[Wholehearted Endorsement]

Just a quick break in the (in)action to plug a product that I'm happy to endorse.

John Stater (of NOD fame) has just put out the "Switzerland of the edition wars" retro-clone, Blood & Treasure. I was lucky enough to be in on the playtesting; it runs pretty smooth, and it holds common sense in high esteem - which is a major plus! Simple, fast-paced, and old-skool...

Anyway, check it out on Lulu. I'm enjoying it a lot.

-Nation

There's a world going on, underground...

In our last episode, three of our stalwart protagonists were trapped far below the earth in a room with a multitude of the undying, while the fourth attempts to effect their rescue. Nyatar, the half-orc priest of Horus, turns to face the nameless horror emerging from the main sarcophagus, just as Hoko and Napoleon get back-to-back to take on the half-dozen skeletal figures that advance upon them.

As the heavy stone lid of the large stone box slid to the side, there was a hissing of air; a sickly greenish glow emanated from within, and a mailed fist gripped the edge of the sarcophagus. Praises to Horus spat from Nyatar’s lips as his eyes and arms bulged with righteous fury, as he raised his sickle-sword and lunged at the new threat. His aim went true and the huge curving blade slammed in through the gap, striking whatever lay within an awesome blow. The sarcophagus shook and cracked, and the interior glow blinked out.

Hoko and Napoleon fought tooth and nail, dodging and striking back as bony claws ripped at them from every angle. With bow and knife they struggled, but were overcome; Napoleon fell first, knocked cold by a terrible strike to the face, and Hoko fell soon after, his ribs cracked by a skeletal fist. More and more skeletons pulled free of the walls as Nyatar grimly joined the fray... until a heavy grinding sound filled the chamber and torchlight once again shone on the room.

Narrowly dodging the doom that had befallen Jake, Furok and Archibald had remained in the tomb’s antechamber as the stone slab fell with a crash. They quickly lit a torch and addressed the blocked entrance. His muscles bulging with the strength of desperation, Furok gripped the door tight and lifted. Straining mightily, he lifted the thick stone slab until it caught on something just inside the lintel. Drawing his sword, he waded into the chaotic scene. Together, the three conscious companions felled the remaining creatures, Nyatar’s holy words driving them into a corner where they were easily dispatched. Magical energies awakened Hoko and Napoleon, and the group set about exploring the chamber.

Within the main sarcophagus lay a huge human corpse, its features mangled by untold years; at its feet lay a blade in a rotting sheath. When held to the light, however, the blade appeared to be untouched by the ravages of time, intricate writing inscribed along its edge.

Leaving behind Jake's gelatinous remains the explorers investigated the remainder of the level; they immediately happened upon a room filled with a variety of torturous machination as well as a series of cells containing piled human remains, dessicated with age. A message in a strange tongue was scrawled across the far wall in the largest cell, but having no means of translation our heroes had to settle for mere transcription.

As the group made their way through the cells, Furok (weilding the newly-discovered longsword) began to experience strange sensations. At first, he began feeling as if he were being followed or that there was someone standing behind him. Gradually, he began to hear a voice - faint at first, but growing stronger. The voice spoke in an unfamiliar tongue, always seeming to come from behind his ear. The voice would spill out a sentence or two, but would always come back to a single word: "Voss". Over and over, the voice repeated the syllable, "Voss". Furok finally consulted his comrades, but none could shed any light on the matter.

The quintet managed to map the extent of the level without further incident, except for Napoleon receiving a rather nasty giant centipede bite. Retracing their steps led them to the main shaft, the staircase beckoning them downwards. Forming up behind the hulking figure of Furok, the group headed deeper in the void. Another quarter-revolution and thirty vertical feet left them at the tapering end of the staircase, still thirty feet above the bottom of the shaft.

Before them stood another sealed door, less ornate than the first but no less solidly built and sporting a flowery script above the lintel. As for entree, however, the group was stumped - no amount of ranger muscle or crowbar-work could force the doorway open. Just when frustration was beginning to peak, Archibald the druid of Pluto stepped forward, rolling back his sleeves. Arcane words in a lilting sing-song voice filled the cavern as he thrust his hands against, and then into, the stone door. With a circular motion (sort of like kneading pizza dough, but in reverse), Archibald managed to open a hole in the door and gradually widen it to about three feet in diameter. A rush of stale air met them, and the group filed into the room beyond.

A ghastly sight lay in wait, the flickering torch revealing two skeletons in iron gibbets, fastened to the wall of the twenty-foot-square room; a latchless door lay beyond. The wary group tried various methods of provoking the skeletons into some form of animation, but all attempts failed. Opening the door, the group ventured on. The chamber beyond was much, much larger - sixty feet by 120 feet, with the adventurers entering on one of the short sides. Those members with alternate means of sight were able to discern a dais in the far third of the room, with some sort of sculpture or statue seated in a large stone chair. Four apparent braziers stood off each corner of the square dais, on top of tall metal poles set into the floor. Four other doors went off in several directions.

And then several things happened, simultaneously.

About thirty seconds after entering the large hall, a cold blue light and horrid screaming noise emanated from the small room they'd just left; the members closest to the door could see that the gibbeted skeletons were thrashing in their cages, heads tilted back, eyes and mouth ablaze with unholy light. At the same time, the four braziers in the large exploded into blue flame, illuminating the chamber. At that instant, the figure on the stone chair snapped its head up, its eyes burning a fierce scarlet. In the bright light, the group could see that the figure was wrapped from head to toe in leather straps that wound tightly around its body; faint glyphs and writings could be seen on the wrappings. The figure slowly stood, and set one foot forward.

The party responded - Furok drew his newly-acquired sword (complete with the repeated word "Voss" in his ear), Nyatar began to chant the battle song of Horus, Archibald drew his stone hammer, and Napoleon dissolved into a frenzied panic as supernatural fear washed over him. Hoko, his spells expended, ran to comfort Napoleon. As the stalwart trio advanced, the voice in Furok's ear rose to a crescendo, fairly screaming the word "Voss" at him. Almost by itself, the word formed on the ranger's lips and he spoke the syllable. The bright sword erupted in a gout of flame, fiery symbols now visible along the blade. His eyes wide, Furok now jumped into the fray with renewed confidence.

The leather-wrapped figure walked slowly down the steps of the dais and towards the advancing men. Furok stabbed the creature, but to little effect. A hearty blow from Nyatar's mace was turned neatly aside, and a formidable blow sent the half-orc reeling. Archibald managed to crack the being on the back of its head with his hammer before receiving a thunderous punch to his chest which sent him skidding across the floor, breathless. The figure advanced upon the prone druid, its eyes burning furiously.

At that moment Furok, his shield caved in from the creature's awesome fists, ran up behind the creature and swung with all his might. The fiery sword carved a blazing arc through the stale air, tracing past the being's neck. The creature took another step, and paused. Like a tree it fell slowly forward, the leather-wrapped head tumbling separately off to the side. The braziers winked out of existence. Panting, the company stood and gawked at their fallen foe. In his ear, Furok heard a chuckling sound and the word "Ligh". His heart hammering and his cheeks flushed with victory, Furok mounted the steps of the dais and walked to the stone chair. Seating himself with a satisfied smile, he laid the pommel of the sword on the arm of the chair and spoke the new word. The fiery blade sputtered out, leaving the chamber in darkness.

It was at that moment that the stone chair exploded...

Frog-pocalypse

Think this... but the size
of your dishwasher.

Our intrepid heroes have shrugged off their collective reservations and begun their descent into the depths of the earth. Coming across the remains of a fellow traveler did nothing to shake their resolve, but the sudden appearance of huge hound-sized frogs has given the party something to ponder. A melee ensues...

The cries of men and clash of arms are punctuated by a horrific croaking as the party pulls together for the common defense. Nyatar begins chanting, calling upon the righteous might of Horus and wielding his sickle-sword, as Furok skillfully slices into the ranks of outsized amphibians. The rest of the band is not quite as effective - Napoleon's arrows fly wide; Archibald's hammer cracks repeatedly against the walls and flagstones; torch-bearer Jake's screams are punctuated by a cloud of sparks as he flails wildly with the party's only light source. Of the others, only Hoko the lawyer/mage finds a measure of success, digging into the wriggling frog-flesh with his long knife.

In the end, the party catches its collective breath and surveys the field (or corridor) of battle: three giant frogs lie dead, one lies smooshed beneath Furok's shield, and a fifth lies dead at the bottom of the eighty-foot shaft that borders the stairway that winds downwards. Basking in the evidence of their own superiority, the party heads down the sloping passage towards the first landing, a quarter-revolution around the hole's perimeter.

They are met by a door that has neither key nor latch, surrounded by an ornate enameled entryway decorated with strange symbols in an unknown language. Hoko and Napoleon scribble furiously, copying down the writing. Some deft crowbar work and a little elbow-grease from Furok and Nyatar are sufficient to pry the door open and wedge it; after an initial hissing rush of stale air, a dark passageway extends before the group. With the elven burglar tapping inexpertly at the floor with the pommel of his knife and peering into corners, the party creeps down the deathly-silent corridor until they reach a "T" junction, with another strange latch-less door in front of them.

Following a brief debate, the group opts to pry open the door directly ahead of them. Inside, there are two stone chests and small empty sconces for oil-lamps; to the right lies an empty doorway, opening into a much larger chamber. Plunder fever washes over the party, and Archibald's half-hearted admonishments fall upon deaf ears. The chests are broken open to reveal a meager hoard: a scant hundred gold pieces and about double that number in silver and copper, all coins being of a strange hexagonal shape and bearing the same bizarre script from the initial doorway to this level.

From the chests, all eyes turn to the chamber beyond. Nyatar, Hoko and Napoleon lead the way into the chamber, with the rest of the group following. A cursory glance shows a number of skeletons scattered across the floor by the door, with a number of others chained to the walls. More than a dozen large stone boxes are neatly arranged across the floor of the cavernous room, with another huge box on top of a stone dais. Nyatar heads for the dais, while Hoko and Napoleon examine the skeletons.

At this point, two things occur nearly simultaneously:

• A horrid grinding noise comes from the doorway into the inner chamber as a huge stone slab come slamming down into the opening... as Jake is halfway through the doorway. His eyes bulge in horror and he makes to leap forward - but he stumbles, unsure whether to go forward or back. There is a hoarse cry, a loud crunch, followed by silence and darkness as the slab crushes both Jake and the party's only lit torch.
• The darkness within the inner chamber last but a moment before it is replaced with a cold unnatural illumination. A pallid blue glow emanates from sixteen pair of empty eye sockets as the skeletons all rise from the floor. Eleven of them begin yanking madly at their rusty chains, threatening to break free from the wall, while the five unfettered skeletons begin to advance.

Hoko and Napoleon draw their arms and move back-to-back to protect one another. Nyatar draws his sickle-sword and begins to chant his praises to Horus... His words almost freeze upon his lips as he glances back over his shoulder, certain that the stone slab covering the large sarcophagus on the dais is beginning to move...

Back on the horse

Yeah, it's been a long time since I last published, and I'd almost given it up. But I felt bad about leaving the story half- (or less) told, just in case somebody was following along.

So I'm going to strive to get current over the next week or so, cuz there's some crazy sh*t that's been happening in the game...

Geography lesson

So, in the interest of gradually (i.e. much too slowly) illuminating the world that I've thrust my players into, I though that I'd give the broad-stroke background.

(Incidentally, until I'm able to get a map loaded on here, a narrative description will have to suffice...)

Yrth (imaginative, no?) is a world like many others in the multiverse of Prime Material planes, with a broad range of climate zones. A world-sea surrounds the single major continent, which coils round the globe roughly southeast-to-northwest. The northwest portion extends up into the arctic circle, while the southeast portion wraps beneath it in the southern hemisphere and enfolds an almost entirely-enclosed inner sea roughly the size of Africa. The northwest portion of the uber-continent is known as the "head" of the world-serpent, while the curling southeast portion is its "tail".

The territories that make up the region of Wilusa lie in the northwest of the super-continent, along the northern edge of the White Sea; to continue the anthropomorphic metaphor, Wilusa lies at the "jaw-line" of the world-serpent's "head". The major city-states lie along the coastline at a latitude of around 55 to 60 degrees north, roughly the same as Juneau (Alaska), Oslo, Stockholm, and Edinburgh. The winters are harsh, to be sure, but the extremely high range of mountains that surrounds the region (the "Teeth of Ymir"), combined with the relatively mild influence of the ocean to the south, creates a passable growing season. Indeed, winters in Wilusa are far less hellish than those just a few score leagues north or west of the Teeth, where the wind can strip a body to the bone and men are said to be beasts and cannibals.

Wilusa proper used to be one of the furthest arms of the far-flung Nomoan Empire (thank you, Mister Stater). When the Empire began to fold in upon itself, six centuries ago, the outlying principalities were forced to become more self-reliant.

To Wilusa's west, across a long spur of the Teeth of Ymir that reaches the coast, are the lands of the Rhun, a conglomeration of different tribes and clans whose only real common denominator is their disdain for "civilization" and its weaknesses. Rhunish raids into Wilusa have become more numerous in the past decade, in spite of the twin fortresses that guard the only major pass through the Teeth.

To Wilusa's north, across the highest peaks of the Teeth, lie the uncharted lands of the enigmatic Ik-Ta. According to the writings of the handful of explorers who claim to have visited this land of grinding ice and darkness, the Ik-Ta are an insular folk, eaters of their own kind and hostile towards outsiders.

Wilusa's eastern and southeastern neighbors are Tormir and Valuna, respectively, both former Nomoan provinces that have taken radically different paths. In contrast with Wilusa's competing city-states, Valuna has a firm authoritarian theocracy in power. The Children of Julian are the ruling (perhaps only) faction in this arid land of scant resources, and the work of their Prime Factor is considered to be the law of the land; more and more, this word has been "expansion", as Valuna has repeastedly threatened war with its neighbors in a quest for more territory.

Tormir, on the other hand, is ruled by a centralized authority of another kind. Emperor Rothroc II is an aging monarch of a weak dynasty in control of a disintegrating state. The booming fortunes of Wilusa have come partially at the expense of Tormir's mercantile class, and constant diplomatic and military pressure from Valuna has shorn the kingdom of much of its prime grazing land. Under such tensions, Tormir is ripe for dramatic change - or utter collapse.

Ever a haven of entrepreneurship, Wilusa's newest fortunes are being made in the mining fields collectively known as "The Faces". The Faces are primarily located in the southern foothills and smaller ranges of the Teeth of Ymir. The first major gem and metal strikes occurred within the last half-century, with more occurring every week as prospectors and fortune-seekers arrive in the coastal cities.

We got to keep the Devil... Way down in the hole...

*Tourist lighting not included*

Our fearless young lads have finally reached their first “job site”… and have foolishly decided to continue on their current career path. Torches have been lit, horses have been staked, arrows are nocked (whatever that means), and the group begins to make its way down the mysterious, bramble-covered stairway, straight into the bowels of the earth…

One by one, the heroes-in-waiting descend; Furok in front, followed by Napoleon the burglar, then Napoleon’s sea-voyage companion Jake carrying a torch (almost forgot about him entirely –Ed.), then Archibald of Pluto, Nyatar of Horus, and Hoko the Lawyer bringing up the rear.

The light from the entrance illuminates a huge stone block, almost entirely filling the 10’ wide tunnel. Napoleon can scoot through, but it’s going to be hard for the outrider and both priests. Nyatar steps forward, his lips moving as a faint chant can be heard. The chant gradually grows louder, then louder still, and Nyatar’s eyes grow wider and wider. He lunges forward, filled with the holy strength of Horus, as his words echo down the corridor. Slowly, the huge block begins to shift. Inch by inch, Nyatar presses the giant block against one side of the passage, until a two-foot space has been opened for the party. Nyatar steps back, sweating and breathing hard, nodding grimly at the party’s congratulations

Looking down, the party is startled to see the (extremely) flattened shape of a humanoid. The fingertips that were at one time exposed have been gnawed down to the bone; the rest of the body is crushed, but untouched. A quick examination finds some destroyed personal items, and a pouch with mangled sheets of parchment inside. Napoleon has a look; there is encrypted writing on them, but he thinks that, given enough time, he might be able to break the code. The wrinkled sheets are quickly pocketed.

On the far side of the huge block is a door, which has apparently been opened. It’s a tight squeeze, but the party manages to make it through the gap, into the next section of corridor. There is a straight stretch, with a bend to the right after forty feet. Someone once told Napoleon that he should always check for traps before entering a cavern, so he does… even though he has no idea what he’s looking for. His appearance of intent is enough to fool the rest of the group, however, who follow him slowly down the hall.

As the group approaches the bend, Napoleon brings them up short. A faint scrabbling noise can be heard in the background, amongst the sound of dripping water. Turning the corner, the passage slopes down for another thirty feet before opening into a larger space. Neither the faint light source nor the augmented senses of the party can see the full extent of the new space, but all of them can now plainly hear the scraping, flapping sounds coming from in front of them. Full of vim and vigor (and urged by their bankrolling priest of Pluto) the group approaches the opening.

It is now plain that the new space is actually a huge open pit. The roof looms forty feet above them, while the bottom and far side are lost in darkness; the passageway becomes an 8-foot wide ledge that descends to the right, gently spiraling down into the hole.

Furok’s eyes grow huge, and he has just enough time to partially duck the shadowy form flying at him from the far side of the pit. A frog the size of a large German shepherd clangs off the top edge of his shield, and smacks into the stone wall close by Jake’s head. The party dissolves into chaos as more shapes come bounding and climbing out of the abyssal darkness…

Language is a virus from outer space...

So. Languages. How do you handle ‘em?

The 1E handbook outlines the original take on languages: there are species-specific languages, culture-specific tongues… even alignment-specific tongues that characters can be fluent in. That’s entirely plausible, within the setting of the game system – as my friends used to say, “Don’t question the movie!...”

But my own take on languages has changed, over the years. I’ve never had much luck with learning languages other than my own; I’ve tried German, French and Russian, and none of them have “stuck”. I imagine there are a lot of people in the boat with me, for whom second languages are a challenge. So my fundamental attitude toward a character being able to speak six or seven distinct languages to start the game could perhaps best be described as… “skeptical”…

I think I hit a turning point when I started getting into “Ars Magica”; for those who aren’t familiar with it, AM is set in “Mythic Europe”, circa 1100 A.D. Players and game-master are encouraged to find mythical or mystical causation for real historical events. It’s a lot of fun, particularly if you’re a history nerd.

Anyway, magic is interesting in AM because it’s extremely powerful, but not omnipotent. I read a number of campaign blogs that were set in the Crusaders states of the Levant; almost all of them held forth that hermetic magic (with its basis in Roman and Druidic – i.e. “western” – theory and thinking) could not be used to decipher Egyptian hieroglyphics. The reasoning went along the lines of the paradigms and frames of reference were so diametrically different from each other, that there wasn’t enough of a “link” to magically “enhance”. You could make a similar case for Chinese characters, Arabic characters, and perhaps even Celtic oghams – you can use magic to allow a French PC to read Greek, but they’re unable to bridge the vast gulf between contemporary French and ancient Egyptian or Babylonian.

I’m not sure that there’s enough here for a hard-and-fast coherent rule, but I’d like to hear other thoughts on the matter.

Oh, and alignment tongues are straight-up bullsh*t. Just sayin’.

The Road Goes Ever, Ever On...

When last we left our yet-to-be-monickered band of hearty stalwarts – Napoleon the elven burglar, Hoko the cosmopolitan magician/law intern, Nyatar the half-orc adept of the Order of Horus (the Cosmic Eye), and Furok the outrider - they were accompanying Archibald, the somewhat spherical priest of Pluto into the untamed north… well, the outer suburbs, anyway. But it’s still kinda rough…

The group takes the main northern road out of Lyonesse, filing past market towns and outlying villages filled with wood smoke and late-spring mud, following the river Ebonflow towards the city-state of Imai. They journey for two days along the road before reaching the point where the Ebonflow meets the Mournwater as it gurgles southwards out of its origins in the Black Hills, now visible as a dark patch on the horizon.

Rather than following the Ebonflow towards the looming walls of Imai, the travelers now take a northeasterly tack along the Mournwater, leaving behind the bulk of the mercantile traffic. The passersby are now fewer, a more rough-and-tumble lot determined to reach the mining fields of the Faces, beyond the Black Hills.

After a leisurely day’s ride the road takes an eastward turn as it skirts the southern fringes of the Hills, and the young trio gets their first glimpse of the imposing mounds (minus Furok, who’s well-acquainted with the sight). The Hills rise abruptly from the surrounding plain, forming strangely regular hummocks (think the Palouse region of eastern Washington) ranging from 600 to around 1500 feet in height. The infertile soil is very dark brown in color, almost black, and the most common vegetation is thick stiff grasses and small, gnarled trees (manzanitas, etc). The overall effect is very bleak, leaving little doubt as to the origin of the area’s appellation.

After another day and a half of monotonous travel, the men reach a fork in the road; rather, they meet a much smaller and less-maintained road trailing to the left through a gap in the Hills. There is a crude sign at the intersection, with the letter “W” and a rough arrow branded into the weathered wood. “Yon lies the village of Willows, another two days’ journey,” says Archibald in his highborn dialect (I use Charles Laughton from Mutiny on the Bounty). “Our path separates from the road much earlier, though,” as he spurs his sturdy pony up the beaten track.

Indeed, before the day is out, Archibald consults with Furok and then takes the party off-road to the northwest, through the dark dales of the Hills. They camp that night in the wilderness, rising early and continuing on their way. Finally, in mid-afternoon, Archibald raises his hand and calls a halt. Glancing at his map, he leads them toward the base of a mid-sized hummock, finally pointing toward a bramble patch. “There…” he declares.

The undergrowth is cleared away, to reveal a crude set of stairs leading into a hold in the ground. The party glance at one another, tie off their horses, strap on their necessities, and light torches. As a misting rain begins, they start their descent into Pluto’s bosom…

(Just a quick DM note: I was very excited about this complex, as it was my first attempt at dungeon creation using the old “Central Casting” supplement by Paul Jaquays. As such, it’s a little disjointed, but actually turned out very satisfactorily. As you will hopefully agree…

And again, thanks to Matt Stater's Land of Nod, for the Lyonesse reference...)

By Jove...

At this point, I’d like to thank my loyal readers, both of you. Now that I see that people are actually looking at this thing, I’m going to have to do some more writing, and figure out how to get some illustrations up.

Bless you both.

Innauguration Day II

We now have half of our initial quartet, so let’s do the other half and get this thing underway…

A young lad named Hoko Goldma grows up in Lyonesse, the cultural and economic capitol of the territories collectively known as Wilusa. The son of a wealthy barrister, he tries and tries to apply himself to the study of the law but has simply not fallen in love with his father’s profession; he’s always yearned to see what lies beyond the next hill, and accompanying his father on infrequent trips to nearby city-states has not quenched his thirst for travel.

As an adolescent, Hoko felt that something else was calling to him, if only he could find out what. His questions found answers under the tutelage of one Jannick Idolf, an acquaintance and client of Hoko’s father and a practitioner of the arcane arts. Jannick saw in Hoko the raw abilities of a worker of magics, and took him under his wing as an apprentice. Hoko’s father rather than being horrified like so many other parents, was relieved to see his son applying himself to a body of work instead of languishing or sitting idle.

After passing a final series of tests, Jannick released Hoko into the world, along with a word or two of advice about his impulsive tendencies. Hoko’s father celebrated his son’s accomplishments, bestowed upon him a tidy sum as “startup” capital, and treated him to one last meal at the Yellow Queen, a slightly up-scale establishment in Lyonesse and a renowned nexus for entrepreneurial and outgoing personality types.

“My son,” he said, “what you need is to get yourself into the northern territory, where the mining industry is going through a boom. That’s where the real opportunities will lie – where fortunes may be made or lost. If you really want to succeed at this new calling, you’re going to have to stake your claim and take some risks… Off-hand, though, I’d say it’s too risky to make the long journey up there, alone. What you need right now is…” His eyes scanned the room, lingering for a moment on a portly man of serious demeanor with a cowl up over his shaven head, then brightened as two burly strangers walked through the door from the street outside. “Ah!... You need somebody like those fellows…”

Furok grew up the son of an impoverished potter and farmer, and only child on a barely-workable patch of land in the harsh environs of the Black Hills. The soil was thin at best, and the farmers in the area were always fighting a battle against the elements; Furok’s childhood, without a mother present, was difficult to say the least. Furok’s uncle Ulmo, however, was going to change all that…

A former soldier in the army of the city-state of Imai, Ulmo had returned to the Hills as a young man, determined to make a difference in the hard lives of his folk. He signed on with a group of outriders charged with patrolling the Black Hills area, under charter with the Duke of Imai, and spent the better part of the next fifteen years roaming through the countryside and protecting the mostly-unsuspecting villagers and farmers from darker forces.

Ulmo could see that Furok had the potential and gods-given gifts to be more than just an apprentice potter or beet farmer. He could also see the longing in the boy’s eyes whenever he looked at the horizon, or watched the sun set behind the dark Hills. Ulmo confronted his father and, in a heated exchange, goaded him into releasing Furok into his care. He and the lad walked away the next morning, and Furok has only been back once since then.

For the last three years, through rain and shine, summer and chilling winter, Ulmo has taught Furok the finer points of surviving and tracking in the wilderness, as the lad learns to ride and fish, hunt and fight. Together, they track brigands, apprehend poachers, and ambush goblins. The high-point comes when the pair finally corner and capture a notorious deserter and thief in the very north of the Hills. There is some hope that he was at the center of a string of recent disappearances from the roads in the region, but this theory quickly fades under interrogation.

What becomes clear, though, is that the thief is wanted for crimes back in Lyonesse, a week’s ride to the south. Ulmo and Furok restrain him and begin heading down out of the Hills, joining the main road on the plains, stopping in the city-state of Imai before heading downriver to Lyonesse. Once they reach the largest of the city-states, Ulmo finds out from the magistrate that their prisoner is wanted for murder in Tondota, Lyonesse’s rival city. According to the Wilusan League’s compact, extradition is automatic; Ulmo packs up for another ride of several days’ duration.

Before collecting his prisoner and remounting, he takes Furok aside, suggesting that he head back to the Black Hills; they’ve been gone a while, and Ulmo doesn’t want the outriders to be short-handed for too long. They enter the inn where they’ve been staying (the Yellow Queen, of course), and say their goodbyes. As Ulmo leaves, a large heavyset man with a cowl over his shaven head introduces himself…

“I am Archibald, of the Order of Pluto. I am in need of stout hearts and strong arms, to aid me in an errand of sacred importance. Might I tempt you into discussing potential terms of employment?”

At almost the same moment, a young elf and burly half-orc enter the inn, the shouts of the criers echoing in their ears; a barrister pushes his son towards the growing knot of individuals. They introduce themselves and inquire with Archibald about employment. Archibald explains that one of the duties of Pluto’s priesthood, as wardens of the dead and the underworld, is to explore and catalog any large subterranean complexes that are discovered. Some of these are too dangerous, some are inaccessible, but an initial attempt must be made.

Archibald explains that the complex he is bound to explore is located in the heart of the Black Hills, only a couple of days’ march from Furok’s old home. The others sign on, a price is determined, and gold coins change hands. The group of adventurers agrees to depart on the morrow…

And a legend is born!!!

(***Note***: credit for a great deal of this material must be given to other sites and bloggers, to say nothing of all the stuff that I've ripped off from common literature. I am chiefly indebted to the work of Matt Stater, over at Land of Nod; please check him out, and buy his stuff on Lulu.com...)

Sandbox vs. Linear... Ready... FIGHT!!!

When I started this current effort, I was presented with a dilemma – which approach will give a group of extremely imaginative (but completely inexperienced) gamers the most satisfaction: a linear, adventure-module-type campaign, or an open-ended sandbox?

It’s probably not too shocking to find that, so far, I’m doing a bit of both. I started out, however, by going hard in the “sandbox” direction.

Using Land of Nod as a guide, I stuffed a ton of adventure seeds and hooks into my 400mile x 400mile region of the world; all told, it was easily forty or so, not including more complex locations like cities. It was, frankly, a bit overwhelming for me as the DM… I could only imagine what it was going to be like as a brand-new player, being inundated with an avalanche of material to pick through…

At present, as I said, I’m doing a bit of both: I’m stitching together a couple of long-term storylines using modified versions of boxed adventures, but I’m peppering the environment with a selection of adventure hooks that can send the PC’s off on flights of tangent.

I have also found that there’s a third option. As a fan of Jungian synchronicity, I’ve been delighted to discover that random encounters can be made to fit a wide range of storylines if you’re willing to throw caution to the wind and embrace the madness. Dire wolves are no longer just a range of numbers on a chart; to the players, they automatically become obvious agents of Evil Genius X (whether or not that’s true, of course, is borne out over time). Taken to an extreme (and using suggestions such as Daddy Grognard’s that involve the tracking and mapping of major random encounters), you effectively have a sandbox environment that generates itself…

This is all undoubtedly “old hat” to a lot of folks who might read this blog, along with much of the material that’s going to be posted here. All I can say is that this is all either new or fresh to me, so I hope it’s interesting to read about somebody progressing through the various stages of discovery…

Inauguration Day

So, here's where I start getting specific. I'm going to (briefly) recap the action of the gaming sessions, as best as my feeble powers of recall will allow.

{At the time of this writing, some of my guys haven't really committed to character names. As a result, I'll have to go back and add them as I go along. For now, they are Napoleon, Hoko Goldma, Furok, and Nyatar.}

I feel very lucky, since everybody basically chose a cornerstone archetype and went with it: ranger, thief, mage, cleric. I was so afraid that I'd be dealing solely with barbarians and assassins and druids, but my fears were unfounded.

The action starts with young Nyatar, the half-orc cleric of Horus, the lawful god of vengeance and storms and war. (No, it's not the Deities & Demigods version of Horus, it's Land of Nod entity of the same moniker...) He's from a very warm climate near the equator, in the city of Ibis in the region of Uban. He is a newly-minted novice, eager to prove his worth to a skeptical heirarchy. His father, a gypsy, had dropped him off at a monastery outside the city, and he has been raised as an acolyte of Horus with every expectation that he'd fail. Not only did he refuse to fail, but he flourished under the scrutiny and is now being sent out to assist the priest of Horus that attends a diplomatic mission in the far northwest of the continent (think Juneau, Alaska, meets low medieval York).

After a sea voyage of two months, he arrives outside the whitewashed walls of the city-state of Lyonesse. Upon entering the city, he discovers the the head of his order has succumbed to a quickly-acting wasting disease. The head of the Ubani delegation must send away for a new head cleric, for which a conclave must be called; all told, it might be two months or more before Ken's new superior arrives. In the meantime, he's left to acquaint himself to the local culture as best as he can. He decides to take a spin around the city, while deciding what to do...

A young elf named Napoleon (I swear that I'm going to beat that name out of him) grows up in an elvish enclave, hidden among the Hibernian isles of the northern ocean. His father's a highly-respected physician and healer who dearly wants the young man to follow in his own footsteps; unfortunately, no matter how strong his desires, the young man simply shows no real interest in medicine. Predictably, the bored young elf falls in with a rather roguish peer who introduces him to the rather seedy side of social interaction.

After a few petty actions and relatively harmless larcenies committed among the stoic elven neighbors, Napoleon and his companion decide it's time to explore the wider world beyond their isolated enclave, but his fellow traveler leaves him behind in order to skip town early. He's finally able to book passage to Lyonesse (seeing a pattern here?); on board, he befriends an old hand named Jake who's seeking better fortunes among the burgeoning metal- gem-strikes of the far north, collectively known as The Faces.

The ship arrives outside the beautiful white-washed walls of the Jewel of the North on a clear late-spring day. He gets into line with dozens of other hopefuls, seeking to pay the fare and enter the city. Once inside, he begins making various fruitless inquiries until the siren song of a town crier reaches his ears:

"Seeking!... Adventurers of all stripes and sizes... Stout of heart and steady of hand... Seekers of fame and glory!... Come ye to the Yellow Queen and acquaint yourself with Archibald, of the Order of Pluto..."

{To be continued...}

(***Note***: credit for a great deal of this material must be given to other sites and bloggers, to say nothing of all the stuff that I've ripped off from common literature. I am chiefly indebted to the work of Matt Stater, over at Land of Nod; please check him out, and buy his stuff on Lulu.com...)

Questions, questions, questions...

Cool series of questions from a cool blogger, Zak Sabbath. Check him out...

My answers are below:

1. If you had to pick a single invention in a game you were most proud of what would it be?

Probably the stretch of improvisation I had to do in order to expend the 24 hours between uses of "plane-shift", while on my own and totally outgunned.

2. When was the last time you GMed?

Monday, 1/16.

3. When was the last time you played?

As a player? Wow... 2005?...

4. Give us a one-sentence pitch for an adventure you haven't run but would like to.

The garrison commander of a besieged large (1,000+) town pulls a Benedict Arnold, and the bewildered PC's are now thrust into organizing the defense.

5. What do you do while you wait for players to do things?

Provide taunting mood music, or imply a countdown.

6. What, if anything, do you eat while you play?

Last time, smoked almonds and red wine. Aw yeah.

7. Do you find GM-ing physically exhausting?

Yeah, but it gets easier. Ask me the next time I run a session that falls flat... That's exhausting...

8. What was the last interesting (to you, anyway) thing you remember a PC you were running doing?

Upon losing all his cash to a cutpurse, rather than simply doing a song & dance at the nearest tavern, his bard proceeds to scam his way into a wealthy merchant's home and seduce his daughter... Didn't really see that coming.

9. Do your players take your serious setting and make it unserious? Vice versa? Neither?

It's joyous to see both happen, in quick succession: when everybody's laughing their asses off, and then they get hit with something that makes everything *stop*. Priceless.

10. What do you do with goblins?

Make them entertaining, or make them really fucking devious.

11. What was the last non-RPG thing you saw that you converted into game material (background, setting, trap, etc.)?

The de Sade graffiti trick from "Quills", but with blood instead of poop. (Look it up, kids)

12. What's the funniest table moment you can remember right now?

Not terribly hilarious, but I had a great time the first opportunity I had to start throwing little notes exclusively to one character about something going on in his head. My noobs hadn't seen that, yet...

13. What was the last game book you looked at--aside from things you referenced in a game--why were you looking at it?

Planescape: Well of Worlds. Looking at throwing some major curve-balls at my gang of noobs.

14. Who's your idea of the perfect RPG illustrator?

I would buy any product that hired Eddie Campbell as its illustrator.

15. Does your game ever make your players genuinely afraid?

Yes, and it's a very, very cool feeling...

16. What was the best time you ever had running an adventure you didn't write? (If ever)

Plunging my noobs into a dungeon created solely with Paul Jaquays' "Central Casting" system. Put together some connective tissue, and it's a hell of a ride.

17. What would be the ideal physical set up to run a game in?

A retired nuclear cooling tower. Awesome reverb, and quite a bit of underlying contemporary anxiety about one's general well-being...

18. If you had to think of the two most disparate games or game products that you like what would they be?

The old Twilight: 2000 series and Ars Magica. Going from meticulous number-crunching to a total devotion to story development.

19. If you had to think of the most disparate influences overall on your game, what would they be?

Shakespeare, Joseph Campbell, and High On Fire.

20. As a GM, what kind of player do you want at your table?

Imaginative, and un-self-conscious.

21. What's a real life experience you've translated into game terms?

Nightmares. I've used some exceptionally vivid imagery from horrific dream experiences to describe specific elements of game action. Works pretty good.

22. Is there an RPG product that you wish existed but doesn't?

A really good planet-scale terrain generator that's not dependent on computers.

23. Is there anyone you know who you talk about RPGs with who doesn't play? How do those conversations go?

Not really, but I'm working on changing that.