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 Recent Posts
As you ascend the plain white squared spiral stair that winds around the inside of the rectangle, you pass balconies with shelves and shelves of scrolls. The windows that pierce the side walls seem free of glass, but they let in no breeze, and the air is thick and unresponsive. There is very little dust, and all of the troves of documents seem in excellent condition. Every now and then, the literate among you catch sight of small plaques on the shelves that contain strange words in greek, that only Paper truly understands. Like the world around you, this is a mausoleum of magic and myth. A strange sensation starts in your bellies and your heads. As you ascend, you become lighter. Each movement is somehow easier, but you feel less grounded. It settles, and it is as if you weigh half as much as you normally do. Your steps would carry you in bounds, if you are not careful, but you find your way to the archway at the apex of the twisting stairs. There is an inscription in the archway from Plato:
As you pass through the arch, the light grows brighter. The room at the centre has no walls. A strange transparent force wraps around it in all directions. There are no ornaments, but there are six low couches cushioned with leather. On the couch facing you is an old man on the brink of death. Spots on his skin show a canker of some sort. An hourglass of exquisite workmanship, a staff of ivory and gold, a tome, open on an illustrated map of this realm, a goblet of steaming herbs, and a silver dish set in the floor are the only furnishings. The old man looks at you from his wasted face, but the eyes are bright and happy. He regards you as if you were long-lost family. A scrawny arm, with ringed fingers is above the dark brown blanket he wears, and he beckons to the other couches.
Qabbalah. Nicely presented. Perhaps it would be advisable to let people know the origins of the idea, as it seems as if you are claiming the authorship otherwise, and I am confident that was not your intention. Those who want a superb depiction of the tree of life should also look at Promethea, the stunning graphic novels by Alan Moore. The protagonist journeys through the sephira and the twenty-two paths between them.
I wish I had more unique 3.5 books. After the fire, no other 3.5 books look anything quite like yours do. The forensic investigator is a fundamentalist, and you are framed and arrested for arson, despite the fact that the fire was an accident. If only the part of the Fiend Folio he saw had burned with the rest. I wish that OSRIC would grow in popularity enough to be competitive with monopoly and uno.
. . . . . . .Granted. . . . . . .People stop to think before every sentence. . . . . . .They become quieter and slower. . . . . . .They shuffle, rapt in thought. . . . . . .The thoughts become dull and slow, and over-considered. . . . . . .The trains of thought are watchamacallit. . . . . . .The thingum is whatsit. . . . . . .People stop more often. . . . . . .They quite slow shuffle wrapped sullanddow over-thunk. . . . . . .Virus eating brain. . . . . . .Braaains! . . . . . .Braaains! I wish that there were a way to recycle waste with full efficiency, and with less than a percent of the current energy costs.
Your puppy has a siezure, and a blood clot works its way into its brain, causing a stroke. The puppy starts to use the toilet correctly after the stroke, but it becomes violent and aggressive, and bites anyone who comes near the toilet. After the second biting, it is put down. I wish that astrology would decline and wither, and cease to have the sway and cult it has now.
Granted. You find a beautiful shawl with a jade clasp, and you just know that it is the perfect gift for her. You buy it, and hide it at home, in a place you are sure she will never look. She finds the shawl while snooping around, and freaks out, thinking that the shawl was left by some other woman. The sales assistant left a red hair on the shawl. Your protests of innocence fall on deaf ears, and she tears up her gift in inconsolable grief. It takes hours to calm her down, and years to heal the trust between you. I wish that strange men in black suits would loiter around all the therapists offices where psychiatrists hypnotise people to remember spurious 'alien abductions', and that the U.S air force would sieze the presses of the abductee magazines without explanation, just to freak the crazies out.
Religion is a transmittable neurological disorder from the bronze age, that has done a tremendous amount of harm to humanity. The sooner the religious crawl away and wither as a minority, the safer we will all be. Never trust anyone who claims the universe had a creator, and they know its mind. Anyone that fundamentally warped is not living a rational life. Pity we can't quarantine them before they f%$+ up their children with the same inane and insane savage tribal superstitious claptrap that they spend their lives poisoned by. Weak science education is partly responsible, but far greater responsibility lies with the taboo against calling them on their madness. Extraordinary claims demand extraordinary evidence. That the universe was set in motion by someone who cares where I put my penis, and doesn't particularly like pork, is an extraordinary claim. I hold religion in less regard than I hold dowsing, telepathy, alien abduction, Atlantis, fairies, ley lines, ghosts, homeopathy and magnet healing, because at least the gullible and superstitious victims of those popular delusions are not prone to burning, stoning and hanging the sensible and sane for not sharing their delusion. That can be construed as offensive, but it can also be construed as true. Just because it is written in a semi-coherent book from before anybody knew much about anything does not mean we should respect it. We need rational clear minds that can deal with ambiguity and complexity. Things are moving quickly now, and claims on a 'holy land' and yearnings for the apocalypse are not helping.
Around the circumference of the vaulted chamber are twelve columns. A fluid rippling starts on the surface of one of the columns closest to the stair. The surface briefly takes on oily rainbow hues, and then takes form as a silk garment draped on a marble arm. The column shifts and sculpts itself into a statuesque woman some nine feet tall. She has plain marble eyes and hair and skin, and a pretty silk toga of intricate floral design. A marble wreath of flowers sits on the white of her sculpted hair. The toga covers her modestly. A marble shortsword breaks the line of the garment from the curve of her hip. The creature of stone speaks, in a melodic and husky voice. The voice is similar to the huge undead cyclopean horror you faced in the tomb, but it is hard to place why. "Welcome to the living tomb of Lysoskevevos the wise. He expects you. You will find the maker at the top of this winding stair. Take your ease for a while, before you ascend, for time has little meaning here. I am aware of nothing outside this august tower, but I can answer you plain about the tower itself. When you are ready, go to meet mighty Lysoskevos." The caryatid column gives a cold but correct bow. The wise among you can see that it is a personification of Virgo as Flora.
http://www.materiamagica.com/ Materia Magica is a surprisingly good massively multiplayer text based world. It has some quirky quests and a thriving community. I played for a few months when I had no computer of my own, and spent time in internet cafes.
The Whispering Cairn. My favourite adventure of all time. Here in Taiwan, I was starving for geeky goodness, and was very chuffed to find Dragon and Dungeon on sale at a bookstore here. I started to buy them every month. When the Age of Worms came out, I loved the path so much that I bought a set of core books through Amazon, and advertised for a group. The people I found to play with were fairly useless, but I made a group of first timers from work, and ran them through the first four adventures in Age of Worms. I downloaded the age of worms overload from the site, and saw the messageboards. I have been a Paizo fan since the Whispering Cairn. I was very pleased with Howl of the Carrion King. I think the Logue and Pett fanboys are missing that Erik Mona is the best adventure writer out there. I suspect his prints are all over every other great adventure in the Paizo catalogue. Erik, if you are reading this, thank you for getting me back in the game.
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The Paizo Sci-fi RPG, Trailblazer, is finished and published. WotC notices an obscure reference in the book is identical to intellectual property from the Buck Rogers RPG from the dark days of Lorraine Williams. The Williams estate and WotC launch a joint suit against Paizo, and win a controlling interest in the company, which prompts many of our most beloved Paizonians to quit, and be replaced by a small cadre of yes-men that make Williams happy. Due to a clause in the settlement, Paizo needs to comply with the fourth edition GSL for all products, and may not continue supporting Pathfinder or Trailblazer. Buck Rogers: The Game is a dismal failure, and what is left of Paizo is sold off piecemeal to creditors. I wish that I could attend Gen Con 2010.
Things to consider while leveling up: Humans get an extra feat at first level.
Announcement: I implemented an houserule that knowledges cost a quarter as much as other skills. I would like for us to recalculate skills according to Beta rules, in which case all knowledges, and ONE craft, and ONE profession and TWO performance skills are class skills for each character. Sorry for the inconvenience. Modius Larci:
Gnaeus Cornelius Papyrus:
Isat Vastra:
Your BAB seems a point too high to me. Check the Bab for a fourth level Cleric in the Beta. I still heartily reccomend the character spreadsheet available at: http://www.chargen.motime.com/ >>Linked<< Gripe: Today I taught 35 Chinese kids aged 8 to 14, with English ability ranging from none to some. One was in the habit of smacking anyone who touched him inadvertently. One was so shy she wet herself from stress at having to answer a question. Seven hours a day, six days running. I finish on Wednesday. And yet I am happy and serene. After the Wednesday, I have seven weeks off, to bond with my beautiful boy, and get glued to the web. Joy.
Lucio's outstanding paintings of cigarette butts stimulate him professionally, but he lapses into obscurity, except for you, his only fan. He ends up dying of emphesema from the process of manufacturing subjects for his carcinogenic still-lifes. His studio is so full of butts that the building is cleared by hazmat disposal experts. You then decide to continue his life work, and develop a nicotine and art habit that consumes you in turn. I wish that HP printer ink were as cheap as oil (as of this post), and not more expensive than gold, as it currently is.
Post which starts innocently enough, then somehow morphs into a blatant advertisement for Pocari Sweat, the ion supply drink that puts back in what you need to keep going all day. Pocari Sweat. Be the best! Sweat it! Spoiler:
I am drinking one right now. Mmmmm. Refreshing.
Kindly level up your characters before we play again. I will happily answer any questions here on this thread. A friend of mine may be joining this game when he gets settled down. He just moved back to Canada from Taiwan, where he was a player in my meatspace RotRL PFRPG game. He has read the game thread, and really enjoyed it. My lovely little boy is surprisingly placid. You can see pictures of him on my facebook page, as Rev Rosey can attest.
It does. mis-shapen, agonising and bloody life, alternately vicious and pathetic. Even the letters of words you write, become animate, and mewl and flop piteously in the slime of their own innards. To make it stop, you bite your own fingers off. I wish that for the year 2010, cars would kill only one person per minute on average, instead of the current two per minute.
I wish I had something yummy for lunch today. Your last meal is delicious. What a pity about the strange strain of salmonella that expressed in the roast beef and horseradish. It doesn't look anywhere near as attractive while it spews all over the hospital emergency room, as you stagger, in paroxysms of agony to the counter, where you die screaming, before they have a chance to ask you where you ate. I wish that Kenyan families would no longer need to set aside one third of their income for bribes, that they would no longer have to pay an average of sixteen bribes a month, and that the corruption in Kenya would come to an end that allows for the maximum happiness for all.
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