Session 14B: Malkeen Dawning

Before the development of the modern clone spell – a powerful magical rite that would allow a spellcrafter to duplicate his own body – the archaic version of the spell was dangerous to both subject and spellcaster. However, the now largely forgotten blood clone spell was safer, although it was not as useful (the subject would awaken an amnesiac). Most modern practitioners of the craft now considered blood clone to be only one step removed from raising the dead, since one was essentially capturing a soul which would then lose its own identity.

In this journal entry you can see a gimmick that I find appealing: The idea that the magical spells and equipment found in the core rulebook represent the current “state of the art” when it comes to magical understanding in the game world, but that, like any other body of knowledge, it was preceded by long aeons of experimentation and cruder antecedents.

And when you go poking around in the dark and dusty portions of the world (like, say, subterranean vaults) you’re likely to stumble across those antecedents (or their remnants).

Sometimes you can find weird oddities in the way this older stuff works, presenting utility which may have been lost with the more efficient modern versions. (Odd parallel with the Old School Renaissance there.) But this unexpected utility isn’t really the point; the point is to create a sense of antiquity. Or, I suppose more accurately, to give the game world actual antiquity. The sort of real depth that breathes life into a setting and makes the word “ancient” in “ancient ruins” into something that’s meaningful.

Hence the blood clone facility the PCs find here.

If you’re designing antecedent magic for your own campaign, here are a few angles to think about.

LIMITED EFFECT: Like the blood clone spell, look at a magical element and figure out how you could strip out some aspect of its utility. Just stripping out that utility and having a slightly crappier version of the spell is okay, I guess, but it’s better if you can look at that limitation and find a way to evocatively express it.

For example, a mirror image spell which was limited to casting your duplicate images into actual mirrors. Or a teleport artifact based on an older version of the spell that leaves a peephole-sized tear in reality for 1d4 minutes, making it easy for people to see where you’ve gone.

BIGGER: Look at your smartphone. Imagine how many warehouses it would have taken to house that much computing power back in the ‘40s. Now, apply the same logic to magic.

For example:

LEY-LACED MARBLE

Ley-laced marble is a naturally occurring stone. During the metamorphic processes which form the marble, ley-energy permeates the impurities lacing the original sedimentary rocks. The resulting marble (which is usually found on or near ley lines) is possessed of properties similar to a pearl of power. (In fact, it’s hypothesized that pearls of power were created by reverse-engineering ley-laced marble.)

Unlike pearls of power, however, ley-laced marble is not particularly efficient in its retention of magical energy. In addition to being difficult to excavate from the ground, ley-laced marble must be maintained in such large chunks in order to maintain its properties that it is rarely if ever portable in any true sense of the word.

However, rites have been perfected which allow a piece of ley-laced marble to be keyed to a specific object. Anyone carrying the keyed object can access the powers of the ley-laced marble at a distance of 1 mile per caster level.

Later in the campaign, the PCs find the statue of an archer carved from ley-laced marble and the adamantine arrow to which the statue has been keyed in the collection of a lich. Not only does this emphasize that the lich’s legacy stretches back into time immemorial, it also creates treasure with unique interest.

SIDE EFFECTS: You could do the same thing back in Ye Olden Days, but there were consequences we no longer suffer from; kinks that generations of patient work and research have managed to work around.

For example, did you know that the earliest magical potions required you to surgically extract and pulp the brain of a freshly dead arcanist who had memorized the spell? Once established, these could be alchemically maintained sort of like sourdough starters. The problem is that sometimes the drinker of such a potion would be “infected” with the memories of the original arcanist from which the potion stock had been derived. False memories, geas-like obsessions, and other strange affectations could result.

You can also use this to push magical research in the opposite direction: Somebody figures out how to create a magic item that’s more powerful than the common variety, but they haven’t worked out all the kinks yet. For example, I had a potion master in my campaign who had developed potions with unusually powerful effects, but also unusually powerful side effects. For example:

Granite Hide: This grainy, chalk-tasting, orange liquid turns the imbiber’s skin into a pliable yet hard-as-granite substance. (Treat as stoneskin spell.) The potion lasts for 1 hour. After the potion wears off, the victim suffers 1d6 points of Dexterity damage from a calcification of the joints (temporary damage, no save).

Caster Level: 7^th; Prerequisites: Brew Potion, stone skin; Market Price 2,350 gp

MISSING LINKS: Once you’ve established one piece of antecedent magic, you can also look at filling in the “missing links” between then and now. For example, later in the campaign the PCs had the opportunity to discover another blood clone facility, but in this case one which showed that the ancient arcanist had figured out how to re-imbue the clone with the original’s memories. It was still an overwrought and complicated process compared to a modern clone spell, but it’s getting closer.

As you can see, this won’t be the last time antecedent magic crops up in this campaign journal. After all, it is, as I said, a gimmick that I like.

Session 14A: Many Unhappy Returns

When Ranthir awoke, he quickly prepared the magical rites he would need to analyze and identify the equipment they had taken from Morbion. Much of this proved to be magical, but perhaps the most valuable were the finely-crafted boots he had worn. These had been enchanted with a levitation charm.

I think managing your gear is an important (possibly essential) part of Dungeons & Dragons. I don’t think it should be a painful or belabored process (and have even gone so far as to create house rules to streamline gear management), but both the balance of the game and its narrative dynamic are driven by PCs managing their equipment.

Some people may think that sounds like a strange idea, but the current session offers a couple good examples of what I’m talking about.

The first, which I already talked about briefly in “Treasure With Context”, is the orrery: A valuable treasure which is difficult to remove from the dungeon due to its bulk. If you were in a campaign that tended to just gloss over matters of encumbrance, it might be simple to simply handwave this away, too. “Once the complex is cleared, you’re able to figure out how to extract the orrery and sell it. Add X amount of gold to your bank account.”

But because there are structures and expectations in place, this campaign defaults to the players needing to figure out exactly how they’re going to solve this problem. The solution they came up with (selling the location of the artifact instead of the artifact itself) was incredibly clever, and thus both entertaining and rewarding in itself. But it also pushed the PCs to enter into an arrangement/alliance with a powerful noble family. That sort of thing has consequences.

Eventually, however, Tee was able to use the boots to reach the high cavern and confirm that there was, indeed, a cindershard outcropping there. Tee threw a rope and grappling hook down to her companions below, allowing Agnarr and Tor to climb up and join her in harvesting the crystals.

The second is the cindershard expedition: Notice that overcoming the challenges preventing them from harvesting the crystals couldn’t be easily overcome until they were properly equipped. Realizing that you aren’t currently carrying the right tools for the job will force a group to disengage and then, importantly, re-engage with the dungeon. Or it will force them to improvise around the lack. Either option will tend to create multi-faceted interest in the form of both challenge and drama as the groups deals with either the immediate jeopardies involved with improvising around missing equipment or dealing with the strategic complexities (and evolving narrative) that comes from leaving and then returning to the dungeon.

Dungeon expeditions are, above all, expeditions: It is a prolonged journey into a dangerous unknown where you are, for the duration of the expedition, cut off and unable to resupply from civilization. The decision to take resource X will unlock certain experiences, but comes at the expense of taking resource Y (which would have unlocked different experiences).

And if you look at Dungeons & Dragons from 1974-2008, the structures of the game are all ultimately focused on (and balanced around) the strategic elements of expeditionary play. While D&D is flexible enough that you can do many different things with it, the further your get from expeditionary play – the further you drift from Arneson’s and Gygax’s expected play – the more mechanical problems you’re going  to find cropping up.

OTHER DYNAMICS

This is often mistaken for one-true-wayism. That’s not the case. Gear management is rewarding for D&D’s dynamic; it often isn’t rewarding for other play dynamics.

Blades in the Dark, for example, focuses on criminal crews performing scores. Such scores are generally intended to be (and usually work when they are) one-shotted. You don’t want to disengage and then reengage with them; you want to run them.

To create challenging and drama-filled runs, Blades’ game play is built around two pillars: First, improvisation and retroactive planning. Second, ticking clocks and resource ablation that pushes the PCs to the wall and makes them hurt. The game, therefore, uses an equipment system in which you select a specific Load before each score. The Load determines how many useful items of gear your character is carrying (3 for a Light Load, 5 for a Normal Load, etc.), but you don’t have to decide exactly what those items are until you use them. (Thus you can improvise freely by simply declaring that you planned for and brought exactly the right item for this circumstance, but are also faced with the possibility of running out of Load slots, leaving you unequipped for the next challenge.)

Another example is Trail of Cthulhu, which has a Preparedness skill. As long as an investigator has access to their kit, they can make a Preparedness test to see whether or not they have a particular piece of equipment. This is desirable in Trail because the game’s focus is the investigation; periodically putting the investigation on hold in order to prepare an equipment list doesn’t enhance the core game play, it distracts from it. You want to move from getting a clue to seeing the payoff from the clue; you don’t want to pause between those two points for an equipment break.

Why couldn’t you just takes Blades-style Loads or Trail-style Preparedness and graft them onto D&D?

Well, you could. But as I alluded to above, equipment management in D&D is only one of the ways in which the game is designed for an expeditionary dynamic: Wizard spell slots, long-term hit point ablation. The game was built on mounting expeditions into the dungeons below Castle Blackmoor, and virtually all of the core game play that isn’t built around a combat simulator is built around those expeditions. Tearing out one chunk of that game play and replacing it with something else isn’t going to single-handedly change the nature of the game. You’re going to end up with a mechanical chimera. One that may, or may not, work out.

(But, if you don’t give careful thought to the actual effect you’re trying to achieve, is more likely not to.)

Session 13D: A Time of Tragic Rest

Poor puppy…

In my experience, there are very few immutable rules when it comes to being a Game Master: Something that would completely ruin one game might be the ultimate coup de grace in another, either because the mechanics are different, the setting is different, the players are different, or just because the situation is different.

But there is at least one truism: If you kill their pets, you are guaranteed an emotional response.

That response will almost certainly include anger, but it will also include anguish and guilt and regret. If you want the PCs to be motivated to seek vengeance, you’ll probably get more consistent results from knocking off Fido than you will from slasher-slaughtering their boyfriend.

Now, if the death of that pet is capricious or forced, then a lot of that anger can end up getting channeled at you. This is one of the advantages of cultivating a reputation of fairness and impartiality: If your players trust you not to just screw with them arbitrarily, then when the hammer comes down they’ll turn their emotional reaction into the fiction and it will deepen their immersion into the game. If they don’t trust you, then the emotional response will be channeled out of the game and damage their immersion.

You can see a fairly clean example of this in the current session: Elestra had been cavalierly sending her python viper into dangerous situations for several sessions, and that had now created a situation which (a) nearly got the entire party killed and (b) resulted in the python’s death.

Heated arguments. Recriminations. All of it turned inward. All of it focused on the relationships between the characters, and thus strengthening the reality and the significance of those relationships (fictional though they may be). Great stuff.

A slightly less clean example happened in my original Eternal Lies campaign. (No spoilers for the published campaign here.) One of the characters owned a horse. The bad guys killed the horse. In this case, I think largely because the event happened “off-screen” while the PCs were in a different country, there was more recrimination aimed at me as the GM. But it was a legitimate consequence: The PCs had let the bad guys identify them; the bad guys had sent them a warning. And that emotional burst was quickly turned back into the game and focused on those bad guys, adding fresh resolve to the investigators and what they were trying to accomplish.

(I will say, though, that I’m pretty convinced killing the horse evoked a bigger response than if I had chosen to target one of their other Sources of Stability – i.e., NPCs who are specifically important to them.)

Conversely, these strong emotional reactions around pets can also be inverted. For example, in the first 3^rd Edition campaign I ever ran there was a time when the party got unexpectedly cut off inside a dungeon. By the time they’d managed to work their way back to the surface, they were fairly convinced that the pack animals they had left tied off – including their beloved steeds – would be dead. There was a fair amount of emotional dread and pre-guilt. Instead, they found their horses unharmed and surrounded by catastrophic devastation and a dozen or so dead bad guys.

Not only was the emotional relief a much-needed “win” at the end of a scenario which had unexpectedly taxed and stressed them in a number of ways, it also deepened their curiosity regarding the mystery of what exactly had happened while they were in the dungeon.

(This technique doesn’t work, of course, if everyone knows that their pets have plot armor and death immunity.)

You can get similar results by putting beloved pets in jeopardy, thus investing the sequence to rescue them with a heightened emotional tension. Although, once again, it’s important to remember that if the danger is capricious or forced, the reaction to it will be directed out of the game and instead reduce the stakes.

Her pet of long years – her last connection to her home in Seyrun – had been slain. Dominic laid a blessing upon the body that would preserve it for three days and nights, but there was nothing more that he could do for it.

Session 13C: The Tale of Itarek

This is not the first time that I’ve shared the Tale of Itarek here at the Alexandrian. Several years ago it appeared as a Tale From the Table. I was motivated to pluck this particular story out because of the great impression it had made on both myself and my gaming group. It was a truly significant event, and one which still lives large in our shared memory of the campaign more than a hundred sessions later.

I’ve been asked, in the past, about what the story behind the Tale of Itarek was. Sometimes these queries come colored with a clear subtext: Why did you plan for this to happen? And how did you manage to actually make it happen at the table?

If you’re familiar with literally everything else I’ve ever written about running a game, you probably won’t be shocked to discover that the answers are (a) I didn’t and (b) I didn’t.

There’s not really anything “hiding” behind the events depicted in the campaign journal: Elestra’s desperate need to save her python gave birth to the Tragedy at the Door, which saw the party get absolutely brutalized by Morbion’s area effect spells. (It’s pretty rare in classic D&D for me to see an enemy spellcaster get a chance to dump their entire spell list into the PCs; Morbion did it before taking any damage himself.) Poor skills mixed with unfortunate skill checks turned the rope into an impassable barrier, preventing the group from retreating. Their panic caused their communication and coordination to fall apart, allowing them to be picked off one by one.

When Dominic was the only character left, it wasn’t because I’d put my thumb on the scale. It was because everybody else had lost all their hit points. The campaign really was a hairsbreadth away from ending in a TPK, and the whole table knew it. You could have cut the tension with a knife.

So, no, I didn’t plan this.

I also wasn’t the one who came up with the idea of healing Itarek. That was Dominic. Dominic knew he had no chance at winning a duel with Morbion and no path of escape. He needed a champion, so he picked one from the limited options he had available to him.

I will take credit for having Itarek issue a formal challenge to Morbion. Without that particular point of inspiration on Itarek’s part, Morbion would have simply snuffed out Dominic and Itarek wouldn’t have lasted long.

That’s how these things work, right? Emergent narrative from the unexpected interstices of independent creative impulses.

(Couldn’t I have just decided to not have Morbion attack Dominc? Technically, yes. But in every important way, no.)

Once Itarek issued his challenge, the outcome still wasn’t certain. Dominic barely managed to keep Itarek on his feet from round to round by outpacing the damage Itarek was dealing out. (If Morbion still had his most powerful spells it would have gone differently; of course, if he still had his most powerful spells the party wouldn’t have been in this situation.)

Intriguingly, I have had two different people with reactions to this story ranging from irate to outright anger that I would “do this” to my players. “Bad form in any system”as one of them said.

Intriguing because, as I noted, my own players consider this one of the true highlights of the campaign. (And there are plenty of other people who can read this story and seem to appreciate what an awesome moment it was.) I think this reveals a fundamental difference in perception between players who have taken (and have had the opportunity to take) ownership of their actions versus those who are force fed material by the GMs. I’ve talked in the past about the penumbra of problems created by railroading techniques – the literally crippling weight that a GM is forced to carry when they take on sole responsibility for everything experienced by the PCs. This is an example of that: When faced with a situation that has gone pear-shaped, players who have taken responsibility for their own actions will become ecstatic and feel a great sense of achievement when they manage to work their way out of it. Those who have been conditioned to believe that the GM is feeding them pre-packaged content are likely to instead become upset that the GM has miscalculated and given them something “too tough” which knocked them all out of the action.

There’s some other version of this campaign where these two rooms and the handful of bad guys keyed to them are largely unremarkable. And that’s okay, because in that other version of the campaign there’s almost certainly some completely different moment which those other-dimensional versions of my players remember as being an incredible, never-rending crucible which, in this dimension’s version of the campaign, passed in a fairly pedestrian fashion.

One final peek “behind the campaign journal” here: Dominic doesn’t speak Goblin.  Since everyone else was unconscious, the players did not initially know what Itarek was saying to Morbion. Their exchange – clearly portentous and meaningful – was a mystery to them. It wasn’t until I wrote up the campaign journal (and a dramatic re-enactment of the scene at the beginning of the next session) that the full story of what had happened was revealed to the players.

I think that enigma may have played a small, but significant, role in why this particular moment lived large in their imaginations. Always leave them wanting more, right?

(Although the electric thrill of surviving a near-death experience shouldn’t be undervalued.)

Session 13B: The Tragedy at the Door

Sun Tzu said:

To cross mountains follow the valleys, search out tenable ground, and occupy the heights. If the enemy holds the heights, do not climb up to engage them in battle. This is the way to deploy an army in the mountains.

The army likes heights and abhors low areas, esteems the sunny [yang] and disdains the shady [yin]. (…) You must quickly get away from deadly configurations of terrain such as precipitous gorges with mountain torrents, Heaven’s Well, Heaven’s Jail, Heaven’s Net, Heaven’s Pit, and Heaven’s Fissure. Do not approach them. When we keep them at a distance, the enemy is forced to approach them. When we face them, the enemy is compelled to have them at their rear.

When on the flanks the army encounters ravines and defiles, wetlands with reeds and tall grass, mountain forests, or areas with heavy, entangled undergrowth, you must thoroughly search them because they are places where an ambush or spies would be concealed.

I was originally going to write that a lot of emphasis has been given recently to creating “dynamic terrain” or “tactically rich environments” or “interesting areas” or whatever other term somebody has decided to hang on the concept (all of which are just euphemisms for “two guys standing next to each other in an open field beating on each other is really boring”). But then I realized that this emphasis has actually been going on for like 10-15 years, which I suppose means it doesn’t really qualify as “recent” any more.

(Get off my lawn.)

What I will say to all you whippersnappers is that I think this has become significantly over-emphasized. This includes My Precious Encounter™ design where GMs become obsessed with creating the “perfect” encounter terrain, filled with all kinds of pre-programmed tactical features. It also includes the strange, Rube Goldbergian edifices that I’ve seen spring up where you need to mechanically “tag” the battlefield like some kind of amateur graffiti artist so that the characters can use a whole ‘nother set of mechanics in order to “invoke” the tags in order to (usually) gain some prepackaged, generic effect. Or, worse yet, you custom-build mechanical interfaces into every tag so that the players can dock into them with keywords or some such.

Gah.

Basically, what I’m saying is that if this is how you’re achieving dynamic terrain in your games, then you’re really over-thinking the whole thing.

Just create realistic, detailed locations and then have your bad guys use them logically. (Or insanely awesomely depending on circumstance and genre.)

You don’t need to drape mechanics over it. The staircase can just be a staircase. You don’t need to pre-tag it with the “Banisters” property so that people can slide down them. And I’d argue that you shouldn’t spend a lot of time pre-planning the stunts your Triad martial artist mooks are going to be performing, because the fight might just as easily happen in the next room or the PCs might just blow them all up with a grenade before the fight even starts.

In fact, rather than trying to nail everything down and covering it with an encrustacean of extruded mechanics, I tend to embrace the largely opposite approach as championed by Robin D. Laws:

In Feng Shui, you want to be able to decide on the spur of the moment that there just happen to be awnings hanging over that walkway between buildings, or there is indeed a ledge big enough for that hoodlum to jump off of. (…)

An alternative to maps are color pictures from magazines. Travel or architectural magazines often have excellent photos which you can use as the basis of your set design. You can show these to your players to help visualize where their characters are, and they will stimulate the imaginative process instead of hampering it.

If a player says they want to slide down the banister, then unless the staircase was explicitly established as not having a banister, then it almost certainly does now. (And if that’s case, why would I need to not only spell that out in my notes, but also dump a bunch of mechanics into it? See what I’m saying?)

EASIER SAID THAN DONE

It is, of course, really easy to just say, “Describe terrain and then be awesome with it!” And with thirty years of experience, maybe I am overestimating how easy it is to do this in practice for people who haven’t done it before.

But I will say this: It’s a skill and it will improve with practice. And all that mechanical over-engineering? It’s not practice for this skill. It’s a completely different thing.

And here’s my super secret technique for creating dynamic terrain:

1. Try not to describe empty spaces.
2. Think about how the space is actually used.
3. Make sure to include the third dimension. (Both up and down.)
4. Create chokepoints.
5. During the actual fight, think about the unintended ways in which characters can affect the environment and vice versa.

That’s basically it. If you find that you’ve jotted down an empty, featureless room in your notes (or conjure up that visual while improvising on-the-fly during play), second guess that impulse.

If you’re looking for inspiration, think about why the room exists: What purpose is it currently being used for? (Or was being used for if the area has been abandoned.) What furniture would be there? What physical shape would the space possess? What decorations or accoutrements would people put here?

Finally, remind yourself that your map may be two-dimensional, but the game world isn’t.

This last point, almost entirely by itself, can carry a lot of the heavy weight when it comes to dynamic terrain. You can see an example of that in this session, when the PCs get trapped trying to descend and ascend the sinkhole. That one tactical reality pretty much defines the entire encounter (which is one of the most memorable of the entire campaign for the group). There was a similar example back in Session 11, actually, where there was a short ten or fifteen foot drop down into the fungal garden corrupted by sickstone.

“Okay,” you say, “but what if the group is outside and there are no walls and they’re in the desert or the prairie or some other vast, wide open space?”

Well, in that case the point of interest is the vast, wide-open space. What does that distance do to the combat (particularly the initial encounter range) compared to the claustrophobic knife fights that most RPG combat tends towards?

Just don’t do it all the time, because anything repeated often enough will become boring. Find a box canyon or something. Or just throw a couple of hills up. (Ask Paullus and Varro what can be done to you with a couple of hills.)