Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Happy Trees

Apparently I have been reading too many blog posts and comments lately, because I am finding myself angry at odd times of the day for absolutely no good reason. So I declare a BOB ROSS BRAND HAPPY TREE MORATORIUM on reading any blogs. I'm not sure when it will end, but at least until July.

I'll still write a few posts, if I have a brain-gasm, (and the Dungeonspiration series,) but that is about it.  Forgive me if I don't even look at the replies for a while. 

HAPPY LITTLE TREES TO YOU ALL! :)

- Ark

PS - If you need to get in touch, you can figure out how, I'm sure.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Monday, June 13, 2011

Dead Simple Lock & Trap Mini-game Report

Back in April I posted rules for a Dead Simple Lock & Trap Mini-game.  This was created with help from - oh - just about everybody in the community.  I must say, it's working great.  The Boy is loving it.  Whenever there is a lock or trap, I start shuffling the deck of cards and he runs around the table and stands next to me, making his guesses and wanting to see the cards first hand as I reveal them.

The other players seem to enjoy watching - but I was surprised that one player reported using the mini-game in the rpgs he runs as well.  He said he used it for Pathfinder and it was a hit.  But even more surprising, he started using it in his Shadowrun flavored Savage Worlds games as well, to handle cyber-intrusion.  Seems like it works good for any time you need to create a little more tension than just a flat die-roll, but not take too long.

One little problem I have is that the Boy tends to do a bit better than he should statistically.  Whether he is psychic or not is up in the air, but I'd say that the chance that he is reading his old man's unconscious cues is much more likely. :)

I'm impressed how fun the simple little thing is.  Go ahead - give it a whirl.  It won't bite. 

Much.

- Ark

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Ode to a Tachikoma

Brave blue spider
Innocent as a child
Watching the sun glow through its fingers
Death bringer
Life saver
Downloading enlightenment
Artificial
Yet possessing what so many strive for:

Salvation


- Ark

Saturday, June 11, 2011

Pecan Summer

My grandparents lived in Burkett, Texas - a stone's throw away from Cross Plains - the town where Robert E. Howard spent most of his life.  I spent many summers there, tromping through the surrounding wilderness.  Howard lived in Burkett when he was 11, and probably tromped through the same places.  Sometimes when I am relating that to others, I tell people that I grew up playing in Conan's back yard.

The rather lengthy poem below takes place when I was 11, the same age that Howard was when he lived there decades before.  This was mere weeks before I was to return home to Houston and discovered Dungeons and Dragons, and about a year before Conan the Barbarian was to grace the silver screen and provide my introduction to the man who's footsteps I had unknowingly followed.


Pecan Summer

The smell of dusty curtains slowly gives way to bacon
As wisps of back seats and long roads recede into dream land.
The morning is covered in gauze, with no impetus to remove it,
Aside from the growing glow through flowerdy yellow curtains.

A good stretch and grunt and smile are followed by a poke;
A rude reminder of the feathers in the pillow.
Bare feet against bare floorboards to the kitchen,
Where pops and splatters mingle with morning plans.

We dip heavy biscuits into the golden centers of eggs,
Sopping up the gooey goodness and finishing the whites
Using silverware stamped with eagles perched on bent crosses;
The old man's final stab at a long dead evil.

Armored against chiggers with jeans, tube socks, and tennis shoes,
We head out past the pecan trees with hammocks strung between,
And down the white gravel lane with the caw-honking sounds;
Peacocks and peafowls at the Peaflower Ranch & Tax Write-off.

The gravel crunches loudly beneath our feet as we march.
The spaces between houses widening as it gets hotter.
To the left we see the silvery glint of corrugated tin;
The old cotton gin still stands, but is filled with gourds now.

The sides of the road burst into color with an odd mixture;
Deep purple bonnets and the red and yellow stain of paintbrushes,
Which descend on either side as the road lifts upward
To an ancient silver and rust colored truss bridge.

The crunching abates as we walk on its paved surface,
Only one car width wide, but a faded black dashed line down the middle.
Trees crowd in amongst the trusses and create a green canopy,
While the gurgling sounds tell us of the unseen creek below.

We stick our heads out beyond the metal girders and look down
At the pebbles underneath the crystal clear water.
The dangerous move from girder to rebar to branches, then dirt
Would frighten mothers, but is far more fun than the safer path.

The journey upstream is filled with woods and pastures
And the occasional cluster of cow patties by the creek,
Then the land rises as white hills made out of chert push up,
Exposing veins of flint that make us dream of old Indians.

The air gets hotter and hotter until the vibration
Seems to match the buzz saw of the cicadas' wings and both
Sound and heat seem to penetrate into bone
And leave me with the lifelong feeling of the perfect Texas afternoon.

The creek widens and slows abruptly into a swimming hole,
With desiccated gar fish hanging from fishing line
Tied to tree limbs all around the lake, in a vain attempt
By the locals to eradicate the antediluvian creature.

In the middle of the water floats the huge trunk of a tree,
Its branches bare and stunted, but still reaching skyward.
We shuck off clothes and dash into the deep water,
Headed towards the mysterious platform of untold fun.

We grab branches, trying to pull ourselves up on the tree,
Only to be met with a swarm of countless giant red ants,
That emerge from the tree and coat it in a seething layer of
Desperation and anger, hell bent on finding dry land.

Still more hordes of bright red ants spew out as we paddle away,
Hundreds and thousands of the insects launching themselves
Into the water, creating rafts with their bodies for their
Compatriots, a nightmare version of the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria.

With more fun to be had, we stay away from floating islands of death
And swim and splash to our hearts content, then dry out in the
Texas sun, shake our clothes out for rattlers and cotton mouths,
Then make the long trek back to what some would call civilization.

Downstream is easier, but longer, as we linger to take in
As much fun as we can, and the dog skeleton we find helps.
Crickets take over from the cicadas as the sun creeps down
Beckoning new life that sleeps during the day, out into the cool air.

We pull ourselves up on the bridge while slapping mosquitoes,
But endure the bites a bit longer as the forest comes alive
With the green glowing streaks and blinks of fireflies,
Creating patterns that stay etched in our minds for a lifetime.

- Ark

Friday, June 10, 2011

That'll Do, Pig. That'll Do.

I was in the car with my son, driving to Rosa's Cafe for some Tex-Mex.  I like the beef fajitas, while the boy is a fan huge fan of cheese enchiladas - or as he likes to call them, inch-a-ma-la-kas. 

Suddenly the boy looked at me from the passenger seat and said, 'Can we go to the convention again next year?" 

"Of course," I smiled.  A couple of day's before, we had been knee-deep in the North Texas Role Playing Convention, strutting our nerd-boy gaming selves around a hotel in Irving and wallowing in the old school.

"You know those old guys you liked when you were a kid?" he grinned.  "I liked playing with them." 

I chuckled and changed lanes.  Luck and persistence had allowed us to play with the likes of Frank Mentzer, Jim Ward, Erol Otus and Dennis Sustare - names that were as unto RPG gods to me when I was my son's age.  "Me too."

"And you remember when you were talking to Harley before the game," he said, suddenly looking at is hands.  I got the feeling he was leading the witness.  "And you said that you had played a lot of 4e, but after a while, you decided you didn't like it and you just wanted to go back home?"

With a nod, I wondered what he was getting at.

"I . . ." he fidgeted, "I kind of understand what you meant by 'home' now."

I gulped and kept on driving.

- Ark

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Dungeonspiration: Urutsk

Inspiration can come from unexpected places.  When I first heard of Urutsk, from Timeshadow's blog, my interest was  piqued, but I didn't know what to make of it.  Was is fantasy?  Science Fiction?  Science fantasy?  Scifant Fictastity?  What?

When the Boy and I finally got to play URUTSK: World of Mystery RPG with Timeshadows at NTRPGCON, it was great.  The experience is like what I imagine playing in Middle Earth with J. R. R. Tolkein as DM - only less English - or playing in Tékumel with Professor Barker - with less cinnamon.  Urutsk is an incredibly detailed world, rich in scope and depth.  Everything is new and different and weird and wonderful.  I really got the feeling that I was experiencing a complete world, with it's own fully developed history, ecology, linguistics, and physics.  There is blood magic, there is eugenics, there are crazy critters and shattered space.

As gamers we often sink into the same old comfortable tropes of fantasy or science fiction.  For the last few years, I've been working on creating ultimate plain vanilla D&D worlds.  While it's fun to go back and tromp through those tropes, and introduce them to my son, it bumps into the same problem I had with D&D when I was a kid.  How can you call it fantasy when nothing is fantastic anymore?  Oh, it's another orc.  Oh, I'll roll up and elf.  Oh, yeah, a dragon.

Timeshadows and her Urutsk has inspired me to get out of my self-imposed rut and start investigating the fantastic again, and to breathe life and depth into imaginary worlds.  I want the players eye to bug out - not becasue I just dropped Tiamat into their tea party, but because they can't quite come to grips with the thirty foot tall Giant Flea Herds of the Gombatar Velt.  Or something like that. :)

So go find something weird and wild and out of the ordinary - Urutsk, or something like it - and go get inspired to be fantastic.

- Ark