Walsingham

Hah! Cool! In future we should also have some sort of mock naval battle between the dutch and english on home made rafts.

An Overdose of Adventure: Bernardo Mikal Barracuda’s Backstory by +redacted+ & Walsingham All Estalian words and grammar are correct by definition Part One: Beetle Paste Wine In the cramped twisting streets in the Citadel in Magritta is a notably runty thoroughfare called la callejon Hacha. In the middle of this narrow passageway, where the upper stories of the houses almost kiss above the carcass of a dead goat, there sits a well-maintained but sparsely furnished tavern. This drinking establishment so your woodcut guide insists retains a healthy reputation despite the garish sign that swings outside indicating in pictorial form all too vividly that this tavern is the ‘Puto Pintado’. You push you way in, and your nostrils are assaulted by the heady stench of sour wine, singed hair, and vomit. This distinctive perfume hits like a dwarven breakfast, making your eyes water and letting you know your list of places to visit in the city was indeed a cruel forgery. You order a beer from the four-foot tall thug with an eye-patch and a fine collection of scars behind the bar. Then sit at an empty stool. As your eyes grow accustomed to the dark you realise that the bar you had previously thought to be empty is occupied by several figures. Some of these figures are lying prone other are slumped haphazardly around. The man sitting next to you with his head resting on his hands sits up, and takes a sip from the cup in his hand. He carries a sabre with a highly polished hilt in a scabbard hanging from his belt and has a black moustache that curls up at the ends. Both moustache and sword are considerably more splendid than their owner. He has faded clothes that are of good quality but have been repaired by someone who can use a needle and thread while lacking the finesse of a tailor. “Traveller?” he asks in a thick accent that you instantly recognize as Estalian. “Yes,” you reply, “and yourself?” “I am Bernardo Mikal Barracuda,” he lifts and nods his head, a bow in condensed form, “We all here are medical students,” he gestures to the bodies scattered around the room, “salutations.” Various groans of acknowledgements emanate from around the pub. Someone in the gloom make a feeble attempt to wave. “I’ve been in Magritta for several days, and I am beginning the journey back to my village on the morrow,” you lie. “Ah, and tell me what you think of this jewel of a city?” You mention the usual platitudes, commenting on the bustling populace and the amazing sights to see but you make the mistake of using the word ‘uneventful’ in your description. Bernardo’s face changes as soon as you say this word. He cracks his wine cup down hard on the bar, causing liquid to spill out. He makes the gesture of the evil eye on his own forehead quickly to ward off evil and then splutters various curse words under his breath. “Life, my friend will soon fix that for you – saying such a thing is to invite the gods to involve you in their sport. I myself went once in search of adventure and there, could I hang a sorry tale.” “I would love to hear more...” You say. “Alas, my throat it is dry,” hinted Bernardo with all the subtlety of a hanging. “I can solve that,” you say, tapping a Gold Imperial on the bar.” The eye-patch wearing man appears as soon as you produce such a highly respected coin. “Keep the drinks coming, for me and Don Barracuda. Perhaps some golpecitos. Snacks, if you have any.” The worth of the coin is tested by a bite between crooked teeth and then the figure, whose single eye gleams in the semi-darkness, and who you presume is the landlord speaks. “Verdad,” And he pours more drink, this time more generous with his measures. Your new friend lubricates his vocal cords with the last of his old drink, spits a wine drowned fly from between his teeth and taking up the fresh cup... he begins his tale. *** “I was in a tavern. They served wine. Not quite as good as this, but close." "In fact I can say without fear of contradiction that it was a dive packed with villains of the lowest kind. I was a foolish young man who felt his life 'uneventful'. I wanted to march out into the world and make something of myself, leave my mark and have tales to tell on winter nights. To hear my pursh jangle as it filled with coins." The man with the eyepatch grunts with amusement at this last and slides a bowl of honeyed and salted almonds down the bar. A pubic hair waves, nonchalant, among them. "Something happened in the bar to do with purple beetles - my memory is hazy on the details. It may have involved betting on beetles. Or drinking games involving small glasses of beetle paste liqueur. I may even have accused a man of having a mother who slept with beetles. The result of this coupled with the bad company I fell in with resulted in my passing out." "I woke up on a ship, with a hangover larger than any beetle that ever walked. I had willingly or unwillingly signed on to a mercenary venture. I am you should know like a fine wine I do not travel well, boats in particular do not suit my delicate disposition and my food during the journey had frequently the desire to enjoy the sea air. So, the details of this part are not gladly recalled. " "We travelled North East I think we were to defend Guosht - no longer known by that name - from the green plague of orc-kind that causes so much suffering around those parts. I did not speak the same tongue as my shipmates, and so my knowledge in this matter is not as full as I would like. I am still, to this very day, surprised I did not die on the journey as all the cut-throats on-board were itching to get there eager daggers wet.” Bernardo takes a swig of his drink after making a toast to dry-land. Somewhere in the darkness of the pub semi-conscious bodies stir trying to join in the toast almost by reflexive action. The result of this drunken motion is the sound of liquid trickling across the floor. You hope the liquid is wine. “Eventually we arrived at the destination and I was tasked with helping to unload cargo from the ship to the docks. I was glad to reach dry-land and to be out of reach from getting slapped around the head, for pain is the method of instruction when you wish to communicate with a young fool such as I was then. I felt my natural colour returning to my cheeks as I worked, and feeling better I whistled while I worked. " "It was indicated to me that one particular set of provisions and supplies had to be loaded onto a cart some way off. The owner of the cart turned up and gestured for me to drive it forward. I was not aided by the horse the cart was attached to, for it was a most stupid animal, its existence an insult to all horses in existence. It was during this struggle between man and beast that I was separated from the force of men from the boat. Their eventual fate, alas, I do not know." Barnardo notices his cup is empty and pointedly falls silent.

How does that work?

Good points. However, I usually treat skills as the filter between the PC's imagination and delivering a result in their 'real' world. most character systems I use start out with the player at low level, so they justify the greater chance referencing doing well or very badly in the past and learning from it.

I'll have to retcon Myrmidia into Estalia as a whole. But I've steered clear of religion in Magritta, based on its polyglot origins. Helll, there's even an Araby quarter. The biggest priestesshood in my Magritta is that of Malestra, and these crimson robed babies don't even leave the Kovostella arena very much. There's a Big Event coming up after which I guess Myrmidia could play a part.

I'm not using the original campaigns etc. This is all set in the city of Magritta in Estalia. I just wanted to try and flavour it up right. # EDIT: Unless anyone has any better ideas, I'm going to use the Brettonian calendar, with the months renamed in Spanish. Gorth, can you help with this?

My players are pretty paranoid about me having it in for them. But I think they know it's not on 'purpose'. I just play the bad guys with some sense, in the context of some bigger plan, usually. I make hostile 'swarms' pass leadership or cool rolls frequently, and that helps me keep them in character. Actually, the other trick I've used before is to have the equivalent of officer and NCO goblins or beastmen etc. I track what they are thinking and feeling and have their units follow suit. If the players drop the leader then the unit goes passive unless incited by bait or blood and so on. This may not be very realistic, but it means I can field big fights without automatically smearing the players into the floor by press of numbers. If anyone else want sto try something similar and let me know how it goes I'd be very interested.

Well, I'd actually nuance that, Hurlshot. the whole problem is that newspapers and 'big' news in general is outdated. It's one size fits all information and that's utterly ludicrous. I don't want, need, or desire cat news. Nor, for contrast, do many people give a flying hootenany what's going on in Syria. It might as well be Narnia to them. The consequence is that we get a mishmash of content and quality. Current affairs are adulterated to get them in front of people quicker. Fluff pieces get needlessly encumbered with subtext. The mystery to me is why local news does so badly in this day and age. It's what most people would get most out of. My only conclusion is that it's a question of snobbery and the theatre of the real. People like having real drama and disaster to watch over their tea and toast. And they show off by being VERY SLIGHTLY better informed than the other guy at the water cooler.

My compliments to the Netherlands on the accession to the throne. It's going to sound less congratulatory, but I thought the crown looked a bit weird, so researched it on wikipedia. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crown_of_the_Netherlands Apparently the damn thing is some sort of ersatz comedy crown!

Raithe, old boy. You're a grown man, who - motivated by an admirably strong sense of duty - is in a weird and unnatural position of being stuck at home. From your toenails up, you're a bloke. You're designed to want independence and pretty women. There's nothing mysterious at work! Dr Walsingham prescribes more pretty women, and time out of the house.

That is certainly true. Although I think it's a lot to do with general nostalgia as you get older. Speaking of which, am I imagining it, or are people getting nostalgic younger these days?

Well, I for one was brought up to believe in apologies. They might not fix anything, but they are the tariff of not being a total arsehole. EDIT: No offence Gortho, but you're talking balls. The BBC is not for profit and BBC News 24 is appalling. The problem isn't the business model its the management culture chasing the profit which is full of ****.

I believe that may be a photo of Oby's private regions. To quote the Financial Times: "Magnificent!"

EDIT: Where in the name of spiderman's swinging nutsack is the button for spoilers?

Doesn't have to kill you. Ah, one's teenage years.

Well, that would make me look rather foolish.

I had no idea that Teotihuacan was so impressive. Can you imagine rocking up there, dressed in your loincloth, like 2000 years ago? I'd literally crap myself, just out of respect. Mind you. Slaves.

Or the back of my head?

Those vox populi (posh name) are the epitome of cheap journalism, though. Actually, I take that back. They used to be. Now they can just read out online comments. Yes, that's right BBC news 24. I'm looking at you, you pointless ****party.

Could be worse, you might be a southpaw. Or I could have written on my face.

Yup. It's fun in a sadistic way when the player realizes that yes, they will live because of the FP, but nowhere does it say that they will do so in one piece I think in many ways it randers the combat more interesting and fearsome. We're all used to the thought of characters dying. What's weirder is coping with the character being blind or one legged or what have you. *thinks* Probaby something to that in real life, now I think about it.

Work avoidance rules! ~ I'd say there were three things I consider in a system, any system: 1) Can I tell the story I want in this milieu? Or act out the character I want? 2) Can I make/engage in dynamic exciting combat in a narrative sense? 3) Can I understand the mechanics enough to actualise points 1 and 2? Point 3 always boils down to percentage probabilities. I completely fail to understand why any other method would be used, since the maths always ends up as a percentage probability anyway. ...Although now I think about it, there might be some mileage in letting the GM know the probability then obscuring it to the players. Maybe spome sort of computerised conversion system? i.e. "I want the percentage chance to be 67%. OK (checks) I need you to roll a d20 and catch this beermat."

Thought I'd break out a space for anyone playing in this milieu. My first question is - does anyone understand the sodding warhammer calendar? My players keep asking about it. As if TIME actually matters to any real person!

I have two open notebooks on my desk ...and my left arm is covered in notes. *sobbing* I'm a freak!

Sometimes I can't tell if I drink to get drunk or for the "after-drunk" zombie feelings. Watching movies or listening to music seems so much more rewarding in the latter state. *big belly laugh* You may be onto something. Drinking to achieve a hangover is some serious quality command intent. :D Actually I had the most intense and realistic dreams last night. So maybe getting hoon'd and sleep deprived beforehand is the answer after all.