Tuesday, November 26, 2024

The Barons, the Bridge, and the Troll

 
Ralph von Konigskamm is haggard man, always fretting with his collar and rubbing his knotted brow. He is pursued by a crowd of clamoring petitioners, creditors, and relatives. 
 
The royal commission was supposed to be simple: build a bridge over the river Wurm and get the lucrative toll rights in exchange. But work has ground to a halt. The masons and labourers refuse to go near the bridge. Worse, they're demanding compensation for those of them eaten by the troll which has taken up residence underneath the half-finished bridge. None of the baron's men are up to the task so he's hired you "professionals" to take care of it. 

What the baron's secretary knows : 
 
The troll has been there for a week and a half now and has killed (and presumably eaten) five workman, one draft horse, and a shepherd boy.
 
What the workmen know : 

The troll's a huge and nasty thing that can hurl a man like he was sack, but worse, it's sneaky. Likes to hide in the river so you think its not around. We'd like to bury our fellows' bones if you could retrieve them.

Before you can leave the baron's estate a coach attended by burly guards pulls up and out steps Maximilian von Damesburg resplendent in foppish finery, come to pay his "respects." He and Konigskamm hate each-others guts.

+++
 
An imperial highway runs along the river Wurm. To the south of the bridge site, an alcoholic ferryman move goods and people across the river with the help of his two sons. They are happy about the troll, as it means continual traffic for themselves. To the north, a rickety wooden bridge crosses over a stagnate, weed choked tributary. This was the trolls old lair and the fishermen who live thereabouts can tell you it was nuisance. They remember a "red haired man" being about recently.

Highway Encounters :  
  1. d4 drovers and their flocks of sheep/goats/hogs
  2. Wandering monk
  3. d6 pathetic highwayman 
  4. Tax collector and d6 bodyguards
  5. Cloth merchant w/cart and d6 helpers
  6. Traveling wizard
Workman's huts lie abandoned, tools littered about. Nearby is a pile of dusty masonry blocks waiting to be used. The river is wide but slow with numerous shallows and sandbars. Four stone piers rise out of the water like rocky islands. The span across is only half-built, a maze of wooden scaffolding marking out the future arches.
 
The troll lurks in the shadow of the scaffolding between the second and third piers, picking its teeth with the bones of dead masons. It is huge, warty, and mossy-backed. Despite its size it is surprisingly nimble, clambering up the scaffolding with ease and slipping beneath the water with the faintest of splashes. It is arrogant but wary, always with an eye out for tricks. "Awful little things don't play fair." It moans while rubbing at old scars. Demands a toll (whatever looks most valuable on your person) or a life from anyone trying to use the bridge or cross this stretch of the river by boat. Grabs victims and twists them till they pop or rips off their heads with its shark-like maw.
 
In the troll's lair--a weedy sump below the third pier--are the gnawed bones of several workmen and a sack containing its hoard: 150 silverpieces, a magnificent (if moldy) feathered cap, a golden necklace, and a barber's mirror.
 
If the troll is goaded into conversation it is quick to complain about the unfinished state of the bridge and to bemoan the "redbeard" who convinced it to move its lair with promises of loot and fat merchants to eat.
 
+++

Waldmann is an agent of von Damesburg. He is stout, cunning, and has a fiery red beard. Three well-armed lackeys ride with him. The troll was his plan. He will shadow the players, spying on them from a distance and making inquiries where they have passed through. If possible he will try to bribe them. Failing that, he will sabotage their plans--in indirect and plausibly deniable fashions. 

+++

See this post over on Underground Adventures for a play report.

Thursday, October 17, 2024

I Ran Fever Swamp!

The players were M, N, and U. Both and M and N had played before, albeit not in the sort of games I usually run, and U had never touched a roleplaying game.

There were a few days before the scheduled session and, as I was feeling particularly lively and excited, I banged out more prep than usual.
 
 
In preparation I reread the module several times, feeling out which areas were satisfactory out of the book and which needed a little more. The first thing I did was draft up some hexcrawling procedures, as the ones in the book didn't have enough oomph. For one I made each hex a 1/2 day of travel (with the option to travel an addition hex at night at cost, which I think I borrowed from one of Gearing's blogposts) which didn't alter the map size too much but made travel feel like it had more player choice involved and nicely broke down the day which would (and did) aid in the "feel" of exploration. Next, I solidified the encounter procedures and procedures for getting lost (2 in 6 chance and 1 in 6 chance each half-day respectively) and worked out how rations would work, since it wouldn't be a good swampcrawl without such constraints.

All of the above are baseline procedures which would/will/did inform how play unfolds at the table. I wanted a gritty session about an expedition into a horrible swamp, so I chose to use procedures and mechanics (see: fatigue) that would have players be making choices that matched the tone.

From there I decided to flesh out the town of Clink a bit more, as it seemed the natural entry point of players into the swamp and the premise deserved a bit more thought. I decided that the cult shouldn't be uniformly the villains and so stole the SINS format from this I Cast Light post to make my own table in case players decided to throw their lot in with the cultists.

 For each DEVOTION collected fill an inventory slot
  • 1st Devotion : The sea kills and the sea loves: cannot be drowned by a hostile hand
    • Sacrament : Drown a man by your own hand in saltwater, afterward all freshwater chokes your throat.
  • 2nd Devotion : Dreams of the abyssal kingdom: speak to fish once/day
    • Sacrament : Forego dry land, to set foot on solid earth is to die, gasping and choking like a fish out of water.
  • 3rd Devotion : The sea embraces me, in its depth I will find him: reborn as a Deep One
    • Sacrament : Throw yourself into the open sea and share in the dead dreams of your waterlogged god. If you survive you will wash ashore transformed; a herald for the new age.

Then, because I was inspired by the same post, I fleshed out the cults roster which was useful because it gave me a better idea of who players might run into in the swamp.
  • Initiates (melee, special) yet to partake of the first sacrament, eagerly run down victims and attempt to drown them; mancatchers
  • Musketeers (ranged, dmg) faces hid by salt-encrusted veils, bandoleers bouncing on their chest; muskets, fight with machetes in the press
  • Priests (ranged, special) white robes, veils, necklaces of fish-bones; break a bone to break a target's limb, otherwise: machetes

I did the same for the People (autocthonic inhabitants of the Fever Swamp), and also made up a pejorative for the inhabitants of Clink to use when talking about them: wetlings. At this point I was picturing a situation where a fringe of criminals and outcasts were acting as the colonial vanguard to expansion of rice plantations which were slowly clear cutting and burning the swamp away (which vibes with Grandfather Rotte's deal). Which folded neatly over into the little "Buying Things in Clink" subsection I wrote up--I flavored the rations as ricecakes and salt pork. This included wages for guides as tracking coinage and day to day wages of hirelings (as well as having hirelings) felt significant to the expedition style play.

Some more scribbled prep, pre-rolling the route of the Corpse Pile etc., and I decided on (really I had been deciding during all of the above) what mechanics to use. Namely, hits + fatigue (á la Skorne or my own Perfidious ruleset), an eight slot "significant item" inventory

I chose this because Hits style violence carries a nice economic logic to it in play (fitting in with the rest of expeditionary beancounting) and can be fairly gritty. As well, fatigue rules nicely carry the load in terms of adding a grinding pressure to player expeditioning and I could plug other procedural elements (such as travelling at night) and fictional circumstances (such as starving) into the rule/s.

It was here that I made the unfortunate choice here to up the number of hits to six, figuring that there would be lots of enemies in the swamp and players would lose them fast. This was a poor choice and did not work very well in play, players didn't think about hits for the most part and the immediacy of fights came solely from in fiction, rather than being bolstered by a mechanical logic. Going to stick to three hits from now on if I'm not using variable damage, anything hire makes the mechanic into a distraction from the fiction.

Fatigue, however, fared much better. It was stellar even, and players reported that it had the exact grinding feel that I was hoping it would lend play. It nicely reinforced their decisions about when to fight, when to flee, when to rest, and the like.

For my basic resolution in face of a situation whose outcome is up in the air mechanic I chose a simply d6 roll versus a target of four, because four felt like a nice odd to beat and I didn't feel the need for anything more complex.

I also decided to run magic mostly in the fiction, but with a magic word type system for spells and combining them because I though that would be flexible but restrictive enough for expeditionary play.

The very last bit of prep I did was make a list of backgrounds and equipment to roll up, for which I plundered several other Early-Modern(ish) games for their background lists and equipment tables.

+++++

THE CAST :
- M. as Dax the Enabler, a drunkard magician with a grimoire containing sleep, protection, and invisibility
- N. as Richard Dirkman (Dick to friends), armed with a pistol and oil flask
- U. as Rob, a fifty year old, pot bellied, musket and prybar armed graverobber

The session opened in media res, on the road that was more like a causeway to Clink. The players introduced their characters with a little description and agreed they all met at an inn a ways back where they had heard about the bounty on the head of Gert von Hammer. Bit by bit the rice plantations grew more sparse and the cypress trees thicker and shaggier with moss. The drone of mosquitoes filled the air. When the causeway become nothing more than a rickety boardwalk through the swamp they knew they'd arrived in the town of Clink.

The first thing they noticed was that all the houses were up on stilts, faded and ramshackle. A couple men, all branded as thieves, sitting high up on one of the houses' porch were sharing a drink and eyeballed the newcomers. Dax decided to march over and ask for a drink. The men looked dubious, but grinned and tossed the bottle down. Pure rotgut. Dax knocked it back and the men warmed up to them. While Dax and Dirkman haggled for a pirogue, U decided to have Rob poke around the circle of houses that made for a town "square" of sorts and look for moneymaking opportunities. To one side is a house with some kind of still, to the other a hut with a crudely letter sign reading: general store. Lastly, a house tightly sealed up, its windows shuttered, with a carven lintel-piece like that found on many of the more simple Imperial temples.

Rob decides to explore the last house first, climbing up the ladder and hammering on the door. The gods on the lintel-piece looked like they'd been defaced. A panicked voice responded from inside, crying out for mercy and promising that he would leave town immediately just don't kill him for the love of all the gods (this was Nickolas, the priest).

Rob unsuccessfully tries to cajole the priest into letting him inside, then starts to break the door down with his prybar at which point the priest panickedly delivered up some information about the town, but remained frustrating vague on why he was so frightened ("They'll kill me if I tell!").

His attempt at breaking and entry unsuccessful, Rob wandered over to the distillery where a young boy was feeding the fire below the still and above on the porch a man was smoking some sort of mushroom from a long pipe. Rob inquired after a job with the smoking man (Jason, the distiller) but was too disgusted by the low wages paid to the common labourer. The distiller was amused. Rob rejoined his companions who had, in the meanwhile, haggled one of the drinking men down to cheap(ish) price for a pirogue.

After inspecting their new means of transport, the players figured they wanted to get into the swamp and hunting for Gert von Hammer as soon as possible and for that they needed supplies. At the general store they met Daniel, a hulking but sad man with the tattoos of a penal legionnaire. They talked to him about prices and supplies amid the piled up dry goods. He was sad but not surprised to hear they were heading into the depths of the swamp. As for the bounty, von Hammer had passed through two weeks ago. The players asked him for advice on guides (Daniel had hinted most of the townsfolk were not to be trusted) and got recommended Young Jimmy, who worked for the distiller, and Old Man Mallows.

The players decided to talk to Old Man Mallows first, finding him in a mossy, almost sunken shack on the edge of town. A lean old man who bragged about how he'd been here since the first tree'd been felled and knew the swamp like the back of his hand. He didn't suite them, so they decided to talk to Young Jimmy, but were stymied by Jason the distiller after they let it slip that they'd been sent over by his hated enemy, Daniel, to "steal his employee."

Fixed on hiring Young Jimmy nonetheless, they conceived a plan to come back later and distract the distiller in talk so they could converse with the boy. In the meantime they returned to the general store, purchased supplies, and stocked their pirogue. It was getting onto evening now, and Dax ambled over and apologized for his friends comportment. He hoists up a bottle of wine and asks if he and the distiller could compare vintages. Jason is amused enough to accept and (after taking fatigue for getting painfully intoxicated and probably poisoned by menthol) Dax manages to drink him into a stupor. Dirkman and Rob scuttle over to talk to Young Jimmy, who boasts that he was born in the swamps and knows them like the back of his hand, and agrees to meet them at dawn-light in exchange for the going-rate for guides and share of loot. "Anything to get away from Mister Spittle up there.'

The party retires to the general store, where they pay to lodge on the floor. Daniel shuts the house up tight for the night and all fades gently away.

Sometime in the depths of the night, Dirkman awakens to a flicker of light through the crack in the shutters. He gets up, deciding not to wake anyone else yet, and creeps over to look out. On the rickety boardwalk below, a procession of white-robed figures marches past. They are carrying torches and wear salt-encrusted veils. He watches as one, unmasked and surrounded by a knot of others, walks past. She wore heavy necklaces of fish-bones and is scarred all over her face (this was Jasmine). Eventually the whole procession troops past and disappears into the swamp outside of town, from which comes the sound of drumming and flickering torchlight. Dirkman decides to go back to bed.

The next morning they rise bright and early. Young Jimmy meets them at their pirogue with a bag of supplies and a machete. Briefly, they debate whether to investigate the clearing outside of town where Dirkman had seen the white-robes march off too, but decide to get out of town fast instead.

They head southwest the whole morning and afternoon, paddling between cypresses and oaks shaggy with moss. That night Young Jimmy finds them a bit of high ground to encamp on and they pass the night beside their damp fire, listening the myriad croaks and cries that echo through the swamp.

The next day they continue southwest. Around midday, they come across a clearing of sorts (like an expanse of open water) with a massive dead tree at its center covered in shelf fungus, the gills swaying in the breeze. After Young Jimmy identify the mushrooms as edible they cut down as many as they can reach to use as rations.

A pirogue slips out of the treeline. Two men in loincloths pilot it, wetlings spits Jimmy. The pirogue turns, aiming right at them, and the two men began paddling with grim determination. With his wizard eyes, Dax sees a a sort of host of spirits blossoming out of the two men; puppeting them. Not wanting to fight, the magician works his magic. He takes a swig from his wineskin, washes it around, spits, and wiggles his fingers; casting sleep.

Immediately the two men fell down fast asleep, draped over the gunwales of their pirogue. The party paddles over and peers inside, where they spy several spears and club. A debate ensues over what to do with the prisoners and the pirogue. U wants to try and take the pirogue with them, but is hesitant to split the party between the two canoes. N wants to interrogate one of the two warriors. They end up tying one of the prisoners to the big dead tree and wake the other one up. He groans and opens his eyes. Upon seeing the faces of the party, he sours and spits, cursing them in broken Imperial. They ask him, with the help of Young Jimmy's rudimentary grasp of the indigenous tongue, what happened and why he attacked them. The man protests that the last thing he remembers was paddling a ways away from here then, seeing the pile of collected mushrooms and the big tree, laughs and tells them it serves them right for disturbing the spirits and its a pity he wasn't able to work their vengeance for them.

(I had rolled a two man People patrol as the encounter which the spirits formerly inhabiting the mushrooms would possess)

They ask him about Gert von Hemmer (a bearded man) and he confirms that the bounty had passed through, heading south or southwest. Then the players tied the warrior up and left him with his companion in their pirogue, after taking the spears. They decide to head south.

That night they couldn't find solid land and slept, uncomfortably huddled together in their pirogue after tying it to a tree root.

(each night they mark down one ration, the players had bought 10 rations each, further supplemented by the mushrooms they'd harvest--and now we're too afraid too eat)

The next morning they headed south again, planning on curving to the southwest later in the day (I had given them a piece of paper with a hex grid to do their mapping, in order to simplify navigation) but about midday they found themselves in a strange part of the swamp. The trees were dense and tall here and the water choked with hyacinths and green weeds, Moss grew heavy and shaggy and there was a rotting scent to the air. Huge bugs buzzed past. There is a weight in the air, the presence of something vast. Rob looked behind them while paddling and realized they were being followed by a lot of logs, nope, a total of eighteen crocodiles were calmly trailing behind them.

(random encounter roll = a shit ton of crocodiles)

Alarmed, but not immediately endangered, the party debated way to do. Briefly Dirkman proposed pouring oil on the water and setting it alight, but they settle on simply shaking the slowly pursuing crocodiles off (at cost of all marking down fatigue for fleeing). Which they successfully do, the lazy animals peeling off one by one till they were alone once more.

In their blind evasion, the players inadvertently blundered into an area of particularly dense foliage, marked by a strange mossy mound rising out the water and two cavernous holes, side by side, in it. Dax catches sight of something small and green splash into the water.

Curious, they row up to the rightmost cavern's lip and step ashore. A warm fetid wind blows out of the cavern, then is sucked back in, buffeting them. On the soggy ground are bits of gnawed fish bones and small clay pots. They venture deeper into the cavern only to find it disgustingly moist and narrowing the further back they go. The in-out wind stops, then blasts out at them, blowing out their torch. They stumble back to the entrance and step out into the sunlight.

A spear flies through the air and strikes Young Jimmy in the shoulder (they'd retreated in reverse marching order). Dirkman catches him in his arms as the boy falls, Dax flings himself down as another spear flies overhead, and Rob raises his musket to return fire. Small, green figures gleep and swim in the water before the hump, effectively blocking the players and their pirogue in.

One of the green things (a Scumboggle) pops out of the water to hurl a spear, and Rob's musket barks. The ball smashes its head and it falls dead. Blood blossoms in the water. Rob ducks down, and U loudly proclaims their intent to get the corpse with Rob's net.

Meanwhile, a plan has been concocted. Dirkman pops up and splashes his flask full of oil past the pirogue then lights it, sending a sheet of flame racing over the water. A shudder goes through the swamp, a vast convulsion, but the players put it out of mind for now (Grandfather Rotte reacting to damage to his swamp). Next, all three pop up and leap into the pirogue, dragging the wounded Jimmy with them. Lying flat in the hull of the pirogue, Dax begins to cast two spells. First, he applies invisibility to the pirogue itself. The hull turns transparent to them and suddenly they can see under the water at the swimming, child sized forms of the scumboggles. Then Dax casts protection, this time on himself, and he jumps up, hurling his grapple as he does. Lodged firmly in a tree, he uses the rope and grapnel to haul the pirogue off the nostril-cavern edge as spears skim harmlessly off his skin. They get enough momentum for him to duck down and grab a paddle and paddle them to safety. The pirogue and players flee (taking fatigue) away into the swamp.

Licking their wounds, they debate whether to head back to Clink before deciding they have enough supplies and turning southwest after patching up Young Jimmy's shoulder. The night is passed in sleepless watches nestled in a hollow between three towering trees. The next morning they find out Jimmy's caught a fever, his wound infected (poor Jimmy rolled badly). Rob feeds him an extra ration to help the boy heal.

They head southwest, paddling down wide avenues of scum choked water between shaggy trees. Late in the evening three giant wriggling grey leeches leap from the water at them. Rob shoots one with his primed musket. Another is beaten to death with a paddle. They players shudder. That night they encamp on a small rise and wonder where the hell Gert von Hammer is...

+++++

Conclusions!

U had an amazing time, as did the others, but I have the inkling they (U) would enjoy a door-kicking, puzzle-solving dungeoncrawl more than an outdoors adventure based on how they played and what they expressed to me. Fatigue worked amazingly, players debated over whether they could afford to flee or do strenuous actions. Rations haven't gotten tight yet but are on the players minds.

The magic was used cleverly but I feel that it needed a better resource loop than spells per day, as the half-day structure is the equivalent of dungeon turns for a hexcrawl like this.

I really could have used some tables for swamp scenery and flavorings, as after a while my descriptions started to become the same ol'. Likewise, I think that I should have prepped a table of non-combat encounters, or omens, to spice up travel.

Also weather. Just a weather table would have done a lot.

Lastly, the players could have used more directions and rumours about where stuff was in the swamp. They had a guide, Young Jimmy, but I struggled to balance information and mystery with what he would know. Either I should not have offered guides or I should have better thought out what they would know.

All around a fun time! It's a good module, lots of meat to to work with.

Tuesday, October 15, 2024

Orcs: The Shadow of Wars Past


They slumber below the earth in ancient bunkers, vaults, and caches. Remnants of the total war that ended a past age. Indoctrinated, altered by surgeries and strange drug concoctions, the trauma of battle warping them still further; extreme xenophobia.

No one remembers the ideologies and nationalities for which they once fought, to the new people of the world they seem locked in incoherent blood feuds with one another. They cling to their regimental structures, "clans," as it were, the only source of cohesion left to them with demise of all they once knew.

 
They are stranded in an alien world. The new people are repulsive, mutated, and contaminated in their eyes. The very sun burns their pallid flesh during the day. They hide behind gas masks, armour, and clattering equipment.
 
They become marauding hordes, linking up with other remnants, carving out kingdoms for themselves. They take slaves, tribute, food. Some become mercenaries for the powers that be of the new world.

Monday, October 14, 2024

Fiend Folio Review T-Z

Really this should have been finished a long while ago, but better late than never. Seeing the estimable Marsworms post her Part 15 (almost two months ago now -_-) reminded me I need to get this wrapped up.


Tabaxi
WHAT is that illustration, I want to shoot it with a hunting rifle. Much like with the Kenku, it is interesting to see the roots of what later becomes an extremely popular player character choice. This ancestral tabaxi is much wilder. I like the bit about them disguising scent with aromatic herbs. The tool use and innate weapon comprehension thing is weird. The cat behaviors could be played up more and them hunting in "prides" is silly. Learn about any cat other than lions people.


Tentamort
I must admit to a weakness for weird dungeon ecology creatures, especially one's with a name as excellent as 'tentamort'. The creature hits the sweet spot between too mundane and too weird. Defeating one would require some cunning and observation. My one qualm would be that it's liquid digestion needle attack is extremely lethal to a healing magic-less party, but that's an easy fix.

Terithran
The illustration is uninspiring unfortunately, and the entry's not great either, lacking a distinctive theme, aesthetic, or gimmick. I do enjoy the idea of an otherworldly creature just being pissed about wizard magic causing weird weather in their home plane and marching off to fuck the wizard up, but it is poorly implemented. The terithran is just some guy with miscellaneous spell powers who randomly appears to attack the magic-users of the party. There's nothing to really build it into a more interesting encounter.

Thoqqua
Larval rock-worm that melts its way through the earth and will set you on fire and melt your stuff if it attacks is pretty good, unfortunately there's no clear reason why it would attack besides "because." Once again we have an example of a monster who you can only interact with through combat. At least the khargra (which is of a similar type to this burrowing worm) had its affinity for metals and gems. Nonetheless I could imagine using the thoqqua as is, so it gets three stars instead of two. 


Thork
Giant metal bird which spews super heated steam. Hell yes. Another entry that hits the line perfectly between naturalistic and weird. It feels akin to the best of medieval and ancient bestiary entries. I can see myself using the thork as a piece of weird-wildlife for populating some jungle river basin, or island. As well, the description of its behavior if it is attacked (and the incentive to do so, owing to its valuable copper plumage) is well written in terms of utility in the moment; sucking up water in preparation for its attack and whatnot.

Throat Leech
Feels more like an environmental hazard than a proper monster, that said it's gross and nasty and creates a fun problem to solve.

Tiger Fly
Baffling illustration. Not really sure what the theme is supposed to be here. I do love parasitic wasps though and the egg laying is deliciously gruesome.

Tirapheg
Why's it got three legs, three arms (two nothing but spikes) three heads and a mouth in its belly? Why's it got two tentacles above its mouth? Who knows! It likes eating decaying flesh though and makes exclusionary copies of itself in a fight. Another entry which doesn't really have a readily comprehensible theme. Maybe it was pulled from some sci-fi novel? As an encounter its gimmicks are neat enough but there's nothing here that would let me plug it into a wider game world.

Trilloch
It's a life-draining energy blob which you can't interact with except for the spell 'dispel magic' and can't even detect without the spell 'detect magic.' Boo.


Giant Troll
It's just a big troll. Good illustration though, I like it's crude poleaxe.

Giant Two-Headed Troll
Again, it's just a big troll, but with two heads now. You already have a two headed giant, you literally mention the ettin in the description. At least make the heads argue. A missed opportunity all around. If you treat trolls as a sort of walking cancer you could have it be some horrible conglomerate of two trolls that regrew together and hate each other or something.


Ice Troll
Much better. Excellent illustration here, a nice enough variation on troll's normal regeneration gimmick although you lose a lot of the meat horror. Not stellar but I could see myself turning it into something fun.

Spirit Troll
It's a magic invisible fog troll which is a "perverted crossbreed of a troll and invisible stalker" yadda yadda. Does not bring anything interesting to the table.

Tween
Awful name. One of the worst kinds of monsters are the ones you can't hurt except with very specific spells/items. Kind of a neat idea, what with having a host and boosting their luck by seeing slightly into the future but at the cost of fucking over everyone else's luck around you, but seems like it would be frustrating in play and there's just no meat to it, evocatively speaking.



Umpleby
Hell yeah, weird seal guys. Actually, upon rereading this entry I can find no mention of the umpleby being aquatic. It just seems like they should be. Their hair nets are weird and go well with their electrocution attack (entangle then zap) and the dynamic of them forcibly joining a party as demanding henchmen is fun.

Urchin
Did the authors think regular sea urchins can shoot their spines like a crossbow bolt? Mildly baffling, would be like making an entry for dogs and then saying they have detachable tails that they can regrow. That said, I'm weirdly infatuated with these things (also the concept of sea urchins being able to infest land as well as sea is terrifying).

Vision
Doesn't even have a form. Vaguely attacks with illusions that you can throw off with a roll. Extremely boring.

Vodyanoi
Points off already for stealing the name of an excellent Slavic mythological creature and using it merely for a 'close aquatic relatives of the umber hulk'. Basically just a big underwater brute that rips up your boat and tries to eat you. I do like the hint at a salt-water species twice as large and more ferocious, that's nice. 


Volt
Funky little thing, feels like a Vancian monster. Has a nice lil gimmick (blood drain plus electric whip tail) and design. Could see these guys flying around in a wizard's lair after having broken out of their big glass holding jars. Maybe their from a strange moon.

Vortex
It's a whirlwind. Basically just an air elemental. Eh.

Whipweed
A murderous plantanimal. It's okay, not super exciting. Could put it in some murderous wizard garden or some such.

Witherstench
Evil skunk. Its stench isn't even as bad as a normal skunk, it wears off when the creature leaves. Good name though.

Witherweed
Really more of an environmental hazard than a monster, but a good one nonetheless. The toxic smoke is an excellent counter to a typical strategy and makes it a potential asset for players who can think up ways to exploit the weed's effects. Honestly I don't know why it has an attack, mechanically speaking, it would work just fine if grabbing at it poisoned you.

Xill
More parasitism baby. Good visual design, okay motivations, weird mechanical gimmick. Decently evocative. Could use some more elements to make encountering them interesting. 

Xvart
Boring humanoid made to fill a mechanical niche between goblins and kobolds that did not need filling.


Yellow Musk Creeper
Stellar. Stupendous. A weird fucking flower that makes zombies to propagate itself. It's weird, it's ecological, it's got a sick visual design going. It could be encountered in the wild or in a wizards fucked up garden. Could be weaponized by players. Maybe some prince is cultivating a garden of yellow musk creepers in order to unleash a terrible apocalypse.


Zombie, Yellow Musk
See above.

And that's a (belated) wrap!

Monday, August 5, 2024

Lower Aigu - Bastion Borough

The rain drips down onto this rundown seaside borough near the edge of Bastion. Overcrowded tenements and sagging townhouses pressed together. Omnibuses and streetcars rattle indifferently past lively print-shops, pawnbrokers, pubs, cafes and boarded up counting houses. Fog comes creeping through the streets bringing a salty tinge along with it.
 
To the west along the algae choked canals is Upper Aigu with its white-plaster townhouses, botanical gardens, endless fêtes, and gossip rags. North, along the slum lined train tracks, to Trema with its sprawl of rail yards, abattoirs, chemical sheds, cock fights and night-time homicides. South, the sandy beach and rock-piled piers give way to busy Cedilla with its wharves, dry-docks, warehouses, sailors pubs, and never-ending riots. 
 

Councils ~

Being those of notability

The Society of Whisperers : regulate gossip, publishing, real-estate, and thief-taking.
The Goodly Fellowship of Poissonnières : regulate fishmongery, finance, marketplaces, and public displays of religion.
The Rooftop Republic : regulate students, criminals, street-sweepers, and abandoned properties.

Routes ~

The Green Canal : 
  • Slow, turgid, choked with violently colored algae and laden barges. Travel takes twice as long as normal but is quite scenic. 
  • The footpaths are faster but plagued by muggers, beggars, and artists.
The Tramway :
  • Heralded by the menacing clamor of bells and yapping of pursuing dogs. Pedestrians best jump out of the way. Costs 1s to board. Fare-evaders earn the enmity of the Trolley-men's Union and its plainclothes enforcers.
  • Every trip there's a 2 in 6 chance of an accident holding up traffic. Riders must wait or precede on foot.
 

Encounters ~

1-4: d8 Anti-Pelagic Militiamen - Armed with muskets and sabres, prominent badges.
1 : Tromping about singing rousing songs.
2 : Scrawling hateful anti-pelagic slogans on a wall.
3 : Hassling someone they think looks a bit too inhuman.
4 : Engaged in a running gunfight with an imaginary enemy to everyone else's distress.
 
5-8: d6 Ice Deliverymen - Burly, becheckered, lugging blocks of ice.
5: Chasing after something scampering, waving their ice-hooks.
6: Standing in a doorway, seducing a housewife.
7: Moving something mysterious, wrapped up in a tarp, from a house to their wagon.
8: Nearly coming to blows with some carters over a traffic jam.
 
9-11: d12 Latter-Day Abzuists - Chanting, swaying, costumes of kelp and driftwood, paper-mâché masks.
9: Fomenting a procession in the streets, some kind of festival.
10: Preaching to a disinterested crowd about the perfidious influence of solid land.
11: Fleeing from 2d6 angry Anti-Pelagic Militiamen.
 
12-14: d6 Caffeine-Addled Thugs - 3hp. Dex 15. Knives & cudgels (d6), chic outfits, stink of roast beans.
12: Smashing up a shopfront while passersby avert their eyes.
13: Squatting round a corpse, riffling through its pockets.
14: Heckling passersby from their seats outside a cafe; looking to start a fight.

15-16 : 1d4 Thief-Takers - 4hp. Truncheons (d6), rattles, plain-clothes, forbidden to speak above a whisper.
15: In hot pursuit of a petty thief.
16: Trying to extract the details of a crime from a reluctant citizen.

18-19 : Forlorn Puppeteer - Fit-up, clever hands.
18: Standing on a street corned, ignored but for a solitary child.
19: Arguing with a penniless actor about the finer points of theatre.

20: The Gullwise Man - Strange, sooty, wears a gullfeather in his derby hat.
20: Perched atop a pole, pier, or chimney, communing with the gulls who see all.

Locations ~


Aircraft detection before radar, 1917-1940 - Rare Historical Photos

The Old Sea-Fort  
A little island connected to the borough by a spit of mud at low tide. Crumbling pillboxes and rusting artillery sit among the tussocks of pale grass. Giant concrete listening-phones plunge into the surf. Nowadays the Anti-Pelagic Militia occupies the fort. Paranoid humanists, they strut about with ear-phone hats on and muskets at ready, listening for signs of an invasion from the depths. Picnickers like to row out to the island on sunny days in spite of the scowling militiamen.
  • Captain Obadiah Marmot : A fat, whiskered man buried under layered oilskins. Speaks with a phlegmatic cough and suffers from hydrophobia so intense he is able to walk on water. 
    • Rumored to be the outcast scion of a shipping magnate. 
    • Incorruptibly dedicated to the Anti-Pelagic cause. 
    • Distrustful of anyone who looks sufficiently non-human.
 
Blanchard-Cope Pasteboard Factory  
Once a residential terrace; windows have been bricked up and tin roofed sheds and pulp vats now fill the backyards. Gulls endlessly circle overhead. One stubborn holdout, an aging retiree, lives on the top floor of one of the converted houses.
  • Blanchard & Cope : Nearly identical, dressed in dull suits. Their business has been plagued by an infestation of little pasteboard creatures, grown out of various abandoned scraps. The creatures are getting more intelligent. Some workers have seen little pasteboard men committing acts of sabotage. The partners are desperate to eliminate the menace and have hired legions of so far unsuccessful exterminators.

 

 
Marsh Beach
A plethora of painted fishing boats pulled ashore on rubbish strewn sand. Eroded piers crowded with nets and baskets of fish, clams, lobsters, eurypterids, and mutated scallops. Once a marsh and garbage dump, here the sea laps at the cities-edge. Many of the fishermen attend the Church of the Latter-Day Abzu, a newer star cult located in a rickety, clapboard, algae covered warehouse cum church perched on stilts over the water. Hostilities abound with the Anti-Pelagic Militia
  • Ptolemy Bosch : An old salt, grizzled and bearded, perpetually dressed in heavy oilskins. He is chief of the fishermen by dint of seniority. A cynic to the core, he dislikes the current "fad" (as he puts it) for the church. Increasingly his leadership is questioned. Passes information to Maynard Runt about catches before they're officially announced.
  • High Priestess Lowbile : Buried underneath layers of ceremonial vestments, an ornate bronze mask hides fluttering gills. Is counting down the days till the stars align and her god rises from the deep to drown the world in a deluge. Happy to chat about over tea.

Lord Rochefort's Museum
A sagging old townhouse built atop a bridge straddling the green canal like a bowlegged man. For a 5s fee entreats may view Lord Rochefort's collection of rusting armour, dusty pottery, and strange taxidermied animals, as well as consult his extensive (if eclectic) library. On Tuesdays the Society of Whisperers (one of the boroughs leading councils) meets here for tea and business.
  • Lord "Jackie" Rochefort : A man with a wispy grey beard tucked inside his smoking jacket and a sword-cane close at hand, stomping about in old cavalry boots. He easily works himself into a frenzy on the topics of: ancient civilizations, the youth, military endeavors, breeds of cheese. 
    • Hires enterprising youngsters to hunt down artifacts.
    • Ties to certain members of the Juniper Syndicate. Old friends.
    • Caretaker of the Tattle-beast, a little bat-like creature which absorbs the thoughts of everyone in the radius of the neighborhood and whispers them to its owner.
  • The Society of Whisperers is comprised of the boroughs well-to-do who concern themselves with collecting all gossip and rumours and keeping abreast of goings-on. Exclusive, you must own property to join their ranks. Wishes to remove the Tattle-beast from the aging Rochefort's care.

Brewer Row  
The muck-stained canal bank was once lined with distilleries, now picturesque cafes and coffeehouses squat in the shuttered buildings, each packed with artists, students, and petite-bourgeois types from dawn to dusk. One distillery has been completely leveled and replaced with an eerily silent construction site, but an advertisement plastered fence blocks any view of what's being built.
  • The Musketeers of Brewer Row, a cutthroat gang of dilettante young thugs hopped up on caffeine, reign under the row's placid surface; extorting shopkeepers, smuggling rare blends, fighting for turf with the Juniper Syndicate. Nothing is too base for them.
  • Blackjack Teeva : A flamboyant, charming young art student and captain of the Musketeers. She shares a flat with Hogarth Van Tripe.  
    • Harbors a hatred for lamp-lighters, she is still searching for one among their number who burnt down her family home.
 
About E. Frank Hopkins Seafood of Philadelphia

Speculative Fish Exchange  
A green painted wrought-iron arcade with a nautical motif. Between the stalls selling fish and bivalves are huge chalk and ticker boards around which cluster screaming mobs of brokers, traders, and fishmongers haggling over stocks. Built atop the exchange's roof among the gulls and pigeons is the shop of the boroughs most notorious fence.
  • Maynard Runt : A plucky young orphan in a newly tailored suit and grease-stained flatcap who has risen from oyster-shucker to wealthiest fish-futures broker in the entire borough, with plans to rise yet higher still.
    • Attended by "Mother & Father," two sluggish bodyguards (strong, snub-pistols).
    • Looking to branch out of fish-futures and into other investments.
    • Rumoured to keep valuable stock certificates in his old flatcap (a memento of his days as an urchin).
 
The Symposium  
The grand bathhouse has long been shuttered but its upper stories have been taken over by the "Rooftop Republic," a commune of starving artists, chimney-sweeps, and criminals who inhabit the boroughs many garrets and attics. A few knocked out walls and presto, a squat, forum, theater, and art expo all in one. In the lower stories among the old tile-work and furnaces, it is said there's a leaky steam-tunnel that connects to the Underground.
  • Hogarth Van Tripe : President-elect of the republic, an easily bullied, harmless dope who spends more time fussing over his cravat than getting anything done. 
    • Keeps getting re-elected because he'll do whatever everyone tells him to.
    • Shares a flat with Blackjack Teeva.
    • Younger brother of Howard Van Tripe.
  • Deazel : A scurrilous man in a filthy top-hat with all the airs of a showman and manners of a thug. He collects a 10s toll per head of anyone who wants to use "his" door to the Underground.
    • Utterly mercenary, a coward, but one who will plot revenge.
    • A silver whistle hangs around his neck, if threatened Deazel will blow on it, summoning 1d6+1 quicksilver warriors to his aid.
  • The Fantastic Phantasmo : A masked second-story man and part-time tout, he knows every inch of the boroughs rooftops and the many inhabitants thereof. Conducts himself like a prize-winning spaniel.
 
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Gleam Alley  
A snaking alleyway lined with old brick tenements now disappearing beneath the facades of piled up gin-palaces, all a-glitter with mirrors, lamps, and flashy advertising. The bright lights distract from the drunks, violent brawls, and omnipresent smell of vomit.... ITS ALSO ... ?
  • Gleam Alley is controlled by the shadowy Juniper Syndicate who have consolidated most of the borough's pubs and gin joints under their control. Those operating without cutting in the syndicate tend to vanish and turn up day's later with completely different personalities, all too willing to fork over a portion of profits. A gang-war simmers with the Musketeers of Coffee Row, whose addictive brews threaten to undercut the syndicate's monopoly on vice.

Onion Gate 
A sullen lump of ancient masonry decorated with carven alliums; lonely remnant of the city's walls. Traffic congeals around either end, channeled down the narrow street. During revolts its a favorite place to build a barricade, the rest of the time it is plagued with newsboys and costermongers hawking their wares to omnibuses full of visiting suburbanites and soldiers on leave. Several newspapers and print-shops keep their offices nearby, including the Diacritical Gazette who operate out of an ancient house perched right above the gate itself.
  • The Brother (& Sister) Hood of Criers, Couriers and Newsies is an ad-hoc union run by the rather vicious children who compromise the majority of its allied professions. Ostensibly democratic, in practice the personal gang of various young demagogues. They hold sway over most of the boroughs urchins and are adepts in the arts of slander, public announcement, and quick getaways.

The Postal Branch 
A decaying old theater cum post office. Carriages full of mail-sacks and rushing messengers crowd the street out. Inside long backed-up queues stake out the front desk and rollerskating interns rush mail trolleys to sorting stations. The sub-basement is home to pawnshop that's still selling off the remnants of the old theater's costume and props.
  • The Patented Automatic Sorting Engine : An immense and complicated machine of pneumatic tubes and turning gears that was installed to deal with manpower shortages, after the postmaster mysterious died the Engine started issuing orders and now practically runs the place. 
  • Howard Van Tripe : Deputy postmaster, a nervous fidgety man, who has come to hate letters and machinery. Every rattle of a pneumatic tube presages the arrival of another of the Engine's dictates. Would love to dismantle it but fears retribution. Brother of Hogarth Van Tripe.

The Old Botanical Gardens 
Overshadowed for some years now by the New Botanical Gardens in Upper Aigu; the grounds have grown tangled and wild. Frequented only by drunks, neer'do'wells, puppeteers, and actors. The old saurian statues have been torn down and buried and the shabby old limestone caves, once an attraction have faded from relevance, frequented only by smugglers moving contraband liquor and fine beef through the Underground. Each month more illegally built housing encroaches on the edges of the gardens. 
  • The Poor Fellow Thespians have long been without a theater and haunt the gardens, putting on ad-hoc productions for local families and sleeping under bridges. They are cunning and embittered.
  • Do-Good-Upon-The-World Martha : The garden's sole remaining groundskeeper. Wild haired, she roams the park with a shotgun, sledgehammer, shovel, and satchel of crude bombs; waging a guerilla war on squatters and illegal developers. A sort of boogeyman for the neighborhood.

Gibson Icehouse Firm 
Formerly a minor prince's palace, the baroque wings and annexes have been converted into a massive refrigerated warehouse complex. A stream of barges unload ice ferried in from Deep Country onto the canal-side docks every hour of the day. The cellars are vast and rumours abound of strange things stored on ice down there. The firm employs hundreds of deliverymen in their distinctive black-checkered livery.
  • Old Man Gibson : Has a taste for the Weird and pays well for odd items brought out of Deep Country and the Underground. Has a one sided rivalry with Rochefort who he views as an un-discerning hack.
  • Sally Gibson : The old man's daughter, a businesswoman to the core, she disapproves of her father's hobbies and has been maneuvering for years to get him declared senile so she can take over the company.

Tuesday, June 25, 2024

Dragons: White, Black, & Blue

White Dragon :

A fat, sluggish, crocodilian beast with beady red eyes that burrow into your soul. It waddles along, quicker than it seems at first, a roiling fog of liquid nitrogen spilling from its jag-toothed mouth.
 
Its breathe shatters metal. The water in your eyes freezes, lacerating the soft flesh. Cold burns scour your body. Appendages turn black, stiff with frostbite. You will likely survive the initial agony. That's alright. It's patient. 

It will follow you, attacking where it can, watching you stumble as it tracks the heat of your body. It waits for you to collapse or be cornered. Once it eats, your flesh will sate it for a long while. 

 

Black Wyrm : 

Vitriol drips from its fangs, droplets of the limpid liquid smoking as it hits the ground.  
 
A long, serpentine shape, ropy muscles twisted together; small almost stubby arms and legs. Its scales glisten; sometimes black, sometimes iridescent green. Its head rears up suddenly as it snakes around boulder and tree trunk. Acid drips from its fangs. It is a swift creature and strikes from ambush, a misting spray of acid. It lunges immediately after, trusting in its maw to finish what the chemical burns didn't. 

Blue Dragon :

It arrives in a thunderclap that echoes across the open desert.
 
A figure of animate glass and fulgurite, its veins and organs are mapped out in coursing electricity and the odd enclave of flesh in the otherwise crystalline form. The air around it is tinged with ozone. It sees the electrical impulses firing in your nerves and hones in on them. Lighting arcing down from the sky alongside it to strike you, cooking you in an instant, then its upon you, snatching you up, cutting through your flesh with glass-knife teeth. Onlookers would be able to see the flesh forced down into its stomach through its transparent body.

Monday, June 24, 2024

Not False But Rather Outdated : Rumours


Rumours are a valuable, perhaps crucial, part of any sandbox game. The ideal means for players to passively gather information and learn about a region (or the setting more broadly). And ever since the first rumour table graced a module there have also been false rumours; the classic type being "bree-yark is goblin for surrender" found in Keep on the Borderland.

The pitfalls and potential use cases of false rumours have been written about before, but I'd like to add a variation to the table: the Outdated Rumour. 

Similar to having false information come from an obviously untrustworthy source, an outdated rumour banks on players knowing that the information is potentially unreliable. The fun of it thus lies in committing to the risk. For this reason, outdated rumours are best when players either cannot obtain more information or must pay a cost to.
 
A good example of this can be found in The Hobbit. When staying at Rivendell the dwarves—and Bilbo—act upon old information and avoid a pass subject to goblin brigandage in favor of a less used route. Of course, the goblins have also moved to this new pass.