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Iron creaked. Rust flaked from hinges stiff from age and wrapping ivy. Small hands pushed into the pitted bars, shoved. There was a huff, an exasperated kick. 

"Heike," grumbled Karl, turning from the stuck gate. Green light dappled him, shone through thick oaks. "Help. It's all stuck."

Some ways back, Heike looked up. A red candy stick wobbled in the corner of her mouth. "Coming." She stood, dirty-kneed, from the patch of mushcaps* she'd been prodding.

Together, they set paws to the gate, gave it a hearty shove. Karl grunted, strained. The hinges groaned. Heike yelped, yanked away. 

"Ouch!"

"What?"

"Cut my thumb," said Heike, sucked stickily on the digit. 

"S'nothing," judged Karl.

"Hurts," said the girl. She examined the cut. "Maybe we're not allowed because the gate's sharp. Father said it's dangerous."

"Nah. He means the woods, for sure." Karl kicked the gate. "Come on and try again." Heike nodded. She stuck her sweet behind an ear, where it stuck to yellow hairs.

Together, they shouldered the gate, pushed. Bare toes cut deep into dirt and moss. Red rust flaked in little clouds. Abruptly, there was a shriek of metal, a clang. The gate swung abruptly open. The children fell forward.

Karl groaned. Beside him, Heike blinked dirt from her eyes, rose to elbows, looked about. Past the gate was a dim path, narrow and dappled by the small light permitted by looming, black-green foliage. A slight mist crawled low over the earth, made white where the sparse sun showed through. Heady mist, sweet with the oils of plants.

Heike nudged her brother. He rose, rubbed his grazed and dirty elbows, looked about. "Excellent," he grinned, scampered off.

"Wait up!" squealed Heike, following. 

Skipping over unruly lumps of roots, the children dashed into ever darker reaches of the forest tunnel. Swirls of vapor whipped and trailed from their heels. Queer, soft lilac pixies danced in their wake. 

Eventually, the path let up into a wide place overhung by the knuckly bows of oaks. A dark humus of many ages of rotten acorns carpeted the place, leant a biting must to the sweet air. 

"Wow," mumbled Karl, turning about. Fat trunks of oaks stretched, innumerable, for acres around. Mist and green light dimmed the shadowed plot of each, save for one. Some distance from the children, a spot of unhindered sunlight staged a weeping stump.

Karl picked his way to that bright clearing, feet rolling and crunching over layered acorns. Heike followed, waved at the pixies attempting to braid her hair.

Their dirty feet stepped into warm sun. About the stump, many sprouts with lobed leaves had emerged, each planted in its own circle of groomed dirt. Heike took care not to trod on them. "How curious," she said, examining the stump. Karl had jumped atop it, stamped his feet on the sticky rings.

Round that stump, in the dim, were bundles of sticks and a pile of broad log-rounds. Near, in one of the truncated oak's high roots was sunk an axe, shiny in the weak sun.

Karl pointed, spun about idly. "That's Father's good axe," he said. "Box he made for Mother must've come from this wood."

Hieke nodded, idly sucked her cut thumb. She squatted, looked hard at the oak sprouts and their circles. Karl had trodden on some. They leaned, sad and smashed, in the footprints which disturbed their perfect rings. She frowned, looked up, startled. "Oh."

A pair of shining black eyes peered at her over a root, just outside the clearing. Pointed, furry ears twitched above. The creature blinked quickly, sporadically, looked with inky stare.

Karl quit spinning, looked for the source of Heike's startlement. He saw the eyes. "What an odd cat."

The eyes blinked once more, rose into light. A sharp face showed, patterned with grey, fluffy cheeks and black blotches round the eyes. Heike met its gaze, smiled at the rapidly flaring nose. 

It crept forward, reaching with hands attached like tassels to the corners of a furred, sackish body. A bottlebrush tail striped with black and grey twitched behind. 

"Don't think that's a cat," said Heike. She watched the creature creep into the light. Only there could woven plaits of grass and reed be seen on its back and wrists, tied decoratively and with skill.

Careful under the eyes of the children, it reached with humanlike, black hands for the first squashed sapling, began to right it. With delicacy, it lifted the fledgling tree, set it back in its place, redrew the careful circle, and erased Karl's footprint. It moved to the next. The children watched, silently rapt.

"What is it, then?" broached Karl, whispering. The creature looked at him momently, squinted, resumed its work.

Heike considered. "Remember those fairy-stories Mother tells form the green book?" she said, thoughtfully.

"Yeah."

"I think its a tree-gardener, like in Askel and the Knockers."

"Ooh," said Karl.

"What do you think we should do?"

"What'd Askel do?"

"Drove them off."

They looked to the hunched, furry worker, watched it right and preen a tiny shoot with immaculate care. It barely paid them heed, save for an occasional black glance. "Don't really want to do that," said Heike.

"Yeah."

"I'd rather be friends with it, I think."

"Try."

Heike nodded. Slowly, she removed the sweet from her ear, tugged a few hairs off, broke off an end. "Hey," she said, addressing the creature. It looked up, black eyes impassive. Heike licked the piece of sweet, smiled exaggeratedly, extended it, wavered it. A glittering cherry line flashed in the black eyes.

Unhurriedly, deft black paws traced the last ring to be repaired, then slowly crept to Heike. The thing advanced paws-first, head tucked as far back as permissible. It approached the girl's hand, sniffed, hissed. Heike startled, withdrew. She gave it an inquisitive look.

"Your thumb," said Karl. "The blood, the iron." **

His sister nodded, switched to her other hand, offered it. This time, the beast sniffed, stretched out a paw, quickly snatched the sweet. 

Heike giggled. The gardener looked askance at her, passed the sticky confection between its paws. Experimentally, it closed badger-like teeth round the morsel, crunched off a bit. A burst of excited lip-smacking and catlike head-bobbing ensued. The tail twitched. It consumed the rest. 

Karl and Heike exchanged excited glances. The girl proffered another morsel, this time closer. The creature took it, crunched it down mere inches before her. With the next, it rested a paw upon her knee. By the last, it was sitting in her lap. 

"Better than a cat," said Heike, marveling at the gardener's woven garb. The thing snuffled about her, searching for more candy. She pet it, experimentally. It licked her fingers, but not the thumb, holding them one at a time.

Karl grinned. He sat beside, stroked the striped tail. "Far better."

Heike sighed. "They say they're bad, though. Really bad omens."

"Yeah," said Karl, hesitantly.

The creature scrabbled up Heike's shoulders, wrapped its arms round her head, rested its chin in her hair. It sighed.

"I say we keep it."

"Yeah, let's."


Tree Gardeners

In wild places, the world grows thin. Gnawed, eroded by misty seepage and queer creatures; the annexing forces of an otherworldly ecosystem.

They are battlegrounds against the Other. Not literal, violent ones like the Northern war on the moors, but battlegrounds nonetheless. Here, every acre of planted seed and whorly bough is land taken. Every axed thicket and tamed grove: A defender's victory.

The forces of the world are everyday folk, barely conscious of their contribution against invaders. † To them, to tame the wilds is mere necessity. Trees must be felled to make homes and fires. Ground must be broken and planted to feed families. Dark woods and misty moors must be hated, for they are full of monsters.

For the Other, a curious vanguard defies the cutters of trees and tamers of wilds. They are not monsters, nor are they wicked ælves or trolls. They are spriggans, tree-planters: The cunning workers of the otherworld.

Spriggans

Wherever the Other shows its influence, spriggans are present. These furry laborers make an industry of promoting the wilds. They plant seeds, spread saplings, and nibble and prune their environments to optimal, fairy standards. They are integral to the spreading ecosystem of the Other.

A spriggan is like no natural inhabitant of the Coast. At a glance, their sharp faces may seem catlike, but are betrayed by other features. Elbowy limbs and humanlike hands sprout from the corners of grey-black, hunched, sacklike bodies. Dark blotches surround shiny black eyes. ††

It is for their tails that spriggans are best known. Any hunter, woodsman, or wilderland cutter worth their salt will display a fluffy, black-and-grey-ringed spriggan tail upon their hat or belt.

Spriggans are not easy to catch, and they rarely venture from wild and dim cover in the day. In the night, they emerge, bearing saplings and seeds††† in their deft paws, to plant and make mischief.

After planting their cargo, a spriggan will go about sabotaging any nearby Littoran property they can get at. Gates will be opened, feed will be gobbled, and worrying things will be drawn on the faces of sleeping children. ‡ Dustbins will be upended, chimneys will be filled with chaff, and gourd plants will be replaced with mandrakes. Though a single night of sabotage shan't cause overt harm, rather than annoyance, months-long torment by multiple spriggans is sufficient to degrade the sanity and wellbeing of any wilderness town. Thus, spriggans are pursued gladly by hunters and their hounds.

If ever a shot or captured spriggan is found to be clad in woven reeds and grass pouches, folk begin to worry. They know such a spriggan can only have been dressed and accoutered by Ã¦lves. The presence of greater fairies can only bring greater irritation and doom upon a stead. ‡‡ 

From where the spriggans come, all know. They crawl from the hollows of old trees, from the green and drippy passages in low hills. These are passages to the land of mist. Wild places, where the worn world grows thin, and the victorious otherworld creeps without.

Author's Note

The spriggans are here. They've eaten the barley and graffitied the baby. 

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

* Distinct from mushrooms, motile mushcaps are apt to spring up where the otherworld is none too distant.
** Creatures of the Other are averse to iron, even the small quantity in human blood, for it burns their black-ichor flesh.
*** "Littoran" describes any creature native to the Coast, be they human, mouse, or otherwise.

† Despite the ignorance of the smallfolk, the cultures and national leadership of the Coast as a whole are quite aware of this war, if not its minutiae. A philosophical concept of imperative destiny drives Littoran expansion into wilderness. Otherwordly wilderlands must be tamed, so says the philosophy, lest they subsume the world.
†† Trolls, ælves, and all know creatures of the Other possess black eyes devoid of separate pupils and whites. These eyes match the creatures' inky blood.  
††† Seeds carried by spriggans are often of an otherworldly variety. To catch one with cargo is to score both a tail and a load of seeds valuable to stranger connoisseurs of flora.

‡ Coastal folk have an ingrained and prevailing fear of having their children stolen by fairies. Spriggans are thought to serve as scouts for later child-stealing. If only for this reason alone, they are shot whenever possible.
‡‡ Certain Firlish traditions, those based on the appeasement of ælves, will take such a spriggan as a sign to put out an extra saucer of milk, for there's a new breed of fairy in town.
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The oven door swung wide. Damp, rye heat billowed from within. Knotty hands slid a wooden peel into the depths, produced a gold and crackly loaf. The sweating baker set it on a rack, delved back for another. Twelve more joined it, steaming from slits in their crusty flesh.

Nearby, a bell chimed. A stamping of worn boots tracked snow onto the warm tiles of the bakery. The baker set down his peel, rounded the corner to his counter.

There, framed by a frosty streetside window, stood a raggedy fellow in a blue coat. His cheeks were bitten red by wind; his eyes dim and drear as the winter morning.

"Top o' it," said the baker, nodding. * 

The man gave a chap-lip smile. "And the rest yerself."

He perused the counter and shelves, piled high with fresh, flakey loaves, buns, and biscuits. A gummy air of warm grain pervaded the stock. Slow, he turned a pair of worn silver coins in his hand.

"What can I do ye?" said the baker, pawing a kerchief to his brow. "Got some curd in from the good goatmice down the lane, today, and a bit of red wine, too."

The blue fellow tongued a split lip, considered. Behind, the door chimed. A woman in a bowler hat entered, brushed snow from her cape. She flicked an eye to the fellow, considered him briefly, began perusing the bread and wine. 

"How much're those?" said the man, pointing, glancing to the baker.

"A penny half," replied the baker.

"And those?"

"A ha'penny."

"Aye." Scarred hands gripped the coins. "Can you do me a heel o' sour and bit o' the curd for a penny?"

"Aye."

As the baker bundled his sale in brown paper, the behatted woman set a bottle of wine and two loaves on the counter, waited. The man in blue watched, massaged his hands. They quivered only slightly.

"There," said the baker, handing over the bundle. A dot of silver met his palm. "Methanks." They nodded. The bell chimed. The man in blue stepped into the snow and early morning dim.

Flakes and chimneysmoke drifted down the white and narrow lane. Few folk traversed the troughs worn in deep snow. As he shuffled, the man unwrapped his package, tore off half the meager hunk of bread, and a bit of curd. He chewed, eyes half shut against the wind, clutched his collar closed. 

"Hey!"

The fellow in blue turned. Behind him, under a streetlamp, a white glove flashed above a bowler hat. He raised an eyebrow. The woman approached, gripping a market bag, scuffling snow. 

"Pardon, good Master." She extended a hand. The man took it, uncertainly. "Petre Portgart, of Silton. I couldn't help but notice your coat." 

The fellow swallowed hastily, shook. "Alfred Dole, Windour. I–"

"Are you army?"

"Uh, aye. I was." Dole's gaze flicked to the brass buttons, some missing, on his coat.

"I thought so. You've the look of a soldier, anyway. Wounded?

"Ah, no. Discharged. Didn't fit in."

"A shame. No pension, then?"

Dole grumbled. "No."

"A right shame. Crown should support her people." Portgart shuffled her feet in the snow. "The reason I ask, Master Dole, is that I wondered if you're looking for more work of a soldiering sort."

"Maybe. Who with?"

"My employer, Tiber and Fellowes," said Portgart. "Is always in need of good folk like you."

"The bank?"

"Quite. I'd like to offer you a job, on T&F's behalf."

"Doin' whot?"

Portgart handed him a pamphlet. It showed an inked image of armed and armored folk ferrying gold from a ruin in a hilly land. Above the image was inked a slogan in bold plate. "A land of plenty," mouthed Dole, sounding out the block letters.

"Venturing. A trade of great reward, for those who are good at it. Soldiers, Master Dole, tend to be very good indeed."

"Got to travel?"

"Indeed. To the rich Eastern frontier."

"Good. Hate it 'ere" said Dole.

"Soldiers hired by Tiber and Fellowes are known to achieve standing four within a year," said Portgart, rubbing her gloved hands.

"Whot's standin' four?"

"A full-percent cut of profits from a given venture."

"How much's that?"

"Usually it's in excess of a hundred pounds, for a raid,** not including benefits."

"A good year's salary."

"A week's earnings."

Dole's eyes went wide. "Where do I sign on?"

Portgart grinned, handed him a card. "Take this and show it to the desk at the consortium. They'll help you from there, including a coach."

Dole took it, nodded, shook her hand again. "Methanks, Master Portgart."

"Thank me again when you're standing four."

Dole grinned, began to turn away, card raised in a sort of wave. "Master Dole!" said the woman. "One more thing!"

Dole looked inquisitive. Portgart produced a bottle of wine from her bag, handed it over. "Let's call this the first of many benefits."



Fat, hard snowflakes pattered on the plate glass. Fractals of gold leaf patterned the pane's corners like clutches of frost. Only congealed breath clouded the pristine, chill crystal.

Grubby fingers pressed to the windowpane, followed by a snub nose. Stoat marveled at the darkening mountain view, all sharpened peaks and black-green valleys. 

"Stoat," decried a high voice from the woman's shoulder. A mouse perched there, clung to oddly-white locks. "Get your filthy mitts off the glass. You're leaving marks the size of oranges."

Stoat rolled her eyes, pulled away from the floor-length glass. "Is this what I get for giving your little pork-arse*** a ride, eh?" she said. The mouse harrumphed. "She's a menace, Lilé."

"Let a lass marvel, Nils," said Lilé, near the hearth. She lay upon a chaise lounge, stretched her gangly, green silk-wrapped limbs. She fixed Stoat with amused, bloodshot eyes nestled in cloth.

"Quite a benefit, this place"said Stoat. "I've rare seen such glass, outside of the Isles." She looked about, took in the peaked pine ceiling, the velvet furnishings, the beds and their pressed sheets. "Nor such finery. And so high up. How do you think they lifted it all up to the shallot?"

"Chalet," corrected Lilé. "Belviriners† are quite used to building in the mountains, mon amour."

"Really, Stoat," said the mouse, wriggling his nose. "For a would-be sophisticate, your class falls quite short, outside of Firlund."

Stoat patted the mouse. He cringed. "Now, now, Nils. I've got no want to be a snob. I just like snobby things."

Nils huffed pitchily. "That might explain why you're wearing bloody leathers in a Teljor resort." 

By the fire, Lilé rolled her eyes. "Lads, let's not squabble now," she mumbled. †† They ignored her.

"Mark of our trade, mate. Wear them with pride," said Stoat.

"'Mark of our trade,'" scoffed the mouse. "The mark of our trade is a remarkably short life expectancy, Stoat."

"And a good deal of benefits, if you get good at it," said Stoat, gesturing about. 

"So, you're saying we're on a luxury holiday because we got good?" A wicked glitter entered Nils' red eyes. "Whereas Gar is dead because he didn't?" 

At this, Stoat's face fell. By the hearth, Lilé flinched. She watched the two uncertainty. 

"Come off it, Nils. You know I wouldn't mean that" said Stoat, softly. Nils hunched on her shoulder, quiet, furry face inscrutable. Breath flickered in his round body. His long whiskers twitched.

Eventually, he clapped a conciliatory paw on her other shoulder. "Of course not. Cruel of me. Nor would I." He gave a sigh. "We've all known the risks."

Stoat nodded, smiled thinly. "Aye."

Lilé rose, crossed to the pair. She placed a wrapped hand on Stoat's free shoulder. "Come" she said. "Let's forget for a while."

"Aye" said Stoat. "Let's just see what end of benefits we can find."

Standing

Banks are in the business of getting people to do awfully dangerous things. There's a lot of gold in deep and dangerous places, and banks need cutters to delve and get it out. In payment, banks promise a cut of the gold to be retrieved. ††† Such promises of wealth form the greedy backbone of the venturing pay scale. 

Cutters can only be tempted by meagre slices of wealth for so long, however. Given time and exposure to gold, their tastes grow richer, their wants more exotic. Whether they desire delicacies and lavish lodgings; superior arms and armor; or substances to dope a fraying mind, cutters oft-inevitably require a raise. Banks are more than pleased to comply. ‡

To satisfy their greedy cutters, banks employ a leveled system of "standing." The higher a cutter's standing within a venturing firm, the greater their earned benefits. Standing is increased only by successfully completing ventures for the bank.

Benefits, depending on the offering firm, may vary. Usually, early standing tiers include housing and transportation benefits. Others, some resupply and armament bonuses, especially within raids. The greatest benefits include funded holidays at bank-associated luxury locations. Every standing level also carries access to greater cuts of the venturing yield. 

As an example, the standing and benefit progression of the most notable Northern bank may be found below.


Tiber and Fellowes

While systems of standing and benefits vary between firms, Tiber and Fellowes' is certainly the most model. ‡‡

T&F award new standing levels as cutters complete ventures. They track this via a point system attached to the cutter's venturing license. Interior pages, much like passports, are devoted to stamps denoting completed ventures and associated banks. Such records are also kept by the banks, for cross-checking purposes.

Point values for completed venture are determined on a bank's assay of the venture to be completed. Small ruins and non-ancient jobs, such as debt collection, are worth only a single point. More substantial, riskier ,more valuable tombs are worth two. Raids, wherein a majority of participating cutters will die, are worth 4. Banks will often tempt folk to participate in raids with the prospect of immediately becoming standing two.

  • Standing 0: Pre-approved loan available, up to two crowns‡‡‡ at 25%. § Receive default .2% venture cut. §§
  • Standing 1: (1 point) Verified T&F cutter stamp. Priority signup for ventures. Receive increased venture cut, est. .6%. Loan at 20%, depending on performance.
  • Standing 2: (4 points) Transport provided to and from venture site. Additional supplies afforded, as appropriate. Receive increased venture cut, est. 1%. Loan at 18%, up to 5 crowns.
  • Standing 3: (8 points)  Complimentary food and housing provided between ventures, usually at local inn or hostel. Sponsored access to local luxuries. Receive increased venture cut, est. 1.4%. Loan at 12%.
  • Standing 4: (12 points) Complimentary stay and service in T&F-associated luxury locations after every 3 points. Receive increased venture cut, up to 1.8%. Loan at 10%, up to 10 crowns.
  • Standing 5: (24 points) Complimentary invite and all-inclusive attendance at T&F balls and events. §§§ Receive increased venture cut, up to 2.2%. Loan at 5%. Optional pension at 30+ points.

Promises of eventual, lavish reward are oft bandied by gossiping, hopeful cutters and predatory, enticing recruiters: Tales of comfortable cutters, retired in the peaceful country. Stories of tomb-raiding stars, now ascended as rich and enviable élites. Myths of wise cutters who somehow played the bank at their own deliciously entrapping game.

Rarely will a cutter bestowed with such success and wealth been seen, though. Cutters in service to the banks of the Coast, whether over years, months, or a single, fateful venture, most often meet not fame, wealth, and comfort; but debt, insanity, and a miserable end.

A cutter is not a creature dissuaded by the spectre of an awful end, though. Their very trade is based on the braving of danger in exchange for gold.

To a them, no danger at all is too daunting, if attached to a sufficient promise of wealth.


Author's Note

The above T&F table serves as the base of my own venture progression tables. Any changes at all are fully well acceptable, if the reader deems appropriate. I am loth to put too much of the banks' arcane bureaucracy down in print, anyway, lest it lose a believable aura of terrible complexity. I will likely fill out the benefits more, as I recall ideas.

When making decisions for bank rules, it is, I find (above all else and always) appropriate to make it all up (so long as it's consistent, later.)

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

* Folk of the North are apt to greet each other with variations of "top of the morn to you," instead of "good day." "Top of it," "top to you," or simply "top" are most common variants. One should traditionally respond with "and the rest of the day yourself," "the rest yourself," or "yourself."
** A raid is the largest, deadliest variety of venture administrated by banks. These are often multi-month delves into complexes of exceptional depth and horror.
*** A pork is a small, soft-bodied rodent, somewhat like a small mouse. To compare a mouse to a pork is highly insulting.

† Belvirine is a smallish, mountain country situated northeast of Maples. Its lodges and slopes are a popular aerial getaway for the rich.
†† While it is by no means universally true, mice are known for a sort of volatile anxiety. In some,
this manifests as defensive argumentativeness.
††† In order to prevent folk from merely wandering off with the gold inside a tomb or ruin, banks
buy (or claim to have bought) the land where it resides.

‡ Given that few cutters live long enough to see greater rewards, banks suffer little expense of matter when treating those who do. The prospect of generous benefits is also useful in the recruitment of new cutters.
‡‡ Other firms will be detailed in later writing. T&F's example is sufficient to inspire the others, in
any case.
‡‡‡ This is, cleverly, precisely the cost of a venturing license.

§ Coastal banks usually charge cutters interest at a monthly rate.
§§ Cuts vary depending on a given venture. Figures given with standing raises are mere estimates. Nevertheless, the increase is felt. Cuts usually increase commensurately with fatalities. A .2% share becomes much more appealing after a few fellows have died. Despite this, a venture which only yields a few crowns or so remains disappointing for cutters and bank.
§§§ Banks are eager to show off their most successful cutters to partners. Attempts to clean up a hard-worn cutter for a formal event can often be half-successful. Attempts to conceal the accompanying laudanum addiction, less so.

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    1 month ago
  • Fists of Cinder and Stone
    Greek Mythic Fantasy on the Rise - In the last few months I've seen a few new cultural items with a strong focus on Greek Mythic Fantasy, here is a review of a few I have encountered. Vide...
    1 month ago
  • Goblin Punch
    The Inn Between - This all basically grew from the idea of What If Spirited Away, But D&D? First of all, wiser souls have spoken of this before. The ruleset would be GLO...
    1 month ago
  • Journey Into the Weird
    Legends of the Five Ring Beginner Box Remix - In two days I will run my first game of Legends of the Five Rings rpg, using the beginner box. The adventure within is your standard introductory adventu...
    2 months ago
  • Ankleshot Woes
    Oracular Stats - So I stumbled down a rabbit hole the other day ended up on an old reddit post that got me thinking about solo oracles, such as the commonly used "yes/no/...
    2 months ago
  • ANXIETY WIZARD
    Half-Organized Thoughts About Monsters - When I think of a Monster it's all images and impressions at first, then it eventually settles into something like this, a loose sort of novelistic encyclo...
    8 months ago
  • Ten Foot Polemic
    Flashpoints - PCs in Mass Combat - Secret Jackalope is like Secret Santicorn but for Easter! Which I clearly missed, but I did it in the end! So here is my somewhat belated Jackalope gift for ...
    8 months ago
  • Meandering Banter
    Welcome! - Welcome to Meandering Banter! ALLERGY ADVICE: Contains GLOG classes, OSR rambling, bizarre heartbreakers, traces of discourse and has been manufactured in ...
    9 months ago
  • Sword of Mass Destruction
    A concept for skills - So I run a heavily disfigured version of the GLOG. Running the GLOG is cool because it's simple and versatile. But skills are not great in the GLOG. In th...
    11 months ago
  • Occultesque
    One Hundred Thieves' Tools - "He dropped into the garden noiselessly, and I watched from my tower window with rapt curiosity. The thief approached a guard and quietly dragged him off i...
    1 year ago
  • Rotten Pulp
    New website! - Hey everyone! I have a new website here: I'm starting it off by announcing a new megagame I'm psyched about called We Are Not Alone. There's a lot more p...
    1 year ago
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