James R. Andersen

      The sword is light as a feather and if one listens closely somewhere quiet it hums faintly, like the reverberation of a tree bending in the wind or a single note of birdsong. +3, the sword is terribly sharp and will never dull; if it chips in combat the pieces quickly fly back into place as if by magnetism. On a hit victim must roll a CON save of 20+ or take 2d10 bleed damage per turn. Can be snapped with great effort, but it will bend almost to a complete circle first. If it is snapped it loses its properties and can only regain them if it is reforged and offered a worthy sacrifice in a birch forest.  I suggest it be found among the rocks of a cave as part of an ancient shipwreck, or in a copse of birch with a tree grown partially around it. 

  “In soft times THE HARD MAN is the ultimate outcast; arts of physical force conducted for reasons other than SERVICE or spectacle become taboo.”-LaFond and West, The Hard Man Enough of being a protector and  defender. You must be an attacker.  Sissy civilization has implanted an aversion to aggressive violence so deeply in the last 100 years that men who are otherwise tough are subconsciously unable to conceive of initiating violence. It is always reactionary. This is related to the phenomenon of men wishing for sexually aggressive and dominant women, because they are scared of/unable to access their own sexual aggression. It is also societally approved, or at least more approved in a female dominated society, to be sexually and physically reactive. Anyone who knows anything about sex or violence knows that being reactive makes you worthless.  It is pathological to the degree of the subconscious, every piece of media boys are exposed to specifically displays ...

I found these rules I made for drinking while watching Conan the Barbarian. I remember this being a good time, but also having a debilitating hangover. I hope some of you will find this useful and entertaining.  Between the time when the TV was turned on and we rented this movie, and the rise of the people who have to piss during a crucial scene, there was an Age undreamed of, and unto this, a group of guys, destined to wear the hangover of Aquilonia upon a troubled brow. It is I - a wizard, mind you! - who alone can tell thee of their saga. Let me tell you of the days of communal drinking! PROVISIONS Only suitably Hyborian alcohols are allowed, e.g: beer, wine, mead, ale, bragget, cider, etc. (You’re gonna drink in bulk.) Buying a tankard/horn/goblet is not required but strongly encouraged, as are costumes.  For such a noble occasion a feast is in order! A light dinner is recommended as we shall devour a great spread during the event. Each must provide a piece of this, ...

     For the month of October I will be posting a new idea for a unique/magical TTRPG item each week/sometimes more frequently if I have more ideas. ANCIENT MASKS begin the hoard of rare items, found in an overgrown temple to a forgotten ancient god:  Ancient masks  These clay masks unsettle you when you look into their eyes. Holding different ones over your face have different effects.  You appear as a stranger to all people, someone they’ve never seen before.  Everyone thinks they know you.  You blend into any crowd.  You are invisible to kings.  You appear as a very old man. You appear as a young girl.  You appear as a poor beggar. You appear as a king.  No one who wishes to harm you can see you.

CONAN, now king of Aquilonia, is beset by traitors aided by the neighboring kingdom of Nemedia, determined to oust him from his throne. He is aging, now in his early forties, but in his full wisdom and cunning.             News reached the Aquilonian camp of a company of Nemedian cavalry moving across the border to flank Conan's host. The king took a troop of his most worthy knights to cut them off and drive them back across the border.  Autumn had set the forest ablaze. Leaves danced in the afternoon light, coming to rest gently on the forest floor.  They muffled the plod of heavy hooves stamping a sodden road. Spears and helms glinted in the light filtering between the trees. The image of a gold dragon on a black field waved on a pennant atop each lance. King Conan rode in front,  looming in his dark mail atop a powerful jet black stallion. His roughly chopped black mane lay carelessly over his mailled shoulder...