Thought of the Day

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

- Theodore Roosevelt

The SS TPK (and what a fine ship she is too!)

Here I am, attempting to avoid counting down the days until I finish working at British Sugar - and I find myself yet again with nothing much to do. That means, of course, that it is time to perform my honour-sworn duty as scribe for the brave English Gentlemen currently trapped in 1879 French Algiers.

I might also add that since it is distinctly possible that John will be unable to attend the next (and final!) wednesday night of gaming and debauchery, this will likely be my last session of Call of Cthulhu. Next week Mark has promised us a taster session for his upcoming D&D 4E campaign - which I have volunteered to roll up cannon fod.... er... characters for.

When we last left off, the party of beleagered English sorts had just been chased through the town streets, taken several wrong turns and ended up - quite by accident, I might add- aboard the ship that claimed the lives of our last party (Affectionately dubbed the SS TPK). We hit the deck, quite literally, and stay low as a rabble of Arabs gathers on the docks and starts shouting and pointing in all different directions. Nathaniel, toting a shotgun, takes up position by the makeshift boarding ramp and waits. Lady Petra hurries below deck in search of a first-aid kit and promptly finds herself in a conversation with an Arab who is skulking around below decks in one of the cabins. Quite fortunately, she speaks Arabic and somehow manages to convince the fellow that she is from a lesser known islamic-germanic sect, and hurries off with some bandages to help the Sergeant Major.

By the time she returns, though, the stubborn bastard is already back on his feet - a little sore (1 hp from unconsciousness!) - but ready to have another go. Now, for the first time we takes stock of what is on deck around us and find several dead arabs fallen around a group of dead white men. We assume this is the place we're actually supposed to be, and Steven volunteers to head below decks to search around for the statue we're supposed to be retrieving.

The Major takes up a lever-action Aut 6 and starts to gather up loose rounds from the deck to load the weapon.

Then we notice the pile.

Its a big pile.

Of bodies.

Arabs, in fact.

Apparently killed by some small stabbing implement.

Oh, and there is a french flag planted on the top.

In a stroke of sensibility, we agree that it is probably better to hide the bodies and take the flag down, lest we draw the attention of the knot of Arabs still milling around the docks district hunting for us. The Major and Petra start to drag bodies down off the deck whilst Nathaniel keeps watch. It is a hard job, but they get it done eventually.

Unfortunately we're not particularly good at this whole 'low-profile' thing (or maybe John just likes to watch us suffer... he does have a large pile of character sheets behind that screen). Just as we finish up, we hear the sound of gunshots below deck and Petra and Fairbrass hurry to investigate. They find Steven propped up against the door-frame of a cabin, wheezing away (Con of 4, remember...) with a pistol in hand. He appears to have been redecorating the cabin with the brains of some unfortunate rag-head who "Came at me with a knife."

Well, we already know that the gun-shots will give us away, and so the Sergeant Major shoulders his rifle and hurries back up to the deck to assist Nathaniel with a last stand; too stubborn and English to abandon a comrade. Petra and Steven, on the other hand, have other plans. They scarper to the engine room in search of somewhere to hide.

Fairbrass arrives at the top of the stairs onto the main deck just in time to see Nathaniel (brandishing his spent shotgun like a club) be disarmed by an Arab with a scimitar, and then brutally run through by another. Calmly Sergeant Major Fairbrass (barely conscious here... remember!) raises his rifle and shoots one of the Arabs in the chest, but fails to take him down. The two charge; prompting Fairbrass to toss aside his rifle (no time to reload) and draw his sabre to join in a clash of blades. The sound of steel on steel can be heard even in the bowels of the ship.

Sergeant Major Fairbrass - an expert sword-fighter in his own right - ducks and weaves and parries. He fells one man with a slash to the throat, and then drops the other with a single neat thrust through the gut. Pulling his sword free, he stands ready to take the next wave - stoically refusing to give up the stairs to the Arabs. Two more of the angry locals appear, this time one of them with a pistol. Fairbrass refuses to back down, and the coward shoots him rather than engage in combat (probably sensible seeing the two dead men at his feet). Though the shot only clips him, it is enough to drop the barely conscious soldier, and he tumbles backwards down the stairs and knows no more.

Meanwhile, back down in the engine room: Petra and Steven are frantically searching for a hiding spot. They try to back into a gap between two boiler vessels, only to be met by a polite cough and a ragged man with three weeks worth of beard already hidden in their chosen corner. He wrings his hands around a cross that hangs from his neck and looks up at them in slight confusion.

Lawrence (Me, again): "Oh, er, hello. What's going on here?"
Petra: "We're trying to hide."
Lawrence: "Hide? Why, whats happening?"
Steven: "There's Arabs on the ship, old boy."
Lawrence: "Arabs? My goodness, why? Where are we?"

This carries on for several moments in confusion before the conversation is rudely interrupted as a drunk Frenchman staggers out of the shadows and grabs Petra's behind. Everyone starts to argue for a moment, with Steven trying to calm us down. In the tight confines and the confusion Petra bruises Steven's nose and blackens Lawrence's eye as she whirls to strike Pierre Le Cough directly on the nose, breaking it painfully!

It quickly becomes apparent that Pierre can't actually speak any English... and we are forced to ask Petra to translate. Unfortunately for us all, apparently her French isn't that great... and the message gets somewhat 'lost' in translation.

Example:
Pierre (in french): "You filthy protestant pig!"
Petra (to me): "He says you have nice teeth."

At the sounds of approaching footsteps, we quickly agree to argue later, and hide. Two Arabs poke their heads inside, and eventually decide not to both investigating any further. On their way out, they make mention about sinking the ship.

Petra:"They're going to sink the ship."
Pierre (in french): "Perhaps they will open the seacocks."
Petra: "He's talking saucy french-speak!"
Steven: "Just say the word, old girl, and I'll take the matter in hand."

Eventually we scrabble out of our hiding place. Steven goes off in further search of the statue, whilst the rest of us poke around the engine room. We have a brief encounter with what looks like a coal-dusted whippet (whom speaks english, but only Petra can hear...) and then head out after Steven. We find him lying in a heap on the floor, wheezing again, but clutching a heavy briefcase with the statue in it (you should have seen how many spot hidden rolls he failed in the evening before he finally found this thing... the look of victory on his face was priceless).

We skulk around below deck for a while, since we can still hear voices up on the main deck (an Imam proclaiming war on the white man etc etc etc). Eventually they seem to get bored, and sod off as night falls. With the help of Petra we all dress ourselves up in the clothes of the dead arabs spread throughout the ship, and sneak up onto the main deck.

John (to Mark): "Give me a spot roll."
Mark: "Yep, I make it. Ooh, can I make a spider sense roll?"
John: "Er..."
Mark: "I get a 14."

Sometimes I wonder what happened to my last marble...

Anyway. So, we're disguised. We sneak off the ship and manage to hurry back through the streets towards the embassy unmolested (relatively speaking). The english representative of the gentlemen's club is sitting on his balcony, and calls for a rifle to shoot at 'the locals' when he sees us approaching in disguise. We're forced to run to avoid getting shot at, and manage to get under the balcony and to the front door without any further damage to the party.

After some misunderstandings with the doorman about passwords and our identities (and the loss, or rather; the misplacement of Paul and the bath-chair on the ship), we manage to get the front door opened for us.

Doorman: "So... er... the others?"
Steven: "Well, we got into a bit of a firefight."
Doorman: "Firefight?"
Steven: "Yes... you know, with guns. They came second."
Doorman: "Oh. And Paul? Did he come second too?"

We spent the last ten minutes of the game trying to explain away the presence of the Frenchman. Unfortunately, with only Petra to dubiously translate, the conversation was a little butchered. The following is a very small exerpt.

Doorman: "Is he a dirty, thieving type?"
Petra (in french): "He says would you like to meet his sister?"
Pierre (in french): "Does she have a moustache as good as his?"
Petra (to doorman): "No."
Doorman: "Good."
Petra (in french): "Yes, but it is elsewhere-placed."

We finally got inside, though, and called it a night!

D&D 4th Edition: The Titans

With four sessions under our belts (and a couple of levels) it is probably time I enlighten my players as to a few more details of the game world as-is.

I will be providing a map of Roat when I get a chance.

------------

The World: As far as most people are concerned (certainly everyone you know), the World is a small place - A single 'Kingdom' known as Roat. There are no borders, as such, merely the Worldwall and nothing else. Many often speculate as to the presence of a wider world beyond the great wall, but most will usually agree that it is for the best that noone ever crosses the wall. Surely, they will say, the Gods built the wall to protect us from any that might do us harm. Here, we are safe.

Due to the nature of the game-world, all PCs will be native to Roat. Though there are a few who claim to have traversed the Worldwall, they are more often than not driven mad by their ordeal, or are simply condemned as liars and conmen. Noone has ever crossed the wall and returned.

Roat: Roat is a Kingdom, or, more accurately, it is the Kingdom. It is the World as people know it, a land between the heavens and the underworlds created at the beginning of time by the Gods, populated by their creations, and guarded by the Worldwall.

(More to follow on a map - But for now imagine Roat to be an area encompassing no more than two large cities and the surrounding countryside/towns/villages/farms etc. This area includes marshes, hills, plains, forests and even a cluster of small mountains.)

Religion: As per the PHB. The Pantheon of worshipped Gods is the same.

Magic: Relatively low, and the same with magic items of any great power. Generally any powerful items will be relics, heirlooms or ancient artifacts passed down through generations. These are items of such great worth that they are beyond the resources of normal men to buy.
Magic itself not tremendously common, especially when it comes to followers of the arcane arts. Religion plays a larger part in the everyday lives of most people, and as such it is more common to encounter a Cleric than a Wizard or Warlock. It has been many years since any Wizards of great power lived in Roat, and now their teachings and guilds are decrepit and diluted.

Fallcrest's own Nimozaran the Green is an ageing Wizard. Whilst he retains much of the power of his youth and is more potent than most in the Town, his body is frail and aged, and his more spectacular magics are now few and far between. He makes his home in the tower on the southern edge of Fallcrest, and has a single apprentice - Eltharyn of the Eladrin.

Due mostly to the lack of high-level magic, travel is limited to mundane means mostly. Nimozaran keeps an old circle of teleportation in his tower, but it is rarely used. Noone has ever tried to use it to traverse the world wall, or, at least if it has, they have never returned. Flight and teleportation are difficult powers to master, and as such most people have never tried to leave the confines of the Kingdom in search of a wider world. In the most part, people are happy that way.

The Worldwall: There is one place that everyone has heard of, and most people will travel to see at some point in their lives; The Worldwall. It is a vast, sky-scraping structure as tall as the mountains. From a distance it looks like the end of the world, or a long, unnaturally straight mountain range. The sheer size of the wall defies belief and baffles the senses to its true scale; more than a mile in height, and probably eight times that in depth. In reality, it is not straight at all, but rather slightly curved in such a way that it rings all of Roat with an impenetrable barrier.

At first, or at least from a distance, the golden wall is featureless. Up close it becomes more apparent that the wall is worked, built (at least at the lower levels) from enormous blocks of sandy-coloured stone, carved with clever niches and staircases that blend in from a distance. The wall itself is actually a mindbogglingly huge network of tunnels, walkways and chambers - some speculate them to be the passages used by the original servants to the Gods that built the wall when the world was young.

Noone has ever made it over the wall, or reached the other side and returned.

Saving Private Abdul

So, it is that time of the week again. I currently float in a strange sort of limbo; partially handed-over to my replacement, and sort of lacking in things to actually fill my time with.



But, as promised, I owe an update. So, where I left of last week, we had just been wiped out by an angry mob of rioting Arabs in the French Algiers (Totally unprovoked, I swear!). The scene fades to black as the ship is overrun and the last brave Englishman falls.



The story resumes upon a balcony, overlooking a certain town in the French Algiers with a group of gentlemen and a lady sipping afternoon tea and staying under the awning out of the worst of the heat. Seems quite unassuming, until a man claiming to be a representative of the Society of Gentlemen Explorers sidles up and tries to pursuade us to do a little work for them. The job seems simple enough; a brisk walk through town to the docks, retrieve an 'eagle-like' statue from where is had been carelessly left behind, and then come back. Hell, we even get expenses, so how can we possibly say no?



We head up onto the roof to get a better view of things - and it quickly becomes quite obvious that the Town is in a state of uproar. In the street below, an oddly-familiar frenchman runs by, pursued by a large crowd of pitchfork-n-torch wielding locals. As he nears the end of the street, we see him pause, brandish a pair of nail clipper, turn, and chase off the crowd single-handedly. The procession vanishes from sight for a moment, and then reappears again, moving back in the other direction once again. The crowd first, pursued by the Frenchman; who is, in turn, pursued by an damp-looking camel.



Thank God we're British, or this might seem a little off!



So, we're on the roof, and I realise I have yet to introduce my present company:

- Sergeant Major Fairbrass (Me), late 20s, strapping young soldier sort. A proper patriot and gentleman.

- Nathaniel (Chris), British writer with a BA in English. Speaks the lingo, don'cha know?

- Steven (Pete), tall, gangly sort who appears to be horribly wasted and ill. Resides in a bath-chair and has to be wheeled around everywhere. (Yes... we have a cripple)

- Petra (Mark), the first 'Lady' - and I use the term with extreme care - to grace our presence. Upper class dilettante sort, whose main possession is a trunk containing 'dress for every season'.



A disgruntled Camel hurtles overhead, which Petra tries to take a photograph of. It is some time before we finally agree that it is time to be off, and then even longer before we manage to convince the representative to lend us a man to push Steven's bath-chair. Petra insists on bringing her trunk with her. So, without anyone to carry her case, Paul (our new best friend) loads the case onto Steven's lap and starts to wheel him down the stairs.



Bump. Bump. Bump.



Petra: "Oh, don't forget my things!"



Paul, caught off guard turns to hurry back up the stairs. The bath-chair - now unsupported - thunders down the remaining steps and Steven lands in a heap at the bottom.



Paul: "Where's your case, miss?"
Petra: "Oh, its on his lap."

We finally make it downstairs and we're mulling about in the lobby whilst the Society's representative tries to urge us on our way.

Steven: "Well, this is no environment for an impressionable young lady." He exclaims, trying to convince the man that this is no place for a lady.
Representative: "I don't know. Are you impressionable, young lady?" He asks in response, turning to Petra.

Petra: "Oh no... I don't do impressions."

When we had finally convinced her to leave the case behind (and only after she changed into a Blue German Cavalry Uniform, complete with split skirt, pickelhaube and pigtails) - we were finally ready to leave!

We got half way across the street, then things started to go downhill. Stumbling across a man in the street; face down and camel-trampled, Petra takes pity on the man. After some heated debate and translation of conversation from 'Loud English' to 'Damn Rag-head', we helped the man up... sort of. Petra then convinced Steven to give up his bath chair to the crippled Arab (Who introduced himself as Abdul Ben-Hamir) and we somehow ended up getting side-tracked into taking the guy to the nearest Mosque, via his house.

Why the hell do we let Mark lead...?

Well, you can imagine the scene. This town is in religious uproar; just about ready to tear apart any infidel that shows his face... and we are going... to... the... Mosque...

Come to think of it, this angry mob looks familiar...

So we're standing in the midst of a mob of zealous Arabs, pushing a guy in a bath-chair who exclaims to the Imam that he has brought them a gift. Now... I don't speak rag-head, but I know a bad situation when I see one, and I'm already gearing myself up to leg it. Its hardly surprising when it is declared that we are to be torn limb from limb. Petra and Nathaniel distract them long enough for us to start sidling out of the crowd - arguing that we saved one of their number from death and delivered him to his holy place. The Arabs concede, and then tell us that they will only kill two of us.

Well, thats still not a great deal. Petra and I leg it, in heroic fashion, whilst Nathaniel, Paul and Steven try to make an escape with the bath-chair. Well... its crowded, so they don't get all too far, and the Arabs start to jostle them and reach for weapons.

I get one of these 'here we go again' moments, stop running, turn and unsling my rifle - a .45 Martini-Henry rifle. In the crowd, I can't make out the bath-chair or its stubborn (stupid?) occupants, but I declare that I wait to hear any cries of pain before opening fire.

With Steven back in the chair, Paul and Nathaniel manage to push their way to the edge of the angry crowd. In their hurry, they run over someone's foot and there is a cry of pain.

Boom.

My one and only shot (I forgot to bring spare ammunition...) turns an Arab into paste (critical hit, woohoo), freeing the bath-chair from the crowd. Seeing this, and hearing the angry shouts of rage from the Arabs, Fairbrass decides it might be time to go and see where Petra has got to. It isn't so much a tactical withdrawal as a carry-on movie chase scene through the streets of an Algerian Town.

Ahead of the bath-chair and the mob by a fair way, the Sergeant Major attempts to catch up with Petra, but she is a fast girl and he can't keep up. Fortunately, he lucks out when she gets lost, runs into a market and is stopped dead by the urge to shop. Fairbrass catches up and hurries her on, but not before the market place explodes in bedlam as someone behind us shouts "Look out! Tuareg Fighting Camel coming this way!" (Thanks Chris...)

I hurry Petra on down the street, and pause to wait for the others to catch up. We find outselves stopped by - of all things - an exotic weapons stand. Having no more ammunition for my rifle, Petra buys an old musket and gives it to me to load; which I do. Then, with the others in tow and an angry mob on our heels, we flee (tactical withdrawal, sorry) yet again.

Eventually we duck into a grain warehouse. Inside we find a fat man fanning himself on a deck chair, and three labourers who all look at us in surprise as we burst in, breathless and wild-eyed. For some reason, Fairbrass listens when Petra tells him to shoot the fat man, and the slippery slope gets worse. The big guy is clipped by musket shot and manages to return fire - wounding Petra (Hey, I tried to jump in the way... but that was a spectacularly bad roll) before she finishes him off with her pistol.

The labourers turn on us with knives, and Sergeant Major Fairbrass steps up in front of Petra with a drawn sabre to defend the Lady. Unfortunately, due to an unfortunate rules malfunction, the expert sword-fighter forgets how to defend himself and is promptly stabbed twice by a middle-aged man with a dagger... and collapses (Ah, hello ground, my good old friend). The others make short work of the labourers with firearms. Petra makes a point of moving to the man that stabbed me, and, as he lies dying, steps on his throat with the sharp heel of her german jack-boots.

We realise we can't stay in the warehouse, and the others load my unconscious body into the bath-chair and flee. They promptly get lost and end up back at the ship; boarding quickly in an attempt to lose the crowd!

Distilled of pure awesome

Lemming Swarm
Fine Magical Beast
Hit Dice: 12d10 (66 hp)
Initiative: +2
Speed: 15 ft. (3 squares), burrow 15 ft.
Armor Class: 20 (+8 Size, +2 Dex), touch 20, flat-footed 18
Base Attack/Grapple: +12/-
Attack: Swarm (3d6+curse)
Full Attack: Swarm (3d6+curse)
Space/Reach: 10 ft./0 ft.
Special Attacks: Distraction
Special Qualities: Swarm Traits, Dark Vision 60', Immune to Weapon Damage, Lemming Curse
Saves: Fort +8, Ref +10, Will +6
Abilities: Str 1, Dex 15, Con 10, Int 2, Wis 14, Cha 10
Skills: Hide +18, Listen +7, Spot +7, Swim +4
Feats: Alertness, Ability Focus (Lemmings Curse), Endurance, Run, Cold Endurance
Environment: Temperate or Cold Forest, Hills, Mountains, or Plains
Organization: Solitary, Cluster (3-6 Swarms), or Hive (10-20 Swarms) plus converts (CR of converts should be equal to 1/2 total CR of the swarms)
Challenge Rating: 7??
Treasure: None
Alignment: Usually Neutral
Advancement: -
Level Adjustment: ----

These look pretty much like any other Lemming. Little fuzzy critters. Surrounded by large, sometimes not so fuzzy critters with blank expressions on their faces...

Lemmings Curse (Su): Anyone subjected to the Lemmings Swarm attack must make a DC 18 Willpower Save (Save DC is Charisma based) or also be subjected to the Lemmings Curse. If it makes the Save it is immune to this swarms curse for 24 hours. If it fails it's mental stats become the same as the Lemming Swarms, and it believes itself to be one of them. The victim will do it's absolute best to defend the swarm. However it will possibly lose some feats, spells, class abilities, etc due to it's new mental stats. Since it now has the mind of a Lemming it no longer understands any language, and cannot communicate. Nor does it remember it's old life or friends. The curse lasts until the poor fool is eaten, or some kind soul casts Remove Curse/Miracle/Wish, etc.

Combat: The Lemmings aren't interested in wiping opponents out as having them join the horde. If soemthing is immuneto their Curse, they'll have the converts take him out back, so to speak...

See... D&D has Laywers too! (No... not paladins)

"Why no your honor my client is not a goat rapist, he is a veterinarian, and that goat required certain surgical procedures, which to the untrained might seem blasphemous, but which were absolutely necessary to save that poor animals life."

"My client was acting purely in self defense when she repeatedly clubbed that Paladin. How did she know he was there to save people? He was a screaming, armored maniac covered in blood and fleshy bits."

"Yes your honor my client did burn down that orphanage, but we intend to show it was to save those poor orphans from the attentions of the local Cleric of Pelor. He is...a vile man..."

"Yes your honor my client was found naked, on horseback, sitting backwards, screaming obscenities and throwing filth at passers by while going the wrong way down a crowded street. Yes she was found to be drunk and possibly on every drug known to mankind subsequent to her arrest. And yes she did beat one of the arresting officers to death with a severed head. And we can explain this. It was the fault of THAT MAN OVER THERE!!!"

Rats! OH GOD! RUN!

"Rise like the sun, stand like the mountain, charge like the lion, die as a hero."

"Blade by whom I have lived, Blade by whom I now die, serve right and justice once last time, seek out one last heart of evil, still one last life of pain, cut well old friend, and then farewell."

Wouldn't it be nice if our PCs were this heroic...?



Well... Where to start?

Another weekend of games and debauchery:
- Thanks to Jon for a little seat-of-the-pants ing Shadowrun on Friday. Hopefully now people have seen how I lead by example they might learn the value of subtlety a little more!

- Gregg's Mournlands game on Saturday evening. Rather enjoyable; though the look on Tolley's face when I exclaimed "I throw my bow at her." was rather priceless. Marksman is officially one of my more... unorthodox characters.

- 4th Ed D&D.... Rats...

The Trouble with Rats
I won't go into all the explicit details, as most people attended and/or heard the word already. I would, however, like to point out and remind the party that they were almost wiped out by rats. They weren't even special rats, or rats with lasers on their heads.... they were just rats.

Fair enough when three-quarters of the party got used as a toothpick for a young white dragon... but rats?!

I'll have to remember not to throw too many swarms at you guys next time, since most of that battle consisted of everyone crowding together in a big bunch in the corridor and leaving the Wizard and Healer unprotected on several separate occasions.

Ah well... next time you'll get to venture further into the sewers. I promise I won't throw too many more rat swarms at you any more...

Inspiration

Just been thumbing through some forums and found a nice set of 'last words' that struck a chord with me - so I felt I'd share it.

"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe.
Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion.
I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tanhauser gate.
All those moments will be lost. . . in time. . . like. . . tears, in the rain.
Time. To die."

Lions and Tigers and... Camels... Oh my!

So, here's another update for those of you who have been eagerly (or perhaps not so eagerly) awaiting more news from the Western Front. We played another session of Call of Cthulhu last night. I won't bore you with all the details - but I feel I must make note of a few gems.

Dawn breaks (crash!) on an unassuming port town in the Algiers. By now, Eric (myself) has regained consciousness... just about, and wanders up on deck to survey a scene or carnage and destruction - one which he has no idea has come about, but has his suspicions.

The Yorkshireman and Samuel have beaten me to it though, of course, and are already in debate by the railing - trying to work out whether they got the camel or not.

Casualties/Damages:
- 1 Cat
- 1 Pidgeon
- 2 Arab Pedestrians
- 1 Arab pinned to the door of a nearby house by a suspiciously familiar steel ram-rod (With the inscription "Pride of Yorkshire, Made from realy girders." printed on the length)
- 1 Splintered cart (minus one wheel)

The final shot managed to punch a large hole in a mosque roof some half a mile into town (more on this later, but it was fired at a ballistic arc in an attempt to clear half a broom-handle that had been stuck in the barrel).


Samuel spots the steel ram-rod from the ship, and decides to go and retrieve it. With a little fast-talking (he's a brit, y'know) and the help from the surprised family that own the door to which the ram-rod has pinned its unfortunate victim, he returns triumphantly to the ship - but not before being told by the Arab that there will be dire consequences for the heathens responsible for such a heinous act.

Back on the ship, Samuel returns to the Yorkshireman.

Samuel: "You'll never guess where I found this."
He brandishes the ram-rod.
Yorkshireman: "Where?"
Samuel: "Some bloody rag-head used it to nail his mate to a door!"
Yorkshireman: "Oh damn! He musta snuck on board in t'night and stole it!"

Five minutes later, the two are attempting to explain this to the French Sergeant (Sergeant LeJean, who is the leader of our expedition) whilst an angry mob gathers on the docks. A little worried, Eric and Adam retreat below deck to fetch their rifles.

Sergeant LeJean: (John, in a flawless french accent) "So, you're telling me someone stole it?"
Yorkshireman: "Aye. 'E musta slipped in t'docks durin night, swam'cross the water, clambered up'rope, cross deck n' inta me room. Then 'e took'keys from around mah neck, quite-like, 'cos I'm a light sleeper, see.... Very light, mind. With keys, 'e unlocked case, 'n stole ram-rod. Then 'e locked'case..."

Mark breaks down into laughters for a moment, struggling to keep up the bullshit....

"...'n took keys, put 'em back round my neck, quiet like. Light sleeper, mind. Then, 'e snuck back out, up top, into water and back t'dock. Then, premeditated, like, 'e took his mate and nailed him to that there door to frame us upstanding Englishmen."

I almost applauded, it was flawless... I didn't though. Unfortunately, I was too busy laughing my face off. Even John couldn't think of a come-back to that one.


Now, the crowd on the docks has grown to about two dozen, and they are starting to light torches and staring up at the ship angrily. A shout comes up that they killed the most respected Imam on the coast whilst he was at morning prayers. It takes a moment for us to click - but we finally remember the enormous hole that Mark managed to punch in the roof of a tall Mosque not far from the docks.

Crud....

Samuel and the Yorkshireman quickly decide that they must go and talk to the Captain of the ship and push off before the mob decides to attack. The Captain tells them that he has a good relationship with the people of this town, and that we are to get the hell off his boat. We have ten minutes.

The four of us hold a quick meeting on deck - all the while vaguely aware of Sergeant LeJean, who is standing by the port-side rail, sharpening various weapons with a mad gleam in his eye: like a man who is about ready to lead a suicide charge against a town of angry Arabs.

It is the Yorkshireman who comes up with a plan. The french are too stubborn to push off, and to get away we have to get past two dozen arabs with weapons and torches - with just the four of us and a mad Sergeant (not to mention the Camel still hasn't been located). He counts off 5 Frenchies on board, and we agree that this is better odds than trying to fight the Arabs.

At this point, John helpfully mentions that 10 more frenchmen appear on the deck, ones that you've never seen before. Then another ten.

Double-crud....

We hatch a new plan. Yorkshireman hides on deck, the rest of us take cover.

Yorkshireman (speaking in french now, so the Arabs on deck can hear him): "We Frenchmen will rape your women and burn your religious leaders before urinating on their still-warm ashes!" He shouts.

A murmur goes up from the crowd. The French decide its a tactical time to abandon ship - take all the lifeboats and promptly feck off. The crowd gets bigger, and the four of us on board feel very pleased with the way things are looking... generally speaking.

Cue me:
Eric (In Arabic): Appearing on deck, "Quickly! The French are escaping!"

You have to give us credit... it was a plan of quite some genius.

Unfortunately, as is often the case in our games, it backfires. The Arabs shout back that they will kill the french later - they want our heads first, regardless of whether we are french or not!

Triple-crud.....

I kick the boarding ramp into the water, and Samuel and the Yorkshiremen fetch the Elephant Gun. We prepare ourselves for a fight. For some minutes, the Arabs are chanting "Al-Machtum! Al-Machtum!" Not even Eric knows what they are talking about, until its too late.

A catapult wheels out of a nearby street, onto the docks. It is loaded with an angry-looking camel with steel teeth.

Quadru... you get the idea.

Samuel and the Yorkshireman watch as the Camel is winched back - and then they take a pot shot at the catapult. Mark rolls a critical, and the Catapult explodes into chunks of wood and banded metal, hurling the camel over the ship to crash into the sea.

We cheer.

Arab: "Hey, you English cheat!" Someone shouts.

Being English, of course, we respond poorly to being called on our honour. Both Samuel and I lean over the rail to shoot the speaker almost simultaneously (And I'm sporting a .45 Martini-Henry Rifle, to Samuel's revolver).

Things start to go a bit pear-shaped. Sergeant LeJean has remained with us, and start shouting insults in French, taunting the Arabs: a crowd which has now grown to about 100 people, including some of the Tuareg tribesmen. A volley of shots rings out from the tribesmen, the Yorkshireman takes hot lead in the gut and goes down, and Eric is caught in the shoulder (on a measly 4 HP after his minor recovery overnight) and collapses again.

A dozen Arabs manage to climb up the anchor chain and storm the deck. The Sergeant shouts something inanely, and throws away his sword. He then proceeds to call the Arabs "Girlies", draws a pair of nail scissors and prepares for the charge. Adam is next to fall to the charge, taking one man with him - and then Samuel manages to take two more between his revolver and shotgun shots. In the chaos, he falls too.

Woo! TPK!

We started a religious war last night.... I feel my work is done.

Next time, I'll introduce you to the new party! :D

The Holiday Season Approaches

And with it comes your doom! MWUHAHAHAHAHAHAH!


Ok, probably not really...


But, fair warning - a couple of dates to bear in mind:
- 18th July, I finish at British Sugar
- 19th July, Moving home, hopefully
- 26th July, Flying to Texas for two weeks. Back in the morning on the 10th August

Other than that (and 9.5 thousand words left on my dissertation) I have nothing much else planned. I'm rabidly avoiding getting a job, so all my efforts will likely be devoted to time-wasting activities like gaming.

Aren't I just wonderful?

... The correct answer is yes.

A Brief Update (well, probably not so...)

The minutes are slowly ticking by on this dull friday afternoon, and I have an hour to burn before I can run and frolick in the fields once again. Well, maybe not run, but I can certainly frolick pretty damn hard when the occasion calls for it. I am to be relegated to the confines of my shiny car for a couple of hours - as I am spending tonight and most of tomorrow (most likely) in Loughborough seeing a few people before they courteously fack off for the summer.

So... Hmm, something to ramble about.

Perhaps a little update is in order. Mayhaps I should give a quick run down of my gaming intentions for the long summer months that stretch out into infinite before me (Roll on the 18th of July, woo!):

Game: Shadowrun 4th Ed.- Ghost Whispers
GM: My wonderful self
Players: Jon - Ed, Bev - Narcissus, Gwyd - Wire, Gregg - Sparks, Tolley - Cliff, Bags - Spot, Dan - ? (I don't have a name from him yet)
Death Count: Two, so far. Smile was... unfortunately... slain over a misunderstanding as to how large-caliber pistols and chain link fences interact during stealth missions. Merlin was... well, he got what he deserved after such a careless attempt at keeping a low profile.
Details: Well... So far you guys know precisely squat in terms of story. I've been dropping plot hooks all over the damn place, but noone has noticed yet.
Key NPCs: Fitch, the Shadowrunners' Dwarf Fixer. Runs a bar on the Upper east side of San Francisco - unimaginably dubbed "Fitch's".


Game: D&D 4E - The Titans
GM: Me, again! Woo!
Players: Dan - Vargrimm, Jon - Alfie Longknife, Tolley - Torinn, Gregg - Corianna, Oscar - Gennel. Bags will be joining us too at some point, though I cannot remember his character name.
Death Count: 3 (Two sessions and you've already topped SR!) The Paladin (Heskan), Wizard (Immeral) and Warlord (That cowardly bugger) were all unfortunately eaten by a young white dragon in a hidden cavern under the ruins of Kobold Hall. The only survivor: Alfie Longknife, who bravely ran away.
Details: The party are a group of sell-sword types and well-to-do's with various reasons for being banded together under the employ (primarily) of the Lord of Fallcrest. Though relatively fresh to the adventuring gambit, the group have already begun to make a name for themselves after slaying the Skullkicker Tribe of kobolds in the ruins of Kobold Hall and putting a stop to the raids. After further investigation, they also discovered the presence of a young white dragon masterminding the Kobold efforts. Though the first attempt to defeat the dragon was defeated with tragic losses, they were quickly reenforced and returned triumphantly to Fallcrest with a head of the dragon to mound upon the wall in the Keep.


Game: Star Wars d20 - The Rise of an Empire
GM: My, Myself, Irene, and possibly Mitch too
Players: Bev - Bev Thrama, Tolley - Lott Tolron, Bags - Rabakkazza, Dan - Ditri Gunran, Jon - jared Chase, Gwyd - Gwyd Sashaan.
Death Count: Player-wise, none (despite my best efforts). Party NPC-wise, 2: Tront and Bill, both retainers to Lott Tolron.
Details: Well... Everyone has been hassling me to pick this one up again for a long time now. I'll get there eventually, but I do intend on rolling out a few more sessions some time this summer.
Important NPCs: Kraliel - The Big Bad Guy, Emperor's High Inquisitor and general all-round nasty bastard. Veethree - Bev Thrama's black and red R2 droid. Lunia Helliosne - Former Jedi Master and lover to Bev Thrama, now revealed to be Sister to Kraliel the Inquisitor, and apparently turned to the Dark Side to serve with her brother.


As for other games:
- GURPS Cliffhangers (Jon)
- All Flesh Must Be Eaten (Jon)
- D&D 3.5 Eberron - Gestalt (Gwyd)

And I'll stop there... because my brain is melting. Will come back to this later.

A very unorthodox horror game

So, for those of you who are 'up' on the way things are - you may know that I am currently involved in a Call of Cthulhu game with some guys in Bury. Additionally, some of you may have already heard tall tales about how utterly barmy the game has become, and how utterly ludicrous the story has turned out.

Which, of course, brings me to point out that there is, in fact, basically no story. Things have been going so... interestingly... that every member of the group is now well into their 2nd, 3rd or even 6th character by now.

And now, onto my point: Though it is late, tonight's game has been a classic and I feel the need to record a few things before I forget them in the haze of caffeine that will likely fuel me through tomorrow morning.

------------

For reasons best left unmentioned, I will not write out the entire scenario - as it is rather... strange and nonsensical, in a sort of Terry Pratchett way (and not the H.P.Lovecraft way it is supposed to be!).

Our party of Gentleman Explorers has just arrived in French Algeria, circa 1879 aboard a steamship. We are told by our resident French Sergeant (tis a French ship, doncha know!) to keep a low profile, rustle up some bearers for our equipment and food for a trek ready to march through the desert to investigate some ruins following the discovery of a strange Statue in a previous adventure session.

Emphasis on low profile.

So we travel into the town around the docks and 'rustle up' some help - Picking from a line up 24 men (each of the 4 characters picked 6). We ended up with 18 big strong black types, and 6 mad cannibalistic pygmies... Thats the last time I let the obese Yorkshireman decide on anything of importance, ever again. Ten minutes later we'd also gained a fat woman and her beanpole daughter, a goat with broken legs (done so by the Yorkshireman as well), and a Tuareg Fighting Camel.

Now, the following series of events unfolded rather rapidly, and the situation quickly fell out of control. In the process of fetching some lunch, one of the Pygmies took an unhealthy like to my Cambridge-bred Anthropologist (and, conveniently the only person who could speak Arabic in the group). The pygmy took a bullet to the head, and the camel started barrelling around excitedly. Ushering the rest of the natives outside so we can have space to take a table and order some food, Eric (myself) drags the dead pygmy outside, where his former companions start eating him... in the street. This in turn draws the attention of two Arabs who pick a fight with Eric. Eric's friend Horace then comes to his aid - and in short order a fight breaks out...

People start to take bets.

Eric tries to fade into the background as Horace pulls out a gun and shoots one of the Arabs, only to have his second shot go so wildly awry that it wings the Camel and drives it into an Infidel-Killing rampage. And... of course, everyone knows that Tuareg Fighting Camels cannot be stopped once they get a good look at their prey... In this case, us.

So, one dead Horace later, the lunch-shop is destroyed by the weight of a rampaging camel. Samuel, sporting a sawn-off shotgun, sees off the two Arabs - but not before Eric has been grievously wounded and is lying in a bloody, camel-stampeded heap on the floor. Counting their losses, the party manage to redirect the Camel onto the gambling crowd of spectators, starting a riot - and then make a hasty getaway with the unconscious Eric in tow.

A fire springs up. People start to stampede down the streets, screaming about a Fighting Camel on the loose.

There is a small explosion in the distance, and a roar of an angry camel.

The party flee back towards the ship - but not before the Yorkshireman stops in a broken down house and is pursuaded into buying the three daughters of an Arab local, who are promptly 'married' to the fat bastard and given a swift lesson on how Yorkshire is God's Country.

And I quote: "Oh dear... I'm gonna have to clear this one with t'missus when we get back 'ome." (Mark, as the Yorkshireman).

Eric spends the rest of the session unconscious, but I'm happy to stay that way - if only because it means I get to watch the following from a spectator position (and most of the time I'm rolling on the table in hysterics).

Horace's replacement, Adam, meets the Yorkshireman and Samuel as they arrive back at the ship. After leaving Eric in the care of the somewhat un-sober care of the french ships surgeon, they return to the deck with their Ace - the Elephant Gun, and set up to wait for the Fighting Camel, should it come looking for them.

Yes, an elephant gun. It took two of them to load it, and another one to 'spot' with a sightglass. This thing is... enormous, like a 60cal rifle and a supersized shotgun rolled into one. In fact, it takes them three attempts to get the damn thing loaded right! There are numerous snickered remarks from the French crew who gather to watch three incompetant english gentlemen trying to load this enormous weapon. Adam makes mention that the steamship should probably count as a Warship with this thing on board.

Night falls, and it becomes difficult to see the docks. Samuel, having loaded the gun, takes the sight glass and watches the docks for signs of Camel.

I should probably point out now that Tuareg Fighting Camels are special beasts of almost mythical prowess. This thing killed 5 people and got shot three times before escaping into the town previously. Its teeth have been replaced with razor sharp metal, and its hide is marked with many bullet-scars where it was raised and taught not to fear firearms. We figure we're in for a rough night.

Samuel catches sight of a glint of metal on the docks in the gloom. He can't be sure, but he thinks its the camel's teeth! The Yorkshireman, at the trigger, doesn't bother to wait for confirmation. The sound of this gun going off deafens all three Gentlemen on deck, and blinds them in a cloud of gunpowder smoke. Samuel's sleeve is singed by the backblast and the Yorkshireman is knocked flat on his back.

Several Frenchmen appear on deck, waving their arms and gesticulating wildly. I should reiterate that none of the three can hear anything, and they played the part wonderfully. On one side of the table I have the GM, John, waving his arms and mouthing things in french. On the other side I have the Yorkshireman (mark) and Samuel (pete) who are shouting (literally shouting) loudly over one another as if they can't hear.

Mark: "Did we get him?"
Pete: "What?!"
Mark: "No, no, Tuesday!"
Pete: "Where'd that damn Camel go?"

They look to John, who, as a Frenchman, has angrily stuck two fingers up at the Englishmen.

Mark: "Shit, there's two of 'em!"
Pete: "Two? Reload, reload!"

They reload the Elephant gun; deaf, partially blind, and far too excited. Samuel forgets to remove the ramrod and gives two thumbs up to the YOrkshireman - who swings to face port (unable to see anything) and fires again with a dreadful boom.

The next few minutes unravel in confusion as the deck is swamped in gunpowder smoke, more of the crew arrive on deck, and people's hearing begins to return. All people can hear is screams and shouts and gibberish (remember, only the unconscious Eric speaks Arabic) coming from the docks area. Unsure of whether they got the Camel, or whether there even was a camel, the Yorkshireman shouts out in French to the docks.

Mark: "Is it the Camel?"
John, a reply comes back from an Arab speaking French: "The Camel? Tuareg Fighting Camel? OH SHIT, ITS THE CAMEL! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES?!"

The image of a Tuareg FIghting Camel is bad enough. The image of a Tuareg Fighting Camel with an Elephant Gun, firing indiscriminantly into the crowd is even worse.

All breaks down into chaos again. Samuel loads the gun again, this time with a makeshift ramrod - a broom handle. The French on board start to gather, and one of them has his trousers down. The Yorkshireman, honour-bound to a fault decides that this Frenchman has been committing nasty deeds with his new 'wives', and swings on the crew. In his excitement, the Elephant Gun in his hands 'goes off'.

Everyone goes deaf and blind again for five minutes. The smoke clears finally, and the deck is French-free.

Realising that the rest of his ammunition is down in his cabin, the Yorkshireman decides to call it a day - and calls off the Camel Watch for the night. They retire, and so do we - ready to see the damage we dealt to the docks when the morning (next week) comes along.

D&D 4th Edition

Well, this... more or less... marks the two week anniversary of the release of Dungeons and Dragons - 4th Edition. I am happy to report that I have already, in my two brief sessions, rolled out both a Dungeon AND a Dragon!

Of course... the Dungeon was dank and full of unfriendly kobold-y types with sharp sticks and an ample selection of interesting-shaped sling stones, and the Dragon in question decided to eat just over three quarters of the party (The party only consisting of 3.5 people to begin with).

So, without further ado, I present the party as is currently standing (Bravely stepping into the breach, or somesuch nonsense):

Gennel, Elf Ranger
Alfie Longknife, Halfling Rogue (And baked-goods connoiseur)
Vargrimm, Dwarven Cleric of Bahamut (Zealous avenger seeking to fulfill the aims of his God in the stead of his fallen companion, Heskan)
Corianna, Tiefling Warlock
Torinn, Black-scaled Dragonborn Fighter (Brother to Heskan on a mission of vengeance)

And, finally, a small reminder to everyone:
The Halfling is not JAILBAIT! Even if he does have high charisma and is underage!

The dawn of a new (and terrifying!) era

So - it would appear that in the final weeks of my placement in Suffolk I have finally lost all interest in actually getting anything done and bowed down to the might of the internet blog.

A blog?! Ye might say... Who could possibly want to read the garbage that I churn out on a fairly regular basis (The sort of stuff that usually gets warbled away in the cavernous reaches of my mind, or finds voice and often drives away those people that just happen to be close to me at the time). Profound wisdom? Perhaps not... But I'm sure there will be a little something for everyone... Assuming nobody expects sex, drugs and/or rock & roll.

Well, ok, maybe a little - but we'll see when it comes to it.

During the interim, erm... have a look around, try not to claw your own eyes out and don't let me innane ramblings disturb your sanity too much!

Tom