The Magical Misadventures of the Black-Clad Bodhisattva

Where I'll Be at GenCon Oz

2009-08-27T09:00:00.001+10:00

In which our intrepid hero outlines a beaver's itinerary.

GenCon Oz looks to be less hectic than it was last year, which is both a good and a bad thing. Last year, I ended up hobbling from event to event, grimacing with tremendous back pain, and sweaty and bloated from a toxic reaction to painkillers. I wasn't a pretty sight, but at least I still smelled better than about 70% of the con.

On the other hand, the con itself is smaller, and whereas it boasted names like Tracy and Laura Hickman, Robin Laws and Peter Adkison last year (the latter pictured at right with Beave), Robert Picardo tops the bill in 2009 (who, incidentally, I still think of as "the cowboy guy" from Innerspace—now, I'm showing my age).

Only very lately does the website mention that Eberron creator Keith Baker and Paizo's Jason Bulmahn will be there, along with homegrown talent Steve Darlington (AKA SteveD) and David Conyers.

Either there are far fewer seminars this year, or they're much worse at organising them. My gaming schedule is much heavier than it was last year, when I bulked out my weekend with seminars. But none of the five or so seminars listed when I booked everything this time around appealed to me, and the one I did want to attend wasn't listed yet, either. I imagine—since I did the right thing and booked early—that seminars will start to appear en masse on the GenCon Oz rego site now. Sucks to be an early adopter.

Bitching done, so on the off chance that anyone reading this would like to catch up and say hi at GenCon Oz, here's my schedule for the weekend:

Thu Sep 17, 2pm-11pm: Stirring the Embers. My main reason for playing this (and Burning Scent, below) is that I'm itching to try out the monk class from the PHB3 preview, but don't want to take too much of the spotlight away from my regular Living Forgotten Realms character. Plus, I'm curious to see how the six-double-session Embers of Dawn story arc develops—a much longer arc, it seems, than any previous quests in LFR.

Fri Sep 18, 9am-5pm: Dark Age of Nerath. Normally, I'd be more inclined to try out some indie games, but I have an ongoing discussion with a con organiser here in Sydney regarding D&D4e. She claims (not without reason) that there's no demand at gaming conventions for D&D games lasting more than 4 hours, whereas I contend that many of the perceived problems with 4e actually stem from poor GMing and LFR's rigid writers' guidelines.

As an 8-hour, non-RPGA, D&D4e event, Dark Age is the perfect opportunity to test both hypotheses.

Sat Sep 19, 9am-1pm: Ghosts of the Past. Since Mim K/W can't make it to GenCon Oz, I guess I have to do something to convince myself it isn't a holiday. Hopefully, Ghosts may be sufficient to nudge my aforementioned, regular LFR character—Deus X, the warforged invoker of Gond-cum-artificer—somewhere up into the higher reaches of level 6. See? Character maintenance is hard work!

Sat Sep 19, 2pm-5.30pm: Miser's Run. The blurb for Miser's promises gritty, low-fantasy action. Given that D&D4e—moreso than other editions of the game—strikes me as particularly high-magic sword-and-sorcery, I'm curious as to whether the designer pulls this off purely through narration, by limiting PC choices to martial characters, or through the skillful application of system-mechanics jiggerypokery.

Consider this a research mission. Or, at the very least, a prime opportunity to use the word jiggerypokery in a sentence.

Sat Sep 19, 7pm-11pm: Jailbreak. I've been a fan of Unknown Armies forever, and Jailbreak is the iconic UA convention scenario. Given the speed with which it sold out, I guess that I'll be playing with other UA fans—something of a rarity here in Australia, but a very welcome change. Last time I played UA at a con, some three or four years ago, the other players seemed to think it was some sort of permutation of d20 Modern.

Not long after I booked the slot, however, SteveD reminded me of his WHFRP freeform, Sunset Claws. But as I was about to change the booking, I discovered that Mim K/W had paid the phone bill with my debit card, so I was pretty much broke. That, and the fact that it's a costume freeform—and therefore would entail time, money and luggage weight I don't currently have—sort of ruled it out. Which is a damn shame, as Beaver already has the perfect halberdier uniform to go with it.

All that said, however, SteveD's a great writer and a great guy, and you could do much, much worse than spending three hours in his capable care. Give the characters a look and grab yourself a spot.

Sun Sep 20, 9am-5pm: The Burning Scent of Perfumed Swords. Part two of the Embers of Dawn mini-campaign (see Stirring the Embers, above), which we antipodean RPGAers apparently get a few days ahead of everyone else. Woot. Does anyone else's Freud gland go haywire when they read that title?

If you'd still like to catch up, but aren't playing in any of the above, then I should be pretty easy to spot around the con—I'll be the guy conspicuously displaying his plush beaver. Which sounds a lot worse than it is, I admit.

Of course, there's a possibility that more than one beaver-wielding freak will be in attendance; on the other hand, if the universe sees fit to inflict a surfeit of plush beavers on the one unsuspecting con, then who am I to rectify the ensuing chaos?

New Directions

2009-07-07T09:53:00.000+10:00

In which our intrepid hero slaps himself in the head.

Have you ever had one of those days that was so busy, you had to make a list of things to do? And then lost the list? And then made another—and lost it, too? When this sort of thing happens, you begin to think that maybe some of those jobs actually get done, rather than being forgotten along the way.

Well, it turns out, this blog fell off the to-do list. I'm not entirely sure why, but sometime back in March, my brain figured that I'd written a post about why I didn't have time to write an Ada Lovelace Day article on Dr Temple Grandin, and that I'd also foreshadowed what was to come, blogwise.

But, no, apparently not. So, to very belatedly let the cat out of the bag, I'm looking at shifting my blog to its own domain, and possibly rolling in another blog I'd laid the groundwork for earlier in the year, back before Mim K/W's health really started to go haywire.

What's more, I've pretty much decided to abstain from media and political commentary in the new blog; after all, I figure that I should blog about stuff that I like, and not things that shit me to tears.

And although I'd like to write much more on roleplaying, there are already plenty of really good D&D 4e blogs out there (Spirits of Eden comes instantly to mind); I don't know that I really need to compete with them. In any case, there's a lingering uncertainty about 4e blogging in the back of my mind, because Wizards of the Coast still can't be arsed issuing a fansite policy.

But, back to the new site, I want to rope Mim K/W in to provide content as well—what, exactly, we're still working out. We've mostly hammered out the graphic design (meaning that I have to find myself a full version of Photoshop again), and we're waiting for finances to improve so we can get it commercially hosted in some random tax haven on the distant side of the planet.

Hopefully, then, it'll be a go. I doubt it'll be ready before GenCon Australia this year—so this blog might feature a recap—but I'd like to have the new site up soon thereafter.

Until then, it's more crickets, I'm afraid.

It's All About the Rons

2009-03-11T11:09:00.003+11:00

In which our intrepid hero stumbles onto evidence of a much cooler alternate universe.

I've been slack as all hell reading blogs and whatnot of late, so I've spent the last couple of days catching up. Most of the stuff I find interesting gets shared via Google Reader, and some pieces I post and comment on via Facebook—both are accessible via the widgets at the bottom left of this blog—but there was one thing I had to share here: an article from Offbeat Earth on defaced banknotes.

In particular, I'd like to draw your attention to this work of utmost awesome:

Forget Obama; if Ron Jeremy isn't about hope, I don't know who is.

My 11 Favourite D&D Monsters

2009-02-27T00:49:00.000+11:00

In which our intrepid hero dusts off a few old friends.

All the cool kids are doing it, so I thought I might give it a go—I'm going to list my 10 favourite monsters from D&D. Except, of course, being me, there's 11 of them:

Ettercap

The original ettercap illustration, from the AD&D 1^st-ed Fiend Folio, bore a striking resemblance to my best friend from school, with its hunched posture and rotund belly. Robert the ettercap butler occasionally pops up as an NPC in my games.

In the editions since, however, the ettercap—a web-spinning humanoid—has become creepier and creepier. Where once, it looked like a bugbear with spinnerets, it now has a spider's head, three digits on each hand and foot, and an affinity for arachnids. It doesn't look so much like my friend anymore, but I still find it pretty cool.

Black Dragon

Red dragons tend to overshadow their other cousins, but I've always liked black dragons better—and not just because they're black. They're sneakier as a rule, cruel as all hell and have acidic breath.

Jermalaine

Yes, jermalaines. They've been around forever—since the days of Descent into the Depths of the Earth—but most GMs seem to forget them. They're tiny, xenophobic humanoids from the Underdark, only a few inches high, lilliputian masters of what would one day be known as the Zerg Rush.

White Dragon

I love the ice and snow, particularly as a setting for adventures; perhaps it has something to do with its relative rarity here in the Antipodes. White dragons are the iconic winter foe, and they have the added bonus of being weak enough to throw at low-level PCs.

And need I say it, killing your first dragon rocks!

Bugbear

A lot of people like goblins (Pathfinder's interpretation is particularly cool) and hobgoblins—when they see use—make great militaristic badarse adversaries. On the other hand, bugbears are just big, dumb, hairy goblins with a mean streak. They're a bit like Ogre Lite, really. Which is why players underestimate them all the time...

Dohwar

From AD&D2's Spelljammer campaign. They're humanoid penguins, would throw their grandmothers into a deal (they're cheaper than steak knives), and their elite cavalry rides winged pigs. What's not to love?

Tasloi

Tasloi, originally from Dwellers of the Forbidden City, are another one of these obscure but ancient beasties. When people think of them at all, they dismiss them as mere arboreal goblins.

However, tasloi evolved through the editions to become masters of the jungle, perfectly adapted to their environment. Whilst outside the trees, they're at a distinct disadvantage, but in their home territory, they're guerrilla warriors par excellence.

Derro

I'll admit it: I never really liked drow. Duergar had promise, but never really did it for me. Svirfneblin are pathetic, and don't even start me on pech.

But derro are awesome. Crazy, psychic, nasty and short. Derro, again, are often overlooked, but they're one of the coolest things in the Underdark.

Neogi

Another product of Spelljammer, neogi are also proof that some pretty serious drugs were being handed around TSR in the latter days of AD&D2. Despite the absurdity of half-wolf spider, half-moray eel slavers, they managed to somehow capture an awesome concept for a race of bad guys.

Sahuagin

Bizarre, shark-loving, devil-worshipping deep ones, a la D&D. Shit, yeah.

Yak-Folk

I was originally going to include the yak-folk—or yikharia—as a runner-up, but, shucks, I'm in love. I've never used them directly, but they're giant-sized humanoid yaks. Come on. Anything half-yak is cool.

4e and Fansites

2009-02-21T02:09:00.001+11:00

In which our intrepid hero tries to clear the air.

In the past couple of months, Wizards of the Coast, creators of the last two (and a bit) editions of Dungeons & Dragons, have issued cease-and-desist letters to two fansites.

Ema's Character Sheets offered a range of character sheets and generators for various d20 games. However, they also offered power cards for D&D 4e and allowed users to save characters to their servers for a fee. 4epowercards also provided users with—as its name suggests—power cards for 4e.

Predictably, the blogosphere is up in arms, accusing Wizards of Gestapo-like tactics, and generally running around like chickens with misplaced heads. Even some of the more level-headed commentators lay the blame for the current predicament firmly at Wizards' feet, citing their continuing lack of a fansite policy.

Some companies are friendlier than others with regards to their games, but the fact remains, if you obtain any sort of reward or payment or compensation, whether it's monetary or in the form of goods and services, in connection with your gaming materials, then you're a commercial operation.

If Wizards allow their intellectual property to be used for commercial purposes without charging a licence fee, then any of their other commercial licencees have grounds to sue Wizards for unfair treatment. After all, the other licencees had to pay (probably substantial amounts) for what you got for free.

Similarly, if you provide hundreds of pages of text from roleplaying manuals without permission, then what you're doing is in no way fair use. You're stealing, and you're depriving the rightful owner of sales.

Wizards were justified in what they did: acting to protect their business and their property.

It doesn't matter whether or not a company—like Wizards of the Coast—lacks a fansite policy. Just because they don't have one, doesn't mean you can do whatever the hell you want. You're still bound by intellectual property law, and as with other laws, ignorance is no defence.

Granted, Wizards should have had a fansite policy (and, for that matter, a complete Game System License) in place before they released 4e; regardless, however, they're protected by international law and by the laws of the United States of America and of the state of Washington.

Although they're hotly debated topics (particularly in the music world), the basics of fair use and derivative works are fairly widely understood. You're not violating intellectual property by posting stats for your cool new monster, so long as it's yours, or if at the very least, you have permission from the owner to post it. Most publishers won't pursue you for this sort of behaviour, and the ones that do don't stay in business.

The other stupid misunderstanding at work here is the idea that cease-and-desist letters are legally binding, in and of themselves.

Legal dramas might suggest otherwise, but very little of most lawyers' careers consist of court time; the bulk of their business is in sending threatening letters. If Wizards issue you a letter one day, demanding that you shut down your blog, then you're well within your rights to ignore it.

What happens next varies by jurisdiction, but in general, it's up to Wizards to decide whether they want to fight you in court, make life difficult for you in general, or give the whole thing up as a bad joke. Chances are, though, they won't do the latter, because it legally amounts to much the same thing as giving it away for free.

In short, save yourself the trouble: exercise a little common sense, and if in doubt, ask the company concerned where they stand on fan material.

UPDATE: Long-time designer and roleplaying historian Shannon Appelcline wrote a very informative essay on the subject last July.

Have a Gold Star

2009-02-11T03:47:00.000+11:00

In which our intrepid hero acknowledges something often forgotten in gaming circles.

When gamers get together to discuss game companies, they talk about all sorts of things.

They might praise an especially fluid, transparent and enjoyable game system, or tear a bad one to shreds. They might critique a particular setting. They might reminisce about a particular edition of a game. They might search for common themes in the works of a particular writer or artist, or even examine such minutiae of production as fonts and white space. They might (and often do) complain about price and shipping and distribution.

But one thing you don't often come across in these discussions is recognition of good customer service. I honestly don't know why. It might not have as immediate an impact as a product's retail price, but that's no reason why it should be overlooked.

Very few non-roleplayers are involved in this industry, mostly, I imagine, in the upper echelons of the bigger companies, or down in the warehouse, moving product. It's not like, say, mainstream publishing, where an editor might not be a rabid fan of the genre he works on, or whitegoods, where (chances are) the guy who sells you a microwave oven doesn't have a degree in electrical engineering.

Despite this—and this is one reason for the high turnover of gaming companies—the people who run game companies should be businessmen (or women) first, and gamers second, or else they probably won't be around for long. Successful business relies on maintaining professionalism, and good customer service is part of that.

I'd like to take a moment out, then, to thank the following people and companies for the service that they've given me. I'm proud to recommend them to any gamers out there.

In no particular order:

Wolfgang Baur of Kobold Quarterly.

Not only is KQ an excellent read and pretty good value for money, but the guy who runs it is pretty nice, too. When the email notifying me of a particular issue went missing in my inbox, and the link to download that issue expired (by several months), I sent Mr Baur a message to request a new one.

Although he would've been well within his rights to tell me to stick my head in a pig, Mr Baur instead got back to me with a fresh download link in under two hours.

Thunderbolt Mountain.

Back in the day, Ral Partha was the name in gaming-related miniatures, its reputation built on the talents of a sculptor named Tom Meier.

Mr Meier eventually founded his own company, Thunderbolt Mountain, and whilst Thunderbolt's range tends to cater more to a market niche—his more mainstream creations are available through Ironwind Metals—the quality is still what you'd expect from a master of the trade.

Early last year, personal and business issues left Thunderbolt's website un-updated and only semi-functional for a couple of months. With a bit of IT subterfuge, however, I managed to order a couple of miniatures that technically weren't available on the website any more.

Without further ado, the miniatures I ordered made their way across the Pacific—with a freebie miniature thrown in.

Chaosium.

Chaosium is one of the oldest companies in the industry, the evil geniuses behind my favourite roleplaying game of all time, Call of Cthulhu. Unlike the two companies I mentioned above, I'd like to highlight not just a one-off gesture, but one of their regular policies.

Chaosium offers free shipping for non-US orders of $USD125 or more. Given the cost of shipping these days—it averages roughly 16% of cover price—this is an enormous boon to an Antipodean gamer. And despite their jokes about products being "sent out by space-bound byakhee," their shipping is fast, far quicker than many other US-based companies.

Although a nod from some random guy on the periphery of the blogosphere mightn't mean as much as, say, an ENnie or a Callie, if any of the above are reading, I'd like to thank you. I'll be back at your doorsteps, cash in hand, as soon as I can, and I'd like to bring as many friends with me as I can muster.

Have a gold star. You earned it.

Currently reading:

Robert J Schwalb et al.—Children of the Horned Rat

Behind the Curtain

2009-02-11T02:00:00.004+11:00

In which our intrepid hero tells a few home truths.

One thing that I don't often do on my blog is write about myself. I'll opine until the proverbial cows come home, but there's not much about me as a person. So, it's time I drew aside the curtain, for but a brief moment...

I'm not doing this for pity, nor really to bitch; this is for those friends out there who've wondered exactly where my head's been, these couple of years past. Some outstanding misconceptions seem to have popped up over this period, and I should probably do something to clear them up.

There are Questions that Just Have to be Answered: I haven't been a member of the Liberal Party for nearly three years; I haven't worked in politics for nearly two; and (aside from one exception, where a couple of friends ran as independents for their local council) haven't worked on a campaign for years, either. There are good reasons for this, I feel.

First amongst them are the Mongolian clusterfucks known as the parliamentary parties, both state and federal. A number of MPs are intelligent, realistic, humane and generally nice people; sadly, they're exceptions to the rule, held under by a party structure that's top-heavy with clueless fuckwits, with little understanding of the voting public. As a consequence, the parliamentary parties fail not only as alternative governments, but also as opposition.

I'm sick of pouring my time, effort and money into campaigns to vote unelectable tools into office, and I'm sick of copping abuse at the polling booth, especially when I agree with a lot of the very reasonable things that some of the Party's detractors have to say.

The second reason I choose not to re-involve myself is because, by the time I left, there was no longer any mechanism for rank-and-file members to contribute to policy, at least in the NSW Division. None. Nadda. Zip. Zero. At best, a handful of members might get themselves elected to an ad hoc platform or policy committee which Liberal MPs aren't bound in any way to acknowledge, let alone implement policy from the party grassroots.

Thirdly, ever since ousted MP Peter King ran against Malcom Turnbull at the 2004 federal election, and members of my own branch voiced their concerns about branch stacking to the ABC in 2006, the NSW State Executive have enacted witch-hunts against and expelled party members who speak out to the media, or who merely fail to hand out how-to-votes for the Party on polling day.

Fourthly, the organisational party is dominated by an unholy mishmash of ultraconservative Traditionalist Catholics, adherents of Pentecostal prosperity theology, obnoxious neoconservatives, unabashed fascists, Communist-obsessed relics of Cold-War-era Central Europe (the Berlin Wall fell 20 years ago, guys!) and assorted, fanatical personality cultists; collectively, they put pay to the worst stereotypes and even satire of conservative politics.

Incidentally—and I know some people may be shocked by this revelation—Malcolm Turnbull is not the fucking messiah. Deal with it.

Milling about in the gaps between these groups are a diminishing number of confused and worried actual conservatives, a smaller number of utterly unorganised and even more worried actual liberals, and a mostly stable collection of soulless hypocrites who worry only about their own preselections.

This sad reality is related to my fifth reason for not rejoining: the NSW Moderate (ie, centrist and politically Leftmost) faction, of which I was nominally a member, is essentially moribund.

The rot began years ago, long before the Lunar Right took control, in the halcyon days of a Moderate-dominated regime lasting nearly a quarter of a century. The reasons for this are too many to go into here, but let's just say that the Moderates ain't taking control back any time soon. And in the unlikely event that they actually do, there's little to suggest that things might improve.

Lastly, I'm sick of the incessant branch stacking, from Left and from Right. If I wanted to limit my contribution to public policy to a name, an address and a contact number, then I'd sell my details to a database marketing company.

So, no, I don't want to sign up again. Quit asking me.

The Drugs Don't Like Me Either: Shortly after my grandmother died, my doctor prescribed me a course of antidepressants.

Which was all well and good, except that I didn't want antidepressants—I wanted advice on treating anxiety. Eighteen years of violent abuse at the hands of an alcoholic schizophrenic, followed by a litany of dysfunctional family crap and a succession of horrific, exploitative work environments left me with an anxiety disorder and seriously shot nerves.

Now, fluvoxamine, venlafaxine and duloxetine might work great for some people, but they left me unable to concentrate or even stay awake for more than four hours a day. When I told my (then-)doctor about this, and the 60-kilogram weight gain, and the hallucinations, and the constant migraines and odd behaviour and other side effects, she kindly doubled my prescription.

After eighteen months of hell, I finally went cold turkey. Tellingly, it was easier to give up cigarettes cold—at least I didn't experience hallucinations or start literally going out of my mind when I butted out for good.

My short-term memory is still quite poor, the excess pounds are finally starting to shed and I'm more irritable than I used to be, but I'm mostly back to normal. I still don't remember a lot of that eighteen months, though; to give an example, I keep forgetting that Anna Nicole Smith is dead.

Luckily, the issue doesn't come up very often.

Keep Walking—I Mean It: Thanks to body mass and a quirk of genetics, my tolerance for alcohol nears legendary proportions, despite my modest and diminishing consumption. One of the few benefits of this—I use the term advisedly—is that I learnt pretty quickly that alcohol doesn't make you funnier, wiser, tougher, more personable or attractive. I discovered this mostly through suffering, in relative sobriety, the antics of friends with economy-model livers.

My cats are my children, and I take their welfare extremely seriously. One of them has a chronic anxiety issue, and another is depressed, because the last two flatmates that we've had have been belligerent fuckwits after a couple of drinks.

And they seem to need those drinks.

Whilst on an alcohol- (and possibly speed-) fuelled binge, the first poured Zippo fuel over his arm and set it alight, because he thought it would be funny; he also locked one of my cats in the fridge and spread about two weeks worth of Mim's and my food across the kitchen floor. I've mentioned this much previously. But then, there was the ordeal with the used condom...

He was last seen being bundled into a hostel room two suburbs away.

Time for a bit of cat psychology. If you put food down in front of a cat, and then walk away, the cat will assume that the food is for them. It's how you feed cats. A cat understands this, even though its brain is only about the size of a golf ball.

If you put dinner on the table, and wander off in an intoxicated haze, then as far as the cat's concerned, your dinner's fair game. If you then, some ten to fifteen minutes later, stumble back into the room and start screaming at and/or abusing the poor animal, then the cat won't react very well—as far as the cat's concerned, you're being a cunt, and you deserve whatever you get.

Our current flatmate hasn't worked this out yet, which suggests things about his brain's remaining functional volume...

At one stage, he locked one of our cats in the bathroom overnight, without food or water. Maybe this was an accident, or an alcohol-mediated lapse in judgement—we don't know—but it happened to the cat with whom he's had the greatest antagonism; Mim K/W and I wonder what else might've been going on when we weren't around.

We aren't yet in a financial position to remedy these problems permanently—although we're working on it—so our cats have taken up the slack: six vengeful, little demons are engaged in guerrilla warfare against the troglodytic lush who grudgingly shares their home. They're not happy with his continued presence, and so, my house has become a frigging combat zone.

With any luck, it'll end up like The Cats of Ulthar, only with no cats dying.

The upshot of all this is that now, my cats are stressed, and the smell of alcohol unduly distresses my poor babies even more. Should I so much as partake of a stubby or a glass of wine, then I can expect my cats to cower under furniture for the rest of the night. Whilst they know that I won't hurt them, they're not taking any chances.

My message to alcoholics everywhere: Fuck you, and the inebriated horse you rode in on. Between my mother, flatmates and various ex-friends, I've had enough of you ruining my life.

Roll on the GM Burnout Table: For a guy who lists roleplaying as one of his favourite activities, and (occasionally) writes blog articles about it, I actually don't get too much gaming done. It sucks, and I wish I did more.

Part of the problem, recently, was the pharmaceutically-induced malaise I laboured under for eighteen months. This made it especially difficult to do anything creative; I also had trouble reading more than a couple of pages a day, and even then, none of it stuck in my head.

But the other reason has plagued me almost since I started gaming, some 23½ years ago.

Excluding conventions, I've played under a total of seven GMs, mostly in campaigns that lasted for less than a year. But let's say (for the sake of convenience) that each of these campaigns were a year long; it's a nice, round number. Let's also say that I've had about 2½ years downtime.

This means that for two-thirds of my gaming life, I've been the GM. I ran the games; I did the heavy lifting crafting campaigns, and when I didn't, I had to read voluminous tomes in order to run pre-published ones; I was the one stuck at home, trying to build enjoyable player experiences, whilst my players were out living their lives; I hosted and often catered the games, rarely asking for much in return.

And things would go well for a while, but inevitably, scheduling issues would arise, or players would disappear off the face of the planet, or players with serious social deficits would decide to play politics and break gaming groups up for their own perverse amusement.

At some point, I realised that I was putting a lot more into games than I was getting out. Sure, my players enjoyed the games I ran, but all they really had to do was turn up and play. They still tell me how much they miss gaming, and ask when we're going to play next.

At this stage, my answer is this: whenever you get off your butts and do something—one of you can GM for a change.

Don't get me wrong—I love GMing—but I'm sick of doing all the work. I'm sick of having to structure my life around my players', and being greeted with confusion and outrage whenever I dare complain. I'm sick of having my dreams quashed so you guys can play out yours. Cut me some fucking slack.

*sigh*

So, that's about it. There are some major events I haven't covered here, either because they're still too painful to discuss, or because it'll cause me too much grief if I bring certain things to light right now. I'll get around to them eventually.

I'm sorry if I've offended anyone, but that's the price of honesty. As I said, I didn't mean to bitch, but some things just needed clearing up. If it helps, I'll try not to be quite so forthright in future—well, until next year some time, anyway.

Currently reading:

Robert J Schwalb et al.—Children of the Horned Rat

Inauguration Day

2009-01-20T12:18:00.000+11:00

In which our intrepid hero gets his wires crossed.

Personally, I blame Adam. If he hadn't gotten me thinking about Roland Emmerich the other day—Emmerich being slated to direct the film adaptation of Asimov's Foundation series—then I wouldn't have this bizarre mashup going through my head.

If I think too hard about it, I get this Blake-esque vision of Bill Pullman in blackface, before cheering crowds:

We're going to live on! We're going to survive! Today we celebrate our Inauguration Day!

Meanwhile, a row of backup dancers, in Bob the Builder drag, shimmy to Can we fix it? Yes we can! And the backdrop to the stage looks something like this:

Dubya might not have been the worst President in US history—everyone seems to pin that dubious honour on Harding, even though the latter only served half a term—but as a citizen of one of the American Empire's farther-flung colonies, I'm glad that King George II has finally abdicated. We, in the Free World, can get on with life and start rebuilding now.

I don't know if Obama is all he's cracked up to be, but at least he's something new and different, and can stir up enough hope to initiate some sort of a break from the last eight years of graft, cronyism and incompetence.

In the interim, the GOP can lick its wounds and find its centre again. It can clear out the nutters and the neocons, the kleptomaniacs and kakistocrats. In time, it can don the mantle of Abe, Teddy and Ike once more—and wear it with pride.

Don't let the door hit your arse on the way out, George.

Currently reading:

Robert J Schwalb et al.—The Thousand Thrones

A Word on the English Language

2009-01-12T11:54:00.000+11:00

In which our intrepid hero quibbles over accuracy in journalism.

One of my bugbears with the media in this country is how lightly journalists bandy about words like "bravery" and "hero". It's wrong, sloppy and, frankly, it breeds idiocy in our society. We could use fewer idiots.

I don't mean to diminish the poor girl's suffering, but this report is a case in point:

A teenage girl attacked by a shark in Tasmania bravely hit back at the man-eater and screamed for help, her elder cousin and rescuer says.

Had she given up and force-fed herself down the shark's gullet, would we laud her compassion: Girl gives up life so that flake may live? No, but acting sensibly and—let's face it—instinctively somehow becomes morphed into the ultimate act of courage.

It happens a lot in sports reporting, too. Let's be brutally honest here. As much as sports journalists would have you believe otherwise, Brett Lee (to pick a name at random) is not a hero; he simply hurls objects at little brown men in an entertaining manner.

Edmund Hillary was brave. John Simpson Kirkpatrick was a hero, as was the man who risked his life to rescue his cousin from shark attack in the Tasmanian surf.

Slapping these titles onto mere survivors and showmen only cheapens the sacrifice of those who truly deserve them.

Currently reading:

Robert J Schwalb et al.—The Thousand Thrones

Expanding the Vocabulary

2009-01-12T10:56:00.001+11:00

In which our intrepid hero learns a new word from his cat.

Máâ-má! (The Roman alphabet is notoriously bad at expressing tonal languages, but I think it's a good approximation.)

Buffy leapt upon my chest a couple of days ago, twirling around in a little cat dance, and waking me from my nap. Máâ-má! she exclaimed, proudly, pausing to nudge my hand or wash my face, before peeling off again into her little cat gyre.

I knew it was something important. Glancing at the clock, I guessed that our flatmate, Nicholas, had arrived home, but I doubted that was it. And although Timmy often wakes me up to tell me that he's just eaten fish, Buffy's breath suggested otherwise.

Máâ-má! Her eyes all lit up, Buffy grinned through the frustration of communicating her elation to the dumb human. I cautiously made my way downstairs, hoping that Mim K/W might have an answer.

"Poor Buffy," she said, as the latter wove excitedly about my ankles. "All that pressure must've hurt the poor little thing." As Mim continued, it gradually became clear what Máâ-má! meant:

Daddy! I farted loud!

This is why I'm a cat-parent.

Currently reading:

Robert J Schwalb et al.—The Thousand Thrones

The Green Children of Woolpit

2009-01-08T03:12:00.001+11:00

In which our intrepid hero delves into Suffolk folklore.

Late last month, over at Kobold Quarterly, John Ling wrote a short (but excellent) article on the legend of the Green Children of Woolpit, Suffolk, complete with d20 writeups. Ling cites his sources here; they're a good primer for anyone interested in the story.

The Green Children have fascinated me ever since I first heard about them, many years ago. One of my favourite sources for English folklore, Westwood and Simpson's The Lore of the Land has this to say about the strange couple:

The story [of the Green Children] was first told by the chronicler Ralph of Coggeshall, writing at the monastery of Coggeshall, Essex, in about 1210. He says that, 'within living memory', a boy and a girl whose skins were green were found near the mouth of one of the pits at 'St Mary's of the Wolf-pits'. The villagers who found them could not understand what they said, and so took them to the house of their lord of the manor, Sir Richard de Calne.

The family name refers to the town of Calne, Wiltshire, most recently a centre for crop circle activity. But Calne is some 250km away from Woolpit.

However, this list of prebendaries of Chiswick, London, mentions a Nigel de Calne, one-time Lord High Treasurer to Kings Henry I and Stephen, and second Bishop of Ely, Cambridgeshire.

Nigel spent his early years studying at Laon, famed birthplace of Bertha Broadfoot, Charlemagne's mother. Nigel studied under renowned theologian Anselm of Laon, and his contemporaries included the future Bishop of Hereford, Archbishops of Canterbury and Rouen—and possibly even the legendary Peter Abelard himself.

Some sources claim that Nigel and Alexander, third Bishop of Lincoln, were brothers; others suggest that they were merely cousins. Nonetheless, Alexander is credited as the patron of Geoffrey of Monmouth; amongst other books, Alexander commissioned Geoffrey to write The Prophecies of Merlin, the first record of the half-demon wizard outside the Welsh tongue.

Nigel's son, Richard FitzNeal, also a Chiswick prebendary, would go on to become Lord High Treasurer to Henry II and Richard I, Stephen's successors. He also served as Dean of Lincoln—an important administrative post under Alexander—and eventually as Bishop of London until his death in 1198.

(Nigel's other son, William of Ely, succeeded Richard as Lord High Treasurer.)

No word on whether Richard FitzNeal was granted lands near Woolpit, although history places him in Ely, a mere 55km from Woolpit, in the early stages of his life. On the other hand, at least we're in the right century; indeed, some commentators place the Woolpit tale early in Henry II's reign.

An interesting family, to say the least, and very well-connected. If Richard FitzNeal and Sir Richard de Calne were one and the same, then what undisclosed uses might Richard have had for the Green Children? If nothing else, uncle Alexander would've found them quite intriguing...

The Lore of the Land continues:

At first, the children wept inconsolably and refused all food, until on seeing some freshly cut beans they made signs to show they would like some. For a long time, they would eat nothing else, and the boy soon languished and died. The girl, however, throve, gradually losing her green colouring, and remained many years in Sir Richard's household, albeit somewhat lascivious ('as I have frequently heard from him and his family').

Perhaps Richard complained of the girl's lasciviousness—or maybe he was boasting?

The girl told them that she came from a land where the sun never shone and everyone was green. She and her brother had been following their flocks when they came on a cavern, and, hearing the sound of bells from within, followed it and eventually emerged into daylight. They had lain stunned by the brightness for some while before the villagers found them.

Some versions of the tale suggest that the bells rang out from nearby Bury St Edmunds, which has its own fairy tales (again, from The Lore of the Land):

There wus a farmer, right a long time ago, that wus, an he had a lot o' wate [wheat]... An he huld [hurled] all his wate in a barn, of a hape he did! but that hape got lesser and lesser... So off of his bed he got, one moanlight night, an he hid hiself hind the oud lanetew [lean-to], where he could see that's barn's doors; and when the clock struck twelve, if he din see right a lot of little tiddy frairies. O lork! how they did run—they was little bits o' things, as big as mice, an they had little blue caoots and yaller breeches an little red caps on thar hids with long tassels hangin down behind. An they run right up to that barn's door. An if that barn door dint open right wide of that self. An lopperty lop! over the throssold [threshold] they all hulled [hurled] themselves. Well, when the farmer see they wus all in, he kum nigher and nigher... An he see all they little frairies; they danced round an round, an then they all ketched up an air [ear] o' wate, an kopt [threw] it over their little shoulders, they did. But at the last there come right a dear little frairie that was soo small that could hardly lift that air o' wate, and that kep saying as that walked—
'Oh, how I do twait [sweat],
A carrying o' this air o' wate.
An when that kum to the throssold, that kount [couldn't] git over no how, an that farmer he retched out his hand an he caught a houd o' that poooare thing, an that shruck out, 'Brother Mike! Brother Mike!' as loud as that coud. But the farmer he kopt that inter his hat, an he took that home for his children; he tied that to the kitchen winder. But that poooare little thing, that wont ate nothin, an that poyned away and died.

No one said that the Green Children's flock consisted of mere sheep, and although the girl was named Agnes in some tales, who's to say the boy wasn't named Michael?

Incidentally, the source (above) which names the girl as Agnes also suggests she married a man in either King's Lynn or Lavenham (both towns in Suffolk), and that after her first husband died, she may have married Richard de Barre—but then the account quickly dismisses the latter possibility.

However, as Archdeacon of Ely, and Chancellor to Henry II, it's almost unthinkable that de Barre wouldn't be acquainted with Nigel de Calne, Richard FitzNeal and their extended family. Richard could easily have introduced Agnes to her future husband.

Other towns and villages in the vicinity of Woolpit have stories of their own. The hamlet of Dagworth is the site of one of the earliest remaining changeling tales, also attributed in The Lore of the Land to Ralph of Coggeshall:

[I]n the time of King Richard a fantasticus spiritus haunted Dagworth Castle, home of the lord of the manor, Osbern of Bradwell. She spoke to its inhabitants in the voice of a child one year old and said she was called Malekin. She was a human child who had been stolen by the fairies from a cornfield while her mother worked. She had already lived with the fairies for a term of seven years, and after another seven would be allowed to return to the human world. She would speak to the servants 'according to the idiom of the region', that is, in the Suffolk dialect, but when she talked to the priest, with whom she discussed the Scriptures, spoke in Latin.

Malekin was invisible, although she could be both heard and felt. Only one person in the castle had ever seen her, and that was a servant girl with whom she had become friends. This girl used to put out food for her and often asked Malekin to appear. Malekin finally agreed to do so provided the girl promised neither to touch nor try to catch her. The girl said later that Malekin looked like a tiny child dressed in a white linen tunic.

One can only guess that this was a fairy glamour, and that Malekin's true form would appear if the mien were dispelled by touch.

Interestingly, another version of this story suggests that Malekin was male—and that he was born in Lavenham.

Nearby Stowmarket was also plagued by fairies, known in the local dialect as feriers, ferishers or farrisees. (Note that this version of the Woolpit tale claims that the current Earl Ferrers is one of Agnes' descendants. What's in a name?)

The Lore of the Land reports the following account, from a woman of almost 80, quoted in the 1844 History of Stowmarket:

Her father was a leather breeches maker and her mother having had a baby (either herself or her sister, she forgets which) was lying asleep some weeks after her confinement in bed with her husband and the infant by her side. She woke in the night, it was dimmish light, and missed the babe. Uttering an exclamation of fear, lest the fairies... should have taken the child, she jumped out of bed, and there sure enough a number of the little sandy things had got the baby at the foot of the bed and were undressing it. They fled away through a hole in the floor, laughing as if they shrieked, and snatching up her child, on examination she found that they had laid all the pins head to head as they took them out of the dress. For months afterwards she always slept with the child between herself and husband, and used carefully to pin it by its bed clothes to the pillow and sheets that it might not be snatched hastily away.

John Aubrey apparently wrote also of the uniquely sandy-haired fairies of Stowmarket:

The fairy wore yellow satin shoes, was clothed in a long green coat girt about by a golden belt, and had sandy hair and complexion.

The History of Stowmarket contains further accounts:

S— living for 30 years at the cottages in the hop ground on the Bury road coming home one night 20 years since, in the meadow now a hop ground, not far from three ashen trees in very bright moon-light saw the fairies. There might be a dozen of them, the biggest about three feet high, and small ones like dolls. Their dresses sparkled as if with spangles like the girls at shows at Stow fair, they were moving round hand in hand in a ring, no noise from them. They seemed light and shadowy... I passed on, saying, the Lord have mercy on me, but them must be the fairies... I looked after them when I got over the style, and they were there, just the same moving round and round. I ran home and called three women to come back with me and see them. But when we got to the place they were all gone. I could not make out any particular things about their faces. I might be 40 yards from them, and I did not like to stop and stare at them. I was quite sober at the time.

Another account from same book, presumably also sober, as it was given by a parish clerk:

Fairies frequented several houses in Tavern Street about 80 to 100 years since. They never appeared as long as any one was about. People used to lie hid to see them, and some have seen them. Once in particular by a wood-stack up near the brick-yard there was a large company of them dancing, singing, and playing music together. They were very small people, quite little creatures, and very merry. But as soon as they saw any body they all vanished away. In the house after they had fled, on going upstairs sparks of fire as bright as stars used to appear under the feet of the persons who disturbed them.

Fornham All Saints even has its own mermaid (from History and Antiquities of Hengrave, quoted, again, in The Lore of the Land):

The Mermaid pits are said to derive their name from the story of a love-sick maid, who perished there:
'Now there spreaden a rumour that everish night,
The (pitts) ihaunted been by many a sprite,
The miller avoucheth and all thereabout,
That they full oft hearen the hellish rout.' [...]
The fragment of story about the 'love-sick maid' is tantalizing: we are left uncertain as to whether this is simply the usual tale of a betrayed girl drowning herself and thereafter haunting the pool or river where she died, or whether she was thought of as turning into one of the cruel and vindictive freshwater mermaids that inhabit pits and pools in East Anglia.

These mermaids are described either as long-armed beasts with long, green tresses and hooked talons, or as beautiful women, differentiable only by their webbed feet. But both share strong, homicidal impulses and cannibalistic urges.

Before we get too far off track, we should hearken back to the Woolpit tale:

William of Newburgh, a monastery in Yorkshire, also tells the story, which he may have got in the main from Ralph, as they sometimes exchanged material. However, he includes details not mentioned in Ralph's version of events, dating the appearance of the Green Children to the reign of King Stephen (1135-54), and saying that, when they emerged from the cave, they found themselves among reapers getting in the harvest. Both children learned to speak English, and they said that they came from St Martin's Land, where the people were Christians, and the sun never shone there, though not far off, on the far side of a broad river, they could see 'a certain luminous country'.

Numerous explanations have been given for 'St Martin's Land', including an enclave of Flemish weavers in the nearby village of Fornham St Martin (a couple of kilometres or so from Fornham All Saints).

But what if there's another possibility; hell, if we're going to lend credence to stories of wanton, green Christians from beneath the earth, then why not broaden our horizons just that little bit farther?

The Catholic Encyclopedia lists two St Martins, the first being Pope St Martin I, and the other St Martin of Tours. Martin I is a relatively obscure pope, born near Rome in the 7^th Century and dying in exile in the Crimea, at the behest of Byzantine Emperor Constans.

Martin of Tours, however, is far better known in western Europe. St Martin's feast day, Martinmas, November 11, traditionally marked the beginning of Advent. A half of Martin's cloak became a prized relic of the Carolingian Dynasty. And legend credits Martin with bringing chenin blanc grapes to France and teaching vignerons to prune their vines.

He's a patron saint of soldiers, and is regarded both as one of the mediaeval period's most popular saints, and one of France's greatest—presumably, in part, for his association with viticulture.

Martin was born in the 4^th Century in the Roman province of Pannonia Prima. From the 9^th Century onwards, the area was home to the Kingdom of Hungary, which converted to Christianity soon after it was established.

Surely, Hungarian, unrelated as it is to most other European languages, would be pretty much unintelligible to the people of mediaeval Suffolk? And is it not possible, as in the case of Viganella, Italy, that a small village at the bottom of a Carpathian valley might be deprived of sunlight for a good part of the year?

Even if the Green Children did not hail from Hungary, we know from the story of Malekin that some fairies can speak Latin and that they may know Scripture—why not hagiography as well? And even if they knew nothing of St Martin's early life, how many common, 12^th-Century men could gainsay the Children's tale?

Truth departs meekly when the wee folk are about.

Currently reading:

David Chart, Steve Darlington et al.—Realm of the Ice Queen

Secret Projects

2009-01-06T20:04:00.001+11:00

In which our intrepid hero drags himself from bed to keyboard.

I hate summer. It's not just the scorching temperatures and the ridiculous humidity here in Sydney. There are days when even summer itself feels like it needs time off to head to the beach, and autumn has to fill in whilst it's away.

January is supposed to be the hottest, wettest month in Sydney, but this year, we've had cool spells and not that much rain, just stifling mugginess.

When I've got secret projects that rely on reasonable temperature and humidity, I can only work on them late at night, spending my days passed out from heat fatigue, slowly rotting in my own sweat. It's exhausting and my health suffers. I push myself too hard and make myself sick.

My first secret project was my Third-of-a-Century Dinner. Last Friday, I turned 33 years and four months old, or 33 1/3. To celebrate, I had a bunch of friends over for dinner on Saturday. They had to bring a bottle of wine each, and in return, I sent them home with full bellies and a small bottle of whiskey liqueur.

It wasn't an easy undertaking, as my guests had a pretty restrictive series of dietary requirements:

no meat
no poultry
no prawns
no gluten
no whole eggs
no bananas, kiwifruit, melons, avocados...

Thankfully, no one had a dairy problem; that was about the only common food intolerance that was missing.

The entrée consisted of a Moroccan-style autumn soup (containing, amongst many other ingredients, pumpkin, lentils and kumera) with harissa cream and gluten-free za'atar lavash crackers. The lentils were a little undercooked, but on the whole, it worked well.

For the main, we had barramundi in blueberry butter, with a side of rocket leaves in raspberry vinaigrette.

Unfortunately, having tasted the blueberry sauce halfway through, Mim K/W decided it was too tart to just pour over the fish, failing to realise that the butter, fresh blueberries and chives that I still had to add would change the flavour dramatically; she'd already lightly drizzled it over a couple of barramundi fillets and taken them out to the diners—with only the barest fraction of the sauce that they were supposed to have—before I could point this out to her. I also ran short of rocket for the salad, and Mim missed out.

The main, therefore, wasn't as I'd hoped, but on the upside, we do have a metric crapload of scrummy, leftover blueberry butter in the fridge.

Dessert was my old fallback: strawberry and lavender sorbet.

Originally, I'd planned a different, somewhat summery menu—strawberry gazpacho andaluz, citrus barramundi and tomato-preserve ice cream—but the dismal, semi-autumnal weather kind of ruled that out. I also had to delegate a lot more of the cooking than I would've liked to Mim, being too tired and ill to do it all myself.

But the punters seemed to like it well enough, so maybe I'm being harsh.

I'd like to thank Mim for all her help and everyone who showed up for helping me celebrate. I'd also like to apologise to all the people I'd loved to have invited, but just didn't get around to—next time I do a dinner, you're definitely on the list, and I promise it'll be even better!

(Oh, and sorry to Mim and the cats for being such a crabby bastard in the kitchen.)

Of course, I mentioned two secret projects in my last post.

I had a gift to give one of the friends I'd invited for dinner, but technical issues prevented me from getting it done in time. (I know that a poor workman blames his tools, but if something says on the bottle that it'll be ready in 24 hours, I expect it to be ready in less than 100.)

It'll be ready real soon, and as soon as I can give it to the lucky giftee (note the lack of gender pronouns), then I'll post pictures here and on Facebook. Oh, and I'll stop being so goddamn cryptic about it.

Currently reading:

David Chart, Steve Darlington et al.—Realm of the Ice Queen

Can't Blog Now!

2009-01-01T08:59:00.000+11:00

In which our intrepid hero has too much to do.

There's a tradition around Christmas-time here, on the east coast of Australia. Not one that we deliberately started, like eating ham or exchanging presents, but one that subtly shapes our lives, nonetheless. It works a little like this:

Come December, it rains. A lot. And then the internet goes down for several weeks.

I know my friend Adam (of Future Design Sydney fame) has had this problem—and may still be suffering some after effects—and I had it, too. Fortunately, it's the telcos' fault, so no one actually has to shell out cash to fix it, but it's damn annoying in any case.

Anyway, I have a couple of secret projects I'm working on, but I should be back here on Sunday to write about them. Until then, Happy New Year—I hope you've already broken your resolutions!

Currently reading: Not much, to be honest. It's time to start books with the intent to finish them.

More Spore

2008-12-04T23:17:00.000+11:00

In which our intrepid hero transforms his rage into another couple of creatures.

Sunday. Ask friend if he and his girlfriend are available for Thursday night dinner. Friend needs to consult with his girlfriend. Advise friend that I need plenty of leadtime, as I will need to cook a day in advance. Friend promises to call the following day.

Monday. No call.

Tuesday. Receive Facebook message to the effect that friend has not asked his girlfriend yet. Reiterate need for advance warning.

Wednesday. Call several times; no response. Inform friend (via Facebook) that menu has changed, as a result of lack of contact and diminished leadtime. Request urgent confirmation as to whether they will attend.

Thursday, 3.20pm. Friend updates Facebook status, anticipating long day.

Thursday, 6pm. Still no contact. Attempt to ring friend's girlfriend; leave message. Attempt to ring friend's mobile; no success. Attempt to ring friend's house; parents answer, but pretend not to speak English. Reflect that friend in early thirties who still lives with parents is unlikely to be reliable.

Thursday, 9pm. Receive call. Girlfriend had picked friend up from home at 4pm; couple had then been busy "all day". After pressuring, friend admits that he and girlfriend will not be able to attend dinner that evening. Yes/no answer apparently requires four fucking days.

Thursday, 9.20pm. Eat dinner. Several servings left over.

Thursday, 9.33pm. Friend apparently arrives home; posts Facebook status to the effect that he doesn't know when he'll get to sleep. Reflect that this may not be an issue if friend would haul arse out of bed before 3pm.

Thursday, 10pm. Attempt to sublimate rage with Spore Creature Creator, with the following outcome:

Thursday, 11pm. Grind teeth.

Currently reading:

James Patrick Kelly & John Kessel (eds)—Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology
Neil Philip (ed)—American Fairy Tales
Mark Ravina—The Last Samurai: The Life and Battles of Saigō Takamori
Alan Weisman—The World Without Us

Zocchi Explains Polyhedral Dice

2008-12-01T10:45:00.000+11:00

In which our intrepid hero learns that not all dice are equal.

Via Lemuria Press and Grognardia, I stumbled across this pair of YouTube videos, in which the founding father of the polyhedral dice industry, Lou Zocchi, gives his spiel at his booth at GenCon.

You can tell he's been doing this for years; his patter's flawless, and he addresses pretty much any complaint that consumers might have about his dice, in advance and without prompting.

You don't often see his sort of Barnumesque, homegrown salesmanship any more, and when you do, it's usually not done well. He's not just after a commission, but a customer (and ultimately an advocate).

Whilst you're always aware that he's pushing his product, you come away feeling that you just learnt trade secrets from the Master. And that, indeed, may be the case.

Currently reading:

James Patrick Kelly & John Kessel (eds)—Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology
Neil Philip (ed)—American Fairy Tales
Mark Ravina—The Last Samurai: The Life and Battles of Saigō Takamori
Alan Weisman—The World Without Us

It's Educational, Honest!

2008-12-01T00:19:00.001+11:00

In which our intrepid hero—against his better judgement—decides to post erotica on his blog.

It's quite tragic, really.

Our youngest two cats, siblings Timmy and Holly, have finally come into season. For various reasons, we haven't gotten around to desexing them yet. We're working on it, honest. In the meantime, it's a bit like living in The Blue Lagoon, only it's days long and has fur.

Although we're trying to prevent anything from happening, maybe we shouldn't worry, as the star-crossed lovers in this tale of Capulet and Capulet share a sweet melancholy: neither has any idea what they're doing.

Timmy will grasp Holly's scruff in his teeth, for instance, and either she'll roll onto her side (getting a right royal poking in the hip in the process) or Timmy will content himself dry-humping the small of her back. Even though I've taken to calling him "Casanobody", I kinda feel sorry for the little guy.

Mim K/W keeps telling me that it's my duty as a father to talk Timmy through this.

On the other hand, it's the Internet Age, goddammit—and if the Net's good for anything, it's porn. I can pass on my parental responsibilities, content in the knowledge that it's what hundreds of thousands of fathers across the globe do, instead of actually talking to their children.

So, this one's for you, Spudmuffin. Watch and learn:

Whilst it may seem odd posting this sort of stuff to my blog, it works with pandas, doesn't it? Besides, you should see the freaks who post original videos of cats shagging on YouTube... Think about that for a moment.

All I need to do now is to find my Best of Barry White CD, arrange a candlelight dinner of cat kibble, and we're set. Go for gold, little buddy!

Currently reading:

James Patrick Kelly & John Kessel (eds)—Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology
Neil Philip (ed)—American Fairy Tales
Mark Ravina—The Last Samurai: The Life and Battles of Saigō Takamori
Alan Weisman—The World Without Us

Sudden Grey

2008-11-30T14:03:00.002+11:00

In which our intrepid hero dredges up a favourite piece of Heavy Gear fanfic from 1999.

The smoke from Levant's cigarette curled up into the air duct. The door in front of him was painted dull green, unmarked. He swallowed, lifted his hand, hesitated, then finally knocked. Rap!

"Come in, Markus." It was Levant's CO, Barnard; that, at least, was a hopeful sign. Levant reached for the handle and twisted hard. The door opened and a painful blast of grey light hit Levant in the face. Had it been that long since he had seen natural light?

"Markus, sit down, relax, you'll be fine." Commandant Barnard was about 85 cycles old; the silver at his temples and moustache contrasted starkly with his dark brown skin. "We'll get through this. Hell, in another couple of years, they'll ship me off to the Grey Berets, and all this'll be yours." He spread his arms wide and grinned.

Levant smiled weakly and strode across the cheap carpet. The grey-brown Siwan horizon peered through the grimy windows; Levant peered back, his face long and drawn. His mahogany hair was disarrayed and the deep black cyberoptic on the right side of his face mirrored the eyepatch on his left. He blew smoke at his own reflection.

"…nothing, really. Don't worry, I'll back you up." Barnard's voice drifted in, and Levant snapped out of his reverie. "We've got a while yet. Calm down."

As if to contradict Barnard, a knock came at the door. "Enter."

A young lieutenant popped his head around the door and spoke: "She's arrived, sir." Levant looked back outside. He tried to open the window, but it wouldn't open; it was sealed closed. He stubbed out his cigarette on the glass, turned and sat.

Barnard looked confident, smiling directly at Levant, as if to reassure him. Levant stared straight ahead.

The doorhandle jerked downward and Levant jumped. A woman, perhaps 40 cycles old, strong, attractive, walked in and calmly sat down before Barnard had risen half out of his chair.

She opened her briefcase, pulled out a personal assistant. "Very well," she said, through perfect white teeth, "let us begin. Commandant, you have a new priority assignment. But there are other matters at hand. Mr Levant,"—Levant unconsciously touched the two silver bars at his throat—"your record is thus far exemplary, but there are concerns about your attitude."

Levant glanced at the window, wishing he could claw his way out of the room. "Concerns?" he said, glancing back at the woman across from him. Long, straight chestnut hair, blue eyes—she could be Ashantite, if not for the dark grey power suit. Strange—there were no insignia or rank pins. Who was she?

"It is feared that you may be suffering some psychological problems. It appears that it has been"—she checked her notes—"nearly four cycles since you last took leave, Mr Levant. You live permanently in the facility's staff quarters. It is not healthy, not normal, to spend that amount of time underground."

Levant pulled his face into a smile and gritted his teeth. "I miss Bethany. It reminds me of anything but home."

The woman glanced at her notes again. Her brow creased as her lips silently moved: Innsmouth? Her face straightened again and she spoke: "How have you been since your accident, Mr Levant? No depression, insomnia—"

"No, I don't think so. Permission to smoke, ma'am?"

A smile flickered at the corners of her lips. "Please, go ahead. Your academic record is impressive, Mr Levant, as is your service record —"

"He's one of our best men," Barnard said, smiling.

"Yes." The woman glanced at Barnard, obviously annoyed at his interjection. "I have been assured that you are an expert in your field, Mr Levant. I have also been assured that this facility is an appropriate launching point for the project that I am about to describe. Are you confident that you are up to this task, Mr Levant?"

Mister Levant. Not Doctor Levant, nor Sous-Commandant. Mister. What was it with this woman? "That all depends. What does it entail, if I might ask?"

She smiled again. After a brief pause, she reached into her briefcase and pulled out a large metal cylinder. It obviously unscrewed at one end, but otherwise was unmarked. She handed it to Levant, noting his curiosity. "What you hold in your hands cost us a great deal of money to procure, Mr Levant. We want a return on our investment."

"What is it?"

"It is called variola, Mr Levant. Or, rather, the basis to create variola."

"Variola?"

"A virus, Mr Levant, thought destroyed over four thousand years ago. It was the most lethal naturally-occurring virus known to humankind."

"Then what am I holding?"

"Fragments, Mr Levant, fragments. Pieces of the virus' genome, extracted at great expense and peril from an archaeological site on Earth. We—I—want you to reconstruct the virus, Mr Levant, to improve upon it." Her clear blue eyes bored into him. "What do you say now? Are you willing to commit, Mr Levant?"

"I'll give it my best shot."

She smiled. "Good. That is all we ask. Further data will be relayed to your office by the end of the day." She turned to face Barnard. "Commandant, I must leave. I have other engagements." She slipped her personal assistant into her case and rose from her seat.

"What about a vaccine?" Levant asked.

She looked him straight in the eye. "Of course." She turned toward the door and walked a few steps, then turned slightly and looked over her shoulder at the two men. "Good day, Commandant. À la prochaine, Sous-Commandant Levant; I have a feeling we will be seeing much more of each other."

With that, she turned and disappeared through the door.

The two men looked at each other, and Levant saw what his CO was thinking, even before he uttered it: "Fuck."

Levant walked to the window, peering at the glowing cinder of his reflected cigarette, and at the grey-brown skies beyond. Levant's single eye reflected a dark microcosm of Siwa Oasis below. "Here we go again," Barnard muttered, somewhere behind him.

Yes. Here we go again. A twisted smile teased the corners of Levant's lips.

Currently reading:

James Patrick Kelly & John Kessel (eds)—Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology
Neil Philip (ed)—American Fairy Tales
Mark Ravina—The Last Samurai: The Life and Battles of Saigō Takamori
Alan Weisman—The World Without Us

I Just Lost What Little Regard I Had for Wired

2008-11-26T14:31:00.001+11:00

In which our intrepid hero is annoyed that a once-respected journal is paying people to troll.

Via this post at Old is the New New, once-relevant industry organ Wired scrapes the bottom of the barrel with an announcement of the death of the blogosphere.

Approximately two years after the meme began, Author Paul Boutin writes:

Thinking about launching your own blog? Here's some friendly advice: Don't. And if you've already got one, pull the plug. [...]

The blogosphere, once a freshwater oasis of folksy self-expression and clever thought, has been flooded by a tsunami of paid bilge. Cut-rate journalists and underground marketing campaigns now drown out the authentic voices of amateur wordsmiths. It's almost impossible to get noticed, except by hecklers. And why bother? The time it takes to craft sharp, witty blog prose is better spent expressing yourself on Flickr, Facebook, or Twitter.

Would that be Flickr (an unsorted mess of millions of images, barely touched by human hands), Facebook (where things rarely get more intimate than a gift of virtual beer), or Twitter (which is about as expressive as an SMS—in the days before phone manufacturers realised you could string them together to make longer messages)?

Dearth of intellectual content aside, I'd be willing to lend the article credence if I hadn't found it via a blog (as one commenter pithily pointed out), if I didn't subscribe to—and regularly read—about 120 blogs, or if the author himself didn't proudly proclaim himself "Senior Writer" for a blog with a total of four staff. A figure which includes the Editor, the Intern and a woman who has something to do with a calendar.

Boutin continues:

Scroll down Technorati's list of the top 100 blogs and you'll find personal sites have been shoved aside by professional ones. Most are essentially online magazines: The Huffington Post. Engadget. TreeHugger. A stand-alone commentator can't keep up with a team of pro writers cranking out up to 30 posts a day.

I fail to see the point of this comparison; it's like telling you to give up exercise because you're not a professional athlete—or, for that matter, an entire football team.

Most other bloggers don't want to reach an audience of millions, and neither do I. The administrative overheads alone would eat up all my time.

No, we're content merely to share thoughts with like minds. It's a small market, certainly, but a rewarding one.

If Boutin had had any experience in marketing or sales, then maybe he'd understand the concept of targeting. There are other methods to attract readers than by spoofing Technorati's servers. Facebook friends are predisposed to reading your blog, and that saves you a lot of work drumming up interest.

Maybe he'd write about leveraging Facebook (which, incidentally, still lacks a fully-featured blogging app) to increase readership; hell, I've had two Facebook friends ask me about this in as many days.

Or maybe he'd devote his efforts to something other than, to use his Boutin's words, cut-rate journalism and underground marketing to promote his own blog by loudly—and tardily—jumping on the "death of the blog" bandwagon.

Currently reading:

James Patrick Kelly & John Kessel (eds)—Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology
Neil Philip (ed)—American Fairy Tales
Mark Ravina—The Last Samurai: The Life and Battles of Saigō Takamori
Alan Weisman—The World Without Us

But Some are More Equal than Others

2008-11-25T23:26:00.006+11:00

In which our intrepid hero questions his Prime Minister's commitment to fighting discrimination.

Government removes same-sex discrimination, the headline grandiloquently proclaimed. The article (from the Sydney Morning Herald, via AAP) went on to trumpet this newfound era of equality:

The Rudd government has finished its one-year anniversary by honouring an election commitment to remove discrimination against same-sex couples from a wide range of federal laws.

And what a grand era it is; for decades, human rights and gay lobby groups have been fighting for equal treatment under the law. And finally they have it. Clearly, gay parliamentarians are overjoyed at the opportunities that await them:

[The Same-Sex Relationships (Equal Treatment in Commonwealth Laws Superannuation) and Same-Sex Relationships (Equal Treatment in Commonwealth Laws General Law Reform) Bills 2008] "deliver on a very important election commitment on an important day for us," Labor senator and climate change minister Penny Wong, who is openly gay, told parliament.

"They will deliver the sort of equality before the law that same-sex couples have never previously experienced." [...]

Australian Greens leader Bob Brown, who also is openly gay and a long-time campaigner for same-sex rights, congratulated the government.

"This is, indeed, historic legislation and the government is to be congratulated for putting the legislation to this parliament within 12 months of it's election, to remove a great sway of discrimination laws against same sex couples,"he told parliament.

And then we reach the thirteenth paragraph:

But Senator Brown said discrimination against same-sex couples would only end when they were legally able to wed.

Did I miss something? I thought gay discrimination was over?

I wandered over to the website of the federal Attorney General, Robert McClelland, to see what I could find out. Fortunately, he had an interview with ABC journalist Virginia Trioli this morning, and to his staff's credit, the transcript is already up. In it, I discovered the following:

Trioli: So how far away then is a proper national discussion about making legal same sex marriage?

McClelland: It won't be part of this government's agenda. The Labor Party policy is firm, that marriage is between a man and a woman. So, our reforms have been introduced, but we haven't amended the definition of marriage in the Marriage Act.

Trioli: That seems to be though—for many gay couple around the country, that's the greatest discrimination that they feel. You don't feel, as Attorney-General, inclined to address that?

McClelland: The words used—many gay couples is entirely accurate. Certainly, not all gay couples—not all same sex couples. It's an issue of controversy within the gay and lesbian community itself.

But from the Government's point of view, we were elected on the basis of our platform. Our platform is clear. It's Kevin Rudd's view, it's my view, and we won't be amending the definition of marriage in the Marriage Act.

Semantics aside—under which basis, Northern Territory elders would still be sexually abusing toddlers with impunity, incidentally—it seems that Rudd's platform differs little from that of John Howard. No, not the John Howard on All Saints. I mean the little guy with the funny eyebrows—Kevin Rudd's immediate predecessor.

In 2004, the SMH's Chris Saliba had this to say about that John Howard:

John Howard may be the doyen of the aspirational middle class, but if you're gay and aspire to marry and adopt children, then forget it. John Howard would surely balk at being termed homophobic, yet his record on the subject is grim, to say the least. [...]

The [then-] Prime Minister elaborated on the matter in a Triple J interview conducted by a group of students in August 2001. Asked where he placed himself on a scale of acceptance of homosexuality, one end being total acceptance and the other total rejection, he replied, "Oh I'd place myself somewhere in the middle. I certainly don't think you should give the same status to homosexual liaisons as you give to marriage, I don't."

Clearly, Kevin Rudd—and the entire Labor caucus, including "openly gay" Penny Wong—feel the same way, and have for some time. In May 2004, now-Housing Minister Nicola Roxon stated on the ABC's Lateline programme:

Labor has made clear we don't support gay marriage. Clearly, marriage has a history within Australia already, it is a heterosexual institution.

To my knowledge, no Labor politician has come forward to either refute this, nor have they broken ranks, content merely to hide behind the Pledge and hypocritically bemoan the plight of their gay brothers and sisters.

John Howard may have been homophobic, but he made no bones about where he stood. Kevin Rudd and the Australian Labor Party have not only deceived the Australian electorate in concealing the true extent of their opposition to same-sex discrimination, but have also remorselessly lied to the gay and lesbian voters they count amongst their natural support base.

In two years, when it comes time to elect another federal government, I ask any gay or lesbian readers, or any who count them amongst their friends and family—or simply anyone who hates seeing people being screwed out of happiness for no good reason—to vote for anyone but Labor. Love is a hard enough game, without being lied to and taken for granted.

I leave you with this impassioned clip from MSNBC commentator, Keith Olbermann:

(Thanks to Cr Shayne Mallard, of eCouncillor fame, for bringing this video to my attention.)

(Disclosure: I'm not gay myself, but I have a number of friends who are. Some of them want to marry. Some don't. Some are even members of the Liberal Party. All of them deserve—even if they choose ultimately not to exercise—the same rights to marriage that the rest of us enjoy.)

Currently reading:

James Patrick Kelly & John Kessel (eds)—Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology
Neil Philip (ed)—American Fairy Tales
Mark Ravina—The Last Samurai: The Life and Battles of Saigō Takamori
Alan Weisman—The World Without Us

Free, and Worth Every Penny

2008-11-24T21:56:00.000+11:00

In which our intrepid hero gets all excited about television—and then terribly disappointed when he realises the truth.

A few hours ago, I saw an ad for Freeview, an exciting new consortium of free-to-air broadcasters offering services from next year, poised to revolutionise the way we watch television. From their website:

Freeview is a free-to-view digital service providing Australian television viewers more choice than ever before. Freeview will offer a suite of 15 Digital TV channels and an Electronic Program [sic] Guide (EPG) to help you find what you want to watch quickly and easily.

I was about excited as I'd been in about three weeks. After all, I've already got the following channels (listed in order of their channel number, with duplicates removed):

Ten HD: Much like the Ten we know and love, except with some HD content during the afternoon and evening. Actually, their docos are quite good.

ABC1: If you believe the reality-challenged Right, Australia's most enduring bastion of Communism and anti-Semitism. Yup, good, old Aunty.

SBS: The other great Communist conspiracy, purveyor of late-night porn and exhibitor of strange programmes in funny languages.

FTV Guide: A sort of "what's on now/what's on next?" thing that cycles through still screens, made pretty much redundant by the EPG that Digital TV already broadcasts.

7 Digital: Channel 7, only digital. Go figure.

9 Digital: Guess. Go on.

Ten Digital: There's a theme here...

ABC HD: Just like ABC1, only in resolution so spectacular you can see the veins pop out on Comrade Lenin's forehead as he calls the workers to global revolution—in CD-quality sound.

ABC2: Timeshifted programming from ABC1, plus some new shows, retro jazz performances and every single version of Stateline from around the country. There's also an ABC3 which was slated for children's programming and due to start in April this year, but it appears that Labor have nerfed it; its content is the same as ABC1.

SBS HD: Funnyspeak Commie porn in high definition.

SBS News: An assortment of undubbed, unsubbed news programmes from around the world.

National Indigenous Television: A mostly Aboriginal-themed channel, launched about a month ago with practically no fanfare whatsoever. So little fanfare in fact, that their press officer may well have welcomed Captain Cook to Australian shores, and hence would be responsible for that horrible terra nullius mess.

D44 News: Cycling static news pages from the ABC, sort of outmoded by the Internet.

Channel NSW: A mixture of automated surf and traffic reports, interspersed with community content and repeat broadcasts from a Sydney Writer's Festival from several years ago—possibly the last time the NSW Government was comfortable bringing up the subject of literacy.

Australian Christian Channel: Reputed to be porn-, Commie- and foreign-language-free. Probably much like those obnoxious, early-morning televangelist shows. I wouldn't know; I've never been inclined to watch it.

Expo: Just like those interminable late-night infomercials, only 24 hours a day.

7 HD: Like Ten HD, only not, because it's 7.

9 HD: Like Ten HD, only—wait, I just used that one, didn't I?

And seven parliamentary channels, for you sad sacks who can't get enough Federal Government.

That's a total of 25 unique channels. And I'm getting 15 more? Let's see what I'm getting:

7: I think I've got this one already.

7 HD: And this one.

7 SD: I don't have this one, but I suspect (from the name) that it's a standard-definition copy of 7 HD.

9: Yep, I have this one, too.

9 HD: Ditto.

9 SD: See 7 SD, above.

Ten: Another one I already have.

Ten HD: And again.

One HD: Just to shake things up, the Ten Network will launch a 24-hour sports channel next April, named One HD; they're also launching an SD version, but apparently no one's told Freeview yet, as it doesn't appear on their channel list.

ABC1: Looks familiar.

ABC2: Hold the press—nope, already got one of those.

ABC HD: Check—or should that be "Cheka"?

SBS: Got that one.

SBS2: Presumably the same as SBS News.

SBS HD: 1080 scanlines of same.

Woot! Forty—no, wait—twenty-six channels. For all this hype, I get one, lonely, solitary 24-hour sports channel that I didn't get before. At least I get an EPG—which I already have.

Crap. All that wind-up for one extra channel. Quit yanking my chain, Freeview, and do something useful, like putting Kyle Sandilands into early retirement, away from the media.

Currently reading:

James Patrick Kelly & John Kessel (eds)—Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology
Neil Philip (ed)—American Fairy Tales
Mark Ravina—The Last Samurai: The Life and Battles of Saigō Takamori
Alan Weisman—The World Without Us

Too Late for Christmas

2008-11-24T18:07:00.000+11:00

In which our intrepid hero crosses a couple of Warhammer FRP books off his wishlist.

I just took a saunter over to FFG's relatively recently renovated site, in the vague hope that I might find something newish and interesting in time for Yuletide, such as the alluded-to Shades of Empire or Career Compendium for WHFRP.

Sadly not—Shades won't be out until January; Creatures Anathema (for Dark Heresy) will be out around the same time. So neither will be in my Solstice tentacle. Oh well, it's not as if I was good for a whole year anyway.

(In the interim, though, another Dark Heresy book will come out: Disciples of the Dark Gods releases this month, and should be on shelves out here in the Antipodes sometime before Christmas 2150. Just order it direct from FFG. Seriously.

Who knows when the Career Compendium is due.)

Tangential to Shades of Empire, co-author Steve D (interviewed here and appearing with our very own Beaver) has mint-condition, autographed copies of WHFRP sourcebooks Night's Dark Masters, Realm of the Ice Queen and The Warhammer Companion for sale; you can check it out on his blog here.

No, I mean go there now. Give yourself (or someone you love) the gift of Warhammer this Christmas. And give Steve the gift of cold, hard cash so he can buy something he wants but otherwise couldn't justify to himself.

His soul bleeds so he can bring you gamerly goodness. Buy his stuff. Now.

Currently reading:

James Patrick Kelly & John Kessel (eds)—Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology
Neil Philip (ed)—American Fairy Tales
Mark Ravina—The Last Samurai: The Life and Battles of Saigō Takamori
Alan Weisman—The World Without Us

Spore Again

2008-11-24T15:42:00.000+11:00

In which our intrepid hero inflicts another half-dozen critters on the world.

After a busy couple of days at the Spore Creature Creator, I present several more Spore creatures:

Incidentally, these are also available in-game via the Sporecast Orcteeth's Plush Menagerie.

Yes, Orcteeth. I have large, sharp teeth and an sizeable underbite. Live with it.

Currently reading:

James Patrick Kelly & John Kessel (eds)—Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology
Neil Philip (ed)—American Fairy Tales
Mark Ravina—The Last Samurai: The Life and Battles of Saigō Takamori
Alan Weisman—The World Without Us

Wee Beasties

2008-11-23T22:11:00.001+11:00

In which our intrepid hero is inspired to a particularly boneheaded idea.

Some years ago, before he started to work for Malhavoc (let alone WotC), I subscribed to Mike Mearls' LiveJournal, in the vague hope that he might let gaming goodness slip.

Since his tenure at WotC began, most of his gaming-related thoughts have appeared elsewhere (such as his gaming blog here, but I never really got around to unsubscribing to his LJ feed.

Today, I came across this story. Whilst it's not really gaming-related at all, it did put an idea into my head:

Since [the stray dog who wandered into his yard] was filthy, I had to give her a bath or two, and then feed her, water her, and take her for a walk. I settled on Annie as a temporary name until we could find her owners. The cats projected feline death daggers at her with their eyes, and Bailey [his dog] was even more needy and grunty than normal, due to an acute case of jealousy. Still, after a couple hours the pets settled in with her and made her feel at home.

(NB: For the cats, making a dog feel at home involves lots of hissing and clawing.)

(Emphasis mine.)

Mim K/W and I have often discussed the deadly looks that cats give, a common phenomenon in a house with nine cats. Doesn't it almost make sense that they have some form of gaze attack?

Irate Cat Swarm

Level 3 Artillery

Medium Natural Beast (swarm)

XP 150

Initiative +6

Senses Perception +6; low-light vision

Swarm Attack aura 1; the swarm makes a basic attack as a free action against each enemy that begins its turn in the aura.

HP 36; Bloodied 18

AC 15; Fortitude 13, Reflex 15, Will 13

Resist half damage from melee and ranged attacks; Vulnerable 3 against close and area attacks.

Speed 6

M Flurry of Claws (Standard; at-will)

+7 vs AC; 1d6 + 3 damage, and ongoing 3 damage (save ends).

R Feline Death Daggers (Minor; recharge 56) ♦ Gaze, Psychic

Close blast 5; +4 vs will; 1d10 + 3 psychic damage.

Alignment Evil

Languages Growl! Hiss!

Skills Athletics +3, Stealth +7

Str 12 (+2)	Dex 17 (+4)	Wis 12 (+2)
Con 12 (+2)	Int 2 (-3)	Cha 7 (-1)

And yes, they're Evil. In the PHB, it sums up the alignment as:

It is my right to claim what others possess.

Evil characters don't necessarily go out of their way to hurt people, but they're perfectly willing to take advantage of the weakness of others to acquire what they want.

Remember that when you're sitting down to dinner next.

Currently reading:

James Patrick Kelly & John Kessel (eds)—Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology
Neil Philip (ed)—American Fairy Tales
Mark Ravina—The Last Samurai: The Life and Battles of Saigō Takamori
Alan Weisman—The World Without Us

The Graveborn (Part I)

2008-11-23T06:49:00.007+11:00

In which our intrepid hero brings an old favourite back from the grave.

About a year ago, I began to write a series of blog posts on Lovecraftian (and Ashtonian) ghouls in D&D. Unfortunately, I never got around to finishing them, largely because I found the process of writing up stat blocks in D&D3.5 too fiddly and time consuming.

Nonetheless, since I've resolved to get off my butt and blog more—and I think what I had to say in the original articles is still valid—I thought I'd reframe them in 4e format. For a start, it's a lot easier to do the write-up...

It all started with Call of Cthulhu d20, you see. I'm a huge fan of the original Chaosium BRP version, and even before the d20 edition came out, I'd guessed that there would be issues with how the d20 system would fit together with elements of CoC.

I didn't expect them to nerf the ghoul, however.

It's not something I think that the authors did deliberately, but what was once my favourite antagonist in CoC ended up just another undead menace, closer in spirit to its D&D namesake.

I feel that my take on it (produced with the assistance of Monster Maker v3.2) is probably closer to the original. I've called them "graveborn" to avoid confusion with the traditional D&D creature.

Graveborn Carrion-Eater

Level 4 Lurker

Medium Natural Humanoid

XP 175

Initiative +8

Senses Perception +4; darkvision

HP 42; Bloodied 21

AC 18; Fortitude 17, Reflex 16, Will 16

Immune disease; Vulnerable 10 poison

Speed 7, burrow 3

M Claws (Standard; at-will)

+9 vs AC; 1d10 + 4 damage.

m Bite (Standard; at-will) ♦ Disease

+7 vs AC; 2d8 + 4 damage, and the target contracts filth fever.

Alignment Unaligned

Languages Common, Graveborn Gibber

Skills Stealth +10

Str 18 (+6)	Dex 15 (+4)	Wis 15 (+4)
Con 12 (+3)	Int 10 (+2)	Cha 10 (+2)

Graveborn Carrion-Eater Tactics

Graveborn prefer to strike with surprise and retreat; they do not like toe-to-toe combat if they can avoid it. They will usually only bite if they are cornered or enraged.

Graveborn Lore

A character knows the following information with a successful Nature check.

DC 15: Graveborn are subterranean humanoids that eat carrion and the corpses of other races. They do not usually attack living creatures.

DC 20: Graveborn are faster than humans and their bite carries disease.

DC 25: Whilst themselves immune to disease, graveborn are particularly vulnerable to poison. Poisoning corpses is a sure way to arouse the ire of a local graveborn population.

I never understood why CoC d20 chose to make Lovecraft's ghouls undead; they were living creatures, capable of breeding as well as adopting rare outsiders who chose to join their ranks.

Furthermore, the d20 stats failed to take their burrowing abilities into account, as well as their slightly-faster-than-human speed. Ghouls burrow—it's how they build their homes and obtain their food.

CoC d20 would have you believe that ghouls are universally Chaotic Evil. Mostly, they were content to keep to themselves and eat corpses; in alignment terms, they should mostly be Neutral (3e) or Unaligned (4e). Rare exceptions, of course, would exist, as ghouls sometimes ally with other Mythos races or served some of the more inimical Great Old Ones.

Lastly—and this got my goat—CoC d20 ghouls had a marked preference for live prey, only resorting to corpses in dire circumstances. This is diametrically opposite to the carrion-eating BRP ghoul. (Again, there are rare exceptions, but in the main, ghouls' diet consists of long-dead bodies.)

As carrion eaters, it makes sense that they should carry filth fever, not ghoul fever, another carry-over from D&D.

In following posts, I hope to present a few more variants of the (graveborn) ghoul. Any feedback would be most humbly appreciated.

Currently reading:

James Patrick Kelly & John Kessel (eds)—Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology
Neil Philip (ed)—American Fairy Tales
Mark Ravina—The Last Samurai: The Life and Battles of Saigō Takamori
Alan Weisman—The World Without Us

More Spore

2008-11-22T19:44:00.000+11:00

In which our intrepid hero showcases a couple more of his creations.

Fresh from the Spore Creature Creator, I present a couple more critters, based on stuffed toys in our house:

I should've mentioned before—you may well need the new Spore Creepy & Cute expansion to get these to work properly. Sorry about that.

Currently reading:

James Patrick Kelly & John Kessel (eds)—Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology
Neil Philip (ed)—American Fairy Tales
Mark Ravina—The Last Samurai: The Life and Battles of Saigō Takamori
Alan Weisman—The World Without Us