I’ve been getting into miniature wargaming, recently.

Well, “getting into” might require some qualification. I haven’t been purchasing and painting miniatures or anything, but I am recognizing that my love of RPGs is bleeding into the wargaming sphere in a surprising manner. I decided to explore this phenomenon and came up with several interesting points. After all, I’ve talked at length about the influence of Miniature Wargaming on the hobby, but there is a case to be made that I’ve ignored Miniature Wargaming as a kind of RPG.

As I’ve discussed before, it’s hard to separate the two completely; combat can be a story and story can inform combat both in some very real ways. Ignoring that fact, even just brushing past it, can leave our understanding of the RPG Medium underdeveloped.

This story was made using the solo RPG Last Tea Shop (Classic), by Spring Villager. The one-page RPG gave very little in the way of guidance, and the rolling was quick, so the game ended up quite quick and easy to play. The following is a list of the rolls and actions taken during play that resulted in the transcribed narrative:

It was raining.

Not a downpour, but a chill drizzle, persistent and steady. The whole world seemed tired somehow; the mountain breeze was slow drifting through the pass and the river beneath the bridge was quiet. A calm had descended over the pass like a blanket, keeping everything still and peaceful.

Ild twisted the sage between her fingers, staring at the fibrous herb with something like trepidation. The soft popping of the boiling water tickled the back of her mind as she stared, aimlessly stroking a cluster of mice where they rested on her lap. She listened to the sound of the rain pattering on the roof, ticking and tapping away like a broken clock. The whole hut shuttered from the wind, and drops of rain were leaking in to drip on the old clothes, tarnished metals, and smooth wooden furniture.

“Pah,” she said at last, nudging the mice on their way. “If it’s time, it’s time.” Standing up from her chair, she walked over to the pot and dropped the sage in the water. She watched as the water slowly faded from clear to a murky gray, then brightened to a light green. Leaving it to seep, she reached out to pluck her old ragged coat from the pile and slip it on. “Keep watch,” she said, unnecessarily, as she unbolted the shaky door.

Last time, I went through what I learned from the first playtest of Manifest v0.1, and made a quick-and-dirty skeleton for moving forward. This time, I’d like to…well, start moving forward.

First and foremost, I’d like to take a harder look at the basic Stat-Investment Power Roll, and see if I can’t find ways to smooth it out, both ludo-narratively and statistically.

So, let’s go to Anydice!

Ild stared at the empty shelf. “Well.”

The gentle squeaking of mice filled the cabin as she stared. Tiny bodies, dressed in fur ranging from white to brown to black and back again, darted across the room like flashes of lightning in a thunderstorm.

“Well,” Ild muttered again. “This is a bit of a problem.”

A few of the mice stood on her shoulders and crawled through her hair, seeking warmth and comfort from the whispering mists outside the threadbare shack. Those that stared at the empty shelf did so with quivering whiskers and ears twitching in fear. Periodically, Ild reached up to gently brush their backs and heads with a soothing thumb. She glanced at the pane-less windows, where tendrils of dark mist were slowly seeping in.

“Don’t worry,” she muttered to her furry friends. “We’re safe. They’re not here for us.”

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

The old man looked around, blinking in the fog. How long ago had he gotten lost? He had been wandering for some time now, and he didn’t recognize anything. He should have; he knew these forests like the back of his hand. Nevertheless, he had completely lost track of where he was. His cabin should be near, shouldn’t it?

Again, he was sure he had seen movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned, peering into the fog. “Hello?”

Nothing. He was alone.

He kept climbing the steep path, (surely, his cabin wasn’t this high up, was it?) searching for some tree or rock that he recognized. Periodically a shape tickled his memory and he found himself turning on his heel, left or right, only for the shadow to vanish into the mist.

He wasn’t frightened — he had survived in the woods for weeks on end without flint or knife before — but he was confused. He wasn’t even thirsty, yet he had been walking for what felt like days…

I was originally planning on doing a few different playtests before commenting, but the first playtest was pretty definitive, and I feel good about its results.

Thanks to the efforts of “P,” “C,” “S,” and “W,” (Names obviously hidden to respect privacy) I have decided which die-roll mechanic to use going forward. The winner is the third option, Pooled-Single-Number.

I’ll come up with a better name by the end of this post.

Ild looked up at the sudden rapping at her door. It was fast and shook the whole cabin, so strong were the blows. Ild set aside her knitting with a huff and pulled herself out of her chair. “Yes, yes, hold yer horses! I only got so wide a stride, you know…”

The door opened to a terrified face, a man with pale skin and hollow cheeks. His wrinkles quivered as his head jerked back and forth, gasping for breath as he cast horrified glances behind him.

Ild knew what was scaring him. She had known since the shadowed mists had poured down the mountainside.

“Well, you’d best come inside, then,” she said, pulling the tall old man through the doorway. “Don’t you worry your head about it. The voices never harmed nobody, and they certainly ain’t going to start with somethin’ as tough and scrawny as you.”

The man wiped his forehead and sank heavily into the offered chair. The wood creaked loudly as he tipped forward, his head landing in his hands as he gasped for breath.

Ild hurried to the open windows and covered the openings with squares of fabric. “Not much for curtains,” she explained as she worked, “but they’ll keep out the worst of it.” She clicked her tongue as she adjusted the fabric. “Shadow mists, eh? Nasty bit o’ business, that. Been running a long time, I’ll bet. I was expecting you days ago.”

The purple fog rolled in like a flood. It curled up the side of the mountain, falling over itself in a crawling tide. The dark bruised color of the mists blanketed the river in shadows, until the entire river was hidden from view.

Ild gave a sharp sniff as she looked out the window. “Tough one coming in,” she muttered to the small squeaker on her shoulder. “Lost something, I’ll warrant. May not even know what. You think he’ll stop by?”

The tiny mouse nuzzled Ild’s withered cheek, jiggling her loose jowls with a gentle squeak. The tiny whiskers tickled and caught her own as Ild gave a gentle sigh. “Well, I’d better put the kettle on.”

[It contains] a total want of literary attractiveness ~ review of Sir Rodrick Murchison’s ‘Siluria’

There is a common question bandied about literary circles, when the band of brothers spend their restful hours in smoking rooms, and tongues have been well loosened with free-flowing brandy. It should be no surprise to anyone that when a group of seasoned men get together that questions of a potentially offensive nature get asked.

It is a ribald cliche of men that they are either ‘Sans or Serifs’ men, and focus their attentions on words or lettering that ascribes to this basic quality. I cannot deny that the distinction is a significant one, and I have several friends who will spend hours on the seemingly innocuous topic of Sans font, and the beautiful curves and long lines of a good Ariel typeset. I admit, I have always found myself drawn to Serifs.