Whenever I consult my old
Moldvay-edition Basic D&D rulebook I fumble with a few
small index cards tucked just within the front cover. Each one
contains a simple “magic” item I’d devised long ago to help
measly first-level characters increase their chances of surviving to
second level and perhaps grow into interesting heroes instead of
gooey splotches on the dungeon floor.
When I first began playing D&D
in high school everyone accepted the high mortality rate for starting
characters. The neighborhood kids and I spent many an afternoon
simply sitting around rolling up a variety of characters we might
like to play so we had a ready stash to feed into deadly adventures.
After a while, though, when we played less frequently, we wanted to
make our time count; so we put more effort into character concepts
and thus felt more attached to them (even lovably stupid “Stonehead
the Fighter,” whose Intelligence and Wisdom were minimized in favor
of his Strength and Constitution). But the rules and published
adventures remained biased toward tearing apart first-level
characters until a few lucky ones made it through the low-level meat
grinder.
In reading the Basic D&D
rules again one day I recalled the “Inheritance” paragraph on
page B13 and drew some inspiration from it. Our previous, low-level
characters rarely had anything to bequeath to their adventurous
heirs. But I thought perhaps new characters might have received some
small, helpful gift before leaving home and setting out on the
dangerous path of wandering glory seekers. So I devised some basic
ideas short enough to fit on one side of a notecard and handed them
to players once they’d rolled up starting characters. They were
trinkets, really, with low-level powers (if any), but enough to offer
an additional means of overcoming obstacles and, in some cases,
helping to define the character with a tad more depth. I used them on
several occasions – one-shot beginner adventures – and probably
paired them with appropriate character classes. The descriptions
remained brief; no doubt seasoned players could find wide and
exploitable rules loopholes in them, but that wasn’t my intent (and
we weren’t quite those kinds of players yet). I present them here
with some editorial tidying to hide my juvenile writing style and
mistakes:
Key & Whistle: A
unique and large key has a whistle built into the staff. Although the
key fits no lock, if blown loudly it opens any lock within a 30 foot
radius (and possibly attracts some other attention...).
Dragon’s Head Walking Stick: A
rather tall walking stick with a dragon’s head carved into the top
knob has no magical power; however, if wielded by a magic user as if
it were a powerful magic staff, monsters with 4+ or less hit dice
have a 2 in 6 chance of running in fear, making later morale checks
with a –2 penalty.
Lucky Fox Paw: If worn, rubbed,
or otherwise trusted as a lucky talisman, the paw bestows a bonus of
+1 to any die roll their character makes (limit once per day). For
example, rubbing the paw and whispering “Come on, Foxpaw, this
arrow really has to hit,” might give the player a +1 “to hit”
bonus.
Ball of Light: A three-inch
diameter glass ball emits bright white light in a 30 foot radius when
removed from its thick leather bag. The glass ball is very fragile
and breaks if dropped or otherwise mishandled.
Rusty Dagger: This
rust-encrusted dagger is not magical, yet every living creature hit
by it must save against poison or contract tetanus. The victim loses
1 point of Strength and Constitution per day until healed properly by
a cleric or other means.
Talking Money Bag: An ordinary
looking money sack occasionally talks, saying such things as “Thank
you” if a coin is put in, “Don’t spend too much” if money is
removed, and “Help! Somebody’s stealing me!” if stolen. It only
speaks when something happens to it. (This was clearly inspired by my
reading of Tolkien’s The Hobbit and the brief appearance of
the troll’s talking purse.)
Some of these
items – most notably the Dragon’s Head Walking Stick – seemed
ideal for rampant abuse. But even at this early stage in my
game-design development I’d realized small boons like these
required some drawbacks, as demonstrated in such items as the Key &
Whistle, Ball of Light, and Talking Money Bag (which opened the door
for lots of gamemaster mischief...). In reviewing these little
treasures so many years later I also realize they’re weighted
heavily to benefit non-fighter classes by their mostly non-combat
functions.
I’m not engaging
in on the debate about whether high character mortality is “right”
for any particular kind of gaming style. Do the Old School
Renaissance (OSR) and retro-clones foster a lethal style of gameplay
or is there room for more character growth in the meat-grinder stage?
Should characters (and to some degree new players) get used to
low-level character death as part of the game’s learning
experience? Should gamemasters religiously adhere to rules, even if
they’d result in the death of a beloved character, or is some
degree of “fudging” the rules acceptable to ensure survival of
some near-death drama? Certainly the debate ranges beyond these
artificially defined bounds. The choice remains subjective; some
folks like roleplaying games where “survival of the fittest”
remains paramount and revel in the hideous demise of their
characters, while others prefer to build carefully crafted heroes
toward deeper development.
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