When Ginny Bo Fails a Morale Check

A few months back, in Vaults of Pahvelorn, my character Eriara’s apprentice died. It was really too bad, he’d shown a great deal of promise (took out an entire flock of pegasi)! but ultimately succumbed to one of the most ancient sources of character death: a large rolling stone. We weren’t even able to recover his hat.

I told the mighty Brendan that Eriara would like to search for a new apprentice. As she’s only 12 herself, I noted that I’d very much prefer a young apprentice. Someone who wouldn’t have any problems taking orders from a child. Brendan did some rolling, and informed me that the only hireling available was an 86 year old man.

I was…annoyed.

I wasn’t upset or even really frustrated, mind you, but annoyed. I had gotten the exact opposite of what I wanted, and since magical healing in Pahvelorn has a small chance to age your character by 1 year, this 86 year old bastard may well die of old age. I understand that in this form of play, we give dice the power to tell us how the world exists. Sometimes it doesn’t exist in a way which is advantageous to us. I embrace that, but it doesn’t mean I’m always happy about what I get.

I took him, because he was the best I could get. I dubbed “Ginny Bo” because it sounded ridiculous and I wanted to make this imaginary person feel bad about being my only option. I didn’t train him as a magic user. I intended to use him merely as a torch bearer until we got back to our home town where I could search for a proper hireling. But then something started happening.

I don’t remember if it was Brendan, or I, or someone else who said it. But it was agreed that Ginny Bo had lived a long and boring life. That he regretted not being more adventurous in his youth. He had decided to jam all of the life he could manage into his last years. This was convenient for me, since I kinda wanted him to die. Using this as justification, I sent him into all manner of dangerous scrapes. And even though he was rarely effective, he somehow managed to end up alive at the end of every session. I began to inject more personality in the character for shits and giggles. Before I started to like him, the rest of the party already loved him. That proved infectious because soon enough, I loved him too.

His adventures at this point are too numerous to recount, but you’ll find hints of them in the ever-lengthening titles he’s given to himself: Ginny Bo of the Devil’s Helm. Wielder of the Black Sword Obynig, called “Butter Steel.” The Giantslayer. The sludgifier of the Great Worm.

All of that is my long, rambling way of leading up to my problem: morale checks. In OD&D, when a player character tells a hireling to do something which places them in particular danger, the GM makes a die roll to determine whether that hireling will obey, or flee. The mechanic is important, because it prevents the player from having a bunch of entirely expendable pawns they can order about without repercussions. But it doesn’t work for Ginny Bo.

The crazy things Ginny Bo does aren’t done because Eriara orders him to do them. He does these crazy things because he’s a glory hound eager to make his mark on the world before he dies. If he were ever to fail a morale check (which he hasn’t yet) and flee from danger, it would break the wonderful illusion of his character which has amused us all so very much. Yet as a GM myself, I wouldn’t ask Brendan to exempt Ginny Bo from the rules for role playing reasons. That’s just not how I like to play.

Fortunately, I came up with a better idea. Last week I got permission from Brendan to draft a random chart. One which will serve as an alternative to mere flight in the event that Ginny Bo ever does fail a morale check. The idea is that while Ginny Bo will never flee from danger, he might become so wrapped up in the adventure that he acts to the detriment of himself or the party.

Here is the chart, as I’ve drafted it. A 1d6 should be rolled in out-of-combat situations (such as dungeon exploration), whereas a 1d12 should be rolled in combat.

Ginny Bo begins to monologue. He rants about his greatness and his achievements.
He opens the nearest door and charges through it heedless of the danger, or charges deeper into the most dangerous looking part of the wilderness.
He attempts an overly complicated maneuver and throws out his back. For the next 3 turns he can’t do much more than walk around and carry a few things.
Ginny Bo realizes HE ought to be the party leader! He begins barking orders at the rest of the party. All of his ideas are terrible.
Falls asleep, probably standing up. He is very old, you know.
Regardless of any need for stealth, he shouts his name and attempts whatever task he was given recklessly. He will probably fail spectacularly.
Ginny Bo drops his weapon and headbutts the nearest enemy. (Probably while wearing the Devil Helm).
He puffs out his chest and taunts enemies. Possibly offering them a “free shot.”
Attempts to perform a Karate-Kid style leg sweep. There is absolutely no power behind it, and he looks like quite a fool impotently kicking at his opponent’s legs.*
Tries to twirl his weapons around in a fancy display of swordsmanship. Drops his weapon.
Tosses aside any armor which can be easily removed and declares “I can take ye’ naked!”
Attempts to tackle opponent and wrestle them on the floor. Regardless of the opponent’s size.

*This may or may not be based on an actual childhood experience.

Picture Thursday 7: Ogam Thorton by Gus L.

Having friends with artistic talents has ups and downs. The downside is that I hate them for making my shitty doodles look even worse by comparison. The upside is that they still love me, and they make me lovely drawings like this one. Oh so many lovely drawings.

This particular piece is from Gus L., esteemed author of Dungeon of Signs, and my adventuring companion in the Vaults of Pahvelorn. During many of our games, Gustie plays while working on drawings. At the start of a recent game, he asked that everyone in the party write a brief description of their character’s appearance. He then proceeded to sketch each of our characters during the course of a 3 hour game session. There were four of us there that day, which means Gustie completed each of these sketches in less than an hour. That may not be too impressive to someone who does a lot of art themselves, I don’t know. But it’s damned impressive to me. And Ogam looks way cooler than I ever imagined!

I highly recommend you check out Gustie’s blog, for more of his art, his play reports, and generally awesome bloggie goodness.

Tavern Tales 2: Ooze, Poison, and Near Death Experiences

It’s been awhile, but I have a few more Tavern Tales to tell, if you’ve got the time!

Underwater Ooze

Over the last few months, Brendan‘s Vaults of Pahvelorn campaign has become one of the best parts of my week. I love the game, I love the group, and I love having the opportunity to be a player as a change of pace. I’ve also enjoyed the challenging, and high-mortality style of Brendan’s GMing, despite the fact that it cost me one of my favorite PCs ever. As a group, we’ve learned to be cautious, and when its best to simply run away. I think we’ve become quite skilled at navigating the depths, but our explorations are far from done. And just this past week, we encountered a challenge which very nearly defeated us entirely.

In a large cave, amidst a forest of glass trees, we discovered a series of ziggurats. I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice to say, we had reason to believe there was treasure in those ancient structures. We ventured down the stairs which led into the first, and were immediately confronted with an octagonal room filled thigh-deep with water. We could see a dry passageway leading further into the dungeon straight across the room, as well as a stone slab with a body atop it that we wanted to investigate. But the water was murky, and even a first level adventurer would know not to step into any water you can’t see the bottom of.

We tested the bottom of the water with our 10ft poles, and felt only thick sludge. We thought perhaps it would be safe to trudge through–but when we withdrew our poles, we noticed that the metal hooks mounted on the ends of them were completely gone. Our rat catcher, Beni Profane, pulled a rat forth from his pouch and tossed it squarely into the center of the room, and we all watched expectantly. At first the tiny cr5eature frantically swam back towards us, and dry land. But the rodent didn’t make it three feet before a grey, gloppish ooze rose up from the water, and came down on the rate, dragging it beneath the surface.

Now thoroughly convinced that we didn’t want to step into the water. we broke some of our 10ft poles in half, and used rope to tie foot hold knots to each half, thus constructing a crude pair of stilts. We tied a rope to Beni–as he is our most dextrous party member–and sent him staggering through the mucky black waters to the other side. Once he had successfully made it there, he used an iron spike to mount the rope to the wall, then tossed the end back to us. We constructed a crude bridge of two ropes–one for our arms, and one for our legs–and began to cross one by one.

The dice were not with us, though, and the second to cross–our beloved hireling Levis–caused the rope to snap from the wall. He fell with a splash into the water, and lost all composure. He miraculously managed to flee from the water without too much injury, and continued fleeing towards the ziggurat’s entrance, where we later found him dead from an unknown source.

The rest of us managed to reattach the bridge and make it across. The entire process took at least 40 minutes of game time. But it was well worth it!

…I’m kidding of course. We didn’t find a single copper piece in the entire Ziggurat. And in addition to losing Levis, one of the player characters–Satyavati–also lost his life while fighting a monster in that next room.

Without question, that was our most dismal delve into the depths yet. And I adored it.

Poisoned Journal

I’m not sure whether I’ve mentioned this or not, but recently my younger brother asked me to introduce him to the hobby. I threw together a quick amalgamation of OD&D rules I gleaned from playing in Vaults of Pahvelorn, made a dungeon, and told him we’d play for three hours on the the following Saturday. Six weeks later, it has turned into a running campaign which I’ve dubbed Dungeons & Dragons & Little Brothers; or D&D&LB for short. Running the game has unfortunately pushed back a few other projects I wanted to work on, but I’ve also been having a great deal of fun with it, so I don’t mind.

In a recent game the party found part of an ancient manor house which had fallen into the earth in ages past. Most of it had been destroyed, but a few rooms remained largely intact, and could be accessed directly from the caves they were exploring. They had good luck finding treasures here, and when they encountered a largely intact, luxurious office room, they started to get pretty excited. Too excited to check under the desk as they normally would have. They didn’t notice the dire rat nesting there until it leapt out to defend its territory. My brother’s character, Garret, took a bite to the face which dropped him to -2 hp.

Now, the way I handle death in this game is thus: If the character reaches 0 hp, then they are unconscious. They can be revived after 10-60 minutes, but cannot fight or move quickly, lest they risk reopening their wounds and taking 1 hp of damage. If the player ever falls below 0 hp, they must make a save versus death. If their save succeeds, then they return to 0 hp and are unconscious. Characters who succeed on a save versus death also receive a permanent disability, based on the manner of their near death. If the save is failed…well…roll 3d6 for your stats, in order.

As it so happened, Garret succeed on his save. He was left with a permanent hole in his cheek which cost him 1 point of Charisma, and was reduced to limping around at 0 hp, but was otherwise none the worse for wear. Garret’s companion, Drako, urged that they should return to the surface so he could recover. But Garret insisted that they had cleared the room of danger, and it would be a shame to go back without looking through the room to see what they could find. As it turned out, Garret was correct. That single room held more treasure than the party had yet discovered in the rest of the dungeon combined. They found ancient books of law from before the fall of human civilization, and even managed to procure a piece of fine sculpture, dedicated to a powerful goddess.

Unfortunately, Garret had been wrong about clearing the room of dangers. For while there were no more vicious creatures there to attack them, there was a vicious poison dart trap. One which stung Garret in the palm when he attempted to open a locked journal. He failed his save versus poison, and had to be dragged back to town by Drako. Even before they made it to the surface, Garret’s mental state had been reduced to that of a vegetable, and it cost the Party every penny they had earned that day, just to restore his mind.

Near Death at the North Tower

For the most part, I’ve been very proud of how quickly my younger brother adapted to the dangers of OD&D. Despite his actions in the previous story, he’s made more good choices than bad ones. But even good players sometimes have bad tactics. And no player is immune from the occasional wrath of poor fortune.

While investigating those underground manor houses, the players came upon a deed to the “North Tower.” They did some investigating, and discovered that the building was still standing, the deed was still valid, and their new property was only a half day’s travel from the town they were residing in. Truth be told I didn’t expect them to find that deed as quickly as they did, but that’s the nature of the game. Sometimes players surprise you.

They decided to go investigate their new property, and promptly found themselves in a pitched battle with the bandits who had claimed the tower as their hideout. It was an absolute route. The magic user was the first to go down. His “Shield” spell gave him an AC of 3 against normal missiles, so he tried to stand in front and offer cover for his companions. The first volley of arrows overcame his increased armor class, and he went down, barely making his save v. death to remain unconscious at 0 hp. The players barred the door from the outside, dragged their companion around a corner, and tried to revive him so they could flee. The bandits immediately succeded on their first 1-in-6 chance to break the door open, and charged out swords and arrows blazing.

Drako held up a leather tarp to obscure her form, and ran for the trees, but an arrow hit her in the leg for 3, which is exactly the amount of HP she had at the time. Garret held out a good while longer with the help of the party’s two hirelings, but he and one of them were both dropped to 0 hp within a few rounds. The remaining hireling wasn’t about to fight on alone, and surrendered. For a moment, I thought my brother was about to learn what TPK stands for. But then I noticed something: Every single member of the party had miraculously ended up at 0 HP. Only one of them had even needed to make a save vs. death.

I couldn’t see why a group of bandits would kill a group of potentially valuable prisoners, so a few days later, the party awoke in a prison, and began to plot their escape.

Colorful Characters 23: Higgins Dreadgrin

When it all started, Higgins was just a lowly magician’s apprentice tagging along on his master’s adventures. He learned spells as best he could from the elder mage, but his primary job was to carry scrolls and lanterns, and occasionally fire a crossbow. That was fine until stray skeleton’s claw tore the face from Higgins’ mentor. Just like that, the apprentice was the only wizard in the room, and his companions needed a wizard. Higgins stepped up and did his best to fill his master’s role in the party, and succeed beyond his wildest imaginings.

Master Waggletongue had always seemed so accomplished to Higgins. He had hung on the elder caster’s every word, but it wasn’t long before he reached parity with, and then exceeded, his mentor’s abilities. The rush of power Higgins felt as his mastery over the arcane grew was addicting. He lusted for greater power more than he had ever lusted for anything in his life. Through his adventures, he continued to gain more and more of it. He uncovered ancient rituals scribed in tomes beneath the earth, and rediscovered spells which had been forgotten centuries ago.

As he grew more powerful, Higgins also grew more ambitious. Why should he limit his quest for power to the arcane arts which common folk considered ‘socially acceptable.’ Who were they to place limits upon a wizard? For that matter, why should he limit his pursuit of power to the arcane arts at all. Who better to lead those pitiful common folk than he? In darkness, Higgins began to study forbidden magical arts. And in silence, he began to plot the overthrow of Zorfath’s ruling council. Once he ruled this pitiful town he might even extend his reach further. Perhaps one day, he could even match the great Necromancer King who wages his bloody wars in the south!

Higgins became so caught up in his grand plans that he began to view them as inevitable. Nothing would stop him, because nothing could stop him. Without realizing it, Higgins began to doubt his own mortality. He tried never to act foolishly, but all it took was one slip. One arrogant step forward when his companions were staying back. Higgins Dreadgrin had his mortality reaffirmed by a quartet of skeletal demon rats which tore the flesh from his bones. His companions fled, turning to Higgins’ apprentice for assistance, as they had once turned to him so long ago.

Unlike most men, though, the tale of Higgins Dreadgrin does not end with his death. For the place in which he died was cursed. A powerful aura of evil permeated the place, and mere hours after breathing his last breath, Higgins’ bones clambered out of their skin, and stood on their own. Higgins had been raised as a skeleton, like the ones which had killed his master. Like the ones which had recently killed him. And yet, for some strange reason which is still not entirely clear to the wizard, Higgins did not become mindless. Perhaps it is because of the power of his intellect, or because of his budding knowledge of necromancy. Perhaps destiny itself would not allow his existence to end on the stone floor of a forgotten dungeon.Whatever the reason, Higgins retained all of his mind, even when the only thing he retained from his body was his bones.

With nowhere else to go, Higgins traveled South, to the lands of the Necromancer King. He traveled only at night so his monstrous form would not be noticed. But once he crossed into the Necromancer King’s lands, it was remarkably easy to fit in. He made his way, in the open, to the palace of the Necromancer King himself. He easily made his way inside with the other workers, and once there, found that he essentially had the run of the castle. Occasionally he had to perform some task or another so he could maintain the illusion that he was only a mindless undead, but Higgins actually had most of his time to himself. Every living creature who might have found his presence suspicious simply ignored him. All of the skeletons looked alike, and since none of them had a mind of their own, everyone assumed that whatever a skeleton was doing was a task given to them by someone else.

For decades, Higgins hid himself amongst the Necromancer King’s servants. He observed rituals, analyzed incantations, and read every scroll and codex in the castle a dozen times over. He turned the greatest necromantic resource in the world inside out. And when he was done, he walked up behind the Necromancer King, and cut out his heart before he could cry out. Higgins considered tearing out the king’s skeleton, and wearing his meat like a suit. He could make it look convincing if he was careful, and as he started to decompose he could claim he was becoming a Lich. After a year, he could shed the skin altogether, and none would be the wiser.

But after decades, Higgins was done hiding. Instead, he paraded the corpse of the mighty Necromancer in front of his greatest servants, and demanded that they submit to him as their master’s successor. A few dissented, but the majority bent their knee to Higgins Dreadgrin when the dissenters were immolated. It was a rush of power like none Higgins had ever felt before. It was intoxicating beyond imagining. And more than anything, he found he wanted to go back to where it all began, so he could easily accomplish the ‘lofty’ goals which had been denied to him in life.

That night, the armies of Lord Dreadgrin marched North, to Zorfath.

Higgins Dreadgrin (CR 16)
XP: 76,800
Male Human Skeleton Wizard 17
LE medium undead
Init +8; Senses Perception +0

Defenses

AC 20, Flat Footed 16, Touch 16 [10 + Dex(4) + Natural Armor(2) + Robes of Natural Armor (2) + Ring of Protection (2)]
hp 116 (17d8 +34)
Fort +5 Ref +9 Will + 12
DR 5/Bludgeoning
Defensive Abilities Channel Resistance +4, Immune to Cold, Undead Traits

Offense

Speed 30ft
Melee Claw Attack (x2) +7/2 (1d4 – 1)
Ranged Heavy Crossbow + 14/9 (1d10 + 1)(19-20/x2)(120ft) (Speed: During full attack, may make 2 attacks at max BAB)

Prepared Wizard Spells (CL 17th; Concentration +21; +2 save DC for Necromancy and Evocation spells)
9th — Meteor Swarm +Energy Drain
8th — Polar Ray x2 +Horrid Wilting
7th — Delayed Blast Fireball, Forcecage, Mage’s Sword +Finger of Death
6th — Chain Lightning, Contingency x2, Eyebite +Undeath to Death
5th — Cloudkill x2, Cone of Cold, Symbol of Pain +Waves of Fatigue
4th — Black Tentacles, Dimension Door, Ice Storm, Wall of Fire x2 +Contagion
3rd — Protection from Energy, Phantom Steed, Fireball x2, Wind Wall, Flame Arrow, Gaseous Form, Haste, Greater Magic Weapon+Vampiric Touch
2nd —Fog Cloud, Detect Thoughts, Shatter, Darkness, Ghoul Touch +False Life
1st — Burning Hands x2, Magic Missile x3+Cause Fear
0 (at will)– Bleed, Open/Close, Ray of Frost x2

Bonded Object The right index finger of Higgins’ teacher, on a chain around Higgins’ neck.
Arcane School Necromancy
Opposed Schools Enchantment, Illusion
School Powers
Power Over Undead (Su): 9/day, may channel energy to Command Undead as the feat.(PFSRD Pg. 120) DC: 19
Grave Touch (Su): 7/day, may make a melee touch attack causes living creature to become shaken for 8 rounds. (already shaken creatures become frightened for 1 round if they have fewer than 17HD).
Life Sight (Su): For 17 rounds per day, can detect living and undead creatures up to a range of 30ft, as a form of Blindsight

Stats

Str 9 (-1) Dex 18 (+4) Con — (–) Int 19 (+4) Wis 11 (+0) Cha 12 (+1)
Base Atk +8/3; CMB +7; CMD 20
Feats Scribe Scroll, Craft Magical Arms and Armor, Weapon Focus (Crossbow), Extra Channeling, Iron Will, Spell Focus (Necromancy), Greater Spell Focus (Necromancy), Spell Focus (Evocation), Greater Spell Focus (Evocation), Channel Resistance +4; Metamagic: Extend Spell, Empower Spell, Widen Spell, Quicken Spell, Improved Initiative
Skills Bluff (+18), Craft(Tailoring)(+24), Knowledge(Arcana)(+24), Knowledge(Dungeoneering)(+24), Knowledge(Undead)(+24), Spellcraft (+24)
Languages Common, Ancient Common, Gestural Common, The Gravespeech, Draconic
Gear Three Spellbooks, each bearing a powerful curse if stolen: Arcanum Necronomica, The Book of Pain, and Utilis Magicam; An iron, 3 horned helm of sentimental value; Wand of Lightning Bolt with 16 charges, Ring of Protection +2, Ring of Wizardry III, Robes of Natural Armor +2, +1 Heavy Speed Crossbow, Staff of Swarming Insects (PFSRD Pg 495), 180gp

Tavern Tales 1: Hot Rocks, High Rolls, Whores, and Higgins

I don’t like posting play reports on Papers & Pencils. It’s not that nothing worth sharing happens in my games, because that’s not true. My games are awesome and you would be lucky to play in one. But typically the really great stories I tell about my games cover maybe 10 minutes of play. And while I might get multiple 10-minute stories out of a single session, I don’t like retelling the other 8 hours of gameplay which surround those cool stories. Exploring rooms and successfully fighting monsters is a lot of fun when you’re doing it, not so much fun when you’re reading about it. If I wanted to dress it up and turn it into a story I could probably make it entertaining. But at that point I’m just writing fiction. And I’ve got The Girl and the Granite Throne to work on if I want to write fiction.

But I don’t see any reason why I can’t share shorter stories about the awesome stuff which happens in games. So pull up a chair, order a pint, and let me tell you about my recent adventures…

Hot Rocks

In the most recent session of my ToKiMo Pathfinder game, the players were exploring the largest dungeon they’ve encountered to date. They were prowling through the bottommost levels of the dungeon when they found a crazy guy who had been lost there since he was a child. He warned them to stay away from the “hot room” several doors to the south. He was very insistent that he didn’t like the hot room, and they would not like it either. Little did he know, he was talking to Player Characters. So the first thing they did was make a beeline for the hot room, and discovered that it was nothing more than a functioning sauna.

Curious as to why a sauna would function with no one around to care for it, the players tried to figure out how the place worked. They quickly discovered where the water was dripping into the room onto hot coals. The source of the water was unknown, but far more interesting to them was how the coals could possibly be hot. They hadn’t seen any living creatures in this area of the dungeon, aside from the crazy guy. And he clearly wasn’t responsible for maintaining the room. The players asked the sorceress, Phoenix Darkmatter, to take a look. And she discovered that the rocks were, indeed, magical.

Deciding that magically heated rocks would probably earn them some nice coin, the players asked if they could take some of them to the surface to sell. I told them the rocks were not held in place at all, but they were far too hot to hold, and would cause severe burns. Likewise, trying to put them in a backpack would be a lot like putting a lighted torch into a backpack. I was curious to see if my players could figure out a way to transport the stones, and they did not disappoint. After a few moments of discussing between themselves, Phoenix spoke up, and reminded me that since she had the Red Dragon bloodline, she had a minor resistance to fire damage. She asked if it would be safe for her to hold the rocks, and I said yes. In fact, the stones just felt pleasantly warm to her–but her clothing and equipment was still vulnerable.

This left the players to ponder some more, until Poker, the party’s rogue, suggested that Phoenix just swallow the rocks. Which she did.

The party plans to ‘retrieve’ the stones at a later date, so they can be cleaned, and sold. In the meantime, Phoenix has a pleasant warmth in her stomach, as though she’d just eaten a bowl full of hot soup after coming in from the snow. I was so impressed with their problem solving, I gave both Phoenix and Poker 1 point of experience.

Not That Kind of Corner!

A little earlier in that same ToKiMo session, I was describing a room to the players. It had been used as a library in the past, though most of the books here were burned and unreadable. Part of the room above had collapsed into this one as well. The only other notable feature in this room was a hole in the corner, which led deep down a winding shaft, into a sewer below.

While describing that last feature, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I said “There’s a whore in the corner.”

Needless to say the next 10 minutes of play time were lost as the entire group tittered and joked about what kind of business she must get down here, and how they didn’t want to play ‘that kind of game.’

Sigh.

Badass Minotaur

Near the end of that session, the players freed a minotaur from imprisonment. It’s a bit of a long story as to why the minotaur was there, and why she didn’t rip them limb from limb the moment she saw them, but the important part is that she agreed to work along side the party until they found a way out of the dungeon. Also her name is Bessy, because I made the mistake of mentioning a joke name before giving her a real name. She stayed at the back of the formation, and didn’t really do much. She wasn’t a hireling–the players weren’t offering her any gold or any shares of treasure. All she wanted was to get out of there. Plus, I’m not too terribly fond of running NPCs along side my players. None the less when the party was under attack she would pull out her axe and help, while doing her best to stay out of danger.

In the last room that the players explored that day, they encountered a mummy. Mummies are a challenge significantly above the party’s level, and halfway through the fight things got even worse when a second mummy in an adjacent room shambled out, and immediately attacked a level 1 paladin PC, dropping her below 0 hit points. The situation was grim for the party. After a few rounds they’d gotten the mummies down to about 15 HP each, but several party members were in danger of being killed before the battle was over.

Then Bessy’s turn came up. She was trying to defend the injured paladin, and was already in position from a previous turn. Her high base attack bonus allowed her to make two attacks, so I rolled both at the same time using different colored dice. The party was in bad shape, and they were all watching this roll expectantly, hoping the NPC could pull their asses out of the fire.

A lot of gaming stories reach their climax with the line “and then I rolled a 20.” But that’s not what happened here.

I rolled two twenties.

It’s something I’d never seen before. It will only happen one out of every 400 times you roll two d20s together. It has a 0.25% chance of occurring. I was stunned. It was such a remarkable roll that Bessy not only cleaved straight through the Mummy she was fighting, but she also hurled her axe across the room and smashed the other mummy into dust as well.

Higgins

Come listen young adventurers, heed what you’re told. ‘Bout a wizard named Higgins, and his actions so bold.

Higgins was a magic user in the OD&D game “Vaults of Pahvelorn” which I’ve been playing every Monday for the past few months. Higgins was evil, but he knew he wasn’t powerful enough yet to get away with being blatant about it. He did his best to keep his evil private, while in public he cultivated an image of being both generous and heroic. He once donated an entire share of treasure to the town guard just to apologize for wasting their time when the party reported a crime that was covered up before the guard could arrive to confirm it.

I was proud of Higgins. Pahvelorn is a deadly game, and a lot of my fellow adventurers had died before me. But Higgins was smart, and he was lucky. His risks were calculated, and if he ever did something foolish, the dice were always willing to give him a second chance. Playing 3 hours a week for something like four months, Higgins slowly accumulated greater and greater power. It took me several months to gain access to any spell other than Read Magic, and I think I was among the first in the party to reach second level. I started to think that Higgins might be able the achieve the goals I had set for Margo, before he died. Perhaps Higgins could become the most powerful magic user this campaign world had ever known. Perhaps he would build a tower in the city of Zorphath, and rule over it as the lords of old had done. And he’d do it wearing stylish robes he’d sewn himself, and the 3 horned helm he’d taken from his master’s killer.

I assume you’ve guessed, from my use of past tense, that none of this will ever come to pass.

It all started when the party decided to go to a nearby haunted cathedral. We had been there once before, and survived only by fleeing with our tails between our legs. But most of us were level 2 by this point. We were also much better equipped, and better prepared for the kinds of challenges we would face. Truth be told I felt a little wary, but I was willing to go if my party would be there beside me.

We had a few tough encounters, but we were managing, until we reached a rather innocuous room with a ghost. He wasn’t hostile towards us. He barely even noticed us. He was on his hands and knees, searching for his cat. We thoroughly poked and prodded the room with our 10ft poles, and found the dry bones of his cat, along with several large rats, beneath a table. We prodded the rats in turn, but nothing seemed to happen, so we assumed the room was safe. We directed the ghost towards his cat’s location, and he moved to look. As he peered under the table, though, he reeled back and shouted something about demon rats.

It seems foolish now, but I thought we’d been as thorough as we could be in testing the room for danger. I announced that Higgins would step forward, punch and kick the rat skeletons into dust, pick up the cat skeleton, and return it to the elderly ghost. I was making a big show about being heroic, and the entire group was chuckling over it. Save for Brendan, who was flat-out laughing his ass off. For awhile I thought I was just a really funny guy, until Brendan managed to choke out:

“The rats actually animate and attack you.”

I’m sure my face turned as white as my character sheet as the dice were rolled. Three out of the four attacks hit me, and the damage dice rolled high, reducing me to -13 hit points. I was given a saving throw against death, which I failed.

And just like that, all of my plans to turn Higgins into an evil overlord who would rule for 100 years came crashing down…because he stopped to rescue an old man’s cat.

Hireling Traits

While participating in Brendan‘s weekly OD&D game, Vaults of Pahvelorn, I’ve become enamored of the role hirelings once played in D&D. In Pathfinder, it’s uncommon for a player to seek out an NPC companion. And when they do, they need to take the Leadership feat first. In previous editions of the game, it’s more common for every player to have at least one hireling, while many have several. This makes a lot of sense. From a practical standpoint, one doesn’t need to be a particularly good leader to pay someone to perform basic tasks. All you need is money and a sense of superiority, which adventurers and retail managers both have in spades, AMIRITE?

Despite my respect for the hireling system’s elegance, I’ve noticed a potential weakness in the way they are handled. It’s not a flaw; it doesn’t break the game, nor does it render hirelings less effectual than they ought to be. But it’s an area where I feel as though the presence of hirelings in the game could be strengthened to the game’s benefit. Namely, every hireling is a robot that does what it’s told except when a completely random die roll determines that it should do otherwise. They have no personality to them which makes them individual or interesting, despite the fact that players often try to ascribe personalities to them.

To my understanding, Hirelings in OD&D are handled very simply. (Bearing in mind that I don’t actually know how hirelings are handled in Vaults of Pahvelorn. The machinations of loyalty are kept hidden from the players). When the player character orders a hireling to attempt something which the hireling might object to, the GM rolls against a “loyalty score” which the player has earned with that NPC. On a successful roll, the hireling will do what they are told. On an unsuccessful roll, the hireling will refuse the order. It’s a simple and effective means to differentiate between the PC (which the player controls directly) and the Hireling, which is an NPC that the player can only control indirectly.

In my weeks playing Vaults of Pahvelorn, however, I’ve noticed that my fellow players and I often try to impart personality traits on our hirelings. They’re not quite members of the party, but we still view them as more than cannon fodder. I suppose the closest analogue you might draw is that the players view their hirelings as pets. They want to get to know them a little bit, and the simple nature of the loyalty score doesn’t allow much leeway.

I propose a random chart which defines a hireling’s personality. Not in a role playing or aesthetic sense, as -C has already covered that exhaustively and there’s really nothing more to be said on the matter. Rather, this chart would define personality on a mechanical scale. A character’s fears are going to make them less willing to engage in certain kinds of questionable activities, while they may feel more confident about others. To demonstrate what I’m talking about, below is a sample chart which I’m sure could be expanded and improved upon. Each personality trait is the result of two rolls:

Roll 1d6

(1) The character is terrified of… (Takes a -3 penalty on loyalty rolls associated with…)
(2-3) The character isn’t comfortable with… (Takes a -1 penalty on loyalty rolls associated with…)
(4-5) The character is pretty comfortable with… (Receives a +1 bonus on loyalty rolls associated with…)
(6) The character happy with… (Receives a +3 bonus on loyalty rolls associated with…)

Edit: Brendan has pointed out to me that OD&D loyalty checks are made using 2d6, not 1d20. Oops! I’ve modified the bonuses and penalties to work better with that number range. That’ll teach me to try and write a homebrew for a game I’ve never GM’d!

Roll 1d20

(1) Being left alone in to stand guard in a dangerous place.
(2) Being sent ahead to scout in a dangerous place.
(4) Magic and Magic Users
(5) Religion
(6) Fire
(7) Darkness
(8) Undead
(9) Monstrous Humanoids
(10) Insects
(11) Demons and Devils
(12) Evil
(13) Lawbreaking
(14) Near death experiences
(15) Being asked to participate in battle with a ranged weapon.
(16) Being asked to participate in battle with a melee weapon.
(17) Dangerously cold weather.
(18) Dangerously hot weather.
(19) Large scale battles.
(20) High places

The GM could roll for an individual hireling as many times as they like, ignoring any contradictory results on subsequent rolls. The GM is also strongly encouraged to work a hireling’s trait into their personality. For example, a hireling who is comfortable with fire might have been part of the fire fighting volunteer squad before they joined up with the party. If they’re happy to confront fire, then perhaps they’re even a little unstable, with pyromaniacal tendencies.

There are some potential problems with this idea. Aside from complicating a simple system (and thus, potentially, making it less effective) it adds to the amount of information the GM will need to keep track of. I do like the idea, though, and I’d be curious to hear other’s thoughts on it. I’m particularly curious what oldschool GMs think, since my only experience with OSR gaming is as a player.

Colorful Characters 21: Margo Waggletongue

Note: Margo is my dead PC from Brendan’s Vaults of Pahvelorn game. Since I’m taking some significant liberties with the setting, I avoided any direct references to locations or characters. But I still wanted to give credit where it is due.

Margo was born in a land where learning was scarce, and magic was feared. Books were more rare than gold, and far less valued. Margo didn’t have much of either growing up. All Margo had was something so common as to be nearly worthless: ambition. He knew from his teen years, without any doubt, that he was destined to become the greatest wizard the land had seen in centuries.

That ambition manged to catch the attention of a middle aged magician who was willing to teach Margo the basics of the magical arts. But the sum knowledge of his mentor’s entire life was not enough to slake Margo’s thirst for magical powers. By the time he was in his early twenties, he had determined that the only way he would ever achieve his goals would be to recover lost magical knowledge himself. He would delve beneath the earth, into forgotten dungeons left behind from greater civilizations long past. He would find the journals and tomes of the greatest wizards who had ever walked under the sun, and he would learn their secrets. He would surpass them, and he would be remembered for all time.He would have a tower filled with ancient tomes, and young wizards eons from now would learn spells such as “Margo’s Floating Tentacle,” or “Margo’s Black Disk,” or his favorite idea, “Margo’s flinging roof tile.”

Margo found a party to adventure with. Ruffians searching for something as paltry as gold. Margo had use for treasure, but only as financing to further his quest for power. But that suited Margo just fine. The last thing he needed was someone else vying for the tomes he sought. And his companions were no less ambitious than he was; they had no time for smaller expeditions, and the promise of only small rewards. The group traveled immediately to the dreaded pit, where countless adventurers had been lost before them. They boldly descended to one of the numerous entrances to that labyrinth beneath the earth. At first, everything seemed to go well for the group. They cleverly avoided deadly traps, defeated terrifying monsters, and aside from a scratch, a bruise, and a gutted hireling, no one was any worse for wear. They grew more confident, daring to delve ever deeper into the vaults, without losing the caution which had kept them alive this long. Everything went well.

Until they encountered the Necromancer.

The party was actually successful in that battle. They slew the necromancer before he could cast any of his more powerful spells, and were able to flee the scene before the numerous undead were able to devour them. But unfortunate Margo took a blow to the head from a skeleton’s fist, and fell to the ground unconscious. By the time they realized he was missing, his companions assumed their magic user was long dead.

In fact, Margo was taken by the undead, and dragged before a necromancer named Turlok The Unrestful. He offered Margo the chance to join him. He could study the powers of necromancy as Turlok’s pupil, to replace the one Margo and his companions had killed. Turlok even told the young magic user of the great army of undead monsters which had been sealed beneath the ground. Monsters he intended to unearth, and control. All the young mage needed to do was join him, and he too could command legions of the fearsome monsters, as Turlok’s vassal. Margo was tempted, the opportunity to study under a true master of the magical arts was all he had thought he wanted. But he was not so narrow minded as to be devoid of morals. Margo refused the necromancer, and in turn was sent to join the throng of slaves in digging tunnels.

Margo lost track of the time he spent in the dark tunnels, slaving alongside other captured adventurers. It would have been easier and cheaper to just kill them and raise them as skeletal diggers, but they surmised that Turlok enjoyed watching them slowly die from exhaustion and malnutrition, only to then raise them to serve as overseers to their former fellows. Escapes were attempted from time to time, but the labyrinthine, pitch black tunnels offered little hope for those who escaped. The only way out anyone could be sure of was back towards Turlok’s citadel, but that was even more suicidal than the tunnels were. After a few months, Margo didn’t even bother his mental exercises any longer. Magic had failed him, and he could die without its help.

It took years, but the diggers did finally reach the magical barrier holding the army of undead at bay. Dutifully, they cleared around it, opening enough space for Turlok the Unrestful to begin the dispelling rituals needed to unleash his hordes. As they cleared, they saw the monsters on the other sides clawing at them, waiting for a chance to tear them piece by piece.

Turlok arrived alone, looking about as gleeful as a Necromancer ever can. He began to scrawl a meticulous circle in the dirt. With the digging complete, Margo watched him quietly, waiting for his doom. The mad wizard’s bent form was detailing each rune with ominous precision. Margo looked down at his hands. They had been capable of such delicate work once. Now all they were good for was swinging the pickaxe he held.

Margo blinked. He looked around, confused. Then he stepped forward, and buried the pickaxe into Turlok’s brain. It was simple. Stupidly simple.

Without direction, the skeletal overseers began to attack their wards. But their attacks were random, and disorganized. The skeletons standing far enough away didn’t even seem to notice, merely wandering off aimlessly into the blackness. A few prisoners were killed, but the rest fled back towards Turlok’s citadel. From there it took them several weeks and a few more lost companions to find a route to the surface, but that was it. They were free.

His taste for magic lost, Margo staked a claim on a few acres of land to farm not far from the town he and his companions had supplied in years before. He even learned that they had become successful adventurers, and upstanding members of the community. But he did not go to see them. He didn’t need to. He was content just being under the sun again.

Margo Waggletongue (CR 4)
XP: 1,200
Male Human Wizard 1/Commoner 8
N humanoid
Init +2; Senses Perception +5
Note: Margo’s history has led to him losing many of the abilities which would normally be entitled to.

Defenses

AC 8, Flat Footed 10, Touch 8 [10 + Dex(-2) ]
hp 37 (9d6 + 0)
Fort +2 Ref +0 Will +1

Offense

Speed 30ft
Melee Quarterstaff +5 (1d4 + 1)
Wizard Spells Prepared (CL 1st; Concentration +3)
1st– Shocking Grasp
0 (at will)– Flare, Ray of Frost, Mending
School Evocation
Opposition Schools Necromancy, Divination

Stats

Str 13 (+1) Dex 07 (-2) Con 11 (+0) Int 14 (+2) Wis 09 (-1) Cha 08 (-1)
Base Atk +4; CMB +5; CMD 13
Feats Scribe Scroll, Improved Initiative, Combat Reflexes
Skills Knowledge(Arcana)(+3), Spellcraft(+3), Perception (+5)
Languages Common, Ancient Common, Draconic
Gear Simple leather clothes, 120gp, quarterstaff

The Beauty of Character Death, and a Shameful Confession

In the many years I’ve been a devotee of role playing games, I’ve very rarely had a chance to be a player. For the most part that’s fine by me. What initially drew me to the game was the mystique of the GM. He or she is master of the entire world, knows what’s behind every door, understands the desires of every NPC. I like playing that role, which is why I’ve spent almost a year of my life writing about it. None the less there’s something to be said for being a player. GMs never get to experience the game’s most exciting moments in the same way the players do, largely because the GM never faces any real struggle within the game. The player characters might live or die, but the world that the GM embodies is eternal.

I’ve played in perhaps a half dozen campaigns, the majority of which have used D&D 3.5. The most notable among these is the Zalekios game, which has lasted for the better part of a decade, and which I’ve written about several times. Until recently, only one person had ever GMed for me. We’re old friends, and after all these years we’ve got a rhythm going which is always a lot of fun when we get a chance to play together. Much as I enjoy my friend’s games, though, I’m excited to finally have an opportunity to broaden my horizons in my fellow blogger Brendan‘s Vaults of Pahvelorn game. He’s a fantastic game master, and I’ve already learned a lot after seeing his GM style from a player’s perspective.

The other night was our second game session. We had a new member in our group, and returned to the vault to continue our dungeon delving. It was a damned lot of fun, but I won’t bore you with the details. If you’re interested our fighter has already taken care of the session recap, but I’ll skip straight to the important part. The party encountered a number of undead, and eventually came upon a necromancer controlling them. There was a lot of scary stuff on the battlefield, so I didn’t think it was right for me to stay completely out of danger. My party needed me. My character, Margo, hefted a sledgehammer he’d brought along with him. I thought it would be particularly effective against the skeletons. He took a swing, and missed. In retaliation, the skeleton punched Margo in the face.

And that’s how Margo Waggletongue, first level Magic User, met his untimely end. The skeleton’s mighty punch was just too much for Margo’s measly 3HP. And after I failed my saving throw against death, it was all over. The party mourned, and I was already rolling stats to promote Margo’s squire, Higgins. The game went on. And here’s the part I hinted at in the title of this post; my shameful confession:

This is the first time any character of mine has ever died.

How did I feel? I was disappointed and sad! Margo Waggletongue was an awesome character, and I had a lot of plans for him. Like my serious in-game goals of building a tower someday, filling it with books, and being the most educated wizard in all of Pahvelorn. If this setting ended up with any kind of longevity, I wanted future players to encounter Margo the Archmage, and learn spells like “Margo’s Black Disk,” “Margo’s Floating Tentacle,” or “Margo’s Flinging Roof Tiles!” I had a lot of fun character traits I wanted to work into the character as well, such as the fact that his robe was literally just a blanket, or that he was a virgin. But none of that will ever happen, because he was punched in the face by a skeleton, and died. God damn, it was awesome.

Honestly, it was. I’m sad that all of my plans were foiled before they could ever get off the ground, but more than that, I’m exhilarated to know from personal experience just how dangerous this game world is. True, no young magic user will ever shout “Margo’s Floating Tentacle!” in the heat of battle, but if my next character does achieve success on that scale, then that success will be all the more meaningful because I will know I was always just a skeleton punch away from complete failure. And as it turns out, my new character, Higgins Dreadgrin, has an even higher intelligence score than his former master did, so I may not need to scrapall of my plans just yet.

I’ve written before about the importance, and the fun, of character death. But when I did so, I wrote it as a GM. I was drawing on what I’ve read, and what I’ve observed, and what non-tabletop experiences I could draw conclusions from. And now I reaffirm that statement with player experience to back it up: character death is fun. The game would be diminished without it.

By the way: welcome to all my new readers from the Penny Arcade Report. There has been quite an influx of you, and I hope you like what you’ve seen and choose to stick around for awhile.

I Concede: OD&D Initiative is Superior

The other night, I participated in my very first OD&D game, played via Google+ with Brendan as the GM. I could be wrong, but I think Brendan may be only the second person to GM for me. He’s good, and the game went exceptionally well. One of the other players has already written a pretty thorough recap of the game, so I won’t go into too much detail. Suffice to say that I have thus far made a good account of myself, considering that I’m easy to hit, have only 1 HP, and can prepare only a single spell per day. Instead, I’d like to focus on system analysis, specifically with regards to initiative.

In Pathfinder, initiative is mechanically simple. At the start of combat, following any surprise round, each participant in the combat rolls a twenty sided die. They then add their dexterity modifier to the number they rolled, and each of the battle’s participants are ranked. They then begin taking turns in descending order of initiative. There are ways to gain an additional boost, or a penalty, to your initiative, but that’s the system in a nutshell. The mechanic is quite simple.

In OD&D, initiative is handled en masse. The battle’s participants are divided into groups (usually consisting of “the players” and “the stuff which wants to hurt the players.”) Each ‘side’ of the encounter then rolls a single six sided die. Whoever wins the roll is allowed to take their actions first, along with everyone else on their side. Once the winner’s turn is over, the other side takes their turn. Following that, initiative is rolled again to determine which side will go first in the next round.

Amusingly, I recently encountered this rule during my ongoing perusal of the AD&D 1st edition Dungeon Master’s Guide. It was featured in Part 6 of that series, and at the time I was not impressed. To be specific, I wrote:

There seems to be an excessive amount of computation involved in determining the order of combat.

A comment which I now find rather ironic.

The problem is that while Pathfinder’s initiative mechanic is simple, it is not elegant. When my entire game group is all able to get together, I’ve got six players. Even the simplest encounter must include at least one foe for them to face, so that’s a total of seven initiatives to track at a minimum. When I ask for an initiative roll, I need to quickly write down the names and numbers of each person. This is often an awkward task, since I can’t write even simple initials as fast as my players are able to recite their initiative scores to me, and at some point I need to roll and record the initiative for the bad guys as well. Going through this arduous process isn’t just annoying for me, it’s damaging to the player’s experience as well. Deciding to fight an enemy is an exciting moment in gameplay, but when the group spends 30-60 seconds rolling and recording initiative, some of that excitement is drained.

That’s not even the end of it, because once initiative in Pathfinder has been recorded, it must betracked.Since it’s impossible to have the initiative order written down linearly (unless you want to re-write it after initially recording it, thus wasting more time) you need to bounce around on your list and do your best not to skip anybody. The best method I’ve come up with is to quickly draw a “bouncing line” between names on the list. But even this is a pretty hit-and-miss technique.

Comedic overstatement aside, these complaints are not what I would call game-breaking. Until recently, I would have even called them necessary evils. Evils which, frustrating as they may be, are minor in comparison with the benefits the system provides. Using Pathfinder’s initiative, players and player foes get mixed together in the combat order, creating an interesting and chaotic effect for battle. Additionally, it allows for individual characters to be particularly good, or particularly bad, at leaping into a fight. Rogues can move in quickly to attack before their foes are prepared, while a character who used dexterity as a dump stat is forced to deal with the consequences of that choice. Plus, it adds structure to the tactical combat, and I like tactical combat. There’s a lot of good to be said about how the system works.

By comparison, OD&D’s initiative mechanic sounds not only chaotic, but intrusive. At least with Pathfinder, order is determined at the start of combat, after which it only need to be referenced. Plus, when rolling as a group, how does one determine who in the group goes first? It all sounds pretty sketchy in theory.

In practice, however, OD&D’s initiative is simple, and surprisingly intuitive. Who goes first when the player group has initiative? Well…whoever feels like going first, that’s who. I can see how that question might pose a problem if you were running a game for children, but we’re all adults. We’ve stood in lines, waited at traffic lights, and given our bus seats to old ladies. We know how to be gracious, particularly when it doesn’t really matter who goes first. In function, the person who went first was whoever had an idea they were excited to try out. It even turned out to be a large benefit, since one of our players had never played the game before. He was able to wait until last during each round until he gained some confidence in how the game was played.

And since rolling for initiative is so simple, (a single opposed D6 roll, no modifiers), re-rolling it each round didn’t intrude on gameplay at all. If anything, it enhanced the excitement of combat. Remember above how I mentioned that Pathfinder’s initiative allows friends and foes to be mixed in the combat order, which makes things a little chaotic and exciting? That effect is enhanced when either you or your enemies might be able to take two turns in a row!

The system isn’t flawless. For example, I’m pretty sure there was a round or two where a PCs took an extra action than they should have, or no action at all. And as an avid player of rogues, I would be pretty disappointed to permanently shift to a system where I couldn’t jump the initiative order by a significant margin. But these are minor complaints. The bottom line is that OD&D’s initiative mechanic is better than Pathfinder’s. As such, I propose the following amendment to Pathfinder’s rules:

Initiative: At the start of combat, separate each of the battle’s participants into groups based on affiliation. (Most battles will be between two groups, but some battles may be between three or more). The member of each group who has the highest initiative modifier rolls 1d20 and adds their initiative modifier. The members of the group which rolled highest take their actions first, followed by the other groups in descending order of initiative.

Once everyone has taken a turn, initiative is re-rolled, again by the group member with the highest initiative modifier. The process repeats itself until combat has concluded.

I considered adding a few other mechanics in there, such as players with the Improved Initiative feat being moved into a separate group, or an incremental decrease in initiative bonuses as the combat goes on. But I think stuff like that would just complicate an otherwise simple mechanic, without adding anything of value to it. Though I might later amend the rule so that initiative bonuses only count during the first round.

I think this should serve as a good compromise between the two systems, and look forward to using it. Though I doubt I’ll be springing it on my current group just yet. I think they get a little confused by my constant re-tooling of the game’s mechanics.