Of Oracles and Events.

d10 Oracle.

Optional Modifiers

To reflect risk, flair, or narrative weight, you can tweak the roll:

• +1 if the character has a strong advantage or spends a Hero Point.
• –1 if the situation is dire or the character is compromised.
• Reroll on 10 to generate two options for a dramatic fork in the story.

I have a table with six headings,

• Conflict and Intrigue
• Environment and Setting
• Character and Emotion
• Mystery & Revelation
• Chance & Chaos
• Narrative Folks

Each has 10 prompts, when I am stuck for what happens next I can roll d6 for the heading, d10 for the prompt, then I can interpret the prompt to suit the scene. (it’s a big table so I wont show it here).

D10 intervention table (pretty much pinched from MUNE solo engine).

Roll whenever you get an intervention.

Roll 1d10 when you want the story to shift unexpectedly — whether to stir drama, inject mystery, or deepen character arcs.

Arrival at Larmes-sur-Mer

The sun, swollen and gold, slumps low over the western horizon as Juliette and Melodie trudge into the seaside village of Larmes-sur-Mer. The air is thick with the distant brine of the sea, and gulls wheel overhead, their cries cutting through the muggy haze. The village seems to drowse in the late summer heat, its stone cottages and narrow streets softened by a layer of dust kicked up from passing carts and the slow tread of tired travellers—two of which now make their way up the coast road, boots scuffed and spirits flagging.

The pair are a study in contrasts: Juliette, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, wears her road-weariness like a badge, her cloak slung loose and boots caked with dust. Beside her, Melodie, hair wild as the wind and bagpipes slung at her back, carries not only the weight of their journey but enough impetuous energy to make even Juliette cautious. Both are hungry, both are thirsty, both are broke—and both are drawn by the flickering promise of La Sirène Égarée, whose painted sign of a wayward mermaid swings lazily above the door.

Inside La Sirène Égarée

The tavern is a patchwork of warm lamplight and cooler shadows, wooden beams above festooned with nets and seashells. The scents of salt, garlic, and roasting meat mingle in the air. Along the long, battered bar, a handful of sailors trade tales and toss coins, while at scattered tables, villagers nurse tankards or tuck into supper. A fiddler in the corner scrapes a lively tune accompanied by the rhythmic thud of a cook’s knife in the kitchen beyond.

The mood is as changeable as the tide—voices rise in laughter, a dice game clatters near the window, and a dog snoozes under a bench, occasionally twitching at the sound of footsteps. The hearth blazes, though the night is warm, its flames illuminating a cluster of locals swapping stories, the firelight casting a dancing shadow that seems, at times, just a touch too animated for comfort.

Meeting Mira

Juliette and Melodie collapse into a corner table, limbs aching. Mira, the young tavern keeper, is a vision of breezy competence: apron dusted with flour, a dark curl escaping her braid, eyes twinkling with either mischief or exhaustion—perhaps both. She sweeps over, placing a jug of rustic wine and two earthenware cups on the table with a practiced flourish.

“Bonsoir, mes dames. Tonight’s supper is Poulet Torraccia à la Mer—chicken braised in white wine, olives, and tomatoes, with a touch of green pesto to finish. Served with mash, of course. The wine’s honest, the patrons less so. The mood? Yours to shape.” Her smile is as inviting as the aromas wafting from the kitchen.

Melodie raises a brow, eyes lingering on the jug. Juliette leans forward, an eyebrow arched in curiosity, her lips curled in a half-smile. “And what else does the night offer?”

Mira tilts her head subtly toward the hearth, where that odd shadow flickers just out of reach. “Stories, secrets” she says softly, “maybe a little trouble, if you are charming enough.” Her gaze lingers a beat longer than necessary, then flicks toward the hearth where the shadow dances. The fire crackles, as if in approval, and somewhere behind the bar, a cork pops.

Mira stands at their table, awaiting their order, “so —Poulet Torraccia à la Mer for you both?”

Melodie’s stomach growls audibly, betraying her, while her coin purse sits woefully light at her hip. She clears her throat, trying to appear nonchalant.

“Actually… do you still have the little fried fish? Anchovies, or sardines maybe?” she asks, hope and hunger warring in her voice.

Juliette’s fork pauses mid-air, a look of mock horror on her face. “You’re ordering bait.”

Melodie, undeterred, murmurs, “They’re crisp. And cheaper.” She doesn’t meet Juliette’s gaze.

Mira grins, a conspirator’s smile. “We’ve got a fresh batch in. Caught this morning. Comes with lemon and a little aioli.” The way she says it almost makes the humble fish sound like a delicacy.

Juliette sighs, flamboyantly. “Fine. But I’m not sharing my mash.”

“Didn’t ask you to,” Melodie says, smiling despite herself.

Mira jots the order and sweeps away, apron fluttering. Around them, the tavern roars back to life: a burst of laughter from the bar, the fiddler’s tune picking up pace, the clink of coins, and the occasional snatch of gossip. By the hearth, the shadow stirs again—this time, perhaps, watching them back.

A Night of Stories and Intrigue

As Mira returns to the kitchen, Juliette and Melodie lean back, letting the warmth and noise wash over them. The wine is tart and bright, and the simple bread tastes like it was baked that afternoon. Around them, locals trade stories of storms at sea, lost ships, and treasures glimpsed beneath the waves. Old sailors mutter superstitions, and a group of fishermen argue about who truly saw the phantom light on the water last night.

The shadow by the hearth grows bolder, inching closer as the night deepens. It is clear that La Sirène Égarée is more than just a tavern—it is a crossroads for secrets, for strangers, and for the start of many an adventure. For Juliette and Melodie, tonight is merely the beginning.

The Arrival of Captain Vane and the Dragons de la Mouette Noire.

The thunder of hooves breaks the sleepy rhythm of Larmes‑sur‑Mer. Captain Vane and the remnants of the Dragons de la Mouette Noire sweep into the village square, Their standard, a black banner edged silver, embroidered with a gull in flight, snapping like wings in the salt‑laden breeze. Though disbanded after the siege of Dunmere, whispers cling to them still—soldiers riding under secret orders of the crown, hunting something lost to legend.

Their destination is clear: the church at the heart of the village, its bell tower looming above the clustered cottages. Villagers scatter from the steps as the Dragoons dismount, boots striking stone with grim purpose. Yet when the heavy doors are thrown wide, the pews lie empty, the altar unattended. Father Marais is nowhere to be found.

A murmur passes through the ranks. Vane’s gaze hardens, and with a curt gesture he turns his riders toward the tavern. La Sirène Égarée, its painted sign swaying in the evening air, becomes their next port of call. The tavern’s laughter and fiddler’s tune falter as the black‑gull riders approach, shadows stretching long across the threshold. Inside, stories and secrets wait—and perhaps the priest himself, hidden among the crowd.

The air is thick with smoke and the sour tang of ale. A fire crackles in the hearth, but the warmth does little to soften the chill of the black gull dragoons standing like storm clouds in the centre of the room. Two dragoons head towards Juliette and Melodie

The leader—a scarred veteran with eyes like flint—fixes Juliette with a hard stare. “You two. Seen a priest? Father Matias.”

Juliette arches a brow, lips curling into a smirk.“Priest? Darling, the only holy thing I’ve seen today is the bottom of an empty wine bottle.”

Melodie slides deeper into her chair, her expression as flat as the road they’ve travelled. She picks up her wine goblet, running her finger around its edge lazily.“…Can’t say I notice priests. They all look the same.”

The dragoons exchange glances, irritation simmering. One steps closer, his shoulder bag swinging slightly—a battered leather satchel with a clasp that’s seen better days. Juliette’s eyes flick to it, and her fingers twitch like a cat spotting a mouse.

The kitchen door bangs open. Mira strides in, balancing a tray of steaming braised chicken, a plate of fried sardines and fresh bread. Her smile is warm but tight, the kind worn by someone who’s seen too many soldiers in her tavern.“Evening, lads. No need for sharp words, eh? Let’s keep it friendly.”

She sets the food down in front of Juliette and Melodie, giving them a quick glance that says please don’t make this worse.

The leader barely acknowledges her, still glaring at Juliette.“Friendly ends when people lie to us.”

Juliette tears a chunk of bread, slow and deliberate, while her chair shifts just enough to bring her closer to the satchel. The dragoons’ attention is on Mira now, arguing about stables and search orders. Perfect.

Her hand ghosts toward the clasp, nimble fingers working with dancer’s grace. The worn metal gives with a soft click—no sound, no suspicion. Inside: a handful of silver coins and a folded letter stamped with the Black Gull insignia.

Juliette slides the letter out, tucking it beneath her sleeve with the ease of a seasoned thief. Then, with a smirk, she murmurs just loud enough for Melodie to hear: “Well, isn’t this a lucky night?”

Melodie doesn’t look up from her fish, just mutters: “…You’re going to get us killed.”

Juliette grins, tossing her hair like nothing happened, and pops a piece of bread into her mouth. The dragoons remain oblivious—at least for now.

To be continued