Hermits and More

People like tables. I want people to like me. Therefore, I made some tables.


You have just stumbled onto a(n)...
1. Cave
The PCs stumble onto a small cave. Likely it reeks of the presence of a hermit, though perhaps he's a cleanly old fellow. Either way, this cavern is somewhat enticing and made up a little better than those that belong to, you know, bears.

2. Ruin
This ruin isn't the dangerous type, it's the very badly destroyed type. There are a few broken pillars, shattered walls, those kinds of things. If there are still any standing buildings, the hermit probably lives in one of those. If there aren't, he might just sleep on the ground or have a little tent.

3. Old shrine
Not a proper temple and not a ruin, this is simply an eikon, an altar, and some surrounding architecture. The hermit probably shelters behind it and eats up the offerings and takes the money people leave.

4. Empty temple
Once a temple, now a mostly in-tact wind-haunted ruin. There may be deeper parts, darker parts that the hermit doesn't visit. He may have the key to the crypts, or knowledge of the secret word that opens the inner doors... or maybe he just has an agreement with the local kobolds that he gets to keep any shinies on the corpses of the travelers he lures inside.

5. Cottage
This hermit is industrious. A cottage not marked anywhere on the map is his abode, and he probably pays no tax of any kind.

6. Grove
Just a grove, with no structures save for perhaps the hermit's tent.

7. Hollowed-out tree trunk
This hermit lives in a log or a trunk in the woods. He's probably skittish and likely to hide there when the PCs come tromping about.

8. Waterfall
Really, a waterfall could be combined with any of the previous entries.


You can see some (1d4) signs of habitation...
1. Bones
Not human bones—unless they are. Usually, though, these are things like chicken bones and the discarded leavings of whatever the hermit ate. Unless kobolds ate them. And the hermit. Is he even here? Maybe we better get going.

2. An archa
A chest out in the open. Probably doesn't have anything good in it. Maybe some dried fruit or a decanter of beer he gleaned from his last trip to town.

3. A tent
This might be where the hermit lives, it might be his smokehouse, or it might simply be to store things that would otherwise get wet. Probably shouldn't go poking around in it though. I mean, what if he comes back? Aw hells, he's not coming back, let's go.

4. A fire pit
Well, there was certainly someone here. Look, they dug that fire-pit and everything. Should we stay? I just don't want to get stabbed in the neck with a sharpened length of wood.

5. Some stakes
Well, clearly someone is trying to mark his territory. Maybe they have skulls on 'em. Maybe they're human skulls—or maybe not. Either way, this guy isn't that eager for company. You know, if he has trouble with intruders, maybe there's some money to be made.

6. A number of cooking utensils
Oh hey, these aren't sticks after all, they're spits! And this knife is definitely for cooking. Who just leaves their things lying around like this?

7. A stack of wood
Huh, a hermit chopping wood? That means he must have an axe...

8. A bucket of water
I wonder where he got this. We need to refill our water skins. Now the real question... travel directly to the source or just skim some here...

The hermit who lives here dresses in...
1. Rags
Oh hey, he's just a guy living out in the wild.

2. The ruined vestments of a high priest
Hmm... This fella is either a disgraced cleric or he murdered someone for those clothes. Maybe he's gods-touched? Sounds like someone to stay away from. No, hey, we're alright we don't need to join you for dinner!

3. Tattered armor
Nothing like a gruff old man covered in piecemeal armor. I wonder where he got it. Those things don't look like they go together. Is that blood on his spaulder?

4. Nothing
OH! Hey now! C'mon! That's not...! Hm!

5. Horse-hair garments
Penitence. For what, I wonder?

6. A robe of undyed wool
Well, he seems ok for a crazy woodsman.

7. Leathers
You know what leather armor says to me? It says peasant. Or murderer.

8. Soiled robes
He really needs to wash these things.

He's a hermit because...
1. He's insane
Gods touched, yes. He can't focus on you. He mumbles. Maybe he drools. He might speak in tongues. What the hell did we come out to see this guy for anyway?

2. He's holy
Well, this guy might see visions, but he's clearly all there. Hey, he might still have access to his divinity! Maybe he can patch us up...

3. He's holy AND insane
He can do magic, but he's lost his mind. I'm not sure how to feel about this. The Gods clearly move through him, but they move in ways that have broken him.

4. He's a survivalist
Just doesn't want to follow the social code, eh? I think we can all get behind that, can't we boys? Ha, yeah, we like this guy. Or maybe not. Maybe we're the law. This guy might be dangerous.

5. He's secretly a sage
This guy looks and sounds like a smartypants, regardless of the wilderness setting. Perhaps he can help us solve some of our problems.

6. He's secretly a wizard
Now wait a minute. I saw that book over there. And I see you keep rolling that little bit of guano between your fingers. Now, is this guy crazy... or a powerful wizard? We'd better figure that out quick.

7. He killed someone
He seems nice!

8. He killed a LOT of people
Wow, he really wants us to rest in his camp! What could go wrong?

Troubles in the Social Dungeon

We've had some players who have trouble interacting with NPCs in the past. This can be a major hinderance to a parties' forward development—social interaction, like it or not, is a major part of playing D&D. Talking to NPCs may in fact be more important to the survival of the party than simply have good battle plans. While you may be able to swing a battle with dice, the way we play it there are simply no dice available to help you when talking to an NPC; you get your initial reaction check (and often not even that, if I am certain of the way the NPC may react to you) and then you must "win" the conversation based solely on your own merits.

While most non-confrontational conversations usually (and here I must be clear and say usually) do not degenerate into unplayable "loss" situations, it is the conversations that have more on the line of which I now speak. These are people who are potentially hostile or already inclined to mistrust the player. I'm not sure how many of these types of folks people come in contact with in every day life, but I feel it must be at least a few. Winning them over is almost never a matter of simply acting politely, particularly in a world where they might kill you just because they don't like your face.

I will use an example that I encountered last night in a game session, which will require a little bit of 10th Age background to understand. There was a hermit living out in the wild places of Haldera, beyond the normal boundaries of a town and in the deep hills, hardscrabble land that it is very difficult to travel (he has inspired the hermit list I hope to post later in the week). He dwells in an old wyrmish ruin, inhabiting the broken obsidian buildings and muttering to himself. A madman in town thought he was a necromancer, but in fact he is one of Rhamna's priesthood—a minor goddess devoted to revenge. These men are known as Debtors, and they dwell beyond the bounds of traditional society and wait for people who want revenge to come out to them and pray for it. At that time, they generally go around and help enact whatever vengeance it is.

The company (the Eager Blades, who had been the Crabs but decided they needed a new name) approached the ruins at dusk and saw the glow of a fire. Fearing a necromancer, hobgoblins, or some other nameless terror, they sent their thief to sneak up on the source of the light and determine what it was. You know, classic Tolkien thief-work. Unlike Bilbo, he smeared his face with charcoal and got to it. Like Bilbo, however, he lingered overlong and then went and peeked his face right into the doorway where the light was coming from. The Debtor, Ralgath, saw him and snuck out behind.

With an angry and clearly unbalanced tone he asked what the thief thought he was doing. "Oh, I'm just a traveler out for a breath of air." This was mistake number one: an obvious lie, since they were far from any settlements. Fearing that the intruder had come to kill him, this prompted Ralgath to attack. Vihnac, the thief, drew his sword to defend himself, which Ralgath instantly cast Heat Metal on. He demanded that the intruder drop his sword. Vihnac sheathed it.

Ralgath began to laugh, telling him that that would probably be his last mistake, even as the sheath began to heat up and the leather smoke and curl. Vihnac didn't know what to do, so he announced that he was only defending himself as he was a "traveling poet." Ralgath was irritated to be obviously lied to again, so struck him in the chest with his cudgel. In response, the thief unbuckled his belt even as it became white-hot and seared his side.

Ralgath said, "Now FLEE or perish, liar!" and Vihnac responded "Your graciousness becomes you." Ralgath took that amiss and clubbed Vihnac in the skull.

While the thief, miraculously, did not perish he was down and out. Even in postgame he had a hard time seeing what he did wrong—if by wrong you mean, provoking an evil hermit. Of course, had he simply been content to admit that the hermit had bested him, there would be no post about this today, but he insisted that he had acted in such a way that the NPC should in no way have behaved how he did.

Here, I think, are several breaking points where we can examine his behavior and glean a better understanding of how dangerous social interactions can work:

1) The First Lie

"I am a traveler,  I wished only to pass through without harm."

"I meant to you no disrespect or ill will."

These two phrases were said back to back. Now, it is probably true that the thief meant this particular Debtor no disrespect OR ill will. However, it was also clear (since he was sneaking around and armed) that he meant someone some disrespect or ill will. So this did not play well.

However, social situations will rarely go bad all at once, but rather steadily fall apart. The Debtor, angry now and fearful that he needs to defend himself, swung at Vihnac but missed:

You instinctively duck and feel a foot-thick knotty club go whizzing above your head. "Sneaking in, eh? Thought you could get the better of me, did you?"

2) I have no beef

Vihnac valiantly tries to defuse the situation, but draws his sword in defense. He bravely speaks one of the most hilarious lines in D&D history: "I have no beef with you, man-son. I merely wish to pass peacefully."

The Debtor decides to test him for his worth: if the thief really has no problem with him, he shouldn't be afraid to be unarmed in front of him, right? This is insane hermit logic, of course, but he's an insane hermit.

He points a long-nailed finger at your sword and speaks some strange words of power. Then, he barks, "Drop your blade or live to regret it, fool!"

The man laughs maniacally. "You did not seek to find me, but here you came! And now, like a thief, you come to slay me in the dark. Well, you will find your tools of slaying are not your own!"

This is when Heat Metal is cast.

3) I sheathe my sword

Which elicits this response:

You sheathe your blade and he hisses, "That will not save you. You did not do as I commanded, and now you will be in great pains to."

4) I am merely a traveling poet

Trying to dig himself out of trouble, Vihnac insists that he didn't draw his sword to hurt the man but rather to defend himself. After all, he's "merely a traveling poet." This obvious and somewhat bizarre falsehood prompts Ralgath to attack him again—at least claim to. Vihnac however, struggles and gets his belt off. Ralgath is instantly less worried and tells him to get the hell out.

5) Flee or perish, liar!

You get it off before it does any further damage, but it is now a brilliant blazing outline of a sword. The man laughs and says, "Now FLEE or perish, liar!"

Vihnac's final response:

"Your graciousness becomes you."

The Rundown

So, we have witnessed the slow deterioration of a situation which, to admit, was not great to begin with. At stage #1, Vihnac presented an already wary foe with an obvious lie. Seeing through it was no big deal for him, it required no rolls or even second-thinking on my part. If someone was peeking into your house with coalblack smeared all over him, would you think he was "just passing through"? No, probably not.

So, at breaking point one Vihnac could have tried to explain himself (rather than pretend it was no big deal, since it clearly was to this man).

At stage #2 he did well to try to defend himself, since the guy was unpredictable. Who knows if he could be talked down? However, he still didn't articulate WHY he was peering into Ralgath's house, which is what concerned the Debtor.

At stage #3 things had already broken down. Vihnac's player was desperate, and not reading very well I think. This, unfortunately, happens sometimes in IRC D&D and failure to read the posts carefully can result in some anguish.

At stage #4, things are past saving. Again, without explaining his presence, his looks, or his weapon, Vihnac tells another obvious lie.

By #5, you would be well-advised simply to flee. Ralgath, and most angry/crazy/evil NPCs was not inclined to take anything well by this point because he had a firm opinion of the PC (thief, murderer, liar). By the time an NPC really despises you, I don't think there's very much you can do in the way of de-escalation besides listening to them.

So goes another day in the Social Dungeon, where escalatio and chest puffing are the norm. Here, though, even though Vihnac tried not to puff himself up but rather make the situation less dangerous, it is apparent that some finesse is required. Disengagement, as in combat, is always preferable to escalation.

The Peddler and the Swine, part the first

Bit of historical fiction for ya today. The post yesterday on Talleal, it turns out, was a more anemic version of his deity entry than I meant to display. I've updated it now with all the new and pertinent information.

In the time of Kaiser Frederick, King of the Romans, there was a peddler named Hartmund and called the Unlucky. Hartmund Infelix was from Thuringia, in the central heartlands of the most sacred empire. He was a canny man, used to dealing with suppliers who wanted to cheat him and customers who wanted to rob him. He had developed a good sense of when someone was willing to compromise and was so good with money that people sometimes also called him "the Jew." Hartmund was never offended by this, or if he was he never let on. After all, it was (in a way) a compliment, and he had known many good Jewish goldsmiths with whom he had worked. Too many to think of them the way the other Franks and Germans did. He had once heard that Louis d'Artois (who was king of the Franks) had saved some Jews from a burning at the hands of his knights. Ever after that, Hartmund had been more favorably inclined towards them.

Hartmund liked to wear fine colored hosen to show his quality. He was no Edelmann by any stretch, but he had the silver in his coffers to pay for beautiful things. He enjoyed reds and blues, brilliant and dyed in southern Frankia, and wore them well. His tunics were sadly of local Thuringian cloth, not the best stuff, but he had adorned them with silver studs as soon as he had the coin. Most proud of all was he of his woolen Arras cloak, which kept him warm as a hearthstone in the winter. It was deep crimson and had a heavy hood and a fine buckled broach to keep it on. When he wore it he felt half a Ritter, though his belt was a plain leather girdle.

He walked with a slight hitch in his step. His foot had been run over by an ox-cart when he was just learning his trade from fat old Sigmundus Magnus. It had never healed quite right, so he walked with a stick wherever he went. Sigmundus had been hellishly angry at the expense they had to lay out to get Hartmund a physician to tend the broken foot, but in the end the old man paid for it.

At one time, Hartmund had been master of a number of wagons and warehouses. Silver had poured into his archae and flowed through his fingers like water. That was before they burned to the ground in a fire that had spread through Meiningen like the devil's own blaze. That was where Hartmund had set up the majority of his business—Meiningen, right in the middle of Thuringia. The fire had obliterated all of his hard-won interests, and most of the things old Sigmundus had passed on to him. He had still been half a boy, then, but now that his hair was falling out and his feet were sore and twisted he was still taking to the road to make back the monies lost in the conflagration.

It was in this state that Hartmund traveled the empire with a walking stick in one hand and a wooden-framed pack on his back. He had gone back to old standbys: selling ointments, oils, and pilgrim's badges, selling relics and polished bronze mirrors, and little odds and ends. It didn't make him much, but it was enough to keep him from starving. As long as he kept out of the way of his betters, he knew he would be fine. The one time he'd failed to observe that rule, a Ritter had knocked out one of his teeth for him. "That will teach you to be over-inquisitive!" the man had said afterwards.  He'd lost a tooth, but gained a free meal from a soft-hipped miller's wife who had been standing by to watch the whole thing. More than that, he'd discovered she was a widow when he arrived at the mill, and the two shared a bed for an evening. A congress that the priests would have told him meant he was going to hell... but he was going to hell anyway, he figured, for countless sins and the inability to read Latin. You should probably read Latin, he thought, if you wanted to go and carouse with angels and all that.

By any road, that was how Hartmund came to be walking, stick in hand, along the road from the great imperial city of Nürnburg to the ancient settlement at Würzburg where, almost a century ago, a huge number of Jews had been massacred. This thought haunted Hartmund as he hitch-stepped along the muddy track that passed for a road in these parts. "If they can kill Jews in Würzburg," he muttered to himself one afternoon, "they can kill a peddler who is just called the Jew."

Nevertheless... there was a market fair at Würzburg where Hartmund could sell his wares. It was one that he had attended most years, when he could. He never spent silver on a stall, for that cost several groz. Back when he had the warehouses, yes, but now that he was alone on the road without horse or wagon there was no need. He could do all of his selling out of his pack.

A slow patter of rain began on the third day. It was still the early spring. Nürnburg was a nice place in the spring. They like me in Nürnburg, Hartmund thought. He dodged between the pools of water that began to form in the ruts of the muddy road and thought back to his buildings in Meiningen. They never liked me there, though. Sigmundus had helped him purchase those. Without him, they never would have taken my silver. Infelix, that was what they called him. More so after the fires. God must not love Hartmund.

The rain picked up and gusts of wind carried it beneath Hartmund's hood to splatter against his cheeks. He rubbed them and felt the rough hardness of his unshaven face. He hadn't taken a razor to it since before Nürnburg and his beard grew fast. Not good, he thought. He didn't want to be mistaken for a Jew, not in Würzburg.

He dodged across the muddy track and under the lee of the trees, their leaves swaying and rustling to produce a sound like the distant northern ocean. He stumbled at the last moment, cursing his infelicity, and fell face first in the wet dirt. Damn that twisted foot. He pulled all his limbs under himself and levered his body back into an upright position. Mud, of course. His fine hosen were covered in it, but luckily his Arras cloak had only picked up some crushed grass.

It was as he was righting himself that he smelled the first hint of something foul. He fumbled for his walking stick to help support him. Once its glossy knotted surface was beneath his hand, he hobbled forward to take a look beneath the boughs. Bracken and heather grew thick in this part of Bavaria, so it was a moment before he found the source of the stink. Pushing aside a few fronds of brush, he was greeted with the sight of a man who had been ripped asunder from groin to armpit.

Hartmund raised a hand to his face. Salvator mundi! This fellow's been torn apart! The wounds looked as though they had killed him. Slumped against the bole of a tree, he might almost had been sleeping were it not for the grotesque flaps of flesh and the stink of pus and death. Rough, Hartmund observed, not made by any blade. Evil work, this. He wondered if there were demons abroad in the forest. The thought was enough to send him scurrying back to the road, rain and all.

Before he got there, a voice called out: "Ho! Ho there! You take the Würzburg road?"

He slowed, then stopped. There were only two things that could be living in the forest: outlaws, or demons. "I... I do!" he said hesitantly. "Who asks it of me?" Please let him not say Satan!

"A fellow traveler!" said the voice, and from the gorse and bracken there stepped a man with a long staff of his own and a barrow led by a donkey. Oh, thank Christ, Hartmund sighed. "The way to Würzburg is dangerous indeed at this hour. Bandits encamp upon it."

"There's a man dead right here," Hartmund said uneasily. "Perhaps you can help me take him to be shriven?" If there was a sure way to draw ghosts and demons to a spot, it was the unburied dead.

The other man, a tall fellow with a proud nose, bald head, and watery blue eyes, peered into the trees. "Boars," he proclaimed. "This whole forest is full of 'em. From here to Schweinfurt."

Hartmund frowned. "Schweinfurt? Who would go there?" The ford of the swine was well out of the way for most travelers. Though it bore the title of a 'free city,' Hartmund had never known any merchant to bother with it. There's no silver to be made in Schweinfurt.

The man with the barrow shrugged. "I made a good amount selling herbs and poultices," he admitted, "for that is from whence I come. I simply kept my head down and made not a fuss."

Something came into Hartmund's mind just then, a story about Schweinfurt that he had almost forgotten. "Isn't that the place where those boys were killed?" Yes, that was right. Boys had gone missing there, young children.

"I know it not!" the barrowman shrugged. "I know only what I saw with my own eyes. Whether boys go missing or not is no concern of mine." He clucked at his mule. "On, on, Heinrich. And to you, a good morrow traveler! May you find your fortune, rather than your death." Like that man hidden in the heather. Hartmund had half a mind to call after the other merchant, demand that he help carry the body to a church and help get it buried... but then a shiver went through him, so instead he hurried on.

Memorial Day Pantheon Monday: Talleal the Herald of War

TALLEAL

(the War Herald, the Burning, the Reaver, Lord of War)

Lesser God, CE

Portfolio: war, disease, fire

Aliases: Ashad

Domain Name: The Bloody Field, Acheron

Superior: Haeron

Allies: None

Foes: Halor

Symbol: A hornéd helmet

Worshiper Alignment: Any

Talleal (tahl-EE-al) is the Lord of War, brother to Halor the Tactician, and his polar opposite. They may or may not be the children of Haeron, though outside the inner circles of his clergy this has never been made clear. He is a violent, stormy deity who delights in causing chaos, unleashing torrents of blood and war, and laughing merrily amongst the battlefield. The Master of Battles and King of Slaughters rushes through the dismembered dead, laughing and shrieking with glee.

Haeron himself keeps Talleal in check, monitoring the War Herald and making certain that he does not rampage freely across Arunia. However, when war does come the Hammerer cannot keep the Reaver from descending into the world to stride the field and walk between the dead.

The War Herald is often depicted wearing a closed helm with stag’s horns, and the hornéd helm is a popular pictorial and aesthetic element representing the god himself. His voice is said to be thunder, or the call of the warhorn, and his laughter the screams of the dying. His presence is heralded by a stench of rotten blood and decaying limbs.

The Church

Clergy: Fighters, specialty priests

Clergy’s Alignment: CE

Turn Undead: No

Command Undead: Yes

Talleal’s clergy are few and far between, and they find their place in the temple of Haeron throughout most of the north. Very few lands allow the Talleates to roam free and construct their own temples. The great temples of Haeron, in many kingdoms, maintain small side chapels, shrines, and side-temples devoted to the worship of Talleal for those few who do. The priesthood of the Talleate church relies in those lands on the good will of the Hierians.

Still, in some places (such as the warlike states of the East or the slaver-kingdom of Essad), Talleal is worshipped in temples of his own. Huge black iron and marble edifices which disgorge smoke and the stench of burnt offerings are filled day and night with prayers and chants for blood and violence.

The temple is divided into a number of semi-independent cells that operate with complete freedom. These are known as shrines, and each shrine is attended by at least seven men: a Father or Mother of War, three priests to attend him, and three acolytes training to replace their masters. These shrines are beholden to the local Hierian temples where they reside, though they often secretly act independently or against their wishes.

In lands where the temple is free, it is often organized into similar structures. Larger shrines and free temples, however, are divided into troupes and platoons as though they were mercenary units from the East. Thus, Fathers and Mothers of War serve as captains, and the body of the temple is divided into maniples, or “Hands of Talleal.”

Additionally, however, there are the unattached Talleate priests who are given free reign to spread the word of the faith. Though these free-roaming Talleates are technically operating outside the dictates of most sensible kings (and the emperor of Miles), they are hard to hunt down and remove or bind up to local shrines. Known as the Black Heralds, they are most often warriors or priests that have been blessed with the power of Talleal’s miracles, and they cause violence and death wherever they go. They are particularly fond of joining mercenary companies, so they can consecrate the deaths of foes to the God of War.

The most infamous method of consecrating the slain is the Sign of the Blazing Faith in which the Talleate opens the bowels of a still-living foe and then prays over the entrails. While priests who have no connection to the divine leave it at that, those who serve as his instruments will be rewarded with a small but visible crackling flame amongst the bloody smoking guts—an ember that sears and burns.

Those already dead may also be sent to Talleal—the Herald simply prays over the fallen for ten minutes, speaking the words and sprinkling them with the holy oils of the temple. When this rite is done, it is said that their spirits are bound up to fight in eternity in Talleal’s hellish battlefield.

Dogma: Destroy your foe, claim what is yours, and open the bellies of the faithless at every hand.

Day-to-Day Activities: Talleates minister to warriors and those seeking unholy blessings in combat. Offerings of black bulls, black cockrels, and other such animals are made at all hours in Talleate shrines. Their priests stir up troubles, seek out woes, and encourage bloodshed.

Major Centers of Worship: The Black Dome in Thurayn is the center of the Talleate cult, and it is there that his embodiment upon Arunia, the Sword of Wrath, resides. Though he technically has no influence over the religion as a whole (due, by necessity, to their subservience to the local Hierian authorities) he often promulgates writs and bulls that are secretly brought to local shrines for perusal.

Priestly Vestments: Talleates wear scarlet, black, and crimson robes and prefer black enamel armor. Hornéd helms, or even simple close-faced helms are common. Black gauntlets and black paneled belts offset the crimson and golds of the Talleate attire. Some have hinted that their clothing is strangely similar to the ancient uniform of imperial Milean soldiers.

Herald of War

(Specialty Priest)

REQUIREMENTS: Strength 9, Constitution 13

PRIME REQ: Constitution

ALIGNMENT: LE, NE, CE, LN

WEAPONS: Battle axe, mace, morning star, spear, sword

MAJOR SPHERES: All, Chaos, Combat, Divination, Elemental (fire), War

MINOR SPHERES: Charm, Elemental (air), Healing, Protection, Weather

MAGICAL ITEMS: War heralds can use any magical weapon or item that warriors can. However, they cannot create items that heal or cure, nor may they utilize them.

REQ. PROFS: None

BONUS PROFS: Warrior proficiencies count as in-class at creation, Heralds of War get an additional weapon proficiency at creation.

At 3rd level, clerics of Tallial radiate an aura of might whenever they engage in battle. Opponents must save vs. petrification when the cleric begins to fight, or they receive a -1 penalty to their attack rolls.

At 5th level, the War Herald may cast Protection from Law, 10-foot radius or Protection from Good, 10-foot radius, once per day.

At 7th level, War Heralds may engage in a ritual of bloodletting. This ritual may be performed on any downed enemy who is not dead or captured prisoner. It takes one minute to complete, and the Herald guts the victim completely, bathing in his entrails. As the ritual is enacted, the Herald regains 2d12 hit points. The ritual may only be performed once every four hours.

At 10th level, the War Herald counts their weapon as one size larger whenever they score a critical hit.

At 15th level, the War Herald in combat is a blazing beacon of rage and fire. All allies within 60’ receive a +3 bonus to their attack rolls and all enemies directly attacking the Herald receive a -5 penalty.

J'Accuse: Law, Adventurers, and the Judicial Duel

Some developments with the Hounds have led to a conflict (and, really at its heart, a misunderstanding) of how adventurers interact with the law—or how they must necessarily interact with the law. You see, this sequence of comments stuck out to me from our game the other night. They revolved around the idea of the difference between money earned "legally" and "illegally" by the party. Cain the Dorl (who is a LN mercenary) was upset and disturbed by the party's wanton murder and looting (note that most of them are CG) of a morally reprehensible local that they decided to rid the city of. There was no question that this fellow was in league with some bad forces. Vagr Blackstone was the hookup for the Temple of the Three Shadows and he serviced both thieves and smugglers across Tyrma by getting them in touch with the Shadow Temple.

That being said, the party murdered him without provocation. Indeed, they drew him out and ambushed him to prevent him from putting out a contract on a friendly local dwarven smith. They followed this up with a deadly raid on his hold, slaying most of his thugs and servants. Cain stayed well clear of this second activity.

After all was said and done, most of the group felt that what they had done was justified and that they had earned Vagr's money (which they stole from his hold) fair and square. Cain didn't feel the same. When his player said "But you essentially just murdered this guy and robbed his house," they responded, "Isn't that how adventurers always get money?"

This brings up THE LAW. Do adventurers essentially just kill people they don't like and take their stuff? Certainly, they seem to engage in this behavior a lot. Is it the only way that adventurers can behave? That is a murkier question by far.

PART ONE: Whither the Lawful Adventurer?

Not a lot of people that I play with tend to play lawful characters. Most fall somewhere on the sliding scale between neutral and chaotic. It just seems to have worked out that way. Does this mean that there can be no lawful adventurers? I heartily think not. Whatever the reason that my players have for avoiding law (except for Cain's player, who embraces its structure as necessary and right nine characters out of ten), that doesn't preclude it from being an acceptable alignment for an adventurer.

If all adventures break down to the simple premise that the party identifies someone they want to kill, murders them, and then steals the things which are their belongings... well, of course none of these adventurers are lawful. That narrative is one that has been very powerful and popular in D&D discourse—describing adventurers as "murder hobos." But I think the power of that characterization has completely obliterated or obscured the potential for lawful adventure in the main channels of discourse.

So, if lawful adventurers are not, by definition, impossible it must follow that some adventures are comprised of more than "identify foe, kill foe, loot foe."

 PART TWO: The Setup

Here are some scenarios that look very similar:

1. The party, looking around for work, is brought to the manse or curia of a baron. He offers a reward if the PCs will slay an evil wizard who lives in town.

2. The PCs encounter an evil wizard in town and decide to kill him after discovering that he is murdering people in his basement.

3. The PCs are attacked by goblins on the road and slay them. They trace their tracks to their lair and slay those too.

4. The PCs find some bandits or outlaws and decide to wipe out their camp.

The question here is: Which of these scenarios violate a lawful alignment?

My answer is thusly: only #2.

"WHY!" I hear you clamor. "What could possibly make #2 different from #3 and #4?"

The answer lies deep in...

PART THREE: Medieval Law

We're used to a society in which the law applies equally to everyone. If you meet a man on a highway and he tries to rob you, you are not justified in killing him unless you can say you legitimately fear for your life. If you meet a homeless man living out in the woods, you are not justified in killing him.

The same is not true in a society of medieval laws. Outlaws, bandits, goblins, and all manner of creatures do not have the protection of the law. The evil wizard who lives in the town does. Thus, only when the baron (assumed here to be the local law) gave the alright (for, if he is the local lord it is within his power to condemn this man to death and remove the just protection of law—or at least it is assumed so in this case, though perhaps a trial must be in order if the lord does not have that power).

These people who abandon the protection of law are all over the medieval record. Living outside civilization, essentially, curtails your rights. You are a legal non-entity. And while it would still behoove a lawful character to ask about slaughtering bandits in the forest, or to bring an evil wizard to the nearest town for justice, they would be under no LEGAL obligation to do so. As Frank pointed out, a LE character would feel that same urge, perhaps to bring the mage in for a higher reward but might decide midway along the route that he was too dangerous to transport and just kill him. No laws there are broken.

#2 could be brought along to the lawful end of the spectrum if it was amended with: and bring this information to the local baron, who holds a curia to investigate, discovers it is true, and authorizes them to deal the wizard's death.

PART FOUR: The Judicial Duel

A last note: sometimes, in polite society, people just couldn't get along. You could accuse someone of something until you were blue in the face but maybe there was no way to resolve it; your lord, for example, refuses to hear the case. Judicial dueling can therefore substitute court in many lands and is completely legal and acceptable. This is an out, perhaps, for lawful characters who simply must destroy their foe—challenge him to a duel. This will either result in a great loss of honor for him, his death, or the PCs death.

Two out of three ain't bad!

Stewhouses, bathing, and begin clean

Public baths are an ancient european invention, traceable at least as far as the Romans. I can't think of any sources indicating that the Greeks had public baths, but then I'm not so very well versed on Greek material culture—please, correct me if I'm wrong on that point. Either way, the tradition of the public bath was something deeply entrenched; hot water was, of course, part of the ritual. In ancient days it was warmed from beneath (as it is in the cities of Arunian elves and the great urban centers of the Third Empire were the infrastructure has survived) but by the Middle Ages we're looking at a much more primitive style of bathing.

From heated marble pools, we transition into a world of baths (both private and public) which are filled with water heated in jugs or kettles and then poured into wooden tubs.

That right there is one pimpin' lord, with what appear to be four (count 'em, FOUR) sexy maid servants in full bliauts and gowns attending him. Well, maybe that one with the chalice is his wife or mistress. She's dressed up too nice. But that old woman in white is definitely heating up his water for him. Of course, this is a private bathing practice we're looking at. This lord decided he wanted to take his hairy ass out into the castle garden and take a dip.

But what about the public baths? From what I understand they were shacks or shanties erected near a water source where similar half-barrel tub constructions were rented out for a few sheckles. This wasn't a regular daily activity, but the health benefits of bathing were fairly well known. Not as potent, perhaps, as visiting a relic or shrine, but if you lived in London or Paris infinitely less costly than going on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.

What's my point? In any sufficiently developed medieval urban center, public baths are likely to spring up. The same goes for the fantasy coaching house that we've developed into the all-inclusive Inn in most fantasy. It is likely that such a place (assuming the trade on the road was great enough to even support it, but that's another entry I think) would keep at least a few tubs for bathing. Hell, even if they didn't they would have to keep one for washing that you could use unless they were close enough to a river.

Indeed, let us not discount bathing in rivers, which has Biblical connotations.

The Valravne

My players: If you want to be surprised by things in the game, probably don't read this entry. I'm not saying these guys are coming, but just in case they ever DO.

Valravn

CLIMATE/TERRAIN: Forests, Battlefields

FREQUENCY: Very Rare

ORGANIZATION: Solitary

ACTIVITY CYCLE: Any

DIET: Carrion

INTELLIGENCE: Low (5-7) [lesser] or Genius (17-18) [greater]

TREASURE: None

ALIGNMENT: Any evil (usually chaotic)

NO. APPEARING: 1-12 (lesser) or 1 (lesser)

ARMOR CLASS: 4 raven, any (often plate or mail armor) for polymorphed form

MOVEMENT: Fl 36 (B), 1 [raven] or 12 polymorphed

HIT DICE: 3 or 8

THAC0: 18 or 13

NO. OF ATTACKS: 1

DAMAGE/ATTACK: 1 or polymorphed by weapon +1

SPECIAL ATTACKS: See below

SPECIAL DEFENSES: See below

MAGIC RESISTANCE: --

SIZE: S or M

MORALE: Steady (11-12)

XP VALUE: 420 or 3,000

Ravens that eat the flesh of men, elves, or other battle-slain sometimes acquire dark knowledge. Those who eat the heart of a sorcerer or a king may transform into the valravne, beings of immense malicious power. These creatures appear in the dwarven eddas were they are called by that name, but they are also known amongst the other races as well—in elvish, they are the roceylin and in Varan malcornix.

Flesh ravens (as they are sometimes called) come in two varieties: the greater and the lesser. Dwarves believe that they are sacred to Erith, and it may be so since there are records of valravne guarding the sanctums of Erithian temples. Lesser valravne are dangerous, but greater valravne are downright terrifying.

Sometimes these creatures are known as ravnwere by the Alurans.

Combat: Lesser valravne share a number of common powers with their greater kin. However, greater flesh ravens can transform into a knightly or wizardly form of any race which they have devoured. Lesser valravne cast use their spell-like abilities as though they were level 4, greater valravne as though they were level 9. All valravne may use the following powers once per day: animate dead and domination. They may use the following powers three times per day: darkness 60' radius, silence 15' radius, and gust of wind. They may use the following powers any number of times: dancing lights, audible glamor, and improved phantasmal force. They constantly have a low level passive ESP which allows them to pick up on fears and desires of targets.

Greater valravne may polymorph into the form of any of the races they have slain three times per day. When they do this, they instantly regain 2d12 hp (if they are injured). This ability is nothing like the actual wizard spell of the same name—the valravn transforms completely into the form of another, much as a therianthrope might. This transformation comes complete with arms and armor of the slain.

These greater valravne may masquerade as other races for centuries, though they mostly have a favorite form that they fall back to; this is almost without variance a hulking warrior wearing plate or mail armor and wielding a weapon of a devoured foe. The valravn fights as a specialized warrior with 2 attacks every round and the ability to draw upon his (or her) normal valravn powers.

There are legends that valravn of the greater variety who have devoured a wizard can read magic at will and myth suggests that some of these creatures have gone on to masquerade as sorcerers, picking up whatever magic they can and amassing mighty powers.

All valravne will use their powers to confuse and separate their prey, lure them to their deaths, and then feast upon them. Darkness, dancing lights, and phantasmal force are often shape to make the best use of their target's mental state. They will often prefer to terrify a foe first, in order to render them more helpless.

Sacculae et librae; germanicus et latinus et cetera

I've been re-reading everything that I own by Mary Carruthers recently. She gave one of the plenary sessions at Kalamazoo this year, and her paper was (as always) amazing. I'm back waist-deep in The Book of Memory and planning to work my way through The Craft of Thought soon. Reading these always provides me with a number of thoughts, some of them D&D related. While they are extremely difficult reads (you can contest me on this and I won't argue—maybe they're only difficult for me) but these books more than any other have helped me understand and attempt to enter into the medieval mindset. Her analysis of how the classical and medieval world viewed memory and the very faculties of the mind helps to erect that alien wall that separates us from the past. As they say, the past is a foreign country...

Insofar as Cults and Temples, I'm still moving forward apace with it, though a lot of my time has been devoted to improving my Latin, beginning to comprehend German, and studying for the GREs (and if anyone knows of any really good Latin resources, I could certainly use them). That means that, yes, my work on the Cults book has been a lot slower than normal. I still have very little art for the boxed set, which means it is increasingly looking like it won't be done before the end of the year, but such is life, particularly when your artists are unpaid and working solely in their free time. Cryo, Tallstaff, this is not an admonition... (but it totally is)

Another little blurb of information--here are four things to use in your games.

Sacculae -- "coin sacks," are classical/medieval bags or chests. It's not VERY clear what they looked liked structurally, but they apparently have spaces for different coins, perhaps small books, and certainly wax tablets. These are either shelves or compartments.

Armarius (armarii) -- These are architectural features—inset arched niches with heavy shelves that make up part of a wall and are used to store codex manuscripts. Wizards probably have a lot of these, and they are way more common than free-standing bookshelves (though free-standing scroll cases are to be found in many libraries).

Arca -- Chests. Arcae are also known as "strongboxes" or even "arks." They're usually flat-topped and often banded with iron. Yeah, you can just call 'em chests with flat tops, but why not call 'em arcae instead? Yeah, you love that latin, you filthy bitch.

Wax tablets -- the most common writing surface in a world where books are made out of expensive dead animals. Everyone who's anyone that needs to frequently erase should be writing on wax tablets. Everything from keeping house accounts to the party inventory! They're usually kept inside wooden trays, so you can make a little book of them.

Pantheon Monday: Ashad the Murderer

(the Bloody, the Screaming, the Slaughterer, the Lord of Bones)

Intermediate God, CE

Portfolio: Slaughter, pillage, rape, fire

Aliases: None

Domain Name: The Bloody Field, Acheron

Superior: None

Allies: None

Foes: Toynash, Unazh, Alakh, Bandash, Ezishaya

Symbol: A screaming horned orc-head

Worshiper Alignment: Any evil

Ashad the Lord of Bones is the one of the creator gods of the orcs. Alongside Alakh, Ezishaya, Unazh, and Bandash he is the single most-worshiped deity of the orcish people. Ashad does not dictate what happens within orcish society—that is left to Bandash. Rather, Ashad cares only for the slaughter of outsiders, for all those slain in his name are linked to their killers in the afterlife; granted as slaves, it is said, to those who slay them.

If the myths of the orcs can be trusted, Unazh, Bandash, Alakh, Ezishaya, and Ashad came together to kill the Felnumen called Yuva and from the hot blood of the slaughter the orcs were born. Goblin-histories strongly disagree with this story, claiming stridently that orcs are goblin-kin, and were simply made from goblins that the lesser gods stole from Toynash by Alakh’s cunning.

Temples to Ashad are crude and without any refinement. They only require three things: a cult-statue, somewhere to perform blood sacrifices, and a fire. He cares only for the blood-sacrifice and the fear generated by war. His priesthood are universally feared, venerated, and reviled among orcs as they are the dark whispering heart of the constant blood-feud orcs wage with all other living things.

It may puzzle the outside viewer to see a society so ordered as the basic tenets of the orcs while still worshiping an insane bloodthirsty psychopath. Ashad doesn’t particularly seem to care what form organization his followers adhere to; he’s too busy screaming for blood.

Ashad is always depicted as a massive orc with flesh of either red or gray. His tusks are scythe-like and his horns curl like that of a ram’s. He is always shown with an axe in one hand, the fabled Shrieking Death. Few chieftains worship Ashad, for upon achieving ascendency many of them turn to Bandash or Toynash to allow their tribes more stability. Those who remain or become Ashadi lead the most fearsome of tribes; they care little for personal safety or that of their followers and will throw themselves and their tribes into willful annihilation if it will bring glory to Ashad.

The Church

Clergy: Speciality Priests

Clergy’s Alignment: CE, NE, LE, CN

Turn Undead: No

Command Undead: Yes

The temple of Ashad is not united, as the worship of this violent god could never fit under a single roof. The Ashadian cult is the result of a cultic war between the great orcish religions during the time of the ancient goblin-empires. Amongst the slaves, Ashad became a well-known and potent god, for he promised vengeance against the slavemasters and slaves of one’s own in the afterlife. His clergy therefore exist all over the world in the orcish diaspora, each small tribal group with their own beliefs and rites of worship. One thing that remains constant, however, is the Ashadian desire for blood sacrifice.

All orcish tribes of any standing keep a large group of communal slaves that can be used for doing labor. These are called the temple slaves, as they are usually administered by the guiding priests of the tribe. In addition to serving as supplemental labor forces, these slaves provide sacrificial fuel for all important ceremonies performed by the cult.

The worshippers of Ashad often have a strange attachment to corporeal viscera; gore, bone, and other such relics. Indeed, Ashadi temples are often repositories of bone; they delight in collecting the remains of those slaughtered in his name. Indeed, in the dark bowers of his temples he sometimes sends down his mighty servants to protect his eikons and enforce his will: the negative-energy bone weirds, comprised from the accumulated bones those slain in his name, tied to their masters.

Bloodletter of Ashad

(Specialty Priest)

REQUIREMENTS: Wisdom 6, Strength 12

PRIME REQ: Wisdom

ALIGNMENT: CE

WEAPONS: All

MAJOR SPHERES: All, Chaos, Combat, Elemental (fire), Healing (reversed), Necromantic, Necromantic (reversed), Protection, War

MINOR SPHERES: Divination, Guardian, Healing, Weather

MAGICAL ITEMS: Any priest

REQ. PROFS: None

BONUS PROFS: Blind-fighting, Endurance

Bloodletters are dangerous opponents on the battlefield. Bloodletters fight as though specialized with whatever weapons they are proficient in.

At 3rd level, the Bloodletter becomes even more fearsome when wounded. When a Bloodletter is at half hp or less, they gain a +1 bonus to-hit and damage as well as a -1 initiative bonus.

At 5th level, Bloodletters take half damage from mundane fires. They suffer 1 point less damage per die (minimum of one) from magical fires.

Organic Design

Just a few notes today. I've started using Evernote so I can secretly write D&D notes from anywhere in the world as long as I have my ipad/laptop and have them still show up at home when I'm back from whatever excursion I've been taking.

Additionally, I find that there is a certain threshold of planning where you reach a sort of critical mass and things begin to take on a life of their own. For example: if your players are going to interact deeply with a group of people, simply detailing a bit about each person ensures a session or two of play. When something goes awry (perhaps someone is murdered by someone else) you still need to figure out the clues or pointers, but it's all so simple because you designed the situation organically. Things just sort of fall into place.

I don't have a lot of time this morning, so I'll expand on this idea later or perhaps on tuesday.

"Social Levels"

Vagr Blackstone, the frontman for the Temple of the Shadow Triad, is dead. He was murdered by the Hounds the other night in one of those plans that broke down the instant an enemy touched it. With him, now dead, was Braggi Biletooth, the Valelan (secretly a skinchanger) who organized and deployed most of the cities' muscle in its lower circles. This is both a good thing and a bad thing for Tyrma—on the one hand, the Temple of the Triad has been at least temporarily weakened now that its spokesman to the smuggling community is dead. The same goes for anyone who employed Braggi to give them thugs and elvish enforcers: he's gone, and it will be a while before anyone steps in to take his place.

Of course, it could mean bad things too. All those poor elves with no other means of income who have been maimed on long sea voyages or were called in up for the militia to fight goblins and now have no homes, those guys? They're the thugs Braggi usually hires now. They're all free agents now. Confusion will rule the Tyrman underworld for a while as things get sorted out. Keir has already made some plans to take advantage of this; after all, what better time to strike at the diseased underbelly of the elvish capital than while it is mired in internal strife? This is what Cain (and the US Army) would refer to as Violence of Action, though Keir describes it as "striking the iron while it is hot."

But I want to talk about something else that resulted from this combat. A comment made by Frank afterwards is the heart of this discussion. He said to me, "I feel like I've gained a level." Not a physical level wherein you get a discreet allotment of hp and THAC0 adjustment, but a social level wherein the party itself has become a much more powerful entity in local politics. This is one of the great things about D&D after level 3.

Other games codify this social standing. It can be easier to have a handy number. L5R does it with Honor, Feudal Anarchy has a social rank number, and I believe Hârn does it too. D&D does not, leaving the power of your social advantage to remain unquantified before your eyes. This is, of course, more like life; can you trust your new allies? Just how strong is your new position? But it nevertheless serves an immensely important role in the game.

Going up in "social levels" means that you are more integrated into your surroundings. It means you have a network of allies, enemies, contacts, and those potential-contacts that are now closed to you because of your choices. The social bonds begin to wrap around your characters and it is deathly hard to shake those off without just abandoning the whole location. You are known. On the most basic level, this means adventures can start coming to you rather than you going to them. People will seek you out to hire—and to kill.

This is the beginning of the big boy stage where you aren't quite a landowner or lawmaker, but you certainly aren't walking uphill both ways to the dungeon with no shoes or hose and a 500 lb. backpack. You're a wizard now, Harry, and people are going to start treating you like one. Buckle on your sword but remember that you may be used by forces you don't understand or know yet. Keep a weather eye out and start cultivating a mythos about yourself—when people think you're unkillable, it makes them less likely to try.

Get ready for the ride of your life, you poor sorry fool, for now you are enmeshed in the world of the nobleman and they have no mercy or scruples when it comes to what they want. This is the middle game.

The Battle of Crestley, part 3

This is a continuation of The Battle of Crestley part 1 and part 2.

Thelius stayed in Calthisport. That was where the heaviest stroke would fall—besides, Tarquin seemed almost frantic when he suggested that he might withdraw to Crestmont. The emissary was fretful and nervous and spent a good deal of his days talking with the other imperial wizards. Thelius, for his part, instead paced the defensive works and made certain the thousands of soldiers squirreled in the city were not visible from the sea. Each night he dined at the Fleethaven Inn, a huge taphouse that had been built to serve the imperial naval fortress outside the town. It's owner, Harloman Bamburh, had no intention of leaving even with the elvish reavers growing ever closer. He had agreed, for nominal reimbursement by the throne, to allow the knights, escurae, and triarchs to quarter there and use the massive common hall as a war room. The tiny little map chamber in the fortress was inadequate for the task, designed in a time when Miles had no care for Crestley or reason to suspect it might be the sight of a great battle.

Out in the port, the castle of Sparstone was being garrisoned with imperial troops and local sailors. Scorpions peeked from its crenels, hidden by canvas bags that would be ripped away when the elves presented themselves. On the night before the attack, as though anticipating it, a lone silver elf took anchorage at Crestmont. Thelius was eating dinner at Fleethaven when he heard: a magus of considerable power, dispatched from Oronia to help make up for the sins of his kin. That made him feel a little better—but only a little.

The following afternoon, the elves came. The sky was leaden grey and the nine wizards had long since taken their stations. The nuncio had holed himself up in the belly of the brick fortress on the cliffs, intent that he not be seen. Thelius' stomach felt sour though whether it was from Tarquin's cowardice or some evil premonition, he could not say.

He himself took up a position at the forefront of his men. The closest to the dock were stationed in the old Red Dog Tavern. It's wooden posts were swollen with age, the jettied upper floor spilling drunkenly out over the road. He and eight crossbowmen from some imperial barque sat crouched in the hall of its owner, a waddling squint-eyed little merchant named Corporus. He'd left behind his two gnomish servants, undoubtedly to keep the marines from breaking or stealing anything. So far Thelius had seen one unchary marine knock over a jug full of beer and another foul his blade in a tapestry, ripping its fringes to shreds. Corporus'll be lucky if that's all the damage that happens up here. When the reavers came, there would be spellwork afoot. Spells always meant pain and suffering for peasant and townsman alike. Only wizards could boast a benefit from them, and often not even they.

A few fat droplets of rain splattered the muddy street. There was a chill and smoke from the mainland could clearly be seen in the slate colored sky. Let the fleet not mistake that for the signal, Thelius prayed. Good Halor, give us some luck today. On the horizon there was a sudden bloom of light: reavers were taking the opportunity presented by the undefended channel to raid the southern shores. Thelius was suddenly afraid that they had done all this for naught: that the reavers wouldn't take the bait and would instead strike deep inland into Paix and slaughter the defenseless shore folk. There, isn't that Ternport burning? His heart sank and that churning sour feeling in his stomach forced him to pull his head back inside and sit in one of Corporus' chairs, gasping for breath.

"Sieur Thelius?" one of the marines asked. He waved at the man, trying to tell him that everything was alright, that he just needed a moment. The fear was strong, though, and the wave only brought more concern. "Are you feeling alright, sieur?" He heard the marine start to stamp across the floor when another hissed, "Shut yer filthy fucking mouth, the ships come!"

Thelius rose to his feet at once and struggled to the open window. He thrust his head from it, nearly banging his brow on one of the wooden shutters. DOOM. DOOM. DOOM. DOOM. Drums. There were war drums in the channel. DOOM. hisssss. DOOM. hisssss. The slithering sound of the elvish oars provided counterpoint. Forty—no fifty!—ships were drawing near to the island. They were white or gray and long. Sinuous and slender, sculpted from lightning-blasted wood and carved into all manner of snakes, worms, and dragons, they broke the water with their prows.

A chill went through the marines. Thelius felt it too. There was something evil, something sinister about those bone white ships. He had seen them before, seen them up close, but this was different. This was a whole fleet of them, maneuvering through the Channel Profunda as though it belonged to them. Never before had the marauders gathered in such numbers to strike at one spot. Never, at least, as far as he knew. What lurked in ancient histories was beyond him. I deal with the here and now, not the past.

DOOM. The drums grew closer as the ships rounded Sparstone Castle. DOOM. The water was thrumming with their passage. DOOM. They shook the shutters. DOOM. They shook his bones. DOOM. DOOM. DOOM. And then they stopped. The streets of Calthisport where ghostly silent save for the slither and slap of oars upon the waves. There was a smell in the air like magic, and Thelius watched the hairs on the back of his hand come and stand on end.

When the first ships beached, he had his men quietly winch their crossbows. The tak tak tak sound seemed to stand out as incredibly loud to Thelius' ear. Halor, don't let them hear this. He kept his eyes squeezed shut and tried to still his breath. He knew that in other houses, taverns, and halls across the town the other marines were winding their shots.

The quiet (waves lapping, breath held in the dark hall, the cry of a distant sea bird) was split by the clatter of one of the elvish ships driving straight up onto the sandy shore off to the left. They weren't used to bump-docking, Thelius realized with a start. They were avoiding the Stone Harbor altogether. That damn harbor is why I chose the Red Dog! He pulled his head inside. "They're docking at the fisherman's market!" he said in a low hiss. "We need to draw them here!"

The gold, he realized. The gold will bring them deeper into the knot. He had stashed it here, in the Dog, in the cellar below. It would have been better if he could have paraded the nuncio around with it, but Tarquin was safely squirreled away in the naval outpost. Don't let anyone start the fighting before it's time. They needed to draw the elves deep into the town, where they would be surrounded. Otherwise, there was nothing to stop them from taking to their ships in flight.

Each step that Thelius took down the staircase to the common room was like thunder to him. Carefully, carefully. When he reached the landing he paused, caught his breath, and quietly slunk even lower. Like most buildings in the empire, the Red Dog was elevated on a stone undercroft, and it was there he needed to go. A hatch in the broad beams of the wooden floor gave him access and down in the darkness he fumbled around and filled his arms with sacred gold.

There was a door out to the street down here, if only he could find it. It turned out to be easier than he thought, as the thin planks let beams of light in through their slats. When he couldn't find the latch he grumbled and simply put his shoulder to the door. His enameled armor crunched against the wood as the leather thong that held the door ripped in twain and let him stumbling out into the street.

Two or three gold bars dropped into the mud, splattering his boots. There, at the left end of the winding street, was a contingent of three elves. They were hunting, he saw, looking for the gold most like. They wore heavy shirts of silvered chain and chausses of the same stuff. Over their shoulders were thrown cloaks of seal and otter. Their faces were chalk white, painted with ash, their eyes turned into deep and evil pits filled with droplets of glowing amber, venom, or tar. Silver studs had been driven through their ears, noses, tongues, lips. Reavers.

Thelius dropped the gold. I must hold them here until the rest come for the treasury. He struggled to draw his sword. His pollaxe was above, in the hall. The elves saw him, smiled to one another, spoke in their musical tongue of hisses that sounded like a hearthfire trying to sing. They broke into a trot, each baring two weapons: a long slender sword and a knife. Thelius finally drew his own blade seconds before they tumbled into him. Before they could make contact the mud boiled to life with thumping quarrels. One of the elves jerked and dancing like a mouse being dangled over a fire. A quarrel ripped out his throat, punched into stomach, and another pierced his leg. The other two came on.

CLANG! The first sounds of combat would surely draw the rest. Thelius pushed a blade away with his own, shifting his feet to get more traction on the slippery wet earth. As the second elf ran up, he planted his boot on the reaver's shin and pushed. He watched as the elf twisted and fell hard to one knee, but he didn't have time to deliver a killing blow—his helmet rang with a stroke from his other foe and he winced at what would have otherwise been a slice to cut open his skull. He felt the elvish knife punch his armor, but it did little more than bruise him.

Whirling, he closed his mailed fist on his hilt tightly. He prepared himself for the pain by wincing, and then his hand connected with the reaver's jaw. It didn't hurt half as much as he thought it might, but there were still blossoms of angry throbbing in his hand and wrist. The elf got the worst of it, for he stumbled and went down.

Thelius turned to face his second foe again, but a pair of marines had emerged from a nearby house and where taking turns stabbing him beneath his mail. Thelius did the same with the elf moaning in the mud before him, and then the street was silent again.

A dull sort of roar was echoing from the buildings on every side. The fighting is joined, he knew. The elves must have begun to spread out across the city. Over the roofs of straw, of turf, and of slate he saw the battlements at Sparstone where now alive with men. Canvas covers had been drawn aside to reveal small mangonels, scorpions, and ballistae. They thrummed and thunked and flung, battering the elvish ships on the sandy shore with more or less accuracy even as marines loaded into slips to come sailing over. They'll sink them and strand the elvish force here, Thelius thought triumphantly. We're going to win.

Then the potent thunder of a voice speaking magical tones, words that had not been heard by human years in a millennia, crackled across the rooftops. Dragon magic. Thelius shivered. As their echo died out, the ground was rocked with a distant blast. Tongues of flame leapt into the sky. The bloody work has just begun.

A Preview of Some New Stuff

I may have gotten a nice new microphone to help convince the boys to play via VOIP. I may be demanding they record the sessions for editing into a podcast. I'm certainly contemplating making a Ken Burns style documentary set in the 10th Age. (WARNING: preceeding link is a 9 minute sample without many SFX or ANY music and no visuals).

D&D coloring with Jocelyn and Brittany

Random Character Generation: the Human Charts

This is a sample of what I'm working on and encompasses the human section of the random character generation charts:

Birth Rank

(humans)

01-06; unrecognized bastard

7-10; recognized bastard

11-26; Sixth

27-40; Fifth

41-54; Fourth

55-67; Third

67-73; Third, but heir if noble

74-86; Second

86-91; Second, but heir if noble

92-00; First (heir if noble)

Parent’s Social Class

(humans)

01-05; cerlicalis

6-26; nobilis

27-00; servilis

Parent’s Occupation - if servilis, one reroll is allowed for all classes save clerics and wizards; this represents apprenticing to another adult when young. Add 3d10 to the urban/rural check and 1d10-1 to the occupation check, but start with double your age dice.

(human, clericalus — all classes)

1-95; pastoral or urban priest, low ranking (religion or writing for free; +2d8 starting gold)

96-99; high ranking priest, abbot, or hierarch (religion (deity) + writing for free, +2d20 starting gold)

00; Hierophant (religion (deity) + writing + history (any) for free, +1d10x10 starting gold)

(human nobilis — fighters)

1-70; Unlanded Nobles

1-85; Belted Knight/Household Knight (riding NWP for free, +25% starting gold)

86-95; Seneschal/Steward/Bailiff (reading/writing AND heraldry, +50% starting gold)

96-00; Court Mage (reading/writing AND ancient history, +75% starting gold)

71-00; Landed Nobles

01-80; Landed Knight (riding AND lance for free, +75% starting gold)

81-95; Baron (one sword WP AND riding AND lance, +150% starting gold)

96-98; Count (one sword WP AND riding AND lance, +200% starting gold)

99-00; Duke (one sword WP AND riding AND lance, +300% starting gold)

(human nobilis — clerics)

1-70; Unlanded Nobles

1-75; Belted Knight/Household Knight (riding NWP for free, +25% starting gold)

76-95; Seneschal/Steward/Bailiff (reading/writing AND heraldry, +50% starting gold)

96-00; Court Mage (reading/writing AND ancient history, +75% starting gold)

71-00; Landed Nobles

01-80; Landed Knight (riding, +75% starting gold)

81-95; Baron (riding, +150% starting gold)

96-98; Count (riding, +200% starting gold)

99-00; Duke (riding, +300% starting gold)

(human nobilis — wizards)

1-70; Unlanded Nobles

1-85; Belted Knight/Household Knight (+25% starting gold)

86-95; Seneschal/Steward/Bailiff (heraldry, +50% starting gold)

96-00; Court Mage (reading/writing AND ancient history AND spellcraft, +75% starting gold)

71-00; Landed Nobles

01-80; Landed Knight (reading/writing AND ancient history, +75% starting gold)

81-95; Baron (reading/writing AND ancient history, +150% starting gold)

96-98; Count (reading/writing AND ancient history, +200% starting gold)

99-00; Duke (reading/writing AND ancient history, +300% starting gold)

(human nobilis — thieves)

1-70; Unlanded Nobles

1-85; Belted Knight/Household Knight (riding NWP for free, +25% starting gold)

86-95; Seneschal/Steward/Bailiff (reading/writing AND heraldry, +50% starting gold)

96-00; Court Mage (reading/writing AND ancient history, +75% starting gold)

71-00; Landed Nobles

01-80; Landed Knight (etiquette OR +5% PP, +75% starting gold)

81-95; Baron (etiquette OR +5% PP, +150% starting gold)

96-98; Count (etiquette OR +5% PP AND heraldry, +200% starting gold)

99-00; Duke (etiquette AND +5% PP AND heraldry, +300% starting gold)

(human servilis — fighters)

1-80 Rural

01-25; hunters/trappers/fisherfolk (swimming OR hunting OR survival (woods) OR snares OR fishing OR local history, -50% starting gold)

26-68; half-virgaters (local history OR farming, -25% starting gold)

69-82; virgaters (local history AND farming)

83-92; blacksmith/cooper/master smelter (endurance OR blacksmith OR carpentry OR smelting, +10% starting gold)

93-97; herbalist/untrained healer (healing OR herbalism)

98-00; village wizard (local history OR reading/writing)

81-00 Urban

01-05; thief/beggar (appraisal OR rope use OR local history, -75% starting gold)

06-10; mummer/acrobat (tumbling OR dancing, -50% starting gold)

11-25; servant/cook (cooking OR heraldry, -50% starting gold)

26-50; laborer/teamster (endurance OR gaming, -25% starting gold)

51-65; sailor (swimming OR rope use OR seamanship OR navigation)

66-70; scribe (reading/writing OR +10% starting gold)

71-88; innkeeper (brewing OR dancing OR appraising OR etiquette AND +5% PP AND +5% MS, +25% starting gold)

89-95; soldier/archer (one free WP)

96-99; serjeant (one free WP, +50% starting gold)

00; urban wizard (+150% starting gold)

(human servilis — clerics)

1-80 Rural

01-10; hunters/trappers/fisherfolk (swimming OR hunting OR survival (woods) OR snares OR fishing OR local history, -50% starting gold)

11-40; half-virgaters (local history OR religion (region), -25% starting gold)

41-85; virgaters (local history AND religion (region))

86-92; blacksmith/cooper/master smelter (endurance OR local history, +10% starting gold)

93-97; herbalist/untrained healer (healing AND herbalism)

98-00; village wizard (local history AND reading/writing)

81-00 Urban

01-03; thief/beggar (appraisal OR rope use OR local history, -75% starting gold)

04-08; mummer/acrobat (tumbling OR dancing, -50% starting gold)

09-12; servant/cook (cooking OR heraldry, -50% starting gold)

13-16; laborer/teamster (endurance OR gaming, -25% starting gold)

17-18; sailor (swimming OR rope use OR seamanship OR navigation)

19-70; scribe (reading/writing OR +10% starting gold)

71-80; innkeeper (brewing OR dancing OR appraising OR etiquette AND +5% PP AND +5% MS, +25% starting gold)

82-95; soldier/archer (one free WP)

96-99; serjeant (one free WP, +50% starting gold)

00; urban wizard (+150% starting gold)

(human servilis — wizards)

Roll on the warrior chart, but you were apprenticed between the ages of 3-5, so you do not get any of the benefits of your parentage.

(human servilis — thieves)

1-60 Rural

01-45; hunters/trappers/fisherfolk (tracking OR +10% MS in non-urban environments OR shortbow NWP OR fishing, -50% starting gold)

46-55; half-virgaters (local history OR farming, -25% starting gold)

56-85; virgaters (local history AND farming)

86-95; blacksmith/cooper/master smelter (endurance OR blacksmith OR carpentry OR smelting, +10% starting gold)

96-97; herbalist/untrained healer (healing OR herbalism)

98-00; village wizard (local history OR reading/writing)

61-00 Urban

01-15; thief/beggar (appraisal OR rope use OR local history AND +10% to one thief skill AND knife WP, -75% starting gold)

16-28; mummer/acrobat (tumbling OR dancing AND +10% pick pockets AND knife WP, -50% starting gold)

29-50; servant/cook (cooking OR heraldry OR gaming OR knife WP, -50% starting gold)

51-80; laborer/teamster (endurance OR gaming, -25% starting gold)

81-88; sailor (swimming OR rope use OR seamanship OR gaming AND knife WP)

89-92; scribe (reading/writing OR +10% starting gold)

93-95; innkeeper (brewing OR dancing OR appraising OR etiquette AND +5% PP AND +5% MS, +25% starting gold)

96-98; soldier/archer (one free WP)

99; serjeant (one free WP, +50% starting gold)

00; urban wizard (+150% starting gold)

(human wizards, Masters)

1-25 Kindly

01-25; Your master didn’t push you hard enough. Give up one of your language slots

26-30; Your master was too lax in your training; start with one spell less than what you rolled

31-40; Your master taught you an extra spell before sending you off

41-55; Your master gave you an additional 1d4x10 starting gold

56-60; Your master provided you with a prepared scroll of find familiar

60-80; Your master was killed by a rival mage—he may or may not be looking for you

81-00; Your master let you plunder his stores before you left—begin play with double the normal material components

26-75 Neutral

01-25; Your master neglected your studies and robbed you of a general NWP slot by his laxity

26-50; Your master trained you particularly hard; gain the endurance NWP but subtract 1 from your permanent HP

51-65; Your master gave you more free time to exercise, add one to your permanent HP

66-80; Your master pushed you and you may learn one additional language—it may be arcane, ancient, or modern

81-90; Your master taught you some rudimentary defenses against other mages—any counterspell you cast is cast as though it was one level higher

91-00; Your master died before he could teach you all he knew—start with -1 spell

76-00 Cruel

01-50; Your master beat you regularly, reduce your permanent hp by 1

51-65; Your was never satisfied with your work and abused you physically because of it—gain +1 int (to racial max, +1 wis if you cannot gain any more int) but reduce your permanent hp by 2

66-75; Your master experimented on you with his magics—roll two d6 and swap those two attribute scores (as long as you can still be a wizard at the end)

76-00; Your master gave you no money at all when you were kicked out—start with some clothes worth no more than 20gp and only a handful of coppers

Check Your Humoral Balance

(Humans and half-men only)

01-75; balanced

76-100; predominant humor

Note: if your character has a predominant humor, they are much more susceptible to other imbalancing effects: poisons, sicknesses, etc. They have a permanent -1 penalty to saving throws vs. poison and any save related to disease (magical or mundane).

01-25; sanguine courageous, hopeful, amorous

+1 reaction bonus, +1 loyalty base, +1 to saves vs. fear

26-50; choleric easily angered, bad tempered

-1 loyalty base, +1 damage with melee weapons

51-75; melancholic despondent, sleepless, irritable

needs only 6 hours of sleep to be fully rested, -1 reaction bonus

76-00; phlegmatic calm, unemotional

+1 to saves vs. emotional manipulation and charm spells