to Gizzelda, who was waiting—arms crossed, eyes rolling—for an explanation or possibly a miracle.
But that, dear diary… is a tale for another day.
