GONZO TEMPLE: Part the First

This is the first game recap from my new campaign, a replay of Monte Cook's Return to the Temple of Elemental Evil dedicated to pure gonzo mind-blasting.

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The whole thing began with Vig, Jeff's half-orc monk, getting the boot from the monastery in which he figured (previously) to live and die. "Vig," said Master, "these men mean to kill you, and you must take your leave of us. We will detain them while you make your way - I suggest east, toward the rising sun."

Meanwhile, Pho (Sarah's human rogue/fighter) got a tip that a dwarven noble was going to recruit help for some kind of esoteric job. Weird thing, though - recruiting talent in a backwater like Hommlet? Guy's gotta have an angle ...

The Church of Pelor sent Kedrin (Kelly's human cleric/fighter) to Hommlet's Brewfest gathering for reasons I hope Kelly clarifies, since my notes on this matter are shit. And further, I remember that Shaun's Zeppo the druid was particularly awesome, although any gnome riding everywhere on a panther is a sort of fantasy version of Colt .45 - it really does work every time. Again, though, my note-taking smells of the sewer.

So everyone descends on Hommlet on the Tuesday of Brewfest, which is the festival week separating fall from winter. As the name implies, it's very alcohol-oriented - on the night in question, Hommlet was hosting three packed tents - a music/beer tent, a wrestling/wagering/liquor tent, and a rootbeer/kids tent. Zeppo was rocking the kids tent, letting the wee ones pet Badger (his panther), generally being gnomish. In the background, watching and listening and remaining unnoticed, was Pho.

View this now from a nearby hilltop - village, river, glowing tents full of revelers; put an armored man ahorse in the foreground, looking down upon the scene. Notice the man's sun-symbols, those of his horse - this is Kedrin, and this is where we began the story in play.

Kedrin descended to the city, happening upon a still-distraught Vig just at the edge of town. Vig explained that someone wanted to kill him, and Kedrin immediately sussed out the half-orc might need sheltering under the protective arms of the Church of Pelor.

Unfortunately, the Church was partying. An acolyte sent the pair to the tents.

A quick search of the tents led them to the wrestling tent, where Yethir was at the center of a mad wagering bubble. The observant Pho figured the hulking half-orc and the dude in armor were likely to be the locus of serious action, and made her way there. Zeppo had just preceded them, using his break-time to win drinking bets with locals.

Kedrin displayed admirable patience, first shunning a wannabe named Chatrilon Unosh ("maybe we need to work together, eh? I know people"), then trying to explain the situation - "Vig needs sanctuary, no you don't know me, etc. etc." - to a drunken, distracted local priest. The whole thing was interrupted by the appearance of Pho's dwarven noble, Umber, who strode in all self-important-douchebag style, surveyed the folks in the tent ... and strode up shamelessly to the hulking guy in PJs and the dude next to him in gleaming armor.

It was quickly decided that maybe a pow-wow away from the hoi polloi would be ideal ... and maybe this dude scalping the locals from panther-back should attend? So they retired to the Welcome Wench to plot and scheme.

Umber is a noble dwarf, it turns out, part of the ruling families of the Principality of Ulek to the southwest. His cousins and uncles led an expedition to the north, following rumors of rare metals in a particular patch of mountains north and west of Hommlet. His proposal, arrived at after some back-and-forth, is 2k up front each, and 20k each for verifiable word of the fate of either or both of Umber's cousins. Minds are blown, and everyone signs on.

Sometime during the negotiation, a man bursts in, shouting for "Rufus, Burne or Elmo." He was told by Vesta, the waitress (the only otherperson in the place) that they were "off checking out a hobgoblin raid." He blundered out, shouting for help, and the group returned to Umber's presentation.

Finally, the aforementioned Chatrilon slunk into the room in pursuit of the goth half-elf waitress Maridosen; they seemed surprised to see a meeting in the common room, but Maridosen slid smoothly into waitress mode and got the party going a bit. A time was agreed for setting out, and everyone enjoyed a drink ...

Hex-map Renaissance

I grew up in a small, midwestern town, listening to my uncles' Yes albums but singing in a traveling Christian family band. (Yeah. F'real.) Full of 'why is my brain crammed with this mess' ennui. It sucked.

One of the few non-sucky bits was Lord of the Rings, which I got at 10 as a gift from a family friend. Guy who gave it to me was different - the locals thought of him as a hippie, and maybe he was. But he was also shrewd and odd and funny, full of answers with a lot of spin and truths other adults wouldn't cop to.

I didn't know the dude at all, really, and yet he saw me floundering, I guess, and gave me something he thought might help - The Lord of the Rings, just out of the blue. The world went all technicolor for me with those books. I read them and read them, the usual story.

That's not all, though. A then a couple later, he contacted me (now 14) - would I like a Middle-Earth game? I rode my bike over immediately. It was the full 'War of the Ring' game from SPI. He'd bought it in a moment of enthusiasm, only to later read the rules and realize there was no shot in hell of getting anyone to play this with him in our tiny Indiana town.

But he didn't read the rules right away, and here's where it gets to transcendent levels of sweetness: He'd taken the six or eight paper hex-maps you were supposed to tape together on your table, and he'd mounted it to 3/4-inch corkboard using rolls of translucent film. The thing was about five feet square, weighed about 20 pounds. Clearly loot of limitless value.

Now imagine this mounted on 3/4-inch corkboard, laminated, and irradiated from a chunk of pure Awesomium, and you'll get an idea what Kratz gave me. An astonishing gift. I wish I still had it.

I played War of the Ring like a sickness for about three years - solo - using some foe-randomization tables I vividly remember in form but not function. (I'm guessing the foes were designed to get beaten brainless by my 14-year-old powergamer self.) Yes, that's how badly I wanted to play this game - as an 8th grader I filled notebooks with 'sauron action charts' so I could play against myself and pretend it was all up in the air.

And deep! That game was old-school in its viciousness; I particularly remember drawing a palantir at the wrong time and just setting the game back up. I haven't read the rules in a generation, and have no idea how they've aged. I do remember a vast number of special cases and exceptions, most of which were super sweet.

One of the criticisms of Ameritrash board games (of which War of the Ring is an early example) is that, to fit with a theme, they tend to railroad one toward the strategies employed in the theme - which, in the case of WotR, meant that the West could win on a ring-dunk but never through another method. I don't remember WotR doing that at all; the West won every way imaginable, and their losses weren't all the same either - corrupted ring-bearer, Saruman rising, blowing too many resources on trying to raise the northern dwarf armies, etc., etc.

So, what? It's clear I love this game. I love other games too - notably roleplaying games - and in certain corners of this Intarweb thingy, folks have painted millions of electrons sharing their recollections of great rpgs past and thinking hard about teh Awesome contained within. We've called it the Old School Renaissance, but it's really a front in the DIY War: We insist on making our own Awesome, thank you very much, and further insist on just sharing that stuff around as widely as possible.

So here, today, I propose a new front in the DIY War: A renaissance for these amazing, dense, baroque combo war/strategy games. The marketplace says simplify - I say complexify, densify, baroquify and make lovely. More Awesome required. Let's get to it.

Theatre Bizarre: Provoking, Invoking

Subtle symmetries abound whenever the fire-whirlers image is captured and stilled.

   Sarah and I can surely be accused of many failings without fear of contradiction. We do not harbor a burning ambition to compete in the global marketplace. We do not strive to gain the notice of our peers for deeds creative or generous. We live simply, softly, and close to the ground - the ethos of rabbits transformed into humans.
   And yet, for all our bunny feeling, we are still human, and subject to the tidal pull of human wonder. We dream of triumphs and adventures we are unlikely to truly pursue. Once the kids are grown, we say to ourselves. Once I get these bills caught up. Once we're ready.
   Some adventures don't wait for you to come find them, though. Those adventures don't care if you're ready and don't want to know what else you have to do today. Those adventures kick down your door, or surprise you on an ill-lit side street, or kidnap your family and force you to come to them. Sometimes fate's fickle machinations take on the aspect of a street magician, winking and feinting as he pulls two terrified bunnies from a hat.

Why, yes, that is a sextuple-breasted ram wielding a sword and mystical wand - why do you ask?

Masonic Temple detail 

   We came to Theatre Bizarre with little warning and less intention. A week before the show, we posted our simple-yet-disturbing Halloween get-ups to Facebook - amazing what a wig and mask can do - which led to Sarah's brother calling to offer us tickets to the gathering. "It's like nothing you've ever done before," he assured Sarah. "It's crazy. You're gonna love it."
   In truth, we had ogled the photos from the last couple of years admiringly - the craft and inventiveness of the costumes was inspiring. And it looked like a crazy party. At the very least, the people in the photos were convincingly simulating a good time. And yet, and yet ... the kink and the madness evident fills the bunny-mind with terror ... I entertain visions of awakening in a slave pen, or a tub of ice ...

   One of the difficulties of a baroque imagination (such as that possessed, generally, by the odd bunny-human) is the disparity between what seems possible and what actually happens - the constant fracturing reminder of how fallen is this, and are we, and is everything. There are times when this fracture works in one's favor, though.
   Sarah and I arrived early, thrumming with anticipation. For example, I noted three possible exits from the parking lot we eventually chose, just on the off chance that the lot attendants were servants of Cthulu, who is dead yet dreams. But the reality, usually so disappointing, was instead mundane in a pleasant way. It was one of the rules of the night: Everyone official was nice. The lot attendants were alert and expert. The security was genial and laughed along with everything. That, alone, was magical.

Dancer/cultist/old pal?

   Real magic, though, is subtle and hard to summon in this fallen land. Theatre Bizarre is a sort of invocation, a magical rite, a doubling back on the idea that magic is a past thing; vastly meta; an invitation to participate in the magical act of summoning magic back into the world. We participated, passively, feeling the weight of all that art - the Masonic Temple, the Theatre's banners and signs and live performers ... all that human genius harvested, channelled, shaped and then lit on fire to produce an orgasmic nine-hour infusion to one's spirit.
   Time in the invocation is unstable and hard to gauge. I know we were there; I know we did not emerge unscathed. The details are not in focus, though; perhaps that dancer was a cultist? Or someone Sarah knew from high school? Or both?

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