Happy Halloween from all the crew, cast, and the food from the Dwarven Tavern. Here is Shingeki No Kyojin cross over with Tavern Tables treat from Lyric Goins out of Osaka, Japan.
Ten items that every gamer wants to start off with.
1. 50 foot of rope.
2. As much gold as they can swindle out of the DM.
3. A bag of holding.
4. Book of magic spells.
5. Potions of any kind.
6. A dagger. Backing stabbing is doubled with back attacks, dua. That stabbing your friend in the front, screw that, turn them around for more damage.
7. A sword.
9. A quest.
10. Everyone meets in the tavern, extra experience points if it is the Dwarven Tavern.
By Dr. Lissa Goins
The baron had only one daughter. No sons, no relatives he felt he could trust to inherit after he died. And die he would, he thought bitterly. Skeletal hands clawed at the heavy velvet of the bed curtains. A wide, hideous smile stretched the paper thin skin of his face. Glazed, bloodshot eyes spun around the room. Where was his daughter? He was dying and it was his duty as the baron of this bitter, blasted land to pass the responsibility of ruling it to his daughter. His only daughter. Where was she?
His crackling breathing and the slight rattling of a silver medical tray held by a frail looking maid were the only sounds echoing in the stately chamber. Heavy, dark wood smoothed the walls that were cold mountain stone underneath. The chill from deep beneath the baron’s keep rose like an unseen mist from the floor and leaned from the walls like an unsmiling ghost. The rattling of the silver tray, however, seemed to be less from the cold, and more from the poorly hidden terror of the maid. The baron could only smile more widely at the fact that the lowly servant’s gaze was fastened not on his desiccated body, but on the door his daughter would soon walk through.
A wisp of wistfulness softened the very edges of his frozen smile. His beloved, his darling wife of the barbarian tribe he had once trafficked with was long passed into the ether of death. She spoke not a word of the civilized tongue, and he would never debase himself so far as to learn so much as a syllable of that gurgling tribal speech, but he loved her all the same. The sophisticated hatred in her eyes had been worthy of the highest rank, and the incredible cruelty she had been capable of inflicting on what he had assumed was her closest kin had surely earned her his undying respect.
The twisted runes she had worn upon her cheeks had marked her as some sort of sorceress, her tribe’s version of what a healer should be, he assumed. The clan of orcs had called this desolate land home for far longer than he had. Indeed, they had scratched their primitive scrawl into the cracked hills and broken stone of what should have been his glorious border sovereignty. Ah, he had been so young then. His father had spoken so often of the glory and splendor of nobility, only to die with a dagger in his stomach. His mother, so weak and useless, had pleaded with his highness, the crown prince for some escape for her son. Foolish woman, he had already been old enough to act his part in the dance of backroom politics. He would have made their name great, he would have ensured vengeance for the father he cared little for, and he would have, perhaps, even twisted the knife in the stomach of that all-too-kind prince.
Ah, what escape his mother had bought him. The nobles who had accompanied him had died one by one, smug and questioning his right to rule them. Ah, he had been so young then, but it was good that the memories of youth could warm him in his old age, ha ha.
A bird fluttered by the thin window, scattering the light and earning an almost-scream from his last maid. She had been the daughter of one of the cooks, if he remembered correctly. Or no, perhaps she had been a child from that band of nomads who had passed too close. Nomads never seemed to know when to pay tribute to their rightful ruler. They, unlike some, had ignorance as their excuse and therefore, deserved a strong warning instead of a swift punishment. He expected them to have nothing of value, naturally, but it was the principle of the matter. The nomad routes must be wider than he thought, however, since they had yet to return. He would have to remind his daughter to collect from them when they did.
His daughter, where was his daughter? Though he had been ever faithful to his beloved wife, he would never have accepted any progeny of hers as his heir, or so he thought. He remembered dimly, far into the past, he had been young and proud. He had strode into the barbaric encampment with his head held high, but he would have been a fool to not have noticed the spooked looks on his orcish allies. They grunted to each other in clumps, glancing at him with fear, as they should, but he was no fool. He could tell when the fear was not directed at him. He followed their almost furtive glances toward the hut set slightly apart from the others. How many years had it been since he had walked before them? Too long, surely, if something else could scare them more than he.
A rattling sound, the bones of some bird strung out and dried as a decoration clacked together against the curtain on the primitive hut’s entrance. My dear wife’s hideous face and beautiful eyes gazed at me, a perfect lady awaiting her husband. She smiled at me, cracked and blackened teeth twisted with twine and bits of meat, some barbaric jewelry, no doubt. Then she stepped forward from the doorway of the hut, and pulled with her a tiny, tiny white hand. I remember thinking that she had some carved bone gift to present to me, when I realized that small hand was connected to a small, thin arm. And then my eyes met the cold, beautiful eyes of my daughter for the first time.
There was no question that she would come with me. She was small and perfect as any marble sculpture ever carved by any court artisan. She had none of the barbaric look that would mark her as an orcish child. I’m sure there were many who wondered from where I had found her, but no. The shape of her face, the delicate hands, there was no question that she was my daughter. She had the same black hair as I once did in my youth, and when she grew, I could see echoes of my own mother in her figure. Every inch the aristocrat, she learned from me all I could teach. My daughter speaks in the refined language of royalty, she walks with all the grace of a queen. She will be a fine baroness, more worthy of the title than those pampered weaklings in that land I left so long ago.
There has always been something… off about my daughter. She was always a quiet girl, from the time she was still small enough to ride in the saddle with me. She is too big for that now; she towers over the servants in both her bearing and her height. I suppose it was wrong to assume that any girl child of mine would turn out the same way as those twittering courtesans in their fluffy, flower-colored dresses. This land is not so rich as to provide such colors for my daughter’s dresses, much as I had often wished otherwise when she was still my tiny daughter to spoil. The dark blues and fur-lined capes suit her now, I see. But nobility is more than the clothes one wears.
How to put into words this strangeness of my daughter’s, I wonder. She was old enough to speak when I first saw her, even though it was in that primitive tongue. She could walk, and glare with the eyes of a judge at those servants who learned their place too slowly. Too long among the orcs, I worried then. But she grew strong and capable. There is no other in whom I would place my trust. The faintest whiff of dried herbs is no more than some obscure perfume, and the murmurs of my servants are unwarranted.
The handle of the chamber door turned, startling the maid again and sending the serving tray to the ground in a clatter of silver and shattering of porcelain. The maid’s stuttering was almost a soothing background noise. The baron’s daughter glided into the room, not a trace of concern on her face. The maid was ignored, she would be punished in due time. This was the baron’s last moment. He grasped at the air above him, and at last a gloved hand grasped his. Her cold hand felt warm to him.
He could barely see her. His vision had faded in his old age, and yet the world had never seemed so dark or shadowed before.
“You…” He rasped.
The air would not come. It seemed as if all the strength he had within him had faded. Once he had been a giant of a man, the great baron of a nearly lifeless land. It had taken him years and years of struggle to build this place, to tear a life for himself from the unwilling earth and carve his will into the very stone, but now… but now it felt like the earth and stone were taking it all back.
He could barely see her face within the darkness, but he had the strength, he must have the strength for one final message. It was the most important message he would ever give his daughter.
“…a fine… baroness.”
And with that, the baron was dead.
The stuttering of the maid had fallen silent at last. The head of staff and her father’s most responsible servant had ushered the silly girl away with the last remains of her father’s medicine. He had lived a long life, especially for one who had once lived in the soft, inner kingdoms with their all luxuries. They say he once fought three white dragons for the stone spire this castle was built on. They say he fought ogres and primitive human raiders to keep it. They say he once even guarded a food caravan himself to insure its precious contents made it to the starving and the sick within the castle walls one cold, cold winter.
He was a great man. He was a brave man.
The new baroness sat silently at her father’s bedside. He seemed thin and frozen as a wight, but she could see the finality of true death in his now empty eyes. The morning sunlight streamed in through the windows, small birds whistling pleasantly to the clear blue sky. There was fresh snow, bright on the hillside, soft and sparkling like the fur on the baroness’ house robe. Her hair was unbound and long. Hanging above her bare feet, the hem of her nightgown could be seen. When her father had worsened in the night, she had not been surprised. Though the servants would no doubt talk of her run from her own quarters on the other side of the castle to her father’s, she was soon enough to hear his last words. That was worth the murmurs of impropriety to her.
There were no tears on the baroness’ cheeks as she stood. She would have to be strong to be the baroness of this unforgiving territory. Her cold eyes swept over the few servants who had dared follow her. They did not meet her eyes. They were frightened of her. But they did not respect her as they respected her father. She was no hero, she had no accomplishments to her name, and she was strange. The witchery her mother had taught her was beyond the comprehension of these purely human folk. Her magic would seem barbaric and unrefined to them. It would cause her only difficulty if they did not respect her as well.
She owed nothing to her subjects. But she would never deny her father’s last words.
It was time for her to have an adventure.
The Rev. Doctors Jeffrey and Lisa Goins, owners of Dwarven Tavern, are very proud to announce the engagement of their daughter Miss Lyric Goins to Mr. Josh Goforth. Mr. Goforth flew to Japan with a category 5 Typhoon bearing down on the island. It was not clear that he would arrive in time or safely. Mr. Gorforth traveling took him three days to get there. Driving his horse hard to the Dwarven Tavern where he gained transport from the Dwarven Tavern Keeper and wife, they quested a long 6 hrs to the great city of Chicago. There, they took rest at a local Tavern of Comfort, waiting for a large winged animal to carry Mr. Goforth for 5 hours. After many discussions with the local animal handler, Mr. Goforth was able to travel by air for 15 hours to the ancient silk road city of Hong Kong. Here, he rested for 5 hrs before negotiating another passage on a winged bird. In flight he had lost entire day. Then he arrived on the island of Japan, where he then meet with Miss Goins. Miss Goins is studying tombs and scrolls in Osaka, Japan. Traveling inward on the island two hours brought them to the city of Osaka. There they were safe in a house of mighty dwarven construction when the Typhoon hit Osaka in less than half a day later. After the angry storm moved on, Mr. Goforth found a most spiritual spot near a shrine where the couple sent out blessings for a good future together and Mr. Gorforth decided to take an arrow to the knee. Their grand celebration of marriage will be October 22, 2016.
The Elf Who Lost His Mind
Dr. Lissa Goins
Parchment scraps found in unnamed wizard’s ruined library
…campaigned together for many years. There was no surer band to be found, and from the direst of circumstances, they triumphed. However, as all things pass, the elven wizard eventually longed for the elegant peace of his home wood. He bid goodbye to his travelling companions and set out to rest among his people.
They welcomed him home with celebration and merriment. There were none who were not awed by the stories of his adventures. He told of the fall of evil necromancers, the revival of ancient magic, the defeat of wicked armies. Children would stare in wonder from the time he began his tales to the very end of the stories. Ah, he thought, this is real reason I set out from home. It wasn’t to find myself, it wasn’t for treasure. I packed my scrolls and ingredients and left this city only so I could come back to share my stories with my people. There is no greater joy than to sit here with an enraptured audience hanging on my every word, certainly.
Years passed this way, the elf Lorlenn continued to tell of his adventures with the brave human, the clever gnome, the pious hafling, and the stouthearted dwarf. He studied the books he’d left behind, and he concentrated on the magical pursuits that he’d eschewed for more practical spells. Ah yes, he’d always dismissed the more fanciful magics as having no purpose except to occupy an elf’s many boring years, but since his return these tricks and flourishes seemed to take on an incredibly compelling light. Every time he turned a corner or a page, there would seem to be someone else to entertain or another strange little spell to bring a smile to his face.
One hundred years passed, then two hundred years seemed to crowd behind the elf. He raised his head one day and realized that for all the stories he’d told of his friends, it had been years since he’d actually spoken with them. It was startling. But, he thought with a smile, they have ever been on my mind. I have not forsaken them, and surely, they will be happy to see me again.
Lorlenn of the Twilight Spires once again packed his things for the road. It took another five years for him to set his affairs in order for the trip, but he reminded himself every time it seemed he could not pull himself away that this was for his companions, his friends. They would be so happy to see him, they must surely miss him, they would be more than happy to sit by the fireside and talk. He did not need eighteen travel packs of cantrips. But maybe one more…?
It was almost with a wrenching feeling that he found himself on the road outside his city. Was this finally happening? He sighed with a strange relief. Oh, he loved his home, but this was where he belonged. To find himself, to uncover strange and novel treasures, to unravel mysteries and better himself as a wizard, all these things were why he set out to adventure. It was almost with pain that he thought of his friends. My friends, he thought as he traveled, we’ve fought so many battles together. Why did I part from your company when there were still so many things to do? We never captured that fell wizard of the Blackened City. There were rumors of treasure beyond the Quiet Mountain of Snow. We had planned to cleanse the countryside of hobgoblins and ogre mages. Why, why in the name of Twilight Spires did I ever depart for home?
It was with a spring in his step and an air of nostalgia that he entered the countryside of human farms and taverns. He almost didn’t notice the respectful nods of the humans he passed. How strange, he thought, when I passed through here the first time, everyone eyed me with suspicion. It was odd to see an elf in these parts. Perhaps my human friend has told them stories of me. Yes, that must be it. And of course he would! We have done so much!
It did, however, shock him into stopping when he crested the hill and saw Garth Smith-hammer’s city. His jaw hung in speechless bewilderment. Where was the tiny hamlet of human farmers? Where did this massive city come from? From the grey mist of dawn to the west, to the still dark of night in the east, the human city sprawled before him. He felt dizzy. It couldn’t be. He raised a hand to his head and tried to reason with what he saw. It had been over two hundred years, he thought with a start. And humans built structures so quickly, ah, that was it. He shook his head dizzily and stumbled into town.
What a sight to behold, he thought. Streamlined buildings of brick and stone, a smooth street under his feet. And it was busy, so busy. People were packed into every tight corner and alley, doing everything that could be imaged to make a city prosper. Here, he also noticed, the respectful nods and eager looks were more pronounced. Clean shopkeepers and young townsfolk looked toward him without jaded disgust towards an outsider. Children running past stopped to smile and stare without hate or fear. He felt a bubbling wonder at the warm welcome, so different from the few times his human friend had dragged the party this way for supplies.
But where was Garth? At that very instant, he spotted him. An eager greeting had almost left his lips when that face, so very familiar, turned towards him. The stranger, however, lit up in recognition.
“Lorlenn the Wanderer?” The stranger cried. A smile split the man’s bearded face. “Why, it’s been years! Where have you been all this time?”
The elf was speechless. He stared uncertainly at the man.
The stranger paused a moment, before his eyes cleared in understanding. “Ah, we’ve never met. But my great-great grandfather Garth the Beast Slayer told me all about his adventures when I was young. He told me what you looked like, so that if you ever visited I would know to give you hospitality.”
The elf was stunned. “And where is your, um, great-great grandfather now?”
The man was slightly confused at the question. “Uh, he died some years ago.”
It felt as if he’d been stabbed through the gut. He didn’t remember leaving the town or saying goodbye to the descendant of his traveling friend. Dead. How long did humans live? Why had he never thought to ask exactly? He had always heard about human mayfly lives, but Garth had always been there during their adventures. Stalwart. A leader to their group. A credit to his race, his home. Dead.
No. Not just dead. Dead and gone.
Did the others know? The elf staggered down the road almost bent double from phantom pain. Clea lives nearby, he realized abruptly. The gnarled trees towered above him, strangely welcoming and warm. He almost wept in relief. The gnome druidess who had always hated his spellcasting, who had critiqued and frowned at his incantations, who argued incessantly with him over every trap and ambush would surely ease the bleeding pain of unexpected loss.
He traveled agonizingly slowly through the shaded woods. The air was rich with life and mischief. It soothed his aching heart as if Clea herself stood next to him, ready to release a spell that would rip the roots from the ground and tangle her enemies into an unorganized mess. The gnome settlement must be nearby, he thought. They won’t be happy that I’ve just wandered in, but surely, the word of a druid of such renown as my dear friend will sway them.
It was as he thought this, nearly tripping over a sudden root, that a gnome peered around a tree. Lorlenn kept his hands down but open to show that he was unarmed with no spell at ready, and he opened his mouth to profusely apologize for the trespass, that the gnome suddenly began to laugh.
“Ah, ha, I know you!” The gnome bellowed. “Lorlenn of the Twilight Forest, yes, yes?”
The elf was taken aback. Perhaps Clea had spoken of him more positively than he thought. He felt ashamed that he had once again underestimated the gnome who had proven herself such a reliable member of the party.
“I have come with sad tidings.” Said the elf. “Perhaps I can speak with Lady Clea of the Green and Gold?”
The gnome paused. Lorlenn rushed to continue. “I understand if I am not welcome.”
This time the cheerful gnome interrupted him with a laugh. “Welcome? Of course you are welcome, you silly elf!”
Lorlenn blinked. For an instant, it was as if there was a double image. Clea’s eyes squinted at him from the face of this stranger. Silly elf? It would be just like his gnome companion to ensure that all of her kin called him that despite how aggravated it made him. He almost wept in joy that she would care so much.
“Can I speak to Clea then? It has been such a long time.”
The gnome’s smile turned sad. Dread closed the elf’s lungs and he knew, he knew what the gnome’s next words would be.
The gnome, who was the grandson of his dear friend, told him that beloved Clea had become an adventurer later in life. She had grown children and grandchildren before wanderlust filled her soul and she packed her bags for a longer trip. Her faithful bear mount carried her bags and she didn’t return until she had fulfilled her dreams of seeing what grew on the edge of the world. Dear, wizened Clea returned with pride, and told her stories to her great grandchildren before peacefully passing away in her sleep. His friend was dead.
He barely remembered reaching the foot of the mountain home of his old dwarven companion. A cave-in caused by a young and inexperienced dwarf digger had been the end of Half-Silver Broad-Shoulders. It was an innocent mistake and the younger dwarf bore the shame, but he was one companion less. It was as if in their final adventure together, he had been impaled and left to bleed slowly to death through all these years, but only felt it now.
He stood staring up at the temple his halfling companion had served for a long time. The world stood still. The doors opened and one of the young initiates came to greet him. He was taken to an alcove in a place of honor and saw, to his numb horror, a statue in honor of his long gone friend. Slain in battle while protecting those in need. Truly, there was no other way the small, but brave hero’s life could have ended.
It was as if the world began to speed up beneath him. He fled to his home and threw himself into his studies like a drowning elf. He couldn’t let this stand. He couldn’t accept that this was the world he lived in. The shouts and pleas of the other elves were ignored. There was a way. There was a way for things to be as they should.
Time did not seem to pass for the elf Lorlenn. Time no longer seemed to matter.
It was later that he was found by a concerned relative who had always looked up to the wandering soul. It was with horror they found that despite initial appearance, Lorlenn still lived.
In his memories, they say, he has reunited with his companions. Perhaps, in dreams, they adventure once more.
Dodging the cookie cutter
In most game systems there are character classes. They are mostly rigidly outlined with specific purposes and functions, such as the fighters who fight, the rogues who steal about, and the wizards who cast spells. Most people who play also generate these characters and play them as written. Armored fighters attacking the enemy, thieves back stabbing, with magi casting spells from behind. The word stereotypical leaps to mind, but many don’t even think about using the classes in other roles.
Think of a militant mage, sitting in a castle, designing spells that make him a killing machine, clad in magical armor and an aura of energy that flays the flesh off his enemies before they even get close. Or a spell that creates a small (or even large) army of magical warriors that obey his commands and fight for him. That’s just one option with two different possible variations.
Given that example, take a moment to think of what character classes actually are. A class of person, say, upper class, does not always mean a wealthy old white guy in a suit smoking a cigar in a high back leather chair. There are a wide range of reasons to be upper class and as many different types of people in that class as there people in that class. It’s the same with the character classes. There are ranks of fighters, guilds of wizards and thieves, and cloisters chock full of clerics, but each one is an individual who should be given the same individual attention as one would give a character in a book or story. Use your imagination and make that next character using enough mental and imaginative dexterity to dodge that cookie cutter.
Pink Flower of Power!
Are you taking supplements? Are you taking prescription medications too? Sometimes the two types of medications inhibit the reactions of each other. Instead of being awesome for you, the medication ends up being bad for you.
Echinacea is a supplement that some may use to help enhance their immunity when cold season hits. Often, those with cold symptoms will take one Echinacea a day to run off a cold. This is a great herb for those characters who have been out in the weather or just can’t seem to enhance their health. Dungeon Masters may want to give out experience points to those who find this pink cone flower blooming alongside the road, harvest, and dry it for later use. While boosting the immunity for the character, there is also a change for an allergic reaction similar to penicillin, therefore the DM needs to roll a check for this. If there are any other potions in play, again, another check needs to be done to see if the herb has enhanced or decreased the effects. Oh, what fun this could be?
Dwarven Tavern Hits 200!
Dwarven Tavern YouTube Channel just hit 200 subscribers! Dwarven Tavern YouTube channel does reviews of games coming out on the market, with most recently reviews on the new Dungeon and Dragons’ 5th edition, Hackmaster series, and GENCON 2014 interviews with companies producing the newest and hottest gaming goodies. Dwarven Tavern was established in 1993 and has been reviewing products for the last 21 years. Dwarven Tavern is a nonprofit and independent owned media bringing gamers reviews that are not advertisement bias. All products are supplied for reviews knowing that the review is based on an axe rating system.
Vampires don’t do garlic supplements
Are you taking supplements? Are you taking prescription medications too? Sometimes the two types of medications inhibit the reactions of each other. Instead of being awesome for you, the medication ends up being bad for you.
Garlic is used to regulate diabetic blood glucose levels and decrease heart disease but if the client is taking a blood thinner, garlic may cause the medication to not absorb as much of the medication. This means that the medication may not be the right amount and cause more bleeding or thinning of the blood than intended. This can interfere with blood work done used to manage the amount of medication given to thin the blood.
Now you know why Vampires are not happy with folks who eat garlic. Your blood is like drinking a “diet” or “low platelet” drink.
The villagers pulled the early spring child from the waters. The river had surged and the child had nearly drowned. The clothes were from a far north village. This was not a good sign. The village began preparing for war.