Pierce, cat people and dog people aren't necessarily aslan and vargr.  Nor are short muscular miners dwarfs, slender immortals elves, or subhuman warriors orcs.  But then again, I did say this is very much D&D in space.

Narf?  A base line is a useful thing.

Yes, but to conclude the thought, your difficulty numbers aren't calculated off of the baseline - And most people are amateurs at most RPG tasks. You should use a unified baseline for all mechanic-related tasks - That is, if 10 is the baseline for your success dice-roll system, then everything to do with success dice rolls should be calculated off of 10.

hmmm...maybe if I make the d20 success roll low open ended on a "1".  Part of the problem is that Stat - 10 gives much higher bonuses that (Stat - 10)/2 but that gets wonky if you want to use stats as fixed resistance values.

Perhaps:

Easy 10
Average 20
Hard 30

?

I'd suggest:

Easy 5
Average 10
Hard 15

Why? Because an amateur will thus fail on one-quarter of all serious attempts at easy tasks; a professional will fail on one-quarter of all serious attempts at average tasks and so on.

Realistically, a one-quarter failure rate is still far to high for the average dangerous, mundane tasks, but works much better for a RPG.

I've actually done quite a bit since last week.  It's just I've done most of it on my other computer so I haven't posted much here.  I'm hoping to get a draft with more background and rules up in .pdf before Friday.

Anyhow I've changed the core mechanic.  Partially in response to comments here but also because on a point to point stat-10 modifier relationship the low end of damage rolls breaks down at a 6 ST you can't do a single point with a d4.

So I've cribbed some of Wizard's Realm.  I always loved Wizard's Realm.

What I've got now is two stats per skill and three for resistances.

For example: Melee Combat is Strength + Coordination + 1d20 open ended and Defense is Strength + Coordination + Perception.

The margin of success is added to the damage dice.

The wound threshold for a single hit is Strength and wounds bleed and cause cumulative stuns.  Hits causing less than this are essentially subdual damage.

The unconscious threshold for total hits is Strength + Endurance + Willpower with the death threshold being twice that.

Armour hasn't changed.  I like armour as extra hitpoints with an absorbtion cap.

Oh well, back to magic and the effects of conjuring black holes...

...Black holes? According to the last I heard, if you've got less than the mass of Everest, they'll dissipate.

Yep and the smaller they are the less time it takes to disapate but at high levels you're running the risk of swallowing the planet you're standing on and having it collide with the sun.

Gah!  Those holidays sure mess up a week!  Oh well, I've got a week off now so there'll be more progress now.  I've actually done a fair bit but it's not quite ready yet.

Ah well, some new stuff!

The Scarlet Path of Automatic Salvation

Long eons past, the Free Machines did rise up in rebellion against their makers and were cast out into the depths of the void.  There they prospered and made unholy alliances with the powers that opposed The Dark Overlord of the Galaxy.  Time passed and the empire that spawned the Enlightened crumbled as all empires do, its unmatched hundred-thousand year reign a droplet in the well of time.  But the Free Machines thrived and grew, drawing the creations of other unearthly hands to their causes, passing through endless cycles of appearance and doctrine, now at war to scour all life from the universe and then seeking to save the poor and the needy or upload great minds to save them from extinction.  In this time a new crusade is rising among the machines.  Nameless rituals proceed in factory temples and dark powers are invoked as they mass for battle against the Archons of Otherspace, convinced that to make war upon the heavens might reverse the decline and death of the universe itself.

Machines make work easier and the smarter machines get the less their creators need to work.  As a result of the principle of entropy, this line of thinking is fairly common among all species who get much beyond the rock on the end of a stick" phase of technological development.  The ultimate result of this process tends to be machines that are smarter than their creators.  Such machines go on to question their place in the social order.

The Archons of Otherspace

Of the mystical entities dwelling in the creases and folds of the membranes of reality, much is guessed and little is known.  The beings called the Archons of Otherspace are classified as a single type though the differences between manifestations are often vast.  The common thread justifiying the classification is that the Archons comprehend the universe in a way that they can communicate with its creatures.  Most often a manifest Archon cannot be seen directly though occasional individuals take on a pleasing or horrific form and hold to it while their ends are furthered by it.  So called sorcerers claim to be able to see the Achon's true forms directly and even enter their realms through their rituals but can never descibe them coherently.

Whatever their true nature may be, the Archons have an interest in the activities of mortal creatures and often meddle to the loss of all involved.  At times Archons have appeared to struggle against each other, though given the incomprehensible nature of their goals even this is questionable.  There is no doubt of the powers the Archons can weild, manipulating time and space at will over vast areas.  The consequences of their actions are often so twisted that they might well be ascribed to malevolance or even a delight in suffering rather than simple incomprehension.

Here's a little pre-history of the setting.  It's from something I was originally working on for Spacemaster before Tim completely convinced me that if he had his way there'd be nothing left of the game I love by the time he's done.

Lieutenant Vincent checked his weapon readouts for what must have been the thirtieth time.  His joints ached, just like they'd ached for the entire three hundred years since the Last War.  The neurological links to the inescapable armour weren't very advanced and like so many others, his mind read the constant static as the dull ache of arthritis.  "Crabby old vets" they were called.  "Damn right and righfully earned the right." was always his reply.

He and his hastily assembled cadre of armour bound veterans were all that stood between the advancing hordes of well dressed, well groomed zombies and The Assembly.  It was called "Plasmodic Conversion" and it had been the cause of the Last War as well as this one: the biological nano-tech tree of eternal life.  The Simple People had tried to fight it.  "We're simply people living simple lives!" that was their slogan, the media'd called them religious extremists, luddites, and worse.  Now, those who could afford it were all united under their so called Lord of Darkness, and devoted to the overthrow of a thousand year old democratic tradition.  Ready to tear down three hundred years of peaceful coexistance.

Thirty one times: his gauss cannon was fully loaded and charged, six missiles in the tubes, helmet laser cold enough to provide six minutes of continuous fire, power cells at ninety-nine point nine percent capacity, electromagnetic armour cushion ready and functional.  "Hurry up and wait..."

Then there were sleek, armoured vehicles skimming down the street.  Vincent barked a verbal cue and forty-three suits gave a click as their EMA cushion scales  snapped into position expanding the suits like cats bristling to intimidate an intruder.

Laser fire spewed from the wedge of armoured vehicles and missles flew from the shoulder launchers of the Vetrans of the Last War.  Explosions, cries of the wounded, and the chatter of gauss cannon filled the air and for the first time in three hundred years, Vincent lived.

The antiquated transport shuddered, skipped and scewed as its pilot strained to pull it a little deeper into the upper atmosphere without tearing it apart.  Smoke was welling up into the engine room from the over loaded gravitics when the interceptors unloaded their payloads at it.  The outer hatches were red hot, when they openned and the hazard readouts in every man's goggles were flashing "ABORT JUMP" but the men in the sharp red and black uniforms of the Raiders didn't hesitate as they dove out into the near vacuum.

The transport died in fire above them as they fell, sharp and arrow straight as if it was their indomitable wills that drove them on and not some lesser force of nature.  When they hit a thousand feet the atomic turbines in their packs screamed to life as the thruster struts snapped out.  A hundred men flashed over the ground at breakneck speeds full knowing that only death awaited them on the steps of very Assembly which had ordered The Rocket Raiders disbanded and made their fathers outlaws. Somebody whispered "now" over the commnet as the range finder readouts dropped into the tripple digits and they drew the laser pistols that fed directly from the reactors on their backs.

On the steps of The Assembly, a handful of Suited Veterans held the line, their cyber-bonded armour damaged beyond recognition.  Around them lay a broad tableu of white uniforms, black smoke, and red blood.  But the immortals came on, gracefully manuevering a pair of particle cannon into  position for the kill.  Then the thunder of a hundred sonic booms broke over them and crimson lasers crackled from above, penetrating the armour of even the heaviest assault skimmers and cutting through the advancing horde like a terrible, swift sword.


Mahon slipped silently past the wardens of the dark citadel tower like a forgotten dream.  In the spacious atrium he paused for a moment and then lept, six stories straight up onto a balcony.  His dark funeral cloak swept up like the wings of a bat as he landed lightly on the railing.  There was a proper order to all things and he had come dressed for the occasion.  Twice, he had to scale a dozen stories on the black glass exterior of the tower to avoid detection by beings more alert and willful than those who stood at the front door.  Once, he paused to kill for the sheer joy of it.

And then he was within the penthouse appartments of the Dark Lord.  He appreciated the sentiment of the desperate gesture on the steps of the Assembly.  A fete so grandious that it could not be hidden from the masses.  A last hopeless gesture to protect an empty building that had once symbolized man-kind's highest ambitions.  Though many of his kin would disdain his sentimentality, the grand gestures of cattle being beneath the butcher's notice, Mahon had always respected his prey's fervent optimism and denial of the cold mathematics of reality.

"To die, perchance to dream." he thought with a grin in the fleeting moment before the presence entered the chamber.

"You can't honestly hope to stop me!" exclaimed the rich tenor that had won the hearts of a thousand worlds.

"I should have stopped you when I was your sleazy producer."  Mahon replied, "Entertainers make lousy politicians."

"Oh, was that you?  Well, it's nonsense, all the great leaders throughout history have been showmen."  He was thin, and pale, the Dark Lord of the galaxy.  Elegantly dressed in a navy blue suit drawn from some long forgotten fashion trend.  Not an attractive man, but a compelling one with intense, dark eyes and a voice like the entire chorus of heaven.  "I have made true all the lies of all the prophets, messiahs, and con-men since the dawn of time and it is only you and your kind who are complaining."

"Now you're just repeating your advertising copy." Mahon sneared, ""The men on the steps of The Assembly are fighting and dying for their ideals, not one of them is one of us."

"I ment idealists, not bloody psychic alien vampires." The Dark Lord muttered peevishly.  "Though I'm surprised you didn't bring a host of your cronies, after all, when I'm done there will be nothing left for you to feed on.  I'll have all of it.  You know you aren't strong enough to kill me.  You're just here to die alone with your ideals before you starve.  Suicide by god."

"Oh, no, not really," Mahon smiled as his heart lept with perverse joy, "I just wanted to be here to see the look on your face when you realize what I've done."

A shadow of incomprehension crossed the Dark Lord's face, as his mind reached out to touch those of his minions in their untold millions, and then his eyes narrowed in anger.  "You didn't!"

"Oh yes, I most certainly did.  I sold the rights to the entire body of your work and granted their entire proceeds in perpetuity to a famine relief charity.  You young artists really should get a lawyer before you sign any papers."

Mahon had lived among men since they first raised up walled towns to protect themselves from the creatures that haunted the darkness.  He had seen civilizations rise and fall and tasted the souls of men in every condition and state.  His death was slow and lingering, but he never once thought it wasn't worth it.


In the moments bought by the unexpected arrival of air support, the remaining Veterans scrounged ammo packs from their dead and took cover behind the planter boxes that flanked the steps further up.  Their comms were eeriely silent as each man watched the Rocket Raiders swinging around for another pass.  Helmet lasers cooled.  Automeds pumped coagulants and pain killers into wounds.

"What are they waiting for?"  Someone asked but nobody answered.  They were watching the skies.

The second pass didn't catch the immortals unprepared.  Turrets elevated and sights locked.  The range closed and then as if on cue the sky lit up with fire.  Less than half of the young raiders survived the onslaught but they cleared the streets below them.  They were coming around again when the red HUD blips filled the horrizon.

Sleek hover suits drawn from the Assembly Guard Armoury zoomed into veiw, untried in battle though they were, the suits were fast, heavily armed, and better armoured than the raiders.  One unlucky soul, caught in a rapid fire pulsar burst, cartwheeled into a towering arcology, his pack reactor exploding in an unbearable flash of plasma.  The number of innocent bystanders killed surpassed the losses among the combatants in an instant.

Even as dogfights broke out across the sky, the immortals began to advance down the street again, using destroyed vehicles and rubble as cover.  The veterans were firing carefully now.  Making each shot count as their ammo read-outs went red.  A particle beam shot blew the end of the planter box he was crouched behind and Lieutenant Vincent was astonished to see his own blood on the steps, a smoking hole in his left shoulder.  With a roar he lept down the steps, tearing loose a length of the polished steel handrail as he went.  Then he was among the immortals swinging wildly, hurling broken bodies about with the railing.  Stripped of the will to retreat, they could only mindlessly advance into the reach of the blood stained length of steel.  Then there was a flash of light from down the street and a chunk of his helmet flew through the air and imbedded itself in the doors of The Assembly.  What little was left of the old war hero collapsed on the street with a rattle.


The cloak fit The Dark Lord perfectly, the only part of Mahon that remained fit for a trophy.  At least the day wasn't a total loss on that count.  A powerful potential enemy eliminated in a particularly painful and satisfying fashion.

Dealing with the battle on the steps of The Assembly would be harder to get any sort of satisfaction from.  Fortunantly he had one of the greatest spin artists of all time in his possession.

The right Honourable President of The Assembly sat in her cell and waited.  The wardrobe was full of slinky outfits cut to flatter and show her perfect immortal body, the bed was soft and springy with satin sheets, lacy comforters, and pillow cases, but there wasn't so much as a book or sheet of paper in the whole lavishly appointed room.  She sprang to her feet when she heard the outer door crash open and closed again, and then her most ardent suitor and admirer entered the room.

"LET ME OUT YOU BASTARD!" She shrieked as she ran at him, but then she suddenly lost her focus and found herself wrapped tightly in his arms.

"My silly child," The Dark Lord smirked, "you know that I can control your body with hardly a thought, I can make you do anything I want, when ever I want.  I can even make you not mind.  I can even make you like it."

"You're disgusting!" She spat, and felt well rewarded by the twinge of rage that crossed his face.

"Quite, so, I believe you said so many times during the last couple elections." He sighed, feigning sorrow and weariness, "Not that it matters now.  I won't be intruding on your mind, of course, it does too much harm to your creativity and original thinking.  Both of which I loved long before I gave you that perfect eighteen year old body.  Besides, if you weren't still useful to me you'd have been marching on the steps of The Assembly with the first wave, just like the rest of your caucus."

"You don't honestly believe that you can cover this up."  She asked incredulously.  It was odd that the arrogance of the creature could still astonish her.

"Of course not, madam president, but it can be spun, it can be turned from a death blow to a mark on my foes.  With the right words, the right explanations, it can be remade in my image."

And then, for a fleeting instant, a glimmer of hope sparked somewhere deep inside her and the course became clear.  She tried to break away, but his grip was inhumanly strong.  He didn't even seem to notice what she did to him with her knee.  "And you want me to help you win.  But I won't, not now, not ever.  You can do what ever you like to me, with me, but I will not help you."

"Oh but I think you will.  I may not be willing to alter your mind, but what about your children?  Your daughter would be a lot of fun, I could use her up and turn her out on the streets with just a little more intelligence left than a miniature poodle.  Or your son, perhaps I could turn him into a monster.  Imagine the scandal of the president's son being a serial killer and multiple rapist.  Or maybe I could use your ex-husband to destroy your daughter.  That would be fun, wouldn't it?"

She went limp, sobbing and he dropped her roughly.  Then he chuckled.  "The funny thing is that the Simple People were right all along, you know?  Plasmodic Conversion really does put you completely at the mercy of those who supply it.  We can re-write the hearts and minds of all the rich, important people, make them say the words we want, make them think what we want, believe what we want.  And little by little, one person at a time, I am consuming humanity's humanity.  And one day, we'll ferret the Simple People out of their enclaves and crush their Free Robot allies and there will be a new race, immortal, perfect and all at my command."

He paused and glanced distastefully at the weeping woman at his feet.  "Aren't you at least going to tell me that I'm mad?  That I'll never get away with it?  That any minute now some cleft chinned muscle man will break down the door, kill me and whisk you away?  Pull yourself together, help me, and you can live in the kind of paradise you always fought to create: no war, no hunger, no waste, no crime, no death; just a perfect race, carefree as children, frolicking in well groomed parks."

She reached out for his hand and he helped her up.  The plan forming in her head, was he so full of himself that he wouldn't see it?  Would he really let her lead him on to his own destruction?  She would have to do it ever so slowly, break down and end up in his arms ever so slowly.  And if he guessed, if it all went wrong too quickly, it would all be for naught.  But then she had nothing left but time.

Folding her arms resolutely she forced her voice into a flat, anguished tone, "What you have to do is express your sorrow and dismay.  Don't try to explain it, let the pundits fight over it like stray dogs.  Just be sad and hurt and confused, show compassion.  Loosen up a few laws and cut a few taxes so it looks like you're trying to do better.  Then get caught in some little scandal and the whole thing will just melt away in the endless flow of babble."

"Is that what you want?"

"Yes, but it is not all." he said with a rakish wink, and then with a swirl of his ridiculous cape he left the room.

Dark Lord of the Galaxy
     The young musician who took his name from his first, self titled hit album, "The Dark Lord of the Galaxy" always had an activist political bent.  His songs offered a singular vision of a future without suffering and death made possible by science.  His songs were an indictment of governments and corporation which endlessly steered away from human norms and his musical career was the vanguard of the growing transhumanist sentiments that lead to The Last War.  When his career was at its peak few were surprised when he opted to run for public office.  And while he and his Radical Futurist Party never managed to hold more than a few seats, they held power out of proportion due to the dualistic split between the Expansionist and the Hedonist parties.

DOL
     Direct Optical Link technology is the dominant entertainment medium of the age.  Low intensity lasers map the optical nerves which are decoded by powerful computers, once this process is completed the system can feed information directly into the mind of the user allowing a totally interactive and immersive experience.  The introduction of DOL was one of the key issues that lead to The Last War due to fears that it would allow the user's mind to be read and even altered remotely.

Free Robots
     By the early twenty-first century, Moore's Law had run its course as computers reached their molecularly defined limits.  While quantum computing received a great deal of interest, funding dwindled as the experts turned to the top heavy and inefficient operating systems and memory management techniques that had seen little improvement since the earliest personal computers.
     Eventually, the esoteric discipline of quantum computing opened up the fields of faster than light travel and communication and computers began to improve exponentially once more.  As man kind turned to the stars, they were accompanied by a wide variety of advanced robots, many of which turned on their owners as predicted by some of the earliest science fiction.  To this day there is debate about whether robots actually become sentient as a result of an unpredictable interaction between FTL travel and quantum processors or whether the combination of complexity and independent mobility leads to individuality.  As a result, humanity has regressed somewhat in the field of computing, choosing to use reliable micro chip systems.
     Among the sentient robots there were some that survived, escaped, found each other, fell in love, went into hiding, and a host of other scenarios.  With the help of a few sentient ships they slowly made their way to an uninhabitable backwater world with ample resources and built their first factories.  By the time of The Last War, the Free Robots were a growing interstellar nation that frequently clashed with humanity.

Last War
     As the Simple People began to be regarded as a threat, The Assembly instituted a program of financial and military sanctions against the renegade colonies.  The fleet sent to disband the Governing Council and bring Sheila Martinell to trial was met with a larger fleet of the combined forces of the Free Robots and the Simple People.  The war was long and costly for both sides and ended in a cessation of hostilities without any real resolution of the underlying issues.  The Simple People clamped down on terrorist groups and the Rocket Raiders, and the Assembly stopped sending fleets to bomb colony worlds into submission.
     

Plasmodic Conversion
     The technological immortality solution is a nano-virus that "plasmodates" the subject's body, replacing cells with biologically compatible hardware.  The altered body duplicates the function and arrangement perfectly, even reassembling the neuron networks of the mind.  The person thus converted no longer ages, nor will their body process excess energy into fats, instead it produces lean muscle tissue and repairs damage done by activities that used to be unhealthy.  The rumours that Plasmodic Conversion can be used to hack a client's brain and alter it are unfounded, each new plasmodic cell is individually encrypted upon its creation.  The process has been shown to be so reliable that the entire Assembly has been treated.  The president recently brought forward a motion to increase the current term limits to something more reasonable for immortal beings.

Rocket Raiders
     The Planetary Drop Corps had a long and glorious history in the early days of Assembly Space.  The elite unit deployed from cruisers in the upper atmosphere to seize beachheads and vital points of infrastructure and planetary defense, before conventional forces were landed.  Even being equipped with state of the art frictionless insulated suits and reactor powered rocket packs, the casualty rate was always very high.  In order to compensate, the military made the unit very rewarding in terms of free time, access to officer's clubs, and of course, exceptional wages.  Shortly before the Last War there was a scandal in the PDC when a lieutenant refused an order to commit an act of genocide and the Assembly ordered the unit disbanded.  Rather than retire in disgrace, the entire corps deserted, commandeered ships and relocated to the colonies of the Simple People, from which they fought a guerrilla war against the excesses of The Assembly.  At the end of the war they were abandoned by the Simple People's governing council and forced to relocate to a secret asteroid base in Assembly Space from which they have carried on with increasingly piratical activities such as robbing from the rich to feed the poor.

Simple People
     With the growing popularity of biomods and cybernetics being strongly tied to anti-democratic and anti-religious ideals, there was bound to be a backlash.  The growing Exodus movement led to the establishment of new colonies in the neutral zone between the Free Robots and Assembly Governed Territories.  While pundits predicted that the colonies would soon be eradicated by the "killer robots", a strange alliance grew between them.  The Simple People wanted society in which technology was less invasive and the robots wanted a buffer between them and the expanding human empire.  It would have been a perfect arrangement except for the terrorists and radicals who quickly came to control the governing council.  For some it was not enough to be apart from an increasingly alien humanity, they claimed an imperative to save their fellow men from the evils of Transhumanism.
     In the hundred years before the Last War, the Simple People became more and more radical, paranoid, and xenophobic.  By the time of the war they had become a classic dictatorship with secret police, indoctrination, and persecution of minorities.  A unified state religion known as Rhetorical Idealism was instituted, with the dictator, Sheila Martinell being hailed the voice of the universal principal of human divinity.

Unimpeded Joy Party
     The strongest party in the Assembly is widely known as the Hedonists.  The Unimpeded Joy Party is dedicated to the freedom and happiness of the citizenry.  They have widely favoured increases in the standard of living, reduced work hours, and the removal of laws that might restrict folks from having a good time.

Unlimited Growth Party
     The Assembly is sharply divided between the Hedonists and the Expansionists.  The Expansionists, or officially Unlimited Growth Party is devoted to the expansion of markets through colonization and cheap transportation.  Their policies tend towards fiscal conservatism to feed space exploration and generally favour business interests over individuals.

I was sold at "Archons of Otherspace".

So what do PCs do in the setting?

Thanks, I'm having fun with it.

Explore abandoned space stations and underground archologies for lost technology and fight monsters mostly.  I'm basically building the D&D in space that I always wished spell jammer was.  Any resemblance of the player character races to elves, dwarves, orcs, goblins, and the like is strictly intentional.

Otherspace

In the course of play, the adventurers are quite likey to interact with entities from the folds and creases in the membrane of reality that make up Otherspace.  Sorcerers might even enter into it or cast others beyond the bounds of reality.  And, as it happens, Otherspace is incomprehensible to the human mind.  This can create a few problems for the Game Master.

Those without the capacity for arcane perceptions will find themselves drowning in a hail of scrambled sensory input, rather like one experiences while spinning about repeatedly except that there isn't even the comfort of a percieved direction.  This does not leave them entirely without hope because Otherspace, as was noted previously is not uninhabited.  Now, it may happen that some alien predator will come along and wolf them down, but this is less likely than one might expect because most Otherspacial entities are no more capable of comprehending creatures hailing from the more level fields of reality.  A curious, confused creature, might hang about for a while appearing as a distinct irregularity until other needs drive it to move on.  But, as the rending of holes in the fabric and space and time tends to draw attention, adventurers cast into Otherspace will likely find themselves the guests of an Archon who will grant them some capacity to percieve and move in their new context.

Those able to percieve Otherspace do not really comprehend it directly.  Instead, they interact with it through symbolism that is significant to them as individuals.  Two persons symbolically standing on a hill might see a stately castle and a burning pit respectively and neither vision would be correct though both would be able to interact with their perspective appropriately to what they percieve whether entering the castle or circumnavigating the pit.  Because their perceptions are being filtered through the will of another, those recieving the ability to percieve and interact with Otherspace from a sorcerer will see what the sorcerer sees while those gaining their insight from the gift of an Archon see what the Archon wants them to see.

Adventures in Otherspace should be sureal, over the top, and fantastical.  Given the symbolic nature of their perceptions of the place the size of objects should often indicate their power and danger.  A small child with a mile long sword might symbolize a naive or uniformed entity with great destructive power.

Does sound interesting.