Being a chronicle of my experiences in the murky world of "old school" roleplaying, wargaming
and Miniature Painting. Likely to feature games of Dungeons and Dragons, Tomorrow's War, OSRIC,
Harnmaster, Warhammer Ancients, Retinue and All Things Zombie.
Tonight was the tenth session of our OSRIC campaign. For the folks out there who don't tend to read actual play reports (the vast majority of you) the characters are trapped in the lower levels of a dungeon which they know to be infested with doppelgangers, madmen and cannibals. Without spoiling things too much, I'd placed an encounter with an NPC party in the dungeon, an encounter which, if played correctly, would have netted the party some much needed allies. I'd even foreshadowed this potential encounter by mentioning this missing group repeatedly in the last few sessions.
Instead, when the encounter happened, the players fluffed it. They made a heck of a lot of noise outside the room in which the NPC party (or rather, it's remnants) had made camp. The result being that they were ambushed with a sleep spell the moment they actually managed to open the door. Not unnaturally, their characters awoke bound and stripped in a dark room where they were interrogated by a understandably very jumpy NPC Magic User and his two surviving hirelings. All they had to do to prove they weren't doppelgangers or crazed dungeon residents to this NPC was answer a simple question: "Who sent you?"
Despite the fact that this NPC's name has come up in every single one of the previous nine sessions, not one of the players could remember the name. Not one. So the NPC killed one of them (randomly selected by dice roll) to jog their memory. And as it happened, the PC in question was the one character whose loss they could least afford.
Now, if we weren't specifically played an Old School game, and I hadn't specifically set out in advance that I would be unleashing a ruthless DM style on my players before hand, I would naturally have allowed the players to make an Intelligence check to see if their character could remember. Especially given that most of the players have been playing less than a year.
But I didn't. I didn't allow them the int check because:
We're now ten sessions into the campaign and the name they were asked to remember has come up every session.
I've been repeatedly banging on about how it's not my job to remember things on their behalf.
The last time they forgot the name of an important NPC (just last session) I specifically warned my players that they needed to either start keeping better notes or else play closer attention to the actual play notes I post after each session.
Even so, these are rookie players after all. Had the character died from a save or die roll or a monster that would be fine. Yet I can't help but wonder if I crossed over into arbitrary ass-hat-kill-territory. The end result is that I feel, frankly, like a bit of a s**t. Have I been too harsh on my rookie players?
Christian and quite a few other guys out there in the blogverse have been commenting lately on the dearth of World of Darkness posts. So I thought I'd include one here. This is the players handout I designed to kick off a new WOD campaign in my home city that never quite got off the ground. It was designed to take into account that three of the potential players were not native to Scotland and none of the players very were clued up on the local police. As you can probably gather from the sheer amount of "cop-talk" provided, the local police were going to feature quite heavily in the campaign.
WOD
Glasgow:
The Mean
City Chronicles
Campaign Theme Song:
(taken from the classic Glasgow cop show, "Taggart")
Overview of Glasgow:
Glasgow is the Murder and Violent Crime Capital of Europe. The Knife-Crime Capital of the World.
Fact.
Oh sure, every few years some other city, swept up in gang-war or major riots, borrows one or another of it's bloody crowns, but Glasgow is Europe's Mean City. And in the World of Darkness, it's even meaner.
So what is Glasgow?
Glasgow is a European City of Culture. Glasgow is a European City of Architecture. Glasgow is a European City of Music and Literature. Glasgow is a decaying cesspit of vice, drugs and corruption. Half a mile from the City Centre, often referred to by the inhabitants simply as, “the town” , crumbling tower blocks called “high-rise flats” house the dregs of humanity:“neds”, “junkie's” and petty criminals all jumbled up with those too poor, too old or too stubborn to move. A hundred yards from the famous Citizen's Theatre, gangs of youths batter and stab one another with improvised weapons while grannies shamble past the fray with their bags of cat food and cheap bread, hoping to avoid notice.
Glasgow is a city of many contradictions: called “the dear green place,” for it's many parks – at least one for every city grid square on a 1:50,000 map- it is also a “recovering” Industrial City. Once the ship-building capital of the world, it's 117 ship-yards are now reduced to a bare three. “Rejuvenation” has turned the once-detritus ridden banks of the Clyde into cycle-paths and business parks, but paedophiles, rapists and muggers still haunt the dark places along it's banks at night. Anti-pollution measures mean that Salmon once again swim the waters of the Kelvin and swans hunt in the Clyde itself for their dinner. Yet not fifty yards from the Clyde, the Festival Park's children's play-area is vandalised and demolished, the decorative pond choked with weeds and rubbish. It's bushes home to junkies shooting-up while children play in the dirt nearby.
Glasgow is a city of learning – it's many colleges and universities (some over five hundred years old) attract students and professors from as far afield as China, New Zealand and Japan. Yet while physics students play with the atom in their university-owned reactor, the high-school across the way struggles with discipline issues and over-large class sizes, its bitter and over-worked teachers yearning for the days of birch and belt. Each one wondering which of them will be next to feel the sharp-pain of steel grating upon rib when a recalcitrant pupil plunges a blade into their flesh.
Glasgow is a city of conflict: though peace reigns in Northern Ireland, Orange-men march their flute bands through Glasgow's Catholic areas to celebrate victories three centuries old and Hibernian marchers respond in kind. Several times a year, the cities rival football (“soccer”) teams, protestant-backed Rangers and catholic-supported Celtic; clash in one of the cities many stadium, sometimes resulting in blood-shed, always affecting the mood of the city. The “town's” many bars and nightclubs are a dangerous place on match night. But tensions do not persist simply between protestant and catholic alone. Muslims, who have lived in the city for generations, complain of ll-treatment and abuses exceeding any they have experienced before. Angry Iraqi refugees, feeling that the city somehow owes them something for the mess in Iraq, steal and cheat and fight, while their uncles and cousins who fled Saddam in '79 look on in horror, decrying the “bad name” with which these newcomers tarnish their own families. Organised Crime families murder their rivals in broad-daylight, outside schools, pubs and super-markets while horrified children look on. Gangs of youths, some as young as eleven or twelve, tank-up on drugs and booze before heading off to battle with knives and bottles against children from across the street. And on the darkest nights, when the moon is full, the Pure wage their eternal war against the Forsaken.
Glasgow is an ancient city, with hospitals, schools,universities, monuments and even pubs (“bars”) older than the nations of the new world. Yet by the standards of Europe and the Middle East it is but an infant -an upstart town settled in the 11th century. It is Scotland's largest city. The third largest in the UK. Yet it is not even capital of Scotland. Glasgow is a city of schizophrenia. Glasgow is a city at war with itself.
The Police:
Glasgow's police belong to three different forces: Strathclyde Police (responsible for most of Western Scotland as far north as the Highlands and as far south as the Border), the British Transport Police (who police the rail and subway trains, lines, and stations) and the Ministry of Defence (MOD police) who protect the airports and various military facilities. On rare occasions, the British Nuclear Authority Police are also present, but only when escorting nuclear materials to and from power stations and the naval base at Faslane, near the mouth of the Clyde.
All are over-worked and under-appreciated, tied up with too much paperwork leaving too little time for actual policing. Given the city's violent crime rate, a critic would be forgiven for thinking the police are ineffective, but, except where violence is concerned, the Glasgow's overall crime rate is low. The problem is not a lack of police on the streets arresting criminals, the problem is a lack of any prison cells in which to keep them. In any given month, more Glaswegian criminals will be arrested and detained in police custody prior to court on Monday than there are actual prison cells to keep them in. Criminals with as many as fifty or sixty previous conviction's are released back into the public domain, sometimes with three or even four bail conditions stacked up against them, to commit yet more crimes while the angry police look on, helpless.
Glasgow's police are frustrated, their tempers on the boil. Perhaps then, it is just as well that the average beat constable has no access to firearms. However, that is changing. While until now most police have been armed only with Baton and CS Spray; protected only by a stab-vest (with minimal ballistic protection), some Glasgow sub-divisions (precincts) are issuing even ordinary beat officers with tazers.
Actual firearm's cops in Glasgow are rare and highly trained. In Glasgow, most serve with Strathclyde Police, belonging either to the Tactical Firearms Unit, the Armed Response Unit or the VIP Protection group. Perversely, to join one of these units a constable must demonstrate at least some knowledge of handguns without actually expressing any interest in the firearms themselves. A classic Catch 22. As a result, most armed officers are former members of the armed services or sports rifle-shooters. Strathclyde's armed police do not ordinarily patrol the streets- they await the call to a firearms or a hostage incident. This lack of ordinary police-work means they have a great deal of time on their hands – time spent on the ranges or in the gym, making them the equal of many regular army units in terms of marksmanship and physical endurance. Strathclyde police do not have the only armed officers in Glasgow, however. The MOD police are also armed -these are the H&K toting cops whom tourists meet in airports. The Nuclear Police, for obvious reasons, are always very heavily armed - and usually accompanied by equally well-armed military personnel as well.
There are some additional powers that separate Scottish Police Constables from their colleagues in other countries. Particular their various powers. The major differences included:
Police Officers always patrol in pairs. Under Scottish law, corroboration is required before an arrest can be made. One witness to a crime is not enough to secure an arrest in Scotland, therefore, if police come across a crime in progress during the course of their duties and there are no civilian witnesses, both officers must witness the crime before the an arrest can be made. Of course, corroboration does not have to be provided by an eye-witness, police or otherwise. DNA evidence, CCTV, forensics etc. all count in this regard. In many cases, the reporter of the crime in question also counts as a witness, sometimes even if he did not actually see the crime take place. However, having two officers on the scene often ensures an arrest can be made there and then, as opposed to having to arrest the criminal later, once the forensic evidence has been analysed.
Police Officers in Scotland may resort to whatever level of force they feel appropriate to protect themselves and members of the public. To justify the level of force used the officer in question does not have to demonstrate that any other officer would also have used that same level of force. The officer must only demonstrate that they themselves felt it was necessary at the time -a very subtle and important difference. For example, a 100lb female officer would have no qualms about taking her baton or her CS gas to a 180lb male coming at her with his fists. But a male colleague of equal size and weight to the attacker would probably be asked to explain why he was so concerned for his safety that he felt it necessary to chin the guy with his baton. Something as simple as, “I was carrying an injury”,“He dropped into a boxers stance,” or “he is known to have a history a violence,”would more than satisfy his superiors -and the courts.
In Scotland, police are not obliged to use violence only in response to violence. They are entitled to undertake “pre-emptive self defence”. In which case they must only demonstrate that they anticipated violence was about to be used against them. Technically, everyone in Scotland has the right to use “pre-emptive self-defence” to protect themselves, but as police constables are trained to recognise “violence indicators” and the general public are not, your average ned would have a hard time relying on this defence in court.
What this means in World of Darkness terms is that if the Armed Response Unit turn up and think your armed, they are quite justified in pulling the trigger before you pull your hand out of your pocket.
A few more important pieces of information should you find yourself under arrest in Scotland.
Police Bail is not issued in Scotland – you cannot buy your way out of police custody with a promise to attend court as you can in England and the USA. Only the courts can issue bail. You cannot be “de-arrested” in Scotland. Once you have been arrested and charged with a crime, that's it. Even if the police of the procurator fiscal's office later decide your innocent, it's up to the courts to decide whether or not you will stand trial for the crime of which you were accused. As a result, Scottish constables are less prone to making hasty decisions than their counterparts south of the border.
Once arrested, you will taken to a police station, and finger-printed, photographed and made to provide a sample of DNA. After that one of four things will happen: you will be issued with a Fixed Penalty Notice (a £40 fine for minor offences), released on Report (meaning that a report will be sent to the Procurator Fiscal, who will decide whether or not to try you in court), released on an undertaking to attend court the next day on pain of arrest or, finally, kept in police custody and transferred to court on the next “legal day”.
You do have the right to have one reasonably named person contacted in addition to your solicitor. However, the police will contact these named persons for you. The prisoner is not entitled to make a phone call themselves. Police also have the right to delay contacting these named individuals (including the solicitor) if they believe contacting them immediately would pervert the cause of justice. This means that, for example, if the person you wish to have contacted is your flat-mate and you've been arrested on suspicion of supplying drugs, the police wont actually call him -or your lawyer- until AFTER they've finished searching your house).
Glasgow Facts:
Glasgow has only a few shootings each year, often less than a dozen, and almost all related to organized crime. However, it has more stabbings in a single month than most European Cities have in an entire calender year.
Glasgow is a city 650,000 people, a solid fifth of the them either nationalised immigrants, illegal immigrants, or refugees and asylum seekers. Many of the more recent arrivals come from countries ravaged by war and bring with them an assortment of physical and mental disabilities. Some, especially those from Sierra Leone, Sudan, Afghanistan, Iraq or Somali, are former child soldiers with a savage and blatant disregard for human life, warring frequently with the native organised crime families for control of Glasgow's booming drug trade.
The psychological and cultural attitude to violence of it's citizens is such that ordinary members of the public have been known to lash out at terrorists with their bare hands – even while the terrorist is still on fire!
British Army medical personnel are often sent to Glasgow Hospitals for experience in treating trauma cases.
The quickest way to start a bar fight in many parts of Glasgow is to accuse a Scot of being English. The best way to get yourself beaten badly by multiple opponents is to profess a belief that Scotland is a part of England. (The United Kingdom is made up of different countries in the same way that the USA is made up of different states). In some pubs, telling a Glaswegian he lives in England is like calling a Deep South militiaman a “yank” and probably just as dangerous. However, this is such a common misconception (especially among American and Japanese tourists) that in most “working men's pubs” someone will probably take you aside and explain such things as the Union of the Crowns and the Union of Parliaments very carefully (and at mind-numbing length). Repeating these same misconceptions in a city-centre pub on a weekend or at any-time at all in pub frequented by neds or gangsters, will almost certainly result in a kicking (if you're lucky) or multiple stab wounds (if you're not).
A Mean City Lexicon:
Warning: Some of the material presented here may be considered offensive. It is listed for purposes of roleplaying and realism only, it does not reflect the opinions of the author.
Arse: Ass.
Bairn; A Child. Also wain.
Banged Up: In prison, or alternatively, pregnant.
Bar-L, The: Her Majesties Prison Barlinnie. Glasgow's most infamous prison.
Barnie: A brawl or loud argument.
Big House, The: Her Majesties Prison Barlinnie. Glasgow's infamous main prison.
Billy: term used inter-changeably to refer to either a protestant or a Rangers supporter (usually one and the same).
Bird: Slang for a woman. Often used to refer to some-ones girlfriend or sexual partner, for example “Jamie's bird got chibbed the other night.”
Brief: Slang term for a criminal defence solicitor.
Bummer, to give a: To provide false details of your identity to someone.
Chib: A knife or other sharp instrument such as a screw-driver. Also,“to chib” as in to stab someone or “be chibbed” to be stabbed.
Chinkie: A Chinese (or “Chinese-looking”) person or alternatively a Chinese restaurant or meal. Derogatory and considered extremely racist but still used by well-meaning elderly folk who are ignorant of the offence it causes or who use it unintentionally from force of habit (as well as by neds and others who actually intend to cause offence).
Chippie: A fish and chip shop. See the entry for “chips” below.
Chips: Thick French Fries. Usually deep fried in lard or vegetable oil but occasionally baked in an oven. Frequently served with deep-fried foods wrapped in batter such as fish, haggis, black pudding or sausage. Also sometimes served with deep-fried mars bars, scotch pies or deep fried pizza. Chips are also often smothered in such delicacies as curry sauce, chilli sauce, kebab sauce, cheese, coleslaw, mayonnaise, salad cream, mustard, tomato sauce, brown sauce and various combinations there-of. Yes, there is a reason Glasgow is the Heart-Disease capital of Europe. Just to show their appreciation for irony, many Glaswegians choose to wash down such fare with a can of diet Irn Bru.
Cosh: A blunt weapon. Often improvised. Also “to cosh” as in to club someone.
Crisps: Chips (in the American sense)
Denims: Jeans
Duff, Up the: Pregnant
Edgie: To keep watch or act as a sentry. Also the word called out by the sentry to indicate that a threat is approaching. Generally only used by youths engaged in petty crime or setting up an ambush on a rival gang. An adult using this term is in for a “wind-up”.
Fag: A cigarette. NOT an insulting term for a homosexual person (as it is elsewhere in the world).
Falsers: False Teeth (very common given Scotland's relatively poor dental hygiene record and penchant for fizzy drinks. Not to mention the sheer number of heroin addicts in the city).
Fanny: In Scotland this word means something quite, quite different from it's meaning across the Atlantic. One we wont go into here.
Fenian: Derogatory term for a catholic.
Football: Soccer.
Ginger: Any fizzy drink (a term derived from the colour of Irn Bru) or anyone with the misfortune to have been born with red hair.
Huckled: Arrested.
Irn-Bru: A ginger coloured fizzy-drink made in Scotland. It's secret recipe is rumoured to be known in it's entirety by only three people at any given time – no more than two of whom are ever allowed to be on the same continent simultaneously. Many Glaswegians drink more of this stuff than they do of anything else save water or alcohol.
Juice: Usually refers to a sweet fizzy drink rather than fruit juice.
JP or Justice of the Peace: An upstanding member of the public with little or no legal training, often advised by a solicitor, who acts as the presiding judge in trials over minor crimes heard in the District Court. Has the power to issue arrest warrants, search warrants and the like and is often called upon to do so at all hours of the day or night.
Kecks: Underwear.
Knickers: Woman's underwear such as panties and so forth, but excluding bra's.
Mate: Equivalent to buddy, guy or bro, used both as a term of address for strangers and for friends.
Ned: An ill-educated member of the public, usually white, conforming to the US term “white trash”. Normally dressed in a track-suit and baseball cap. Probably in possession of either drugs, alcohol and/or a knife. Has likely followed family tradition and never worked a day in his or her life, although a small minority may in fact hold down an actual (low paying) job. Very likely to indulge in opportunistic petty crimes if given half a chance. Considers time in Prison or a police cell a normal part of everyday life. Female Neds over the age of fourteen are likely to be accompanied by -and be screaming at- one or more children (the “wains”) in a buggy or pram. In England, neds are known as “chavs”.
Paki: Derogatory term for an individual of Pakistani, Indian or Bangladeshi descent. Also used to refer to a newsagent's or grocer's shop. Considered very offensive and downright racist but still used by elderly members of the community out of ignorance rather than from a desire to cause offence. Some elderly members of the Pakistani community don't understand what the fuss is about and find being called a “Pakistani” more offensive than being called a “Paki”.
Pal: Equivalent to buddy, guy or bro, used both as a term of address for strangers and for friends.
Patter: Humour, usually at some-ones else expense. A “wind-up”.
Pants: Men's underwear, usually refers to Y-fronts or briefs.
PF or Procurator Fiscal: The Scottish equivalent of a District Attorney.
Pint: Beer, Lager, Ale, Stout, Heavy and so forth are served in pint and half pint measures.
Pish: Urine
Pish-Water: A weak beer or spirit. Often applied to American or Canadian beers and bourbons (which are almost NEVER referred to as whisky in Scotland. At least not in polite company).
Piss: Urine.
Piss-Off: A slightly nicer way of saying “f**k off”. Usually used between friends.
Piss-Take: A prank based on deception or mockery. Also used to indicate a belief someone is lying or trying a “wind-up” by stating, “Your taking the piss!”
Pocky, The: A prison or jail cell.
Polis: The Police
Proddy: term used inter-changeably to refer to either a protestant or a Rangers supporter (usually one and the same).
Pub: A bar. Traditionally, after a hard days work a “working man” (a blue-collar worker) would stop off in a working man's pub for a quick pint with his mates before heading home. Then he might have dinner and come back out for a few more drinks with his wife or, if looking for a partner for the night, he'd go out “clubbin'” to a city-centre pub or nightclub. Other type of pubs exist as well, from the stereotypical “polis” pub, gangster pubs, wine bars, student pubs, rock pubs, Goth pubs, family pubs (that you can take your kids to and which probably provide kids meals) and so forth.
Rozzers: The Police
Senga: A female ned. Often an especially ugly one.
Specs or Spectacles: Eye Glasses
Shag: Sexual intercourse.
Sheriff: A legal professional who acts as a judge over moderately severe crimes in the Sheriff court, often, but not always, in conjunction with a jury.
Shite: Shit
Solicitor: A Lawyer
Square-Go: A fair fight. Often offered, but in fact very few so-called “square-goes” are anything of the sort.
Sweets or Sweeties: Candy
Tap: To ask someone for money. Usually (but not always) without the threat of force. Used to describe the act of asking a stranger for money as well as the act of borrowing from a friend.
Tim: term used inter-changeably to refer to either a Catholic or a Celtic supporter (usually one and the same)
Trousers: Pants
Wain: A Child.
Wheesht: Wind. As in “hold your Wheesht”. In other words: “shut up!”.
Wind-Up: A prank based on deception. Also to deliberately make someone angry. Someone easily wound up is said to have a key in his back.
Some photo's taken by my (far, far) better half of the miniature painting efforts from last month. As mentioned before, a good wad of them are StarWars pre-painted miniatures with re-paint jobs ranging from a light touch-up to complete re-works from the undercoat up.
Thats me painting the first batch of figures for May in the background in the second photo. The first photo is another batch of robots sculpted by Mark Copplestone. The EM4 range this time, I think. They'll join the other five robots from Copperstone Castings as the main-stay of my Terminator army for Tomorrow's War.
I couldn't see me ever having a use for Naboo Troopers, even in a Star Wars game, so the Naboo Flash Speeder and crew got a repaint as generic cop types.
I had to remove the pilot that comes with it, standing at the steering wheel. Don't worry, the Rebel Hoth Trooper in question won't go to waste. I'm sure I can find some use for him.
(Okay I'm cheating a bit with this one. I never did get round to doing the base. Probably because I can't see how I'll ever get away with using something as iconic as this in anything but a game of Star Wars).
Leaving the next morning, the PC's accompany Sir Retameron to his home, a tower house on the outskirts of the Verge. Along the way, Hans keeps his eyes peeled for any reaction to his presence from the villagers of Verge, but, in keeping with the tradition of the Shearing, all the villagers act as though he is a stranger. To his great regret, he does not catch a glimpse of his young sister on this occasion, though he leave a split twig entwined with another outside the door of his parents house as a sign that he still lives.
Retameron and his wife, both successful adventurers (in that they both lived to retire though all their former companions are dead) entertain the party, wining them and dining them, offering advice on how to defeat various monsters and sharing a number of amusing adventuring anecdotes. The only other dinner guest that evening is a young illusionist named Memnon, who, taking pity on the ragged state of the two dwarves, casts Phantasmal Armour on each of them (one at night, the other in the morning) to help them survive the trials they can expect beneath Caldwell Manor. As Memnon explains, a seasoned band of adventurers went down below the Manor House two weeks ago and has not been seen or heard from since.
The next days dawns rainy and grey. The Shorn arrive in Threshold in late afternoon and make an immediate bee-line for the home of Artax. A very miffed and unhappy Apple Merryweather “greets” them and sends them upstairs to the office of the sage. Artax seems completely oblivious to a number of things, but most especially to the fact the party is two weeks late. The old sage explains that his initials findings were incorrect and that the Holy Symbol in, in fact, an old symbol of the destructive and hateful god Thanatos. He returns the amulet to them and further explains that the parchment they found was a coded item of correspondence from someone called Elwyn. It contained little of significance to the party, being mostly small talk and the exchange of news, save for one small passage in which this Elwyn extorts the unnamed recipient to “ward the entrance to the hidden temple most closely”.
Elra asks who Elwyn is and receives an admonishment from Artax that he is not a source of free gossip (and another admonishment from the DM that he isn't writing up these adventure reports for fun -and that if the players can't keep decent notes that's their problem). Contrite, the party leave and make their way out of town towards the Manor. Realising that by the time they reach their destination, it will have become quite late, they decide not to exasperate Caldwell any farther by turning up at his door expecting a bed for the night. Instead, the camp in the ruined hamlet just south of the Manor house, in the very same hut that they slept in just a few weeks before.
Shortly after dawn breaks, they present themselves at the Manor House, where a rather nonplussed servant informs that they the master will not see them, but that should they wish to finish the job they were contracted to perform, they may enter the lower level of the Manor -but will receive only half pay. Content with this, the Shorn follow the servant to the formerly mage-locked door. Inside the warded room, they find a band of wary mercenaries surrounding a heavily chained trapdoor. The mercenaries explain the coded knocking system to the characters and them permit them to descend down into the darkness.
The trap-door shuts behind them with a rather final-sounding clunk. Moments later, a black leather-clad woman bearing a remarkable resemblance to Klara comes rushing into the room. She explains that her companions and her have everything under control and demand the Shorn return upstairs. Suspicious, Hans invites her to knock the code. Exasperated, the woman replies that she's been down here for nearly two weeks and the code has probably changed. Hans cleverly asks about the womans companions. He learns that her leader, a black-leather clad dwarf (a description matching that of the leader of the other adventuring company given them by Retameron). Hans then insists that the woman take the group to meet the dwarf but the woman refuses to interrupt his experiments in the laboratory. She insists that she will not allow another group of adventurers to go traipsing through “their' dungeon and promises to bring her leader to the group if they will wait in this room. The Shorn agree. The woman leaves and locks the only exit behind her.
Conferring among themselves quietly, the Shorn agree that there's something not quite right about the woman or her story. They decide to speak to the guards for to obtain a better description (and names) for the other adventuring party that came down before them. No sooner is the trapdoor opened however (a lengthy and noisy process) than a black-clad dwarf wearing armour identical to the woman's (and a good few sizes to big) leaps through the suddenly open door, shouts about monsters having stolen the shape of his companions, and bolts up the stairs, yelling for the guards to the shut the trapdoor behind him. The flabbergasted Shorn are too slow to prevent the trapdoor being slammed shut in their faces and nothing they can do, not all of their pounding and shouting, can persuade the guards to open up again.
Clearly, they are trapped.
With nothing else for it, they begin to explore, grateful that the “dwarf” left the key in the lock at least. In their very first room they encounter two clearly mad young wizards, who make frequent comments about how “fresh” and “plump” the Shorn look. In moments, as Hans stands watch outside, his companions slump unconscious to the floor, the victims of a sleep spell. Hans charges into action, standing astride the fallen forms of his friends. Though he takes several dagger blows and a solid magic missile hit to the chest, he manages to slay one mage and disarm the other. The second immediately offers to 'split the fallen ones down the middle”. Hans, in something of a quandary as to whether he should simply kill the clearly deranged fool or tie him up for interrogation and (hopefully) a cure, dithers too long and his torch gutters out. The second mage immediately retrieves his dagger and attacks, again striking Hans while the fighter tries to light a torch. In the end though, the human warrior is victorious and the magic-user goes down. He quickly revives his friends, receives a cure spell for his troubles, and then joins his companions in looting the room.
Having a bad feeling about those two mages, Boindil suggests cutting off their heads. The party seem puzzled but have been sufficiently freaked by their brief encounter with the mad wizards to agree to the suggestion. Cleverly (and somewhat accidentally) preventing the two cannibals from reviving as ghouls later on that night.
The next room they explore is eighty foot wide and only partially carved out from the earth. All the Shorn hear a persistent buzzing noise but, rather than trust their instincts and bail out while they can, Hans insists on poking a torch into every shadow. It is matter of mere moments thereafter, before he is down and bleeding from a split skull under the onslaught of four very annoyed, very insistent giant flies.
With their main muscle down and plenty of supplies in their possession, The Shorn retreat back to the first room, locking it behind them. They rest for three days to allows Hans to recover from his injuries and prepare to set out into the dungeon once more.
Well not quite. Aplus over at "People them with Monsters" (link) recently posted about making his Pathfinder game more old school. His comments got me thinking: how could I make the perfect marriage between Pathfinder 3.5 and the OSR? Here's how I'd start.
Thou Shalt Not Acquire XP From Kills: None. Zip. De Nada. None at all. My big gripe with 3rd ed was that character advancement was just too damn fast. Moreover, there was no point keeping XP totals secret from the players because, after eleven encounters, they would be battering at the door demanding to know when they were due to level up. Not in my 3rd ed game buster. You'd be getting xp for gold and 10% gp value for magic items retained. Absolutely nothing else.
Encounters Shall Not Be Balanced: In 3rd ed, encounters were designed to be challenging for four player characters of a given level. Not in my games. Get yer running shoes on fat boy. Playing a short-arsed dwarf, gnome or halfling? Too bad laddie. Better hope you hired on a henchman even slower than you.
Skill Rolls Shall Not Take the Place of Narrative: Back in Old School days, players would describe checking walls, roofs, ceilings, poking this with a ten foot pole, throwing something heavy onto that. In 3rd ed, they just rolled a Search check and left it at that. Not in my game. Tell me how, where, why and what you're looking at. If you say the right thing, you'll find your treasure/trap/lost spoon regardless of the dice. If you don't find it, your description will give you a modifier (positive or negative) to the dice roll. No description. No modifier. Or maybe even a negative modifier if I'm feeling nasty. This won't apply to just search checks, it'll apply all across the board - bluff, diplomacy, healing, even stealth and survival checks. Thou hast been warned.
Ye Olde Magic Shoppe is Run by Mountebanks: Sure you might be able to buy or sell the odd magical item here or there, but you'll have to work hard to find a buyer. Yon local pawn shop just doesn't have the cash for it. Sure, you might be able to buy the odd potion or lotion from a friendly cleric, wizard or adept, but if turns out to be snake water it won't do you much good down a dungeon.
Thy Sandbox shall be thy Playpen: There might very well be a meta-plot going on around you. In fact, there will likely be several going on all around you. The players decide whether or not to get involved -and have to accept the consequences regardless.
Thou Shalt Not be Heroes Save by Mischance: You're not destined to save the world (though you might), you're not the last scion of an ancient kingdom and your certainly not the love-child of a local God. Characters like this exist in the game-world, but their NPC's, not player characters. You lot are just a bunch of money-grubbing working Joe's out to make a fast buck. You might one day inadvertently safe life, the universe and everything, but it's not your starting mission objective. Angels did not sing at the moment of your birth, stars were not born and there's no bloody red comet streaking across the sky. At least, not until I decide to put one there. You want the loot baby, yeah!
Thou Art a Mercenary Scumbug. Thou Art Not a Beautiful Butterfly. Thou are Not Simply Misunderstood: Adventurers are not rock stars. Crowds do not swoon at your passing. You are feared, potentially homicidal maniacs who risk death daily for financial gain and spit in the face of established social order. The King/Duke/Mayor or whatever might respect you for saving his ass, but he's sure as hell not going to let you marry his daughter, let alone invite you for dinner.
Thou Might Verily Be Killed By Sheer Mischance: In 3rd ed, it almost seems sacrilege to kill a character unless he dies heroically or by abject player stupidity. Dying by sheer bad luck just doesn't seem to factor into it. Well not in my game. See the rule above? Your nothing special. You have no great destiny to keep you alive. That 1hp kobold with a rock isn't going to be thwarted by a divinely-inspired itch causing you to duck. Dead is dead. And as for all this multiple saves to avoid death nonsense? Uh-uh. No way. Save or die it ain't no lie. And their ain't go guarantee your friends can bring you back. Ho yeah! Fear the centipede M***** F*****.
That's the ideas generated off the top of my head (in the last hour or so). I'd welcome anyone who'd like to share any more. I'll add them to the list after this point, along with any other factors that occur to me as the days go by.
Thou Shall Find Thyself a few Good Men (and Women): The henchman rules in 3rd are far too restrictive for old school play. 7th level and a feat just to get yourself a henchman? No, a character can have as many henchmen in his career as his charisma modifier plus 3. The Leadership feat, as written, is what happens when your character builds his stronghold and achieves level 9. The leveled follower from the Leadership feat does not count towards the maximum henchman total. And as for hirelings? well, the pay rates are there. Knock yourself out.
Thou Shalt Roll But 3D6 and in Stat Order: In 3.5 and Pathfinder, players get to roll 4D6 for each stat, dump the lowest and assign the scores wherever they like. The result is a swathe of above average characters who excel in their chosen field: every wizard stronger than he is smart and every cleric as wise as Marcus Aurelias. Not in my game you don't. I like wizards who could have been more successful as a circus strongman and fighters who perpetually suffer from the common cold. It's called having character.
This month saw me fall far behind in painting terms - painting just 19 miniatures (9 of which were actually repaints of pre-painted miniatures) in a month of thirty days. Not altogether surprising considering I had the wedding this month but still, only month two of the challange and I'm behind already.
So, with the five extra miniatures painted in March, that puts me six miniatures behind for the years running total. I will simply have to do better next time. Look out for a photo update of the painted figs just as soon as I can persuade my good lady to dig out the camera.
Edit: I've got a platoon of colonial marines all based up with no-where to go. but to be honest, the thought of painting 30 odd guys in cammo with identical colour schemes in one month is a bit meh. So the plan is to alternate a batch of five colonial marines with 5 of something else. Let's see if it works.
Apanthi. The Lost World. In Urdu the name means: "Wrong Road". Soaring through space without stellar companions of any kind. Once a world not unlike earth, Apanthi is now a ball of frozen gas hurtling alone through space. Alone- but not uninhabited.
GAME TERMS:
Atmosphere:No breathable air or gasses of any kind. Once an inhabitable terrestrial-type world, in the milennia since it escaped the gravitational pull of it's star, all gasses have frozen solid. Consequently, the surface of Apanthi is coated by snow-like layers of various frozen gasses.
Temperature Range: Very very cold - as close to absolute zero is as likely to be found in nature. Light given off by distant stars combined with a tiny glimmer of life that remains in what was once the planetary core are the only natural sources of heat on this dead vagabond world.
Biosphere: None. No life exists permanently on the surface of Apanthi. Gas mining families in the employ of CalCol Corporation exist in temporary residences carved from the frozen gasses that coat the worlds surface, but these habitations are rarely occupied for more than a few weeks at a time.
Perhaps surprisingly, although a void suit is vital for survival, air supply is hardly a problem. When air stocks run low, it's a simple enough matter to dig down through the "snow" to the oxygen layer. A few scoops of frozen air shoved into the internally heated compartments of a specially modified "Apanthi Vacc Suit" will keep a grown adult alive and working hard for some considerable time.
Population and Tech Level:
As many as ten thousand people live a transitory existence between the surface of Apanthi and Tarri Penu, an orbital space station named after a Cythonic goddess placated by human sacrifice. All but a few hundred of these are miners descended from the original indentured workers brought to Apanthi by Calcutta Colonial Interests Inc some fifty years ago when the world was first settled. The original term of service was some seven years but, following the Great Calamity, indenture is now for life. While previously workers strove to earn enough pay pay to prchase transport and a home-stead on another world, now workers strive to earn enough money to pay for spare-parts, life-support and a brief stay on Tarri Penu. At least until their funds run out and they must return to the planet to earn more.
No more than a thousand such miners are allowed to join the Corporate "elites" - pilots, managers, accountants, engineers and so forth- on the space station at any given time. Stays of more than a few days within the stations artificial gravity field (provided by rotation rings) are rare for the miners and their families. Too brief to maintain muscle tissue at the standards required to operate normally at standard G. Thus ensuring that the miners who occupy berths on the station at any given time are too physically weak to cause much trouble for the corporate security and making any possibility of an eventual overthrow of this virtual slave-society extremely remote indeed.
The surviving tech level, both among the miners and the elite themselves, is remarkably high. As one of the main sources of cheap gasses in the sector, Apanthi (or rather, Tarri Penu) traffic control manages a great deal of traffic in the form of independant traders, CalCol ships and even military vessels from nearby systems. CalCol security takes great care to chase away 'claim jumpers" (referring to both freelance mining operations and slavers come to poach rather than sell), people-smugglers and vessels which openly practice piracy nearby, maintaining a small fleet of system cutters, frigates and corvettes to patrol nearby space around the system (always being careful to remain close to the planets weak gravity well).
Culture:
The majority of the CalCol elite (including it's security forces) are of high-caste Indian origin and belong to Hindu families. The worker population is extremely mixed both ethnically and religiously. Most of the original miners were males of Indian extraction, yet after the Great Calamity when it became apparent that the Miner population would have to become self-sustaining, a large number of (mostly female) workers were "procured" from various shady sources in order to replace miners lost through (understandably quite high) natural "wastage'. Which, of course, in this context, refers to death in the line of duty.
As a result of what the CalCol elite refer to as this "cultural contamination" the miner population has become even more contemptible in their eyes. Almost as many miners now die while aboard Tarri Penu (executed for even miner misdemeanours) as die on the surface from exploding gasses and the like. So much so that many miners now feel that staying longer "on world" before returning to the station is preferable to spending more time there.
The CalCol elite exist in considerable -almost paranoid- fear of their miners, which in part accounts for the sheer brutality of their rule. They are terrified about the prospect of sabotage, given that their own station (and therefore they themselves) are so literally reliant on trade for survival. However, what they fail to appreciate is that the miners themselves cannot afford to cut their own throats by sabotaging their own production efforts let alone by conducting grand sabotage against the station itself. No, what the CalCol elite fail to appreciate is that they should be more concerned with is the very real threat of revolution. Recent "acquisitions' of mining personnel have not been screened as carefully as they would like to believe.
The mining population now includes a small but significant core of recent arrivals (whose physical prowess have yet to deteriorate overmuch from Apanthi's pathetic gravity) with scientific, engineering and even military backgrounds - and not one has anything to lose except their lives.
The Sky from Kut:
Other than a tiny and relatively bright spec in the night sky that orbits the world every thirteen hours, (Terri Panu itself) there is nothing to be seen save the distant light of stars. On Apanthi there is no dawn, no star-light and no moon. Only the ever present, threatening void of space above ones head.
Outside Relations:
Although the miners are intentionally kept ignorant of just who comes and goes above their heads, ships arrive hourly from all over the sector to offload vital imports and even luxury items in return for stocks of frozen water, oxygen, nitrogen, carbon, methane and -vital for space travel- the chlorine, fluorine, hydrogen and other gasses necessary for modern interplanetary (but not FTL) spaceflight.
Imports:
Medical Supplies, Electronics, Life Support, Food, Alcohol, Recreational Drugs, Slaves, Weapons, Munitions, Spare Parts, Interplanetary shuttles, Space Craft
Exports:
Water, Frozen Gas.
Travel Advisory:
Due to the extremely high number of violent incidents reported daily in the miner-restricted residential pleasure and residential areas of Tarri Pen, travellers are advised to refrain from entering these areas. There have been occasional reports of crewmen and traders from visiting ships being abducted by slavers for re-sale as miners in recent months. Travelling alone or when inebriated or in the company of strangers is not recommended. CalCol security operatives are know to be brutal and swift in the application of violence against trouble-makers -many of whom find themselves sentenced to the mines below. Discretion is advised.
Apanthi
Planet type
Rock
Low-G, Cold, Airless
Distance from primary star
N/A
Rogue Planetoid
Mass
1.3E+23Kg
0.0 Earth masses
Surface gravity
149.0 cm/sec2
0.15 Earth gees
Surface pressure
0 millibars
0.000 Earth atmospheres
Surface temperature
-235.7° Celcius
-392.3° Fahrenheit
-249.7° C Earth temperature
-449.5° F Earth temperature
Rock