The Journal of Gonff, page 3

The next morning I resolved to turn myself in for what I'd done. I marched myself across town to the city jail, and after taking a deep breath, went inside. It was crowded inside, and the guards appeared to have their hands full. After waiting my turn in line, I approached the desk and cleared my throat. The woman behind the counter looked up and asked what my business was. 

"I ... I would like to turn myself in."

She raised an eyebrow, and the guard standing nearest the counter stiffened. "What did you do?"

I hesitated, then announced, "I killed a man. Some men. Several."

By now the guard was on full alert and looked ready to stab me with his spear.  "Who did you kill?" The woman asked, dipping her pen in the inkwell and preparing to write in her logbook.

"I ... I don't know their names." 

"How many did you kill?" She asked, not looking up from her logbook as she scribbled down information.  Her handwriting was small and angular.

"Seven or eight .... it .... it all runs together a bit." I don't remember how many the farmer had asked me to kill. I just know that once I had settled into the idea that they were vermin and I was seeking revenge for my hometown of Archet, the killing had come easy and I ... I had lost myself.

The woman looked up at me, obviously surprised at the number. "Where did this happen?"

"Outside of town, in the ruins south of the Road." I answered. 

"Blackwolds?" she asked, skeptical.

I nodded. 

The guard standing by the counter relaxed visibly, and the woman laughed - a warm, throaty sound. "You mean to tell me you're trying to turn yourself in for doing the city a service?" She scratched out everything she had written in the logbook with bold strokes. 

"But I need to be arrested. I killed those people. I'm ... a murderer."

This last statement made her angry. She stood and pointed to the jail cells on either side of the room, which were full. A few were probably holding more than the intended number. "We are full up of people who actually deserve  to be in here, and you want to tell me you are trying to turn yourself in for clearing vermin? You don't need to be locked up, I need to give you some livery and put you on the Town Watch. What do you say?"

I blinked and stumbled backwards, tripping over the uneven floorboards. I scrambled to my feet, shaking my head, and ran out the door.

Outside, there was a woman kicking and spitting on a Blackwold tied to a post. I stood for a moment and watched them both, and saw the hate, the fury, in the woman's eyes as she abused this nameless man for who knew what sort of crime.

Maybe they were right. Maybe the Blackwolds weren't really people anymore.

The Journal of Gonff, page 2

I woke up this morning and sat on the steps of the Comb and Wattle. I had slept in the stable, for I had no money left at all, and my belly was rumbling with hunger. I didn't know what to do. I had tried everything. No one had any work for me. 

I watched as people went about their business. Mostly common townsfolk, nothing interesting. Then, a stranger rode into town. He was rough looking, but he looked like he came from money, what with that big fancy horse of his and that green enameled armor. It was obvious he was a foreigner. I watched him for a moment as he rode slowly up to the inn and looked about, checking something in some little book of his. So, he had business here.

 I leapt up and offered to  watch his horse for him while he went inside. Foreign type like him should be easy enough to fool into thinking his horse needs to be watched. These might be troubled times, but no one is desperate enough to steal a horse yet. I just had to hope he didn't know that...

I must not be the wonderful salesman I always thought I was. Guess folks just used to buy my sister's salves and potions cause they actually needed em, not because of any great charisma on my part. The blasted fellow saw through my ruse, I think, and wouldn't even get off his horse while I was near! I wasn't going to make off with it, you miserable ....

In the end though, he gave me some pretentious speech about trying to always do good no matter your circumstances and not resorting to petty thievery just to get by. While I saw his point, I didn't need a sermon. He tossed me a few silvers and sent me on my merry way. I picked them up (stars above but I was starving) but I also didn't want to be some charity case. 

I didn't stay to see what he did. I went to one of the shops in Combe and bought some food, and then wandered south a ways out of town, where I sat under a tree and ate.

Turns out the tree I was sitting under belonged to some local farmer and I had unknowingly wandered onto his land. He didn't have any work for me, of course. But! His brother, a lumberer on the east side of Combe, did. That work consisted of clearing out some wolves and a few of the Blackwolds from the Chetwood. 

I am not a fighting man. I have a pair of knives, but one I've had since my boyhood, and the other I only picked up from a dead villager in the attack on Archet. I had never killed a man before. 

At first, even after doing what the man asked me to do, I still felt as though I had not yet killed a human. These Blackwolds were a pest. They destroyed my village, killed everyone I knew. Stars know where my sister is. I even relished the feel of my knife slipping between their ribs, watching their surprise as they fell. They were evil, and deserved to die.

At the end of the day I found myself with a fat pocket full of silver - the foreigner's odd coins mixed with those from the grateful fellow at the lumber camp. 

I went back to Bree and got myself a room at the Prancing Pony, completely overlooking the prices the innkeep was charging for both. I was a wealthy man now, with more silver than I'd had in years. But as I was eating, the reality of what I had done hit me. They may have been Blackwolds, but they were still humans. Still people, with lives and hopes and dreams. They were not like the mindless wolves I had killed, or the bear that chased me on the outskirts of Staddle. The food turned to ash in my mouth and the crackling fire suddenly felt like the Icemaw itself. Everyone was watching me, I knew it. They could see it on my face, could see the blood on my hands. Was there blood on my hands? I thought I had washed ...

I ran from the inn, guilt bearing down on my shoulders and grief clouding my eyes. I ran blindly, stumbling through the streets, until I could run no more. I retched up the little food and drink I had already consumed and fell down, exhausted. 

When I woke up the next morning my pockets were empty. I had been robbed during the night. Good. I didn't want that man's pity money, or the blood money from what I had done. Better to starve and die.

I stood, slowly, and dusted myself off. I wandered aimlessly through the streets of Bree, and by nightfall found myself in this place known as Beggar's Alley. Here was where I belonged, among the thieves and the rabble and the ... the murderers.

Legitimate Reasons

Was playing Skyrim the other day, and found my adopted daughter roaming about in something slightly less than appropriate:

 My only thinking is that perhaps she had the clothes stolen right off of her back. From a realistic viewpoint, I find this highly unlikely. From a gaming viewpoint, well, you get that dexterity up high enough you can do all sorts of crazy stuff. 

 Which is one reason I love tabletop RPGs so much. Games such as Dungeons and Dragons provide so much more room for story-telling and the imagination than even your most open world and sandboxy of video games.

As a DM for a local game, my players will occasionally ask me if they can do x. Can they justify doing x from a realistic standpoint, or have we entered the realm of Asian-martial-arts-film-gravity-defying power? My former boss at my job had a rule that was similar - she didn't care what we pinned  into the dresses, as long as it made logical sense and we had a plan for carrying it out. If we just pinned it just to pin it, then that was a no. If my players want to do a triple somersalt over this minotaur just for the sake of doing it, then no.

If, however, you can provide a legitimate reason for pulling the skirt up like that, or tucking that seam there, then go ahead. If you can provide a reason for wanting to set that on fire, then sure, go ahead.

That may seem a bit restrictive, but bear with me, I, too, have my reasons.

For the longest time in my writing I steered clear of any sort of 'magic' or magical systems. I didn't want it, because I'd seen too many books where, over time, the author decided to use it as a crutch.  Don't know how to escape from this latest hairy situation? MAGIC. Don't know how to solve this problem? MAGIC. I was tired of it, I consider it to be lazy, unimaginative, and flimsy.

I use that same logic with my players at the table. If they can accurately describe what they are trying to do - if they have a motive, some sort of plan behind what they are doing, then go ahead. You'll still have to roll for it, of course (nothing is free), but you can at least try.

I won't say this approach hasn't backfired before. In some cases, if a player wants to do something, but can't give an in-character reason why, then I've denied them, and subsequently they had a much more difficult time with the encounter or puzzle. I'm then faced with - well, if I had just let them do it, maybe it would have been easier.

But that's not the point.

The Journal of Gonff

It's been five days since the burning of Archet. My family, what little there was, is missing, with no sign of either my sister or her husband.  I left the ruins of the city after picking through the husk that was our house.

There was nothing left. 

I might have been comforted by bones - but there were no remains. I'd like to think they are still out there somewhere, alive. Maybe they got out in time.

Well, that bit about nothing might be a tiny lie. I did find one thing - an old journal of my sister's - the one she used to write her herbal remedies and recipes in. It's a bit charred on the edges, but there were lots of blank pages at the end, and as I've nothing else to do - - - 

The sky has been pouring rain for three of the five days since the fire. Rain. You'd think it could have been raining the day of the attack. Maybe then Archet would still be standing. The dead would still be dead, but there would be something still standing at the end.

I left the ruins after two days, when the rain started and the ashes turned to black sludge, running smears of char down the streets in runnels. So many deaths. The fields of Archet are sown with headstones, row upon row. 

Like every other refugee, I've fled to the other cities, looking for work, food - anything. Combe was full to bursting, and the guard of Staddle had been so increased over the past few days in fear of the Blackwolds, many folk (myself included) are avoiding the city simply out of fear. 

So far, Bree has held little for me either. Though the streets are full and the markets bustling, clogged with other refugees like myself, people keep to themselves and have little in the way of a warm smile, much less an open hand. Times are tough, and purse-strings tight. 

There are so many people about, looking for homes and work and food, the citizens of Bree have hardened. Most are turning away any questions about employment, and many won't even acknowledge you in the first place.

The air is turning cold. I can tell winter is on its way, though the leaves have just now begun to turn. Maybe the dryness of summer's last breaths are what fueled the flames - maybe if it had only been a wet spring instead, or - - -

 I stumbled my way through the streets to some inn called the Prancing Pony. It was warm enough inside, to be sure, but I spent almost the last of my coppers on a mug or two of cider to warm my belly. I had little enough left, none for a crust a bread, let alone a room.

After dozing by the fire for a while, letting my soaked clothes dry, I wandered about the inn. The proprietor, a bumbling man by the name of - - - to be honest I can't remember his name. I was cold and wet and all I wanted was something warm in my belly, with a bite to numb my mind. Anyway, the inn was busy, with people coming and going. 

No one saw me slip into the kitchen. No one saw me slip a few handfuls of food into my pockets. The ale was over-priced anyway - it's not like I was actually stealing. I was evening out the cost. 

I am sure he has gouged the prices to take advantage of the refugees anyway.

The next morning I made my way to the Mayor's office. There was rumor he had a listing of those in the town who had work or lodgings. The line of people waiting to see the mayor was out the door, and the crowd around the notice board was so tight I am amazed I even got close enough to be able to read it.  I took every name off that list I could remember in the time I had before I too was shoved out of the way with fellow desperates and went my way to check out the leads - all of them had either been filled already or - - - 

There was this one fellow, lived near the Staddle gate as best I could tell - I can barely find my way around this mess of a city - I asked him about the notice he'd left in the town hall, and he gave me one good look over, spat his chaw out near my boots, and shook his head.  "Naw," he said, "I don't reckon I've got any work for the likes of you." I wanted to punch him in the face, but instead I turned and walked back out into the rain. No use getting myself arrested. The likes of me, indeed. I'm no criminal. Honest, hard-working man. Have been all my life. Sold my sister's remedies, wrote the post for those in the town as couldn't read nor write themselves. Taught the boys their letters in the winter-time.


As I wandered the streets some more, slowly eating the last of the dry bread and hard cheese I'd 'borrowed' from the inn, I spotted a miserable looking dwarf, slouched against the wall, an empty mug in his hand. I wondered if he was from Archet too, or what troubles he was trying to drink away. 

Ah well, the rain has to stop eventually. The refugees will eventually all find work - places to sleep and eat and fields to work - and I will find - - - something. My sister, maybe? 



Not tonight, though. I've got enough coin for one more bit of ale. 

 

An RP Experiment: One Lonely Burglar, Seeking Companionship

This is Gonff. Aside from being my first male character in an mmo (heck, in any game where I had a choice), he is something of an experiment for me. I will be rp-ing this poor fellow as hardcore as I can. That means a few very distinct things:

1. He will walk everywhere, unless he has a justified reason to run.

2. If he manages to acquire a horse, he will probably walk the horse for the most part, as you can't run a horse like a race car. It'll collapse.

3. He will only do his adventuring during the day, unless his activities necessitate nocturnal behavior.

4. If, in the course of his adventures, he dies, then he is dead. Honestly, this is the one that scares me the most. I kind of want to run to my friends and see if I can wrangle up a pocket healer, but I don't know how that would fit into his character.

5. He must eat something at least once a day, and I don't mean while standing in front of an orc. He has to sit down, make a camp, and eat. While we are on the subject of making camp, let's talk about resting. He has to rest once at least every couple of in-game days - whether at night or during the day, it does not matter, but for an acceptable length of time. Enough to correlate with several hours sleep in the real world.

6. No use of global chat channels. He doesn't have a palantir, y'all.

7. No transferring of equipment or gold between existing characters on the same account.

8. No knowing things he doesn't know. He doesn't know people's names until they introduce themselves, there are no levels, etc.

9. In-game dialogue must be short and to the point, much like normal conversation. No rambling monologues or story-telling (unless he is asked to tell a story, of course).

10. ALWAYS STAY IN CHARACTER. No brackets, no OOC clarification, nothing.  If it's not in character, it does not come out of his mouth.

This character is going to need a lot of patience. Probably a good bit of planning and a quick hand on the HIPS skill if he's to survive. It'd be great to have a buddy on this adventure, one willing to RP it out with me. Any takers? He's on Landroval.  Send me a message and let's get going!

In the Halls of Our Fathers

Dwarven RP in Lotro is not something I've had much exposure to. For a while, even, I was not sure I would even want to play a dwarf at all. They are a bit clunky looking in-game, to be honest, and I can't quite get over how similar they are in movement to some stubby ape. Tolkien's dwarves, in the text, were represented as sturdy folk, to be sure, but I'm not quite sure if that meant their arms had to be longer than  their legs.

/ahem
Moving on.

My curiosity over dwarven RP, regardless of the appearance of the dwarves, has always been there, and when I saw an advertisement on the Lotro forums for the calling of an Althing - a gathering of dwarves, much like the Nordic tradition for which it's named, my interest was thoroughly piqued. So I cornered my RP buddy and convinced him to roll a baby dwarf, and together we went to the Althing.



The Althing was to be hosted by three of Lotro's largest dwarven kinships, but due to some last minute issues with attendance, the turnout was rather small, so the gathering moved from the main court to the interior of the Frosthammer Clan's stoic hall. Snorrir, their resident skald, treated us to a naming of all the statues lining the entry-way, and the Frosthammers joined together in saluting the memory of their ancestry.

Once inside and comfortable before a warm fire, the Althing began in proper, with a court of sorts held to bring for grievances and settle disputes. Braldr, Lord of the Frosthammers, was sound in his judgement and wise in his words, as befits a dwarf of his years and standing. Snorrir, the skald, also told an amusing tale behind his moniker Shiningbrow.

My only disappointment is that the announcement on the forums promised a recitation of an original epic, in the Germanic edda style, and that never happened. I'm sure they are saving it for a larger crowd, as they are for the sparring matches and competitions, I'm sure. A handful of 75s against a handful of lowbies wouldn't be much of a contest.

 My young Thyrca, who is a very young dwarf, comparatively, was quite overcome by the nobility of the Frosthammers, and vowed to find a way to bring honor to his young name and come to the next Althing with a grand tale to tell.

Side Note: I toyed with the idea of rping Thyrca as a female dwarf, as all my other characters are and always will be female, but I settled against it due to lore issues that I found unavoidable. Also, the fact that you cannot have a beardless dwarf, and Tolkien is not clear on whether or not the female dwarves were bearded gave me pause. I can be quite the lore-monkey when appropriate. So I made the decision he was male, and whaddya know, two of the dwarves in attendance were female. /lesigh.
 

In the end, the Althing was smaller than intended, but I took comfort in that because of my unfamiliarity with dwarven RP (which is vastly different, it seems, from the rohirric/general RP I've been enjoying the past few months). The Frosthammers hope to host an Althing monthly, citing ancient traditions and whatnot, and hopefully, as time goes by and exposure grows, the Althing will become a keystone event in the realm of Landroval's RP community.


We could all use more RP.

WARC: Getting Organized

The Windy Acres Riding Club met again last night, and our numbers have grown a little bit. We had some new members, and took care of some administrative tasks to get better organized. After voting on the website for our uniform and team names, we put them into action in-game.

 The riding practice uniform is a combination of Arth-Crus and some Quilted Pants, dyed black. Kiralynn gave us freedom to choose our own shoulders, gloves, and shoes, and while we can't wear hats, we can wear headbands, so I chose the Boots and Gloves of the Eorlingas, and the Circlet of Men. No shoulders for me. I think they would take away from the fantastic look of Arth-Crus. My full look turned out rather dashing and smart, I think. I might change the boots though. They look a bit too chunky. There are some good slim knee-high boots in Dunland, if I remember correctly, but it is a long way still for baby Indy till Dunland. She's up to 35, so almost halfway there, but still, a very very long road. Got to stop messing around and seriously push through the levels. I can go back and grab rep/deeds later.

We decided on Heraldic colors for our team names, so we now have teams Argent, Sable, and Azure, and also the backup team of Purpure (captained by me!) Once we had finished all the team organization and decided on what time alternate practice on Saturdays should be (noon est!), it was time for our leader Kiralynn to go. Most people stayed though, and I ended up leading an impromptu practice for the new folk last night. I did a rough job of explaining what we were doing, but I think folk got the general idea, and in the end I think progress was made by all. We only made it through two formations, but for me, who had NO idea how to explain it the way Kiralynn explained it last week, I feel it went well. At times I felt like Marlin trying to retell that horrible joke about the mollusk and the Sea Cucumber.

 Practice will be each Wednesday evening at 9:30 EST and Saturdays at Noon EST. Contact Kiralynn ingame on Landroval or visit their website for more info.

Ales and Tales at Goldberry's Spring

Last night, I decided to go to an Ales and Tales meeting on the Landroval server. Since sis called and wanted to play together just in time for us to make it, we each rolled new hobbits on Landroval (I have a warden named Elimiera and she has a burglar named Pangiruk, a tribute I suppose to her Gladden characters) and ran as fast as we could towards Goldberry's Spring, the location for this week's meeting.

I was expecting maybe a dozen people to be gathered under the trees, but no, there were probably fifty or more people standing around in the clearing. Some were dancing, many were drinking, and all were having a good time. On the large rock under the tree, a band stood and performed, and that rock became the speaking platform for each performer as the night wore on. Some recited poetry, some sang, some played music. One elf even told a lovely story of the old days and the Two Trees.

All in all it a was a fantastic time to be had and I am looking forward to next week's meeting at the Plough and Stars Inn! I might even work up my hobbit courage and recite a poem of my own!