Improvised Altercations | Weapon stats for a variety of miscellaneous objects
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This month, you learn how to struggle. And what's a better sign that you're struggling than if you're grabbing whatever's within reach. I was never a fan of how lax the rules on improvised combat were. The original "an improvised weapon deals 1d4" damage was terrible, and the new "bigger ones deal 1d6" wasn't much better. So here we are!
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Any whump-tober youve not been asked and Lady Penelope please? Any universe :3
No. 29: “I hope you see the sun someday in the darkness.”
Fainting | Broken Dishes | Last one Standing
Poise.
It was what the Lady of the house required. Poise, calm, deportment, charm, and wit that, if required, was sharp enough to cut another to pieces, but they wouldn’t notice the bleeding until you’d already turned away.
Looking at the three masked men in her formal sitting room and all of sixteen years old, Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward desperately clung to that poise and comportment with both hands as she stood with arms crossed, considering the trio with what she desperately hoped was believable as cool and confident detachment. “The alarms are already sounding,” she informed them. “You triggered them when you broke in through the formal dining windows, and my father’s security team will be here any minute.”
“Good thing that this won’t take long at all then,” the leader of the trio sneered as he raised a boxy-looking pistol. “C’mere.”
“No.”
The silver tea pot was heavy, full of freshly brewed Darjeeling, and right at hand, so she snatched it up and flung it at the leader. Just as she’d hoped, the lid came flying off and doused him in scalding hot tea. He went down screaming and the other two started into action, but she was already moving.
Though it isn’t at all proper, a lady should always be able to run in well-fitting heels.
A vase was next. Heavy, antique St Louis lead crystal, with a narrow neck that made for a perfect handle to turn it into a club. As Goon #2 and #3 chased her around the couch she grabbed it, threw the flowers into the face of Goon #3 and shattered it over the head of Goon #2. He howled and went down, but Goon #3, having cleared his face of water and foliage, snarled and pulled a switchblade from inside his denim jacket.
Penelope carefully backed away, still holding the remains of the vase like a bar brawler holding a broken bottle.
“You’re going to regret that, you little bitch!” Goon #3 snarled, brandishing his knife. “I’mma gonna ugly you up, right and proper!”
“No, you are not.” Penelope informed him, her voice as cold as the Arctic winds and just as cutting. There were footsteps pounding across the ceiling, the security people were coming, she just needed a little more time!
Goon #3 snarled at her and lashed out with his knife. Penny dodged left, right, slashed at him with the sharp, jagged crystal, and backed up towards the china cabinet. She needed more weapons! Throwing the glass at him bought her precious seconds, then Penny turned, snatched up a hideous mint-green soup tureen, and flung it at him just as the doors slammed back and people surged in.
Standing in the wreckage of the formal sitting room, her heart thundering in her chest, silk blouse sticking to her skin, three men down and bleeding and screaming by her hand… Penelope thought that it was quite understandable that she was struggling to hold onto her poise and all of a sudden she was feeling very light-headed and the room was spinning and everyone’s voices sounded like they were echoing down a long hallway and somehow she was now on the floor without the faintest idea how she got there.
Then her father was there, wrapping his arms around her so tightly she almost fancied she could hear her ribs creak, her head tucked against his chest. “Oh my darling, oh I’m so sorry, my darling Penny, I’m sorry, I’m so very, very sorry!” was murmured as he rocked her, like he would when she was very little and had had a nightmare. “This will never happen again, Penny, I promise. I’m getting you a personal bodyguard, someone who’ll keep that riffraff from ever threatening you again!”
Penny sniffled, it was most unladylike, but she had just taken out three men who wanted to kidnap her, so it was permissible. “And a dog, father? Can I have a dog too?”
“Of course, Penny.” Hugh held her closer. “Of course.”
At the top of the stairs Tommy stopped, frozen, the blood draining from his face. His chest had seized, and he only remembered to breathe again when Caius gave him a thump on the back.
He was forcibly turned by his shoulders back to face Caius, starting to hyperventilate while anxiety paralyzed him.
“Look at me. Hey, look at me.”
Tommy wheezed, barely able to drag his eyes from the scene. The best he could manage was a fuzzy, unfocused stare towards Caius’s mouth. No eyes, just the mouth, just the mouth that told him what to do.
“You don’t have to think about it. Stop making things harder for yourself all of the time. I will guide you, focus on that lifeline. You’re going to sit at the table, and you will be courteous, and gracious, and you’ll get the fuck over yourself for once and enjoy it. Play along. Show me you can do that.”
Tommy was seized with a violent coughing fit, doubling over. His eyes watered and he struggled to breathe, gagging on the air he did manage to get in.
“Jesus christ Tommy, this is not what is going to do you in. You have gone through the fire too many times to be getting this choked up over some cake. You’re too old for this shit.”
Even Caius winced a little at the last line, realizing a moment too late the poignancy of drawing attention to his age.
Something about it struck Tommy as funny. He couldn’t say what, but it stopped his panic attack in its tracks suddenly, like flicking a switch. He felt slightly dazed, surprised by his own sudden drop. A long, silent moment passed between them before Caius’s hand returned to his shoulder.
“Thatta’ boy. Come on, come.” He guided Tommy to the table, but he handled him with a light touch. Tommy was feeling quite delicate himself, like porcelain worn thin from years of use. Whatever stopcork was blocking his meltdown, he felt like it could slip at any moment.
His total guests consisted of Caius, Rory, and Sam. Tommy sat at the head of the table, feeling distinctly small. He felt a little heady, suddenly exhausted from the rush of emotions. He idly felt the top of his head, half expecting a birthday hat to be perched on top. If anything, he had expected streamers, balloons, some mockery of a little kid’s birthday party – Courtesy of the nearest dollar store, for sure.
Instead, it was…actually kind of nice. They usually left the table bare for use, but the wood was dressed in a clean, cream colored tablecloth. He rubbed the edge of it absently, feeling the material thick and silky in his dry hands. The table was set with paper plates and plastic cutlery, of course, but cloth napkins were rolled and tied with ocean blue ribbons, folding in a few sprigs each of dried lavender for decor. Plastic champagne flutes at each place were filled with a light golden bubbly. The cake in the center was of a smooth, light purple frosting, freckled with real vanilla bean. The top was decorated with a few more sprigs of lavender, sweet and simple.
“Michelle couldn’t make it, so he made your breakfast. We have a few things for you today, though.” Caius told him with a serene smile.
Sam smiled a mean smile, and slid him a card.
“Yeah, Tommy, just a chill day with the boys,” he agreed.
Tommy looked to Caius, who nodded meaningfully.
Play your part.
Tommy closed his eyes and took a deep breath, attempting to reset the scene in his head before opening the envelope. Inside was an oddly shaped card featuring Dora the Explorer.
YOU’RE 3o! She exclaimed in the speech bubble. Or rather, she said, YOU’RE 3! But Sam had sharpied in a quick 0 after the three.
It actually made Tommy chuckle, even though he felt like cracking a smile might crack him in half. It was so perfectly stupid, and honestly much closer to the party he had been expecting. Open humiliation and cruelty was far more familiar territory than when Caius pretended to be nice.
He opened it, and a five dollar bill fell out. Inside, the original message printed in the card was scribbled out, and a brief handwritten note was penned in.
Towards your retirement.
He assumed the abstract swirl afterwards somehow spelled out Sam’s name. He chuckled in spite of himself.
“Wow Sam, uh, your terrible handwriting is the first proof I’ve seen that you’re a real doctor.”
Caius and Rory laughed, sharing a brief look of surprise. Sam made a sour face, but when Caius gave him a playful push to his shoulder, he broke into a tense grin.
Tommy took a sip of his champagne, hoping it wasn’t obvious his hand was shaking. It was shockingly sweet, reminding him of some off-brand Halloween candy from his youth.
“Open Rory’s next,” Caius encouraged, reaching over to push the only other envelope slightly closer to him.
Tommy tore it open, fumbling it slightly before he pulled the card free.
The front of the card featured a picture of an elderly woman standing in a cucumber patch. She was smiling proudly, holding aloft a massive cucumber that had grown into a conspicuously phallic shape.
Underneath, a text box said, “Hoping your BIGGEST wish comes your way this year!”
“Oh my god, he’s blushing!” Rory laughed, and Tommy covered his mouth with his hand nervously. He flicked the card open with his thumb.
Don’t take shit so seriously
Never turn down a joint
Hit the gym
Work hard, play hard
Keto will give you the runs
The list was penned in by hand. Rory leaned over, stealing a peek inside, and groaned.
“Shit. I forgot I wrote that. Caius was saying something about - imparting wisdom for turning thirty. I guess most of that doesn’t really, uh…apply here, exactly. Seriously though, fuck keto. Never again.”
A friend has given you a funny card. He’s…a loveable scamp. Probably a fan favorite. Tommy’s Life is filmed before a live studio audience. Queue the tinned laughter.
Oh, that ol’ Rory!
Tommy chuckled, smiled.
“It’s great, thank you.”
He set it aside and sipped his champagne. He felt warm. He didn’t think he was throwing it back that hard, but it was drained before he realized.
Tommy pulled it away and looked at it in surprise. He supposed it was a pretty small flute. He realized he’d never actually drank champagne out of a champagne glass, just out of the bottle, passed around the circle with the band after their EP release show.
God, he hadn’t thought about that in ages. It hit him with such a strong nostalgia,a longing for just sitting on the couch with the missing leg in Greg’s apartment. G’s cat had shredded the shit out of the whole side of it, and it was worn down to a soft fuzz.
They had this great recording of Greg yelling at Mr. Meow Meow for clawing at it again, right at the end of the song, and Jazz totally losing it in a fit of giggles. They’d left it in, all of it, letting it finish out their five song EP. Fuck, which song was that?
“I’ll get you a refill, bud.”
Sam interrupted his little flashback by snatching the plastic flute out of his hand. Tommy realized he had tears in his eyes, and wiped at them with his sleeve self consciously.
Just allergies. The show goes on.
“Thanks,” he mumbled. Caius gave him an approving thumbs up. Tommy smiled weakly back and cleared the thickness from his throat.
Sam put on some music while he was up, and something emo started playing.
“What kind of music would you like to listen to, Tommy?” Caius interjected pointedly. Sam scowled at him.
He was tempted to say it doesn’t matter, but he had limited access to music. Caius gave him an odd assortment of tapes and records, even some CD’s, but he knew the most recent one was from 2010.
It’s my birthday, and I’ve got the aux.
“I used to - I like Bad Guys Win. Have they put out anything since Strander?”
Sam groaned, but Caius promised they would check. He gave Sam a meaningful look, and he dutifully changed the track.
It was a little distracting, because Tommy really wanted to listen to it in silence, but he managed. They chatted idly and drank champagne. They stuck to safe topics - things that didn’t involve work talk.
Tommy’s favorite was when they told him about horror movies he hadn’t seen. Sam described the entire movie The Human Centipede, much to Tommy’s grossed-out delight and Caius’s grossed-out chagrin.
Rory insisted on cutting the cake, cursing as he attempted to saw through it with a plastic butter knife. He rustled through some drawers in the kitchen before proudly holding a trowel-like utensil aloft.
“We are using a cake server proper. These bitches work pretty good for pizza, too,” he announced to his audience, before using it to deliver an enormous slice of the cake onto Tommy’s plate. Tommy stared at it wide-eyed, the mountain of fine pastry set before him. He didn’t usually even get lunch, and breakfast had already been too good to be true. He knew the sugar might make him sick at this point, but he had zero qualms about the stomachache being worth it.
He needed something in his stomach, anyway. He was nursing his third glass of champagne, and while he didn’t think the alcohol content could be very high, he was already feeling it. His face felt very warm and flushed, and he felt like his heart was pounding, even though he was about as safe as he could be here.
Current threat levels: low.
The cake was sweet, but well balanced, the herbal taste of the lavender sweetened with a bright vanilla mascarpone that melted in his mouth. It’s not something he probably would have picked on his own, but it was delicious. The other guys appreciated it too, and Caius recommended the pastry shop he’d gotten it from. Tommy forgot it as soon as he heard it - it wasn’t like he’d be visiting.
Sam moved to top off Tommy’s glass, but he raised a hand to pause him.
“I think I’ll just have some water, please.”
“I’m not going to let you be a lightweight for your birthday,” Sam teased easily, and whisked away his cup in spite of his protests.
Tommy sucked the frosting from his spoon, lifting a hand absentmindedly to his forehead. He did feel warm. Just his luck to get sick on his birthday. No, it must be the alcohol and the sugar, it made him jittery.
Caius noticed he hadn’t finished his piece of cake.
“You don’t like it?”
“No, no it’s very good. I think I might just, uh, be getting a little bit of a sugar rush here.” He gave Caius a sheepish smile.
His lips felt oddly numb, and he had a sudden feeling of dizziness.
“Honestly? Worth the diabetes, or whatever,” Rory piped in.
Sam poured shots of whiskey for them all. Tommy stared at the russet potion, and nausea ate at his stomach just from the smell. He pushed it away from himself without thinking, turning his nose.
God, has whiskey always smelled this bad? What the hell is this stuff?
“Oh come on Tommy, it’s good stuff. Try it,” Sam encouraged, tipping his own back in one oversized shot.
Actually, he was very nauseous, and the room suddenly seemed so bright, he had to squint.
“I have the last couple of preparations to do. You boys behave!” Caius told them, givinf a wave as he left for the stairs.
“Wait,” Tommy whispered, but Caius was gone. His stomach clenched with anxiety.
Don’t leave me alone with Sam.
Sam leaned over at the table, leering at him.
“What’s wrong? Not feeling well?”
“‘M drunk,” Tommy tried weakly. “I just need to lay down, I think, could you-”
“You’re not thinking very clearly. You just need a little hair from the dog who bit ya.” Sam slid his whiskey closer to him. He positively oozed smugness, and Tommy had a strong sense that he was playing into a cruel joke he hadn’t picked up on yet.
The room felt hot. He pulled his shirt out from his chest and realized he was sweating. The temperature had felt fine before, but somehow it now felt sweltering.
“Jee Tommy, you don’t look so good. Too much freedom for you, buddy?”
“Was the cake an edible or something?” Tommy managed.
“Like I'd waste good weed on you. You’re just being a spazz.”
Tommy squinted against a particularly bright spot in his vision, off of the-
The cake server.
The cake server was metal.
Blunt, and thin, but it was real metal.
“Knock it off.”
They both turned when Rory spoke. His hand was clenched around his whiskey, glowering at Sam, who spat back.
“Take a joke man. Have a seat until your number is called.”
“Let Tommy have his day, man. Caius put this together, you don’t want to piss him off.”
Sam laughed harshly, turning fully towards Rory. Tommy was grateful for the respite from his attention, but he didn’t want to be caught in the middle of them any more. Sam was not deterred.
“Hey Rory, we’re sharing stories. Tell me that one again, about how you got kicked out of Yale. How much did that one cost your daddy?”
“A lot less than medical school and a string of malpractice lawsuits, I’ll tell you that. You would know all about that though, Doctor – I’m sorry, Mister Snow.”
Uh oh. Honestly, it was amazing they’d gotten along for a few hours. Usually, they just skipped right to the dick measuring contest.
Where the fuck was Caius?
“I’m gonna go see if Caius needs help,” Tommy mumbled, trying not to interrupt too much, but knowing an attempt at a silent exit would only stir them up. He started to stand, pushing himself up from his hands on the table to rise.
He just wasn’t fast enough.
He’d barely started to turn away before Sam’s hand grabbed his wrist and yanked, pulling him closer instead, and knocking over Tommy’s untouched whiskey in the process.
“Tommy, you’re my patient, you know I’m a good doctor. If I wasn’t, you’d be one hell of a Freddy Krueger looking motherfucker, wouldn’t you?”
The spilled plastic cup rolled in a semicircle, a pool of pungent whiskey soaking into that soft cream tablecloth. There was something wrong, though, a streak of color clouding the liquid.
“-Tommy?”
His heart was pounding in his ears. His head throbbed along with it. He picked up the goblet with the hand that wasn’t being crushed in Sam’s fist, and held it up to the light.
There. Just a little, in the bottom. A pink, chalky residue - all that was left undissolved of whatever Sam had slipped into his drink.
Thud thud thud thud thud - his heart was beating so loud and so fast, his chest ached.
Rory seemed to put it together at the same time.
“What the fuck-”
Sam wrenched Tommy over, his body pressing against his, too close, too hot.
“Look at the fucking mess you’re making!” he hissed, his voice dangerously close.
“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU GIVE ME?!” Tommy shouted into his face, helpless tears spilling over.
“Your birthday gift.”
Fuck, he was cracking, all the grief and anger he’d held back erupting all at once.
Tommy shoved at his chest, ripping free just to make it two steps before Sam dragged him back by the arm, and then by a hand in his hair, and the room tilted crazily around him. Tommy’s head exploded in pain as he was slammed against the table’s surface, the cloth runner little comfort as his face was ground into the whiskey soaked linen.
“It’s okay Tommy, I’ll just fix it! Like I always fucking do. You know what would fix you, Tommy? A fucking lobotomy. I think I’ll schedule the operation with your owner today, yeah!” Sam’s voice was slightly slurred. One thing he had in common with Rory – he was a mean drunk.
The impact had dazed Tommy a moment too long, and his resistance was weak when Sam flipped him, bending him backwards over the table and pinning him by his hands around his throat.
Rory was shouting something, but Tommy couldn’t make sense of it. The light above him was blinding, he couldn’t breathe – he thought his head would burst from the pressure of Sam’s hands digging in under his jaw. He clawed at his wrists uselessly while Rory backed away from the table.
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING MAN? HE WASN’T EVEN DOING ANYTHING YOU PSYCHOPATHIC–”
Tommy could hear him, faintly, barking and barking, but he was only moving further away from them.
HELP ME, HELP ME-
With unbreakable will, Tommy released his grip on Sam’s wrist and raised a hand above his head, feeling blindly along the table. Nothing, nothing - and then his hand sank into the gooey remains of his cake, ruined now under his fingers.
“I’m gonna put a hole, right here–” Sam jabbed at the inner corner of his eye, forcing it closed as he twisted his finger hard against his sinus, miming screwing something into him.
Tommy’s fist closed around the handle of the cake server.
“-And I’m gonna carve the thirty-year-old loser right out of your body.”
Tommy drove it into the top of Sam’s hand curled around his throat.
Sam shrieked, dropping him immediately, but Tommy stabbed it again into his chest. Sam stumbled back, but Tommy was a live wire now, righting himself before the rush of blood back to his brain could even catch up with him. He swung his weapon down at Sam’s chest again, another hit narrowly missing with a wild slash as the good doctor retreated.
Rory finally lept into action, hooking his arm around Tommy’s at the end of his arcing strike, halting his attack. Sam was back on him in a second, pinning him back over the table with his arm barred across Tommy’s throat. Tommy gnashed his teeth, trying to struggle out from under Sam, as Rory tore at his frosting-covered grip on the cake server.
“WHAT THE ABSOLUTE FUCK IS HAPPENING HERE?!”
At the sound of Caius’s voice, Tommy’s resistance abandoned him. He went limp under Sam, and Rory pried the cake server from his fingers. Sam let him up and he took an agonizing breath in, falling to the floor when the other man stepped back. He curled into a ball on the ground, screaming uncontrollable sobs into his hands.
The other three shared a moment of stunned silence. Caius threw his hands up in bewilderment.
Obviously weapon substitutes are poorer than actual weapons and don't work the same way, but when characters are cornered and without a normal weapon (or don't even know how to fight, like in self-defence or just lashing out at someone), how do I have an idea of which objects make better weapons or how they actually might work? I don't want to write something that looks ridiculous even if the fights are going to be sloppy anyway. Any tips on how to approach this sort of stuff?
It's probably worth splitting characters into multiple groups when you're thinking about this. You have characters without combat training, characters with basic training, and characters with a sophisticated understanding of combat. Each one is going to look for something distinct.
For an inexperienced character, when they look for an improvised weapon, they're likely to prioritize items that they think, “can be used as a weapon.” Usually because it looks like something else. Sometimes, this overlaps, and you'll see something that, kindais a weapon, like a claw hammer, or can effectively function as a weapon, like a crowbar. Even then, because this is a character who doesn't have combat training, they're not going to be using it effectively, and they'll be vulnerable in a straight up fight against someone who knows what they're doing.
Inexperienced characters are also likely to look at any sufficiently heavy object as a potential one shot blow to the head with the intention of knocking their foe unconscious in a surprise attack. In spite of what you're used to seeing, this isn't likely to do exactly what you want. Knocking someone out is a very fine line between, pissing them off, and maybe disorienting them, without really incapacitating them, or outright killing them. There isn't much in between these outcomes. An inexperienced character is likely to expect this will end the fight, and unless it's lethal, it usually won't.
Someone with basic training and experience is more likely to look for items that can be effectively weaponized. This may include things like being able to take a broom handle and use it effectively as a short staff, or turning a pair of scissors into an improvised dagger. Basic training will probably lead to recognizing potential weapons that an inexperienced character might overlook.
Someone with a lot of combat training and a fairly advanced understanding of physiology, is when you start seeing things like, “I can turn anything in this room into a lethal weapon,” though, granted, boasts like that do tend to overstate the steps necessary to turn something like a lampshade into an improvised garrote, or gloss over just how precise you need to be to turn a ballpoint pen into a lethal tracheotomy. In some cases it's not strictly untrue, you can turn a lot of household objects into weapons, but you're basically never going to be in a situation where a thumbtack is a more viable weapon choice than the bulletin board it was attached to.
In the case of experienced or sophisticated fighters, they can probably realize that bringing a weapon to bare against your foe doesn't always mean moving the weapon, sometimes, it's more than enough to simply move your foe into your improvised weapon of choice. Anyone might realize that the blade off a paper cutter could make for a pretty good improvised machete, but an inexperienced fighter might not have the ability to get a foe under an intact paper cutter to use it against them. Sophisticated fighters will have probably mastered putting the U in “industrial accident.”
Weaponizing the environment is something that can get really out of hand, but can also offer an effective way to sell a character's efficiency with violence. It is the kind of situation where having an actual weapon would always be a better option. For example, “why don't you just shoot them?” But, it works to keep a fight interesting, especially if the actual weapons aren't an option, for whatever reason.
-Starke
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To illustrate (pardon the pun) the point, behold our blessed and "tragic" duels:
and their barbarous, "savage", and "terrifying" duels:
(illustrations from Le Petit Journal & Journal des Voyages, 1895-1911)
A note for the ladies' duel: The title is "Duel au sac de sable", and sac de sable (literally "sandbag") is an improvised weapon consisting of a small bag filled with sand or gravel or something, which is wielded like a bludgeon and is generally assumed to be used by criminals. I think the closest English translation is "sap" (the only weapon with which you could sneak attack and deal non-lethal damage back in 3.5). We're basically in the "brick in a sock" category. Here the ladies appear to be wielding soft boots filled with god knows what, which I, for one, find impressively inventive.
