Monday, April 29, 2024


The next step in my recent youtube video publishing has been to include a 30-minute segment from my last D&D running, where the players encounter a small village in the delta of the Danube river.  The video isn't doing that well on youtube, not that I expected it would.  I suppose it reveals what a fraud I am as a DM, as no doubt I don't blow the doors off game play.  I'm not Mike Mercer.

But I want to talk about editing and creating the video, because I think it's a learning curve to which I haven't sternly applied myself.  I found listening to my delivery, and editing my delivery, a painful and bitter process, as to my mind I fall far short of where I wish I could be.  There's no question the players are invested.  They engage, they ask questions, they're interested in the material and such ... but speaking about myself, it's appalling how much I derail my own running as it happens.

None of that is in the video; I've cut it all out.  But the memory is fresh in my mind and as I'm being honest with myself, I am a mess of bad habits and clumsy, inconsistent exposition.  When I'm dredging up information on the spur of the moment, I stutter in a most frustrating manner.  Even writing about it here is upsetting.

This, I think, is the point.  Editing myself is so unpleasant, my strongest instinct is to never record the campaign again, never force myself to focus on every syllable and every word as I've just done this week, and certainly never put the results of that out in public. Ignorance is a far more desirable prospect here, one that allows me to maintain my delusions and preserves me from having to put myself though an emotional torment like this again.

Which has been my strategy since the invention of youtube, and all the content I've strained to produce in the past.  As such, I haven't even stayed the same over time.  I've gotten worse.  My players are so forgiving, they don't even see how much I'm phoning the campaign in.  I've been able to pretend to myself for I don't know how long ... and if there's anything that's become plain to me in the last seven or eight days, since starting this edit, it's that.  Ouch.

If I'm going to get better; if I ever was better; the only way I'm going to get there is by continuing to rake myself over these coals.  And it makes sense.  Listening to oneself can only help to make one more conscious about what's being done wrong ... and thus encourage the conscious mind to seek a remedy for that.  By hearing myself make the same mistakes, by hearing the tone of my voice grate upon my nerves just so, I at least have a chance of knowing what not to do, what not to say, how not to derail the game to input some observation or give some lecture that doesn't need to be done just then.

So, it doesn't matter if the videos do well, so much as it matters that I make them and force myself, unpleasantly, to post them.  And, occasionally, though I won't much enjoy this either, to listen to them.

I suppose there are people in this world who like the sound of their own voice, and are able to think to themselves, "I did a great job."

I'm not a person like that.

Saturday, April 27, 2024

Saturday Q&A (apr 27)

Bob in Ohio writes,

Of the scores of Sage Field/Study articles you've written which are you happiest with and why?

Answer: Ranking things that are utterly subjective ... let's see. I suppose the parts of the sage ability system that I like best are the problems it solves in the original game regarding rules that were never properly explained or defined: hiding in shadows, tracking, finding food, being able to make things, being able to identify things, having permission to do things ...

I like the stealth ability, though it's still unfamiliar because it doesn't get used that often ... but every time we have used it, the players find it straightforward and utterly rational.

The jack of all trades, because it allows thieves to be more than thieves.

The hereditary weapons ability, because they counter the elf "specialness" of bow and sword.

The instruction study over all, because potentially anyone can learn anything.

The horseback riding study, along with camels and dogs and such, because in addition to clearly defining this as a definitely possessed skill, that doesn't need a die check, it also defines who CAN'T do it.

The swimming ability, because it makes a distinction among all those who can swim not necessarily being able to do it with the same alacrity.

The genius of the sage system is in that it provides those details rationally for the players so they don't have to feel that they're being given a "hint" when in fact their character sheet states plainly that they know something. For example, if I decide to have some weird mushroom be central to a story, if one of the characters has studied mushrooms, it provides a fully acceptable excuse to flat out give exposition, without the players having to ask someone or thinking they're being given a gift. This is absolutely wonderful from a DM's perspective. It makes the players feel proud of their characters in a way totally separate from their combat prowess or their personal role-playing ability. "My character knew that because she studied mushrooms," lends itself to the player feeling actual affection for the character, as its a way of producing individuality and potential too, without having to contrive a totally made-up, unearned background.


If readers would like to reply to the above, or wish to ask a question or submit observations like those above, please submit  to my email,  If you could, please give the region where you're located (state, province, department, county, whatever) as it humanises your comment.

Feel free to address material on the authentic wiki, my books or any subject related to dungeons & dragons.  I encourage you to initiate subject material of your own, and to address your comment to others writing in this space.    

Monday, April 22, 2024

Adventuring is the Purpose

Just want to drop a note for those who may not have seen the link on my patreon.  Posted a video on my youtube channel in which my players and I discuss whether or not "adventure" is the purpose of D&D.  This was recorded Friday the 19th, and I hope it's the beginning of a regular number of videos I make along these lines.  The players seem amenable to the idea.

My choice to overlay the conversation upon my making a map of western Galicia, I think, is somewhat distracting from the debate, at least for me.  But then, it provides an extra facet to the video itself, hopefully sparking interests for the video in other directions.  I also intend to continue this practice.  I would appreciate any comments about it, and of course any questions for this upcoming Saturday's Q&A.

Sunday, April 21, 2024

Real Hinterland

Still focusing on European regions, unfortunately, as there are difficulties researching other parts of the world — though perhaps we shall get there, we can start with a distinction between two types of backcountry: "hinterland" and "wilderness." We can define the former as those unkept lands that juxtaposed upon the rural heartland that surrounded villages, towns and cities. Apart from lands that were cultivated, there were many "wild" places that nevertheless served as sources for timber, foraged food, hunting and many other resources.

This transitional zone was a realm that retained a degree of savagery, posing various threats to the cultivated parts adjacent to it. One significant challenge stemmed from banditry and lawlessness, as the hinterland provided cover for outlaws who preyed on nearby settlements through robbery and violence. Additionally, encounters with wildlife such as wolves and bears presented a constant threat to agricultural livelihoods and personal safety, with livestock predation and crop damage being common concerns. Natural disasters, including floods and wildfires, could also spill over from the hinterland into cultivated areas, causing widespread destruction exacerbated by poor land management practices. Moreover, competition for resources between settlers and indigenous inhabitants of the hinterland often led to conflicts over territory and resource rights, further threatening the poor livelihood of many persons.

The dense forests, hidden valleys and secluded caves to be found so close to farmer's fields made ideal refuges for all sorts of criminal entities. From here, they could launch raids on nearby settlements, and though their presence may be perfectly known to the residents, finding such outlaws was often a tremendous challenge. The tales of Robin Hood are built upon the believable idea that even in a small bit of wild, pursuit by the constabulary, the nobility and even the monarchy would be helpless to root out the resident bandits. Thus, operating outside the reach of established authorities, they could prey on travelers, merchants and farmers, perpetuating a climate of fear and instability. This is an easy, obvious sort of adventure for low-level characters to engage in, understanding that even after more than one foray, they may be completely unable to do more than get themselves ambushed, while successfully killing only a few bandits. A set of encounters between players and outlaws could become a long-term frustration, until at last the players somehow lucked upon, or uncovered a betrayer of the bandits, enabling the matter to be settled.

Of course, the players themselves might feel encouraged to become bandits, if they can find a suitable hide-out. Perhaps they would like to plunder a nearby mine, or seize all the food from a hunting camp, or rob a merchant or a bishop. They might carefully search out every inch of their domain to enable them to guess where searchers might come from, so they can be ready. A dungeon master can handle this by providing a moderately detailed map, giving the players the benefit of the doubt and letting them set up their own ambush. They might acquire refugees who approach, begging to join the players as members of their band; and the players, too, may one day find that one of these has betrayed the party, letting the locals know exactly what cave the party has made their base.

As said above, there are natural animals, too, that provide an ongoing challenge to agricultural livelihoods and the safety of foragers in the hinterland. These creatures, and the occasional low-level D&D monster besides, may provide food that can be included in the party's stores or sold for coin. Local farmers may be very grateful if the players knock of a few wolves that have taken too many livestock this season. In hunting panthers, wolverines and what not, the players may chance upon a worse apex predator, anything from a small hamlet of kobalds to an actual banshee, though they may yet be within 5 miles of a village. These possibilities, too, make a good set of encounters for a low-level party, without having to send them to yet another McDungeon. As villages and hamlets often support gamekeepers and hunters whose role is to specifically kill off predators and protect the herds, the players could join up with these and obtain a guide whose aims are likewise those of the party. This could lead to an important friendship, an inroad to the village's elders or even an invitation to a squire or a baron's manse.

Floods result from heavy rainfall or snowmelt in the hinterland's higher elevations, causing rivers to overflow their banks — which may be tucked away amid a blanket of hinterland, but which now finds a new course, inundating high-and-dry areas. Damaged crops could lead to long-term famine and a desperate population more willing to turn to banditry upon their neighbours. Roads, perhaps no more than dirt or clay paths, may be washed away, utterly isolating a village high in the mountains or well back in a forest. Such places may need to be gotten to, with supplies the players could carry. Secondary bridges may collapse, ending trade and causing shortages that push prices up and local desperation as well. Landlords in times of such trouble, having a soldiery under their pay and separated from the influence of higher authorities, may decide to engage in autocratic practices during the emergency.

Similarly, wildfires, sparked by lightning strikes or human activity in the hinterland's forests, could spread rapidly under favorable conditions, consuming vast tracts of land and destroying valuable timber resources. The smoke and ash from these wildfires could blanket nearby cultivated areas, choking out residents and leading to abandoned properties that may be nowhere near the fire. Landslides triggered by heavy rainfall or deforestation in the hinterland could partially destroy more than roads, but hamlets or villages as well, creating scores of refugees that the players happen across. These things are far less likely to occur in areas that are considerably developed, but along the edges of civilisation, they would happen with alarming frequency.

While the hinterlands separating borderlands in medieval to Renaissance times posed a significant strategic challenge for communication, they provided excellent cover for cross-border raids on enemy kingdoms. These rugged expanses served as a natural barrier, providing a clear distinction to whose land a village or a farm belonged. For would-be raiders, however, once a hinterland terrain's numerous obstacles, wildlife or bandits became known, could traverse hinterlands such as these to make a surprise attack an enemy kingdom, take part of its wealth and then retreat into the secluded backcountry again. Often, the first people to learn that war had been declared were also those who had no means whatsoever to defend themselves or make preparations.

Moreover, by leveraging their knowledge of the terrain and employing hit-and-run tactics, raiders could strike quickly and decisively, inflicting maximum damage on enemy settlements, infrastructure and resources before disappearing. As hinterlands often lacked established military outposts or fortifications, they were vulnerable to infiltration and circumvention by raiding parties. This allowed raiders to bypass conventional defenses and exploit vulnerabilities in the enemy's defenses, catching defenders off guard and sowing chaos and confusion in their wake. Like the bandits, they could also make use of hide-outs near an enemy village, enabling them to evade pursuit and regroup for future raids, thereby prolonging the time before it took a whole army to arrive, eat all the food in the region and finally clean the enemy out of their roosts.

Here is a higher level campaign for players who may either be forced to contend with such raiders, or be offered coin, soldiers and other resources by their own monarch to go and raid some other enemy's lands, for the good of God and Country, obviously. How would the players react to be asked by a greater authority to please bring an attack to an otherwise peaceful neighbour, to burn houses and villages, to destroy food stores, even to kidnap young children who could be brought back home to be used as servants or raised to be soldiers of the Empire, as the Ottomans and other cultures did? Would they forsake their lands, or engage in such practices, given their 21st century sensibilities? I find that an interesting question.

Setting aside any further discussion of residents are adjacent cultures, how might we set about describing hinterlands of the period? Consider: in the eyes of those time periods, hinterlands were viewed with a mixture of awe, apprehension and curiosity. Traversing these wild and untamed landscapes offered medieval travelers an opportunity to witness the wonders of nature firsthand. For them, walking through a hinterland was not merely a recreational pursuit but a journey fraught with uncertainty and peril, where survival depended on knowledge of the land and the ability to navigate its treacherous terrain.

As they journeyed through such lands, though much might be familiar to some, most would have marveled at the diversity of flora and fauna, interpreting their encounters through the lens of folklore, superstition and religious beliefs. Every rustle in the underbrush or distant howl of a wolf would have been imbued with significance, evoking a sense of wonder and reverence. The geological features and natural landmarks of the hinterland would have been interpreted as manifestations of divine creation, serving as tangible reminders of the power and majesty of God.

Let's discuss the terrain itself. Hinterlands resisted cultivation due to various natural factors. Though accessible, the presence of poor-quality soil or inadequate drainage meant that even in flat, soiled land farming was yet improvidential and not worth the effort to clear it. Due to elevation or exposure, a hinterland might be more prone to the winter climate, or have a greater potential for the aforementioned flooding or landslides, or even avalanches. Rocky terrain prevalent in hinterlands poses a significant obstacle to agriculture. Large expanses of rocky soil make it difficult to plow and plant crops, as well as to establish irrigation systems necessary for sustained cultivation. Moreover, the presence of rocks and boulders can inhibit root growth and limit the availability of arable land, reducing the overall productivity of the area.

Secondly, steep slopes characteristic of many hinterland regions make farming impractical and often dangerous. Attempting to cultivate crops on steep inclines can lead to soil erosion and loss of topsoil, diminishing the fertility of the land over time. Additionally, farming on slopes increases the risk of landslides and soil instability, posing a threat to both agricultural infrastructure and human settlements.

Finally, standing water in the form of marshes, swamps or boggy areas are unsuitable for most crops, as excess moisture can suffocate plant roots and promote the growth of water-loving weeds and pests. Draining wetlands on a small scale isn't worth the effort.

For descriptive purposes, we can envision a variety of terrain types. One prevalent micro-terrain found is rocky outcrops, defined by exposed bedrock, rugged terrain and scattered boulders. Walking through rocky outcrops can be challenging, as the uneven surface and loose rocks demand careful navigation to avoid slips and falls, demanding careful footwork and agility. Travellers must negotiate uneven surfaces and rocky ledges while avoiding hidden crevices. It's in such places that we find caves and rock shelters, plus many opportunities for ambush, for those trees are a minimum so is line-of-sight. But this also means opportunities for hidden treasures and secrets to be discovered, such as mineral deposits, monsters and, of course, the remarkably unexpected.

Riparian zones, where land meets water, are another type. Here, trails follow the contours of rivers and streams, leading travelers through dense vegetation and across shallow fords. Crossing watercourses requires care, asking travelers to use stepping stones or makeshift bridges to traverse the flowing water. These areas provide not only a source of freshwater but also opportunities for fishing and foraging, supplementing provisions and sustenance during long journeys; but again, make excellent places for ambush. Certain times of year could mean the presence of submerging trails, rushing waters, the loss of crossing points over a given river and so on. Predators favour river paths, which may loop back upon themselves and create challenges to navigation. Hunted-for landmarks may be missed due to the overgrowth of the vegetation. Yet there may also be unbelievably beautiful glades, fantastic waterfalls and the possibility of sylvan, enchanted creatures, from whom the players may obtain aid.

Wetlands and marshes, marked by waterlogged soil and dense vegetation, force travellers to contend with muddy paths, tangled undergrowth and the constant presence of biting insects. Yet, they also offer opportunities for resource gathering, with travelers harvesting edible plants and waterfowl to supplement their provisions. Soft mud may fetch a boot from a player, and would obviously make progress slow and arduous. Areas would demand physical exertion and endurance, while the presence of standing water poses risks of drowning. Orientation can be challenging due to the lack of distinct trails or landmarks. Dense vegetation and waterlogged terrain obscure visibility. Overall, being wet, muddy, cold due to being unable to start a fire, or otherwise just unhappy at the pervasive stench, could all encourage a party to start back the mere five miles they are from civilisation.

Saturday, April 20, 2024

Saturday Q&A (apr 20)

Bob in Ohio writes,

I planted a hook that the players took and not sure how to run it. Civil war in neighboring state populated largely by Wood Elves. Players are familiar with the fact that it's going on but have only been tangentially effected. Now representatives of both warring factions have contacted the party wanting their charismatic high elf battlemaster about negotiating the peace between them. Suggestions as to how to handle?

Answer: It's a good situation. I'd argue it's not the DM's problem. Have both sides back up a wagonload of gold, give the party to believe that there's a good, fair, decent reason for them to be supported and protected, and see if the party will refuse to pick a side and actually set themselves up as a third party arbiter. Make it quite clear that if the party takes a bribe from one side or the other, aka, wagon of gold, that war will happen and the party will be hunted down by the side whose bribe the party didn't take. Then hunt the party down if they go for it over the next hundred or so runnings, until the abused side is repaid in some meaningful way for the party agreeing to let the war happen.

Because, after all, you've set it up so that if the party doesn't support the arbitration, war will happen. And of course, though it's in no way fair, the party will be BLAMED for the war, because neither side will see the party as a friend. Just picture two Donald Trumps trying to buy the party, with one or both getting angry and vindictive if the party doesn't create a perfect solution.

I assume you have a clear idea of what the war's going to be about. The battlemaster player better have a good idea, or else there's going to be a war anyway. And when I say, "good idea," I mean Soloman offering to cut the baby in half, or something along the lines of Ooka, created by I.G. Edmonds, whom I loved as a child:

If I were the party, I'd run for the hills or trust myself to come up with something great; I'd harass you as DM to give me quite a lot of information about both sides, and the situation, and try to come up with a solution that would appease both Trumps. But running for the hills is a smarter plan for the party.

Andrea in Italy adds,
Great situation! And yes, Bob, your task is to the set the scene. Don't worry about how they will "solve" the situation but be aware they will surprise you one way or the other.Having had similar situations, gangwar between crime families, I concentrated on the families, their goals, their influence, their resources but also their internal strifes which the players can use when they learn of them. And boy they did.


Thank you for your contributions.  If readers would like to reply to the above, or wish to ask a question or submit observations like those above, please submit  to my email,  If you could, please give the region where you're located (state, province, department, county, whatever) as it humanises your comment.

Feel free to address material on the authentic wiki, my books or any subject related to dungeons & dragons.  I encourage you to initiate subject material of your own, and to address your comment to others writing in this space.    


Friday, April 19, 2024

Real Ways

We've talked about subterranean environments and about towns ... let's talk about the thing that players interact with while moving from one to the other.

During the medieval and Renaissance periods, roads were funded through a combination of methods. Royal or noble patronage played a significant role, with monarchs and nobles funding the construction and maintenance of roads as part of large-scale endeavors aimed at developing and improving the physical structures and systems necessary for the functioning of a society or region, in ways to enhance transportation, trade, communication and defense. Roads needed bridges and designated resting places along major travel routes, which doubled as depots where messengers could exchange horses or pass letters onto the next messenger. To protect these routes, fortifications needed to be built. Altogether, the assembly of these infrastructures contributed to control of the lands, and therefore the realm, while slowly, over centuries, providing a greater social cohesion.

Roads were, therefore, important to the realm's solidarity ... and represented, in many cases, the largest practical engineering projects of the Medieval period. Few regions could pay for such out of pocket, so tolls were commonly imposed on travelers to finance road maintenance. Commonly, the responsibility for collecting these tolls fell upon local authorities or landowners — who possessed the opportunity to abuse their position by arbitrarily raising tolls to increase their own profits. Without strong oversight or regulation, toll collectors could exploit travelers by charging higher fees than necessary for road usage. This practice could be especially prevalent in areas where toll collection was controlled by local authorities or individual landowners rather than by centralized governments.

By a standard, however, tolls were subject to agreements or regulations set by local authorities or landowners. Excessive toll increases could provoke backlash from travelers and merchants, potentially leading to disputes or even legal action. Additionally, in regions where toll collection was closely tied to trade and commerce, imposing excessively high tolls could hinder economic activity and trade flow, which might not be in the best interest of toll collectors in the long term.

Yet, most nobles and local authorities had to assume a considerable debt to build these roads, and therefore relied on toll revenue to repay debts or recoup their investments. This could necessitate setting tolls at a level sufficient to generate the needed revenue within a reasonable time frame. High tolls might have been justified as a means of ensuring the financial viability of road projects and meeting repayment obligations. A delicate balance had to be struck. Excessively high tolls could discourage travel and trade, potentially undermining the economic benefits that well-maintained roads were intended to facilitate. As such, toll rates likely fluctuated based on factors such as the level of debt, the volume of road usage, and the economic conditions of the region.

So, therefore, the tolls levied against player characters, who honestly should have the money to pay such tolls, may be quite dear to the player's pocket. Bridges, especially, incurred costs that were substantial due to several factors. Materials required for building durable bridges, such as stone or timber, were expensive to acquire and transport. Stone bridges, in particular, demanded extensive quarrying, shaping and transporting of large stones, contributing significantly to the overall expense. Additionally, skilled labour was indispensable for bridge construction, including stonemasons, carpenters and labourers, whose wages further inflated project costs. Furthermore, the engineering challenges associated with spanning rivers or valleys necessitated innovative design and construction techniques, which often required additional investment in expertise and resources. Thus, while bridges were essential for facilitating transportation and communication, their construction demanded considerable financial investment from those responsible for their development.

Any bridge over a substantial river ought to carry a penalty to cross that would cause a merchant to pause. This being the reason for covering the possibility of merchants choosing to go around, and thus cause a reduction in tolls. The goal of those charging said tolls, then, would be to charge enough to make the merchant pause, but pay it rather than go around. Tolls should definitely hurt.

Let's go back to the construction of roads. Another method of funding road construction and maintenance was through corvée labour, which originated in France but became widely practiced throughout Europe. This was a form of unpaid labour imposed on peasants by their lords or the state as a form of taxation or feudal obligation. Under the corvée system, peasants were required to perform various tasks, often related to public works projects such as road construction, bridge repair or agricultural infrastructure maintenance, without receiving wages in return. The obligation to provide corvée labor was typically tied to land tenure, with peasants required to devote a certain number of days each year to working on projects designated by their overlords or governing authorities. Corvée labor was widespread in feudal societies and persisted in various forms across different regions and time periods, serving as a means for rulers to mobilize labour and maintain control over their territories.

This is essentially slave labour, given that the participants could be worked like animals and had no choice but to comply. To travelers passing by, a corvée gang would be seen wearing clothing that reflected their practical needs rather than fashion, simple garments such as tunics or shirts made of coarse fabric, often patched and worn from frequent use. Trousers or breeches, similarly worn and practical, were common attire, paired with sturdy boots or shoes suitable for outdoor labour. The work itself was physically demanding and often conducted in challenging conditions. Labourers could be seen sweating under the sun as they dug into the earth or hauled heavy loads of stones or timber. Dust and dirt clung to their clothing and skin, marking the toll of their exertions. Alongside the physical discomfort, there was often an air of resignation or frustration among the labourers, reflecting the involuntary nature of their labour and the burdensome obligations imposed upon them.

The campsite adjacent to the work area offered little respite from the harshness of the labour. Simple shelters, perhaps consisting of makeshift tents or lean-tos constructed from branches and oilcloth, providing minimal protection from the elements. The workers gather during breaks, seeking shade from the sun or relief from the fatigue of their labour. Some labourers might seize the opportunity to engage with passersby, perhaps out of curiosity or in the hope of receiving assistance or charity. They might approach travelers with requests for food, water or other provisions, especially if resources at the campsite were scarce. However, this would likely be done cautiously, as the labourers would be mindful of their obligations and the presence of overseers.

Returning to the roads themselves, these were typically unpaved and varied in quality, ranging from simple dirt tracks to more robust stone-paved or gravel-covered surfaces. The construction and maintenance of roads were largely influenced by local geography, available resources and the level of investment from governing authorities or private entities.

In urban areas and major trade routes, roads were often more developed and better maintained. They might feature stone paving or gravel surfacing to improve durability and ease of travel, especially in areas with heavy traffic or frequent use by carts and wagons. However, in rural or less populated areas, roads were often rudimentary and subject to the effects of weather and seasonal changes. They could become muddy and impassable during periods of heavy rain or snow, posing challenges for travelers and merchants alike. In such areas, travelers relied on landmarks, waymarkers and local knowledge to navigate their way along the often rough and uneven paths.

A waymarker, also known as a waymark or waystone, refers to a physical marker or sign along a road or trail used to indicate direction, distance or points of interest. These markers could take various forms, such as stone pillars, carved stones, wooden posts or even natural features like distinctive trees or rock formations. Waymarkers played a crucial role in guiding travelers along their journey, especially in areas where roads were less developed or signage was limited. They provided valuable navigational aids, helping travelers to stay on course and reach their destinations more efficiently.

By "local knowledge" above, I mean the familiarity and understanding that residents of a particular area have regarding its geography, landmarks and routes. This knowledge encompasses a range of information, including the location of roads, paths and shortcuts, as well as insights into local terrain, weather patterns and potential hazards. Local knowledge is often passed down through generations within communities and is relied upon by travelers to navigate unfamiliar areas safely and efficiently. It includes knowing where to find water sources and safe camping places. The locals knew best about any potential dangers along the route. In an era without formal maps or signage, local knowledge becomes invaluable for travelers seeking to navigate the landscape effectively.

This creates numerous instances for players to have to interact with the environment on the road to get anywhere. They can't rely on the road itself to tell them where they are; the practice of seeking out a house, which is probably used to having their day interrupted by travellers, allows opportunities to deliver exposition naturally to the players about doings going on around the region. Taking the word of a fellow traveller, who might not actually be a local, could send the party along the wrong road, which itself might be a literal "side quest," which might lead to a lot more, perhaps even a chance insight into the original intended quest.

Note that I've said nothing about bandits or brigands through all this. I think it ought to be reserved for a post of its own, as well as what might be said about pilgrims.

Maintenance and repair of roads were crucial considerations, as roads required ongoing upkeep to address issues such as erosion, potholes, and damage from weather or heavy traffic. If we think of the occasional road closure in the present day, consider what it must have been like centuries ago, when there were no ploughs or diggers to clear a road in even a few days. Certain roads, suffering a landslide or an earthquake, might be impassable for months, or even until the next summer, if winter is coming on. Apart from this there's the more mundane matter of clearing minor debris, as tumbling rocks or fallen trees delay a wagon, or a long line of them, where the party finds themselves the last in line. There are ruts to fill, and places where gravel or fresh clay is piled for resurfacing an old road. In such cases, the priority is to keep the major trade routes, the pilgrimage paths and the strategic military roads in good health; other roads, though immediately vital for the party, might not be in the sort of shape desired.

Moreover, road construction did advance over the centuries. In the 12th century, the typical trade road would start with a foundation layer composed of compacted earth or gravel. This base layer provided stability and served as a solid foundation for the road surface. Over this foundation, the road builders would lay a middle layer consisting of larger stones or cobblestones. These stones would be carefully arranged to create a relatively flat and even surface for travel. The use of stones in the middle layer added strength and durability to the road, helping to withstand the wear and tear of heavy traffic over time. Finally, the top layer of the road would be made up of smaller stones, gravel or sand, carefully smoothed and compacted to create a relatively smooth surface for travel. This surface layer served to improve traction and reduce erosion, enhancing the overall usability of the road for travelers and merchants.

By the 16th century, advancements in technology, increased trade and evolving societal needs have influenced this construction. A greater access to materials such as bricks, tiles and refined stone would have been utilized to enhance the durability and longevity of the road surface. These materials would have contributed to a smoother and more stable traveling experience for merchants and travelers. Additionally, there would be more sophisticated drainage systems to prevent waterlogging and erosion. This would include culverts, ditches or other drainage features to ensure the road remained passable during inclement weather. Roads would be more plentiful, easier to build, more resilient overall ... especially as 16th century trade itself would have been vastly greater in persons involved and materials moved than four centuries earlier.

While much of this information may seem unimportant for dungeons and dragons purposes, incorporating realistic details about roads and infrastructure can add depth to the game world. Whether the party is traveling along a well-maintained trade route or navigating through rugged terrain, realistic descriptions of the road conditions can help players visualize the environment and make informed decisions about their journey. By delaying the players, confusing them as to the direction they're travelling, while giving them re-usable knowledge about roads they've already traversed in the past, opportunities can arise to hook the players into new adventures and give them a solid basis for the way the overall game world is constructed.

Tuesday, April 16, 2024

Location Hunting

Before my music career gets started, I agreed to write a post illustrating my suggestions of breaking a town environment into individual "scenes," or for the purpose of this post, let's call them locations.  I felt that perhaps this could be made clearer by using an actual film, and for this I considered a number of possibilities.  There's the recent Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, which has some of the elements I'm looking for (but not many), and has the benefit of being easily available for those who haven't seen the film ... but in fact, I don't think that film's a good example of what I want to convey.  The problem with using any film, of course, is that if the reader hasn't seen it, there isn't much benefit.

Two good examples I might turn to are 1993's Falling Down, a film that many people don't like, and which is now more than 30 years old and therefore not a familiar quality for many people, and 1953's Roman Holiday, which is thoroughly exquisite and which everyone really ought to see, but it's seventy years old now and quite out of the zeitgeist.

So I thought, instead of using a film, we could discuss film-making instead, seeing if that wouldn't be a more effective approach ... though to be frank, if the reader has very little understanding of the history of film, or hasn't seen many films, then this post isn't going to be of much use one way or the other.  Perhaps, however, something might be gained by my providing context.

Though there have always been movies made in the outdoors, right through the silent era, there were limitations on the sharpness that film stock could provide, especially in certain kinds of light and in certain locations.  As such, most dramatic films took place in a series of indoor locations; a typical film in the 1930s and 40s would feature the characters moving from an office to a private home, to a hotel lobby and then to some other public place, like a police station or a restaurant.  Momentary outdoor shots would then be fitted between these scenes for general effect.  For example, in the Maltese Falcon, Sam Spade and Miles Archer are met by Miss Wonderly in their office; there's a brief scene after where we see Miles getting shot; and then the police arrive at Sam Spade's rather cheap residence.  The shooting scene lasts about six seconds.

Long-term outdoor shooting was expensive, and usually required that the camera be mounted in a fixed location, so that it would capture all the movement in a given frame.  Buster Keaton uses this limitation to terrific effect in many silent films, as do other directors.  By the 1940s, lighting problems are overcome by producing stark contrasts between bright light and pure darkness, starting off the film noir genre, which used the contrast to film longer shots in the outdoors.  But by the 1950s, advancements in camera technology allowed filming in outdoor settings, during the day, much easier, in that cameras became more portable and versatile.  Thus, a Roman fountain could be filmed from all around the fountain, not just from one fixed point.  This started off a wave of American films that took place in Europe, which could be filmed luxuriantly enough to appease American audiences, and this in turn set off a craze for European tours.

Roman Holiday is an early example of this sort of travelogue piece.  While creating a satisfying and exhilirating story, the premise also allowed for specific parts of Rome in 1953 to be filmed in spectacular, clear black and white, while actually driving through the city, which would have been far more expensive and even impossible a few years earlier.  It matter to us, however, because to set up these shots, the film-makers need to scout locations in Rome, to decide where they'd be filmed from, and which places could be reasonably filmed and at which times of the day, given the crowds and the film's needs.

Location hunters, script in hand, were assigned to hunt for specific alleyways, streets, building faces ... a practice that still continues, especially for period pieces which must have not be anachronistic, or which can be sufficiently adjusted in CGI after being filmed.  The goal is to create the illusion of a continuous, unbroken cityscape while, in fact, being limited by the practical challenges of filming in real-world settings.  In many ways, dialogue often served to inform the audience about the characters' movements between locations, helping to maintain the coherence as they explain in advance, "We'll meet you at the Hotel des Arts," just before we cut to the hotel just mentioned.  This happens so often and gently in films that for the most part, the non-filmmaker simply fails to see it.

So, here is a leap. If we're building a narrative in a role-playing game, where we're outlining a town for a group of players, without wanting to build the whole town, one way to do it would be to present a series of locations that we invent, which we can then link together for the players, creating a verisimilitude and transitional environment without ever needing a map or list of streets for the characters to walk upon.

Though the actual game might hop about from location to location, so long as we provide a good, solid description for a given location, as a movie camera might, though using words, we can make the players feel that they're in that actual place.  And rather than needing to explain how they get from there to the next location, we can impose simple techniques like directing the players to the next spot (by saying, "the old man directs you to the Plaza Rufio, and you have no trouble finding it), or having the NPC walk along with the players while leading them from one location to the next.  Meanwhile, if we need a battle to take place, or have the characters witness a scene that fits into the narrative, giving them additional information about the adventure, we can have it happen here at the Plaza, or hear about it happening at the nearby dockside, which the players can then rush to, setting up the next location.

Thinking about this cinematically will aid considerably for imposing a structure on separate events occurring in separate places.

In building these locations, think about it as a location hunter would.  To make a fine scene for a film, we want there to be some sort of representation and notable landmark, such as a tall bell tower, a cathedral, castle, keep, monument or town square.  These serve as anchors in a sea of unfamiliarity, guiding the players and giving them things they can refer to which are easily remembered by everyone.  "The killing that took place under the clocktower," for example.

Other forms of landmark may not be unique, but may yet have memorable qualities that can be adapted to specific events that the characters witness.  An abandoned mansion, for example; a distinct looking graveyard; an orchard that grows a specific fruit, thus the "apple orchard," which the players find by "the west wall," and such.  Each little tag we add to the location provides something else by which it will be known to the players, and remembered.  "No, not that orchard, the other one that was all apples, the one near the west wall."  These simple labels make it easy for the players to structure the place in their minds, even though they only exist in the player's imaginations.

We don't want too many details, because then it becomes hard to remember.  We don't need to know which sort of apples, or how spaced the trees are, or how near they are to the wall, or what the wall is made of.  Experience will show that if we just give a few basic points about something, it's enough for the players to fix the location in their heads and concentrate on what happens there, rather than the exhaustive detail about something that in fact doesn't matter.

There are functional locations as well, such as a forge, a tavern, a town hall, a particular sort of workshop or mill.  There might be an outcropping of rock on the side of hill that the town bends around, and below the outcropping, a small garden next to a green-grey house.  There, the scene is set, we can describe what happens there.

We can add sounds, smells and textures if we want ... but remember, none of these things exist cinematically, as a picture, and the player cannot actually smell or hear any of the sounds we describe.  Therefore, don't overdo it.  If everything has a smell and everything has a strange sound, soon enough the players won't be able to link which smell or sound came from which place, and merely become confused.  Adding a smell won't hurt; "The graveyard stinks of dry rot," but focus on the players remembering that it's a graveyard, and not what it smells like.

There's an old writer's trope that the reader will give the main character the hair colour that they want, regardless of what the story might say.  Many readers are surprised, when they read a book a second time, that the character they thought had black hair and a handsome face, in face has sandy brown hair and isn't that good looking.  It's there in the text, but it was overlooked on the first reading and often readers still can't get rid of their first impression, even after they find that impression was wrong.  It's one reason why a lot of writers don't see the point in exhaustively describing the character of a story, which is a habit of many early 20th century writers, though it was far less common in the 19th century, and is somewhat less common now.  The reader won't remember, anyway.

Anyway, fix a location in mind.  See it from street level, as a camera does, not looking down as though at a map.  In the mind's eye, turn and see what the scene looks as our gaze sweeps left, then right.  Once its there, describe it to the players.  The scene can be "scouted out" in our notes long before the game starts, or when it's needed.  Give the scene a purpose for being part of the players' experience, just as it needs to have some purpose in a film, if that.s what we were choosing it for.

This is where the players see the first brigand during a general attack.  Over there, in that side alley, there are two more brigands.  In that window up there, a woman is leaning over to toss a bucket of water into the street; she stops, sees the first bandit ... but doesn't see the two from the alley entering her building.  There.  The players have been given their first experience in the developing campaign.  Do they separate to handle the first bandit, and the other two?  Do they let the scene play out to see what happens?  They have the benefit of the camera seeing more than the NPC woman does.  This gives the players power ... and by habit, by watching endless scenes in dramas and films, they'll comprehend that power without having to think about it.

Now, when we watch a film, we can practice our DMing by watching how the camera is revealing information about the scene to us, the audience, which the characters in the film don't have.  We want to set the players up as the audience ... but at the same time, they're also in the scene.  When a director sets the scene, it's the protagonists in the film who receive the most information, and logically, the players are the protagonists.  So, especially with a good film, there will be moments when it becomes apparent how the director is showing the protagonists what they have a choice to do.

In a film, of course, the director is also directing the protagonist ... but for us, the protagonists direct themselves.  We can only create the scene.  But what we tell the players, and how we reveal that — well, that was the point of the Show, Don't Tell post.  It's nice to bring this concept around, full circle.

Find a few free action films and test out this process for yourselves.  Good luck.

Saturday, April 13, 2024


A little more than three weeks ago, I wrote about a piano I once had on another of my blogs.  And here it is:

I wrote the earlier post on the day I learned that it might be coming to me, but I didn't want to say so as there wasn't any certainty.  Last week, however, upon acquiring the piano from her grandmother, my daughter assured me that she'd be storing it in my house, so once again this old familiar piano is back in my possession.  It's been 27 years.

Took five professional movers to get this beast moved out from its former residence into this one, which tells me how strong my friends and I were.  I suggested to the movers that I could disassemble it to some degree and they agreed ... but after such a long time, looking at the underside, I've forgotten how it comes apart.  And I don't have Michelle any more to tell me how.  Cost me a pretty penny to have it placed; I had to raise the picture in the upper right about 10 inches; the mirror on the left was fine.

The piano's width is 62 inches across the top; it's 51 inches high.  So glad that my in-laws could seize it back then, since they took such rotten care of it; in fact, it's been sitting ignored in a basement for more than 15 years, without one ounce of care.  There are chunks and bits taken out of it, there are knobs missing, though its only moderately dusty inside.  I'm surprised that it isn't more out of tune.  Going to cost me more money to have it tuned and I suppose that beyond what care I can give it myself, getting it restored is another step along the way.

I'm told it has no resale value.  Present-day musicians aren't interested in it, according to those musicians I know, while having a piano in the home hasn't the verve it did once.  The piano movers were astounded; they'd never moved a piano this heavy, nor this old, in all their experience.  As I'd said, it's more than 160 years old and it's made of real rosewood — which no piano is, nowadays, and as such they're cheap replicas that weigh much less.  The movers felt they'd earned their pay today.

But, I'm told, I'd be lucky to get a $1,000 for it if I sold it.  Which I find remarkable.  My daughter has been talking to a piano restoration company this last week and they assure her that yet, they can bring it back to its original colour ... and that's going to cost more than supposedly the piano will sell for.  If this is true, then how does the restoration company stay in business?  I think — and my daughter agrees with me — that in general, where it comes identifying the value of things, people don't know jack.

Anyway, there's no plan to sell it.  And here is the bad news.  I'm quitting D&D.  I'm going to learn how to play piano so I can become the world's oldest concert pianist.  This D&D has been a nice run, but it's all done now.  Wish me luck.

Saturday Q&A (apr 13)

Bob writes,

The HS where I teach has a gaming group that meets after school one day a week. The some middle schoolers (7th and 8th graders) have inquired about someone running D&D for them! Eventually word got 'round to moi and I'm contemplating it. The question is - how would YOU start. Assume players knew nothing of the game except what they've stumbled across in mass media. I'll have 1-2 hours per session.

Answer: After introducing them to a collection of the odd shaped dice, letting them play with them for a bit, as they are quite strange, I'd briefly explain that each person was going to invent an avatar or persona, preferring to use the modern term for a representation of themselves. This avatar, I tell them, is a "character." The character is rolled, I explained, with some things chosen. Then, without explaining why, I'd go through the process of having them roll each of their characters, in tandem. Going around the table, everyone would roll their stats, according to the system I outline in my wiki. I would not invoke the wiki; I've memorised everything there, and I look more like an authority if I appear to be comfortable in the knowledge I have.

So, as each person rolls their stats, I don't give them a choice about class. That can be offered later, once they know what the classes are; these characters are temporary training wheels. Thus, based on the stats, and what I can learn about the people from their communication and general appearance, Holmesian fashion, you're a thief, you're a fighter, you're a cleric, you're a mage and so on. I tell them not to worry about what these names mean, but to write the words at the top of the character sheet. We use blank sheets for the characters, NOT some pregenerated sheets that only serve to overwhelm the newbies, which we don't want to do.

We let everyone choose their gender and their race. We go through a quick run down of the races; depending on the crew, we may just limit the races to three options, dwarf, elf and human. If they seem sharper at this point, we can allow halfling and gnome, but probably not half-orc or half-elf. Being a young crowd, and having a preconceived notion of "half-breed" instilled in them by a "well-meaning" educational system, I wouldn't suggest going there until they show an affinity for the game's structure.

We get them to pick a name. We explain hit points. Then we assign 15 basic pieces of equipment for them. We don't pregenerate these lists and hand them out - this looks conformist and fails to teach an important lesson: that D&D is very much about acquiring and storing knowledge. They must learn to make notes. It's absolutely best if we can just rattle off things a fighter, thief, mage or cleric ought to have, apparently off the top of our head. Money doesn't matter, so we give the fighter half-decent armour, not great armour, and leather to the others who can wear it. I can easily rattle off as much equipment off the top of my head, and being able to do this, waiting while the individuals write these things out physically, makes me look like in control and deserving of the authority I have to establish.

Good. Now we put them in a very basic location. I would probably put them at the front door of a cave. Do you go in? I would ask. If they did, I'd have the party fight an exactly equal number of goblins, with a minimal set up: "The smaller human-like creatures rush out of the dark with swords that look like long knives; they're ugly with long ears and knobs all over their faces, and they're green. They are clearly trying to kill you."

If they didn't go in, the goblins would come out and attack them. The goblins would attack 1:1. Then I would patiently explain initiative, which I use only once a combat, to tell who goes first. I'd explain that one person has to roll the initiative for all, which is how I do it. That person, I say, is picked by me. Then I'd make them wait a few seconds, to show they cared to know who I was going to pick, and then I'd pick someone basically at random. We'd both roll a d6 and then we'd play out the combat.

I'd run everything from memory, so no books. At each point, I'd explain hitting and missing, and damage, and so on. I would use my stun system, unless I'd been expressly asked not to do so. I'm not interested in teaching anyone a lesser game. But another person should just introduce the game they think these kids would want to play, according to how that other person wishes.

My reasons for poisoning the minds of new players comes from many experiences in my childhood where I was introduced to games and many other things "in the wrong way" ... only to realise after the fact, when discovering the "right way," that they were trying to teach me more than just rote. D&D is one of those things that I was "taught wrong" from the first time I played the game.

After the combat (which the players are almost certain to win, with the extra hit points I give them and the use of negative hit points), I'd instigate a table discussion about it. I'd get people to ask if there was more to the game. Then I'd award treasure and explain experience. Then I'd ask if they want another combat, and tell them that if they do, they need to go further into the dungeon. If they didn't want another combat, I'd ask if they wanted to buy something with their new loot. That would probably be a "yes" if the combat answer was no. They'd all be gamers. They'd know that after taking treasure, you spend it to get stronger.

So, that takes us to town, which has to be explained. And they have to be shown equipment tables, which they can peruse and buy from. Coin has to be explained, and now we can introduce them to encumberance and food ... and that is probably enough to manage a three-hour session. They've learned a lot and all of it has been done without books.

Chris writes,

The caving post was great! And the one before that, about Conan. Show, don't tell and all. But a movie is a one thing — night after night, delivering a complex, comprehensive experience somehow coherent, with its own up-and-down moods in distilled improv, without the sudden increase in artificial power level to amp things up, takes cunning, experience (when to hold back, when to stir up a speech), and no shortage of reread labor.

The actor is without their script; there is only the darkness vast, some glimmer of audiential eyes by the stage lights; this threadbare costume on a madeup budget itches; the cardboard tube of a sword could unravel at any moment—

But they lift their eyes and raise their arms, and cast the bardic spell into the still silence; they carouse among the words imprinted by heart; they bring forward some synthesis of a lived life and anguish and silent readings, they briefly sojourn in the unreality of belief, and we are caught up in that instant, swept unto a verbal tide.

It all comes down to practice, I guess. Needing to get better. Wanting to. You've touched on that often, in tough ways.

There is a scene in "I, Robot" TV where the evil guy looks in the mirror and smiles, greeting someone. He slaps his face. Not good enough. And he tries again. Again.

Or even that movie with the drummer, looking for tutelage under the unforgiving professor. Blood, sweat, and tears replaced with the rote rhythm of empty robotics. Yet human, elevating somehow from skin and bones to a brain performant.

But yeah. Reading the caving post made me feel you could write forever, the ink just the trailing breath of a living pen, a conscious engine driving--driven--from the digest of book-mulch and winter, ideas fetched in quantum time and emerging from the mix of a life, a life, a life.

The writer, having lived in the skin of other lives, for each moment prized by observation, to feed it forward as artists do.

Answer:  Thank you.


Thank you for your contributions.  If readers would like to reply to the above, or wish to ask a question or submit observations like those above, please submit  to my email,  If you could, please give the region where you're located (state, province, department, county, whatever) as it humanises your comment.

Feel free to address material on the authentic wiki, my books or any subject related to dungeons & dragons.  I encourage you to initiate subject material of your own, and to address your comment to others writing in this space.    


Friday, April 12, 2024

Real Medieval Towns

With this post, I want to generally speak of the layout and appearance of towns in Medieval-Renaissance Europe, perhaps doing the same again for other parts of the world. The goal would be to convey how to describe a town to the players and give the space meaning in the players' imaginations. Many DMs don't like to run towns, or won't run them at all, I'm guessing because they're hard to describe or because it's difficult to set an adventure there. Whatever the reason, the more we know, the better equipped we'll be to explore this aspect of the game world.

Medieval towns often grew around a central point for several reasons, primarily because important structures such as a castle or church were the centre of communal activities. The need for communication was greatest for these places, while residents wanted to easily access key amenities like markets, courts and counting houses. The feasibility of foot travel produced a considerable impediment to urban spread. Carts and animals couldn't be stored while attending to daily business, even by the rich, since it wasn't safe to leave even a guarded animal in the streets. The limited range of foot travel constrained the reach of merchants, artisans and farmers, impacting trade and economic growth. Transporting goods by hand was inefficient and physically taxing, making it difficult for merchants to transport merchandise to market and for residents to procure essentials like firewood and food supplies. Additionally, foot traffic alone could lead to wear and tear on streets and pathways, often made of poor materials, especially in inclement weather. This posed hazards to pedestrians as well. And without modern waste management systems, the disposal of waste in medieval towns was a challenge, though tropes about streets serving as open drains or dumping grounds are almost certainly false, the invention of 18th and 19th century scholars.

Consider this from the party's viewpoint: traffic in the town isn't comprised of leisurely shoppers or individuals with ample time on their hands. Instead, much of the populace spends considerable time shuttling back and forth, laboriously carrying heavy loads or waiting impatiently at various locales to fulfill their daily needs. For instance, at daybreak, crowds gather at the creamery to collect milk, only to disperse gradually over the span of half an hour as they are served. Similar scenes unfold at neighborhood wells or locations recently replenished with recently arrived essentials such as lamp oil, soap or remedies, particularly during times of outbreaks or heightened need.

The appearance of beer in October attracts considerable attention. As the autumn season sets in, anticipation builds among the townsfolk for the annual delivery of this beloved beverage. When the first barrels of freshly brewed beer arrive, it signals the beginning of festive celebrations and jovial gatherings. Crowds eagerly gather at the brewery or designated distribution points, eager to partake in the communal enjoyment of this cherished libation. The aroma of hops and malt fills the air, mingling with the laughter and chatter of the townspeople as they raise their tankards in toast to another year of camaraderie and merriment. Like events occur with the pressing of wine. In both cases, such beverages could not be kept from year to year, and so there were always times of the year when no beer or no wine could be had, and what there was tasted terrible.

Visualise this against the way a town was laid out. Medieval towns accumulated step by step, with individually built houses emerging gradually over time, around the forementioned centre. As the population increased and the need for housing grew, individuals would start to build their homes on the outskirts of this central area, typically following the natural contours of the land. There was no plan, no logic; no potential existed for flattening land or imposing strict grid patterns like modern city planners do. Instead, individuals worked with the natural landscape, adapting their construction to fit the terrain. This meant that streets often meandered around hills, followed the curves of rivers, or skirted around rocky outcrops. Moreover, there wasn't a unified architectural style or predetermined layout for the entire town. This resulted in a more organic development where buildings were placed according to the available space and the preferences of their owners.

As such, streets would end in narrow stairways that went up a hill, where they might join with another throughway or into a court of houses in a haphazard circle. Roofs might be joined with bridges, used by the local residents to avoid setting foot on the street to visit their neighbours, but which are unavailable to the public. Because buildings would be positioned to advantage natural sunlight and airflow, access from the street may lead into the front of the house or the back. Places where buildings can't be easily established, for any number of reasons, are made into green spaces and sometimes set aside for grazing goats, pigs or fowl.

Initially, new houses might be modest structures consisting of a single room with a thatched roof and earthen floor. Over time, as families prospered and their needs changed, houses would be expanded or renovated to accommodate growing households or new functions. Additional rooms, upper stories and outbuildings might be added, gradually transforming the original dwelling into a more complex and substantial structure. These new constructions are wedged between the buildings that already exist, sometimes closing off lanes if the homeowner is sufficiently privileged. As more houses were built in this haphazard and irregular fashion, the town becomes a warren of unrevealed corridors, stairwells, squeeze points between buildings and precipitous drops as houses are built right against a cliff or a watercourse. It becomes easy to get lost, especially as there are few streets with actual names, while at night the streets and lanes are truly inky dark. It is, therefore, absolutely necessary to get directions from those in the immediate neighbourhood to find any minor workshop or personal residence.

Each house is a unique expression of its owner's identity and social status, reflected in its architectural features, decoration, and size. Wealthier residents might construct larger and more elaborate homes with features such as ornate facades, decorative carvings or private gardens, while poorer inhabitants would make do with simpler, more utilitarian dwellings. These latter tend to be found further and further from market and guild locations, so that where the poor live, not only can they not afford services, those that exist are a long way to walk.

As one moves through the town, multi-story structures loom overhead, dominating the views and creating a sense of enclosure and intimacy in the urban environment. Characters would experience the vertical stratification of society firsthand, with the upper floors of buildings often reserved for wealthier residents and commercial activities, while the lower levels house artisans, laborers, and service providers. Thus, the vertical effect shapes not only the physical landscape of medieval towns but also the lived experiences and interactions of those who traverse them. Without elevators, it might seem strange that wealthy persons would want to climb four or five floors up from the street; but as they were wealthy, servants did most of the climbing. Persons could lower baskets from windows to hawkers on the street, who would take coins out of the basket and provide bread, fish, fruit, whatever, which could then be hauled up again. Far above the street, the air was clearer; there were no footsteps on the floor overhead; one could see a distance out of a window. A flood of water from the rain might drown a poor inhabitant living downstairs, but the highest floor need not worry about the waterspouts.

For those residing in a town, especially within their own neighborhood, each building and corner holds immediate familiarity, much like the places we remember from childhood. Restricted to walking and with ample time for exploration, we develop a keen awareness of the small world around us—the nearby yards, the occupants of neighboring houses, the convenient shortcuts, the low fences that could be most easily jumped, even the best gardens to steal carrots from or find ripe apples. We instantly

We instantly recognized anyone who didn't belong in our neighborhood, much like the inhabitants of medieval towns would have done. Unlike a dungeon, where solitude reigns, towns are teeming with onlookers, ever vigilant of our actions — whether at street level, peeking through cracked doorways, or observing from above through alcoves and window shutters. The likelihood of initiating a confrontation in the open without a dozen witnesses present is slim, as bystanders stand ready to identify the instigators, or more likely, the outsiders. For reasons like this, and because so many passageways exist through a town, it's not really possible to just run a town like a dungeon; there's no logic for the citizens to stand around waiting to be killed, while a group of murder-hobos are bound to attract more and more guards, until they're overwhelmed.

It's better to view the town as a series of interconnected, specific locations that are linked together through the urban landscape, each with a specific purpose for the character's adventure. When I'm done here, I'll pick a film to better illustrate this concept, but let's view it through the lens of D&D first.

Each area within the town—whether it's a bustling marketplace, a quiet residential street, or a secluded alleyway—offers its own distinct atmosphere and opportunities as a scene or campaign interlude, without losing the overall tapestry of the town's environment. By organising the town in our minds into these discrete elements, we can flesh out and develop what the players might encounter at a scale they can more easily comprehend. This allows us to move the players vertically through the town, up hills, along streams, through overgrown abandoned lots or into the town square without actually needing a physical map to show precisely how these link together.

This allows us to concentrate on those specific places the players will encounter at this session, filling the space between with a description like, "Leaving the street, you head across town to the largish avenue, where you were told there was a wealthy apothecary who could help you. Just like that, we "transition," like in a film, to the next place. We describe the outside of the apothecary's shop as though viewed across the street, the players decide to go in and the next scene takes place. There's no need to rigidly force the players to explain which streets they travel, or what turns they make, to get from the last place to the next.

Which brings me to a point not addressed yet: what are these passageways, and how does knowing what they are help us? Loosely, I propose dividing the throughfares of a city according to a simple measurement: how friendly is it to wagons, which are used to move so much in a town or city. If the thoroughfare allows four wagons to pass side by side, it's an avenue. If two, it's a street. If the space is but one wagon wide, it's a lane; and if it's not wide enough for a wagon, it's an alley.

Picture the avenue as the grand thoroughfare of the medieval town, a wide expanse of cobbled road stretching from one end of the bustling urban center to the other. Stone buildings with decorative facades give an air of prestige. Rows of townhouses merchant halls tower above the paving, their arched windows and balconies offering glimpses of the wealth and prosperity there. A steady stream of activity pulses ceaselessly. Traders peddle their wares from push-carts while wide shop doors stand open with queues standing under the eaves out front. The shops sell expensive wares, exotic spices, fine silks, jewellery, armour, weapons, porcelain, glassware and so on. Horses and carriages clip-clop along the cobblestones, their drivers navigating the crowded thoroughfare with practiced ease. Here and there, clusters of townsfolk gather to gossip and barter, their voices mingling with the sounds of bustling commerce and conversation.

Despite the frenetic energy, a palpable sense of security pervades the air. Uniformed guards patrol the thoroughfare at regular intervals, their watchful eyes scanning the crowds for any signs of trouble. Watchtowers flank the road at strategic intervals, adorned with banners bearing the town's crest. From these vantage points, sentinels keep a watchful eye on the people, ready to sound the alarm at the first sign of danger. For the wealthy who feel safe on the avenue, security is a paramount concern. Young loiterers are chased and caught for nothing worse than wearing clothes that suggest they might be thieves, to assure the rich citizen may move about without worrying over their pouches.

Here and there, in gaps between the townhouses, are iron fences or stone walls protecting manicured gardens and private courtyards, the rich greenery of their trees stretching out twenty or thirty feet above the street, offering places of shade, where sellers provide chilled teas and confectionary. This offers a small respite from the bustle of the city, a tranquil oasis amidst the urban chaos.

As the sun sets on the avenue, lanterns flicker to life along its length, casting a warm glow. The air is alive with the sounds of laughter and music as revelers spill out from taverns and alehouses, their voices mingling with the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the distant strains of minstrels' songs. Long after this, the avenue quiets in as darkest night settles, until only the tapping of a watch-guard's cane warns those who shouldn't be here to move along, lest they be caught.

Smaller than the avenue, the street serves as an artery between avenues, connecting them together. There's still much activity, with the streets worn smooth by the constant passage of carts and pedestrians. In some ways, the street is busier than the avenue; it is the home of artisans and craftsmen who ply their trades in workshops tucked behind unassuming storefronts. Lining the street are rows of modest buildings, their facades adorned with signs and awnings advertising the various trades and crafts practiced within.

Here, the clatter of hammers and the spinning of wheels fills the air as textiles, metalwork and pottery are spun and pounded and molded. The scent of wood shavings, leather and freshly baked bread wafts from open doorways, inviting passersby to peer inside.

Instead of crowds of onlookers and shoppers, the street is populated primarily by those engaged in business; artisans at work, teamsters shouting at one another to get out of the way, or coming to blows over who overturned whose wagon. Apprentices run errands and make deliveries. Merchants tend to their stores rather than stand in doorways to encourage buyers to enter; there are still queues, but they're either much shorter or they go on for a block or more.

For the residents and workers who call the street home, it is a vibrant place during the day; but in the evening, the taverns are less raucous and filled with dour, tired souls who have worked all day, who drink to ease the soreness of their muscles, not to play. Except the occasional lit public house, come the end of day the streets are deserted almost at once; darkness descends quickly. Now and then one lone watchman might walk the streets silently, or in some places there may be a lamplighter, but usually those on guard travel in groups of two or three.

Lanes meander through the town like a narrow ribbons, leading off from the main streets. These are quiet, intimate spaces, lined with rows of modest worker's residences. These simple dwellings, built from local materials such as timber and wattle-and-daub, are clustered together in a seemingly random manner, their quaint facades weathered by time and neglect. Life in the lane revolves around the daily rhythms of work and family. Many of the town's artisans and laborers abandon the lane for their work in the streets, leaving behind wives and grandparents to look after the daily business of keeping a home. Children play between the houses, their laughter ringing against the narrow walls as they chase one another through the maze of buildings.

As evening falls, the pace of life in the lane improves somewhat. Workers stream home while residents emerge to gather in small groups to share news, gossip and stories from the day. Beneath the soft glow of lantern light, they linger in the narrow streets, exchanging pleasantries and catching up on the latest happenings. Amidst the comforting familiarity of their neighbors and friends, the worries of the day seem to melt away, replaced by a sense of camaraderie and community. Where there are courts, the end of the lanes become small circles with trees that have been planted in ancient boxes. The residents sit on rough-hewn benches, enjoying the cool evening breeze and the company of their fellow townsfolk. One by one they retreat to their homes to sleep, to ready themselves for the new day.

As the night comes on, furtive persons emerge from alleyways into the lanes, with business to do, though wisely they leave the residents alone. There are no members of the town watch to see them gather and plan, readying themselves to venture into the streets to acquire what they don't possess.

Alleys connect with streets and lanes, and serve numerous purposes. Picture them as shadowy passages flanked by high walls and looming buildings. They are secluded and intimate spaces, reaching into the bowels of the city, especially those buildings which have grown too old or derelict to be lived in by anyone but the poor, desperate or criminal element. Hemmed in on all sides, sunlight filters weakly through the narrow gap overhead, casting dappled shadows on the worn earthen surface of the alley, from which a few old cobblestones, not pried up to be used as materials, yet lie. The air is cool and musty, filled with the faint scent of damp earth and decaying wood.

Throughout the day, the alleyway is quiet; knowing residents who have little to fear pass along, knock on an unsigned door, and enter. A few pass through on their way to someplace else. As night falls, however, few dare to venture down its darkened length after dark, preferring to stick to the better-lit streets and lanes nearby.

These are the points of movement between those important locations discussed earlier. Each in themselves can become such a location, as the players are directed to go here or there, to find the right door for the right person they need to speak with. An alley becomes a good place for a one-on-one fight. An isolated garden at night for a larger encounter. Attached to the town, even inside the town walls, are fields and orchards in case of siege, where players may go to rest and picnic during the day (no, seriously), or venture out to meet with the worst souls at night. There are many such possible places to set a scene in a town, to connect the players with various individuals, factions or officials, each with their own tale to tell, their own motivation, and their own reason to encourage the party to do this or that. The party need only pick a side for the adventure to begin.


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Wednesday, April 10, 2024

Real Caving

The purpose of this blog post is not to describe a D&D dungeon, but to give a sense of what real caves would have been like for the time period, and then to translate that knowledge into a form that could be useful for a dungeon master in describing the underworld. This is not to say the D&D dungeons aren't meant to exist; they are! Yet the goal is for us to rethink the concept by going to the source materials first, rather than to the limited research that was available through libraries in the 1970s, when the dungeon trope was established. We know vastly more about caving now, and we have many, many more resources to poke through, than were available in all the books that would have existed in Chicago between 1972 and 1975.

To start, exploring caves during the Medieval and Renaissance periods would have been vastly different from modern caving experiences. The combination of adventure, danger and mystery did exist for those of the time periods, but for many reasons, caving was a very different experience for them than it is for us.

Most obviously, cavers would have ventured into the depths of caves with limited equipment compared to today's standards. Instead of the advanced gear modern cavers rely on, such as sturdy helmets, harnesses and high-powered headlamps, they would have made do with simpler tools. Torches or lanterns fueled by oil or tallow provided their only source of light, casting flickering shadows against the cavern walls. This would have made seeing things clearly a considerable challenge. The shifting patterns of light and darkness would have played tricks on their eyes, distorting their perception of distance and shape as adventurers navigated through the labyrinthine passages of caves. Consider this application for adventuring, as we tell parties that they see something, only to have nothing be there, while assuring them that it's the flickering light to blame; no party is going to believe that, no matter how clearly we demonstrate that torchlight is unreliable. Which is for the best, really. But then, a light spell eliminates the flickering, so lets move on.

Basic ropes and rudimentary climbing tools would have been essential for navigating the uneven terrain and scaling rocky obstacles. The limitations of these were significant, yet they were essential for traversing a challenging cave environment. These tools lacked the sophistication and durability of modern climbing equipment, presenting cavers with additional obstacles and risks as they explored underground passages. The ropes used were made of natural fibers such as hemp or sisal, lacking the strength and reliability of modern synthetic materials. They might have been prone to fraying or breaking under strain, adding an extra element of danger to climbs and descents. Relating these characteristics to the party, telling them that there's plainly evidence of a rope fraying, is sure to cause them to reconsider going further into the subterranean without resupplying.

As for the rudimentary climbing tools, they likely consisted of simple implements such as wooden or metal spikes, hooks or makeshift footholds carved from nearby rocks, which take time to put in place. Making noise, as well. The tools are essential for gaining purchase on the uneven surfaces of cave walls and navigating vertical or steep terrain, because most subterranean environments aren't neat tunnels made by orcs and goblins. In fact, these creatures are far more likely to make due with the natural environment as is, since digging through rock is unbelievably labour-intensive, given that steel doesn't exist, as is the transporting of removed rock to a place where it isn't in the way.

Cave floors littered with loose rocks and uneven surfaces make progress slow and precarious, with every step posing a potential hazard. Sharp protrusions and jagged edges threaten to trip or injure unwary explorers, while narrow passages and tight squeezes test their flexibility and endurance. Climbing sections of the cave often involves navigating treacherous inclines or vertical shafts, where a single misstep could lead to a disastrous fall. There are many strange features that stand out. Sumps, submerged passages where water collects, pose a significant threat, especially in the dim light of torches. Without proper diving equipment, crossing these sumps is exceedingly dangerous, risking drowning or hypothermia. Chimneys, vertical shafts that must be ascended or descended, test the limits of cavers' climbing abilities, with the ever-present danger of falling from great heights. Tight squeezes and constrictions force cavers to contort their bodies through narrow openings, risking getting stuck or injured in the process. Each twist and turn of the cave's labyrinthine passages holds the potential for disaster.

Sudden drops and pits, concealed by darkness, pose a constant threat to unsuspecting adventurers. Without proper illumination, navigating these pitfalls becomes a precarious endeavor, with each step potentially leading to a dangerous fall. Collapsing ceilings and unstable cave walls add to the dangers, with the constant risk of being buried alive under tons of rock. Labyrinths of twisting tunnels and chambers offer no respite, with the constant threat of becoming disoriented and lost in the darkness. Deep chasms and abysses yawn beneath precarious ledges, tempting fate with their sheer drops into the abyss below. Add to this creatures who are very familiar with all these features, who can find their way around with their eyes closed, who know how to set these features up to be even more hazardous to intruders. It's a very unlikely thing that a party might emerge safely, unless with tip the balance in their favour.

So why did those at the time do it? Practically, caves served as shelters for early humans, offering protection from the elements and potential predators. In the medieval period, caves might still have been used for shelter, especially in remote or rugged regions where other forms of habitation were scarce. Explorers might have ventured into caves to search for resources such as water and minerals. Even for people of that time, there really were myths of hidden treasures that were rumoured to lie within their depths.

Spiritual and religious motivations also played a significant role in cave exploration. Caves were often regarded as liminal, or transitional spaces, where the boundaries between the earthly realm and the divine could be crossed. Rather than having to pass through an actual gate, it was understood that if you found the right cave and just kept going down, eventually you would just walk right into the front yard of Hades, or find the sea that needed to be crossed to reach the mountain of Purgatory. As such, mad hermits and passionate ascetics sought solitude and spiritual enlightenment in the isolation of caves, engaging in contemplation, prayer and meditation. Some caves were revered as sacred sites, encouraging pilgrims to undertake arduous journeys to visit these holy places.

We can therefore imagine a cave that's known to pilgrims, where camps full of pilgrims wait at the entrance, yet entering is still a difficult, dangerous effort. There are always places below, the party is told, where no one has ever been, or where the devout are "tested" in combat or otherwise, to decide if they are true believers or not.

Intellectual curiosity and the thirst for knowledge also drove some individuals to explore caves. Understanding of geology, hydrology, and other cave-related sciences was rudimentary or nonexistent. Explorers wouldn't have comprehended the processes that formed caves or the ecosystems within them ... yet natural philosophers, early scientists and scholars were fascinated by the geological formations found within caves, seeing them as windows into the Earth's history and processes. They conducted studies and collected specimens to better understand the natural world, laying the groundwork for modern geological and biological research. The party could be encouraged to go down to find a strange plant or a rare mineral, for which they'd be paid a bundle, provided they brought back good, well-cared for samples. It's a motivation for the party to enter, with all the monsters that are there, with no certain way of knowing just which passage they have to follow. It separates their efforts from the need to make the point of every dungeon the eventual destruction of the BIG BAD. They may find baddies and kill them, but if they don't find the sample they're looking for, its all for naught.

Additionally, caves held cultural and historical significance, serving as meeting places or hiding spots for clandestine activities. Secret societies, religious groups or rebels might use caves as hideouts, making a good set up for a low-level party, who has to enter the dungeon to clear out a human group of bandits, rather than the traditional sort of monster. An evil sect deep in the earth, perhaps living upon some strange plant that gives insight or special powers, might also be a possibility, giving reason for humans or demi-humans to function as the enemy.

These ideas come from real sources, so they can be elaborated upon by specifically searching for examples of each. This increases the likelihood of the DM coming up with a good idea, since the limited imagination of the RPG community can be bypassed by looking into the vast wealth of human history and activity.

Here's another point. Mapping and documentation during medieval and Renaissance caving expeditions were rudimentary compared to modern standards. Without the advanced surveying tools and techniques available today, early explorers relied on basic methods to record their findings within caves.

Cartography in this era was in its infancy, and maps of caves were often crude sketches or diagrams, lacking the precision and detail necessary for accurate navigation. Explorers would manually measure distances using simple tools like ropes or pacing, estimating the dimensions of passages and chambers as best they could. These early maps were often incomplete and prone to errors, as explorers struggled to capture the complex and irregular shapes of cave systems.

Documentation of cave features and discoveries was similarly basic. Explorers would make notes and sketches of notable formations, such as stalactites, stalagmites and underground rivers, but without the benefit of photography or detailed drawings that could be done with good light, these records were limited in their accuracy and detail. Descriptions of cave environments, including the quality of air, water sources and animal life, were recorded in written accounts but lacked the scientific rigor and systematic approach of modern cave surveys.

Yet despite these limitations, mapping and documentation efforts during caving expeditions laid the groundwork for later exploration and scientific study. The mere effort to properly document a cave could, in itself, be the point of the adventure, if the party were intellectual enough to appreciate having to kill monsters so they could get the location of a room properly established in a three-dimensional sense.

This leads us into the denizens of the deep. What were those in the Medieval-Renaissance period? Well, superstitions and fear surrounding caves were pervasive, shaped by the limited understanding of the natural world and the prevalence of folklore and religious beliefs. Existing as mysterious and foreboding places, shrouded in darkness and echoing with eerie sounds, caves were always believed to be inhabited by malevolent spirits or mythical creatures. Stories of dragons, trolls and other monsters lurking within caves fueled people's fears and contributed to a sense of trepidation surrounding these subterranean environments.

In many cultures, caves were considered sacred spaces, associated with rituals, ceremonies and spiritual practices. It may not even be possible to enter a given cave without undergoing some form of "immunisation" from certain spirits, which might involved magical protection spells, amulets, permanent tattoos and such, administered by an overarching priest class who would agree only if the party won them over through other deeds or demonstrating the right attitude. Without these protections, the party would be sure to die of the air itself ... whereas once protected, there might be many places where they could walk through, unseen, even though they might be physically visible to whatever lives downstairs.

Fear was a very big part of the cave experience. The unknown played a very large role in shaping perceptions of caves. The darkness and isolation of cave environments evoked primal fears of being lost or trapped, cut off from the outside world with no hope of escape. Accidents and fatalities within caves were not uncommon, further reinforcing the perception of caves as dangerous and unpredictable places.

Let's take a moment and consider actual wildlife. For these, Bats, in particular, are ubiquitous inhabitants of caves, their eerie nocturnal flights and screeches contributing to the atmosphere of mystery and apprehension. Other cave-dwelling creatures such as spiders, insects and small mammals serve as a reminder of the rich and often delicate ecosystems hidden beneath the earth's surface. While most encounters with cave wildlife are harmless, some species can pose a threat to humans, either through direct aggression or by carrying diseases such as rabies or histoplasmosis.

Supernatural encounters, on the other hand, tap into deeper fears and beliefs, blurring the line between reality and myth, if we can instill a sufficient degree of real fear into the party, despite their savviness. By not having the monster make itself immediately visible, by stressing the truly dangerous magical potential of the monsters, we can paint a sufficient picture by adding supernatural phenomena such as ghostly apparitions, mysterious lights or inexplicable sounds. In those far off days, stories of haunted caves and cursed treasures abound, passed down through generations and woven into the fabric of local folklore. Getting the party to personally experience strange sensations or unexplained occurrences during their journeys underground may fuel speculation between them, as the "facts" of a particular expected encounter fails to match with what the party is seeing or not seeing.

In the game era, encounters with supernatural beings or phenomena were attributed to divine or demonic forces, reflecting the religious beliefs of the time. We can make these forces real, investigating belief and transforming it into fact. Thus the party searching for treasure can obtain revelations they didn't expect, or have encounters with beings that provide more context than an excuse to fight. Both the angelic and the demonic exist. How we play those NPCs in the party's company may create circumstances that can sustain a dozen adventures.

Overall, drawing inspiration from the real-world experiences of medieval and Renaissance cavers adds depth and authenticity to a D&D campaign, immersing players in actual historical frameworks that we turn and twist into the D&D formula. Following such research, and maintaining continuity throughout, we should never run out of underground adventures to set players upon.