When I was first coming into my own as a Game Master (back when I called it that), I developed a lot of bad habits. I made plans about how my game would develop, and was frustrated when my players didn’t fall in line. I was obsessed with over-preparing, and frustrated with myself when I couldn’t produce a polished adventure module every month. I knew which encounters I wanted my players to succeed at, and which I wanted them to fail at. I fudged dice, and hit points, and the fabric of the shared reality itself in order to bring about my desired results. Consequently, I didn’t have any groups that lasted for very long.
Eventually, I got better at running games within this fundamentally flawed style.I learned how to develop a Big Bad Evil Guy, how to create invisible walls that weren’t very obvious to my players, how to weave a narrative into a game while still giving the players enough freedom that they didn’t feel like they were being railroaded too much, even when they were. I was good enough to have run several long, enjoyable campaigns before meeting Courtney Campbell, and being shamed into developing some better habits.
Even as far as I’ve come, though; despite all my pretty talk of ‘agency,’ and the fact that I now use the correct term “referee,” I still secretly hold to one of the worst habits imaginable. My campaigns still have a BBEG, and I still keep an idea in my head of what the player’s eventual final encounter with that BBEG will be like.
Already I can hear people banging on my door, and it sounds like they have pitchforks. I suppose I’d better qualify that statement before I get kicked out of the OSR. Without a saving throw, if you know what I mean.
When I say my campaigns still have a BBEG, what I mean is that I usually have an NPC who is very powerful, and has a goal which the players will probably oppose. And when I say I keep an idea in my head of what the final encounter will be like, what I mean is that once the players have caught the attention of this powerful NPC, that NPC will begin to make plans for some eventual confrontation.
So, that’s not so bad, yeah? Can ya’ll take this noose off from around my neck now, and let my climb down off of this horse? Please?
I’ve taken to calling this element of my games “The Conspiracy.” An inscrutable plot, controlled by hidden actors, in the pursuit of unknown goals. It’s something that exists more for my amusement than for any practical reason, but they do serve a useful role in pushing the game forward, and giving disassociated game elements something to cohere around.
For example, I’ll use the conspiracy from my long-defunct ToKiMo campaign. From the player’s perspective, the world was in crisis because an ancient evil dragon had awakened, and was flying around causing havoc wherever it went. In truth, the dragon was a pawn. It had been enchanted by the kingdom’s princess, who also happened to be a naturally talented sorceress.
Her father, the King, had 20 years of life left in him. And even when he did die, male primogeniture meant one of her younger brothers would inherit the crown. She wanted to be rid of anyone with a clear claim ahead of hers, and to become so revered and powerful that convention would be forgotten in favor of her rule. Step one of that plan was putting the nation into a crisis that established power structures couldn’t handle, thus, the dragon. Step two was something about tricking a general into thinking that he was the one plotting a coup, I dunno, I’ve mostly forgotten the details. It was 6+ years ago.
Now, let’s assume I want to send the players into a dungeon to get a weird object. A wizard offers to pay them 500 silver coins if they retrieve a sack of Razorsilk from the great worms beneath The Forgotten Keep. Simple, timeless, classic adventure hook. It doesn’t need any further explanation, because Wizards be Wizards, ya’ll. But in my head, I connect it to the conspiracy. In my head, I know the Wizard wants these silks, because an agent of the Princess has hired them to perform a particular ritual.
More than likely, this will not come up in play. But, if the players get curious, I have the conspiracy to fall back on as a reason for just about anything that anybody wants. I can even drop a few clues if I feel like it. When the wizard receives the Razorsilk, they mutter something about how “this’ll finally get that pushy cigarette smoking man off my back.” The kind of thing that will be taken as fluff dialogue, and probably ignored. 10 sessions later, when another NPC mentions the cigarette smoking man, maybe they’ll connect the dots, or maybe they won’t.
In another example, let’s say the players have slain one of the big dragon’s children, and they’re looting its lair. They come across a luxurious suite of rooms meant to accommodate humans. It’s a weird detail. Maybe they investigate it, or maybe they don’t. The truth is that I never expected them to kill this dragon. I threw the lair together in 10 minutes while I was pretending to be pooping. Having this weird background detail of the conspiracy gave me something to riff of of: maybe the princess visits this dragon sometimes? And if she does, part of the lair would be suited for her comfort.
I think I’d be lying, though, if I claimed my conspiracies exist because they serve as a convenient backdrop to the campaign. They exist because I enjoy concocting evil plots, and imagining climactic showdowns that never come to pass. I get giddy when I think about how shocked the players will be when all is revealed.
But, of course, agency must be preserved. So, I drop hints, which is perhaps the most thrilling part of all. It’s like playing a game of chicken. How far can I go before everything is obvious? Was the thing that NPC said, or the title I gave that session report too obvious of a clue? Is everything about to unravel, and if it does, what exciting new developments will that mean for the campaign?
Players may never catch on to the conspiracy. My players never really pursued the dragon thing very much at all, preferring to push out into the wilderness. Nobody ever realized that The Motherless Warlock had created Dungeon Moon so he could watch over it like a mix between God, and Reality Television. The Ascendant Crusade group never knew that their favorite NPC was evil.
I know this very smart guy, named Frotz, who loves clerics. They’re one of his favorite classes. I’ve enjoyed many long conversations with him about games, which have always been eye opening for me. Most relevantly, several of our conversations were about the pros and cons of the Cleric class. Two bits from those conversations got stuck in my brain, and have been percolating there for months.
“LotFP has one of the best versions of the Cleric class, because it’s explicitly positioned as the anti-magic user. Most notably with the way Dispel Magic works.”
“The Cleric is to the Magic User, as the Fighter is to the Specialist.”
With those thoughts in mind, I’ve put together a new version of the cleric that I’m honestly excited by. Something simple, but powerful, with a clear niche. Much better than my beloved, but admittedly overdesigned, Glory From God system.
The Cleric
There is a divine music to the universe. Before the fall of man, when we lived each day in the light of our creator, we heard this music always. But when we were cast out from the sacred garden, we lost the ability to hear. The music is still there, ringing out from every sphere in the heavens, but it is beyond us now.
Clerics are those who have–through diligent study of God’s word, and meditation on the divine–trained themselves to hear the faintest echos of that music. Hearing it changes a person. They experience reality the way God always intended his beloved children to experience it. All they want now is to hear more, and to hear better. Sin disrupts the music, and becomes hateful to the cleric. And there is no sin greater than the casting of magic.
Clerics have a d8 hit die. They advance and make saving throws as the default cleric class does. Clerics cannot cast any spells. If alignment is used in your game, clerics must be Lawful.
Beginning at first level, clerics have the following abilities:
Turn: The cleric confronts their foes with a brief glimpse of God’s might. When this ability is activated, the cleric identifies a single target, then rolls 2d6. The results are compared to the matrix below (borrowed from page 147 of the LotFP Rules & Magic book). (Note that while the table says “Undead,” this ability works against anyone the cleric deems to be their enemy).
If the cleric’s roll is equal to, or greater than the result required for their target’s hit dice, that foe has been cowed. They will flee from the cleric if there is an easy escape, or cower meekly if there is not. This effect will persist as long as the cleric takes no action aside from looking imposing, or turning other foes. The effect will also end if the target is attacked.
The cleric may turn as many times as they wish, so long as they are successful. If a turn attempt fails, the cleric cannot attempt to turn anything again for the rest of the day.
On the table, a result of “-” means turning is impossible. A result of “T” means turning is automatic. A result of “T*” means that any of the target’s allies with the same or fewer hit dice are also turned. A result of “D” means the target is destroyed by the unbearable glory of god, and that their allies with similar hit dice are automatically turned. A Result of “D*” means that the target, and their allies, are destroyed.
Dispel Magic: If the cleric wishes to snuff out any magical spell or effect, they need only reach out their hand, and will for chaos to be bent back into order.
When such an attempt is made, roll a d6. On a 1, the attempt fails. Otherwise, the attempt succeeds, and the magic is undone. If permanent magic is targeted, such as the enchantments on a magic weapon, the effect lasts until the object or location is next touched by moonlight. (Or, if you prefer, until the next day).
If a spell is cast in the Cleric’s presence, they may attempt to dispel it immediately, before it has any effect. Doing so consumes their next turn.
Each time a Dispel Magic attempt fails should be tallied. Once the cleric’s tallies for the day equal their level, they may not attempt to dispel anything further that day.
For every 2 hit dice a Magic User has above a Cleric, that Cleric’s dispel attempts are penalized by 1. So a first level Cleric would suffer no penalty against a Magic User of first or second level, but would suffer a penalty of -1 against an MU of the third or fourth level. Similarly a penalty of -2 against an MU of levels five or six, and so on.
Magics which are part of a creature’s innate abilities are more difficult to dispell, and will also fail on a 2. Other circumstances may prompt the referee to assign similar penalties to particularly potent magics. This should be done sparingly.
Identify: Thoroughly shutting down magic the way Clerics do requires them to have a profound understanding of it. Clerics can determine whether or not a thing is magical, what the effects of that magic are, and even obscure details like how long ago the magic was cast, and whether the caster was right or left handed.
This is not something a Cleric can do passively. They can’t walk into a room, and immediately point out all the magic items within. However, if they handle an object, look at it closely, smell it, taste it, and listen to it, they will gain an understanding of any magics attached to it. Doing so takes a 10 minute turn.
Spell Resistance: Clerics have a chance-in-twenty to resist magic, equal to their level. 1-in-20 at first level, 2-in-20 at second level, etc. Any time the Cleric would be the target of magic, before any saving throws or spell effects are rolled, roll a d20. If the result is equal to, or lower than the Cleric’s level, the spell passes harmlessly over them.
This does not mean the Cleric has any immunity to a fireball if it goes off near them. But, if they are the target of a fireball, their resistance may prevent it from going off in the first place. It is left to the referee to adjudicate what exactly it means to be a spell’s ‘target.’
This ability reaches its maximum at an 18-in-20 chance.
I agreed to take over refereeing responsibilities for one of the games I play in. This means I’ll be running two games every week. The very idea of it is exhausting, and I’m honestly a little worried about how I’m going to hold up. If this blog ends up becoming even more of a word slurry than it already is, you’ll know why.
The first hurdle is figuring out what I should run. Should it be something I’ve already put a lot of work into, like Dungeon Moon? Or, I could run a second party through ORWA, and let the two groups see one another’s influence on the world. But both of those are post-apocalyptic settings, and I’d really like to branch out and do something new. I briefly considered running a game in a very traditional fantasy world, but as much as I do want to revisit that concept someday, it just doesn’t hold much appeal to me at the moment.
What I really want to do is run a game in space. And I want it to be the opposite of post apocalypse. I want it to be a galaxy of plenty. A society at its peak, but one with enough stark inequality that the players are hungry.
So, here’s my campaign pitch:
Faster Than Light travel is a technology so profoundly ancient, that it may as well be The Wheel. It’s prehistory, interesting only to the dustiest and most arthritic of archeologists. Commensurately, the whole of the galaxy–down to the tips of each spiral arm–was originally charted so long ago that many worlds have been forgotten, rediscovered, and forgotten again many times over.
Every star system of consequences is ruled by a member of one of the 36,000 families. Less consequential systems are nominally ruled by them as well, but usually by some minor relative who prefers living in a manse on a more cosmopolitan world, rather than moving to some backwater to govern it.
To say the hierarchies among the 36,000 families are complex, is akin to saying the galaxy is rather big. There are entire universities of scholars dedicated to understanding the finer minutia of who is in charge of what, and which person is subordinate to whom. But, bloated and directionless as the bureaucracy is, it all manages to muddle along under the guidance of the one supreme authority that is completely indisputable: The King of Space.
The current dynasty came to power four generations ago, in a series of ruthless wars pursued by Kulga “Bloodfist” Osbert. Her son, Ruldin, fought many of her later wars at her side, and was himself a powerful ruler in his day. His son, Trost, was competent enough for peacetime. The current King of Space, Trost’s daughter Bassiana, is a pathetically pampered creature with a cruel sense of fun. The only reason no one has usurped her yet is that dealing with her is slightly less terrifying than the prospect of succession wars.
None of that really has much to do with you, though. You’re just some dirt farmer who grows cantaloupes all year, then loads half of them onto a ship that transports them to some more important world you will never visit, where most will rot before anyone feels like eating them.
Or maybe you work in a factory, making fittings for mounting Repulsor Lift Dishes into Repulsor Lift Housings. You live in company housing, and every day you work a 16 hour shift at the conveyor belt, performing the same rote solder over and over again. Eventually, each fitting will be sold for 2 Darics, which is the same amount you make for every 100 you complete. So long as there are no defects.
Or maybe you’ve seen your share of the finer things in life, as you stood still and silent in some minor noble’s manse. Far enough away that nobody had to think about you, but close enough to respond instantly if any of them wanted a cup from the pitcher of wine you held.
The point is that you’re shit. You’re at the bottom of the pecking order, and always have been. But, recently, you resolved to change that. To take control of your life. With all your meager savings, you booked passage on an independent freighter that came through the local port. You hoped to disembark on some nicer world, and hopefully make a real life for yourself there.
Unfortunately, that didn’t pan out.
The Bozac
Two hundred years ago, The Bozac was a top-of-the-line pleasure cruiser, intended to ferry hundreds of passengers around in style and luxury. After many years of enduring more and more demeaning service, the Bozac was finally headed for the scrap heap, when an enterprising young fella bought it on the cheap.
Nine-tenths of the ship isn’t even pressurized. The remaining tenth is falling apart, but if you cram it full of people and cargo, it runs just well enough that you can call yourself an independent transport.
Things were going well enough, until the ship was ambushed by pirates. The crew and passengers of The Bozac never had a chance. If it had been one pirate with a marshmellow gun on a skateboard, they still would have been too fast and too well armed for The Bozac to get away. One shot crippled the ship’s engines, and one hour is all it took to steal all the cargo worth taking. The crew and passengers were herded into slave pens, and a few minutes after that, The Bozac was a deserted hulk drifting in space.
Deserted, except for a handful of player characters who managed to hide well enough to be left behind. Now all they’ve gotta do is find some way to get the ship moving again, before the life support system gives out.
Gameplay
My hope is that the players find some way to repair The Bozac, becoming its de facto crew. From there, the game would unfold as a sort of open-ended hex crawl, with the ship playing dual purpose both as the facilitator of their adventures (by allowing them to move around the Galaxy), and a lodestone around their neck (constantly eating up resources for fuel and repairs). Over time, they could customize the ship, or just buy or steal a better one.
Of course, the game could develop in any number of directions, and I don’t want to presume too much about how the players will solve their first set of problems. If they don’t end up with a ship of their own, they can always adventure on a single planet for awhile, and book passage on freighters whenever they want to move to a new one.
I’d like to put together a rules document before play begins. Nothing terribly fancy, mind you. Basically just the same rules I’ve been using in ORWA, but with some of the modifications that my ORWA group wouldn’t let me get away with.
A variety of alien species exist, but humans are the dominant race. No alien species has settlements on more than a handful of worlds, and the galactic nobility and monarchy are exclusively human. Player characters are assumed to be human unless some alternative is negotiated in advance. Classes are fighter / specialist / magic user, but I’m open to whatever weird class the players found on a blog somewhere, if they want to play it.
This mid-week bonus post is here by the good grace of my generous Patrons. Thank you!
On a Red World Alone has a way of bringing out the weird in people. To some extent that’s true of all D&D, but ORWA strikes a chord with people. It makes them want to go out of their way to be weird, just for the sake of fitting in with all the weirdness around them. It’s one of the things I love about the setting.
That’s it. Just…”something happens.” He went on to explain that he didn’t care how I determined what happened, and could use whatever method I deemed appropriate. He did suggest that I could write a table if I wanted (this is something my players have come to expect from me), but added that he would be just as happy to have me make up the results on the spot. In fact, he insisted that if I did make a table, he wanted at least one of the entries to be “referee improvises something.”
For a few weeks after the player made this wish, my game prep time was pretty lacking, so that’s basically what I did. I just improvised something that felt appropriate each time he flipped. Like the time I caused flowers to grow out of the ground all around where he landed, or the time I had a nearby door slide open. I’ve wanted to make a table, and now that I’ve got a little more time that’s what this post was originally going to be. But the player uses this ability several times each session, so I worry that even a d100 table would get stale more quickly than it would be worth. And anyways, I like making these unpredictable effects relate specifically to the situation the players are in, which a table cannot easily accommodate.
So, rather than create a table with explicit entries, I’ve decided to use a reaction roll to determine how good or bad the result of a flip should be, then fiat from there. So, whenever this player flips over someone’s head, 2d6 are rolled.
On a 2, something terrible happens. Like…a nearby vase explodes, filling the room with flying shards of glass shrapnel.
On a 3-5, something somewhat unfortunate happens. Like…the flipper’s personal gravity is reversed, causing him to fall up to the ceiling.
On a 6-8, something weird and neutral, but potentially exploitable, happens. Like…smoke starts pouring out the flipper’s ears until it fills the room.
On a 9-11, something pretty good happens. Like…an encounter that was going poorly resets, so the party can make a new first impression.
On a 12, something great happens. Like…the flipper gains a temporary invulnerability.
There’s still a lot of fiat involved, which is what we wanted here. That will allow the flips to have context-based results, and prevent the ability from starting to feel stale. But, I’m not in complete control. The dice are still a deciding factor, which was important to me.
That begs the question, why? Why don’t I want to be in control? OSR referees have a reputation, in some corners of the greater RPG community, for being control freaks. We want the power to make ANYTHING happen in our games, without regard for the player’s desires. We want to create the whole game world ourselves, rather than let players have any input on what the world is like, etc. etc. etc.
And it’s true, I do want that power when I run games. Honestly, I require that power. If the group wants to play a game where the referee’s role has been neutered, I may be willing to participate, but I wouldn’t be willing to run. Without the power to bend the world in whatever direction I deem correct, being the referee seems kinda pointless to me.
But that power is always supposed to be used in the service of the world. The idea is not that the referee gets to go on a power trip. That’s just juvenile, and not a game anybody would stick around in for very long. The idea is that we’re all playing in a shared imaginary space, and because we’re all different people, we’re going to perceive that space in different ways, and thus need an arbiter to resolve disagreement.
If a room is described as having a pillar in it, one player might imagine a classic roman pillar with vertical grooves and decorative marble filigree at each end. Another player might imagine a crude length of wood. Most of the time, it doesn’t matter, because the pillar is just set dressing. But, part of the fun of RPGs is that anything can become important at any time.
To continue with the same thought experiment, one player says they use their daggers to climb the pillar. Because that player is imagining a column of wood, this seems totally reasonable to them. Another player, though, was imagining stone columns, and is mystified as to how this dumbass thinks they’re going to stick their daggers into it. Who is correct?
The referee is correct. That’s their job. The way they imagine the space is the ‘right’ one, and when some as-yet unspoken detail of the world becomes relevant, the referee can describe what they were imagining.
Of course, sometimes the referee wasn’t imagining anything. Sometimes a player does a flip, and “something happens,” and the referee is responsible for describing something they weren’t planning.
Here’s the thing. As a referee, I do my best to impartially communicate the world to my players. But, I also like my players. They are my friends, and I like it when they have a fun time. I want to be nice to them. So if it’s up to me to just…pick something, I’m going to err on the side of making them happy. It’s not something I aim to do, it’s just something that happens.
But players shouldn’t always be happy. Sometimes, bad things happen to them. Bad things cause conflict, and conflict is the core element of interesting events. Even when good things happen, it may not be the good thing the players wanted, or expected, and that can be interesting too.
It’s a less important consideration, but the dice also help avoid choice paralysis. “Something Happens” is a pretty big mandate. “Something bad happens” or “Something great happens” is much more manageable. Creativity thrives on limitations.
And that’s why anyone who has ever criticized the OSR for anything, ever, is a big dummy.
My games use a system called “Magic Words,” which replaces how Magic Users get their spells. Basically, instead of learning fully formed spells, MUs learn individual words. During downtime, they can put some of their words together in whatever arrangement sounds best to them. Whatever they end up with is the name of a spell their character has created. Then, in between sessions, I come up withe some suitable effects for a spell of that name. I’ve been using the system since I came up with it back in 2015, and I love it.
Last year, I posted a list of all the spells my ORWA players had come up with so far. And, in the year since then, they’ve come up with a whole bunch of new spells, so I figured it was time to turn them into another post.
This year, my players used the words they found to create several spells that are well established staples of the game. Stuff like Mage Armor and Feather Fall. Obviously I can’t really take credit for writing these spells, but I’ve included them here anyway since my versions are slightly altered to scale with the player’s level, and to include spell failure results.
The words my players had to work with this year were: Hold, Missile, Portal, Fairy, Ball, Spider, Fire, Feather, Fall, Cling, Balance, Gas, Cloak, Dog, Form, Sleep, Magic, Person, Rock, Web, Mage, Glare, Animate, Armor, Corpse, Imbue, Teapot, Hate, Blood, Ape, Pain, Fist, Cone, Cold, Star, Spectral, Snake, Pierce, Execute, Moose, and Time.
Spider Ball
Causes a tiny rift to form between this world and the spiderverse. The rift appears at an empty spot within the caster’s line of sight. Spiders from the other side pour into the rift, and become trapped there. This pocket of spiders becomes denser and denser, until it explodes outwards in a 20′ radius. Spiders will completely cover every surface without that space, and any living creatures therein must save versus Poison from the thousands of spider bites they receive. On a failed save, anyone with 4 fewer hit dice than the caster will die. Others within the sphere who fail their save will take 1d4 hit points of damage per level of the caster. Anyone who succeeds on their save takes half damage.
After the explosion, the rift will close. The spiders who burst through will remain, and slowly find their way out of the immediate area over 1d6 turns. Until then, anyone who enters the 20′ radius area where the spell was cast will need to make a save versus poison as if they had been within the blast’s range. (Though they get a +4 on their save.)
Aside from the deathly deathiness, this spell is also very scary and will scare people.
Failure:
The spell functions normally, but bad luck, none of the spiders are poisonous. Still creepy as fuck though.
The spell functions normally, but is centered on the caster.
The spell functions normally, but is pathetically small. Only those within a 5′ radius are affected.
The spell functions normally, but you’ve accidentally connected to the slugverse, rather than the spiderverse. Slugs fly everywhere. Their mucen is slightly acidic, and deals 1 damage to everyone within the area.
Mage Armor
Causes spectral armaments to appear around the caster for 1 minute per caster level. This armor is completely non-encumbering. At first level, the spectral armor improves the caster’s armor rating by 1. This amount increases at every odd numbered level (2 at level 3, 3 at level 5, 4 at level 7, etc).
If the caster wishes, they may instead cast this spell on an ally. However, it’s much more difficult to maintain, and will require the caster’s attention in order for the armor to persist. While doing this, the caster may move, but can take no further actions, and must always remain within 1000′ of the spell’s target.
Failure:
Functions normally, but only provides +1 to armor class.
Functions normally, but only lasts for 1d4 rounds.
Functions normally, but creates an unintended warp in the mystic fields around the caster. While the spell is active, they cannot cast any other spells.
Functions normally, but the target is a randomly determined creature within 30′ of the caster.
Feather Fall
One human sized creature or object per level of the caster may be induced to fall through the air as slowly as a feather (about 5′ per round). This spell includes anything the target can carry. If the caster wishes to effect heavier creatures or objects, they count as multiple spell targets. So if a level 2 caster wants to cast Feather Fall on a horse, they may do so, but it would count as 2 objects, and they would not then be able to cast it on themselves. (They could, however, ride the horse, since the horse can easily carry them).
This spell can be cast with an instant utterance, quickly enough to save the falling target if the fall is unexpected. However, if initiative is in effect, it must be observed.
The spell ends immediately when the subject stops falling.
Failure:
Falling speed is only partially reduced, falling damage is rolled with d4s – 1, rather than d6s.
Spell can only be cast on a single target (though, heavy targets are allowed).
The rate of the fall is actually increased, and falling damage should be rolled with d8s instead of d6s.
Spell functions normally, but lasts for 10 full minutes, without stopping when the target touches ground. This makes them susceptible to being blown away by a light breeze.
Imbue Magic
Imbue magic is used to create temporary magic weapons, which last for 1 minute per level of the caster.
For each caster level, the magic user may imbue an existing weapon with a +1 to hit. These bonuses may be combined in a single weapon, or divided among multiple weapons. So a level 5 magic user can imbue a single sword with +5 to hit, or may imbue 5 swords with +1 to hit each, or any combination in between.
Failure:
Imbues the chosen weapons with penalties, rather than bonuses.
Spell functions normally, but the bonus can only be used against a single target, which must be designated by the caster.
The caster is filled with rage, and may not perform any action other than making unarmed attacks for the next minute.
The caster’s fists gain all of the bonus. Unarmed attacks can be made as 1d6, as a magic weapon.
Animate Dead
This spell energizes the faint memories of life that cling to the corpses and skeletons of people, allowing them to move and act in a gross mockery of their former existence. Because the entities inhabiting these bodies are chosen by the caster, these undead are under his total control. However, the faint memories of life retained by the corpse or skeleton constantly struggles with the invader introduced by the caster, a conflict that drives the host corpse or skeleton to destructive urges. The animated dead will always interpret any instructions in the most violent and destructive manner possible. They will also prefer to attack those that they knew in life, no matter their former relationship with the person in question. The bodies remain animated until they are destroyed.
When the spell is cast, the caster may divide a number of hit dice equal to their own among the corpses they wish to animate. At least one hit die must be spent on each corpse that is animated, making it a simple 1 hd creature with basic motor skills, that can obey commands from the necromancer. Additional hit dice may be spent to increase a creature’s hd at a rate of 1-to-1. Hit dice may also be spent to grant the undead creatures special abilities, at a rate negotiated between the caster and the referee.
For example, upgrading a zombie so that it can speak, wield a weapon, or move as fast as it did when it was alive might cost 1 hit die. More devious abilities, like energy drain, cost two. Adding special abilities does not increase the actual hit dice of the undead.
Intelligent undead can be created with this spell, by spending hit dice to give them that ability. However, intelligent undead cannot be commanded by their creator the way unintelligent undead can.
The bodies being reanimated must be touched for this spell to function.
Failure:
Spell functions normally, but every corpse animated by this casting immediately attacks the caster.
A paladin, or similar character is nearby, and detects the evil casting. They charge in to stop it.
The death energies backlash, and the caster’s hit points are immediately reduced to 0.
The undead are created normally, but their only interest is in forming a band, and playing music.
Snake Form
Over the course of 1 minute, the caster transforms into a snake that is 5′ long, + 5′ per level.
As a snake, they re-roll their hit points using d12 hit dice instead of d4s. If they are not currently at max hp, then roll a group of d4s as well. Take away a number of d4s whose showing faces can fully contain their current damage. Then, remove a similar number of d12s, to determine the character’s current HP.
While in Snake Form, the caster cannot cast spells, carry items (including clothing), or speak. They receive a bonus to their attack roll equal to 1/2 their hit dice, and their bite deals 1d8 damage. (upgraded to 1d10 at level 7, and 1d12 at level 14)
The real point of this form is to grapple, as the snake’s d12 hit dice make it a superb grappler. If a character is grappled, the snake can automatically deal 2d8 damage to it each round (2d10 after level 7, 2d12 after level 14)
Transforming back into human form also takes 1 minute of time.
Failure:
The caster becomes trapped in the body of a normal, boring garden snake for 1 hour.
The spell functions normally, but the character doesn’t receive any boost to their hit points.
Conan the Barbarian appears to kill the caster.
Instead of transforming into a snake, the caster just sheds a thick layer of dead skin, which they become tangled in for 10 minutes.
Animate Armor
When cast on a foe, they are entitled to a saving throw versus Magic. On failure, their armor will begin to resist their actions. For each piece of armor they are wearing, they will suffer a -1 to any rolls they make which require them to move their bodies.
When cast on an ally, the animated armor will levitate every so slightly off of their bodies, removing its weight from their shoulders. Characters in this condition do not suffer any encumbrance from their armor.
Animate Armor can be cast on a number of targets equal to the caster’s level. It lasts for 1 hour per caster level.
Failure:
The effects for friend and foe are reversed.
Instead of becoming animated, the armor is simply empowered, offering twice the normal amount of protection.
Instead of becoming animated, the armor simply disintegrates.
The caster’s own clothing becomes animated, pulls itself off of their body, and runs away, never to return.
Flame Cloak
If cast on a friend’s clothes, the clothing ignites in a cool fire that will not burn them. It will absorb an amount of fire damage equal to the caster’s maximum hit points, after which the clothing will fall off the wearer’s body, leaving nothing but ash.
If cast on a foe, they are entitled to a saving throw versus Magic to resist. On failure, their clothes burst into flames, dealing an amount of damage equal to the caster’s current hit points.
In either case, the spell requires that the caster touch the target’s clothing.
Failure:
The friend and foe results are reversed.
The caster’s own clothes ignite, destroying anything they’re carrying, and reducing them to 0 hit points.
Sparks fly out of the caster’s fingers, but nothing else happens.
The caster’s pockets are suddenly filled with Red Hots candies.
Mage Portal
Requires the assistance of at least one other person in order to cast successfully. The assistant does not need to be a caster themselves, but they must be a willing participant.
The caster must be within line of sight of their assistant. When casting is complete, both caster and assistant will open their arms wide, creating a portal which leads from one to the other. Objects can pass through these portals instantaneously. If either party moves, or is injured, the portals fail.
At level 4, the caster (but not the assistant) can move half speed while holding open the portal. They may move outside line of sight with their assistant, and the portals will not be effected.
At level 7, the caster (but not the assistant) has a 2-in-6 chance to maintain the portal if they are damaged.
At level 10, the caster (but not the assistant) can make normal move actions while holding the portal open.
At level 12, the caster (but not the assistant) has a 3-in-6 chance to maintain the portal if they take damage.
At every 2 levels after 2, the chance to maintain the portal after taking damage increases by 1-in-6.
Failure:
The caster and their assistant instantaneously switch places. There is no other effect.
Objects passing through the portals have a 20% chance to come out the other side mangled and broken.
The spell functions normally, but the assistant must make a saving throw versus paralyzation or be turned to stone.
The caster’s side of the portal has a vacuum effect, pulling any small objects nearby through it.
Mage Form
An illusion spell which causes the target to look like a wizard. While in this wizardly guise, the target will be able to perform the most minor of magical feats: creating illusory lights, picking cards out of decks, etc. Target gets no saving throw.
Failure:
The caster grows a beard, 1′ long per level.
Mage form is cast on everyone.
The target looks like a fierce, muscle-bound barbarian.
The target physically switches places with a real wizard somewhere in the world.
Magic Web
Allows the caster to create a web, up to 10’x10′. The potential size of the web doubles at every level that is a multiple of 5. So 20’x20′ at level 5, 40’x40′ at level 10, etc.
If anyone casts a spell while the Magic Web is between them and their target, the spell will become ‘caught’ in the web. A cocoon of strands will wrap around it, and the spell will not go off as intended. Later, the magic user who placed the Magic Web may collect these cocoons, and return the trapped spells to their lab. There, the spells can either add a value of 50 money per level of their caster; OR, the spells can be dissected and destroyed, allowing one of its magic words to be learned.
Spells cast by a caster who is higher level than the one who placed the magic web only have an X in 6 chance of being caught. Where X is equal to 6, minus the difference in the two caster’s levels.
A Magic Web lasts 12 hours for every 5 caster levels.
Failure:
The caster is just wrapped up in a cocoon of webbing, which lasts for 12 hours for every 5 of their caster levels. They will need help to escape.
The caster becomes very confused by the wording of the spell’s effect. This magical confusion has the same effect as being totally blackout drunk.
The caster has an emotional breakdown, and sobs in a corner until someone comes to console them.
The spell functions normally, but the web is woven so poorly that only spells cast by characters of level 3 or lower can be caught in it.
Magic Teapot
Causes any smallish liquid container to grow legs or wings. It will deliver its contents directly anywhere it needs to be delivered–whether into someone’s mouth, their wounds, or to the top floor of a 300 story building, or into the middle of the desert.
Range of the spell is 25′ per level of the caster. Once the container is animate, it can go anywhere, and will persist until its contents have been delivered or destroyed.
Failure:
The container explodes, scattering its contents.
The spell functions normally, but it also turns the liquid into a deadly poison.
The spell functions normally, but it also turns the liquid into boiling water.
The spell functions normally, but it dramatically reduces the effectiveness of whatever the liquid is, to the lowest imaginable effect. Determined by the referee.
Form Person
Allows the caster to create something kind of like a human. Casting the spell requires 1 month, 25,000cc, and access to a laboratory with creation vats. The resulting creature is shaped like a human, looks like a human, more or less thinks like a human, but has a completely flat personality, and is completely loyal to the caster, to an unnatural degree.
No matter how well-prepared the conditions for casting the spell are, the spell always has a failure chance.
Failure:
Creates a psychopath who hates its creator.
Creates a heap of pus and meat that is totally useless.
Creates a creature with 1 hp, and a 2d6 at best in all its stats.
Creates a complete body, but it’s entirely lifeless. A vegetable.
Missile Magic
(Distinct from Magic Missile) Can be cast to duplicate a spell the caster already has prepared, and attach that spell to a missile of some kind. (An arrow, a bullet, or even a stone if it is thrown). This does not deplete the other spell. Only missile magic itself is depleted. Wherever the missile lands, the duplicated spell will activate as if it had been successfully cast there.
Failure:
A random spell from the caster’s spell list is assigned to the missile, instead of the one the caster selected.
The referee picks the least advantageous entry from the spell list to be assigned to the missile.
The duplicated spell IS used up.
The arrow immediately leaps up to attack the caster, dealing whatever arrow damage would normally be.
Sleep
Causes a magical slumber to come upon creatures with hit dice equal to or fewer than the caster’s.
If the caster wishes, they may cast it at a specific creature, and so long as that creature does not have hit dice greater than the caster’s, they will be effected. If the caster attempts to target a group, then the creatures with the lowest hit dice will be affected first. The caster cannot prioritize who in a group will be affected.
Sleep lasts d4 adventuring turns, and has a range of 30′. It does not affect undead, constructs, or other creatures which do not naturally sleep. Hitting a sleeping creature awakens it, but noise will not. There is no saving throw against sleep.
Failure:
Make the targets hyperactive instead, giving them a sort of Haste effect.
The spell reverses back upon the caster, putting them to sleep instead.
Restores 3 hit points to each person who would have been affected. They feel like they just had a good night’s sleep!
The caster’s hands fall asleep. It takes 1d4 rounds to get the pins and needle feeling out of them, and until that feeling is gone, no spells may be cast.
Imbue Time
This spell is cast on a jar of water, and requires one adventuring turn to complete. During the casting of the spell, the caster is technically in a sort of temporal stasis, where they are physically, but not mentally, present. When the spell completes, it will seem to them as though only a moment has passed.
At a later time, when the water is consumed, the imbiber (whomever that may be) will jump back in time to whenever the caster cast the spell, and will remain there for the duration of the casting. So if the water was imbued at 5am, and the water is consumed at 8am, then the consumer will jump back in time to 5am for 10 minutes.
Note that consuming water imbued with time does not transport a person spatially, only temporally.
Water imbued with time lasts for 1 hour per caster level, after which it loses its potency.
Failure:
Spell takes 1 hour to cast. Time travel only lasts 1 minute.
The water vibrates until the material of the container it’s in shatters, exploding out and dealing damage to the caster.
& 4. A Time Guardian has noticed your tampering with the fabric of reality, and is displeased.
Cone of Time
Everything in a 60′ cone must make a saving throw versus Magic, or become trapped in that moment of time for 1 round per 4 levels of the caster.
Failure:
The caster is stopped instead.
The whole cone goes backwards, getting the caster, and everybody behind her.
& 4. A Time Guardian has noticed your tampering with the fabric of reality, and is displeased.
David’s Painful Sleep
Causes a magical slumber, accompanied by deadly nightmares, to come upon creatures with hit dice equal to, or fewer than, the caster’s.
If the caster wishes, they may cast it at a specific creature, or on a group of creatures. If the target is a group, then the creature with the lowest hit dice are affected first. The caster cannot prioritize who in the group will be affected.
Subjects are entitled to a Saving Throw versus Magic to resist Painful Sleep. Any who fail will be accosted in their slumber by a terrifying dream beast, who will torment them with their own fears, causing them real injury. Each round they will take d6 damage from this creature, and may make another saving throw to attempt to wake up. If they fail, they remain asleep for another round, take another d6 damage, and may attempt another save to awaken.
Painful Sleep has a range of 30′. It does not affect undead, constructs, or other creatures which do not naturally sleep. Hitting a sleeping creature awakens it, but noise will not.
Failure:
Make the targets hyperactive instead, giving them a sort of haste effect.
The spell reverses back upon the caster, putting them to sleep instead.
Restores 3 hit points to each person who would have been effected. They feel like they just had a good night’s sleep!
The caster’s hands fall asleep. It takes 1d4 rounds to get the pins and needle feeling out of them, and until that feeling is gone, no spells may be cast.
David’s Spectral Form
The caster becomes completely incorporeal for 2 rounds per caster level. While in this form they have the ability to hover just slightly off the ground. Their visual appearance does not change in any way.
Failure:
The caster is stuck in spectral form until they’re able to memorize and cast the spell again.
The caster can’t touch things and can move through walls, but is still vulnerable to damage.
The caster is affected by double-gravity for the duration of the spell.
The caster stops existing for the duration of the spell.
