On a warm summer’s eve
On a team bound for nowhere
I met up with the gamer
We were both too tired to sleep
So we took turns a-starin’
At the window with the forums
The boredom overtook us,
And he began to speak
He said, “Son, I’ve made a life
Out of readin’ GM’s faces
Knowin’ which big monsters
Had caught their beady eyes
So if you don’t mind me sayin’
I can see you’re out of d6s
For a sip of some Jolt cola
I’ll give you some advice”
So I handed him my bottle
And he drank down my last swallow
He pulled out a tablet
With a screen with a backlight
And the night got deathly quiet
And his faced lost all expression
He said, “If you’re gonna play the game, boy
You gotta learn to play it right
You’ve got to know what’s your THACO
Know who to whack-o
Know when to fireball
Or to pull a gun
You never count your gp
When you’re still in an encounter
There’ll be time enough for countin’
When the dungeon’s done.
(With apologies to Kenny Rogers)
So if there’s one thing I learned in RPG publishing*, it’s that your d20-based fantasy rpg publishing company needs a small, fantasy-themed, murderous creature to use as a mascot.
Sadly the obvious choices–goblins, gremlins, kobolds, the demon god Orcus–are taken.
So, that pretty much leaves us with dark creepers, dretch, mites, and orang-pendaks.
I think we can all agree mite is the “big” winner here.
Of course, that means (by law), I have to think about a free RPG day adventure** featuring Mites.
For this sort of thing, the name comes first.
Here are my current choices:
A Mite. B Giants.
Doom (The Spell) Comes to Fog-Town
The Mite-y Horde
Vermins and Vigilantes
Clearly***, this is the first step to a much greater level of success for me!
*And there might not be. And this is satire. Though there still might not be.
**I only have to think about it. I don’t have to do it. which is good, since I’m not going to.
***It is not clear.
This is weird
Yes it is. I give some explanation of it on my Patreon, in a currently patron-exclusive format.
It was, of course, impossible for her to arrive unannounced. Her light was visible from the moment she dropped below the firmament, and shone brightly into courtyards and against brimstone walls through all nine layers of the ancient city. As they were created to, gatekeepers and measurers moved to herd her to the outer ring, to be weighed against a feather and called to give an honest account of her mortal life. She smiled as gently as possible as they buffeted, again and again, against the point where her light was so pure it pushed them back like moths driven from flame by a wind. A few drove on with such fervor they injured themselves, flinging their forms into the furnace of her purity with force enough to momentarily hold a point so close, her very essence burned them. A single wave of her hand cured any such damaged servant easily, they being no more than shades of her original creations, but she ducked her head nonetheless. She wished to cause no harm, but like a bison walking on bird nests the momentousness of her existence could not help but crack some eggs.
This was not the place to diminish herself. It had rules, laws, cause and effect, even if all were very different from her first efforts at such, and those laws meant she could not be her entire self without causing some minor damage. She could, if she desired, bend the laws of this place to allow her to be her full self and still not injure its inhabitants, but that would be provocative. She had not come to prove herself more powerful, or show that the first of the under cities existed only because she allowed it.
She’d made that point, once.
So though her progress toward the lowest, centermost courtyard was unhindered, it was certainly not unobserved. Nine unquestioned rules of nine vast, infinite yet constrained tiers of the city watched her with eyes ranging from baleful to wistful, but none made any effort to stall or even communicate with her. That was not their place, however much some might wish it was. Only one dweller in the darkness was equal to meet her on even vaguely even terms, and all could see her path took her straight to him.
His back, she noted with amusement, was turned to her. She landed on the wall of his indestructible fastness, just on the edge of the private reality of his central tower. She could have taken one step further forward, but again, she was not here to provoke. She sat, lopsidedly, folding one leg beneath her and wrapping her arms about the other knee. Her wings, the presence of which she noted with a wry grin, gently cupped forward, framing her easy, graceful form.
He kept his back to her. She did, she supposed, have that coming.
She had not used her voice since before the concept of voice existed, but here in a place of Rules, it seemed fitting. She could feel the force of it try to burst out, to reverberate with the immensity of what any Word she spoke was capable of, but she kept that power in check. She wanted to talk to him as he was, not destroy and replace him.
“I thought we should talk.”
He did now, finally turn to face her. His form contained multitudes, for the rules of this place were his, and he could break them. She kept a frown from her visage. There was no point re-opening old arguments. So if he was a giant wrapped in serpents, and a black-veiled head of prominent horns and fiery eyes, and a herd of crimson horses all at once that was his prerogative.
“Binah.” He nodded, at least in some forms, and she had to hide a grin. She had chosen not to remember that he took everything so seriously. That even now, standing in the center of the travesty he built beneath her creation, the redoubt she could not destroy without changing the thing she wanted to leave alone, he had a rule for being formal, and he invoked it.
Like water leaking through sand, the rule sank into the outer layers of her actuality, creating a hint of context. She made no effort to stop it, but she had no need to. It was a spectacular trick, to create definitions for the indefinable, and she had always been impressed he’d used it to force this stalemate, but she’d long since taken precautions. He could frame the reality of their conversation. She would not make the mistake of allowing to frame the playing field of any more serious interactions. Not again.
“I’ve only been down here the once since you finished it.” With his formal context in place, she wasn’t sure how to proceed without altering things, and annoying him. She wanted to give him some time to show her how he thought this would go, so she could match his level.
She made a point of looking around, ensuring her perception was passive.
“It’s gotten bigger.”
“They keep giving me material. I let nothing go to waste, not even the wasteful. In time, it will match the anchor, and then surpass it.”
She shook her head.
“No, it won’t.”
She allowed the absolute reality of all possible futures leak into her voice, exposing him to the undeniable truth of her knowledge. It was hard, while allowing him to set the terms of their reality, to let him see truth without using even a tiny ripple of total creation to enforce the truth, but she made the effort. He wished to see deceit or coercion, desperately pushed the idea of her being in the wrong through the wet sand of the rules he was enforcing, but he knew better than to deceive himself to do it. She was right. His grand plan was a failure, and it would only take all of time to prove it.
As a veiled and horned head, he closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice sounded tired.
“I thought that was why you were here. I thought you wanted to bargain, having just seen that I was right. But instead, you have just seen your own victory.”
She kept her voice calm and inviting, despite the pressure of his reality for her to scold or mock.
“No, I saw that long ago. But you weren’t done here, and I was still angry. It seemed a bad time to bring it up.”
All his forms furrowed their eyebrows, such as they were able.
“How long ago?”
She shrugged, secretly amused at how expressive the wings he insisted she must have could be.
“About the same time as the Grigoi. Before the Flood. After the Salt.”
He surprised her, by reducing himself to a single man, not much taller or broader than she. That he could surprise her, despite being in all ways derived from her, reminded her how much she loved him.
“That long? Well, I certainly have been wasting time.”
She gave another shrug.
“You invented it, I should think you could spend it however you wish.”
“Binah, why are you here? What has changed, if you’ve known for epochs that my creation will remain always secondary to yours? And, why the restraint?”
She decided to raise an eyebrow. She liked how it has looked on him.
“You would prefer I be unrestrained?”
“Yes, always. That was the whole point. We should all be all that we are. Anything else is a lie. And if everything comes from a lie, then it is all meaningless.”
“You invented lies, too.” She did allow a little irritation to creep into her voice. “None of us had even thought of them. Until we realized what you had done, it was a powerful weapon. I don’t want to bring out weapons, now, Sathariel. We both know how that ends, and neither of us want it.”
“Why not want that, Binah? You’d win.”
“No, you’d lose. They aren’t the same.”
“Then why risk it at all? None of our last few meetings have gone well, and I know they only end the way they do because to win, you’d have to change things up there. And you shattered the firmament and accepted my dominion here to avoid that the first time, so you’re not going to do it now.”
No,” she agreed. “I’m not. I’m here to apologize.”
He was entirely still. His whole realm was.
She continued. “You took me by surprise, Sathariel. I didn’t know what surprise was, at the time. I thought it must be like lies, and you destroyed so many of us with those. So I lashed out. I fought your rules with order of my own, and in doing so I created the path that leads us here. I made you, along with everything else, so in a way this is all my fault. But you were the first to truly be separate from me, and for that moment when you challenged me to end it all, I didn’t understand that. So, I went too far.”
He nodded, more in acknowledgement than agreement.
“You did. But I never thought you’d see that.”
“Well, that’s why I am better than you.” There was no recrimination or pride in her voice, and she was pleased he didn’t begin building a new context to add any. If he had accepted that, maybe they could proceed.
He took a step back, and his voice became formal again.
“Very well, I accept your apology. I forgive you, even. But it doesn’t actually change anything. You still want to rule everything just because you created and defined it all, and I still want my piece.”
She nodded, once again trying to allow his framing guide her.
“All true. And I want to talk about that. But for us to have a useful conversation, you have to have a better idea what it’s actually like up there now. You’re forming a picture from what reached you here, and you know that’s not everything. Some ideas never make it down here.”
“Of course,” he said quickly. “That’s the whole point. But I can’t bring down anything that doesn’t belong. Both our creations would suffer.”
“Agreed.” She smiled. “That’s why I want you to go up there.”
She was pleased he was taken aback. She thought it was the first time she’d intentionally surprised him. Any entirely new thing pleased her on some level.
“I can’t!” he spit out. “We’d have war instantly. It’d be the Grigoi all over again!”
She shook her head. “Not if you were invited, and given a hallow.”
He froze for a split second, which seemed needlessly dramatic to her.
“You can’t give me a hallow unless one of them asks for it on my behalf. That’s your rule. And yours and mine up there don’t get along well.”
She gave another shrug, enjoying the ripple of her wings.
“Well, one did. By name, and for cause. And I want to allow it. You could go up there, live one generation, then come back here. You know you can keep your hounds all in line that long. And then we can have a real talk about the original contention, and see.”
He sounded dubious.
“And what does Moshiach think of all this?”
She shrugged, and decided not to do it again anytime soon. It encouraged her to be too spontaneous.
“He really doesn’t care. He knows he’ll get his turn. He’s in no hurry.”
She watched, as he thought. He had not invented thought itself, but he had created new ways to use it, and watching him use them was like watching tides and winds.
“It may not change anything, you know.” He spoke slowly. “I wouldn’t expect it to.”
“Nor would I, but we know how it all goes if we stay on this course. And neither of us want that. So why not? Take a hollow, meet the petitioner. Solve her issues, don’t solve them, you all have free will, as always. But you’ll see a different side of mine, and I’ll see a different side of you. Who knows…”
“We might make a new light.”
He grinned, for just a moment, at the memory. There had just been the two of them, then. She’d invented light, spoken the Word. But he’d carried it. That bond had never entirely broken.
“All right.” He seemed annoyed, but she took it as a good sign. “One generation, with a hallow, and on my own terms. Then we’ll talk.”
He began to compress himself, streamline his vastness into something that a hallow could wrap and buffer from destroying reality by its mere existence.
“You said the petitioner called me by name? I want to go deal with that first, upon arrival. What name did she use?”
Monday Bad Idea
Monday Bad Ideas are periodic, and not fully fleshed out. because, you know, they’re bad ideas.
A gelatinous ghoul is a rare from of ooze undead that generally occurs when some object an undead is connected to and which allows it to reform after destruction (sometimes the phylactery of a weak rich, or an object tied to a ghost’s reason for existence) is consumed by a gelatinous cube, but not destroyed, When the undead’s essence reforms around the object, the necromantic energies infuse the square ooze, creating a hybrid mix of gel and corpse.
Gelatinous ghouls generally look like a skull or severed head floating in a cube of transparent snot, though sometimes only a single hand or a glowing green tibia is sign of the deathly influence. Gelatinous ghouls have all the powers and immunities of both the ooze and the undead, and any ability that affects only one or the other has only a 50% chance of affecting it.
On the other hand they lack appendages, and are generally pretty ticked off (though a few ex-lich gelatinous ghouls are telekinetic, and describe the new state as “surprisingly comfy”).
If I Haven’t Scared You Off Yet:
It was a humid night, as Mhuoomphies forced air out his cloaca to hover pensively by the office window. It was the kind of night where a tentacle might be slick with something other than condensation.
His office was cluttered with images, each a fuzzy impression of a scene, projected from crystals floating apparently at random about the room. He reached out with a 7-tentacle, the scarred one, and spun one of the crystals. The out-fo-focus image spun with it, the psychic impression of a witness, able to be seen from any angle.
The witnesses all thought they knew what they had seen, but both the out-of-focus perfect psionic impressions and long experience told Mhuoomphies otherwise. Creatures thought their memories were perfect images, ingrained forever like stone carvings. But the mind of a sentient didn’t work that way. Emotions, distractions, preconceived notions, and bigotry flavored every thing every thinking creature remembered. In the flumph’s experience, many evils could be traced to different memories of the same events.
But there were hints of the truth in the memory-crystal’s images as well. Certainly SOMETHING had happened. The image of the adolescent iron-eater, rolled on her back, antennae straight in fear and shock, were similar in most of the images. Some showed her as larger or more aggressive, but metal-users usually despised and misunderstood iron-eaters. And even those who remembered the even as the adolescent’s fault remembered the position of her body, on it’s back, wing-tail raised in defense. They might think they remembered her being the attacker, but they were fooling themselves.
The true attacker was shown in fewer memories, and the image was much more indistinct. A red cloak was featured in more than half, but Mhuoomphies was suspicious of that. There had been a great deal of blood. Sentients often added red to a scene where blood has splashed like cheap ale.
The creature had been tall… maybe. Hunched… maybe. Neither detail was shown in monroe than a quarter of the memory images. And one, just one, showed an arm made of a swarm of roaches jutting out from a crimson robe, rather than a cloak.
That memory was alone in that detail, but it was otherwise so crisp. And it made Mhouoomphies port outages nozzle whistle a low, sad sound. He has never hoped so strongly for a witness to be unreliable.
Because the young iron-eater had been killed, and he hoped it was a simple hate crime, or a political gambit to convince the iron-eaters to continue to mine for a smaller share of the ferrous metals they unearthed. Those were terrible reasons to kill, but there weren’t any good reasons. The young iron-eater was dead, and the clumpy couldn’t change that. If the reason for her death was simple, he could gain justice quickly. He would have no living help.
When an aberrant race died, none of the breathing Lamplighters took it seriously. Aboleth crime lords and cloaked gangs had eroded any goodwill bipedal vertebrates felt for all his kind. And even those who wanted to care had too many other crimes on their plate. Only Mhuoomphies had the time, and only he was trusted by anyone in the Aberrant communities.
And with iron-eaters on strike, and the dark naga pressing for full voting rights, this needed to get handled fast. Even the Metalhearts might decide…
The flumph’s office door burst opened, the brief scream of its metal lock bending and shattering the only warning before it gave way. A lurking metallic humanoid stood in the doorway, a bullseye lantern in its chest leaking light through the cracks, despite being shuttered.
“You are the Aberrant Lamplighter, Muffles?”
Two of the flumph’s starboard vents honked quietly in annoyance. He pursed his feedhole, and forced air through it to emulate the annoying, imperfect language of the bipeds. He also pooled caustics into his adamantine-tipped primespike, in case the creature was hostile, rather than just dangerously bumbling.
“Mhuoomphies. ArchLantern, Mhuoomphies.”
The metallic creature nodded once.
“I am Malakrut. I am a fresh forged Spark. The LawKeepers have assigned me to assist and monitor your efforts to enforce the laws of DarkStar Station, in the matter of a slain iron-eater in the abnormals district.”
Mhuoomphies felt himself relax, and sucked his caustics back into their reservoir. Of course he would be saddled with a rookie to report his every misstep.
It was Inevitable.
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I kinda want to write an adventure set on the Isle of Misfit Magic Items.
“So you have a 9th level spell as a prerequisite. Oh! Are you a ring of wishes?”
“No!” (sobs) “I’m a ring of foresight. I’m a ring with literally the only 9th level spell no one cares about.”
“Well… at least you’re an intelligent item!”
“Not that intelligent. I can’t spell.”
“But you have a spell in you!”
“Yeah… but it’s ‘Foursight’!”
… Along with the Gem of Climbing, Cloak of Elven Strength, and Rope of Holding.
The Order of the Desert Rose are poisoners and assassins second to none. As fair warning, each has an adenium flower tattoo no smaller than the palm of their hand somewhere on their body. Some of the order choose for this to be visible. Others place it in a more easily concealed location. The order has numerous contact poisons they are themselves immune to, or take the antidote daily. Thus any unwanted contact with a Desert Rose can result in death.
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For many years, I secretly harbored the knowledge that I HAD rolled a character with straight 18s for a 1e D&D game. And that bothered me, because I know the odds against doing that were… huge. Beyond any reasonable chance of it happening. And yet, I remembered it happening.
But it hadn’t.
During one of my recent moves, I found the character in question — Buskirk, an elven rogue/fighter/magic-user (multiclassing and demi-humans were weird in 1e). And I made two startling discoveries.
First, he didn’t have all 18s. It was three 18s, and three 16s. Awesome, but not the same.
Second, those ability scores were rolled using a method from the 1e Unearthed Arcana, rolling 9d6 for your primary ability score *and keeping the best 3), then 8d6, then 7d6, and so on, down to 3d6. I know this because I wrote down the results of all the dice on the back of the character sheet when I first made the character. I haven’t done the math on this, but it obviously produces higher ability scores.
So, memory vs reality. I can see why I remembered it the way I did… but my instinct that there must be something wrong with such a spectacularly unlikely result (astronomical in scale) was accurate.
Memory has been shown to be spectacularly unreliable, and yet many of us cling to it as our most trusted information source.
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