Vic checked the map. “Shit.”

The southern wetlands were not the best mapped areas in the Borderlands. The marshes and soggy soil kept most people away, and there were plenty of monsters who hunted and scavenged in the land. Fewer places were less hospitable; it was too easy to lose your way only to find yourself drawn down to a watery grave by a misplaced foot. Add to this the fact that the wetlands were more likely than others to shift and change, and maps were difficult to make and rarely useful for any length of time.

Ironically, there were many reasons for Hunters to visit the wetlands; herbs of all kinds grew here, special ingredients of an arcane nature. Roots and barks, fresh leaves and buds from flowers, even certain kinds of mud were useful. It took a keen eye and a sharp mind to harvest the rarest, and a few were known only to the Monster Hunters. The chance of collecting these herbs alone was reason enough to risk a muddy grave.

Of course, there used to be people whose job it was to forage for the vital and rare ingredients, people who knew the land and its treacheries. Now, there was only Vic, and she was having a hard time of it.

Previously on Oddscrawl…

Two Truths and a Lycanthrope is a hastily thrown-together one-page system I made from a friend’s pun. I didn’t spend too much time on the system, not thinking it’d go anywhere.

Thing was, the idea stuck in my head.

Things do that, sometimes. It’s like getting musical earworms, but about thoughts instead of music. I turn ideas around and around in my head, sometimes repeating the same phrase over and over again. Cognition has its own rhythms, melodies, and syncopations. The system we had made came from a joke, but the /rest of the conversation…well…

We had talked about White Wolf a bit, my friend and I. We discussed how Vampires grab the spotlight in American culture, somehow, while werewolves are generally overlooked. I thought about Vampire: the Masquerade and Werewolf: the Apocalypse, and how there are a lot of Vampire games out there right now, but not a whole lot of werewolf games. I wondered if there was space for a game like Fanged, but for Werewolf instead of Vampire.

So I started working on one.

Vic’s arm swung before she realized what she was doing. The silver blade dug deep into the side of the dry-one’s skull, peeling the parchment-like skin off the bone.

The dry-one shrieked, stepping backwards as the clawed hands flailed at Vic’s skin. She yanked the dagger free, ducking under the clawing limbs as she drove the knife towards the monster’s chest.

The corpse lurched aside again, the silver knife gouging a chunk out of its chest. Dry cloth and thin leather flapped around Vic’s ears and face as the glowing blue flames licked her face.

“Victoria, it must be you. I wish I could say it was a pleasure.”

Vic shoved the corpse hard, pushing herself away from the teeth and claws. She rolled back on the ground before coming up into a crouch, knife at the ready. Her heart was beating like mad, her conscious mind was in a panic. How could he be here?

“Here’s the last of it,” Petra grunted as she set the large sack of salt on the bar.

Vic glanced up as she finished filling her last casing. “Good. That’ll be plenty. You sure you don’t mind?”

“Not getting much use for it now,” she shrugged. “And no one’s comin’ in again if you don’t lick this problem right quick.”

Vic sealed the cartridge with a wad of paper. “Well, I ain’t goin’ to promise I’ll win. Never fought a dry-one before.”

“What’s that?”

Vic sighed as she slipped two prepared cartridges into Petra’s shotgun. “The deserts, the windy places of the Borderlands…they do something to the dead, but they can do something to the living too. You get thirsty, even if you have water. You start losing things; your self, your skin, your thoughts…eventually, all that’s left is hate.”

This is going to be a fluffy post, because my brain decided to ask a question that I needed to answer: Is it possible to do a different Powered by the Apocalypse die-roll system that has similar results?

The standard PbtA roll is 2d6 plus a bonus, such as a skill or stat. If the total of these dice and bonus is 7 to 9, you’ve rolled 1 hit. If the total is 10 or greater, you’ve rolled 2 hits. Moves have different results depending on how many hits you score, if any.

Ironsworn is a PbtA game that uses a different method of figuring out how many hits you score. Instead of having three “levels” of hits (2-6, 7-9, and 10+, for 0, 1, and 2 hits, respectively), you roll 2d10 and 1d6. You add your skill or stat bonus to the d6, and you gain 0, 1, or 2 hits depending on whether your result is greater than 0, 1, or 2 of the d10s.

Lakeside was a quiet town; only a few families, fewer children. Times were generally hard for the town, but they had always been so. The eldest Hunters had never known Lakeside to be full of anything but struggle and hard living, even before Old Splitfoot had staked his claim. The hard life had made the people of Lakeside wary, but through determined stubbornness, Lakeside had survived even in the Borderlands.

They weren’t the only town that survived — Boone’s Rest and Prudence both managed to scrape together a living, and Cloudy Vale was almost thriving — but the price had been high; high enough that Cloudy Vale was still paying, and paying hard. Lakeside was not only proof that survival was possible, but without making unwise deals.

The town had one tavern, and it wasn’t a good one. Lakeside couldn’t afford to stock their larders with food or drink from other towns, and the local still was the only source of moonshine. The owner of the tavern, Petra, tried her best to keep the barrels stocked, but she could only do so much.

Nevertheless, Vic knew better than most that every little bit helped, so she pushed the tavern doors open on their rusty hinges.

The tavern was empty. Dust covered the tables.

There were few people in the world who remembered the Borderlands before Old Splitfoot staked his claim: legends of forests free of monsters, deserts without the wailing dead, and plains full of fresh water and dancing deer, sleeping field-mice and singing birds.

The true telling of it was kept by the Grand Order of Monster Hunters in books and journals held as sacred, to be protected above all else. It was a holy memory — there was a time before Old Splitfoot.

Now, the plains were dangerous.

The worst danger of the plains was their lure of ease. The plains weren’t the hungry earth of the swamps nor the treacherous cliffs of the mountains. The plains could seduce even the wisest and most experienced into lowering their guard just long enough to become the hunted instead of the hunter.

For Vic, such feelings were lies. There was no peace and quiet in the Borderlands. Silence was the sound of stalking, gentle breezes the same as a predator’s breath. The peace of the plains was the allure of a fly-trap ready to snap closed.

She sat quietly, staring over the cold and empty expanse. Even without her training, these plains were unnaturally quiet. Even in the harshest lands there were sounds of a twisted nature; birds howled over still winds while emaciated deer and coyotes picked through rattling twigs. There was life, of a sort, among the dead.

Do you know the Robert Frost poem, The Road Not Taken?

Of course you do. It’s one of his most famous. Everyone knows at least the last three lines:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

I have heard multiple stories about the writing of this poem. Generally it is agreed that it was written as a bit of a joke, poking fun at an indecisive friend. The entire poem, in defiance of the last three lines, is actually a bit of irony; specifically about how his friend would always regret taking the one path and not the other.

The drawing room only had two windows, and both of them were still intact. The rest of the room was bookshelves and fancy statuary, fitting for a high-class lady and sir to entertain their guests. Vic closed the room’s doors and forced a chair under the handle. There. They were as safe as they could be, for the moment.

The moment didn’t last long.

Only a few minutes after she had laid the man out on the threadbare lounge and seated herself on a ragged chair, a deep thudding sound tickled her ear.

Damn. Gripping her rifle, she moved to the windows. Leaning her back against the wall, she carefully tilted her head to peak out and see what was making the sound.

She couldn’t see anything. A fog was crawling up from the south and already starting to cover the ground in its white glow. The sullen throb was following the mist, an ominous heartbeat, slow and steady.

Vic licked her teeth. The building wasn’t a terrible place to fortify, but it could also trap. If she left the house, she could engage the monster — whatever it was — in the open, but that too could be a double-edged knife. If she could only see what the monster was, then she could…

Her eye fell to her unconscious companion. Damn, damn. If the man couldn’t move, neither could she. If there was more than one monster, or it decided to ignore her in favor of easier prey…no, she needed to stand her ground. As quietly as she could, she unlocked the window and pushed it open. Kneeling next to the window, she propped her rifle on the sill and waited.

Vic woke with a start, gasping for air in the dark of the cave. Her heart was pounding in her ears. The air was cool, but sweat was pouring down her face. On reflex, her hand grabbed for the hatchet resting at her side, ready to strike at anything nearby.

The cave was quiet. The dawn light outside was leaking gently into the room. Vic exhaled. It had been a dream. She had been running…no, she had been still but the world was running around her…but weren’t her legs moving? And there was a…shape…

Vic took another deep breath. The dream was gone already, and she wasn’t interested in bringing it back to mind. Dreams were for seers and shamen, and she wasn’t either. She had a long way to travel, and wasting time with dreams wouldn’t help her find the next bullet. She stood up from her roll and stretched the kinks out of her muscles.

Her eye lit on her father’s revolver as she dressed. For six months straight she had been hunting the Borderlands for the bullets, and now the first bullet was in her hands. It didn’t feel real.