Happy Happy

Go eat some candy.

Also, listen to Hawkwind.

To the Lagoons

I am not one to take many trips to the far-most southern parts of Greyhawk. I can't say as I love the Lords of the Isles; I mean, I don't like lords in general, and I certainly don't want a bunch of self-appointed lords to tell me where I can and can't sail a ship. Although, to be fair, I can't sail a ship, but hey, that is my business, not some gussied-up pirate's business. If I want to sail a ship directly in wind and have it sink because I have no idea what I am doing or even if a ship can sail into the wind, by Rudd's luck card, I will. 

Also, I don't like ships that much. Aquatic combat is uncertain at best and having to protect three dimensions instead of two is not that great. It is one thing if the other tactical plane is above, and it is another, worse thing when it is below. First, there is the problem of breathing, which is not generally a concern when fighting something in the air. Second, everything is slowed down when fighting on, or in, the water. Ever shoot a crossbow from a skiff? Let me tell you, it sucks. Even worse is combat in the water. The water is never warm; cuts, parries, and all the rest of sword craft is gone; and good luck if you prepared for the adventure by putting metal armor on. Sure, sometimes it is fine to have leather or padded armor: in the business, it is called second level. Unless that boiled leather is magical, look for an upgrade as soon as possible. I can't count the times my chainmail +2 has saved my hide, and I can count pretty high since someone has to count all my treasure.

Anyway, leave the sailing to the merfolk or, really, whomever else want to do it. As long as it isn't me, have at it.

"City of Lagoons" is the end of side A.

    

Half Wolf, Half Half Wolf

Not to be confused with a werewolf, the wolfwere is, at least according to the Monster Manual II, hated and feared by human and demihuman alike. To me, this says two things. First, that someone out there is okay with werewolves. Second, that humanoids don't have a problem with wolfweres. Now, I can see how a person might be okay with a werewolf: they can be tragic figures. It might be a familial curse that they transform every month from Duke Suchandsuch to the countryside mangler. For 28 days of the month, you are a regular merchant or wheelwright or cobbler and for the other days, you are ripping through bodices and jerkins. There isn't much anyone can do for these werewolves outside of hitting them with a remove curse. To be fair, there is a bunch of stuff that can be done to a werewolf, but remove curse is the only one that usually leaves them alive. Hitting a werewolf with an eight hit die fireball, for example, will eliminate the werewolf problem, but it also might make the three-year old son of Duke Suchandsuch the new Duke quite quickly.

No, the thing I really have a problem with is the assumption that humanoids wouldn't have a problem with wolfweres. I am half-humanoid, and these guys sound terrible. Not only are they pretty tough and sneaky, their howling song causes lethargy in people who hear it. I have been afflicted with many things in my time: several forms of disease, sexually transmitted and otherwise; mania and monomania thanks to magic-user I once angered; memory loss after too much of a good time. But never lethargy. I would have a serious problem with some fake human trying to get me to slow down. I don't usually consider myself a spokesperson for my race, but this time I will: humanoids also have a problem with wolfweres.

"Steppenwolf" turned out to be better than I remembered it. These Halloween postings keep paying off.

Grin Reefer

Fun facts from the Dungeon Masters Guide

• I get a +15% on my morale when I am greatly intoxicated. I have a feeling this is more for the "alcohol" than "narcotics" because during my narcotic experiences, I would not necessarily say that I more likely to continue the fight than I am to continue the narcotic. 
• Somehow, I get +3 hit points when I am 15 pipe loads into Garwin Treefather's super stash of crimson widow weed. Almost makes the loss of dexterity and attack dice worthwhile. Plus I am a half-orc; what do I care about charisma?
• I must say, I like the idea of finding the stage beyond great that allows me to go comatose and sleep for 10 hours. Frankly, I see this as a benefit, not a drawback.    

• Far be it from me to argue with the DMG; it has been part of my prime material plane life for almost 40 solar cycles, but time is not the only cure for intoxication. There are many spells that will handle it, and I bet a potion of super healing can take the edge right off that hangover or drug-fiend lean. Also, what about a brew that the local shaman puts together? I am sure that more than one tribal priest has a darn fine recipe for shaking off the shakes. 

"Reefer Madness" is the opening song on Hawkwind's 1976 album, Astounding Sounds, Amazing Music. Can't say this is my favorite Hawkwind LP, but it, like every other Hawkwind recording, will have weird bits.

Wrong Side of Another Day

I think every adventurer has had this experience, with the exception of monks and clerics who follow some of those boring lawful religions: you have recently split the profits of an extremely successful dungeon crawl and are out looking for somewhere to spend part of your earnings. By Boccob, you did just face a group of trolls, a particularly smelly grey ooze, several ogres, and two surprisingly well-organized hobgoblin tribes, capped off by a upper-level magic-user who tried to fry the whole party with lighting bolts. I mean, you earned that loot.

Out you go, with a couple of the other more fun-loving party members, one thing leads to another, and the next thing you know, you are dancing around a open fire pit with a half-giantess and several other women of various reputations. Everyone is having a real good time drinking Willip Widowmakers and inhaling various herbs and spices. Things start to get a little blurry, various stages of alertness are visited, and then everyone needs to find a place to rest weary heads.

At some point, the blinding sun comes piercing through whatever hovel, tent, or room you have managed to stumble into. The half-giantess is gone, along with several of your gold pieces. You stumble around, looking for a pitcher of water or, if that isn't available, a trough to stick your head in. After a while, you start to feel a little better. Gathering up your clothes and whatever is left of your purse, you head back to wherever you stashed the rest of your loot and gear. By the time you get back, the sun is going down, your head hurts less, and the night calls again. The whole point of killing those trolls is to get their money, and there isn't much good in saving it. What, are you going to bring it with you when you head to Avernus? 

"Motorhead"--minus the umlaut--is the last song Lemmy wrote before Hawkwind booted him out for liking speed more than acid.

Speedy Kings of Speed

Here are some random facts about speed from the Dungeon Masters Guide:

• Two of the ingredients for a potion of speed are a pegasus heart and giant weasel blood. Now that would be a fun little quest for three or four lower-level PCs to go on. A local magic-user, based out of Enstad, hires the group to get a heart and find some weasels. Along the way, they battle goblins, gnolls, a gargoyle, and one angry ogre, only to find it was all a set up. There wasn't a pegasus at all: the magic-user was luring the party to their doom so he could drain their blood. 
• Getting a potion of speed is well worth it. Movement speed is doubled, and a character can attack at twice their normal amount. Essentially, an 9th-level assassin could fire 4 poison-tipped arrows a melee round, as she scoots around the room as a blur. It is worth the 1 year of a life for each drink. Elves can live 500 years: that is a lot of potions.  
• Speaking of fast, mixing boots of speed with a potion of speed would be quite impressive. The boots have a base movement of a fast horse [24" a round]. Slip on the boots, slip a little of the fine weasel blood, and run around the battlefield faster than pretty much anything. Well worth having to rest every eight hours and being one year older.
• There also is a lot about weapon speed factors, which I surprisingly never used. I guess it is because it wasn't on a graph or chart I could memorize.

"Kings of Speed" is also the A-side to the "Motorhead" single. I should probably spend some prime material dollars and buy that record.

Warriors

I have never had the pleasure of encountering a skeleton warrior, to which I am not altogether sad. Don't get me wrong, getting a hold of one of their gold circlets would be outstanding. Getting to see through the eyes of one of these name-level-fear-inspiring monstrosities has to be fun. Pretty much any person, semi-person, demi-person, or personoid who sees you is going to flee in panic, hopefully dropping their wallets as a result. Granted, as a half-orc, I am not exactly blessed with an astronomical comeliness score and most other races already treat me with antipathy, but the local inhabitants of Crockport aren't going to drop everything in terror when they see me. But show up as a skeletal warrior, and all the footpads, tricksters, conjurers, scouts, gallants, swordsmen, and curates are going to hit the skids.

Also, skeletal warriors only exist to find out who has their gold circlet and kill them. Apparently, they can get their souls back once they have possession of their circlet, and, although the Fiend Folio is fairly vague on this part, I assume they de-animinate and head off to the Beastlands or The Grey Waste or wherever they were headed before an evil demi-god gave them the old soul trap. I guess getting the circlet is a mixed blessing. On one paw, there is the ability to scare the dung out of local yokels; on the other, wearing the headpiece draws a quite powerful and extremely focused undead fighter towards you with pretty much one thing on its exceptionally intelligent mind.

"Warriors" is far-out material. Easy to see that Moorcock helped with this one.

Horn-blowing Wizards

There are a few different kinds of horns that enterprising adventurers can obtain: horns of blasting, horns of collapsing, and for our underwater friends, a horn of the tritons, although it is more of a conch than a horn. But certainly the most cheerful of the horns that a roving bard or sticky-fingered thief can pick up is the horn of bubbles. 

From the Dungeon Masters Guide: This musical instrument will radiate magic if detected for. It appears as a normal horn, or as one of many magical ones. It will sound a note and call forth a mass of bubbles which completely surround and blind the individual who blew the horn for 2-20 rounds, but these bubbles will only appear in the presence of a creature actively seeking to slay the character who winded the horn, so their appearance might be delayed for a very short or extremely lengthly period.  

Now that is a weird magic item. Fing the Merciless might find the horn in a slag heap, blow it, feel like nothing has gone on, only to discover that when they are about to tangle with a ogre family, they are surrounded with a thick mass of bubbles. I think this is one of those magic items that seems bad when you first get it, but once you figure out how to use it, can be quite fun to surprise on one's enemies. Or maybe it is the other way around.

I also imagine that all the bubbles make a cartoonish popping sound when then break.

"The Wizard Blew His Horn" is one of the Moorcock numbers from Warrior. It isn't great, but it is weird.

Void Where Prohibited

I cannot say that voids mean great things for adventuring parties. Usually they signify a step into the negative plane of existence or getting stuffed into a bag of holding or some tricky lich's lair. Nope, voids are almost always a step in the exact wrong direction. Even having a void in your memory after a hard night of ale swigging and Bag End heavy top is problematic; I have had to visit a cleric on more than one occasion to have a cure disease cast on me because of some encounter with someone.

But, good adventurer that I am, I do have one story where a void paid off. Four of us decided that it was time to shake off the dust of the three horse town we were staying in and do a little exploring. As it usually does, one thing led to another, and next thing I know, we are in a good, old-fashioned bandit brawl, followed by an equally old-fashion gnoll slaughter. One of the gnolls had a key, that key opened a door, as most keys do, and before you can say "Woolly Bay," we are headed down a flight a stairs. No big deal until it starts to stink. I mean really stink; we are talking kobold orgy level of stench here. But we are hardened adventures, and we gird our loins and keep walking through the almost visible waves of odor.

There is a door at the bottom of the stairway, as is common with stairs, and, as is common for adventuring parties, we break the door down. As the door falls, we finally see what is causing all the stench. It is a roughly twenty-foot tall pile of garbage, gnoll poop, severed body parts, rot grubs, flies, and pretty much anything else that would live in a mound of waste that is two ten-foot poles high. By this point, I am working hard at keeping down lunch, as I assume everyone else is. But then I notice our cleric mumbling out a prayer while holding an iron bar and touching a small part of the pile. Eight segments later, the garbage pile vanishes, smell and all. Without saying anything, all of us turn around, leave the garbage room, climb the stairs, pass the gnoll and bandit bodies, and spend the next couple turns inhaling clean air. Turns out the cleric had a long-standing phobia of garbage and plane shifted it all to the negative plane of energy. I mean, that is a serious phobia to use a 5th-level spell on a mound of trash, but I am glad he did.

And so ends the story of the only time a void worked for me.

Warrior on the End of Time is Hawkwind's fifth album, with some lyrics by Michael Moorcock.
  

Orgone Accumlator

As seen from the last ten years roughly of Perverse Osmosis, I enjoying accumulating. Whether it be gems, scrolls, potions, magical boots, swords, daggers, crossbows, bolts, most kinds of coins, and upmarket gems, I think there is something to be said for having lots of them.

Here is a brief list of things I do not enjoy accumulating:

• Bugbear furs. For whatever reason, bugbear love their dirty furs. After killing eight or ten of them, there is always the question of what to do with their furs. Someone in the party usually makes the suggestion that we take them back to the local village and sell them. When this happens, I make an alternate suggestion that revolves around their teeth and my gauntlet.
• Copper pieces. As a first-level character, it is great to find 15 copper pieces. I mean, that is two garlic buds and a pigeon. But finding 13,000 copper pieces in a dragon horde later in the same campaign? That sucks. It is never worth bringing out, even with a bag of holding. All that will happen is the local currency will become inflated because of the influx of cheap money.
• Cursed items. I know, who likes cursed items? What kind of idiot is going to have a book of vile darkness or helm of opposite alignment lying around their freehold? Well, I will tell you? Adventurers. I have been to several long-time party members' places, only to find seriously terrible magical items behind ropes. When asked, these people, who, again, are generally incredibly competent fighters, thieves, or clerics, will give an answer that basically boils down to "I found it, so I keep it." No. Don't keep it. Sell it to someone in Free City of Greyhawk or the Scarlet Brotherhood. Use the money to party.  
• Scars. This one is self-explanatory.

"Orgone Accumulator" isn't found on any studio album, but it is on Space Ritual (1973). I don't know why it was never officially recorded because it is upper-tier Hawkwind.

Lost Johnnies

There isn't much to be said for being totally lost in the wilderness. I am not talking about being a couple hexes off from where a lost city is supposed to be or anything like that. That is to be expected while adventuring. Oftentimes, these accidents turn into fun excursions where a little extra mayhem falls into the party's lap: there might be a bandit lair or a gnoll gathering to stumble on between where you are supposed to go and where you are.

No, I am talking about when the party is totally lost, when not even having a druid, elf, or gnome is going to help. Sometimes this is the result of a blind flight from enemies bigger and more violent; sometimes this lost-ness is the result of a spiteful magic-user who maybe holds a grudge against a certain half-orc because of that certain half-orc's earlier attempts to acquire a scroll from the previously mentioned magic-user. One segment, three of us are partying in a semi-respectable tavern and the next segment, we find ourselves in the middle of Dim Forest, wondering which way is even out. Tricks like looking for moss on one side of a tree or following a stream don't work when you have no idea about where the stream leads. Granted, the stream usually leads to a village, hamlet, or duchy, but who is to say that this village is filled with people you want to meet? Sometimes, as is the above case, the village isn't really a village; it is a collection of hovels recently invaded by a tribe of ogres. Thankfully, these ogres were not expecting three semi-high-level adventurers to come traipsing out of the tree line. After giving the ogres the old one-two-kill-kill and poking around in their no-longer-needed possessions, we found a couple hundred gold pieces and a gem that could have bought us all horses, had we been in a place with an active horse-trading business. Alas, the middle of the Dim Forest is not that place. So we walked and walked and walked and eventually found our way out.

I still owe that magic-user one.

"Lost Johnny" is a Lemmy tune and a pretty good one at that.

Web Weaver

I know I have written about a wide range of spiders before. Perverse Osmosis even has a song about one variety in particular [phase spiders]. But I don't think it can be said enough that I have, at best, a loose alliance with the spider kingdom, and, in most cases, do my best to avoid these 8-legged menaces.

One of my biggest complaints about spiders is the lack of anything resembling loot from dispatching them. Take a giant spider for example. An unsuspecting party might stumble into five of these poisonous web builders, fight/hack/slash their way through these multi-legged bastards, and end up with a bunch of copper pieces that are impossible to take out of the dungeon. Maybe, just maybe, there will be two or three gems, but those are unlikely to be worth much. 

Seriously, look at the Monster Manual sometime. Your best option for good treasure is a phase spider, and fighting them sucks. They are always ping-ponging around, looking to inject deadly venom and then slip into another dimension. I am glad that the one we wrote a song about lost its mind. I don't remember if we looted its lair, but I sure hope we did. There is a 25% chance that the party would have gotten a potion or a ring or a scroll. Those aren't great odds, but they are better than eight gold pieces.

"Web Weaver" is a little too hippy-dippy for your humble narrator, but the title was too good to pass up.

Warlords Can Disappear in Smoke

As a fairly consistently neutral-evil character, I am largely against concentrated power of any kind. For Boccob's sake, have yourself a holdfast or a keep or even a small duchy, but once that control starts to move beyond an easy horse ride, it is getting a little too close to lawful evil for my taste. If I wanted to live in The Horned Society, I would move there.

Yet, there is always some pretender to some throne, orc possessed by a magic glove, magic user who uses hallucinatory terrain to hide their grand ambition, greedy blue dragon, or particularly nasty eye tyrant that wants to keep expanding their domain in a misguided quest for power, wealth, fame, or supposed safety. You know what makes you safe, Gracknor Elfgrinder? Not wanting to have a orc kingdom? Be content with a cave complex. That still doesn't satisfy your interest in commanding legions or having serfs? Then head on up to the Pomarj and see what you can get there. I hear all kinds of orcs hang out there. But as soon as Mr. Elfgrinder wants to start ruling over a couple hex wide territory, you can be sure that I am brushing off my trusty crossbow of speed, sword +1, +3 against humanoids, and calling in a few favors with the local assassin's guild to make sure that Gracknor eats steel.

Keep Greyhawk decentralized is my motto. It isn't really, but it could be. I don't need any place called the Great Kingdom telling me what to do. The true road to power, wealth, fame, and safety lies in dungeon crawling.   

"The Psychedelic Warlords (Disappear in Smoke)" opens up Hall of the Mountain Grill, the fourth Hawkwind album. In case you, as listener, didn't know that Hawkwind was interested in space, the album cover should be a pretty good indication.

  

The Watcher

I never played many dwarves or gnomes in my time. I like these races, and I generally like when they are in the party. Gnomes are fun little tricksters and even the most stereotypical dwarven fighter is good for a few beer jokes or anti-elf comments. But I am more of a human or half-orc kind of a guy, so I am not putting together many Ederth Hammerfall or Faena Jenan, Master Illusionist. That said, I think I missed out on one of the skills that dwarves and gnomes can do seemingly unconsciously: detect slopes.

I know: who cares about detecting a slope? I never did. Far as I am concerned, the farther down the dungeon the better. There are not a lot of swords of giant slaying or 1,000 p.p. gems hanging around on the first level of a dungeon crawl. Nope, those first levels are filled with stupid goblins, an occasional hobgoblin, and more giant centipedes than I care to count. There is a reason the module is called Descent into the Depths of the Earth, not Staying on the Surface of the Earth. Beholders live in the depths, liches live in the depths, even xorns live in the depths. I don't need someone telling me that I am walking downhill; I will throw some water on the ground and follow it.

I am sure that better players than I use detect slopes all the time. They are probably the same kind of players who put chalk on the walls of a labyrinth or spike door to keep them open. Yes, they live longer, but all that space in their bags filled with chalk and spikes could be going to better use: holding shiny, shiny gold.

"The Watcher" ends Dorime and is credited to Lemmy. It is a long way from the average Motorhead song, but there is a lot of creative room when one is in Hawkwind.

  

Space is Deep, and So Are Our Kegs

Yesterday, I mentioned spending a little time in Gradsul at an inn named Shriekers. Thanks to local contacts in the city, I managed to get a look at the menu.


Drinks of the Day:
The Myconid, a pungent mushroom-flavored drink so strong it is almost ambulatory. Shriekers is not responsible for damage caused by hallucinations. 2 s.p.

Brown Dragon, a mix of wormwood and psilocybin. A local druid calls it "a mental dimension door to parts unknown." Free hour-long use of a cushion with every purchase. 5 e.p.


Beer Selection:
Crockport Brown 3 c.p.
Molag Molasses 5 c.p.
Haven Hill Honey Ale 1 s.p.
Gnatmarsh Porter 7 c.p.


Specials of the Day:
Azure Sea Bass on a bed of local herbs and greens 1 g.p.
Grain-fed Havenhill beef with mixed vegetables 1 g.p.
Silverwood Venison and seasonal greens 1.5 g.p.

Kids menu available on request

"Space is Deep" is the mellow-out follow up to "Brainstorm." I will assume that it was accompanied by a far, far out light show. If you are writing lyrics about space being big and small, you better be throwing up serious strobe lights.

Brainstorm

I haven't fought too many grells in my time. I have probably battled more beholders and gas spores than grells, and the former of those two monsters are fairly terrible to tangle with, unless the party is quite prepared, which, frankly, does not describe most of the parties I adventure with. Mirth-filled, yes; blood-soaked, sure; gold-driven; undoubtedly; overly prepared, not so much. Grells, on the other paw, I don't have much experience with.

Off the dome, I can only think of two grells that I ever had the pleasure of slaughtering. The first was on a dungeon crawl a couple hexes west of Gradsul. I met other characters--two fighters, a cleric, an extremely weird illusionist, and an even more boring monk--at Shriekers, a local inn, and after about ten meads, we made a pact to clean out a couple levels of a local hole in the ground. One thing led to another, and soon enough, I am launching crossbow bolts into a floating brain, trying not to hit one of the fighters who had been tentacled. Lucky for him, I am pretty good at shooting bolts into brains, and, along with a surprisingly well-placed kick by the monk, we pulped that beaked bastard.    

My other grell encounter was in a huge abandoned house that a couple of my usual partners and I used to sleep off our revels in. Sometimes, it isn't worth the hassle of renting a room for the night when there is a perfectly good roof waiting to be used for free. Sometimes, like when that house has a grell squatting in it, it is worth the hassle of renting the room. I was several horns deep into some local brew and winding down for the evening when I noticed what I thought were vines on the ceiling coming closer to me. Turns out they weren't vines; they were grell tentacles [grentacles?] looking to give me a hug and kiss and a shove down a grell gullet. But both of my companions were a little more on their A game that night; a burning hands and three sword hacks later, I was down on the ground, covered in thick, thick grell goo.

Hawkwind's third album, Doremi Faso Latido, starts off with one of my favorite Hawkwind numbers, "Brainstorm." Heavy riffs, pounding drums, super-long spacey part, it has it all. The live version on Space Ritual is slightly faster and will get covered by one of our other projects, The Redeye Ballers.

  

Children of the Lava

There is no lack of odd monsters in Fiend Folio: ettercaps, adherers, babblers, to name a few. To name another one: lava children. These happy-go-lucky volcanic dwellers want to spend their time frolicking in the lava, playing whatever their version of marco polo is and occasionally splashing each other with molten rock. Their parents aren't anywhere to be found: there are no lava adults in the mix, but I guess that is what happens when earth and fire spirits have one drunken hook up.

But we shouldn't feel too bad for the lava children since all of them have surprisingly powerful bites, even while smiling, and the magic-users in the tribes can throw around fireballs and burning hands. Rumor has it that the leaders--maybe they are lava teenagers--are triple-classed fighters/magic-user/clerics, who would be no joke to fight under the best of circumstances. Also, metal does not exist for them. Now, I am not sure exactly what that means philosophically for the lava children. Are they unable to conceptualize what metal is, in the same way that humans struggle with understanding a 6th dimension? Or is it that they can intellectually understand what metal is, but because they can't use it or be harmed by it, it only remains in the abstract sphere, something to be talked about in hushed tones by clerics and magic-users when they have had a few glasses of sweet lava wine?

Also, look at these guys: how could anyone stay mad at them? Sure, they have type Q treasure, but those couple gems are hardly worth it.

"Children of the Sun" is the last song of In Search of Space's second side. It isn't much of a head-banger, but it fits the album's thematics darn well. When you are looking for space, you will need to have a few children, and they might as well be children of the sun.

  

Master of the Universe

I will never claim to have grandiose dreams of universe mastery. Frankly, it sounds like way too much work for this occasionally lazy neutral evil character. I don't want to have to care about what a bunch of modrons are doing or what is the latest news concerning the life or unlife of Gith. Mostly, I want to go on adventures, acquire gold pieces and an occasional gem from dead monsters, use those gold pieces and gems to acquire various intoxicants from shady merchants, party with all sorts of humans, demihumans, humanoids, and whomever else is down for it, sleep for a couple days, and then go on another adventure to acquire more gold piece, etc.

That is just me though. I have met more than a few characters in my time who are interested in far larger things, including controlling various parts of the universe. Acererak from the Tomb of Horrors, for example, that demi-lich had dreamed big. Granted, we ended up smashing his stupid skull into powder and looting his tomb, but he stole a couple souls during the battle, so it was a fairly even trade off. But Acererak was hoping to colonize part of the negative material plane so he could run all the undead throughout the universe. That is dreaming big. For all I know, he is still at it now; demi-liches are notoriously hard to really kill, and frankly, after we did the ol' smashy-smashy, looty-looty on the tomb, the couple of us who were left weren't hanging around to see if Acererak was done for good. He was done for good enough. I still have the ring of free action that I walked out of that stinky crypt with.

"Master of the Universe" was the song that got me into Hawkwind. Long-time collaborator MK-Ultra brought a version of it over to my apartment when we were both living in pre-cataclysm Atlantis. It was just riff-driven enough to keep metal me interested and just spaced out enough to keep psychonaut me intrigued. In return, I gave him Attila: it is not difficult to see who got the better end of this exchange.   

We shouldn't do that

I have uttered some version of "We shouldn't do that" or "You shouldn't do that" a few times during my adventuring career. Come up on a door that has a pile of bones in front of it, and Bithring the Footpad starts to take his helmet off so he can listen at the door. Perfect time to drop in the "you shouldn't do that." I have seen enough poison doors to know that putting a slightly hairy halfling ear to the wood is a good way to add another set of bones to the pile because there is no way that I am hauling a corpse back out of the dungeon. 

Once our usual party of miscreants, ne're-do-wells, and bottom feeders, who are exactly the kind of folks I like adventuring with, found a tavern in the middle of Gamboge Forest after marching a couple hexes into it. The tavern seemed to be quite lively: we could hear fiddle playing and boot stomping and mirth making. One of our more chaotic counterparts floated the idea of setting fire to the tavern and ambushing the fun-havers as they came running out. I mean, sure, it would have been an easy way to make a couple hundred gold pieces, I am not denying that. But I gave the "we shouldn't do that" and instead came up with an alternate plan: having Gerlin the Enchanter cast sleep over the tavern, robbing all the dozing patrons, stripping all their clothes, throwing those clothes into a nearby stream, and then waiting around for everyone to wake up. Now that was fun.

But you know what is more fun than saying "we shouldn't do that"? Saying that we should do that. Whenever possible, unleash the awesome power of yes.     

"You Shouldn't Do That" opens up In Search of Space, Hawkwind's incredible 1971 space rock opus. Granted, I don't like all my opening songs to be 15 minutes long, but if you are going to have an album that is about searching for space, you might as well. 

Paranoia

Zero-level me spent a lot of time reading the Dungeon Masters Guide. Frankly, what else was I going to do? I didn't have cable; school wasn't exactly piling on the homework; I could usually get my chores done quickly, freeing up many a turn for digging through charts and tables. For example, the types of insanity table (page 83 for those of you reading along at home). I think this table is where I learned what dementia proecox was. In fact, I know it was since where else would I hear it? Fish from Barney Miller? Charles Emerson Winchester III from M*A*S*H? Same thing with hebephrenia. Now there is a term to show off to your fifth-grade chums.    

My favorite of all the listed types was paranoia. Maybe this description is where I started being interested in Heidegger's idea of "the they." Now I know that the better translation for the term is "the one," but that is nowhere near as menacing.

"Paranoia 1 and 2" will be our last posting from the first Hawkwind album. There are so many other albums I need to get to. I can't believe I spent three days on this one.

Hurry On Sundown

Although many, many good things happen after dark--drinking, looting, carousing, stabbing, escaping--one of the less good things that can happen is an encounter with a penanggalan. Anyone who has spent much time digging around the Fiend Folio is probably familiar with this image:

Already, this is not good. Our humble adventurer, hair nicely braided, not only has the look of complete bewilderment in his eyes, but he also is about one segment away from getting his throat ripped out by a flying vampire head. Let's say that Ol' Hair Braid makes a dexterity check and manages to escape with his carotid artery intact. You know what he still has to worry about? The dripping ooze from Lady Penanggalan's viscera causing him burning damage. Let's also say OHB is lucky and keeps his dermis in one unburnt piece. He may not even remember the attack due to all the undead witchy power of the bodiless neck ripper.  

When your party is travelling between dungeons, spend the money on inn, hostel, tavern, or woodchopper's shed. All the silver pieces spent getting a roof over one's head will be worth it to prevent running into something that, in most cases, only has a head.

"Hurry on Sundown," which opens side one of Hawkwind, is apparently a reference to David Brock's other occupation of busking.

Be Yourself or Myself or Someself

You know who sucks? Doppelgangers, that's who.

First off, look at how many of these sneaky bastards are lying in wait for the party: 3-12. That means, on a bad day (for the party)/good day (for the DM), there could be one 'ganger waiting to change into every PC, with a couple left over for good measure.

Second, notice that if the original plan to secretly do away with Reldor the Cleric and Drith O'Klon, local fighter don't come to fruition, doppelgangers simply attack. They don't plan an ambush, they don't set up a classic pincer movement, they don't remove the spike from the door to trap the party inside. Nope, all they do is count on the fact that it would be super confusing to fight yourself.

Third, they have ESP. In case it isn't confusing enough to fight yourself, other you knows exactly what you are thinking. Sweep low with a battle ax? Too bad sucker: the other you knows it is coming and has its version of a battle ax ready to block.

But you know what these skull-less jerks can't prepare for? The fact that I don't know what I am doing either. There are a few advantages to being neutral evil: gold, gems, magic items, power. Another one: the ability to work against self-interest when it serves self-interest. When that doppelganger tries to read my mind, all it is going to get is "Pop Goes the Weasel." By the time it figures out what is going on, I will be cleaning its blood off my blade and seeing what kinds of scrolls it has stashed away.

Hawkwind's first album, creatively titled Hawkwind, is a relative latecomer to the world of heavy psych and/or acid rock. The Pink Floyd already had three/four albums released before this heap of weirdness was released. I can't say it is my favorite Hawkwind album: it is a little too hippy-dippy for my taste, but it is easy to see where it is going, and, according to an un-credited source on Wikipedia, original advertisements for the record said "Hawkwind is space rock."   

Like the Screech of a Hawk

Somehow, despite doing Rocktober for several solar cycles, I haven't ever explored our friends from the UK: Hawkwind. This oversight is an odd one. I mean, Hawkwind has all the components that any first to tenth-level adventurer is going to want out of a band:

• Full-on fantasy-adventure album covers
• Lyrics by Michael Moorcock, whose Eternal Champion cycle a young me read obsessively, especially Elric
• Arguably the first band to use strobe lights 
• Performing at the Isle of Wight festival inside an inflatable sphere that slowly began to deflate, causing one member of the band to quit playing live
• Causing audience members to pass out by using keyboard frequencies 
• A song about psi power
• A song with lyrics about moving parallelograms 
• A song extolling the joys of being an urban guerrilla 
• Many, many songs about space
• The seemingly always-topless Stacia
• Ditching Lemmy at the border because he did "the wrong kinds of drugs"
• "Motorhead" the song giving birth to Motorhead the band
• "Master of the Universe" as the ur-text for space metal
• The fact that they are still touring.

Hail Hawkwind and let's get this space ritual started.

Beats the alternative

Osmosites-
Sorry about the long, long delay in content, but the perverseosmosis.com site was hacked, and I am still trying to figure out how to un-hack it [I am looking at you, Network Solutions]. Until I can get it back and running, I will take advantage of Google and work on a shadow site that will be all the usual AD&D mayhem, but without the fancy non-blogspot URL.

No real idea about how this version of ye olde internet works, but I will see what I can figure out. Learning is always good.

As some may know, October means it is time for the annual Rocktober post-a-thon where all the streams get crossed, where the Fiend Folio and Monster Manual do the mambo with Kreator or Wraith, and Queen of the Demonweb Pits is both a module and an album.

Hail yourselves!