Aaryan's Diary - Our first campaign

Going back in time

After having so much fun using AI to create an in-person diary of our latest D&D adventure, I wanted to do the same for our original thirteen-session campaign. This time, I prompted ChatGPT with some background on how Aaryan interacts with his party and fed it my Obsidian notes for these sessions.

The notes I had taken were pretty sparse—just a few sentences and a list of who was at each session. To fill in the details, I had ChatGPT reference information about the Dragons of Icespire Peak campaign online. I’m pretty happy with how it came out.

Dragons of Icespire Peak

Reflections from the Frozen Spire of Fate

Well, well, well. If you're reading this, dear diary, then congratulations—we survived. Or at least most of us did. I’m writing this with ink frozen from the roof of Icespire Hold, seated next to a tentacled dragon corpse and the bitter taste of resurrection berries.

Let’s start at the beginning.

We came together in Phandalin, a band of hopeful misfits: me, naturally, the impossibly handsome half-elf bard with charm to spare and moral flexibility to match; Ezekiel, the ex-scamming cleric turned holy man with a tendency to monologue; Vronyo, our gnome warlock with a fireball problem and a height advantage against rats; Dwayne, the walking fortress who hits like a siege engine but somehow still manages to be the quiet type; and Fadder, the monk who appeared and disappeared with the same unpredictability as a tavern tab during happy hour.

Our first job? Slay a manticore, save a lovely Ms. Abby, and get paid in potions. Textbook adventuring—if the textbook was written by people who enjoy dying.

Things escalated quickly. Ankhegs, undead dwarves, cursed lighthouses, ghouls with terrible manners, and stick-figure dolls that tried to kill us. I’m not sure if I fear Feyrith more as a person or as an idea. He always seemed to be one step ahead, wearing disguises, muttering riddles, or whispering into our dreams like an edgy bedtime story.

Somewhere near that Talos-blasted lighthouse, Vronyo went missing mid-fight. We found him later with a skeletal horse, naturally. He just shrugged like that sort of thing happens all the time. I didn’t ask questions—I’ve learned better.

I, meanwhile, sprouted a tentacle from a cursed welt after a night at the tavern and before an altercation involving a green conch shell and a half-orc named Moon. And let me tell you: it's very difficult to play a lute convincingly while pretending you don’t have a sentient shoulder noodle. Fortunately, we found a way to cure it—though the whispering voice still shows up in my dreams from time to time.

The world grew stranger. The town fell to despair, twisted by plague and prophecy. Dwayne dreamed of ancient sea battles. Ezekiel dreamt of spiders and blue-skinned beings. Fadder dreamt of someone named Scott Van Pelt (who I still suspect is a wine merchant with aspirations).

We gained and lost allies, unlocked long-sealed dwarven halls, fought banshees and boars, and retrieved the Dragonslayer Sword from a tomb older than my worst pick-up line. Slowly, inevitably, all signs pointed to Icespire Peak.

And there… we found the storm waiting.

Cryovain, the White Dragon, had changed—larger, colder, writhing with tentacles like some sailor’s nightmare given wings. We climbed the hold. Found fake-Feyrith gloating, the real one frozen, Baylen caught in the madness. The battle was hell. I fell. Ezekiel fell. Fayrith and Baylen too. Dwayne was knocked off the roof and spent half the battle heroically climbing stairs while we choked on frost and fate.

And Vronyo—small, wild, underestimated Vronyo—finished it. His last spell ended Cryovain and the cult’s madness. The Ankerites are no more. The dragon is dead. The peak is quiet.

So now, I sit here in the aftermath. Alive. Barely. Ezekiel grumbles about divine plans. Dwayne broods. Vronyo naps. Fadder is... where Fadder always is: just out of reach, just out of time.

We’ve earned our scars. We’ve spilled ink, blood, and a truly unreasonable amount of sarcasm. And when they ask me in taverns what happened up on Icespire Peak, I’ll strum a chord, flash a grin, and begin:

“Well, it all started with a manticore and a woman named Abby…”

– Aaryan Greensleeves
Twice-dead, briefly-tentacled, bard of the blade and ballad.