With the 5th Edition and Cypher System versions of Monte Cook’s Ptolusbeing announced this past week, I thought it might be fun to visit The Laboratory of the Beast. This scenario was originally designed as part of my ongoing Ptolus campaign, and I’ve discussed it quite a bit in the “Running the Campaign” columns that accompany the campaign’s journal entries. For those who haven’t read those journal entries, here’s the short version of the scenario’s origins:
Beneath the city-state of Ptolus there are a number of overlapping dungeon complexes. One of these is Ghul’s Labyrinth, the remnants of a vast and ancient underground citadel created by the dark lord Ghul. In the main Ptolus sourcebook there’s a scenario called “Trouble with Goblins” in which a number of goblins emerge from Ghul’s Labyrinth into the basement of an abandoned house and do various terrible things.
When I ran this scenario early in my campaign, the PCs backtracked the goblins and followed their trail down into the Labyrinth. In the published scenario, the trail goes cold and the PCs don’t find anything of interest in the dungeon. I decided it made more sense for the trail to lead somewhere, and so I designed a little mini-scenario.
I later published that scenario as The Complex of Zombies. As I described here, the published version of the scenario had been adapted to make it a generic scenario, notably changing the research complex so that it now belonged to the enigmatic Sons of Jade.
A key feature of this mini-scenario is that, ultimately, the goblins’ trail leads back through a bluesteel door: These doors, which are a common feature in Ghul’s Labyrinth, are essentially impassable for low-level characters unless they know the password. (As I discuss in “The Blue Doors of Ptolus”, this is a great way to control and define transitions in a megadungeon complex.)
The basic design goal here was to give the PCs a reward for successfully pursue the trail, but then definitively end the scenario so that they could move on to other things.
But it didn’t work out that way.
As described in “Tales from the Table: Unexpected Successes” (which is probably worth a read, if I do say so myself), the PCs managed to pull a rabbit out of their hat and successfully guessed the password, causing the bluesteel door to open.
The Laboratory of the Beast is what lies on the other side of the door. (The goblin trail ultimately leads through the laboratory to another scenario called The Goblin Caverns of the Ooze Lord. If response is positive to The Laboratory of the Beast, perhaps I’ll be able to share that latter adventure in the near future.)
With all this in mind, there are a few ways that you could use The Laboratory of the Beast in your own campaign:
You could use it as designed, attaching it to the door at one end of The Complex of Zombies.
You could make it a stand-alone dungeon. You could put the door leading to the laboratories almost anywhere: In the basement of a ruined keep. Or found in the aftermath of a tragic collapse during sewer construction. Or carved into the side of a mountain. Or it’s actually a portal that you leap into from a lich’s sanctum.
You could incorporate it into some other megadungeon complex, with or without The Complex of Zombies.
I’m presenting the scenario here basically in its original form (with a minimal amount of clean-up to hopefully make my intentions clear to people who don’t live inside my skull), so if you use it in combination with The Complex of Zombies you’ll probably want to make a decision about whether you’re using the Skull-King Ghul or the Sons of Jade.
If you’re planning to use this scenario in your own Ptolus campaign, you should also note that it was written for the version of Ptolus as it exists in my personal campaign world and may, therefore, have any number of metaphysical inconsistencies with Ptolus Prime.
GENERAL FEATURES
During the time of Ghul the Skull-King, this complex was being used to breed the hounds of Ghul — powerful war hounds who, through the machinations of this laboratory, became ever more dire and horrific.
Walls: Cream-colored stone (hardness 8, 15 hp/inch).
Unkeyed Rooms: These are empty, dusty rooms. Some might contain vague discolorations on the floors and walls, suggesting that they might have once contained equipment which has been removed. Or strange alchemical stains.
Bluesteel Doors: Indicated by a shaded door on the map. Made from steel with a distinct bluish tint. One cannot open them by normal magical means and they have no lock to pick. Instead, each door will open in response to a specific word. (3 inches thick, hardness 12, 120 hp, Break DC 31)
Glass & Bronze Doors: Indicated in room keys. Made of glass bound in bronze. These doors are very fragile, but have been laced with dark magic which curses whose who break them. (The effect will be described in the key entry when appropriate.) Resisting the curse requires a Will save (DC 24) and can be removed only by a cleric of at least 13th level casting remove curse on sanctified ground.
Taint: Various items and locations are tainted. See Advanced D20 Rules: Taintfor rules on this dark perversion of reality.
Kaostech: Kaostech items can be found throughout the laboratories. See Kaostechfor more information on this technomantic art.
The door was locked, so Tee kneeled next to it and got to work. Agnarr, standing nearby, decided to start oiling the hinges. Tee, remembering the last time Agnarr had decided some hinges needed oiling, began grinding her teeth, but managed to ignore him… mostly.
This session contains a callback to Session 10A: The Labyrinths of Ghul. In that session, I described the ancient hinges of a door in the dungeon as squealing loudly. While Tee explored the room beyond:
Agnarr, meanwhile, started playing with the iron door – moving it back and forth and causing the ancient hinges to squeal horribly. Tee was visibly annoyed. “Stop it. We don’t know what’s down here.”
First, I’d like to take a moment and acknowledge what a great roleplaying moment this is. We often think of great roleplaying as being exemplified in big dramatic or emotional scenes, but this simple little interaction actually demonstrates the heart of all great roleplaying. It’s a player being fully immersed in a moment and simply asking themselves (almost unconsciously), “What would my character do?”
And in this particular moment of boredom the answer was, “Play with this squeaky door.”
Now, at the table, this action is not actually annoying. There is no actual door squeaking. But Tee’s player becomes visibly annoyed because she, too, is immersed in the moment and is fully imagining the sound of this bloody door echoing through the room while she is trying to concentrate. So she tells him to cut it out. And then:
Tee went back to searching. Agnarr shrugged and pulled some oil out of his bag, spreading it liberally over the hinges of the door. That did the trick and the door stopped squeaking. Agnarr grinned, swinging the door back and forth, and called out: “Tee! Look!”
Tee whirled around: “What?!”
As she turned, the mound of rubble behind her exploded. A foul and terrible creature rose up amorphously behind her – its forms constantly shifting through virulent shades of purplish-blackish horror. Agnarr’s eyes widened and the smile fell from his face as two muscular extrusions slashed vicious claws across Tee’s back, ripping open vicious wounds.
Tee screamed in pain. “I hate you Agnarr! I hate you!”
Agnarr sees that Tee is upset and wants to help, so he figures the best way he can do that is by fixing the squeaky hinge that’s upsetting her. Having fixed the “problem,” he just wants to share his happiness with Tee and let her know that he’s solved it!
From Tee’s perspective, of course, the problem is not the squeaky hinge, it’s that Agnarr keeps distracting her. And now he’s distracting her again! There’s a complete mismatch of expectation and emotion as she whirls around.
And then shit goes bad.
In terms of actually “running the campaign,” per se, I contributed virtually nothing to this moment:
I randomly described a door hinge as being squeaky.
When Agnarr wanted to fix the hinge with some oil, I called for a check to see if he did that. (He made it.)
I called for a Spot test to see if Tee noticed the chaos beast lurking in the rubble. (She failed it.)
I mostly just got out of the way, which is often the best thing you can do as a GM.
What makes this moment special?
Hard to say, honestly. There’s an emotional truth here which seems to capture an essential element of the relationship between Tee and Agnarr. The simplicity of the actual interaction coupled with a near-catastrophic outcome creates strong dramatic contrast.
Because I’m talking about this in the context of the long-term legacy of the moment – as demonstrated in this journal entry, it becomes a running joke for Agnarr to oil hinges while Tee grits her teeth – it’s tempting to sight the replicability of the moment (there are lots of opportunities for dungeon adventurers to oil hinges). But the truth is that this had become an in-joke for the group long before Agnarr did it again. The players would bring it up during sessions. They’d also joke about it in other social contexts. Ten years later, in fact, they’re still doing so (much to the bewilderment of many an out-group listening to these conversations).
In sharing these campaign journals I’ve occasionally wondered about the degree to which these in-jokes translate to people who weren’t “there” when it happened. But it’s not unusual for long-term campaigns to develop these in-jokes. Like any in-joke, they build a sense of community and common purpose. They become both shibboleths and fond memorials of shared joy.
May 18th, 2008
The 10th Day of Kadal in the 790th Year of the Seyrunian Dynasty
Meanwhile, the skeletal leader – in a frenzied flurry of blades – had been cut down by Tor and Tee. Tee, inspecting the body, discovered the chain armor was of superb quality. The woman had also worn a ruby ring and matching gold bracelet worth a small fortune. On the interior of the bracelet was inscribed a name:
RADANNA
Laying near the gruesome remains of whatever deadly ritual had been held here there was a slim, red book. On the cover, traced in blood, was the symbol of a spiral. Ranthir began examining it as Tee continued searching the room.
THE SCARLET OATH
On the cover of this book, written in blood, is the symbol of a coil. On the first page is an oath:
“I pledge my body, soul, and purpose to the furtherance of chaos. We shall act as one. We shall breathe as one. We shall think as one. And in our crimson coils we shall choke out the life of those who would bring us death. We shall choke out the order which stifles life. We shall choke out the civilization which crushes liberty.”
The rest of the book teaches the ways of the Brotherhood of the Crimson Coil. The cult acts like a virus – their faces hidden; their identities submerged into the Coil itself. The members of the cult do not mix in normal society, preferring to remain cloistered in remote temples or hidden demesnes. The only time the cultists make an appearance is to carry out a Purging. During a Purging the cultists appear en masse to carry out some act of terrible destruction.
The cult chooses a target, seemingly at random, and then show up to burn down a building; set fire to a field; slaughter a family; or deface a monument. They are neither subtle nor gentle. They show neither mercy nor fear. Usually, their raids come so suddenly and unexpectedly that they meet little resistance. They usually appear in numbers so great, they simply cannot be stopped—a hundred cultists to burn down a single house, a dozen to murder a merchant walking down the street. They disappear quickly, often using spells to cover their escape.
Arrows suddenly fell among them. One of them clipped Elestra’s shoulder. All of them were suddenly in motion – diving for cover in different directions. Somehow six skeletal women – most clad in the tattered remnants of their brothel fineries – had crept onto the upper terrace and were now firing arrows down into the ruined garden at them.
A novice GM looks at the map of the dungeon. The PCs are about to open the door to Area 5, so he checks the key (in this case from B3 Palace of the Silver Princess) and sees that (a) it’s a library and (b) there are five kobolds in the room.
A fight breaks out. If the novice GM is talented, then the events of that fight will be influenced by the details of Area 5: Maybe the bookshelves topple over on top of people and the kobolds are throwing books. But the kobolds are keyed to Area 5, and so that’s where the kobolds are met and where the fight happens.
Time passes and our novice GM has gotten more experience under his belt. This time, when the PCs get ready to open the door to Area 5, he doesn’t just look at the description of Area 5. He looks around the map and checks nearby areas, too, to see if there are other monsters who might come to join the fight. He looks at Area 7, for example, and sees that it’s a barracks for five goblins.
A fight breaks out. The GM makes a check for the goblins in Area 7. He determines that they DO hear the fight, and a couple rounds later they come rushing over and join the melee in the library.
What the experienced GM is doing can be made a lot easier by using adversary rosters in addition to a basic map key. But there are other methods that can be used to achieve similar results. For example, the sounds of combat might increase the frequency of random encounter checks.
Random encounter mechanics might also lead this GM to another revelation: Combat encounters can happen in areas where they weren’t keyed. For example, maybe the PCs are poking around at the sulfur pool in Area 20 when a random encounter check indicates the arrival of a warband of kobolds.
At this point, our more experienced GM has accomplished a lot: Their dungeons are no longer static complexes filled with monsters who patiently wait for the PCs to show up and slaughter them. They feel like living, dynamic spaces that respond to what the PCs are doing.
THE THEATER OF OPERATIONS
There’s still one preconception that our GM is clinging to. He’s likely unaware of it; a subconscious habit that’s been built up over hundreds of combats and possibly reinforced through dozens of modules relying on preprogrammed encounters (even as he’s moved beyond such encounters).
When the goblins came rushing over to join the fight in the library? It was still the fight in the library. When the kobolds ambushed the PCs by the sulfur pools? The GM still thought of that fight as somehow “belonging” to Area 20.
One of the reasons this happens is because our method of mapping and keying a dungeon is designed to do it: We conceptually break the map into discrete chunks and then number each chunk specifically to “firewall” each section of the dungeon. It makes it easier to describe the dungeon and it makes it easier to run the dungeon, allowing the GM to focus on the current “chunk” without being overwhelmed by the totality.
But the next step is to go through that abstraction and come out the other side. We don’t want to abandon the advantages of conceptually “chunking” the dungeon, but we also don’t want to be constrained by that useful convention, either.
When combat breaks out, for example, we don’t want to be artificially limited to a single, arbitrarily defined “room.” Instead, I try to think of the dungeon as a theater of operations — I look not just at the current room, but at the entire area in which the PCs currently find themselves.
You can see a very basic version of this in the current campaign journal:
While the PCs are in Area 21: Rooftop Garden, I’m aware that the skeletal warriors in Area 25: Radanna’s Chamber have become aware of them. They sneak out onto Area 27: Battlements and fire down at the PCs, initiating combat across multiple rooms (and, in fact, multiple levels).
Here’s another simple example, the hallway fight from Daredevil:
This is basically just two rooms with a hallway between them. But note how even this simple theater of operations creates a more interesting fight than if it had been conceptually locked to just one of the small 10’ x 10’ rooms individually.
Also note how the encounter actually starts before he even enters the first room. This way of thinking about dungeons goes beyond combat: What’s on the other side of the door they’re approaching? What do they hear? What do they see through the open archways?
LEARNING THROUGH ZONES
Awhile back, I wrote about how abstract distance systems in RPGs mimic the way that GMs think about and make rulings about distance and relative position. Zones — like those used in Fate or the Infinity RPG — are a common example of such a system, and using a zone-based system can also be a great set of training wheels for breaking away from the idea that combat takes place in a single keyed location, because zones naturally invite the GM to think of neighboring rooms as being a cluster of zones.
For example, I have Monte Cook’s Beyond the Veil sitting on my desk here. Here’s a chunk of the map from that scenario:
And Area 8 on that map is described like this
8. DRAGONPODS
This large chamber was once a gathering hall with tables and benches, and trophies on the wall. There are only vague remnants of those now. Instead, the room has a large number of strange brown and yellow pods on the floor, and clinging to the walls and ceiling, each about three to four feet across. Six of them remain unopened, while at least a dozen have burst from the inside. A few smaller dragonpods lie cracked and brittle on the ground, unopened but obviously long-dead. All of the pods are of some hard organic matter covered in a thick, sticky mucus. They smell of sour fruit.
Storemere’s mating with a carrion crawler produced some strange results. Carrion crawlers normally lay hundreds of eggs at a time. But Storamere’s crawler mate produced dozens of strange, egg-like pods. Some of them hatched, and produced half-dragon carrion crawlers. Others never produced anything viable. Still others have yet to hatch, even though their parents are long dead.
Strangely enough, the union of dragon and carrion crawler seems to have spawned a creature with entirely new abilities. These half-breeds thrive for a time and then curl up and die, producing yet another dragonpod. Even if slain conventionally, the body of the dead dragon crawler will create a new pod and thus a new creature. Only destruction by fire prevents a dead specimen from forming into a pod.
As soon as anyone without dragon blood enters the chamber, four dragon crawlers scuttle out from behind the pods and attack. The round after combat starts, another one drops down from the ceiling to attack a random character. These creatures are covered in black scales and have green, dragon-like eyes on their stalks. Each has dragon wings but they are too small and ill-fitting to allow them to fly. Instead, they flutter and flap their wings to distract opponents.
The room is large enough to comfortably run the entire melee against the four dragon crawlers in there. A neophyte GM might even treat the whole room as kind of being a big square, featureless space.
What an experienced GM will do (and what zones basically formalize) is break that whole region of dungeon map up into zones:
Hallway
Kitchen (Area 9)
Gaulmeth’s Chamber (Area 10)
And then do the same in Area 8, too:
North entrance
Eastern doors
Bottom of the stairs
Dragonpod muck
Ceiling pods
The result will be their theater of operations. (Which could expand even further into the dungeon depending on how the encounter proceeds.) Thinking in terms of zones will naturally invite you not only to conceptually break up large spaces, but to group spaces together. And once you’ve done this a few times, you’ll realize that you don’t need the specific mechanical structure of zones in order to do this.
OTHER THEATERS OF OPERATION
Thinking in terms of a theater of operations shouldn’t be limited to the dungeon. In fact, it often comes easier in other contexts (in which we haven’t taught ourselves to think in terms of keyed areas), and meditating on how we think about these other examples can often be reflected back into how we think about the dungeon.
For example, one place where GMs often easily think in terms of a theater of operations, even if they don’t in other contexts, is a house. I suspect it’s due to our intimate familiarity with how these spaces work. Think about your own house: Imagine standing in the kitchen and talking to someone in the living room. Or shouting something down the stairs. Or looking up from the couch and seeing what’s happening in the adjacent room.
When we’re talking about the totality of the environment, that’s all we’re talking about. It’s that simple.
At the other end of the scale, there are wilderness environments.
What happens here is that the sheer scale of the wilderness can, paradoxically, cause the theater of operations to similarly collapse into a one-dimensional scope: The forest is vast and, therefore, the entire fight just happens generically “in the forest.” There’s no place for the reinforcements to come from and no capacity of strategic decisions because everything is, conceptually, in a single place — the forest.
The modern over-reliance on battlemaps (particularly battlemaps all locked to a 5-foot scale) tends to exacerbate this problem, limiting the field of battle to a scale that tends to blot out the true theater of operations in the wilderness.
The solution, of course, is to instead embrace the scale of the wilderness. You’re traveling across the plains, but there’s a tree line a few hundred yards away to the north. There’s a family of deer grazing fifty feet over there. There’s a ravine off to your right perhaps a quarter of a mile away that you’ve been paralleling for awhile now. And the goblin warg riders just cleared the horizon behind you. What do you do?
FINAL THOUGHTS
Something I’ll immediately caution against here is getting fooled into making this more formal than it is. If you find yourself trying to prep the “theaters of operation” in your dungeons, then you’ve probably just created another inflexible preconception of the environment. (You’re probably also wasting a lot of prep.) Theaters of operation generally arise out of and are defined by the circumstances of play: What do the PCs know? Where do they go? How have they tipped off the NPCs? What decisions do the NPCs make (often based on imperfect information)?
The point isn’t to try to anticipate all of those things. The point is to learn how to actively play the campaign world; to let the campaign world live in the moment.
The cool thing is that, as you think of the dungeon as a theater of operations and play it as such, you will be implicitly encouraging the players to also think of the dungeon as a totality rather than as a string of disconnected encounters. They’ll start engaging in strategic decision-making not only in combat (“let’s fall back into the hallway!”), but for the exploration of the dungeon as a whole (“can we draw them back into the room with the poison traps and use those to our advantage? can we circle around them? can we split them up?”). And getting the players into this mindset is instrumental in unlocking more complicated scenario structures like heists.
And remember that, as you’ve seen with our examples above, you don’t have to leap straight into juggling massively complicated strategic arenas: Two rooms and a hallway. That’s all it takes to break out of the box.
May 18th, 2008
The 10th Day of Kadal in the 790th Year of the Seyrunian Dynasty
Dominic was led inside the cathedral. Tee, seeing him go, quickly followed. Agnarr, Ranthir, and Tor came too. The Order of the Dawn moved to block them at the cathedral’s door. Tee called out to Dominic, but Dominic – nursing his distracted thoughts and worries – didn’t hear her. Fortunately, Tee’s efforts were enough to convince the guard that they could enter.
They caught up to Dominic just as Rehobath’s procession came to a stop in the sacred hall. The newly-anointed Novarch turned to Dominic and smiled, “Thank you, Dominic. Without your guidance this day would not have been possible. Now I feel as if our paths must part, at least for awhile. We must each work for the gods in our own ways, after all.”
This suited Dominic just fine, who had just been trying to figure out how he could get away from Rehobath and his politics without letting him know how he truly felt.
“Now,” Rehobath said. “Is there anything else I can do for you… for any of you?” His gaze took in Tee and the others.
Dominic seemed ready to get out of there, but Tee wasn’t satisfied yet. “Do you think Dominic will be safe?”
“Two members of the Order of the Dawn are already waiting at the Ghostly Minstrel, as you had requested.” Rehobath smiled. “Do you think more guards might be needed?”
“No,” Tee said, glancing towards Dominic. “That should be fine.”
They headed back outside. Dominic leaned towards Tee. “I need to get out of these robes,” he said. “I don’t feel right in them.”
“You can borrow one of my kilts,” Agnarr offered.
Dominic caught a whiff of Agnarr’s unique odor as he leaned in close. “Um…” He shook his head. “No thanks.”
They met up with Elestra, who had spent her time outside circulating through the crowd. “Everyone here seems pretty excited by this. They’re all talking about the dawn of a new age. But I’ve also heard quite a few of them talking about how they knew to be here. I think the crowd was hand-picked.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Tee said. “Come on, lets get out of here.”
When they had gotten some distance away from the cathedral, Dominic stopped and pulled off the purple prelate robes that Rehobath had given to him. He turned to the others. “Does anybody else want to go delving for a couple of weeks?” (more…)
A key feature of this mini-scenario is that, ultimately, the goblins’ trail leads back through a bluesteel door: These doors, which are a common feature in Ghul’s Labyrinth, are essentially impassable for low-level characters unless they know the password. (As I discuss in “The Blue Doors of Ptolus”, this is a great way to control and define transitions in a megadungeon complex.)
