The rain ceases to fall in the early afternoon, though the weather remains gloomy for the remainder of the day; the high hills to the southwest of Dachau retain a shroud of fog into the evening, with no sign that it will lift before sunset. It is, altogether, a dreary day.
In the afternoon, a message arrives from Johann Mizer as to the location of the beer garden, and an indication that Tiberius and his friends should meet him there at six bells. It is not a great distance; Helmunt, ever eager to please, offers to send a boy with the party to show the way, if only a copper piece is given. One way or another, through the wet streets the trio find their way to the garden, which at first glance is unfortunately in the out of doors.
Stepping through an arch constructed of latticework and holly branches, the party finds a group of wet wooden tables and benches. The latticework extends over their heads, and weaved into the frame are more branches, not quite thickly grown with holly leaves—this will take a few weeks yet. In the sunshine it would be a beautiful shaded recluse.
To the group’s delight, however, it is discovered that half the beer garden is roofed, and a solid structure built on three sides. On the fourth side is a roaring fire, fully eight feet wide and four feet deep, in which burns hemlock and yew. Stepping between a few puddles still filling the hollows between the exposed benches, Tiberius, Anshelm and Delfig join the hearty throng of forty people sitting in the warm comfort provided by the fire.
Mizer is there; he happily greets each one of you; introductions are made, and Mizer pleasantly insists that he buy the first round. The day did not begin too well for him; but an arrangement has been made and a silversmith is to be ousted from his rented property a few miles out of town, so that it will be put under Mizer’s ownership.
While hearing this tale, the trio cannot help noticing that the barmaids are exceptional—all beauties, all quite young and with remarkable ashen skin and near-perfect teeth. This last, of course, would be quite rare to their experience, and Mizer will laugh when he sees his companions noticing it.
He’s quite happy to explain the happenstance. The beer garden is in part owned by an adventurous young fellow, who a few years ago took part as a mercenary in the war, in Saxony, and made his fortune in silver. This young fellow, a paladin, Eberhardt Hornung by name, has since become the darling of the town, and this beer garden a contribution to his fame. It is true, adds Mizer discreetly, that Hornung also holds a string of harlots…the “cleanest” harlots in Bavaria, since none ever suffers from any disease, not even in their mouths. But Mizer suggests not spreading around any rumors a person might be told in a beer garden.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Campaign: The Cold Light Of Morning
Having not as yet settled in what action to take, the night catches up to the party and they settle down in their beds to sleep. The next morning, Monday morning May 5th, finds a gentle falling rain. The Pig tavern quickly empties, as those who spent the night pull out before sunrise for their homes and small mills outside of town, leaving the party to awake alone. As your board has been paid up until the end of May, Helmunt has a breakfast prepared for you: duck's eggs, boiled sausage and porridge. While there is an awning over the outside tables, it leaks; so you find yourselves inside, finishing your breakfast and wondering if the rain will end before the morning.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Campaign: Sunday Night At The Pig
The evening begins to wear as our five companions make their way back in groups to the Pig tavern. First, the assassin, fighter and cleric; then not long after, the bard and thief. They find that the tavern is full of guests, as it is nearly every Sunday night, but that their beds have been faithfully kept by Helmunt. By the time they grow comfortable on their first ale at their usual table, the market stalls and goods are completely gone from the square; all that was being sold in the Merchant’s Hall is packed up and carried away until the following Sunday.
But the town is not quiet. A scaffold and stage have been set upon on the front steps of the cathedral facing the square. A small crowd has gathered to watch some of the preparations - a crowd that grows steadily larger, and includes both the poor and wealthy citizenry. While the party discusses the matters of the day (and they shall find the time to do that for themselves, while all that is described below will occur after, during or before their tale telling), a performance is staged.
It is a “mystery play.” Promoted, in this particular case, by the brewer’s guild of Dachau. The thrust of the drama is quite simple, and follows the tale of the good Samaritan. Only in this tale, a man is beaten for his goods by Turkish bandits on the road leading from Dachau to Augsburg. He begs for help from a Frenchman, who ignores him. Then he begs for the aid of an Italian, who likewise ignores him.
Finally, the man is found by a German, who immediately puts the poor fellow on his horse and takes him to his house, where he cares for him. And the robbed victim is discovered to be tremendously wealthy--he gives everything he owns to the German before parting from this world and finding salvation.
When the play ends (assuming it has not been interrupted by a thief thinking he will filch a purse or two), it is quite dark and the square is lit by torches alone. These are extinguished as the audience departs, until the only active place at all near the square is Helmunt’s humble abode. Soon, within an hour or so, Helmunt will close the tavern in accordance with the law, and all its residents will find their way to their beds in the common room upstairs.
But the town is not quiet. A scaffold and stage have been set upon on the front steps of the cathedral facing the square. A small crowd has gathered to watch some of the preparations - a crowd that grows steadily larger, and includes both the poor and wealthy citizenry. While the party discusses the matters of the day (and they shall find the time to do that for themselves, while all that is described below will occur after, during or before their tale telling), a performance is staged.
It is a “mystery play.” Promoted, in this particular case, by the brewer’s guild of Dachau. The thrust of the drama is quite simple, and follows the tale of the good Samaritan. Only in this tale, a man is beaten for his goods by Turkish bandits on the road leading from Dachau to Augsburg. He begs for help from a Frenchman, who ignores him. Then he begs for the aid of an Italian, who likewise ignores him.
Finally, the man is found by a German, who immediately puts the poor fellow on his horse and takes him to his house, where he cares for him. And the robbed victim is discovered to be tremendously wealthy--he gives everything he owns to the German before parting from this world and finding salvation.
When the play ends (assuming it has not been interrupted by a thief thinking he will filch a purse or two), it is quite dark and the square is lit by torches alone. These are extinguished as the audience departs, until the only active place at all near the square is Helmunt’s humble abode. Soon, within an hour or so, Helmunt will close the tavern in accordance with the law, and all its residents will find their way to their beds in the common room upstairs.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Campaign: The Cotter's Dinner
Anshelm and Delfig find the food simple but abundant and in excellent flavor, consisting predominantly of old potatoes, turnip greens, young birds eggs, dove, roasted dormice and fresh milk. This being the spring season, and the store of food from the previous autumn having been spent, there are no grains, nor the bread made of it, nor vegetables, nor fruits.
The smallish man, the head of the community, is named Emmanuel; he introduces you to the other men, whose names you’ve forgotten, and to the two women who were present earlier, Frieda and the pretty one, Suzanne. Suzanne is married to Emmanuel, and Frieda to one of the other men. These are the only members of the small hamlet, and you learn that four of the houses seen earlier are unoccupied.
Emmanuel gets quite angry when you mention the blockhouse. “Obvious?” he asks bitterly. “The town knows nothing about it. They’ve been told Jan and his wife were sympathizers who gave comfort to Protestants during the war. They were innkeepers! They gave comfort to whomever knocked on the door!”
Suzanne tries to soothe him but he won’t have it.
“It’s the war that’s done this,” Emmanuel says. “I’m naught but a cotter, and I’ve naught to do but tend the lord’s sheep and find what food I can, but I can say there’s an evil loose on the land. It’s these men taking pay for doing nothing. My father could remember when the men who owned and worked the land would rise in war to defend it—but those days are gone, and but in one generation. Now it’s the soldier, always the soldier, fighters with no master but the paymaster, who defend not the town but the purse of the town. Hired to fight the Protestants and now kept in hire to fight innocent innkeepers and their wives!”
Emmanuel stands up, needing more room to continue to rant.
“And who holds the purse? The merchants, that’s who! None of them landowners, none of them with a stake in this town nor any town, who gather their things with them whenever they wish to steal from us before moving on to steal from someone else. It’s they who dictate to the army, its they who pay the soldiers and feed the soldiers. If you go into the town, and you look in the town hall, do you know what you’ll find? There’s a notice there asking for more soldiers! For what I ask you? For the good of the peace? Not at all! For the good of destroying the peace, that’s what, to make more monsters to hulk out from the town and pillage the gentle folk here! God, I beg you, put an end to it! Deliver us from these money-loving sinners!”
He sits again, quite worn out, while Suzanne wets a cloth in the corner water barrel and wipes his forehead with it.
The smallish man, the head of the community, is named Emmanuel; he introduces you to the other men, whose names you’ve forgotten, and to the two women who were present earlier, Frieda and the pretty one, Suzanne. Suzanne is married to Emmanuel, and Frieda to one of the other men. These are the only members of the small hamlet, and you learn that four of the houses seen earlier are unoccupied.
Emmanuel gets quite angry when you mention the blockhouse. “Obvious?” he asks bitterly. “The town knows nothing about it. They’ve been told Jan and his wife were sympathizers who gave comfort to Protestants during the war. They were innkeepers! They gave comfort to whomever knocked on the door!”
Suzanne tries to soothe him but he won’t have it.
“It’s the war that’s done this,” Emmanuel says. “I’m naught but a cotter, and I’ve naught to do but tend the lord’s sheep and find what food I can, but I can say there’s an evil loose on the land. It’s these men taking pay for doing nothing. My father could remember when the men who owned and worked the land would rise in war to defend it—but those days are gone, and but in one generation. Now it’s the soldier, always the soldier, fighters with no master but the paymaster, who defend not the town but the purse of the town. Hired to fight the Protestants and now kept in hire to fight innocent innkeepers and their wives!”
Emmanuel stands up, needing more room to continue to rant.
“And who holds the purse? The merchants, that’s who! None of them landowners, none of them with a stake in this town nor any town, who gather their things with them whenever they wish to steal from us before moving on to steal from someone else. It’s they who dictate to the army, its they who pay the soldiers and feed the soldiers. If you go into the town, and you look in the town hall, do you know what you’ll find? There’s a notice there asking for more soldiers! For what I ask you? For the good of the peace? Not at all! For the good of destroying the peace, that’s what, to make more monsters to hulk out from the town and pillage the gentle folk here! God, I beg you, put an end to it! Deliver us from these money-loving sinners!”
He sits again, quite worn out, while Suzanne wets a cloth in the corner water barrel and wipes his forehead with it.
Campaign: The Dachau Courthouse
There is very little going on in the market square as the afternoon progresses into the evening. Many of the produce stalls are closed, and goods are loaded up in wagons in front of the market hall. The sun will set at a quarter of eight, so many hours from now.
Josef and Kazimir have had little luck, if they have tried at all, to discover the whereabouts or situation regarding Tiberius—only to discover, quite suddenly, that someone has aroused the judge into his chambers so that the prisoner can be presented at court at five bells. They have time to arrive and gather in the events.
Tiberius has had a fairly comfortable stay in one of the jail cells; as a mage, his hands have remained cuffed, but he has been fed, given water, a stuffed straw mattress to lie on. Upon being put into his cell, Tiberius hears the jailer remark, “Get comfortable. They’ll likely forget about you.
A cleric-monk appears about an hour later, speaks very little to Tiberius. He takes the time to cast a few spells, none of which Tiberius could be familiar with, before taking his leave.
At the quarter chime before the fifth hour, the jailer reappears with two guards. “You must be one of the lucky ones,” he says. “Got some friends in court, have you?”
Tiberius is taken into the court room, a small affair barely twenty feet by fifteen, with an imposing, raised desk and a wrought iron pillar affixed to the stone floor, to which Tiberius’ manacles are attached. There are four guards, the judge, a well-attired gentleman and both Josef and Kazimir in the room. The latter two were admitted only a few minutes before Tiberius was brought in. The stranger, Josef and Kazimir sit on a narrow, rude bench along one wall. Tiberius can’t help feeling the stranger is oddly familiar.
“This is the prisoner from the Merchant Guild Hall?” asks the judge?
Any attempt by Tiberius to speak will be quickly dealt with—Tiberius, being a bright fellow and having watched prisoners in the dock, wisely keeps his mouth shut.
“Yes, your Honor.”
“And who speaks for this man?”
The stranger rises. “I do.”
“You may proceed.”
“Your honor. I was present at the dinner in the Merchant’s Hall when this man’s honor was astoundingly and insultingly impugned by the action of the Hall’s concierge. The very idea that this man could stand in a public place and prepare to throw a spell in such a manner is utterly ridiculous and fully fantastical. This man is a well-known figure in the business world in Graz, in Syria, and is in the employ of the Baron von Furstenfeld, an upstanding gentleman and one of the Electoral College of the Empire, your honor. His faithfulness to the crown, to the wellbeing of his fellow man and to God is indisputable. I demand that compensation be made for this unforgivable attack!”
Tiberius is staring closely at the man—and then realizes from where he knows him. Some five years ago, the stranger—name of Johann Mizer, bought seven horses from the Baron. Tiberius remembers himself, Adelbert, closing the deal. He remembers too that one of the horses was half-blind, something the Baron chose not to mention.
The judge clears his throat. “I have spoken to the concierge. He feels he cannot be mistaken.”
“He must be,” says Johann.
“Adelbert Volkmann,” intones the Judge. “You have been examined by Father Durer and been found not to be a serious threat to the town of Dachau or any of the citizens therein. A writ has been found on your person, also, providing you with free passage through the Duchy of Bavaria. For these reasons it is decided that you shall not be given over to the Inquisition for further examination. This court believes that you could not have intended to throw a spell. Normally, you would be fined ten gold pieces and expelled from the town gates, but I will take under advisement the word of a celebrated and respected member of our community and suspend this sentence. You are free to go.”
Josef and Kazimir have had little luck, if they have tried at all, to discover the whereabouts or situation regarding Tiberius—only to discover, quite suddenly, that someone has aroused the judge into his chambers so that the prisoner can be presented at court at five bells. They have time to arrive and gather in the events.
Tiberius has had a fairly comfortable stay in one of the jail cells; as a mage, his hands have remained cuffed, but he has been fed, given water, a stuffed straw mattress to lie on. Upon being put into his cell, Tiberius hears the jailer remark, “Get comfortable. They’ll likely forget about you.
A cleric-monk appears about an hour later, speaks very little to Tiberius. He takes the time to cast a few spells, none of which Tiberius could be familiar with, before taking his leave.
At the quarter chime before the fifth hour, the jailer reappears with two guards. “You must be one of the lucky ones,” he says. “Got some friends in court, have you?”
Tiberius is taken into the court room, a small affair barely twenty feet by fifteen, with an imposing, raised desk and a wrought iron pillar affixed to the stone floor, to which Tiberius’ manacles are attached. There are four guards, the judge, a well-attired gentleman and both Josef and Kazimir in the room. The latter two were admitted only a few minutes before Tiberius was brought in. The stranger, Josef and Kazimir sit on a narrow, rude bench along one wall. Tiberius can’t help feeling the stranger is oddly familiar.
“This is the prisoner from the Merchant Guild Hall?” asks the judge?
Any attempt by Tiberius to speak will be quickly dealt with—Tiberius, being a bright fellow and having watched prisoners in the dock, wisely keeps his mouth shut.
“Yes, your Honor.”
“And who speaks for this man?”
The stranger rises. “I do.”
“You may proceed.”
“Your honor. I was present at the dinner in the Merchant’s Hall when this man’s honor was astoundingly and insultingly impugned by the action of the Hall’s concierge. The very idea that this man could stand in a public place and prepare to throw a spell in such a manner is utterly ridiculous and fully fantastical. This man is a well-known figure in the business world in Graz, in Syria, and is in the employ of the Baron von Furstenfeld, an upstanding gentleman and one of the Electoral College of the Empire, your honor. His faithfulness to the crown, to the wellbeing of his fellow man and to God is indisputable. I demand that compensation be made for this unforgivable attack!”
Tiberius is staring closely at the man—and then realizes from where he knows him. Some five years ago, the stranger—name of Johann Mizer, bought seven horses from the Baron. Tiberius remembers himself, Adelbert, closing the deal. He remembers too that one of the horses was half-blind, something the Baron chose not to mention.
The judge clears his throat. “I have spoken to the concierge. He feels he cannot be mistaken.”
“He must be,” says Johann.
“Adelbert Volkmann,” intones the Judge. “You have been examined by Father Durer and been found not to be a serious threat to the town of Dachau or any of the citizens therein. A writ has been found on your person, also, providing you with free passage through the Duchy of Bavaria. For these reasons it is decided that you shall not be given over to the Inquisition for further examination. This court believes that you could not have intended to throw a spell. Normally, you would be fined ten gold pieces and expelled from the town gates, but I will take under advisement the word of a celebrated and respected member of our community and suspend this sentence. You are free to go.”
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Campaign: North Gate
Upon stepping from the town gates, you see the quite beautiful vista made that is the countryside north of Dachau, the road winding up into a low string of hills before descending, just beyond, into the valley of the Danube. To your right, you can see the narrow valley of the Amper, the small stream that flows through Dachau, which will lead down into the valley of the Isar. Not far away, to the left, you can see a grove of apple trees, interplanted with hawthorne and cranberry bushes. The road itself passes through a dry, flat pastureland, where move some seventy cattle tended by a number of herders, townsfolk who bring their animals out of the town in the morning and let them feed before returning them at dusk.
Some hundred yards away you see a stone blockhouse, some twenty feet high and much larger than an ordinary house. There appear to be no windows, nor shutters, only empty cavities where both ought to be. As you approach, you can see a scaffold that has been attached to the front of the structure, from which hangs a man and a woman. You would guess that both have been hanging there for two, perhaps three days. You can see now that the building has been burned out, for charcoal scars, nearly the same color as the stone, score the hard granite above the windows and the entranceway.
There is naught upon the road but a farmer and his wagon, but a quarter full of hay, which is steadily approaching the town from a few hundred yards distant. But a single stile fence runs along the right side of the road for a hundred feet past the town’s gate, and you see three young boys, not yet ten, sitting there. For a moment, you remember what it was like to be a boy.
Some hundred yards away you see a stone blockhouse, some twenty feet high and much larger than an ordinary house. There appear to be no windows, nor shutters, only empty cavities where both ought to be. As you approach, you can see a scaffold that has been attached to the front of the structure, from which hangs a man and a woman. You would guess that both have been hanging there for two, perhaps three days. You can see now that the building has been burned out, for charcoal scars, nearly the same color as the stone, score the hard granite above the windows and the entranceway.
There is naught upon the road but a farmer and his wagon, but a quarter full of hay, which is steadily approaching the town from a few hundred yards distant. But a single stile fence runs along the right side of the road for a hundred feet past the town’s gate, and you see three young boys, not yet ten, sitting there. For a moment, you remember what it was like to be a boy.
Campaign: Market Hall
You step into the Market Hall, to find a great space, some sixty feet long and thirty feet wide. There are many stalls set up, selling salt, beer, snuff, wine, carved wooden toys, parchment, glasswares and brass instruments, all the luxury goods made in Dachau. A twin line of pillars, surmounted by great arches holding up the twenty-foot ceiling, stand between the tables and frames supporting various goods which are hung on display. Straw has been scattered over the floor, as here and there goats, pigs and chickens roam freely between the tables along with both the patrons and artisans. These are not the merchants of the guild; the main floor is opened each Sunday for those craftsmen and peddlers who work in shops in the hills surrounding the town, who must have a protected place to sell their valuables.
At each end of the hall are a flight of stairs, without railings, which follow the end walls up into the ceiling. At the bottom of each lounge three guards, while one stands ostensibly at attention.
On the pillar nearest to the door where you enter is a notice board. On it is nailed a piece of parchment which reads, “The town Brux herewith annouces that a price guarantee will be granted for beef at 3,231 gold pieces per ton. This guarantee is valid for a delivery that arrives no later than the first day of June”
Above that is a second notice, which reads, “The town of Dachau seeks a company of soldiers who will perform duties in the defense of those good families that dwell within. There is need for no less than thirty men, well-equipped, led by a learned gentleman of quality standing. The weekly pay shall be 347 gold pieces”
And above that, a third notice, which reads, “The Lord Mayor’s election is to take place on the 24 May 1650. The following citizens have been nominated to date: The competant Lord Mayor Martin Folkes. The competant Councillor Erich Kinski. The competant Patrician Eduard Johannsen. The experience Patrician Eberhardt Hornung”
At the very bottom of these notices is a small wooden carved sign which reads, “Especially recommended today in the guild hall, Chicken pate with a good plum puree”
At each end of the hall are a flight of stairs, without railings, which follow the end walls up into the ceiling. At the bottom of each lounge three guards, while one stands ostensibly at attention.
On the pillar nearest to the door where you enter is a notice board. On it is nailed a piece of parchment which reads, “The town Brux herewith annouces that a price guarantee will be granted for beef at 3,231 gold pieces per ton. This guarantee is valid for a delivery that arrives no later than the first day of June”
Above that is a second notice, which reads, “The town of Dachau seeks a company of soldiers who will perform duties in the defense of those good families that dwell within. There is need for no less than thirty men, well-equipped, led by a learned gentleman of quality standing. The weekly pay shall be 347 gold pieces”
And above that, a third notice, which reads, “The Lord Mayor’s election is to take place on the 24 May 1650. The following citizens have been nominated to date: The competant Lord Mayor Martin Folkes. The competant Councillor Erich Kinski. The competant Patrician Eduard Johannsen. The experience Patrician Eberhardt Hornung”
At the very bottom of these notices is a small wooden carved sign which reads, “Especially recommended today in the guild hall, Chicken pate with a good plum puree”
An Ordinary Word About Non-humans
Well, I managed to get the thing off the ground, and it looks like it just might work out.
But I also think that from time to time I’ll have to make an effort to still produce an ordinary blog entry, or else I might lose everyone not actually running in the campaign.
It would be difficult at this time for any such entry to not mention the current events, or to avoid making comments about. Yes, we might all overdose if this becomes the only topic of conversation, but I can’t resist making a few comments.
I was talking to my daughter about a few circumstances of the campaign, expressing my surprise that out of five characters, four chose to be humans. I can’t remember how long its been since humans outnumbered demi-humans in a party…but my daughter simply shrugged her shoulders and said, “That’s a 3rd edition thing.”
She has had experience with 3rd edition that I haven’t had, since I’ve never played it and she did, all through high school. Apparently, 3rd punished the crap out of non-human players in some effort to balance the game, so that it became impractical to play elves and dwarves. Now, I know nothing about it, that’s just what I’m told.
I more or less came to the conclusion years ago that elves, dwarves and so on had benefits which Gygax chose to balance by allowing humans unlimited levels and denying these to demi-humans. It was obvious early on that this was going to create a great deal of discontent—although I had little experience with it, as my campaigns tended to create players who would struggle hard to get to be tenth or eleventh level, then lose interest. That might have been because it usually took three years of steady running to get to be name level—mine is not an easy world. But I liked that every session was not about experience and my players seemed to appreciate each level all the more for having to actually earn them.
But getting back to the human/demi-human thing. Part of what I did to balance out the game was simply to apply a part of my world towards the difficulties of being a dwarf or a gnome in a predominantly human world. Since virtually every government in civilized Europe or Asia was monopolized by humans, who vastly outnumbered demi-humans, an elven character could expect to be treated with mistrust, antipathy or outright hatred, depending on what part of the world they were. After all, a human, two dwarves and an elf enter the Islamic court in Damascus…which do you think the Sultan will be inclined to lend an ear to?
This never stopped my players from choosing to play elves or dwarves. My offline campaign has only four humans among the twelve principal characters and henchmen (run by five players), and despite the occasional racist reactions they receive, they’re generally happy to be the race they are. After all, parties tend to be insular from the world itself; they learn to trust each other, not NPCs, so that a pervasive us-vs.-them attitude reflects in every action and interaction they take.
I haven’t ever played out a scene where a group of bigoted humans abused or harassed a player on account of their race. Rather, I have most of my humans take a fairly sullen and passive stance. “We don’t bother ‘dem, and dey don’t bother us” is the general rule.
But lately I have instituted the format where humans have slightly more hit points, which has seemed to work. As a result, I have relaxed, somewhat, the discord I once employed.
As I said, I can’t guess what 3rd edition did. I’ve looked through the 3rd edition books, but not at the character descriptions, as a few paragraphs of each seemed to give them an unnaturally high amount of power at a low level. And I can’t recall ever reading anything about demi-humans. So I suppose I shall have to find a source and see.
One last word about the blog itself. I recognize that the prevailing attitude will be that posting into the campaign as a kibitzer will seem inappropriate and annoying. I feel myself that the occasional interjection couldn’t hurt—and that if it actually was inappropriate, it could be deleted as necessary. But these players too are exposing themselves and their playing methods to the general public, and it wouldn’t hurt to give them a word or two of praise when it’s deserved. You are, after all, their peers…and I’m sure they’d like your insight on what they’ve done or how it might affect your own playing styles in the future.
All I ask is that you don’t tell them to do this, or that. Everything else ought to be out and on the table.
But I also think that from time to time I’ll have to make an effort to still produce an ordinary blog entry, or else I might lose everyone not actually running in the campaign.
It would be difficult at this time for any such entry to not mention the current events, or to avoid making comments about. Yes, we might all overdose if this becomes the only topic of conversation, but I can’t resist making a few comments.
I was talking to my daughter about a few circumstances of the campaign, expressing my surprise that out of five characters, four chose to be humans. I can’t remember how long its been since humans outnumbered demi-humans in a party…but my daughter simply shrugged her shoulders and said, “That’s a 3rd edition thing.”
She has had experience with 3rd edition that I haven’t had, since I’ve never played it and she did, all through high school. Apparently, 3rd punished the crap out of non-human players in some effort to balance the game, so that it became impractical to play elves and dwarves. Now, I know nothing about it, that’s just what I’m told.
I more or less came to the conclusion years ago that elves, dwarves and so on had benefits which Gygax chose to balance by allowing humans unlimited levels and denying these to demi-humans. It was obvious early on that this was going to create a great deal of discontent—although I had little experience with it, as my campaigns tended to create players who would struggle hard to get to be tenth or eleventh level, then lose interest. That might have been because it usually took three years of steady running to get to be name level—mine is not an easy world. But I liked that every session was not about experience and my players seemed to appreciate each level all the more for having to actually earn them.
But getting back to the human/demi-human thing. Part of what I did to balance out the game was simply to apply a part of my world towards the difficulties of being a dwarf or a gnome in a predominantly human world. Since virtually every government in civilized Europe or Asia was monopolized by humans, who vastly outnumbered demi-humans, an elven character could expect to be treated with mistrust, antipathy or outright hatred, depending on what part of the world they were. After all, a human, two dwarves and an elf enter the Islamic court in Damascus…which do you think the Sultan will be inclined to lend an ear to?
This never stopped my players from choosing to play elves or dwarves. My offline campaign has only four humans among the twelve principal characters and henchmen (run by five players), and despite the occasional racist reactions they receive, they’re generally happy to be the race they are. After all, parties tend to be insular from the world itself; they learn to trust each other, not NPCs, so that a pervasive us-vs.-them attitude reflects in every action and interaction they take.
I haven’t ever played out a scene where a group of bigoted humans abused or harassed a player on account of their race. Rather, I have most of my humans take a fairly sullen and passive stance. “We don’t bother ‘dem, and dey don’t bother us” is the general rule.
But lately I have instituted the format where humans have slightly more hit points, which has seemed to work. As a result, I have relaxed, somewhat, the discord I once employed.
As I said, I can’t guess what 3rd edition did. I’ve looked through the 3rd edition books, but not at the character descriptions, as a few paragraphs of each seemed to give them an unnaturally high amount of power at a low level. And I can’t recall ever reading anything about demi-humans. So I suppose I shall have to find a source and see.
One last word about the blog itself. I recognize that the prevailing attitude will be that posting into the campaign as a kibitzer will seem inappropriate and annoying. I feel myself that the occasional interjection couldn’t hurt—and that if it actually was inappropriate, it could be deleted as necessary. But these players too are exposing themselves and their playing methods to the general public, and it wouldn’t hurt to give them a word or two of praise when it’s deserved. You are, after all, their peers…and I’m sure they’d like your insight on what they’ve done or how it might affect your own playing styles in the future.
All I ask is that you don’t tell them to do this, or that. Everything else ought to be out and on the table.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Campaign: Getting Started
Even though Kazimir hasn’t put his character up on his blog yet, that’s fine. I don’t need those details in order to get started. This should be an interesting experiment. Feel free to input your character’s actions; I’ll answer questions or add description as needed, until there’s enough of a change in circumstance to warrant a new blog post.
It is early afternoon on a Sunday, May 5, 1650. Four of you are resting yourselves on the porch of a town gasthaus, the Pig, at the corner where a narrow lane meets with the town square. You‘re waiting for your friend Kazimir to arrive. Not long ago, you watched the usual scattering of most of the citizenry from the town cathedral’s doors from your usual place across the square…whereupon the gasthaus threw open its doors for business. A number of stalls and tables were quickly erected by teams of young boys in the employ of their merchant masters, a goodly number of them against the side wall of the church, where you can the usual piles of vegetables and sacks. Various less blessed members of the town are picking them over, haggling with the sellers and stuffing their bought wares into sacks to be hauled off to the various common quarters of the town.
The bartender, Helmunt, fills your drinks at no charge. Upon an agreement, the four of you have been given the privilege of drinking free in exchange for your endorsement, your willingness to put an end to any trouble and the simple fact that you represent the higher end of Helmunt’s clients. He has hopes that your presence on his front stoop might expose the quality of his kitchen to a few of the better members of the town.
You’re bored. This has been the routine for nearly two months now. You four, Tiberius, Josef, Delfig and Anshelm, met on a cold morning in mid-spring (for the region), finding yourselves all stranger, fairly compatible with one another and equally of the opinion that many of the vicissitudes of life are unappreciated by most. At the moment, however, you could stand a few more changes than there have been.
But it is a fine day; May Day celebrations were four days ago. The Bishop of Friesing, the nominal lord of the town, along with Dachau’s burghermeister, gave a fine festival--and since, all of you have been fairly restless. The discussions around the table have suggested a number of reasons for this…that you can’t stay in this dull town forever. That it is these ridiculous Catholics with their fascinations with guilt and sin. That a small taste of the outside world has whet your appetites. But what to do now is left to your minds to conceive. So far, there has been little luck there.
It is early afternoon on a Sunday, May 5, 1650. Four of you are resting yourselves on the porch of a town gasthaus, the Pig, at the corner where a narrow lane meets with the town square. You‘re waiting for your friend Kazimir to arrive. Not long ago, you watched the usual scattering of most of the citizenry from the town cathedral’s doors from your usual place across the square…whereupon the gasthaus threw open its doors for business. A number of stalls and tables were quickly erected by teams of young boys in the employ of their merchant masters, a goodly number of them against the side wall of the church, where you can the usual piles of vegetables and sacks. Various less blessed members of the town are picking them over, haggling with the sellers and stuffing their bought wares into sacks to be hauled off to the various common quarters of the town.
The bartender, Helmunt, fills your drinks at no charge. Upon an agreement, the four of you have been given the privilege of drinking free in exchange for your endorsement, your willingness to put an end to any trouble and the simple fact that you represent the higher end of Helmunt’s clients. He has hopes that your presence on his front stoop might expose the quality of his kitchen to a few of the better members of the town.
You’re bored. This has been the routine for nearly two months now. You four, Tiberius, Josef, Delfig and Anshelm, met on a cold morning in mid-spring (for the region), finding yourselves all stranger, fairly compatible with one another and equally of the opinion that many of the vicissitudes of life are unappreciated by most. At the moment, however, you could stand a few more changes than there have been.
But it is a fine day; May Day celebrations were four days ago. The Bishop of Friesing, the nominal lord of the town, along with Dachau’s burghermeister, gave a fine festival--and since, all of you have been fairly restless. The discussions around the table have suggested a number of reasons for this…that you can’t stay in this dull town forever. That it is these ridiculous Catholics with their fascinations with guilt and sin. That a small taste of the outside world has whet your appetites. But what to do now is left to your minds to conceive. So far, there has been little luck there.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Campaign: Last Pause
I've seen four of your characters set up; it's great that I can have a look at them. Kazimir has been held up on being able to set up his character, so we'll give him tonight to get a start on it. Not his fault, of course.
Tomorrow sometime I'll begin posting the actual campaign. It's not going to start off hardcore, in the middle of a combat, so Kazimir should have time to catch up any last details by tomorrow or by the end of Wednesday.
Until then.
Tomorrow sometime I'll begin posting the actual campaign. It's not going to start off hardcore, in the middle of a combat, so Kazimir should have time to catch up any last details by tomorrow or by the end of Wednesday.
Until then.
Kazimir Kropt
Str: 15
Int: 12
Wis: 10
Con: 16
Dex: 13
Chr: 8
HP: 9
Kazimir was born, on February 5, 1609, on the Cumana Steppes, near the town of Sumi. Like many cross-bred half-orcs, his ancestry reaches back to the time of the Mongols, four centuries ago; not he, nor his family, has any specific recollection of a pure-bred orc as an ancestor. Kazimir comes from a large family: last he knew, both his parents were yet alive, and his paternal grandfather and maternal grandmother. He is the youngest of six children; he has three older sisters and two older brothers.
And yet Kazimir has not seen his family for seven years. He would not follow his father into the family’s occupation (his father was a rat catcher), and he would not place himself as a soldier nor let himself be apprenticed to any of his uncles. He has, through most of his life, found nothing to interest him. When his family grew sick of his laziness, they cast him out. For many years he lived on the streets of the city of Sumi, then later in Mutrakan, capital of Cumana, where he learned the stealth needed to stay alive.
But even as he turned thirty, he continued to drift, directionless. For a time he worked as a laborer, sometimes as a collector for usurers, more often as a ruffian in the employ of some thieves’ guild.
Although he’s lived many long years in the worst places, he has always suffered less than others; he has a profound tolerance for the effects of hunger and dehydration, being able to live for weeks at a time on half the provisions of an ordinary man. This was nearly his downfall...for he developed a taste for hard liquor, which after became an obsession. One night in Odessa, again out of work, with no one to turn to, he began drinking heavily.
Five years later he found himself in a tavern in Innsbruck. He has almost no recollection of what passed in those years. Asking the innkeeper for a drink, a stranger offered him as many bottles as Kazimir wanted if he would only be willing to help them—Kazimir agreed. The plan was to murder a butcher who had refused to pay money to the assassin’s guild. Kazimir was supposed to enter his shop and distract him—but the assassin failed and the butcher caught him a lucky blow with a meat cleaver. Kazimir, to his own surprise, seized the butcher and smashed his head on the butcher’s block.
Kazimir liked it.
The assassin’s guild took him in, taught him a thing or two in gratitude and released him. Kazimir cleaned himself up and, for a time at least, hasn’t had a drink. Upon an agreement with the guild in Innsbruck, he has made his way north into Bavaria, and wonders how he shall set himself up as a professional killer.
A serious obstacle is his inability to make a leap of more than four feet, due to a strange quirk in his balance and a feeling of vertigo he has when is feet leave the ground—which has kept him off roofs for the time being. His father and grandfather’s experience with rats has given Kazimir a +1 save against poison, which has proven a boon.
Kazimir is 41 years old. He stands six-foot-two, which is tall for a half-orc, and is 183 lbs. He has deep crimson-brown eyes which have always been compelling, despite his less than attractive appearance. Thankfully he does not have the skin disease so common among his people. Kazimir has learned that a trapped and helpless victim, looking into Kazimir’s eyes, will pause—giving the half-second necessary for the death strike.
He has 20 g.p. in his pocket.
Int: 12
Wis: 10
Con: 16
Dex: 13
Chr: 8
HP: 9
Kazimir was born, on February 5, 1609, on the Cumana Steppes, near the town of Sumi. Like many cross-bred half-orcs, his ancestry reaches back to the time of the Mongols, four centuries ago; not he, nor his family, has any specific recollection of a pure-bred orc as an ancestor. Kazimir comes from a large family: last he knew, both his parents were yet alive, and his paternal grandfather and maternal grandmother. He is the youngest of six children; he has three older sisters and two older brothers.
And yet Kazimir has not seen his family for seven years. He would not follow his father into the family’s occupation (his father was a rat catcher), and he would not place himself as a soldier nor let himself be apprenticed to any of his uncles. He has, through most of his life, found nothing to interest him. When his family grew sick of his laziness, they cast him out. For many years he lived on the streets of the city of Sumi, then later in Mutrakan, capital of Cumana, where he learned the stealth needed to stay alive.
But even as he turned thirty, he continued to drift, directionless. For a time he worked as a laborer, sometimes as a collector for usurers, more often as a ruffian in the employ of some thieves’ guild.
Although he’s lived many long years in the worst places, he has always suffered less than others; he has a profound tolerance for the effects of hunger and dehydration, being able to live for weeks at a time on half the provisions of an ordinary man. This was nearly his downfall...for he developed a taste for hard liquor, which after became an obsession. One night in Odessa, again out of work, with no one to turn to, he began drinking heavily.
Five years later he found himself in a tavern in Innsbruck. He has almost no recollection of what passed in those years. Asking the innkeeper for a drink, a stranger offered him as many bottles as Kazimir wanted if he would only be willing to help them—Kazimir agreed. The plan was to murder a butcher who had refused to pay money to the assassin’s guild. Kazimir was supposed to enter his shop and distract him—but the assassin failed and the butcher caught him a lucky blow with a meat cleaver. Kazimir, to his own surprise, seized the butcher and smashed his head on the butcher’s block.
Kazimir liked it.
The assassin’s guild took him in, taught him a thing or two in gratitude and released him. Kazimir cleaned himself up and, for a time at least, hasn’t had a drink. Upon an agreement with the guild in Innsbruck, he has made his way north into Bavaria, and wonders how he shall set himself up as a professional killer.
A serious obstacle is his inability to make a leap of more than four feet, due to a strange quirk in his balance and a feeling of vertigo he has when is feet leave the ground—which has kept him off roofs for the time being. His father and grandfather’s experience with rats has given Kazimir a +1 save against poison, which has proven a boon.
Kazimir is 41 years old. He stands six-foot-two, which is tall for a half-orc, and is 183 lbs. He has deep crimson-brown eyes which have always been compelling, despite his less than attractive appearance. Thankfully he does not have the skin disease so common among his people. Kazimir has learned that a trapped and helpless victim, looking into Kazimir’s eyes, will pause—giving the half-second necessary for the death strike.
He has 20 g.p. in his pocket.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Small Successes
Well, despite the in-fighting that marred the after division of treasure, that went on for two and a half hours and left most of those who played in a fitful state of repressed discontent, at least one thing went right last night.
I threw an 8 HD, 210 hp polar worm (built according to my system) at the party and it survived for 14 rounds before going down.
Except for the fact that I was phenomenally unlucky (twice, on 6d6, I rolled damage that included 4 "1"s), and that I did not get to roll a 20 and permanently kill a member of the party, the fear level was everything I could hope for and the usual "swarming" the giant monster was held at a minimum. Twas fun.
I threw an 8 HD, 210 hp polar worm (built according to my system) at the party and it survived for 14 rounds before going down.
Except for the fact that I was phenomenally unlucky (twice, on 6d6, I rolled damage that included 4 "1"s), and that I did not get to roll a 20 and permanently kill a member of the party, the fear level was everything I could hope for and the usual "swarming" the giant monster was held at a minimum. Twas fun.
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