RBSDnD

    I get the pleasure of being paid to run DnD for 12-year-olds who have never played before. When they end the week, they usually want to keep playing, but they assume they have to buy a book to do so. In the past, I have told them to make up their own rules, but I remember when I was their age, the rules I made up didn't support good games. In response, I've whipped up RBSDnD, a single print page of serviceable DnD rules designed for generic vanilla fantasy play that I can print off and give to them so they don't have to pay any more than a set of polyhedrals, should they even wish to purchase those. Let me know what you think. Thanks for reading, and happy gaming.

Pb: NEW AGE

    I've been quiet for too long, and Pb has been festering in my brain. I've been working on revamping the motescape to be more compelling to run and play without killing the palpable psychic resonance of the original. To that end, I've replaced the Three Truths with this piece of introductory read-aloud text. Thanks for reading, and happy gaming.

"Eternal moonless night, spackled with blood-red and fire-blue stars. Motes of fragmented earth, pulled into place by cyclopean chains titanic beyond reckoning. Living on the knife's edge between the cosmic expanse and the churning, polychromatic Æther below, the populated penumbra of dirigible-galleons and cathedral spires. The motescape finds itself under the iron rule of the Iodine Empire and its right hand the Church of Her Red Word (or perhaps it is the other way round), as maintained by whispering adherents of the Saints of the Periodic Table and grim-faced inquisitors trained in the Warrior-Poet's art. This is a world of thaumaturgy in an age of technology, a world of faith in an age of fear. Where buzzing rushes of particles burn across the slick-cobbled streets of Raz Haruungar and engines of iron and fire scream across the Ringfire Rail. Where the murmured life-song of the Churlian tribes flows over the rusted grasses like honey and the sugar-crystal lies of Saccharine Dynasty conspirators curdle like vinegar and milk. Where the shadow of Zenith Mons perpetually enshrines the reavers of the Bursingr Confederate in its gelid solace and scores of painted acolytes endlessly prostrate themselves before the worlds-old Golgothan Edifice. And now, it is yours to breathe life into. Imperium Per Silentum."