Looking Ahead

Judging from my past attempts to do so, I am a very poor prognosticator of the future. Therefore, I am going to refrain, on this first day of 2025, from making any predictions about the next twelve months. If the last few years are any guide, the only thing one can safely predict about the coming year is its unpredictability. With luck, that unpredictability will work in our favor from time to time.

I am likewise not a maker of resolutions. My ability to follow through with almost any project I undertake is spotty at best, as anyone who's paid any attention to my creative output over the years can tell you. The only project that I can (almost) guarantee you'll see this year is this blog, which, for better or worse, I've still managed to keep writing, though there are plenty of days when I wonder how long I'll be able to continue to do so. 

That said, there are a few things I feel reasonably safe to state about 2025 and Grognardia's place within it. First, there will be a rise in the number of posts dedicated to Traveller, at least for the foreseeable future. I started down this path toward the end of last month, so that should be no surprise. Traveller remains my favorite roleplaying game, so this shift in focus was perhaps inevitable. However, I cannot promise it'll be a permanent shift, as one can sometimes grow tired of even one's most cherished interests.

Relatedly, I will probably also post a bit more about Thousand Suns, the science fiction RPG I wrote as my love letter to Traveller. It's a game with which I'm very pleased and that I've enjoyed playing over the years. It's also a game I haven't put any further development into in many years, for multiple reasons. Despite this, I am regularly asked about the game and whether or not I have any future plans for it. Those are all fruitful topics for discussion, especially as an adjunct to the increase Traveller posts here.

Second, there will be more posts about Secrets of sha-Arthan, the science fantasy roleplaying game I've been creating, on and off, for the last three and a half years. I've made a lot of progress in that time, but I'm a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to personal projects like this. I've written and rewritten, abandoned and returned to numerous drafts of the game rules multiple times now – so many, in fact, that I often despair of ever settling on one that I like enough to playtest widely. I'm hoping that will change this year. Even if it doesn't, I still plan to share more about the sha-Arthan setting, which I think is pretty cool.

Third, 2025 marks the 50th anniversary of the publication of Empire of the Petal Throne. And while my House of Worms campaign is very likely coming to its end within the next few weeks (just shy of its 10-year anniversary), my interest in Tékumel remains. Plus, I did such a poor job of commemorating the semicentennial year of Dungeons & Dragons last year that I feel an obligation to do better with EPT, a game that deserves to be better known and appreciated. 

Fourth, I will definitely post more about the other campaigns which I'm refereeing or playing. In particular, the Barrett's Raiders Twilight: 2000 campaign deserves greater coverage. That campaign has been going for the last three years and it's now entering a new phase, as the characters are in the midst of evacuating the war-torn Poland of September 2000 and returning home to the USA. I think this new phase will be quite interesting, both to play and to write about, so expect more T2K posts throughout the year. 

Fifth, expect some more interviews with notable figures from the history of the hobby. Interviews used to be one the major features of this blog in its early days. I've not done quite as many of these since I return to it in 2020. I intend to change that this year, if only because I think it's very important that we preserve the thoughts, memories, and experiences of the pioneers of this amazing hobby we all share. Being keenly aware of my own mortality these days, I don't want us to lose any more of our founders before they've had a chance to tell their stories. Interviews are one small way that might be able to happen, hence why Grognardia needs to post more of them this year.

Naturally, I have other hopes and intentions for 2025, but I've probably already tempted Fate by publicly mentioning the five I have, so I'll keep the others to myself for now. In the meantime, I want to wish all of my readers a Happy New Year and to thank you all for your continued interest and support. That means a lot to me.

Questions and Answers

With the end of my House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign in sight after nearly a decade of regular play, I've started thinking about not just its conclusion but what happens after the conclusion. Since nearly all of the players have agreed they'd like me to referee a new game, it's clear that our little circle of gamers will continue to meet each week after the final curtain falls on this particular campaign. And while the question of precisely what game we'll play next is an interesting one – I may post about that later – what I want to talk about now is something quite different.

House of Worms began in early March 2015. When I started it, I simply wanted to give Empire of the Petal Throne another whirl. I'd refereed the game a couple of time prior, but neither of those campaigns lasted very long. Considering how rich and compelling the world of Tékumel is, I felt I owed it to myself to give EPT another shot. I was quite fortunate that, this time, in the words of Col. John "Hannibal" Smith, it all came together and remarkably so. We're now just shy of the ten-year mark, which makes House of Worms the single longest continuous RPG campaign I've ever refereed by a wide margin.

At the start, though, I had no idea how long the campaign would last. Based on my past experiences with Tékumel, I had no expectation that House of Worms would last even a single year, let alone ten. As a result, I didn't plan too far ahead. I had some basic ideas of how to kick off the campaign and where it might go after that, but most of my ideas were pretty sketchy and that's being generous. I relied pretty heavily on player decisions to guide where the campaign went and what I developed for it. I tried to stay a few steps ahead of the players at all times, but, even then, I regularly created and discarded ideas at a fairly quick pace, responding in equal parts to what the players did and my own changing interests.

In my campaigns, I try to give the impression that the end results are what I'd had in mind all along. Of course, it's a parlor trick, misdirection in which I get the players to focus on what worked rather than what didn't. In the past, I've described my campaigns as being a lot like that scene in the movie Ghostbusters, where Bill Murray's Peter Venkman attempts to pull the tablecloth out from under the place settings on a table in the dining room. He fails utterly but is undeterred, boasting, "And the flowers are still standing!" even as everything else falls to the floor. That's what I do much of the time.

Despite that, I still do have ideas I purposefully introduce into the campaign and that prove important. It's not entirely an illusion. Some of these ideas bear fruit and some do not, while others morph into something I'd not originally intended. I imagine that's not a phenomenon unique to me. Any long running campaign is likely to include plenty examples of all of the above. In fact, I have a hard time imagining how a roleplaying campaign could go for more than a few weeks before it starts to diverge from what any of its participants consciously had in mind. That's one of the main joys of this form of entertainment: you never know where's going to wind up.

So, when House of Worms finally does end, I'm going to devote the next session to a wrap-up in which I'll encourage the players to ask my anything about the campaign and how it developed. What ideas did I originally have and how did they change? What was going on with some character or plot that was left dangling at the end? How much did their choices to zig when I expected them to zag derail what I might have had in mind? And so on. I greatly value transparency in most things, including RPGs. Letting the players see "behind the curtain," so to speak, is important, especially in a campaign as long-running as House of Worms. 

Needless to say, I'll do a post or two about the players' questions and my answers to them. I feel the process of refereeing is often too opaque and writing about what I did and why over the course of the last decade will undoubtedly be useful to other referees (and probably players as well). The end of House of Worms is a major event for all involved. Expect to see quite a few posts devoted to it in the weeks and months to come.

Dramatis Personae

A commenter to my recent post about the coming end of my House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign asked to know a little bit about each of the characters depicted in this illustration by Zhu Bajiee.

I thought that was a pretty good idea for a post, but I thought I'd expand upon the question a bit and talk about most of the player characters who've appeared in the campaign since it began in March 2015. Doing so isn't just a fitting commemoration of these characters but also reveals something of their range of personalities, a range that's played a huge role in ensuring the campaign for all these years.

I'm going to start with the six characters depicted in the illustration above, since they're the originals who kicked off the campaign. The figure on the bottom left, wearing skull face paint is Znayáshu hiNokór (played by Barry Blatt). Znayáshu is a lay priest (magic-user) of Durritlámish with a keen interest in astrology. He originally made his living creating horoscopes before he became involved in the schemes of his clan-mates. His fiancée, Tu'ásha hiNarkóda, of the Mourning Rock clan of Thráya, died before the two could wed – but that didn't stop Znayáshu, who had her corpse carefully preserved and later reanimated as a Shédra, a form of intelligent undead (who then became a secondary player character). 

Next to Znayáshu is Ssúri hiNokór (played by Ron Edwards). A ritual priestess of Durritlámish with a keen knowledge of dance and acrobatics, Ssúri makes use of these talents in contexts outside her temple, such as when facing off against enemies in battle. Sharp-tongued and no-nonsense, she regularly acted as the public face of the characters, often with boldness equal to her actions in combat. 

Standing in the middle, attired in the robes of a priest of Sárku is Keléno hiNokór (played by Doyle Tavener). Keléno prefers to keep his nose in books when he is able (which, sadly, isn't as often as he'd like). He developed an interest in demonology, after successfully – and unintentionally – summoning dread Srükárum to fight against an army of Ssú in the Dry Bay of Ssu'úm. Keléno has married three times in the course of the campaign, firstly to Hmásu hiTéshku, a priestess of Belkhánu, with whom he shares many interests. Here's a depiction of their wedding, also by Zhu Bajiee.

Standing above Keléno is Aíthfo hiZnáyu (played by Stephen Wendell). He's an adventurer who's the lone member of the original group not to worship Sárku or Durritlámish, instead being devoted to Ksárul. Aíthfo is the groups tactician, commanding an ever-changing group of mercenaries and men-at-arms with great skill. He's also a sea captain who hopes to travel the length and breadth of Tékumel in search of “cash and prizes." During the time when the characters were in Linyaró, Aíthfo acted as its imperial governor, though he much preferred exploring the uncharted Achgé Peninsula to overseeing the colony.

The large bald fellow wielding a sword and spear is Grujúng hiZnáyu (played by Dyson Logos). He's an older, ex-legionnaire (formerly of the 6th Imperial Medium Infantry) who found life in Sokátis dull and so travels around with his clan-mates in search of excitement (and good fishing spots). His dream of one day commanding a legion of his own was fulfilled (somewhat) during the characters' time in Linyaró, when he was placed in charge of the colony's military. Mostly, though, he protects the others from anyone who'd do them harm.

Finally, on the far right is Jangáiva hiTlélsu (played by Jason Ermer). A temple guard of Sárku, Jangáiva gained the patronage of an officer of the Omnipotent Azure Legion, who is testing her for possible formal induction into that august force. During her travels outside of Yán Kór, she obtained a demonic hammer that calls itself “Little Sister” and revels in destruction. Jangáiva does her best to keep the weapon under control.

Of these six characters, two – Ssúri and Jangáiva – dropped out of the campaign within the first year or so. Znayáshu also left earlier this year, leaving only Aíthfo, Grujúng, and Keléno of the originals. However, shortly before the departures of Ssúri and Jangáiva, another character joined: Huné hiNokór (played by Scott Kellogg). Here's an illustration of him by Zhu Bajiee.

Huné is a sickly, scheming priest of Hrü'ü, with a penchant for indulging in dangerous psychedelics. He is not a member of the House of Worms clan, but rather than much more prestigious Dark Flame clan. He joined the other characters in part due to a belief in a common ancestry, as evidence by his lineage name (hiNokór). In addition to his other pursuits, Huné had a keen interest in the Hirilákte Arena and liked to acquire unique gladiators – "freaks," in his words – to sponsor in the fights there. Huné eventually departed the campaign.

Joining not long after Huné was Nebússa hiTéshku (played by Kevin Brennan). A clan-cousin of Keléno's first wife, Hmásu, Nebússa is a member of the Omnipotent Azure Legion and a worshipper of Ksárul. A master of politics and intrigue, he's had a strong effect on the campaign, ever since his first appearance. He eventually married the Lady Srüna hiVázhu, an aristocratic scion of the Iron Helm clan of Mekú. Here's another illustration of the happy couple by Zhu Bajiee.

In time, Keléno acquired an apprentice by the name of Kirktá hiNokór (played by Alex Klesen), a young scholar priest of Durritlámish, who had formerly been a priest of Belkhánu, as well as a member of another clan (Red Sword). While it is not unknown for someone to change his temple affiliation, it's quite unusual for a priest. Changing clans is more unusual still, yet Kirktá did both. In time, the reasons for this strange state of affairs became known – Kirktá is a hidden heir to the Petal Throne – and this secret has proven an important element of the last couple of years of the campaign and, perhaps, its ending as well.

Znayáshu, too, acquired a colleague in the form of Chiyé hiNokór, a magician devoted to Sárku. Chiyé is a schemer and a social climber, hoping to acquire not just knowledge but also political power. For a time, he worked to create a marital alliance between himself and the Livyáni colony of Nuróab, but that unfortunately came to nought. Now, he's more interested in discovering the secret of repairing and manufacturing eyes, the devices of the Great Ancients that enable the user to employ all manner of incredible powers.

The most recent addition to the campaign is Qurén hiQolyélmu (played by Brett Slocum). Qurén is a scholar of antiquities and among the very few humans with a knowledge of the nonhuman Mihálli language. Nominally in the employ of Prince Rereshqála, a revealed heir to the Petal Throne, he joined the House of Worms characters on their planned expedition to some Mihálli ruins to the northeast, with the purpose of acting as a translator. However, events did not go quite as planned and he now finds himself with a front row seat for the upcoming Kólumejàlim, in which his new companions may play a significant role.

All of the foregoing characters played in the House of Worms campaign for at least a year. There are three others who played for less and I've not included them here, since their lasting impact is smaller. Presently, there are seven active characters: Aíthfo, Chiyé, Grujúng, Keléno, Kirktá, Nebússa, and Qúren. It's worth noting that, with the exception of Aíthfo, whose situation is unusual, there have been no player character deaths. To some degree that's because the characters avoid combat whenever possible, but it's also just a matter of luck. For a time, I refereed a second Empire of the Petal Throne campaign in parallel with this one and all but one of its starting characters died (and many more besides). Apparently, Lord Sárku smiles upon them, knowing that, in the end, he will claim them all anyway. Why not grant them a few more days upon Tékumel until then?

Endings

Some of you may recall that, back in August, I opined about the coming end of my House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign. Three months later, the reality of that ending is becoming more apparent. I won't say that it's imminent, but it's very much on the horizon. If I had to guess, I suspect things will likely wrap up sometime early in 2025. Sadly, I don't think it'll continue far enough into the new year in order to reach the campaign's tenth anniversary (on March 6. 2025), but them's the breaks. While we human beings seem to like nice, round numbers, real life doesn't always cooperate.

The campaign began with six player characters, depicted in this illustration drawn by Zhu Bajiee.

Within the first year or so of play, two of the original six departed (for scheduling reasons), but were quickly replaced by two others, one of whom still plays and has become one of the campaign's stalwarts. In the years since, many other players have come and gone. By my count, there have been fourteen players involved in the House of Worms campaign, not counting "special guests" who sat in for a session or two here and there. Of those, seven still play, including three of the original six.

The campaign never had an overarching "story." Instead, it was always pretty open-ended, with the characters wandering across Tékumel according to their own wishes and those of the patrons they've served. Initially, the characters were all minor members of the House of Worms clan, doing the bidding of their elders while they tried to make names for themselves and to acquire, in the words of Aíthfo hiZnáyu, "cash and prizes." This set-up made it very easy to referee, since the players drove most of the action, it also afforded them the opportunity to travel the length and breadth of Tékumel (and beyond) in pursuit of their goals.

That open-endedness does, however, make it harder to tie things up in a pretty bow and say, "Done!" That's a thought that's occupied my thoughts for a while now: how does one "properly" end a campaign? Most RPG campaigns, I suspect, just stop rather than conclude in any satisfying way. That's honestly fine. For House of Worms, though, I felt some obligation to do something more, something that felt like it did justice to the nearly a decade's worth of roleplaying my players and I have engaged in. But how to do that?

Though the campaign doesn't have a "story" in the literary sense, there is a thread that's been running through it since fairly early on: the characters' quest for status and influence within the Empire of Tsolyánu. To that end, the characters have frequently worked for, opposed, or stumbled into the intrigues of the various heirs to the Petal Throne. In addition, one of their number, Kirktá, has also been revealed to be an heir. This revelation has, until recently, played a fairly minor – but recurring – role in the campaign. Now that it looks like things are starting to wind down, I decided it might be a good time to make full use of Kirktá's status as an imperial scion.

In our most recent session, the characters learned that Hirkáne Tlakotáni, 61st Seal Emperor of Tsolyánu, "the Stone Upon Which the Universe Rests," has fallen gravely ill and is not expected to survive. The various factions within the Imperium, plotting quietly in the shadows in preparation for the inevitable Kólumejàlim, are at last ready to make their moves, each falling behind one of the potential candidates for the Petal Throne. Since Kirktá is one of those potential candidates, the characters will soon find themselves involved in this world-historical event, whether they like it or not.

Thus, the final sessions of the House of Worms campaign will focus on the choosing of a new emperor (or empress). In the wake of Hirkáne's death, all candidates for the throne must present themselves to the Omnipotent Azure Legion in Avanthár and announce whether they wish to partake in the Kólumejàlim or if they will "renounce the Gold" and retire to a safe imperial sinecure. Before that happens, though, there will be much plotting and intrigue, as each candidate rallies his supporters, seeks allies, and tries to dissuade other contenders to renounce their claims. It's into this maelstrom that the characters will fling themselves, the conclusion of which will result in both a new emperor and an end to our campaign.

Not a bad way to end things, don't you think?

High Adventure and Low Comedy

Free League publishes not one, not two, but three different fantasy roleplaying games at the moment – Forbidden Lands, Symbaroum, and now Dragonbane. Each one is quite distinct from one another, not just in terms of rules but also in tone. For example, Dragonbane, the latest iteration of the venerable Swedish RPG, Drakar och Demoner, sets itself apart from the other Free League fantasy RPGs by its willingness to embrace lighter, even sillier moments, as designer Tomas Häremstam points out in his preface:

Though a toolbox for allowing you to tell fantasy stories of all kinds, Dragonbane is a game with room for laughs at the table and even a pinch of silliness at times – while at the same time offering brutal challenges for the adventurers. We call this playstyle mirth and mayhem roleplaying – great for long campaigns but also perfect for a one-shot if you just want to have some quick fun at your table for the night. 

Dragonbane is quite an interesting RPG for a number of reasons and I hope to get around to discussing it at some point, but there are several other games and gaming products ahead of it in my review queue. However, the "mirth and mayhem" tagline really caught my attention, in part because it reminds of a phrase my friends and I have used for years – high adventure and low comedy.

I can't quite recall precisely when we coined this phrase, but we did so as a way to capture what the experience of playing most RPGs was actually like at the table – not what its designers wanted to be like, which is quite a different thing. This is an important distinction. With a handful of exceptions, like Paranoia or Toon, whose stated intention is to be humorous, most roleplaying games are written and meant to be played seriously. "Serious" doesn't mean utter devoid of humor, of course, but the humor is accidental, a natural consequence of the unpredictability of playing any game, especially one where player choice and dice rolls contend with one another.

What my friends and I call "high adventure and low comedy" is thus very often (though not exclusively) the result of exactly this: dice with a mind of their own. One of my most popular posts touches on this very topic, though from a slightly different angle. However, the point remains the same, namely, that it's well nigh impossible to avoid moments of unexpected levity when so many of a character's actions are determined by the roll of dice. There's simply no way to ensure that even a high-level and competent character will always succeed at the right moment. Instead of making his save against dragon breath, he might fail and be burnt to a crisp. The reverse is also possible and the all-powerful Dark Lord might, metaphorically speaking, slip on a banana peel as he attempts to menace the heroes who've dared to confront him in his lair.

Over the years, I've experienced many examples of this. In my House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign, the character Aíthfo hiZnáyu has fallen prey to bad dice rolls on several notable occasions. And while I used those unintended mishaps as an opportunity to introduce new elements to the campaign, there's no denying that they were also funny – so much so that the players continue to chuckle about them years later. House of Worms has never been a deliberately funny campaign. Tékumel, with its detailed history, ancient mysteries, and constructed languages is perhaps the very definition of serious business when it comes to RPGs and yet there's no way to prevent unexpected silliness from creeping in from time to time – nor would we want to do so!

Dice rolls that go awry aren't the only source of humor. Players are every bit as unpredictable as dice. Sometimes, a player might just be in a whimsical mood and decide that his character does something goofy. Other times, he might be bored and want to shake things up by choosing to act in a way that's, in his opinion, more entertaining. Or maybe someone misspeaks, calling a character by the wrong name or accidentally – or, worse, intentionally – making a pun that causes everyone to erupt into laughter. There are simply so many ways that a roleplaying game session can descend into unintentional humor that there's no point in worrying about it. Instead, it's best to embrace it these moments of levity and enjoy them for what they are.

I think that's why, when I came across the passage I quoted above, I was so taken by it. Over the years, I've read a lot of roleplaying games. Very few of them acknowledge that low comedy is very often the inescapable companion of high adventure. You can't really have one without the other, not without clamping down so hard on anything that deviates in even the slightest way from the Truth Path that, in the process, you've also sucked all the fun out of roleplaying. These are games, after all and they're meant to be fun. They're also exercises in human creativity and interaction, both of which often take us to unexpected places. 

Isn't that why we play these games in the first place?

How Do You Solve a Problem Like Kirktá? (Part IV)

While the House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign may be winding down, it's still far from over. As discussed in three previous posts, the player characters have stopped in the city of Koylugá on their way across the kingdom of Salarvyá on their way to explore Mihálli ruins to the northeast. While in Koylugá, one of the characters, Kirktá, has found himself engaged to be married to Chygár, niece of the city's ruling prince, Kúrek. The engagement is a stratagem intended to force the characters to act as his agents as part of his bid to secure the Ebon Throne, when the current – and insane – king vacates it in death. Neither he nor his niece has any real intention of seeing this marriage take place. It's part of a typically Salarvyáni scheme to achieve a much greater end.

The characters do not like being used as pawns in someone else's game. This turn of events has stiffened their spines and so they have decided to use it as a way to advance their interests. Rather than simply acquiescing to the terms of the marriage dictated to them by Kúrek, they have fought hard for their terms. Nebússa's wife, Srüna, a formidable woman in her own right, has acted as their negotiator and pushed for a number of things Kúrek seems opposed to. Chief among these is that the marriage happen before their departure from Koylugá and that Chgyár should accompany her husband when they do so.

Kúrek was reluctant to accept these terms. He preferred that the marriage only happen after the characters had headed to the lands of the Gürüshyúgga clan to which he was sending them. Further, he was quite adamant that Chgyár should remain in Koylugá until then. These facts led the characters to suspect that they were being lied to about the Kúrek's true plans, but they had insufficient evidence to determine his true motives. So, they simply instructed Srüna to push even harder for an earlier wedding date and having Chgyár join their expedition once it was completed. Surprisingly, Kúrek eventually agreed.

Not long after this happened, Chgyár asked to speak with Kirktá. She begged him not to go through with the wedding – at least not until after his journey. Kirktá saw no reason to agree and told her so. This made her increasingly angry, to the point of panic. Once it became clear that Kirktá had made up his mind to marry her, despite her protestations that she had no interest in doing so, she finally sent him away in exasperation, saying, "I have grown tired of you and these endless conversations. If dying with you is the only way to end them, I am resigned to that fact. Begone."

It took a while before Kirktá understood what she had just said. Nebússa was now worried. Chgyár's use of the phrase "dying with you" suggested that, as they suspected, Kúrek had something more in mind than a simple marital alliance. Srüna was then dispatched to speak with Chgyár, in the hope that she might clarify matters. While she would not answer certain questions directly, she did explain that Kirktá was being sent to the Gürüshyúgga clan not merely as an emissary of her uncle but as a sacrifice. More significantly, the word she used was a very specific, technical term in the Salarvyáni language for a kingly sacrifice of the kind that occurs when the ruler of Salarvyá is judged too infirm to sit upon the Ebon Throne any longer. He is then impaled as a sacrificial offering to Shiringgáyi, their supreme goddess.

This put a very different spin on things! It also explained Chgyár's extreme reluctance to marry and accompany Kirktá eastward, since she likely believes that she, too, will be sacrificed. While none of the characters yet knew precisely with Prince Kúrek had planned or why, it didn't matter: he was plotting to have them killed under the cover of employing them as his agents. That was enough for the characters to decide that they needed to escape Koylugá as quickly and quietly as possible. The longer they waited, the more likely they were to be captured and sent to the Gürüshyúgga under armed guard. 

It was time to act.

Gradually, then Suddenly

It's been a rough few weeks for my ongoing House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign. Recently, the combination of the usual summer doldrums I've come to expect over the last nine years with the vagaries of my players' real-life schedules and obligations has resulted in fewer sessions where we actually play than those where we just chat. Now, there's nothing wrong with chatting with one's friends and, truth be told, I often enjoy those sessions where we shoot the breeze rather than roleplay. But House of Worms is a roleplaying game campaign, so I do take note of when we have an extended period of time when our playing is erratic to non-existent, as has been the case for the last month or so.

As it happens, one of my players also has taken note of it and today raised the question of whether or not I thought the campaign was in danger of sputtering out. Despite my optimism of only a few months ago, I had to agree that the campaign might indeed be entering its final days. Amusingly, our newest player, who only joined our merry band in January of this year, joked that he should have known this would happen. Anytime he'd joined a Tékumel campaign in the past, it fell apart soon thereafter, so why should House of Worms be any different? One of the original six players of the campaign hasn't been able to join us since earlier this year, while another of the original six is now taking an extended leave due to his work. Other players have also found themselves unable to attend for various reasons and that's had an adverse effect on our sessions, which, in turn, has slowed the momentum of the campaign to the point where the players are now openly discussing the possibility of things coming to a halt. 

As I said during today's session, when the question was first raised, we've had periods like this before, when our session frequency became inconsistent and we lost some momentum, but we always managed to keep things going somehow, so that might well be the case this time as well. However, I must confess that this time feels a little different. If I had to put my finger on why it's probably related to the loss of two of the original six players. We're entering into Ship of Theseus territory, where the thread connecting the first session in March 2015 and the present is getting ever more tenuous. Maybe that's not what's going on, I don't know. I can only say that I agreed with the player that lately House of Worms feels as if it's no longer as energetic as it once was.

Of course, the reason the player brought the topic up was, in part, to see if we could make an effort to "wrap things up," which is to say, reach a place in the campaign where, if we were to decide to end it, doing so would bring some degree of satisfaction. Given the meandering nature of the campaign after nearly a decade of play, I'm not sure it'd be possible, even under the best of circumstances, to tie up all the dangling threads into a neat little bow, but, even if that's impossible, there's no reason we shouldn't work toward some kind of closure. We've spent too much time with these characters, this world, and one another not to try – which is why, in today's session, the characters began to lay the groundwork not only to effect Kirktá's rise to emperor of Tsolyánu but also to ruler of a restored Bednallján Empire. They think big, don't they?

And who knows: thinking big might just be the sort of thing that helps pull the campaign out of its doldrums and ensures our contemplation of its end is for nothing.

Winning

My ongoing House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign continues to barrel along, even after nearly nine and a half years of weekly play. You may recall from a few recent posts that the characters are currently traveling through the land of Salarvyá as part of a lengthy overland trek to explore the ruins of the nonhuman Mihálli. Though their reasons for doing so are ultimately personal – attempting to understand the magical diagrams found in the Almanac of Wába – their expedition is under the patronage of Prince Rereshqála, eldest son of the emperor and a potential heir to the Petal Throne. Consequently, their travels have been filled with many unexpected twists and turns, as political machinations, religious conflict, violent rebellions, and petty rivalries have intruded on their lives. 

These intrusions have made for fun and exciting sessions – but very little experience points. As I've explained before, EPT is, rules-wise at least, a variant of original Dungeons & Dragons. Like OD&D, experience points are given for only two things: enemies defeated and treasure. Since most of our sessions include neither combat nor the looting of the underworld, there are thus very few opportunities for the characters to acquire XP. The has been the norm in the campaign for many years now, with weeks or even months passing between occasions when I award experience points to any character. On those rare occasions when I do, the amounts are usually small, so small, in fact, that they scarcely make a dent in the vast numbers of XP needed by every character to attain a new level.

Players accustomed to the pace of advancement common in other games, including Dungeons & Dragons, might see this as a problem, but I assure you it hasn't been. The reason why is quite simple: in the House of Worms campaign, advancement is not solely measured by gaining new levels. This might seem peculiar, especially in a game whose rules are so closely modeled on those of D&D, but it actually makes sense in play. Advancement in this campaign is measured by other, in-game rewards, such as status, position, and influence, not to mention knowledge. These are the things that matter to the characters and allow them to have a greater impact on the world of the campaign. 

Allow me to offer a couple of examples. The titular House of Worms clan is a small one found only in the city of Sokátis and the region immediately nearby. It's respectably medium-ranked, with commercial interests in winemaking and minor ties to the Temples of Sárku and Durritlámish. For good and for ill, no one outside of Sokátis (nor many within the city, for that matter) paid much attention to it – that is, until the player characters started their adventures. Over the years of play, their efforts have brought them and their clan to the direct attention of two imperial princes (and the indirect attention of two more), helped forge a beneficial alliance with an ancient aristocratic clan, expand the markets for their wines, and establish a new branch of the clan in another city. 

The player characters themselves have also enjoyed personal successes. Aíthfo rose from a rootless adventurer to governor of an imperial colony. Grujúng became a respected elder and clanmaster, as well as the general of a frontier legion. Keléno rose within the scholarly hierarchy of his temple, acquiring both greater command of sorcery and not one but three wives in the process. Nebússa, too, married the niece of the Disposer of Mekú and rising within the secretive Omnipotent Azure Legion. I could similarly list the accomplishments of Znayáshu, Chiyé, Kirktá, and Qurén, but I hope I've made my point.

None of the foregoing accomplishments are remotely connected to experience points and only a small number (e.g. Keléno's sorcery) have anything to do with game mechanics. Yet each and every one of these accomplishments is not just important to the development of the campaign as a "living" place where actions have consequences, but also to the development of the characters, as they become more fully realized within the setting. RPGs are often described as games in which there are "no winners or losers," but that's not really true, is it? Players whose choices in the game result in better outcomes for their characters, whether that means more XP/levels or more status/position/influence within the campaign setting are, on some level, winning, are they not?

I don't want to make too much of this, because it's not my main point. At the same time, I think we're often too quick to dismiss the idea that all RPGs have measures of success. Those measures may vary from game to game and sometimes even campaign to campaign, but they do exist. In the House of Worms campaign, success is measured just as much – if not more – by how powerful and influential the characters have become within the setting as by their experience point totals. Likewise, in my Barrett's Raiders Twilight: 2000 campaign, success is measured at present by survival against the harsh conditions of post-WWIII Poland and, ultimately, by returning safely to NATO lines. That's what "winning" looks like in this context.

Mind you, I also think winning consists in maintaining a long campaign, so what do I know?

How Do You Solve a Problem Like Kirktá? (Part III)

When last we left him, Kirktá and his clan-mates were wrestling with the recent revelation that Kúrek Tiqónnu Thirreqúmmu, lord of the city of Koylugá, was somehow aware of the fact that the youthful scholar priest of Durritlámish was, in fact, a hidden heir to the Petal Throne. Further, Kúrek was finalizing the arrangements for the upcoming marriage between Kirktá and his niece, Lady Chgyár – a marriage that no one else, least of all Kirktá, knew anything about. The characters naturally suspected that Kúrek wished to enter into a political alliance with someone of importance within nearby Tsolyánu. Even if Kirktá chose not to participate the Kólumejàlim or "choosing of the emperor," never mind win it, the mere fact that he is the son of the reigning emperor brings with it a host of potential benefits. Marrying his niece to Kirktá thus made a lot of sense. Even so, there were lots of other unanswered questions. 

The characters decided that, rather than continue to ponder these matters with insufficient information, they should take the Chlén-beast by the horns. They composed a brief letter to Lady Chgyár, asking if they might speak with her this evening. She replied that she was happy to receive them for an evening meal, during which they could talk. Together, the group made their way to the Thirreqúmmu palace, which served both as the ruling family's domicile and the province's seat of government. After being led through a maze of chambers within the building, they found themselves in a dining hall, where Chgyár and her servants welcomed them.

The young woman wasted little time getting to the point. Chgyár imagined they'd come to see her because they were surprised and perhaps a little shocked by the marriage contract, as well as mention of Kirktá's Tlakotáni lineage. She explained that, despite appearances, she was not actually interested in marrying Kirktá, nor, for that matter, was her uncle. Rather, the contract was meant as an encouragement of compliance in her uncle's political designs. Kúrek is very ambitious. He hopes, upon the death of King Griggatsétsa, to ascend the Ebon Throne as Salarvyá's new monarch. To do that successfully, he needs allies within the kingdom, specifically the Gürüshyúgga family of Tsa'avtúlgu, currently leading a revolt against the capital.

What does any of this have to do with the characters? The Gürüshyúgga family, you see, are worshipers of a deity known as Black Qárqa, a Salarvyáni version of Sárku, the Five-Headed Lord of Worms after whom the House of Worms clan is named. Lord Kúrek believes that the characters, as outsiders, could act as "neutral" intermediaries in the current conflict between the Gürüshyúgga and the King. Of course, their true purpose is not merely to end the conflict but also to make sure the Gürüshyúgga understand that it was Kúrek who engineered its cessation, so that they would, in turn, support his bid for the throne. It is hoped that, because the characters are themselves devotees of the same dark god as the Gürüshyúgga, they might have greater influence than would he or most other Salarvyáni.

If the characters agree to attempt this, Lord Kúrek will keep Kirktá's true lineage a secret. Neither will he have to marry Chgyár, who, for her part, says she "has someone else in mind" for her future husband. The marriage contract is simply a useful prop in the event that the characters do not agree to help. Kúrek can not only reveal that Kirktá is a hidden heir but also that he "toyed with a young woman's affections" – a charge with enough plausibility that it might well be believed by enough people to blacken the reputation of not only Kirktá but his comrades as well. 

Before sending them on their way again, Chgyár provided as many answers to their characters' question as she could. Most important among her answers was that the conflict between the king and the Gürüshyúgga stemmed from the former's desire to seize certain devices of the Ancients that the latter reputedly possessed in large numbers and that may well be the source of their own power (the Gürüshyúgga being renowned as sorcerers and stalwart defenders against the dreaded Ssú). She then implied that, if the characters were successful in securing an alliance between her family and them, the Gürüshyúgga might reward them with a few choice items from their arsenal. She then sent them on their way to prepare for the meeting with Lord Kúrek the next morning.

Naturally, the characters still have a lot of questions. Among the most significant concerns how they choose to respond to this. They do not like being strongarmed by anyone, least of all foreign aristocrats. At the same time, their desire to keep Kirktá's imperial status secret places them in a very real bind. If they don't help, Kúrek will reveal it and numerous unhappy consequences may arise from it. How much of a risk are they willing to take? Or is it simply better – or at least safer – to serve as emissaries to the Gürüshyúgga on behalf of Chgyár's uncle?

So many questions, so few answers.

How Do You End a Campaign?

As regular readers should know, I am an advocate for long campaigns, so much so that I feel that RPGs are best enjoyed when played in that way. Even so, that raises the question: when do you end a campaign?

I think about this often, because my House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign is now several months in to its tenth year of weekly play, with a stable group of eight players, four of whom have been playing since March 2015 and one player who's played for almost as long. After nearly a decade of play, House of Worms is a perpetual campaign or very nearly so. There are so many character-driven goals, world events, long-term intrigues, and meddling NPCs to provide us with another decade's worth of play should we desire it. Whether that will actually happen is a separate matter.

More than likely, House of Worms will end much sooner than that, probably for mundane reasons, such as players having to stop playing due to real world obligations, changing schedules, etc. If so, it's quite possible there will be no "end" to it. Instead, it will simply stop in medias res. Would that be a bad thing? Would it be preferable to arrange something more conclusive and, dare I say, more satisfying? I'm honestly not sure. On the one hand, putting a proper cap on the campaign might feel better, in the sense that no one involved will have regrets about things being unresolved. On the other hand, I worry that such an approach borrows too heavily from literature or drama, which are very different kinds of entertainments from roleplaying.

Most of my past campaigns, both recently and in my youth, simply ended, usually due to boredom or distraction. For example, my Riphaeus Sector Traveller campaign, which I ran for three years, ended because I was exhausted and lacked the endurance necessary to run such an open-ended campaign at that particular time. The characters were in the midst of dealing with several different problems within the setting. When I announced I wanted to end the campaign, I didn't make an effort to wrap anything up; we simply ceased playing. No one involved seems to have minded, but I must admit that I occasionally think back with some regret on how abruptly the campaign ended. Of course, I'm not sure how I could have wrapped things up, since it was, as I said, a very open-ended campaign without a single contrived narrative. 

I'm curious to hear what others think about this. I'm especially curious about others' experiences of ending campaigns that have run for a lengthy period of time (a couple of years or more). Did they end because they'd reached a natural stepping off point? Boredom? Real world issues? Did they end because there was a decision to end them? If so, how did they end? Did they simply cease or was there some kind of resolution? If there was resolution, was that resolution a consequence of prior events or was it engineered in order to provide a sense of closure? 

This is a topic about which I'd really like to know more, so please share your experiences, stories, and insights, if you have them. Thanks!

Keeping It Rolling

A commenter to my Retrospective on From the Ashes wrote the following:

It's a known problem in fantasy worlds with metaplot that the stakes need to escalate until each new world-threatening villain and their attendant cataclysm is met with a yawn.

This is an accurate observation in my opinion and one that I've very deliberately tried to avoid in my ongoing House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign. Escalation of the sort the commenter mentions is, in my opinion, poison to the health of a long campaign. To show you what I mean, here's a very incomplete list of just a few of the major endeavors of the player characters over the course of the last nine years of active play: 

• A Funerary Mystery: The campaign kicked off in 2015 with the characters assisting their clan in attending to the affairs of a dead elder, who'd died at an advanced age. In the process of doing so, they uncovered evidence of a plot by foreign agents provocateurs to destabilize a border region of Tsolyánu.
• An Extended Trip Abroad: The House of Worms clan sent the characters to neighboring Salarvyá to tend to the clan's business interests there. After a few weeks seeing the local sights and exploring places of interest, a magical mishap propelled them thousands of miles away to the northern land of Yán Kór. The journey back to Tsolyánu took more than six months, during which time they met new friends, made new enemies, and tangled with the dreaded Ssú for the first time.
• Tsolyáni Politics: Returning home, they accidentally interfered with the plans of an imperial prince (Mridóbu). In return for his forgiveness, they pledged their future assistance to him, no questions asked.
• Cult Investigations: In their home city of Sokátis, the characters looked into the disappearances and strange behavior of important local people, leading them to discover evidence of a secretive cult dedicated to one of the Pariah Gods, perhaps the fearsome Goddess of the Pale Bone herself. In the process, they come to realize one of the player characters was not who seemed to be but rather a magical copy employed by the cult. They rescued the real character and disrupted some of the cult's activities.
• A Foreign Posting: Prince Mridóbu called in his favor and sent the characters to the far-off Tsolyáni colony of Linyaró to act as its administration. This posting is a "reward" for the characters' proven ability to disrupt hidden plots. Mridóbu believes something suspicious is afoot in the colony and the characters have the skills necessary to reveal it (plus he wants them far away from Tsolyánu, lest they cause more trouble for him there). 
• A Journey by Sea, Land, and Sea Again: The characters then spend many months traveling by water before reaching the plague ravaged land of Livyánu, where they disembarked. They then trekked across its length to catch another sea vessel for the final legal of their trip to Linyaró on the coast of the Achgé Peninsula.
• Showing the Flag: Having reached Linyaró, the characters must establish control over the colony and deal with several scheming factions, at least one of which was probably behind the murder of the previous governor. 

This list represents only the first two years of play – and I've left out plenty of smaller adventures. Over the next nine years, the characters traversed the length and breadth of the Achgé Peninsula, dealt with the rulers of several Naqsái city-states, explored a huge ruined city, tangled with the Temple of Ksárul, battled the Hokún, treated with advanced AIs, visited an alternate Tékumel, traveled to several of the Planes Beyond, prevented the Shunned Ones from altering the atmosphere of the planet, and dealt with one of their companions' deaths, among other things. That's not even taking into account all the social interactions and alliances they've formed, often through marriage, in the course of play. After nearly a decade, there are simply too many adventures, expeditions, and escapades to recount, even if I were minded to share them all with you here.

What I hope is clear, though, is that campaign events largely have not threatened the world as a whole. I dislike dramatic hyperbole. I feel that threatening to end the world makes for boring roleplaying sessions, not to mention making it difficult to continue playing after the supposedly world-ending danger is inevitably averted. The referee cannot keep upping the stakes and expect players to continue being interested in the campaign. After the first few times Armageddon is put on hold, players quickly come to realize that there are no stakes. This is why the characters – both player and non-player – generally drive the action: it keeps the players invested. They know that their actions have consequences and that events unfold logically from their choices. I doubt the campaign would still be ongoing if I'd opted for any other approach.

How Do You a Problem Like Kirktá? (Part II)

Since readers seem to have been genuinely interested in this particular aspect of my ongoing House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign, here's an update on the situation I first mentioned earlier this month. 

Presently, the player characters are on an extended expedition to explore ancient ruins once inhabited by an intelligent – and magically powerful – non-human species known as the Mihálli. These ruins are far from the characters' native Tsolyánu. The quickest paths to the ruins run through the neighboring realm of Salarvyá, which enjoys a generally peaceful relationship (aside from some border skirmishes from time to time). Early in the campaign, nearly nine years ago, the characters spent several months in Salarvyá on a mission for their clan, so the kingdom is familiar to them and many of the characters speak Salarvyáni.

Their present expedition is funded by Prince Rereshqála, one of several publicly declared heirs of the emperor of Tsolyánu. Rereshqála is given to magnificent displays of noblesse oblige, sponsoring works of art and scholarship. Because the Mihálli are so mysterious and poorly understood, it is hoped this expedition will uncover new information about them, including the recovery of artifacts associated with them. If successful, the expedition would bring glory and fame on those who undertook it – and to their noble patron as well.

In addition to providing the expedition with manpower and funds, Prince Rereshqála asked one other thing of the characters: to return a young Salarvyáni noblewoman to her family in the city of Koylugá. The young woman, Chgyár Dléru by name, is a member of Thirreqúmmu family who rules Koylugá. Indeed, her uncle, Kúrek Tiqónnu, is one of the seven most powerful men in all of Salarvyá and thus a candidate for the Ebon Throne upon the death of its present king. Salarvyá, you see, has an elective monarchy and, while the throne has long been held by members of the Chruggilléshmu family, in principle a candidate from any of the mighty feudal families might be elected instead. 

Before entering Salarvyá, the characters had been warned that its political situation was growing increasingly fraught. The king is old and insane. Consequently, many of the great families were jockeying for position, so that, when he finally died, they could make their bid to rule. Likewise, the Temple of Shiringgáyi, the primary deity of Salarvyá, were flexing its own muscles by encouraging zealots to attack foreigners and rail against their supposedly pernicious influence. There were also reports of a large-scale military conflict between internal factions of the kingdom.

A map depicting the characters' possible paths through Salarvyá

Despite all this, the characters journey through Salarvyá was largely uneventful until the night before they were scheduled to have an audience with Lord Kúrek in Koylugá. They had already successfully returned Lady Chgyár to her family and decided to spend the afternoon and evening exploring the city. After sunset, they visited the Night Market, an emporium of oddities, where they acquired a few useful and interesting trinkets. However, the Market was eventually disrupted by Shiringgáyi zealots. Rather than risk running afoul of local authorities, the characters fled back to their lodgings to wait out the night.

That's when they received a message from Lord Kúrek confirming the details of their meeting with him the next morning. In addition to the expected subjects, the message also included a lengthy legal document detailing the terms and conditions of the upcoming marriage between Lady Chgyár and Kirktá! Needless to say, this caught everyone off-guard, Kirktá most of all, though he did spend some time trying to figure if perhaps had inadvertently done something while in Chgyár's presence that might have been misinterpreted as an offer of marriage. Even more alarmingly, the marriage contract referred to Kirktá by the name Kirktá Tlakotáni, Tlakotáni being the name of the emperor's clan. This made it clear that Lord Kúrek and his family knew of Kirktá's true lineage – but how? The characters had worked very hard to keep this information secret.

It's important to point out that Chgyár had originally been sent to Rereshqála by Lord Kúrek as a bride and, therefore, a token of friendship between a powerful faction within Salarvyá. However, Chgyár did not adapt well to life in Tsolyánu. She became so homesick that Rereshqála opted to send her back to her family rather than force her to remain in a foreign land. Consequently, the characters immediately theorized that this surprise marriage arrangement with Kirktá was intended to make up for the fact that she'd managed to let one imperial prince get away. Her family no doubt wished to be sure the same thing did not happen a second time. But, if so, how did anyone know Kirktá's secret? Further, how many more people might know? This was a potentially serious problem.

This post is already much longer than I intended it to be, so I'll end it here, with the promise to follow it up with another later this week. Suffice it to say that the characters spent a lot of time pondering how to proceed now that Kirktá's princely status had seemingly been uncovered by someone who intended to use it for unknown ends. Almost from its beginning in 2015, the House of Worms campaign has been fueled by the characters' interaction with the society, culture, politics, and religion of the world around them. They have goals and dreams of their own and they pursue them with gusto. Of course, the same is true of the non-player characters of the setting. The interactions between these two competing forces is something I continue to enjoy and that I hope will carry on well into the future. 

How Do You Solve a Problem Like Kirktá?

First, thank you to everyone who took the time to make comments or send me emails regarding yesterday's post about upcoming events in my House of Worms campaign. I've gotten a number of excellent suggestions and I now have a better handle on how I'll likely proceed, though I'd be happy to continue receiving more suggestions. After the Kólumejàlim, as the Choosing of the Emperors is known in Tsolyáni, has taken place, I'll write a post or two about it, because I am sure that, no matter how it turns out, it will be of interest to my readers. That likely won't occur until sometime this summer, as the campaign is currently focused on other matters at the moment and I'm not ready to shift gears quite yet.

Aside from my already stated reasons for wanting to adjudicate the Kólumejàlim in this way, there's also another: one of the player characters is secretly an heir to the Petal Throne. Years ago, when a new player joined the campaign, he asked if he could base his character on one from the original Tékumel campaign in Minneapolis. Named Kirktá, he was a priest NPC whom the characters in the Twin Cities campaign later discovered was one of the emperor's secret heirs, whose true identity was hidden, unknown to almost anyone, including himself. I had no objection to the new player basing his character on Kirktá, largely because I never expected it to amount to anything.

And it didn't. For many years, there was never a hint that Kirktá – my Kirktá  – was anything other than he appeared to be, namely, a young and naive priest of Durritlámish, the Black Angel of the Putrescent Hand. He served as protégé and amanuensis to Keléno, one of the four remaining original player characters of the campaign, without complaint. Indeed, Kirktá had something of a reputation as being incapable of making decisions for himself, deferring instead to the wisdom and experience of his master (and any other PC who cared to offer an opinion on what Kirktá ought to do). It's a fun dynamic and soon became one of the hallmarks of the campaign.

Then, a little more than a year ago, the characters reunited with an old antagonist of theirs, an Undying Wizard known as Getúkmetèk. Like a lot of Undying Wizards, Getúkmetèk existed outside of normal time. Consequently, when the characters encountered him, there was no telling exactly where the wizard was on his own personal timeline. On this occasion, Getúkmetèk was quite young, early in his own career and not yet an Undying Wizard. In fact, it became increasingly clear that it was due to their interactions with him early in his life (but late in that of the characters, relatively speaking – non-linear time is weird) that he would eventually become antagonistic toward them. 

When this younger Getúkmetèk met the characters, he greeted them pleasantly, since, from his perspective, he hadn't yet met any of them – or, at least, most of them. Somehow, he already knew Kirktá and addressed him differently than the others, using a formal Tsolyáni second person pronoun reserved only for the emperor, "you of supernal omnipotence," that is probably unknown to most characters, given its exceedingly uncommon usage. One of the characters, Nebússa, comes from a very high clan involved heavily in imperial service. He recognized the pronoun and quickly put two and two together, realizing for the first time in the campaign that Kirktá was likely a hidden heir to the Petal Throne. 

Initially, Nebússa kept this secret to himself, not even telling Kirktá. However, events eventually required that he reveal it, to the surprise and incredulity of his clan mates. There was a lot of debate about what the characters should do with this information, as well as the realization that, if Nebússa figured it out based on very limited information, there were probably others within Tsolyánu who also knew it and might seek to take advantage of it. That's partly why the characters elected to undertake a lengthy, months-long journey outside the Imperium: to keep Kirktá safe. However, once the Kólumejàlim is declared, events may overtake them. What happens next is anyone's guess, hence my desire to establish a means to handle the Choosing of the Emperors, just in case Kirktá decides to participate ...

Looking for Ideas

This concerns a topic about which I've written before, but which is likely to become more important in my ongoing House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign, namely, the death of the emperor of Tsolyánu and the choosing of his successor. There is no primogeniture in Tsolyánu. Instead, all the children of the emperor, who are given "the Gold" (a specially engraved circular plaque) upon their births, are eligible to compete for the right to ascend the Petal Throne as his successor. To provide some additional context, here's what the Tékumel Source Book has to say about this competition:

As soon as an old monarch has died and the great sarcophagus sealed away in the black vaults below Avanthár all of those who possess the Gold (plus any remaining undeclared heirs or heiresses who must be hurriedly produced by their patrons) are summoned to Béy Sü for the Choosing of the Emperors. There they undergo a traditional roster of tests which cover every facet of character thought by the Tsolyáni to be needful for a ruler: bravery, endurance, cunning, physical prowess, judgment, knowledge of history and the arts, competence in "magic," and a dozen other fields. A candidate has the right to name champions to represent him or her in any three of these categories but must compete in person in all the others. Each event is carefully judged, and the strongest contenders are taken at last within the sacred precincts of the Temple of Hná'lla where the Holy Adepts of all the temples and the High Princeps of the Omnipotent Azure Legion make the final selection according to ancient and secret ritual methods. The winner is then declared and conveyed to Avanthár. The losers are given over to the Temple of Karakán for sacrifice.

I've decided that I'd like to play out the Choosing of the Emperors in in my campaign, with each of my eight players taking the role of one of the candidates for the throne. The problem I am having – and the reason why I'm turning to my readers for ideas – is that there is very little information about the competition in any published Tékumel materials. The section I've quoted above is close to all we know about the competition and its trials and, as you can see, it's quite vague.

In the original Space Gamer article linked to at the start of this post, there is a lengthy description of how one referee (Robert L. Large, Jr.) handled the Choosing in his campaign. He made use of only three tests – a series of arena battles, a series of magical duels, and a puzzle chamber. The account is very interesting, because Large made use of other games, like FGU's Gladiator, TSR's War of Wizards, as adjuncts to Empire of the Petal Throne itself. I'm very open to this sort of approach, but the bigger issue for me is: what sorts of contests are employed? 

The Tékumel Source Book references "a traditional roster of tests" that includes more than a dozen areas of competence, not merely the three that Large used for his EPT campaign back in 1976. I suppose it could be argued that he was simplifying the Choosing of the Emperors for the sake of play. Certainly, I don't want the process of choosing a new emperor in my campaign to take up months of weekly play, especially if the roster of candidates is large. But what to do? What's the best – and most fun – way to pit the various heirs against one another so that the end result is unpredictable, even by me?

One of my players long ago suggested that the Choosing of the Emperors was probably akin to a competitive dungeoncrawl. This is an intriguing notion, if only because one of the features of Tékumel as a setting is that most cities have an "underworld" beneath it, representing the ruins of earlier settlements upon which they've been built. Avanthár, the ancient citadel of the emperors, is very ancient place, with all manner of passages and tunnels and ancient technology hidden beneath it, so I can easily imagine trials being conducted in such an environment. When discussing this with my players at our last session, we half-joked that a trap and puzzle filled maze like The Tomb of Horrors would be ideal for this purpose, if most of us weren't already intimately familiar with it.

So, that's where things stand at the moment. I very much want to play out the Choosing of the Emperors, but I have only a few ideas of how best to simulate them. I'd like the experience to be memorable and fun, as well as unique, but I must confess to having few ideas how best to achieve this without going to the trouble of creating an entirely new game for this purpose. Ideally, I'd be able to use Empire of the Petal Throne as the foundation, statting up all the heirs as characters and then subjecting them all to various trials. However, I'm not sure that's necessarily the best approach, which is why I'd love to hear the thoughts of others. If you have any ideas, thoughts, or suggestions, I'd love to hear them.

Thanks in advance!

At Arm's Length

Though I write most often about my House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign – understandable, I suppose, because of its longevity – it's not the only RPG I'm currently refereeing. Another is the Barrett's Raiders Twilight: 2000 campaign that began in December 2021. Though quite different in many ways, I realized the other day that there's actually one significant point of overlap between House of Worms and Barrett's Raiders: they both occasionally feature some unpleasant realities. In the case of House of Worms, those realities include slavery, torture, and human sacrifice, while in Barrett's Raiders they include all the usual horrors of modern warfare (not to mention the unique horrors of nuclear warfare). 

I've sometimes been asked about how I handle such things in my campaigns, particularly those in House of Worms. Even before the recent unpleasantness, Tékumel long had a reputation – somewhat undeserved in my opinion – for being a particularly brutal setting that included lots of aspects of pre-modern societies that, while perhaps "realistic," are usually glossed over, if not outright excluded from games like Dungeons & Dragons. The same, too, could be said of almost every RPGs whose setting is a time of war or strife, whether that setting be pre-modern, modern, or futuristic. How does one referee a campaign that contains such dark elements?

As with most aspects of my refereeing, I don't have any systematic answers, only anecdotes and examples. However, looking back over what I have done does, I think, provide something approximating an overarching philosophy that might be of use to others referees whose campaigns deal with such things. For example, let's look at a ubiquitous and indeed foundational aspect of most of the cultures of Tékumel: slavery. Abhorrent though it is, slavery is commonplace throughout history. Indeed, there's scarcely a human society that hasn't practiced slavery at one time or another. Though a fantasy setting, Tékumel draws on several real-world cultures for inspiration, like ancient Egypt, the Aztecs, and Mughal India, all of which practiced slavery, hence its inclusion in Empire of the Petal Throne. 

The player characters of the House of Worms campaign are thus all members of a slaveholding culture and do not question the practice. Their clan owns slaves and at least a couple of PCs have had personal slaves who became important NPCs (though one was later manumitted and adopted into the clan). Despite this, slavery has never been important part of the campaign. It's part of the "furniture" of the setting, something that's undeniable there, but that we've never really dwelt upon, because the focus of the campaign has always been on adventure, usually out in the wilds, far from any Tekumeláni civilization. 

Similarly, the major cultures of Tékumel all approve of human sacrifice to varying degrees, as have many cultures on Earth. The god most of the characters worship, Sárku, accepts such sacrifices as part of his rituals and so priestly characters have occasionally been involved in them, too. The same is true of the torture of prisoners, which is seen as a legitimate form of interrogation in Tsolyánu and elsewhere. So, again, these deeply repugnant elements of the setting have appeared from time to time, but they've never been its focus. When they have appeared, such as during attempts to invoke divine intervention (for which there are rules), we'd simply acknowledge it and move on – the equivalent perhaps of the cinematic "fade to black" of old. 

I could cite plenty more examples from both House of Worms and Barrett's Raiders, but I trust that's not necessary. What I have come to realize is that, unless it's absolutely relevant, I don't spend a lot of time going over the finer details of all the unpleasant things that happen in my games. This includes combat, by the way, which, as players of many old school RPGs know, is generally very abstract. Now, there are indeed times when the precise nature of a horrible injury is relevant – this has come up several times in the Twilight: 2000 campaign – and, in such cases, I don't shy away from the gory details. However, as a general practice, I avoid doing so, because my games are meant to fun escapes rather than luxuriating in the darker corners of the human soul.

I offer my experiences not as a universal prescription. Each referee and player will draw his lines in different places and that's as it should be. I personally feel that there's generally nothing wrong with including unpleasant realities in one's roleplaying so long as everyone's on the same page in this regard. I don't fault anyone who wants to keep his games "family friendly," but neither do I condemn anyone who wants to venture farther into the shadows. One of the things that's great about roleplaying is that it's a flexible enough entertainment that it can accommodate both approaches – and more besides – without any difficulty. 

"Are We the Baddies?"

The House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign continues on each week, as it has for the last nine years. One of the things I most enjoy about it are the many opportunities it affords us to explore a fantasy setting that is quite unlike both the real world and commonplace vanilla fantasy settings. This is especially fun for me when the player characters act in ways that are perfectly consonant with the principles of Tékumel but nevertheless surprise their players. This happened in our most recent session and I thought what happened might be worth sharing.

To begin, a brief bit of context: the characters, having returned to Tsolyánu after several game years of having served in the administration of the far-off colony of Linyaró, are now in the employ of Prince Rereshqála, one of the potential heirs to the Petal Throne. They've recently begun to first leg of a very long journey that will take them into unknown lands and ultimately end with the exploration of ancient ruins associated with the non-human Mihálli species. Along the way, their ship put in at an island whose governor belongs to the same clan as Nebússa, one of the player characters. The intended purpose of the stopover was resupply and "showing the flag" on behalf of Rereshqála.

However, Nebússa soon became aware of the possibility that something nefarious might be afoot on the island, with the governor at the center of it. An early avenue of investigation suggested that the governor might be skimming an inordinate amount of money from his collection of taxes, perhaps funneling them toward sinister purposes. Notice that I wrote "inordinate amount of money." That adjective is important, especially in Tékumel. That's because, strictly speaking, there's nothing wrong with a little bit of peculation by a provincial governor. Indeed, it's expected and one of the perks of the job. The expectation that a civil servant wouldn't engage in the misappropriation of government funds is an attitude alien to Tékumel. It rises to the level of genuine concern when said civil servant embezzles too much.

Now, the players – and their characters – already know this. After nearly a decade of playing in the setting, they have a very good sense of how things operate in Tsolyánu and elsewhere. They've (largely) put aside their 21st Western morality and approach Tékumel from the point of view of a native. They might still comment upon it as an out-of-character aside – and frequently do, because it can be a source of humor – but none of them really need to be reminded anymore that the social context of Tsolyánu is not that of our world. Things are done differently here and that's that.

As their investigations continued, it soon became clear that the governor they initially suspected of duplicity was, in fact, being set up by someone else and that the strange things occurring on the island had nothing to do with his theft of tax money. They knew this to be the case when, upon examining the governor's books, it was clear he wasn't stealing enough. Sure, he was embezzling, but he wasn't embezzling as much as they would be in his position. Indeed, they soon came to the conclusion that he was basically honest but incompetent and that someone else was probably behind certain events on the island.

They were right. A political rival on a nearby island was responsible for much of what was happening. When they confronted her, she admitted as much without any artifice. The characters were surprised that she was so open and honest, but she explained that this was simply politics and no concern of theirs. Initially, they objected, claiming her actions undermined the Empire and that, therefore, they had no choice to become involved. She reiterated that her goal was strengthening Tsolyánu through the elimination of a weak rival and, once again, that this was none of their concern. She then offered to buy them off. What would it take for them to stop interfering, leave, and never return?

At first, the players weren't sure how to respond. As they struggled with everything the rival had said to them, they realized they'd been approaching this not as Tsolyáni, which is to say, as subjects of a fantasy empire with a very different worldview, but as 21st century men offended by political corruption. Soon, though, their perspective began to change; the offer held more and more appeal. A few rounds of negotiation and they had managed to obtain a fair bit of magical and monetary assistance in exchange for their silence. A deal had been struck and they were on their way, prompting one of the players to ask, "Are we the baddies?"

The session was a terrific one. Everyone involved had a lot of fun and laughed at what had ultimately transpired. I personally found it enjoyable, because I got to present Tékumel as a "real" place that operates according to its own rules, ones that are frequently at odds with those of our world. To me, that's one of the best and most vital parts of roleplaying: being able, if only for a while, to be transported to another place and to see that place through alien eyes. I wouldn't want to live on Tékumel, but it is an interesting place to visit.

Number 9

A couple of weeks ago, my House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign marked its 9-year anniversary. As I alluded to in a post earlier this year, the campaign continues to grow and evolve. I added a new player to our merry little band, bringing us to eight (plus myself, of course), and his character helped usher in a new phase of the campaign. 

Every time another anniversary is reached, I goggle at the fact that we've somehow managed to keep this going for so long. It's truly a wondrous thing and, while there's undoubtedly a good deal of luck involved, I think there are several other factors that have contributed to the campaign's continued success. In the interest of encouraging others who are interested in keeping a RPG campaign going for nearly a decade of continuous, weekly play, here's what wisdom I have to offer:

1. Friendship: This is my number one insight: play with friends. Now, to be clear, at the start of the campaign, not all of the players were my friends. Indeed, I only met several of the players through playing the game. Within fairly short order, though, those of us involved in the campaign have become friends, spending time with one another outside the game and generally enjoying one another's company even when not playing. That's vital, in my opinion. Roleplaying is an inherently social pastime and only really works when played with people whom you like and with whom you enjoy a friendly intimacy. So many of the problems that arise in gaming groups do so, I think, because the players aren't friends or don't open up to one another. Without that level of camaraderie and, above all, trust, I'm not sure you can have a successful campaign of any length, let alone a long-term one.
2. Consistency: A close second insight concerns the need for consistency. Meeting every week to play is important. I know all too well have distracting and vexatious the real world can be. However, if the players and the referee don't get together regularly, especially in the crucial first few months of a new campaign, there's little chance that it will last long. We play every week so long as we have a sufficient number of players to do so, which is a lot easier when you have eight players. Doing so builds the momentum a campaign needs to keep going under its own force. It also serves as a cushion against those inevitable times when the group doesn't meet to play. We often have such times, especially around major holidays and during the summer, so it's not as if we never miss a session. However, we make a point of playing consistently and it's paid huge dividends.
3. Expectations: This one is important too. When you're playing on a weekly basis, not every session is going to be memorable – or even "good." Some sessions will be boring or a bit of a drag for any number of reasons. That's just the nature of anything that lasts for a long time. Keep moving forward, even through the "bad" stuff and I guarantee that you'll get to something much more enjoyable – so enjoyable, in fact, that you'll soon forget about the boring stuff. It's impossible to maintain a constant high. Not even the best referee, which I am not, is capable of producing a non-stop rollercoaster of fun. That's OK and to be expected.
4. Flexibility: Similarly, don't be afraid to shift your focus or change gears. The House of Worms campaign has seen the characters engage in dozens of undertakings. Many of them have worked – some brilliantly – and some of them have not. When something's not working, there's no shame in moving on to something else. Maybe you'll come back to something you abandoned later; maybe you won't. Ultimately, it doesn't matter if there are "dangling threads" from an earlier part of the campaign, because a fun, long-running campaign isn't a movie or a novel. It doesn't need to be dramatically coherent or well structured. It should be a rambling, chaotic mess that's constantly in flux. 
5. Detachment: This one is mostly for the referee, though it has some applicability to the players too: don't get too attached to an idea. As the saying goes, ideas are cheap. Over the course of the last nine years, I've had lots and lots of ideas for the campaign – but my players have their own. Consequently, the campaign is strewn with adventure hooks, rumors, and NPC patrons that I thought would serve to propel the campaign forward and that were never seized upon for one reason or another. Rather than trying to find some way to foist them on the players, I've come up with new ones that the players did seize upon. I doubt the campaign would have lasted this long, had I been hung up on my precious ideas rather than continuing to come up with new ones (or variations on old ones – I can be tricky that way).

Obviously, there's no single road map to maintaining a successful long-term campaign, but all of the points above have proven instrumental during the last nine years I've refereed House of Worms. I hope considering them might be of use to you as well.