This 3-part series was originally written in November 2000, shortly after the release of John Wick’s Orkworld. I shopped it around to a few gaming periodicals, but the game never became popular enough to justify several thousand words and the article never sold. Although it is perhaps most interesting to those who remember the exceptionally evocative Orkwold, I think there’s interest here for anyone running a fantasy campaign.

This is the story of Fanal the Swordbearer; Fanal the Mowgd Bane; Fanal the Bashthala. When told by the talda of the North it is a story of hubris and stupidity. When told by the Eastern tribes it becomes a parable of the Harsh Times. To the bards of the West it is known as a story of tala, the false heroism of foolishness. And in the South the story of Fanal is forgotten as the detritus of an ignoble age.

But here, in the lands of the Long Winter Glen, it is a tale of fanu – of a strength which can only be found in the strongest of hearts in the moment of wa. The story of a hero who rose above the limitations of his flesh and his people, and who truly earned his name and his heritage. Here Fanal is not forgotten or dismissed, but remembered as the ork he was – an ork whose strength of spirit serves still as a reminder of our common plight; of the thala which make up our lives, and the solutions which may be found even in the face of adversity and hopelessness.

In years long since gone by, it came to pass that three of creation’s fiends walked along a common path: Atheleyaendroovalsai of the Ahlvsees; Burgon al’Kalthorn, Lord of the Eastern Shtontee; and Petrus of the Manoo. Each sought the might of the Gray Spear, crafted in the days before legend and housing a shard of Bashthraka’s soul within a spearhead made of the metal of Iron Lake, for their own selfish reasons. Athvalsai would use it as a means of laying waste to his comrades. To Petrus it would reveal our secret magicks. For Burgon al’Kathorn its sacred metal would be transformed upon his forge into a mundane blade.

First they sought to seize the spear through force of arms. Each of them – man, dwarf, and elf – brought to the field their private armies, and welded them into a single whole: The Army of the Triad. But in these times the Gray Spear was wielded by Kalabak, the greatest of the thraka, the eldest son of the Household of Tildahn, and the most revered ork among the Nine Houses of the Thrush. In his hands it had vanquished a thousand foes, and washed the Plains of Pain red with the blood his enemies. When the Army of the Triad marched against the House of Tildahn, it was driven back.

And so, to wrest it from the mighty grasp of Kalabak, these three joined in conspiracy and conceived a plan bred of mowgda and seeded with the treachery of man, the poisoned soul of dwarf, and the twisted ambition of elf.

In this season, Kalabak was the eldest of three sons. Next came Fanal. And last came Travlesan. In seeing this, the three conspirators conceived their mischievous plans. With the arcane magics of the elves, they cloaked themselves behind the faces of the gods: The dwarf as Bashthraka, the elf as Pugg, and the man as Gowthdukah.

Each conspirator, in turn, went to one of the brothers: Kalabak saw Bashthraka come to him as he hunted the wild deer. Travelsan was visited by one who bore the countenance of Pugg as he labored at the forge. And Fanal, as he was wont to do, had gone far from home in his wanderings, and was reached last by the figure of Gowthdukah.

Each of the three brothers was told the same lie: That there was a companion to the Gray Spear, which had been lost many years before. But that the god had finally uncovered the secret of its hiding place, and the spear could now be gained… if only they would follow the god to its hiding place.

Kalabak dreamed of glory redoubled. Travlesan of matching the exploits of his elder brother. Fanal of the great deeds which could be done with such a weapon.

Kalabak and Travlesan were the first to reach the accursed grove which the three conspirators had chosen: Perched in silver moonlight upon the tallest cliff. Athvalsai weaved his spells, and the true faces of the brothers were concealed from each other – and they warred with each other over a prize which had never been. Travlesan fell that night, and Kalabak’s blade was stained with the crimson of his own blood.

As Travelsan’s body slipped from the Gray Spear’s shaft, Fanal arrived within the grove – and would have shared his brother’s fate if chance had erred but slightly. But Fortune was with Fanal that night, for in disguising himself as Gowthdukah, Petrus had also opened his mind to the god’s own soul. Looking out over the devastation which had been wrought, Gowthdukah reached through the man and stripped the fiction from Fanal’s vision. Seeing one brother slain by another, Fanal cried out in horror – and in that instant the spell was broken upon Kalabak as well.

Kalabak looked down and saw what his hand had wrought. Next he looked within his soul, and found a shard of mowgda there. And he was ashamed. He cast the Gray Spear down, and filled with the anguish of his deeds, he fled over the cliffs to his doom.

Fanal, seeing still with true sight, saw all of the deception revealed. Reaching down with fury in his heart, he claimed the Gray Spear as his own and slew the man.

Seeing their failure writ in the death of their comrade, the dwarf and elf withdrew to scheme and plot their revenge. They drew to themselves, once more, the Army of the Triad and came again to crush the newly weakened house and claim the Gray Spear as their own.

But Fanal, fresh in his rage, laughed with the strength of keerisboon and rallied the Nine Houses to his cause. And thus was born the Second Battle of the Triad.

The fighting lasted all of the day, and into the night, and into the next day, and into the next night. But as the dawn of the third day arose, it came to pass that Fanal and the elf Athvalsai met each other upon the battlefield. Both were wearied beyond the bounds of mortal flesh. Both longed for rest. But both knew that their hour of truth had arrived.

Their battle lasted all through the day and deep into the next night. Fanal’s skill was too great for the elf to strike his lethal blows. The evil Athvalsai’s magics were too mighty for Fanal to overcome. But as the dawn of the fourth day arose, Fanal – wearied almost to the point of death – reared back the mighty Gray Spear and cast it deep within the elf’s foul breast. With a cry to set the tangodo walking, Athvalsai fell… and the Gray Spear broke.

Fanal fell to his knees, half of the Gray Spear still clutched in his grasp. The Nine Houses fell back in confusion. The Army of the Triad fled in terror at their leader’s loss.

That night the battlefield fell silent.

That night a sliver of Kalabak’s mowgda dwelt within the heart of every thraka in the Nine Houses of the Thrush.

That night Gowthdukah came to Fanal again.

Fanal looked upon the god. “Will they come again?”

“They will,” Gowthdukah said. “Anger lives in the heart of Burgon al’Kalthorn, and he will seek revenge.”

“Stupid dwarf.”

Gowthdukah nodded.

And a long silence passed.

“You cannot win the day tomorrow, without the power of the Gray Spear in your grasp,” Gowthdukah said.

“I know,” said Fanal. “Is there nothing you can do?”

And a long silence passed.

“Perhaps,” Gowthdukah said at last. “Perhaps there is. Follow me.”

Without another word the god turned his back and began to walk. Without another word Fanal followed.

It seemed to Fanal that they traveled for many days, and yet the moon never moved against the stars and Gowthdukah’s stride never altered. At last they came to a cave and Gowthdukah stopped.

And a long silence passed.

Fanal descended into the cave. What happened within those darkened depths is unknown to any ork upon the Wakingside. At last, though, Fanal emerged with Bashayla, the Long Blade – the Sword of Fanal.

And a long silence passed.

“This is not the weapon of a true thraka,” Fanal said.

“It is your weapon,” Gowthduka said. “And thus it is.”

Gowthdukah led Fanal back to his camp. As sights became familiar to Fanal once more, the moon resumed its course across the heavens.

As dawn broke upon them, they came to find the Nine Houses already besieged and the Third Battle of the Triad begun.

Turning from the carnage to Gowthdukah, Fanal found that the god was gone. He looked down upon Bashayla. He looked back upon his dying kinsmen.

And Fanal descended upon the battlefield, the Sword Bashayla falling from high above his head into the flesh of dwarf. And blood flowed as if a river around him, the Sword Bashayla falling from high above his head into the flesh of man. And rage was transformed into a physical thing, the Sword Bashayla falling from high above his head into the flesh of elf.

The Thousand Thraka of the Nine Houses fell that day, and yet Fanal fought on – the Sword Bashayla falling from high above his head into the flesh of all those around him – until only Fanal stood upon that field of gore, and the House of Thrush was no more.

And Gowthdukah came to him for the third, and last, time. And Gowthdukah led Fanal the Swordbearer to where Burgon al’Kalthorn, Lord of the Eastern Shtontee, had hidden himself away in fear.

And Fanal slew him.

After the Three Battles of the Triad, Fanal wandered far and wide – and great tales of his deeds have been passed down to us today. But those tales are for another day, for now I see that the sun sinks towards dusk – just as Fanal has faded from our world to dwell upon the Otherside.

Continued tomorrow…

Inspired by the “Shields Shall Be Splintered!” houserule at Trollsmyth, I’ve been thinking about how such a mechanic could be used to make sword-and-boarding a more interesting and flavorful mechanical choice. And maybe address some of the balance issues that make them so much less appealing than wielding a two-handed weapon.

SHIELDS: Once per round a character can use their shield to block (or partially block) an incoming attack. Both the shield and the shield’s wielder suffer the full damage of the attack, but the shield’s wielder can subtract a number of points of damage equal to their Base Attack Bonus. A shield cannot be used to block a touch attacks or attacks that bypass armor in any way.

A shield can be used to block damage from any effect which requires an attack roll (such as a scorching ray).

A shield can also be used to block damage from any effect which allows a Reflex save (such as a fireball). If the character makes a Reflex save for half damage, the damage blocked by the shield is subtracted before being halved.

A character who is flat-footed or unaware of an attack cannot use a shield block.

THOUGHTS AND QUESTIONS

(1) There are quite a few possibilities here for feats to extend this basic capability: For example, allowing characters to block up to twice their BAB in damage. Or a feat similar to Combat Reflexes that would allow a character to make a number of shield blocks equal to their Dexterity bonus. Should the “blocking spells and other effects” be relegated to a feat, as well? Is it too useful straight out of the box?

(2) Instead of making this a 1/round ability, should it be an immediate action?

(3) Is this useful enough that the normal AC bonus from a shield should be eliminated?

And, of course, the big question is: Does it work? Is it balanced? As the title of the post suggests, I’ve given this zero playtesting. It’s just a nifty idea that tickled the hind-quarters of my brain. It undoubtedly needs some tweaking at the very least.

My brother, who plays the mage Ranthir in the In the Shadow of the Spire campaign, requested a D20-statting of the spell seen in this video from Guild Wars 2:

FLAME OF THE PHOENIX
Evocation [Fire]
Level: Drd 2, Sor/Wiz 2
Components: V, S, M/DF
Casting Time: 1 standard action
Range: Medium (100 feet + 10 feet/level)
Effect: Medium size phoenix of flame
Duration: 1 round (see text)
Saving Throw: Reflex half or negates (see text)
Spell Resistance: Yes

A bright flame in the shape of a winged phoenix appears before you. With a screeching caw you can command it to attack any creature within range. The flame phoenix will fly in a straight line to that target. If it passes through the space of any other creature in its flight, that creature must make a Reflex saving throw or suffer 1d4 points of fire damage per every two caster levels (maximum 5d4).

Once the flame phoenix reaches its target, it stops moving for the round. In a burst of flaming feathers, the flame phoenix deals 1d6/level points of fire damage to the target (Reflex save for half damage, maximum of 10d6). If the target creature moves, the flame phoenix will follow it up to the limit of the spell’s range.

At the end of your next turn, the flame phoenix flies back to you in a straight line. If it passes through the space of any other creature in its flight, that creature must make a Reflex saving throw or suffer 1d4 points of fire damage per every two caster levels (maximum 5d4).

So… what other small touches of garlic-planter proportions might you find in the urban planning of a fantasy setting?

I’ve often held, for example, that it seems as if cremation would be a natural solution for fantasy lands crawling with the undead. (On the other hand, if you can provide a reason why people believe their loved ones should be buried with whole and undisturbed bodies you will probably simultaneously explain why they find the creation of undead abhorrent.)

On a similar note, what does the well-stocked arensal of a city guard look like? Silver bullets for werewolves seem like a nobrainer. What else?

One of the things I look for in a roleplaying system is the “You Can’t Do That Here” failure point.

Obviously, there are things that a character logically shouldn’t be able to do. (Barring magical or technological aid, for example, a normal human being shouldn’t be able to flap their wings and fly like an eagle.) But that’s not what the You Can’t Do That Here glitch is about. You Can’t Do That Here happens when the structural or statistical quirks of a particular system make it impossible for a likely, probable, or desirable outcome to happen.

Imagine your favorite scene from a movie, book, or television sceries. Could that scene happen in your favorite roleplaying system? If not, why not? And can it be fixed?

These thoughts recently percolated to the surface for me during my read-thru and analysis of The Esoterrorists (which I also discussed here).

Scene 1: The detectives have a hit a dead-end in their investigation. Or perhaps their investigation has raised new questions. In any case, they return to the scene of the crime to look for new clues. Is there anything they might have overlooked? Is there evidence their later investigations suggest should exist that can now be found?

Scene 2: The teenage heroine is spending her summer vacation in the spooky, haunted house owned by her aunt and uncle. After spending seeral weeks in the house (enduring events of escalating strangeness), she passes down the hall and happens to notice for the first time a strange seam in the plaster. Investigating it more closely, she discovers a secret door and a staircase leading down to a hidden basement…

Scenes like these are a dime a dozen. They are also completely impossible if you’re playing The Esoterrorists: The system mandates that any clues which are to be found at a given location will be found by the PCs. That means you will never gain anything new by returning to a crime scene (unless new evidence has been deposited there since the last time you looked for some reason). Nor can you ever notice something that you previously overlooked.

And since this failure point in the system is a direct result of the system’s core design principle, there’s really no easy way to fix it: There’s an entire category of scenario that The Esoterrorists will never allow to be played out.

By contrast, these same scenarios can be absolutely trivial in other RPGs. For example, in the D20 system the former scene is modeled by either returning to the crime scene and Taking 20 for a more exhaustive search; or performing a new search with a circumstance bonus to model the additional insight gleaned from later investigations. And the second scene is nothing more than a series of failed Spot checks followed by a successful Spot check.

IN THE LENGTH OF A ROUND

On the other hand, I often see You Can’t Do That Here failure points being misdiagnosed by people who become trapped within the paradigms of the system. Perhaps the most notable example of this is the erroneous believe that, if it can’t be done in the length of a single round, then it can’t be done.

For example, in many discussions surrounding my essay “D&D: Calibrating Your Expectations” people would attempt to demonstrate the “ridiculous” number of feats which real world people require to be modeled “accurately” in the game system. A prime example was the Ride-By Attack feat:

When you are mounted and use the charge action, you may move and attack as if with a standard charge and then move again (continuing the straight line of the charge). Your total movement for the round can’t exceed double your mounted speed. You and your mount do not provoke an attack of opportunity from the opponent that you attack.

People would readily point to the example of any jousting tourney and say, “Anyone who jousts is capable of making an attack and then continuing to ride in a straight line.”

This is true. And, in fact, anyone in D20 can (a) ride up to someone; (b) hit them; and (c) continue riding past them. They just can’t do all of that in a single round.

This is about more than just defending the D20 system from an invalid critique, however. It’s about establishing a mindset in which you maximize the power and flexibility of your system of choice. Because the flip-side of You Can’t Do That Here is You Can Do That here, and that’s a lot more interesting.

Thinking back to the exercise we used to detect You Can’t Do That Here failure points, let’s turn it around now to a more positive use: Imagine your favorite scene from a movie, book, or television series. Can your system do that out of the box? If it can’t, what mechanics do you need to design to make it happen? And how can you design a scenario in which a scene like that becomes possible, plausible, or even probable? Can you generalize the case and figure out how to encourage scenes like that during a gaming session?

For example, imagine a scene where a kung-fu hero throws the bad guy through an aquarium full of piranhas. How can you enable and encourage that kind of scenery-interaction in your fight scenes? What mechanical structure can you use that will be (a) simple enough that the PCs won’t shy away from using it (as opposed to the default 3rd Edition grappling rules, for example); and (b) make the option as attractive (or more attractive) than simply hacking at the guy with their magic sword or throwing a punch at his jaw?

As a real world example, a couple of years ago I designed some simple counter-intelligence guidelines for the Gather Information skill. This took about 5 minutes. But having these guidelines made possible game content that would otherwise never have arisen: Previously “knowing that someone is asking questions about you” was a You Can’t Do That Here problem with the D20 system. Fortunately, it was a trivial one for me to solve — and now my PCs have to be cautious when asking questions about people; and occasionally they’ll be surprised to discover who has been asking questions about them.