Do the players trust the GM less if they fudge die rolls? Is it okay to kill off someone the PC(s) like instead of the PC(s) themselves?

More than that, what about if a character does die? How do you control the PCs’ use of resurrection, wish, and miracle spells? (Such things will be discussed in particular in a later post, I promise.) What cost should you have the party–or the character–pay for being brought back? Other than the 15,000 gp worth of diamonds, that is. How does this affect the character?

Have fun on the site. We’ve tried to make it pretty open. The rules and About posts are worth reading. They’re general guidelines, contact info, and a little bit about both your administrators and editor(s).

You may have noticed that by default you are a subscriber. This is so that everything isn’t cluttered hideously by spam. We all have better things to do with our time than filter through junk trying to find actual decent content–though you have to do that going through my writing to get to other people’s. If you wish to become a contributor or writer, send me an email at katie@cordite.com or katie@genteelsteel.com

I am more than happy to make you a writer. It make take some extra time on your part, but I’m sure it’s worth it in the interests of keeping things as neat as possible.

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Can be reached at: katie@cordite.com or katie@genteelsteel.com

Tod: The more insane administrator, writer, and GM. Former politician, professional mad scientist, and part time evil genius. Creator of QDRPG. We’re hoping one day to call him a novelist. He has the heart of a little boy…it’s in the top left drawer of his desk. D&D Alignment: Lawful Evil.

Cara: Brilliant and first editor. Artist, musician, fledgling writer, and fencer. Quite crazed player, but we can’t usually get her to GM. Enjoys books, long walks on beaches, and poking dead things with a stick (or a sword). D&D Alignment: Chaotic Neutral.

Bulette. What is the point of a creature described as a “cross between an armadillo and a snapping turtle”?

Delver. Why does D&D like to cross things not meant to be crossed? Including giant slugs and sea turtles–making creatures that eat rock and burrow through solid stone with a corrosive slime they secrete from their skin.

Digester. Who in their right mind creates a creature with a sucking mouth and an orifice in its forehead that squirts stomach acid? And it’s supposed to be some kind of dinosaur. Why are there even dinosaurs in D&D?

Dire Ape & Dire Badger. Okay, one can make a case for dire wolves and bears and all that. But how do you justive either an ape resembling a large gorrilla with long, ivory claws and razor-sharp teeth standing about 8 feet tall and weighting from 600 to 1000 lbs. Or a badger that’s from 5 to 7 feet long and weighs up to 500 pounds? Besides, “Beware the Dire Badger!” just doesn’t sound the same.

Displacer Beast. Okay, I will admit, this thing is pretty cool in 4th edition. But what’s up with the tentacles? Do they really belong on something furry?

Ettercap. Freaky yes, kind of neat…maybe. But is anyone else noticing a disproportionate number of spider monsters in D&D? And it resembles a cross between a gangly human and a bloated spider. Was there alcohol involved in the creation of this creature?

Girallon. You already have a dire ape. Do you really need a giant albino gorrilla with four arms and two back legs?

Krenshar. Wouldn’t there be some serious problems with a creature who pulls the skin back from its head revealing the muscles and bony structure? I’m pretty sure that skin is there for a reason.

Mimic. This is just cruel. The thing can disguise itself as any object, and then kill the players. I mean, really.

Ooze. Why do you have a monster based on jello?

Owlbear. Bears can be scary. Owls, not so much. Why in heaven’s name was this combined? Tremble before the might of the owlbear! Yeah, we’re all really shaking in our boots, birdbrain.

Porpoise. When did dolphins become monsters?

Rast. It’s like a cross between a spider and a dinosaur with a mouth that occupies almost its entire head. Except it has way too many legs. Obviously, the way it can catch people is by sending them into a state of utter confusion as they try and figure out how the hell it moves.

Roper. Look, a stalagmite with a gaping maw that could bite me in half and long sticky strands! Another mimic to kill players!

Sea Lion. Why is this even a monster?

Shambling Mound. A carnivorous heap of rotting vegetables. Would someone like to explain to me how that works?

Shocker Lizard. Weird, yes, but it’s so cute! And can kill you with electricity, but hey. I wish I could put the picture in here.

Tarrasque. Gozilla comes to mind. It begins to resemble the terror of Tokyo more and more with every edition.

Tendriculos. Now there’s a plant with tentacles. When will it end?

Toad. It’s not even a dire toad. And yet, it’s in the Monster Manual. Maybe if you lick it?

Vargouille. Not only is this a flying head, but guess how it creates more! It kisses a victim, and they are subjected to the indignity of going bald and having their head carried off by their ears. Not to mention the fact that they sprout tentacles on their scalp and chin. (Look, his goatee is moving!)

Weasel. Maybe if you really try, you could get one to attack you. Dangerous to first level characters in the earlier editions.

Whale. Do they normally eat people?

Also, is it cruel to put characters into a situation the GM believes they can’t get out of or pit them against villains they’re positive the party can’t kill?

And what about those monsters that are apparently designed to destroy characters?

“Quite, Your Honor,” I said politely. My second settlement this week, and it has to be a nasty divorce. “If my learned friend would care to do the honors?”

“Tomorrow morning at eight, Miss Wolfe. Think you can make it?” my opponent asked, cocking his head slightly in a fashion calculated to irritate me.

“I believe I can, Mr. Johnston.”

Ah, yes, the peerless William Johnston, a lean man with a permanent sardonic grin, sandy hair, and blue eyes that were supposedly quite popular with the ladies. I wouldn’t know, as I was never a fan of them myself.

He and I were classmates at the Yale College of Litigation, and his reputation was formidable–that being one of the rare understatements I allow myself. This case would prove more difficult than I had originally anticipated. And it was a pity, too. My shoulder still had yet to heal from my last court appearance.

The ten minute walk back to my offices was a pleasant affair, a crisp autumn breeze heavy with the scent of rain sending leaves skittering around the pavement on either side of my lanky frame. People tell me that I’m too tall, standing a good three inches above six feet. Even so, the extra bit of reach that serves me well in my current profession.

The weight of the old fashioned brass key in my left hand seems negligible compared to the item that I most often hold–yet another thing that sets me apart from Johnston and the others. I’m a southpaw. It forces them into four and counter-four, rather than six and counter-six like they’re used to, whereas I get to use the same ones every time.

“How’d it go?” my junior partner asked, looking up at the sound of our heavy office door swinging shut.

“About as well as could be expected for a truly unpleasant one,” I answered. “Did you get coffee?”

“On your desk. Am I your second?” Rick asked, enthusiasm glowing outward like light from a miniature sun.

“If you really must be. Will you start getting everything ready?”

“Of course.”

“Number two sounds about right. Johnston is all about power, and it would give me just the right amount of speed.”

“I might have to switch the guards so it’s balanced.”

“Use steel instead of a titanium one, then,” I said mildly, sipping from the Starbucks mocha. “Eight o’clock a.m., on the dot. Can you be ready by then?”

“Of course! Besides, it’s you that really has to be ready. How’s the shoulder?”

“Painful but of little consequence. I won the last one with it injured, and I can do it again,” I said, gnawing my lower lip in thought. “Be sure you put a good edge on it if you’re going to touch it up. We don’t want a repeat of March.”

His face fell as he thought of the incident, and I instantly regretted having brought it up. “I am sorry, Adrie.”

“It’s okay,” I said lightly. “Let’s just make this the sort of mistake that only happens once. I’m going to go home. I’ll meet you in court.”

He nodded absentmindedly, turning to the rack in the back of my office. I left the windbreaker I had been wearing on the cluttered walnut surface of my desk and took a heavier coat off the brass stand in the corner of the break room on my way out the door.

Humming a jaunty tune of some childish song conjured up from days of yore, I started my journey homeward through the back allies of Portland. Occasionally I would pause and look up at the blue sky undimmed by clouds through the gleaming towers of skyscrapers, squinting a little in the bright sun. The pavement was still dark and wet from the morning’s rain, air mercifully clear of the golden pollen that tormented the sinuses of the populace.

It was a beautiful afternoon. Perhaps that was why the duel was set for the 10th instead. Why sully a perfectly lovely day with bloodshed?

The next morning was a dreary day, the drizzle of rain heavy enough to be miserable, but not enough to warrant postponing the fight. The celestial weather department, as I have always fancied, has a twisted sense of humor.

I beat Rick to the court, a smooth ellipse of grit the rain had effectively turned into a very shallow swamp. I sighed in irritation, shaking the delicate beads of water off the canvas of my coat. My wonderful second turned up not only with my sword and gloves, but also with a big cup of black coffee. The man is heaven-sent, I swear to you.

Johnston had wasted no time in getting to his spot. He and I were thinking along the same lines when we dressed this morning–a sure sign of two experienced duelists.  We were both dressed in nylon track pants, close fitting, long sleeved white T-shirts, leather gloves, and tennis shoes. I had stretched earlier and jogged the whole way here.

A point: the phrase warmed-up is idiotic in October Oregon weather at its best, especially in the rain. The chill had seeped almost all the way to my bones, staved off only by the scalding hot caffeinated liquid that seems to form the staple of my existence. And yet, I had set the mug aside and moved out to the center of the muck to face Johnston.

Water dripped from the tip of my small sword as I took my en guarde position. There’s nothing quite like a fight to the death to bring all of one’s senses into focus. We began.

I make it sound so mundane, but it really isn’t. Excuse me while I try and describe it on paper. Your hands tremble with adrenaline, the guards ring dully when they are struck, and every whipped cut from your opponent stings like the blazes. People say that before death, your life flashes before your eyes. It’s true. That’s called “living”.

I began to retreat through the slop, relying on my superior footwork to save my skin. Prime, circu, octave, tierce…and then there it was. Light seemed to stream down and pinpoint the movement like some God-sent beacon of hope. He was trying to envelope my blade and disarm me, but in doing so he had to bring the point across his body. Damning for him, but that move was my saving grace.

It was a textbook lunge, executed at blurring speed without a thought. I knew it had to be fatal. The world seemed to stop, my misty breath hanging suspended in mid air for a moment. Out of the surreal state that had consumed my mind, these words appeared: Shrimp for dinner tonight. An omen? I sincerely doubt that.

Was that wrong? Was the way I grinned like a maniac as I walked away evil? Such questions often trouble me.

The answer I have found is perhaps. But in fair Portland where we lay our scene, civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

The other priestess seized her by the upper arms and shook her violently before she could continue her rant. “Shut up, you fool! Do you want her to hear you say that?” Zarniss said, keeping her voice low. “You know she has spies everywhere!”

“Shebali!” the steely-eyed drowess said, spitting on the smooth stones that lead up to the Fane’s stairs. “At least I have noble blood!”

Zarniss released the impetuous high priestess and slapped her across the face, sending her sprawling into the gray dust. “I wouldn’t care if you were the daughter of the Goddess herself. You will mind your tongue when I tell you. Let’s not forget which of us is in charge.”

“Yes, Revered Zarniss,” Olorra said, poisoning her elder’s title with all the venom she dared. The other female wasn’t intimidated in the slightest by the glare leveled at her. Zarniss had seen far worse looks in her century as a priestess of Lloth with those almost colorless gray eyes, oddly flat and shifty as they took in the world. This plan was, in her educated opinion, bad.

“Playing, children?” a smooth voice said, flowing like oil over ice. Both priestesses felt their blood run cold in their veins and looked up, captured by sea-green eyes filled with an amused contempt.

“Arch Priestess, what a surprsie,” Zarniss managed. The rebuke would have invited retribution had it been any cleric besides the woman before them who uttered it.

Malavin Ken’ar stood a full head above the standing drowess, easily making six feet tall in her bare feet. She gazed down from that impressive height with a more benign form of malevolence, obviously less than impressed. Olorra’s temper would have acted up, had she not been frozen in terror.

The Arch Priestess of Lloth sighed ponderously and pushed her hair behind one ear, its color seeming to shift slightly. It appeared silver except in natural light when its true shade could be seen, a faint golden blond. Some aspiring clerics had tried to spread the rumor she was tainted with surface elven blood, but their efforts amounted to naught. Matron Mother Ilmniss Ken’ar OUsstyl was not a woman to tarry with non-drow, let alone faeries.

“I saw neither of you at the surface,” she said finally, studying their faces closely. Her voice broke the sudden silence that had filled the air for a brief space. “But excuse me, perhaps I slipped into some archaic tongue. Or is there some part of the word ‘mandatory’ the two of you have difficulty comprehending? Is it possible I was unclear?”

The two of them went as pale as their dark skin would allow. “Ah…ah…” Olorra struggled to find the words she needed and failed miserably.

“Yes, no doubt you have something to say, High Priestess Olorra. You never seem to have a shortage of singularly useless comments,” Malavin said with a humorless smile. “That tongue of yours may get you into trouble some day, when you cross the wrong person.”

She knows. Oh, by Lloth, she knows, Olorra moaned in her thoughts. I’m doomed…we’re doomed!

Zarniss couldn’t look away from the Arch Priestess’s mesmerizing gaze, unaware that her thoughts mirrored Olorra’s perfectly. She just prayed that her face didn’t betray anything.

“Reverend Daughter Zarniss, the C’rintrin Talthara is convening at the peak of Faer’Ssussun and I am regrettably obliged to attend. I leave the Fane in your charge while I’m gone,” Malavin said dismissively, glancing up at the magical timekeeper in the center of the Ghetto of Scholars. She started down the path past them.

Before Zarniss’s chest could swell too far with self-importance, Malavin halted as though a thought had occurred to her. “Oh, and make sure the Fane’s still standing when I return,” she said over her shoulder.

“Yes, Arch Priestess,” the Reverend Daughter said, pride stung. Olorra let out an unpleasant snicker once their superior had continued on her way and was well out of earshot.

“You look a touch humiliated, Zarniss.”

“Revered Zarniss to you, whelp,” the older drowess snapped. “Get up. The Fane will have to be in perfect order when she returns.”

* * *

“These reports are disturbing,” Malavin said, the Matrons quieting slightly as she spoke. “People and shipments disappearing in the tunnels…we can’t afford to lose the trade. However, flying into a blind panic isn’t going to help either. We have to find whatever’s responsible and deal with it.”

“The scouting parties we’ve sent haven’t returned,” Sabinil Vae said sourly. Her face was as dour as ever, disguising a particularly poisonous temper. “How then are we supposed to identify our foes? Why don’t–”

“We found a survivor,” Ilvistin Tormtor interrupted. “Of one of your scouting parties, Matron Sabinil.”

“And why wasn’t I informed of this?” Vae’s Matron Mother snapped.

“He didn’t survive very long. We did learn that he was beset upon not only by former companions that had no memory of him or desire to stop fighting, but some nameless horror that had stripped them of their will and enslaved them. He apparently barely managed to escape the latter. When we found him, there were circular bruises on his face, and a lot of them.”

A horrified silence blanketed the room, the air itself opressive and heavy with dread. “Illithids,” the Matron of House Everhate whispered.

Only Malavin’s face remained impassive. “A company of dread fangs will be sent to learn the truth of this. Until they return, no one is to know of this. A city in panic would prove easy prey to mind flayers.”

“So be it. This council has ended,” Matron Ilvistin said. “It may be prudent to consult with Mistress Xanaphia as well. She and Tsavyr will be exceedingly valuable if things do go badly.”

The Arch Priestress restrained a groan. She would rather confront mind flayers on a battle field than speak with those two arcanists. “Perhaps,” she said aloud, despite her inner thoughts. “If they can be convinced.”