HtV Character Backstories Marshall Bowen Forest III

• 
  Marshall Bowen Forest III has a particular dislike for his given name. Perhaps it was the fact that his father always introduced him using every syllable as if it added additional weight and lineage to what was essentially a “new money” family. Or perhaps it was the fact that while his father was named Marshall Forest, there was no grandfather who held either of those names. In fact, there was no grandfather on either side, as Marshall Forest II was an orphan. A bastard child, most likely of a young prostitute, too poor or too uncaring to keep the child fathered on her by a nameless sailor or travelling salesman. But most likely, it was the fact that while his father had worked for the small fortune he’s amassed, he had never actually gotten to know his son.
  
  The elder Forest had made shrewd investments in hand-held power tools, first supplying the American Army Corps of Engineers during the fighting, and then major public works projects in during the reconstruction, in addition to the thousands of “craftsmen” and “do-it-yourselfers” that sprang up during the post-war boom. This created a life of luxury for the Forest family, providing maids and servants for the peasant-looking Maude Forest, a row of factories accountants to increase the wealth, and the ability for both parents to relegate their only child into the care of professionals. Professionals who, at best, could claim to be fond of their charge, but no more so than the child of any given neighbor.
  
  As a consequence of both his father’s money and his father’s influence, the only child and heir to the not-insubstantial fortune, was able to leave distant parents, professional tutors, and his pretentious-sounding name behind when he went first to preparatory school and then to university. He made a point of never identifying himself by anything but his middle name, and so those who didn’t know him well enough, which was nearly everyone, were at a loss as to whether Bowen was his first or last name. This slight air of mystery and confusion pleased Bowen, though he could not have said why, and he was too lazy to delve deeper into the emotion.
  
  Laziness was practically the defining term for Bowen’s life, and permeated nearly everything he did. His father’s money had allowed him to develop his talents in any arena he desired, and to date he had little desire whatsoever. He had proficiency for the use of pistols and revolvers, and under the tutelage of Swedish champion Torsten Ullman, he had shown great promise. But that promise was never fulfilled. Ullman found the boy more than capable, but unwilling to actually compete and hone his craft to perfection.
  
  He was too young to even consider joining the services when Germany and Japan declared war across the world, and his father would never have risked the heir apparent to his growing empire. As such, he was too young to know better while he was in school, and when he did know better, the war was already rounding out. Bowen did not particularly regret being caught in the middle of not-quite-but-almost as some of his schoolmates. Their lust for glory on the distant battlefields held no infectious joy for him.
• Shortly before his graduation with mediocre standing from preparatory school, Bowen’s mother died. There was nothing overly dramatic or traumatic about her passing, but while he stood next to his father at the gravesite, remarking on how the warmth of the sun caused a bead of sweat to run down the middle of his back every few minutes, he realized that he had no love for either parent. They were blood-related only by chance and social structure. What little emotional impact he felt for his mother’s passing was based on the realization that he, too, someday would be planted into the ground. Bowen saw that life was short, and resolved to see just how far his father’s money could take him.
  
  His father, ever the businessman, had practically called a meeting shortly after the conclusion of his wife’s funeral. Bowen had sad in a hard, leather-bound chair while his father laid out the groundwork for their future association. Bowen could attend the college of his choice, and would be granted living expenses, tuition, and an entertainment stipend provided he maintained a degree path and showed results. The elder Forest didn’t so much care what his son studied, only that the university be a recognized institution, and that degree be socially respectable. Something he could mention over cocktails and boardroom meetings. Quarterly reports (he actually used the term reports, rather than letters or correspondence) would be submitted, and funding would be contingent upon success. In order to further Bowen’s understanding of economics, the funds would be placed into a private bank account.
  
  Bowen couldn’t have been more pleased by the arrangement.
  
  For the first time in his life he would be free of tutors, professionals, hirelings, and headmasters. Much to his surprise, he found university life greatly to his liking. He could select classes based on his own schedule and lifestyle, he could attend lectures that caught his fancy, and he could make his own living arrangements in any fashion he liked. He quickly sought out what he thought was the easiest path to maintaining this arrangement and pursued a liberal arts degree in Medieval history.
  
  Unconsciously, or perhaps subconsciously, Bowen filled his social life with individuals who similar to those he had from his youth: professionals and associates paid for their time. His “group” was greatly interested in the joys of the night, and his dalliances with women were distractions that never lasted from one season to the next. He frequented jazz clubs, danced and drank through the twilight hours, and staggered through his classes with as little effort as he could manage, and still maintain his revenue stream.
  
  This, then, was the good life. It was also a course for disaster.
  
  Bowen enjoyed drinking and buying drinks. He enjoyed smoking, and the process which surrounded tobacco. He was then introduced to “harder” elements of distraction, starting with marijuana and other assorted narcotics and leading up to the hydrocodone-based Vicodin.
  
  Vicodin was not a harsh mistress by any means. It was a tender embrace of warmth and distance that Bowen found suited him. He could much more easily enjoy the slowing of time and of cares after a tablet or two, whether he was out at a jazz club, or self-imposed into a lecture hall. But as weeks and semesters passed, he found his tolerance for the drug increased and the inevitable decline into addiction began. He managed to receive an unremarkable degree, and eked into a graduate study program, but nipping at his heels, and catching quickly, was the greater and greater dependence on his drug of choice. If not for the sudden death of his father, Vicodin might have spelled disaster for Bowen.
  
  Bowen discovered that his father had died not via telegram from the company, the board or anyone else. Instead, he found out when he attempted to make a withdrawal from his bank account and found it bone dry. The bank manager, happy to oblige such an esteemed customer, made inquiries and discovered that Marshall Forest II had died of a stress-induced heart attack nearly six weeks prior.
  
  Uncharacteristically, no will or other legal documents regarding the various businesses, fortunes, or properties of the elder Forest were found. Instead, the impressive empire the orphan-child had built over his lifetime seemed to disintegrate over night. Telegrams and wire messages were unanswered. Phone calls dead-ended with disconnections and unknown numbers. Travel home was well out of Bowen’s financial ability, and he was effectively trapped.
  
  That’s when the package arrived. It was addressed to Bowen in a harsh, heavy script that at first Bowen didn’t recognize. As he unwrapped the plain brown paper, he found a note addressed to him from his mother. His mother, who had been dead for more years than he could remember, and yet there was no yellowing of the paper, or signs of years of wear. Inside, he found a first edition copy of Johannes Nider’s “Formicarius”. The note was note was signed, but not addressed, and cryptically said, “They know me. They know him. This might save you.”

Hunter the Vigil

I'm not much of a writer when I'm not motivated (like most things in my life when I'm motivated I'm unstoppable, however when not ... ) to write.  How ever a few of my players have been.  Since I do want to blog a bit I thought I'd present you with the journal entries of my players for our Hunter game.  We've run three sessions in the Chronicle and we are still in the awakening phase of the chronicle, one think I asked them to do was build an heir in to their back story and journal so we could fast forward a generation after we sustained enough loses.  the chronicle is set in post WW2 Berlin (1956).  First up Character back stories.

Andrei Baev - Russia's Patriot

(This man stands at roughly 6'1". He's built sturdy, with enough muscle to give him strength without slowing down what appears to be a fair amount of physical dexterity. There's a hollowness in his Ice-blue eyes, and most people cannot stare into them too long. He's blonde, with his hair cut short in a typical military crew, and apparently he's growing the beginnings of a goatee. He wears what he likes to call 'american grease', a leather jacket over a white wifebeater. Jeans, and combat boots that seem to be old but still in rather fair condition cover him from the waist down. In a society that gives all it can to it's government, a society that for the most part lacks individuality, this man seems to hold on to whatever individuality he can. Although still in his youth, he shoes evidence of wrinkles and crows feet early on his face. A few silver strands also have sneaked their way into his hair. Obviously from stress.)

My father, Fyodr Baev, was a very large man. A very proud man. He viewed the previous regime of the Czar's to be a tyrranical one. One that cared only for the higher class, and catered to none other than them. So it was no surprise that Marx and his son's: Stalin and Lenin were icons to the soviet people. They preached an ideology that appealed to many, and my father fought proudly in the Revolution. So from the start, my family was baptized in Red. 

I was born shortly after the Motherland got her footing under the glorious hammer and sickle. The farmer's tools. March 13th, 1925 was my birthday. Friday. My parents said that I was unlucky, so they gave me my name: Andrei. It means warrior. My last name names story-teller. So I guess that means they wanted me to remember what happened during the second great war. My father, at the time, was a Starshina. A Junior Commander. I should state this now, but you should forgive me if I can't inform you about my mother. She left shortly after giving birth to me. All I know her as, is a whore. My father's words.

I grew up in Stalingrad, it was my home, my pride, and my heart. Despite the fact that my father had seen the outcome of this new regime would be no different than those of it's predecessors he still followed the communist party with his heart. As did I. When the treaty between the Fatherland and the Motherland was broken, and Leningrad was Seiged my father was called in to reinforce it and to evacuate any civilians left. I was 16 when my father was called into leningrad. He knew that the German Scum would push further in and in some twisted way, drafted me into the military. I loved the thought, I thought i'd be fighting for my country. To beat back those dogs back to the pound they came from only to slaughter them in their own houses. The filth needed to be put back into it's place.

I was put into accelerated training, which was fancy wording for: "We teach you how to shoot, live, and kill. Then throw you into company with more than four privets to one german soldier." I was given the PPD, F-1 Grenades, and designated as a Krasnoarmeyets. A red army man. I was put into the Bryansk Front which eventually changed to the 1st Ukranian Front as it penetrated into Berlin, and ignorant of the hell that I would witness. And eerily. The hell that I would grow accustomed too. After all, a Russian winter is cold. And there are two ways to stay warm: Vodka, and Hell.

The battles I participated in are many: Smolensk, El'nia, and Roslavl. The battles of Voronezh, the defensive operations on the approaches to Stalingrad, and in the December 1942 Operation Saturn, the follow-on to the encirclement of German 6th Army at Stalingrad where it destroyed Hungarian Second Army. During 1944, the front participated with other fronts in the battles of Korsun-Shevchenkivskyy, and the battle of Hube's Pocket in Ukraine. It conducted theLviv-Sandomierz Offensive, during which the Front was controlling the Soviet 1st Guards Tank Army, 3rd Guards Tank Army, 4th Tank Army, 3rd Guards, 5th Guards, 13th, 38th, and 60th Armies. It then took part in the battle for Ternopil'. In 1945 the front participated in the Vistula-Oder offensive, and conducted the Silesian and Prague Operations, and the siege of Breslau. It also participated in the Berlin operations in Germany and Poland. The front also conducted the major part of the Halbe Encirclement, in which most of the German 9th Army was destroyed south of Berlin. By this time the Polish Second Army was operating as part of the Front. Finally 1st Ukrainian Front provided the defence against the counter-attacks by Armee Wenck which aimed to relieve Berlin and the 9th Army. It refers to the fronts that I was stationed in. Transfered too. For some reason, I was an unlucky enough bastard to always be at the front line. 

I was not left without my fair share of scars, but my father raised me to be big, strong, and keep on moving. My ear drum on the left side is perforated, so my hearing is shit. Not only that, I'm not for the big crowds. They make me uneasy, and remind me of the many dead and dying on the battlefield. The pain was large, and what I did was monsterous. I killed many fathers, sons, cousins, and nephews. Many Men, and Many boys. I also saw something that disturbed me. It was during the war, when, for some reason, my superior officer had me perform a strike operation with a number of other men from all different companies. This idea was so that the operation, if found out, could not be pegged on any one company and could not be definitively traced back to any special forces. 

We were going into a warehouse, Warehouse 17 in the industry district of Berlin. What we saw there, not only stained my mind, but gives me nightmares. 'Herr Doktors' there had been performing some sort of sick genetic testing, perhaps for some biological weapon, perhaps to create the 'Super Soldiers' that the mad dog of a Furher wished to create for his failing army. Some had fur, and looked more like dogs than men. Others, looked more like men than dogs. Their muscles were bigger than my thigh, I swear! And those that did not make it had been sliced up and put into large vats of green viscous liquid. I never saw anything else besides that, but since then, I've been watching the shadows, never allowing them to leave my sight.

I probably buy to many games.

Like Shadowrun 20th which I picked up yesterday at Game Empire:

And from ebay Car Wars which came in the mail today:

And DC heroes which came yesterday:

Oh what to play ... our 2eAD&D group is talking about getting back together and the DM asked I'd like to run a game once a month.  I seriously considered running the Temple of Elemental Evil all 1e, or OSRIC.  But then I threw it out to the group, asking what they'd like to play since I've got shelves of games I'd love to play.  We'll see what they say.

Wow energy drain is a bitch.

Energy drain sucks.  The quest our group is on has the players exploring an ancient tomb, based on I3 Pharaoh. Long ago the inhabitants sealed themselves in bad stuff happened and most of them ended up undead; ghasts, ghouls, wrights, and wraiths it's a pretty miserable deadly place.  We could have easily lost a few PC's if I hadn't gifted them a sweet healing stick to get them through the quest, they might be a little under powered for.  Anyway the party added a cleric last session, and as a result they've been doing okay, but a wraith got through yesterday and tagged the ranger.


I've always been of the opinion that energy drain attacks, not only suck, but are kind of unfair.  It's happened to me and I hated it, I hated doing it to the ranger, but I'm not happy with any of the alternative energy drain systems I've perused.  I've toyed with the idea of allowing a constitution saving throw, but I didn't think of it last night.  Oh well, dame you Tolkien!

We were missing a player tonight, or how to be awesome!

You'll read the word awesome a lot in this post, you've been warned.

So last night I was reading some blogs and trying to figure out how I might want todays game to shape up. For probably the fiftieth time I stopped in at Risus Monkey, but for the first time I really read what he was doing with the little gem Old School Hack, and I thought "self you need a little break from this quasi-epic campaign, the paladin's player isn't going to be there why not just have a good time with a quick pick-up game".  Super glad I did.  We had characters rolled, written up, and a quick rules primer done in under half an hour.  The players did a little role playing to get started, spent an hour or so dealing with one of the players adventuring goal.  They found a map to a "bandits lair" and headed out to explore.

If you haven't taken the twenty minutes to browse through the rules, the main crux of game is to be completely fraking awesome, and if your character does some thing awesome you get an awesome point, that anyone at the table can award.  Then the only way you get experience is to spend awesome points, an ingenious way to get players to think about what they are doing beyond "I hit it with my axe".  I've tried to introduce DFRPG style fate points in our game from the get go.  It has been less than a stellar success, in fact it's been a pretty big bust. No one including me really got it, so a few sessions ago I introduced hero points.  Basically do some thing cool or heroic and you get a hero point which can be used to add a d6 to any d20 roll, start with three and you can earn up to five.  Sounds simple enough, and the players spent a few when their backs against the wall.  They just never seemed to want to earn more ... probably my fault.

Driving over to the game I thought, how do I encourage them to use and earn these points ... if you  are not at least kind of interesting while you try to do some thing, and I figured it would come up in combat, then you are lame and all the enemies in the arena of your lameness get a free attack on you that automatically hits.  Of course I forgot tell anyone this until the violation had been committed and the punishment dolled out.  I had told them the point was to freaking awesome and cool, oops.  Three auto hits, three points of damage, and one sort of butt hurt player later everyone got it, I apologized he was cool about it.  Awesomeness followed, and it was cool.  Now hopefully they can translate it over to the C&C game, I have faith.

Rules and me

I love indie games, I want to play more indie games, but it's kind of hard to find non D&D (throw Pathfinder in there) gamers.  I don't know if people my age just want to imagine themselves killing goblins, orcs, and other shit to take their stuff, or what, but that's not the place where I am with my gaming.  I am hoping to run a Witchcraft game very soon, and plan on developing a deep interactive plot with deep character development, NPC intrigue, a little horror all wrapped in a web of nasty trouble. I did, however, tell myself I would finish the story arc our game group is on for Castles and Crusades.  I think more than indie games I'm just itching to play a non Fantasy game.  The Star Wars game we started with the remnants on the AD&D2e group ... well let me be honest I don't think one session counts as starting, was a glimmer of hope dashed by new employment for the GM.

So I went on the hunt for another game group to join, and found a new local Pathfinder game.  Now I do enjoy me some rules light, mostly because that's about all me little dude brain can handle as a GM.  Last night was our second session, and going till midnight on a Tuesday was cool, but made getting up at 6 (okay I snoozed till 7) this morning sort of tough.  As a player I love the free online tools other geeks have made for me, and I can see as a GM it would be quick to throw a stat block together in a pinch.  My problem is all the rules take a certain amount of creativity out of the game.  In our C&C game I let my players do pretty much any thing if they have a great description of the action, and make an appropriate ability check.  If they want to get up and charge the filthy ragged savage that just attacked their camp fine, but it better sound like "I leap to my feet grabbing orc cleaver scream get off my sister you fiend throwing down the scabbard, I spring over the dead fire pit I smash the bastard in the nose with a quick head butt and run the violator through."  That's cool, and thank God there aren't move actions, standard action, free actions and whiner actions.  I just want to play not spend most of the night watching someone else look up rules in a big book.  However for now the group has been fun and I'll keep playing.

Fire Storm, good vs. bad

You notice the ground around you start to crackle as small embers come to life at your feet.  In an instant you are engulfed in arcane fire.  Smoke clogs your lungs and eyes, hair burns as does your flesh.  Oh go ahead and make a Dex. save!  Hugo reacts instantly nimbly leaping to relative safety.  Miguel shrugs it the burning fire off like a light rain shower his Dwarven resistance to the arcane serves him well.  His brother Alfonso is not so lucky, the fire overtakes him, he does not emerge from the flames.  Captain Ron, though only on the edge of the deadly burning ring, struggles in the fire, and must have been over come by the smoke inhaling a lungful at the wrong second.  Ron falls hard just out of the deadly ring.  

The Demon's minion cases Fire Storm, make a Dex Save.  Hugo and Miguel take 13 hp damage, and get out, Ron and Alfonso take the full 26 points of damage and both are knocked unconscious.

Which was I, and which do I try to be?  How do you want to handle descriptions?

I was a bad GM today

I mapped out a few encounters (both role playing and potential combat), that forwarded the plot we've been embroiled in.  In my mind (foreshadowing here) I mapped out the introduction of some new npc's, who I did have stats for, their personalities and motivations.  I planned to introduce a little dynamic sub plot ... and I got to the table and my mind went kind of blank.

Note to self write more depend on your fragile male noggin less.