Finding myself with a little bit of spare cash at the end of the month, I picked up Dolmenwood RPG, at least the three main books, Campaign, Players and Monsters. As I type this the physical copies are yet to arrive but the pdfs have landed in my inbox.

A game of British folklore, moss covered mysteries, and fairy tale oddities that instantly felt familiar to me. It’s the sort of place you would half-expect to find if you took the wrong turn at the end of the path on a misty morning in the North Yorkshire Moors. Its the sort of game that blends cosy rural fantasy with just enough weirdness to keep you glancing over your shoulder — the perfect place for two accidental travellers to lose (or find) themselves.

Into this world wander Anna — a young clerk dreaming of escape — and Sadie, her Fae‑touched Grand Basset Griffon Vendéen. One moment they’re living their ordinary lives; the next, they’re stepping between the trees into Dolmenwood, where nothing is quite as it seems.

Anna and Sadie

Anna was in her early-twenties, a quiet soul who preferred the company of her scruffy, shaggy dog Sadie to the bustle of people. By day, she worked as an clerk—a job that felt like a cage of fluorescent lights and endless paperwork. She dreamed of escape, of adventure, of something extraordinary.

Sadie, a Grand Basset Griffon Vendeen with a touch of Fae magic, was her closest companion. With her long ears, tousled coat, and eyes that sparkled with mischief, Sadie was playful, clever, and fiercely loyal. Sometimes, Anna wondered if Sadie understood more than she let on.

Name : Anna
Kindred & Class : Human, Enchanter.
Background : Clerk.
Alignment : Neutral (well, most people are).
Affiliation : Non
Moon Sign : Knight’s(F), +1 AC against attacks with metal weapons.

Strength : 8 (-1) Intelligence : 14 (+1) Wisdom : 11 (+0)
Dexterity : 7 (-1) Constitution : 9 (0) Charisma : 13(+1)

Hit Points : 4 AC : 9 Attack : +0
Saves : Doom 11 Ray 12 Hold 13 Blast 16 Spell 14
Speed : 40 Exploration : 120 Travel Points : 8

Kindred & Class Traits
DECISIVENESS
When an Initiative Roll is tied, humans act first, as if they
had won initiative. Treat humans as a separate side, acting
before others.
LEADERSHIP
The Loyalty rating of retainers in the employ of a human
character is increased by 1.
SPIRITED
Humans are quick to learn and adapt and gain a +10%
bonus to all Experience Points earned. This is in addition to
any XP bonus due to the character’s Prime Ability (p22).
For example, a human with a Prime Ability of 15 gains a
total 15% XP bonus—5% for the Prime Ability and 10% for
their Kindred
FAIRY RUNES
Enchanters are granted the use of fairy runes—the secret,
magical sigils guarded by the rulers of Fairy. As a character
advances, fairy nobles may be drawn by the enchanter’s
great deeds and grant new runes. See Fairy Magic, p92
for details on the fairy runes.
At Level 1: An enchanter knows one randomly selected
rune of lesser magnitude.
Subsequent Levels: Each time the character gains a Level,
the player should roll for the chance of acquiring a new
rune
GLAMOURS
Enchanters possess minor magical talents known as glam
ours (see p94). The number of glamours known is deter
mined by the character’s level as shown in the Enchanter
Advancement table. Known glamours are determined
randomly.
Kindred glamours: Some Kindreds (e.g. elf, grimalkin)
gain glamours as a result of their ancestry. Such glamours
are in addition to glamours gained by this Class. For exam
ple, a Level 1 human enchanter knows 1 glamour, whereas
a Level 1 elf enchanter knows 2 glamours—one from their
Kindred and one from their Class.
MAGIC ITEMS
The enchanter’s natural affinities allow the use of magical
items exclusive to arcane spell-casters (for example, magic
wands or scrolls of arcane spells).
RESISTANCE TO DIVINE AID
The saints of the Pluritine Church are loath to aid those
allied with the godless world of Fairy. If an enchanter is the
subject of a beneficial holy spell, there is a 2-in-6 chance it
has no effect.

Skill Targets
Listen : 6
Search : 6
Survival : 6
Detect Magic : 5

Languages : Woldish (and she can get by with Old Woldish)

Kindred Type : Mortal
Age : 23
Height : 5′ 8″
Weight : 137lbs

Trinket : An ancient iron key that doesn’t fit any known door.
A book her Grandmother use to read.

Companion : Sadie (Hound, Grand Basset Griffon Vendeen)

Medium Animal, Animal Intelligence, Allignment Neutral
Level 2 AC 13 HP 2d8 (9) Saves D12 R13 H14 B15 S16
Att Bite (+1, 1d6) Speed 50 Morale 7 XP 20
Tracking : Excellent scent-tracker. Once Sadie is
on the trail, it is exceedingly difficult to thwart.
Fae touched : Sadie can detect Fairies withing 15′ and will ‘WOOF’ at them for 1 turn.

Sadie is friendly, happy and outgoing. She is very loyal to Anna, but with a stubborn, slightly mischievous and independent streak. She has a good voice and is not shy about using it.

Some thoughts on Anna and Sadie. Although it is rare for humans to be Enchanters in Dolmanwood RPG, Anna has been around Sadie, her Fae touched GBGV for so long that Fairy magic has rubbed off on her, although she does not realise it yet. This reinforces Anna as a young woman yearning for escape, unknowingly carrying the spark of the Otherworld inside her.

Anna, Sadie and the letter

It’s another snowy day in the village, the kind that turns every rooftop into a frosted cake and coaxes sleepy chimneys into puffing out ribbons of smoke. Anna, wrapped snugly in a patchwork quilt that could easily belong to a storybook queen, is taking a break from work and indulging in her favourite morning pastime: burrowing beneath the duvet and pretending, just for a while, that the world outside can wait. Downstairs, the kitchen hums with the melody of laughter and the promise of breakfast―the scent of her mothers coffee and hot toast weaving through the air like mischievous sprites. She can already hear her father, rhythmicly chopping wood outside, each thud of kindling a gentle drumbeat, conjuring the warmth that will soon chase away the winter chill.

Meanwhile, Sadie, her fae-touched hound with a nose for adventure and a tail that wags like a metronome, is growing ever more impatient. The snow beckons with secrets yet undiscovered, and Sadie is certain that somewhere out in the sparkling white, a magical scent awaits.

As far as Anna is concerned this is her holiday, and neither her GBGV Sadie nor the lure of coffee, toast and wood smoke are going to get her out of bed.

Oracle: Does Sadie Get Anna out of bed? No Way!

Sadie jumps on the bed and pushes her wet nose into Anna’s face.
“Sadie!” Anna exclaims, “It’s my day off. If you want to go out, get Mother to let you out. Dad’s in the back garden making enough noise to raise the whole village—go annoy him.”
Sadie huffs, turns three times, and flops down beside Anna with a dramatic sigh.
Anna pulls the duvet tighter and opens her book. Outside, the snow falls in slow, deliberate flakes. Inside, the smell of toast and woodsmoke wraps around her like a second blanket.

Oracle: Anna pulls the duvet over her head and tries to hide herself from Sadie, does this work? nope!

Anna yanks the duvet over her head like a fortress wall, hoping darkness and warmth will shield her from Sadie’s relentless campaign. For a heartbeat, it works—silence, stillness, the muffled thump of her father splitting kindling outside.

Then the bed shifts.

A determined hound nose burrows under the duvet edge, followed by a cold paw and an entire enthusiastic GBGV who has decided that if Anna won’t come to the world, the world will come to Anna.

The duvet collapses. Sadie’s tail thumps like a drumroll.

Anna groans into the pillow.
“Sadie, you are not a morning person’s friend.”

Sadie disagrees with a cheerful huff directly into Anna’s ear.

Oracle: Does her mother shout up the stairs? Yep.
Prompt: What soes her mother shout? A letter has arrived for Anna and coffee is ready.
Oracle: Does that get Anna out of bed? Yep.

The smell of fresh coffee curls up the stairwell like a warm hand beckoning her. Anna can hear her mother moving around the kitchen—cupboards opening, the clink of crockery, the soft hum she always falls into when she’s already three tasks ahead of everyone else.

Then the shout.

“Anna! There’s a letter here for you—and your coffee’s getting cold!”

Sadie’s ears perk instantly, tail thumping under the duvet like a trapped metronome. A letter means something, and Sadie is always convinced that “something” is her business.

Anna groans, but the combination of coffee, curiosity, and one overly enthusiastic fae-touched hound wriggling under the covers finally breaks her resolve. She pushes the duvet back, dislodging Sadie in a flurry of fur and indignation.

“All right, all right,” she mutters, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “But if this letter is just another catalogue, I’m blaming you.” Sadie leaps off the bed as if she understands every word, already halfway to the stairs before Anna’s feet touch the cold floorboards.

Oracle: Does Sadie try to get to the letter first? Maybe…
Oracle: Is the coffee still hot? Yep.
Oracle: Is the letter ordinary? Maybe…
Prompt: What letter arrives and from whom?

Sadie launches herself off the bed with the duvet triumphantly clenched in her teeth like a prize pheasant. Anna yelps, stumbles after her, and manages to wrestle the duvet back before the dog can drag it all the way down the stairs.

Wrapped in her fluffy dressing gown, slippers scuffing the cold floorboards, Anna follows Sadie’s bounding descent. The hound’s ears flap wildly as she barrels toward the hallway table—as if she’s aiming for the letter.

Anna narrows her eyes.
“Oh no you don’t. That’s mine.”

But Sadie’s tail gives her away. This is theatre. A ruse. A cunning ploy to get Anna downstairs and, ideally, out the door into the snow.

In the kitchen, her mother hands her a steaming mug of coffee without looking up from buttering toast.
“There you are, love. Toast’s here. And there’s a letter for you on the table.”

The coffee is perfect—hot, strong, and smelling faintly of the chicory blend her mother insists tastes “properly wintry.” Anna takes a grateful sip, feeling the warmth seep into her fingers.

Sadie sits by the back door, pretending to be patient, pretending not to care about the letter at all.

Anna picks up the envelope.

It’s… ordinary-looking. Maybe. Plain paper. Local postmark. Her name written in a neat, unfamiliar hand. Nothing overtly magical, nothing obviously mundane.

Just enough ambiguity to make her pause.

Oracle: Is the handwriting familiar? Maybee!
Oracle: Is the letter short? Nope!
Oracle: Does it contain an object? Yip!

Prompt: What is the object? A small vintage obsolete key that looks like it would not fit any lock Anna has ever seen.

The envelope is plain, but the handwriting… Anna tilts her head. It’s not familiar, not exactly, but there’s something about the looping capitals and the way the ink pools at the end of each stroke that tugs at a memory she can’t place. A teacher? A neighbour? Someone from childhood? Or perhaps it only feels familiar because of the morning’s quiet strangeness.

Sadie pads over, nose twitching. She doesn’t bark or whine—just watches the envelope with a level of interest that is never a good sign. Maybe she senses something. Maybe she’s just hoping the letter is edible. With Sadie, it’s always a toss‑up.

Anna slides a finger under the flap.

Inside is a folded sheet of thick, cream paper… and a small, cold weight that drops into her palm.

A key.

Old, iron, and oddly shaped—its teeth arranged in a pattern that looks more decorative than functional. It’s too small for a door, too ornate for a cupboard, and too strange for anything she’s ever seen in the house. It feels like it belongs to a lock that hasn’t existed for a very long time.

Sadie leans in and sniffs it once, then sneezes sharply, as if dust or old magic has tickled her nose.

Anna unfolds the letter.

The message is long—far too long for a simple greeting—and written in the same looping hand. The tone is formal, but not unfriendly. Old‑fashioned, but not archaic. And threaded through it is a sense of urgency wrapped in politeness.

Oracle: Does Anna’s mother recognise the handwriting? No Way!
Oracle: Does Anna’s father recognise the handwriting? Yip!
Oracle: Does Anna’s father recognise the key? Nope!
Prompt: What forbidden Knowledge is offered?

The back door bangs shut, and a gust of cold air sweeps into the kitchen as Anna’s father steps inside, stamping snow from his boots. He smells of woodsmoke and winter air, cheeks flushed from the cold.

He’s halfway through brushing sawdust from his sleeves when he notices the envelope in Anna’s hand.

He freezes.

Not dramatically—just a subtle stillness, the kind that only someone who knows him well would notice. His eyes narrow, not at the key, but at the handwriting on the letter.

Her mother glances over her shoulder.
“Do you know who it’s from?”

“No,” he says too quickly.
Then, quieter: “Not exactly.”

He takes the letter, scans the first few lines, and his jaw tightens. When Anna shows him the key, he shakes his head immediately.

“I’ve never seen that before,” he says. And that part is true.

But the handwriting… that’s another matter entirely.

He hands the letter back, wipes his palms on his trousers, and leans against the counter as if bracing himself.

He sighs, sits down heavily at the kitchen table.

“I promised my mother I’d never go near that part of the river. Not the bend behind the chapel. Not the old stones. She said it wasn’t safe. Said it wasn’t ours.”

He looks at the key again, troubled.

“If this letter is from who I think it is… then something’s waking up that should’ve stayed asleep.”

Oracle: Does her father tell the whole truth? Nope!
Oracle: Does Sadie react to the mention of the river bend? absolutely!
Oracle: Does the key feel cold? Absolutely!
Oracle: Does Anna decide to go today? Nah!

Her father stands by the stove, rubbing his hands together to warm them after the cold outside. When Anna mentions the river bend behind the old chapel, something in him goes rigid—just for a moment, but enough for Sadie to notice.

Sadie’s reaction is immediate and unmistakable.
Her ears prick.
Her tail stiffens.
She gives a low, uncertain whine and pads closer to Anna, nose nudging the cold iron key as if trying to warn her away from it.

The key is icy—far colder than the kitchen air should allow. Not winter‑cold, but deep cold. Old‑stone‑in-shadow cold. Cold that feels like it belongs to a place where sunlight rarely reaches.

Anna shivers and sets it down on the table. Her father clears his throat.
“That place… it’s not for wandering. Your gran told me that when I was your age. Told me to stay away. Told me to promise.”

He pauses, eyes fixed on the kettle as if it might offer him an escape.
“And I did. Mostly.”

He shakes his head.
“It’s nothing you need to worry about. Old stories. Old warnings. Best left alone.”

It’s not the whole truth. Not even close.
But he won’t say more—not with the morning still young, not with the snow falling softly outside, not with Sadie watching him like she can see the lie sitting on his tongue.

Anna takes a long sip of her coffee, letting the warmth settle her.
She looks at the key.
She looks at Sadie.
She looks at the window, where the snow is drifting down in slow, lazy flakes.

“Not today,” she murmurs.

Sadie huffs in frustration, but doesn’t push.
For now, the mystery can wait.
There is toast to eat, coffee to finish, and a house full of winter quiet.

Anna spends the afternoon on the internet looking for information about the area described in the letter.
Oracle: Does she find anything of special interest? yep!
Narative beat: What landmark or ruin suddenly appears?
So let’s say she finds something of interest about the stone that does match the others.

Anna curls up on the sofa with her laptop, the key resting on the coffee table like a tiny piece of winter iron. Sadie sprawls across her feet, snoring softly. Outside, the snow thickens, muting the world into a soft white hush.

She types in the obvious search terms first:
old chapel river bend stone unusual marker local history.

Most of it is noise — parish newsletters, amateur photography blogs, a rambly forum thread about fishing rights.

But then she finds it.

A scanned page from a 1970s local history pamphlet, uploaded by a hobbyist archivist. The formatting is terrible, the text crooked, but one paragraph catches her eye:

“…and at the bend of the river behind St. Wystan’s Chapel stands the Stranger’s Stone, so called because it does not match the other glacial boulders in the area. Local folklore claims it was ‘placed’ rather than formed, though no record exists of its origin or purpose…”

Anna sits up a little straighter.

The Stranger’s Stone.

She scrolls further. There’s a grainy black‑and‑white photograph: a tall, narrow stone with a faint groove running down one side. The caption reads:

“Note the unusual tool marks. No known quarry in the region produced stone of this type.”

A second paragraph mentions something even stranger:

“…villagers once warned children not to linger near the stone at dusk, as it was said to be a ‘marker of the old paths. The meaning of this phrase is lost.”

Sadie lifts her head suddenly, ears pricked, as if she recognises the phrase.

Anna glances at the key.
Still cold.
Still inexplicable.

But now she has a name.
A place.
A story.

The Stranger’s Stone.

And the snow outside keeps falling, as if urging her to wait until morning.

The stranger’s Stone

Oracle: Is it still snowing the next morning? nah!

Unusually, Anna is up early in the morning and, to Sadie’s astonishment, she is already dressed—boots laced, woollen hat slightly askew, scarf wrapped snugly around her neck. Her coffee is hurriedly gulped, a slice of toast clamped between her teeth as she clips the lead to Sadie’s collar. With a sense of urgency, the pair step out into the bruised blue gloom of dawn, the hush of snow still lingering in the air, muffling even their footsteps.

The village is silent, shrouded in the faint silver mist that hangs over the rooftops. They make their way along the winding path, Anna’s breath curling in clouds, Sadie’s nose twitching at the curious scents left behind by the night. The path leads them behind the chapel, where the river bends—a place where the world seems to pause, and the trees arch over the water as if whispering secrets. Frost feathers the grass, crunching softly beneath their feet, and the only sound is the gentle lap of the river and the distant caw of a solitary crow.

There, hidden amongst the ordinary stones lining the riverbank, stands the one that does not match the others. It looms, tall and impossibly narrow, its surface a patchwork of lichen and ghostly white scratches. The strange groove runs along one side, as if the stone itself is bearing a silent scar. The others are squat, softened by time, but this stone seems untouched by the years, its shadow stretching longer than it should in the half-light. It carries an odd presence—neither threatening nor safe—more a secret waiting to be spoken aloud. The air around it tingles, heavy with stories that hover just out of reach. Even Sadie hesitates, her hackles rising slightly, yet curiosity pulls them closer.

As Anna steps forward, a ripple of mist creeps up from the river, cool and sweet, wrapping itself around her boots and Sadie’s paws, swirling up to cloak them and the stone in a dreamlike haze. For a moment, it feels as if the world has shrunk to just the three of them—the girl, her dog, and the stranger’s stone—caught in a hush where anything might happen, and the day has yet to begin.

The Crossing at the Stranger’s Stone

The Stranger’s Stone looms taller than Anna expected, its surface slick with morning frost. Sadie circles it once, nose twitching, tail held stiff with a tension Anna can’t quite read.

Then the mist rolls in.

Not drifting, not swirling — gathering. Thickening around the three of them as if it has weight. Anna feels it settle on her skin like cold breath. The river behind her fades to a distant hush, as though someone has turned the world down.

Sadie whines softly.

The Stone hums.

A vibration, low and bone‑deep, thrumming through Anna’s fingertips when she reaches out without thinking. The groove along its side seems deeper than it did a moment ago, almost like a keyhole that wasn’t there before.

The light tilts.
Colours flatten.
Shadows stretch in directions that make no sense.

Anna blinks.

For a heartbeat, she feels as though she’s stepped between two pages of a book.

The mist contracts sharply — a held breath — and then releases.

When it clears, the world is wrong.

The trees are impossibly tall, their trunks furred with violet moss. The air smells of damp earth and wood‑smoke. The snow is gone. The river is gone. The chapel is gone.

Sadie growls at a shadow that shouldn’t be there — a flicker between branches, gone as quickly as it appeared.

Anna steps into a clearing she has never seen before, heart thudding, breath caught somewhere between awe and fear. Sadie presses close to her heel, alert but not afraid.

And then a mossling emerges from behind a stump, arms folded, glaring up at her with the unimpressed look of someone who has been waiting far too long.

“You’re late,” he says.

Anna blinks. “I think you’ve mistaken me for—”

“Not you.” He points a mossy finger at Sadie. “Her. For the favour the hound owes me, of course.”

Sadie gives a soft, uncertain woof — not guilt, not fear, but the faint echo of a memory she shouldn’t have.

And just like that, Anna is entangled.

Sadie doesn’t look afraid.
Not even close.

Instead, she gives her coat a vigorous shake, sending a puff of damp forest spores drifting into the violet‑moss air like she’s just stepped out of a woodland bakery dusted in flour. The spores swirl lazily, catching faint greenish light as they settle.

Then she sits.
A heavy, deliberate thud that says: I am here. I am comfortable. I am not intimidated by a creature the size of a hedgehog with opinions.

Her head tilts to one side — that familiar, maddeningly serene expression she uses whenever Anna tries to explain why socks are not food. It’s the look of a dog who absolutely recognises the situation but would very much prefer a biscuit before engaging with it.

Mogget’s glare deepens.

“Oh, don’t you give me that look,” he snaps, jabbing a mossy finger at her. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Sadie blinks slowly, tail giving a single, polite wag.
A diplomat’s wag.
A we can discuss this after snacks wag.

Anna, still trying to process the fact that the trees are purple and the mossling is talking, clears her throat.

“I… think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“There has,” Mogget says sharply. “You’re in the Wood, mortal. There’s always a misunderstanding.”

He plants his hands on his hips, eyes never leaving Sadie.

“And she owes me a scent.”

Sadie yawns.
A big, jaw‑cracking, entirely unbothered yawn.

Mogget sputters. “Don’t you dare pretend you don’t know!”

Anna looks between them — her dog, serene as a monk, and the mossling, vibrating with righteous indignation — and realises with a sinking feeling that she has stepped into a story that began long before she was born.

And Sadie?
Sadie is already in the middle of it.

Sadie is… fine.

More than fine.
She’s behaving as though this is just another stop on their usual morning walk.
Shake off the damp.
Sit politely.
Tilt head.
Wait for biscuit.

Anna stares at her dog, incredulous.

“Sadie,” she whispers, “that is a fungus‑man.”

Sadie gives her a single, reassuring wag of the tail.
The kind she uses when the postman is late or a neighbour’s cat is blocking the pavement.
A don’t worry, I’ve got this wag.

Mogget huffs, folding his arms tighter. “Fungus‑man? Rude. I’m a mossling. Entirely different genus.”

Anna presses a hand to her forehead.
“I’m going crazy,” she mutters. “I’ve absolutely lost it.”

But Sadie’s calm presence undermines the panic.
Her dog — her stubborn, sensible, biscuit‑motivated dog — is treating this mossling like he’s just old Mr. Hargreaves from two doors down.

And that’s the worst part.

Because if Sadie thinks this is legitimate…
then maybe it is.

Anna swallows hard, straightens her coat, and tries to pretend she isn’t talking to a creature made of moss and indignation.

“Right,” she says. “Okay. Fine. Let’s… deal with this.”

Sadie gives another polite wag, as if to say: Finally.

to be continued.