Strange Things Come from the Forest of Things that Bleed is a solo journaling game found in the first issue of the d36 zine, which was put together by Chris Bissette of Loot The Room and was kickstarted back in 2021 . This particular edition of the zine focuses on visceral themes, including blood and violence, and honestly isn’t for everyone. The print edition is absolutely stunning, featuring a soft rose petal cover with gorgeous layouts and typography tailored for each game inside.
Strange Things is by designer Sinta Posadas who has designed many TTRPGs, including an entire series about plants (The “PlantVerse”) and magical frogs, and also provides wonderful art packs for other designers to use. The only place I’ve found Strange Things, however, is in d36.
In my first long-term streamed campaign, Saving Feyce, I played a character named Aoife (EE-fuh) Inkblood, who was a swamp witch flavored warlock. I struggled intensely with connecting to her for the longest time, and it really reflected in my storytelling in the game. It took a while, but I worked through a lot of indie games and character development exercises to really bring bring her to life. Strange Things was one of those exercises, and this is the first time I’m sharing the story outside of the campaign. This final version helped to shape some of the world and lore that our characters lived in, which was a really neat experience
Strange Things Come From the Wicked Wood: A Story of Et’ta
I have been wandering in the swamp for nine days. Nights? … Cycles? Nine times the moon in the sky has turned from barely a sliver to full, swollen and shining with a sick red light. Nine times I have watched blood seep from the trees and pollute the waters of the place I call home.
Maybe this is just a vision. Maybe this is all in my head, and I am truly in no danger here… But I cannot be sure. There is no way to tell. My dress is sodden with blood and muck in a way that truly feels real.
It has taken this long for me to remember my name. Aoife. Aoife Inkmaker. It is a good name, and mine, though perhaps not very strong. I seem to remember my nana giving it to me. Hazel, her name is. It comes to me on a wave of memory, the scent of warm beef stew and baking bread.
Gazing up at the slowly swelling moon, a sense of urgency comes upon me. Though there seems to be no real passage of time in this place, the place where lost things go, I know it is time.
I begin walking.
Rains came during the last cycle, the first time I’ve truly felt clean since I found myself here. Puddles still remain, humidity keeping the air thick and wet with no room for more moisture. I gaze dispassionately at my face in the dark, red-tinged water as I walk. Matted orange hair pulled back, trinkets tied into it like a crow’s nest. Green eyes, pale skin, plain face, pointed ears. There is nothing there that is familiar, except the shape of my lips. They remind me of someone else. Someone… softer.
Gathering my skirt, I continue walking on the trail I’ve taken eight times before. The trees feel closer together this time, and I have to wonder if I’m imagining that. How much of this is real, and how much is in my head? And why am I here? I must remember why I’m here. There must be a reason. Why else would I be in this place, over and over again?
The moon continues to swell in the sky, its light growing and casting deeper shadows as it does. At the side of the trail, I spy an old campfire: The charred wood soaked and cold from the rain. No comfort to be found, and I cannot remember building a fire during one of my previous walks down this path. Is someone else here?
As I look down at the ashes, there is the glint of something there and I cannot help but sift my fingers through. I pull my hand back with a hiss, fingertips dripping blood. Pressing the blackened and bleeding fingers inside my mouth, I use my other hand to pull a curved knife from the cold remains. The letters “AI” are engraved on the blade near the white bone handle and it fits perfectly in a loop on my belt, as if it were always meant to be there. Next to it, a bundle of dried flowers hangs by a length of cord. The flowers smell sweet, like lavender sugar, a welcome reminder that even in this place there are good and soft things to be found.
The trail widens a bit here, as it has for every one of the last eight cycles. I’m beginning to keep these little landmarks in my mind, learn the shape of this dark place. Hopefully this effort is not in vain.
As before, small lights dance beside the path. They hover and bounce just beyond the tree line, their warm glow barely illuminating the shadows that live between the massive trunks. The lights do not give me hope any longer… Not after the fourth turn, where I followed them to my doom. Grasping vines twisting around my ankles, dragging me into the thick water, algae clinging to my hair.
Shaking my head, I brush away those thoughts and focus on this cycle. This path before me. Focus on the music that begins to play in the distance, pulling me further along. The sounds of wind chimes, of deep wind instruments coming to me on the breeze, twisting between the boughs and trunks of the red-stained trees.
The tempo picks up and my pace goes with it, until I am nearly flying down the path. It is almost as if the beat of the melody is chasing me, pushing me faster, my hair flying behind. A quick glance over my shoulder this time. The lights follow, bobbing in beat with my footsteps, with my heartbeat. I try to run faster, and as I do so the lights keep pace. The music picks up to a fever pitch… Until I burst into a small clearing.
The silence is deafening.
Here, the white trunks of the trees are ghostly and pristine in the silver light of the nearly-full moon. I do not remember this place, where the roots heave themselves out of the water, seeming to boil up and over their kin in a bid to be dry. The leaves are shaped like those of the mangrove, but ruby red.
Suddenly ravenous, I realize it has been so many days… Cycles. So many cycles since I’ve had anything to eat. The leaves… Nana has used mangrove leaves in her cooking before, I’m certain. The branch nearest to me bends down to meet my outstretched hand, almost as if it is yearning to be touched. Tearing the autumnal leaf in half, it weeps a red sap that looks like blood… But ohh, it smells like the soft sweet cakes I make for breakfast. It tastes just as sweet, with a small hint of spice, as I lick a drop away. A warmth spreads through me as I swallow, and my belly feels almost full as I reach for another, tearing the fragile skin with my teeth while the sap slips down my chin. As I wipe away the liquid, I am somehow shocked at just how much it looks like blood on the back of my hand.
The sound of a branch snapping off to my right causes me to gasp, eyes wide as I wheel around to face whatever adversary the swamp has chosen to throw at me this time. A soft whisper through the trees, words I cannot make out, blown away by a forceful wind. Keeling down, I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, hoping to blot out this nightmare.
“Happy thoughts,” I whisper to myself, willing my focus away from the cold air and metallic taste in my mouth. Back to the hut, and mornings with Nana. Waking up early, cold water and peppermint tea together on the porch. Watching the sun glitter over the water through the long moss, the scent of sweet cakes and dew on the breeze. I cannot lay down and die here. I must return. There is still so much left to do.
Feeling the cold air become motionless around me, I rise to my feet only to find the center of the clearing now holds an altar. Unvarnished wood, stained with blood and mud, it stands as if it had been there the whole time. Resting up on the macabre tabletop is a glimmering silver coin, strikingly uncorrupted against the grime. It is surprisingly warm as I pick it up, turning it over between my fingers. One side has the number “100” embossed on it, while the other has beautiful flowers, both with characters in a language I do not recognize. Peace washes over me as I drag in a deep breath, clutching the coin tightly.
The overwhelming scent of fresh coppery blood assails my nose, making me gag and double over. Looking around at the trees, the red liquid is pouring from them. Dripping down the tendrils of hanging moss, weeping from gashes in the tree trunks, bubbling up from the ground as if it were spring water.
My bare feet squelch into the mud that suddenly manifests underneath my skirts, and I am dragged down as the bloody water starts to rise. I clutch the coin even tighter, looking up into the sky at the moon. It is full and deep red and angry.
In response, anger blooms in my chest. I scream, wordless and primal, into this forever night. “You cannot have me!” I call out, defiant in the last moments I will live in this cycle. “You cannot have me!” I scream, my voice breaking from the strain.
The viscous liquid closes over me and I gasp, taking the tainted water into my lungs. From here, the glimmer of the full and bloody moon in the water is almost hauntingly beautiful. As I exhale, the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears is the last thing I hear…
… Until the sound of softly chirping birds reaches me. I blink my eyes open, and hiss against the sunlight I haven’t seen in a week or more. Pushing myself upright, I recognize this place: This path leads to the Wicked Woods. The place where forgotten things go. Where sacrifices to the swamp end up. Where only the witches of the swamp can safely tread, to reclaim what was lost.
Gathering my shaking legs beneath me, I smile into the rising sun. My name is Aoife Inkblood and I am a Witch of the Swamp, like my Nan before me. I have gone into the Wicked Wood, and returned more than I was before. I am now whole, like the swelling blood moon. None can take this new power from me. It is mine and I will fight to defend myself, and this place, and those people I call home.