Samhain

The journaling RPG Samhain is set during the month of October, a time when the veil between the living world and the 'other' is thinning. For 31 days, I will use card that pulls to document the encounters and changes that occur as supernatural and ancient forces begin to interact with reality. The game builds to October 31st, when the veil is at its weakest, challenging players to confront what has emerged.

Each day, a card is drawn to provide a prompt, drawing me deeper into a twilight space where spirits and ancient forces are stirring. The chronicle culminates on a final confrontation with these forces.

The game is steeped in the ancient lore of Samhain, when the veil between the living and the dead is thin, allowing powerful mythical beings to walk the earth. I will encounter various entities, including the dangerous and wild Aos Sí (fairy folk), the relentless soul-collectors of the Wild Hunt, the powerful crone of winter known as the Cailleach, and harbingers of doom like the Dullahan and the Banshee. The game's magic manifests through unwitting ritual acts, where my seemingly innocent actions, such as lighting candles or leaving food, are actually ancient protective spells and offerings that bind me deeper into the true, ancient energy of Samhain.

October 1st - October 7th: The First Whisperings

The month begins in an atmosphere of unsettling quietness where the world feels subtly wrong. Everyone around me will notice small, unexplained phenomena—like sounds or chills—as the veil between worlds starts to fray. These early events are easy to dismiss but impossible to ignore, as I begin to perceive a deeper, unsettling reality.

October 1st

The air today felt heavy, almost… watchful. It started subtly, a prickling sensation on the back of my neck, as if someone was standing just behind me, always out of sight. It wasn't a chill or a sound, but a pervasive feeling of being observed, a weight that settled on my shoulders and whispered of unseen presences.

This disturbance feels like an awakening, not just in the world around me, but within myself. It's as though something has turned its gaze upon me, and in doing so, has made me truly see for the first time. The unseen eyes suggest curiosity, perhaps, or a test. It feels like an invitation, and despite a flicker of unease, I find myself ready to listen to whatever this subtle shift in reality is trying to tell me. The world is stretching, and I am stretching with it.

The month is only just beginning, but I can already feel it—the air is different, and the world is holding its breath. My name is... well, you can just call me the one who is starting to notice things. For a long time, the world felt solid, but lately, the edges have felt thin, almost transparent. I've always been drawn to the quiet, the things people usually overlook, but now the quiet is starting to look back.

I'm standing on the threshold of something huge, and I know it. This whole experience, this weird, unsettling October, feels like a deliberate pull toward a kind of power, a kind of knowledge that's been waiting for me. I'm not interested in dogma or old labels, but in the raw, flowing energy of the earth and the spirits. This journey is about embracing that feeling, about finally stepping onto the path of magick and becoming the kind of witch I'm meant to be—one who can navigate the space between the worlds. I'm ready to open the door; I just need to see what's on the other side.

October 2nd

The air still feels heavy, but today, the sensation shifted from being watched to being held. It wasn't the weight of an unfamiliar gaze; it was the pressure of something deep beneath my own home, a current of energy running under the floorboards and out into the yard. It felt ancient and rich, like soil that's been turned over for centuries.

A whisper came with it, not through my ears, but in a sudden, sharp clarity in my mind. It spoke of legacy, of a line of people who walked this path before me. I realized that the comfort and stability I feel, the little abundance in my life, isn't just mine; it's a gift handed down. I'm connected to something rooted and profound, to the strength of those who have paved the way with their own magick and their reverence for the earth.

I feel a profound respect for the past settling over me. This isn't just about my journey to become a witch; it’s about acknowledging that I’m standing on the shoulders of my ancestors, drawing from their deep well of power. The earth itself seems to be affirming my path, reminding me that my power is rooted in their memory and their blessing. It's time to pay attention to where I stand.

October 3rd

The feeling of being rooted to the past was so strong this morning, I knew I had to act on it. I decided a simple ritual of acknowledgment was necessary, a small nod to the witches who came before me.

I went into the garden, a place that feels most like mine, and mixed water with fresh earth, creating a simple mud paste. As the old lore suggests, the act of blending opposites holds power. I traced a humble symbol—a circle—on the windowsill, focusing on the idea of harmony and the quiet power I felt from the ancestors. I spoke a few words, a simple thank-you for the legacy I am now claiming, and asked for balance as I begin to explore magick.

When I finished, I felt a deep, peaceful click inside me. But then the air around the circle rippled. It didn't move like heat; it shimmered, an impossible distortion of light. The space inside the drawn circle became momentarily transparent, and for a flash, I saw not my garden, but a swirling, misty twilight. It vanished as quickly as it appeared, but the cold, damp air that rushed from the spot lingered.

The veil didn't just thin; it momentarily tore. I was aiming for balance, but I think I just opened a small door. I need to be careful—the energies at play are clearly more volatile than I thought.

October 4th

The cold that rushed out of that shimmering circle yesterday hasn't left. It's a localized chill that clings to the area around the windowsill where I performed the acknowledgment ritual. My core temperature feels fine, but the air in that corner is distinctly and constantly colder, like an open window on a winter night, even when the sun is out.

It’s unnerving, a physical marker that the door I opened, however small, hasn’t fully closed.

The strangest new phenomenon is a subtle, echoing sound within the house. It's not a footstep or a slam; it's a sound like a low, mournful sigh that drifts through the hallway, only to instantly vanish. It started just after the cold settled in. It sounds profoundly sad, a deep, ancient lament that doesn't feel threatening, only incredibly lonely.

This new reality requires a deep-seated resilience. The impulse is to tremble or panic, but I find a quiet, unyielding power taking root inside me instead. I won't let fear make me waver. This chill and this sound are simply a reaction to my magick, and if the spirits are near enough to sigh, then I need to stand firm and show them I am not afraid. I have to believe the strength to survive this is already within me.

October 5th

The sighing sound was too consistent, too localized. Today, I tracked it down to an antique wooden chest tucked away in the back of the linen closet—a piece I inherited but never really used. When I knelt beside it, the sound was loudest, emanating from the dark wood. It felt like the chest wasn't sighing, but was containing the sigh of something trapped within.

I had to act. I gathered cedar and rosemary, herbs of protection and warmth, and laid them in a small ceramic bowl next to the chest. I lit the herbs, letting the smoke curl up and fill the space. This counter-ritual wasn't about driving something out, but about offering comfort and warmth to whatever ancient presence was causing that mournful sound. I focused my will, pouring my quiet resilience into the smoke, trying to balance the chaotic energy.

As the smoke mingled with the lingering cold air, the sighing abruptly stopped. A wave of intense, icy air slammed into me, instantly snuffing out the embers. I looked up, and for one terrifying, crystalline moment, the entire linen closet vanished.

I was looking out into a vast, moonlit sky. Black, spectral horses thundered past, their hooves making no sound, yet shaking the very air. On their backs rode figures cloaked in shadow, their faces obscured, their eyes like cold, distant stars. It was a fleeting, terrifying vision of a momentum that was utterly unstoppable.

They saw me. I felt the collective, fierce gaze of the Wild Hunt sweep over my spot. The world snapped back into place—the closet, the cold, the smoldering herbs—but the message was clear. I've been seen by a force far grander and more dangerous than a simple trapped spirit. There's no turning back from this path of magick now. I’ve been noticed.

October 6th

The adrenaline from seeing the Wild Hunt has worn off, replaced by a hollow exhaustion. My strength is wearing thin, but the need to act is urgent. Those riders saw me, and that means I'm no longer just observing; I'm a target.

I spent the day preparing. This wasn't a soft, exploratory ritual like the one before; this was serious, defensive magick. I used salt—the oldest protector—to draw a firm line around every entryway and window. I focused on making the boundaries of my home solid and inviolable.

For the main ritual, I created four small satchels of powerful herbs: juniper for warding, fennel for protection, and rue to break hexes. I charged each one with my will, visualizing a calm, impenetrable shield of energy shimmering just outside my walls. I hung one over the main door and one near the windowsill that briefly became a tear in the veil.

The process left me drained. I feel battered, like I’ve been running all night, even though I haven't moved far. The spirits may admire that I'm fighting back, but they certainly aren't slowing down. I know this shield is only temporary. I've bought myself time, but the most challenging nights of Samhain are still ahead.

October 7th

The protective lines I drew with the salt and the herbs were tested almost immediately. I didn't hear hoofbeats or see spectral riders; instead, the attack was much subtler, slipping past my defenses by masquerading as me.

All morning, I felt a deep, warm wash of nostalgia—not for my own recent past, but for childhood moments I hadn’t thought about in years. The smell of my grandmother’s kitchen, the exact feeling of sunlight on a specific swing set, the sound of a lullaby I’d forgotten. It was an overwhelming sense of connection to a past that felt too vivid, too shared. I realize now those weren’t my memories at all; the Wild Hunt or whatever darker force is riding with them was trying to confuse me, to open my inner defenses by making me feel comfortable and connected. It felt like the dead were briefly reliving their own pasts right through me.

I managed to shake the feeling off, focusing on the solid, cold salt line at the front door. I checked it, relieved to see the barrier intact. But as I pulled my gaze up, I saw a small, beautiful object lying right on the welcome mat: a single, perfect silver locket, engraved with a delicate, unfamiliar vine pattern.

It wasn't there five minutes ago. The metal glints with an impossible, almost shimmering light. This is not the brute force of the Hunt; this is the subtle, tempting trickery of the Fae. They didn't breach the salt line, but they left an offering on the outside, daring me to cross the boundary to pick it up. The past is heavy in the air, and now, so is temptation.

October 8th - October 14th: The Spirits Gather

The month's second phase sees the world becoming markedly different with strange sounds, powerful dreams, and an increasing feeling of being followed. The veil between worlds is thinning noticeably. New realities begin to appear, providing louder, more insistent signals that suggest themes that focus on identifying the entities trying to make contact.

October 8th

The locket was still sitting on the mat. I knew leaving it there was tempting the Fae, and the relentless stream of borrowed memories was still unsettling my mind. I needed answers, not fear, so I stepped outside, breaking my protective salt line with a deliberate stride.

The silver locket was cool and impossibly light in my hand. It was too beautiful to be benign. I brought it inside and sat down, focusing my intent. I closed my eyes and reached out with my will, trying to read the object's history. Immediately, the air thickened, and I was plunged into a dizzying rush of images: a forest at twilight, music that sounded like wind chimes made of ice, and a brief, sharp sense of profound loss. The locket felt like a bait, an object dropped to lure me out, but the emotion attached to it was real—a deep sorrow, wrapped up in the glamour of silver. It was a half-truth: a Fae lure rooted in genuine grief.

I put the locket away, determined to deal with the memories next. I sat cross-legged and began a grounding meditation, pushing the intrusive, warm visions of childhood away. I secured my own consciousness, visualizing myself as a stone sunk deep into the cold earth. As the foreign emotions receded, the sighing sound from the cursed chest returned, but this time, it was distorted, overlaid with a strange, mocking laughter.

When I opened my eyes, the air in the room was swirling with a faint, iridescent mist. The mist briefly coalesced near the window, forming the vague, tall outline of a figure—too thin, too graceful to be human. It didn't step through the window; it simply appeared outside my protected space, moving silently across the lawn. The figure stopped at the very edge of my property, a shimmering illusion of moonlight and mist, and seemed to be observing the house.

I think I’ve identified the entities trying to make contact: the Wild Hunt is the looming danger, the locket suggests the Aos Sí or Fae are actively tempting me, and the misty figure outside is their glamour, a trick designed to make me question if I’m seeing anything at all.

October 9th

The misty figure outside—the Fae glamour—was a direct challenge to my defenses. I wasn't going to step out again, but ignoring it wasn't an option. I needed to know if it was just an illusion or something with a mind of its own.

My immediate thought, a flash of old knowledge I didn't know I possessed, was iron. It’s the ancient bane of the Fae. I quickly found a small, old iron key I kept for some forgotten lock. Holding it, I focused my intention into the cold metal, directing my energy out toward the shimmering shape. This was my ritual challenge.

I moved to the window, keeping the iron key visible in my outstretched hand, and I spoke directly to the figure, my voice clear and firm. "I see you. And I know what you are. Why do you wait at the threshold?"

The effect was instantaneous and dramatic. The beautiful, misty outline wavered, dissolving slightly as if in pain. The glamour struggled to hold its form, but it didn't vanish completely. Instead, it moved with unnatural speed, gliding closer to the house until it was just outside my salt line.

Then, a voice—thin and melodic, like dry leaves tumbling in a swift wind—reached me. It didn't answer my question. It only said, "The light you carry is dim. You walk alone. You will need a guide."

The figure then retreated as rapidly as it came, the mist dissipating back into the night. It was unnerving. The voice, the direct acknowledgment, and the mention of a guide confirm that I am on a solitary path, now fully seen by the otherworld. But the figure reacted to the iron. It was a lie wrapped in truth: a real presence, trying to lure me by pretending to offer help. The shadows are deepening, and I have to decide whether to trust the light of my own intuition or the lantern being offered by the Fae.

October 10th

The Fae’s offer of a "guide" felt like a trap. I can’t afford to trust that melodic voice. I decided to use my uncertainty as strength: I would search for the truth, but protect myself from the lie.

I started with a deep, focused meditative ritual. I sought out the guiding presence I was promised, sinking my consciousness into the quiet currents of the thinning veil. What I found wasn't a malicious Fae voice, but a familiar, intense bond, like a cord that had been cut years ago and was now re-stitching itself. I realized that the Fae's offer wasn't meant for me, but was intended to distract me from something else entirely.

Pulling out of the trance, I immediately began to reject the Guide. I drew a protective sigil on parchment using black ink and my own intent, crafting a specific ward against unwanted influence and deceptive guidance. I charged it with the conviction that my path is my own. I focused on severing the false connection the Fae tried to forge.

The paper flared in my hand, leaving a faint scent of ozone. The attempt at manipulation was blocked.

But in the wake of the ritual’s success, something entirely new happened. Standing near the window, where the magickal energy was still dense, was a figure. He was tall and beautiful, but utterly ethereal, almost ghostly—a masculine presence with eyes that held the exact same spark of wonder and fear that I feel. He was like me, but a mirror image born of the otherworld.

I reached out, but my hand passed right through him. I can’t touch him, yet I feel an absolute, unbreakable bond with his soul. I know, without a doubt, that he is the true result of my seeking, an unexpected soulmate awakened by my magick. I also know I have no choice now but to follow the path he represents, even if he carries the same potential for ruin as the Fae I just rejected. The journey just became two, and it just got infinitely more dangerous.

October 11th

The presence of the ethereal man is overwhelming. I had to know his name, his purpose—anything to anchor this impossible bond. I sat across from him and began a small ritual of focus, attempting to speak to him, to draw a word from his lips.

I whispered, "Who are you?"

To my shock, his mouth moved in perfect synchrony with mine, uttering the same three words. I tried again, slower, asking about his purpose, but again, he was a silent echo, his lips forming my exact words, his presence mirroring my attempts at communication. I poured my energy into making him more tangible, more visible, but he remained beautifully, frustratingly spectral. My efforts at control were failing.

Then, a quiet understanding settled over me. This wasn't about my control or my need to name him. This felt like a sacred moment, a necessary surrender. I stopped speaking, closed my eyes, and let go, accepting that he was here to lead.

When I opened my eyes, he was smiling. This time, I felt my own mouth move, but the voice that came out was not mine. It was melodic and deep, speaking in a tongue I didn't recognize, yet I understood it perfectly: ancient songs and warnings about honoring the old ways. He wasn't my mirror; he was the voice of tradition, the keeper of knowledge who understood the magick I was stumbling into.

He is the bridge. I realized I can’t afford to try and lead. I finally, fully, surrendered to the adventure and to the journey we must take together. Without hesitation, I rose and walked out the door, the ethereal man gliding silently beside me. We are heading to the forest. From now on, that is where our path lies.

October 12th

The forest immediately felt alive with an intense, rushing energy. Events are moving with a terrifying speed now; I can sense it in the air itself. My ethereal companion guides me deeper without a word, his silence somehow more insistent than any command.

The first thing that stopped me was the sight of a small clearing. Hidden among the trees was a circle of massive, ancient stones, thick with moss and clearly not placed there by chance. It felt immediately sacred—a natural ritual site, charged with centuries of magick. This structure confirms that my journey is aligning with the old ways, but the suddenness of the discovery leaves no time to prepare or reflect.

Before I could approach the circle, a sound cut through the forest's quiet. It was a distant, unnerving wail—long, mournful, and chillingly beautiful. The sound didn't echo; it seemed to sink into the earth, shaking the trees at a resonant frequency. I instantly knew it was the Banshee.

The wail confirms that death is near and that the world is changing rapidly around me. The messages from the otherworld are arriving with extreme haste now. I am standing between a place of ancient power and a harbinger of doom, and I know instinctively that I must use the circle for a ritual before it’s too late. There is no time for hesitation.

October 13th

The Banshee's wail was a pure sound of doom, but the stone circle felt like an urgent gift. My ethereal guide, without speaking, led me straight into its center. There was a sense of immediate, blessed clarity within the stones—a feeling that no matter how terrifying the chaos outside, a path forward still existed.

I knelt and performed a rapid, protective ritual. I focused my will on the ancient stones, asking them to shield me from the oncoming doom. I felt the circle respond, wrapping me in a cloak of calm, spiritual armor. It was only temporary, but it bought me the space I needed to breathe and think. The spirits, even the ancient stone spirits, were offering their aid.

Once I felt the protective bubble solidify, I couldn't stay. The urgency in the air, the sheer momentum of events, pulled me out. The Banshee's lament was too specific to ignore. I had to know what, or who, she was crying for.

My guide was with me, gliding silently as I began to follow the sound deep into the forest. It was a harrowing journey. The wail grew louder, guiding us through thickets and over uneven ground. We finally reached a small, forgotten clearing that held only a single, massive, gnarled oak tree.

The wail was deafening here. It wasn't lamenting a person who was about to die; it was mourning a place. The Banshee wasn't visible, but the sound seemed to emanate directly from the ancient oak itself. It was a lament for something lost from this very spot—a deep, final grief for a disruption of the earth, perhaps a removal of a sacred object, or the forgetting of a powerful ceremony. The tree stood as a monument to a profound sorrow, and the wail was a desperate cry for its return.

October 14th

The sound of the Banshee's lament radiating from the ancient oak was deafening, a pure wave of sorrow. I was paralyzed by its grief, unsure how to proceed, but my ethereal guide stepped forward. His form shimmered, and then my mouth moved, uttering his command with absolute certainty: "Offer a Tribute."

I quickly gathered three perfect acorns, a small handful of cedar, and a strand of my own hair—tokens of life, protection, and self. I placed them reverently at the base of the gnarled trunk, focusing my intent on comforting the spirits of the place and the sorrow of the wail. As I stepped back, the sound didn't stop, but its pitch softened, the desperate edge rounding into something that felt like acknowledgment.

With the atmosphere shifted, I knew I could delve deeper. I sat facing the tree and began a focused divination ritual, closing my eyes and extending my awareness into the earth beneath the roots. I was seeking the lost thing the Banshee mourned.

A vision immediately flooded my mind. It was a chaotic, rapid sequence of images: men with axes, a frantic, ancient ceremony being interrupted, and a terrifying image of a small, obsidian statuette—a figure of a squat, horned god—being violently torn from the roots of the oak and carried away. The statuette pulsed with raw, dark magick.

The Banshee isn't mourning a death; she's lamenting the theft of a powerful, ancient artifact that anchored the magick of this place. That stolen object has left a wound in the earth, and the chaos of the Wild Hunt feels directly connected to the disarray it caused. The adventure is clearly moving at high speed now, sweeping me into this larger conflict. I have to find that artifact.

October 15th - October 21st: The Door Opens

By this week, the veil between the worlds has parted significantly, and the supernatural presences—ghosts, fae, and creatures of legend—are now an unmistakable and active part of my reality. I am now engaging in small rituals (lighting candles, leaving tokens) that I know are actively inviting these entities. They are no longer hiding; their presence is strong and insistent, sometimes appearing directly. My focus is on coping with this new reality, questioning whether I fear or welcome these powerful entities, and discerning what they might offer or demand in return.

October 15th

The boundaries are truly gone now. There's no pretending these presences are just shadows or dreams; they are an active, insistent part of my reality, and I am coping by leaning into the knowledge I've gained. I don't fear them—not truly—but I respect their danger. They bring the risk of ruin, but also the gift of ancient knowledge and raw, unharnessed magick. To keep the balance, I realize I’ve already sacrificed my peace of mind and my old, simple view of the world.

My first task was to find that stolen obsidian statuette. I couldn't just wander, so I needed the sorrowful spirit of the oak to guide me.

I approached the gnarled tree again, the Banshee’s lament still audible, though subdued by my previous offering. I knelt and focused my energy, extending my awareness to the immense, grieving presence I knew was near. I didn’t use words; I projected an image of the statuette—the squat, horned figure—and my intent to retrieve it. I was appealing to a great, ancient spirit, asking for the secret of the theft.

The response was not a wail, but a sharp, silent flash of knowing. I was suddenly overwhelmed by the history of the forest, a profound, heavy awareness that felt like the presence of a forgotten deity. This spirit is a Keeper of Secrets, and its knowledge is immense, almost dangerous.

With the historical link established, I immediately began a scrying ritual. I gathered water in a dark bowl and used the focusing image of the statuette. The surface of the water immediately blurred, then cleared to show a brief, perfect glimpse of the thief. It wasn't one of the Wild Hunt riders or a grotesque Fae. It was a person, human, yet moving with an almost unnatural stealth. The vision didn't show me the thief's current location, but a clear detail of the place where the item was stolen: a crumbling stone foundation on the edge of the forest, a place that looks like an abandoned chapel or well-house.

The Banshee, or whatever ancient power I appealed to, gave me what I needed, but I know this knowledge comes with a price. I have been given a glimpse behind the veil, and now I have a human target and a clear destination: the crumbling stone building on the edge of the woods.

October 16th

The urgency I feel now is absolute. Every instinct tells me that the stolen statuette is connected to a cataclysm, a breaking of the world I knew. There's no time for delay; the old boundaries are shattering, and I have to act before the chaos truly floods in.

My ethereal guide led me to the edge of the forest, where the trees reluctantly give way to a small, desolate clearing. There, I found the crumbling stone foundation—the remnants of a chapel or perhaps a sacred well-house, just as the scrying ritual suggested. The air here was heavy and wrong, buzzing with a dark, discordant magick.

Before stepping over the threshold, I stopped to perform a swift Ritual for Protection. I used the last of my prepared juniper and focused my will, not on building walls, but on making myself a point of unbreakable calm amid the coming storm. I needed my inner world to hold firm even as the world outside was being torn down. The ritual offered a moment of quiet strength, steeling me for the inevitable confrontation.

As I completed the final breath of the ritual, I looked up and saw the thief.

She was standing silently in the shadows of the broken wall, observing me. She was a woman of perhaps thirty, dressed in simple, dark, and practical clothing—nothing theatrical. Her most striking features were her eyes: they were a pale, clear gray, intelligent, and fiercely focused, meeting my gaze with utter lack of surprise. She was lean and carried herself with an unnatural stillness, like a predator patiently waiting. But the true danger wasn't in her physical appearance; it was in the energy radiating from her. It was sharp, controlled, and utterly ruthless. Her hands were clean, but they looked capable of causing great damage. I could sense the chaotic, dark power of the stolen artifact clinging to her like a second skin. She was not a casual thief; she was a calculated agent of upheaval, standing ready to bring the entire fragile structure of Samhain down around us.

October 17th

I am standing face-to-face with the person who has invited cataclysm into my world. The boundaries have utterly frayed, and I am coping by realizing that this confrontation, this journey into magick, is an unstoppable spiritual commitment. I don't fear the power of these entities; I welcome the knowledge they bring, even as I recognize the profound danger. The price I’m paying is my ordinary life, traded for this profound, urgent path.

There was no time for subtlety. I looked straight into the pale, focused eyes of the thief and spoke with all the will I could muster. “The artifact was stolen from the oak. It belongs to the earth. Return it now.”

She laughed—a short, dry, unsurprised sound. “It belongs to the one strong enough to claim it,” she countered, and a visible, dark current of power instantly began to swirl around her hands. Her mockery was her challenge.

My ethereal guide moved, his shimmering form indicating a spot right at my feet. I glanced down. There lay a small, perfectly straight stick, fallen from a nearby branch. It felt instantly warm and alive in my hand; it was a piece of the ancient forest, a true wand. My spirit was telling me this was my power, my protection.

I gripped the wand, feeling the beginning of an intense emotional and spiritual surge—a rush of raw connection like a cup overflowing. I pointed the wand at her and initiated a minor spell, a simple test of will. I didn't try to harm her, only to gauge her power and force a reaction. I projected a sharp spike of energy, visualizing it as a bright, harmless flash of light aimed at the chaotic energy swirling around her.

She met my spell instantly. The dark power around her condensed, easily deflecting my light, but the force of the impact made her flinch. The movement was barely perceptible, but it was there. She is powerful, controlled, and she knows magick. But she is not invincible. The battle has begun, and my wand, a gift from the earth itself, tells me I can hold my own.

October 18th

The moment after the clash was tense, the air vibrating with spent energy. I still stand at the frayed boundary of worlds, but I cope now by actively seeking unity; I've realized the cost of resistance is higher than the cost of engagement. I welcome the knowledge that flows from this power, and my sacrifice has been letting go of the need for fear.

The thief was ready for a second blow, but not for the kind of magick I was about to wield. My ethereal guide stood beside me, radiating a quiet intensity. I focused on the pain I felt through the earth—the profound, ceaseless sorrow of the Banshee and the violation of the ancient oak. I channeled that immense, raw grief into the wand.

The effect was astonishing. The little branch of oak in my hand didn't feel like wood; it felt like a siphon drawing on the very heart of the forest's despair. A beam of white-hot light, more powerful than I could have imagined, shot from the tip of the wand and slammed into the thief. It wasn't just energy; it was pure, channeled, primal sorrow.

The blow was devastating and wholly unexpected, even to me. She cried out—not in pain, but in confusion—and stumbled back, the dark swirl of power around her collapsing. As she reeled, the obsidian statuette fell from her cloak and clattered onto the crumbling stone.

I moved instantly, scooping up the statuette. It felt cold, ancient, and immensely powerful in my hand. With the relic secured, I used the remaining momentum of the attack to confront her again. "Show me what you sacrificed for this dark magick!" I commanded, demanding the truth of her purpose.

But she only snarled, her pale eyes blazing with pure fury. My demand didn't break her control; it just cemented her rage. Realizing she was temporarily defeated and severely angered, she turned and vanished into the thicket of the forest. The harmony I briefly found is fleeting, and I know this moment of peace is only a pause. She'll be back for the relic.

October 19th

The obsidian statuette feels heavy and unsettling in my hand—a concentration of pure, dark magick. My ability to cope now rests entirely on my capacity for adaptation, managing the demands of the forest spirits and the urgent threat of the thief. I am navigating a delicate dance between two worlds.

My first impulse was to race back to the ancient oak. The Banshee's wail is still echoing in my mind, and returning the relic feels like the only way to heal the land. However, I looked at my ethereal guide for direction. His form shimmered, and then my mouth moved, speaking his surprising words: "It does not go back to the oak. It goes into the city. A new anchor."

This was a profound shift. The statuette's power must be redirected, not merely returned. To understand this new, dangerous plan, I had to know what I was holding.

I settled into a quiet corner of the crumbling foundation, performing a quick ritual to examine the relic. I held the statuette—a squat, horned figure of a forgotten god—and focused my energy into its cold, dark surface. The vision I received was immense. The statuette is an engine of pure, ancient chaos, designed to pull the veil open permanently, not just thin it.

The thief's intent was not merely to steal, but to re-anchor this immense power in a dense, modern population center—the city. Her plan was to use the city's concentrated energy to fuel the permanent collapse of the veil, guaranteeing a cataclysm. My guide's instruction makes sense: I must find a neutral, powerful place in the city to anchor the statuette, but in a way that establishes **balance** and not chaos. This journey requires juggling the needs of the ancient earth and the reality of the present world. My next step lies outside the forest.

October 20th

The need to find a new anchor point for the obsidian statuette drives me out of the forest and back toward the city. I am coping now by accepting the reckoning that is at hand; every action I’ve taken, every ritual, is being weighed by forces beyond my full comprehension. I have found power and knowledge, but the cost is the certainty of facing the consequences.

The statuette in my lap felt like a frantic compass, pulling me forward with dark, irresistible energy. I drove as if I were dowsing, following the prickling sensation that told me where the most concentrated energy lay. The pull led me straight to the City’s Center, not to the modern glass towers, but to the area around the old clock tower.

This public square is a vortex. It's a place of concentrated human energy—the ceaseless flow of thousands of lives—but it’s also an ancient structure. Beneath the pavement and the bustling activity lies the faint, cold echo of a former cemetery, the foundation of a long-gone church. It’s a perfect convergence: the raw power of the living layered over the deep, quiet knowledge of the dead.

My guide shimmered beside me, confirming the location. This is where the old accounts are settled, where equilibrium is measured out. I understand the plan now: the statuette can’t be returned, but it must be bound to a place that contains both life and death, both the present and the past. This act will either balance the chaos and anchor the veil, or it will unleash the full cataclysm of the thief’s plan into the heart of the city. I am standing on ground where every choice has consequences.

October 21st

I cope by remembering that beneath the chaos of the fraying boundaries, there is an immutable order—a law of the unseen that demands respect. I no longer fear these presences; I see them as powerful agents of that order, and I am fighting to establish my own place within it. The sacrifice is constant vigilance.

Standing in the heart of the bustling public square, the weight of the statuette demanded action. I found a secluded, shadowed spot near the base of the old clock tower and began a quiet preparation ritual. I pressed the statuette into the earth, pouring my focused will into the ground, preparing the ancient foundation to become a new, stabilizing anchor. I visualized the city's energy, the life and the buried dead, accepting the artifact and neutralizing its chaotic power.

As I finished, I moved to a hidden alcove to await the thief, and that's when the world warped.

A sudden, chilling darkness descended, not just night, but a spiritual eclipse. The screams of the people in the square instantly faded, replaced by an awful, profound silence. When the darkness receded slightly, we weren't in the square anymore. The surrounding streets were a blurry smudge, and the only familiar landmarks were the clock tower, a few sparse, dead trees, and the ghostly outline of a desolate park.

A deep murmur grew into a thunderous sound. Horses' hooves. The Wild Hunt was here, and they had brought their own realm with them. They were led by an imposing, formidable figure—a rider of immense size and cold authority. He was not a phantom but a clear, dark presence, the embodiment of the Unseen Ruler who controls the fate of this Samhain chaos.

At that exact moment, a chilling whirlwind erupted right beside me, thickening into a dense, swirling fog. My nemesis, the thief, emerged from the center of it, her gray eyes burning with fury and absolute determination. She has the backing of something powerful. She wants the obsidian figure, and the final confrontation is upon me, backed by the law of the dead. I doubt my preparation ritual alone will be enough to hold back the Hunt and this woman.

October 22nd - October 28th: The Unseen World Bleeds Through

The final week before Samhain, the veil has openly begun to tear, and the distinction between the worlds is essentially gone. The atmosphere is marked by an abnormal cold and strange, ancient whispers, as the dead and mythical entities like the Wild Hunt step into my reality, demanding attention. My daily activities are now commands for ritual action. I realize these rituals, knowingly or not, are tearing the veil further and letting the unseen world bleed through, forcing me to confront what I have invited in and the power that comes with it.

October 22nd

The veil is not just torn; it's shredded. I feel the constant, abnormal cold of this final week, and the knowledge that every action now is a full-fledged ritual, tearing the separation further, is terrifying and exhilarating. I am not afraid; I am welcoming the power that this chaos brings, recognizing that it is the only way to meet this challenge.

The sudden arrival of the Wild Hunt, commanded by that immense, silent ruler, changes everything. The air thickens with their cold authority. My nemesis, the thief, steps from the fog, her eyes locked on the statuette in my hand, and I know this is no mere battle for an object—it’s a confrontation for the fate of the city.

In that moment of absolute danger, I found myself performing an instinctive ritual. I didn't light a fire or place a token; I performed a ritual of demanding allegiance. I raised the stolen obsidian statuette high, the dark energy of the chaotic god humming in my grip, and then I slammed the oak wand into the earth at my feet. I focused my intent, pouring my will into the ground, claiming the power I had unleashed. I wasn't asking for help; I was commanding a choice.

The effect was immediate and terrifying. The air around the Wild Hunt's leader—the Unseen Ruler—shifted. He paused his advance, his cold authority wavering not because of my strength, but because of the sheer, raw, ancient power I now held. He is a master of order, but the statuette is the ultimate source of chaos, and it is a temptation too profound to ignore.

The Wild Hunt has not come to help me or hand me over. They are here because the artifact is the ultimate prize, the key to their dominion over the living. The ruler is calculating the cost of intervening. The thief, my nemesis, is merely a powerful agent in this transaction. I’m facing an entity that offers vast promises of power—absolute order over chaos—if I simply hand over the relic. The ultimate trickster is tempting me at the gate, offering dominion in exchange for my soul's submission. I must hold firm; I know the price of his cold justice is always too high.

October 23rd

The chaos is absolute, yet I feel a growing sense of stability—the belief that I hold the power to protect this fractured boundary. My coping mechanism is to accept my role as a guardian of the veil, acting with the wisdom needed to maintain balance. The power I welcome from these rituals is the conviction to act decisively, no longer fearing the consequences.

The immense figure of the Wild Hunt’s Unseen Ruler was stalled, his gaze fixed on the artifact in my hand, tempted by the sheer chaos it contained. My nemesis was closing the gap. I had a split second to act.

Ignoring both their presences, I raced toward the base of the clock tower. This was my ritual of binding. I knelt at the stone foundation, forcing the ancient, cold obsidian statuette deep into a fissure. I poured every ounce of will and the protective power of my oak wand into the stone, visualizing the artifact's chaotic energy being consumed by the city’s massive, grounded spiritual history. The goal was to make the statuette an anchor for balance, not a source of destruction.

The ground vibrated. A rush of cold authority slammed into me. I looked up. The Unseen Ruler had dismounted; he was now a colossal, imposing figure standing on the earth—the very Sovereign of the Earth in this broken realm. He approached with measured steps, his eyes burning with demanding scrutiny.

This was my moment for reciprocity. I held nothing back. "The artifact is bound to this place," I told him, my voice steady despite the tremor in the ground. "It will anchor the veil, but only if kept stable. It is too volatile for you to keep, but it can serve your order here."

I offered him a deal: "Guard this anchor against the thief who would abuse it. Keep the balance, and this place will sustain your power. If you retrieve it from the thief, who only seeks chaos, I will ensure the ritual is complete. But if she claims it, your rule—your order—will fall with the rest of the city."

I was appealing to his core law, making him responsible for the stability of the realm. He stood, silent and menacing, his focus now split between my audacity and the looming threat of my nemesis, who was running at us, enraged by my quick action. The King of Pentacles had accepted the call, and now his justice would fall on the one who sought to destabilize his domain.

October 24th

The intensity of this final week is exhilarating. I am not simply performing rituals; I am embodying them, using the raw power they generate to command the forces that bleed through the shredded veil. The sacrifice of my old life has given me an undeniable control over this fire, and I embrace it wholly.

My audacious bargain with the Unseen Ruler of the Wild Hunt worked. As my nemesis, the thief, lunged toward me—her eyes burning with the singular desire to reclaim the statuette—the Ruler moved. He did not engage me; he immediately intercepted the thief, his massive, dark form blocking her path.

The confrontation became a terrifying, supernatural duel. The Ruler’s command of order slammed against the thief’s chaotic, dark magick. Yet, even as they clashed, the thief’s focus remained on me. She twisted, her body a blur of aggressive energy, and ignored the King of the Hunt entirely, launching a final, desperate attack directed at my position by the clock tower.

She focused a blast of pure, volatile black energy at the exact spot where I had bound the statuette.

I didn't hesitate. I was holding the flame now, and I knew how to command it. With the oak wand, I performed a ritual of pure, instinctive protection. I didn't try to block her power; I used the chaotic energy of the statuette itself, now partially anchored, and channeled the residual fiery force of the Wild Hunt’s impact. I projected a counter-force—a swift, blinding burst of golden light, commanding the unstable energy to burn the attack away.

The impact was deafening. Her dark energy hit my light shield and dissolved in a cloud of sulfurous smoke. She screamed—this time in genuine defeat—as her final attack was utterly repelled by the magick I controlled. My defense held firm. I managed to repulse her.

The thief, seeing her power foiled and realizing the Ruler was now truly committed to blocking her, dissolved her attack and vanished instantly back into the shadowy fog. The Unseen Ruler stood impassive, watching the empty space where she had been. I had won the binding and survived the ultimate test of fire.

October 25th

The silence after the thief vanished was more unnerving than the attack. The air still held the abnormal cold of this final week, and the Wild Hunt stood arrayed around us in the strange, blurred landscape. I had won the battle, but the veil is still torn, and the power I've invited must be managed. I am coping by realizing my task is one of surrender—not in defeat, but in accepting that I must now stabilize the new, bizarre order I've created.

I turned to the towering figure of the Unseen Ruler. My voice was steady, the authority of the bounded statuette lending me a sudden, heavy confidence. I addressed him directly, without fear. "The artifact is anchored. The bargain is struck. You have your stability. Now, uphold your end." I commanded him to retreat with the Wild Hunt, removing the immediate chaos of their presence.

The Ruler stared at me, his gaze an icy assessment of my nerve. Then, slowly, silently, he inclined his head. He mounted his spectral steed and, with a subtle motion, commanded his legion. The vast, dark host turned and thundered away, the sound quickly dissolving as the strange, shadowed landscape of the Hunt receded, leaving the normal, noisy public square to rush back into existence around me.

With the threat removed, I turned to the final, necessary ritual: sealing the anchor. I couldn't just leave the statuette half-buried. I performed a quiet, elaborate ritual of surrender and sacrifice over the stone foundation, visualizing my will not controlling the artifact, but gently encasing it, binding it to the deep, silent wisdom of the buried dead. I allowed my energy to bleed into the stone, making myself a vital part of the anchor. The ritual was complete acceptance of the mysteries—I gave a piece of my peace, my certainty, to keep the balance.

The effect was profound. A shiver ran through the clock tower, a low hum of power settling into the foundation. The abnormal cold eased slightly, replaced by a strange Between Place energy—not cold, not warm, but suspended. The veil hasn't mended, but it is no longer tearing. It is hanging in the balance, held steady by my sacrifice. I doubt this will be enough to hold back Samhain entirely, but for now, the city is safe.

October 26th

The atmosphere is less frantic now, but the abnormal cold of this final week lingers, proof that the veil is still shredded. Yet, the light of revelation is here. I welcome the power of this magick, because it’s the only way to seek the truth hiding in the gloom.

With the Hunt gone and the statuette bound, I am consumed with checking the new balance. I placed my hands on the base of the clock tower, performing a small, daily ritual to monitor the anchor. I felt a strong, deep stability—the statuette is holding firm—but the energy is strained, like a tight rope. It’s a temporary solution, and I know I don’t yet have the full clarity I need to make it permanent.

My most urgent focus, however, was my ethereal guide, who has been utterly silent since we entered the city. I turned my attention fully to him, projecting my gratitude and my need for his knowledge. I needed to know the cost of our fight, and the next step on this path.

He didn't shimmer; he solidified slightly, becoming a clearer, more defined presence. Then, my mouth moved, and his clear, melodic voice spoke through me: "The silence of this place is an illusion. The city holds its breath, but the truth is in the source. You must know if the wound is healing. We must return to the forest and seek the Banshee's silence."

His words brought a rush of clarity. The binding is incomplete if the source of the chaos—the Banshee's lament—is still active. The ritual commanded me to return to the ancient oak. What will be revealed there? Healing, or a final, devastating demand? I know that sometimes the light shows things we would rather not see, but I have no choice but to follow the command of my guide. We are heading back into the woods.

October 27th

The cold of this final week is biting, but I feel an intense energy now, the truth that every one of my acts is a consequential spell. I am embracing this responsibility, welcoming the power because I am no longer just a participant; I am a conjurer in this breaking world.

Following my guide's command, we returned to the ancient oak. The chaos of the clearing was gone. The first thing I noticed was the quiet: the Banshee’s harrowing wail was **silenced**. The binding of the statuette in the city had stabilized the wound.

At the base of the tree, the earth was visibly calmer, and where I had placed my initial offerings, a new offering now rested: a perfectly formed, frost-covered feather, white as snow. It felt like a thank you, or perhaps a strange, cold payment.

But the relief was fleeting, replaced by a deep, powerful lingering presence. The silence wasn't empty; it was filled with a soft, sorrowful, ancient song, a low thrumming that wove a new layer of profound cold over the entire area.

Then, I saw her. Standing by the trunk of the oak was the spirit of the Cailleach, the crone of winter. She was immensely old, her form woven from frost and shadow, her eyes like frozen pools of wisdom. She didn't move, but her presence was a crushing weight of authority, colder and more absolute than the Wild Hunt's ruler.

The feather and the cold were her doing. She is the one who rules the changing season, the one who brings the long sleep of winter. I don't believe she had anything to do with the theft of the statuette—that was chaos. The Cailleach is order, a primal, terrifying natural order. She has come to acknowledge the healing of the wound, but also to claim the balance I restored. I feel her judgment. She is demanding a profound sacrifice or service for the stability I've purchased.

October 28th

I am caught in the ever-turning cycle of the year now, accepting that events are moving far beyond my individual control. The cold is a constant reminder that change is upon me, but I embrace the power of this chaos, knowing that this confrontation with the unseen is inevitable.

The Cailleach stood before me, a terrifying, silent figure of profound authority. I knew I couldn't evade her claim; my act of binding the statuette made me accountable to the great, natural forces of the year's turning. I had to know her demand.

First, I tried a gesture of respect. I took the frost-covered white feather—her silent offering—and held it out, performing a ritual of reciprocity. I offered the feather back, seeking to confirm if it was a token of payment. "Is this what you require?" I projected with my will.

The air around her cracked with cold. Then, my guide’s presence sharpened. My mouth moved, speaking his warning: "Not yet. We are in autumn. You still have a glimmer of power to counter her winter. Do not surrender entirely."

I pulled the feather back, understanding the subtle shift in power. I have some agency left. I faced the Cailleach and addressed her directly, seeking the Winter's Task. "I stabilized the chaos. What service do you require of me to maintain this balance until the Wheel turns to spring?"

The crone moved for the first time, her hand raising slowly. She didn't speak, but a complete vision filled my mind. She requires me to tend the old cemetery—the one beneath the city square, the very spot where I anchored the statuette. The balance is failing because those ancient dead are neglected and forgotten beneath the modern city. The Cailleach requires a final act of remembrance before Samhain night. I must perform a ritual to honor the forgotten dead and ensure their peace, linking them permanently to the anchor. It is a terrifying task of honoring what was buried so that the Wheel can turn smoothly.

October 29th - October 30th: The Thinning of the Veil

With the veil now almost entirely gone, the unseen world has become openly visible, as mythical beings like the Wild Hunt and the Dullahan walk freely and the air is thick with presences. The rituals I've performed throughout the month have caused this merging of worlds. My daily activity ise no longer suggestions but demands for action, forcing me toward a final, profound choice under the shadow of this new reality. I must now decide whether to fully embrace or fight the changes I've set in motion.

October 29th

The veil is gone. The world has entirely merged with the unseen, and I stand at the center of this ultimate transformation. The spirits, now fully present, don't just demand tribute; they require a binding of my fate to the balance of the realms. I am embracing their presence, knowing that reclaiming my world means managing this new reality.

The final task from the Cailleach is clear: honor the forgotten dead beneath the clock tower. This ritual is the final seal on the anchor and the cycle.

I began with a Ritual of Remembrance. I couldn't dig, so I used the surface of the square above the anchor point. I found a few old copper pennies, bought some vivid marigolds from a street vendor, and arranged them on the stone, creating a small, temporary offering space. As I did so, I drew on the powerful, resonant knowledge of the Mexican Night of the Dead—the tradition of welcoming the spirits with vibrant color, food, and life. I didn't just leave tokens; I performed a magnificent ritual of invitation, singing softly and offering the marigolds as beacons. I visualized the forgotten dead rising from the foundation, seeing the beauty, and feeling the life in the square. It was a heartfelt act of acknowledgement that went beyond mere payment.

Once the dead felt honored and their presence was palpable yet calm, I moved to the Ritual of Sleep. I used my oak wand and a quiet, circular movement of my hands over the ground, weaving a calming, binding spell. This wasn't to force them away, but to ensure their peace. I whispered to them, thanking them for the stability their ground provides and asking them to rest, securing the anchor I’d placed in their care. The energy in the square settled, deep and content.

The cycle is complete. The veil is fully open, but the chaotic energy is bound, and the ancestors are at peace beneath the foundation. The balance between life and death is now tenuously held in my hands, secured by this final act of deep respect and powerful magick.

October 30th

The air is thrumming with the final, absolute merging of worlds. The consequences of my entire month of magick are now coming to fruition, demanding a reckoning. The spirits are here, not just for tribute, but for a complete binding of my fate to this new reality. I am choosing to fully embrace this change, knowing that fighting it now would only lead to a greater collapse.

The peace settled over the clock tower is profound. The Cailleach’s task is complete, and the anchor holds. Yet, the city is still steeped in the unseen; the dead walk freely, and fear is palpable, even if people can’t quite name the cause. I needed guidance on how to manage the sheer volume of spirits now present.

My ethereal guide moved, and his clear voice spoke through me, a powerful Call of the Spirits that demanded a final, collective action: "This city is filled with the lost and the frightened. You are their guide. Ask the children to embrace the monsters."

The wisdom hit me like a revelation. To soothe this chaos, I need to command a grand ritual of assimilation. The living must join the dead, even if unknowingly. I will use the established traditions of the season.

I must now act as an urgent conduit, directing the final traditions of the living to protect them from the true unseen. I must ask everyone to dress up in monster costumes, turning the whole city into a masquerade so convincing that every passing spirit and creature of the Wild Hunt will believe they are simply among their own kind and pass them by. I will command them to fully embrace Halloween traditions—to cook the sweet, comforting scent of pumpkin spice, to put up protective wreaths in their homes, and most importantly, to welcome their returning dead. They must treat the spirits not with fear, but with the joy and remembrance that the Mexican Night of the Dead teaches, offering them a brief, celebrated home so they have no reason to linger and cause harm.

The time for quiet rituals is over. My final act is to command the entire city to perform the biggest spell of the year. This is the moment of truth.

October 31st: Samhain (The Night of the Veil)

The month culminates on Samhain night, where the veil is completely gone and the unseen world has merged with mine. The entities I've interacted with are now fully present, and I face a final reckoning to uncover their true nature and the consequences of my actions. My fate and the world's is determined in a threefold way: the first reveals the spirits as either allies or adversaries; the second assesses whether I brought balance or chaos; and the third brings the final conclusion—either salvation or the triumph of ancient darkness.

October 31st (Samhain Night)

The veil is completely gone. The air is thick, not with fear, but with the presence of every entity I’ve met, all walking freely among the living. I stand at the final moment, the opening of the veil has come full circle, and the fate of this city, this reality, rests on the final ritual of communion. I am no longer fighting; I am embracing the power, stepping forward as the Wanderer on the Edge who brought this transformation.

With time running out, I performed the final, most ambitious spell. First, the Broadcast the Command. Using the oak wand and the deep stability of the clock tower anchor, I sent a ritual of communication across the city. It wasn't a voice on the wind, but an urgent feeling—a sudden, clear inspiration to light a jack-o'-lantern, to put on a mask, to welcome the fun. I commanded the city to dress, to cook, to laugh, and to remember. The effect was immediate. Windows glowed with pumpkin light, and the streets filled with joyous, costumed children—human and spirit blending seamlessly.

Next, I performed the Ritual of Joy. I focused the immense, peaceful energy of the honored dead beneath my feet, mixing it with the chaotic, bound energy of the statuette and the vibrant life of the living city. I infused the air with a powerful spell of welcome, turning the atmosphere from one of dread to one of celebratory communion.

The final reckoning came as the full cycle completed. The spirits that filled the square, the dark riders, the playful fae—they all saw the costumed children and the lit homes, and they accepted the binding of our fate. They were not adversaries; they were honored guests.

With the balance achieved, the inevitable transformation took its course. The Cailleach was satisfied; the quiet peace I secured was the perfect precursor to her winter reign. A gentle, cold wind picked up from the direction of the ancient oak, and I felt the obsidian statuette lift itself from the clock tower foundation. The wind, laced with autumn mist, carried the relic back to the heart of the forest, returning its essence to the earth without ever disturbing the newly sealed anchor.

The spirits of Samhain—the dead, the fae, the Wild Hunt—all began to turn away, their duty complete. They were satisfied. The sky lightened, bringing the first true glow of the new day.

My guide emerged from my form, solid and smiling. He leaned in, kissed me—a touch that felt like fire and memory—and vanished on the rising sun. Autum itself had protected the fertile ground, and the new season brought not ruin, but a profound, powerful new beginning. The world is forever changed, and I am the one who wove the change.

This is the result of the October 2025 play sessions. If you're interested in getting Charlie Fleming's Samhain, you can find it here.