GADCon After-Action Report: In Which I Find Some Paths And Very Nearly Die Quite A Bit

I spent most of my weekend a mile from my apartment playing Pathfinder at a local con, GADCon (GAD = 'Games And Dice').  Here's the after-action report.

Bottom Line: I had quite a bit of fun at this Pathfinder-heavy weekend and look forward to returning next year; I enjoyed my four sessions of Pathfinder Society despite the many differences with the sort of thing with which I'm accustomed.

Prologue:  Not much Pathfinder under my belt previous to this weekend, and really not that much more 3.5 during that period.  I knew GADCon was Pathfinder-heavy; specifically, Pathfinder Society (PFS), which is Paizo's organized play (OP) program.  I had poked around learning about PFS and how it works back in the fall when some pals were opening up a gaming store and I was doing some event research/organizing for them, so I had a good general idea of how the OP worked, but no firsthand experience.  Further terminology for the uninitiated: in the Pathfinder rpg setting, there is a Pathfinder Society organization, which trains and sponsors Pathfinders who explore and solve problems and crap.  Professional adventurers with membership in a global adventuring guild, essentially.

FRIDAY NIGHT
Headed over to the hotel, got registered, and helped Travis carry in box after box of stuff for CardBoard Gaming's table in the vendor room.  I don't know how he crammed so much stuff into that Honda Civic.  We both wrapped it up in time to get our seats at two separate tables of a "PFS for Beginners" session, which involved character creation and running a scenario called The Confirmation - basically meant to be a graduation mission for baby Pathfinders.  As a fun bonus, we new folks were given snazzy character folios (these are a player reference thing with pockets, a dry-erase charsheet, etc).  The scenario that followed was pretty straightforward - the standard beginning exposition, some wilderness travel, and then poking around in some caverns.  Altogether a decent beginner scenario (although I think the swarms were a little much for new players with level 1 PCs).  So far, so good.  Had a great time joking around and playing my new PFS PC, Noorzad the Incredibly Handsome, the Flower of Katapesh.  He's a vain daredevil of a bard, as you might imagine.  Over the course of his three sessions, he went into negative hit points nine times.  Nine times.  I swear I wasn't doing anything particularly stupid and was not getting more combatty than a bard should reasonably be expected to be.  Nine times.  This is less of an issue than you might think, in the long run, because everyone in the Society carries a wand of cure light wounds.  Not everyone can use one, mind you, but it's considered polite to buy your own so you're not draining the cleric's resources.  Will I ever wrap my head around the "treat magic wands like cheap magic potions" concept?


SATURDAY AFTERNOON
Recognizing that I am no longer 25, I didn't sign up for an 8am session on Saturday.  Instead, I focused on final prep for my 2pm Labyrinth Lord game.  Now this is a bit of a saga.  I had only one player prereg for my game; I also knew that Van (who plays the fish-man Rashidan Lochbottom in the Wampus Country campaign) was driving up to play, and Saturday morning one of the con organizers said he had someone coming in who would probably want to play something old school.  Well, none of that materialized in time.  Van and his friend were running an hour-plus late thanks to interstate traffic, the pre-regged player didn't show, and the rumored third person didn't show either.  I stood in the hall and tried to recruit people, but there really weren't any "idle" folks - at a small, focused con, this didn't surprise me; everyone seemed to be already committed to either a PF game (well duh) or involved in a Netrunner tournament going on in the second room.  So we're at "mildly disappointed but not actually surprised", which is kind of a weird place to be, I guess.

I grabbed the con organizer, related the tale of woe, and asked him at what time I should call the slot; not because there was competition for the table and chairs, but because, come on, I signed up to run a game, not sit somewhere for five hours and wait to run a game, right?  He said we'd waited long enough to call it, and besides, they needed a cleric over at his table.  (The classic jokes are classic because they're true.)

Next thing I know I'm sitting down to play in a game run by the local Venture Lieutenant (PFS regional organizer), a scenario called Ruins of Bonekeep (Level One).  This is a PFS 'special scenario' that actually comes with a "YOU COULD SERIOUSLY TOTALLY DIE IN THIS SCENARIO GUYS I AM NOT FREAKING KIDDING" warning on it, which is, I gather, kind of a huge deal from a PFS point of view.  I wasn't super worried, though, as I wasn't playing my shiny new bard - Bonekeep was meant for seventh-level characters.  So I was handed a standard-issue pregen (PFS has these), the cleric.  What this means in Society terms is that when one of my actual PCs hits 7th level, he can then claim whatever benefits ("boons" etc) I earned as this pregen.

Here's my review of Ruins of Bonekeep: this is the most fuck-you of all the fuck-you dungeons I've ever been in.  Some of you will find that exciting, others repulsive.  If Society people (in or out of character) don't make jokes about "Boned-keep, amirite?", they're asleep on the job.  Bonekeep has a lot of "yeah, nothing works against this thing" and some "failed save?  run away for ten minutes" and a good bit of "take damage anyway, yes all of you".  And despite an ostensible necromancer theme, it's a funhouse, no doubt.  A lethal funhouse.  We survived (I'll go ahead and say "barely"), we even looted some decent stuff, but man.  Not in a hurry to run back there.  One of the PCs was a ninja, and he looked like a serious badass.  You ever play in a game where there's a class you know nothing about, but just watching the dude play is like a long commercial for how much fun that class probably can be?  Yeah, it was like that.

Picture taken immediately after my cleric was mind-hosed to flee from the [redacted] in the next room over, ran through the door and was immediately surrounded by four large elementals (one of each type), who proceeded to shout at her in elemental languages and then murder her face.  She went negative, but did not actually die due to a combination of the following words: tengu, wizard, invisibility, dimension door.  Seventh-level characters are no joke, people.

After the lubeless joy of Ruins of Bonekeep, I ran across the street for pizza with Van and Tyler, then it was a hurry-hurry back to the hotel for --


SATURDAY NIGHT SPECIAL
So PFS has these scenarios called "specials" that they only run at cons, and they tend to be multi-table affairs where the actions of each group matter to some larger goal, perhaps in differing ways depending on the level spread ("tier" in PFS parlance) of the table.  Saturday night's scenario was one of these, Siege of the Diamond City, and it was pretty interesting.  Not in the setup - "city is besieged by demons" - but in the execution.  As a group of level one and two PCs, we were not expected to contribute by killing a metric ton of invading demons (thank goodness), but we did have a series of (nonliteral) firefighting duties throughout the night.  Some fights with looters and mercenaries, some convincing of guards, this that and the other.  Our actions contributed to the color condition of whatever quarter of the city we were in (green/yellow/orange/red etc), and having someone at the center of the room call out as the conditions changed was pretty exciting (although, wow, the dude could've been way louder; do they not teach how to project to a room in school anymore?)  The whole bit culminated in a good-guy counterattack during which the high-level tables took the fight to the demonic generals, the mid-tier folks were stuck in against the ranks of lesser demonoids, and we low-level schmucks fired siege weaponry from the ramparts in an attempt to take out the enemy siege towers.  All this - I presume - interacted in some measurable way, such as our ballista shots preventing the demon-towers from spawning more horned beasties, etc.  Pretty neat; I'd like to read the internals on one of these.  We had an overwhelming victory at the end, but according to the chronicle sheet we were handed there were four or five possible outcomes depending on the group's total efforts.

SUNDAY MORNING
Exhausted, I rolled in for one last session at 8am (not sure I would do this again; originally I was in an afternoon slot for Sunday, but then Cub Scout stuff got moved because of snow... anyway, I was in a morning game and needed to bolt immediately after).    This morning's scenario was The Ciphermage Dilemma, and long story short, I hate pirates as adversaries, but I hate paladins who prevent their party members from doing anything resembling threatening or bluffing or psy-ops or intel-gathering way more.  I will admit that when I grabbed the pirate's corpse and made it puppet-talk to his buddy ("Gee I wish I had told these guys what they wanted to know, then I might still be alive and able to see my kids again") as part of an Intimidate roll might have been over the top.  But seriously, the guy was killed in combat when he and his pirate pals were trying to murder us in the face.  Good does not mean stupid and there were no "authorities" in that crapsack pirate armpit of a city.  We stab pirates.  Stab them.  Anyway, it was an okay scenario, nicely run; I think I was probably too tired to fully appreciate some of its nuances, but them's the breaks.


That's the initial info-dump...  I'll probably have more "thoughts" about Pathfinder Society in the weeks to come.  Fun was had, would do again.  I'm exhausted and cannot think deep thoughts at the moment.

This large slice of pizza, from a joint named Slice, is called a "Baltimore Belly Burster".  It has bbq sauce on it, and is topped with Old Bay roasted chicken, Natty Boh bratwurst, and bbq pulled pork.  It. Was. Fucking. Amazing. You. Guys.

Down Below Kwaskatoon

A background post for some upcoming low-level Wampus Country sessions aimed at lower-level PCs, newbie players, and leaning on some of the B-series of classic modules here and there.

Just north of the growing town of Thistlemarch lies the run-down keep formerly occupied by the Mad Margrave - that eccentric nobleman who sadly took his own life last year.  Parts of the keep are occasionally used by the townspeople, but the majority of the area is now overrun by a clan of poggles, tiny dog-men not known for their cleanliness or intelligence.  The poggles have been behaving themselves and trading with the hardworking folk of Thistlemarch, although they do not often come into town proper.  One day a week, a corner of the keep's courtyard becomes the "Flea Market" where men and dogs exchange goods.

This poggle-tribe is ruled by a particularly clever poggle called Red Blanket, who holds court over the Flea Market.  Although the poggles have a great deal of energy and capacity for out-of-the-box thinking, they are not skilled at matters martial, or any task which requires strong organizational skills or sound judgment.  Thus has Red Blanket, in his wisdom, attempted to recruit some 'tall folk' to undertake a few tasks for the benefit of the great poggle nation...

Greetings, mercenaries, adventurers, and seekers of the unknown - thank you for coming before me today and expressing your interest and willingness to serve the righteous poggle cause.  I have sniffed your backsides, and consider each of you trustworthy.  Listen closely to my words, and attend my needs, and you shall be rewarded.

Some distance from here lies an old burial mound of the Black Eagle tribesmen, and beneath it, caverns which they say are haunted.  The place is called Kwaskatoon in their old cant - it means the bleeding-place.  Black Eagle braves sometimes traverse these caverns to test themselves against the dangerous creatures which dwell within.  And dangerous they are!  Poisonous centipedes of tremendous size, slack-jawed lizard-men...and, at one time, my own clan of poggles, who dwelt in the upper levels.

Some years ago my little tribe split from the main group of poggle-kind, who had begun to hear the voices of dark powers whispering in the shadows.  A brief poggle civil war led to our flight, but we have no desire, really, to return there.  However, the secrets of Kwaskatoon need to be understood.  When I, Red Blanket, prince of my kind, lived in the halls beneath the mound, I spent many an hour eating the strange mushrooms there and attempting to translate the ancient mystical writings on some of the walls.  I had a makeshift notebook in which I kept what I had learned...if that notebook still exists, somewhere in the caverns of Kwaskatoon, I want it returned.  If it cannot be found, then I will need transcriptions of whatever writing is found on the walls.  Whatever else you find in the place is yours - we poggles have no need of it, whatever it might be.

Although I should someday like to see my enthralled countrymen liberated, and the halls of Kwaskatoon cleaned out, that is not my primary goal at this time.  Be cautious, sneak in, and fetch my notebook, or make rubbings of the inscriptions.  If you return with these things, you will be paid, and have earned the love of this poggle princeling.

Red Blanket will gladly send an escort of poggles to guide adventurers to Kwaskatoon, but these tiny warriors consider the caverns themselves taboo since the advent of the whispers-in-darkness, and will not enter with you.

RUMORS/INTEL REGARDING KWASKATOON

1.  The Black Eagles say the caverns are haunted by accursed ancestors, and inhabited by cannibal snake-men.  Poggle-tales confirm there are reptilian humanoids in the deeps who will gladly swallow a wayward poggle-pup whole.

2.  After Grandpa's War, some sixty years ago, an adventuring wizard attempted to convert part of the caverns into a living-space.  Later, the Black Eagles discovered he was using their cemetery as a bachelor pad and pretty much murdered the bejeezus out of him.

3.  Three years ago, Red Blanket allied himself and his poggles with a group of gold-seeking adventurers under Kwaskatoon...none of them have been seen since.

4.  The poggles around Thistlemarch are deathly afraid of the "creeping darkness" which they say has taken hold of the minds of their kinsmen beneath Kwaskatoon; they speak of it as though it is neither man nor beast, but some sort of demonic presence.

5.  One of the poggles at the Flea Market remembers that there was a room full of strange waters which they were forbidden to drink by their elder-dogs.

6.  Although the upper levels have been worked by human hands, deeper down Kwaskatoon is all wet natural caves.  Who knows how far down it truly goes?

7.  The well-known cave entrance is the best way to get into Kwaskatoon, but it may not be the only way to exit the deadly complex.

"Poggles, being the wildest of dog-folk, careen dangerously between 'obsessively friendly' and 'wantonly destructive'.  Trusting poggles is ill-advised, if one expects to remain a gentleman."

Kwaskatoon, get it?

Whither Wampus?

Warning: no game-able content, only rambling about campaigning.

The online Wampus Country campaign took a hiatus, there were winter holidays, and a month where my primary mental focus was quitting smoking (successfully so far).  In revving back up to "something resembling full speed", I find myself thinking about what's working and what isn't from a campaigning point of view.  I don't mean house rules, or the underlying system, or anything like that - I mean the campaign itself.

The online campaign has always been several things:

1) An Open Table.  Although I require folks to sign up for each session, it's otherwise open.  There's a good bit of drop-in drop-out depending on who's available on a given Friday night, although some PCs show up more often than others, or for several sessions in a row, so there's a semblance of continuity on occasion.

2) FLAILSNAILS-friendly.  Most of my regulars or semi-regulars have native Wampus characters, but there are always non-natives floating in and out of the game.  They don't usually turn up with weird stuff that "breaks" the game, but I do regret seeing a PC once at 3rd level and then again at 7th level sometimes.

3) Primarily GM-driven, because of the above.  What I mean by this is that for the most part, a given session is not "PCs have decided they want to go do this", it tends to be "GM puts out this theme or plot hook for the night".  I would love to see PCs self-organize and say "hey, we'd like to go do X pretty soon, please prep that area", but it doesn't happen much - probably in part because most players aren't sure if they're going to be available when that session finally happens (see #1).

4) Chiefly 'home-based' in the town of Thistlemarch, with short excursions up to ten hexes out or so.  This isn't a mandatory thing, it just kind of worked out that way, due to #1, #3, and some PCs homesteading in the area.

Another thing I've noticed is a reticence to return to certain areas, despite them being potentially lucrative for PCs.  Nobody's gone back to the expansive ruined city of Crumbledown to explore it.  Nobody's taken on the task of finishing the clearing of the Charnel Caves.  I'm not complaining about this one, I just think it's interesting.

I wouldn't say I'm unsatisfied with the campaign thus-far or as-run, but I am cognizant of some of the thing which we give up or preclude because of the above assumptions.  No steady group, so there's a loss there.  But if we transitioned to a steady group, we'd lose the open table - it's a trade-off, and one that several other "previously FLAILSNAILS" campaigns have done.  I've avoided it for precisely that reason - we've been running Wampus Country as fully-FS-friendly open table for over two years now.  Not many campaigns can say that, and I'm loathe to abandon that achievement without significant gains in trade.

The "best of both worlds" would likely be if I ran twice as much (or half as much, depending on how you look at it, and scheduling), leaving one slot for GM-directed pickup play for FLAILSNAILS open-tablers, and one slot for a regular (or semi-regular) group of native PCs who can have the time and space to pursue their own goals.  As you might imagine, this kind of scheduling isn't the easiest thing in the world, but I'd be open to pursuing it if I thought there were enough steady regulars to make it work (and frankly I'm not sure that's the case).  I would really like the opportunity to somehow alternate between lower-level and mid-level PCs without it being all artificial, as well.

Anyway, thinking aloud.

The chief innovations of the Burbank expedition were twofold: first, the use of bicycles to speed across the salt flats of Massacre Mesa; and secondly, bringing with them several dozen babies for use in the distraction of slavering beasts, giant predatory birds, and painted savages.  Given Eustace Burbank's successful collegiate career as a shotputter, one imagines the tactic was easily deployed at a significant range.

Beware the Tooth Fairy

A word from the learned Doctor Harcourt Runcible, on the subject of "tooth fairies".

I am not one who has gathered his modicum of fame by means of splendorous hyperbole, so perhaps you will listen keenly to the bold statement I am about to make: the most dangerous creature in the Wampus Country, pound for pound, is neither the eponymous wampus-cat, nor the owlbear, nor the fearsome snollygoster with its mouth full of cross-cut saws.  Nor is it Man, an answer too cute by half.  No, my benighted friends, the deadliest, cruellist, most killing-est beastie in our lands is, in point of fact, the tooth fairy.

The clever grammarians and sly syntacticians amongst the crowd will now, of course, recall the pound for pound qualifier I employed a moment ago and think it a wiseacre strategy for ensuring a surprise reaction.  But, even so, the statement stands - and it is made all the truer, for the tooth fairy is more dangerous than larger creatures not merely by a factor equivalent to its own relative mass, but exponentially greater.

Perhaps you have never seen a tooth fairy, or so-called osteopixie, in the wild.  You must imagine them as pixie-like, winged, and humanoid, about half the height of the common plains atomie which even the most ill-educated pig-farmer must be acquainted.  Like the more mundane pixies, the tooth fairy is winged, generally nude, and bears minor insectoid features, including faceted eyes and tiny pedipalps surrounding the mandible.  Imagine, if you will, a horrible flitting menace the size of your pinky-finger; one which often travels in swarms of a dozen, or two-score, or a hundred, depending on the season.  A dozen osteopixies is very dangerous - I leave it to your own shadowy nightmares to consider what a hundred can manage in the course of an evening.

It is a famous misconception that the tooth fairies collect teeth, particularly from children.  This is true, as far as it goes, but demonstrates a limited understanding of natural philosophy of the sort common amongst bootblacks, chimney-sweeps, and journalists.  As the story goes, when a child sheds a deciduous tooth, if he or she should gingerly place the bicuspid beneath their pillow, a magical nocturnal visitor - a tooth fairy - will arrive and replace the lost tooth with a coin.  This is precisely the kind of unscientific bumpkin-prattle which causes backwater children to get stuck in wells or devoured by bears.  While it is true that a recently-lost baby tooth can attract a tooth fairy, those which arrive are inevitably either fairy children, elderly, or infirm.  That is to say: tooth fairies who must resort to stealing or trading for their sustenance.  Which is to say, all the more clearly: tooth fairies who cannot participate in the glorious hunt.

And what hunters the osteopixies are, magnificent piranha of the air!  They subsist on bone and marrow, which is fine enough, as when times are lean they can scavenge bones from the kills of larger animals; do not be overly surprised should you see a small swarm of fairies following a mated pair of owlbears about the wood.  But the tooth fairies are not dumb animals, and possess their own culture, one which celebrates the hunting of sentients and their artful slaughter.  I remind you that these creatures can fly, are intelligent, and hunt in packs of twenty or more.

Tooth fairy scouts will locate a target - ideally a sentient, as it makes the hunt all the more delicious.  They are primarily attracted to exposed bone, whether this is from a wound (do not leave your companion with the recent compound fracture in camp alone) or the teeth.  Once a target is marked - likely by some means of pheromones, the research is shoddy here - the scout returns to the swarm, and the hunt begins.  In minutes, the several-dozen tooth fairies descend upon the hapless victim.

I say hapless without intent of demeaning those who have been slain by tooth fairies; quite the converse, I mean to praise the lethality of the osteopixie.  Firearms, fighting-spirit, even sorcery are of little use during a tooth fairy onslaught, when dozens of the accursed things are assaulting your head, prying open your mouth, crawling in, and wrenching out your teeth forcibly -- all the while peppering your flesh (not just the skin, remember - also the gums, tongue, uvula...) with painful, disorienting stings.  How can you fire at something crawling on your face?  How can you utter eldritch syllables with a mouth full of fairies?  Tiny bodies laced with calcium from their diet, they are nigh-uncrushable like the cockroach.  They will render you unconscious very quickly, and you will be toothless, but not dead.

If you are lucky, you will expire from the shock of having all your teeth violently ripped out, or you will crack your skull on a rock as you fall.  If you are unlucky, you will lie there in a stupor while the tooth fairies feast on your molars.  And if you are very unlucky...you may awake just as they return, crawling through your sinuses to make seconds of your skull.  Best not to think of the direct and efficient means of those osteopixies who have acquired a taste for the coccyx, my friends.

I do have a dentist friend in River-Town who can cap teeth with cold iron, for a small fee.

"Don't be scared, sweetie.  I'll eat your spine very gingerly, so you can still tell I'm back there."

The Rather Insightful Groundhog of Tuckawanee Falls

Near the headwaters of the Little River is a little offshoot of a creek which the locals call Tuckawanee Falls; there are a few farms nearby, and a dilapidated roadshine shrine.  If you start at the shrine and walk due north into the pine barrens there, before long you might - if you're lucky - come across a hole in the ground about a foot wide.  Inside that hole lives the Groundhog.

Now, groundhogs aren't particularly uncommon in the Wampus Country, after all; the climate's about right through most of the region, and there's plenty to eat.  But this isn't just some common groundhog we're talking about, but a Being Worthy of Capitalization, in due deference to his prognosticative abilities and general knowledge and fame.  Most everybody has heard some tale or another about the Groundhog.

RUMORS REGARDING THE RATHER INSIGHTFUL GROUNDHOG (1d12)

1 - He may look like a groundhog, but he's as big as a bear.
2 - The Groundhog sometimes wears tweed suits.  And sometimes flowered dresses.
3 - Being of indeterminate age, we may presume the Groundhog is immortal, or close to it.
4 - The Groundhog is a lesser godling which hoards knowledge and secrets.
5 - Indubitably the beast is some sort of demon!  His network of tunnels wend throughout the land!
6 - I used to work with a guy whose cousin took a temporary job up near Tuckawanee, clearing stumps; well, one day he's cranking on that come-along and pulling a massive oak-stump, see?  Pop!  Out comes the stump, and there's a huge hole.  He peers over the side, and what does he see?  The Groundhog, doing something unspeakable to a stack of ducks.  That boy ran like the wind, I tell you what.
7 - It is said that he who defeats the Groundhog and eats his liver shall be rewarded with both occult knowledge and an indestructible liver of his own!
8 - The Groundhog enjoys hard liquor but never gets drunk.
9 - The only thing the Groundhog hates more than nosy adventurers asking dumb questions is Sagacious Rex.
10 - His fur cannot be pieced by metal or wood!
11 - The Groundhog can peer into the future by a few weeks, or the past by several years; this he does as soon as he sees you...
12 - So terrifying is this otherworldly beast that one look at him can cause a man to half-defecate.


For the most part, those who seek out the Groundhog do not find him; those who do are faced with a monstrous beast who trades secret knowledge only for other secret knowledge (with a possible social lubricant like a fine brandy beginning the conversation most courteously).  The Groundhog is not interested in spells or prayers, he wants secrets.  And they need not be cosmic secrets, or the locations of hidden treasures; that thing you swore you would never, ever tell your wife might do nicely.  His obsession with secrets, especially guilty ones, has caused some scholars (notably Dr. Hornapple) to classify the Groundhog as some form of devil in groundhoggy form.

Good luck finding the Groundhog, my friends.  But should you wander up that way and visit Tuckawanee Falls, please stop in and see the halfling family that lives up there; they are pie-worshippers, and happy to share.

"Sweet Lord, Colonel, that deuced Groundhog is even more phallic than I'd imagined!"
"Indeed, Mortimer, but take heart - it seems to have the map we wanted..."

Themed Spells: Flightless Birds

More animal-themed spells percolating in the brainpan.  This time, it's flightless birds.

Penguin Suit (level 1)
The wizard sacrifices a smelt, sardine, or other small fish (salted/prepared is fine) in order to conjure a very fashionable tuxedo.  The tuxedo protects from mundane cold and low temperatures, allowing the sorceror to trudge through the tundra in style; it does not, however, protect against frost magic or cold-based attacks.  The penguin suit remains in existence until the wizard takes it off (in which case it melts away into steam), or until the wearer takes damage (in which case the tuxedo becomes tattered and torn in proportion to the damage taken, and continues to fall apart cartoon-style for several rounds, until the wizard is wearing only cuffs and spats).


Ostrich Beak (level 1)
Thankfully, this is not another bizarre minor shapeshift; instead, ostrich beak grants the caster or one subject touched the ability to somehow extract breatheable oxygen from earth, as though they were the eponymous bird with its head stuck in the sand.  The earth-breathing effect lasts for one round plus a round per caster level, and is efficacious with any mineral or earth-heavy blend of components (including sand, dirt, mud, etc).  The target does not lose its ability to breathe normal air during the spell’s effect; in fact, Cloud Rabbit wonderworkers use ostrich beak to avoid the smothering effect of sandstorms.


Kiwi Kavalry  (level 2)
The caster transforms several (up to six) fresh fruits into giant kiwis, which may then be used as riding-animals.  The giant kiwis are the same color as the fruit used to conjure them, and have the abilities and statistics of warhorses.  Sadly, the kiwis transform back into rotten fruit at sundown.


Emu Emulation (level 2)
Upon speaking the ancient syllables of this spell, the caster transforms into an emu - a large, flightless bird.  He doubles his running speed and gains wicked talons (1d6 damage) on the feet (although both feet are clawed, the sorceror does not gain extra attacks per round from emu emulation).  Any clothing and equipment worn transforms along with the wizard, melding into the body.  The transformation lasts for three hours or until the wizard sleeps or falls unconscious.


Cassowary Ossuary (level 1)
By placing the bones of a cassowary or other flightless bird in a wooden box and enchanting the entire preparation with this spell, the wizard creates a minor talisman against fungus-based life-forms.  Whoever carries the cassowary ossuary gains the beneficent part-time slightly-distracted attention of a cassowary spirit; as cassowaries eat fruit and mushrooms, the bearer of the talisman receives a +1 to any saves against fruit-based creatures or attacks, fungal weirdness, spore attacks, and so forth.  The save bonus also applies to saves against fruit- or fungus-based poisons.  While this may not seem a great talisman, note that the cassowary ossuary remains enchanted until it is destroyed or the box is opened.  If a flightless bird is ever slain within twenty feet of the ossuary, it shatters.


Dodo’s Epitaph (level 1)
Many animal species on many worlds have gone extinct, but there are only a handful whose fame - and thus, spiritual power - is, in itself, tied to their extinction.  The dodo, the thylacine, the unobtanium dragon, the passenger pigeon, the variegated screaming clumpadump - these, and species like them throughout the multiverse, are the source of this spell’s power.  The wizard calls upon the power of the extinct species to gain knowledge from the dead via this ritual.  First, the sorceror inserts a tightly-wound narrow scroll in the mouth of the deceased.  Then, clutching evidence of the extinct species (a bone, a fossilized pawprint, etc, which is not consumed in teh casting), the wizard calls upon the long-forgotten kulturgeist of the animal, begging the spirit to appear and act as an intermediary between the caster and the corpse.  The wizard waits for twenty-four hours, then removes the scroll from the corpse’s mouth; they will find it inscribed with a fairly lengthy (several paragraphs) message from the deceased.  The message will be whatever the deceased wishes it to be: a testament, a song, love poetry, a list of regrets, a warning, etc.; the caster has zero control over what information the dodo’s epitaph will produce.


Auk-Auk Gun (level 3)
The spirit of the auk is bitter and morose, bearing an ancient resentment and hatred for birds which can fly.  This magic ritual requires several bones from an auk or other flightless bird, which are tied together in a bundle with crimson string and animated by an auk-spirit  Casting the ritual takes three rounds, but thenceforth the auk-auk gun is awake and ready.  Upon further command by the wizard, the auk-auk gun will fully animate and unleash its wrath.  The construct cannot move, but it can pivot and swivel as necessary; the auk-auk gun can fire bolts of eldritch energy, one per round, at targets in the air.  The bolts have a range of 120 feet, and inflict 2d6 points of damage, but the construct can only aim at flying targets, as its power is fueled by the jealousy of the auk-spirit within.  Once fully animated, the auk-auk gun will defend the area for up to an hour; when the hour ends, the magic fades, and the bird-bones of the construct crumble to dust.


Lek of the Kakapo (level 2)
Ages past, when the owl-kin ruled Wampus Country, great warriors competed in tournaments to impress potential mates - lek of the kakapo draws upon this tradition, which lives on in the spirits of the land.  This enchantment may be cast upon the wizard himself, or any single willing target.  The target is invested with a form of potential magical energy which draws the attention of great spirits; if the recipient wins a combat within the next hour, he will immediately benefit from a +2 Charisma bonus with the desired sex for the following four hours, as the spirits reward him or her for the display of fighting-prowess.  The spirits which power lek of the kakapo can tell the difference between a real fight and one which is staged, and possess the power and mien to punish those who attempt to trick them.


Mens rhea (level 4)
The wizard burns a bundle of feathers taken from any flightless bird, and bids the target to then inhale some of the smoke produced as the spell is intoned.  The target makes a save vs spells at -2; if the save is failed, the target must then confess any crime or wrongdoing of which it has knowledge (this may take some time).  If the save is passed, the target is still compelled to make a confession, but they have a modicum of control and may mix lies and omissions in with some truths.

Baa Ram Ewe

Sheep-themed spells?  Seriously?  Let's blame the Chantix in my bloodstream and pretend it never happened.

This sheep could be an archmage.  You don't know.  Stop judging.

You’re All Just Sheeple (level 2, illusionist)
This perception-affecting curse has led to numerous embarrassments and the occasional marriage-wrecking revelation.  Upon failing their save vs spells, the target perceives every creature of its own species within sight to be a sheep; the effect lasts for one turn, plus one round per level of the caster.  Spoken language from the illusory sheep will sound like bleating to the victim.  Note that different creatures may react quite differently to the curse; a human might be confused and disbelieve, or think themselves gone mad, whereas the dumbest wolf in the pack might just do something quite useful for a fleeing party of adventurers…  This is both an illusion and a mind-affecting spell, and although there is an auditory effect, the enchantment is primarily optical and will not function against creatures without eyes.


Leg of Lamb (level 2)
The sorceror’s legs transform into those of a sheep, becoming faun-like for seven hours.  While thus ensorcelled, the wizard receives +2 on saves against magic of fairy origin; however, they also suffer a -2 on any attempts at jumping, climbing, balance, dancing, etc.  Creatures which naturally hunt sheep may take a strong interest in pursuit of the wizard.


Mutton Chops  (level 3)
An odd form of divination, this spell allows the caster a brief look at the future, to a particular, fashionable end.  To enact the spell, the wizard affixes two pieces of sheep-flesh to the sides of their face and dons a wide-brimmed hat (a traditional sign of wisdom), then drinks of either a very cheap alcohol or a very expensive sort.  On repeating the words of the spell, which are always an ode to ignorance (“O!  How unlikely that thou hast known of this!”), the wizard receives a flash of information from the future which will inform him or her of some passing trend, currently unknown, which will be in great favor in the next six to twelve months.  The vision could speak of a fashion in clothing, music, food, pet ownership, etc; on occasion the future-trend may be of greater adventuring use (“Simply everyone will be delving the Murderdeeps this winter.”  “Hmm, we’d better get down there before all the gold’s cleared out, then…”).  Clever wizards can use this spell to increase their fame by being seen as trend-setters.


Woolgathering  (level 1, illusionist)
The sorceror dunks a small piece of wool in alcohol, casts the spell, then places the wool briefly on their tongue, then in their pocket.  For the next turn per level, the wizard’s mind is partially occupied by lucid daydreams.  While this altered state can be distracting (-1 to everything, including to hit and AC), the wizard’s mind is well-prepared for dream-things and strange shifts of reality.  During the spell’s effect, the wizard gains a +2 bonus to detect illusions, manifestations of dream or nightmare, hard-to-perceive hauntings, out-of-phase transdimensional portals, and the like.


Hello, Dolly  (level 1)
The caster lays both hands on a sheep, then utters the incantation; the following round, the sheep bleats loudly and splits into two identical sheep.  Depending on the campaign, this may be accompanied by either a comical “pop” sound and flash of light, or the agonizing sound of mutton ripping.  The two sheep cannot easily be told apart, but they are both living, functional creatures.  When dawn next rises, one of the sheep - determined randomly - and any products taken from it will dissolve out of existence.  This is primarily an issue for wool or hide; presumably any flesh or milk would have been digested come dawn.