The world:
It was a golden age. An age of tall elves, of stout dwarves and brave halflings. Roaring dragons. Arch-mages hurled fireballs and devout priests called down the favor of the gods.
But the gods are silent now.
The mountain halls which once rang with the sound of hammers and belched smoke from endless forges lie scorched and empty. Mouldering corpses and sundered weapons bear mute witness to the savagery which wrought the destruction of the dwarves.
No swift elven feet pass through the forest. Their shaded glens and sun-dappled clearings are eerily silent. The full moon calls no fey creatures to dance beneath the stars.
The rich fields of the old shires lie fallow. Plowshares rust and village greens mourn the patter of childish feet and giggling merriment.
Magic fails us. Wizards are hunted now, bereft of their once-feared spells and naked before the rabble. Priests are burned by the once-faithful, now estranged from their formerly benign gods. Temples and monasteries are sacked, murals defaced and statues stricken down.
Desperate heroes seek the old magics in dark and hidden places. Daring men ascend the highest peaks to seek out their gods. Children seek the elves and sprites of wood and stream, but so far the search is fruitless.
All is chaos and fire, death and the ascendance of Man. For we alone survived the war. We forged ahead when the gods abandoned us. When magic vanished and the golden veneer tarnished black. We are the strong.
It is an age of iron now. Hammered black and ground sharp. Warlike and unforgiving. Even the remotest hamlet will not escape the violence which sweeps the land. Robber barons and petty kings amass their armies, seeking riches and conscripts to consolidate their power.
War has even come to Appleby. Even now, armed men gallop through the streets and archers encircle the tiny farming village. They fling torches upon dry thatch and flames soar skyward. Blood flows and screams rend the night air.
All is stolen or killed or ruined beyond repair.
You sit bolt upright and fling your blankets aside. Bare feet hit the cold floor and you shade your eyes against the bright glow of red madness outside your window.
What do you do?
But the gods are silent now.
The mountain halls which once rang with the sound of hammers and belched smoke from endless forges lie scorched and empty. Mouldering corpses and sundered weapons bear mute witness to the savagery which wrought the destruction of the dwarves.
No swift elven feet pass through the forest. Their shaded glens and sun-dappled clearings are eerily silent. The full moon calls no fey creatures to dance beneath the stars.
The rich fields of the old shires lie fallow. Plowshares rust and village greens mourn the patter of childish feet and giggling merriment.
Magic fails us. Wizards are hunted now, bereft of their once-feared spells and naked before the rabble. Priests are burned by the once-faithful, now estranged from their formerly benign gods. Temples and monasteries are sacked, murals defaced and statues stricken down.
Desperate heroes seek the old magics in dark and hidden places. Daring men ascend the highest peaks to seek out their gods. Children seek the elves and sprites of wood and stream, but so far the search is fruitless.
All is chaos and fire, death and the ascendance of Man. For we alone survived the war. We forged ahead when the gods abandoned us. When magic vanished and the golden veneer tarnished black. We are the strong.
It is an age of iron now. Hammered black and ground sharp. Warlike and unforgiving. Even the remotest hamlet will not escape the violence which sweeps the land. Robber barons and petty kings amass their armies, seeking riches and conscripts to consolidate their power.
War has even come to Appleby. Even now, armed men gallop through the streets and archers encircle the tiny farming village. They fling torches upon dry thatch and flames soar skyward. Blood flows and screams rend the night air.
All is stolen or killed or ruined beyond repair.
You sit bolt upright and fling your blankets aside. Bare feet hit the cold floor and you shade your eyes against the bright glow of red madness outside your window.
What do you do?
Ruleset: D&D - Original 3 booklets only
I've resisted the urge to start another game for a while. Didn't want to repeat past mistakes. But I think I've learned a few things and would care to try again.
I want 1-3 players to start. I like to write--you should, too. I don't like numbers or rules, so there will be a relative lack of both. It's still D&D from the little brown booklets, but done my way. DM rulings are common and house rules are woven into the fabric of the game.
Don't be in a hurry. I work like a dog in construction and this is as much a creative outlet for me as it is for you, so I enjoy taking the time to craft a really good post. I'm aiming for a couple of updates per week. Maybe more, once we get underway. But only count on two.
Humans are the only playable race. If you want something else, we can negotiate, but there is precious little beyond humanity in the world today.
Fighting-man is the only class option available. Unless you wish to play a wizard without spells or a cleric without gods.
You begin play with whatever you can grab from inside your home as you rush out to escape the slaughter. Nothing else. Once you sign up, I'll PM you stat arrays to choose from and we'll go from there. I'll need nothing from you except your character's name, age, equipment, and those stats.
but these two will do I think:
