dead sexy

Society celebrates festivals of passion (May Day, Lei Day, Rusalka Week) and remembrance (Lemuria, Pentecost, Zartusht-no-diso).  Where cultures revere pale beauty as a symbol of power (no tilling fields for you!) and a connection between the realms of love and death is found.  Add to this the horror spawned by taboos around dead bodies and you've got some pretty potent gaming material.  How will characters deal with undead with motivations other than dietary ones?

1. Be My Persephone - An undead known in life for their lusts abducts someone to enact them on.  Can the characters rescue the victim before a fate worse than death claims them?
2. One last kiss? - The handsome prince has gained an obsessed admirer who dies unrequited.  Three nights later, the prince learns for some, death is no barrier to their passion and seeks outside help.
3. The Morning After - Someone wakes up undead with no idea how they became that way after a night of passion. They need to find out how this happened.  Can the characters solve the mystery?

This post was brought to you in conjunction with Zombie Awareness Month.

ebon zikkuract - the southern stair

Divine majesty, I must report the loss of the party who explored the southern stair of the miraculous zikkuract of Algolia.  Strange omens and incursions following Maldut of Uthuta's expedition made it necessary for guards to be posted at the keystone.  The hierophants are interpreting the omens yet I bring them to you as Nirhad of Salkuta bade me before the jungle claimed him.  The southern stair is strange to behold, you will know that the hierophants descend and return as normal.  Yet when the expedition left, they were seen walking as slowly as mourners of fallen Ningesh, their speech slurred as if drunk yet none of that expedition would dare. The jungle of the green sun has inspired curiosity among the guards, the jewel-bright insects that enter the zikkuract command a heavy price despite hierophant decree to kill and bring their bodies for study.  I know one guard who has sought to capture rather than destroy and I suspect sorcery behind his treachery.

Before he was claimed by the jungle, Nirhad gave me this tile, saying the wisdom hidden under the green sun  tempts even hierophants to treason. I do not understand the glyphs but they change when my eyes look away then return.  There are mysteries I do not understand. The two guards reported to me before the howling fever sent them to the Underworld.  Both loyal Sarti, may her courage be rewarded and strong Naku spoke of a portal to Khadu in the jungle whose vines lashed and tried to draw blood. They said the ziggurat was covered in vines whose blooms turned in their direction.  Nirhad's incantation to Ankil parted the vines on the stairs and they followed a path revealed by moving creepers. The over-grown ruins were made of bones and a peculiar pale stone with grey and red veins.  Sarti told me of the beast cults beyond Ekkad and the howling fever.  Nirhad was greatly troubled by this, the former inhabitants may have sacrificed to the beast cults and Khadu.  To serve both would be like being torn apart by horses.

Yet the jungle was jealous.  Naku said how he slew a vicious scalebeast that spat at Nirhad and it's venom began to grow on his flesh, turning him feverish and green.  The expedition sought shelter in the ruins and here Nirhad found a library kept dry by crystals in a pot that made the air bitter.  Stacked on shelves about the room were a number of tiles carved with glyphs.  Their sole guardian was the dusty husk of a man with the skull of a beast sat as if studying the tile you have before you.  When Sarti touched the tile, the beast-corpse rose up and breathed dust upon her and Naku.  Both of them slew the monster and on Nirhad's orders fled the ruin as Naku began to howl.  They returned, the creepers moving to trip and lash at them.  The guards saw them rising up the steps, seeming to take forever.  I went with them to the healers and gathered what I could before the howling fever choked them.

After sometime, Nirhad came to the ziggurat, his body beginning to wither like rotten fruit and green like the creepers around him.  Ankil's invocation kept him safe but the creepers began to move like waves and I saw them twist into a likeness of a Zari giant, a great bloom where the head would be and sinewy limbs of vines.  Nirhad told me the others were dead from the jungle and that the library had lore from the beast cults and Khadu.  He spoke of nature corrupted and as his eyes mouldered, told me to present the tile to your divine majesty saying no hierophant should see it.  His last act was to bind my oath to that and though the hierophant tortured me, I have fulfilled my oath.  The giant came up the steps and as Nirhad gave me the tile, it reached out and grasped him, unaffected by the strange langour that had affected Nirhad's expedition.  Though I chopped at the sinews with my axe, the giant plant rent Nirhad in two then moved like a wave back down the steps, into the jungle, ignoring my efforts.  Though the insects from this world are highly sought after by healers and sorcerors, this world is a great peril.  The plants and venomous beasts attack explorers over blasphemous secrets tainted by howling fever.  I am yours to command or to punish divine majesty, for the world of the green sun un-makes me.  I would prefer to die cleanly in your regard than feed Khadu's spawn!

against the enemy of the good

Perfectionism is a tricky thing.
On one hand there is the drive to improve, to excel at what you do.  On the other often disproportionate effort and time expended.
Lots of people mention the 10,000 hours to become an expert posited in Malcolm Gladwell's The Tipping Point.  Let's face it, 2 and 1/2 hours per week for eighty-three years and 4 months (assuming you spend 4 weeks a years not gaming) may be a bit too long for some of us to get it right.
There are those who game more or longer.  The figures scale though quantity is not always synonymous with quality.

Accept and embrace imperfection.  The refinement process may be laden with mistakes (a proven way to learn) and missed opportunities.  Plan instead on success and leave passive-aggressive critiques to those who never get game invites but whose war stories rattle on how poor a game was ten years ago.  A word to those types: learn from the mistakes and move on - everyone else has.  Things may also have changed a bit since your last experience.

There are strategies to help minimise the impact.  They've been mentioned before elsewhere in various places but the core ideas are essentially sound and have been proven to work.

1. Know what success is.  Running a game can be like planning a party or as simple as getting a few friends round for beer, pretzels and a laugh.  Different games have different requirements, it is worth thinking of what you're out to achieve.  High Art may be unmanageable on your budget and environment.  Work with what you have and use tools to get where the good stuff is.
   
2. Use the 80/20 rule.  Pareto's principle of 20% effort yielding 80% results can be used to great effect.  Remember no plan survives contact with the players so 100% preparation is counter-productive, particularly as there are variables you won't know until they happen.   Accept it, re-route or smooth over speed bumps and focus on the 80% at each pass.  According to Zeno, two passes means you've done 96% of the work needed.  
3. Get things lined up.  Your players need a reason for their characters to be there, a challenge to beat and some perceived or actual recognition or reward for their efforts.  It is worth thinking of how to provide those things and how to bolster obvious weak points say an army of minions for your evil wizard for example.  Your players will make it clear if there is a shortfall in one of those things - accept the feedback with good humour.
4. Compartmentalise.  A house without walls is a gazebo (see rule 1), a wall without bricks is a windbreak.  Cut up the preparation into discrete tasks.  Once you have done something, stop otherwise you fall prey to Parkinson's law.  Look at how it fits together and if it works, keep unless you have better to hand.  If you have the luxury of time think about how to improve those compartments.  They're called modules for a reason.
5. Stand on the shoulders of giants.  Creativity is hiding your sources; while sites like TV Tropes and Arcana Wiki can show the strings holding your dragon up, there are plenty of sources and places to inspire you - from the One Page Dungeon Codex to resources in recession-proof gaming posts.  And this is before opening a magazine or sourcebook.
6. Only create what you need.  This may vary by approach, the backstory may feed other elements.  Put yourself in a player's chair and ask "What do I need to know to engage with this?"  Then provide it - if pressed for time, free writing may be a poor choice.  Listening to your players is the smart way to discover what you need to focus on and plays to the awful realisation that your players may want different things than you do.
7. Re-cycle your mistakes.  That lame villain you canned for your fantasy game may make a great supervillain with tweaking.  Slush files are good to keep for future reference.  Most people can use automated search to find something appropriate.  Combined with point 4, you can create a ready-made game in less time than you think - maybe even 60 minutes.

What are your strategies to fight perfection when preparing a game?

inns & taverns - the iron pot

In the sleepy village of Applebrook, the Iron Pot is one of two taverns. It serves the south road next to the famous orchards for which Applebrook takes it's name. The inn is L-shaped, made of whitewashed stone with a thickly thatched roof with a chimney for smoke at the corner of the L and has two storeys. The sign shows an iron tankard filled with ale. A hedged field behind the inn holds five apple trees planted like the five pips of a die where horses may shelter and are fed hay by the stablehand who also guards the apple trees from small boys with the help of a cudgel and a mongrel dog.

The interior is split into two wings, each with it's own bar. The north wing serves Applebrook locals as an inn, seating up to 20 people in comfort and is usually full. Inside is rustic, white stone walls supported by thick beams of oak carved with horses and apples. The locals are insular around strangers and bar staff will suggest they try the eastern wing if things get inhospitable for a visitor. The eastern wing is more refined and airy, here the beams are hung with horse brasses and blue clay cameos and the landlord personally serves.

The Iron Pot is known for it's drinking tankards of black iron (called pots by locals and the landlord) that can survive nearly anything. Each tankard is individually numbered by the landlord, Jarcol who bought them from a merchant before he and his wife Nessa took on the tavern. Jarcol looks fierce, beetling black brows and bushy beard earned him the nickname 'Black Bear' in addition to his talents as a horse trader. His voice is rustic yet melodious emerging from his beard. His rawboned hands often catch things thrown at him by his wife Nessa, whose mane of red ringlets with white streaks and piercing, rusty knife of a voice warn miscreants to keep clear of the sharpest wit in town.

To drink there is nut-brown humming-ale, potent and more-ish as well as three distinct ciders, Green Dell (tart, light and refreshing), Red Dancer (sweet, strong and sharp) and Brown Bush (a hazy, dark golden cider, acrid tasting and twice as strong as the humming-ale) as well as an an apple liquor. To eat Nessa will serve roasted chicken, eggs and blood pudding, pork with spiced apple chutney and a thick 'traveller's broth' with never-the-same-twice ingredients. All food is prepared well and tastes delicious.

It is in accommodation that the Iron Pot excels, located on the top floor above the landlord's own rooms. A common room that sleeps six in comfort and three individual rooms, well-appointed lie on the top floor. The mattresses are down and the sheets and scented with lav.ender and crushed camomile. The room nearest the chimney at the intersection of the L has a surprise however. If a lone traveller of some means stays, Jarcol will put them in this room after plying them with cider. Then as they sleep, he will move into the room underneath them, light the black cauldron and wait until the water boils and then release the pin holding the bed up. The bed is constructed as a trapdoor, causing the sleeper to tumble into the cauldron of boiling water, often while asleep. Jarcol will usually brain whoever falls in for good measure if the shock doesn't kill them outright.

The next day, Nessa will visit the rooms with a capacious wicker basket and clean each room in turn. Any goods left by missing travellers are concealed and taken downstairs for disposal to passing merchants. Any horses are sold on by Jarcol at horse markets of his acquaintance where buyers are less concerned with provenance and more with quality. This arrangement has suited both Jarcol and Nessa well, nobody is yet the wiser since their victims are usually solitary travellers or merchants without people to miss or mourn them.