Tales of a Failing Empire- Interlude (Part 6)

The dwarf and the ranger teleported back a few armspans away from the camp. Grijhold had somehow mastered varying the phasing distance on their return from The Place. He's getting good at this, Nefydd mused.

The smell of cooked elk permeated the air. Grijhold and Nefydd glanced at each other, the dwarf shrugging his shoulders, signing 'Here we go.'

Lyn was waiting for them at their campsite. She had taken off her fighting leathers, revealing all of her physicality, further accentuated by a woolen shirt, unbuttoned to reveal just enough of her breasts as a distraction. The carcass of an elk calf roasted on a spit over a firepit.

Thank gods for the torc, Nefydd thought, rubbing his right forearm.

“Interesting arcana,” Lyn said, “You'll have to teach me that some day.”

“Not bloody likely,” the dwarf responded.

“I'm sure we can reach some kind of arrangement,”Lyn remarked, bending down in a stretch to touch her toes. “Come, I've brought you supper.”

“Elks haven't ranged this part of the Greendale in years,” Nefydd said, thanking Lyn as she handed him a metal plate and accompanying utensils.

“Everyone has their talents Mr. Foulkes,” Lyn shrugged, giving Grijhold a plate.

“Well, sit down, eat. Tell me if my skillset passes muster,” Lyn looked specifically at the dwarf.

Nefydd and Grijhold took a seat near their gear, but neither of them took a bite of the steaming elk meat on their plates.

“Oh for gods sakes,” Lyn exclaimed. She walked to the spit and gingerly tore off a bite with her fingertips. Looking at both the dwarf and the ranger, she slowly placed the meat in her mouth and ate.

Nefydd put a forkful of the meat in his mouth. The flavor was exquisite, never had he tasted game so well seasoned. Hints of garlic, onion, red pepper, and other elements spread across his tongue. How did Alayn have access to such spices? Regardless, the elk tasted delicious.

“Your cooking skills far surpass mine milady. Thank you.” Nefydd looked to the west, it would be getting dark in a bell or two. The three ate in silence, rarely making eye contact with one another, the discomfort a tangible cloud, stifling conversation. Nefydd finished first, placing his plate and utensils atop his gear. The ranger began stretching, starting with his upper body. Lyn looked at Grijhold and winked. The dwarf kept his eyes on his plate, savoring the meal.

Nefydd nodded at the two remaining diners,“I will be working forms.” Nefydd walked east, where the land dipped a few armspans lower in elevation.

“The lad is right, Lady Lyn, your cooking skills are unmatched. You could open an eatery in Pehrgast, make a killing with the wealthy snotcrusts,” Grijhold said, taking another bite of elk.

“Thank you. Your companion has an unusual history,” Lyn looked into the dwarf's eyes. Grijhold couldn't tell if there was hint of lust or perhaps a fisherman looking for bait to reel in her catch with that gaze.

“He's what I would call an enlightened soldier,”the dwarf responded.

“Lost his loyalty to the Imperial Council?”

“I would call it disillusionment with the Council's ideas of governance,” Grijhold put the last bite of elk into his mouth. Elk had never tasted this good. “The dinner was incredible. Allow me to clean up.”

Grijhold walked over to Nefydd's gear, picking up the empty plate and utensils. He felt her fingers caress the left side of his scalp, trailing down to his ear, her touch following the shape of his helix. “How long do you think he will play with his blades?” she whispered. He closed his eyes, took a few breaths. Grijhold found her other hand by his crotch. He grasped her right hand, gently prying the dodecahedron from her palm.

“Gods damned you're good lass,” he turned around to look at her, walking away to his own pack.

“Astute, for a dwarf,” Lyn smiled. Her beauty at the moment dazzled him.

“And your keen senses are bewildering as well, my lady.” Grijhold found the pot needed to wash the rest of the dishes. “Once I finish with our plates, I'll take first watch.”

“Of course. I'm going for a stroll while the sunlight lasts.”

“You could always go back to the priest. Let us handle this.”

“And miss all the excitement in the presence of such illustrious company? Never,” Lyn cooed.

Grijhold watched her saunter off to the west.”That was bloody close,” he muttered. He took out his waterskin, pouring water over his head. “The lad's table manners saved my horny arse yet again.”

Tales of a Failing Empire- Interlude (Part 5)

The first thing Nefydd did upon arriving at The Place was vomit. Teleportation (Grijhold's word for this strange way of travel) had always unsettled him; or was it The Place? Fortunately, Nefydd's heaving generated a small amount of bile and saliva which he wiped on his right sleeve.

Nefydd was never able to remain standing after 'phasing in' (another one of Grijhold's words). The Place was always the same, startling 'clean' white corridors and rooms. There were no edges to the design of this region (but was it?), all ceilings and floors curved downwards or upwards where they adjoined the walls. Illumination was provided by armspans of glowing tubes in transluscent panels on the ceilings. It was never dark in The Place. Outside of The Place was one big unknown. Was this a castle relic of the Ancient Tymes? Even Grijhold didn't know. He would occasionally mention 'demi-plane' during the few times he and Nefydd actually broached the topic of the nature of The Place.

Grijhold gave it the name. One of his arguments for the name was that the creators of the area were long gone and nowhere in the abode (if it were such) were any clues to their language. Grijhold's master had named the area Jadaharien Lldrean (some elvish variant that roughly meant Bleak Fortress). After Grijhold 'acquired' the magic trinkets from his master he came up with The Place on his second visit.“Am I going to be some pretentious bastard like all the other magick-wielding ego maniacs in history by giving this place an equally pretentious name?” Grijhold would say, usually when he was drunk by the fire pit, (and it took a lot to get him drunk) then answering himself with a suprisingly unlsurred “Fuck no!”

So the nomenclature stuck. The Place was often used as a last resort when things got bad in a variety of situations. Already it saved their lives three times. For the tenth time, Nefydd wondered if the trinkets would ever 'misfire.' Grijhold told Nefydd some tales of teleports going awry when used as a spell. A few outcomes were a ghastly mess and according the dwarf, well published in the magic community. The Place was a temporary refuge at best, for Nefydd was extremely comfortable being here. The place smelled strange, as if the land beneath was burned in a some type of acid. Even moving here was queer, you couldn't actually touch the floor as if you were walking along a well kept forest path or one of Anfekor's Imperial Roads. It was more like a slight hop and a jump to properly traverse any of the accesible areas in The Place. After the jump you would float slightly for less than half an armspan before you landed, to hop again, and again, until you reached your destination.

The Place had hallways and rooms that were sealed by heavy white doors, Nefydd guessed that the door materials were the same consistency as those in the halls. How many more chambers and halls lay beyond the doors was another huge unknown.

Nefydd pulled out a kerchief from a pouch on his belt, wiping his mouth.

“Stamina still rusty, eh?” A look of concern passed over the dwarf's face for a moment, he crossed over to the other side of the room.

Every time they used the teleportation clips, the phasing always took them to the same room inside The Place. The size was 20 spans long and wide. At opposite sides of the room were corridors leading to other rooms. The light grey floor had a circle in the middle of a navy blue. The companions were always inside the circle after each teleport. Grijhold had checked the circle numerous times for runes or inscriptions but each inspection revelead nothing. This time, one of the walls contained a window.

“Hmph, sliding panel. Glass is about a finger thick, if not more. Oh, the view is breathtaking.”

Nefydd took a slow, tentative hop to the window. The glass was thick, but outside was nothing but darkness.

“A void?”

“Lad I am completely at a loss. I'm certainly not going to break this glass and find out,” the dwarf answered, a frown creasing his forehead.

Both dwarf and man were startled when their heels touched the floor.

“We can walk... Normally.” Grijhold took a few strides toward a corridor, turned, and walked back towards the window. “What in the Tarrasque's Maw is going on?”

“I don't think the Tarrasque is an avid landlord of this place Grij.”

 Grijhold walked past the window to the corridor where a large metal woman was walking gracefully towards them, her metallic feet making a slight clink noises as they touched the floor.

“Well this is new,” Nefydd mumbled. If the ranger were to guess, the metal woman was a construct. Her face was carved with delicate feathures and long hair was sculpted flowing below her shoulders. Her eyes glowed in colors of a clear blue sky. The craftmanship was far beyond anything he had ever seen in Anfekor, or anywhere else on the continent. Her curves were precise, highlighting an hourglass figure. She wasn't armed, but Nefydd surmised she didn't use weapons, as her metal fists would likely pulverize any of her opponents.

“Elemental?” Nefydd asked.

“Sentry this is my travelling companion, Nefydd Foulkes. Nef, this is, well, she calls herself Sentry.”

Nefydd nodded slightly,“Nice to meet you. Milady.” 

“No need to be so damned formal Nef.”

The ranger shrugged, “Grij, she walks as if she's a Florsendian courtesan.”

“A masterful touch on the part of her creator I would say.” Nefydd gave a slight nod.

“Have you spoken to her?”

“I have, she's not much of conversationalist Nef.”

“How did you know her name?”

“She arrived in this same room the first few times I phased here. Didn't speak a word, followed me as I went around for a look. I started calling her Gertrude and trying to make small talk and the like. Not a peep from her.”

“One day after going down what I would deem the southern corridor, I arrive at a door, or what appears to be a door. It doesn't open. Of course, Sentry is a few steps behind me. It looks like she won't budge, she just stands there waiting. So I sit my ass down beside the door and say, 'Well Gertrude, I'm in a pickle jar it seems.' Then she speaks, I was already sitting down, so the shock wasn't obvious. 'Please call me Sentry,' she says. 'Aye,' I reply. She asks me, 'Why aren't you trying to open the door?' So I look at her, with her beautiful glowing eyes looking straight at me and say, 'Sentry, this ain't my place, if the bloody door doesn't open then obviously somebody doesn't want to me in the bloody room.' She says, 'Most life forms of your pnuematic signature would try to open the door or command me to open it for them.' I say, 'Awfully gods damned smug of the bastards to ask you such.' She says, 'I exterminated most of them.' Then she turns, walks away; swaying those gods damned perfectly forged, sculpted hips of hers. Hasn't spoken to me since.”

“Has she always arrived after your phasings?”

“No, she hasn't. I was beginning to wonder where in the Seven Hells she went. Until today, I've not seen her for some time. She decides to show herself. Something's going on here, what with her arrival coninciding with the bloody window.”

“Any more surprises I should know about while we're here Grij?”

“Nope, I don't know what exactly she is. She looks like a bloody construct. Your question earlier, is she an elemental. I've no gods damned clue. Does she report to somebody or something else? Where does she go? Nef, I've don't know. As long as we mind our business in The Place and not try to deface or wreck anything, I think we're saavy here.”

“Well, as unsettling as it is to have metal woman watching over us, we have to figure out what we're going to do with Lady Lyn.”

“Speaking of such, gods Nef, her sex is like a burning candle, melting wax, just dripping over the luster.” Grijhold looked over at Sentry and shuddered.

Nef just shrugged, raising his right forearm. The torc on his forearm was made of leather and bone, it was covered in whorls and circles, magic symbols blessed by orc shamans.

Grijhold turned and grunted,“Aye lad, I keep forgetting you wear that bloody thing. Orc magic is always a two-edged axe.”

“It certainly helps, it was a worthy acquisition.”

“It dessicates your damn manhood Nef. You've lost a part of yourself.”

“Only the desire Grij.”

“Well, at any rate, if she didn't give me the wyvern's tail, I would've surely liked to plough her garden.”

“She could be with the damn Imperial Watch.” Nefydd almost spat on the floor, but seeing the immobile form of Sentry a few paces away, he bit his tongue.

“It's possible. She was digging into your dirt with a hill giant's shovel.”

“She wanted me to elaborate more on Gaulton's Folly. Somebody in the capital is getting nervous. Or I'm being paranoid.” Nefydd looked shyly towards the construct (or was it/she an elemental?).

Grijhold grimaced, “ If, if, she is their lackey, the Council or someone who has their ear is trying to reign in or tie off what they consider loose ends.”

“Did you get any auras?”

The dwarf paled, “She's got high magicks. I haven't seen an aura like that in well... a long time. Almost like a gods damned sun.”

“We won't be able to lose her Grij.”

“Aye, we'll have her for the duration I reckon. Sunshitter is a bastard... A real cagey bastard.”

“She's a distraction. We have to get rid of that bulette.”

The dwarf nodded, “And the tomb?”

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it I guess.”

“Aye. We can go back any time now if you wish.”

Nefydd looked again at Sentry. The construct was staring right at them.

“I need to sit here a bit longer. I'm not ready to leave yet.”

“Are you lusting after the metal maiden lad? Those orcish wards aren't as strong as the shaman claimed are they?”

“I appreciate beauty Grij, even in the hands of a sculptor mage.”

Sentry spoke. “My creation did not involve arcane energies.”

Both dwarf and human jaws dropped. Mouths agape, the two adventurers stared at Sentry.

“You may both stay as long as you wish,” the construct said, walking toward a closed door, which opened, allowing Sentry access. The door came down, closing with a hiss of air as it touched the ground once the construct passed beyond it.

“Oddly, I feel safer here than at the campsite,” Nefydd uttered.

“Caught between a flesh and blood beauty and a metal forged maiden. Strange times lad, interesting times.” Grijhold took a deep breath, looking out into the black void beyond.

“A few more moments Grij.”

“The moments I'll give you Nef. And hope that the Matron Mother entertains my pleas that we aren't annihilated by the curvaceous magicker when we teleport back.”

It has been too long since I've posted any material on the blog.  I don't know how long I will be able to keep this up with the new European Union regulations about the blog and I have very little computer know how or expertise. However, in the next couple of days I will post (hopefully a better edited) an edited version of Tales of a Failing Empire- Interlude (Part 5).  There have been significant upheavals in my life but I will attempt to post on a more regular basis.  For those of you that visit this site now and then, I thank for your patience.

Tales of a Failing Empire- Interlude (Part 4)

The tors around Tamith split on the southward sheep trail out of the village. The rocks weathered down to clusters less than 3 armspans in height. The granite slabs and domes occasionally revealing the weathered remains of Sulkiri and Orcish runes. Some of the stones were split in two, scars of 'earthcarving' magicks from the Orc shamans and the Rockhewer Lords of the old tribes of man. The grey stone dark and cold, giving way to the bright green grasses that were the province's namesake.

Despite their efforts, Nefydd and Grijolhd could not gain a significant lead on the woman. Her stamina was considerable, and she maintained an armspan of distance from the pair. Her shapely boots moving in steady rhythm with their respective marching down the trail. The two companions no longer whispering to one another, their faces grimly set on the trail ahead of them.

The trail cut east and then north for a half a league. The pair stopped by what appeared to be a split menhir. The dwarf waved his left hand in a vertical motion, across his torso. A small section of earth at the base of the menhir eroded away, revealing a hole an armspan wide. Nefydd crouched down, pulling two backpacks and a pair of shoulder packs out of the hole.

“How far to the bulette spoor?” Lyn asked.

Grijolhd waved the sunrod in his right hand, “Another half a league thereabouts. North, northeast.”

“We'll camp here for the night,” Nefydd proclaimed. “You expecting to tackle the critter this evening?”

“I'll just follow your lead for the time being, gentlemen.” Lyn placed her hands on either side of her belt, covering the hilts of her weapons. “Are you certain you wish to stop? We still have a few more bells of daylight.”

“I've got an extra blanket,” Nefydd eyed Lyn warily.

“Thank you, won't be needing it. I'm a light sleeper.”

“Fine with me.” Nefydd saw her eyes looking into his and knew she caught his lie. He brought two packs over to the dwarf and walked a few armspans across to begin rummaging through his own gear.

“I travelled with Berend Keirkegaard for a time. He says you were a good soldier.”

Nefydd looked up at her.“There's no such thing as a good soldier,” he replied, “Only living ones. How is the Ser... When was the last time you saw him?”

“Six months past, in the Shatterbolt Mountains. He died in an expedition.”

Nefydd was quiet for a moment, turning his gaze from the woman. His hands froze for a few heartbeats pulling a camp stove from his pack. “Didn't know where he contracted in.”

“Your company was the only one who left the Senators' forces-”

“We were disillusioned with where the campaign was heading.” Nefydd placed the stove on the ground, rubbing his hands on his knees.

“And shortly thereafter, their armies were routed in a crushing defeat-”

“At the eastern Jurasin, is there a point to this inquiry?” Nefydd stood up, teeth clenched and walked to the menhir.

“Lass, this isn't exactly where you want to go.” Grijolhd chimed in. Quicker than the woman could follow, the dwarf signed to Nefydd, 'We need to have a conference, now.'

The dwarf tossed a small metallic dodecahedron to Nefydd. The ranger clasped the item, no bigger than the tip of his thumb, to the colllar of his shirt. “Shit,” he whispered.

Lyn was smiling, unmoving hands still on her belt. The dwarf and the man vanished. Her eyes wide, the woman channeled a questing for enchantments, and found nothing. There was no evidence of any magic.

“Oh they'll be back,” she murmured, looking at their gear.

“And you will harm not a hair on their heads,” a voice growled behind her.

“Most impressive orc, but your stench gives you away.” Lyn didn't bother turning around.

“And your signature matron, you light up the night like ten thousand fireflies.”

The woman frowned, questing her senses, there, she found it, a tiny spark.

“An earth father, here? Oh how delightful.”

“It is good you remember matron. Your kind often forget the ancient ways of others.”

“Hmph. And you fail to appreciate that it was we, who aided your enlightenment millenia ago.”

“Not all of you.” The orc said, his voice deep, rich, as if flowing through the air, rock and soil.

“A node, of course. Very well, earth father, you have my attention.” Lyn turned around. The orc was old for his kind, his appearance told otherwise, but Lyn could see his aura, and she gasped. The orc positively glowed, giving off a shimmer of the land as it looked thousands of years ago, when the orcs creeped above their ancient stoneholds in the night. On the eve of their rebellion.

Physically, he was still impressive, his muscles retaining their shape, not quite wiry as most orcs became as they aged, but solid curves, veins vibrant, the blood flowing in strong currents. His hair was still black for the most part, but Lyn's vision saw the faint traces of grey in a few strands. The sides of his head were shaved, but the hair on his head was long and tied in a ponytail. His goatee was black. Where the hair was shaved were several tattoos, whorls, circles inscribed with the old runes of deep earth magicks. His tunic and breeches were made of bulette hide, stained a deep brown. His left hand gripped a staff made of Tysthewood; trees that grew no longer in the human held lands of Anfekor and the other nations of the East.

Majestic as the orc was from the eye's view, his aura was absolutely stunning, Lyn was nervous, something she had not felt, in a long, long time.

“You know of my companions then?” Lyn cooed.

“Indeed, they are known to many brethren bordering the Cursed Lands.”

“Have you come to help us with our little quest?”

“I have come to make sure that no harm befalls them as they seek a resolution to their challenge. I will be watching you matron.”

Lyn brought her left hand up, chewing on her index finger suggestively. “Delightful, very well earth father, I will behave.”

“See that you do.” The orc changed, his arms folding towards his ribs, body crouched to the earth almost in a strange bow of reverence, wings came forth, then the piercing eyes, and finally the powerful claws of a plains owl. The wards around the orc as he transformed were blinding, and Lyn had to actually look down at the grass for a few moments. There were sounds of air being displaced by wings at least an armspan in length. Lyn looked up to find herself alone once again within the disheveled campsite. The dwarf's sunrod the only illumination, highlighting the orcish runes in white upon the menhir's base.

“I suppose I should cook up something for the boys when they come back.” Lyn sighed and went to work.

Far above the campsite, a great plains owl circled within the dwindling thermals, waiting.

Tales of A Failing Empire- Interlude (Part 3)

Nefydd let out a barely audible sigh, looking at the dwarf.

“Your... Illustriousness,” Grijhold said, hands tightening on his walking stick.

“No, dwarf, you have the title wro-” hissed the priest.

“I was referring to your female companion,” Grijhold interrupted. “I believe we haven't been properly introduced.”

The woman smiled, revealing perfectly straight, polished teeth. “Grijhold Torseeker, well met. And you must be Nefydd Foulkes.” Again she smiled, giving a curt nod, her ponytail moving in rhythm.

Cornelius coughed. “I have some rather important news from the village council.”

The priest pulled out a scroll case from within his robes, tossing it to the dwarf. “Your contract with Tamith shall end in two days time. You will be paid accordingly, any shortcomings or shirking of your duties are a violation of our contract and will, of course, be deducted from your payroll. That is your copy of the termination notice.”

Grijhold removed the scroll from the case, unraveling it and glancing at the scribework within. “Impressive handwriting skills, did you forge this document yourself, Sunshitter, or did you have a lackey do it for you?”

“Oh the article is genuine, I assure you, I was able to procure 3 out of the 5 signatures needed to make the termintation binding. I expect you to leave this town in two days. But before you go, there is the matter of an old barrow you two dug up?”

“Barrow!? We dug-” Grijolhd's walking stick snapped.

Nefydd laid a firm hand on the dwarf's left shoulder. “Grij, leave it be, we can be damn sure Aled didn't sign it.”

“Can we?” the dwarf growled.

“As I was saying before I was interrupted by your unprofessional behavior, there is the matter of a barrow. This is Alalyn. She will accompany you to the barrow and assist you both as she sees fit under official capacity as an adjutant marshal.”

Grijolhd, grinding his teeth, said quietly, “ Anything else?”

“Ah yes, I would like the scroll case, it is property of the Church.”

“But of course,” Grijhold spat in the case, closed the lid and tossed it back to the priest. “Apologies Gleaming Goose, but I needed to clear my throat.”

“Good riddance to you both. You do your Guild great dishonor.” Cornelius nodded to Alalyn, striding back to the village proper.

“Lead on gentlemen,” Alalyn grinned.

“As you wish, milady,” Nefydd managed to say with a slight bow.

“Ah Mr. Foulkes, no need to be so formal. Lyn will be fine if you please.”

“Very well.”

Grijolhd walked briskly in the direction.

“Is your dwarven compatriot always so dour?”

“Only when he's lost his job.”

“Adventuring is such a difficult profession these days.”

“Aye milady.”

“Mr. Foulkes-”

“Begging your pardon Lyn. I don't know you but it appears you can more than carry you weight in matters such as this. So let's skip the flattery and the flirtations, if any were forthcoming in the first place. I prefer milady as you clearly prefer to refer to me as a gentleman, which, last time I checked I'm anything but.”

Alalyn smiled, “Ah Nefydd, you and I will get along spectacularly, I'm sure.”

Nefydd gave her a quick nod, rubbing his right forearm, walking headlong to catch up to Grijhold.

“That's an interesting torc on you right arm Mr. Foulkes,” Alalyn called after him.

“She's worse than I thought,” the dwarf mumbled. “Definitely magicks attuned.”

“She's charming in a way,” Nefydd whispered back.

“With looks like that, it ain't too hard lad.”

“Maybe she can charm the bulette.”

“That is what I'm afraid of.”

Alalyn called behind them, “A bulette did you say?”

Both Nefydd and Grijolhd stopped. Nefydd turned, containing his surprise. “Aye milady, near the barrow.”

“We shall all earn our keep then won't we?” The woman smiled. “Come, come, I should like to see this barrow.”

“I imagine you would,” Grijolhd mumbled again.

“I heard that.”

Update- The New and Improved Art

Thanks Keith for sending me a jpeg image of the art! I've been able to put the it on the blog and it looks fantastic! Thank you!
More to come in the following weeks folks.

A Tremendous Thank You!

I would just like to thank Keith Decesare for his hard work and contribution to the blog! Keith drew the picture you see above!  Unfortunately, (myself not being very suave with computers) I had to do a bit of tinkering with Blogger to get the art up and running for the site. Keith is an amazing artist, one of my top favorites and I really appreciate the work he has done. This really doesn't do the piece any justice, as I had to scan the art in order to have it posted on the site. For some reason, Blogger wouldn't accept the Adobe pdf that Keith sent me. For this Keith, I apologize profusely.  Keith's website can be seen here:  Linkage

Thank you Keith for the art and for your time!

Four months is too long

Four months away from the blog and that means..... I've been gone too long!

I've lost any readership I may have developed over the brief month that I kept the steam going and this distresses me, but the fault is entirely my own. Entirely! The blame is all on me. For any who are reading this still, I apologize and I will endeavor to do better. I appreciate the time that anyone is able to take to sit down and read the blog.

On to some good news, the main piece of  artwork that I have planned for the blog is in its final stages of development and should be completed within a week or so, I hope (fingers crossed). Once that is complete and I have posted I will reveal the artist and link his website on the blog. I can only give one hint, his name rhymes with heath!

This month is a big month as I believe I will be getting two fantastic RPG books!

The first book is Monte Cook's Numenara, which of course, I'm super excited about it as it reminds me of the very first Gamma World boxed set from TSR in flavor and themes. Obviously though, it's far different, filled with a unique touch that only Monte Cook can bring to any game. I'm highly interested in the mechanics as Mr. Cook has tailored them to enhance the storytelling nature of the game.  Sometimes in RPGs, the rules can bog you down to the point where the story suffers. In my experiences with gaming, when a session gets overwhelmed by rules, it exhausts everybody, and the GM loses the juice needed to keep the story going. According to what Mr. Cook has said in the blog, Numenara is taking a different approach, making the rules lighter to accommodate the story, hence, hopefully, making the GM's job a little easier.  Here is the link: Numenara website

The second book is Nick Logue's campaign for (3.5 initially) the Dungeons and Dragons game, Razor Coast.  Razor Coast is a swashbuckling, age of sail campaign that deals with nefarious demon squid cults, pirates, native cultures under siege by enterprising, opportunistic, greedy colonials, islands of undead cannibal pygmies, sharks, and lots more! The book was set out to published years ago, but a string of unfortunate circumstances have stymied its completion and publication, until now! It's been designed for the Pathfinder and Swords & Wizardry RPG systems (sorry 3.5 D&D!) and is being published by Frog God Games. There is an excellent video blog which goes into some of the details of Razor Coast's inception, demise and resurrection. You can see this on the vlog, The Demiplane of Gaming, look under the month of April 2013 in the show guide, click, click to watch, and enjoy! Linkie

As for my cheesy fiction that I post on the blog regarding my homebrew setting for Pathfinder... Sigh....

The only reason I write fiction on the blog is that there are plenty of other gaming blogs out there that cover crunch. I am horrible with crunch. Rules bore me, but to be fair, there are a few gaming blogs that cover and discuss rules in an interesting and engaging manner far better than I could ever do. As for myself, I would rather design a world and its myriads of creatures and peoples as inspired by an RPG system rather than write about the system itself.

I realize the blog's fiction, for those who have the stomach and psychological wherewithal to read it, is currently scattered. There are two threads that have to be closed, the first being the piece of Nefydd and Grijolhd, the second is the tale of Arrigo Covi. I'm constantly brainstorming for ideas on these threads but have yet to type them. I don't hold my fiction in high regard, not even close, this is an creative outlet. I do this for personal satisfaction over anything else.  For any readers who are remotely interested in these pieces, I apologize for the lack of posts. I apologize profusely. I will take a stab at the fiction in the weeks to come.

I'm sorry for the lack of posts in these past few months. I will do what I can to remedy that. Until then, to all those going to Gen Con this year have a blast and good gaming to you all! To everybody else, I hope you've had an enjoyable summer and good gaming and reading!  Take in the rays of this last month of summer!

Tales of a Failing Empire- Part 3 (Interlude)

The temple to Aeremas (although any worshipper of The Wanderer will tell you, they're called Foot Stools in their vernacular or Travel Lodge to the unbelievers) was a modest building made of white oak, with rock elm logs for joists. This was one of two places of worship built within Tamith. Many of the religiously inclined farmers and shepherds surrounding Tamith built their own small altars to Shaanavishea in their fields and pastures, but there was yet to be any organized effort to build a temple proper to the Goddess of the Wood and Herdsmen.

The current priest (again, to those who serve Aeremas, he/she is called Footman or Traveller, depending on rank) of The Wanderer was an elderly man named Aled Tew. Aled was part of the village council, but more importantly, a sympathetic ear to Nefydd and Grijolhd. Neither of them could guess Aled's age, and both felt it inappropriate to ask.

Aled sat in a chair in the main hall, a board atop his knees, earnestly at work carving a figurine out of a branch of black walnut. A small pile of wood chips coated his breeches and was starting to pile on the oak flooring. He didn't even glance upwards as the doors opened, his special carving knives delicately scraping and etching the wood, forearms never touching the board.

The main hall of the temple was only 20 paces long and ten wide. Near the entrance were 6 benches, each set aside to form a narrow aisle up to the podium, where Aled currently sat, carving in earnest. Behind him was a large, colorful curtain that spanned the entire eastern edge of the hall depicting Aeremas arguing with the archaic sphinx Atalzyx to gain entry into the plane of Fovikklen.

Nefydd and Grijolhd approached the closet bench to Aled on the left side of the aisle and quietly sat down, maintaining a respectful silence. Time passed, Aled carved. Nefydd cleared his throat. “Greetings Traveller, peace be on your path, and fleetness to your feet.”

Aled looked up. “Nefydd, let's dispense with the sanctimonious crap for once shall we? What trouble have you two gotten yourselves into?”

“Traveller, um sir. First, I'm deeply hurt that you think we have ambitions towards mischief... And well, second, there's a bulette hunting around the western pasture lands.”

“A what?” Aled got up, placing the board on the podium.

“A bulette.”

Aled grabbed a rag from his vest, wiping his hands. “Shitballs.”

“Well sir, actually, when the bulette defecates, it's feces-”

“I don't need a lesson on the critter's excretory system Nefydd. Both of you follow me. I think we all need a drink.”

Aled drew the curtain back to the right, revealing oak panneling and a door. This led to his living quarters. The room contained a bed to the north with a desk and a bookshelf parallel to the bed along the wall. The fireplace dominated the wall to the east along with various kettles, cauldrons and a metal tripod. To the south was a wooden tub, a cabinet, a table and 3 chairs. Just beyond the tub was a secret door, which Aled graciously allowed Nefydd and Grijolhd access to during times where their presence was to be discreet (which was almost all the time). Aled opened the cabinet, took out a jug and three mugs and began pouring.

“Hard cider my marshals. Good for the soul in oh so many ways. Seat yourselves.”

Nefydd and Grijhold sat down. Aled slid them each a mug.

“All right gentlemen.” Aled raised his mug. “My Our Restless Father bless your endeavors in this village at the ass end of nowhere. But as we all know, even nowhere leads somewhere. Although, somewhere can take us nowhere, in essence, a vicious bloody circle. May our paths always be straight and may our paces always move us forward.”

“Here here,” Nefydd and Grijolhd chimed in. All three companions took a large swig of the cider.

Aled looked at both of them, placing his mug on the table. “Did you tell the Sheriff?”

Both man and dwarf gave the elder priest a grimace, rolling their eyes.

“Well, I'm certainly overjoyed that you two do not hold me with such contempt. So, who knows then?”

Grijhold took another swallow of his cider. “As of right now sir, you, me and Nef here.”

“There's more sir,” Nefydd added, “ We think something is actually, well, scaring the bulette.”

Grijhold took a deep breath. “Some ground near the Oded's pasture lands collapsed. Eight paces by four paces. It descended forty. Nef noticed the claw marks near the side of the northeastern edge along the bottom. We found a lamb down there, completely untouched, and very dead.”

“And,” Nefydd added again, “ There's a tomb or ruins of some kind on the eastern edge at the bottom. We encouraged elder Obed and his son to stay as far from the hole as possible.”

Aled pushed his mug away and ran his hands through his greying hairs. “You need to get back there as soon as you can and make sure nobody goes near that hole. The shepherds are sensible folk, but it's their children I'm worried about.”

Nefydd nodded in agreement. “Traveller Tew, if I may, I'd like to borrow one of your pigeons, send a message to the Ranger House at Anthin.”

“Nefydd, I'm not a helpless old fart, I can do that myself. I need to ask, are you sure you don't want to involve the Sheriff?”

“Well,” Grijolhd let out a deep belch, sighing, “Nobody's died yet.”

Aled gave the dwarf a deadpan look. “I thank you both for trusting me and bringing this matter to my attention. You two need to go back to that hole, and be careful. I need to do a little reading and I'll have to come up with some excuse to join you without attracting undue attention. May your wits be as fleet as your feet.”

Nefydd and Grijolhd gave curt bows to Aled. The old man gave a dismissive wave, “You know how to show yourselves out. Gather your gear and be off.”

The two marshals quietly slipped out the secret door behind the temple. They looked around. The temple was situated on the very eastern edge of the village proper. It was dusk. Nefydd pulled out a sunrod from his shoulder sack. He nodded to the west, whispering, “We need to move quietly until we get past the mill and the Vuoti's house, then I can use this.”

“Aye lad, let's hope the Sheriff and his boys are still drinking at the inn.”

Walking quietly, maintaining a nonchalant pace, the two slowly made to the western edge of the village, staying off the main road. There were only two more houses before the two story home of Vuoti's and the mill came into view.

“Good thing we stashed our gear out of town,” Grijhold whispered, “ Though inconvenient, I'd rather not have to deal with those slackers at the inn.”

“Let's hope nobody found the stash,” Nefydd replied. “Our luck has been a bit lopsided lately.”

“Well, I thought Sheriff Dudok made it abundantly clear that you two were to remain on extended patrol in the pasture lands,” said a voice from their left.

Suddenly everything turned bright. Coming from between the houses, staff alight with magical brilliance, walked a man, his head shaved except for a ring of black hair just above the ears. His goatee was waxed. He was garbed in the priestly robes; white and gold, with sunbursts throughout. Cornelius Aggett, priest of Polaris, a man both Nefydd and Grijolhd despised almost as much as the Sheriff (with the mayor coming in a close third). Behind Cornelius was a woman neither had seen before, dressed in fighting leathers and knee high boots of chocolate brown, her black hair tied in a ponytail. With the magefire from the staff, the woman's eyes shined like golden monarchs.

Grijolhd almost spat, but restrained himself. “You were saying something about luck Nef.”

Glossary-

Fovikklen- one of the planes of existence outside of the Prime Material Plane; some call it The Hidden Plane, legends have it that the only way to access the plane itself is to defeat an Archaic sphinx in a game of mental challenges followed by a duel with magics (most times of the nonlethal sort).

Monarch- one of the currencies of Anfekor, a gold coin

The Crooked Kindness- Part 3

The Festival of Planks occurs in late spring in Goshen. Most of the city docks shut down during the festival, with a handful remaining opening to any river traffic that insist on harbor and trade during the activities. In a rare sign of solidarity, the Covi family decided to head down to the Horseshoe District to partake in the celebration. The district is somewhat of a misnomer, as it doesn't actually refer to what is produced there but rather the shape as the city spans out over the Cefron for a little less than a league. After the Horseshoe the city tucks back landward, forming the Warehouse District for a mile, after, the land reaches out again to the river with the Porcaro Hill District, home of the Thirteen, the name of Goshen's wealthiest families. The water in between Horshoe and Porcaro Hill forms the city's solitary bay. The city council insisted that a portion of the Warehouse docks remain open to river business for this year's celebration.

Lanfranco walked with his wife in hand (and a bottle in the other) down the Bargeman's Way to the festivities. Arrigo trailed a few steps behind, he had never been to this part of the city. Traffic along the thoroughfare was relatively light, but as the family reached the south end of the road, it increased tenfold. Suprisingly, the city watch was seldom seen as the throngs of festival-goers grew larger.

“Stay close to me Arrigo,” Meridiana let go of Lanfranco's hand and grabbed her son's, “Please be mindful of where you walk.”

“Relax Meri,” Lanfranco rumbled, “You'll be in Otterman territory soon. We'll be all right.”

“Lanny! Lanny!” The voice shouted to be heard over the noisy crowds. A smaller man with ruffled brown hair made his way through the knots of people to Lanfranco.

“Hail Jacca!” Lanfranco picked up the man in a bearhug. “How goes the offerings to the River Goddess?”

“Hmph, I see you've already started on your donation,” Jacca winked at Lanfranco, gazing knowingly at the bottle in his hand. “Did you bring Meri and the runt?”

“Right behind me.”

“Aha! There is the jewel of the Cefron herself!” Jacca approached Meridiana and Arrigo, bowing and kissing his mother's hand. “And Arrigo! Are you being fed proper boy? I've not seen you grow one thumb taller this year.”

“If I'm to be the jewel here, then my Arrigo is a sapphire as well,” Meridiana smiled and squeezed her son's hand.

“So shall it be. Come! Come! Let me lead you to the best events of the festival! Feats of strength, acrobatic excellence and other exploits of derring do. Right this way!” With a flourish of his right hand, Jacca motioned mother and son to follow, then walked beside Lanfranco.

“So where is the Watch Jacca?” Lanfranco slapped the man's back. “Usually it's tighter than a taxman's grip on his tax chest here.”

“There's trouble over at Warehouse, some of the workers are dropping kegs of ale in the river and setting them alight.”

“Must be shitty ale one would hope.” Lanfranco sighed.

“Lanfranco please!”

“Oh Meri, the boy has heard much worse, leave it be woman.”

“Vest Import and Exports has bought out Alfred's Barge and Storage,” Jacca spat once he finished.

“Another gods damned business, is there no stopping these bastards?” Lanfranco added more saliva to the street. “If this keeps up, then there will be only a handful of dockers working as independents.”

“ If this keeps up it'll be just Vest, Rees's outfit and us. I bet it's Iddawg and his crew that's doing the dropping. Vest cut their wages after buying out Yadler's.” Jacca whinced as he said this.

Lanfranco snorted. “ Rees is no better. And where is Iddwag's bloody guild in all this?,” He threw his bottle in a nearby rain barrel.

“Lanny, it's tied up in the fucking magistrates with the lawyers.”

“And that asshole is rumored to be in Vest's pocket. Iddawg is fucked, drop or no drop.”

“Husband, please be a little more discreet with the language.” Meridiana began humming an old Amsernan folk tune. It was one of Arrigo's favorite songs.

Jacca changed the topic. “Meridiana will you sing for us tonight?”

“If you gentlemen can articulate yourselves in a more honorable fashion I might consider it.”

The Crooked Kindness- Part 2

Lanfranco Covi was a man three armspans in height, with a head of raven black hair. His father, Salvi was a dockworker in Goshen and by the gods, Lanfranco was going to be raised as one too. The only education Lanfranco received was on the river docks, from passing merchant barges and paddle boats or from the noticably opinionated recollections of his fellow guild members of the Otterman River Guild. The docks taught him how to do basic numbers, basic business reading, how to communicate a few words of the Tribes and Orcish, and certain forms of less than savory articulation.

By the time he'd seen twenty two summers, sweating his ass off on the docks, Lanfranco became one of the luckiest bastards of the guild. His ambition and work ethic got him promoted to dock overseer, but that was one only part of the good fortune. Lanfranco's dock master sent him and his team upriver to dislodge a cog stranded on the banks. One of the passengers on the cog was a green eyed Amsernan lass, with a voice that even charmed her aloof elven passengers. A voice from the heavens, said Akab (one of Lanfranco's workmates), that would even give cherubim pause. Her hair was brown, with golden strands from her love of the sun. She helped pull the cog from the mud along with Lanfranco's crew. Lanfranco, true to his Jilipothan heritage, charmed the woman's name from her lips; Meridiana, eldest daughter of a general goods merchant.

Meridiana was a young woman of 19 when she met Lanfranco. Like her siblings, Meridiana was privately schooled with as many tutors as her father could afford. Meridiana wasn't content to be her father's dandizette on his estate in the Stonedale province. She had the fire for adventure and knowledge, always begging her father to allow her passage on his many forays down the Aisne River. Eventually her father relented and she was promoted to 'attache' status. Meridiana fell under Lanfranco's sway that fateful day. Before she accepted Lanfranco's proposal she visited a old seeress as was the tradition. The seeress gently grabbed her hands, looked into her eyes and said, 'My poor dear, there is a saying, 'Love will go where it is sent, even if it's up a pig's asshole.'” Meridiana did not heed the kindly old woman's advice. She married Lanfranco on the banks of the Cefron River the next spring, on the very spot where the cog that took her to him ran aground.

As with most marriages, the early years were blissful. The Covis moved to the Spire District of Goshen into a two floor apartment. Meridiana was able to educate Lanfranco with her knowledge of the Bright Empire and folklore. She encouraged him learn to read literature besides inventories and shipping ledgers. She would sing and submit to impromptu performances for their neighbors and some of the dockers at Lanfranco's employment. Lanfranco even toned down his nights of late drinking with his guildsmen. But it didn't last. Eventually Lanfranco insisted on continuing his nightly debaucheries. Meridiana was often alone many nights of the week. She would book passage on a river cog back upriver to where the Cefron met the Aisne, leaving Lanfranco for days. Things continued on a descending spiral until Meridiana found out she was with child.

In their third year of their marriage, Lanfranco and Meridiana Covi had a baby boy. Young Arrigo spared the union some more deterioration until his fifth year of age. At that time, the Senate passed the Universal Education Program which created public education for children throughout Anfekor from the ages of five to seventeen. This was unheard of in many lands. Lanfranco didn't like it, as his plan was to raise Arrigo as another docker in the Covi tradition. Meridiana loved the idea of little Arrigo receiving education outside of the expensive approach of her father's (and the upper classes) methods. This conflict was just one crack in the illusory mirror of the Covi marriage. Arrigo was blessedly unaware of this, but he had trials of his own to contend with. For many youth, some of the most heart-wrenching trials in their path to the loss of innocence; trials of social acceptance, of peer pressure, of the difficult passage to learn morality, or a lack thereof.

The Crooked Kindness- Part 1

Young Arrigo Covi never dreamed in eleven years of life that he would want to leave Goshen, at least at first. Arrigo's mother had a voice of a birdsong, reminding him of the black capped cidmiths in the winter that would perch in the old park near Gristman Square. Her melodies were soothing and sometimes when she sang or hummed a tune she would gently run her fingers through his hair, usually putting him to sleep. He loved her for this and many other things.

Arrigo's father was a temperamental man, prone to fits of shouting. He worked at the docks in the Horseshoe District of the city. It was a hard job, Arrigo's mum told him with her soft green eyes; she pleaded with the boy to be quiet and let father yell. While yelling at his mother, Arrigo tried to leave the kitchen, but his father would yell at him to stay and 'Listen to what I have to tell your mother.' Your father is stern with us because he loves us, she would say in her birdsong voice. But his father would be angry with him because Arrigo would never stand up to the other children that hurt him.

Even among humanity's children can be found the cruelest of souls. At school Arrigo was derided for being small and quiet. Folco and Eryk especially would catcall him, calling him mongrelboy (named after the elusive mongrelfolk that supposedly dwelled in the sewers beneath the city) and other names. It was the bigger boys Tadei and Bekter that had fists like hammers, feet like rocks. They left his eyes black and his legs bruised.

Arrigo feared retaliating, there was something about violence that felt so terrible, it was like tasting soap when he was caught swearing. But the boys kept beating him, and Arrigo's father kept shouting. Arrigo's anger, humiliation and frustration was a sickness. It was a stomach ache, it was a black, cold fire in his mind, threatening to burn out his soul. When the namecalling became too much, Arrigo would scream and cry, shrieking like he was being burned alive. The teacher at school would remove him from the play yard during recess, leaving him sobbing in the corner of the classroom.

The occasional outbursts at school kept Arrigo's cold fire at bay. His father would reignite it at home, encouraging him to solve the humiliation with a fist. Arrigo didn't like his hands as hammers, he used his hands to draw with the charcoal sticks in the classroom. He would draw the far away Mareskod Mountains or the strange stalagmites of the Golden Caverns just outside Goshen. As he drew, he tried to feel he was actually in these places, looking at the great snow covered peaks of the mountains or being blinded from the brilliance of the fabled luminium crystals. His father couldn't understand, and the screaming came on and on, like rain in a thunderstorm.

During the summers, the children would swim in the river near the Spire of Bones.  The children were oblivious to the artefact's dire reputation.  Arrigo was able to hold his breath the longest due to repeated dunkings by Tadei. Once even Bekter convinced Tadei to let Arrigo up for air for fear of drowning; the name tadpole's bastard was added to the list of epithets thrown the boy's way.

The black fire was building within Arrigo, and when he saw a trio of kittens sipping water from a cistern in the alley behind Hinter Street, it burned him at last. He grabbed one of the small, mewing youngsters, the white and black one, caressing its fur. His right hand crept up its neck, fingers gently tapping as they went. The fingers wrapped around the kittens neck, slowly Arrigo squeezed. The kitten's mews became wheezes, there was a crunch, the kitten hit the cobblestones with a wet sounding thump. Arrigo picked up another; two lay dead before his fire was spent.

Arrigo cried aloud that night for the first time in a long while, even his mother's singing couldn't calm his shattered soul. He couldn't tell her what he had done, his introspective revelations accenting his wracked cries. His father came in then, beating Arrigo into silence. “Since you're too lazy to speak to us about what's making you cry I'll give you cause to weep boy!” After the boy quieted down, muffling his sobs with his pillow, he daydreamed of floating down the Cefron River, legs hanging lazily over a river barge, watching the waters flow past Old Grimy Kneebones Bridge. No tormentors or dead kittens were there to haunt him. He slept peacefully. Arrigo awoke to another day of harassment, continuing into nightfall, his father once again screaming at his mother in the kitchen.

Glossary-

Black capped cidminth- small bird very similar to our modern black capped chicadee

Good Gaming Group Chemistry- The Challenge

RPGs are fantastic avenues for social stimulus among a group of people. But sometimes, that can be difficult to achieve. It is my opinion that what amounts to an enjoyable gaming session is a unique chemistry within the group. Sometimes it takes a few gaming sessions to develop, at other times, the chemistry begins as soon as the GM and the players enact their first encounter of the game. When an RPG hits its stride for both the GM and the players is when good gaming group chemistry is accomplished (I will label this GGGC for short).

GGGC is a challenge for many, myself included. Some game masters have that je ne sais quoi that creates an enjoyable atmosphere for the players. It also must be said that players need to have a measure of this too. There are a few people out there, game masters and players alike, that have charisma, a natural affinity to bring people together and help create a fun game. This is few and far between. Personally, I can think of two people that have that charisma (and yes, they are gamers). RPGs, in my opinion, is interactive storytelling at its finest, with everybody at the gaming table contributing (ideally) to a great gaming experience.

GGGC can be maintained if both the GM and players are active particpants in the game session. This is a tricky balance. Every human being is different, we were all raised in different households, different families, even different cultures. Part of keeping the chemistry alive is having everyone (regardless of their background) come together on common ground and socially interact with each other, staying in character (when possible) and accomplishing some amazing story dynamics with their characters. This is easier said than done. For me, as a GM and a player, it is a personal challenge. Every game I struggle with this issue.

Paizo has made an effort to address keeping GGGC alive by giving advice to the Game Master in their book, Game Mastery Guide. Now please keep in mind that there are other publications out there that cover this is as well (For example. I believe Robin D. Laws wrote a book about addressing GGGC and the title escapes me at the moment). So if any blog readers have other publications in mind, please comment, make your voice heard. Actually, if any blog readers have any tips they'd like to share on keeping great chemistry in an RPG, please comment, not only will you be helping me, but you will be helping any readers of the blog! (Apologize for the digression)

Getting back to Paizo's Game Mastery Guide, the second chapter of the book, entitled Running a Game, has oodles of information for what a GM can do to help assist with providing GGGC in a game. The chapter examines styles of running the game, creating a atmosphere for your players, what type of adventure to run (relating to styles of running the game), and other things. There's a great section entitled, 'Don't Stymie the PCs.' In chapter 3, there is an interesting section that can prep a GM as to what type of personality a player may have at the gaming table (the book outlines 14, yes fourteen, types of player personalities you may run into when Gming a game!). I would recommend any GM to peruse this publication at the very least.

If you want even better advice on game mastering then you could go straight to the source, find a great GM and mine his/her brain for great suggestions on running a game. One great way to do this is sit in on an Iron GM competition. Iron GM challenges Game Masters to run an adventure with three random topics, at the end of the competition, the Gms are judged and the best of the best are given prizes. If these guys and gals are willing enough, you should talk to them for tips about running a game. Another alternative is to go to a gaming convention, be observant, ask questions, try and find a GM that is captivating his/her players at the gaming table, and after the gaming session is finished, see if you can get some good gaming advice.

To achieve the best GGGC, it takes two to tango, as the saying goes. I've briefly covered how a GM can get advice and tips to help with GGGC. However, the players are just as important in contributing to GGGC. Players need to have to team work, and they need to be observant when a GM gives them a chance to shine in moments of role-playing. I was playing a game and a GM presented me with an opportunity to role play and I completely blew it. It was one of our first gaming sessions and I was playing a gnome rogue. The GM set me up as a bookie for two other PCs in a failed gambling operation, and rather than taking this facet of the game and running with it as a role play opportunity, I froze, because I wasn't accustomed to the game and I think my ego got in the way. Not a good thing! Which brings us to another to another difficult concept for players.

As players (hell, and game masters too!) we need to remove our egos from the gaming session. Remember that this is an interactive experience! That means everybody at the table MUST contribute to the gaming experience. This is a team sport! We need to help each other out when we can. The antagonists are many in an RPG, and some do require actual team work to overcome them, whether it be physically or intellectually. We need to fight those selfish desires of wanting our character's needs addressed on a significant basis in a game. Be patient, share the story with our fellow players and the GM. We need to let our fellow players breathe, watch them grow into their character roles, encourage them to role play, commend them when they do role play. Be positive, play to our fellow players strengths! Don't focus on the negative. Unless, of course, a player is being a complete jerk, in that case, send them out to the firing squad! Just kidding.

Always be congnizant of any way that our role playing can actual enhance the storytelling of our fellow players. Look at my mistake, rather than contributing to role playing with a whole gambler angle with my fellow PCs, I just shut down, I didn't contribute! There is a fine line here too, we need to keep a balance and make sure we're not stealing our fellow PCs thunder all of the time! Share the story! We need to give our fellow players some slack, allow them to grow into the game with their character's experiences.

Getting back to the game masters and the egos, a GM keeping his ego in check is one of the hardest things to do in a game (at least for me anyway). Especially in a homebrew campaign where we spend hours on plots, NPCs, stat blocks and adventure hooks and in one session the players can destroy all that hard work or go in a completely different direction. It is frustrating! But the players are making the story, we provide the stimulus for action, and they take it where they want to go. It's not our story, even though a lot of times we think it is, but it's the players that give it life, they create the magic. And sometimes, let's be honest, the magic isn't what we thought it was going to be in the first place. We make a really great NPC that has an incredible backstory and what do the players do, completely ignore them or worse, kill them or rob them. Yes, as a GM, we need to prepare our hearts to be broken sometimes in the game. Remember, everybody's different, so our player's motivations on what they do in the game may surprise us. Just roll with the punches. Let the players breathe and feel our world, and be prepared for them to do something unusual. We can't dictate what our players do, even though at times we wish we could, but that ruins GGGC. As game masters we need to keep things fluid, let the players run amok, within reason. If the players make a dumb decision, well, they pay for it, that's part of our job.

Well, that's some of my thoughts on generating GGGC. If anybody reading these blogs would like to chyme in and give their input, it is most welcome (unless it's belligerent of course). Cheers folks!

New Gaming Company by some of the great old timers!

For those of you who remember the ancient days of RPGs, and if the names Frank Mentzer and James Ward ring a bell then please pay attention! These two gentlemen along with two other guys (Tim Kask and Chris Clark) have created their own gaming company! It's called Eldritch Enterprises.
A cool new gaming company

They have several fantasy RPG products and Mr. Ward is working on some sci-fi products. I strongly urge you to check these guys out!

Tales of a Failing Empire- Part 2 (Interlude)

Yolsan the 3^rd 447, Third Imperial Reckoning (12 years earlier)

The tomb was found by a lamb. The shepherd's son wept as Grijolhd lifted the animal's corpse from the cleft, the dwarf using his levitation magic. The lamb had fallen in, breaking three legs, the boy heard its bleating cries and went to get his father. Eventually, word got out to the village hall, where, in turn, the 'adjutant marshals' received the summons.

Tamith was one of the fortunate villages that could afford adjutant marshals. The concept had taken root in Anfekor's wilder, outlying provinces. Some villages needed extra manpower and muscle to keep the peace. Such assistance proved difficult to find until an enterprising adventurer's guild offered to hire out their members. Since then, over a dozen guilds have provided such services to three of the Bright Empire's provinces.

Tamith assigned tours to their adjutants, the tour usually lasting no longer than a month. Tours were entirely dependent on how much of the village coffers were willing to be given out for maintaining order. The guild informed Grijolhd and Nefydd Foulkes that if they wished to extend their tour, some hobnobbing with the mayor and the village council would be necessary. Knowing the overall disposition of himself and his partner, Grijolhd surmised that they would be employed for two weeks.

Nefydd watched as the dwarf deftly grabbed the lamb and quietly slid the corpse into the boy's waiting arms. The father, a man named Udy, stood a few paces from his son, leaning wearily on his staff. Nefydd gazed into the cleft. It dropped forty armspans before it gave way to rock and mud. The mud was fresh in places, recently upturned. The cleft itself was about 8 paces long and only 4 wide. At its northern edge, some old masonry could be seen rising from the bottom, grey and archaic. Nefydd placed his eyepiece over his ears, the bridge of the device finally coming to rest on his nose. Taking a glance at the cleft, he turned and walked to the boy, who was now on his knees, still holding the lamb.

“Ah, if only all of Anfekor's sheperds were like you and your da.” Nefydd gently ruffled the boy's hair. “May your ewes have more lambs with spunk that gifts your family in smiles. Listen, I want you and your da to go home and see that the lamb gets buried proper yeah?”

The boy smiled through his sobs. Nefydd helped him up and tenderly nudged him toward Udy.

“Udy, make sure you keep your family and herds well away from this drop until Grijolhd and I can... ah, fence this off.” Nefydd flicked a silverfish to the shepherd, who grabbed the coin, nodded and led his son towards their home.

Nefydd and Grijolhd watched Udy and his son until they were out of earshot. Even then, they spoke only in whispers.

“Bloody, bloody hammer of Ganim!” Grijolhd spat at the ground.

“I think Aeremas is pissing on us right now,” Nefydd grimaced and removed his eyepiece. “Wish it was a damned tremor that did this.”

“A bloody gods damned bulette!” Grijolhd spat again.

“I wonder what brought it up this far Grij? And why in the infernal hells didn't it take that lamb?”

“Aye, weird. Only a week out on the Trim, and we've already got more excitement than a few lads in a brothel for their first plucking.”

“Speak for yourself Grij.”

Both man and dwarf laughed, breaking their whispered nervousness.

“We'll go back to the village and come up with a gods damned plan.”

“Yeah Grij. I'll have to send a pigeon to Anthin. We need help with this one.”

“Help? More like a gods damned divine intervention.”

“Lets not bring the gods and damnation into this.”

“Damnation!? We may already be there lad, bathed in the acid of five stomachs!”

“Six Grij, the bastards have six.”

Glossary-

Aeremas- god of travel and luck, and sometimes... protection

Bulette- a horrid monstrosity that burrows through the earth, having a beak shaped head and strong jaws, four strong legs with claws, specimens can grow up to 20 feet long, standing 12 feet tall

A pubby on Bulettes can be found here (pubby- publication)

armspan- a length of measure, approximately 2 feet

Trim- term for the outlying provinces of Anfekor, also known as The Fringe

Ganim- a god of the dwarves

silverfish- one of the currencies of Anfekor, a silver coin

Tales of a Failing Empire

Humanity does not live long enough to grasp the import of history. Your boundless optimism continues to drive you to new heights, which is impressive. But it blinds you to the far-reaching consequences of your quest for greatness. Perhaps you view the past as shackles to your amibitions, as the one foul smelling wastrel that can ruin your great revelry in living. Ware the past, and use it to guide the future. Can you not see the patterns of atrophy and extirpation that plague us all?

-Eruirdyn, elven scholar and explorer

Nefydd Foulkes watched as the town burned, the wooden walls finally catching fire as the outer buildings collapsed. His vantage point from the hill was uncontested, the corpses of several men lay about him. The crows circled above the conflagration, their patterns of ascent occasionally molested by a plains hawk. Some had left the aerial congregation and were now picking at some of the corpses. Nefydd's most recent employer, the merchant Cormac, was among them.

That's what comes of a swing at peaceful negotiations, Nefydd mused. It was a crossbow bolt that took the merchant in the throat. Definitely an ex-soldier or disgruntled militia. Cormac, you should've taken my advice and run.

Nefydd was a man of average build with dirty blonde hair that was just growing out of the close cropped stage. His nose was large, and broken at least once. It was his helm that really made him stand out, the visor had built in lenses made from one of the glassworks at Kelmaranse. Nefydd's vision was, he reckoned, one of his many shortfalls. But his swordsmanship was better than average, which, he thought, was one of the reasons why he was still standing and the others, alas, were not.

Another crucial factor to Nefydd's survival was standing 50 paces to his right. The dwarf Grijolhd, was a natural bender of magicks, known in the professional schools of magery as a sorcerer. His hair was black as a raven, and his beard was cut shorter than most dwarves, with striking streaks of grey. Despite his heritage, Grijolhd's physique was not impressive; a lanky upper body disproportionate to his muscular, stocky legs.

“If we were thriving 'adventurers,' we would loot these bastards and be done with it. But since the entire economy of the Bright Empire has taken a dive down a cracked garderobe, we may as well bugger that option,” Grijolhd spat on the scorched ground beside him, “Not to mention looting men who were driven to desparation sours my luminous disposition.”

“Grij, we never really looted, not even on our tomb runs. No sense in starting now,” Nefydd's smile was gone, his head turning back to observe the growing inferno. “It's finally coming apart. Even though I had the sickly anticipation, I couldn't quite grasp the dissolution.”

“Aye Nefydd, the breakdown boggled your charming pessimism eh? Let's get marching, before more pissed off townsfolk, er, former townsfolk show up.”

“I wonder if the 'enthusiasm' has spread.”

“Neffer, I wouldn't be surprised. I think anarchy on this level is its own special kind of madness. The kind that breeds plague.”

“Grij, let me pay my respects to Cormac before we go.”

“Aye lad, there is that.” Grijolhd spat again, this time hitting the forehead of a corpse. “While I pay mine,” he whispered.

Half-Baked Campaign- Dragon Tales of Abviok

Arsi 4^th cycle, 3279, The Archer's Draw

'Our mages routed the great wyrm, driving it into the mountains. We lost two cohorts of archers to the thing. Our cavalry was useless. It took to the air. The sage Vadrensil's tome was nigh worthless. Our archmage, Cheniel, will endeavor to draw the creature back down the valley into an enfilade from our fortlets. She departs tomorrow and insists that no one is to accompany her. I will have some of our best scouts shadow her at the very least.'

Arsi 4^th cycle, 3279, The Owl's Lament

'Cheniel is gone. Our hearts are troubled that she goes alone. The skies were clear. I thank Thelinar for such small blessings. Yet every sentry squinted at the blue expanse, expecting the dread creature to materialize out of the aether. I will see the elder one more time, he is delirious I think, some of the guard wish him to be euthanised, but perhaps through the delirium I can discern something.'

Arsi 4^th cycle, 3279, The Lynx Track

'The old one is gone, he departed for the Vale as is the way of things when the cycles draw to their close. I will miss the strange elnisari.* But his last words to me leave my mien troubled. 'Only in devastation will you see the maw open. The mother grieves even in bloodshed.' I have arranged for the acolytes to sing the song of farewell and send him to the Valediction Aerie.

3279, The Wind's Embrace

'Our patrol found Cheniel's remains along with two of our scouts I sent to watch her. She was mostly bones, the forearms remained, as did the hands. Vantar, one of our eldest scouts said the beast is toying with us. He believes in the old superstitions, but we saw the monster bleed on the field did we not? Our mages astride their mighty gryphons burned its flesh, and it fled! I have relieved Vantar of his duty and sent him elsewhere.'

3279, The Crag's Breath

Our northern fortlets are decimated. It was a slaughter. It appears the garrisons were massacred in the early hours before sunrise. Every male, every female. Throats slit, necks broken. There was a certain economy in the butchery. Every blow was meant to be fatal. The mages are all unaccounted for. I fear their fate is as Cheniel's.  Does this beast control demons?

3279, The Moon's Shadow

The beast has returned. It attacked our remaining mages with a wizardry of its own. Something I have not seen before. Themselves, their mounts, turned to dust in the air. The forward elements were covered in their remains as they fell from the sky. Ashen, pale, covering helms, cloaks, and armor. Some fled in fear. A great green mist arose among our archers, they died gasping, asphyxiated by foul magicks. It unleashed its fearsome breath, and entire cohorts fell under its blistering steam. Not once did it touch the ground. Never have I seen its like.

3279, The Moon's Shadow

The remaining fortlets have fallen, despite the double guards and extra vigilance. I shall sound the retreat. We must leave this valley, or face annihilation.

-Excerpt from an elven journal, author unknown, it's age is a guess, but I would think it predates any elvish literature we have translated or stored in the Logist Archives.

I believe this is an accounting of a dragon attack upon one of the mountain holdings, perhaps even before the rise of Elende'. Of course, my colleagues scoff at this notion, since a dragon has not been sighted since Anfekor's inception, and are believed to be extinct. The elven ambassador has taken it up with our magistrate, stating that we have no right to hold such a valuable artifact of their culture.  I have hired the Klangeshi to guard the elven wing of the archives. While I believe the decree will lean in our favor, I know how persnickety these elves can be when it comes to humans holding some of their writings.

- Angus Thermost, Sage of Blackwood University, City of Perhgath, Anfekor.

*elnisari- elvish, means 'elder kin,' denoting one of their kind who is considerably advanced in age