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Eyrie Productions, Unlimited
Gryphon
Charter Member
19402 posts |
Jan-10-18, 11:58 PM (EST) |
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"Dungeons & Randos"
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LAST EDITED ON Jan-11-18 AT 00:35 AM (EST)
So I was chatting with some folks on Twitter this morning, as you do, and as Geoff was posting some tips for aspiring GMs, I made a joke about enforcing the Teenagers From Outer Space "no one gets laid, it's funnier that way" rule in all game systems—"Sorry, sexy vampires!"In response, Geoff noted, "I have had some games with people sexin' it up that went well, and one where my character got hassled for someone else's screwing," and pop an entire party of long-suffering adventurers sprang into being in my head, fully formed like Athena from the brow of Zeus, and in the middle of exactly the latter sort of situation, to boot. The townsfolk of Cheerydale weren't particularly put out by the clanging gongs and general sounds of alarum filtering down to the town from Castle Dalemoor at first. It seemed like something was always going on up there; Baron Dalemoor was an excitable sort, prone to calling out his guards for the tiniest of matters, but such ructions rarely extended to the town itself.This time, though, the browsers on the upper part of the high street, just outside the castle's curtain wall, got a surprise, in the form of an open-topped wagon that hurtled out just ahead of the closing of the gates. People scattered for their lives as the wagon, drawn by a pair of snorting, wild-eyed black horses, came barreling down the high street at a speed that was patently unsafe for in-town driving, narrowly avoiding market stalls and slower pedestrians. To those few who were quick-witted and sharp-eyed enough to get a good look as it went past, the wagon's driver made for an even more arresting sight than the vehicle itself: a figure swallowed up in a voluminous black robe, his face entirely hidden by the shadow of its hood. Only his black boots on the footboard and his long, pale hands on the reins could be seen as he guided the wagon deftly through the obstacle course of the high street. At the very back of the wagon, a burly man in chainmail and tattered tabard brandished an iron-bound wooden kite shield—one which was just in the process of getting a fair number of arrows stuck into it by the archers up on the curtain wall as the wagon racketed away from the castle. In front of him, an elven woman in leather and red silk crouched, not quite cowering, in the shield's lee, her hands over her head. "Apart from you and canned cling peaches," observed Sir Thaxton, "I cannot think of a single thing so lacking in sense as to do that with the baron's daughter, Reinette." "She said she was of age!" the elven woman protested, a bit lamely, ducking again as more arrows thudded into the paladin's shield. The shadowy figure at the reins chuckled, his voice hollow and resonant in a way that seemed entirely inappropriate to the situation, and urged the team to still greater speed. "That's hardly the only problem," Sir Thaxton grumbled. Behind Sir Thaxton, a dwarven woman in far more utilitarian leather armor than her elven colleague's succeeded at last in the task she had been attempting to perform since they had set off from the inner courtyard: lighting the fuse on a black iron grenade from a cigar. "Aha! Finally!" she declared. Sir Thaxton glanced back over his shoulder and saw what she was up to. "Oh no," he said, his face going slightly pale. "Herlod, don't you dare—" "Too late now!" Herlod replied cheerfully, then wound up and hurled the bomb in their wake like a baseball. It clattered to the cobbles at the feet of the pursuing detachment of guards, then went off with a brilliant flash of light and a thunderous BANG, knocking down most of the front rank and leaving the rest dazed. "Oh, well, at least it wasn't one of the fire ones," Sir Thaxton sighed fatalistically. "What sort of maniac do you take me for?" Herlod asked, grinning around the stub of her cigar. "What?" asked Reinette in a loud voice. "Hold on back there," the driver intoned in his sepulchrally resonant voice. "Going to have to take a bit of a detour." "What?" Reinette repeated. Sir Thaxton faced front and saw what the driver was talking about. Word of the situation had clearly reached the guards at the city wall; he could see them up ahead, busily closing and barring the gate. The gate toward which the wagon was still hurtling as fast as two horses could pull it; and indeed, having issued his warning, the driver snapped his reins and urged the team on still faster. "Oh, gods," said Sir Thaxton with audible dread, and without further ado he sat down on the wagon floor, slinging his arrow-studded shield on his back, and mirrored Reinette's former hands-over-head posture. Seeing him do it, the elven woman reassumed the same position, squeezing her eyes shut. Herlod, for her part, did no such thing. Instead, she hurried—all but scampered—forward and vaulted the back of the driver's bench, alighting next to the black-robed figure with a still wider grin on her face. "All right, Marco," she declared, flipping a pair of dark goggles down over her eyes. "Let's do this thing." Marco's only response was to chuckle again, hunching over his reins. As the wagon sped toward the gate, far too fast now to stop in the distance remaining, the guard captain on duty there witnessed a thing he would remember with a shudder for the rest of his life. The captain thought the wagon's black-robed driver's face was hidden in his hood—but as the wagon approached, he suddenly raised his head, and the wind caught his hood and blew it back, at which point the captain saw that he had no face. Even with his hood fallen down onto his shoulders, the driver's head was a mere shadow, faceless and indistinct, marked out only by two balefully burning points of silver fire where his eyes should have been. Before the guard captain's horrified eyes, the horses changed to match, their muscular forms attenuating into angular, almost skeletal, and weirdly depthless black shapes, their staring red eyes transmuting into silver-flame coals. The thunder and clatter of their hooves on the cobbles muted into a formless, directionless thudding sound, like distant drums or the heartbeat of some vast but invisible animal— —And just as the hurtling wagon and its suddenly spectral horses and driver reached the city wall, the whole rig disappeared, plunging not into a splintering, body-hurling collision with the gate, but rather a fathomless abyss of shadow that the astonished, terrified guards felt the presence of more than they could be said to have seen it. In an instant, the whole thing was over, and the guards were left standing in an empty street before their barred gate, half-wondering whether they had imagined the whole thing.
Thick hoarfrost steamed directly away to vapor from the sides and iron wheel rims of the wagon as it stood in the afternoon sunlight atop a hill, its two black horses munching contendedly from feedbags while the black-robed figure of Marco brushed and fussed over them. "Good girls, Magda, Inge," the spectral figure intoned, and then, in response to a whickering head-toss from one of them, he cajoled, "Oh yes you are." Up on the box, Herlod sat with her feet up, peeling an apple with a large folding knife. "Y'all right there, hero?" she called into a nearby copse of trees, from which the only immediate response she received was the sound of someone being violently ill. Presently, Sir Thaxton emerged haggardly from the trees, mopping at his face with a handkerchief. "I hate you so much," he said, though without any heat in his voice, and then he sat down to pry the arrows out of his shield. "And after I went and peeled you this apple," the dwarf replied. She tossed him the fruit (which he caught without looking up), then leaned over the back of the seat and inquired of the huddled bundle on the wagon floor, "And how about you?" "Please let me die in peace," Reinette whimpered, drawing her blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Just no gratitude at all," said Marco gloomily, to an evidently agreeing head-shake from one of the horses. Our heroes: SIR THAXTON HALLADAY, human paladin-errant of Atlas. In this context Atlas is the god of endurance, although Sir Thaxton, ever the long-suffering tank for his team, often describes him wryly to his companions as the god of Putting Up With This Shit. There is a popular misconception that paladins and clerics of Atlas suffer in silence, and that they enjoy it. Sir Thaxton most assuredly does not and does not, but grumbling or no, he's always ready to take one for the team. He just wishes the team wouldn't offer him so many opportunities. REINETTE à MAINLEVÉE, elven bard-rogue. Wandering eye, wandering hands, fingers that are either sticky or slippery according to the situation. Dislikes elvish music, which she considers "froofy". Claims to speak two dozen languages, but in reality, all she knows how to say in at least 20 of them is pick-up lines. Scores far too often and easily for Sir Thaxton's taste, not because he's one of those prudish paladins (he isn't), but because she brags about it. Oh, and because they often get chased out of town afterward. HERLOD THUNDERFALL, dwarven grenadier. Herlod is a cleric of St. Alfredius, the gnomish god of explosives. This means she derives not only pleasure, but actual holy power, from blowing stuff up, and that the bombs and grenades she crafts only destroy what she calls upon them to destroy—enabling her to use them at terrifyingly close range. Luckily, St. Alfredius also does healing magic, or poor Reinette's delicate elven ears would be permanently deaf from all the times Herlod has detonated something right next to/in front of/behind her. MARCO AGONOSTO, formerly human wizard. Marco used to be an archmage. An evil archmage, to boot. He was working on turning himself into a lich when he had what he thought was an even better idea and tried to usurp Death's cosmic role for himself. All he ended up accomplishing was to switch bodies with Death, which is why he's now a terrifying spectral form in a ragged black robe and Death looks like a handsome middle-aged chap with excellent taste in clothes. He also lost most of his original arcane power and a fair number of his marbles, meaning he's now daft as a brush but, oddly, no longer evil. --G.
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Benjamin D. Hutchins, Co-Founder, Editor-in-Chief, & Forum Mod
Eyrie Productions, Unlimited http://www.eyrie-productions.com/
zgryphon at that email service Google has
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The Traitor
Member since Feb-24-09
938 posts |
Jan-11-18, 04:43 PM (EST) |
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4. "RE: Dungeons & Randos"
In response to message #0
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Herlod sounds like she'd get on well with my current 5e character. I'll format it the way you did:- MERRYBELLE GARDEVOIR, halfling fighter using the Gunslinger archetype. A former Neverwinter mercenary (who started out as the merc company's mascot), she saw her whole company wiped out almost to a man by a demented lich and his army of undead. The father of the girl they were escorting, Duke Leopold of Cormyr, has been determined to finish the job for years. Since then, she's been laying low in the countryside and only went to the city for a funeral. It was there she met Kelem'tar, dragonborn cleric of Kalimvor, and she wound up adventuring with him and three Sune-worshippers, one of whom turned out to be a half-dragon herself. During a delve into the lost mines of Thandallyn, she wound up finding Dragon's Breath, a magically enhanced long rifle of ancient and arcane manufacture. With a crossbow, she was bad enough; with a rifle, she's essentially Tiny Sharpe, especially when combined with her Ghillie Suit of Elvenkind. ---
"She's old, she's lame, she's barren too, // "She's not worth feed or hay, // "But I'll give her this," - he blew smoke at me - // "She was something in her day." -- Garnet Rogers, Small Victory FiMFiction.net: we might accept blatant porn involving the cast of My Little Pony but as God is my witness we have standards. My 4e campaign has me playing a shardmind barbarian called Geraldine Snodgrass. Characters are best when weird. |
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Gryphon
Charter Member
19402 posts |
Jan-12-18, 02:51 PM (EST) |
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7. "RE: Dungeons & Randos"
In response to message #0
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From another recent Twitter conversation (with forum_user="Muninsfire"): if you find yourselves needing an academic NPC to run the arcane library at your nearest FRP university, may I offer ARCHIVIST ZAZOX
First-time visitors to the Arcane Archive and Laboratory at the Wardenclyffe University College of Magic do not get to meet the Archivist. Indeed, they may not even hear about the Archivist on their first visit, and when they do, they may be intrigued to note that said personage is referred to in hushed, respectful tones, and never with a pronoun, leaving the uninitiated to wonder whether the mysterious and evidently hallowed Archivist Zazox is a man or a woman or what. The answer, as those library patrons who eventually become trusted enough to earn a pass to the inner sanctum, is very much "or what", and those making their first visit behind the mahogany doors are often startled to discover that Archivist Zazox is a beholder. Commonly known as exemplars of evil, beholders reproduce through a weird, usually involuntary reality-warping process while they sleep. Customarily, this leads either to a beholder's duplicating itself (because it dreamed of seeing itself in a mirror, for instance), or creating some even wilder aberration. Because "normal" beholders do not put up with anything that might conceivably be a rival, this process customarily results in a fight to the death, and whichever beholder wins, life generally proceeds pretty much as before in the creature's lair. Archivist Zazox is the result of a beholder's most hideous nightmare imaginable. Xozaz had a dream in which its reflection was horrifically, monstrously, revoltingly perverted, possessed of a moral and ethical code so twisted and repulsive as to be all but unspeakable: it was lawful good. I know! How absolutely vile. Unfortunately for Xozaz, this disgusting parody of itself was also either better at fighting than it was, or just luckier, and when the dust settled, only Zazox still lived. Life is tough for a good beholder. Not only does every other beholder in the world want you dead, so do most other beings, because they assume you're like every other beholder in the world. Zazox's lot in life was further complicated by the fact that it only barely survived the battle with its "parent". Savagely battered and clinging to life through little more than sheer stubbornness, it had lost all of its secondary eyes apart from the one with the telekinesis ray (in itself a lucky break of sorts). To make matters still worse, its very next visitors were a party of adventurers attracted by reports that the beholder Xozaz's minions had fled its lair. Fortunately, these adventurers were a little cleverer, a little more perceptive, and a little more compassionate than the industry average in their profession, and they realized how thoroughly unusual Zazox was in time to avoid killing it. It traveled with them for some time, slowly regaining its strength, and eventually became an adventurer of some renown in its own right—albeit one so unusual as to be dismissed as a myth by nearly everyone who had ever heard of it. Eventually, Zazox found its way to the University. Initially it planned only to visit long enough to bequeath to the Library its extensive collection of wondrous items, accumulated over the course of its long career, before retiring to a mountaintop or lost dungeon someplace to enjoy a quiet retirement. However, upon arrival, it discovered that the Library didn't have anyone on its staff who could competently catalog and curate such a collection, and more or less by default ended up in that job itself. Archivist Zazox is a kindly disposed, gregarious, somewhat absent-minded creature, easily distracted by shiny magical objects, though it isn't a hoarder in the traditional monstrous sense. It doesn't wish to possess magical items for itself, but for the Archive, which under its care has become renowned throughout the land as one of the finest and most extensive such collections around; and it doesn't seek to take items that are not available by force, though it will occasionally make impassioned speeches meant to stir stubborn possessors to civic-minded generosity. Either way, it's happy to research the history, provenance, and functions of any magical items that come before it, and to share whatever it has learned with pretty much anyone who asks, so long as they have proper authorization to visit its domain. Adventurers are most likely to meet Zazox either if they are arcanists who have earned admission to the Archive's inner collections, or, more likely, if Zazox has hired them to retrieve something from one of the unfathomed corners of the world for it. In appearance, Zazox is probably just about as close to un-horrible as a beholder can get by humanoid standards: smooth-skinned, with human-like eyes and teeth, and somewhat stubby eyestalks (probably a relic of the fact that all but one of them were severed, and grew back gradually over the course of its adventuring career). It wears a monocle on its main eye, and often a sort of tweed "cape" with little sleeves for its eyestalks. One feels a great swell of pity for anyone who goes to the Archive looking for trouble. ARCHIVIST ZAZOX
beholder (Large aberration), lawful good
bard, lvl 14 Armor Class 18 (natural armor)
Hit Points 228 (10d10 + 13d8 + 104)
Speed 0 ft., fly 20 ft. (hover) STR 10 (+0)
DEX 14 (+2)
CON 18 (+4)
INT 18 (+4)
WIS 12 (+1)
CHA 18 (+4) Saving Throws INT +9, DEX +7, WIS +6, CHA +9
Skills Arcana +14, History +14, Investigation +14, Perception +6, Performance +9, Persuasion +14
Condition Immunities prone
Senses darkvision 120 ft., passive Perception 12
Languages pretty much all of them
Challenge 15 (13,000 XP) Bard Class Features College of Lore: Cutting Words, Peerless Skill Spells: Dancing Lights, Mending, Prestidigitation, Vicious Mockery Note: Zazox's eye rays replace most of the arcane spellcasting ability it should have gotten from its Bard class levels. It knows only cantrips from the Bard spell list. Equipment: gem of seeing (monocle)
ring of restful sleep (worn on an eyestalk; this item prevents Zazox from accidentally dreaming another, probably evil, beholder into existence) --G.
(yes, I stole Zazox's name from my old CoH character, Zazox Wazoxazole, who was in turn named after an epic spam subject line I got one time.)
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Benjamin D. Hutchins, Co-Founder, Editor-in-Chief, & Forum Mod
Eyrie Productions, Unlimited http://www.eyrie-productions.com/
zgryphon at that email service Google has
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MoonEyes
Member since Jun-29-03
780 posts |
Jan-14-18, 04:17 PM (EST) |
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16. "RE: Dungeons & Randos"
In response to message #10
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LAST EDITED ON Jan-14-18 AT 04:42 PM (EST)
You missed a part in your link, there. Or, well, added maybe?Anyways, here is a bit of the above, made for 3e:
Vocabuvores
“Vocabuvores... goblin-like creatures that feed on any new words they learn from human speech. Their metabolisms turn vocabulary into body mass. They’re like insects at birth, but a few careless sentences and they can grow to human size, and beyond.”
-Master Molnar
Vocabuvores CR 1 (400 XP)
Tiny fey
Init +2
Senses: Darkvision, 60ft. DEFENSE
AC 15, touch 14, flat-footed 13 (+1 natural, +2 Dex, +2 size)
HD 7 (2d6)
Fort +0
Ref +5
Will +4
Immune mind-effects; Resist sonic 10; SR 15
Weakness: Vulnerability to silence OFFENSE
Speed 20 ft., climb 20 ft.
Melee claw +3 (1d3-4)***
Special Attack Annoy (DC 13), Gibberish, Sneak Attack +1d6 STATISTICS
Str 3 (-4)
Dex 15 (3)
Con 10 (0)
Int 4 (-3)
Wis 12 (1)
Cha 6 (-2)
Base Atk +1; CMB +1; CMD 6
Feats: Weapon Finesse
Skills: Climb +7, Perception +5, Stealth +10
Racial modifiers: +8 racial bonus on Climb
Languages: Common
Special Qualities Ontological Illiteracy, Vocabuvore ECOLOGY
Environment ancient libraries and wizard towers
Organization 1-10 (packs), 20-40 (nest)
Treasure half standard SPECIAL ABILITIES
Annoy (Ex) Vocabuvores are irascible pests that constantly throwing torn books, papyrus, balls of scrolls and dung at their victims. A vocabuvore that isn’t engaged in melee combat and is within line of effect (30 feet) of a visible target can Annoy them with a move action. The victim must succeed at Refl save (DC 13) or becomes flat-footed until the beginning of his next turn.
Gibberish (Ex) Once set upon their victims, vocabuvores are continually pleading, clamoring, cajoling and threatening (simultaneously) for new words. This interminable babble makes concentrating difficult. Spellcasting and the activation of spell-like abilities requires a Concentration check (DC 15 or the standard DC +5).
Ontological Illiteracy (Ex) Vocabuvores are totally incapable of learning how to read. In fact, they’re so dim-witted that they’re immune to mind-effects and don’t register as intelligent creatures.
Vocabuvore (Su) Vocabuvores literally eat words, growing stronger with each new word they hear. When a vocabuvore listens to a new word he absorbs it, converting its lexical content to body mass. Spellcasting doesn’t count as “new words”.
Instead of recalculating all the creature’s stats, use the following rules to simulate a vocabuvore’s evolution: each new word grant to the vocabuvore a +1 bonus to all his rolls (including save throws), +2 to CMD, +2 to damage rolls and +2 hit points/HD.
Each times the vocabuvore learns 2 new words, increase his size by one step and give to it a +2 bonus to all Str and Con rolls, +9 hit points and a -1 penalty to AC.
When he reaches Medium size (4 words), his Speed becomes 30 ft.
When he reaches Large size (6 words) he gains Reach 10 ft.
The maximum size that a vocabuvore can theoretically reach is Huge.
A vocabuvore’s CR increases by +1 for each 2 new words that he learns (to a maximum of CR 4).
It’s believed that vocabuvores slowly consume their grammatical body mass, returning to their natural tiny size over time.
Vulnerability to Silence (Ex) Vocabuvores feed on words so spells that block sound naturally frighten them. Inside areas of silence a vocabuvore becomes instantly shaken. DESCRIPTION Vocabuvores are strange magical creatures known for inhabiting the world’s oldest, strangest (and most dangerous) libraries. As supernatural beings they lack any coherent ecosystem or habit, springing apparently from nowhere. It’s believed that vocabuvores are in fact a manifestation of disharmonic eldritch power generated by the presence of too many grimoires in the same spot. No matter how hard archmages, wizards and librarians dedicate to keep their demesnes clean, these pests inevitably show up. Some (eccentric arcanists) claim that vocabovures are simply a natural consequence of magical accumulation – of the local reality been weaken by the sheer concentration of arcane knowledge. In other words, some spellcasters see these things as a symbol of power. Others, more paranoid, mages suspect that vocabuvores are actually denizens from a parallel plane – maybe an alien dimension where words have physical representations or even a bizarre world-library created by some forgotten demigod.
Oh, yes, and also(and it seems my brain is all over the place today), if you want the story for your own reading, then it's HERE, along with a nice selection of other short works. ...!
Stoke Mandeville, Esq & The Victorian Ballsmiths
"Nobody Want Verdigris-Covered Balls!" |
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Gryphon
Charter Member
19402 posts |
Jan-13-18, 11:57 PM (EST) |
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12. "RE: Dungeons & Randos"
In response to message #7
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LAST EDITED ON Jan-13-18 AT 11:59 PM (EST)
and alsoTHE RIGHT REVEREND DOCTOR F.X. BUCKLAND, D.D. F.R.S. Geologist, geographer-cartographer, astronomer, arcanologist, divinologist, historian, explorer, zoologist, pornographist,* natural philosopher, author of Buckland's Bestiary of the Incredible, gourmet chef, and raconteur, the Rev. Dr. Francis Xavier Buckland holds the Korian Varculum Chair in Divination and the Gustatory Arts at the University of Wardenclyffe. He is one of the world's foremost authorities on... well, more or less everything interesting, and a good many things that aren't. If the world of Khered had ever experienced a Renaissance, he would easily qualify for the title of Renaissance man, if he were a man. Mind you, Dr. Buckland was a man once, and indeed for much of his early career. A phantasmotype of what he used to look like still survives in the printed copies of his first major book, On the Origin of Species by Means of Unnatural Selection, or the Engineering of Favored Races by the Arcane Beastmakers of Antiquity, blinking owlishly out from the About the Author page as if its subject hadn't quite been ready for the flash: a heavyset man of about thirty, with a truly spectacular pair of bushy black sideburns and an epic monobrow to match. But, of course, that was before the curse. Dr. Buckland's problem is that he is one of the world's great eccentrics, which is no mean feat in a kingdom that is ruled by a king who managed to become an immortally undead tyrant** entirely by accident. One of his stated ambitions at the start of his career as a natural philosopher was to eat of all the world's creatures. He had made a substantial start on that goal, and nearly killed himself several times, when he happened to be touring Tsakkus Cathedral in the Westlands in his capacity of divinologist (which is what his original degree is in). There he was shown a box containing the Tsakkian faith's holiest relic, reputed to be a piece of the eternally incorruptible heart of the long-expired mortal vessel of the Divinely Ascended Tsakkus Himself. "I have eaten of many things," said Dr. Buckland, "but never have I eaten the heart of a god before!" At which point, before any of the astonished onlookers could think to stop him, he scarfed the relic down. Tsakkus was not amused. Or maybe He was! It's hard to tell with the whims of gods. Maybe the Divinely Ascended turned Buckland into an owlbear as a way of helping him out with his "eat all the animals" project. After all, they're known for being extremely capable and versatile carnivores. Either way, he's banned for life from the Westlands. And he's an owlbear. Neither of which has dampened his zest for life, his voracious academic curiosity, or his appetite for the flesh of strange beasts in the slightest (although being banned from the Westlands is inconvenient for purposes of certain expeditions). Persons encountering the Rev. Dr. Buckland, whether on the Wardenclyffe campus or in the field (where he spends a good 60% or more of his time), will find themselves confronted by exactly the same spectacle: a fully bipedal brown owlbear, around nine feet tall, wearing a full academic gown, mortarboard, and gold-rimmed pince-bec.† On formal occasions he will also add all the cords, sashes, and hoods his various degrees and honors entitle him to, which is quite a lot of regalia. Buckland was big, loud, and hard to miss before being turned into an owlbear. Now that he's nine feet tall and equipped with a screech intended to ward off other apex predators as well as his thunderous voice (which is unhampered by the fact that he's now speaking through a beak—proof, some say, that Tsakkus didn't mean the transformation as a punishment) and knack for blustery declamations, he's pretty much the most arresting figure one is ever likely to encounter at any university that does not employ a dragon, and even perhaps a few that do. He's a polarizing figure; both students and colleagues tend either to adore him for his brilliance, his zaniness, and his absurdly colorful background, or deplore him as at best a buffoon, at worst a circus freak lowering the tone of several entire fields of academia at once (note: this was not an unknown attitude before he was an owlbear). Buckland himself doesn't seem to care about his detractors. He's having too much fun delving into the unknown, writing books about more or less anything that comes to mind, and eating stuff. THE RT. REV. DR. F.X. BUCKLAND
owlbear (Large monstrosity), chaotic good
cleric level 5 Armor Class 13 (natural armor)
Hit Points (7d10 + 5d8 + 36)
Speed 40 ft. STR 20 (+5)
DEX 12 (+1)
CON 17 (+3)
INT 18 (+4)
WIS 8 (-1)
CHA 16 (+3) Saving Throws Wisdom +2, Charisma +6
Skills Arcana +10, History +7, Nature +10, Religion +7, Perception +2
Senses Darkvision 60 ft., passive Perception 10
Languages many
Challenge 5 (1,800 XP) Keen Sight and Smell. The Rev. Dr. Buckland has advantage on Wisdom (Perception) checks that rely on sight or smell. Cleric Class Features Knowledge Domain Domain Spells augury, command, identify, suggestion Cantrips guidance, light, sacred flame, thaumaturgy Spells Prepared detect magic, purify food and drink, find traps, remove curse Note: Dr. Buckland is not very good at divine spellcasting, since it relies on Wisdom, which is by far his worst ability score. He's only got the cleric levels because you had to be a cleric to graduate from the diviniology program at Wardenclyffe back in his student days. Equipment Explorer's pack, holy symbol Meta-note: Dr. Buckland is voiced by Brian Blessed. --G.
* A pornographist is one who engages in the scholarly study of pornography, as opposed to a pornographer, who creates it. Most serious pornographists in the Kingdom of Ostvia are members of the Royal Pornographic Society, one of the ten Ostvian learnèd societies to enjoy the imprimatur of the Crown.
** "Tyrant" is used here in its strictest sense, that of a monarch who, at least on paper, holds the power of rule by absolute fiat. No judgment on King Tmolus's moral or ethical standing is expressed or implied.
† Well, he hasn't got a nez, has he.
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Benjamin D. Hutchins, Co-Founder, Editor-in-Chief, & Forum Mod
Eyrie Productions, Unlimited http://www.eyrie-productions.com/
zgryphon at that email service Google has
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drakensis
Member since Dec-20-06
324 posts |
Jan-14-18, 00:34 AM (EST) |
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13. "RE: Dungeons & Randos"
In response to message #12
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>THE RIGHT REVEREND DOCTOR F.X. BUCKLAND, D.D. F.R.S. My first thought on seeing the name was 'Lazarus Long's mule is a preacher?' For those unfamiliar, in Robert Heinlein's Time Enough For Love, one of the many past experiences the protagonist recounts is one of the times he founded a new colony world. He had a mule called Buck and there were feels. It's probably the second most memorable flashback, following the laziest man alive sector, which is set around WWII. D. |
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DaPatman89
Member since May-2-12
85 posts |
Jan-12-18, 06:30 PM (EST) |
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8. "RE: Dungeons & Randos"
In response to message #0
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Man, I wish I had the imagination to come up with characters as weird as that. Mine tend to be more subtle in their weirdness, often subverting some stereotype or other. For example, in the 4e campaign I mentioned in the Red Box thread, I played a dwarf cleric. But rather than worshipping Moradin (who isn't explicitly the god of the dwarves, but might as well be), he worshipped the Raven Queen, who is the goddess of death. It's been a few years since that campaign, but if I remember correctly, he placed a high value on the sanctity of both life and death, and saw it as his sacred duty to punish anyone who perverted either one. --- "Things in life aren't always quite what they seem,
There's more than one given angle to any one given scene.
So bear that in mind next time you try to intervene
On any one given angle on any one given scene."
Angles - dan le sac vs. Scroobius Pip |
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Gryphon
Charter Member
19402 posts |
Jan-13-18, 02:35 AM (EST) |
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9. "RE: Dungeons & Randos"
In response to message #8
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>Man, I wish I had the imagination to come up with characters as weird
>as that.Well, to be fair, Sir Thaxton isn't that weird. He is perhaps not what most laypersons think of when they picture a paladin, but in this context, I suspect that has more to do with the unrealistic image of paladins than any shortcoming of Sir Thaxton's. :) On the other hand, Marco is probably weird enough for both of them. --G.
-><-
Benjamin D. Hutchins, Co-Founder, Editor-in-Chief, & Forum Mod
Eyrie Productions, Unlimited http://www.eyrie-productions.com/
zgryphon at that email service Google has
Ceterum censeo Carthaginem esse delendam. |
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MoonEyes
Member since Jun-29-03
780 posts |
Jan-25-18, 07:44 PM (EST) |
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22. "RE: Dungeons & Randos"
In response to message #18
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>"The creatures of the forest have staged this
>intervention because they love you and they want you to feel
>better."In all honesty, the creatures of the forest maybe should've done something a lot sooner, as in when his father was beating him, and not when it would quite possibly ruin what little of his happiness and sanity was left. Yes, he isn't a edgy, emo, possibly murdering bastard...but the chances seem somewhat pointing to him being even worse, in my opinion. One does not actually need warlock-y powers to slaughter someone with a rusty saw... Yeah, I get that it's meant to be fun, but I just picture how he'd react in the real world, as it was. ...!
Stoke Mandeville, Esq & The Victorian Ballsmiths
"Nobody Want Verdigris-Covered Balls!" |
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Verbena
Charter Member
793 posts |
Jan-25-18, 08:58 PM (EST) |
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26. "RE: Dungeons & Randos"
In response to message #25
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>>I don't know a thing about 5th ed, but in 3/3.5, warlocks had to be
>>either evil...or chaotic.
>
>Unless I'm missing something, 5e classes don't appear to have any
>alignment restrictions—even paladins. The flavor text does a lot of
>implying that they need to be lawful, but it never comes out and says
>so. The most specific guideline I can find in their class writeup
>only says that they are "rarely of any evil alignment." Huh! Well, that's a definite change. 4th sort of simplified the alignment system, IIRC, but not in a way I thought was smart. I think perhaps leaving alignment restrictions by class out works somewhat better. ------
Fearless creatures, we all learn to fight the Reaper
Can't defeat Her, so instead I'll have to be Her |
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Gryphon
Charter Member
19402 posts |
Jan-29-18, 02:55 AM (EST) |
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28. "Not-in-the-Face"
In response to message #0
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LAST EDITED ON Jan-30-18 AT 02:07 PM (EST)
Sending the apprentices into Flatwater by the south road, unescorted, this time of year, was a calculated risk on Master Jevenar's part. Unfortunately for the apprentices, it was a risk in which the master did not personally share, and so the knowledge that he was about to lose his not-inconsiderable investment of time and effort in their training, along with the not-inconsiderable sum of gold they were carrying, was somewhat cold comfort to the two youths.As he stood with his hands up and the point of a goblin spear at his throat, James, the elder of the two, silently cursed the tight-fisted old bastard, the parents who had indentured him to the tight-fisted old bastard, the fates who had assigned him to those parents, and everyone else he could think of who might share some measure of responsibility for his situation. Brigands he could have handled. Not physically, not in this the start of his thirteenth summer, but he could have talked to them, reasoned with them, paid them off. All brigands wanted was gold, after all, and James was far from holding Jenevar's above the value of his own life or Minvi's. These goblins, though—there was no reasoning with them. For one thing, James didn't know their language, or indeed whether they even had one. For another, their hobgoblin leader had that light in its eyes—the fanatical gleam that said it was just waiting for its half-dozen minions to finish ransacking their captives' belongings before it either let them do murder, or did so for itself. The hobgoblins in these parts belonged to some sort of cult, even more violent and xenophobic than the usual excuse for a culture such creatures possessed. Both James and Minvi knew this well; it was the reason why the south road was not to be traveled lightly, particularly this time of year. Whatever strange cycles the hobgoblins' twisted faith followed, their brutality was especially high in the months when the days were long. The hobgoblin glanced at him, its eyes narrowing, and James realized to his horror that he'd looked at it for a little too long while having that thought. Snarling, it barked an order, unintelligible but unmistakable, to its lessers. From the way they started scrabbling faster through the handcart's contents, James guessed it had ordered them to hurry up. They might be bold enough in the summer to strike in broad daylight, but it still would want to minimize the possibility of encountering a King's patrol... not that there were many of those to be had nowadays. James heard Minvi muttering under her breath behind him and suppressed a grim smile. The goblins probably thought she was praying. James knew different, knew what she was about to do, and knew that it was probably going to get them both killed; but he agreed with her that the attempt had to be made. Better to go out attempting an unwise resistance than just let themselves be butchered like hogs. He considered his nearest captor, weighing his chances of wresting the spear away from it before it could skewer him. He guessed they were about fifty-fifty, and beyond that he had no idea what would happen, other than that the odds were very much against them. "Excuse me," said a low voice from somewhere behind the broad, armored bulk of the hobgoblin. James would probably have found the way the creature stiffened, its red eyes widening in surprise, fairly comical if the situation hadn't been so dire. Hand on the hilt of its sword, it whirled, moving as it did so that James could see past it to the person who had addressed it. The speaker was a small figure, no bigger than a human child or one of the Small Folk, clad in a slightly ragged set of the simple traveling robes worn by itinerant priests of the region's various religious orders. He(?) had a small pack on his back and a dark wooden walking stick in one hand, and his bowed head was entirely hidden by the large, conical straw hat he wore, but the shape of him made it clear that he was neither smallfolk nor child. Neither would have had those curiously reversed legs, ending in clawed bare feet covered in iridescent black scales, or that restless ridged tail, tapering to a point behind him. Behind James, Minvi ceased muttering, her soft voice trailing off in surprise; a moment later, she whispered in James's ear, "Is... is that a kobold?" "A kobold priest?" James wondered in reply. The priest, if that's what he was, raised his head, and now James and Minvi could clearly see that he was a kobold, his long reptilian face also black-scaled but barred in vivid yellow. Despite the creature's unusual dress, James was momentarily convinced that their situation had just gone from bad to worse... but then the kobold spoke again. His voice sounded like a man's, but a little bit reedy and with a bit of a croak, as if its owner were just getting over a bad cold, and what he said, in a reasonable sort of way, was, "You're blocking the road. Please leave those people alone and get out of the way." The hobgoblin rasped out orders, and the four of its followers who had been sacking the apprentices' handcart broke off their task and ran to surround the kobold instead, hemming him in with the points of their spears. Advancing on his group's newest captive, the hobgoblin barked something interrogative-sounding. At this, the kobold winced and backed up as far as he was able without running into the spears of the goblins behind him, crouching and cowering. James had felt a minor surge of hope at the appearance of this strange interloper, but it faded within him at the sight of this display, and the obvious amusement it provoked in the goblins. They'd make short work of the hapless creature, the apprentice was sure, and then he and Minvi would be back where they started. Worst of all, he would never get to know why there had been a kobold out here dressed as a wandering priest in the first place. "N-not in the face, superior sir!" the kobold pleaded, his hands raised, as the hobgoblin loomed over him and drew back a mailed fist... and then a very strange thing happened. The hobgoblin threw its punch, all right... ... but Not-in-the-Face wasn't there to receive it. Moving with the speed of a startled bird, the reptilian priest dropped to the ground and scrambled through the gap between the hobgoblin's legs, tumbling across the ground like a ball of dusty rags, as if he'd just fallen off the back of a wagon. Somehow, at the end of this tumble, he contrived to wind up back on his feet, in the process sweeping the feet of the goblin guarding Minvi from under it with his tail—the whole process appearing utterly accidental. Less plausibly accidental was what he did next, which was to draw the short, straight sword concealed within his walking stick and almost casually, without looking, plunge it into the fallen goblin's chest, all but nailing the unfortunate creature to the road. He did this so swiftly that the hobgoblin and its four guards didn't even see it happen; by the time they had turned to see where their erstwhile captive had gone, the deed was done, and the kobold was withdrawing the point of his blade from the carcass of their fallen comrade. James, though just as startled as everyone else, recovered his wits quicker. Galvanized, he seized his own guard's spear just behind the head, easily wrenching the weapon from its goggle-eyed holder's slackened grip. He couldn't get it into position to strike its former owner—he was no weapon master—but he could at least use the butt of it to shove the startled goblin away, gaining himself some breathing room as he backed up as tightly to the handcart as he could. The creature, looking affronted, made to reclaim its weapon, but before it could do so, Minvi released the spell she'd been casting and set it afire. This didn't kill it—even the likes of a goblin could withstand the tiny flame of a novice's cantrip—but being on fire gave it something else to worry about, and it took itself off to the nearby stream to attend to the matter. "Nice," said Not-in-the-Face with an offhandedly appreciative little nod. "Oh, don't give me that," he replied scornfully in response to the hobgoblin's shouted challenge. Unconcerned at the monsters' advance, he pulled the cork from the clay jug he wore strapped to his left forearm, took a long swig of whatever was inside it, and corked it again, then took a wobbly step forward and said in a faintly slurred tone of dismissal, "I ashked you nishely." When describing the incident to the Flatwater city guardsmen later, James was a bit at a loss for words. What had happened next? It couldn't possibly have been the case, not really, but it had looked for all the world like the kobold priest had slain the four remaining goblins... well, more or less accidentally, in the course of stumbling around in a drunken panic, avoiding the hobgoblin's increasingly frenzied attempts to kill him. Indeed, strictly speaking, the hobgoblin had slain one of them, striking with its great broad sword at where it thought the kobold ought to be and cleaving one of its own attendants practically in half instead. It all looked accidental, except that there was no conceivable way it could've been. James wasn't a man-at-arms, he was an apprentice weaver, but even so, he had watched the town guard at their training often enough to know what a well-commanded fight looked like. Although Not-in-the-Face's stumbling dives, painful-looking falls, and reeling dodges all looked like the purest happenstance in isolation, together they made up an almost-perfectly-fought battle; and whatever he did, however he staggered and tumbled and swayed, his sword always ended up precisely where it needed to be, right down to the moment where it found its way under the hobgoblin's breastplate and up into the creature's heart. With a look mingling frustrated fury and infinite surprise on its ugly face, the hobgoblin toppled backward and crashed flat on its back to the road, making a sound like a mishap in an ironmonger's shop. The kobold priest wobbled on his feet for a moment over the corpse, the bodies of its lesser minions scattered all around him like broken toys, then took one last swig from his clay jug, wiped his sword, and put it away. "Well," he mused philosophically, "that's all for you, superior sir," and there was no trace of a drunken slur in his voice or a wobble in his gait as he turned and made his way over to the astonished apprentices. "Heading for Flatwater?" he asked. At James and Minvi's mute nods, he asked, "May this humble pilgrim beg a favor?" Which was how Master Jevenar's apprentices came by having to explain to the Flatwater city guard why there was a wandering kobold priest curled up fast asleep in their handcart, snoring extravagantly and smelling of plum wine, when they arrived at the city gates that evening. Not in the face! --G.
-><-
Benjamin D. Hutchins, Co-Founder, Editor-in-Chief, & Forum Mod
Eyrie Productions, Unlimited http://www.eyrie-productions.com/
zgryphon at that email service Google has
Ceterum censeo Carthaginem esse delendam. |
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Gryphon
Charter Member
19402 posts |
Feb-05-18, 09:19 PM (EST) |
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35. "RE: Not-in-the-Face"
In response to message #34
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>I'm pretty sure that's how they're doing it. Just rendering up the STL
>out of pre-rendered/sculpted parts, and then printing it via SLS or
>something. Heck, they probably even do lost PLA for printing the metal
>bits.They're pretty up-front that they do it with 3D printers; in the materials selection phase, the site even warns you that in some materials, the models come with obvious layer lines you might want to do something about in post-production, which is nice of them. --G.
-><-
Benjamin D. Hutchins, Co-Founder, Editor-in-Chief, & Forum Mod
Eyrie Productions, Unlimited http://www.eyrie-productions.com/
zgryphon at that email service Google has
Ceterum censeo Carthaginem esse delendam. |
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Pasha
Charter Member
973 posts |
Feb-06-18, 09:03 PM (EST) |
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40. "RE: Not-in-the-Face"
In response to message #39
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>I've already seen videos of someone else doing lost wax casting by
>using wax filament in a 3D printer. It was really just a matter of
>time, since it's just a matter of figuring out a good wax formula and
>nozzle temperature. It neatly solves the problem of doing what amounts
>to one-offs that is (normally) part and parcel of lost wax castings. Sure. I'm just used to people either making a two part silicone mold for the wax (print your positive, mold it, cast your wax, mold in plaster/sand, cast in metal. downside is you have to factor in 10-12% shrinkage all told.)
or doing lost PLA (one of the more common filaments these days, happily burns at the temp liquid metal pours at). Seeing printing in wax is just kinda neat. *a quick google later* Wow, and it's only $50/kg. that's not terrible. I'll have to try it once the weather dries up enough I can put my forge outside again. --
-Pasha (jesus this .sig is evergreen for me)
"Don't change the subject"
"Too slow, already did." |
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MoonEyes
Member since Jun-29-03
780 posts |
Feb-04-18, 05:01 PM (EST) |
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32. "RE: Not-in-the-Face"
In response to message #28
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>Indeed, strictly
>speaking, the hobgoblin had slain one of them, striking with
>its great broad sword at where it thought the kobold ought to be and
>cleaving one of its own attendants practically in half instead.
Actually a broadsword
Not actually a broadsword
Just saying. RPGs are really REALLY good at not being good, when it comes to that particular subject. ...!
Stoke Mandeville, Esq & The Victorian Ballsmiths
"Nobody Want Verdigris-Covered Balls!" |
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Gryphon
Charter Member
19402 posts |
Feb-06-18, 04:35 PM (EST) |
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37. "RE: Not-in-the-Face"
In response to message #36
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>On a point of order, the space between "broad" and "sword" suggests to
>me that it's merely a sword with a low aspect ratio, not necessarily a
>broadsword. Quite. In this instance I had in mind something not too unlike the sword from the cover of Hellboy: Odd Jobs, which, I would submit, is neither a greatsword nor a broadsword according to Oakeshott, but is certainly a great, broad sword. --G.
-><-
Benjamin D. Hutchins, Co-Founder, Editor-in-Chief, & Forum Mod
Eyrie Productions, Unlimited http://www.eyrie-productions.com/
zgryphon at that email service Google has
Ceterum censeo Carthaginem esse delendam. |
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MoonEyes
Member since Jun-29-03
780 posts |
Feb-07-18, 11:59 AM (EST) |
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41. "RE: Not-in-the-Face"
In response to message #37
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>but is certainly a great, broad
>sword. Great and broad, it definetly is. The "sword" part, I'm not so sure about...looks like some sort of machete with a cross-bar. But, on the other hand, Hellboy grabbed something from a statue, in the first movie, so hey. And, point taken vis-a-vis the original post, indeed. There is a difference between "broadsword" and "broad sword". Incidentally, that's also where "broadsword" originates from, in proper usage. "Sword broader than a rapier".
...!
Stoke Mandeville, Esq & The Victorian Ballsmiths
"Nobody Want Verdigris-Covered Balls!"
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MoonEyes
Member since Jun-29-03
780 posts |
Feb-08-18, 01:24 PM (EST) |
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43. "RE: Not-in-the-Face"
In response to message #42
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>Well, it's not an axe. Whatever else, this? I cannot argue against. In any way.
>"I used to carry a Lucern hammer. Imagine my
>embarrassment when I found out it was a pole arm."
Oh, oh, I HATE it when that happens. Boy does your face turn red, right?
Lucerned link
...!
Stoke Mandeville, Esq & The Victorian Ballsmiths
"Nobody Want Verdigris-Covered Balls!"
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ebony14
Member since Jul-11-11
434 posts |
Feb-08-18, 03:57 PM (EST) |
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44. "RE: Not-in-the-Face"
In response to message #43
| |
Back in the day, when Games Workshop was first trying its hand at the RPG thing, before the wargaming took all of their time, they published a module where the PCs could find a detailed book of polearms, explaining in fine detail the history and detail of the various types and explaining the difference between a glaive, a guisarme, a glaive-guisarme, a Lucerne hammer, and so forth. None of which really meant anything in Warhammer Fantasy RPG, since all polearms do the same amount of damage. Given that, at about the same time, TSR had released Unearthed Arcana, which included a rather detailed appendix entitled "The Anatomy of the Polearm," I can't help but think this was a good-humored dig at the boys in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, by their buddies in Nottingham. Ebony the Black Dragon "Life is like an anole. Sometimes it's green. Sometimes it's brown. But it's always a small Caribbean lizard." |
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Gryphon
Charter Member
19402 posts |
Feb-08-18, 05:03 PM (EST) |
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45. "RE: Not-in-the-Face"
In response to message #44
| |
LAST EDITED ON Feb-08-18 AT 05:10 PM (EST)
>Back in the day, when Games Workshop was first trying its hand at the
>RPG thing, before the wargaming took all of their time, they published
>a module where the PCs could find a detailed book of polearms,
>explaining in fine detail the history and detail of the various types
>and explaining the difference between a glaive, a guisarme, a
>glaive-guisarme, a Lucerne hammer, and so forth. None of which really
>meant anything in Warhammer Fantasy RPG, since all polearms do the
>same amount of damage.
>
>Given that, at about the same time, TSR had released Unearthed
>Arcana, which included a rather detailed appendix entitled "The
>Anatomy of the Polearm," I can't help but think this was a
>good-humored dig at the boys in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, by their
>buddies in Nottingham.The vast selection of obscure medieval polearms, none of which did anything meaningfully different from any of the others and none of which were accompanied by any illustration or explanation, was a pretty notorious feature of the original Advanced Dungeons & Dragons Player's Handbook: 
Yes, there are four different things on here with "guisarme" in their names. Yes, they all do
identical damage to the vast majority of creatures PCs are going to try to use them on. Yes,
you are meant to figure out for yourself that 2d4 is the dice combo you need to roll for that
damage range. AD&D did not believe in coddling its players. Or even really helping them
very much at all.
The fact that TSR later wasted even more of everyone's time trying to explicate this instead of just deleting it in favor of a single entry for "halberd, or whatever halberd-alike you think fits your character's vibe best" makes it even more take-the-piss-out-of-worthy. :) --G.
-><-
Benjamin D. Hutchins, Co-Founder, Editor-in-Chief, & Forum Mod
Eyrie Productions, Unlimited http://www.eyrie-productions.com/
zgryphon at that email service Google has
Ceterum censeo Carthaginem esse delendam. |
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MuninsFire
Member since Mar-27-07
253 posts |
Feb-08-18, 10:48 PM (EST) |
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47. "RE: Not-in-the-Face"
In response to message #45
| |
LAST EDITED ON Feb-08-18 AT 10:51 PM (EST)
I seem to vaguely recall someone doing a Spam-sketch parody of this list that ended up with a Glaive-Glaive-Glaive-Guisarme-Glaive, but sadly I cannot recall enough of it to -find- the damned thing.Probably for the best. No, wait, it was Order of the Stick.
Polearms Emporium Personally always liked the lists of weapons. Gives a lot of ideas for flavour - e.g. you round the corner and there's a group of three guys with Ranseurs, well, they must belong to the Duke of Something. If they had voulges, then they'd be with the Baron of Whatnot. Extended heraldry, if you will. --
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome
decree,
Where Alph, the sacred river,
ran
Through caverns measureless to
man
Down to a sunless sea |
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Peter Eng
Charter Member
1494 posts |
Feb-09-18, 00:47 AM (EST) |
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48. "RE: Not-in-the-Face"
In response to message #47
| |
>I seem to vaguely recall someone doing a Spam-sketch parody of this
>list that ended up with a Glaive-Glaive-Glaive-Guisarme-Glaive, but
>sadly I cannot recall enough of it to -find- the damned thing.
>
>Probably for the best. No, wait, it was Order of the
>Stick.
>
>Polearms Emporium
>The Glaive-Glaive-Glaive-Guisarme-Glaive originates in a collection of Useless Tables which appeared in Space Gamer. One of them was the Random Polearm Generator. I'm still a little sad that Burlew didn't include the glaive-guisarme-voulge or the voulge-glaive-guisarme, although they wouldn't fit with the intent of that frame. Peter Eng
--
Misdialed Number Table, result 14: "International Transmutual Conglomeration of Associates. May I help you?" |
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MuninsFire
Member since Mar-27-07
253 posts |
Mar-04-18, 01:14 AM (EST) |
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49. "Snippet from a Shadowrun game"
In response to message #0
| |
THE CAST Engy - a rigger with entirely too much love for his drones. Rather pale, prone to hiding out in his van rather than facing the fists or bullets of enemies. Huerco Corazon - an orkish lucha fighter, cybered to the gills, who always wears a mask portraying a Día de Muertos sugar skull. Big, bombastic, larger-than-life. Mr. Fahrenheit - Think David Bowie + Freddy Mercury, but somehow -more obvious-. Mage, with an arcane focus in the shape of a microphone. Friendly, sociable, and has a thing for giant displays of lights. THE OPENING We meet our characters driving towards a gate to the Seattle Barrens. The van, nondescript except for a sheet of paper with "PizzaWagon" written on it taped to the side, stops at a barrier gate. "What's your business?" a crackling speaker set in a crazed, almost opaque bulletproof window says. The passenger window rolls down, and Mr. Fahrenheit leans out, pulling down his sunglasses. "Pizza delivery," he says. A beat. "Nobody delivers pizza to the Barrens," the speaker crackles again. "It's a new service: PizzaWagon. From the folks who brought you DocWagon." A sigh from over the speaker. "Just have a better excuse when you come out." The barrier lowers, and the van drives into the barrens. --
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome
decree,
Where Alph, the sacred river,
ran
Through caverns measureless to
man
Down to a sunless sea |
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version 3.3 © 2001
Eyrie Productions,
Unlimited
Benjamin
D. Hutchins
E P U (Colour)
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RE: Dungeons & Randos
RE: Dungeons & Randos
