Broken Wheel Cosmology: Distinctive Devils and Divergent Demons

"If there is a conflict between two demons, it is their right to work out their differences through violence. Killing another demon is allowed, by law.

Although there is no punishment for killing another demon, the living demon does take on any favors that the dead demon owed. This usually means that they may suddenly be in debt to the Master of the deceased demon.

If the demon now owes substantial favors to more than one Master (Their previous one as well as the deceased demon) then it is possible for one Master to consolidate the debt through favor swapping. This can however be a complex procedure, and the Demon that owes the favors may owe additional favors for taking up the valuable time of the Demon Master's accountants.

In the end although there is technically no punishment for the killing of another demon, it often ends with a substantial increase in favor debt, displeasure of the deceased demon's Master, and an all around bad time for the demon who survives.

Demons rarely kill other demons, if they can help it.

-Year one Demonic Law and Punishment guidelines, textbook excerpt"

How great is that? In less than 200 words, it delivers a more engaging concept for fiends than anything I see in pages and pages of lore in the monster manual.

The problem with demons in modern D&D (and a lot of other similar games and media) is that they really aren’t very different from most other monsters. They might have a few thematic powers and resistance to fire damage, but the players can see through that and tell that they are just sacks of HP to be hacked up. If they’re really evil, so what? That doesn’t differentiate them much. Undead and aberrations and so on are all evil too.

I’ve written before about how to make more interesting demons by portraying a demon on the material plane as someone convinced they are trapped in a simulation. Giving them a truly alien frame of reference makes them act in a way genuinely distinct from other NPCs and people and monsters in the world.

The Demon’s Mirror example above is a great way to rethink how devils behave differently than other monsters (under D&D’s particular law/chaos devil/demon taxonomy, the concept outlined above fits obligation-oriented devils better than chaos-sowing demons). A devil is constantly negotiating within a complex hierarchy of other devils. It is powerful, but its actions are also constrained in a very particular way that is alien to other creatures. 

Factions. Why don’t devils form one continuous hierarchy uniting all devilkind, and use their superior organization to destroy demons once and for all? The network of favors and obligations gives devils strong reason to fracture into diverse factions. Powerful devils might endlessly scheme to consolidate all of devilkind under their rule, but the complex web of favors prevents it, either putting an aspiring devil emperor in an impossible contradiction of obligations, or sparking an outright internal war amongst those who could be next in line.

Minions. Devils have a strong reason to attract other creatures to serve them. They need minions to defend their holdings; even if a devil lord is powerful enough to easily kill an interloper, they would have to be wary of doing so blindly without knowing what favors that interloper owes. Indeed, a devil lord could send a devil loaded with onerous favors to intentionally die at the hands of a rival devil lord for this very reason. Devils also have a strong reason to capture – rather than kill – each other. Interrogating a devil to learn what favors it owes would be a common occurrence.

Hooks. Devils have to be very careful about killing other devils… but mortals don’t. Devils have a strong incentive to involve mortals in their schemes, using them as cats’ paws against their enemies. On a first meeting -- as they measure the PC’s power and consider what use they could put them to -- a devil can be surprisingly cordial and polite... unless they suspect that another devil has already met this PC and sent these adventurers to kill them. If they harbor such suspicions, their demeanor can change very quickly.

Going Up, Going Down: Incrementing Die Sizes for Information Density

I've occasionally seen people online present six related random tables, with each table tied to one of the classic polyhedral die sizes. For example, rolling a d4 to choose a location, then a d6 to determine what’s currently happening there, then a d8 to decide what monster is present, and so on.

I don’t know where this idea originated, or if there’s a proper name for it, or how far back it goes. It’s just a nice execution, because it’s satisfying to roll a fistful of dice all at once and then discern the results. It’s a fun prep technique, but a little too time-consuming for use at the table. Still, there’s something compelling about using all six of the main dice in one throw. What kind of similar ideas would be more useful at the table?

Picture a single random table, numbered 1-20. The entries near the bottom of the table are positive (or at least neutral) for the PCs, while the ones at the top are increasingly negative. For example, in a dungeon, a result of 1 could be something simple like a torch burning out, while 20 would indicate a random encounter with the most dangerous monster in the joint.

When you first roll on this table, use a d4. Interpret the outcome of the result, then cross it out. If you roll that same result a second time, nothing happens, but you permanently increase the die size to d6. Continue in the same fashion, increasing the die size to d8 and so on whenever you hit a previously rolled result that has already been crossed out. If you reach the d20 and can no longer increment upwards, treat re-rolls of previously rolled monsters as the nearest as-yet-unrolled result (and cross it out afterward). 

Rolling Downhill

The above method builds in a time delay for the really tough stuff. The increasing die means that the worst danger from the deepest part of the dungeon won’t show up while exploring the first room; but the incrementing dice and crossed-out possibilities mean that the more time the party spends in the dungeon, the more certain it is that those events will eventually happen.

What if we want at least a chance that the biggest dangers show up early? We can turn this around and put the bad stuff at the low end of the number range, and the good (or at least relatively "less-bad") results at the top.

Start with the d20, and roll as usual on the 1-20 table, crossing off results as you go. When you reroll a previously rolled result, switch to the next-smallest die. So the DM could roll 6, 11, 3, 20, 11, crossing out each of those results. When the second 11 is rolled, the die increments down to the d12; results 13 and above are now out of range.

This one will run on a much more aggressive clock, and after a handful of encounter rolls, the PCs will quickly get into hot water. For some counterplay (and a chance to still use numbers that have fallen out of the shrinking die range) give the players a way to release steam from the dungeon. Say that every favorable negotiation or parley with an NPC or a faction can increment the die back up by a level. Or exploring a certain number of rooms. Whatever connects to the intended gameplay loop and provides some motivation to the PCs.

There’s nothing special about either of these systems that makes them “better” than conventional random event or dungeon exploration tables. They merely take advantage of the natural tactile appeal of the varying sizes of polyhedral dice. And for in-person games, the d20 (in the first system) or the d4 (in the second system) is a powerful sign to the players that they are in as much danger as the dungeon has to offer. 

You Had One Job

Last year I played in a Delta Green game where a scientist PC failed something like three consecutive rolls that were solidly in their character’s wheelhouse. They had something like an 80%+ chance to succeed, and beefed it each time. The GM did what they could to soften the blow, and the player was a good sport about it, but it was surely a little frustrating; especially because it was a short campaign, with just a handful of sessions, so each character only had a limited time in the spotlight.

It seems like skill-based games (whether percentile or d20) always struggle with some of this (although I have not myself run Delta Green; so what follows is general advice, not DG-specific). Some games can include a meta currency to ensure a success, or otherwise subvert the capriciousness of the dice. But it’s hard to completely escape the feel-bad vibes when the dice push back strongly against narrative expectations.

The best time to fix this problem is before the dice are rolled. In D&D, where the application of skills is almost always subordinate to the discretion of the DM, I practice pausing before calling for a roll and asking myself “would it make the most sense for the character to simply succeed at this?” This is a no-brainer for many experienced GMs; but I had to work to learn it, so there must be a lot of people out there who know nothing about this procedure. If I can share this with at least a few people who were once like me, and simply don’t know, I will be well pleased.

It Just Works

Running D&D 5E years ago, I called for a dexterity (acrobatics) check with a modest DC, as several PCs tried to hurdle over a barricade during the thick of combat. When it was the monk’s turn to try, something in my brain clicked, and I thought “it would undermine what we know about the characters and the situation for this character to fail at this particular task.” So I simply ruled that the monk would succeed without a roll.

Other instances followed logically. The ranger, tracking ordinary quarry in normal conditions, simply succeeds. The cleric with a low intelligence score doesn’t need to roll the intelligence (religion) check to answer a common question of doctrine; they simply know.

This form of adjudication also solves the common verisimilitude “problem” of the wizard with 8 strength succeeding in knocking down a door after the barbarian with 18 strength fails… which is only a “problem” because D&D 5E teaches DMs to blindly follow a skill resolution procedure, rather than adjudicating the action based on a common-sense understanding of the situation.

OK, this is probably a no-brainer for someone familiar with FKR games or other diceless adjudication systems. But I would expect the median RPG player, who comes up through D&D 5E or another popular system, is going to find it quite radical. 

The “One Job” Troupe Game

Thinking about this prompted an idea that is really not an original idea at all, just a restatement of what is already implicit in the “it just works without a roll” guidelines included in many good games.

A class, background, or job does not gate off certain skills. It merely distinguishes between the characters who must risk the dice to do something, and those who can simply do it. The scientist still must roll the dice to shoot a gun, climb a wall, or hide from the monster. But they don’t have to roll to do the science, unless the circumstances are highly dangerous or unusual. 

This concept really shines in a game focused on troupe play, where players are considering which of several characters they should bring to a session, rather than signing up for one type of character and playing that single character for the whole game. Choosing the right character with the right background or job for the present situation defines the stuff they’re going to be able to do without depending on the dice.

Your PC with the “fishing boat captain” background is perfect for exploring the haunted coastline. They can navigate and explore the channels and inlets of the sea without a single check. But if they have to argue before a congressional subcommittee for the passage of the Ghost Fish Preservation Act, they’re going to be rolling the dice, because public speaking and legislative advocacy is well outside their skillset. Would you have rather played your lobbyist this session, and rolled the dice while exploring on the boat? It creates interesting decisions.

Even More Weird Second Lives of Useful Exotic Creatures

Last Week: The Weird Second Lives of Useful Exotic Creatures

The Lingual Loon

The Immutable Imperium developed the loon as a tool of spycraft. This waterborne bird could instinctively understand and speak the predominant language of the closest large concentration of intelligent creatures. Its purpose was to fly into lakes and pleasure gardens in enemy lands, attune to the local tongue, and eavesdrop on the conversations of the wealthy and powerful.

Long after the internal collapse of the Imperium rendered its external intelligence operations obsolete, the remaining loons were captured by the Imperium’s former enemies. The loons were offered gainful employment to offset their former service to the oppressive Imperium. They accepted the offer gladly (the alternative was… unpleasant).

The nomadic peoples outside the empire had no interest in spycraft. They instead found a future for the loons in the Imperium’s underground tramway, repurposed from military supply to civilian transportation. The drawback that the tiny, numerous polities faced after the death of the empire was the difficulty of determining which mobile micronation the train was passing beneath at any given time. The tramway was deep underground, and it was slow to accelerate and decelerate, so it wasn’t practical to stop and peek at random to see who was living up above the current station.

But because the loons could always speak the language of the nearest large concentration of people, they could serve as indirect indicators of who resided up above at any given time. Periodically prodding a loon would reveal if the train was close to a group of Nethian-speaking Kalians, or already nearer to the Zeelian peoples who (as readers obviously already know) speak the Classical Ramajavian tongue. The loons' linguistic contortions, once the pride of Imperium spymaster arcanologists, was reduced to a mere signpost of localized humanity. Well, it’s a living.

The Psychopomps

At the beginning of time, the Omnimother created the boatmen and charged them with ferrying the souls of the deceased across the chthonic waters. For millennia, they executed their duties faithfully, as unchanging as the sun and the stars. But even stars eventually burn out, and the psychopomps’ duties came to an end when humanity won the War on Death. The psychopomps had a challenging career transition to navigate.

Their human conquerors were nothing if not helpful in their reinvention. The psychopomps were immune to the waters of the Lethe. They had perfect, incorruptible, limitless memories.

Some adjudicated contract disputes. Perfectly able to recall every detail of an agreement without prevaricating or dissembling, they were natural arbiters. They were particularly known for settling wills and estates, given their former occupation. 

Some dove into history. They had no interest in chronicling past events for their own sake, but their retention was limitless and their recall perfect. And had they not been the final witnesses for some of the great figures of history? Did Tamsen the Vitiator die laughing, or with tears streaming from her eyes? The history books disagree. But the psychopomp who guided them to the afterlife could say for sure.

Finally, some were entrusted with the greatest dark secrets of mortality. There is magic and technology so terrible and powerful that no one should have access to it; but erasing it completely from the world risks its accidental rediscovery in the far future. Someone needs to remember it perfectly, to be able to name it and recognize it for what it is, if humankind ever lays hands on it again. And who better than the psychopomps? They had become guardians of death once again, but in a very different way.