Thursday, October 31, 2024

1, 10, or 1000000

 I’ve been kicking around a design rule recently I’m calling “1, 10, or 1000000.” The idea is that when you’re determining how prevalent something should be in your game there should either be one of them, 10 of them, or a million. 

Maybe not exactly those numbers. More accurately, if you’re thinking about how prevalent something should be in the campaign, any given thing should either be unique, part of a small coherent grouping, or common if not ubiquitous. What this means specifically varies from thing to thing so here are some examples:

Dragons

There is one dragon. Maybe not the only dragon in the entire game world, but for the purposes of the campaign there is only the one. This will likely be the most dragon-y dragon a DM could muster. The players might encounter it in passing or hear about it from time to time as they progress but they wouldn’t hope to have any chance of slaying it (or convincing it to be their ally, subduing it, etc.) until late in the game. The dragon is probably tied to the history of the setting or has some significant influence on the current circumstances. There’s only one dragon, so it has to count. 

There are 10 dragons. They all know each other, and people know about them—if not all then enough to know that there are several dragons in the area. Each dragon has their own domain, goals, tastes, and their own of opinions of one another. Each dragon probably has a couple unique features in addition to the normal dragon stuff that make them distinct both from the other dragons and the stereotypical “fantasy dragon” that exists in the mind of the players. Some of the dragons are mean, some are nice, all are menacing yet for different reasons. 

There are 1000000 dragons. They’re everywhere, from the tallest mountains to the depths of the sea. In every cave there dwells a dragon, in every forest they stalk and prey. Some rule city states, others hide in abandoned cellars. They come in all shapes, sizes, and temperaments. This is probably the baseline monster the PCs will be dealing with throughout the campaign.

Sages

There is one sage. She lives somewhere rather inconvenient to get to and it takes at least a session worth of adventuring to find her for the first time. Being the only sage, she’s knowledgeable on just about everything worth asking about, though she exacts a steep price for her services. She's probably an important figure in the setting despite being a recluse. A possible quest for the PCs would be if a powerful political leader tasks them to bribe her so that she gives false info to his adversaries.  

There are 10 sages. They are the current members of a secret order that’s been around for centuries. They’re scattered all over the map, some in settlements, some in the wilderness, some traveling from place to place. In addition to their respective areas of knowledge each one’s got a “schtick:” one’s the mad scientist who wants to do experiments on the PCs, one’s the fogey hermit who might or might not be a badass kung fu master, one’s the eccentric inventor that always has stuff blowing up in his face, and maybe one is like a talking cat or a sentient ooze or something. They definitely have a bunch of secret signs and rites. If the player need information on a given subject and none of the sages they are buddies with know about it, they would tell them who the right sage is to look for and it would be a whole thing like “go to this distant barbarian village and show the chief this special sign and he will lead you to a clearing where in the light of the moon Umru the Clever will appear on the back of a three-horned rhino. At first he will refuse to help you but ask him three times and he will tell you what you seek to know.”  

There are 1000000 sages. You can find one in just about every town, next to the blacksmith’s or the local tavern. They’re on the wilderness encounter table and maybe the dungeon one too, at least for the earlier levels. On the spectrum of background character to fully fleshed out NPC, sages lean toward the former, along with shopkeepers and city guards. Using a sage would be a pretty streamlined process—you pay them some money and they have a percentile chance of answering your question. High level PCs can hire out sages just like any other kind of specialist to have on staff in their stronghold. 

Races

There is one race: the human ra- For the purposes of this kind of campaign there are humans and then everything else. If there are elves and dwarves and halflings they’d be so minor they aren’t relevant to the campaign setting (so you won’t be hanging out in the elf kingdom or helping the dwarves in their war effort against the goblins). Humanoids like orcs and gnolls are soulless monsters in the same category as chimeras and vampires and other things that want you dead. 

There are 10 races. Humans might be the one the campaign is centered around, but demihumans, monstrous humanoids, and a handful of other sapient creatures have a significant presence in the campaign setting. Some are playable, definitely more than one, but probably not all. Within each population is probably a decent amount of variation—there’s more than one type of elf, dwarf, and so on. Each race has at least vaguely defined customs and characteristics that distinguish them mechanically as well as narratively. For instance, if orcs of different tribes encounter each other they may need to save or immediately turn hostile. There may be another, separate intelligent species in a specific adventure location or two, but the point is if you have the four basic races and lizardmen, bird people, and hobgoblins, then the players aren’t going to be regularly running into bugbears, kobolds, and gnomes on their adventures.  


There are 1000000 races. Everything and the kitchen sink. There’s probably a nice meaty d20 list of races to roll on for character creation and implied even more in the game world. One session the players might be fighting the axolotl-men, the next they might be trying to impress the king of the coatimundi-men, the next they’re stealing treasure from the red-lipped-batfish-men. Here, races are treated less as distinct species and more as distinct people-groups. There’s almost certainly going to be that ren-faire quality some settings have where when you go to the city you’re greeted by a minotaur guard as a family of myconids walk by.

Magic items.

There is (around) one magic item (per player). In this kind of game finding a magic item is a huge, campaign-defining moment. Any magic item that shows up would be an incredible differentiator for the party and also potentially the mcguffin around which an entire adventure is centered. 

There are 10 magic items. Maybe in this circumstance there are 10 of a certain major kind (10 swords, 10 pieces of enchanted jewelry) that have similar provenance and make up the main focus as far as magical treasure is concerned, with other magic items being largely auxiliary. Each item would have one or several open-ended qualities that make them broadly useful while also having some definite drawbacks to limit their utility. Perhaps the drawbacks of one can be mitigated by another, creating a sense of momentum as the players acquire them. The ten magic items could make up the premise of the campaign—"gather each segment of the rod of seven parts"—or they could just be more incidental marks of distinction—"be wary, for the warlord you oppose is said to wield one of the 12 legendary demon blades." The ten magic items don’t also have to have the same origin or be the same kind of object, but they ought to be at least distinguishable as in the same class as one another. Patrick Stuart’s proposed World of 100 Wonders is an example of this kind of setup. 

There are 1000000 magic items. Most are minor, with specific and limited functions that make them handy to have around but not totally gamebreaking. As the PCs explore and find more items it would be like they’re filling out their utility belts, getting more tools to handle incrementally greater challenges and to facilitate new approaches. A lot of these items would probably be consumable like potions or can only be used a set number of times like wands. I’ve never played Numenera but I think it does something like this with cyphers.  

Dungeons

There is one dungeon. The mega one. This is a classic-style dungeon big enough to accommodate an entire campaign. This is where the DM crams every one of their dungeony ideas. There are levels, sublevels, secret levels, and enough interconnectivity between them to make the dungeon less a thing to get to the end of and more an open environment to explore and manipulate. 

There are 10 dungeons. This is like Legend of Zelda, where each dungeon has some motifs that show up in the puzzles and traps and monsters. Despite the preponderance of dungeons in D&D games I feel this is a rather underutilized concept: a set number of dungeons from the outset, each distinctly themed, where in one you’d find an item or a clue that would help you circumvent an obstacle in another. This kind of game might also represent an inversion of the BX game play progression that starts into players in the dungeon until they get strong enough to explore the wilderness—here players may begin the game with wilderness exploration, with the goal of making it to a dungeon, and then progress as far as they can until they get bored or hit roadblock, and then explore the overworld again until they find another dungeon. 


There are 1000000 dungeons. Everything the players that isn’t exploring dungeons is either moving between dungeons, coming back to town from a dungeon, or setting out to go to a dungeon. Aside from a couple prepared ones, the dungeons in this campaign would likely be procedurally generated on an as-needed basis; players enter a new hex, dice determine they find a dungeon, and then the DM pulls out the geomorphs and the party is on their way. The dungeons would probably be pretty short, punchy, and dense, to prevent them from getting stale and keep the players going through them at a decent clip. 

Further elaboration

  • Truth be told, in most circumstances I can think of 10 is probably too many of a thing to accommodate in one campaign. Five (+ or - 2 of course) is a much more workable number. But I went with 10 to keep it a consistent powers of 10 thing. 
  • If it’s not already clear, the number does not always need to refer to the literal number of people or things—giving knights a 1 could mean there is 1 knight in your campaign or 1 knightly order. 10 could also refer to a knightly order of 10 knights—the difference is that a “1” knightly order would have a strong theme that carries over to every member, but one knight might not be that different than the other. On the other hand in a “10” knightly order each knight is their own character with their own traits and personalities. There might be overlap between the knights to reflect the theme of the knightly order, but each member would reflect the theme in their own way (so if it was an order of space knights, one might have a laser sword and a suit of robot armor, one might be like an astrologer-mystic, one might be a void guy who wears black and doesn’t speak, and so on).
  • I use the term “campaign setting” here a lot, which I mean to refer to the specific locale that the campaign occupies—it could be the entire planet, or it could just be a specific region. If all or most of your campaign takes place within the confines of a 12x12 hex map, that’s the campaign setting regardless of what exists elsewhere in that fantasy world. A thing that you assign a 1 to for your campaign could be much more common elsewhere in the game world, but for the sake of your campaign specifically there is only one. 

What this solves

Every now and then when I’m coming up with stuff for the campaign I struggle to establish how much weight a concept ought to have. Usually I sort of get attached to one approach but then don’t want to close the possibility of a different approach and then I end up with a noncommittal in between that lacks any kind of satisfaction, so I scrap it all and start over. 

With the 1, 10, or 1000000 rule, I have a nice creative constraint upon which to bounce off. It provides a concrete metric of prevalence so there's no more having to sort through competing visions for an ambiguous desired outcome, that being the sort of attention I want something to have in the campaign. 

If I, say, want a lot of different kinds of mercenaries in my game but I’m also mostly just excited about one specific idea I have for a mercenary band, I would have once had that mercenary band be the most fully fleshed out and only vaguely gesture at the existence of other mercenary armies through random encounters and rumors the players may not even pay attention to. The 1, 10, or 1000000 rule resolves this by dictating that mercenary bands should either be ubiquitous enough that any distinction is no more than window dressing, there should be a defined amount of different mercenary bands in the area, or there should just be the one band that about every mercenary in the campaign belongs to. Each is a valid course, and more importantly they do away with the ambiguity that exists between my concept for the mercenary band and how mercenaries actually show up in the campaign. 

Ultimately, the rule is for clarity and decisiveness. Using it lets each choice feel intentional.

It might go without saying but this rule isn't applicable to every circumstance. Sometimes it's fine to have a group of things somewhere in the middle of 1 and 10 or 10 and 1000000. Traps in a dungeon, for instance—the should be prevalent but not everywhere, they don't need to be put into a categorizable, and there shouldn't just be one trap or kind of trap unless your dungeons really small. 

So like most rules of thumb, it's best to use when you get stuck or want to try a new approach.   


Friday, October 18, 2024

Whale's breath

The long-awaited conclusion to the Flying Island adventure. The final session may have been many months ago but the memories last forever or something. Part IPart II

Classic scenario: you and your buddies are exploring the undercroft of a temple complex only for one of them to get bisected by a giant halberd-wielding statue after he tried to open a sarcophagus. 

The party took a moment to rifle through his belongings mourn their lost ally and then chiseled off the mechanical statue arms. Then it was onto the sarcophagus. Ignoring the disarmed statues' futile swings they found a sallow corpse adorned in fine chain burial shroud (snagged), a golden death mask (also snagged), and a dusky pendent clutched in the corpse's hand (snagged, and then donned by Slyq the thief whose player immediately was like "this is definitely cursed isn't it"). The tomb, further searched, yielded no more secrets. 

As one exploration turn passed to the next, a rustling was heard from back passageway. The party looks and lo—two tengu-men lurk in the darkness, unsure of whether to engage while the party is occupied or retreat and gather more of their brethren. But before they have a chance to act, Gront icily sends one to the hereafter with an arrow through the throat. The other lets out a terrified "yip!" as it flees into the darkness. The party takes a moment to assess what just happened, decides they better get a move on, and makes for the nearby stairway leading deeper into the crypts.

Emerging into a spacious corridor, the party takes stock of the scene. The air in the great crypt is choked with ash and rockdust. Shattered ceramics and masonry litter the floor. Walls that once held ordered rows of funerary urns are scored by deep claw marks and smashed by heavy impact. All signs indicate a recent rampage of some great and terrible beast. In the distance, lit by some gap in the ceiling an indeterminate span above, a great pile of treasure glistens temptingly—more wealth in one place than anyone in the party, as well everyone they've ever known, has ever seen in their lives. Nearer though, just beyond the edge of torchlight, a lone figure sits crosslegged, facing away toward the distant hoard. 

Now finally the party meets that darn wizard they've heard so much about. After some whispered debate about how to approach, they decide to call out to Zazomel (don't think I've mentioned his name yet) and find that he doesn't immediately turn their insides into outsides or whatever they fear evil wizards do. 

Here's the deal with Zazomel: he's on the flying island to steal the dragon's egg. His plan was to locate lair, find the egg, and use a modified version of Drawmij's Instant Summons to transfer it to his floating tower once he has leaves the island. From an adventure design perspective he was meant in part to provide another way for the players to escape the island if they didn't want to pursue the main adventure. I was inspired by Cave Story, where you get the option to just finish the game 2/3rds of the way through.


Anyway all he tells the party that he came to the island to crush this tiny gemstone here onto the dragon's egg just beyond that pile of looted funerary treasure and be on his way. Innocuous, right? He was going to wait for the dragon to go on its crepuscular hunting sweep but for whatever reason (PCs look around awkwardly) the dragon was woken up a few hours ago. Now not only could be back at any moment but it's whole schedule might be thrown off and Zazomel here hasn't another day to lose. If someone in the party would just be willing to assume the small risk of getting swooped on by the dragon to just push the aforementioned gemstone into the egg, Zazomel would happily give them a lift on his magic tower. 

Now, the party has ample reason not to go along with this guy: aside from the clear danger and suspiciousness of it all, they had encountered his henchman a few sessions ago who told them all this guy was a jackass and not to be trusted. But on the other hand, this is exciting and when you're level 1 it's pretty easy to say "why not?" Party decides to help Zazomel and in return he would make sure they get to the Mistral Horn safely. 

Slyq the thief's time to shine. There is a not-insignificant chance the dragon might come back to its hoard since the runaway tengu may have informed it that the intruders were in the undercroft. But the dice decided that was not to be. Gem in hand, Slyq circumnavigated the hoard and entered the small offshoot chamber with the egg. Pausing for a brief moment for dramatic effect, she cast the gem upon the pearlescent egg's shell and then scampered cat-like back to the party (but not before swiping a handful of gold and jewels from the hoard, 1d50x10 sp in the bag). With that over Zazomel says "great follow me to the Horn."

The wizard ally drops an Invisibility 10’ Radius to get everyone around the tengu now patrolling the undercroft and then the party uses a twisty key they picked up a few rooms back to activate a giant cube elevator.

It leads them too... a pavilion atop a tower, enringed with ornate columns. On the eastern edge of the pavilion: a giant bone alphorn covered in intricate silvery etchings. the Mistral Horn! But wait—the gale picks up, the sky thunders but no lightning's in sight. Suddenly, the green dragon swoops in from out of view and tears off a portion of the roof to make space for it to land. A brief pause to spread its wings menacingly, and then it addresses the party: It's all "you have the honor of beholding the majesty of Smaragd, the Poison Storm; forfeit your treasure and swear fealty to me." The players are in a conundrum. To one side, 20' away, the Mistral Horn. To the other, also 20' away, a dragon glares at them expectantly. Zazomel is nowhere to be found. 

As the players desperately scan their character sheets for inspiration, someone's like "how about that stinky cloud potion?"  There's a moment where everyone's all "should- should we throw it?" but then, of course, they go for it. Slyq tosses the potion at the ground directly in front of the dragon, Amos the Cleric makes a break for the horn. The dragon fails its save and begins to wretch. Amos gets to the horn, takes a deep breath, and empties his lungs into the mouthpiece. The blast splits the air, clearing the sky of clouds. Moments later, another tone could be heard as though in response, coming from something far away. An undulating fish-like form manifests in the sky, approaching the tower. The Ancient has awakened from its slumber. 


The winged whale unleashes another low, resonant call. The party feels but a gentle breeze, but the dragon, still reeling from the stinking cloud, gets blasted away team-rocket style. The Ancient regards the party for some minutes, and then in a low resonant voice it thanks them for waking it. That marks the end of the session, and the conclusion to the Flying Island adventure. 

---

The session ran pretty late already but I wanted to give the players a conclusion, so I emailed them some end cards like you see in old video games where the epilogue changes based on your decisions. 







And a little bonus:

Somewhere, in a black tower sailing through the sky...

Zazomel withdraws from his robe a small, clear gem. Once it had a perfect twin, but just the one remains. He stands in a darkened room, cleared of all furnishings save for a motley arrangement of pillows and cushions that loosely encircle a chalk "X" marked upon the floor. He allows himself a second to savor the moment—all the searching, all the scheming, all the sacrifice has led to this. In a sudden movement he casts the crystal upon the chalk-marked floor. Sparks of weird energy fly as it shatters, and in the same instant a pearlescent dragon egg appears in its place.

Thursday, September 26, 2024

Pushing buttons

The common wisdom, popularized by Arnold K. here and recently invoked by Josh McCroo here, goes that active abilities are superior to passive bonuses because they present players with a decision about when and where to use their abilities, which is conducive to strategy and fulfilling gameplay. Passive features lack this decision, and are further dinged by the fact that they tend to be forgettable, boring, and detached from the game world in favor of numbers and abstractions. 

Of course I’m sure active feature advocates would agree that "active > passive in all cases" is too simple but statements like “talents should be active” and “never use small, passive bonuses” have a tendency to convince people, especially newcomers, that passive features are bad and active ones are better simply by nature of being active. Even worse, some may fall into the trap of thinking that any feature can be good as long as it is active, or that making a feature active is enough to make it well-designed. 

Unfortunately, no amount of “rules are meant to be broken” and “these are just guidelines, really” can fix that; what this calls for is cold, ruthless polemic: 

ACTIVE ABILITIES SUCK.

Just playin'. 

It's true that active features can be really fun, and are often more compelling than passive features. But there are flaws active features may fall victim to, which we've probably all seen before. What follows is an attempt to articulate the biggest of these problems and what can be done to avoid them. 

1. Too prescriptive

Consider the following: 

Taruk the fighter was raised amongst the clans of the high steppe, and so gets a +1 bonus to attacks with bows.

vs. 

Taruk the fighter was raised amongst the clans of the high steppe, and so once per combat he can make two bow attacks in one round. 

The former implies a general familiarity with bows that one might expect from growing up in an archery-centric culture, whereas the latter implies the character's familiarity with the bow allows them to perform a technique. 

The way I see it, the latter ability is appropriate form more tactically involved game like 4e, where combat is the primary way characters interface with the game, or for special enemies that merit an easily recognizable distinguishing quality. 

But for PCs in more old-school-style games, there is a bit of dissonance when a very videogamey once-per-combat ability is meant to convey the sum total of an upbringing spent with a bow in hand. A passive bonus, while less dynamic, does a better job at conveying the sense that this character is from a specific place and thus has a specific background, distinct from those who were raised elsewhere. 

One might argue that you can use flavor to better situate the latter ability: because Taruk is learned in the ways of the high steppe clans, once per combat he can clear his mind, invoke the spirit of the Great Eagle, and unleash two arrows in a single round. This does a better job at making the ability seem an extenion of the PC's background, but in practice still only communicates that background in a single discrete action. Plus, you can use flavor in just the same way for the passive bonus to make it "feel" like an active one: because Taruk is learned in the ways of the high steppe clans, his daily prayers to his ancestors grant him +1 to bow attacks as the Great Eagle guides his arrows. 

Rule of thumb #1: Active features are generally better at embodying discrete talents and capabilities than they are at describing broad, general competencies.

2. Too dissociated 

A bunch of people have said it before but I'll say it again: dissociated mechanics are pretty lame. Take the healing surge ability from later editions as an example: You press a figurative button and your character heals. Why? Because of some abstract immaterial quality like "fighting spirit." Why can you only do this an arbitrary amount of times per day? Because 1. the game would break if there wasn't any limit to this kind of ability and 2. it would break the verisimilitude if a character to just recovering all the time, but not if they recover only some of the time. This is the issue with dissociated mechanics; they apply unroleplayable elements to a roleplaying game. With that being said, dissociated mechanics are somewhat of a necessity in TTRPGs, some are better tolerated than others, and passive features can be dissociated as well. But active features a greater number of factors (in the form of limitations and conditions, such as how frequently a feature can be used and how long the active ability lasts) that open the door for disruptive dissociation to a greater extent than passive features.

As Justin Alexander explains in his essay linked above, dissociated mechanics can be avoided if there's a material component to the feature—a special tattoo, an intricate hand gesture, a magic item—that keeps it grounded in the game world.

Rule of thumb #2: Avoid dissociation where possible by tying the feature to something tangible.

3. Too Limiting 

Pushing buttons is fun. Who doesn't like buttons? We love buttons. But to paraphrase the aphorism about hammers and nails, when all you have are buttons every problem looks like an opportunity to push a button. 

"The answer is not on your character sheet" is an oft-discussed axiom in the OSR. It's a bit of an overstatement, and rational people can disagree on how useful or accurate it is as a game imperative, but the case still stands that active "button press" abilities may limit how players interact with the game in circumstances where such abilities offer too much of an easy out. 

For instance: you're in a 5e game and the PCs are trying to get past a guard dog. You could try to come up with a way to distract or befriend it, but one of the characters has a +7 to their Animal Handling skill so they press the Animal Handling button and the problem is solved, no thinking necessary. Obviously a good DM would ensure the skill check is rolled only after the players describe what they do, but even if that were the case the system still encourages players to filter how they interface with the game through the features on their character sheets as opposed to the circumstances within the game world. 

Rule of thumb #3: Active features benefit from having clear, specific functions and limitations to prevent them from being too easy to rely on.

4. Too many moving parts


The unfortunate consequence of active features is that by necessity they require designing not just the feature itself but also when it can be activated, how frequently, for how long, and any other mechanic or knock-on effect that the feature influences. This can be a lot to keep track of for DMs and players alike.  

Passive features can be forgettable or excessively fiddly if they don't do enough, but active features can be the same if they do too much. The details of a dynamic feature can take up a lot of real estate, both mentally and on the character sheet. 

I've seen games before where features that one could reasonably assume players would use multiple times per session have tables players need to roll on every time they use the ability. That means rolling multiple dice, consulting tables that must be kept at hand, and interpreting results every time a basic feature is used. All I'll say is that it doesn't sound like the best use of time and effort at the table. 

Rule of thumb #4: Either keep active features elegant and streamlined, or, if they must be complicated, strive to make each aspect of the feature resonant enough to stick in the mind of the player. 

Wizard jpg to close us out:


Saturday, August 31, 2024

Quick character backgrounds & starting gear

Fed up with the fact that buying gear is a major bottleneck in the otherwise exquisitely streamlined character creation process, I took it upon myself to give my players the option to speed up the process.

Combining backgrounds and starting items is not an original idea but it's perfect for what I'm trying to do so foolish not to. I'm definitely of the camp that a character's background should be largely unimportant (i.e. the interesting events in a character's life is what goes on in the game, not what happened before), but anyone who plays long enough will tell you having some history can enrich a characters and give the players and DM more levers over the course of the game. Broad, non-specific backgrounds are enough to get over the creative hurdle of starting from scratch while still providing enough blank space to fill in as players desire. The format here is largely aped from what Mr. Warren D. put at the bottom of this post here so thanks to him for getting the ball rolling.

Cleric

Hit dice: d6

Start with wooden holy symbol. Abilities: Turn Undead

Saving throws: D11, M12, P14, B16, S15

  1. Traveling monk. Leather armor, quarterstaff, sling & pouch w/ 50 bullets, alms bowl, animal friend
  2. Fringe heretic. Chain mail, mace, sling & pouch w/ 50 bullets, flagrant apocrypha (as random 3rd-level MU scroll), mark of censure
  3. Mystic Initiate. Chain mail, warhammer, esoteric writings, 2 1st-level spell scrolls
  4. Pawn of prophecy. Chain mail, shield, mace, revelatory visions (ask dm yes/no question once per session)
  5. (L) Fervent zealot. Plate mail, mace, shield, 6 cones of incense, vial of holy water (C) Cult fanatic. Chain mail, battle axe, wavy dagger, ceremonial chalice, vial of unholy water
  6. (L) Roving adjudicator. Plate mail, war hammer, adjudicator’s baton (C) Doomsayer. Chain mail, halberd, doleful horn

[Note: chaos clerics can use bladed weapons at the expense of not being able to wear plate armor. As such, entries 5 and 6 vary depending on the character's alignment.)

FIGHTER

Hit dice: d8

Abilities: Cleave (attack again after felling a foe in melee)

Saving throws: D12, M13, P14, B15, S16

  1. Hinterland barbarian. Loincloth, hand axe, dagger, Fury (+1 melee damage when unarmored)
  2. Commoner survivor. Leather armor, spear, sling & pouch w/ 50 bullets, tragic backstory
  3. Wandering swordsman. Chain mail, 2-handed sword, hand axe, expertise in 2 non-combat-specific skills
  4. Renegade headhunter. Chain mail, battle axe, crossbow & case w/ 30 bolts, dagger, 1d8 bloodstained contracts
  5. Road warden. Chain mail, mace, crossbow & case w/ 30 bolts, warden badge, riding horse
  6. Questing retainer. Plate mail, shield, sword, silver dagger, noble seal


MAGIC-USER

Hit dice: d4

Start with spell book, writing set, and dagger. Abilities: Spell Casting 

Saving throws: D13, M14, P13, B16, S15

  1. Witch’s pet. Sewing kit, bag of teeth, distinguishing curse
  2. Wasteland weirdo. Knobby staff, unsettling mask, strange fungus
  3. Gene freak. Two mutations, random potion
  4. Radical occultist. Chalk, 3 candles, 2 oil flasks
  5. Mercurial drifter. Pipe & 20 pinches of pipeweed, 12 fireworks, pack ape (2 HD)
  6. Scholar savant. Book (answers 2d4 questions on a random subject), 2 1st-level spell scrolls


THIEF

Hit dice: d4

Start with thieves' tools and leather armor. Abilities: Sneak Attack (+4 to hit, x2 damage against unsuspecting targets), Thief Skills (Climb sheer surfaces, find/remove traps, hear noise, hide in shadows, move silently, open locks, pick pockets; each starts at 2-in-12 chance of success. Get 8 points to distribute at first level, 4 every level thereafter—1 point improves success chance of a skill by 1.)

Saving throws: D13, M14, P13, B16, S15

  1. Scrappy delinquent. Club, dagger, 1d6 lame tattoos 
  2. Artful dodger. Short sword, dagger, sling & pouch w/ 50 bullets, escape razor concealed in wristband 
  3. Rakish smuggler. Sword, short bow & quiver w/ 20 arrows, stolen riding horse 
  4. Treasure hunter. Sword, whip, +2 pieces of gear 
  5. Tinkerer technician. War hammer, crossbow & case w/ 30 bolts, trap kit 
  6. Dashing gambler. Sword, 2 silver daggers, dice and cards, 50% start with an extra 1d6x100 sp, otherwise that much in debt.


Each character starts with a backpack w/ bedroll, flint & steel, 3 iron rations, 3 torches, a sack, and 3d6 sp. Additionally, roll or choose twice on the following list:


  1. Crowbar

  2. Iron spikes (10) + hammer

  3. Lantern

  4. Steel mirror

  5. 10’ pole

  6. 50’ hemp rope

  7. Grappling hook

  8. Holy water

  9. Oil flask 

  10. Twine (1000’)

  11. Air bladder

  12. Small bottle

  13. Bag of marbles

  14. Pouch of salt, flour, or sand

  15. Rags (10)

  16. Chalk or charcoal stick

  17. Candles (3)

  18. Live chicken

  19. Pickaxe or shovel

  20. Grease or lard (enough to cover 20’x20’ area)

Tuesday, August 13, 2024

You've heard of the Flail Snail, now get ready for...

 The MORNINGSTAR SCORPION!


HD: 6 AC: 3 Attacks: 4 x Morningstar claw (crush 1d12 or grasp 1d6 + grab), sting (1d4 + poison)  Move: 150' (50') Morale: 10 No. Appearing: 1 Alignment: Chaotic 

Morningstar claw: Each claw has 8 hp (separate from the main hp total) and becomes useless when reduced to 0. The Morningstar Scorpion flees if all claws are destroyed. Grabbed foes are automatically hit by subsequent grasp attacks and the Morningstar Scorpion gets a +2 bonus to sting attacks against them.

Poison: Save or suffer debilitating pain and hallucinations for 1d6 turns, afterward save again or die. 

The thorny protrusions covering the Morningstar Scorpion's chitin impose a -2 penalty to melee attackers unless they are wield a spear or pole arm. The spikes also permeate the ethereal realm, causing snares in the plasmic effluence that disrupt magic. When the Morningstar Scorpion is targeted by a spell, roll 1d6: 1-2 spell fails 3-4 spell targets a random other creature in range 5-6 spell functions as normal. 

The Morningstar Scorpion is immune to poison and fire, but has weak vision in full daylight (-2 to attacks) and may become disoriented by bright lights. 

A morningstar scorpion is as big as a draft horse and usually attacks things on sight. They tend to live in deserts and caves, lying dormant for long periods of time before becoming active in the presence of potential prey. While none have managed to train a morningstar scorpion, hobgoblins have been said to capture and use them as opponents in their nightmarish fighting pits. 

Also available for purchase here and at an oddities shop I visited in Portland OR.

Wednesday, July 31, 2024

Some gods of Chaos

I had a player express interest in seeing a list of deity options available for his chaos cleric so I put together a list based on a bunch of ideas I've been sitting on. Here it is, adapted from the handout I added to the hallowed archives of our game's email thread: 

The Burning Eye

Purview: Madness, paranoia, delusions, psionics, and corrupting knowledge.
Other titles/incarnations: The Eye of Terror, the Fear, the Red Gaze
Symbol: An eye aflame, usually with a pinprick red pupil encircled by a blue iris.
Boon: +10%/level chance of having psionic powers and you get to test every time you level up. +5% experience if you have at least one Psionic number on your sheet.
Constraint: Between adventures, must spend at least 1 day/level tending to your manias, nursing migraines, and doing similar activities that prevent you from more productive ventures.
 

Rintrah

Purview: Wrath, rebellion, discord, vengeance, and conflict.
Other titles/incarnations: Abaddon, Breaker, the Bloodied One
Symbol: A bloody fist, typically emblazoned on bronze.
Boon: +10% experience from combat
Constraint: Offenses against you cannot be forgiven.
 

Clopan

Purview: Fortune, trickery, absurdity, and mirth. Also associated with insubstantial signifiers and imperfect representations.
Other titles/incarnations: Lady Luck, Old Quicksilver, the Fool
Symbol: Any trinket or object of value the bearer deems a token of good luck functions as a symbol of Clopan. The major cult of Clopan employs the image of a two-thumbed hand (like the gonzo fist) clutching a coin.
Boon: +5% experience from carousing
Constraint: Must never back down from an earnest wager.

The Faceless God

Purview: Mutability, transience, mutation, and oozes.
Other titles/incarnations: Changer, Juiblex, the Great Glistener
Symbol: Green slime, usually in a small vial worn around the neck.
Boon: +5% experience when you have 3 or more mutations.
Constraint: Must not maintain a fixed identity (followers interpret this differently; some do everything in their power to diminish their ego, others invent a new persona every few months, etc.)

Orcus

Purview: Ruin, entropy, decay, and undeath. Ruler of Sheol, the psychotropic ur-dungeon at the bottom of creation. 
Other titles/incarnations: The Rotting One, the Goat, Lord Ruin
Symbol: Goat skull
Boon: +1 to rebuke undead rolls
Constraint: Must sacrifice a creature of hit dice equal or greater than yours before you can level up.

The Queen of the Night

Purview: Darkness, the occult, witchery, and beauty.
Other titles/incarnations: The Lady of Darkness, the Silent Queen, the Occulted One.
Boon: Extra 1st level spell slot. Can use magic-user scrolls in addition to those for clerics.
Constraint: Must keep as much about yourself a secret as possible. For every intimate detail someone knows about you, they get +1 to saving throws against your magic.

Idnach

Purview: Predation, instinct, brutality, and might. The mother of monsters.
Other titles/incarnations: Tiamat, Angrboða, the Great Serpent.
Symbol: A claw or fang marked with the eight-pointed star of chaos.
Boon: Natural weapon. Your unarmed attacks deal 1d4 damage. 
Constraint: Must eat a portion (typically the heart, but it doesn’t matter) of every mortal creature you kill. 
 

Notes 

  • There are several reasons why I wanted to make these.
  1.  Chaos is cool, and Chaos Lords are very cool. Outlining the main Chaos deities (for surely there are more) gives me the opportunity to define what chaos is for my campaign—chaos is madness, chaos is wrath, chaos is mutability, and so on. Chaos for my campaign is not so much like the Ruinous Powers from Warhammer, which represent an antagonistic force so terrible that even the most cruel and inhuman alternatives can be justified. Yes Chaos are the bad guys, but I wanted to provide conceptual space for chaos to be a benevolent force as well as the villain, and not just in edge cases.
  2. These provide neat frameworks for thinking. With the seven themes of chaos come seven potential cults, seven different evil high priests, seven potential classes of demons, mutations, artifacts, etc. That's a pretty deep well to draw from. Also hopefully they are compelling to the players. First and foremost I want them to be excited to play around with these guys.
  3. More defined deities reign in Chaos-aligned PCs so they don't just play chaotic stupid every time. This hasn't been too much of a problem for our game so far, though the campaign is still young and there have already been a couple entertaining yet headscratching moments.
  • I wanted to make the boons rather minor, and I think I succeeded. Some people think small static bonuses are boring, but I appreciate them as a tool to suggest the presence of a modifying factor without swinging the balance of the game too much. 
  • I like the term "constraint" more than "restriction" for Chaos clerics. "Restrictions" feel too much like a Law thing for me. 

 

Image sources, in order:
1 Talon Abraxas
2 Albrecht Dürer
3 Yoshitaka Amano
4 Benny Marty
5 Todd Lockwood
6 Talon Abraxas
7 KANEKO Tomiyuki

Sunday, June 30, 2024

Cleft in twain

Next session from the Flying Island adventure. Continued from here.

The rest of the party, elsewhere in the temple, had been poking around a sparse room with cloudstuff in place of floor—it felt like stepping on cotton candy. They pass time discovering where the safe spots were amid patches of cloud too insubstantial to hold weight, and otherwise pondering what their next move should be and how long to wait for Hawthorne before heading onward. Suddenly, the temple begins to shake. Streams of dust pour from the ceiling. From outside, sounds of fierce gale and a great winged beast, punctuated by whoops and shouts of frenzied tengu-men. It was decided unanimously among the party that whatever had happened, their absent comrade was to blame. 

Meanwhile, knocked on his ass but otherwise unharmed, Hawthorne the cleric felt he had done enough for the time being and decided to rejoin the party. As the temple quaked around him, he made his way back to where he initially split and stood before the passageway everyone else opted to take. It was a covered walk, exposed to the outside. Dragon sounds and angry tengu flapping past made it clear there was some risk to crossing. But luck was in his favor, and the party once more was whole. 

Cosimo Galluzzi

Traveling north, the party enters a storage/maintenance room. The chamber was secure enough that the room barely trembled, yet a flurry of stirges (wouldn't be a 1st level OSR adventure without them) nonetheless were agitated by the commotion and rushes at the PCs. A few quick and dirty combat rounds follow, during which time Gront the fighter catches not one but two of flying menaces and stuffs them in a sack. Some blood was lost but otherwise the party was fine, the living trophies a boost to their resolve. It was then that a PC noticed a porthole-style window on the far end of the room, through which all that could be seen was a giant red eye peering back. Slit pupil dilates in a moment of recognition—and then the dragon flies off. No hiding from it now; the great beast knows of the party.  

Undaunted, the PCs thoroughly search the workroom. Slyq the thief discovers a big key and three potions: stinking cloud, ooze formand liquid sword. [Three might have been excessive but I had just finished compiling a d100 list and was eager to put it to use.] Someone pockets a chisel and other stone-working tools and the group moves on.

The tallest tower of the temple lies to the east, where presumably waits the Mistral Horn, but getting there requires crossing a courtyard and climbing a staircase fully exposed to the wind, dragon, and tengu-men, and so was out of the question. Instead, players opt to descend the altar room staircase to see what more the undercroft holds. 

Darting past the stone guardian again (No time to shed tears over Berda's still-bleeding corpse) and crawling over a giant stuck fan in a stagnant circulation vent, the party finds themselves in the tomb of some kind of high priest. A grand sarcophagus covered in fine etchings sits atop a dias, flanked by two statues of armored warriors, oversized halberds gripped in menacing anticipation. 

Dear readers, believe me when I tell you this trap was given ample warning. All but a sign saying something like "the statues will swing at you if you lift the sarcophagus lid without disarming the trigger latch." Maybe I could have made the latch more obvious and threw in a corpse or two but alas I felt it fair enough as it was. 

And here is where poor Hawthorne's luck ran out: with the aid of Gront the fighter, the two PCs throw care to the wind and lift the sarcophagus' lid. The rest of the party stands by watching, deciding it best to just let their two headstrong companions do their thing. Just as the faintest glimmer of treasure could be spied within the casket, the mechanized statues click to action and swing their fearsome weapons. Saves are rolled; Gront dodges just in time to avoid the worst of the blow, earning a clean cut to the arm. But, regaining his bearing, he hears the cries of shock and dismay of the rest of the party. His deceased comrade was split in two, twain halves cleft by the now-dormant statuary.