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Subject: "Show me on the robot where the bad plant touched you." rss

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Chris Tannhauser
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Four intrepid mutants venture far from home in order to save it: a heart-rending tale of an entire case of Mountain Dew and one TPK.

DRAMATIS MUTANTAE

Awk Awk
(Bad Uncle Dave, age Old-Enough-To-Know-Better)
A Giant Hawkoid with a wingspan of 30+ feet, a man-sized ballista that shoots cut-down telephone poles, and a concrete-filled Hippity Hop:


Oh, it's "bouncy" all right.

Yes, that last item should make you shudder.

Dilbert
(Austin, age 15)
A Pyrokinetic Telekinetic, he hovers around with his withered limbs curled, insect-like, his body the mere dangling string beneath the massive balloon that is his brainium. All his crap orbits him in lazy arcs.

Dewey
(Garrett, age 16)
A Giant Pyrokinetic with a softball-sized head and an outsized love for Pure-Strain Humans. He has a canoe strapped to his back as armor, the prow making a weird, arched shrine for his tiny head.

[bletch]
(Bad Uncle George, age Timeless)
A Plant Hypercognitive, [bletch] looks like a Triffid trying to hide in a pile of tyres. He uses a Speak 'n Spell vocorder for normal communication:


He says that a lot.

And a See 'n Say for color commentary:


[turns dial, pulls string]

"The cow says... Moo-ooo."

THE LAST HAPPY DAY

We begin in their native village, a log-wall & crude hut affair deep in some random jungle.

[bletch]: "I'm in my living quarters."

Me: "What you call your 'living quarters' the rest of the village calls the latrine. They're constantly shooing you away from it. Especially when you go from there to the kitchen area to 'help out.'"

Everyone Else: Ha-ha!

Quote:
Oh, but they got theirs...

Refugees stream into the village, telling sobbing tales of the city-that-crawls and how it ate their town and they fled into the jungle where fully half their number was eaten and/or licked to pieces by random horrors Out There on their way here. Oh, and that crawling city? On its way right behind them.

The village elder, an old-man-baby dangling from a set of long, skinny spider legs that sprout from his back calls for heroes. Or, at least, the four members of the village too pathetic to have any loved ones, let alone girlfriends. There's a little bit of head turning and "Wait, what? Me?" before they all get the drift and reluctantly leave their home for the first time.

Quote:
We were listening to the Conan the Barbarian movie soundtrack and it was especially good here, swelling with iron-jawed resolve and beetle-browed plow-aheadedness, at least until they were more than 100 yards from home—the furthest they'd ever been—and lost sight of the village walls. Then it was a lot of "I'm not scared, are you scared? 'Cuz I'm not. Scared, that is."

Just when they've come to a consensus that, indeed, none of them are scared as long as none of them are scared, the ground shimmies beneath their feet.

A CASE OF MOUNTAIN DEW

Something school-bus-sized explodes from the earth and nearly swallows up Awk, but he manages to get one set of talons braced against its lower jaw and his shoulder jammed into its soft palate and so saves himself a noshing.

Towering above them, swaying and trying to chew their friend was a cross between a Great White shark, a naked mole rat, and the aforementioned school bus. Thinking fast like all plants must, [bletch] pulls his trusty Hypno-Ray and woodle-woodles the massive beast, stunning it. The thing's beady eyes go to Xs and it flops over mightily onto its side, stubby legs sticking straight out. Awk kicks his way out of the beast's mouth and they all rush it and set to, beating on it with parking meters, frying pans, razor-wire whips and the concrete-filled Hippity Hop.

This rouses the thing from its trance—it rolls, rights itself and bellows at them like a day-old fish market in a wind tunnel. Crapping their pants, the two Pyrokinetics startle-roast it with roiling gouts of flame, simultaneously killing it and setting up the afternoon's barbeque.

Awk cuts open the beast's stomach and finds the prize inside, an H11 Blaster Rifle. As they rest and eat, something surrounds them in the jungle—a tribe of silent plant people, vines woven into the shapes of Men. The party makes peaceful overtures and through gestures and pointing figures out that the Plant-Men want to trade a sack of Ancient garbage for the rest of the Great-naked-White-mole-shark-rat-thing. Much swag is had by all.

They journey on and days go by; days of running, hiding, watching things eat other things, learning that trees can bite, clouds can hate and bunnies come from terrible pustules that itch like crazy. Finally, they emerge from the edge of the jungle and into low, rolling hills of grass. Strangely, this is not a comfort.

OK TPK?

After a day's travel through the "gentle" countryside and they come upon a natural amphitheater with high, rocky outcroppings on three sides—and in the middle lies a Pure-Strain Human, face down, surrounded by scattered boxes. Dewey is beside himself with joy—he's never seen a Real Person before—and lopes down into the wide, shallow basin. In awe he approaches the object of his worship, his longing, and reaches out a trembling hand to caress a member of the Master Race, only to find he's...

Inflatable?

"Aw, crap," Dewey breathes.

The five man-sized rabbits with assault rifles pop up over the lip of the amphitheater and begin firing into the killbox.

Awk flaps mightily and grabs some sky as the rest of the party provides the Hoops with some much-needed target practice. Too late Awk spies a Hoop with a rocket-propelled grenade launcher—he tries to jink as the rocket streaks for him but ends up taking it full in the face with a bang of black smoke, blood and feathers.

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At this point the party was in truly terrible shape, and they hadn't even got a shot off yet. I was mildly worried about a TPK, but hey, not my problem. If it looks like an ambush and you walk into it like an ambush, it's probably an ambush. Everybody shoulda known better.

The party rallies almost instantly. They begin returning fire, literally in the case of the two Pyrokinetics, and they're getting good work done. Bunnies are burning. Awk tucks his wings and rolls over, swinging the Hippity Hop in a long, descending arc from 50 feet up, flattening a Hoop like a cartoon character made out of meat.

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There was a brief pause in the action as everybody made a face, considering this. "Getting Hippity Hopped" became an insta-meme.

The remaining Hoops redouble their fire, emptying whole clips, shell casings fountaining to sparkle against the rocks. The head Hoop reloads the RPG and lights off another shot that just misses Awk. Dilbert goes down, touching the ground for the first time in a long time, but not before tossing his Razor Grenade to [bletch]. [bletch] pulls the pin and prepares to use the grenade on the head Hoop—

Quote:
At this point there were questions about [bletch]'s ability to use the grenade. "Are you sure a plant understands what a grenade is, much less how to properly deploy one?" I asked. "What's to keep him from pulling the pin and trying to walk it over there and touch it to the Hoop?" The players vehemently assured me that this was not the case, and [bletch] cleared the whole matter up by declaring, movingly, "The pig goes... Oink-oink!"

—[bletch] lobs the Razor Grenade overlimb; it bounces off the lead Hoop's forehead before detonating into a fuzzy cloud of monowire. And then the brave plant falls to enemy fire.

Awk fires one of his telephone poles at the head Hoop; it skips off the rocks in front of him and catches him sideways across the belly, sending him rolling down the hillside in a tangle of monowire and spiked log.

As Dewey and Awk turn their attention to the remaining Hoops, the head Hoop disentangles himself, draws his katana and hops up the hill all lightning fast & samurai-style, ears back, sword held low and behind. The two heroes turn just in time to see him spring from the high rock, katana raised overhead and down behind his back, legs fully extended behind him, his entire body arched for the killing blow—Dewey points and lights him on fire. Unperturbed, the Hoop continues in his deadly arc, burning, eyes mad with pain and bloodlust. Awk draws and fires his Blaster Rifle with his feet, punching a two-inch hole clean through the Hoop's head. His lifeless body, smoking, crashes into the rocks at Dewey's feet.

Dewey has had enough. With an enormous bellow he stomps up the slope, seizes the nearest Hoop by the neck in his bowling-ball-sized fists and begins to squeeze the life out of him. The Hoop's pink eyes bulge; rabbity feet kick the air. And then he slips his combat knife from his tac vest and starts stabbing Dewey repeatedly in his tiny head. Dewey loses an eye, and consciousness as well. He drops.

Awk hovers hugely over the remaining two Hoops, kicking up a blinding wind. He screeches at them—

Quote:
And they were completely unaffected. This is where I seriously began to sweat the TPK—I expected the Hoops to bolt. Instead, they returned fire. It took a solid Hippity Hopping combined with Awk Awk's Giant "Brickbat" power to flatten one and convince the other to scram.

Awk slaps everyone awake, collects the inflatibuddy, and moves on a good distance before making camp for the night.

THE CITY-THAT-CRAWLS

The next day they come across a broad section of plowed earth, edged with curious little houses made from square bricks of crumbling stone. The houses stand in a line that extends as far as they can see, like a haphazard mini-Great Wall, from horizon to horizon. They can just make out a smear of hazy smoke at one end.

Going inside, they find the little houses are abandoned and stripped bare.

Following the long city, they find it eventually inhabited. The denizens appear as curiously armored dwarfs, looking squat and sturdy in broad plates. Upon closer inspection they find these are actually sentient hamsters living symbiotically with enormous ticks. The hand-sized ticks can swarm off and do simple tasks, like build or wreck stuff, attack, and the like. They then return to their hosts and latch on making what looks like layered plate armor. These things are all very busy stripping and moving house—removing windows, doors, furniture, boxes of junk. Most of the work is done by carpets of ticks.

The party approaches peacefully—

Quote:
Which bummed me out, since I wanted to see them covered in giant ticks, clawing at themselves and cursing this awful existence.

—and talks with the Hamsterticks.

"Gotta go, gotta go," they say, "Moving today. Moving to the new houses."

As the party continues along they find the little houses increasingly busy until they reach a section of freshly-laid 12-lane superhighway that the Hamsterticks are busy disassembling and stacking into crude homes. Over the hill something enormous is grinding, growling, and belching columns of smoke.

It is, of course, an enormous highway-laying machine, like a sideways skyscraper on hundreds of massive treads. At the front end plows and intakes like supertanker prows dig, cut and guide the raw earth into its bowels where it transmutes the material into concrete that it poops out the bays to the rear, leaving a track of superhighway wherever it goes. The Hamsterticks have followed it for time immemorial, dismantling the road to build their long, thin city at the edge of the rut.

Over the massive machine a black cloud of flying things dive and swoop, alighting on rough mud-mounds that blister its back.

"All we gotta do is go inside and turn it off," someone says helpfully.

"Yes, let's," someone else replies, less sure.

Awk flies [bletch] up to the top while Dewey finds a bent ladder sticking out over one of the house-sized tread units and manages to clamber up the many, many, probably-kill-you-if-you-slipped stories to the top, towing Dilbert like a balloon.

There they see that the mud-mounds are spit-extruded huts stuffed with rotting bodies and giant mushrooms. Homes for the headless flapping things that are swirling and following something across the deck like a wet, leathery tornado. It's a squat little squarebot, running straight for the party.

Just as it gets to them and I open my mouth to continue the narrative—

"I kick it over the side," says Dewey, rolling.

I close my mouth.

Indeed, he punts it over the side; "Wheeeeee!" it squeals distantly as it goes. The pursuing things whirl and dive after it like a black latex freight train.

Quote:
At this point the other players berated Garrett for "kicking the clue piñata over the side."

They find an iris valve on the deck and manage to dial it open, and climb down into an airlock of sorts... this is only after much pushing and pulling and trying to figure out how to get Awk and Dewey through the hole. "If I can just get my shoulder through, I'll be okay," says Dewey, wearing the city-that-crawls like an ill-fitting sweater that you can't quite get your arm through the proper hole of.

This place is nice. Nice like they've never seen nice. It's clean. It's brightly lit. It's all polished white panels, black edging, and blinking colored lights. It's the sort of place that throws their primitive savagery into sharp relief. For the rest of their lives, everything else will be nothing but crap.

At just this moment the little robot comes bouncing down into the crowded white room, followed by six of those black flapping things, cramming themselves into the remaining available space. It's all nuts-to-butts, and nobody's happy.

TPK NOW?

And it only gets better when Dewey ignites his Plasma Sword. After a frantic cut-scene of elbows-in-the-faces-on-the-backswings, two more of the awful things make it in through the hole before someone wises up and bangs it shut. Then it's all Star Wars Kid with the Plasma Sword until there's enough room opened up to swing the Hippity Hop and the rest is just a slippery mess.

The little robot, though, is over by the exit door, hopping up and down, trying to reach the control panel. Awk scoops him up. "Hey, little buddy, what are you doing?"

The robot squirms in his grasp. "I gotta find my friend!"

It has something written on it in Ancient. Dewey sounds it out. It says

SELF

in big, block letters. Upon closer examination, [bletch] finds a screw-in orifice on the little robot's side. "Your friend," he asks, "What is is name?"

"I gotta find him!" the robot chirps.

"Is his name," [bletch] pauses, "Destruct?"

Quote:
Dammit, dammit, dammit. I shoulda known. I can't put anything over on these guys. I really wanted this for the big reveal, during the boss fight, to make things suddenly complicated. Funny how these things work out, though...

"Hey, little fella," says Awk, "When you... fell off the top, what did it feel like?"

"I gotta find my friend!"

"I know," Awk says, gripping one of the robot's little legs, "But did it... hurt?"

"I—I gotta find him!"

They decline to snap its legs off, and duct-tape over the access port instead. Holding it up to the panel, it shows them how to access the automap feature and locate its "friend," somewhere in the bowels of the city-that-crawls. They then duct-tape the little robot to [bletch]'s trunk. It never stops struggling and picking at the tape.

The party takes an elevator to the control bridge and experiences yet another wonder of the Ancients: The Girl From Ipanema. It is the most beautiful thing they've ever heard—it makes them weep and claw at the speaker grilles.

They arrive at the bridge, a wondrous space of lit panels, dancing holodisplays and swiveling boss-chairs upon which Pure-Strain Human mummies recline. A hovering sentry-bot accosts them and they distract it with the inflatibuddy long enough for Awk to Hippity Hop it into fitfully sparking junk.

Awk picks all the shiny insignia off the bodies while Dewey, relying on his knowledge of Ancient technology, thinks he may know how to cut power to the tread units. He taps at some panels and slides some sliders and the great machine shudders to a sudden halt, dumping mummies onto the floor. The lighting cuts to red and distant klaxons sound.

A voice crackles magically out of the air around them: "Hey, what's goin' on up there?"

"Daaah," someone says, "Routine maintenance? Everything's good up here."

Awk goes nuts Hippity Hopping banks of control panels—everyone gets into it, wrecking everything they can get hold of, snapping off handles, shredding upholstery and kicking mummies.

The door to the bridge snaps open. Everyone freezes mid-vandalism as a Chimpipede in an orange, ten-legged jumpsuit undulates in, tapping absentmindedly at a handheld computer terminal. "Do-be-do-be-do," he sings softly to himself.

He looks up and gets Hippity Hopped. It takes two overhand whacks to put him down, and when he expires the Chimpipede curls up like a big bug, rows of monkey-paws flexed horribly claw-like.

They cram themselves back into the elevator and head belowdecks to find Self's friend, the red, pulsing dot somewhere in the massive bays at the back end...

TPK NOW!

Using the automaps on the walls they can tell they're getting close as they exit an elevator into a huge space with catwalks 30 feet up along either side and massive bay doors at the far end. They pop the doors and as they grind open, hugely, they see an approaching entourage:

- Depressed-looking Hamsterticks, denuded of their beloved pet-coverings, half-heartedly tossing flower petals from wicker baskets to form a carpet for

- Scraggly raccoon trumpeters blowing an awful racket on battered vuvuzelas, followed up by

- Four scary-big Gorillataurs (all the best parts of gorillas and Clydesdales together in one bone-cracking, marrow-sucking package) sporting nasty-looking rebar spears, snorting and scowling ahead of

- A chiffon-draped palanquin borne on the hunched backs of various shuffling monstrosities, upon which sits

- A perfect and golden Pure-Strain Human, gloriously naked, resplendent in fragrant wreaths of flowered leis; with an ironically arched eyebrow and playful sneer, he strokes a little robot cradled in his arms.

With zero discussion, the party reverses the door controls and the bay doors BANG! shut with that crazy-scary Star Wars speed that makes OSHA inspectors poop a little just before the cramping clench.

In impressively quick fashion, the party formulates a Plan and takes up positions just as the door begins to grind open again. Awk flaps up to roost on a catwalk, RPG loaded and aimed at the widening, vuvuzela-droning gap. [bletch] and Dilbert clamber up the ladders and set themselves up as well. Dewey stands alone, in the center of the room.

When the doors open wide enough, the reluctant parade shuffles forward.

"My Lord! My Master!" Dewey cries in genuine ecstasy, falling to his knees, arms outstretched, "I give you my love, my life!"

"As it should be, hmmn?" replies the Golden Man in a high-pitched, effeminately snotty voice, "It is only right that you should worship me."

"You are so beautiful," screams Dewey, "So perfect! I am not worthy!"

"But you are appropriately wise," says the Golden Man with a sniff, "And will make a semi-perfect follower." He strokes the squirming robot in his lap. "But what of your friends," he gestures theatrically with a sinuous, golden hand, "Will they fall upon their faces and supplicate themselves to me as is right and required? Or—"

"NOW!" shrieks Awk.

Dilbert telekineses the door controls and the massive portal BANG!s shut, catching the palanquin exactly amidships. The Golden Man is pinched in twain with a twinkling, crunchy SPROING, becoming a fountain of sprockets, springs and lubricating oil.

The entourages freezes, turns slowly and sees their God for the crummy machine he is, an obsolete Adonis-Bot™ 9000, Now With Perma-Real Holes, Vibromassage Power and Up-N-At-Em™ Technology.

There is A Moment.

A moment in which anyone could say anything, anything at all, even something as simple as "You are all free now!"

Instead, one of the party members opens fire.

It's raw chaos. The RPG round blasts into the middle of the huddling Hamsterticks even as [bletch] hoses down the raccoons with his AK. The Gorillataurs go ape-shit on Dewey, doing all the worst things you can imagine enraged gorillas and spooked horses would do. Somebody catches a rebar-spear through the chest and Dilbert telekineses an Omega Tech healing Patch across the room onto them. Fire erupts in angry bolts from the two Pyrokinetics. The smells of burnt hair, seared flesh, blood and gun smoke grow thick in the air—

And then the little robot duct-taped to [bletch] finally gets loose.

It hops off the catwalk and beelines through the carnage for the wrecked palanquin, where, with a squeal, it mates with its friend. The two robots screw themselves together. The lighting flicks to red.

"YESH BAABU DENTOLO," yells the ceiling as the klaxons start, "YESH BAABU DENTOLO."

These sorts of things being universal, no translation is required. Everyone drops what they're doing—guns clatter to the deck, headlocks are released, knives left in the organs they've been stabbed into—and as a mass, rushes the elevator.

Awk, diving off the catwalk, swoops in first, hugely. Everyone else meets at the doorway, 14-stooges-style, clawing, pulling hair, trying to get a foot in. Awk fills his lungs and shrieks at the crowd, pushing everyone back but the party members, who clamber in—

All but Dewey.

Dewey is slumped against the far doors, cradling the whirring, ticking, squirting half of the Golden Man in his loving arms. Great sobs wrack his enormous frame.

The elevator doors shut and the nice music starts as they rise, the calm of the space broken regularly by the earnest syllables YESH BAABU DENTOLO. They hit the top floor and pile out just as distant thumps and rumbles start. The lights flicker and the floor rocks. They hurtle down a dog-leg corridor and into the gore-spattered room with the iris valve exit. [bletch] clambers up the ladder and keys the valve. It snaps open and cool, fresh air pours down upon them, a circle of blue sky and

W H I T E O U T

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I figured the self-destruct nuke would detonate on a natural 20—I rolled once in the elevator (a 4), once on the dog-leg (an 18), and one final time before the exit. It would have been a simple thing for Awk to clutch Dilbert and [bletch] in his talons and emergency-dive off the machine...

If I hadn't rolled that effort-effacing natural 20—in front of God and everyone—on the exit.
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Eric Dodd
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Fantastic! This should be the next Pixar movie...
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King of All Simians — Not a Mere Diplomat
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Jiminy Cricket, I am so stealing everything....
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Kris Miller
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TPK NOW!

I have to get a shirt that says that made before the next game convention.
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Erich Vereen
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Great report ^_^ I loved it
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Great stuff. I'm running GW for the GD on Saturday (sans the booster card requirement) and also at a friend's surprise birthday party on Halloween so I'm looking forward to some wackiness myself. wowcool
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Jeff Wiles
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If it makes you feel any better, the Self-Destruct plot device would have totally pwned me.
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Joe Gola
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What kind of sick individual would kick a mummy?
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You know, I'm never going to be able to hear the song "Here Comes Peter Cottontail" and not laugh out loud because of this. I'm gonna hear "Hippity Hoppity Easter's on it's way!" and bust out laughing every time!
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I want to have your children.

Or amorphous, gelatinous spawn.

Whatever it takes.
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So, Chris, lemme ask about your stylee. How much of the system as written did you use? As an old-school DM, do you eschew minis and maps? I wouldn't think so, since that's what everything's built around; assuming not, do you use swanky erasable mats? I know your stance on balance, so do you just write encounters how you want 'em and let the chips fall where they may?

It seems like the gestation period between getting the game last week and coming up with the (fucking insane(ly awesome)) plot of the session a few days later was ridiculously short. How much of everything do you prepare beforehand versus winging at the table? Do these kinds of things just spring forth from your brow fully formed, like a hideous Pallas Athena?
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Red Wine Pie wrote:
Fantastic! This should be the next Pixar movie...

"You know, for kids!"

Holmes! wrote:
Jiminy Cricket, I am so stealing everything....

Steal away! It's only right that the city-that-crawls should rack up an impressive body count...

travellerne wrote:
TPK NOW!

I have to get a shirt that says that made before the next game convention.

And I suddenly realize I need a Magic 8 Ball:

"O Magic Eight Ball, is it time for the TPK?"

[peers into murky porthole]


MJ Harnish wrote:
Great stuff. I'm running GW for the GD on Saturday (sans the booster card requirement) and also at a friend's surprise birthday party on Halloween so I'm looking forward to some wackiness myself. wowcool

Good luck with it & have a blast!

jeffwiles wrote:

If it makes you feel any better, the Self-Destruct plot device would have totally pwned me.

Thanks. It's my fault they're so paranoid. They'd blow up a sack of crying babies rather than find out it's a bomb. Again.

Gola wrote:
What kind of sick individual would kick a mummy?

These are some of the same guys who, upon finding the high-level wizard's sanctum sanctorum, took a dump in his spell book, broke everything they could reach, and even stabbed the experimental ape-in-a-cage in the corner. They're like three-year-olds on Lucky Charms and Yoo-Hoo -- if they don't think anyone's looking, or, at least can't get to them before they can break it, they will.

belirahc wrote:
Great report ^_^ I loved it

Thanks!

belirahc wrote:
You know, I'm never going to be able to hear the song "Here Comes Peter Cottontail" and not laugh out loud because of this. I'm gonna hear "Hippity Hoppity Easter's on it's way!" and bust out laughing every time!

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Holmes! wrote:
So, Chris, lemme ask about your stylee. How much of the system as written did you use?

I used everything but the Alpha Flux rules (new mutations every encounter and on every d20 roll of 1). I felt that having players process a new power every encounter might slow the flow of the game too much -- though I did intend to have characters mutate on natural 1s. Many natural 1s came up, but we were so caught up in the whirl of the story I forgot to enforce the rule.

So we ended up playing where every character got a single Alpha Mutation at the start of the game and kept it till the bitter end.

Holmes! wrote:
As an old-school DM, do you eschew minis and maps? I wouldn't think so, since that's what everything's built around; assuming not, do you use swanky erasable mats?

Nope, no minis, counters, or maps. We barebacked the whole thing. I was apprehensive at first, given, as you say, it appears to be built around maps & minis as a requirement.

I just told everyone to multiply all instances of "squares" on their cards by "five feet" to get an idea of distances. It worked flawlessly.

So all that stuff that comes in the box? Don't need it!

Holmes! wrote:
I know your stance on balance, so do you just write encounters how you want 'em and let the chips fall where they may?

Yep. As a result the party rode the edge of the TPK chasm pretty much the whole way through until the hard left at the end. It was scary for me (okay, for all of us) since it was pretty clear the game was in danger of ending suddenly at any time. Made things exciting, though.

Holmes! wrote:
It seems like the gestation period between getting the game last week and coming up with the (fucking insane(ly awesome)) plot of the session a few days later was ridiculously short. How much of everything do you prepare beforehand versus winging at the table? Do these kinds of things just spring forth from your brow fully formed, like a hideous Pallas Athena?

Aw, shucks... blush Here's how it gelled:

Pre-planned:

The city-that-crawls, the furrow, the long city and the Hamsterticks. (Saw this as the initial problem halfway through the rules.)

Hastily constructed Saturday afternoon:

Initial encounter with the giant Sep, the Hoop ambush, the Obb colony, and the concept for the Golden Man.

Pulled completely out of my ass Saturday night:

The self-destruct bots, the stuff on the bridge, the actual texture & staffing of the final showdown. ("Chimpipedes" & "Gorillataurs" just kinda happened.)

This is pretty normal for me. I tend to start with a very strong image or scene, embellish it a little with some supporting scenes on either side, jot down some stats, and walk into the session with a single page of notes. The rest is the magic of collaborative storytelling with my (very talented and inspiring) players. My loosely structured mess only comes together because of them...
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Chris Tannhauser
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GONE DADDY GONE
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cosine wrote:
I want to have your children.

Or amorphous, gelatinous spawn.

Whatever it takes.

Well, if we ever end up with complimentary Alpha Mutations, I say let's!
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Kris Miller
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HiveGod wrote:
travellerne wrote:
TPK NOW!

I have to get a shirt that says that made before the next game convention.

And I suddenly realize I need a Magic 8 Ball:

"O Magic Eight Ball, is it time for the TPK?"

[peers into murky porthole]




Hey! I've got that same magic 8-ball, and it gives that same answer every game session!
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David Sullivan
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Awk-Awk!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!



Behold my hippity hop and despair!
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George Rothrock
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Games!
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[BLETCH] the Bad Plant


[Pulls string]
Whirrr... The Cow says "MOOOooo"

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Brian Heckathorn
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This is a completely awesome session report. I'm even more anxiously awaiting my copy of Gamma World to arrive now.
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Chapel
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Exit...pursued by a bear.
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Quote:
We were listening to the Conan the Barbarian movie soundtrack and it was especially good here...


This is totally hilarious, as I also have this on rotation during my RPG sessions.

We need an RPG playlist.
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Dan
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Yeah... I see what you did there.
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This report reminded me why I role-play as a hobby. =^.^=
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Caleb Wynn
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I love Nintendo as well!
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That was awesome.
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MWChapel wrote:
Quote:
We were listening to the Conan the Barbarian movie soundtrack and it was especially good here...


This is totally hilarious, as I also have this on rotation during my RPG sessions.

We need an RPG playlist.


Yes we always use this and seconded on the playlist. Maybe someone can start a thread?
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Joshua OConnor
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a w e s o m e p l a y r e p o r t !!!

Question... (DONS FLAME RETARDANT COAT)

Is the game inherently silly? I have bad memories of TOON
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Chris Tannhauser
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baradifi wrote:
a w e s o m e p l a y r e p o r t !!!

Question... (DONS FLAME RETARDANT COAT)

Is the game inherently silly? I have bad memories of TOON

Well, from the website:

Quote:
A wacky, wily roleplaying game of post-apocalyptic peril.

Earth. After the apocalypse. Never mind the radiation—you’re gonna like it here.

The D&D Gamma World Roleplaying Game offers hours of rollicking entertainment in a savage land of adventure, where the survivors of some mythical future disaster must contend with radioactive wastes, ravaged cities, and rampant lawlessness. Against a nuclear backdrop, heroic scavengers search crumbled ruins for lost artifacts while battling mutants and other perils.

This is reinforced by an occasionally humorous tone in the rulebook, but if anything it's more a dark, sly humor than a mad-cap over-the-top slapstick. I, too, did not enjoy TOON and would have been turned off if Gamma World was anything like it. While it does tend toward a grim absurdity (and how else to characterize the man-made destruction of civilization?) it can be played however your group sees fit. It's inherently humorous, but not outright silly.

We're playing again tonight, and this time I'm making it darker in a laughing-while-crying sort of way.

"Wait, wait, wait -- what does a robot need with a knife?"

[cue Stephen Hawking voice]

"Shut up. And dig your holes. You miserable meat sacks."
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Chris Tannhauser
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grafzepp wrote:

I like how [bletch] is naked and wielding both a whip and a Hypno-Ray in this tastefully done bit of plant erotica. The sexual tension makes me ache.

[pulls string]

"The Roofies go... Zzzz-zzz."
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