Robert

Robert sighted while closing the book he had been reading for the last few hours. The number one perk of been one of the disconnected librarian at Horizon was that he was allowed to read any book on magic theory and practice. The same permission did not extend to history of any kind, which was suspicious to say the least, but Robert was not the history revisionist type anyway.
Of course, they let them read any book on magic because they were completely and utterly unable to use magic - hence the "disconnected" part of the work description. That did was a problem for Robert, who tried once and again to get admitted in magic courses since he was a young kid with acne on his hairless face. To pull at the very fabric of reality had lighted his dreams and inflame his heart since he had memory, but after failing the access tests so many times, the university judges tested him for sensibility to magic instead, and the conclusion was that Robert was to magic as important as a feather to an octopus flying abilities. At least they had a bit of mercy (or maybe a pang of compassion) when they saw how Robert's face fell when hearing the results. That mercy was what got him his first post as librarian, and he just kept ascending due to his methodical approach to library work until he had no constraints as to what magic books he could touch or read.

Magic has been considered a way to act on the fabric of reality but it is often forgotten that reality includes minds and knowledge. The knowledge and spells written in books on magic affects the reality around it. The more potent the magic, the more potent the effect, and that is why powerful books are covered in protective symbols and why really powerful books need to be handled with care and by equally powerful wizards, who can avoid been affected by the magic inside.
Of course, no really powerful wizard would be ordering books in a library instead of studying and practicing even more powerful magic and there's where disconnected librarians are useful.
A person sensible to magic (mostly everyone, in one degree or another) is like a magnet and books on magic are another magnet. The magnetic field of both interact, but a disconnected person is like a bit of wood.

So that evening Robert was collecting the books and ordering them, and spend the next couple of hours getting each one to its place, just like any other day at work. But this particular day, when he went back to his post, he found a very old, very wrinkled and very upset wizard tapping with his foot and waiting next to Robert's desk. The same instant Robert thought he was in trouble, the old wizard turned his glare in his direction confirming that A, Robert was in trouble indeed, and B, he could be in even more severe trouble if he dared to run away. So Robert ran to his desk and asked, as humbly as he could manage without getting servile
- I am so sorry for your waiting. How can I be of help? -
- I am Verdantisinus Primus Kertian Malathen, I expect you to be a disconnected librarian or otherwise you are of no use and should better be able to call one. -
- I am a disconnected librarian, indeed. -
- Good. This is the book I want. - said the mage, giving Robert a piece of paper. The words on the paper were but a shorthand of the actual title, since even that was dangerous in that particular case. This wizard was asking for one of the most powerful books Robert had heard about, one of the few ones which he couldn't read, not because he was not allowed to, but for the security around them. Robert swallowed, divided between fear an excitement, and said
- Please, if you follow me -

The tall wizard walked in long strides just behind Robert's hurried steps, fairly shorter, corridor after stairs after corridor after stairs, until they were before a particular wall. It was a wall covered with lead, finely inscribed with all sorts of symbols of protection, both for containment and for preventing entrance. Robert walked slower while looking for a specific patch and, when found, he took his signet ring out of his pouch, putted it on, press it against a circle in one of the symbols and indicated another to the old wizard.
- If you be so kind to use your mark in that circle...
The wizard stared the circle while doing ever so minute movements with his right hand's fingers, and then, they both were in the other side of the wall, with it. Robert could barely hold his excitement as his eyes rested on the book. Inscribed chains bound the tome to a lectern and light with no apparent source bathed the room in a slightly golden shade. The wizard walked to the book and the chains opened themselves at this, allowing the old sage to peruse the pages.
And then, everything got unexpected. The wizard grab a handful of pages, with no care at all. Robert start walking towards him, startled. The wizard rips the pages from the book, which starts crackling red and purple. The light without source blinks in gold and black. A hand gesture, and the wizard throws Robert hard against the wall. A glass orb in the hand of the wizard. Robert feels maimed and bleeding. A sudden blue flash. Robert alone. The book's crackling lightning illuminates the room mixed with the golden blinking light. Robert getting to his feet. An explosion.
Black.
Unconsciousness.
Dying.

Breathing.
Bleeding. Hurt. Light. Orange light. A lantern's orange light. A lantern's orange light gets through the rubble and blocks of stone and lead over Robert.
Unconsciousness.
Sheets. A bed. People talking in whispers nearby. Warm sunlight. Free. Robert's back(cover) hurts. He tries to move, but his sheets hurt. No, his inside hurt. His cover is covered and the thought makes him laugh wearily. Face. Humans get near.
Some weeks pass until Robert has to declare at the trial. There, he realizes the old wizard is not and hopes the trial is not against Robert. He tells the judges what happened and then he's sent back to home but he's suspended for the duration of the trial and he's to present himself to the court every morning until the culprit is caught.
On the next months his savings disappear, he sells his possessions and his house, moves to a small rent room first and then to an alley. His hopes disappear as his savings, and in the cold rainy nights he thinks he could be no worse. He's trying to sleep despite the cold and the feeling that mold is getting in his insides when shouting wakes him up. A few young mages are shouting and laughing down the street. Somewhere he thinks it is probably celebration for the end of tests, and then the young, drunk wizards see him and point and laugh and get near. And then one of them thinks it'll be fun to poke the hobo with a little spark. Words and gestures and a little blue lightning orb flies from one student's hands to the half-awake Robert, who jumps with the shock. And then the pain mixes up with frustration and cold and rain and misery and energy breaks through Robert, blasts through his joints and reforms and purple and red lightning jump from Robert's hands to the students, who scream and fall and get up and ran away, still screaming.
Robert knows not what happened. Robert knows he's magic. Robert knows a world of possibilities but can not focus on any. Robert laughs while tears fall from his eyes to be clean by rain.

Robert is free.

---

Robert Smith
Human Chaos Mage 1
STR 10 CON 12 DEX 12 INT 16 WIS 10 CHA 18
HP 21 AC 12 PD 12 MD 15 Recoveries 8x(1d6+1)
Backgrounds: no-longer-frustrated librarian at Eldolan 4, Living spell 4
Relationships: Archmage (conflicted) 3
Unique: Nobody knows if he's still Robert or the spell that was in the book
Talents: Touch of Wizardry, Iconic Warp, Separate Existence (A)

Gear: dagger (1d4), hand crossbow (1d4)

Those two background were examples on 13 True Ways, and they were too good to pass.

Khazad

Khazad tripped on a loose stone and cursed in a whisper. Merchants had told him that most humans believed that Dwarves were able to see in the dark. They had laughed, but Khazad was an archaeologist and he understood that seeing in darkness would not only be useful, but something to be expected, since they had lived in profound systems of caves for millennia. Of course, a lot of cave animals were actually blind, so maybe there was a reason. It would still be useful, no doubt about that.
He kept walking but now paying more attention to the irregular floor, unevenly lighted by his lantern. Khazad was a bit known back in the districts because despite the interest in dwarven stories, not that many dwarves were interested in what actually happened, preferring to hear and believe the soul-rising stories told by priests.
Khazad knew that tradition was important for dwarves, and that stories are adorned so that they are actually soul-inspiring. They're useful to make people do what they should. But that did not mean they were true. Judging from what he had investigated, some were actually true, some were tru-ish, but most were big exaggerations when not downright inventions, and just to believe was not good enough for him. His tendencies to explain what really happened and to point inconsistencies and evidences of the more outrageous lies had never been met with pleasure.
Khazad was known, not loved.
Probably those sentiments were half the reason he was cleared to go how deep he wanted. Dwarves had had a really long history in the caves below Forge or the almost forgotten ones in The Frost Range, but a lot of them were now abandoned. Sometimes not empty. Khazad had had a few close calls encountering beasts, troglodytes and even once a tribe of barbaric, more than half-crazed Dwarves. Publicly, every Dwarf had to encourage "the relentless search for truth" that moved Khazad, but privately they, specially the ones using stories to get others to do what they had to, probably expected him to get lost or even dead in one of his expeditions. Khazad knew that, but despite all the 'teaching' he did and despite he not liking the simple mindedness of people believing "because it has always been told like that", he wanted to know more because he wanted to know that because he wanted others to know.
It hadn't been always told like that, anyway.

Khazad realized he was whispering under his breath and stopped. Too much time by himself, probably. Maybe people needed to talk, but now that he had quietened himself a faint humming was almost audible. Intrigued but alert, Khazad kept walking, trying to understand the way echoes worked that humming to his position. For the next few days he went down and down, trying to locate the source of the humming by how loud it sounded. He got lost once, got his way again, and became more and more worried the more he descended, since the humming was accompanied by a vibration and had became really loud and strong.

And then, squeezing his body through a crack in the stone, he found... the source.

Khazad had seen many wonders in his expeditions, but of the kind that marvels other scholars. This was different, so much different. He walked forward, raising his lantern to try to illuminate what he was seeing now, but it was so huge the light could not. Before him, thousands of cogwheels of every size imaginable, from a few inches wide to several yards, were rotating, transmitting the movement one to the next, though it was just impossible to know which was "one" and which "the next". The synchronized movement was hypnotic, and this near the humming revealed itself as thousands of hummings, singing together, in a way.

Khazad consciousness drifted through that enormous device, feeling that it was somehow part of the world's workings but in a way that seemed to be stored in a part just beyond his mind, as a word you know that you know, but that you just can't remember at the time. The cogs seemed to... no, they were spinning through time, the past modifying the present, the present modifying the future. Minute symbols were edged in the very cogs, eroded by time but still almost, almost there, hidden as rugged surfaces when looked from afar but clearly obvious now. Time, and space, were being weaved together, watched, or... or controlled by the device.

And then he woke up startled with the temblors of the cave. A cave-in! He looked around, his panicked mind trying to adjust to reality, when the whole device seemed to sink in short bursts of movement. Khazad ran to it, where it was leaving a hole, swallowing the device in an unfathomable depth.
He sat in the border, shocked by what he had seen and by the disappearance of the device that had shown him the inner workings of the world itself. When the light of the lantern went out he realized the time he had been there, and that there were tears in his face. Then his lips tightened and his expression was set. He changed the oil of the lantern and after staring the hole, he started the way to the surface. He didn't know how, but he would find the device again. He felt like an idea, an intuition gotten from the time through the cogwheels. It would require time to grasp it, but Khazad would.

He needed to understand.

---

Khazad ai Menu
Dwarf Occultist 1
STR 10 CON 12 DEX 10 INT 18 WIS 18 CHA 8
HP 21 AC 13 PD 11 MD 16 Recoveries 8x(1d6+1)
Backgrounds: Archaeologist of Dwarven Forgotten Past 4, History Profesor 3, Wandering Mystic 1
Relationships: Dwarf King (conflicted) 2, Elf Queen (conflicted) 1; the relationships are conflicted because every ruler wants part of their history publicly known and part of it downplayed, in the best case.
Unique: Discoverer of the "Reality Clockwork"
Talents: Brain-Melting Secrets, Stance of Necessity, Unwinding the Soul (A), Warp Flesh
Prepared Spells: Bitter Lessons, Brilliant Comeback, Moment of Karma, Timely Mistake

Gear: light armor, light pick and hammer (1d4), hand crossbow (1d4)

Spain is different

Mi padre me envió hace poco dos noticias interesantes, más interesantes aún por el contraste entre ellas.

Por un lado, tenemos que Holanda hizo un proyecto de ley para cobrar a los presos.
En la noticia hablan de 16 euros diarios (lo que supone unos 480€ por mes o 5840€ por año). Calculan que este pago compensaría unos 65 millones anuales de euros debidos a costes judiciales y policiales. El proyecto lo ha impulsado la coalición que está en el poder, un conjunto de liberales de derechas y socialdemócratas de izquierdas.

Es una idea que posiblemente más de uno habíamos tenido ya, pero ellos ya la han llevado a la práctica: la noticia anterior es de enero de 2014, en diciembre ya estaba en práctica. El dinero se cobra al reo de los ahorros que tuviera antes de entrar; si no tiene suficiente, se cobrará cuando tenga un sueldo. Se puede cobrar a plazos para no dificultar mucho (más) la reinserción y, además, como mucho se les cobrarán dos años, aunque la condena sea más larga.

No es el único país que lo hace: en Alemania y Dinamarca, sólo pagan los que están en regímenes abiertos, no los que están encerrados todo el día. El dinero que se saca así se destina a las víctimas de sus crímenes, a pagar costes judiciales y policiales, lo que se hace también en Noruega, Italia, Portugal, Austria y Suiza. Trabajar para la prisión te exime de la deuda.

En Estados Unidos el ejemplo está en Elko, Nevada, donde es el sheriff del condado el que ha impuesto las medidas. Se cobra algo de dinero por la comida, por visitas médicas y por lo que van necesitando (ropa, artículos de higiene, etc). Si no tienen dinero, acumulan la deuda para cuando salgan.

Hay organizaciones de derechos humanos que se quejan de eso, me pregunto en base a qué. En la declaración de derechos humanos de naciones unidas se incluyen unos cuantos, pero no parece que haya ninguno en la línea de "si una persona está castigada por sus crímenes, tiene derecho a que le mantengan las personas inocentes"

Visto ese aspecto de otros países, podemos pasar a una propuesta conjunta de un grupo de nuestro Senado, el formado por Podemos, En Común, Compromís y En Marea. La propuesta pretende "reconocer los derechos laborales de los presos". Esa idea no aparece sólo en ese periódico, que podría ser tendenciosa, sino en la propia página de Podemos.

En breve, los presos que trabajen en la prisión tienen que cobrar (al menos) el salario mínimo inter-profesional incluyendo las horas extraordinarias. Por supuesto, como trabajadores que son, también tienen que poder sindicarse. Además, una vez que termina su condena, termina también el trabajo, y entonces tienen derecho a cobrar por desempleo. Estos senadores lo ven injusto, porque ese subsidio de desempleo es menor que el de excarcelación. En mi opinión, el hecho de que haya un subsidio de excarcelación ya es motivo de queja. (¿Has sido condenado por un crimen y te dan dinero cuando se termina tu condena? ¿En serio?) También lo es que ese empleo no aparezca como tal en su vida laboral.

En España, trabajar durante tu condena todavía reduce ésta, de modo que la idea sigue significando mejorar la vida de los presos con respecto a la que tienen. En muchos casos, significa mejorar la vida de los presos con respecto a la que tenían cuando no estaban en la cárcel. ¿Es que soy el único que recuerda que la cárcel se supone que es un castigo?

70.000 presos en España, a 655€ por día, saldrían a más de 550 millones de euros por año que vamos a pagar los que no hemos roto las leyes, los que nos comportamos de forma honrada, además de lo que ya estamos pagando por el coste de sus celdas, de su comida, de su ropa, de sus estudios y el resto de cosas que necesitan, incluyendo gimnasios, piscinas y televisión. Las cárceles de España están entre las mejores de Europa, y su población, a pesar de haber disminuido en los últimos años, está un 30% por encima de la media Europea.
Cárceles más cómodas para los presos, más cantidad de presos por la misma cantidad de habitantes... ¿Soy el único que piensa que hay relación?
¿Soy el único que piensa que mejorar esas condiciones no hace más que desincentivar la honradez o incluso incentivar el crimen? Después de todo, mientras no te pillen, son todo beneficios, una vez que te pillen, te pones a trabajar y ya tienes historial laboral (oficialmente, para la Administración), reduces tu condena, tienes cama, techo, comida, entretenimiento, incluyendo la posibilidad de hacer ejercicio o sacarte unos estudios...
Añadido a las relaciones que puedes hacer con otros presos que están en "negocios" similares al que te llevó dentro, un efecto de la separación por delitos que influye en la raíz de las organizaciones criminales: el intercambio de trucos del oficio y el desarrollo de amistades/relaciones "profesionales".

Esta es sólo una de las cosas que voy a recordar en las próximas elecciones.

Falacias

No hace mucho oí a una persona usar la palabra "falacia" como si significara mentira, lo que ha llamado mi atención sobre la diferencia entre lo que la mayoría de la gente entiende por falacia y lo que significa realmente. El diccionario de la RAE (dado que registra cómo se habla y no cómo se debería, aunque eso es tema para otra entrada) prácticamente identifica ambos conceptos, la única diferencia que considera es que la falacia intenta dañar a otra persona, mientras que la mentira no tiene porqué. Sin embargo, el concepto original de falacia, que aún se utiliza en discusiones y debates cuando el rigor tiene alguna importancia, no es el de mentira, sino el de un argumento que, pareciendo lógico, no lo es.

De nuevo, el concepto "lógico" se malentiende de forma habitual, igualando con "obvio", "de sentido común" y demás, cuando no es exactamente eso. Un argumento lógico es el que lleva de una idea A a una idea B, de modo que B se prueba tan cierta como sea A. Para empezar esa cadena lógica hay que comenzar por una idea sobre cuya corrección no haya dudas, como por ejemplo un hecho. Una cadena como esa es lo que llamamos habitualmente "deducción".

Un argumento se dice que es válido cuando es imposible que las premisas (las ideas iniciales) sean ciertas y la conclusión sea falsa. De otro modo, el argumento es inválido.
Una deducción es correcta cuando todos los argumentos son válidos y además las ideas iniciales son ciertas.

¿Por qué es importante prestar atención a estos conceptos? La deducción es una herramienta fundamental en cualquier actividad que implique el pensamiento analítico o crítico. Cuando estamos equivocados en algo, la deducción es lo que nos permite darnos cuenta. Cuando estamos en lo cierto, la deducción es lo que nos permite demostrarlo a otros. La mayor ventaja de una deducción correcta es que puede compartirse. Me explico: una opinión subjetiva es particular de una persona y por ello puede convencer a algunas personas y a otras no. Ante una deducción correcta sólo puede optarse entre aceptar la conclusión o rechazarla - y con ello mantenerse en un error.

Veo que los pétalos y las hojas de esta rosa son del mismo color, aunque tengan un matiz distinto. Todos los que estamos aquí coincidimos en ello. Por tanto, esta rosa es de color verde. Este razonamiento es incorrecto porque el hablante - y el resto de las personas de la sala - pueden tener un problema visual como el daltonismo.

Nuestro cerebro funciona con dos tipos de razonamiento que se influyen mutuamente. El razonamiento analítico se basa en deducciones, y es en el que se fundamentan los avances de cualquier ciencia, sea física, medicina, biología... Cuando tenemos información en la que basarnos para llegar a una conclusión o estimar la probabilidad de varias, estamos utilizando este tipo de razonamiento.
El razonamiento emocional es el que hace que hagamos cosas llevados por emoción.

Una ruleta tiene 38 números, nuestro razonamiento analítico es el que nos dice que apostar a un número tiene una probabilidad de 1/38 de redundar en nuestro beneficio, y 37/38 de resultar en perjuicio. Nuestro razonamiento emocional es el que nos dice que hoy es nuestro día de suerte.

Cada día nos vemos sometidos a manipulaciones más o menos disimuladas y más o menos sinceras. Cuando un amigo tiene una cara triste lo vemos, nos damos cuenta, nuestro razonamiento emotivo nos hace sentir tristeza en simpatía y nos impulsa a preocuparnos por él. Lo que hagamos está menos claro, depende de cómo somos nosotros y lo que sabemos de él: ¿es de contar las cosas sólo cuando le preguntan? ¿es de decir que no pasa nada hasta que está listo para hablar y dar detalles? ¿somos de los que esperan hasta que un problema puede resolverse? ¿somos de los que intentan resolver el problema tan pronto como lo ven?

Los efectos emotivos se producen como reacciones independientes de la realidad. Ver una cara triste inspira tristeza, ver una sonrisa inspira confianza (según la sonrisa, claro), ver una cara de enfado dirigida hacia nosotros puede inspirar temor o enfado... Y esos efectos se producen sin importar si lo vemos en un desconocido a seis metros o en un actor en una película. Nuestro razonamiento analítico matiza las acciones que pueden ser impulsadas por el efecto emocional: "Es un actor y no es de verdad", "Es un amigo y es sincero", "Es un amigo pero siempre es un exagerado"...

Las manipulaciones emotivas directas, por expresiones de pena, furia, alegría, no son fiables. Es muy probable que causen una emoción, es bastante probable que causen la que pretendemos, pero también pueden producir reacciones opuestas según a quién se dirijan. Tienen otro defecto como táctica de manipulación, y es que es fácil identificarlas tanto como emocionales como manipulaciones. Además, las respuestas emocionales que provocan no suelen generar acciones a largo plazo: no te enamoras de alguien la primera vez que sonríe ni consideras a alguien un enemigo la primera vez que te grita. Por mucho que pese la primera impresión, una respuesta emocional a largo plazo es algo que se inspira provocando reiteradamente la misma reacción emocional.

Por otro lado, se puede manipular a alguien aprovechando sus carencias (su falta de práctica o atención, nada más) en razonamiento analítico, haciéndole creer que estás dando pruebas o siguiendo un razonamiento lógico cuando éste no es válido. Ese tipo de razonamiento es el que se llama falaz, y esa manipulación sí puede producir acciones a largo plazo porque al convencernos de algo, hacemos nuestra esa idea. Al haber llegado a esa idea mediante un razonamiento asumimos que es correcta y la mantenemos aunque olvidemos el razonamiento, a diferencia de las respuestas emocionales, que se recuerdan pero no perduran del mismo modo ni con la misma facilidad. Esta asunción se hace porque es el método en el que nuestro propio cerebro aprende del mundo que le rodea para adaptarse y resolver problemas

Precisamente por la eficacia de los engaños basados en falacias tendríamos que prestar más atención a éstas, de modo que podamos reconocerlas cuando las usan. No siempre las usarán para dañarnos, a veces el que las usa lo hace sin darse cuenta de que su razonamiento es incorrecto y está convencido de una idea equivocada que puede o no hacerle daño.

Por último, hay que destacar que el hecho de que un razonamiento sea falaz ni significa que las premisas sean falsas ni que la conclusión sea falsa, al igual que no implica que sean ciertas. Lo único que significa es que a partir de las premisas no puede deducirse la conclusión.

Este tipo está loco, así que por mucho que lo repita, se equivoca diciendo que el cielo es azul. La locura de ese hombre no tiene porqué hacer que se confunda al reconocer colores

Shadows of Esteren

I just finished reading Shadows of Esteren (Book 1) and I wanted to share my impressions about this game.

Shadows of Esteren is a little world. The setting is based in a peninsula called Tri-Kazel which is spiritually linked to a somewhat celtic inspiration. This peninsula is isolated from the continent by an almost impassable mountain range, and the sea surrounding the rest of it is so stormy and furious that it's equally impassable. This continent is simply called the Continent, although it's known it has at least two different nations, one of it is a Theocracy, and another is a more scientific nation.

This setting is a low fantasy one, meaning medieval fantasy, with no elves, dwarfs or any other creature usually imagined in such settings. The supernatural part is represented by the Feondas, which is just the common name of an array of creatures that tries to kill other living beings. These feondas seem like twisted versions of vermin, animals, plants and humans, and nothing is explained about them except what they are thought to be.

There are three supernatural-kind-of ways to understand world. The native way is based on spirits of nature. Under this perspective, the Feondas are the expression of the fury of such spirits for not having been paid the proper respect. From the Continent came a faith in a one god, creator of everything, and to the faithful of it, Feondas are demons, enemies of that one god. From a different country of the Continent came the Magience, a kind of Magic-Science based on the fabrication of artifacts that use a kind of energy called "the Flux". For magientist, the Feondas are just part of the natural world, just not yet understood.

After reading the ambientation, one is under the impression that Feondas are far from being the the most important topic, while the differences between the traditionalist nature-spirit-believers, the one-god faithful and the magientist are truly important.

The writing generally do a good job at presenting each part of the world under a different, subjective vision, stating that is a collection of testimonies of different sources about the peninsula, gathered by a noble and delivered to his counselor. Reading it is very enjoyable and actually makes you want to play stories in this setting. It has enough details to feel defined but not enough to make it constrained, so each group of players can (and should) define its own Tri-Kazel to reflect what they prefer regarding how precise each represented viewpoint really is.

The rules are simple, just 1d10 plus some modifiers and versus a target number to be reached (or surpassed)

The skill system has a nice detail: there are several narrow skills called Disciplines. To access one particular Discipline you need a general skill that includes that Discipline. This general skill is called Domain, and some Disciplines are accesible from several Domains. Domains are from 0 to 5 points, while Disciplines are from 6 to 15. Some Disciplines, like weapon disciplines, have to specialize again from 11 to 15, so you can be a legendary swordman with Longsword 15, but you use other one-handed blades at 10 and any Close Combat way of fighting with 5. It's a nice point that all artisans know a bit about other crafts, and any specialist in a particular science has a basic knowledge on all of them, because it helps reflecting how most skills actually work in the real world, more related than isolated.

The most different thing about the system is that the place of attributes like Strength or Intelligence is taken by personality traits called Ways. Everyone is average in Strength, Intelligence and the rest of traditional attributes/characteristics/abilities, except when they buy a particular advantage or disadvantage related to it, and when you divide people in a 1d10 range, pretty much everyone is average.

The definition, then, is about how the personality is. The ways are Combativeness, Reason, Creativeness, Empathy and Conviction, and are evaluated from 1 to 5. Most usually, more is better, but there is a caveat. Since they express personality, to "help" playing your character as it is, there is the "test" idea. For instance, if your character is in a very emotional situation you're probably portraying that and behaving in a way the emotion is getting the upper hand instead of the tactical advantages, but if you are not, you will have to make a "test". You'll roll 1d10 and compare with a target number equal to your Combativeness (which also represents how much you tend to let yourself go with your emotions) plus a modifier.

It's a nice thing to see how personality actually influences what you can do, and even with its limitations (a person with high Combativeness and Reason would not be as emotional as one with high Combativeness and low Reason) it is interesting. After all, in the instance of a fight (a particular easy one, when you are used to think reallistically about them) what you can do is obviously important, but it's far more important what you're willing to do.

Ways mean personality, then, not ability as it, so Combativeness means how quick you are to anger (and any emotion, really) and prone to solve problems through force (of will, shouting or fighting, that depends on your details). Reason represent how prone you are to think about things, not how well you do, and likewise with the rest.

Overall, it is a system with nice ideas to experiment and to represent the normal world, but it has a few problems.

First of all, the supernatural systems (Magience, Druid-kind-of and One-God religion) are not coherent with the low-fantasy the setting is presented to be, nor with the ambientation presented through the book. The first problem is that the Druids and Faithful have what amounts to powers. Powers that most usually work to some extent in a clear way. For instance, both have magical healing, the Druids can make lighting fall on you from the sky and the Clerics can freeze you to death. When a person is able to freeze somebody to death in the six seconds a combat round represents, with but a prayer, its religion is not a matter of faith anymore. The same happens with the Druids and the nature-given favors, such as petrifying an enemy. And both are not coherent with a low-fantasy setting, at any rate.

As for Magience, it could have been a bit more coherent, but it is not in a different way. Magientist artifacts are usually difficult to use (to switch them on you usually have to expend a round and a roll) and breakdown prone, and that I could understand. It's a way to mix a kind of steampunk in the setting and I'm ok with such more or less experimental artifacts to be difficult to use, specially in a rainy, cold place like a celtic peninsula, with mountains and swamps and whatnot. What I find most incoherent about Magience is Flux. Flux is an energy extracted in a liquid form, from just about anything. There are different types of flux (mineral, vegetal, animal and fossil). Fossil flux is already "extracted", while the other types are depending on what you have grind to extract flux from. It's a bit like Mage's quintessence, that is everywhere, in everything. In the ambientation you are told that magientists are most famous as the inventors of Nebulars, a kind of lamp. They use these lamps often and the greatest cities have nebulars to light the streets (at least, on the good neighbourhoods) Then you get to the system and see that a single, portable Nebular uses one Flux charge every 12 hours. How many charges do a whole neighbourhood worth of Nebular lamposts use? Keep that number in mind, because you need to grind about 400 pounds of rock to get one single charge. Now multiply and see if it's reasonable to use that amount of matter. Add now that the refined charge is about three ounces of mass and the rest of the matter grind is turned to a contaminant amount of something ashy, nothing you could do something with, and then it's even more incoherent the world that has been presented to you with its rules.

And, of course, magientist weapons use one charge per use, while damage is about the same of a bow. Honestly, if the first portable firearms had had no advantage over a bow but required a process of a whole day and a couple hundreds of minerals for every shot... we'd still be using bows or crossbows.
In conclusion, it seems a nice setting to play stories about intrigue, mysteries, thrillers... but it needs to tune way down the powers of druids and clerics and a deep revision of the magience thing.

The interview

Every time the interviewer asks a question, she sits slightly back. She has a nice face, a nice handshake, a nice looking smile, a nice suit
And her body is not bad either, even if it's not right to say it aloud.

That's one of those slightly incoherent things: people who say in every occasion that they're not to be judged physically, but still devotes time to choose favoring clothes despite comfort. Just like I do in a job interview like this one, with a suit's jacket over the sweater.

I guess that people do realize we are not judged solely by how we look our looks influence the judgement from the moment they're perceived; it's only they dislike the idea enough to make themselves unable to acknowledge it without been confronted to. Some even after been confronted.

There was an actress, don't remember her name, she was a latin actress in Dick Tracy or Sin City or something... She said something like being pretty, helps, being not, doesn't, and I couldn't agree more. I know there are other opinions, but just seeing how reality is proves those other opinions are just wishful thinking.

Of course looks are not the most important trait for almost anything, but help, they do, just as manners or a nice smile.

And the interviewer has a nice smile, but it seems too much a professional smile. It's an effort worth noting and worth thanking, but it's just a professional habit, an unconscious gesture that can't deceive someone with enough talent to see the real emotions or someone who has so little talent that is continuously paying attention, for that is what it takes to understand the everyday people.

I answer her questions as honestly as I can. When she asks about defects, I say perfectionism, but since most people think that is kind of a bliss in disguise, I feel in the obligation of clearing the misunderstanding.

I know it seems just something to say in a job interview to make the interviewee seem better, but it is not: sometimes we need to end a program or a feature in a deadline and our clients are more worried about having it now than having it later but more reliable and more easily and quickly repaired or adapted, should need arise.
And then I want to devote time to code quality tools to let us discover the bugs we left before the client does, but nobody wants to pay for that. Or almost nobody does, my current company has enough liberty for us to decide how we do things, and though it's not always respected, most times I can indulge that impulse and not only do things, but do them right.
That is a real defect for a company focused only on delivery, but I think it adds value not only to the clients, even if they don't realize, but also to the programmers, who have a company's enforced chance to improve as professionals instead of having only their free time.

I keep answering questions, where I've worked, what my positions where, how much money I would like...

After some more time, she looks to the papers she's been taking notes in, and smiles "well, I have no more questions. Do you want to ask something?"
As always, I express my curiosity about what kind of projects I would be working in, but of course she doesn't know. "Human resources". I understand some people needs to specialize in judging honesty in would-be workers, but it would be nice to have them know at least some information useful for the interviewees.

Killing my nemesis

It has been a long journey, not a chase as much as a long hide-and-seek game with bouts of struggling, but in the end, here we are, in his own house. The fight has ended at last, he has surrendered to the inevitable fate.

He has stopped trying to defend himself, just lying there, breathing heavily so I can take my time, do it nicely.

I am not merciless. I have imagined so many ways... Push him in a car's way, or a bus' or a train's; an overdose; hang him or suffocate him with a bag or the car's escape trick; cut his belly open or even involve him in a fight and get others to actually kill him.

But I can take my time and prove I have mercy, so I cut him in his inner thigh.
If done right, a half stab, half deep cut, between the muscles, there is not too much collateral damage, not too much pain.
I do the other one too, to accelerate things. With a single femoral artery bleeding it is about two to three minutes until you lose consciousness due to loss of blood, and then about one more minute until actual death, but being unconscious, that doesn't matter. A relatively pain-free death, not a bad way to die.

He keeps bleeding, still looking at my hands and the knife while I clean the blade, but his blinking is slower, and slower.

...

Maybe the adrenaline is keeping him awake a little longer than I thought, but the strength is abandoning his fingers.
This is almost a spiritual moment and I put the knife away and sit back.
He slides until he lies on the floor, and so do I. He blinks
once more, and then he close his eyes. Even with
my own eyes closed, I can feel him
finally descending on
unconsciousness.

Then he's gone,
and so
am
I

La escuela de baile

Hacía frío, o más bien entraba de la calle. El baño del vecino de arriba perdía agua y se había filtrado tanto tiempo que el moho ya había tomado un color entre negro y verde.  El dueño del piso era quien tenía que hacer las reparaciones pero, como tantas veces ocurría, hacía oídos sordos a lo que no fuera cobrar la renta, así que todo se había alargado meses más de la cuenta, y los afectados por la gotera mantenían la puerta de la calle abierta todo el tiempo que podían con la intención, o quizá sólo la esperanza, de contribuir a secar la humedad o al menos reducir el olor de yeso mojado.

Era una pena, porque no hacía tanto tiempo que las salas habían sido arregladas y adecentadas en la medida en que el dinero lo había permitido, pero con los edificios del centro es siempre lo mismo: construcciones viejas con más años que cuidados, pero situadas en el mismo sitio que tantas y tantas personas que un negocio tenía fácilmente más futuro allí por la afluencia de público que en otro lugar donde las instalaciones pudieran ser mejores y costara menos mantenerlas.

La pintura y los nuevos espejos de las salas habían mejorado el aspecto, y apartar al antiguo dueño y, sobre todo, su continuo fumar, habían cambiado por completo la sensación inicial al ver la recepción, transformando el lugar cerrado y claustrofóbico que parecía antes en una sala abierta donde podía esperarse cómodamente a que empezara la clase de uno.

Algunas clases, como la de claqué, hacían pensar que una cierta insonorización podría evitar interferencias entre las actividades de las distintas salas, pero las clases de flamenco ponían por delante reforzar el suelo, sobre todo al escuchar a los alumnos que daban clase debajo y comentaban entre risas cómo se sacudían las lámparas y el propio techo.

The Silver Spider, as PC

That story was originally focused on a dark elf monk, serving the interests the Elf Queen could not express.

He has a 3 point complicated relationship with the elf queen, because he's part of her forces but they do not always know it or are at liberty of showing such knowledge.

His backgrounds are probably divided between his public occupation and his secret occupation. 

Maybe secret agent sounds too modern, but elf queen's spy, ...saboteur or even ...assassin are good. The public backgrounds could be dark elf exiled mercenary, ...hunter, ...trader or ...wanderer. I would probably put 4 points on the secret one and 2 each on a couple of cover ones.

The original thought was to make him a monk, but the same relationships and background ideas could work with a rogue, sorcerer, fighter or ranger. And bards make usually good spies.

As Bard I think the Spider would be primarily a Charisma bard, with the talent Balladeer to help him blend in. Also, Spellsinger and Jack-of-Spells seem nice enough, considering the Elf Queen's status as one of the best sorceress in the world. If he was to primarily spy on a particular group (in particular, Archmage, Lich King, Priestess or Great Gold Wyrm), Mythkenner or Loremaster could help making a cover, with the two additional background points and the extra icon relationship.

As Fighter I imagine him being the quick, expeditious kind of fighter, favoring Strength and Dexterity, fighting with two longswords or maybe scimitars. The talents Comeback Strike and Counter-attack help making that image, letting him taking advantage of a foe's failed attacks and having less chances of failing his own. The third talent could be Deadeye Archer to bring in the idea of covert killer. His initial maneuvers would probably be among Carve an Opening, Deadly Assault, Precision Attack, Second Shot and Two Weapon Pressure.

As Ranger I think he's probably a good candidate for Favored Enemy: humanoid. A spider Animal Companion is drow-flavored, but he's supposed to be undercover, so I wouldn't take that one. First Strike, Lethal Hunter and Two Weapon Mastery match the assassin kind of character, while Fey Queen's Enchantments connects him with the powers of Elf Queen.

As Rogue, the talents Improved Sneak Attack or Murderous make him the assassin type, while Smooth Talk is more spy-like and Shadow-Walk links him with the darkness drow character everyone expects him to be.

As Sorcerer I would clearly take the Fey Heritage talent and probably Sorcerer's Familiar. Blood Link is interesting to let another relationship into the character and help his cover.

Finally, as Monk, the forms that most call my attention are Greeting Fist, because it seems like a good way to end a fight quick, Heaven's Arrow match the secret, stealthy and ranged style of ninja-style kunai, as Spinning Willow Tree gets him a nice projectile dodge ability and Leaf on Wind gives him the extra movement I expect from a mainly infiltration ninja kind of character.

There you go, six different characters with the same story.

Critic thought

When I talk about religion some people ask what damage it does?

Of course, the first thing that comes to mind is jihadists suicide bombers (or worse, non-suicide terrorist, at least the suicide ones kill themselves too) or christian fundamentalists denying medical care to their own children because it goes against god's will.

Then they specify that they were talking about the more discreet believers. You know them, the ones who don't read their holy books, wouldn't believe what is written on them but couldn't care less anyway. Those are the ones attending their services without thinking about what they mean and whose behavior is hardly influenced in any way by the religion they say they follow.

Actually, they are not far from behaving as atheists, except for a few things.

First thing is they waste their time attending those services.

Second thing is they keep teaching their children that religion, in the best case making them the same kind of person they are. In the worst case, they're easing those children way into damaging others because of their religious beliefs. Any way you look at it, any believer is more easily converted into a religious extremist than an atheist is.

Third, and this damages their children even if they never go farthest than their parents went, even the discreet kind of believer is used to discards any fact in conflict with their beliefs, and that is a custom easily extended to fields different from the religious one. Usually politics, economy and society opinions are the first ones being fixed thanks to that disregarding of anything conflicting with the opinions they hold, but they often don't stop at that.

That third damage is the more dangerous, because it's more subtle but more easily taught, and a necessary condition to advance from normal believer into hardcore believer. That third problem can be summarized as having the ability to turn their critic thought off, except it's not under their control.

The critic thought is what makes us react when something is incoherent or inconsistent, what makes us realize when somebody is trying to manipulate us, because they are usually incoherent with other things they say or do, or because they're incoherent with what reality is.

So, that lack of critic thought is what lets other people take advantage of us, and teaching our children that normal, standard religious way, no matter what particular religion, is making more difficult to them to develop that critical thought, so necessary in our lives

That's one subtle way the "normal" believers of every religion burden and damage everyone (else and themselves).

Empezando de nada

Nada.
Un adulto sentado en una silla, una niña tumbada en la cama.
Dormida.
El adulto le ha contado un cuento.
La cadencia de su voz ha distraído a la niña de los juegos de una hora antes, distraído, si corazón ha ralentizado sus latidos. Distraída con el cuento, se ha calmado su respiración. Bostezaba sin darse cuenta hasta que se le abría tanto la boca que no podía no cerrar los ojos, y mientras escuchaba las últimas palabras que pronunciaba su padre, intentaba en vano no dormirse, escuchar el final

Respect other people's beliefs

Too many times people say things like this when what they really mean is "respect my beliefs", and especially often when it's about religious beliefs. I know a lot of people feel their religion as a part of who they are, not only something they do. A lot of them even have good memories related in some ways with their religion.

Most times those beliefs are what they were told since little children who believed whatever their parents told them, but there is time enough for that part.

The point of this post is specifically that beliefs are not something to be respected. None. But why?

Let's start with some easy ones. Think about the times you've said or been said that "you have to respect other people's beliefs" line and now think about beliefs you or they would never agree with. Like black people being inferior to white people, or women being inferior to men, or women being property, or Nazism.

If you are in a group believing the above, think about the belief that all people should be equal before the law, regardless of race or gender. Now it's easier to see that at least some beliefs don't deserve respect, right?

Now think about the occasions of that respect-beliefs sentence and realize most happen when someone openly disagrees or challenge them, often emphasizing whatever bad things it has brought in the past. That's related but a bit out of today's point. This paragraph's idea is to realize that any challenge to some beliefs is considered disrespectful by believers, so what that sentence usually mean is "you shouldn't challenge other people's beliefs"

I guess that taboo is precisely because religion or similarly held beliefs are considered a part of the believer's identity, at least by the believer, and we are supposed to respect who other people is.

First of all, no belief should be considered part of anybody's identity especially by that somebody. A belief is, by definition, something we think is true or probable, but that we can't prove, and usually something we can find arguments against. That means a choice even when usually it's not an intellectual choice but an emotional one, and as a choice is susceptible to change. That is why we shouldn't held somebody's belief as their identity.

Once we've taken that out of the way, let's focus on the evidence part. Nothing that can't be proved with enough logic should remain unchallenged. Nothing at all. If among the reasons to belief something is that it's nice to believe it, that is reason enough to doubt that belief and challenge it as soon and as hard as possible. At the very least, we should acknowledge, to ourselves if not to anyone else, that it's an opinion and that we are not trying to make other people see the truth but to convince them of our own opinion.

That is not going to prevent violence: the opinion that those things should be mine, yours or theirs have historically being argued violently. Opinions like some people are not other people's property has been violently defended, mostly by the ones being considered property. And of course the opposite opinion has been so by the aspirants to owners.

So, opinions are not to be part of what a person is, opinions are not truth, and opinions don't prevent violence in their sake. Now, what else?

Opinions should be challenged. Opinions must be challenged. First of all, by their owners and defenders, then by everyone else. No opinion deserves special treatment. No belief deserves not to be challenged, debated, argued. And, above all, opinions about how a particular god wants you to act. That's religions, the beliefs most usually getting the "respect my beliefs".

No, you don't have to respect anybody's beliefs. You should challenge every belief.

Mar

Es profundidad. Fuerza. Estable, siempre en el mismo lugar, aunque nunca igual, siempre en movimiento, siempre vivo. Vida. Inmensidad.
Inmensamente vivo, inmensamente fuerte, inmensamente profundo.
Tan inmenso que fuerza o profundidad son palabras demasiado pequeñas, no se puede abarcar con una sola mente.

Te sostiene, te agarra, se mezcla contigo si le dejas, haciéndote una parte de sí mismo y, después, durante un rato, eres menos tú de lo que eras pero también eres más de lo que eras.

Acaricia tu piel mientras apenas sostiene tu peso, flotando. Tú eres responsable de ti mismo, él sólo te ayuda tanto como tú te ayudes y las corrientes te acarician y te hacen olvidarte.

Olvido. Sólo eres algo que se disuelve en su lenta respiración. ¿Qué son problemas? ¿Qué son ilusiones? ¿Qué son planes? Respira hondo, despacio, despacio, duerme en mí... Cuando despiertes, tu frente estará relajada, aunque ahora sólo sabrías que está tensa si le prestaras más atención. ¿Preocupaciones? ¿Decepciones?
Olvida.

Es una tormenta en una montaña. Los árboles a tu alrededor, pero a unos metros de ti. El agua cae tan rápido que forma un río sobre el suelo que antes pisabas. Te empapa y te llena de risa y de energía, de felicidad por estar en el momento en el que estás. Ves los rayos como líneas fugaces de color azul y te das cuenta de que aunque supieras que vas a morir aquí y ahora nada puede disipar esta felicidad, la inmensidad del aire a tu alrededor, nubes oscuras hasta donde alcanza tu vista, árboles hasta donde puedes ver, la montaña que se alza junto a ti y bajo tus pies, demostrando lo ridículamente pretencioso que son los que se creen capaces de destruir este mundo sin darse cuenta de que nada que pudiera hacer la especie humana al completo es tan destructivo como las cosas que ya ha sufrido.
Y les ha superado, como nos superará a nosotros.

Es una niña que no existe y posiblemente no exista nunca. Una niña a quien su padre quiere absolutamente. Aplaudida cuando piensa en lo que lee, lo que ve, lo que cree. Con pensamientos sobre lo que dice, sobre lo que piensa y sobre los pensamientos que tiene sobre sus pensamientos, y más allá. Una niña feliz en el conocimiento más que tranquila en la ignorancia.

Mountain's son, as 13th Age PC

Today I just want to elaborate on the different versions of character that (almost) the same story can make, in particular, Mountain's Son.

We left him as a dwarf, with the unique of having been born from a geode. I think he has 3 points in a positive relationship with the Dwarf King; as for backgrounds, he's Miner in the north mountains 4 since it's been most of his life, and then Dwarven traveler 2 and Legend seeker 2, because of the travels he's made searching clues about the meaning of his birth.

And the class is the point of that post I mentioned before. The Dwarven armored Fighter is the first image of a lot of people. He would dress in heavy armor, carries a shield and a war-pick. Maybe his helmet is made from the geode he was born from. He definitely has the Tough as Iron and Heavy Warrior talents. Defensive Fighting is a combat maneuver that makes him even harder to hurt and Carve an Opening brings me images of hacking at a foe as he picked at the mine.

Now let's make him a more primal warrior. He has not any training, after all, just natural toughness, mulishness and muscles made from mine work. Now he's a Barbarian. His gear is the same but for the armor, now lighter, maybe the hides he used to protect from cold weather or burning from melting ore. As Barbarian, two talents are clearly Unstoppable and Strongheart, letting him shrug off his foes' hits. I would probably give him the Cleave talent too, mostly because of the adventurer feat to let him heal (again), although at first level I would probably select the Unstoppable feat.

If that's not primal enough, we can make him a druid, most probably Terrain Caster adept since he has such a strong connection with earth in general and mountains in particular.

A final option, maybe more surprising to other characters and players, would be to make him into a Bard. He should have the Mythkenner talent to let him use Wisdom instead of Charisma and raise his Legend Seeker background to 4. Since he's legend seeker and not song seeker, I would take the Storyteller talent too, and probably the Battle Skald talent, to not forget dwarves are famous warriors.

Now, he does not use a shield and probably he sings without instruments, with his low, rumbling, dwarven voice. In this case, though the typical bard we have in mind is more a rapier or sword swashbuckler, I would want him to use the pick he used when mining, to not forget where he came from.

The Silver Spider

Kumoel had been living at the monastery for so long he barely remembers his parents as blurry faces. Kumoel is a silver elf, as they call themselves, a dokkalfar as they were called in old times or a dark elf, as most people calls them nowadays. Kumoel has grown in the monastery since he was adopted, or so he's been told, it's not that easy to trust in what another person tells you, specially when that person gains something out of that trust.

Kumoel sits patiently, waiting for one of the masters, the highest he's ever seen, though not the highest there is. While he sits, he observes the room. The tactical factors were noticed in the first moments after entering, while the monk who showed him the way told him to wait there. A dark oblong room with luminescent fungi in pots at the points; eight columns, thick as a man, so he sat against the column in the dark enough limit, having it between him and the door.

Nothing else to do until the master arrives, so he observes the bas-relieves in the walls picturing spiders and half spider half elf creatures, the carvings in the floor making it look like a spider web, the ceiling adornments as a giant spider's abdomen, the columns sculpted as the spider's legs...

Kumoel pressed his lips: the whole monastery seemed designed by a spider fetishist, no wonder other people had prejudices against silver elves. Not that Kumoel has anything against spiders, but enough is enough.

Kumoel got up when he heard soft footsteps getting near the door, and he was ready as it opened. The soft footsteps got to the room's center and, after some moments, its owner's voice broke the silence.

You have trained for many years, we have taught you as much as we could, but there are lessons that are better learnt than taught and there are needs that need to be taken care of. Tomorrow, you will leave the monastery, you will be known as The Silver Spider and you will walk, speak and fight to help our Queen in whatever task she can't say out loud.

We, Silver Folk, have been feared and hated. Even our cousins of Wood and Sun fell under that deception, but be not angry for that hate or mindful of that fear, for it is the way of this world. Forgive their actions, for they are ignorant, for the End Times are near and the survival of the Shards lay in those who further the same goals.

Go, now, find your weapons and sleep for the last time in our sheltered refugee, for tomorrow you will be shown the sun for the first time and sent in the surface world as another thread of the web that serves the Queen.

Kumoel waited until he heard the visitor go outside and then he went out of his hiding place as quietly as he could. When he got to the room he had been sleeping for the last years of his training, he found a black leather backpack, a wire with spider shaped handles to strangulate people and throwing knives with handles in the shape of, yes, spiders. Kumoel inspired deeply, resolving to sell that conspicuous gear as soon as he could and getting something more ordinary.

For now, though, he packed everything and lay in the bed to rest, thinking. He had been training all his life to reach this point, when he'd be allowed outside, to have his own way. Of course he was willing to help the Queen of Elves, it just wasn't the only thing he wanted to do.

The monastery taught that the Sun Elves were to further the magic's knowledge and power in visible places of power throughout the lands and that the Wood Elves were to keep the natural elven lands strong and protected with more mundane methods. That was obvious enough for everyone, but the masters taught that the Silver Elves were to find ways to help the Queen that she would not be able to ask out loud without damaging her reputation with her allies. An example was the conquest of dwarven underlands through guerrilla, assassination and poison tactics, something that brought metal resources to the three Shards of the Court, while keeping the reputation damage only on the Silver Folk. The monastery of the Spider was devoted to train spies, thieves and occasional assassins, and the particular order that raised Kumoel taught that the most dangerous assassin was that who didn't looked the part. That's was the reason behind all the emphasis on unarmed and unarmored combat, since a commoner with no weapons or armor wasn't thought of as that much dangerous. Kumoel had his doubts, since the idea of calling himself a creepy name like "Silver Spider" or carrying spider-themed gear all around kind of was the opposite idea. Above all, he wanted to go out and actually see the sun and all the lands he could see. He had been in the surface a few times, but only at night, and knew more of maps and pictures of sun-lighted lands than about the actual soil and sunlight. He smiled, happy and wondering what wonderful adventures would live and what interesting people he'd know in the years to come.

Finally, he had actually started a real life.

Player characters in 13th Age

13th Age is a game so different from D&D versions I've played (3-5, including Pathfinder) that I just don't know where to start with what I'm enthusiastic about, but the main thing I was thinking when writing this post was that the character has a lot of times between little and nothing to do with its class.

Something that used to set me back from class-based games was precisely the rigid class/archetype thing, with multi-classing being a half-solution attempt to more flexible systems such as Ars Magica, World of Darkness or Fading Suns, in which you get a set of points for skills, talents, etc and you make whatever you can with them. Of course they have archetypes too, but the archetypes are either character concepts or lore things, not only creation constraints.

In some cases, the archetype includes personality traits because they're educated in a particular way and culture (just like us). That's the case of werewolf tribes or Fading Suns noble houses.
In other cases, it's because they're chosen by a particular group, such as Vampire clans.
The point is, there's an easy, real-world related explanation for those traits.

In the D&D versions I played, classes defined not only what were the "right" skills of other people of your class (read, class-skills) but how many points you had, so rogue and bard classes had the more general life experience of all, while fighters were usually semi-ignorant, socially challenged brutes because they hadn't the points not to be.
In 13th Age all classes have the same points because thy're not skill points but background points. You have not Perception +3, but you spent half your life as explorer in the Imperial army, so you have a Explorer in the Imperial Army +4 background.
The point idea to backgrounds may even give meaning to what have you done with your life most of the time, and solves a couple problems: one, everybody have a past, being a soldier gives you a different experience than being a rock star, but not less, only different experiences. The second problem is the typical skills importance in RPGs. Some RPGs have so many combat/survival oriented traits that you need a lot of points to be somewhat good at them, while it's easier having a social/intellectual character. Usually that's no problem because most players (as far as I've met) are not the Geyperman type, but I remember that a friend, using the skill descriptions on World of Darkness books, had not enough points to describe what he could do - being a member of army's special forces.

Anyway, on with 13th Age's backgrounds. The point I want to make is that everybody have different experiences based on their past and profession, not that much or little. I know, in real life people do have different experience levels because some people learn faster than other, but I'm not saying that 13th Age's more realistic, but that is more flexible, character centered, than other systems.

Setting backgrounds aside, let's talk about the unique thing. Every player character must have something that sets them aside from the rest of the members of the same class and race. It can be something simple but when I've played, most players have more complicated ideas that are somewhat difficult to imagine in other systems, such as being a dragon trapped in human form or the only survivor of an old battle.

Finally, there's the icon relationships. They provide a connection with the great schemers in the world (or at least the setting) This is a bit more at fault, because not all the character types are going to be related to organizations. As for a system thing, it helps relate what motivates the characters with what happens in the adventures and with the world at large.

The great thing of those three traits is that they have nothing to do with your character's class. I wanted to use a couple examples to illustrate, so let's start with The Mountain's son. That character is a dwarf because it's in its story, as for the backgrounds, I'd say at least 4 points are in something like Dwarf Miner in the North Mountain Range and there's probably some in Dwarf Rock legends because he wants to know what means its unique. Of course, that is being born of a geode. What class is he? He could easily be a barbarian or a fighter as a lot of dwarves used to pickaxes, or a druid (possibly with terrain caster) to relate with the powers of the earth. He could even be a bard if he had time to travel enough, learning legends and stories.
A second example is the Crusader's Foundling. The kid that killed his demon-cultist family have that as unique, but what class is he? Paladin, fighter and barbarian all mix well with the violent twist, but he could also be a cleric (of the dark gods of punishment and revenge, of course, Inquisitor comes to mind) Changing the hammer detail, he could be a sorcerer related with the Great Gold Wyrm's power or a monk of the Crusader's Fist's Order, an order of warriors who only have in common the hate against demons, the will to use violence against them despite the odds, and a past without weapon or armor training. Also, making it a kitchen knife or even a sacrificial dagger, he could had develop his talents into being a rogue to infiltrate other cults or stealth missions to assassinate cult leaders while the main forces attack the cult's base. Or he could be a demon hunter, a ranger. In every case he knows about demons and cults and most probably have some skill at stealth (he freed the other children without the need to kill every cultist, after all)

Both characters' stories relate to what they know, what they do and what their allies are, but not to what class they are. I know, you can use the unique and the relationships in other games, but in 13th Age you have to, and that forces you to think about who your character is, how the world is and how they relate to each other, setting you in the mood.

Crusader's foundling

Farmers everywhere grow or raise most of the things they need. The rest, they buy in shops, like this one in a town just like any other.
'Something important today, Marsh?' - asked the clerk
'A bit of a family meeting. A few of the boys have grown enough for their name-choosing' - said the woman, smiling, by the sound of it.
- 'That's nice, isn't it? The young ones growing into adults, I mean' -
- 'It is, right? More hands, less work, they say' - 
They spent a few more minutes chatting while a rude looking man in a badly-battered armor walked slowly through the merchandise, paying attention to a few items. The clerk and the client seemed a bit nervous, but when the conversation started sounding awkwardly as if the clerk didn't want to be alone with the stranger, he plod to the counter.
- 'I want half a dozen coils of rope, the sturdiest you have. Also, rolls of fabrics, thread and sewing needles. Where could I buy milk, and dried meat and vegetables?' - 
The clerk seemed nervous and scared, the stranger seemed taller and stronger this near, so it was the client who answer, smiling charmingly.
'We use to change our surplus milk and harvest here, but I think Bill - she signaled the clerk with her hand - sells them to John, down the street. John's sister smokes and dries provisions for selling adventurers, mercenaries and whatnot passes through, if that's what you want. - The stranger looked at her calmly, Marsh thought he looked to people as if they were a different species.
- 'Thanks' - he said, before turning his head to the clerk - 'Now, could you help me with the other supplies?' -
While the clerk gathered the thread and sewing items, the stranger shouldered the ropes, three and four coils at a time, and loaded in a cart outside, helped by a younger and even quieter man. After everything was loaded, the young took the reins, the man looked at the clerk first, and at Marsh after. Then he climbed up the cart and the two drived down the street, to John's store.
- 'What a weird couple' - said Marsh.
- 'Didn't like them. Muscled, armored brutes aren't of my liking' -
- 'Their money was, though' -
- 'Gold's always good. Besides, things are not so good I can pass on good money.' - answered the clerk, before going inside again.

***

The stranger was now with his captain. - 'Name-choosing?' - he was asking. The second in command, an old but still strong, one-eyed man, said - 'Some cults have that kind of ceremonies, but are not so much name as host choosing. Children are not strong enough to host most demons, so they wait till they grow and then they're possessed. We should storm that farm right away, before they can reinforce their ranks.' - 'Such cults are not the only ones using that kind of ceremonies. - countered the captain - In the south and north there are tribes we believe each person has the right to decide how he's to be called. We're not going to storm anywhere if we are not sure. Sergeant, tell the troops tonight is a stealth. Light armor, no horses. Get them ready.'

***

The wet soil's smell filled the nose of the sergeant, bringing him memories of youth. They felt as old as if they were another man's memories. Happy times, green grass, cattle... a simple, happy life. The sergeant and his troops were crawling as stealthy as they could, considering the bulk of their bodies and weapons. Light armor was riskier, but their work was to make sure before signaling the heavier armored soldiers, so they had to get there in silence, so, light armor.
It was a cold night, the fog made it eerie and colder, and the tension could be felt in every man. They were almost wishing for this to be a fight and to start as soon as possible. That always meant rushing into problems, so the sergeant had to control them, and himself, as best as he could while they got near enough the farm's buildings to crouch by them instead of crawling like beasts. The sergeant could hear words, but not understand them, so he slid along the wall, toward a window.
- 'What do you mean, killed them?' - asked an old man's voice
- 'What does 'kill' usually mean? That bloody child killed his parents with a bloody hammer.' - the voice sounded just like the woman at that shop
- 'Could have been the mercenaries you saw in town' - 
- 'They seemed more like the ride-in, kill-em-all type. And then that child is the only one missing' -
- 'And today of all days!' - 
- 'It's a Black Moon, for heavens' sake. They're brutes, but even they must be able to learn with time. That's why I propose to bring forward the ceremony.' - 
- 'The ceremony can't be rushed! The proper respect must be paid, the proper rituals must be followed' -
- 'I fucking know! That's what you all said before, but if those were Crusader's soldiers, the sooner we can count our reinforcements, the better' - 
- 'It'll be hours before the new hosts are completely taken' - 
The woman's voice was strained with frustration, managing to convey the shouting even when she was whispering.
- 'I already know! So let's start the bloody ceremony now, get ready as soon as we can and kill that blasted child when we find him instead of wasting time looking for him' - 

The sergeant was thinking that the lieutenant had been right about storming in, but now was too late to change plans and... what was that burning smell?

- 'Smell that?' - asked the old man
- 'Something's burning' - hurried steps drew near the door while the sergeant walked back as fast as he dared and as quietly as he could.
They opened the door worrying about the smoke, though
- 'You don't think...' -
- 'Better be sure. Let's go...' - 
A loud crack interrupted the woman, Marsh, the clerk called her, and part of the barn's roof fell in, letting red flames through.
- 'The barn! the barn's burning!' - the woman shout, as the two of them ran towards it. At that point, the sergeant thought he had hear enough and things were going south too quickly to wait more, so he nod to one of his men and that one signaled the main force with his hooded lantern.

The night's air filled with shouts of surprise and war cries when the riders reached the farm and started hacking the farmers, and the sergeant was proved right when hellish fire sprout from them, and they grew horns and claws and fangs, and pounced on the riders. The sergeant and his men also joined in the fight, using surprise to get some easy kills. When no one else came forth to challenge the soldier's strength, they checked the buildings before setting them on fire and then gathered in the fire's ligths.

- They were talking about children sir, and a ceremony. -
- I told you, dammit! - 
- Silence, lieutenant. Have you checked the buildings? -
- All but the barn, sir, that was in fire already. - 
- Short as the fight was, if the children were there, they'll be dead already. Let the trackers get their dogs and look for tracks outside. If some of those demons have flee, I want them captured or death before sunrise. -

***

The dogs did find a track, children by the size of the footprints, and not too many. They got to them in the forest, illuminated by the lanterns, bows aiming at them. A small group of three girls and four boys, and a fifth standing before the armored soldiers and the barking dogs, a bloody hammer in his hands, covered in blood. More blood splattered his face and stained his clothes, and his expression was grimly regarding the soldiers, waiting for them to move and willing to fight with a farmer's hammer against steel swords and shields, and armored men.
Brave or crazy as he seemed, demon seemed not. The captain dismounted slowly, weapons sheathed, hands empty as he walked forward, towards the boy.
- 'Calm down, boy.' - 
- 'Go away. I have already killed more of you than you can gain by taking our bodies, so learn from that and go away.' -
- 'We don't want your bodies, boy. We are the Crusader's soldiers. We were warned that children were going to be sacrificed tonight, so we came. You're safe, now.'-
- 'We trusted the demons we had as parents while they raised us. I know better than to trust you.'-
- 'I understand, boy. Lieutenant, we won't go further tonight, organize guards, tend the wounded, recover the dead. Boy, we have food, milk too, if there's a baby among those other children. Tomorrow we all will go to the town's temple for them to take care of you. We're no demons'-

The Mountain's son

Balin and his wife Kera lived in the mountain range, north of the Empire. When they were younger, Kera used to joke about Balin's true love being the mountain, but with the decades, the joke had lost in humor and Kera had gained in bitterness. "This is an absurd place to live, far from other Dwarfs, far from the more populated outposts, far from the richer veins..." Her complains hurt Balin for he loved his wife dearly, although, certainly, nothing could compare to the magnificence of the Mountain. It was just another mountain on the range for everyone else, but for Balin, it always was the Mountain, with capital M.

One night, Balin came back and found the fire out, the pot empty, and their home, cold. Thinking that something must had happen to Kera, he took a lantern to keep the mountain winds from putting out the light, and went out searching for her. He shout her name to the dark until he could not talk anymore, and he finally came back to the house, determined to search again the next day, with sunlight.

Balin lit the fire and, when he got warm, looked around, for any clues about where could Kera had gone. And he found a clue in the shape of a message written with coal over a piece of leather. Dwarves' runes are made to be engraved in stone, a laborious work, so their sentences tend to be as short and clear as they can. Translated, Kera's message would have been more or less "I went back to my family. Be with your mountain."

Sadness and realization overcame Balin while he drop to sit on the floor. He didn't remember having ever felt so alone.

The next day he almost woke up already in the mine, in the last shaft he had opened on the Mountain. He was already hitting the rock with his pick, although he didn't even remember how he got there. He wonder what he was doing, what was the point of discovering the Mountain's secrets and gifts with no one to share them with. And got angry. And then he got furious and started hitting the rock harder, complaining first and then shouting the Mountain for his love for it made him lose his wife.

And then the rock gave way and left a hollow under the pick. At first, Balin didn't understood, lost as he were in his fury, but years of mining took control and he realized he had found a geode, the first one he had found in the Mountain.

And he could hear a child's cry from it.

Astonished, he looked inside the geode, pouring light with his lantern, and saw a little wounded baby inside the geode, crying. Balin knew not what to do but to take the baby out of there, so he took the smaller pick he used when he had to get gems out of the rock, and started hitting as delicately and fast as he could until he could put his hands in and take the baby out. He (he was a "he") was still crying, but Balin's was relieved when he could see better the wounds and realized it was barely more than scratches. He wrapped the baby in his own coat and ran with him back to the house, looking for something else to protect him from the cold and then go down to the hamlet and look for advice about taking care of babies.

For the next months he fed the baby with goat's milk, following the advice of Mara, an old, half-blind dwarf-woman who was also considered half-crazy. At least she was crazy enough to accept Balin's story without questions and giving him the advice the baby needed. For the next years the hamlet's opinion was that Balin had a lover, the mother of that child, and that that was what made Kera leave. Since Mara helped Balin but was too old to be his lover herself, they thought she knew the affair and had helped keeping it secret.

Be as it may, Balin named the child "Berg" and raise him as miner. However, Balin often caught Berg with the sight lost to the horizon and got thinking that a dwarf born from the Mountain wasn't meant to be kept there, less so considering the relationship with the hamlet's people. They kept to the lover's story and so the dwarves Berg's age taunted him, until the day he lost his temper and badly beat a few of them. Finally, Balin decided he should do something for Berg's future but he had grown old by then, and that winter was going to be his last. "I'm dying, son." he told Berg "as grand Mara did. You will be by yourself now, but I think fate has more for you than mining the Mountain. Open that chest" Berg did so and found a piece of a geode, half carved. "I intended to make a shield for you with that, part of the geode you were born from, but I had not enough time or skill. I ask you, take it when you go and find somebody able to make a shield from it, for I hope it'd be a link with your mother's strength in your traveling."

Spoiler warning, Make your own luck

Haldron suspiró, cansado. Los ritos funerarios élficos son tal como puede esperarse de una especie que tiene todo el tiempo del mundo para rituales y para quienes la muerte siempre es una tragedia debida a violencia de algún tipo, accidentes o, raramente, una enfermedad mágica.

Por suerte, no cambia la parte esencial, la que impide que el Rey Liche levante a sus muertos para que luchen contra quienes les lloran.

En todo caso, los largos rituales resultan agotadores para un humano como Haldron. Al menos le queda el consuelo de saber que, si los asediantes consiguen pasar las puertas, la atención que ha puesto en respetar sus costumbres puede haberles perdonar que sea un nigromante.

La ciudad de Leafall, donde Jaria había tenido su problema con los gólems de Iñigo Sharpe, había resistido un asedio troll durante las últimas semanas. Varios de los ciudadanos pensaban que el motivo del ataque era tomar o destruir uno de los artefactos del archimago, localizado allí. Algunos decían que era uno de sus dispositivos para controlar las lluvias y las tormentas, otros, que era un detector de monstruos que vivían en la oscuridad entre las estrellas. En cualquier caso, su destrucción no supondría nada bueno.

Los trolls que asediaban la ciudad consiguieron abrir un hueco y los personajes tuvieron que encabezar la lucha. El que encabezaba el ataque tenía pintada una calavera en el rostro, como si ya estuviera muerto. Quizá en ese momento fueran sólo las expectativas de los jugadores las que les hicieran pensar que el Rey Liche estaba involucrado, pero cuando, tras un golpe mortal de necesidad, la carne del troll se convirtió en ceniza mientras su esqueleto seguía luchando, quedó confirmado.

El combate fue aprovechado por un grupo de trasgos para colarse, y los personajes les persiguieron por las callejuelas, subiendo hacia la ladera donde se situaban las casas de los más ricos. Por supuesto, les mataron sin dificultad.

Por la mañana, un soldado fue a ver a Eiseman, que estaba liderando las fuerzas de los defensores, para decirle que habían encontrado un mensaje entre las pertenencias de uno de los trasgos. El mensaje pedía a alguien llamado Jareh que siguiera con el plan. 

Empujados por los trolls atacantes, muchos refugiados habían buscado y encontrado refugio en la ciudad, así que hicieron que la guardia buscara entre ellos a alguien llamado Jareh, y sólo algunas horas después volvieron para decirles que le habían encontrado en la zona alta y que había tomado como rehén al hijo de la familia que le había acogido.

Los personajes entraron en el sótano donde se habían alojado los pasados días: Jareh, la mujer, esperaba junto al pozo con su daga en el cuello del muchacho, y un hombre armado esperaba a su lado, preparado para defenderla.

"¿Crees que me importa la vida del chico?" preguntó Eiseman. Jareh sonrió y degolló al muchacho. "¿Y ahora?" preguntó, mientras empujaba, con la daga ensangrentada, unos guijarros al pozo. No habían llegado a caer cuando el guardaespaldas de la asesina se puso en el camino de uno de los personajes, que se lanzaba al combate. Éste no fue fácil, pero no hubo daños graves entre los compañeros. Y si alguno de ellos esperaba oír arrepentimiento en la voz de Eiseman cuando dio a la familia la noticia de la muerte del chico, quedó decepcionado.

No hubo mucho tiempo para la decepción, sin embargo, pues un temblor de tierra silenció a todos. El temblor se repitió una y otra vez, cada vez con más fuerza y con menos tiempo entre ellos, y de pronto la casa donde Jareh se había refugiado se hundió en la tierra.
Como si se abriera el mundo bajo la ciudad, casas enteras caían por las grietas que se abrían en el suelo, partes de la muralla cayeron sobre atacantes y defensores, permitiendo que los trolls entraran, indiferentes al peligro del terremoto, sólo la matanza en sus mentes.

Eiseman acudió de inmediato a la zona más peligrosa y empezó a combatir, arengando a gritos a los hombres cuyo valor flaqueaba. Los demás personajes llegaron después y ayudaron en la lucha como pudieron, hasta que sólo quedó el jefe de los atacantes, un troll infame conocido como Médulaliento. La lucha se prolongó lo suficiente como para que se abrieran enormes grietas que se tragaron a muchos combatientes e incluso casas enteras. Finalmente, consiguieron eliminar a Médulaliento y escapar antes de que la ciudad entera se hundiera. Cuando el polvo se asentó, sólo quedaba un cráter de Leafall.

Cientos de vidas se habían perdido. ¿Cuántas más se cobraría la destrucción del artefacto del Archimago?

Iñigo Sharpe (Spoiler Warning, Strangling Sea)

Iñigo escuchó con atención, intentando extraer alguna información de las voces que escuchaba, pero estaban demasiado amortiguadas por los gruesos paneles de madera de aquel maldito barco. Tras las voces, empezaron los gritos, sin embargo, y golpes pesados contra la cubierta. Luego, pudo oír pasos alejándose y acercándose, hasta que se abrió la puerta de la sala donde le tenían prisionero. Le levantaron y giraron y pudo ver a quien le sostenía: un humano con armadura de cuero tachonado y sangre fresca sobre ella, detrás de él, otro humano y una elfa, ninguno de ellos con armadura, le miraban con una mezcla de sorpresa y curiosidad, la reacción que Iñigo esperaba frente al resultado de su genio, de todos modos. "¿Iñigo Sharpe?" preguntó el humano armado. "Sí, soy yo"

Tras la muerte de los piratas, los PJs registraron su barco sin encontrar ni rastro del inventor al que estaban buscando. Suponiendo que sólo podía estar con el único bando restante en este lugar, convencieron al oficial enano que había venido con ellos de que les dejara hablar con su capitán para buscar a Sharpe. Sin embargo, dándose cuenta de que el oficial pensaba conducirles de algún modo a una emboscada, decidieron disminuir sus incentivos para hacerlo traicionando primero a los enanos. Sólo uno de ellos, muy malherido, sobrevivió a la demostración para abrir las puertas de la empalizada con la que los enanos protegían su barco.

Cuando llegaban, sin embargo, la lealtad pudo más y el oficial avisó a gritos de las intenciones de los personajes. No fue una lucha larga, sin embargo, y al atravesar la empalizada vieron como las pesadas puertas del barco se cerraban para dejarles fuera. Mirándolo desde fuera, resultaba sorprendente que este barco pudiera flotar siquiera, no ya navegar, pues parecían haberlo construido como una fortaleza - no sólo en cuanto a dureza y seguridad - sino en que tenía la misma hidrodinámica que un ladrillo e incluso almenas en lugar de la baranda de cualquier barco construido por una cultura más pendiente de las diferencias de entorno que supone el mar que de la construcción tradicional. La única concesión que habían hecho a la realidad del viaje marítimo era construirlo con madera en lugar de piedra, al parecer.

Sea como fuere, los personajes consiguieron abrir una de las puertas, tras la que obviamente esperaban los enanos del interior y, ya sin paciencia, mataron como paso previo a buscar sin más resistencia ni falsa diplomacia por parte de los enanos. La sorpresa vendría al descubrir que Iñigo Sharpe no era ya más que una cabeza mecánica dotada de la mente del famoso inventor.

Eso no les detuvo a la hora de pedirle ayuda para reparar los motores del barco - por supuesto, los enanos no confiaban el movimiento de su navío a viento ni a remos cuando podían hacerlo a sus ingenios mecánicos - Con las instrucciones de Sharpe y la experiencia de Turgosh - relojero, al fin y al cabo - pudieron poner en marcha los motores y alejarse del maldito Mar Estrangulador, poniendo rumbo al norte, donde la elfa Jaria aún esperaba su regreso.

En el muelle del pueblo al que llegaron, sin embargo, se las verían con otro problema. Una emboscada llevada a cabo por varios humanos y una osga tremendamente hábil que, por algún motivo desconocido, les atacaron. Las heridas que recibieron nuestros protagonistas fueron importantes, pero las que recibieron sus atacantes fueron mortales, sólo uno de ellos, un arquero que ni siquiera se había acercado al combate desde la seguridad de su atalaya, pudo huir para pelear otro día o contar historias sobre la sorprendente capacidad de los personajes. Las preguntas que acosarían a los personajes, sin embargo, eran obvias ¿quién había enviado a los atacantes? ¿cómo les habían reconocido? ¿por qué les habían atacado?
La primera intuición, por supuesto, fue que los hechizos de localización que los antiguos clientes de Sharpe habían estado usando para encontrar al genial pero chanchullero inventor, por fin habían tenido éxito al alejarle de la maldición del Mar Estrangulador.

Sea como fuere, el tándem de las instrucciones de Sharpe y las hábiles manos de Turgosh pudieron desactivar los golem que tantos quebraderos de cabeza y mobiliario habían dado a Jaria, y los personajes pudieron recibir por fin la recompensa a sus esfuerzos y reflexionar, orgullosos de su éxito.