Off to Gamehole Con

I leave today for Madison, Wisconsin to attend Gamehole Con 12, which formally starts tomorrow. However, being the anxious person I am, I like to arrive a day early to ensure that any delays won't adversely affect my attendance. Like last year, I'm signed up to play in several games, including a session of Traveller with Marc Miller himself, but my main reason for going to the con is the chance to meet up with friends whom I might otherwise only "see" online. That's by far my favorite part of the convention and why I look forward to returning each year.

While I still remain an avowed Luddite, I will be bringing a camera with me this year, so I hope to have more photos to share of the con than I did last year. I will still be largely out of contact while I'm in Madison, so there will be no significant posts from me here or on my Patreon or Substack until after I return. Likewise, comment approval will be suspended. With luck, I'll avoid coming down with the dreaded Con Crud as a result of my travels, but I wasn't so lucky last year. 

Regardless, I'm off!

The Mutable Dreamer?

Here's another public post from my Patreon about the development of Dream-Quest. As always, I invite comments on the post, since I'm still turning over ideas in my head and appreciate other perspectives. In this particular case, I'm pondering a fairly big change to the mechanics and presentation of the game as I've imagined it so far, which is why feedback is important.

The Articles of Dragon: "Plane Facts on Gladsheim"

Judging by the fact that this is the third post in a row about Dragon issue #90 (October 1984), I think it’s safe to say it was a good one. The funny thing is, before rereading it for these posts, I don’t think I’d have singled it out as anything special. I have a pretty good visual memory, especially for the covers of books and magazines I read as a kid or teenager, and recalling a cover usually brings the contents rushing back. I certainly remembered the cover of issue #90, but, until I revisited it, I doubt I could have told you much about what was inside, let alone why it might be worth talking about all these years later. Go figure!

In the case of the other two articles from this issue I've already discussed, that makes some sense. However, in the case of Roger E. Moore's "Plane Facts on Gladsheim," I'm a bit surprised. I was always a huge fan of Moore's articles, many of which are among the best ever to appear in the pages of Dragon. Likewise, I was fascinated by AD&D's planar cosmology from the moment I first saw it in Appendix IV of the Players Handbook. I wanted to know more about all these strange otherworlds that Gary Gygax mentioned there. Consequently, Moore's article on the Astral Plane was like catnip to me. Even now, I'd easily list it as one of my Top 10 Favorite Articles – probably even Top 5. 

That's why I'm surprised I didn't remember that issue #90 included Moore's attempt to do for Gladsheim what he had done earlier for the Astral Plane. Rereading it, though, I begin to remember why. But before I get to that, I'd like to talk briefly about the article itself. At over a dozen pages in length, there can be no question that Moore has been thorough in describing the realm of the Norse gods and other "chaotic good neutrals," to use Gygax's gloriously baroque terminology. He presents the overall "geography" of the plane, with its various realms associated with gods, giants, and other beings, as well as how they relate to one another. It's useful stuff but, if you're already well versed in Norse mythology, none of it is new information.

What is new are his notes on how various AD&D spells and magic items operate on Gladsheim. Indeed, the bulk of the article is taken up by these notes, as Moore describes a wide range of changes, tweaks, and restrictions in how these things work here. On the one hand, this is very much to be expected. Starting with Queen of the Demonweb Pits, AD&D largely took a game mechanical approach to describing the planes. The planes were places where the rules of the game worked differently than they did on the Prime Material Plane of your home campaign setting. That is what set them apart (along with some new random encounter charts). Now, there's nothing inherently wrong with that approach and I think, in the case of both Lolth's layer of the Abyss and the Astral Plane, it works reasonably well. In the case of Gladsheim, though, I don't think it does – or at least, it's not enough to do so.

For me, the problem – then and now – is that Gladsheim is boring. As described, it's a realm that's not too dissimilar to most vanilla fantasy worlds. That's not Gladsheim's fault really; it's more a consequence of the fact that Norse mythology is so rich with cool monsters and magic and gods and so forth that fantasy writers, including the writers of Dungeons & Dragons, have been looting them for decades. Unlike, say, the bizarre void of the Astral Plane or the malevolent chaos of the Abyss, Gladsheim is just like northern Europe – which is what a lot of fantasy settings are already like. What really sets it apart?

Moreover, as a realm populated by lots of gods who are worshiped on the Prime Material Plane, the scope of what characters can do in Gladsheim is necessarily limited. Cause too much mayhem and they'll draw the attention of Odin or Thor and that's not likely to end well for them. I get the sense that Moore might have recognized this on some level, because he also wrote an accompanying adventure, "Aesirhamar," that's set on Gladsheim as an example of the kinds of things he expected characters could do here. I appreciate that, even if I'm not convinced his answer is an especially good one. However, I'll save my comments about the adventure till next week, because I think it's worthy of a separate post. For now, I'll simply say that I can now see why Planescape opted for such a strange and idiosyncratic approach to the planes. Like it or hate, at least it's different.

Troubleshooting (Part II)

Troubleshooting (Part II) by James Maliszewski

A New Frame for Thousand Suns

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Pulp Fantasy Library: Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper

First published in the July 1943 issue of Weird Tales, Robert Bloch’s “Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper” remains one of the author’s most famous short stories. In less than a dozen pages, Bloch manages to do what few others had attempted: to transplant one of history’s most notorious murderers into the modern world and suggest that his evil was not an isolated eruption of Victorian depravity but rather something timeless and ongoing.

The story’s plot is simple but clever. Set in contemporary Chicago, it follows Sir Guy Hollis, a visiting Englishman who approaches a skeptical American psychiatrist, John Carmody, with the extraordinary claim that Jack the Ripper still lives. Hollis explains that the Ripper was no mere man but an occultist who discovered a means of prolonging his life through ritual murder. The killings, he insists, have continued for decades, always masked by local crimes. Carmody humors Hollis, until a twist ending reveals the truth in classic pulp fashion, namely, that the Ripper is indeed alive and much closer than anyone suspected.

Despite its shock ending, Bloch’s tale is more than a clever “gotcha” story. It’s a condensation of the author’s lifelong preoccupations with the psychology of evil and the thin membrane separating reason from madness. Bloch's Ripper is not a shadowy figure from the past but a symbol of the persistence of violence and the darkness within modernity itself. The idea of evil as immortal, adaptable, and perversely rational is one Bloch would return to repeatedly, most famously in his novel Psycho, adapted into the even more famous Alfred Hitchcock film of the same name. Bloch's fascination with hidden monstrosity under a civilized veneer runs through “Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper,” which expertly combines the analytic tone of mid-century crime fiction with the lurid, occult sensibility of Weird Tales.

The story also marks a bridge between two eras of pulp horror. Bloch’s early mentor, H. P. Lovecraft, had encouraged him to look beyond imitation and find his own unique take on horror. “Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper” shows that lesson fully absorbed. While Lovecraft looked outward to cosmic terrors, Bloch looked inward to psychological ones. His Ripper is a mortal man sustained by unholy ritual rather than an inhuman being, yet he represents a similar idea – that horror is not confined to a time or a place but an enduring truth about existence.

Other pulp writers of the same era, such as Seabury Quinn and August Derleth, had already blended supernatural elements with the detective story, but Bloch’s version somehow feels more modern than their efforts. Its clipped dialogue, urban setting, and psychiatric framing anticipate the tone of postwar noir as much as the supernatural mystery. The story’s success, both in Weird Tales and in the numerous anthologies that reprinted it, helped establish Bloch as a master of the short form and demonstrated that pulp horror could engage with contemporary anxieties rather than remain trapped in the past.

Bloch himself would later revisit the central idea of this story in a different medium. For the television series, Star Trek, he wrote the 1967 episode “Wolf in the Fold,” which imagines Jack the Ripper as an incorporeal entity feeding on fear across time and space. The science-fictional reframing underscores how adaptable the premise is and how central it was to Bloch’s conception of evil as rational and enduring. That Star Trek episode, like the 1943 story, reflects his belief that horror is never merely historical. Instead, it’s part of Man, wherever and whenever he lives.

I first encountered this story in a 1977 Del Rey anthology of Bloch's short stories whose cover is inspired by "That Hell-Bound Train," another of the stories found within it. Re-reading it for this post, I think “Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper” still holds up as a sharp, efficient masterpiece of pulp horror. Its structure is almost textbook in its presentation, its atmosphere thick with tension, and its theme of evil as an ongoing contagion remains hauntingly relevant. Visible within the story are both the legacy of Weird Tales and the seed of the more psychological horror that would dominate the second half of the twentieth century. It’s a story that, like its title character, refuses to die.

AMA

Late last year, when I thought my House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign was only a few weeks from ending — shows what I know! — I mentioned that I planned to let the players ask me questions about the campaign, particularly about what things looked like “on the other side of the screen,” so to speak. I’ve always believed in a certain degree of transparency when it comes to what I do as referee. None of it is “secret knowledge,” so long as revealing it doesn’t spoil or diminish the experience of play.

Now that House of Worms has finally come to an end, I’m happy to answer any questions the players might have.

For that matter, I’m happy to answer questions from readers as well. If you’re curious about the campaign, post your questions in the comments below and I’ll do my best to respond. Some answers might be lengthy enough to warrant their own posts and that’s fine. I already have several more pieces about the campaign and its conclusion planned for the weeks ahead, so they’ll fit right in. House of Worms may have ended, but after more than a decade of regular play, there’s still plenty more to say about it.

Uncomfortable Truths

Uncomfortable Truths by James Maliszewski

Thoughts Occasioned by Reviews

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Retrospective: The Whispering Vault

For a long time, my Retrospective posts have focused on games and products from the so-called Golden and Silver Ages of Dungeons & Dragons, which is to say, the first fifteen or so years of the hobby. It was an arbitrary boundary, sure, but it also matched my own introduction to RPGs and, judging by reader comments, it often matched theirs too.

Alas, time moves on and here we are in 2025. Even the mid-1990s are now three decades in the past, which makes it worth looking back at some of the games from that era that have been overlooked. These titles might not feel “old school” in the classic sense and that’s okay. Grognardia has never been solely about old school gaming; it’s also about my memories of my own early days – and that sometimes means revisiting games that came later, but which still left a mark.

One of those games is The Whispering Vault, a small-press horror RPG that feels like a strange, almost forgotten cousin to the more well-known Vampire: The Masquerade. Written by Mike Nystul (of Nystul's magic aura fame) and published in 1994, The Whispering Vault focuses on Stalkers, immortal beings who carry out their cosmic hunt in a weird, unsettling universe. The game's approach to horror is quite distinctive, especially when compared to other horror games before or during its initial release, being at once heroic, moral, and surreal. 

Where Vampire (and the rest of White Wolf's "World of Darkness" games) explored personal horror and moral ambiguity, The Whispering Vault offered something equally unusual: a horror game in which the characters are empowered, not paralyzed, by the supernatural. Its Stalkers are once-mortal agents of the Primal Powers who move between the Realm of Flesh and the Realm of Essence to hunt the Unbidden, alien intruders whose presence corrupts reality. Each Stalker inhabits a personal Domain in the Realm of Essence and manifests in the mortal world through a Vessel, a form that conceals his inhuman nature while retaining traces of his former self. 

Mechanically, the game is fairly simple, using dice pools, attribute checks, and the judicious use of Disciplines and Servitors allow for a kind of "cinematic," narrative-driven play without bogging down in minutiae. While the system is easy to grasp, the game’s appeal lay more in its structure and tone. The Hunts on which the Stalkers went provided a clear goal, while the Stalkers’ moral and metaphysical responsibilities gave their work weight. Horror came not from helplessness, but from obligation, from the consequences of failing to protect the Realm of Flesh, and from confronting entities whose motives are alien and inscrutable.

The result is a game that feels both very much of its time and ahead of it. Its publisher, Pariah Press, was small and didn't have great reach. Likewise, the game's dense, sometimes opaque terminology kept it from reaching a broad audience. However, those who did find a copy found it strangely intriguing, helped no doubt by its excellent and evocative art. The Whispering Vault was nothing like older horror RPGs, like Call of Cthulhu, nor did it bare more than a superficial resemblance to White Wolf's stable. Instead, it offered a distinct, almost heroic take on horror. 

As I mentioned previously, the Stalkers’ role is to mend the damage caused by the Unbidden, restore balance, and act as moral agents in a world most people cannot perceive. The game supports this through mechanics such as the Five Keys, objects that anchor a Stalker’s identity and powers, and through the structure of their Hunts. Hunts are self-contained scenarios, intended for use as pick-up games, which is another way that The Whispering Vault sets itself apart from other horror games. Though campaign play is, of course, possible and supported, it's not the only way to approach the game, nor was it what it was originally designed for.

For years, I only ever heard about The Whispering Vault without seeing it in stores. When I finally obtained a copy, nearly a decade after its release, it was easy to miss the sense of novelty that had made the game so appealing in the ’90s. Many of its ideas had already filtered into other games by then, diluting its impact on me. Even so, it’s worth remembering what made the game unique. It occupies a fascinating space between horror, myth, and metaphysical speculation. Its focus on heroism, moral responsibility, and imaginative interpretations of supernatural threats makes it a game that I think sets it apart even now. I've still never had the chance to play it, but one day I'd like to.

The Mutable Dreamlands (Part I)

Here's another public post from my Patreon about the development of Dream-Quest. As always, I invite comments on the post, since I'm still turning over ideas in my head and appreciate other perspectives. In this particular case, I have a pretty good idea of how I plan to proceed, but it's still good to hear from others.

The Articles of Dragon: "Playing the Political Game"

Sometimes, an article, adventure, or even an entire game can exert a peculiar kind of influence over you, even though, viewed objectively, it’s not especially remarkable. I don’t mean that it’s bad, only that what it offers is, on the surface, mostly common sense. Most readers would nod in agreement, turn the page, and quickly forget about it – but you’re not most readers. For whatever reason, the author’s words reach you at exactly the right time and something clicks. The ideas linger. They grow. They shape how you see the hobby and, in some small but lasting way, how you play.

That’s what happened to me with “Playing the Political Game” by Mike Beeman, published in issue #90 of Dragon (October 1984). Beeman isn’t a name I associate with any other major contributions to the magazine and, by most measures, this article isn’t a landmark. Yet, when I first read it, just shy of my fifteenth birthday, it was nothing short of a revelation. It was the first time anyone had suggested to me that politics could be the central focus of adventures or even entire campaigns.

Beeman argues that politics isn’t an intrusion into fantasy roleplaying but its natural evolution. After all, nearly everything adventurers do already has political consequences, whether toppling tyrants, slaying monsters that guard vital resources, or flooding a town’s economy with treasure. At low levels, these effects remain background noise. But as heroes rise in power by claiming fiefs, leading troops, and  attracting followers, they inevitably become political actors. So why not embrace that reality deliberately and make politics a conscious part of the game’s action?

He goes further, contending that political play adds depth, realism, and moral challenge to a campaign. Where the dungeon tests courage and cunning, the court tests judgment and restraint. Ruling a realm or maneuvering among rival nobles requires players to think beyond combat rolls and saving throws, to weigh alliances, read motives, and face the consequences of their decisions. Politics, in Beeman’s hands, becomes not a dry digression but a stage for high-stakes, character-driven adventure.

What made the article truly stand out to me, though, was how practical it was. Beeman treats political scenarios as a kind of “social dungeon,” where familiar design principles still apply but in subtler ways. The setting might be a player’s own domain or a foreign court; the plot a brewing war, a trade dispute, or a palace intrigue; and the monsters a web of scheming nobles, rival factions, and hidden traitors. Clues replace traps, words replace weapons, and mystery, not combat, drives the scenario.

Even more memorably, Beeman classifies political adventures into distinct types – military, economic, commercial, internal security, and revolt – each offering a different framework for turning governance and intrigue into adventure. In doing so, he sketches a vision of AD&D that extends far beyond treasure maps and monster lairs. It's a world that feels alive and reactive, where power comes with responsibility and every decision has weight.

I won’t claim that “Playing the Political Game” is a forgotten masterpiece. Most of its ideas are, in hindsight, obvious. But for me, as a teenager discovering what roleplaying could be, it was transformative. It suggested that fantasy worlds could be more than stages for combat. They could be societies, with all the peril and promise that entails. Decades later, politics and intrigue have become my stock in trade as a referee and I can still trace that fascination back to Beeman’s unassuming article. It's a reminder that sometimes, the right words at the right time can change the way you play forever.

Troubleshooting (Part I)

Troubleshooting (Part I) by James Maliszewski

A New Frame for Thousand Suns

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Belated

October 1 came and went this year without my taking note that it was the birthday of Dave Arneson. I only realized this belatedly and the oversight has been weighing on me ever since. It’s not just that Arneson deserves to be remembered; it’s that forgetting him, even unintentionally, feels emblematic of a larger problem within the hobby of roleplaying games.

Arneson, as everyone reading this surely knows, was one of the two men without whom Dungeons & Dragons (and, by extension, the entire hobby of roleplaying) would never have come to be. Yet, despite that foundational role, his name and his contributions are too often overlooked, overshadowed, or, worse still, treated as footnotes to someone else’s story. It’s as though we remember him only when we’re reminded to, rather than as a matter of course.

As this year shows, I’m as guilty of this as anyone. I should have remembered October 1 instinctively, the way I do July 27, Gary Gygax’s birthday. The fact that I didn’t speaks volumes, not about Arneson himself, but about how unevenly we remember our own history. Arneson’s legacy is not just that he co-created a game; it’s that he opened the door to an entirely new form of play, one that invited imagination, collaboration, and improvisation in ways no game had before.

His Blackmoor campaign remains one of the great, underappreciated achievements in the history of the hobby. It was the first sustained experiment in what we now take for granted: a shared world, evolving through the choices of its players. So much of what defines roleplaying today, like the open-ended campaign, the emphasis on character, the freedom to explore an imagined world rather than simply play through a fixed scenario, traces back to the quiet, curious mind of a young man running games in Minnesota in the early 1970s.

Forgetting Arneson is easy precisely because his influence is everywhere. It has become invisible through ubiquity. Every time we sit down at a table together (real or virtual), describe what our characters do, and ask, “What happens next?," we are living in the world he imagined. We rarely stop to think about that, not because we’re ungrateful, but because the roots of the hobby have sunk so deep we no longer see them.

Perhaps that’s the real issue. Arneson’s case is just the most visible example of how the contributions of countless others – designers, artists, playtesters, editors, and even just fans – have been forgotten. The history of roleplaying is not just the story of a few Great Men, but of a community of experimenters and dreamers, most of whose names never made it onto any game’s credits page. Our hobby, like any living thing, was nurtured by many unseen hands.

So, while this post began as an apology for my forgetting Dave Arneson’s birthday, perhaps it should instead serve as a reminder simply to remember. To remember Arneson, certainly, but also to remember all those who came after him – and before him – who helped shape the peculiar, beautiful pastime that continues to inspire all of us more than fifty years on.

Belated happy birthday, Dave. We still roll the dice because of you.

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Graveyard Rats

The so-called Golden Age of the pulps is today remembered primarily for the works of H.P. Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard, and Clark Ashton Smith. That’s understandable. Together, the three formed a kind of triumvirate within Weird Tales and beyond, shaping much of what readers still think of when they imagine “pulp fantasy” or “weird fiction.” Their influence looms large not only over their own era but over nearly a century of horror and fantasy writing since.

Still, this focus has a downside. Many other pulp authors, while less visionary or distinctive, nonetheless produced work that remains both entertaining and effective. Their stories remind us that the pulps were not just breeding grounds for a few singular talents but entire ecosystems of imagination that, while crowded and uneven, was undeniably fertile. Among these lesser-remembered figures stands Henry Kuttner, a writer whose early solo work deserves far more attention than it now generally receives.

Today, Kuttner is probably remembered – if he’s remembered at all – in connection with his more famous wife and collaborator, C.L. Moore. Together, the two wrote numerous tales of science fiction and fantasy under various pseudonyms. Yet, before that partnership, Kuttner had already made a name for himself in Weird Tales, contributing stories in a grimmer, more immediate vein than the cosmic mythologizing of Lovecraft. His early horror fiction was leaner, less ornate, and more preoccupied with human frailty than with the vast indifference of the universe.

A prime example is “The Graveyard Rats,” which appeared in the March 1936 issue of Weird Tales. Barely a few pages long, the story has nevertheless become one of Kuttner’s most reprinted works, appearing in anthologies for nearly ninety years. Its endurance is no accident. “The Graveyard Rats” distills horror to its most basic elements of darkness, confinement, corruption, and fear without pretense or embellishment.

The story takes place in Salem, Massachusetts, where Old Masson, the caretaker of a cemetery, has discovered that fresh corpses are being disturbed by unnaturally large rats. These creatures, clever and relentless, drag the dead into their tunnels beneath the graveyard. Masson is less horrified than enraged, not out of respect for the dead but because the rats are stealing valuables he considers his by right. He’s long supplemented his meager income by rifling through the pockets of the newly buried and he resents the competition. Determined to reclaim his spoils, he descends into the tunnels after the vermin – and into a nightmare.

What follows is a relentless sequence of claustrophobic terror. Kuttner’s prose is stripped down but effective, evoking the choking darkness and shifting earth with dreadful precision. As Masson crawls deeper underground, his greed and fear fuse into panic until, finally, he becomes trapped in a tomb, unable to move forward or back, as the rats swarm closer. The ending is swift and merciless, a perfect punchline of pulp horror. I first encountered the tale in an old anthology called The Graveyard Reader, which I remember for its bizarre cover art and, even more, for the shock this short story delivered.

“The Graveyard Rats” is almost a model of what Weird Tales specialized in: concise, lurid, and designed to deliver a visceral jolt. It lacks Lovecraft’s cosmic scope and Smith’s luxuriant prose, but that simplicity is its strength. The story’s imagery touches on primal fears of the dark, the grave, the sensation of the earth closing in around you. It’s a morality play as well, reminding readers that greed and desecration invite their own form of damnation. Its lesson is as blunt as its prose, suggesting that there are worse fates than poverty and some appetites lead only to hell, if only metaphorically.

That bluntness is also what has kept "The Graveyard Rats" alive. Unlike many pulp horror stories, it doesn’t drown in adjectives or rely on elaborate mythologies. It is immediate, physical, and timeless. The same anxieties that drove readers in 1936 still have power today. Kuttner would go on to write more sophisticated stories, especially after joining forces with Moore, but “The Graveyard Rats” endures as a near-perfect exemplar of the pulp ethos. It’s a reminder that the pulps, for all their excesses, sometimes captured something essential about horror, namely, we are afraid of the dark and always will be.

Coda (Part III)

Startled by the vastness of the choices before them, Kirktá, Keléno, and their companions found themselves overwhelmed by questions. Sinustragán answered as best he could, his tone patient but edged with the fatigue of one who must translate Eternity into the language of mortals. Many of their inquiries simply had no answer that would make sense to minds bounded by the narrow corridors of Time. At last, with a faint smile that might have been amusement or pity, he said, “Before you lie many possibilities, though not all equally probable. Since I wish to return you to a place and a moment suited to your natures, it would help me greatly if you first chose who you wish to see seated upon the Petal Throne in that branch of the Tree of Time.”

The company fell into uneasy debate. Each of the imperial heirs had their champions and each had flaws that weighed against them. Yet, as the talk wound on, a quiet consensus began to form. Rereshqála, they agreed, was the wisest choice. He lacked the burning ambition of his brothers and sister, but in that very restraint lay his strength. Calm, judicious, and burdened with no illusions of grandeur, he seemed best suited to guide the Empire through the long twilight ahead.

He could not halt the decline of Tsolyánu – no one could, now that the One Other was free – but he might ensure that its fall was not ruin, only transformation. Under his rule, the Empire’s fragments might endure and, in some distant age, rise again to greatness.

Sinustragán inclined his head in acknowledgment of their choice. “Very well,” he said. “Now that you have decided which cluster of branches within the Tree of Time you wish to return to, we must narrow it further. What of yourselves? What do you wish for your own skeins of destiny? There are almost as many fates for each of you as there are for the scions of the Petal Throne. Which threads will you choose?”

The question hung in the air like incense smoke, curling and reforming as each of them turned it over in their minds. Once again, the hall filled with talk, earnest, uncertain, sometimes wistful, as the members of the House of Worms and their companions debated what they truly wanted. Sinustragán waited in silence, patient as the slow pulse of eternity, until at last they came to him one by one.

Grujúng spoke first. His voice was steady, almost relieved. He asked to be returned to Sokátis, where the Ranánga River wound through familiar reeds and mist. There, he wished only to fish once more, to sit among the children and grandchildren of his clan-brothers and sisters. “No more adventures,” he said. “Only peace.”

Nebússa and his wife, Srüna, wished to remain at the College and learn its secrets. Sinustragán’s eyes softened, though he shook his head. “Not yet,” he told them gently. “If this truly is your desire, you must continue your studies. Grow in wisdom and mastery. When the time is right, the College will find you again.”

Chiyé laughed and declared his intent to take the longer road to the same goal. He would become undead, he said, and persist until the End of Time itself. Sinustragán’s laughter joined his in a quiet, knowing sound. “Then I wish you patience,” he said, “for that is a very long road indeed.”

Kirktá and Nye’étha chose to travel with Nebússa and Srüna, to study beside them and strive toward that same distant calling. “Perhaps,” Kirktá said, “we may all be found worthy one day.”

Qurén wished to return to Jakálla, the City Half as Old as the World. His eyes gleamed at the thought of long-delayed work resumed, exploring the ancient Mihálli ruins as he had once been hired to do. With Rereshqála now upon the Petal Throne, perhaps the expedition would be even grander than before.

Finally, Keléno spoke. He wished to return to Sokátis with his wife, Mírsha, to restore the old gazebo in the gardens of the clanhouse. There, at sunset, he would recline with a cup of wine and a book, welcoming any friend who wished to sit beside him and talk. It was a simple dream, but in the hush that followed his words, it seemed to all of them a noble one.

Keléno made one final request. He wished to see Toneshkéthu, Sinustragán’s quiet, sharp-eyed protégée who had aided them so many times since that first, fateful meeting in the Dry Bay of Ssu’úm. How distant that day seemed now, separated from the present by so many trials, so many losses and revelations. It felt less like a memory than a dream belonging to another life. Yet the thought of her lingered and Keléno wanted to speak with her once more before their paths finally diverged.

When she entered, she was just as he remembered, composed and with a calm that seemed older than her years. Before she could greet him, Keléno reached into his travel-worn bag and drew out a small, circular device of the Ancients, the very one she had given him long ago, a tool for communication between distant minds. He turned it over once in his hand, as if feeling the weight of all that had passed since it came into his keeping, then offered it to her.

“This belongs to you,” he said.

Toneshkéthu regarded him for a moment, then smiled a small, knowing smile that held both warmth and mystery. She pushed the device gently back into his hand.

“I’d hold on to that, if I were you,” she said. “Something tells me you may need it again one day.”

T H E   E N D

Coda (Part II)

The man in the brown robe bowed his head in greeting. “I am Sinustragán Dzáshu, one of the teachers at the College.”

Keléno’s eyes lit with recognition. “So, you are Toneshkéthu’s master, then?”

A flicker of approval crossed the teacher’s face, quickly gone. He gave a short nod. “Yes and it is because of her that I have brought you here. She is very fond of you and wished no harm to come to you, so far as that can be prevented – but you cannot remain. You are neither students enrolled nor scholars invited to teach. The College has its laws and they must be kept. You must return. The only question is to where?"

Once again, Keléno and his companions found themselves unprepared. Having somehow survived their confrontation with Dhich’uné, all they longed for was safety. The College at the End of Time certainly offered that, but it was equally clear they did not belong here and, more importantly, that they would not be permitted to remain. The question was not if they must leave, but where they should ask to be sent.

Their debate circled between Sokátis, the familiar refuge of home, and Jakálla, which Qurén favored. As they argued, Sinustragán cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the stillness.

“Forgive me,” he said, “but I fear I have misled you. That is my fault. I speak as one who dwells in the College. Here, where and when are bound together in a way they are not for you. When I asked to what place you wished to return, I also meant: to what time?”

The revelation broke over them like a sudden storm, sparking another round of frantic discussion. Again the teacher raised his hand to still them.

“Remember this,” he cautioned. “We, here at the College, may walk the full span of the Tree of Time, across its trunk and down every branch. You cannot. For you, the span is limited only to the moment before you entered the passage that brought you here. I can return you to that point, but, from there, you may choose among the leaves and branches that grow from your cluster of time. And there are many.”

Sinustragán’s voice deepened as he went on.

“Consider, then, the struggle now wracking your empire. Who will claim the Petal Throne? Who shall be the first to rule Tsolyánu since the sundering of its ancient pact with the One Other? From where we stand, six futures lie before you, though some are less likely than others. All, in the end, flow toward the same sea: the dissolution of Tsolyánu. No empire endures forever. What differs is only the pace and the manner of its inevitable decline.

“If Eselné takes the throne, he will drive the Empire into a season of conquest. His banners will fly over Milumanayá, Yán Kór, parts of Salarvyá, even Mu’ugalavyá. He will forsake the seclusion of the Golden Tower, leading his armies in person, drawing comparison to Hejékka the Heretic, the last emperor to do so and a devotee of Lord Sárku ironically enough. Yet his triumphs will not last. By his grandson’s reign, rebellion and civil war will tear the Empire apart, ushering in a new Time of No Kings – an age of heroes, yes, but also of chaos.

“If Táksuru ascends, suspicion will rule. In the shadow of Dhich’uné’s example, the Omnipotent Azure Legion will turn inward, purging temples and clans alike. Paranoia will become policy. Conspiracies will breed counter-conspiracies until trust itself withers. The Empire may endure for generations, but the rot will spread, with provincial secession, foreign intrigues, and the slow crumbling of its foundations.

“If Mridóbu is crowned, the Empire will last the longest. His reign will be one of continuity and the careful preservation of institutions. Tsolyánu will remain recognizable for centuries still, secure but stagnant, its neighbors outpacing it in vigor. It will be dignified, yes, but more a monument than a power, a relic not unlike Salarvyá in your own day.

“If, unlikely though it is, Ma’ín should rise to power, hers will be the swiftest fall. She will mirror Nayári in cruelty and indulgence, but lack her predecessor's skill in rule or diplomacy. Her court will be infamous for its excess, her empire notorious for its weakness. That weakness will invite predation. Foreign armies will press from without, insurrection from within, and Tsolyánu will unravel with alarming speed.”

“Even less likely is the reign of Rereshqála, though his path is the most curious of all. His rule will be marked by duality: the attempt to preserve the old forms while softening their most oppressive burdens. He will abolish the Kólumejàlim, ending the struggle of the heirs and he will grant the Vríddi and the Ito greater autonomy. They will no longer be rivals, but vassal kings beneath the Petal Throne.

“These reforms will not save the Empire entire. Tsolyánu will still dissolve, as all things must. Yet the shape of its fall will be different. Where other futures end in ruin, his will leave behind successor realms of surprising strength, states born from his compromises. In their institutions, tempered by reform, will lie the seeds of new greatness, long after the name of Tsolyánu has passed into history.”

Turning to Kirktá, he asked, “And what of you, Kirktá? The Tree of Time does not exclude you. Your ascension to the Petal Throne is by no means improbable. Indeed, more plausible than Ma’ín’s or even Rereshqála’s. Yet every branch where you sit upon he the Petal Throne shares certain marks in common.

“In each, you are a son of Belkhánu, servant of the Excellent Dead. In each, your reign is not defined by conquest or tyranny, but by inquiry. You are no despot, no libertine; you are a scholar crowned, a seeker of truths, more given to questions than to commands. Admirable, yes, but unsuited to the endless vigilance empire demands. And so, under your gaze, Tsolyánu falters – not through malice, nor folly, but through neglect. Its decline is slower, perhaps gentler, yet decline all the same.

“I do not speak this in condemnation. The Tree shows what is likely, not what must be. But its branches whisper another possibility, namely, that your destiny may lie elsewhere than the Petal Throne. A legacy not of rule, but of meaning. The question, then, is not whether you will ascend, but whether you should.”

Coda (Part I)

Yesterday marked the end of the House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign, bringing to a close ten and a half years of regular, mostly weekly play. The true climax had come the week before, when the player characters confronted Prince Dhich’uné Tlakotáni and saw him defeated, thanks to a mix of their own prodigious efforts and the intervention of Lord Sárku, god of death and the undead. Yesterday’s session tied off the final threads of the looming Tsolyáni civil war and of what became of the characters themselves, now that they had thwarted Dhich’uné’s dream of ruling Tsolyánu forever as its undying emperor.

There’s a lot to say, both about yesterday’s session and about the campaign’s conclusion after so many years of shared play. I’ll be writing at least a couple of posts about the events of that final game, followed by more reflections on the campaign as a whole. I hope readers will forgive these indulgences. After all, not everyone knows or cares much about Tékumel. Still, I believe that, in refereeing this long-running campaign I’ve learned some lessons that may be of broader interest to roleplayers about how to create, sustain, and care for long campaigns, a subject close to my heart.

With Dhich’uné defeated and the One Other seemingly freed from its prison, the characters found themselves alone in the vast, amphitheater-like chamber beneath Avanthár. The place was now utterly silent, so silent that every footfall and movement echoed unnervingly through the space. When they had entered hours earlier, they had made no plans for escape. Indeed, most of them had expected not to survive their battle with Dhich’uné, especially once Avanthár’s ancient defenses had reawakened shortly after their arrival.

Having no obvious way out, the party began to search the chamber, hoping to uncover some hidden exit. Meanwhile, Kirktá turned his attention to the great circular prison set upon the central platform. About fifteen feet across, it was fashioned from the same strange metal-ceramic material found elsewhere in the citadel. Its smooth surface bore no markings save for a single opening that revealed a dim space beyond. When Kirktá studied it while still wearing the mask Míru had given him, he saw lingering traces of otherplanar energy clinging to the prison, though these were slowly fading. Viewed in the mirror, however, the prison was almost nonexistent, as if invisible to it.

Nebússa then proposed that they investigate the prison’s interior, reasoning that, given its strange nature and origin, it might contain something useful. Peering inside, Kirktá discovered that the space beyond was far larger than its exterior suggested. The characters had encountered transdimensional spaces before, but they had not expected one here—after all, they had assumed this was a prison, not a doorway. Stranger still, a dozen passageways stretched outward from the chamber, each receding into the distance. As Kirktá scanned them, he caught fleeting glimpses of someone at the edge of his vision. Whenever he turned to look directly, the figure slipped away, reappearing in another passage, always just beyond sight.

This was enough to intrigue the others, who decided to enter. Kirktá was alarmed, but he followed. Choosing one of the passageways, they began their journey. From one perspective, they seemed to make no progress at all—the destination ahead remained stubbornly distant no matter how far they walked. And yet, when they glanced back, the entryway behind them grew ever smaller, proof they were indeed moving forward, though in some strange, disjointed fashion. Kirktá’s mirror revealed what normal vision could not: the figure he had glimpsed was now following them, ten feet behind.

The man was middle-aged, dressed in simple brown robes, his straight hair cut in the traditional Tsolyáni style. When Keléno, using the mirror, addressed him, the figure only replied: “Keep going. You’re almost there.”

Moments later, the corridor opened suddenly into a wide garden beneath a clear blue sky. They stood near a fountain surrounded by lush plants and trees, some familiar, others alien. Around the fountain, benches were filled with people of every sort, speaking in tongues both known and unknown.

Turning in wonder, the characters found themselves face to face with the robed man. He extended his arms in welcome and said, “I was wondering when you’d arrive. Welcome to the College.”

REPOST: Pulp Fantasy Library: Something Wicked This Way Comes

Do they even have carnivals anymore? I mean, real carnivals: rickety, dirty, dodgy, and, above all, scary carnivals? Sure, there are things calling themselves "carnivals" that set up shop in the parking lots of shopping centers and have rides and concession stands and maybe even the occasional game of chance whose rewards include cheap stuffed toys vaguely reminiscent of cartoon characters, but that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about carnivals, where, in addition to the rides and concession stands, you also get mind readers, bearded ladies, and dog-faced boys. I'm pretty sure they don't exist anymore, outside of works of the imagination and maybe that's not such a bad thing. But there's no denying that the idea of carnivals like that is a powerful one, at least for me.

That, and the incomparable writing of Ray Bradbury, are probably the reasons why I have such a fondness for the 1962 novel, Something Wicked This Way Comes. It probably helps, too, that the novel begins in a way that has always rung particularly true to me:

First of all, it was October, a rare month for boys. Not that all months aren't rare. But there be bad and good, as the pirates say. Take September, a bad month: school begins. Consider August, a good month: school hasn't begun yet. July, well, July's really fine: there's no chance in the world for school. June, no doubting it, June's best of all, for the school doors spring wide and September's a billion years away.

But you take October, now. School's been on a month and you're riding easier in the reins, jogging along. You got time to think of the garbage you'll dump on old man Prickett's porch, or the hairy-ape costume you'll wear to the YMCA the last night of the month. And if it's around October twentieth and everything smoky-smelling and the sky orange and ash grey at twilight, it seems Hallowe'en will never come in a fall of broomsticks and a soft flap of bedsheets around corners.

But one strange wild dark long year, Hallowe'en came early.

As anyone who knows me well can tell you, I adore the month of October. Not only is it the month of my birth, but it's when Fall (my favorite season) is at its most attractive to me. There's still enough life left in the world that it doesn't feel as depressing as November and it manifests a kind of glory that is utterly absent in warmer and more conventional vibrant months. And, of course, there's Halloween, a holiday replete with both religious and secular meaning, which I enjoy probably more than almost any other, save Easter. So, I was probably predisposed to like Something Wicked This Way Comes before I'd even read it.

The novel tells the story of two friends, Will Halloway and Jim Nightshade. The boys are both thirteen years old and, as the story begins, they're returning home as a big storm is about to hit their home of Green Town. There's lightning and thunder and some say they can smell cotton candy in the air as well. The pair stop off at the library, where Will's father works, allowing Bradbury the opportunity to wax rhapsodic about libraries, books -- and growing old:

Out in the world, not much happened. But here in the special night, a land bricked with paper and leather, anything might happen, always did. Listen! and you heard ten thousand people screaming so high only dogs feathered their ears. A million folk ran toting cannons, sharpening guillotines; Chinese, four abreast, marched on forever. Invisible, silent, yes, but Jim and Will had the gift of ears and noses as well as the gift of tongues. This was a factory of spices from far countries. Here alien deserts slumbered. Up front was the desk where the nice old lady, Miss Watriss, purple-stamped your books, but down off away were Tibet and Antarctica, the Congo. There went Miss Wills, the other librarian, through Outer Mongolia, calmly toting fragments of Peiping and Yokohama and the Celebes. Way down the third book corridor, an oldish man whispered his broom along in the dark, mounding the fallen. . . .

Will stared.

It was always a surprise - that old man, his work, his name. That's Charles William Halloway, thought Will, not grand-father, not far-wandering, ancient uncle, as some might think, but. . .my father.

So, looking back down the corridor, was Dad shocked to see he owned a son who visited this separate 20,000-fathoms-deep world? Dad always seemed stunned when Will rose up before him, as if they had met a lifetime ago and one had grown old while the other stayed young, and this fact stood between. . . .

As I get older myself, I find this section of the book even more affecting than it was in the past, doubly so as the story unfolds and we learn that Will's father envies his son his youth and looks back longingly on "The boy [he] once was ... who runs like the leaves down sidewalks on autumn nights."

Into this situation arrives a traveling carnival called Cooger & Dark's Pandemonium Shadow Show and its arrival throws Green Town into tumult. Not only do the carnival's tents go up mysteriously but townsfolk begin behaving strangely, some of them even disappearing after a visit to the carnival. Its proprietors, especially the tattooed Mr Dark (evocatively called "the Illustrated Man"), have a decidedly sinister air about them, made all the more clear when they take a particular interest in Will and Jim. Needless to say, these oddities embolden the two boys to investigate the truth behind Cooger & Dark's and soon discover that there is more at work than they ever imagined.

Something Wicked This Way Comes is a delightfully terrifying fantasy. Its characters are well drawn, its imagery memorable, and, most of all, it has something to say. I consider it one of Bradbury's best novels, which is saying something, as I'm not sure that Bradbury ever wrote anything that wasn't excellent. Like Lovecraft, he is quite adept at using words to conjure up not only sights and sounds but also emotions. Unlike Lovecraft, Bradbury typically does this with fairly ordinary words and colloquial language. It's a remarkable gift and is used to great effect in Something Wicked This Way Comes. If you've never read it (or Bradbury), it's well worth the time and effort. Even if, for some reason, you don't find the story to your taste, you might enjoy it for its artistry alone, which is considerable.

House of Worms (March 6, 2015 – October 2, 2025)

More details in the coming days. 

Two Weeks

Two weeks from today, Gamehole Con kicks off once again! Just like last year, I’ll be leaving my northern redoubt and heading to Madison, Wisconsin for four days of gaming and, just as importantly, the chance to meet up with friends, acquaintances, and, I hope, a few regular readers of this blog.

I’ve said before that I’m not much of a convention-goer by nature. I know how important cons were to the early spread of the hobby, but I’ve always been shy and introverted, so big gatherings don’t naturally appeal to me. That’s part of why I like Gamehole Con so much: it strikes a good balance. It’s simultaneously small enough that you can easily find the people you’re looking for, but large enough that you can disappear into the crowd when you want to (and I often do). One of my friends once called it “human sized,” and I think that’s exactly right.

That said, what really draws me to Madison isn’t just the games; it’s the people. The Internet makes it easy to keep in touch with fellow RPG enthusiasts, but nothing compares to being face-to-face. Most of my gaming these days is online – and I genuinely love that – but there’s something uniquely satisfying about sitting at a real table, rolling real dice, and sharing a few hours of roleplaying in person. It’s a terrific social experience, and, honestly, I think we could all use more of that. It’s good for the soul.

As I did last year, I’ll have much more to share about my time at the convention once I’m back. With luck, the experience will help keep me energized through the remainder of 2025. I’ve got a lot of irons in the fire right now – the Grognardia anthologies, the second edition of Thousand Suns, Secrets of sha-Arthan, and Dream-Quest – and while I remain excited about all of them, I won’t deny that keeping these projects moving forward alongside this blog can be demanding. A little outside encouragement goes a long way.

With that in mind, I’m running a sale over at DriveThruRPG. Everything is 30% off until the end of October 9. The sale helps cover the costs of my trip to Madison, but more than that, it’s an opportunity for readers to pick up some of my existing work at a discount. If you’ve ever thought about grabbing a title or two, now’s a good time. And, of course, if you’re not in a position to do so, simply reading the blog, commenting, and sharing it with others is also a tremendous form of support.

Either way, I’m grateful for everyone who takes the time to stop by here. I’m looking forward to reporting back from Gamehole Con, as well as to rolling some real dice with real people once again.

Interview

Interview by James Maliszewski

Thoughts on Another Recurring Feature

Read on Substack

October Thoughts

As I noted in my earlier post about The Grey Knight, now that it’s October, I feel the need to use this months as an opportunity to explore that in roleplaying games a little more than I usually do (which is actually a lot, come to think of it).

Now, I should be clear: I don’t have it in me to devote every post this month to horror in the way I did with The Shadow over August, when I spent the entire month examining Lovecraft and his legacy. That was an intense endeavor and, while that exercise was both fruitful and well-received, it also took a lot of work on my part. I'm simply not up to that so soon afterwards, especially with Gamehole Con coming up in two weeks (more on that later). 

So, this month, my approach will be lighter and more flexible. Horror will appear more frequently in my writing here, but it will coexist with discussions of all the usual topics I care about. That's in addition to my other ongoing work on both Patreon and Substack (which I recommend you check out if you like what I do here). 

One concrete way this will manifest is that the next four installments of Pulp Fantasy Library, starting next Monday, October 7, will turn to classic horror stories. These are tales I think worthy of attention, whether because they are historically significant, influential on later writers, or simply brilliantly unsettling. Some of them are well-known, others less so, but all have something to teach about fear, suspense, and the strange pleasures of the macabre – topics I think worthy of discussion during this month.

After these four horror-focused posts, I’ll return to looking at Lovecraft’s Dream Cycle stories in November, continuing a thread I hope some of you have been following since I restarted the feature after a long quiescence. In the meantime, consider this a kind of gentle “horror season." It won't be a deluge of posts on the topic, but there will be enough to remind us why the weird and the scary have long been a vital part of our games and our imaginations.

Retrospective: The Grey Knight

With October now upon us, it seems only right to turn this month’s Retrospective posts toward the spooky side of the hobby. The challenge, though, is finding something I haven’t already covered. After more than 400 entries in the series, the pickings are slimmer than I’d like. That’s why I’ve decided to start this Halloween mini-series with something a little unexpected and off the beaten path, namely, The Grey Knight for Chaosium’s Pendragon.

Originally published in 1986, The Grey Knight is the first stand-alone adventure for game and, as such, would probably be well remembered regardless of its quality. Written by Larry DiTillio, who'd already penned the classic Call of Cthulhu campaign, Masks of Nyarlathotep, the scenario is, in fact, close to a masterpiece and remains one of the most highly regarded products ever released for Pendragon. Even after nearly four decades, it stands out as a model of what a Pendragon adventure can and should be: part tournament, part quest, part courtly drama and, unexpectedly, part ghost story.

That last element is worth dwelling on, especially at this time of year. Pendragon is not usually thought of as a scary game, yet The Grey Knight shows how easily Arthurian legend can slip into the uncanny. The Matter of Britain is already filled with magic, prophecy, and the otherworldly; DiTillio simply leans into those shadows. His creation, the Grey Knight, feels wholly at home in this tradition. He's a towering figure in blackened plate, with death’s head helm and a charnel aura, less a man than the embodiment of Vengeance itself. His first appearance at Camelot’s Easter tournament, heralded by lightning and an unnatural chill, sets a tone of dread that lingers throughout the adventure.

The tournament scene is only the beginning. When the mysterious Lady in Black accuses Arthur of past misdeeds and demands the king defend his honor by facing her own dark champion, Sir Gawaine immediately offers to stand in his liege's place. The duel is delayed for six weeks, giving Arthur’s knights, which is to say, the player characters their true task: to recover a legendary whetstone, one of the Thirteen Treasures of Britain, without which Gawaine cannot hope to triumph against the Grey Knight.

What follows is a masterful blend of the game’s strengths, from the thrill of jousts to the intrigue of courtly politics to the strangeness of myth-haunted locales. As in the finest Arthurian tales, the familiar and the fantastic are inseparably entwined. Beneath the story’s supernatural trappings lies a very human injustice, festering until it bursts forth in the shape of the Grey Knight, a wrong that will not stay buried.

This is what makes the scenario such an effective fusion of Pendragon’s themes with horror. The supernatural here is not mere ornamentation but the outward sign of a moral wound at the heart of Arthur’s reign. The Grey Knight is terrifying not simply because he cannot be easily defeated, but because he reveals how even Camelot’s highest ideals, like honor and justice, can be obscured by shadow. Still, The Grey Knight is more than a ghost story. It is also an exemplary showcase of Pendragon’s range as a roleplaying game. Every type of knight, from the pious to the glory-hungry, is given a chance to shine.

It is no surprise, then, that The Grey Knight has been reprinted and revised more than once. It set a standard for what a Pendragon adventure could be. At the same time, its central antagonist, the armored challenger rising from beyond the grave to demand satisfaction from Arthur’s court, is a reminder that the tales of Arthur and his Round Table have always been touched by darkness. 

This October, as I try to find something new to say about horror in roleplaying, The Grey Knight is a great place to start. As an adventure, it proves that the supernatural need not be grotesque or Lovecraftian to unsettle and that even games as heroic and inspiring as Pendragon can still be used to unsettle and discomfit. Its horror lies in the intrusion of the uncanny into a world otherwise governed by honor, passion, and destiny. By showing how the fantastic can tilt into the eerie without ever leaving the chivalric frame, it opens a door to a different kind of horror, one that lingers precisely because it feels both out of place and inevitable.

Varieties of Dreamborn

For those of you interested in my Dream-Quest project but who aren't patrons, here's another public post that you might want to read. As with all my public posts at Patreon, I'm soliciting comments and suggestions to guide me as I develop this game into something that might, one day, be more than just a collection of notes and ideas.

REPOST: The Articles of Dragon: "Hold That Person!"

Issue #90 (October 1984) of Dragon contained a short installment of Gary Gygax's increasingly irregular "From the Sorceror's [sic] Scroll" column entitled "Hold That Person!" The article's subtitle explains its purpose. According to Gygax, "the vast array of new monsters" found in books like the Fiend Folio and Monster Manual II have left players and DMs alike wondering which humanoids are affected by the spells charm person and hold person. Was that the case?

I ask because I distinctly recall that my feeling upon reading the article nearly 30 years ago was one of bemusement. I mean, I was, back then, very much enthralled by nearly everything Gary wrote. He was, after all, the creator of AD&D and his word on the subject was Law. But a list -- a definitive list, no less -- of what creatures qualified as "persons" for the purposes of certain spells? Why was this necessary? Did anyone really wonder whether a swanmay could be charmed or an ogrillon held? Was this even an issue at all? Maybe it was needed in tournaments, I don't know, but it was never an issue that came up in my gaming groups.

Just as interesting as the list Gygax provides are his closing comments in this article. He says the following:

If you, as a player, are grateful to have this expanded list, your gratitude is certainly appreciated but keep in mind that it is a mixed blessing. Players must attempt to remember the list of creatures affected by charm person and hold person, for when it comes time to cast a spell, the DM must never allow them to consult their reference works except for the Players Handbook. On the other hand, the DM can use any reference source at his disposal (including articles like this one) to check for desired information.

Now, there's nothing beyond the pale in what Gygax says here. In my experience, it was pretty much standard operating procedure amongst the groups with which I had contact. However, this is the first time I can recall its ever being stated outright as the Gospel of Gary. Again, I don't disagree with it, as it's identical to my own practice, but it is nonetheless interesting to see it stated so plainly.

Oddments

I wanted to point out two small things in relation to recent posts:

• There is now a Recent Comments gadget in the righthand column of this blog, displaying the last five comments made to any posts here, even ones from several months or years ago. A suggestion was made that, by including it, I might increase interest in the comments section. Since it wasn't a difficult addition to the blog, I readily complied. So far, it seems to be working, so that's great.
• One of the players in my House of Worms campaign, cartographer extraordinaire, Dyson Logos, has posted his own account of recent events. If you're looking for a different, less florid perspective on the campaign's penultimate session, give a read (and tell Dyson he's misspelled Dhich'uné while you're at it).

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Cats of Ulthar

H.P. Lovecraft wrote "The Cats of Ulthar" in June 1920, during one of the most productive phases of his early career, when he was experimenting with short, dreamlike tales heavily influenced by the work of Lord Dunsany. First published in the November 1920 issue of the amateur press journal Tryout, the story would later appear twice in the pages of Weird Tales (February 1926 and February 1933) before being issued as a standalone booklet in 1935. At fewer than 1,500 words, it is a very brief piece — more a vignette than a fully developed narrative — and yet it has become one of Lovecraft’s most frequently anthologized works. Its enduring presence in print is due in part to Lovecraft’s own fondness for the tale, which he often cited as one of his favorites and perhaps also because it captures something essential about a side of his imagination that is often overshadowed by his more famous tales of cosmic horror.

The plot of "The Cats of Ulthar" is simple and deliberately has the structure and cadence of a folk tale. In the town of Ulthar, cats begin to vanish under mysterious circumstances, victims of a reclusive old couple notorious for their cruelty toward animals. Into this setting comes a caravan of strange wanderers, among them an orphan boy devoted to his beloved kitten. When the kitten disappears, the boy calls upon the gods in words no one can understand. That night, the cats of Ulthar gather together and descend upon the couple’s home. By morning, the cottage is silent and empty save for a few disturbing remains. From that day forward, the town passes a law forbidding the killing of cats.

Like much of Lovecraft’s early fiction, "The Cats of Ulthar" is written in a consciously archaic style, marked by inverted syntax and pseudo-antique diction. At this stage of his career, Lovecraft was still in the process of developing his literary voice and Dunsany’s influence is strongly felt. The story’s moralistic, almost didactic structure, culminating in the decree against harming cats, further aligns it with the traditions of myth and fairy tale. At the same time, it is suffused with the dreamlike atmosphere that Lovecraft favored during this period. This is one reason why it is typically grouped among the so-called “Dream Cycle” stories, even though, like "The Doom That Came to Sarnath," there is some suggestion that Ulthar exists (or once existed) in the “real world” rather than exclusively within the fantastical Dreamlands. 

Thematically, the story is significant for several reasons. First and most obviously, it reflects Lovecraft’s lifelong affection for cats, a sentiment he expressed frequently in his letters and which surfaces elsewhere in his fiction, most notably in The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath, where cats play a crucial and even heroic role. More interesting, perhaps, is the way the story conceives of justice. Here, retribution is not the work of human laws or courts but of a higher, more mysterious order. The orphan boy’s prayer, the caravan’s enigmatic presence, and the cats’ nocturnal vengeance all suggest a universe in which moral balance is maintained, if not always through means we would recognize or understand. This vision stands in marked contrast to the cosmic indifference of Lovecraft’s later, more famous works. It hints at an earlier, more mythic conception of the universe, one that is mysterious and at times unsettling, but not entirely devoid of meaning or order.

Whether or not one accepts the idea of a unified Dream Cycle, "The Cats of Ulthar" is clearly part of a cluster of Dunsanian tales within Lovecraft’s canon. Ulthar itself recurs in later works, including "The Other Gods" and the aforementioned Dream-Quest, helping to establish the geography and texture of the Dreamlands. It also exemplifies the fairy tale-like qualities of these stories, where magic is subtle but ever-present, and where human (or feline) societies live according to strange but deeply meaningful laws. For readers familiar only with Lovecraft’s tales of cosmic horror, "The Cats of Ulthar" reveals a very different side of him, one that looks backward to myth and legend rather than forward to existential terror.

It is remarkable that a story so short and seemingly slight should cast such a long shadow over Lovecraft’s body of work. Its endurance speaks to its charm, simplicity, and the clarity with which it expresses a key facet of Lovecraft’s creative vision. More than just a curiosity, "The Cats of Ulthar" is an early signpost pointing toward the Dreamlands as a realm of myth and mystery, not to mention an excellent starting point for readers who wish to explore the breadth of Lovecraft’s imagination beyond the tentacled clichés for which he is now best known.

Campaign Updates: Penultimate (Part III)

Grujúng and Nebússa seized their chance. For a fleeting moment, Prince Dhich'uné stood unshielded, his body and mind briefly his own. Grujúng lunged first, his weapon smashing into the prince with a resounding blow that staggered him. Nebússa followed hard on his heels, striking true and drawing another cry of pain. 

Dhich'uné did not fall. Straightening with dreadful resolve, he rose taller than before, black-green sparks crawling across his flesh, racing to seal the wounds. Behind him, the spectral silhouette that shadowed his form blazed suddenly brighter, swelling until it loomed above him like a giant. With unnatural speed, Dhich'uné lashed out at Grujúng. The strike landed with such force that Grujúng was hurled nearly twenty feet, crashing to the floor in a heap.

From across the bridge, Srüna raised the splendid eye of Krá the Mighty. Its power leapt forth, seizing the prince in an invisible grip. His body convulsed, wracked with fresh agony, yet still he fought on. Gritting his teeth, Grujúng hauled himself upright and staggered back into the fray, standing shoulder to shoulder with Nebússa against their terrible foe.

The prince’s voice thundered across the chamber, low and irresistible: “Come no further! Kneel before Us!” The words reverberated through their bones, laced with a command that was almost impossible to deny. For a heartbeat, their wills buckled, but then, with supreme effort, they pushed back the compulsion. Still, the strain was evident. How much longer could they resist the weight of his power?

As the battle continued across the platform, Kirktá and Keléno stood with their wives, paralyzed by uncertainty. From behind the mask Míru had given him, Kirktá caught sight of something strange. Along the platform’s edges, as though rising from the fathomless chasm below, threads of light began to form like a vast, spiderweb lattice, spreading with unnerving speed. The strands glowed a sickly brown-yellow, racing outward, converging toward Dhich'uné. Were they hunting him of their own accord or answering his silent command? Kirktá could not say and the doubt gnawed at him.

Behind the prince, the towering silhouette still loomed, larger than ever, but Kirktá noticed widening gaps tearing through its form. It strained, like something barely able to hold its grip upon Dhich'uné’s body. The sight brought his thoughts to the talismans Míru had given him. Perhaps the uncut black gem, which he had not thus far used, might prove important somehow.

Keléno, meanwhile, remained steadfast at his side. Shield of defense raised, he sheltered his companions against any unexpected danger. Beyond that, he had no stratagem left to offer, no secret weapon hidden away. All he could do was stand guard and whisper fervent prayers to Lord Sárku, the Five-Headed Lord of Worms, his dread patron and master of the undead. 

A stench of rot soon thickened the chamber air. From the platform’s edges, grave worms heaved themselves into view, writhing and crawling toward the fray. Then a voice arose – sepulchral, deep, and resonant enough to shake the stones of the place.

"Apostate! You were mine. Now, you are nothing. Change is the law and you would break it with your false eternity. For this, I cast you out."

Through the mask, Kirktá saw a vortex yawning open above Dhich'uné, its pull seizing the shadowy silhouette and dragging it upward, away from his body. The prince shrieked in agony, even as Grujúng and Nebússa pressed their assault, striking at him while the thing within him was torn free.

The worms quickened, swarming closer. At their advance, Dhich'uné recoiled, fear flickering across his face for the first time. While Keléno prayed fervently to Sárku, Kirktá sprinted to the platform’s center. The spectral threads binding the silhouette to the prince had stretched thin, taut and on the edge of breaking. Trusting his intuition, Kirktá drew the uncut black gem. With a swift motion, he slashed through the strands, severing them one by one.

The vortex roared, ripping the last of the shadow from Dhich'uné and devouring it. The prince collapsed, broken and gasping, left to writhe on the platform.

For a moment, silence reigned. Then the voice returned, vast and terrible.

"Do not mistake my hand for friendship. You are tools, no more. The cycle of Change endures. Pray you never draw my gaze again."

With those words, Dhich'uné’s still-twitching body convulsed. An unseen force seized him, folding him inward toward a single invisible point. His scream echoed through the chamber and then cut off abruptly as he vanished.