Noah Salmanson

I have included some samples from my various works, Narrative Design and otherwise, below. If you would like additional samples, feel free to contact me here. 

The Shop Competition

This piece is a excerpt from an event in which our playerbase voted on a variety of shops to add to our game. Each shop was given a brief write-up of their background. Two of these write-ups are below.

The Decomposer: Sponsored by Alaric Specterwood, who recently quit his job as Crypt-Keeper of Riddleyard. In his resignation letter, he wrote that he wanted to find something new and fun with the remainder of his life, preferably something where he didn't have to permanently reek of garlic. After much discussion of possibilities, Alaric recalled that for a brief time during his early life, Alaric was a musician. He was featured in an article in the Daily Diviner in 1973 for being in a band, although only weeks later he was quoted as saying that the band had dissolved as it was "Dead on arrival". Now, he has resurrected his love of music, submitting an application to open The Decomposer, which would sell vinyl records. Alaric promises a 100% satisfaction guarantee on his music, or your money Bach!

The Victory Point: Sponsored by Prim Katan, a prominent American witch who co-founded Babbleboard, a world-renown magical game and toy company. In 2017, however, Katan was ousted out of the company by her co-founder, Sean Crabble, after she refused to let them use magical creature fur for their toys. Katan used the money she had made during that time to move to England the next year. For the past few years, she's been tinkering with various new toy concepts - sometimes to the detriment of her neighbours in Tristmoor. In at least two occasions, police had to be called due to rogue miniatures that had been created by Katan. The creation was placed on the backburner, as Katan turned her attention towards making magical dice.

Doctor Dott’s Candy Factory

Within this quest, the player has been sent into a mysterious factory on the edge of town at the behest of a woman named Abigail whose husband works at the factory and hasn’t been seen in days. The player infiltrates the factory, to find many of the employees under some sort of trance.

Harry Rott:

What's happened here? You haven’t noticed at all, have you?

You haven’t noticed the employees going missing? Coming back looking a little thin? Like they’ve been pulled apart by a taffy machine?

Might as well stick you in the cave where we grow our halloween treats. You’d fit right in with the blind bats.

The whole thing is a ruse, don’t you get it? They aren’t employees, they’re sacrifices!

Dott’s not a candymaker, he’s something far worse.

No, not a politician! Are you really this clueless?

He’s a hemomancer for crying out loud! Like the tooth fairy, but instead of stealing teeth, he steals your blood.

The “Candy Juicers” down the hall? Yeah. Those aren’t for extracting juice for our sweets. We both know there isn’t a lick of flavor in there that isn’t artificial.

Dott’s been using the machines to juice us.

He’s coming. Quick, into the fudge river. I’ll scoop you out once he’s gone, but you’ll be a prime specimen for his juicer otherwise.

An Unbreakable Bond

In this questline, the player has discovered a town that disappeared through time. Matilda Sherwood was the wife of the ruler of the town, who has since died, as he was a cruel leader, leading to Matilda and Martinus Moore, the pub owner, to kill him. Matilda was injured, and the rest of the town has rallied to her bedside.

Martinus Moore:

Ye aren't alone, Tia.

Yer th' lady of this village. I'll be th' first t' say that we would all be honored t' have ye lead us.

Besides, ye were always more in line with us common folk anyway. Drinking in th' pub, playing games on the lawn 'n tarnishin' yer clothes…

We need ye, Matilda. Everyone in Woodshire does. I need ye. We all look up to ye and all ye have done.

Lead us into th' future, and I know for a fact th' House of Sherwood will shine even brighter. Please?

Matilda Sherwood:

...Thank you, Tin. But... there is too much history in the name... Sherwood.

Too many bad memories. Time spent trapped and suffering... Pain and mourning. Perhaps it’s time to finally bury the past.

From henceforth, here and forever, it shall be known as the House of Woodshire, of the town of Woodshire. For all of us.

Now, as my formal first act as Lady of Woodshire, sole ruler, I would like to declare thee, (Player Name), as a knight of Woodshire, of the highest order. Our Protector and Savior.

Thank ye. For... everything, dear. If I could ever provide thee anything, I am in your debt. Perhaps we shall meet again.

Excerpt from The Buried Treasure of Beale

The Buried Treasure of Beale takes a narrative approach to real life Beale Cipher mystery, through the eyes of the son of the man who originally discovered the mysterious cipher texts.

For almost three years now, I’ve stared at the same two frayed and worn papers that my father left me when he passed. He claimed they held the truth to “untold riches” and kept them in a ornate black box on the mantle. I called it the box where his dreams would go to die. When he passed, the only thing left in his possession was that damned box. He had, as we came to find out after his death, sold off all of his belongings in a misguided search for this so-called treasure- our family home, our horse and buggy, and even the family business, a small inn in rural Virginia. He failed miserably, of course, since he failed at almost everything he did in life. After all, my grandfather was the one who had left him a large inheritance, and he had gone and squandered it time and time again. He had invested in exploration parties heading out west, wanting to find riches and claim land. None of them ever returned. After several years, he’d gone mad. With what little funds our family had, he wanted to take us all out west ourselves. He was blinded by gold and glory. We were mere days away from going when he became ill, halting any chance of heading west, thank god.  He never recovered, him and his failing heart, and the dreams of a westward expedition died with him. My family was left with nothing. Except for the box.

The box itself is no more than six inches long, and two or three inches wide. The top slides off to reveal the contents hidden inside. Carefully carved from black maple wood, brought back from an unsuccessful treasure hunt, it originally contained my father’s wedding ring. It was one of many objects in our home that we were never allowed to touch. For several years after my father received the letter, the box resided in his study. I was never allowed in there, but I had noticed when it finally returned to its rightful place a few years later on the mantle. Even still, every so often the box would go missing, hiding out in my father's study for a few days before being returned again. It became a game, trying to spot the box in his study through the glass on the door. It was one of these times when he pulled me into his office and explained what lay inside.

When I retrieved the box after his death, I wanted nothing more than to throw it into the river and forget about it. Those letters inside had ruined our lives. It created an obsession for him that cost him his life, and us everything else. I even brought it down to the river one afternoon, and stood above the banks, holding it out above the water, with my hand gripping it from the top so I could let it drop at any second. For whatever reason, perhaps wanting closure for the object that had haunted me for so many years, I turned around and went back to my house, opening the box and, for the first time in several years, found myself scanning through the letters once more.