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Pure magic users' superiority in RPG's

Redeye

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Norfleet said:
I don't see why there is this compelling need to enforce some kind of arbitrary balance between those who can warp reality with their thoughts and those who can't. Instead of trying to balance the game between magic-users and not-magic-users, why not just have the game consist of characters which are ALL some kind of mage, and use the not-mages as recruitable assistants and minions? Then there is also no need to enforce "squishy mages", which, frankly, isn't all that realistic anyway, nor is it true to the "traditional" material. Neither Merlin nor Gandalf were slouches in a fight.

Gandalf was an angel in disguise.

Merlin was also something else.

My Fantasy aesthetic is simulationism with gamism on top rather than just gamism.
So for me being a rock hard tank requires training and living as one.
 

Gondolin

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Unradscorpion said:
is the result of RPGs involving a single character instead of a party which makes developers shoehorn all classes into the same mold.

Either we return to party based where classes of different dynamics can flourish or we wait until multiple paths and nonlinearity is implemented.

Yes. Before blaming MMORPGs one should blame Diablo I, where wizards had to be just as able to survive as fighters right from Level 1.
 

laclongquan

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In term of magical effects on exploration, Morrowind got it good. Water Walk, Free Fall, Jump, Run, Fly, etc... Bethesda always do great on creating a big gameworld to mess around.

Mind you, they are absolutely shitty in creating game's quests, stories, NPC interactions, and backgrounds. Boring as shit. I dont ever read much those walls of text they are so proud of. Their writing department should have been injected some new lead... scratch that, fire them all and hire them new.
 
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The biggest problem has been the decline in overall party sizes. In the beginning the absolute minimum you would usually have in an adventuring party would be six, and the maximum could be as big as a dozen. Later six suddenly became the maximum party size for a while, then a few years later we cut it down to 3-4 and thats it. 3 or 4 characters means either you need MMO-shit aggro mechanics or the mages have to take a beating just as well as warriors do, because you can't form a front line and keep the wimpier mages/ranged units in the back.

Bioware is probably the biggest offender in this. Party size constantly needing to be cut down because players don't want to manage things, and also because Bioware wants to make 5 NPCs with 100 hours of voiced dialog and multiple sex scenes rather than 20 NPCs with only semi-voicing and no romances.

As for whether mages can fight is a good thing: the point of a mage is that they are supposed to spend almost their entire lives studying magic. If you want a mage that knows how to handle a sword you pick one of the mage/fighter hybrids that has a dual focus in both styles. Of course, then people will whine 'but the fighter/mage doesn't get cool lvl 9 spells so I can't use them'. Tough luck bitch, the point of a fighter/mage is that you aren't as good as a pure class in their specialty.
 

Damned Registrations

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Norfleet said:
I don't see why there is this compelling need to enforce some kind of arbitrary balance between those who can warp reality with their thoughts and those who can't. Instead of trying to balance the game between magic-users and not-magic-users, why not just have the game consist of characters which are ALL some kind of mage, and use the not-mages as recruitable assistants and minions? Then there is also no need to enforce "squishy mages", which, frankly, isn't all that realistic anyway, nor is it true to the "traditional" material. Neither Merlin nor Gandalf were slouches in a fight.

This would be fine too. (Shadowrun has something like this, called 'Adepts', who have magical talent but use it to enhance their kungfu or whatever the fuck they want and can't cast spells.) The heroes are already special, otherwise they wouldn't be heroes. They may as well have magic too. If someone uses the magic more internally than someone else, he'll play much differently. A Mage decked out in all his combat buffs wielding a magic sword he made for himself isn't that far a cry from a warrior to begin with. He'd certainly be a swordsman compared to the guy flying around shooting webs and fireballs.

But like I said, I don't find warrior types pulling off supernatural feats any less realistic than magic already is to begin with. Whether they're tied together doesn't matter much to me. Whether McUrist the dwarf berserker can throttle a dragon because he's using the arcane weave, blessed by his drunken gods, or just capable of training to be that much stronger than a normal dwarf, it's all the same to me.

Redeye: All that rest and memorization shit becomes completely irrelevant once a wizard can teleport back home whenever he wants. That's the official line for me. When you can escape any situation within 6 seconds and end up miles away in your own tower (by the time you have teleport you have stone shape and wall of stone) to refresh yourself and come back the next day, you're pretty much untouchable. Oh sure, the DM could come up with some plot the wizard can't win because he can't abandon the damsel or whatever, but if the wizard doesn't give a fuck, he can always just run further away. As far as enslaving Dragons go, Energy drain or two (No saving throw, ranged touch attack is a joke vs large creatures) followed by dominate monster would do the trick for 20 days. You could energy drain it again while still dominated and recast the spell before it ends too.

That's assuming you want a guaranteed method. Just flat out, level 20 wizard with 19 intelligence (Piss poor) not specialized with no helpful feats or items, has 10/20 chance of success vs a young adult red dragon. (6/10 for actually adult, there's a big jump there.) If I wanted to cherry pick, white dragons are pussies and a mature adult has the same will save as a young adult for a red. And any wizard worth his salt will also have 24+ intelligence by level 20 and enough spell enhancing toys to keep one of every colour of dragon around for shits and giggles.

This is per 3rd edition, but I doubt 2nd is much better. I seem to recall a lot of soul trapping gems and spells in that edition. Plus nearly half the spell list was transmutation. Burning Hands was my favourite. Totally not evocation, no sir. :roll:
 

Heresiarch

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I think the most difficult thing is balancing spells vs environment, not desgining the actual spells.

I liked how Dragon Age explains that teleportation is impossible due to its own "scientific" way. Otherwise, like mentioned before, wizards can teleport anywhere, take a peek at a girl taking a bath, maybe even charm and rape her, and then teleport away. With creative use of other spells you may even make it like never happened.

It's like reading a Doraemon manga, whenever the guys get into trouble, my thought was "why didn't they use the XXXXX tool?". When some guy in a RPG explains how terrible an orc siege is, killing hundreds of soldiers, my thought was, "why not teleport a scout out to another city to call for reinforcement, or even use Scrying to locate the orc commander's tent and throw a meteor or storm of vengeance on him?"
 

thesheeep

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You're mostly talking about D&D magic system here.
The only thing it does "right" (in the sense of achieving its goal) is that it balances mages. More or less.

Other than that, the system is pure bullshit. Having to rest 8h to cast spells? Bullshit.
Having to memorize spells you cast for your whole life (or half of it) everyday, and they certainly don't change, yet you always forget them? Bullshit.
Only being able to cast a limited amount of spells and then you're.. what.. empty? Exhausted, but you still do everything else without any sign of exhaustion? Bullshit.

Some people bring the excuse that you need some kind of ritual to prepare spells. Alright, I like that idea, but how incredibly complicated are they to take 8h? And if they take 8h, when does a caster sleep? And if it does not take 8h, but only 1 or 2 before sleeping, why can't I do those 2h of preparing whenever I want? Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!

:x
(By now, I feel a bit like the AVGN/Spoony, completely talked into rage.)

What I want to say is, it doesn't make any sense and therefore is a good example of putting the balance you want higher than any sense it would make.

I still think Shadowrun got that best by allowing you to cast your spells as often as you want, but you have to hold some of them up (resulting in modifiers to everything) and generally survive the backlash of casting. It's not really a matter of dying, but you risk getting hurt (non-physical "mind" damage, similar to the D&D one), which again results in a modifier...

Oh, and I totally agree that magic should be more interesting than dealing damage.
 

Shannow

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I don't think I agree with the very premise that wizards have become stronger at low levels so as to be equal in survivability to fighters in the last years. At least not in cRPGs. But perhaps I play too few mmos?

I'd like to see wizards rely more on tricks and using the environment than being plain "nukers". Freedom Force did that quite well. Or mesmers and necromancers in Guild Wars that could punish their enemies in various ways without using direct damage. It'd be nice to see more games that use magic in a creative way (e.g.: Risen's polymorph into a snail to get through cracks or telekinesis to reach stuff across chasms, or Gothic's use of a shrink spell to change a huge troll into a beatable small troll) but less in a schematic puzzle way and more in a creative emergent gameplay way. E.G. in Incursion "mining" decreases the stability of a level, thus the amount of mining you can do is limited. Safe places for resting are rare. But as soon as you gain the spell "meld into stone" you can walk through stone, mine where the gold/diamonds are without having to mine to them and create safe havens for resting. Compare that to the restrictive NWNs where changing into a flying creature didn't change the gameplay at all, or summoning elementals in MotB couldn't be used to slake your spirit hunger.

In general I'd like to see a skill based RPG in which anybody could learn magic, but it'd be hard (and usually evil, baby hearts and stuff) to come by components, hard to find teachers, costly in time requirement (in a game where income is needed to keep the player fed, in good health, his equipment in good shape, etc), could backfire and would need rituals for most greater spells like permanent buff, summoning, calling storms or draughts, cursing, warding, enchanting, etc and didn't have any direct-damage-in-combat-spells.
 

Konjad

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I'd like to see cRPG set in medieval-like or ancient-like times without fucking magic.
 

JarlFrank

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Personally, I'd like spells to be a little more limited and "realistic", or believable. Fireballs should be out. Wizards cannot create matter out of thin air. They can create energy, however, so fire itself is okay (using hands as flamethrower, setting fire to stuff). They should also be able to change temperature: freeze water to pin down an enemy standing in it, heat enemy armor to make them sweat and reduce their fighting ability. Use telekinesis to throw stuff at enemies.

Setting fire to a piece of wood, then throwing it at the enemy via telekinesis is much more awesome than merely casting a FIARBALL, isn't it?

Creative use of spells should be the main attraction for playing a wizard, including tons of utility spells like levitate or change gravity, rather than being an elemental artillery.
 

made

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Ur all clueless. It's only realistic if it simulates accurately how Raistlin was in the books. Everything else is make-believe fairytale bullshit.
 

sheek

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mutile said:
after a party of six spellcasters unleash their magic, there isn't any enemies left.
If you are in easy mode perhaps , where you can rest anywhere/any time. In any actual non-easy mode D&D game, you would need to distribute one day's worth of spells over 5 or more encounters. Your six mages go to sleep in the dungeon they wouldn't wake up.
 

sheek

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thesheeep said:
You're mostly talking about D&D magic system here.
The only thing it does "right" (in the sense of achieving its goal) is that it balances mages. More or less.

Other than that, the system is pure bullshit. Having to rest 8h to cast spells? Bullshit.
Having to memorize spells you cast for your whole life (or half of it) everyday, and they certainly don't change, yet you always forget them? Bullshit.
Only being able to cast a limited amount of spells and then you're.. what.. empty? Exhausted, but you still do everything else without any sign of exhaustion? Bullshit.
Um, the number of spells you can have ready to use reflects the constant mental effort to keep track of complex thoughts simultaneously. That's why it's based on intelligence.

Memorizing a spell is like memorizing a phone number, but a 20-digit long one (that's for a lvl 1 spell). Most people would only be able to memorize one at most, maybe two with effort. Once you'd lost one, you'd need to go back and stare at the number for a while to get it back into memory.

If you were distracted momentarily, your spell might not work.
 

Ebonsword

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thesheeep said:
You're mostly talking about D&D magic system here.
The only thing it does "right" (in the sense of achieving its goal) is that it balances mages. More or less.

Other than that, the system is pure bullshit. Having to rest 8h to cast spells? Bullshit.
Having to memorize spells you cast for your whole life (or half of it) everyday, and they certainly don't change, yet you always forget them? Bullshit.
Only being able to cast a limited amount of spells and then you're.. what.. empty? Exhausted, but you still do everything else without any sign of exhaustion? Bullshit.

Some people bring the excuse that you need some kind of ritual to prepare spells. Alright, I like that idea, but how incredibly complicated are they to take 8h? And if they take 8h, when does a caster sleep? And if it does not take 8h, but only 1 or 2 before sleeping, why can't I do those 2h of preparing whenever I want? Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!

:x
(By now, I feel a bit like the AVGN/Spoony, completely talked into rage.)

What I want to say is, it doesn't make any sense and therefore is a good example of putting the balance you want higher than any sense it would make.

I think that the peculiarities of D&D's magic system don't stem so much from an attempt to achieve balance between casters and warriors (although that's certainly part of it) as from an attempt to accurately mimic fantasy literature, specifically Jack Vance's Tales of the Dying Earth.

Just like D&D had Thieves' Guilds in an attempt to emulate Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar tales, D&D has memorization of spells in an attempt to emulate Vance.

Which is why the removal of Vancian casting from 4th Edition is so offensive--not only does it throw out a mechanic that has been core to the system for thirty years, it also takes the system further away from its roots in fantasy literature.
 

Grunker

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sheek said:
thesheeep said:
You're mostly talking about D&D magic system here.
The only thing it does "right" (in the sense of achieving its goal) is that it balances mages. More or less.

Other than that, the system is pure bullshit. Having to rest 8h to cast spells? Bullshit.
Having to memorize spells you cast for your whole life (or half of it) everyday, and they certainly don't change, yet you always forget them? Bullshit.
Only being able to cast a limited amount of spells and then you're.. what.. empty? Exhausted, but you still do everything else without any sign of exhaustion? Bullshit.
Um, the number of spells you can have ready to use reflects the constant mental effort to keep track of complex thoughts simultaneously. That's why it's based on intelligence.

Memorizing a spell is like memorizing a phone number, but a 20-digit long one (that's for a lvl 1 spell). Most people would only be able to memorize one at most, maybe two with effort. Once you'd lost one, you'd need to go back and stare at the number for a while to get it back into memory.

If you were distracted momentarily, your spell might not work.

larperslarpinglarperslarping

I care not for the systems logic, but for the design's effect on the game.
 

sheek

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Dude was saying he didn't understand Vancian spell casting, I'm explaining the origins of it to him...

I think it's a great mechanic.
 

Hobo Elf

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Nothing is more boring than a Wizard that sucks shit at low levels but becomes a dangerous threat to the local pantheon at higher levels. It's ok if the off-set is that the Wizard has other utility spells that make up the lack of offensive capabilities, but this is rarely the case. You have enough mana / spell points to cast 2-4 shitty magic missile / magic missile-esque spells and that is it. To add salt to the wound a level 1 warrior could do the same amount of damage with normal melee hits. He also has better armor, more HP and doesn't fucking run out of spells so he can just keep hacking away at it.

Realms of Arkania got spell casters right. They have heavy damage spells, but drain their AP fast, they have a shitton of utility and they aren't complete pussies in melee combat either.
 

sheek

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2. MAZIRIAN THE MAGICIAN


Deep in thought, Mazirian the Magician walked his garden. Trees fruited with many intoxications overhung his path, and flowers bowed obsequiously as he passed. An inch above the ground, dull as agates, the eyes of mandrakes followed the tread of his black-slippered feet. Such was Mazirian's garden—three terraces growing with strange and wonderful vegetations. Certain plants swam with changing iridescences; others held up blooms pulsing like sea-anemones, purple, green, lilac, pink, yellow. Here grew trees like feather parasols, trees with transparent trunks threaded with red and yellow veins, trees with foliage like metal foil, each leaf a different metal—copper, silver, blue tantalum, bronze, green indium. Here blooms like bubbles tugged gently upward from glazed green leaves, there a shrub bore a thousand pipe-shaped blossoms, each whistling softly to make music of the ancient Earth, of the ruby-red sunlight, water seeping through black soil, the languid winds. And beyond the roqual hedge the trees of the forest made a tall wall of mystery. In this waning hour of Earth's life no man could count himself familiar with the glens, the glades, the dells and deeps, the secluded clearings, the ruined pavilions, the sun-dappled pleasaunces, the gullys and heights, the various brooks, freshets, ponds, the meadows, thickets, brakes and rocky outcrops.

Mazirian paced his garden with a brow frowning in thought. His step was slow and his arms were clenched behind his back. There was one who had brought him puzzlement, doubt, and a great desire: a delightful woman-creature who dwelt in the woods. She came to his garden half-laughing and always wary, riding a black horse with eyes like golden crystals. Many times had Mazirian tried to take her; always her horse had borne her from his varied enticements, threats, and subterfuges.

Agonized screaming jarred the garden. Mazirian, hastening his step, found a mole chewing the stalk of a plant-animal hybrid. He killed the marauder, and the screams subsided to a dull gasping. Mazirian stroked a furry leaf and the red mouth hissed in pleasure.

Then: "K-k-k-k-k-k-k," spoke the plant. Mazirian stooped, held the rodent to the red mouth. The mouth sucked, the small body slid into the stomach-bladder underground. The plant gurgled, eructated, and Mazirian watched with satisfaction.

The sun had swung low in the sky, so dim and red that the stars could be seen. And now Mazirian felt a watching presence. It would be the woman of the forest, for thus had she disturbed him before. He paused in his stride, feeling for the direction of the gaze.

He shouted a spell of immobilization. Behind him the plant-animal froze to rigidity and a great green moth wafted to the ground. He whirled around. There she was, at the edge of the forest, closer than ever she had approached before. Nor did she move as he advanced. Mazirian's young-old eyes shone. He would take her to his manse and keep her in a prison of green glass. He would test her brain with fire, with cold, with pain and with joy. She should serve him with wine and make the eighteen motions of allurement by yellow lamp-light. Perhaps she was spying on him; if so, the Magician would discover immediately, for he could call no man friend and had forever to guard his garden.

She was but twenty paces distant—then there was a thud and pound of black hooves as she wheeled her mount and fled into the forest.

The Magician flung down his cloak in rage. She held a guard—a counter-spell, a rune of protection—and always she came when he was ill-prepared to follow. He peered into the murky depths, glimpsed the wanness of her body flitting through a shaft of red light, then black shade and she was gone . . . Was she a witch? Did she come of her own volition, or—more likely—had an enemy sent her to deal him inquietude? If so, who might be guiding her? There was Prince Kandive the Golden, of Kaiin, whom Mazirian had bilked of his secret of renewed youth. There was Azvan the Astronomer, there was Turjan—hardly Turjan, and here Mazirian's face lit in a pleasing recollection . .. He put the thought aside. Azvan, at least, he could test He turned his steps to his workshop, went to a table where rested a cube of clear crystal, shimmering with a red and blue aureole. From a cabinet he brought a bronze gong and a silver hammer. He tapped on the gong and the mellow tone sang through the room and out, away and beyond. He tapped again and again. Suddenly Azvan's face shone from the crystal, beaded with pain and great terror.

"Stay the strokes, Mazirian!" cried Azvan. "Strike no more on the gong of my life!"

Mazirian paused, his hand poised over the gong. "Do you spy on me, Azvan? Do you send a woman to regain the gong?"

"Not I, Master, not I.I fear you too well."

"You must deliver me the woman, Azvan; I insist."

"Impossible, Master! I know not who or what she is!" Mazirian made as if to strike. Azvan poured forth such a torrent of supplication that Mazirian with a gesture of disgust threw down the hammer and restored the gong to its place. Azvan's face drifted slowly away, and the fine cube of crystal shone blank as before.

Mazirian stroked his chin. Apparently he must capture the girl himself. Later, when black night lay across the forest, he would seek through his books for spells to guard him through the unpredictable glades. They would be poignant corrosive spells, of such a nature that one would daunt the brain of an ordinary man and two render him mad. Mazirian, by dint of stringent exercise, could encompass four of the most formidable, or six of the lesser spells.

He put the project from his mind and went to a long vat bathed in a flood of green light. Under a wash of clear fluid lay the body of a man, ghastly below the green glare, but of great physical beauty. His torso tapered from wide shoulders through lean flanks to long strong legs and arched feet; his face was clean and cold with hard flat features. Dusty golden hair clung about his head.

Mazirian stared at the thing, which he had cultivated from a single cell. It needed only intelligence, and this he knew not how to provide. Turjan of Miir held the knowledge, and Turjan—Mazirian glanced with a grim narrowing of the eyes at a trap in the floor—refused to part with his secret.

Mazirian pondered the creature in the vat. It was a perfect body; therefore might not the brain be ordered and pliant? He would discover. He set in motion a device to draw off the liquid and presently the body lay stark to the direct rays. Mazirian injected a minim of drug into the neck. The body twitched. The eyes opened, winced in the glare. Mazirian turned away the projector.

Feebly the creature in the vat moved its arms and feet, as if unaware of their use. Mazirian watched intently; perhaps he had stumbled on the right synthesis for the brain.

"Sit up!" commanded the Magician.

The creature fixed its eyes upon him, and reflexes joined muscle to muscle. It gave a throaty roar and sprang from the vat at Mazirian's throat. In spite of Mazirian's strength it caught him and shook him like a doll.

For all Mazirian's magic he was helpless. The mesmeric spell had been expended, and he had none other in his brain. In any event he could not have uttered the space-twisting syllables with that mindless clutch at his throat.

His hand closed on the neck of a leaden carboy. He swung and struck the head of his creature, which slumped to the floor.
Mazirian, not entirely dissatisfied, studied the glistening body at his feet. The spinal coordination had functioned well. At his table he mixed a white potion, and, lifting the golden head, poured the fluid into the lax mouth. The creature stirred, opened its eyes, propped itself on its elbows. The madness had left its face—but Mazirian sought in vain for the glimmer of intelligence. The eyes were as vacant as those of a lizard.

The Magician shook his head in annoyance. He went to the window and his brooding profile was cut black against the oval panes . . . Turjan once more? Under, the most dire inquiry Turjan had kept his secret close. Mazirian's thin mouth curved wryly. Perhaps if he inserted another angle in the passage ...

The sun had gone from the sky and there was dimness in Mazirian's garden. His white night-blossoms opened and their captive gray moths fluttered from bloom to bloom. Mazirian pulled open the trap in the floor and descended stone stairs. Down, down, down ... At last a passage intercepted at right angles, lit with the yellow light of eternal lamps. To the left were his fungus beds, to the right a stout oak and iron door, locked with three locks. Down and ahead the stone steps continued, dropping into blackness.

Mazirian unlocked the three locks, flung wide the door. The room within was bare except for a stone pedestal supporting a glass-topped box. The box measured a yard on a side and was four or five inches high. Within the box— actually a squared passageway, a run with four right angles—moved two small creatures, one seeking, the other evading. The predator was a small dragon with furious red eyes and a monstrous fanged mouth. It waddled along the passage on six splayed legs, twitching its tail as it went. The other stood only half the size of the dragon—a strong-featured man, stark naked, with a copper fillet binding his long black hair. He moved slightly faster than his pursuer, which still kept relentless chase, using a measure of craft, speeding, doubling back, lurking at the angle in case the man should unwarily step around. By holding himself continually alert, the man was able to stay beyond the reach of the fangs. The man was Turjan, whom Mazirian by trickery had captured several weeks before, reduced in size and thus imprisoned.

Mazirian watched with pleasure as the reptile sprang upon the momentarily relaxing man, who jerked himself clear by the thickness of his skin. It was time, Mazirian thought, to give both rest and nourishment. He dropped panels across the passage, separating it into halves, isolating man from beast. To both he gave meat and pannikins of water.

Turjan slumped in the passage.

"Ah," said Mazirian, "you are fatigued. You desire rest?"

Turjan remained silent, his eyes closed. Time and the world had lost meaning for him. The only realities were the gray passage and the interminable flight. At unknown intervals came food and a few hours rest.

"Think of the blue sky," said Mazirian, "the white stars, your castle Miir by the river Derna; think of wandering free in the meadows."

The muscles at Turjan's mouth twitched.

"Consider, you might crush the little dragon under your heel."

Turjan looked up. "I would prefer to crush your neck, Mazirian."

Mazirian was unperturbed. 'Tell me, how do you invest your vat creatures with intelligence? Speak, and you go free."
Turjan laughed, and there was madness in his laughter.

"Tell you? And then? You would kill me with hot oil in a moment."

Mazirian's thin mouth drooped petulantly.

"Wretched man, I know how to make you speak. If your mouth were stuffed, waxed and sealed, you would speak! Tomorrow I take a nerve from your arm and draw coarse cloth along its length."

The small Turjan, sitting with his legs across the passageway, drank his water and said nothing.

'Tonight," said Mazirian with studied malevolence, "I add an angle and change your run to a pentagon."

Turjan paused and looked up through the glass cover at his enemy. Then he slowly sipped his water. With five angles there would be less time to evade the charge of the monster, less of the hall in view from one angle.

"Tomorrow," said Mazirian, "you will need all your agility." But another matter occurred to him. He eyed Turjan speculatively. "Yet even this I spare you if you assist me with another problem."

"What is your difficulty, febrile Magician?"

'The image of a woman-creature haunts my brain, and I would capture her." Mazirian's eyes went misty at the thought. "Late afternoon she comes to the edge of my garden riding a great black horse—you know her, Turjan?"

"Not I, Mazirian." Turjan sipped his water.

Mazirian continued. "She has sorcery enough to ward away Felojun's Second Hypnotic Spell—or perhaps she has some protective rune. When I approach, she flees into the forest."

"So then?" asked Turjan, nibbling the meat Mazirian had provided.

"Who may this woman be?" demanded Mazirian, peering down his long nose at the tiny captive.

"How can I say?"

"I must capture her," said Mazirian abstractedly: "What spells, what spells?"

Turjan looked up, although he could see the Magician only indistinctly through the cover of glass.

"Release me, Mazirian, and on my word as a Chosen Hierarch of the Maram-Or, I will deliver you this girl."

"How would you do this?" asked the suspicious Mazirian.

"Pursue her into the forest with my best Live Boots and a headful of spells."

"You would fare no better than I," retorted the Magician. "I give you freedom when I know the synthesis of your vat-things. I myself will pursue the woman."

Turjan lowered his head that the Magician might not read his eyes.

"And as for me, Mazirian?" he inquired after a moment.

"I will treat with you when I return."

"And if you do not return?"

Mazirian stroked his chin and smiled, revealing fine white teeth. "The dragon could devour you now, if it were not for your cursed secret."

The Magician climbed the stairs. Midnight found him in his study, poring through leather-bound tomes and untidy portfolios ... At one time a thousand or more runes, spells, incantations, curses and sorceries had been known. The reach of Grand Motholam—Ascolais, the Ide of Kauchique, Almery to the South, the Land of the Falling Wall to the East—swarmed with sorcerers of every description, of whom the chief was the Arch-Necromancer Phandaal. A hundred spells Phandaal personally had formulated—though rumor said that demons whispered at his ear when he wrought magic. Pontecilla the Pious, then ruler of Grand Motholam, put Phandaal to torment, and after a terrible night, he killed Phandaal and outlawed sorcery throughout the land. The wizards of Grand Motholam fled like beetles under a strong light; the lore was dispersed and forgotten, until now, at this dim time, with the sun dark, wilderness obscuring Ascolais, and the white city Kaiin half in ruins, only a few more than a hundred spells remained to the knowledge of man. Of these, Mazirian had access to seventy-three, and gradually, by stratagem and negotiation, was securing the others.

Mazirian made a selection from his books and with great effort forced five spells upon his brain: Phandaal's Gyrator, Felojun's Second Hypnotic Spell, The Excellent Prismatic Spray, The Charm of Untiring Nourishment, and the Spell of the Omnipotent Sphere. This accomplished, Mazirian drank wine and retired to his couch.

The following day, when the sun hung low, Mazirian went to walk in his garden. He had but short time to wait. As he loosened the earth at the roots of his moon-geraniums a soft rustle and stamp told that the object of his desire had appeared.

She sat upright in the saddle, a young woman of exquisite configuration. Mazirian slowly stooped, as not to startle her, put his feet into the Live Boots and secured them above the knee.

He stood up. "Ho, girl," he cried, "you have come again. Why are you here of evenings? Do you admire the roses? They are vividly red because live red blood flows in their petals. If today you do not flee, I will make you the gift of one."
Mazirian plucked a rose from the shuddering bush and advanced toward her, fighting the surge of the Live Boots. He had taken but four steps when the woman dug her knees into the ribs of her mount and so plunged off through the trees.
Mazirian allowed full scope to the life in his boots. They gave a great bound, and another, and another, and he was off in full chase.

So Mazirian entered the forest of fable. On all sides mossy boles twisted up to support the high panoply of leaves. At intervals shafts of sunshine drifted through to lay carmine blots on the turf. In the shade long-stemmed flowers and fragile fungi sprang from the humus; in this ebbing hour of Earth nature was mild and relaxed.

Mazirian in his Live Boots bounded with great speed through the forest, yet the black horse, running with no strain, stayed easily ahead.

For several leagues the woman rode, her hair flying behind like a pennon. She looked back and Mazirian saw the face over her shoulder as a face in a dream. Then she bent forward; the golden-eyed horse thundered ahead and soon was lost to sight. Mazirian followed by tracing the trail in the sod.

The spring and drive began to leave the Live Boots, for they had come far and at great speed. The monstrous leaps became shorter and heavier, but the strides of the horse, shown by the tracks, were also shorter and slower. Presently Mazirian entered a meadow and saw the horse, riderless, cropping grass. He stopped short. The entire expanse of tender herbiage lay before him. The trail of the horse leading into the glade was clear, but there was no trail leaving. The woman therefore had dismounted somewhere behind—how far he had no means of knowing. He walked toward the horse, but the creature shied and bolted through the trees. Mazirian made one effort to follow, and discovered that his Boots hung lax and flaccid—dead.

He kicked them away, cursing the day and his ill-fortune. Shaking the cloak free behind him, a baleful tension shining on his face, he started back along the trail.

In this section of the forest, outcroppings of black and green rock, basalt and serpentine, were frequent—forerunners of the crags over the River Derna. On one of these rocks Mazirian saw a tiny man-thing mounted on a dragon-fly. He had skin of a greenish cast; he wore a gauzy smock and carried a lance twice his own length.

Mazirian stopped. The Twk-man looked down stolidly.

"Have you seen a woman of my race passing by, Twk-man?"

"I have seen such a woman," responded the Twk-man after a moment of deliberation.

"Where may she be found?"

"What may I expect for the information?"

"Salt—as much as you can bear away."

The Twk-man flourished his lance. "Salt? No. Liane the Wayfarer provides the chieftain Dandanflores salt for all the tribe."

Mazirian could surmise the services for which the bandit-troubadour paid salt. The Twk-men, flying fast on their dragon-flies, saw all that happened in the forest

"A vial of oil from my telanxis blooms?"

"Good," said the Twk-man. "Show me the vial."

Mazirian did so.

"She left the trail at the lightning-blasted oak lying a little before you. She made directly for the river valley, the shortest route to the lake."

Mazirian laid the vial beside the dragon-fly and went off toward the river oak. The Twk-man watched him go, then dismounted and lashed the vial to the underside of the dragon-fly, next to the skein of fine hair the woman had given him thus to direct Mazirian.

The Magician turned at the oak and soon discovered the trail over the dead leaves. A long open glade lay before him, sloping gently to the river. Trees towered to either side and the long sundown rays steeped one side in blood, left the other deep in black shadow. So deep was the shade that Mazirian did not see the creature seated on a fallen tree; and he sensed it only as it prepared to leap on his back.

Mazirian sprang about to face the thing, which subsided again to sitting posture. It was a Deodand, formed and featured like a handsome man, finely muscled, but with a dead black lusterless skin and long slit eyes.

"Ah, Mazirian, you roam the woods far from home," the black thing's soft voice rose through the glade.

The Deodand, Mazirian knew, craved his body for meat. How had the girl escaped? Her trail led directly past.

"I come seeking, Deodand. Answer my questions, and I undertake to feed you much flesh."

The Deodand's eyes glinted, flitting over Mazirian's body. "You may in any event, Mazirian. Are you with powerful spells today?"

"I am. Tell me, how long has it been since the girl passed? Went she fast, slow, alone or in company? Answer, and I give you meat at such time as you desire."

The Deodand's lips curled mockingly. "Blind Magician! She has not left the glade." He pointed, and Mazirian followed the direction of the dead black arm. But he jumped back as the Deodand sprang. From his mouth gushed the syllables of Phandaal's Gyrator Spell. The Deodand was jerked off his feet and flung high in the air, where he hung whirling, high and low, faster and slower, up to the tree-tops, low to the ground. Mazirian watched with a half-smile. After a moment he brought the Deodand low and caused the rotations to slacken.

"Will you die quickly or slow?" asked Mazirian. "Help me and I kill you at once. Otherwise you shall rise high where the pelgrane fly."

Fury and fear choked the Deodand.

"May dark Thial spike your eyes! May Kraan hold your living brain in acid!" And it added such charges that Mazirian felt forced to mutter countercurses.

"Up then," said Mazirian at last, with a wave of his hand. The black sprawling body jerked high above the tree-tops to revolve slowly in the crimson bask of setting sun. In a moment a mottled bat-shaped thing with hooked snout swept close and its beak tore the black leg before the crying Deodand could kick it away. Another and another of the shapes flitted across the sun.

"Down, Mazirian!" came the faint call. "I tell what I know."

Mazirian brought him close to earth.

"She passed alone before you came. I made to attack her but she repelled me with a handful of thyle-dust. She went to the end of the glade and took the trail to the river. This trail leads also past the lair of Thrang. So is she lost, for he will sate himself on her till she dies."

Mazirian rubbed his chin. "Had she spells with her?"

"I know not. She will need strong magic to escape the demon Thrang."

"Is there anything else to tell?"

"Nothing."

"Then you may die." And Mazirian caused the creature to revolve at ever greater speed, faster and faster, until there was only a blur. A strangled wailing came and presently the Deodand's frame parted. The head shot like a bullet far down the glade; arms, legs, viscera flew in all directions.

Mazirian went his way. At the end of the glade the trail led steeply down ledges of dark green serpentine to the River Derna. The sun had set and shade filled the valley Mazirian gained the riverside and set off downstream to ward a far shimmer known as Sanra Water, the Lake of Dreams.

An evil odor came to the air, a stink of putrescence and filth. Mazirian went ahead more cautiously, for the lair of Thrang the ghoul-bear was near, and in the air was the feel of magic—strong brutal sorcery his own more subtle spells might not contain.

The sound of voices reached him, the throaty tones of Thrang and gasping cries of terror. Mazirian stepped around a shoulder of rock, inspected the origin of the sounds.

Thrang's lair was an alcove in the rock, where a fetid pile of grass and skins served him for a couch. He had built a rude pen to cage three women, these wearing many bruises on their bodies and the effects of much horror on their faces. Thrang had taken them from the tribe that dwelt in silk-hung barges along the lake-shore. Now they watched as he struggled to subdue the woman he had just captured. His round gray man's face was contorted and he tore away her jerkin with his human hands. But she held away the great sweating body with an amazing dexterity. Mazirian's eyes narrowed. Magic, magic!

So he stood watching, considering how to destroy Thrang with no harm to the woman. But she spied him over Thrang's shoulder.

"See," she panted, "Mazirian has come to kill you."

Thrang twisted about. He saw Mazirian and came charging on all fours, venting roars of wild passion. Mazirian later wondered if the ghoul had cast some sort of spell, for a strange paralysis strove to bind his brain. Perhaps the spell lay in the sight of Thrang's raging graywhite face, the great arms thrust out to grasp.

Mazirian shook off the spell, if such it were, and uttered a spell of his own, and all the valley was lit by streaming darts of fire, lashing in from all directions to split Thrang's blundering body in a thousand places. This was the Excellent Prismatic Spray—many-colored stabbing lines. Thrang was dead almost at once, purple blood flowing from countless holes where the radiant rain had pierced him.

But Mazirian heeded little. The girl had fled. Mazirian saw her white form running along the river toward the lake, and took up the chase, heedless of the piteous cries of the three women in the pen.

The lake presently lay before him, a great sheet of water whose further rim was but dimly visible. Mazirian came down to the sandy shore and stood seeking across the dark face of Sanra Water, the Lake of Dreams. Deep night with only a verge of afterglow ruled the sky, and stars glistened on the smooth surface. The water lay cool and still, tideless as all Earth's waters had been since the moon had departed the sky.

Where was the woman? There, a pale white form, quiet in the shadow across the river. Mazirian stood on the riverbank, tall and commanding, a light breeze ruffling the cloak around his legs.

"Ho, girl," he called. "It is I, Mazirian, who saved you from Thrang. Come close, that I may speak to you."

"At this distance I hear you well, Magician," she replied. 'The closer I approach the farther I must flee."

"Why then do you flee? Return with me and you shall be mistress of many secrets and hold much power."

She laughed. "If I wanted these, Mazirian, would I have fled so far?"

"Who are you then that you desire not the secrets of magic?"

"To you, Mazirian, I am nameless, lest you curse me. Now I go where you may not come." She ran down the shore, waded slowly out till the water circled her waist, then sank out of sight. She was gone.

Mazirian paused indecisively. It was not good to use so many spells and thus shear himself of power. What might exist below the lake? The sense of quiet magic was there, and though he was not at enmity with the Lake Lord, other beings might resent a trespass. However, when the figure of the girl did not break the surface, he uttered the Charm of Untiring Nourishment and entered the cool waters.

He plunged deep through the Lake of Dreams, and as he stood on the bottom, his lungs at ease by virtue of the charm, he marveled at the fey place he had come upon. Instead of blackness a green light glowed everywhere and the water was but little less clear than air. Plants undulated to the current and with them moved the lake flowers, soft with blossoms of red, blue and yellow. In and out swam large-eyed fish of many shapes.

The bottom dropped by rocky steps to a wide plain where trees of the underlake floated up from slender stalks to elaborate fronds and purple water-fruits, and so till the misty wet distance veiled all. He saw the woman, a white water nymph now, her hair like dark fog. She half-swam, half-ran across the sandy floor of the water-world, occasionally looking back over her shoulder. Mazirian came after, his cloak streaming out behind.

He drew nearer to her, exulting. He must punish her for leading him so far . . . The ancient stone stairs below his work-room led deep and at last opened into chambers that grew ever vaster as one went deeper. Mazirian had found a rusted cage in one of these chambers. A week or two locked in the blackness would curb her willfulness. And once he had dwindled a woman small as his thumb and kept her in a little glass bottle with two buzzing flies . . .

A ruined white temple showed through the green. There were many columns, some toppled, some still upholding the pediment. The woman entered the great portico under the shadow of the architrave. Perhaps she was attempting to elude him; he must follow closely. The white body glimmered at the far end of the nave, swimming now over the rostrum and into a semi-circular alcove behind.

Mazirian followed as fast as he was able, half-swimming, half-walking through the solemn dimness. He peered across the murk. Smaller columns here precariously upheld a dome from which the keystone had dropped. A sudden fear smote him, then realization as he saw the flash of movement from above. On all sides the columns toppled in, and an avalanche of marble blocks tumbled at his head. He jumped frantically back.

The commotion ceased, the white dust of the ancient mortar drifted away. On the pediment of the main temple the woman kneeled on slender knees, staring down to see how well she had killed Mazirian.

She had failed. Two columns, by sheerest luck, had crashed to either side of him, and a slab had protected his body from the blocks. He moved his head painfully. Through a chink in the tumbled marble he could see the woman, leaning to discern his body. So she would kill him? He, Mazirian, who had already lived more years than he could easily reckon? So much more would she hate and fear him later. He called his charm, the Spell of the Omnipotent Sphere. A film of force formed around his body, expanding to push aside all that resisted. When the marble ruins had been thrust back, he destroyed the sphere, regained his feet, and glared about for the woman. She was almost out of sight, behind a brake of long purple kelp, climbing the slope to the shore. With all his power he set out in pursuit.

T'sain dragged herself up on the beach. Still behind her came Mazirian the Magician, whose power had defeated each of her plans. The memory of his face passed before her and she shivered. He must not take her now.

Fatigue and despair slowed her feet. She had set out with but two spells, the Charm of Untiring Nourishment and a spell affording strength to her arms — the last permitting her to hold off Thrang and tumble the temple upon Mazirian. These were exhausted; she was bare of protection; but, on the other hand, Mazirian could have nothing left.

Perhaps he was ignorant of the vampire-weed. She ran up the slope and stood behind a patch of pale, wind-beaten grass. And now Mazirian came from the lake, a spare form visible against the shimmer of the water.

She retreated, keeping the innocent patch of grass between them. If the grass failed — her mind quailed at the thought of what she must do.

Mazirian strode into the grass. The sickly blades became sinewy fingers. They twined about his ankles, holding him in an unbreakable grip, while others sought to find his skin.

So Mazirian chanted his last spell — the incantation of paralysis, and the vampire grass grew lax and slid limply to earth. T'sain watched with dead hope. He was now close upon her, his cloak flapping behind. Had he no weakness? Did not his fibers ache, did not his breath come short? She whirled and fled across the meadow, toward a grove of black trees. Her skin chilled at the deep shadows, the somber frames. But the thud of the Magician's feet was loud. She plunged into the dread shade. Before all in the grove awoke she must go as far as possible.

Snap! A thong lashed at her. She continued to run. Another and another—she fell. Another great whip and another beat at her. She staggered up, and on, holding her arms before her face. Snap! The flails whistled through the air, and the last blow twisted her around. So she saw Mazirian.

He fought. As the blows rained on him, he tried to seize the whips and break them. But they were supple and springy beyond his powers, and jerked away to beat at him again. Infuriated by his resistance, they concentrated on the unfortunate Magician, who foamed and fought with transcendent fury, and T'sain was permitted to crawl to the edge of the grove with her life.

She looked back in awe at the expression of Mazirian's lust for life. He staggered about in a cloud of whips, his furious obstinate figure dimly silhouetted. He weakened and tried to flee, and then he fell. The blows pelted at him —on his head, shoulders, the long legs. He tried to rise but fell back.

T'sain closed her eyes in lassitude. She felt the blood oozing from her broken flesh. But the most vital mission yet remained. She reached her feet, and reelingly set forth. For a long time the thunder of many blows reached her ears.
Mazirian's garden was surpassingly beautiful by night. The star-blossoms spread wide, each of magic perfection, and the captive half-vegetable moths flew back and forth. Phosphorescent water-lilies floated like charming faces on the pond and the bush which Mazirian had brought from far Almery in the south tinctured the air with sweet fruity perfume.
T'sain, weaving and gasping, now came groping through the garden. Certain of the flowers awoke and regarded her curiously. The half-animal hybrid sleepily chittered at her, thinking to recognize Mazirian's step. Faintly to be heard was the wistful music of the blue-cupped flowers singing of ancient nights when a white moon swam the sky, and great storms and clouds and thunder ruled the seasons.

T'sain passed unheeding. She entered Mazirian's house, found the workroom where glowed the eternal yellow lamps. Mazirian's golden-haired vat-thing sat up suddenly and stared at her with his beautiful vacant eyes.

She found Mazirian's keys in the cabinet, and managed to claw open the trap door. Here she slumped to rest and let the pink gloom pass from her eyes. Visions began to come—Mazirian, tall and arrogant, stepping out to kill Thrang; the strange-hued flowers under the lake; Mazirian, his magic lost, fighting the whips . . . She was brought from the half-trance by the vat-thing timidly fumbling with her hair.

She shook herself awake, and half-walked, half-fell down the stairs. She unlocked the thrice-bound door, thrust it open with almost the last desperate urge of her body. She wandered in to clutch at the pedestal where the glass-topped box stood and Turjan and the dragon were playing their desperate game. She flung the glass crashing to the floor, gently lifted Turjan out and set him down.

The spell was disrupted by the touch of the rune at her wrist, and Turjan became a man again. He looked aghast at the nearly unrecognizable T'sain.

She tried to smile up at him.

"Turjan—you are free—"

"And Mazirian?"

"He is dead." She slumped wearily to the stone floor and lay limp. Turjan surveyed her with an odd emotion in his eyes.

"T'sain, dear creature of my mind," he whispered, "more noble are you than I, who used the only life you knew for my freedom."

He lifted her body in his arms.

"But I shall restore you to the vats. With your brain I build another T'sain, as lovely as you. We go."

He bore her up the stone stairs.
That's what a D&D Wizard is supposed to be.
 

Damned Registrations

Furry Weeaboo Nazi Nihilist
Joined
Feb 24, 2007
Messages
14,983
sheek said:
mutile said:
after a party of six spellcasters unleash their magic, there isn't any enemies left.
If you are in easy mode perhaps , where you can rest anywhere/any time. In any actual non-easy mode D&D game, you would need to distribute one day's worth of spells over 5 or more encounters. Your six mages go to sleep in the dungeon they wouldn't wake up.

Which is why mages usually have half a dozen spells designed specifically to allow them to rest anywhere. Rope Trick being the most egregious, but something as simply as going into a room and magically sealing the door with either a wizard lock or an alarm ward should suffice at low levels. Higher levels start granting shit like wall of stone and teleportation. Besides, 6 wizards would have 6 familiars to use as lookouts and scouts.

Roguelikes tend to do mages the old way pretty well; at low levels your mana pool and spell selection is shit, but once you amass a bunch of spellbooks, you're in god mod. You walk through walls, store your belongings and rest inside solid rock, magical see the entire floor, detect every object's location and purpose, and murder enemies before they can see you. Anything too powerful to fight you skip by invisibly, teleport past, or teleport IT to the other side of the dungeon.

Never cared for vancian magic myself. I think Shadowrun did it best. (Though Rifts was cool too, in regard to the use of things like solstices and eclipses and the like.)
 

Darth Roxor

Royal Dongsmith
Staff Member
Joined
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Messages
1,878,406
Location
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And that's why we need a friggin Warhammer Fantasy rpg already. Mages that are rare and powerful, but each spell needs special stuff to cast, takes effort to cast, has a chance of summoning demons, making the mage go mad or explode. Fuck yeah!
 

Shannow

Waster of Time
Joined
Sep 15, 2006
Messages
6,386
Location
Finnegan's Wake
made said:
Ur all clueless. It's only realistic if it simulates accurately how Raistlin was in the books. Everything else is make-believe fairytale bullshit.
Did he ever cast anything but sleep an feather-fall? :M
 

Unradscorpion

Arbiter
Joined
May 19, 2008
Messages
1,488
Maybe if magic gameplay was about being clever with rule abuse that spells offered while having little to no actual brute force.
Of course you would need a roguelike level of emergent gameplay to make it even a bit interesting.


Or maybe magic as a skill instead of a class, so that it can be only used when dealing with magical items/beings/places. All your fighter/mage balancing issues solved and it would actually make developers fit some sense into magic.
 

Jim Cojones

Prophet
Joined
Nov 2, 2008
Messages
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Location
Przenajswietsza Rzeczpospolita
Gondolin said:
Yes. Before blaming MMORPGs one should blame Diablo I, where wizards had to be just as able to survive as fighters right from Level 1.
Huh? Diablo I sorcerer fits OP's description perfectly. He's got very little hp, his initial spells don't deal more damage than weapons but also cost mana. If you have bad luck you can find yourself on a level with tough monsters resistance to your offensive spells - on my first playthrough (10 years and I still remember :)) I had goatmen resistant to fire on fifth level. They were able to kill me in 3-4 blows and the only way I could fight them was using staff of lightning bolts. Not only replenishing charges costed me all the money I was gaining but also I had to come close to hit enemies because lightning bolts fly randomly and they usually don't hit from distance and lightning spells' damage gets lower with distance.

Only later sorcerer becomes the most powerful class, in PvP almost impossible to kill by rogues and significantly more dangerous than any warrior. Although hell/hell levels can still be problematic when soloing because of monsters who can't be killed with magic.
 

Mangoose

Arcane
Patron
Joined
Apr 5, 2009
Messages
24,720
Location
I'm a Banana
Divinity: Original Sin Project: Eternity
Darth Roxor said:
And that's why we need a friggin Warhammer Fantasy rpg already. Mages that are rare and powerful, but each spell needs special stuff to cast, takes effort to cast, has a chance of summoning demons, making the mage go mad or explode. Fuck yeah!
http://warhammeronline.com
:smug:
 

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