I started playing in a new campaign. It promises to be fun. As the title says...the world's a stage. That is, this little pocket reality is a world made for the explicitly purpose of being a place to watch stories happen.
Here's the pitch the document the MC came up with:
The Round
In the beginning, the gods were amused. They vaguely wished they'd been around for the fireworks, but for a long time they were content with watching the small things that crawled around on the surface of the rock and ran quite delightfully when you gave things a good shake. Eventually, they grew bored with natural disaster and the inner drama of the pantheon ("Look, I'm not saying we don't need a goddess of correction, nor am I arguing that she shouldn't be enthusiastic in her duties, I'm just questioning the symbology and those leather...things the followers run around in.")
They sat down and started to really watch these little creatures that gave them worship. The gods began to take a sort of pleasure in the stories of people. They watched the little comedies of two very drunk men failing to climb a hill, and they watched the tragedies, would Lady Maravia ever find true love? The rise and fall of heroes became a matter of great interest. One such fellow took up a sword and united his homeland in an eighteen year saga of blood, treasure, kings and murder. (One of the gods was so delighted with the spectacle that he fashioned a replica of the hero's helmet and armor. He wears it to this day, and that is why the priesthood of the god of agriculture have worn their tongues thin telling people, "No, we don't do war or battle here, across the street, two down, sign of the spear." )
As time passed, a problem made itself evident. Reality is not kind to stories. The King in Saffron, Hero of the Eighteen Year War choked to death on a fishbone, leaving behind an heir who was quite wonderful economically, but was distilled dull poured into a pair of silk slippers. Lady Maravia never found her prince, and semi-successfully filled the void in her heart with cats. "We can do it better," said the gods.
The gods brought a number of souls with them to their new cosmos. Some of these souls became the stagehands. With their new power, they raised mountains, filled swamps, leveled plains and painted the desert. Working from Backstage, a small ethereal plane connected to everywhere, They made a little of everything you needed for a world. They built cities and laid roads, populated the world with constructed fish, fowl and fauna. The stagehands did an immense amount of gardening (forests don't just spring up from the ground on their own). For all they made, there was room, the Round is two hundred and seventy miles to a side, and about that tall if you measure up from the foundation of the world to the dome where they painted the sky and hung the stars. The gods watched from their seats, alongside the many souls not yet given tasks.
The Round is a square flat expanse of land and sea, with a bit of a lip, so that not too much water sloshes over the sides. The Audience lingered comfortably just outside of existence, everywhere and nowhere, always in the perfect place to watch as the stagehands went about their craft. And after a great deal of sweating, swearing, and smoke breaks, the stage was set.
The Actors, their Roles, and Recasting
The souls that did not become stage hands became the actors and the audience. Actors incarnate naturally into the roles they're required for, leaving those roles as they are no longer required.
A farmer is a farmer only so long as the eye of the gods is upon them and whatever the main characters of the story happen to be at the moment, and then they pass on to whatever role awaits them. Death does not touch the typical actor. A slice, a disease, they fall, they bleed, they incarnate onward to wherever they are needed. To truly die, the audience must be watching, and their killer must intend to end them, otherwise their death will be a mere Recasting.
Roles are often simple, they meet the needs of the stories that revolve around main characters. As the lead actors move through the world, the world shifts to facilitate the story, and the lessor actors are shuffled around to populate it. A main character needs a sword reforged, there is a blacksmith. The blacksmith doesn't need to know how to reforge a sword, but is expected to behave as if they can. The lack of real skill does not matter, the Round will provide a reforged weapon. Farmers need not truly farm, a pantomime is sufficient, food will happen, and eating is barely neccesary anyway. They need not buy seeds,main characters need not buy arrows unless it serves the plot. Props are, after all, the work of stagehands.
As an actor moves on, they may well improve themselves. If they play the roles that are given to them with skill, they will earn the favor of the gods. The greater the favor, the better the roles, and all that it entails. They may become minor named characters, perhaps become the king that talks to the heroes, and enjoy the benefits of the role. With time and skill, they may themselves become the heroes or the villains.
Heroes may get the girl and happy ending, as a rule, but the role of villain is the more conveted one. They may regularly be defeated, but a good villain enjoys quite a luxurious lifestyle between thwartings, and the occasional retirement of a character is no big deal. After all, everybody will eventually meet their final death and pass on into the Audience, to enjoy the show from the outside and bide a while before being cast again.
The Audience
In comfortable chairs close or far from the stage, in grand boxes and balconies, beside man, god and goddess alike, the Audience watches the many shows unfold. The view is forever perfect and well framed, the snacks are plentiful, the chatter often amiable. The afterlife in the Round is a relaxed one, one waits for the time when they might truly be introduced back into the world to become an actor again, or they may chose to become a stagehand, or even a Chorus.
The entertainment of the gods and the goddesses is paramount, and to facilitate this they have created both the Choruses and the natomata. A Chorus narrates each of the many stories going in the world. They follow the main characters, they provide clarity for the Audience and they represent the story itself, telling the tale and seeing that the world is suitable for what needs to happen. A Chorus' attention is a thing of luck and fortune, as it means that finally, you have made it. You have been given undeniable proof that for at least a little while, you are among the most important people in the known world.
A Chorus' scorn is a terrible thing. They will tolerate nearly anything an actor can do, but take a swing at one. Try it. Feel the way their narration warps the fabric of the Round, and suffer through their monologue about that terrible, incurable itch developing in the worst place while you address the queen. That powerful narrative force need not be baleful. It can be bought, and bent to an actor's purpose with natomata.
Natomata, gift of the gods and the audience, are small gold coins. On one side, they depict the Round. From the outside it looks a little bit like a round, star laden umbrella shielding the world's most interesting square bistro table. On the other side, they show three ripe tomatoes. When an actor makes the audience cheer, laugh, or cry in an especially good way, these coins may fall into the world to be collected. Their worth rests wholly in the bribery of the Chorus. Maybe you really did dodge that fireball, or make that million to one shot, or maybe you palmed a coin to the Chorus and made a whispered request to come through the next five minutes unscathed. Actors who can bribe a chorus without being obvious about it are thought well of, even by people who aren't a Chorus.
Long-game bribes are also quite popular, an actor buying some narration that leads to side plots and favor is a fine way to stumble into a sword of great power or a nice person of the preferred gender to settle down with after the story's over.
Our Story
The world mostly functions because the gods want it to, but it does work. There are few things that can cause lasting harm to the Round. The gods are quite pleased with their creation, so there is no danger from them. There's never been an extended stagehand strike, so all is well on that front. However, on stage, trouble brews.
Albrecht von Herzdieb, vampire count, master of the castle and fantastic tenor has stopped playing by the rules. A popular character, no villain thus far has grown to quite the same stature Albecht has. At first, it was relatively minor. The 'accidental' proper killing of a hero, ending the plotline there. The Chorus quickly coughed, and re-narrated the whole segment so that the pink mist, our erstwhile vampire hunter, would nicely set up a revenge story for the next hero to come along. When that hero arrived, Von Herzdieb strangled him, piked the head and burned the body. The vampire refuses to be beaten, to act as the story dictates. His actions tear the world apart, imposing reality where it has no place. People begin to starve, where they never had to eat, and lack the proper skills to farm. Sickness that has nothing to do with plot has fallen upon the world. Babies are being born, people are dying much easier, souls exiting the stage to the Audience at an alarming rate.
Albrecht von Herzdieb's new behavior has infected other villains in the various lands of the Round, and the gods cannot act upon neither them nor the vampire. To take a direct hand would be to halt the world, and the show must go on. They need heroes, one who will work with convention to cure the sickness of the world from within.
Our Players
Our player characters are skilled Actors, ones who have dwelt long within the system and played a great variety of roles. They started small, eventually gained speaking roles and began to skillfully play characters of importance, and it is for this reason that they are now Our Heroes.
In the beginning, the gods were amused. They vaguely wished they'd been around for the fireworks, but for a long time they were content with watching the small things that crawled around on the surface of the rock and ran quite delightfully when you gave things a good shake. Eventually, they grew bored with natural disaster and the inner drama of the pantheon ("Look, I'm not saying we don't need a goddess of correction, nor am I arguing that she shouldn't be enthusiastic in her duties, I'm just questioning the symbology and those leather...things the followers run around in.")
They sat down and started to really watch these little creatures that gave them worship. The gods began to take a sort of pleasure in the stories of people. They watched the little comedies of two very drunk men failing to climb a hill, and they watched the tragedies, would Lady Maravia ever find true love? The rise and fall of heroes became a matter of great interest. One such fellow took up a sword and united his homeland in an eighteen year saga of blood, treasure, kings and murder. (One of the gods was so delighted with the spectacle that he fashioned a replica of the hero's helmet and armor. He wears it to this day, and that is why the priesthood of the god of agriculture have worn their tongues thin telling people, "No, we don't do war or battle here, across the street, two down, sign of the spear." )
As time passed, a problem made itself evident. Reality is not kind to stories. The King in Saffron, Hero of the Eighteen Year War choked to death on a fishbone, leaving behind an heir who was quite wonderful economically, but was distilled dull poured into a pair of silk slippers. Lady Maravia never found her prince, and semi-successfully filled the void in her heart with cats. "We can do it better," said the gods.
The gods brought a number of souls with them to their new cosmos. Some of these souls became the stagehands. With their new power, they raised mountains, filled swamps, leveled plains and painted the desert. Working from Backstage, a small ethereal plane connected to everywhere, They made a little of everything you needed for a world. They built cities and laid roads, populated the world with constructed fish, fowl and fauna. The stagehands did an immense amount of gardening (forests don't just spring up from the ground on their own). For all they made, there was room, the Round is two hundred and seventy miles to a side, and about that tall if you measure up from the foundation of the world to the dome where they painted the sky and hung the stars. The gods watched from their seats, alongside the many souls not yet given tasks.
The Round is a square flat expanse of land and sea, with a bit of a lip, so that not too much water sloshes over the sides. The Audience lingered comfortably just outside of existence, everywhere and nowhere, always in the perfect place to watch as the stagehands went about their craft. And after a great deal of sweating, swearing, and smoke breaks, the stage was set.
The Actors, their Roles, and Recasting
The souls that did not become stage hands became the actors and the audience. Actors incarnate naturally into the roles they're required for, leaving those roles as they are no longer required.
A farmer is a farmer only so long as the eye of the gods is upon them and whatever the main characters of the story happen to be at the moment, and then they pass on to whatever role awaits them. Death does not touch the typical actor. A slice, a disease, they fall, they bleed, they incarnate onward to wherever they are needed. To truly die, the audience must be watching, and their killer must intend to end them, otherwise their death will be a mere Recasting.
Roles are often simple, they meet the needs of the stories that revolve around main characters. As the lead actors move through the world, the world shifts to facilitate the story, and the lessor actors are shuffled around to populate it. A main character needs a sword reforged, there is a blacksmith. The blacksmith doesn't need to know how to reforge a sword, but is expected to behave as if they can. The lack of real skill does not matter, the Round will provide a reforged weapon. Farmers need not truly farm, a pantomime is sufficient, food will happen, and eating is barely neccesary anyway. They need not buy seeds,main characters need not buy arrows unless it serves the plot. Props are, after all, the work of stagehands.
As an actor moves on, they may well improve themselves. If they play the roles that are given to them with skill, they will earn the favor of the gods. The greater the favor, the better the roles, and all that it entails. They may become minor named characters, perhaps become the king that talks to the heroes, and enjoy the benefits of the role. With time and skill, they may themselves become the heroes or the villains.
Heroes may get the girl and happy ending, as a rule, but the role of villain is the more conveted one. They may regularly be defeated, but a good villain enjoys quite a luxurious lifestyle between thwartings, and the occasional retirement of a character is no big deal. After all, everybody will eventually meet their final death and pass on into the Audience, to enjoy the show from the outside and bide a while before being cast again.
The Audience
In comfortable chairs close or far from the stage, in grand boxes and balconies, beside man, god and goddess alike, the Audience watches the many shows unfold. The view is forever perfect and well framed, the snacks are plentiful, the chatter often amiable. The afterlife in the Round is a relaxed one, one waits for the time when they might truly be introduced back into the world to become an actor again, or they may chose to become a stagehand, or even a Chorus.
The entertainment of the gods and the goddesses is paramount, and to facilitate this they have created both the Choruses and the natomata. A Chorus narrates each of the many stories going in the world. They follow the main characters, they provide clarity for the Audience and they represent the story itself, telling the tale and seeing that the world is suitable for what needs to happen. A Chorus' attention is a thing of luck and fortune, as it means that finally, you have made it. You have been given undeniable proof that for at least a little while, you are among the most important people in the known world.
A Chorus' scorn is a terrible thing. They will tolerate nearly anything an actor can do, but take a swing at one. Try it. Feel the way their narration warps the fabric of the Round, and suffer through their monologue about that terrible, incurable itch developing in the worst place while you address the queen. That powerful narrative force need not be baleful. It can be bought, and bent to an actor's purpose with natomata.
Natomata, gift of the gods and the audience, are small gold coins. On one side, they depict the Round. From the outside it looks a little bit like a round, star laden umbrella shielding the world's most interesting square bistro table. On the other side, they show three ripe tomatoes. When an actor makes the audience cheer, laugh, or cry in an especially good way, these coins may fall into the world to be collected. Their worth rests wholly in the bribery of the Chorus. Maybe you really did dodge that fireball, or make that million to one shot, or maybe you palmed a coin to the Chorus and made a whispered request to come through the next five minutes unscathed. Actors who can bribe a chorus without being obvious about it are thought well of, even by people who aren't a Chorus.
Long-game bribes are also quite popular, an actor buying some narration that leads to side plots and favor is a fine way to stumble into a sword of great power or a nice person of the preferred gender to settle down with after the story's over.
Our Story
The world mostly functions because the gods want it to, but it does work. There are few things that can cause lasting harm to the Round. The gods are quite pleased with their creation, so there is no danger from them. There's never been an extended stagehand strike, so all is well on that front. However, on stage, trouble brews.
Albrecht von Herzdieb, vampire count, master of the castle and fantastic tenor has stopped playing by the rules. A popular character, no villain thus far has grown to quite the same stature Albecht has. At first, it was relatively minor. The 'accidental' proper killing of a hero, ending the plotline there. The Chorus quickly coughed, and re-narrated the whole segment so that the pink mist, our erstwhile vampire hunter, would nicely set up a revenge story for the next hero to come along. When that hero arrived, Von Herzdieb strangled him, piked the head and burned the body. The vampire refuses to be beaten, to act as the story dictates. His actions tear the world apart, imposing reality where it has no place. People begin to starve, where they never had to eat, and lack the proper skills to farm. Sickness that has nothing to do with plot has fallen upon the world. Babies are being born, people are dying much easier, souls exiting the stage to the Audience at an alarming rate.
Albrecht von Herzdieb's new behavior has infected other villains in the various lands of the Round, and the gods cannot act upon neither them nor the vampire. To take a direct hand would be to halt the world, and the show must go on. They need heroes, one who will work with convention to cure the sickness of the world from within.
Our Players
Our player characters are skilled Actors, ones who have dwelt long within the system and played a great variety of roles. They started small, eventually gained speaking roles and began to skillfully play characters of importance, and it is for this reason that they are now Our Heroes.
The first session was mainly character introductions and getting a feel. I reproduced the beginning here because, frankly, it helped.
<MC> The Golden Spider is busy this time of evening, it holds most of the adult residents of Hogsfoot. A heavy wooden building, creaky in the breeze of the balmy evening, it smells a great deal like old ale and older farmer. A small band sits in the corner, a lute, a fiddle, someone with a drum. They aren't playing at the moment, they are instead arguing about what to play and fussing with tuning.
There is a man stealing beer, or at least the bartender is ignoring the man who's climbed back there with him to pour his own drink. He's a tallish fellow, a bit on the older side. He's balding, excessively tan, and wears close cropped beard that's gone grey around the edges, the rest of him covered in a big white robe and a small golden mask. He carries his mug around the side of the bar and coughs, giving a meaningful look to a table full of extras who are leaning too loudly on the fourth wall. As they calm, he gives the nod to the minstrels, who pick up into some lively ambience.
"Our scene opens on a summer evening, our heroes summoned here by the divine to do no less than save the world," the Chorus begins to narrate, sitting himself down at a wooden table, front and center table that is conspicuously empty in the busy bar. On it, there are drawings, wanted posters. Some clear, the one for Albrecht von Herzdieb clearest of all, painted in lush, full color. Some illegible, there's the strange and tattooed face of a woman, the scrawls beneath her drawing are illegible and just there for seeming to the Audience. At the very top of the stack is one that's readable, local even. Addison Split-Grin, scarred leader of the Bearclaw clan of bandits. Local raiders that wear ursine teeth and claws to mark their allegiances, their predations on Hogsfoot have been particularly harsh as of late.
"Let them enter, so they may begin their great and needful labor," says the Chorus, settling in to sip and munch.
There is a man stealing beer, or at least the bartender is ignoring the man who's climbed back there with him to pour his own drink. He's a tallish fellow, a bit on the older side. He's balding, excessively tan, and wears close cropped beard that's gone grey around the edges, the rest of him covered in a big white robe and a small golden mask. He carries his mug around the side of the bar and coughs, giving a meaningful look to a table full of extras who are leaning too loudly on the fourth wall. As they calm, he gives the nod to the minstrels, who pick up into some lively ambience.
"Our scene opens on a summer evening, our heroes summoned here by the divine to do no less than save the world," the Chorus begins to narrate, sitting himself down at a wooden table, front and center table that is conspicuously empty in the busy bar. On it, there are drawings, wanted posters. Some clear, the one for Albrecht von Herzdieb clearest of all, painted in lush, full color. Some illegible, there's the strange and tattooed face of a woman, the scrawls beneath her drawing are illegible and just there for seeming to the Audience. At the very top of the stack is one that's readable, local even. Addison Split-Grin, scarred leader of the Bearclaw clan of bandits. Local raiders that wear ursine teeth and claws to mark their allegiances, their predations on Hogsfoot have been particularly harsh as of late.
"Let them enter, so they may begin their great and needful labor," says the Chorus, settling in to sip and munch.
It's the first time in ages I've been a player, and I'm genuinely excited for this. More next week.