He was too late.
It was a shame, really. Oswyn was beginning to like those chaps a great deal.
The imprint of them was fresh in the stone, painted over centuries of Stoneborn feet, decades of the humans, the hours of demon-reek and on top of that, their own. The grand doors he had shut the last time he strode the halls were open, the key still embedded in the lock, the corrupted son of the great ruler feasting on the remains brought to him by his servants, an errant arm, still fresh. He discarded the thick bone, likely dwarven, and grinned a sick, toothy grin at the Paladin.
"So we meet again, Oswyn Donovan!" Friedrich snarled, relishing his words. "Thou... Seekst to destroy me? An act of... Mercy, is this?"
Donovan was silent as he drew his sidearm, a simple straight sword.
Friedrich laughed, a vile, cackling rattle through necrotic mouth.
"Yes... Naught but a knave, a foolish, deceitful knave! Dost thou truly believe that such a pathetic effort will succeed? Dost thou lie to them still? Dost thou draw them into thy charade for thy own enjoyment?"
Donovan's steps picked up, boots thudding heavily against tattered, ruined runners, once a glorious navy braided with gold, now nothing but faded cloth and useless strings.
Friedrich cackled, drew his rapier and approached, steps even, mocking the other man's haste. He met Donovan's blade, threw it aside and laughed as he thrust the blade straight through a chink in his improvised armour.
Donovan did not flinch. He did not look away from the undead's empty, soulless eyes as he swiped out, blade a solid arc, its sharpness audible.
The head of the ruler of Rötenheim fell from his shoulders, horrid mouth stuck mid-grin. Donovan kicked his body, the rapier sliding easily from his fleshy torso. He made a point of stepping on the body as he came forwards to the head, rose his boot and crushed it in a single stomp.
"You always were a fool, Friedrich," he muttered under his voice. "Your father was a fool and his father was a fool. Perhaps you should have listened when they called for you... But it is not in the Rötenheim blood. May Jir cast your soul aside."
He turned and observed the carnage, but a roar caught his ear from the castle-town. There was something big out there.
He had to be fast.
It was the only thing left-- among the wreckage, the bones, blood and plates, only a glow remained. The beasts may have roamed away from the hall, with nothing left to consume, but they must have smelt him by then. Silently as he could, the man crept down the battle-stained carpet. There was nothing palpable of them, no sign at all.
A quick prayer, murmured out of respect, would ensure no spirit would linger in such a hellish place.
Rir find them, Rir hold them, carry these brave warriors forever in your guiding light.
May the darkness never claim the souls blessed by the love of your chosen.
Rir protect these souls, as your chosen could not.
Forgive this weak, mortal flesh.
Rir, our lord and saviour.
He glanced over his shoulder at a shuffle from outside the great wooden doors; there was little time, he had used enough already.
It hid beneath a breastplate mangled by claws and savaged by flames that tainted the metal until the ends of eternity, glowing dimly as if ashamed or penant. There was nothing else to claim, how truly sad. The bodies were mangled, skulls smashed and teeth extracted by scavengers before he. How the necromancers missed the rare treasure was beyond him-- all the better, truly. Such a thing could not fall into the hands of their foes.
All he had to contain it was a bottle, dug from his pack. Faeglass would need replacing with something hardier, but it took little coaxing. The soul knew the hand of its brethren and accepted carriage.
Rötenheim would have to wait for another day, though the swordbearer could have moved. They would have moved. They were not so foolish as to linger when discovered, especially not by an Artificier. A tactical retreat was the only way to go.
That was all he could take. What a forsaken way to die.
It was most important that they would not rest in such a wretched way.
Broken pews were scattered around the room, so Donovan was quick about it-- he dragged what dry wood he could find, overturned the Rötenheim throne, kicked it to kindling and built a makeshift bonfire over the worst of the stains, the last scraps of flesh. With his flint, he struck fire to the ruined wood and stepped back as dusty, dry husks took flame.
Rir cleanse these souls.
Love them as I did.
It took a full moon cycle to return to Sur Mithren, travelling by sea and far, far, far by horseback through difficult lands. A moon cycle was incredibly good timing, a record if one willed. The merchants were thieves, their faeglass extortionate. To the hells with them! He would just have to move with great haste.
By the time of arrival at his monastery, cloistered away from the Castle Town walls and against the border of danger, the Knight-Lord had already moved along. Donovan cursed his luck-- what would an audience with the man take? His absence was not expected in the slightest, but what the hey, the man needed to observe life on the front lines some time. It must have been awfully breezy so high up on one's horse. While he respected the Knight-Lord plenty, he also respected him enough to be honest about the lesser tree wedged up his backside. He had neither the time or the patience to hunt the man down, but with Faeglass threatening to break, he had to hurry.
He took the circular stair case three steps at a time as he sprinted down into the Catacombs, bottle held tightly to hold it together. At the base, he was stopped by a stony-browed Monk and wasted twenty minutes searching for his authorisation papers from the Abbot until a familiar face rescued him from the heavy hand of beurocrats.
It was a good offering, indeed.
A messenger was to be sent to the Temple-City archives. Posthumously, Sir Stendar was once again a Knight.
Donovan leant against a bone pillar, folded his arms and made an outlandish request of the Abbot.
"We have the resources, don't we? If I must travel to the altars myself, I shall, Aldhelm. If I must light the forges myself, I shall."
The Abbot bowed his head.
"You are not the Knight-Lord's favourite man at the moment, Oswyn," the Abbot warned, as Donovan scoffed, a playful smirk coming to his face. "It is upon his mercy to grant you such favours--"
"Then the Knight-Lord would do well to remember what he requested of me," Donovan laughed, words dripping with a honeyed poison. "When will his next lapdog arrive? Another long arm of the law to keep me in check?"
The Abbot's brow furrowed deeper.
"She awaits you above us, in Contemplation."
"Oh? No stuffy Cleric this time?"
The Abbot couldn't help but smile.
"No. She is from Liskenfaar."
"The Rirsonne surrender one of their own?"
"Yes. Treat her well, Oswyn."
Donovan nodded, his smile refusing to fade.
"One more favour, Aldhelm? Because you love me?"
The Abbot paused for a moment, before taking a breath of consideration.
"I shall send for Crüxis."
---
It has been several months since the news of Rötenheim's fall reached the relatively untouched midlands. The wars raging in the north are not the concern of the busy midlanders. It is not the most prosperous of times, yet it is neither a time of strife. You move easily through relatively worry-free lands to the notorious port city of Auhnfall, known as a place to find work, among other dubious things. In need of contracts and willing to travel, you drifted to the city for reasons known only to you. With no prior relations in the area, you are truly alone.
From various adventurer's boards, you have all found the same notice.
WANTED: COMBAT VETERANS
LONG-TERM EXCAVATION MISSION, PAY NEGOTIABLE-- BEGINNING AT 100PP, SUBJECT TO RISE. SEE SIR CASTLES, CHARTER HALL.
Upon arrival at the Charter Hall, you see a swarm of people loitering by the Cathedral-commissioned statue of a Paladin in full plate, head tilted aloft in prayer. Upon entering, an exasperated-looking scribe regards you with a tired eye.
"After Sir Castles? He left an hour ago-- rallying the troops, I hear. He's called everyone outside, that's the rabble."
You leave the hall and join the crowd, a motley bunch for sure-- scarred warriors, fresh adventurers trying their luck, you can see them all. Some have come from the fields, others straight from a forgotten war. The promise of money and adventure has attracted them all. As you wait, the crowd only grows.
"Attention!" calls a wide-shouldered Rirsonne woman, who climbs the Paladin's Memorial statue, hangs from it and waves to the crowd to keep their eyes on her. "Sir Castles only requires eight individuals! We've got to sort you bunch of damn miscreants out!"
Somewhere in the crowd, a youth whoops.
"We shall fight, like knights! Honourable combat, blade to blade!"
The youth's jeers were joined by another.
"This isn't a walk in the All-King's gardens, ladies," she shouted, hanging from the bronze arm of a hero. In a flash, her hand dipped into a pouch in her pocket, withdrew a fan of needle knives and threw them into the crowd-- a choked, bloodied gurgle and there was silence. "This is not an easy job. If you are serious, regroup here at sundown. That is all!"
There were groans from the crowd as they were asked of more. Many dispersed, yet some remained, shouting questions up to the woman. She ignored them, climbed higher and perched, vigilant, on the shoulders of the gracious dead.
[Open floor-- you hear a commotion...]
By the time twilight has broken, the crowd at the base of the Paladin's Memorial has thinned considerably-- it seems a fair fight is not what the less stellar gentlemen were interested in.
After hours of remaining still, meditating, the woman opens her eye and drops down from the statue. Her tan skin is bathed dark by the orange sunset, her build heavy in the shoulders and muscular to the point of vascularity, veins pressed tight to skin on her bare, threatening arms. She paces.
"Sir Castles is not interested in any who cannot pull their own weight in battle. You. [ROLL]. Come here."
She plants her feet and raises her hands into fighting stance.
"Demonblood. Northerman. Come at me!"
[BATTLE - Rich and NPC]
She kicks the bells out of the Northerman, foot stopping mere centimetres away from the exposed back of his neck-- any further and he would be dead.
More people slip away.
"... Only three? Your hand is far too heavy, Aelin!"
A cheerful voice brings her to attention.
"Sir!"
"Ahh, at ease. Who do we have here? Greetings, friends!" A blonde man, clad in Cathedral plate strides over to you, followed by a colossal construct. "I do hope that Aelin hasn't scared you too badly!"
Who are you? "Your employer! Clifton Castles, at your service!"
What the hell is this? "Ah! I'm glad you asked! It is a mission of great importance. But... Shall we discuss this over dinner? Omega, kindly take our associates to the Drunken Dwarf Inn, I have some things to finish at the hall. Aelin, please assure all is taken care of. I shall see you later!"
The woman looks to you and sighs.
"Come, then. I... Am Aelindir, Sir Castles' assistant. This is Omega. We shall speak properly at the inn."
When you arrive at the inn, it is surprisingly quiet despite its namesake and a stout dwarven woman greets you at the door.
"Ah! Been waitin' fer ya! C'mon o'oer ere and sit'cherselves down! Sir Castles has been so very generous tae all av us, let's ged you some food!"
You are seated and presently, Aelindir joins you.
"So... Who are you all?" she asks, as she produces papers from a pack on her lap. "We must keep records. It's... Cathedral policy, I am afraid."
Your food arrives and you begin to eat.
As you speak, Aelin writes in a neat, curving script. She is evidently well-educated.
BOOM, the side of the inn is torn apart and a being of crystal strides through the rubble and wreckage, making a beeline for YOU. Roll!
SHARDMIND BREAKER
Str 10 +0 Con 11 +0
Dex 11 +1 Int 19 +4
Wis 15 +2 Cha 15 +2
52 hp 26 bl
Ini d20+8
AC 17 Fort 15
Ref 17 Will 17
AT WILL
Kinetic Trawl
Intelligence vs Reflex
1d10+4 Force Damage
Pull target 2 squares
Memory Hole
int vs will
1d6+4 Psychic Damage
Invisible to target until end of next turn
Force Hammer
int vs fortitude
1d6+4 Force Damage
Target is slowed until next turn
Force Grasp
Int vs Fort
1d8+4
Target is slowed
ENCOUNTER
Hand of Caution
Int vs Reflex
2d6+4 Force Damage
Push target 1 square when within 5
Telekinetic Lift
Slide target 3, they are immobile
Telekinetic Maul
Int vs AC
3d12+4 Force Damage
Push target wis mod sq
Telekinetic Screen
Immediate interrupt
If crit, -10+2
The SHARDMIND falls... Only for another two to drop in. Aelin snarls.
"Curse them! We must move! NOW!"
The battle spills into the street, where there is a filthy stench of death permeating the heavy air. The heat has served to only make it worse. Aelin's face sets solid, her brow curving down.
"The Shardmind are deathly efficient creatures. But... they are not masterless. Somebody is using them to get to us."
Who? -- Aelin doesn't know. The Cathedral has many enemies.
"We just have to trust Sir Castles. We owe him so much already."
> A smell of smoke blows in from the square-- you look up, to see barricades on fire, supplemented by bonfires. The charred, sickly stench of burning flesh follows it.
"By the light of Rir... What are they doing!? We must find Sir Castles, quickly!"
You push forwards to the square, where the fountain hosts fire, remains and death. A veil of smoke hangs over the area. There are exits, but they are barricaded, burning and surrounded by magic.
A soul-piercing, sharp roar comes from the other side of the square and a Shardmind, considerably larger than the Breakers comes into view. It is top-heavy, but no less quick, brandishing a violent axe. In a swirl of crystal and powder, two Breakers materialise beside it.
[BATTLE]
[Find the Barricade leading South]
As you. Look over the barricade, you see a figure looking back at you. They flee.
[After them!]
You break the barricade, and lunge after the form. You see it looking back at you from the next corner. With a gesture, crystalline beasts form in the clearing.
[BATTLE]
In the tight spaces of the alleyway, it is claustrophobic and dark. You push on regardless.
Aelin offers to scout ahead. Let her go?
If YES, she leaves the party.
If NO, she is uneasy.
You catch up to the figure! It is a Shardmind wrapped up in fine, patterned cloth with a Greatsword slung over its back. It turns around and with a crackle of psychic energy, locks eyes with the leader of the party.
You see a swirling abyss, lit only by the energy that strings your eyes and picks your body apart. You fall. You fall and fall, as emotions burn your mind one after another-- the rage of a mother torn from her children, their blood painted over her body by creatures you cannot understand. The emptiness of a wanderer, who walks so lightly they barely exist. The sorrow of a father and traitor, who can never redeem himself. These tear your chest apart and re-seal it.
[The duty of a constructed soul, a name cleansed by death. You choke on the shame of transgressions, an inability to protect.]
[The duty of an ancient, a soul that can barely remember itself. The land calls to you, lives pray to you and yet, you can do nothing.]
[The duty of a warlord, a soul bathed in blood. Past triumphs dissolve and reform, the congratulations of your kin warping into their last words, disappointed and condemning.]
[The duty of a wiseman, a soul lost to the stars. The universe pushes down on you, calls your name and whispers the joy of the void.]
You come to. Roll will check.
IF success, you regain yourself. The weight of your weapon is too much to bear, the people around you strangers and sinners. You cannot bear his face any longer! [Attack closest.]
IF failure, your soul is heavy with the burden of your emotion. Your weapon is too much and you swing at your ally!
After your frenzied attack, your consciousness and clarity return.
[Roleplay]
The figure has retreated-- there is no choice but to push onwards.
The only way forwards is into a small house.
[[TRAP-- Spear Gauntlet
PERCEPTION 20-- Character notices plates
PERCEPTION 25-- Notices panel to control
+7 vs AC, 1d8+3 dmg]]
IF AELIN LEFT -- You see Aelin slumped in a corner, a figure hovering over her.
The Shardmind regards you from within the room, finally standing firm. An aura of readiness reverberates from its luminescent form, its colour shifting and changing as it senses everything around it. It opens it's mouth as if to speak-- its face is considerably more human than its predecessors.
It snaps its fingers with a crackle and up through the floorboards, thousands of tiny shards rise and form another brutish brawler.
[BATTLEMIND -- Ardent lingers back, as if reluctant to attack]
When the brute is broken, the Shardmind sweeps its arm in front of it.
"Reconsider, mortals!" It... Asks? It does not seem sure of its words.
It snaps its fingers and the powder reforms, into two shardbeasts.
[ARDENT joins the fray. At 10 HP, it surrenders.]
"Cease! I beg of you!"
>Who are you?
"We are... The will of the Knight-Lord. This one is... the consciousness... Of Ardent. But... The stories the humans tell, they... Confuse us."
>Why is this?
"The swordbearers... Are the heroes, aren't they?"
>What do you mean?
"The heroes... They slay the dark ones, the evil ones, do they not?"
It seems confused.
"You... Are enraged. Please, let me.."
It reaches out to [CLOSEST]. It's touch is cold, soothing.
"Please... Do not feel such rage. It... is so violent."
"We... are all made of the same... The dust of Ancients, the wisdom of those long gone... He told us to stay back, to return to our master, but... the Human, Donovan, a Paladin... of Rir. Yes. He... let us..."
A great thud above your heads draws its attention, head jerking back surprisingly suddenly. The heavy steps culminate in a great clamour, as a trap door above snaps open, a ladder extending from it. The boots that follow are familiar. A battered, blonde head appears, bending down as soon as his doubled body can allow it. It is Castles, a bloodied lip and smut-smeared face speaking of battle.
"Oh, thank Rir! I thought I'd lost you all!"
He jogs down the creaky steps-- they complain under his weight. Whereas before, he was smartly-dressed, tabarded with mail only for show, he is now armoured, evidently hastily thrown on. It bears scars of combat, a Halberd almost cradled in the crook of his arm.
"You've lasted this far, and for that, I must congratulate you. There were people in that crowd that had little more than a lust for gold and fame-- this is not why we travel."
Aelin pulls herself up from her corner of the room, wincing.
[HEAL CHECK?]
He looks down at the Shardmind.
"What are you going to do with this one?"
[[KEEP or KILL]]
KEEP: The Shardmind bows its head, folding its claw-like shards of fingers in a praying-like motion. An aura of gratitude permeates it.
KILL: The Shardmind bows its head, accepting of its fate.
Donovan nods, lays hands on Aelin [if not done beforehand] and looks up to the trapdoor.
"We need to get out of here. We'll take the rooftops."
[[ROOFTOPS]]
Thursday, 8 November 2012
Thursday, 3 May 2012
DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS: DM Notes Example
The last days you remember were dark, overcast and damp. The sky opened, roared a gale, hissed and spat torrents, soaked you and your steed to the bone. None of you remember when you last knew the comfort of a fire or the warmth of another being in your side, only the cold, dank, pressing darkness that came as you approached the fortress with steely determination.
You don't even remember how long ago it was that you set out.
What was your hometown called?
Everything is so fuzzy now. You recall glimpses of your life as they rattle past your eyes-- your home, your family, a sweetheart with hair whipping about them at the midsummer's festival, honeydew on the air and the grass beneath your bare feet. Your training, the agony, the reek of burning flesh searing your brain to its core and the crack of your skull upon the flagstones of the Master's halls.
It's dark and your wrists and ankles are heavy with shackles. You can hear breathing around you, though it is faint.
What do you do?
( Search: It is too dark to see much, but as your eyes adjust, you look up to see a grate allowing dim grey light into what appears to be your cell. There are hunched bodies. Just out of your reach is what seems to be a door of rough, sturdy metal bars. They seem to be for keeping some manner of beast within the walls. )
( Do I find anything? : Someone was foolish enough to let a sharp-edged stone fall into your pit. (Use- Str 14- d20 15+) It is strong enough to dent the shackle. After several tries, you manage to break a link. )
When all party is free:
You hear heavy footsteps from outside the cell's door. [PARTY ROLL- Highest number] [CHARACTER], you recall these steps as the Warder's. He stands roughly eight feet tall, with a threatening build and strong presence, heavy in the arms and neck- you can tell he's not entirely human, simply by his proportions. You know there are ridges on his face and horns on his head and he wears thick, rugged clothing befitted to his job in this cold place.
[Try to talk to him?]
"What do?"
[He is not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer.]
"You know I 'kennot speak wi'ss you, pri'ssoner."
[He speaks in a low, hushed manner, the hollowed-out beast skull lantern hung from one huge, gnarled horn tapping against the bars of your cell. He glances about, watching for someone. Or something?]
"Der Meister ha'ss already been wi'ss de discipline, ah? I 'kennot do more for you."
[Ah! You remember! This Warder has done you favours in the past- split his rations with you, provided extra blankets. There is something about him that puts you at ease- perhaps it's the lines of patience worn into his face, or the kindness that seems to lay in his otherworldly, glowing eyes.]
"Min'sya, pri'ssoners. I 'em sorry."
[PERSUADE]
"... 'ferry well. Wha'd is it you need?"
[LET US OUT]
"... I..."
[He seems troubled by something, the crease of his face speaking more loudly than anything else. There is something going on away from the cells. You just know it.]
"Rötenheim is falling. Der Meister mo'ffs when d'he Wrys'nyata complete d'heir predictions 'ent it is clo'hss. You came for a rea'sson, I know it."
[His brow furrows deeply. His thoughts are conflicting, tearing him internally. A huge, gnarled hand wraps around one of the heavy bars of the cell and he finally looks up, around you all. ]
"Politics here, they have no'tsing to do wi's you. I wish... I could't do better for you. Run. Find what you 'ken. Get out of here."
With a strength that you can barely believe, the Warder takes a proper hold of the gate. The sleeves of his robe fall back, exposing muscled arms roped with bulging veins and patterns scarred into grey-tinted skin, which pulls taut as sails in storms as he sets his feet. He does not grunt, nor does he groan with exertion-- with a single jerk, he lifts the gate and pulls it open just enough for you to squeeze through.
All you have are the clothes on your back. The chains you were bound in are too heavy, too cold to wield confidently.
"Run."
You can run one way-- away from the Warder. This bearing is North. The pathway is narrow, about five feet across, with what seems to have once been a wall, many years ago, reaching barely past your ankles. When you look out to the sides, it is a sheer drop, which you cannot see the bottom of. The cells are in isolated towers, of which yours was the top. Cloud covers most of the moonlight, but it is just bright enough to see. No wind blows-- it is eeily still.
Cells stud the walls, some empty, some housing the dead. Some hold living prisoners, but they seem tranced, somehow.
You arrive at the wall of the fortress and enter through a rugged arch. The corridor within is just as narrow as that outside, yet the walls are intact.
[ Two rooms:
East: A corridor stretches to the East. As you move down it, you pass an oddly-shaped cell, with a grate allowing light in. A dank, dark room. A crack of dim light highlights bones bleached white by time. You can see that within, there is a spiral staircase heading down. However, the door is shut tight and locked with a bizarre, oddly-shaped padlock, unlike anything you have ever seen before.
West, Far: A grate on the ceiling lets light in from above. The scent of aged decay lingers. There are several crates.
CRATE 1: Contains HEAVY CLOTH CLOTHING. This includes a cold weather wrap and boots that are lightweight, but warm. There seems to be enough to outfit twenty or thirty people. ]
As you continue, the corridor turns to the South and leads into a small flight of stairs, which incline sharply. They are steep, each step made for a creature far larger than you.
At the bottom, the steps lead straight into a sizeable hallway, about eighty feet long. It is lit with brackets on the wall, which contain everburning embers. There are smooth stone pillars, holding supporting the high ceiling. The floor is black as night, polished to such a high shine that you can see the intricate craftwork above you-- angular carvings of old gods have had their heads cut from them, seemingly violently, marring the masterful work.
- HISTORY CHECK
[ 1-10- This place is very old
11- 15 - The Stonework is Dwarven.
16-18 - The Dwarves have not held fortresses for at least two hundred years.
19-20- The brickwork is that of the Iron Dwarves, who died out four hundred years ago. Their forts are now inhabited by Demonic clans, who open the closely-linked Plane imbalances to tap into Inferno.]
On the North wall, there is a grand staircase, which yawns down into another lit corridor. The steps are the same black stone, as is the hall before you.
Large pillars make the corridor narrow on either side-- there are four, before it branches off to the West. The end is illuminated by fire, which dances on the mirror-esque floor. At the end of this corner is a huge fireplace, easily fifteen feet high, with a raging blaze within. There is a further corridor after an awkward corner.
The corridor branches East and West.
WEST ROOM: Full of crates, but they yield nothing. The dust is thick in here and it is barely lit by the light outside.
EAST ROOM: A small store-room. Crates are piled in the room, though a candle sits on one, next to a bizarre item. It is of Demonic origin. When picked up by Tyro (Demonblood Player Character), it reforms itself into a key.
etc loot: A broken sword- it is quite useless. Track rations, one backpack, fifty gold
As Tyro handles the key, the sound of stone grating together can be heard from back out in the hall-- the fire pops loudly.
As you head into the hall with wide pillars, heavy bootsteps eminate from the fire.
You look back and are struck with dread. A figure stoops through the flames, tinging them blue-- horns protrude from its helm and it straightens up, taller than the great hearth. It holds a sword big as two men and strides towards you.
RUN.
You hurry down the stairs, which lead down in a tight spiral. You are barely able to keep on your feet as you rush-- cold wind hits you, and you see that a portion of the wall has crumbled away.
[WHO WENT DOWN FIRST? SPOT CHECK.]
[Fail: You failed to see the crumbling stairs. JUMP CHECK! ]
[Fail: Party, help him!]
CRASH!
It seems the gate has bit the dust.
You run, run, run down the staircase, the bootsteps above you never out of earshot. The Knight seems to take four or more of the steep stairs at once, while you trip over yourself. They are the steps of mechanical determination, a will of iron and presence, tautness and poise.
After what seems like an eternity, you arrive at the base of the stairs.
Evidence of battle is all around you on the bridge you find yourself on. The stench of death is carried away by the winds and you can see where you are. The mountains stretch as far as you can see, only a glimpse of the ocean glistening on the far-off horizon. At the other side of the bridge is a light, leading back into the mountain fort.
[SEARCH: Weapons!
RAPIER
MACE
TWO DAGGERS]
There is enough time to collect your weapons and get a feel for them when the Knight arrives at the base of the stairs.
[ENCOUNTER: BLACK KNIGHT]
Fight or run?
RUN
Once you reach the other side of the bridge, you are met with a large stairwell, this time leading up. Adrenaline pounds in your ears, willing you forwards.
You climb.
And climb.
And climb.
Until you can't hear those steps any longer.
At the top, there is a man. He holds a pair of binoculars to his face, and seems to be looking out over the fortress-- you are higher up than you think. This seems to be one of the highest points, as you can see the bridge you crossed far, far below.
"I really don't like the asymmetry of this place. It bothers me a lot."
His voice is mist, floating through your soul like old memories.
"Disgusting."
It seems he has found something that particularly bothers him.
[CATCH HIS ATTENTION -- Diplomacy 16 required.]
He turns to look at you and removes the binoculars from his eye-- one is gouged, streaking blood down his high cheekbones, to congeal at his neck, where his hood lays clasped. By the look of his armour, he is a Knight, from the Middle Lands, with light hair and lighter skin. Pieces are mismatched, though, seemingly salvaged. His vambraces are black, similar to those of the Knight's. His other eye is icy blue and watering.
"Ho there! I was expecting another one of those Demons, but... hm. Seems you're alright. What do, as they say here?"
He smiles so brightly, as if nothing is wrong.
WHO ARE YOU?: "Oswyn Donovan, of... hm. Well. Isn't this a bother? I can't seem to remember, friend!"
WHY ARE YOU HERE?: "Gosh, I... I'm afraid that's all a bit past me, too. I had a reason at some point, but it seems it eludes me!"
"Well, I do so love a chat, but I'm afraid I'm busy. Would you believe those Demons have taken Rötenheim? I was certain it wouldn't fall, but you can see it from here. I wonder if they'll move on Mysuou? Surely, the Bladed One wouldn't allow such a thing. She does so love her Order... Oh! Are you of them, friend? Or... gosh, that is if you can even remember. Nasty stuff they gave you, hm? It's taken a while for me to clear my head up here, but I still don't remember much. They're saying that some ritual is nearly done, but I'm not sure what it is. You chaps look awfully cold. Or is it just me?"
He raises his binoculars and continues looking out, over the mountains.
[If the party asks for his binoculars, he will lend them.]
"Hm? Oh! Yes! Of course, feel free to look!"
You don't even remember how long ago it was that you set out.
What was your hometown called?
Everything is so fuzzy now. You recall glimpses of your life as they rattle past your eyes-- your home, your family, a sweetheart with hair whipping about them at the midsummer's festival, honeydew on the air and the grass beneath your bare feet. Your training, the agony, the reek of burning flesh searing your brain to its core and the crack of your skull upon the flagstones of the Master's halls.
It's dark and your wrists and ankles are heavy with shackles. You can hear breathing around you, though it is faint.
What do you do?
( Search: It is too dark to see much, but as your eyes adjust, you look up to see a grate allowing dim grey light into what appears to be your cell. There are hunched bodies. Just out of your reach is what seems to be a door of rough, sturdy metal bars. They seem to be for keeping some manner of beast within the walls. )
( Do I find anything? : Someone was foolish enough to let a sharp-edged stone fall into your pit. (Use- Str 14- d20 15+) It is strong enough to dent the shackle. After several tries, you manage to break a link. )
When all party is free:
You hear heavy footsteps from outside the cell's door. [PARTY ROLL- Highest number] [CHARACTER], you recall these steps as the Warder's. He stands roughly eight feet tall, with a threatening build and strong presence, heavy in the arms and neck- you can tell he's not entirely human, simply by his proportions. You know there are ridges on his face and horns on his head and he wears thick, rugged clothing befitted to his job in this cold place.
[Try to talk to him?]
"What do?"
[He is not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer.]
"You know I 'kennot speak wi'ss you, pri'ssoner."
[He speaks in a low, hushed manner, the hollowed-out beast skull lantern hung from one huge, gnarled horn tapping against the bars of your cell. He glances about, watching for someone. Or something?]
"Der Meister ha'ss already been wi'ss de discipline, ah? I 'kennot do more for you."
[Ah! You remember! This Warder has done you favours in the past- split his rations with you, provided extra blankets. There is something about him that puts you at ease- perhaps it's the lines of patience worn into his face, or the kindness that seems to lay in his otherworldly, glowing eyes.]
"Min'sya, pri'ssoners. I 'em sorry."
[PERSUADE]
"... 'ferry well. Wha'd is it you need?"
[LET US OUT]
"... I..."
[He seems troubled by something, the crease of his face speaking more loudly than anything else. There is something going on away from the cells. You just know it.]
"Rötenheim is falling. Der Meister mo'ffs when d'he Wrys'nyata complete d'heir predictions 'ent it is clo'hss. You came for a rea'sson, I know it."
[His brow furrows deeply. His thoughts are conflicting, tearing him internally. A huge, gnarled hand wraps around one of the heavy bars of the cell and he finally looks up, around you all. ]
"Politics here, they have no'tsing to do wi's you. I wish... I could't do better for you. Run. Find what you 'ken. Get out of here."
With a strength that you can barely believe, the Warder takes a proper hold of the gate. The sleeves of his robe fall back, exposing muscled arms roped with bulging veins and patterns scarred into grey-tinted skin, which pulls taut as sails in storms as he sets his feet. He does not grunt, nor does he groan with exertion-- with a single jerk, he lifts the gate and pulls it open just enough for you to squeeze through.
All you have are the clothes on your back. The chains you were bound in are too heavy, too cold to wield confidently.
"Run."
You can run one way-- away from the Warder. This bearing is North. The pathway is narrow, about five feet across, with what seems to have once been a wall, many years ago, reaching barely past your ankles. When you look out to the sides, it is a sheer drop, which you cannot see the bottom of. The cells are in isolated towers, of which yours was the top. Cloud covers most of the moonlight, but it is just bright enough to see. No wind blows-- it is eeily still.
Cells stud the walls, some empty, some housing the dead. Some hold living prisoners, but they seem tranced, somehow.
You arrive at the wall of the fortress and enter through a rugged arch. The corridor within is just as narrow as that outside, yet the walls are intact.
[ Two rooms:
East: A corridor stretches to the East. As you move down it, you pass an oddly-shaped cell, with a grate allowing light in. A dank, dark room. A crack of dim light highlights bones bleached white by time. You can see that within, there is a spiral staircase heading down. However, the door is shut tight and locked with a bizarre, oddly-shaped padlock, unlike anything you have ever seen before.
West, Far: A grate on the ceiling lets light in from above. The scent of aged decay lingers. There are several crates.
CRATE 1: Contains HEAVY CLOTH CLOTHING. This includes a cold weather wrap and boots that are lightweight, but warm. There seems to be enough to outfit twenty or thirty people. ]
As you continue, the corridor turns to the South and leads into a small flight of stairs, which incline sharply. They are steep, each step made for a creature far larger than you.
At the bottom, the steps lead straight into a sizeable hallway, about eighty feet long. It is lit with brackets on the wall, which contain everburning embers. There are smooth stone pillars, holding supporting the high ceiling. The floor is black as night, polished to such a high shine that you can see the intricate craftwork above you-- angular carvings of old gods have had their heads cut from them, seemingly violently, marring the masterful work.
- HISTORY CHECK
[ 1-10- This place is very old
11- 15 - The Stonework is Dwarven.
16-18 - The Dwarves have not held fortresses for at least two hundred years.
19-20- The brickwork is that of the Iron Dwarves, who died out four hundred years ago. Their forts are now inhabited by Demonic clans, who open the closely-linked Plane imbalances to tap into Inferno.]
On the North wall, there is a grand staircase, which yawns down into another lit corridor. The steps are the same black stone, as is the hall before you.
Large pillars make the corridor narrow on either side-- there are four, before it branches off to the West. The end is illuminated by fire, which dances on the mirror-esque floor. At the end of this corner is a huge fireplace, easily fifteen feet high, with a raging blaze within. There is a further corridor after an awkward corner.
The corridor branches East and West.
WEST ROOM: Full of crates, but they yield nothing. The dust is thick in here and it is barely lit by the light outside.
EAST ROOM: A small store-room. Crates are piled in the room, though a candle sits on one, next to a bizarre item. It is of Demonic origin. When picked up by Tyro (Demonblood Player Character), it reforms itself into a key.
etc loot: A broken sword- it is quite useless. Track rations, one backpack, fifty gold
As Tyro handles the key, the sound of stone grating together can be heard from back out in the hall-- the fire pops loudly.
As you head into the hall with wide pillars, heavy bootsteps eminate from the fire.
You look back and are struck with dread. A figure stoops through the flames, tinging them blue-- horns protrude from its helm and it straightens up, taller than the great hearth. It holds a sword big as two men and strides towards you.
RUN.
You hurry down the stairs, which lead down in a tight spiral. You are barely able to keep on your feet as you rush-- cold wind hits you, and you see that a portion of the wall has crumbled away.
[WHO WENT DOWN FIRST? SPOT CHECK.]
[Fail: You failed to see the crumbling stairs. JUMP CHECK! ]
[Fail: Party, help him!]
CRASH!
It seems the gate has bit the dust.
You run, run, run down the staircase, the bootsteps above you never out of earshot. The Knight seems to take four or more of the steep stairs at once, while you trip over yourself. They are the steps of mechanical determination, a will of iron and presence, tautness and poise.
After what seems like an eternity, you arrive at the base of the stairs.
Evidence of battle is all around you on the bridge you find yourself on. The stench of death is carried away by the winds and you can see where you are. The mountains stretch as far as you can see, only a glimpse of the ocean glistening on the far-off horizon. At the other side of the bridge is a light, leading back into the mountain fort.
[SEARCH: Weapons!
RAPIER
MACE
TWO DAGGERS]
There is enough time to collect your weapons and get a feel for them when the Knight arrives at the base of the stairs.
[ENCOUNTER: BLACK KNIGHT]
Fight or run?
RUN
Once you reach the other side of the bridge, you are met with a large stairwell, this time leading up. Adrenaline pounds in your ears, willing you forwards.
You climb.
And climb.
And climb.
Until you can't hear those steps any longer.
At the top, there is a man. He holds a pair of binoculars to his face, and seems to be looking out over the fortress-- you are higher up than you think. This seems to be one of the highest points, as you can see the bridge you crossed far, far below.
"I really don't like the asymmetry of this place. It bothers me a lot."
His voice is mist, floating through your soul like old memories.
"Disgusting."
It seems he has found something that particularly bothers him.
[CATCH HIS ATTENTION -- Diplomacy 16 required.]
He turns to look at you and removes the binoculars from his eye-- one is gouged, streaking blood down his high cheekbones, to congeal at his neck, where his hood lays clasped. By the look of his armour, he is a Knight, from the Middle Lands, with light hair and lighter skin. Pieces are mismatched, though, seemingly salvaged. His vambraces are black, similar to those of the Knight's. His other eye is icy blue and watering.
"Ho there! I was expecting another one of those Demons, but... hm. Seems you're alright. What do, as they say here?"
He smiles so brightly, as if nothing is wrong.
WHO ARE YOU?: "Oswyn Donovan, of... hm. Well. Isn't this a bother? I can't seem to remember, friend!"
WHY ARE YOU HERE?: "Gosh, I... I'm afraid that's all a bit past me, too. I had a reason at some point, but it seems it eludes me!"
"Well, I do so love a chat, but I'm afraid I'm busy. Would you believe those Demons have taken Rötenheim? I was certain it wouldn't fall, but you can see it from here. I wonder if they'll move on Mysuou? Surely, the Bladed One wouldn't allow such a thing. She does so love her Order... Oh! Are you of them, friend? Or... gosh, that is if you can even remember. Nasty stuff they gave you, hm? It's taken a while for me to clear my head up here, but I still don't remember much. They're saying that some ritual is nearly done, but I'm not sure what it is. You chaps look awfully cold. Or is it just me?"
He raises his binoculars and continues looking out, over the mountains.
[If the party asks for his binoculars, he will lend them.]
"Hm? Oh! Yes! Of course, feel free to look!"
Wednesday, 25 January 2012
CATTLEPUNK: Character Concepts
Here are some concepts for Sheriff Amadeus and his niece, Mandy, for our game project. These started out as idea sketches and progressed into thinking about colours.
Important things to remember when designing characters for use in 2D:
Why is colour important? We should be able to tell which characters are on the screen at a glance and whose name is whose on menus. Red and Dark Red are far too easy to confuse, for example.
Why do we lose so much detail? There is only so much screen and thus, only so much room for sprites. They need to be stylish and clear in 2D.
Amadeus: BLUE, TAN
Mandy: ORANGE, PINK, WINE RED
Important things to remember when designing characters for use in 2D:
- Clear shapes -- silhouettes must be instantly recognisable and characters should be defined clearly.
- Distinctive colours -- the characters should be recognisable by colours, or have a 'key' colour associated with them, for use on menus and the like.
- Simplicity in design -- a lot of detail will be lost in the transition to sprites.
Why is colour important? We should be able to tell which characters are on the screen at a glance and whose name is whose on menus. Red and Dark Red are far too easy to confuse, for example.
Why do we lose so much detail? There is only so much screen and thus, only so much room for sprites. They need to be stylish and clear in 2D.
Amadeus: BLUE, TAN
Mandy: ORANGE, PINK, WINE RED
//RETRO AND NOSTALGIA
It took a bizarre detached contemplation while at my desk to come to the conclusion that I am not a very nostalgic person. I was ever so sure of my words that I deemed it appropriate to flag down our lecturer and explain as such to him, but I would like to say that I am awfully sorry, James, but I am afraid I lied to you.
Once it triggered in my brain that Bulletstorm (one of my most enjoyed and gushed over games of 2011) evoked these foreign-seeming feelings, it all became apparent. The reason behind this is that guiding Grayson Hunt through his foul-mouthed, hyperviolent romp of an adventure reminded me of the anarchy that Serious Sam pulled off so damn well in the late 90s; recollections of enjoying FPS when I was younger had endeared the game to me. I had an urge to draw crossover fanart of Grayson Hunt, Sam Stone and Duke Nukem drinking beers with Doomguy while mouthing off and waving their machismo around. Is this what nostalgia is? As I came to terms with this, I considered how some of my favourite games fondly throw back to the games and films that their developers were inspired by. GOD HAND's nod to Castlevania on its map screen and its chiptune minigame music, the Grindhouse lust of MadWorld, everything about the runup to and launch of 2010's Splatterhouse (an old favourite of mine) and most egregiously, No More Heroes: Desperate Struggle's minigames being entirely in 8-bit style.
Bloody hell, I thought. Well off the mark, aren't I?
The reason I spoke with such frowny-faced certainty, declaring my robot-esque lack of lusting after days gone by and familiarity, is that I have never thought of old games or games I played a long time ago as lost, forgotten or far away. They are very much still current-- they are still in my collection, easily found online or out in the shops. Nostalgia stems from things being in the past, remembered fondly, which is why it caught me unaware. Or so I like to think.
A branch of nostalgia, a certain type of memory was also present. By using our memories of games past, we recognise patterns and symbols in new games. An oft-cited example would be "Red barrels explode, shoot them to incinerate everything around you". While playing Bulletstorm, I realised that the best strategy was to charge straight in and start kicking the hells out of everything and shooting them in the face, much as Serious Sam was. By placing little reliance on cover, I began to play the game as I had years ago. I would argue that this is not so much nostalgia as ingrained tropes, patterns and cliché we have come to accept as part of gaming culture, tried and tested by time... but it would certainly take another waffling explanation.
Retro is something engrained in gaming culture so much so that we don't seem to realise it most of the time. With the rise of gaming culture's visibility and more 'mainstream' appeal, there are more and more people wearing t-shirts with Pacman on, Zelda trucker hats and messenger bags with big NES controllers printed on them. Old games being re-released on current-gen consoles make it easier than ever to access the games we may have enjoyed in years gone by or be introduced to classics we may have missed the first time around. But how many of these people with their amusing silk-screened shirts are 'truly' involved in the culture of retrogaming itself? There is something of a difference between remembering playing Zelda on the Nintendo 64 and remembering a code for infinite time in Manic Miner, or even to go so far as to wear a shirt with it emblazoned on the chest!
Nostalgia gives people something to connect with others with. Retrogaming is something of an exclusive club-- it's something niche within a niche and many people that play games casually may not even be aware that it exists. The dedication within the community is something that seems only matched by the otaku with their passion (one could even call them Retro-otaku). In Suominen's article, he speaks of how the consumption of rock music in recent years has been higher than it was thirty years ago. This is, naturally, because those who consumed the culture as youths have not let it go; as performers have aged, so have their audiences and new generations have been drawn in. He also explains that recent research has shown that those aged thirty-five or more are more likely to play games on a PC and those under favour consoles more strongly. Much like rock music, the early adopters of gaming are growing up-- Suominen reminds us that gaming being prevalent in popular culture is not a new thing by far. You only need to ask someone from the early 80s about Pac-Man to see the results!
It's easy to forget that video gaming is still a relatively young media. The current of today is the retro in ten years-- it shocked me that the Dreamcast and Gamecube are considered retro by some. I remember buying my Gamecube on launch day, does this make me a retro player or a young upstart?
Retro means different things to different people-- what one person considers retro (Crash Bandicoot) and another (Adventure) can be wildly different. As the generatins that grew up with video games grow older, the generations after them will consider yesterday's current-gen console a dinosuar. Ultimately, the games industry is a fast-paced, ruthless one; Retro will continue to evolve and it will always be a part of our gaming cultural heritage.
Once it triggered in my brain that Bulletstorm (one of my most enjoyed and gushed over games of 2011) evoked these foreign-seeming feelings, it all became apparent. The reason behind this is that guiding Grayson Hunt through his foul-mouthed, hyperviolent romp of an adventure reminded me of the anarchy that Serious Sam pulled off so damn well in the late 90s; recollections of enjoying FPS when I was younger had endeared the game to me. I had an urge to draw crossover fanart of Grayson Hunt, Sam Stone and Duke Nukem drinking beers with Doomguy while mouthing off and waving their machismo around. Is this what nostalgia is? As I came to terms with this, I considered how some of my favourite games fondly throw back to the games and films that their developers were inspired by. GOD HAND's nod to Castlevania on its map screen and its chiptune minigame music, the Grindhouse lust of MadWorld, everything about the runup to and launch of 2010's Splatterhouse (an old favourite of mine) and most egregiously, No More Heroes: Desperate Struggle's minigames being entirely in 8-bit style.
Bloody hell, I thought. Well off the mark, aren't I?
The reason I spoke with such frowny-faced certainty, declaring my robot-esque lack of lusting after days gone by and familiarity, is that I have never thought of old games or games I played a long time ago as lost, forgotten or far away. They are very much still current-- they are still in my collection, easily found online or out in the shops. Nostalgia stems from things being in the past, remembered fondly, which is why it caught me unaware. Or so I like to think.
A branch of nostalgia, a certain type of memory was also present. By using our memories of games past, we recognise patterns and symbols in new games. An oft-cited example would be "Red barrels explode, shoot them to incinerate everything around you". While playing Bulletstorm, I realised that the best strategy was to charge straight in and start kicking the hells out of everything and shooting them in the face, much as Serious Sam was. By placing little reliance on cover, I began to play the game as I had years ago. I would argue that this is not so much nostalgia as ingrained tropes, patterns and cliché we have come to accept as part of gaming culture, tried and tested by time... but it would certainly take another waffling explanation.
Retro is something engrained in gaming culture so much so that we don't seem to realise it most of the time. With the rise of gaming culture's visibility and more 'mainstream' appeal, there are more and more people wearing t-shirts with Pacman on, Zelda trucker hats and messenger bags with big NES controllers printed on them. Old games being re-released on current-gen consoles make it easier than ever to access the games we may have enjoyed in years gone by or be introduced to classics we may have missed the first time around. But how many of these people with their amusing silk-screened shirts are 'truly' involved in the culture of retrogaming itself? There is something of a difference between remembering playing Zelda on the Nintendo 64 and remembering a code for infinite time in Manic Miner, or even to go so far as to wear a shirt with it emblazoned on the chest!
Nostalgia gives people something to connect with others with. Retrogaming is something of an exclusive club-- it's something niche within a niche and many people that play games casually may not even be aware that it exists. The dedication within the community is something that seems only matched by the otaku with their passion (one could even call them Retro-otaku). In Suominen's article, he speaks of how the consumption of rock music in recent years has been higher than it was thirty years ago. This is, naturally, because those who consumed the culture as youths have not let it go; as performers have aged, so have their audiences and new generations have been drawn in. He also explains that recent research has shown that those aged thirty-five or more are more likely to play games on a PC and those under favour consoles more strongly. Much like rock music, the early adopters of gaming are growing up-- Suominen reminds us that gaming being prevalent in popular culture is not a new thing by far. You only need to ask someone from the early 80s about Pac-Man to see the results!
It's easy to forget that video gaming is still a relatively young media. The current of today is the retro in ten years-- it shocked me that the Dreamcast and Gamecube are considered retro by some. I remember buying my Gamecube on launch day, does this make me a retro player or a young upstart?
Retro means different things to different people-- what one person considers retro (Crash Bandicoot) and another (Adventure) can be wildly different. As the generatins that grew up with video games grow older, the generations after them will consider yesterday's current-gen console a dinosuar. Ultimately, the games industry is a fast-paced, ruthless one; Retro will continue to evolve and it will always be a part of our gaming cultural heritage.
//MORALITY IN GAMES
Morality is a strange thing in games.
For many people, gaming is an escape from life and the depressing drudgery of having to be 'a good person'; when they sit down after a hard day's work, they want to let off steam as opposed to pondering existential questions and the nature of mankind. There is nothing wrong with this, which I shall say from the outset! It's simply that not everybody has the compulsion to run about and kill everything that moves. No, some people believe that video games are a good platform for teaching practical wisdom.
Though the argument has not started recently at all. It stretches back all the way to the classic philosophers, with Plato having something to say for it. Back then, of course, Plato was not simply mad that Aristotle was kicking his rear at Street Fighter II, but rather found fault with art as a whole. He condemned it as being deceptive and intoxicating, which leads people to immorality by clouding the mind and hindering clear thought. His student, Aristotle, had a very different view (not just because he was great with Ryu); he argued that tragedy could make the audience into better people by using its cathartic quality to immerse them and allow them to experience the emotions of fear and pity in a controlled manner. He suggested that the messages and situations could be used by the audience and encourage them to apply the wisdom offered by the play in their daily lives.
If he were alive today and accustomed to our technology, I reckon Aristotle would rather like video games (not limited to Street Fighter). If he were to play Fallout 3, Deus Ex: Human Revolution or Planescape: Torment, he would see that his musings certainly had some manner of effect somewhere down the line. Simply being given the choice to make decisions that can be considered 'good' or 'bad' is something that is approved of in Aristotleian philosophy, as it is thought that this allows people to experience moral dilemmas in a controlled environment and thus, can grow as people.
Somewhat unsettling is that the arguments against gaming as a whole are not different these days as they were back in the days of Plato-- its detractors argue that such an intoxicating experience is detrimental to one's moral compass. One can consume violent images day in and day out and never lash out, though there are those more susceptible to such things. In a study conducted recently (Check it out here), it showed that the effects of violent imagery depends on the individual's personality-- someone with a tendency to frustration experiences things different to somebody that is incredibly mellow, for example. Yet on the other hand, video games are the first truly interactive media. Unlike films, books and comics, video games put you in the driver's seat. Some may argue that moral decisions are everywhere in games today, even those that one would not originally consider as such. We often trivialise decisions that make or break entire countries in-game, or detach ourselves from the implications-- it's only a game, after all. ... Right?
In Fallout 3's expansion, The Pitt, the player is presented with a predicament so challenging that Bethesda could not allocate karma points for it. In this part of the story, the player charcter has the decision to either kidnap a baby and free a group of slaves or defend the child and allow the slaves to remain oppressed. Even cut down to an explanation simple as that, you can tell it's a toughie-- either honour one life and condemn many more or take one to benefit the larger group. This is something that one has to stew over, especially when it is in infant pulled into the equation.
From the perspective of Jeremy Bentham (more of an E. Honda kind of guy), happiness is the greatest good and morality should therefore be defined as acting the produce the greatest happiness for the greatest number of people. His school of thought is known as Utilitarianism and if placed in front of The Pitt and asked to make a decision, would likely opt for freeing the slaves. After all, this child is the key to their salvation-- why not grant them this?
As wonderful and sense-making this sounds, it is incredibly hard to judge what would be considered the greater good in almost any challenging situation. Where do you draw the line? When do the scales tip in favour of the majority? What about the minority?
This is the kind of wisdom that we need to keep in mind when making and playing games. The medium is pefectly suited to such conundrums and as such, we should continue to challenge ourselves with games for the contemplative.
For many people, gaming is an escape from life and the depressing drudgery of having to be 'a good person'; when they sit down after a hard day's work, they want to let off steam as opposed to pondering existential questions and the nature of mankind. There is nothing wrong with this, which I shall say from the outset! It's simply that not everybody has the compulsion to run about and kill everything that moves. No, some people believe that video games are a good platform for teaching practical wisdom.
Though the argument has not started recently at all. It stretches back all the way to the classic philosophers, with Plato having something to say for it. Back then, of course, Plato was not simply mad that Aristotle was kicking his rear at Street Fighter II, but rather found fault with art as a whole. He condemned it as being deceptive and intoxicating, which leads people to immorality by clouding the mind and hindering clear thought. His student, Aristotle, had a very different view (not just because he was great with Ryu); he argued that tragedy could make the audience into better people by using its cathartic quality to immerse them and allow them to experience the emotions of fear and pity in a controlled manner. He suggested that the messages and situations could be used by the audience and encourage them to apply the wisdom offered by the play in their daily lives.
If he were alive today and accustomed to our technology, I reckon Aristotle would rather like video games (not limited to Street Fighter). If he were to play Fallout 3, Deus Ex: Human Revolution or Planescape: Torment, he would see that his musings certainly had some manner of effect somewhere down the line. Simply being given the choice to make decisions that can be considered 'good' or 'bad' is something that is approved of in Aristotleian philosophy, as it is thought that this allows people to experience moral dilemmas in a controlled environment and thus, can grow as people.
Somewhat unsettling is that the arguments against gaming as a whole are not different these days as they were back in the days of Plato-- its detractors argue that such an intoxicating experience is detrimental to one's moral compass. One can consume violent images day in and day out and never lash out, though there are those more susceptible to such things. In a study conducted recently (Check it out here), it showed that the effects of violent imagery depends on the individual's personality-- someone with a tendency to frustration experiences things different to somebody that is incredibly mellow, for example. Yet on the other hand, video games are the first truly interactive media. Unlike films, books and comics, video games put you in the driver's seat. Some may argue that moral decisions are everywhere in games today, even those that one would not originally consider as such. We often trivialise decisions that make or break entire countries in-game, or detach ourselves from the implications-- it's only a game, after all. ... Right?
In Fallout 3's expansion, The Pitt, the player is presented with a predicament so challenging that Bethesda could not allocate karma points for it. In this part of the story, the player charcter has the decision to either kidnap a baby and free a group of slaves or defend the child and allow the slaves to remain oppressed. Even cut down to an explanation simple as that, you can tell it's a toughie-- either honour one life and condemn many more or take one to benefit the larger group. This is something that one has to stew over, especially when it is in infant pulled into the equation.
From the perspective of Jeremy Bentham (more of an E. Honda kind of guy), happiness is the greatest good and morality should therefore be defined as acting the produce the greatest happiness for the greatest number of people. His school of thought is known as Utilitarianism and if placed in front of The Pitt and asked to make a decision, would likely opt for freeing the slaves. After all, this child is the key to their salvation-- why not grant them this?
As wonderful and sense-making this sounds, it is incredibly hard to judge what would be considered the greater good in almost any challenging situation. Where do you draw the line? When do the scales tip in favour of the majority? What about the minority?
This is the kind of wisdom that we need to keep in mind when making and playing games. The medium is pefectly suited to such conundrums and as such, we should continue to challenge ourselves with games for the contemplative.
Tuesday, 29 November 2011
24/11/11 Board Game Playtest Notes
This is a compilation of notes from the 24/11 Board Game test, unedited. These were taken during play.
BATTLE GLADIATORS FIGHTERS
- Long startup time-- had to create character, lots of rules
- Table was awkward to read
- "Complicated as fuck."
- Combat is poorly explained
- Character create balance needs work- 10 hustle, 10 moves! (( Turns out the rules were not read thoroughly))
+ Imaginative
+ Love the weapons
+ Lots of personality
+ Quite fun once you get going
+ Combat is balanced
THAIJAN
- Somewhat murky on how to begin and early game
- Doesn't explain movement very well- somewhat imbalanced
- Overlord's action points somewhat murky. Move each player's turn or each Overlord's turn?
- All camps defeated, does the Overlord drop onto the board?
+ Exceptional presentation!
+ Overlord battle works well once figured out
+ Fun combat -- intense dice rolling action!
+ Generally good fun!
+ Intense!
TIME GAME
- Poor organisation
- Poor writing in rules
- Missing content: No enemies?
- What governs the enemies? Stat tables?
- Combat is complex
+ Rules are explanatory, if wordy and somewhat confusing
+ Boards are well-designed
+ Good raw story text
+ Interesting concept
>> Unplayable
BATTLE GLADIATORS FIGHTERS
- Long startup time-- had to create character, lots of rules
- Table was awkward to read
- "Complicated as fuck."
- Combat is poorly explained
- Character create balance needs work- 10 hustle, 10 moves! (( Turns out the rules were not read thoroughly))
+ Imaginative
+ Love the weapons
+ Lots of personality
+ Quite fun once you get going
+ Combat is balanced
THAIJAN
- Somewhat murky on how to begin and early game
- Doesn't explain movement very well- somewhat imbalanced
- Overlord's action points somewhat murky. Move each player's turn or each Overlord's turn?
- All camps defeated, does the Overlord drop onto the board?
+ Exceptional presentation!
+ Overlord battle works well once figured out
+ Fun combat -- intense dice rolling action!
+ Generally good fun!
+ Intense!
TIME GAME
- Poor organisation
- Poor writing in rules
- Missing content: No enemies?
- What governs the enemies? Stat tables?
- Combat is complex
+ Rules are explanatory, if wordy and somewhat confusing
+ Boards are well-designed
+ Good raw story text
+ Interesting concept
>> Unplayable
Friday, 21 October 2011
Game Layout Chart -- Bejeweled Live Main Menu
A Layout Chart isn't just for the menus-- flowcharts can be used for many aspects of the game and are an easy way to lay things out, so they're clear to read and understand.
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