http://www.penandpapergames.com/forums/blog.php/2573-Malruhn Pen and Paper Games hosts a very powerful, but easy to seach and join database of players and game masters in the United States and Canada. Our forums are also a great place to find the most recent news, product releases, tips, and rpg discussion. en Mon, 20 May 2013 19:44:56 GMT vBulletin 60 http://www.penandpapergames.com/forums/pnpg_style/misc/rss.jpg http://www.penandpapergames.com/forums/blog.php/2573-Malruhn http://www.penandpapergames.com/forums/entry.php/1470-Fantasy-Dungeon-Creation Sun, 12 Dec 2010 04:26:01 GMT After getting a comment on how I build campaign world maps, I've decided to talk about how I create dungeon maps. I have a confession... it's easier than I want to admit.

There are three sources for dungeons - natural caverns, man-made (creature made!!), and combo dungeons.

With natural caverns, I just use squiggles on a piece of graph paper - or download an existing cave map (http://www.climb-utah.com/WM/Maps/NuttyPuttyCaveMap.pdf). Then I arrange the monsters with as much of an eye on defense as to functionality. More on that in a moment.

Created dungeons are built for the designer's desires - but keep in mind that unless he's using LOTS of magical help, underground construction takes a VERY long time and is EXTRAORDINARILY expensive.

Most are combo dungeons - take any existing cave system and make it better. It helps your purse and it helps you use the darned thing before you are collecting Social Security.

The most important thing to consider is functionality. There are some questions to ask:
1. How will we make sure we always have good air?
1. What do we do with waste?
2. Where/how do we get food/water?
3. Where will we eat and sleep?
4. How do we get in/out?

For those truly anal people reading, you may note that I have two #1 questions - that's because they are equally important. Bad air will kill everyone, and swimming in a cesspool is a sure bet to get people sick (even in medieval times, they knew that poo was bad for health).

When using existing caves, I fight over those first two (one) questions the most - and they ALWAYS are paramount to anything else. We gotta breathe and we gotta poop... everything else is secondary. I always find a place to place the latrines FIRST - and then worry about air - and, unfortunately, usually resort to some tiny crack that creates a vent... it is a tired trope, but it helps.

How do you get food and water down there to your minions? If the "bad" guys (SOMEBODY has to consider the PC's the "bad guys"!!) are at the entrance, are you going to starve? How easy is it to cut off your water supply? Sure, most water supplies were contaminated and water was notoriously dangerous to drink, but if you brew a crappy beer with it and let it ferment for about 12-hours, it was "safe" (they didn't understand the deal about the boiling of the water... they thought it had to be brewed...) Now - where do the minions eat? What do we do with scraps? Odds are that they'll be tossed into wherever the poop goes, but we have to consider that!!

The next thing to consider is sleep. Sure, it's fine to SAY that everyone will sleep on the floor - but until you've actually slept on a cave floor, you have never really encountered a bad night's sleep. It's unbelievably cold, and in 99% of the cases, VERY damp. Then you have the critters... it's worse than sleeping under the stars (which is very uncomfortable!).

Okay, once you figure out that - then we get to the last OMG thing we have to consider - how we get in and out. You have one entrance? Great! After the first knock on your door-step, the caverns will be uninhabited and you will be dead. You HAVE to have either a legitimate second entrance, or at LEAST a sally-port/evacuation route!! If you don't, then a single stinking cloud spell will be doom for all of you.

Now we have the basics. Look LONG and hard at your entrances and then we can start to build the rest. What's important??

Next is fodder for the fires. If you're gonna cook, you're going to need fuel for the fires - and propane doesn't exist yet (except as a poisonous gas!!). Wood/peat/animal droppings take up LOTS of room - and constantly need to be replenished.

How about a place to store food and drink? This is next on the list for MUST HAVEs... Mold will play havoc with your dry-goods unless you have magical dehumidifiers working around the clock. Candles help cut this and add needed light, but greatly increase the fire danger - and a fire in a cave is a death sentence.

How about a place for the ruler to sleep/eat so they can be segregated away and feel special about themselves? Sure, some will demand it - others will think, "I"m a man of my men, as we all live together!" Good for them - and it's great for junior leaders, but for the uber-boss, familiarity breeds contempt, and you HAVE to be separated.

NOW we can get to the "stupid" stuff.

Tops on the list is simple... what about some STORAGE rooms? How about a training area for the troops? A "greeting room" for guests or a place to show off? What of an actual "barracks" for the troops to sleep? Don't forget that there will be 24-hour guards - so that means there will be 24-hour sleepers as well - and they need a quiet place to sleep. A temple/place of worship? A smithy/forge for repairs?

What about engineered traps and foils like a dumb, 3' wall at the end of a long hallway for archers to hide behind and get a huge bonus for cover, or a nice straight hallway with a wavy patters cut into the floor like speed-bumps? It's a perfect, "I'M GONNA CHARGE - oh, wait, I'm 20' into it and now I can't..." sort of foil.

You may have noticed that before I built any of the extra stuff, I mentioned the layout of the entrance. I did this for a reason. You HAVE to so you know how big stuff can be that you attempt to lug into a dungeon!! I don't know HOW many times I've adventured in dungeons and saw some gargantuan siege engine (ballista, usually) set up for defense, but there were so many abrupt right angles and 180 turns that there was no way it could be brought down there. Or that HUGE bed the boss-man sleeps on... you GOTTA be kidding, right?

The last thing I think about is improvements. What's the next thing to be built - and WHERE ARE THEY PUTTING THE RUBBLE? There will ALWAYS be some improvements going on - even if it's just to white-wash the walls - and there will always be rubble going up. The amount of rubble will end up being about THREE times the volume mined out due to expansion and not being packed in like it was. This means that there is a LOT of crap to be placed SOMEWHERE. What I usually do is build a compound around the entrance/entrances to allow for outside stuff that is too hard to do underground (tanning is both poisonous AND horribly stinky - a smithy is horribly noisy - and animals are just a nuisance. If we can put them outside until absolutely necessary, then GREAT!!

If we have critters like cave-life that we breed and eat, there HAS to be diversity. If not, we will be just like Ireland and the potato famines that drove half their population to the US, half starved to death and the other half were lucky as hell to live through it (ignore my math, I'm making a point). If you only eat one thing, if something goes wrong, you are screwed in a BIG way.
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The second part I want to talk about is the subsequent owners. EVENTUALLY, no matter what you wanna do, the society is going to fall, and someone new will move in. In most cases, they'll use the same spaces for the same stuff as the last residents... but I always think about who had it first. If dwarves had it first, then there will be spaces to place raw ore, cleaned ore, and smelted ore/ingots. Don't forget - it will be about 5' for head clearance as well!! If orcs had it, there will be nesting/breeding pits and fighting arenas. I just run down the line.
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The last part (thankfully!) I will touch on is magic and magic defense.

Unfortunately, unless a dungeon is HUNDREDS of years old, nobody will spend the money to prevent magical attacks, outside of a "Gust of Wind" scroll or two near the entrance to get rid of gasses/smoke. How do you defend against a "Rock to Mud" spell? You swim... and then run. Fireball? You have doors - or hanging things that may disrupt the line of sight. For the most part, you are screwed - unless your evil-grand-daddy was Dark Lord Bernie Madoff and they left you with bazillions of gold pieces... other than that, you'd better have LOTS of free spell-casters at your beck and call. The only way to get around this is through lots of agreements with powerful undead... or just lots of mindless undead. Don't forget that after a month or two, all of your scary zombies are now just scary skeletons - and the place smells like a charnel house. Anything able to become noncorporeal is great - but DANGED hard to control!!
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You may ask, "Hey, Malruhn, you said you were going to talk about creating dungeons and all you talked about were social and biological stuff!" You are right. If you life in a FANTASY world, you can have 300 orcs hiding behind that door to a 10x10x10 room (I've played in many a campaign that had that!!), then my logic won't work with you - because you aren't using any. With MY way, there is logic - even to the detriment of the fantasy genre. A group of dungeon dwellers MUST think about the stuff I've discussed here if they are to be successful. Air, poop, food and sleep - and you START your journey to success.

Think about the TV shows, Survivor, or that new one on Discovery, The Colony, where people had to SURVIVE. What did they think about? In The Colony, they thought about air, because it was a plague-holocaust. Other than that, it was all about poop, food and sleep...

Help your dungeon become a place to SURVIVE for your denizens - and your PC raiders will love you for it. The first time a party in my campaign world ran into a dungeon privvy, they freaked out (Really? People POOP in D&D?!?!?!?)

Oh - and beef jerky makes for some GREAT treasure for SMART PC's to take with them. The first time a party grabbed a wagon-load of food-supplies and just DUMPED it at the door of a back-woods temple in a town that had been raided.... well, let's just say that the group is STILL hailed as heroes by the locals.

And, the first time a group is lured into a pit trap that was part of the middens (cesspool/sewer), they'll remember that day FOREVER.

Happy gaming! ]]> Malruhn http://www.penandpapergames.com/forums/entry.php/1470-Fantasy-Dungeon-Creation http://www.penandpapergames.com/forums/entry.php/1445-World-Building-for-Budding-DM-s Sat, 13 Nov 2010 00:52:21 GMT After a question from Blud about how to create a campaign world, I decided to create this to show folks just how easy it CAN be... if you LET it be... After a question from Blud about how to create a campaign world, I decided to create this to show folks just how easy it CAN be... if you LET it be easy.

I started with a Google Map of a town with which Blud may be familiar (it's his hometown!!), Republic, Missouri. I start with a new name... and welcome you all to Morlic (twisting the actual name around)!

I then get a screen shot of the map version of the town, and decide which direction the local port is, and which direction the next major town is in - PURELY to orient the map in a different manner. Arbitrarily, i will decide that Wassarfount (liberally twisted from HORRID German and imagination, it means, "Springfield"), is to the north and the port is to the south - so I will rotate the map 90 degrees to the left, like this.



Then, using a simple drawing program (Paint, Gimp, Photoshop, Whatever), I create a simple line drawing of the town, with roads, river, walls (if any) and land-borders (if any), like this.



Then I white out everything other than what I drew, like this.



My last step in mapping is to add some major landmarks and a legend... like this.



Now, I have an entire village - with a keep, one major temple (complete with cemetery), two market places (arbitrarily, the one to the north has more food, the one to the south has more wares/goods), a wizard's tower, and a bunch of farmers' fields - at least for the more wealthy farmers. Since I said that the major port in the area is to the south, we know that the river flows from top to bottom on the map, and Wassarfount is upriver. PLEASE keep in mind that the pics are crappy because of bandwidth!!!

Now all I need to do is to populate the place with the various people that are sure to be met/known. Note that their names are twisted variations of the actors that portray the characters. You can do the same thing with relatives, teachers and others... just twist the names enough to make them unrecognizable.

1. Ruler: Easton Shine - Fighter, old, speaks in a raspy, throaty voice that sounds VERY menacing when he wants it to. White hair, very slender (he's Clint Eastwood!!).

2. High Priest: Rickala Alman - Cleric (duh!), speaks VERY condescendingly and seems aloof. Black, greasy hair and wears long robes (Professor Snape). He's got ONE acolyte (named Wenham Dav) that has tonsured hair and seems forever bumbling (priest/monk from Van Helsing). (all these guys need is a deity, and the temple is done!)

3. Smith: Duncan Clarke - A HUGE man, bronzed by the heat of the forges. Speaks very slowly and it's obvious that he has little formal education. Will NEVER take action to harm another. Makes armor better than weapons (John Coffey from The Green Mile).

4. General Merchant: Siyra'ah Billay - Middle-aged man, long hair and "soul patch" beard. He seems simple but has a big heart. Always wants to entertain visitors with a song about lost love. He'll never be rich because he just can't take advantage of people like a rich merchant needs to. Has very pretty daughter (Billy Ray Cyrus - from Hannah Montana).

5. Wizard: Rappala Sint - Red haired wizard that looks WAY too young for the title. He's capable but his successes seem almost "accidental". Speaks of a beautiful goddess of a sorcerer that he wants to marry one day... if he can work up the courage to tell her his feelings. (Ron Weasely from Harry Potter).

6. Captain of the Guard: Davis Orusa - Older man with reddish blond hair. Speaks haltingly as if he's searching for exactly the right words. Continuously plays with his helmet visor (Horatio from CSI:Miami).

This has taken me just over one hour - and that includes creating an Imageshack account and uploading the pics, deleting a bunch of pics from Photobucket (I'm multi-tasking!), and typing all this up... it could have been done in less than 20 minutes - and could have been done in about 10 minutes had I printed the map and traced it with markers instead of using Gimp/Paint. ]]> Malruhn http://www.penandpapergames.com/forums/entry.php/1445-World-Building-for-Budding-DM-s http://www.penandpapergames.com/forums/entry.php/1032-Almost-Dead-(again) Wed, 24 Feb 2010 04:28:01 GMT For inclusion later in the book... ___________________________ The wound throbbed beneath his arm, and he could feel his blood soaking his... For inclusion later in the book...
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The wound throbbed beneath his arm, and he could feel his blood soaking his shirt and trousers beneath the wound. His only hope was to get to a safe haven. His mouth gaped as he saw that he stood before the StormHaven public cemetery. If the blood loss didn't kill him, drinking the potion he had received from the Church would leave him incapacitated and vulnerable to capture – which would end up killing him. A passing visitor startled and hurried away as he realized that what he had thought was a sardonic smile looked more like the toothy rictus of a corpse. Drunkenly, he staggered inward, eyes that frequently lost focus locked on a large marker which told him that family crypts lay beneath.


“The gods must truly be watching tonight,” he thought as the lock seemed to fall open as he touched his picks to it. Such an expensive and complex lock seemed out of place on what seemed like a common familial vault, but he brushed aside the thought, and he relocked it after he had passed through. How he came to rest on his face at the bottom of the long stoney stairs confused him, even after he looked at his newly wounded hands and knees. Retrieving his picks, the door lock clicked open, and he entered the abandoned vault. Illuminated by the large moon, he could see dust being kicked up from the breeze created by the door. A single set of boot prints in the dust that were obviously made recently marred the otherwise smooth floor. The assassin smiled dimly as nothing immediately rose up to eat him, he entered after fixing the picture of what lay before him in his mind, and locked the door behind.


Four strong strides would have carried him past the first sarcophagus, but his weak steps as he staggered along left him confused as to how far he had traveled. Deciding that he didn't care any longer, he used his bloody hands to feel along the stone lid to judge his location. Clearing the coffin, he turned left and, holding his right hand out as his left tried to contain his broken ribs and bleeding side, he struggled for the wall and the cut-out catacombs he knew were there.


Knowing that his feelings of pain would subside first, he decided to quaff the magical potion. Keeping his left arm pressed firmly against his side to support his shattered ribs, he used his left hand to grasp the silver flask as he tried to open it. Sharp motes of white light swam before his eyes as he grunted to remove the top. Finally, as an act of desperation, he gripped the stopper in his teeth as he twisted the flask with his good hand. Amid the sound of grinding metal on bone, he was relieved to finally hear the hiss of the pressure being released. Nearly choking from relief and pain, he tipped his head back to receive the liquid.


Fires have been built to signal far-away sentries that were not as hot as what splashed down his throat. The sudden thought that he had been duped by that fool cleric struck him, but his need for either healing or a quick death steeled his resolve. Faster than he thought, the flask was empty and he dropped it at his feet. Reaching for the lip of the first recessed area he could find, he began to climb as quickly as he could.


Just three steps up he was nearly overcome by vertigo. His good arm swung wildly to find purchase as he wobbled. In the back of his mind, he could hear the ossuaries being knocked over as he desperately sought a handhold. Their crashes just feet below and the ensuing dust cloud of cremated remains told him to keep climbing. Finally finding the lip with both hands, he continued to haul himself upward. After he counted seven recesses, he stopped reaching higher and made sure the area immediately in front of him was clear so he could climb in. Pushing the skeleton of the most present resident aside, he rolled in on his right side, feeling the remaining bones as dull lumps in his back. With a slurred prayer to the god of the dead to let him sleep unmolested, he clasped his hands on his chest and lost consciousness.
NEXT CHAPTER:


The voices grew louder, disturbing his sleep. He had heard the scratching for some time but had been able to ignore it. The voices, however, were annoying.
“What do you wish to know from your brother” one asked. The mumbled response was both noncommittal and too quiet to hear.
From below him he heard, “... pray this man your Aunt hired is a quack. What would happen to us if he actually REACHES him?” The woman that replied seemed sure of herself, “When we stuffed his body down here we took the head with us, didn't we? With no head, a specter can't SPEAK!!” The girlish laughter seemed to jar him out of his slumber. Opening his eyes, he saw nothing... less than nothing. The blackness was thicker than any blanket than he had ever encountered. The sounds from outside were getting louder, and he heard keys jingling.


Reaching over, he gingerly felt his left side, the memory of the morning star crashing into his ribs still a vivid memory. The spikes that rent his flesh would leave scars deep enough that his children may inherit them. With a sigh, he realized that the roughness he felt was the torn material of his blouse, matted with dried blood. He could feel no obvious wounds and his ribs felt whole, though the entire area was quite tender. He suddenly realized that he was famished.


He also realized that the scratching sound seemed quite close to his left side. Reaching over his chest, he felt the wall of the recess – and recoiled as something moved under his fingers just inches from his shoulder. Slapping at the movement, the thought of spiders made his skin crawl, his blood ran cold. The movement was from boney fingers that were slowly scratching through the stone wall of the back of the recess. It wouldn't be long before this crypt would once again hold the recently deceased!


It was at that moment that the lock clicked and the door swung inward, illuminating the entire crypt.


“It is obvious that the dead rest gently in your crypt, Donnata.” The voice carried an aire of authority.


“We have striven long to ensure that the next life is quiet, Mystic,” came the reply. The woman was older, perhaps beyond her middle years, and seemed... what... resigned? “Come, children, we must complete the square circle before the bells toll the second hour. The light must be exactly right, now COME!” No. not resigned, more like at her wits end as a mother who tends too many colicky babies. She seemed like she was straining to retain her composure.


The two stragglers slipped and stumbled down the last few stairs. “Yes, Auntie,” they replied in unison. He could tell that these were the same two he had heard discussing murder just moments before.


Flickering light reflected from the ceiling just a few feet from him, indicating candles had been lit. “Close the door, you two,” Donnata commanded, “but make sure the window-gate is open. Get those stools over here!” Hearing the door swing to and click and the small door on the window tap open within seconds, it was obvious that they were used to jumping when their Aunt said, “Toad.” A fizzing sound came to his ears, and he could smell incense almost immediately.


Foxwort? His training in herbs told him that when used in a tea that a night of soothing lay ahead. Burned, the smoke caused burning eyes and made the subject susceptible to suggestions and when enough had burned, mild hallucinations were common. Why was the mystic burning foxwort? Keeping his eyes closed to slits to reduce their reflection, he slowly leaned over to peer over the edge. With the light below and nobody suspecting, he felt safe taking a peek. His view gave him the answer.


The man below ran his fingers across a set of bone chimes and rejoined the circle. From this vantage point, the bones looked like pig ribs, and their non-melodic clatter told him that they were well-dried. The man began a monotone chant as the assassin evaluated the rest of the party.


Sitting in the middle of the crypt, the man stood, facing the door, with a stand holding some sort of flat platter above his head. He was dressed in dark robes that had white or silver thread embroidering on the sleeves and hem. Recognizing none of the symbols, the assassin knew the man a fraud. His dupes consisted of a woman who's hair had gone more salt than pepper, drawn up into a severe bun, dressed in what looked to be the clothes of mourning, black and lacy. The young couple were obviously siblings, and very closely related to their Aunt, as the resemblance was startling. Their lavish clothing seemed more ready for a party than the cemetery. All four were holding hands in a circle around a small, brass brazier


The chanting began to get louder as the assassin saw the spot of sunlight from the tiny, open window make it's way across the floor to the sarcophagus. From his vantage point, the assassin saw that it would eventually fall upon the mystic's face. To what end, he wondered. Craning his neck to look at his surroundings, he saw that there were four ossuaries at the edge of the recess near his feet, two already cracked and broken, and one near his head. His clothing was all gray, covered in soot from the ossuaries he had broken in his haste to climb to this sanctuary. Looking back over his shoulder, the assassin appraised the efforts of the undead that was trying to scratch its way into the room. At least the chanting kept the party below from hearing the bones scrabbling at the hard stone.


For what seemed like an eternity, the charlatan chanted nonsensical words at varying speeds and volumes. The assassin started when the fake speaker for the dead began his show. A quick glance over the edge showed that the light from the window was nearing the man, though the raised lid of the sarcophagus hid the advancing light from the view of the other three. This man was good! The sudden realization that the mystic must have been the source of the boot prints on the dusty floor when the assassin had opened the door made his appreciation of the charlatan rise. He had obviously scouted the site and made preparations.


“The spirits are strong in this place.” The mystic's voice was deep and melodic. Perhaps it was the smoke of the foxwort that made it seem so. “The spirits are looking for answers! The spirits have no way of communicating to the living, so I offer myself to you. Take me! Use me! MAKE ME YOUR MOUTHPIECE!” In another place, the assassin would have considered light applause and tossing a florin or two. This was masterful!


An old woman's voice cackled up to him. “Bertram? Are you there?”


“No, mistress, we seek Landar, Landar Moissen! Is he there with you?” The mystic was having a conversation with himself! Peering over the edge, the mystic raised his arms wide and the Aunt reached across the brazier without looking to clasp the hand of her nephew. They had obviously practiced. The beam of sunlight had moved from the lid of the sarcophagus to the far wall behind the man. From the position of the trio and the voluminous sleeves hanging from the man's upstretched arms, the light would be invisible except as a pale halo of light around him. Oh, this man was GOOD!


The hag's voice returned, “My Bertram... my Bertram is never there. Why does he avoid me? The poison I used didn't really hurt him. He can't still be angry with me... can he? After all these years?”


The look of horror from realization of the import of the story the assassin could see on the Aunt's face was reflected in her charges', but that quickly changed as they jumped. “WOMAN! We seek Landar Moissen!! Send us Lord Landar Moissen!!” The mystic's voice was strong and reverberated through the stony chamber.


“My Bertram...” The hag's voice trailed off into the distance as the mystic's face lifted toward the ceiling and voice after voice spilled from his mouth. The assassin could see the beam of sunlight begin to touch the platter, and from the reflection of light, he realized that it was a mirror. A simple mirror that had been positioned to reflect that sunbeam down onto the mystic's face. The assassin mentally applauded the man. Charlatan or not, he was skilled. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open and for a frantic second, the assassin felt the eyes peering directly at him. The mystic's gaze slid from him and down to the trio, who were standing with rapt attention at the glowing visage before them. The reflected light from the mirror giving the dark face an otherworldly appearance.


“I am Landar Moissen,” the voice fairly boomed from the man.


A strangled cry came from the Aunt, “Oh, I had prayed that you weren't dead, Landar. I had prayed for every day these past five years that you had just run off or had been taken hostage or...”


“Donnata? My sweet? Is that you?” The booming voice was now quiet, yet lost nothing of the power behind the words.


“M-my... 'my sweet'??” Confusion was written across the matriarch's face. “You have never called me, “'My sweet'...” Silence for a full second told the assassin that the mystic had made his first misstep of the day.


“Things change on the other side, my little Donna.” Another choked cry and it was clear that the mystic had regained any ground lost.


“Oh, it truly IS you, my darling Lando!” Even her wards were enraptured by what they saw. Did any of the three remember that Donnata was old Iberi for “Little Donna”? “What happened, my love? Why did you leave me?” Sudden stiffening of the younger man and woman betrayed their terror at their pending indictment.


“My little Donna, I have horrible news to announce!” The voice grew louder with each word. “I have been MURDERED!”


It was at that moment that disaster struck.


The stone wall behind the Assassin gave way, and bony arms reached for him, grasping at his flesh and rending his clothes. A bony claw closed around his throat or he would assuredly screamed; the breath caught in his chest. Flailing wildly, the ossuaries near the edge flew into the crypt proper, the whole ones exploding on the far wall, all of them raining their gray contents down upon the party below. With a mighty heave, the assassin tore free from the hands and threw himself out of the recess. His only aim was to not land on a sarcophagus or on any of the party below. He was nearly successful.


His body fell hard on the stone floor, driving the breath from him. His head rang from where he had struck it on something hard on the way down... a sarcophagus? He struggled to regain his feet as he realized that the room had been plunged once again into inky blackness. With his head bent down to help maintain his balance, he stood still, waiting for the room to stop spinning. Then, as if by magic, the dust cleared from the middle of the room. The mystic lay sprawled on the ground as if thrown to the ground at the feet of the trio, while they stood before their tiny stools as if transfixed. All four were staring at him.


The light from the tiny window squarely illuminated his face. He could feel the tears from the foxwort smoke welling in his burning eyes, as well as the pulsing in the wound on his head and his throat where the skeleton had grabbed him. With his head still lowered slightly, he blinked strongly, and the assassin raised his ash-covered arm to point at the group.


“You have summoned me,” his voice was raspy and significantly higher than the mystic's version. “Your love and your hatred have brought me forth from the land of the dead.” The trio huddled together in terror as the mystic tried to crawl behind them, blocked by their legs. The tears he had blinked out suddenly soaked through the ash to make black streaks down his gray face. He opened his eyes to highlight the bloodshot whites that were the result of the foxwort smoke. The group huddled even closer.


“My little Donna,” even through her ash-covered face, he could see her blanch, “You have loved me from the start.” She bit her lip. “Yes, we have had our 'little disagreements' and we have said hurtful things to each other – but my time in the hereafter has made me realize the depth of my feelings toward you. For what you have said and done,” the pause was required because he was still short of breath.” “For what you have said and done, I forgive you, my love.” The tears that sprang to her eyes were of joy, and he thanked the fates that he had guessed right. Shifting his gaze, he continued.


“But I fear that I have other news.” His volume grew with each phrase, “Tidings of intrigue, and of hatred and greed.” He felt the blood from his head break free from the mat of ash-covered hair and spill down his temple. “Tidings of MURDER!” The moans of terror from the two were as music to his ears.


“Tell her. TELL HER WHAT YOU HAVE DONE!” He shifted his pointing hand to indicate the Aunt and then dropped it as they began wailing and holding each other tighter. “SILENCE!!!” The assassin's shout froze them like so much statuary. Then, in a raspy voice, “You have no idea as to the power you have given me. Listen,” he cocked his head to the side, right ear upward, toward the recess he had so recently escaped. “Listen. I call my brothers and sisters from the world of the dead, and together we will make you scream until WE decide to travel to the great beyond. NOW TELL HER!” The pair was so eager to confess that, in their haste, they were talking over each other. However, their stories meshed enough that a clear tale began to emerge.


It was a standard story of greed and sloth – a rich uncle who didn't approve of their laziness and told them they would be cut off. For that, he paid with his life. They both did the deed, and hid his corpse up in the... by the gods! The thought that it was the same recess in which the assassin had sought refuge brought his head up – making him wince as the wounds on his neck opened. A sudden thought struck him.


“Tell her the rest.” The Aunt's head whipped around in surprise.


“But there is no more,” was the stereo reply.


He could feel the blood begin to seep through the deep scratches as he spoke, “And that which you took from me?”


All eyes were on the dark line that ran across the assassin's throat. He raised his chin imperceptibly and felt a dribble run down his neck. “Where have you hidden my head, young ones?” The Aunt's recoil and accusing look were all that was needed. The assassin noticed that even the mystic was leaning against the Aunt's legs in an attempt to avoid the murderous duo.


Their voices were glum. “I gave it to him to throw into the river.”


The young man replied, “I couldn't risk being seen, so I buried it beneath the roots of the elm tree in the back corner of the garden.” Tears were flowing freely from all four by this time.


The assassin raised his arm again to point at the murderers. “Retrieve it. Pay to have it blessed with your own money, and then return it here, to my family's crypts. My friends will be here to receive it when you do, so bring a cleric.” Four sets of horrified eyes gaped at him. “I will not inform the judiciary. There is no need, now.” The young woman actually smiled for a moment. Then the moment was gone. The assassin could feel the blood flowing freely down his neck.


“Then, you will leave. You will depart from StormHaven and never enter this fair city again. You will be forever marked as murderers for my undead brothers and sisters to see – and we will pay you special attention should you ever decide to break your exile. I have lost one head through your treachery.” He reached up with both hands to cradle his jaw, “and I shan't lose another.” The assassin pushed up on his jaw as if he were removing his own skull and all hell broke lose among the group. He could hear the murderers declaring that they would have their Uncle's skull back with him by nightfall as they scrambled up the stairs.


Walking to the open door, he knelt down behind the door, leaning out past it into the doorway, and grabbed his hair with his left hand, hoping that he looked like a disembodied head being held aloft.


“My little Donna!” She froze at the top of the stairs and slowly turned.


“My love. You were always there for me. I will always be there for you. Once I am restored, I will rest peacefully and wait for you to return to my side.” As his knee nudged the door so it swung closed, he spoke a last time. “I will always love you.”


He counted to 100 before he stepped out of the door and began to shake himself as clean as he could. The scrabbling he heard from the recess meant that his visitors were about to make a full appearance and it was his intention to be well on his way to a warm bath and a healer by the time the undead got down to the floor of the crypt. Maybe the pair would try to return the skull without benefit of the cleric. Oh, well. It would serve them right. ]]> Malruhn http://www.penandpapergames.com/forums/entry.php/1032-Almost-Dead-(again) http://www.penandpapergames.com/forums/entry.php/995-The-Fall-of-the-Aspen-Lord Tue, 09 Feb 2010 00:42:09 GMT I've been playing with the idea of writing a fantasy novel for about... thirty years. I am finally taking the first step of letting someone else read the prologue to the novel. Comments are most welcome.
___________________________

The raven-haired giant stood atop the rise and surveyed his surroundings. Acrid smoke from various fires somewhat obscured his vision, but that was of no matter as those fires were primarily behind him. Before him the carnage was clear and greatly satisfying. Broken and bloodied bodies lay scattered as far as his eyes could see – and already the carrion birds were gathering. Absently, he noted that the stinging death-flies had discovered the scene as well, waving his left hand before his face to absently brush them away.


The standards of four minor lords were lying on the ground within view, and he knew that at least three others were just over the next rise to his right. There were only a few dozen of his own men left from, what was it, some eleven thousand? It mattered naught to him; their lives were of no concern to the Great Warrior. As the thought quickly passed from his mind, he shrugged, rolling his mighty shoulders to loosen them, as they were beginning to tighten after the long days of swinging his mighty sword. He raised the hilt before him a finger or two, feeling the razor-sharp point leave and reenter the bloodied soil at his feet, and a small smile touched his lips as his gaze fell upon the silvered blade. Some five feet in length and as wide as his palm, the double-edged blade was of extraordinary craftsmanship. His grin broadened into a full smile as he remembered the first use of the blade. The eyes of the master smith grew impossibly large when the blade plunged into the man's belly. The temerity of that man! Demanding that he actually PAY for the blade! The craftsman's cries continued as the giant departed the forge area and mounted his horse. A wound like that would that little man crying for hours or even days before death finally took him.


The bites of the death-flies were growing worse, and he shook his head and leg like a great bloodied animal. At nearly seven feet tall, the Lord of the Dark Aspens was truly a giant amongst men. His powerfully built body was clad only in boots and breeches... boots, breeches and blood. Those within sight could count nearly a dozen wounds across his body, the largest of which was a gash across his right shoulder that had cut deeply. Although he doubted that there would be nerve damage, he knew that the wound would have to be stitched and healed before finding his sleeping furs that night. The soldier that had slashed at him with his halberd had sneaked up and struck him from behind. Were it not for the quick glance past his shoulder made by one of the three soldiers that were facing him at the time, he would have never known of the pending swing, and only his lightning-fast lunge had taken him barely out of range of the killing blow.


His body was covered with blood, but he and the few survivors knew that only a small portion of it was his own. Counting his kills, his eyes clouded with anger as he realized that he had lost the count somewhere after 230 deaths. Once the final battle was entered, he had been a whirlwind of death and destruction, cleaving, skewering and slashing any who got within range of his massive blade. Several times he recognized the tabards of his own soldiers that were being killed by his sword. He snorted with derision and waved the death-flies away with his left hand as he thought that the stupid soldiers should have known better than to get that close to him.


As he surveyed his surroundings again, the unpleasant thought rose again to his mind that it would be difficult to raise another army. This had been the fourth – or was it the fifth? – that had been decimated in his mission to conquer the lands. The loss of so many men didn't enter the giant's mind – it was the inconvenience of having to delay the next battle until he amass another fighting force. This one had been passably acceptable. Their skill with their pikes and halberds had been what attracted him to them to begin with. Wait... halberds? What was it about halberds that seemed to pull at his mind? He became momentarily aware of the burning wound in his shoulder as he turned to look for the dead would-be-assassin. Looking back and forth, he could see the motes of blackness of the damned death-flies before him. A strangely familiar, dull clanking sound made him look down.


At his feet, he saw his sword bouncing one last time as it had fallen from his grasp. Unable to comprehend the meaning of this, he lifted his sword-hand to his face – and saw... nothing. Dully, he looked down to see his right hand hanging limply at his side, with several hundred death-flies buzzing about it. There were more flies than he could remember – and though they were all about, they seemed to be concentrated on his right side. Fighting to focus, he realized that there was something wrong – but more important to him at the moment was the fact that there was something wrong with the death-flies. Something told him that they should not be acting like this, but for the life of him, he couldn't fathom just how they should be acting.


With his left hand, he reached up to pinch one of the biting flies from his right forearm and he realized that his fingers felt thick and unresponsive, as if he was fighting again in the Frozen North and battling frostbite as well as the... what were they called again? Holding the fly in front of his eyes, it took a moment for him to realize that it wasn't really a death-fly. It was a tiny bunch of black threads tied around an equally tiny barbed dart, no more than a fingernail in size. His blurring vision saw the black and red threads that looked like a death-fly's wings, tied in an ingenious manner to help it fly true, and a tiny barbed proboscis that had been embedded in his skin. In addition to a small drop of his own blood on the dart, he could faintly make out a small amount of thick syrup on the upper part of the shaft - the lower part having already delivered the deadly poison into his system. Drunkenly, he looked down again, and saw that there were many dozens of the tiny darts from his right shoulder to just above the top of his boot.


As he looked, three more seemed to magically appear in the middle of his muscular right breast. Whipping his head up to survey the area, he was aghast at feeling his head loll back drunkenly, and he even felt his feet stagger back and forth a couple of steps to keep his newly top-heavy body from falling. Biting his lip to regain his concentration, he tasted the copper of his own blood as he scanned the sea of dead bodies that surrounded him. As his piercing eyes began to lose focus again, a wraith seemed to detached itself from the bodies and floated above where it had lain, some five paces from where he stood. His rapidly clouding thoughts identified his own tabard with the black tree on the red field on the specter's chest. The spectre reached up and grabbed at his torn-out throat – and removed the wound like one would remove a glove. Fake? How? The giant just stared at the miraculously healed visage before him. Blood covered the young man, staining his clothes, seemingly coming from several terrible wounds. The man reached for a waterskin at his side – the giant realized suddenly that he was terribly thirsty – and squeezed. Thick blood spurted from the nozzle, and the doomed Lord of the Dark Aspens realized that the ghost's – no, man's – wounds were imaginary, and the blood was not real.


In his right hand, the specter held up what appeared to be part of a broken bow – could he have been one of his own archers? - and placed the nock of the bow in his lips. Raising the bow-piece outward, the giant heard a small rush of air and felt the now familiar bite of a death-fly on his throat.


Tossing the blow-bow aside like so much rubbish, the giant felt a giddy giggle rise in his throat at the thought of the funny word he had made up – blow gun and bow made up this new word, and as he replayed the word, the giggle rose to a full, drunken laugh as the man pulled his tabard over his head and dropped it at his feet. As he turned to walk away, the young man said, “Never again. You've killed too many, Aspen Lord. May Reece take you.” The giant's brow furrowed as he processed the comment; Reece? Why the Lord of the Underworld? Why would the Dark One want him?


None were there as the giant slowly teetered and fell onto the mass of bodies that surrounded him. By the time he fell, he had been dead for several minutes.


Nearly a mile away, the young assassin washed up in a small creek as he pulled out his fresh traveling clothes. As he stood to continue his journey back to the capital, he thought about the other half of his commission, and how it would be spent. ]]> Malruhn http://www.penandpapergames.com/forums/entry.php/995-The-Fall-of-the-Aspen-Lord http://www.penandpapergames.com/forums/entry.php/958-Background-Info Sun, 24 Jan 2010 23:29:29 GMT After reading lots of threads and several different boards about how to establish a campaign world (or just a campaign!), I thought I'd wax poetic here about my methodologies that have developed over the years.

I went on forever about how I do the big background stuff in my first entry, so here's more of a nitty-gritty view.

My world works... that's as clear as I can get to it. There are kingdoms that are foundering and failing, to either just disappear or be subsumed by another ruler, and there are kingdoms that are doing everything right and are thriving as centers of commerce and knowledge.

The question is - WHY??

Simple - it's the rulers! I personally know every king and queen. Don't get all excity and think that I've lost my marbles (they are in a small bag next to my computer monitor!!) - I don't know the characters, I know the PEOPLE!!! King Eustain of Elbac can be described as if he's sitting right in front of me... because he used to. Mr. Eustis was my sixth grade science teacher in my home-town of Cable, Wisconsin. He's heavyset and has nearly no chin and most of his hair has escaped (but he obviously fights to keep the last of it - comb-over and all!), he was one of the quickest people to I've ever known to holler and shut kids up, but he laughs quickly as well. As a King, he's much the same - quick to anger but quick to smile and take mercy.

ALL of my big movers and shakers are the same - I met them or knew them some time during my life. Some are former PC's and NPC's from campaigns that I've run - and it's kind of funny, but I think that I know them better than the people I knew in REAL life!

The Kingdoms in my world that are failing will leave a history around to be discovered by adventurers some day, whether the Kingdom sinks into the swamp or is overthrown by a rival.

I've gone in and done calendars for my world - and I know that one fief over here will fail in 22 years after the present leader dies and has no heirs. I know that that one Kingdom over there will suddenly become a world power when they find a huge vein of gold and platinum in seven years. That's all long-range planning, and most of us do that stuff.

The short range stuff has more of an impact on the PC's.

Do your PC's become movers and shakers in the world, or does it go on without consideration of them? In my world, it's a mix.

When I start a new campaign, I ask the players, "Okay, your character is nearing the end of his/her days, and a small child comes up to them as they are rocking in their chair on the porch and asks, 'So what did you do in your life?'" It's up to the player to answer.

Oh, sure, some default to, "I was famous/rich/powerful," and those are the easy ones to DM for. Some are the campaign movers, though... they're the ones that say, "I slew the great Dragon of Antioch" or "I became the King of Saltania."

I then start coming up with a campaign for the ones that gave me concrete dreams of greatness. I merge storylines for slaying the Antioch dragon and becoming King of Saltania into one campaign. I map out milestones for both story arcs and begin to flesh it out in my mind.

Then I go back to the calendars that I have. I know that the party should be in Smallsville in late Octember or Septober and my calendar says that Smallsville will be attacked by Orcs late in that year. Whether the party is there or not, the attack will happen - if they are gone, they'll hear about it - but if they are there, they may change the outcome.

This is what makes them movers and shakers in my world. When the party hears that there was an attempt on King Andar last week, they know that there is a much larger world out there than what surrounds them.

It's just something else to keep those pesky players interested! ]]> Malruhn http://www.penandpapergames.com/forums/entry.php/958-Background-Info http://www.penandpapergames.com/forums/entry.php/845-The-Play-s-the-Thing! Thu, 12 Nov 2009 03:26:31 GMT I've changed my gaming style several times since I began playing. I began in late 1980, with the first edition (lower case, as it wasn't an "official" title!!) set of the six little books. I have been told that my first character was a Dwarven Fighter, but I don't remember... it was all a haze...

It began earlier that year when I began my life at college. I quickly found a couple of friends and began doing what all college students did when the drinking age was 18... drinking and looking for women of loose morals (not necessarily in that order!!). I began pledging a fraternity, Tau Kappa Epsilon, and one of these friends began pledging a rival frat, Sigma Tau Epsilon. Of course, as you may expect, for the next month, we kind of lost touch.

And then the magical day came!

I went to breakfast and there sat my friend, looking like something the cat had puked up. I sat by him and asked if the Sig Tau's had started "Hell Week" already - and he just shook his head in the negative. I asked what he had done the night before, and if she had been cute, and the most amazing story was told to me on the cool, fall day.

"We were traveling in the forest and these wolves attacked. I've never been so scared in my life! I pulled my battle axe out and started hacking at them, but they were too fast! I got bit twice, but they weren't solid bites, so they didn't do that much damage. The whole group was hacking and slashing and it seemed like we were going to lose, but the damned gray beasts started going down. I killed two of them, myself! And just a little while ago, I had just finished skinning one of the wolves and stood up, when I saw this huge, white wolf that breathed frost - even though it wasn't cold enough for it - watching us from on top of the ridge. We had to break and I came straight here..."

It wasn't so much the fantastical story he had told, but his EYES. The expression on his face was one that showed that he wasn't just telling a story, he was reliving it! In an awed voice, I asked him what woods he was in and what he had done with the pelt (keep in mind that this was extreme northern Wisconsin, so woods, wolves and pelts were commonplace).

He just looked at me and said, "We were in the Sig Tau [frat] house."

That night, I broke all fraternal bounds and entered this mystical Sig Tau house and played my first session of D&D. Needless to say, I was hooked.

Those first characters were pretty sad, in retrospect. None had names, and since the Monk class was hardest for which to qualify, we all figured that it was the best. We would have entire parties of Monks, one opening doors, two with bows covering the doors, and one or two more to dash in and engage whatever horrific monsters the early books allowed. For all intents and purposes, we could have made Xerox copies of our character sheets and nobody would have known, outside of differing amounts of treasure that we had collected.

It was only two weeks before I began my career as a DM, running a campaign based on the Edgar Rice Burroughs, John Carter from Mars series. I am being very generous when I say that it sucked, but such is the life of a new DM. I still played heavily back then at the same time, and each day was nearly the same.

Fridays would start at about 4:00 in the afternoon - and we'd game until 5:30, dash to the university dining hall, then dash back to continue until 11:50. Then we'd sprint down to the local 7/11 to get OJ and those little, white, powdered donuts before the store closed (no it wasn't 24 hours!!). Then we'd game until 3-4:00 in the morning before crashing in the dorms wherever we happened to be playing. Someone would wake up about 8:00 a.m. and we'd start again and play all day Saturday, then all day Sunday. Monday through Thursday were alternating between playing until 1 or 2:00 or drinking and looking for girls. We usually did better playing, so there weren't many drunken-girl-hunts.

Is there any doubt as to why I got a 1.11 GPA my second quarter in college?

Anyway, it took about three years before my gaming philosophy began to change. I was stocking a newly drawn dungeon with monsters out of the tables in the back of the DMG, and it suddenly dawned on me that it didn't make any sense. Why are a horde of hobgoblins in a room right next to a small crew of goblins? According to the descriptions in the Monster Manual, hobgobs ENSLAVED goblins... so why didn't these do that? So I did exactly that.

I had left college (you know that agreement some parents make with their kids, get good grades and we'll pay for college? Well, mine kept their side of the agreement!) and had enlisted in the Army - then got caught in a RIF (reduction in force), and was sent home after a year. After a year of cooking at a jail in Louisiana (now THERE's some stories I could tell!), I went back to the same college.

With the new philosophy, I had my very first acknowledged TPK. Sure, it used to happen all the time, what, with encounter tables saying 10-100 gnolls at a time? It happened ALL the time!! But it had never happened to a group like this before... or at least one of MY groups. The players were aghast! "What the hell was that?? They were working TOGETHER!!!" Well, like many times before, they all took five minutes to roll up new Xerox-worthy characters, and they were off again - but this time they were cautious.

Cautious and victorious!

Shortly after that, I began to think the same way about my characters. Why were they all carbon copies? Why not any variation? Were all PC's just Conans and Grey Mousers and Gandalfs? Why not a short, fat wizard that hated pointy hats? Why not a giant that was also a thief? Why not a Les Nessman-style fighter?

That was the last major shift. From there, I just kept thinking about the game itself - and always asking, "Why". When drawing a map of a continent, I would wonder why I wanted a cliff right there... and a river over there... it drove me to distraction! But I think it helped.

I began researching geology, and from there I planned out an entire planet for my campaign world. I know it's elemental makeup, I know the directions that the various continental plates are moving - and how fast - and I know where the civilizations are located. I know where the ruins are - and who lived there before... and before them - and I know what is there to find for loot.

Why do I do it? The HUGE majority of crap I've designed and planned will never be known by my players... so WHY??

The PLAY'S the thing!

You know the feeling when you watch a good movie or read a good book, you get pulled in, and you forget that there is a REALITY out there? Suddenly a baby howls or you have to pee, and you snap back to this realm... and it almost hurts, and you can't wait to get back to that alternate world... That is what I call "playing"!

When a new person rolls up a character for my campaign world, it will make sense. There won't be moments of disbelief as to why there is a river flowing in one direction here, and a quarter mile away a river flowing in the other direction... There won't be moments of confusion as the player asks, "Why" something is happening... at least why something didn't make sense in a gaming sense. If they have to stop and ask, it will be a plot device... just like REALITY.

When a person wants to become a part of my campaign world, they become a mover and a shaker in my realm. They may avert a great war... or they may start one. I have calendars set up for things to happen - that, unless foiled by the characters, WILL happen. They may never know - until hearing it from a town crier - or they may be part of it. Why?

It's all about the playing. The Play's the Thing! ]]> Malruhn http://www.penandpapergames.com/forums/entry.php/845-The-Play-s-the-Thing!