inns & taverns: the wanton trout

The Wanton Trout is a solid, stone two-storey tavern in a port known for endurance against all comers.  It's owner, a soldier turned bard and pacifist made it famous by his verses etched in it's windows as a customer.  While the port is cold, foggy and grim, The Wanton Trout keeps up a warm welcome on the corner of the crossroads leading to the main marketplace.

The stonework exterior is dappled grey and russet blocks.  Corners and lintels are black granite.  The roof is green-grey slate and the whole structure exudes permanence.  The sign is a study in suggestion.  A pair of slim, pale hands tickling a fat brown trout encircled by "The Wanton Trout" in gilded runes.  An aroma of cooked oats, peat, pine, wax and grain alcohol teases passersby from green-stained oak shutters and south-facing double doors.  A stable suitable for twelve steeds flanks the tavern to the north.

The interior is cream plaster walls, etched with viridian vines bearing pink grapes.  The main lounge is cruciform with a great hearth of wrought iron and granite blazes with burning peat and popping pine cones in the eastern arm.  Iron pots and skillets are tended by sweating youths as oaken tables and benches groan under clientele and wares.  The corners are separated by granite pillars and woven wool drapes in elaborate checks.  Beyond these are more seats and the windows.  Around each window, the plaster is black with crabbed script, pored over by minstrel and scholar.

The northern arm is dominated by a staircase befitting a noble's hall, leading to a balcony.  On one side are six booths for private meetings.  On the other, a dozen doors lead to cosy rooms with shuttered windows with more writing etched into the plaster.  Patrons must carry their own ale, a trial for the hanger-on with many friends or drink-worn.  Food is brought on request by the youths at the hearth who expect some compensation.  The western arm houses the L-shaped bar and stairs to the cellar.  A trio of barmaids hold court, dispensing ale and cheer.  Woe betide the over-amorous, these ladies are ready wits skilled in deflating oratory and more physical advances.  A shout will bring two brawny cellarmen armed with shillelaghs to their aid.  Wooden racks behind the bar hold clay jugs of sealed spirit and ornate pewter tankards inscribed with fanciful decorations.

In the long spring and brief summer, a warm russet ale is sold for a copper quartet.  In autumn, a toffee-coloured ale with hints of peat and caramel is sold instead until spring. In winter, a superior black porter ale is sold for five copper.  Throughout the year, whisky is sold in 'thistles' for two silver.  These tumblers narrow at the top.  Water is served with the whisky to taste, most locals add a little water.  Fortified blackberry wine, cloyingly sweet is sold by the jug for 1 gold.  Food is sold at the hearth.  Salted porridge for a copper, sweetened with honey and hazelnuts for another copper.  Haggis, dark bread and roast turnip is sold for three silver.  Luxury is found in trout baked in butter and herbs for five silver.

A bald-shaven, bucolic fellow, Kriell O'The Dale is a former leader of the watch.  His twin talents for diplomacy and brawling make him a natural landlord.  The youths that cook, cellarmen, stable boys and maids defer to him.  The same is less true of the three barmaids. Eilen, Mora and Shiel who nettle him constantly.  Staff are fiercely loyalty to each other, for every blue moon, the owner shows up incognito. This poet, orator and drinker known to nine worlds demands a room, whiskey and trout.  He and Kriell discuss business in private, sometime coin is exchanged.  The rooms are kept clean by three maids.  Clad in simple dark livery, they are acolytes of a local temple, sworn to chastity.

The rooms upstairs provide private accommodation for the princely sum of 4 gold a night.  The common corners provide a frugal experience for a mere five silver.  The rooms upstairs are good quality and limited availability, 1d12 are already booked. Their windowsills are darkened by more verse on the virtues of love, sleep and warmth.  Each has a simple feather bed and covered chamberpot.  Scholars may try to bribe or persuade guests to let them in to study the verses.  Women travellers are told to raise the alarum if disturbed more than once.  Men are told to resolve the issue informally.

More considerate scholars club together to hire a room, studying the verses until the morning.  Their muttering in meter may alarm nervous guests.  An influx of trade on holy days and rooms smelling of incense suggests some muttering is incantatory. There's been no trouble yet. The maids are vigilant for chalk circles.

anatomy of an apocalypse - part 2

In part 1, we left things after a series of surgical nuclear strikes and civilisation reeling from ten years of nuclear winter.  Millions died in nuclear fire, millions more from fallout.  Famine claims the greatest number of victims.  Most supermarkets last nine days before food runs out in conventional situations (extreme weather or fuel shortage).  Panic buying is not uncommon.  Extreme situations yield food riots, laws against hoarding, rationing and military support of law-enforcement. Most survivalist food plans expire in five years, halfway into the decade without summer.

When the food ran out...
 
...all hell broke loose.  Rioting met brutal responses from armed police with military support able to fight a recognisable threat.  The more powerful civic leaders and military commissioned research regarding creation and preservation of food. Production was a top priority.  Farms had to meet intensive quotas.  Heavily guarded bio-domes and hydroponic warehouses use sunlamps to grow through the dark seasons.  This isn't the only option.  Evidence of cannibal communities is hidden by horrified civic leaders. 

Symptoms of kuru and amyloidosis are identified by medics.  Despite all the death, too many mouths need feeding.  Secretive purges of individual serial cannibals and growing cannibal gangs are led by pro-establishment brainers. Yet cannibalism appears in cities and rural communities. Food caches of MREs and freeze-dried goods are treasured secrets, used only in dire need.  Shifts from increasingly scarce food stores to sustainable food supplies means tightening belts.  Horror stories of cannibal cults led by charismatic leaders become more prevalent.  Society begins a slow-motion splintering.

Listen to the voices... 

The psychic maelstrom is a product of the millions of dead.  Yet pandemics claim equivalent body counts without forming a worldwide miasma of psychic energy.  And if they do, they're rarely as informative as this one.  So why are the dead so damned helpful?  Consider the gutting of a worldwide infrastructure due to the Cull's EMP and burning cities out.  Surviving engineers are kept busy.  Some rebuilding occurs and there is nothing like necessity to breed invention.

Satellites require significant investment and connectivity breaks.  Nanoscale networking is a different approach and worldwide production nodes may reconnect people.  Imagine a communicable personal nano-network linking you to the Internet.  Pre-Cull brainer tech like implant syringes or violation gloves (amplifying signal or rapid processing) makes this less of a leap.  The resulting noosphere mixed ingenuity and horror in the last two years of the Decade Without Summer.  Cryogenic stasis became a reality. Leaders of men and entourages enter bunkers to sleep away their troubles until the land is renewed again.

Introducing... the Burn.

So what stops satellite-assisted human ingenuity and the nanoscale Internet?  Irony demands a solar event. 2012 saw increased awareness of coronal mass ejection.  CME events reach peaks every 11 years. Heralded by solar flares, powerful CME events weave auroral displays, burn out satellites, disrupt electronic and power networks.  A global Carrington event electrifies power lines, phone lines and pipelines. Transformers blow, satellites burn out, electrified lines go down and fuel pipelines experience electrical fires.

Blackouts again and fewer engineers means longer downtime.  The noosphere dies and panic ensues again as electronic controls fail.  Eventually the nanoscale network reboots.  Things are different, inexplicable sensory impressions, voices whispering.  This glitch births the psychic maelstrom and over forty years, it transcends it's original form.   The gifted and strange attune to it.  Information is lost, corrupted or transformed into formats man was not meant to know.  Insanity spikes among noosphere users, what seemed salvation is risky.  Those with latent psychic ability become gifted.  Nobody knows how or why.

Colony collapse disorder

In the wake of The Burn, civilisation finally splinters.  Famine rears it's ugly head as the farms lose power.   This time, mere anarchy prevails.  Authorities retreat or are overthrown.  Holdings form at power stations, factories, hospitals and military bases.  Mirroring declines in bee population, people abandon cities after looting them.  Those who remain carve out niches.  Cannibalism, insanity and mutation - the last from exposure to environment, radiation, pathogens or psychic maelstrom grows more prevalent.

Sustainable farming and hunter-gathering becomes the norm.  Communities disperse or form around working power sources.  The adoption of biogas from waste products and traded generators means cars can run and electrical light is possible.  Communities shrink out of necessity.  Trade in oil, petroleum and gas still occurs. Money becomes meaningless - barter now makes sense.  In time, skills are lost and memories of the world before the Cull are told to children. The omnipresent psychic maelstrom whispers equal education and confusion.  Things get a little scrambled in the re-telling.

In the absence of government or corporate interest, infrastructure decays.  Roads crack, sewer systems and flood defences are compromised.  Those with skills effect small-scale repairs. Larger problems are left to fester.  In addition, culture begins to erode.  Magazine celebrities become archetypes studied by manipulators.  Savants and operators ply their trades. Names lose meanings in the struggle to live - those who die are remembered and sometimes eaten. Fifty years after the bombs exploded, this world is bleak.

You are here.

anatomy of an apocalypse, part one

Apocalypse World.  Helluva game, as has been remarked by various people.  Having recently run a six-session game for new players, here are some setup experiences and points on the learning curve from the group (myself included).  I prefer recaps and summaries to actual play reports, some play decisions will creep in here as they reflect learning points.  The nature of the apocalypse is open-ended and this is one of the first decisions an MC needs to consider.

The rules imply certain common elements.  It's fifty or so years after the event.  Burned-out cities, a night sky of murky twilight, scarce food and water, fear and ignorance as the norm.   Society is broken down gangs cleave to personalities or holdings.  No Internet, working electronics are precious, bullets and fuel are still plentiful.  Cultural identity is annihilated, names have lost meaning.  In the ruins gifted individuals survive and bond.  The psychic maelstrom whispers secrets and lies to the strange and desperate.  High technology enhances psychic abilities yet little working infrastructure remains.

Choose your own damn catastrophe

The book refers to burn-flats, suggesting to me nuclear exchange.  You may prefer asteroid strikes, runaway virus, esoteric rapture or alien invasion.  Knowing how things got so bad means backtracking to identify the nature of the catastrophe.  The vast majority of characters won't have been around when it happened.  And if someone wants to play a grizzled bad ass, one question you must ask is "How did you escape the apocalypse?"  Open questions are key to a good game.

The footprints of the disaster are useful.  They help identify threats, give context to fronts and flavour for moves against the player characters.  Crossing a burn-flat, irradiated water, decontamination rituals by cultists and packs of mutants are fair game.  Fleshing everything out isn't desirable but a cheat sheet of ideas will help with session prep.  As MC, you'll have questions to answer yourself.  In the first session (and after), players will provide plenty of ideas.  Incorporating them into the game makes for a better game and gives them investment into the game too.

Deciding what the hell happened. 

I thought about The World Before.  Like our world but with brainers armed with high-tech - a setting worth investigation.  With the number of cities and megacities, the body count would be immense, a cull of humanity.  Research on this topic and sites mapping a nuclear explosion on Google Maps gives you a point of reference.  To reduce the population to those levels might need a nuke in every city with a population over, say, 1 million... roughly 500 cities.  So where do you find 500 nukes?  Not as hard as it sounds.

A simultaneous nuclear strike in every major city would shake the pillars of civilisation without worldwide annihilation of life.  These surgical strikes would prevent other nations taking control until nuclear winter sets in. The initial destruction and the following consequences are sobering reading.  Reading around the TTAPS study and supplementary research, I chose 340 kiloton devices.  Seeing the words cull of humanity in my notes, suddenly a conspiracy trying to control world population who get it horribly wrong appears - motive and method.  Now to work out the opportunity and events from The World Before to The World After...

Introducing The Cull

On the 5th November, 500 simultaneous nuclear strikes rip out the heart of every major city.  Millions die instantly, world stock markets shatter with telecoms and media hubs gutted by EMP, firestorms and gamma radiation.  Plumes of smoke, irradiated dust and carbon are borne aloft.  Some falls as black rain.  Some enters the stratosphere, sowing seeds of nuclear winter.  Fallout scourges metropolitan areas and nearby cities driven by prevailing weather.  Civic infrastructure screams, buckles and shatters.

Civilian complacency is rewarded by rolling blackouts and hastily-invoked contingencies.  Those who can flee, those who can't either barricade themselves in or riot in the streets.  Governments reassert control despite collapsed markets, catastrophic damage to population centers and crippled infrastructure.  Rural communities face a 'golden horde' of looters and refugees, military units are mobilised to keep order.  In some countries, martial law is imposed.  In others there is insurrection.  Political instability, aggressive stockpiling and public dissent increases.

A manifesto is released via multiple channels, justifying the strikes as preventing an overpopulation crisis.
The conspiracy is swiftly hunted down and dismantled.  Interrogation combining conventional and psychic means reveal extensive conditioning.  Copies are adopted by fanatics and demagogues.  As the month comes to an end, radiation poisoning claims more lives.  Economic negotiations are convened and fail to rebuild the markets desperately needed to supply food to the cities.

The Decade Without Summer

Then winter bites down hard.  Stratospheric dust opaque to infra-red but not harmful ultraviolet radiation shades the Earth from sunlight.  With targets near the equator, both Northern and Southern hemispheres experience chilling weather, spoiling harvests.  Black snow and ice storms wreak havoc.  The Northern hemisphere loses sunlight through the first winter, the Southern hemisphere has overcast days with searing ultraviolet light which blinds and burns unprotected animals and humans alike.

Multiple bombs detonated in Brazil, Africa and South East Asia punch holes in the ozone layer and chill the oceans further.  Hemispheric separation of wind currents means the Northern hemisphere bears the brunt of the winter.  Spring, such as it is, is worse.  Ozone depletion increases due to reflected sunlight heating stratospheric nitrates.  Agriculture is decimated, lack of sunlight and cooler temperatures leads to widespread famine.  Deaths follow after, stories of food riots and cannibalism are suppressed by remaining governments.  The next five years, global rainfall decreases by 10%.  The winter lasts for ten long years.

After a decade, enough dust has fallen out the sky for the worst to dissipate.  Lasting temperature drops of a few degrees centigrade worldwide remain by the time the players play.  The ozone layer is damaged so UV exposure is a threat.  Food and water are scarce now and millions have died of famine.  We have another forty years to work out.  Questions about the psychic maelstrom, whether civilisation would survive the decade without summer, how things got from here to The World After still remain...

inns & taverns: the starveling goat

The last inn on the barrens road, half a day from the nearest village or croft.  The Goat is known for frugality. Dwarf pine, scraggy juniper and blackthorn eke precarious existences in the barrens.  Harsh land does not breed wealthy watering holes.  Worse, the Goat's first landlord died violently and was dragged to the Hells for his misdeeds.  Luxurious travellers spin yarns of the Goat's miserliness and add to it's evil reputation. Bandits avoid the barrens, preferring richer pickings.  

The Goat is a sprawling drywall bungalow, set in a hillside by the road.  Waist-high drywall corral half-feral pigs and skinny, black goats.  Smoke rises along the brow of the hill. The only window is shuttered and barred.  The sign is a wooden, white shield with black goat rampant chained to the roof timbers.  The land around is desolate, open country.  Wolfsong echoes in the hills and ravens announce kills.

The bungalow opens into a low-timbered hall with paired long tables and benches to sit sixteen.  Their arrangement as an aisle leads to a hearth flanked by hanging hides.  From behind these, the staff bring ale. Most food is prepared at the hearth, the remainder brought through from the hide-hidden rooms.  These are the landlord's quarters, a brewery, pantry and smokehouse.  The hall's floor is strewn with sawdust, dwarf pine needles and malting floor chaff to soak stains.  Hints of pine and burnt grain disturb dusty air soured with sweat.  Of the sixteen chairs, up to eight are occupied by poor goatherds, itinerant tinkers or travellers.

Customers favour watery pine ale with floral notes for three copper served in clay goblets. These usually accompany a goat cheese patty on toasted bread or thick malt porridge for sixteen copper.  Quality is barely better than the prices suggest.  Spendthrifts prefer sloe genever at two silver a jug or a thin broth that mixes goat, boar, juniper and sloe.  The house speciality is smoked boar sausage at four silver, a tasty alternative to iron rations.

Augus, the landlord is sallow, wrinkled and hunched.  His patched smock reeks of malt, pine and woodsmoke.  His energetic hands are ever polishing, pouring or checking stock.  His bloodshot green eyes fix on distinctive details.  Augus has an extended family of six working as staff, two spinsters and four bored youths.  The family could run the Goat but Augus has insider knowledge that serves him well.  He talks to the air sometimes - and it replies.  Augus has unseen help in an imp grooming him for greater evils than running the Goat.  For now, the imp is content.  All fear Augus enraged, his eyes glow and those restless hands are versed in both knife and cudgel.

Rooms are not available here.  For two silver, you can sleep near the hearth.  On cold winter nights, the goats are ushered in as well.  On these nights some guests hear the hearth sizzle and fluttering wings.  The staff will mock any sharing this insight. Guests are moved on regardless of need.  Laggards are expelled at dawn unless they buy breakfast.  Few people dare to stay a second day and night.  Nobody knows of anyone who has done so.

One of the spinsters has found love and plans to elope with her beau, a local goatherd.  Needless to say, Augus is less than pleased.  The hapless beau may find his fortunes soured, or face worse consequences, without some heroic help.