The Gaming Outpost

(and how Pugg got him the cure)

I was gonna send Wastelands Chapter 3 (A Library of Friends), but seeing this is Valentines and all, I felt this might be a bit more appropriate. So, for those of you looking for Wastelands stuff, hang in there. You’ll get it next week. In the meantime, I entreat you to join some old friends in celebration of a Catholic monk getting hacked to pieces in a tale from Orkworld…

Part One: Apples

It was a fine day, a sunny day. That there sun, he shone down his light all over the green-green and he made it all warm and sleepy for all us down here. So warm and sleepy, our eyes are only half open, and our heads are only half thinking.

“It is a fine day,” Pugg said, looking at the world all thick and slow from the sleepy sun. “A fine day… for a trick.”

So that’s Pugg, that little fox, walking through the world with his little bag, all ready to thwak someone good. See, inside that bag of his, he’s got himself something that’s gonna cause all kinds of trouble. See, he’s got himself a love potion.

It wasn’t easy to make. He needed an ahlvsees tear, and that was no mean thwak, I’ll tell you that. He needed sweat from a shtuntee’s beard, and he sure got him a burn down his backside running from that one. Lastly, he needed a dragon’s laugh, and the story he told to catch that in his bag… well, that’s another story all together now, and we don’t want to be telling too many stories all at once.

But even Pugg can’t say no to that hot hot sun for too long, so when he gets himself tired, he starts looking for a wide tree dropping shade right down so he can take himself a little sleep. And who should he see walking through the fields but his own big brother, carrying seventeen hands of troll heads over his shoulder.

“Hey there brother of mine!” Pugg calls out. “What you got there?”

And here comes Bashthraka, stomping up the green field, a big, wide smile on his face. “Trolls!” he shouts, showing the seventeen hands of heads he’s got, holding them together by their long troll hair.

“Why do you have troll heads?” Pugg asked.

“They thought they could make stew out of Bashthraka! So, Basthraka killed them! Now, Bashthraka’s taking the heads back to mom. She makes good troll ear stew.”

“It’s true,” Pugg said, remembering the last time he was at home, smelling the stew brewing and bubbling in their mother’s big, black pot.

“Brother,” Pugg said, shouldering his pack, his little fox smile starting to spread on his lips. “You look tired.”

“Bashthraka never gets tired!” said Bashthraka.

“Oh, but you look tired. And the sun, it’s so hot. How long have you been carrying those troll heads?”

“Not long enough!” Bashthraka said. “Bashthraka still has a long way to go before he gets back home to mom and her pot!” And with that, Bashthraka started pounding his way toward Keethdowmga’s magic house.

But Pugg caught up with him, jogging along side Bashtraka’s huge feet. “Are you sure you don’t want to stop under these shady trees and rest just for one moment?”

Bashthraka shook his head. “No!” he said, and he kept walking, his footfalls shaking the trees, making fruits fall from their branches.

Pugg caught one of the apples with his free hand and looked at his big brother’s backside as it kept moving away. Then, he opened his mouth, bared his teeth and took a big, wet, juicy, noisy bite right out of that apple.

And as soon as he did, Bashthraka stopped… and turned slowly.

“Are those apples?!” Bashthraka asked.

Pugg took another big, wet, juicy, noisy bite right out of the apple and smiled as he nodded. “Uh huh.”

“How many apples do you have?” Bashthraka asked.

“I’m only carrying one right now. The rest are all over the ground, just waiting for someone to come carry them.

Bashthraka dropped the troll heads, and they hit the grass with a heavy squish! as he ran toward the apple tree, picking up apples and popping them in his mouth, gulping them down faster than he could grab them. He might have chewed one, but nobody can say for sure.

When all the apples were gone, Bashthraka rubbed his belly. “Good apples!” he said, and turned back to the troll heads.

“Is that all you’re going to eat?” Pugg asked.

Bashthraka nodded. “Bashthraka is done with apples! He wants troll ears!”

“There are more apple trees right over there,” Pugg said, pointing them out to his brother.

“Didn’t you hear Bashthraka?! He said he was done with apples and he wanted troll ears!”

“It’s just that… well, I ate some apples yesterday, and I ate more apples than you did.”

“What are you saying to Bashthraka?!” asked Bashthraka.

“I’m not saying anything. I just thought you could eat more apples than that. That’s all.”

“Bashthraka can eat all the apples he wants!” shouted Bashthraka. “How many apples did you eat yesterday?!”

“Oh, about ten hands or…”

“TEN HANDS!!! IS THAT ALL??!! BASHTHRAKA WILL EAT TWENTY HANDS OF APPLES!!! YOU’LL SEE!!!”

And with that, Bashthraka ran off into the apple orchard.

“I’m sure you will,” said Pugg, a little smile on his face, and he sat under a tree, pulling his cap down, resting his eyes until his big brother came back.

Bashthraka ran through the apple trees, ripping them from the ground roots and all, eating them whole. He ripped up apple trees here and there, hither and thither, there and yon until there were no more apple trees left in the entire valley.

Then, when there were no more apple trees, he found a grove of cherry trees, and he ripped them up and he ate them down.

When there were no more cherry trees, he found a grove of pear trees, and he ripped them up and he ate them down.

When there were no pear trees, he found a grove of juniper trees, and he ripped them up and he ate them down.

On and on he went, until finally, his stomach started to bubble and his big mouth made burps that even the Great Toad Gorlam could hear. And when he was done, he went back to little Pugg and he sat down right next to him under that bare apple tree.

“Are you done?” Pugg asked.

“Bashthraka thinks Bashthraka ate too much,” said Bashthraka.

“Well, why don’t you rest it off. Sit down here with me and we’ll sleep till morning. By then, your stomach should be just fine.”

“All right,” said Bashthraka. “Bashthraka will sit down here,” and he did, “and he’ll close his eyes,” and he did, “and he’ll…”

Silence…

Pugg smiled. “And he’ll rest right by me while I sleep so no nasty troll or dwarf or elf will come and make trouble for me while I’m resting my eyes.”

And for once, Bashthraka didn’t say anything.

“Good night, big brother,” Pugg said, and he fell asleep.

Part Two: Trouble

Perhaps it was his trouble that woke Bashthraka first. Or maybe it was Pugg’s trouble that kept him asleep. Nobody knows, and its best just not to think about such things, let alone say them out loud.

But for whatever the reason, Bashthraka woke first, and when he did, he felt all those apples trees and cherry trees and juniper trees rolling around in his stomach, and when he did, he said:

“Bashthraka is thirsty!”

He looked around, but he didn’t see anything to drink. Then, he spied his little brother Pugg, all sleepy under the shade of the apple tree and he smiled.

“Bashthraka’s brother always has a bottle of bala in his pouch! Bashthraka will thwak just a little sip!”

He flipped open the flap of Pugg’s pouch and right there, right inside, was a little bottle of something. Bashthraka took it out of the pouch just as Pugg started to wake.

“What is it brother?” he asked, his eyes still full of sticky sleep and his brain still full of wandering dreams.

“Nothing!” Bashthraka shouted, the thought that maybe it might have been kind of a good idea to whisper missing his head by about two fingers. And before Pugg could drag himself out of his dreams, he popped the cork off the bottle and drank down the liquid inside.

“Ah!” said Bashthraka. “That was…”

And then, for the second time, Bashthraka didn’t say anything. Because the love potion Pugg had hiding in his bag, the one he was saving, grabbed hold of Bashthraka’s spleen and squeezed.

It squeezed stronger than a dragon’s coil.

It squeezed stronger than a shtuntee’s bum.

It squeezed stronger than a dowmga’s goodbye hug.

It squeezed.

Pugg jumped to his feet, only just now realizing what happened. “What did you do?” he shouted.

Bashthraka just rose to his feet, his eyes focused on something across the field.

“You drank the love potion!” Pugg shouted. “You big oaf, you drank the love potion!”

“Be quiet, little brother,” Bashthraka said softly, gently pushing Pugg aside. “And speak not in such dismelodious tones in the presence of such a beauty.”

“Dismelodious tones?” Pugg couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Did you just say…”

Bashthraka turned softly on his heel and put his finger over Pugg’s lips. “Hush, little one,” he said. “Before you disturb the restless beauty who rests in yonder pasture.”

And with that, Bashthraka bounded across the fields, rushing with his arms open toward something just beyond Pugg’s view.

“This is some trouble,” Pugg said. “He even left his spear behind.” Pugg picked up Bashthraka’s spear and watched him, still bounding away. “I’ve got to do something about this…”

Then, Pugg stopped.

Then, Pugg smiled.

“I’ve got to do something about this,” he said. And, with Bashthraka’s spear in hand, he bounded off after his big brother, certain indeed that the next few days were going to be a whole lot of fun.

Part Three: Bashthraka’s Love

“Brother?” Pugg shouted, peering through the woods. “Where are you?”

No answer.

“He’ll get love sick over the first thing he saw,” Pugg muttered to himself. “Whatever that was.”

Just then, a space between the trees, and Pugg found his big brother, his arms wrapped around something. Bashthraka’s huge shoulders blocked out Pugg’s view.

“Sweet, delicate one,” Bashthraka whispered. “How did I live without you? How did I make it through a single day without you?”

“Hello, brother,” Pugg said, trying to get a better view of who it was Bashthraka had gotten love sick for.

“Good morning sweet Pugg,” Bashthraka said. “How are you today?”

“Fine. Just fine.” Pugg tilted on one foot. “You mind introducing me to your… friend?”

“Not at all,” Bashthraka said. “Brother Pugg. Allow me to introduce you to my love.”

Bashthraka opened his thick arms, and Pugg looked. Resting there, in the dirt, just below Bashthraka’s knees was a tiny evergreen sapling, not more than one winter old.

“She’s…” Pugg began, doing his best to swallow his laughter. “She’s…”

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Bashthraka asked.

“Oh, she’s a beauty all right,” Pugg said. “And what a healthy green she is.”

“Yes,” Bashthraka said, gently caressing her needles and branches. “Healthy and green.”

Pugg bit his tongue so hard, he felt blood oozing through his teeth. “But, she’s rather quiet, isn’t she?”

Bashthraka nodded. “I don’t know why,” he said. “Perhaps she’s shy?”

“No,” Pugg said. “It’s because she’s angry.”

Bashthraka lept to his feet, his knees shivering. “Angry?!?” he shouted, his voice tottering with fear. “Is she angry with me?!?”

“Yes,” said Pugg, his eyes narrowing. “You haven’t performed the love ritual, my brother. What do you expect her to be  happy?”

Bashthraka fell to his knees. “But Bashthraka’s never been in love before! Bashthraka doesn’t know what to do!”

“Then listen carefully, my brother,” Pugg said, his voice all scolding like his mother’s. “You have to go out into the world without your spear and prove your love.”

“How! Tell Bashthraka how!”

“Pain proves love, my brother. Go out and find pain.”

It was Bashthraka’s turn to narrow his eyes. “Are you telling Bashthraka that in order to prove he’s in love, Bashthraka has to get beat up?!”

Pugg nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you, brother.”

Bashthraka looked at Pugg. Pugg looked at Bashthraka. Then, Bashthraka looked at the sapling.

And the sapling looked back.

“Spuh!” Bashthraka cried out. “Bashthraka’s love wants Bashthraka to go get beat up!”

“And the more beat up, the better,” Pugg said. “Now, go get beaten. And when you’re done, come back here, and you’re love won’t be so shy anymore.”

Bashthraka sighed and rose back to his feet. He reached for his spear, but Pugg held it away, shaking his head. “No shield, either,” he told Bashthraka, and Bashthraka dropped his spear on the ground, turning away. He cast one long, lonely, forlorn look at the sapling, and gave it a sad wave goodbye.

Part Three: Fighting

On the first day, Bashthraka walked to a dark, stinky swamp. There, he found a troll, eating what was left of a dwarf, which shows you that trolls will eat just about anything. Trolls are dumb.

“Troll!” shouted Bashthraka. “Bashthraka is love sick, and the only way for him to prove his love is for you to fight him!”

The troll looked up and when he saw Bashthraka, he dropped it down into the swamp. “I don’t want to fight you,” the troll said. “You’re Bashthraka. You’ll kill me!”

“Fight Bashthraka so he can prove that he’s love sick!”

The troll took a step back. “Uh, please. I’m just a troll. I’m too skinny and my nose is too big and I’m dumb enough to eat dwarves. I don’t want to fight you.”

“You won’t help Bashthraka prove he’s love sick? You are one dead troll!” And with that, Bashthraka charged the troll and ripped off his arms, twisted his legs in a knot and poked out his eyes. And then, Bashthraka killed him.

On the second day, Bashthraka walked through the tall, cold, snowy mountains. There, he found an ogre, surrounded by gold and gems and jewels, which shows you that ogres collect useless things they can’t carry. Ogres are dumb.

“Ogre!” shouted Bashthraka. “Bashthraka is love sick, and the only way for him to prove his love is for you to fight him!”

The ogre looked up from his gold and jewels and when he saw Bashthraka, he dropped them down, and they spilled down the snowy mountainside. “I don’t want to fight you,” the ogre said. “You’re Bashthraka. You’ll kill me!”

“This is the second time someone won’t help Bashthraka prove he’s love sick!”

“If I fight you, you’ll kill me,” the ogre said.

“If you don’t fight Bashthraka, Bashthraka will kill you!”

“Well, when you put it that way…” And with that, the ogre jumped up and ran through the snow, running for his cave.

But Bashthraka is quicker than some fat, ugly, one-eyed ogre who collects gold and gems and jewels and other useless things that he can’t eat, and he pulled off his ears, and ripped his skin right off his body and plucked his toes off his feet like grapes off a vine. And then, Bashthraka killed him.

On the third day, Bashthraka wandered into the desert, and there he found an army of men and an elf, sitting in his floating chariot. All the men had chains around their necks and ankles as they pulled the floating chariot along, the elf sipping wine as the others carried his weight.

“Elf!” shouted Bashthraka. “Bashthraka is love sick, and the only way for him to prove his love is for you to fight him!”

The elf looked up from his wine and when he saw Bashthraka, he set it down beside him and said, “I don’t want to fight you. That would take just too much effort. I’m exherting myself a bit much even talking to you now, so why don’t you go on your little way, little ork, and perhaps I will not flay you alive and sup upon the marrow in your bones and make carpets from your hide and fingernail clippers from your teeth, for I am Lord Aelderdandendalon dan der…”

“IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT YOUR NAME IS!!!” Bashthraka shouted. “Bashthraka doesn’t care about proving his love sickness, he’s just going to kill you because you’re a stupid, weak, hallow-boned, big eyed, stupid elf!”

“Oh dear,” said the elf, and commanded his man-slaves to kill Bashthraka.

The army charged, all ten and ten and ten and ten hands of them. They attacked Bashthraka and Bashthraka killed them all.

And when they were all dead, Bashthraka looked up at the elf, standing all alone without a single slave to even lift his hand for him.

“Now,” said Bashthraka, “you will fight Bashthraka, and you will help him prove that he’s love sick!”

“What in the world are you talking about you big, loathsome creature? Do you have any idea who you’re talking to? I am Lord Ael… agh!”

Bashthraka’s hand was around the elf lord’s throat as fast as a snake strikes. “Bashthraka told you what Bashthraka thinks of your name.” And with that, he squeezed.

Squeezed tighter than a dwarf holds his greed.

Squeezed tighter than an elf holds his pride.

Squeezed tighter than a man holds his fear.

Squeezed almost as tight as the love that held his liver. Almost.

And when he squeezed, that elf’s head popped right up into the sky and fell down with the same sound a melon makes when it hits the ground.

Plop.

But watching the head pop, Bashthraka was suddenly very sad. He turned away from the sand valley where he killed the army and walked back to his love.

(But, if you go to that valley today, the sand is still red from the blood of the army he killed, and you can hear the dead elf’s head whispering, hoping to find its body.)

Part Four: Toad

Pugg saw Bashthraka walking back to the little sapling, his head hung low, his shoulders slumped.

“What’s wrong brother,” Pugg asked.

“Nobody will beat up Bashthraka,” Bashthraka said.

“I’ll beat you up,” said Pugg.

Bashthraka’s teeth gnashed and his hands squeezed.

“All right. Mabye I won’t beat you up.”

Bashthraka lowered himself to the tree, touching its needles so soft. “I’m sorry,” he said to the tree. “I tried to get beat up. But nobody will fight me. Everyone in the world is afraid of me. Everyone but…”

Bashthraka’s eyes popped open.

Pugg dropped the spear.

“You better not be thinking…” Pugg began, but Bashthraka was already on his feet.

“There’s only one thing in the world that can beat up Bashthraka!” Bashthraka said. “And that’s the Great Toad Gorlam!”

Pugg jumped after him. “All right,” he said. “This isn’t funny anymore. This is serious. Brother, you have to listen to me.”

Bashthraka grabbed Pugg by the neck and he squeezed. Not a lot. Just enough.

“Bashthraka is going to prove that he’s love sick. One way or another. And there is nothing  and Bashthraka means nothing  that you can do to stop Bashthraka.”

“Big brother,” Pugg managed to spit out through his squeezed throat. “If you go down to the center of the world and face the Great Toad Gorlam, you’ll die.”

“Better to die love sick than die…” Bashthraka shook his head. “You know what Bashthraka means.” He tossed Pugg down to the ground and Pugg ran after him, clutching at his sore throat.

“Brother, if you go there, at least let me go with you.”

“Bashthraka goes alone.”

Pugg was desperate. He looked around him, looking for something  anything  he could use to trick his brother from going to meet the Great Toad, but his mind was full of panic and dread, and when that happens, there just ain’t no trick to be found.

And that’s when his eyes fell on the little evergreen sapling. And that’s when his eyes lit up like stars in the black, winter sky.

“Well, kick me,” Pugg said. Bashthraka turned to see what kind of trick his brother was trying to play now, and that’s when he saw it, too.

With big, heavy footfalls, Bashthraka walked  no, that’s not right  he staggered back to the grove and dropped on his knees before the little tree. One of his huge hands reached down just slightly and touched the pink flower that blossomed there between the branches and the needles.

Pugg was looking at the tree, so he didn’t see the little tear that fell from Bashthraka’s eye, and he didn’t hear the little whisper his lips made.

“Thank you,” he said.

Then, like a thunderstorm, he grabbed Pugg by the throat and lifted him high in the air.

“YOU SAID YOU WANTED TO BEAT UP BASHTHRAKA!!!”

“nah,” Pugg managed to say. “nahrry.”

“YOU HAD BETTER BE SORRY LITTLE BROTHER!!! THE NEXT TIME YOU SAY YOU WANT TO BEAT UP BASHTHRAKA, BASHTHRAKA WILL… BASHTHRAKA WILL…”

Bashthraka threw Pugg down and picked up his spear and threw it in the air, into a giant hawk that was there, looking down at the little sapling’s brand new blossom, hoping it might get a bit of desert for the rabbit it just ate, and Bashthraka’s spear split it in two.

“BASHTHRAKA WILL KILL YOU!!!”

And with that, Bashthraka got back his spear, picked up his shield and stomped away across the field, picked up his troll ears and marched on off to Keethdowmga’s magic house.

Pugg shook his head and rubbed his throat. Then, he looked at the little sapling, it’s blossom all bright.

“You caused me a lot of trouble, little one,” he said, picking up his pouch and his cap. He turned away, walking after his brother. “The very seed of the Tree of Troubles herself.”

And as he walked away, the wind came through the valley and whistled through the needles and branches of that little tree, and Pugg turned around and looked, cause he was sure he could hear that little evergreen laughing.

And that’s how Bashthraka got love sick and how Pugg got him the cure.

2 ~ The Clockmaker

The clock in the tower chimes every hour on the hour, and the Clockmaker hears every one. He walks down the dark city streets with the sound of his step counting the seconds.

Clip-clop.

Clip-clop.

Clip-clop.

He leans heavy on his false foot, the ache in his other a bit too much for this cold, winter morning. Mist like silver moss creeps on the citys streets as the Clockmaker turns onto Red Lantern way.

He stops here every Satunday and the girls always tease him, trying to make him smile. He stops in front of the clock on the corner of the street and takes the chain of keys from his pocket. They jingle-jangle in his thick, thick fingers and as he finds the right key, the redhead mentions something about girth and length. She kneels down to rustle his long, coarse hair and touches the tip of his wide, wide nose.

My daddy always told me dwarves had thick heads, she says, caressing the circumference of his skull. The girls giggle and whisper. The Clockmaker says nothing.

He finds the right key and slides it into the lock as the girls twist the locks of his beard. The key clicks inside the iron box, the tumblers turn and the door creaks open with a pained ache. One of the girls makes a sound worth a pocket-full of silvers. With the door open, he hooks the keys on his belt and reaches down for his tools.

The tools in his bag and on his belt are arranged carefully. He knows the arrangement well, and can find any tool without the use of his eyes; his thick fingers are all he needs. And thats fortunate& considering he only has one good eye. It buzzes and clicks in his head as it focuses on what it needs to show him. Hes had to repair the lens twice since he made it, and when he made it, his fingers were swift and certain, good compensation for his failing eyesight. When he was done, his left eye was full of clouds and his right not far from the same. The surgeon replaced his left and he spent six weeks preparing its mate. On the seventh week, his cousins and brothers were gone, leaving him alone with his clocks.

He sees whats wrong and sets himself to work. It requires one of his heavier tools. With his eyes fixed on the problem, he reaches to the bottom of the bag and pulls it out, clipping an attachment he takes from one of his pockets. As he works, twisting the valve slowly, making certain not to use too much pressure, otherwise the valve will crack under the weight and hell have to go back to his workshop and fetch a replacement; he didnt have room in his bag for it, something he should have thought of, but he was distracted by vandals who broke the cornerclock on Birthrum and 9th.

The clock ticks back to life, the blonde smiles and claps and the brunette whispers a congratulations in his cracked ear that sounds more like an invitation. Something resembling a smile stirs in his belly, but he keeps it down with a quick swallow from the bottle on his belt.

He puts his tools away and takes the keys from his belt. He shuts the door and puts the key in the lock. The redhead makes the obvious comment and as he turns the key they make that sound only Red Street girls know how to make.

He steps one step back, lifts his tool bag and turns on his heel. It makes the sound of metal on stone and he begins the long walk to his next scheduled stop. The girls throw him kisses and promise that next time will be different. Next time, theyll coax smile under that thick, thick beard. He says nothing, only tipping his hat one step away from turning the corner, and the girls all smile, already formulating plans.

Clip-clop.

Clip-clop.

Clip-clop.

Three blocks later, at Wurster and Phrumph, he stops under another silent cornerclock. This one requires a little grease in the sprockets and three new springs. He sets himself to his work, listening to the silence of the streets.

Five blocks later, at Shim and Seth, a valve requires one of his specialty tools. He reaches to the bottom of the bag, and pulls it out. He sets his hands round the back of the tool to get the right leverage. As he works, twisting the valve slowly, his eyes fall on the pedestal in the center of the square, and remembers the statue that once stood there. Now, a lump of marble is the only reminder of what was once there. He looks at the world around him, the lump of earth that is the only reminder of what was once here.

Just as he finishes, something floats over his head, and he looks up and sees the Eye floating high above him, its stalks peering down on him, watching his work. Only two of the stalks focus on him, the other seven watching elsewhere. It knows him, the Clockmaker, knows his routine, his duties. It isnt concerned with an old clockmaker whos nothing more than rusting metal and fading memories.

The Clockmaker shuts the window of his lantern, focusing the light through a lens not unlike the one in his eye socket, and turns the thin, bright beam on the Eye. The fat, fleshy thing makes a little scream and shuts its bulbous eyes, spinning and fleeing from the light.

The Clockmaker watches it skitter through the sky, leaving a trail of foul smelling air behind it, thinking how much trouble he just earned himself, but also knowing how much he hates someone looking over his shoulder while he works.

Bad timing, he grumbles under his breath. Then, he turns back to his work.

He finishes up his work, puts his tools back, locks the box, hooks his keys to his belt, turns down Wurster, turns left on Bramble and right on Shooster to the little building crammed between two larger buildings, squeezed the same way the southern islanders squeeze dough to get those strange noodles theyre always eating. He finds the keys for the locks on the front door (seven in total), opens the door, steps inside, shuts the door behind him and turns all the bolts, each making a heavy clunk sound as he does. And there, inside his workshop  a little place with three large tables, three stools and no bed  the Clockmaker sets down his bag by the door in the same spot hes always put his bag on the boards that have the mark just the same size, and he walks across the room to his second worktable where the still clock waits for him to give it life once again.

Dwarves may not sleep, but that doesnt mean they dont get tired.

Half an hour out of town, the paladin turns to the bard and says:

He was a soldier. He lost his leg in the war against the goblins. Not much use for a soldier with one leg, so he became a clockmaker.

I heard a funny thing about dwarves in college.

Whats that?

My teacher once told me, Mans doom is that he forgets the past, and a dwarfs doom is that he cant.

Your teacher was a wise man.

Yeah.

They walk through the snow a few more miles. Nine minutes and forty seconds later, the Clockmaker will see them, curse the paladin and turn away.

The bard speaks again.

When were young, see a lot of things. Problem is, were just not wise enough to make any sense of them.

They crest a hill and look down. Just below them, at the bottom of the hill, a city full of clocks looks back at them. The bard continues:

Then, its only when were older we have the wisdom to really see the things we saw when we were young. The paladin says nothing. The bard keeps on going.

And then, its too late to take advantage of those chances we had when we were young because were not young men anymore.

The bard turns to the paladin and they look at each other with the same eyes.

You wanted to know why I brought you along with me, the paladin says, his breath a thick mist from his lips.

The bard nods.

You didnt need to ask.

The moment is brief. Before the last words escape the paladins mouth, its gone.

Every time the Clockmaker closes his eyes, he sees the same image flash in the darkness: a battlefield covered with the bodies of the dead and the dying. The whole field squirmed with flesh, as if the world itself was wounded. The green grass was drowned in blood so thick, it was like swimming in a swamp of the stuff.

The Clockmaker lay in the field, his leg pumping blood into the thick mud. He tied off the wound, knowing well enough hed lose his leg in an hour or two if he didnt get the it burned shut. But he had no flint, no steel, nothing to make fire. All he has was blood, and it stuck to his skin, seeping through his clothes, leaking in through the cracks in the fine armor his grandfather died in.

He felt shivers creeping through his bones. He was cold. The sun shone down on him from the sky as blue as sapphires and a warm wind carried the smell of dead dwarves to his nose. It was summer, and he was cold. That was when he knew he was dying.

But a chirurgeon found him, sealed the wound shut and sent him away from the battle to rest. In his bed, hearing his heart pushing what little blood he had left in his body, he wondered if he would join his ancestors in the great warhall where they waited. His eyelids grew heavy. Another wounded warrior was screaming somewhere, but all he could see were the faces of ghostly figures standing around his bed, all with frowns of disappointment.

When he awoke, his left leg below the knee was gone. The chirurgeon explained there was no way to save it. He was a warrior no more. No more long nights in the barracks drinking and singing. No more blood, no more steel, no more fire, no death at the end of a sword or spear.

No more promise of heaven.

I remember the day the dwarves went away, the bard says.

So do the ones that stayed behind.

I didnt think there were any still alive.

A few. Not many. But a few.

Theyre silent, walking down the street, only the sounds of their footfalls to keep them company. And the sound of the cornerclocks, ticking away the time.

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

Clip-clop.

Clip-clop.

Clip-clop.

His footsteps compliment the pace of the cornerclock ticking two beats too fast. Another moment or two, and hell be there, his tools and his hands ready for the repair. He finds his keys, opens the lock and goes to work, setting the clock straight. But first, he has to stop it in order to make it run right again. He turns a tool, the innards slow to a stop, he begins his work.

Around the corner two fellows turn, one tall the other not as much, standing half-hidden in the shadows and light. He knows one of them. The other, hes never seen. But even the one he knows has changed.

Step forward, the Clockmaker says. They do.

Gündder, says the man he knows.

Thats far enough, the Clockmaker says. And dont be callin me by my name. You aint got the right. Not after what you did.

The past is over and done, Gündder. The future needs you.

Why?

The paladin steps forward, his hands putting his gloves in his belt. Because& he says, but stops. He looks in the sky, looks to the shadows. The bards eyes look like theyre marking hummingbirds.

Jonan Drax, he says. The bard shudders. The Clockmaker is as still and silent as the broken clock his hands are in.

You shouldnt talk ill of the dead, the Clockmaker says. Even if he was a god.

The paladin nods. One of his bones, he whispers.

The bard almost falls to the cobblestones. The Clockmaker looks up from his work. Silence is in the streets.

One second.

Two.

Three.

All still. All silent. All watching. The paladin with his naked hands, the bard with his failing knees, the Clockmaker before the broken cornerclock,. Its the last one that breaks all this silent staring. He puts his tools back into his bag, shuts it up, closes the cast-iron panel and locks it tight. Then, he turns to the paladin, his thick fingers all covered in grease.

Bad timing.

THE WASTELANDS

(created by Thomas Denmark, Morgan Gray and John Wick)

1 ~ The Last Paladin

It begins in a tavern, and a stranger, coming in from the rain. Its the mean kind of cold outside, the kind of cold that bows your bones and makes them ache. The stranger shakes the wet off his steaming cloak and looks at the faces that surround him. Their eyes are as frozen as the drowned earth outside. Their lips havent smiled, havent kissed, havent laughed for years. He knows these faces; saw them in the last town he stumbled across.

He looks to the man of the house. Hot wine, the stranger says. Rain drips from his beard, streaks of blond hiding between the gray whiskers.

Lets see your money, says the wide-chested man behind the bar.

The stranger reaches under his cloak and the wide-chested man catches a glimpse of something. He thinks, What is that he has under that cloak?

The stranger pulls out a bundle of thick parchment, colored with inks made from a dwarven printing press. He unfolds one of them, as big as a mans hand, and shows the wide-chested man.

Dwarven or Haffun? Dwarven is no good.
Haffun.

Ill heat it up for you.

The stranger grabs a chair and pulls it toward the fire. He takes off his gloves and holds his hands as close as he can. A moment later, hes pulling off his boots. They hit the floor with wet flops.

A little boy, no older than ten, steps close. Whats your name? he asks with the voice little boys use. His father, a man who has forgotten everything about how to be a little boy, pulls his son back by the hood of his jacket. The boys body and head move in different directions, his chin hitting his chest, then snapping all the way back.

You know better! his father says. Sit down and eat your food. Keep your mouth shut.

The stranger looks at the little boy from under his hood and smiles. He pushes the hood back just a touch. My name is Tal Tander, he says. And Im no spook. No spectre. No foul luck wraith here to curse anyone. Im just very tired and very wet and Id like a sip of hot wine and a warm bed for the night. Thats all.

When he finishes, the room fades back into silence. The only sound is the dwarven clock, ticking away on the mantle above the fire. Tal looks at it. Almost midnight. No wonder theyre so frightened, he says to himself.

The clink of a cup on the wooden table behind him tells him his wine is ready. He smiles before he turns and scoops up the cup. Its hot under his fingers  especially since theyre almost frozen from the night outside  but he holds on tight. The calluses on his fingers keep the heat at bay.
The wine goes down good. A little later, hot soup does the same. The vegetables are fresh and the meat is a blessing. The last time I had soup, it was full of gristle, he says to the wide-chested man. This is good soup.

The wide-chested man smiles. The wife made it, he says.

Is the haffun enough to cover this fine meal and a bed?

More than enough. You could spend a month, if you liked.

Tal shakes his head. I wont need to be here that long.

The wide-chested mans smile is as big as his breast. Who are you, stranger? Youve something under that cloak. What is it?

Tals smile changes. He pushes aside the heavy cloak and pulls out what hides there. When the wide-chested man sees it, his face loses all its color. The little boy who was so curious to learn his name makes the same sound a cat makes when you kick it. His fathers sound is the same.

Tal takes the thing and holds it the way his teacher taught him. The wide-chested man almost stumbles on his own feet as he backs up. You cant  I mean  thats illegal to have here. You cant&

Play it? Tal asks, running his fingers along the strings. The music fills the room and three people almost scream. Only the figure in the back doesnt move. Tals been watching him. Hes not quite sure what to make of him yet.

Youre a bard, the father says, spittle escaping his lips.

Yes, Tal says. Im a bard.

You cant play that here, the wide-chested man says. The shadows will hear. Theyll come.

Tal changes his right hand and plays another chord. And what if they do?

Theyll kill you! the father shouts.

Better to live for the truth than die for a lie, Tal
says. The father covers his sons ears.

Theyll kill us for listening! the wide-chested man says.

A different chord this time. The people in the tavern nearly scream.

The shadows have you, Tal says. He speaks entirely to himself. This is a dead town. The shadows ate its soul long ago.

Thats when he starts playing the song. The first song his teacher taught him, long ago, before the shadows won the war. He sings the song, written when the world wasnt cloaked in darkness. He fingers the chords that were old before the God of Justice met his end of a poisoned blade held by the Dark One. He sings words that were written when the world was still young and men believed good would always hold evil in check.

Back when men were ruled by their foolishness, not their fear.

The wide-chested man reaches back behind the bar to a thick rope and pulls with all his girth. Outside and above, a heavy bell rings. Tal doesnt move. He continues singing his song, despite the bell ringing in the rain. He knows in a moment or two, the shadows will come and take him away. They will smash his teachers gift and tear out his tongue for singing songs. Hes a wanted man, after all. Ten thousand haffuns for his capture. Dead or alive.

All for singing outlaw songs and telling outlaw stories. Songs of what the world once was, and stories of how it could be again.

Hes almost finished with the second stanza when the door bursts open. Tal doesnt run. Hes tired of running. Been running for twenty years now, ever since They murdered the world.

They move more like animals than men. In truth, they are no longer men. The shadow seed is in their throats, and it pulses and moans.

Tal looks up at one of them, his eyes catching the black bulge in its throat, the tendrils of the seed reaching down into its heart.

I miss the dwarves, Tal says. Dont you?

The shadow doesnt reply. The only sound it makes is the heavy, labored breathing they all make, as if the stuff inside them would burst out if the skin got old and weak. But shadows dont get old and weak, theyre just shadows.
It draws its long, curved sword. The steel makes a slick, slow sound as it comes free of its sheath. It doesnt smile, doesnt laugh, doesnt make any expression at all. Tal smiles. He laughs. He looks away from the shadow, back to the boy who asked his name.

Dying for the truth is better than living for a lie, he says. Just before the blade falls and &

& just before the blade falls and a hand catches it from behind. The hand moves as fast as they do, writhing itself between the shadows wrist and arm. Lifting up high, the hand slips behind the shadows neck, grabs tight, and uses its own arm to break the shadows neck. It falls to the ground and black ooze spills from its eyes and mouth and ears and nose, covering the floor with liquid sickness, sliding along the floor.

The two other shadows pounce forward. The figure side-steps one, ducks, and slams his fist into the groin of the second. It stumbles to a stop, buckles and drops to the floor.

The first shadow hisses as its fingers turn into talons. The figure stands and throws its cloak aside. A long, wide blade tastes the night air, light shimmering down its blade. Tal looks and sees the light is not reflecting from the fire. It is a white light. A holy light. A pure light.
The shadow whispers between its bladed teeth, and stunned silence follows. Then, slowly& softly& the word moves through the room, from mouth to mouth, echoing on every set of lips. Even Tal cannot resist the lure of speaking word out loud. The first time in twenty years.

Paladin.

The shadow leaps. The paladins blade slices, sending the shadows ear into the fire. The fire hisses and spits from the foul taste of its food. The shadow curses. The paladin says nothing. His hood has fallen free from his face, showing the smooth bald head and black skin. His eyes are just as black, the whites of his eyes shining against the dark skin, his teeth gleaming in the dim light.

The shadow lets its wings spread, not that Tal can see wings, its something you feel, a cold chill on the back of your neck, a tightening in your shoulders, a squeeze on your heart. That is a shadows wings. They spread out and touch the corners of the room. The paladin says nothing, only grips his sword and charges. Before its too late.
The talons and teeth make wounds in his flesh, injecting their venom. He makes no sound. The blade slices and the shadow screams. It rends at his skin, but he makes no sound. The blade slices a wing and arm from its body and the shadow screams. The blade twists in his hands and the head flies from its body. The shadow screams no more.

The last shadow gets to its feet. It races toward the door. The paladins fist finds its face and it skids across the floor, stopping just at Tals feet. Theres a flash and a boom when the paladins fist hits the shadow. The smell of a storm fills the room and smoke pours from the shadows bleeding, burning face. Skin peels back, revealing blackened bone and gnashing teeth.

Tal looks at the paladin and sees him with the eyes little boys use. Hes as tall as the sky, as big as a mountain, as terrible as thunder and as beautiful as a rainbow. His skin is the color of haffun chocolates. The tattoos shine with the light of the moon.

Tal smiles and looks back at the burning, bleeding face of the shadow. It had been too long. Tal forgot the tattoos.
The paladin lifts the shadow to its feet with his hands as big as hammers, covered in tattoos of the Old Tongue. Tals teacher taught him the Old Tongue. He knows the words burned into the paladins hands. One is Truth. The other is Justice.

The hand that is Truth reaches forward and squeezes the shadows head. It screams. It begs for mercy.

Tal knows you could search forever, and never find a paladin with a Mercy tattoo.

Crunch.

The shadow joins its dead friends on the floor. The paladin stands still for a moment. The glow of his tattoos fade. He shivers. Takes a deep breath.

From behind the bar, the wide-chested man still has his hands on the bell. It stopped ringing a long time ago. Words fumble from his lips.

I thought the shadows killed& He doesnt get any further than that.

The paladin walks to the bar and picks up a napkin. He wipes his hands clean of the blood. Then, he looks at the wide-chested man.

They did kill us all. You never saw me.

The wide-chested man nods. The paladin turns back to Tal. Are you going to finish your song?

Tal looks down at his lyre, sitting in his lap. I dont think I remember where I stopped.

The paladin nods and walks to the back of the inn. He picks up a travel pack and steps up to the wide-chested man. If you burn them, they will burn clean. No sign of them. Even the black will fade. Do it quickly and theyll never know any better.

Then, he turns to the bard. Give him your money.

How much?

All of it.

Tal doesnt ask questions. He hands over every haffun and coin he has. The paladin takes him by the collar and ushers him toward the door. He opens it up to the wind and the rain, but then, he pauses, turns and looks at the boy and his father.

What did you tell them? he asks the bard.

Dying for the truth is better than&

& living for a lie. The paladin nods, then looks back at the boy.

Fighting is better than dying.

And, swift as a shadow, theyre gone.

The following was a telephone conversation held between Mr. Cottonworthy and myself a few weeks ago. I thought about editing it down, but then, liked the natural flow of the conversation, and felt edits would just make the whole thing feel artificial. So, here it is, in all its raw glory. Have fun!

JOHN WICK

Let’s start at the beginning. What made you want to do Warhamster?

JOE COTTONWORTHY

I have no idea. At first, it started as a joke, you know? I think everyone has delusions of making a roleplaying game, I was no different.

WICK

Did you know it was going to be so much trouble?

COTTONWORTHY

I thought it would be easy. Dungeons and Dragons didn’t look like all that much work went into it. (laughter) I liked the idea and thought I could do it, too. I didn’t know it would be as much work as it turned out to be.

WICK

How much work was it?

COTTONWORTHY

Months of it. You have to understand, this is before the concept of “broken” showed up. “Breaking rules” is a new idea that came out of Magic, I think. I never heard the term before then.

WICK

Come to think of it, neither had I.

COTTONWORTHY

I mean, I was on the periphery of game design when Magic was in the stores, but I still play a lot of wargames and computer games. But I mean, here comes Magic and the idea that you can find holes in the game to make your deck the best, the better, I mean, better than everyone else’s.

WICK

And somehow, this gets translated into roleplaying games.

COTTONWORTHY

Exactly.

WICK

I remember bringing Hunters, Inc. to All-Star Games, and Jim Pinto was there. I showed him the basics for the Roll & Keep system Dave Williams and I designed, and he took one look at it and made some observation and said, “There. I broke your game.” That was the first time I heard it.

COTTONWORTHY

Right. And back then, we had no clue what a “broken game” was. We were assuming people were making up rules as they went. That was what I was doing, at least. I don’t know about Marc Miller, or anyone else.

WICK

Speaking of Marc, I made a comment about Social Status…

COTTONWORTHY

(laughing)
Yes. I remember that. I took the idea for Social Status from Traveller, not the other way around.

WICK

Setting the record straight!

COTTONWORTHY

But we didn’t do game balancing the same way you did with your card games. The idea of hundreds of playtesters…

WICK

I don’t know about hundreds…

COTTONWORTHY

But even more than just me in my room, throwing dice in a box, trying to figure out if the damn thing actually worked or not. That was playtesting.

WICK

Still, you came out with a very good game.

COTTONWORTHY

That’s up for debate. I think it’s a complete game.

WICK

Right. The Bonus system is what always gets me.

COTTONWORTHY

Bonuses were an idea I came up with to accommodate new rules. I was finding that every time I ran the game, I needed to make up a new game system to accommodate every individual situation. I hated that. So, I tried coming up with a system that would accommodate, I mean, a single system that would accommodate every situation.

WICK

And that’s where Bonuses came into it?

COTTONWORTHY

But it wasn’t all that clean. I went through a number of other systems first.

WICK

See! Playtesting!

COTTONWORTHY

Sure. You can call it playtesting. I call it stumbling around in the dark until you find the flashlight.

WICK

For those who don’t know, explain how the Bonus System works.

COTTONWORTHY

Well, in a nutshell, you take the average of your relevant characteristics. For a Damage Bonus, I think the average of your Strength and Size.

WICK

Right.

COTTONWORTHY

And your Stealth Bonus was your Agility and Wits minus your Size, wasn’t it?

WICK

I think so. Yes.

COTTONWORTHY

Then, you just roll under that number. I put a bunch of them together, then put a few blank ones on the character sheet for game masters to come up with their own when they needed them.

WICK

That was important to me. Seeing that I could make up game mechanics myself.

COTTONWORTHY

I don’t see why not, I mean, if I can do it, just about anyone else can do it.

WICK

What experience did you have with game design before you designed Warhamster?

COTTONWORTHY

None, really. I mean, I played a lot of games, but Warhamster was my first attempt. My degree was in Graphic Design.

WICK

Did you have any goals when you started?

COTTONWORTHY

I wanted it to be simple. I mean, you can go two ways with game design, it seems to me. You can assume that every situation is unique and requires a unique ruling, or you can assume that everything pretty much works the same way, it’s just the situation modifies the mechanic.

WICK

That’s a really nice way of putting it.

COTTONWORTHY

I mean, they have the same philosophy with the new Dungeons and Dragons. One mechanic, modified by the situation. A lot better than before.

WICK

What do you think of the new D&D?

COTTONWORTHY

It’s funny, I like a lot of things, but it’s not a very well-thought out product.

WICK

How’s that?

COTTONWORTHY

I mean, well not to be too critical, because I really think its a very well designed game, and I can see a lot of good thought went into how to make it, I mean, to bring it up to date with new game design philosophies.

WICK

But…

COTTONWORTHY

Well, from a graphic designer’s point of view (laughter), the book isn’t very pretty. It looks like someone forgot that lesson we learned in first grade: the words go above the line.

WICK

Yeah. That does make it pretty hard to read.

COTTONWORTHY

I don’t know what they were thinking. And the art – I mean, most of it is very good. But there’s no excuse to have black and white in a color book. No excuse at all.

WICK

I couldn’t get passed page five, myself. The “welcome to the game that’s defined the fantastic imagination” line just killed me.

COTTONWORTHY

I missed that. I don’t read introductions.

WICK

Pissed me off. Like there’s been no other RPG in the world. And like D&D’s been the “cutting edge” all these years, ignoring everything that everyone else has done to move the industry forward.

COTTONWORTHY

I thought it was interesting they decided not to put any world development in the product.

WICK

I mean, a two hundred and eighty page rulebook? If that was any other game – any other game at all – it would be a flop. A joke. Go right up there on the shelf next to every other generic fantasy RPG that I own and never play.

COTTONWORTHY

Now, asking me about Dungeons and Dragons wasn’t just an excuse for you to complain about it, was it?

WICK

(laughing)
Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t.

COTTONWORTHY

Well. Maybe we should talk about something else, then.

WICK

I’ll let you finish.

COTTONWORTHY

No, that’s all right. Ask me about something else.

WICK

Okay. How about Jery Jax’s Warhamster?

COTTONWORTHY

I can see where this is going.

WICK

Seriously. What did you think of it?

COTTONWORTHY

(long pause)
I think Jery had a lot of enthusiasm. He did a lot to expand the game.

WICK

Okay, we can talk about something else.

COTTONWORTHY

Thank you.

WICK

Why no hobbits?

COTTONWORTHY

I think you mentioned this in your column. I think hobbits belong in Middle-Earth. Tolkein invented them, stealing them out of his world and calling them something else is nothing short of plagiarism.

WICK

I can’t disagree with that. But Warhamster has elves and dwarves…

COTTONWORTHY

But Tolkein didn’t invent elves and dwarves. He invented hobbits. He just took Norse elves and Celtic dwarves -

WICK

I think that’s the other way around.

COTTONWORTHY

Oh well. He used traditional images of elves and dwarves. But orcs and goblins, if you’re going to use those, you should really make an effort to do something different with them.

WICK

(laughing)
Again. I can’t disagree with that.

COTTONWORTHY

Of course. Sorry, I forgot.

WICK

So, what are different about Warhamster elves and dwarves?

COTTONWORTHY

I created a place called Dragonwood Forest. I wanted to avoid fantasy clichés, so I made dragons creatures akin to the angels, as servants of the creator. They helped create the world, and the task was so great, the magic so powerful, they fell asleep.

WICK

Had to sleep off the magic?

COTTONWORTHY

Exactly. And when they fell to sleep, they turned into forests. Elves were the creatures who agreed to guard the forests, the sleeping dragons.

WICK

What about Darkwood?

COTTONWORTHY

That’s a dragon the elves lost. Now, it’s inhabited by lots of nasty creatures, all feeding off the power of the sleeping dragon.

WICK

That’s very nice. Elves drawing magic from the sleeping dragon, protecting it.

COTTONWORTHY

It made sense. Its one of the reasons I wanted to do elves differently. I didn’t feel they made sense in the context they were presented in Dungeons and Dragons. They were simply Middle-Earth elves with a paint job.

WICK

(laughing)
Let’s talk a second about Fate and Fortune.

COTTONWORTHY

Right.

WICK

That was a predominant concept in the original Warhamster, but it got a little muted when Jax transferred it over…

COTTONWORTHY

You mean, “lost” right?

WICK

All right. Lost.

COTTONWORTHY

I just got done reading Moorcock’s Elric and Hawkmoon books, I couldn’t find Corum anywhere, and I was intrigued with the idea of Law and Chaos. Obviously, other people were equally enamored with it, and made it a part of their game.

WICK

You mean Dungeons and Dragons, of course.

COTTONWORTHY

Yes. But again, I felt that belonged to Moorcock, and putting it in my game, just because I thought it was a good idea, seemed to me to be a bit of a bad idea. I wanted something new and different. Well, something different at least.

WICK

That’s where Fate and Fortune came into it?

COTTONWORTHY

I took a poetry class once, and the teacher wanted us to do a personification piece. Pick two ideas that are complimentary or contrary and write a brief bit about them. What I wrote in that class ended up on the frontpiece of the book.

WICK

(reading from the book)
Just a second…
“Lady Fortune suggested to Dame Fate they draw lots to see who would make the world. Dame Fate knew the outcome, but had no choice but to play.”

COTTONWORTHY

I hate hearing my writing read out loud.

WICK

It’s like – well, just bad, isn’t it?

COTTONWORTHY

Yes. Besides, it’s not really poetic. For poetry, I mean.

WICK

I don’t know. It’s really inspired.

COTTONWORTHY

I wanted my world to be a world in conflict between Fate and Fortune. I had taken a philosophy class and discovered the evils of determinism and the faults in the arguments of freewill…

WICK

Professor Reuz. Yeah. I had him, too.

COTTONWORTHY

Is he still teaching?

WICK

I don’t know. He was when I was at the U of M.

COTTONWORTHY

That’s funny. I liked the idea, disagreed with Ruez…

WICK

You mean, you buy the freewill argument?

COTTONWORTHY

I have to. There’s not a lot of choice in the matter, is there?

WICK

Well said.

COTTONWORTHY

I wanted to explore the idea in short stories. The whole idea being the game as a kind of writing exercise. If I could get through the game, I could write a novel.

WICK

I know that line of thinking. Problem is, I keep writing games, and never get to writing the novel.

COTTONWORTHY

Games are harder, I found. A novel just has to be concerned with its own internal logic. A game, on the other hand, has to adhere to other people’s logic. Gamers ask questions. In a novel, you don’t even have to address the questions. They just sit down, read the book, and buy what you tell them.

WICK

I found that out when I was with Chris Hepler and Jennifer Brandes a few months ago. It was right after watching The Matrix. I loved it. They hated it. Too many questions, and not enough answers.

COTTONWORTHY

That’s because gamers are questioning types. They want to know why and how things work because they have to make them work. In a short story, you control the characters behaviors, skipping around the hard questions by never bringing up circumstances where they get asked. In a roleplaying game, players are always asking questions you don’t want to answer.

WICK

Making it hard to write one of those things, because everyone wants to know different details.

COTTONWORTHY

Exactly.

WICK

Let’s get back to that Fate/Fortune thing. We’re almost out of tape.

COTTONWORTHY

Right. So, when you created a character, you chose to be a pawn of Fate or Fortune. Fated characters got Fate Points which allowed them to force Characteristics.

WICK

What does that mean?

COTTONWORTHY

It means that if you and I get into a test, let’s say a fight, and my Attack Bonus is bigger, I spend a Fate Point, and I win. I was fated to win, because my Bonus is higher.

WICK

And Fortune Points worked in a similar way?

COTTONWORTHY

Fortune Points, a player gets more of them, to start. He has a number of Fortune Points and calls out certain numbers at the beginning of the game.

WICK

From one to one thousand.

COTTONWORTHY

Yes. And if he rolls that number during the game, he gets a critical success and more Fortune Points, ignoring whether he succeeded in the roll or not.

WICK

So, it’s harder to get a Fortune Point, but you get more of them.

COTTONWORTHY

That’s right.

WICK

Okay, we’ve got time for one more question. Why don’t you ask me a question about third edition.

COTTONWORTHY

All right. I wasn’t really prepared to be asking you questions.

WICK

Shoot. Ask anything you want.

COTTONWORTHY

Um… (long pause)

WICK

Remember, we’re almost out of tape!

COTTONWORTHY

All right. What elements of second edition will you be using?

WICK

That’s a good question. Some elements I have to use. I have to address some parts of it because fans are so used to it. You can’t just drop them from the game, because then you make the game too different, and people get turned off.

COTTONWORTHY

You’re avoiding the question.

WICK

No, I’m not!

COTTONWORTHY

So, you mean to tell me that you’ll include elements of second edition because the public wants it that way, not because it’s good game design?

WICK

No! I mean, there’s a sense of familiarity that you just can’t drop. It would be like dropping Charisma from the D&D line-up. I mean, yes, it really didn’t do anything in the game, but they found a way to use it.

COTTONWORTHY

Found a reason to keep it, you mean.

WICK

Something like that.

COTTONWORTHY

So, what are you going to keep?

WICK

The spell system, I think.

COTTONWORTHY

No rolls for skills, you mean?

WICK

Yeah. I liked that. Spending your Spell Bonus as points, rather than adding them to a Casting Roll.

COTTONWORTHY

Interesting.

WICK

You don’t sound pleased.

COTTONWORTHY

No, no. Some changes have to be made. That’s all.

WICK

All right. Well, we’re out of time. Thanks for talking with me. I appreciate it.

COTTONWORTHY

Not at all. I’m looking forward to seeing the game – for the first time, as John puts it.
(Ending on pleasantries.)

My buddy Bonnie is a seamstress. She made my musketeer costume some of you may have seen at Gen-Con two years ago.

She stands about Harlan Ellison height, has very long and straight red hair and pretty as a bug in a rug. She’s also very, very Scottish. Players of the 7th Sea game would recognize her immediately; “That’s Bloody Bonnie McGee!” they’d say. And, they’d be right. There’s a lot of secrets in 7th Sea. That’s one of them.

(And if you’re all good boys and girls, maybe I’ll introduce you to Steve “Long Tall Harry” Swarner one day. A gentleman and a scholar.)

Invoking Bonnie this week is important, because she’s the key to updating Warhamster. The funny thing is, she didn’t even know it when she said it.

We were sitting ’round the table, watching Buffy, eating pizza and popcorn, commenting how the actor who plays Xander is perfect for the role of Peter Parker (did I mention how pissed off I am Cameron isn’t directing it?), and talking about my costume for Gen-Con.

“The first thing they taught me in sewing class, John,” Bonnie tells me, “is this. You can have something cheap, now, or pretty. Pick two.”

Jenny and I both laughed. I’d heard that before, but the way Bonnie said it stuck in my head. And, from that moment on, those words became The Bonnie Principle, a verity that you can apply to just about anything in life.

Now jump ahead two years.

I’m lying in bed, not sleeping. (This happens a lot lately. Last night, I didn’t sleep at all. I think it has something to do with the transformation from John to The Wick. I’ll get back to you on it.) I just got done talking to John Kovalic about Warhamster. I’m the one who’s gonna do Third Edition. What the hell do I have to contribute to Third Edition?

I mean, the d1000 is so embedded in everyone’s heads. And the whole thing is so damned clunky. Rolling on three different charts to get one single effect. The whole thing should break down into one roll. After all, so many games do that so nicely: break down the To-Hit Roll and the Damage Roll into one pretty package. Now, if only you could add a Defense roll on to that thing. Of course, you’d have to take into account the fact that a full on attack is pretty hard to block, but also leaves the attacker open to counter-attacks. Heh. Kinda like the Bonnie Principle there. You can get a bitchin’ To-Hit Roll, a damn fine Damage roll, but your Defense would really su –

And that’s when I sat right up in bed so fast, I woke The Wife.

I had it. I knew how to wrap the whole thing up. And I owed it all to The Bonnie Principle. I wrote the thing up, waiting ’till morning (all my fingernails were gone by then), and called John up with the good news. He loved it. Of course, there was one more guy I had to impress. And that was gonna be a hard sell.

At least, that’s what I thought.

Joe listened carefully, said “Uh huh,” about five times and “Yeah” three more. I finished. He took a deep breath.

“You know, John. This is gonna be really hard,” he said.

I swallowed. “How’s that, Joe?”

“Watching you do this,” he said.

“You mean, watching me change it?”

“Uh huh.” He paused. “Changing it for the better. But its still change. You know what I mean? Work on something for a year or so, then watch someone else develop it away from what it was? Even if the work they’re doing is really good. It still hurts. Does that make any sense?”

Yes, Joe. More than you might suspect.

So, here’s how you roll a thousand-sided die.

First, get yourself three tens-sided dice. Each one should be a different color. Roll those dice one at a time. The first die is the “hundreds die,” the second is the “tens die,” and the third is the “ones die.”

So, if the first die rolls 8,

and the second die rolls 4,

and the third die rolls 9…

… that’s a roll of eight hundred forty-nine (849).

If the first die rolls 0,

and the second die rolls 3,

and the third die rolls 6…

& that’s a roll of thirty-six (036).

Got it? Good. Now, let’s apply the Bonnie Principle.

When your character attacks someone, you have three things to consider:

1. Attack Roll (how difficult it is to parry the attack)
2. Damage Roll (how many Wounds the attack inflicts if its successful), and
3. Defense Roll (how difficult you are to hit until you roll the dice next)

That last bit is important. Go back and read it again. Especially about that “until you roll the dice again” bit.

Now, when you roll, you decide which of those things gets the hundreds die, which gets the tens die and which gets the ones die. See how it works out?

I want a big, nasty attack (“Full Attack” for you L5R fans out there) that’ll do a lot of damage, is really hard to parry, and leaves me completely in the open for a counter-attack.

I make my Attack Roll with my hundreds die,

I make my Damage Roll with my tens die, and

I make my Defense Roll with my ones die.

On the other hand, if I want to play it safe, I could:

Make my Defense Roll with my hundreds die,

Make my Damage Roll with my tens die, and

Make my Attack Roll with my ones die.

Or, if I’m feeling really lucky, I could:

Make my Damage Roll with my hundreds die,

Make my Attack Roll with my tens die, and

Make my Defense Roll with my ones die.

See how this is working out?

Every aspect of the game works the same way. A thief wants to pick a lock, for instance. He’s got three choices:

He puts his hundreds die in speed (how fast he picks the lock),

He puts his tens die in precision (how well he avoids traps),

He puts his ones die in noise (how quiet he makes the action).

Even spells work out the same way:

A sorcerer puts his hundreds die towards range,

His tens die towards damage, and

His ones die toward duration.

Every aspect of the game works the same way.

That’s the Bonnie Principle in action. A thing of beauty and grace… just like the lady herself.

(But don’t tell her I said so. I’d probably get hit. Hard.)

That’s all you get for this week, folks. Next week, it’s more of putting 3rd Edition together, and a treat: a little talk with Da Man Hisself: Joe Cottonworthy.

Until then, take good care… and don’t read any reviews: they contain chemicals known to the state of California to cause cancer.

[Special thanks to Thomas Denmark, who let me borrow his copy of J. Jery Jax's Warhamster and helped me decipher JJJ's text and rules. Couldn't have done it without you, Tom.]

Before we begin, let’s get one thing perfectly clear: J. Jery Jax did not “ruin” Warhamster. A lot of hardcore Cottonworthy fans will tell you that. They are wrong. Mr. Jax’s contributions to Warhamster are innumerable. I’ve often likened him as August Dereleth to Cottonworthy’s Lovecraft, and the analogy isn’t entirely incorrect. First, Jax made sure Cottonworthy’s vision stayed alive in print. Second, he fought for Warhamster, running demos everywhere he went. Third, through Warhamster Magazine, he expanded the Wh fanbase by tenfold. Finally, he expanded the world of WH with hundreds of essays and dozens of books. His contribution to WH cannot be ignored.

But that doesn’t mean it can’t be analyzed.

Let’s take a looka t what J. Jery Jax did to Warhamster.

* * *

First, Jax changed the fundamentals of the game system. He did this in two ways. First, he made it an open-ended system. Second, he added (gulp!) charts.

Lots of charts.

You think Rollmas – I mean Rolemaster has charts? Oh, baby. You ICE fans better get a cigarette ready. You’ll want one when we’re done.

Open Ended

Remember how the game system worked in WH1st? Roll under your Bonus? Well, Jax turned that around. What he did works something like this:

Step One: Roll the d1000

Roll 3 ten-sided dice. The first coutns as hundreds, the second counts as tens, the third counts as ones, giving you totls of 4-5-2 (four hundred fifty-two), 9-2-7 (nine hundred twenty-seven) and 1-0-2 (one hundred and two). And, of course, three zeroes counts as one thousand.

Step Two: Find Your Bonus

Next, find your Bonus Chart. That’s right, Jax wrote one hundred charts for each Skill. So, if you have a 432 Brewing Skill, you check out the 400 Brewing Chart. Follow the left side of the chart (rows) until you come to the column that corrosponds to your roll. The columns are divided into A-G. Once you’ve found your Success Total (A-G), consult the Effect Chart.

Step Three: Determine Effect

Lastly, you’d carry that letter (A-G) to the Effect Chart and roll the d1000 again. That total gave you your Effect. There are 6 flavors of Effect Charts: Physical, Spiritual, Social, Mental, Magix, and Psykix.

Yeah, Jax had a penchant for spelling things with x’s. Sue him. We’ve all got our own writing voice. We all try to make our writing distinct. We’ve all got our own set of tricks.

Don’t we?

Character Creation

Jax also expanded character creation.

A lot.

No, more than that.

Step One: Determine Characteristix

WH1st had 10 characteristics. Jax thought it needed more. Here’s a look at the characteristics in WH 2nd.

• Appeal
• Attraction
• Dexterity
• Endurance
• Fortitude
• Guile
• Health
• Hearing
• Intuition
• Mentality
• Nerve
• Presence
• Prowess
• Psionix
• Psychix
• Resistance
• Sanity
• Sight
• Smell
• Stealth
• Strength
• Taste
• Touch
• Willpower
• Wisdom

He divided each of the characteristix into 4 categories: Physical, Intellectual, Spiritual and Sensory. The first three were analogous; that is, if you read them on the character sheet, Attraction (Physical), Appeal (Intellectual) and Presence (Mental) were the Physical, Intellectual and Mental aspects of the same characteristic. The Sensory characteristix, however, were not; they just represented how well you perceived the world.

(Of course, there’s a lot of inspiration here. I’ve heard Sandy Peterson say the whole inspiration for Call of Cthulhu came from seeing that Sanity Characteristic. The designers of Harnmaster took one look and knew they had to make a Characteristic for each sensory organ. And, of course, Mark ReinoHagen saw that “Divide the Characteristix into groups” thing and went wild with it in the Storyteller System.)

Jax also added character classes to the game, completely dropping Cottonworthy’s idea of Guilds. Without having ever met Mr. Jax, I can only speculate why (the ones he added didn’t quite fit the whole “Guild” theme). He included Beastmen, Beastmasters, Beastriders, Berzerkers, and Barbarians.

I guess he had something for the letter “B” as well.

Then, of course, there’s the Ethix System&

Ethix

This was the crowning achievement of Jax’s work. While Cottonworthy dumped the whole clumsy, awkward, unrealistic, completely arbitrary notion of “alignments,” Jax thought differently. He was going to do alignment right.

Hence, WH2nd has Ethics. Here’s how they work:

First, look at the two columns below. The first is the Good vs. Evil Column. The second is the Order vs. Discord column. Choose one from each column. Then, find the corresponding Ethic under each of your choices. That’s your character’s Ethixs.

(I have to give another tip of the hat to Tom Denmark – the old school J.J.J. fan. I would have never made sense of this without his help. Jax’s writing is just& well, maybe we’ll get into that later. Just imagine what it’d be like reading Hunter S. Thompson – if he was a gamer. Yeah. Like that.)

GOOD VS. EVIL

GOOD

Altruistic, Disorderly, Holy, Scrupulous and Virtuous

NEUTRAL GOOD

Amiable, Beneficent, Congenial, Indulgent, and Rapturous

NEUTRAL

Anarchist, Malfeasant, Neutral, Righteous and Upright

NEUTRAL EVIL

Baneful, Corrupt, Felonious, Malicious and Mischievous

EVIL

Malefic, Malignant, Sinister, Villainous and Wicked

ORDER VS. DISCORD

ORDER

Beneficent, Corrupt, Holy, Malefic, Righteous

NEUTRAL ORDER

Altruistic, Baneful, Indulgent, Malignant, Upright

NEUTRAL

Amiable, Malicious, Neutral, Sinister, Virtuous

NEUTRAL DISCORD

Congenial, Malfeasant, Mischievous, Scrupulous, Villainous

DISCORD

Anarchist, Disorderly, Felonious, Rapturous, Wicked

* * *

Don’t ask me why, but people went nuts over the Ethix System. Just taking a look at it, you can see much of the inspiration for the Alignment System found in Paladium, and you have to wonder if Kevin was a Warhamster fan& Of course, he’d drop that whole “Neutral” thing; a design consideration I just can’t disagree with.

Right then. That’s all you get this week. I’ll see you all in 7 (I promise, this time) with the first look at Warhamster 3rd. And that’s when the real Wick hate letters start rolling in.

Take care, all.

I’d like to start off this week’s installment with a little apology. I’m sick. I haven’t had any sleep in two nights and I’m typing pretty much on instinct. If you look really hard, you can probably see the sneezes between the lines. So, with that in mind, let’s get on with our first real look at Warhamster.

Part One: “Why Warhamster?”

That’s the question I get most often. Well, it’s simple really, and the answer is actually a great way to take a first step into the mind of Joe P. Cottonworthy.

See, Joe’s favorite teacher at the University of MN was Professor Gravenstein (pronounced grahv?en?shteen). Gravenstein instilled in Joe the idea of plagiarism. But Gravey (as the students called him& behind his back) didn’t just limit pagiarism to stealing words – oh no! He was also very concerned with the notion of stealing ideas.

I can understand the impact Gravey had on Joe; I had Gravenstein for Freshman Comp, too. As far as I know, the guy is still teaching there; although he must be at least seventy& maybe eighty& no, probably ninety thousand years old by now. I still remember getting back one of my essays with a big fat “F” on the top. I looked through the rest of the paper, looking for errors. None. I went through the pages, looking for where my argument fell flat. No-where. I took the paper to the front of the class as that gaunt, gray man with the skin as thin as wet paper was packing up his bags, and I asked him why I deserved an “F.”

“You’re paper is very good, Mr. Wick,” he told me. Then, he looked at me with those eyes that looked like burned-out stars and he said with his October breeze of a voice: “But you’re better than ‘very good.’” Then, he walked away. He tossed something else my way just as he left the room.

“You got an F, Mr. Wick, because the first sentence included a cliché. I believe your goal is to become an author one day. Isn’t that correct?”

“Yes,” I said, raising my voice so it could reach his old, deaf ears across the room.

“Authors don’t use clichés, Mr. Wick. They invent them.” Then, he left the room. The moment the echo of his last step faded, the sun peeked out from behind a cloud, dropping golden beams into the room and the temperature went up by five degrees.

“They invent them,” he told me. And it’s stuck with me ever since.

And it must have stuck with Joe as well, because when he designed Warhamster, he decided every last cliché had to go.

And hobbits are a damn fine place to start.

You can call ‘em halflings. You can call ‘em kender. You can call ‘em whatever the hell you want to call ‘em, but at the end of the day, they’re still hobbits. No matter what little tweak you make to their personalities (making them kleptomaniacs, for instance), they’re still Professor Tolkein’s creation, and changing what you call them and plopping them in your game doesn’t change the fact that you stole them. They’re hobbits. They’ve been hobbits, they are hobbits, and they’ll always be hobbits. And they belong in Middle Earth.

Now, dwarves, elves, trolls and orks: them’s fair game. But if you really want to give the Good Professor the respect he deserves, don’t take his most beloved creation, paint it blue and call it something else. At the very least, call it a “hobbit.” Or don’t use it at all.

As you may have guessed, Joe chose the latter path. He chose hamsters. Warhamsters, to be exact. He created an entirely new species of creature; something he could call his own. However, and here’s where the genius of Joe Cottonworthy can be seen for all its glory, he chose a creature that his audience would already be familiar with. He didn’t make his new race a carnivorous half-man, half-plant with pudding for eyes and seventeen different kinds of stomachs and schlep a name like “Qddieundhgb” on top of it. Oh, no. He picked a critter we already know, and gave it some anthropomorphic attributes. Hamsters.

He made his hamsters a warrior race. Kinda like furry klingons. They stand about three and a half to four feet high, have four fingers and opposable thumbs and speak their own little hamster language. They also fight with a “cheechoomb,” which looks something like a sword, but fits better in hamster hands. They have their own warrior code and live by it every moment of every day. They are a noble people, one that can be admired for its lack of biscuit eating, tea drinking and pipe smoking.

And yet, they burrow.

(By the way, Greg Stafford would see Joe’s innovation and follow in his stead. Those Glorantha fans out there already know about Greg’s wonderful duck warriors, the durulz.)

And that, my friends, is why the game is called Warhamster. Which takes care of one third of this week’s column. And so, without any further ado, let’s move on to something of real interest&

Part Two: “Cute Hamsters. How Do the Rules Work?”

Glad you asked that. Let’s take a look.

(However, I want all of you to remember: this is a game from 1979. We’re talkin’ old mojo here. Remember “blue book D&D?” [Not "blue box," that's different.] Remember 1st edition Runequest? Tunnels & Trolls? That’s the time I’m invoking. Keep that in mind.)

With Joe’s “no clichés” philosophy firmly in hand, consider where you go from Dungeons & Dragons. Joe tried to do everything different. It worked in some places, didn’t work as well in others. However, Joe’s design stands out as one of the most innovative in the industry. You’ll see why in a moment.

The Characteristics

Joe used ten Characteristics in his game. The text below comes directly from my 1st edition Warhamster boxed set:

Strength (a measure of the character’s muscles)

Size (tells us how large a character is)

Dexterity (represents a character’s nimbleness with his hands)

Quickness (is how able the character is on his feet)

Stamina (is different than Strength, because it tells us how long he can carry something, but not how heavy it is)

Wits (is “mental quickness,” telling us how fast a character can think)

Education (is how well-read our character is)

Appearance (measures how handsome or beautiful our character is [by human standards])

Social Standing (tells us how well off [financially] our character is)

Luck (is that immeasurable quality of chance that all heroes are born with)

(Back to Wick text. And by the way, Traveller fans will recognize that Marc Miller must have seen that ‘Social Standing’ characteristic and thought it was a pretty good idea. Part of great game design is recognizing when other people do something right and incorporate the spirit of it into your own game. Both Mr. Miller and Mr. Stafford are mighty, mighty game designers. They know a good idea when they see it.)

You begin creating your character by rolling three ten-sided dice for each characteristic. One die is the “hundreds die,” the second is the “tens die” and the third is the “ones die.” You line up the dice the way you want to get the best number and record it on your character sheet.

Then, you move on to your Bonuses. Once all your Characteristics are rolled, you start figuring your Bonsues. Again, original text from 1st Edition Warhamster:

SPEED (Wits+Quick/2)

Speed is your Hero’s quickness during Battle (see Battles, below). When a Battle begins, everyone compares Speed. The highest Speed goes first. The second highest Speed goes second. The third highest speed goes third, and so on down the line.

ACTIONS (SPEED/10)

Based on SPEED, your Hero gains a number of Actions per Battle Phase (see Battles, below) equal to his SPEED divided by 10.

ATTACK (Dex+Str/2)

Your ATTACK BONUS is used during Battles. You may add or subtract your ATTACK BONUS to any roll.

BANTER (Wits+Soc)

Sometimes, a clever tongue is more useful than a blade. Whenever your Hero needs to be witty, he uses his BANTER BONUS.

DAMAGE (Str+Siz/2)

Your DAMAGE BONUS is always added to any Damage Roll that you do.

DODGE (Quick-Siz)

Your DODGE is always subtracted from any attack made against you during a Battle.

HEALTH (Sta+Siz)

Every Hero has a number of HEALTH POINTS. This is the amount of DAMAGE you can take before your Hero dies.

STEALTH (Quick+Wits-Siz)

Once in a while, a Hero must be sneaky. Your STEALTH BONUS represents your ability to move about without being seen or heard.

KNOCKOUT (HEALTH/10)

Whenever your Hero takes an amount of DAMAGE equal to your KNOCKOUT, your Hero is knocked unconscious.

PERCEPTION (Wits)

Sometimes, it’s important to notice small details. Your PERCEPTION BONUS is your Wits.

SKILL (Edu*10)

Anytime your Hero must test his own knowledge, you make a SKILL ROLL. That represents your Hero’s knowledge of the world.

MAGIC (Will*2)

Every Hero is capable of at least a little Magic (some Heroes are capable of more). Your MAGIC BONUS represents your Hero’s ability to make Magic.

(Again, back to Wick text)

See how this works out? There’s no need for skills! Joe’s got the whole thing covered with Bonuses. Wanna do something sneaky? Roll under your Stealth Bonus. Wanna do something witty? Roll under your Banter Bonus.

However, the best part is a little paragraph that follows the whole Bonus section of the book. Once again, the words of Joe Cottonworthy:

If a player wants to perform an action that doesn’t fall under one of the Bonuses above, the HM ["Hamster Master" - JW] can simply ask the player to find the average of two Characteristics and roll under that number. Or, if the HM prefers, he can invent a new Bonus so all players may now know the rule for that situation. Space for Invented Bonuses can be found at the bottom of your Warhamster character sheet.

Reading those words set my mind on fire. The author of the game was letting me come up with my own rules. Right there in the book! Official sanction!

In other words, there was Joe Cottonworthy telling me I was more than just a game master, I was, in fact, an impromptu game designer.

Wow.

And now, for our final trick&

Part Three: “Classes? We don’t need no stinking classes!”

Joe didn’t understand character classes. So, he re-invented them.

Instead of falling under a generic and arbitrary “character class,” Joe did something that changed the nature of the Warhamster world forever. He remembered studying about the guild system in his European history class and decided that it would, in fact, be cool if guilds were an important part of the Warhamster world.

Once again, Joe Cottonworthy (from a phone conversation with me and John Kovalic):

“I was thinking, ‘What would happen if the characters had to choose not just a class, but an entire guild?’ That set my mind on fire. I mean, the idea of a thieves’ guild was already popular, but I was thinking, ‘Why just thieves? Why not wizards and priests and even fighters? Why should thieves get all the fun?’”

And that’s what got him going. Characters didn’t just pick a character class, they joined a guild. They joined a group. Something bigger than themselves, something with authority over their actions. A group filled with politics and loyalty and treachery and deceit& and yes, even backstabbing.

(Sorry. Had to.)

It also introduced Joe to the idea of “dues.” Joe was looking for a way to design a game that didn’t have anything to do with “experience points.” He hated the idea, thought it was half-baked and didn’t really express reality (or even fantasy) in any friendly way, so he decided to do something different.

Instead of awarding players xps, Joe decided that the only way for a character to advance was through training. Yes, there are ways to learn on your own, but the fact of the matter is, self-training only carries you so far. Eventually, you have to get a teacher, or at the very least, a book.

And the only people with teachers and books are the guilds. So, the players go out on adventures, kill monsters, win treasures and bring those treasures back to their guilds. They use that treasure as payment for training. You can learn three things from a guild: 1) Training (advancement in Characteristics); 2) Tricks (wizards increase their Sorcery Bonus; thieves get a Backstabbing Bonus; Fighters learn Riposte, Parry, etc.); and Magic (everyone can use spells to a small extent; wizards use it a lot).

So, in order to learn all this stuff, you gotta pay your dues. (I love double entendre.) You have to pay monthly dues, pay fees for tricks, training and sorcery. The higher you move up in the guild, the more “followers” you get (guys who are loyal to you in the guild).

Part Four: Next Week&

& we take a look at the game system of 1st Edition Warhamster. We’ll talk about task resolution (which you already sorta know about), combat, magic and something called Advanced Training. Lots of fun.

‘Till then, keep your chin clean and make sure you get enough sleep. Otherwise, you’ll be like me: up ’till the wee hours of the morning making soap. Not a pretty sight.

Take care and I’ll see you in seven.

Welcome to Volume 2 of the Game Designer’s Journal. I’ve made a few changes (you’ll notice the couch now faces the west wall) that I hope you’ll be happy with. However, I have to let you know, this one is a renter. I’m only staying for a short while (ten episodes at the most). This time around, I’m a designer-for-hire for one of the greatest Ips in the industry. A legend. A game so great, most of you have never heard of it before.

Quick story.

I was at a game convention (out of CA), running demos of L5R RPG when I got approached by a fellow with a spiral bound book (you know, like the ones they have at Kinkos). Shadis was still a going concern at the time, and he wanted me to review an RPG for the magazine. He put the book in front of me. I still remember the title, but I won’t divulge it here. That would be rude. You’ll see why in a moment.

“My game is revolutionary,” he told me. “It’s different from any other RPG I’ve ever seen.”

“Tell me why,” I said.

“I don’t limit the character classes,” he said.

There be dark waters ahead.

“Magic-users can use swords,” he said.

And dark clouds, as well. Batten down the hatches! (Did you know you can’t actually “batten down” a hatch? Never mind.)

He went on to tell me all about how his game was so different from any other game I could buy. He had seven kinds of magic, and magic-users could “specialize.” He was very proud of that last one. He also told me that his alignments were “realistic,” not the phony baloney alignments that everyone else used. He showed me how the character sheet actually came in the back of the book, you didn’t have to spend more money on a character sheet package. Finally, he showed me how a spiral bound book was easier to use, because when you opened it to a page, it stayed open.

“That’s great,” I told him. “Ever hear of Ars Magica?”

“What?” he said.

“Ars Magica.”

“Nope. Is that some computer game? I don’t play computer games. They’re not real roleplaying games.”

I gave up right there. I asked him for a review copy. “Nope,” he said. “You gotta pay for it like everybody else.”

That memory still warms my heart.

But this story has a point: even if you’ve heard of Ars Magica or Unknown Armies or Over the Edge or even Orkworld, you are not the majority.

One more story.

When The Wife and I went to her best-friend’s wedding, I met her husband and hung out with him all weekend. The only games he and his buddies play is D&D and a great science fiction game called Battlelords of the 23rd Century. That’s it. Nothing else.

I brought a copy of L5R RPG for them to take a look at. They loved it. I signed a copy and left it behind as an amendment to our wedding gift.

Now, they play three RPGs.

There are games out there you’ve never heard of. Great games. Maybe The Best games. Keep that in mind.

Today, we embark on a dangerous path. Not a path of game design, but of re-design. But before we begin, a history lesson is in order.

Because you’re about to learn about one of those great games. A great game you’ve probably never heard of. But, I promise you, by the end, you’ll know it well. And hopefully, it’ll mean as much to you as it has to me.

* * *

Warhamster was originally designed in the Spring of 1976 by Joseph P. Cottonworthy. Cottonworthy (or, “JPC” as his fans like to call him) designed the game between classes at the University of Minesotta. Inspired by Dungeons & Dragons and Tunnels & Trolls, JPC decided to try his own hand at roleplaying game design. Thus, Warhamster was born.

He managed to scramble together enough funds to print five hundred copies of the game, which came in a small box with only three 24-page pamphlets. The first book, Heroes & Hamsters detailed the rules for character creation. The second book, Sorcery & Sledgehammers covered both magic and combat. The last book, The Hamstermaster Companion covered advice for the HM as well as a sketch of the world of Warhamster. The books were not only written by JPC, but illustrated by him as well. A student of graphic design, the illustrated borders and hand-written calligraphy was amazing, even by contemporary RPG production standards.

Unfortunately, the night after his books were printed, packed and ready to ship, disaster struck. A freak fire destroyed nearly every box, leaving JPC only twenty-five units. He was devastated. He’d spent nearly his entire savings on the project, hoping his profits would allow him to continue at the U of M. Now, all those dreams were ruined.

Or, so it seemed&

Enter Joshua Jerimiah Jax. Otherwise known as J. Jery Jax.

Jax was a graduate student at the U of M who was fascinated by roleplaying games. He bumped into JPC at a bar in Dinkeytown (those wise in the ways of the U of M know what I’m talking about), and listened to the designer drown his woes in vodka martinis. In a matter of hours, the two made a deal. There was a handshake, a contract on a napkin and the exchange of five hundred dollars. That’s all it took for Warhamster to belong to J. Jery Jax.

Hook, line and sinker.

No less than a year later, Warhamster was back on the printers. What was originally a 72 page game turned into a single 124 page book in a box that read: “J. Jery Jax Presents: Warhamster.”

Not once does the name Joseph P. Cottonworthy appear in that book. Not once.

The box also included an innovation that made Jax a household name (at least, in my household): the d1000.

The Thousand-Sided Die (also known as “The Golf Ball of Death”) is one of the rarest items in gaming; only eighty-seven of them exist (your faithful Author has two of them). It is a huge thing, complete with the promised number of sides& and completely unusable.

It simply never stops rolling.

But that didn’t stop gamers from rolling it.

The game was an instant cult success. In college campuses across America, students were playing Warhamster. However, Jax had a problem. The d1000 was the most expensive component of the game, pushing production costs far too high to his liking. A young (and anonymous) game designer from Austin, Texas made a suggestion: Why not have players roll three ten-sided dice instead? Jax knew genius when he saw it, and the next printing (Revised Warhamster) included three ten-sided dice instead of the monstrous, cumbersome (did I mention unusable?) d1000.

The anonymous game designer’s suggestion made Warhamster even more popular. New players showed up out of the woodwork, pushing the game even further into mainstream American culture.

But Warhamster proved to be too popular for its own good. In 1980, three teenage boys from Ames, Iowa crawled into a corn silo to play the game. The father of one of the boys, Mr. Jonas Clay, turned the silo on, killing all three boys.

All three families sued Jax (who failed to incorporate his publishing company, thus making him directly responsible for the deaths). Jax’s lawyer argued it was the father who was responsible for the boys’ deaths. The families’ attorneys argued the game was to blame. The judge found in favor of Jax, but the legal fees had driven him into the poorhouse.

With bankruptcy looming on the horizon, Jax suddenly disappeared. A twelve-page, single-spaced, type-written letter was found in his home. It had no signature. St. Paul police have never revealed the contents of that letter, and the case of the missing game publisher faded out of everyone’s memory. Jax’s estate went on auction and the rights to Warhamster were purchased by a Mr. Jonas Clay (remember him?) for exactly one hundred and twenty-five dollars.

Jump ahead nearly fifteen years.

A young artist by the name of John Kovalic is drawing comics for his college newspaper. One early Sunday morning, instead of turning to the funny pages, he is inexplicably drawn to the Classifieds. There, staring him in the face, is a notification that the estate of J. Jery Jax is up for auction. He checks the date. He panics. He runs downstairs, puts on his pants, throws on some shoes, grabs his keys, runs out the door, jumps into his car and drives to the address listed in the paper.

When he arrives, the man at the door informs John that the auction is a shirt and tie affair.

That’s when John realizes he isn’t wearing a shirt.

A quick stop at Sears takes care of that, and John sits patiently as the items in the estate of J. Jery Jax are auctioned off& one by one. Finally, Lot 242: the rights to Warhamster, previously owned by Mr. Jonas Clay of Ames, Iowa (discredited in what would later be known as “The Infamous Pig Snorkeling Accident”) are brought up for bid.

John makes a bid.

A man in front of him makes another.

John raises. The man ahead of him raises.

The price goes up. Up. Up. John checks his wallet. He double-checks his check book. Yes, he can afford it.

John raises the stakes to five hundred and seventy-five dollars.

Going.

Going.

Gone to the man in the shirt from Sears.

At the end of the auction, John goes over to the man who bid against him to offer his condolences. He explains that he’s sorry, but Warhamster is an old favorite of his, and he just had to own it.

“It’s best it goes to a fan,” the man told him. John shook his hand again and looked at his name badge.

“Joe Cottonworthy,” it said.

John didn’t know at the time. He’d find out five years later.

* * *

It’s five years later.

I’m writing a column for Pyramid magazine. John’s drawing a comic for Pyramid magazine. We get to chatting through e-mail. I read in his comic how the kids are playing Warhamster. I tell him it’s great he’s paying tribute to one of the great games of all time. He sends me a quick thanks and tells me I’m the meanest GM he’s ever read about. We both laugh and that’s pretty much that.

Later, at the ’99 GAMA Trade Show in Los Vegas, John and I are sitting around with James Wallis. James also mentions to Mr. Kovalic how cool it is he’s keeping Warhamster alive in the pages of Dork Tower.

“Yeah,” John says. “Jax’s game design was brilliant. Years ahead of its time.”

I spit up my drink (don’t worry, it’s only a Coke). James is much more subtle.

“What f@#wit told you J. Jery Jax had anything to do with that game?!?”

I’d say something about now, but I’m still choking on my Coke.

“I’ve got a copy of first edition Warhamster,” John says. “And it says, ‘Designed by J. Jery Jax.”

“Cottonworthy,” I manage to stammer out between coughing. “It was Cottonworthy.”

While I recover, James explains to Mr. Kovalic the sorted and depressing history of Joe Cottonworthy and the fate of Warhamster. He listens attentively for about a minute& then all the color runs out of his face. He turns to me.

“What did you say his name was?” he asks.

“Cottonworthy,” I say again between sips of water. “Joe P. Cottonworthy.”

John suddenly puts one and one together.

“Oh my God,” he whispers. “I stole Warhamster from him.”

James and I share a dumbfounded look. John hurriedly explains.

That’s when we all start shaking.

* * *

Jump ahead three days.

John Kovalic is on the phone with seventeen different agencies, all trying to locate Joseph P. Cottonworthy. It takes a week.

Soon thereafter, I receive an e-mail from John, urging me to call him. I do. Our conversation goes something like this.

JK: “John?”

JW: “Hi. Who’s this?”

JK: “This is John Kovalic.”

JW: “Oh. Hi, John. How’s it going?”

JK: “Look, I don’t want to sound rushed or anything, but&”

JW: “Is there something wrong?”

JK: “No. Everything’s& everything’s& John, he wants us to do it.”

JW: “Who wants us to do what?”

JK: “Cottonworthy. He wants us to do Warhamster.”

Hear that sound? That’s the sound of a phone hitting the floor.

Apparently, John met with Mr. Cottonworthy about Warhamster. In fact, he offered back to him. Cottonworthy balked for a moment. Refused. John offered it again. He refused a second time. Finally, John said the magic word, and Mr. Cottonworthy accepted& on one condition. John agreed.

There was a handshake, a contract written on a napkin and a single dollar bill was exchanged.

After more than twenty years, Warhamster is back where it belongs.

Now, where do I come into all of this? Well, I’m that one condition.

Apparently, Mr. Cottonworthy would like a new edition of Warhamster. And he wants me to design it for him.

Looks like the “rock star of the game industry” gets to do a cover song.

I talked with JPC on the phone. He’s a soft-spoken man with a very distinct Minnesota accent. He sounds an awful lot like my Uncle Tom. When he says my name, he says, “Jahn.” The way he says it rhymes with “bahn.” You know, the place they keep cows.

He said some very complimentary things, offered me the job and I told him I’d have to talk to The Wife. He said he understood and he’d wait for my reply. I talked to Jenny about it and called back in five minutes.

“I’ll do it,” I said.

“Great. I’ll get a schedule ready.”

And that’s all it took.

* * *

And so, faithful readers, you are in for a treat. In this Second Volume of the Game Designer Journal, I will show you three roleplaying games. First, we’ll take a look at 1st Edition Warhamster Then, we’ll peer into what I’m calling “2nd Edition” and how the d1000 changed Cottonworthy’s original design. Finally, I’ll show you how I’m updating the game (with JPC’s guidance, of course) for a modern audience.

It’s bound to be a bumpy ride, but if you can hold on, I hear the final drop is worth it.

See you next week!

PART ONE: Wrapping Up

Well, this is it. The end of the trip. I won’t bore you with worn out Grateful Dead lyrics (never was a fan, anyway), but I will say that I never thought the whole thing would be so damn long. I remember reading Frank Miller’s afterward to the first Sin City graphic novel, when he said he originally planned the whole thing to be about a dozen pages or so. Three hundred pages later, he’s got a monster named Marv on his hands, rampaging through his life, putting a bullet in the head of anything that distracted him from telling his tale.

My Marv’s name was Bashthraka. He wouldn’t let me put the damn book down.

It’s been more than a year, and there’s a few last things to say. A few last words of advice for all you out there who still have the wistful notion that this journey is worthwhile (another Chapin lyric).

It’s been two weeks, and I’ve read the book cover-to-cover three times, circling every mistake. And, there’s a lot of them. Problem is, I remember fixing more than a few. Something went wrong between me and the printer, and I’m not sure what it is just yet. You already know about the missing two pages of Afterward. There’s a couple other things I would have done differently had I a spare week, and Tom’s just cracking to get a hold of the scans I made and touch them up. So, yes, I will be reprinting the book. However, here’s a promise for you:

There will be no additional material in the reprint. None. I will fix typos and other errors, but I will not add anything new& with one notable exception. The only “new” thing that goes in will be the Afterward, and that will be available on the web page in a few days. If I included new rules or rule patches, people would have a right to complain. Two pages of pure self-indulgence that has absolutely no effect on game play? I don’t think I’m too concerned if people complain about that.

But, I want you guys to know something about those typos. Chris Hepler, Jennifer Brandes, Rich McHugh, The Wife and I sat up all weekend and read through that text. We circled everything. We made sure it all got changed. And even with five people combing through that text, mistakes still got through. I don’t know how, but I’m gonna find out. I’ve got the disks I sent to the printer and I’ve got my original drafts on backup. I’m going to go through those disks and backups with a copy of the book and find out where the errors originated. Then, I’ll let you know.

And speaking of “letting you know,” while the GDJ will continue (wait for it), all Orkworld updates will now be found at www.orkworld.com. I’ll be putting a whole mess of new material up very soon. If anyone wants to put a Winter Home link up, just drop me a line and I’ll take care of it.

For those of you who are wondering just how much Orkworld cost me (the final tally), get your calculators ready.

y

That’s $14,640.

Now, Rich took care of the printing costs. However, he did so with the understanding that he’d get 50% return on his investment. Add another $4750 on to that total and you’ve got a grand sum of $19,390.

If the entire print run sold through distributors, I’d make a grand total of $24,000. That’s 3000 books at $25, minus Eric’s 12% and the distributor discount of 60%, for a total of about $8 a book, for a total profit of ($24,000 – $19,390) $4,610.

Four and a half grand for a year of work. Thank Bashdowmga Eric does internet sales.

Every internet sale is worth $22. If I sell eleven hundred copies over the internet, I make more than through the distributors. That’s a third of the books for the same money. And, as Eric’s told me, I’ve sold more books through the internet than I’ve sold through the distribution channels. I’ll let you figure that one out for yourselves.

* * *

You know the old cliché: “I’m not very good at goodbye?”

Well, the one and only writing teacher I ever needed gave me a bit of advice once I’ll carry with me to the grave.

“Writers don’t use clichés, John. They invent clichés.”

* * *

PART TWO: Goodbye to Two Daughters

Gen-Con taught me a lot. One of those lessons was all about letting go.

I left out one major event at Gen-Con. It happened on Sunday. It was the L5R Finals.

I won’t go into details, but suffice to say, it taught me something important. It taught me how to let go. Or, as the orks would say, “Stupid man. If you aren’t carrying it, it isn’t yours.”

For a very long time now, I’ve been living on the periphery of game worlds I helped develop. I’m speaking, of course, of Rokugan and Théah. There’s a lot of emotion there, a lot of love, sweat and tears.

And it’s time, once and for all, to say goodbye.

I haven’t carried Rokugan for a long time. Not since the Day of Thunder. Kachiko was my viewpoint character. I spoke her first words, and I spoke her last. That’s it. All done.

Théah, on the other hand, is an entirely different goodbye. I hardly got time to know her. Jenny and I, in many ways, were her surrogate parents. It’s hard to watch other people raise your kids. Yes, there’s things I would have done differently. But, it’s not for me to say. She’s not my daughter.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I was born a Scorpion, I live my life a Scorpion, and if The Lady demands, I’ll die a Scorpion. If somebody comes up to me at a con and wants to talk L5R or 7th Sea, I’ll be more than happy to sit down and chat about my girls. But every time I do, it’ll be like giving her away at her wedding.

They’re not my little girls anymore.

PART THREE: One Last Rant

It’s a quick one. Trust me.

I just got e-mail from a buddy of mine who was at Gen-Con when I read No Regrets. He wrote:

John,

I’m sorry I missed your reading of the Last Kachiko Story. My son was in the Pokemon tournament, just across a few tables from where you were reading. I saw you stand up on the chair, lose your composure more than once and fight against the bullhorn announcements.

There were twelve people in the Pokemon tournament. A photographer from the WotC daily rag was there taking pictures. I told her who you were and what you were doing. I pointed out the huge crowd gathered around you and told her what was up. She blew me off and took more pictures of the Pokemon tournament. Oh well. Their loss.

For those of you who weren’t at Gen-Con, WotC had a daily Gen-Con newspaper, covering the major events of the con. I checked each and every day. Not a single L5R event was covered. Not one.

Not even an event that didn’t involve a single prize, but drew three hundred people anyway.

And, by the way, they weren’t there for me. They were there for The Lady.

PART FOUR: Putting Things Away

Putting things away. One by one.

Tom’s got all the art back. The disks are stored away in a cold, dark and dry space. The Wife and I have time to talk again. She’s excited about a zombie story. I’m hip on writing a short fiction piece for that Pendragon anthology coming up. Both of them are less than 5,000 words. First drafts will take an afternoon. Edits at night. Re-writes the next day. We’re excited about working on something that isn’t a game.

But then, of course, my vacation is short. In a couple of weeks, I’ll start working on Warhamster 3rd Edition. That’ll take a month at most. Ten episodes.

And then? The biggest thing I’ve ever tried to do.

The Flux.

So, after all this heavy, heart-wrenching stuff, we get a light romp through the mind of Joe Cottonworthy (you’ll meet him next week), a monster, epic task. Consider W: 3E the ginger between the sushi.

And, before I forget, let me say a final thank you.

To you. Yes, you.

You who have been here since Episode One.

You who joined up around Episode Nine because someone told you we were doing something special here.

You who dropped out after Episode Five, picked us back up at Episode Fifteen, dropped us again, picked us back up and stuck ’round ’till the end.

And even you, who are only just now reading for the first time.

All of you. The Wick fan-boys, the nay-sayers, the critics, the self-appointed foils at my obviously over-inflated ego (yes, you too), and the ones who’ve never said a single word, but just sit back quietly and listen, smiling to yourself.

I thank you.

And I hope to see you again soon.

Take care,
John

(There’s a lot to be said here. I don’t have a lot of room (or time) to do it. Forgive me for rushing through some bits. Five parts. That’s all. And, like Gen-Con itself, everything goes so fast&)

Finishing off Friday Night

The L5R LARP is over. My Scorpions have made a fine showing for themselves. Yojiro goes back to his room and puts his kimono, obi and collar away. John puts his little black Gen-Con hat back on and gives The Honest Scorpion a little farewell.

Then, John, Rich and Tom head off to The Safehouse. It’s late – very late – but that doesn’t stop us. Along for the ride are Betty, her husband Steve, and their babysitter Lee. It’s the first opportunity I’ve really had to talk to Steve in the three years I’ve known him. He’s usually busy at the tournament playing his Scorpion deck and I’m up on the floor pitching a new RPG.

We all chat about L5R, Scorpions, Orkworld, the Live-Action game and – believe it or not – professional wrestling. In the course of the evening, I get to talk to Steve. By the end of the night, I can’t decide who’s the lucky one.

Later that night, Tom tells me, “John, L5R fans are the coolest gamers I’ve ever met.” I can’t disagree. Of course, we’re both overwhelmed by the sheer volume of L5R fans all over the con. We wish them a good night, head back to our respective hotel rooms and hit the hay at around three in the morning. The alarm is set for eight.

Who needs sleep?

Well, you’re never gonna get it

Who needs sleep?

Tell me what’s that for?

Who needs sleep?

Be happy with what you’re getting

There’s a guy that’s been awake since the Second World War

Saturday

Another eighty-eight books. Gone by 6 PM.

Tom is extatic. Hundreds of people coming up to the booth, all telling him that his work is gorgeous.

John Kovalic stops by the booth before the room opens. He got his copy on Friday. His bookmark is four-fifths of the way through. He calls me brilliant. And let me tell you something, having John Kovalic call you brilliant ain’t no small affair. That man is writing the funniest damn comic in the history of the game indust – no. Check that.

John Kovalic’s Dork Tower is not just laugh until you’ve got a stitch in your side funny. John is not just a cartoonist. He’s a satirist in the truest sense of the word, communicating volumes of emotions with a squiggle of ink and a word bubble. John’s comics are not about gaming; they are about people who game. John’s books are on my shelf, sitting next to Twain, Swift and Shultz.

And they’re in good company.

Earlier that morning, I’ve made about one hundred white armbands adorned with the Scorpion mon. White: the Rokugani color of mourning. I tell John what they’re for and he puts one on his arm. The Great and Mighty Stafford wears one. Tom and Rich wear one. Dustin (The Spider King) wears one. Ken Hite wears one. Betty looks like she’s going to cry when I wrap it around her arm. L5R fans see them and want one. I only give them to Scorpions. Like Orkworld, they’re gone before I can look twice.

And, like Orkworld, the time slips away. At three, I leave the booth to change into my Yojiro costume. I hadn’t planned on it, but I pulled out The Honest Scorpion for a second Last Time. It’s three forty-five when I show up at the tournament room. I see about a hundred white arm bands.

One hundred white arm bands and about three hundred expectant faces.

Three hundred people. All gathered to hear the Last Kachiko Story.

I can feel the butterflies start to stir.

Ree hands me the pages I left behind when I left AEG. The paper is a year old. I see the single water dot on the front page. That’s from me. A tear from a year ago. I see that and remember writing the Nothing Up My Sleeve columns for the GDJ so long ago. There’s magic in that tear, and I feel its cousins creeping up my throat.

Ree hands me a bullhorn.

John Wick don’t need no bullhorn.

I stand on a chair. The first few rows sit down so those behind them can see and hear.

Three hundred plus people. All gathered to hear a story.

No prizes. No free cards. No game. No tournament.

Just a story.

I stand on the chair and say something like this:

“On Friday, Ree asked me to read this. I have to warn you: when I was done writing it, my t-shirt was wet. When I was done reading it to The Wife, my eyes were red and ragged. Just looking at it right now, I can tell you, I’ll be a mess when we’re done. I’ll do my best, but you’ll have to be a little patient with me.”

I stand on the chair and say something like this:

“On Friday, Ree asked me to read this. I have to warn you: when I was done writing it, my t-shirt was wet. When I was done reading it to The Wife, my eyes were red and ragged. Just looking at it right now, I can tell you, I’ll be a mess when we’re done. I’ll do my best, but you’ll have to be a little patient with me.”

I put the story in front of me. I decided right then and there I would not get emotional about it. Then, I saw Betty out of the corner of my eye. She had already lost all composure. Not a good way to start.

I did make it through the story. I had to stop a couple of times. One line hit me so hard I nearly fell over (for those who saw it, it was the “What I want” line). I felt Ree reach up and touch my arm, silently asking if I was okay. I nodded. I kept on reading.

When I was done, my face was covered in tears. I had a little nudge in my head tell me, “You just cried in front of three hundred plus people you jerk.” I nodded softly. “Yes. Yes, I did.” Then, I looked up from those pages and saw three hundred tear stained faces.

There was applause. There was a Ree/John hug. A Betty/John hug. I looked around to see if Rich and Tom were there. I didn’t see them.

The denouement was quick.

“I want to thank all of you for being here. ‘Thank you’ is such a small word for how I feel right now. L5R will always be that ex-girl friend that I broke up with a long time ago. But it was a friendly break-up and every once in a while we get together and have really great sex.”

That lightened the mood a bit.

“So thanks again. Thanks for giving me two of the best years of my life. Thank you for believing. Keep the faith& and go upstairs and buy Orkworld!”

They cheered. I didn’t waste any time.

I had to get out of there. I moved through the crowd as quick as I could. Everyone wanted to shake my hand, pat me on the back, tell me how cool the story was, how much it meant to them. I had to get out of there.

I ran out, leaving the whole thing behind. A Harry Chapin line suddenly came into my head: “They’re applauding at my shadow, long after I’m gone.”

More people. More handshakes. More pens and cards. I tell them I’ll be in the dealers’ room, and I’ll sign anything they want there. I get out of the room, catch my breath and suddenly realize I’d been on the verge of hyperventilating for nearly an hour.

After a year of carrying that story around in my heart, it was good to put it down.

And right then, right there, I realize just how big and powerful The Lady has become. Bigger than me. In five hundred years, people won’t remember John Wick, but they’ll remember Bayushi Kachiko.

(Don’t believe me? Tell me who created The Shadow. Or Doc Savage. Or Flash Gordon. How about Superman? Be honest with yourself. Don’t go look it up. Just realize that you don’t know. Then realize that dreamers always stand in the shadow of their dreams.

And that ain’t always a bad place to be.)

* * *

Back up in the dealers’ room, I sell about two boxes of books to people in L5R shirts with eyes as red and ragged as my own. They shake my hand, tell me very kind and flattering things, then hand me money and ask me to sign the book. I’m so high, I’ll sign just about anything.

Ken Hite stops by around then. He asks me how the story went. I tell him. Then, I give him a copy of the book to review.

Yes, I said “review.”

Let me tell you why.

A review is, essentially, the reviewer telling you whether or not you should buy the book. He tells you what he thinks about the game design, the writing, and the art. Well, I have three problems with that.

1. Who the hell are you?
2. What the hell do you know about game design?, and
3. Who the hell asked for your opinion in the first place?

Ken Hite answers those questions rather nicely.

First, I know Ken. I respect his opinion. I don’t always agree with his opinion, but those of us with half a brain in our heads know you don’t have to agree with someone to respect them.

Second, Ken knows a great deal about game design. Johnny-Come-Latelys know Ken for his work at Last Unicorn Games. I know him from an entirely different source; the best RPG that you never played: Nephilim.

Finally, if Ken sent me e-mail full of critical commentary about Orkworld, I’d read it.

Those are the Wick criteria for reviewing a Wicked Press product. If you don’t fill those categories (Chris Hepler is the only other person I can think of who does), you don’t get a review copy.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying “You can write a review of my game you urchin-for-brains nobodies!” I’m saying that you don’t get a review copy if you ain’t Ken Hite (and Co.). And that’s that.

Of course, as soon as I gave that copy to Ken, Tony from Games Unplugged ran up and asked for one.

“No,” I told him.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I’m Number 21. If I was #18, maybe. If I was #10, possibly. If I was in the top five, most certainly. But the answer is ‘No.’”

Tony looked sad and stepped away. I don’t care. I’m not paying him twenty-five bucks to tell me whether or not he liked my game. He can shell out the cash. Then, he can tell me if he liked my game or not.

And, by the way, I really don’t care I didn’t show up on Games Unplugged’s Top Twenty Game Designers of All Time. Honestly, I don’t. But there is somebody missing from that list, and that pisses me off.

His name is Dave Williams.

Dave is the Lead Designer over at AEG. He was lead on the L5R CCG, he was the co-designer of the L5R RPG “roll and keep” system, the lead designer on Doomtown, and was very instrumental in the design of 7th Sea: No Quarter!

I remember one L5R ad that summed up Dave’s design skills quite nicely. The text was simple (I’m paraphrasing, so someone can correct me):

L5R
1200 Cards.
0 Banned. 0 Restricted.

To my understanding, there are still no banned or restricted cards in Legend of the Five Rings. No Moxes. No Black Loti. No card that breaks the game.

Another example is something Dave taught me years ago about game design. It involves a card that sure threatened that streak: the Ninja Shapeshifter. Everyone complained the card was too powerful. An unstoppable, irresistable force. Instead of killing the card, Dave introduced two new cards into the playing environment. That took care of everything.

See, in L5R, Personalities have two traits you can attack: Force and Chi. The Shapeshifter had a 2 Force and a 2 Chi and can copy the Force or Chi of any card on the board& but not both. So, Dave introduced a card that attacked Force of 2 or less and another card that attacked Chi of 2 or less. Two very useful cards that happened to be great against the Shapeshifter.

That’s Dave: always finding invisible solutions to visible problems. And if anyone deserved to be on that list, it was Dave. That’s why Games Unplugged didn’t get a review copy.

* * *

After the con, I took Rich, Tom, Steve and Betty through the secret entrance one last time. The table swung about (when you see it, you’ll understand) and we stepped into a room& full of L5R shirts.

“Hey! It’s Wick& with Kachiko!”

A cheer roared up. A hundred different handshakes, slaps on the back and offers to buy me a drink. We all sat in the booth just above the dancefloor next to the Infamous Pole.

(You don’t get that story; at least, not this time. Suffice to say it involves me, the pole and a beautiful woman who danced for a living. At some point, she said “My God, how is he doing that?” That’s all you get for now.)

We sat together and someone asked me to tell the Bashthraka story. I’d been telling the story nearly every day, and every time I did, we sold through a box of books. I told the story. Had half the bottom floor chanting, “And Basthraka Killed Them!” and lost the rest of my voice. That was my favorite telling of the tale. It was the only time people could hear it as it was meant to be heard: with liquor in hand.

Ree showed up at around eleven, dressed in Scorpion colors. Soon thereafter, I was taken to the basement of The Safehouse and experienced something called “The Hail to the Chief.” When it was over, Rich, Tom, Dave Williams and Ree all congratulated me on Orkworld. I got lots of hugs.

Once again, Tom, Rich and I got back to bed at three. Rich’s plane left at seven in the morning. He got up early, moved ’round the room so quiet, I never heard him leave. He left a note on the bed. It’s been a long time since I woke up to a note.

Tom and I packed up the hotel and ran over to the con. We spent the rest of the day making last day sales. I made sure the right people got copies and when three o’clock rolled around, Tom had to leave.

I started the con alone, and I ended the con alone.

All my books were gone. Eric and I estimated I’d sell about one hundred and fifty to two hundred books. By the end, I sold three hundred. At twenty-two bucks a book, that’s $6,600. Sixty percent ($3,960) goes to Rich. Subtract the $500 for the booth, the $500 to ship out the extra boxes and the $300 I paid for the plane tickets, that brought my total Gen-Con profit to $1,340.

These figures are still a little up in the air. I haven’t got the final sales figures from Eric just yet. When the fifth runs around, I’ll let you know the final tally. However, I do know that we’ve sold about 300 copies of the book from Wizard’s Attic. Again, at $22 a copy, that’s $6,600. Again, $3,960 goes to pay off the printing costs. But, Orkworld is starting to pay off those bills. I’ll have final tallies for you the next time we talk.

* * *

I flew home at nine at night. Steve and Betty (and company) were kind enough to drop me off at the airport, saving me twenty bucks of cabfare. We had dinner before the flight left at my favorite Italian restaurant in Milwaukee. We talked about L5R, Kachiko, Orkworld and the rest. Betty confessed she wouldn’t wear the Kachiko costume again. I told her that was silly, but she insisted.

We listened to the new Darkest of the Hillside Thickets CD, Spaceship Zero on the way out. It’s amazing. Their best yet. You don’t have to be a Cthulhu fan to dig the Thickets. Witty, funny and some damn fine playing on top. Check them out.

While waiting for my flight to leave, I checked out my stash from the weekend.

The Hills Rise Wild! from Pagan Publishing. It’s gorgeous. I’m sorry I only got a moment to talk to John Tynes. One of the nicest guys in the game industry& and you wouldn’t recognize him from the awful, horrible things he writes about. Sorry, John. I’ll see you next year.

Passion Play, live action rules for Fading Suns. A very impressive product that makes leaps and bounds in live-action play (sorry John B.!).

The Invisible Clergy for Unknown Armies. I had to pick up a copy for Morgan (a buddy from work), but I also picked up a copy for myself. I’m a great admirer of Greg Stolze’s work& even if it makes me feel all dirty (which, I think, is his intent; you succeeded Greg!).

I also got a copy of that little Pendragon Book of Knights. The reason? I was listening to Peter Corless pitching Pendragon to someone. “Come visit the realm of Arthur and his noble knights of the Table Round!”

Now, I love Pendragon, and Peter has to be one of the happiest people I’ve ever met in my entire life, and after hearing him joyfully pitch Pendragon for four days, I finally said, “You know, Tom& I don’t want to play a noble knight. I wanna play a dastardly, wicked, honorless dog.”

Peter turns to me and says, “You want to write The Book of Villains?”

“Sure!” I tell him. “As long as it’s as small as that Book of Knights you’ve got there.”

Peter pulls out a notepad, scribbles something on it and hands it to me. I take one look and nearly fall down laughing.

It’s a contract. No, specifically, it’s a Don King contract. For me to write The Book of Villains for an unspecified amount of money for an unspecified deadline.

“Do I get to do Morgan La Fae?” I ask him, only briefly aware of the double entendre.

“Sure,” he says.

I laugh, sign the contract and Peter jumps as high as the rabbit he shares a name with. Then, he goes running all over the Wizard’s Attic booth, showing people the contract, shouting at the top of his lungs, “I’ve got John Wick to write The Book of Villains!” That sight alone was worth the whole trip.

I looked through my copy of Dune. Gorgeous book. Some damn clever game design. Too bad about that d20 thing. Too bad.

And, lastly, speaking of d20, I peeked through D&D3. I traded for a copy of Orkworld. I’m sorry to say that I’ll never read it. Tom summed it up best when someone came by the booth with a copy, asking people to sign the inside cover. “It’s my Gen-Con 2000 yearbook!” they said. Tom drew a picture of Bashthraka. The word bubbles read (in BIG letters):

BASHTHRAKA HATES READING ENCYCLOPEDIAS!!!

When they handed the book to me, I saw what Tom drew and wrote and laughed. Just under it, I wrote (in tinier letters):

What he said. It isn’t wise to disagree with Bashthraka.

I’ll never know just how good or bad the game is because I can’t get beyond page 10 before my eyes start bleeding. C’est la vie.

* * *

When my plane lands in Los Vegas for the transfer, I drop a quarter in a video poker machine. I get bupkis and I lose my quarter.

I smile. My Trouble wasn’t blinking that time.

When I land, The Wife is there to give me The Wife Hug.

I remember back when I waved goodbye, thinking it may be the very last time I see her again.

“I missed you,” she says.

I held her as tight as Janet held Tam Lin about fifteen episodes ago. The drive home is at least two hours. I only get to tell her the highlights. It takes me nearly a week to fill her in on all the details. In fact, just this morning, I remembered something that made us both laugh so hard, the dog barked at us.

I met a lot of people at Gen-Con. I could write a few hundred thousand words about the experience. Just a quick “Hi!” and “Thanks!” to:

Take care, and good night.

- Jw
8/25/00
1:06 AM