I've been privy to the D&D Next playtest notes for a few months now, but since they're public, I can say finally what my ongoing impression of the new rules is:
D&D Next reads like somebody's campaign house rules that they've been assembling over the past few decades, cherry-picking from each edition things they like and discarding what they don't. That doesn't make it a bad thing, but you may already be playing D&D Next and not know it. Only time will tell whether the customer base wants to play the "official" house rules or not.
In the meanwhile, don't forget to playtest my new game once the "new car smell" of D&D Next wears off.
Showing posts with label not-so-secret societies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label not-so-secret societies. Show all posts
Friday, May 25, 2012
Friday, April 13, 2012
The October County: Les Rouge Soeurs
If you spend enough time around the bayas of Snakewater Swamp, sooner or later you’ll hear tales of the loup-garou, a nasty piece of work that haunts the backwaters and lonely roads late at night. Chances are, especially if you’re from Earth, you’re already thinking you know what ol’ loup is. You’d be wrong.
Old loup-garou is a man or woman who went bad...real bad. So bad that when they died, not even Hell wanted a piece of them and so they walk the world of the living, angry, mean, and hungry. You can tell a loup-garou easy: he’s got a wolf’s skull for a head and is wrapped in the burial shroud they put him in the ground in. He’s got long claws and razor-sharp teeth, and he likes nothing more than a dainty bit of woman flesh to chew on. Fact is, old loup will stalk a woman a’fore he’d stalk a man. That’s usually bad news for a woman or girl caught out after dark when he’s on the prowl.
But loup-garou has met his match a few times when he thought he’d spotted a helpless waif alone in the dark. Sometimes it’s due to sheer luck; other times it’s because that helpless maiden was more than she seemed and knew what lurked out in the night. But the worst bit of news for a hungry loup-garou is that the little bit of girl he planned to put the bite on is one of the les Rouge Soeurs.
Nobody can recall who started the les Rouge Soeurs (otherwise known as the Red Sisters to those who don’t habla the patois of the baya). Nobody outside the Sister that is; those who bear the crimson could tell you, but it ain’t likely unless they’re welcoming you into their krewe—and they’re only doing that if you’re a woman who got one over on old loup-garou.
Les Rouge Soeurs specialized in hunting loup-garou, bringing the fight to those critters with fire, silver, and mirrors. You can recognize one of the Rouge Soeurs by the red cloaks and dyed leather armor they wear. They usually ride chestnuts, sorrels, or palominos when they can find them and seat them with red saddles tooled with silver. Almost all the Sisters carry firearms, but each is a master with a blade as well. They work in teams of five or six, with each krewe responsible for a large region, oftentimes covering many hundreds of miles in area. Each group reports to a superior known as Grand-mère who works to coordinate her team with other krewes of les Rouge Soeurs to hunt down and destroy loup-garou wherever they might lurk.
Les Rouge Soeurs only recruit woman and teenage girls who have survived a loup-garou attack. For many of these victims, the sense of sisterhood offered by membership in
les Rouge Soeurs, combined with the skills and tactics they learn upon initiation, helps them cope with psychological trauma they face in the wake of an attack and forges them into self-confident, powerful women. With this empowerment, few have any desire to return to the world and society they knew before they met their monster.
Although they specialize in loup-garou,
les Rouge Soeurs will hunt other dangerous creatures, especially those that victimize the young, old, or defenseless. They have an uneasy relationship with the Rambling Men and occasionally work with one of those travelling troubadours when their interests coincide, but the personalities and the misogynistic attitudes that some Rambling Men have tend to make those partnerships short-lived.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
The October Country: The Cargo Cult
Those residents of the October Country who originally hail from Earth know of the cargo cults that arose in South Pacific following the Second World War. However, those born in the Autumnal Lands are aware of another quasi-religious phenomenon that shares the same name.
Signs of the cult are not common, but do pervade almost every known trade route and method throughout the October Country. On rattling railcars bound for the Lightning Lands, on moss-covered boats plying the Snakewater Swamp, and on the beasts of burden driven by the nuleskinners of the Brackish, the signs are there: parcels, crates, and barrels chipped with travel and bearing any number of near-illegible labels and mystic symbols. Always treated with care, these containers move from town to town, never finding a final address at anyplace they go.
The origin of the cult is uncertain, but scholars have pieced together some background. In his work Transient Religions Under the Frost Moon, Professor Caspar Gellkillerson records the most commonly told tales regarding the cargo cult and is considered the primary reference source for all theologians interested in the study of this religion.
According to Gellkillerson, the cargo cult began when a large packing crate bearing certain High Magic sigils of protection was laden onto a wagon bound for the City of Candles. When the wagon arrived in the city, it was learned that the addressee had died, leaving no next of kin to receive it. The caravan master, as is custom, could claim the crate and all it contained as his own if no legal claimant was found. After a week passed with no such challenger appearing, the caravan master paid a magician to inspect the symbols prior to opening the crate. Upon seeing the glyphs, the magician backed away in fear and warned the caravan master that powerful protective charms were in place, ones that spelled doom for whoever dared to open the box if they were not “of the selected brood.”
The caravan master tried unsuccessfully to pass the crate onto other unsuspecting parties, but they always became aware of the warnings protecting the crate and refused to take it off of his hands. Finally, in desperation, the caravan master had it shipped back to its town of origin, thus beginning a process that continues to this day.
The crate arrived back from whence it came, but the original shipper could not be found. The poor depot clerk who accepted the crate soon found himself in the same situation as the caravan master. It took him two weeks, but he eventually smuggled the crate onto a riverboat headed north and dusted his palms of the problem. In each new place the crate arrived, the process was repeated and the box, now showing signs of wear and tear, and covered with faded shipping labels, continues its endless journey looking for someone “of the selected brood” to take possession of it once and for all.
In time, other containers joined the original crate under similar situations. Some are no doubt “copy cat” shipments sent by pranksters who heard the tale of the crate and mocked up their own with fake sigils and blatantly erroneous addressees, but others bear the same fearful warnings etched upon their wooden exteriors. More telling that these containers were of legitimate origin was the effects produced when two or more crates found themselves in close proximity in a warehouse, riverboat, or railcar.
When multiple containers come near one another, unnatural events occur. Spontaneous growths of vegetation, chilling fog banks, whispered songs sung in unidentifiable tongues, and other happenings have been reported. These so-called miracles were what created the first of the Cargo Cultists—men and women who reported seeing visions, receiving supernatural healing, and other mystical revelations when near the containers. These cultists continue their strange religion, often acting as unofficial (and often unwanted) guardians of these containers as they make their endless journeys. When several containers appear at the same location (always by happenstance for the Cultist never act to guide the boxes on their travels or determine where or when they will arrive), tent revivals spring up to attract the few but fervent believers the Cult has. There, the devoted witness miracles and testify about the coming of the One the Crates are Destined For.
The Cargo Cult is tolerated, mostly because they keep to themselves, pay the costs of keeping the crates moving, and are not a violent or proselytizing sect. They’re nevertheless considered one of the weirder religions in the Autumnal Lands and associating with it adherents (or worse, joining them) is a sure way to damage one’s prestige.
Signs of the cult are not common, but do pervade almost every known trade route and method throughout the October Country. On rattling railcars bound for the Lightning Lands, on moss-covered boats plying the Snakewater Swamp, and on the beasts of burden driven by the nuleskinners of the Brackish, the signs are there: parcels, crates, and barrels chipped with travel and bearing any number of near-illegible labels and mystic symbols. Always treated with care, these containers move from town to town, never finding a final address at anyplace they go.
The origin of the cult is uncertain, but scholars have pieced together some background. In his work Transient Religions Under the Frost Moon, Professor Caspar Gellkillerson records the most commonly told tales regarding the cargo cult and is considered the primary reference source for all theologians interested in the study of this religion.
According to Gellkillerson, the cargo cult began when a large packing crate bearing certain High Magic sigils of protection was laden onto a wagon bound for the City of Candles. When the wagon arrived in the city, it was learned that the addressee had died, leaving no next of kin to receive it. The caravan master, as is custom, could claim the crate and all it contained as his own if no legal claimant was found. After a week passed with no such challenger appearing, the caravan master paid a magician to inspect the symbols prior to opening the crate. Upon seeing the glyphs, the magician backed away in fear and warned the caravan master that powerful protective charms were in place, ones that spelled doom for whoever dared to open the box if they were not “of the selected brood.”
The caravan master tried unsuccessfully to pass the crate onto other unsuspecting parties, but they always became aware of the warnings protecting the crate and refused to take it off of his hands. Finally, in desperation, the caravan master had it shipped back to its town of origin, thus beginning a process that continues to this day.
The crate arrived back from whence it came, but the original shipper could not be found. The poor depot clerk who accepted the crate soon found himself in the same situation as the caravan master. It took him two weeks, but he eventually smuggled the crate onto a riverboat headed north and dusted his palms of the problem. In each new place the crate arrived, the process was repeated and the box, now showing signs of wear and tear, and covered with faded shipping labels, continues its endless journey looking for someone “of the selected brood” to take possession of it once and for all.
In time, other containers joined the original crate under similar situations. Some are no doubt “copy cat” shipments sent by pranksters who heard the tale of the crate and mocked up their own with fake sigils and blatantly erroneous addressees, but others bear the same fearful warnings etched upon their wooden exteriors. More telling that these containers were of legitimate origin was the effects produced when two or more crates found themselves in close proximity in a warehouse, riverboat, or railcar.
When multiple containers come near one another, unnatural events occur. Spontaneous growths of vegetation, chilling fog banks, whispered songs sung in unidentifiable tongues, and other happenings have been reported. These so-called miracles were what created the first of the Cargo Cultists—men and women who reported seeing visions, receiving supernatural healing, and other mystical revelations when near the containers. These cultists continue their strange religion, often acting as unofficial (and often unwanted) guardians of these containers as they make their endless journeys. When several containers appear at the same location (always by happenstance for the Cultist never act to guide the boxes on their travels or determine where or when they will arrive), tent revivals spring up to attract the few but fervent believers the Cult has. There, the devoted witness miracles and testify about the coming of the One the Crates are Destined For.
The Cargo Cult is tolerated, mostly because they keep to themselves, pay the costs of keeping the crates moving, and are not a violent or proselytizing sect. They’re nevertheless considered one of the weirder religions in the Autumnal Lands and associating with it adherents (or worse, joining them) is a sure way to damage one’s prestige.
Wildwyck County: The Black Magic Club
A little ahead of the era in which the Wildwyck County material appearing in the pages of Fight On! magazine is set, but Black Magic Club has its roots in the 1920s and its original incarnation will appear in the period Wildwyck County supplements.
Once a month, in the old wing of Rotskills’s Brodhead Library, a cabal of men and women gather after night fall. Herbal potions are brewed, elixirs sipped, and ceremonial foodstuffs consumed. When the preliminaries are completed, one of their members begins to speak, weaving a captivating spell.
This is no occult coven, however. It is a meeting of the finest storytellers in Wildwyck County. For nine decades, this group has met in the Freedman Reading Room on the night of the full moon to tell tall tales, trade old legends, and recount historical anecdotes regarding the town of Rotskill. Limited to a membership of thirteen, the Black Magic Club began at the onset of Prohibition. With liquor outlawed and the taverns forcibly shut, some young men formed private and semi-private social clubs to hide their alcohol consumption. The Black Magic Club was one such organization and the only one to remain after the repeal of the Eighteenth Amendment in 1933.
The club got its name from the quick retort one member uttered not long after the club’s formation. When pressed by his wife as to what he was doing out at such an hour, Caleb Brown, a founding member of the social club, sarcastically replied, “Black magic.” When he regaled his fellow members with the anecdote, the name stuck.
Although the club’s membership is limited, the group does host occasional seminars and open houses to raise awareness of the importance of preserving oral history and folklore. It is safe to say that, amongst its members, there is no greater repository of local legend and history in town. This doesn't mean that they are completely free with all their tales: some things are better forgotten—or at least restricted to a close circle of people best suited as custodians of such knowledge.
The Black Magic Club’s current membership is comprised of Michael Harris, librarian and town historian; Selma Andersen, president of the local chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution; Bill Miller, a retired chemistry teacher; Thomas Cook, lawyer; Albie Soape, bar owner; Jessica Allgoode, self-proclaimed “woman of leisure”; Freddie McDougal, auto mechanic; Cal Harris (no relation to Michael), theatre owner; Sebastian Smyth M.D., endocrinologist; Robert Ericson, author; Ellen Guinness, retired seamstress; Jake Forlin, college student; and Gordon Swims, former editor of the Rotskill Crier. It is likely that one or two openings in club membership will be forthcoming. Ellen Guinness has stage II liver cancer and Jake Forlin has one year remaining at the university. Forlin’s membership in the Club is a most unusual one. Previous members have all been long-time residents of Rotskill and most have been in their late thirties. The Club, as is its right, won’t comment on why Forlin was granted entrance into their esteem body.
The Black Magic Club has self-published several anthologies of popular local legends and stories. Copies of these books are available in the Brodhead Library’s collection and offered for sale at Brick Alley Books on Main Street.
Once a month, in the old wing of Rotskills’s Brodhead Library, a cabal of men and women gather after night fall. Herbal potions are brewed, elixirs sipped, and ceremonial foodstuffs consumed. When the preliminaries are completed, one of their members begins to speak, weaving a captivating spell.
This is no occult coven, however. It is a meeting of the finest storytellers in Wildwyck County. For nine decades, this group has met in the Freedman Reading Room on the night of the full moon to tell tall tales, trade old legends, and recount historical anecdotes regarding the town of Rotskill. Limited to a membership of thirteen, the Black Magic Club began at the onset of Prohibition. With liquor outlawed and the taverns forcibly shut, some young men formed private and semi-private social clubs to hide their alcohol consumption. The Black Magic Club was one such organization and the only one to remain after the repeal of the Eighteenth Amendment in 1933.
The club got its name from the quick retort one member uttered not long after the club’s formation. When pressed by his wife as to what he was doing out at such an hour, Caleb Brown, a founding member of the social club, sarcastically replied, “Black magic.” When he regaled his fellow members with the anecdote, the name stuck.
Although the club’s membership is limited, the group does host occasional seminars and open houses to raise awareness of the importance of preserving oral history and folklore. It is safe to say that, amongst its members, there is no greater repository of local legend and history in town. This doesn't mean that they are completely free with all their tales: some things are better forgotten—or at least restricted to a close circle of people best suited as custodians of such knowledge.
The Black Magic Club’s current membership is comprised of Michael Harris, librarian and town historian; Selma Andersen, president of the local chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution; Bill Miller, a retired chemistry teacher; Thomas Cook, lawyer; Albie Soape, bar owner; Jessica Allgoode, self-proclaimed “woman of leisure”; Freddie McDougal, auto mechanic; Cal Harris (no relation to Michael), theatre owner; Sebastian Smyth M.D., endocrinologist; Robert Ericson, author; Ellen Guinness, retired seamstress; Jake Forlin, college student; and Gordon Swims, former editor of the Rotskill Crier. It is likely that one or two openings in club membership will be forthcoming. Ellen Guinness has stage II liver cancer and Jake Forlin has one year remaining at the university. Forlin’s membership in the Club is a most unusual one. Previous members have all been long-time residents of Rotskill and most have been in their late thirties. The Club, as is its right, won’t comment on why Forlin was granted entrance into their esteem body.
The Black Magic Club has self-published several anthologies of popular local legends and stories. Copies of these books are available in the Brodhead Library’s collection and offered for sale at Brick Alley Books on Main Street.
Friday, March 2, 2012
The October County: The Czech
Like any close group, the counter-intelligence community has its own myths and legends. Ask an old Cold Warrior about the “ninth helicopter of Operation Eagle Claw,” “the thalidomide briefcase,” or “the shark tank drop” and you’d get a knowing chuckle. No answers, but a laugh at least. However, should you ask about “The Czech,” that laughter would abruptly cease. To this day, whenever ex-CIA and former KGB cross paths, one will eventually turn to the other and say, “After all these years, you can finally come clean, Yuri. Tell me: was the Czech one of yours?” The reply is just as unavoidable: “That’s funny, Chuck. I was about to ask you the same thing.”
The man known as the Czech is as close to a boogeyman figure as you’ll find in the world of espionage. Only one photograph of him exists. Taken at Checkpoint Charlie in East Berlin in 1982, it shows a man in his early thirties dressed in a cheap East German suit. A gym bag is held in his left hand, upon which can be seen a fake Rolex and a small scar. His hair is dirty blonde and needs trimming. Steel-rimmed spectacles cover his brown eyes. He looks off to his right, calmly. At that crossing, he presented identification bearing the name “Dušek Czermakov” and showing his place of birth as Jince. It was from this incident that “The Czech,” who may not be Czechoslovakian at all, earned his name.
Since this early, tentative identification, the Czech has had numerous intelligence coups attributed to him by agencies on both sides of the Iron Curtain. When an impenetrable vault is found riffled, its contents missing, blame is placed on the Czech. The crashing of a secure computer network despite bulletproof security bears all the signs of being a “Czech job”, according to experts. As an operative once exclaimed, “It’s as if that asshole walks through fucking walls!” Some say this is actually the case…
The end of the Cold War and the general graying of the operatives who were active during those years should have led to a decline in the Czech’s activities, but that is proving not to be the case. If anything, he has become not only more active, but has enlarged his skill set, engaging in computer hacking, electronic counterfeiting, and black market art deals—if the rumors are to be believed, that it.
Most disconcerting for some are the several seconds of video taken by a CCTV outside the Preston Road tube station in London. This footage, although slightly pixilated, depicts a man in his early thirties wearing a wrinkled suit, a gym bag held in his left hand. Steel-rimmed spectacles cover his eyes and a fake Rolex is strapped to his left wrist. The presence of a scar on that hand is impossible to see due to video quality. Those familiar with the sole photograph of the Czech have been known to blanch when seeing the CCTV footage for the first time.
Although there is little crossover between those active in espionage here on Earth and those aware of the October County, one individual involved on both sides of the barrier attests to seeing the Czech present at a conclave of nobles held in the City of Candles during the earthly year of 1990, making it entirely possible that the Czech may indeed have access to abilities that far outstrip those of his fellow operatives.
The man known as the Czech is as close to a boogeyman figure as you’ll find in the world of espionage. Only one photograph of him exists. Taken at Checkpoint Charlie in East Berlin in 1982, it shows a man in his early thirties dressed in a cheap East German suit. A gym bag is held in his left hand, upon which can be seen a fake Rolex and a small scar. His hair is dirty blonde and needs trimming. Steel-rimmed spectacles cover his brown eyes. He looks off to his right, calmly. At that crossing, he presented identification bearing the name “Dušek Czermakov” and showing his place of birth as Jince. It was from this incident that “The Czech,” who may not be Czechoslovakian at all, earned his name.
Since this early, tentative identification, the Czech has had numerous intelligence coups attributed to him by agencies on both sides of the Iron Curtain. When an impenetrable vault is found riffled, its contents missing, blame is placed on the Czech. The crashing of a secure computer network despite bulletproof security bears all the signs of being a “Czech job”, according to experts. As an operative once exclaimed, “It’s as if that asshole walks through fucking walls!” Some say this is actually the case…
The end of the Cold War and the general graying of the operatives who were active during those years should have led to a decline in the Czech’s activities, but that is proving not to be the case. If anything, he has become not only more active, but has enlarged his skill set, engaging in computer hacking, electronic counterfeiting, and black market art deals—if the rumors are to be believed, that it.
Most disconcerting for some are the several seconds of video taken by a CCTV outside the Preston Road tube station in London. This footage, although slightly pixilated, depicts a man in his early thirties wearing a wrinkled suit, a gym bag held in his left hand. Steel-rimmed spectacles cover his eyes and a fake Rolex is strapped to his left wrist. The presence of a scar on that hand is impossible to see due to video quality. Those familiar with the sole photograph of the Czech have been known to blanch when seeing the CCTV footage for the first time.
Although there is little crossover between those active in espionage here on Earth and those aware of the October County, one individual involved on both sides of the barrier attests to seeing the Czech present at a conclave of nobles held in the City of Candles during the earthly year of 1990, making it entirely possible that the Czech may indeed have access to abilities that far outstrip those of his fellow operatives.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Speaking of Secret Handshakes...
Since I owe a great debt to Labyrinth Lord for reigniting my enthusaism for the B/X era of D&D and thereby causing the birth of Stonehell Dungeon, I've entered the ranks of the Labyrinth Lord Society. That and I wanted to get an early look at the Advanced Edition Companion.
Once I receive my golden fez and membership ring, the time of conversion shall commence in my local area. I might even have a few things to offer the Labyrinth Lord Society Newsletter too.
Once I receive my golden fez and membership ring, the time of conversion shall commence in my local area. I might even have a few things to offer the Labyrinth Lord Society Newsletter too.
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