Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Scrawl Session 3

Our heroes are in deep trouble, the party is split and things are looking rather unripe. A ramp has separated the two groups: Swann and Jestur and Malfor and Onilio. Alas how does it happen, sounds like a serious serious session with the good ol’ mantrap man. The Gods have not figured on how to get them out of there, thus we switch stories to Otilio and Malfor- the farmer still out from the fight with the Ettin. 
     Malfor coughed, his mind racing after the soul-ring grasped his consciousness from the lost worlds. Upon the brink of death the white-gold carried him forth, returning him to the realm of the living. We wakes but he is very weak, the ring pulling his consciousness from the brink of doom. It floated there and the metal surrounded his spirit until it rushed back to the mortal world of wonder, an greatness to behold. But Malfor returns incredibly weak and tired, barely able t carry his wondrous stuffings.
     Otilio heard the heroes fall down the hall. Heard the familiar slide, it was an old trick devised by a more intelligent culture, but he thought but could not place the magnificent tiles upon the service. The Gnorc entered the tomb from its eastern face, coming across it upon the cliff he scaled with a party. 
     The Gnorc, Otilio rushed down the corridor from where his new-found companions recently screamed from, he found nothing, the handle was on the base, he did notice the curtains waving a bit and the sand-marks of a drag or scuffle. 
     “They must be about here, I am sure of it” he thought to himself. Blazing forth toward the room, the Gnorc knew that this only meant doom to touch the torch but surely there was an alternate trigger. He noted about there was a sconce in the wall behind the torch
     Gnorc grabbed a length of rope, tying it about his waste and flung it over one of the railings supporting the curtains. Hanging himself from the waist he placed a torch upon the sconce. He felt a click, closed his eyes and hoped for the best. 

     Deep below Swann and Jestur fought flinging the remains of a former guest into the leech-flooding hole, they suddenly heard a clang, and the iris of the hole shut, slicing a leech in half.

Tuesday, December 31, 2013

The Logos Dungeon- Sessions 1 & 2

The Logos Dungeon- Summary of Sessions 1 & 2 using Dyson Logos's map, John Yorio's solo-play technique and Mark's rpgsolo.com amazing gm emulator. 

     A vision, a haunting dream of an open tomb, haunts the dreams of a magically-addicted scholar Igbold. His concubine sells the map that he scrawled in a night-terror stupor to the highest price at an Unnamed Tavern. 
     That highest price was to Jestur, a story-teller of ill-repute, a concoctor of tails and perhaps this very one. An former jester, he convinces the captain of a palace guard, Swann, to go into the business of treasure-hunting. 
     “Even a barbarian can do it!”
     “Barbarians have axes and rage”
     “Well I’ve got this!” Jestur responded, holding a wooden scepter with a jingles hanging from it.
     The two travel toward the location of said map, whereupon they come to a field of desolation, a promised crop gone horribly wrong, a tiny estate confiscated by the king. At the center is Malfor, a shattered farmer with a large bag, with all the tools of his now dead trade. Without much convincing he decides to join the troope. After all, as Jestur explains “Reaping monsters has got to be easier than reaping wheat!”
     After spending the night in camp, the neophyte-adventures venture forward to their destination- an opening in a cliff that glows at night like a beacon. Not many have talked about it, but surely it is the glow of gold. 
     “Too easy,” Swann remarked. 
     “Scared?” Jestur asked. 
     “No just putting you on your guard. It is a lovely shade of filthy rich is it not?”
     At the entrance to our yonder tomb, the trio find the walls lined in spectacular golden plates, each more valuable than the next. However something odd is amiss, the cave is crowded with riches. Pouches purses and packs lay piled high against the walls. 
     Thinking it is an offering, the three put their savings on the piles. 
     “One thing I know my friends is you take the gold when you are leaving!” Jestur gestured. 
     Moving south into the wide high tunnel something was amiss, the men of this accidental company faced a horrible monstrosity that had taken the cave as its refuge- an Ettin. A fierce battle was waged, where the Chivalier swung his sword but was dashed against a wall, dazed; the former-Jester threw bags of gold at the creature; the Farmer impaled and injured the creature but was so wounded he was lost from the battle and perhaps this world. A possible new ally, a tall greenish gnome fought mightily, strangely for his race, with an odd ferocity that none could compare. It was he who cleaved into one of the giant's heads, and continued to best it as our original comrades distracted it.
     Finally the fall of their most inculpable comrade, Malfor, the Farmer, drove the Chivalier to dare a splendid slice upon the creature- who fell barely missing Jestur.
     When the dust settled, the two survivors raced to their friend, seeing him on the brink of death. Gnome approached, Jestur realizing that he was not a gnome but a Gnorc- a gnomish with veins of orcish lineage. Taking a ring from his hand filled with rings, the Gnorc placed it upon the fallen, explaining it as a magical lure to the farmer's spirit. Not a way of catching but a way of catching souls.
     While Otilio, the Gnorc, attended to his patient, Jestur and Swann moved ahead in the tunnel. There they saw a wand burning brightly as a torch floating in the middle of a chamber that opened to the west of the corridor. Silk curtains tied with golden rings neatly invited the visitors. This Jestur found all too inviting, and despite warning from a shouting Otilio, he took the wand which was in reality a clever lever. Swann reacted instantly, as if saving the King himself, he rushed to Jestur and pulled him by the neck to escape the dividing stonewall.
     But it was too late and the two suddenly plummeted as the floor became a slide, carrying them to a dug-out chamber filled with sand. Locking them in place Jestur and Swann were not alone and they soon discovered that perhaps wearing armor in the desert sands is a good idea. For the floor moved and waved as hungry things snaked up and down toward them.
     Grabbing Jestur leg for a supper, the man screamed as Swann hacked at the creature.

Friday, December 27, 2013

An Inspired Dungeon Crawl

     The dungeon to come, the scrawled map on leather, scrawled upon by blood more than ink; had come to Ingabod in one of his maddened magical infusions. The rooms spilled out like tentacles about the eye, and when he woke, sliding beakers, decanters, books and scrolls to the side, he had absolutely no idea what he was looking at. Yet the woman who had the disgrace of sharing his bedchamber, and his loins, knew precisely what she was looking at. 
     She was looking at a purse of gold.
     So with delight, and to Ingabod’s surprise, she accepted his foot on her flank as he kicked her out of bed. But with a swoop and a yelp, she also took what the magic-addict had scared on the fine lamb’s skin (a piece had been torn to wrap about his member (just enough to keep his essence out of her, for fear of gaining more power than Ingabod) that place, that unknown place, that dwelled more in the madman’s mind than in the treasure-laden realms of the continent.
     Taking the leather, the strumpet followed the twisting paths away from that dragon’s lair, off to a tavern, or a plaza, to sell to a random cast of characters, enough to pay for another chamber, another night another meal, until another called for her to warm his bed.
     So there it was before Jester, the lambskin, promising riches more than he had heard in the thrones of kings. For surely if these manner of men could do it, he could as well...

Monday, December 23, 2013

Scrawl- A Solo Gaming Crawl 1

Scrawl- A Solo Gaming Crawl 1

I have been craving this for so long, inspired by +john yorio and his amazing ever-expanding dungeon and Mark incredible GM emulator, RPGsolo.com; I decided to run a massive craving I have had for the past few days, oddly since I got on vacation. 

The various colors are the results generated by rpgsolo.com, followed by the muses and actions of your humble player. I will try to post the adventures herein. Once again my hats off to John and Mark!

The Clearing
Here is another saga, using our engine and USR playing system Rather than playing 3 characters or just using one. I played 'a party' and each attribute became a person.

I also used the Five Room Dungeon which is...

Room 1: Entrance And Guardian
Room 2: Puzzle Or Roleplaying Challenge
Room 3: Red Herring
Room 4: Climax, Big Battle Or Conflict
Room 5: Plot Twist

Here is the party....

D'ang Dwarf D8 (weakened) Hp 1
Axe +2

Melan, Elf d6 Powerful Hp 6
Elvenly things. +2
Sword +1

M-U D4 Medium hp 3
Saving spells +2
Reusable Snare potion +2

Party Total 10,7

Wolves d6
Hit points 1

Werewolf morphed d8
HP 7, 3

Gloomy clearing.

The fog of the morning has lifted and the adventurers three, with D'ang wounded, move into a gloomy clearing, shattered tombstones are about. In the mist a pack of wild wolves smell the wounded veteran and move in.

The wolves are a modest d6 with HP of

1 = 1[d6]

The elf sees the wolf from afar and attacks, shooting his longbow...

6 = 6[d6]

wolf evades with a

1 = 1[d6]

5 points of damage wolf goes DOWN!

WARF askes for healing the dwarf, Malcana responds. Severity of wounds are 5, she will roll got to

3 = 1[d4]+2

She cannot heal. Let see if Melan can spot something that they could use, perhaps a tomb?

4 = 4[d6]

He spots a tomb, is it trapped? NO DOUBT...

(Sure Thing | 9[d10]) Yes.



I like it!

Cheap quill and ink.

Forget the trap. Melan with Mitra helping move D'ang to the pit of a forgotten tomb, but alas there is something in there that is worse, quite worse. There was a reason why there was so many things out there, why there were so many wolves- In the lair is a WEREWOLF of a D8!

7 = 7[d8]

The thing growls from beneath, D'ang grabs his fiery axe is it magical?

(Very Likely | 3[d10]) No.

No it is just a big damn axe. He raises it and Mitra casts in surprise...what kind of spell?

Ancient lore.


Magic dagger of ancient lore YES! Spilling from her hands, a deadly intent it goes against the werewolf's hide. Very likely that it is protected...

(Very Likely | 4[d10]) No.

No it is not perhaps it was in mid morf. Lets roll!

8 = 8[d8]

and her...d4+2

3 = 1[d4]+2

She does not cast and the thing attacks D'ang...

3 = 3[d8]

5 = 5[d8]

He counters the things bite and Melan, the distance too short for his arrow moves in with a elfish short sword...

6 = 4[d6]+2

vs. defend...

8 = 8

2 = 2[d8]

Werewolf -4, he is at a solid 3, damn that elf is a badass! Moves and the wolf, pissed and snaps with an arm...

2 = 2[d8]

and the elf, quick on his feet, defends by springing back...

6 = 6[d6]

Her is on fire and the dwarf comes in, huffing...

5 = 5[d8]

and the wolf

8 = 8[d8]

nah he is out, he misses, Werewolf attacks, but who???

2 = 2[d3]

Attacks Melan with a bite

6 = 6[d8]

3 = 1[d6]+2

D'ang he screams and I got to get Mitra into this let her loose with a...

Set snares.

Very high quality potion.

Mitra throws a snare potion, a bottle breaking and letting loose a whole bunch of ugly is there a plus on that?

(Sure Thing | 10[d10]) Yesand...

not only is there a plus but it is reusable!

2 = 2[d3]

She throws the bomb

3 = 1[d4]+2

Thing defends will he move??? ye gods I hope not!

6 = 6[d6]

Nah he moves out of the way, the things rasping and colliding moving and thrashing.

But all to not... He snaps at the elf again

5 = 5[d6]

Elf defends

5 = 3[d6]+2

Defender wins! he slashes with that great sword of his.

6 = 3[d6]+3

thing defends

4 = 4[d6]

Werewolf DIIIIIES by the blade of Melan!

4 = 4[d6]

Does the werewolf have anything useful, perhaps using the tomb as a shelter or something, I would say it is very likely!

(Very Likely | 10[d10]) Yesand...

Exquisite ancient artifact.

The werewolf not only had loot at the entrance, furs to keep warm but he has an exquisite ancient artifact. an..


Reading lips.

In the underbrush of hams and lovely things there is the wonder of a forgotten flail which can read lips, you can spot things ahead, it hears by movement and will vibrate if something or someone is ahead.

D'ang claims it thankfully, "At least somethin' has got to come out of this damn place..."

He is happy with the healing pots found, he gorges them, it is likely they will work

(Likely | 1[d10]) Noand...

No, he gobbles it down before Melan can stop him and is, yep, poisoned, and at one HP the dwarf is far worse.

Let us put down what caused D'ang dilemma, his falling into such serious damage.



Common criminal.

"After a drunken night with lots of ale, Melan and Mitra annoyed at him, D'ang spilled out into the street, his coffers dangling from his pockets spilling newly found gold and a common criminal goes to come at him, rob him. Magic is used perhaps a magical dagger of some sort and he is fallen. What was the reason for them going to the graveyard?


It was in the way of them finding Gnish the healer on the dark side of a swamp.

Monday, April 1, 2013

1.4 Shield and Spell

"Just try it!" the giant man shouted, his arm protecting the fallen woman at his feet. "Your words and daggers won't help you now."

Hesitating, the men about the corner of Maj and Barrack Streets, shuffled their robes tightening the circle about the two figures. The giant man, Shield, crouched further, his eyes moving from one figure to the next. Armored in scale-mail from head to foot, his shoulders towered over the onlookers who tried desperately to not be onlooking. His bald, tanned head gleamed in the day's sun, its angles casting sharp lines on his chest. A satchel hung from those shoulders, other than that he was unarmed. Encased in thick gauntlets, his hands clenched and turned as the others encircled still tighter.

"The Canons of Ri'lun," a deep voice called out from the crowd. "dictate that weaving arcana within the city is permitted only during the Festival." The voice came from nowhere, and everywhere. The only signs that anyone had even spoken was that many people tried not to turn their heads. "These gentlemen will take the both of you to the central Monast."

"Come," Shield contested. "Try!"

A signal perhaps and the nearest to Shield charged, weaponless. Protective, the man blocked the path of the assault, resisting a blow to the arm and checking with his shoulder. The attacker appeared to bounce, colliding with another.

A gasp from under him, brought Shield to attention. "Spell, are you..." Shield spoke sternly but there was worry there.

"Recovering, slowly" the thin woman said, her light robes about her, moving about the middle of the street. Lithe exotic features trembled in pain, her long hair drenched in sweat. Amber eyes blinked in pain. "If you can hold them off, perhaps I can conjure something from the underrealms."

"And have that happen to you again? madness!" Shield growled at another attacker, the figure hesitating. "Arcana cannot happen here. All we can do is resist, its what I do best."

Three attackers looked to one another, shrugged, then suddenly seemed compelled toward Shield and Spell, faint marks appearing on their skin. Shield readied himself, his arms widening for an embrace of fists or thrashing hay-maker, his legs turning.

The crowd bulged to Shield's left, his periphery barely catching the intruder. Cruelty crashed into the circle, colliding purposely with the three men. Sharp taloned fingers dug deep into one, another backhanded back into the crowd. The third attacker to find a horned booth deep in his pelvis, throwing back into the crowd in a stream of blood. Shield, astonished, pulled his hand down protecting Spell.

Cruelty sneered scenting Spell under Shield's feet. A fallen Arcane-weaver- his favorite, damn Evil for willing this. His fevered eyes looked over the crowd, to no particularly place or person. "Not these!" he said, shaking his words. The voice of the crowd, answering, simply- "We shall hold the Tongue."

Turning to Shield with a smirk, a dare, holding it all back.

"The Milkmoon and she lives."

1.3 Cruelty Rears

Once evil entered the door the the Milkmoon, it expanded, broadly inviting those other emotions filling the chasm of thought. The streets of Rivermoon beckoned, growing louder and longer to its onslaught. There was no doubt that someone was coming. The rumble of the main tavern room muted to a dull grumbling. Anxious eyes peered the gloom, the hollow space, utterly ignoring the presence of Evil sitting at the NoName table. The warriors, the mercenaries, the thieves and other patrons looked to the Taverns side door. The area bulged under the wake of a commotion, as someone, some thing, some phenomenon, a sadistic will moved its way toward the Tavern.

"Now hold on there, you just can't..." the watchman warned, his hand on the hilt of his club. But the words tripped and fell, jumbled out of his mouth as Cruelty itself grunted and smiled, firing a fist, a clenched cannonball into the man's plexus. Ejecting the air from his lungs, the watchman bent over a moment before Cruelty's steel knee slammed into his face.

The assault had its intended purpose, the crowd gathering to watch the sailing of Cruelty along the streets of Rivermoon toward the Tavern opened, parted by the storm. Hair cascading over his shoulders, Cruelty rounded and faced the Milkmoon, heading towards it as the people opened still more. The beggars no longer opened their palms to him, stalls and shoppes avoided his gaze, watchmen moved to other districts. Men cast their eyes down, and women shivered, Cruelty's eyes on the Tavern.

But ale makes men do evil stupid things. Ale takes courage and turns it into vomit. While mead is the elixir of the Gods, sneezing forth from the Lord of Lies, Volin's, nostrils it turns inspiration into sleep. Wine the venom of Shar's beast may seduce kings' concubines but ruins the experience under the pillows. Cruelty knew this all to well, this icon of the dieties and demigods, and that pushed him forward. A dark wind at his back.

Pushing, and tossing men aside, Cruelty thrust the side-doors of the Milkmoon open. Open doors never made for a grand entrance, and Cruelty demanded a grand entrance. The better to wield fear with. The first step of Cruelty is astonishment, the pain searing hot.

Thus the men that resisted, that proved slow, Cruelty laid it on, cruelly as his name sake. A barmaid shoved, a table of scholars overturned, the gift of a lover spoiled, a neck snapped for no good reason but to hear the noise, Cruelty dealt his way toward Evil with abandon, as if proving a point. His skills honed through years, he had watched men stab their comrades in the back, torturers pull answers from their victims, the vengeful without precision.

Cruelty knew what it was doing. It watched as Evil turned toward him, a tiresome necessity. Evil noted that upon this occasion Cruelty had chosen the armor of a Crusader, his taste for irony grew more tiresome over the years. His taste for sarcasm and even puns made even Evil cringe. But it did do a good job. Cruelty being Evil unchecked, its right hand.

Kicking a beggar in the teeth, Cruelty joined Evil, their backs to the table. Evil sneered slightly, the scent of Cruelty not unlike that of a wet dog trapped in a hole.

"Don't look at me like that," Cruelty hissed. "You want this done right?"

Next: E 1.4 Sword & Shield  

Saturday, March 30, 2013

1.2: Evil Emerges First- Always

Evil emerged from the shadows of Rivermoon’s bowels, a strange sentience in robes that flattered no one and did not seem to care. Ankle deep in muck it stood up and decided that, yes, bipedal would best serve him. The unknown beckoned and knowing the unknown caused so many to flourish towards him. Lifting his collar, evil surveyed the stalls and waste about him, glancing his eyes upward toward the rivers of streets, up to the city’s mount, a tavern. Evil found it funny, increasingly that this lavish port city on a decaying continent would have a tavern as its central ornament.

It made these new insides feel good, though the idea of good did disturb him. That at least felt good. 

This manifestation of Evil could feel the tendrils pulling at him, delicate seductive appendages toward that gleaming white Tavern filled with scrawl. In the meantime it allowed itself to relish, a plump rich fruit, like the ones decaying under the stalls, this city, this reality that summoned him. 

The streets of Rivermoon improved slowly as Evil made the ascent toward that summoning place. The city built centuries before as a buffer to the Southern Isles, so full of dangers on land and sea that no one ever lived long enough to name them, now prospered feeding on the decay of the dead N’tari Empire’s remains. Slums turned to wards, wards turned quarters, and finally quarters to districts. Always the eyes avoided him, and the ones that did not, the ones with axe or shield in hand, quickly saw that death would be best spent elsewhere. 

"Tis not errday," the armored Warven grunted, loosening his axe in an act of ease. Nor did that race, the progenitor of the Dwarves, move from their path easily. 

"But we will, surely," Evil recoiled not from fear of the Warven but from the sound of its own voice echoing in the tight districts closer to the Milkmoon. Deep, expectant, and ending in a sarcastic question. It dared not look in the waters of the streets. Not even the Pit want to know what Evil looks. 

The Milkmoon Tavern, a stucco building with dark blue scales, perhaps tiles perhaps real scales dominated his vision. About him the characters, always characters, argued and sought their plans for glory. All of it shiny dust to him, Evil. Yes, this was the place that had to filled, had to be known, a blank spot in his complete contentment. 

Crouching slightly under the doorway, the bustle about retreating, bugs in the presence of light. Admiring the view of the countless maps, countless lists, countless campaigns that riddled the walls. Evil enjoyed all that had been done in its name. For even the most prized Paladin does its work when there is greed and lust for more. 
Pulled to that unknowable, his trimming increasing with every step, Evil took on the trophies of warlocks and sorcerers. The typical class of character unable to survive an extraction but with deep pockets to hire the proper equipment. Yes, for the purpose of a campaign, individuals were only equipment, everyone else merely players. 

The seat, made more comfortable by the luxurious robes tunic, and leggings that evolved around him; felt strangely like a throne of deity. And over the crown of his still solidifying skull, upon the wall- was a halo of emptiness. 

To Episode 1.3