From: wolf@cheshire.oxy.edu (Clinton Richard Wolf)
Subject: My Tharkpost
X-Gated-By: The Black Marble Wombat@morticia.cnns.unt.edu
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Organization: University of North Texas
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Date: Fri, 20 Nov 1992 17:08:17 GMT


      Roight. I see I'm gonna have to do this manually...

      (Sergeant Major! Marchin' up and down the square! :) )

      Here be the post I wuz rantin' about. Live it, love it.



>Smooge writes:
>
>> 
>> the "I cant f*ck*ng wait until I nuke LA" Smooge
>
>It seems that over time my anti-Tharkold attitude has moved into
>Smooge and grown at an exponential rate...while the Thark SB is
>gravely lacking in good roleplaying information, the seed of it is
>still there...all it takes is a little searching and extrapolation
>(since we'll probably never see the material that got cut from the
>Tharkold SB, which must have had all the necessary background and feel
>of the cosm.)  I doubt that Tharkold was meant to be the munchkin cosm
>by its writers but the hack job done to get it to fit into one volume
>mutilated it severely.
>
 Gads. I could almost picture the foam flying off yer lips as you wrote
your post, Smooge. I think KJ replies with what I was gonna say, so all
I'm going to do is post an example of how to make Tharkold into a role-
playing cosm... dave has already seen this, since I first showed him the
example while we were discussing CoT (did I mention... *yarg!* ok! ok! dave!
I won't say it again... put the pain staff down! *yow!*), because dave (as
everyone well knows ;) ) is also a dyed-in-the-HardPlas Tharkold basher.
I won't go into my MOOD(tm) shpiel again, either... just consider it inserted
here. Anyway, the basic thing goes like this:

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

[First, I come up with the idea of tough cosm breeds tough people and critters.
Explains some of the high stats...]

Next, a discussion of Tharkold's feel, in line with the techno-horror genre as
exhibited in numerous films and books today. To sum up:

Cold. Alien. Brutal. Impersonal. Filthy. Scummy. Despairing. Post-apocalyptic.
People who think they are in control, losing control. Gruesome death, usually
involving mutilation to a degree, and invasion of the body and soul. Destruc-
tion of the individual. The idea of Rape, taken to its all-encompassing ex-
treme. Humans living like animals once again, acting like beasts to defeat an
enemy which is incomprehensible, emotionless, and unstoppable. A breakdown of
order. Chaos. Infighting within the humans' ranks, as the outside pressure
builds. The Creature... always just out of sight. Powerful. Fast. Stalking you,
even when you think you are stalking it. Surprising you. Striking and disap-
pearing before you have a chance to act. Isolating you. Tricking you. Your
technology won't save you. Your cyberware won't save you. Your BIG GUN won't
save you. The only thing that can save you, is to play its game. Be the fox
to its hound. Concentrate your fear, your rage, into a drive to see it des-
troyed. Commit yourself to the blasted wasteland of your surroundings, and
the blasted wasteland of your heart and mind. Put your life on the line. Give
no quarter. Show no mercy. Kill it, before it kills you, and goes on to kill
again...

Great summary, eh? Shit, I'm glad I didn't flesh that out :)

Now, an example of this. The wrong way... the one that reinforces the munchin-
ism and turns people off... and the right way... the way that enforces MOOD.  
          
   The situation: A party of 5 Storm Knights have located a rumored chopshop
                  in an abandoned office building in Pasadena, run by a rogue
                  Great Alpha. Two of the Knights come from Tharkold: Race mem-
                  bers, both of them. The others... a Core Earth covert op, a
                  Dwarven magician from Aysle, and a Nile Empire mystery man.
                  They are in a pure zone. Thus, all will be acting like true
                  Tharkold residents. You will be hearing a lot of swearing. A
                  LOT. This is another part of the techno-horror genre. Exple-
                  tives abound. This entire team is very well equipped and ar-
                  mored, and quite alert as they move in, a cohesive unit un-
                  der the Race members efficient military command. Now, watch
                  and see...

THE WRONG WAY
^^^^^^^^^^^^^
GM: You enter the building. It is in bad shape. Lots of blood and stuff.

Player 1 (Loell, a race Sergeant, leading the group.): We move on, weapons at
         the ready.

GM: Okay. Suddenly, you round the corner, and there stands three techno-demons!
    They charge, pulling out their lasers!

ALL PLAYERS: WE FIRE!!!!!!!!!

[lots of BIGGUNplay... maybe some SK's die, but not in a satisfying, genre-
specific fashion. Maybe they win, maybe they don't. But all in all, it's pretty
unexciting. Ho hum. Let's go back to the NE, and kick butt, or get our butts 
kicked, with style...]

BUT... now let's look behind door number 2.

THE RIGHT WAY
^^^^^^^^^^^^^

GM: You enter the bulding, alert for signs of danger. It looks like quite a
    fight happened here. The wind and pounding rain from outside is sweeping
    in through gaping holes in the walls, collecting in dirty pools in the
    center of the hallway, staining and warping the once pristine, light-blue
    carpet. The flourescent lights above you have been torn to shreds, and the
    wiring in the walls is similarly torn out. The smashed and broken debris
    litters the floor, forcing you to pick your way through. And everywhere,
    there is blood. Old blood, yet still kept somewhat fresh from the moisture,
    splattered in great gouts like some twisted impressionist's masterpiece
    across the canvas of the corridor. A bulletin board hangs askew, its memos
    and notes flapping in the periodic gusts of cold, bitter air. The patter of
    the rain without mixes with the sound of it trickling and dripping within,
    and the sounds of your feet splashing through the puddles. Other than that,
    it is silent. Nothing stirs. Nothing can be heard. The few flickering tubes
    left intact in the ceiling above give you enough light to see, but just
    barely... the shapes are murky and indistinct.

Loell: Alright. I say we use infrared, just to be safe. Any heat sources
       oughtta show up well in this place. [Everyone clicks on their goggles]
       Corporal, keep your eyes glued to that detector. I wanna know the second
       anything larger than a food ration moves, other than us...

Player 2 (Cpl. Dixon, the other Racer): You got it, sarge. [Note: I know motion
         detectors aren't in Tharkold equipment lists, but they darn well 
         should be. And they have to be the 'wheeping' kind, too :) ]
  
Player 3: (Silk, the covert op [sorry Rick, but you use Taz so much I figured
          I'd return the favor ;) ]) Are you reading anything?

Dixon: Nope, all clear for now...

Player 4: (Frumpus, dwarf mage): Whew. I'm kinda glad. I've heard about what
          these techno-demons can do, from Ellerby, although we both hadda have
          a lot of drinks to get through some o' those descriptions. Brr.

Player 5: (Doc Enema, NE hero): Hah. Well, I doubt they could be much worse
          than some of the abominations of that nefarious villian, Doctor Scum!
          Why, he once took the head of a black marketeer, and the body of a
          goat, and then--

Loell: Can the chatter, people! We're gonna need all the breaks we can get to
       take this sonofabitch down, and I want surprise. Got it?

(Enema & Frumpus nod, chastised)

Loell: Okay. (TO GM) We carefully move down the corridor, alert for any signs
       of danger...

GM: Right. About 30 feet ahead of you, you can just make out where the cor-
    ridor turns a corner to the right. (rolls a die). Frumpus, as you pick
    your way along, you squish down on something with your foot.

Frumpus: I point my gun, and carefully lift my foot to see what's there...

Silk: I'll shine my flashlight on it.

Dixon: I come back, just in case.

Enema: Me too, since I'm right there.

GM: In the beam of Silk's flashlight, you watch in horrified fascination as
    Frumpus lifts his foot, revealing a human face... or what's left of it,
    anyway. You can see maggots crawling on it, and the eye seems to be crushed
    Stuck to Frumpus' boot, in fact. In fact the ocular nerve seems to have
    come with it as the eye was yanked out of the socket. There are maggots
    gnawing at it, all along its length...

Silk: Jesus H. Christ...

Enema: My god. (he looks sick, and stumbles over to retch quietly against the
       wall)

Frumpus: I close my eyes, and scrape my boot against a block of debris to get
         it off, trying not to feel it.

GM: You manage to wipe it off. It falls into the puddle below with a wet plop.

Silk: (still shocked) Christ. Oh, christ.

Loell: Dammit, people! It's just a dead body! Leave it... we're losing time.
       Shit like this happens all the time. That's what the techno-demons DO
       to those they kill... sometimes they do worse. A LOT worse. That guy
       was fuckin' lucky, in my opinion. Now let's.... (Unseen behind her, one
       of the electrical cables has animated, and drops into the puddle of
       water she stands in.) *szzzzzzzzzrit* EEEEEEEEEEAAAAAGGGRRFGRGHHH!!!!!!
       (She collapses. Instant chaos.)

Silk: What the FUCK?!?

Dixon: Sarge? SARGE?!?!?

Frumpus: What happened? What the hell happened!!!! (He waves his gun around,
         wild-eyed.) 

Enema: I dunno! Why are you asking me? I don't fucking know!!

Frumpus: Shit. Shitshitshit!
 
Dixon: All right, people, that's enough! Now we've got a wounded person...

Frumpus: Wounded?!? She's fucking FRIED, man!!!

Dixon: Goddamit, Frumpus, shut up! We don't know she's dead, until we check on
       her condition... (TO GM) How is she looking?

GM: You can't tell. You all went back to check on the eyeball, and she's lying
    slumped against the wall about ten feet ahead. You can't really see her
    clearly, but she's not moving, and the smell of burnt flesh is filling the
    corridor.

Enema: *koff*

Dixon: Sarge...?   Sarge...?

GM: No answer.

Frumpus: She's dead, man, I'm tellin' ya she's dead. Fuckin' demon got her. It
         got her, and we're fucking next! We're gonna die!!!

Dixon: (picking up Frumpus and hurling him against the wall): Goddammit Frumpus
       I told you to SHUT UP! The only way we're gettin' through this is if we
       pull together and start acting like a team again, and keep cool. But
       so help me, if you make one more outburst, I'll blow your head off my-
       self!! (Frumpus subsides.) Now then, someone's gotta go check on the
       Sarge...

Frumpus: No way, man, not me.

Enema: Me neither.

Silk: ... I'll go.

Dixon: Okay, then. Take your flashlight, and keep your gun out. Be careful...
       you see anything moving, you get back here. Got it?

Silk: Yeah, I know. 

Dixon: Avoid the goddamn puddles, too. That reminds me, Frumpus, Enema, hug the
       walls. There's less moisture on the edges of the hall. (All three assume
       positions along one side of the wall or the other). Silk, that cable 
       might still be live, so watch yourself.

Silk: Got it. (Silk carefully begins moving down the hall, picking his way be-
      tween the puddles. All is quiet.)

Dixon: (TO GM) I'm keeping my eyes glued on the detector.

GM: Okay. No movement at the moment, save for Silk.

(Silk makes his way up to the Sarge's body. He unslings the gun and prepares
to check her pupils)

GM: Movement.

Dixon: Silk?

GM: Nope. This is about 45 degrees from your position... 50 meters away and
    closing fast. Right towards Silk.

Dixon: Shit! Silk, get back here!

Silk: Wait a minute, she's got pupil reaction. She's still alive!

GM: 30 meters... (begins imitating motion detector wheeps, getting louder and
    louder...)

Dixon: Silk! Get the fuck back here NOW!!! Enema! Frumpus! Aim your weapons
       for the end of the hall! This could be it...

GM: 15 meters... wheep! Wheep! WHEEP!...

Dixon: SILK!!!!! NOW!!!

(Silk slings the flashlight on his belt and fumbles for his rifle. He gets up
and starts running)

GM: 10 meters... 9... 8...

Dixon: What the HELL?!? (TO GM) You said it was 30 feet to the corner, right?

(GM nods, smiling evilly...)

Dixon: Oh, Christ! And we don't see anything?!? 
 
GM: Nope. 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... (pause). It stops. No movement.

Dixon: No readings at all?

GM: Nope. The detector is clicking away like normal, but it's not reading any-
    thing. Whatever it was tracking seems to have disappeared.

Frumpus: Oh, great! That's just great! Maybe its beneath us! Huh? Is that what
         you're doing, Tekkie? Are you in the FUCKING FLOOR?!? (He fires his
         Bith into the floor at his feet.) No? Maybe you're in the ceiling,
         huh? (fires into the ceiling, laughing wildly...)

Dixon: Dammit, Frumpus, stop firing! You'll give away our position! Frumpus!
       (He leaps for Frumpus, struggling for the rifle. Silk looks on dumb-
       founded, the adrenalin of his run still pounding through him.)

       (Enema, against the other wall, suddenly gets a thought...)

Enema: Well, if it's not in the ceiling, and it's not in the floor... then...
       maybe... (he is cut off as a huge, clawed cyber arm crashes through the
       wall behind him and drags him through, screaming...)

Frumpus: SHEEEEEEEEEEIIIIITT!!!! DIE, MOTHERFUCKER!!! DIE DIE DIE!!! (He fires
         wildly into the wall...)

Dixon: Frumpus! Cut it out! You'll hit Enema!

Frumpus: Fuck Enema! He's dead! We're all dead! Fuck!!! (*blamblamblamblamblam*

[two down. Three to go :) ]
[and they've barely passed the first room...]
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

So it goes...


Your players still won't want to go to Tharkold, but now it will be for the
right reasons... they're afraid to. :)

BTW, disregard any modules (especially CoD) that have hordes of TD's running
around. It even says in the Tharkold module that the average person in LA
should never have even seen a Tharkoldu... which is exactly right. In techno-
horror, you never see the critter until it pounces on you, and then it's usu-
ally too late. Just one techno-demon should be SERIOUS trouble for a party in
Tharkold, so they need to be used very sparingly. The ecology of horror works
here, as well, in a de Facto sense, if not de Jure.

Just my $20000000000000000000 worth.

-- Clint
  
 
                  
 



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