Doc Roc
2009-09-18, 02:10 AM
The Brief
Iron Kingdoms is a big wonderful strange setting by my favorite game company, Privateer Press. A lot of people nailed them here and there on the crunch, or issues with the firearms. That's fine. I can fix those. What I can't do, is what they did. Create a beautiful, well-realized proto-industrial world, full of grime and idealism, rivets and runes. This, to me, gradually became what I expected from a steampunk setting, or anything involving magitek. My low bar was now a pole vault. But getting people together to run Iron Kingdoms was very difficult. Many of my friends had just graduated. Or were finishing their college careers. No time for games. No time for someone who couldn't sell the game to them because he could barely grok what he saw in his own head.
But I'm patient. And moderately cunning, like a dice-fiending fox of some terrible type. So I worked on my spiel, and I got it down to a knife's edge. I started the Test of Spite to build out the house rules I would use. I was selfish. I was careful. I accidentally made a whole bunch of good things, that I steadfastly refuse to take credit for. And that was where it happened. I got my hooks in, told my story about a world in the cusp of change, about epic stories, immense war engines, and the mechaniks that love them. And then, the last big hook, the harpoon.
"But that's not us. We're not heroes. Guys, how would you like to run heists in D&D?"
Heists. Magic word for a lot of us. Particularly those of us who cut our teeth on shadowrun. Magic words have a lot of power. Here was a world where you could call down sniper fire from half a mile away, using your familiar. Here was a world with this magnificent internal logic, and a huge, almost surreal expanse of urban fantasy to run through. The damn world guide is four hundred pages of gloriously-rather-small text. Heists.
We were going to make stories, real ones, fun ones, that we could actually tell our friends. Gaming stories with a really poignant, really fun, really strange and wonderful oomph to them. Because of heists.
It would be three more months before I got to run my first session. I waited. The first session came. So this is our chapbook, our little book of stories about what happens when a beautiful cleric with steam-powered armor, three robotic arms, two good friends, and one crazy sniper can accomplish. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy making them happen. The first few will be from the perspective of a major NPC.
Mr. Johnson's Diary
This is an in-game item that my players will likely find soon enough. It's leather bound slip of a book containing some background on the opening heist and their employer. It's presented here as it covers the lead up and first session.
Entry One:
I am Kathrine d'Matys, sworn member of the Llaelese resistance. My skill with a rifle is undisputed, my mastery of the modern magelock pistol virtually unrivaled. And here I am. In Corvis. City of Ghosts, they call it, and rightly so. I hate this place, with its vivacious trade and steady affirmation of old loyalties. I hate it because.... because in coming here I have had to admit that Llael is gone. Truly gone. I fight for the ghost of a cause, no more material than a tavern-haunt. So here I am in Corvis, wearing chest bindings and an old pre-mechanika contrivance to hide to hide my gender and my face. I've become someone else, shed my Rynnish heritage like a snake shedding skin. All that's left of Kathrine is hate and a mission.
I miss her.
Entry Two:
The church of Cyriss is at least passingly sympathetic to my mission, and they've put me in touch with a few smaller cells of their organization in town. I keep hearing the name Hannah, but no one will tell me where to find her. The more I look for a way to pull a team together, the more I find that people are calling me Mr. Johnson. I don't know why. I've never heard the name before, so I can only assume it's some particularly common pseudonym. I guess I'm Mr. Johnson now.
Entry Three:
I finally figured out who Hannah is. I should have thought of going to the Steamos right off, but... Instead I wasted two weeks looking through the city's unlicensed machine shops. It never occurred to me that Hannah might be a well-known arcane mechanik with her own shop and gear-crew. I must be losing my mind. Why didn't I check legitimate channels first?
Entry Four:
I now know something about Hannah that I think maybe only twenty-five other people really grasp. She's a priest or something like one. Not an arcane caster. Everything she builds carries the crazy-quilt signature of Cyriss-tech, and she's not even an arcanist! Among her fellow Cyrissists, most of them accept that she's just another exotic preceptor. I had no idea the kinds of resources and innovation this cult could bring to bear.
Entry Five:
I meet with Hannah tonight to arrange the job. She's interested in the initial commission for the weapon. I think she suspects that my real interest is in the military-grade stormchambers, and that a magelock rifle might just be secondary concern. Hopefully, they don't manage to pierce my disguise. If they know I was Myrmidon-Matys, I don't think anyone would work for me, much less them. My real identity is just worth too much to the right people, now. It won't get any better after this.
Entry Six:
They made me as Llaelese. It was the god damn sentence structure that gave me away. Even when I look like a Midlunder... I'm going to have to be more careful. Fortunately, Hannah hates Menites, even if they're Khadoran, so I simply told them a quarter of the truth. They seemed to expect an eighth. They're going to go digging for more. I just have to pray that they can't figure out who I am.
Entry Seven:
It's twenty eight minutes later. I had to kill a bounty hunter who tracked me by my scent. I seared his body to ash and powder, so it's unlikely anyone will know what I've done except the innkeeper. I'm changing where I'm staying.
Entry Eight:
I had the luxury of picking my inn based on the availability of hot baths. For two blessed hours, I got to be Kathrine again as I worked to change my scent. Then it was back to being Mr. Johnson. I've left notice with Hannah as to where I can be found now.
Iron Kingdoms is a big wonderful strange setting by my favorite game company, Privateer Press. A lot of people nailed them here and there on the crunch, or issues with the firearms. That's fine. I can fix those. What I can't do, is what they did. Create a beautiful, well-realized proto-industrial world, full of grime and idealism, rivets and runes. This, to me, gradually became what I expected from a steampunk setting, or anything involving magitek. My low bar was now a pole vault. But getting people together to run Iron Kingdoms was very difficult. Many of my friends had just graduated. Or were finishing their college careers. No time for games. No time for someone who couldn't sell the game to them because he could barely grok what he saw in his own head.
But I'm patient. And moderately cunning, like a dice-fiending fox of some terrible type. So I worked on my spiel, and I got it down to a knife's edge. I started the Test of Spite to build out the house rules I would use. I was selfish. I was careful. I accidentally made a whole bunch of good things, that I steadfastly refuse to take credit for. And that was where it happened. I got my hooks in, told my story about a world in the cusp of change, about epic stories, immense war engines, and the mechaniks that love them. And then, the last big hook, the harpoon.
"But that's not us. We're not heroes. Guys, how would you like to run heists in D&D?"
Heists. Magic word for a lot of us. Particularly those of us who cut our teeth on shadowrun. Magic words have a lot of power. Here was a world where you could call down sniper fire from half a mile away, using your familiar. Here was a world with this magnificent internal logic, and a huge, almost surreal expanse of urban fantasy to run through. The damn world guide is four hundred pages of gloriously-rather-small text. Heists.
We were going to make stories, real ones, fun ones, that we could actually tell our friends. Gaming stories with a really poignant, really fun, really strange and wonderful oomph to them. Because of heists.
It would be three more months before I got to run my first session. I waited. The first session came. So this is our chapbook, our little book of stories about what happens when a beautiful cleric with steam-powered armor, three robotic arms, two good friends, and one crazy sniper can accomplish. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy making them happen. The first few will be from the perspective of a major NPC.
Mr. Johnson's Diary
This is an in-game item that my players will likely find soon enough. It's leather bound slip of a book containing some background on the opening heist and their employer. It's presented here as it covers the lead up and first session.
Entry One:
I am Kathrine d'Matys, sworn member of the Llaelese resistance. My skill with a rifle is undisputed, my mastery of the modern magelock pistol virtually unrivaled. And here I am. In Corvis. City of Ghosts, they call it, and rightly so. I hate this place, with its vivacious trade and steady affirmation of old loyalties. I hate it because.... because in coming here I have had to admit that Llael is gone. Truly gone. I fight for the ghost of a cause, no more material than a tavern-haunt. So here I am in Corvis, wearing chest bindings and an old pre-mechanika contrivance to hide to hide my gender and my face. I've become someone else, shed my Rynnish heritage like a snake shedding skin. All that's left of Kathrine is hate and a mission.
I miss her.
Entry Two:
The church of Cyriss is at least passingly sympathetic to my mission, and they've put me in touch with a few smaller cells of their organization in town. I keep hearing the name Hannah, but no one will tell me where to find her. The more I look for a way to pull a team together, the more I find that people are calling me Mr. Johnson. I don't know why. I've never heard the name before, so I can only assume it's some particularly common pseudonym. I guess I'm Mr. Johnson now.
Entry Three:
I finally figured out who Hannah is. I should have thought of going to the Steamos right off, but... Instead I wasted two weeks looking through the city's unlicensed machine shops. It never occurred to me that Hannah might be a well-known arcane mechanik with her own shop and gear-crew. I must be losing my mind. Why didn't I check legitimate channels first?
Entry Four:
I now know something about Hannah that I think maybe only twenty-five other people really grasp. She's a priest or something like one. Not an arcane caster. Everything she builds carries the crazy-quilt signature of Cyriss-tech, and she's not even an arcanist! Among her fellow Cyrissists, most of them accept that she's just another exotic preceptor. I had no idea the kinds of resources and innovation this cult could bring to bear.
Entry Five:
I meet with Hannah tonight to arrange the job. She's interested in the initial commission for the weapon. I think she suspects that my real interest is in the military-grade stormchambers, and that a magelock rifle might just be secondary concern. Hopefully, they don't manage to pierce my disguise. If they know I was Myrmidon-Matys, I don't think anyone would work for me, much less them. My real identity is just worth too much to the right people, now. It won't get any better after this.
Entry Six:
They made me as Llaelese. It was the god damn sentence structure that gave me away. Even when I look like a Midlunder... I'm going to have to be more careful. Fortunately, Hannah hates Menites, even if they're Khadoran, so I simply told them a quarter of the truth. They seemed to expect an eighth. They're going to go digging for more. I just have to pray that they can't figure out who I am.
Entry Seven:
It's twenty eight minutes later. I had to kill a bounty hunter who tracked me by my scent. I seared his body to ash and powder, so it's unlikely anyone will know what I've done except the innkeeper. I'm changing where I'm staying.
Entry Eight:
I had the luxury of picking my inn based on the availability of hot baths. For two blessed hours, I got to be Kathrine again as I worked to change my scent. Then it was back to being Mr. Johnson. I've left notice with Hannah as to where I can be found now.