I’m a sucker for non-traditional narrative structures.

Start in the middle of the story and then have two narrative tracks — one going forward in time and one going backwards in time — with matching revelations at the end of each track? Awesome.

Six different characters without any apparent connection to each other but experiencing events which are clearly interconnected? Awesome.

In terms of Brust, this trend actually started in Teckla — a novel in which a literal laundry list is used as prelude, omen, and outline. (It’s actually quite difficult to give this proper justice, but it’s really, really clever.)

In Taltos, Brust goes in a completely different direction: He has three different narrative threads, all starring the same character, and all taking place at different times during the character’s life. In some ways, he’s taking the non-linear meta-structure of the series and realizing it in the confines of a single volume.

Of course, the most important thing with a non-traditional narrative structure is not the oddity of the structure — it’s the effectiveness of the use to which it is put. In Taltos, that use is subtle, but effective. A lot of it is about thematic resonance and characterization — I show you X in timeline A and then I show you Y in timeline B. By juxtaposing the two concepts or the two thoughts or the two actions, what conclusions can you draw?

But there’s also a practical side to the structure, as exposition dropped in timeline C will suddenly crop up in timeline B (or even vice versa). This creates, in a very specific way, a complexity of character that isn’t possible in a more traditional narrative structure — because it highlights the fact that a person is not merely a sequence of events or a static entity.

And while the book stands by itself in some regards, the entire narrative is deeply enriched by the knowledge that we — as readers — bear with us from other books. The revelations of Taltos reshape our understanding of events we have already witnessed; and the revelations of previous books (as yet unknown to the Vlad of this story) shape our understanding of Taltos.

That type of multi-layered, interconnected resonance is not easy to create, but it’s very satisfying to read.

All of this is evidence of Brust’s continuing maturation as an artist. And that growth can also be seen in other aspects of the work. For example, one of the comments I made in my reaction to Yendi was that Brust had failed to raise the stakes from the previous volume in the series: “The first time you show me a rocketship? Awesome. The second time you show me a rocketship? Nifty. Now, what are you going to do with it?”

In Teckla, he used the rocketship. In Taltos he uses the rocketship with his left hand while building brand new rocketships with his right hand.

In short, he takes his existing tableau of characters, history, and mythology and builds upon them in new and interesting ways. Simultaneously, he is creating whole new swaths of hitherto unseen mythology which is not only creative in its own right — but which is then immediately pressed into service on a deeper narrative level, as well.

GRADE: B+

Steven Brust
Published: 1988
Publisher: Ace
Cover Price: $7.99
ISBN: 0441182003
Buy Now!

In the comments on Sunday, Bobson mentioned Weapons of Legacy. This was almost certainly the worst supplement ever produced by Wizards of the Coast. It wouldn’t even be worth mentioning, except that the core concept (which they mangled so horribly) is actually pretty nifty. In response to Bobson’s post, I went digging around and found an old series of messages I posted to the rec.games.frp.dnd newsgroup regarding this trainwreck. I’ve reorganized and slightly rewritten these thoughts here…

THE REACTION

I’m coming kinda late to Weapons of Legacy, but I’ve got a legendary weapon that I need to give to a low-level PC and it seemed like it might be the perfect fit. So I borrowed a copy from a friend and sat down to read through it and see what I could bash out.

Wow. This is one of the worst supplements I’ve ever seen. Oh, there’s been some third-party D20 stuff that’s worse, but not by much. It reminds me of some of the worst dreck that TSR was cranking out during the darkest days of 2nd Edition.

It got off to kind of a rough start when the authors just kept repeating the same ra-ra, pom-pom cheerleading of themselves. Then the book started repeating the exact same description of what a weapon of legacy was in nineteen different forms: Yes, okay, I get it. Weapons of legacy improve as I gain levels. I read the blurb on the back cover. Can we get to the meat of the matter, please?

Then I got to the part of the system where, in order to unlock the higher level powers of a weapon, you had to perform rituals which would give you feats which… weren’t actually feats? Well, that’s pretty lame. It would have been interesting to have a mechanic where you could either (a) spend gold and XP to unlock the powers or (b) spend a feat to unlock the item’s powers, but to have a system where you get something that we’ll call a feat but which doesn’t actually work according to any of the rules which govern how feats work? Stupid. Pick a different name. Or, better yet, don’t pick any name: Instead of having rituals which give you feats which unlock powers, just have rituals which unlock powers.

Then I got to the part of the system where, in order to unlock these powers, you have to accept penalties to attack bonuses, class abilities, saving throws, and the like. What the hell? The awesome artifact of arcane power from the elder days of the universe is… making me suck? And not only that, but the penalties frequently go after the very stats that the weapon is boosting. So you’ll have a +4 weapon, but it will only effectively be a +2 weapon because it comes with a -2 penalty to attacks… and not only attacks with that weapon itself, but with ALL weapons.

(If you run the numbers, this makes a kind of pseudo-sense for some of the items described in the book: The penalty to the item’s core competency ends up making it about as effective as the item you could buy for the same price. But upon closer inspection, this doesn’t hold up: You’re spending just as much money for an item which is making you suck whenever you’re not using the item.

I can see the temptation that led to this mechanic: “Well, if you’re willing to accept a penalty for using an item, the item should cost less.” But, first of all, it doesn’t fit the purported concept behind weapons of legacy. And, secondly, it’s impossible to balance such a mechanic: Either you have the penalties target the same abilities as what the item is pumping up (which defeats the purpose) or they target other stats, in which case you’re creating a whole sub-system which exists only for the purpose of enabling min-max abuse.)

My patience with the book was finally exhausted, however, when I got to the rules for actually creating legacy items. From their own Example, this is the process: Create a basic magic item. Choose an option from Menu A. Choose an option from Menu B, since the Menu A choice can’t be taken again. Menu B selections take up two slots for every one slot that a Menu A ability would have taken. For your next selection you can select from Menu A again, but instead we’ll select from Menu C. This takes up three slots for every slot that an ability from Menu A would have taken. Now, select the penalties for using the item from tables 4-1 through 4-10…

Are you kidding me? Are you frickin’ kidding me?

THE BIG PICTURE

The basic concept behind legacy items is simple: Instead of replacing their magic items as they increase in wealth and/or power, their existing magic items increase in power with them. This means that Elric never “outgrows” Stormbringer. It also allows you to put ancient and powerful artifacts in the hands of low-level PCs without completely destroying game balance.

The most basic mechanic for accomplishing this goal is simple: As the PCs level up, a legacy item would automatically increase in power with them.

Unfortunately, this doesn’t quite work. There’s a 48,000 gp difference between the cost of a +1 longsword and a +5 longsword. So if you have a mechanic by which a +1 longsword automatically transforms into a +5 longsword — and everything else remains the same — then the PC will have an extra 48,000 gp to spend on other magical equipment (and thus unbalance the game).

When you put the problem that way, the solution becomes pretty obvious: If you want the item to improve, you still need to figure out how to impose the cost of the more powerful item in order to keep things balanced. You can’t do that upfront (because low-level PCs don’t have the cash reserves to buy a +5 longsword — if they did, they would own them already), so that means that you need to find a mechanism of imposing the cost as the item improves.

SOLUTIONS

THE BACKSTAGE SOLUTION: The PC never actually pays any additional cost. Instead, you simply adjust the amount of treasure the party receives to account for the “extra” value of the legacy item. By the time the legacy item becomes a +5 longsword, the party has been “shorted” 48,000 gp of treasure — but that’s okay, because the +5 longsword makes up for it.

There are two potential problems with this approach, one minor and one major.

The minor problem is that it requires the DM to adjust the standard treasure distribution. This isn’t a huge hassle, but it is one more thing that needs to be accounted for.

The major problem, however, arises in groups which assidiously split treasure equally. Unless the party is willing to adjust for the “lost” treasure, the PC with the legacy item will receive an unfair share of the party’s wealth. (They’ll get an equal share of all the actual treasure, but then have an extra 48,000 gp of “virtual treasure” as a result of their legacy +5 longsword.)

And thinking of it as “lost” treasure probably won’t make most players happy, either. It makes the legacy item feel like some kind of penalty.

THE SIMPLE SOLUTION: Legacy items come with pre-packaged abilities. By performing legacy rituals, characters can spend the standard XP and gold cost for enchanting the item with those abilities without the necessary Item Creation feat or any of the other prerequisites.

This is a simple, straight-forward approach. It’s guaranteed to be balanced with the core rules because it’s using the existing item creation system as a basis for its prices.

The only mechanical problem with this approach is that it leaves the PCs with little motivation to take advantage of it. It costs just as much to unlock the powers of a legacy item as it would to enchant the item with a new power from scratch. There are slight advantages to be gained (the XP cost comes from the item’s user instead of the party’s spellcaster and they don’t need a feat to do it), but I think it’s likely that most players will prefer the flexibility of getting exactly what they want instead of being locked into whatever abilities are prepackaged into the legacy item.

So you might want to consider granting a 10% or 25% discount to the XP and/or gold costs for performing the legacy rituals.

MORE COMPLEX SOLUTIONS: If you wanted to design a complex system from scratch, you might consider looking at using a system in which a character can take feats which bind them to a particular legacy item and unlock the legacy item’s abilities.

Another option (or perhaps building on the same option) would be to model certain items (intelligent or otherwise) like cohorts. The legacy items would gain XP just like cohorts and the powers of the legacy item would depend on its “level”.

WHAT ARE LEGACY ITEMS?

Let’s assume that we go with the Simple Solution I outlined above. What explanation(s) might there be for these particular mechanics:

(1) A legacy item has within it the nascent potential for a specific set of abilities.

(2) It requires both money and XP in order to unlock these abilities.

THE RITUAL OF CREATION: Legacy items are created using the standard Item Creation rules. The creator of the item must meet the prerequisites for all of the item’s potential properties, but they only pay the XP and gold piece costs associated with the basic properties of the item.

Why would someone create a legacy item? Well, it’s less taxing on the spellcaster who creates the item — they’re shifting some of the burden onto the one who will actually wield it. It also shifts the time required, which means that a single spellcaster could (for example) more easily supply magical weapons to an entire platoon of soliders. And, at the same time, the legacy rituals act as a kind of insurance policy against the items falling into enemy hands (since the enemy would need to expend their own resoruces to perform the legacy rituals anew).

One last thing to consider here: What should the market value of a crafted legacy item be? Remember that, unlike other items, legacy items can be a money sink that can never be cashed out. If the party wizard creates a +5 longsword by spending 25,000 gp and 2,000 XP that sword can be sold at a by-the-book price of 25,000 gp — recouping that gold directly back into the party’s coffers.

But if you pour the same 25,000 gp into a legacy ritual, then that money is simply gone. (22,500 gp if you use a 10% discount. 18,750 gp if you use a 25% discount.)

(On the flipside, this helps provide a motivation for the PC to keep the legacy item. Which is, after all, one of the primary reasons for having the mechanic in the first place.)

TRUE LEGACIES: The auras of magical items tend to “mix” with the auras of those who wield them. When a great hero or villain wields a weapon, for example, they leave behind indelible traces of their legacy.

Legacy rituals are designed to tap into these “greater auras” and unleash their power — but, like any mystical ritual, there are the associated costs in equipment, components, and the like.

This explanation for legacy items is more evocative, while still explaining the need for the costly rituals (that coincidentally maintain game balance).

You might consider using both explanations. Perhaps some items are possessed of true legacies, while other items are merely designed to be bound to their owners. Mechanically the two are similar, but in terms of the game world they’re quite different and distinct.

Photo by Mark Vancleave

In Act I of Chekhov’s The Seagull, Arkadina and her son Konstantin quote from Hamlet:

Аркадина (сыну). Мой милый сын, когда же начало?
Треплев. Через минуту. Прошу терпения.
Аркадина (читает из «Гамлета»), «Мой сын! Ты очи обратил мне внутрь души, и я увидела ее в таких кровавых, в таких смертельных язвах — нет спасенья!»
Треплев (из «Гамлета»). «И для чего ж ты поддалась пороку, любви искала в бездне преступленья?»

Michael Leader gives a rough, literal translation of these lines as:

Arkadina (to her son). My dear son, when will it begin? [referring to Konstantin’s play]
Konstantin. In a few minutes. I ask you to be patient.
Arkadina (reading from Hamlet). ‘My son! You’ve turned my eyes into my soul and I have seen there such bloody and such deadly sores – there is no salvation!’
Konstantin (from Hamlet). ‘And why did you give give yourself to vice, and seek love in the abyss of crime?’

These are not the actual lines from Shakespeare, which read:

Queen O Hamlet, speak no more!
Thou turn’st my eyes into my very soul;
And there I see such black and grained spots
As will not leave their tinct.

Hamlet Nay, but to live
In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,
Stew’d in corruption, honeying and making love
Over the nasty sty!

This is because Chekhov was pulling his quote from the Russian translation of Shakespeare by N.A. Polevoi.

This line creates some problems for English translators of The Seagull because Polevoi’s translation of these lines is not as harsh as Shakespeare’s original. Putting Shakespeare’s original lines in Konstantin’s mouth results in a much harsher portrayal of the relationship between Kostya and his mother than Chekhov probably intended.

More importantly, in my opinion, the original Russian can be taken as a sly reference back to Kostya’s critique of his mother’s “Theater” from earlier in the same scene — the context from Hamlet quite clearly references her relationship with Trigorin, but the context of the upcoming play results in the line also alluding to the “vices” and “crimes” of her false theater. The original quotation from Shakespeare, however, results in a complete non sequitur (which also adds to the harshness of what Kostya is saying).

CONSIDERATIONS

For me, there are several factors to take into consideration when attempting to provide a proper translation of these lines:

(1) The literary reference is part of a larger tapestry of literary references woven throughout the entire structure of the play. In an English translation, I think, this particular reference is even more important because it is one of the few references which will be directly recognizable as a quotation to modern audiences and, thus, capture some of what the original flavor of the references throughout the play would have been for Russian audiences.

(2) Arkadina quotes from Hamlet because it provides her with an opportunity to over-react (in a particularly and literally dramatic way) to her son’s light chastisement. Therefore, I think the line she chooses can be directly translated.

(3) By matching her quote-for-quote, Konstantin is also showing that he can play her game. Given Konstantin’s earlier comments about feeling humiliated in her social circles, this is imporant.

(4) But Konstantin is also using the line to call attention to the context of Hamlet — and thus make a sly dig at her relationship with Trigorin.

(5) And, as noted above, Konstantin is also using the line to comment on the “sins” of her “Theater”.

(6) The narrative relationship between the Kostya-Arkadina and Hamlet-Gertrude relationships is also heavily emphasized by many commentators, so it’s possible that Chekhov is using these quotations to set up a larger theme of the play as a whole. But since most commentators who attempt to highlight this narrative relationhip do so by using the Oedipal Complex interpretation of Hamlet — an interpretation which post-dates Chekhov’s life — it is doubtful to my mind that it is as strong as many commentators would suppose.

SOLUTIONS

In approaching these lines, I first considered several different approaches that have been attempted by other translators. These include:

(1) Laying all other considerations aside and using the original Shakespearean lines. (This was unsatisfactory to me for the reasons described above.)

(2) Re-translating the passage from the Russian back into English, producing a result more-or-less similar to Michael Leader’s effort quoted above. (This approach is problematic because they are no longer recognizably quoting from the play. Some translators have attempted to address this issue by removing the name of “Hamlet” — but at that point any remnant of reference to the original play is completely lost and the entire nature of the scene is fundamentally altered.)

(3) Using Gertrude’s line as it appears in Shakespeare, but then re-translating Kostya’s quote from the Russian back into English. (This allows the translator to blunt the harshness and non sequitur of Kostya’s response. The problem is that Kostya now looks like an idiot. Instead of playing his mother’s intellectual game of quotations and matching her blow-for-blow, Kostya instead appears to misquote the play. Instead of showing him as clever, this approach turns him into an unmitigated and out-classed bumpkin.)

None of these proved satisfactory to me and so I started experimenting with other approaches.

The first thing I played around with was the idea of selectively editing Kostya’s quote. For example, I tried dropping the very end of Hamlet’s line (“… over the nasty sty!”). This made the line slightly less vicious, but it ultimately failed to truly alleviate the problem and still came up short in capturing most of the dynamics in the original Russian.

Eventually I decided to go trolling through the entire scene from Hamlet to find a literal quotation that would work. I have subsequently found a few other translators who have done the same, but — as far as I know — none have chosen the same line:

Mother, for love of grace,
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul,
That not your trespass, but my madness speaks.

This satisfies the literary necessity for an accurate quotation (without which Konstantin’s tit-for-tat is thwarted since he’s failing to accurately quote the play); calls attention to the relationship with Trigorin; and can also be taken as a sly dig at her theatrical shortcomings.

It’s not a perfect solution. (I doubt a perfect solution exists.) But it seems to work well. (For me, anyway.)

D&D — and roleplaying games in general — have always struggled with magic.

Elrond knew all about runes of every kind. That day he looked at the swords they had brought from the trolls’ lair, and he said, “These are not troll-make. They are old swords, very old swords of the High Elves of the west, my kin. They were made in Gondolin for the Goblin-wars. They must have come from a dragon horde or goblin plunder, for dragons and goblins destroyed that city many ages ago. This, Thorin, the runes name Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver in the ancient tongues of Gondolin; it was a famous blade. This, Gandalf, was Glamdring, Foe-hammer that the king of Gondolin once wore. Keep them well!” — The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien

Nifty.

Player: We search the trolls’ lair.
DM: You find a +1 goblin-bane longsword and a +3 longsword.

Less nifty.

Some would conclude from this that D&D just doesn’t do magic very well. After all, what’s magical about a +2 bonus to attack rolls or a +5 bonus to Hide checks?

But let’s consider this problem from another angle.

He saw a tall, strongly made youth standing beside him. This person was as much out of place in that den as a gray wolf among mangy rats of the gutters. His cheap tunic could not conceal the hard, rangy lines of his powerful frame, the broad heavy shoulders, the massive chest, lean waist, and heavy arms. His skin was brown from outland suns, his eyes blue and smoldering; a shock of tousled black hair crowned his broad forehead. From his girdle hung a sword in a worn leather scabbard. — “The Tower of the Elephant” by Robert E. Howard

Also nifty.

DM: Someone taps you on the shoulder.
Player: I turn to look. Who is it?
DM: A 3rd-level barbarian with a sword.

Similarly less nifty.

What are we supposed to conclude from this? That roleplaying games are just abject failures? That they suck all the life and mystery and grandeur from the world?

Well, they certainly can do that. If you let the numbers become the game world, then that seems to be the inevitable result. But I think we’re only looking at half the story here. In my opinion, the numbers inherent to a roleplaying system are only a means to an end. They shouldn’t be confused with the game world — they are merely the means by which we interface wtih the game world.

So, yes, the blade we found in the troll lair was, in fact, a +1 goblin-bane longsword. That doesn’t change the fact that it is also Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver of Gondolin — a legendary blade lost to the elves when that proud city fell to dragons and orcish hordes.

The numbers are only empty and meaningless if you leave them that way. If you fill them with meaning (or start with the meaning and work your way back to the numbers), the problem goes away.

With that thought in mind, here are a few methods for spicing up your magic items.

HOW DOES THE MAGIC WORK?

Mechanically, a +2 longsword magically gives you a +2 bonus to your attack and damage rolls.

Okay, but what does that mean? Is the blade preternaturally sharp? Does the magical enhancement guide your thrusts? Does it grant you a moment of combat-oriented prescience at the moment you begin to swing your blade, allowing you to see the outcome of the stroke and adjust it accordingly? Is it perfectly balanced, yet light and lively in your hand? Does the edge of the blade morph from diamond sharpness (for piercing armor) to vicious serrations (to rip and tear at flesh) in the middle of a blow? Can you feel the tendril of its mystic energy reaching into your mind and there implanting the arcane combat techniques of the Obsidian Brothers — techniques that you can scarcely comprehend? Does your arm grow in strength and speed when you hold the blade? Does the blade glow with a light that only you can see, but which seems to limn your targets in crystal clarity?

In my current campaign, one of the PCs has a ring of lockpicking (+5 bonus to Open Lock checks). The ring has a large ruby that can be slid to one side, revealing a nest of miniature tools. The wearer of the ring can mentally manipulate these incredibly precise tools (hence granting the bonus to their skill checks).

But you could just as easily have a ring of lockpicking that grants the wearer an encyclopedic knowledge of locks; or allows the wearer to psychically “feel” the mechanisms of the lock; and so forth.

The difference between a ring that grants an enhancement bonus in some vague and unspecified way (“’cause it’s magic”) and a ring filled with magically-crafted tools that you can control through the power of your mind is a vast gulf of detail and personality. And having a firm understanding of not only what the item does, but how it does it, can turn every use of that item into a flavorful and memorable event.

NAMES

Nobody remembers Magic Sword #3419. But if I say “Sting”, you probably think Frodo. And if I say “Stormbringer”, you probably think Elric.

Naming an item immediately makes it unique. It also gives the item an identity, which means that the item will immediately begin accumulating lore to itself — every time something interesting or memorable happens involving the item, it has a name that can be latched onto that event.

There are basically two ways for an item to gain a name:

(1) Lore. Like Glamdring or the Ruby of the North, the item may have been given a name before it ever comes into the hands of the PCs. This lore-born name can be imparted to them in many ways — perhaps the ogre wielding the weapon cries the name aloud; or the item whispers it in their ear when they first claim it; or a loremaster identifies it; or they were questing for it; or they know it themselves (from a successful skill check).

(I just made up the name “Ruby of the North”, but it made you wonder what it was, didn’t it?)

(2) New. Encourage the players to name items that are important to them, or seize opportunities to immortalize memorable events in the game by naming the items responsible for them. When a sword becomes Gnoll-Render because of the PCs ripping out the entrails of the gnoll chieftain… well, that’s pretty awesome.

UNIQUE APPEARANCE

If magic items look generic, then they’ll be treated generically. If +2 longswords just look like every other sword (or even if every +2 longsword just looks like every other +2 longsword), it doesn’t matter how rare they are — they’re still going to be treated as nothing more than a stat block.

For example, several months ago one of the PCs in my campaign went down to the local magic shop to buy a magic sword. What could be more generic, right?

When they first arrived in the shop and started talking about weapons, the shopkeeper showed them several magetouched weapons that had recently been recovered from the depths beneath the city. But when it became clear that they were seeking something a little more notable, he smiled enigmatically and went into a backroom.

He emerged with a long, slim blade. The steel was filigreed with gold and the hilt was of finely curved silver. He ran his hand gently down the length of the blade, as if caressing a lover. “The markings here upon the blade are not merely gold, but taurum — the true gold, mined from the Mountains of the East. And there is a thin core of it in the heart of the hilt. The enchantment worked upon this blade sings from the taurum, and its name is Nainsyr.”

At the word, blue lightning sprang from the hilt and rang along the length of the blade — crackling with a vicious smell of ozone.

“It’s an elvish word. It means, ‘Let there be lightning.’ And, indeed, the blade is old. It shows the marks of an elvish craft that I have rarely seen.”

It’s a +1 shock longsword. And it was bought in a store. But it’s his sword. The players remember who they bought that sword from. They remember the first time the PC used it in combat.

Another example from my campaign is a bag of holding elegantly crafted from black velvet that was given to the party as part of their payment for a job well done. This unique little touch might not seem like much, but not only do the players distinctly remember receiving that payment, the player who carries the bag of holding has actually passed up the opportunity to get larger bags of holding simply because they like this one so much.

HISTORY

Glamdring and Orcrist have a history to them. They existed before they came into the hands of the heroes. They are spoken of in tales.

Giving a magic item a unique history — much like naming them — helps to give the item an identity. It can also make the players feel like their characters are inheriting a meaningful legacy or a sacred trust. It gives the item meaning, purpose, and context. This item is not merely a tool; it is a thing of note.

MECHANICS

Most of this essay has dealt with how to make magic items feel special and magical in spite of the mechanics. But you can also turn the mechanics to your own use.

For example, +1 shock longsword is not only mechanically more interesting than a +2 longsword, that special ability also gives you something to latch onto while using the other techniques described here. (For example, Nainsyr’s taurum filigree and name are all derived from its special ability.)

Items which feature an interesting package of abilities or a quirky side-effect can be notably unique. A ring of water-breathing that turns the skin of the wearer blue; an amulet of health that causes the user to exude a golden glow (with the effect of a light spell); winged boots that spontaneously generate a cloud of butterflies that flutter around the user; a fist-sized ruby that functions as both a crystal ball and a gem of seeing; and so forth.

MANAGING THE DETAILS

All of this advice can really be boiled down to a simple maxim: Life is in the details.

The difference between a cold, lifeless stat block and a memorable myth is all about the living details that you imbue your game world with.

But supplying this detail can seem a little overwhelming. Do I really expect you to give every magical item a clever mechanism of operation; an interesting name; a unique appearance; and a fully detailed history?

No, actually, I don’t. In fact, unless your campaign is extremely light on magical items, that would be a really bad idea. Not only will you end up overloading your players with details (to the point where they’ll just start tuning it out), but when everything is special and unique nothing ends up being special and unique.

In a magic-rich environment, not all magic needs to be unique or clever. For example, in my own campaign there are plenty of two-bit wizards who lay minor enchantments and charms onto blades. These “magetouched weapons” (as I call them) are, figuratively speaking, a dime a dozen. They’re magically sharp and strong, but they’re not particularly remarkable.

The other thing to remember is that you don’t actually have to do that much work. It’s easy to over-think things, but there’s really no need to prep a three page (or even three paragraph) description of a magic item.

Take Nainsyr for example. It has a little bit of history to it: It’s an old blade of rare elven craft and it was found by delvers plumbing the cavernous depths beneath Ptolus. That type of detail is easy to improvise (and, in fact, it was improvised — I didn’t know they were planning to go shopping).

That may not seem like a lot of history to you, but take a second look at Gandalf’s Glamdring: It seems to echo with history, but the only thing Tolkien actually tells you about it is, “It was worn by the king of Gondolin. It might have been taken by goblins or dragons during the sacking of that city.”

Tolkien lets your imagination run wild with that. Feel free to let your players do the same.

And did you notice how Tolkien doesn’t actually give the history of those weapons until after the heroes have already decided to wield them? Let the players tell you what they care about before you spend time working out the details.

MINOR MAGIC

As a a final word, let me point out that not all magic has to be usable. (Or, at the very least, usable by adventuring PCs.)

A small, well-worn stone that grows warm to the touch when you rub it. A poppet that moves and speaks when placed in the arms of a virgin. A skull that crumbles to dust when touched by living flesh, but then reforms itself over the course of 13 hours. A glass eye that rotates and spins when left unattended (in an eyesocket it rotates to perfectly mimic a living eye, although it conveys no gift of sight). A blindfold that can be seen through as if it wasn’t there.

Some such items might be assigned some sort of market value (and, thus, become part of the treasure — albeit more interesting treasure than just X number of gold pieces). But their real function is to fill the world with a little bit of magic that just can’t be boiled down to, “What can I do with it?”

Sometimes magic is just… magical. It’s not there to be used as a weapon or beaten into a plowshare. It’s just there for the sake of being.

And when that type of magic permeates your campaign world — when wonders are there to be found… Well, that’s when you get magic in your magic items.

When I was first asked to return to my alma mater to direct a play as part of their 2008-2009 season, I started reading plays. And reading plays. And reading plays.

And the play I kept coming back to was The Seagull.

It was a play I had periodically considered producing on my own for several years. It was also an appropriate fit for the technical goals of the program (providing an installed set piece along with period props and costumes). And, given its history with Stanislavski’s acting methods, it was a perfect match with the acting workshops that were being planned as part of the rehearasal process.

So I stopped reading plays and I started reading translations. And reading translations. And reading translations. And reading translations.

This proved to be a much more frustrating process because I wasn’t finding a suitable translation. As a general rule, the translations I read fell into two broad categories:

First, there were the literal and accurate translations. These featured dialog which was as faithful as possible to the original meaning of Chekhov’s Russian. Unfortunately, these were mostly written by Russian scholars, not playwrights. As a result, the English was also stilted and unnatural — lacking the true rhythms of natural speech.

Second, there were the colloquial translations. These sought to make the language flow naturally. (Many of them were written by actual playwrights.) Unfortunately, they tended to achieve this effect by only roughly summarizing or even re-writing Chekhov’s lines.

In the end, I didn’t want to compromise in either direction: I wanted a faithful translation and I wanted natural language that wouldn’t impose an additional barrier to journeyman actors. Eventually I concluded that, if I couldn’t find it, then I would write it myself.

Of course, there was a slight hitch: I don’t actually speak or read Russian.

So I engaged in a process I lovingly refer to as “proxy translation”: I obtained as many different translations of the play as I could and started looking for the intersection. In the end, I worked from the original Russian text, a literal translation mediated through Google’s translation service, and more than fourteen other translations.

Many of the translations I was working from were proxy translations, as well.  Some clearly labeled themselves such — like Tom Stoppard’s excellent rendition of the play — while others could be identified through the clearly traceable lineage of certain passages.

I first encountered the art of proxy translation while watching my mother collaborate with John Lewin on a version of Faust that was being workshopped by Garland Wright at the Guthrie Theater. (This project eventually evolved into a full adaptation of the Faust legend into an original play.)

(John Lewin, by the way, was a true master of the art. His proxy translation of Oedipus Rex — which, sadly, has never been published — remains the finest rendition of they play I have ever seen or read.)

It should be noted that proxy translations are sometimes referred to as “adaptations”. While I agree that such translations are distinctly different from those rendered directly from the mother tongue (hence my coining of the term “proxy translation”), I think the use of “adaptation” in this sense is poor terminology. “Adaptation”, in the context of playwrighting and screenwriting, is a term of art and its use here is usually a distortion of what’s actualy being done. Tennessee Williams adapted The Seagull when he re-wrote it as Trigorin’s Notebook. But that’s not what I was doing.

Perhaps the best way to explain the work I did is by example. Here’s a line from the play in the original Russian:

Вы, рутинеры, захватили первенство в искусстве и считаете законным и настоящим лишь то, что делаете вы сами, а остальное вы гнетете и душите! Не признаю я вас! Не признаю ни тебя, ни его!

Tom Stoppard translates this line as: “You hacks and mediocrities have grabbed all the best places for yourselves and you think the kind of art you do is the only kind that counts — anything else you stifle or stamp out. Well, I’m not taken in by any of you! — not by him and not by you either!”

On the other hand, Elisaveta Fen translates it as: “It’s conventional, hide-bound people like you who have grabbed the best places in the arts today, who regard as genuine and legitimate only what you do yourselves. Everything else you have to smother and suppress! I refuse to accept you at your own valuation! I refuse to accept you or him!”

So I look at these and twelve other translations like them, and then I look at my literal translation which reads (in somewhat broken English): “You routiniers have captured the championship positions in art and consider legitimate only that which you do yourself; everything else you yoke and supress! I do not recognize you! I recognize you nor him!”

In this literal translation, I notice two things: First, the odd word “routinier”. Second, the use of the word “yoke”.

So I start with the word “routinier”. I head over to a dictionary and find a definition: “A person who adheres to a routine; especially a competent but uninspired conductor.” The root of the word is clearly similar to that of “routine”, and with a little bit of research I find that similar words are popular expressions throughout continental Europe (particularly eastern Europe). In fact, the Russian word is “rutinier” — it’s literally the same word. But the word is, obviously, not popularly known in English. “Hack” is probably an adequate translation, but what it lacks is that particular sense that they are hacks specifically because they just keep repeating the same things over and over again.

Then I turn my attention to the phrase “yoke and suppress”. This phrase has been various translated as “crush and smother” (Frayn), “smother and suppress” (Fen), “stifle or stamp out” (Stoppard), “sit on and crush” (Hingley), and the like. But in all of these I feel that something is being lost from the sense of “yoke” — the idea of “chaining” or “tying up” other types of work is clear; but there’s also something terrible and evocative about the image of taking young, creative artists and yoking them to your own bankrupt artistic forms (like a great playwright forced to waste his talents on a trite sitcom).

It should also be noted that, although the word is literally translated as “yoke”, in Russian it does carry a specific connotation of “choking” — which is where words like “smother” are coming from in the other translations. The point here is that Chekhov has chosen a word with a rich meaning that simply has no clear analogue in English.

What I eventually rendered out of this conceptual gestalt was this line:

You slaves of routine have seized the premiere positions in the arts, and you only sanction what you do yourselves! Everything else you enslave or suppress! But I don’t acknowledge you! I don’t acknowledge you and I don’t acknowledge him!

The idea of “enslave” is not a precise fit for “yoke”, but it seems to capture the richer sense of Chekhov’s meaning. I lose some sense of the art being “choked”, but I think at least some of that sense of that destruction is still captured in the word “suppress”.

This use of the word “enslave” also resonates strongly with the phrase “slaves of routine”, which I’ve used earlier in the same passage in an effort to capture the meaning of “routinier”.(Before taking this route I actually attempted several versions of the line in which I just used the word “routinier” to achieve a completely literal and accurate translation. Unfortunately, no one had the slightest idea what Kostya was talking about.)

Now, take that same process, repeat it a few hundred times, and you end up with a script.

Of course, this is a rather extreme example featuring two difficult semantic puzzles that needed to be solved. Most of the time the process was the much easier one of simply trying to figure out how to get a particular passage to flow naturally and beautifully off of the tongue.