Saturday, 9 July 2016

Beneficial Illnesses

The final entry in the journal of Dianna Fremont, a graduate student in the Academy. Her body, along with the journal, was found in her apartment after the neighbors complained about the smell.

---

This guy. Never around when you need him.
Checked the port again today, still can't find the doctor. The disease worked exactly as advertised -- haven't had this much energy in years, and I finished my thesis in under two weeks. But it's been a month, and the cure hasn't worked. Haven't slept yet this week even though I'm exhausted. Weird, having this much energy while still feeling so mentally worn out. 

Lost the last of my fingernails yesterday, and last night the skin from my elbow to my fingertips came off in one piece like a thin glove. My face feels loose, but that might just me my imagination. I hope it is. The wig itches. Where is that damn doctor?

How it fits into a game

I've never found sickness in games particularly interesting, so I'm going to take a stab at making it tonally relevant to the kinds of games I like to run, and then I'll write a simple system that will give the players some interesting choices around sickness.

First thing: no magical maladies. It can interact with magic in some way (and one of the examples I give will), but the reason I would use sickness in my game is to prove that magic isn't the be-all end-all of weird stuff. If detect magic returns a positive result, that defeats the purpose. Sickness doesn't come from The Beyond or The Void or however you explain magic in your game, it comes from right here, and guess what, it can still ruin your day.

And that's what I think can be tonally interesting about it. Weird fiction is about the unknowable outside force that rests entirely beyond human comprehension, and getting sick is decidedly not that. Weird horror tends to play up how powerless and inconsequential we are in the face of something so far beyond us, so sickness in those games should accentuate that by being something the players think they understand in a way that feels dangerous and gross even though it's almost entirely predictable.

Better yet, the players should be choosing to put themselves in this situation. The players should have every advantage. They should understand what's happening to them and why and how to make it stop, and they should still feel uncomfortable and weird about it.

In fiction, these illnesses are intentionally designed and their victims are often infected voluntarily -- there's some feature of the disease that's desirable. Alternatively, some illnesses could be beneficial to those around the infected, but not the infected themselves, like perhaps one that slowly turns the body into an immobile drug factory? That wouldn't be taken voluntarily, though, so I don't really feel the need to write rules for it in this post.

So here are the rules

Each illness has an effect, a symptom, and an incubation period. The effects are good. This is what makes sickness not boring, because it gives the players a pro to weigh against the cons. It means the players have interesting choices to make and information to base those decisions on, which is basically the whole point of the game.

The symptoms are bad, though. These are the parts of being sick that the players will usually think of, things like coughing, vomiting, or growing too many hands. At first, they aren't as bad as the effects are good, but that will change, because...

...the incubation period determines how quickly the symptoms get worse. It also regulates how quickly the effects grow, but the symptoms should outpace the effects. I'm going to keep it simple for my examples, but this can be expressed however you want: a fixed number of days, d4 days, every time the player says the word "sick," whatever you want, really.

All of that together means that the player gets to try and time their infection to hit that sweet spot -- when the effects are greatest and the symptoms aren't intolerable -- when they most need it.

Note that the characters can't flip these on and off at will. They can choose when it starts, and they can choose when they take the cure, but they can't switch between the two. Getting the illness in the first place should be expensive, difficult, or both, so stopping and then starting again shouldn't be easy.

And here are some examples

It was hard find pictures for this post that weren't vomit inducing.
Total-Body Hypergenesis

Effect: Rapid healing.
Symptom: Mutations.
Incubation: One week.

TBH is a general-healing illness designed to cause more rapid tissue growth around wounds. In game terms, this means wounded characters recover heath points at a higher rate, depending on how much HP they are missing. Above three-quarters HP, they regain 1hp/turn, above one-half it's 1hp/minute, and anything below that takes 1hp/hour.

After the initial incubation period, roll up a random physical mutation from your favorite such table (with some chance of no mutation) every time the character's health drops below three-quarters, as their cells multiply out of control. For each time a further incubation period passes, roll an additional mutation when the character drops below three-quarters HP. Also, heal an additional HP each increment (for example, after three weeks have passed, the fastest healing will be 3hp/second, and three mutations will be rolled below three-quarters HP). Curing the disease will halt the healing and mutations, but any existing mutations are permanent.


Bentham-Waters Crystalline Encephalopathy

Effect: Extra spell slots.
Symptom: Rigid spell slots, then intelligence loss.
Incubation: Three days.

Bentham-Waters is caused by a unique form of prion that is capable of holding spells for the subject. As it spreads through the brain, though, the infected proteins start to form crystalline structures. In mechanical terms, the player gets extra "crystalline spell slots," but also loses flexibility from their normal spell slots, and eventually suffers brain degeneration.

Regardless of how your system handles spell preparation, spells in these slots have to be prepared at the beginning of the day, and all the slots must be prepared with the same spell. Further, for each extra crystalline spell slot the illness provides, two of the character's regular spell slots are crystallized, and must also be prepared with the same spell as the other slots.

Each time the incubation period passes, gain another crystalline spell slot and crystallize two previously uninfected spell slots. If the character has no more uninfected spell slots, lose a point of Intelligence instead.

Bonus spell slots are equal in level to the highest spell slot the character has, and regular slots are crystallized starting at the highest level and working down from there.

If the character is cured, lose all bonus crystalline slots and return all regular slots that have been crystallized to normal. Any lost Intelligence is permanent.

Thursday, 21 January 2016

The Gods Are Dead

(Quick note, don't try and read this one on mobile. Sorry!)

An excerpt from Corvarus I, a popular stage play among the lower-class denizens of Corvarus City.

Hush now, human. I'm telling a story.

---

ACT III

Scene 2

SETTING:                      In the ruins of the old city, at the
                              edge of the Verdant Pit.

AT RISE:                      DUKE CORVARUS lies amid broken 
                              cobblestones, breathing heavily. His 
                              finery is torn and bloodied, and the 
                              stolen witch's sword rests out of 
                              reach. FATHER stalks toward him, 
                              black smoke pouring from his wounds.

FATHER
There, there, good duke. Rest now. All is as it should be.

CORVARUS
             (Crawling toward the sword)
No, as long as the old gods still hold the throne, nothing is--

             (FATHER extends a finger toward CORVARUS,
             who cries out as his arm bends backward 
             and breaks.)

FATHER
I and my pantheon will always rule this city. The witch is dead, and her spells are broken -- you can no more resist my magic than could any of the other so-called revolutionaries.

CORVARUS
             (Struggling to his feet and hefting the 
             sword awkwardly in his off-hand)
And what is left of the pantheon, Father? How many of your kind could stand against the tide of humanity? We will rise again, and we will keep fighting until none of you survive.

FATHER
Well aren't you just delightfully defiant. But I know you, Corvarus. You're no hero, whatever your companions might have thought. You wouldn't even join this fight until we had already taken everything from you. A miscalculation on the part of It That Covets, to be sure. But what does that say about you?

CORVARUS
It says I have nothing to lose.

FATHER
Yes, duke. And is that what a hero is? One who enters the fray only when he must? Your brother has been fighting from the beginning. He gave up his fortune, his family, and eventually his life to stand against us. What have you given?

CORVARUS
Dianne... My children...

FATHER
No. They were taken from you. You were unwilling to make the sacrifice until It That Covets made it for you. And duke, there isn't a thing wrong with that. Some of us just aren't cut out for legends.

CORVARUS
             (Circling around FATHER, away from the 
             Pit)
You're wrong. I took the sword. When everyone else what too scared or too good, I made the hard call and took the sword.

FATHER
And what did that get you? In the end, I'm still standing, and you're running out of blood to shed. Well I'll tell you what, Corvarus. I can give it all back. Calling a mortal back from the void is an easy feat to one such as myself.

CORVARUS
What?

FATHER
Yes. You could have your family again. I could give you your old seat on the council. Come, duke. Let us put an end to this foolishness.

             (FATHER extends an open hand to CORVARUS,
             who takes a few hesitant steps toward him, 
             sword dragging in the dust. Suddenly, 
             CORVARUS lunges forward, swinging wildly 
             with the sword. The blow fails to connect, 
             but FATHER steps backward, stumbling at the 
             lip of the Pit. CORVARUS drops the sword and 
             shoves his foe off balance, and for a moment 
             is holding FATHER over the edge with his 
             good hand.)

CORVARUS
No one gets to cheat death, Father. Not even gods live forever.

             (CORVARUS releases FATHER, who flails  
             into the pit.)

(BLACKOUT)

(END OF SCENE)

If the players ever meet a true god, it should seem like an utterly foreign being.

How it fits into a game

Dead gods are just oh-so good for a tabletop roleplaying game. It leaves  a lot of great questions that could lead to a lot of great adventures. Who or what killed them, and how? Is their killer still around? Are they worshiped or reviled, ruling the world or hiding from it?

Do people still worship the old gods? Was their fall a good thing or a bad thing? Could they be brought back? Do any of their servants still exist?

Here's what I would do (and might, eventually). Most people hate the old gods, though they are at this point a distant memory. But a select few, lead by one of the Stygian beings that still remain in the world, want to call them back from the Verdant Pit, where the divine corpses were flung at the end of the Immortal Age.

Somehow the players find out about this, but can't go to the authorities. They have to find a way to slay the Stygian (which is what I've just decided to call the angels of the old gods) and put an end to the threat. They might seek the hidden knowledge of the truth behind the legend of Emperor Corvarus I, perhaps by tracking down the enigmatic playwright behind Corvarus I. Or maybe they seek the tomb of the emperor to recover the witch's blade, which originally slew the divine patriarch.

Or maybe Corvarus I stopped aging after his final victory. What if he disappeared after half a millennium of rule, never to be seen again? Then the players could head into the wilderness, chasing rumors and legends to find him.

Or maybe the answers to those questions suggest an entirely different adventure. 

In any case, I'll won't advocate a lore handout to the players. They will rarely read it, and it's much more fun for this stuff to come up organically piece-by-piece in play anyway. 

Anything that's common knowledge can come up as a result of whatever skill checks your system of choice employs, anything that isn't common knowledge can be a reward for exploration by players who enjoy that sort of thing. The knowledge could even be the goal of a quest, if it's relevant enough.

If it's super important that the players know a key history fact, the GM can just tell them for free when it comes up, if it's common enough, or hint at it with some foreshadowing, if it isn't.

No, not quite human at all.

Sunday, 17 January 2016

The Wendigo


An excerpt from Daniel Wraeden's The Divine Histories: A Study of the Pit and That Which Waits Beyond.

---

The Wendigo is a singular creature. Two of its kind have never been observed at the same time, and those who interact with it multiple times report that it seems to remember previous meetings, i.e. it seems to be the same being.
"You seem to have made a mistake."

Physically, witnesses say it looks similar to a tall, emaciated corpse. Former exile Herrod Plume describes the creature in his autobiographical work, The Featherweight Adventures:
Its skin was stretched so tight and dry over bone that I thought it might tear if it brushed up against anything. Its lips were cracked and pulled back to show a human-looking, if exaggerated, grin. Extending from its head was a pair of antlers, spread maybe three feet from tip to tip. The air around it seemed to freeze, and I found myself shivering against both cold and fear.
It appears to have only three ways of interacting directly with the world. Primarily, it can speak. Its voice shakes like that of a hypothermic victim, but its body betrays none of the pain or panic that the voice often does, nor do its words. The tone seems to be entirely unlinked to the content of its speech.

The most obviously cosmic of its faculties is the incredible ability to open dimensional gates to apparently anywhere in the world. The Wendigo always makes it clear to the user what awaits them on the other side and allows them to choose whether or not to enter. No witness thus far has reported the Wendigo forcing them through the portals, nor indeed anything passing through the portal without being carried by a willing being.

Finally, the most ghastly of its abilities. The Wendigo can consume the corpse of a sentient being in an impossibly small space of time, so long as it is not observed. One particularly colorful witness described whirling around only a moment after turning to glimpse it “sucking down the last of my brother like a thick noodle.”
The Wendigo walks among us on a festival night.

Notably, witnesses have never reported seeing it physically interact with or directly harm anything aside from corpses. Instead, its first contact with a person is almost always nonviolent. It usually appears after the person performs some impactful act (saved or taken a life, started a war, won a battle, etc.) to inform them that things are not as the “should” be, though it does not elaborate on that point.

It will usually offer those it appears to the chance to in some way undo the act. The most famous example of this was Duke Jared Fontelle executing an injured man he had saved from a bear attack during a hunting trip the prior day. 

Sometimes, these people become its agents. It will appear to them again and request more help “fixing” causality, this time because of someone else’s mistake. Often, these agents are brought to bear on victims who refuse to follow its commands. 

Plume was one such agent, and he describes three encounters without much detail. Though the finer grain of his story may be suspect, he also attributes the exoneration ending his exile and subsequent return to Corvarus City to The Wendigo’s intervention.

Not much else is known of the being itself, though, nor the deity it presumably used to serve. It has never been captured, and no study of academic rigor has yet been made, beyond the interviews referenced in this work.

How it fits into a game


The Wendigo shouldn’t get a stat block. Unlike most monsters one might meet in a game of Dungeons and Dragons, The Wendigo is not meant to be a combat encounter. In fact, try not to think of it as a monster at all. If the players try and fight it, they will find it is incredibly fragile: its bones snap at a whisper, and it doesn’t hit back. It will just appear again, and eventually it may gate a psychopath into their tent while they sleep.

Instead, try to treat the Wendigo as a story catalyst. One part quest giver, one part game master’s fiat, all moral quandary. The deals it offers should be tough and interesting. It doesn’t care about morality, so this could be a chance to juxtapose the things it asks against those of whom it asks them.
You never feel like you're being watched, but you are.

For instance, maybe a prince has been bad. He kills his older brother to make himself the heir apparent, but things are falling apart. His brother managed to scream before he died, and now the guards are pounding down the corridor outside. The Wendigo stands hungrily next to the prince. There’s a young boy lost in the woods half a world away who isn’t supposed to die, and the Wendigo wants the prince to go fight off the monsters that are closing in on him. In exchange, it will take care of that body.

Alternatively, maybe the monsters were supposed to snack on that kid, but the players managed to save him. Later that night, after they dropped the boy off at a local church, a chill sweeps over the campfire. The Wendigo steps out of the flames and informs the party that they made a mistake. 

“Kill him,” it shivers. “He is supposed to die.”

It opens a portal to the sleeping child’s room at the church, and offers them something really tempting, like a second portal into the sleeping chambers of the evil wizard they have been hunting for months.

If the players do well, the Wendigo may call on them again. Offer another deal, another adventure.

But if they don’t, if they persist in wrecking fate, maybe soon they will be the ones on the other side of the portal. Maybe it’s their room the guilty princeling is sent to, holding the same knife that just made him the future king.