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

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

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!)

----------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Investigation into the Habits of John Brown

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

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

Count Me a Definite Maybe

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

For Hadrian

Long Term

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

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

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

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

Please Scott, Give Me A Title

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

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

We totally need some of this.

Funny

Actual poster seen on the campus of Miskatonic University.

Actual Wizards.com Ad Headline

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

Last Minute Attention-Seeking

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

Take a little sip..

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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!

One Shot

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

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.

...

In the words of Hughie Louis

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

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.

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
pollcode.com free polls

harhar

Interesting

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?

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

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

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...

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

Yum?

Note to Self

Remember to turn the air off in the morning.

One sided dice

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.

Link!!!

Zelda!!!

Hadrian's grad update update

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

Hadrian's Graduation

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

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

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.
  

Next game update

I wanted to give everyone a quick update so that you didn't think I had forgotten about our next adventure together.

In case you hadn't heard, I picked up a weekend job and am generally working seven days a week. That isn't leaving me with very much time to work on the games.

Yes that's right, games -- Plural. About the same time we finished the Ravenloft quest, my other group came to a general climax in their quest. So now, I am actually pulling together both the upcoming chapter of their quest, and the beginning of yours.

The good news is that I pretty much have story lines in mind for both games and I'm really excited about them. Especially yours. I have a ton of maps to draw and characters to build for both, but the ideation has been largely thought through.

I won't say much more about what your quest will be about or like. For now, I want you guys to enjoy/focus on the game at hand you are playing over the summer. I think we talked about starting this new story in May sometime, but since I'm ridiculously busy, and you are getting your DND fix from other places for a bit, I'm going to ask that we start a little later than we discussed. I'm thinking I'll be pretty ready closer to August. By then my other group will be started up again and you guys will be wrapping up your summer quest.

It might help me to know how many of you are going to be playing and what you would like out of the game. It's too early to start dreaming up characters for this. It appears you scoured your souls for back stories on your most recent characters. I haven't had time to sit and read any of those yet, but I intend to. They looked juicy.

In the meantime, if you guys get together for shorter games, give me a heads up.

Encumbrance

I've been flirting with the idea of encumbrance in the next game. I think it provides another level of realism, having to actually decide where to put treasure and items. What do you guys think?

Increasing Anticipation

I've got a new miniature for Pavo Baradin and hope to have it painted by our first game.

The World Revolves Around D&D

Just saw a spiffy Cadillac CTS with a personalized license plate reading: "400 HP." What are the chances (that I can roll on a percentile die) that it was a reference to Hit Points?