How to Design and Improvise NPCs and Groups of NPCs

Designing an NPC is generally simple enough in most cases. Often times, an NPC exists because a job needs done (tavernkeepers, guards, and apothecaries usually play more as business transactions than real people) or because the GM or a player has said something that would necessitate an NPC. In other words, an NPC exists in basically every case in order to fill a role. Knowing that is powerful: it allows us to design our NPCs to fill those roles as perfectly as possible. And most experienced GMs can tell you that designing a group of NPCs who know each other and especially work together--adventuring parties, gangs, groups of soldiers--is more complicated since the relationships between those NPCs will become a factor at some point most of the time. This guide is about how to design NPCs that fit your purposes while still allowing you to have some fun. 

Before we dig in entirely, I imagine there are a few surly GMs thinking to themselves, "Meh. I can improv NPC interactions just fine. There's no need to fully design an NPC." In some campaigns, this is true. I have long argued on this site that there are three overarching style of play in tabletop games. One is combat-focused--how can we strategically choose our actions to maximize our odds of survival? Another is more social in a comic sense--how can we at the table use the game as a way to make each other laugh and have a good time? The last in also more social, but in a more dramatic direction--how can we collectively tell a story involving our characters and the GM's story? For pure combat campaigns where NPCs are basically just vendors, fully designing a character is probably unnecessary, and the purest silliness campaigns may not always demand real NPC design; however, the final style basically requires NPC design, and all styles can benefit from it. 

The process is meant to be quick and simple so that you can do it on the fly as you GM. It's a few quick mental steps. First: what is the purpose of this NPC? Why do they exist? They may be an important character to the party of just a random person they bump into, but someone called them into existence, so identify that purpose. Second: what is an interesting way to fulfill that purpose? In the past, I've given small scale NPCs really colorful attitudes toward their purpose, such as having a vendor who is far too passionate about what they sell or a person who has a collection of related skills that will solve a problem as opposed to the direct approach. This is the first half of the process, and it's the harder half. Years from now, it's unlikely that your players will remember the name or exact details of every NPC, but adding something interesting to the NPC design can be memorable. 

I want to give some examples from my games in order to make this abstract idea more concrete. Let's first talk planned important characters. When I DMed my mystery campaign, I needed an inventor character who would feature prominently in the story. Her name was Lyssbetonk Cogswagon, and part of the campaign would take place in her lab, where her experiments were. Therefore, I also prepared her experiments to be prepared for the inevitable questions from my players. As I designed the experiments, I thought that they would have a huge effect on the city (a weather controller, for instance), and I needed a reason that Cogswagon would have been limited in using some of them to her full effect. In order to let her fulfill her role as inventor, I had created the new problem of needing to rationalize her failure despite her genius. So I chose to make Cogswagon a total isolationist, never leaving her house. This gave me an inventor who had an interesting tweak to how she pursued her role. 

A more improvised character was York the Orc. Many years before my silly Western campaign would run, my little brother played a character named York who was an orc in my first real campaign. And when I was DMing and my players demanded to have an interesting person come across them on the road, I needed an NPC to fill a role. I needed someone who would be entertaining, and I knew my group liked "random" humor and silliness, so I came up with a really sweet pie salesman who spends an inordinate amount of time making each pie who was out looking for only the best ingredients. His name was York the Orc, a silly name befitting this strange man. 

The next step of the process is basically the same as the first but applied to a different question. Third in our process: What is this NPC like? This can be broad if that suits your purposes, like if you're improvising them--they're surly, they're chipper, they're sleepy, what have you. Personally, if you're going broad, I recommend choosing two basic traits instead of just one--it's a small change, but it will really spice up the feeling of your characters. If they're meant to be planned characters, you'll want to get more specific. What are their values? What's their personality like? How do they spend their time? I follow the steps I use to develop player characters when I'm designing a really important NPC and I can go all out--that way, I have a real wealth of information and a solid sense of the character. The last step is this, and it's the trick that's gotten me countless compliments on my NPCs: why is the character like this?

What I mean by this is, there is the potential for a little story to be told with this NPC. There is a possible way for the game to play out where the players speak to this NPC for long enough to get a sense of who they are--many possible ways--but finding out what the "why" of that story is can be very rewarding. This is best explained via example, so let's return to Cogswagon and York. 

For step three, I needed to come up with personalities for them. Lyssbetonk was sweet and friendly but easily scared; she had virtuous aims with her inventions but was afraid to ask for help; she was calm and rational about everything but the outside world. Then I needed an explanation: she'd had an encounter with a burglar years ago and become a shut-in who feared the outside world. I liked this as a character design then, and I still like it. Cogswagon was a fun NPC, especially since she ended up being a suspect, a victim, exonerated, and helped, all while questions about her sanity brought doubt over her testimony and whether there had been a break-in. It was compelling stuff, and a lot of that came from taking the time to design Cogswagon beyond "kooky inventor."

York the Orc's personality emerged over time, as the party wanted silly York at all times and I was only able to slip in details every so often. But as York followed the party (they adopted him), his friendliness became part of a larger philosophy. Once I knew the party was keeping him around, I decided York carefully maximizes happiness. He acts consciously friendly to make other people happier; he's obsessed with the perfect pie so that he can make his customers happy; he does whatever he can to improve the lives of others. So ultimately the answer to the final question is that he follows the party around, abandoning his quest, because they are easy to make happy. He's at ease with them because they're always laughing and having a good time. And the deeper answer of all of it was that York had learned a bit of philosophy but not enough to know the downfall of his logic (York was himself not very happy). York could have been a strange little NPC on the road, but the players liked the basics of him, and he ended up becoming a major part of the campaign. 

It's true: this process takes time to do well. The answers sometimes take time to arrive at, and finding the time to prep is already a challenge, and improvising these NPCs with an aim at something your players will remember is even harder. That's why it takes practice and allowing yourself some grace when every NPC interaction isn't what you'd hoped. Here's my best advice with the process: give it a try a few times alone. Generate a few NPCs who have minor importance in your campaign, and try to quickly come up with answers to the process over about ten seconds. Give it another try later on. Try it during a session. Slowly work it into your GMing. The process works, and you don't always have to have answers right away--many of the details that will be remembered will be found in the moment. 

I've been using this process off and on for fifteen years, and after a while, it becomes second nature. As you make opening small talk with the player characters as some new NPC, you will already be thinking about ways to develop the NPC and coming up with interesting directions to take things in. And the beauty is that we are starting from a basic, common situation in tabletop games--an NPC is involved in the scene--figuring out how to achieve what the game situation calls for, and elevating the NPC to someone with real personality and depth (or at least the appearance of it). The process works for spinning quick NPCs to fill unremarkable role and for creating intense, complicated characters who can drive a story--the steps are the same, but the level of detail involved changes. 

So if that's how you design and improvise NPCs, it's tempting to think that designing a group of NPCs who all coexist is as simple as doing the process multiple times. In my experience, it can be if you're going for a characterization-light campaign such as you might when focusing on combat. However, to feel real and three-dimensional and compelling, groups should have dynamics between those involved. In my creative work, I've spent a lot of time and attention on building groups. Whether they're adventuring parties or gangs or soldiers or politicians or even merchants, there are bound to be tensions and rivalries and friendships between members of those groups, and it's often compelling for players to get to discover those dynamics. 

A bit about my groups before we talk about how to easily design a group. In my first campaign, I created many divided groups: the city was sectioned into distinct neighborhoods, the city and palace guards were independent of each other, and tensions about corruption created an us-them mentality. It's no surprise then that the group had a party split and the campaign ended in a civil war. My next campaign, an early D&D actual play podcast, prominently featuring a gang called the Keys to the City. Each member of the gang had been carefully designed, my first real foray into putting a group dynamic on center stage. There were some clunky moments, such as when a hot-tempered member of the gang couldn't coexist with some colorful player characters and abandoned the gang, or when the players didn't accept an ending I wrote for one member of the gang. But largely, it gave me a good sense of how to improve. I'd go on to develop a dozen narratively-related groups for later campaigns, and I put my skills to the test with Of Gods and Dragons, where essentially the whole campaign was the players negotiating with gods and dragons with existing relationships that stretched back for hundreds of years. That meant some really intensive work on how the characters all fit together. I'm very proud of how it came out, and I'm excited to tell you how I did it. 

The process is actually pretty similar to the NPC design process. What's the purpose of this group? What role do they fill in the world? What actions do they take as a group? What brings them together? This should be a fairly simple answer. They're bandits, or they're rival adventurers, or they're a council of politicians--whoever they are, it's important to remember what they're there for. Then we get into the fun stuff. How helpful to the players should this group generally be? It should make sense for the group (though there's always narrative wiggle room there), and it can also factor in your story goals. With an idea of how helpful a group will be, you can start to design individual attitudes. But before we move on, let's borrow an example from my novel series based on a D&D character I got to play. 

In the first novel, the main character, Asp, is a con artist trying to work with allies for the first time. Designing her gang, which I did using this NPC building process, was very important because they would be the main characters of the novel. So what was the gang's purpose? To live comfortably, to work infrequently, and to stay incognito. They merely meant to survive and grow ever more secure. And how helpful would they be? For narrative reasons, I wanted a pretty even split. And that made sense given the context--Asp was a promising but not perfect recruit, the gang was hard up for help on a looming job, and Asp was a con artist, which made the others slow to trust her. Knowing these two things unlocked pretty much the rest of the process. 

Next, we assign attitudes to individual members of the group. (If your group is so large that you don't have names or need for individual identities for all members, just work on about ten NPCs who the player characters will be in contact with.) This is where the general helpfulness of the group comes in. As newcomers to this group, your party will be greeted with some degree of friendliness and helpfulness (or tension and division) by the members of that group. But except in the most extreme of cases, you need variation. That's what makes the group seem like more than a bunch of copy-pasted NPCs. 

In general, there's a formula that works pretty well. I like to include a few outwardly friendly and helpful people, a few untrusting and distant people, and a fair amount of people who are somewhere in the middle as a base, with more helpful and less distant people in generally virtuous groups like a champion's guild and less helpful and more distant people in more dismal groups like an assassin's den. This may seem like a small detail, but in tabletop games, a helpful NPC and a non-helpful NPC are radically different experiences that can define a session or even a campaign, so knowing what you want ahead of time is really important. 

The next step is again similar to the first process: why do these individuals feel these ways about the party? Obviously, with lots of NPCs, this becomes more complicated. I recommend having at least fairly strong ideas of who these NPCs are using the process above first, but even a vague direction like "doesn't trust anybody because of trauma" is more than enough to go on. The trick here is to think about things from the group of NPCs' perspective. What does their organization feel about the party and their stated goals? Why might their organization help or hinder the party? What perspectives are dominant in this group?

In my novel, the initial introduction to the gang was rocky. A few kind members of the gang were supportive of a resourceful new member who could help get things done. A few skeptical members of the gang thought Asp was too unused to working with a group and couldn't see the bigger picture. A middle portion of the gang thought it was non-ideal, but ultimately, they didn't see much choice in the matter. And this became much of the narrative stakes of the novel--how could Asp convince everyone in the gang to approve of her, support her, treat her well? And that's the beauty of having varied NPC reactions to things--building relationships is rewarding, and changing minds is powerful. You can have that be a part of your campaign with well-designed groups. 

The last step is to ask how these NPCs, their opinions, and their existing relationships impact things. I know that sounds like a lot, and it honestly kind of is. But I promise it's worth it, and it's actually not that difficult. I start by looking at the obvious: outright support of the party versus outright opposition to the party. How do these people react to each others' starkly different responses? Are they surprised? Betrayed? Angry? Disappointed? Do the people with more moderate approaches look at those with extreme opinions as being overly emotional? Missing the point? Causing tension? Do those on the extremes see those in the middle as cowardly? Missing the point in their own way? Giving into stupidity? Any of these descriptors can be applied to members of a group, and the portrayal of the group now seems far larger, more varied, and more interesting than it would have been without these details. 

Another valuable question is about the relationships between group members. While in reality, the group only existed for as long as the players spoke to them, in the game, the group has existed for a while, maybe a long time. These people know each other. They are likely to be among friends, confidants, siblings-in-arms, lovers, respected colleagues, and found family. If two remarkably close people feel differently about the player characters, that is a meaningful moment. And the players seeing that they're straining relationships is powerful. If rivals in a group find themselves on the same side of the player issue, that's also an interesting moment. These don't all have to put on center stage or given serious time, but they're good small moments to add in order to give some color without dwelling on them (unless the players want to). 

One last way to think about these groups is reflecting on everything so far and asking: what do the members of the group think about the current situation of their group? In other words, how do they feel about the direction their group is heading? Is leadership popular? Has the group been successful lately? How might these impact the group's willingness to take risks versus play it safe? Or trust outsiders? Or lend a hand? The player characters might be right in front of them, but their organization is probably still their primary priority, so these ideas will help inform how group members act. 

And the best part: when all of the planning and prep work and brainstorming and good intentions still go awry, you can just fudge it. There's always a rationalization for why someone might do something--if you're clever enough to come up with it, it can be yours. In my novel, Asp's greatest rival in the gang supports her and her plans much to her surprise, acting as the swing vote that got her heist adopted by the gang as their next plan--he reasoned that she she had a plan with a payoff he was interested in, something I could back up with the fact that he was a very rational and calculating person. As long as the general average attitude remains the same, you can give pretty much any given member of the group any attitude you choose if you can back it up. 

You can go further and design the group in more formal terms--what codes and by-laws do they live by if any, what are their relationships to other groups and the community they live in, what is their history, why does the group exist in the first place--and I do recommend that. In my series on clans in my homebrew setting, I did just that for all of the cultural groups in my world: Daltoners, Faninites, dwarves, orcs, elves, half-elves, gnomes, and a wildcard guide to halfling social values since they reject all formal organization. But you don't have to go that in depth, and if you're improvising, it's probably not realistic or necessary to quickly devise an entire code of ethics for the champion's guild your players are headed towards. But knowing the dynamics of the group will be enough to play the scene out in an interesting way. 

It's something I've observed often that things in tabletop games get filled in the more time players spend with them. NPCs who are around often are usually the most complex and well-explored characters outside of the player characters themselves. Locations that are visited often are more vividly imagined than scenes seen only once. Story elements, themes, even jokes that come back become richer over time with the repeated attention. It's important to remember that if you need a group of eight politicians on a council because your players just arbitrarily decided to visit city hall, you don't have to improvise biographies for the council members and the blueprints to the building. 

For real improvising emergencies like this city council situation, I quickly hatch three main speaking NPCs. One is helpful to the players, one is suspicious of them, and one is more moderate for whatever reason is convenient. The other NPCs in the group add colorful details in support of one of these three speakers. I mention the repeated attention on things enriching them because the truth is, if you charge in with three broad ideas of group members (the four quick steps at the beginning), then plug those NPCs into the second process's framework for a group, and you can play out a scene with that much, and it will get more detailed and interesting as you go. Should you ever return, you will have the foundation you laid before to build on. Every second spent playing out time with your NPCs or groups of NPCs is time that further defines them, and that's incredibly powerful. 

Designing characters is one of the most fun parts of tabletop games. Some of us imagine strange and interesting people we can pretend to be for a while. Some of us like to pore over the rules to build a character who can best any challenge. Some of us brainstorm hilarious backstories and silly names to make our friends laugh. In my first years as a D&D player, I would endlessly design characters I would never play. Some of my friends still engage with tabletop games that way. It's fun. And I'm not going to tell you how you should have your fun. But if you struggle with designing NPCs who can engage with your story or with improvising NPC interactions, these tips can help you get past those challenges and focus on what you do find fun. That is the point, after all--we're all here to have fun. So get comfortable with making NPCs with these steps, and they will become so quick as to be automatic; then you can offer an interesting experience without losing your mind. 

That's all for now. Coming soon: a pirate D&D one-shot, a guide to the planes, and what perfect GMing looks like. Until next time, happy gaming!

What I Look for in a Player

I have spent years writing on this site about how GMs can cater to their players. If there is a central argument to the 250+ articles here, it's that giving freedom to players is a good thing. And in all that time, I have spent comparatively little time talking about the opposite: how can the players cater to the GM? What does that even look like? It's hard to imagine, but it is possible and meaningful. 

First, let's rule out things that are not good ways to have the players cater to the GM. We don't want submissive drones who follow our stories exactly as imagined--that robs the players of agency, and it makes stories more boring without the element of surprise. We also don't want players who don't push boundaries narratively or within roleplay. As often as it might complicate GMing, the most beautiful moments in a game comes from players who are going beyond the obvious steps of a story. And we also don't want players who do and say what they think the GM wants--that removes the personality and agency of the player characters, reducing them to shadows of themselves. 

Instead, we're going to investigate the strategy of choosing players who will naturally fit with your GM style, and that means knowing what to look for in a player. This is, however, a complicated matter. What you do as a GM informs the kind of players you'll want to look for. That means that there's a broad answer for everyone as well as a more personal answer for each GM. Let's review them together. 

Firstly, your player should approach the game with the same emphasis you do. If you are running a silly antics game, you want players who enjoy and play along with silly antics campaigns. The same goes for a combat focus--if you want to offer strategic challenges and tough combat, you'd be best served by players itching for a fight. And if like me, you're looking for storytelling and roleplaying, you want players who are looking for the same thing. This may sound obvious, but I can't tell you how many times I've had player/tone mismatches in my games and games I've been around--if you just want to hang out with friends, this idea might matter less to you, but if you're looking to maximize your tabletop game experience, you need to be able to maintain style across the group. 

This is a hard lesson to learn, to be honest. I think we have to divide things: these campaigns are for hanging out with friends (if that's something you enjoy), and these campaigns are for getting the most out of the game (if that's something you enjoy). If you enjoy both, the division is necessary, or else you end up with a strong possibility of being let down by your experience--let me tell you about my experience with that. 

Many years ago now, I ran a Western-themed campaign on a little desert island. The setting was like a child to me--I'd painstakingly mapped a dozen cities and the sprawling island, I'd developed NPCs and politics everywhere on the map, and I'd come up with a handful of storylines to offer my party. They opted for the silliest antics campaign I have ever been a part of. They were banned from almost every town. They committed almost every crime known to humanity while purporting to be a "good" party. They ignored (and sometimes mocked) so many things about my setting. It was, in a word, a nightmare. 

The thing is, the party was my best friends at the time. It was a combination of old college friends and work buddies that got along great. Everybody came to play excited and left thrilled. Friendships were forged. It was socially an incredible game. But for me as the DM, the person responsible for guiding the game, I was always frustrated or overwhelmed. I learned a lesson from that. I needed to be more selective about parties when I was looking to maximize my game experience instead of socializing with friends. 

After that, I was very careful about selecting players. The campaign that followed was initially composed of my three best work friends and my girlfriend at the time. But crucially, my three best work friends were intelligent, somewhat reserved and very thoughtful, and eager to try something a little experimental. My girlfriend at the time did not necessarily have those qualities, and our inevitable break-up ended her time in the campaign, leaving a party that learned to work within how I GM (lots of narration and roleplaying with radical player freedom). After that, I stuck with the same party, and with a good chemistry as a group and me with refined GM skills, our party was incredibly rewarding for me. I was spending time with friends, but the way we were spending our time was pushing the boundaries of our favorite games. 

And that led me to a radical choice. For my most recent campaign, I cut a member of the trio I had been gaming with off and on for a decade. We're still friends--I attended his wedding not that long ago--so it wasn't a social factor. It was a gaming factor. This player, who we'll call Wilkes, was and remains a terrific improviser. Few can out-roleplay Wilkes, and he's always able to add a poignant note here and there. But the thing about Wilkes was that he was very competitive. He would bully NPCs. He would powergame, destroying a lot of narrative moments with (admittedly clever) solutions, frequently derived from metagaming knowledge. And he would challenge me as the GM, deliberately throwing difficult situations at me with a wry smile. It didn't ruin my experience, but it definitely deflated my enjoyment a bit. 

Deciding what to do was hard. On the one hand, Wilkes had been a close friend for a decade. We'd played some of the gaming I'm most proud of together. The trio Wilkes was a part of had been playing with me for a long time. On the other, Wilkes was making me enjoy the game less and especially making it harder for me to do what I wanted to do, what I needed to do, and what I enjoy. And for campaigns meant to entertain a group of players, I have always excused those things because I make player fun a priority over my own. But what I had planned next--Of Gods and Dragons--was not an average campaign meant to entertain; it was my attempt to at once experiment with the scope of my storytelling while also exploring the most arcane of lore in my homebrew setting. 

When it came time to pick a party for this campaign, I reflected. Wilkes posed problems in that powergaming, metagaming, and GM opposition would be very serious problems with what I had planned. I chose to move forward with the other two members of the party, who would become Brokk and Lethanin because I felt I had no reason to change what had been a historically fruitful and harmonious gaming relationship until then with them. For my third, I picked the woman who is now my wife. She is brilliant, creative, highly experienced with tabletop games, strategic while respecting the story and world, and generally an exciting player to watch, evidenced nowhere better than in her work as Aurora. I chose as carefully as I knew how, and the result is something I couldn't have been happier with. 

And the thing of all that is that I didn't chose to play without being with friends. The players of Brokk and Lethanin are my real life best friends who I happened to find I have good tabletop game chemistry with. I hope it goes without saying that I enjoy spending time with my wife, especially since she's learned to play my individual style of game. I got the best of both worlds, and so can you. 

So you've chosen your broad style: are you a storytelling, roleplaying GM with a world to explore; are you a strategic, tactical GM whose enemies are fearsome; or are you a GM who wants to laugh with your friends, using tabletop games as a way to hang out? Knowing this is really the first step, but it can be taken further. Let's further define the storytelling, roleplaying GM archetype. Within it are storytellers who focus on story, roleplayers whose acting and improv is the star of the show, worldbuilders whose creations take center stage, or combinations of these. And we can go further still. Our storyteller might present open prompts and respond to player action; they might guide player action through the world; they might railroad their players along a storyline; they may balance these in some way. Only now are we getting a really clear picture of an individual GM. I describe myself (as I did above) as a storyteller, specifically with lots of narration and roleplaying with radical player freedom. This is what a game at my table looks like: I am going to be describing NPCs and the world, I am going to be roleplaying as NPCs, and I am otherwise sitting back and letting the players lead. 

And that's a style that some people don't like. Some people don't seem to understand it. Some people think I'm not really playing tabletop games so much as adding dice to a collaborative story. All of that is fair. And knowing that people don't like it helps me. When I meet someone who says they play tabletop games, I ask them to tell me about their favorite moment from their experience. This question tells you a lot. I really struggle to connect to the combat style of play, and when I'm talking to someone who describes a cool battle moment as their favorite, I know I am unlikely to appreciate a game in the same way as them. So now I get to avoid playing with them and having a bad experience. 

There are other ways to gauge how people will fit into your style before you play with them. Ask them what they're looking for in a campaign. It's always okay to say that you have something already planned that doesn't really incorporate that style. Describe your ideas for campaigns or ideas about how tabletop games are played and see how people respond. You may get some opposition or polite dismissal, but the people who agree with you will be great gaming partners. And one tactic that has worked for me is directly asking players what they do and don't like as a player. If their don't list sounds like what I do, I accept it's a bad match and move on; if we sound compatible, I have a new player. 

Of course, all of the screening in the world will not prevent a surprise in a group of players. Wilkes was someone who was great on paper and whose only trespass was not fitting the tone of an experimental project, but screening didn't catch him. I've played campaigns with significant others who brought down the game before, and my judgment was too biased to meaningfully screen her. Someone can always be agreeable when spoken to and quite different at the table. There are no guarantees you can find the perfect candidate every time. You do eventually have to give people a try to know how it will go. 

While GMing, watch the player in question. How do they respond to your GMing? Are they connecting with you/the story/the party? Do you enjoy the things they do? These questions are not meant to judge the player as a person--by no means is this a reflection on the individual. But the point of tabletop games is to have fun, and you the GM deserve that fun, and if a player is deflating your fun, you can do something about it. 

Cutting a player loose is hard. It's a messy thing, and it never plays out well. I suggest starting with an intro session to most campaigns--if you use one, you can get rid of a bad fit before the party ever meets. By a similar token, you can play a one-shot or briefer campaign to get a sense of a player and how they fit in with the rest of the group before plunging into a longer campaign with an unknown. 

Once, when I ran my western campaign, a player showed up with a complete stranger to me who he insisted was also going to be in the campaign. I don't think he realized that this would likely take a year or longer, and I later came to believe that he didn't really know the stranger well either. The stranger, who I'll call Leif, turned out to make everyone else pretty uncomfortable. Down moments were filled with rants (often political), NPCs were irrationally slain, and conversation was not relaxed around the table. I felt awkward cutting Leif off--he told me every week that it was the high point of his week, and he was obviously lonely. In the end, I don't know what would have been for the best, or if there was a "best" in this case. But I do know that if I had run an intro session or a one-shot first, I would have had a chance to nip this in the bud. 

You may be saying, "this all sounds pretty mercenary. You're just cutting players off because you don't like them?" And yes and no is my response. Yes, I am deliberately choosing to include or not include the people who exist in my leisure activities and hobbies. And no, it's not because I don't like them. As I said about, Wilkes is still a close friend, and I have no ill will or judgment for Leif. But when I was honest with myself, my enjoyment of the game would improve with a different arrangement, and I have a right to pursue that. 

So what do I look for in a player? 

I like players who have some kind of intelligence. It can be knowledge or wisdom or cleverness or whatever breed it takes on in the individual. I am myself a pretty intelligent person who likes telling complicated, nuanced stories, and I want my players to be able to appreciate everything that's going on and be able to respond in a meaningful way. It also helps that I tend to get along best with intelligent people, so the social component of the game is helped in this way too. 

I also want a player who's willing to experiment a bit. Every major campaign I've ever run has ended up being in experiment in something--an experiment in following a party split to a massive conclusion, experiments in how the game is written, experiments in what the player experience is like--and not every player wants that. I've played with a lot of people who want a traditional experience (and there's nothing wrong with that) who would not enjoy my experiments. We need to be on the same page. Speaking of which . . . 

I need my players to be willing and able to roleplay and lead the game at times. This can be sticky for some players. Not everyone wants to roleplay a story when there's faeries and dragons and magic and adventure to explore and meet and slay. Not everyone wants to (or is able to) lead a scene with improvisation in a way that feels satisfying. I'm asking a high level of performance from my players, and that can be a complicated thing. I don't want anyone to walk away frustrated, so I choose players who I think are up to the challenge of some complicated gaming. 

The results speak for themselves. Of Gods and Dragons is, in my estimation, a work of art within the context of tabletop games. I gave three talented players (two of whom knew my world quite well) free rein to change my world as they pleased. Over the course of the campaign and the three epilogues we did covering 100 years of post-campaign life for Brokk, Aurora, and Lethanin, my players systematically set about improving my homebrew world. They eliminated sources of violence and oppression, they established themselves as forces of good, and they systematically improved life for common people. Those epilogues are collectively about 50 pages of text, and most of it is directly focused on being selfless and heroic. I set out to see what happened when I gave massive control to my players, and they wrote a love letter to my world. I never would have gotten that response--the love from my players and the satisfaction that I did something interesting--with the group that destroyed my Western setting. I needed to pick the right group to get what I was looking for. 

This is, of course, all a spectrum. You're not going to go out and recruit pro gamers you don't know. Tabletop games are games, and the point of games is to have fun--we should be playing with people we like. But we also want to aim for the middle of the Venn diagram on this--people who we like who also fit our style as GMs. That's not a radical thing to ask for, especially when we consider GM satisfaction, which matters. 

At the end of the day, it's all abstract anyway. How you enjoy something in concert with someone else when you're both adding creative ideas to a collective--that's a delicate thing. Creative groups like bands break up over stuff like that all the time. If it doesn't feel right, don't feel obligated to keep doing it. Keep the mantra in mind: this is for fun. This is for fun. Pick yourself a good party, and I promise you'll see it's worth the effort in being selective.

That's all for now. Coming soon: how to design and improvise NPCs and groups of NPCs, a guide to the planes, and what perfect GMing looks like. Until next time, happy gaming!

Why You Should Be Yourself, Not a Celebrity GM

When I began writing for this site, there was not really such a thing as a celebrity GM. Tabletop games were still on the verge of flourishing and breaking through to the mainstream, and shows dedicated to portraying actual play were still fairly fringe. Then, a few things changed. Stranger Things brought D&D to the mainstream, and tabletop games at large to an extent came with it. And with the proliferation of niche pop culture in online spaces, actual play shows became a possibility and then a reality. The success of these shows was (at least to me) unsurprising--tabletop games have incredible entertainment value, as I suspected and then confirmed when I DMed an actual play podcast back in 2010. Tabletop game entertainment has become fairly commonplace today, and with it, there have come new phenomena related to tabletop games. 

One has been a focus on story. Looking to emulate the storytellers on these shows, more and more GMs are looking to tell a grand tale as a focus of the campaign. Another change has been a shared experiential language--with shows that many gamers are watching, there are references and moments that will be seen and heard by millions of gamers who will go about their gaming with this new understanding. But the thing that strikes me as the biggest shift is an unfortunate one--GMs seem to want to emulate celebrity GMs. 

On a certain level, I do understand it. What GMs like Matt Mercer and Aabria Iyengar and Brennan Lee Mulligan do at the table is indeed special, entertaining, and impressive. But none of their styles are quite the same, and none of them would be doing as good a job if they tried to GM like the others. What makes them so successful is in part that they are smart and quick-witted and charming and skilled at storytelling, but also that they're doing things in a way that's natural to them. And the thing is, you can learn tabletop game information, you can train yourself to improvise, you can learn to portray characters well, and you can grow as a storyteller. But you can never reach your full potential if you're trying to be like some other GM. 

Let's get specific. There are a couple behaviors I've seen becoming pretty normal in gaming spaces that look to me like attempts to emulate celebrity GMs. One is a long, dramatic speech that ends in some kind of big payoff. This comes to us especially via Brennan Lee Mulligan, who has mastered the art. But that's the thing--Brennan Lee Mulligan's mind works in big long rants, and his go-to style for improv is to be the belabored person who's not crazy surrounded by crazy people, so those rants are right up his alley. But lots of gamers see the rants as funny and entertaining (which they are) and decide that that's what good GMing looks like. 

But it's a trick of perspective. The rant is funny, but it's one way to be funny. What we're really responding to is the fact that Brennan is naturally gifted in this style, and he's practiced it, and he's deploying it at a time that it makes sense to do so, and all of those things together makes it very much something that is genuine to him. So to get the same effect--something that's funny or effective or interesting or whatever you're going for--we don't necessarily need to do a rant so much as we need to figure out what we can do that feels genuine to us that still does what we need it to do. Put another way--in your own style, how do you accomplish what the rant accomplishes?

Another celebrity GM behavior I've seen is quick escalation of things. What I mean by this is a radical response to player actions (often accompanied by "troublemaker" attitudes by the player in question) that more or less breaks the game for the sake of humor. This makes sense in the context of an actual play show because the goal is to entertain--breaking the game a little is understood as worth the laugh and also not a statement that the rules of reality are breaking down. But at everyday gaming tables, you are not playing for an audience. Breaking reality for the sake of a joke makes little sense in an average game--there's no audience to pander to, it erodes the sense of reality in the game, and it confuses what's happening in the story. And none of this even mentions that exploding escalation emphasizes the meaningless things they apply to, which downplays the actual story. 

Instead, develop your own style. There will be down moments in a session. How you deal with them defines you as a GM. If you make things wild and unpredictable for a laugh, you're going to have a campaign that is constantly wild and unpredictable, which is often a hard thing as a player. But there are so many other options. You can grant players downplay to roleplay in which you step back from GMing. You can paint small vignettes of life in the campaign and scenic locations. You can add NPCs from earlier or introduce new ones or redirect the party back to the story or whatever your agenda dictates. You can do something different every time, letting the context decides what's best. You can do something different altogether. As long as it feels genuine to you, that's all that really matters. 

One final celebrity GM "thing" which is really an element of entertainment that doesn't apply well to average tabletop game campaigns is the use of individual sessions as independent units of story. What I mean by that is having one episode that has some theme or twist followed by a new episode with a new theme or twist. This is good for professional storytellers who can blend genres and styles while telling a story and keep it tonally consistent. But this is a radically hard thing to do. And what does it accomplish in an average game? It adds some extra element of entertainment, but does it further the story or build up the characters or reveal something about the world? If it doesn't, a themed session generally isn't worth the trouble. 

Instead, finding your style will allow you to invest in the basics and structure of your world and campaign, and that's where success starts. Adding extra themes on top of a campaign's sessions is icing on the cake, and most GMs need to practice baking before they worry about fancy icing. But not only that, with a style that's yours, you will feel confident enough to let your GMing speak for itself without gimmicks. 

But some of you are thinking, "But those celebrities GMs are good! I want to be good. Why shouldn't I try to be like them?" And you're not wrong. They are talented, and there are things we can learn from them. Their storytelling, pacing, roleplaying, and improvisation are extremely impressive, and those are things we can all work at. The problem is that we cannot try to be entirely like celebrity GMs without giving up our own styles, and that's squandered treasure. (Oh, and I've noticed GMs increasing their vocabularies to match celebrity GMs. I like that. Keep doing that. Literacy is a good thing.)

Let me tell you about some phases I went through as a GM. First, I was eager to emulate my version of a celebrity GM--the DM who taught me D&D in high school. In my first sessions as a DM, I looked a lot like him: I was stern, challenging, quick to make a joke, tactical. I did as I knew. I ran games like this for about a year before moving on to another phase: grand story campaigns. I made it through maybe a quarter of a campaign before I was broken of that and moved to radical freedom for players. I've been in that phase for a long time now, tempering it with various experiments in what radical freedom looks like (in terms of story design, campaign design, and impact on my world, for instance). 

Each campaign teaches you something. In order, my five major canon campaigns taught me:

1. Never try to restrict the players in any way.
2. Be intentional about everything. 
3. Don't bite off more than is possible to chew. 
4. Varying the style of story I tell can be very rewarding. 
5. With the experience to orchestrate a special campaign, you get to enjoy a special campaign. 

Those lessons correspond to phases I went through. I GMed like my old GM and found it was not my style. I experimented, adding more focus on story. But I was basically railroading my party, and it blew up, and I started going towards radical freedom. Letting my players devise a massive network of personal stories was a lot, and I needed to learn to be more cautious. Then I ran a mystery campaign (perhaps the most cautious of stories to tell) and enjoyed the deviation from what I'd been doing for so long. So I set my sights high with something that combined all I knew, and it was incredible. The big picture here is that the closer I let myself get to my genuine style, the better my games got, and the happier I was with them. 

And here's the thing: my early players way back when I was emulating my first GM had a great time. I still hear from some of those players more than fifteen years later about how much they enjoyed the game. My players who I restricted too much? They had a blast, and I still hear about that campaign, too. My later players who experienced freedom? They had a grand time. If you're a talented GM, you're going to give players a good time. And honestly, GMing like someone else might give the players a good time. But you, the GM, having a good time while your players have a good time? Emulating a celebrity GM will never give that. Only playing the game as yourself, really allowing your own style to shape the game, will let you enjoy the process as much as your players enjoy what you're doing. 

One final way to put a fine point on all this. This will be 267th article on this site. I've covered nearly everything I can imagine related to tabletop games. How did I come by this knowledge? I played a lot of tabletop games, and I made a lot of mistakes that I took the time to learn from. The gathering and application of this knowledge took years. On the other hand, finding a style of GMing that feels good to me has taken my whole decade-and-a-half career as a GM. I want to compare my early games to my most recent campaign to illustrate. 

Those early sessions happened cramped around the lower bed on a set of bunk beds in a college dorm room. We sat on the floor except for me in an office chair at the foot of the bed. The party was composed of whoever said they were interested in D&D. The sessions were improvised and flimsy. I was doing an impression of my old DM, still figuring out what some of his gestures had meant. It was messy, chaotic, and really was just happening because I missed D&D. 

My most recent sessions were different. We sat comfortably on chairs and couches scattered across the country. Our pets surrounded us, demanding camera time on our video call. They party was my two best friends and my wife, all expert tabletop gamers. The sessions were a mixture of planning and improv informed by years of GMing. I was doing something I had never heard of being done but which felt natural to me. It was organic, beautiful, and happened because I wanted to elevate my art. 

I was, in many ways, the same GM I was when I closed out Of Gods and Dragons, my most recent campaign, as I was when I sat at the foot of a bunk bed with near strangers who wanted to roll some dice. My love of tabletop games was present both times, as was my skill at storytelling, my strengths at improvisation, and my eagerness to make my players happy. I had happy players at the table both times. Sure, I've improved, but that doesn't account for the massive change in my satisfaction. I look at the dorm days with shame and Of Gods and Dragons with pride. Why such a difference?

The dorm days were not my style. I was running the kind of game that old school gamers played because that's what I'd seen before. But it wasn't me. I'm not a confrontational GM. I don't like building dungeons as much as I enjoy writing character backstories. Ultimately, I was doing something because it looked like success (it had made me happy), but not because I enjoyed it. And reader, the point of games is to have fun. My turn towards radically free storytelling was intellectually motivated--I believe wholeheartedly that tabletop games are at their most powerful when players get to control their characters in a meaningful way. But I found as I embraced that style that it was mine. It gave me ideas. It was exciting and new. It was fun. I had found a way to make my games fun for me, and that changed how I went about them. 

That critical shift towards radical freedom for players opened a door, but there were more doors beyond it. I had to experiment with how that freedom would be expressed. I tried out-of-game methods. What if the players came up with the main stories? What if the players collaborated on the campaign as a whole? But these pose cumbersome issues for the GM, like taking a broad array of ideas and forcing them together. Of Gods and Dragons posed an in-game solution--make the players so powerful that nothing stands in their way (except the gods and dragons they had to talk into cooperating), so aside from powergaming the storyline, the players could do basically anything in the world. It was a simple solution to a complicated problem, and it resulted in my favorite gaming I've ever been involved in. 

Of course, empowering the players like I did is a one-time solution (I can't realistically make every player character canonically one of the most powerful people in existence from the start), and that means I'll need a new approach to player freedom for my next campaign. And that's exciting. I'm thrilled to have to come up with something new. Because I have my style down. I know that I like to write emotional stories with complete NPCs and leave the players to finish those stories as they see fit. That means that as long as I stick to what I like and I use what I know as an experienced GM, my players and I will have a good time. Which, again, is the whole point. 

So remember: the path to fun and pride in what you do as a GM is not in copying anyone, be it GMs you have played with or celebrity GMs. What they're doing is probably good and maybe even great. But you doing word for word the same campaign wouldn't feel the same way. You need to have ownership of it. And I mean it when I say that things start to get increasingly fun when you're playing within your style since it lets you experiment with new things to even further refine your skills and style. It's an intangible thing, but if you watch gaming carefully (even yourself when you play), you will learn that players and GMs alike are wordlessly pursuing something, and that pursuit reveals and informs a gamer's style. Keep an eye out, keep your mind open, and keep on gaming. 

That's all for now. Coming soon: what I look for in a player, how to design and improvise NPCs and groups of NPCs, and what perfect GMing looks like. Until next time, happy gaming!

Of Gods and Dragons: Lethanin Epilogue

In the campaign, Lethanin was often a hard-to-read wildcard who cut to the real issue at hand; his directness made things clear to the dragons, and his sense of humor kept tense situations light. His mastery of music and his connection to the Song enabled him to almost single-handedly restore structure to the universe. His creative approach to things kept the group's efforts moving in new directions, even when those directions didn't lead anywhere. His custom class, the Musician of the Spheres, was specially designed to give Lethanin's player the same freedom of creativity of their character, all related through the music that made Lethanin himself. As the sound dragon, Lethanin is one of the most powerful people in the world. 

In the epilogues, I give the players time in four separate times: immediately following the campaign, one year later, ten years later, and fifty years later, leading up to one hundred years later. Below is a summary of Lethanin's actions in these time periods: 

After the Campaign:

Lethanin followed the campaign by heading to Vestry to check in on his parents. Dodira was distant but calm, and Larson made a few clumsy attempts to connect with Lethanin about music. Lethanin was dissatisfied with his relationship with them, but he decided to meet them where they were for now. The following day, he headed to Torga and met with Tasselman again. Tasselman, once he realized Lethanin was there, described evidence for the claims he'd made before about the world being a sphere and about a common ancestor to all Evanoch's people: shadow measurements, when calculated over time and distance, reveal that the world must be spherical. Lethanin suggested contacting an astronomer to help confirm his existing work; when Tasselman asked if Lethanin knew any astronomers, Lethanin arranged for Niela to pay Tasselman in a visit in a few months. As far as Tasselman's theory of evolution went, he cited the existence of subterranean races much like those on its surface, claiming that these groups had to be related given their appearances and geographical regions. Tasselman complained of a lack of credible sources, and Lethanin suggested using very old songs and poems as evidence. Tasselman was skeptical, but asked for a few months to search documents for information. 

With little to do while he waited, Lethanin explored Torga, looking for a place to set down roots. After searching for islands beyond Torga, Lethanin found a small rocky island with tall, jagged spires of stone. He stole a book on magical techniques, studied it, and went to his island to experiment with shaping stone. After a few unsatisfying attempts, Lethanin got his bearings, and he set to gradually building a wizard's tower into the craggy spires, where it would not be visible from Torga and was well away from shipping lanes. Brick by shaped brick, Lethanin worked on his tower for those months he waited. Just as the meeting with Tasselman and Niela neared, Lethanin's tower reached a functional state, and he fully moved in. 

The day arrived. Lethanin invited Niela to his tower, and the two happily discussed the finer points of building a lair--they bonded over constructing elaborate, intimidating buildings where they would be left alone. They teleported to Tasselman, who was happy to see them and to meet Niela. Niela listened to Tasselman's theories on a spherical planet and a common ancestor; she said she too had come to the conclusion that Izar, their planet, was spherical, and she offered a variety of reasons to agree based in her career as an astronomer. But on the matter of a common ancestor, she had no evidence for Tasselman's theory and ultimately found it hard to do something about (unlike correcting a scientific misconception in her field). When Tasselman described elves and orcs as siblings on the genetic tree, Lethanin cracked a joke about that being the case with Gruumsh and Corellon Larethian, prompting disbelief from Tasselman that Lethanin would know such a thing. Niela received a message calling her away, and she excused herself. Tasselman mentioned a few repeated references to "the Song," which captured Lethanin's attention. Tasselman's passages from an ancient text depict the Song as a philosophy and way of life, that people used to sing the Song together acting as one note each, that the Song would disappear during "the Apostasy" and then appear again, and that the gods had made the Song go away in the first place. Lethanin was intrigued, especially by the notion that whole groups of people were in touch with the Song. Considering all of this, Lethanin reasoned that the texts were describing a lack of faith that drove people apart, and that pre-people--people before the races emerged--had been divided by the gods. Without more to go on, Tasselman suggested Lethanin contact the gods if he was familiar with them, and Lethanin suggested Tasselman start performing research on dragons. 

For the first year, Lethanin attended to these goals with consistency. He would expand and refine his tower, which became a dazzling, intimidating tower filled with beautiful, exotic, and artistic things, including an entire floor of the tower dedicated to musical instruments. He would explore Evanoch, meeting people, finding new ideas, getting to know the cities and towns and the issues they faced. He would check in with Tasselman on ongoing research projects, making suggestions and forming new ideas. He incorporated other activities, too, like spreading positive stories about dragons. In his travels across Evanoch, he saw that the other dragons were doggedly pursuing good, and inspired by them, Lethanin began a career of trickster vigilantism, foiling robberies, assaults, and bandits across the continent. He also became a shadowy patron of the arts, donating money to musicians and other artists with distinctive creative voices. Dragonhood became a focus too--Lethanin spread even more stories of his and the other dragons' good deeds and even read cheap novels about dragons to pick up cool and intimidating moves to use on criminals. In this way, Lethanin spent the year gradually building up a home and outlets that reflected his new status as a dragon. 

One Year After: 

At the turn of one year, Lethanin was becoming interested in the idea of cultural exchange. He set out to spread culture on his own. He would approach budding artists, act as a drinking buddy interested in the arts, and try to sell them on reading something written by a person from another culture who just happened to be affiliated with Lethanin through his patronage efforts. After some failed practice, Lethanin began finding success in introducing artists to other cultures. With effort and experimentation, Lethanin grew more organized in these efforts and more sensitive to what ideas would resonate with other cultures. This led to increased success with the project, even leading to an established elven poet promoting the works of an orcish poet, something unimaginable in many cases. Lethanin's efforts with creatives also included encouraging them to correspond with artists they like, leading to a burst of conversations between artists of all types. Another notable success story was the promotion of social acceptance by a Daltoner author, something that surprised even Lethanin. His work with musicians in particular changed the musicians' lives, as funding allowed them to promote themselves, leading to bigger and more guaranteed shows, further leading to more fans for the musicians. Lethanin's patronage and cultural exchange programs accomplished a lot, and his secrecy about his involvement meant no one knew he had affected so much. 

Lethanin's vigilante efforts began after a while to feel like no progress was ever made, as they were always more muggers, highwaymen, and bandits. To combat this, Lethanin took the money reclaimed from conquered criminals as well as what he earned in taverns (as he still regularly played music across Evanoch) and began donating it to the towns most affected. Where bandit raids were bad, Lethanin would pay to have walls built. In towns with high crime, he would pay the salaries for more guards. He would adapt his solution to the problem, hoping that his help would prevent more problems in the future. This civil defense project was also performed with an emphasis on anonymity, so the many mid-sized cities and towns where these problems were popping up would not know that Lethanin had also helped the next town over, and the next. During these donation appointments, Lethanin would encourage leaders to consider putting aside rivalries with other cities and instead develop trade. Over the years, this led to a building-up of these cities, with many of them able to sustain Lethanin's changes without his financial support. 

As a dragon, Lethanin reveled like no other dragon. He conducted near-nightly flights across Evanoch to know that people knew he was out there. His vigilantism career always took place in his dragon form, which led to a strange reputation; in appearance, Lethanin is visually hard to process, and so stories began to circulate across the countryside that a strange, unperceivable being in the shape of a dragon was wreaking havoc on the wicked. Many looked on Lethanin as a folk hero, even if they knew him only in an abstract way. This reputation brought out other dragons, especially Hriskin and Aurix, who added to their passionate fights for good an effort to maintain a sort of public persona as well, leading to legends about the gold and brass dragons too. Lethanin continued spreading tales of dragons far and wide, and over time, the public came more and more to see dragons as protectors rather than unknowns or threats. But it was not all about the public eye for Lethanin--he would congratulate and celebrate with other dragons after they'd scored a victory. Outside of Curagon, the realm of the green dragon, Evanines almost uniformly regarded dragons as even gentle to those who are good. One night, after a few too many glasses of wine, Lethanin reached out to the green dragon, who was standoffish and ultimately cut the conversation short; Lethanin resolved to try contacting him again given years of time. 

Lethanin kept going back home to Vestry, trying to connect with his parents. He would visit every few months or on gnomish holidays; it was slow going, but Lethanin was pleased that they had seemed to pass the barrier that had been between them. Lethanin's mother, Dodira, drunkenly confessed one night three years after the campaign that she resented Lethanin for not following her "good advice" about a practical career. Lethanin replied that one gnome's trash was another's treasure. Dodira, exhausted, said she was done fighting. She was tired of holding it against Lethanin, and she was going to let it go. Lethanin confessed that he never meant to disappoint her. Dodira spoke about her life unhappily, saying it had no passion left. Lethanin questioned her about her passions, which she said had come to include jewelry-making. After a few weeks of secret work, Lethanin allowed his mother to teleport into his tower, where he had constructed an elaborate jewlery-making station which spanned nearly a whole floor. Dodira was overcome with gratitude. Lethanin created a permanent portal which his mother could use to come her, secretly installing a feature which alerts him to her presence in his tower. Dodira visited frequently, and more and more, her visits included longer conversations with Lethanin. After four years of jewelry-making and bonding with Lethanin, Dodira confessed that she wanted to quit her stable job in nursing to sell her large collection of jewelry. Lethanin offered his help in this, which she accepted. She did quit her job and open a stall selling her wares, and she achieved moderate success--enough to be comfortable--not as much as she'd made before, but she was happier. 

Lethanin's father, Larson told his son that they clearly had no interests in common, so he wanted to discuss something they were both only mildly interested in; he wanted a relationship and wanted to try something new. At his suggestion, they began discussing philosophy, a topic that Lethanin kept interesting with fringe theories from Tasselman and which Larson was more than willing to follow some crazy lines of logic. By the time five years had passed since the campaign, Larson and Lethanin had developed a real friendship. Lethanin, though, wanted a father more than a friend, and Larson also had a habit of apologizing for not knowing how to be a father. Lethanin chose not to poke at the situation, especially since it had never been better, but he privately brainstormed ways to awaken fatherhood in Larson. Eight years after the campaign, Lethanin invited Larson to his tower, asking questions about how to engineer a few new additions he had in mind. Larson began to authoritatively provide answers, and suddenly having a sense of command over Lethanin jarred something in Larson. When next Lethanin visited his parents for dinner, something that now occurred every week rather than once every few months, Larson greeted Lethanin as a father greeting a son for the first time. Lethanin, now close with his mother and father, allowed himself to enjoy this, and the whole family, seen together in Vestry often, developed a reputation as the strange gnomes who are deeply close and don't follow convention, a reputation Lethanin prized. 

Lethanin made an effort to stay connected to the other dragons as well. He discovered that Rupert, who was grateful for Lethanin's words on the mountain when they'd found him, had begun life over as a caretaker for the needy in Finiel and beyond. Lethanin met with Wing, who seemed somewhat disillusioned but who was consistently doing social good in Vestry. Jarvia, emboldened by the support of the other dragons, had blossomed and was far more active as a dragon than she'd been in centuries. Hriskin was charging forward on the front to make up for lost time, and she'd become a public figure in Finiel in a disguise as someone new. Aurix was developing big plans for the dragons and used the reputation of good that Lethanin had cultivated to promote more good works and intimidate wrongdoers. Niela, now a mother of two, had embraced motherhood and grown into a warm, animated woman who was working hard in Mishara to improve things during an unstable political climate. Brokk was working hard with other dragons to make them their best and attending to unfinished business, plus enjoying life as a dad. Aurora had built an alchemy empire with her mother and was working on a primer on dragonhood for new dragons--she meant to interview Lethanin for his section of the book. 

Lethanin got to enjoy showing off his tower and boasting about the success of his cultural exchange project when they weren't speaking for the primer. Lethanin's answers to Aurora's questions were somewhat surprising to Aurora--Lethanin was willing to admit that dragonhood's power enabled them to do good, but he was unwilling to say it obligated them to be good. Aurora pressed Lethanin on this, and Lethanin described an abstract responsibility to the things that make him him--his identity as a strange dragon, the importance of bringing the truth to light, trying to figure out what it all means, allowing people to be themselves like the dragons had decided everything on. Lethanin was not obligated to people; he was obligated to what defined him personally. At this point, Lethanin began to question what responsibility really is. 

And through it all, Lethanin always came back to Tasselman's research. After two years, Tasselman reported that dragons were now commonly accepted as fact by most all people; this fact was interesting to Tasselman because the pre-people he had theorized had described dragons as a fact of life. This had long been considered myth, but Tasselman said that it explained everything. After three years, Tasselman presented an ancient text claiming the existence of 25-40 dragons at one time, but the same source says that within a decade, only 10 dragons remained--Tasselman attributed this to some mass extinction event. After five years, Tasselman presented an occult compendium, part hymnal of Magoth, king of the underworld, part archive of obsure information. Lethanin was shocked to realize that the compendium had scarily accurate information about dragons, including that dragonhood is something a person can have and that it can move from person to person. Lethanin acted skeptical of all this to keep some secrecy about dragonhood. Lethanin also found a passage that claimed invulnerability was not an original part of life for dragons, and that the change had involved gods (Tasselman said Vecna and Nerull were likely culprits). Later that night, Lethanin played a hymn to Magoth out of curiosity; when Magoth and asked what bargain Lethanin desired; Magoth noticed the instruments, and assuming the hymn had been what it was, he left, directing Lethanin to not do that again. Lethanin showed Aurix the book, then stuck it on a shelf and left it alone. Eight years after the campaign, Tasselman described the now-frequent incidence of children produced from unions that would not have borne them previously, for instance a halfing-half-elf child. Tasselman argues that the Song made everyone united, and then the Apostasy was losing the Song and being divided, and now the world is coming back together with the Song. Lethanin observed these children in the world too and took to standing up for them when they faced discrimination. And ten years after the campaign, Tasselman had new explanations for everything. He said that the Song went away, people split up, they evolved according to their environments, and they became the groups we know today. Tasselman said that the barrier between the mundane realm and the gods' realm was set in place during the Apostasty, and that free will would only exist when the gods were banished at the end of the Apostasy (aka the events of the campaign). With a much clearer picture but still no definite answers, Lethanin and Tasselman agreed to keep looking. 

Ten Years After:

This period was marked at the beginning by a pulling back from Lethanin--he deliberately became more reclusive, spending time in his tower and flying over the ocean to dissuade sailors from paying much attention to his island. He felt that many of his goals had been accomplished, and he wanted to simply be comfortable. But as he tried to enjoy a quieter life, he received a powerful magic message from someone asking for an audience. He granted it, and a strange humanoid figure appeared before him. The stranger said their name was Vick. Vick identified themself as a god and explained that the divine realm had become unstable with the barrier fully replaced. The gods, Vick said, were going crazy and becoming destructive. Vick compared existence to a rudderless ship in which the crew was poking holes in the hull. Vick said that their intention with Lethanin was to have Lethanin explain all of this to someone else, someone who wouldn't be amenable to hearing from a god. Before they left, Vick asked Lethanin to play the Song, which Lethanin did. His playing was at first tentative, having not played the Song in over a decade, but quickly, Lethanin fell into the performance, invoking rain clouds over the tower--they were tempestuous at times and turned into a long, droning fade out. Vick was moved to tears, uttered a solemn thank you, and left without further word. Curious, Lethanin decided to determine the identity of Vick. After some cursory research, it became clear that Vick was Vecna, the evil deity of secrets and hidden knowledge. Concerned, Lethanin reached out to Aurix, Brokk, and Niela to let them know what had happened, and they agreed to spread the word and stay watchful. 

A few uneventful years later, a few of Lethanin's projects ran into trouble. His civil defense project became stagnant, with money being routed to projects without significant oversight; at the same time, without Lethanin directly choosing artists for the cultural exchange program, the quality of art being promoted dropped off, resulting in diminishing returns. Lethanin was at first frustrated by this, enjoying a quiet life and distracted by thoughts of Vecna, but he ultimately decided to set to solving problems. First, he set to identifying new sources of crime and anonymously reporting them to guards across Evanoch. He also noticed that some cities were being funded in a way that didn't maximize the output for his money, so Lethanin readjusted spending, resulting in more cities receiving more effective help. Meanwhile, Lethanin set out for cultural centers like museums and religious sites in order to spread word of his artists and their work. It was during a mission like this that Lethanin began to hear word that prayers were being directly answered in grand fashion. This came a while after meeting with Vecna, and Lethanin took this to mean that the gods in fact were active and intentional, which led him to doubt Vecna. Amused by the reports that Corellon Larethian and Moradin, presumed male for most of history, had feminine voices, Lethanin took in the reports but kept his impressions to himself. 

The issue of answered prayers was complicated. At first, it seemed almost a fad--people were amazed by the phenomenon and would pray for simple, meaningless things just to confirm that it really did work. Religious officials of course took this as sacrilege, urging people to treat prayers properly and respectfully. But this did not change the course of people's actions, who soon accepted prayer's efficacy as fact and began to tinker with ways to take advantage of it. People learned that praying for money resulted in relatively little in the way of coin, but praying for a god's favored weapon and using that for intimidation and violence was much more effective. Crime rose due to this, and Lethanin was unsure of what to do about beyond focusing on the civil defense project. Lethanin spoke to people about this and found that some people found the pure mathematics of what they could gain from prayer too simple to ignore. Stuck without an idea of how to handle this, Lethanin called a meeting of the dragons. 

The meeting was attended by all ten dragons, including Xavier, the green dragon, who seemed much more open to discussion than the last time Lethanin had tried speaking to them. Lethanin introduced the problem: people are abusing effective prayer. Immediately, Aurora had ideas--she outlined the possible ways to interpret the issue, offering proactive and reactive solutions to each one. Wing lamented the idea that people were morally failing the situation, which deeply upset Aurix, who disliked considering that people are not inherently good. Lethanin redirected the conversation, asking for solutions rather than explanations or mourning. Niela delicately reminded Lethanin of the situation with Vecna, inquiring whether the prayer issue had come to light before, after, or during Vecna's appearance--Lethanin acknowledged that it was shortly after. Xavier inferred from this that the gods had become aware of Vecna's actions and that they were deliberately counteracting them, suggesting that the gods were directly responding to Vecna's appearance. Hriskin suggested contacting the gods directly via prayer to see what they were thinking--the gods granting weapons indiscriminately could be targeted directly to address the problem. Niela suggested speaking to a trusted god first, and Brokk asserted that Gruumsh was the most trustworthy god they knew of. The dragons agreed, and Brokk prayed to Gruumsh, soon relaying that Gruumsh had said that the barrier had prevented the gods from seeing the effects of granting their prayers--they hadn't known the situation and would stop immediately since it was actually making things worse. Brokk and Lethanin commiserated about having gods who were so essentially humanoid that they did not feel like elevated gods. 

The conversation turned to Vecna. Niela explained that she believed Vecna had been trying to get access to the Song in order to destroy the barrier between the gods' realm and the mundane world, which had always been their goal. Lethanin asked the dragons how to handle this delicate situation, and he received a variety of advice that went in every direction. Brokk said that he couldn't imagine being in Lethanin's situation and wouldn't presume to tell him what to do. Aurora argued that stretching the next conversation with Vecna in order to obtain as much information as possible would be the most strategic option. Aurix was very concerned about the safety of Lethanin, arguing that Lethanin should not agree to meet again at all. Wing pointed out that it would be difficult to entirely disengage from Vecna without communication, saying it would be best to be direct and decline any further meetings. Hriskin agreed, saying that being straightforward was the simplest, best, and most courteous thing to do. Xavier indicated that they had no meaningful experience with gods at all and had nothing substantial to add. Rupert enthusiastically asked to place some contingency-dependent scrying spells on Lethanin's tower so that he could remotely observe the meeting; Lethanin tentatively agreed. Niela suggested that Vecna's explanations, apparent enjoyment of Lethanin, and emotional response to the Song was probably all an act but theoretically could be true, so she told Lethanin to be incredibly cautious since he may have a god's fragile ego in his hands. Content that all voices had been heard, the meeting was adjourned. 

A while later, Lethanin once again heard from Vecna, asking for another meeting. This time, Lethanin acknowledged that he knew Vick was Vecna, which caused Vecna to smile very aggressively. Vecna directly asked for another rendition of the Song, this time with a friend accompanying them. Lethanin questioned Vecna about this friend, who Vecna said was Davil Lowenport, the leader of the highly successful band The Door to the Other Door. Lethanin demanded to know in what way Vecna wasn't taking advantage of him; Vecna described a revelation that they'd had after the rift had been sealed. Vecna said that they would explain the real history of existence if Lethanin would let them. Lethanin agreed, and Vecna began to explain. 

Vecna said that Boccob created the gods' realm, then some of the gods, and then the gods began to reproduce. Vecna said that they were the child of Nerull and Corellon Larethian, and that for all of their life, they had been locked in a war with the other gods. But having their plans to destroy the barrier and come to Izar (the planet where Evanoch lies) totally foiled had forced a perspective change. Vecna argued that they had come to realize that endless, fruitless fighting was worth nothing--they had wanted to get ahead of the other gods somehow, but they had realized that they were a god and had everything they could want and could enjoy being comfortable, which they believed Lethanin could understand. Vecna said they had changed and were being honest. They really did like Lethanin and counted him a kindred spirit, the performance of the Song had truly moved them, and they simply wanted to share the Song with someone else who could appreciate it. Vecna noted that Lethanin seemed uncomfortable and offered magical relaxation, which Lethanin rejected. Lethanin responded by explaining his own situation and the many reasons to be cautious of Vecna, saying that comfort and power are a compromise that one must strike. Ultimately, Lethanin was wary of anyone having access to the Song--that much power is not something to trust a person with. Vecna countered that Lethanin seemed quite comfortable having sole access to the Song, which Lethanin did not quite have an answer for. Vecna further argued that the Song, in the hands of Lowenport, would be played for thousands of adoring fans across the world, and Lethanin knew that it had come time to say no once and for all. Lethanin spoke directly: "I don’t think it’s something that should be out there. If you’re really not up to some shady shit, you’ll understand that." Vecna simmered for a moment and then shot flames from their hands--but the flames were not hot, nor did they burn Lethanin's tower, which helped Lethanin to realized that the Vecna before him was an image, and Vecna could not exert real power here. Lethanin, pleased with himself, pointed out that Vecna had been up to something, and Vecna disappeared in frustration and shame. In a message, Lethanin explained the situation to Niela, who advised continuing to keep an eye out for divine happenings, but she was very glad that Lethanin was safe and quite intrigued that a god could only project an image with the barrier in place rather than a real appearance. Moving foward, Lethanin developed a complex system of magical alarms that could detect any form of life and any form of divine magic.

29 years after the events of the campaign, Xavier reached out to Lethanin, inviting him to Xavier's estate outside Curagon. Lethanin arrived and was whisked inside to the immaculate home where Xavier was already making tea. Xavier apologized for their previous rude message and properly introduced themself, explaining that Aurora's visit had convinced them to take a more active and good role in the world. As part of that, they had established social services in Curagon and financed Brokk to do the same in Ringsdale--they wanted to know if Lethanin would be willing to do the same in some other city. After some conversation, they agreed that Torga would be a good place to start, both because the city was still struggling after great change and because the city was essentially Lethanin's home base.

Back in Torga, Lethanin set plans into motion. He went to Tasselman and asked the academic to consider founding a public school. Tasselman was initially anxious about being a part of the same academic community that had rejected him and his outlandish theories, but he quickly realized that he could create a school that would encourage his kind of thinking and accept all students and ideas. Meanwhile, Lethanin invested in infrastructure. Public health was already at an all-time high because of the cheaply available, high-quality health potions from a Mortar and Pestle, Aurora's company with her mother, so Lethanin focused on urban renewal and improving public spaces by reconstructing houses, improving roads, updating the docks, and establishing more green spaces throughout town. Changes were gradual, but slowly, Torga became a better place, particularly for Torga's middle and lower classes, who had been largely ignored by the other improvements the city had seen. Lethanin also fought poverty with systems and donations and even developed an arts education program using artists from the cultural exchange program. It was through this effort that Lethanin heard from a dissident Daltoner artist about Harriet and Priscilla Hanson, two Daltoner women who ran an underground support system for dissident Daltoners, and Lethanin chose to keep this information on hand until he could do something special with it. 

All the while, Lethanin kept up contact with his family. As he became more reclusive after the successes in building relationships with his parents, he continued to pay visits, but increasingly wrote letters to stay in touch. His mother continued to visit the tower in order to work in her jewelry workshop, and Lethanin would often pop in to say hello. In the 48th year after the campaign, Lethanin visited his mother on such a day, and she asked to speak to him for a moment. She voiced satisfaction at building a stronger relationship and conceded she would never truly understand him (nor would he fully understand her), but that she was proud of what they had done. It was with the knowledge that she could be a better mom, that Lethanin's father could be a better dad, and with the rekindled relationship between Lethanin's parents that his mother and father had made a decision, and Lethanin would soon be a big brother. This prompted Lethanin to short-circuit a bit, unsure of what to say, how to process the information, or how to regard the spirit of what his mother had said. He eventually wished his mother well and tried to come to peace with this big change in his family. 

Fifty Years After:

Lethanin was around to watch his younger brother, who his parents named Boblanin (Bobby for short). Larson and Dodira bragged about Bobby constantly--his prodigy and sweetness in particular--and Lethanin at first tried to keep Bobby in check so that the boy didn't get overly cocky. But Lethanin found that Bobby did not want to upstage him so much as participate with him, such as when they would play together. This changed Lethanin's perspective, who now no longer babied or challenged Bobby, instead inviting him to be silly, like in the construction of a house-wide pillow fort in Larson and Dodira's house. The special spark that Bobby showed prompted Lethanin to sneakily determine whether Bobby was naturally magical (he wasn't), and Lethanin made continued efforts to give Bobby the peer relationship he needed rather than the inferior one he got from others. 

58 years after the events of the campaign, Lethanin was given a coded message by a member of his cultural exchange program who could not decipher it. Lethanin worked on the message and eventually discovered that it was a call for help from the two Daltoner women he had heard about who smuggled dissidents out of New Dalton--Harriet and Priscilla Hanson--requesting help getting a group of high urgency fugitives out of the city. Lethanin called a dragon meeting to deal with the issue. Aurora began by stating her inability to help Daltoners and excused herself from further discussion. Several other dragons indicated their assent to this, reasoning that it was unclear how the mission would impact the bigger picture. In the end, no one voiced support, and the meeting fell to catching up. One by one, the dragons disappeared until only Lethanin and Hriskin remained; she said she didn't want to shake things up in the meeting, but she wanted to help Lethanin. They decided to send a letter arranging a meeting (more comfortable for the Hansons than Hriskin's suggested face-to-face meeting to start), agreeing to meet up in an abandoned part of town. 

The meeting came, and Harriet and Priscilla asked for help smuggling 14 reformed Daltoners of former positions of power out of New Dalton, suggesting nearby Ringsdale as a first step in the journey. When Lethanin explained the potential of using portals for the journey, Harriet asked for Finiel as a landing point instead since Daltoners could blend in with the Faninites there and there was already considerable infrastructure for refugees in the form of Rupert's shelters. Though Hriskin seemed uncomfortable about something about the deal, she remained quiet as Harriet and Priscilla guided them from the abandoned parts of the city, through the suburbs, into the wealthy quarter of town, into a fine double mansion, through twisting hallways, into a cellar, and into a second hidden cellar, where the 14 dissidents waited. "Here's who wants to help you," said Priscilla to the dissidents, sparking excitement from the group. Hriskin seemed even more uncomfortable now, and she whispered to Lethanin that these were the people who had caused the problems in New Dalton to begin with--could they be sure they weren't setting authoritarian monsters loose on the rest of the continent? To this end, Lethanin began to question the dissidents. One young man spoke fervently of the anguish he felt knowing the pain he had caused--he said his old imagining of endless punishment for sin was nothing compared to the guilt of knowing he had harmed so many of those in his community. Several others spoke in similar terms, and Hriskin and Lethanin felt assuaged that the dissidents at least seemed sincere. 

Focusing on the practical, Lethanin asked the dissidents what came next for them. Some said they meant to live simple lives with common trades they could depend on and do something valuable with--many discussed smithing and crafting. Others said they wanted to enter public service to make up for their misdeeds, trying to make right for others what they had failed to understand before. Still others hadn't thought that far ahead--they were simply focusing on escaping the violent Daltoner regime alive. Lethanin opened a portal to Finiel's outskirts not far from one of Rupert's homes for the needy and played a swelling, hopeful song on the fiddle to usher in the next stage of the dissidents' lives. Once they had passed through, Harriet offered payment, which Lethanin declined. He kept an eye on the dissidents in the months that followed. As they had said, many of the group took up simple trades--many of them woodworking and weaving like the Faninites they now counted as neighbors--while others got involved in Finiel's changing government. Three did not find new homes right away. One eventually found his way into chopping wood in a small village outside Finiel; another returned to New Dalton to agitate for change; a third struck Lethanin as a different type of problem. He had noticed one woman among the otherwise all-male group of dissidents, and she had seemed more reserved, more defeated than the rest. She did not fall into a job. One night, Lethanin craftily joined her at a bar and checked in. She introduced herself as Deb and thanked Lethanin for her freedom. Lethanin asked what her story was; she explained that she had been a survivor of abuse at the hands of Dalton Church of Pelor officials, and her inclusion in the dissident group was a way to save her from the Church. Lethanin asked her what came next--after a very long pause, Deb said law school. Lethanin invited her to study at Tasselman's university, and Deb enthusiastically agreed, a glint in her eye. She set off for Torga and soon began her studies there, where she excelled quickly. 

63 years after the campaign, Lethanin's cultural exchange program resulted in its biggest success yet--Evanoch's first true bestseller. Author Laura Bernard, a Faninite woman whose novel The Continent's Best tells a story of political intrigue with progressive heroes overcoming conservative villains in a classic folk style, achieved both popular and critical success with her work. Noticeably, the themes of Bernard's novel had sparked conversations across Evanoch about political representation, with some smaller towns even overthrowing their governments in the name of more progressive politics. Laura asked Lethanin for help, and he made his way to her villa in Finiel to talk things out. She explained that she felt pressure to match the magnitude of her first success--"Have you ever done something big and didn't know what to do next?" she asked. Lethanin, trying to not betray how well he knew the feeling, replied, "Well, what I have found . . . there's always something to do. Somebody always needs something. Forget about the book for a minute. What's on your mind?" Laura explained with some stress that she felt responsible for the changes in government--"If I can put a thought in people's heads--that's a lot of responsibility to carry." Lethanin tried to avoid displaying his identification with this too, and he rambled for a minute before saying, "Show the truth. Other people will decide what to do with it." In the end, Lethanin and Laura agreed that power is best used when it first shakes things up and then is used well to keep the course correct. Laura thanked Lethanin for his help and set to work on her next novel, which discussed themes of power and responsibility and which surpassed The Continent's Best in sales. 

In the 68th year after the campaign, amidst the swirling political landscape of the time, Torga's governor retired. This kicked off an election cycle which was worrying to Lethanin. Torga's policians are organized into parties largely centered on cultural values. With increasing numbers of Daltoner immigrants arriving, the highly conservative Daltoner party (the Fieldsburg party) was leading in the polls, with the mostly conservative dwarven party (the Feldskar party) in second and the progressive orcish party (the Trass party) in last. Concerned, Lethanin approached the orcish party with intentions to help and learned that they just couldn't get their full message out given the volume and fervor and emotional appeals of the Daltoners, not to mention the misinformation being spread by them. Lethanin donated funding to the orcish party, but he also instructed Tasselman to expand the university to include a new Public Relations department whose first task would be helping promote the orcish party. This was to be done, Lethanin said, with a good image for the orcish party and with satire to undercut the Daltoners. In the days that followed, the university went into full focus, spreading word of the orcish party's platform with posters and ridiculing the totalitarian approach of the Daltoners. The election came, and the Daltoner party took up the lowest slot in the rankings, while the dwarves remained in the middle, and the orcish party triumphed. Their candidate, Lort Rekk, took office and set to work institutionalizing a number of public services, and Lethanin met privately with Rekk to instruct him to "not fuck it up." 

70 years after the campaign, Bobby graduated from gnomish basic academy and achieved a record high score on the Gnomish Overall Literacy Determination (GOLD), immediately pledged himself to a medical program at the most prestigious medical university in Evanoch, and got himself an apartment. He invited Lethanin over to see the place and catch up. Lethanin noticed on entering the apartment that the entire living room was dedicated to housing a beautiful drum set. Lethanin immediately challenged Bobby to play together, and Bobby began by laying down a beat which was a simply halfling-style rock beat. Lethanin produced an electrified lute and played aggressively, with wailing solos and screaming notes. Lethanin noticed that Bobby was deliberately playing supportively for Lethanin to be the featured player, so Lethanin pulled back and played supportively. This prompted Bobby to begin a syncopated rhythm with one hand playing halfling rock and the other playing orcish drum style--just as his solo reached a crescendo, a drumstick broke, causing Bobby to burst into laughter and Lethanin to swear about the botched groove. Bobby thanked Lethanin for playing together, and Lethanin extended an invitation to always come and stay at the tower with its massive music room. Bobby promised he would and noted that he felt so much pressure to be exceptional and just wanted to be normal sometimes. Lethanin said it seemed Bobby was better adjusted than Lethanin had been at his age, and Bobby added that Mom and Dad had often said it was easier raising Bobby because they'd already messed everything up with Lethanin. This got a long, stunned silence from Lethanin, but the two enjoyed the rest of an evening relaxing. 

In the 72nd year, Niela contacted Lethanin to let him know she was running for a new council position in the reformed Misharan government. Lethanin donated money to the campaign and set the university's PR department into motion on Niela's platform. It was the PR department that suggested selling Niela as "Vuthiejir," a large part of the reason that so many write-in votes for "Vuthiejir" were cast. Lethanin advised Niela to always listen to smart people, which Niela promised to do. 

74 years after the campaign, Tasselman asked for assistance expanding the university to include a religious studies program. Initially, Lethanin did not understand why Tasselman couldn't do this alone--Tasselman was, after all, in total control of the university. But Tasselman explained that his plan included full access to all known material on all gods, which had upset many of the existing staff, some of whom were threatening to resign over the issue. Lethanin went to the university's campus and met with the teachers' union, the head of which--Nelly Millen, a half-elven professor of ancient literature--was the informal spokesperson for those opposed the expansion. Nelly argued that collecting and offering necromantic texts in the name of academic completeness was reckless and foolhardy, a gateway to evil, but Tasselman was firmly of the opinion that a religious studies program without these texts would be incomplete. Nelly countered by asking if a "complete" university was worth the safety of the city. Lethanin offered a compromise--keep the texts, but control access to them. Unwilling to compromise, Nelly and several of the teachers resigned, stating a desire to move to a different city to escape the threat of undead. Before they could leave, Lethanin offered Nelly the equivalent of Tasselman's position at a new university in a city of her choosing where she could determine the currucula. Nelly considered and accepted the offer, heading to Ringsdale to start the city's first university. In the years that followed, Tasselman's university kept tight control of the precious documents and prevented any emergencies, and Nelly's university brought advanced academics to Ringsdale, which new industrial sciences emerged. 

In the 81st year after the campaign, Lethanin was making lunch in his tower when he heard an alarm indicating that someone was in proximity of his tower. He looked out a window in the direction of the alarm and spotted a young half-elven woman in a rowboat approaching the shore of his island. Lethanin went down to the beach and waited for her to land. She greeted him, introduced herself as Quinta, and explained that she was a sorcerer looking for guidance and dragons, which she'd heard rumor of in the area. Lethanin did not say anything except to offer her a cup of tea, which she accepted. Inside, Lethanin made tea and shared lunch and answered some of Quinta's questions. He learned that Quinta had the powers as a sorcerer to get by and occasionally help people, but she wanted more power so she could do more than get by and actually help people. She had moved around a lot as a kid because her father couldn't keep a job, and she had taken care of the two of them. She had worked a lot of jobs but hated to do so--doing the same tasks endlessly drove her crazy. She pointedly asked what Lethanin knew about dragons, and Lethanin gave a vague, noncommittal answer. She more pointedly asked where Lethanin's food came from, where his boat was, how he got to and from the mainland, whether he was uncomfortable with a visitor or her questions, and finally, if he would "make me a dragon like you." Lethanin asked Quinta to sweep the tower while he went to his study, and she agreed, enthusiastically gathering dust in a pile. 

Away from Quinta, Lethanin called for help from the dragons, asking for the presence of Aurix and Niela, as well as anyone else who could come--Aurora, Brokk, and Jarvia joined them. Lethanin explained the situation as best he could (with great skepticism), and dragons agreed that simply talking to Quinta would be for the best. The six dragons descended the tower to Quinta, and they began to ask her questions. Jarvia took a gentle tone and asked simple question. She learned that Quinta was 21 years old, that she had never been in a fight, that she believed being a dragon made you heroic. The dragons stood for a moment in this information, and Jarvia stood back. Niela stepped forward, speaking like a mother to Quinta. "Let's try again in ten years," she said. "For now, we'll send you on your way with help." Quinta was dejected, but Aurora whispered something to her that perked her up significantly. Quinta apologized for bothering Lethanin, and Lethanin urged her not to worry about it. Aurora gave Quinta a considerable bag of coins, Niela and Aurix cast blessings on her, Jarvia and Aurora spoke hopeful words, and Lethanin promised Quinta an education if she wanted one. Quinta boarded her rowboat and set back out on the waves towards Torga, and Lethanin transformed into a dragon and flew over the seas over his tower. 

87 years after the campaign, Lethanin attended the wedding of his younger brother Bobby to Keski, a fellow research doctor at the university. Together, they developed the world's first anti-depressant, called Pexedrine. Later that year, when their first child was born, they named her Pexedrine in honor of their work together, calling their daughter Pexi for short. Lethanin was asked to be Pexi's godfather, a request that flummoxed him deeply. Bobby tried to comfort Lethanin that it really just meant watching Pexi sometimes and being more or less present in her life as he'd been in Bobby's. Lethanin enthusiastically agreed, and he watched as Bobby spent more time at home with Keski and Pexi, more time playing music, and less time laboring at work, which seemed to make Bobby happier. Lethanin was always present, bringing gifts of tiny musical intstruments for Pexi and spending time with Bobby whenever able. 

It was during one such visit that Lethanin and Bobby ended up drinking together late into the night. Bobby admitted that he'd always wanted to be like Lethanin, to define himself and not be held back by expectations or obligations. "That's why I fucked off to an island," replied Lethanin. He added that not knowing what to do with responsibility was always a challenge, though he obscured what responsibilities he meant exactly. Bobby countered that responsibility is the easy part--you do the most good you can, and that's the whole deal. Lethanin told a story about his recent dealings, vaguely describing running the universities, the cultural exchange, the civic programs, his financial empire, and the obvious implication was that Lethanin was relating on the grounds of his many responsibilities. Bobby, who had always let mentions like this go, finally asked: "What do you do for a living?" Lethanin slyly invited Bobby on an adventure, and Bobby accepted. Lethanin opened a portal to his tower, which Bobby walked through, mystified. Lethanin warned Bobby that things were about to get weird, to which Bobby replied, "I trust you, big brother." Lethanin transformed into the sound dragons and put on an aerial acrobatic display before landing in a dramatic pose. "I knew you were up to something fucked up," said Bobby, "but I couldn't have known it was this." They laughed together a moment, and Lethanin seemed to withdraw a bit, but Bobby said firmly, "Nothing has changed. I just can't believe Mom and Dad think I'm the overachiever." Lethanin returned them to Bobby's home, and they drank into the night. 

In the 92nd year, a bardic competition was assembled to celebrate the unity of Evanoch. Jarvia let Lethanin know about this competition and asked for help coming up with what to play. Out of all the centuries of practicing on so many different instruments in so many different styles, what was the perfect song? Lethanin came to her estate for tea, and they discussed music, the competition, and what to play. Ultimately, Lethanin said he would simply play what felt right at the moment, and he suggested Jarvia do the same. Jarvia was slow to accept this, so Lethanin teleported them to a tavern he recalled from his travels and pushed Jarvia on stage, directing her to play the first thing that came to mind. After a moment, Jarvia began to play a slow, mournful song that Lethanin recognized--it was the song Jarvia had played for Aurora outside the estate--but as it sped up and became more hopeful, it had the rollicking energy of a tavern song. The crowd went wild. Lethanin joined Jarvia on stage, and they played a chaotic and varied show that kept the energy of the crowd in mind. They retired to their respective homes to mull things over before the competition. 

Lethanin spent a week in a cycle. He would focus on one idea, exploring every dimension of it, then feel restricted and choose to think of nothing before finding a new idea and fixating on it in turn. The day of the competition finally arrived, and Lethanin had no choice but to play what felt right at the time. He and Jarvia arrived at a large natural amphitheater in the Asherinisem Plains where thousands of fans and a hundred bards waited. Lethanin was told he would be the 91st performer, and Jarvia would be the 43rd. The competition began, the performers' eyes flitting between the massive crowd and the judges' table. 

Most performers were of average talent, more looking for exposure than a chance at winning. The stage was home to folk songs, tavern songs, and the occasional original composition in the style of some classic. The 22nd performer stood out, a halfling with one arm, two prosthetic arms, and a double-necked lute which he played energetically and in a novel style. More average performers came, and then it was Jarvia's turn to perform. She looked at the thousands in the crowd and began a punky rendition of her song "Manifesto," an energetic song about political and individual rights. The judges obviously hated her grating performance, but it was obvious her message had reached thousands of fans. More average performers came before the 64th performer, an orcish woman who used magic to loop her own singing and harmonize with herself on a twist on orcish traditional chant-singing. There were more average performers, and at the 77th mark, a trio of gnomes played gadget instruments and sang a song about a dismal future where machines control everything. A few more average performers came and went, and it was Lethanin's turn. He played the fiddle, beginning with a simple folk tune that became more freeform and strange and reached a peak before descending, and without realizing it, Lethanin found himself playing a simplified version of the Song. He noticed thousands of people swaying hypnotically in time with his playing, was alarmed at the slip, and transitioned into a gentle ending that recalled the folky beginning. The crowd was electric. The remaining performers resigned their places in line, unwilling to follow Lethanin, and Lethanin was asked his name by the judges, who unanimously declared him the winner. He provided his real name and was swept away by Jarvia to a somewhere calmer--her backyard, where they sat and unwinded with wine. Jarvia said it was official--Lethanin was the most talented bard in the land. He accepted this only reluctantly and after complaint. Jarvia said for her part, having the judges hate her song was exactly what she hoped for--she didn't want authority's approval, but the common people's. Lethanin worried that he had changed in some way, that being known would make him something different; Jarvia reassured him that he was still the same Lethanin. He thanked he for the adventure and wandered off into the night. 

Meanwhile, young Pexi was growing into an individual. She clung to Lethanin often and was inseparable from her tiny instruments, even though she had quite outgrown them at this point. It was during a visit when Lethanin was watching and playing with Pexi that she grew uncharacteristically serious. "Will you teach me to be a bard?" she asked. Lethanin reserved judgment and asked her to play with him. She played a lyre with considerable technical skill and solid improvisation--potentially a developing prodigy with some training. Lethanin praised Pexi to Bobby, saying the girl was doing well and had promise. Bobby explained that the family was taking the bard idea slow--Mom and Dad were tense about another bard in the family, and Pexi was only seven with plenty of time to make that choice. Lethanin countered by offering family band time--Lethanin, Bobby, and Pexi could all play together as a family activity without the pressure of bardic training. This became a reality quickly, and each member of the trio learned new musical ideas from one another as they played together. It was after one of these band practices that Pexi asked Lethanin another serious question: "How are you supposed to live when you're different from what society expects from you?" Lethanin reflected long on this question, ultimately saying that you have to do what you feel is both you and right; Pexi countered that this was what kept getting her into trouble. Lethanin laughed and explained that if you get into trouble for the right reasons, trouble isn't all that bad--just keep trying to learn how to know when it's worth getting into trouble. Pexi was grateful and clung to Lethanin as ever, and Lethanin saw a new sense of purpose in his niece as she grew. 

In the 97th year after the campaign, Lethanin was walking through Torga on a shopping run when he heard someone whistling. It was a stark, strange experience for Lethanin--he knew he knew the tune, but he couldn't place how or from where. As the tune continued, it reached a shifted scale of five notes that he instantly placed--the Song. Someone was whistling the Song. Lethanin was stunned. He could not believe that a random person would know it and just casually whistle it in a public square. Without giving himself away as looking for its source, he located the whistler and observed them. It was a young human boy, no more than ten. "Where you know that song from?" called Lethanin. The boy shrugged. He just knew it--had always known it, had heard it as a baby and thought he'd made it up since no one else seemed to know it. "Do you know it?" asked the boy. "I've heard it," replied Lethanin. The boy asked for what Lethanin knew about the tune, some guidance in understanding this song that enchanted him. Lethanin wished him luck in finding it and went about his shopping, the boy resuming whistling as he walked away.