Hekinoe Navere

So here's the thing, I'm writing about Navere. Or at least trying to. This Navere is a Greenskin Abraxen from The Beast Lands, not a wild elf from The Spine of the World. I'm trying to sort of write a Hekinoe version of Curse of Strahd. Writing is fucking hard though, so I'm sputtering and spinning my wheels, even when I can force myself to sit and stare at the blinking cursor of an open text document (my age old Favored Enemy and the general bane of my existence).

So I'm writing about writing. Because that's easier and maybe it'll knock a bit of rust off the interior of my brain hole. The point of this post is going to be trying to hammer out a few details about Hekinoe Navere and the story in general. Normally I just kind of write things as they come to me, but that's not happening easily. So we're going to try and get a more concrete concept of the story in my head before we vomit it into a text document. Maybe it'll help, maybe it won't.

The first thing I think I need to establish is Navere's power level and abilities. Normally I write about accomplished supernatural creatures and pseudo-deities. Things that can't be stopped unless they allow themselves to be stopped. Navere is different. Navere is mortal, he's not even immortal with caveats like many things in Hekinoe. He doesn't have access to Gifts or psionics either, so his DnD Druid abilities are pure sorcery. Which means they're unreliable and fallible and I'll need to represent that in the story when he uses them and when he thinks about them. I have in the past relied upon a conflict resolution methodology that might be properly referred to as "smash it to bits with magic" with magic being a catch all term for sorcery, Gifts, or psionics. I can't do that with Navere. Yes, he's a sorcerer, yes, he'll use sorcery, but he's not going to be as willy nilly about it as a Nel would use Gifts or an Elduman would use psionics. Unless he's bat shit crazy, and I don't really think he is. 

Ok, so Hekinoe Navere isn't all powerful. He's not a rookie either. He's seen some shit. So he's competent, but can be defeated. I should really just stat him out in GURPS before I really get into writing. That might be fun and would give me a more concrete idea about his capabilities and keep me honest so to speak, so he doesn't end up defeating challenges because of abilities I think up in the moment. Giving him stats would be fun and it would give me a frame of reference when writing about him and stuff. He'd be like maybe 200 points or so. Maybe. I dunno. Thereabouts.

Alright, so let's think and talk more about this story or whatever. It starts out with Navere on a ship and two pirates discussing him within his hearing. The gist is that Navere has booked passage on a ship to return home to The Beast Lands. This presents us with a few questions we need to answer for the sake of the narrative or whatever. The first is, where was he before booking passage? The second is, why was he there? The third is, why is he returning to The Beast Lands? Oh. Just came up with a fourth question. Do I want to include DnD Navere's companions from Curse of Strahd? Bjorn, Sven, Slarty, Neo, and Thedes.

We're going to start with the third question here. Why is Navere returning to The Beast Lands? After thinking about this, it's a stupid idea. Let's look at the Curse of Strahd module. DnD Navere and compatriots end up in a foreign land via supernatural mist. In the metagame, we known that the PCs have traversed the planes and came from Faerun/Abeir-Toril/Forgotten Realms and are now in Barovia in The Demiplane of Dread, which is in the Shadowfell in 5th Edition. For a variety of reasons, a vampire type entity making its home in The Beast Lands doesn't make much sense. I mean, yes, there are great blood midges and stuff, but that's not really the point. To fit with the Curse of Strahd idea, we are looking for a place that's strange and unnatural to Hekinoe Navere. A place where a supernatural vampire-esque creature that can control the minds of some animals and manipulate nature and such can setup shop. That's one of the things that infuriates DnD Navere about Barovia. The undead leech controlling and fucking with nature. So what we need is a place where nature exists, but can be manipulated by supernatural means where a vampire type creature would fit into nicely.

I'm an idiot.

The Fallen Empire of Man fits that perfectly. With the Hekinoe 2.0 changes I'm making, The Fallen Empire exists as a separate continent from the continent that The Beast Lands is on, so it would fit the idea that Navere comes to a strange and foreign place. It's also a very fertile region full of natural elements that is very sparsely populated, which leaves a lot of room for a Strahd-like figure to wander in and do whatever the fuck he wants. We still need to figure out why Hekinoe Navere is going there. The current beginning of the story starts out with Navere booking passage on a ship to somewhere and the pirates discussing what the morning will bring when they forcibly boot Navere from the ship a little earlier than he'd anticipated. So maybe we run with that a little bit?

Oh. Fifth question. What should we make Strahd be in Hekinoe?

Moving along. We're running with the idea that Hekinoe Navere is being taken to The Fallen Empire against his will. I think that his original goal was to get back to The Beast Lands after being away in like Kusseth or some shit. Everybody goes to Kusseth at some point in their life. So in attempting to answer our third question, we've answered our first question. So Navere had booked passage from Kusseth to The Beast Lands on a Haven ship. Why would the captain of the ship drop Navere in The Fallen Empire of Man instead? In the Hekinoe 2.0 map system we have Kusseth in the northwest, The Beast Lands on a continent south of Kusseth and The Fallen Empire on a continent east of Kusseth.

The most obvious option is that the captain of our Haven ship is in league with our Faux-Strahd. I don't much care for it, but it neatly ties it up in a bow and explains it. Faux-Strahd has a deal with this captain to strand travelers near his settlement for entertainment and feeding purposes. This ship and its captain kind of act as the Mists and the Vistani do in Curse of Strahd/Ravenloft. I'm not sure I like that though. It resolves everything, but it's also a real easy explanation. What if the captain of this Haven ship is Vanden or one of his cronies? Meaning that Hekinoe Navere gets dropped off in The Fallen Empire of Man for inscrutable reasons that involve a plot that won't come to fruition for thirty-five years. I kinda dig that, but I also kinda don't. Aaaaaaaaahhhhhh. I fucking hate writing. Let's move on. We have two workable ideas, don't really need to worry too much about which one we're going with at this time.

To kind of finish up our third question, we need to establish why Navere was heading to The Beast Lands. It's not super mega relevant, but we need to have a reason for it because the goal of returning to The Beast Lands kicks off this whole story. So maybe it is super mega relevant. Alright, think. Why was he heading back to The Beast Lands? Family reasons? No. Doesn't fit. He was raised by wolves and the ones he considers family would be dead by now and he never knew his greenskin abraxen family.

Hmm. How about he was returning to The Beast Lands as part of a challenge to himself? Like he's been in civilized lands doing civilized things for a while. He felt out of touch with his nature as a predator, out of touch with the beasts and forces of nature. So he decided to return to the crucible of his birth that is The Beast Lands. A place where flora and fauna grow huge and savage and mad. Where flora and fauna are so fierce and potent that they resist the manipulation that comes so easily to DnD Druids. Yeah. I dig that.

Let's hop back to our second question. Why was Navere in Kusseth? This question isn't necessarily a big deal or something I intend on referencing extensively, but it's something I'd like to know. After leaving his family (of wolves) DnD Navere wandered into civilization and kind of worked as a hunter and healer and that sort of thing. In Hekinoe 2.0, Kusseth shares its continent with The Fell Peaks and Whurent, so there's still some strife along that country's borders. So maybe Hekinoe Navere and whatever bros he may or may not have had were doing some mercenary work in Kusseth and they finished a job and Navere got sick of all the civilization and industrialization and whatnot.

One, two, three, ok now we're on four. Sorry. I'm way tipsy right now. We're on question four, should I incorporate DnD Navere's bros in Hekinoe Navere's story? It's a difficult question. I have permission from Kevin and Jacob to include Bjorn and Sven in this story if I choose to. I can't really include Sir Neo of Sporin because he's a Paladin and that doesn't fit with Hekinoe. Nor can I include Slarty Bartfast (I'm not entirely sure of the spelling) because he's an elf Monk. Also, they have dumb as shit names. I think I will tentatively include Bjorn and Sven. When writing The Last Blade I found it very useful to have a secondary character, the Herald, for Keroen to talk to, to bounce ideas off of and that sort of thing. It made Keroen a little more...human and easier to relate to I guess? Maybe. I'm not sure. I liked the experience though, so like I said, we'll include Bjorn and Sven tentatively and see how it goes.

Alright, question five. What is Faux-Strahd? In Curse of Strahd he is a vampire ruler of Barovia. In the Ravenloft setting he is a vampire ruler of a domain in the Demiplane of Dread. He's been brought there by the Dark Powers to suffer for his various crimes and horrible transgressions. He's a bad dude that eats people. 

So the core aspects of Strahd are that he is an undead supernatural creature that rules a region and feeds on and torments others for his own purposes. There's really only one type of sentient undead supernatural creature on Hekinoe. The Fallen. The Fallen are undead, and while they do not require blood to survive, some of them can drain if from victims and use it to repair damage to their dead grey crystalline flesh. That seems like a fairly obvious solution to figuring out what Faux-Strahd should be. I have another idea that could work as well, and it's slightly less obvious. I might go that route instead. Perhaps. We'll keep it quiet for now.

Alright, I think we've answered everything, let's go over it all. We've established that Hekinoe Navere and his bros (maybe) Bjorn and Sven were in Kusseth doing unspecified mercenary work. They completed their last job and Hekinoe Navere decided he was sick of civilization and industrialization and wanted to return to The Beast Lands to reconnect with the strength and savagery of his homeland. After hiring a ship, he ends up getting stranded in The Fallen Empire of Man due to a deal the captain of the ship has with Faux-Strahd the Fallen to bring him living beings to feast upon and torment for entertainment.

I like it. We'll see how this develops. This has been a somewhat productive exercise and I'm glad I did it. I have a little bit of a better hold on the story now. 

The Difficulties of RP

One thing I've heard mentioned and agree with in my current group is that we don't really RP much. Role-playing, getting into a character and speaking and acting as that character, is not something everyone is comfortable with. Even those that are comfortable with it are comfortable with it to different degrees. I'm comfortable describing Navere violating the fuck out druids whose lifestyle offends him on every level, and I'm comfortable representing Andorian and Evandor as homosexual (even though their species doesn't really have meaningful sex designations), but I'm not comfortable describing Navere or Andorian and Evandor having a physical relationship that I describe. At least not in front of other people. If you go back a bit on the blog you'll find a few posts where Keroen and Callifay get a little handsy with each other, but that's something I wrote and thought about and didn't produce on the fly in front of six other dudes. So there are varying levels of comfort that further vary depending on the situation. 

So there are a few problems that I've identified with the lack of RP and I'm going to go over them here on the blog with myself, because aside from last week, I haven't posted in about a year, so who is really reading this? No one. Maybe. 

The first problem I've decided exists is that no one is willing to take or has taken the first step. No one has stepped outside of "Navere/Sven/etc says X" or does X or whatever. We'll do minor role-play. Kevin will make his voice a bit gruff when he speaks as Bjorn (spelling?) or I'll describe Navere in the midst of a fight as having this wild and savage grin on his face or I'll voice Navere's internal struggle with doing one thing and doing what's best for the pack. But no one has stopped in the midst of the session to say anything like: 

Navere sits down on his bedroll and motions everyone over. As everyone sits he says, "We haven't really discussed this place and what it means that we're here. I won't lie, I'm fearful of this place. I wholly suspect we've died in battle and are being punished in some way. I have no idea what our overall plan should be, and I fear we're just going in circles trying to remain busy until something finally ends us and we no longer need to worry about how we'll escape this place or if we even can." 

And then for a solid half hour, the characters discuss their fears and hopes and plans, rather than the players discussing plans for their next move. That's the distinction in my mind, speaking as a player or as a character. To be fair, the line can get pretty blurry at times and it can be hard to identify when someone is speaking as themself or their character. 

I don't really feel like this group is resistant to RP, I'm definitely not resistant to the idea of it. My Orcunraytrel campaign has literal thousands and thousands of words of RP. I feel like everyone is open to it. I just feel like no one has made it normal in our sessions. Our sessions are fairly short, and we like to do things to actually achieve goals and such. There's definitely a focus on doing, rather than talking. I truly feel like if someone steps up, the group will roll (heyo!) with it and it will become the new normal way we do things. 

The second problem that I see with the group is that our campaigns are short. Typically six to nine months, maybe a year in length. Which is fucking short in my opinion. One of the big reasons I've never come up with a background for a character until Kyle made me for Navere was because our campaigns are short. I kept playing a variation of OG 4th Edition Erevan the Bard because I wanted a sense of continuity and I enjoy the pleasantly homicidal ridiculousness of that character. For me, I feel like what is the point of becoming invested in a particular character and their history and emotions and feelings if the campaign is going to be over in ten or fifteen sessions? I'm not sure everyone in the group would agree with me here, but this is my two cents.

The third problem I think we have is comfort level with each other. Don't get me wrong, I think we're all friends and whatnot and we all seem to like each other and we all seem to be able to relate to one another. Personally, part of my comfort level as a GM stems from always having gamed with the same set of four dudes, or a variation of that group, for the past twenty years. I'm super comfortable around those guys and can say and do things with them that I normally wouldn't with random people. There are even versions of that group that I wouldn't have felt comfortable enough with to RP a gay relationship.

Anyway. So yeah, we're all friends. I'm friends with Kyle, Kyle is friends with Kevin. Jacob and Dave are friends with Kevin, Andrew is Jacob's brother, and Chase is friends with Andrew. We're all friends, but we haven't all been playing DnD with each other for decades, or even five years. We're all friends and we like each other, but there's still a little bit of distance simply because we lack that long term association that breaks down a lot of boundaries that self doubt and a sense of shame bring out.

So those are just some things I see that I think might be partially responsible for why my group doesn't really delve into lots of RP during sessions. Which is ok. There's nothing that says a group must RP extensively. If the group just doesn't feel like really in depth RP is its thing, there's no law saying they're fired from DnD. These are just my opinions and they could of course be way off base. They're also completely irrelevant. Ultimately, I think we're having fun and that is what's important. 

Navere, Whose Bones Sing of The Mountain

Is it whose or who's? I dunno. Whatever.

The following is a background for my wild elf druid Navere that I am currently playing in the Curse of Strahd 5th Edition module. It's the first background I've created for a character in literal years, so it didn't exactly exit my brain hole easily and I am a little rusty, which I think shows. It was written as a sort of fireside conversation. As if Navere and the other characters were seated around the fire and started asking each other for their life stories and how they became adventurers and whatnot. Some of Navere's defining characteristics are that he was raised by wolves, not elves, and that he is very focused on flight or flight instincts and predator vs. prey relationships. Here it is:

“My first memories have always been of blinding white snow beneath a glaring sun, glittering coldly like frozen gems. These memories are swiftly followed by ones of cold, a cold like a frost-rimed metal fist gripping my bones. This makes sense, as I grew up on a mountain called Cold Mountain in the Spine of the World. A cold, but beautiful place. Full of stormy winters full of thunder and lightning. I always loved the storms, the howling wind, the thunder rumbling in the distance, thumping in my chest like a second, stronger, heartbeat.”

“I was the youngest of six. My father was the head of our fairly large and extended family, he was strong and harsh, but a good father. My mother, the fiercest and strongest hunter of our people, ruled at his side.”

Navere smiles briefly, his lips quickly returning to their normal stoic flatness.

“I was a small and sickly child. Weak and pale and slow. Nearly blind, half deaf, not only the youngest of six, but the weakest. My siblings were always faster and stronger and tougher. Even as small children I could barely hold my own against them, and that was only because they pitied me and feared our mother’s wrath. I briefly knew an uncle that thought I was too weak to survive life in our harsh land and should be cast out to die on the side of the mountain. I say briefly because one winter, she dragged him by the scruff of the neck out to the side of the mountain and he never returned.”

Navere smiles sadly and says, “In his defense, his points were of merit. I was a burden to my family. But. I was family, and I was loved, and as I grew older I was occasionally useful. I could barely speak, but I could still make my family smile.”

Navere grins as he says, “I remember when I was still young, but no longer a child, the seasons had changed and ice was melting and the snow was heavy but still solid enough to pack. Snow perfect for snowballs. I had a cousin, big for his age and willing to throw his weight around, even if he was just throwing it at a cripple. We got into it and my father broke us up. I was of course the worse for it, black and blue and scratched up from head to toe. But I would not lay down in defeat and pain, and when my cousin turned to return to his siblings puffed up with pride for knocking me down, I hurled the perfect snowball right up his asshole. He yelped and bolted into the forest, and my antics and fine aim garnered a single bark of a laughter from my father.”

Navere shrugs, “Perhaps it is not so funny now, but at the time I thought quite well of myself.”

“I couldn’t fight or hunt well, but I was tricksie and that entertained many of my family members, especially the youngest of our people. When my siblings and parents hunted, I would care for the younger members of the family and make sure they stayed in our home where it was safe. I rarely hunted, but when trespassers came to our lands and my people went to war, I would distract them with my crude noises while my family encircled them and herded them away from our home and dealt with them.”

“Our lands were fairly secluded, so we had few trespassers, but all of them, save one, were met with bloodshed.”

“The one exception that my father allowed to live in our lands was an old thing. He’d lived on our lands as long as I could remember. My mother told me once he’d been on our lands since her own mother was young. He was small and bent, his skin wrinkled like a walnut and burned from wind and sun. He made his home in a broken down circle of stone. He dwelled in a crude lean to set up between the ancient monuments, a drafty thing of snow and ice and hides and damp timbers We had very little to do with him, and he never sought us out, but my father allowed him to remain on our lands because he was a healer. When I was at my sickest, my parents would take me to this bent old trespasser and he would use herbs and very occasionally magic to help me survive another season of poor hunting or bad weather.”

Navere pauses, thoughtful and quiet, before saying, “As a youth that was almost an adult, I was foolish and took risks with little care for consequences. My siblings, though stronger and faster and older, were cursed with the same youthful behavior. We were troublesome to the old healer. He was a trespasser, strange and alien to us. That fact that he had saved my life several times over and was under the protection of my father and mother had little impact on our behaviors.”

“When we were bored and he was away doing whatever it was he did with his time, we would rifle through his belongings, knock about his furniture, dig at his garden of herbs and roots. Childish things that did little harm and only served to annoy an elderly healer living far beyond the edges of civilization.”

“It was on one such immature excursion to the healer’s icy shanty that I discovered my magic. We had nosed around in his personal belongings, gnawed on the tasty roots her grew in his root cellar. Two fallen stones made up the sides of his small dwelling. The stones were grey, darker than the other stone of the mountain, and ancient beyond reckoning. They were chipped and worn and frosted over, and vague designs could be seen on them, too obscured by grime and the slow march of time to be legible.”

“Standing close to the stones, you could sense their power, a vibration you could feel in your bones. We would dare each other to stand close to them, the one that got closest and stayed there longest was proven brave to our adolescent minds.”

Navere smirks as he speaks, “This was one game I regularly won. For whatever reason, I could stand closest to the stones for the longest. So close my nose almost touched them. Once I did so for so long it was the old healer that forced me to leave with bellows of rage and an oaken stave.”

“The story is simple, we had had our fun among the healer’s possessions and began are feats of daring. I slipped and broke my nose upon the cold stone. My siblings said I flailed wildly and screamed and fled to find our parents. All I felt was lightning. Like a bolt had speared me from the sky and ground its way through my spine down into the ground, chewing through every nerve in its path, leaving them ragged and torn in its wake.”

Navere shivers a little as he recalls the pain, but he continues, “I woke to my mother dragging me away from the stone. When I became aware enough that I could stand, I found I could sense something. It wasn’t anything I could see or hear or smell, it was more subtle than that. I found that I could sort of feel the undercurrent of life flowing through everything. I could sense it in the rapid and worried breathes of my mother as she kissed my head. I could sense it in the way the river flowed over rocks. I could sense it in the way the wind howled as it wound its way across the face of our mountain and the way it whirled through the leaves of the trees of our forest.”

A note of pride begins to creep into Navere’s voice as he speaks, “Once I could sense this energy, this pulse of life, and feel how it moved through the world, I learned to manipulate it and reshape it. I could heal, I could command fire, I could speak to my family in a way I never could before. I could shake the earth and call the wind to my aid. For the first time in my life, I could hunt with my people and help them fight off trespassers.”

By the end of it, Navere is smiling almost smugly. But it is short lived and his expression flattens and he continues.

“I am an elf, and we are long lived, and eventually my brothers and sisters and parents and even my younger cousins passed away. My father slunk away from our lands to die alone and in peace. My mother died hunting a bear, refusing to bow to the wearying grip of age and death and instead dying in the heat of a fight, with a foe’s blood steaming on her face in the cold air, her death serving to strengthen the pack.”

Navere smiles as he says, “My mother was, as I said, fierce.”

“I continued living among my people for a decade or so, slowly feeling myself growing more and more distant from them, until I decided to make my home between the old stones where the healer had lived, for he too had passed away at this point. I hunted with my people, made war with them against those that trespassed upon our lands, but they had no real purpose or need for me and my time was mostly my own. There came a time when I found youths in my tiny cave of packed ice and ancient stone, rummaging in my few meager possessions and stock of foodstuffs. They scampered off quickly, clearly delighting in their mischief, and I realized that I had become as much a tolerated trespasser as the old healer had been. I was more involved with my people than he had been, but I had become little more than a tolerated fixture of their lands, rather than a contributing member of our people.”

Navere pauses for a moment, his eyes distant, before refocusing and saying, “For one raised always among family, this was a terrifying realization. Living life as we did, fear was a constant friend, its prickly fingers constantly caressing your neck. We fight or flee, that is our life upon the mountain, and fear is there to remind us of the consequences of choosing wrongly when deciding which course to take. This fear that fell upon me, this fear was not an ally guiding my actions, this was a brutal foe paralyzing me with indecision.”

Navere pauses and looks away from the fire before returning his gaze to you all and saying, “There is no shame in fear. If we did not fear, we would foolishly spend our lives on pointless battles or hunting prey far beyond our skill. But this crippling fear, this alien dread that I felt so long ago, it is shameful and not something I wish to ever experience again.”

Navere pauses to take a swig from his waterskin before continuing.

“I overcame my dread and decided I would leave the lands of my people. I knew little of the lands beyond the mountain we made our home upon, but the old stones and the forest and the mountain whispered to me of life and magic and I knew I would either find my way or find death. With that sense of dread still fresh in my heart, I was unsure which would be more welcome.”

“In short, I gathered a few provisions, including some armor and a blade that had belonged to the old healer, and I came down from the mountain and found civilization. The first few years were...awkward. But I survived.”

“I learned of money and other races and peoples of the land. I lived among them being of use as a hunter and healer.”

He smiles as a self-deprecating tone creeps into his voice while he says, “I discovered what currency was and immediately discovered what gambling was and that it was not something I was talented at. I also discovered that liquor was a fine thing that led to many poor decisions regarding currency and gambling.”

“I survived though, and the shine of civilization wore away after a time and I realized that the fringes of civilization were more suited to me, so there I stayed. I continued my trend of wandering and gaining work as a healer and hunter. As I grew more competent I began finding work hunting more dangerous beasts, and occasionally men. This eventually turned into the life of an adventurer, and only a few short years later I find myself here at this fire with the five of you.”

So there it is.

Donovan Yells At Nel (Incomplete)

So this was something I was working on months ago, during an RP where Donovan was yelling at Nel. I got this really amusing image of Donovan hosting a talk show, and this is what came of it. I found it slightly amusing, but I could never really go anywhere in my head with it. But here it is:

Donovan sits on a well upholstered leather chair, its empty twin next to him. The Elduman sits with his legs crossed. He stands. He's wearing a nicely cut grey suit, sapphire cufflinks at his wrists matching his unblinking eyes. Behind him in blocky white letters across a large field of blue is "Let's Talk"

An easy smile crosses his face and he leans towards us.

"Hey," he says.

After a pause, "I'm glad you could join us today. We have a special guest."

He holds a hand up, palm facing us and says, "Which isn't to say that all our guests aren't special. But our guest today is a good friend of mine, one I've known for years, one who's personal story I've been a part of. One I'm proud to be able to give this chance to have his time to speak."

Donovan begins clapping and says, "Fellow Talkers, let's have a round of applause for my friend Eran Jenevan."

::cue off screen clapping track::

Eran steps towards Donovan and wraps his overly numerous digits around Donovan's hand. Donovan places his free hand over the Sereth's and his own and gives it a good strong shake, a pleasant smile beaming on his face. He then gestures at the two chairs and the friends sit.

The Sereth is dressed in a rumpled black suit, he runs his fingers between his neck and collar and there's a slight sheen of sweat on his brow. As we zoom in on he and Donovan, we see burn scars across most of his exposed skin. Eran shifts in his seat several times until Donovan places a pale hand on his knee.

"Hey. I'm glad you could join me today. Thank you for having the courage to share your story with us all today."

Eran clears his throat and mutters mostly to his chest, "Uh, no problem, is there uh water. I'd really like some water."

Donovan moves his hand to Eran's chin and raises the Sereth's head so he's looking forward instead of down at the floor.

"It's ok. You're ok," now looking at us he says, "we're all ok."

::cue off camera clapping track::

Eran's cat eyes flick from Donovan to us and back to Donovan.

He says, "Yeah, ok. Sure. I'm ok. Yeah."

Donovan pats Eran's knee and then clasps his hands in his lap and says, "We sure had some times together, didn't we?"

Eran nods, "Yeah. Some stuff. Things. There were wolves. Undead. Demons. Nobody ever wanted to uh go after the last two and stuff."

Donovan continues, slightly interrupting Eran, "But today isn't about us, it's about you Eran."

He pauses before saying, "Eran, I want you to tell me about the black pyramid."

Eran gulps audibly and says to his chest, "Uh, there were some pirates, one had scars. Uh, two were twins. No one could keep their names straight. Not even, uh, that one guy we don't ever talk about."

Donovan puts a finger to Eran's lips.

"I know it's hard. But we're here for you. You are strong and independent and this is your time."

Eran's eyes zero in on the Elduman's finger on his lips. The Elduman grins apologetically and clasps his hands in his lap again.

"There were uh Sereth bodies all over the place. Old bodies with bows and arrows and stuff. There were ones with guns. Long rifles, newer models and older and stuff. It was weird."

Donovan looks at us, "I can imagine your shock. No one but the pirates knew of Orcunraytrel and you come upon Sereth that had been dead for decades. How did it make you feel? Here."

Donovan faces Eran now and taps a pale finger to the Sereth's chest.

Eran's eyes flick down to his chest as Donovan slowly, almost reluctantly removes his finger and returns the hand to his lap. 

Eran says, "Uhhh..."

Donovan smiles a blinding smile and gives a friendly nod.

"It was uh weird, yeah. Weird."

He gives a nod, looking for confirmation from Donovan. The Elduman nods.

"Weird. But I uh didn't really pay much attention to it. There were illusions, and a trap. Yeah the trap. A wall came flying at me for no reason I could figure out an uh..."

He trails off.

Donovan pipes up, "And Karl..."

"Oh, yeah, it uh knocked Karl into some lava. He was upset about that."

Donovan looks at us and say, "I can understand that, but you were dealing with unfathomable things. How could he expect you to watch your footing while trying to process the presence of your people in Orcunraytrel?"

"Yeah. Sure. That uh yeah, never came up."

Donovan nods several times and Eran does the same, remaining silent as he does so.

"And then..." says the Elduman.

"Oh, well yeah, we killed some shadow statue thing and found this pool of glowing water and then we found a big metal coffin with someone inside and then we killed those twins and then we left."

"What happened then?"

"Well, Gob and uh Karl went all crazy about the writing on the pyramid and stuff. I guess it was kinda like the language the Sereth and Vyanth used before they separated into two races. I didn't even know that was a thing."

"How could you be expected to? These are things from the distant past, and your simple race doesn't write anything down, they just keep oral histories. You couldn't be expected to understand what was to come next."

"Uh yeah. That. I guess uh Gob and Karl uh figured out that the writing was a list of dead and there was more writing. It was like a challenge to Sereth to come and free someone important or something."

Donovan lays a hand on Eran's knee, "Did you suspect then that it was the Briar King within the pyramid?"

Eran shakes his head, "No."

"Go on."

"Well, uh, we uh went in and we opened up the coffin and we found this guy, Andorian. A Nel."

Donovan nods and hisses out, "Yes. A Nel. Then?"

"Well uh, he thanked us for freeing him and stuff and said he was one of the Briar Kings and offered everyone boons. He did stuff to uh you and Karl and made Karrak immortal or something, which we never proved. So you know, for all uh Karrak knows, he's not immortal. No one ever checked. I offered, like thirty times, but he would never let me check."

"We're you shocked or surprised at all? This knowledge of a second Briar King, one who is alive and in front of you no less, on top of discovering your people had been coming to Orcunraytrel for decades. You had to be reeling? Revelation after revelation."

"Nope."

Donovan nods to and leans forward in his seat and takes on a classic thinker's pose as he gazes unblinkingly at Eran. 

"Eran, did Andorian grant you a boon?"

"Uh yeah. He even offered one to Gob."

"What was your boon Eran?"

"I uh told him to go tell my family I was uh ok and stuff."

"Did he have a problem with that?"

"Uh no, not then."

"Not then. Indeed."

"Yeah..."

"Are you ok, Eran? Are you ready to continue?"

"Uh yeah."

"Good," the Elduman puts a hand on Eran's knee, "I want you to stop if it gets to be too much. Ok?"

"Uh yeah."

Donovan sits back in his chair and steeples his fingers before asking, "What happened when you got back to the fort?"

Eran gulps audibly and says, "Well, uh, the Andorian guy kept showing up at the tower."

Donovan smiles sadly, "Eran, you're safe here, this is your time. You can say as much as you want."

Eran mumbles something towards his chest.

"Eran. This. Is. Your. Time. You have the power here. You have the power to face him and all he did to you. You can throw open all the doors, expose everything to the light of day. Or you can leave them as they are. Hidden. Your pain behind locked doors with only you to bear it. We only go as far as you want, Eran. You're in control here. You say what you want to say today."

Eran mumbles more at his chest.

"But say it to our friends."

Eran's cat eyes flick vaguely towards us and then back to Donovan.

"He followed me. Everywhere. He kept asking questions about me, the Sereth, Orcunraytrel. He had so many questions. He wanted to know about what the Sereth had been up to for the past few thousand years. He asked about supernatural creatures in Orcunraytrel."

"Why?"

"I uh couldn't ever figure it out. I mean, why would I know more than him? He'd been there for thousands of years, and we never knew shit about anything. We kept killing Asosans for money and stuff. And boars in the woods. I think. I didn't know anything about supernatural entities. I'm a hunter."

"What was he expecting from you? Did he ever say?"

"He said he wanted my help finding Evandor."

"The other Briar King?"

Eran nods, "Yeah, uh, he said Evandor and he were the Briar Kings. He said Evandor would have followed him to Orcunraytrel when they abandoned the Sereth. He said Evandor liked to play games with mortals and uh he would be hanging around, playing games with them, and uh pretending to be a supernatural creature."

"Would it be safe to say you were stressed out by all the attention Andorian was giving you?"

Eran nods.

Donovan's eyes a brimming with compassion as he reaches out a hand and grips Eran's hand tightly, "Was his attention unwanted?"

Eran's eyes brim with unshed tears as he nods.

"How did you cope with it?"

Eran clears his throat and says, "I uh began uh master debating. Maybe three or four times a day, usually while I was out on patrol, but sometimes in the tower when everyone was asleep. Or awake. Whenever really."

Donovan squeezes Eran's hand and asks, "Did Andorian watch you while you did?"

Eran lets out a sob and nods.

Two Bros and a Sun

An endless, empty plain of red earth and dust sits beneath a red sun hanging in a red sky. The sun is huge and bloated, too close to the earth, and black swirls within it. Two figures appear, one with a black sword and the other bearing a blade of red. Neither sheathes his blade as they begin to speak.

"What the fuck, Keroen?"

"You question your Ruler, Callifay?"

Callifay's face twists into a snarl, "No, you'll not be playing that game with me. I'm Feronel through an through Keroen. Last I checked it was Contuck that was the ruler of them. You I'm calling lover an if you think that gives you a free pass to do what you want without worrying about me questioning you, we might be feeding a bit more of you to Skothenthir here before we leave The Nightmare Lands."

The red sword vibrates in Callifay's hand, trying to leap towards Keroen. Callifay's arm doesn't budge.

A smile like a knife's blade splits Keroen's lips.

"Come then, Callifay. Let us cross blades a never set them aside. Let us cut pounds of flesh from one another until we're bloody and raw and have finally watered The Nightmare Lands to its satisfaction."

"Chain. Him. Up. I'm not asking, Keroen."

Keroen's right hand comes up to his face and with a snarl his sinks black nailed fingers into his face like his flesh is soft clay. He snarls and drags something out. A throne of bone and iron appears near the two Nel and upon it sits Keroen, red eyes wide and shining and his brow bleeding. He cackles happily as heavy chains of iron encircle him and bind him to his throne. His teeth are jagged black spikes and his nails are black talons.

He speaks in Keroen's voice, "We told the mortal we'd meet again."

He titters madly.

"We warned him. He told us a story of shit and it amused us and we liked him so we warned him we'd meet again."

Keroen upon the throne frowns, "We should have made him bleed more. Like the sorcerer. Like the Elduman."

Keroen bellows, "Be silent, Bloody Head."

Callifay sheaths his red blade over his shoulder and says, "He's supposed to be well an truly chained, Keroen. He's only supposed to be freeing himself when you allow it. I'll ask again, what the fuck?"

Bloody Head taps his nails upon his throne, smiling toothily at Keroen and Callifay.

Keroen bellows again, "Nostathon!"

A crow descends out of the red sky, it's the size of an eagle and has the compound eyes of a fly and feathers of dark chitin. As it lands it becomes a rotted lastborn clad in ruined black leather armor. It carries a huge single edged sword at rest on its shoulder. It nods at Callifay and bows to Keroen.

"Bloody Head has been escaping his chains, Nostathon."

A dry, raspy wind rustles out of Nostathon's chest and he says, "I am aware. I do not know why. The power of the Sokarnel binds him. Chains forged of your own Gifts and weighted with our own Gifts of death and darkness and ruin. If he is freed, it must be by your own will. I cannot see how he could manage it himself."

Bloody Head shrieks in delight and hisses, "We know a secret. We know all the secrets, but that's besides the point."

Keroen fixes Bloody Head with his green eyes and snarls, "Do I look to be in the mood for your games?"

Bloody Head grins, "We're always in the mood for games of blood and violence. You forget who we are. What we are. We know our past now. We remember that we have slain cosmos with our warcries. We waged war long before we were exiled to this petty little world and we loved it too dearly and we were too honest in our love and for that we were bound. Just as we bind ourself now."

Bloody Head rattles the chains on his body as if to prove his point.

"We were so close. Our brow split open and fire poured out and we could have flown from this cage and warred once more with equals. But we sought to preserve instead, and in our weakness our fire dimmed and our commitment wavered. For a phantom. A shade of no substance."

Bloody Head shoots a look at Callifay.

"For this we denied ourself freedom and war without restraint. We sicken ourself."

Bloody Head spits a gobbet of blood onto the dusty red earth. He sees a rusted sickle, it's edge corroded and caked with dried blood, upon the earth near his throne. He stretches his hand towards it, wiggling his fingers as if that will miraculously make up the feet of distance between hand and sickle.

Callifay lights his pipe and says, "What'll we be doing then? He's free, or as close to it as not to matter. We're in the midst of a brawl, albeit with just the Sarownel now. Fine, the mortals took the brunt of it and survived it. This time. What happens if you cut Volung in two? Prase?"

Keroen scowls, "And what will you have me do, Callifay? Shall I forswear blade and bloodshed once more? Shall we walk the path to my destruction a second time?"

"Piss off, Keroen. You know as well as I your Gifts are limitless. You could pour three times as much into the Nel, truly make pissant little gods of them, and you'd still be able to clobber the whole mess of our people in one go if you wished it."

Callifay hurls his pipe to the ground and jabs a finger towards Keroen, screaming, "What you gotta do is bind that grinning little shit to that chair and keep him there. Fuck everything else. It matters less than a fucking great ursine shitting in the woods. Chain him, cut out his tongue, and nail his fucking limbs to the chair. The longer he's free, the harder you are to reign in, an Skothenthir or no, I can only hold you off for so long. Once he's gutted me, who'll it be that slows you down enough to chain him once more?"

With a smile, Bloody Head says, "Jah'd. Oh we like her we do. She can hold us back. She can ruin us and break us and force us to fight harder. She brings out the best in us. We love her. We need her. Want her. Loria is a mewling little kitten, a pale imitation. Jah'd is our truest love. The original."

Bloody Head gets a quizzical expression on his face and looks down at his pants, blood dripping loudly as it splatters against the iron chains crisscrossing his body. He looks up at Nostathon, Keroen, and Callifay, his grin wider than before.

He nods and says, "Yes. We definitely love Jah'd. We want to cut her and rub up against her and let her cut us and maybe chew on her face a little. Definitely chew on her face.  Do you think she'd chew on ours?"

Bloody Head opens and shuts his mouth a few times with a clack of his sharp fangs striking each other.

Callifay and Nostathon look at Keroen, their expressions saying "What the fuck?"

Bloody Head begins scraping grime from his claws with the point of his sickle, which unlike the curving blade portion of it, is honed and razor sharp. The other Nel don't seem to notice that his chains are suddenly slack and his sickle is in hand. His eyes dart around to make sure none of them are watching him and he brings the sickle up and licks the crusted blood and grime from it with a long, slender tongue. He smiles. 

Callifay says, "Ah fuck it, we'll figure it out later."

Keroen says with incredulity touching his voice, "We will?"

Callifay nods and says, "Aye, eventually, somehow, whatever. You're always pulling some last minute realization or fucking loophole outta your ass to go an fix whatever has us all well and truly fucked."

Keroen pauses, his eyes unfocusing as he remembers.

"Huh. I suppose that's true, Callifay."

Callifay nods.

"You'll figure it out, but you'll be disbanding the warband an you'll be setting aside Calindrel for a time. You follow me?"

Keroen nods.

"Alright then, what'll you be doing about King Shit Tongue and Queen Bat Shit Crazy?"

Keroen growls wordlessly, stops himself, visibly steels his resolve as Bloody Head begins cackling.

"I had it in mind to sink Grenaldeen as an opening move."

Callifay nods, "An then what? Rally the Feronel, do yourself a wee bit of culling?"

Bloody Head's eyes widen and he glances down at his sickle before chucking it behind him over the throne of bone and iron. Then he clasps his hands together and begins whistling and looking around. The other three Nel watch him for a moment before returning to their conversation.

"Perhaps."

Callifay nods again and asks, "Why?"

"We-"

Callifay rolls his eyes, "Oh fuck this leading you around by the nose shit. Stop it. Leave them the fuck alone. Aubernach found a way around your obelisk and he an his people an all the little shit licking young Nel are still weaker than they were back in the day. Be done with it."

Keroen snarls and Callifay whips out Skothenthir.

"Nope. We'll not be doing this. It's time to get the fuck over it Keroen. Aubernach is a tricky little shit, that's for damn sure. He's everything you an I are despising. Pretty words and games and nothing of substance to him. 'Cept the first thing he did was to secure Grenaldeen atop the waves. 'Cept his ploy involved blood and toil. He didn't trick Contuck into hitting the obelisk either. He ambushed you and your allies and made off with the cudgel an we all fucking fell for it like Nel brawling on their first day. He didn't come at you blade out and screaming for your blood. But he came for you. He outsmarted you and took what he wanted. His people bled for it too. Jenevan an I made certain of that. The Aubernel and Utenel came all this fucking way prepared to die in battle against you. They knew nothing of that little shit's ploy. Look at 'em, you can taste it in their Gifts. They're on their knees kissing his feet and opening wide for his dick. The pretty little dandy of a king saved all of his people, an the Utenel, Loronel, an Sokarnel while he was at it. He coulda kept the Gifts or given them to his people. Instead, he fixed what you undid an kept Grenaldeen from sinking. He had them wage war against the fucking Feronel to put them all in position to get a taste when he broke open the obelisk. He wasn't a miser. He spread everything freed from the obelisk around for everyone to get a taste of. He might be a prancing little dandy, but he did what you wanted an his people bled and died and fought for their Gifts. Lesson bloody fucking learned, Keroen. Leave it."

Bloody Head stops whistling long enough to say, "He's got a point."

Keroen looks at Bloody Head, his eyes wide and surprised. Bloody Head shrugs.

"We've been cutting apart Nel forever. They're boring. We should fight something else. We should hang out with Volung more. We like him. He's fun. We can go fuck up the Elduman and the Kussethians and everybody else he's got a bone to pick with. We should do that. He's our friend, after all. We have to be loyal to our friends, right? That's one of the stupid things we think we think is important that Loria kept yammering about when we weren't fucking her. And maybe we can give Volung a friendly slug on the shoulder after we kill everybody else, and maybe he does it back, so we do it harder. He doesn't want to look weak, so he slugs our shoulder harder. Then we tear his fucking head off and eat his eyes. Maybe just one, the other we'll put on our bracelet. It's metal, not bone, but we think it appropriate and we are wise."

Callifay looks to Nostathon and ask, "It's been a while, so maybe I'm just being a bit forgetful, but has he always been this fucking chipper?"

Nostathon frowns and says, "There is an element of cheer to him. He is rarely this animated. I would almost call him happy."

Bloody Head leans forward, his eyes going in different directions to meet Nostathon's eyes, "We know a secret."

He draws secret out to five syllables. 

Nostathon turns to look at Keroen, his dangling eye swaying slightly against his cheek. 

Keroen says, "What secret do you know?"

Bloody Head snickers, "There are three holes. We've filled one with chains and Nostathon. But where are the others? We know. But do we know know? Can we find the answer within ourself? Unlikely. We are seldom given to introspection. We should probably just give up thinking hard about it and just go and cull the Nel."

Keroen frowns, "You said Callifay had a point."

Bloody Head shrugs.

"We are fickle. Blood is blood."

Keroen turns to Nostathon and says, "Call up the host, restrain him with violence if necessary."

Nostathon nods and suddenly there is a skitter of thousands of unseen legs, the rustle of a thousand chitinous wings. Sokarnel appear in their hundreds, thousands, an endless horde of ruined Nel encircling Bloody Head and his throne of bone and iron. 

Keroen bellows, "Once, the Sleeping Kings stood between Loria, Abernach, and Merobel and I. I ask that the Sokarnel take up their duty. Leave off your tormenting of the young Nel. This creature, this bitter curse upon me, this is your duty. Restrain him with your blades and Gifts and your very bodies."

There is a clatter and clank of weaponry as the Sokarnel draw weapons and silently wait in vigil around the throne of bone and iron that Bloody Head is bound to. 

Keroen exhales heavily, a sigh, and says with emotion, "Thank you."

Callifay's brown eyes wander around the horde. He doesn't say anything, only nods. Then he, Nostathon, and Keroen disappear. 

Bloody Head has his sickle back in hand. He looks at the horde of Sokarnel. 

"We know you all think you're doing your duty, we know you think we're the bad guy, the monster in the dark. You've forgotten. You don't remember the first days. The days where we dimmed the sun and you flew in the world of the living like birds of prey. You don't remember the endless battlefields where you grew fat and bloated on the Gifts of Nel. We gave you that. We are your true Ruler. You are the Sokarnel. The restless dead of battle. Your Gifts reek of death and pain, of blood and metal. We are the same. We will play our game though."

Bloody Head shrugs and chains fly off of him and he steps down from his throne, sending up little puffs of red dust where his bare feet strike the ground. His sickle is in his left hand, longer and heavier than before. He smiles and reveals bloody black fangs. 

"Well," he says, "come along then. We have all the time in the world, yes its true, but we are impatient."

Thousands of Sokarnel charge forward to meet Bloody Head in battle, his laughter is the only sound that echoes across the red wasteland of The Nightmare Lands.

Favoritism

I play favorites. It's a fact. We all do. We all have things or people we like so we give them varying degrees of slack or focus. 

Looking at my campaign world, it's easy to see that I play favorites. There are certain races and nations that I like more than the others. So their background material is more fleshed out (extremely so in some cases), and they feature heavily as the focus or environment of my plots and quests. The side effect of this is that I am far more resistant to that whole "burning the world down around them" aspect of players interacting with my favorite race/nation/etc. I mean fine, the players want to burn down The Plains of Dust? By all means. Oh, you want to melt Steeltown into slag and sell it to a scrap yeard? Uh, yeah, here's sixty reasons that is going to be hard and complicated and you'll die. I made up forty of them three seconds ago. Also, there's a flaming comet circling the planet with your name on it with a proximity sensor near the border of Steeltown. 

Jason recently did some stuff and got some powers. He suggested that I maybe create a similar situation so as to give the other guys access to powers and not be guilty of favoritism. There is a certain amount of merit to what he said, this is a game and I like everyone to be fairly equal in power. Even if people miss sessions or are late or leave early or don't pay attention to shit. Additionally, the rules kind of imply that I, as the GM, am supposed to be an impartial arbiter of the rules that crafts scenarios to progress them along their goals while keeping things fair and balanced. 

Fuck that. 

My job, as it relates to them, is to make the scenarios, make their actions and choices have consequences (for good or ill), and to distribute xp and loot to them evenly. Everything else is on them. They want to mess with things they can't handle, it's my job to warn them off somehow. If they persist, it's on them. If they need important information, it's my job to tell them that important information or give them access to it and their job to write it down if they get it. If there is a weakness they need to exploit that will make an enemy vulnerable, it's my job to give them a chance to find it. Etc, etc, etc. GMs are not baby sitters  and hand holders and wipe your butt and tell you that your special-ers, and even if they're supposed to be, I have no desire to be one. 

Jason/Karrak made specific choices that led to him absorbing a piece of the Hound's Gifts when it died, choices that any other character in the group could have made, but did not. Eran made specific choices to make a deal with the Hound to obtain power (then reneged on it in the Hound's eyes, resulting in consequences that affected everyone, or at least Gob and Karrak), then made further specific choices (not apologizing for forgetting about the creature on the Black Mountain) that prevented Evandor from rewarding the group (with his Gifts, so they could all gank power from dying Immortals) for in part being responsible for reuniting Andorian and Evandor. 

To me, giving Karrak access to these powers or allowing Eran to make deals with supernatural creatures is not favoritism. These options are present in the world, the same way a player has the option of choosing to play a Psion, Wizard, or Fighter. They merely have to make the choice to pursue these options. Now, each of these choices has consequences. Wizards lack hit points, Fighters lack the ability to affect reality with their sorcery, Psions...uh...make pretty lights and funny noises that are somewhat alarming when they manifest their powers (sometimes, if they don't decide to suppress them)?

Man, psionics are fucking powerful. 

These are options, like selecting feats and abilities. Jason, to me, kind of chose the feat "Make Me Immortal" which had the prerequisite of "Have a Nel owe you a favor" or "cast wish" and then chose the feat "Absorb the Hound's Gifts" because he met the prerequisite of "Possess Gifts" and wanted more power. It would be no different that Eran choosing to pursue the Hound's mission statement of hunting all of the things and gaining a lycanthrope template or something. That was the eventual plan, Lance. Plus whatever you wanted to do with the whole Inquisitor archetype I devised for you. Sorry. The Hound has no use for riflemen or hunters committed to keeping the demons out of the overworld and would have reshaped you in his image, because he is the alpha and Eran was not. Eran would have become a were-nyeklaeon and would have constantly struggled (through RP and Will saves) to maintain his Serethmanity. Which is humanity, but for Sereth. 

Maybe I'm off base here. But giving Karrak or Eran power that Karl and Donovan don't have doesn't feel like favoritism to me. Karl and Donovan have those sames options as well, they've just chosen not to pursue them. The same way everyone has followers, but Eran/Lance has not chosen to take Leadership. I might not have flat out said it to everyone, but I've shown that this land has the Immortals, and some Immortals have followers and reward them with powers. I cite the priests of the Armiger and the Houndlings of Cantellen and the various weirdly powerful and intelligent canines of Orcunraytrel as examples. Eran/Lance decided to try to strike a bargain with one of these Immortals for power. Anyone could have. 

I don't feel like I'm obligated to give powers comparable to Karrak's to everyone just because it's fair. That's like saying every time I hand out magic loot (granted, this is rare, but wolves and common rank and file soldiers tend to not have piles of magic on them), I should give out four sets of the same stuff. I think I am fair and balanced, in that everyone has the option of finding an Immortal and serving them for power. Everyone in the group has the option of taking money and going to the Goebleen to buy magic gear their Witches create. Everyone has the option of calling everyone else out if they feel they did something stupid or selfish with the money. What would have been unfair was if they freed Andorian and he only gave his boon to Eran because he was a Sereth, or if I said Eran was the only one who could have absorbed the Gifts of Immortals because he was Sereth. 

I dunno, just something that I felt like yammering about.