"Epic" Prototype: Solo RPG Engine

As discussed in my last post, I got excited by Mythic RPG creator, Tom Pigeon's announcement of an updated hardcover. I miss those days I used Mythic. Cross referencing huge charts, consulting large lists of random words, taking detailed notes, and having funny-shaped dice were some of the things I left behind. I certainly miss the total unpredictability of a good Mythic session — the way it winds one off the path into (most likely) areas never intended or (perhaps) even desired.

I always wanted a streamlined d6-only version I could memorize and throw out, without pocket mods or cheat sheets, or big notebooks that also incorporated my love of Rory's Story Cubes. This may be it!

It's not wholly original, and I tip my hat to the creator...Mythic is a classic and indispensable part of any solo rpg gamer's (or collaborative GM-less group's) toolbox. I've made my own little adjustments and made it something I can remember. I have no idea the actual odds I've got with this particular dice mechanic. Admittedly, the language is still convoluted and could use some cleaning up. I'll work the kinks out first as I'm running a play test.

Perhaps I'll have a mini NaGaDeMoN contribution before month's end!

“Mythic D6”

aka “Epic”

Here is a Mythic GM Emulator lite version with D6’s. Here is the basic outline.

• Chaos Factor
• Fate Questions
  • Odds
• Twists
• Twist Interpretation
• Scene Setting
• Playtest

Chaos Factor

The Chaos Factor ranges from 0 to 4 starting with 0. As the CF raises and lowers, it increases the number of die in the pool, slanting to “Yes”. The CF always contributes to the possibility of a positive Fate Question result (see below).

Fate Questions

This version utilizes d6’s. Note the following results and success counting method:

Roll	Result
5	Yes, and…
4	Yes…
3	Yes, but…
2	No, but…
1	No…
0	No, and…

To use the chart, frame a closed question. Always frame it with a “Yes” indicating the most interesting result (this may not lead to the most beneficial outcome for the protagonists). Roll a number of dice (5 base dice +/– Odds dice + CF) and compare the best/worst rolls to the chart above, counting evens/odds. Always roll a minimum of five dice. Note also that the CF is always positive. Include extra dice according to the following:

Odds

+	Positive	–	Negative
0	50/50	0	50/50
+1	Somewhat Likely	-1	Somewhat Unlikely
+2	Very Likely	-2	Very Unlikely
+3	Sure Thing	-3	No Way

Roll the dice pool and select from it a “hand” of five dice, counting out the first five most advantageous (evens) or disadvantageous (odds) depending on whether the odds favor a positive or negative result. Note that a positive and a negative die will cancel each other out, leaving one with at least five dice to roll. As a special case, if five is the number of dice to be rolled after calculating the odds, always roll extra dice equal to the CF whether or not they would normally be cancelled out. Again, since CF dice are always positive, always interpret with the appropriate position.

Fate questions are used within a scene to emulate a GM’s presence, running the minutiae of the NPC actions and reactions, or determine what elements, obstacles, or conditions are in play. Open questions can also be framed by asking any sort of question followed by one or two Rory’s Story Cubes or other random image/word combination. Interpret the random results to attach a relevant meaning within the context of the question.

Twists

Twists may be introduced mid-scene based on the result of a Fate Question roll. Note that success counting is based on number of evens/odds rolled during framed questions. However, if three of a kind are rolled, an immediate twist is produced. Note that the match must be a part of the “hand” as described above. If there is a CF value of 1 or more that modifies this roll, then the “hand” formed from the best/worst will always be bigger than five dice for the purpose of calling a three of a kind. Always consider the presence of a triplet match when multiple options are available after the Fate Question result is determined (ie “do I take the leftover 3 or the 1 in my hand?”). The value of this three of kind match must be equal to or less than the CF value +1.

Example 1: with a CF of 0, and positive odds of “Very Likely” (a total of 2 bonus), Brian rolls 7 dice. He gets a 2, 6, 3, 1, 2, 1, 1, and thus a “Yes, but…” result on his Fate Question. Noting that there are three 1’s, they fail, nonetheless, to form his “hand” of five dice. However, with same roll with a CF of 1 and odds of “Somewhat Likely”, he would actually take a “hand” of six solely for the purpose of counting the 1’s, meaning that a twist is produced. The “Yes, but…” result still stands in both cases, since he’s counting the five dice starting with evens. In the latter case, the three 1’s form a Twist since that value is ≤ [CF + 1], which in this case is 2.

Example 2: Brian asks another Fate Question, determining “Very Unlikely” Odds and yielding two negative dice to his base five dice. The Chaos Factor in this case is 2 (always positive). Since positive and negative cancel one another out leaving only the five base dice, Brian remembers the special case of still leaving in the bonus CF dice. He rolls 2, 3, 3, 6, 4, 3, 2, counting out the four evens and getting a “Yes…” result. Brian identifies the matching 3’s. Even though they do not form his “hand” of five, the CF of 2 makes his “hand” seven dice for the purpose of calling out the match. The value 3 is ≤ [CF + 1], so that’s a Twist.

Twist Interpretation

Roll d66 and consult the following chart to get the “focus” of the event:

d6	Focus	Attitude
1	Protagonist	positive or negative
2	Remote	positive, negative, or ambiguous
3	Introduction	facilitator, complicator, or ambiguous NPC
4	NPC Action	positive or negative
5	Thread	toward, away, or close
6	Tangential	ambiguous

For ease of recall, remember, “PRINTT”!

To get the more specific random meaning of the focus, roll one or more Rory’s Story Cubes or random image/words. Alternatively, simply roll two Story Cubes to get an event meaning. The first image gives a vague notion of the context of the meaning, while the second defines and focuses that context into specifics. Players may wish to draw upon or choose randomly from NPCs introduced or threads established according to logic to refine the event meaning.

Scene Setting

At the start of each scene, a Fate Question is framed to see if the scene plays out as imagined. This is always at not-known (or 50/50) odds. Any sort of “No…” indicates an alteration of the scene (to the next logical one). Using the CF, this may produce an interrupt Twist as outlined above. In this case, the scene frames a wholly new and un-anticipated direction. However, count two of a kind matches instead of triples and measure against the value of [CF + 1].

At the conclusion of each scene, note any new threads or NPCs, close any open ones if relevant, and mark whether the Chaos Factor escalates or declines, based on whether the scene was controlled by the PCs or not.

Playtest

“Bird of Wisdom”, a simple playtest based on the plot description found here.

“A wise bird travels to the prince with nothing but a primitive country.”

The stone-age tribes of Barbaria have united under a single king to resist the invasion of the Evil Empire, but are no match for the Empire’s steel weapons, stone fortifications, and other advanced technology. However, in a distant temple there exists a miraculous bird that speaks the words of the gods of craft and wisdom. If the bird could be brought to Barbaria, it could teach the people the arts they need to fight the Empire. The king will not hear of it; he is too stubborn and proud, and would prefer to die fighting in the old ways. His son is more receptive, though. All that remains is to actually get the bird to the prince…

What next? Mythic D6 Lite...

Yes, I'm still around. Last weekend was the conclusion of another big project that I didn't think would be so big, but turned out to be more nightmarish than a previous bigger project that should've been worse but wasn't. That's a mouthful!

As Emperor Joseph II said, "Well, there it is."

What next?

In any case, my time may be returning to me in little bits. I've been plugging away at part 5 of my new "Return of the Shattered Mail" campaign. My rhythm was interrupted, so it's on pause. I also still have the conclusion of the next chapter in my Drowsbane campaign in the same state of suspended animation.

Whenever I have a break in time, I do some musing, or thinking about new projects or chronicles that will again get the juices of inspiration flowing once again. I have charted out a couple more other one-shot game ideas that will probably not go far and not make it to this blog.

I was reading recently over on the Mythic Yahoo! group that Tom Pigeon is thinking about releasing a 10th anniversary Mythic RPG expanded hardcover, complete with all of his Mythic books (the RPG, GM Emulator, Creature Crafter, and Variations) in one volume with some expanded material. That's awesome! I would so get that...

...however, I digress.

Mythic as a GM Emulator has always been difficult to sustain solo play for me. It's a bit fussy, has a chart that can't be memorized, and too many things to track. Plus, it uses percentile dice; although I'm a gamer, I only have one ten-sider around, and polyhedrals represent a part of gaming past to which I hope never to return. Nevertheless, I like the expansive limitless possibilities of doing sandbox-style gaming with Mythic. However, I always wanted a simpler, d6 version.

Sure, there are lots of variants and improvements on Mythic out there now. However, I drafted a d6 only lite version on which I'll be running a test. Nothing ground-breaking. I'll post it here in the coming days. It uses a dice pool system. I tried to approximate the chances of getting an interrupt similar to the odds in Mythic. My math is not near good enough to know how to figure odds of getting matches (triplets, quadruplets) on a roll of 5d6, 6d6, 7d6, and 8d6, and my google-fu has failed me.

More on my Mythic variant "Epic" coming soon.

RotSM, part 4

In this session, I’ll be running an NPC cut scene (on two fronts), with the goal of determining, (1), what happens to the mask and who the thieves are, and, (2), what is Mitra's true motivation for delivering this seemingly valuable item to some seemingly bad people. To do this, I’ll draw from some of her personal motivations. I'm a little trepidatious that I’ll only find something that won’t hold up consistently. Why is it so important she needs deliver the item?

Drawing from her personal relationships, my assertion would be that her nemesis, Xavier Zalibar, and perhaps the Zhentarim organization are truly the ones behind this. Perhaps her friend, the dwarf, Sanbar Axegrinder, is somehow in some trouble and that his plight will only be remedied by delivering the item. That’s the best I can come up with. I’ll use that as the context for the whole affair.

In any case, here are the cubes I’ve rolled for this session:

The Faceless Warrior

Amoeba

The wizard, Hacarthor Aengrilor, followed his counterpart nervously. The sudden turn of events had precipitated quickly, and during the time his unseen servant had come to deliver the news, many more things might have come to pass. Even though the spirit could appear and depart seemingly instantly, it was not so.

Aseneth had also insisted that the wizard deliver this message to his employer directly, the contemptible self-preserving coward! Now, the wizard had followed the assassin on his pony to the ruined keep some scant miles into the hills outside of Luskan.

Police Siren

There, Aseneth's master, a former member of the Black Network, had spent a small fortune to purchase the little abandoned castle. As the two approached, they saw a single curtain wall with battlements, the only intact visible portion of the fastness rising up out of the hill like the jawbone of a broken skull. No other structure could be seen standing whole. However, a new construction of timber erected in front of the ruin formed two watchtowers that flanked the still defensible causeway that rose up to the crown of the hill. The two rode slowly up, viewing the bleak rocky landscape and cloud enshrouded hills that frowned upon them. Black clad men armed with crossbows and spears watched warily from the wall and timber towers as the two riders approached.

Keyhole

Going through the portal of the wall, they entered a still standing gatehouse. There, their horses were cared for and the two led through a compound toward the ruinous portion of a large house. Some sections were excavated, and soon the two followed their escorts down a winding stair to a subterranean level that was still intact and functional. Support beams upheld a partially ruined ceiling in one section, but otherwise sconces were lit by bright torches and webs and dust swept away to give the place a somewhat "tidy" appearance, even if it was anything but cozy.

Eating Watermelon

Soon the two stopped before a stout door. Upon rapping on it, it opened to the guests. Inside was a large hall with two lofty columns. A bright fireplace and some venting that allowed for daylight almost made the place feel like an above-ground dwelling. At a large board sat a slender well-dressed man in his middling years with short dark hair tapering to a sharp widow's peak at his forehead, and well-groomed mutton chops about his jaw. He wore a black velvet doublet with a silver pendant of a raven. His dark eyes sparkled with intelligence and he absently popped two grapes into his mouth from what was prepared on silver trays before him on the board.

"Master Zalibar," Aseneth said with a modest bow. "I present you with the wizard."

"Master Aengrilor, I presume?" said Xavier Zalibar in a musical tone, but without amusement. "I understand you have a message about our dear tomb raider..."

Celular Phone

Hacarthor stepped forward without a bow, trying to appear distinguished, but shifting himself fully through the small doorway awkwardly and clearing his throat. "I am...and I do!" The fat wizard looked down with a haughty expression of (feigned) satisfaction of the pronouncement. Zalibar continued to chew without emotion waiting patiently for the gluttonous pig to come out with it.

Hacarthor cleared his throat again and continued. "It seems that a number of events have impressed delay upon the quester."

Zalibar again looked indifferently at the wizard. Hacarthor immediately reminded himself that the man sitting opposite him was not to be underestimated. He had learned through his spiritual servant that the former Zhentarim was a master of manipulation. It was said that he knew a man's price simply by looking into his eyes. He had a knack for ferreting out sensitive weaknesses of a rival and twisting those nerves for his own use, earning him the epithet, 'The Puppet Master.' Slowly, the wizard's confidence began to wane. How should it be so? he wondered. I am a wizard of the Host Tower of the Arcane!

The wizard continued. "There are two matters — one is that there is trouble erupting now on the old Trade Road that will waylay any travelers or caravans. The hordes of the High Moor and Dragonspear have been stirred and now threaten that region."

"That is very unfortunate," Zalibar said.

"She is not in immediate danger from that. It is the fact that she is no longer in possession of the mask — it seems she was robbed in Soubar."

Zalibar regarded the wizard coldly for several minutes, popping another grape in his mouth. "When did this transpire?" he asked.

Hacarthor began to sweat. He hated specifics with regard to his reconnaissance, because his messages were defined by visions only, and only within proximity with the spirit. He had no idea how old the vision was. It also questioned his methods, which, admittedly, were far less grandiose and impressive as his many greater counterparts in his order. Nonetheless, he wagered a guess. "Only yesterday."

Zalibar chewed. When he swallowed, he said, "Send your spirit back out. Inform us when something different happens."

The wizard was astonished. How had Zalibar known his methods? Stammering for a rejoinder, he found himself backing away with a nod. He turned abruptly and left.

Zalibar regarded the door at the wizard's departure. Aseneth addressed the former Zhentarim agent. "What shall we do about the Black Dragon?" he asked.

"Come!" said Zalibar with an amused tone. "Let us walk and talk together..."

The man leapt to his feet with youthful exuberance capable only by a man who is unburdened by concerns even though he just heard troubling news. The two walked down a short corridor and down a stair. There, they came to a strong room guarded by five sentinels. Beyond an iron banded gate of stout wood came the sounds of pounding and the ringing of hammer and anvil. A guard unlocked the door and the two were ushered through.

"Mitra is capable," Zalibar said as they walked. "She can handle any bumps along the road."

Paranormal Waves

"And the mask? She's lost it! Why don't we convince the wizard or his friends to ensorcel the mask here and be done with her?"

"The reason, my skilled bladesman, is twofold: King Folcoerr's mask is a much older, still, artifact than most know. It comes from the age and realm Imaskar, the Artificers, long before the reign of the Naive King in what is now the Dales. Since only men could wield magic in that realm, it was cursed upon the item that none could handle the mask for long save the masters that made it or those who knew its secrets — as well as the women who could not work sorcery. Only a woman can touch it and not be twisted by the mask's effects, and I would trust no other woman to the task. And a second reason..."

The two walked along a portion of the passage that crossed a span of stone arch amid a great roughly-hewn chamber that was hot with the fires of forges, the smell of smelting and sulphur, the ringing of iron, and the song of dwarves.

Empty Basket

Coming to the ledge, the two looked out over a workroom of forges, vents, and tables. Dwarves of a similar variety or stock, kin most likely, with sandy-white beards and dark brows worked the tools and milled around their industrious projects. At the center stood an intersection of iron rods and planks forming a busy network of scaffolding around some large work. Aseneth descried some behemoth monster of metal underneath that was studded with evil looking blades and pikes. Massive shoulders surrounded a central forward protruding head, but without a face.

Zalibar cleared his throat. "Master Axegrinder, how fares the work?" he called out, turning his attention from his servant to the dwarves below.

An older muscular dwarf among them turned and looked up to the men in black. The dwarf's dark brows furrowed in hatred. "Despite the poor pay, lack of proper food, meager accommodations, and unfriendly inn staff, I would say extremely well," he answered flatly. Aseneth noted that the dwarves were all in leg irons. The assassin allowed himself a brief chuckle at the dwarf elder's facetious humor.

"The deal still holds, master Axegrinder" replied Zalibar in an delighted tone. "Once you and your kin finish the iron monster, your friend Mitra delivers the golden mask, then you are free to go and your womenfolk will be returned to you unharmed. Pray the Damaran bladeswoman holds to her end of the bargain."

"All we have is our words and our deeds," Sanbar Axegrinder replied evenly. "May Clanggedin measure us all to ensure the two balance."

Zalibar sneered and the two men in black departed. Speaking to Aseneth again, the former Zhentarim whispered, "...and that's the other reason we can count on her, regardless of what setbacks beset her now. The fool woman not only loves him, but also owes this dwarf a debt."

****

That part covered, I move on to the remaining unused cubes: the "L" and Lightbulb. I had to force that last part to make sure everything holds together. Not sure if it's convincing, but I'm rolling with it. Next, we cut our scene to the thieves in Soubar.

Okay, this could be difficult. "L" is easy. These are a pair of thieving noobs, totally ignorant of what they're supposed to do. Two because a lone goblin wouldn't make it on his own. The lightbulb is the tough one. Illuminate? Electricity? Screw on? Switch? Xenon gas? Some of those sound good, but man, I'm having tough time coming up with what that means in a way that will produce a meaningful twist. I think I'll roll one more for clarity:

I like apples! That's health, food, or my favorite: temptation!

Kwizzel and Stordfast arrived simultaneously in the abandoned warehouse. Water dripped from assorted fissures in the roofing, it smelled of old spoiled grain, and roosting crows made continual ruckus from their nests about the rafters, not to mention the abundance of droppings, feathers, and other stuff that littered the area. For Stordfast, an orphan from Calimshan grown up on his own in a different town each year, and his only friend, Kwizzel, an exceptionally ugly goblin rogue cast out from his tribe in the north, it was a palace. And today, they were as richly rewarded as kings.

However, Stordfast frowned at seeing his friend tugging mightily on the reins of a great black beast as he approached the rendezvous point.

"A horse?!" he said with exasperation. "You fool! What are we supposed to do with a horse?"

"Sell it!" squeaked Kwizzel. At the sound of the ugly villain's voice, Umbril reared up.

"Then we will be hung as horse thieves. Best not attract attention...why don't you think for a change?"

"But, methinks it's a pretty horse...a horse to fetch a pretty coin!"

"It doesn't matter. Wait until you see the loot I found! You can buy ten or more such black stallions."

"Why would I buy a stallion? I hate horses."

"And they seem to hate you too. Let the thing go!"

Kwizzel's shoulders slumped in defeat. After all he had gone through! It was a great mess to bring this one. Even after knocking the stableboy senseless, scaring off half the horses as a diversion, he had scraped his knee on some loose boards. And the black one was feisty! In defeat, he loosened his grip on the white-eyed beast. He reared up again, and Kwizzle winced, fearing it would trample him.

In a flash, the dark horse turned and flew away at a tremendous thundering gallop.

Stordfast then unlocked the gate of the old storehouse and the two stole inside their dark and smelly abode. Once lanterns were lit, the young man emptied his loot on a wine stained table. A good number of coins jingled, some rolling off into different corners. The goblin scurried after them greedily.

Then, he unloaded the other item he was proud to have snatched. It was wrapped up with care and tied with twine. It was heavy...perhaps something gold! Tongue hanging out with anticipation, Stordfast undid the bindings and opened it up. Immediately, he gasped with astonishment.

Staring up at him was a visage both beautiful and horrible at the same time. A ruby and opal encrusted mask of dull gilt work looked up with vacant eyes. It was demonic and twisted into an exaggerated smile. The gemstones themselves were cut into small cruel-looking horns, set around the eyes and around the crown of the mask.

Just then, Kwizzel come up behind and looked on. "What is it?"

Stordfast couldn't quite take his eyes off of the thing. He managed to answer absently, "It's a, it's a...mask, silly!"

"Methinks it's ugly!"

Stordfast snorted derisively. "That's ironic YOU saying that..."

"What's ironic?"

"You are."

"No I'm not, I'm a goblin!"

"No, I mean... never mind."

"What's it made of?"

"Gold, and rubies, and other stones...it must be worth a king's ransom!"

Kwizzel then let the gold coins slip from his fingers. The two thieves' eyes met. Then both sets darted from one another back to the mask in Stordfast's hands. The mask was heavy, but seemed alive, sending the dim orange light of the lanterns dancing about the gloomy place as though it were a crystal chandelier festooned ballroom. Sudden longing for the thing immediately flared in Stordfast's breast...a deep desire that knew no boundaries. He would kill to have the mask.

Something in Kwizzel's stance belied that he was tensing to spring at the thing, to snatch it from the lad's hands. Immediately, cruel thoughts came to the Calishite's mind; thoughts that he had never before considered except out of self-preservation. Rage and jealously overtook the goblin's already ugly features and twisted them into a hideous grimace of murder.

Then, the goblin threw himself forward. The two grappled and rolled on the filthy floor, the goblin's dirty nails reaching for the young man's eyes. The Calishite kicked and knee-thrusted the goblin several times in the midsection. It cried out and lost its grip momentarily. Stordfast twisted and scrambled away. A nasty bite on his ankle caused him to cry out in pain and the mask skittered from his fingers. The two climbed over one another, biting, kicking, screaming, and scratching, each filled with complete jealousy and hatred fueled avarice.

They grasped for the thing, and Kwizzel won out, getting both hands on the mask and pulling it to his belly. Stordfast was on top of him and got his two hands around the goblin's neck. The smaller opponent shrieked. As he did, the eyes of the mask seemed to light up with fiery orange luminescence, though neither one seemed to notice. They were solely intent on either grasping the item or killing the other. Kwizzel would not let go, and slowly the life was choked out of him.

The final victor panted, overtaken by violence and malevolence. The young man tossed the goblin's corpse aside and picked up the now glowing mask. He held it up lustily and laughed; the laugh of the insane. Quickly, the lad looked around with paranoid eyes. He gathered a few necessary belongings, including a large cloak, a hat, a pack, wrapped up the mask again and left his nearly year-long home in Soubar without a look over his shoulder. He even left the few coins on the floor where they were scattered.

Although he had no other home, knew no other people, had no other friends, he had a new and urgent sense of purpose. He knew where to go where he might reign in a kingdom of his own. So, he stole away quietly, heading for the main road out of town.

RotSM, part 3

Threat from the Steppes

What can I say? I rolled a ladder… Anywho, here’s more continuing adventures of Mitra in “Return of the Shattered Mail”. This one features plenty of botched rolls. I’m using FU straight out of the box, so there are lots of single-die rolls, and luck has largely been on the negative side. But that’s also led to many interesting complications! Look here for more info about our mighty heroine and her stats. For notes about the ruleset I'm using and the particularities of this campaign, look here. For the next part in Mitra's exciting adventures, read on...

The road was a hazardous place, and Mitra of Damara had avoided numerous obstacles and perils over tendays as she navigated the Western Heartlands, including bandits and worse. This she accomplished through wits, obfuscation, and the sword. Moreover, she was a lone woman, making the long journey all the more perilous. This did not daunt her. She was possessed of an unbreakable and rebellious spirit.

The Thunder Pass near the dangerous Stonelands did not stay her. The dangers of the Sunrise Mountains west of Cormyr and its evil denizens did not waylay her. Through roads long and ferries along twisting shining rivers, she passed at last through Iriaebor, Scornubel, and Soubar, entering the west. There, her course might take her further to Baldur’s Gate and the Sword Coast for a waterborne route to points further north. However, she opted to turn north with her sole traveling companion, Umbril, which would take them by even more dangerous and haunted sites through forest and moor…all the while with their secret cargo wrapped in soft cloth inside a bag.

Four days north of Soubar…

DoF: 3

“This town ain’t big enough fer the two of us!” A ranger? A marshal? Some authority warns of something not good. Sounds like another cube is needed to know what…

…and I get a steaming bowl of oatmeal! Okay, a famished and wounded survivor of some conflict. Who’s out here? Orcs?

…Mitra crossed the Winding Water and skirted the western edge of the High Moor, a barren and desolate place of mournful sorrow. She stopped within site of the high steppe land, but not too close. Too many evils were said to haunt that flat waste, waylaying hapless travelers.

She dismounted and prepared her bed for the night at the only copse of vegetation for many miles. She dared not light a fire. Even before she laid down, she thought she heard something faint and distant. Looking around, she spied a figure in the twilight making its way in her direction from the north. It made rather clumsy ambling motions, and immediately, fears of the living dead filled her mind.

Quickly, she gathered her things in case she had to make a hasty retreat. However, it was not so. It was a man — weary with exhaustion and possibly wounded. As he approached, his lips formed the words for “help”, but they could not be uttered. The man collapsed in a heap several dozen yards away.

Immediately Mitra rushed to the figure. She turned the man over. He was beyond his middling years. A tangle of long orange and gray hair crossed his sweaty face and blood was caked on his tenday-long growth of silver facial hair. His face was cracked and hardened by weather and lines of care, but the warrioress could tell little by appearance from what land he might hail. He had a strong frame and long but toned muscles on his limbs. He wore a ruined shirt of mail.

Quickly, Mitra put her waterskin to his lips and let the man cool parched lips. He sputtered and came to. “Sa, sa, save us!” he said in a weak but crazed tone. “My men…ruin…all!”

“Quiet yourself, man,” she responded sternly. “And drink!”

In good time, the man had slaked what thirst he could, and then chewed at some crusty bread she gave him with a voracious appetite.

What is he like?

pushing over wall, globe, lifting dumbbells

As he ate, Mitra scrutinized him further. The garb he wore, though tattered and soiled, might have been that of an officer in some sort of regiment. He had no weapon except for an empty baldric.

Does she recognize his colors? Yes, and…

She then noted the sigil of Waterdeep etched on his greaves with a blue and red stripe below that, the colors of the Stewards of the Old Road, a mercenary unit that patrolled the dangerous road near the High Moor. Mitra had known many of their number during her association with the Black Dragons. In large, most of the Stewards were stalwart, trustworthy, and capable men.

She waited for the man to regain his wits and satisfy his immediate urges. Then she said, “You are far from the Way Inn.”

The man met her gaze, shocked that she might know his base of operations. “True,” he answered cautiously. “Thank you for your aid. I owe a debt to you for your kindness.”

“You need a healer,” she commented.

“I’ve suffered many worse hurts during winters past,” he said, ignoring the still open gash that darkened his tunic under his shirt of mail. “Redbeard,” he introduced, extending a leathery muscled hand. “Dauravyn Redbeard.”

Dauravyn Redbeard

Descriptors: Strong of Limb, Commanding, Swashbuckler, Famous

Conditions: ☑Injured

The warrioress clasped forearms with him. “The famous Redbeard and proprietor of the Way Inn?”

“The same.”

“Well met. I am Mitra of Damara,” she reciprocated. “What befell you?”

“Hordes of Dragonspear,” the man replied, shuddering at the utterance of that bastion’s name.

Then he told how the numbers of devil-led hobgoblins on the road had grown beyond a nuisance to become a threat to the entire coast. Lord Piergeiron of Waterdeep had sent a large contingent of reinforcements to garrison the inn and clear the roads. A great battle was met in the north, and hundreds on both sides perished.

“…But their numbers were too great,” said Redbeard. His hardened mask of stoicism failed and tears streamed from his eyes. “All the men were decimated!”

Mitra looked upon him with compassion, empathizing what he now went through. She too had led men into battle and suffered losses, some terrible. Although the men under her banner were villains and scoundrels for the most part — due to which she could no longer abide their company — it was still beyond words to loose young men. It was said that there was no immorality among the dying.

“And the roads?” she asked after silence.

“Overrun. A great army is marching to overtake settlements north and south of the Moor. It could lay siege to a small city. There can be no safe passage north along the Trade Way.”

“Then we must travel west to a safe port and go north by ship.”

Does he agree? DoF: 6

The man nodded after some thought. “Through Baldur’s Gate I might have the speediest option to send warning to all four directions. If we go first to Soubar, I might find a steed and thus move quicker.”

Mitra thought quickly. She could not abandon the wounded swordsman, but thought of her immediate task in delivering the accursed golden mask clouded her mind. She could, of course, offer to speed ahead alone to get word to Baldur’s Gate, but to abandon him went against every fiber of her being — and she wished not to do anything hasty or illogical for fear that he might pry too much about her own quest. She had no immediate plausible answer yet to that question, other than, my business is my own.

With only a short pause, she agreed. “Let us make haste to Soubar and there find you a swift horse. For now, ride Umbril, my black charger.”

“Again, you have my thanks…”

Returning south that same night…

DoF: 5

…the two forded the Winding Water and by dawn came upon the small ramshackle and lawless town of Soubar. Although the wearying journey was thankfully uneventful, it was harrowing on Redbeard, who passed in and out of consciousness from loss of blood. In short order, they got in touch with a breeder with a stockade just outside the southern border of town.

Does Mitra find a healer? No…

Can she provide some aid to him? No…

Does he stabilize? DoF: 6

Can they afford a horse? No, and…

☑Robbed

Before heading to the breeder, one Silas Greenoak, Mitra inquired about a healer despite Dauravyn’s protests. It was pointless in any case, since none of the vagabonds with whom they crossed paths could point to any. They stopped at a local watering hole named, ironically, The Water Hole. There they ordered some ale, bread, and sausage and Mitra did the best she could cleaning Redbeard’s wound. She could do little, but again, the food and drink seemed to do wonders on its own to the stoic Dauravyn.

Not wanting to waste time, the two left hastily to wander down to Greenoak’s paddock. However, when Mitra went to collect Umbril from the stableboy, she found the place oddly empty. To her sudden shock and horror, each stall was empty.

A moan sounded from one corner. The stableboy was lying in a bed of rushes with a nasty red welt shining the skin above his left eye.

Mitra knelt down and shook the boy awake. “Come now, lad. What happened?”

She propped the boy up against a beam and slapped his ruddy cheeks. Soon, his eyes popped open.

The stableboy groaned…

DoF: 2

My first roll using the MIX set, “Enchanted”. How fortuitous!

…but managed to regain some of his wits. “Goblin…” he sighed, clutching his head.

Mitra and Dauravyn looked in shock at one another. The warrioress couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Did you say, ‘goblin’?”

The boy repeated. “Ugly little man with warts, big ears, and large yellow eyes…”

“Goblin,” confirmed Redbeard who was leaning over Mitra’s shoulder.

“Here?” asked Mitra. “In the middle of Soubar? During the day?”

It was useless getting further info from the boy. She fetched some water with a ladle for the boy and prepared a compress with some rags laying nearby.

Mitra was furious and frustrated. They needed to get fast steeds to Baldur’s Gate; moreover, she had been through thick and thin with Umbril. She couldn’t leave Soubar without him, even if an entire horde of devils and orcs from Dragonspear was on their tail. To make matters worse, she reached down and realized that her purse strings were cut! They had not enough money to buy a loaf of bread, let alone an entire horse.

Suddenly with panic, she felt for the bag hanging from her hip that contained her secret payload. It was lightened and slit in the bottom.

She cursed vociferously.

Dauravyn looked at her quizzically.

“I’ve been robbed!” she cried. She drew her sword and walked out into the streets. Quickly, Redbeard followed.

Does she find any clues? No, and…

Looking around, there was no sign of anyone, man- nor goblin-sized, leading any dark horse away. Mitra doubted that Umbril would suffer the touch and stench of goblin. She approached one wary-eyed woman and her skittish daughter to inquire. Mitra’s threatening demeanor and brandished sword sent them fleeing, however. Putting away her blade, she asked other bystanders to no effect.

“Did no one see the thieves that robbed me?!” she growled to no one in particular.

Redbeard put a hand on her shoulder. However, a hot glare told the pioneering innkeeper she wished no touch. “He could not have gone far,” he said. Then, reassuringly he added, “We will find him.”


Well, now Mitra is in a pickle! What will she do next? I will jump ahead and perhaps have another NPC cut scene to learn more about the villainous culprits behind the theft. What will they do with the golden death mask? Stay tuned!

Mail Delivery!

Well, I was pleasantly surprised (well, perhaps not "surprised", as I was anxiously awaiting) when I picked up the mail today and found...

...none other than my Rory's Story Cubes MIX sets! Thanks Rory! I can't wait to try them out. Of course, I've already made a mix of the original set with Enchanted to use in my "Return of the Shattered Mail" rpg campaign... Well worth the wait and the postage.

RotSM, part 2

...continued from before, this is part 2 of “Return of the Shattered Mail”. As promised, it is an NPC cut scene derived from freely interpreting a random set of nine Story Cubes. This chapter will be about building some NPCs and plot. I have rolled nine Cubes and arranged to taste to accomplish this free story-telling segment. This will help build a reason for Mitra to raid the king’s tomb, building some intrigue. I can’t wait until my MIX set arrives this week! In any case, here it is:

City of Four Towers

temple

Luskan. The City of Sails. Marked by the immense four-spired Host Tower of the Arcane, the northern city was the last hub of trade before the forbidding north sealed the landscape with inhospitable cold and deadly ice.

gate, pill

At the north gate of the city, a lone figure was challenged by a guard. “My business is my own,” said a slight cloaked figure. There was something innocuous about the figure — something about his garb or small stature that one might easily overlook in a crowd — yet when one inspected the plain-faced personage under the gray cloak for any duration, the was a not so innocent mien. Dark guarded eyes stared back at the tongue-tied guard for a moment before speaking. There was something underneath the exterior that might have been equally capable of kindness or great maliciousness.

The guard was at a loss, and only stepped back with an apologetic nod to let the stranger pass. Continue on his way the man did without a look over his shoulder — that is until he had passed through the trading coaster yards of the Red Dragon, turned down the Street of Sails, and through areas of low repute. Only then did the man duck under the darkened eave of a brothel to study the street behind him. The coast clear, he changed his course through narrower alleys until he came to a forgotten cul de sac of refuse and rain gutters waiting and watching.

turn corner, amoeba

After some time did another figure appear from an adjacent alley. This one was large, bristly, and unclean, wearing a brown frock that might have been that of a brother of Ilmater. He was a hulk of a man with a more than ample gut and detestable visage that attested to gluttonous appetites both culinary and amoral. The swagger of his step and the contemptible smile on his piglike face clearly illustrated the man’s arrogance and dislike of his counterpart.

“You’re late,” spat the slighter cloaked man in a harsh whisper.

“And no doubt you were early, Aseneth,” the larger said with a stifled yawn.

“Quiet that fat tongue!” hissed the short one. “You are a fool, Hacarthor.”

The fat man’s eyes narrowed and his bored expression fled him, replaced by an intense glare of warning. “Be careful! Remember to whom you are addressing…”

asking question

“I am reminded almost daily that you are a high brother of the arcane host, master Aengrilor,” said Aseneth with barely veiled derision. “What news do you have? Is she still on the trail?”

The wizard, Hacarthor Aengrilor did not answer at first, relishing his contact’s discomfort at any prolonged meeting. “Patience, inquisitive one. Your master has no reason to be displeased…”

“What does that mean?” asked Aseneth impatiently. “She has the mask?”

“All is still according to plan,” purred the wizard.

arrow, hand, key

“The Damaran still must cross dangerous lands to bring it here. She could easily be harassed or robbed over those many leagues. At this point, the risks are high — it is the last piece to a lifetime of work.”

“What difference does it make to you?”

Aseneth did not answer. He recognized the bait Hacarthor laid. Although a skilled assassin, Aseneth was little more than hired help — a skilled servant. However, he was notorious and successful enough that he could have accepted far more lucrative options for himself. Hacarthor was both testing his loyalty to his master, and simultaneously reminded him that he could do better. The assassin sneered in contempt realizing that there were few secrets from an information broker with magical means, who likely knew the details of Aseneth’s contract terms. In truth, he was tired of being his master’s errand boy; yet, there were still future opportunities to be explored.

“Relax,” Hacarthor continued, enjoying teasing the little rat before him. “If impending danger approaches the mercenary, you will be informed.”

Aseneth was not so sure. “Then be vigilant — even if it means no gambling, fewer wenches, and less swill.”

“I never drink swill!” the wizard retorted.

The assassin thought Hacarthor was being facetious for humor, but he saw that he had actually touched a sensitive spot. He dismissed it and turned to leave. “Keep to your crystal ball!” he shouted.

“…And I don’t use crystal balls!”

That was a fun free association. It was just enough detail to build some interesting potential antagonists, and introduce that some sort of plot is afoot, but yet not enough to really let me know what's going on. My interest is piqued. Next chapter, I think, will be devoted to the travel and overcoming some obstacle to get to the northwest of the Realms still with the mask in possession. I still don't know why she was tasked to take the item. A simple contract? Sounds more like either blackmail or some other motivation.