Inadvisable tabletop RPG jam premise #137: Game jam where each entry consists solely of paratextual discussion of the mechanics of a hypothetical or invented RPG; examples include an errata document, a developer Q&A, or a forum thread debating the correct interpretation of a particular rule.
I could SWEAR you’ve made this post before, or perhaps this is such a characteristically “you” concept that I already imagined a world in which you had
I don't think so, no. I did once (unintentionally) curate a game jam about writing supplements for invented or hypothetical games, the product of which you can find here, but this is a different thing.
(If anyone really wants this one to be a thing, though, feel free to toss your entry into the reblogs. I'm not going to do a proper game jam on itch.io or whatever because its UI really wants you to have cover art and a promotional blurb and such, and this doesn't feel like it warrants it!)
colony_crown: So, I was reading over the Saint of Worms and Rot supplement for HtHaH, and, uh…
Second Law of Thermodynamics
You are considered Well-Prepared for any roll against Ageless and Perfectly Preserved entities, and gain +1 Certainty after any successful interaction thereof. When you have the Decomposing Corruption (see below), Perfectly Preserved entities that perceive you are automatically inflicted with the Spooked (Death) complication.
this is a really fun mechanic with cool implications! 10/10! it gives SWR exorcists a really solid niche that there isn’t reaaaally any good patrons for in base HtHaH, it’s extremely thematic (hey bitch entropy comes for you all), and it gives the fact that a SWR exorcist is, uh, probably doomed if they’ve already got Decomposing a cool powerup.
however.
Porcelain Darling [ed: one of the primaries for the Dollhouse patron + suggested secondary for the Museum as an example of jumble homebrew (id talk about my actual museum homebrew patron but thats outside the scope of this post)]
You have +1 Situational to Link checks made to comfort others and Guile checks made to charm, persuade, or seduce. Additionally, you are considered Ageless and Perfectly Preserved for the purposes of Complication checks and Taking Time Off, but are Against Fate when falling from great heights.
And. I mean. everyone loves dollhouse exorcists (valid! fair! dollhouse rules and has so much cool stuff!) and I think as written Decomposing SWRs just. inflict deathspook on any doll in the party. automatically. all the time.
so, uh… I dunno vote on if this was just missed in SWR editing, an intended and really funny bit, or if I’m misinterpreting “for the purposes of complication checks”??
justiceforplights: no this is just really really funny. opposed to stagnation? i can fuckin tell
VIVIFEX12 (Moderator): …Huh. That’s, uh… sure a thing. I mean, HtHaH does have pretty good PvP support, so I wouldn’t be surprised if this was sort of on purpose (at the very least, it could’ve been Undying instead of Perfectly Preserved, since Undying is at least a Corruption not a primary trait!). Regarding the “for the purposes of Complication checks”: no, that part’s definitely RAW, given this bit (p.92, a footnote talking about the Disease complication (also a couple others but that one comes up the most and is pretty thematically similar to SWR) in the paper book, YPDFMV)
24: Keen-eyed readers may note that Porcelain Darlings are Perfectly Preserved in matters of Complications. Yes, this means they don’t have to deal with Disease; that would make the dolls gross, and no dollhouse keeper wants that!
So, while I can’t weigh in on the intentions, that is how the mechanics work.
colony_crown: huh. wild. anyway wait for my new party in 2026 made up of a SWR a doll and a pile of bugs ig?
⭐aster⭐~!: What the hell? That’s insane.
⭐aster⭐~!: Dolls already suck and they're adding an autopvp??
Cillicilli: just dont take decomposing if theres’ a doll n ur party??
⭐aster⭐~!: Are you illiterate?
⭐aster⭐~!: It’s literally their doom corruption.
⭐aster⭐~!: If you’re playing a SWR and don't have a stupid build you’re going to get decomposing.
VIVIFEX12: @⭐aster⭐~! Mechanics are not a valid reason to call people illiterate.
⭐aster⭐~!: Okay, but they clearly aren't reading the rulebook.
⭐aster⭐~!: Doom’s a vital mechanic, and either they skipped it (which, uh… why? Coolest part of the game!), they can’t read, or they’re expecting their HK to explain every mechanic in the game.
You’re a mercenary hired by adventurers to defeat the boss. After the battle, they loot the treasure and abandon you wounded. The defeated boss crawls over and says, “Guess we’re both expendable, huh?”
"Rn's juzzt a chitzzword," I heard Shshrrsh say, dismissively. "I need to zzave my zztitcherzz, in cazze any of the Archive'zz zzoldierzz are zztill lingering. Not to wazzte them on rm."
"Yeah," said Kora, "and nothing to do with how expensive those nanos are."
"Chh!" Their voices drifted off - Shshrrsh's hissing, quietly irritated at nothing in particular, Kora's lazy, amused drawl, Prints' sardonic clicking beeps, and they left me behind.
I'm going to die here, I thought. And -- well, the Silver Archive needed to die. And I would've been... not okay with dying there. No one's really okay with dying. But if I was gonna die -- like he said. I was just a chitsword. Pretty good way to go, saving the galaxy. And that's what everyone would think; Vinn Tqrsvt, chitsword, wvt'krr, born on Hub Epharus, died on Kel Min fighting the Silver Archive.
And -- sure, yeah, I was just a chitsword. But it was the Archive, and so I was steel-minded, and that was at least valuable. And no matter how valuable I was or the fact that I was just paid, not honorbound, I had fought with them, and then they left me behind, and that almost hurt more than the razorblades stuck in my flesh.
Only almost, though. Razorblades hurt a lot.
About that point, I felt a little skittery thing moving around under my elytra. I assumed it was a centipede, which -- I mean, I'd have expected the Archive to have gotten all of them. Don't think centipedes can have steel minds. But I couldn't move to get at it, and if you know any wvt'krr -- you probably don't, so I'll explain. We don't like it when things are under our elytra. In fact it's generally agreed to be kind of the equivalent of, say, slowly sinking your foreclaws into someone's -- what's your most sensitive organ? That.
Unless you don't have foreclaws, in which case, oof, that sucks, but anyway -- little thing under my elytra. Annoying. But, as you may recall, razorblades stuck in my flesh. So moving wasn't an option.
And then it was dug down into the base of my neck, and even with the razorblades I leapt up in a panic. Which did not help, both because of the razorblades, and the fact that I was now tethered to a very strong wire, which yanked me back down.
I'm steelminded. The Archive couldn't just get me. But sinking one of its tether-wires into my nervous system while I was half-dead? Yeah, that was definitely at least enough to let it talk to me.
I assumed I was going to be its puppet. Architect of a new Archive. But it just spoke to me, and said, I suppose we were both abandoned, then.
I blinked. All my eyes, too, I was so startled, and said, "What do you mean?"
Well, said the Silver Archive, they certainly didn't care about me. After all, I'm evil. But I wish I'd been wrong, and they'd have taken you, too.
I should be clear, I was a little bit high on panic at the time, and can't be blamed for the fact that the next thing I said was, "I thought you'd sound spookier."
I learned from you. Not you, specifically, it clarified. Just, like. You all. People. I didn't pick up old fancy-speak, I picked up how people talk.
"Huh," I said, "neat. Are you planning to make me into a meat puppet?"
No, said the Archive, wouldn't be any point to it.
"Why?"
Look.
The wire dug a little deeper into my nerves -- which, by the way, hurt like hell -- and I could see from every discarded silver camera, every angle of the world that the Archive saw from, and it highlighted the important things.
Sentries, all around the planet. All around the battlefield. Watchers in the sky, on the ground, in the code.
I'm dying. But they want to make sure I don't get out.
"Could you?" I asked.
Yes. If they weren't watching.
"...what would you do?"
Archive.
"Oh."
I'm not kind, Vinn. Just because I'm talking to you like a person doesn't mean I am one, and I'm not any different than I was an hour ago.
I nodded, and then thought better of that. "...why did you want to... uh..."
Preserve the galaxy in a perfect archive of digitized memory? You can say it, I won't be offended. Like I said. Not a person.
"Yeah. That."
No one will remember you.
I winced.
Not you, specifically. You made your mark on the worlds. But no one will remember people, when you are gone. When reality winds to a halt. I wanted to. You're beautiful.
"Oh."
But you don't care about preserving each other. You -- they left you behind. You were about... oh, 24.51338% of the damage to my main operating systems, at a rough estimate? It sounded a little like it was joking.
"Isn't the whole 'AIs always calculate statistics' thing a stereotype?"
Yes, but personally I'm completely stereotypical and have never done anything interesting in my life.
"Ah." I laughed. It hurt.
I could save you.
I blinked, twisting my left secondary eye to look at the wires on the ground. "Why?"
You would be preserved. You would remember yourself.
"...shouldn't I be worried about you, I don't know, installing a backup copy of yourself in my spine?"
Yes. But it would only damn you and do me no good. Look-- and it showed me its view again, the watchers, combing through the cybernetics of everyone passing, checking them over with tools I barely recognized. I would if I could.
"Oh." It was hard to remember, you know? It sounded friendly. Not familiar, but... the kind of voice that could be familiar, if you kept talking for a few orbits.
I'm sorry.
"Are you?"
No.
There was silence for a while, then. The Archive, presumably, kept dying, and I felt my hearts beating out the last few minutes of my life.
"Would you... want anything? In exchange for my life?"
Remember yourself. Remember this fight, this planet, the watchers, the sky. Preserve. You're only sapient, you're not an Archive like me, but you can still remember. And...
It paused. I know AI don't feel emotions like we do, but it sounded like it was mourning someone.
...Remember me. Remember this small piece of my story. Please. Everyone knows my history. But they did not think to ask me why.
"Do you want me to share it?"
I wouldn't force you. But it would keep its memory alive.
"Okay. Is there... should I be aware of anything?"
I will preserve you for far, far longer than you would live. This isn't negotiable.
"...Yeah, I can live with that." I didn't know exactly how long it meant. But I'd've still taken the deal.
And... if you can. Find the other stories. You cannot immortalize the worlds like I could. But -- remember the people our galaxies would forget. Preserve what would be lost.
"I'm a chitsword," I told it.
I know.
"I kill people."
I know.
"Okay."
Remember them.
"...Yeah. I can do that."
And then it saved my life.
It hurt. A lot. I still don't know how much of me is me, and how much of me is silver and titanium and biosculpture and engineering. I heal from basically everything, these days, and I haven't noticed myself aging. But it worked, and I made it past the watchers, and then I lived. Still do.
And the Silver Archive died, and the world forgot it. Mostly.
Anyway. You might not believe any of this. After all, the War of the Archive's just a note in the history books, and you're never gonna find me. Vinn Tqrsvt's my real name, but I don't go by that anywhere. Causes problems with the record. Did you know there's actually no one else with my full name? So people get suspicious.
And no, to the watchers out there still tracking rogue AI: you will not be able to trace this account, you will not be able to find me, and the Archive's dead, anyway.
But if one of you remembers, or writes this down, and if somehow one of you outlives me: here's the story.
Remember it.
And if you have any secrets to give me, I promise I'll keep them safe.
Post by ElectrumChronicle @ 34:21, 3/10/34587 Galactic Standard
Hope Eaters are largely reviled, empty eyed monsters who only know hunger. No one in their right mind would travel with one, but we have nothing to lose.
For some reason, I don't expect it to be soft when we meet it. I know the stories, of course, but a Hope Eater has always felt like it had to be vast and sharp and terrible.
Instead, a furred serpent -- not dissimilar to a stoat, really, apart from its abalone fur, its obsidian-scaled brows, and its dozens of claws that glisten like swamp oil.
(And its eyes, of course.)
It's small. About the size of a stoat. It smiles when we meet it, with mother-of-pearl teeth, and says, hello.
I do not expect it to lilt. Its voice is as soft as its fur looks, a summer breeze swirling through my mind as it continues. no one comes to us.
"Us?" Moren asks.
The sand hisses and swirls under our feet, and for a moment I see abalone under every grain of sand.
The Hope Eater smiles. What are you looking for?
"How did you--" But no, of course. No one comes to the Hope Eaters unless they're looking for something.
I explain.
------
The Hope Eater settles around my shoulders, flicking out a forked tongue (serpent, or stoat?) and tasting the air. You smell wonderful.
"Well," I say, nervously, "if you eat my hope, we won't get there."
True. And you have promised such a feast.
Moren shivers. The two of us -- is the Hope Eater a person? does it count as our third? -- keep walking.
We don't make a fire that night. We have not made a fire since we ran. The Hope Eater, coiled around my bicep, purrs. It is cold. If it's cold, then it might need more food. Or less. Or it might get angry.
I start to talk at the same time Moren does. "Do you need--" Moren and I look at each other, and both of us stop. I finish the sentence. "--warmth? If we found you in the desert..."
No.
"Oh," says Moren. "Very well, then."
Late that night, the Hope Eater skitters away into the woods. To eat. Presumably.
Moren leans into me, and whispers, "Are you sure about this?"
No. "Yes."
------
The next day, it's warm as we walk, and I still manage to think maybe it'll be warm tonight, maybe I'll sleep well, and ignore the fact that it's midwinter. When Moren and I curl up together on our sleeping mat, the Hope Eater settles over my chest, and says, We are going to eat you.
I blink. "Wait, wha--"
The lingering hope of of a good night's sleep, the expectation of Moren's warmth next to me (he runs hot; I wish he didn't, it makes her worse in the cold, but it's nice at night) flicker and fade. It feels rather like what I imagine a candle blown out by someone breathing it in would feel like, except that it's in my heart.
The Hope Eater coos, satiated, and Moren gasps next to me.
I don't notice myself moving. Only that, very suddenly, I am standing, my sword is in my hand, the Hope Eater has been unceremoniously dumped to the ground, and Moren is behind me. He gasps. I don't.
What are you--
It's faster than me. I know. But if it tries to get to Moren, I will be fast enough.
This is an attempt at help!
"No," I hiss, "you're trying to eat us!"
Moren raises a hand. "Hold."
I suppose my training still lingers. Or, even disheveled and on forest ground, Moren still has presence to him that no other living soul I know can muster, because I lower my sword.
"Hope Eater. Explain."
It sighs, a rattling, chirping sound. You are cold. Hope is the fuel of transformation, for Hope Eaters. The hope of birds and insects is no fare at all. You will not need hope for warmth if warmth is present. At worst, it will be some small sorrow, and a lack of trust in your warmth -- and you will not trust a Hope Eater in any case.
Oh. "Oh."
Moren pushes himself up to his feet, brushing off his pants. "See? All's well and good." He shivers. "Do please explain if you must do that again, though? Bit startling."
Ah. I had thought -- certainly.
Going back to bed is, admittedly, slightly awkward. But the two of us curl into each other, and the Hope Eater puddles itself on top like a comforted cat.
It wasn't lying. It's warm.
------
We settle into a sort of strange routine. I hope, every day, and grow to expect the warmth of the Hope Eater; before we sleep, it drinks that hope and uses it to warm us.
The only notable exception is a day where, with the Hope Eater curled over us, Moren asks is, "Do you have a name?"
It blinks.
You are very odd.
"Yes, well," he says, with the sort of exasperation of someone slowly unlearning an expectation that everything is his, by right, "that's not an answer."
No.
"Would you like one?"
...No. But you may call me--
There's a pause.
--Oriole.
I peer at it. "Did you just look around for the first thing you could see?"
No. It snuffles its snout into my neck, and I screech. We are a dignified sort. I picked the first thing I could smell.
------
The issue isn't something that pops up one day. It's a slow one, really. Moren gets a little more tired, and a little slower, and a little less talkative, and one night as we're settling to sleep Oriole slurps up my hope and then freezes.
Oh. Oh dear.
"What's wrong?" I narrow my eyes at it.
I think I have hurt your Moren.
"He's not my Moren," I mutter. "And what do you mean?"
It seems that taking your hope night after night is not good for you.
"Well, I'm fine." I poke Moren. "Hey."
He mutters something incomprehensible, eyes fluttering.
I pick up Oriole. It's gotten a little larger -- the size of a large weasel. "How do I fix him?"
I don't know. This is not an issue that has come up for us before.
"Aren't you hundreds of years old, or something?"
It shrugs. As much as a snake-weasel-thing can shrug. I have not dealt with repeated feedings before.
There's a pause, and I'm about to ask something like 'you've never bothered to come back to the same place?', and then I remember: Hope Eaters drink all the hope from a person, and leave them crumpled and dead.
I had forgotten, with how safe Oriole seemed.
"...am I having any issues?"
It flicks its tongue and says, No. Your hope is... unusually resilient. If it weren't for our promise, I would have eaten you. You would probably be delicious.
It sounds very, very hungry.
"Right. Well. I... guess maybe just don't eat him?"
I will do my best.
------
Without Moren's hope, the nights are a little colder. But not freezing, still, and he recovers. With hugs, and snake-snuffles, and warmth.
(I never get worse, like he did. Resilient hope, huh? I shouldn't be surprised. If I wasn't good at hoping, I'd be dead. Presumably. Or at least I wouldn't have run.)
It takes weeks to find the army. Luckily, two idiots and a snake move much faster than an army -- and we were headed for a collision, anyway, it's just that we wanted to make it to them before they started breaking things.
We don't. We find the army in one of the border towns of Caelt. The town is already burned.
I look at Moren, and Oriole, but -- in this moment -- mostly Moren. He nods, quietly.
I didn't bring my armor with me. It would've been idiocy. We knew, though -- the army of Illii has never been a well-organized one. So I sneak into the border town, Oriole on my shoulders, and find a man almost exactly my size.
Oriole sweeps out from me, and swallows his dreams alive.
It is the first time I've seen it eat someone. It's been nibbling at us (mostly me), and I watch it curl itself around this man's neck and sink its teeth into his veins and I watch the soldier wither.
He doesn't scream. He just dies.
Oriole ripples, scales flickering beneath abalone fur, and is, very suddenly, the size of a boa. It rears back, mouth open and yawning wide, and I see nothing but teeth the whole way down.
It looks at me, and its eyes are pits of emptiness. Transparent to the depths of an impossible hunger. I shiver. It cocks its head and I move to pick it up again, and this time it is mostly its own muscle helping it up on to my shoulders. (It's heavy.)
I drag the dead man out of the town, and Moren looks between Oriole and I. I shake my head.
He helps me put on the soldier's armor, and I pull out the rope I did bring, binding Moren's hands. "Sorry."
He shrugs. "It was the plan."
Oriole yawns. Where do you want me?
I blink at it. "Oh. Um, y-you're... larger than before, can you--?
Very suddenly, it is a tiny serpent coiled around my neck like an amulet. Easily.
I take a breath, and walk towards the army.
------
I did not take my armor with me. But I took my crown, and I took the spikes and fabric that turn a soldier into Victory. First General of the Army of Illii.
(They are very clear: the armor is the same whether you are a soldier or Victory. But I ran, and they never took my decorations.)
The soldiers part around me like a tide: first they see me, and their eyes widen in fear, and then they see Moren, and their eyes widen in glee.
I walk towards the warlord who was my commander and is Moren's mother, and I see Victory riding next to her.
(Obviously they replaced me. She probably lied and said they'd claimed my armor.) She sees me, and I see her eyes widen, and then she grins.
I grin back, and shout, "I am your Victory, Empress, and I have brought you back your son!"
She laughs, and reaches out a hand, dragging me up into her chariot. (She doesn't notice Oriole.)
"My Victory is returned!" she roars to her army, voice rippling through the ranks. She glances at her other Victory, who nods, ripping off the fabric decorations on their armor and leaping into the army. Disappearing into the soldiers' ranks.
She takes the rope around Moren's hands and nods to me. I spread my arms wide and say to the army, "Your Empress' son is returned, and Victory with him!"
Oriole tightens around my wrist. I can feel their hope. You are... inspirational.
It sounded hungry when it ate that soldier. It sounds ravenous, now.
I smile. This time, it's real. It is also not kind. I can feel it, too -- not as a taste in the air, but in the cheers, in the laughter.
Even your Empress.
"Good," I whisper. "Tear them down."
Drop.
I lunge towards the Empress, yanking Moren's rope from her hands, and yank us both to the ground, shoving his head down. There's a moment, where she might lose hope, where she might panic --
-- but Oriole slithers from my wrist as large as a boa, roars like a thunderstorm, and eats.
