Exchange of Realities

You often hear, sometimes in GM advice but more often in writing workshops, that it’s not enough to simply have a setting; instead, the setting needs to be a character in and of itself. This is interesting advice, but why is it important? Why must the setting be a character, and how do you do it?

Image courtesy of SailorJohn from stock.xchng

The answer to the first question is straightforward: If a setting is treated as a character in its own right, it is allowed to be real, to grow and change, and in general to contribute to the story rather than being a shadow puppet screen or a cluster of cardboard props. Making the setting more real makes the rest of the piece, be it story or game, more real in turn.

How do you do it? You don’t have to take it literally. While it’s possible to create an intelligent planet, or a building with an embedded mind, that isn’t what these people are looking for. Instead, what they want is a setting that shares the traits that make a character interesting.

• Possible to visualize. Just about everyone who works with having a setting is aware of this one: if you don’t provide a background, the reader can’t be held responsible for jumping to the wrong conclusions, and then getting shocked when, in a scene they think is in a featureless plain, someone ambushes the characters from behind a tree. A setting needs associated imagery; while doing so in all five senses is preferable, one can make do with visual, auditory and olfactory descriptions most of the time.
• Dynamic. A setting doesn’t have to be in constant flux, but unless being still and unchanging is part of its schtick, it shouldn’t be completely static. Consider a farmhouse; it may seem set in time, with nobody really coming or leaving, but the sounds and smells will be different in spring than in autumn, people and livestock alike will be born, grow old, and die, and every now and then something from the outside world will pop in and upset the equilibrium, if only for a day or two. And where there are more people, there will be more change.
• Capable of interaction. For a standard character, interaction includes dialogue and physical contact. A setting isn’t going to be able to shake another character’s hand or throw a tantrum, but that doesn’t mean it’s not going to be interacting with the characters and vice versa. If a ball goes through the window, the window breaks. A person walking through ankle-deep mud might lose a shoe, or at least have difficulty making headway. Setting off a riot in one part of a city likely means people locking the doors in another part.
• Not born yesterday. Nor created, nor conceptualized, nor otherwise brought into existence that short a time ago, unless that’s part of the setting’s image. Most settings have been around, in one form or another, for quite a while, whether they’re the science hall so newly remodeled it’s still technically cordoned off or the house with the historical placard that’s been sitting on the corner for decades. That science building may look freshly built, but before it was a different configuration of rooms, and before that the site was churned up mud. The historical house might have seen only one family, or several—its plumbing may have been rearranged, its wires removed or installed. It isn’t necessary for the audience to know this backstory, but you have to, as it’s probably going to have an impact on what happens in the setting.
• Unique. I’m not talking the 100% Unique Snowflake attribute that gets us The Last of a Lost Race characters or mysterious buildings floating in the clouds. But a setting should be at least slightly different from the archetype it may have sprung from. When I show you Esemeli’s room, it isn’t just the Standard Arcane Researcher’s Digs, it’s her room, with her preferred kind of oddly colored flames and her idea of what constitutes guest accommodations. Just give the setting a couple details that make it that particular setting, and not yet another version of the Standard Scene of This Type.

That’s how a setting can become a character. What attributes make your settings into characters?

One of the things that makes a world seem more like a world and less like a static backdrop is the presence of things that are suited to the location and aren’t directly relevant to the action. In some cases, this says something about the individuals occupying the space; I’ve already written about what you can learn about a character from what’s in her workspace. In others, it talks about the space itself and how it’s used; for instance, you’d expect different objects in an art museum than an armory, and even two different art museums probably wouldn’t have the same three things in their collections.

Photo courtesy of theswedish from stock.xchng.  What can you tell about this space from the things shown?

The three things can also tell you about the cultural context of the space in question. It’s one thing to mention there’s a plant on the windowsill, but you’re not going to get the same image from a blooming begonia as you would a bonsai, are you? Likewise, there’s a difference between a tapestry on the wall covered in intricate knotwork, and a minimalistic ink painting.

The scenery doesn’t have to be inanimate objects, either; it can be animals, or even people. In a bar, you might get the bartender, or one of the servers. A hunting lodge will probably have a hound stretched out in front of the fire. A stable will have horses of different personalities—one might try to raid people’s pockets as they walk past, while another kicks against the wall and another stuffs her face with hay.

In a world that doesn’t exist, these items’ uses can be turned around; instead of figuring out what a room is from what’s in it, you can know what a room is ahead of time, then find out what the culture’s like from what you see in it. Do their objects of art fit with our aesthetics? What do they sleep on? What sorts of things do they keep where they can reach them easily? On what do they write?

For instance:

Let’s look at libraries—and things in them that aren’t books. In a standard elementary school library, you might find a dinosaur diorama, a big colorful poster showing the numbers of books different classes have read, and a wall full of crayon pictures. In a middle school library, it might be a poster on the Dewey Decimal System, an aide in the back room taping an audiobook for a teacher, and a card catalog box. A high school library could boast a newspaper rack in the middle of the room, a Nancy Pearl action figure on the office windowsill, and a row of computers. A college library could have a row of kiosks for a laptop to plug into, a poster on the Library of Congress system, and a model of the university campus. In the main room of a public library, you might find a mailbag partly full of books from other branches under the circulation desk, a clipboard of timeslots for the computers, and a frazzled employee frantically checking in the previous evening’s drops, while the back room might boast a typewriter for spine labels, a miniature fridge, and a fan in the window. On the other hand, the Library of the Gods, far out in the southern mountains, includes a 1:1,000,000 perfect scale model of the world, a sphere of translucent obsidian the size of a human head on an ornate pedestal, and spectral butterflies that guide people to their chosen research.

Try it; what sorts of places have you got, and what three things might you find in them?

Reader Swordgleam, on behalf of an interested third party who is definitely not a paladin of Torog or anything like that, asks:

Dear Generic Villain,

One of my protagonists has angered a dark god. You’d think that would be the end of him, right? Wrong. That protagonist also has a goddess on his side, and if the deities throw down, it could get ugly. So now the they’re being passive-aggressive and settling their grievances indirectly - which gives the protagonist a chance to strike a blow for the forces of light. How can I convince the evil god that he should just lightning bolt this sucker, consequences be damned? (No pun intended.)

Dear Definitely-Not-a-Paladin,

You have my sympathy. There’s nothing more obnoxious than knowing you’ve got a dangerous do-gooder in the works and a god who could handle it but won’t intervene. Unfortunately, even dark gods like ours need to follow rules. So getting divine lightning to the back some dark night probably isn’t in the cards for your little hero.

This doesn’t, however, mean that he can’t be dealt with. The problem is that all of the options will require you to get involved, and most of them are pretty risky one way or another. The things we do for our contracts!

I’m going to assume for the moment that you are divinely connected to the god in question; if you aren’t, you can just get someone who is to play middleman, or slip this under their door so they’ll take care of it themselves. (If someone who is so connected is above you in rank, getting them to follow these instructions might be good for your own standing; if they’re successful, they find you clever, and if not, they’re not between you and your promotion. Win-win.)

First, attempt to get in contact with your god to figure out if there’s a workaround to the dangers of divine throwdown. One on one god-fights are a mess, yes. But one-on-several aren’t. You might be able to avoid retaliation by arranging a temporary truce between the evil gods—after all, they’re all probably getting messed up by Miss Goddess of Sweetness and Light playing patron for her new pet mortal. Or maybe there’s some other way to point out that She Started It.

If the first fails, it’s time to start exploiting technicalities. Your god is, at this point, limited to dealing with intermediaries, because of the passive-aggressive mechanics of divine interference. But if that goddess can choose a mortal, so can your god—and you’re probably just the person to take on the role. So volunteer to be the god’s hand, and the vector by which the divine lightning reaches that big-headed little hero. It provides the appropriate degree of separation, deals with the empowered meddler (with the added bonus of letting you see him fall), and as a side bonus, you get a taste of Divine Power*. The catch is that you’ll probably need to demonstrate your loyalty first—and yes, there is that risk of being beaten anyway.

Another edge to exploit is the simple fact that limitations good for one god are good for all of them. If the goddess makes the first move, your god will be justified. The catch is that someone will need to provoke her by going after her mortal—and that someone is probably you. I strongly suggest acquiring protection from her variety of Divine Smiting first.

For the more PR-oriented or trickery-specialized Hand of Darkness, there is another solution. Hero’s a problem because of a goddess’s favor? Get him out of favor by convincing him not to be something his goddess would want to favor. The best way to do this isn’t to go directly against the god’s ideals—that makes too many waves. Instead, it’s to set him up with situations in which his moral code can be taken to unpleasant extremes or in which the choice is between the goddess’s agenda and the behaviors she espouses. Push him far enough, and his definition of what’s right and the goddess’s may diverge. And when that reaches its inevitable conclusion, or when he realizes her code is holding him back and quits her service, she may well be looking for excuses to smite him herself.

Either way, you’re the one who’s going to have to make the first move. The Powers help those who help themselves!

*Warning: Side effects of Divine Power may include personality changes, alterations of form, increased collateral damage, and a greater propensity towards maniacal laughter. Divine Power is known to have addictive properties. Channeling Divine Power while pregnant may lead to Children of Destiny. If you feel yourself burning out from the inside when channeling Divine Power, consult a cleric immediately. I know it’s silly, but I have to deliver the warning.

Have a question for the Generic Villain? Leave us a comment!

This week, I talked about intelligent magic items and how to implement them. This is a topic near to my heart, as I’ve spent the last few months dealing with a double-edged sword of my own design. Allow me to introduce you to Anathema, my primary example.

This little charmer was the result of several weeks’ conversation with one of my muses, originally as an attempt to bring the then-quietest member of my group farther into the action. (By the time he demonstrated he didn’t need the help, I’d already committed.) As magic swords of its type go, Anathema is exceedingly ordinary-looking, with practically no ornamentation; the only thing remarkable about it is its color, a uniformly marbled black and gold. This understatement masks the fact that Anathema is a literally world-breaking artifact, capable of unmaking almost anything with which it comes into contact, and dangerous enough that its sheath has to be a powerful magic item in its own right.

Anathema knows this. Technically, its intelligence is not the sword itself, but the paired gods of the sword, also referred to as Anathema. The fact that there are two comes from how the sword was created—it is an alloy of two diametrically opposed materials, kept together only by the powers of the two gods crafting it, and this inherent self-opposition is what gives it its powers and its gods their personalities. Using it is of itself a danger; side effects include being a target for demon attacks, the risk of unmaking parts of the world, and the ire of Fate itself (though its wielder isn’t quite sure what that means yet).

There is but one thing Anathema can agree with itself on: the wish to fight the Powerful Things of the world, the ones that cannot be killed by normal means. Lesser creatures, even those with great skill, are an insult to its abilities; undead creatures born from what it destroys are either a personal affront or a chance for a rematch. (Anathema can’t agree on which, just that both come to the natural conclusion “Kill it!”) Almost everything else is subject to debate for debate’s own sake; Anathema has been known to get into prolonged arguments from both sides of an issue, its component selves even going so far as to switch sides every so often during the argument.

There are two other things Anathema can usually agree on: that it is the greatest weapon the world has ever known, and that inactivity is boring. It mercilessly teases other, less self-aware weapons, and is known for its collection of obnoxious timekiller songs, including “The Thing That Doesn’t Die” and “9,999 Unkillable Things in Your Way”. Anathema was made for the hand of the most stable of a caste of warriors; it’s not hard to tell why. Will its wielder go mad with power? Or just lose his mind to the incessant singing?

In my game group, Anathema elicits mixed reactions. One member wants to destroy it (or maybe harness its power). Another mistrusts it. Still another envies its wielder due to his apparent plot-importance (a thing I have been trying to discourage, as I had planned ways for the group to destroy the Powerful Things they’re up against before conceptualizing Anathema; the sword just makes it easier). Its wielder would rather deal with it as a character than as a weapon, and prefers not to use it if given a choice.

But it’s there, inspiring plots and annoying both PCs and the god of its sheath. Artifacts may come and go in this storyline, be invented and then forgotten, or just never acquire names—but I don’t think anyone will forget Anathema.

Intelligent magic items can serve a lot of roles in a storyline, particularly in a roleplaying game. Unfortunately, with their advantages come disadvantages, particularly the world-altering variety that so many GMs, myself included, tend to default to. While they aren’t insurmountable, it’s best to be careful, particularly when you’re dealing with a magic item that serves as a plot device in its own right.

What can go wrong?

• Balance. This one’s pretty obvious; the introduction of any item, particularly a powerful one, may requirement adjustment both for the PCs compared to each other and for the world compared to the PCs, in order to keep things from favoring one side too much. Needless to say, this one isn’t so much an intelligent item issue as a powerful item issue in general, but it bears mentioning. There are, of course, workarounds beyond loading everyone up with power or ratcheting down the item. What’s to say that use of such an item can’t incorporate its own hazards? It might steal health or magic, mess with aspects of the wielder’s innate capabilities, or do something more abstract or insidious. Perhaps it’s just a beacon that draws down even more enemies when used (needless to say, this works better in games and with groups where the XP earned isn’t calibrated to the number of opponents defeated/challenges overcome). Or maybe it’s only useful in certain situations. The balance issue can be mitigated in part by giving the item to a member of the group who’s already lagging behind; it won’t completely nullify the impact, but it’ll soften it a bit. And of course, there’s just not making it powerful enough for this to matter.
• Plot balance. This is the biggest risk of almost any one of a kind item, particularly one that’s important to the storyline. Essentially, every unique and plot-important item comes with the risk that its wielder will be more important to the plot than the rest of the group. This doesn’t bother some groups, since their players tend to either adapt to uneven roles or eke out their own to match. For others, it’s more difficult; players are, after all, human, and humans are illogical creatures. Even if you’re trying to achieve complete alternation in plot focus, having one PC holding the limelight (or appearing to hold the limelight, for that matter) might lead to accusations of favoritism even from the person who held it last time. Optimally, one could work around this with a plot thread for each character, but that has its own challenges.
• Interaction balance. The magic item is almost guaranteed to talk more to its owner than to the others. That’s to be expected. But that can get irritating to the other players, particularly if you’re running face to face rather than online; who wants to sit around watching a guy talk to his sword all day? And that’s not even taking into account what happens if the item can only communicate with its owner. You’ll want to find some way to spread the interaction out a bit so that people don’t get testy—or make sure most of the interactions are offstage.
• Plot holes. Yes, plot holes. Obviously, you’re going to need to make sure none of your plans can be ripped apart easily with clever use of one of the item’s powers. But you’re also going to want to consider what happens if the players decide to take advantage of the fact that this is an intelligent magic item. If the item is known to have been used in a certain battle, or against a certain enemy, odds are the players will ask about it. They’ll probably ask about its last few wielders, and they’ll almost definitely ask about its powers. They might even attempt to bypass one of its limitations by making a deal with it. You don’t have issues like that with normal cursed items. So you may want to plan ahead, figure out what it knows, what it doesn’t know, and what that might do to your plot.

Despite these, magic items can make excellent auxiliary characters. Have you ever had problems with them? How did you work around them? Are there any other ways you’d work around the issues above?

So you’ve just picked up a new magic item! It’s one of a kind, blasted useful, and best of all, it does something none of your friends’ fancy artifacts does: it talks. Yes, you’re the proud owner of an intelligent and probably rather snarky magic item. But pretty soon, you’re going to discover the one disadvantage of part of your gear having a mind of its own—that mind isn’t always going to agree with you, and this item’s probably got the power to back it up.

How do we keep this from turning into as drawn-out a battle as any you’ve ever faced?

First, consider personality. Remember the difficulty you first had finding people who could tolerate each other well enough to even travel together, let alone trust each other with their lives? You’re dealing with the same potential problems here. A magic item and its owner with different ethics, different approaches to life, or even different ideas of what constitutes fun are probably going to clash—and if the item has telepathy beyond wielder-range or the ability to vocalize, the squabbles may extend beyond the two of you. With this one, just treat it like you would a standard personality conflict—and no, I don’t mean kill it and loot the corpse. It IS the loot!

Consider also its purpose. Magic items created towards a specific end tend to be particularly obsessive about getting their goals met; it’s part of their crafting. And even if you’ve picked up an item whose purpose you’d agree with, you might not agree on methods—for instance, the cloak that wants to make you a stable leader might not be as tolerant of traitors as you are. If the item’s interested in something you’re not so fond of, you might want to consider finding a way to frame your own actions as in pursuit of that goal, maybe even see if there’s some part of it that you can get behind. More importantly, you’re probably going to need to find some aspect of that goal that can help with your own cause, because magic items aren’t very good at give without take.

Then there are the ones who have track records with prior owners. Particularly good track records. Do you have any idea how hard it is to live up to someone else’s memory? “Ivory let me drink blood!” “Kyrie would have protected those people!” “You’ll never be the leader Seraphen was!” Worst is that those are the normal responses, and the whiny-kid-sound of them isn’t that big an exaggeration. On the other hand, some of them might be looking for someone different from a prior owner, and reminding them of That Person is going to open its own can of worms.

We can’t just let them walk (roll?) all over us. It’s time to take charge.

Be very cautious when arguing with a magic item; some have more leverage against you than others do. If you’ve got a weapon with even partial animation, you never know when it’s going to try to mess up your swing in battle. Some of them might even be able to assert dominance over your actions; intelligent magic items are not for the weak-willed! Even if they can’t assert personal control, they might be able to do things like increase their apparent weight or display their powers when you’re trying to be low-key. And then there’s the talking—you can’t get privacy, or the silly thing might get stolen. The standard talking ones won’t shut up (and may make a point of telling secrets or embarrassing stories about you, or just blurting things out at inopportune times), the telepathic ones won’t get out of your head, even the ones that just use images might hijack your dreams. And they’re stubborn; made to last can often mean made to be patient, particularly on older weapons.

This doesn’t mean you’re without options, just that you’re going to need to cultivate patience, skill and dirty tricks. If the item’s senses only function through you, cutting it off might be a very effective means of persuasion. Similarly, finding a place to lock away one that tries to take over your mind, even if you know you’ll come back later, could serve as decent leverage. If the two of you agree on purpose but not implementation, or if it’s extremely dedicated to its role in life, you may be able to threaten not to help achieve its goals until it changes how it goes about them. If worst comes to worst, the threat of destruction or reforging might also help it change its mind.

And don’t forget positive reinforcement. Figure out what it wants, and find ways to offer that in exchange for cooperation. I once saw someone offer a dread weapon its favorite kind of foe if it would teach him how to control it, and succeed. Some items talk about their previous owners just as a way to remember them; give them chances to do so in that light rather than just complaining about what they did that you don’t. And you can learn a lot from their tales; using the chance to spread those as a reward for good behavior will benefit both of you.

Dealing with a new magic item can be difficult, but knowing how to back up your position will give you a better chance of coming out ahead. Good luck!

Yesterday, I went through the basic considerations of creating an intelligent magic item. It’s a good summary, but it skimps a bit on personality. Today, I’m going to fill in the gaps.

Photo by ATunska of stock.xchng.  Is that not the biggest bronze (brass?) fly ever?

In giving a magic item personality, many people start with the form. Weapons as often as not end up violent, desiring combat; jewelry is often proud, insisting that people admire it; an automaton is likely to have either a near-human nuance of emotion or be singleminded in its devotion to its purpose. It’s easy to oversimplify this, though; Limyaael remarks on the irritating regularity of swords that mutter “Blood” at their owners, for instance. Might a weapon dislike the hazards of being used in combat (being parried, for instance, or acquiring chips)? Could a cloak wonder what it’s like to be muddy? Might a jewel’s attention wander to any source of light that hits it?

Purpose is also vital to personality, particularly in the case of magic weapons. Most intelligent magic weapons weren’t made to kill things in general, but to do away with specific things (sometimes species, sometimes individuals), in defense of a particular location, or occasionally just to be picky about their wielders for other reasons; it’s not too hard to adjust a personality to fit, and it’ll help to avoid “Blood”. Magic items made to carry on one of the crafter’s goals due to the crafter’s short lifespan will probably bear elements of the crafter’s personality.

One can also consider how an item was crafted. This can include materials, decorations, and patterns; it might also include the method or the crafter. One on which hours were spent on little details might be particularly detail-oriented or perfectionistic. Something of innately valuable materials could consider itself above normal things. A steel or stone item would probably have a more rigid mindset than a gold one. There’s a lot that can be done with this.

Of course, it’s not that hard to go the opposite direction from the above, with items that have personalities that seem to be in spite of their forms, functions, or workmanship. With situations like this, there’s often an explanation; perhaps it was meant to be something different, or the designer was crafting one thing and thinking another. Or maybe it was a magical accident, and the sentience was attached or triggered due to something else entirely.

And then there are the items whose intelligence comes from having somehow incorporated another sentient being’s spirit. These come in three basic varieties: individuals who arranged for their own prolonged existence within the items, often so as to oversee a project or a goal past their own allotted lifespans; individuals who were placed in the items unwillingly, usually through rituals and/or sacrifices; and individuals who due to some magical accident ended up incorporated into the objects. Typically, the first group are a lot more cheerful about their lot in life than the others, and the second group are likeliest to be angry, but that too can depend. Perhaps someone managed to get in on a far more interesting life as an object than he could’ve ordinarily. Or maybe someone else tried to become part of an artifact as a way to continue the goal, but has since been frustrated by how hard it is to get the task done through intermediaries—or by being put on a shelf and forgotten for a few years. There’s a lot that can be done here.

These are just the guidelines; magic items have room to be every bit as unique as living characters. What kinds of personalities could you see?

A common thread in fantasy plots and worlds is the intelligent magic item. Like a familiar, it is usually associated with one person, and often doesn’t have enough agency to be treated as a character in its own right. Unlike most familiars, though, an intelligent magic item can be powerful enough to make or break the plot all on its own, often either consciously steering events or merely shaping them by its presence.

Photo courtesy of jazzydan of stock.xchng

The thing most people think about, of course, is the magic item’s power level, and what sorts of powers it can manifest. Such things can make or break a game, particularly if it’s not that difficult for them to change hands. It’s usually expected that an intelligent magic item will be powerful enough to be a plot-breaker, and that its powers will be in some way aligned with what it’s supposed to do.

The second is the intelligent magic item’s level of agency: how much it can personally affect the world. Most inanimate objects don’t tend to have very much on their own; after all, a sword can have all the power in the world but be useless without hands to wield it. But that isn’t the be all and end all of magic item agency; some intelligent magic items are able to control or at least influence the people who wield or use them, or merely choose who can and cannot serve as their wielders. And some particularly dangerous ones have both a will of their own and the ability to control their own movements, and as a result have near-complete agency.

The third is the item’s original purpose. Even in D&D-like settings, where magic items are a dime a dozen, an intelligent magic item is difficult enough to make that it was probably either a complete accident (in which case there was probably still a purpose for the item, if not one that fits it) or made to perform a specific function, either a specific task or a long-term role.

Form, of course, is also important. The most common intelligent magic items seem to be either weapons or automata/golems; the former because magic weapons are very common in fantasy settings (so why not have a few that have come to sentience?), and the latter because they can have complete agency (plus or minus a few built-in restrictions) to go with their power. This is usually determined by two things: the powers and the purpose. An item created specifically to fight a certain species of creature is probably going to be a weapon; on the other hand, something that’s meant to insure that a certain task gets done will as likely as not be an automaton in build, while something made to advise is likely to take the form of a cloak or jewelry. This isn’t a straight-out rule, though, just a commonality.

But there’s one thing missing—and that’s the one thing that makes intelligent magic items interesting. Personality. Sure, weapons might thirst for blood, and a task-automaton might be devoted to its purpose, but there can be a lot more than that. How does it communicate? How determined is it to chart its own course? How stuck is it to its original purpose? Does it take pride in its skills? Does it bear the mind of a pre-existing creature? What sort of impression did it carry away from its maker, or from its first owner? Is there anything it wants? Adding details like this can make the magic item a character in its own right; this can let it fill roles like foil for its wielder, information source, or even in-party traitor.

Besides, an intelligent magic item being its own character can come in handy in other ways. Intelligent magic items are excellent objects for rescue plots, as it makes sense that they can’t just break themselves out of there. A magic item with no control over its own movements, if stolen and used against the protagonists, can cleanly create a friend turned enemy scenario. Moreover, an intelligent magic item, being capable of befriending its holder, will probably (unless it really offends someone) be valued more highly than a similar item without a guiding intelligence due to its uniqueness and what it might know.

Intelligent magic items take some doing, but can make excellent supporting characters and plot devices in their own right. Tomorrow, I’ll go into detail on assigning personality to an intelligent magic item.

Doesn’t everyone sometimes wonder what they’d be if they were an RPG-style monster? I did, as part of a coordinated RPG Blogger Bestiary… and I ended up with this.

The ravyn is a curious creature, both in look and in personality. Ranging in length from four to five and a half feet, it resembles a very large ferret with a distinctive crest of red feathers, and black wings that to some seem a bit too small to keep it aloft—not that that prevents it from flying. Its hands are highly dextrous, and its fingers exceedingly flexible. Its voice is capable of a wide range of impressions; when it speaks to humans or similar creatures, it will generally speak in an imitation of the first voice it hears, but with great facility in whichever tongue it chooses to use.

A ravyn interacts with an illusionary boulder, solidifying it and partly incorporealizing at the point of contact. 

Most ravyns are found alone or in pairs, wandering through the world—larger groups, known collectively as musings, have been postulated but are rarely seen unless one of the members is an infant. They are particularly fond of new information; some say they feed on it, and that eating normal things is more entertainment than necessity for them. (This rumor has not been verified.) As they understand and can imitate most spoken languages, it is generally a simple matter for a traveler to offer one a story in exchange for tidbits of information. A ravyn interacts in interesting ways with a good story; other listeners present claim that a story told around a ravyn seems more vivid, drawing its audience in and preventing distraction.

Most mysterious is these creatures’ interaction with illusion. This was first noticed when an illusionist, trying to hide from one in a rare fit of rage, had created the image of a boulder around himself to hide from it. The ravyn appeared to be completely fooled by the illusion, but, as it climbed onto it and settled down to watch for him, the illusion itself grew real around the illusionist, and it was only by a stroke of luck that he managed to dispel it. Fortunately, the ravyn at that time was somewhat insubstantial, its strikes doing him no harm; though it resolidified after the disappearance of the illusion, he was able to escape further harm. While it is assumed that this is similar to its effect on storytelling, this has not yet been verified because of the difficulty of distracting listeners from the story.

They are also shapeshifters, though they seem to have very few forms in their repertoire, mostly small animals; they have been seen as bats, assorted species of bird, and occasionally in the form of otters (usually when there is mud to play in).

The ravyn is a peaceful creature, usually not prone to rage and as likely to flee as to fight. The one exception is in the presence of clichéd stories or hackneyed prose. In the presence of such things, or when it is unable to flee, its fur stands on end, and it pulls a red feather from its crest and strikes out, slashing away at the offending material (or the offending storyteller, if such is present). Though there is little strength behind them, red quill attacks are often highly precise, and come in close sequences.

Rumor has it that these creatures meet in groups to discuss and improve upon the stories that they have collected. Though no explorer has yet managed to see such a gathering, some have occasionally stumbled upon signs that such may have occurred.

Reader DrBurst, on behalf of Henchman #984324957893462, asks:

Dear Generic Villain,

I want to aid my master (GM) in making things more interesting… The heroes have many conflicts within their group. One member finds another really annoying, the whole group dislikes the healer, it would be so easy to rip them apart, but we can’t. Got any tips?

Dear DrBurst/Henchman-with-unnervingly-long-number:

I’m tempted to begin with “Slip a note saying that the numbering system could do with a little updating in your Overlord’s suggestions box”; having to recite a number string that long when reporting for duty can’t be good for efficiency. But that’s another matter.

As to the heroes: So you’ve got a potentially squabbling group of protagonists, perfectly ripe to be divided, set upon each other, or otherwise treated to what will probably end up as a Heartwarming Life Lesson in Teamwork but at least will slow them down and provide some much-needed amusement in the process. (Everyone likes watching heroes bicker, at least in the beginning—though after a few hours it goes from “How do I exploit this?” to “How are these idiots still cohesive, and why are they a threat to me?” Unless they’re witty enough not to repeat themselves, which is unlikely.) And your main issue is that you want to to take advantage of these divisions, and recognize that it would be easy to do so, but you can’t?

From what I’m seeing here, you have two problems. One is the issue of how to meddle with those meddling heroes. The other, and this may have something to do with why you’ve got a number string that looks more appropriate as an encryption code than a minion designation, is confidence.

The first will be the easiest to address. First, observe these heroes further. See if you can find the cause of their interpersonal problems—is the healer snooty about who ‘deserves’ healing? Does the annoying one tend to be found wrist-deep in someone else’s pocket? Is there someone who pulls out weapons during conversations? The more closely you can identify the problem, the easier the second step will be. Then exploit it. If the healer’s snooty about who gets healed, introduce the group to seemingly avoidable things that look like environmental damage and see if the resulting discussion of whether healing is due or not splits them further. If you know what annoys the one person, arrange for it and shove the blame onto the other guy.

As to the can’t—let’s put it this way. Yes, you’re a numbered minion, and that means you’re rather squishy, often seen as a prop or a punching bag by the protagonists, and probably don’t have any notable skill level in most potentially useful areas. The problem is, it sounds like you’re treating that as your lot in life rather than as what you’ve aspired to. Odds are you have a skill that doesn’t seem too narratively useful. Try to find uses for it. A hidden penchant for acting can be parlayed into a way of bringing local authorities down onto the heroes. Being a dab hand at poetry can let you create prophecies that look real, which someone else can probably disseminate. Don’t be afraid to ask your coworkers (of which I think I can safely assume you have quite a few) for help; the strength of minions is numbers, and that many people with that many random skills thinking hard enough can probably find a way to turn them all into one massive solution.

And if you’ve got a little time, you can start training up other, more obviously useful skills. If your organization offers a training program, take advantage of it. If it doesn’t, consider getting yourself reassigned to a named organization member’s staff, then watching closely and/or asking questions. (If this person is possessive of their role, those questions may need to be phrased along the lines of “How can I best avoid getting in your way?”) While it’s not as good as actual training, it might get you the basics. Filching items that provide powers can also work, but I recommend being careful about that; they’re very distinctive, and your organization may have policies about turning in acquired items of power from the heroes.

Good luck making things interesting!