Repo Men

Inspired by R.E.P.O., this is the usual XP-for-treasure format with a hook to tie the adventures together.

Aeons ago, various boss monsters borrowed money from some entity (probably a powerful fiend like Mammon or an ultroloth, although you can obviously use whatever entity you wish if you're avoiding canonical Dungeons & Dragons factions), and now the time has come to collect. You are agents of the entity in question, delving into dungeons and trying to repossess treasure for your infernal masters.

The characters would gain XP for treasure, as usual, although the twist is that they probably aren't keeping any of this treasure themselves. I imagine they receive a commission in scrip (maybe 10% or so) which can be spent at the company store. In addition to standard equipment, the company store also carries hirelings and magic items. (I would probably randomize the latter so that there's a constant churn of weird items coming through.)

Obviously, the GM has to determine how magic items from dungeons work. Can you keep them? Can you squirrel them away? Do they enter the company store after the adventure?

It's essentially the same idea as standard class-and-level adventure games: enter the dungeon, loot everything to the bare walls, and get out. This setup has a few benefits that might make it worthwhile for certain groups:

1. If your players aren't interested in overland travel, this is a good excuse to give them various dungeons in the same campaign without having to travel to them. The central "hub" of the campaign is Hell's mercenary barracks, or whatever other extradimensional base of operations you devise.
2. The company store allows you to put whatever weird items into your campaign you want without altering the original adventures. It's Hell's lost and found, essentially.
3. The format allows people to drop in and out as desired.

I haven't quite figured out what adventures I'd like to use. (Obviously, if you get to it before I do, you can use whatever you like.) I'm thinking of dungeons that have "boss monsters" in them, a creature around which the dungeon is built (and who might be in debt to a powerful fiend). As such, the capstone is likely to be something like I6: Ravenloft or S1: Tomb of Horrors, but everything before then is open to suggestion. A cursed house like The Cursed Chateau or Tegel Manor? A frontier ruin like Prison of the Hated Pretender or The Submerged Spire of Sarpedon the Shaper? A larger village investigation leading to a dungeon like Against the Cult of the Reptile God or The Village of Hommlet?

Apart from needing a central figure whose stuff can be repossessed, you can really run any adventure you like.

A final note: this also seems like a good campaign frame to have in your back pocket if you run something like Fires of Dis or The Shrike, where the characters go to Hell and so might end up indentured to some powerful demon. In which case, just start throwing dungeons at them with a mandate to deliver all of value to their master. Of course, intrepid players will probably try to determine how to wriggle out of their infernal contracts, which seems like an interesting wrinkle to this campaign...

The Obligatory Dungeon23 Post

In case you haven't heard the good word, there's a community project this year. (Already in progress!)

Sean McCoy posted about this on Twitter and his Substack, but the gist is that you make a megadungeon by writing one dungeon room per day. At the end of the year, you'll have a twelve-level megadungeon with 365 rooms.

I've seen a lot of folks doing a bunch of pre-planning for this project, but as Sean himself says in another post, keep it simple. Divine your megadungeon via random tables and free association. (And in my personal experience, front-loading too much of the work makes it seem unattainable.) This is a brainstorming exercise more than anything else, so get ready to get weird with it.

Personally, I'm excited to see what develops. Hopefully everybody takes this opportunity to figure out how a megadungeon is put together and what they like to see in dungeons.

I don't plan on writing about my own #dungeon23 project too much on the ol' hobby blog, but I plan on keeping up with it. My dungeon is tentatively called The Crucible, although I don't know what it will become with the fullness of time. For starters, I don't think "The Crucible" is what the locals call it; they don't know that the nearby cave systems are actually connected into a megadungeon complex. (In fact, I'm not even sure anyone — including the inhabitants — has ever discovered the main entrance!)

In the meantime, here are a handful of additional community discussions around dungeon23:

Ben L.'s dungeon23 tag on the Mazirian's Garden blog

Better Legends' #dungeon23 tag on Tumblr

Zedeck Siew's #dungeon23 tag on Tumblr

Grousing About Alignment

I've been ruminating about this for several days. (A month or two, maybe?) I expect it was sparked by some passing discourse or other, but who can say?

But first, a word about personal bias: As noted elsewhere, I believe it's important to understand an author's inherent biases, so here is one of mine: I don't believe in an objective, explicit, cosmological idea of morality, sin, or evil. If you reduce all energy and matter in the universe into the finest dust, past the level of atoms or quarks or superstrings, you will find no modicum of good or evil in your sieve.

Good and evil can exist as personal concepts and frameworks, but not as large moral structures.

As such, I tend to disagree with The Dreaded Discourse™ about how alignment is problematic and ought to be excised from fantasy games. For me, alignment is the goofy, escapist fantasy. The universe is ethically grey and politically complicated, and sometimes it's nice to imagine a world where moral issues are (comparatively) simple. (I say "comparatively" because invariably every Game Master throws in a weird, moral conundrum independent of alignment. Sometimes, people do good things for bad reasons or bad things for good reasons, even in objective moral systems.)

I know it is not an escape for everybody — and more power to you if you excise it from your games! — but for me, alignment is one of those things that only makes sense in a fantasy world or as a learning tool. And, gee whiz, wouldn't it be nice if the world were simple sometimes?

Hopefully, this nearly explains why I don't typically worry about alignment as much as some Referees do. I suspect a lot of people conflate in-game moral assumptions with real-life moral assumptions and invariably talk past one another.

At any rate, we have now come rather far afield of the main point I wanted to make with this post. Ask me to elaborate on my thoughts about morality sometime if you want to get into a long, boring conversation about it.

And with that aside complete, onto the main post:

While my engagement with fantasy class-and-level games is comparatively recent, the arguments about alignment have existed since the beginning of the hobby. It's the standard problem: art creators have certain assumptions that everyone has the same background, the subculture around the art grows, the background conditions change, and almost nobody has the originally assumed commonalities anymore.

Growth is often painful.

But I suspect the problem with alignment isn't so much a disagreement as a lack of common definitions. (As with most problems, this issue is broadly applicable to life outside table-top role-playing games.) When people talk about alignment, they are often discussing one of three related concepts:

• Alignment-as-personality: I suspect this is what most modern gamers think about when they're contemplating alignment. When you make a D&D character, this is probably what you're putting on your character sheet: an alignment that represents your fictional character's moral center. In this regard, it is similar to Nature and Demeanor from World of Darkness or Virtue and Vice from Chronicles of Darkness or Obsession from Unknown Armies — it's a phrase on your character sheet so when you're stuck and wondering, "What would my character do?" you can reference your sheet and maybe get an idea. It's not a rules thing so much as a reminder to yourself.
• Incidentally, this is where some of the thorniness over "what constitutes acting within your alignment" emerges. Right and wrong operate somewhat independent of morality — an immoral person can do the right thing, and a moral person can make stupid decisions. So it is with law-vs.-chaos and good-vs.-evil: you can probably make a case for any given individual action with any given alignment. However, you can probably make a reasonable expectation that a character's actions over time will more obviously cleave to one side or the other.
• This can also be confusing because individual players might consider this more subjective or objective depending on their preferences. Being "lawful" might constitute literally following the law or just having a strong personal code. Being "chaotic" might mean might-makes-right or being a free-spirit or just being random. That's something you might want to discuss during character creation.
• Alignment-as-affiliation: This is more of the classical, Moorcockian view of alignment you might expect from earlier editions of D&D. (Cynical readers might also consider this the default for people who, say, preach certain moral frameworks to which they do not abide.) In this schema, alignment is less of a personal moral framework and more of a political affiliation (or sports team allegiance, if you prefer that analogy). The black hobbits described by Ken St. Andre and Jeff Rients also reside in this paradigm. (Weirdly, 4e also asserted this as the "default" moral framework for that edition, although I don't know how many people used it.) Characters using alignment as a political affiliation might have any sort of morality, but they throw their support behind a particular cause. Anybody who is "just following orders" could probably be seen to have this sort of alignment. If you have ever been baffled by someone who seems very nice but holds weird, backwards views about the world outside of their narrow band of existence, you might have encountered someone with this sort of relationship to alignment. As in real-life, though, I expect that if you follow a particular affiliation for long enough, you'll begin to adopt its values, sooner or later. (And probably sooner.)
• This is another source of confusion, because it's possible to imagine someone whose views are initially incompatible with their alignment until you dig deeper. The nice little old lady next door who supports the Dark Lord because he makes the trains run on time could easily have a Chaotic alignment even though her life and outward demeanor is seemingly orderly.
• In a lot of ways, this is the most alien form of alignment to those with heavily-internalized, cultural Calvinism, because "good" is always bound with "right" and "evil" is always bound with "wrong." It is difficult to imagine someone who hypocritically holds both, even though most of us do it all the time. (We just don't like to examine it too closely.)
• Alignment-as-physiology: This is the realm of the supernal and the extradimensional. Angels and demons are always going to be Lawful and Chaotic, respectively, and changing their alignment probably changes the base creature. The long tradition of supernatural creatures in mythology and literature means that this is the easiest to understand and also the least morally challenging component of alignment: zombies are mindless and always antagonistic, so there is no moral challenge or consequence to killing them.
• Of course, this causes a lot of the confusion in the other categories as people conflate this type of alignment with the other two types. Detect evil and good often only detects supernatural forces rather than someone's personal alignment, for instance. Likewise, this is where a lot of the debate about "always chaotic evil" creatures arises, as people assume game designers mean this (orcs are evil and always will be no matter what their environment is like) when they often mean one of the other two things (orcs are Chaotic because most of them have thrown in their lot with Sauron and were never given a moral choice, for example).

So there you go. The next time the inevitable alignment debate arises at your table, you now have a framework to start interrogating what the players mean. Do you think the alignment is a fantasy Meyers-Briggs type, or your political party, or an inherent and unchangeable thing?

The Joesky Tax: A Game Anecdote

After a lot of lead-up, I'm finally running DA2: Temple of the Frog for the Sunday night crew. In an ideal world, I'd run the original version, but it requires so much work to bend it into shape that I might as well write my own adventure.

To explain the lead-up: the classic Crux of Eternity crew ran through a modified version of S3: Expedition to the Barrier Peaks, and informed the local university about it. Since then, the university has been running a research program to fully investigate the crashed spaceship, and have subsequently learned that there are other pieces that were scattered across the Sorrowfell Plains when the thing passed through the atmosphere. The Sunday night crew has since been tasked with researching the other pieces. One such piece landed in the foothills of the Hoarfrost Ridge and allowed me to run Lost Laboratory of Kwalish. Another landed in the Bogbeast Fens and was discovered by cultists of Bobugbubilz, who proceeded to call it, "The Egg," and ascribed religious significance to it. Five years ago, this minor frog temple proceeded to become more organized and militarized, and is now proving to be a notable nuisance in the region with ties to slavers in the big city up north. (Which, if you know the adventure, you'll recognize as the basic setup of DA2: Temple of the Frog. Astute observers will recognize a couple of differences — like the whole thing about The Egg — which will likely be revealed with the fullness of time.)

In addition to the original goal from DA2 (rescue a high-value prisoner), the university has tasked the player characters with capturing any extraterrestrial technology they can find. The PCs decide to sneak into the City of the Frog — ignoring the original adventure's infiltration hook, assuming (probably correctly) that they probably won't be able to pass themselves off as slavers or wannabe frog-cultists — and they prioritize rescuing the prisoner because she and her men are skilled fighters, so they can outfit her and her men and double their party's fighting force.

The plan goes to shit pretty much instantly.

They sneak up the canals using a combination of water walk and control water and are almost instantly spotted. They switch from stealth to speed, and their main asset is that it's foggy and the middle of the night, so there's a lot of confusion, so they don't get murdered by crossbow bolts. They make their way to the middle of the town so they can cast locate creature on their quarry, hoping to find her in the warehouses and barracks.

She's in the basement of the Temple of the Frog, of course. The precise place they didn't want to go.

They cut west, get pelted by some crossbow bolts, use control water again to get over the wall, and are now in the courtyard of the temple. On the plus side, they neutralize the guards and the alarm is sounded, so no more guards can easily approach from the City of the Frog. The bad news is that they don't have a control ring to actually enter the temple, so they're just. Stuck there. With a temple full of cultists at their backs.

Their current gambit is to hopefully trick one of the cultists in the City of the Frog into approaching, then stealing a control ring to enter the temple. We'll find out how that works on Halloween!

Firehold Megadungeon

This might turn into yet another project I don't have time to write or run, but it's been on my mind lately, so I might as well put it here. (Long time readers might recall my plans for a Carcosan megadungeon; apart from a single session nested in my long-running D&D game, I haven't had a chance to initiate it. Although there is always the future.)

When the dwarves fled from bondage under the tyrannical rule of the giants, they settled across the Sorrowfell Plains, most of them settling into cities and towns that are now familiar to the folk of the world (such as Khuragzar or Sorgforge), but one group of now-forgotten clans settled beneath one of the mountains of the world. 

They called this place "Firehold."

Industrious and versed in runecraft, they made wonders unknown even to other dwarves. The secret of their success was the beating heart of the mountain itself: a uranium deposit beneath the mountain, creating a naturally-occurring fission reactor. When they initially found it, they realized only that it generated heat and made the miners sick. (Although their superior dwarven constitutions protected them somewhat, many of them still died, but they were given heroes' burials for their sacrifice to the clan.) But the industrious dwarves soon learned how to harness this energy for their own purposes, building containment units and enriching centers and steam engines. They were the most advanced civilization on Khaldun.

But no one has ever heard of them.

When the lands of Men fell to corruption and devil-worship, the dwarves consulted their histories and feared what they saw coming: another cycle of darkness and subjugation beneath the whips and chains of another oppressor. So they did the most sensible thing they could consider: they withdrew. They secured their gardens and redoubled their mining efforts and ensured that they had supplies for centuries — millennia, even — and then they sealed their highways with rune-magic.

This was their folly.

The corruption of the surface empires did not last long before heroes rose to stop it, and before long it was washed away. But the lost dwarves did not know of the turning of ages; they merely waited for a sign, some manner of augury to return them to the surface.

They never received it.

Whether the gods did not speak to them or they merely misinterpreted the signs, the old priests refused to risk the safety of their clans, and so the dwarves stayed underground in their secure shelter.

But the deep dwarves were builders, not soldiers. One by one, monsters emerged from below, and one by one, districts of the city fell. The deep dwarves were forced to retreat, refugees in their own city, withdrawing to the safety of centralized, defensible locations. Now, the last of the dwimmer dwarves take refuge in the quays and the foreign quarter, praying for a sign to save their civilization.

And all the while, the danger grows beneath their feet, for no one has tended the reactor in generations. If the reactor burns hotter than the reservoir replenishes, or if some tunneling wurm or ambitious underdweller should damage it, it could cause a meltdown or an explosion, contaminating the ground water or spreading radioactive fallout across the Sorrowfell Plains.

In addition to references in ancient archives, there is one other hint as to the location of lost Firehold: the rocs that lair upon the mountaintop build their nest over the exhaust port, so that the steam keeps their eggs warm while they are in flight.

Rules Notes:

A player character who delves into the right archive or uses the right divination spell or asks the right questions might find and unlock Firehold as an adventuring location. A lost megadungeon of advanced dwarven technology, it has long since been overrun by monsters, but is a palace of wonders. (In addition to the standard treasure, the dwarves of Firehold potentially hold lost secrets of arcane, historical, and technological varieties.)

Anyone who finds lost Firehold also unlocks a new playable variety of dwarves: called dwimmer dwarves or bone dwarves in my notes, they have a facility with rune-crafting and artifact manufacture that most modern dwarves lack. (In old-school games, they would be able to craft magic items and undertake other sorts of spell research. In 5e-ish games, they have innate transmutation spells, and are best suited for the wizard or artificer classes.)

The World of Ysat'naf

 A bog-standard fantasy world for dungeon-y, dragon-y fantasy systems.

Use all the same fantasy assumptions those sorts of games bring to the table with one major exception: all alignments are inverted. (So chaotic becomes lawful, good becomes evil, and the like. Neutral alignments stay the same, as do unaligned alignments if you're using 4e or 5e.)

We'll keep it straightforward with two simple rules:

1) All extraplanar creatures summoned to Ysat'naf have their alignments inverted automatically. (Depending on how the Game Master interprets things, this may or may not change their core programming. It will at the very least change how they attempt to complete their goals and what sorts of behaviors they attempt to instill in the creatures they encounter.) Why this happens is not terribly clear, and finding the source of this phenomenon would obviously make a good goal for player characters to achieve. (I'm thinking it's some sort of curse upon the land, or maybe some kind of magical radiation that suffuses the atmosphere.)

2) All creatures native to the world also have their alignments inverted, although there is no supernatural force backing this up. (We can casually surmise that this inversion is due to the influence of extraplanar visitors who have had their alignments inverted and then proceeded to proselytize among the native populations.) As such, individual members of the various fantasy races can have any alignment and you might have the occasional "rogue" good elf or evil orc, but populations as a whole tend to stabilize to the opposite of their bestiary-listed alignments. They can retain their well-trod personalities and niches, now recast through the lens of their new alignments, so you get Lawful Evil elves in a strict hierarchy whose aesthetic predilections come across as Toreador antitribu-like displays of blood-daubed wicked decadence — like a whole race of Hannibal Lecters — while Lawful Good orcs now fulfill the Proud Warrior niche, a Klingon-like Golden Horde trying to throw elven imperialists off their land.

To fully embrace the potential Mirror Universe sensibility of such a place, it does not affect most Prime Material natives who might travel here by extradimensional gate or what have you. (So your characters are unaffected when they come through, although their familiars and summoned allies might behave very differently if they originate from another plane.)

Greed in the Heart, Doom in the Mouth

I published a post on Monday and will publish another on Friday that are both blathering about the state of the industry. (The Short Answer: It's the same mess as it ever was.)

Both pieces elsewhere in the week are serious, so I'm hard-pressed to pay the Joesky tax on those posts, but I'm posting it here. Since a lot of my current content is bound up in scattered notes, 5e statblocks, and other such ephemera, I went with the recent Joesky tax writing prompts from Throne of Salt. (I rolled a 16 and a 52, if you're into that sort of thing.)

Timely!

The Avarice Beast

Have you ever met someone who hates? A real Ebenezer Scrooge-style bastard, someone who just takes and takes and takes. A bottomless pit for food, money, and affection.

Most of the time, these are just standard-style jerks, but occasionally, their festering hatred is almost a disease unto itself. (This usually occurs in men and always in humans. Whatever affliction menaces men is unknown to demi-humans. So far as we know.) Physicians have occasionally found small calcified stones in their hearts, the beginning of some sort of bezoar. (These bezoars are prized by alchemists for love potions, potions that allow the imbiber to smell gold as some dwarfs do, or other preparations that enhance the user's ability to covet.)

But the bezoar is less an accretion and more an egg. If the avaricious wretch continues on its path, the bezoar will continue to grow. (Any amount of genuine affection will halt or even reverse the bezoar's growth at this point. It's not too late for a redemption arc.) During this time, the person might notice a shortness of breath or increased fatigue, but most of them are so sedentary that they never notice the change.

Eventually, the egg will hatch.

If it hatches, the miser is living on borrowed time. The creature always hatches in the person's sleep and latches into the heart muscle. From there, it starts taking over the function of the heart over the course of a month. (It is apparent as a dark stain in the heart muscle, eventually turning the heart completely black. Once it has devoured the heart and assumed its function, it looks like a shriveled but overlarge dead fetus implanted into the circulatory tissue, curled in the middle of the victim's chest.) If the person is slain during this time, the creature cannot survive without the host, and will probably die within a matter of hours.

The creature will continue to consume additional nutrients (and negative emotions) from the host, growing to full size in 4d4 weeks. At that time, it messily tears itself out of the chest cavity, unfurling to the size of a small dog, all black skin and gristle and bone. It seems slick with moisture, but whatever is upon it either evaporates quickly or is merely the sheen of its skin.

(No doubt a number of alleged serial killings and botched robberies are actually the work of avarice beasts birthing themselves.)

From there, it begins its nightly hunts. It is a patient and cunning predator, seeking not only food but to cause the most harm possible. It typically targets people who will be missed, often children or lovers, stalking a lone child or half of a couple silently. When they are alone, it will strike quickly, snatching them away to be swiftly devoured. It will either leave their remains near where they disappeared, or in some other place where the family can find them.

Within the span of a week, the avarice beast will hunt enough to grow to roughly the size of a human. The upper limit of its lifespan is unknown.

Avarice beasts are intelligent, and understand the languages of their former hosts. They cannot speak, but can attempt a sort of mimicry, often mimicking children's laughs or cries, or speaking words and phrases of a couple of syllables. ("Come here" or "help me" are frequent favorites.) When the creature becomes aware that people are becoming aware of its activities, it often hitches a ride underneath a cart or other conveyance to leave town as soon as it is able. (On the road, it will hunt by night. In a bit of dark irony, having an avarice beast silently hiding among a caravan is good luck, as the creature often hunts or frightens any random encounters that might occur by night.)

It is entirely possible an avarice beast may not even originate from the town in which it is found.

The Avarice Beast: AC 15, Move 120’, HD 3+3, claw/claw/bite 1d6/1d6/1d8, Morale 10. Climb walls 99%, hide in shadows 95%, move silently 95%. Surprises on 5-in-6.

The Conch of the Damned

Recovered from an ancient shipwreck in the Weeping Bay outside Sorgforge, the conch of the damned is a wicked version of the horn of Valhalla, a way to summon the spirits of the dead to defend the user.

The conch's interior is gilded, and the exterior is decorated with black opals carved to resemble human skulls. When blown, 4d6 zombies arrive within 1d3 rounds, either staggering from the sea if it is in range, or arising from the ground if it is not. (If you want to draw parallels between the conch of the damned and the horn of Valhalla, make the zombies appear as draugr, dead Norse warriors.) They will follow the conch owner's commands for one hour; at the end of this time, they will turn and attack the blower of the conch and their companions, seeking to seize the conch. Where they take it afterward is unknown; in all likelihood, it is placed in some other remote place to cause ruin.

Assuming a conch blower survives the shell's curse, smart conch blowers will typically use the zombies for one task, then order them to destroy one another. Still, there is always the chance that one will not have the opportunity to do such a thing, or that the dead will still come for the conch eventually...

The Inciting Challenge

Here's a bit of unused content for another game.

Is it a blessing? Is it a curse? A gift from the gods? A mutation? A natural part of the world that anyone can invoke if they know something's True Name?

I don't know. It's your problem now.

The Inciting Challenge works as follows:

For all targets: You invoke The Inciting Challenge by invoking a character's True Name and issuing a challenge to fight. That character must make a save vs. spells (or Will, or Wisdom, or the local equivalent) at -10. If they fail, they are immediately overcome with rage and wish to kill The Challenger. They can still act intelligently, but automatically fail any actions that do not involve attacking or preparing to attack The Challenger and they will not willingly leave sight of The Challenger. Conversely, those affected by The Inciting Challenge gain a +5 to attacks and saves when fighting The Challenger. Once invoked, The Inciting Challenge is permanent unless undone by magic that removes curses, restoration or its equivalent, or any of the wish variants. Not even death revokes The Inciting Challenge; unless the corpse is sanctified or obliterated (and sometimes not even then), the decedent will often return as undead to attempt to kill The Challenger. If The Inciting Challenge is revoked, the target is aware it was magically manipulated. (The Inciting Challenge is otherwise not obvious, although an active detect magic spell can sense enchantment magic when The Inciting Challenge is invoked.)
     If The Challenger leaves the target's presence, the target will attempt to hunt down the target and confront them to the best of their ability. They do not have a supernatural ability to find The Challenger, but will usually devote all available resources to doing so. Additionally, if the target tells anyone about The Challenger, that person must also save vs. spells at -10 or else be affected by The Inciting Challenge against The Challenger.
     If The Challenger is slain, the target’s bloodlust ends, but it will return if The Challenger returns to life.

For non-player character targets: The target’s NPC attitude turns Hostile while under the influence of The Inciting Challenge, and cannot be modified by The Challenger or their companions under any means.

For player character targets: Player characters get a little more agency than NPCs, and so do not need to make a save vs. spells to avoid The Inciting Challenge. Instead, PCs get A Choice.
1) Ignore The Inciting Challenge.
2) Accept The Inciting Challenge. If the character accepts, they get the same +5 bonus on attacks and saves against The Challenger. They can take other actions without penalty. If they kill The Challenger, they gain a level immediately, gaining enough experience to be 1 XP away from the next level above that. (So a Level 6 character who kills The Challenger becomes Level 7 and is 1 XP away from Level 8.) This level gain is not subject to the one-level-per-adventure restriction of most old school games, so the character very well may gain a second level at the end of the session. If The Challenger gets away, the target automatically spends half the treasure they earn each session trying to find The Challenger until they find and slay The Challenger. If The Challenger plays in a FLAILSNAILS game, the GM should always grant a target of The Inciting Challenge a spot in the game if possible, even if session membership is usually random.

On True Names: In a pre-industrial society, True Names usually comprise a character's first and last name (or first name and title), although some characters may keep their actual names secret, instead going by an alias. (Although characters need to watch that, as an alias might become a character's True Name if it is more widely known!) Creatures such as gods, spirits, demons, and ancient dragons often exist in multiple planes simultaneously, and so have appropriately-complex True Names that are often obscure.
     The GM is the ultimate arbiter of what constitutes a creature’s True Name.

Ynnian Changelings for 5e

(Skip my chatter and download the race here, if you want.)

My players fled the frozen waste by drawing a door in chalk upon a garden wall...

That's right, you heard right: one of my rotating 5e groups thought fantasy mythic Norway sucked so hard they fled into Emmy Allen's The Gardens of Ynn. Those poor goddamn fools.

Well, last session, there was an incident with some Splicing Vats, and the extremely gross goblin assassin turned into a grotesque plant monster before the rest of the party finally put him down. (Or did they?)

But that means the player needs to make a new character, and as per the rules set forth in The Gardens of Ynn, that character must be a Ynnian changeling, a person lost for so long in the Other Garden that they adapted. In The Gardens of Ynn, there's a custom race-as-class for it, but since we're playing 5e like a bunch of corporate sell-outs, I made a custom 5e race for it.

(Hey, we're not sell-outs, it's just cut-up! Truth be told, after dying repeatedly in Lamentations of the Flame Princess, my players voted to switch to 5e. Honestly, it has only seemed more kind because they're higher level. They're still mutated and mutilated, and we've had two deaths since the switch.)

If you care about balance, it's probably a little weak compared to other races at lower levels, but might get more potent depending upon which mutations you roll and which layer of the garden on which the changeling is found. Not that it matters; you can only play a Ynnian changeling if your replacement PC shows up in the Other Garden, otherwise you pick a standard race.

I considered having fixed stat modifiers (probably +1 Wisdom, +2 Charisma), but left them customizable on the theory that changelings can be from any initial racial stock. Otherwise, it looks like standard 5e races. As always, I welcome your feedback.

Anyway, enough chatter:

Download the Ynnian changeling for 5e

You'll Catch Your Death

I've previously outed myself as a recovering microbiologist, so it comes as little surprise that I liberally sprinkle disease and other such biological ephemera in my scenarios. (One of the players in my Los Angeles-set Unknown Armies game was bitten by an extradimensional raccoon, and was dismayed that her character became feverish and the bite wound became swollen despite passing her Fitness roll. I reminded her that fever is the sign that your body is doing what it's supposed to; the symptoms would have been far worse — and rules-influencing rather than merely descriptive flavor — had she failed.)

The following content originates from an early draft of No Rest for the Wicked. I'm glad to have dropped the prospect of cold weather as an antagonist, but the rules are still potentially useful, so here you are. As written, this is for Lamentations of the Flame Princess, but easily adaptable to any sort of old-school adventure game.

Hypothermia and Pneumonia

If player characters insist on sleeping outdoors on a cold, rainy night, they can potentially deal with the following complications:

If the player characters lack bedrolls and tents, the cold and wet threatens them with hypothermia. The player characters must save versus Paralyzation every turn or else lose a point of Constitution. Constitution lost to hypothermia potentially returns at a rate of 1 point per turn of rest, provided the characters are resting in a warm, dry space. Characters gain a +2 to the save if they have winter clothes.

If the player characters lack tents and winter clothing, sleeping in the cold, wet night threatens them with a respiratory ailment like bronchitis or pneumonia. If player characters spend more than 2 + Con modifier hours (minimum of 1 hour) out in the bad weather, the Referee should save versus Poison on their behalf. Failure indicates characters become feverish and are wracked with coughing fits within the next day or two. Three days after initial infection, the Referee should save versus Poison on the character's behalf again. (This roll is made at a -2 if the character is not resting during the infection, i.e. still adventuring.) Failure means the character loses 1 point of Constitution and 1d2 hit points. This saving throw repeats every 6 hours for 7 days. If the character survives the week, the disease passes. Lost Constitution returns at a rate of 1 point for every day of rest. At the Referee's option, a character might permanently lose 1 point of Constitution if their Constitution becomes low enough (maybe within Con 1-3).

Spore Week: Strange Growths of the Beeheath Undermarket

You saved his village!  He's so proud of you!

Adventurers recently cleared out the stretch of sewer beneath the Beeheath Market Square, and in the process, found a circle of myconids living within the storage rooms of the old Gewerbestadt Night Market.

In time, as sewer workers survey the site and begin shoring up the old aqueducts, the myconids will no doubt encounter humanity and become exposed to commerce and trade and human values.

Such is the way of things.

At that time, travelers will no doubt want to trade for their wondrous fungal remedies.  The myconids do not understand trade — you can just give people stuff they need, after all — but it is the way of these strange mammalian things, so they will adapt.

They don't sell many standard goods, other than rations at standard prices.  (Hope you like mushrooms!)  For the discerning adventurer, here are some nonstandard goods they might sell.  Alternately, since the characters arguably helped them by clearing out the sewers of vermin, perhaps they just have one of these waiting when next they visit!  (Coincidentally, the next one grows to maturity the visit after the last one is consumed.  Funny how that timing works.)

As any mycologist can tell you, identifying fungi is difficult, even if you're well-trained.  Characters can only identify what a given fungus is and does at great difficulty, if at all.  (It's probably easier to identify it after you've eaten it, though.)  Assume the descriptions below are guidelines; the fungi can have greater similarities if you want to make future identification more difficult.

The myconids don't know what these mushrooms do to non-fungal lifeforms, so they can't help you.  They're very interested to know what happens when you consume these mushrooms, though.

The face of a dedicated scientist.

Assign prices to the following.  (10gp or 25gp per syllable in the name is a good rule of thumb.)  Alternatively, roll 1d12 to see which type of mushroom is available on any given visit:

1. I Dreamt A Dream Of Fullness, Of Wholeness, And It Was My Entirety
A standard healing potion: like a cure light wounds spell (1d6+1 hp) in an old-school game, or a potion of healing (2d4+2 hp) in a 5e game.
A brownish, greyish morel with a warm, nutty flavor.

2. I Had A Dream Of The Cosmos, And It Was I, And I Was It
You know it was coming.  Replicates the effects of an enlarge spell for an hour.  (For old school games, assume it grants double size and double Strength-based damage for the duration.)
A sticky red-and-white spotted toadstool.  Tastes sour, like illusions of grandeur.

3. For the Eukarya Is Mykarya, All Are Connected, All Are Siblings In The World
The consumer must make a saving throw vs. poison.  (Or a DC 13 Constitution check.)  On a failed save, the consumer begins the transformation into a slime mold.  This takes a turn (10 minutes), and is quite painful.  However, once complete, the character can ooze through cracks as small as one inch without difficulty (and without slowing down), and the character can cling to walls and ceilings, moving at standard rates without climbing checks.  The character's equipment is left behind, but the ooze-character makes a dandy scout.  At the end of every hour, the character makes the same saving throw vs. poison, turning back into themselves (albeit bereft of equipment) on a successful save.  If the character fails five such saving throws in a row, the change is permanent.  (Although appropriate magic can probably reverse the transformation.)
A patch of purple-brown mold with an acrid aroma but pleasing, cotton candy taste.

4. The Motive Force Of The Mind Sets The Whole World Into Motion
The consumer gains +1d6 Intelligence for an hour.  (Alternately, for a 5e-type game, gain advantage on Intelligence checks as per enhance ability.)  The character can probably do calculations in their head for the duration.
A juicy purple toadstool, it probably leaves stains on the inside of your pack.  Tastes like cool lemonade on a hot desert day.

5. The Deepest Root Lies Not In The Earth, But In Oneself
You can communicate telepathically with nearby intelligent creatures (creatures of higher than animal intelligence that you can see within 60 feet) for the duration.  They cannot communicate back, though.
A brownish-orange bracket, chewing it tastes of nutty wood and a mild metallic aftertaste.

6. The Fruit Was Birthed In The Mind, And It Will Take Root In All Minds
You grow fruiting bodies that rupture, sporulating in a cloud around you.  For 1d6 rounds, you can order people to do things as per a suggestion spell.  They fall under this compulsion for only 1d6 turns (ten-minute increments for you new school folks), but it requires no further concentration from you to enact.  This spell only affects creatures that breathe and can understand your language.  They can roll a save vs. poison to resist the compulsion.  (For 5e-type games, roll a DC 13 Constitution saving throw to resist the suggestion.)
A white puffball, tasting of exotic fruits and ambition.

7. I Dreamt I Was An Animal Capable of Speech, And The Other Animals Did Hasten To My Words
You grow fruiting bodies that rupture, sporulating in a cloud around you.  For 1d6 turns (ten-minute increments), those nearby must roll a save vs. poison or else be affected as if by charm person.  The charm effect wears off when the duration ends.  As per a regular charm person spell, the affected parties know that you did something to them when the spell wears off.  They get saves if you ask them to do something harmful, as normal.  (Again, DC 13 Constitution saving throw to resist 5e charm person.)
A pink puffball, tasting of port wine and sorrow.

8. The Deepest Root Lies Not In The Earth, But In Oneself, But Oneself Is The Microcosm
For an hour, any creature coming within 30 feet of you must make a saving throw vs. poison or else be affected by your rapport spores.  (5e: DC 13 Constitution saving throw.)  While under the influence of these spores, creatures can communicate telepathically with you or any other creature under the influence of rapport spores, so long as they are within 30 feet.  (However, all creatures thus networked hear this communication, even affected enemies.)  You can likewise communicate with the network.  This affects any living creature smarter than an insect (Intelligence 2+), so long as it isn't an alien spirit (like an elemental.)  The effect ends when the duration ends.
A yellow puffball, tasting of salt and tin.

9. The Dream Of The Fungus-Mind Lives Within Me, Now
The consumer must make a save vs. poison or else be affected by confusion for 1d6 hours.  (Again, DC 13 Constitution saving throw to avoid confusion.)  You are gripped with terrifying hallucinations for the duration.  Hopefully, your companions have something to keep you restrained.
A morel with a washed-out brown color, tasting faintly of strawberries.

10. I Dreamt Not Of The Mycelia, For They Dreamt Of Me First
Hoo, boy.  If someone eats this, they make a saving throw vs. poison.  (DC 13 Constitution saving throw.)  The fungus has a will and controls the character for 1d6 hours.  (That is, the GM controls your character for 1d6 hours.)  What it wants is best left to the mind of the GM, but it's probably strange and alien.  (If you're stuck for ideas, it probably wants to spread, or to spread the meld.  What do your friends do when they catch you seeding local wells with fungal spores?)  You do not remember what you do in this time.
A sticky yellow toadstool, tasting acrid and strange.

11. What Is A God But A New Life Upon The Face Of The World
The consumer makes a save vs. poison.  (DC 13 Con save.)  Failure indicates the spores take root.  Over the next 1d6 hours, a fruiting body appears and grows before falling off.  It gains 10 pounds per hour.  When it falls off, it becomes a 1 HD myconid — AC unarmored, 1 slam attack for 1d4 damage, and its only special powers are to release spores that alert other myconids of danger.  It withers and dies if exposed to direct sunlight for more than an hour.  (If using 5e, use the stats for a myconid sprout.)  It has no particular loyalty to you, although it is likely to regard you as a parent if well-treated.  But are you willing to nurture this thing until it grows into an adult?
A toadstool with a fibrous, bracket-like consistency.  Tastes like wood and nostalgia.

12. I Dreamt Of Home, Of My Truest Self, Of The Meld That Lurks In All Our Selves
Make a save vs. poison or a DC 13 Constitution save.  On a failed save, the consumer falls into a deep slumber lasting 1d4 days.  The consumer's body swells and grows during this time, becoming strange and purplish.  At the end of this time, the consumer's body ruptures, revealing a myconid inside.  The myconid retains the original character's memories and statistics, although it exchanges the original character's race for its own.  (If using the race-as-class variation, it becomes a myconid with the same XP as the original character.)  As with For the Eukarya Is Mykarya, All Are Connected, All Are Siblings In The World, appropriately potent restoration magic might reverse the transformation.
A purple mushroom looking disturbingly like a little myconid.  Smells like the top of a baby's head and has a subtle, musky flavor.  Tastes like home.

Spore Week: Playable Myconids

Welcome to Spore Week!

(There's no special occasion, I just realized I had a couple of fungus-themed posts on the horizon, so why not make a whole thing of it.)

First up: Myconids.

Join the power of the meld.

Most myconids are furtive, peaceful, and spend most of their time in hallucinogenic rapport they call "the meld."  They consider this to be the reason for their existence.

But occasionally, some myconids go native and seek to explore the world physically rather than metaphorically.  (Scholars postulate that these myconids grew on the corpses of humanoids, and so absorbed humanoid hormones and memories as part of their growth cycle.  But sometimes they just happen without rhyme or reason.)

As such, we present playable myconids for Basic, Advanced, and fifth edition fantasy adventure game variants.

Myconids (Basic Race-as-Class)

Prime Requisite (if your game uses it): Wisdom
HD: d6
Thac0/to-hit: As cleric
Saves: As dwarf
Armor and Weapons: Myconids are typically pacifists and are neither proficient in armor nor weapons, although they can use shields.  However, they can attack with their fists and they become tougher as they age, as described below.
XP: As magic-user; myconids only progress to the ninth level of experience, as described below.

Myconids appear to be toadstool-like humanoids, with spongy flesh in colors from purple to grey.  Adventurous myconids are usually around 6' tall and weigh about 120 pounds.

Myconids usually live underground, and so have the ability to see in the dark with infravision up to 60 feet.  Myconids' hardy constitutions are reflected in their saving throws.  A myconid will speak the common tongue, its own alignment language, and can communicate with other myconids through the use of spores.

The typically dry conditions of the surface force myconids to imbibe double the amount of water per day as other humanoids.  This requirement is waived in cool underground places (like the typical dungeon or cavern) and possibly in places with plenty of humidity and lots of cover (like a rainforest).

Starting at third level, myconids can release spores at foes once per day.  It gains the following options as it levels up:

• At third level, the myconid may choose to release pacifier spores.  This targets one creature within 40 feet.  If the creature fails its saving throw vs. poison, it becomes totally passive, unable to do anything, although it is still aware of its surroundings.  This effect lasts for a number of rounds equal to the myconid's level.
• At fifth level, the myconid may choose to release hallucinator spores.  This targets one creature within 40 feet.  If the creature fails its saving throw vs. poison, it is affected as the target of a confusion spell.  This effect lasts for a number of rounds equal to the myconid's level.
• At seventh level, the myconid may choose to release animator spores.  This targets one dead creature.  Over the course of 1d4 days, the creature is raised as a zombie.  (Use the standard zombie statistics from your game of choice.)  It is not undead and cannot be turned.  It follows the myconid's simple instructions (delivered by myconid spores), and lasts 1d4+1 weeks before decaying and becoming useless.  A myconid can typically only control one such zombie at a time.

Myconids do not use weapons or armor, but become increasingly tough over time.  Their hides become tougher and better able to resist damage, and they have a natural slam attack that becomes more powerful the strong the myconid becomes.  Player character myconids naturally develop according to the following chart:

MYCONID SPECIAL ABILITIES
Class Level	AC Bonus	Unarmed Attack Damage
1	0	1d4
2	-1	1d4
3	-1	2d4
4	-2	2d4
5	-2	3d4
6	-3	3d4
7	-3	4d4
8	-4	5d4
9	-4	6d4

Reaching 9th Level: When a myconid reaches 9th level, it has the option of sporulating and creating a circle of myconids.  2d6 HD 1 myconids will arrive to follow the elder myconid.  Myconids do not progress beyond the ninth level of ability, and typically retire to become myconid sovereigns.

Myconids (Advanced Edition Race)

Requirements: WIS 9
Ability Modifiers: WIS +1, CHA -1
Ability Min/Max: STR 3/18, DEX 3/18, CON 6/18, INT 3/16, WIS 8/19, CHA 3/14

Myconids appear to be toadstool-like humanoids, with spongy flesh in colors from purple to grey.  Adventurous myconids are usually around 6' tall and weigh about 120 pounds.

Myconids usually live underground, and so have the ability to see in the dark with infravision up to 60 feet.  Myconids' hardy constitutions grant them a +4 to saving throws against poison.  A myconid will speak the common tongue, its own alignment language, and can communicate with other myconids through the use of spores.

The typically dry conditions of the surface force myconids to imbibe double the amount of water per day as other humanoids.  This requirement is waived in cool underground places (like the typical dungeon or cavern) and possibly in places with plenty of humidity and lots of cover (like a rainforest).

Starting at third level, myconids can release spores at foes once per day.  It gains the following options as it levels up:

• At third level, the myconid may choose to release pacifier spores.  This targets one creature within 40 feet.  If the creature fails its saving throw vs. poison, it becomes totally passive, unable to do anything, although it is still aware of its surroundings.  This effect lasts for a number of rounds equal to the myconid's level.
• At fifth level, the myconid may choose to release hallucinator spores.  This targets one creature within 40 feet.  If the creature fails its saving throw vs. poison, it is affected as the target of a confusion spell.  This effect lasts for a number of rounds equal to the myconid's level.
• At seventh level, the myconid may choose to release animator spores.  This targets one dead creature.  Over the course of 1d4 days, the creature is raised as a zombie.  (Use the standard zombie statistics from your game of choice.)  It is not undead and cannot be turned.  It follows the myconid's simple instructions (delivered by myconid spores), and lasts 1d4+1 weeks before decaying and becoming useless.  A myconid can typically only control one such zombie at a time.

Myconids may select from the following classes, with the indicated level limits:

MYCONID CLASSES AVAILABLE
Class	Level Limit
Fighter	9
Magic-User	5
Illusionist	7
Thief	9

Myconid thieves receive the following bonuses and penalties to thief abilities:

MYCONID THIEF SKILL ADJUSTMENTS
Skill	Adjustment
Pick Locks	-5%
Pick Pockets	-5%
Move Silently	+5%
Hide in Shadows	+5%

If you're using Advanced Edition starting ages and age stages, myconids usually start at 1d4+4 years old.  They are considered adolescents from ages 2-4, adults from age 5-12, middle aged from ages 13-16, elderly from ages 17-20, and venerable from ages 21-24.

Myconids (5e Race)

As per standard 5e race design, player character myconids have somewhat different capabilities from standard Monster Manual-derived myconids.  Player character myconids are considered humanoids.

Ability Score Increase. Your Constitution score increases by 1, and your Wisdom score increases by 2.
Age. Myconids mature quickly, typically considered adults at age 4.  They rarely live longer than thirty years, although some specimens may be truly ancient.
Alignment. The orderly, harmonious society of myconids typically gives them lawful mindsets.  They trend neutral, connected as they are with the unbiased attitude of nature.
Size. Myconids are typically around 6 feet tall and weigh around 120 pounds.  Your size is Medium.
Speed. Your base walking speed is 30 feet.
Superior Darkvision. You can see in dim light within 120 feet of you as if it were bright light, and in darkness as if it were dim light.  You can't discern color in darkness, only shades of gray.
Fungal Essence. You have advantage on saving throws against being charmed or poisoned, and you have resistance against poison damage.
Sunlight Sensitivity. You have disadvantage on attack rolls and on Wisdom (Perception) checks that rely on sight when you, the target of your attack, or whatever you are trying to perceive is in direct sunlight.
Sporulation. You know the message cantrip requiring no material components. Once you reach 3rd level, you can cast comprehend languages when you finish a long rest, requiring no material components to do so.  Once you reach 5th level, you can cast calm emotions when you finish a long rest.  Wisdom is your spellcasting ability for these spells.
Languages. You can speak, read, and write Common and Undercommon.

Rise of the Baller Wizards

Baller Wizards, also known as Slam Thaumaturges (among a host of other names of mysterious provenance), are a sect of wizards practiced in the ancient ways of the basketball court. They are similar in some respects to Muscle Wizards. (With variants found here, here, and here.)

What follows is for old school, OSR-ish, dragon-y dungeon-y games. But there's also a fifth edition version, if you're into that sort of thing.

Appendix N: Barkley, Shut Up and Jam: Gaiden, NBA Jam, Space Jam, every Harlem Globetrotters cartoon from the '70s and beyond (but maybe especially their Futurama appearances)

Prime Requisite (if your game uses it): Dexterity
HD: d6
Thac0/to-hit: As thief/rogue
Saves: As magic-user/wizard
Armor and Weapons: Standard: no armor, but can use daggers, darts, quarterstaffs, and slings. They are also trained in the ancient Shaq Fu of B-Ball combat, and so many use their B-Balls in skirmishes as described below.
Movment: Ballers move at 125% speed for a member of their race while unencumbered. So if standard unencumbered speed is 120', they move 150'. You can probably figure out the conversions from there. Round up if it matters.
XP: As magic-user

If you use prime requisites and XP bonuses for exceptional ability scores, Baller Wizards get the appropriate bonuses or penalties based off their Dexterity.

Baller Wizards can still do spell research and magic item creation like normal wizards, although their process tends to be more... idiosyncratic than usual. As you might expect, spell research and magic duels are usually settled on the basketball court.

Starting Baller Wizards get their first B-Ball for free.

"He just got his degree from dunkin' on U!"

B-Ball Magic: Baller Wizards don't use listed spell components, instead relying on their B-Balls as their primary component. (If a spell component requires a monetary cost, the Baller Wizard still has to pay it to perform alchemical maintenance on their B-Balls.) If a Baller Wizard loses their B-Ball, they're not casting. (As noted under the section for B-Balls, they can cast with an appropriately-sized sphere once.)

They don't use spellbooks, instead learning spells as maneuvers on the basketball court. If they acquire an appropriate magic-user scroll, they can "learn" it by practicing with it for an hour, then casting it once into their B-Ball. Rather than the spell's normal effect, they learn it by casting it. (As with Muscle Wizards, you can think of the stored magical energy as being in their muscles rather than their minds.)

Baller Wizards can work glyphs into their dribble patterns to cast spells, but if a Baller Wizard casts an offensive spell through their B-Ball — hitting the target with a ranged attack and centering the effect on the B-Ball — the Baller Wizard is unaffected by their own spell (so you can dunk on someone and cast fireball without ill effect) and the B-Ball does only 1d4 damage without the usual modifers. If the ranged attack misses, the Baller loses the spell but it has no effect (and probably has to retrieve the B-Ball, as explained below).

From Downtown: Baller Wizards can Climb Walls as a thief of the same level. (When in doubt, use Labyrinth Lord, page 13.)

"He's heating up!"

He's on Fire: If you use magic schools in your games, Baller Wizards typically only have access to abjuration and evocation. (Expand that selection if you want; I'm a blog, not a cop.) If there's a spell that makes a lot of sense for a Baller Wizard but doesn't fit their school selection, feel free to let them have it. Don't forget: Baller Wizards still have access to spell research like standard magic-users, so it's perfectly fine to research B-Ball-friendly versions of standard spells, as long as you can justify them.

If you don't use magic schools, let them use spells that make sense to be delivered via B-Ball, or cast via protective sigils worked into their dribbling patterns. (As per Ten Foot Polemic's rules for Punch-casting, it's fine if it's a little silly. That's the point!) They're usually into the flashy protection and offensive spells. But can the character cast charm person by dunking on someone and rewriting their memories, like Gilligan getting hit on the head with a coconut? Up to the GM.

"Boom Shakalaka!"

Jump Shot: Use your favorite system for exceptional jumps if you have one. If you don't, try these: with a running start of at least 20 feet, a Baller Wizard can make a horizontal leap of 3d6 + their level in feet, or a vertical leap of 1d6 + half their level (round up) in feet. Without a running start, a Baller Wizard can make a horizontal leap of 2d4 + half their level (round up) in feet, or a vertical leap of 1d4 + half their level (round down) in feet.

Shaq Fu: All Baller Wizards are trained in ranged combat and specialized in the use of their B-Balls. They get a +1 bonus to ranged attacks and a +2 bonus to damage when using their B-Balls in combat.

"Is it the shoes?"

The B-Ball
The B-Ball is a sacred object, a magically-enhanced sphere used as both the focus of a Baller Wizard's casting and a weapon if needed. (In a pinch, a Baller Wizard can attack with any sphere of appropriate size, although they don't get the +1 attack/+2 damage they do with a B-Ball. They can cast spells with any sphere of appropriate size, but unless it's an artifact or something, the act of casting with it destroys it.) A Baller Wizard's first B-Ball is always acquired with great celebration, either being inherited from a mentor or manufactured by the young apprentice.

Some few self-taught Baller Wizards manufacture their own B-Balls and learn the ancient spells without contact with the wider community; in the bards' tales, most legendary Baller Wizards are claimed to be self-taught.

A B-Ball is a spherical object, roughly thirty inches in circumference, and comprising complex alchemical reagents to give it its characteristic texture and elasticity. Assuming access to a laboratory or other place to work, it takes a Baller Wizard 1d4 weeks to make a B-Ball, and it costs 50gp per week in manufacturing costs.

B-Balls can be used as ranged weapons. They deal 1d4 damage, have a short range of 20', medium range of 40', and long range of 60'. Those who are not specifically trained with them find them difficult to use in combat, and can maybe do 1d3-2 damage with one. (No, you don't heal your opponent on a -1.)

A trained wielder can make a B-Ball bounce back to its owner after a successful hit — so if you hit with a ranged attack or a spell attack, and both hands are free, the ball returns to your hand as part of your attack. (This is not magic, but more like training with a boomerang; if you throw it into a spider web or it gets hit with a force field or something, it's not going to return the way you expect.)

If you miss your target, the B-Ball bounces past it. The easy rule is that your B-Ball still bounces back to you if your target is against a wall or something, rolls to a stop if there's open ground, or bounces off into oblivion if your target is next to a cliff. (This is the most likely reason why you're going to replace your B-Ball.) If you need granularity for some reason (maybe you're playing on the grid), assume the B-Ball bounces 1d6 × 5 feet before rolling to a stop. If the GM is really slick and feels like tracking it, the ball follows contours on the ground like you would expect. Use your common sense.

"MONSTER JAM!"