Wednesday, 19 October 2016

The Men in the Mirror

[This post started out as a rewrite of the Nerra, a 3rd edition monster which, like so many of the monsters from that era, contained a few good ideas scattered like oases among a desert of pointless rules and numbers. It kind of grew in the telling.]

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They look a bit like everyone, which is another way of saying that they don't really look like anyone; walking blurs, like people seen in smeared mirrors, or through distorted glass. Touch them and your hand will come away covered in tiny cuts, as though you'd just run your fingers over the surface of a broken mirror. When they speak, their voices sound like the harsh, discordant scratching of glass against glass.

Here's how you call them: build a square room, and cover every inch of the walls in mirrors. Stand in the middle of the room, and fill it with light. Look in every direction and you will see yourself, reflected to infinity, a vast phalanx of your own reflections stretching away as far as you can see. Wait long enough, and you'll see that something else is walking among those reflections, something which is not the reflection of anything that is in the room with you. Call out to them, and they will come. They will step out of the mirrors as though they were made of water instead of glass.

Here's how you talk to them: you must wear a mirrored mask that covers the whole of your face. How you see through it, or around it, is your problem: some people use periscopes, others contrive primitive one-way mirrors as best they can. When the mirror-men look at you, and speak to you, they must not see anything except their own blurred-mirror faces, reflected back at them. No other method is safe.

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If they see your face - if they see anyone's face - they will hunger for it. They will try to draw you into the mirrors from which they came. They will beg and plead and wheedle and promise in their horrible scratched-glass voices. They will say anything they can think of to get you to step into the mirrors with them. Finally they will use force, grabbing you with their lacerating broken-glass hands and dragging you in bodily behind them. If you enter the mirrors with them then you are lost; you will become a phantom, mad, starving, haunting the reflections in other people's mirrors until finally you wither away and die. No-one ever comes out. No-one except them.

So you don't do that. You don't let them see your face.

You can bargain with them. They can offer three services.

Here is their first service: they can spy for you. Let one step back into a mirror, then take that mirror down and hang it on another wall. The mirror-man will see everything that occurs in front of that mirror. Rehang it in your mirror-room and it will step out and tell you what it has seen.

Here is there second service: they can store for you. Hand one an object, and let it step back into a mirror, carrying the object with it. The object will now appear inside the mirror, a reflection without a source. Break the mirror and it is lost forever. Only by hanging it once again in a mirror-room and calling the mirror-men out of it can the object be retrieved.

Here is their third service: they can kill for you. Let one step back inside its mirror, and then hang the mirror in a place where you know your victim will be; and when the mirror-man sees their target they will step down from the mirror-frame, silent and gleaming, with razor-sharp knives made from mirror-shards in their hands. They can strangle with their lacerating fingers. They can exhale great clouds of ground glass dust with force enough to flay away flesh and skin. They feel no pity for innocence or youth or beauty, but they have one peculiarity, and it is this: they cannot bring themselves to kill the truly vain.

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For each of these three services, the mirror-men must be paid, in the only currency that mirrors truly desire: attention. The person who bargains with them must sit and gaze upon their own reflection for a length of time commensurate to the service rendered: for a day, or a week, or a month, or a year. For great tasks - multiple murders, for example - they may demand that you literally sit and stare at yourself until you go blind. (The blind are of no further use to them, and cannot enter into any subsequent bargains.) Payment is rendered after the fact, but it is unwise to attempt to cheat them. They can step out of any reflective surface, at any time, and they will drag the defaulter away to complete their service... on the other side of the mirror. That such a person can never return home afterwards is no concern of theirs.

(There are some wicked old magicians who live in houses where every reflective surface is forbidden. No polished metal, no glass, no still water except in darkened rooms. They are hiding from the mirror-men. Not so much as a bowl of wine is to be placed on a well-lit table, in case a shining arm reaches out of it to grab them by the throat.)

Some curious souls have asked them about their lives on the far side of the mirror. For such questioners, the mirror-men spin elaborate tales of shining glass cities, gleaming and windless oceans, radiant kings and queens. They tell their stories in stagy, rehearsed voices, like people practising speeches in front of mirrors. If the questioner expresses doubt, the mirror-men will be most offended. When, they will ask, has a mirror ever been known to lie?

What they neglect to mention is that, while mirrors tell the truth, they only ever tell it backwards.

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  • Mirror-Men: AC 15 (lightning reflexes), 2 HD, +4 to-hit, 2 mirror-shard knives (1d6+1/1d6+1), saves 12, morale 8, special attack: ground glass breath, special defence: spell reflection, looking-glass leap. They take double damage from crushing attacks. Anyone in skin-to-skin contact with them takes 1 damage per round from hundreds of tiny cuts.

Ground-glass Breath: Instead of making its normal attacks, a mirror-man can exhale a blast of ground glass into the face of someone within 10'. The target must save or take 1d8 damage and be blinded; a Cure Light Wounds spell cast on their eyes will heal the blindness, although not any other damage.

Spell Reflection: Any single-target spell cast on a mirror-man, whether beneficial or harmful, will automatically bounce back and affect the person who cast it, instead. Area-effect spells are not affected by this ability.

Looking-Glass Leap: A mirror-man may leap into any reflective surface large enough for it to physically dive into: a polished shield, a pool of still water, etc. It then 'inhabits' that object, and can leap back out of it at any time, cured of all wounds. It can also leap at will from one reflective object to another, provided the first is reflected in the second. (So a mirror-man inhabiting a polished shield could leap into a window-pane, instead, if the shield was reflected in the glass for even a single moment.) When fighting a mirror-man, smashing whatever shiny thing it just jumped out of should probably be your top priority. 

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Sunday, 16 October 2016

'The resonant steam-eagles': A hex description from 1844

So, following my post on a dungeon description from 1843, here's a hex description from 1844...

There's a lady - an earl's daughter; she is proud and she is noble;
And she treads the crimson carpet, and she breathes the perfumed air;
And a kingly blood sends glances up her princely eye to trouble,
And the shadow of a monarch's crown, is softened in her hair.

She has halls and she has castles, and the resonant steam-eagles
Follow far on the directing of her floating dove-like hand -
With a thundrous vapour trailing, underneath the starry vigils,
So to mark upon the blasted heaven, the measure of her land.

- Elizabeth Barrett, 'Lady Geraldine's Courtship' (1844)

The borders of her land are marked upon the blasted heaven in thundrous vapour by steam-eagles. Don't tell me you can't get a hex out of that.

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Here's one, which could easily be fitted into ATWC somewhere...

This hex is the domain of Lady Geraldine (or Lady Shahnoza, if it's in a Central Asian context), an impeccably bred and languidly bored young noblewoman whose power is maintained by her ownership of a flight of steam-eagles: flying steam-powered automata passed down to her from her distant ancestors. They maintain a continuous patrol of her borders, roaring through the air in a rumble of smoke and steam, and leaving long vapour trails in the sky behind them. Anyone who intrudes upon her territories without an appointment will be set upon by giant robot eagles and driven back beyond the borders. The eagles will initially just scream and threaten, but if defied or resisted they will escalate rapidly to the use of lethal force. Each eagle has a 20' wingspan, and their steel beaks and talons are very sharp.

Protected from the outside world by the sleepless vigilance of her automata, Lady Geraldine spends most of her time lounging around and waiting for something interesting to happen. She has seven official residences - four halls and three castles - each set in an elaborately landscaped estate; one is in a forest, one is by a lake, one is on a hilltop, and so on. Every few weeks she gets bored of the one she's living in and decides to move to another: she travels on the back of her personal steam-eagle (which she rides expertly), and is followed over the next several days by a baggage train of servants on horseback and on foot, bringing with them the extensive range of luxury goods which her aristocratic existence requires. The people of the surrounding area are taxed heavily in coin and coal for the privilege of her protection; they are deeply divided on whether the guardianship of the steam-eagles is worth the price demanded of them, but the question is ultimately moot, as the eagles won't let them leave. Only specially-appointed merchants are permitted to travel in and out of Lady Geraldine's domains, and they must keep rigorously to their assigned timetables in order to avoid an unfortunate run-in with their giant metal protectors.

Lady Geraldine herself is not a particularly cruel or evil person, but she's never known a time when she didn't have an army of steam-powered murder-birds waiting to kill anyone she points at, and this fact has rather warped her personality. She has an extremely high opinion of her own superior worth; she is not accustomed to being defied or disagreed with, and she takes criticism or rejection very badly. At the same time, however, a lifetime of never being challenged has left her a prey to ennui. The safe way to visit her domain is to apply well in advance, pay whatever toll she demands of you, keep your heads down, and agree with everything she says. More ambitious visitors could potentially earn lavish rewards by bringing her new ideas and experiences, things that might relieve her boredom and give her something more stimulating to do than just fret over the proper matching of perfumes and carpets; but any such novelties will need to be introduced with extraordinary tact, and without any hint of criticism of her current lifestyle or beliefs. Lady Geraldine's rooms have very large windows, and the steam-eagles are always perched just outside them, waiting for her order to strike.

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Friday, 14 October 2016

Stealing art from Magic: the Gathering - Kaladesh edition

Back when I started this blog, Magic: the Gathering had just finished doing a Central Asian-themed set, Tarkir, which I promptly plundered for images to use with ATWC. Last month, they released Kaladesh, which is very nearly a clockpunk-Asia-themed set. (Its stylings are Arabic and Indian rather than Central Asian, though.) Given that there's not exactly a lot of clockpunk art around to start with, and almost all of it is draped with the trappings of Victoriana, this opens up an exciting new art-stealing opportunity!

The technology in Kaladesh is magitech rather than clockpunk, but it has the same kind of filigee intricacy that I imagine as characterising the technology of 'Against The Wicked City'. This is technology as art, not technology as industry: each work of clockpunk tech in ATWC is the expression of a single craftsman's vision and talent, rather than some kind of mass-produced off-the-shelf item churned out by a factory somewhere. So, here are some examples...

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This is very much how I imagine clockworker's workshops in ATWC - all polished brass and beautiful fiddly objects.

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And this, weird elongated back section aside, is pretty close to how I imagine bronze horses and the caravans they pull.

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Apart from the open cockpit, this is pretty much a Steel Spider.

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This is a great image of a clockwork giant - handy as a deterrent, but only worth winding up if the city is actually being invaded!

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A clockwork centaur-robot-centipede-lizard-thing. Love this guy. (This is the sort of thing that far-gone Steel Aspirants tend to turn themselves into.)

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Someone or other in ATWC will have built clockwork elephants by now.

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And clockwork centipedes.

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And clockwork snakes. (This one was probably commissioned by the Serpent Folk.)

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Clockwork soldier.

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Giant clockwork walker with gyrocopters. Probably built mainly to show off.

Wednesday, 12 October 2016

After eight days underground, Skadi took up cannibalism.

She said he'd been a bad man. She said he'd had it coming. She said the toad-men would be offended if she didn't. But mostly she just wanted to find out what sashimi-sliced human flesh tasted like.

If Hash had been around, he'd probably have egged her on. But Hash had run off somewhere into the darkness, chasing the ambassador of the Science Fungoids and occasionally coughing up lungfulls of blood.

Erin was turning green. Some kind of fungal bloom was spreading itself beneath the surface of his skin.

Circe was starting to scare people with her devotion to her newly-discovered divine patron. She'd begun calling herself 'Warlord High Priestess of the Frog God'. Sometimes she spoke wildly about building an empire in the underworld. She wouldn't take off her mask.

The vampire toads got Nick.

The goblins got Flora.

Soren took a spear-trap to the face.

Eight days since they left the surface. Five days since they fulfilled their notional mission. But the caves kept going, deeper and deeper and deeper. The caves kept going. And so did they.

The underworld awaits.

* * *

So, yeah. Spurning all my suggestions that they could, like, return to the surface and maybe stop living in a fucking cave, my players have insisted on plunging ever-deeper into the underworld. We've gone through a cut-down version of Liberation of the Demon Slayer and on into a cut-down version of Demonspore, with the Shrooms taken out and replaced with the Science Fungoids from 'They Stalk the Underworld'. The PCs appear to have appointed themselves as Tsathogga's mortal champions, and are determined to find his resting place in the deep Underdark. At level 1.

It's all turning out to be rather darker and weirder than I'd initially expected, but I can't say I really mind. The PCs are turning into a kind of band of Underdark conquistadores, taking advantage of the fact that no-one down here knows who they are or how to deal with them, and barrelling through situations on the strength of sheer audacity. Sooner or later - probably sooner - the consequences are going to start catching up with them and they'll need to beat a hasty retreat, but I'm looking forward to seeing how far they manage to get.

Image result for journey to the centre of the earth illustrations Edouard Riou
One of Edouard Riou's rather wonderful illustrations to Verne's Journey to the Centre of the Earth.

What I did find interesting - and genuinely unexpected - was the thoroughness with which the PCs have thrown their lot in with the 'monsters'. True to my romantic fantasy principles, I play virtually all the inhabitants of the underworld as being willing to talk and negotiate with strangers; almost nothing attacks on sight, and nobody really wants to end up fighting for their lives unless they don't have any other choice. As a result, the party has built up alliances with factions amongst the local goblins, dark elves, and toad-men; and as they push deeper underground, it's likely to be from these groups that they recruit replacement PCs. The group that finally emerges into the sunlight (if they ever do) may have very weak links with the surface world; and it's entirely possible that the party's 'home base', going forwards, won't be the human town they originally set out from, but the goblin tunnels on dungeon level 1.

People often point out the colonialist / imperialist narratives implicit in D&D: go to strange, exotic, unknown places, meet their strange, exotic, unknown inhabitants, and then kill them all and take their stuff. No-one ever mentions the possibility of the PCs going native instead.

Then again, maybe that's where the monsters come from in the first place. A succession of expeditions launched from the surface, deep into the underworld, in search of vengeance or conquest or knowledge or plunder: some get further than others, but the underworld is limitless, and everyone runs out of steam sooner or later. Lost, exhausted, crazy, stranded miles beneath the earth, warped by their exposure to strange magic and stranger toxins, their survivors regroup in the darkness, telling themselves that when the situation improves, they'll head back to the surface. They forge alliances of necessity with the creatures of the underworld. They trade. They intermarry. They bathe their weary limbs in the waters of lightless oceans. They eat the flesh of weird, blind, burrowing creatures. They forget the sun.

They change. 

They multiply.

And sooner or later, up on the surface, people start talking about mounting an expedition to deal with all these weird monsters lurking beneath the earth...

Image result for journey to the centre of the earth illustrations Edouard Riou

Saturday, 8 October 2016

Dungeon description, 1843 style

First off: in case you've not seen it already, Frog God Games are doing a new printing of Swords and Wizardry, with new art by Abigal Larson, Gennifer Bone, Jenna Fowler, and others. Pledge one dollar and you get the full-art pdf version. One dollar. Think of it as a way to pay them back for all those times you downloaded the free version of their rules for nothing.

You can find the kickstarter here.

Anyway. My reading for The Coach of Bones rolls on... slowly. Most recently, it has brought me (via a rather circuitous path) to the works of Theodosia Garrow, a minor poet who was born on the South Devon coast in 1816. Most of her work isn't very interesting, but in 1843 she published a long poem called 'The Doom of Cheynholme', and the first section of it caught my eye.

It is, very obviously, a description of a dungeon.

Seriously. You could print this out and hand it to your players and say 'This is a song you hear some old guy singing in the tavern one night', and that alone would suffice as an adventure set-up. It gives you a description of a dungeon (the ruins of Cheynholme Hall), its history (the seat of a dynasty of murderous lords who followed 'the ancient faith'), a reason to go there (they looted the surrounding countryside and some of their loot may still be in there), a bunch of things to watch out for while exploring it (snakes, poisonous swamps, marble statues which might contain the souls of the dead lords of Cheynholme), and some very ominous suggestions about what once happened there (are 'blood-cemented wall' and 'crime-stained roof' just poetic figures of speech, or are they horribly literal?). It's a bit long, but you could always just use stanzas 1, 3, and 6 if you wanted a shorter version.

Anyway. Here it is.

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The Doom of Cheynholme (Theodosia Garrow, 1843)

Cheynholme Hall is a ruin lone
Dank with ivy, and furrowed by age;
     In the turrets tall
     Of its mouldering wall
The white owl maketh his hermitage;
And beside the edge of its broad hearth-stone,
(Whereon the sluggish mosses creep
In many a full and silken heap,
Like graves of household pleasures gone),
The dark-grey viper and her brood
Bask in the sunny solitude.

Cheynholme Park is a dismal swamp,
Nought remains of its forest wide,
Save four old trees, which side by side
Blacken and pine in the noxious damp;
Scarred, and stained, and shattered, and bare,
They stand like landmarks of despair
Pointing aloft through the heavy air;
The frog's dull croak, the bittern's shriek,
And the voice of the boughs that wearily creak,
And the rush of the dusky waterfowl,
Winging to rest on the reedy pool,
The plashing beat of the mournful rain,
And the wind with its childish moan of pain—
These are the only sounds that rise,
And with their slow monotonies,
Make such poor mockery of life,
     As shivers and wanes
     In a sick man's veins,
When the departing fever strife
Hath spared but enough of sense and breath
To shudder and gasp at approaching death!

Fierce, stern, haughty, and bold,
Were the lords of Cheynholme in days of old;
None had a sharper sword in fight
To strike for the wrong, and to vanquish the right;
None had higher and wilder blood
To spur them to evil—to blind them to good;
None could ravage, and burn, and kill,
For the ancient faith, with a hotter zeal;
None could wring with a steadier hand
The last slow mulct from the fainting land.
Brave—proud—reckless and bold—
Fit to be types of the barons of old—
Evermore thirsting for bloodshed and gold.

Now the cry of the poor grew strong and deep;
The hands that toil, and the eyes that weep,
And the mouths that fast, and dare not speak,
Sad day by day—chill week by week,
Rose at last, as the waves arise
When the tempest wakens their energies,
And head over head they bound and roar
'Gainst the black cliffs of the towering shore—
     So loud—so vain,
     Were the threats of pain,
The gasp of fear—the curse of hate,
And the bursting cry of the desolate,
Which rang thro' Cheynholme's large domain;
For the evil seed throve none the less
Within their ancient mansion pile;
Bearing the fruits of bitterness,—
     They sinned and died
     In pomp and pride,
Deaf as their marble forms which press
The tombs of Cheynholme's aged aisle,
And as their generations passed,
Each one more mighty than the last,
And, with a brow of harder pride,
Looked in the face of Heaven, and lied,
And revelled, and squandered, and slew amain.

The hearts of the lowly sank again,
They ceased to strive beneath the yoke,
Or wonder at their fate of woe,
Or pray against the want which broke
Their spirits with its torment slow;
But a dull, hopeless unbelief
Palsied the supplicating hand;
     They deemed the seal
     Of God's high will
Chartered those vultures of the land.
They thought it were a fruitless strife
To wrestle with the rooted sway,
Which, ivy-like, drained forth their life,
And flourished on their hopes' decay,—
So died into their parent soil,
Like dumb o'erlaboured beasts of toil!

But there is judgment for the strong,
And there is justice for the weak,
And there is unrepented wrong,
And crime so venomous—so long,
That its foul mass at last must break.
Dire and swift did vengeance fall
On Cheynholme's blood-cemented wall;
Root and branch, and budding spray
Were hewn from the ancient trunk away;
Their lofty name is borne by none;
Their hearths lie open to the sun;
Their rich domain of field and brake
Is blasted for their guilty sake,
And of their proud oaks' sylvan court
The fierce-eyed lightning makes his sport.
Listen! ye of the stony heart—
Listen! ye of the bloody hand;
For the ruthless deed shall have its meed,
And the crime-stained roof its kindling-brand.

Wednesday, 5 October 2016

[Actual Play] I Ran Liberation of the Demon Slayer!

...or did I?

A big RPG module is an odd beast. The best analogy I can come up with is that they're like themed cookbooks. So a given cookbook might tell you how to cook, say, twenty different traditional Russian meals, and you could just cook them one after another in exactly the way the book tells you to, and that would be your dinners taken care of for the next twenty days. But you could also just cook half of them. Or you could mix them up, and pair the starter from one with the main from another and the side-dish from a third. Or you could have three or four different cookbooks which you dip into more-or-less at random. Or you could come up with your own recipes loosely inspired by the ones in the book. In fact, the 'cook everything in the book in exactly the way the book tells you to' approach is probably the least common way of using a cookbook, and the same is almost certainly true of RPG modules. I don't think I've ever run a module, especially a big module, in precisely the way it was written. Has anyone?

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Liberation of the Demon Slayer is a huge six-and-a-half-level science-fantasy dungeon by Venger Satanis, containing something like a hundred and fifty rooms stuffed with Cthulhu cultists and naked slave girls and all the other things that Venger loves so much. I'm not sure that it's actually possible to run it by-the-book, because the module-as-written leaves out some essential information (like how the levels connect to each other), but if you tried it would probably take you months and months. I stripped it down to a one-level, twenty-five-room affair and ran it over the course of three-and-a-bit sessions. Every room was inspired by something in the original module, but not a single encounter was run in the way Venger wrote it. (I cut out all the random naked women, for a start.) Still, I'd like to think that the resulting game bore at least a film-of-the-book resemblance to the original module: it still had evil cultists and a crashed spaceship and collectable coloured trapezoids and a slug-blob monster and a fire shrine guarded by lava men and 0-level villagers looking for a magic sword. Had Venger been in the room at the time (or scrying on us like the freaky Cthulhu worshipper that he is), I'm sure he'd have recognised every encounter as clearly based on something from his book, even if nothing was left exactly the same.

Anyway, I ran it, and it was great. Ten zero-level peasants went in; seven first-level adventurers and three corpses came out. Cultists were beaten to death with frying pans. Poorly-thought-through plans were hatched to trip hobgoblins into pits of acidic slime. Spellbooks were stolen from druggy elves out of their heads on hallucinogenic fungus. A suspicious fat man was force-fed a poisoned mushroom on the grounds that he might have been a cannibal. One luckless PC set fire to his own legs in order to prevent himself from being swarmed by giant maggots. The final battle was won by waiting until the enemy were climbing up a steep slope and then dropping a raft on them. It was weird and random and funny and horrific and unpredictable, and I had a great time throughout.

How much of that was due to the module? Quite a lot, I'd say. I mean, yes, I completely rewrote the spaceship and the lava men and just about everything else, but it was Liberation of the Demon Slayer which gave me the idea to put them all there in the first place. It was the module which pushed me to work out why there was a crashed spaceship deep underground (and how it got there, and why it was now part of a dungeon with a magic sword hidden in it), prompting me to develop a whole science-fantasy mythology in the process. It inspired me to make things more weird and gross and silly than I normally tend to do. I might not have used most of what was in the book, but what I did use ended up carrying me a very long way.

If you want a huge dungeon you can play right out of the book, then you don't want Liberation of the Demon Slayer. (You probably want either Stonehell or Dwimmermount instead.) But if you want a big book of weird, vivid, and above all gameable ideas, so loosely connected to one another that they can easily be hacked into new shapes to fit your needs, you could do very much worse. It's full of pictures of naked women in peril, which are certainly not going to be to everyone's tastes, either in book form or at the gaming table; but I can attest to the fact that even after removing all the sexual material, there's still plenty of usable stuff left over.

Depending on what the players go from here, I might end up running The Islands of Purple-Haunted Putrescence next...

Sunday, 2 October 2016

If Romantic-era artists ran D&D campaigns 2: Back by popular demand!

you asked for it and now it is happening and you have no-one to blame but yourselves

Benjamin West (1738-1820): Started as a wargamer; wrote his own mass battle system and uses it whenever he gets the chance. His system broke down spectacularly when he tried to use it to model 'Everyone vs. the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and also a lion' at the end of a long-running campaign.

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John Flaxman (1755-1826): Has a long-running Mazes and Minotaurs campaign, all about the exploits of a bunch of heroic warriors who go around battling monsters in Mythic Greece. Doesn't understand why so many of his friends, including Blake and Fuseli, insist on  making their games so weird and creepy all the time.

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Joseph Gandy (1771-1843): His love of dungeons grew so great that he ended up running games in which the dungeons functioned as the setting, the antagonist, and the treasure, all at the same time. His players swiftly learned that, when all treasure hauls came in the form of thousand-pound lumps of statuary, teams of hirelings are not optional.

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JMW Turner (1775-1851): A devotee of ultralight abstract minimalism, determined to boil the game down to its purest essence. Has pruned OD&D down to two pages and is always looking for opportunities for further cutting. Smiles enigmatically when people point out that, under his rules, there's no difference between a monster and a natural hazard like a wave or a storm.

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Can you spot the cyclops?
Eugène Delacroix (1798-1863): At his best when running bloody, grubby campaigns about low-lives and violence. Runs Al Qadim whenever anyone will let him, but tends to get a bit carried away with his breathless descriptions of naked harem girls.

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Samuel Palmer (1805-1881): Began as one of William Blake's players, but started his own group after the disintegration of Blake's long-running 'Jerusalem' campaign. (The revelation that the PCs were Jerusalem all along didn't go down very well.) Loves fairytale adventures. A big fan of Beyond the Wall. Has never run a single scenario set during daylight hours.

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(See also: Jacques Callot at Honor and Intrigue, and Thomas Cole at Zenopus Archives. Imitation is the most sincere form of flattery!)