Incunabuli

He lay in a trough of earth. A pale, bruised young man; couched on a bed of dry pine boughs and waxy cones. He had been stripped down to his breeches and undershirt, both wet with maroon stains. In his wan, slack face, one eye, slightly deflated and leaking humors, had been turned askew by an entry wound adjacent its orbit. He was dead.

Around him, beside a high pile of musty soil piled neath the pine canopy, stood three cutters in leathers and brown capes. Two wore downturned expressions. One was teary-eyed, rubbed her red and drippy nose, head bowed. Beside her, a swarthy man clutched a hastella, a wooden charm shaped like a star-headed spear, to his chest. He let the painted beads of its lanyard slip, counted, through clasped, dirty hands as he prayed, cracked lips mouthing whispers.

The third stood with a burning taper in hand, a spade at his feet, behind the mourning two. He was red of hair and bore a look of knitted impatience.

"Petro," he said, addressing the praying man.

Petro shook his head, still mouthing accented rites. Another bead passed under his thumb. Beside him, the sniffly woman shot the redhead a miserable frown.

"Why pray? He was a bloody Firl, like me." *

Petro, finishing the last of his rite, crossed a complicated symbol over his chest, bent to place the hastella upon the dead man's bloody sternum. "But he was human, compadre. Aveth's rites are for all mankind."

Beside him, the woman sniffed, nodded. The redheaded cutter scoffed. "But he wouldn't have cared, 'cause…" He pulled an apologetic grimace. "Well, no offense, but we don't believe in "grace," or whatever you Southerners call it. In a heaven. In the North, we just light 'em on fire and have a laugh over beers at all the shite they did, afterwards."

"No offense taken." The dark fellow turned, smiled at him. "But I do mean for all of mankind. Meaning a funeral is for the living, as much as the dead. To instill grace in us."

"Fair enough."

Petro nodded, turned to the corpse. "Step up, then, Calumn. We will say words in remembrance, before sending him away."

Calumn shrugged. He joined them, taper smoking, stood beside Petro. For a moment, they simply stood. A chill, dry breeze rattled the pines, shook a rain of brown needles from on high. They scattered over the pale man, lodged around the holy charm on his dark-stained chest.

"Avetha," began Petro. "We commend to you this soul. Not because he knew you, but because he was a companion along our violent way. We will remember him for his skill and his selflessness. Deliver him unto grace, that he may know gentler times." He produced a pouch, took a pinch of grey salt from within, and tossed it on the dead man. Grains stuck to the wreck of his eye. Petro passed the pouch the the woman.

"Goodbye, friend," she said, in broken Firlish. "Go well. We will join you in the end," she said, sniffing. Salt glittered as it fell. She passed away the pouch.

Callumn took it, hesitantly. "Ay…" Petro nodded at him.

"Okay," said Callumn, straightening. He took a pinch of salt, looked at the corpse. "Sorry you're dead, mate. Shit luck you got shot in the eye." He frowned. "You were a bit of an ass; never let me take point. And you hogged too much porridge. Also, I took your boots, hope you don't mind." At that, the Southerners looked at him, blankly.

"Uh," said the redhead. He scratched behind an ear. "But you were a good cutter, overall, 'n you taught me to whistle. And you saved us from that troll." He nodded. "There really ain't many with courage like you." At that, he let the pinch of salt scatter, looked to Petro.

"Now, it is time," said the Southerner.

Callumn knelt, touched his taper to the bed of pine leavings. It flared fast, ate up needles and cones with snapping, waxy intensity. Flame licked around the dead man's limbs. The cutters watched, squinting for smoke, until the blaze thickened. They turned, capes flapping in the ashen wind.

As they did, Callumn spoke. "A right shame." He looked ahead.

"I hope we'll ever earn the fortune to meet another like him."

Obsequies

Venturing is a dangerous job. People die.

A venturesome cutter will likely witness the demise of many comrades over the course of their career. That is, if the selfsame cutter does not themselves meet a horrid end.

By and by, they will grow familiar with the meager comfort of sparse funerals, with obsequies held for friends and new companions alike. The best end for which a cutter can hope is to rest upon a hasty pyre built by friends, or for repose within the cherry heart of a venturing town crematory. For their ash and bits of bone to be left in a quiet wood or scattered in some pumpkin patch. An end with little sentiment, for the threat of latent plague leaves no certain time to mourn the corporeal leavings of the dead. ** A civilized, sanitary end to a brutal and dirty life; one which otherwise leaves its fallen as grim, deadly reminders. As wrecks face down in duckweed ditches, bloating in raven-picked sun, or left, abandoned on the cold, stained stone of a dungeon hall.

Indeed, these small favors to the dead are the performed not for the dead, but for the living; for few horrors unhinge mind and morale so effectively as the thought of one's companion abandoned in a black forest, or sprawled in chilly tomb corridor; a horrid lump from which to avert the eyes on every passing delve in search of gold. No sane Littoran*** will find heart venturing in a locale already littered with the abandoned husks of those who came before, especially if they fear the added danger of gruesome plague within those selfsame corpses.

Thus, cutters, regardless of faith or superstition, prefer to hold proper obsequies for the casualties of their violent trade, for there is no fortune in forsaking the dead. Indeed, many believe it especially fortuitous. They believe that a proper and safe disposal of former comrades bodes good fortune in the hire and befriending of those to come. Such is the queer mindset of hardened cutters, of jaded venturers who have seen come and miserably go no end of briefly-held brothers and sisters in arms and woeful ambition.

The following is a mechanism from the Incunabuli Playtest:

If in the event a player character dies, the obsequies, or lack thereof, undertaken for their corpse by surviving party members may provide bonus starting XP for the creation of the character replacing them:

Cremate or salt and bury the corpse: (Requires 8 hours. +30XP)
Perform Avethan funeral rites. (Requires 1 faith point. +20XP if new character has faith.)
Imbibe in remembrance. (Requires alcohol. +1XP per drink consumed by party)
Bury the corpse without salt. (Requires 8 hours. +20 XP, +2 next Nightmares roll)
Dig a shallow grave or burial at sea: (Requires 2 hours. +10XP, +2 next Nightmares roll)
Prepare and abandon the corpse. (+2 to next Nightmares roll)
Abandon the corpse. (+3 to next Nightmares roll)

Any of the above obsequies which involve grey salt require a half golden pound of grisodate in order to perform.

A character with skill in Obsequies or Gravedigging increases the bonus XP provided by any of the above by 5XP per level.

Author's Note

Another XP bribery mechanic from the playtest. Check it out here.

The bonus XP values will need to be tweaked depending on your system. The playtest assumes a lot of value per point, so 20 is a nice present. For D&D 5e, it really only works if you force your poor players to start at level 1. I might suggest giving them inspiration, instead.

As always, Incunabuli is made possible by Jacob Kent and fellow Patrons. To join them and read exclusive articles, resources, and adventure notes from the author, support Incunabuli on Patreon.

Footnotes

* The Firlish are notably atheist. They assign little value to Aveth or any faith.
** Despite danger, many Avethans request they be buried, rather than cremated. Their faith's regard for human sanctity frowns upon burning the human form.
*** "Littoran" refers to any inhabitant of the Coast, the world of Incunabuli.

Boots splashed and sucked through mud and bracky water. Three cutters picked through a morass, wound about tufts of swamp grass and bubbling pools scummed with algae. A yellow sky hung close overhead, bore scant light on backs bowed under backpacks strapped with blades and ammunition.

Someone sniffed. "Eugh. What's that smell?" said the middle. He pulled a grimace over blocky teeth. "Sievart, are you farting at me?"

Ahead, Sievart turned. She looked offended. "Shove off, Porkins. It's from the swamp."

"So the swamp is farting at me," said Porkins, stepping onto and over a mound of wet grass.

Sievart rolled her eyes. "There's dead things under the swamp. They ferment and make gas."

"Should we really be breathing dead things?" said the rear cutter, nasally. He held his nose with gloved thumb and forefinger.

"Methane's nontoxic, and there's not enough to asphyxiate us," said Sievart.

"Asphyxi-what?"

The lead cutter rolled her eyes. "Think about it like this. It's in pockets, and there's plenty of oxygen in between those pockets."

"Thank you, Doctor Darling," singsonged Porkins, mockingly. He drew a pack of cigarettes from his coat, tapped one out, attempted to strike a rope lighter for it.

"Just wish," said the third, taking a pause to breath. "We could detect the pockets. Go around them, like. Gonna smell like bad eggs by the time we reach the roadhouse." He looked downcast. "The molls are gonna make me wash."

"Heh," mumbled Porkins, cigarette in lip, still trying at his lighter. The cheap flint grated futilely in wet air. "Send them my pity."

Ahead, Sievart frowned as she entered another sulphurous cloud. "I suppose they could be detected." She waved a hand under her nose. "It'd only require–"

At that moment, there was a whump, a fiery burst behind her. The little troupe stopped, turned in startelement to behold their middle member. Porkins stood, dazed, eyebrows quite gone, thoroughly scorched. A cigarette hung, lit, in his mouth. "Bloody oouch." He whimpered.

Sievert sighed, finished speaking:

"That."

"Good morning, Doctor Rammstein," said a woman in blue wool and brass buttons. She offered a suede-gloved hand as the Doctor undertook the threshold.

"Good morning, Sergeant," replied Rammstein, shaking it. He sniffed as he entered, waved away a fluttering cloud of dusty doxbells descended from the lintel. There was a yellow musk of aged cigarettes in the air, about the ceiling.

"And good morning to you, Master Linpell. Deepest, ah, condolences." He nodded to a teary-eyed young man who sat on a chest across the oak-paneled parlor, removed a battered black hat, held it respectfully over a pin on his coat which read Blystle County Coroners Office. The man sniffled, smiled sadly in greeting.

"I hope you've brought arms, Doctor," addressed the Sergeant, also waving away doxbells. She nodded to the clanking, sloshing bag the Coroner carried under one arm.

Rammstein frowned. "I wasn't told the honored departed had been, ah, that way for any length of time, Perkins. Was I misinformed?"

"No, you see, there's–"

At that moment, there was a terrific crash elsewhere in the house. There followed an undulating tumble, as of falling books. Something shattered. Linpell jumped, sobbed suddenly.

"Oh dear," said Rammstein, blinking up at the yellowed paint of the ceiling. It had cracked, shed dust and further minute, drifting doxbells.

"A rather bad bunch of topples about," finished the Sergeant. "The old man was a copious smoker of pepperelle."

Rammstein sniffed, frowned at the deeply sour, ashen odor of cigarettes. "I might have, ah, suspected."

Sergeant Perkins leaned close, and, glancing to the weepy Linpell, whispered behind a hand. "They did him in, see?"

"Did him in?" said Rammstein, turning, incredulous, at full volume. Linpell sobbed, buried his face in a handkerchief.

"Shh."

"Ah. Sorry." He, too, whispered. "What did it, ah, do? Push a lamp on him?"

"You'll see," she turned to a short hallway. Its arched ceiling swarmed with little black puffs: swarming doxbells. "Do follow."

On her way out, she turned to Linpell, who had started to rise, said sweetly: "Do stay here, young Master. You've had enough of a shock for one day."

"I've my service pistol, if need be," said the Sergeant. "We should be fine, if it shows up."

"I did bring my, ah, aspergillum,"* frowned Rammstein, following. Ahead, the Sergeant opened a door, passed through. The Coroner took the knob, said as he entered: "But what topple's so bad you need a gun t–"

He quieted abruptly. They had entered a library, lit by tall, leaded windows clouded by yellow stain. In the room's middle, near a desk covered in books and ashtrays, was an immense hickory bookshelf knocked on its front. Rammstein had shut up, for neath it, surrounded by fallen books, emerged a pair of veiny feet clad in slippers.

"Ah."

"That bad," said the Sergeant, nodding to the feet.

Rammstein approached the corpse, frowned at the pool of dried blood midst the crumpled books. "I've heard a toke is bad for the lungs, but not, ah, for your everything," he joked, kneeling. "Eh, Sergeant?"

The Sergeant didn't respond.

"Perkins?" Rammstein stood, jumped. Something like a spindly bear made of toenail clippings and cat hair had sped, quite large, behind a nearby shelf. Its footfalls pattered like a dog's on hard tile.

There was a creak behind him. "Perkins?"

The Coroner turned just in time to see a toppled bookcase descend atop him.

Pepperelle

From the volcanic slopes of Illa Sicáda hails an herb of some concern: Pepperelle. A plant, comprised of scentful and leathery stands of wide leaves that some centuries ago turned the collected heads of civilization.

Near the turn of the Fourth Millennium, explorer Lastimo Corero Enscenza Nicocera,‡ on a voyage to prospect exploitable resources mongst the Trackless Isles, first encountered on rainy Sicáda that curious weed. His published journal recounts how the native folk of that island, who wore stone for their clothing, habitually put to their lips and inhaled the smoke of a particular herb burned in stemmed, granite bowls and seashells. Nicocera's men, fond of cultural exchange with the hospitable Sicádeens, quickly adopted the habit, found the peppery smoke apt to brighten the mind and temper the nerves. They enjoyed it immensely, returned several specimens of the plant, which they dubbed pimienterello, for its pepper flavor, to their sunny homeland.

Typical of Alagóran expeditionary ventures, later visits to Sicáda were less cordial. Pimienterello had proven extremely popular on the Coast, where folk smoked it through wooden pipes and tubes rolled of whole leaves. ** The island was quickly annexed, the islanders abused, plagued by diseases carried by the later wave of Alagórans, and forced to flee on stone canoes to lands deeper in the Isles.

Sicáda became the first of many islands to host sprawling plantations; to host rich and unstable cultivator-republics devoted to the growing and selling of what would later be known Coastwide as pepperelle. † On these plantations, the herb is brought up on balmy hillside trellises, air-cured, and fired over smoldering fires of hickory, sage, balsam, and savory ash. It is exported as sheets and grains for the manufacture of cigarettes and for pipe smoking.

In modern times, the smoking of pepperelle is enjoyed throughout the Coast. In the South, where the herb was first popularized, cigarettes rolled from paper and leaf are overwhelmingly the favored means of pepperelle consumption. †† In the North, long-stemmed pipes are equally popular. They are enjoyed by all sorts, even mice. In the wilderness, pepperelle is obtained and smoked however possible, to provide some comfort to offset the oppression of the horrible wilds.

When smoked, pepperelle acts as a warming stimulant. Its smoke indeed carries a peppery flavor. Habitually smoking it eventually stains one's teeth, and surrounding walls, an opalescent yellow, and also leads to a nagging, intense dependence.

Of all the sorts of folk fond of pepperelle, it is perhaps the venturesome cutter who finds it has most use. In addition to adding small, civilized comfort to the awful climes in which cutters typically operate, the herb finds a host of uncommon uses:

As medicine. Cutters, when poisoned or riddled by gut worms, will chew and consume a cigarette or a tea of pepperelle. Usually, the result is emesis. Those who can keep their dry, nicotine-seeping meal down experience a similar, intestinal result shortly after. For severe stings, some cutters will apply a poultice of pipe pepperelle and grey salt to aid in healing and ease irritation. Whether this words, only they can say.
As a survival tool. Cigarettes make acceptable, if expensive firestarters, in a pinch. Steeped pepperelle "tea," or, more unpleasantly, chewed leaves, are also smeared on the skin to repel mosquitoes. They are also used, though grudgingly, to detect flammable surfaces and atmospheres.
As a ward against the Other. Pepperelle is toxic to älves, and älves tend not to know this. Stories abound of clever humans who, in order to banish a pesky älf, beguile it into taking a draw from their pipe. Again, an älf probably wouldn't know or care about this, and would rather steal your snuffbox for a laugh. For Othersome creatures of a warier sort, such as spriggans, pepperelle smoke serves as a repellent. It may also draw their ire.
As currency. Where language or availability of neutral currency may fail, there usually exist cigarettes. Soldiers and cutters alike are apt to trade smokes, especially those of foreign make, for value.

For most, pepperelle dependence is usually a nonissue, so long as the smoker can afford the mildly steep price of more leaf. And, of course, so long as they don't mind being surrounded by a cloud of pesky doxbells.

Doxbells

Doxbells, known as "dustbunnies" to children, are a species of dusty, grey, moth-like pest. They lay their eggs within the thick veins of pepperelle leaves. Said eggs hatch when lit on fire, as both doxbells and pepperelle are native to the excitingly-volcanic slopes of Sicáda.

Smokers of pepperelle tend to amass a cloud of juvenile, flying doxbells about their clothes, home, and person. They fly about on minute wings, eating dust and mould, gradually growing in size. Eventually, they become marble-sized motes of dirt, lint, toenail clippings, and other such detritus before being swatted and slain. Harmless, if annoying.

Doxbells, though they rarely survive to grow large, become quite a nuisance when fully grown, for adults of the species are possessed of hands and enjoy tipping things over. At this stage of growth, they are called topples, and they are a nuisance indeed.

Topples bring woe to civilization. Namely, a penchant for tipping over lamps, salt shakers, and vases. At exceptionally large sizes, they are deeply malicious. They may seek out opportunities to drop items accurately on people, or even sneak up on and topple people. Additionally, faced with a lack of living pepperelle plants in which to lay their eggs, topples are prone to deposit their ovums in utterly annoying places; such as peoples' ears.

Though doxbells and topples are regarded as a necessary evil of civilized life, some find they are a sign of something more worrisome. Some philosophical minds of the Coast view doxbells as an anthropogenic form of entropy; as a self-induced destruction of society by way of its own vices. Such are the same philosophers who promote älf diplomacy, frown upon overuse of grisodate salt, hate laudanum, claim smoking promotes plague,††† and sneer at any other substance they view as destructive to the good biological and social constitution of Humanity.

Of course, no one much listens to them. No one stops smoking, either, so doxbells keep maturing into topples, and topples keep tipping over peoples' grandmothers.

The world goes on, minus a few lamps, and it likely will continue so. So long, that is, as it has enough pepperelle.

Author's Note

This is a rewrite and expansion on a previous piece, which is now depreciated.

Since I published this, a few have asked whether pepperelle is tobacco or another herb of note. It is tobacco.

I've also been asked how I handle topples in gameplay. They are quite functionally a reskin of what most might call gremlins.
As always, Incunabuli is made possible by Jacob Kent and fellow Patrons. To join them and read exclusive articles, support Incunabuli on Patreon.

Footnotes

* Coroners carry a variety of holey cudgel known as aspergillums. These weapons, inspired by similar holy water dispensers innovated by the Avethan church, are capable of breaking bones and seeding wounds with purifying grisodate salt simultaneously. The are among the most effective weapons for killing grues.

** These would later become the first cigars.

*** They have sworn vengeance.

† The word 'pepperelle' was dubbed by some unknown Firlish importer centuries ago. Its Emperoussin phonetics are in complete alignment with the Firls' obsession with that language as the mark of class and sophistication.

†† The cigarette rolling engine, invented 150 years ago, massively lowered the price of available cigarette brands, spiking their popularity commensurately. Before its arrival, hand rolled cigarillos were for the rich, and most smoked pipes.

††† Indeed, after a selection of studies struck pepperelle cigarettes with a stern affirmation of their sporogenic effect, pepperelle companies were thrown into quite a panic. Due to their extremely successful counter-advertising campaigns, the most enduring effect of said studies exists as a mere monicker: "Coffin's nails;" assigned to cigarettes in reference to the nails driven through corpses in an effort to prevent their rising as grues. Cutters, fond of a bit of black humor, love this term especially.

‡ It is for him the word "nicotine" was formed.

Vapor curled from the cast iron pot, sloughed off the fatty top of creamy, yellow-spiced stew rolling slow within. Peppery; laden with rich, scented oils. A ladle plunged through, came up bearing chunks of crispy meat and cheese-laden potatoes.

"Came good," sniffed the bristly, thick-necked cook, filling a wooden bowl. He passed it to his right, to a woman clad in Ward Ranger's thick woolens. She paused to inhale the creamy aroma before passing it away, wistful, likewise to the right. Each of the band of six received their share this way, passed hot bowls, then steel spoons, to gloved hands.

Each Ranger, cloak and woolen uniform pulled tight 'gainst the cold of their dark, moorland campsite, each brief untucked his or her chin to nod thanks.

"Thank the knockers for food," muttered one. "Bloody starving. S'pecially after patrol."

"And that shit with the bear." Said another, beetling bushy brows. "Ta, Captain."

The cook nodded. "M' pleasure." He turned through the steam. "Tap out them dampers for me, Pushkin."

"Ye." Pushkin, a squat Ranger with broad cheeks, tugged off his gloves, knelt by the fire's deep, hot ashes. He twitched some aside, careful, located a clutch of grey lumps like rocks within. Six, each pocked and crusty grey. Gently, he tapped them, smiled as each rang hollow. "Dampers is ready."

"Jammy,"* approved the cook. "Pass 'em out."

The dampers went round like a lot of featherweight rocks. Eager, the Rangers held bowls on knees, cracked dusty fingertips into ashen lumps. Within the grey crust split steaming, spongy crumb, filled with big bubbles and bits of thyme. Warm, crusty bread.

They tore strips off the dampers, and with them, sopping, spooned stew into eager mouths. A lot of nodding and slurping ensued.

"This is some serious gourmet shite," said Pushkin, swallowing.

"Quite," said the Lieutenant, identifiable by brass fir cones on her lapel. She wiped cheese and crumbs from her lip. "A promotion for the Stew Captain, I say."

A chorus of "hear! hear!" mumbled wetly into five bowls. The Stew Captain nodded, gracious. "Aye, now. Thank the Munitions Office. Finally got us a good live cheddar."

"I bloody love cheddar," said the Lieutenant, tipping her bowl.

"Forget the cheddar," said a white-scruffed Ranger. "This ham!" he exclaimed. "Ain't no barking mutton." **

"Quite," said the Lieutenant. "Damn good ham. Can't believe you got this off the Office."

The Stew Captain's mouth lifted briefly from his own bowl, slurped, mumbled. "Ta. But it ain't ham."

A few Rangers paused. "You mad?" said Pushkin.

"Nah. Just ain't ham," shrugged the cook.

"The shite you mean it ain't ham?" said the white-bearded man, scowling.

The Lieutentant squinted. "You didn't buy horseflesh off anyone at the last camp, did you, Captain?"

Brows knitted in exaggerated offence; the Stew Captain waved a hand. "Didn't buy nothin'. Picked it up at last camp." He paused. The Rangers looked askance.

"What is it, then?" said the Lieutenant.

"'S bear meat," said the Captain, grinning. "Jolly kid at camp was a butcher's son. Took some cuts off the beast for me."

The Rangers deflated somewhat. "Oh, that's fine, then." A few shrugged, took a few more bites. The Stew Captain smiled.

"Wait," said Pushkin, pondering. "I've had bear. Didn't taste like ham, then."

They paused again. Soup dribbled from spoons and parted lips. "What's bear meant to taste like?" said White-beard, squinting.

"Heard said," mused the Stew Captain. "Bear tastes like what bear last ate."

"And, if I'm remembering," said Pushkin. "This bear last ate…"

"Couple'a farmers and their kids," said the Stew Captain.

Someone wretched. "Bloody hell," said the Lieutenant, turning pale. Pushkin began belching wetly, bent over. A bowl spattered into the fire. The Stew Captain laughed raucously.

"The shite's so funny?" said White-beard. The Rangers stared, horrified.

"Och. Ye should see yer faces," said the cook, red with mirth. He tugged at his collar, wheezing. "It's ham. I'm jus' pullin' yer dicks."

"Bastard," said the Lieutenant. She threw a spoon at him.

"Should better put him down for a de-motion, Leftenant," said Pushkin, clutching his belly. "On account of endangering me supper. S'got too much power."

Glaring, the Rangers resumed eating. The damper had near gone. Some ladeled up seconds.

"Tha's true, innit," mused the cook. "Stew Cap'n's an officership with plenty too much power." He chewed, idly. The Rangers were quiet.

"Could make ye eat horseflesh, dogmeat, manflesh. An' so long as I cook it good.…"

He winked. "Ye'd never be the wiser."

The Stew Captain

Since the mustering of the first army, the assemblage of the first crew, the convocation of the first cutter-band, working folk have needed feeding.

And ever since there have been hungry compatriots, there have necessarily been folk to feed them: Stew captains. Members of a role ancient and integral to martial tradition. No company, crew, nor band is complete without such a culinary quartermaster. A preparer, guardian, and distributor of the stewpot’s precious contents.

The stew captain's role is prolific. In national armies, they are non-commissioned officers drawn from the ranks of a nation's respective quartermastery or munitions corps. Every squad has one or two. They are accountable for the store, acquisition, preparation, and dispensation of comestibles amongst their fellows. Likewise, mercenaries, ships' crews, and cutter bands hold a similar tradition, hiring or assigning a member or more for the specific and all-important task of feeding the rest.

Particularly among cutter parties is the stew captain a treasured role. A cook can be forgiven all other labors, so long as he can lug a pot of stew, keep it hot, and furnish stocks of fresh bread and meat when the party sets down a weary rest. It is a beloved role, for hot food is oft the best of the sparse comforts available in bleak places and blackened tombs. To cutters, a fellow who can cook is best as any who can shoot or fray. A welcome companion. Whereas an ex-quartermaster, a real stew captain trained in armies' ways of feed and provision, is deemed a more pleasant venturing-mate than even a knight.

Indeed, it is a stew captain's skills which make them so treasured out of all venturing professions. For while many enough can hold a pike or scout a cursed gorge, few can mend heart and limb with a mushroom pie and a draught of well-chosen beer.

Be it prowess at spit roasts, fryups, baking, or literal stew, it is skill at cooking that entitles a culinary officer. The cooking system by which this skill is represented, as it appears in the Incunabuli System playtest, is detailed below.

SYSTEM: PREPARE MEAL

A meal is successfully prepared via a Cooking roll. ***

A successful roll creates a proper meal. A failure destroys 1d6 portions. A roll of 1 resulting in failure destroys all.

Certain items and conditions provide a bonus to Cooking rolls:

Fire (+2)

Water (+1)

Utensils (+1)

Appropriate Spit, Pot, or otherwise (+1-3)

Spices (+1-3)

Spices, provided they complement ingredients, may provide a bonus not exceeding +3. Certain ingredients may inflict a malus on the cooking test, due to consistency or flavor. Spices may counteract this malus.

Meals require a minimum of three ingredients. Water does not count. One portion of each ingredient is required per creature to be fed. Additional ingredients upgrade the quality of the meal by one point.

3 ingredients (restores 1 blood, bestows Fed)

4 ingredients (restores 2 blood, bestows Fed)

5 ingredients (restores 3 blood, bestows Well Fed)

6 ingredients (restores 4 blood, bestows Well Fed)

To prepare a meal, the cook must have an appropriate container or containers (pot, skillet, pan, spit) large enough to hold all portions. Any food cooked that doesn’t fit in or has no container applies -3 to the roll.

Additionally, hot meals stave off the effects of cold. They provide a character +1 to their next cold resistance-related roll made.

Author's Note

This post came about as a result of the Stew Captain sort (read: character kit) in the Incunabuli playtest. A character which, which some playtesting, ended up so powerful and flavorful it deserved further canonization.

The above cooking system is in part inspired by something similar by Occultesque, which I highly suggest you read. It is by now a somewhat-polished subsystem, having been repeatedly used and approved by the IRL stew captain among my players: A professional cook.

This article was made possible by Incunabuli's generous supporters on Patreon. To join them and read articles available only to supporters, support Incunabuli on Patreon.

Footnotes

* To Firls, anything good is "jam." Likewise, "jammy." This may be indicative of Northerners' long-standing enjoyment of preserves.

** "Barking mutton," as in mutton that at one point barked, is slang for meat so mysterious and poor as to possibly be houndsflesh.
*** Skill rolls in the Incunabuli playtest are made via d12, which is rolled in an attempt to score 10 or more. Added skills and bonuses increase a roll's chances of totalling 10, thus increasing chances of success. Skill range from 0 to 12.