Photography: Clear Fireworks
Jul. 5th, 2011 02:02 am![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
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This is today's freebie poem. It was inspired by prompts from the_vulture and
siliconshaman about gaming and self-referential characters. How do campaign settings shift from low magic to high magic? When epic characters roll well and decide to change the world ...
The gamers are awaiting reincarnation,
chatting with the Universe as they work.
They are choosing classes, generating stats,
and minmaxing their advantages and disadvantages.
The computer wizard is pumping IQ
while the stick jock goes for Strength.
Eyeing the conditions of the campaign setting,
everyone loads for bear.
Probabilities clatter and dance,
then fall in their favor.
The dice lie innocently upon the table,
glittering like pyrite.
"Remember, this is a low-magic setting,"
the Universe says testily.
The computer wizard cracks some knuckles
and says, "I can fix that."
The Universe grumbles
and demands to be passed the cheetos.
This is today's freebie poem. It was inspired by prompts from the_vulture and
siliconshaman about gaming and self-referential characters. How do campaign settings shift from low magic to high magic? When epic characters roll well and decide to change the world ...
The gamers are awaiting reincarnation,
chatting with the Universe as they work.
They are choosing classes, generating stats,
and minmaxing their advantages and disadvantages.
The computer wizard is pumping IQ
while the stick jock goes for Strength.
Eyeing the conditions of the campaign setting,
everyone loads for bear.
Probabilities clatter and dance,
then fall in their favor.
The dice lie innocently upon the table,
glittering like pyrite.
"Remember, this is a low-magic setting,"
the Universe says testily.
The computer wizard cracks some knuckles
and says, "I can fix that."
The Universe grumbles
and demands to be passed the cheetos.
This is today's freebie poem. It was inspired by prompts from the_vulture and
siliconshaman about gaming and self-referential characters. How do campaign settings shift from low magic to high magic? When epic characters roll well and decide to change the world ...
The gamers are awaiting reincarnation,
chatting with the Universe as they work.
They are choosing classes, generating stats,
and minmaxing their advantages and disadvantages.
The computer wizard is pumping IQ
while the stick jock goes for Strength.
Eyeing the conditions of the campaign setting,
everyone loads for bear.
Probabilities clatter and dance,
then fall in their favor.
The dice lie innocently upon the table,
glittering like pyrite.
"Remember, this is a low-magic setting,"
the Universe says testily.
The computer wizard cracks some knuckles
and says, "I can fix that."
The Universe grumbles
and demands to be passed the cheetos.
This is today's freebie poem. It was inspired by prompts from the_vulture and
siliconshaman about gaming and self-referential characters. How do campaign settings shift from low magic to high magic? When epic characters roll well and decide to change the world ...
The gamers are awaiting reincarnation,
chatting with the Universe as they work.
They are choosing classes, generating stats,
and minmaxing their advantages and disadvantages.
The computer wizard is pumping IQ
while the stick jock goes for Strength.
Eyeing the conditions of the campaign setting,
everyone loads for bear.
Probabilities clatter and dance,
then fall in their favor.
The dice lie innocently upon the table,
glittering like pyrite.
"Remember, this is a low-magic setting,"
the Universe says testily.
The computer wizard cracks some knuckles
and says, "I can fix that."
The Universe grumbles
and demands to be passed the cheetos.
This poem was inspired and sponsored by the_vulture. It touches on fond memories of gritty low fantasy stories, and roleplaying games at low level. (One of my best-ever campaigns had everyone at first level for almost the entire time.) And just because you've changed life roles doesn't mean that you're out of the picture...
(You can read about Dron's neighbor, Brilla the Baker, in "Half-Baked Ideas.")
Dron retired from the army
with a bad limp and a bag of gold.
He missed the adventure, though,
and the everyday challenge of survival.
He bought a tavern
in a quiet little crossroad hamlet,
hung his axe over the mantelpiece,
and prepared to settle down.
At the end of the first week,
there was a brawl.
Two dwarves and four elves had it out.
Dron tossed them into the street.
At the end of the second week,
there was a fire. Apprentice wizard. Too much ale.
Dron put him out
and then extinguished the flames.
Not long after that,
bandits tried to raid the bar.
Dron's axe had a new nick in the shaft
when he hung it back over the hearth.
Then came the adventuring party
whose cleric had somehow gotten kidnapped,
and would anyone possibly have heard any gossip?
Oh please. Barkeeper.
At the end of the month, Dron smiled.
How could he ever have forgotten where the action happened?
Perhaps retirement wouldn't be unbearably boring after all.
Humming, the barkeeper polished his glassware. And then his axe.
This poem was inspired and sponsored by the_vulture. It touches on fond memories of gritty low fantasy stories, and roleplaying games at low level. (One of my best-ever campaigns had everyone at first level for almost the entire time.) And just because you've changed life roles doesn't mean that you're out of the picture...
(You can read about Dron's neighbor, Brilla the Baker, in "Half-Baked Ideas.")
Dron retired from the army
with a bad limp and a bag of gold.
He missed the adventure, though,
and the everyday challenge of survival.
He bought a tavern
in a quiet little crossroad hamlet,
hung his axe over the mantelpiece,
and prepared to settle down.
At the end of the first week,
there was a brawl.
Two dwarves and four elves had it out.
Dron tossed them into the street.
At the end of the second week,
there was a fire. Apprentice wizard. Too much ale.
Dron put him out
and then extinguished the flames.
Not long after that,
bandits tried to raid the bar.
Dron's axe had a new nick in the shaft
when he hung it back over the hearth.
Then came the adventuring party
whose cleric had somehow gotten kidnapped,
and would anyone possibly have heard any gossip?
Oh please. Barkeeper.
At the end of the month, Dron smiled.
How could he ever have forgotten where the action happened?
Perhaps retirement wouldn't be unbearably boring after all.
Humming, the barkeeper polished his glassware. And then his axe.
This poem was inspired and sponsored by the_vulture. It touches on fond memories of gritty low fantasy stories, and roleplaying games at low level. (One of my best-ever campaigns had everyone at first level for almost the entire time.) And just because you've changed life roles doesn't mean that you're out of the picture...
(You can read about Dron's neighbor, Brilla the Baker, in "Half-Baked Ideas.")
Dron retired from the army
with a bad limp and a bag of gold.
He missed the adventure, though,
and the everyday challenge of survival.
He bought a tavern
in a quiet little crossroad hamlet,
hung his axe over the mantelpiece,
and prepared to settle down.
At the end of the first week,
there was a brawl.
Two dwarves and four elves had it out.
Dron tossed them into the street.
At the end of the second week,
there was a fire. Apprentice wizard. Too much ale.
Dron put him out
and then extinguished the flames.
Not long after that,
bandits tried to raid the bar.
Dron's axe had a new nick in the shaft
when he hung it back over the hearth.
Then came the adventuring party
whose cleric had somehow gotten kidnapped,
and would anyone possibly have heard any gossip?
Oh please. Barkeeper.
At the end of the month, Dron smiled.
How could he ever have forgotten where the action happened?
Perhaps retirement wouldn't be unbearably boring after all.
Humming, the barkeeper polished his glassware. And then his axe.
This poem was inspired and sponsored by the_vulture. It touches on fond memories of gritty low fantasy stories, and roleplaying games at low level. (One of my best-ever campaigns had everyone at first level for almost the entire time.) And just because you've changed life roles doesn't mean that you're out of the picture...
(You can read about Dron's neighbor, Brilla the Baker, in "Half-Baked Ideas.")
Dron retired from the army
with a bad limp and a bag of gold.
He missed the adventure, though,
and the everyday challenge of survival.
He bought a tavern
in a quiet little crossroad hamlet,
hung his axe over the mantelpiece,
and prepared to settle down.
At the end of the first week,
there was a brawl.
Two dwarves and four elves had it out.
Dron tossed them into the street.
At the end of the second week,
there was a fire. Apprentice wizard. Too much ale.
Dron put him out
and then extinguished the flames.
Not long after that,
bandits tried to raid the bar.
Dron's axe had a new nick in the shaft
when he hung it back over the hearth.
Then came the adventuring party
whose cleric had somehow gotten kidnapped,
and would anyone possibly have heard any gossip?
Oh please. Barkeeper.
At the end of the month, Dron smiled.
How could he ever have forgotten where the action happened?
Perhaps retirement wouldn't be unbearably boring after all.
Humming, the barkeeper polished his glassware. And then his axe.
So quennessa was ruthlessly dissecting a movie for poor content and shabby use of heras. The critique began with the title "You have been given all the weapons you need." It led to this poem, which she has sponsored.
"You have been given all the weapons you need."
Wilda and Vronic looked at each other.
They looked at the wagon full of swords
and sheaves of light lances tied with twine.
Then they looked down the mountain,
slopes black with orcen army.
"Now fight," said the duke, then left.
Wilda heaved a sigh,
tucking a strand of dark hair behind her pointed ear.
One wagonload of weapons.
Well, it was a start.
Vronic crossed her burly human arms
and grumbled curses in three languages.
Then she perked up.
"Hey, look ... the drover has throwing knives."
Wilda flicked her sharp gaze downhill
to where the orcen commander
had foolishly pitched his tent on the rise above the ravine.
"We could infiltrate and behead their whole command."
The two women grinned
as they shook down the drover for suitable gear.
It began to rain.
So quennessa was ruthlessly dissecting a movie for poor content and shabby use of heras. The critique began with the title "You have been given all the weapons you need." It led to this poem, which she has sponsored.
"You have been given all the weapons you need."
Wilda and Vronic looked at each other.
They looked at the wagon full of swords
and sheaves of light lances tied with twine.
Then they looked down the mountain,
slopes black with orcen army.
"Now fight," said the duke, then left.
Wilda heaved a sigh,
tucking a strand of dark hair behind her pointed ear.
One wagonload of weapons.
Well, it was a start.
Vronic crossed her burly human arms
and grumbled curses in three languages.
Then she perked up.
"Hey, look ... the drover has throwing knives."
Wilda flicked her sharp gaze downhill
to where the orcen commander
had foolishly pitched his tent on the rise above the ravine.
"We could infiltrate and behead their whole command."
The two women grinned
as they shook down the drover for suitable gear.
It began to rain.
So quennessa was ruthlessly dissecting a movie for poor content and shabby use of heras. The critique began with the title "You have been given all the weapons you need." It led to this poem, which she has sponsored.
"You have been given all the weapons you need."
Wilda and Vronic looked at each other.
They looked at the wagon full of swords
and sheaves of light lances tied with twine.
Then they looked down the mountain,
slopes black with orcen army.
"Now fight," said the duke, then left.
Wilda heaved a sigh,
tucking a strand of dark hair behind her pointed ear.
One wagonload of weapons.
Well, it was a start.
Vronic crossed her burly human arms
and grumbled curses in three languages.
Then she perked up.
"Hey, look ... the drover has throwing knives."
Wilda flicked her sharp gaze downhill
to where the orcen commander
had foolishly pitched his tent on the rise above the ravine.
"We could infiltrate and behead their whole command."
The two women grinned
as they shook down the drover for suitable gear.
It began to rain.
So quennessa was ruthlessly dissecting a movie for poor content and shabby use of heras. The critique began with the title "You have been given all the weapons you need." It led to this poem, which she has sponsored.
"You have been given all the weapons you need."
Wilda and Vronic looked at each other.
They looked at the wagon full of swords
and sheaves of light lances tied with twine.
Then they looked down the mountain,
slopes black with orcen army.
"Now fight," said the duke, then left.
Wilda heaved a sigh,
tucking a strand of dark hair behind her pointed ear.
One wagonload of weapons.
Well, it was a start.
Vronic crossed her burly human arms
and grumbled curses in three languages.
Then she perked up.
"Hey, look ... the drover has throwing knives."
Wilda flicked her sharp gaze downhill
to where the orcen commander
had foolishly pitched his tent on the rise above the ravine.
"We could infiltrate and behead their whole command."
The two women grinned
as they shook down the drover for suitable gear.
It began to rain.