Topics

Resolve
by H. Jeebies

In the depths of the city, where the grime and filth collected, a solitary figure emerged - the Worm Hunter. With steadfast determination, he ventured into the treacherous gutters, his eyes scanning the murky alleys for any sign of movement. Armed with nimble fingers and an unwavering purpose, he embarked on a relentless pursuit of the elusive worms that infested the streets. His mission was clear - to restore cleanliness and reclaim forgotten corners from the clutches of these vile creatures.

Amidst the squalor and decay, the Worm Hunter couldn't help but be consumed by thoughts of his son. The image of his young boy's face, bright with innocence and admiration, flickered through his mind. His son, his beacon of joy and hope, brought meaning to his otherwise arduous existence. It was the thought of providing a better life for his child that fueled his resolve, driving him forward in his tireless quest.

Yet, despite the undeniable love he held for his son, a nagging sense of shame gnawed at the edges of the Worm Hunter's conscience. Society had deemed his chosen occupation unworthy and menial. He was acutely aware of the disdain that surrounded his job, painting it with an aura of dirt and lowliness. The weight of societal judgment burdened him, casting shadows on the pride he harbored for his ability to provide for his family.

But deep within the Worm Hunter's heart, a flicker of defiance burned. He knew the value of his work, no matter how unappreciated it might be by others. It was through his unconventional job that he put food on the table and kept a roof over their heads. He took pride in his ability to ensure his family's survival, understanding that his labor, despised as it may be, was a testament to his love and responsibility as a father.

One fateful day, as the Worm Hunter navigated the labyrinthine alleys, a shudder rippled through the very foundations of the city. The ground beneath him trembled, and with a sickening lurch, a sinkhole materialized beneath his feet. In an instant, the earth opened up, swallowing the unsuspecting Hunter into its gaping maw. Darkness consumed him as he plummeted into the abyss, his desperate cries echoing in the void.

Within the belly of the sinkhole, the Worm Hunter found himself surrounded by an eerie symphony of unsettling sounds. Dark, wet, and sloshing noises permeated the air, playing on his senses like a haunting melody. Panic welled up within him as he realized the perilous nature of his predicament. Trapped in this forsaken abyss, he called out for help, his voice reverberating through the blackness, desperate for a lifeline.

Time stretched on, seeming to defy all measure, as the Worm Hunter waited for salvation. Doubt crept into his heart, whispering the possibility of being forgotten, left to wither away in this desolate chasm. The fear of a lonely demise gnawed at his spirit, threatening to extinguish the flickering flame of hope that had kept him alive.

But just as despair threatened to consume him entirely, a glimmer of hope emerged from the shadows. Echoes of voices and the sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears, piercing through the suffocating darkness. Help had arrived. A beam of light broke through the gloom, illuminating the abyss and infusing the Worm Hunter's heart with renewed anticipation.

Rescue workers descended into the sinkhole, their determined faces framed by the glow of their Minor Nuisance pins. Their presence brought a surge of optimism, a tangible lifeline amidst the darkness. With their expertise and unwavering resolve, they were there to extricate the Worm Hunter from his subterranean nightmare.

As the rescuers shone their lights into the depths, their faces contorted with horror. The sinkhole, once believed to be infested with worms, revealed a far more sinister truth. It oozed with a repulsive, corrosive substance that devoured anything it touched. The rescuers recoiled, realizing the unimaginable danger that lurked beneath the city's surface.

It was too late for the Worm Hunter. His body, already halfway dissolved by the malevolent ooze, bore witness to the harrowing fate he had unwittingly stumbled upon. The rescuers could only look on with heavy hearts, their arrival coming too late to save the brave soul who had dared to confront the darkness. In that tragic moment, the Worm Hunter's sacrifice became etched in the annals of both heroism and caution, forever remembered as a testament to the perils that lie hidden beneath the city streets.

She Marches With Melek
by H. Jeebies

Jobrim searched his pack for the third time in a minute, his hands fidgeting from the excitement coursing through his veins. Far above on the hillside, it would be impossible to hear the clank of potions and sundry from his preparations. Peony kept watch over the hordes below, her crossbow trained on one in particular; a Melek mage, by the look of it, festooned with baubles and icons of long dead gods. It was a fitting decoration for the deathless childe of darkness that now babbled its foul magicks through stolen, swollen lips. Kendra, for her part, remained unperturbed by the horde, its size, its fell art, or even its shambling moans. Her confidence had been infectious at the outset, with the small party gathered in like-mind to tackle work from the job board, but that hadn't lasted. By the time they had reached the auld broken roads, the air had grown fetid and toxic, grey mists settling in the valley they had set their sights on. Even the residual heat of the day turned to a chill and sobering wind by the time they arrived.

The trio, not long in each others' company, had nonetheless worked the job before and knew what to expect. They approached with caution, using Peony's keen elven senses to spot the shamblers from far off. They picked a spot from which to view their quarry and set camp, even as the miasma of the unhallowed graves wafted downwind towards them. Jobrim had the first doubts, though he didn't share them; the youngest of the three, his willingness to prove himself overrode the burgeoning fear within him. It wasn't until Peony had loaded a bolt and began to stand watch that he realized that fear might have a purpose. With that, he'd gone into an obsessive checking and rechecking of his pack, desperate to memorize its layout so he would not slip up in that vital moment to come.

Soon, it was time to depart; the preparations were done, and to Jobrim's mind, no more excuses to give in to the paralysis of fear. He rose to the fore, his steel fresh from the forge, and marched down the hill to engage the hordes. Kendra, at his flank, brought her staff to bear, its tips glowing with unearthly light from above; Jobrim was reminded for a moment of the inspirational quality the woman had shown before, and his resolve strengthened. Peony strode in her slim, silent manner behind the two, touching them gently with the magics that enhanced their natural talents, before falling back into a safer position.

One, then another, then countless heads turned on pocked, rotting necks, their joints creaking, their moans growing louder as they caught the scent of food in the air. As their weary march wheeled around to face the shaded hillside, a glint of light on steel slashed through the air quick as the wind, cleaving a long-dead head from sagging shoulders.

With a cry, Jobrim pushed forward into the next of the horde, his measured strikes proving his mettle. Kendra stepped out from behind him in an unpredictable charge, flanking the early arrivals with rapid blunt strikes; sparks of starlight shone out with each heavy blow, leaving the fallen revenants sizzling on the ground. Peony fired shot after shot over their heads; her magic had mostly been spent at the outset, and but for a few powerful spells for emergencies, her contribution was limited to this. Yet as Jobrim finally took a hit, his armor failing to hold back the sharp, sickly claws of a deadly ghuul, Peony was ready to react with blessed waters.

But as valorous as they were, the trio could not slay the horde fast enough to avoid getting surrounded. Pressed back to the hillside, they were forced to ascend backwards, swiping beneath them as they retook the high ground. Jobrim, for all his earlier terror, had reached a state of epiphany in the fray, and moved without hesitation to carve fouled flesh from bone. Yet as the cry rang out, one all too human, he whirled around to see an animated harpy had descended from above and caught Peony with its gnashing teeth. Jobrim did not falter, and charged the creature with his shield raised, knocking the both of them to the ground, but Peony cried again as flesh was ripped out from her shoulder. She fell in shock from the pain with Kendra standing over her, face as stone, stance almost matronly in its certainty and dedication to protect the fallen mage.

As Jobrim planted a hand to the ground and tried to push himself back up, he was struck down by a burst of red withering light. He could feel his strength sapped, but his will remained strong, and he rose once more. His steel struck true into the chest of a charging ghuul, and he wheeled the creature around to knock down the others that had begun to harry Kendra's flank. Together, the two held the line as Peony applied healing salves to her wound.

Before long, their muscles began to burn from the exertion, their skin itching and bleeding from the plagues of the undead onslaught. Peony, from the ground, wove wards of arcane majesty that managed to deflect the bursts of foul light, but the ground was littered with the corpses of the slain and there was no end in sight, save one.

When it happened, it happened fast; one moment, Jobrim stood proudly at the forefront of the battle, the strength of steel writ on his expression; in the next, his sword fell from his hands as he screamed, reaching up to his face and with a voice of abject, absolute terror, he screamed a scream to rival the dead themselves in torment. Wisps of white smoke evaporated away from his face, leaving an impression of a phantom before fading into nothing, but Jobrim stood no more. His face lay frozen in that same expression, the one he'd fought so hard to keep hidden, before being buried beneath the stomping feet of further foul monsters.

Kendra's own magics began to fade from her staff, and as the light went out and the horde descended upon her, that confidence shattered just as fast as Jobrim's mind before the phantom. She held back the horde of ghuuls for but a moment as her free hand grasped a delicate orange vial and, crushing it, she poured the liquid with bits of glass into her desperate mouth, swallowing hard. In an instant her form evaporated, and the mindless hordes saw her no longer, though there she still remained, standing over Peony, who looked up into where those inspiring eyes had once been. Before she was overcome by the horde who, by this time, had scented out the elf from the dead, she could swear she heard the voice of her once companion apologizing, before all fell to silence.

In Kendra's ear she could hear the shambling feet of ghuuls, racing aimlessly but for the scent of her blood and fear. She could hear the heavy beating of her heart, racing just as fast but towards one certain aim, one Kendra knew with absolute confidence she would achieve. Atop the hillside shone the last rays of daylight, a thin narrow horizon stretching out, to Kendra's mind, to infinity. Her feet dug deep into the loose rocks of the hillside, scattering them down behind her as she climbed higher and higher, farther from the fallen, farther from her fellows who had trusted her so well. Shame rose up in her, doubt -- and in that moment, Kendra's fate was sealed with one final spell.

A rotting Melek shaman, its reptilian visage clothed behind ancient wraps, rune-inscribed and cracking with wear, rose up from amongst the horde and held Kendra in its grasp from afar, before turning her about at its wordless command, hollow sockets staring balefully into the woman's glazed eyes, before with a closing of its hand, It commanded them close forever.

It is said that one hot afternoon in Maribeh, a small party of three departed from Ephia's Well to an unhallowed mass grave west of the city. None of the three were ever heard from again. But those who knew her speak sometimes of Kendra, the once-faithful, once-true knight who, on the coldest of nights, in the shadow of the valleys, can be seen among the dead, walking with purpose and the surest of confidence in her new fell masters. Now, they say, she marches with Melek.

[Inquire of Mr. H. Jeebies by correspondence at the Krak Des Roses.]

With my previous journal discarded in haste upon the startling revelation of its fell powers, I now continue my thoughts and observations in this book. Rest assured, you have not been lost to the wastes, never to fulfill your purpose. I am here to fill you with inanity that knows no limits, save those of your page count.

Shall we?

That I very nearly met the same legal fate as the ill-fated Velen Volandis is nothing short of mortifying. I find myself now with the idle time necessary to properly dwell and obsess on this meaty package of self-doubt. It was a matter of minutes or hours that kept me from sharing in the lions' feast. In truth, the degree to which these folks have come to fear the Djinn is staggering and I'm not sure I understand it fully.

Ultimately, it is up to me to conform to the norms and understand their reasoning. I'm not a revolutionary, although now that I think of it, where are the revolutionaries?

The Adventures of Skink and Dunekit

Once upon a time, in a vast desert wasteland, there lived two unlikely friends named Skink and Dunekit. Skink, the tiny and adventurous skink, scurried across the sandy dunes, his curiosity leading him to new discoveries, his ebon locks flowing in the breeze. Dunekit, the playful dunecat with a blunt personality, trotted alongside Skink, always ready to join in the day's adventure, but often just too good for it if you know what I mean.

One sunny day, as Skink and Dunekit met at their favorite basking spot atop a sun-kissed dune, Skink looked up at the sky, flicked a tiny hand through his rich black mane, and exclaimed, "Dunekit, look at the endless possibilities that lie before us! I wonder what mysteries this wasteland holds."

Dunekit stretched lazily and replied, "Mysteries? Ha! All I see are endless sand dunes and scorching heat. But if you're up for it, let's see what trouble we can find today." With that, he discarded the eaten corpse of another skink nearly indistinguishable from his friend and the two set off.

After briefly setting on again when Skink forgot his sandals, they set off again on their exploration, Skink noticed a group of colorful birdos fluttering above. Skink's eyes widened with excitement, "Dunekit, look at those birds! I wonder what stories they could tell us."

Dunekit scoffed, "Stories? They probably just squawk about their next meal. But let's see if they know any shortcuts through these dunes."

Skink approached the birdos and chirped cheerfully, "Hello, beautiful birds! Have you traveled far? We're in search of adventure and knowledge."

One of the birdos, a flamboyantly-appointed rainbow owl named Hooth, hooted with a mewling passion and replied, "Indeed, little Skink. We've seen many wonders in our travels. If you wish to find answers, seek the ancient ruins hidden deep within the desert. But beware, for strange beings are drawn to those sites."
Excitement filled Skink's tiny body as they relayed the owl's message to Dunekit. "Did you hear that, Dunekit? Ancient ruins and strange beings! Let's go and uncover their secrets!"

Dunekit narrowed his eyes and said cautiously, "Skink, I smell danger. But if you're determined, I won't let you face it alone. Just promise me you'll stay close; you're barely a morsel for the threats we'll face."

Skink grinned, "Of course, Dunekit! We'll face this together, like true friends always do. I'll enchant your steel, enhance your strength, enflame your tail, and ward you against, just, everyone. All of it."

And so, Skink and Dunekit ventured deeper into the desert wasteland, encountering treacherous sandstorms and scorching heat along the way. Spurred on as they were by the fiery passion of finding something to do, finally, they reached the ancient ruins, where eerie whispers echoed through the air.

Skink shivered, "Dunekit, do you feel that? Something's not right here."

Dunekit's ears twitched as he sniffed the air, "You're right for once, Skink. There's a peculiar energy in the air. Let's proceed with caution."

Skink bobbed his little lizard head in agreement. "Okay; we'll rest here and I'll put the spells on you again. Do you have oil?" But it had only been twenty minutes, so their rest was a fitful and restless affair that was more like a chore than a proper break from action.

As they explored the ruins, they stumbled upon an ancient lizardfolk named Zara, who had been trapped within the ruins for centuries. Her mummified remains were soiled with centuries of fell sorcery and sanitary neglect. Zara's voice quivered as she spoke, "Brave travelers, please help me escape this eternal prison. I can guide you through the treacherous paths."

Skink's heart filled with compassion, "We'll help you, Zara. Dunekit, what do you think?"

Dunekit's eyes narrowed, but he nodded, "Fine, but if you try anything funny, you'll regret it."

With Zara's guidance, Skink and Dunekit navigated through narrow passages, avoiding hidden traps and escaping ancient curses. Along the way, Skink saw things he had never seen before: mighty obelisks, ancient runic scripts, defaced paintings of once noble figures, all relics of an age long since passed. Zara proved to be an invaluable ally, sharing her wisdom and ancient knowledge.

In the end, as they emerged from the ruins, free from their ancient confines, Skink turned to Zara, gratitude in their eyes, a song in their heart, and dusty black tresses bobbing in the faint breeze, "Thank you, Zara. We couldn't have done it without you."

Zara smiled warmly, "And thank you both, Skink and Dunekit, for your courage and friendship. Remember, strength comes in all states of living, and true friends can conquer any challenge."

Skink and Dunekit nodded in agreement, before realizing they didn't understand what Zara said. Dunecat had certainly learned the value of being big or small isn't measured by physical size but by the size of one's heart, but then he'd learned that every week or so. Skink had discovered a fondness for relief carvings but otherwise remained unchanged as a person. And neither of them could fathom the complex moral quandries of intelligent necromancy, or the disconcerting legal liabilities which stem from their newfound friendship.

Their hearts filled with joy and newfound wisdom, Skink, Dunekit, and Zara ventured forth, ready to face whatever wonders and challenges the desert wasteland had in store for them. Together, they would continue to explore, learn, and make new friends, cherishing the values of bravery, compassion, and the power of undeath.

And so, their journey through the desert wasteland continued, reminding them and young readers alike that no matter how big or small, each individual has unique qualities to offer, and that you should not trust any skink with black hair.

THE END

It seems like cooking on a campfire doesn't take into account the new Cooking skill ranks.

9 ranks - 1 (WIS) = +8 modifier

But instead, cooking on a campfire gives a -1 modifier total.

Crafting Rods, useable by any class, would allow non-casters access to the wide range of utility spells that make adventuring more exciting.

Anyone who crafts Wands could craft Rods as well by simply buying a blank one anywhere wands are sold.

The cost would drop by half relative to wands, but the charges would drop from 25 to 10.

Making these spells available to every class through potions solves several problems:

-Improved Invisibility in a bottle is a costly but viable alternative to having an ideal party composition.
-Divine Power can let a flimsy mage save themselves, or enhance the damage output of Dex builds against bosses.
-Sludge drinks already exist; this normalizes their presence.
-Death Ward allows crusaders to address a very common threat when facing Undead.

300gp+ is a good starting point.

I would also suggest that, to balance this, 4th circle potions add a significant dose of Seam Sickness.

Ideally, all player-crafted potions should add a degree of seam sickness relative to their GP cost, whether they came from seams/wizards or not; BUT 4th circle potions specifically ought to have a prohibitive cost beyond GP.

[when the unexpected quests lie outside the group's level range]

Hi folks! I was curious if there is an audience for discussion of quest level ranges.

So here's what I understand about quests:
-Quests can be taken once per reset.
-Some of them are static; some move around.
-The level requirements (min and max) vary.
-Rewards, be they XP or loot, vary in scale and scope.

In general, this has a few effects on the quest loop:
-There is a niche for prospecting non-static quests on behalf of other characters.
-There is uncertainty at the outset about what will be encountered.
-The distance between static quests increases the odds of encountering random ones.

In previous chapters, it was easier to plan a route for what is colloquially referred to as the 'quest train'. In the City of Rings, however, the 'quest train' is usually more variable. The variety should make it more rewarding, both in terms of loot and roleplaying. However, I think there are some impediments to achieving the full potential of the scripted quest system as a whole:

First: when the unexpected quests lie outside the group's level range. Typically, this excludes the high-level characters from a quest with a lower maximum level requirement. Apologies to the nameless few who have had to sit outside and type ^{ugh miss me with that noise}. It's awkward out-of-character, and feels bad to exclude for a mechanical detail.

Second: Lower-level characters will join groups high above their level range, not anticipating the spike in difficulty. Example: Quests with deadly traps, close spawns, or ranks of ranged attackers. In many cases, these challenges require subtle metagaming of spawn triggers and cover to avoid the full consequences. New players can end up walking right into these traps.

Third: There is a chance these first two issues might discourage smaller groups from questing at all, due to a gulf in level range/ability.

My personal opinions are thus:
-The randomness of quests is a positive change. It adds replayability that outweighs the time/risk costs.
-Temporary negative levels could be used to allow higher-level characters to support lower-level ones.
-Awareness of the exploitability of spawn triggers going forward can inform more insidious quest design.
-Veterans should be mindful of the experience of players, and slowing down where necessary solves a lot of this.

-

I'd like to know what my fellow players think about these observations. Am I out of touch? Am I on to something? What solutions are available or desirable?

It makes a ton of sense to have cooking/fishing pay off in some mechanical way, but simply replacing or overshadowing the present balance of consumables with a low-risk grindable system is less than ideal.

The solution could be that player-made food can be used to offer buffs to animal companions, familiars, summons, and henchmen. These could be basic stat increases, regen, temporary immunities, or other properties based on how complicated the food was to make. Continuous bonuses should only be equivalent to Magic Fang or Endure Elements. Immunities (like poison, fire, etc.) should last for less than a turn at most, and require advanced cooking with multiple steps.

This could carve out a niche that adds to the player economy without replacing it. Cheaper than potions, but only useful if you also manage NPC allies, which fits the communal theme of cooking.

It would be cool if Improved Unarmed Strike gave +2 bludgeoning damage when wielding a holdable tool.

It would also be cool as a Bard/Rogue minor perk.

It's not fun to sit around and watch yourself die.

Tanglefoot roots you but you maintain your actions. Daze prevents attacking but you can still move and use items.

Paralysis/Fear/Stun should just be worse versions of this. Game's hard enough when you're allowed to take actions, let alone when you're not.

I wanna make books from multiple paper notes please.

Discuss.

NPCs that buy fish should pay by the pound instead of a flat 5gp. This would support the player economy/roleplaying by encouraging fisherfolk to bring friends with room in their inventories.

Porry Naughton should be able to buy fish, and should sell bait bundles (with accompanying Appraise check). This would just bring the Ponds up to par with Ticker and the Burgage in fishing support.

+EfUSS Fishing items in the Hero loot tables, so I can hear the cries of other players' disappointment.

The Scarlet Host is a big fish that ate my character's grandmother and I'm passing the savings on to you.

If you want to do a lot of fishing and take things easy, be a Fisher.

If you want cover for a Ponds-focused agenda, be an Official.

Here's what I have so far:

SHFL Handbook: HERE

SHFL Recruitment Poster: HERE

PM Lovethesuit on Discord, or Letters subforum, or find me IG, or just start doing stuff because I can't stop you.

This is a faction hub. Put blue NPCs in the faction hub, and require DM supervision for PvP there.

I like the idea of having some sub-FD punishments for dirty changeling freaks. Something more interesting than the normal robbery and threats! With the rise of Nephezar, perhaps some artifacts to block shapeshifting/spellcasting/class abilities could be added. Forced rehabilitation, for those who may be begging for their life, but may not be trusted.

A DM could set an event, add a description and countdown, edit remotely (even away from the computer), and link in characters or players individually or by faction. You could even do a "what time do we want to do this?" poll right in the site.

Plenty of folks already use external sites for countdowns. This would just save a lot of hassle.

Give us Actor NPCs who can be programmed in-game by an adventurer's journal binder of up to 50 lines of dialogue and/or stage directions.

Spears and Shortspears are cool. They're basic and fundamental to war. Please add Spears and Shortspears to Druid/Monk/Rogue proficiencies, or give Weapon Proficiency (Simple) as a bonus feat to these classes.

Sorcs have it.