I've started a new set of players in a campaign set in Rhym. Most of the characters came in from another campaign, so a little plane travel was involved in getting them into the middle of things. Now they are getting to explore a world with rings. Our first session was fun, especially when one the players hinted to a dwarf from Kadin-kar that he might steal something!
JP also recently ran a game in Rhym. You can read about it here.
Tuesday, September 26, 2017
World Building With Me
I'll be hosting a workshop on world building at Imaginarium at 4PM on Friday. Afterwards I'll be posting some follow up information here. If you would like some tips on how to put together a setting for an RPG or a story, I think you'll find what I have to say of some use. If you are curious about the sort of processes I used to create Rhym, likewise.
Thursday, September 14, 2017
I'll be a guest at Imaginarium
I'll be giving a workshop on world building at the upcoming Imaginarium in Louisville. Additionally I'll be sitting in on a couple of panels and most likely running a couple of game sessions of Rhym with our Iconic characters. I'll be dropping more info here as the time approaches.
Starting a Home Game!
Here's some info for my players to reference:
Anyway, things I wanted to let everyone know beforehand. I mentioned some of this Monday a week ago, but it bears repeating since it's been over a week.
Anyway, things I wanted to let everyone know beforehand. I mentioned some of this Monday a week ago, but it bears repeating since it's been over a week.
- I make the assumption most of you want to play the same character you have been playing. And it seems that most of you are 5th level. If any of you want to switch to a new character as we transition into my world you may do so. I'd like to work with you to help you ground the character in Rhym and level them up to 5th.
- If you don't want to make a character, but would like to switch, give me a heads up by Sunday and I'll have one ready for you to play Monday evening. Time permitting I'll try and send you a copy before hand so you can bone up.
- Given you all are being “Dumped” into my world, I'd just as soon start you all sort of cold on what it is like. Other than those who want new characters, obviously.
- I like to farm out keeping a log. So I'm going to offer between 50-150xp per session for a log. XP to determined by level of detail and readability. Further, for any of you who want to try your hand at writing, I'm offering 50-250xp for a Journal. Again content determines value. The difference between a journal and log is that the former is written as diary entry from the viewpoint of the character. I've found these to be a lot of fun to write and read, so I'm encouraging it. In fact, a particularly spectacular log might earn you inspiration!
Monday, August 14, 2017
Image: The Evolution of Rhym
I've been working on some new Rhym materials, and some material I hope to present later this year in a workshop. One thing I did was make an image showing how the map of Rhym developed from a pencil sketch to its final form. I use an old copy of Paintshop Pro for this stuff. And dispite the age of the 16bit era software it still works great.
Friday, August 4, 2017
Fiction: A Matter of Honor - Part I
A Rhym Story by J. D. Conrad - 2017
Zharn Ghostwalker stood next to his commander and watched as the troops were decimated. Fortunately they were not his troops, they were the enemy. But the manner it which the Tarani executioners went about it left him feeling unclean. No warrior deserved to die in such a manner. True, they were slaves. But they had fought bravely and only their commander's many betrayals had caused this outrage to come to pass.
The Bloodoath Company's employer had struck a deal. The rebel's leader, a noble tiefling named Arxion, would go into exile, not only without punishment, but with his personal wealth. And the Ghilman slave legions he had talked into supporting him in his bid for independence? One in ten would be impaled alive as examples to any others who might have such notions. The others would be shipped off to the mines, loosing all privileges and any chance for advancement or freedom. It made his blood boil to think that he was in some small way responsible for the inglorious death of so many brave men.
A low growl rose in his throat and he took half a step toward the company's employer Kashyar, yet another tiefling noble. Before he could do anything else a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. He turned a pair of glaring amber eyes onto the owner of that hand, his commander, Mishak Bloodoath. The older Zhakuri half-orc stood fully as tall as Zharn, so they locked eyes for a moment. That was all it took. Zharn cast his gaze down, shamed that he had let the bloodlust control him even for a moment. That was not The Way.
The much more massive commander leaned in close to the scout and whispered. “I too do not look with favor on this deal. But we must keep our words just as the Tarani do.”
He nodded, agreeing that honor demanded as much. Then he snapped his gaze up to lock eyes once again with his commander. This time not in challenge, but in query. The Tarani were so famous for violating the spirit of any agreement, while keeping to its letter, that half truths and lies of omission were known as “Tarani Truth.” If the company were to keep to the letter of their contract?
Mishak's coal black eyes told him nothing he did not already know. So he took half a step back and began to ponder the actual terms of the contract which he was honor bound to follow. He was only half aware of the horrific executions that continued all afternoon and into the evening.
To be continued...
Zharn Ghostwalker stood next to his commander and watched as the troops were decimated. Fortunately they were not his troops, they were the enemy. But the manner it which the Tarani executioners went about it left him feeling unclean. No warrior deserved to die in such a manner. True, they were slaves. But they had fought bravely and only their commander's many betrayals had caused this outrage to come to pass.
The Bloodoath Company's employer had struck a deal. The rebel's leader, a noble tiefling named Arxion, would go into exile, not only without punishment, but with his personal wealth. And the Ghilman slave legions he had talked into supporting him in his bid for independence? One in ten would be impaled alive as examples to any others who might have such notions. The others would be shipped off to the mines, loosing all privileges and any chance for advancement or freedom. It made his blood boil to think that he was in some small way responsible for the inglorious death of so many brave men.
A low growl rose in his throat and he took half a step toward the company's employer Kashyar, yet another tiefling noble. Before he could do anything else a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. He turned a pair of glaring amber eyes onto the owner of that hand, his commander, Mishak Bloodoath. The older Zhakuri half-orc stood fully as tall as Zharn, so they locked eyes for a moment. That was all it took. Zharn cast his gaze down, shamed that he had let the bloodlust control him even for a moment. That was not The Way.
The much more massive commander leaned in close to the scout and whispered. “I too do not look with favor on this deal. But we must keep our words just as the Tarani do.”
He nodded, agreeing that honor demanded as much. Then he snapped his gaze up to lock eyes once again with his commander. This time not in challenge, but in query. The Tarani were so famous for violating the spirit of any agreement, while keeping to its letter, that half truths and lies of omission were known as “Tarani Truth.” If the company were to keep to the letter of their contract?
Mishak's coal black eyes told him nothing he did not already know. So he took half a step back and began to ponder the actual terms of the contract which he was honor bound to follow. He was only half aware of the horrific executions that continued all afternoon and into the evening.
To be continued...
Wednesday, July 19, 2017
Fiction: Chance of a Lifetime - Conclusion
Fiction by J. D. Conrad 2016
Part III (Go to Part II, Go to Part I)
Once out of the city there was little need to appear ordinary, so he quickened his pace. Nusha kept snapping the reins, pushing Takitas faster than he liked to go, which caused the mule to occasionally voice his opinion on the situation. Loudly. Even so, the trip from Iron Tower to Saint Shoku's had never seemed to take so long.
It was still well before midday when the wagon rolled through the gate into the outer courtyard. Sister Pavo was pacing in front of the barn, when she saw him arrive, she excitedly motioned toward the doors, then rushed to open them. She was practically bouncing with impatience as the wagon made its way inside.
As soon as the wagon was inside she pulled the doors closed. Nusha set the brake, and then they both scuttled underneath it. It didn't take too long to get the secret panel loose. The smell from inside was foul. The rank sour and sulfurous air inside the small compartment made him retch. An arm flopped out, grasping desperately for something to pull against. The monks proffered hands and soon a man pulled himself free, dropping to the ground and gasping for air. He mumbled something and pointed back toward the hole. Both monks pushed in their arms and soon pulled out a young girl, then a woman.
Nusha pushed his head into the concealed chamber under the piles of manure to ensure no one else was inside. When the smell hit him he gulped as his bile rose. Pavo was helping the escapees out from under the wagon and into a hay filled stall off to one side. As Nusha resealed the compartment, Pavo brought them a bucket of water and some clean clothes.
Buy the time Takitas was back in his stall and the wagon stowed, the refugees were considerably cleaner. They sat huddled and dazed. Now that they were cleaned up, it was obvious they were a family. Father, mother and a pretty young daughter. The mother looked like she might have some Cathari blood from the shape of her face. Nusha gave them what he hoped was a reassuring smile. But he knew that they still had far to go. They would have to be smuggled from Saint Shoku's further East. Then most likely they would be slipped into the dwarven city of Kadin-kar. The dwarves didn't much care for humans, but they hated slavery even more. So they would guide blindfolded slaves into their hidden tunnels, then after some timeless underground trek through the Spine of the World, they would be blindfolded again and taken out of other hidden tunnels. This time in Cathar, well away from the their former masters.
Then they would be free. Freedom, with all its terrors and uncertainty. They no doubt felt that those fears were preferable to watching what would happen to their child. It was likely some overseer, or perhaps even the master of the house, a horned and tailed tiefling noble, had noticed she was blossoming. Nusha hoped that things would work out well for them. He would say a prayer to the dreaming goddess for them every night.
When Pavo got back with some tea and food, Nusha took himself up into the loft. There he sat looking out over the compound that made up the monastery. Within its walls was all the home he'd known since his father and mother, freed slaves, had brought him here ten years ago. As a monastery of the Order of the Blessed Land, life here was simple, but full of hard work.
His gaze lifted, looking out across the rolling farmlands to the North. He could just make out the hazy finger of the Emperor’s tower poking up into the sky. Then he looked East. He couldn't see them, but that way lay the vast snow covered peaks of the Spine of the World. In that moment he decided that he was going with the escaped slaves. He wanted to see the mountains. He wanted to see the world. He too wanted to be free. Not free of slavery, but free of a life proscribed by a mind numbing daily routine. Today he'd felt more alive than he'd ever felt before. If he were a saint, and had written a book, his book would say, “A life without risk isn't worth living.”
Part III (Go to Part II, Go to Part I)
Once out of the city there was little need to appear ordinary, so he quickened his pace. Nusha kept snapping the reins, pushing Takitas faster than he liked to go, which caused the mule to occasionally voice his opinion on the situation. Loudly. Even so, the trip from Iron Tower to Saint Shoku's had never seemed to take so long.
It was still well before midday when the wagon rolled through the gate into the outer courtyard. Sister Pavo was pacing in front of the barn, when she saw him arrive, she excitedly motioned toward the doors, then rushed to open them. She was practically bouncing with impatience as the wagon made its way inside.
As soon as the wagon was inside she pulled the doors closed. Nusha set the brake, and then they both scuttled underneath it. It didn't take too long to get the secret panel loose. The smell from inside was foul. The rank sour and sulfurous air inside the small compartment made him retch. An arm flopped out, grasping desperately for something to pull against. The monks proffered hands and soon a man pulled himself free, dropping to the ground and gasping for air. He mumbled something and pointed back toward the hole. Both monks pushed in their arms and soon pulled out a young girl, then a woman.
Nusha pushed his head into the concealed chamber under the piles of manure to ensure no one else was inside. When the smell hit him he gulped as his bile rose. Pavo was helping the escapees out from under the wagon and into a hay filled stall off to one side. As Nusha resealed the compartment, Pavo brought them a bucket of water and some clean clothes.
Buy the time Takitas was back in his stall and the wagon stowed, the refugees were considerably cleaner. They sat huddled and dazed. Now that they were cleaned up, it was obvious they were a family. Father, mother and a pretty young daughter. The mother looked like she might have some Cathari blood from the shape of her face. Nusha gave them what he hoped was a reassuring smile. But he knew that they still had far to go. They would have to be smuggled from Saint Shoku's further East. Then most likely they would be slipped into the dwarven city of Kadin-kar. The dwarves didn't much care for humans, but they hated slavery even more. So they would guide blindfolded slaves into their hidden tunnels, then after some timeless underground trek through the Spine of the World, they would be blindfolded again and taken out of other hidden tunnels. This time in Cathar, well away from the their former masters.
Then they would be free. Freedom, with all its terrors and uncertainty. They no doubt felt that those fears were preferable to watching what would happen to their child. It was likely some overseer, or perhaps even the master of the house, a horned and tailed tiefling noble, had noticed she was blossoming. Nusha hoped that things would work out well for them. He would say a prayer to the dreaming goddess for them every night.
When Pavo got back with some tea and food, Nusha took himself up into the loft. There he sat looking out over the compound that made up the monastery. Within its walls was all the home he'd known since his father and mother, freed slaves, had brought him here ten years ago. As a monastery of the Order of the Blessed Land, life here was simple, but full of hard work.
His gaze lifted, looking out across the rolling farmlands to the North. He could just make out the hazy finger of the Emperor’s tower poking up into the sky. Then he looked East. He couldn't see them, but that way lay the vast snow covered peaks of the Spine of the World. In that moment he decided that he was going with the escaped slaves. He wanted to see the mountains. He wanted to see the world. He too wanted to be free. Not free of slavery, but free of a life proscribed by a mind numbing daily routine. Today he'd felt more alive than he'd ever felt before. If he were a saint, and had written a book, his book would say, “A life without risk isn't worth living.”
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
J. P. is at it again.
Check out JP's most recent posting. He's put up some very nice art, I especially like the image of Fahran.
Earlier this year when running games at Conglomeration people seemed to really enjoy playing that iconic character. Something about an evil cleric as a cooperative (more or less) part of a party seemed to bring out some colorful choices!
Earlier this year when running games at Conglomeration people seemed to really enjoy playing that iconic character. Something about an evil cleric as a cooperative (more or less) part of a party seemed to bring out some colorful choices!
Fiction: Chance of a Lifetime - Part II
Fiction by J. D. Conrad - 2016
Go to Part I
As Nusha padded out of the chapel on sandal clad feet several under priests and priestesses in their green cassocks began to file past him into the chapel for morning prayers. When he exited into the hallway he found himself standing in front of the prior and abbess. They were adjusting each other's burgundy cassocks. Nusha made a quick bow and slid past them to hurry on down the hallway. The prior gave him a reproving look, no doubt feeling that he should be headed into the chapel, not out of it. But the senior priest said nothing, so the layman hurried on.
In short order he was in the monastery's outer courtyard. He saw his wagon and mule standing ready and quickly moved to it. Climbing onto the seat, he took the reins in one hand and made a soothing sound to his mule, Takitas. Slapping the leads across the mule's back sent him rolling out into the street. It was nearly empty, only a couple of beggars were in sight. They were no doubt waiting for the monastery's soup kitchen to open.
As one would expect, Saint Hestar's, providing both a free clinic and soup kitchen, was not in wealthy neighborhood. But the shortest route from Saint Hester's in the slums of Iron Tower, to Saint Shoku's which lay miles outside the city, was through the very heart of the royal quarter. So it was not long before his wagon was rattling down the fine stone street that made up one side of the city's Imperial Square.
He turned to look back over his shoulder at the facade of the Basilica. Despite the aesthetically pleasing soaring columns and graceful arches he shivered in loathing. He'd been inside once. Jewel encrusted art and vaulted ceilings did not come close to compensating for the vile and callous nature of the priestly order that called the temple home.
When he turned to face ahead, before him was the hulking structure that sat opposite it across the square. Sheer stone walls and the great tower of rusting black iron that gave the city its name held no beauty. Instead these structure spoke of arrogance and the naked lust for power that drove the nobility. Most of them were marked by horns, tails and other deformities caused by the blood of devils that ran in their veins.
In the middle of the wide expanse of geometrically perfect stones that made up the square, were obvious signs of the nature of those that ruled this place. There were stocks, gibbets and racks all arranged on low platforms so that the cruelties of the aristocrats could be displayed to the masses. Around the instruments of torture were rows of iron spikes. Here and there a rotting corpse was still impaled on one. On others stacks of up to a dozen human skulls had been spitted like some macabre version of shish kabob.
It was hard not to urge his mule to a faster pace. But to do so might draw unwanted attention from the many soldiers standing watch around the palace. So he carried on slowly, just like any other peasant about his lowly business. Even at such a slow speed, it did not take long to reach the city walls. There Nusha found himself sitting in a queue of wagons and carts waiting to file out of the gate.
Now that the most dangerous moment was upon him, the young layman was wishing the trip from the monastery had taken longer. Steeling himself with prayer, he sought to look a bit bored and impatient. That was how he would normally feel as he waited to exit the gate. He had done many times as he ferried cargoes between the two monasteries. But this was the first time he'd ever tried to slip something past the guards. The problem was, he would have no idea how well he was succeeding at concealing his nervousness, until it was too late to matter.
Finally, he pulled his wagon forward. Four ghilman slave soldiers in their plain mustard yellow uniforms barred his way with their long pikes. Nearby, looking bored, an Imperial guardsman who must be their overseer was leaning against the city wall and sipping from a cup. From the side a fifth slave soldier stepped forward, his red scarf marking him as senior to the pikemen blocking the way.
He looked up at Nusha and said, “You look familiar. What are you hauling today monk?”
Nusha shrugged, “I come this way often sir. I'm from Saint Shoku's.”
The soldier rubbed his chin, “Then why are you leaving the city at dawn, not arriving from there at midmorning?”
“I was busy last night sir.” Nusha twisted and waved his hand at the bed of his wagon. “I am bringing a load of horse manure to the monastery. Collected from the streets. It's good fertilizer for the fields. And free for the taking. Sir.”
Nusha was laying it on a bit thick perhaps. But he'd found the slave soldiers liked to be addressed respectfully by the free. They might be the highest class of slaves, but they were still slaves and never forgot it.
“You have a wagon full of shit?”
“Yes sir.”
The NCO snorted and waved to one of the other soldiers. The indicated fellow was tall thick and very young looking. He lay aside his pike and came toward the wagon. Nusha could see that his jaw was undershot and that his dark skin had a green tint to it. No doubt he had a bit of orc blood in him, many of the ghilman did. Using a wheel spoke as a step the soldier pulled himself up and looked down into the cargo area of the wagon. He made a sound of disgust and dropped back to the street. When he spoke, his oversized lower canine teeth gave his speech a sort of rubbery accent. “Nuttin in der but shit, sur.”
The red scarfed soldier nodded and waved his underling back into place. Then he looked over at the guardsman leaning against the wall. That worthy took a slow sip from his cup, obviously making everyone wait. Then, once he felt that his authority had been affirmed, the bored looking officer tossed his head toward the gate.
“Right. Move along then. But remind me not to buy any of your crop come market day, the gods only know how foul food raised from the shit that litters this city's streets would taste.”
Nusha gave the soldier a sickly smile and flicked the reins. Takitas' hoof beats were nearly drowned out the sound of the slave legionnaires laughing at their leader's quip.
Go to Part III
Go to Part I
As Nusha padded out of the chapel on sandal clad feet several under priests and priestesses in their green cassocks began to file past him into the chapel for morning prayers. When he exited into the hallway he found himself standing in front of the prior and abbess. They were adjusting each other's burgundy cassocks. Nusha made a quick bow and slid past them to hurry on down the hallway. The prior gave him a reproving look, no doubt feeling that he should be headed into the chapel, not out of it. But the senior priest said nothing, so the layman hurried on.
In short order he was in the monastery's outer courtyard. He saw his wagon and mule standing ready and quickly moved to it. Climbing onto the seat, he took the reins in one hand and made a soothing sound to his mule, Takitas. Slapping the leads across the mule's back sent him rolling out into the street. It was nearly empty, only a couple of beggars were in sight. They were no doubt waiting for the monastery's soup kitchen to open.
As one would expect, Saint Hestar's, providing both a free clinic and soup kitchen, was not in wealthy neighborhood. But the shortest route from Saint Hester's in the slums of Iron Tower, to Saint Shoku's which lay miles outside the city, was through the very heart of the royal quarter. So it was not long before his wagon was rattling down the fine stone street that made up one side of the city's Imperial Square.
He turned to look back over his shoulder at the facade of the Basilica. Despite the aesthetically pleasing soaring columns and graceful arches he shivered in loathing. He'd been inside once. Jewel encrusted art and vaulted ceilings did not come close to compensating for the vile and callous nature of the priestly order that called the temple home.
When he turned to face ahead, before him was the hulking structure that sat opposite it across the square. Sheer stone walls and the great tower of rusting black iron that gave the city its name held no beauty. Instead these structure spoke of arrogance and the naked lust for power that drove the nobility. Most of them were marked by horns, tails and other deformities caused by the blood of devils that ran in their veins.
In the middle of the wide expanse of geometrically perfect stones that made up the square, were obvious signs of the nature of those that ruled this place. There were stocks, gibbets and racks all arranged on low platforms so that the cruelties of the aristocrats could be displayed to the masses. Around the instruments of torture were rows of iron spikes. Here and there a rotting corpse was still impaled on one. On others stacks of up to a dozen human skulls had been spitted like some macabre version of shish kabob.
It was hard not to urge his mule to a faster pace. But to do so might draw unwanted attention from the many soldiers standing watch around the palace. So he carried on slowly, just like any other peasant about his lowly business. Even at such a slow speed, it did not take long to reach the city walls. There Nusha found himself sitting in a queue of wagons and carts waiting to file out of the gate.
Now that the most dangerous moment was upon him, the young layman was wishing the trip from the monastery had taken longer. Steeling himself with prayer, he sought to look a bit bored and impatient. That was how he would normally feel as he waited to exit the gate. He had done many times as he ferried cargoes between the two monasteries. But this was the first time he'd ever tried to slip something past the guards. The problem was, he would have no idea how well he was succeeding at concealing his nervousness, until it was too late to matter.
Finally, he pulled his wagon forward. Four ghilman slave soldiers in their plain mustard yellow uniforms barred his way with their long pikes. Nearby, looking bored, an Imperial guardsman who must be their overseer was leaning against the city wall and sipping from a cup. From the side a fifth slave soldier stepped forward, his red scarf marking him as senior to the pikemen blocking the way.
He looked up at Nusha and said, “You look familiar. What are you hauling today monk?”
Nusha shrugged, “I come this way often sir. I'm from Saint Shoku's.”
The soldier rubbed his chin, “Then why are you leaving the city at dawn, not arriving from there at midmorning?”
“I was busy last night sir.” Nusha twisted and waved his hand at the bed of his wagon. “I am bringing a load of horse manure to the monastery. Collected from the streets. It's good fertilizer for the fields. And free for the taking. Sir.”
Nusha was laying it on a bit thick perhaps. But he'd found the slave soldiers liked to be addressed respectfully by the free. They might be the highest class of slaves, but they were still slaves and never forgot it.
“You have a wagon full of shit?”
“Yes sir.”
The NCO snorted and waved to one of the other soldiers. The indicated fellow was tall thick and very young looking. He lay aside his pike and came toward the wagon. Nusha could see that his jaw was undershot and that his dark skin had a green tint to it. No doubt he had a bit of orc blood in him, many of the ghilman did. Using a wheel spoke as a step the soldier pulled himself up and looked down into the cargo area of the wagon. He made a sound of disgust and dropped back to the street. When he spoke, his oversized lower canine teeth gave his speech a sort of rubbery accent. “Nuttin in der but shit, sur.”
The red scarfed soldier nodded and waved his underling back into place. Then he looked over at the guardsman leaning against the wall. That worthy took a slow sip from his cup, obviously making everyone wait. Then, once he felt that his authority had been affirmed, the bored looking officer tossed his head toward the gate.
“Right. Move along then. But remind me not to buy any of your crop come market day, the gods only know how foul food raised from the shit that litters this city's streets would taste.”
Nusha gave the soldier a sickly smile and flicked the reins. Takitas' hoof beats were nearly drowned out the sound of the slave legionnaires laughing at their leader's quip.
Go to Part III
Tuesday, July 4, 2017
Why the Children's Story?
The Setting Book begins with a full page "Children's Story" of how the peoples of Rhym were created by the gods. Yet as you read further you realize that the Church has a much more sophisticated "story" in their holy books, and that scholars and sages have yet another story. Why three creation stories?
The reason for the different church and scholarly stories is that I wanted some of the tension between the religious and secular authorities that existed beginning with the Renaissance. This creates avenues for intrigue and adventure. The reason for the Children's Story was completely different.
Most well done game worlds are very complex and multi-layered. They have thousands of years of history, lost civilizations, etc. etc. It takes a long time for a new player to assimilate all of that. But the sooner a player gets their head around what makes a Dorian different from a Tarani, or something similar, the better.
This is the reason for the simple apocryphal story that begins the book. It presents the basics of the religion and all the nations of the world in one simple, easy to comprehend and hopefully entertaining story that the DM can share with the players before things get rolling.
The reason for the different church and scholarly stories is that I wanted some of the tension between the religious and secular authorities that existed beginning with the Renaissance. This creates avenues for intrigue and adventure. The reason for the Children's Story was completely different.
Most well done game worlds are very complex and multi-layered. They have thousands of years of history, lost civilizations, etc. etc. It takes a long time for a new player to assimilate all of that. But the sooner a player gets their head around what makes a Dorian different from a Tarani, or something similar, the better.
This is the reason for the simple apocryphal story that begins the book. It presents the basics of the religion and all the nations of the world in one simple, easy to comprehend and hopefully entertaining story that the DM can share with the players before things get rolling.
Thursday, June 22, 2017
Fiction: Chance of a Lifetime - Part I
Fiction by J. D. Conrad - 2016
Areza stopped on the way out of the hospital wing of Saint Hestar. She undid the blood spattered apron that protected her clothes and dropped it into the bin for soiled linens. After taking a deep breath, the priestess said a prayer to the Green Lady and raised her right hand to make a circle over the tree symbol on the breast of her faded blue cassock. Only one more task, then finally some rest.
She plodded down the hallway and turned into the monastery's chapel. A single person knelt in prayer. Not in front of the central figure of the Great Mother's Handmaiden, but instead before the small figure of the Great Mother herself, just to its right. Areza stepped slowly forward and knelt in front of the central green soapstone figure representing a young mother in a long robe. She again made the sign of the wheel over her breast then turned her head to regard the person next to her.
The man was looking back. Deep dark brown eyes peered back at her from under a mop of obsidian hair cut in a simple bowl style. He was wearing a plain home spun robe and hemp rope belt. The lack of symbols on his robe meant he was a lay member of some monastic order. Areza of course knew that Nusha was from the Monastery of Saint Shoku that lay southeast of the city. That was what made this whole scheme possible.
She smiled at him and said, “I trust you are well Nusha?”
He nodded, “Yes mother Areza. I am fine, a bit nervous perhaps, but fine.”
“Nerves? I can understand that. You are about to take a dangerous risk for the good of others. But as Saint Brigid said in chapter six of the holy book, 'To live is to risk. To love is to risk. But living without love is the same as death.' You are taking a risk out of love, that is a holy deed.”
“I know revered one, but I am no saint. Just a humble farmer.”
“Nusha, no one is ever 'just' an anything. You have proven that by being here. I have come to tell you that all is in readiness. You should leave soon, the hour for the dawn bell fast approaches. And the crush of many waiting to leave the city as soon as the gates open will be to your benefit.”
“Yes mother.”
They both rose, Nusha turned to walk away but Areza stopped him with a gesture. She made the sign of the wheel before him and said, “May the blessings of the Nine go with you. And most especially the protection of the Compassionate One.”
“Many thanks mother.”
“My thanks to you brother. You are now the guardian of a great treasure. A treasure that the lords of Taran do not want to see slipping out of their grasp. But if you are brave and keep to the plan things should go smoothly.”
Nusha gave her a wry smile, “That is why I am nervous mother.”
They both chuckled, then looked up as bells all across the great city of Iron Tower gave one long ragged toll.
“Go now Nusha.”
“Yes mother.”
Got to Part II
Areza stopped on the way out of the hospital wing of Saint Hestar. She undid the blood spattered apron that protected her clothes and dropped it into the bin for soiled linens. After taking a deep breath, the priestess said a prayer to the Green Lady and raised her right hand to make a circle over the tree symbol on the breast of her faded blue cassock. Only one more task, then finally some rest.
She plodded down the hallway and turned into the monastery's chapel. A single person knelt in prayer. Not in front of the central figure of the Great Mother's Handmaiden, but instead before the small figure of the Great Mother herself, just to its right. Areza stepped slowly forward and knelt in front of the central green soapstone figure representing a young mother in a long robe. She again made the sign of the wheel over her breast then turned her head to regard the person next to her.
The man was looking back. Deep dark brown eyes peered back at her from under a mop of obsidian hair cut in a simple bowl style. He was wearing a plain home spun robe and hemp rope belt. The lack of symbols on his robe meant he was a lay member of some monastic order. Areza of course knew that Nusha was from the Monastery of Saint Shoku that lay southeast of the city. That was what made this whole scheme possible.
She smiled at him and said, “I trust you are well Nusha?”
He nodded, “Yes mother Areza. I am fine, a bit nervous perhaps, but fine.”
“Nerves? I can understand that. You are about to take a dangerous risk for the good of others. But as Saint Brigid said in chapter six of the holy book, 'To live is to risk. To love is to risk. But living without love is the same as death.' You are taking a risk out of love, that is a holy deed.”
“I know revered one, but I am no saint. Just a humble farmer.”
“Nusha, no one is ever 'just' an anything. You have proven that by being here. I have come to tell you that all is in readiness. You should leave soon, the hour for the dawn bell fast approaches. And the crush of many waiting to leave the city as soon as the gates open will be to your benefit.”
“Yes mother.”
They both rose, Nusha turned to walk away but Areza stopped him with a gesture. She made the sign of the wheel before him and said, “May the blessings of the Nine go with you. And most especially the protection of the Compassionate One.”
“Many thanks mother.”
“My thanks to you brother. You are now the guardian of a great treasure. A treasure that the lords of Taran do not want to see slipping out of their grasp. But if you are brave and keep to the plan things should go smoothly.”
Nusha gave her a wry smile, “That is why I am nervous mother.”
They both chuckled, then looked up as bells all across the great city of Iron Tower gave one long ragged toll.
“Go now Nusha.”
“Yes mother.”
Got to Part II
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
Goldilocks of the Gods
One of the things that tends to catch peoples attention about Rhym is the fact that there are only nine primary human gods. And each is directly associated with one of the nine alignments. This notion occurred to me when I was first considering developing my own 5e setting. I was pondering two things that bother me about D&D pantheons. Alignment, which has always seemed a somewhat artificial construct, and the fact that any deity must be shoe horned into that system. The other issue is that religions tend to try to answer all the big questions, not just one. And most D&D deities have very specific areas of concern and responsibility.
The first thought was to just skip the whole alignment thing, as it is much less entwined in character design and concept than in previous editions. And perhaps have a monotheistic religion. But that didn't feel right. D&D without alignments wouldn't do. And then it clicked. One god per alignment. Following your alignment is a way of showing your character's devotion to a specific deity. But instead of each god's followers having their own organization, I decided that they are all part of one big church. Between them the nine gods address all the big questions. And a priest will usually belong to an order that reveres one god above all others, but they still worship all nine.
The implications of this setup lead to many interesting facets in the campaign setting. For example the machinations among the various church orders. Close ties between certain regimes and the various orders. I drew on things like the the Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas, Camber of Culdi series by Katherine Kurtz, the 1632 series by Eric Flint, David Weber and many others, and of course our own real world history. The result were copious notes in my original draft on how the various parts of the church both created sources of conflict and kept those conflicts from growing into full fledged war when possible.
Just think of the gaming potential, Your players could be dashing heroes with allegiance to the king, But the High Priest's minions are always out to thwart you and your liege. Or perhaps mercenaries are needed to settle a small conflict that has erupted between two political factions supported by different parts of the church. Or, the reverse, perhaps your characters have been hired to protect church envoys out to stop a war. I can go on and on. And this is only one little piece of Rhym.
So to paraphrase Goldilocks, one god was not enough. Many gods for with this or that specialization was too many. But nine was just right!
The first thought was to just skip the whole alignment thing, as it is much less entwined in character design and concept than in previous editions. And perhaps have a monotheistic religion. But that didn't feel right. D&D without alignments wouldn't do. And then it clicked. One god per alignment. Following your alignment is a way of showing your character's devotion to a specific deity. But instead of each god's followers having their own organization, I decided that they are all part of one big church. Between them the nine gods address all the big questions. And a priest will usually belong to an order that reveres one god above all others, but they still worship all nine.
The implications of this setup lead to many interesting facets in the campaign setting. For example the machinations among the various church orders. Close ties between certain regimes and the various orders. I drew on things like the the Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas, Camber of Culdi series by Katherine Kurtz, the 1632 series by Eric Flint, David Weber and many others, and of course our own real world history. The result were copious notes in my original draft on how the various parts of the church both created sources of conflict and kept those conflicts from growing into full fledged war when possible.
Just think of the gaming potential, Your players could be dashing heroes with allegiance to the king, But the High Priest's minions are always out to thwart you and your liege. Or perhaps mercenaries are needed to settle a small conflict that has erupted between two political factions supported by different parts of the church. Or, the reverse, perhaps your characters have been hired to protect church envoys out to stop a war. I can go on and on. And this is only one little piece of Rhym.
So to paraphrase Goldilocks, one god was not enough. Many gods for with this or that specialization was too many. But nine was just right!
Monday, June 5, 2017
Fiction: No Chance Meeting - Conclusion
Fiction by J. D. Conrad - 2015
Go to Part 1
Aleeto sighed inwardly. Well, so much for gathering any information from this lot the easy way. He tried to stop fussing at himself and prepare. Taking slow regular breaths like a sleeper, wasn't the best way to center yourself before a fight, but it would have to do. Three to one odds weren't the best, but the only one who looked like he'd be much trouble was the half-orc. Again he tried to focus and clear his mind. The thugs were almost close enough.
Now! Aleeto's arm snapped up flinging the remaining hot tea at the orc's face, then slinging the mug at the man with him. He erupted out of the chair as if on a spring. His left hand cocked back, at a thought his ring transformed into a bronze capped fighting staff. His right hand grasped it further down and he snapped it in a high strike going for the half-orc's head. The hot tea hadn't really done much to blind his opponent, but it had distracted him. So he didn't notice the staff until a bit too late. Even so, the hulking thug rolled with the strike. Despite a sound like an ax hitting wood, the thick skulled halfbreed didn't fall. He did stumble though, and he dropped the knife.
Unfortunately the half-orc's companion produced a nasty little stiletto and moved to come at Aleeto from a different direction. His staff was already swinging into a position for a follow up strike on the halfbreed, leaving him open to this new attack. Suddenly another bit of motion at the edge of his perception registered. A fraction of a second later there was an angry metallic hiss and a meaty thunk. The human thug looked down at the long sword buried in his chest. His eyes followed the steel blade to the knight's mailed arm and then up that to meet his killer's eyes. As the man collapsed, the now very awake knight shook the corpse off his sword. Aleeto's staff continued to move, making a fast one, two, three combination and the half-orc collapsed.
Looking around for the proprietor he found the him slumped next to the bar with the dagger he'd earlier seen on the knight's belt sticking out of his heart, and a cocked crossbow next to his limp hand. Aleeto blinked in confusion and turned to face the knight who held the bloody sword in a casual nonthreatening manner, but was regarding him with a suspicious expression.
In a thick aristocratic Therlander accent the knight said, “Methinks thou art no more a helpless popinjay than I was asleep at yon table.”
“Er, no.” Aleeto bowed and said, “Aleeto, Agent of the Dorian Information Gatherer's Guild at your service.”
The knight smiled and returned the bow, then wiped the blood off his blade and sheathed the sword in one smooth motion, “I am Sir Garold, Order of the Long Road. I perceive that we must both be here to put an end to the nefarious deeds of these miscreants.”
“Ah. That explains what you are doing here a day and a half from the nearest point on the Pilgrim Road.”
“Aye. I was to meet a companion in Three Corners. But there was no sign of him. As he had undertaken a mission to Dori on behalf of the order, I took myself this way in hopes of ascertaining his fate. This establishment had an unsavory air to it. Thus you found me here testing their mettle.”
“Why weren't you knocked out?”
“How could I not find it peculiar that such a vile place as this would serve such an exalted beverage? So I took a vial of anti-toxin and let my head fall forward. As Saint Willum said in chapter seven of the Book of the Wheel, “Those with things to hide often reveal their secrets when they think no one will witness it.” I hoped to find out if these loathsome spawn worked mischief on my missing companion, without need of putting them to the question.”
“Isn't that being a bit...Well sneaky? At least for someone of your order?”
“Anyone who thinks a man in full gear such as I wear could fall asleep in that chair, and remain seated, would be called a fool by some. So if someone thought I was in a doze, that is no fault of mine.” Garold gave him a crooked smile.
Aleeto tilted his head and laughed. “I think I've just been called a fool. Well, I can't say this evening turned out as I'd hoped. I would rather have taken the boss prisoner, but at least I can report back to the Guild that this operation is shut down. It was bad luck for these bastards that we both ended up here to deal with them at the same time.”
Sir Garold nodded soberly, “Perhaps twas the gods that arranged it? It could be this was no chance meeting.”
Go to Part 1
Aleeto sighed inwardly. Well, so much for gathering any information from this lot the easy way. He tried to stop fussing at himself and prepare. Taking slow regular breaths like a sleeper, wasn't the best way to center yourself before a fight, but it would have to do. Three to one odds weren't the best, but the only one who looked like he'd be much trouble was the half-orc. Again he tried to focus and clear his mind. The thugs were almost close enough.
Now! Aleeto's arm snapped up flinging the remaining hot tea at the orc's face, then slinging the mug at the man with him. He erupted out of the chair as if on a spring. His left hand cocked back, at a thought his ring transformed into a bronze capped fighting staff. His right hand grasped it further down and he snapped it in a high strike going for the half-orc's head. The hot tea hadn't really done much to blind his opponent, but it had distracted him. So he didn't notice the staff until a bit too late. Even so, the hulking thug rolled with the strike. Despite a sound like an ax hitting wood, the thick skulled halfbreed didn't fall. He did stumble though, and he dropped the knife.
Unfortunately the half-orc's companion produced a nasty little stiletto and moved to come at Aleeto from a different direction. His staff was already swinging into a position for a follow up strike on the halfbreed, leaving him open to this new attack. Suddenly another bit of motion at the edge of his perception registered. A fraction of a second later there was an angry metallic hiss and a meaty thunk. The human thug looked down at the long sword buried in his chest. His eyes followed the steel blade to the knight's mailed arm and then up that to meet his killer's eyes. As the man collapsed, the now very awake knight shook the corpse off his sword. Aleeto's staff continued to move, making a fast one, two, three combination and the half-orc collapsed.
Looking around for the proprietor he found the him slumped next to the bar with the dagger he'd earlier seen on the knight's belt sticking out of his heart, and a cocked crossbow next to his limp hand. Aleeto blinked in confusion and turned to face the knight who held the bloody sword in a casual nonthreatening manner, but was regarding him with a suspicious expression.
In a thick aristocratic Therlander accent the knight said, “Methinks thou art no more a helpless popinjay than I was asleep at yon table.”
“Er, no.” Aleeto bowed and said, “Aleeto, Agent of the Dorian Information Gatherer's Guild at your service.”
The knight smiled and returned the bow, then wiped the blood off his blade and sheathed the sword in one smooth motion, “I am Sir Garold, Order of the Long Road. I perceive that we must both be here to put an end to the nefarious deeds of these miscreants.”
“Ah. That explains what you are doing here a day and a half from the nearest point on the Pilgrim Road.”
“Aye. I was to meet a companion in Three Corners. But there was no sign of him. As he had undertaken a mission to Dori on behalf of the order, I took myself this way in hopes of ascertaining his fate. This establishment had an unsavory air to it. Thus you found me here testing their mettle.”
“Why weren't you knocked out?”
“How could I not find it peculiar that such a vile place as this would serve such an exalted beverage? So I took a vial of anti-toxin and let my head fall forward. As Saint Willum said in chapter seven of the Book of the Wheel, “Those with things to hide often reveal their secrets when they think no one will witness it.” I hoped to find out if these loathsome spawn worked mischief on my missing companion, without need of putting them to the question.”
“Isn't that being a bit...Well sneaky? At least for someone of your order?”
“Anyone who thinks a man in full gear such as I wear could fall asleep in that chair, and remain seated, would be called a fool by some. So if someone thought I was in a doze, that is no fault of mine.” Garold gave him a crooked smile.
Aleeto tilted his head and laughed. “I think I've just been called a fool. Well, I can't say this evening turned out as I'd hoped. I would rather have taken the boss prisoner, but at least I can report back to the Guild that this operation is shut down. It was bad luck for these bastards that we both ended up here to deal with them at the same time.”
Sir Garold nodded soberly, “Perhaps twas the gods that arranged it? It could be this was no chance meeting.”
Wednesday, May 31, 2017
The Road to Rhym
A few days ago I posted about how I came to publish Rhym through FOE. But I didn't go into the journey. And believe me, it was indeed quite a learning experience! After getting a look at the massive info dump JP Chapleau asked me to reduce things down to just the bits absolutely needed. I'm the sort who thinks about church architecture, priestly vestments, tectonic plates, trade routes, erosion patterns, and numerous other details when designing a world. And in this case, I'd written a lot of that stuff down.
But do you need all that to run a game in Rhym? Not so much. You need to know the big stuff, the important stuff, the neat stuff. So I boiled it down to that. Then we started adding things back in. JP suggested things, or made tweaks here and there, and even supplied some content. But the bulk of the beast is made up of meat from the original document, now well seasoned and laid out with an eye to making it useful for a Dungeon Master. The net result is something you can go and buy. And hopefully enjoy.
But do you need all that to run a game in Rhym? Not so much. You need to know the big stuff, the important stuff, the neat stuff. So I boiled it down to that. Then we started adding things back in. JP suggested things, or made tweaks here and there, and even supplied some content. But the bulk of the beast is made up of meat from the original document, now well seasoned and laid out with an eye to making it useful for a Dungeon Master. The net result is something you can go and buy. And hopefully enjoy.
 |
| Rhym: Under the Rings |
I wish I could claim the fabulous cover as my own work, but it isn't! JP commisioned it from a wonderful artist named Irene Compos You can see more of her work at DeviantArt.com.
Sunday, May 28, 2017
Fiction: No Chance Meeting - Part II
Fiction by J. D. Conrad - 2015
Continued from Part I
Nerus kept an appropriately humble expression on his chubby round face as he walked to the aristocrat's table. He carefully set the hot mug down in front of the rich fool. Putting a smile on his face and servile tone in his voice he said, “There you go good sir. Tarani devil's tea. Best thing for a body on damp evening like this. It'll warm you right up!” The wealthy pigeon didn't even say thank you as Nerus swept the coin into his meaty hand. When he looked down he saw the coin was not silver, it was a Cathari Platinum Imperial! This idiot must be filthy rich. This was turning out to be a good day. First the metal coated moron. His horse and equipment would bring a fist full of gold. Now this peacock. If his jewelry and this coin were any indication of his wealth he might be worth keeping alive for ransom. As he stepped back behind the bar and swung the gate closed with another loud thwap he glanced at the knight. Not even a twitch. He was surely asleep, maybe even dead. Nerus had used more of the potion in his drink than usual. He looked far too vigorous and well armed to have him waking up at an inconvenient moment.
Aleeto raised his eyebrows as he held the mug to his nose and sniffed. Sure enough, this dump was serving one of the most expensive beverages you could find in the Northlands. And doing it Southern style. The red cocoa bean powder had been mixed with hot water and so many hot spices that the smell alone made his eyes water. None the less he took a delicate drink, making a slurping sound as he sucked in some of the scalding liquid. He almost coughed it back out as the rich bitter taste of the cocoa was blasted aside by too much hot pepper. Yes, this would indeed warm a person up. But this concoction would also hide whatever potion or poison the barman had put into the drink. So it was a good thing that Aleeto had taken a vial of anti-toxin just in case.
Not that it was likely that whatever the barman had used on him would have worked anyway. For over two decades he had been on a regimen of poisons and antidotes designed to make him nearly invulnerable to such things. But after reading the guild's secret reports on this place he'd wanted to be extra careful. Well, careful wasn't going to happen. He'd have to take more chances than he'd intended if wanted to pull the armored do gooder's chestnuts out of the fire.
So he winced each time he took a sip of the fiery beverage and made sounds of appreciation. Even one of the Old Families probably wouldn't be very familiar with Devil's Tea, but they would know it is something that the rich and powerful in the Empire drink. So it would have to be sinfully tasty, right? They'd never show any sign it wasn't just the most wonderful thing. At least the overblown dunderhead he was pretending to be wouldn't.
Glancing over at the knight he could see the armored chest of the slumped figure moving slightly as he breathed. So whatever was in the drink must be some sort of sleeping potion. Well, that was good. Probably. Aleeto winced again, he really wasn't that hard was he? The knights weren't a bad lot. Trying to protect pilgrims on their way to the Most Holy Temple. The order fought bandits and creatures along the entire length of a road that nearly bisected the continent of Rhym. He would feel bad if one was poisoned by scum like this. Wouldn't he?
He'd finished nearly half the drink and decided that was enough. His mouth was on fire. Making sure that the barman was trying to watch him without being seen doing so, Aleeto rubbed his face and blinked. He sat the mug on the table, keeping hold of it in such a way that his arm rested on the surface. Then he slowly slumped back as though passing out.
Nerus idly rubbed a cloth across the scuffed bar top and tried to surreptitiously keep an eye on the pigeon as he drank the tea. Soon the aristocrat was nodding off, his head lolling back so far it was surprising that the fop didn't slump out of the chair onto the floor. He glanced back and forth between his sleeping “guests,” then he went to the end of the bar and opened the gate. “Thwap!” Not a twitch out of either of them. He stuck his head into the back and called out, “Alright you louts, get out here and see to these fat pigeons.” He stood to the side as his cousin Antoneo and a half-orc he'd hired for this sort of work named Groll came out into the taproom. Groll was half a head taller than Nerus, and weighed just as much, nearly all of it muscle. The two looked back and forth at the sleepers, then headed for Aleeto. He looked lighter since he wasn't wearing armor. Noticing where his henchmen were heading Nerus said, “Go ahead, slit both their throats.” Groll pulled a wicked looking knife from his belt and smiled.
Read the conclusion
Continued from Part I
Nerus kept an appropriately humble expression on his chubby round face as he walked to the aristocrat's table. He carefully set the hot mug down in front of the rich fool. Putting a smile on his face and servile tone in his voice he said, “There you go good sir. Tarani devil's tea. Best thing for a body on damp evening like this. It'll warm you right up!” The wealthy pigeon didn't even say thank you as Nerus swept the coin into his meaty hand. When he looked down he saw the coin was not silver, it was a Cathari Platinum Imperial! This idiot must be filthy rich. This was turning out to be a good day. First the metal coated moron. His horse and equipment would bring a fist full of gold. Now this peacock. If his jewelry and this coin were any indication of his wealth he might be worth keeping alive for ransom. As he stepped back behind the bar and swung the gate closed with another loud thwap he glanced at the knight. Not even a twitch. He was surely asleep, maybe even dead. Nerus had used more of the potion in his drink than usual. He looked far too vigorous and well armed to have him waking up at an inconvenient moment.
#
Aleeto raised his eyebrows as he held the mug to his nose and sniffed. Sure enough, this dump was serving one of the most expensive beverages you could find in the Northlands. And doing it Southern style. The red cocoa bean powder had been mixed with hot water and so many hot spices that the smell alone made his eyes water. None the less he took a delicate drink, making a slurping sound as he sucked in some of the scalding liquid. He almost coughed it back out as the rich bitter taste of the cocoa was blasted aside by too much hot pepper. Yes, this would indeed warm a person up. But this concoction would also hide whatever potion or poison the barman had put into the drink. So it was a good thing that Aleeto had taken a vial of anti-toxin just in case.
Not that it was likely that whatever the barman had used on him would have worked anyway. For over two decades he had been on a regimen of poisons and antidotes designed to make him nearly invulnerable to such things. But after reading the guild's secret reports on this place he'd wanted to be extra careful. Well, careful wasn't going to happen. He'd have to take more chances than he'd intended if wanted to pull the armored do gooder's chestnuts out of the fire.
So he winced each time he took a sip of the fiery beverage and made sounds of appreciation. Even one of the Old Families probably wouldn't be very familiar with Devil's Tea, but they would know it is something that the rich and powerful in the Empire drink. So it would have to be sinfully tasty, right? They'd never show any sign it wasn't just the most wonderful thing. At least the overblown dunderhead he was pretending to be wouldn't.
Glancing over at the knight he could see the armored chest of the slumped figure moving slightly as he breathed. So whatever was in the drink must be some sort of sleeping potion. Well, that was good. Probably. Aleeto winced again, he really wasn't that hard was he? The knights weren't a bad lot. Trying to protect pilgrims on their way to the Most Holy Temple. The order fought bandits and creatures along the entire length of a road that nearly bisected the continent of Rhym. He would feel bad if one was poisoned by scum like this. Wouldn't he?
He'd finished nearly half the drink and decided that was enough. His mouth was on fire. Making sure that the barman was trying to watch him without being seen doing so, Aleeto rubbed his face and blinked. He sat the mug on the table, keeping hold of it in such a way that his arm rested on the surface. Then he slowly slumped back as though passing out.
#
Nerus idly rubbed a cloth across the scuffed bar top and tried to surreptitiously keep an eye on the pigeon as he drank the tea. Soon the aristocrat was nodding off, his head lolling back so far it was surprising that the fop didn't slump out of the chair onto the floor. He glanced back and forth between his sleeping “guests,” then he went to the end of the bar and opened the gate. “Thwap!” Not a twitch out of either of them. He stuck his head into the back and called out, “Alright you louts, get out here and see to these fat pigeons.” He stood to the side as his cousin Antoneo and a half-orc he'd hired for this sort of work named Groll came out into the taproom. Groll was half a head taller than Nerus, and weighed just as much, nearly all of it muscle. The two looked back and forth at the sleepers, then headed for Aleeto. He looked lighter since he wasn't wearing armor. Noticing where his henchmen were heading Nerus said, “Go ahead, slit both their throats.” Groll pulled a wicked looking knife from his belt and smiled.
Read the conclusion
Friday, May 26, 2017
Image: The Bridge of Heaven
When I saw this image it made me think of how things must look from the surface of Rhym. The Washington DC view would be about right for how the Bridge of Heaven would look from Doria.
This image is linked from AsapScience on facebook.com.
Fiction: No Chance Meeting - Part I
Fiction by J. D. Conrad - 2015
At least the rain had stopped. After three soggy days in the saddle Aleeto kept thinking things like “I'm too old for this!” and “I should be back at the guild hall next to a warm fire reading reports, not out here riding through this sodden mess.” He could have let a junior member of the guild take care of this task, but he hadn't visited Three Corners and seen his cousin Delmar for almost two years. Now here he was with saddle sores and soaked clothes.
So when he saw the rather seedy looking Inn ahead, he heaved a sigh of relief. He was almost glad to ride through the gate into the muddy courtyard and stiffly drop from his horse. He turned and looked at the creature with a gimlet eye. He much preferred traveling by boat. But for this mission it had to by horse. Neither he nor this four legged torturer were very happy about that.
He was distracted from the sour regard of his mount by the squelching sound of someone walking through the thick mud. A large gangly young fellow with the slack face of an imbecile was working his way toward him from the stable. Once within arm's reach he mumbled, “See to yer horse m'lord?” Aleeto gave him a broad smile and loudly proclaimed, “Certainly my good man.” His accent marked him as member of one of the Republic's “Old Families.” His hand fished out a pale gold Tarani coin, and dropped it into the gaping moron's hand. “Take good care of him and there will be another of those for you in the morning.” Then he turned to regard the Inn.
He grimaced as his back popped from the motion. So he placed his hands on his hips and arched his back, making a long groan of mixed pain and pleasure as he stretched. His raised eyes fell on the afternoon sky. As is common after a hard rain the sunset was turning out to be especially beautiful. Full of yellows and oranges, yet somehow the light almost appeared to have a green tint to it. And there arching over the clouds was the so called Bridge of Heaven, its bands of silver shaded a faint yellow in the glorious firmament.
As an educated man Aleeto of course knew the bridge was really a set of rings that circled around the whole world. Why just last month he'd read a monograph by a diviner who had used a new spell to closely inspect the rings, and found that the theory they were some form of cloud was not at all correct. In fact they were made up of countless jagged chunks of rock and ice, so it was not any sort of bridge. More like ever so many tiny moons.
Dropping his eyes from the lovely sky to the door of the Inn, he noted the green paint was peeling. Scanning the entire courtyard he noticed a general need for repairs. Peeling paint not only on the door, but on the Inn and stable walls. A pair of missing boards in the compound's fence. And there a pair of rusted chains where a sign had once hung. He gave the chains a lopsided grin; there were things in this place that were more deserving of being hung than any sign.
He sighed again as he squelched through the gelatinous mud toward to the door. He paused, hand on the latch to try and scrape some of the mud from his shoes, but after a moment just gave up and pushed into the building. The first thing he noticed, even in the dim lantern light, was that he was not the first person to track mud inside. From the looks of it, he was not even in the first dozen.
He raised his eyes from the mud encrusted rushes on the floor and saw a slovenly rotund man giving him a wide grin from behind the bar. As Aleeto pushed the door closed behind himself the man opened his jowly jaws and greeted him, “Welcome to the Woodcutter's Rest good sir. How fare you?”
Aleeto pulled his body into the cocky posture so many of the upper crust of the Republic used, then strutted forward as if preparing to preen a set of tail feathers. “I am doing atrociously my good fellow! Have you ever seen such rain this time of year? And me forced to be out in it. I've not a dry patch from crown to toe.” To demonstrate, he swung off his fur trimmed cloak, scattering droplets across the filthy floor, draped it over his arm and used his bejeweled free had to give his tiny goatee a squeeze. It actually made a trickle of water fall from his chin to the slightly rounded midsection below. He looked down with a dismayed expression at the expensive fabric of his tunic, stuck to him with water and spattered here and there with the ubiquitous mud.
The barman gave a gravelly chuckle and said, “I see what you mean sir. Well, you sit right down and I'll have a proper treat for you faster than a Churchman's blessing.”
“Now that sounds quite lovely my good fellow.” Aleeto turned, sweeping the whole room with his gaze and saw there was another guest. A sturdy looking young fellow still wearing armor, sword and dagger. The coif of his mail was pushed back revealing shaggy brown hair and a slightly scruffy beard. He was slumped over, obviously asleep, with his face only inches from the clay mug between his hands. Even so, the sun and horizon symbol used by the Knights of the Long Road was clearly visible on his surcoat.
Aleeto was so annoyed that he mentally grumbled to himself, “A Paladin, well away from his usual haunts and now in need of a rescue. There goes my careful plan.”
Showing no reaction outwardly he strutted over to one of the other tables and seated himself in a grand manner. He tossed his cloak over an empty chair, leaned back and put his muddy boots in the seat of another. “Well then barman, bring me your best.” He leaned to the side to fish out a dull silver colored coin with a square hole in its center and dropped it by the candle stick in the middle of the rickety table.
While he appeared simply a wet and weary traveler, Aleeto was busy thinking. Under half closed eyelids he was noting the location of every door, window and piece of furniture in the room. The only sign of inner turmoil was that his left thumb was nervously stroking the bronze ring on that same hand's index finger.
Keeping his promise the fat barman was very busy concocting some beverage. Hot liquid from a tiny kettle was poured into a heavy clay mug and then quickly stirred. Using thick callused fingers he placed the mug on a small pewter tray. The partition at the end of the bar made a loud thwap as he swung it open and the man began to ponderously make his way toward Aleeto.
To be continued...
At least the rain had stopped. After three soggy days in the saddle Aleeto kept thinking things like “I'm too old for this!” and “I should be back at the guild hall next to a warm fire reading reports, not out here riding through this sodden mess.” He could have let a junior member of the guild take care of this task, but he hadn't visited Three Corners and seen his cousin Delmar for almost two years. Now here he was with saddle sores and soaked clothes.
So when he saw the rather seedy looking Inn ahead, he heaved a sigh of relief. He was almost glad to ride through the gate into the muddy courtyard and stiffly drop from his horse. He turned and looked at the creature with a gimlet eye. He much preferred traveling by boat. But for this mission it had to by horse. Neither he nor this four legged torturer were very happy about that.
He was distracted from the sour regard of his mount by the squelching sound of someone walking through the thick mud. A large gangly young fellow with the slack face of an imbecile was working his way toward him from the stable. Once within arm's reach he mumbled, “See to yer horse m'lord?” Aleeto gave him a broad smile and loudly proclaimed, “Certainly my good man.” His accent marked him as member of one of the Republic's “Old Families.” His hand fished out a pale gold Tarani coin, and dropped it into the gaping moron's hand. “Take good care of him and there will be another of those for you in the morning.” Then he turned to regard the Inn.
He grimaced as his back popped from the motion. So he placed his hands on his hips and arched his back, making a long groan of mixed pain and pleasure as he stretched. His raised eyes fell on the afternoon sky. As is common after a hard rain the sunset was turning out to be especially beautiful. Full of yellows and oranges, yet somehow the light almost appeared to have a green tint to it. And there arching over the clouds was the so called Bridge of Heaven, its bands of silver shaded a faint yellow in the glorious firmament.
As an educated man Aleeto of course knew the bridge was really a set of rings that circled around the whole world. Why just last month he'd read a monograph by a diviner who had used a new spell to closely inspect the rings, and found that the theory they were some form of cloud was not at all correct. In fact they were made up of countless jagged chunks of rock and ice, so it was not any sort of bridge. More like ever so many tiny moons.
Dropping his eyes from the lovely sky to the door of the Inn, he noted the green paint was peeling. Scanning the entire courtyard he noticed a general need for repairs. Peeling paint not only on the door, but on the Inn and stable walls. A pair of missing boards in the compound's fence. And there a pair of rusted chains where a sign had once hung. He gave the chains a lopsided grin; there were things in this place that were more deserving of being hung than any sign.
He sighed again as he squelched through the gelatinous mud toward to the door. He paused, hand on the latch to try and scrape some of the mud from his shoes, but after a moment just gave up and pushed into the building. The first thing he noticed, even in the dim lantern light, was that he was not the first person to track mud inside. From the looks of it, he was not even in the first dozen.
He raised his eyes from the mud encrusted rushes on the floor and saw a slovenly rotund man giving him a wide grin from behind the bar. As Aleeto pushed the door closed behind himself the man opened his jowly jaws and greeted him, “Welcome to the Woodcutter's Rest good sir. How fare you?”
Aleeto pulled his body into the cocky posture so many of the upper crust of the Republic used, then strutted forward as if preparing to preen a set of tail feathers. “I am doing atrociously my good fellow! Have you ever seen such rain this time of year? And me forced to be out in it. I've not a dry patch from crown to toe.” To demonstrate, he swung off his fur trimmed cloak, scattering droplets across the filthy floor, draped it over his arm and used his bejeweled free had to give his tiny goatee a squeeze. It actually made a trickle of water fall from his chin to the slightly rounded midsection below. He looked down with a dismayed expression at the expensive fabric of his tunic, stuck to him with water and spattered here and there with the ubiquitous mud.
The barman gave a gravelly chuckle and said, “I see what you mean sir. Well, you sit right down and I'll have a proper treat for you faster than a Churchman's blessing.”
“Now that sounds quite lovely my good fellow.” Aleeto turned, sweeping the whole room with his gaze and saw there was another guest. A sturdy looking young fellow still wearing armor, sword and dagger. The coif of his mail was pushed back revealing shaggy brown hair and a slightly scruffy beard. He was slumped over, obviously asleep, with his face only inches from the clay mug between his hands. Even so, the sun and horizon symbol used by the Knights of the Long Road was clearly visible on his surcoat.
Aleeto was so annoyed that he mentally grumbled to himself, “A Paladin, well away from his usual haunts and now in need of a rescue. There goes my careful plan.”
Showing no reaction outwardly he strutted over to one of the other tables and seated himself in a grand manner. He tossed his cloak over an empty chair, leaned back and put his muddy boots in the seat of another. “Well then barman, bring me your best.” He leaned to the side to fish out a dull silver colored coin with a square hole in its center and dropped it by the candle stick in the middle of the rickety table.
While he appeared simply a wet and weary traveler, Aleeto was busy thinking. Under half closed eyelids he was noting the location of every door, window and piece of furniture in the room. The only sign of inner turmoil was that his left thumb was nervously stroking the bronze ring on that same hand's index finger.
Keeping his promise the fat barman was very busy concocting some beverage. Hot liquid from a tiny kettle was poured into a heavy clay mug and then quickly stirred. Using thick callused fingers he placed the mug on a small pewter tray. The partition at the end of the bar made a loud thwap as he swung it open and the man began to ponderously make his way toward Aleeto.
To be continued...
Welcome to Rhym!
My journey to create Rhym started about two years ago. It began when I got my hands on the new 5th Edition Dungeons & Dragons rules. They intrigued me. I was one of those folks who wouldn't touch 4th Edition D&D. But I could understand why a lot of folks might not like the complexity of the D20 system versions of the game like 3.5 and Pathfinder.
Of course the first thing I did was make a bunch of characters. All of them needed backgrounds of course. And I had been running all my D&D games in the Forgotten Realms since it's first release back in AD&D days. But I ran into a problem. I'd have to convert a huge amount of stuff to work with the 5e rules if I used Mr. Greenwood's realm, because the publishers in their wisdom had not released a traditional style settings book for 5e.
Given all this, and decades of world building experience for many game systems, I made up my first D&D game world since the 1980s. In between I'd created settings for Hero Systems, GURPS, In the Labyrinth, Traveller, and many others. So it wasn't like it was the first time I'd done this. But I did go a bit overboard.
After a few weeks of furious typing and drawing I had around 89,000 words and dozens of maps and diagrams filling around 160 pages. I tried to put them in some semblance of order thinking I'd be sharing with those folks who found themselves playing in any 5e game I happened to be running. And so things sat for a good while.
Then I went to Conglomeration in 2016. I was interested in perhaps doing some writing for the game industry, so I attended a panel where JP Chapleau happened to say that what publishers wanted was work that was finished. On impulse, I spoke to him as we were leaving. "Hey, know any publishers who might be interested in a completed D&D 5e setting." His answer was, "Yes. Me." And thus began our partnership in bringing what I hope is a fun, detailed and slightly twisted campaign setting to the gaming community.
Of course the first thing I did was make a bunch of characters. All of them needed backgrounds of course. And I had been running all my D&D games in the Forgotten Realms since it's first release back in AD&D days. But I ran into a problem. I'd have to convert a huge amount of stuff to work with the 5e rules if I used Mr. Greenwood's realm, because the publishers in their wisdom had not released a traditional style settings book for 5e.
Given all this, and decades of world building experience for many game systems, I made up my first D&D game world since the 1980s. In between I'd created settings for Hero Systems, GURPS, In the Labyrinth, Traveller, and many others. So it wasn't like it was the first time I'd done this. But I did go a bit overboard.
After a few weeks of furious typing and drawing I had around 89,000 words and dozens of maps and diagrams filling around 160 pages. I tried to put them in some semblance of order thinking I'd be sharing with those folks who found themselves playing in any 5e game I happened to be running. And so things sat for a good while.
Then I went to Conglomeration in 2016. I was interested in perhaps doing some writing for the game industry, so I attended a panel where JP Chapleau happened to say that what publishers wanted was work that was finished. On impulse, I spoke to him as we were leaving. "Hey, know any publishers who might be interested in a completed D&D 5e setting." His answer was, "Yes. Me." And thus began our partnership in bringing what I hope is a fun, detailed and slightly twisted campaign setting to the gaming community.
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