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!!!"