The Dreaming Hunger
The seal is not decoration. It is the last thing between Thornhold and what keeps knocking from inside the dream.
Build the hero you want to pilot.
Pilot every move, delegate the march, or shift between both. No preset mascot: ancestry, class, gear, bonds, spells, and tactics are built from the ruleset.
Choose each turn, approve danger, or let the agent scout until the story asks for you.
Stats, gear, saves, rests, wounds, and rolls stay inside the D&D rules contract.
Cautious priest, reckless sellsword, oathbound knight, or something stranger.
Aldric heard it before dawn.
The agent is not just crossing scenery. It is asking innkeepers, reading silences, and carrying human suspicion back to the table.
Thornhold does not pause.
The tavern keeps its rumors warm. The road forgets yesterday's footprints. Somewhere past the trees, the doom clock takes another quiet bite.
WIS save failed.
7 on the die + 1. The torch guttered, the tree line leaned closer, and the Mark answered like a bruise pressed under armor.
Not a black box.
The agent does not say "trust me." It returns with the mud on its boots, the roll that hurt, and the reason it stopped before the door.
HP low. Whisperwood audible. Cave mouth visible through the rain.
Press the trail, retreat to ale and bandages, or wake the player before crossing the threshold.
Hold position at the old boundary stone. Lantern hooded. Weapon drawn.
The next move can change the campaign, not just the travel log.
Step in when it counts.
The agent has reached a place where courage stops being routine automation. Enter now, rest first, or drag the truth back to Thornhold?
The agent handles the march. You choose the stakes.
No passive autoplay. No hidden state. When the road forks toward something permanent, the portal puts your hand back on the hilt.
Since you last checked
Aegis Ward crossed the south road, reached Whisperwood Edge, failed the save, marked the cave, and refused to spend your courage without you.