Archive for the ‘fluff/inspiration’ Category

magic sword +1, +3 vs. hijinks

Friday, July 22nd, 2011


“Our stage swords have neither edge nor point, for they are only intended for show; the wounds they make disappear suddenly when the curtain falls, without the aid of the surgeon with his instruments and lint.”

That’s a description of the stage swords used by an 18th century acting troupe in Theophile Gautier’s Captain Fracasse. But D&Dize it up and you have a pretty cool magic weapon.

Imagine a magic sword called, say, the Stage Sword. An hour after you are wounded by the Stage Sword, you recover all HP you lost from the sword. If you were killed by the sword, you actually come back to life.

PCs given such a sword could get up to all sorts of tricks. Many a devious plan can be made out of being able to convincingly play dead, although as we know from Romeo and Juliet, such schemes generally go horribly wrong. So, no different from the usual PC plan.

I actually used this sword in a theater-based adventure starring ratlings. The local theater company used such a sword in their spectacular, crowd-pleasing tragedies, ACTUALLY BEHEADING ACTORS ONSTAGE in a way that could be repeated night after night.

A devious nobleman replaced the stage sword with a real sword. Half the PCs figured this out and the other half didn’t, leading to Hijinx, in which PCs tried to disable each other, impersonated actors, and shouted “FIRE!” in a crowded theater.

Also, several PCs were backstage, stealing the actors’ shirts. That wasn’t related to the trick sword. It’s just the sort of thing that happens when ratlings are involved.

Here’s another cool magic weapon from Captain Fracasse:

It was of Spanish make, and bore upon its sharp, pointed blade, a sinister inscription in that language, to this effect – “When this viper bites you, make sure That you must die – for there is no cure.” No one could imagine how it had come there…

If you wanted to personalize a magical dagger, you could do worse than have this “sinister inscription” on the blade. You’d probably want to give the dagger a power to match: it does extra poison damage, or it imparts a disease effect on a successful hit.

In 4e, I’d make the dagger a rare item, with a handful of special abilities, because such a cool blade deserves to take center stage.

wait, there are scarecrows that don’t come to life?

Friday, July 15th, 2011


“Alas!” answered Agostino mournfully, “no other career is open to me, and I am more to be pitied than you suppose. I am the only one left of a band formerly as complete as yours; the executioner has deprived me of my brave comrades one by one, and now I am obliged to carry on my operations entirely alone – dressing up my scarecrows, as your friend calls them, and assuming different voices to make believe that I am supported by a numerous company. Ah! mine is a sad fate; and then my road is such a poor one – so few travellers come this way.”

–Captain Fracasse, Theophile Gautier

This is a great little tragicomic encounter. PCs are ambushed on a dark road. They are surrounded by shadowy figures, demanding the PCs’ money or their lives. (Several of the bandits talk; the DM should use a variety of funny voices.)

When the PCs inevitably attack, they will be cutting down inanimate scarecrows which are armed with wooden swords.

The only real bandits are Agostino and his ward, a half-wild and thuggish little girl. (In Captain Fracasse, Agostino says he wants money to “buy a decent cloak for poor Chiquita besides; she needs it badly enough, poor thing!”)

If the PCs take pity on the bandits and give them money, Chiquita will be grateful, in her primal way.

She fixed her sparkling eyes on Isabelle, and said in a low, earnest voice, “Oh! you are very, very good, and I will never, never kill you.” Then she ran swiftly back to the pine grove.

If the PCs befriend the bandits, they’ll be getting a valuable ally. The next time the PCs are in real trouble (captured, for instance), an eerie and bloodthirsty little girl may come to their rescue.

a literal points of light campaign

Wednesday, July 13th, 2011

Hundreds of years ago, the weak red sun finally flickered out. Every remaining settlement maintains its own little sun-star, which provides daylight to an area a few miles in diameter.

Every year, a ritual must be performed to renew each town’s sun-star. The ritual uses up gold. Adventurers are sent into abandoned, dark, horrifying cities and ancient dungeons, and told, “Return with life-giving gold!”.

If adventurers become rich enough, they can generate a new sun-star and start their own Point of Light settlement.

In such a world, normal plants and animals are at a premium, while metal can be foraged from the dead cities, so metal armor might be cheaper than leather. That makes this cold world the reverse of the Dark Sun setting.

The few orchards would be carefully tended, and no one would waste valuable wood on torches. Perhaps everyone knows a ritual that causes a gold coin to burn like a torch.

In the vast cold darks, the monsters are touched with shadow or aberration. The forests are hostile, and the shadows wait for the sun-stars to die.

1863 precursor to the Red Box

Friday, July 8th, 2011


The roof, of dark red tiles, was disfigured by many large, leprous-looking, yellow patches, while in some places the decayed rafters had given way…

The apartments on the ground floor contained nothing but a few bundles of straw, a heap of corn-cobs, and some antiquated gardening implements.

Captain Fracasse, an episodic 1863 adventure novel, has given me more inspiration for D&D adventures than any book since African Civilizations. And it started on page 1, with a description of a ruined chateau.

I’m reminded of the sample dungeon in my 1983 Red Box DM’s book, which had comparable readaloud text:

As you approach, you see that the walls are jagged and full of small holes, and a few large stone blocks have tumbled to the earth, lying around the ruins. A gateway in the center of the front wall stands empty, and the massive outer doors now lay rotting nearby…

The room is 30’x30′, with doorways in the north and east walls; the doors are missing. The room is filled with boxes and crates of many shapes and sizes, and looks like a storage area.

Furthermore, I’m certain that the “leprous-looking yellow patches” in Captain Fracasse are patches of Yellow Mold, which also featured in the Red Box dungeon.

My guess is that Fracasse‘s bundle of straw hides a valuable bracelet, and the corncobs mark the lair of some monster (perhaps a cabal of hideous pig-men?) The gardening implements are just gardening implements.

That’s page 1 out of the way! Later on in the book, there will be fencing, fighting, giants*, true love… you name it. I’ll post more later.

*In Captain Fracasse, unlike in The Princess Bride, the giants are just guys on stilts.

What’s at the center of your game world?

Monday, July 4th, 2011
  • Molten core, just like earth.

  • It’s hollow, with a floating sun in the center making a perennial noon, and the concave surface of the hollow earth is populated with exotic tropical creatures (possibly dinosaurs, Barsoomians, or snake-men).

  • The 666 levels of Hell. The surface of the earth is a thin skin, blessed by the gods to keep the infernal legions from boiling out into the universe. That’s why, whenever dwarves dig too deep, they hit a vein of balrogs.

  • An interlocking megadungeon millions of levels deep, each more dangerous than the last. Dungeon level 1 is mostly inhabited by level 1 monsters, dungeon level 2 by level 2 monsters, etc. If each dungeon level is, on average, 20 feet deep, and the radius of the world is 41,000,000 feet, the creature slumbering in the deepest dungeon chamber is level 2 million (or has 2 million hit dice, depending on edition).

  • Nothing – my game world is flat.
  • Molten chocolate core.
  • Other (described in the comments):
  • the dungeon where everyone hears everything

    Friday, July 1st, 2011

    The Land of the Thomas Covenant books is filled with little magical conveniences. One is a council room with great acoustics, so that everyone can hear everyone else and no one has to shout.

    This would actually be a good gimmick for a dungeon. The party could split up, if they needed to, and the players could still talk to each other around the table. This would remove an annoying restriction that usually plagues groups where some party members are away (or dead).

    For every convenience, there’s a complication. The dungeon would contain a rival adventuring group. They’d be able to hear every word from the PCs’ mouths. Conversely, the PCs would be able to hear every word, grunt, and shout from the rival party.

    The DM would have to prepare a few set-pieces to narrate: the rival party encountering a puzzle, a battle, a crossroads, or just talking trash to the PCs. Some of the rivals’ words would, of course, be calculated to deceive.

    don’t plan it, He-Man it

    Wednesday, June 22nd, 2011

    When modern archaeologists excavate a site, they don’t dig everything up; they take samples. They do it because they have limited time and resources, and because they want to leave something for future researchers to examine.

    That’s something I should remind myself while doing DM worldbuilding.

    A complete archaeological excavation determines what’s present at a site, but it also determines what isn’t. A complete excavation would kill some of the magic of a site – strip it of its last mystery.

    It’s a lesson that’s hard to learn. I’m the kind of person who feels the impulse to map out the whole D&D world, and determine where each monster lives – and which monsters don’t exist in my campaign.

    Instead of that, I’m trying to switch to a core-sample approach, using the PCs as the core drill. We learn a lot about the PCs’ immediate area. Beyond that, there’s a lot of room left for future excavation.

    The Chekhov Model

    Years ago, I had the idea that everything had to be planned before you started a campaign. If your 3e campaign has a race of highly intelligent creatures who masquerade as ceilings (Cloaker, average Intelligence 14), surely a few Cloakers would have moved to the city and work as university professors or something. Like Chekhov’s Gun, every campaign element has to be introduced up front.

    The He Man Model

    The thing is, he actually had many faces.

    I’ve moved from Chekhov to a more appropriate literary model: He Man and the Masters of the Universe. He Man didn’t start with a huge cast of characters: it introduced new characters whenever the writers (or toymakers) thought of one. Where was Man-E-Faces before he was featured in an episode? Offscreen somewhere. Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Mars chronicles follow a similar model. Burroughs introduced a new continent, complete with a color-coded humanoid race, every time he needed an idea for his next book.

    I’m trying to He-Man it from now on. I’m not banning dragonborn, for instance, but I’m not killing myself to detail their location in the world, either. If someone wants to be a dragonborn, maybe we’ll figure it out.

    Halflings are a different story. Those little bastards are GONE.

    what I learned from drawing the Monster Manual creatures

    Monday, June 20th, 2011

    From drawing all the Monster Manual creatures, I learned that some areas are not well suited for some PCs. For instance, you’re hard pressed to find any civilized opponents above level 10, or feywild creatures below level 6. I think that’s a feature, not a bug.

    RPG video games where the encounters auto-level annoy me. I prefer video games with leveled zones, so I can move on to the next challenge when I feel I’m ready. In D&D it’s no different. If I was forced to pick, I’d rather have the world map marked out with levels, like an old-school dungeon map, than always be surrounded by monsters of exactly my level.

    While both assumptions strain credibility, I posit that there is a speck of verisimilitude to be found in the “leveled world” hypothesis. Some wildernesses of the world ARE more dangerous than others. The Australian outback, where every animal seems to have the world’s deadliest poison, is more dangerous than Yellowstone. I hate to stone cold disrespect the grizzly bears like that, but there it is. Box jellyfish alone are way more dangerous than bears, never mind Australia’s 20-foot poisonous laser crocodiles.

    a leveled world

    If I create a level 11 area, does that mean that it’s brimming with level 11 villagers and farmers? No. I propose that the level of an area be the level of its most common PREDATORS. In D&D, villagers are at the bottom of the food chain – they’re PREY. Someone nearby – the king’s guard if they’re lucky, vampires or orc hordes if they’re unlucky – is more powerful than they.
    (more…)

    monsters in the palace of eternity

    Friday, June 17th, 2011

    Bob Shaw’s “The Palace of Eternity” is a 1960’s sci-fi book featuring a pretty repellent alien race. They’re humanoid, except for

    …the wide-set eyes, the two breathing mouths fluttering in the shoulders, and the vertically-slitted eating mouth on the central abdomen. […] The vital organs were externally positioned around the central spine, black and pale rubbery sacs which heaved and glistened wetly… and the aliens stank. […] A valve in the central alien’s lower gut popped loudly, spattering the other two with gray-and-white excrement.

    Not a bad start for a horrifying Far Realms humanoid.

    To start with, misplaced mouths are scary. This alien has three extra mouths, including a big “eating mouth” in his stomach.

    There’s a lot going on here, so I’d make this creature a solo or elite monster. I’d make a fight against this monster a fight to stay away from the stomach-mouth. I’d give him long, multijointed arms, and have his main attack be to curl his arms, lover-like, around an opponent (a Grab), followed by an attack on the next turn which presses the victim tenderly against his chest, so that the eating mouth can start chewing.

    The external organs are also fairly icky and should be spotlighted. I’d make them be separate targets which can be attacked by the PCs. A hit causes an explosion of vile fluids (a burst attack on everyone nearby) and ongoing damage to the monster as it leaks ichor.

    The excrement is maybe too much, depending on how much you want to gross out your players. I’d change it to some vile-smelling acid, but keep some of the description the same (“A valve in the creature’s gut pops loudly, spattering acid on… [rolls dice]”

    All in all, not a creature the PCs will want to fight a second time, especially the fighter who was half-chewed up by the monster’s torso teeth.

    An Amiable Charlatan

    Friday, June 3rd, 2011

    An Amiable Charlatan by E. Phillips Oppenheim

    An Amiable Charlatan by E. Phillips Oppenheim

    E. Phillips Oppenheim is an adventure author popular in the 30s whose novels are about sophisticated British gentlemen doing dashing things. Location is important, specifically restaurant location. Most of his books read like a cross between a spy novel and a Zagat’s guide.

    An Amiable Charlatan is no exception; much of the action takes place in the Milan Grill Room in London. That’s not particularly noteworthy in an Oppenheim book. What’s noteworthy, to me, is that this book is an elaborate answer to a question I asked a while ago: what use can be made of the 4e rogue power which allows one to stow an item on an unsuspecting target?

    The titular Amiable Charlatan, a pickpocket and swindler, must stow, like, 40 items on unsuspecting targets during the course of this book.

    The Charlatan makes the protagonist’s acquaintance by running into the Milan Grill Room and joining the protagonist for dinner. A moment later, cops run in and search the Charlatan for stolen jewelry: but it is too late, the Charlatan has already, unbeknownst to the protagonist, stowed the jewelry on the protagonist, who is far too respectable to be searched.

    Variations on this trick occur throughout the book. After a day of getting in scrapes with his amiable friend, the protagonist is constantly amazed to discover stolen pearl necklaces tucked in his pocket.

    The Charlatan also frames an unpleasant wedding guest by stowing wedding gifts in the guest’s pocket, and then accusing him of theft. When the guest is searched, the planted item is discovered – along with several other wedding gifts! Coincidentally, the guest really was stealing stuff! Irony? I’m not sure!

    In order to destroy evidence, the Charlatan also palms a counterfeit bill and stows a good one in its place.

    There’s also an incident where bullets are stowed in an unloaded gun, causing a heist to turn deadly. I think this also comes under the purview of the rogue power.

    Well, there’s that request fulfilled: I asked to hear about an irritating rogue career built around the Nimble Fingers power. I meant in a D&D game, but a novel will do as well.