Friday, December 7, 2012

"Fruition" A Literary Sketch

Are you a fan of prose poetry? Short Fiction? Unreliable Narrators? Freudian takes on Fantasy Tropes? Well then this may be the post for you...

On a quick journal-ish tangent, I find that I'm spending far more time crafting articles  and other things tangentially-related to my ultimate of aim of publishing Grit : The Roleplaying Game of Harsh Realities (or Whatever My Final Subtitle Will Be) than working on Grit itself. With that in mind, dear readers, please do try to enjoy something I wrote a while ago.


Fruition

A piece of plate mail, ornate greaves, sank into a brackish swamp. The armor was    slightly baroque, but the filigree never interfered with any of its perfectly-wrought glancing surfaces. It was armor of a kind found in that interim between the High Mediaeval Period and the Early Renaissance. The design, however, was not authentic; it was as I would have made it. Oddly modern, stylized vines traced the outer-edges with rounded leaves tapering to sharp tips. The design had none of the disgustingly overgrown detail native to that point in time.
  The armor belonged to a man moving cautiously through the desolate mud. Only algae, demons, and the fog dwelt here. The man had dark hair and plain eyes. His chin was strong because it had to be. His sword was drawn. Its blade began at three fingers width and narrowed to a single point only two feet away. The blade was as practical as the man. It punched through at the place it must, at the right time.
What then awaited this man?
That question is best served by looking first backward then ahead.
He came from not quite the common mold, but the middle (merchant) class. He joined his lord’s ranks as an infantryman almost before he could hold a sword. But why? obviously because of a tortured past. A past built of men with steel untempered by reason. A neighboring warlord, no better nor worse than his own, raided his village and he had to watch his mother burn alive in their small, idyllic house when but a boy.
And so he fought for years and years and collected scars and horrors and honors. He was raised high in the household of the lord that had killed his father. Oh, he didn’t know. You do. You’ll have to live with it. His mother was, of course, too kind for their times and had told him his father died in battle. She didn’t need to tell our hero that his father was unarmed and begging for his life.
Then famine and flood and draught and pestilence and all those other personifications/Greco-Roman deities visited their land. And the lord died, but not before he was unkind enough to charge our hero with a holy crusade against the creature in the swamp that certainly caused all their ills.
And so our hero walked past dead and twisted trees (how they grew at all to be twisted no one knows). When suddenly, it rose from the shallow pool, but what manner of beast must it have been?
It too followed a necessary form, large and phallic with tentacles and razor-pointed, rending claws. It was a beast both ancient and modern, a dragon and a giant squid, a horned demon, a chimaera of power and nightmares. It struck him, rigid and true, rending our hero’s steel and flesh. The beast pierced, and penetrated him over and again. He held true and never let go of his blade. As the throbbing monstrosity drew our hero closer and closer to its gaping maw, the warrior prepared his exhausted limbs to strike. His blade bit deep, buried true to the hilt. His last thought was, of course, of his mother surrounded by thrusting flames. Our hero shuddered in relief, released, and sank quietly into blessed oblivion.
© Edward Lockhart 2009

Sunday, December 2, 2012

Advice for GMs : Rolling with Ones


Game masters, it will happen. Have no doubt. A player will come up with a brilliant, off-the-wall, and/or carefully-considered maneuver that gets them -and you- excited about the fight or obstacle at hand. They chuck the dice and BAM! it’s a... one.
Sometimes you can see the joy fall out of the player’s face and puddle into disappointment about his/her toes. That's when it’s time to remind 'em, the games not over yet.
For one thing, in my system at least, a one isn't an automatic failure. And even if a low roll and bonuses for aptitude/ingenuity/surprise/etc. can’t quite cut it, don’t let that failure be the end. With a well-chosen tactic even a miss should have some benefit. For instance, a player took advantage of your description of his character’s enemy. Riven, his PC, lunged with a dagger at an unguarded, lightly armored flank. The player rolls a 1 and misses. You could declare that “Riven missess his mark” and move on to the enemy’s attack, completely dismissing the tactics of your player. A better option is to acknowledge the miss, but reward the player and PCs quick thinking.
“Riven lunges inside, stepping right, the guard barely manages to roll her open left hip away from your blade. Riven’s made it inside the reach of the guard’s short sword; she’ll have to step back or try to grapple you. Either way the advantage is yours.”
For some players, who don’t see the immediate possibilities in these situations, you may have to guide them. Let’s say that a PC had just attempted leaping tackle at a slobbering orc and failed; she’s now on her hands and knees with the orc a couple feet behind her. Her player’s first instinct may be to declare that she scrambles to her feet.  You might mention that she could also try to roll forward to put more distance between her and the orc; She might try to mule-kick him (bonus for surprise, but a miss puts her in a worse situation); or she may want to hold for a moment and then roll sideways hoping to sweep his legs with her own. By helping to coax the players along into more exciting responses and actions, you help to mitigate the disappointment of a poor role and replace it with bracing suspense and a deeper engagement.
I’m reminded of an actual fight I was in several years ago that involved the proverbial rolling of a few ones. First of all, I want everyone to learn from my mistake, don’t talk shit back to somebody until you’re done urinating. It was a busy Friday night at my favorite bar and a fellow I’d previously had an altercation with came into the bathroom whilst I was micturating. I’d had a couple pitchers of beer to myself already so this was set to be a good long pee. Anyway, he started talking mad shit to me and eventually called me a faggot. In response, I declared that he must’ve been looking for either a fistfight or a blowjob and I didn't think he was attractive. Well he picked fistfight right quick, and I ducked and covered ‘til I was done peeing. The fight ensued for a bit and I rolled a one on my coordination/dexterity/what-have-you check and slipped to my knees in a puddle of urine – not an enviable position. It did, however, present me with a unique opportunity. The redneck’s balls were now shoulder level so I drew back for a stronger, from-the-shoulder shot to his nads.  Mid-punch, he rolled a one and slipped so my strike took him in the inner thigh. Between the momentum of his fall and my fist, he got knocked out of the bathroom and the rest of the bar got to jump in on the brawl.
The overall, real lesson to consider is that you should never let the dice completely override well-chosen actions. There certainly should be consequences for failed actions (without risk there’s no verisimilitude and it’s not really a game), but poor rolls don’t have bring everyone down. There’s winning, even in failure. Just look at Charlie Sheen.