---

A few evenings ago, I took my musty copy of the 1st edition Monster Manual down from its shelf and paged through it. The entry for "drow" happened to catch my eye -- all four lines of it. Nowadays, the dark elves have an entire book to themselves, and a whole drow boxed set is scheduled for release this year.

In the first few years after the Monster Manual originally saw print in 1977, new AD&D game products were released at an approximate rate of six per year. The catalog for 1992 releases has six products per month -- a more than reasonable increase.

This boom in the number of roleplaying products hasn't just affected AD&D, either. Each year sees the release of at least five or six new game systems. Many never reach South Africa, but we still have a regular trickle of new games arriving on our shelves.

The popularity of roleplaying games really seems to have increased since the beginning of the decade. In part, this may be due to a lapse in "anti-D&D" propaganda from some American organisations. But a larger and more positive boost has come from the computer industry.

Computer games, especially the "interactive" adventure type, have become one of the most popular forms of home entertainment. When home computers first arrived on the scene, shoot-'em-ups and platform games were in abundance. Now, people want something more than simple left/right/fire games, and adventure games seem to have filled this need.

Many computer adventures, especially recent Sierra releases, have a distinct "hero" -- Roger Wilco in the Space Quest series or Larry Laffer in Leisure Suit Larry. Most people aren't aware of the remarkable similarities between controlling a well-developed computer entity, and roleplaying a detailed character.

Apart from this affinity, there is also the recent trend towards roleplaying-based computer games, such as Eye of the Beholder. Games like this attract not only traditional roleplayers, but also adventure game fanatics. The net result is that more interest is generated in roleplaying.

As I mentioned a couple of months ago, the concept of "virtual realities" is becoming increasingly popular. Perhaps virtual reality games will be the ultimate evolution of both computer adventures and roleplaying games.

Who knows? Soon we might all have the opportunity to "be" dark elves; with "real" skin colour, high resolution chiselled features, special effects for magical abilities and even simulated infravision; a far cry from four lines of text.

Farewell, until next time.

Anthony Brooks

2    Editorial

4    The Red Hand by Damian Costa

This is the second story in our Torg series. It is set in the strange and mysterious realm of Dr. Mobius -- the Nile Empire. (Last issue's story, Chip X-2234, will continue next issue.)

How do you explain to someone who has never heard of roleplaying exactly what it is that roleplayers do? Warren gives his advice on the matter in this article.

12    And A Good Time Was Had by All... by Geva Patz

Heroes Inc. sent two teams to the Recon 2 tournament on February 23. Geva was one of those who went along and he was inspired to write this report.

Calling all potential tournament players. Are you tournament material? Try our tournament quiz to see if you stand any chance in the next exciting contest.

This is the second part of our Middle-earth mini-series, and sets the scene for part three.

Great Cthulhu's tendrils reach everywhere. This is the first part of a two-part "Cthulhu by Gaslight" story.

The issue's In Character takes a look at Brindley Zien, a Shadowrun character who is known to many as Ram. The article features exclusive footage taken from an interview with the late media producer, Andy Sinclair.

Back Cover: Part two of Tyrannosaurus-Ex graces our back cover this month. Donn Ingle, the artist responsible for Tyrannosaurus-Ex is an art student at Wits Tech.

Cover: Space Hulk won the 1990 Origins award for best board game, and the Genestealer game supplement also received honours. Dominik Wysocki has captured both Space Marines and genestealers in this issue's cover, Alamo 40K.

"Now, my good man, the money or your life, the necklace or your wife!"

That's the Red Hand, into his usual shtick, poking his electro-gun around and threatening everyone. It's obvious he isn't in this for the money; he just loves the sheer sport of it. And tonight's victims aren't disappointing him. In fact, the Hand is having so much fun that he doesn't notice me peering down from the skylight. I worked hard to get here. Now, I think, it's time for me to have a bit of fun myself...

I'm a private eye, my name is... Norman. I've been a P.I. for fifteen years. I've seen my share of the weird and wonderful, but Mobius took the cake. He, with his World War Two machinery, took out the most sophisticated weaponry of the nineties. Even that wasn't enough, he's got gadgets and gizmos that defy any physics we know. Flying boats, digging machines, invisibility cloaks -- a nightmare for any P.I.

I work out of a new Cairo, one that brings back memories of Chicago during the mob wars. It's like a city out of a forties or fifties comic strip. I lost my clients to this reality, so I guess I have a few disagreements with this Dr. Mobius. After the initial trouble, I rebuilt my contacts and sources. I had to look over my back all the time for the hoods of Cairo. Baby, this ain't Kansas no more. One of my new contacts works at a science research centre outside Cairo; he's quite an inventor. He designed me this chameleon suit which I use on the streets. I'm known as "The Chameleon".

My first encounter with Mobius started with a totally innocent case of "breaking and entering". The broad who walked into my offices had legs on her that would knock out a man from thirty yards. She was dressed in the finest that money could buy and scented with the finest of perfumes. She wore a dark wide-brimmed hat so I couldn't  really see her face in the shadows of my office. This lady's jewellery had been lifted from her apartment in downtown Cairo. She had protection on them like they were the crown jewels. You can't be too careful in the Cairo of today. Anyway, she walked into my office and dropped these real interesting hints. I fell for them.

I know what you're thinking and you're right -- this dame smelled of trouble.

I happened to be on another case at the time, a private case of a personal nature. For the last three weeks there had been a lot more small time jobs in Cairo than was normal. Normal being about a hundred times more than New York at night. Still the lady's story sounded interesting...

I get out on the street to reconstruct the events. First, I go to the scene of the crime, 21 Kings Street, and it turns out to be the penthouse suite of the Regent Hotel. I get the night clerk to slip me the room key. He's real happy to lend a hand to an "off-beat actor"...Normani Janier. Nice name, probably use it again.

Slowly I open the door; there are no sounds of occupation. I close the door, leaving a card in the gap to prevent it from locking. There is a large entrance area with a small table and a mirror. Something catches my eye. I look down and see a picture of the broad in a nightclub, with a guy dressed in typical mobster clothing. Then it hits me! This guy is "Mad Dog" Bayan, the most ruthless killer mobster in all of Cairo. This ain't good. Why'd she come to me if she is cosy with Mad Dog? Is there a connection between this and the recent rise in small-time hoods? Also, why had some of the hoods mysteriously disappeared?

I move into the bedroom. The closets are full of the best clothes. The dressing-table has tons of perfumes. Boy, does this lady live well! So I open the drawers, "Damn! What's this dame up to?" In the drawer lie her "crown jewels of England". Now I'm worried -- this is weird. What's the real reason for this case? All of a sudden the suite's door opens and the cleaning lady comes in. Good thing she ain't looking for anyone. I slip past her easily. I go down to the foyer, and slip off onto the streets...

Finally, after two weeks, I get a lead from the street. Some faceless fence is taking on hot items. So I comb the bars and night-clubs looking for the low-life who is tapping off the jewels from the heists. Eventually I nab a squealer in a gin-joint called the "Gin Mummy". I acquire some interesting small talk from him for a minimal fee. Apparently, the fence is new to these parts and has been doing business for about the same amount of time that the small-time hoods have around. Also, there's a distinct preference for jewellery. Not any type of jewellery, only the single stone type, starting at half ping-pong ball size. Sometimes there would be a major haul, where the victim would be taken for everything. My mind taps me on my shoulder, but there's no-one home.

The squealer says that the fence answers to a small-time ring of hoods which has a shadow-member who's creating a big stir -- he's very strict about what's taken. Any extras and the boss goes crazy! He would break up rooms over the additional loot. When I hear this, my mind clicks: the disappearance of a hood occurs after a major score!

Now I know what you're thinking and you're wrong. This boss wasn't crazy, I think he was real nervous. Think about it, he's intruding on some big gun's turf, and he has no time in which he can move the items out of Cairo. He has to move fast and quietly. Now you're thinking "How can a second," okay, "a third rate P.I. get information like this?" Well, that was what was bothering me too.

So I decide to go back to the broad at the hotel. As I'm about to enter the lobby, this dude in duds walks me out of the lobby and  into an idling limousine. I'm bundled in and opposite me sits Cairo's most powerful mobster.
"So whaddya got fer me?" He asks in this near English. I say to him: "I don't listen to anyone who doesn't pay my retainer. I got nothing for you."
"Can I hit him Mr B.?" The dude in duds whacks me in the kidneys and I sing like a canary.
"Dat's all you got? After three weeks you got the fence's name? Well I got news for you, pal. Shape up or ship out." With this the dude in duds yanks me to my feet and deposits me on the pavement.
Well, now I know who is paying me on this case, retirement plan and all. So since I like life a lot I pull in some really big favours from the science researcher. I know what you're thinking, and you're right. If I don't solve this case soon, I'm going to take a long walk off a short pier. I liberate a high-power light beam dazzler and a pair of mega-sight binoculars from the research equipment stores. I suppose they'll eventually discover the hole and plug it up, but that's all in a day's snooping. Anyway, if I don't bust this case open then no amount of contacts are going to help me.

Now that I think about it, I think I'm being strung along to a point where I can't go back. My next question is: who is pulling the strings? If I wind up the string to reach the other end I probably won't have to unwind it in my coffin. On the other hand, I need the money and if I don't solve the case I wind up in a pine box anyway. I figure if I go forward I stay alive longer and give myself a chance of getting out of the hole I've dug myself.

Then, one evening, while I'm prowling the streets, I hear this roof tile hit the pavement. I look up and see this guy in a cloak jumping the roofs. Well I guess it wouldn't harm me to use my chameleon suit. It's been quite a while since I have and I've got to keep my reputation buffed up. I change into a green-black skin-tight suit and I climb up the wall, onto the roof. Way in the distance, this geezer is flying over the roofs like he's doing a steeple chase. So I use the mega-sights and lo and behold, it's the big cheese himself -- the Red Hand, henchman of Dr. Mobius. Well, well, I'll just have to follow this fiend to his roost.

What I don't know is that he isn't coming to roost. I realise he is out on a second storey caper, because he crashes through a roof light just like that. After careful consideration I move up to the roof light...

"Now, my good man, the money or your life, the necklace or your wife!"

That's the Red Hand, into his usual shtick, poking his electro-gun around and threatening everyone. It's obvious he isn't in this for the money; he just loves the sheer sport of it. And tonight's victims aren't disappointing him. In fact, the Hand is having so much fun that he doesn't notice me peering down from the skylight. I worked hard to get here. Now, I think, it's time for me to have a bit of fun myself...

"Suddenly, from above, there came this war-cry and a black creature crashed through the broken skylight, officer, and crunched into the electro-gun wielding maniac. Have you got that, officer?"
The officer scribbles away on his notepad as he tries to figure out what the heck has happened. "Huh? Oh, yeah."
"Then there was this incredible flash of light and the gun-wielder was wrapped up in this fine cable, held by the green-black dude. Then he changes colour into the other guy, grabs the ruby out of the real other guy's hand and in another flash of light, they both disappear." The woman explains to the officer, who is, by now, confused.

I run across the roof-tops with the Red Hand in tow. I take him to a short pier in the harbour.
"Now, my fine fellow, what is so special about jewels this size?" He spits in my face.
"Okay. I hope the crocodiles enjoy the nylon cord. See you in the after-life." And I slowly let him out over the pier, and throw a sizable chunk of meat into the waters.
"No, NO! Wait. I'll tell you. Just let up, will you?" The Red Hand has a red face.
"Okay. I set up this little operation myself; Mobius doesn't get a cut in this deal. The hoods work for about a month and then they get to make one big score and get out of town. The bigger jewels are easier to break down and have a large value-to-weight ratio."
"Okay, okay." I cut in, "just give back the jewels of Bayan's girl and we'll call it quits." Of course, I know that they're still in her drawer.
"We didn't do that job. We left him alone, he's too big for us to handle."
"All right, if you feel that way inclined, I'm sure you'll enjoy the after-life..."
"Okay, okay. I'll tell you the real story. Don't let this out on the street and don't act on it either, or I will destroy your network, is that a deal?"
Well, I figure this is fair enough -- I'm not planning on neutralizing Dr. Mobius' partner in crime, for fear of retribution. "Deal."

"So you know we was tryin' to flush the jewel racket down the tube. And ya also know we fabricated the robbery and that we were leading you into this case. But at least you bust up the cartel."
We are sitting at a table in the members' club section under the street level of the "Gin Mummy".
"Just one question, why the elaborate hoax?"
"The door is over there, one to the pier the other to your job. Make your choice."

So I walk out, case complete, but only I know the real reason for the jobs. Mobius is looking for a long lost jewel of about ping-pong size that has the uncanny ability to open any door or portal that is locked. He hasn't found it yet. I know this as I walk down the street, my hands in my pockets, the sunlight glinting off a ruby dangling at the end of a necklace around my neck. Strangely enough breaking and entering presents no problem for me any more... either way.

In order to standardize sheets for enhanced roleplaying and character interaction, it would be good if all players could use the following specifications:

Collectors cards: 9 x 6 cm
Standard icons: 2 x 2 cm

As far as spell icons go, please use the standard icon size for the time being. When the wizard and priest spell cards are released, we will let you know their size, so that you can add them to your sheets as well.

Heroes forever!

"So, Filip, what are you doing this weekend?"
"Well, I'm thinking about seeing a movie, perhaps playing some tennis and then relaxing. What about you George?"
"I'm going to the Vaal to do a bit of water-skiing."
"And you Warren?"
"I'm not sure yet." I answer. "I could either be taking my X-wing for a spin, ramming some walls apart or fighting a couple of dragons."

At this stage I receive a couple of startled looks, a few concerned ones, and maybe one or two of pity. This is what roleplayers have to put up with, when normal Homo sapiens ask us what it is exactly that we do. I don't know about you, but I have great difficulty in explaining to other people just how people go about roleplaying.

First of all, lots of people are either concerned or misinformed about roleplayers. My aunt -- a stout German lady who is slightly weird -- thinks that roleplayers are evil people. I asked her how she came to this conclusion and it turns out that she saw a documentary on TV about certain roleplayers in the U.S.A. who got carried away with their fantasy lives. According to the documentary, these people started to live underground, take drugs and kill other people. Whether their behaviour depended upon their games or the drugs, I cannot say, but my aunt now believes that all fantasy players are evil people.

Sometimes I do, however, try my best to explain to friends and associates what a roleplayer does: "A group of friends comes together, and each plays a character in a fantasy world, much like a character in a book."
"Oh, so you all play the same guy?"
"No. Each person plays someone else."
"Aha. So what do you play? Do you make up a story as you go along?"
"No. One of the people in the group is called a gamemaster, (never mention that he is sometimes called a dungeon master, you will be there for hours arguing) and he is in charge of the game. He actually creates the world, cities, countryside, people, animals and other things that appear in the game."
"Aha. So, what do you play?"
A low growling noise from the back of my throat can usually be heard at this stage.
"Well, the gamemaster creates a story, set in the world that he has created. The rest of us play along in the story. It's very similar to a play. There is a director and scriptwriter, and there are actors, only in roleplaying games the story can change as it goes along."
By this time, the audience is either cross-eyed, asleep, or somewhere else.
The cross-eyed guy continues. "What do you mean -- you can change the story?"
"Well, take an example: The gamemaster tells us that we are walking down a road when a dragon appears in the sky -- what do we do? We, the players, would then tell the gamemaster whether we attack, hide, or throttle him. See?"
"Hmm. And how do you..."

And so it goes on. I explain how we use dice to make decisions and discuss many other things. But usually, the last question is: "But how do you play?"
You see, people think that we sit around a board or act on a stage. They cannot perceive that we are actually in a parallel dimension, linked to our subconscious, connected by the surrealistic images that...
Sorry. I got carried away after killing Mr Cross-eyed.

Anyway, the best part is listening to a conversation where someone you haven't throttled is trying to explain to someone else, what it is that we get up to. As an example of this, I would like to cite my boss: "So, they all stand in a group, wear frilly dresses, and tell each other stories." Ever wondered why I've wanted to kill my boss? Now you know! Alternatively, one of my workmates will come up to me, and ask me if I'm going to be a mage detective or an X-wing pilot this weekend. Before I can answer, he leaves, sniggering. Perhaps that documentary wasn't so far from the truth!

Other juicy items that I've heard about roleplayers both come from Germans. The first one came from a friend, the year before last, at Wits, before I started roleplaying. He occasionally brought into conversations these titbits about a place he called 'Schlafland' -- Sleepland. Apparently there is a place, next to his scout hall, where people go and pretend that they are kings, knights and barons! I laughed at it then. I thought that those people were surely mad. What a weird bunch of people. Don't want to mix with them, no siree. (Does this remind anyone of the U.B.?). Uh, uh. No way am I ever going near that place. Whistle, whistle, whistle.

And then there was the friend of my mother's who came to stay from Germany a few weeks back. The friend enquired as to my health and happenings and discovered that I liked roleplaying. Oh yes, they had heard of it in Germany. It is something that bachelors and old age pensioners do! Now how's that for a shock? We're classified alongside the dinosaurs! Count me out of the next game, I'm going green bowling instead.

Anyway, as the weekend homes in, the conversation again turns to what everyone is going to do. My answer?
"Well, it's been decided. I'll start off with a spot of Shadowrunning, for which I'm a mage detective (retired), followed by a delve into space with my X-wing in Star Wars. I'll finish off by attempting to rescue a kingdom as a wizard in AD&D."
After asking if you'd like an aspirin, people leave you alone.

Last, but not at all least, there lies the challenge of explaining just one more thing to the audience. This is a task which must be left to last. First of all, you make sure people understand the basis upon which roleplaying is built. You explain to them the intricacies of character generation. You get them to understand all about fantasy worlds, and then you take great joy in presenting to them the one and only -- Paranoia!

Sweet dreams, non-players.

The pilot slowly studied the dials before him. Not a blip in sight. That was the way he liked it. Wain took a sneak look over his shoulder and a smile grew across his lips as an irresistible giggle slipped out. The corridor behind him was packed with canisters. As was the room behind that, and the one even after that. In fact, the whole ship was LADEN with cargo, and not just any old cargo at that. Spice, one of the things that makes the galaxy tick. This was one stock light freighter packed to the brim with spice. He returned his gaze to the sensors as they continued spewing out aimless reams of data. Still all clear, and before the hour was up, he expected to be the richest man this side of Alderaan. He leaned back, congratulating himself, and let his mind wander over what he would spend all those credits on...

The bitter wind was particular ferocious this morning. Zark peered out of the dunes, the sand battering his repulsor sled.
"Umm, wind mighty angry. Zark had better hurry!" He thought silently to himself as got his bearings. Boosting the power, he battled on, his engine's roar barely audible against the wind.
Two hours later he arrived at his destination -- Mos Eisley Spaceport. The wind was billowing around him, as he sought protection in the cantina. The sound of the raging storm outside was cut out by the festive atmosphere within. He ordered a drink, and let his mind wonder over the mission before him.
"If Zark get back spice, Jabba happy with Zark." His little mind whirled on as he drank.

The raging sand storm had died down hours before Zark finally staggered out of the bar. It took a few more hours before he eventually made it to his ship's docking bay, getting somewhat lost on the way. Zark typed in the access code, but the door remained tightly locked. Zark swore at it, but it refused to budge. He pulled out his blaster and fired some encouraging shots at it. After about eight shots, he finally scored a hit on the door mechanism -- pretty good since it had taken him twelve to get out -- and he entered the bay. The sight within shocked Zark. He was sure his ship didn't look like this. Wait until get got hold of the fiend who had done this. Oh, would Zark make him pay! After repeating the earlier procedure with the security system, Zark finally got on board. By now, he was really angry. Number one: someone had changed his security system. Number two: he didn't have a security system. Number three: the inside of the ship was all different. Number four: someone had stolen his lucky bantha's paw from the cockpit. Zark was about to go off and bash someone when he remembered the importance of what he was supposed to be doing. He took off.

Han Solo was really down on his luck. First the run in with the Imperial Customs Frigate had forced him to jettison his cargo and then, as he was trying to sneak back onto Tatooine, he had almost been run over by some maniac. This was definitely not his lifetime. To top it all off, his hyperdrive motivator wasn't working properly.

Zark was totally oblivious of the trouble he was causing, as he was now fast asleep behind the controls, going where no Zark had ever gone before. Imperial activity around the planet was picking up quite considerably, as a large Star Destroyer bore mercilessly down on a small senate ship. It was extremely fortunate for Zark that the Star Destroyer was otherwise engaged, or else his activities in orbit may not have gone quite so unnoticed.

Wain, debris collector cum spice merchant, was not quite prepared for what had happened. He had arrived earlier, incognito, on Tatooine, and was now in the pickled situation of trying to explain to an influential buyer, whom he had dragged halfway across Mos Eisley Spaceport, exactly where his so-called ship full of spice had mysteriously vanished to.

Far above, Zark's orbit was slowly breaking down, with Zark still happily sleeping off the effects of the alcohol. Wain's now unmanned starship soon came crashing down with a resounding explosion which could be heard for miles around. So ended the incomplete life of one Zark, whose sole achievement was to coat four square miles of desert with space junk and spice.

This story went untold as more important events were afoot.

Last month, Goblins and Gargoyles held¹ an AD&D and Shadowrun tournament. Naturally, Heroes Inc. entered -- two teams, no less. For those of you who missed out on the excitement and stimulation of the actual event, this report is designed to give you some idea of what it is that you missed.

To start off with, there is nothing that comes close to the glorious experience of waking up at seven o'clock on a Sunday morning. A rough approximation can be obtained by following this procedure: Bludgeon yourself at least twelve times violently over the head with a crowbar. Now drink two bottles of rubbing alcohol. Following this, get hold of a small paintbrush and, taking care not to blink, lightly coat the surface of each eyeball with varnish². Now, go for a vigorous 20-mile jog. Finally, lie down in front of a passing bus.

The fun began almost immediately. In order to get participants into the spirit of things, a few choice items had been left off the invitation -- date, time, venue, and a few other such incidental details. The venue turned out to be the Parkhurst Recreation Centre, which required further puzzle-solving skills to locate, as it is not on any map.

Eventually, most participants managed to solve the pre-tournament puzzles and arrive at the Parkhurst Recreation Centre. The contingent from Wits' WARP arrived, only to turn around and leave moments later. We wondered whether getting there was enough challenge for them for one day, or whether perhaps they knew something awful which we didn't. Their parting words, although somewhat inaudible over the roar of engines, appeared to be "Run, you fools, before it's too late!". Surely this couldn't be a reference to the tournament itself? It must have been a hint for one of the games...

Whatever sense of foreboding may have remained was soon dispelled when we entered the hall and discovered how well-run the tournament was. For a start, the organisers, realising that most people would still be in a deep coma by the official nine o'clock starting time, engineered a 90-minute delay to allow people to unwind. This was the result of another thoughtful touch: in order to allow some lucky participants to enter for free, no GMs had been pre-arranged. Instead, the teams were left to volunteer GMs, while the organisers shouted encouraging comments like: "If we don't get another 12 GMs soon, there isn't going to be a @#$%&* tournament!" When the involuntary volunteering was over, the GM briefing began. This took longer than usual, no doubt because of the countless subtleties and intricacies of the involved and magnificently crafted game that needed explaining ³.

As for the actual game, suffice it to say that Heroes Inc. approached it with the usual savoir-faire. We solved every puzzle with blinding speed. We roleplayed exquisitely⁴. We vanquished every foe. We saved every friend⁵. We finished the game with ten minutes to spare. We were soundly whipped by a team which had barely left the starting point, but which had slaughtered hundreds of more or less innocent orcs.

This apparent anomaly can be explained by the novel scoring system employed. Essentially, it went something like this:
 

Having finished the first game and a pizza or two, we decided that we had had enough excitement for one day. After a lively debate⁶, we left, passing up an undoubtably brilliant Shadowrun game.

1. I am loath to say "organised".

2. Ideally, Nova 27 Eyeball Varnish. If this is not available, any other make will do.

3. As none of us was present at the briefing, we can only speculate as to what went on, but the actual reason for the long session was probably that nobody could understand the typewritten game notes. Glancing at these after the game, we noticed that they were written in the Orcish tongue for authenticity. Either that or there were a lot of typographical errors.

4. A remarkably difficult task when the entire supplied character background and description amount to about half a page's worth of statistics.

5. Well, almost every friend. We attempted to save an unfortunate half-human who had been cruelly experimented on. This nearly got us killed. In the same room, we came across another caged half-human. This one was huge, deranged, and had nasty fangs and a bad attitude. Understandably, we passed up the opportunity to rescue him. This was unfortunate, as saving him would have netted us seven points.

6. The lively debate went something like this:

Keith: Who wants to leave?
Simon: Yes!
Keith: Who wants to stay?
[Blank silence in response]
Keith: All right, off we go, then.

It swung silently across the night sky, receiving and giving orders mercilessly, determining where brave men and women should die. Deep among the power couplings and humming transformers sat a man, his grin wide and sneering.
"The fools! They don't know and won't know." He muttered and turned towards his companion. He keyed in a short code. It was one which would mean the deaths of yet more Renegades!

Why was Syruss killed?
What do the Xenokillers have to do with his death?
What is Project Herbert?

Find out the answers to these questions and a lot more in the second part of the Small Nasty Things trilogy!

Now that you know what you missed out on (see preceding article, And A Good Time Was Had by All...), you are no doubt slavering at the jaws to participate in whichever tournament Heroes Inc. enters next. You may, however, be wondering whether you are up to the intellectual and psychological challenges of tournament play. To help you find out, we at BEHOLD! have designed the following short quiz to test your mastery of the vital skills involved. When you have completed it, turn the page upside down for the answers (Please don't try this with the on-line version! Click here instead-- On-line Ed, January 1999).

1. Puzzle solving: You come across a signpost with three signs on it. One reads "HXQL VV J NMWLZQ". The second reads "QAQZ WYVXXW J'A M PPUT". The third reads "JXT". Which sign do you follow?

a)  The first.
b)  The second.
c)  The third.
d) Never mind the signs; just go whichever way looks likely to have the most orcs to kill.

a) Accept his offer, and cure the boil immediately.
b) Accept his offer, but say that you will only cure him once you are safely through the forest.
c) Accept his offer, but guard him very carefully in case he betrays you.
d) Cure the boil by instantly slicing it off, along with the rest of his head.

a) Wait until nightfall and send a thief in to reconnoitre.
b) Send in someone to negotiate with the orcs.
c) Attempt to slip in during broad daylight.
d) Torch the entire camp.

a) Fetch water from the nearby river to wash the wounds out; tear strips of material off your less important garments and use them to bandage the wounds, together with a herbal remedy prepared from plants found in the area.
b) Use a cure light wounds potion.
c) Together with the other party members, carry the orc carefully back to his village where he can get proper care.
d) Use your medical knowledge to choose the most painful possible spots to jab him with a large rusty dagger, and watch him die in slow agony.

Darkness.
A sense of being enclosed.
Silence.
Watching.
Waiting.

The Watcher stood, unmoving, unblinking, in its niche. Outside, it could see a small room with a chalice upturned in the centre.
Watching.
Waiting.
Forever.

Mirad Surbag sat slumped at his desk. His very bones seemed to ache with weariness; it felt as if the entire weight of Aberen pressed upon his shoulders. Thank the Dark One his term of office was almost over; the time when he could leave these cursed Orcs to the next unfortunate commander and return to Númenor and the sea drew ever closer. He reluctantly dragged the latest report from the garrison leader, a particularly dense goblin, across the desk towards him, waving away the resulting tidal wave of dust.

Gortar had outdone himself this time, though. Apparently three battalions had contrived to fall asleep simultaneously for exactly four hours. Everywhere there were rumours of poison and traitors.
What a cretin!

Even if someone infiltrated Aberen, where would he go? Aberen didn't even connect with Moria; it was just a sentry outpost, with a trail over the mountains to the next post, also manned by Sauron's troops. Even the little mining that had been done under Aberen had been in vain and the caverns that were discovered led nowhere and held no riches. No, just another imaginative excuse for incompetence and laziness.

The spirit shifted restlessly, as it had for centuries past and would, probably, for several more. It moved at unimaginable speeds around the perimeter of its hemispherical, lightless prison. Outside, it knew, a gaoler stood, who would destroy all who attempted to raise the dome that was the cell. The gaoler was, the spirit knew, the most powerful single creature short of the Maiar themselves, and possibly a match for most of them too. The hooked axe of the gaoler could cut through any non-magical material faster than most people could walk.

Within the ancient halls and corridors of Aberen, a ghost drifted silently, invisibly, inexorably, on towards his goal. Now he could feel it, a deep-lying tingling sensation that indicated the extreme outskirts of a powerful Earthnode. With Berenost at his side, Thanar could not, must not fail to reach the centre of the node and the unknown Mithendilar.

"Yes, Mother. I shall be home by the time it gets dark," shouted Edward Montgomery III -- known to his friends simply as Eddie.
"Don't forget to..." His mother's voice was silenced as he slammed the door behind him. He ran through the streets of London for a few minutes before slowing down. It was late in the morning and except for a few carriages riding past, and some beggars sitting by the store entrances, the alleys were relatively deserted. Eddie leaned against the nearest lamppost and sat down puffing heavily. It was a cold winter's day and yet he felt hot. It was not easy for Eddie to run -- he weighed nearly 150 pounds at the age of thirteen.

After he calmed down, he got up and headed for the docks. Big Ben chimed eleven times and Eddie quickened his step. He did not have far to go, as the docks were quite close to Westminster. As he walked, he could almost feel the change in social standing. He could no longer see any top-hats, morning coats or pale pink dresses. Instead, grey and castaway clothing was beginning to surround him. Off in the distance he heard the clang of buoys. Noticing suddenly how dark it was getting, Eddie looked up. The sun still shone in his eyes, and yet it felt more shady on the docks. Massive ship containers lined the riverbank, creating a number of alleys.

"Boo!" Shouted someone behind Eddie.
"Whaa!" Yelled Eddie as he fell forward on his knees.
"Ha, ha, ha. So, the little rich boy has come back. Surprise, surprise."
Eddie scrambled around. It was Topper and the eight other ruffians he had met the day before.
"That wasn't funny," said Eddie, clearing his throat to stop his voice sounding like a soprano, "of course I'm back. We have a deal, remember?"
"Yeah, yeah. If you live through this, I'll not only let you join our gang, but you can replace me as leader."
A few more snickers were issued at that.

As they walked, Eddie thought back. He wished he had never gone fishing that day. When he had bumped into this bunch of runaways, he had tried to escape, but he had quickly lost his way and they had caught him.

It was only pure luck that had saved him from a beating. He had just been given his weekly allowance. It wasn't much to Eddie, but it was the most money the others had seen for a long while. Still, they had taunted him and he had done a foolish thing. He had challenged them to a dare. If he passed their initiation, they would have to accept him as an equal. At first they laughed, but Topper was not stupid, and he did not let an opportunity like this slip away...

"Hey, fatso," said Topper, breaking Eddie's chain of thought, "we're almost there."
He seemed to have lowered his voice. He forced Eddie to the ground. Now he was whispering. "Over there, behind that nettle bush, is a small cavern. You have to enter it and remain there for an hour. We'll be here waiting for you."
"That sounds easy enough."
"It's rumoured to be haunted," whispered Topper, smiling. "Now, go!"
They pushed Eddie out of the hiding spot, and he tumbled forward clumsily. He heard them giggling quietly as he got up, but he wasn't worried. Who believed in ghosts anyway?

As he approached the bank, he noticed that there was a low mist creeping steadily out of the river. This was strange because the air had seemed clear from a distance. The sun shone on, and yet it offered no warmth and the temperature was dropping. As he descended, he could see the heavy vapours swirl around his feet. It felt as if he was walking barefoot in snow. He could hear the water lapping at the stones on the bank now. He thought he heard a bigger splash, but he could have imagined it. The only other sound he could hear was a buoy, clanging in the water. He looked towards the sound, but the mist was thick and he could not see that far.

He cursed furiously as he walked into a wall of thorns. It was the nettle bush. He had not walked as far as he thought, and he had hit it from the wrong direction as well. The nettles parted easily, almost invitingly as he separated them. The mist appeared to concentrate on the hole in the bank, swirling into it like a whirlpool. Eddie's nerve broke and he turned to run away. Suddenly, something pulled at his leg. He lost his balance and was pulled forward. After what seemed like eternity, he stopped rolling and opened his eyes. His left ankle hurt as he tried to stand up. He rolled down his shredded sock and looked at his limb. There was a burn mark, of what looked like four taloned fingers gripping his flesh. Only now did he notice that he was sitting in a tunnel under a lit torch. There was no hole above him. The torch flame flickered, swaying whole curtains of cobwebs around him. There was something wrong about this place, and yet there was an irresistible urge inside him to explore further. He could hardly stand from terror, yet his body moved forward on its own.

After a while, the tunnel opened into some kind of a chapel. There were old benches situated all around an altar and a pulpit. He leaned on one and it broke, sending echoes and clouds of dust into the air. Eddie froze. When he moved again, he could hear his heart beating and his muscles dancing under his skin. He was feeling sick now and his legs were buckling under him. He crunched something under his foot -- it was a skull, alongside many other bones. Normally he would have screamed, but his mind had gone numb a long time ago, and so he just continued on. Something glinted on the pulpit. He walked towards it. A black tome, closed and latched, was lying there. He touched it and the world went black. He heard a noise that sounded like a beating of huge wings and he screamed, over and over, until all noises receded.

"... Eddie, Eddie," someone was shouting at him, while hitting him on the face.
"Mmmm, please don't kill me..." he mumbled.
"Look, he's coming round," he heard someone say.
"He was so white... He looked like a stiff."
"Shhhh, he can hear you."
Eddie finally opened his eyes. Javelins of light stabbed him. He tried to cover his face, but found his arms occupied. He unclenched his closed hands and the book he was holding fell to the ground.
"What happened?" he asked, holding his face.
"We don't know. There was a scream and after a while, when we investigated, we found you lying face down, cold as an icicle, clutching this book in your hand."
They pulled him to his feet and helped him walk. Back home, his mother was livid with rage. He had some more burn marks on his shoulders, but others could not see their peculiar shape. Wondering about that, he fell asleep.

He woke up the next morning, and found the book next to his bed. The feeling of evil had not left with his nightmares. He opened the book and read the title: "The Calling of the Wyrm". Interested, he read the first page, and the world exploded into chaos...

To be continued...

This is a really good book. It is of the kind where you look up from it (on rare occasions) and say "Now where did I leave my Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster?"

A superficial glance reveals that this story is in fact part of the science fiction genre. It also seems to have many elements out of pulp Westerns. However, this description would be like saying Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure is about two dudes who meet a time traveller.

The story is set in a galaxy, many years in the future, which has a rich and vivid background. The Empire fell a millennium ago. The Rebellion fell centuries ago. Now there is yet another bureaucracy ruling the galaxy. But even the name of the Galactic President is not as well known as that of the greatest criminals in all history. Santiago!

His name can quite literally strike fear into the hearts of the bravest men. Those who see his face rarely live to tell about it. He provides inspiration to many. In the eyes of humanity he is omniscient. He is always somewhere nearby. It has been this way for many, many years.

He was such a nuisance that the government set up a special task force forty years ago. It contained hundreds of operatives, and to this day not a single person among them knows what he looks like. Not even Black Orpheus, the frontier's most famous poet knew what he looked like, and he knew everyone there was to know.

Enter Songbird, a bounty hunter. Like most of the other living bounty hunters on the frontier, he stopped looking for Santiago a long time ago. But a lucky clue changes his mind.

On a chase that goes from the outer reaches of the frontier, to the edges of civilization, he pursues the trail of Santiago. On the way, the reader learns about this extraordinary version of the future, and the power of a man like Santiago.

In fact, the reader spends the whole book trying to second guess the hero. The beggar on the street corner could be him, or the desk clerk, or the drugged artist. And the ending is a little more fantastic (and realistic) than one would expect.

Finally, if you are a GM looking for another scenario, give this book a try. The lives of these bounty hunters would make many a roleplayer envious. Also, the worlds portrayed by Mike Resnick are different from most. They are normal, described with clarity, yet leave much to the imagination. I would not be surprised if one day an Imperial Cruiser, or a TOG fighter crashed into this galaxy; no doubt in search of Santiago!

Character: Brindley Zien
Race: Human
Character Type: Mage detective (retired)

Alternate Identities: Ram
Family: Deceased
Enemies: The Universal Brotherhood, the Corps, a certain free toxic spirit.

Game Statistics: Body 3, Quickness 3, Strength 2, Charisma 2, Intelligence 5, Willpower 5, Essence 6, Magic 6, Reaction 3.

"Are you recording this?"
"Oh, good. I've always wanted a biography. I tell you, it should be pretty interesting."

The camera focuses on the retired, shabby, round-shouldered gentleman. His attire is faded, outmoded and solely brown -- the kind of brown which is used to lonely evenings at home. In his left hand he holds a platted wooden staff, shined to perfection. As he bends over to tie his brown shoelaces his jacket falls open, revealing its hidden wealth of fetishes.

"I started as a cop for the SPD (Seattle Police Department. - Ed), and worked my way up to the rank of Detective. Then came goblinization, and life became really tough. For the next thirty years I worked the streets trying to maintain what order I could. Then the Corps sold out the SPD to Lone Star, with whom I stayed for exactly two weeks. Their idea of justice was that money bought innocence!"

"I survived for a while working as a PI, delivering more justice than receiving income. It was during a job that I met up with the SINless of society, the shadowrunners. I soon realised that I could get back at the Corps and help the average Joe. These honourable partisans, the shadowrunners that is, could still teach an old dog new tricks."

"Magic is my way of life now -- it offers many solutions that the mundane cannot present. As a runner, I have picked up many useful spells, one of which gave me my nickname, though I can't imagine why. Interesting wall you've got over there."

(Coughing, as the dust settles.) A cool breeze ruffles Brindley's greying hair.

"Mmmmm! Inspiring. Where was I? Oh yeah, spells. Amongst my latest acquisitions are clout," the cameraman ducks, "and control action. I am currently doing research into a more... propelling field."

"What have I achieved in my short shadowrunning career? I collapsed a roof on a dragon. Cyclone? No, he was only scratched!  I also held off a toxic spirit single-handedly. Many times I have acquired information that would have cost my friends many Nuyen.  My elegant renditions of Bach on my Stradivarius have often brought tranquillity to a tense situation. Generally, however, I find myself aiding the construction business."