More On Magic Swords

After writing my previous post, I knew I was going to have to look at one of the more infamous magic items in D&D: the Cursed Sword.

Cursed Swords are a necessary staple of the dungeon delving genre, because it keeps players cautious about using any sword they find with a magical aura. Testing such swords against target dummies and in mock combat will reveal only that they are magical, and perform to expectations. When used in combat, however, they reveal their true natures (which is the least convenient time for them to do so).

In the Rules Cyclopedia, Cursed Swords are a result of a normal enchanted sword being generated, and then rolling a 1 or 2 on an additional d20 roll. This more or less means that the sword's +X becomes a -X to attack rolls and damage.

The 1e DMG takes a different approach to Cursed Swords, as there are three varieties:

1. The Sword +1, Cursed - This sword compels the wielder to fight opponents to the death. They cannot retreat or break off from combat. Worse, they cannot be rid of the sword by any mundane means. It cannot be dropped, and when combat begins, the sword teleports into its owner's hand. A cleric must exorcise the sword in order for the curse to lift.
2. The Sword -2, Cursed - Functions like the RC Cursed Sword, but is limited to -2 to attack rolls and damage. Like the Sword +1, Cursed, this one teleports into the users hand and forces them to wield it against all opponents. Only limited wish, wish, or alter reality can rid the unfortunate owner of this sword.
3. The Sword, Cursed Berserking - Probably the most dangerous cursed weapon, the Berserking Sword compels the wielder to attack the closest living creature and continue to fight until dead or until nothing lives within 60' of the wielder. It has a +2 bonus instead of +1, and acts in all other respects as a Sword +1, Cursed. It can only be gotten rid of through exorcism or wish.

What does this all have to do with my previously doing away with the +X bonuses? Well, if a normal enchanted sword can't have a bonus to attacks and damage, a cursed sword shouldn't have penalties to such either. Instead I propose the following:

• Cursed Swords roll two dice for damage, taking the lesser of the two results. On critical hits, Cursed Swords roll no additional dice. Cursed Swords compel their owners to prefer* them over other weapons, and their owners cannot bear to parted with them, and will try to recover the sword by any means should they be parted with it. As it is unlikely that the owner would give up the weapon willingly, they will fight anyone who tries to take it from them.
• Swords of Aggression function like normal enchanted swords, but they have the compulsion property of Cursed Swords. Swords of Aggression further compel their owner to fight opponents to the death, and they may not voluntarily break off or retreat from combat.
• Berserking Swords function as though a Sword of Aggression, but the owner is compelled to attack the closest living creature, and fight until death or until all living creatures within 60' are dead.

*By prefer, I mean that they will use the weapon to the exclusion of all others. They cannot be persuaded to use a different weapon (such as a crossbow if the party will be attempting an ambush from range), nor will they use a superior weapon if they posses one.

Depending on what version of D&D you're using, it might be necessary to use exorcism, limited wish, wish, or alter reality to free an owner of a cursed sword from the weapon. The RC uses dispel evil and remove curse for this.

There are some magic items that defy my previous post's injunction against multiple Bane properties (AD&D 1e):

1. Sword +1, Flame Tongue, +2 vs. regenerating creatures, +3 vs. cold-using, inflammable creatures, +4 vs. undead. Personally, I think the weapon is too complicated to be used "at a glance" in combat, and it should be reduced to down to something like "Flame Tongue".
2. Sword +3, Frost Brand, +6 vs. fire-using /dwelling creatures. Same deal here, and should probably be reduced down to "Frost Brand".
3. Sword +4, Defender. It's fairly straightforward, but it would be better I think to make a "Defender" property, and leave it at that.
4. Sword +5, "Holy Avenger". I think these swords are going to be complicated no matter what if one is trying to preserve their flavor and intent.
5. Sword of Dancing. This version is very complex, and I think the "Dancing" property would be more like 3.5's version (I know, I know, boo).

 So, how would I change these to simpler, less complex versions?

• Flame Tongue: Flame Tongue swords grant an additional die of fire damage. On a critical hit, this damage is doubled (so, two dice of fire damage). Can be caused to burst into flame with a command word or phrase, shedding light like a torch. The aura of flame can ignite oil, burn webs, or set fire to paper, parchment, and dry wood.

Personally, I think that's better, more succinct, and since creatures like trolls already can't regenerate fire or acid damage, the Flame Tongue retains its usefulness against them. Creatures immune to fire damage simply ignore the extra die of fire damage.

• Frost Brand: A Frost Brand weapon grants an additional die of frost damage. On a critical hit, this damage is doubled (two dice of frost damage). It sheds no light, but the weapon is cold to the touch, and ice crystals may form on it. It acts as a ring of fire resistance and can extinguish fire in a 10' radius when thrust into them (this includes walls of fire).

Originally, the fire extinguishing power was a 50% chance, but all that really does is make players try it twice or even three times before it works. Simpler just to say the sword can and does extinguish fires.

• Defender: Defender weapons can be used as normal magic swords, or they can be used to defend their owner, sacrificing their "best of two" property. When Defending, the extra die is rolled on the owner's turn and counts as damage negation until their next turn when the die is rolled again. For example, if a 5 was rolled, 5 damage would be potentially negated that round. If a goblin attacks the example wielder and scores 3 damage, the damage negation would come into effect, and there would be 2 damage negation points remaining. If another foe attacked the wielder and scored 4 damage, only 2 points would be negated. The remaining 2 would go straight to HP, and any further successful attacks would also go straight to HP.

This might be more complicated than I meant to make it, but I felt damage reduction was too strong. What we have now is something like ablative armor or temporary hit points instead

• Holy Avenger: In the hands of ordinary warriors, Holy Avengers function as normal enchanted swords. In the hands of a paladin (or cleric, if you don't use paladins) Holy Avengers grant an additional die of damage against creatures of chaotic alignment (or chaotic and evil alignments, if you're using the 9 alignments). Additionally it grants its wielder 50% magic resistance and they can dispel magic in a 5' radius as a spellcaster of their experience level.

It's not really any different, the only changes are to account for games that are derivatives of Basic, since they don't generally use paladins or the 9 alignments. Yes, I know that name-level fighters in  the RC who are lawful become paladins.

• Dancing: A dancing weapon will fight on its own for five rounds and then return to the wielder. It must then be used in melee by the wielder for five rounds before it can fight on its own again. It fights at the same level and class as its owner.

The description in the 1e DMG is far, far more complex.

I may revisit this in another post. There's a lot of weapons that could benefit from simplification, but these are the "big" ones that commonly found and used by player characters.

On Magic Swords (and other violent implements)

My friend (who plays, or rather, played the elf in the Spies and Pirates game) and I stayed up rather late tonight after a game of Microscope where we were building a sword and sorcery world talking not only about said world, but our conversation also meandered into OSR territory... and our topic, magic swords.

The both of us are somewhat disappointed with the whole idea of +X weapons in D&D. Not only is it incredibly underwhelming that +1 swords go out of style faster than goldfish platform shoes, but it's also incredibly frustrating from a world-building perspective. Why would anyone make or enchant a +1 sword when +5 swords are clearly superior? Practice? Is there a sweatshop somewhere where lowly apprentices are made to slave over crude iron swords, rubbing them with rare ingredients in the desperate hope that some magic will flare to life in the cold metal dug from the earth by enslaved goblins? Will they be beaten and starved if they don't meet their quota of one enchanted sword per day?

Some of my irritation is partly based on the Ye Olde Magick Shoppe trope where adventurers can buy and sell magic items because it's convenient, and +1 swords are yawn inducing after the fifth one you find, so shouldn't there be a way to offload these crappy things to get a better sword? And why would anyone care about +1 swords anyway? It's just a +5% to-hit! Completely useless to anyone who isn't an adventurer or soldier type, so why wouldn't there be a market for this crap?

As much as it pains me to admit, those that throw these arguments around have a point. I don't have to like it, but I'm not so arrogant or stupid to think that they're completely foolish to have these notions. I do however blame the idea of D&D's magic swords for creating this culture of dismissal and disdain. My friend and I were discussing the ways in which weapons are differentiated from one another, where some OSR folks like lots of little bonuses and penalties depending on weapon/armor interaction, and some of us just want something streamlined that works, and then gets the hell out of the way. Both the elf's player and I are firmly in the latter camp.

So, to this end, we propose to do away with +X entirely. A magic weapon is a magic weapon. It doesn't alter to-hit probabilities, and doesn't do any extra damage (excepting specific sorts of weapons). But then, what makes a magic sword special?

Enchanted weapons have the following in common:

• They are difficult to break (any attack that would destroy a mundane weapon only has a 1 in 6 chance to destroy an enchanted weapon).
• They require the bare minimum of maintenance to keep them in combat shape. Wiping them clean is generally sufficient to protect them from the ravages of wear and time. An enchanted weapon never needs to be sharpened.
• They can harm monsters that cannot be harmed by mundane weapons (yes, I realize this means that monsters that can't be hit by +2 or worse weapons are now much more vulnerable, but I think this is a fair trade off for not getting straight damage bonuses)
• They deal an extra die of damage, but only the best of the two results is kept. A critical hit would roll 3d6, the two best of the three being kept.

Additionally, some weapons are built to fight specific foes:

• Bane weapons allow the wielder to roll an extra die of damage against the creature that the weapon was enchanted to defeat. E.g., a Goblin Bane Sword would deal 1d6 base damage, with an additional enchanted die where the best of two are kept, and then an extra 1d6 vs. Goblins only.
• Slaying weapons would necessitate a saving throw vs. death. Some especially strong Slaying weapons might impose penalties to this saving throw.
• A weapon can be both Slaying and Bane, but they must be for the same type of monster, and an enchanted weapon could not be enchanted with more than one Slaying or Bane property.

Most other magic item properties should have fantastic or utility powers. A sword that glows (or glows when particular monsters are near) are not only good for light (and thus save on torches and lamp oil) but can also serve to forewarn adventurers - but there's also that slight problem that the glow may not be able to be turned off, thus exposing the party (or just the character wielding it) to scrutiny and possibly attack.

It's late where I am (or early, depending on whether or not you went to sleep at a reasonable hour), so I won't be developing this as thoroughly as I might otherwise. But fear not, once I've slept I'll crack open my 1e DMG and my RC and see if there's some other magic item properties I should adapt to this particular take on magic items. In my own games, I prefer magic items to be a big deal. I don't like the idea of there being a white or grey market for magic items, and that in general, magic items are not sold for money unless someone is extremely desperate or extremely foolish, and are instead traded for other magic items.

I will likely go into this in more depth in another post where I'm not delirious from lack of sleep.

Spies and Pirates, Part IV

Our four weary spies tramped into the common room of the Moosefoot Inn, and took a table by the fire. The proprietor and his wife provided a meal in return for coin - coin which they knew was strange and different from the coins that the village was used to seeing, and were of a kind with the coins spent by the pirates of Port Varos. The Elf paid for the best bottles of wine that they had, which turned out to be a drinkable vintage, and after, lodging was secured.

Being that they were strangers, it was unsurprising that they drew as much interest as they did. In the morning, Aldentown's mayor put on his finery, and tramped down from his townhouse to the Moosefoot to see what all the hubbub was about.

Aldentown knew of the dwarves of Zagrammhar's Hold, but they hadn't seen them in generations. So, the party's Dwarf was something exotic, but known. The Elf on the other hand? Aldentown hadn't seen in elf in hundreds of years. If any still lived on the island, they avoided men, and kept their settlements secret. Even then, the party's accents and words were strange to the ears, cut off as they had been from the mainland for several generations. Of note too was the Crusader, clearly both a pious man and a soldier - a warrior from a cult which had been unable to convert the island's people to the worship of their fiery, industrious god, and away from the strange and pagan rites which they continued to practice.

So, Walaric waited at the bar so he could speak with these newcomers and sound them out. When they emerged, he introduced himself, asked them to take lunch with him at his townhouse. The party accepted, and they went.

Their talk was friendly, Walaric answering their questions about the town, the island, and even the pirates. They answered his questions about why they had come, specifically, their desire to meet with Balthazar, the wizard responsible for the island's perpetual storm. Walaric revealed that he was the great grandson of Balthazar, and that most people in Aldentown were related to the sorcerer in one way or another. It seemed that once every decade or so, for many, many generations into the past, Balthazar would come down from his tower above Lake Belro and would court, seduce, or kidnap a local woman who took his fancy. Sometimes they returned more or less unharmed. Others returned pregnant. A few never returned at all. Most could only vaguely recall what had happened to them.

Most folk in Aldentown tried to ignore how closely they might be related due to the wizard's meddling. Far too uncomfortable. However, they did use their kinship with the wizard to keep the pirates mostly honest. It was better than the alternative.

Walaric was proud that he had inherited some minor sorcerous power, and demonstrated by turning a tea cup into a mouse. It lived for only a few minutes, before once again becoming a tea cup.

It was not long after that they were interrupted by the town's miller, Remi. Remi explained that goblins had gotten into the mill once again, and had taken several bags of flour. Walaric promised to put out patrols and keep some young men on watch. It was at this point that our spies offered to deal with the goblins permanently.

Obviously, Walaric was happy for the offer. The party decided to focus on planning their expedition, and asked if there was a local hunter or guide who could help them find the goblins. Walaric recommended Ebrulf, a man who had hunted the area since childhood.

The party retired to the Moosefoot Inn to plan, and to wait for Ebrulf to arrive. Sometime around evening, the old hunter drifted into town and was sent down to the Moosefoot.

All was quickly arranged, the party agreed to meet Ebrulf at first light on the edge of town and then travel into the wooded foothills to the mine where the goblins were laired. They followed the greying man up into the hills and forests, until at late afternoon, they topped a ridge that overlooked the mine itself. They set up camp, and kept a watch on the entrance below. Around dusk, a goblin left the safety of the mine, with a bucket in hand. A small stream flowed below the entrance, and it was to the banks of this waterway that the goblin went.

Before the goblin traveled all the way however, they stopped to speak with another goblin guarding the entrance that the party had not seen until that point. Our specialist knocked an arrow, and waited for the goblin to get partway down the remains of a gravel road before he loosed. It struck, killing them instantly, the bucket clattering to the ground and rolling a few feet away.

The sentry came out from cover, calling something in their savage tongue, and the party swarmed down the ridge toward the entrance. Ebrulf stayed behind, and covered them with his hunting bow. The party managed to kill the sentry before he could retreat or take cover behind a toppled mine cart. On further examination, the initial goblin they had slain was a female.

When no further activity came from the mine entrance, Ebrulf joined the party. They began to hash out a plan among themselves, but unknown to them, a second sentry had been watching from inside, and when his fellow had died at their hands, he had raced down the tunnel to warn his chieftain of the invaders. Their plan was to smoke the goblins out, so they tipped a mine cart back upright and onto the sturdy, dwarven forged rails, and began filling it with as much dry wood as they could find, some oil from the lanterns, the goblin's bucket, the sentry's spear, and both bodies.

Once the conflagration had gotten going, they piled leaves on it for smoke, and pushed it as hard as they could down the rails. By virtue of their dwarf-made nature, the cart was carried down the rails quite far - far enough to trigger another dwarf-made feature: a pit trap. The mine cart clanged and clattered into a long pit, dug 10' deep, the floor swinging down. It wasn't the most successful plan, but all in all, it was a clever one, had the mine's interior not been designed the way it was.*

Their plan thwarted, the party ventured into the darkness of the mine with lanterns lit and weapons a ready. Past the long pit trap was the mechanism that would reset it, or make it active. They left it alone, and soon found themselves in a T passage, and chose to explore to their right, leaving the left unexplored. At the end of the right passage were two big iron bound doors, closed. Listening at the doors, they could hear the muffled orders of goblins, but as no one could understand the language, it was unknown what those mad barkings were about.

A quick reconnoiter of the left passage revealed an elevator, but it didn't look sturdy, so they decided not to risk it. Returning to the double doors, they readied their muskets and pistols, and barged in. With great thunders of smoke and fire, the combined firepower of the power killed and wounded several goblins, and the rest broke and ran, retreating deeper into the mine. Quickly looking over the room they found themselves in, the party discovered that the goblins were continuing to work the abandoned mine, using cast off implements that were likely so bad that the dwarves who had abandoned the place had left them without a second thought.

In one corner was a damaged dwarven automaton, a bipedal mining device with drills on its arms in place of hands. However, there wasn't a lot of time to take stock or do much of anything, so the party began reloading their weapons, and the Crusader advanced to the beginning of the passage that the goblins had retreated down. Our Dwarf took up position on the other side, and the Specialist went to the same side as the Crusader. Our Elf was busying himself with reloading his pistols from a safe distance away.

The goblins returned, along with the chieftain and shaman, both hobgoblins. They'd managed to draw some more of the goblins into formation, so now they numbered twenty or so, plus three hobgoblins (another hobgoblin had been slain in the initial engagement). Using shortbows from their back ranks, the goblins waited for their foes to reveal themselves. The Dwarf and the Specialist revealed themselves, the dwarf blasting them with a mighty cough of his blunderbuss, the Specialist with his pistol. Both of them were wounded by the arrows, and the Specialist was downed. Only by the efforts of the Dwarf and Crusader was he pulled to safety.

Knowing that the tide had turned grim, the Crusader rushed the goblins, hoping to break their formation and slay their shaman or chieftain, and throw them into chaos. Unfortunately, this brave act didn't have the effect he desired, and although he savagely wounded the shaman, he was brought down by the many spears of the goblins who had encircled him. The Elf, who had since reloaded and moved up, saw the Crusader collapse among the green skinned foes, made a fateful decision. The Dwarf, for his part, knowing that things were all but lost, waded in while the goblin formation was disrupted, and extracted the Crusader.

It was this moment that the Elf had waited for. He charged. And as he ran into the teeth of the goblin spears, he lit fuses, fired his apostles powder horns (measured containers of gunpowder), and dived straight into the middle of them. The explosion shook the small passage, and the shrapnel killed anyone not slain by the blast itself. When the smoke had cleared, the Specialist and the Dwarf were witness to the utter destruction of the foe. But the Crusader was unconscious, possibly dying, and the Elf... The Elf was as surely dead as the goblins he had courageously slain.

And so ends Part IV. Continued in Part V.

*The module I used for the mine was Gold in the Hills, which can be found on the Basic Fantasy RPG website. It's free! Check it out.

A Knight and His Lady

Last Friday's game was interesting. Our Crusader's player from the Spies and Pirates game had decided he wanted to test my thoughts on canon, and he's wanted to run the A Song of Ice and Fire RPG for a while. Knowing that I've read all the novels (and now in preparation for the game, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms as well), and am a fan of the written universe, if not quite so taken with the TV show, our Crusader has chosen a landscape I know well.

My character was one Ser Eldon Coldrock, known as the "Ironfoe" for his hatred of the raiders from the Iron Islands. He was twelve when Balon Greyjoy attempted his rebellion, Ironmen came to Cold Rocks, Eldon's hometown, and a place his family had lived for thousands of years, at least since the days of the First Men. The sea raiders burned the place to ground, killing Eldon's great uncle, his uncle, his older sisters, and his older brother. Only he and his aunt escaped out of their whole family (Eldon's parents are dead or missing, and he has barely any memories of them).

At the age of fourteen he was squired to a hedge knight named Ser Ardol, and three years later, remnants of Balon's broken forces stole the young heir of the House of Greenstem, a banner house to the wealthy House Dross. When Ardol was wounded severely enough that he could not carry on, Eldon went on alone. Through feats of daring, he rescued Clement Greenstem, and they in turn rescued Ser Ardol and brought him back to the Greenstem family hall. It was there, once Ser Ardol was well, that Eldon was knighted, and undertook his vigil before the eyes of gods and men.

Three years were spent traveling Westeros, and when he returned to the House of Greenstem he was a tall, powerful man, if plain of face, and humble in origin. His hatred of the Ironmen has never abated, however, and he took for his arms a squid laid low with a sword through its body, and three drops of blood falling from its ghastly wound. Another year passes, and the game began - Ser Eldon is in service to House Greenstem, and the young Lord Clement is fond of his hedge knight friend (though this may not last).

House Greenstem and House Dross are invited to the birthday of a nearby lordling house, the Mousers. The eldest son has attained his majority, and Lady Nora of House Dross brought him a Sand Steed, the spirited and fleet horses of Dorne. Lord Clement brought him a good castle forged sword, and Ser Eldon brought nothing but a willingness to win at the games in the lordling's honor.

There would be a tourney and a melee that day, but first there was a great deal of mingling. The Mouser's daughter, whose hand in marriage was the potential reward for winning the joust, had taken a shine to young Lord Clement, and the two of them went to the manor's garden for a chance to speak in private, a potentially scandalous act. Who better to protect them than Ser Eldon, Lord Clement's childhood rescuer?

Well, Ser Eldon is nothing if not completely inept at stealth, so it was pretty obvious he was following them. At a discreet and polite distance. Unfortunately, a young lady is not something one lets go missing (particularly when the "Lusty Lord" of House Dross is out and about), and her meddler of a brother came calling. He interrogated Ser Eldon, but Eldon isn't exactly the maester of witticisms and simply covered for Lord Clement. However, the lordling soon discovered the truth, and let his tongue wag a bit too far, threatening Ser Eldon and Lord Clement.

There was some funny bit about about having his father throw us out (in particular yours truly as Ser Eldon), but Ser Eldon was having none of it, and told the boy he'd like to see his father try to throw him and his horse out of the tourney. Not to mention the insult to House Greenstem.

Meanwhile, back at the party, Lady Nora, the "Lusty Lord's" twin sister was being none too subtly threatened by Tywin Lannister's favorite sister, who laid out our Banner Lord's concerns over the bandits who had infested our lands (and the lands of our banner house, House Greenstem), and the rather blunt threat of murder and rape if we didn't get things in order. Essentially an ultimatum was on hand: Clean up the bandits, or Tywin will send the Mountain that Rides to do it for you.

Our Lord of House Dross was in the meanwhile, trying to get into an old maid of a widow lady's skirts, but she turned out to be a little more adroit than he had anticipated, and he'd pretty much managed to get himself informally engaged by the end of his "seduction attempt". On the other hand, things were working out for Lady Nora, because the widow her brother had his eyes on, was not only head of a banner house to the Mousers, but also in possession of a larger army than either House Dross or House Greenstem. Moreover, the Mouser's daughter and Lord Clements clear attraction hadn't escaped her shrewd (if drunk) notice.

When it came time for the melee, Ser Eldon was pitted against Lord Dross, who trounced him rather handily. Certainly he wasn't as easily outwitted in the field as he was in the manor house. Thankfully, no real injury was done, though Ser Eldon was out of the running for the prize purse in the melee.

However, it was Lord Clement who ultimately won the melee, and they moved on to the joust.

The joust was chancy. Very chancy. I'm completely surprised I made it as far as I did (bless that bonus die in Ride). At the end of it, it was just me and Lord Clement. Our first pass, as I recollect, was a tie. Our second pass was not. He didn't make his test to stay in the saddle, and I chose to be a gigantic dick and burn a Destiny point so that I'd automatically make the test. Now, I didn't do it because I wanted to have my hedge knight marry the Lord Mouser's daughter. No. I did it because it's a much better story if Lord Clement has to stew a bit, and Lady Nora gets to scheme getting Clement and Odette married, while placating the good Ser Eldon with something more to his liking. Plus, it puts pressure on Odette's family to relinquish their banner house to House Dross.

I may not be as clever as our good Lady Nora (played by the Spies and Pirates elf), but I have my moments.

Spies and Pirates, Part III

Where we last left off, our titular spies were stranded in a temperate forest, on an island in the the eye of a storm, crawling with pirates, unseen dangers, and an insane immortal sorcerer.

They took their leave of the camp, after burying the talisman that had allowed them to traverse the storm, overturning the dinghy, and covering the whole thing with the dinghy's canvass (and a liberal layer of branches). Their first foray into the forest led them northerly, and after a long damp trek, they set up camp once again.

However, their barrel of salt pork managed to attract one of the handful of bears that hadn't yet gone into hibernation. Looming out of the darkness and grunting and growling to himself, the bear advanced on the camp where the party slept - all save for dwarf, on watch with a brace of pistols. Considering our dwarf's player has had some unfortunate run-ins with bears in games of the past, and lets be fair, a hungry bear is not the most fun thing to encounter in the dark.

Potentially afflicted with flashbacks to a certain 5e game where his poor monk was slain by a starving, emaciated bear, our dwarf's player informs us he's taking aim at the dark shape and firing.

There's a curious (and enjoyable) little bit of rules in LotFP where firearms cause a morale check. It was this, more than any damage that was caused that deterred the bear, and aside from the thunder of flintlocks, the rest of the night was less exciting.

In the morning they set out between some hills, skirting both the mountains to the West and the coast on the East. As afternoon crept upon them, they began to find fields being worked by the smallfolk of Aldentown. By evening, they'd reached the town proper, and had entered Aldentown's single establishment, the Moosefoot Inn.

Continued in Part IV.

Spies and Pirates, Part II

When we got together the next week available week, we decided to continue the story of the Clovinian spies.

A piece of news from the first mate while he was sharing a smoke with the party dwarf was that the flashes of lightning against the grey storm front were birds being struck out of the sky. I'm fairly certain that bit of information was chilling, or at the very least, sobering. It certainly hastened the party's plans.

Our elf is something of a mastermind of mayhem. He decided, almost unilaterally, that what they needed to do was steal whatever talisman allowed the pirates to enter the storm unharmed, sabotage the armory, steal a dinghy, and row to the island while the sabotage set off the powder and turned the ship into so much driftwood.

The rest of the party was definitely okay with this plan, judging by their enthusiasm. Our dwarf continued to get cozy with the first mate, smoking in front of the hatches that led to the passenger and officer's cabins in the aft of the ship. Partially as a distraction, partially as a lookout. The crusader went to the galley in order to question the cook about provisions, and discovered where the barrels of salt pork were kept. Meanwhile, the specialist invaded the captain's cabin in search of the talisman.

It wasn't difficult to enter, and the search was only mildly time consuming. At the bottom of the captain's sea chest was a cannon ball with a deeply incised circle of symbols etched into it. Knowing he could be discovered at any minute, the specialist retreated and tried to re-lock the door from the outside (just to be clear, it's not the sort of modern door locks we're used to. Without the key, it can't easily be locked from the outside). However, he had run out of time as the first mate came down from the poop deck to get some charts. Thankfully, the dwarf kicked the door with his heel to let the specialist know someone was coming, and he beat a quick retreat to the passenger cabins.

Thankfully, the first mate was a busy man, and while he did notice the door to the captain's cabin was unlocked, he reasoned that he himself had been careless and left it unlocked, rather than suspecting that someone had malicious intent. It's possible I was being too easy on the group, but I figured even pirates would be unlikely to be suspicious of paying passengers, and wouldn't be terribly likely to start keelhauling everyone because a door that was supposed to be locked wasn't.

I did however, make a mental note that any other such activities would alert the pirates to foul play.

The specialist, the elf, the dwarf, and the crusader updated each other on what they'd discovered, and they decided they needed to figure out some way to set the armory ablaze, steal some supplies, steal the cannon ball, and then steal a dinghy.

Some ideas were bandied about, such as using oil to light the passenger cabin ablaze (it shared a wall with the magazine), but ultimately, they decided they needed to steal an auger from the ship's carpentry shop. So, the dwarf went looking for the shop while the crusader acquired their provisions. The elf and specialist took another crack at the captain's cabin.

The specialist got in, while the elf stood lookout at the hatch leading into the passageway that led to the cabins. Unfortunately for them, the pirate captain had come down to get some shut eye before entering the storm. Thinking quickly, the elf ran him through and manhandled the captain's dying form into his own cabin, and then he and the specialist retrieved the cannon ball (after a judicious use of read magic to ensure that the markings weren't just gibberish to confound the foolish). The elf made sure to lock the captain's cabin with the man's own key. The specialist looted the place of coin, but also snagged some letters of credit, and the deed to the Listing Lady.

When the crusader and the dwarf returned, they set about boring a hole in the passenger cabin's wall, and managed to be lucky enough to be right next to a barrel of gunpowder. With a length of fuse and some fire, the plan went into high gear. What they did next was cause a distraction by setting fire to the captain's cabin. They then piled out of the aft section of the ship, and told the pirates on deck there was a fire!

This cleared the poop out pretty fast, and the only one left up there was the rather unlucky pilot. The party used their pistols to intimidate him, and set about dropping a dinghy from the rear of the ship. Bound, gagged, and unconscious, the pilot was incapable of warning his comrades. They got about a few hundred feet from the Listing Lady before she was smashed to tinder by the armory going up. With that grisly work done, they rowed to the island during the night, hoping the cannon ball was indeed their savior.

It turned out their gamble had paid off, but during the night and early morning, flashes of lightning behind them were a grim reminder that anyone who had survived the ship's sinking had been consigned to an unpleasant death. On landfall, they set about making camp and interrogating their prisoner for everything he knew about the island. Then the crusader hanged him for his crime of piracy.

And so ends Part II. Continued in Part III.

Spies and Pirates, Part I

This post is essentially just story time. If you're not really into hearing about how a fistful of grown men played pretend for a couple of evenings, you might want to skip this one; but that begs the question, aside from satisfying your own curiosity, why are you here? This is a blog about roleplaying games, which is almost always about adults playing pretend.

Anyway, some weeks ago we had just gotten back together after one of our regular players had gotten married and gone on their honeymoon (congrats J & C). I was somewhat frazzled because of home life, and we've been trying to make time to play Lamentations of the Flame Princess a little more regularly. Now, I'm sure some of you know the reputation, but I'm not running it "as intended". I like that it's a streamlined version of B/X D&D, and that's how I've been running it, with a little help from the AD&D 1e DMG, plus some Basic Fantasy RPG monsters.

In previous sessions, I'd set the game in a country called Clovina, loosely inspired by France before the revolution. For this game, everyone made new characters, and they decided to be quite a diverse cast of characters:

• A holy man turned crusader, wielding fire and steel for his fiery god of industry. Mechanically a Cleric.
• A dwarf from an allied hold in the northern part of Clovina among the only real mountains in the country. In service to the dwarven embassy in the capital.
• A man who has served as part of the Foreign Office run by the king of Clovina's younger brother. Essentially a combination diplomat and spy. Mechanically a Specialist.
• An elf nobleman whose age and love of drink had given him something of an unhurried outlook on life.

These four were recruited by their various leaders (including the highest priest in the land, the magistrate in charge of the Foreign Office, the dwarven ambassador, and the elven ambassador) and told that there was an important mission that they were being offered.

Yes. That's right. Offered. I don't like strong-arming my players into doing anything they don't want to do. I offered them the hook, and let them take it if they wanted. My players are great, they played along. The idea of being spies for an early modern government proved to be a neat enough idea. Either that or they were just being nice.

Having taken their leaders up on the mission, they reported to a tavern not only to meet one another for the first time, but to receive their orders and their appropriate documents for the times ahead. Introductions were fun as everyone was stepping into their character's shoes and working out their personalities.

The mission was straightforward: From a port on a nearby island, pirates had been raiding the Clovinian coast for decades. The current king wished them disposed of, but the navy was unable to strike at the buccaneers due to the presence of a supernatural storm which destroyed any ships approaching the island. By means unknown, the pirates were able to pass through. The group's mission would be to infiltrate the island, discover the means by which the pirates were able to traverse the storm, and (if possible) kill the wizard who was known to have created the storm in the first place.

 Over the course of some questions about the documents, their knowledge of history, and some bits of pieces of information their leaders had said, I think that everyone had a clear view of the island and both its history and current status:

1. The island had never been part of Clovina, and the natives had resisted vigorously against them, to the point that their Queen had invaded the mainland many hundreds of years before.
2. A wizard (of indeterminate age) had settled there later looking for the legendary Queen's tomb, which was rumored to contain fabulous riches, and more importantly, lost and terrible magic.
3.  Raiders had come to use one of the island's sheltered bays as a port, or they had sprung up from the existing unconquered population. Which was unclear. What was clear however, was that the raiders had struck some sort of deal with the wizard. In return for unknown pledges, promises, or goods, the wizard had conjured a powerful storm and granted the captains of the raider ships magic of some sort that allowed them to bypass the storm.

Having noted these facts, the party realized that they must procure passage aboard one of these pirate ships.

In our first session, they left the capital and went to one of the big sea ports. There, they scoped out the docks and the ships. Some pointed questions yielded up the answer they needed. The Listing Lady was in port, and was by reputation, one of the ships they needed. The elf sounded out the crew and captain, while the specialist decided to investigate the warehouse the pirates were loading their cargo into. Most of what he discovered was mundane things, like crates of firs. But, in one box he discovered a small chest (about the size of a cashbox) with a number of purple vials, unlabeled.

Believe me, he was itching to try them out, but was afraid of the consequences. Taking his prize, he returned to the party. The next morning, they boarded the Listing Lady and set sail. Most of the trip was them scouting out the ship as best they could, and sounding out the crew for just what fabulous magic could allow them to sail through the coming storm.

The first session ended around this point. Continued in Part II.

Rambling Thoughts on Canon

Canon among those who call themselves fans, or nerds, or whatever label one personally slaps on themselves or others is an oft hotly debated topic. This is particularly true of movie franchises, TV shows, comic books, and novels of fantasy. Less often does it crop up in speculative fiction, but there too it rears its misbegotten head.

I have something of a love/hate relationship with it. As a fan, I'm certainly willing to delve into the details of a particular universe and nitpick about consistency from one story to the next, and I love thinking and creating detailed and consistent settings for my own creative works. However, I'm also of the strong opinion that canon, as it's most commonly viewed among fans, is the death of creativity.

This is not an opinion most fans hold, and I'm sure some who read this will be sharpening their figurative knives and ready to use their superior reasoning skills to cut my opinions to ribbons. Let them. I'm not going to discuss at length the canon of any particular series or franchise, because it ultimately isn't the point. A medium of entertainment that is passively enjoyed (like reading a book, or viewing a show) can have whatever level of canon it likes, adhering to one or not as the particular stories demand.

Obviously, my intention is to discuss canon within roleplaying games. Roleplaying games require active participation in the game world, a combination of suspension of disbelief and agency in a world vaguely defined by players describing actions, GM descriptions, and some rules using dice or some other mechanic to replicate "chancy" situations with uncertain outcomes.

It is thus that canon actively interferes with the gameworld as seen through the eyes of the players. Take for instance the Forgotten Realms setting. It has many thoroughly and luridly detailed non-player characters who are many magnitudes of power greater than most player characters will ever be, and they are locked in titanic struggles with each other, the gods, and even entire nations. This tacit acknowledgement of these characters as fixtures of setting lore renders the player characters as bit participants in a larger conflict (and this is fine, occasionally).

My problem with it from a GM, as well as a creative, standpoint is that it boxes in what can and cannot be in the setting. If a GM details a town and sets it down on the Sword Coast, say between Candlekeep and Baldur's Gate, you will inevitably have someone who has read the novels or played the computer games complaining that no such town exists, and that it breaks their verisimilitude of the world as they have come to know it. Worse, it's not just GMs who have to suffer under the yoke of canon. If a player wishes to detail a heretofore unknown ethnic group in the setting, but wants them close enough to be relevant to the part of the game world they'll be playing in, room must be made for them. Even then, you'll get someone who "knows" the setting better than everyone else who will exclaim that such and such part of the world can't possibly support a nomadic tribe because of some obscure setting detail laid out in the XIXth novel of the Swords of Drakehall series, and by the Guide to Drakehall and Surrounding Environs from 1985.

I am not for a minute suggesting that one should throw out a setting's details. What I am saying is that the details are less important as published than they are as imagined by the players (naturally, the GM is a player as well). This is especially true of events in setting. In the Dragonlance setting, there's several wars that have huge impact on the setting, as well as a handful of cosmic events that affect religion in the setting. There's a concrete timeline, and frankly, I loathe the idea that these events are set in stone, as though the player characters are incapable of changing them and that time itself is on some kind of track that cannot be diverted through heroism or villainy. It runs counter to the very core of roleplaying games, and violates the player's agency - undermining their choices and actions.

To examine this further, there is a part of the Dragonlance saga where the evil goddess Takhisis steals the world away from the other gods, and this so weakens her that she is unable to enact her plans for world domination for a good long time. In the meanwhile, alien dragons arrive on Krynn, and take over the place, changing the landscape to suit them. Magic runs amok because High Magic, as defined and controlled through adherence to the gods of magic and the moons that represent them, is withering on the vine without the presence of said gods. Divine magic too suffers from this lack of gods, and even Takhisis is too weak to help her followers, causing a crisis of faith merely a half century after divine magic had returned to the world during the War of the Lance.

For my part, this not only robs the Heroes of the Lance of their victory, but it also takes away one of the defining moments of the setting: the return of divine magic. More than that, any characters who were Clerics or Wizards suddenly find themselves bereft of their reliable powers, and can either convert to the new magic system for the age (mysticism and sorcery, respectively) or find themselves permanently depowered. It's a cataclysmic event for the sake of having one. Anyone who decides to play a version of Dragonlance where Krynn isn't stolen by the Dark Queen is playing a homebrewed version by default; nevermind that it's both more interesting and less of a rules nightmare.

My oldest roleplying group, the group I began this journey with, and among whom I count many as friends, has a version of the Forgotten Realms that is quite different from the one that exists currently. Since we haven't played in some time, the year is currently 1386 DR, the Spell Plague has not occurred (and won't), and there's a fortress on the Sword Coast a bit North of the Cloud Peaks that's blossomed into a small city, a location founded by one of the players, back when castles were a class feature. I have often used this city as a location to springboard campaigns. Why start in Baldur's Gate when we can start in Seaview? Why play a Wizard from the Dale Lands when we can play one who started from Seaview's battlemage school as taught by the founder of the city himself?

With this, we've created a shared, living history. One that cannot co-exist with the current canon. I find this superior to arguing over whether or not the Spell Plague should have destroyed Seaview, or whether or not the Second Sundering should have restored it as it restored many other dead characters or ruined nations. It's a headache I'd rather avoid.

In my own homebrew settings, I try to encourage my players to add details I haven't thought of. They can make their characters exotic foreigners from far away lands who fight crusades against foes I have only mentioned in passing. The player's contributions to those worlds gives them part authorship, and I'm absolutely fine with this, since when we play RPGs, they are not playing my premade story, they're not looking for my cookie crumb narrative - they tell the story by their actions and their choices. I make notes of NPCs who might be helpful or in authority over a given place, but if my players never interact with them it is little lost. I'd much rather detail the hobbling beggar they have been kind to, an NPC they became invested in just because they liked my flavorful description.

It isn't really my world. I create some structure to it, the bones, if you well, the flesh. My players give it life, breath, heartbeat, and blood. But once I let my players free in it, it becomes our world. A shared thing, where stories happen. Nothing gives me greater joy than that - and the only canon that matters is the one we agree on, together. Published settings and word of god can only give us the beginning state of such a world. The end state is entirely determined by us, and really, in a large part by the player characters. That isn't to say that I don't have NPCs moving in the background, doing their own plotting and putting into action said plots - it would be a dull world if it revolved entirely around the players.

But, the most important thing is to never force the players get involved with any particular thing. That's the often maligned railroading. Which is probably another discussion for another time.

To conclude, canon in roleplaying games should ideally be something shared between the participants, rather than handed down from on high by game developers and world builders. If such a canon of the imagination can be said to exist at all.