keoghtom’s ointment, leveled

September 21st, 2011

Keoghtom’s Woad
This foul-smelling blue ointment, brewed by barbarian hill tribes, doesn’t immediately have its normal effect of curing one disease or poison effect or granting one healing surge when applied; its effects are delayed until the recipient spends a free action to activate them. The effect ends when used or at the end of the day.

My old houserules for leveling magic items mean that every piece of magical treasure has the potential to gain power in ways that the players can’t predict. Furthermore, WOTC recently invented the concept of the “rare magic item,” but haven’t given us lots of examples.

While some items may get mechanically better (for instance, a +1 sword becomes a +2 sword), it’s more challenging to improve items that don’t have numeric bonuses. I thought I’d go through the Wondrous Items in the 4e Player’s Handbook and give examples of how each could gain powers that reflect their history.

Also, until the end of the day, the user has a +2 item bonus to Intimidate checks and a -4 penalty to Stealth checks, due to being bright blue and stinky.

A pot of Keoghtom’s Ointment “levels up” to Keoghtom’s Woad by being tinkered with by a barbarian shaman.

Keoghtom’s Ointment for the Eyes
If this ointment is smeared on the eyes, the user gains darkvision and has +2 item bonus to perception checks for five minutes. Also, all skill checks, defenses and saving throws vs. illusion have a +5 item bonus during this period.

The process of leveling up this ointment involves collecting “Corellon’s tears,” whatever they are. The fairies are said to know, but they’re so frustrating to talk to.

Prismaticus’s Keoghtom’s patented bracing all-purpose ointment, pick me up, and healthy dessert
This ointment can restore two healing surges instead of one. It can grant a character temporary healing surges above his or her normal maximum. Bonus surges above the normal maximum expire after five minutes.

While recipients of this ointment are above their normal healing surge limit, they experience buzzing in the ears, arcane tingling, and a feeling of frantic excitement. Basic attacks are made with a +1 bonus to hit. Athletics gets a +2 item bonus. All other skills are at -2.

The mountebank Prismaticus the Magnificent knows how to turn an ordinary pot of Keoghtom’s Ointment into his patent medicine, but he won’t share his recipe, although he does admit that the ingredients might be highly illegal.

Next week: three versions of Dust of Appearance! If I can think of three.

monte cook back at wizards

September 20th, 2011

Looks like Wizards has rehired Monte Cook, giving him an R&D job. I think this is a great move: 3e was an amazing achievement, and Monte is a thoughtful game designer who is going to challenge the 4e developers. It’s hard to follow a great product like 3e (or 1e for that matter) without either rebelling and rejecting a lot of good stuff, or slavishly imitating even non-essential details. Since Monte is a 3e insider, he should have a pretty good perspective on what 4e can learn from 3e, and what 3e did wrong.

And doing a project like Dungeon a Day has got to sharpen your design chops. Monte must be near, or beyond, the Gladwell number of 10,000 hours of game design.

Monte, Skip Williams, and Jonathan Tweet are all on my D&D dream team. I admit, I sometimes conflate the three designers into one frankenstein Monte Skiptweet: which is the one who flipped coins to determine NPC gender in a module he was writing? Which is the one who wrote a criticism of the 3.5 edition? Which is the one with the beard?

I was inspired by the news of Monte’s hiring to catch up on his blog, and found this post:

I want to make special mention of one purchase, and that was the book, Cheers, Gary. This is a book whose proceeds go to the Gygax Memorial fund, and I think that’s an awesome cause.

I spent a lot of time working the Gen Con booth, but I did occasionally step away. One time I took 20 minutes to wander the exhibition hall, and when I got back, my boothmate Jason said, “You just missed Monte Cook. He just came by and bought a book.” So I missed my chance to autograph a book for him, and to get his autograph.

The Dark Ride

September 19th, 2011

are you brave enough?

Recently I rode a cheesy amusement-park haunted house ride. Among its decades-old self-advertisements was, “Are you brave enough for the Dark Ride?“. “Dark Ride” struck me as good phrase. I wondered what it might mean in my D&D campaign.

The first thing I thought is that it was an expression for death, as in “I thought we were going to take the Dark Ride that time for sure!” But the problem with expressions is that NPCs are the only ones who say them, and only when the DM has prepared NPC dialogue ahead of time, which I tend not to do.

Then I thought that horses riding through dark tunnels might be pretty harrowing. Your average horse is not going to gallop around in a tunnel, so maybe there is some breed of underground horse with darkvision. Maybe they’re used for transportation in the Underdark. Sounds like the beginnings of a fast-travel system.

The Dark Ride, though, doesn’t sound like a generic term for mounted travel in the Underdark. It sounds like a specific experience – and a dangerous one. Let’s say that there is a series of tunnels. At the end of each tunnel is a stable. When you need to travel really quickly, you mount a dark horse and gallop through ancient tunnels that have never seen light. The problem is, there are things that live in the tunnels: things that eat the horses, and their riders. If these creatures chase you, it’s a mad marathon race for safety: the Dark Ride.

What are these creatures? No one has ever seen them, because it’s pitch black in the tunnels and any light blinds and paralyzes the horses. But the creatures are audible. An encounter with the tunnel creatures will probably be a skill challenge, not a combat, and it will be conducted with non-visual cues: “The shrieking is getting louder, they sound like they are right behind you.” “The rotting smell is getting stronger.” “You can feel your horse is close to blind panic.” “You hear a horse scream behind you, and a series of cracking sounds. The horse’s scream goes on and on.”

This tunnel system doesn’t seem like something that belongs in the Underdark, but it actually seems like it could be a good fit for the Feydark. The Feydark, the Feywild mirror of the Underdark, is a 4e invention that, until now, never inspired in me a glimmer of interest. But it might actually work as a scene of undefined horror from which you can only run. Also, the blind, skill-challenge-based travel of the Dark Ride fits in with my idea that travel through Fairyland is not something that you can map.

Who takes the risks of the Dark Ride? Eladrin messengers, I suppose, who are willing to hazard their lives to get somewhere in a few hours, rather than deal with the unpredictability of conventional fey travel. Even the great lords of the fey shun the Dark Ride. I have a feeling, though, that if they have to be, the fey lords might be a match for the creatures. Therefore, let’s say that a combat encounter with the monsters of the Dark Ride might be high-paragon level. The skill challenge of escaping the riders, however, is suitable for any level.

Rules for the Dark Ride

Every fey lord has an access point to the Dark Tunnels, and most have a stables. The stables are behind great metal gates, and are perfectly safe. Once you enter the Dark Tunnels, and the gates close behind you, though, you are in danger of being discovered by the creatures of the tunnels.

DARK HORSES:
Dark horses hate light, and if they see any, they are immobilized (save ends). They travel incredibly quickly. Their exact movement rate is not relevant, but they can get anywhere in the world in less than a day.

CREATURES OF THE TUNNELS:
The creatures of the tunnels can smell horses, and have a pretty good chance of finding travelers. Make a saving throw; on a success, the PCs get to their destination without incident. On a failure, the creatures begin to pursue the party.

THE DARK RIDE:
If creatures find the party, run a level-appropriate skill challenge to escape them. Dungeoneering, finding shortcuts to the destination, will provide successes; Nature or Insight can be used to calm and control the horses; Perception can be used to give a bonus to the next Dungeoneering check; a group Athletics check can speed the horses; and one success can be granted without a roll if a PC tries a clever idea.

On a success, the PCs get to their destination, the gates open for them, and bang shut before the creatures can follow them.

On a failure, the PCs will find themselves in an awkward situation. They probably can’t fight the creatures; they will have a followup skill challenge to escape while the horses are being eaten. If they succeed, they will be able to escape, days later and with a significant loss of resources and healing surges, possibly in the wrong Fey court.

If the party fails the second skill challenge, they will have to face a very difficult fight, the object of which should be to escape rather than succeed.

i just rolled up the best dmpc ever

September 16th, 2011

This week I ran an OD&D game in preparation for possibly DMing at Arneson Gameday. The PCs pooled their money and announced they had enough to get a hireling.

I offered them a candidate, a fighting man named “Huckabear” (I’m not always great with on-the-spot names).

The PCs wanted to get a sense of how strong Huckabear was, even though strength has no mechanical effect in OD&D besides a lousy XP bonus, so I rolled up his strength. 18. The PCs hired him then and there.

Really, the most important stat for a hireling is hit points, so I rolled them up: 1d6+1 for a level 1 fighter. I rolled a 6 on the die. Then I rolled his Constitution: 17. He had 8 HP, the unlikely maximum for a level 1 OD&D character.

All these rolls were in the open, by the way, and the players were freaking out. This musclebound, Conan-like fighter was a far better character than any of them. I’m usually careful not to run an NPC ally who outshines the characters, and I was seeing one form before my eyes, one d6 roll at a time.

Later, the PCs met an enchanted princess. They wanted to make a good impression, so they asked me: was Huckabear as charming as he was strong? I rolled up his Charisma – out in the open again. Three sixes. Another 18. They sent him in to talk with the princess. Negotiations went well. Huckabear even rolled well on his reaction rolls.

Huckabear’s character sheet:
Huckabee, level 1 fighting man
HP 8, Ac 2 (plate mail and shield)
Str 18
Int 17
Wis 15
Con 17
Dex 13
Cha 18
Huckabear might be my group’s new Chuck Norris. “There used to be a street named after Huckabear, but it was changed because no one crosses Huckabear and lives.”

Huckabear was looking like he might be the only character I ever rolled up that could honestly qualify for the first-edition Paladin class. Too bad the Paladin hadn’t been invented yet.

Just for curiosity, we rolled up the rest of Huckabear’s stats. These weren’t as memorable, but were still statistically unlikely enough to be met with incredulity and mirth. He got a 17 intelligence (far smarter than the party wizards), 15 wisdom, and, the real letdown, only a 13 dexterity (still enough to get the +1 to missile attacks). We joked that Huckabear never had his sword out because his hands were constantly full with a lantern, ten-foot pole, sextant (“how can Huckabear even see the sky in the dungeon?” “Oh, Huckabear can do it”) – astrolabe, lute, and the score to the new opera he was working on.

Halfway through the dungeon, one of the PCs was killed by an ochre jelly, and took over Huckabear as a PC (and who wouldn’t want to?) In his first combat, he spent the first round putting down his ten-foot-pole, opera, etc. and lighting a torch. In the second round, he attacked the ochre jelly. Rolled a natural 20. Rolled a 6 on the d6 damage roll. It wasn’t my dice that made Huckabear great. It was Huckabear.

cheers, gary sold out

September 14th, 2011

We’re officially sold out of the first print run of Cheers, Gary. I’m not sure exactly how many the Gygax Memorial Fund printed (two or three hundred? When we were carrying the boxes into the Gen Con exhibitors’ hall, it felt like more.) We sold most of them at Gen Con, and over the last two weeks, sold the last 50 or so online. The only copy left in my house is my own dog-eared personal copy.

My apologies to anyone who ordered a copy and hasn’t gotten it yet. We just sent out the last orders yesterday, so even now, words of Gygax wisdom may be winging their way to your house.

If you’d still like one, I think the Gygax Fund is planning a second printing: hardcover, with an index and ISBN number this time. Sounds deluxe. Since they’ll be hardcover, I un-volunteer to schlepp around the boxes next Gen Con.

This was my first experience selling something I had a hand in making, and it’s been magic. I feel like people have been kinder about my editorial choices than I perhaps deserve. I’m glad everyone went easy on a first-time editor and bookseller, and that everyone from the Memorial Fund was so supportive and helpful. And I hope that everyone who got a copy enjoys reading the Gygax voice again.

The NOOOO! Rule

September 12th, 2011

Following up on the hilarious news that George Lucas “fixed” Return of the Jedi by ADDING a Darth Vader “NOOOO!” (instead of removing one from Revenge of the Sith), here’s a Darth Vader-influenced D&D rule:

When someone announces an action that is sure to lead to disastrous consequences (whether it be a party member with poor judgment or the villain) (but it will probably be a party member), any PC may try to make an immediate interrupt action. The interruptor must make a special initiative roll, which must be below the interruptee’s current initiative. If successful, the PC may take a single action: a charge, a grab, or a basic attack. On a hit, no damage is inflicted, but the interruptee loses his or her turn.

The price:

1) The interruptor spends an action point [or, in pre-4e, loses the next turn], whether or not the initiative roll is successful, and

2) the interruptor must either do an impression of or play a clip of Darth Vader shouting “NOOOO!” on a phone, ipod, or other device.

identical advisors

September 9th, 2011

I liked The Warlock In Spite of Himself when I was a kid. Rereading it, I see a few more flaws than I did. The one that bothers me the most is the colloquial, already-dated topical references in a story that’s supposed to be three thousand years after the present day.

Here are some of the jokes that people will still get in 3000 years:

“This was as dark as Carlsbad before the tourists came.”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly qualify for first chair in the Philharmonic, but…”

“Matter of fact, she was stacked like a Las Vegas poker deck.”

There are good moments, though: for instance, all of the nobles come with their own creepy alien Wormtongue advisors:

Next to each of the great lords sat a slight, wiry, wizened little man, an old man; each had an almost emaciated face, with burning blue eyes, and a few wisps of hair brushed flat over a leathery skull. Councillors? Rod wondered. Strange that they all looked so much alike.

In a D&D campaign, I think I’d have it become apparent that none of the nobles knew that the advisors were there.

Sending Stones, leveled

September 7th, 2011

Malice’s Returning Sending Stone:
One of these stones is red and one is black. The holder of the red stone may, as a free action, summon the black stone to his other hand.

My old houserules for leveling magic items mean that every piece of magical treasure has the potential to gain power in ways that the players can’t predict. Furthermore, WOTC recently invented the concept of the “rare magic item,” but haven’t given us lots of examples.

While some items may get mechanically better (for instance, a +1 sword becomes a +2 sword), it’s more challenging to improve items that don’t have numeric bonuses. I thought I’d go through the Wondrous Items in the 4e Player’s Handbook and give examples of how each could gain powers that reflect their history.

This stone was upgraded by Malice the warlock, whose typically incompetent goblin operatives were always dying on missions. Malice couldn’t be bothered to mount all sorts of expeditions to reclaim her sending stone off goblin corpses.

Enslaving Sending Stones
These sending stones “level up” when their owner learns how to read the tiny runes inscribed on the stones. One of the stones is called the Master Stone and one is the Slave Stone. Once a day, the holder of the Master Stone may use a command word in conjunction with the Sending Stone’s normal power. He or she may make an Int, Wis, or Cha attack, with bonuses for any implement used, on everyone within burst 3 of the Slave Stone. If the attack is successful, the listener is stunned (save ends). If the listener fails the first save, he or she is compelled to follow the command. The listener doesn’t get normal saving throws at the end of each turn against the command, but actions that grant extra saving throws (like heal checks) might be able to end the effect early. Commanded creatures don’t know that their behavior is unusual until the effect ends.

The command word may or may not involve a nice game of solitaire.

Spy’s Sending Stones:
Besides speaking to its sibling, the Spy’s Stone allows, as a once-per-day standard action, the user to send a message of up to 25 words to anyone in 100 miles, as with the Sending ritual. The subject must be adjacent to a stone (on the ground or in a wall, for instance) or the sending fails. The stone speaks the message, and anyone within 5 squares can hear it. Until the beginning of the caster’s next turn, the subject may, as a standard action, send a reply of up to 25 words through the same stone.

Used by spies for generations, the Sending Stones finally found its way into the hands of Brasslung, a dwarven cleric, who used it to send fake “messages from the God of Stone” to members of his clan. Brasslung is currently the High Priest of the God of Stone, and rich.

Next weeek: three versions of Keoghtom’s Ointment.

time as a pc resource

September 5th, 2011

I started thinking about D&D timekeeping while reading my swagged copy of Adventurer Conqueror King on the plane back from Gencon.

There’s all sorts of rules in 1e D&D that require timekeeping: monthly cost of hirelings; spell research; recovery of HP; taxes; building; aging; income from lands. All that stuff is notable in its absence from modern D&D, and seems like it might be a fun addition to paragon-level 4e D&D. The problem is, tracking the passage of days and weeks is not something I do as a DM in 4e, any more than tracking players’ alignments or using charts to determine the weather each morning. I have an inefficient brain and I always forget anything that can be forgotten (I like to dignify this process with the title “streamlining the rules.”)

What if timekeeping were turned over to the players to track? Well, unless time passing were interesting in some way, they wouldn’t do it. What if time were a resource to manage, and they got some benefit from spending it?

Let’s say that, at the end of any session, the players may choose to spend a month. They can only do this if they’re at a home base where they can reasonably hang out – not if they’re in the middle of a combat or a dungeon. They may only spend one month per session, and they don’t have to spend one at all if they don’t want to.

The DM can also spend one or more months during a session, if, for instance, the PCs are travelling uneventfully.

What do the characters get when they spend a month?

  • Why not give them some XP? This would represent training and research outside of the adventure – the way normal people level up. If you gave PCs 3% of the XP towards the next level per month, that would be enough for totally sedentary PCs to get to level 10 over the course of a 30-year career. You could set this up as a money drain. In order to get the benefit of monthly training, they need to spend some amount of money on books/training/carousing.
  • Income from lands! This makes lands and titles an actual type of treasure, not a purely roleplaying reward.
  • Building! Even dwarven engineers can’t upgrade your fort overnight.
  • Politics moves at this scale. A month might be the amount of time it takes for a kingdom to raise an army, a spy to report back from a mission, or a caravan or army to travel from one kingdom to another.
  • Crazy long-lasting magical effects (that are compatible with normal adventuring)! Make a save at the end of every month to see if you are still under the love spell of the Lady of the Fey Grove. On a failure, you spend your non-adventuring time hawking and balladeering with her, and you won’t hear a word against her.
  • If you’re wanted by the law, you might want to lay low for a month or two until the heat dies down.

    Of course, time also takes a toll…

  • Taxes and rents! At low levels, PCs are more likely to have monthly expenses than monthly income, so low-level parties might not want to spend time willy nilly.
  • Aging! In a long-running campaign, a human might actually grow up, maybe have kids. Elves, of course, wouldn’t change at all.

    This system is unlikely to kill off your characters from old age, since, for a weekly group, time passes, at most, at around four times the rate of real time. In fact, between missed sessions and sessions ended in the dungeon, game time is likely to go about the same speed as real time.

    The Month resource allows us some options:

  • I love in-game festivals! If time is actually passing, you can non-arbitrarily have, say, a harvest festival come up, or the dead rise during an eclipse.
  • We could decide that all effects of an extended rest – replenishment of daily powers, full healing – only take place when players spend a month. Sleeping overnight might have some lesser benefit, like getting back some number of surges.
  • You can have time-based campaign challenges. Maybe the orcs raid every winter when their food stores run out. Maybe the treaty with the Empire expires in three months.
  • buying magic items might cost more than money

    September 2nd, 2011

    Luck in the Shadows

    Luck in the Shadows


    “What’s all this?” Seregil whispered as the bowyer went to adjust the wands.
    “I’ve heard it said that he won’t sell a Black to anyone who can’t hit all three targets,” Alec whispered back, strapping a leather guard to his left forearm.
    -Luck in the Shadows by Lynn Flewellin

    This is not a bad idea for marrying two seemingly incompatible goals: making magic items feel special while providing a convenient way for the players to buy them.

    Let’s say Bann the Bowyer makes the best bows. He sells +1 (Bann’s Blacks), +2 (Bann’s Special Blacks), and +3 (Bann’s Special Reserve) bows. To earn the right to buy one of the bows, you need to hit a difficult AC on 3 out of 4 shots with your basic attack. The AC for buying each class of bow is 20, 25, and 30 respectively. (When you’re making your shots, you get to use the bow you’re interested in.)

    Bann works in a small village, so he doesn’t have much protection against robbers beyond the archery skill of him and his apprentices; but he can inflict Bann’s Curse on thieves: “Every time you draw arrow it will hunger for your friend’s heart.” (A natural 1 with any bow attack auto-hits an ally. The curse ends when you return Bann his stolen property.) “My bows have been stolen before,” says Bann, “but they have a way of coming back to me.”