Over the years of reading RPG blogs, I've seen a lot of musings about the portrayal of certain monsters in D&D. I've seen the "baby orc" moral dilemma hashed over quite a lot. A few times, people have argued (with very little justification, in my opinion) that orcs and other monstrous humanoids represent human cultures, and therefore the use of them as Always Chaotic Evil opponents was in some way an expression of latent racism in RPGs and their players. I've seen arguments (with a lot more justification) that the monstrous humanoids, at least as typically represented in adventure modules and supplements, could easily be reskinned as barbaric humans, and thus aren't terribly interesting.
Gygaxian naturalism is a strong force for this sort of anthropomorphizing of creatures. Indeed, as much affection as I have for module B2: The Keep on the Borderlands, the goblins, orcs, kobolds, and other inhabitants of the Caves of Chaos are virtually indistinguishable from savage humans. They reproduce and rear young like humans, they eat and drink like humans, the form social structures like humans. They're just mean and ugly. One gets the feeling that if they only cleaned up a bit, learned some rudimentary etiquette, and abandoned their prejudices toward humans and demihumans (and vice versa), an orc or goblin from the Caves could stroll into the tavern, order a pint, and swap tall tales with the other patrons and not be too far out of place.
I don't believe there's anything inherently wrong in running a game with these interpretations of monsters, but it's not to my taste at this stage in my gaming life, nor do I wish to reskin them as various sorts of human antagonists. What I'd rather do, in most cases, is make monsters truly distinct from humans. An encounter with goblins or orcs should be substantively different from an encounter with brigands or bandits, and each humanoid kindred should be different from the others. Moreover, there should be reasons why these creatures are so often in conflict with humans and demihumans besides mere prejudices and cultural differences.
How do we do that?
One way is to give monsters biological needs and drives that are dangerous or abhorrent to humans. Take orcs as an example. Perhaps orcs have a physiological need to consume the flesh of sapient humanoids. Orc whelps aren't innocent babies but voracious little bastards who need human or demihuman meat to grow. Even orc adults, if they don't taste man-flesh once a month or so, begin to lose even their already limited capacity for intelligence and cooperative behavior, becoming more and more feral and savage, eventually resorting to cannibalizing their own kind to sate their hunger. Whether you consider this to be evil or "just the way they are," it's pretty clear that orcs are going to have a hard time coexisting peaceably with men, elves, and dwarves, and often even with each other.
Another way is to avoid ascribing human emotions to monsters. Humanoid creatures need not experience the same range of feelings, nor to the same degrees or for the same reasons, that humans do. For example, they might be constitutionally incapable of empathy or compassion, similar to human psychopaths. Such creatures could have an instinctual drive to preserve their own species, while being utterly indifferent or even malevolent toward others. This seems especially appropriate for non-mammalian humanoids, such as lizardmen or troglodytes. Lizardmen seem like good candidates for an apathetic-psychopathic personality, while troglodytes could be the more actively sadistic serial killer type profile.
Emotions could be even more radically different in various ways. Loss may induce laughter, affection might be dysphoric, hostility breed attraction, or kindness lead to revulsion.
A monster's alien biology may not be inherently hostile to human life, but may give it a radically different perspective. Consider "dark fey" type creatures, which are not born of two parents and reared from infancy to adulthood, but instead are spawned from elemental, magical, or psychic forces, awakening from the oblivion of their previous nonexistence fully formed. Such creatures have no concept or understanding of family bonds, no experiences of the innocence of childhood, maybe not even of adulthood or old age or stages of life generally. Not only are there no "young" monsters with which to impose the tired "baby orc" dilemma on players, these creatures would perceive no difference between children, adults, or elderly humans other than sizes and outward appearances.
In my dark fey series, I reimagined several creatures as embodying specific negative human traits, such as envy and avarice. Coupling this with the abiological origins described above, there's not only a very strong reason why these creatures behave in ways that seem irrational, or at least irrationally intense, to humans, but also a reason why creatures of the same type have the same very limited range of ethics and personalities. A goblin isn't mean and envious because it's a goblin; it took the form of a goblin in the first place because its spirit is mean and envious. Spirits of different origins and character might become hobgoblins, kobolds, pixies, or sprites instead.
Or, consider monsters who are born as humans, but through magic or curses or just the natural order of a fantasy world become monstrous in body and soul. Maybe ogres were once beautiful humans who were manipulative, spiteful, and ugly inside, and their bodies transformed to match their twisted souls. As hideous ogres, they're banished from society, lacking both people to manipulate to fulfill their emotional needs and the charisma to do so. Consequently, they become even more hateful and cruel, and probably extremely jealous of attractive humans. Beauty, to them, becomes a reminder of what they've lost, and thus a heinous sin.
Radically different physiology and psychological and emotional experiences might give monsters a blue and orange (as opposed to black and white or shades of grey) moral outlook. To dragons with a pathological (by human standards) love of treasure, theft, or even (gasp!) destruction of treasure may be a far more serious offense than murder. A gentle touch among orcs may be a grave insult, while a punch in the gut is a jovial greeting. Maybe destroying corpses is seen by some monsters as blasphemous, while reanimating them as undead is honorable. Capriciousness may be valued, while steadiness is disdained. A monster may be forbidden by its moral code to lie to a being wearing a wicker hat.
It's possible (and fun!) to combine some of these distinguishing characteristics. Take the doppelganger, a faceless, featureless, genderless being: Maybe the reason it takes the forms of humanoids is because it craves the experience of having an identity. It's not that it feels happy when it takes the form of an individual or sad and empty when it doesn't; it's more like an addiction or compulsion. The creature literally feels a euphoric high by duplicating someone and disposing of that person. While in its stolen form, it does things that seem cruel and evil to humans not out of some desire to be evil or inflict pain, but because its mind is totally alien to the human experience. It may keep its cover for a while by aping their behaviors, but it's apt to apply them inappropriately, and eventually is exposed or driven away, loses its grip on its new "identity" and starts the cycle again.
Whatever traits you apply to any particular monster, players encountering it should feel they're dealing with something inhuman. Negotiating with monsters may be an exercise in thinking way outside the box, and employing them as henchmen is an adventure in itself. It's certainly a challenge, as a human DM, to play the roles of beings who think, act, and feel in ways humans habitually don't, but it can go a long way toward making monsters more than just another faction to deal with or one more set of stats and powers to best in combat.
Showing posts with label monsters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label monsters. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 25, 2019
Thursday, May 9, 2019
Monster Manual II: Shadow Mastiff
When it comes to monstrous canines in D&D, there are wolves and dire wolves, staples of wilderness adventure thanks to their long history of real world notoriety, blink dogs, which I don't think I've ever used in actual play, and hellhounds, which in my opinion don't live up to their name (Big dogs that breathe fire? So basically a small furry flightless dragon. Yawn.) Then you've got the shadow mastiff from the MMII, a creepy, otherworldly beast that can howl at the moon in my campaign world any time. They have a nice Hound of the Baskervilles feel to them that really stokes my imagination.
The MMII states that they're found mainly on the Plane of Shadows (whatever that is) but in my mind they fit perfectly well in any forlorn, shadow-haunted place in a campaign world. Dark forests, foggy moors, gloomy mountain passes, the dreary halls of some abandoned fortress ... I would have no qualms about deploying a pack of shadow mastiffs in any of them.
They're listed as semi-intelligent (the same rating as normal dogs and wolves) and of Neutral alignment with evil tendencies. Obviously they're not going to be hatching evil plots, so I interpret the evil leanings as a mean or cruel streak. Maybe they take pleasure in killing, inflicting harm, and spreading terror, rather than simply hunting for survival.
The shadow mastiff is remarkably simple and straightforward for an AD&D creature. It's not wildly overpowered or loaded with a laundry list of spell effect powers "usable once per round, one at a time, at will" or any such complications. It's an easy conversion to B/X.
Armor Class: 6
Hit Dice: 4**
Move: 180' (60')
Attacks: 1
Damage: 2-8
No. Appearing: 1-8 (4-16)
Save As: Fighter:2
Morale: 8
Treasure Type: Nil
Alignment: Neutral
Shadow mastiffs appear to be large, shadowy-black canines. They are able to blend into shadows, surprising on a roll of 1-4. In dim, shadowy conditions, they can attack and then retreat into shadows on a roll of 1-3 on 1d6 so opponents are unable to attack in return. They hate bright light, and are unable to hide in shadows in well-lit conditions. Bright light also reduces their movement by half and they suffer -2 to all attack rolls; their morale drops to 6.
Shadow mastiffs travel in packs. The baying of a pack (at least 4 mastiffs) causes fear and panic in a 120' radius, forcing any creature of less than 4 HD that fails a saving throw vs. spells to flee for 2d6 rounds.
A shadow mastiff lair may contain 2-5 pups, who are non-combatant and at the DM's discretion may be trained or sold for 100-400 gp each.
The MMII states that they're found mainly on the Plane of Shadows (whatever that is) but in my mind they fit perfectly well in any forlorn, shadow-haunted place in a campaign world. Dark forests, foggy moors, gloomy mountain passes, the dreary halls of some abandoned fortress ... I would have no qualms about deploying a pack of shadow mastiffs in any of them.
They're listed as semi-intelligent (the same rating as normal dogs and wolves) and of Neutral alignment with evil tendencies. Obviously they're not going to be hatching evil plots, so I interpret the evil leanings as a mean or cruel streak. Maybe they take pleasure in killing, inflicting harm, and spreading terror, rather than simply hunting for survival.
 |
| Led Zeppelin wrote a song about me, but never mentioned me in the lyrics. |
The shadow mastiff is remarkably simple and straightforward for an AD&D creature. It's not wildly overpowered or loaded with a laundry list of spell effect powers "usable once per round, one at a time, at will" or any such complications. It's an easy conversion to B/X.
Armor Class: 6
Hit Dice: 4**
Move: 180' (60')
Attacks: 1
Damage: 2-8
No. Appearing: 1-8 (4-16)
Save As: Fighter:2
Morale: 8
Treasure Type: Nil
Alignment: Neutral
Shadow mastiffs appear to be large, shadowy-black canines. They are able to blend into shadows, surprising on a roll of 1-4. In dim, shadowy conditions, they can attack and then retreat into shadows on a roll of 1-3 on 1d6 so opponents are unable to attack in return. They hate bright light, and are unable to hide in shadows in well-lit conditions. Bright light also reduces their movement by half and they suffer -2 to all attack rolls; their morale drops to 6.
Shadow mastiffs travel in packs. The baying of a pack (at least 4 mastiffs) causes fear and panic in a 120' radius, forcing any creature of less than 4 HD that fails a saving throw vs. spells to flee for 2d6 rounds.
A shadow mastiff lair may contain 2-5 pups, who are non-combatant and at the DM's discretion may be trained or sold for 100-400 gp each.
Sunday, May 5, 2019
Monster Manual II: Korred
Here's another creature for those fey-haunted woods of a campaign world. Besides being incredibly strong for their size, korreds as described in the MMII have some rather peculiar habits. They love to dance, and they are noted to always carry bags containing shears, hair, and unspecified other items. Why they carry around such a collection of oddments is left to the imagination of the DM. It could be either an odd compulsion or some practical habit -- perhaps they're the jolly barbers of the fairy court? Maybe they fulfill other functions of medieval barbers, too, and thus stow things like strong alcohol, medicinal herbs, pliers, and teeth. (Could they be the source of the legends of tooth fairies??)
Setting aside all the possible reasons why they tote around those bags, they are able to cause their hair clippings to weave into animated ropes to bind and immobilize foes, which is a pretty cool power. The one that always comes to my mind first, though, is their ability to stun opponents with their laughter. I always imagine it as a great jovial booming laugh, as if even being attacked can't diminish their mirth, but it could easily be sinister, derisive, or maniacal too. Their listed alignment of Chaotic neutral makes just about anything a possibility. It also seems to indicate that they could potentially be friends, foes, annoyances, or comic relief to a party of adventurers on any given day.
Here's my take on a B/X korred.
Armor Class: 5
Hit Dice: 5+1
Move: 90' (30')
Attacks: 1
Damage: 3-8
No. Appearing: 0 (1-4)
Save As: Fighter: 5
Morale: 9
Treasure Type: See below
Alignment: Neutral
Korreds are a dance-loving woodland folk of small stature but immense strength, with wild hair and beards and goat-like legs. All korreds carry cudgels (clubs) and bags containing shears, hair, and other curious odds and ends. They may weave locks of hair into animated ropes and snares, each having AC5 and 4 hit points, which can immobilize a man-sized opponent if a saving throw vs. death ray is failed. In combat, a korred attacks with either its cudgel or shears, and may also throw small boulders to a range of 90' for 3-8 points of damage. In the hands of a human or demihuman, the korred's weapons do 1-4 points of damage, as an ordinary club or dagger.
A korred may laugh three times per day, stunning all foes within 60' who fail a save vs. paralysis for 1-4 rounds. There is a 1 in 4 chance that any group of two or more korreds has gathered to dance, and anyone interrupting them must save vs. spells or join the dance, losing 1-4 hit points per round from exhaustion until they fall unconscious for 1-6 hours, they are restrained, or the korreds flee.
Korreds normally collect no treasure, but if the items in their sacks are sprinkled with holy water they turn to solid gold of 50-300 gp value.
Setting aside all the possible reasons why they tote around those bags, they are able to cause their hair clippings to weave into animated ropes to bind and immobilize foes, which is a pretty cool power. The one that always comes to my mind first, though, is their ability to stun opponents with their laughter. I always imagine it as a great jovial booming laugh, as if even being attacked can't diminish their mirth, but it could easily be sinister, derisive, or maniacal too. Their listed alignment of Chaotic neutral makes just about anything a possibility. It also seems to indicate that they could potentially be friends, foes, annoyances, or comic relief to a party of adventurers on any given day.
 |
| Now go away, or I shall taunt you a second time! |
Here's my take on a B/X korred.
Armor Class: 5
Hit Dice: 5+1
Move: 90' (30')
Attacks: 1
Damage: 3-8
No. Appearing: 0 (1-4)
Save As: Fighter: 5
Morale: 9
Treasure Type: See below
Alignment: Neutral
Korreds are a dance-loving woodland folk of small stature but immense strength, with wild hair and beards and goat-like legs. All korreds carry cudgels (clubs) and bags containing shears, hair, and other curious odds and ends. They may weave locks of hair into animated ropes and snares, each having AC5 and 4 hit points, which can immobilize a man-sized opponent if a saving throw vs. death ray is failed. In combat, a korred attacks with either its cudgel or shears, and may also throw small boulders to a range of 90' for 3-8 points of damage. In the hands of a human or demihuman, the korred's weapons do 1-4 points of damage, as an ordinary club or dagger.
A korred may laugh three times per day, stunning all foes within 60' who fail a save vs. paralysis for 1-4 rounds. There is a 1 in 4 chance that any group of two or more korreds has gathered to dance, and anyone interrupting them must save vs. spells or join the dance, losing 1-4 hit points per round from exhaustion until they fall unconscious for 1-6 hours, they are restrained, or the korreds flee.
Korreds normally collect no treasure, but if the items in their sacks are sprinkled with holy water they turn to solid gold of 50-300 gp value.
Friday, April 26, 2019
Monster Manual II: Pyrolisk
You might be familiar with the term "palette swap" -- taking a character or creature, usually in a video game, and changing its colors and stats to make a "new" one. Sometimes it's incredibly cheesy, but done right, it can be pretty awesome. The pyrolisk, a palette swap of the more familiar cockatrice, is pretty awesome.
The MMII describes the pyrolisk as nearly identical to its petrifying cousin, except for a single red feather in its tail plumage and a reddish cast to its wings. Unlike the turn-to-stone touch of the cockatrice, the pyrolisk has a gaze attack that causes opponents to burst into flames from the inside! Instead of a statue of yourself, you end up as a charred corpse. It also has the ability to cause fire sources nearby to explode into fireworks, as the spell pyrotechnics, which has no analog in B/X -- a power certainly worth translating if you can imagine the party's torches and lanterns going off like Roman candles!
Besides an interesting change-up of an otherwise familiar creature, that single red tail feather could be a prime ingredient of fire-based magical items or new spells, making an encounter with pyrolisks a potentially lucrative enterprise rather than something to reflexively run away from.
My B/X pyrolisk would look something like this:
Armor Class: 6
Hit Dice: 4+1**
Move: 90' (30')
Flying: 180' (60')
Attacks: 1
Damage: 1-6
No. Appearing: 1-3 (1-4)
Save As: Fighter:4
Morale: 7
Treasure Type: D
Alignment: Neutral
Nearly identical to the cockatrice except for a reddish cast to its wings and a single red feather in its tail, the pyrolisk has a gaze that can cause a creature to burst into flames from within, killing it instantly unless a saving throw vs. death ray is made. On a successful save, the victim takes 2d6 points of damage. Any creature resistant to fire, such as from a spell or ring, is immune to the gaze attack, and an individual may only be affected once by the gaze of a particular pyrolisk. The gaze can be avoided in the usual manner, though the pyrolisk is not affected by its own reflection. If not using its gaze attack, it can cause a fire source within sight to explode into a shower of flame and sparks 10 times its original size, inflicting 1-6 points of damage to everyone within the explosion radius, after which the fire is extinguished. Pyrolisks are immune to all fire damage, normal or magical.
The MMII describes the pyrolisk as nearly identical to its petrifying cousin, except for a single red feather in its tail plumage and a reddish cast to its wings. Unlike the turn-to-stone touch of the cockatrice, the pyrolisk has a gaze attack that causes opponents to burst into flames from the inside! Instead of a statue of yourself, you end up as a charred corpse. It also has the ability to cause fire sources nearby to explode into fireworks, as the spell pyrotechnics, which has no analog in B/X -- a power certainly worth translating if you can imagine the party's torches and lanterns going off like Roman candles!
Besides an interesting change-up of an otherwise familiar creature, that single red tail feather could be a prime ingredient of fire-based magical items or new spells, making an encounter with pyrolisks a potentially lucrative enterprise rather than something to reflexively run away from.
 |
| You can't see it here, but one of his feathers is definitely red. |
My B/X pyrolisk would look something like this:
Armor Class: 6
Hit Dice: 4+1**
Move: 90' (30')
Flying: 180' (60')
Attacks: 1
Damage: 1-6
No. Appearing: 1-3 (1-4)
Save As: Fighter:4
Morale: 7
Treasure Type: D
Alignment: Neutral
Nearly identical to the cockatrice except for a reddish cast to its wings and a single red feather in its tail, the pyrolisk has a gaze that can cause a creature to burst into flames from within, killing it instantly unless a saving throw vs. death ray is made. On a successful save, the victim takes 2d6 points of damage. Any creature resistant to fire, such as from a spell or ring, is immune to the gaze attack, and an individual may only be affected once by the gaze of a particular pyrolisk. The gaze can be avoided in the usual manner, though the pyrolisk is not affected by its own reflection. If not using its gaze attack, it can cause a fire source within sight to explode into a shower of flame and sparks 10 times its original size, inflicting 1-6 points of damage to everyone within the explosion radius, after which the fire is extinguished. Pyrolisks are immune to all fire damage, normal or magical.
Sunday, April 21, 2019
Monster Manual II: Quicklings
Long, long ago*, in a galaxy not so far away, I received the AD&D (1st edition) Monster Manual II as a Christmas present. I didn't play AD&D; I ran a mix of B/X and BECMI, but I also didn't really understand the differences between any of those games, and those big hardcover books full of stuff I had never seen before just called to me. Some of the different stats and terminology confused me at first, but it didn't take long to sort it out to my satisfaction. Some of the creatures didn't fit my campaign world/play style at all, but there were also many that would have been right at home in B/X with a little modification, quite a few of which I used for exactly those purposes. This post and those to follow are about some of my particular favorites.
* Since I also received Weird Al Yankovic's "Even Worse" album, that would pin it down to 1988.
Quicklings captured my imagination at first sight. I've always loved dark, enchanted forests teeming with potentially malevolent fey-types as an adventure setting, so right away, they fit right in. These little bastards are CRAZY fast, and I can picture them flitting from tree trunk to tree trunk, unnerving adventurers who barely catch sight of them from the corners of their eyes, staying just out of direct view until they have the PCs right where they want them ...
Their stats are a bit wonky for B/X play (1-1/2 Hit Dice?) and they have some powers that reference AD&D spells, which for the most part are rather superfluous, so they'll need a little tidying-up. Properly B/X-ified, they might look something like this:
Armor Class: -3
Hit Dice: 1+1**
Move: 900' (300')
Attacks: 3
Damage: 1d4-1 (dagger)
No. Appearing: 2d4 (2d8)
Save As: Cleric:14
Morale: 7
Treasure Type: U+V
Alignment: Chaotic
Quicklings are a small, slender, humanoid race, perhaps distantly related to gnomes or halflings, who dabbled in dangerous magics. They live in dark, enchanted or evil wooded areas. Due to their incredible speed and reflexes, they are never surprised but surprise opponents on a roll of 1-4 and can make three attacks per round with their daggers. Any group of 10 or more quicklings will have a leader with 3 Hit Dice who uses poisoned blades that will cause victims to fall into a drugged sleep for 1d4 turns unless a save vs. poison is made. There is also a 25% chance of a quickling spellcaster who functions as a magic-user of level 1-4.
* Since I also received Weird Al Yankovic's "Even Worse" album, that would pin it down to 1988.
Quicklings captured my imagination at first sight. I've always loved dark, enchanted forests teeming with potentially malevolent fey-types as an adventure setting, so right away, they fit right in. These little bastards are CRAZY fast, and I can picture them flitting from tree trunk to tree trunk, unnerving adventurers who barely catch sight of them from the corners of their eyes, staying just out of direct view until they have the PCs right where they want them ...
 |
| "Live long and suffer!" |
Their stats are a bit wonky for B/X play (1-1/2 Hit Dice?) and they have some powers that reference AD&D spells, which for the most part are rather superfluous, so they'll need a little tidying-up. Properly B/X-ified, they might look something like this:
Armor Class: -3
Hit Dice: 1+1**
Move: 900' (300')
Attacks: 3
Damage: 1d4-1 (dagger)
No. Appearing: 2d4 (2d8)
Save As: Cleric:14
Morale: 7
Treasure Type: U+V
Alignment: Chaotic
Quicklings are a small, slender, humanoid race, perhaps distantly related to gnomes or halflings, who dabbled in dangerous magics. They live in dark, enchanted or evil wooded areas. Due to their incredible speed and reflexes, they are never surprised but surprise opponents on a roll of 1-4 and can make three attacks per round with their daggers. Any group of 10 or more quicklings will have a leader with 3 Hit Dice who uses poisoned blades that will cause victims to fall into a drugged sleep for 1d4 turns unless a save vs. poison is made. There is also a 25% chance of a quickling spellcaster who functions as a magic-user of level 1-4.
Friday, February 12, 2016
New monster: Melting zombie
Dreams are weird. I seem to have an inordinate number of dreams about zombies, often also including members of The Walking Dead cast. Well, what do you get when a run-of-the-mill Walking Dead dream goes sideways? A new monster to disgust and terrify a game group, of course.
Melting Zombie
Armor Class: 8
Hit Dice: 2**
Move: 90' (30')
Attacks: 1 or 2
Damage: 1d6/1d6
No. Appearing: 1d6 (2d8)
Save as: F1
Morale: 12
Treasure Type: Nil
Alignment: Chaotic
This shambling horror looks just like an ordinary zombie at first. Unlike the normal animated corpse, however, it hungers for fresh meat. When it is first damaged in combat, the rotting skin, blood, and organs of a melting zombie liquefy, forming a horrible puddle of necrotic slime. The slime has half the zombie's hit points and moves at a rate of 30' (10'.) It can seep through small cracks and even climb up walls to reach its prey, and its touch dissolves living flesh. This amorphous mess cannot be harmed by weapons, but is vulnerable to fire and holy water.
The other half of the zombie's hit points still reside in the skeletal frame, held together by muscle and tendon, which continues to attack by clawing and biting. Both parts must be killed, or else the zombie will re-form, regenerating 1 hit point per turn.
A character hit by either attack must make a saving throw vs. death ray or contract a rotting disease which will kill the character within 1d4 days unless cured. A character slain by a melting zombie, whether by damage or by disease, will reanimate as a melting zombie 1d4 turns after death. Melting zombies may be turned as wights.
Melting Zombie
Armor Class: 8
Hit Dice: 2**
Move: 90' (30')
Attacks: 1 or 2
Damage: 1d6/1d6
No. Appearing: 1d6 (2d8)
Save as: F1
Morale: 12
Treasure Type: Nil
Alignment: Chaotic
This shambling horror looks just like an ordinary zombie at first. Unlike the normal animated corpse, however, it hungers for fresh meat. When it is first damaged in combat, the rotting skin, blood, and organs of a melting zombie liquefy, forming a horrible puddle of necrotic slime. The slime has half the zombie's hit points and moves at a rate of 30' (10'.) It can seep through small cracks and even climb up walls to reach its prey, and its touch dissolves living flesh. This amorphous mess cannot be harmed by weapons, but is vulnerable to fire and holy water.
The other half of the zombie's hit points still reside in the skeletal frame, held together by muscle and tendon, which continues to attack by clawing and biting. Both parts must be killed, or else the zombie will re-form, regenerating 1 hit point per turn.
A character hit by either attack must make a saving throw vs. death ray or contract a rotting disease which will kill the character within 1d4 days unless cured. A character slain by a melting zombie, whether by damage or by disease, will reanimate as a melting zombie 1d4 turns after death. Melting zombies may be turned as wights.
Friday, October 30, 2015
Dark fey: Shadows
I can't let Halloween go by without another entry in the Dark Fey series, can I?
(Disclaimer: This is the non-undead monster from B/X, not the AD&D undead of the same name. I figured it fits pretty well among the dark fey.)
What's that? You wish to hear another tale? Not so keen to head out toward home, are you, even on such a clear crisp evening as this? As well you might not, what with the moon at its full and the shadows reaching their long arms across the earth...No, hardly a fit night to be abroad. Another pint, then?
Well then. Where was I? Ah, yes. No, you needn't be afraid of your own shadow. But when you finally walk home tonight, to your family and your bed, you'd best have a care that the shadow that follows you truly is your own. There other things that cast shadows, things no longer of this realm.
Did you know that even among the fey, there are crimes too horrible to countenance? Yes, the wild and perilous fey, to whom the snatching of babies from their cradles and blasphemy against the gods themselves are worth scarce a first thought, never mind a second! What enormities could so horrify them? I know not, nor do you, and pray the gods will it we never should learn!
Only the fey themselves know, and it's a dire business indeed when one of their kind should be deemed guilty of such hideous misdeeds. And what punishment could be meted out against soulless folk, who live on and on without end, to whom neither the gallows nor the headsman's axe holds any menace? Nothing short of eternal banishment! Not from a village, or even a kingdom, but from the world of the living itself. For an instant, on moonless nights, the sorcerers of the fairy court may tear back the veil between the worlds, and through that awful rent are cast the condemned, those irredeemably monstrous beings, and there they sit to brood and hate until time itself should crumble away and all barriers fail.
Yet even there, they are not wholly powerless, and from time to time they may still work their malice upon mortal and fey alike. For theirs is a prison not of solid walls, but of silken curtains. When and wherever light shines in our waking world, so it shines in that queer place also, and through the veil it projects the shadows of those fallen wretches.
In full darkness no shadows are cast, and in the noonday sun they are but shrinking things, huddled close about the feet of wall and tree. In twilight, though, the shadows come into their full. Then the shades skulk and creep, blending with the shadows of our world, stalking mortal folk. If you're lucky, they may do no more than that, watching you with ill intent unfulfilled. Out of the corners of your eyes, you may catch glimpses of shadows that mismatch the things which seem to cast them, or move in unnatural ways, when naught else moves to pull their strings. And then, my friend, you would be well advised to get you at once to a place with lamps all around to disperse the shadows, or failing that to douse your light and sit huddled miserable in the darkness until the sunrise.
For if they catch you, they will reach out their long shadowy arms and touch you! A touch from beyond this world, to chill the blood and the marrow of your bones, but more than that, to pull your soul, bit by bit, into that nether place, to sit beside the flesh and bone of that very thing which casts that dreadful shadow. If you should manage to resist or to escape its clutches ere it takes the last, the lost bits find their way back in time, and you'll be well and whole again, and none the worse for the ordeal.
But beware! Should the last piece of you fall into its greedy grasp, then it draws you through the barrier, body and soul, and there you shall dwell with it, forever in its thrall, your mind shattered and mad beyond redemption - casting your own terrible shadow through the veil.
(Disclaimer: This is the non-undead monster from B/X, not the AD&D undead of the same name. I figured it fits pretty well among the dark fey.)
What's that? You wish to hear another tale? Not so keen to head out toward home, are you, even on such a clear crisp evening as this? As well you might not, what with the moon at its full and the shadows reaching their long arms across the earth...No, hardly a fit night to be abroad. Another pint, then?
Well then. Where was I? Ah, yes. No, you needn't be afraid of your own shadow. But when you finally walk home tonight, to your family and your bed, you'd best have a care that the shadow that follows you truly is your own. There other things that cast shadows, things no longer of this realm.
Did you know that even among the fey, there are crimes too horrible to countenance? Yes, the wild and perilous fey, to whom the snatching of babies from their cradles and blasphemy against the gods themselves are worth scarce a first thought, never mind a second! What enormities could so horrify them? I know not, nor do you, and pray the gods will it we never should learn!
Only the fey themselves know, and it's a dire business indeed when one of their kind should be deemed guilty of such hideous misdeeds. And what punishment could be meted out against soulless folk, who live on and on without end, to whom neither the gallows nor the headsman's axe holds any menace? Nothing short of eternal banishment! Not from a village, or even a kingdom, but from the world of the living itself. For an instant, on moonless nights, the sorcerers of the fairy court may tear back the veil between the worlds, and through that awful rent are cast the condemned, those irredeemably monstrous beings, and there they sit to brood and hate until time itself should crumble away and all barriers fail.
Yet even there, they are not wholly powerless, and from time to time they may still work their malice upon mortal and fey alike. For theirs is a prison not of solid walls, but of silken curtains. When and wherever light shines in our waking world, so it shines in that queer place also, and through the veil it projects the shadows of those fallen wretches.
In full darkness no shadows are cast, and in the noonday sun they are but shrinking things, huddled close about the feet of wall and tree. In twilight, though, the shadows come into their full. Then the shades skulk and creep, blending with the shadows of our world, stalking mortal folk. If you're lucky, they may do no more than that, watching you with ill intent unfulfilled. Out of the corners of your eyes, you may catch glimpses of shadows that mismatch the things which seem to cast them, or move in unnatural ways, when naught else moves to pull their strings. And then, my friend, you would be well advised to get you at once to a place with lamps all around to disperse the shadows, or failing that to douse your light and sit huddled miserable in the darkness until the sunrise.
For if they catch you, they will reach out their long shadowy arms and touch you! A touch from beyond this world, to chill the blood and the marrow of your bones, but more than that, to pull your soul, bit by bit, into that nether place, to sit beside the flesh and bone of that very thing which casts that dreadful shadow. If you should manage to resist or to escape its clutches ere it takes the last, the lost bits find their way back in time, and you'll be well and whole again, and none the worse for the ordeal.
But beware! Should the last piece of you fall into its greedy grasp, then it draws you through the barrier, body and soul, and there you shall dwell with it, forever in its thrall, your mind shattered and mad beyond redemption - casting your own terrible shadow through the veil.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
Dark fey: Trolls
Hmm...yes, that's all the ingredients, and you even managed to tell the drake-tongue root from the bog fern this time. Well done. We might make an alchemist of you yet.
What's that now? Trolls? Yes, they have their uses, too, but that's best left to more accomplished practitioners than you, my young apprentice. You're most likely to find them in places of decay - ancient forests where the leaf-litter is knee-deep, midden-heaps in abandoned villages, and of course in bogs and swamps where the stagnant water belches up the rot-gases of aeons of dead things fermenting beneath the surface. Decay is a troll's element, and some scholars (though I use the term loosely!) even assert that trolls are made all of animate fungus. Nonsense, of course, but one can see whence the misconception arises, if not why it persists. They certainly are as resilient as mushrooms, though; their flesh knits right before your eyes, even if you've just hacked off their heads and all their limbs, which is a lot harder than it sounds.
Fascinating creatures, trolls, so long as you don't get too close. They are really a rather diverse lot - some are great squat toad-like lumps, others are long and sinewy, hides all encrusted with algae and moss, manes of stringy green hair hanging lank from their huge flattened heads. All of them have in common a striking elasticity of substance, with monstrous jaws that can gape thrice as wide as you'd think to look at them, all full of cruel pointed teeth, and great bellies that stretch to hold the most mountainous meal.
All of them are ravenous eaters, but there is no greater glutton than an old troll-hag. She can down a wolfhound at a single gulp, and the mightiest plough-horse in a single sitting. Of course she prefers carrion, but no troll has the self-will to restrain itself from a fresh kill. If meat is scarce, she sates her hunger as best she can on vegetation - great gobs of slimy weeds, tangled roots, even rotten logs. If you see a gnawed tree-stump, beware! A ravenously hungry troll is likely nearby.
Some troll-hags have a measure of sorcerous powers, with a terrible fondness for hexes and curses. Many a farmer whose stead lies too near a troll-bog has seen his livestock inexplicably sicken and die, so that local troll-hags might gorge themselves on rotting carcasses. Wise folk either move their herds and flocks elsewhere or keep the monsters appeased with periodic offerings.
Next to gluttony, a troll's greatest weakness is its pride. Even a hungry troll will stop to listen to flattery - the more exaggerated and embellished, the better. Not that there's much point to flattering a troll: Once you've talked yourself too hoarse to go on, she'll gobble you right down all the same, and you'll be too out of breath even to make a good show of running away. The only time it's even remotely safe to approach a troll is when its belly is distended with several hundred pounds of meat and it can no more than waddle after you, and...
Oh no. Oh no, no, no! Cedwin, my boy, didn't I send you out with a mule? Where is my mule?
What's that now? Trolls? Yes, they have their uses, too, but that's best left to more accomplished practitioners than you, my young apprentice. You're most likely to find them in places of decay - ancient forests where the leaf-litter is knee-deep, midden-heaps in abandoned villages, and of course in bogs and swamps where the stagnant water belches up the rot-gases of aeons of dead things fermenting beneath the surface. Decay is a troll's element, and some scholars (though I use the term loosely!) even assert that trolls are made all of animate fungus. Nonsense, of course, but one can see whence the misconception arises, if not why it persists. They certainly are as resilient as mushrooms, though; their flesh knits right before your eyes, even if you've just hacked off their heads and all their limbs, which is a lot harder than it sounds.
Fascinating creatures, trolls, so long as you don't get too close. They are really a rather diverse lot - some are great squat toad-like lumps, others are long and sinewy, hides all encrusted with algae and moss, manes of stringy green hair hanging lank from their huge flattened heads. All of them have in common a striking elasticity of substance, with monstrous jaws that can gape thrice as wide as you'd think to look at them, all full of cruel pointed teeth, and great bellies that stretch to hold the most mountainous meal.
All of them are ravenous eaters, but there is no greater glutton than an old troll-hag. She can down a wolfhound at a single gulp, and the mightiest plough-horse in a single sitting. Of course she prefers carrion, but no troll has the self-will to restrain itself from a fresh kill. If meat is scarce, she sates her hunger as best she can on vegetation - great gobs of slimy weeds, tangled roots, even rotten logs. If you see a gnawed tree-stump, beware! A ravenously hungry troll is likely nearby.
Some troll-hags have a measure of sorcerous powers, with a terrible fondness for hexes and curses. Many a farmer whose stead lies too near a troll-bog has seen his livestock inexplicably sicken and die, so that local troll-hags might gorge themselves on rotting carcasses. Wise folk either move their herds and flocks elsewhere or keep the monsters appeased with periodic offerings.
Next to gluttony, a troll's greatest weakness is its pride. Even a hungry troll will stop to listen to flattery - the more exaggerated and embellished, the better. Not that there's much point to flattering a troll: Once you've talked yourself too hoarse to go on, she'll gobble you right down all the same, and you'll be too out of breath even to make a good show of running away. The only time it's even remotely safe to approach a troll is when its belly is distended with several hundred pounds of meat and it can no more than waddle after you, and...
Oh no. Oh no, no, no! Cedwin, my boy, didn't I send you out with a mule? Where is my mule?
Tuesday, June 9, 2015
Dark fey: Bugbears
Shhh! Did you hear that? That scraping sound - something under the bed, or in the closet? You heard that because he wanted you to hear it. When he doesn't wish to be heard, he is as stealthy as midnight's own wings. He thrives on your fear, savors it like an intoxicating drink. And there is no keeping him out. His joints bend every which way you please, and his bones are all of gristle that flexes without breaking. He can pry doors and windows with his long clever fingers, or squeeze through gaps and hide in crannies you'd never think to check before blowing out your lamp.
He likes to taunt and tease with little noises, bumps and scrapes and huffing breaths. He knows you won't dare spring from your bed and flee. You're in his power now. Then, perhaps, as you tremble beneath your blankets, praying for the dawn to come, he'll unfold himself, all seven or eight long and gangly feet of him, and let you see the shadow he casts in the moonlight upon the wall, but only for an instant. The next you'll see of him is his great leering face, with its mad, bloodshot eyes, its straggly hair, and above all its too-wide grin full of gleaming yellow fangs.
No, my lass, don't cry for your father or your mother. He'll kill them, with nary a thought, with his sharp barbed knife or his strong grasping hands. It isn't them he wants. It's you.
Into his great black sack you'll go, with bones and snails and bits of rats, and then he'll steal back to his dark lair where he dwells with all his brothers. What will he do with you there? Oh, fear not, he doesn't want to eat you. He's far too lazy for that. The bogey-folk never do for themselves what they could have done by helpful slaves instead, nothing, anyway, except frightening people and stealing naughty, lazy little children.
And so you'll dig and dig and dig in their dank smelly tunnels, and catch rats and toads and worms for their dinners, and you'll grow up there in the darkness among them. Oh, they'll take a shine to all-grown folk sometimes too, and spirit them away to the dark mines, but for those ones, the toil and the drudgery are all they have to look forward to for the rest of their born days. Only one in a hundred ever slips away and manages to find his way out of the depths of the lair to feel the warmth of the sun again.
Little children, though...especially little children who whine and complain and won't do their chores as they're asked...those are their favorites, for they remind them of themselves. They might take a real liking to you, and frighten you extra-special, because that's their way. And if you amuse them with your cowering and sobbing, and if you eat your slugs and worms like a good little lass, and if in the end you put down your spade in spite of all their frightening and scaring, and show yourself to be as stubbornly lazy as they are...well, you might just grow up to be one of them.
He likes to taunt and tease with little noises, bumps and scrapes and huffing breaths. He knows you won't dare spring from your bed and flee. You're in his power now. Then, perhaps, as you tremble beneath your blankets, praying for the dawn to come, he'll unfold himself, all seven or eight long and gangly feet of him, and let you see the shadow he casts in the moonlight upon the wall, but only for an instant. The next you'll see of him is his great leering face, with its mad, bloodshot eyes, its straggly hair, and above all its too-wide grin full of gleaming yellow fangs.
No, my lass, don't cry for your father or your mother. He'll kill them, with nary a thought, with his sharp barbed knife or his strong grasping hands. It isn't them he wants. It's you.
Into his great black sack you'll go, with bones and snails and bits of rats, and then he'll steal back to his dark lair where he dwells with all his brothers. What will he do with you there? Oh, fear not, he doesn't want to eat you. He's far too lazy for that. The bogey-folk never do for themselves what they could have done by helpful slaves instead, nothing, anyway, except frightening people and stealing naughty, lazy little children.
And so you'll dig and dig and dig in their dank smelly tunnels, and catch rats and toads and worms for their dinners, and you'll grow up there in the darkness among them. Oh, they'll take a shine to all-grown folk sometimes too, and spirit them away to the dark mines, but for those ones, the toil and the drudgery are all they have to look forward to for the rest of their born days. Only one in a hundred ever slips away and manages to find his way out of the depths of the lair to feel the warmth of the sun again.
Little children, though...especially little children who whine and complain and won't do their chores as they're asked...those are their favorites, for they remind them of themselves. They might take a real liking to you, and frighten you extra-special, because that's their way. And if you amuse them with your cowering and sobbing, and if you eat your slugs and worms like a good little lass, and if in the end you put down your spade in spite of all their frightening and scaring, and show yourself to be as stubbornly lazy as they are...well, you might just grow up to be one of them.
Saturday, May 30, 2015
Dark fey: Hobgoblins
When household tools and family heirlooms go missing, the wise housewife will suspect the activity of hobgoblins. Like a snarling, ill-tempered magpie, the hobgoblin will "collect" whatever is within his reach and tickles his inscrutable fancies. Avarice is his hallmark; avarice, but not discernment, for he will as readily purloin horse-shoes and glass beads as gold coin and precious gems. The enterprising adventurer who is able to claim a hobgoblin hoard has a task at once enviable and daunting before him in sifting through mounds of rubbish for the inevitable pieces of great value, but he may also earn the lasting goodwill of the local community by returning to them many long-lost belongings.
Yet despite his avarice, the hobgoblin is a creature of clannish and communal habits, gladly adding his precious baubles to the tribal hoard. Perhaps this is for the sheer delight of seeing so great a collection amassed together. The clan's "king" is in reality the steward of the hoard, and has few other interests than in protecting and enlarging it. His "subjects" may freely gaze upon, or even handle, the contents of the hoard, but it is simply unthinkable to them to remove any for their personal use or enjoyment.
Between different clans, however, rivalry is prevalent, and capturing a prized trophy from another clan, by stealth or by force, is a source of great pride to king and clan. Clans are distinguished by differences of seemingly little consequence to the human sensibility, but which are evidently of great importance to the hobgoblin: the pointedness of noses or the relative lengths of the second and third fingers, for instance.
It is perhaps because of the occasional brutality of these rivalries, and the ease with which the hobgoblin may be tempted into armed service of other races with generous payments of worthless trinkets, that he has acquired the reputation of military inclination. While it is true that he does not blink at violence, the typical hobgoblin is chaotic and unruly, and is at best a skirmisher in an irregular division and not part of a disciplined fighting force. In truth, except with regard to other clans of his own kind, a hobgoblin prefers to go unnoticed, and to indulge his inborn kleptomania without risking his neck, unless he clearly has the advantage over his mark.
Where goblins and hobgoblins share territory near human habitations, they exist in a sort of unintentional symbiosis which wreaks havoc on the human community. The dainties one sets out to repulse goblins are readily snatched up by their grasping cousins, leaving the home unwarded against goblins and encouraging further incursions by the hobgoblins. Some knowledgeable persons say that hobgoblins fear dogs; whether or not this is true is a contentious subject, but it is fact that the hobgoblin does not share his cousin's curious affinity for savage wolves. Others will assert that a blessed object such as a holy text or symbol, added to a clan's hoard, will shortly disperse the entire nest of hobgoblins, and so will advocate the leaving of such items where they might readily be taken. The efficacy, or lack thereof, of these and other remedies is left to the individual house-holder to determine through trial and error.
Yet despite his avarice, the hobgoblin is a creature of clannish and communal habits, gladly adding his precious baubles to the tribal hoard. Perhaps this is for the sheer delight of seeing so great a collection amassed together. The clan's "king" is in reality the steward of the hoard, and has few other interests than in protecting and enlarging it. His "subjects" may freely gaze upon, or even handle, the contents of the hoard, but it is simply unthinkable to them to remove any for their personal use or enjoyment.
Between different clans, however, rivalry is prevalent, and capturing a prized trophy from another clan, by stealth or by force, is a source of great pride to king and clan. Clans are distinguished by differences of seemingly little consequence to the human sensibility, but which are evidently of great importance to the hobgoblin: the pointedness of noses or the relative lengths of the second and third fingers, for instance.
It is perhaps because of the occasional brutality of these rivalries, and the ease with which the hobgoblin may be tempted into armed service of other races with generous payments of worthless trinkets, that he has acquired the reputation of military inclination. While it is true that he does not blink at violence, the typical hobgoblin is chaotic and unruly, and is at best a skirmisher in an irregular division and not part of a disciplined fighting force. In truth, except with regard to other clans of his own kind, a hobgoblin prefers to go unnoticed, and to indulge his inborn kleptomania without risking his neck, unless he clearly has the advantage over his mark.
Where goblins and hobgoblins share territory near human habitations, they exist in a sort of unintentional symbiosis which wreaks havoc on the human community. The dainties one sets out to repulse goblins are readily snatched up by their grasping cousins, leaving the home unwarded against goblins and encouraging further incursions by the hobgoblins. Some knowledgeable persons say that hobgoblins fear dogs; whether or not this is true is a contentious subject, but it is fact that the hobgoblin does not share his cousin's curious affinity for savage wolves. Others will assert that a blessed object such as a holy text or symbol, added to a clan's hoard, will shortly disperse the entire nest of hobgoblins, and so will advocate the leaving of such items where they might readily be taken. The efficacy, or lack thereof, of these and other remedies is left to the individual house-holder to determine through trial and error.
Friday, May 29, 2015
Dark fey: Kobolds
So, here you are, all decked out in a new suit of mail, and you think you're ready to face the worst the dungeon has to offer? Let me tell you something, laddie, the things down there most to be feared aren't the ones lookin' to put a spear through your shiny new coat. There're things in those dark places that'll kill you without your ever seein' 'em, or get you to kill yourself with foolish missteps and save them the bother. Tappers, some call 'em, or knockers, or mine-haunts. Kobolds, to the person of learnin'.
What's that? Oh, sure, you can take them down with your axe. Probably only take one swing, too. Good luck getting a stand-up fight out of 'em, though. They see as well in pitch dark as you and I do in the noon sun, and they hear better too, like dogs. Can talk back and forth 'tween each other that way, so you never know it. Kobolds are uncanny in tunnels. Never get lost, and sometimes they dig warrens of little passages and crawl-ways alongside the main ones to get around unseen.
Mischief is what kobolds love best, 'specially the kind that gets folks hurt or killed, and all the better if it takes a long time to do you in. First you'll hear them tap-tap-tapping down in the dark depths, inviting you to come investigate. They'll make other noises too, if they think it'll grab your attention, and some of 'em can mimic just about anything - a dog barking, water trickling, birds chirping. All for the purpose of gettin' you deeper into the dungeon and lost. They like to rub out your chalk marks on the walls, or make new ones, steal your rations and lamp oil, lock doors you already unlocked, reset the traps you disarmed. Or they might put your prized magic ring in the thief's bag while you're asleep. Nothing makes 'em happier than turning a party against itself.
Only way to negotiate with a kobold is to help him do mischief on somebody else. Sometimes you can trade 'em things like chalk for writin' on the walls, or strong whiskey, which they won't drink themselves but maybe put in the next fellow's water skins. Don't count on their favors lasting long, though - if you're lucky, they'll leave you alone just long enough for you to find your way back to sunlight and fresh air again.
What's that? Oh, sure, you can take them down with your axe. Probably only take one swing, too. Good luck getting a stand-up fight out of 'em, though. They see as well in pitch dark as you and I do in the noon sun, and they hear better too, like dogs. Can talk back and forth 'tween each other that way, so you never know it. Kobolds are uncanny in tunnels. Never get lost, and sometimes they dig warrens of little passages and crawl-ways alongside the main ones to get around unseen.
Mischief is what kobolds love best, 'specially the kind that gets folks hurt or killed, and all the better if it takes a long time to do you in. First you'll hear them tap-tap-tapping down in the dark depths, inviting you to come investigate. They'll make other noises too, if they think it'll grab your attention, and some of 'em can mimic just about anything - a dog barking, water trickling, birds chirping. All for the purpose of gettin' you deeper into the dungeon and lost. They like to rub out your chalk marks on the walls, or make new ones, steal your rations and lamp oil, lock doors you already unlocked, reset the traps you disarmed. Or they might put your prized magic ring in the thief's bag while you're asleep. Nothing makes 'em happier than turning a party against itself.
Only way to negotiate with a kobold is to help him do mischief on somebody else. Sometimes you can trade 'em things like chalk for writin' on the walls, or strong whiskey, which they won't drink themselves but maybe put in the next fellow's water skins. Don't count on their favors lasting long, though - if you're lucky, they'll leave you alone just long enough for you to find your way back to sunlight and fresh air again.
Thursday, May 28, 2015
Dark fey: Goblins
Pity the goblin - poor wretch! For he is a creature of envy, doomed never to know joy or contentment of his own, forever tormented by that of others. There is no thing animate or inanimate which is not the object of his envy. He envies his brother-goblin who found a dead rat in the tunnel; he envies the rat, for it has no more concerns to trouble it in this world; he envies his chieftain for his position of power (even as the chieftain envies him a life free of the heavy burden of dominating the rabble with the lash!) Most of all he envies men, elves, and dwarves, for the fellowship they share between one another, for the beauty of their crafts, for the delight they take in food and drink, for the mirth of their songs. He envies them childhood, full of wonder; he envies them the robustness of adulthood; he envies them their wise venerability. Especially he envies that they so freely walk beneath the daylight sky which burns his pallid skin and sears his red eyes.
Yes, pity the goblin, but fear him as well! For so great is his misery that there is no act he will not contemplate to assuage it for the briefest of moments, or to share it in as great a measure as he can. He is not brave, or at least seldom so, but he is sly and clever, and his eyes see in the blinding darkness. He will steal whatever he may that seems to bring enjoyment to its owner, and either hoard it away with a hundred other forgotten baubles when it disappoints him, or ruin it that it might never give another the delight it has denied him.
He will hew down your beloved apple tree, set aflame your thatched hovel, pull the guts from your old striped cat because he sees you smile at her. He balks not at foul murder, even - especially! - of children, who laugh and love so easily. He laughs, too, as he works his malice, all full of madness but utterly void of mirth, and thus it is a sound most horrible.
Yet, pity him, though he has none in his withered heart for you! Cold steel may slay his body, but it is kindness which his spirit cannot abide. Set out bowls of food and drink for him at night, and little shoes and waistcoats sized just for him, though he will leave them untouched. Only then will your home and your kin be safe from his cruel mischief.
Yes, pity the goblin, but fear him as well! For so great is his misery that there is no act he will not contemplate to assuage it for the briefest of moments, or to share it in as great a measure as he can. He is not brave, or at least seldom so, but he is sly and clever, and his eyes see in the blinding darkness. He will steal whatever he may that seems to bring enjoyment to its owner, and either hoard it away with a hundred other forgotten baubles when it disappoints him, or ruin it that it might never give another the delight it has denied him.
He will hew down your beloved apple tree, set aflame your thatched hovel, pull the guts from your old striped cat because he sees you smile at her. He balks not at foul murder, even - especially! - of children, who laugh and love so easily. He laughs, too, as he works his malice, all full of madness but utterly void of mirth, and thus it is a sound most horrible.
Yet, pity him, though he has none in his withered heart for you! Cold steel may slay his body, but it is kindness which his spirit cannot abide. Set out bowls of food and drink for him at night, and little shoes and waistcoats sized just for him, though he will leave them untouched. Only then will your home and your kin be safe from his cruel mischief.
Dark fey
One of the great strengths of early iterations of D&D like B/X is their brief treatment of monsters. There are none of the long treatises on each creature's ecology, biology, and society (which really exploded in AD&D 2E, if I recall.) Each entry in the monsters chapter of the rules tells you the monster's
stats, what it looks like, what it can do, and where it can be found. That's it. The beauty of this is that it leaves all the world-specific details of creatures to the DM, instead of codifying an "official" version.
Even though these things were lacking in the actual rule books, I absorbed a great deal of what monsters were "supposed" to be like from adventure modules, most especially The Keep on the Borderlands. Gygax portrayed the humanoids as essentially evil, ugly, savage humans. Sure, they looked different, and they hated "real" humans, but they had all the same basic needs and motivations. They ate, drank, slept, reproduced, and reared young. Other modules and supplements that I read and played pretty much followed Gary's lead, and the paradigm of goblins as reskinned barbaric humans became lodged in my mind.
These days, I want something a little more fantastic. I want goblins and kobolds that are radically different from humans and demi-humans, despite their superficial physical resemblance. (I also would like to avoid "orc babies" moral dilemmas, because I really don't find them fun or entertaining.) I'm thinking of something like the dark fey creatures depicted in so many tales. Without further ado, here's the direction I'm leaning...
In addition to humans and demi-humans, the world is populated by fey beings - elemental spirits of nature spawned by the earth itself. Thus, woodlands give rise to treants and dryads, flowers and mushrooms birth pixies and sprites, streams and springs spawn nixies and naiads. But even nature itself is not incorruptible.
There are places where the trees, the waters, even the very hills themselves have grown hateful. They may seem at a glance little different from more wholesome locales, but always they seethe with invisible malice that troubles the hearts of good creatures who venture near. From the detritus of these places - the stinking mud and the mouldering leaves, the rotten hearts of diseased trees and deadly toadstools, the festering darkness within the fouled earth itself - spring the dark fey: Goblins, hobgoblins, kobolds, bugbears, trolls, ogres, and others even more grotesque.
The dark fey, as their less-loathsome kin, are ageless beings, untouched by the ravages of time, although they often are haggard and gnarled in aspect suggestive of ruinous age. Some may take the forms of male or female, but without the functions: they are not born, but generated spontaneously from places of malevolence and corruption, and they know not what it is to be young or old. They need no food to sustain them, but hunger gnaws them nonetheless; eating assuages their hunger for a time but gives them no true pleasure, and what they cannot devour they will spoil so that no mortal may have the enjoyment of it. They likewise do not need sleep. Some partake of it anyway out of sheer sloth, but others despise it and never close their bloodshot eyes. Long years of wakefulness may add the gift of stark madness to their vicious natures.
Dark fey are normally closely bound to the sites of their genesis, and cannot stray more than a few miles without weakening. If forcibly removed, their life force dissipates, and their bodies, bereft of the animating spirit, revert to the stuff of their making: mud, sticks, decaying leaves, slime, mold, and shadows. The corrupted woods and hills which spawn dark fey inevitably produce more to replace any who are slain; they are not quite genius loci, but perhaps more akin to a fungal mass from which sprout an inexhaustible number of mushrooms. Thus the numbers of dark fey tend to remain constant, despite the best efforts of adventurers and mercenaries charged with their extermination. In some cases, it may be possible to purge such a site of its evil influence, but a different method is required for each, and discovering and implementing it is likely to prove an arduous and expensive endeavor. Worse still, sometimes the evil spreads like rot, expanding outward to engulf a larger area. Many a human village has succumbed to the creeping terror of a bugbear-haunted forest on its borders, or a dwarven stronghold overrun by the taint of goblin-earth spreading from a mountain's black heart.
These things the dark fey have in common, yet they are also diverse, with each race distinct from its awful brethren. In our next installment, we will begin the tour through the ranks of these spirits of malice, beginning with the goblin.
Even though these things were lacking in the actual rule books, I absorbed a great deal of what monsters were "supposed" to be like from adventure modules, most especially The Keep on the Borderlands. Gygax portrayed the humanoids as essentially evil, ugly, savage humans. Sure, they looked different, and they hated "real" humans, but they had all the same basic needs and motivations. They ate, drank, slept, reproduced, and reared young. Other modules and supplements that I read and played pretty much followed Gary's lead, and the paradigm of goblins as reskinned barbaric humans became lodged in my mind.
These days, I want something a little more fantastic. I want goblins and kobolds that are radically different from humans and demi-humans, despite their superficial physical resemblance. (I also would like to avoid "orc babies" moral dilemmas, because I really don't find them fun or entertaining.) I'm thinking of something like the dark fey creatures depicted in so many tales. Without further ado, here's the direction I'm leaning...
In addition to humans and demi-humans, the world is populated by fey beings - elemental spirits of nature spawned by the earth itself. Thus, woodlands give rise to treants and dryads, flowers and mushrooms birth pixies and sprites, streams and springs spawn nixies and naiads. But even nature itself is not incorruptible.
There are places where the trees, the waters, even the very hills themselves have grown hateful. They may seem at a glance little different from more wholesome locales, but always they seethe with invisible malice that troubles the hearts of good creatures who venture near. From the detritus of these places - the stinking mud and the mouldering leaves, the rotten hearts of diseased trees and deadly toadstools, the festering darkness within the fouled earth itself - spring the dark fey: Goblins, hobgoblins, kobolds, bugbears, trolls, ogres, and others even more grotesque.
The dark fey, as their less-loathsome kin, are ageless beings, untouched by the ravages of time, although they often are haggard and gnarled in aspect suggestive of ruinous age. Some may take the forms of male or female, but without the functions: they are not born, but generated spontaneously from places of malevolence and corruption, and they know not what it is to be young or old. They need no food to sustain them, but hunger gnaws them nonetheless; eating assuages their hunger for a time but gives them no true pleasure, and what they cannot devour they will spoil so that no mortal may have the enjoyment of it. They likewise do not need sleep. Some partake of it anyway out of sheer sloth, but others despise it and never close their bloodshot eyes. Long years of wakefulness may add the gift of stark madness to their vicious natures.
Dark fey are normally closely bound to the sites of their genesis, and cannot stray more than a few miles without weakening. If forcibly removed, their life force dissipates, and their bodies, bereft of the animating spirit, revert to the stuff of their making: mud, sticks, decaying leaves, slime, mold, and shadows. The corrupted woods and hills which spawn dark fey inevitably produce more to replace any who are slain; they are not quite genius loci, but perhaps more akin to a fungal mass from which sprout an inexhaustible number of mushrooms. Thus the numbers of dark fey tend to remain constant, despite the best efforts of adventurers and mercenaries charged with their extermination. In some cases, it may be possible to purge such a site of its evil influence, but a different method is required for each, and discovering and implementing it is likely to prove an arduous and expensive endeavor. Worse still, sometimes the evil spreads like rot, expanding outward to engulf a larger area. Many a human village has succumbed to the creeping terror of a bugbear-haunted forest on its borders, or a dwarven stronghold overrun by the taint of goblin-earth spreading from a mountain's black heart.
These things the dark fey have in common, yet they are also diverse, with each race distinct from its awful brethren. In our next installment, we will begin the tour through the ranks of these spirits of malice, beginning with the goblin.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
Dragon tactics for B/X
Dragons probably aren't the most appropriate opponents for levels 1-3, but of course it would have been a perverse design decision indeed to leave them out of even the introductory books of a game that's half named for them. They really did seem like nigh-insuperable foes back when I was first poring over the monsters section of the Moldvay rulebook, especially the upper range of the dragon hierarchy, the terrible red dragon and the mighty gold.
That was with low-level PCs in mind, though. Once the PCs gain several levels, they begin to rival the great monsters, at least at a glance. A 6th-level fighter has about as many hit points as a white or black dragon, and maybe more if he has a bonus from Constitution. Most likely he's going to have as good or better AC than most dragons, too, with magical armor and shield bonuses. Dragons usually have the edge in physical attacks (a lowly white dragon has damage potential of up to 24 points per round, compared to the fighter's 1d8 or so plus Strength and magic - say, around 12 points max. The dragon theoretically has an advantage in attack rolls (14 to hit AC 0 for a 6 HD white dragon) but a fighter at 4th level probably has similar odds (base 17 to hit AC 0, but with a combined bonus of +3 or more from Strength and magic, he at least equals the dragon.)
(Random digression: This, in my mind, is a good argument in favor of limiting attack and damage bonuses from magical weapons.)
A B/X white dragon has 6 Hit Dice, an AC of 3 (equivalent to plate armor), and damage of 1d4/1d4/2d8 with its claw/claw/bite attack routine. That's pretty tough for low-level PCs, but curiously, except for the better AC, ability to fly, and breath weapon, it's not far off from the stats of a tiger (6 HD, Dam 1d6/1d6/2d6) -a formidable foe, to be sure, but less than you might think. While the correlation between size and HD in B/X is tenuous at best, taken together with attacks and damage it maps pretty well to size and strength. The dragon's claw attacks do as much damage as a character with a dagger, and less than the tiger's claws. Its bite is a little better than the tiger's, but the total damage potential is 24 in both cases.
(Random digression: A 3 HD giant crab also has damage potential of up to 24 points - 2 pincers for 2d6/2d6. An overgrown crustacean is going to mess you up as much as a tiger or a dragon? What?)
So, apparently a white dragon is roughly equivalent in size to a tiger. Probably a longer, more sinuous shape, with smaller claws and bigger teeth, but still pretty close to the same overall bulk and strength.
More powerful dragon types have more Hit Dice, better ACs, and significantly more powerful physical attacks, but across the board, a dragon's biggest advantage over other foes is its breath weapon. This inflicts automatic damage (no attack roll needed) equal to the dragon's current hit points, or half that if a save is made. In theory, then, our white dragon could either knock a 6th level fighter (or a group of them - breath weapons are area attacks!) either to around 0 hp, or to around half their starting hp in one breath. Lower level characters would most likely be slain outright on a failed save, and in very bad shape even on a successful save. A dragon can use its breath weapon three times per day, so if it doesn't wipe out the opposition on the first try, it can finish them off with a second blast.
Of course, if the PCs get the drop on the dragon - either surprising it or winning initiative the first round - and manage to do some significant damage to it, they also reduce the damage it can do with its breath. This is virtually essential for successfully fighting a dragon. More so than in almost any other situation in the game, surprise and initiative can make the difference between victory and a rout or TPK.
Clearly, then, these B/X dragons are not the gargantuan monsters depicted in fantasy art (including that of most editions of D&D.) They aren't Smaug. (The Mentzer edition Companion set provides stats and write-ups for such epic beasts, though they should probably be exceedingly rare, maybe no more than a small handful in an entire campaign world.) While they are physically robust and well-armored, B/X dragons aren't world destroyers. If they were no more than their physical bulk, armored hides, claws, and teeth, they'd be tough, but predictably beatable by a party with enough experience.
Even more than their legendary breath weapons, it's the intelligence and cunning of dragons that truly set them apart from run-of-the-mill monsters. Dragons should absolutely not be played like zombies, charging headlong into battle and fighting until slain. A toe-to-toe fight between a powerful party and a dragon should almost never happen. Even dragons not intelligent enough to talk or use magic will be clever and devious opponents. A party that expects to walk into a dragon's lair and cut it down through sheer force of arms and magic should generally have a very bad time, even if every one of them individually has more levels than the dragon has Hit Dice, because dragons play their advantages to the hilt. Defeating a dragon should require them to outfox the beast, not merely outfight it.
If there were a book like The Art of War written by dragons for dragons, it would probably include the following pieces of advice:
That was with low-level PCs in mind, though. Once the PCs gain several levels, they begin to rival the great monsters, at least at a glance. A 6th-level fighter has about as many hit points as a white or black dragon, and maybe more if he has a bonus from Constitution. Most likely he's going to have as good or better AC than most dragons, too, with magical armor and shield bonuses. Dragons usually have the edge in physical attacks (a lowly white dragon has damage potential of up to 24 points per round, compared to the fighter's 1d8 or so plus Strength and magic - say, around 12 points max. The dragon theoretically has an advantage in attack rolls (14 to hit AC 0 for a 6 HD white dragon) but a fighter at 4th level probably has similar odds (base 17 to hit AC 0, but with a combined bonus of +3 or more from Strength and magic, he at least equals the dragon.)
(Random digression: This, in my mind, is a good argument in favor of limiting attack and damage bonuses from magical weapons.)
A B/X white dragon has 6 Hit Dice, an AC of 3 (equivalent to plate armor), and damage of 1d4/1d4/2d8 with its claw/claw/bite attack routine. That's pretty tough for low-level PCs, but curiously, except for the better AC, ability to fly, and breath weapon, it's not far off from the stats of a tiger (6 HD, Dam 1d6/1d6/2d6) -a formidable foe, to be sure, but less than you might think. While the correlation between size and HD in B/X is tenuous at best, taken together with attacks and damage it maps pretty well to size and strength. The dragon's claw attacks do as much damage as a character with a dagger, and less than the tiger's claws. Its bite is a little better than the tiger's, but the total damage potential is 24 in both cases.
(Random digression: A 3 HD giant crab also has damage potential of up to 24 points - 2 pincers for 2d6/2d6. An overgrown crustacean is going to mess you up as much as a tiger or a dragon? What?)
So, apparently a white dragon is roughly equivalent in size to a tiger. Probably a longer, more sinuous shape, with smaller claws and bigger teeth, but still pretty close to the same overall bulk and strength.
More powerful dragon types have more Hit Dice, better ACs, and significantly more powerful physical attacks, but across the board, a dragon's biggest advantage over other foes is its breath weapon. This inflicts automatic damage (no attack roll needed) equal to the dragon's current hit points, or half that if a save is made. In theory, then, our white dragon could either knock a 6th level fighter (or a group of them - breath weapons are area attacks!) either to around 0 hp, or to around half their starting hp in one breath. Lower level characters would most likely be slain outright on a failed save, and in very bad shape even on a successful save. A dragon can use its breath weapon three times per day, so if it doesn't wipe out the opposition on the first try, it can finish them off with a second blast.
Of course, if the PCs get the drop on the dragon - either surprising it or winning initiative the first round - and manage to do some significant damage to it, they also reduce the damage it can do with its breath. This is virtually essential for successfully fighting a dragon. More so than in almost any other situation in the game, surprise and initiative can make the difference between victory and a rout or TPK.
Clearly, then, these B/X dragons are not the gargantuan monsters depicted in fantasy art (including that of most editions of D&D.) They aren't Smaug. (The Mentzer edition Companion set provides stats and write-ups for such epic beasts, though they should probably be exceedingly rare, maybe no more than a small handful in an entire campaign world.) While they are physically robust and well-armored, B/X dragons aren't world destroyers. If they were no more than their physical bulk, armored hides, claws, and teeth, they'd be tough, but predictably beatable by a party with enough experience.
Even more than their legendary breath weapons, it's the intelligence and cunning of dragons that truly set them apart from run-of-the-mill monsters. Dragons should absolutely not be played like zombies, charging headlong into battle and fighting until slain. A toe-to-toe fight between a powerful party and a dragon should almost never happen. Even dragons not intelligent enough to talk or use magic will be clever and devious opponents. A party that expects to walk into a dragon's lair and cut it down through sheer force of arms and magic should generally have a very bad time, even if every one of them individually has more levels than the dragon has Hit Dice, because dragons play their advantages to the hilt. Defeating a dragon should require them to outfox the beast, not merely outfight it.
If there were a book like The Art of War written by dragons for dragons, it would probably include the following pieces of advice:
- The first strike is decisive. Be aware of your opponent before he is aware of you.
- Whenever possible, observe and learn the strength of your opponents. Engage them in conversation, if you can talk, and if you can do so without endangering yourself unduly. Humans who come poking around in a dragon's lair are either very formidable or very foolish, but the greatest fool is you if you mistake one sort for the other.
- Your lair is your fortress. Know it to the last detail. Set traps and alarms on every entrance, especially if you plan on sleeping there. Block the entrances that are of no use to you. Conceal the others if possible, and consider moving if you can't.
- Unite and conquer! Use terrain to your advantage, to force your enemies to approach you together so that you may wipe them out at once with a breath attack. Do not allow them to surround you and bring all their attacks to bear on you at once. Hallways and narrow defiles are your allies; huge chambers with low ceilings are deathtraps.
- Choose the time and place of a fight to suit you. Don't fight on your enemies' terms if you can help it. Outdoors, the choice is almost always yours, because you can fly.
- Use your wings. When fighting outdoors, don't stand there on the ground while your enemies swarm over you. Take to the air; use your mobility to attack individuals separated from the rest, and take off again before the others can come to their aid. If you've chosen a particularly spacious cavern for your lair, you can use flying tactics there too.
- Employ henchmen, hench-monsters, servitors, dragon cultists, etc. to act as guards, spies, and providers of tribute in the form of treasure and fresh meat. Don't ever trust them completely, though.
- If you have the use of magic spells or items, use them, especially if they facilitate one of the above strategies.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Hit Dice modifiers: More useful than you (or TSR) thought
One of the conventions of D&D that I always found kind of weird and inexplicable is the practice of adding hit points to a creature's Hit Dice (or in very rare cases, subtracting them.) An ogre, for instance, is listed in B/X as having 4+1 HD. What exactly is the purpose of giving it one measly hit point more than the roll of the dice? Meanwhile, the goblin gets 1-1 HD, because...you want it to be a little weaker than the orc? A few creatures get bigger modifiers, but even so, a bonus of 3 hp is pretty trivial to a troll with 6 HD.
Of course, a creature with a plus to its Hit Dice attacks on the next higher line of the combat matrix - in mathematical terms, it gets a +1 bonus to attack. And creatures less than one full HD attack on a line below the 1 HD line - in effect, a -1 penalty to its attack rolls.
This is potentially a much more useful and game-changing application of HD adjustments than simply adding or subtracting a hit point or two from a monster's total, and one that the game's designers sadly failed to fully appreciate and develop.
One thing D&D doesn't do very well is model the classic mismatch between size and coordination. Fiction and real life are full of examples of big, tough people and creatures that are ponderous and awkward on the attack, and fragile speedsters who strike with uncanny precision but can't endure much of a beating themselves. Hit Dice modifiers are a good way to stretch the system so that it can model that type of monster, though. All we need to do is expand the rule a bit, so that instead of a flat +1 jump on the combat matrix for any addition to HD, you give a bonus or penalty equal to the modifier. A creature with 4+3 HD thus attacks as a 7 HD monster, and one with 2-2 HD attacks as less than 1 HD. This method gains you a little freedom from the direct correlation between monster size and toughness and its skill in battle, without having to add another statistic to a creature's stat block.
Say you want a massive, ponderous beast that can take a pounding before it keels over, but is slow and ungainly in its attacks. Give it a high base HD, with a hefty minus - say, 8-4 HD. It still has a good pool of hit points - anywhere between 4 and 60, with an average of 32 - but it attacks with the same probabilities as a much weaker 4 HD monster.
Or perhaps you want a small, nimble creature that slips past an opponent's defenses with lightning speed. You could give it 1/2 +3 HD, for a total of 4 to 7 hp. That's fairly fragile, but the thing attacks with the proficiency of a 3 HD monster (that's a THAC0 of 17 - as good as a 4th level fighter in B/X or BECMI.) You can take it out in one or two hits, but until you do, it's going to carve you up.
In this way, you can design big monsters suitable for low-level parties, and small monsters that can challenge more powerful parties, without having to make them much more fragile or durable than you want.
Of course, a creature with a plus to its Hit Dice attacks on the next higher line of the combat matrix - in mathematical terms, it gets a +1 bonus to attack. And creatures less than one full HD attack on a line below the 1 HD line - in effect, a -1 penalty to its attack rolls.
This is potentially a much more useful and game-changing application of HD adjustments than simply adding or subtracting a hit point or two from a monster's total, and one that the game's designers sadly failed to fully appreciate and develop.
One thing D&D doesn't do very well is model the classic mismatch between size and coordination. Fiction and real life are full of examples of big, tough people and creatures that are ponderous and awkward on the attack, and fragile speedsters who strike with uncanny precision but can't endure much of a beating themselves. Hit Dice modifiers are a good way to stretch the system so that it can model that type of monster, though. All we need to do is expand the rule a bit, so that instead of a flat +1 jump on the combat matrix for any addition to HD, you give a bonus or penalty equal to the modifier. A creature with 4+3 HD thus attacks as a 7 HD monster, and one with 2-2 HD attacks as less than 1 HD. This method gains you a little freedom from the direct correlation between monster size and toughness and its skill in battle, without having to add another statistic to a creature's stat block.
Say you want a massive, ponderous beast that can take a pounding before it keels over, but is slow and ungainly in its attacks. Give it a high base HD, with a hefty minus - say, 8-4 HD. It still has a good pool of hit points - anywhere between 4 and 60, with an average of 32 - but it attacks with the same probabilities as a much weaker 4 HD monster.
Or perhaps you want a small, nimble creature that slips past an opponent's defenses with lightning speed. You could give it 1/2 +3 HD, for a total of 4 to 7 hp. That's fairly fragile, but the thing attacks with the proficiency of a 3 HD monster (that's a THAC0 of 17 - as good as a 4th level fighter in B/X or BECMI.) You can take it out in one or two hits, but until you do, it's going to carve you up.
In this way, you can design big monsters suitable for low-level parties, and small monsters that can challenge more powerful parties, without having to make them much more fragile or durable than you want.
Monday, September 2, 2013
Monsters: Beyond the stat block
This post at Semper Initiativus Unum about giant rats got me thinking about monsters - specifically, about how much more there is to them than what's written up in their game stats. One of the central points of the article was how absurd it is to have giant rats living in a heap of trash in the middle of a large chamber and emerging to fight a pitched battle with a party of adventurers. Rather, Wayne R. astutely observes, giant rats should nest in hidden nooks and crannies accessible to humans only with difficulty, and they should act more as scavengers and thieves than vicious assailants.
I think there's a strong impetus toward using monsters primarily as combat opponents, simply because they're statted up primarily for combat purposes. The stats tell us that a giant rat CAN attack as a 1/2 HD monster and do 1-3 points of damage per hit, plus possible disease. In and of itself, however, that doesn't really tell us any more about what a giant rat WILL do in an encounter than knowing that a magic-user can attack with his dagger for 1-4 points of damage tells us what he will do. Just as the magic-user has all sorts of options open to him other than rushing into battle with his dagger (which most of the time would end badly for him,) the giant rat has options other than rushing into battle (which most of the time would end badly for it.) A creature's stats are not the sum total of its abilities, only those which pertain to direct physical combat.
Think about all the abilities and actions available to a particular monster, not just those listed in its stats. Then think of what it's likely to do, not just what it can do. If the monster has a real world analog or counterpart, draw on that for clues to its abilities and behavior?
Instead of rehashing the giant rat, I'm going to apply this to giant beetles. I'll take the giant fire beetle specifically:
Real world beetles can crawl up walls, fly, and squeeze into tight spaces. Perhaps giant fire beetles are too heavy to really soar, but I think they should be able to hover for a round or two and make flying hops within the limits of their movement rate, sort of like a chicken. They can see into the ultraviolet spectrum, and sense movement and vibrations with their antennae. They have some pretty powerful mandibles that are probably good for other things besides biting for 2d4 damage, such as gnawing and burrowing. They have bioluminescent glands; the function is not specified, so I'll just invent something plausible: they're used to identify other members of the species and to attract mates. They're pretty much non-intelligent, acting only on instinct. The rule book doesn't say what they eat, but it doesn't seem like a predator, so it's likely a scavenger. Its morale is 7, a little unsteady, so it's not terribly aggressive. The book states that it's nocturnal, so it's a pretty safe bet that it doesn't like really bright light and will probably flee from it.
Beetles aren't much for long-term planning. A fire beetle probably has no more pressing needs than feeding and reproducing. It's likely to be encountered in places that serve those needs, and it will probably excavate a lair for itself if possible.
When encountered, the fire beetle is probably not going to attack the PCs, either for territorial reasons or for food. It is likely to be attracted to lights carried by the party, though. It might see them as potential mates and try to court them, as potential rivals and attack them, or just as fellow fire beetles and blunder around them like moths around a flame, depending on the reaction roll. In any case, there's a possibility that they might knock light sources out of characters' hands. As scavengers, they might also come around while the PCs are resting and use those powerful mandibles to tear open packs in search of food.
How about another example? Let's take the lowly kobold.
Kobolds can do pretty much anything a typical humanoid can do. They can walk, crawl, run, jump, climb, probably swim, grasp objects, use tools... They're small, which means they can go places that humans can't. They have infravision to 90'. Being underground-dwellers, they probably know a thing or two about tunneling and mining, and they probably aren't claustrophobic. Tight passages don't faze them.
The book says that kobolds prefer to attack by ambush, and their morale is 6. They're rather cowardly, but also malicious and mean - not above vicious murder if they can get away with it, but probably a lot more inclined to thievery and malevolent mischief that doesn't put them toe-to-toe with big dangerous adventurers and their big dangerous swords. They're intelligent (according to the Mentzer-edition Master Set, an average of 9) and probably quite cunning.
Kobolds are probably concerned mostly with staying alive, which they manage by avoiding direct confrontations with more powerful creatures (that's almost all of them) and by opportunistically pilfering food and supplies. They also have a mean sense of humor, and enjoy rapping on walls and making strange noises to lure parties into traps or other hazards, and especially delight in getting adventuring parties hopelessly lost in the dungeon. (Kobolds themselves never become lost in underground settings.)
Kobolds prefer small spaces, which are inaccessible to larger adversaries, but they also like to be adjacent to bigger spaces where they can bedevil bigger folk. If they've lived in the area long enough, it's likely to be honeycombed with kobold tunnels and crawl-ways in the "dead spaces" of walls, floors, and ceilings, which provide quick and stealthy avenues of access and retreat to and from many areas of the dungeon. Their preferred tactic is to pop out, grab whatever they can, and disappear. Inflicting physical harm is not their primary objective, though it's certainly a nice perk if it can be managed without too much risk. They will seldom openly engage a foe, but are not above a sudden attack on a sleeping, weakened, or otherwise unprepared party.
Play around with individual creatures' wants and motives to keep players on their toes. A particular hill giant could be lonely and want companionship more than a fight. He'll talk the party's ears off if they let him, and if they aren't careful, he might take a fancy to one of them. ("I will love him and squeeze him and call him George!") An owlbear might have developed a taste for horseflesh, and ignore the PCs while it mauls their mounts. A mountain lion might shadow the party for days out of curiosity, but make them very nervous about taking off their armor and sleeping. A troll might be more interested in showing PCs how strong he is, and letting them flee in terror back to the village to tell everyone how mighty he is, than in killing and eating them. A medusa might fancy herself an artist, and promise to let the adventurers go un-petrified if they can bring her a more beautiful or interesting subject to turn to stone.
Most monsters aren't just hostile kill-bots bent on destroying anything that crosses their paths. Players are encouraged to achieve their goals of exploration and gathering treasure by creative means, minimizing risk and entering into combat only as a last resort, and monsters often should be played the same way. A monster doesn't necessarily want a fight; it wants food, or treasure, or find a mate, or get these pesky intruders out of its lair. If its abilities, intelligence, and temperament allow it to do whatever it wants to do without risking its life, it's a good bet that it will choose that way. Playing at least some of the monsters this way makes the ones that really are aggressive and belligerent by nature stand out more.
I think there's a strong impetus toward using monsters primarily as combat opponents, simply because they're statted up primarily for combat purposes. The stats tell us that a giant rat CAN attack as a 1/2 HD monster and do 1-3 points of damage per hit, plus possible disease. In and of itself, however, that doesn't really tell us any more about what a giant rat WILL do in an encounter than knowing that a magic-user can attack with his dagger for 1-4 points of damage tells us what he will do. Just as the magic-user has all sorts of options open to him other than rushing into battle with his dagger (which most of the time would end badly for him,) the giant rat has options other than rushing into battle (which most of the time would end badly for it.) A creature's stats are not the sum total of its abilities, only those which pertain to direct physical combat.
Think about all the abilities and actions available to a particular monster, not just those listed in its stats. Then think of what it's likely to do, not just what it can do. If the monster has a real world analog or counterpart, draw on that for clues to its abilities and behavior?
- What are its physical capabilities? Can it do things that are too mundane to merit mentioning in its stats or description but which might be of use in certain situations?
- How intelligent is it and what does it know, or know how to do? What are its skills?
- What is its general disposition? Is it aggressive, timid, curious, playful, territorial...?
- Does it have any behavioral quirks or idiosyncrasies?
- Does it have any particularly strong fears?
- Does it have a "berserk button" that will enrage it and provoke an attack?
- Is there something that pacifies it easily?
- What does it currently want or need? Does it have long-term plans, and if so, what are they and how is it pursuing them?
- How long has it been where the characters encounter it? Why has it chosen to be there? How does that place serve its current needs? Has it altered the place to be more suitable?
Instead of rehashing the giant rat, I'm going to apply this to giant beetles. I'll take the giant fire beetle specifically:
Real world beetles can crawl up walls, fly, and squeeze into tight spaces. Perhaps giant fire beetles are too heavy to really soar, but I think they should be able to hover for a round or two and make flying hops within the limits of their movement rate, sort of like a chicken. They can see into the ultraviolet spectrum, and sense movement and vibrations with their antennae. They have some pretty powerful mandibles that are probably good for other things besides biting for 2d4 damage, such as gnawing and burrowing. They have bioluminescent glands; the function is not specified, so I'll just invent something plausible: they're used to identify other members of the species and to attract mates. They're pretty much non-intelligent, acting only on instinct. The rule book doesn't say what they eat, but it doesn't seem like a predator, so it's likely a scavenger. Its morale is 7, a little unsteady, so it's not terribly aggressive. The book states that it's nocturnal, so it's a pretty safe bet that it doesn't like really bright light and will probably flee from it.
Beetles aren't much for long-term planning. A fire beetle probably has no more pressing needs than feeding and reproducing. It's likely to be encountered in places that serve those needs, and it will probably excavate a lair for itself if possible.
When encountered, the fire beetle is probably not going to attack the PCs, either for territorial reasons or for food. It is likely to be attracted to lights carried by the party, though. It might see them as potential mates and try to court them, as potential rivals and attack them, or just as fellow fire beetles and blunder around them like moths around a flame, depending on the reaction roll. In any case, there's a possibility that they might knock light sources out of characters' hands. As scavengers, they might also come around while the PCs are resting and use those powerful mandibles to tear open packs in search of food.
How about another example? Let's take the lowly kobold.
Kobolds can do pretty much anything a typical humanoid can do. They can walk, crawl, run, jump, climb, probably swim, grasp objects, use tools... They're small, which means they can go places that humans can't. They have infravision to 90'. Being underground-dwellers, they probably know a thing or two about tunneling and mining, and they probably aren't claustrophobic. Tight passages don't faze them.
The book says that kobolds prefer to attack by ambush, and their morale is 6. They're rather cowardly, but also malicious and mean - not above vicious murder if they can get away with it, but probably a lot more inclined to thievery and malevolent mischief that doesn't put them toe-to-toe with big dangerous adventurers and their big dangerous swords. They're intelligent (according to the Mentzer-edition Master Set, an average of 9) and probably quite cunning.
Kobolds are probably concerned mostly with staying alive, which they manage by avoiding direct confrontations with more powerful creatures (that's almost all of them) and by opportunistically pilfering food and supplies. They also have a mean sense of humor, and enjoy rapping on walls and making strange noises to lure parties into traps or other hazards, and especially delight in getting adventuring parties hopelessly lost in the dungeon. (Kobolds themselves never become lost in underground settings.)
Kobolds prefer small spaces, which are inaccessible to larger adversaries, but they also like to be adjacent to bigger spaces where they can bedevil bigger folk. If they've lived in the area long enough, it's likely to be honeycombed with kobold tunnels and crawl-ways in the "dead spaces" of walls, floors, and ceilings, which provide quick and stealthy avenues of access and retreat to and from many areas of the dungeon. Their preferred tactic is to pop out, grab whatever they can, and disappear. Inflicting physical harm is not their primary objective, though it's certainly a nice perk if it can be managed without too much risk. They will seldom openly engage a foe, but are not above a sudden attack on a sleeping, weakened, or otherwise unprepared party.
Play around with individual creatures' wants and motives to keep players on their toes. A particular hill giant could be lonely and want companionship more than a fight. He'll talk the party's ears off if they let him, and if they aren't careful, he might take a fancy to one of them. ("I will love him and squeeze him and call him George!") An owlbear might have developed a taste for horseflesh, and ignore the PCs while it mauls their mounts. A mountain lion might shadow the party for days out of curiosity, but make them very nervous about taking off their armor and sleeping. A troll might be more interested in showing PCs how strong he is, and letting them flee in terror back to the village to tell everyone how mighty he is, than in killing and eating them. A medusa might fancy herself an artist, and promise to let the adventurers go un-petrified if they can bring her a more beautiful or interesting subject to turn to stone.
Most monsters aren't just hostile kill-bots bent on destroying anything that crosses their paths. Players are encouraged to achieve their goals of exploration and gathering treasure by creative means, minimizing risk and entering into combat only as a last resort, and monsters often should be played the same way. A monster doesn't necessarily want a fight; it wants food, or treasure, or find a mate, or get these pesky intruders out of its lair. If its abilities, intelligence, and temperament allow it to do whatever it wants to do without risking its life, it's a good bet that it will choose that way. Playing at least some of the monsters this way makes the ones that really are aggressive and belligerent by nature stand out more.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Fantastic small wildlife
Fantasy roleplaying games are rife with fantastic hybrids and magical creatures. It's probably to be expected, since danger and risk are such critical parts of such a game, but virtually all of the fantastic creatures you find in the typical RPG dungeon or wilderness are of the huge, monstrous, and at least potentially aggressive variety. I've wondered at times, though, why the gods and wizards of fantasy worlds would limit their creations to big scary things. Yes, wizards often want powerful creatures for pets and guardians, and deities create monsters to inspire followers and frighten the faithless. Surely, though, in the long history of the average fantasy world, there would have been inquisitive but peaceful wizards whose interests in magical breeding and hybridizing were a bit broader than making owlbears to terrorize the non-magical populace.
Even among "normal" creatures, the ones that get statted up in RPGs are the ones that pose a clear and present danger to humans - the lions and tigers and bears (oh my!) A trek through a real world cave, ruin, or wilderness, however, would feature a lot more little harmless things - rabbits, songbirds, mice, lizards, frogs, garter snakes, squirrels. It's understandable that harmless creatures get short shrift in the RPG rulebooks. Stats are rarely or never necessary for them, but that doesn't mean they should never appear in-game. Just like terrain, vegetation, weather, and any other element of scene and setting, used well, harmless creatures add charm, atmosphere, and depth. And just as a setting can benefit from fantastic scene dressing, like talking statues, glowing pools, and shrieking mushrooms, it can benefit from the addition of a few fantastic but harmless creatures, too.
As I mentioned above, I've pondered this topic from time to time. A link to a page called Hex001, posted on Google Plus by Tim Shorts of Gothridge Manor, brought it back to my mind today. Included in this one-hex setting is a flying cat. Not a lion or a tiger, but an otherwise ordinary tabby with wings. True, it is given a stat line, but as a combatant it's pretty negligible. It's pretty much completely unable to threaten even a normal human, let alone a party of adventurers, and it can't do much for them in battle either. As a bit of campaign flavor, it's delightful. Where did it come from, and why does it exist? Is it the only one of its kind, or are there more out there somewhere? What is its niche in that one-hex mini-environment - does it swoop like a hawk to catch mice below, or does it chase birds on the wing? And what a cool mascot for the party lucky enough to befriend it!
My own initial inspiration, years ago, came from a little wooden ornament of a winged frog. Imagine a quiet pond in a remote valley inhabited by tree frogs with white feathery wings, flitting through the air in pursuit of flies. They're too small and fragile to fly over the icy peaks around the valley and escape into the wider world, but the druid who also calls the valley home sees that they are protected.
Fantastic harmless critters might be limited edition creations of a wizard, god, or spirit. They might be isolated sub-species, whether of natural or magical origin, as in the example of the frog pond above. They could be legendary, thought either to have died out or to be entirely mythical. Or they could be common and widespread in the campaign world, much like griffons, owlbears, and wyverns are considered to be in many settings.
The possibilities are limited only by imagination. You could easily have tortoises with bright plumage like tropical birds, or rodents with tortoise shells on their backs, lizards with retractable eyestalks, duck-billed pygmy deer that forage in muck, sheep with blue fleece, rabbits with ram horns, blind flightless birds that skitter about the floors of dungeons like mice, long-necked toads, water squirrels with sleek oiled coats and webbed toes, aquatic lemurs with fish tails (some evolutionary offshoot of the merfolk line?), carnivorous snails that spin sticky webs of their slime, furry snakes, rats with antlers, chickmice (hybrids with the heads of chickadees and bodies of mice, diminutive seed-eating cousins to the owlbear), little chimerae with the bodies of raccoons and heads of raccoon, rabbit, and lizard...
Even among "normal" creatures, the ones that get statted up in RPGs are the ones that pose a clear and present danger to humans - the lions and tigers and bears (oh my!) A trek through a real world cave, ruin, or wilderness, however, would feature a lot more little harmless things - rabbits, songbirds, mice, lizards, frogs, garter snakes, squirrels. It's understandable that harmless creatures get short shrift in the RPG rulebooks. Stats are rarely or never necessary for them, but that doesn't mean they should never appear in-game. Just like terrain, vegetation, weather, and any other element of scene and setting, used well, harmless creatures add charm, atmosphere, and depth. And just as a setting can benefit from fantastic scene dressing, like talking statues, glowing pools, and shrieking mushrooms, it can benefit from the addition of a few fantastic but harmless creatures, too.
As I mentioned above, I've pondered this topic from time to time. A link to a page called Hex001, posted on Google Plus by Tim Shorts of Gothridge Manor, brought it back to my mind today. Included in this one-hex setting is a flying cat. Not a lion or a tiger, but an otherwise ordinary tabby with wings. True, it is given a stat line, but as a combatant it's pretty negligible. It's pretty much completely unable to threaten even a normal human, let alone a party of adventurers, and it can't do much for them in battle either. As a bit of campaign flavor, it's delightful. Where did it come from, and why does it exist? Is it the only one of its kind, or are there more out there somewhere? What is its niche in that one-hex mini-environment - does it swoop like a hawk to catch mice below, or does it chase birds on the wing? And what a cool mascot for the party lucky enough to befriend it!
My own initial inspiration, years ago, came from a little wooden ornament of a winged frog. Imagine a quiet pond in a remote valley inhabited by tree frogs with white feathery wings, flitting through the air in pursuit of flies. They're too small and fragile to fly over the icy peaks around the valley and escape into the wider world, but the druid who also calls the valley home sees that they are protected.
Fantastic harmless critters might be limited edition creations of a wizard, god, or spirit. They might be isolated sub-species, whether of natural or magical origin, as in the example of the frog pond above. They could be legendary, thought either to have died out or to be entirely mythical. Or they could be common and widespread in the campaign world, much like griffons, owlbears, and wyverns are considered to be in many settings.
The possibilities are limited only by imagination. You could easily have tortoises with bright plumage like tropical birds, or rodents with tortoise shells on their backs, lizards with retractable eyestalks, duck-billed pygmy deer that forage in muck, sheep with blue fleece, rabbits with ram horns, blind flightless birds that skitter about the floors of dungeons like mice, long-necked toads, water squirrels with sleek oiled coats and webbed toes, aquatic lemurs with fish tails (some evolutionary offshoot of the merfolk line?), carnivorous snails that spin sticky webs of their slime, furry snakes, rats with antlers, chickmice (hybrids with the heads of chickadees and bodies of mice, diminutive seed-eating cousins to the owlbear), little chimerae with the bodies of raccoons and heads of raccoon, rabbit, and lizard...
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Looking back at the Creature Crucible series
I've since learned that the idea of monsters as player characters was not really new, going all the way back to the original edition of the game. Even not knowing that, my early campaigns featured monsters as leveled NPCs who traveled with the player character party for a while - a few gnomes, a neanderthal, a phanaton from the Isle of Dread, using the Dwarf, Fighter, and Halfling class details, respectively. As far as I know, though, this was the first supplement to really go all the way as far as detailing "monster" races for use as PCs.
Besides the new PC race/classes, the supplement included new spells, tons of background information on the races and the fairy court, some NPCs of the new classes, a setting (a fleshing-out of the Dreamlands magic point first introduced in the Elves of Alfheim Gazetteer), and a separate booklet of adventures featuring the new character classes. The feel of the supplement draws heavily on the fairy folklore of the British Isles with a hearty dash of Shakespeare (while managing to fit the creatures of different origins, like the centaur, dryad, and faun, pretty seamlessly into the mix.) True, it was sort of a "lite" version, downplaying the more sinister side often displayed by fairies in folklore, but it was still breaking pretty new ground for published D&D material.
Next came Top Ballista, which took a more gonzo route, giving us the flying city of Serraine (completely with magically-propelled gnomish airplanes and a Top Gun-flavored flying academy), plus gnomes, gremlins, harpies, and assorted other new PC fodder. It represented a sharp departure from the tropes of classic fantasy, but since the setting was modular and mobile, it could easily be dropped into just about any campaign world, and the new classes worked just fine in more of a pure fantasy setting, too.
The Sea People sketched out the undersea kingdoms beneath the waves of the Known World's Sea of Dread and peopled them with PC and NPC merfolk, nixies, tritons, shark-kin, aquatic elves, and other water-breathing oddities. More so than the other books in the series, this one was best suited for a campaign in the provided setting, and of little use outside it.
Finally, there was Night Howlers, allowing players the option to play a character infected with lycanthropy (or to continue to play one unfortunate enough to be infected in the course of the campaign.) In accordance with now-established formula, it detailed the Valley of the Wolves in the Principalities of Glantri and explored the society and politics of Glantrian werewolves.
How useful the new classes and settings were depended a lot on the particular campaign, but they certainly offered a very different style and flavor from the usual human and demi-human-centric fare of the core rules. Many of the classes offered entirely new special abilities, from the dryad's ability to shapechange to plant form, to the pooka's time manipulation and the gremlin's chaotic aura. Even relatively mundane abilities like flying and water breathing clearly distinguished those characters from traditional sorts and opened up new adventuring and role-playing possibilities.
The greatest weakness of the Creature Crucible series was in balance between the classes, especially with regard to the original classes. Player-creature classes tended to be a fair bit more powerful than traditional human and demi-human PCs, and often subsumed virtually all the powers of one of the old classes and topped them off with new abilities.
Part of this was due to an unfortunate (in my opinion) design decision to hew closely to each class's original monster description and the rules for monsters in general. Player creatures used the attack tables for monsters of their Hit Dice, which meant an improvement of one point per level, outpacing the Fighter. Player creatures almost universally had d8 Hit Dice, making them equal to the toughest classes in the original game, simply because all monsters use d8 for hit dice. (A few creatures, those whose normal monster stats gave them less than a full Hit Die, used d4, but these were very much the minority.) Quite a few start with more than one HD, and since all begin at or below "normal monster" level rather than 1st level, many ended up with ten or more HD by name level. A pipsqueak pixie under these rules racked up a cool 10d8 by 9th level, better than a human fighter, and attacks as a 10 HD monster (THAC0 10) compared to a 9th level fighter's THAC0 of 15! Throw in flight and invisibility, and the only reason ever to play a fighter is the ability to deal more damage - a pixie-sized sword is a 1d4 weapon.
Unfortunately that's not the worst of it. The warrior sidhe class from the Wee Folk supplement has d8 hit dice, the ability to use any weapon or armor (provided they're not made of iron or steel), an elf-like ability to combine fighting and spell casting, invisibility, water breathing, and advancement to 36th level! That's overpowered even by player-creature standards, and more than enough to give any of the original classes a justifiable inferiority complex.
Some monster-to-PC options just seem ill-advised all the way around. The sphinx from Top Ballista combines big Hit Dice, a tough natural AC, spell casting, natural attacks better than any weapon, and weapon and spell immunity, and then attempts to counterbalance that with gargantuan XP requirements. The sphinx needs 300,000 XP for its first advancement! The result is not only unbalanced, but nigh unplayable, considering that conventional characters will have left name level in the dust before the sphinx gets off square one.
Even back in my teens and twenties, I recognized how unbalanced some of this stuff was, and disallowed quite a few of the more wildly out-of-whack classes. We also used the attack tables for the character class that most closely approximated the creature's style rather than the monster attack tables. Those tweaks helped keep the traditional classes viable alongside their player creature comrades, although the near-universal d8 hit die for the monster PCs meant that any of them tended to be more survivable at 1st level than anything but fighters and dwarves. This added incentive to try a player creature instead of a traditional PC didn't bother me too much at the time, since it was an explicit objective to add some variety to the campaign roster, but I still consider it a design flaw.
With a little more discretion as to the types of monsters selected for conversion, and a more flexible mindset (i.e. not committed to exactly duplicating the stats for the "monster" version of a creature when designing its character stats) these supplements could have been a lot better. Nonetheless, they did fulfill the purpose of adding some welcome spice to the campaign and I still have some fond memories of a few favorite player creatures. Many an adventure wouldn't have been quite the same without Elmore the hsiao*, Lewis the guinea pig pooka, and Tonguie the gremlin.
*For those unfamiliar with the classic D&D bestiary, hsiao are the quintessential "wise owls" - literally, being sapient giant owls capable of casting cleric spells.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Spooks and spirits
A few paranormal beasties for your Halloween enjoyment.
Phantasm
Armor Class: 5
Hit Dice: 1* to 4*
Move: 150' (50')
Attacks: 1
Damage: 1 point to 1d4
No. Appearing: 1d6 (1d6)
Save as: Magic-user:6
Morale: 5
Alignment: Neutral
In some places, the boundary between the material world and strange outer realms is compromised, either temporarily or permanently, allowing psychic and magical energies and shreds of ectoplasmic stuff to seep through from beyond. Sometimes these energies agglomerate and attain a semi-sentient state. The bizarre ghost-like entities that result are known as phantasms. A phantasm may have almost any appearance imaginable. They typically have features of humans or other "normal" creatures - eyes, noses, mouths, arms and hands, claws, etc. - but not necessarily in normal numbers or placement.
Phantasms are incorporeal, and can pass through solid objects with ease. They also have minor telekinetic powers which enable them to manipulate small objects at close range. The creatures are curious and malevolently playful, and items left unattended in a phantasm-haunted area are unlikely to remain where the owner left them. Phantasms are generally non-combatant; their "attacks" consist of colliding with a target, exerting a hard bump of psychokinetic force that leaves the target dazed and splattered with a residue of ectoplasmic slime.
Being insubstantial, phantasms can be harmed only by magic weapons and spells. They share the immunities of the undead to all sleep, charm, hold, and mind-affecting magic, but are not truly undead and cannot be turned by clerics.
Wisp
Armor Class: 0
Hit Dice: 1/2*
Move: 300' (100')
Attacks: 1
Damage: 1d2+special
No. Appearing: 1d20
Save as: Normal human
Morale:7
Alignment: Neutral
These minor spirits are left behind in places where sentient creatures have died but lacked unfinished business or sheer strength of will to bind them fully to the mortal plane as ghosts or similar entities. Instead, each creature leaves behind a "psychic smudge" of energy. Wisps appear as faintly glowing balls or ribbons of vapor with no discernible features. Being incorporeal and unconstrained by the laws of gravity and inertia, wisps may hover and move with startling rapidity, changing speed and direction instantaneously.
Though unintelligent, wisps can sense psychic disturbances nearby, including strong emotions such as anger and fear, and are easily agitated by them. They attack by literally flying through their target, inflicting a numbing chill that causes 1-2 points of damage and the temporary loss of 1 point of Dexterity. This loss lasts for one day, or until removed with a dispel evil or restoration spell. A creature reduced to 0 Dexterity is paralyzed for the duration.
Wisps are immune to non-magical weapons and to all spells except dispel evil and those that inflict damage through raw magical power, such as magic missile. Weapons empowered with a bless spell inflict 1 point of damage per hit. Wisps are turned as zombies.
Banemage
Armor Class:7
Hit Dice: 8**
Move: 120' (40')
Attacks: 1
Damage: Special
No. Appearing: 1 (1)
Save as: Magic-user:8
Morale: 12
Alignment: Chaotic
The terrible banemage is the undead remains of a magic-user who has had his or her magical ability completely burned out. Typically this occurs as a result of an act of great hubris, such as attempting a magic spell or ritual far beyond the caster's power. The resulting abomination is a creature devoid of all intellect and all ambition besides an overwhelming hunger for magic to fill the burned-out void within.
A banemage appears much as it did in life, but its skin is a sickly pale gray and its eyes are completely black. It instinctively senses the presence of magic within 150' and will move toward it. Within 20' of the monster, all magical effects are dispelled as the enchantment is absorbed. Spells cast at the creature from a greater range are likewise absorbed as soon as they enter its near vicinity. In combat, the banemage seeks to touch sources of magical power, including magic armor, weapons, and other items. The monster prefers to target spell casters or creatures with innate magical abilities. Its touch drains the highest-level spell from a spell caster's memory, and the victim must save vs. paralysis or fall into a trance and allow the banemage to feed, losing an additional spell per round until rescued. Once all spells are gone, the banemage feeds on the character's very life force, draining one energy level per round. Should a magic-user be completely drained of spells and life force in this way, he or she will rise as a banemage in 1d4 hours. Creatures with innate magic, rather than spell casting ability, are simply energy drained in the manner of a caster after his spells are gone.
If no spell casters or creatures with magical life force are available, the banemage targets magic iems. Its touch drains one "plus" from a magical weapon or armor, or 1d100 charges from a charged item. Potions and scrolls are instantly destroyed. Permanent items without pluses are deactivated for 1 day per hit; three hits renders the item forever non-magical. Even artifacts are not immune to the monster's insatiable leeching; such powerful items are deactivated for 1 day per hit, and permanently destroyed after 10 hits.
Banemages are immune to magical weapons of all kinds. In fact, striking it with a magic weapon drains the weapon's enchantment exactly as if the creature had touched it with its own attack. They are also invulnerable to most normal weapons. Only weapons of non-enchanted silver or wood will harm it. Banemages are turned as vampires.
The monster derives neither comfort nor sustenance from its magic-draining attacks; it is simply driven by a mindless, bottomless hunger for that which it has lost.
Phantasm
Armor Class: 5
Hit Dice: 1* to 4*
Move: 150' (50')
Attacks: 1
Damage: 1 point to 1d4
No. Appearing: 1d6 (1d6)
Save as: Magic-user:6
Morale: 5
Alignment: Neutral
In some places, the boundary between the material world and strange outer realms is compromised, either temporarily or permanently, allowing psychic and magical energies and shreds of ectoplasmic stuff to seep through from beyond. Sometimes these energies agglomerate and attain a semi-sentient state. The bizarre ghost-like entities that result are known as phantasms. A phantasm may have almost any appearance imaginable. They typically have features of humans or other "normal" creatures - eyes, noses, mouths, arms and hands, claws, etc. - but not necessarily in normal numbers or placement.
Phantasms are incorporeal, and can pass through solid objects with ease. They also have minor telekinetic powers which enable them to manipulate small objects at close range. The creatures are curious and malevolently playful, and items left unattended in a phantasm-haunted area are unlikely to remain where the owner left them. Phantasms are generally non-combatant; their "attacks" consist of colliding with a target, exerting a hard bump of psychokinetic force that leaves the target dazed and splattered with a residue of ectoplasmic slime.
Being insubstantial, phantasms can be harmed only by magic weapons and spells. They share the immunities of the undead to all sleep, charm, hold, and mind-affecting magic, but are not truly undead and cannot be turned by clerics.
Wisp
Armor Class: 0
Hit Dice: 1/2*
Move: 300' (100')
Attacks: 1
Damage: 1d2+special
No. Appearing: 1d20
Save as: Normal human
Morale:7
Alignment: Neutral
These minor spirits are left behind in places where sentient creatures have died but lacked unfinished business or sheer strength of will to bind them fully to the mortal plane as ghosts or similar entities. Instead, each creature leaves behind a "psychic smudge" of energy. Wisps appear as faintly glowing balls or ribbons of vapor with no discernible features. Being incorporeal and unconstrained by the laws of gravity and inertia, wisps may hover and move with startling rapidity, changing speed and direction instantaneously.
Though unintelligent, wisps can sense psychic disturbances nearby, including strong emotions such as anger and fear, and are easily agitated by them. They attack by literally flying through their target, inflicting a numbing chill that causes 1-2 points of damage and the temporary loss of 1 point of Dexterity. This loss lasts for one day, or until removed with a dispel evil or restoration spell. A creature reduced to 0 Dexterity is paralyzed for the duration.
Wisps are immune to non-magical weapons and to all spells except dispel evil and those that inflict damage through raw magical power, such as magic missile. Weapons empowered with a bless spell inflict 1 point of damage per hit. Wisps are turned as zombies.
Banemage
Armor Class:7
Hit Dice: 8**
Move: 120' (40')
Attacks: 1
Damage: Special
No. Appearing: 1 (1)
Save as: Magic-user:8
Morale: 12
Alignment: Chaotic
The terrible banemage is the undead remains of a magic-user who has had his or her magical ability completely burned out. Typically this occurs as a result of an act of great hubris, such as attempting a magic spell or ritual far beyond the caster's power. The resulting abomination is a creature devoid of all intellect and all ambition besides an overwhelming hunger for magic to fill the burned-out void within.
A banemage appears much as it did in life, but its skin is a sickly pale gray and its eyes are completely black. It instinctively senses the presence of magic within 150' and will move toward it. Within 20' of the monster, all magical effects are dispelled as the enchantment is absorbed. Spells cast at the creature from a greater range are likewise absorbed as soon as they enter its near vicinity. In combat, the banemage seeks to touch sources of magical power, including magic armor, weapons, and other items. The monster prefers to target spell casters or creatures with innate magical abilities. Its touch drains the highest-level spell from a spell caster's memory, and the victim must save vs. paralysis or fall into a trance and allow the banemage to feed, losing an additional spell per round until rescued. Once all spells are gone, the banemage feeds on the character's very life force, draining one energy level per round. Should a magic-user be completely drained of spells and life force in this way, he or she will rise as a banemage in 1d4 hours. Creatures with innate magic, rather than spell casting ability, are simply energy drained in the manner of a caster after his spells are gone.
If no spell casters or creatures with magical life force are available, the banemage targets magic iems. Its touch drains one "plus" from a magical weapon or armor, or 1d100 charges from a charged item. Potions and scrolls are instantly destroyed. Permanent items without pluses are deactivated for 1 day per hit; three hits renders the item forever non-magical. Even artifacts are not immune to the monster's insatiable leeching; such powerful items are deactivated for 1 day per hit, and permanently destroyed after 10 hits.
Banemages are immune to magical weapons of all kinds. In fact, striking it with a magic weapon drains the weapon's enchantment exactly as if the creature had touched it with its own attack. They are also invulnerable to most normal weapons. Only weapons of non-enchanted silver or wood will harm it. Banemages are turned as vampires.
The monster derives neither comfort nor sustenance from its magic-draining attacks; it is simply driven by a mindless, bottomless hunger for that which it has lost.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Of the unquiet dead and things that go bump in the night
It's that time of year, when all things eerie, paranormal, and macabre have their day in the s...er, flickering torchlight, so I thought I'd muse for a bit on the undead as represented in old school D&D.
When I was new to D&D, and perusing the bestiary section of the rules, the very idea of undead monsters was chilling, creepy, fascinating. These were things that existed outside the laws that govern living creatures. Except, of course, in the rules they really weren't. They had Armor Classes and Hit Dice and Morale scores just like every other monster, and over time the veneer of wonder wore away and they started to feel like just another hit point total to whittle down in armed combat.
If you're lucky enough to have relatively new and inexperienced players, or at least some who haven't read and internalized the monster descriptions and stats from the rules, this may not even be an issue. That actually is the case for me right now. I could drop a wight or a wraith into a dungeon room, and when the PCs blundered into that room they'd be freaked out, just as my original group was at the first appearance of the wight in the crypt in the Caves of Chaos. But if I did that, they'd eventually become jaded too, and since I'd prefer to forestall that and preserve as much of the mysterious creepy-weird-scary vibe of the undead as possible, I'd prefer to avoid portraying undead as just so much sword-fodder. Here are a few things I can think of to make encounters with undead unique and compelling.
Description: The appearance of undead monsters is as diverse as that of the humans and demi-humans from which they arise. Giving them unique descriptions where appropriate helps make them more than just bundles of stats. What do they wear? Are they male or female or too far gone to even tell? Are they skinny, emaciated, fat, muscular and hulking? Do they have hair, facial hair, or other features that would have distinguished them in life? How do they move? Shambling like Hollywood zombies, on all fours like feral things, crouching and leaping, gliding...? Don't forget the other senses besides sight. Do they moan, gurgle, snarl, scream, hiss, mutter incoherently? Undead with a rotting physical body might well smell like a charnel pit, but even incorporeal wraiths, specters, and ghosts might have a particular scent that betrays their presence, whether that be wood smoke, a salty sea breeze, whiskey, roses, or something else associated with the life or death of the creature's former living self.
Motives: Undead aren't necessarily motivated by the same things that mortal men and beasts are, or perhaps more accurately, they often are but in twisted and distorted ways. Often, undead have one all-consuming motivation. Unlike living creatures, they have no biological needs. They are never distracted by the demands of mere survival, either as individuals or species. They do not need food, drink, or shelter, and they have no biological drive to reproduce. That means that, whatever it is that does drive them, they may pursue it with a single-mindedness (or single-mindlessness) far beyond the most powerful mortal obsession. Ghouls are consumed by a desire to feed on flesh. Malice toward the living is a common motive, as is guarding some place, object, or person. Sure, those are classics, but why limit yourself? Why couldn't an undead creature be driven by a primal need to create more of its own kind - to reproduce, as it were? How about other human motivations, taken to extremes, like self-preservation (maybe the creature isn't even aware that it's dead!), companionship, knowledge, greed, envy, vanity, lust, longing for something lost, compassion, religious fervor, bigotry...Play it straight up, or subvert it in ironic and disturbing ways.
Powers: The stock powers of undead by the book aren't all that scary if only described in game terms. You're paralyzed. You're diseased. You lose a level. At the very least, they should get colorful, unsettling descriptions in-game. What does being energy drained feel like? Does it chill you to the bone or create a temporary link between you and the undead, flooding your mind with the monster's ghastly tormented thoughts?
Change up powers, if you think of something more suitable to a particular monster, that really fits its history and motives. You can also add side effects to powers, things that have trivial or no mechanical effects, but that unnerve the players. Residual dreams or visions, phobias, minor disfigurements like white hair or ashen skin, inexplicable cravings for raw meat, chills, and other effects can be either temporary or permanent while imposing no mechanical hindrances on a character.
Tactics: How many scary stories have the heroes simply slugging it out toe-to-toe with a supernatural adversary immediately upon encountering it? Not many. In most cases, spooks and spirits are elusive and devious opponents. Often the undead don't engage in direct combat at all, but entice or frighten their victims into stumbling into other hazards. Even when they do directly attack characters, it shouldn't feel as if the PCs are just fighting another warrior who happens to be rotting or translucent. There should be something uncanny about the way the creature fights, and it should use its powers - including things that aren't actually listed as powers, such as being incorporeal or impervious to pain - to maximum effect, even if that effect is only descriptive rather than mechanical. A zombie fights relentlessly, and couldn't care less about being menaced, or even stabbed, with a sword. A wraith or spectre is the ultimate hit-and-run attacker, being able to pass through solid matter with absolute silence to surprise its foes and then quickly retreating through walls or into solid ground where the PCs can't follow, only to strike again at a time of its choosing. A pack of ghouls might share a telepathic link that enables them to utilize tactics seemingly beyond their simple feral intellects.
Some examples
Non-human undead
Sometimes using undead that aren't, or weren't, human can evoke horror and revulsion when players might be accustomed to the human variety. Consider a horde of zombie halflings, or dwarf-wraiths who perished in a mining accident, still guarding the vein of ore. How shocked might the players be to come upon an ogre, its back toward them, hunched over a meal, only to have it turn and reveal a face like one of the walkers from The Walking Dead, rotten teeth dripping with gore? Would the gaze of a ghost-medusa still petrify, or would it take on new powers? If ghouls hunt in packs, why not a pack of ghoul-wolves? There are even things like undead dragons to be found in the pages of official rules and supplements.
The rules specifically mention making zombies and skeletons of dead things other than humans. (See animate dead spell description.) Other standard undead can be modified as well, perhaps adding a Hit Die or two to corporeal forms to represent the fact that their nerves and vital organs are no longer functional or vulnerable. Incorporeal ones could either use the standard stats for the undead form (bulk makes little difference when you no longer have a body!) or the Hit Dice of its original form (maybe that represented its strength of spirit as well as physical endurance, and so still applies in ethereal undeath.) Whether you allow bugbear wights or grizzly bear spectres might depend on the underpinnings and assumptions of your campaign setting, e.g. whether those creatures have "souls" that can live on after death, or whether their corpses can be animated.
The goal here is not to simply make bigger undead with more HD and higher damage potential, but to horrify the players with things outside their experience and expectations.
When I was new to D&D, and perusing the bestiary section of the rules, the very idea of undead monsters was chilling, creepy, fascinating. These were things that existed outside the laws that govern living creatures. Except, of course, in the rules they really weren't. They had Armor Classes and Hit Dice and Morale scores just like every other monster, and over time the veneer of wonder wore away and they started to feel like just another hit point total to whittle down in armed combat.
If you're lucky enough to have relatively new and inexperienced players, or at least some who haven't read and internalized the monster descriptions and stats from the rules, this may not even be an issue. That actually is the case for me right now. I could drop a wight or a wraith into a dungeon room, and when the PCs blundered into that room they'd be freaked out, just as my original group was at the first appearance of the wight in the crypt in the Caves of Chaos. But if I did that, they'd eventually become jaded too, and since I'd prefer to forestall that and preserve as much of the mysterious creepy-weird-scary vibe of the undead as possible, I'd prefer to avoid portraying undead as just so much sword-fodder. Here are a few things I can think of to make encounters with undead unique and compelling.
Description: The appearance of undead monsters is as diverse as that of the humans and demi-humans from which they arise. Giving them unique descriptions where appropriate helps make them more than just bundles of stats. What do they wear? Are they male or female or too far gone to even tell? Are they skinny, emaciated, fat, muscular and hulking? Do they have hair, facial hair, or other features that would have distinguished them in life? How do they move? Shambling like Hollywood zombies, on all fours like feral things, crouching and leaping, gliding...? Don't forget the other senses besides sight. Do they moan, gurgle, snarl, scream, hiss, mutter incoherently? Undead with a rotting physical body might well smell like a charnel pit, but even incorporeal wraiths, specters, and ghosts might have a particular scent that betrays their presence, whether that be wood smoke, a salty sea breeze, whiskey, roses, or something else associated with the life or death of the creature's former living self.
Motives: Undead aren't necessarily motivated by the same things that mortal men and beasts are, or perhaps more accurately, they often are but in twisted and distorted ways. Often, undead have one all-consuming motivation. Unlike living creatures, they have no biological needs. They are never distracted by the demands of mere survival, either as individuals or species. They do not need food, drink, or shelter, and they have no biological drive to reproduce. That means that, whatever it is that does drive them, they may pursue it with a single-mindedness (or single-mindlessness) far beyond the most powerful mortal obsession. Ghouls are consumed by a desire to feed on flesh. Malice toward the living is a common motive, as is guarding some place, object, or person. Sure, those are classics, but why limit yourself? Why couldn't an undead creature be driven by a primal need to create more of its own kind - to reproduce, as it were? How about other human motivations, taken to extremes, like self-preservation (maybe the creature isn't even aware that it's dead!), companionship, knowledge, greed, envy, vanity, lust, longing for something lost, compassion, religious fervor, bigotry...Play it straight up, or subvert it in ironic and disturbing ways.
Powers: The stock powers of undead by the book aren't all that scary if only described in game terms. You're paralyzed. You're diseased. You lose a level. At the very least, they should get colorful, unsettling descriptions in-game. What does being energy drained feel like? Does it chill you to the bone or create a temporary link between you and the undead, flooding your mind with the monster's ghastly tormented thoughts?
Change up powers, if you think of something more suitable to a particular monster, that really fits its history and motives. You can also add side effects to powers, things that have trivial or no mechanical effects, but that unnerve the players. Residual dreams or visions, phobias, minor disfigurements like white hair or ashen skin, inexplicable cravings for raw meat, chills, and other effects can be either temporary or permanent while imposing no mechanical hindrances on a character.
Tactics: How many scary stories have the heroes simply slugging it out toe-to-toe with a supernatural adversary immediately upon encountering it? Not many. In most cases, spooks and spirits are elusive and devious opponents. Often the undead don't engage in direct combat at all, but entice or frighten their victims into stumbling into other hazards. Even when they do directly attack characters, it shouldn't feel as if the PCs are just fighting another warrior who happens to be rotting or translucent. There should be something uncanny about the way the creature fights, and it should use its powers - including things that aren't actually listed as powers, such as being incorporeal or impervious to pain - to maximum effect, even if that effect is only descriptive rather than mechanical. A zombie fights relentlessly, and couldn't care less about being menaced, or even stabbed, with a sword. A wraith or spectre is the ultimate hit-and-run attacker, being able to pass through solid matter with absolute silence to surprise its foes and then quickly retreating through walls or into solid ground where the PCs can't follow, only to strike again at a time of its choosing. A pack of ghouls might share a telepathic link that enables them to utilize tactics seemingly beyond their simple feral intellects.
Some examples
- A wraith child, with large tearful eyes, who is horribly lonely and desperately wants companionship. She does not attack at first, but plays on the party's sympathy, desperately trying to hold hands or embrace one of them. Her touch inflicts a chilling energy drain. When the victim recoils from her, she cries pitifully and "attacks," seeking to reestablish physical contact.
- A spectre who was once a reclusive scholar, and now haunts the ruins of his library. He jealously guards his collected knowledge, and still thirsts for more. His touch inflicts the usual double energy drain, by actually siphoning off the victim's knowledge; after a battle, he attempts to transcribe this newly acquired knowledge into books, though in his undead state it produces only bizarre scribblings intelligible only to him. If presented with a book or other source of written information, and not currently threatened, he will at once immerse himself in it for 2d4 turns, to the point of being oblivious to all else but a direct attack against him.
- A wight who was once a painter is now driven to gather models so that he may continue his artistic pursuits. He targets particularly attractive women; those he successfully drains become his companions and subjects. When encountered, they may be nude or dressed in some tattered finery. He still "paints," smearing blood, mud, and ashes on stone walls or scraps of canvas; the results are grotesque and frightening parodies of life and beauty.
- A revenant, formerly a soldier and battlefield medic driven to madness and suicide by the suffering he witnessed. He ignores healthy folk, but can sense pain within 100 yards, whether from injury or illness, and is driven to end the misery of those poor suffering individuals - even those who are certain to recover if left alone. He attacks with a poisonous touch that also causes numbness, paradoxically speaking words of soothing comfort as he does so.
- A wraith, a coward in life, still exists in terror of pain and death. When encountered, he warns the characters to stay back and leave him alone, becoming more hysterical the longer they remain. If anyone advances toward him, no matter how non-threateningly, he attacks with the desperate fury of a cornered animal. Unaware of his true condition, he is still desperately afraid of weapons, even those that can't actually harm his insubstantial form. If struck by a weapon that can't hurt him, he is only 25% likely to notice (he can't feel pain), but if he does, he screams, "I'm hit! I'm hit!" and flees immediately. A hit from a weapon that can harm him automatically causes him to flee.
- A ghost, wraith, or specter driven by a desire for vengeance against its murderer. Those who survive its attack are thereafter afflicted with nightmares of the creature's last moments of life. A dispel evil spell will remove the effect; otherwise only revenge against the murderer will end the nightmares. The dreams contain clues to the killer's identity, perhaps as obvious as a clear view of his face, or perhaps more subtle. The spirit may desire the killer's death, or may be appeased by exposing and disgracing the murderer (especially if the killer is himself deceased.)
- A pack of ghouls, the remnants of a notorious band of highwaymen. Despite their ghoulish need to feed on human flesh, they still instinctively prefer to attack wealthy-looking individuals or parties, ignoring the destitute and impoverished. Curiously, they have no actual interest in the treasure of their victims, only in their meat and the marrow in their bones. Travelers are warned to let these abandoned troves lie, for the ghouls may still be nearby, and anyone picking up the loot may become their next target. In an area where the rich gain their wealth by oppressing the lower classes, these ghouls might even gain a reputation as ghastly champions of the common folk - undead Robin Hoods.
Non-human undead
Sometimes using undead that aren't, or weren't, human can evoke horror and revulsion when players might be accustomed to the human variety. Consider a horde of zombie halflings, or dwarf-wraiths who perished in a mining accident, still guarding the vein of ore. How shocked might the players be to come upon an ogre, its back toward them, hunched over a meal, only to have it turn and reveal a face like one of the walkers from The Walking Dead, rotten teeth dripping with gore? Would the gaze of a ghost-medusa still petrify, or would it take on new powers? If ghouls hunt in packs, why not a pack of ghoul-wolves? There are even things like undead dragons to be found in the pages of official rules and supplements.
The rules specifically mention making zombies and skeletons of dead things other than humans. (See animate dead spell description.) Other standard undead can be modified as well, perhaps adding a Hit Die or two to corporeal forms to represent the fact that their nerves and vital organs are no longer functional or vulnerable. Incorporeal ones could either use the standard stats for the undead form (bulk makes little difference when you no longer have a body!) or the Hit Dice of its original form (maybe that represented its strength of spirit as well as physical endurance, and so still applies in ethereal undeath.) Whether you allow bugbear wights or grizzly bear spectres might depend on the underpinnings and assumptions of your campaign setting, e.g. whether those creatures have "souls" that can live on after death, or whether their corpses can be animated.
The goal here is not to simply make bigger undead with more HD and higher damage potential, but to horrify the players with things outside their experience and expectations.
Subscribe to:
Posts
(
Atom
)