Rogue in the Crypt Summary of Session 1

     Murkstav, an amateur dungeoneer, hired mercenary raised under Rivermoon, breaks out on his own. Unlike most, he selfishly decides to go at it alone. But he soon finds out why people venture into the underealms in groups. 

     Finding a map as part of the booty from a wizard (they always say, whatever you find is yours my friend, but the staff or the tome, or the mirror is mine) Murk moves northward toward a forest burial site. Stealth is not the easiest thing among the undead. 

     Chased by ghosts appearing from about the shattered trees and out of the torn and desolate leaves upon the ground, Murkstav comes upon the temple or the crypt that he had been looking forward. Even with ghost swirling around him, the aggravated thoughts of the wizard ring in his mind. He fuddles with the lock, for he is nothing but a good thief, usually hired by others, so he is used to being a sword hand a defender. He fuddles with the lock and taps it, moving the tumblers until something snaps and the gate opens, perhaps opening too easily.

     Careful when things are two easy, a paternal voice says in his mind. 

     Locking the gate behind him Murkstav crept into a 25 foot crypt divided into four chambers with a large coffin or sarcophagus in the middle. Amateur, amateur, for when Murk turned he found a witch practicing her dark arts on the floor. He goes on to learn that it was the witch manipulating the dead in defending this temple, the temple of the village idiot. 

     A battle ensues that ruins Murkstav’s bow and forces him to slay the witch with his sword as she used her powers to creep about the walls of the crypt. 

     No one was more surprised than myself when nothing emerged from the crypt in question. 

     Immediately something registers as wrong in this chapter. Why would the village idiot be buried in such an elaborate tomb? There was obviously something more to this, a secret somehow. Using his skills Murkstav, noticed smudges in the frayed map. A map drawn upon another map. Where the information lead him just to this tomb there was something, more something underneath.

     Murkstav liked underneath, away from the topsiders. The mercenary always felt better under the civilized world.

     An arrow pointing north. Or was it down? Cartographers in the continent could never really decide on one method of symbols. An arrow pointing north on a panel.

     Relishing, Murkstav heads for the panel, easily pushing it and watching it turn.

     Then a click.

     The clicks are the worst parts of this job. Before he could remove his gloved hand, a rounded blade followed immediatly after the panel opening downward. The man caught a glympse of warm orange light before his hand was sliced. Then the blade stopped with a whir and a dying crash and clunk.

     Murstav reeled back, looking at the gash in his hand, wondering if there was an ancient poison spread upon the ancient mechanism.

     And since suspense is good for the soul, this is where the session ended!

Murkstav for Solo Play

 

The term Dungeoneer has always held a certain magic for me. In my stories there have always been professional dungeon crawlers. Professional extractors usually employed by some mage or sorcery, almost always another one of my characters- Orleon Templeton, to go into the under realms, the vast subterranean world underneath the continent, and extract the most unusual of things. Always with this precept- keep what you find.

Originally I wanted to take a band of adventurers into the dungeon. With the help of +John Yorio, I had thought to make the party as character, illustrated in his blog, Then a strong craving for rogue-likes, games like Nethack, DCSS and Tales of Maj'Eyal hit me hard. I realized that I did not need, a band of characters, I just needed one. Perhaps one that mistakenly goes into the dungeon alone- and may regret it later!

Just like in a rogue-like.

So here is the "Character Sheet" for my professional dungeoneer.

MURKSTAV

+2 Great Dungeon fighter-
raised in catacombs, knows the dangers. Swords
odd jobs to get things about Rivermoon. particularly closed quarter fighting

+1 Good Thief: Locks and moving in shadows.
orphan/street rat trope.
+1 Good Archer
For his type death from afar is always better.

0 Fair … Leave this to the adventure.
Perhaps Alchemy, craftmanship, Lore

If he tries things outside of this parameter it goes down to Poor which I tend to think is more than just simply 'slightly unlikely' perhaps unlucky?

Brief Bio: Murkstav raised himself in the murky underbelly catacombs and labyrinths that lie underneath the city of Rivermoon. His odd jobs, assignments and tasks took him from stealing to outright assassination. Feeling more at home underneath the ground than above it, Murk is just now beginning to strike out on his own as a 'professional extractor' in the under realms of the Prytanian continent.

Methodology: What the hell am I doing?

Combat in a solo rpg is not the easiest thing in the world. Nor is the building of a dungeon as you go. Sure you can click a button and have a full-fledged dungeon but to have done progressively, as your character moves, is something else entirely.

For combat, I have combined four elements that shined in my experience with solo role-playing.

NOTE: Nothing gets in the way of the writing, nothing. When confronted with any of these rules, or any of the rules of an RPG and/or oracle I will choose the write, the creative flow of the words destroys any and all rules and numbers. RPG is to be used as an AID not to replace writing. 

1. The incredible GM Emulator at RPGsolo.com. This is my solo rp desk, and many times my writing desk for that matter. Most, most if not all sessions, will happen on this site. I will use primarily the Mythic buttons but the muse can point me to any button at all. Of particular interest is the Random Dungeon generation. I plan to use those custom buttons and perhaps other random dungeon generators or simply a word.

2. The descriptive rather than mathematical focus of FUDGE RPG's attributes, traits and/or characteristics. These I will use to describe my character and use him against others. He will begin with one great, two goods, three fairs and four so-so. Anything beyond that becomes mediocre or abysmal. For every plus I must provide a reason  for him being at that level. This is the scale I plan to use:

Superb Sure Thing +4

Great  Very Likely +3

Good Likely +2

Fair Slightly Likely +1

So-So +0 50/50

Poor Slightly Unlikely -1

Mediocre Unlikely -2

Terrible Very Unlikely -3

Abysmal Almost Impossible -4 

3. You will note beside the fudge-like descriptions are the Mythic descriptions. I will use those buttons on RPGsolo.com to match how my hero is performing. For example, if I ask “How does he make out in combat, I would follow the following procedure. He is a great dungeon-fighter (and I have three reasons for that) if he is up against a fair orc, I would hit the Good ‘likely’ button. If he is up against two or three, I think it would be so so if not slightly unlikely. 

4. This will give me Yes, and- Yes- No- or No, but. Here is where the inspiration begins. 

5. No inspiration I give myself license to hit a button on rpgsolo.com, use a story image, grab a rune, grab a card, look out beyond the window until something grabs me. Again, RPG as fuel for writing, not visa versa!

6. I have not crossed the bridge of hit points or magic saves or anything of that nature. Why? Quite frankly it seems to get in the way of the writing. But if things change I will let me patient readers know. 

Next up: The character, Murkstav, an old dungeoneer from my play-by-post days!

(Re) Purpose

Either life or circumstance or just the smell of the subterranean, I got the bug again. Returning here to this rare place to write of things, treasures and monsters under the realms. The main them of this blog is a dungeon crawl as story. But this time it is going to be a bit different. Now it is a story fueled by the thrill, rolling and role-ing of a traditional pen and paper dungeon game. 

People say there is a reason why dungeon crawls do not make it into stories. But nothing in my experience inspired me more than rolling a dice and seeing how the character's life changes from moment to moment. It is a door, a lock, the trigger of a trap, or the growl of something that is not at all human that conjures archetypal ideas. Well, at least in my brain. 

Consider this as a journal of that purpose. Now I have more of a solid methodology to this strange craving of madness. 

NOTE: Nothing gets in the way of the writing, nothing. When confronted with any of these rules, or any of the rules of an RPG and/or oracle I will choose the write, the creative flow of the words destroys any and all rules and numbers. RPG is to be used as an AID not to replace writing.  

Thus next up, methodology, what the hell am I doing?

Scrawl Session 3

Our heroes are in deep trouble, the party is split and things are looking rather unripe. A ramp has separated the two groups: Swann and Jestur and Malfor and Onilio. Alas how does it happen, sounds like a serious serious session with the good ol’ mantrap man. The Gods have not figured on how to get them out of there, thus we switch stories to Otilio and Malfor- the farmer still out from the fight with the Ettin. 

     Malfor coughed, his mind racing after the soul-ring grasped his consciousness from the lost worlds. Upon the brink of death the white-gold carried him forth, returning him to the realm of the living. We wakes but he is very weak, the ring pulling his consciousness from the brink of doom. It floated there and the metal surrounded his spirit until it rushed back to the mortal world of wonder, an greatness to behold. But Malfor returns incredibly weak and tired, barely able t carry his wondrous stuffings.

     Otilio heard the heroes fall down the hall. Heard the familiar slide, it was an old trick devised by a more intelligent culture, but he thought but could not place the magnificent tiles upon the service. The Gnorc entered the tomb from its eastern face, coming across it upon the cliff he scaled with a party. 

     The Gnorc, Otilio rushed down the corridor from where his new-found companions recently screamed from, he found nothing, the handle was on the base, he did notice the curtains waving a bit and the sand-marks of a drag or scuffle. 

     “They must be about here, I am sure of it” he thought to himself. Blazing forth toward the room, the Gnorc knew that this only meant doom to touch the torch but surely there was an alternate trigger. He noted about there was a sconce in the wall behind the torch

     Gnorc grabbed a length of rope, tying it about his waste and flung it over one of the railings supporting the curtains. Hanging himself from the waist he placed a torch upon the sconce. He felt a click, closed his eyes and hoped for the best. 

     Deep below Swann and Jestur fought flinging the remains of a former guest into the leech-flooding hole, they suddenly heard a clang, and the iris of the hole shut, slicing a leech in half.

The Logos Dungeon- Sessions 1 & 2

The Logos Dungeon- Summary of Sessions 1 & 2 using Dyson Logos's map, John Yorio's solo-play technique and Mark's rpgsolo.com amazing gm emulator. 

     A vision, a haunting dream of an open tomb, haunts the dreams of a magically-addicted scholar Igbold. His concubine sells the map that he scrawled in a night-terror stupor to the highest price at an Unnamed Tavern. 

     That highest price was to Jestur, a story-teller of ill-repute, a concoctor of tails and perhaps this very one. An former jester, he convinces the captain of a palace guard, Swann, to go into the business of treasure-hunting. 

     “Even a barbarian can do it!”

     “Barbarians have axes and rage”

     “Well I’ve got this!” Jestur responded, holding a wooden scepter with a jingles hanging from it.

     The two travel toward the location of said map, whereupon they come to a field of desolation, a promised crop gone horribly wrong, a tiny estate confiscated by the king. At the center is Malfor, a shattered farmer with a large bag, with all the tools of his now dead trade. Without much convincing he decides to join the troope. After all, as Jestur explains “Reaping monsters has got to be easier than reaping wheat!”

     After spending the night in camp, the neophyte-adventures venture forward to their destination- an opening in a cliff that glows at night like a beacon. Not many have talked about it, but surely it is the glow of gold. 

     “Too easy,” Swann remarked. 

     “Scared?” Jestur asked. 

     “No just putting you on your guard. It is a lovely shade of filthy rich is it not?”

     At the entrance to our yonder tomb, the trio find the walls lined in spectacular golden plates, each more valuable than the next. However something odd is amiss, the cave is crowded with riches. Pouches purses and packs lay piled high against the walls. 

     Thinking it is an offering, the three put their savings on the piles. 

     “One thing I know my friends is you take the gold when you are leaving!” Jestur gestured. 

     Moving south into the wide high tunnel something was amiss, the men of this accidental company faced a horrible monstrosity that had taken the cave as its refuge- an Ettin. A fierce battle was waged, where the Chivalier swung his sword but was dashed against a wall, dazed; the former-Jester threw bags of gold at the creature; the Farmer impaled and injured the creature but was so wounded he was lost from the battle and perhaps this world. A possible new ally, a tall greenish gnome fought mightily, strangely for his race, with an odd ferocity that none could compare. It was he who cleaved into one of the giant's heads, and continued to best it as our original comrades distracted it.

     Finally the fall of their most inculpable comrade, Malfor, the Farmer, drove the Chivalier to dare a splendid slice upon the creature- who fell barely missing Jestur.

     When the dust settled, the two survivors raced to their friend, seeing him on the brink of death. Gnome approached, Jestur realizing that he was not a gnome but a Gnorc- a gnomish with veins of orcish lineage. Taking a ring from his hand filled with rings, the Gnorc placed it upon the fallen, explaining it as a magical lure to the farmer's spirit. Not a way of catching but a way of catching souls.

     While Otilio, the Gnorc, attended to his patient, Jestur and Swann moved ahead in the tunnel. There they saw a wand burning brightly as a torch floating in the middle of a chamber that opened to the west of the corridor. Silk curtains tied with golden rings neatly invited the visitors. This Jestur found all too inviting, and despite warning from a shouting Otilio, he took the wand which was in reality a clever lever. Swann reacted instantly, as if saving the King himself, he rushed to Jestur and pulled him by the neck to escape the dividing stonewall.

     But it was too late and the two suddenly plummeted as the floor became a slide, carrying them to a dug-out chamber filled with sand. Locking them in place Jestur and Swann were not alone and they soon discovered that perhaps wearing armor in the desert sands is a good idea. For the floor moved and waved as hungry things snaked up and down toward them.

     Grabbing Jestur leg for a supper, the man screamed as Swann hacked at the creature.

     

An Inspired Dungeon Crawl

     The dungeon to come, the scrawled map on leather, scrawled upon by blood more than ink; had come to Ingabod in one of his maddened magical infusions. The rooms spilled out like tentacles about the eye, and when he woke, sliding beakers, decanters, books and scrolls to the side, he had absolutely no idea what he was looking at. Yet the woman who had the disgrace of sharing his bedchamber, and his loins, knew precisely what she was looking at. 
     She was looking at a purse of gold.
     So with delight, and to Ingabod’s surprise, she accepted his foot on her flank as he kicked her out of bed. But with a swoop and a yelp, she also took what the magic-addict had scared on the fine lamb’s skin (a piece had been torn to wrap about his member (just enough to keep his essence out of her, for fear of gaining more power than Ingabod) that place, that unknown place, that dwelled more in the madman’s mind than in the treasure-laden realms of the continent.
     Taking the leather, the strumpet followed the twisting paths away from that dragon’s lair, off to a tavern, or a plaza, to sell to a random cast of characters, enough to pay for another chamber, another night another meal, until another called for her to warm his bed.
     So there it was before Jester, the lambskin, promising riches more than he had heard in the thrones of kings. For surely if these manner of men could do it, he could as well...

Scrawl- A Solo Gaming Crawl 1

Scrawl- A Solo Gaming Crawl 1

I have been craving this for so long, inspired by +john yorio and his amazing ever-expanding dungeon and Mark incredible GM emulator, RPGsolo.com; I decided to run a massive craving I have had for the past few days, oddly since I got on vacation. 


The various colors are the results generated by rpgsolo.com, followed by the muses and actions of your humble player. I will try to post the adventures herein. Once again my hats off to John and Mark!

The Clearing

Here is another saga, using our engine and USR playing system Rather than playing 3 characters or just using one. I played 'a party' and each attribute became a person.

I also used the Five Room Dungeon which is...

Room 1: Entrance And Guardian
Room 2: Puzzle Or Roleplaying Challenge
Room 3: Red Herring
Room 4: Climax, Big Battle Or Conflict
Room 5: Plot Twist

Here is the party....

D'ang Dwarf D8 (weakened) Hp 1
Axe +2

Melan, Elf d6 Powerful Hp 6
Elvenly things. +2
Sword +1

M-U D4 Medium hp 3
Saving spells +2
Reusable Snare potion +2

Party Total 10,7

Wolves d6
Hit points 1

Werewolf morphed d8
HP 7, 3

Gloomy clearing.

The fog of the morning has lifted and the adventurers three, with D'ang wounded, move into a gloomy clearing, shattered tombstones are about. In the mist a pack of wild wolves smell the wounded veteran and move in.

The wolves are a modest d6 with HP of

1 = 1_[d6]

The elf sees the wolf from afar and attacks, shooting his longbow...

6 = 6_[d6]

wolf evades with a

1 = 1_[d6]

5 points of damage wolf goes DOWN!

WARF askes for healing the dwarf, Malcana responds. Severity of wounds are 5, she will roll got to

3 = 1_[d4]+2

She cannot heal. Let see if Melan can spot something that they could use, perhaps a tomb?

4 = 4_[d6]

He spots a tomb, is it trapped? NO DOUBT...

(Sure Thing | 9_[d10]) Yes.

Trap?

Werewolf.

I like it!

Cheap quill and ink.

Forget the trap. Melan with Mitra helping move D'ang to the pit of a forgotten tomb, but alas there is something in there that is worse, quite worse. There was a reason why there was so many things out there, why there were so many wolves- In the lair is a WEREWOLF of a D8!

7 = 7_[d8]

The thing growls from beneath, D'ang grabs his fiery axe is it magical?

(Very Likely | 3_[d10]) No.

No it is just a big damn axe. He raises it and Mitra casts in surprise...what kind of spell?

Ancient lore.

Dagger.

Magic dagger of ancient lore YES! Spilling from her hands, a deadly intent it goes against the werewolf's hide. Very likely that it is protected...

(Very Likely | 4_[d10]) No.

No it is not perhaps it was in mid morf. Lets roll!

8 = 8_[d8]

and her...d4+2

3 = 1_[d4]+2

She does not cast and the thing attacks D'ang...

3 = 3_[d8]

5 = 5_[d8]

He counters the things bite and Melan, the distance too short for his arrow moves in with a elfish short sword...

6 = 4_[d6]+2

vs. defend...

8 = 8

2 = 2_[d8]

Werewolf -4, he is at a solid 3, damn that elf is a badass! Moves and the wolf, pissed and snaps with an arm...

2 = 2_[d8]

and the elf, quick on his feet, defends by springing back...

6 = 6_[d6]

Her is on fire and the dwarf comes in, huffing...

5 = 5_[d8]

and the wolf

8 = 8_[d8]

nah he is out, he misses, Werewolf attacks, but who???

2 = 2_[d3]

Attacks Melan with a bite

6 = 6_[d8]

3 = 1_[d6]+2

D'ang he screams and I got to get Mitra into this let her loose with a...

Set snares.

Very high quality potion.

Mitra throws a snare potion, a bottle breaking and letting loose a whole bunch of ugly is there a plus on that?

(Sure Thing | 10_[d10]) Yes, and...

not only is there a plus but it is reusable!

2 = 2_[d3]

She throws the bomb

3 = 1_[d4]+2

Thing defends will he move??? ye gods I hope not!

6 = 6_[d6]

Nah he moves out of the way, the things rasping and colliding moving and thrashing.

But all to not... He snaps at the elf again

5 = 5_[d6]

Elf defends

5 = 3_[d6]+2

Defender wins! he slashes with that great sword of his.

6 = 3_[d6]+3

thing defends

4 = 4_[d6]

Werewolf DIIIIIES by the blade of Melan!

4 = 4_[d6]

Does the werewolf have anything useful, perhaps using the tomb as a shelter or something, I would say it is very likely!

(Very Likely | 10_[d10]) Yes, and...

Exquisite ancient artifact.

The werewolf not only had loot at the entrance, furs to keep warm but he has an exquisite ancient artifact. an..

Flail.

Reading lips.

In the underbrush of hams and lovely things there is the wonder of a forgotten flail which can read lips, you can spot things ahead, it hears by movement and will vibrate if something or someone is ahead.

D'ang claims it thankfully, "At least somethin' has got to come out of this damn place..."

He is happy with the healing pots found, he gorges them, it is likely they will work

(Likely | 1_[d10]) No, and...

No, he gobbles it down before Melan can stop him and is, yep, poisoned, and at one HP the dwarf is far worse.

Let us put down what caused D'ang dilemma, his falling into such serious damage.

Magic.

Overindulge.

Common criminal.

"After a drunken night with lots of ale, Melan and Mitra annoyed at him, D'ang spilled out into the street, his coffers dangling from his pockets spilling newly found gold and a common criminal goes to come at him, rob him. Magic is used perhaps a magical dagger of some sort and he is fallen. What was the reason for them going to the graveyard?

Allies.

It was in the way of them finding Gnish the healer on the dark side of a swamp.

1.4 Shield and Spell

"Just try it!" the giant man shouted, his arm protecting the fallen woman at his feet. "Your words and daggers won't help you now."

Hesitating, the men about the corner of Maj and Barrack Streets, shuffled their robes tightening the circle about the two figures. The giant man, Shield, crouched further, his eyes moving from one figure to the next. Armored in scale-mail from head to foot, his shoulders towered over the onlookers who tried desperately to not be onlooking. His bald, tanned head gleamed in the day's sun, its angles casting sharp lines on his chest. A satchel hung from those shoulders, other than that he was unarmed. Encased in thick gauntlets, his hands clenched and turned as the others encircled still tighter.

"The Canons of Ri'lun," a deep voice called out from the crowd. "dictate that weaving arcana within the city is permitted only during the Festival." The voice came from nowhere, and everywhere. The only signs that anyone had even spoken was that many people tried not to turn their heads. "These gentlemen will take the both of you to the central Monast."

"Come," Shield contested. "Try!"

A signal perhaps and the nearest to Shield charged, weaponless. Protective, the man blocked the path of the assault, resisting a blow to the arm and checking with his shoulder. The attacker appeared to bounce, colliding with another.

A gasp from under him, brought Shield to attention. "Spell, are you..." Shield spoke sternly but there was worry there.

"Recovering, slowly" the thin woman said, her light robes about her, moving about the middle of the street. Lithe exotic features trembled in pain, her long hair drenched in sweat. Amber eyes blinked in pain. "If you can hold them off, perhaps I can conjure something from the underrealms."

"And have that happen to you again? madness!" Shield growled at another attacker, the figure hesitating. "Arcana cannot happen here. All we can do is resist, its what I do best."

Three attackers looked to one another, shrugged, then suddenly seemed compelled toward Shield and Spell, faint marks appearing on their skin. Shield readied himself, his arms widening for an embrace of fists or thrashing hay-maker, his legs turning.

The crowd bulged to Shield's left, his periphery barely catching the intruder. Cruelty crashed into the circle, colliding purposely with the three men. Sharp taloned fingers dug deep into one, another backhanded back into the crowd. The third attacker to find a horned booth deep in his pelvis, throwing back into the crowd in a stream of blood. Shield, astonished, pulled his hand down protecting Spell.

Cruelty sneered scenting Spell under Shield's feet. A fallen Arcane-weaver- his favorite, damn Evil for willing this. His fevered eyes looked over the crowd, to no particularly place or person. "Not these!" he said, shaking his words. The voice of the crowd, answering, simply- "We shall hold the Tongue."

Turning to Shield with a smirk, a dare, holding it all back.

"The Milkmoon and she lives."

1.3 Cruelty Rears

Once evil entered the door the the Milkmoon, it expanded, broadly inviting those other emotions filling the chasm of thought. The streets of Rivermoon beckoned, growing louder and longer to its onslaught. There was no doubt that someone was coming. The rumble of the main tavern room muted to a dull grumbling. Anxious eyes peered the gloom, the hollow space, utterly ignoring the presence of Evil sitting at the NoName table. The warriors, the mercenaries, the thieves and other patrons looked to the Taverns side door. The area bulged under the wake of a commotion, as someone, some thing, some phenomenon, a sadistic will moved its way toward the Tavern.

"Now hold on there, you just can't..." the watchman warned, his hand on the hilt of his club. But the words tripped and fell, jumbled out of his mouth as Cruelty itself grunted and smiled, firing a fist, a clenched cannonball into the man's plexus. Ejecting the air from his lungs, the watchman bent over a moment before Cruelty's steel knee slammed into his face.

The assault had its intended purpose, the crowd gathering to watch the sailing of Cruelty along the streets of Rivermoon toward the Tavern opened, parted by the storm. Hair cascading over his shoulders, Cruelty rounded and faced the Milkmoon, heading towards it as the people opened still more. The beggars no longer opened their palms to him, stalls and shoppes avoided his gaze, watchmen moved to other districts. Men cast their eyes down, and women shivered, Cruelty's eyes on the Tavern.

But ale makes men do evil stupid things. Ale takes courage and turns it into vomit. While mead is the elixir of the Gods, sneezing forth from the Lord of Lies, Volin's, nostrils it turns inspiration into sleep. Wine the venom of Shar's beast may seduce kings' concubines but ruins the experience under the pillows. Cruelty knew this all to well, this icon of the dieties and demigods, and that pushed him forward. A dark wind at his back.

Pushing, and tossing men aside, Cruelty thrust the side-doors of the Milkmoon open. Open doors never made for a grand entrance, and Cruelty demanded a grand entrance. The better to wield fear with. The first step of Cruelty is astonishment, the pain searing hot.

Thus the men that resisted, that proved slow, Cruelty laid it on, cruelly as his name sake. A barmaid shoved, a table of scholars overturned, the gift of a lover spoiled, a neck snapped for no good reason but to hear the noise, Cruelty dealt his way toward Evil with abandon, as if proving a point. His skills honed through years, he had watched men stab their comrades in the back, torturers pull answers from their victims, the vengeful without precision.

Cruelty knew what it was doing. It watched as Evil turned toward him, a tiresome necessity. Evil noted that upon this occasion Cruelty had chosen the armor of a Crusader, his taste for irony grew more tiresome over the years. His taste for sarcasm and even puns made even Evil cringe. But it did do a good job. Cruelty being Evil unchecked, its right hand.

Kicking a beggar in the teeth, Cruelty joined Evil, their backs to the table. Evil sneered slightly, the scent of Cruelty not unlike that of a wet dog trapped in a hole.

"Don't look at me like that," Cruelty hissed. "You want this done right?"

Next: E 1.4 Sword & Shield