Archive for the ‘fluff/inspiration’ Category

When to use Sunder in 4e

Friday, November 11th, 2011

Cal-den struck him then backward against the dais, catching his blade in a black claw, shattering it, and he raised his other arm to smite him. Dilvish did then stab upward with what remained of the sword, nine inches of jagged length.

Dilvish came scrambling backward, until his hand came upon a thing in the rubble that drew the blood from it. A blade. He snatched at the hilt and brought it up off the floor with a side-armed cut that struck Cal-den…
Roger Zelazny, Dilvish the Damned

Illustration from Paizo's Mother of Flies.

D&D 4e doesn’t have abilities like Sunder that break weapons, because a) they asymetrically punish melee weapon users and b) they destroy potential treasure. Also, players generally get a magic weapon by around level 2, and in 4e, breaking a player’s magic weapon is pretty much against the rules.

But rules, like swords, are made to be broken.

Here’s one dramatic occasion for the villain to sunder your paladin’s +4 sword: when there happens to be a +5 Holy Avenger lying on the floor. It’d be pretty dramatic to have the paladin cast away his broken weapon and seize some ancient two-handed sword from among the treasure strewn on the floor, only to have it flare in his hands with radiant power. Probably more exciting than giving him the Holy Avenger after the battle and letting him peddle his old blade for 1/5 of its sale price.

magic items Gygax forgot to steal from Zelazny

Friday, November 4th, 2011

But the wearer of the green boots of Elfland may not fall or be thrown to land other than on his feet.
Roger Zelazny – Dilvish the Damned

D&D’s Boots of Elvenkind are supposed to be drawn from Roger Zelazny’s Dilvish the Damned stories. If so, Gygax missed pillaging a few other magic items from the same stories:

Mildin shuddered and fetched her shimmering were-cloak–for she was Mistress of the Coven–and throwing it about her shoulders and clasping it at her neck with the smoky Stone of the Moon, she became as a silver-gray bird and passed out through the window and high about the Denesh.

Obviously a were-cloak lets you change form. I’m not exactly sure what the Stone of the Moon does. Something fey, I bet.

The guards had cornered the slayer. He fought them, apparently empty-handed, but parrying and thrusting as though he gripped a blade. Wherever his hand moved, there were wounds. He wielded the only weapon that might have slain the King of the World, who permitted none to go armed in his presence save his own guard. He bore the Invisible Blade.

It’s hard to know how to stat the Invisible Blade. Does it get a bonus to hit because it’s so hard to parry? If so, how is it different from other magical swords which also get bonuses to hit? Does it allow a thief-like backstab on the first strike?

To be fair to Gygax, he didn’t entirely miss the Invisible Blade. He statted it up, but buried it in near obscurity: in the character sheet of Gellor in the afterward to “Saga of Old City”. In the enworld Q&A he says:

As for the invisible sword that Gellor had, it was not in play in my campaign–not to say I hadn’t maybe placed one somewhere 😉 Aside from its plusses to hit and damage, the weapon allowed its wielder to see any otherwise invisible foe and to attack first in any normal exchange. Of course there was a command word for it to come to hand–pretty hard to locate your invisible sword without that… If it was within range of the possessor’s voice it woulc fly instantly to that own’s hand.

the ships that sail the desert

Wednesday, November 2nd, 2011

The desert is nearly impassable. Obviously it’s plagued by some giant sandworm-like creatures, as well as its environmental hazards. Surely someone crosses it, though! You have desert caravans in your D&D world, right?

Whoever the caravan masters are – humans? halflings? dragonborn in 4e? – they need some way to fight off the sandworms, blue dragons, and other high-level desert creatures. With food and water so scarce, there’s no way that hundreds of defenseless creatures – walking meals – are going to make it alive across the wastes, even if they do make a practice of hiring PCs as guards.

Since D&D is a post-apocalyptic game, the caravanners may well have cobbled together a Jawa sandcrawler-type vehicle from the magical vehicles of previous ages. It’s all Mad Max scrap metal, giant tank treads and armor, but seamed with golden light and bolted with runes. The desert crawler must be armed with a weapon powerful enough to keep the giant monsters at bay. Solar power is the traditional technology of all-knowing progenitor cultures, so let’s give it a mirror cannon that focuses beams of radiant energy.

No magic engine has survived from the ancient empires, so the desert crawler is powered by slaves in treadmills. The slaves are mostly the orcs and elves who live on the desert’s border. The caravan is always looking to buy strong slaves, so if the PCs are defeated in the desert by any intelligent opponent, they may wake up in a treadmill themselves.

How do the PCs escape from the caravan? Straying from the caravan’s oasis-dotted route invites death from thirst and sandstorm. Falling behind will put the escapees in the midst of the swarm of landsharks who pick off stragglers. Traveling ahead? Possible, but only the caravan leader has a map of the route.

The best option is the classic swashbuckling approach: free the galley slaves, throw the slavers to the sharks, and become a privateer on the desert sea.

how to make a werewolf creepy

Monday, October 31st, 2011


“The meat!” came a panted whisper. … He picked up the piece of meat and tossed it outside. It vanished immediately, and he heard the sounds of chewing. “That is all?” came the voice, after a time. “Half of my own ration, as I promised,” he whispered.

“I am very hungry. I fear I must eat you also. I am sorry.”

“I know that. And I, too, am sorry, but what I have left must feed me until I reach the Tower of Ice. Also, I must destroy you if you attempt to take me.”

“The Tower of Ice? You will die there and the food be wasted, your own body-meat be wasted.” …

The white beast panted for a time. Then: “I am so hungry,” it said again. “Soon I must try to take you. Some things are worse than death.”

–Roger Zelazny, Dilvish the Damned

I think that similar creatures in other books – often wolves, perhaps – apologize for their desire to eat the protagonist. Am I thinking of the Neverending Story? Something in Narnia?

Anyway, it’s not a bad trick for making a random encounter feel very creepy and personal, and a little sad as well. Play up the creature’s struggle as much as you want – maybe make it indebted to the PCs, to increase its guilt and anguish.

Ultimately, as much as a PC may feel sorry for such a creature, they’ll have to kill it, now or later; and it will be a mercy killing.

Like so many things in fantasy (and horror), including vampires, this creature’s relationship to the PCs seems like a symbol for some other, more disturbing human relationship. Fantasy handles these layers well. This is one of the reasons I’m not particularly interested in dealing with real-life disturbing issues in-game. Fantasy seems to me like a genre where these monsters are best transformed before they are fought.

there is no night without day! for serious

Friday, October 28th, 2011

Billboards depicting smart, well-dressed Indians enjoying soft drinks or cigarettes, or wearing the latest fashion creations, sheltered masses of naked homeless who lay wrapped in rags beneath their cheerful slogans. Roving throngs of orphaned children ran after the buses and wagons and rickshaws, chanting for coins or food or castoff objects. The stench of all this–the cooking, rotting, festering, putrefying–hung over the city like a malodorous cloud, reeking in the hot sun. To Spence it smelled like death. “The City of Dreadful Night,” said Adjani. “Look around you, my friend. You will never forget it.”
Dream Thief by Stephen Lawhead

Your wretched D&D slum isn’t complete without a conspicuous-consumption foil to set it off. It might be a foppish noble and his retinue, scented handkerchiefs held to their nose, as they pick their way over the starving beggars; immense gates festooned with bronze cornucopias and grain sheafs; or cheerful torchlight and the sounds of music and laughter from the palace over the river as the poor townspeople die of plague or frostbite.

Also “The City of Dreadful Night” is not a bad name for your horrific D&D city. It’s the title of a pretty depressing poem about London as well as a pretty depressing Kipling story about an Indian city.

1001 Nights vs King Arthur’s knights

Wednesday, October 26th, 2011

I have heard, O auspicious king, that when Ghanim brought the chest to his house, he opened it and brought the girl out. On looking around, she saw that she was in a handsome house, spread with carpets and adorned in attractive hangings and so forth. On seeing bundles and bales of materials and other such things, she realized that here was a merchant of substance, a man of great wealth. She uncovered her face, looked at him and, discovering him to be a handsome young man, she fell in love with him at first sight.
-1001 Nights

Coming from a childhood spent reading about King Arthur, I find the world of 1001 Nights notable for its dearth of knights and lords. In Europe, the male heroes are the nobles – the hereditary warrior class. In 1001 Nights, successful warriors are almost absent. The storybook heroes are merchants.

In 1001 Nights, access to the upper class is gained through business. People with swords are usually among the lowest classes: city guards, bandits, and armed slaves. In that way, it’s closer culturally to us than is Arthurian legend. In the modern USA, rich businessmen are the closest thing we have to a ruling class, and people who live by physical violence – criminals, soldiers, cops – aren’t in positions of power.

Interestingly, while our modern culture is built on a 1001 Nights model, our entertainment is built on a Knights of the Round Table model. Adventure movie heroes are frequently violent strongmen, while non-physical businessmen are more likely to be villains than heroes.

Old D&D editions, with their emphasis on treasure hunting, enable both modes. Like 1001 Nights heroes, and the players, the PCs are after money. They live in a world where once you collect enough gold, you level up and become a Lord. There may be hereditary lords and nobles as window dressing, but the real powers in the world are the nouveau riche, and wealth is primarily in the form of coins (as in 1001 Nights) not land (as in Camelot).

On the other hand, D&D money is collected through force of arms. In OD&D, the XP value of a treasure haul is related to the strength of its defender. If you’re 8th level, and you defeat a lowly 5th-level creature to win a treasure hoard, you get 5/8 of the XP value of the treasure. So in D&D, you’re a violent thug AND you’re greedy. Best of both worlds.

fire has a lineage

Friday, October 21st, 2011

The symbolic passing of the old god would be enacted, and every fire would be extinguished except for a single firepot guarded by the queen and her family at the temple. (Stalking Darkness, Lynn Flewelling)

This isn’t really explored in the novel, but if every fire is relit from the Queen’s fire, in some sort of cascading olympic torch relay, everyone ends up with a royal fire: a descendant of the fire lit by the Queen herself.

There might be some magic power in it too. Perhaps fires lit by certain kings and priests – and all their children fires – have magical powers. Fire has a lineage. In that case, an ordinary torch might become a magic treasure.

The Lineage of Fire actually strikes me as a decent idea for an entire campaign. There are many families of fire in the world, passed from generation to generation through candles and torches. The different fires may have different powers (the blue necrotic fire of the deeps, the golden radiant fire lit aeons ago by the Sun God, etc). The different lineages of fire war for dominance. The PCs may work for a fire instead of a noble house; and PCs’ torches might be among their most valuable weapons.

All of the fires of the world are united against some evils. This world is a circle of firelight, and hungry things prowl, outside, in the Dark, waiting for the flames to fail.

how my players rewrote my pantheon without me doing anything

Friday, October 7th, 2011

A few weeks ago, I ran a one-shot picaresque game. One of the players decided that her character, a gullible paladin, worshiped “St. Jimmy”, whose tenets were that the world is full of water and every well contains mermaids. She had been tricked into worshiping this nonexistent god by a con man who sold her a snow globe as a holy relic.

This weekend, at the Arneson Game Day event, I ran another one-shot. I recycled a bunch of pre-used level-1 character sheets, including the paladin with “St. Jimmy” written down as the deity.

During the course of the game, the players went through a magical gate into a land that time forgot, stocked with cave men and wooly mammoths. A new player, playing the recycled St. Jimmy-worshiping paladin, took the lead in negotiations. Hijinx ensued (as they so often do), involving:

  • an illusory three-headed red dragon, which one of the PCs could puppeteer with a magical red glove
  • a NPC dwarf (“Stout Stoutheart”) riding a cow (“Muscles”)
  • a fermented milk drink brewed by the party cleric/milkmaid

Between the alcohol, the red dragon and the revelations about animal husbandry, the party successfully proselytized the cave men. They were soon gleefully grunting a pre-verbal approximation of “St. Jimmy” while carrying the PCs around on their shoulders.

When the cavemen indicated that they wanted to commemorate their new god in cave art, and asked what St. Jimmy looked like, the paladin pointed at Muscles the cow.

When the PCs were preparing to return home, they speculated about whether the portal had taken them to a forgotten caveman island or whether they had gone back in time, and, Ray Bradbury-like, totally changed the future.

I had been thinking the portal led to an isolated caveman area, but the time travel option seemed more interesting. When the party returned home, I told them, “You are disappointed to discover that nothing has changed. St. Jimmy is still the dominant deity of the pantheon, worshiped in the form of the Sacred Cow. St. Jimmy’s chief angel is still a three-headed red dragon. And kumiss is still the sacred drink.”

And that’s how two different groups of players, over the course of two one-shots, created a religion, took it back in time, and gave my campaign world a strange new chief god, without me lifting a finger.

Here’s a question for linguists: What will the name “St. Jimmy” sound like after it’s been passed down for tens of thousands of years? Apply Grimm’s and other applicable laws.

real-world taboos and their d&d effects

Monday, October 3rd, 2011

If, in D&D, superstition is always right, then cultural taboos are to be doubly respected. Many of the magical ills in the D&D universe arose because someone violated a taboo.

When someone violates a taboo, have them make a saving throw. If they fail, they may contract the curse appropriate to their crime.

cannibalism: If you eat of your own kind, you’re likely to contract a disease that causes your hair to fall out, your flesh to whiten, and your teeth to hunger for more human flesh. In the disease’s final stage, you become a ghoul, and you will spread your disease to those you kill. Let that be a lesson to you: if you’re stuck in a cave-in, the human should eat the elf corpse and vice versa.

murder of kin: The curse attendant on brother murdering brother is attested in one of the oldest sword and sorcery tales of all: the story of Kane, by Karl Edward Wagner. Just kidding. But seriously, kin killing should put you magically outside the pale of society. I’d say that someone who contracts the Kin-Killer’s Mark can’t recover healing surges by sleeping in a settlement, and takes damage, instead of healing, from clerical healing from allies. I wouldn’t be surprised if kin-killing were a necessary part of becoming a death knight, as well.

murder of guests: When you share food with someone, you enter a guest-host relationship in which violence is forbidden. Those who violate this rule are doomed to lose food’s sustaining powers: from now on, they can only sate their hunger with violence and betrayal – in other words, human blood. They become vampires. Consider also vampires’ inability to enter a house without permission: the vampire is constantly forced to enter an explicit guest relationship, and then betray it in a bloody feast, re-enacting the vampires’ initial betrayal of the guest meal.

bestiality: D&D is a world where every monster is half this and half that (or a third!) and it can’t all be the work of mad wizards. Obviously, in D&D, any mating can produce offspring: furthermore, I think that not only will the children be beast-men, but the guilty parents may take on bestial natures as well. This is especially common near the feywild, where every animal species’s nobility can take human form. However, not every satyr goat-herd has the excuse of living near the feywild.

incest: This taboo is most commonly violated by royalty, so much so that its visible effects are often called the King’s Curse. It not only enters the bloodline but affect the parents. The King’s Curse manifests as madness and cruelty. It also often causes extreme physical delicacy (a penalty to fortitude defense).

the ghost pirates

Friday, September 30th, 2011

William Hodgson is kind of an amazing early horror writer, and his 1909 “The Ghost Pirates” makes sea travel scary for the same reason that a haunted house or a dungeon is scary: a ship is an isolated environment. It can be even lonelier than a dungeon, because a ship is frequently months away from the nearest port, instead of just outside of town.

In “The Ghost Pirates”, the isolation is heightened because the ship seems to be drifting into a twilight zone where they can’t count on contacting the natural world:

It was thus that I came to see something altogether unthought of–a full-rigged ship, close-hauled on the port tack, a few hundred yards on our starboard quarter. … Away aft, hanging from the gaff-end, was a string of flags. Evidently, she was signalling to us. All this, I saw in a flash, and I just stood and stared, astonished. I was astonished because I had not seen her earlier. In that light breeze, I knew that she must have been in sight for at least a couple of hours. … How had she come there without my seeing her, before? All at once, as I stood, staring, I heard the wheel behind me, spin rapidly. Instinctively, I jumped to get hold of the spokes; for I did not want the steering gear jammed. Then I turned again to have another look at the other ship; but, to my utter bewilderment, there was no sign of her–nothing but the calm ocean, spreading away to the distant horizon.

The ship is drifting into another plane – possibly the shadowfell. In the shadowfell, there are ghosts. And in a book called “The Ghost Pirates”, those ghosts are possibly pirates.

“My idea is, that this ship is open to be boarded by those things,” I explained. “What they are, of course I don’t know. They look like men–in lots of ways. But–well, the Lord knows what’s in the sea.”

And that’s the advantage of the sea as an adventure location: your ship might be skimming above empty sea beds, sea monsters, or a nest of Chthulhus. The Lord knows what’s in the sea.