In my relentless quest to simplify play, the perennial Knowledge skill has come under harsh scrutiny. Readers of recent posts are already familiar with my machinations in the realm of determining how characters do what they can do: first was the ditching of attributes, then the establishment of a finite roster of Abilities.

Three weeks out, I’m still in a deconstructive mood. So let’s postulate the wisdom of an all-encompassing Knowledge skill.

The Current Way of Things

Every game I’ve seen with a Knowledge skill requires the character to choose a focus, meaning a particular field of study: biology, metallurgy, rope-making, storage jars, etc. I completely understand the intent, which is to give the PC a mechanical way to represent familiarity with a body of knowledge. On paper, it’s a good idea. In practice, it’s of questionable value.

First issue is the scope and detail of a knowledge skill slot. Most games suggest that the skill’s focus be somewhere in between a general field and a specific topic. For example, “biology” is probably too general, while “saprophyte reproduction” is likely too specific. The need for scope moderation is the struggle for usefulness and game balance: an overly broad focus increases its potential application, which opens it up to abuse by players who seek to apply it whenever they can (if you’ve ever had a player with “Knowledge (tactics)” argue for a combat bonus, you know what I’m talking about). On the other hand, a pinpoint focus can make the Knowledge skill useless. Like a 1st-level magic-user with a single spell, the character with “Knowledge (Pre-Imperial Era Hafling Pottery)” waits for his moment of glory before his contribution to the adventure fades.

The second issue is the all-too-familiar slippery slope: where do Knowledge skills end? Let’s assume you figure out a workable scope–you devised a balance between the broad “science” and the highly specific “string theory” called “Knowledge (physics)”. By extension, you now have to allow the possibility of a Knowledge skill in every other scientific discipline, at a level of detail on par with “physics.” The problem is that these other areas are bound to be sub- or supersets of that level of scientific hierarchy. “Biology” might work, though it’s pretty vague. Is “botany” at the same level as, or a subset of, “biology”? Same argument for astrophysics, geology, genetics, cardiology, etc.

Third is the question of usefulness. In most cases, fields of study have little to do with adventuring, unless there’s an encounter wherein specific information gives the characters an edge. In my thinking, there are only two instances where this occurs: (1) when the knowledge grants a mechanical advantage (e.g., a die roll bonus), or (2) when the knowledge allows the party to proceed to the next stage of the adventure (e.g., the old “Speak friend and enter” bit). If none of the PCs has the appropriate Knowledge focus (or if he does but fails his skill roll), the party is out of luck and has to cast about for another solution–which was probably available anyway, because a good GM doesn’t craft scenarios whose resolution relies on a single roll against a single skill.

My Inevitable Tweak

I submit that we avoid these pitfalls by making a single, catch-all Knowledge skill. This skill (called “Book Smarts” in Chimera 3.0) represents what a character has learned, typically through formal study, but also via the experience gained through adventure. Consider: “formal study” indicates how well the character was schooled; “experience gained” indicates both the sought-after and incidental knowledge that the character picks up as he progresses in his career.

One could argue that the character’s Intelligence score (or equivalent) would do the same thing. I agree, but that makes me wonder why we need to complement it with a Knowledge skill at all, especially when an INT 18 character could, for luck of the die, fail the same Intelligence check that an INT 12 PC might make. Plus, Intelligence (as an ability score) doesn’t generally improve as the character advances in level. Anyway, the question is moot: I’ve ditched Attributes. So here’s my rationale:

You know smart people–in terms of general education, bookworm-ishness, life experience, etc. There is someone you consider a “go-to” person when you have a question. The smarter this person is, the more general that question can be. He or she may be an expert in a particular field, but also knows a little bit about everything. This is the person you want on your Trivial Pursuit team. He’s Daniel Jackson in Stargate SG1, who can figure anything out. He’s even that kid in Jerry Maguire: “Dogs and bees smell fear!” or “The human head weighs seven pounds!”

That’s Book Smarts. Or Knowledge. Whatever you want to call it. It’s what you know, not your expertise in a specific field. It’s stuff you remember from your school days, things you pick up from your leisure reading, knowledge you get from a hobby or from watching the History Channel, and workaday know-how you learn simply as a functioning individual. When someone asks you a question, the answer is something you remember learning in school, something from a speech you once memorised, something you saw on TV last week, or something from a book you’re reading now. Either way, it’s part of your knowledge vault, which you can access via your Book Smarts Ability.

If you want to be really good in a particular area, you can specialise your Book Smarts Ability, but it doesn’t change your overall knowledge base. If you’re a smart person, specialising won’t change the fact that you’re a “go-to” person who knows a lot of stuff about a lot of things. You can still be Daniel Jackson, but with an edge in ancient languages, for example.

Mechanical Impact

By now, you may suspect that my Book Smarts Ability has simply replaced the Intelligence ability score in Chimera. Good supporting evidence is the lack of attributes in Chimera–something has to represent a character’s Intelligence, right?

There’s some truth in that, though while Book Smarts is meant to represent all sorts of accumulated information, it isn’t the same as the Intelligence attribute. First, Book Smarts can be improved–as in real life, you can read more books, pick up more information, learn more things. Second, Book Smarts can be specialised if desired–you can simulate a concentration in a specific field if it makes sense in the campaign.

Third, Book Smarts includes languages, which on the face of it doesn’t make much sense, but in the context of a rules-lite game, can be made to work. By tying language to Book Smarts, I’m saying that the smarter your character is, the better his chances of translating those old runes or interpreting the chieftain or figuring out the plot without having to read subtitles. This isn’t about fluency or speaking without an accent–if you need those things, then you can use Book Smarts to specialise in a language–this is about dealing with campaign languages in a way that acknowledges language barriers without bogging down play to surmount them.

And fast play is really what I’m after. I don’t want to spend too much time picking out Knowledge foci or Languages during character generation. And I don’t want to tell a player that he can’t figure something out because he doesn’t have the right Knowledge skill (because when he asks to make an INT check instead, I’ll have to say yes, which is tantamount to his having Book Smarts Ability in the first place).

Plus, you can always simulate difficulty with a Target Number modifier. Based on the type of knowledge or language, consider these adjustments:

Final Words

These are the kinds of questions that get asked during (most of my) games. Book Smarts as an all-encompassing Ability doesn’t get in the way of character generation and keeps play moving. And, by removing the need to limit Knowledge to a specific focus, it’s also the best way I’ve seen for characters to adopt the role of “smart guy” in the party.

But this is another rules-lite convention, so it’s not going to appeal to more granular styles of play. What do you think? Have I crossed the line between genius and buffoonery? If so, where did I end up?

Last week, I announced that Chimera 3.0 would be devoid of attributes or ability scores, and that character actions would be defined by an essentially finite roster of Abilities. A lot of folks had something to say about this bold suggestion, ranging from encouragement like, “sounds great–attributes are outdated anyway” to justifiable skepticism like, “you’re wrong–there’s no way you can cover every character action with a list of 18 Abilities.”

First off, I want to thank everyone who took the time to post a comment or respond to other posters. Second, I want to thank them again for keeping the discussion lively, respectful, and on-point. If this were alt.rec.games.frp.dnd, and it was 1997, this easily could have devolved into a terrible flamewar with regretful posts and lots of crying. As it happens, everyone who commented–proponents and skeptics alike–stated their case with due consideration for others’ opinions and perspective. I’m fairly certain there were no tears. Score one for mature gamers.

And here’s something important: A couple of “dissenters” mentioned that they really did like the concept, but that they had yet to see the approach done well. Given my assertions, the burden of proof, as it were, is clearly on me. So this week, I’m going to put my general thoughts on attributes in specific Chimera terms. Your job is to poke holes in my argument and point out where I’m pure, dead wrong. Or you can pronounce my notions brilliant and innovative. Whichever.

The Chimera Way

I admit that ditching attributes is a risky proposition, but I have many reasons to think it’ll work. Chief among them is that Chimera is offered as a rules-lite gaming framework. Chimera was neither designed nor intended to cover every situation, event, possibility, or confluence of circumstances that could arise during a game session. As stated in the Core Rules, Chimera is a set of

“…guidelines instead of absolutes. During development, we concentrated more on what happens instead of exactly how it happens—necessarily, some details are lost (or even deliberately ignored).”

This is all in the interest of an easy learning curve and fast play. In the rules-lite tradition, you start with flexible guidelines and extrapolate as needed.

Using a finite roster of Abilities to replace attributes and skills seems to support this concept very well. For example, let’s say you have a Survival Ability (and, in fact, Chimera 3.0 does, so already we’re getting some traction here). Survival covers the stuff you need to get by in the wilderness without convenient supplies, like tents or a compass or food. A little thought suggests what this includes: building shelters, identifying edible plants (and avoiding poisonous ones), making fire, catching dinner (like noodling a catfish or snaring a rabbit), determining time and direction based on the sun’s position, and maybe even predicting the weather for the next 24 hours. That’s a lot of stuff, but in a rules-lite framework, infinitely more workable than making those things into separate skills, each mapped to an ability score.

Now let’s say that the party is adventuring somewhere (doesn’t matter where) and someone needs to tie a clever knot (doesn’t matter which). In this case, assume the knot is important enough to warrant a die roll of some kind. In a skill-based system, you would look for a Knot-tying skill. If you didn’t have a Knot-tying skill, you might default to an attribute–Dexterity is probably the favourite, but my Boy Scouting days tell me Intelligence is best (because you really need to practice and memorise knots if you’re going to get any good at them). Alternatively, you might decide that a certain class has an edge in knot-tying (e.g., thieves and fighters probably use rope more than clerics and magi). Failing that, you would need to stretch all the way back to a PC’s background–anyone used to be a sailor or teamster? Or a Boy Scout?

But in a rules-lite framework, you could just tack knot-tying onto an Ability that makes sense. Like Survival.

And if your character doesn’t have Survival, he can still make an attempt. Which is analogous to most skill-based systems wherein characters can still give it a shot by making an attribute check against the skill’s underlying ability score. So: flexible Abilities that can handle defaults. No need for attributes.

But maybe you’re thinking that you want a character who’s good at snaring rabbits, but can’t predict the weather. Perhaps you’ve decided that these skills are just too disparate to be lumped together. That’s fine, because Chimera lets you partition them into separate Abilities if you want (e.g., Hunting and Meteorology). I don’t necessarily recommend it, and neither does the Core Rules:

“…if your style demands more detail, you can add it—Chimera’s flexible model lets you inject as much realism as you want…However, you should understand that the game doesn’t necessarily play better as a result. In fact, you may find that such details bog things down and make actions more cumbersome to resolve.”

The reason I don’t recommend it is because it chips away at Chimera’s rules-liteness. So the question of ditching attributes in favour of broad Abilities is more about flexibility and ease-of-use than “how-you-should-play-your-game.” In other words, if what I’m saying doesn’t appeal to you, it may be because rules-lite doesn’t do justice to your gaming vision or your group’s style of play. If your preference leans toward crunchier systems, Chimera is probably not sufficiently granular.

A Terrible Discovery

Time for a side note of troubling disposition. Last weekend, I was working on the 3.0 character sheet, and (not being at all artistic) begged the Almighty Google for some inspiration. In my wanderings, I came across this 4E D&D sheet, which is very nice. Believe it or not, this is the first 4E character sheet I’ve seen; outside of the 4E Quick Start that I leafed through about six months ago, this is the only 4E material I’ve picked up.

So you can imagine my surprise (and disdain) when I note the “Skills” section of the character sheet contains several of my Chimera Abilities. Things like Athlethics, Diplomacy, Stealth, Streetwise, and a couple of others. Son of a mother! I’m cracking my skull to innovate only to get scooped by 4E.

Seemingly. Because then I remember a couple of comments from last week’s post, saying that that RPGs across the industry are evolving in the broad-skill direction anyway. At the time, my inside voice was saying, “That is absolute bollocks.” But maybe not. That’s the price I pay for not keeping current. Score one each for Smartypants Tag-team Da’Vane and Deimos.

So, later, after some thought (and not bothering to check any of the 4E rules), I generate an assumptive list of fundamental differences between Chimera and what’s implied on the 4E character sheet:

1. 4E still uses attributes, so if the game’s evolution really is toward broadly defined skills, the evolution is progressing in baby steps
2. 4E skills seem broad, but actually, they don’t have to be because you can still use attributes as a fall-back for things they don’t cover (like Knot-tying)
3. 4E is focused on fantasy-type play, whereas Chimera is designed to handle any genre; Chimera Abilities not only need to cover all actions, but they need to cover them in all settings
4. From a purely pragmatic, IP perspective, Chimera’s development is well-documented and its focus is quite different from 4E; I believe there is a demonstrable defence against any perception that Chimera is a knock-off of WotC’s material (and, granted, I’m probably more sensitive to this than others–it’s just that after Chimera 2.0 severed ties with the OGL, I decided that it had to be its own game in all respects)

The Abilities

Let’s get down to it. Here is the roster of Chimera Abilities. I’m presenting these in cursory fashion, mostly because I want to see how they resonate on their own, without a lot of supporting description (though they are fully described in the rulebook, with notes about what you can do with them, what they cover, and how you might interpret critical results). But here, for now, is the bare list:

1. Athletics – physical activity
2. Book Smarts – academia and language
3. Burgle Chicanery – pick locks and pockets; pilfering
4. Diplomacy – make friends and influence people
5. Drive / Pilot – operate a vehicle
6. Fight – attack with hand-to-hand weapons
7. First Aid – provide temporary relief to wounded patients
8. Observe – notice things
9. Moxie Mettle – tenacity and intestinal fortitude
10. Profession – a livable trade
11. Ride Animal Handling – train, care for, or ride a beast
12. Shoot – attack with missile weapons
13. Sneak – hide or move undetected
14. Spelunking – underground survival skills
15. Street Smarts – urban survival skills
16. Survival – wilderness survival skills
17. Technical Tinker – create, manipulate, and repair machines and vehicles
18. Wield – use of powers

Final Words

There you go. The list is out. Let’s discuss.

Think of these in broad terms. Ask questions like, “How do these support a rules-lite framework?” instead of, “Where’s Canoeing?” Think of different actions, then think about where those actions fit. What actions aren’t covered? What’s missing from this list? Or, can the list be pared down even more? Do tell…

Blatant sarcasm of this post’s title aside, what I’m about to propose is going to shock some of you. Perhaps offend. It may be so repellent that you will reconsider anything you may have agreed with me about before. But here goes:

Character attributes should be removed [from Chimera].

I’m referring to ability scores–the traditional Strength, Intelligence, Wisdom, etc. I touched on ditching Attributes a few weeks ago, but I thought the concept merited some explanation. I have my reasons, and I think they might apply to whatever system you’re playing. That said, I’m restricting my solution to Chimera. Your proverbial mileage may vary.

A Brief History of Attributes

My experience with attributes (or ability scores) goes back to rolling up my first characters in B/X D&D. As objective quantifiers, ability scores make a lot of sense, and it’s easy to see what aspects of your character are better than others. Clearly, strong guys have higher Strength scores than weak guys. Ugly dudes have lower Charisma than handsome dudes. So one function of ability scores, then, is to describe your character, very economically, at a high level.

Given a set of ability scores, you assign your character’s class, ostensibly to capitalise on your attributes. This means high-strength characters become fighters, smart characters become magic-users, dexterous characters become thieves, etc. It make sense on paper, but this is actually the first chink in the armour of ability score usefulness (more on that later, but let me ask you this: in your RPG system, does it ever make sense for a magic-user to be stronger than he is smart, or for a fighter to be more agile than he is strong?).

As you play, attributes serve in one of two ways: either to modify other rolls, or as default “skills” to arbitrate the outcome of unspecified game situations. Thus, Strength is used to modify “to-hit” and damage rolls in combat, and your character might have to make a “Strength roll” to jump a chasm or wrestle an object out of a foe’s hands.

Heretical Thoughts

The model above is deeply ingrained into most roleplayers. Certainly those over the age of 30. Nothing wrong with that, but I’m asking you to consider what this model produces: a character with both ability scores (describing his characteristics) and a profession (describing his skills).

The question coming to my mind is this: what is the purpose of attributes in a system where what you can do is defined by class? The same question applies to skill-based systems: outside of mapping to a given skill, what value do ability scores provide?

Why not simply describe a character by what he can do, whether that’s a class, a profession, or a collection of skills? I assert that a character’s abilities are more memorable than his ability scores anyway. Here’s why: attributes describe what your character should be able to do; abilities describe what your character actually can do.

Think about it. All you need to know is that such-and-such character is good at fighting–you don’t care what his Strength score is. Unless fighting is a special flavour of Strength roll, a Strength score is largely irrelevant. What really matters is his level as a fighter, or how many ranks he has in the Fight skill. Strength may modify his chances of hitting a foe or how much damage he inflicts, but fighting ability is usually more a function of other things: level, class, feats/perks, weapon used, et al. It actually has very little to do with one’s Strength score.

True, too, is that many character abilities and, um, characteristics, aren’t even affected by attributes: spell-casting, thief abilities, turning undead, hit points (where used), and saving throws come to mind immediately. As important as these game mechanics are, ability scores have no bearing on them. Telling, I think.

Finally, there’s the problem of adequate coverage: how many ability scores are enough to describe a character? The traditional Six do a pretty good job, though there were holes, even within the D&D canon (viz. Comeliness). Other systems felt the Six were insufficient and expanded the list with additions like Perception, Empathy, Presence, Memory, and Reasoning. Still others contracted the list: the most compact I’ve seen is Mind, Body, Soul (forget which system, though).

Point is, these considerations are subjective and meta–how many attributes do you need? No one knows–it depends on how you envision characters, your game’s mechanics, and your tolerance for semantics and redundancy (e.g., do you need Agility and Quickness? Do you need to parse mental ability into Memory, Intuition, and Reasoning?).

But if you’re sold on the possibility that attributes have little value in during game play anyway, deciding how many ability scores there should be is a pointless exercise. Another nail in ability scores’ coffin.

Cleaning House

So why not simply get rid of attributes completely?

Well, you need to plug a few holes first. Most important is deciding what your high-level character descriptor is going to be. Class or profession is a good option, as it’s the default for most attribute-based systems anyway. Usually, a character is described as a “fighter,” not a “PC with above-average Strength.”

Second, you need to determine how getting rid of attributes will impact your game’s mechanics. Some games won’t suffer the change–Savage Worlds, where ability scores are the basis for every skill roll, can’t be tweaked this way. Also, most flavours of D&D will have problems, though I think you could easily ditch ability scores for versions up to and including Moldvay Basic.

Third, you need a default mechanism for dealing with situations that aren’t specifically handled by something else. How do you bash down a door, climb a rope, search for secret doors, attract followers, resist disease, et al.?

Not surprisingly, I have answers prepared.

These are Not the Attributes You’re Looking For

My solution is to consider the things that every character can do, or, at least, decide on what things every character should have a chance of pulling off. The quick-and-dirty overview is like this:

Start with a list of abilities–things characters do in the game. The list should be finite and, consequently, some entries will have some broad overlap. For example, Fight is an obvious ability; it definitely covers  melee combat, though maybe include missile fire, too (depends on if you want characters to develop these as separate abilities).

But what about other physical things? Like climbing, swimming, leaping chasms, and busting down doors? Add a broad and encompassing ability, call it Athletics, and make it the default for physical activity.

Each ability gets a Target Number, a base value required when you roll whatever you roll to attempt actions in the game. The Target Number should be the same for all abilities, and improving it should be accomplished via character advancement (whether that’s level-based, point-based, skill-based, whatever). If you’re using classes, make sure that some classes perform certain abilities better than others. For example, warriors have an easier time improving the Fight ability, while magic-users are better at Book Smarts (or whatever ability you create to cover being educated).

Final Words

Using abilities as a substitute for attributes and skills seems quite intuitive to me. You speed up character generation, avoid the perfunctory mapping of attributes to skills, skip the time-waste of rolling up ability scores but then defining characters by class, and you keep your game flexible by decoupling skills from attributes. It’s a time saver, improves game flow, and it doesn’t seem like you’re losing out on much.

But I know it’s a hard sell–the mere suggestion of removing attributes constitutes some level of blasphemy. Assuming the concept doesn’t leave you completely sour, what do you think? Any gaping holes in my logic here, or is this a workable path?

Back in my B/X D&D days, we had a house rule that said when you got to zero hit points, you were knocked out and dying at the rate of 1hp per round, but you weren’t dead until you reached negative hit points equal to your Level + CON bonus. If someone could “bind your wounds” before that point, you’d stop losing hit points (continued “binding” could restore 1 negative hit point per round until you returned from the brink of death).

I wanted to incorporate that concept into Chimera, and kept thinking of what “binding your wounds,” really meant. From my Boy Scout days, that pretty much meant first aid: treating for shock, stopping bleeding, applying bandages, splints, slings, knowing how to handle an EpiPen, and occasionally sucking snake venom out of your buddy’s leg.

First aid is all about stablising a patient with immediate care until more comprehensive medical treatment can be provided. Not unlike what adventurers have to do: Regardless of your setting, “comprehensive medical treatment” is rarely available in the field. And this is where first aid and healing–as it’s interpreted in most RPGs–part ways.

I’m Not A Real Doctor…

At a basic level, first aid is temporary field treatment, while healing is permanent hospital treatment. Think of it this way: first aid is what Aragorn gives Frodo at Weathertop. Healing is what Elrond gives to Frodo at Rivendell. In other words, first aid is enough to make an injury bearable or keep a patient alive until healing can actually fix the damage.

How you simulate this in your game depends on how your game represents wounds. In Chimera, each wound you suffer imposes a cumulative, overall penalty of -1 (i.e., you take 3 wounds, you operate at -3). When you heal a wound, the penalty abates; when all your wounds are healed, the penalty goes away.

This approach lets you simulate first aid’s temporary effect by addressing the penalty, but it ignores the actual wound. In Chimera, then, a successful First Aid roll reduces a patient’s wound penalty by -1 for a number of hours equal to the first-aider’s level. If the wound isn’t actually healed within that time, the penalty returns.

If your system uses hit points, first aid attempts might restore 1hp per rank in the first aid skill, though it would last only 1 hour per level. Or something along those lines. Basically, you want minimal restoration for a limited duration–just enough to keep the character going until he can get proper treatment.

And proper treatment requires full-scale medical facilities: a field hospital, a monastery, a clinic, a doctor’s office, an emergency room, a hospital ship, maybe even or Bethesda Naval Medical Center. By extension, healing also requires more training than first aid, so while any character can “bind your wounds,” actual healing requires a professional.

…But I Play One on Friday Nights

This approach makes the healing profession stand out a bit more. A combat medic can apply a good amount of ditch medicine in the field, but proper healing requires the medical droid back on the dropship. Of course, this approach makes the party cleric (or anyone else with healing magic or medical tech) truly valuable, because you’re basically saying that as long as PCs are in the field, any damage they sustain is more or less permanent until they return to their home base.

There’s also a reverse benefit, though, because now you can allow your campaign’s “non-healers” access to first aid without unbalancing their role. Fighters, rogues, and other physical types–regardless of setting–naturally possess rudimentary first aid knowledge, just by virtue of fixing the cuts, bruises, and sprains they receive as they train. Magic-users and scholars get first aid knowledge because of the broad scope of their learning–even though they may insist on using leeches in their ministrations. Priestly types get first aid skill for much the same reason, but now you can decouple them from the default role of “healer” (which makes sense if the cleric’s deity has nothing to do with healing or if the cleric’s alignment makes him stingy about who he heals with his spells).

Now that you’ve opened up first aid ability to all characters, you’re increasing party survivability (or, at least, you’re fending off the TPK because characters have more restorative flexibility). At the same time, you’re also increasing the worth and benefit of actual healing sources in the field (i.e., during the adventure): magical potions of healing, restorative gel-caps, remote surgery bots, Med-suits, a working bacta tank found in the mad scientist’s lair, all have vastly increased value.

If these are appealing options, I suggest you replace your system’s Heal skill with First Aid. You can go a step further by adding a Professional skill for Physicians. That way, your characters can perform first aid during an adventure with a First Aid roll, but full-on healing is accomplished by an actual doctor (with access to actual medical facilities).

What Else First Aid Can Do

While I’m on the subject, here are some things you can do with a successful First Aid skill roll:

• Temporary Relief: Reduce patient’s wound penalty by -1 for 1 hour/level (if your system uses hit points, a successful First Aid roll restores 1hp/skill rank for 1 hour/level)
• Neutralise Poison: Stave off the effects of venom for 1 round per level or skill rank
• Revive: Awaken an unconscious character, or snap a stunned character out of his stupor
• Refresh: Negate fatigue-related penalty by -1

Final Words

By separating first aid from actual healing, you end up providing more survivability options to PCs without unbalancing the game. The side benefits include making healing more valuable as a service and healers more important as practioners. While much of this appeals to my sense of realism, my own experience confirms that it’s highly playable.

It’s a lot to consider–is this something that would work in your game?

Last week, over on the Yahoo! Groups ODDGuild, a good online friend Bobjester was asking how others run clerics of polythesistic pantheons. Bob, raised as a monotheistic Christian, always played clerics dedicated to one single deity, even if that deity were part of a larger pantheon of other gods. So we started talking about pantheons, and how they’re represented in the campaign, and how they might be worshiped and where they overlap. I shared a roster of deities from my original Trid campaign, when it was still a B/X construct.

Bob’s Question

Bob reviewed the deities and asked “Do you base your deities on the Immortal system of BECMI, Gygax’s Deific system or something different altogether?”

Definitely not BECMI. Don’t get me wrong–tracking the rise of a mere mortal to godhood along a set path appeals to my sense of order. But there’s no romance. No mysticism or anything even approaching what Lewis called the “feeling of the numinous” (however scaled down, on the assumption that numinous feelings are personal matters not generally experienced at the gaming table). But that aside, the BECMI approach makes you want to stat out Jesus, and I just don’t see that going well, on any level, for a number of very good reasons.

Gygax’s Deific system? Couldn’t say. I don’t know what that is, though I’m sure it was something covered in an old issue of DRAGON. Something different altogether? Yes. By process of elimination, this was, perforce, my approach. So in the interest of promoting discussion to a wider audience, here’s what I wrote back to Bob:

My Answer

In answer to your question, I’d have to say something different altogether.

Reading this thread, it seems to me that you’re struggling with a fundamental issue of RPG deities–that is, are gods world-specific or culture-specific? World-specific deities are accessible to all the setting’s inhabitants, and tend to represent spheres of influence without overlap (i.e., two separate cultures venerate the same deity for the same thing). An example from Greyhawk might be Ehlonna, which (IIRC) is about nature and sylvan stuff. It doesn’t matter if you’re an elf, a ranger, a druid, or a tree-hugging magic-user: if you’re into nature, you’re going to worship Ehlonna.

Contrast with culture-specific deities. These guys represent spheres of influence important to the society who venerates them. For example, halflings have an immortal for farming and harvest; orcs, who don’t care so much about these things, have no analogue in their pantheon. But humans from Kingdom A might have a harvest god, as do humans from Kingdom B. Depending on the cultural details, the harvest gods of halflings, Kingdom A, and Kingdom B could be very different. As a result, there is a lot of overlap–you might have 20 cultural pantheons, each with its own version of a harvest god.

The immortals on the Breeyark site are cultural. The only reason is because I decided (in early days of my Trid campaign) that it made more sense for each social unit to worship its own set of gods, coloured (or interpreted) in accordance to that society’s view of a particular sphere of influence. So the harvest god of Kingdom A is patterned after how Kingdom A approaches the harvest. Kingdom B, which might use advanced agricultural techniques or grow different things or, because of location, harvests at a different time of the year, has an entirely different spin on their harvest god. For all intents and purposes, you have two distinct deities.

Unfortunately, this approach is a lot of work. That’s one of the reasons I think world-specific gods seem so prevalent in RPG settings. It’s easier to create a pantheon that represents common interests across an entire setting, rather than create individual gods suited for specific cultural groups within that setting.

Historically, it was entirely common for dominant cultures to “co-opt” the religious views of the vanquished as a means to maintain order. Why is Christmas celebrated on December 25th? There’s little evidence to indicate that it was Jesus’ birthday.

Instead, Christmas coincides with the Winter solstice, which was important to so-called pagans all the way back to the Babylonians. The pagan sun god Mithras was born on the shortest day of the year. The word “Yule” means “wheel” and represented Mithras’ role in the Natural cycle. It has nothing to do with Christ, but the Christians figured that reinterpreting the solstice as a marker for Christ’s birth would make it easier for pagans to convert without too much fuss. Or rebellion. “See, you can still have your Winter Feast, but it’s about Jesus now, not Mithras.” Pagans reply, “That’s nice. Thank you,” and go off burning logs like they always did. Everyone’s happy.

Thus, you get multiple deities that represent pretty much the same thing for a number of non-religious reasons. Christ is the saviour-king of Christians, whose sacrifice is the salvation of all Man. Mithras is the sun god of pagans, whose part in the Natural cycle ensures crops and, subsequently, the ability to eat. More of a “corporeal” sort of salvation, but important, right? Over time, the whys and wherefores are forgotten, and the lines between cultural roots and subsequent influences get blurred.

For me, world-specific deities are much easier to deal with–they’re aspect-based, so you have one god for this and one god for that, regardless of culture. On the other hand, culture-specific deities are far more realistic, even though they tend to “map” to common points. That harvest god? Whether halfling or human, he (or she) is actually the same immortal dude–just interpreted differently by different folks.

The key is how those differences manifest. Jesus performed miracles, and Christians interpret this in a certain way. Did Mithras perform miracles? Doubt it, but he was responsible for providing growing seasons and daylight, which would have been miraculous within the pagan culture who worshiped him. Christians just plussed him up by infusing their own mythology into a precedent set by the pagans they wanted to convert.

I hope this rambling reply offers some value. In the end, I think it really comes down to how much work you can do as a GM. I’d start with universal aspects of mortal life: crops, healing, birth, death, war, disease, marriage, etc. If your campaign’s cultures interpret these things in wildly different ways, then you want to go with culture-specific deities. But if these aspects are truly universal (i.e., the manifest pretty much the same way across cultural boundaries), then you should go with world-specific deities and have done with it.

One thing you might want to try (and it just occurs to me now, after my 3rd Newcastle Brown Ale) is that you might start with world-specific deities to represent common mortal aspects across all your campaign’s social groups. But you could represent cultural differences in the powers of specialty priests from each group.

For example, you have a single war god, and he represents all sorts of battle-oriented stuff across the entire setting. But you can simulate cultural spin by what war god priests can do in different societies. For example, Kingdom A is warlike and has advanced metallurgy, so its war god priests get a +1 to hit when they use specially-blessed swords, and they eschew healing spells. Kingdom B, having a predominately non-violent culture, avoids battle, so its war god is relegated to cult status and subdued worship; priests are leaders of clandestine fighting units who practice backstabbing (as a thief of half-level), and they like to create undead out of slain warriors (because that’s a good way to honour those who die in battle).

Final Words

In the end, I pretty much discard my Trid Pantheon in favour of something easier to wrangle (and, as a busy GM, I do not have the time to detail out 128 separate and distinct immortals). I’m not generally a fan of world-specific deities because they tend to lack cultural distinction, which is crucial to the setting in so many ways, to the GM and the players. But maybe I’ve hit upon a decent middle ground: world-specific deities with slight cultural tweaks represented by the abilities of specialty priests.

How do you handle this in your campaign?

Chimera characters are based on kits—little, bite-sized stereotypes that define a particular set of skills and abilities. The idea is that you start with a vision of your character—what he can do, what he’s good at, and what abilities he uses to survive adventures. Then you combine individual kits to match that vision. For example, a ranger can fight, shoot, track foes, do wilderness things, and maybe cast a spell or two—each of these things is represented by a kit.

The kit concept supports Chimera’s multi-genre framework. While we’re all familiar with so-called fantasy classes (fighter, priest, rogue, magic-user, ranger, assassin, barbarian, et al.), they don’t translate well outside the fantasy genre. Sci-fi campaigns, for instance, might have space marines, colonists, empaths, pilots, scouts, and spies in addition to a priest here or there, or a barbarian race of low-tech folks living on the Outer Rim. There’s a parallel between Fighter and Space Marine, but only inasmuch as they have common preference to fight their way out of trouble. Outside of that, they’re quite different.

Character kits are meant to address this, because each kit is generic by design—assembled in any combination, they describe ability, not genre. But the concept seems to be a hard sell, at least for Chimera initiates. Feedback I’ve received from you (or, at least, others like you) suggest that classes are the way to go. Classes would make character generation faster and more convenient. But, besides being genre-specific, classes lean toward rigidity—who says your fighter can’t try to move silently, or that your magic-user can’t use a sword?

Not me. But then we’re getting into the realm of skill-based characters, which poses a different set of problems.

So let’s try to sort things out a bit.

Class-based

Class-based characters have one thing going for them that others do not: they’re easy to roll up and unleash on the campaign setting. Classes are also convenient for game masters who need to quickly describe what a particular character can do. Assuming familiarity with the rules, labels like “thief,” or “cleric” convey a lot about the character’s role and capabilities.

But classes pose a danger of over-generalisation. If you’re going by the rules, a class can do only what’s specified, meaning not only a limited skill set, but also that every 4th-level thief, for example, has the same abilities. If you want a fighter who can also pick pockets or maybe cast a spell, you’re out of luck. You could create a new class to satisfy your vision, but that’s a pain to do every time you want to customise a character.

Yet there is one thing we can take away from classes: they clearly define a character’s survival tools. Fighters rely on their strength to beat things down, thieves rely on stealth and trickery, magic-users put stock in their ability to hurl spells, etc. In a class-based system, these conclusions are obvious, though they’re unnecessary with skill-based. But hold onto the concept—we’ll come back round to it later.

Skill-based

The opposite end of the spectrum—specifically designed, perhaps, to address the limitations of class—is the skill-based character. Instead of describing a character by his profession, skill-based defines a character by what he can actually do. On the surface, it’s a natural solution to customising characters. Now you can have the sneaky fighter or the mage who’s a crack shot, or even the space marine with a hint of empathic power.

But just as skill-based addresses class limitations, it nullifies class benefits. A GM cannot easily encapsulate a character by his array of potentially disparate skills. Nor can a player create a new character without deliberating over assigning competence to each. While you gain the benefit of customising a character, you now have spend the time to actually do the customising.

The lesson I take from skill-based is that its chief benefit is flexibility. I’m just not always satisfied with the concept’s execution.

Attributes?

All this time we’re assuming that characters, whether class- or skill-based, are also partially defined by a set of common attributes: Strength, Dexterity, Intellect, Charisma, etc. But are they really necessary?

I’d say the answer depends on how they’re used in the system. In most cases, though, they’re not. Typically, an attribute serves one of two purposes: (1) to modify one’s effectiveness or chance of success with a given ability, or (2) to act as a default mechanism for arbitrating actions that have no corresponding skill or game mechanic.

But you could take care of these requirements by focusing on the actual abilities instead of their underlying attributes. Attributes are useful for describing, in loose terms, a character as an individual—he’s smart, or he’s strong and dexterous, or he’s sickly and butt-ugly to boot. But if your system concentrates more on what a character can do, as either a matter of profession or skill, then attributes take a back seat. Your character is more likely to be typified (and remembered) as a fighter who dealt crushing blows in melee than as a “strong” guy. If so, we’re really talking about his ability to fight—either as a class or as a skill—than his STR score.

So, in an effort to streamline character generation and actual play, let’s think about nixing attributes for a bit.

Ability-based Characters

Let’s assume that characters are best defined by what they can do. This is generally true of both class- and skill-based systems, though each has a different mechanism for doing so. Let’s also assume that what a character can do—that is, his survival skills—are more significant in practice than the attributes upon which he bases those abilities. Finally, let’s assume that, as a player or GM, you want to generate and describe characters quickly, but customise them as needed without a lot of effort.

What if you combined the two models? What if you defined a character by his class, indicating a default set of abilities, but you allowed customisation via skills? Not a new concept, but it’s really about the execution. Dungeons & Dragons, well before 3E, included the concept of general skills. I welcomed them as a vehicle for customisation, but I’ll concede that didn’t really integrate well with the game’s class model or existing mechanics.

How about we approach from the opposite direction: first, let’s define what characters can do, absent attribute scores or class or skills. What are the abilities a character—any character—would use to survive an adventure? So you come up with a list of these things.

Next, you think about some character archetypes—call them classes if you want. You have guys who fight, guys who cast spells, guys who rely on stealth. Make another list of these archetypes, but not too granular (i.e., stick with classes, not sub-classes).

Now you start deciding how good each archetype on your second list is at each ability on your first list. The guys who fight are good at fighting and shooting, but not so good at casting spells. The guys who cast spells are good at magic, research, and lore, but they suck at fighting. Importantly, however, the fighter could learn magic, just as the wizard could learn to fight.

Represent each class’ aptitude for each ability as a cost for improvement. For example, come advancement time, the fighter has to spend 1 XP (or whatever) to improve his fighting ability by +1. A +1 improvement to spells, though, costs 4 XP. The opposite is true for the spell-casting guy.

Over time, as the character advances and earns points to spend on his level or ranks, or whatever, he’ll naturally get better at core, class abilities. As a player or a GM, you can easily create and reference the character by his class. But customisation is possible by having that character acquire and improve non-class abilities, and as descriptors, these extra talents become minor exceptions to the class-based generalisation.

Final Words

Ability-based characters aren’t new. ICE’s Character Law is the first reference to the concept I’ve seen, though the execution is far more number-crunchy than I think is necessary.

Still, an adaptation of this model would solve the sometime-issues of Chimera character kits. Newcomers could dive right in by selecting a class, which is ready to play out of the box. As one gains familiarity with Chimera, one could start customising that class through the acquisition and improvement of both class- and non-class abilities. Assuming an appropriate level of abstraction, there’s no reason a single list of abilities couldn’t cover every conceivable character action, which would obviate the need for attributes—certainly that would shave off some complexity, both during character generation and during play.

I’m still formulating the best way to execute this, assuming the idea is still attractive to me after playtesting. But I’m curious to hear what you have to say—any experience (good or bad) with this model?

Several weeks ago, I wrote about what I’m calling the Rules-Lite Push, basically a re-appreciation for RPGs whose rule vagaries are more of a feature than a bug. Games of this sort are more about guidelines than actual rules, and players often need to interpret aspects of game play based on the spirit, rather than the letter, of the written text.

I Like Stat Blocks…Yaaaay!

Short stat blocks are hallmarks of rules-lite games, and (for me) part of the attraction. I like the the efficiency of a brief blend of acronyms, numbers, and modifiers that describes a character or monster in full. It’s sort of a “just the facts, ma’am” approach: enough data to run the character without having to consult the rulebook, but not so much that you can’t add your own spin or make subtle adjustments.

Generally speaking, I find that if I like the stat block, I like the game. The reverse is also true: if the stat block’s length prevents a quick scan for what I need, or if I’m distracted by too many acronyms, numbers, and modifiers, I’m out. I lean this way because a good stat block is actually useful—it’s more than just a quantification of a character—it’s a tool to help you run your game smoothly. If you spend more than a half-second scouring a stat block for a character’s armour class or movement rate or how good they are at leaping chasms, then your stat block isn’t helping you at the gaming table.

Stat Block Ergonomics

Assuming you do most things backwards (like me) and have OCD (also like me), maybe you’ve thought about your game rules in terms of its stat block. This would be different from thinking of a stat block as a representation of the game rules. I’m looking at this in a meta sort of way: given a useful stat block, what would the game rules need to look like?

An unconventional approach, but not entirely outlandish. Ever diagram a sentence in English? It’s a terrible waste of personal resources, partly because English is such a complex language, but mostly because there are better tools for learning syntax. What if the Angles and the Normans started with easy-to-read pictures of syntax and then said, “Let’s create a language based on these incredibly useful diagrams.”

Consider it Stat Block Ergonomics: start with a stat block format that’s (1) easy to read, (2) easy to create, and (3) useful during play. Figure out what it has to look like and what it needs to include. Then build your game mechanics around it.

Like These Stat Blocks

Consider the following examples. The first is a Chimera RPG stat block for a highwayman-type NPC:

Drake
Medium male human (Per 4)
(P) DEX (S) INT, CHA (T) STR, WIL, CON; MR 7” (8/–1); Pr +2; PV +3; WL 6; AL N
Attacks

• Broad sword/16 (IM +1, Dmg 1d6, Rng 1)

Skills: Burgle/8, Fight/16, Observe/12, Sneak/12
Traits

• Bad Feeling: Use Observe to detect danger (4”)
• Buttress: Improve PV of worn armour by +1
• Disarm: Use Burgle to disarm traps/alarms (1d4 rds)
• Quick Draw: Improve IM by +4

Gear: Light mail, medium shield; broad sword; 2d10p, garnet ring (2£)

Here’s the same guy in the style of my old B/X campaign:

Drake (AC 14 (light mail + shield); HD T3 (M); hp 7; AT short sword (TH +1, IM +0, Dmg 1d6); MV 90’ (30’), Save T3, AL N) light mail, broad sword, 2d10p, garnet ring (2£)

Admittedly, an apples-to-oranges comparison, because the RPG systems are different and don’t use the same stats. But mechanics aside, consider the relative merits of each. Try to ignore the games these stat blocks represent and think about them only as GM tools. Given the format and information provided, which is more useful during play?

Block vs. Block

The Chimera stat block has a lot of information, which is good—it keeps you from having to consult the rulebook during the game—but unless you’re familiar with the format, it’ll take time to find what you need during an encounter. As a result, it’s possible to miss a useful skill or ability (e.g., the Bad Feeling trait, which would help the NPC avoid being surprised by the party).

The other criticism I have about this block is that it’s 12 lines big, and therefore hard to place inline with descriptive text. Longer size implies more time to create, which is impacted by one’s familiarity with the game. But I think it’s a fair to point out that a bigger block provides more opportunity for error than a smaller one.

The B/X-like block is short and sweet (I say “B/X-like” because there are several house rules creeping through—this is a good example of how a desirable stat block format can influence game mechanics). Like the Chimera block, it contains enough material to make it useful during play, yet it’s small enough to place inline without causing much disruption to surrounding text..

Unfortunately, unless you’re highly familiar with the rules, the short-and-sweetness of this format mitigates its use at the gaming table. For example, “HD T3” is an abbreviation for “everything a 3rd-level thief can do,” which is a lot. Similarly, “Save T3” assumes some familiarity with the saving throw matrix, which you’re likely to consult during an encounter.

Final Words

A stat block is not simply a capsule description of a monster or NPC. It’s a tool to make the game run faster and smoother by reducing the players’ reliance on the rulebooks during play. The stat blocks above each have their pros and cons, essentially around the issues of quality vs. quantity (where the former is succinct but requires intimate knowledge of the game’s nuances, while the latter’s verbosity makes for a longer block but obviates the need for close familiarity).

But familiarity with the game system itself is crucial, and it occurs to me that the more versed one is with the rules, the less of an issue stat block format becomes. If so, this discussion is entirely subjective and I may have just wasted your valuable time.

So, specific game systems aside, what’s your experience, and what do you look for in a stat block?

Those who stake their lives on the fortunes of exploration are not rare in Trid. Indeed, they are sought after by Archons, Optimates, and Ecclesiasts alike, to discover and destroy danger before it strikes.

Still, the Autarch suffers no disorder, and to distinguish adventurer from outlaw, it is his edict that all explorers obtain an official charter.

Not unlike Letters of Marque, charters grant adventurers the right to bear arms and permission to travel outside a tithing. A charter may be issued only by a noble, whose authority extends only as far as his borders (i.e., a charter granted by an Optimate is sufficient within his Praedium; a charter granted by an Archon is honoured throughout his Regio). Charter fees usually start at one mina per member, and the issuing noble has rights to 100% of any spoils obtained. But fees are negotiable, and the more a party is willing to pay, the greater their percentage of swag they may keep.

Characters may petition the local Archon or Optimate for a charter, which is likely to be granted if the noble has a quick need for hard cash. Alternatively, an noble might offer a commission by proclamation, typically for a specific task. It is rare that a party can obtain a permanent charter; most contracts stipulate the dissolution of the party upon completion of the mission, a measure designed to prevent abuse from errant adventurers with nothing to do.

All charters identify the bearer(s) and stipulates the task for which the charter was issued, as well as the payment owed (if any) when it’s complete. Those named in the charter have the (temporary) right to bear arms and have nominal decision-making authority on behalf of the grantor. As adventurers roam the countryside, charters must be presented to any agent of the Autarch who asks for it (meaning anyone above the station of Furca). Despite the wide latitude afforded to chartered parties, characters may find that not all nobles give such credentials equal or even due attention, depending on their relationship with the noble who issued it, local pressures, and (naturally) their own schemes.

Chartered adventurers occupy a peculiar station in the social order. They’re not Optimates, but they enjoy some privileges of nobility. They’re not freeholders, but they are skilled workers allowed to earn an income. They’re not outlaws, though they go about armed, as they please. Though they’re bound to the same laws as everyone else, they enjoy fewer legal rights because they don’t belong to a tithing. Unlike most, they can rise above their birth, and outside of noble bloodlines, they are the most likely to become landowning vassals of a patron liege. A savvy party who holds a charter realises that it’s useful only for as long as the party is useful to the grantor. Caveat emptor…

In the Nepes Regio, Archon Emon supports two permanent companies under charter: The Eastriders, a company of 17 light horsemen based in Suslen, currently charged with exploration of the forest surrounding the proposed Praedium of Menevi; and the Wood Blades, a party of 11 scouts who watch for Illundii activity between Moorwatch and Florin’s Manse. Emon’s vassals occasionally grant similar charters, but any party greater than 12 requires Emon’s approval, and such companies are almost always temporary.

Trid lies across the western regions of Lyolm, a continent spanning the eastern hemisphere of Ammonkis, itself a small, but lush, world of varied life.

The Lands of Trid

The year is 1026 AH, the Age of History, and the Exalted Autarch has ruled the Empire of the Ruby Dias in the name of Elu the Lawgiver for just over three centuries.

The Autarch protects his subject nations, which prosper as a result, though the price is total obedience. For all the Autarch’s benevolent works—building roads, opening trade routes, supplying troops, establishing order—there are those who whisper that people should be free to worship gods they choose, or that an individual can rise above his station—there are even those audacious enough to suggest that people might govern themselves. Where these whispers are heard, they are silenced: Order is the Autarch’s greatest gift, and those who pose questions are like unto the seeds of chaos.

Order is wanting in Central Trid, the northern extent of the Autarch’s Empire. Ownership of the Nepes Frontier is contested by native Illundii barbarians and settlers from the imperialist Theocracy of Ard. Both sides have reached a stalemate, for while the Ard have superior numbers and better weapons, they lack the flexibility to defend against the Illundii’s brutal guerrilla tactics. From the Ardic perspective, victory is best achieved by attrition, for reinforcements and arms from the Theocracy are plentiful. Meanwhile, the Illundii believe that uncompromising resistance is the key to driving the settlers out, and their campaign of terrorist attacks is beginning to wear on Ardic morale.

Author’s Notes

Trid includes all of the Autarch’s Empire and then some. Central Trid is Grid L7 of the map shown above, and is where the action in the upcoming Swords of Telm supplement take place.

The World of Trid has matured significantly since it’s inception (which goes back to the early ’90s, when Trid was hand-drawn on butcher paper). It hosted my B/X campaign for some time, but the original setting didn’t scale well (i.e., I didn’t plan ahead). When I started playtesting Chimera, it seemed like a good time to revise Trid and create the world around it. Hence the map above, which started in ProFantasy’s Fractal Terrains and made its way into my world hex template.

For those interested in knowing, Trid is where I found a home for all those campaign ideas inspired by Michael Moorcock and Gene Wolfe. The worlds of Elric and Sevarian seem to be extremes of high and low fantasy, and I’m hoping Trid strikes a balance.

As always, feedback is welcome.

In Part 1 of Religion of Trid, I discussed the Theocracy of Ard, which is about as far down the Lawful path on the alignment scale as you can get.

Today’s entry covers the beliefs of a pair of barbarian tribes within Central Trid, the same region occupied by the Theocracy. Neither practices religion in the strict sense that the Ard do, but their respective belief systems are highly spiritual in nature.

The Illundii

The Illundii are a warrior culture, obligated to defend Nature. Men and women are equal in all matters. Children are taught to fight and hunt as soon as they can walk; all are passable warriors by puberty. During the Rite of Paths, adolescent boys and girls may elect to become Guardians or Animists, respectively. Not all Illundii chose, but those who do must endure a trial to attain the revered status associated with their choice.

Guardians are sworn to sacrifice their lives in defence of Nature, consisting of the earth, the wood, the waters, and the sky, and all the beings that they support. In the process, they guide the clan by example: hunting only what is needed; using every part of a kill for meat, tools, and clothes; containing settlements to avoid overcrowding; and resisting the encroachment of outsiders ignorant of Nature’s ways.

Animists are taught to commune with the Natural spirits—the inherent essence of all things: trees, birds, wind, plants and animals, rocks, and insects. Service to an Animist might be dismissed as magic, and while the Animist’s communication with the spirit is supernatural, the manifestation of their assistance is always mundane. Thus protection might be offered by a strong gust that blows enemy arrows off-target, healing might be delivered through a poultice of rare herbs, or enemies might be subject to a few well-placed lightning bolts.

This arrangement results from ancient pacts between the spirits and the Illundii, wherein the Animists call upon the spirits, and the spirits serve because of the protection given by Guardians. It’s a spiritual love triangle: the only Illundii who can communicate with the spirits are Animists, and the spirits ignore any request from a non-Animist, though it is the Guardian whose protective vigil maintains the agreement.

The Narbon

The Narbon make their home along the shores of the Rebisus Sea. Society is comprised of hunters, fishers, warriors, and mystics. Chieftains are selected by the mystics, who consult an alien pantheon of aquatic spirits and picean deities for guidance in all things. Indeed, water is a revered element whose ebb and flow tells the cyclic story of life, with the power to heal and to destroy, to rise from the earth as a spring or to fall from the sky as rain.

Narbon homage is shown by assigning persons or places of great significance a Water Name (a palindrome, to the scholars), which illustrates how a thing’s beginning invariably flows to its end in a simple and natural pattern.

The Isle of Piscicsip, in the Rebisus Sea, is a holy place for mystics, who must make a pilgrimage there as aspirants to take part in the Deep Trials. Success in the trials grants mystic status and earns the scaled hood of their office. The hood creates a link between the mystic and the aquatic entities who dwell in the Rebisus; only the mystic can interpret the visions it imparts (non-mystics risk losing their faculties or hurling themselves in the sea to discover the visions’ origin).

Each year, a mystic may choose to return to Piscicsip to petition the aquatic patrons for a Sea Gift, which grants the mystic a power to be used either in the Narbon’s general welfare or in advance of the patrons’ needs on Trid. In game terms, a successful WIL (or WIS) check indicates a successful petition. Failure strips the mystic of some physical power (permanent wound, Fatigue penalty, or reduction in Constitution). A successful petition, however, grants (1d6):

1. Ability to breathe underwater
2. Ability to shapechange into aquatic animal (fish, crab, eel)
3. Ability to use seawater as a scrying device
4. Ability to gain sustenance from seawater alone
5. Ability to summon sea creatures for aid
6. Ability to act freely while submerged (i.e., unaffected by water pressure or resistance)

Advanced mystics (i.e., those with three or more Sea Gifts) carry a Sacred Shell, which allows them to commune with He Who Lies Submerged, the king of all aquatic entities, who dwells deep within the Rebisus and said to originate from a plane of pure water.