The Cringing Goblin

D&D Next?

2012-01-25T19:26:00.000-06:00

Some interesting stuff here.

Of course, this announcement has started me thinking about what rules I want to play the game with in the future. I remain unsettled on that score. For the time being, with Ptolus (2.0) in the offing, we'll obviously stick with 3.5 (or rather, methinks Pathfinder/3.5 with the tie going to Pathfinder). As for my planned 4e campaign... well, it looks like that could be an obsolete rules set by the time we get around to it, but we'll see. I've also been thinking of doing my homebrew campaign with a completely different system, say Savage Worlds... but again, no decisions have been made on that score.

In any event, I did some work on a couple of adventures that I was planning to do in 4e and may still, including a one-shot holiday themed adventure that I'd like to do next December. Stay tuned for more on that later.

For now, the Ptolus reboot is the first thing on the horizon. As always, life is a bitch and things like chronic illnesses, family crises, and work situations make planning difficult. But I'm committed to making this work. Hopefully we can start Ptolus 2.0 in March. Look at your calendars, think about your characters. We'll make it happen. I'm thinking a once a month schedule might be doable, with a possible big two game day weekend at some point over the summer. Maybe. Anyway...

A Question

2012-01-14T17:10:00.000-06:00

Unfortunately, it has been far longer between Ptolus sessions than I intended. I apologize for that, I didn't want to tease you guys with a campaign and not deliver. Hopefully my health situation will be better under control soon and we can get around to resuming the game.

Which brings me to my question. Since it has been so long ago since we started the Ptolus campaign, it seems to me that we have a problem, or an opportunity... depending on your point of view. It strikes me that some of you may have forgotten the who, what, when, where, and why of the campaign, since we started playing. Some of you may have come up with a different character idea, a new hook, whatever and may not be excited about going back to your previous character. I think you see where this is going...

In short, I want to give you the opportunity for a reboot. Now don't get me wrong. I am neither pushing for this, nor lobbying against it. I just realize it might be easier for everyone (and perhaps more fun) if we just started over from scratch. So..., I'm leaving up to the group, as a group, to decide. Do you want to continue the campaign we started, or do you want a Ptolus reboot?

Discuss.

Here We Go Again

2012-01-09T11:34:00.001-06:00

Players Roll the Dice for Dungeons & Dragons Remake

. . . On Monday, Wizards of the Coast, the Hasbro subsidiary that owns the game, announced that a new edition is under development, the first overhaul of the rules since the contentious fourth edition was released in 2008. And Dungeons & Dragons’ designers are also planning to undertake an exceedingly rare effort for the gaming industry over the next few months: asking hundreds of thousands of fans to tell them how exactly they should reboot the franchise. . . .

Lummox Envy

2011-07-29T18:39:00.002-05:00

“Collecting penises is like collecting anything. You can never stop, you can never catch up, you can always get a new one, a better one,” Hjartarson said as he reached into the museum's penis-shaped cash register to return some change to a customer, before picking up a phone of the same shape.

From this article about the Icelandic Phallological Museum:

The Icelandic Phallological Museum (Icelandic: Hið Íslenzka Reðasafn) in Húsavík, Iceland houses the world's largest collection of penises and penile parts. By July 2011, it had 276 penises taken from 46 species, including homo sapiens. Its collection includes 55 penises taken from whales, 36 from seals and 118 from land mammals, including a wide variety of domestic, wild, terrestrial, and marine animals and an unfortunate stray polar bear shot by fishermen who found it drifting on pack ice off the Westfjords. . . .

The Girl That Haunts My Dreams

2011-07-19T11:23:00.002-05:00

- by Farland Dane

(A dwarfish love song)

Her eyes are as dark as a brandy, so fine.

Her lips are as sweet as bumblefruit wine.

And I want to plant my pick deep in her mine.

The woman that haunts my dreams.

She has a firm grip and she never lets go.

Her thighs hold me tight to her while in the throes.

I feel passion with her that I've never known.

The woman that haunts my dreams.

Her smile is so wicked while we work up a sweat.

She’s wild and screams, “Oh, you’re not finished yet.”

She mines my shaft deep for all she can get.

The woman that haunts my dreams.

She moves like a river running wild and fast.

I try to keep pace but not sure I can last.

We finally finish in a gigantic blast.

I wake up and change my sheets.

Ptolus Campaign Recap: Session 1

2011-07-17T11:57:00.000-05:00

17th of Blessing, 721 I.A. (Imperial Age)

Our intrepid adventurers, for one reason or another, find themselves in Ptolus, the City by the Spire. They each, for reasons of their own, end up at the Ghostly Minstrel in Delver's Square. Farland Dane, the gnome bard, is there for the music and the connections he can make to Ptolus's bardic community. He quickly makes friends with the talented Tarin Ursalatao who has, of late, been a regular on the Minstrel's stage. When he's not hanging out at the Minstrel, drinking too much, and sleeping it off in the dog bed behind the bar, Farland plays a regular gig at The Black Swan pub where he is picking up some of the raunchiest dwarven drinking songs around. Through Tarin, Farland is introduced to Marlowe Atrabonc, the chief writer and director at Midtown's Cloud Theater. Marlowe offers Farland a part in the orchestra for his newest play "The Boy Who Could Sing."

Meanwhile, Grimslade the Vermin Hunter, a refugee from the sacked Imperial Capital, Tarsis, arrives in Ptolus enticed by the promise of a newly announced bounty on the tails of the Ratmen that plague the sewers and sometimes streets of Ptolus. Grimslade visits Bith the Ratter, one of Ptolus' more interesting small businessmen, and is pointed towards a rat hunting job at, of all places, the Cloud Theater.

Prithvi, the enigmatic, yet blunt Vanara woman takes a room at the Ghostly Minstrel and strikes up conversations with the other patrons. Prithvi has a sweet tooth, and spends extravagantly in the Minstrel's dining room. She is inquisitive, and soon makes the acquaintance of several other of the Inn's guests, including the handsome young cleric Auric, and the dwarf mage, T_______.

.... to be edited and expanded.

Well, this is simply Awesome

2011-06-26T14:19:00.001-05:00

This.

And why I can't get the image to upload, I don't know.

Two Things

2011-06-26T08:38:00.000-05:00

1. There is an unfinished recap of Ptolus game session number one in the unpublished posts. Please feel free to add to it if you wish. I would like to keep an ongoing record of each session as we go along so that two years from now we can actually remember with more clarity game events. If you do decide to provide some updates, do them in a different font or sign them parenthetically so we'll all know who contributed what.

2. In the comments lets start talking about possible July or August game dates. I might be out all of July (I apologize) because of job stuff, but we'll see. There is a possibility right now that I might get a new job and have to move sometime in July... if that happens you could all come help me move and we could play D&D when we were done! (right? anyone? anyone?).

Auric Davros

2011-05-27T18:43:00.002-05:00

I apologize for the choppiness and lateness of this, couldn't get my ideas to come out the way I wanted them to, ditched it twice and today deleted about 3 pages of what ended up being over-long setup for the fall of Tarsis and was setting up to turn novel length rather than a simple back story. At any rate, Auric Davros, human male cleric of Tevra:

Looking over his shoulder into the mirror, he remembers the price of ignorance. What suffering and pain the loss of knowledgecan costs. He still sees it in his dreams; the blast, brighter and harsher than the desert sun, the bone-crushing fist of the concussion, and the roar of ten thousand dragons filling his head until thought itself is obliterated. The death of a city.
Auric slides a fresh shirt over his head, covering the patchwork of long-healed scars peppering his back and murmurs a prayer to Tevra to guide his search for knowledge lost, that she may awaken and return the world to order. Clad in simple woolen clothing, the young man could be at first mistaken for the son of a farmer visiting the city, with his bulky arms and broad shoulders if not for the fine features and curled blond hair revealing his aristocratic Prustan roots. Rubbing his thumb around the circumfrence of the bronze gear that serves as the symbol of his goddess, he slips the thong it is attached to over his head and leaves his room at The Ghostly Minstrel to join his new companions for breakfast.

Auric's family, of the Baronetcy of Davros, had once been the premiere crafters of firearms for the nobility of Tarsis, in fact Auric's great great grandfather is said to have given the emperor himself a dragon pistol on his coronation and that the emperor wore the gun for all his days on the throne. The Davros family was well regarded, if somewhat rarely thought of, by the rest of the nobility, as they tended to keep themselves carefully seperate from the politics of the court and instead focus on their craft.

Never a large family, they lived in a compound within the walls of the city, a large manor house adjoining their ironworks where they forged pieces of deadly art for the nobility and wealthy merchants who commissioned them. They had maintained this practice of making custom pieces for centuries in spite of pressure to expand into production in numbers to supply the military as well because they saw the firearm not as a tool to be roughly used like any spade or knife, but expressions of art and technology to be appreciated even when not being fired.

It was to this lifestyle that Auric had been born, prosperous, comfortable, but also given to hard work and sweat in the family ironworks, giving him an appreciation of the common man that many nobles lacked. This lack of hauteur did tend to isolate the family in social circles, giving their few nay sayers the opinion that they were in truth trumped up merchants and crafters rather than true nobility...though they desired their craftwork just the same. This never bothered Auric much in his young life, as he has his two older brothers and younger sister for companionship, and even as young as six was involved in the family craft, helping his grandfather sort gems for encrustation, or carefully collecting scraps of precious metals left over from engravings his uncles worked on. All told, it was a happy, productive life full of interesting lessons in family history and guncraft, beyond just learning his letters and numbers.

When the barbarians sacked Tarsis, his father and uncles joined the defense of the city while the rest fled toward the west gate to join the stream of refugees fleeing the city, but were sadly swarmed over by the ravening horde, frenzied and filled with the thought of the plunder the city held for them. Slow to leave the family manor, Auric and his mother, elder brother, and younger sister escaped mere blocks ahead of the advancing barbarians.

Reaching such a rich and wealthy home the raiders allowed the fleeing Tarsians to run before them as the lure of gold and riches drew them in. Awed and amazed at the finely crafted weapons mounted in positions of honor throughout the home set up a great holler among the marauders, who quickly started seeking hidden vaults for even greater riches in the basement of the mansion...as well as in the attached workshops.
Two centuries earlier, the Davros family had decided that they would not stand to suffer the embarassment of misfires in the weapons they sold to their customers and branched out into a small powder-making enterprise for the express purpose of crafting the finest and most potent gunpowder available, to be used with their dragon-cannons. The dangerous and volatile process was all undertaken in an isolated and secure section of the workshops, in excavated stone caverns in the bedrock beneath the workshop grounds. Precautions and safeguards designed to make the powder works and storage however served only to make it look like a treasure vault to the illiterate barbarians, who ignored the warnings all over its entrance. Breaking open the entrance after great effort, a group of raiders swarmed into the dark cavern, normally illuminated by cold chemical lights the family had acquired but the barbarians didn't know how to use, with their torches blazing.

The blast reduced four entire blocks of the city to nothing but a firey hellstorm, filling the air with a rain of burning debris and shrapnel, raining back down on the attackers and fleeing citizens like merciless Judgement from the heavens. A piece of flaming timber struck Auric full in the back as they fled, searing his flesh before his brother could put the flames out. Their mother however was not so lucky, a long shard of wood had pierced her heart as she huddled over her youngest child, protecting her from the explosion with her body. The small remainder of the Davros family limped with the other refugees out of the city, the only fortunate side effect of the blast being that the raiders had drawn back to move through the city more carefully, fearful of another.

Wounded and heartbroken, the sadly reduced family made their way westward, Auric fevered and in constant pain from his burns. Coming across an isolated abbey, the monks within quickly took them in and helped heal Auric's wounds and bring him back to health. For months they stayed with the monks, slowly recovering mentally and physically, until his older brother Maron proclaimed that it was time to move on. He was going to go to Sariush, where he had heard a branch of the family still lived and try and rebuild the family. However, in the months of recovery, Auric had come to learn more about the order that was protecting them, a branch of the Order of the Gear, worshippers of Tevra. He pleaded with his brother to let him stay, that he had heard the Call, and wished to join the Order and help restore order to the world, to prevent another Tarsis from happening. After much debate his brother agreed to let Auric stay while he and their sister went on to Sariush.

At nineteen, Auric is one step from full membership intot he Order of the Gear, this final trial is to seek out a piece of lost knowledge and return it to the Order, so they might spread it back into the world. With that task in mind, he enters the sprawling city of Ptolus; known throughout the land for its catacombs and lost mysteries, the city holds the key to his future and his best hope for helping reawaken his sleeping goddess.

Readers Advisory Moment

2011-05-27T13:41:00.002-05:00

Perhaps something for your summer reading list:

The Kobold Wizard's Dildo of Enlightenment +2 (an adventure for 3-6 players, levels 2-5)

The Kobold Wizard's Dildo of Enlightenment +2 is an absurd comedy about a group of adventurers (elf, halfling, bard, dwarf, assassin, thief) going through an existential crisis after having discovered that they are really just pre-rolled characters living inside of a classic AD&D role playing game. While exploring the ruins of Tardis Keep, these 6 characters must deal with their inept Dungeon Master's retarded imagination and resist their horny teenaged players' commands to have sex with everything in sight.

Bad DM!

2011-05-07T19:06:00.000-05:00

I have to keep reminding myself, when at bookstores, to not buy 4e books, no matter how cool they look, because I need to be thinking about running Ptolus.

Just a Reminder

2011-04-20T20:10:00.000-05:00

That I haven't forgotten about the Ptolus campaign. I've just been really busy lately. Things will begin happening soon. I'm delving back into the big book to look for plot hooks for each of you, putting together some background info for Leelu, and just generally reacquainting myself with the city. So, expect things to be moving in the near future. So, there you go.

Prompt

2011-03-30T18:30:00.000-05:00

So as we begin to develop and refine our character concepts, a challenge: If you had to use just one word to describe your character, what would it be?

Streamlining

2011-03-22T19:22:00.000-05:00

After considering the matter further, I've decided to streamline. More specifically, I've decided to shut down the Ptolus blog and move that content to here and the cringing wiki. Maintaining another blog just seems like too much trouble, and, as much as I liked the layout of that blog, I think it is time to simplify. So, in the future, expect Ptolus posts to appear here... just like in past campaigns.

Intriguing Advice

2011-02-25T19:24:00.001-06:00

From following D&D on Facebook.

. . . As soon as I speak the words "Previously in Iomandra," a hush falls over the gaming table. The off-topic conversations end abruptly, and the players become all ears. This happens every time, without fail.

After speaking the words, I begin stringing together my bullet points into a rough narrative. The whole recap usually takes about a minute. I don't worry about adding detail because I trust that the players' memories will begin filling in the gaps automatically. The recap simply sparks their memories and puts the players in the right frame of mind to start the session. . . .

The Dungeon Master Experience

Grimslade, Vermin-Hunter

2011-02-15T18:52:00.002-06:00

His earliest memories were of watching the vermin. The rats, with their opportunistic ability to survive, to make almost anything into food or shelter. The cats, with their propensity for climbing and stealth, and their solitary, thieving ways. The dogs, with their gangs and their territorial hierarchies. He wasn’t one of them, but he became of them. They were his unacknowledged teachers and competition.

There were humans, too, though he had none of his own. They were his acknowledged competition, although none he remembered were his teachers. Humans meant violence, confinement, and pursuit. They built the shelters he hid in and made the food he stole, but none offered it freely. He knew other humans his age who were given to freely when they begged on the streets, but investigation revealed they always had adult masters who were worse than the elements or starvation. They offered to make him one of them, but the price was too high.

Instead, he lived on the fringes of society, learning what he could through careful observation and circumspect, vigilant interactions. Parents must have created him and someone must have nursed him out of infancy and early childhood, but those memories were lost to him. All he knew were back alleys, rooftops, sewers, and the hidden sides of the city. Of course, he used the streets and markets, learned how crowds could provide better concealment than isolation at times, and explored the urban landscape widely, but anonymity and absolute lack of attachment to people were his strategies for safety.

Over time, he made acquaintances—a network, even—and learned to operate through give and take for mutual gain. He never left himself vulnerable if he could help it, but he realized he needed things only willing others could provide. Information, warnings, education. If he was to prey on human society, he needed to know how it functioned; how to communicate, what behaviors to expect, what patterns to predict, how to spot trouble. Through the years, he learned reading, psychology, group interactions, commerce, and more.

He learned about organizations, too. There were the official ones like the city guard and military that should be avoided at all costs, bribed in a pinch. Churches, too, with dangerous generosity that might be carefully manipulated. The wizards had their clubs devoted to magic, as did most other professions. And there were unofficial ones like the beggars and thieves guilds, who viewed him as an adversarial maverick.

As it’s much harder for adults to remain inconspicuously invisible than children, it eventually became too dangerous for him to remain the perpetual outsider. He decided he needed an official profession to give cover to his covert activities. That’s where his early mentors became once again useful. He had not only learned all their tricks through careful study, he had become intimately familiar with their ways and habits. With his adult size and resources, he knew how to best them. He became a vermin hunter.

Officially, anyway: Grimslade, official vermin hunter, unofficial rogue-of-all-trades, master isolationist and individualist, urban ruffian, social gruffian.

The Adventures of Farland Dane, ... So Far

2011-02-14T19:34:00.002-06:00

By Lummox:

Farland Dane

Bard of the winding roads

(A gnome’s travels)

As the sleet beat down on the tarp that covered him atop the carriage, Farland picked up his quill and opened his song book. It held many songs he had learned throughout his travels, the ones he had not committed entirely to memory that is, but more than that, this tome held his greatest work, the piece that would carry on his tale long after his bones were dust in the wind. It held “The Dane’s Tale,” the story of his life.

The D-Tale, as he called it for short, contained not only the stories of his humble beginnings, but also the stories of the songs he had learned and the details behind the great people within them. Not merely the stories of heroes for sure, but also the rumors and legends that followed such tales. Like the tale of Mighty Grim Hammersmith, the dwarf lord who, when his people were under attack, came to their rescue with an army of spirits that he held in his pocket. But it also told of the dark deal he had made with a demon to control such a power, and how in the end, he had been eaten piece by piece by that same ghostly swarm, which was then consumed by the demon who then vanished into the depths of the Grim Mines, never to be seen again.

Or the tale of Balden Caperson, the gnomish rogue whose talents at lock-picking won him many treasures and the respect of the group of warriors that he had traveled with. It also told of how in the end, though they came to respect and trust the wily, little thief, maybe even learned to love him, he snuck off in the night with all of their treasures with a band of thieves he had hired in town, and run off in the night leaving them with only their bed clothes (which was most unfortunate for their elven lady, Macranal the fair, for she wore none). And how when they gathered in their hidden treasury with the goods, the rest of the thieves turned on him and beat him to death with the treasures he had helped them purloin. So sad.

Or his favorite, the tale of the “Conquerors of Tharizdun.” The group of mythical warriors who fought back the powers of the darkness, though how, no one really knows, as throughout the tale, it seemed that they were no more than bumbling buffoons with the luck of 30 men each, able to survive insurmountable odds, not by talent or skill, but by sheer willpower and good fortune. Whoever wrote such a tale was either a genius or a madman. Either way, it was a wonderful tale and made a stirring and comical song that always got high cheers from every town. I mean, really. Who would name their child Lummox? It had to be a work of fiction.

But he put those tales aside to work on his literal life’s work. He looked back over the pages of his story and noted some of the lines he was most fond of. The story of the first time he picked up a toy flute that had been dropped by his older brother and began to play it. At first it was halting and off key with no melody to speak of, but the sounds spoke to him, so he played on learning the ways of the instrument and soon discovering its mysteries:

And as his fingers danced about

The way that fingers will

He found that others danced along

With feet they could not still

His family laughed and sang

The house was filled with joy

But none were happier of the song

Than their darling little boy

He remembered the day he had come to his family showing them his new talent. He remembered how over joyed everyone was to have music in the house. So his job was to play for them so that they may dance, but to him, it was no job at all. It was all play and fun and he was happy then.

He was happy until the day his father took him to town and sat him in the streets and told him to play. He had done as he was asked, but soon his songs began to falter. He had thought that his father had brought him out to show the world his skill, but as he played, he saw his father sneaking among the crowd that came to hear his song. He saw his father’s quick, light fingers pilfering their purses and stealing their goods.

Without even thinking about it, his songs soon took on a sad note. A melancholy spread through the crowd, a subtle wariness gripped them. It was not long after that his father was snatched up by one of the listeners who shouted, “Thief! Call the guard!”

They were hauled before a magistrate and his father was charged and sent to serve a month’s sentence in the quarry for his crimes. Farland was released. He hurried home and told his mother what happened. He expected her sympathy, but instead bore her wrath. The beating was bad enough, but she then did the most horrifying thing he could imagine. She threw his flute into the cooking fire. Farland rushed after it and was caught at the last second by his elder brother who heaved him from the room and sat him on their sleeping pallet.

“Listen,” his brother, Massin, said, “you need to calm yourself. You have upset mother greatly, and she will be angry for a while, but her fits are like a passing storm. You must bear it out. It will pass.”

Farland understood, and heeded his brother’s advice, but the storm did not pass. It seemed every time his mother saw him from then on, her anger would rise within her. He received the least and the worst of the meals. He was given the hardest and most disgusting of the chores. He was even in charge of earning some money until his father returned, to support the household, but without his flute, he didn’t know how. He went to the neighbors to see if he could do chores for money, but many of them had little or no money to give. He tried carving a new flute, but it came out warped and the notes came out either sharp or flat. He soon wondered if he would ever play again.

A month passed and his father returned home. He would not even look at Farland. His mother gave him the news that they were going to lose their home if they did not make money soon. Farland’s father brooded for a moment and then left the house. Harland was awakened that night by his return and the fight his mother and his father had about the late hour. Then all at once the fighting stopped and their voices grew hushed. Farland fell back asleep.

In the early morning, before the sun had risen, Farland was awakened by the sound of a carriage. No one traveled by carriage in these parts. Sometimes by pony but this was a full carriage, human size. He looked out the window as someone stepped out of the carriage and wrapped on the door of his family’s house. He soon heard his father’s voice answering the door and speaking to the human in hushed tones. His father disappeared from the doorway and back into the house. Farland went back to his pallet and laid down, pretending to be asleep. He heard the door to his bedroom open and heard his father enter. He kept his eyes closed and he heard his father whisper in the darkness, “Don’t worry. This is the right thing to do. The little troublemaker will learn from this and grow stronger.”

He listened, wondering what was going on, and then he heard his mother’s voice say, “Who’s worried? Did you get the gold up front?”

They continued to whisper and move closer as he wondered what was going on? He opened his eyes just as his father slipped a burlap bag over him. His parents began dragging him off and he heard his brother awake and ask what was happening.

“He’s going to learn responsibility for his actions and a trade that will make this family some money,” his mother said with ice in her voice. “One day he will learn that his family comes first.”

“You can’t do this,” Massin screamed. “He’s only a child! He’s not even 35 yet!”

“More time for him to learn then,” his father said in a labored voice. He could feel the cold morning air through the bag and he began to scream. He felt someone grab the bag near his head and try to pull him the other direction. Then there was the sound of a struggle and he was dropped again. Soon he was lifted bodily off of the ground and tossed onto a hard surface, he assumed the carriage. He struggled free of the bag as the door was closed on him. There were no windows and when he tried the door, it was locked tight. There were raised voices from outside and he cried out for someone to save him, but soon it did not matter. The cart jerked forward and he was soon traveling, to where he did not know.

He soon found he had been sold into a traveling circus and quickly learned the lesson that if you did not work, you did not eat. If you tried to run away, you were caught and severely beaten, if not worse by the men who were known only as “master.”

Once he learned these things, and accepted them, he found that despite the hard work, it was not a terrible life. He was soon handed over to the other performers to be trained and they soon became his new family. They cared for him, tended to his wounds and schooled him in the arts of pleasing an audience. Soon a year had passed and with his birth day came a very special gift. The lead musician, Berge, presented him with one of his flutes and a lute. The joy welled up inside of Farland and tears spilled from his eyes as he gazed at his gifts.

“Well my lad,” the master said

“Let’s hear a song

“And we shall dance

“The evening long”

And play he did

A song of glee

That all danced bright

And merrily.

They danced the night

And into dawn

‘Til camp was packed

And they moved on.

It was then that Farland learned his true place in the world. As he learned to play his new instruments, he found in himself a well deep in song and spirit. He listened well to his masters, he learned from the artists around him, from the people in the towns they visited and from the new life he now held as his own. And with this new freedom of spirit came the realization that he no longer needed his old family. He would toss them aside as they had done him.

His only regret was for his brother, Massin. One day, he would find his brother and try to free him from the grasp of his parents. But for now, he would learn and become a great musician.

Years passed, decades. Soon he found himself in the upper ranks of the musicians. The leash that the “masters” had put him on had loosened and, after some time, disappeared entirely. They came to him and offered him his freedom and gave him the choice of staying with them and entertaining the crowds or of travelling on his own. With a shake of hands and tearful goodbyes, Farland chose the latter and soon set off to strike his own luck.

At first there were difficulties, as with any change in life, but soon he found that the people longed for music, they longed for tales of adventure that they would never experience themselves, but could experience vicariously through his song and stories. Life as a member of a group of musicians was very different from one as a bard, but he was determined to be a success. And as he traveled he learned new songs, new stories, so many that he could no longer keep them in his head. So he struck out one day to find a way to store them. He searched through several shops and merchant stalls until he came upon the book. It was sitting in the corner on a low shelf in the back of a weapon’s shop, holding up the corner of an old shelf.

Farland spoke to the shop keep and they worked out a price for the tome and soon it was his. He had leafed through it and though the first couple of pages had tallies of inventory on it (much of it scratched out and rewritten) the majority of it was empty and he knew it would see him through many years. And so he dedicated an entire week to putting down to paper the stories and songs he knew and as he traveled he added more and more.

It was in his 51^st year that he decided to begin his life’s tale, and now, six months later, he had finally caught himself up to the present. He was trying to come up with a line to follow “And now I sit upon this coach, Rain awash my back,” when the cart lurched to a halt. He had been so wrapped in his memories that he had not realized that they had entered another town. He put his bookmark in to mark his place, tucked the book away and peeked out from under the tarp.

(To be continued)

Administrative Matters

2010-11-29T22:24:00.000-06:00

Relating to the Ptolus campaign, that is.

First--who's in? My estimate is that seven of you will want to play, and I wonder if that is manageable. (Or if two groups is manageable). I think it might be with some house rules to keep things moving, and a few adjustments to make the combats sufficiently challenging.

Second-- I'll be utilizing the other site to dispense campaign info, keep track of house rules, and such. If you haven't before, you should look at it now. Also, download the players guide .pdf and start reading. Please pay attention to the first rule that has been posted (I'm looking at you Tiger!). The comments are moderated at the other site to avoid spam and spoilers, so it may take some time for them to show up.

In the next couple of days I hope to put up character creation guidelines, and start a discussion about rules, the campaign world, and those sorts of things. And very soon, I hope to start some sort of "pre-game" in which we get your characters to first level and, in one way or another, moving towards Ptolus.

About Goddamned Time

2010-11-24T23:25:00.000-06:00

First, questions: Will there be a Lummoxian adventure in the offing soon? Because I certainly do not want to step on any toes; and I assume that the great weight of group interest still tends towards Ptolus as opposed to a 4e homebrew?

Depending on the answers to these questions, and given the fact that my life appears to be on the brink of a period of stability (Pelor willing), I'm thinking of making some dates concrete. That is, for beginning the long teased, and long awaited campaign.

I look forward to your comments.

Probably Not New to You

2010-11-20T09:45:00.001-06:00

But I just came across epicwords.com and thought you might find interesting if you haven't heard of it.

D&D Is so Passe

2010-10-26T16:31:00.004-05:00

Since last winter, I've been playing free poker on Sunday nights at Win More Games. This is basically because the owner is friends with some guys who have a poker tournament business, because the store is mostly devoted to Magic: The Gathering. They have a small selection of board games, D&D books, and a few other things, but I'd guess 95% of their business is Magic. They have Magic events five or six nights a week and a devoted group of regular players. Still, the following conversation on Sunday surprised me:

I usually use a large, solid metal d20 as a card protector when I play poker. One of the other players noticed and inquired, "So you play Magic?"

"No," I said. "I enjoy almost everything else this store does, but I don't play Magic."

"But why else would you have a d20?"

I think I just failed a spot check

2010-10-22T20:40:00.002-05:00

It's been a while since anyone's posted. So here's a D+D-related post. Interesting to me, anyway. Also, I heard that Lummox isn't doing so hot. Hope you get better soon.

This is from Gnome Stew.

The act of calling for the check has now alerted all the players that something important has happened, and if the player fails the roll, then the table is aware that they have missed something important. A disciplined group will play on, pretending to be unaware of the check and its failure, but even at the subconscious level the minds of the players want to take action or at least ready themselves for what is coming.

The old school solution for this was for the GM to make secret rolls on behalf of the players. Not every group is cool with this for a few reasons: The first, is the GM needs to keep copies of the character sheets behind the screen, otherwise asking the player for his skill level and then making a roll defeats the purpose. This just adds to the pile of papers and work the GM is already doing during the course of the game. The second and more controversial is that the GM makes a skill check for the player, and the player has no control of their fate. If the GM’s dice suck (technical term: negatively player biased) the players become victims to the outcome of the GM’s roll.

I have always been sensitive to the second issue, having been on the receiving end of some poorly rolled secret GM checks, resulting in several dead characters. Because of that, I hate to make rolls on behalf of my players. If my roll blows a player’s spot check, and the resulting ambush or trap kills one or more players, I feel that, that is on my hands. Because of this, I have tried to come up with two ways to empower my players to make the roll, but to conceal the outcome until the most dramatic moment.

Hidden Check 1: The Proxy Roll

Technique: In this case, I create a matrix: numbers by players. The numbers column is typically the same as the main dice rolling technique for the game ( 20 for D&D and Pathfinder, 12 rows for Conspiracy X, 20 for Corporation, etc). At the start of the game, I have the players then take the main die and roll and log the results in their column. The end result is there is a table of random numbers for each player. Then when the GM needs a check, I can either have the player roll or I can roll, consult the table to find the player’s roll.

What I like about this technique, is that the technique combines the players rolls, with the ability for the GM to make a secret roll when needed. I have also used this matrix for the players when I want them to make a skill check, that is not a secret, but I don’t want them to know the outcome (such as knowledge check). I have the players make a roll, and then I find the number on the table, and determine the outcome of the check. This is great for things like Gather Information, Knowledge Checks, and Spot checks.

Hidden Check 2: The Covered Roll

Technique: In this case, there is a roll that needs to be made, where the outcome will have an effect on an upcoming scene, such as a hacking check to plant a virus in the security system so that later in the day the system goes offline during the robbery. The player is aware of the need to make the check, and the action for the check is done in an early prep scene. It is more dramatic not knowing the outcome before the scene where the outcome comes to fruition. What I like to do for these checks is to have the player place their dice in a dice cup, shake, and then flip the cup upside down on the table, and leave it. Then at the appropriate time during the game, when the outcome needs to be known, the player lifts the cup and reveals the roll.

What I like about this technique is that the player makes the roll, but the cup hides the outcome from everyone (including the GM), at the table. There is a real tension with the covered dice sitting on the middle of the table. Sometimes if a GM knows the outcome of a secret roll, they can consciously or unconsciously narrate the scene around the known outcome, before the outcome is revealed to the players. By the outcome being concealed from everyone, the GM cannot affect the story and everyone at the table shares in the reveal of the dice.

Game Review: Uncharted--Drake's Fortune

2010-07-14T21:08:00.000-05:00

I almost posted this on Vague Notions until I remembered that I had a gaming blog. :)

This was my first game purchase for the PS3 (I had seen it bundled with the PS3 at a different Best Buy the week before I bought mine, but of course there wasn't one when I was ready to make my purchase). Long story short: this game is every bit as good as people had said it was. It got rave reviews when it was released and is still considered by many to be one of the very best titles available on the console. I concur. I am so in love with this game, and I can't wait to play Uncharted 2, which by all reports is even better (I have seen the graphics on Uncharted 2 and they're amazing).

Playing this game is like watching a really fantastic adventure movie. It is addictive in all of it's pulpy goodness. The really amazing thing is that, for the first time that I can remember, I'm actually looking forward to cutscenes. I've always found them annoying in the past, but in this game I can't wait to hear the dialog and see how the story is going to advance. In fact, not only am I looking forward to cutscenes, I'm upset that there aren't more of them!

They beat us to it!!!

2010-06-14T11:00:00.001-05:00

Hadrain, I hate to break it to you.

Across the Stone Sea

2010-05-07T16:55:00.001-05:00

Please forgive this hastily and inartfully written introduction to tomorrow night's adventure. Some of this comes verbatim from notes I made for myself about the campaign setting, so it was never really meant to be read by anyone else but me. So, if it doesn't flow very well, that is why. For some reason, I just can't engage my "writer" gear today and get any good prose flowing. I did, however, want to give tomorrow night's players a brief introduction to the setting, so you'll have some idea of the world you're getting into, and maybe have a little bit more to work with on character concept and background. (Just for the record, I intend this to be the first outing into what I hope becomes a persistent 4e campaign setting).

Kelaturr
The defining characteristic of the world of Kelaturr is the geographic formation known as The Stone Sea. The Stone Sea is an immense mountain range that circles the entire planet, running north to south, and passing through both poles. The Stone Sea is quite obviously the result of some sort of magical cataclysm—it rises abruptly from the surrounding countryside and is constantly plagued by violent, unnatural storms. At no point is the range less than 500 miles wide. In those areas where it passes through the oceans, it consists mainly of rocky uninhabitable crags and is impassable by ship. Likewise, on land, there are no known land routes that cross the Stone Sea. On the continent of Eralon the Stone Sea forms the border between the vast wild western portion of the continent and the Kingdoms of the East, advanced and mostly peaceful nations known collectively as “The Settled Lands.” At certain points experienced crews pilot airships across the Sea, providing an important trade link between the Settled Lands and the isolated settlements of the West. Settlements in the Stone Sea are extremely scarce as it is a place of dangerous magic and evil creatures.

For years, the kingdom of Alastria has held a virtual monopoly on the trade that crosses the Stone Sea. The airship port city of Krynnsport is perhaps the most cosmopolitan city in the Settled Lands, where Tieflings and Goliaths rub elbows with the more common races of the Eastern kingdoms. Thanks to its control of the air routes to the West, Alastria is one of the wealthiest nations of the East.

This has, inevitably, led to jealousy amongst Alastria’s neighbors. Now, rumors are circulating that King Lerris of Solania is intent on forging his own trade routes across the Stone Sea. Intrepid adventurers from all across the Settled Lands are flocking to a tiny and remote village on the far Western frontier where Lerris is building what he hopes will one day be a trade hub that rivals Krynnsport. Surely, in the newly renamed village of Lerrisport there are ample opportunities for the brave and foolhardy to find adventure and wealth.

Happy Happy Joy Joy

2010-05-07T10:22:00.000-05:00

I'm trying to play fewer video games these days (now that my latest World of Warcraft binge has come to an end), but this cannot be ignored.

I'm so excited I can hardly contain myself.

Gauging Interest

2010-05-02T20:33:00.000-05:00

Like the Captain in the previous post, I'm gauging interest in the possibility of an upcoming game. I was thinking about doing some sort of one-shot next weekend. Either 4E, Call of Cthulhu, or just good ole 3.5 (Or hell, Star Frontiers)... no decision on that. Any interest? (Please respond soon, so that if people are interested, I can prepare...).

2010-04-25T19:54:00.002-05:00

So, I picked up a module at Tabletop a week or two ago, just to scratch the itch, so to speak. It wasn't really that good, but it got me thinking. How do you guys feel about a sort of play-by-post game? I just want to gauge the interest level.

Probably 3.5, phb races and classes. Probably something in Greyhawk. Normal Scott rules. I'm thinking that I'd make sort of a weekly (maybe more often) post, and you, as the party, would respond in character to a situation. Combats would be tricky, but I think it's a surmountable challenge.

Scheduling seems to be a nightmare, generally, to all meet in person. Maybe this would be some small way of keeping the dream alive.

I'd have to figure out a way to get the dice-rolling worked out, but that's the only real hurdle I can think of. Thoughts?

FYI

2010-04-12T22:22:00.001-05:00

I have no plans to participate, but at Win More Games at 87th and Quivira.

Next Game . . .

2010-03-11T06:11:00.001-06:00

Is there going to be one?

Next Game?

2010-02-26T11:18:00.002-06:00

Sooooo, any preferences? I have a wedding to attend the weekend of the 20th so that's out for me.

Let's get some dates thrown out there! (especially if you are needing more time to assemble stuff Nate, it sure never *seems* like there's as much work to do til you start in on it >.<, next game I do is sooo going to be a premade adventure path!)

4e Feedback

2010-02-14T12:04:00.000-06:00

After Action Review: How did you guys think the game went on Saturday night? What did you think of the system? Any comments or criticisms on the dungeonmastering? The adventure?

Discuss.

Weapons of Intimate Destruction

2010-02-06T10:34:00.003-06:00

I think this guy used to work for the library. I got a work email one day asking if I remembered him. Turned out growing up he was good friends with one of my cousins (with whom I've lost touch) and he recognized the name. He worked at a different location and we never met, but the name's the same and he's in the right state. A different cousin just became a Facebook fan of his business, and I thought the subject matter appropriate enough to share here. Interesting.

Looking Ahead

2010-02-03T11:29:00.001-06:00

I may be out of town on the 20th - Can we agree to meet again on the 13th?

And

2010-01-25T17:16:00.002-06:00

I don't know about the rest of you, but I enjoyed our non-D&D gaming on Saturday night. I'd like to give Starcraft another whirl sometime in the future. To that end, I downloaded my own .pdf copy of the rules today, so that the next time we play I, at least, won't have so many damn questions to annoy Nate with.

Alternative XP

2010-01-24T17:16:00.000-06:00

Here is that post I was talking about last night.

January?

2010-01-18T13:18:00.001-06:00

Has a location been established for the January game?

Not Quite D&D

2010-01-15T19:02:00.000-06:00

But related

Sociological Images Is Talking D&D

2010-01-10T19:10:00.003-06:00

And wondering about the scantily-clad female on the cover of the 4E PHB. Some interesting discussion in the comments. I thought this thought was well-noted:

For those of you who have the 4.0 players handbook at home, I have a fun game you can play. It’s called ‘count the midriffs.’ Go through the numerous illustrations in the books and see how many characters have midriffs. Then, play that same game with the previous DnD player’s handbook (3.5). You will notice less ...midriffs in the previous edition of DnD. It’s funny how wizards decided that in the new edition nobody needs armor over their soft abdomens anymore. Maybe there’s a new spell that protects you from getting stabbed there? I’m not sure.

That and more here.

January?

2010-01-04T06:52:00.001-06:00

Has a date been established for the January game?

January?

2009-12-15T19:49:00.001-06:00

Has a date been established for the January game?

Fantastic Site

2009-12-10T00:01:00.002-06:00

While browsing through the Ptolus Dm'ing forums earlier tonight I came across a link for a 4e module template. I downloaded said template (a fantastic piece of work, by the way), and decided to check out the designer's website. I'm glad I did, and I highly recommend it-- it's one of the better gaming blogs I've run across in some time: Key Our Cars.

Ooooooh, Aaaaaaaaah, Wow.

2009-12-09T21:33:00.001-06:00

Cool.

Societal Laws, No; Relational Respect, Yes

2009-12-07T06:13:00.003-06:00

Overheard from the lips of John Brown:

. . . The fingers do all of the work, but they are directed and coordinated by the hand. Even so, the hand is led by the wrist, the wrist by the elbow, and the elbow by the shoulder. So it does no good for the fingers to be angry at the hand for where they end up, for it is the shoulder that put them there. If the hand has arthritis the fingers may curl in response, but is not possible for them to cut off the hand and attach themselves directly to the shoulder; that would be even worse than arthritis and is not the way the arm is made to work. If the parts of the arm cannot learn to work together in their proper roles, the arm will not be able to function. Some of the fingers forgot their function and needed the shoulder to remind them. Yes, the shoulder seems to have an injury right now, but it is a strong, athletic shoulder and will heal with time. While the shoulder is injured the entire arm will be hampered, but the arm remains the arm, the elbow the elbow, the hand the hand while that healing occurs. They will see that now. . . .

Afflicting You With My Indecisiveness

2009-12-06T16:16:00.003-06:00

Well, the latest campaign is off to an interesting start (as the posts below would indicate) and many thanks to Nate for DMing. Recently I've been almost obsessed with D&D (probably as a form of escapism due to unemployment, etc.), and as such have been doing a lot of reading (mostly Ptolus and 3.5 rules books)and thinking about games. Once again, I'm thinking about my future DMing efforts (which I hope to get to sooner rather than later, because frankly I'm beginning to feel like a giant tease since I've been talking about DMing for three years and have only actually run two brief sessions).

And here is my current line of thinking: I'm looking forward to running Ptolus, but I'm also excited about the prospect of actually getting into 4e. So, I'm thinking that after Ptolus, I'm going to be devoting my time to 4e, and basically giving up the 3.5 rules. (Don't worry, if you're really attached to 3.5, I'm sure Scott will DM some Pathfinder adventures here and there). This, of course, will leave me with an excess of books devoted to a game system I'm not planning on using (for instance, all of my 3.5 Eberron books), but I'm sure I'll keep those around for flavor and ideas and story hooks, etc.

I just did a search for "4e" on the blog and the resulting list of posts makes for interesting reading-- you can see how I (and others) go back and forth on the topic of how we feel about moving to a new edition.

You also get a glimpse into my personal habit of indecisiveness and tendency to spend way too much money buying books. I myself was surprised when I ran across the post giving my impressions of the 4e PHBII--a book I'd forgotten I had even bought... pathetic.

The thread is here.

Literary Gaming

2009-12-06T14:04:00.002-06:00

I'm glad we made the decision a long time ago to widen the margins for this blog. I'm disappointed I happen to have an illiterate character class for this particular campaign. And I'm going to be a bit lazy here--instead of writing the same "Excellent!" comment over and over for each post, I'm just going to make my own post saying how awesome everyone's backstories are. I'm really enjoying reading them, as well as the thought being put into developing and role-playing the characters. Last night was a great start and I'm hoping for many months of more of the same.

D&D is, I believe, something virtually unique and unprecedented in human history. It's a story you can listen to at the same time as telling it. You can be surprised by the plot's twists and turns, but you can surprise too. It's more interactive than any other sort of narrative I can think of. If its subject matter were more serious then it would probably be considered a new art form, and it's probably surprising that nothing beyond murder mystery dinners has ever been evolved from it. This is why D&D is so addictive when it's played right. It's like the best story you've ever read combined with the charge a good storyteller feels as he plays his audience.

I think there's a basic human need to listen to stories, but also to tell them. In D&D you get that tingle you imagine when you think of the ancient storytellers, dusk falling, the camp fire burning and the first line being read. It's not like hearing "In a hole in the ground lived a hobbit," it's like saying it for the first time and to a rapt audience that is dying for your next sentence.

I have finished games feeling physically drained and actually wanted to continue to have my characters buy food at a shop or smoke a pipe in a tavern just to calm down before breaking with the game world entirely. And sometimes even that wasn't enough. The crucial difference between conventional forms of storytelling and D&D is that D&D doesn't have to finish. Ever. It's an open-ended story, and, if you're emotionally engaged with it, the temptation is just to keep going.

From The Elfish Gene

Finally. Inspiration.

2009-12-06T11:16:00.000-06:00

The Lone Wolf
By Saliim Amir

When the mountains were not yet named,
When life was simple and free.
Before men cleared the wood like flame,
My tale begins for thee.

There lived a pack of wolves in kind.
Fifteen strong were they.
They roamed the mountain woods at night,
And cared for each other by day.

Strong were they when they stood as one
And lived by their own choice.
And in all things, it could be said,
They spoke as if one voice.

But things did change, that fateful day,
When among them arrived a bear.
It stood so tall above them all
And filled their hearts with fear.

It gave them all a single choice
And all had to decide.
Either work for him and bring him food,
Or be outcast then, and hide.

All said that they would stay and live
And their food they all would share.
For food was plenty. How could it hurt,
To share some with the bear?

The next few weeks went on as such,
They hunted and shared their prey.
The bear ate his share before the rest,
And life went on their way.

But after time, the colder winds
Came blowing from the North.
The food supply getting slim
And not much of any worth.

But still the bear, he ate his fill
Leaving less food by the day.
In fact, his share had grown in size
And the pack, they had no say.

For if one dared to question the bear
It was sure he would be met
With a sweep of the claw across his snout
Or a worse fate would be met.

One day a wolf within the ranks
Decided to make a stand
Against the bear and his greediness
For the sake of his fellow clan.

His name among them was Silver Mane
For the lock of hair that stood
Upon his neck that shone in moonlight
Like a glowing, silver hood.

He told the others they should not hunt.
Leave nothing for the bear.
If we do nothing to bring in his feast,
He will have to leave our lair.

He will have to hunt for his own meals
And will again be free.
A mighty clan of our cunning and might
Should not fear one such as he.

So the next day when time came to hunt
The wolves brought nothing back,
And when the bear came from his cave
He noticed the decided lack.

“Where is my meal,” the bear cried out
With rage burning in his voice.
Silver Hood stood before the wolves
And presented him their choice.

“The food is getting difficult
To gather every day.
We cannot feed ourselves and you
And live our lives this way.”

The bear then stood to his full height
And released a roar of ire.
The other wolves stepped back as one
As if from blazing fire.
But Silver Hood, he stood his ground
And let the large beast bawl.
When it was done, he asked the bear,
“Do you think to take us all?

“My fellow wolves are brave and strong
“Not fearing the likes of you.
“So try to take us if you dare,
“But no good you will it do.”

The bear just sneered and said to them,
“Does this one speak sincere?
“Do you not fear me as he says?
“Do you really have no fear?”

The other wolves as if they were one
All turned and ran away.
But Silver Hood still stood his ground.
Fear ruled him not, this day.

The bear let loose a booming laugh
That shook leaves from the trees.
But Silver Hood just stood his ground.
From there he would not flee.

The bear reached out his mighty arm
Swiping at him with his claws
But Silver Hood dodged and rebounded fast
And pierced the mighty paw.

The bear, he did not flinch away
Though his paw now gleamed with red.
He attacked again and aimed to crush
His target’s waiting head.

He caught the wolf a glancing blow
And drew blood from his hide.
He swept again at the now stunned wolf
But his strike was knocked aside.

Silver Hood, his head filled with clouds
Tried to dance out of his grasp.
He dodged one strike, and parried one more
But a blow did hit at last.

Silver Hood lay on the ground
Blood dripping from his wounds.
The bear stood tall above him now
Ready to seal his doom.

But he did not strike at Silver Hood
Instead he called aloud,
“Does not one of you have the guts
“To step forth from the crowd,

“And save the one who stood up for you
“When you left him on his own?
“Are you all that scared of one such as me,
“That you would leave him here alone?”

Not a sound was made. Not a move was seen.
The wolves made not a breath.
They hid themselves among the trees
To leave Silver Hood to his death.

When all at once from within the bear
There shown a stunning light.
And from him came a giant wolf
Its fur a dazzling white.

The bear skin coat dropped to the ground
And the Wolf shed a single tear.
It landed upon brave Silver Hood
And a howling filled the air.

And suddenly, his wounds were healed,
And he rose up from the ground.
He stared in wonder that he was alive,
The he stopped and looked around.

He saw the great white Wolf that stood
Before him shining bright.
He bowed his head and said to him,
“I thank you for my life.”

The Wolf grinned a little and said to him,
“It was not mine to take.
Your bravery against overwhelming odds
For your own pack’s sake

“Is what saved you from certain death.
But from what I have observed.
Perhaps your goodness and loyalty,
Your pack does not deserve.”

And with his words, the pack came forth
From the cover of the woods.
They all came forth and encircled the Wolf
And their martyr, Silver Hood.

The Wolf looked at them one and all
And gave a single cry
That shook the ground on which they stood
And rained leafs from upon high.

And with the howl came a blinding light
And a stirring of the air.
And when it faded, Silver Hood saw
The Wolf was no longer there.

He looked around and was taken aback
By the strange tableau
Where once stood about him a pack of wolves
Was a ring of haze aglow.

The light within began to dim
And there came a rush of air.
The haze was blown away from him
And in place of the wolves, stood hares.

The Wolf had changed these once great beasts
Into creatures of prey.
And Silver Hood, he feasted well
On the bounty for him that day.

Nurios, Part 3

2009-12-05T17:58:00.001-06:00

Ok, so there will be a part IV too, this chapter should give a better idea of who Nurios is as a character however.

---------

Their first night, Prince Sovreim gathered them together in his study to tell them their purpose. “You are young and may not fully understand this yet, but we are a small nation surrounded by many enemies. Our port is the finest for hundreds of miles up or down the coast and has made our city very wealthy thanks to all of the traders that prefer our harbor. Wealth draws envy however, and for many hundreds of years the threat of attack from Esmellia and Tartaiga, who with no port of their own, gaze greedily in our direction. Our one saving grace has been that they detest one another and spend their efforts fighting between each other over who will try to take us, for they would not leave such a bitter enemy at their backs when they invade. I fear however, that should one of those two dominate the other, we would be their next target. We are well positioned to defend ourselves, but against their numbers we cannot hold forever. Others in my family have urged that we ally ourselves with one nation or the other, to show our loyalty to them as a friend and neighbor, but don’t believe for a moment that an alliance with either country would be tossed to the side as soon as it was no longer convenient, so I say no. Others would have me hire foreign sellswords to help us defend ourselves. When though? Should we keep them on retainer forever, lounging about the country doing nothing but draining our coffers, possibly for decades while Esmellia and Tartaiga sporadically attack one another? Should I trust foreigners, loyal only to coin to give their lives for us? Again, I said no. Long have I wondered how might gain an advantage, what weapon we might use to defend our country against our enemies, and finally I believe the four of you are my answer.

The four of you are going to form the core of a new service within our nation, tasked with its defense in ways that the army cannot. An experiment whose success should help keep Esmellia and Tartaiga pecking away at each other rather than ourselves, and give us the one advantage that even numbers cannot easily defeat; information. You are to be trained to infiltrate the strongholds of our enemies and learn their secrets, to cross their countries unnoticed and observe their forces, to perform acts of sabotage and spread disinformation, and though I do not relish the thought, to commit assassinations should it come to that. I speak of spies, for that is what you shall be trained to be. You each have your talents, and you have nothing to go back to other than punishment for your crimes, and a return to the streets. Service to your countrymen though, offers a path where you would be saving the lives of many thousands of our people, and better lives for yourselves. For yourselves you will not want for a place to live, or food to eat, you will be educated and trained; to outside appearances you will be young members of my court. In each other you will find family and friends; in this keep you will have a home. And when your service ends, your work will not go unrewarded, I promise you.”

He let it go unsaid, but they understood, that they were not being given a choice by the prince, they weren’t being offered the opportunity to return to the streets if they declined to become spies. Their fates had been decided, and besides, the thought of becoming spies was exciting and mysterious and they imagined a great deal of sneaking about in the dark and speaking with hushed voices and other childish melodrama. So they agreed, that protecting their nation sounded a fine thing, and that they would all live up to the prince’s expectations and save the people from their enemies! The prince had smiled at their youthful enthusiasm, and then rang a bell on his desk. The door opened behind the boys and a man wearing an iridescent robe entered, pushing a servants cart before him. They gaped at his outlandish robes and tried to see what was on the cart and saw were four silver trenchers, but didn’t see any food on them, or anywhere else on the cart. Seeing their confusion, the robed man chuckled, “all will become clear in moments lads, I promise, this is something you will never forget.”

The prince cleared his throat behind them and they spun around abashed that they had gotten distracted, to find that the smile on his face faded, replaced by a solemn, serious look. “Young you boys are, and like most young men, your attention is no greater than a sparrow’s. The rush of excitement from your new role will undoubtedly soon lose its luster and like normal boys your focus will want to move to something new. Unfortunately, you are no longer normal boys, and your focus on your duty must remain strong, lest all of us be lost. So it is I will have you swear your service to myself and your new order, and you will be given a reminder, a constant reminder of your duty, that you will carry with you forever.” His grim and heavy words dampened their youthful enthusiasm, and suddenly they grew uncomfortable as the realization that this was no game slowly took hold in their minds.

“Speak after me, using your own names in place of mine” the prince began, “I, Prince Wilhelm Sovreim, do solemnly swear to serve and protect the nation of Allas and all of her people no matter how mean their station might be. I do so pledge that I shall stand as defender against any enemy that would seek to do harm unto her, sacrificing my honor and if need be my life to keep her safe.” When their vows were complete, the prince bade them turn to where the robed man had arranged the four platters in a row, and poured a layer of what looked to be quicksilver in their basins. “You have spoken the words; now lay your palms in the trays to seal your oath, now and forever.” Nervously the boys stepped up to the platters and each slowly lowered his shaking hands into the silvery liquid.

At first, it just felt like sinking his palms into warm mud, but then a sudden jolt ran through Nurios’s body and he stood paralyzed as fire seemed to ignite on his hands, unbearable needles of flame firing up his arms and turning his vision white with pain. He tried to draw away, tried to scream in agony, but he could not so much as blink or breathe. After what seemed like days, the pain suddenly released him and he staggered backward, his hands cradled before him and tears and snot running freely down his face. When he dared to finally look at his palms, he expected to see nothing left but exposed bone and burned flesh but instead saw his hands were intact and unburned except they now glittered as though they themselves were made of sterling silver. He rubbed them against each other in sudden horror, but was startled when the texture of each hand gripped the other more than any callous would, almost as though the skin of his hand was a cat’s tongue. Looking at the prince in fear he saw a solemn but sad look on his face, “I am sorry boys, I know the pain was intense, but the memory of it will fade soon. You are now oath-bound and the reminder of your oath is there before you to remind you of who you are and what your duty is. Welcome to the Silverhands.”

So began their training, long hard days starting before dawn with physical and weapons training until noon, then after lunch they spent the rest of the day until dark learning. Learning to read, write, to understand maps and how to draw them, and how to speak other languages as understanding military strategies and terminology, how to quickly estimate troop strengths. Then there were the more…hands on learning. Picking locks, sounding out hidden compartments in desks and chests, climbing walls without special equipment and how to move quietly and remain hidden, both in the wilderness and in a city. Years went by and each of the four of them grew to specialize in different aspects of their training; Teller had the greatest grasp of tactics and strategy and how to read battle plans and commit them to memory, and though he had been dismissed from the church, his connection to St. Cuthbert remained as strong as Teller’s faith, and he was able to command divine magic. Gaff was clearly the fighter among them, his ability to wield almost any weapon he could find or improvise made him a deadly opponent who could incapacitate a man quickly and quietly. Rondo was the best marksman among them, only slightly edging Norios out, and outside of the city, his youth as the son of a poacher aided him and let him find his way, track an enemy, or forage to feed them as they crossed the land, but even after years of work, he was still somewhat out of his element in the city. Nurios himself, Tailor to his brothers, grew to be the most adept of the four of them at concealment and finer arts of what would be called burglary if he weren’t in the prince’s service. He may not have had Gaff’s awesome strength, or Rondo’s keen eye, but with a knife he could find the chink in any man’s armor and deliver a silent, lethal blow.

Yelling in technocolor

2009-12-05T17:27:00.002-06:00

MS - 30
Since I cannot seem to write a decent song about this hideous floating atrocity, I have decided to keep a journal, but heavens knows I am not a structured man, so my entries may be few and leagues between.
It is safe to say that I almost miss my homeland of sand and sun compared to this accursed buoyant menace. What was I thinking? I've been on a boat two other times in my life and neither was a pleasant experience. I have no idea what possessed me to think that I would get my so called "sea legs" and things would improve. I seem to be losing more food over the side of this wooden harlot of the sea than I am eating.
Which is a shame, because there is a cook aboard that makes it almost worth the meal to have it revisit the other direction.
I suppose I should be a good little talesmith and get this story up to date.
The first of many surprises seems to be a good enough place to begin. My second night in the seaside town of Sasserine and I met the most agreeable elven gentleman. The idea for this journal actually came from him. His name is Istyrin and he comes from a consortium of sorts who seek out knowledge. We were like long lost brothers. We both seek knowledge and turn it into a kind of magic. Well he and I talked and drank into the night and then parted ways, I thought, for the last time.
To my surprise and delight he was waiting at the docks to board this... ship. We exchanged pleasantries and have been conversing on a pretty regular basis.
The second great surprise came the first night on the ship. Apparently I am not the only bard aboard. He is a bit of a surprise to me, because his skills are in the culinary arts, not the musical, which I find amazing. He is a master with him pots and spoons.
That same night came the third surprise when I came to become the acquaintance of a charming thing named Thairis. Her voice lent beautifully to my zither and her songs, which she eagerly taught to me, were beautiful. I taught her some of the songs that I knew as well and felt very drawn to her.
Unfortunately, she met with an "accident" aboard and was lost to this world. I only hope to meet with her in the next. Toffus will pay for this atrocity, one way or another, and I just may have a hand in it.
We have lost a handful of crew on this voyage, though I am told it is common to lose men at sea.
Our captain keeps hinting that he wants me to write a song about him and this voyage. I doubt he would like any such song written by these hands.
I feel my stomach lurching again. I may or may not write more. We wi-

Late to the Party, Istyrin Ethrudairin

2009-12-05T17:08:00.000-06:00

30th of Moonsong, s.y. 1222.
A secret kept is the rarest of things. Usually, that is just as well, for loose lips work to my advantage. I’ve uncovered many a hidden bit of valuable arcana over the years thanks to the ill-considered statement of a drunken tavern patron, or the breathless whisper of an indiscreet lady in waiting in the throes of passion. But this time…. In my less committed moments I wonder if any bit of knowledge, any item of power is worth this. The weather has been horrible, and I fear that this godsforsaken voyage could be my last. The crew grows tired of the tyranny under which they labor and whispers of mutiny begin to spread like wildfire. And always, whatever those dour five guard in the forecastle taunts us. What is it? What could it be? That curiosity has led several to their deaths already. I’ve been careful. I bide my time. But I fear the time for action might be soon. Sometimes I wish that I’d never heard the clues that led me to this ship, that I had no idea that something –what I do not know—of importance was aboard. Still, I will do my duty.

23rd of Moonsong, s.y. 1222
I don’t see the deck much, cloistered away most of my days in the Quartermaster’s cabin. It is no matter, Kelvryx watches, and reports. The crew grows increasingly disgruntled with the harsh treatment of that violent bigot the captain entrusts with discipline. The mutterings grow louder. I would not like to be too close when that man gets his seemingly inevitable comeuppance. It will not be pretty.

21st of Moonsong, s.y. 1222
Today, for the first time I got close enough to satisfy my curiosity about John Brown. His tattoos appear to be entirely ornamental. I had suspected that they were magical, and have been wary of the man for the entire voyage, but today, whilst drafted into helping with repairs on deck I was able to determine that no arcane powers are stored in those swirling lines. It is a considerable load off of my mind. He is simply what he appears to be a powerful, albeit by all indications—goodhearted—savage. Still, he is a fearsome sight, and if violence ever erupts on this ship I hope I have the good fortune to be behind John Brown… far, far behind.

17th of Moonsong, s.y. 1222
That fool Polimus! He has gone and gotten himself killed, and in doing so, revealed much—that interest in the forecastle’s contents grow amongst the crew, and that whatever is secreted away there must be every bit as valuable as the whisperings in Sasserine had indicated. Powerful magic protects it—perhaps too powerful for me to defeat. I fear that this task may be beyond me. I need allies. I need only look at the Polimus’ empty hammock that swings above my own to be reminded of the danger that is ever present on this ship. Saliim has said that he will one day immortalize this journey in song. Unfortunately, I have the ugly feeling it will be both epic and tragic.

12th of Moonsong, s.y. 1222
This morning Saliim seems uncharacteristically sullen. I think that he has taken Thairis’ death to heart. He felt an immediate kinship with her. If looks could kill then Tofus would be wise to steer clear of Saliim. (Of course, under certain circumstances looks can indeed kill—I’ve seen the spells, deep in the bowels of Ferlys’s library in Seraphis).

1st of Moonsong, s.y. 1222
Saliim was surprised to see me this morning at the docks. Surprised, but happy. It will be good to have a companion for the voyage. Earlier today I met Meister Johannes’ contact and the final arrangements were made for my addition to the crew. I will be assisting the quartermaster—it was agreed that I would not make a convincing deckhand and would be better suited to the more intellectual work of managing the ships stores and supplies. I have been led to believe that the Quartermaster is a drunk, but an agreeable one, and that he knows nothing of my mission, only that he is repaying an old debt by taking me aboard as his assistant.

29th of Starshine, s.y. 1222
Spent a most enjoyable evening trading stories with a bard from the desert lands. Someday, I hope to see the palaces and dunes that he so evocatively spoke of. Perhaps. They are a long way from here, and I am a long way from home already. He does not know it yet but we are destined to be shipmates. Earlier today I spoke with Meister Johannes who has assured me that he can get me aboard The Evening Promise. He had many lofty words about how this was an excellent opportunity for cooperation between the Witchwardens and the Collegium Arcanum of Seraphis, and reminded me of my commitment to share any knowledge I gained on the voyage with him. I needed no such reminders—my superiors in Seraphis were quite clear on that point. Still, I do not trust him and I worry that the senior fellows of the Collegium are making a mistake in being so trusting of Johannes and the Witchwardens. I have not been an envoy here long, but I have seen enough to know that this organization is rife with corruption. Still, there are things to be learned from the association, and where there are things to be learned my duty lies. So, despite my misgivings—which are many—I set out tomorrow on an ocean voyage. It is certain to be dangerous—while I don’t know what the secret cargo is—the rumors I have heard have made it clear that it is nothing to be trifled with.

The tale of Finn

2009-12-05T16:21:00.001-06:00

Okay, I am not that great at narritives, so bear with me.

The tale of Finn:

I'm not supposed to be here. Alas, here I am, my dreams crushed. All because of those bastards, Tharvin and Toffus.

Cooking is my life. To put it any other way would be...well, wrong. It is my calling. As soon as I could, I got a job in one of the many taverns in town. Unfortunately, it seems my sense of taste is better than that of a lot of head cooks in the area, as I have never remained employed at one tavern for long. My habits of searching out new recipes and experimenting with the dishes, though well received by customers, were not winning me any friends with the wait staff either. I just grew tired of preparing dishes the exact same way every time and have the result be this mediocre heap that I could make in my sleep.

That ended just a few months ago, when I got a job as one of the two cooks at The Sasserine Sleigh Ride (I never did get the idea of a tavern/brothel, but oh well). The day cook, Tharvin, wasn't pleased with me to start with, but he was livid when he noticed that a lot of the girls would actually wait until my shift to eat. This was fine with me, but I was running out of new recipes in the town. Occasionally, the sailors that came in would order something I had never heard of. It didn't take long for me to start thinking about traveling to other lands and learning what they had to offer. The problem being Sasserine is cut off from the north by mountains, and ships passage is too expensive. I got some of the girls to help with getting ingredients and recipes from foreign sailors, but that may have been a mistake. Tharvin heard about my longing for food from other lands and devised a plan to be rid of me.

One day, a man named Toffus came in and came directly to me. He told me that he had heard of my cooking, and was willing to help. Saying his ship was setting sail soon, but he would be docking in a town where Jeklea bay meets the Azure sea for more supplies. I would have found another ship there to take me to Keoland or Ulek, where I could start my journey. All I would have to do would be cook for the time I was on board. Thrilled, I agreed. I packed my supplies and what few cookbooks I had acquired, and met him at the dock. After we set sail, it didn't take long for me to figure out I had been duped. When I confronted Toffus, he laughed and told me of his deal with Tharvin. Then the beating started. Later, when I refused to cook for him, another beating ensued. He then threw my books overboard, saying "If you're not going to cook, you must not need these!" I quickly caved in, before he threw anything else over. I wrote down everything I could remember in a blank book I had placed near my cot, to write down any ideas that came to me in my sleep, but it was a poor excuse.

Now there is talk of mutiny. I don't know what I'm going to do afterwards, but I'll be glad to be rid of Toffus.

Maybe I should have split this up. Oh well. Saliim Amir, Bard

2009-12-05T13:01:00.002-06:00

Not long ago, in a land of the shining desert, lived a bard known throughout as Hamahn the Weaver of Words and his young apprentice, Saliim. Together they wandered the dry earth of their home land bringing tales of great men and the gods to every corner of every town they came to. They also learned much from each town and composed even more songs and stories to tell as they traveled.

As they traveled, Hamahn would sing aloud, attracting other travelers who came and went, as if they were moths drawn to Hamahn’s flame. Saliim, however, was not allowed to sing a note. He was hired as an apprentice, but was treated more like a pack mule. Hamahn taught him very little of the trade directly, but Saliim was a bright lad and watched as much of his master’s performances as he could.

When Hamahn would sing a song, or tell a tale, Saliim would take notes that he hid in his pack. When his master would play an instrument, Saliim would watch him closely, scrutinizing every movement, memorizing every nuance, and at night, while his master slept (usually very heavily due to the drinks others would buy him) he would practice by repeating what his master had done until it was perfect. Sometimes it would take many days for him to learn the instrument, but one in particular seemed to come easily to him. It was almost as if he had a kinship with the wood of its casing. He caressed the strings like a lover’s body, playing his fingers lightly across them, or dancing across them with a fiery passion. The zither, like a piece of his body and soul that had been lost to him for so long, was the one instrument that he loved like no other. And, of course, this was the one instrument that Hamahn shied away from, so, to his heart-broken dismay, Saliim’s stolen lessons on it were very few, and leagues between.

Days whirled, like the wind, into months. Months flowed, like the golden sand, into years. And Saliim found himself becoming a man. And with that came an understanding in him of many of the songs his master had sung. He experienced passion, adventure, heart-break, love, loss, kinship, betrayal, and a myriad of other emotions that he now understood to be fuel for the dancing fire of song and story. But all were fleeting and lasted only as long as his visits to the towns would let them. All but one, that is.

As the days wore on and the nights came chasing after, a dark seed of resentment and loathing had blossomed into a thorny vine in his heart, and that vine had coiled itself around the image of his master. The master who would not let Saliim express himself, unless in song or tale that Hamahn chose for the lad; the master who stamped on the embers of hope that arose in Saliim when he offered a piece of masterwork that he had toiled over for many months, only to be mocked and soon after tossed into the flames of the nearest fire; the master that found Saliim singing to a small group of children the story of Hamahn and his magical tales of wonder, and thrashed him in front of them for his insolence and further punished him by not allowing him to speak a word for a month.

Saliim did not wish the old man dead. No, that would have been too easy a punishment. Saliim wished worse upon him, but did not dare go against his master, for he did not know any other life than that of an apprentice. He pondered striking out to earn his own fortune, but faltered, fearing that his master may be right and he may not be good enough and would die alone and starving in some gutter.

This was the life of Saliim for many more years, and it may have continued that way until the death of the Weaver of Words, had it not been for a matter of greed in the old bard.

One day, as they were traveling in a town near the outskirts of the royal city, they happened upon a tavern. It was one they had been to many times in the past, and the keeper was a kind man who had a fondness for entertainers of all sorts. As they entered, Saliim was struck by a cacophony of sound that, at first, stunned his poor brain from the mere variety of sounds, but soon flowed into the sound of a multitude of instruments trying to wrap themselves around the same song. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, he saw a wonder that nearly broke his heart to overflowing with utter joy. Sitting at nearly every table and overflowing the bar were bards. Every single person other than the tavern keeper and a few apprentices like himself was a bard of one type or another, and all of them musicians. As the beauty of this realization struck him, the tones of the performers’ instruments all seemed to alight with the song they were playing. All of them began to glow in his mind as they all found the tune of the song they were attempting and one by one, they fell into perfect harmony with one another until in Saliim’s mind’s eye they were all aflame and dancing with the tune like candles caught in a breeze.

And as he saw this, he also felt a stirring in him that he had known was there his whole life but was just now discovering. This flame, this light, this energy, it had a life of its own. And as he realized this, the stirring soon was caught up in the flame and caught like dry and brittle tinder. He knew that this energy could be harnessed. It could be used by anyone who had the knowledge of it. He closed his eyes and watched it dance, and soon he was dancing with it. And as he pulled it closer to him, it merged with him and he could feel it moving inside of him, and he knew that he had always had this in him. He knew it like your heart knows your blood, like your tongue knows flavor. He just knew it.

He opened his eyes, and to his astonishment, he was dancing on a table in the midst of the bards, his zither in his hands singing along with the rest, and as he looked around him, he could see a faint light about each of the other bards and their instruments, and as the song went on, he saw the lights mingle with one another. All but one. Hamahn, who was watching him with an icy stare through his cold white aura, was not joining in on this miracle of music. He watched Saliim, and Saliim felt himself falter and with that one mistake, he felt the fire in his soul snuff out. It was still there, inside of him he knew, but it had become grey ash.

The bards about him cheered for him to continue to play, but he merely shuffled his way off of the table and over to Hamahn. Hamahn thanked the tavern keep and led them out into the streets again. They found an Inn not far away and Hamahn said he was tired and wanted to find a nice bed for the night. He told Saliim that, as a punishment for his “outburst” and his “shameful behavior” in front of Hamahn’s peers, he was to sleep in the stables. Saliim bowed his head and started away, and then, out of some morbid curiosity, he turned back and spoke to his master in a small, timid voice.

“Master,” he said, his voice quavering with fear, “was… was I any good?”

Hamahn glared at him for what seemed like days. Finally, he shook his head slowly and asked in return, “did you see them laughing back there? Did you see how jolly and raucous they were?”

Saliim felt a glimmer of hope. “Yes, master,” he said, “I did.”

“My boy,” Hamahn said, a small smile curving his lips, “they were not laughing with you, but at you.” With that, he spun on his heals and into the Inn.

The next morning, when Saliim awoke, he found his zither lying broken and mangled near him in the hay of the stable. When he went to his master, he dared not mention it. Undoubtedly, it was another punishment for his unskilled and embarrassing display in the tavern. But the vine of loathing grew longer and gripped tighter in him around its prey.

But, as stated before, things were already moving toward change for the young man. For, the night before, while Saliim danced and played and sang with the bards, Hamahn spoke to his friend, the tavern keep, and he told the old bard the reason that so many of his fellows had gathered here. The Sultan had called for all bards throughout the land to come to his palace. He wanted to commission one of them to write a song for him about his life thus far and if he found them suitable to the task, he may even keep them on as the palace musician.

Of course, Hamahn could not pass up such an offer, but when he saw his apprentice with the other bards, and saw the way his life-light shone and flowed with the others, and the way it seemed to take control of the others’ auras, leading them into such a joyous frenzy, he felt a yearning pulling him to join, but it was soon cut by the blade of jealousy and he knew that he had to do something to keep the boy in line. He had seen the boy’s talents flare up before, but never to this level.
He had to put a stop to it, or he would lose his acclaimed place in this world as Weaver of Words to a mere underling. No, that would not do at all. And as his mind was thinking those thoughts, he saw, with a gleaming clarity, the target at which to strike and how to crush the boy’s flame, possibly for good. His old zither seemed to glow a bright white as he watched it sing under the boys dancing fingers. He knew exactly what needed to be done.

The next morning, Saliim met him in the common room of the inn with all of their packs and ready to travel. Hamahn told him the news of the night before and that they would soon be traveling to the palace to take up the offer of the sultan, and if he was good, Hamahn may even let him assist him in researching information for the song. This lifted the young man’s spirit some, because he knew many of the stories of the most recent war waged between the sultan and a nearby land. He had heard much during their travels, but then he became dismayed. He could not remember a single piece of information from the townspeople that was worthy of a song of praise for the sultan. All he could recall hearing was how much the war had cost the people of the land and how the sultan had done his best to minimize that, but with little success. He began to mention this to his mention this to his master, but Hamahn told him to hush and not to worry. There would be plenty of information in the palace archives, which is where Saliim would be spending much of his time. Saliim nodded, but still didn’t have much hope, for this sultan was young, not much older than himself, and his accomplishments did not seem to merit a song, let alone much of a tale. But he followed his master’s lead, as he had always done.
When they arrived at the palace, Saliim was overcome with awe. He had never seen a building of such greatness. They had traveled to many lands, and he had seen many palaces and great homes, but this was unprecedented. The gates of the city seemed to be made of a shining metal he had never seen before. It was so burnished that it almost seemed to give off light.

The guards that stood by it were no less impressive. Their armor, though sparse, shone with such a polished brilliance that it was difficult to look directly at it. Hamahn introduced himself to the guards and was told he would have to wait for an escort. They pulled a rope near the gate and a bell could be heard ringing on the other side of the gate. A young man opened a little window in the gate and the guards instructed him to find someone to escort the bard to the sultan’s viewing room. The boy ran off and the guard pointed them to a waiting area near the gate. Hamahn nodded and the two of them sat on a bench nearby. While they waited, Hamahn reached into one of the packs, as he did, Saliim stiffened. Hamahn halted a second and then he spoke softly to the young man.

“You have been sufficiently punished for your insolence. I will not strike you. I am merely trying to reach in the pack and retrieve my recorder.”

Saliim relaxed a little and removed the pack form his shoulders.

“I am sorry, master,” he said quietly, “allow me to get it for you.”
This much servitude pleased the older man, and he let Saliim fumble through the pack for him. He smiled to the guards as the young man produce his instrument.
Hamahn put the recorder to his lips and began to play slowly and softly. As he did, Saliim could see his aura begin to surround him. It was still a white color, but it didn’t look as cold as before. It looked like lamp light, and as Hamahn played, it began to grow stronger and envelope his recorder and radiate softly from him. You could see its effect on the guards as well. Their stance began to relax some and as Hamahn played, more and more people were drawn near the gate to hear the performance. Soon there was a crowd about the gates and everyone, including the guards, was swaying to the music. Saliim noticed that he too was swaying. Music was a kind magic, and infectious kind of magic that touched everyone around it.

“What is all this?!” The voice broke the spell of the music and the passers-by all smiled and went along their way. The guards immediately stiffened back to full attention. The bard and his apprentice turned to see a man standing in the open gate. He was an elderly man dressed in a silver and blue gown and wearing a hat that hung around his head and neck in ribbons of silver, blue, and gold. He looked sternly at the guards and then turned to Hamahn.

“Ah,” the man said, “another bard.” He almost spat the word and his face screwed up into a look of disgust.

“If you would follow me,” he said, “I will take you to meet with his majesty. I am Kamath, the high scribe to his greatness. Personally, I do not see the reason behind the sultan’s need for the likes of you, but…” He trailed off and motioned for them to follow.

As they entered the gates, Saliim was again struck by what he saw. It was all so opulent and amazing to him. Everywhere he looked there was shining glass and marble columns. Some of the columns were carved with images of dancing girls or great animals he had heard of only in tales. Some were covered in carvings of scenes of long fought wars, others in scenes of sexual pleasures he had never dreamed of. These made the young man blush, and Hamahn laughed at the young man’s chagrin.
As they walked further into the palace, they came to a large room. The floor of the room was polished so such a high shine that it was almost like looking into a mirror. He was so stricken with its beauty that when he looked back up, he realized that Kamath and Hamahn were well ahead of him and he had to jog to catch up.

He looked at the rest of the room and at the opposite end; he saw a throne lavished with pillows and cushions. It stood empty, and Saliim looked around, wondering where the sultan was. He saw many doors lining the walls, each with a guard beside it with a gleaming scimitar. They watched the group as they made their way to the throne with an intent glare.

Saliim was stopped suddenly when he ran into his master who had halted. They both stumbled a little then righted themselves. Hamahn glared at the boy and he stepped away slowly.

Kamath sniffed dismissively and stepped to one of the doors and went through. A moment later, he stepped back through it and announced, “Presenting his royal highness, sultan Timahat, son of the great Mustavar, son of lord Shaeridh, son of-”

“Kamath,” the king exclaimed, stopping the scribe. “They are bards. I believe they know who I am.”

Kamath bowed and stepped away out of sight.

“Forgive him,” the sultan said with a small smile, “he sometimes takes his position as scribe too far, but he is a good man. I understand you are Hamahn, the Weaver of Words. I have heard wonderful things about you and your work.”

Hamahn bowed deeply, and Saliim followed suit.

“You are too kind, my lord,” the bard said as he bowed, “but I am mere bard of the land, no more. I admit to having some modest talent with tale and tune, but that is all.”

“I think,” said the sultan, inclining his head a little to acknowledge the bow, “that you may be too modest. I have heard many of your songs sung through others’ lips, and they are most impressive. Perhaps you would do me the kindness of performing something for me today. As you have no doubt heard, I am looking to employ a court musician, and would like to hear each and every bard perform his best for me so that I may make the most accurate choice.”

“I would be most pleased, your majesty,” Hamahn said with a bright smile. “I have but one question for you, my lord. What instrument would you prefer, for I know many?”

“Ah,” said the sultan, smiling broadly, “and a fine question it is. You are the first to ask this of me and that pleases me greatly. I have always had a fondness for the delicate sounds of the zither, if you would, master bard.”
Hamahn smiled and turned towards his apprentice, but stopped as realization struck him.

“Your… your greatness,” he stammered, “I am afraid that due to the clumsiness of my apprentice here, that my zither is no longer with us. It was destroyed and could not be repaired. Perhaps your highness would prefer a different instrument? The harp, perhaps?”

A small frown briefly flitted over the sultan’s face, but was soon replaced with another smile, not as bright as the last.

“That will be fine, sir bard.”

Hamahn turned to Saliim who had the harp ready in his hands for his master. After a short moment to tune it, he began to play one of his most well known songs, The Song of Hassir, the Great, about the sultan who conquered the lands to the south with an army of only ten. It was a pleasant song and it soon all who listened were swaying to its rhythms. The sultan closed his eyes and sat back in his chair, savoring each note as it flowed from the instrument to his ears.

When the song ended, he sat forward again and clapped his hands. He then told the bard of what he wanted from the one he chose as court musician and that he was planning to have all the bards compete by creating a song to his glory and once he had heard them, he would make his decision.

“I assume,” lord Tihamat said, “that you will want to review the royal records for accuracy, like the others. I have given all permission to the record rooms under close scrutiny of my highest scribe, Kamath, and his staff. If you need to view anything, ask them for assistance. I have also prepared rooms for you and your apprentice. Kamath will show you to them.”

With that, the sultan nodded and rose from his seat. He looked at Hamahn who bowed and then at Saliim. For a moment, their eyes locked and then Saliim bowed deeply. When he rose again, he could see the tail of the sultan’s robes gliding around the door he had entered through.

The next few days were very busy for Saliim. He seemed to be on his feet all hours of the day and night, either running back and forth to the record room for his master, or running errands in town, or working to condition all of Hamahn’s instruments, so that they would be in their best shape for the performance of the Song of Tihamat.

When he did get some free time, he worked to learn all he could from the records for use in the future for his master. When he was not doing that, though, he spent a few stolen minutes every day trying to repair the ruined zither he had kept hidden from his master. Much of the wood was damaged and needed to be patched or replaced, so he used what he could find in the scrap wood pile near the fireplace in their room, whittling it down and lacquering it to match as best he could. The most difficult work however was on the metalwork of the piece. It needed to be straightened where it was dented and in some places, entirely replaced.

One day, while he was on a task to the metal workers for his master, to have them work on his silver harp, Saliim brought along the zither, hidden under his cloak. He gave the instructions and the harp to the smith. On his way out, he stopped off to see the smith’s apprentice and asked what he could do to help. The boy was maybe six or seven years younger than Saliim, but he spoke as if he were much older. He told Saliim that he could probably fix it, but that he had never worked on such a device, so it may not be perfect. Saliim asked him to do what he could and paid him two silver pieces.

More days passed and as Saliim was researching for his master, he found something amazing was happening. From all he was reading and all he knew from the townspeople from around the land, in his mind was forming a song. The song told of how the people struggled to survive the during times of great hardship and how, though he tried his hardest, the sultan could not overcome the dark times for his people, but kept the worst at bay.

It told of a child in the street whose father was killed by enemy soldiers on the front lines and whose mother was raped and killed by bandits while their was no one who could protect them and how he hid in a closet while his life and youth was torn from him in a single moment.

It told of a new bride who feared she would never see her husband again, and how she struggled day by day to survive, and how, when her love finally came home to her, he was missing one of his arms, but that did not dull her love for him and that even though times were hard from then on, they still had one another and that made them more wealthy than the sultan himself.

It told of the struggles the sultan faced, the decisions he had to make, the life he made for himself and his people and how he defeated those who tried to invade and enslave his land, but cried in pain at what it had cost his people because he was so inexperienced, but that he had learned from those mistakes and would do everything he could for his people to make up for them.

It flowed from him like water from a spout and he realized, to his amazement that while the song played in his head, he had written it out, music and all without even realizing he had picked up his quill. He read through what he had written and was amazed, yet again, by the beauty of his work. It even had a title: The Weight of Rule. He realized suddenly what he held, and in a moment of panic, looked around him to make sure his master was not in the room. If he had seen what his apprentice had created, he would surely destroy it. So, like the zither, Saliim hid it away.
He continued bringing research to his master and preparing the instruments until the day of the performances. Saliim was returning on an errand in town. When he stepped into Hamahn’s chambers, he saw the bard leaning over something on his desk. Saliim assumed he was doing some final revisions on his ballad and moved past him to put things away.

He was stopped short by his master’s hand on his shoulder.

“What,” Hamahn said turning to him with rage, “is the meaning of this?!” His master’s voice rose as he produced the zither. It gleamed in the light like new. The bent and broken metal had been completely restored. The wood had been lacquered anew and gleamed in the light from the window and in the bottom corner was imbedded one of the silver coins he had given the smith’s apprentice. Saliim started to smile at the sight of his instruments refurbished beauty, but then he saw the look in his master’s eyes and every ounce of joy flitted away in a flash.

“Well,” exclaimed the bard. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“M-m-master,” Saliim stuttered trying to get his mind to focus on a way to save the new incarnation of the instrument he loved. “Master, I am sorry,” he said, “I just thought that if I could repair it, maybe you would allow me to keep it, so that you may teach me to play it as eloquently as yourself.”

“Really,” asked Hamahn, a dark smile curling his face. “That is what you thought? Well, in that case, maybe you can explain something else to me then. When this arrived and I recognized it, I realized you had kept it secret from me, and that made me wonder what else you had been keeping secret from me. So I searched your things, and you won’t believe what I found.”

A lump of ice slid up Saliim’s spine and lodged in his throat. His fears were confirmed when his master produced from the desk his work, The Weight of Rule.

“Perhaps you thought you could impress the sultan with this… this…” Hamahn searched for the correct word, but it wouldn’t come. “Well, ‘apprentice,’ I can tell you now, you are mistaken. This… ‘thing’ you have created is not what rulers wish of their songs. They want songs of their greatness, not their weaknesses. They require boosts to their egos, not condemnation of their past deeds.”
Hamahn shook his head.

“If this,” he said after a minute, “is what you have learned after so many years of my diligent teachings, then perhaps I was correct after all. You will never be a bard. You do not understand what it means to be a musician. You do not understand what it takes to hone your craft to precision. I release you from my service and employ. You are on your own from this day forth.”

He flung the music at Saliim, shortly followed by the zither. “Take your things and get out of my sight.”

Saliim was stunned. He just stood there for a moment, his dreams crushed and his bleak future running through his head. After a moment, he collected a bag with his clothes and his money. He stuffed the zither and the music into the bag and left the room. Hamahn didn’t say a word; he didn’t even look at him.

Saliim found his way down to the smithy again and thanked the apprentice for his work, and tried to repay the silver piece that had been worked into his zither, but the boy just smiled and declined.

“My friend,” he said with a smile, “I cannot accept that. I saw what love you had for that instrument and I thought to myself, if I could put that much love into my work as you did into caring for that, then I will surely become a great smith one day. The coin is there to remind you of this time and to help you remember its worth and perhaps remember me a little as well, for you have truly touched my life with how much you care for your craft.”

Saliim began to smile but stopped. When the apprentice asked him why, Saliim told him of what had happened between Hamahn and himself. The apprentice shook his head and said he was sorry. They wished each other the best of luck and parted.
As Saliim was leaving the palace, he passed in front of the viewing room and heard the notes of a song drift out. He looked inside and saw an audience watching the performance of the bards. He snuck in and stood among the people to listen as the bards performed for the sultan. They were all very good, some better than others and all of the songs were along the same theme. They told of the sultan’s greatness and benevolence, or his bravery and wisdom. All of which was true in a sense, but all of their songs had been so embellished that they lost some of their sincerity. And as they performed, he saw the glow of their craft surround them. He knew he would never attain this and that saddened him greatly.

Saliim was about to leave when he heard that his master announced as the next performance. He stopped and debated whether or not to stay, but decided that it would be the apt punishment to hear what a real musician would sing. He knew his master would out shine these others, because he was Hamahn, the Weaver of Words. None could compare.

His master produced his silver harp and a small drum which he sat at his feet. He removed his slipper and began tapping a rhythm on it with his toes. Saliim had seen this many times and knew it showed a level of skill that most did not possess.
Hamahn began strumming his harp and soon was into his song. Like the others, he could see a glow about his former master and he listened as the song rolled over the crowd. As the song progressed though, he was suddenly struck by something that nearly crushed him to his knees in shock.

Hamahn’s song, though performed with more flare and a touch more skill, was no different than the rest. It was a song of great praise for the sultan, but again, it was so overdone in compliment that it sounded insincere.

He was astounded, and as the song came to a close, he realized that for all of his master’s pomp and self congratulation, he was no better than any other musician here, and after another moment, he realized that his master was not only no better than the other bards, but he was no better than Saliim himself.

At this Saliim could not contain himself and suddenly blurted out, “That’s it?!?”

Every eye in the room turned to him in one motion, including Hamahn’s.

He suddenly felt very uncomfortable. He had not meant to say what he was thinking, but there it was. Hamahn was glaring at him with rage burning in his eyes.

“Is what it,” he demanded.
Saliim didn’t know what to do, so he said what came to him first.

“After all that work,” he said. “After all the pages and pages of information I brought to you; after all of the days of struggling under your command so that you could meet the deadline set by the sultan for this song, this is the best you can come up with? You, the great Weaver of Words can do no better?”

Upon reflection, Saliim later realized he could have been more tactful, but at the time, it was all he could do other than go completely mad at the thought that his life had been wasted in the employ of such a windbag.

“You ingrate,” Hamahn said in a raised voice, “if you think you can do any better with your little piece of what I only just dare to call ‘music,’ then why don’t you come up here and perform it for his majesty.” He turned to the sultan and bowed, “Forgive me for the interruption, your highness, but I wish to let you know that this little backstabber has gone behind my back and written a piece of trash that he thinks is worthy of your ears. That is why he is no longer my apprentice. I have washed my hands of him and suggest that you do the same, your greatness.”
The Tihamat looked from Hamahn to Saliim and made his decision.

“I think,” he said loud enough for the entire room to hear, “that I will be the judge of such a thing, sir bard.” He motioned to Saliim. “Come forward boy and play your song for me. I promise you that no harm will come to you from me or from your former master. I simply wish to hear your composition.”

Saliim stood stock still. He couldn’t move. Every muscle in his body froze in amazement. That is until someone behind him shoved him forward. He turned to see who had pushed him as he stumbled towards the front and turned to see the smith’s apprentice grinning widely at him. When he turned again, he was at the foot of the throne.

“Y-y-y-your majesty,” he said, fearing the worst, “I do not believe my work to be good enough to touch your ears. I wish not to offend one as great as you.”

“You see,” exclaimed Hamahn, “even he knows his work is garbage.”

“Silence,” the sultan said to Hamahn, and the bard stepped back, bowing his head. Tihamat turned to Saliim.

“Young friend,” he said, “I have seen you in my archives working all hours of the day and many nights. I have seen your dedication to your craft. I do not wish to punish you for your work, I merely wish to hear its results.

“Please,” he said softly, a small light of compassion glowing in his eyes, “play your song for me. Do not take heed of all these others abut you. Sing your song for me, young one. It is only for you and for me, no other.”

Saliim gave a small smile and drew out his zither. This brought a smile to the sultan’s lips as well.

Saliim began to play and as he did, he realized that the flame in his was beginning to rekindle again. It flared into life as he played and he could see a faint light forming over his fingers. He realized this was his light, his music, his… magic. As the realization flooded him, so did the light and the song and the words and he realized he could share this light with all around him. As he played, he let his light flow from him into the crowd, into the sultan, into the bards. Soon, even though the notes were foreign to them, the other bards were playing along with Saliim. They were again, caught up in the song. And with their performances, their lights grew in them and flowed between each other as well. All but one. Hamahn sat on the floor, crushed. Not a shred of light flowed from him. He merely sat and wept softly as the rest of the bards took up the song.

As the tune was caught up, Saliim began to sing. He sang of the boy who was left all alone. He sang of the reunited lovers who hand found true wealth. He sang of the weight a leader must bear. And as he sang of this, he looked upon the sultan, who had, astonishingly, produced a small zither of his own and was playing Saliim’s song. The sultan was playing his song.

As the song wound to a close, Saliim lowered his head. When the last note had gone quiet in the room, only silence reigned. You couldn’t even hear a breath being drawn. Saliim thought for a moment that maybe Hamahn had been right all along, and that maybe he had imagined it all. Then from behind him, he heard a pair of strong hands clapping. Then more hands joined in. Then voices rose in cheer. He lifted his head and saw that the sultan was standing in front of him, clapping as well. He couldn’t believe it.

Then everything went black.

*************

“That was ten years ago to this day,” Saliim said to his new friend who sat across from him. They had met earlier that evening in this Inn in Sasserine, a coastal city “It seems like only yesterday that the sultan sent me on this quest for songs of another land. As you can guess I was not given the title of court musician. It was given to one of the other performers, I can’t remember which.

“Apparently I had passed out from all the excitement and when I awoke, the sultan himself was tending to me with a cold rag. He said he had never heard so much beauty and so much pain put into a song before. He said he knew now what his kingdom truly felt of him and that he wanted me to translate the rest of the world into a language that he could understand, the language of song. So here I am, a decade later. I have explored from shore to shore this continent. I have written songs from every corner and sent them to the sultan, and been paid well for my troubles.

“And now, like you, I will travel into unknown territory. It’s strange to think that I have traveled these last ten years and never had a long sea journey. But I guess there is no time like the present eh?

“It’s been good talking to you, friend, but I think I need to get off to bed. Big day tomorrow, and all. Perhaps I’ll see you again if I come around this way. What was your name again,” Saliim asked as he extended his hand.

“Istyrin. And who knows. We may see each other again sooner than you think.”

Witty Titled story, part 2

2009-12-05T04:27:00.001-06:00

Ugh, I knew this would happen, my brain has the damnedest time getting back into the groove of a piece of writing if I don't get it all out in one go, been trying all week to find that tone, bah! So here finally is the second part of the backstory, with the 3rd and probably final one to come either tomorrow or sometime in the near future once I can find that muse for the 3rd time (maybe I should have kept it shorter...eh its 4:30 and I've been up since 7am, I'm allowed to prattle!)

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As it turned out, he was not on the streets for very long, though that wasn’t entirely his idea. After a few weeks of picking through scraps and trying to beg for coins he grew desperate and tried to steal a purse in the morning rush in the market district. Unfortunately however, his very first mark turned out to be a member of the watch dressed in plainclothes, and when the man rounded on him, Nurios was so shocked and dismayed he just stood there horrified as his wrists were bound and he was dragged off to the magistrate for justice.

The lowering sun found Nurios shaking and on the edge of tears before an elderly magistrate, waiting to hear his punishment handed down; a public whipping if he was lucky, years of hard labor if the judge was in a foul mood, and the creases around the man’s mouth made it appear that he hadn’t so much as smiled since before even his mother was born. The magistrate split the difference, ordering a half dozen lashes, and a half year in the labor camp, to Nurios’s horror and dismay. “It might be that I have use for this boy,” a stately voice called from a darkened alcove. The magistrate had grimaced in disapproval but bowed his head as Prince Sovreim stepped into the light, staring down at the boy with measuring eyes. “Yes Ozzik, a criminal he may be, but not a hardened one and young enough to be malleable. I think he shall do just fine; and if not, he will be no trouble to the city. Come boy, it is time to meet your new brothers and start your life anew.”

Brothers…the thought of his brothers almost doubles Nurios over in pain. His brothers, taken from him by a fool who didn’t understand wouldn’t listen, by a fool who refused to bring Prince Sovreim’s plans to fruition, by a fool who saw fit to ruin the second lives Nurios and his brothers had been given…

Teller, the eldest of them, bullheaded and stubborn and so named by his brothers because he always claimed to know what was best and was constantly telling them what to do. A former acolyte of St. Cuthbert caught taking alms from the try to give to beggar children of his choosing rather than allowing his masters to distribute them. He always claimed that not all of the alms made it to the hands of the poor and that the priests were living comfortably off charity meant for others. There was no proof of his allegations and he was caught red-handed in the donation tray and was immediately dismissed from the order and given to the authorities as a thief, and from there he had been recruited by the Prince. His calm, steady voice had been the rock that gave them direction, determination, and inspiration, and now it was just an echo in Nurios’s ears.

Gaff never minded much though, he was born to follow he always said. Younger than Teller by a year, fourteen when Nurios first met him, he still stood a full head taller and was destined to be a massively powerful man, if not the brightest. His tendancy to think and act before he thought earned him his name and also is what brought him to the Prince’s service to begin with. When a snobbish young son of a merchant demanded he move from his path as he was riding through the city one day, Gaff moved to the side, but shoved the boys foot as he passed by, toppling him from his saddle and causing him to break his arm in the process. Gaff was to receive twenty lashes and was going to be sent to a work camp to pay back the cost of a healer to fix the boys arm, but the Prince saw promise in the boy if he could consider the consequences of his actions. As he grew older, he did learn that patience, mostly as it was beaten into him by Jozan, the Master Sergeant in charge of their martial training. By eighteen he had fulfilled the promise he had shown as a boy, standing over six feet tall with shoulders like an ox. It hadn’t saved him though, and Nurios would never again be able to hear Gaff embarrass himself by pondering the contents of a lady’s bodice a bit too loudly in public.

Nor would he be joined in that laughter by Rondo, the firey-headed scout of their little group. Taken for poaching, he was delivered to justice for much the same reason Nurios himself was; trying to escape the demon of hunger gnawing at his belly. He had given him his nickname personally, mocking him for dancing around like a fool on the first day of their weapon training when Jozan had slapped him across the arse with a wooden training sword. Giving as good as he got, Rondo had named Nurios Tailor after discovering that Nurios had learned to sew by helping the women at the brothel mend their dresses that were torn by amorous patrons. Rondo seemed physically incapable of taking anyone seriously, leastwise his brothers, pinching his nose and speaking in a nasal monotone as an unflattering impression of Teller, roaring when Gaff would spout some painfully thick-witted sounding observation, embarrassing him and causing him to wrestle Rondo to the ground to try and choke the laughter from him, or the constant string of ribald jokes pondering how well Tailor had ‘known’ the women at the brothel he grew up with. Nurios still found himself occasionally turning to Rondo when he heard a new joke or bawdy song, but he was gone as well, and Nurios missed his laughter the most.

Weapon Advice

2009-12-04T22:41:00.002-06:00

So, trying to simulate some of the things I've come across in my research (i.e. the post with pictures), I'm trying to decide on weapons. The PHB describes a "club" as: a wooden club is so easy to find and fashion that it has no cost; a "morningstar" as: this simple weapon combines the impact of a club with the piercing force of spikes; and a "mace" as: a mace is made of metal, even the haft, which makes it quite heavy and very hard to break. The pictured weapons are quite obviously better than a simple club but not quite right to be either of the others. Still, it seems fair to treat it something like a mace (d8) rather than a club (d6). Agree?

Second question which might make the first irrelevant: Should he fight with his clubmace in one hand and a handaxe in the other or two-handed with a greatclub? I'm leaning toward the latter, but indecisive.

Wang Dong, Cantonese Pirate

2009-12-02T01:14:00.002-06:00

Chapter 1, hopefully I can hit the same mindset again tomorrow to do the other half of this so the tone meshes...I hate picking up writing again after stopping, I prefer going straight through, but its 1:15am and I work in the morning. Blech.

As Nurios sat on a coil of rope near the bow of the ship, staring off into the lightly-capped green swells rising off the bow, he reflected on the fact that he couldn’t really recall his mother’s face. He had a vague sense that she had been a blond as she leaned over him to kiss him goodnight, but that could easily have been Teasa or Mirri or one of the other whores at the brothel; blond was the desired coloration by the patrons. Mostly he knew her by the tales others told him after she was murdered, that she was very young, birthing him when she was but fifteen, but she loved him dearly and gave praise every day that she hadn’t passed him, as was generally done by the brothel girls.
When he was but six years of age, a drunken ships mate had crushed her windpipe in a bit of ‘rough play’, and though he bawled that it were an accident, Lord Sovreim had sent him to the gallows for murder. So it was that justice had been served, but he was bereft of a mother, and never had an inkling whom his father might be, though Nyreema always teased that he had Loram, the brothel-keeper’s, eyes. It may be that there was some truth to her words, because instead of becoming just another homeless orphan begging the streets, Loram brought him back into the brothel to live as he had before his mother’s death and Loram was not typically known for his charity.
He was a decent man, as far as that went, he never allowed his girls to be mishandled or swindled, always saw that they were well enough fed, and prohibited the harsher street drugs from entering his walls. A great mountain of a man whose powerful muscles had gone largely to fat in his middle years, a master-at-arms in his youth to one of a High House that had fallen to the machinations of another House, to hear Nyreema tell it. When a patron got out of hand, Loram didn’t rely on a hired bouncer to take care of the delinquent, hurling the offender out of his establishment himself, with a strength he still prided himself on. He had always been a lover of food and wine, as his slowly broadening form gave testament, but after the death of Nurios’s mother, he seemed to take rather less joy in his food and more in his wine and more than once Nurios heard the girls whispering that he had been in love with his mother, and blamed himself for her death.
The next several years saw Nurios grow from a boy to a slender young man on the cusp of puberty, blond hair hanging to his shoulders in light waves reminiscent of his mother, with long quick fingers and clear blue eyes. When he was old enough, Loram put him to work assisting him with the upkeep of the brothel, helping the girls haul bedding once a month to be beaten and aired out in the yard, emptying the chamber pots, and scrubbing floors and windows and generally keeping the house clean so as to maintain its status as a safe and reputable brothel for merchants and officers rather than a common dockside whorehouse. He missed his mother, but he could not complain of his life, he had seen other orphan boys on the streets and knew how fortunate he was that Loram had seen fit to take him in and raise him virtually as a son.
Fate however, does not always deal cards favorably, and in his thirteenth year, tragedy struck the young man’s life once more. A fire broke out one night in the house, quickly engulfing the entire establishment. Nurios and most of the girls had escaped the flames, but sadly not all. Two of the newer girls, Sara and Leesi, nor did Nyreema who Nurios had known all his life did not emerge from the burning brothel. And neither did Loram.
From what the city guard’s mage could determine, looking through the wreckage the next day, it was speculated that Loram’s heart finally gave out and he knocked over a candle, starting the blaze. Once again, Nurios had lost his protector, and now his home, but this time there was no one to take him in and shelter him. He asked some of the girls he’d known the longest if he might come with them, but they had no idea where they would go either and told him that he would make it more difficult for them to find work in another house. They all cried and said they were sorry, but in the end it added up to the same thing; that he was now a street orphan, and would have to find his own way to survive.

A far cry from Sasserine

2009-12-01T18:59:00.004-06:00

A journey has to start somewhere, and the voyage of The Evening Promise began in the thriving harbors of the coastal city of Sasserine. Nine and fifty men departed her shores in the late spring toward a destination known only by legend. Eyvindr.

The savviest of seaman wouldn't claim to know the way to the place, but somehow, captain of The Evening Star, Vincent Von Stierghorn, has plotted a knowing course. Confiding only to his pilot the correct constellations to follow, the captain leads his greatship into uncharted waters.

Of our full complement, five men stand out like sharks in a well. They are the appointed noblemen tasked with guarding something mysterious in the forecastle. They utter nary a word to the rest of the crew or each other, even when provoked. They take their meals in private and never enter the room they are guarding. We have seen the captain communicate with the leader, like a shipyard dog begging for a bone. The only response we see him get is a smug look we can only take to mean 'no'.

And what are they guarding? Not even the captain seems to know. Whatever it is has brought our fates into the hands of this barren and unscouted part of the sea.

Every man, woman and dwarf on this vessel knows that if they had loved ones back on the mainland, they wouldn't likely be seeing them again. The talk of adventure and unknown riches motivated all of us to join the crew, but the first treacherous month at sea has seen that enthusiasm wane. Eight men have been taken by the sea thus far.

Eldon.

For the first week of the voyage, in between his duties manning the ropes on the foc's'le deck, Eldon had a wary eye on the five silent noblemen. Frequently he was noticed passing nonchalantly by the door they closely guarded, eyeballing it's every knot and splinter. We all laid wagers on when he would make his attempt to break through the guard's protection and rob the mysterious loot. Sure enough, on the eighth night, when the wind was steady and the night shift were busy nursing their sore bones and singing a shanty, Eldon made his attempt.

Jumping from the ledge at the back of the forecastle and landing on the threshold of the mysterious cabin door, he was all too quickly dispatched when one of the guards drew his rapier and skewered Eldon's right lung. Funny thing was, as the boys drug him to the edge of the boat to dispatch him in to the murky waters, his corpse was stiff as a plank, but breathing freely. With a silent splash, our crew was fifty-and-eight.

I slept fifty gold pieces richer that night.

Thairis.

Most men were easily won over by Thairis's lilting voice, and gregarious manner. Not Toffus. The boatswain seemed to have it in for our lovely vocalist from day one. To ease her own tension, she brought out her stringed instrument and graced us with melodies, many written at Toffus's expense. One morning, the shanty she sang went something like this:

Though the sea 'tis always mighty

'tis Tofus we all should fear

for while wind and wave get fighty

For Tofus we'd ne'er cheer

For when Tofus commands 'is men

with lash and whip used well

We'd all live though his sinin'

But we'd ne'er survive 'is smell!

Thairis took one fist across the jaw and never sang again. Out cold. Out dead.

Cirella and Flaggren.

The ship started with two whores. Now it has one.

Cirella was the captain's whore and spent the better part of the voyage in his cabin. On clear nights she would stagger drunkenly out on deck to look at the stars. With all the ale she drank, she probably saw twice as many stars as the rest of us, but for some reason, the night sky seemed to be all that interested her. She would gaze at the constellations until it was clear that either the sky itself or her swaggering stuppor prevented her from finding what she was searching for in the heavens, and she would drag herself back into the cabin. Three weeks into the voyage, the captain ordered two of the oarsmen to go into his cabin and remove her dead body. As the oarsmen carried her out, she appeared to have been poisoned in her sleep except for the blood seeping through the back of her tunic. Flaggren, one of the two oarsmen who carried her lifeless body, immediately reproached the captain for her unnecessary death. The captain made no excuses, except that her life had been endangering the mission, and that her death was just. When Flaggren retorted, the captain had him thrown overboard as well.

Polimus and Artageo.

The night the second attempt at breaking into the forcastle occurred, none of us were expecting it. Polimus was clearly a more devious thief than Eldon, but no more successful. Polimus had raided the carpenters tackle, and found a saw. With intentions of making his way into the room through the floor, he snuck the tool to the lower deck and went at the structural beams. A great cracking of wood woke all of us as Polimus had worked his way through a support beam that fell to the floor of the lower deck, landing across the chest of Artageo our artillerist and killing him instantly. Polimus for his part was successful at reaching the floorboard of the deck above, but appeared to have frozen simply from touching it. We could see his hand there seared to those floorboards and his lifeless body stopped in its tracks, hanging from the appendage.

Our master-at-arms, Pontus quickly ordered all men to stand back. He drew his scimitar and severed Polimus's body from it's mangled hand at the wrist. All of Artageo and most of Polimus were thrown overboard, but Polimus's hand remained visible, stuck grotesquely to the ceiling until the carpenter, who had retrieved his saw, repaired the damage.

Old Flagerty and Jones.

The carpenter, Old Flagerty was the next to go. During the high pitch of a nasty swell, Old Flagerty was ordered up the main mast to fix a broken timber that was dragging us to port. The captain seemed hell bent on suffering through the ripping tide and soaring winds with sails at full. The Evening Promise rocked heavily in the wake of thundering waves that threatened to upend the ship at every crash. Dangling from the top yard, Old Flagerty was hanging on for life as the he hammered at the mast, attempting to loosen the jam. When loosen it did, Old Flagerty was flung aft and broke his neck on the hard deck below before being washed overboard.

As the storm continued to pound us, the captain pressed us to push forward. Only he seemed to know what direction forward really was. For hours we braced ourselves while we worked to keep the ship upright in the piercing winds. Orders from Pontus were relayed to each man because the howling wind and crashing surf prevented us from hearing his cries across the deck.

The following morning we were all summoned on deck to count heads.

One short. Crewman Jones was missing. Probably washed overboard when no one was looking.

______________________________________

A tired and wretched crew we have become. From my view at the top of the crows nest, I can see each and every shipmate dragging themselves to the next task. This week, the skies have cleared and a summer sun beats down on us for the length of each day. Each man is paying his toll. Every man except for the captain that is. The captain and that boatswain of his, Toffus.

This morning, the captain went to the lead guard and asked him the daily query and finally walked away with the an affirmative nod he had been looking for. An hour later he confided in me that we would be rendezvousing with another vessel in the coming days, and to keep an eye out.

What I know though is that he will be lucky to see the next few days out alive. Frustration in close quarters can breed unfriendly plans, and what began as a guarded murmur is slowly becoming a loud cry. You can see it in the men's hearts.

Mutiny is a'foot.

A word of warning

2009-12-01T18:03:00.005-06:00

This being my third attempt as a DM, I can honestly say the story we are about to embark on is far more complex and ambitious than any I have developed in the past. There are far more NPCs than I've ever had to manage. I'm having to learn a ton of new mechanics for an at-sea campaign, and on top of that, an at-sea campaign takes a lot of imagination for a guy who has rarely seen an ocean, much less been on one.

I mean, I'm from Oklahoma for crying out loud.

So, seeing as how this story will be quite a challenge on my end, please BEAR WITH ME. Your patience will be appreciated.

Wizard It Is

2009-12-01T14:23:00.002-06:00

Question for the DM: limitation on spells and feats, that is, can I choose spells and feats from any of the multitude of 3.5 supplements? Don't worry, I'm keeping it simple class-wise and just going with the out of the PHB run of the mill wizard.

Question for the Players: recommendations on feats? I've never played an arcane caster before... not as familiar with the class.

Second Question for the DM: What city did this ship sail from? And, anything I should know about the campaign world when crafting a backstory (i.e., name of the world, name of the kingdom, etc?) Apologies for being anal about geography.

Some Say "People Suck," But No One Ever Sucks on Me

2009-11-30T21:44:00.002-06:00

Would there be any interest in Bowl Games and poker the afternoon of January 1?

An Investigation into the Habits of John Brown

2009-11-30T19:06:00.004-06:00

Crew 1: I can’t ever figure that John Brown, even though I’ve sailed with him for a couple of voyages now. He’s the largest man on the ship—gotta be twice the size of many of us—and looks so fierce all covered in tattoos and the wild way he carries himself. But he mostly sticks to himself, all quiet like and even gentle about most of what I’ve seen him do. And when he does talk to people he always has a smile on his face and is quick to laugh. Really about the friendliest man in the crew in his own way. And to think the way he could bully us around—he could probably run this ship if he ever chose to act like you’d think he would to look at him.
_____

Chef: Most people assume John Brown doesn’t say much because he has trouble with the language, but he’s picked up plenty and does fine when he wants to. My theory is he just doesn’t see any need to waste words and only uses them when he really has something to say. But even then he never just says whatever point he’s trying to make—he always seems to talk circles around it and never quite gets there, but you get this sense of the territory he’s trying to cover. My favorite times to listen are when he’s telling tales of the gods where he comes from, all fierce storms and giant waves and huge powers that make men puny. Most men worship their gods with reverence and joy, find inspiration and hope in them, but that John Brown talks about gods like they’re just something to be feared. Maybe raged against, but mostly feared.
_____

Captain: John Brown. I’m sure he has some other name in his native tongue, but the only one he’s ever shared on deck this boat is John Brown. Says that other name is from a past life if you really push him, but he doesn’t even like to admit he was ever anyone else if he can help it. And he’s funny about it, too. He won’t answer to just John and if you try calling him Mr. Brown he corrects you. Really it’s easier if you just think of his name as Johnbrown.

The name was given to him by his previous ship—I’m not sure if it was captain or crew. I suppose they chose John because it was common and easy and Brown due to his appearance. That’s the only other ship he’s known to my knowledge, and I believe the experience was both good and bad for him. He had a rather defeated look when I took him on, so I asked the captain what he knew. They had picked him up a couple years prior when blown off course during a storm. They made land at an uncharted island for repairs and he begged to join them. Didn’t know the language or anything of ships, but was so desperate the captain took pity. At first he was despondent when not coached aggressively, but he gradually picked up the skills and language to make a passable sailor. Since he switched to my ship, oh, three years ago now, he’s continued to improve and has become about the most reliable crewman I’ve ever known. He’s still largely unassuming, but we’re a better boat for his presence.
_____

Crew 2: That John Brown, he’s got secrets I tell you. I seen him one night dig deep into his chest and pull out something wrapped all in cloth. He thunk the rest of us was asleep, see, so he slowly unwrapped it and held it up. At first I couldn’t make out what it was, just that it was long and big and hard. He started talking to it in some language I ain’t never heard before, all soft and kind of like he was praying. Then he got another cloth and some oil and polished it up, and that’s when I got a better look. It was some kind of wicked club, made from dark wood and with patterns drawn all over it like the ones on his skin, like they was two of a kind and made to go together. Sure, he seems all kind and soft, but I think one of these times he’s gonna pull that thing out and clobber the lot of us in our sleep.
_____

First Mate: Having John Brown on crew is one of the best things for morale I know, but I don’t know how long he’s going to last at this rate. He always volunteers for the hardest, most dangerous work available. The more dangerous the better. The rest of the crew loves not having to worry about those duties because they can always count on John Brown to take care of it, but he relishes the work with such recklessness that I fear for his life. I asked him about it once and, like usual, he gave me some roundabout answer that I’m not sure was really an answer. It was something about the strongest warriors in battle are those who don’t care if they live or die because they have nothing to lose, so they slip into a battle trance that allows no room for thought, pain, or fear. Something along those lines, at least. I guess he meant that’s the way he works, and it’s a pleasure having him to take care of things, but I still worry.
_____

Crew 3: That John Brown doesn’t talk much, but I’ve seen it happen. Just once, when we were in port and he got further into the ale than I’ve ever seen him. It was long and rambling and hard to make sense of, but after thinking on it long and hard I think I can put together some kind of a story about him. I’m sure I have some of the particulars wrong, but this is the way I think of it now. He grew up on this island and was the pride of his tribe. Son of someone important, maybe the chief or whatever you’d call it. He was the strongest and fastest at anything athletic, best at all the skills, something to be reckoned with in their community, and never knew the meaning of the word failure. He was just coming into manhood with a wife and young child when some kind of disaster struck. I couldn’t make out if it was the ocean or a war or what, but whatever it was he blames himself for the death of his family. Felt it was his duty to protect them and he didn’t. And he didn’t know how to deal with it. His community was supportive, tried to convince him it wasn’t his fault, but John Brown wasn’t having any of it. So when this strange new ship showed up one morning, he jumped at the opportunity to leave his shame behind and start over as a new man. I know he doesn’t like to think about it so I keep that story to myself for the most part, but I think that’s more about his past than just about anyone knows.
_____

Second Mate: It took a while for John Brown to really learn the ways of a ship and the intricacies of our language, but now that he knows how to use his knowledge in our setting he’s a treasure. They say he grew up on an island and spent more time in the water than on land. I can believe it. He’s become almost unnaturally talented as a seaman, with a canny familiarity with the ocean’s currents, weather, and wildlife. The captain makes the calls around here, of course, but when I can I always get a second opinion from John Brown. When they disagree about anything, more often than not it’s the captain who’s wrong.
_____

*I’m from Kansas; please forgive my weak nautical knowledge and terminology.

Hm

2009-11-24T08:37:00.001-06:00

I saw a personalized license plate that said "THACO" this morning on the way to work.

Count Me a Definite Maybe

2009-11-23T23:21:00.002-06:00

Or a maybe definitely. I'm speaking, of course, of Nate's aquatic themed campaign. I've really been wanting to play lately and, as I seem to be getting to KC about once a month anyway, I figured "why not?" Anyway, it looks as if the party is, tentatively at least, a rogue, a barbarian, and two bards. Which does seem to leave us a little light as far as healing goes. Personally, I was considering a druid or one of the arcane spellcasters. Thoughts?

No Character Story Yet, But Considering the Barbarian

2009-11-21T09:58:00.002-06:00

For Hadrian

2009-11-21T07:48:00.000-06:00

Long Term

2009-11-19T13:31:00.003-06:00

Despite my assertions that once I'm settled in at a new job and new apartment I will concentrate on integrating myself into social circles replete with young single women at the expense of geekier pursuits, I have started thinking about the long anticipated Ptolus campaign. To that end, I retrieved the Big Book of Geeky Awesomeness from my storage unit whilst in mid-Missouri this past weekend, and have begun reading it again. I'm thinking that the campaign should probably begin in late Spring or Summer 2010 (though this may be influenced by how far along Nate's campaign is at that time, whether Lummox has his game up and running, and other external factors like jobs and such). So, I'm preparing for that by studying the setting. I'm pretty sure that for the campaign to be entertaining the DM is going to have to pretty well know the city of Ptolus inside and out. So, I'll be doing that over the next few months when I have snippets of free time that I don't feel like using for more practical pursuits.

Long ago I created a dedicated site for the Ptolus campaign here (you should go and see the posts already up). I'm not sure how exactly I'm going to use it, but I expect it and the Cringing Wiki to be useful resources for when we play. And, if you haven't already, those of you that intend to play should download and read the Player's Guide to Ptolus available for free here. Even though the campaign proper won't be starting for some time I think it might still be a good idea to start thinking about characters and backstories. In fact I have an interesting idea with respect to that. I was thinking that in the months prior to actually beginning the in-person-rolling dice-battle maps-Mountain Dew and Cheetos game, we could play sort of a "pre-game" online via email and the blogs. Basically, as I envision it, this would be a chance for you guys to work out your character backstories in a way that made it feel like the characters were actually a part of the Ptolus world-- by having me collaborate with you and parcel out bits of information that a native of that world would have. It would also give us the opportunity, long before we ever sat down at the gaming table to figure out how the party comes together and allow us to hit the ground running when we actually get to the game. Plus, it will let us come up with individualized character hooks and connections to Ptolus and the NPC's there.

I don't see this as an exercise that would utilize the rules so much. Instead, I see it as a way to explain how your characters get to level 1, and begin their journey as adventurers. I'm not exactly sure how this will work-- that's a topic open for discussion. For instance, I'm not sure if the stories we work out would be posted for all the players to see, or kept strictly between the DM and the individual-- and then only later shared with the rest of the group. So, thoughts? ideas? discussion?

(And it should be said, I'm not trying to draw attention away from Nate's game or Lummox's plans-- I'm thinking long term here.)

Too Many Comments: Or, Rounding Out the Party

2009-11-13T20:13:00.003-06:00

So my first reaction to ocean-based campaign was a finesse, skill-based player. It seems everyone else's was as well. So far we have a rogue and two bards. Not helpless in a combat (especially the types you fight on a ship), a bit of healing, a bit of arcane magic. So no big strengths outside of skills/thieving, but no absolute weaknesses. Instead of overbalancing things in any one direction, I'm still drawn to my original concept with some kind of hybrid that allows us to complement each other's dispersed strengths. Here are some of my brainstorms. What do you eliminate, Nate, and what does everyone have to offer that might tip me one way or the other?

- A Swashbuckler (Complete Warrior) - a flashy, attention seeking, finesse fighter type.

- A Wizard - with the hopes of becoming a master of winds, storms, and the weather.

- A Duskblade (PHB 2) - an elvish (or elf influenced) hybrid that combines combat expertise with spellcasting.

- A Barbarian (maybe Ranger) variant of some sort - a "savage" islander picked up on some far ocean voyage, but not sure rage or tracking make sense with this character concept and looking for some logical substitute for that aspect of the class.

- A Druid - a "savage" islander picked up on some far ocean voyage . . .

- A Beguiler (PHB 2) - kind of a bard, but focused on illusion and deception. If I'm this you probably won't know, as I'll be trying to pass myself off as one of the others above.

- Other suggestions?

A new game

2009-11-03T18:06:00.003-06:00

I think it's about time we get rolling on our next game. Here is what I propose.

We meet Saturday nights once a month for the next year. I would prefer to use my place since we can get started a little earlier that way. I'm thinking about starting the first weekend in December.

Standard races and classes. 3.5 rules

bonus feat for all characters at first level: Sea Legs - +2 bonus on Shipboard Balance and Tumble Checks and +1 Bonus to Shipboard Initiative.

To roll up characters we will be using a standard point buy system (pg 169 DMG)

Maximum HP at first level and half max at each level afterwards. so... at level 2, a D6 class will automatically be 3+ Cha modifier. This rule and the last will help avoid unbalanced characters.

We will be using the Stormwrack book, which, while out of print, can be easily downloaded here. Focus primarily on the rules associated with combat on board a sailing vessel. Please steer clear of reading up on the monsters, I may be using a few of those and would prefer to keep some surprises.

Table rules to include: No electronic devices aloud at the table during play. This includes iPods, iPhones, laptops, etc. We use real dice and paper character sheets, and of course, books. Between the lot of us we have two copies of Stormwrack, so we shouldn't need more. No Television. Background music is aloud for mood. Courtesy should be payed to characters taking actions. Sidebar conversations are fine, but should not be disruptive. I may use a computer strictly as a DM screen and a source for the game, but will try to keep that to a minimum.

XP bonuses will be awarded for back stories, strong character role play, (especially among the PCs.), cooperative gameplay strategies and even good table etiquette. For example of that, if we are all focused on the game and run into confusion on a rule, a cooperative resolution amongst all players will be rewarded.

The story begins a month into a long voyage over the great sea. You will all be members of a crew that is on the verge of mutiny as weather is getting progressively erratic and the labor is severe. Crew members have been promised a handsome sum at the end of the voyage, but the harsh treatment by the second in command has led most to conclude that no reward is enough. It is known that the ship is transporting something rare and magical in addition to its usual cargo. A special task force of the king is aboard to guard the artifact. No one on the ship seems to know what the object is or what it is worth, but at least 2 attempts by crew to steal the item have ended in violent bloodshed. The guards know what they are guarding and won't be easily distracted from their mission. Your back story should include a reason why you have chosen to serve aboard this ship.

So, who's game? I'm open to thoughts on the above.

Too Awesome Not To Share

2009-10-26T00:11:00.002-05:00

The Many Alignments of Batman: Bringing your inner game geek and your inner comic geek together.

Please Scott, Give Me A Title

2009-10-19T13:37:00.002-05:00

Any favorite campaign moments? I've been thinking of serializing our greyhawk campaign and I'd love to have what stood out as great or catastrophic memories. Thanks!

a little realism

2009-10-12T19:16:00.001-05:00

This was from one of the d+d blogs I follow, called Gnome Stew. I'm totally re-posting it because I think they're good things that I hadn't really considered. And, for legality's sake, I didn't write any of it. John Arcadian, a Gnome Stew contributor, did. Enjoy!

No form of entertainment is entirely realistic. Movies, video games, books, and pretty much any other form of media cut a lot of corners when portraying the world. If they didn’t, they would be bogged down with boring minutia and detail. However, a lot of gamers like the complexity and detail of “realistic” gaming. Without the challenged presented by these small challenges a tabletop game might not feel any different from a video game, to some people. Here are 5 places where gaming will never beat the reality test:

1. Inventory and Carrying
The amount of things your character carries is waaaaay out of proportion. The USMC ILBe carries up to 120 lbs. While a character could definitely carry that much weight anyone who has been in the military or packed for an extended hike can tell you that an efficient packing and weight distribution system is necessary. Let’s take a quick look at a basic adventurers equipment layout.

Backpack (empty) 2 lb.
Bedroll 5 lb.
Lantern, bullseye 3 lb.
Pot, iron 10 lb.
Rations, trail 1 lb. (1 week, 7 lbs.)
Rope, silk (50 ft.) 5 lb.
Torch 1 lb.
Waterskin 4 lb.
Traveler’s outfit 5 lb.

Total = 42 lbs

According to the D20 SRD, this would be within the light load limit for a character with a strength of 12. This is a pretty sparse loadout for a person traversing the wilderness and dungeon for weeks on end. Without the Iron Pot (10 lbs) cooking anything you found along the way would be somewhat hard. Leaving it out drops the load to 32 lbs, but we haven’t factored in armor or weapons, let alone loot, treasure, or the specialized equipment for any of the classes.

2. Damage and Healing
A character takes a slash across the chest and gets d8 +4 hit points worth of damage (to keep going with the D&D 3.5 examples). The character takes 9 hit points worth of damage total, they then proceed to make their attack and deal an amount of damage to the opponent. The opponent makes their attack, etc. until one of them dies. This is, quite frankly, a ridiculous scenario. When hit points represent the physical level of health for a character, then damage, if realistically taken, would be crippling. At lower levels it can be deadly, but the actual damage itself is abstract. If you were to take 9 hit points away from a 30 hit point character, the would would be fairly massive. When people take massive wounds in real life they tend to be put out of commission for a bit.

Aside from the unreality of taking damage, healing it back without magical means or care is a very unrealistic thing in games. According to the Workplace Safety and Insurance Act of 1997, there are standard healing times (with appropriate care) for the various types of injuries.

Soft tissue injures 3 Months
(Cuts, Stabs, Non Muscle Compromising)
Fractures (Not Breaks) 3 – 6 Months (Depending on Location)
Nervous system injuries 3 – 12 months
Tendon Repair 3 Months
(With appropriate care)

Those times are with appropriate, modern healthcare, not something that is likely to be available in fantasy gaming worlds, and not something that is likely to be found in a dungeon or camp-side.

3. Adventuring is dirty
People in the middle ages faced some pretty serious diseases and were not ones for cleanliness. Even taking into account fantasy elements and pretending there is a semi-clean society, your adventurer isn’t part of it. Travelling from town to town, fighting in the woods, exploring dungeons, being in the vicinity of sqwicking and exploding orcs are all things your adventurer (in a standard fantasy world) will get be getting dirty from. This is a level of dirty beyond even the grimiest peasant, and the grimy peasants at least have constant access to some sort of water where they might be able to take a cold, unheated bath.

Fantasy gaming isn’t the only offender in the cleanliness category. Sci-fi and modern gaming often have the player characters facing a slew of grimy settings and disgusting creatures. Even when this isn’t the case, the activities that any self respecting group will come across are likely to get them quite grime covered or at least sweaty. Showers and bathing are more common in modern and sci-fi settings, but there is probably not a lot of access to them while breaking out of the enemy base or trudging in the sewers to find the monstrous creature that is hiding there.

4. Dungeons
Ever been inside an abandoned building? Ever walked in a catacombs or cave? Ever been in a non-tourist capacity and off the path? Ever tried to climb or spelunk and found you couldn’t get through that one crevasse, that your squeeze gets you stuck for 15 minutes as you try to wriggle back before the panic takes hold. Ever think about methane buildup in an abandoned building and how that torch would actually work in the environment.

Try to think about traversing all these minor obstacles with just your sword or weapon tied to your back. Now your 42 lb. pack (pre looting). Now think about getting back out. In almost every common adventuring situation that I can think of, the terrain is going to work against you if it were realistic. Caves are awesome places, full of incredible scenery formed by the slow flow of water over unfathomable amounts of time. They are nothing like the linear cave maps with halls that are usually at least 5 ft width. Even when looking at dungeons that are created with clear intent and modern architectural design, reality has very little leeway. The layout and design of most gaming dungeons has nowhere near the number of support rooms and facilities to accommodate the inhabitants, nor is it built in a way that is even remotely useful to the residents.

Let’s not even get started on the ecology of a dungeon and what would be needed to sustain enough creatures to make challenging encounters.

5. Bathroom breaks
There is only one thing to mention on this subject. Adventures must shit in corners, near where they sleep, a lot. That wizard’s eight hour break to memorize spells isn’t going to be done out in the monster infested corridor, but likely in a closed off room or barricaded area. No one is going to go wandering alone outside to make use of the facilities, especially when keen-nosed creatures might pick up on the scent. For more modern scenarios, do you think the mech your character is tied into has a catheter?

Ok. I will fully admit that I am being incredibly harsh. I’ve been an utter git and played devil’s advocate for the sake of the theme. Let me emphasize the point of this article: Gaming is incredibly fun because it doesn’t take into account realism. Gaming is an allegory and a chance for us to live out heroic archetypes that modern society, for the most part, doesn’t afford us the opportunity to be.

It’s great to tramp through a complex dungeon as a heroic character without worrying too much about how much we are carrying. I love being able to play the barbarian who looks like a porcupine because of the number of arrows sticking out of him. It’s fun to play out the story and build the interesting personality of the sneaky thief who rides on the fringes of society and is a likeable ruffian. If I had to worry too much about the realism of any part of the game, I would become bored quickly.

This isn’t too say that realism doesn’t have its place in a game. How much realism is present should be up to your group and play style, but no matter how deep into realism you take your game you will never get all the way. So how much realism do you like in your game? This was just a quick list of some of the things that don’t pass the reality test, what other gaming tropes can you think of that don’t pass the reality test? Does lack of realism bug you in some situations?

Accessories

2009-09-25T13:03:00.001-05:00

We totally need some of this.

Funny

2009-09-10T17:50:00.004-05:00

Actual poster seen on the campus of Miskatonic University.

Actual Wizards.com Ad Headline

2009-09-09T23:41:00.002-05:00

"It's good to be the DM, they don't buy pizza for the Cleric."

Last Minute Attention-Seeking

2009-08-27T09:58:00.001-05:00

Nothing's come up, so I guess we'll have to proceed with the game on Saturday.

Take a little sip..

2009-08-24T20:04:00.003-05:00

Just finished prepping the last session. I hope you'll like it. As a little teaser, I've got a magic item to show off.

The Storied Cup. This gem-laden golden cup was once the most favored possession of the King Shahryar. The legend tells that the cup would speak on occasion, and that the King was never without it at his side.

a note

2009-08-18T09:45:00.003-05:00

The party, weary from their encounter with the mage and his brigands, begins to troop toward the dark, icy entrance to the glacier. A tattered, fluttering piece of paper lies on the ground, partially buried under the snow.

Darling Gaedren-
I’ve gone to investigate the glacier. I found new information that points to a magical cup and a djinn who will grant wishes. Come for me in a month, if I haven’t returned.
-Lea

Next game

2009-08-08T17:04:00.001-05:00

El DM posted next game as 8/18, which is Tuesday after next. I assume it was intended to be 8/15 and he is, in fact, a buffoon?

last minute cancellation

2009-07-29T11:14:00.002-05:00

Hi everyone-

I apologize, but I won't be able to run the game on Saturday. I know that we'd planned to play, and had all agreed on the dates, but I am unable to attend.

I think that we can still finish up the quest on 8/18, without much trouble, if you're interested in finishing.

Sorry.

A Response from Pavo Baradin

2009-07-23T08:02:00.002-05:00

It's wonderful to hear you are a like-minded compatriot, my dear bard. You phrase the message a bit more . . . militantly than I might have, but I think we understand each other to a point. You made reference to my "order," however. There is no order and, really, that's kind of the point. My message is all about being free of enslavement to religion, so it would turn me into the evil I preach against were I to make myself the head of an order. So while I'm flattered by the offer and sincerely hope you do sing the praises of freedom from the gods wherever you go, please don't turn me into a figurehead for that message. I'm flattered, but that's not what I'm about.

By the way, you know the paladin heals by conveying the power of Heironeous, yes? If you would truly demonstrate integrity in your message, I hope you will refuse any such healing should an opportunity ever arise. We wouldn't want your songs to be mere empty words, after all, if they are to have the power of truth behind them.

A conversation with Pavo Baradin

2009-07-20T16:06:00.002-05:00

As the group settles in for the night, I look for a time to speak to Pavo somewhat away from the others, tucking the symbol of Fharlanghn around my neck under my shirt before I reach him...

"Good evening Monsieur Baradin, it got rather cold on us didn't it? Not that it ever gets very warm on a glacier I suppose eh? I was thinking as we traveled that your message is both refreshing in a world filled with so many priests hawking the power of their god in much the same way a snake oil salesman does... It got me thinking, if you ever settle down from your wandering path, those such as myself might be perfect heralds for your order, for who other than yourself extols the virtues of man more than the bard? Certainly, the powers manifested by a cleric will show itself in our tales from time to time, but they are stories of we mortals, seizing the reigns of our own destiny and changing the world for the better...not sitting in our homes praying to some distant deity to whisk in and make our lives better like some capricious planar parent! The tales of brave adventurers seem to fit hand in hand with reinforcing your message of the strength of men to be the masters of our own destinies, don't you think?"

next session!

2009-07-13T20:53:00.002-05:00

Shortly after crossing the Kantele River, the trees start to thin. The wind seems colder and stronger without the forest acting as a windblock. Around mid-day, the cold sun hides behind the clouds and snow starts to fall. By twilight, your vision and movement are hampered by the newly fallen snow, which drifts around your knees. The cruel wind cuts at any exposed skin, and makes seeking shelter seem like a good idea.

Nazi Zombies!

2009-07-11T22:49:00.001-05:00

One Shot

2009-07-08T22:22:00.002-05:00

First of all, you people are boring. Eight voters (at least), nine votes cast, and not a single vote for Hollow Earth Expedition. Apparently I'm the only one here with a deep love of 30's adventure pulp. I think you guys should broaden your RPG horizons. Not that there's anything wrong with classic Gygaxian fantasy--don't get me wrong, I love that stuff too. I'm just saying....

Anyway, the tally at this point appears to be 4 votes Ptolus, 3 votes 4e, 1 vote Rise of the Runelords (Pathfinder, aka, just another 3.5 campaign, and 1 vote for Call of Cthulhu. If this were an election, I would say that Ptolus had won.

So, whenever I do actually get around to running a D&D campaign, it will probably be Ptolus (and I will hope that my inexperience as a DM won't make it suck). I suppose this is a good thing, I need to get some value out of that massive and not inexpensive tome at some point--other than the entertainment value of just poking through it on occasion over the last three years. And those of you who have been wanting and waiting to play in the "City by the Spire" have been doing so since long before 4e was even on the horizon, so I almost feel like I owe it to you. So Ptolus it (probably) is, and the 4e campaign is on the backburner for the time being.

So, I'm looking at the life/RPG landscape for the next few months and this is what I've come up with. Most likely I will, in fact, end up back in KC. This isn't 100% certain, but I have such a strong desire to be there that, unless I find a job I simply cannot refuse somewhere else, that is where I'll be (although, this is still a possibility, since at this point ANY job might be a job I simply cannot refuse). However, I do still need to study for the bar over the next three weeks, and then find a job, an apartment, settle into a job, etc. etc. etc. Meaning, of course, that I won't have much time to prepare or run a campaign for the foreseeable future. Besides, Lummox still has something percolating (I hope) and Scott has mentioned a continuation of his summer game into a Pathfinder campaign, so you guys can get your fix somewhere else in the meantime (and me too, if I'm there-- I might have time to play even if I don't have time to DM). So, I'm thinking of saying tentatively that a Ptolus campaign may start, maybe, possibly, I think, perhaps, in early 2010. Say,... February? Or maybe March. I'm not committing to a date just yet.

That being said, I turn now to the title of this post. I stumbled across an adventure at Valhalla's Gate a couple of weeks ago that really jumped out at me. It's a 1920's Call of Cthulhu adventure that should be pretty easy to cram into one or two game sessions. And since I bought the Chaosium Basic Role Playing (BRP) book on a whim last summer--I have the rules to run it with. BRP is pretty easy to learn since it is mostly skill and percentile based, so I don't think that will be a problem for people only playing one game. So, I propose a one-shot game (or two, depending) for a weekend in the fall. Perhaps a non-Japanese themed weekend in September?

next session

2009-06-30T14:34:00.003-05:00

AN UPDATE.
We're going to keep the original date. Sorry, Jason. I hope you can make it, but I'm sure I can kill your character even without you there :P

Hey everyone-

I did see Jason's post about changing our next game date. I'm not ignoring it. I'm trying to work out with Kelly when / if I can re-schedule it. As soon as I have confirmation, I'll let you know.

I just posted a comment to Dave's post. It got a little long.

I'm back from Vegas. And I'm a much better limit hold-em player than no-limit. I think I made enough playing poker to cover what I lost on the slots.

...

2009-06-29T21:57:00.000-05:00

In the words of Hughie Louis

2009-06-28T22:23:00.001-05:00

So this is it.
One month, a link on the cringe, and not a single answer as to who wants to play the game I am making. That speaks pretty loud and clear.
I'm deleting my game blog.

Redundant

2009-06-26T22:56:00.004-05:00

I know, I've asked this before, but I though I'd check the current state of opinion. I've got a lot of different games that I can run, and many that I'm really interested in running-- but obviously I only have so much time. So, just a quick look at "public" opinion.

harhar

2009-06-22T12:53:00.000-05:00

Interesting

2009-06-21T21:42:00.004-05:00

For those of you that are interested, you can download a free trial version of Wizards' 4e character creation software. Since it is the trial version, it only allows you to create characters up to level 3. It looks like it might be an interesting resource. At the very least, it looks like it might be helpful in learning the 4e character creation process and a little bit about the game. For those of you who didn't shell out for the PHB (or obtain a copy by some less legal method), it also allows you to look at the PHB entry for each power, feat, etc. as you are choosing them. So, a good way to learn some of the new stuff in the game. Hopefully, we are only a few months away from a 4e campaign, and learning the rules might be useful.

Does Han Know About This?

2009-06-21T20:38:00.003-05:00

The things you find on the intertubes...

And I hate how Blogger automatically puts your picture at the top of the post, no matter where the cursor is when you upload.

Game of Sat, July 18

2009-06-20T21:15:00.002-05:00

Is there any way we might be able to shift this game forward or back a week? Turns out that's the weekend of our semiannual college get together/LAN party down in Wichita and one of my friends who's now in South Carolina is going to attending and I'd like to make it if possible.

Lemme know?

The Awesome, It Goes to 11

2009-06-17T15:41:00.002-05:00

This is really cool.

This might be cooler, though I'm not sure if it is really functional-- and it's certainly not affordable.

A little something to make you go...

2009-06-15T07:57:00.003-05:00

and without further ado, for Hadrian:
http://www.lollyphile.com/collections/frontpage/products/maple-bacon

Yum?

Note to Self

2009-06-05T18:55:00.000-05:00

Remember to turn the air off in the morning.

One sided dice

2009-06-03T16:08:00.002-05:00

Drebin closed the door to the room and turned to Livy, who had sprawled out on her bed. He sighed and said, “So, did ‘the gods’ tell you to go on this little quest too? Perhaps they visited you in a dream again?”

Livy grinned. “Oh come on. Where’s your sense of adventure? Besides, weren’t you listening? One thousand gold pieces. Isn’t that reason enough?”

Drebin felt a small pain shoot through the temple next to his damaged eye. He rubbed it.

“Listen,” he said, “you can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what?” Livy asked, a little perturbed.

“You know well ‘what,’” Drebin erupted. “You keep getting it in your head that you need adventure in your life. You don’t. We don’t.”

“Fine then,” Livy said, standing up and turning away from him. “You don’t have to go where you don’t want to. I can take care of myself.”

“The hell you can!” Drebin exclaimed. “Remember the last time you got a wild hair and went on one of your little ‘adventures?’ Remember what happened when you decided you wanted to go off on your own and try to make some money on your own? Remember who followed you and ended up having to fight off a bar full of sleaze and saved your hide?”

“Drebin, that’s not fair,” she said, spinning to face him. “I was a lot younger then. I’ve matured and I’ve become a much better fighter.”

In his mind, Drebin had to admit that Livy had learned a lot in the past few years, but he would be damned if he would say it out loud. He sighed heavily. “I’m not going to talk you out of this, am I?”

“Oh,” she said, leaning into him for a hug, “when have you ever been able to say ‘no’ to me?”

He hated it when she had a point. He really did.

The link to the new post as requested.

2009-06-03T15:40:00.000-05:00

Link!!!

Zelda!!!

Hadrian's grad update update

2009-05-28T15:33:00.003-05:00

I think the tentative plan is to meet at JACK STACK on 95th around 7. How does that sound?

Hadrian's Graduation

2009-05-25T22:27:00.002-05:00

So, as you all know, Hadrian graduated. Well, we should celebrate, don't you think? This Friday night - let's go eat somewhere, then head to my place for conversation and the possible consumption of adult beverages. Let me know if you plan on showing up, as the size of the group will probably dictate where we eat.

a tale

2009-05-20T19:04:00.000-05:00

The crowd gathered closer around the old storyteller, hanging on his every word. He was telling of another of the Red Raven's adventures.

"Bedecked in his signature red cape and red-feathered mask and clutching a bundle to his chest, the Red Raven dove out the window of the tallest tower in the castle, his cape fluttering as he plunged downward," Some listeners gasped, others mouths formed silent O's.

The storyteller went on. "The baron's guards ran to the window and looked far below. The baron huffed and puffed as he came into the room, his face red and sweaty. "Well? Do you have him? Where is the Red Raven? It took weeks to collect those taxes from the villages." The guards pointed to the window and the baron looked out. The Red Raven looked back and bowed with a flourish, then ran into the nearby forest, unscathed after his several hundred foot fall. The baron swore and fumed at his guards for letting the Red Raven escape.

After the Red Raven passed the treeline, he paused to catch his breath, and opened the bundle to reveal a small box, full of silver and silver copper coins, a sparse few gold, and a smattering of gemstones. He smiled to himself and melted into the forest."

"Later that night, the Red Raven approached one of the small villages, with several bags of the coins and gems. The villagers saw his approach and let out a great cheer at the sight of his red-cloaked figure. He threw the bags of coins and gems to the villagers and spoke a few kind words to each, then disappeared back into the night."

The first session

2009-05-18T20:56:00.002-05:00

The first session is Saturday. Wow. It's coming up fast. Here's a map of the village that you'll be starting in. Take a look.

It's around harvest-time. And you should have a good reason for being in town, which may include:

relatives. You're here to help a relative with his/her harvest.
You've come with a merchant caravan, as a guard or helper.
Hunting. Good hunting grounds around here.
Traveling. You're out to see a bit more of the world.

Which Are You Most Interested In?
	Rise of the Runelords Campaign (3.5 Pathfinder)
	Ptolus Campaign
	The 4e Campaign
	Hollow Earth Expedition Campaign (Pulp)
	A Modern Campaign
	A Sci-Fi Campaign
	A Call of Cthulhu Campaign

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