The TPK that should Have Been

The following sequence arose from events associated with the Campaign Senex, played in succession from February 17 to 24, 2017.

There are many moments when I think I am a very poor DM; when I weaken and do not follow my own precepts, even as I am vigorously flogging those precepts on my blog.  This is just such a time, an occasion where I set up a scene I should not have set up, then bailed the party out of the mess they helped created.  I should not have done that, either.

The scene began when the party entered an abandoned village in Turkey, Pazarli only to meet a single old man who warned them that there was no safe place to stay in the village.  This was the old man's exact words: "Safe? No. Nowhere safe."  He then went on to warn them that there were Turkish Janissaries just beyond the ridge.

This was the error my part.  It was not much of an adventure.  I wanted to get the players into a fight, preferably in the trees outside the village of Pazarli, that could presumably be kept up for a while.  I hoped the players would take the hint and choose to camp in the bushes.  Then, they could run into a small patrol on its way to search the village (they were perpetually searching for this same old man, who I had designated as a wererat), fight them, get some treasure, then wend their way out of the area meeting, occasionally, other soldiers.

If they made friends with the wererat, I supposed, they could find him a helpful ally and scout; but if they did not warm up to him, they could go it alone.  This was my expectation.

Unfortunately, the party was also told there were patrols in the hills. So they took the phrase, "nowhere safe" to mean that they might as well stay in the town as out in the trees.  Moreover, they were tired, they were near to suffering from a long journey (which, too, was part of my plan), and they adopted a helpful, protective demeanor towards the wererat.  This, despite the wererat/grandfather telling them the village had been repeatedly searched, with dogs ~ without, I thought it obvious, finding the old man. Perhaps the party realized this, but it made no difference to their offers to protect the old man nor their decision to settle in the town for the night.

So now the party was exposed, not hidden.  The town was going to fill up with soldiers.  Instead of meeting one patrol in the woods, the party was going to be infested with them.  Sigh.  I sent them conflicting messages and they did not adequately parse their situation. I made it worse by suggesting that the village was not searched every night.

Here I made my second error: I assigned the place the party would rest for the night without drawing a map.  I should have drawn a map.  The party had said they wanted "a single hut."  Anxious to make them feel safe, I put them in a building "recessed back from the main road" ... with a "courtyard outside the residence, a courtyard surrounded by two other buildings with a narrow 8 foot wide lane leading from the road."

Two things.  On my part, I had totally forgotten the party had a horse.  There had been a long recess between games and I simply forgot.  So this was not a good place for them.  The horse was an albatross, that made it difficult for them to sneak out ... which is what I was counting on them to do.  And here is why:

Because I had already intended to have the Turks search the town!  In my head, I had decided on this event when I expected the party to recess to the trees and not stay in the village.  I had to retain that commitment!  I feel very strongly that a good DM, having invented a scenario, must stay true to that scenario, no matter what the party decides to do.  I had settled in my mind that the village was going to be searched that night ... so that was absolutely what was going to happen.

Of course I could have changed that in my mind, and no one would have ever been the wiser. That's one of the deepest, darkest issues with being a DM.  Are you prepared to be true to your first intentions?  OR will you change those intentions willy-nilly, over and over, as the party makes up their mind to do something different. It is a matter of principle.  If you are a DM, and you feel your world can change upon your whim, you will soon be changing it constantly, without rhyme or reason, or consistency, every time the party surprises you.

I don't feel my would can, or should, change because the players make a given decision, whether or not it is one I predict.  BUT ... and I write this with shame ... I did forsake my principles later on, as the reader will see.  And I regret it strongly.  I hope I am never stupid enough to do it again.

I did not forsake my intention at this point, however.  I did have the village searched.  But hold off on that a moment.

I said there was a second thing, apart from my forgetting the party's horse.  The party never questioned the location I chose for them.  They didn't ask for a map, they didn't question the courtyard, they just accepted it.  Okay.  That happens.  I should have made a map and I did feel partly responsible for putting them in a dead end.  On the right is the map I should have given them.

So, there were communications issues ... and as the scene continued, knowing what I knew, I began to be concerned that I was overstepping my bounds.  This concern settled in to affect my choices as DM, as to how to present the situation for the party.  I did not want to trap the party in the courtyard, like the last scene of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.  I wanted there to still be a chance that they could get out alive ~ and towards that end, I began looking for a means to save them.

I should not have been doing that as a DM.  I had warned them, using several phrases that should have raised hackles.  I had introduced them to a mysterious old man who had somehow slipped through previous searches.  The party had chosen to stay in the village, which was an error on their part, and had blithely allowed me to choose their bedstead, when they should have demanded to have more knowledge of their situation.  I did not feel, however, that I had been completely up front with them.  And so I gave them warning of what was coming; the party heard sounds coming from the location of the four yellow patches on the map shown, and the monk, Sofia, went to investigate:

DM: Sofia finds herself at the corner of the lane out onto the street, only to be a little unnerved by the realization that she is about one hex from the guard that begins talking to someone just as she stops. In the starlight, she is likely near-invisible.

"This is the fourth time we've come back looking for this old bastard. I don't think he exists. Every time we surround the town with patrols and what? Nothing. Except that someone chances upon some beast and gets himself ripped apart or winds up running a sword through a compatriot. And now this night; the new moon was only three days ago. Gives me the creeps."

A voice answers, "How long are we here?"

"Til dawn at least. They want to go through the buildings one by one this time ~ the devil knows when that starts. We could miss breakfast."

Sofia thinks she can hear, very far off, the voices of others, perhaps two or three persons, perhaps two or three groups.

The stealth rules indicate that if you can get this close without being detected, you can retreat as well.

To clarify, I tried to make it clear that these were soldiers, that they were not looking for the party, that there had been four attempts to find the old man, making a veiled reference to a "beast" ~ which might have caused a player to connect the dots ~ that the soldiers were bored and that, I hoped the party would understand, probably four pushovers.

Upon rejoining the party, the monk retells the story:

Sofia: "Soldiers, looking for the old man we met today. They apparently have the village surrounded and are preparing to search it, hut by hut. They mentioned being attacked by beasts."

Letting that sink in.

"If we stay put, we will be found but may seem as innocent travelers. If we try to sneak away, we might escape but would appear less innocent if found out."

Letting it sink in further.

"I mistrust large groups of jumpy, armed men. I vote we sneak away now, while we have the darkness with us and they seem to be getting themselves into order."

Letting it sink in even further.

Look what's happening here.  First of all, the player is deliberately ramping the narrative.  It isn't "some beast" like I said, it's "beasts."  The four lazy, bored, grousing soldiers that were overheard were somehow transformed into "jumpy, armed men."  I was pretty confused by that.  Since when are D&D player characters afraid of "armed" men?

And why, when the whole party could read my description of the soldiers, did the monk feel the need to pace the retelling with this "letting it sink in" rhetoric?  Except to amp the tension.  Okay, that's fine with me.  I like lots of tension.  But in the middle of it, there is this strange wondering if the players might not walk out as innocents.  Huh?  The old man has clearly told them that, because of rebellions, a young, 14 year old girl was executed, the country was up in arms.  It was a war zone.  But again, even as they were getting the danger they were in, they were still looking for a way not to consider themselves in danger.

This is a really difficult situation to run.  I had expected the party to realize they were in trouble, mount up, knock down the four pushover soldiers and make a run for it.  Instead, I got ...

Sofia:"Do you think the old man could be a druid or a mage?"

Enrico: "Or a werewolf," young Enrico croaks, eyes wide in the darkness.

Kismet: "Or just a wily old fart that learned not to be stupid enough to sleep in town. If you think there's a way we can pack up and sneak out with our stuff without being spotted we should."

So the "beast" suggestion wasn't missed ~ there was enough there for the party to put it together.  And there was some understanding of the threat level ... with one player saying they ought to sneak away.  Which was fine ... except there was a massive disconnect here.

Though I had said courtyard several times, and described the route the monk had to go to spy on the soldiers, the party believed they were in a single house with lots of exits.  At the time of the conversation above, the party still had not seen a map of their situation.  Which was totally, absolutely, my fault.  And an error I had still not realized I was making.

But by then, we had discovered one of the party had a horse.  Whereupon I launched into a long description of the group of buildings and the courtyard ... which made no sense to the players ... which I didn't realize ... until the monk explained that she had failed to grasp that the only entrance was the one the guards occupied.

Now here is the point of this post.  The party was steadily getting themselves deeper and deeper into trouble, and I was certainly helping by not being a very good DM here.  What was needed was a serious retcon.  Instead, I tried to sort out the situation by giving more information: that the guards out front were not janissaries (effectively saying, please go kill them and run away) ... and this suggestion was seized upon by the party.  The fighter offered to mount his horse, charge out into the street and fight them head on.

Hell, I should have just let him do that.  It would have solved my problems and we would have gotten out of the situation.  Sort of.

Thing was, only one member of the party had a horse.  And it was night.  And Turkish streets are not made for charging horses.  They look like this:

Great place for a horse to break its leg, being ridden at night, with no moon (which was established) by a stranger who has never been in the place before.  And unfortunately, frustratingly, I felt the need to point this out.  Not to mention that a charging horse was going to bring the entire force of Turks down on the party's neck.

That led to hemming and hawing, more discussion of sneaking out, or fighting ... and no consensus.  Finally, we all admitted a map was needed and I made one (the one shown above in this post).

The party must have been very frustrated with me at this point.  I was frustrated with them.  They asked if they could put on their armor.  I consented to it.  I was trying to make amends.

But damn!  I should not have let them put on armor.  Why, oh why, is it that parties just cannot get it into their heads that armor is a huge pain in the neck and that sometimes, every once in a while, they really are going to have to fight without it.  Or leave it behind!  I don't know how many times I have had a party ask to have time stop so that they can put on their turtle shells.

With a search, how rational is it that the situation described above, four bored guards at the top of the courtyard, would still be the situation after taking five minutes to put on armor?  Or pick up gear?  Or generally get ready for a fight?  Why is there no clear comprehension of striking when the iron is hot?

Truth is, I should have stopped feeling, right there, that I was in the wrong.  I had created the context for them to be in extreme danger.  There were guards all around them. They knew it was a war zone.  Despite the disconnect with the geography, they were willing to accept my version once I presented a map.  Yet still they treated the situation casually, as players often do, when they don't happen to have their armor on.

So they talk about armor, and about one of them having their armor on, since they were on watch ~ which really is scraping the bottom of the barrel, but which I accepted at the time (still trying to appease the party) but which is actually quite ridiculous.  How are you supposed to be on watch when every move you make causes the noise of metal grinding on metal?  Armed guards only makes sense when there are a lot of them and they don't mind being found, because they're deliberately standing in the open.  Stealth guards don't wear armor.

And so, five minutes later, after getting packed up and the armor is put on ...

Sofia: ... indicates she will be sneaking down the alley leading to the courtyard, toward the soldiers and waves her companions forward to follow her. She uses stealth, this time equipped with weapons, and moves forward.

Enrico: Enrico is slow and in full armor so presumably he will be easy to hear... especially if leading the horse. How about Kismet and Enrico (with the horse) lead the way and Sofia trails behind? We will be heard and the intruders will come to investigate. Then Sofia can join the fight as a surprise.

Sofia: Or if we're going to do that, how about Sofia stands still and you guys start making a racket?

So as it dawns on the party that putting on armor makes them considerably less stealthy, and as they continue to believe the guards have been standing there since being viewed now ages ago, I'm wringing my hands as a DM because I believe I have created this situation and that it is all my fault.

And it isn't.  Yes, I have made errors.  I have mis-communicated things.  I blew making a clear, direct description of the geography.  And in ways I have dug myself in deeper by letting the situation continue rather than properly ret-conning the thing.

But whatever I have done, once the party decides that, instead of sneaking forward and killing four pushover guards quickly, then possibly making an escape, they should make a racket, I should have considered myself exonerated.  And they did make a racket:

Enrico: Enrico leaves the horse in the courtyard and advances to 0509. He bangs his flail +1 against his shield.

 I remember my jaw dropped.  After frittering away time discussing sneaking out, after long communications about using stealth; after the scene had been set and discussed ... I should have just gone ahead and killed everyone.  The moment was worthy of a Total Party Kill and I should have given it to them.

Instead, feeling guilt, I rescued them.  I had the wererat show up with an army of rats, giving the party a back door and then ultimately restoring the horse to the player.  Damn.  What was I thinking?  I was thinking that it was all my fault, and that I needed to make amends.

I wonder a lot of things about the scene.  Was Enrico deliberately trying to sabotage the situation and, effectively, the game?  Was he trying to create a TPK?  Was Sofia?  Or were they just tired of feeling like unfair situations were being created for them.  I was certainly setting up all sorts of side adventures like this, throughout the campaign.  On the whole, I've found my players liked this sort of thing: battles, a chance to earn experience, a chance to fight an enemy, get into something deeper, possibly find other rebels from the area and lead a charge against the local Turkish governor ... but not this particular party.  Perhaps I went to the well once too often for them.  I don't know.

I ended the campaign just a few months later, for good.  The participation was so lackluster, so distrustful, that I stopped feeling like I could set up situations at all.

Not all the DMing I've done has been good DMing.  I've made mistakes.  Often, the problem is not knowing where the mistakes are.  I've produced this account in the hopes that it will raise some questions in the reader, ring a few bells in the reader's own game situations (which may have produced similar irrational responses, or feelings of needing to appease a party for mistakes made) and act as an identifier that I don't know all the answers, that I'm still learning, like anyone else.

Robur's House

The following sequence arose from events associated with the Campaign Senex, played April 19, 2010.

The sequence relates to a number of events surrounding a mystery the party has only just understood ~ that being, that there doppelgangers slowly taking over a town in Germany, replacing town officials one by one.  The clues for this have led them to a name: Robur ... and then to the discovery of Robur's house.

At first they don't even see the house, which is part of the plan.  My goal with deconstructing this incident is to discuss revealing a scene, in order to freak the players out a little.  Remember that this has to be done without any pictures whatsoever, just as if I were describing this at a gaming table.

Note that out-of-campaign comments being made by the players will be shown in brackets: [*] and not in italics.  To focus on the main purpose of this post, I will be editing bits and pieces from the original post-and-comment stream.

DM: ... it is just two miles from the Ingolstadt-Nuremberg road that the party stumbles across a disturbing scene.

The first sight is not wholly informative; where the road takes a dip and turns to the left, about twenty yards beyond - below a stout apple tree, and partly concealed by it - the party can see the torn body of a horse. It appears to be quite dead. Just beyond, there is a body hung over a fence stile, on its side and facing away from the party. The body is covered with blood, but there is something familiar about it.

Now, it should be understood that all is relative silence. There are a few birds, and a gentle wind, but no indication at all that anything has happened, except for this awful sight.

This is all film-making 101.   The party can see the initial unpleasantness at a distance.  To press home the point, we emphasize two things: first, that the bodies are in a very unnatural way, even for something that is dead.  "Hung over a fence stile" implies that something really energetic happened, even if the players do not consciously make this connection.

Second, we emphasize what the players can feel.  Any time that we give a description of anything, we always want to list off the five senses.  The first three can be told at a distance: what does a scene look like, what does it sound like, what does it smell like?  We can cheat with touch and taste by describing the way a character suddenly feels ~ a shiver, a sense of their palms sweating, that they are conscious of freezing in place, that sort of thing.  With taste, we can describe the metal taste in the character's mouth (fear, adrenaline) or a sudden dryness.

But we want to pick and choose!  We don't want to load up too much imagery, as that only shows the player we are trying too hard.  Here, I went with the sight and the sound of the birds and wind.  It doesn't have to include more ... but we could have gone with other options (and we will, when we need to do a different scene some other time).

Note, too, that the "sound" here isn't weird at all.  This is what any scene would sound like ... yet mixing it in with the appearance of the horse and body makes this quiet feel disturbing.  But, in fact, only because I take the time to state it.  When we highlight the weird with the normal, the end result is always sort of creepy.

And, of course, the small mystery of the "familiarity" is an extra little hook I've added.

Delfig: I'm loading and half-cocking my crossbow.  "Let us send one person out to look at the person.  Andrej?  Avel, you and I should stay on the carriage and be watchful."

Andre: "Hmmm.  Watchful.  Yes."  Andrej will cross himself and draw one of his maces with his off-hand, keeping his primary hand close to the other, stuck into his belt.  He'll cautiously approach the body sung over the fence, once Avel and Delfig seem ready."

Mmphf.  I just love how players go straight into cop-mode when they see this sort of thing.  They're not wrong to do so.  There really is the chance that something might be still happening.  In fact, in keeping with my agenda to let the reader know what I know as I'm reacting to the players, there is no threat here at all.  The whole point, however, is to make it look threatening, so as to entice the players into the scene and get their blood racing. We don't want, at any time, to give them the least sense that they are safe (even though they are) ~ and so, with our words, and our voice, we want to take it every bit as seriously as the players do.  We CAN'T laugh or make a face when we see them react.

DM: The quiet is very disturbing, although it isn't complete. Upon moving down the slope of the road, Andrej can see a second horse, standing near the decimated remains of a small brick-and-timber house. The horse is alive, but its flanks are soaked in blood. A leg, detached from a body, hangs in the horse's stirrup.

The house has a facing of perhaps twenty-five feet, with a door in the center and two windows. The door has been ripped off its hinges, the bricks on either side of the door have been - to some degree - torn out. One window is broken, and an arm hangs through it, and a stain of blood shows on the wall beneath.

The odor, the color of the blood ... Andrej understands at once that whatever happened, it was within the last hour. He moves forward, and looks at the other side of the body hanging over the stile.

It is wearing the livery of a soldier of the Palatinate of Upper Bavaria.

Okay, so I've satisfied the first mystery.  The body looks familiar because of the livery ~ and because the players were aware there were four soldiers moving on the road ahead of them.  When building mysteries, it is very important to solve them as you create them!  Each time the party learns something, it is key to reward them.  It's a huge mistake to just keep piling mysteries on top of mysteries, without actually revealing anything along the way.  It is not the mystery piling that intrigues ... it is with each understanding along the way that the party's attention is kept focused.  It is positive reinforcement that if they try, they learn.  And so, we solve a mystery, then give them new ones, until finally they are on the hook.

But now the players can see the house, they can see a living horse (which is terrifically out of place, but should be a clue whatever has happened, has happened) ... and they can see a lot of grisly, disturbing details, that really chills them to the bone.

What's happened?  A fight.  That's all.  The detached leg, the blood on the side of the horse, the arm hanging out of the window ... and, most importantly, the odor.  This is me throwing in one more sensory description, just for good measure.  Picking and choosing, and not going to heavy on it.  Everyone knows what blood smells like.

To rip the door off like that, and the bricks out from the frame as well, whatever they fought must have been pretty big.  We want the scene to tell this to the players.  We do NOT want to say, ourselves, "They fought something pretty big."  This is something that it is easy to do, to leap to the conclusion ahead of the players and give it to them like a big neon light flashing above the house ... but this steals away the player's experience.  We never, ever, want to tell the players anything except the most minimal details ... especially when the house is still a good distance away.

It is harder for us to think, "Okay, it was something big ~ how can I say that without actually SAYING it?"  When you learn how to solve this equation, your descriptions will improve immensely.

Andrej: Andrej draws his other mace and returns to the carriage, moving backwards the way he came and not taking his eyes from the house. Assuming he reaches witin a few yards of the party he states "Upper Bavarian soldiers... most likely those four that passed us on the road. More in the house are also most likely dead. Recently."

Avel: "We need to check the house. There could be someone left alive. At the very least, we can gather some kind of identification and report their deaths.  I do not want to debate this. If you both believe it to be too dangerous, I will go ahead and you can prepare an escape for me if necessary."

Andrej: "That's four trained and well-armed soldiers cut down to nothing, Avel, with no sign of who or what did it... consider that before you decide to go, Avel. If you still must... then I will go with you."

Delfig: "Avel, having watched people die all around me, I think it best we leave this alone and move away from it. Death comes quick and you poking around might lead to the death of all of us. I would not have your curiosity be the death of me. Let us GO!"

Now, I must admit, this is the third or fourth time in this particular campaign when the party was met with a particular hook, only to run away from it almost at once.  So my response to the above: "Ah, this party ..."  was a reflection of that.

It is very frustrating for a DM to set up scenes only to have players run away from them.  In this case, it was largely because the players were a very low-level and because they simply got it into their heads that there was a possibility that I would put them in a situation where they might have to fight a merciless party-killer.  I have no idea where this notion came from: I never had any intention but to take care of the party and ensure they always had a chance of survival.  However, in most cases, this particular party tended to think that the "chance for survival" I was giving them was a chance to run away.

Ah, well.  Let's watch as the party expresses their feelings about this:

Delfig: [with the scene you just painted, you can describe me just about crapping my pants ... sheesh!]

Andrej: "We have Dachau at our backs, where harm may await us. We have this grisly bit of business before us, where harm seems almost assured. Perhaps the time for passivity is over. It is time to become more active (slams mace heads together). Avel, let us proceed."

Avel: Avel will draw his sword and shield and lead the way down to the building. The goal is to approach, shield first, through the front door, checking the right side of the room I enter while using my shield to hopefully protect my left in the event something is lurking there. After taking the quick glance into the right side of the room, I will glance at the left, then enter the room.

Delfig: I'll keep about 100 feet behind them, covering them with my crossbow, fully cocked.

I don't encourage players to speak of themselves in the third person; in fact, I believe strongly that it is a means to deliberately not invest in the character or the scene.  Nonetheless, we can see from the above that at least two of the players have decided to dig in a bit and take a risk.

Once they advance, I can flesh out the scene a third time.  First, I will start with a physical description of the room, along with it's purpose ... then I will move on to the bodies in the room ... and finally, end with solving one more mystery, what it is that battered down the front door.

DM: What Avel sees, upon entering the house.

The interior has been torn up. The furniture consisted of two chairs by an extended fireplace to the left, reaching out from the wall, where a pot would have been placed on a metal frame. The location of the pot is, at the moment, in the far, left hand corner of the room. An unmoving body is next to it.

A very large table, 12 feet by four, which would have dominated the right side of the room, is split in half. There is glass, everywhere ... and a few pieces in good enough shape to suggest to Avel’s eyes that there might have been a laboratory.

He can now see the body who’s arm is hanging out the window; it is hung on several hooks below the inside of the window - it is unarmored, in a gray and dull purple cloak. At first glance, Avel perceives that the person is dead ... but he realizes this isn’t so, as the body is, in fact, breathing. And just beyond it, wounded but with eyes open, a guardman glares blearily at Avel, their eyes meeting.

But in the other corner, the near right, the last thing I have not described - is an enormous brown, furred mound. There is a spear buried deep into it, and a bloody sword on the floor next to it. It is, as far as Avel can see, dead. It does not make any movement, or sound of breathing - which it would have to do, were it alive, with the spear buried in it as such.

Again, we're giving information and holding back information.  I could do a jump scare with the big furry mound, but gawd, why?  It's a cheap cliche and it would only serve to punish the party for their curiosity.  We don't want that!  These guys are already freaked.  Let's give them a little air, hm?

Now we've introduced a living soldier and a dead soldier.  A witness!  Like enticing the players to move closer to the house, the witness is yet one more layer the players have to penetrate in order to learn more about what's going on.

This is the whole point: to make the players peel away the scene like an onion, learning a little bit more, and a little bit more, and a little bit more.  Arguably, the entire Game World should work like this.  This one house is in a province, which is in a country, which is in a continent, which is in the world, which is one of many worlds, surrounded by many planes of existence ... each layer being there for the eventual, and infinite, possible discovery by the players.  Just like the real world.

Avel: "Andrej, help the guardsman. I'm going to keep an eye on that... THING over there. See if he can be moved, and get him out, please." Avel will put himself between the guardsman and the brown mound, moving slowly and never facing away from it.

Andrej: "Munich, put that bow down and come. We need your doctoring skills more than your archery skills it would seem." Andrej calls to Delfig from over his shoulder.  He will then put both maces back into his belt and check first the guard and then the man in the robe to see if they are responsive. Can they speak? Do they know their name? Do they know what country they are in? Andrej is trying to ascertain which of them is worse off.

These are great opportunities for role-playing, dialogue and improvisation.  As a DM, you don't know exactly what the players are going to ask ~ but on some level, you should be able to put yourself in the player's shoes and guess what they're going to ask.

This is something like predicting the future.  As soon as the players find that one is alive, they are bound to ask what happened, so we need to have it clear in our heads what the guard will tell them.  But remember!  The guard will know some of what happened, but not all of it.  Just like you or I would be partially in the dark if we witnessed a crime.  There are things he would see and things he would not.  We want it clear in our minds how this will play for the players.

To help there, we need to think, this is a guard.  How would a guard remember this scene?  He's a trained soldier.  He has skills.  This isn't his first combat.  Is he a grizzled campaigner or is he relatively fresh?  We need to know ourselves before we can present his story for the players.

DM: Avel is able to confirm that that furry mound is dead. It is huge, 1200 lbs. or more ... with large, round eyes and a mouth like a beak. Avel cannot be certain what it is - Andrej, with a knowledge of beasts, might know, but of course Andrej is busy. Avel can see there is a body beneath the thing, the head almost removed from the body.

The man in the robe is not responsive at all ... while the man against the wall will manage to say aloud, looking at the window: "help him ..."

We could say it's an owlbear, but we don't!  We want the player to make that connection, because it let's the player feel smart that they interpreted our description.  That is something we are giving the player as a DM ... we need to remember this as often as possible.  Don't pre-conclude what the player sees.  Just say what the player sees.

When we say the thing is dead, we mean it.  We're saying, STOP worrying about this thing ... so you can worry instead why it is there, why it charged the house, is there another one, etcetera.  The player's concerns don't go away!  But by rewarding them by making this concern stop, we make them feel a little better.  That gives them energy to keep digging.

So, the guard's response is to be a guard:  "Never mind me, it's just a flesh wound, help the other guy ..." or words to that effect.

Andrej: when you described the robed man you mentioned he was hung on hooks. Is this to say his clothign is somehow hooked or his flesh. In either case Andrej will want to take him down before casting cure light wounds on him, but will not move him yet if he beleives it could cause further injury.

DM: It is his clothing that is hooked ... but the man is nevertheless seriously wounded; on the very edge of death, in fact, and he is barely hanging on to life as Andrej and Delfig lower him to the floor.

Andrej: Andrej heals the robed man 7 hit points.

Delfig: Since Andrej has healed the man, I will attend to the wounded guard.

We're getting some confusion as to who's doing what because this game is being played on a blog and quite often people offer their actions without reading the action of others, even when they're not posting at the exact same time.  What's interesting is that this happens in real life.  As people get excited or interested, they focus almost exclusively on their own actions and often fail to listen to what others, even the person right next to them, have said.

It's easy to get disturbed by this, particularly for a new DM, but in fact this is just normal human behaviour.  We only have so much attention to give to so many things ... and when we're really excited, and our minds are moving really fast, we tend to discard unimportant things instinctively: such as what other people have just said.

The goal is to clarify, slow the game down a moment and get everyone on the same page, without pushing or chastising anyone for not listening. Clarity is what we want; if we've got them pumped, we're not going to lose that by patiently going around the table and asking one by one what the players are doing, so that ~ without everyone talking at once ~ they have the time to listen and give a little more thought to the moment.

Delfig: I will rip the guard's tunic with my dagger to create a bandage and press it to his wound."  Avel! Grab one of the dead man's tunics, he will not need it. Bathe it in water to clean it off as best you can and bring it here."

"Be still and we will tend to your wounds." I say to the guard. "We are travelers who saw the signs of battle and have come to assist you."

Andrej: To the robed man: "Just a passer-by. Rest now." Andrej will remove his cloak and make the robed man as comfortable with it as he can. He'll then look him over for any wounds not tended by the healing spell.  Simultaneous to tending to the robed man, spoken to the guard "Do you recall what happened? Is there any other danger about besides that?" (indicates the dead owlish-bear)

Avel: Avel will take his clean shirt out of his backpack and hand it to Delfig. "It will likely serve better than a grimy tabard." Avel will move through the rest of the building, making sure there are no other threats or injured.

"Wait, no, on second thought, take this, it's a bit easier to replace than a shirt." Avel takes back his shirt and hands his kerchief to Delfig.

Unquestionably, some good strong role-playing here, as players rush to put themselves in the situation.  But the reader can also see there is some clumsiness here, and I don't mean Avel changing his mind.

In this case, take note of how the players have all seized on my description of the man as "seriously wounded."  Now, I appreciate that in real life, this calls for first aid ... but none of these players have even asked where the wound is, that they are rushing to bind.  Moreover, "wounded" in game parlance means, he's lost a lot of hit points.  But ~ sigh ~ the players want so badly to role-play this scene that they're not really thinking clearly.  They should realize that by adding 7 hit points, he's obviously not going to suddenly die in front of them.  Not unless, as a DM, I'm planning to absolutely ignore rules of the game in order to stage a cheesy death scene.

Not that I would put that past a lot of DMs.  However, it was never my intention.  The rules bind me as much as the players.  Once the spell was used, there was no chance of this NPC dying.

Rather than explain all this to the players, however, I just moved past it:

DM:  The guard, tended by Delfig, will say, "Robur sent us a message - that the creature was coming. We hurried here, found it in the courtyard. It killed Frank, and fully ate Nicolas. Jeroen killed it with his spear, but even then it was too late."  The robed man will say to Andrej, "A stone ... a loose stone ... in the fireplace ..."

There are no other threats that Avel can find.

And then I had to confirm that, yes, it was an owlbear.  The players just didn't seem to trust their own conclusions.  Ah well, we try.

I'm blatantly directing the players at this point, but it's no matter because this is how these scenes often go.  Why wait for the players to search the place (we know they will, anyway), when it is easier just to reveal the secret.

Now, this can be like the pronoun game, where the loose stone reveals a paper that says what the guy on the floor could have just said anyway ~ but in this case the stone reveals an object, and not information.

Something a bit odd does happen here, which the players don't seem to notice for a time.  There are three guards accounted for, with the story the guard tells.  The guy on the stile outside is either Frank or Jeroen.  And Nicolas is inside the owlbear.  Where is the fourth guard?  The fellow hanging on the window was not dressed as a guard.  But the players haven't put it together.  In fact, Jeroen is under the bugbear.

I'm going to skip just a bit, because it is all questions before the guard is willing to give a little more story.  He explains that this is Robur's house; that Robur is the man in the robes, that was hanging with his arm out the window.  Avel finds the loose stone, sees a leather strap, tugs on it and pulls out ...

DM: ... upon the end of it [the strap] is a ceramic bottle, two inches in diameter and five inches high. It is marked with dirt and chilled to the touch, no doubt due to it being underground. There is a cork upon the top of it's narrow neck.

Here, Delfig began explaining the metaphor of The Big Red Button, a Ren & Stimpy motif about needing to push things that shouldn't be pushed, chuckling because Avel didn't hesitate to pull on the leather strap once it was presented to him.

There's a couple of things going on here.  First, it's a sense of trust between DM and Player.  Truth is, I would ABSOLUTELY NEVER include a "Big Red Button" in a campaign, for a bunch of reasons.  One, it's the worst sort of cheesy trope imaginable; Two, it is again a punishment against players who are curious, and I don't want to punish curious players.  I just don't.

See, we don't want players who are afraid to poke, prod, move or investigate things.  If we punish players who try these things, we just make very cautious, VERY BORING players.  Which results in a very boring world.  Which is very bad.

We want players who feel confident, trusting, believing in their own abilities to wrest themselves out of any situation they get themselves in.  We want players who feel empowered, who are not shy little mice afraid of strings that hang out of fireplaces.

One more thing that is going on is Delfig's sudden need to deflate the tension, by introducing something completely out of the campaign into the context.  This is habitual in many players; it is a defensive mechanism.  It is the driving force behind snarky comments and endless jokes, plus (as seen here) a million and one media references.

It is, in fact, a sign of fear.  The tension is getting just too high; the situation is getting too serious.  We could all die here.  I can't stand it any more.  Fuck, this is just a game!  I am actually fucking uncomfortable!

For many players, the "too serious" threshold is abysmally low.  Even the tiniest amount of serious participation can make such a player feel "silly" or "exposed," so that they have to keep a steady stream of jokes going in order to cover up any feeling that they aren't 100% confident here.  When we see it, we have to realize it is really just a form of over-compensation: and we can deal with it in a number of different ways.

We can ignore it and let it run the game for us.  We can boot the player, though that will often seem unjust.  We can restrict all jokes, period, which will make the player a boiling mess of repressed discomfort which will erupt in anger.  Or we can talk about the reality of what's going on, which will seem like a therapy session.

None of these will really "work" ~ we're dealing with a very strong defense mechanism that wasn't learned from playing D&D and probably isn't going anywhere without a lot of real therapy from a real psychologist.  Still, by going with the honest, last approach, the response of the player (most likely a mixture of more jokes, denials and defensiveness) will make an impression on the other participants.  Then, when the jokester IS booted, it won't seem quite as unfair.

Okay, back to what's happening.  The bottle has a cork.  This seems like a Big Red Button, too, which the players naturally understand.

DM: Robur will say, in pain, "open the bottle ..."

The guard Brenden will nod, a spasm of pain gripping him, and fresh blood suddenly soaking the bandage in Delfig's hand. Brenden will manage to say, "the creature, it's claws were poisoned. We are both dead men."

Yes, I know, I said the men weren't just going to die.  But ... I'm not presenting it as a surprise.  And anyway, they're going to be fine, once the bottle is uncorked.

The players are still talking about Ren and Stimpy at this point, ignoring the request, asking information about the bottle, etcetera ... anything to avoid pulling the cork

Delfig: "Is the bottle an antidote or merely to slow the poison down?" I ask Robur. I will attempt to use my meager 3% chance of curing poison to possibly stretch the potion to help both me, if that can be done. Otherwise, if this is a one dose deal...

Andrej: "Where is the nearest town where we could expect help, Brendan, and which way do we travel upon this road to get there?"  Awaiting his answer, Andrej will beckon to Emmanuel and the two of us will go about the business of bringing the carriage closer to the house and pointed in the direction Brendan indicates.

Delfig: Did Robur answer my question as to what the bottle is?

I have no interest in deflating the tension.  They can not pull the cork if they don't want to, but it will mean the men die through inaction.  This is a good hook.  I'm not letting it go.  My role here, then, is to push that tension by stonewalling the players:

DM: Neither Robur nor Brenden are in any shape to answer questions; despite the cure spell, and the binding of wounds, both persons are sinking fast - losing consciousness, their lives draining from them.

You [Delfig] cannot make use of the 3% ability with poisons without actually examining the contents of the bottle ... which was what I thought you meant.

This works:

Delfig: Then I will take a sip of the bottle to attempt to identify it. If it is antivenom or "slow poison", is there enough for two or one?

Whenever possible, we want the answer to be anything but obvious.  In this case, it's a "preserving bottle," a magic item of my own creation:

DM: Ah, Delfig never gets to find out.  Upon opening the bottle, there is a rush of air, and visibly tendrils of light, similar in appearance to spun webbing, is suddenly drawn from the bodies of both Brenden and Robur. Delfig finds his hand clenched on the bottle, his body tense and frozen, unable to move, watching the light-webbing rise in waves, filling the air between Delfig, Andrej and the bodies. The light twists and turns in circles on that side of the room, moves through the bodies of both party members, who are strangely warmed and comforted by the experience ... but as I say ‘through’, I mean that the light does not remain in Delfig or Andrej, but passes from one side to the other ... and ultimately, the light sucked into the neck of the bottle.

Avel, standing outside of this swirl of magic, is more clearly able to see the image of both Brenden and Robur in the light - from his perspective, it is the souls of both persons, pulled from their bodies and into the bottle.  In a flash, it is over; but from the neck of the bottle, a bright blaze shines, making a spot on the ceiling in the dimly lit room.

The two souls of the near-departed are captured and preserved in the bottle, where they can remain until the bodies are restored by any number of means ~ or even until two other healthy bodies are found.  It is a useful bottle ...

Alas, however, the players never did get to the bottom of this mystery.  Something happened soon after the events that I've discussed on this post, that we need not go into.  I wouldn't say it "derailed" the campaign, but it did render any further investigation into the mystery undesirable.

At this point, except for the location of Jeroen, the house had no more mysteries to reveal.  And this being the subject of this post, we are free to call an end to it here.

Day of the Storm

The following sequence arose from events associated with the online Campaign Senex, played February 11, 2013.

When the sequence starts, the party is aboard the Petrel, a ship under the authority of Captain Ramona Salvador, whom the players had already discovered was a no-nonsense, somewhat criminally minded woman, and definitely a pirate, who yet owed the party a debt and therefore ~ it was rightly believed as it turned out ~ could be trusted. As the ship moved along the Dalmatian Coast on the Adriatic Sea, they ran into a storm:

The captain's mood in improved somewhat as the wind improves from the early afternoon through Friday evening, with a gentle wind that blows the ship down along the coast of Cres Isle and into the open Adriatic. This wind dies during the evening, until the ship is merely edging outwards upon the current ... but with the morning comes the worst.

A terrifying blizzard strikes the ship an hour before dawn, bringing with it frosty temperatures that immediately freezes all the guidelines and the deck, making even walking a dangerous activity. There's little time to string the necessary safety measures, and the party is rallied - at sword point if necessary - to help in battening and managing the ship. Ahmet's chicken cages are tossed about - but manage not to break - and the whole ship is put into a wild flight as the captain fights to keep her ship from flying into the Adriatic. Steadily, almost miraculously, she drives her crew to maintain the desired course.

At one point, Ahmet finds himself commissioned to hammer the knots in ropes to break them apart. Burnt by the screaming winds, soaked to the skin, he endures as one of boatswain vilifies him for not swinging hard or fast enough ... whereupon Madam appears, shouts an order at the boatswain that he fails to understand, and she strikes him so hard that it lays him on the deck. Ahmet cannot understand what either of them are saying, but the officer leaps to his feet, appears contrite, and flies at once towards the bow.

Step by step, throughout the day, the storm diminishes, while the ship makes good time; the coastline reappears (its been there all along, but couldn't be seen) and the crew describes it as Dugi Otok. They've come through fine, wasted no knots and the ship has come through with little damage.

By evening, though the rain continues, at the point marked by the yellow star, the wind has died again, as it shifts to the northwest ... whereupon a strong breeze sends you quickly along. Dugi Otok falls out of sight and the sea steadies into clear - if unpleasantly wet - sailing.

And, as before, comments not indented indicate my commentary on the game. There are a few things that I meant to establish with the above description, first and foremost the discipline on board the ship.  The storm was randomly rolled, according to the system I was using at that time; but in the light of the storm, I used it to create a sequence of events to send the message to the party what shipboard life was like.  Ahmet, for example, is a "passenger," but on board a ship in a storm, passengers work.  At one point, the boatswain, or bo'sun, is struck by the Captain and accepts it dutifully. My second goal, given the storm, was to emphasize the Captain's skill at managing a crisis.  I wrote the scene to be as much a depiction of danger as I could.  I was going for scary, discomfort, the possibility of death, or the ship breaking up ... which I hoped the players might worry about as they read through it. I never knew, as when the description ended, no one said a word about their emotional reaction.  I wish I could say I've gotten used to this.  It's better at a game table; I can see the faces of the players as I push the routine.  On the other hand, if this had been a live game, I wouldn't have a record of it, and we wouldn't be deconstructing it now. There are four players running: Lukas, a mage; Maximillian, a druid; Andrej, a cleric; and Ahmet, a fighter.  They discuss several things after the storm ends, but I want to focus on what Maximillian does, from his first comment on the post. Mareo, who gets a mention, is a hireling, and of no importance here:

Maximillian: During the storm I willingly assisted wherever needed, probably with the horses, and made certain Mareo did as well. Now, in the calm of the evening, I'll share my ale with whoever is not already asleep or on duty (I think I have about 30 pints, can't remember exactly), before crawling off to bed myself.

As a DM, I'm always watching for moments of action or behaviour that I can build an adventure around, or even an important scene.  Max gave me one here.  I seized on it immediately. Now, my DM's instincts tell me to play this close to the chest, just as I did with the party, revealing what it is about the passage without overt explanation ... but since we're trying to deconstruct DMing, I'll walk through my thought process as it came to me. Grog, or any form of spirits, is a BIG problem aboard ship.  Much of shipboard life is pretty slow and repetitive; but it is also very dangerous.  A bad step and a sailor can slip over the side so silently, particularly at night, that they won't be noticed until long after they're missing.  The heavy ropes that are used can grab at a body part, snatching it and crushing a limb, snapping a hand off at the wrist; or loose rope can get free and whip out fast enough to kill a man.  So in spite of the boredom, the crew must be diligent, constantly diligent, to avoid error.  Grog can be both a compelling Mistress against the boredom and a dangerous companion when one is supposed to focus on one's job. No one knows this better than the Captain, who understands what the state of the crew must be for every inch of the journey.  There is a time to drink and a time to be sober, and it is the Captain that decides.  Still, given an opportunity, a crew will drink, if they get the chance, because they don't believe in the danger; a crew member very often will imbibe, no matter how rigorous the ship's order or how hard are its punishments. Of course, Maximillian isn't thinking about any of this.  He's grateful they got through the storm, he wants to reward the crew, he knows grog is just the thing for it ... and he happened to have grog with him.  In other words, he's thinking like a passenger.

DM: Maximillian, Several of the men take advantage of your offer of ale, pleased as punch for the opportunity to sip a sud or two.

So, as I've explained before, I see a movie instantly forming in my head.  How will the Captain learn about this?  What will be the Captain's reaction?  Surely, it won't take long for the source of the drink to become known; a crewman will admit it.  Probably, a drunk crewman.  Hm.  Suppose we have a crewman who is made drunk somewhat easily?  Someone with a medical condition, who is great fun and a buffoon in port, but whom everyone knows to keep away from the grog when at sea.  Everyone, obviously, except a random passenger. Now, I said the Captain was somewhat criminal.  And this is a pirate ship, and the party knows it's a pirate ship.  So what would a Pirate Captain do? I saw it playing out the way a gangster would handle it:

DM: After going to sleep, however, you find yourself roughly seized in your sleep by two large men. You have no idea what their intention is.

I know that the shorter I make the description, the more worrisome the situation will be for Max.  He does know he's on a pirate ship ~ and that he's the only one in the party without a personal history between himself and the Captain.  The Captain's debt is owed to Maximillian's companions, so he is naturally a little bit more leary than the others.  Too, Max is a lower level than the fighter, mage and cleric.  And like the movie in my head suggested, he immediately assumed this was a random attempt to kill him by two strangers.  At no time, as I expected, did he connect this event with what I had said in the sentence immediately before explaining that he was jumped below decks. Interesting, isn't it?  If you look at the original campaign post, you'll see I wrote the two quotes above in one comment:

And even though Max had time to see the words written on the page, he still didn't make the connection.  As a DM, you've got to trust in this.  You don't have to engage in elaborate cover ups to deflect from your intentions.  In fact, the less elaborate the cover-up, the less additional stuff you put in to separate the two ideas, the less likely the player will be to catch on.  If you misdirect too much, this will create suspicions: "Why is the DM trying so hard?"  Players will catch on, because they're human and they're instinctive about anything that looks out of order. 'Course, it doesn't hurt that I called myself "dumb" in the same post.  Wasn't intentional; but that probably did help sell the notion that I was guileless here in presenting the description.  I wasn't, however.  I had many dark evil plans in my head. So, Max responded as expected:

Maximillian: I'll let out a yell like a startled donkey, and struggle as best I can. If the men are on either side of me, I will do my best to get to one side or the other, trying to move directly towards the man on that side. If they are both on one side, I will pull away from them.

DM: Roll a d20.

Maximillian: d20: 13.

DM: You manage to clip one of the individual's on the jaw (roll a d4 minus 3 plus strength bonus to damage to determine damage done). They are neither of them stunned, even if you roll maximum (though it's potential experience).

Maximillian also manages to squirm out of the way, so that the one with fists as big as the druid's head misses a punch and slams his hand into one of the solid posts by your hammock. The other, however, jabs his fist hard into Maximillian's ribs, causing three damage. Roll the d4-3 for damage and then let me know your next action.

My goal here is to play it straight, let Max think what he wants to think.  He has no idea these two men were ordered by the Captain to come collect him, just as a gangster would send a couple of boys around to your house to pick you up, if you annoyed him.  There are some "big" clues I'm giving; these are absurdly big fellows, with big fists, who are too big to be threatened by a little pipsqueak like Max ... and they're not using weapons.  Moreover, they haven't tried to silence Max, either. Max knows he's probably going to lose, but in true D&D fashion, he's not going down without a fight ...

Maximillian: Not stunned, hp: 17. My next action is still dependent on their positions, as I'm trying to get free of the hammock and put it between me and the one with the big fists. I'm fine with moving towards the other one if that's what it takes to do so.

DM: Reading that as trying to free yourself from grappling, Maximillian, please roll a d20.

Maximillian: d20: 18.

DM: Maximillian manages to squirm out of his hammock, drop to the floor and get to where his back is against the bulkhead.  He can see now the two men. They're both huge. You've seen them before over the past few days - they seem to spend a lot of time near the Captain.

"Slippery fellow, isn't he?" says one, rubbing his sore hand.

"Yeah," says the other flatly. He draws out a belaying pin from his belt. "But the Captain said bring 'im, and she said bring 'im bruised. And I ain't convinced yet he's bruised enough."

They move around the bunk and Maximillian will need to roll initiative. A d6 please.

Now, I've got to say, Max is doing a pretty good job here.  I described the scene at the start as two guys grabbing him; he's managed to free himself from one with a poke on the jaw and above he rolls well and gets free from the other one.  He's using the scene around him to preserve himself; there's a good sense of space and investment in his character and situation.  So the scene has been fun. As such, I felt it was a good time to tip my hand.  I have the two guys banter light-heartedly; they're clearly not angry.  And one says outright that the Captain sent them.  But as I'm DMing, I have to keep on two hats: the one where I am role-playing the two sailors, and one where I am handling the technical side of the game.  I ask Max for an initiative roll ... but at the same time, I fully expect he's going to realize, "Oh, this isn't what I thought it was; maybe I should find out what the Captain wants ..." Max doesn't, though.  Instead he rolls initiative:

Maximillian: d6: 3.

Which leaves me no choice.  I've got to play my end as DM.  I know what the Captain wants, but these two guys have their orders.  I want to say, "Max buddy, just take a few bruises and give in."  Instead, I have to roll initiative.

DM:  The boys are going to roll a 4. They advance towards Maximillian, pins in hand - and a voice behind them says, "That's enough."

It's the boatswain, and he says, "Jacobo, he's bruised enough. Take him to the Captain and let's get on with this."

The men move to seize Maximillian.

Yes, then I realized there was a cheap trope I could use to get out of beating the druid into the deck.  Have a bigger authority show up and stop it. We've seen this in a thousand TV shows ~ but it works. So there's some catching up with the rest of the party, I let them get involved a bit, Maximillian gives in and the party gives him a few concerning comments.  The fighter, Ahmet, has put it together I think, as he says,

Ahmet: "Your heathenish love of drink has caused this," Ahmet mutters at Maximillian.

But that's all he says.  And after a few more words, including that the player behind Maximillian announces his real life engagement, we pick up the scene again:

DM: Maximillian finds himself brought to the Captain's cabin - which is, after all, only twenty feet away - and the party in tow, the door not closed to hide what is going on. All will see the first and second mates, along with the ship's steward, standing side by side - not looking at all comfortable. There's a man who's back is turned to the party, standing in the center of the cabin, and the Captain appears to be have been interrupted while redressing him.

She looks at Maximillian and says to her men, "Bring him here!" in a very forthright manner.

Maximillian is pushed forward, to stand beside the other man.

"Do you know this man?" The captain asks Maximillian, pointing at the other.

Maximillian does. He was one of the men eager to have some of Maximillian's ale, earlier. At the moment, the man looks a bit drunk ... however, none took more than a few swallows of Maximillian's ale.

Maximillian: "Good ... evening, Madam Captain. I have made his acquaintance as a member of your crew."

Lukas: Lukas cringes slightly at Maximillian's flippant greeting and response.

Lukas is quite right in his observation.  At this point, I'm wondering myself if Maximillian has caught on.  But I have a whole dialogue set up in my head, and so far he's done nothing to derail it.  Of course, the opportunity is there; Max could say something clever, or reasonable, or intuitive ... but for that, he's going to have to think faster than he apparently is. I'm doing my best as DM to give him clues.  The Captain is angry but polite.  She's forthright, not furious.  It's the crewman that pushes him forward; the Captain doesn't ask for this.  She has been dressing down a member of the crew.  It's not obvious, but the dressing down is for drinking.  The man is described as "a bit drunk."  If you look "a bit drunk" in the Captain's presence, you ARE drunk.  It seems probable that Max hasn't put this together, however.  That might be for a number of reasons:  the life experience of the player, a lack of personal experiences with military practice (even criminal military practice), which demands a certain structural hierarchy. The man was eager to have some of Maximillian's ale.  Am I at fault because I didn't role-play this earlier?  Absolutely not.  What would you expect to have the crewmen be?  Not eager?  And I did say the men were "pleased as punch," which was Maximillian's intention.  There's no reason in the world that he, his character, would have singled out a single person as notably more eager than any other, unless I, as DM, made it obvious as hell by drawing attention to it. This is a difficult tightrope to walk.  You can't put a neon sign on every part of the campaign without flatly ruining the mystery ~ and drawing excessive attention to anything as DM, the Immortal GOD of the universe (at least as far as being the only voice that describes it) is sure to kill it. As DM, you've got to say as little as possible, less than a little if necessary, to promote a sense that the world is a big, stressful place, full of uncertain conflict.  I needed to downplay the giving of the drink, so that I could up-play later why it was a very bad, bad thing to do. That said, part of my plan was that no bad thing could happen to Max.  Yes, I was blind-siding him a bit, and yes the Captain was pissed, and yes it all looked very threatening ... but unless Max did something truly stupid, like grab a weapon of some kind and try to fight the Captain, he was safe.  At worst, he'd get a talking to, a little public shaming.  Practically the right of the Captain to do that: it is what every figure in power does, without hesitation.  Max, however, made it a little easier.  It became clear that he felt wronged, though technically he was responsible for doing something stupid (handing out grog) ... which took awhile to beat into him.

DM: "And did you give him strong drink?" demands the Captain.

Maximillian: "Madam, I provided for this sailor the same as I provided to the other off-duty sailors, what meager ale I had to share. I cannot take responsibility for his current state."

Andrej: "That is to say, I'm sure the small amount Maximillian gave was not enough to result in such a stupor."

I expect the cleric, Andrej, to jump in and defend his party member.  But it is clear that neither has grasped yet what a serious problem grog can be aboard a 17th century seagoing vessel.  Note that Maximillian does not even call Captain Salvador, "Captain."  He calls her, "Madam."  That's a strong sign that he just isn't getting it. I could have had the Captain go at the cleric, or berate Maximillian for his error, but I've seen a lot of military movies, so I knew just how to handle this scene from a dramatic perspective.

DM: "Steward!" says the Captain. "Who here is responsible for allocating the rations allowed the sailors aboard this ship?"

The Steward: "I am, Captain!"

The Captain: "And who approves those rations?"

"You do, Captain!"

The Captain looks at Maximillian. "And are you aware that this man -" she points at the apparently inebriated sailor standing beside the druid; "- suffers from a condition where the slightest amount of alcohol renders him DRUNK?"

Lukas: Bites his lip stifling a comment.

Maximillian: "No, Captain."

DM: Still to Maximillian: "Did you clear it with the Steward before adding to this man's rations?"

Maximillian: "No Captain."

DM: "Did you clear it with ME?"

Maximillian: "No, Captain.  Did he?"

It's a great scene.  It would play out well in a film.  The Captain is beating the hell out of Maximillian ... and what can the player do, really?  She runs the ship, the room is full of pirates, the party depends on the ship to get to their destination and the fact is, SHE is in control here.  She must be obeyed.

But Max can plainly feel the pressure.  Playing this on the blog, a half hour passes between each of his answers.  And the last plainly has a back-talking statement in it ... which, frankly, I still don't understand.

What happened, however, was that the player behind Max jumped into a discussion about rules for arbitrating conflicts between player characters and NPCs ... which was clearly a compulsive derailment of the tension of the scene.  Even as we go over it now, the reader can feel the tension.  If you, as player, were on this particular carpet, you'd goddamn feel it.  If you have military experience, you probably HAVE been pulled up on a carpet like this.

Not all "role-play" is stupid, silly joking.  Actual hard-core role-play can be downright unpleasant, stressful ... and uniquely memorable.  Speaking for my own campaigns, I don't always get players who appreciate this approach: but I am a lover not just of humor, but of drama too.  Drama is where the rubber of my role-playing sessions, such as the one described here, meet the road.

So, after pulling Max back from his derailing discussion of rules, frankly telling him that he's stepping out of character because of the tension, I get back to it, picking up the Captain's words (I had her ignore his last statement, because it didn't make sense]:

DM: "If you want to take on the privileges of being Captain and bestowing on my crew whatever you like, you can experience the other part of it too. Bos'n - take seaman Praest to the bottom hold and chain him. He can have two dozen lashes in the morning. And have Mr. Boii sit with him overnight and make sure he's comfortable."

To the druid she'll say, "I'll make sure you get a good look in the morning. Now get out!"

Maximillian Boii [his full name] is more or less being let off the hook.  A night in the brig as a companion to a man, named Praest, whom Max has just helped consign to a tortuous whipping, could be an opportunity to role-play a lot of different things: contrition, a promise to preserve the victim, a decision to seek revenge against the Captain if the man dies, or perhaps to bring news to the man's family of his fate.  Most of all, just to make the man's hours before the whipping more cheerful and decent. Instead, the response is this:

Maximillian: As we're being lead away, I express my displeasure to the sailor. "A fine way to repay a kindness, wretch."

That's very small of him.  And so I let Max have it right in the eye:

DM: The Bos'n, who's leading you down to the bottom of the ship, remarks, "This man's about to take a whipping for you, because you never took account of where you are and what it takes to manage a ship. You think we came through the last storm by luck and a prayer? The Captain's discipline brought us through it, and you saunter along the decks as though these men are your personal gamesmen to play with. They're HER men, you supercilious fool ... and when you watch this one die on the rack tomorrow, you might give a thought to what your thoughtless temptation has lost this ship!"

The Boatswain is not cheerful about what's about to happen.  In truth, the Captain probably isn't cheerful about it either.  She isn't doing it out of malice or anger; if she's angry at anything, it's that this situation is out of her control.  She has to punish the man, and she has to make it hurt, to send the message that when she gives an order, it means something. I have to hand it to Maximillian, however.  He came right back with an excellent poem, and a message about the effectiveness of the sequence we've just examined.

Maximillian: 

"Bourne to Praest was ale

To wet his lips with thanks.

Wretched Praest grew pale

No thought for steadfast ranks.

Blind to fate he mustn't be

Knowing blows she bring'st he.

Bear his burdens now must we

When his temptations snared me."

I applaud you, Alexis. That sequence was exactly what should have happened. I've read enough sea-stories that I really should have seen it coming, but I was completely taken off guard, and that really built tension as I went through the stages of incomprehension to indignation to resignation. At first I thought this was a mugging, and I was going to be dumped overboard.

I don't put this forward as evidence of my DMness.  I want the reader to understand has this formula is accomplished.  You watch a lot of movies, read a lot of books, put together why characters are motivated to do this or that.  You see the world through the eyes of the various people: through the sailor who just wants a drink, through the two men sent to arrest a passenger by an angry Captain, through a boatswain who loves his Captain but sees where all this is going and hates it and through a Captain whose hands are tied ... and you pull these characters together to create a situation that doesn't actually harm the player character, but does provide insight, opportunity for growth, an experience of excitement and emotion, and overall a game that can be both predicted ["I should have seen it coming] and nearly completely impossible to understand ["I thought this was a mugging."]

The Bridge

The following sequence arose from events associated with the online Campaign Juvenis, played Jan 23, 2018.

DM: You find yourself at one end of a bridge, sure enough. The chamber the bridge crosses is about 80 feet long and about 45 feet wide. The bottom is covered with water, far, far down, about 90 to 120 feet. Once in the chamber, hanging your head over the side, you can hear the water moving, but not rushing.

The ceiling is only ten feet above you - and the stone seems to be cracked, along the length of the bridge. The crack is only a few millimeters to half a centimeter wide, or less than a quarter of an inch; this doesn't let in much light, but it does let in enough to fill the chamber. You can see a shaft of light in the far left corner of the room, from your perspective (sorry, forgot to add this to the map, I'll update it next time), from a hole about three feet wide, in hex 1403.

There are no rails along the bridge and it is only a meter wide, plus, or 3 to 4 feet. The height is dizzying. It isn't a matter of dancing across this thing.

You can hear a faint chittering sound, like a small, rattling mill wheel (that's as close as you can get to a description). It might be coming from anywhere.

You can't tell what it looks like under the bridge; if it is natural or made, as you can't really get into a position to look over the side and under, without risking death.

Pandred: Anyone got a rope? Perhaps we ca have one of the lighter, or at least more observant members of our esteemed company try and cross, and we'll hold onto them with the aforesaid. Pandred herself is sitting at 5 hp, and Oddsdrakken is at 1.  I'm going to politely rescind my earlier offer to have him try the rope maneuver.  I do, however, think it's still a good idea.  If Fjall would like to offer some potential covering fire with my crossbow, Embla and I surely have the strength between us to hold onto whomever is brave enough to give this thing a closer look. 1403 is a bit far, but we might be able to get a decent vantage on it.  Volunteers or another idea?

Okay, this is me.  A couple of things about the above.  We haven't played in six months, and at this point both Pandred and I have forgotten that Oddsdrakken, her hireling, is actually on his way to town and not present.  This is not a big deal.  DMs and players forget this sort of thing all the time; there are a lot of details to manage, right?  Anyway, we do get this sorted later. Note the manner in which Pandred speaks to her party.  Polite, patient, asking questions and not making demands.  She describes what she can do, in the context of other player abilities, proposing cooperation.  She does not leap in and start telling other players what to do or co-opting their characters without an agreement.  This is what we want to see as a DM; we don't want to see players running other players' characters.  If that happens, we have to step in and explain why that can't be allowed to happen.

Engelhart: Place is full to the brim with bats. If we disturb them they'll whip up a frenzy of leatherwing and endanger us. Best that we kill the lights, adjust our sight and send for the darkvision (and sure-footed, to boot) half-orcess. Bridge is too long for anything less than 100' of rope to serve as safety line, and I believe we left it on the cage the other side of this complex. Not sure if there's any such length between us anymore (none on me).

I don't mean to stop after every line, but if there's something pertinent that can be used to teach a little DMing, I'll take advantage of it.  Engelhart presumes there are bats.  There aren't, but as a DM I have nothing to gain in telling him so!  In fact, I want to be very careful not to say something that will give away this incorrect assumption; the party will learn the truth soon enough.  My goal is to let them draw conclusions unimpeded. Now, also, Engelhart means "infravision" here and not "darkvision."  This is jetsam from playing a lot of different games, which tend to confuse one another.  There's no need to correct him on his language, particularly in text.  Eventually, after I keep using infravision as the term, Engelhart will get used to it and adapt his descriptions.  I don't need to nag him about it. He's quite right about the length of rope necessary.  And it is SO much better for the characters to realize that on their own, without my having to jump in and say "no" right off.  It's best in these moments of planning that I just shut up and let them sort out what they want to do.  I can always nix impossible plans later on ... while a good party will usually come up with three or four solutions in the meantime.  It's okay to say "No," as a DM, whatever you've heard ~ but you don't want to say it too quickly.

Embla: I have no rope, alas. I am happy to walk along the bridge, but if we want to look at the hole, I think we'd want someone a little lighter (I may be sure-footed, but I'm a big girl).

Engelhart: The hole is out of reach, whatever we may make of it. Embla, if you're happy to go so much the better, because whoever goes had best go at it alone, since if you encounter trouble you may need to double back in a hurry, and that's where your sure-footedness would come into its own. Plus you're stealthy, too. You can guide the rest of us visually-impaired humans across once everything proves to be on the level. I don't think I currently have a lantern on me, but again, I urge you to douse the lights until we're across.

DM: If there are bats, they won't see a light.

So why did I feel the need to throw that in?  Basically, I'm playing into Engelhart's own projections.  He has mentioned bats as the probable danger; his statement about dousing the lights can't be for the benefit of Embla's infravision, there is natural light in the cavern that would spoil infravision anyway.  I assumed, therefore, it was meant to help conceal Embla against any enemies (bats?). In a way, my comment is meant to be the sort of thought bubble that appears in one's head, reminding one of information that they may have forgotten or might need highlighting.  Often, the player doesn't need it; but with more than one player, listening as I'm listening, this might be an important point.  Anyway, I feel safe in doing it, since I'm not really adding information, while I am feeding the players' concerns that there may be bats.  If I say the word, as DM, it is quite suggestive; so this is a sort of mind game, too.

Lothar: If the chittering sound is indeed bats, I see two options to deal with them. First, we could sneak across hoping to remain quiet enough that they won't hear us, which may be difficult for everyone in the party to accomplish. Second, we could raise a ruckus, throw a rock, and get the bats to swarm and fly off while we are all sitting safely in the tunnel. A cloud of bats issuing from the ground might be a signal to other froglings in the area. I'm willing to risk that though, since I don't know that we'll all be stealthy enough to make it across unmolested. Then again, the chittering may not be bats, but some sort of waterwheel powering an underground grain mill? Engelhart, do you have a light spell?

Engelhart: I do have a light spell still primed and ready. I vote for the stealthy approach, but if the majority wishes it, I won't be at all exceptional to casting it.

Pandred: I think the proper thing to do at this point is declarative statements, since we've more or less settled on a course of action. I offer to hold anything Embla is concerned about losing.

The phrase about making "declarative statements" comes out of my own requirements for players describing their actions.  I prefer the active verb tense when a player describes what the character is doing, opposed to what they're going to do or mean to do.  Often a player says, "I will go across the chasm," which is a way of not saying that my character is going across the chasm now, but at a later time.  If something then happens, I have had players say, "But I haven't actually gone yet: I was just making plans to go."  And while this splitting of hairs is clearly a tactic, the solutions is to have the player commit their intention in the form of verb they use. Often, I let it slide; but if it is something truly dangerous, I will often wait for the player to state the verb in the present tense rather than in some other way.

Engelhart: I get the sling out and prepare to lay cover for Embla. Holding action otherwise.

DM: Since Embla is the go-to person, just waiting for her to speak.

While everyone else has clearly agreed upon the plan, and even though Embla herself has said that she is happy to walk along the bridge, that's not a sufficient commitment in my book.  A DM can get into big trouble with a player, or with their group, if they're not patient enough to wait and be sure about a given player's commitment.  Often, a DM can get away with it several times ... but if it becomes a habit, it is bound to cause the players to feel that the DM is running their characters, while the DM believes that it's a matter of keeping up the "momentum." It's very easy to commit a lot of sins using the justification of momentum.  I don't believe that this is a good habit; always, always, get the player to specifically sign off on whatever action their character is taking; and if there is any feeling that the player might be in doubt, stop the game right there and ask, "Is this something you feel right about doing?"  A DM has to keep an eye out for the player who is being railroaded by the rest of the party; it is easy to feel, as one player, that you don't want to be the one dissenting voice when the rest of their party has already made up their mind about the plan.  The DM is there to even out the player lacking a supporting voice at the table, by being a good listener in the equation.  Then, if the rest of the party begins to browbeat the single player, the DM can be there to say, "Now, wait; if the player doesn't want to take part in your plan, you shouldn't bulldoze her." This can go a long way towards helping your players trust you.

Embla: I give my backpack to Pandred, equip my javelin, and stealthily make my way across the bridge.

DM: Embla has the advantage of Stability, which gives her a 19 dexterity for checks, should there be a chance that she'll fall. It doesn't give her extra bonuses for combat (like the balance skill will), but I'll rule that she doesn't have to check her balance as she crosses, nor will she feel (as virtually anyone else would) the compulsion to get down on her hands and knees and crawl across.

Embla, you get about half way across. At this point, I'm going to need you to roll a d20. It isn't a dex check.

Okay, a few things here.  Embla has used the active tense and committed herself, while the conversation about the cave has helped instill some concern about what might happen. At this point, because Embla is using a house rule to get across (note the link), I want to provide a quick synopsis about the rule to forstall any doubts about how I'll play it.  There are voices out there who talk about how searching for rules or calling out rules destroys momentum; I strongly disagree.  Not knowing how the rules work exactly destroys momentum, particularly if the DM assumes everyone knows the rule, when they don't.  The DM should have the rule handy, be ready to explain it clearly and quash any unnecessary discussion of the rule at the time it is being used.  This helps everyone be on the same page, reduces argument and definitely maintains momentum.  I was able to do so here in text; in speech, we're talking 30 seconds of game time. Finally, I tell Embla what die I want her to roll.  I do not tell her why.  Unless the die succeeds in this particular case (noticing the thing hovering in the gloom), it is none of her business why.  This is why I don't say a "perception roll" or any other such description. I understand that in most games, the players themselves declare that they're going to make this roll or that, depending on their abilities.  I consider this very poor game management.  The players, being voyeurs in the setting, should have no idea whatsoever that a given roll is needed or useful.  If Embla, in the case above, were to say, "I roll a dice to find out if I can see anything," my answer would be that no, she can't.  She has to get to the middle of the bridge, first.  I know that; Embla doesn't.  Nor do I want to warn her that she has to get half-way across before any check is necessary?  Her character wouldn't know this. All die rolls, therefore, are my bailiwick.  I run the setting and the relationship between the setting and the characters.  Therefore I, and I alone, will say when a die roll is needed, and unless the matter is obvious, I won't say why a die is needed. This forces the player to run the character and not the situation.  And it helps build tension, as the character cannot control their own intel.  They have to put themselves out there, moving forward, unsure of anything they might find, making themselves vulnerable to the setting that I run.

Embla: I roll a 10.

DM: About half-way across the bridge, you take notice of something floating in the air, about 20 feet to your right, just below the ceiling. At a second look, it seems to be a large insect, about 18-24 inches in diameter.

Note I do not tell Embla what she rolled for, exactly.  In fact, she rolled her wisdom or under, and I'll often say, "You made your wisdom check."  But that isn't the main point here.  The main point is what she sees because she made the check, so I skip over the die roll and go straight for the details.  This is another way to maintain momentum.  It isn't that the die rolls aren't important, but we don't need to spend overlong discussing them in the context of what's happening. At this point, because of the play-by-post structure of the campaign, we were having issues with availability; I jumped ahead and had Embla's character point out to Engelhart the location of the hovering thing.  At a game table, I would never do this, but sometimes the blog requires adaptation to keep the game going, particularly on a day where I have plenty of time to run, and one player may not be available to comment regularly.

DM: Engelhart has his sling ready. Engelhart, you'll have to roll a d20 to see if you can see it in the shadows.

Engelhart: A 9 is rolled.

DM: Engelhart, you can barely see it. The thing is wobbling, moving ever so slightly and definitely not attached to the ceiling or wall of the cavern.

Embla: I scan to see if there are other insects within view.

Although Embla can see it because of her position, I'm ruling as a DM that Engelhart can only see it if it is pointed out ~ and then, only if Engelhart also makes a wisdom check.  Engelhart is a cleric, so it is no problem. Embla will naturally ask me if there are other creatures she can see.  This is a deep-set player habit and one that is hard to break.  Because of her check, I have revealed this one.  She can see this one only because of the check; if there were others that she could see, I would have told her ... but the default is to ask the DM if there are others the player can see, that the DM has not revealed. I understand this; it is bred from hundreds of hours of bad DMing, and the habit of letting the player roll for information, when the player wishes.  I am grateful that Embla is a good enough player that she says, "I scan for ..." rather than "I roll for ..."  The latter is far more common and far less correct.

Engelhart: I loudly whisper for Embla to get back and take my aim as I girate the sling.  I don't yet wish to strike however, as I don't want to provoke it... but I will if it starts getting nearer to Embla.

DM: None others that you can see, Embla.  Engelhart, Embla is not remotely in your line of fire.  It's 20 feet to Embla's right, and Embla is out on the bridge. Engelhart is still at the mouth of the tunnel, not on the bridge. You'll have to step out onto 0306 to use your sling.

Of late I've been seeing people talk about "DMing of the Mind," which means the running is managed by description alone, without props or maps.  The above is an example of the problems this creates.  Engelhart has misunderstood and thinks the floating thing is in front of  Embla, and wants to avoid friendly fire.  In fact, there's no friendly fire here to worry about. I'm a little terse with the word "remotely" in my answer.  I wanted to stress the safety of Engelhart's shot; instead, it sounds a bit like I'm reproaching his error.  Again, too many statements like this can get on a player's nerves, and hard feelings are the result. My last point to the above is that Engelhart has failed to specify his own location before firing, and he has failed to indicate if he is using a stone or a sling bullet.  I can't fault him.  This particular oversight is so regular that everyone does it, constantly.  There is just something resistant about players who use slings specifying the object being slung and the whole matter of stating clearly where a character is standing.  I manage this as a DM by indicating the necessity of stating a position; I've forgotten in this case to correct the lack of naming the missile.  Usually, I designate the character has used a bullet as a default; it reduces the number of bullets while the bullet offers the best possible damage.  Costs the player money though. Also, Engelhart (and Embla as seen below) both seem oblivious of the fact that they're 40 feet apart, and can't really whisper to each other.  But this, too, is a typical player error.  It is often really, really hard to put oneself into the actual situation, and see the actual distances in one's mind.  In this case, I let it go; how loud they speak makes no difference to the creature anyway.

Embla: I retreat to Engelhart. I whisper to Engelhart that perhaps we could try waking it up before we attack it? We don't know what it is, and we might be able to scare it off - we're certainly fighting at a disadvantage here, and I doubt we could all sneak across the bridge without alerting it.

DM: As you step back a hex, it whizzes out of the dark, staggeringly fast; you stop from reflex, expecting that it is about to attack. Instead it stops in flight, ten feet away. It can be seen clearly now. It has the fat body of a dragonfly, with a long tail and SIX wings, not four. These wings are beating like a hummingbird's, creating the chittering sound. There is a long proboscis emerging from the front of its body, which seems to have an armored helmet-like front.

This is what I've been waiting for: Embla to move.  Embla's statement indicates that she makes her full movement towards Engelhart, but I discount that.  Once I say that the creature swoops in, because of her first movement, I have to give room as a DM for Embla to change her mind, with the new info I'm giving her.  Often, time has to be retconned in this way; a DM has to be flexible when interpreting the practical aspects of giving actions in words, when actual senses aren't in play.  If they were in play, no doubt Embla would have her eyes firmly fixed on the creature ~ and would react instinctively to the creature moving at the moment she moves.  I have to take that into account when DMing. Okay, the creature itself.  This is a stirge in my game.  It's a large dragonfly like insect, one that can flit around very fast.  I know most see it as a bat-like creature, or sometimes a mosquito; but that hasn't felt scary enough to me.  The dragonfly is the most deadly of insect hunters and there is no giant dragonfly in the original AD&D lexicon. So long ago I settled on the stirge fitting this role. Note that while I describe the creature, I don't say that it is a stirge.  Nor do I describe what the creature is about to do, as I often see DMs do.  That's just bad form.  It is important when describing anything to keep the descriptions in the immediate present.  What the creature intends will be revealed when the time comes (or when a spell reveals it).

Embla: Oh dear. Is it fixated on me, or the rest of the party?

DM: Definitely you.

Pandred: You're in front Em, and there's no room to maneuver. Duck for cover and let our slinger get this sorted! I'll hold the pack Embla gave me in one hand and start fishing for my handaxe with the other. I'd rather not lose it to the chasm but I'm sure as hell not getting whatever disease this bugger has!

It's only one stirge; but that potential fall is high in the players' minds and even through the blog format it is easy to see the tension.  I want to play on that as DM by keeping my answers to the player's concerns short and cold. Another sign of stress is seeing the players make up additional dangers in their minds.  I don't know from what in my description that Pandred got the idea of a disease, but something tipped that concern.  It's nice when overthinking works in a DM's favor!

Embla: I throw my javelin at the creature and retreat I throw my javelin at the creature and retreat as far as I can to the other side of the bridge (towards 1806).  Javelin: 10+1(Str)=11 to-hit.

Lothar: Fjall has a partially loaded crossbow for you Pandred. Last I remember it had two rounds completed, not sure if they still count though.

DM: The javelin misses and is gone.  The flying thing shifts to dodge it.

Strictly speaking, Embla needs to roll for initiative.  However, at the time I was prepared to believe that the creature would not move until Embla did; and that her javelin throw could be reasonably expected to happen before the stirge reached her.  Therefore, I discarded the initiative roll, maintaining momentum, without feeling the need to explain why.  I have the players well in hand at this point, if I need to impose an initiative roll, they'll simply accept it; while I have a clear, fixed idea of when the roll is needed and when it isn't.  That ideal is this: if multiple combatants come to the same place at the same moment and have an equal chance of affecting the other first, then initiative is rolled.  If, on the other hand, on is using a missile while the other is dependent on body contact (whether or not through a weapon), then initiative can be discarded. Sometimes, and this is hard to call, if the missile-using combatant has reason to fear the charge of a body-contact assailant, there is a chance that the missile-user will freeze up and lose initiative, if the distance between combatants is slight.  But I did not think that was the case here. I was watching the others as they discussed Fjall's crossbow.  Fjall is a hireling, so I have some control over his actions, though I tend to let the party dictate what the hireling is doing.  The party did not say so, but in my mind I had Fjall move up behind Engelhart and finish loading his crossbow.  The online party is still a little fuzzy on how my crossbow loading procedure rules work, otherwise one of them would have said specifically the words, "Fjall finishes loading his crossbow." Anyway, Engelhart has been whirling his sling for enough time now, as the creature has hovered, so he will need to fire.

DM: Engelhart, as Embla makes for 1806, the creature will zero in on her. I'm going to give you initiative, so please let go a stone or bullet [indicate which] if it pleases you.

The tunnel is so narrow, Pandred, that only one of you can stand in it and see the chamber. It is just large enough to fit Engelhart's shoulders. He has to step out onto the bridge to fire.

Embla, please tell me what your movement rate is.

Embla: I have 4 AP currently.

DM: Okay, Embla has 4 AP. Halfway across is 1006, she backed up to 0906, now she moves towards 1806 (as fast as she is able); that puts her in 1306.

Technically, all this moving, plus her javelin throw, accounts for two total rounds. This gives time for Engelhart to emerge from the tunnel, spin his sling, roll to hit, and still have 2 action points to spend.

I know that Engelhart said he has his sling "ready," but I have to read this as having his sling in hand. He has time to move 1 AP, load, fire, then be left with 2 AP after.

Here I am in full DM-mode.  There are a lot of things going on; there's information I need to have and things I need to relay to the party, so that everyone understands what is going on.  Though the party are all here together, they form three basic groups: Embla, Engelhart and those in the tunnel.

Primarily, I have to establish two principle details: placement of people and time.  No one has really talked about how long any of this has taken, so I'm stepping up.  I'm measuring time from the moment Engelhart wants to fire at the stirge; nothing before that moment really matters in terms of time.  With time established, I want Embla to know exactly where she is, I want Engelhart to know the same, and I want those in the tunnel (which is very narrow, only four feet wide) to know that only the front person there can take a meaningful action.

I want to do this as fast and as clearly as possible, to maintain the slightly freaked out moment that Embla has as she runs for the end of the bridge before being potentially struck and knocked off the side.  I don't want to spend any time discussing this possibility: I don't have to, for one, the player's imagination is stronger than my words would be and again, I don't want to talk about the future.  Not until it happens.

In my book, How to Run, I talk about how important it is for the DM to predict the future in gaming.  This is just such a case.  However, I don't want to predict just one future.  While managing the details, I'm lining up in my mind what rolls Embla will have to make if the stirge hits her and stuns her; and what will happen if the stirge hits and doesn't stun, but grips her clothing and drives its proboscis into her body, to start sucking blood. And what will happen if the stirge misses.  And even what will happen if I roll a 1 to hit and the stirge fumbles.

It isn't just about what will happen to Embla, but what the stirge will do next if Embla falls, or the stirge fumbles, or the stirge misses and has reason to search for another target.

And because I've been playing D&D for 38 years, I'm running all these future movies in my head in a couple of seconds; if I'm doing it at an actual gaming table, I'm doing this without thinking, in the blink of an eye.  It's called pattern recognition and the book explains how this works.

Oh, and I remembered here to ask Engelhart to designate a stone or a bullet for his sling, even though it was technically already loaded.  But these things can be retconned.  He never did tell me, though ... which, as I say, is typical and not really a big problem.

Engelhart: I fire. 18 to hit, 2 mighty damage.

DM: That hits! And this may surprise you. The creature spins out of control and drops into the cavern. Lucky shot. It was AC 2.

Because of my mass to hit dice rules, a stirge does not weigh very much and therefore, though 1+1 hit dice, cannot have many hit points.  They're a lightweight creature, but fearful in large numbers. I thought the combat was over at this point, and I was glad.  I did not really want to throw a stirge at the party; I hoped for an easy kill.  Unfortunately, I needed to get the party to the kitchen that came after, which needed a chimney, and which could not logically buttress the chamber the party had been in before encountering the bridge (this can all be discerned from the Juvenis blog).  Moreover, I'd dropped a lot of water out of the previous chamber with a mechanism, so I needed somewhere for that water to go ~ and so I conceived of this bridge chamber, with water running on the bottom. With a passage to the outside, I could not rationalize that such a chamber would be empty, so, I had to put something in the room.  A stirge seemed frightful enough, given the potential fall.  Mostly, however, I wanted to get the party to the kitchen, where there was treasure, which they had earned through overcoming many obstacles and at least one big fight. Unfortunately, after "killing" the stirge, the cleric wrote (and this got eaten by blogger):

Engelhart: No, wait. I forgot I don't have proficiency with the bloody thing! Shouldn't have posted from the hip, many apologies. Rewind as needed, I will have to turn in.

Well, damn. I really considered several ways of letting this pass.  Oh, I really wanted to have the thing just fly away or justify Engelhart hitting the thing, so we could move on ... but no, the right thing was to retcon the incident, which I did.

The rest of the comments section tells the story ~ the players were able to kill the stirge just the same, enabling them to continue on to more dangerous situations.