Hit Points (Get to the Point)...

When I was a young gamer (so many years ago), hit points seemed like the most important attribute, at least first among equals; and I had a point. In a pastime known for its lethality, one's hits amounted to life itself. How could a mere magic-user hope to compete, much less survive, with 2 hit points? And what was the point (pun intended) of so few anyway? You could say likewise for the whole Player's Handbook; fighters, the works...

And what about your avarage (in AD&D speak) fighter? A typical veteran with a median constitution had a whopping 4-5 hit points, which explains why constitution remains a close second to strength for any martial profession. A robust fighter might get 8 hits, which was definitely better, but first level was still a pretty bitter pill to swallow. By way of example, that's two hits with a longsword. And these were a party's front liners.

I understood. Magic-users specialized in spellcraft (niche protection); but fighters did combat for a living (again, pun intended). And levels didn't necesarily help, since these were rolled randomly on notoriously fickle dice. Barring merciful house rules, a 3rd-level type might easily run 10-12 hit points. That's three average hits from a common longsword. Of course, armor would reduce the number of successful hits, but still. It appeared unworkable...

Until I had an epiphany. After several years of generous house rules designed to mitigate the obvious flaw of a game where you couldn't venture room to room killing everything, I had a flash of insight that put the whole thing into perspective. Twin revelations that transformed my immature campaign into a mature enterprise. I think we all have these moments; and while youth is wonderful, these two insights heighted my pleasure in the game:

(1) You don't fight everything. But door-to-door killing is how it works, right? Wrong. Combat is dangerous, so you avoid all but the most obviously winnable (and profitable) encounters. I admit, a certain charming, get-to-the-point fun was lost; but gearing up to explore the waiting underworld took on a depth that made a second childhood altogether unthinkable...

(2) If at all possible, take henchmen. Charisma isn't a dump stat. An expedition is just that, an expedition. If your game doesn't look like a trip to the unexplored Congo, you're potentially missing out on valuable loot and, of course, experience. There's safety in numbers, and hired help blunts the power of wandering monsters while increasing profitable fights.

Of course, this isn't universal, and our latest, Mydwandr, assumes smaller parties with uniform progression. But you won't find long (or short) rests to recover precious resources either, calling for the same caution AD&D advised. There's no wrong way to play games involving elves and magic, and you may recognize my youthful apprehension in our earlier titles. Even so, AD&D's approach was no mere oversight, and that's this week's point...

Dwarven Mail of Mydwandr...

So Mydwandr, Rules-Light Roleplay, is (finally) out. It's a game. It's a setting. It's both, although admittedly, the gaming aspect predominates. So setting aside the commercial, we'll focus on the magical armors made by the dwarves and gifted to the Kings of Jontavr, who jelously guard, and sometimes squander, this inheritance. These stories are many, and often humorous, although it speaks more to the magic of this mining people:

When a new king is crowned in Jontavr, the dwarves present them a suit of mail in observance of the alliance between their kindreds. These are magical, or perhaps so well-wrought to appear as such, with attributes to match (or flatter) the sovereign. Ragnar IV supposedly slew a wyrm on a boar hunt, earning the title Dragonslayer and recieving a fine suit of Dragon's Mail upon his ascent to the throne, although his rule was brief...

Now candid historians maintain it was a very young wyrm, and that the boy had help, which is almost certainly the case; but the dwarves heard and forged their offering.

Another is the King's Mail of Skard. An intemperate boy given to fighting, he carried a scar into manhood documenting his youthful violence; and the dwarves, bound to make their customary gift, fashioned the King's Mail. This exquisite suit of chainmail glittered, betraying what magics went into it. Simply put, it reduced all melee damage to a single hit, but only between sunrise through noon when his disfiguiring fight supposedly took place...

Accordingly, Skard avoided battle at night or later in the day, leading his counselors to call him Skard Half-Brave behind his back. Such caution made his years many.

All of this speaks to the nature of dwarven magic. As one of the three kindreds, dwarves certainly have the capacity for spellcraft, although culture (and necessity, given the endless waves of fearsome urku they must contend with) doubtless directs most to other pursuits, including their legendary smithcraft. Even so, magically gifted dwarves sometimes become enchanters, aiding their own cause and securing the alliances vital to their properity...

The Fabulous Bag of Maybe...

Most magic is pretty dramatic. But what if there's an echelon of so-called practical magic desired by adventurers for their convenience value. Maybe try these on for size...

Bag of Maybe. Has a 10% chance of producing some small, desired object.

Everful Skin. Holds an endless supply of some beverage but won't flood a room. 

Self-Warming Bedroll. Magically heated, the character is always comfortable. 

Steadfast Torch. Never goes out until commanded to do so or magically dispelled.

Waterproof Tinder. Self explanatory. This stuff never gets wet or gets used up.

These things don't look any different, and you'd need to detect magic to know they were more than their ordinary counterparts. Magic is spectacular; but sometimes practical's better...

Simpler Things: Then and Now...

Hope everyone had a happy fourth, even if you hail from someplace else. For me, chilling on the porch got me thinking about how my gaming tastes have changed with time...

Then: I bought transparent, spinkle-filled dice because they looked cool.

And Now: Give me solid, high-contrast colors. Black on yellow or white on green.

Then: I chose flashy, so-called realistic miniatures and worshipped Tom Meier, scoffing at the garish and lumpy Grenadier figures not knowing why I secretly loved them...

And Now: The worship continues; but I appreciate Grenadier for the same roughness I previously derided because a second look reveals how well their crudeness nails it.

Then: I used everything in every sourcebook I could get because it was new.

And Now: Just the first three booklets for OD&D, please. And the P&P core rules.

Some of this is aging. But I suspect it's perspective as well. Sourcebooks are still cool, and so's Tom Meier; but advanced age brings an appreciation for the simpler things...