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A Sword Without a Hilt: A Song of Ice and Fire/D&D 3.5 Crossover

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It would be very different without teleport.

We might actually get to the same destination, but it would take three or four times as long. We wouldn't have conquered Western Essos + Westeros until around 300 AC, and by then the White Walkers would be rolling on our frontier without us having much time to prepare the ground beforehand.

Though to be fair, we still might end up in that position, since we're being side-rattled by fiends and aberrations at the same time. And probably fucking Blackfyres. Thanks Grandma.
 
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Omake: Prince to Prince, King to King
  • Threadmarks
    • Prince to Prince, King to King
    ​
    That had been a hell of a storm, 'Jonnel' thought. Perhaps disappointingly, slipping in among the numerous refugees and immigrants flooding into the fabled "City of Dawning Magic" wasn't as difficult as he'd thought it would be. He was reasonably certain it was much more difficult for him to blend in with the already melting pot of cultures that was Braavos, and more so for a bearing that drew from more cultures than his Westerosi features might imply at first blush. Acting had not been among his many skills, nor did he think it would ever be. At times he thought he'd be at home more out in the Grey Wastes, within the Dawn Fort and in good company, if not terrain.

    And still not drawing a crowd or even being worth much notice by the surprisingly organized port authorities, nor the law enforcement. Irritatingly, more organized than the Goldcloaks, given the fact that the watch in King's Landing had been designed to catch criminals, formed from men loyal to the crown, and devolved into a den of petty thugs and robber ilk little better than what circles they were set after, and couldn't be more disloyal to any authority without a hand reaching into a coin purse, no greater appeal to them than that of gold itself. These 'Greycloaks' were disciplined, if in an unconventional way, going about their business in a no-nonsense fashion, passing over those travelers unlikely to make trouble, and having a suspiciously canny ability to pick out troublemakers before they have the fortune to slip any given net.

    The people that formed both groups were just as likely to be of Essosi stock as Westerosi... or women rather than men, which he didn't begrudge so much as gawk at, not for the reasons they might assume, given the unflattering glares he'd been ducking ever since. True equality, he'd been thinking. Not just those who had reach high in influence among the 'gentry', the providence of new nobility as much as the wealthy or at least well-to-do had been called, merchants, yes, but also the authorities and perhaps unsurprisingly the local military.

    'Jonnel' still thought his Royal Guard would find a worthy match for these "Legionaires", or 'Torchbearers', as the present First Legion's sobriquet apparently was. It did not take long to draw the inference. Formed of sell-swords, hedge knights, more conventional men at arms who had made the journey to sign on with the Dragon King's household troops... and former slaves, escaped or liberated, it made no difference. He was amused by what the locals called 'Chain Street'. Most of the city was lit by ethereal 'witch lights' that caught his attention for at least a few moments, drawing his thoughts to the thousands of lanterns which lit the Port of Ibben. But the ones on the Street of Chains, which might make one draw conclusions of it being a bazaar for flesh peddlers, if it weren't for the fact that each collar lay upon them broken or snapped, were replaced routinely by simpler torches, and mundane in nature.

    More's the pity. He thought slave liberators making a base in the Narrow Sea, originally home only to pirates and slavers, notoriously so in fact, was more fantastical than most of what he'd already glimpsed. If it weren't for the Little Valyrians who acted nothing like the beasts he'd chanced upon in his travels at all, but instead little people. Or the bull men who could probably out-wrestle a Clegane, either brother. A smile touched his lips at the thought. That would be a contest he'd like to be not too soon in the coming.

    And still there were the 'wizards'. He'd of course thought it would mostly be petty conjurers and charlatans, as that is much of what one saw the further west they went, but that was only half the truth. There were petty conjurers, but that was only because they were apparently still learning, and learning more all the time! And there were apparently some very strict laws in place in terms of active defrauding of con men who thought it a good idea to pretend to be sorcerers in a city full of them. He was initially wary of so many magic users gathered in one place at the same time, never getting over his mistrust for their like, but willing to grin and bear with it if it meant gathering his wits in a strange yet familiar world.

    It all came to a head when he thought to pay his respect to one of the many, apparently newly grown heart trees, which he knew for fact should be all but impossible. There hadn't been weirwoods growing on the shattered Stepstones for thousands of years by many a historian's reckoning. 'Jonnel' had always had a sense of... peace, tranquility, or at least solemn contemplation when he came to tend a Godswood, but this 'Healing Tree' gave him nothing less than shivers up the spine, of a glaring presence that was very much alive, singing loud, not the murmuring torpor he come to expect. Magic in the air itself, as much a thing of bone and blood as Brightroar lying just beyond the skein of reality, for it was he and he was it, and magic was there.

    When he offered blood to the tree at an urchin's suggestion, and only after thorough observation and testing, he'd gotten his first taste of what many called a 'miracle'.

    He quickly set every miracle aside, because right then wasn't the time to be readjusting his entire world view. He'd done that enough times already, and was quite content where it had cemented as of late.

    They have steel giants protecting their magic school, he thought dimly, staring up at the model of what they called the "Dance of Spheres" above the fountain carved from magic, brilliant and terrible, beautiful in a way that was hard to describe without laying eyes on it yourself, or so one grey beard with purple eyes had claimed to him after several pointed inquiries. To his chagrin, he felt like the sorcerer had gotten more out of him than vice versa, for he had looked much too interested in his activities after that, even after making good on that offer of getting him drunk.

    And they keep adding bits of other worlds to their model art. 'Jonnel' would pinch himself, but he was fairly sure he wasn't hallucinating or imagining things anymore. Water, earth, fire, air. These weren't just mortal concepts of the very elements which forged the world around them anymore, but concepts which predated mortals, with spirits of flame and sky and sea and stone their denizens. The flaming bird in the tavern stolen from near Storm's End had confirmed as much. He'd heard the story a dozen times over. It was great. He loved that story. Could only appreciate the irony in his own corner of the room, all unaware of what amused him so, and it wasn't the audacity shown in the theft. Though that was funny, too.

    The Tinker's Guild was enlightening in a different way. For all the burgeoning city was well governed otherwise, this was a bit of organized chaos upon which rest the thrust of a thousand plans, ever-changing, from machines to lay waste to one's enemies or elaborate and complicated gear-driven water clocks and plumbing for sewers or aqueducts. Automated hedge trimmers, self-balancing wheeled devices and fishing boats which flipped themselves over when they might capsize.

    Some of these ideas even worked. And while some people called the maddening workshop home, the strange beetle spirits which cackled with glee when he spit-balled some of his own ideas their way and began work immediately, drawing from absurd budgets provided by the Crown, as it was called, were more at nature with the bizarre scene.

    The 'Circle of Battle' wasn't at all like what he'd expected, either, a blood pit of sand for men and beasts to butcher each other for the amusement of nobles? Least of his expectations had been first rate healers in constant attendance of the injured fighters, nor the bull men who clashed with conjured monsters or monkey archers who made shots he'd only seen during his time with the Scouts, doing utterly improbable maneuvers he'd ordinarily cuff a man for. But damned if it didn't work for them, he thought. And there were the mages. If that's what battle magic can do, he shuddered, I fear what 'powerful' sorcery around here is capable of. Apparently mimicking dragonstone construction using ordinary basalt, among other things.

    The girl with auburn hair fixed the broken arm a bull man named 'Surehoof' had given him with nary a glance or wave of her arm, barking 'Next!' at him so sharply he couldn't get in even a moment to question her about magic. Which was unfortunate, because she was apparently close to the local despot in council and friendship.

    Finally, when he couldn't take the twists and bends any longer, there was the taverns. One smuggler had gotten their hands on something called 'Dawn Mead', which could clear one's head of exhaustion and sleep with a sip, and keep one's spirits high for hours, though the crash was just as bad, if he did say so himself. 'Jonnel' had been moping for just as many hours when the bottle he'd won in a series of clever bets ran dry. But at least his head didn't ache. Another bonus to liberal magic laden all about the place.

    "This is bullshit," he muttered, "A fancy sword and a goofy lion. That's all I had to work with. And They just hand the Targaryens the power to warp reality at will?"

    At least he was really good with a sword.

    But better with a hammer. These little ironies were what kept him up at night.

    When he wasn't thinking of darker things.

    As he gazed up at the ominous Keep before him, a paltry, perhaps even humble thing before the ostentatious Palace of Tyrosh the King in the Stepstones had claimed yet only paid lipservice amounts of passing thought in his residence to, he then contemplated his next move. Sign on with the Legion, maybe get shuffled into a training unit and work my way up the slow way?

    Maybe 'Jonnel' would simply help a soldier misplace his gear and slip in with the next patrol relieving the night guard? Or, he thought with a snort, just walk in bold as brass and offer parley with a Dragon.

    He mulled it over.

    No, he eventually decided, that just isn't my style.     ​

    ***
    ​
    Your eyes slipped over the never-ending pile of missives, decrees and edicts, and for all that your mind was sharpened with a will stronger still than the unflinching hand which dutifully filled them out to the utmost, because you despised halfhearted efforts where it counted, and more so not fulfilling even the smallest duties to perfection, for it was the small things which were far easier to get done right, every time, rather than the things that were truly difficult. Which does not mean I must stop trying in both, you remind yourself, for such is the duty of a king, and all the better to ingrain such ethics with everyday life.

    An example creates a thousand others on its own strength, after all, as the city spread out beside him can surely attest.

    Also, you think with a small amount of whimsy, if I can think of this as merely ordinary, I can hardly wait for the world's reaction to what I consider truly extraordinary. Reworking the infrastructure of southern Essos from the ground-up being just a passing fancy for the Targaryen monarch of the Narrow Sea, all else still being equal... he did have to find ways to amuse himself in the late hours of the evening, where the only reward for work done well... was more work.

    Only the sharpened senses lent to his blood alerted him to the scuffing of boots behind him, upon the uneven portion of the window sill, the tiniest creak of floorboard and scrape of Myrish rug against coarse surface... you vanish with a pop of displaced air, a sword's sheath lying empty beside your desk between one moment and the next, drawing a gasp from the dimly lit room to the emptied chamber before it. Dark Sister lay light as a feather against a young boy's throat--no, a man... someone with the same worldly air you have seen so many times somewhere else. "I don't know whether to congratulate your skill, or pity your lack of sense." Perhaps both, depending on the direction and result of this conversation.

    For all the world any ordinary boy should be beside himself with fear, this one just smiled, relaxed and released his grip on his own blade, which you note then with dimmer surprise had pressed between a gap of your robe, warded as it was against common blade, and armored scale beneath hidden in simpler glamour still. "Didn't think an appointment would go over nearly as well," he replied lightly. "Thought I'd just invite myself in."

    "Perhaps we should talk," you growl, gesturing with your own blade to the seat before your desk. "I'm sure you'll have many interesting things to say..."

    "Joffrey," the man replied, and the world stops for a moment, features drawn in and compared quickly, and as a thousand thoughts flash before your eyes in a span of seconds, a breath drawn sharp as the younger man gestures for calm, already elaborating on that particular impossibility. "Right, right... as you guessed, Baratheon. At your pleasure, Your Grace," he said with a mocking bow.

    Slowly, you re-sheathed Dark Sister again, and promptly poured two cups of good drink. The boy looked at the cup of mead forlornly, drawing a look of incomprehension from you as he hesitated at the lip. "It makes me depressed."

    You slowly shake your head, lower your own cup, and pointedly tap a flesh-mask covered claw upon your desk, the glamour giving the barest flicker, as crimson eyes are reflected starkly in your golden drink.

    "Explain."

    Joffrey Baratheon, a boy older than should be possible and yet wholly not the same as expected, leaned back, tapping his chin delicately, though he couldn't hide the slight tremble in his hand. Whether it was fear or excitement, you couldn't begin to tell.

    Then, he shrugged. "Just more Purple nonsense."

    Your head begins to sharply ache. And thus lay the order of the evening.

    OOC: This one is just for @bigbow. I love you @bigbow! You didn't ask for this, but you got it anyway!​
     
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  • Threadmarks
    • Crake said:
    Prince to Prince, King to King
    ​
    That had been a hell of a storm, 'Jonnel' thought. Perhaps disappointingly, slipping in among the numerous refugees and immigrants flooding into the fabled "City of Dawning Magic" wasn't as difficult as he'd thought it would be. He was reasonably certain it was much more difficult for him to blend in with the already melting pot of cultures that was Braavos, and more so for a bearing that drew from more cultures than his Westerosi features might imply at first blush. Acting had not been among his many skills, nor did he think it would ever be. At times he thought he'd be at home more out in the Grey Wastes, within the Dawn Fort and in good company, if not terrain.

    And still not drawing a crowd or even being worth much notice by the surprisingly organized port authorities, nor the law enforcement. Irritatingly, more organized than the Goldcloaks, given the fact that the watch in King's Landing had been designed to catch criminals, formed from men loyal to the crown, and devolved into a den of petty thugs and robber ilk little better than what circles they were set after, and couldn't be more disloyal to any authority without a hand reaching into a coin purse, no greater appeal to them than that of gold itself. These 'Greycloaks' were disciplined, if in an unconventional way, going about their business in a no-nonsense fashion, passing over those travelers unlikely to make trouble, and having a suspiciously canny ability to pick out troublemakers before they have the fortune to slip any given net.

    The people that formed both groups were just as likely to be of Essosi stock as Westerosi... or women rather than men, which he didn't begrudge so much as gawk at, not for the reasons they might assume, given the unflattering glares he'd been ducking ever since. True equality, he'd been thinking. Not just those who had reach high in influence among the 'gentry', the providence of new nobility as much as the wealthy or at least well-to-do had been called, merchants, yes, but also the authorities and perhaps unsurprisingly the local military.

    'Jonnel' still thought his Royal Guard would find a worthy match for these "Legionaires", or 'Torchbearers', as the present First Legion's sobriquet apparently was. It did not take long to draw the inference. Formed of sell-swords, hedge knights, more conventional men at arms who had made the journey to sign on with the Dragon King's household troops... and former slaves, escaped or liberated, it made no difference. He was amused by what the locals called 'Chain Street'. Most of the city was lit by ethereal 'witch lights' that caught his attention for at least a few moments, drawing his thoughts to the thousands of lanterns which lit the Port of Ibben. But the ones on the Street of Chains, which might make one draw conclusions of it being a bazaar for flesh peddlers, if it weren't for the fact that each collar lay upon them broken or snapped, were replaced routinely by simpler torches, and mundane in nature.

    More's the pity. He thought slave liberators making a base in the Narrow Sea, originally home only to pirates and slavers, notoriously so in fact, was more fantastical than most of what he'd already glimpsed. If it weren't for the Little Valyrians who acted nothing like the beasts he'd chanced upon in his travels at all, but instead little people. Or the bull men who could probably out-wrestle a Clegane, either brother. A smile touched his lips at the thought. That would be a contest he'd like to be not too soon in the coming.

    And still there were the 'wizards'. He'd of course thought it would mostly be petty conjurers and charlatans, as that is much of what one saw the further west they went, but that was only half the truth. There were petty conjurers, but that was only because they were apparently still learning, and learning more all the time! And there were apparently some very strict laws in place in terms of active defrauding of con men who thought it a good idea to pretend to be sorcerers in a city full of them. He was initially wary of so many magic users gathered in one place at the same time, never getting over his mistrust for their like, but willing to grin and bear with it if it meant gathering his wits in a strange yet familiar world.

    It all came to a head when he thought to pay his respect to one of the many, apparently newly grown heart trees, which he knew for fact should be all but impossible. There hadn't been weirwoods growing on the shattered Stepstones for thousands of years by many a historian's reckoning. 'Jonnel' had always had a sense of... peace, tranquility, or at least solemn contemplation when he came to tend a Godswood, but this 'Healing Tree' gave him nothing less than shivers up the spine, of a glaring presence that was very much alive, singing loud, not the murmuring torpor he come to expect. Magic in the air itself, as much a thing of bone and blood as Brightroar lying just beyond the skein of reality, for it was he and he was it, and magic was there.

    When he offered blood to the tree at an urchin's suggestion, and only after thorough observation and testing, he'd gotten his first taste of what many called a 'miracle'.

    He quickly set every miracle aside, because right then wasn't the time to be readjusting his entire world view. He'd done that enough times already, and was quite content where it had cemented as of late.

    They have steel giants protecting their magic school, he thought dimly, staring up at the model of what they called the "Dance of Spheres" above the fountain carved from magic, brilliant and terrible, beautiful in a way that was hard to describe without laying eyes on it yourself, or so one grey beard with purple eyes had claimed to him after several pointed inquiries. To his chagrin, he felt like the sorcerer had gotten more out of him than vice versa, for he had looked much too interested in his activities after that, even after making good on that offer of getting him drunk.

    And they keep adding bits of other worlds to their model art. 'Jonnel' would pinch himself, but he was fairly sure he wasn't hallucinating or imagining things anymore. Water, earth, fire, air. These weren't just mortal concepts of the very elements which forged the world around them anymore, but concepts which predated mortals, with spirits of flame and sky and sea and stone their denizens. The flaming bird in the tavern stolen from near Storm's End had confirmed as much. He'd heard the story a dozen times over. It was great. He loved that story. Could only appreciate the irony in his own corner of the room, all unaware of what amused him so, and it wasn't the audacity shown in the theft. Though that was funny, too.

    The Tinker's Guild was enlightening in a different way. For all the burgeoning city was well governed otherwise, this was a bit of organized chaos upon which rest the thrust of a thousand plans, ever-changing, from machines to lay waste to one's enemies or elaborate and complicated gear-driven water clocks and plumbing for sewers or aqueducts. Automated hedge trimmers, self-balancing wheeled devices and fishing boats which flipped themselves over when they might capsize.

    Some of these ideas even worked. And while some people called the maddening workshop home, the strange beetle spirits which cackled with glee when he spit-balled some of his own ideas their way and began work immediately, drawing from absurd budgets provided by the Crown, as it was called, were more at nature with the bizarre scene.

    The 'Circle of Battle' wasn't at all like what he'd expected, either, a blood pit of sand for men and beasts to butcher each other for the amusement of nobles? Least of his expectations had been first rate healers in constant attendance of the injured fighters, nor the bull men who clashed with conjured monsters or monkey archers who made shots he'd only seen during his time with the Scouts, doing utterly improbable maneuvers he'd ordinarily cuff a man for. But damned if it didn't work for them, he thought. And there were the mages. If that's what battle magic can do, he shuddered, I fear what 'powerful' sorcery around here is capable of. Apparently mimicking dragonstone construction using ordinary basalt, among other things.

    The girl with auburn hair fixed the broken arm a bull man named 'Surehoof' had given him with nary a glance or wave of her arm, barking 'Next!' at him so sharply he couldn't get in even a moment to question her about magic. Which was unfortunate, because she was apparently close to the local despot in council and friendship.

    Finally, when he couldn't take the twists and bends any longer, there was the taverns. One smuggler had gotten their hands on something called 'Dawn Mead', which could clear one's head of exhaustion and sleep with a sip, and keep one's spirits high for hours, though the crash was just as bad, if he did say so himself. 'Jonnel' had been moping for just as many hours when the bottle he'd won in a series of clever bets ran dry. But at least his head didn't ache. Another bonus to liberal magic laden all about the place.

    "This is bullshit," he muttered, "A fancy sword and a goofy lion. That's all I had to work with. And They just hand the Targaryens the power to warp reality at will?"

    At least he was really good with a sword.

    But better with a hammer. These little ironies were what kept him up at night.

    When he wasn't thinking of darker things.

    As he gazed up at the ominous Keep before him, a paltry, perhaps even humble thing before the ostentatious Palace of Tyrosh the King in the Stepstones had claimed yet only paid lipservice amounts of passing thought in his residence to, he then contemplated his next move. Sign on with the Legion, maybe get shuffled into a training unit and work my way up the slow way?

    Maybe 'Jonnel' would simply help a soldier misplace his gear and slip in with the next patrol relieving the night guard? Or, he thought with a snort, just walk in bold as brass and offer parley with a Dragon.

    He mulled it over.

    No, he eventually decided, that just isn't my style.     ​

    ***
    ​
    Your eyes slipped over the never-ending pile of missives, decrees and edicts, and for all that your mind was sharpened with a will stronger still than the unflinching hand which dutifully filled them out to the utmost, because you despised halfhearted efforts where it counted, and more so not fulfilling even the smallest duties to perfection, for it was the small things which were far easier to get done right, every time, rather than the things that were truly difficult. Which does not mean I must stop trying in both, you remind yourself, for such is the duty of a king, and all the better to ingrain such ethics with everyday life.

    An example creates a thousand others on its own strength, after all, as the city spread out beside him can surely attest.

    Also, you think with a small amount of whimsy, if I can think of this as merely ordinary, I can hardly wait for the world's reaction to what I consider truly extraordinary. Reworking the infrastructure of southern Essos from the ground-up being just a passing fancy for the Targaryen monarch of the Narrow Sea, all else still being equal... he did have to find ways to amuse himself in the late hours of the evening, where the only reward for work done well... was more work.

    Only the sharpened senses lent to his blood alerted him to the scuffing of boots behind him, upon the uneven portion of the window sill, the tiniest creak of floorboard and scrape of Myrish rug against coarse surface... he vanished with a pop of displaced air, a sword's sheath lying empty beside his desk between one moment and the next, drawing a gasp from the dimly lit room to the emptied chamber before it. Dark Sister lay light as a feather against a young boy's throat--no, a man... someone with the same worldly air you have seen so many times somewhere else. "I don't know whether to congratulate your skill, or pity your lack of sense." Perhaps both, depending on the direction and results of this conversation.

    For all the world any ordinary boy should be beside himself with fear, this one just smiled, relaxed and released his grip on his own blade, which you note then with dimmer surprise had pressed between a gap of your robe, warded as it was against common blade, and armored scale beneath hidden in simpler glamour still. "Didn't think an appointment would go over nearly as well," he replied lightly. "Thought I'd just invite myself in."

    "Perhaps we should talk," you growl, gesturing with your own blade to the seat before your desk. "I'm sure you'll have many interesting things to say..."

    "Joffrey," the man replied, and the world stops for a moment, features drawn in and compared quickly, and as a thousand thoughts flash before your eyes in a span of seconds, a breath drawn sharp as the younger man gestures for calm, already elaborating on that particular impossibility. "Right, right... as you guessed, Baratheon. At your pleasure, Your Grace," he said with a mocking bow.

    Slowly, you re-sheathed Dark Sister again, and promptly poured two cups of good drink. The boy looked at the cup of mead forlornly, drawing a look of incomprehension from you as he hesitated at the lip. "It makes me depressed."

    You slowly shake your head, lower your own cup, and pointedly tap a flesh-mask covered claw upon your desk, the glamour giving the barest flicker, as crimson eyes are reflected starkly in your golden drink.

    "Explain."

    Joffrey Baratheon, a boy older than should be possible and yet wholly not the same as expected, leaned back, tapping his chin delicately, though he couldn't hide the slight tremble in his hand. Though whether it was fear or excitement, you couldn't begin to tell.

    Then, he shrugged. "Just more Purple nonsense."

    Your head begins to sharply ache. And thus lay the order of the evening.

    OOC: This one is just for @bigbow. I love you @bigbow! You didn't ask for this, but you got it anyway!​
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    Nice job!
    I almost posted something like "massively OOC!" or "why would a Westerosi even care about "true equality", seeing as it's antithetical to his culture and even IRL many people first thought that it was a stupid way of doing things, tearing people from their skills and having them do someone else's job?"
    And then it hit me - this is Purple!Joffrey! The most entertaining OOC Joffrey to ever be written, beyond even crack fics!
    And I'm willing to forget all these things for such a great crossover, just like for @bigbow's fic!
     
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    DragonParadox said:
    I'm apparently going to have to ramp up the CR of encounters...
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    Not sure that's the issue.
    Though it might help.

    At least for me part of the issue comes with Viserys' draconic statline, HP and saves. He is a good bit less squishy than the rest of the party, which makes threatening Viserys without just murdering his friends a bit difficult.
    See the Devils at Summerhall or the ice-creatures that nearly killed Bronn.
    Those were nearly harmless to Viserys besides a very low chance of us critfailing on a save-or-die effect, but there was a real chance of them killing our friends and costing us diamonds and XP.
     
    Artemis1992 said:
    Not sure that's the issue.
    Though it might help.

    At least for me part of the issue comes with Viserys' draconic statline, HP and saves. He is a good bit less squishy than the rest of the party, which makes threatening Viserys without just murdering his friends a bit difficult.
    See the Devils at Summerhall or the ice-creatures that nearly killed Bronn.
    Those were nearly harmless to Viserys besides a very low chance of us critfailing on a save-or-die effect, but there was a real chance of them killing our friends and costing us diamonds and XP.
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    I get where you are coming from but on thing I will not do as a GM is nerf characters in the name of balance, that is bad story-telling and bad quest running that will only make players rightfully upset while also warping the story being told.
     
    Or a frustrating Hannah Barbara chase sequence featuring "hide the Soul Gem in the Lower Plane!".

    One which we eventually win, but results in millions in collateral damage.

    I mean, either way, @Artemis1992 wins here, so... the calculus lies more in the eye of the beholder rather than any numeric value placed upon difficulty of each encounter.
     
    Easy access to resurrection magic tends to rip out the stakes.

    For us and the party at least. We do now have a kingdom though. If you want to make us worried.
     
    A lot of the stakes in this quest come from people damaging or stealing our things or people or cities. Which I guess one might count under "things", depending.

    It is much easier to target that than it is to target PCs, since PCs are generally given combat plans drawn by players who know mechanics really well. Which means, near enough, them enacting the perfect plan that they have access to within the purview of their given abilities.

    Perhaps unsurprisingly, the more PCs are in one encounter at the same time backing each other up, the broader the spectrum of each plan. Maybe we even treat a lot of enemies like big ole nails sticking out, but in that case, we're hitting them with a different hammer every time which seems to drive them in every time.
     
    DragonParadox said:
    There are ways to prevent resurrection, which many of your enemies are considering using when/if they get their chance.
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    I know. Id rather not die though.

    Theres also the issue of. "Why do we even have these spells if everyone and their mom has spell destroying weapons."

    Though I imagine most of our enemies would capture our party members (or their souls) and use them as information/hostages.
     
    I can tell you sure as shit, if someone perma-killed a friend, I would fucking lay waste to their everything as a first response. The magnitude of my mutually assured mass destruction dependent on who died.

    Lya, I would be upset. A couple cities and I would call it a start.

    Dany? I would kill gods.
     
    DragonParadox said:
    I get where you are coming from but on thing I will not do as a GM is nerf characters in the name of balance, that is bad story-telling and bad quest running that will only make players rightfully upset while also warping the story being told.
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    That's fine.

    Though it does make threatening Viserys personally difficult, leaving mostly our stuff and our time as stakes.
     
    Artemis1992 said:
    That's fine.

    Though it does make threatening Viserys personally difficult, leaving mostly our stuff and our time as stakes.
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    We could always go somewhere solo or only with the core party (Viserys, Richard, Dany, Lya).

    I'm pretty sure Viserys could waste a mid-level adventurer party on his own.

    And I do like my duels.
     
    Azel said:
    We could always go somewhere solo or only with the core party (Viserys, Richard, Dany, Lya).
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    Click to shrink...
    Issue is that our other party members have similarly dangerous offensive options as Viserys, but are squishier in HP and at least some saves.
    So people seriously targeting Viserys are kinda rare, at least until he's the last one standing.

    Duels can still be fun though, if the opponent has the right defences to force some creativity in the attacks.
     
    The thing is though most things like pit fiends wouldn't be interested in fighting.

    At least not just fighting.

    Formalized legal debate duel to the double death serve the winner for 1000 years go!

    Edit:
    @Azel and my paranoid rambling!
     
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