Under Ancient Stone: Part III

Stealth was abandoned in favor of haste now. Cairis faced forward only long enough to see Alise raise her fist and swing it sideways into the wall of the narrow passage. Tor pressed himself flat against the wall and gestured urgently for the rest of them to pass him even as he rummaged through his bag for things to trap and slow the pursuing horde.
"No Tor, not here, just RUN!" Tala shrieked, her normally high pitched voice went down an octave or two on the last word as a pulse of magic burst from her. Lightness filled their limbs, and they sped back up the corridor. "Tala they'll be following close!"
"No they won't, not from there," Alise responded calmly, "the passage is going to collapse in a few seconds."
Cairis stared at the Sylvari over his shoulder, "by the Six! why are we not running faster then?"
"Because you bookah are too busy talking thats why!" Tala shouted as she slipped past him and shot around the corner. Cairis didn't feel a rebuttal to that statement would have been appropriate, so he just ran harder.

Under Ancient Stone Part II

Slowly, so incrementally that they had had walked for almost another hundred feet before they noticed, the rough cave floor and walls gave way to ancient hewn stone and solidly placed blocks. After the initial shock had worn off, close examination of the walls began to reveal carvings. First it was just seemingly random chisel marks, but those soon gave way to runes, words, and sentences. Most of the runes were as indecipherable as those on the plinth from earlier; though Cairis was able to pick out a few here and there that bore enough similarity to hazard a guess at their meaning. The one bright spot was that neither Cairis, Alise, nor Tala's devices could detect any hints of magic in the Orrian writings. That however, changed when they found the second plinth.

Under Ancient Stone

The walls of the cave glittered around them in the slight luminescence let off by Tala's armor. The diminutive Asura was several paces ahead of the rest of them, waving around a device that supposedly would detect any dangerous sections before she stepped on them, Cairis was somewhat less confident in Asuran magic after the last few mishaps with Tala's devices. She claimed to have made great progress since then, but the sections of his hair that still hadn't grown back from being singed off left him not wanting to simply take her word for it.
Behind him were the other two members of their group, Alise and Tor. The Sylvari and Norn moved with incredible silence through the rough cave, leaving Tala clinking and humming rather obviously. Alise's silence was hardly surprising. She barely weighed anything anyway--and Cairis was fairly certain that she was using some manner of air spell to silence her steps even more--Tor on the other hand was at least half again as tall as he was, and at least twice as heavy. Yet the Norn managed to move with all the grace of a dancer, avoiding every bit of loose ground or rubble that could have made any noise. Cairis himself was no slouch when it came to sneaking, but he was more than a bit awed now. He knew Tala much better than these two, having met her some years ago in Divinity's Reach. She supposedly had done work with them before, but what work that might have been was unknown to him.

Nanotech: Alpha Swarm

Attn: Dr. Strenz

The Alpha Swarm has surpassed our greatest hopes, however they still seem to be suffering from several distinct limitations.

First, despite our best efforts, they remain incapable of learning new information. Our attempts to create a hive-mind memory have apparently failed, we must pursue this further.

Second, they seem to be able to recall a particular form only for as long as they carry the mass of it. It also seems that this limitation extends to a roughly 5 minute time span, with the time limit being shorter with more complex items. Thus, while the swarm can absorb an object, and then flawlessly recreate it, it cannot then replicate the object, even if it is attempted immediately.

Thirdly the nanites seem to eventually hit a critical mass in terms of numbers. It is unclear at exactly what point this occurs, but it also can be clearly witnessed. The swarm can rebuild itself from only a milligram of nanites back to its starting mass of 1 Kg, but it does not seem to be able to grow larger than 2Kg. We theorize that the nanites numbers overwhelm their ability to communicate, and that nanites that are still connected to the hive begin to register the disconnected nanites as hostile invaders, and reabsorb them.

Discomforting Dillemma

The Storm Hawk made port in Santure a few days after the prisoners' failed attempt to escape. The knight had gotten himself into a righteous fury over Hethir's treatment of the prisoner, until Hethir informed him that if he was so worried about it, he should either heal the man or give him a mercy-killing, because anything else was just hot breath. Trace did not respond after that, but had spent the past few days in silence and looking troubled.
Hethir preferred it that way.

A Conversation over Steel

Hethir got below deck as an argument seemed to be boiling over in the quarters the mercs had been given.
"Just for once Trace, would you relax, everything isn't about your holy crusade!"
"For me, it is! I don't know how many times I've explained this to you Garius, I cannot simply lay down my mantle when it is inconvenient for me, or for you! My 'holy crusade' as you so put it is what I am!"
A woman's voice broke in, "Gentlemen, please, you are giving me a headache. Garius, stop antagonizing Sir Trace, you know you will never convince him of anything, you aren't clever enough for it."
"Why you little..."
"Enough Garius! I know you do not share my faith, nor understand why I hold it, but I will not betray my god for the sake of your pocketbook and that is final."
"Yeah? And what about our lives? Huh? Does that matter to you! If we really did get drug in with pirates then you're either going to have to play along or end up in a quick trip to the bottom in all that fancy knight's armor you're so proud of."
"Garius, we don't know that they are pirates, in fact you have no proof of that at all, and Trace, please just promise me that you will not do anything rash before all three of us are willing to act? I for one do not wish to repeat what happened in Trahern."
The second voice--the knight--sighed with resignation, "very well Mary, I will wait for your lead, though my heart is troubled about this situation."
"As well you have reason to," Hethir muttered to himself. Michael must have spoken to only a few of the mercs, he would never have hired a knight knowingly. Well, the damage was now done, he would just have to do his best to contain it.
Without bothering to knock, Hethir toggled the clasp and thrust the door open. The three mercs jumped to their feet at his entrance. The one in patched leather and chain armor he guessed was Garius, and he held a notched but lethal-looking axe in his hand, already in position for a quick strike. The knight was almost painfully obvious--no, Michael definitely didn't see him. His hair was brown, and tied back behind his head in an intricate braid, and his plate armor gleamed even in the dim ship lights. He had been sitting with his back to the door, and had only managed a half turn, but he had dropped into a defensive stance, clearly ready to use his better armor to defend himself and his two companions. The woman, Mary, had reacted the least. She had only straightened in her chair rather than standing, but one hand had dropped to a pouch at her belt, and the other had been lifted in the first of a series of gestures. An arcanist, well that made things a little better, provided they could keep the knight from wanting to kill him.

The tense moment released after only a moment as Hethir spoke. "Excellent reactions, Michael seems to have chosen well--as usual."
Garius responded first, "You the cap' then?"
"I am Captain Hethir, Michael is my first mate."
The knight Trace had finished turning to look at Hethir, and Hethir swore he could feel the man's holy heckles rising.
"Sir Trace was it? Before you go and declare me an unholy beast that should be slain let me inform you that I am not in fact a demon; neither have I ever had dealings with them. Believe me, I've seen that look in your eyes more often than I care to recount, and we can do without the next step."
The knight blinked once in response, but that was the only answer he gave.
Hethir sighed, "I didn't hire you for piracy, or to muscle someone, I hired you because I'm going to need help protecting my ship and my own skin."
"Protect you from what?" Mary spoke up, "You seem to have a substantial crew, and unless I greatly miss my guess your first mate is no slouch."
"I honestly don't know yet." Hethir admitted, "I have been contacted by an underground criminal organization, they want me to fetch something for them. Frequently this is how I make my money, but this time it's different."
Hethir looked straight at the Knight, "they want a set of chalices from the church, specifically the Archbishop of Santure."
Trace looked like he was about to make an outburst of some kind, but Hethir cut him off, "I have no idea why they want these chalices, or what they are capable of that would make the church want to lock them away, but quite frankly I don't care."
"You would ask me to defend you from my own brethren while you make off with holy relics?! You dare..."
"No, holy man, I do not, and I am not. Whatever these relics are, I've no doubt they're better off locked in the church's vaults than in the hands of criminals, especially ones with access to magic of the sort we have seen them display."
Trace closed his mouth, but still eyed Hethir venomously. "No, I need your help because I have no intention whatsoever of following these criminals' demands, and that will not sit well with them."
Hethir paused for a moment and met their eyes, "What I need the three of you for, is to keep me alive long enough for me to figure out why 'D' wants these chalices. Because if they are as powerful as I'm beginning to suspect, I think the church--and everyone else--would want to know what he is up to."
Garius shrugged, "told you we weren't dealing with pirates." Trace sighed and relaxed back into his chair, "you were the one who suggested it in the first place, Garius, stop being tiresome."
Mary just shook her head.
"I can see that the three of you have been around each other a while," Hethir remarked with a smirk. Mary looked at him and shrugged, "sometimes we all wonder how that is."
"Captain."
The Knight stood and turned to face him. Hethir was surprised to find himself looking up at the man--it wasn't common to find someone taller than him.
"Yes, Sir Trace?"
"What are you? You say you are not a demon, but you carry their stench. Explain yourself."
"Most call us tieflings. Our heritage is certainly of the lower planes, but it is long removed. The fiendish powers leave enough of a mark on humans to reoccur many generations later. I was born this way. For a while I was cared for by the church. A priest in a tiny hamlet decided that I was not evil and worth caring for. A Knight came by when I was 12 and decided otherwise, killed the priest for association with me and then came for me next. I left and never looked back."
Hethir matched the knight's steely glance with a molten one of his own, "while you may doubt me by appearance, knight, I doubt you on actions taken against innocents by your entire order, innocents whose only crime was proximity to one whom the knights disliked. Fortunately for you, I refuse to lower myself to their standards, I will judge you personally, not for your association."
Hethir's long-buried anger suddenly surfaced in a boiling flash, "but make no mistake, Knight, attempt to harm me or my crew..." The chair he had been sitting on suddenly smashed into the deck, and shattered to splinters,"...and I will be very happy to see your corpse grace my deck."
Trace glanced from the ruined chair back to Hethir, but he had already walked away, unwilling to spend any more time in the knight's presence.
"Well Trace, you managed to restrain yourself, but barely it seems."
"I checked him Mary, he didn't seem to be an evil man, but I still do not trust him."
"And you're sure giving him plenty of reasons to trust you, I thought you knights were supposed to be diplomatic." Garius shook his head and stuck his axe back through his belt. "If even half what the Cap' said is true, he has equal reason to hate you as you have him; maybe even more."
Trace scowled, "such obvious lies should sway no one, a knight would never harm an innocent! Nor a child."
Mary looked up from her seat and met his eyes, "Trace, not all knights are as dedicated as you, and not all of them are immune to the corruption of power." He glared back at her for a moment, then his face softened. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, "I know, Mary, but I don't want to believe it. I don't believe so much could be changed."
Garius let out a heavy sigh and looked at Trace with something that almost resembled pity, "you're in for a lot of hard lessons lad, and I don't envy you their swallowing."

Dustworld: The country of Dredge

Dustworld is a contradictory world, as much of its surface is covered with water, but as a whole it has a very arid and dry climate. Much of the world is unexplored. Only two main continents are well-populated--Durim and Verdence--with many islands and small atolls between them.

Three nations rule in Dustworld: Dredge, Radia, and Astora.

Dredge rules the smaller continent of Durim. A martial society, the first rule in Dredge is that the strong rule. Now that is not to say that Dredge is a lawless society. Indiscriminate murder is punished perhaps even more harshly in Dredge than anywhere else--and theft is almost not to be countenanced. The reason for this however is very specific. The strongest in the land is known as the Warlord--or sometimes Warlady--and by ancient law, basically everything in Dredge belongs directly to them. Most Warlords don’t exercise this power too often--recognizing that it is in their best interest to keep their subjects pleased with them. For every year at the height of the new moon, at the darkest time of year, a challenge is held. The reigning Warlord enters a ring, and for the space of one hour, challenges all comers to single combat. The reason it is so important for the warlord to be well-liked, is that any subjects may bring him weapons, armor, spells, healing, or whatever other assistance they wish, provided they do not directly interfere with the duels. Challengers may choose to fight to the death, or they may accept offers of quarter levelled by the warlord. The Warlord has no such option, he fights against his death in every duel. Those challenging the warlord in the duels must overcome him with no assistance at all. Should they do so, they prove to all that they are more worthy of the mantle, and take it up. However, they must finish their time in the ring, the warlord must take all challengers for an hour.

Once the hour of challenge is over, the second challenge of the night comes for the warlord. To even be present at the Warlord’s challenge, one must be armed and ready to fight, and it is because of this second challenge. The warlord plants his banner upon a crag of rock worn smooth by countless feet over countless years. All who support him gather round him on the crag, while any who would challenge him plant their own banners in the field. After half an hour, a horn is blown, and the gathered forces clash. The challengers must topple the warlord’s standard in one hour, and the warlord must defend it. The challengers in this combat are not limited in their actions in any way, and neither are those that fight them directly. For all others in the trial however, the combat is more ritualistic. Very few deaths or even injuries tend to occur because of the trial, as it is seen as wasteful of the Warlord’s armies. However, the challengers are free to be fought blood for blood and steel for steel. Should a challenger be felled, any he rallied to his standard must depart the field in dishonor. Each challenger must strive to claim the banner for himself before the hour is up. At the end of the hour, if the warlord still stands with his banner, he has held his mantle. If a challenger has taken it, then they are the new Warlord.

The warlord may enact almost any law he wishes, or strike down any law that has been enacted before.
There is however a stone tablet of laws which may not be revoked or altered. These laws describe the purpose of the warlord, the trials, and the extent of his powers. The Laws of Stone, as they are called, dictate several things which the Warlord may not do, or else he dies.
This is no idle threat, as the tablet itself is an artifact of great power, and ever warlord swears in his own blood to uphold them. Failure to live up to that oath, in even the smallest respect, causes the tablet to burst out in angry fire and consume the erring warlord. If such a thing happens, the trial is held as normal, and the Warlord’s appointed second begins the hour trial. The second is under no restriction to fight to the death, and may surrender to the first challenger if he so wished, though it has never happened so easily.

Nearly the entire population of Dredge could be considered the Warlord’s army, which has caused the nations of Radia and Astora no small amount of worry. There are several reasons that Dredge rarely bothers its neighbors. The first is that Dredge has a very small number of vessels at its disposal, and not enough woodlands to make more. The second is that much of Dredge’s landmass is little better than desert. Most of the population scrapes by on living, and the Warlord frequently must go to great lengths to ensure all his people are simply fed and clothed, much less fit to march to war. And lastly, even though the warlord really does rule with an iron fist, there is a hard limit to how much he can exert that power before challengers arise and begin to usurp his dominance. Any who publicly announce their intention to challenge the warlord in the next Trial are protected from his interference by the stone law until the trial has been transgressed. And the more enemies a warlord makes, the harder it will be to hold onto his life for more than a year. For that reason alone, most warlords shy away from starting anything with their wealthier neighbors.

A Bloody Courtship

Tastrel was not the pirate-infested sump port one would usually expect from a city full of hired blades. It was clean and bright--white marble was the primary construction material used--and every citizen wore brilliant colors. Tastrel was a town of nobles. Nobles that threw around money like they pissed it, and who were constantly trying to get one-up on the other nobles around them. Mercenaries came here frequently both to relax, and potentially to be hired by the noble families. The nobles were forbidden from arming their own servants, but all of them avoided that royal decree by hiring scads of mercs. That is what brought Hethir here.

A Deadly Proposal

As the sun set bloody against the distant horizon, Hethir sat on the topsail spar. One hand held a line loosely for balance, the other held a piece of parchment. His dark eyes stared unblinking away from the sun, into the deep shadow cast by his ship. Far below him the crew worked in somewhat eerie silence, setting the Storm Hawk at sea anchor. For a long while he didn't move, then he lifted his hand to look at the parchment again.
The delivery of it disturbed him greatly, for many reasons. Foremost among them was the messenger that had delivered it. The small obsidian statuette was unpleasantly cold in his pocket. An hour ago it had been a huge raven, bearing down on his ship with uncanny speed with the parchment clutched in one razor-sharp talon. It had flown straight to Hethir, and no sooner had his hand touched the scroll than the bird shrunk down and stopped moving, becoming a crude statuette on the deck. A magical messenger of that sort--especially one that could seek its target as well is this one--was no small investment, and implied a certain level of power, affluence, or both, that Hethir was never very comfortable dealing with.
Then there was the message itself...

Gaming, my fascination

I play computer games, tabletop games, some board games, you get the idea. I rarely ever play sports, the most I ever did was a few years of soccer, or playing ultimate frisbee in college. I enjoy being active, but I tend to get bored of it rather quickly, especially most sports. In fact, the driving motivation behind most of my activities is an effort to stave off boredom.

Thus, I game.
Because in a game I can experience things that I could never reasonably expect to do myself, and a goodly number of things that I would't actually want to do myself. (The thing about adventuring is that it has this unfortunate tendency to get one stabbed by pointy things repeatedly, which is not a very pleasant experience.) A game is an opportunity for a different life, in a different time, place, or world. I game for much the same reason I write really, because the stories in my head must come out.
There tends to be a lot of overlap between the two actually. I write things down which turn into game ideas, or I game and come up with ideas for tangential stories, or variations on that. Recently I've had two distinct fascinations, the first is the world of Besetting Shadows that I've mentioned before, and the other is what I'm calling Kung Fu University. I've recently gotten my hands on a copy of the excellent Legends of the Wulin system, and immediately started thinking about a game that I could run or play with it. After a week or so of minor puzzling on one of the back burners of my brain, I came up with this. In the middle of a modern metropolis, there is a very special school. To anyone not otherwise aware, it is a highly exclusive private college that is very particular about its applicants. But to the enlightened, it is the great refuge of true Kung Fu. The students develop their Chi and martial arts more than they study literature, but they still have to do that to keep up appearances. The great rule of the school is never to let an unenlightened individual see true martial arts. Within the walls of school grounds, high-powered martial arts duels fly, but outside, students must be careful who sees them doing what.

Whereas Besetting Shadows is a very distinctly dark fantasy setting, this setting will have a tendency towards a lighter tone. And while it certainly will have it's share of fantasy elements, the greater part of the setting--i.e. anywhere off campus--will be whatever modern day city the GM feels like setting the city in (I chose L.A. because it's easy to see one more college slipped in there.) So instead of having to invent everything that would be there, well, just pull up google maps and look at what is actually there.

So I'm going to start running this on Saturdays once I have enough players, and I'll probably post occasional updates about it as I go along. Also, I'll come up with a better name.