Railroading in fiction, fairytale logic
I MUST NOT write any blog posts until this tiresome bit of real life is out of the way. Depending on how you count that’s either a week or 3 months. So in the meantime I’m going to lazily link to other people’s genius.
1; being of direct relevance: Jovial’s proposed campaign frame (in comments) that asks “who is the greatest monster?” The audience, of course. Always. (recut for clarity)
So they start human in a zoo deep underground, trying to find their way to heaven. But in doing so they lose bits of themselves so [it’s not clear] how human are they when they finally escape.
They might need gills to swim through an entire underground level.
And wings to fly.
And spider legs to climb walls.
And brain tentacles to fight psionic combat.
… Each step not so bad… the end result…
Maybe they are quickly captured on the surface … and put into a zoo, since they have become freak animals!
I would like to run part II of this campaign. The PCs, shunned by humanity, have started up a modest rare minerals trading company atop some mountains in darkest Thibet. Their main customers are somewhere on the Sphere of Fixed Stars: they make deliveries personally, through a combination of Space Mead and immensely long lifespans. One day humans show up at their Alpha Centauri depot – it’s their very first alien contact! They’re all excited but kinda freaked out to meet the PCs! Could they introduce the humans to the Galactic Federation (and its curious zookeepers)? Maybe they could become the humans’ lovably dangerous sidekicks as they all go tramping around the galaxy stirring up trouble? What will happen when the humans discover the PCs’ forgotten brains in jars and start asking awkward questions?
2; you know Lovelace and Babbage, right? This here should be familiar to all writers of fiction and just slightly shame-inducing for anyone who lived through the adventure path years. The “usual method” is the standard opening gambit for CoC modules, and one that still makes me die a little every time I encounter it.
3; I hate prognosticating about what’s authentically medieval, but if you like some fairytale almost-logic in your gaming, History Blog has a Westminster Abbey mosaic for you with some high-medieval, low-sanity prophetic alchemathics. Just remember to cull all your dogs at 9. And I totally don’t understand the hedge thing.
“The end of the primum mobile” means the age of the universe when it will come to an end – at the Day of Judgement. The verse claims that this can be calculated by tripling the life-spans of God’s other creations. So the hedge, standing for three years, is tripled to give the life-span of a dog (nine years), which in turn is tripled to give the life-span of a horse (27 years). The final age, the life-span of the primum mobile, is 19,683 years – three raised to the power of nine.