“Divining Guidance”

An excerpt from chapter 5 of The Alchemist's Folly, the final installment in a Pure Steam trilogy of novellas due out in the not-too-distant (one would hope) future! Read book 1 here.

* * * * *

The descent into the salt mine consumed nearly an hour aboard a groaning, iron-caged hoist that shuddered violently against the timbered walls of the vertical shaft. As the drop cable unspooled into the dark, the stifling heat of the Rauschite surface surrendered to a dead, dry chill that tasted of ancient mineral oceans. Two thousand feet beneath the sunlit valleys, the air grew so dense with pulverized salt that every breath left a crusted rind upon the tongue and set the eyes to watering.

When the hoist finally slammed onto its wooden bumpers, the lanterns held by Dresden’s accompanying guards carved pale yellow cones through a realm of stark, crystalline white.

They stood in a gargantuan subterranean hall, unearthing a massive salt dome that stretched for miles beneath the valley floor. Vast pillars of halite—translucent, white, and veins of deep arterial pink—supported a vaulted ceiling so high that the darkness swallowed it whole. Towering halite crystal formations, sharp as glass and as wide as ancient redwoods, erupted from the floor at jagged angles, catching the lantern light and fracturing it into a dazzling web of geometric spears.

“Cattledung,” Lyn whispered, her voice deadened instantly by the acoustic absorbency of the salt walls. She pulled her wool coat tighter and sneezed into her elbow. “It’s like being inside a frozen gut.”

“Watch your step,” Marlby warned, his dog legs clanking with a hollow, metallic ring against the slick salt floor. The iron joints groaned under the salt dust, but he pressed on, using a brass-tipped cane for balance. “One slip on these crystal spurs and you’ll leave half your hide behind.”

Bigby paid the warning no mind. He was already several paces ahead, moving like a man pulled by an invisible leash. In his hand, the alchemist’s key wasn't merely warm—it was humming at a pitch so high it made his teeth ache. A pale, copper glow pulsed beneath the metal’s burnished skin, lighting the gnome’s face in rhythmic flashes.

“It’s here,” Bigby said, his voice taut with anticipation. “The node is right under us.”

Poppy walked beside him, her steps silent and unhurried. Her eyes, wide and unnaturally dark in the cavern’s glare, reflected the rod’s copper light. “The salt remembers,” she murmured softly, her fingers tracing the edge of a massive, hexagonal crystal pillar as they passed. “It held the water before the mountains rose. It holds the weight now.”

“Poppy?” Bigby paused, casting a concerned glance at her.

“I’m clear, Bigby,” she said, though her tone remained eerie in its perfection. “The pressure here... it calms the noise. Proceed, Alchemist.”

The party rounded a colossal, leaning spire of translucent pink halite and emerged into a natural circular amphitheater at the heart of the dome. In the center of the grotto, two gargantuan salt crystals—one hanging down from the unreachable roof like an inverted mountain, the other rising from the bedrock—nearly met in the middle. The gap between their sharp, pyramidal tips was no wider than the span of a man’s hand.

“There,” Bigby breathed.

He stepped onto the raised salt dais at the center of the room. The air around the central formation vibrated with a static charge that made the hair on their arms stand up on end.

“Biggs, you sure about this?” Marlby called out, staying near the edge of the chamber with Lyn, his hand resting cautiously on his hatchet. “We’re two thousand feet under the Rauschite faith. If this place caves, they won't even need to dig our graves.”

“It won't cave,” Bigby said, though sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold. He held up the bronzed rod. The key was almost too hot to hold now, radiant with an intense, golden-orange light that cast long, dancing shadows across the crystal walls. “The charge is full. It needs to discharge to balance with the node.”

Bigby climbed the stepped salt ledge, reached up, and carefully inserted the bronzed rod horizontally into the narrow gap between the twin crystal spires.

The instant the metal touched both points of salt, the key’s light flared into a blinding, white-hot flash.

A sound like a shattering bell echoed through the subterranean expanse, followed immediately by a deep, low frequency THUM.

The energy stored within the rod poured out in a visible, rippling wave of violet-and-copper force. The light raced through the crystalline lattice of the twin spires, branching out into the floor, the walls, and the ceiling like living, luminous roots.

Then, the earth ground its teeth.

“Hold fast!” Lyn shouted, grabbing Marlby’s arm as the floor lurked beneath them.

With a series of deafening, crystalline cracks—like thousands of glass sheets snapping at once—the entire cavern began to rearrange itself. The massive salt formations didn't fracture or collapse; instead, they began to slide and rotate along smooth, perfectly geometric planes.

Huge hexagonal pillars turned in place like massive stone dials. The floor beneath their feet shifted in concentric rings, the inner circle rotating clockwise while the outer ring spun counter-clockwise. High above, the ceiling’s faceted vault slid along hidden, interlocking seams, altering the room's geometry in a smooth, mechanical choreography.

The sound was immense—a roar of grinding mineral and compressed air—yet entirely controlled. It was the movement of a titanically complex lock, buried deep in the mantle of the world, responding to its key.

As quickly as it had begun, the movement ground to a halt with a heavy, satisfying CLACK that reverberated through the soles of their boots.

Silence returned to the salt cavern, heavy and absolute.

The bronzed rod, now completely drained of its light and cool to the touch, clattered against the salt floor as the gap between the spires widened by several inches.

Bigby stood frozen on the dais, panting, his eyes wide as he looked around. The cavern was transformed. The jagged, chaotic array of crystal spires had aligned into neat, radial avenues pointing outward from the central chamber, revealing a dark, perfectly square passageway cut into the far wall that had previously been hidden behind thousands of tons of solid salt.

He knelt and picked up the key. It felt light, empty, and dormant once more.

“Brand me a Brelonite…” Bigby whispered.

Lyn let out a long breath, her hands still trembling as she uncurled them from Marlby’s coat. “Well, Biggs … you certainly know how to turn a room around.”

Poppy stepped forward onto the newly aligned floor, looking down the dark, revealed passageway. She didn't look frightened or disoriented. A quiet, knowing smile touched her lips as she turned back to Bigby.

“One step closer,” Poppy said softly. “The Machine turns.”

365 Films in 365 Days — August 7: Monty Python and the Holy Grail

This series is dedicated to matching memorable movies with the signature day each year upon which I could watch them forever. Despite the fact that this next movie came out in the spring, it had a largely summer run and was likely dipping at the box office around this time of summer that year, and my kids and I have been on a kick of rewatching it since first introducing them to it earlier this summer, the seventh of August now belongs to:

Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975, Python Pictures/EMI Films, Terry Gilliam and Terry Jones)

This movie begins as it ends: unexpectedly and confusingly. Summed up, it would seem a disappointing outing for the Pythons if this were all, but I think it hints at the greatly acerbic and "disappointed" view they generally held of "Western culture and mythology" writ large and the sort of Christian mores that often go along with it in the late 20th century. It's post-modern and thus irreverent, but actually manages to be so without insulting or denigrating its audience and fans, the vast majority of which are Christian. And the most recognized part of the Christian canon, outside of Christ, is that of King Arthur and his noble knights.

I had the great joy of reviving the coconut-horse-hooves gag during this year's summer church camp theater performances that I helped write and act in. It's effective foley and was purely for the adults in the room, as I'm sure the kids understood the nature of the gag but nothing at all of where it came from. This is somewhat to Holy Grail's detriment, I suppose, given that many of the comedic gags that this and other Python performances have spawned may be well known today, but their original whereabouts don't often point back to this film. At least, probably not until you're a teenager or in high school.

Fortunately, my world history teacher in high school used the scene of the anarcho-syndicalists jawing with "their king" about the virtues and pitfalls of differing governments as a lesson reinforcer, and it has stuck with me ever since. The action in Holy Grail is very cartoony, and rightly so, but its content and context are largely adult in nature. (In light of this, I'm pleasantly surprised my kids like it as much as they do before either one of them reaches double digits.)

The "bring out your dead" scene preceding this is probably pretty accurate when plague swept through in Europe. The boys darkly poke fun when an old man who is not quite dead (a gag that returns several times later) is carried out and protests only to be clubbed over the head and laid atop the heap.

The Black Knight fight(s) are the most sophomoric parts in the film, but they always demand watching. The choreography, while not sexy, does a good job of illustrating the average man's ease at fighting in full armor. The violence and blood is over-the-top and yields some of the most memorable lines from the film: "Tis but a scratch!" and "It's just a flesh wound!" and "I'll bite your legs off!" all delivered by John Cleese.

The witch trial is the second great scene in the film. It neatly lampoons the oft-ridiculed nature of witch hunts and the illogic of those who perpetuate such sham judgments on minority or outcast peoples, but it's also just darn funny without being obnoxious. The faces and words in this scene all serve the funny from an absurdist standpoint, but they also help to move the plot along and give Arthur his first real compatriot in Sir Bedevere. John Cleese's, "I got better," after saying the witch turned him into a newt lives long in the memory.

The "Camelot" song is one of the funniest parts of the whole thing. The careless dance moves that send things flying left and right. The lyrics, which you have to read to understand, mine some decent depths in terms of rhyming "-able" for laughs. The hapless chained prisoner in the dungeon clapping his hands to the beat. It's all madcap silliness and again serves the plot by keeping the characters on the move when they deem it too silly also. The movie kind of peaks here other than the Trojan Rabbit scene and Sir Lancelot's attack on Swamp Castle until about the time you meet Tim the Enchanter.

The Knights Who Say "Ni!" bit is one of those instances where you find it funnier in your head afterward than when you're watching it. It's not a scene that really grabs you necessarily, at first, but the callback later on really helps to pay them off and is unique in that this is the first supporting character to make a return appearance. It effectively pokes fun at the secret, forbidden word, Rumpelstiltskin-type stuff embedded in so much of fantasy lore.

The knights' misadventure with Tim and the Rabbit of Caerbannog is another peak moment. You can tell that a lot of the acting in the movie was probably just the Python mates screwing around and trying to make the others break while filming. I find the whole holy hand grenade instructions and counting bit of this scene quite effectively funny even upon repeat viewings. This again demonstrates the Pythons' sardonic sense when it comes to "the church" and its seeming ridiculous or even unnecessary procedures on the right and wrong way of doing things.

Nice absurdist breaking of the fourth wall when the animator dies of a heart attack to save the knights from the legendary black beast, a scene all done in animation.

The bridge of death sequence is the last peak moment of the movie, but it's well worth it. The strange old man returns, like the Knights Who Until Recently Said "Ni!" previously, and he asks three questions: What is your name? What is your quest? and What's your favorite color? But not always these three. Two of the knights fail this seeming easy task after Sir Lancelot gets across. King Arthur gets the old man instead when he turns the tables in a callback to the swallows and coconuts scene from the beginning, to which the old man doesn't have the answer and perishes. Dumb, but funny.

The only other repeating gag we get is at the end when now only Arthur and Bedevere reach the Castle Arrgh and find it again in the possession of French forces. Their taunts of Arthur and company follow rather typical lines such as: "I unclog my nose in your direction, sons of a window dresser! So, you think you could outclever us French folk with your silly knees bent running about advancing behavior. I wave my private parts at your aunties, you cheesy lot of secondhand electric donkey-bottom biters!" This feels more like stream-of-consciousness ad-libbing rather than script writing, but, either way, it's funny stuff.

And, as mentioned, the movie ends abruptly with something like two minutes of black screen with "carny music" playing behind it. King Arthur never finds the grail but is instead arrested on suspicion of murder, given an earlier scene where a historian relating details on the Arthur legend to the audience is unceremoniously killed by a mounted knight. Perfectly in keeping with all else that's happened thus far, eh?

August 7 — 9 of 365 logged

Go to next! Go to last!

Highlander: The Series Retrospective

In the Footsteps of the Ravager of Heavens

A Gen Con Virgin No More

And so it stretched. At times the full length of the convention center in Indianapolis, and right out the doors! For me though, this is where it begins, not where it ends. My first outing to Gen Con, an event for which the Pure Steam Dev Team has been playing since 2013. It did not disappoint. But why did I not have to stand in line, I hear you ask…

This is why! I worked the con. 20+ hours, to be exact. Gamemaster, son. Been gamin' and masterin' since the summer of '95. Upwards of 25 years under my belt. And I can roleplay you, your grandma, and your next door neighbor under the table, any diggidy-dang day of the week.

Ok, check. So, dungeons? Who's got the dungeons?

Oh Batman, when are you NOT present where geeks gather? Riddle me that!

Fleets of tables sporting CCGs were on display.

Some with incredible meters-wide displays themselves, catering to everything from the nostalgia-hungry manchild, to the anime-maniac, to the casual player, to the grognard, young and old!

Star Wars nerds were definitely full in force, packing impressive tabletop war-gaming sets.

Most impressive.

And here's what we hoped would most impress: our very own in-house RPG product, the Pure Steam Campaign Setting (now with that new 5th Edition scent)! 

This year's con also reintroduced me to Warhammer 40k… 

…courtesy of those who actually knew how to play, and took no small amount of pleasure in placing us n00bs out in front of the action like so many hapless pawns!

A view of the battlefield from our perspective.

And one from theirs.

Here's where the battle turned, though: when Adam C., our project lead, plopped his space marines in by drop pod and proceeded to cue his victory music! (I guess even the boss is allowed to have some fun, too!)

The highlight for me, though, had to be the 20+ hours of Pure Steam RPG sessions that I hosted (in a Doc Holiday as played by Val Kilmer voice) over 3 days. Above, you can see my table in medias res. 

We even had our multi-award winning cosplayer, Chris, stop by with his newest self-made look. (I'm just sorry I couldn't get a better shot of him as I was in the midst of a session!)

And it's safe to say I made some fast friends and fans on my first gig. "Your table was the highlight of the con for me," the fan, pictured above in a cap and his arm over my shoulder at center, said. Other team members pictured from left to right: Adam C., Chris, Benton, Adam S., Bryan, Paul, and Brennan. Let's do it again, guys!

My #1 fan even brought his freshly purchased product of ours to be signed by the whole team. Now there's a collector's item! Congrats, my man, and all the best to you in the future!

“Dresden’s Crossing: Goeth(ite) Yonder, And Free Thy Fortune O Ye Finders o’ the Hidden!”

An excerpt from chapter 3 of The Alchemist's Folly, the final installment in a Pure Steam trilogy of novellas due out in the not-too-distant (one would hope) future! Read book 1 here.

* * * * *

“Shoot, Olson!” the broad-shouldered, mustachioed man in the grey calvary coat bellowed. “Brand me a shave tail if’n I haven’t tasted a finer vintage this side o’ the Heartwater!”

The thin-nosed, bristle chin-bearded dwarf in workman’s leathers and a hard jack smirked at his honored drinking companion. “‘Tain’t a problem, my flouncy tallman friend,” he said. “What with the company you keep.” He lifted his fluted glass to the others assembled in the courtyard of the stately hachenda crowning a hill at the center of town. The white clay-and-straw brick fortified home played guest to over three dozen gathered under the strung ambience of gas-lamps and the din of suppertime revelry. Dusk clawed at the sky leaving streaks of orange and pink as a ‘V’ of geese honked overhead, winging their way back north after the long winter.

“Anything less than legendary hospitality and I’d have reason to shoot ya dead where ya stand, friend dwarf!” Landing ribbed with a wink and a nod.

The dwarf unleashed a nasally laugh at the jest as Landing swept a hand toward them and four guests stepped up to join them on the low dais before the assembly. Other guests continued to hobnob and graze on the silver-plate wielded fare: all finger foods of the breaded crawdad and candied yam variety. A long table on the dais behind them sat strewn with steaming soup vats, whole legs, and flanks, and heads of animals on platters, plates topped with many-layered gelatinous desserts, and a small crystal fountain that spewed forth continuous waterfalls of peach-colored liquor.

“Mister Dresden,” Landing began with a flourish. “Let me introduce you to some special guests this evenin’. Not all the way—like I came—but clear across from Crowning Junction by way of Savig airship! May I present Misters Edgar Marlby and Bigby Dolan, ‘longside Madams Penelope Marshall and Annalyn Farlee. Sons and daughters of the good ole FSU!”

Lyn reached back to scratch her butt and make a face as much at Landing’s comment as to relieve herself of the bunching her new sapphire dress caused.

Marlby and Bigby, too, were dudded up in finer clothes and new boots. Poppy wore her usual tasteful attire.

“Welcome to my home,” the dwarf said. “Olson Dresden. This be the community of our making.”

“Why it’s just a real pleasure, Mr. Dresden,” Marlby said, taking the dwarf’s hand. “Meeting you both, that is!” Marlby turned and took Landing by the other hand, turning the three of them into a pretzel of affectation.

“Alright, boy, alright!” Landing said, patting Marlby on the shoulder. In truth, Landing wasn’t much older than Marlby, and was even a few years Bigby’s junior—owing to Bigby’s gnomish blood—but everyone looked and sounded younger who stood in that man’s sights.

“A pleasure to meet you both,” Poppy said, tilting her head to their hosts in turn. “Art, and Olson.”

“First name basis, eh?” Dresden perked. “Like her already.”

Poppy smiled prettily.

“This is about as fine a stay as we’ve enjoyed outside of back home,” Bigby said.

“And whereabouts would you call home, Mr. Dolan?” Landing said.

Somehow, Landing’s words made Bigby have to shake off a momentary echo of dread before he responded. “Never much had the roots to put down for a home, Mr. Landing. I tend to wander.”

“You’ve wandered far afield from friendly confines, Folk friend,” Dresden stated. “The Disputed don’t play kind to those unfamiliar.” Dresden looked down at Marlby’s legs tellingly.

“And don’t pay him no mind,” Landing chuckled. “He’d be happier still if the kingdom’s borders were a few miles west as east of him.” Landing made reference to the fact that Dresden’s Crossing sat closer to the unsettled middle country of the continent than many other locales in Rausch, the kingdom they now inhabited.

“Not closer than Holy Faith,” Dresden corrected. “Or did all that travel addle your sense of time and space?” the dwarf joked.

“Curious thing that you would bring up matters of time and space and mention of that Rauschite bordertown,” Bigby said. “The very one which by your labors you intend to bridge the Disputed with a railroad, if I’m not mistaken, Mr. Landing? Mr. Dresden?”

“Far as Gom Shao, if the fates align,” Landing confirmed.

“That’s what we came to learn, as well,” Bigby said, nodding to Marlby. “But you won’t be getting there without us.”

Dresden shot Landing a look.

“I see they caught your attention like they caught mine,” Landing confessed.

Dresden smirked. “Not the most public place to be making threats, but I’ll remind you—”

“Not a threat,” Bigby said. “A promise. And this.” He slid the bronzed rod out from the rigid roll of fabric on the dickey that sat bunched under his chin. The alchemist’s key seemed to buzz with a bronze halo of light that limned all who surrounded it with a soft glow separate and apart from the party ambience.

“What’s that?” Dresden asked, nonplussed.

“A key to locked locales that make a bridge across time and space to where you need to go,” Bigby alluded. “Alchemy is my trade. I know now what this rod can do. It’s taken me halfway across Ullera to figure it out, at the expense of nearly all our resources and this good man’s legs.” Marlby shifted at Bigby’s side. “But we can’t continue to do this on our own. We need your sponsorship and the protection your expedition will provide. In return, we’ll provide you a legitimate cover story, and equal shares in anything we discover through this. We just ask that you permit us the freedom to do all the discovering we can along the way.”

The two rich “entrepioneers” looked mildly amused.

“What’s your story, alchemist?” Dresden said.

Lyn patted Bigby’s chin and waltzed over to the table where the food sat and began picking at the assembled fare.

Bigby gestured to Poppy.

“We are seekers on a pilgrimage to the holy lands,” she said, glowing and confident at every word. “The Godhead has summoned us here to help strengthen the homeland. By laying new rail and discovering the sacred places here that call to us, we ensure that others too will come to know the truth and commune more closely with the Godhead.”

“Godhead. You speak of the hunk o’ statuary the Brelonites bow down and pray to?” Landing ventured.

Dresden nodded for them. “The very same that elves and dwarves long ago wrought for their own purposes. Pfah!” he spat and shrugged at the notion.

“And, if the legends are to be believed, the very same that dragons enchanted before they left these lands,” Bigby added.

“We are not religious men,” Landing said. “We are men of action. And science.”

“As am I!” Bigby agreed. “But this story will appeal to the throne’s sensibilities, if ever it gets back to them! You won’t curry favor in Rausch proudly denouncing all they hold dear. This way you can hide your rail in plain sight and Rausch will tend to see it the way we sell it: a vehicle to take the good news into heathen lands!”

“People don’t tend to do much of anything ya like,” Dresden reminded, shaking his head at Landing.

Landing stared at what Bigby held in his hands. “And this here rod? How’s it factor into all this?” he said, extending his open hand to the gnome.

Bigby paused, then laid the alchemist’s key in Landing’s palm. “If you’re willing, tomorrow morning, we’ll accompany you to a place not far—maybe 20 miles or less—where I can show you.”

Bigby let go of the rod and it immediately dimmed to nothing in Landing’s hands.

Everyone staring at the rod flinched, giving Bigby a screwy glance.

“I didn’t know that either, until recently,” Bigby said, eyeing the rod. “This is the first time it’s been out of my reach since,” he looked up at Poppy, “…since I was given this key. It’s no thing of magic. But it is still a thing of mystery. A mystery, too, I would share you with, dear hosts, if you would have us?”

Landing and Dresden took deep, steadying breaths simultaneously.

Landing chewed his tongue and quirked his brow at his dwarven business partner.

“It’s been awhile since something truly unanticipated and intriguing has crossed my table,” Dresden said. “Be ready an hour after dawn. I’ll arrange the away party to join us. Until then,” he added at length, sweeping an arm out in front of him, “please, enjoy!”

Two entertainers I admire playing a game we love. Pure pleasure.

Hudson of Hillsfar

I dug up the backstory-and-then-some I wrote for the first D&D character I ever played (redressed to read for current editions of the game). Decent read, if I do say so myself.

Born on a brisk morning in early spring to Dharnel Orellian and his wife Matlin, their fat-cheeked, round-eyed babe named Hudson lived a contented life, full of mother’s milk and father’s affection. Kidnapped at twelve months, before the babe’s first birthday, it was a life that, sadly, would carry no memories with it.

From there the babe traveled north, together with a dozen other young children, in the company of an enigmatic vagrant known only to a select few as The Raggedy Man. How it was that the despicable wretch was able to travel north, into inhospitable weather no less, without losing a single child nor giving himself away from all the crying and the dirty breechcloths, is a secret only he knows. Up the Moonsea Ride to the coast itself, arriving in Hillsfar was their goal—a place where the children would be bought and sold into slavery, but not just any kind of slavery.

In Hillsfar at this time (and still today) there stood a structure called “the Arena,” a walled edifice set in a wide oval shape and able to easily seat thousands at a time. Inside this space men and women died. Sometimes painfully. Sometimes quickly. But nevertheless constantly. And when someone died inside the Arena’s walls, it was never a death that anyone could foresee for them, unless one was a select member of the audience.

It was here that Hudson was taken. Not to die, no, but to live, as a gladiator, fighting in the macabre games of death to please the audience and win the favor of the Arena’s masters. But whoever had purchased Hudson and his “brood” would not see their investment go to waste. Hudson and the others were to be trained, or rather bred, from an early age to learn how to fight or else learn how to die. First came lessons in silence, long nights alone in a cell; then lessons in pain, first by the staff, then by the spear, and then by the sword; only to be followed by more lessons in pain, others’ pain … others’ blood. Hudson took it all in comparable stride, never overeager, but never dull nor slow of wit. Soon—years later in fact—time would come for him to be tested and value assigned his name.

At age 7, Hudson would meet the cunning and sadistic “Sleetbomb.” This first meeting would prove to the arenamasters which gladiator candidates would be able to hold their bodily functions in check while merely in the presence of the many-scarred and foul-smelling champion, and which would be fed to the ogre for their incontinence. Small wonder Sleetbomb enjoyed himself. By age 11, Hudson had “met” Sleetbomb again (though never actually seen him), this time to engage in a game of cat-and-mouse wherein the youngsters were herded into a pitch-black cavern and instructed to reach the exit on the far side, all while avoiding Sleetbomb who stalked the middle ground. Oft times other participants would push an unsuspecting victim out ahead of them in the dark, willing to sacrifice another to Sleetbomb and ensure their own safety. They would play this game many times over the ensuing months, a game which Hudson grew to become quite adept at, his large size forcing other participants to select smaller victims instead as the sacrifice. Then, 10 years after their first meeting, Hudson would meet Sleetbomb for the last time. It was during this final meeting, wherein the gladiators-to-be were instructed to stand their ground and receive open hand blows from Sleetbomb until none more could be taken, that Hudson took for himself his gladiator surname, “Three Blows.” In truth, it was an unostentatious title, together matching Hudson’s love for the sport, which was minimal to say the least. For as it was measured, “one blow” was a truly dismal grade, and two only a step above that, with three being “average,” and four, or in the rare case five blows, being the pinnacle of gladiator stardom.

And so Hudson’s career as a gladiator began. There were many a group fights, and savage fights, and one-on-one fights (usually to determine a criminal’s guilt or innocence), even water fights (through which Hudson learned how to swim), but none of it thrilled him. It was a job to him. A lazy pastime, really. Nothing special. The cuts and bruises healed like any other, and more often than not gladiators who were most highly regarded (the “Five Blows” variety) participated in the most gruesome matches. The average gladiators, like Hudson, simply held their own, some because that was all they could do, and others, like Hudson perhaps, because they knew better.

Years lapsed like the wheels of cart hoeing a row in the same old road, again and again. And it was not long after Hudson’s twenty-fifth year that he found himself carted off in a caged wagon, not unlike a load of livestock, ready for market. He was going south to Westgate and to new fighting grounds where his northern-honed skills would fetch a greater price (or so his masters hoped, lest they decide to throw him and others the arenamasters had grown tired with “to the dogs” in a final high price match to the death). It seemed Hudson “Three Blows’” abiding ways had come back to bite him. But it was not to be.

As the slave wagons turned east past the Standing Stone to delve into the trade lands of Sembia, a great clamor went up as raiders sacked the caravan. At first, an errant arrow or two knocked into the wood frame of Hudson’s cage, then a frantic melee of shadows erupted around him, during which a stranger approached and bashed the lock of his cage. Why the stranger had done so—either to warrant Hudson’s help in the brewing fight, or else out of the kindness of his heart—is unknown, but what is known is that Hudson took the opportunity given him. Not long having pondered what he would do in the face of freedom, Hudson ran, leaving the combatants to their fate and retreating to the Standing Stone. From there three choices confronted him. One, go back down the road behind him, joining the fight or else fleeing around it. Two, go north, back to Hillsfar and the only world he’d ever known. Or three, turn west and away from it all. The choice was simple.

The first night alone, Hudson thought he had chosen wrong, sleeping on twigs in the cold with nothing to protect him. But, as the days wore on, he slowly grew to discover that this time alone was not unlike the years he had spent growing up in the Arena, surrounded as he had been by his “brothers and sisters.” Eating crops from farmers’ fields, begging on the roads, and getting into scrapes with local brigands he met along the way occupied his days. He even found an old rusty greatsword (not unlike the color of his full beard) among discarded tools in a fallen shed he passed that first ride out. The few ruffians he slew with its edge were the only human kills Hudson never felt sorry for (ironically, he took these unfortunate men as “roustabouts” whom he thought had been sent to recapture him). After while, Hudson began to catch the eye of interested locals who were wary of his impressive size and would employ him to simply sit or stand outside their establishment as a deterrent to would-be miscreants. He didn’t mind.

Other adventures proceeded thereafter. A mage sponsored hunt for a dragon’s tooth; rolling boulders down on the heads of giantkin; and scrambling on hands and knees inside the tunnel-ridden burrows of kobold holds. He even once sailed across the vastness of the Dragonmere and single-handedly defeated a flesh golem in the home of a “nefarious” wizard. But none of these things removed the memories of the Arena and his first life as a gladiator. So far had he come from those times, and yet still Hudson of Hillsfar he remained, not wanting to go back, but not able to forget.

Recently, in his adopted home of Arabel again, he’s begun to hear stories of mysterious kidnappings: babies and children gone missing without a trace. Though he does not see himself as a charity worker, deep down Hudson knows these things are wrong and would see them ended if he could. (Unknown to him is that his mother and The Raggedy Man still live to this day. His mother, Matlin, is in her 70s now, having bore Hudson, her only son, late in life during her early forties; his father, Dharnel, died of heartstop while in desperate search for Hudson shortly after he went missing. Hudson’s father had served with Azoun IV during several rides to quell the frontier in the Stonelands. As for The Raggedy Man, his whereabouts are always changing, and his methods and aims have not wavered from those he used decades ago.)

Star Wars is NOT science-fiction!! (Or, Star Wars IS fantasy!!)

Full stop.

This may seem antithetical to some, but it's really never been a paradigm shift for me (or many others for that matter; just Google it and see). Call me discerning. Or a snob—if it makes you feel any better. Honestly, though, the issue is made clear in writing from the start.

"A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far, away.…"

That's how they all begin. It's a riff on, "Once upon a time…" which is the traditional opening of a fable or fairytale. Such stories are firmly in the purview of fantasy, not science-fiction.

The simplest distinction that can be drawn between fantasy stories and science-fiction ones is when they happen. Generally speaking, fantasy stories take place in the past; science-fiction stories are often set in the future. Of course, exceptions to this exist, but there are exceptions to every rule. And the rule here is simple. "A long time ago," after all.

Getting warmed up? (I know I am.) Alright then! Now, for the meat and potatoes. Star Wars features ample tropes and archetypes the likes of which are far more often seen in fantasy than they are in science-fiction. Legion are the fantasy stories that concern young squires led by knights into saving princesses held by dark lords in their impregnable fortresses. The first Star Wars, later re-sub-titled Episode IV: A New Hope, is mainly about a young farm boy who goes off with a Jedi Knight to save a certain Alderaanian princess from the clutches of a Dark Lord of the Sith in the bowels of the Death Star. Pretty striking similarity, no? And it goes well beyond simple naming conventions. (Speaking of which, Skywalker is a surname you'd expect to find in fantasy, right alongside Greybeard, or Hawkwinter, or Brightblade, etc.). The fact that the Jedi wield lightsabers like broadswords (fantasy!) and use the Force like they're casting spells (fantasy!) and fight Sith lords clad in heavy armor or crowned in demon horns (fantasy!) is a central hallmark throughout ALL the films (not to mention books, comics, games, and TV shows)! Take any of these key components away and, by extension striping out the fantasy too, Star Wars becomes something else entirely!

Here's something else entirely: Star Trek! If you didn't know any better, both "Wars" and "Trek" would seem to travel in the same circles. And while the dueling fandoms often bicker over which is better, there are some definite differences that should be noted. Chiefly, Wars is (more) fantasy/Trek is (more) sci-fi. How much more? 70/30 split for Wars, 30/70 for Trek (at least), I'd say. Wars is more swashbuckling, pulpy adventures in space (fantasy!), whereas Trek is more humanistic, social adventures in space. Wars is couched more in mythology; Trek in philosophy. That doesn't make one inherently better than the other, but it does make them distinct: Trek as science-fiction with fantasy sprinkled in, and Wars a fantasy with touches of science-fiction.

"Wait!" you say. "Did you just concede that Star Wars has science-fiction in it?! Isn't that the opposite of what you're trying to prove!?"

No. Star Wars IS a fantasy. A fantasy with science-fiction elements. And dramatic elements. And comedic elements. Lots of fiction includes different elements. Virtually no where does a book, film, or TV show stick to one storytelling element to the exclusion of all others. Dramas can be funny, action can be thought-provoking, and romance can be scary. That's called creativity!

So, what are the science-fiction elements in Star Wars? Well, starships, lasers, droids, space stations, and midi-chlorians, to be precise. (Lightsabers are just "frozen-laser" tech, by the way! Shocker!) None of these things are essential to Star Wars storytelling. Star Wars is essentially a meditation on family, destiny, and rebelling against one or both. For something to be science-fiction, the story most often explores the relationship between its characters and the technological marvels they employ. Science-fiction is more at-home meditating on how we can or can't coexist with the technology in our lives. You could just as easily replace the technological marvels in Star Wars with horses, magic wands, familiars (or golems), sky fortresses, and mana (or "magical essence") and tell the exact same stories (minus the science-fiction elements).

(To say nothing of the fact that the technological marvels in Star Wars all make an awful lot of noise in space. Nothing science-fiction-y about that at all.)

How about the Death Star? That's a pretty big technological marvel with variations that are featured in many of the movies. The Death Star is to Star Wars, as the One Ring is to the Lord of the Rings: an object to be destroyed. Doesn't really matter what that object is. The technological marvels in Star Wars are just that: objects. Objects vs subjects. None of the technological marvels in the Star Wars films really form the subject of its storytelling.

Let's explore this dichotomy a little more by examining how technological marvels in two famous science-fiction films form the subject of their narratives and differ from what is in Star Wars. First, Blade Runner. In Blade Runner, the replicants are the technological marvel, and the storytelling centers around how humans reconcile with the fact that replicants (synthetic humans) are virtually the same as the real thing. Who's to say that a replicant who has an identity, memories, and dreams of electric sheep isn't human? This is science-fiction. Now, The Matrix. In The Matrix, the technological marvel is the titular "matrix": a computer program that is used to simulate human experience so that those same humans' bodies can be used as a power source. The whole crux of the story is based on the battle between humans and machines in a fight for the future. Again, science fiction. Many great science-fiction stories explore this topic, from 2001: A Space Odyssey, to the Terminator series, to Avatar. This same storytelling lens is not applied to any of the technological marvels in Star Wars.

To wit, Star Wars is not science-fiction. (It's fantasy.)

Full stop.

(Read more about my personal stance on Star Wars here!)

A Geek's Pledge

I pledge allegiance to Faerûn of the entire globe of Abeir-Toril, and to the Realms for which it's named, one world under Ao—cast invisible!—with Elminster and "Driz-zit" for all! 

"What Mine Hands Hath Done"

Two forays of whipjacks hath I sent
To yonder vale, a borrowing bent.
The younger one was really rather terse,
A thumb depressed, upon the vein, a purse.
When the other did implore his name:
Behold! Stay! A cry! There is no shame.
When roustabouts did thus make move for more
They raped the pretty dandy score for score.
Wrought with ire—breasts-a-fire!—and all in vain,
A stroking hand, 'twould pleasure her again.

-L. James Wright © 2005

Forgotten Realms Begins

Guess what? D&D is cool now!

"Mister Polk Edgewater and The Miracle of His Soiled-Breath Solvaway"

Here's the opening scene to chapter 2 in our upcoming Pure Steam tie-in novella, The Alchemist's Gambit. Get book 1 here!

* * * * *

Felicia Dolloway sat comfortably across from her short wavy-haired companion on the opposing divan, purple trails of smoke crisscrossing her painted face as she removed the hookah stem from her pert pink mouth.

“So, tell me, Mister Edgewater,” Felicia purred, fingering the hookah stem like a flute. “What manner of throat-sweet cure-all would you have in mind for my so dearly afflicted?”

“Dearly afflicted?” Edgewater said, smiling. “If I’m not a two-bit horse salesman, you led me to believe this was nothing other than a personal call!”

“Why, it is, Mister E! But you wouldn’t have thought such a thing as that was needed on me, now, would you?” Felicia punctuated her playfulness by blowing a line of her purple-smoke-tainted-breath into Edgewater’s face.

The pneumatic water pipe gurgled as Mr. E hiccoughed and licked his lips dry of the sickly-sweet flavored tobacco that nested in the basin of the communal smoking apparatus. The public parlor in the one flophouse in Rooter’s Station that attracted all manner of customers was particularly busy today. More than ten percent of the trading and supply depot’s population, numbering in the low hundreds, could easily be found here on any given occasion, day or night, and at least twice that number were in attendance. A bed of dry goods and Ulleran sundries had just come in on the 2:05 out of Camp Destiny, and the parlor attendants were foppishly decked in some of the finest fashions out of Esteem, while supping on sumptuous Venuvian hand pastries. Each couple and small group kept to their own whispered-nothings and private intrigues by the curtained booths that ringed the parlor floor.

“Hardly, madame,” Edgewater replied at length, scratching his head. “Your sugary vapors shame even the most haughty women of Keystone.”

Felicia beamed. “How you talk!”

“It’s true,” he said. “And, if you have serious need of my services, true, too, are the claims that I make.”

“And when can you deliver, my smart little hairfoot?” Felicia reached across the hookah stand between them and rustled his hair.

“Posthaste!” Edgewater’s eyes fluttered at the rake of her fingers on his scalp. “Course, I’ve been called worse, madame. And better besides.”

“Oh, beg my pardons!” Felicia fumbled her words and her hookah stem. “I … me … well, you must be one o’ them Folks, now, ain’t ya!”

“The Folk,” Edgewater corrected. “But gnomes and halflings, we must all look alike.” A glass bottle broke somewhere to Edgewater’s left, and he was reminded just how careless and provincial the folk—his race aside—around here were. Careless was fitting here in the Disputed Lands, even if this territory belonged to no province or state in particular, but Rooter’s Station still catered to “back east” sensibilities, and this particular gnome bargained that a name like Edgewater, “Professional Hygienist and Traveling Amateur Genealogist,” would go unnoticed in a place like this. Careless and provincial enough, at least, he hoped.

“Next you’re gonna tell me your name’s not even Edgewater,” Felicia joked.

He laughed nervously. Maybe he shouldn’t have corrected her, after all. Better to leave lying dogs to rest.

Edgewater rose from his seat. “Shall we?” he indicated, lifting a doctor’s folding medicine case at his feet.

“Most certainly, Mr. E!”

Edgewater bowed as she left their smoky corner behind, taking a moment to surreptitiously spy the room for hidden dangers. Following in Felicia’s wake, he was content that everything was safe for the moment.

A knowing pair of eyes or two followed the stunning Felicia Dolloway, aka “Felly Doll,” semi-secret confidant and plaything of the notorious gang boss Rooter Baud, local smuggler and part-time railway saboteur—privately wanted on bounty boards posted up and down the border by companies B&S and South Settler both. She led her gnome companion behind a standing partition, etched in Elven designs, and through a sliding wall behind it. Problem was, poor Mr. Edgewater, while he knew of Rooter Baud’s reputation as a dangerous heavy and Miss Dolloway’s as a flowering socialite, hadn’t put the two of them together, as judging by her genteel nature, but was willing to risk being seen with her for the knowledge she was rumored to have.

The grand hoax of “Mr. Edgewater’s Soiled-Breath Solvaway” had taken Bigby Dolan little more than a day to propagate, which he was thankful for, given that Marlby, long his best friend and now trusted guide across the Disputed, had given them until sundown to rest up before the next leg of their cross-country dodge commenced. The three of them, Poppy included, had resolved that local authorities back in Harmonia were still tongue-tied and hand-tied, if not outright hog-tied, over how to figure out what had happened on the banks of the Heartwater that fateful afternoon more than ten days ago. The day he and Poppy, aided and abetted by Marlby, had left a dead federal agent, dubbed “widowmen” by those outside the government—of which Poppy was a rogue sort—burnt to a crisp in the bottom of their ditched getaway boat. It had been a week and then some of hard trekking and sleeping in empty logs and badger dens. Rooter’s Station was the first real taste of back-home they had afforded themselves, having skipped other easier-to-get-at forts, ranches, and fuel depots, since.

The lights went out as the sliding wall closed behind them.

“Take my hand, now, Mr. Edgewater,” Felicia said. “Where we’re going, there be no lights to see by.”

Mr. Edgewater—Bigby—did as he was bid, and felt his way up the unseen stairs as she led them on.

“I say, Ms. Dolloway?” Bigby whispered.

“Call me, ‘Felly’,” she said.

“Uh, yes. Felly. Felly? I seem to be short on memory, as it serves, but did we discuss my payment at all?”

“Why, no, Mr. E. We did not. In most dealings round these parts, though, payment isn’t rendered or even bandied about until a taste of the services to be bought are full and well proved authentic.”

“Naturally, Ms., err, Felloooo,” he stumbled, toe catching a step, “but … I, er, we ought to have some idea, hadn’t we?”

“We, Mr. E? Why, I thought t’was just you and I.”

"It is!" Bigby said a bit too lively, his accent dropping. "Of course, it is."

“Well, what did you have in mind, Mr. Edgewater?” Felly asked. “Or, was the hookah I treated you to not to your liking?”

“Not at all,” he said, regaining his composure as they reached the landing and a sliver of outdoor light beamed from beneath the door up ahead. “I’s just keen on hearing what you might know about local legends and such. I’m a collector as it were; fancy myself a raconteur of odd stories and personas. I’s curious, is all, what you’d be willing to share about a man called Merylki Bindealer?”

“The Warlock In The Warrens?” Felly said, as if for the first time. “I ain’t ever heard of no ‘Bindealer,’ but I heard a thing or two about Merylki and his last resting place.” She opened the door at the top of the landing to reveal an open-air rooftop patio ringed by a trellis crawling in ivy. A man in loose fitting overalls, his back to the opening door, swept at the patio deck with a long-handled, straw-bottom broom.

“He’s dead?” Bigby said, trying not to sound shocked. “I thought—”

“Last known resting place,” Felly corrected. “They say he’s bewitched and all. Some kind of haunt or spook. Been dead or kilt a dozen times or more, they say.”

“They do now, do they?” Bigby said, feigning disinterest.

Felly paused to regard the groundskeeper, then turned to Bigby, still holding his hand. “Now then, you can lay out your wares over yonder on that bench, and I can send this here feller to fetch your client, my boyfriend.”

Bigby and the groundskeeper both sounded in unison. “Boyfriend?”

Felly and Bigby looked to the groundskeeper as he faced them. The man with the broom wore a twisted grin like the cruel cut left by a vengeful knife, and Bigby saw trouble in his eyes.

“Whutchu doin’ here?” Felly said, mildly surprised, and cocked her body just so as she placed the back of her other hand on her hip.

“Cleanin’ house,” the broom man said.

Bigby stared at the man’s crooked grin and held his breath. Then someone kicked the patio door shut behind them.

Everyone on the patio looked up to see a pudgy, long-tongued brute covered in brown scales, leg a-dangling down from atop the stairwell’s roof against the closed door, and his two companions—one a wily looking young human and the other a barechested, ink-skinned half-elf, equal shares of sinister looks about them—lazing on the prowl.

“Cleaning? Shoot!” Felly said. “Get your sorry butts downstairs and fetch my beau!”

“Fetch fetches,” Crooked Grin said. “Boss keeps me around just for the kill.”

“There ain’t nothing here for you to kill,” Felly said matter-of-factly. “Now, git!”

Crooked looked at Bigby and sneered. “Who’s hand you holdin’, runt?”

Bigby looked at his own hand in Felly’s and tried to let go, but she held on.

“Don’t you go lookin’ at him, you jumpin’ fresh tumbleweed!” Felly leaned into her words. “D’you hear me! Go get, Rooter. I got a present for him.”

Crooked scoffed. “What, this?” he indicated Bigby with his broom. “What piece o’ tard he gonna give you for what, Felly Doll?”

“Just you nev-uh-mind,” she said saucily. “I’s gonna send him to Standing Elk when he’s a-finished.”

“Ho! Ain’t that right?” Crooked looked taken aback. “To do what?”

“He’s looking for somebody!” Felly said.

Bigby felt increasingly alarmed, and began to plot an escape route over the nearby trellis.

Crooked sensed the tension and reached out to grab Bigby by the shirt sleeve. “Who you looking for, stranger?”

Bigby jerked back, more in response to the stink of Crooked Grin’s breath, and felt his jaw tighten. “Why … you, good sir!” He gingerly opened the medicine case and slipped his fingers inside. “I have just the tonic for you! An oral treatment, really. If it serves to prove my claims to our lady here, I’d like you to test some!” Bigby finished with a wave of his hand as it emerged from the case and dashed a bottle of fizzy green liquid in the crook’s open mouth and eyes.

Crooked let out an awful yell as he reared back, dropped the broom, and clawed his face with one hand while reaching into his overalls with the other.

Felly yelped, too, surprised by Edgewater’s sudden move, and weakly leapt between them, flagging both hands, to halt any further aggression.

At their backs, Fat Snout and the other two hopped up ready to pounce.

Crooked was faster than anyone else, however, and ripped a knife from inside his clothes before plunging it blindly, aiming low at Bigby’s neck or face level, into the air ahead of him. Felly’s body verily moved into Crooked’s thrust as the knife buried itself into her loins. He growled triumphantly, and a choked gasp escaped her throat and her features strained.

Everyone except Crooked froze, and as he wiped his vision clear, blinking through a red haze, he, too, saw what he had done. Felly’s blood ran warm over his fist.

Bigby grimaced horribly, but bolted an instant later and scrambled up the trellis to his right after launching his now closed folding case over the side ahead of him.

Felly slumped to the floor with a quiet whimper, and Bigby looked back a second too long to watch her fall.

Fat Snout launched himself off the ledge above the stairwell and tackled Bigby bodily against the trellis, which promptly gave way and folded outward around the rooftop patio’s perimeter like a row of dominoes. The two of them rolled in each other arms, sliding along the rooftop’s tiled awning, as clay tiles spat loose from the weight and shattered on the ground two flights below. Streetside pedestrians gawked in stunned wonder at the fray.

Crooked’s other two henchmen lowered themselves down as Crooked himself stepped over to wrangle the dangling duo, slapping a bloody hand over Bigby’s gripping the rooftop’s edge.

“MURDERER!” Crooked Grin cried. He dragged Bigby to safety and held him in close. “We’ll get you to Standing Elk, murderer,” he spoke harshly into Bigby’s ear. “There ain’t nothing there to find what’s already been done! ‘Cept your bones come t'morrow mornin’!” Crooked turned to look at Tattoo. “Juice this rat!”

The half-elf produced a rusty syringe filled with a bluish liquid and jabbed it into Bigby’s arm before depressing the plunger.

Bigby’s mouth fell open as the patio swallowed him.

Hail to the king, baby!

A d20 nod to the king. Though I'm not a huge horror fan, I definitely dig the comedic stylings this character has been a part of, including now Ash vs Evil Dead.

ASHLEY “ASH” JOANNA WILLIAMS

(circa Army of Darkness) 

Male Human Fast Ordinary 1/Charismatic Ordinary 1/Strong Hero 2/Fast Hero 1/Gunslinger 2/Shadow Slayer 4; CR 10; Medium Humanoid (height 6' 1", weight 176 lb.); Age 29

Init +2; Senses (core) Listen -1, Search +1, Spot +2; Senses (house) Listen/Spot +7, Search +1
Languages English

Defense (core) 20, touch 20, flat-footed 18; Defense (house) 20, touch 14, flat-footed 18; (+2 Dex, +8 class)
hp 71 (11 HD); Mas 14
Fort +7, Ref +9, Will +3
Action Points 8

Speed 30 ft.
Melee unarmed strike +10/+5 (1d6+2 nonlethal, 20) or
Melee chainsaw +9/+4 (3d6+2 slashing, 20) or
Melee by weapon +9/+4
Ranged sawed-off shotgun +12/+7 (2d8 ballistic, 20, 10 ft., S, 2 int.) or
Ranged by weapon +10/+5
Space 5 ft. by 5 ft.; Reach 5 ft.
Base Atk +8; Grp +10
Atk Options Close Combat Shot, Heroic Surge (3/day), Point Blank Shot, Slayer Weapon

Special Qualities none

Abilities Str 13, Dex 15 (14), Con 14 (13), Int 12, Wis 8, Cha 12
'(-)' indicate original ability scores.
Allegiances himself, good, chaos; Rep +2; San 35
          Note: Ash frequently exhibits antisocial and narcissistic behavior, and is prone to hallucinations at critical moments when under emotional duress.
Feats Archaic Weapons Proficiency, Brawl, Exotic Melee Weapon Proficiency (chainsaw), Heroic Surge, Personal Firearms Proficiency, Point Blank Shot, Quick Reload, Simple Weapons Proficiency, Two-Weapon Fighting
Flaws Stump Hand (Ash has the use of only his left hand, which imposes a -4 penalty on all Climb, Disable Device, Drive, Sleight of Hand, and Tumble checks, and restricts his use to one-handed weapons and items only.)—Bonus Feat: Archaic Weapons Proficiency
Skills (core) Bluff +7, Climb +1*, Craft (chemical) +2, Craft (mechanical) +7, Drive +0*, Gather Information +2, Intimidate +8, Jump +5, Knowledge (arcane lore) +2, Knowledge (streetwise) +5, Move Silently +5, Read/Write English, Repair +5, Ride +4, Sense Motive +5*, Sleight of Hand +5, Speak English, Spot +2, Swim +4, Tumble +3*
Skills (house) Athletics +12 (-4 on Climb*), Craft (chemical) +2, Craft (mechanical) +7, Drive +0*, Gather Information +2, Knowledge (arcane lore) +2, Knowledge (streetwise) +5, Perceive +7, Persuade +14, Read/Write English, Repair +5, Ride +4, Sneak +12 (-4 on Sleight of Hand*), Speak English, Tumble +3*
Talents (Strong Hero) Melee Smash
Talents (Fast Hero) Evasion
Talents (Gunslinger) Close Combat Shot, Weapon Focus (sawed-off shotgun)
Talents (Shadow Slayer) Detect Shadow, Shadow Immunity, Slayer Weapon
Starting Occupation Blue Collar (Craft [mechanical], Drive as permanent class skills, +1 on Repair)
Possessions (total weight 17 lb.) mastercraft [+1] Remington Arms 12-gauge sawed-off shotgun “Boomstick” (4 lb.), chainsaw (modified also to attach to wrist mount; 10 lb.), casual outfit (collared shirt & slacks; 2 lb.), holster (shoulder; 1 lb.), wrist mount (can attach equipment modified to mount on it; mounted equipment cannot be fumbled or dropped, and receives +5 against disarm attempts), mechanical right hand (scratch-built [malfunctions, becoming unusable until repaired, on attacks/checks that result in a natural 1 with that hand]; provides a +2 enhancement bonus on Str with that hand; *negates skill penalties [50% chance] and restrictions from his flaw, but still imposes a -1 penalty on attacks [other than unarmed strikes] and a -1 penalty on all Dex-based checks with that hand), foam green Oldsmobile Delta 88 (see below; w/following in trunk: 150-ft rope, gasoline tank, 2-liter plastic soda bottle, red basic mechanical tool kit, Chemistry 101 textbook, hand saw, Steam Power book, Fangoria magazine, shotgun shells [10], Dark Horse Presents Fifth Anniversary Special comic book), various personal items
Wealth Bonus +5

NEW Vehicle Oldsmobile Delta 88 (full-size sedan)

Crew: 1; Pass: 4; Cargo: 450 lb.; Init: –2; Man: –2; Speed: 245 (24); Def: 8; Hard: 5; hp: 36; Size: H; Purchase DC: 27; Res: Lic (+1)

The Delta 88 is a four-door with a Rocket V8 that, despite its size and weight, can achieve impressive speeds for a car of its time (debuted 1973). This Oldsmobile model comes in both 2- and 4-door designs and as a convertible. The Delta is 2 squares wide and 4 squares long.

“Groovy.” —Ash

Master of the Knights of Ren

The main villain from Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens.

KYLO REN, BEN SOLO (Episode VII) CL 10
Medium Human Jedi 7/Force adept 3
Destiny 2; Force 4, Strong in the Force; Dark Side 11

Init +7; Senses Perception +12
Languages Basic, Bocce, High Galactic

Defenses Ref 25 (flat-footed 23), Fort 24, Will 26; Deflect
hp 86; Threshold 24
Immune atmospheric and inhaled poison hazards

Speed 6 squares
Melee unarmed +11 (1d4+7) or
Melee crossguard retrosaber +12 (2d8+9)
Ranged by weapon +11
Base Atk +9; Grp +11
Atk Options Improved Disarm, Melee Defense, Mighty Swing
Special Actions Channel Aggression, Channel Anger, Power of the Dark Side, Shake It Off
Force Powers Known (Use the Force +12): Dark Rage, Force Stun (see below), Intercept*, Memory Walk* (see below)
* See Jedi Academy Training Manual
Force Techniques Force Power Mastery (Force Stun)

Abilities Str 14, Dex 14, Con 13, Int 15, Wis 12, Cha 15
Talents Channel Aggression, Channel Anger, Deflect, Force Perception, Gauge Force Potential, Power of the Dark Side
Feats Force Sensitivity, Force Training (2), Improved Disarm, Melee Defense, Mighty Swing, Shake It Off, Skill Training, Strong in the Force, Weapon Proficiency (lightsabers), Weapon Proficiency (Simple Weapons)
Skills Endurance +11, Knowledge (Galactic lore) +12, Knowledge (tactics) +12, Pilot +12, Use the Force +12
Possessions crossguard retrosaber (see Jedi Academy Training Manual, p.50-53; 0.7 kg), helmet of Ren (fitted only for Kylo and protects him from atmospheric and inhaled poison hazards; 1.5 kg), dark Jedi robes (2.5 kg)

Force Stun (House Rule)
Add the following to the paragraph under the “Special” description for this Force power (Saga Edition Core Rulebook, p.98): Alternatively, you may use a Destiny point when using this power to cause the target to become held in place and unable to move (the target may take no actions, its speed becomes 0, and the target is flat-footed with an added –5 penalty to Defense). This condition persists for at least 1 round; afterward, the target remains “paralyzed” like this, but still aware of its surroundings, until all conditions caused by this power have been removed.

Memory Walk (House Rule)
Add the following sentence to the paragraph under the “Special” description for this Force power (Jedi Academy Training Manual, p.27): Alternatively, you may use a Destiny point when using this power to also glimpse details from the memories that the target is forced to relive. Finding what you seek among the target’s memories may not be as easy as simply looking, and you must succeed on two, three, or four consecutive checks using this power to uncover deeper or more closely guarded memories and secrets kept by the target, as determined by the GM.

The Alchemist's Run

In the need for a quick weekend read? We've got you covered!

Introducing to you, Bigby Dolan and company in The Alchemist's Run.

"Dark Magic in the Root Cellar"

This sinister little tale I wrote can be found in Dreamless Roads - a fantasy anthology, a collection of wonderfully imaginative short stories by a group of talented writers that I am humbled to be a part of. You can find it at these vendors in different formats:

Amazon - paperback or Kindle

Barnes & Noble - both paperback and Nook editions

Have yourself a merry Pure Steam Halloween!

To see how, go here!

BGC:PSLGD.4

Big … cups … logged? Four? Big cups logged for … what? Find out here!