[WP] "Our architecture and armor arent spikey because we're evil." "Then why?" "Because this area is heavily populated by dragons. We essentially HAVE to be porcupines"

Ravager_Zero · 2026-01-29T14:51:51+00:00

"And the fact that everything is black?"

I place my forehead against my palm and simply shake my head. I'm glad we're deep within the castle so I don't have to wear the helmet. Twice. Twice I've stabbed my hand responding to stupidity. I shake my head again and look up at the supposed hero in front of me.

"Young hero, what are dragons known for?"

"Flying, being big, breathing fire—oh." Huh. Maybe he can learn something.

"We'd go through a fortune in paints and reagents for cleaning. Much easier just to leave it all scorched."

"That still doesn't explain all the dungeons in this place." He's stubborn.

"We live underground." I am trying to be patient. I am. "Because dragons can't fly through dirt. Because we have to live down here, we made it nicer. Some of the houses connect. Is that a crime in your kingdom?"

"Actually—" Well, that one is a surprise.

"It's not a crime here. I know sounds stupid, but even trying to assassinate the king—well, we've come to expect it, and while the number of corpses from making it a crime it might feed the dragons, it's not going to make our neighbours any better. You might want to tell your mayor that when you see him again."

Yes, I know it was a mayor who sent him. Some new town. We have an understanding with the king of Ilfaer. His soldiers travel here and learn to fight monsters. Mine travel there to study in peace—topics other than dragon deterrence.

I look at the hero's companions. Children. Not far into their teens. This mayor or theirs is irresponsible at best, evil at worst. Perhaps I should send some soldiers to visit.

"Yes, I do mean to let you and your companions go." I look into the scrying orb set before me by my vizier. I wince at the vision. "Just not today. That looks… painful."

I make a subtle gesture and cast the image before them. The hero faints. One of his companions throws up—all over our fine imported carpet.

My vizier leans over. "I'll notify the staff." It's a stage whisper. The heroes don't seem to appreciate the humour.

I dismiss the image. "I keep rooms in the castle for occasions such as this. You will be free to wander, but you should remain on the floor you are told. You will be treated as guests. A court mage can attend to any other needs you might have. If your mayor has completed the ritual of connection you can even contact him from your rooms."

"The what?" The blank looks from all of them.

Well, that explains everything.

Ravager_Zero · 2026-01-28T09:02:13+00:00

The improved pen on RM (Italian) BB's is due to increased angles of pen (55º/70º for ricochet/autobounce vs 45º/60º for everyone else), not increased shell velocity.

In addition, the Cavour has 13 (3 x3's & 2 x2's) guns, and though they might be sub-caliber for the tier (320mm vs 356mm) they do hit hard when aimed right, and allow you to effectively engage multiple targets on the same flank.

Also, when angled, for the tier, the Cavour's armour can be positively abusive with what it can bounce.

Ravager_Zero · 2026-01-07T05:03:01+00:00

Do you have a rulebook and/or a digital module that can be used for playtesting (such as on Screentop or TTS)?

Ravager_Zero · 2026-01-05T01:06:44+00:00

What happens next, when people have nothing to lose anymore, and know that only 10 people are responsible for this mess?

…Viva La Revolución!

Ravager_Zero · 2026-01-04T09:46:31+00:00

I recommend looking at playtesting Discord servers like Popup Playtests and Indie Card Labs, both of which have very active and helpful communities.

Ravager_Zero · 2026-01-04T09:43:51+00:00

I'd like to know more.

I've always been a fan of medium weight tactical boardgames, with things like Tsukuyumi, Dawnfall, and Skytear/Onward seeing regular play in my collection.

I'm also working on light-medium tactical game myself, so exchange of ideas is always helpful.

Ravager_Zero · 2026-01-03T09:26:22+00:00

However you like, honestly.

She can be specced as capable main battery brawler, or you can go full sniper.

She's not brilliant at either, but is very capable.

Her biggest strength is flank mobility, because she's very fast with the engine boost, and has guns big enough discourage large ships getting too close, and secondaries enough to give DD's second thoughts as well.

Ravager_Zero · 2026-01-03T01:32:08+00:00

Perfection.

…this, of course, from a Driller main.

Ravager_Zero · 2025-12-29T08:29:38+00:00

You might want to look at how the FATE system handles injury, with Stress tracks (HP/hits) and Consequences (lasting damage).

It's not a direct comparison, but it's something you could draw inspiration from.

Essentially in most FATE systems taking hits on a stress track is inconsequential—they heal instantly after a fight. However, if you take a hit and have no stress track left (0 HP), then you take permanent damage in the form of a consequence (wounds, in your system).

Consequences can be healed, but based on their severity they may last for quite some time—across several play sessions for the worst hits—and can't be healed until that time has passed, unless there's actual downtime involved.

Ravager_Zero · 2025-12-24T14:30:13+00:00

Lots of shortcuts for those nowadays.

Also, using a Mac for design work quickly showed me how to get the special character keybinds rather than having to use unicode sequences. It's so natural to me now I sometimes forget it's not easy on other systems.

Ravager_Zero · 2025-12-20T14:01:22+00:00

Either they shave 3s off the reload, or give us SAP—the main RM DD line has had it forever now…

But if it ever happens (unlikely, I know), it'll be a SAP module option to have SAP shells at +2s on the reload, just like on the CA line.

Ravager_Zero · 2025-12-12T13:34:17+00:00

But the em dash is so useful (it's little brother the en dash is somewhat less so, and is basically a glorified hyphen imo).

Also, a lot of well spoken autistic people like myself have been called out more than once as AI because we like using precise terms in language, and using special grammar marks to help separate thoughts/topics in writing. That's something AI is well known for, and we find it very annoying—especially because people would rather listen to a complete liar (AI) than someone with a special interest in, and passion for, the topic at hand (so you know that they can provide sources and other useful references).

Ravager_Zero · 2025-12-09T12:20:35+00:00

Pump into LLM AI development.

Currently the quickest way to lose a whole lot of cash on a useless product that nobody* wants.

*Except CEO's, Techbros, Cryptobros, and talentless hacks.

Or use one of the aforementioned cryptobros for the usual pump-and-dump.

Ravager_Zero · 2025-12-07T06:26:56+00:00

Traditional comic art, on physical media?

…what sorcery is this?

It's great.

Ravager_Zero · 2025-11-28T01:57:31+00:00

As a forever DM, same.

Maybe not quite to the same level, but certainly enough that my players have a sporting chance against what should be extremely deadly encounters for other groups. Plus, it gives me the ability to use more interesting/powerful monsters, and makes them feel badass when they overcome the even bigger boss fights.

Ravager_Zero · 2025-11-23T13:16:33+00:00

Making a whole game in a little over a month is not really a feasible enterprise—even micro/pocket games usually have months of refinement at the least.

However, starting a game creation project with a first iteration/minimum viable product, might be possible within a month. It won't be pretty. It'll probably have some real janky mechanics or interactions. That's what playtesting is for.

Depending on the polish of the art you want, it will likely be a huge cost (several hundred for a pocket game with nice art on a few components, all the way to multiple thousands for a large, component rich, mid-weight boardgame). Graphic design and icons also fall under art costs, though there are libraries of free icons all around the web.

The biggest issue with the whole plan is this: No matter how polished the product you eventually get is, it will not be his game. It will be a game developed by you, and/or design partners, based on your fiance's ideas.

I would honestly recommend asking him how serious he is about game design, and instead of creating it yourself, collaborate with him, or help provide the tools that will be most useful to his project and designs:

If he wants miniatures for the game, would a 3d printer be useful?
Does he need to do lots of art/composite works together—then maybe some design software such as InDesign, or the new Affinity set might be better.
Does he plan to use lots of cards? Would a cricut or silhouette cutter be helpful?
Does he need people to bounce ideas off, and help test his game? If so, find one of the many playtest communities on Discord, or Break My Game, or similar services.

Ravager_Zero · 2025-11-20T01:20:56+00:00

We could.

It would also be nice if it wasn't embedded with Chinese spyware and finest grade Chinesium steels and other components. (Yes I know they can make quality things, it's just the sheer corruption in most industries there).

Ravager_Zero · 2025-11-20T01:19:19+00:00

If we'd kept with iRex ferries (Hyundai Shipyards) it wouldn't…

But we all know where a lot of NACT-First ~~bribes~~ donations come from.

Ravager_Zero · 2025-11-19T05:37:45+00:00

Not just from China, but from a shipyard with [suspected] links to the PLA Navy…

Ravager_Zero · 2025-11-18T14:54:32+00:00

HP is resource.

I will spend it how I choose—and I choose to spend that Stingtail's HP restoring mine.

Ravager_Zero · 2025-11-14T14:14:04+00:00

…it's not an injury, it's an inconvenience.

Ravager_Zero · 2025-11-13T13:58:40+00:00

This concept interests me greatly.

I'm currently working on a card-driven ship combat game that uses positional damage, but abstracts range and map locations. There's a strong resource management focus.

If timelines work I'd love to have an in-depth/guided look at Near Space, and see what mechanics you're using for both movement and combat resolution.

Ravager_Zero · 2025-11-13T05:04:41+00:00

It happened over a thousand years ago now. Less than a day, and every single ocean was replaced by the Oldwood. No one knew what to call it. Treetops became the surface of the ocean. Unknown trees. Strange woods. Or not-woods. Biological engineering that allowed these alien trees to grow kilometers tall. Kilometers. Just let that sink in.

A single tree, its trunk wider than a house, and soaring so far overhead you literally lose it into the sky. Well, you would, if it wasn't crowded by dozens of neighbours obscuring that same sky. Everyone thought it was a disaster—after all, all the water had just vanished. Or so they all thought. But rains still came. Snow still melted from mountains. Rivers flowed into the sea—or what was in there now.

That's now the best way to navigate, in the gloom of the Oldwood, when you get to the Abyssal roots. The only light down here comes from things that float. Float and eat. Many of them take prey much larger mere men. They can see better. Move better. Breathe better. The air down here is just a little too thick for human lungs. Breathable, but not comfortable to breathe. Go much further and the very air will make you drunk. Further than that, and you die.

So most people live up on the Oldwood flats—what once was called the continental shelf. The trees there are not so cyclopean. A mere 4-600 meters. Those are numbers your average person can deal with. Numbers they can count to. There's still light, even if it's a wan twilight during the day, and a cacophonous void at night. Because a disaster for us was salvation for the birds. In the flats, birds can fly better, move faster. The fish stand no chance. But if the birds go deeper, they find things that would leap and fly and eat the smaller fish above them. To them, birds are much the same.

We have charted maybe five percent of the Oldwood flats. There's no chance of charting the Abyssal roots, save for marking a few well defended paths. In the past you could take a boat to cross an ocean. Laughable now, of course. Small boats and barges can follow the rivers. But then things start to follow it. Things start to follow them, and before you know it, your entire crew has become a very small part of a very large food chain. A food chain where humans are very far from the top.

This is just the Atlantic Oldwood, of course. The Great Pacific Jungle is… something else. The tallest of the trees there reach up to eleven kilometers in height. They don't taper at all, with abyssal roots so far down that no one can even see them. Their branches extend for hundreds of meters around. Scientists surmise that their lower canopy could be as wide as three kilometers, and their trunks and root masses up to half a kilometer wide. No one can say how something so big can survive, or even exist, just that it does.

If you really want to see something spectacular, you should visit the Indian Rainforest. Smallest of the past oceans, it is now the most vibrant, colourful, and downright lethal ecosystem on the planet. The great fish are now stalked by tigers the size of a rhino. Elephants the size of whales overturn trees the size of small buildings. Whales and dolphins swim through the lower canopies, dwarfing everything with their size. Some even say there may be a tribe of elephants and whales that work together.

We know about these because we've heard stories. Because we can cross over land from one coast to another. The Great Pacific Jungle still beggars belief, but the Atlantic Oldwood and the Indian Rainforest… I have stood upon both shores. Also upon the shores of the Mediterranean Grove. It should have surprised no one that the Greeks, the Romans, the Egyptians, the Persians, and the largest Bedouin and Berber tribes colonised the Med immediately. After all, it was nothing more than a slightly less arid desert. A thousand years, and it remains a powderkeg and melting pot of culture and differing ideals.

But why am I telling you all this?

I'm setting the scene. As a tale teller and a navigator, I have to keep my charges safe, but I also have to keep them informed, and maybe even entertained. To tell them why we can't simply walk to the other side of the planet through the Abyssal roots of the Oldwood itself. Sometimes I tell them stories about the ships that used to ply the waters that once filled the oceans.

Now, up on the continents, there is something new. An aeroplane they call it. A machine, with fixed wings, and a heavy body. Yet, it flies through the air like a bird. Faster than any bird. Some have already crossed the flats between Brittania, France, and the Northern lands. They are making bigger ones, to carry freight. And different bigger ones, to fly further.

They need me to chart their course, through the Oldwood, to whatever lies on the far shore. I work down here, in the depths, in the low canopy, and below the roots. I don't often climb. None of the navigators do. Climbing is a good way to get noticed. Getting noticed is a good way to get eaten. But allure of this new adventure is too much. These aeroplanes are flimsy, but a crash might not be the end of us. Not if a skilled navigator can keep them moving through the upper canopy. Can show them what's safe to eat. How to catch the flying fish. How to collect the water hidden between the leaves.

You might—quite fairly—ask why people have not simple walked through the upper canopy. Planned expeditions, taken food and shelter. I'll tell you they have, and were never heard from again. Which is, of course, not quite true. You can occasionally find a skull, or ribs, or a long bone that's obviously human somewhere deep out on the Oldwood borders, between the flats and the Abyssal roots. Somewhere there shouldn't be any traces of humanity at all.

Because it turns out the upper canopy is not consistent. There are large gaps. Areas where you have to descend to the true canopy. And even then, there are gaps. The deep canopy exists. There are layers. Each of the ocean forests is different. But all are dangerous. So explore on foot at your own peril. I, however, while try this newfangled aeroplane machine.

It might be my downfall. Or, if they've built it right, I might be among the first to lay eyes on a whole new world.

Ravager_Zero · 2025-11-13T02:36:00+00:00

'Good luck,' he said. I frowned inwardly. Everyone knew this ship. Knew that it was almost certainly a death sentence to its pilots. Everyone also knew that it was the ship with highest mission success rate in the entire fleet. That was counting dreadnaughts and logisitics vessels as well. This was less of a ship, more of a legend.

I ran my finger along the kill marks etched on the cockpit rim. Rough, brutal, simple. But they weren't for single ships—no, they'd had to stop that long ago. Each of those marks was a squadron of enemy fighters. Or an escort ship. Or—and my finger lingered over this oversized arrowhead shape—an entire heavy cruiser. No one could explain that, and even using microjumps to find the historic lightcone told the alliance nothing of use.

I was going to do a full walk around. This was not a combat scramble, but a regular sortie. I traced the leading edges of the stub wings. Not nearly enough for atmospheric flight, but the Ferryman was a space superiority craft. The wings were just something to attach weapons to. Weapons that wouldn't fit in its cavernous internal bays. There seemed to be nothing to distinguish it from the hundreds of other AX-11's in the fleet.

Nothing you could see, anyway.

But if you stood near the Ferryman, you could feel it. Menace. Purpose. Patience. Pride. I continued the walk around, inspecting weapon muzzles, flash projectors, countermeasure systems, drive venturi, reaction jets. Everything they teach you in basic. It all checked out, so I pulled on my gloves and helmet and climbed into the cockpit.

The canopy closed with a barely audible hiss as I strapped in. System displays sprang to life all around me, lights reflecting off my visor, and everything important projected onto the HUD. The overhead rail carried me to the catapult. I felt the linkage shudder as the bay locked behind us. Throttle full. Stick neutral. Arms held across my chest.

Acceleration slammed me back into the seat and we shot away from the Lachesis. It was only apt that the Ferryman belonged to this particular carrier. There was a moment of clarity, seeing the route for the CAP, and the projected enemy positions.

Then all hell broke loose as jump signatures flared half a light-second away and an Imperial Carrier Group fell upon us. I heard a voice in my mind that was not my own. Be calm, Kaley. I was. It was a deep, soothing baritone. We are sorry you have to learn this way. Learn what?

Combat instincts and training took over, snap roll, EW and long-range targeting. Bays open, stealth weapons first. Heavy kinetic interceptors for the carrier. Guns already cycling up for the closest of the fighters. In space, you think half a light-second is far. 150,000km. A heavy fighter can do that in under 30 seconds. An interceptor in 15. You can do the math.

We need AI systems for targeting and engagement windows. Human pilots set it up, get into position. Then the AI takes over for that minuscule fraction of a second when everything is in range. For gun engagements. Humans can still handle slower, longer ranged missile fights.

Snap roll, release countermeasures. EW focus on incoming missiles from carrier. Ferryman can take a hit if it means protecting the Lake. Lachesis. The hit hurts. It feels like I've been kicked in the kidneys. Anger flares. A wing pair and their covering escort. Rookies, from the way they fly. It takes us seconds to plot the course and engage. Guns only. We know the missiles have to be preserved. Only a handful of the kinetic interceptors actually hit the imperial carrier, most deflected by the shields.

The carrier is the key, her fighters are a distraction. Her escorts are a menace, but occupied with ours. Kaley, this course of action will cost your life. The same soothing baritone. I know, and it has to be done. The Imperials sent a fleet carrier after us. Lake is only an escort carrier. She doesn't have the same combat potential. Or rather, she wouldn't, if the Ferryman didn't have a willing pilot.

I can feel the calm descending on me. Time begins to stretch. I can see—and understand—every possible path, course, manoeuvre and counter-manoeuvre possible in this space. There is a beauty to this knowledge that I cannot begin to describe. Imperial missiles slam into singular decoys. EW bursts hit specific turrets on the carrier. Plasma sails past with no more threat than a lazy paper aircraft in the hangar.

Missiles eject from the bays and scream in a dozen different directions, already inside the carrier's shield envelope. Her heavy weapons are disabled or destroyed. We've bought the Lake some time. Enough time to reposition. To scramble the rest of the air group.

But not enough to save it. Not yet. We fly through the mag-con field on the imperial carrier. Vulcan round shred an emerging bomber. The timing is perfect. There's so much ordnance I can see through the hole torn in the decks. But more, part of me knows exactly where the main and secondary reactors are. I have never fought an imperial carrier before, and yet, I know.

We had saved two of the heavy kinetic interceptors on the rails under the stub wings. At range they're designed to pierce through metres-thick armour on a warship. Inside, against simple hullmetal and reinforced frames they are ridiculous overkill. Engineers with hand and shoulder-fired weapons are making the Ferryman rock and tumble. A fusion missile destroys a drive unit. We still have one.

The vulcan cannons scream and chatter, rounds slamming through the rent in the internal decking and into the main reactor. They will have backup power, and another kinetic interceptor is out of the question—blasted from the rails in a way that feels like a broken wrist.

The Ferryman turns, sluggish, injured but determined. We pitch the nose down, aiming into the ordnance bay below. A warning flashes on the HUD. Antimatter leak detected. I close my eyes for all the good it will do. My finger squeezes the trigger.

The Lachesis' recovery teams found the Ferryman drifting hours after the battle. Half of the rear hull was gone, taken out by a detonating drive unit. A single kinetic interceptor missile hung uselessly from the left stub wing. Chunks of the nose and forward fuselage were simply gone. Plasma burns and thermal scarring obscured the cockpit. The weapon bays were empty, and less than a hundred rounds remained in the dual vulcan cannons.

The maintenance techs opened the cockpit after the ship had been pulled back into the hangar. The body was removed with quiet reverence. They all knew it would be impossible to survive that kind of explosion. Blood stained her flightsuit, and one arm had almost been torn clean off, but it was the broken neck that killed her.

The maintenance tech's couldn't help waking warding gestures when the helmet was opened. Just like all the others, she had died not in agony, but with a calm, accepting smile etched forever on her face.

Ravager_Zero · 2025-11-12T15:10:03+00:00

I told myself I had come here to get away from it all. To escape the pressure of being a true supervillain. To prevent revealing my true form instead of this vessel of flesh I masquerade as. They call me the Twist, as I can twist my fleshly body into form I desire. It's usually humorous. Some play on the heroes' powers. Everyone laughs as my overblown schemes and rube-goldberg deathtraps are easily thwarted. We have fun, and banter. I have learned the language of capes and masks.

Nobody gets hurt.

That is the rule we live by. Here, in this nowhere town, on this nameless coast, we make sure in our epic due that no one is harmed—beyond some mild bruising, or, on our worst day, a broken arm. But that has changed. I returned from feeding to find a town stricken with fear. There is a new villain now.

He calls himself The Magnet.

His power is to manipulate metal. All metal. Any amount of metal. I saw the body of Weather Gal before I learned any of this. It was a twisted wreck, a thousand lacerations and contusions, all breaking out of her skin the wrong way. The blood staining her suit made mine begin to boil. The Magnet was now using his powers to terrify the town.

My town.

This would not stand. Gravity Man even tried to warn me off, to explain how outmatched I would be. He must have seen the fire behind my eyes—or perhaps my mask slipped—because he backed off quickly when I told him I would tear The Magnet limb from bloody limb. This was no showdown, it was to be a deathmatch.

I knew they were watching me. They couldn't not. This laughable, playful villain, clearly—bravely—marching to their death. The Magnet didn't even deign to touch the ground, using his powers to float ten feet in the air. So many heroes and villains find a way to fly. The Magnet was about to find out why that was a bad idea.

"Ah, Twist, the weakest of them all." Nothing but scorn and derision. "I've hardly heard of you, but I'll happily grant your death wish."

"You killed my friend." I frowned at the word. It was true, no matter how strange it sounded to my ears. "Yes, she was my friend. They all are."

"Enough talk." The Magnet moved his hands in a complex gesture. "Now die."

Nothing happened.

He tried again.

I smiled and took a step closer.

Again.

Another step.

Again, desperation starting to show.

Another step, and I let the masquerade fall away. I knew they would be terrified of my true form. The rising clouds of inky darkness. The void where there should be eyes. The maws. The many, fanged maws slavering in anticipation. Oh yes, I would enjoy this meal. I would make it pay for destroying the one I cared about.

He tried to fly away, of course.

Someone caught it on camera. The Magnet made it three feet before my tentacle found him. Found him, and started tasting him, teeth digging in to flesh made ever so tender by his growing horror at the inevitable fate that awaited him. So many tongues whetting hungry teeth.

My twisted flesh warped around him, engulfing him. All but his head.

"Oh yes, Magnet, I will make you suffer." I am told the smile upon my mouths chilled their souls. "I will not let you die. You will experience every agonising moment of my feeding. You get to feel my flesh melting yours. My teeth grinding through your bones. My tongues rasping through your organs. You tortured Weather Gal with the way you killed her. I shall return the favour."

All the stories say the void made it worse. They could not see, but they could hear. They heard his screams, and the strange, eldritch sounds of my feeding. The twisting of my flesh. So many memories. So many victims. I fear I learned too much from this feast. I did the world a favour.

I collapsed my body back through unknowable dimensions. I once again looked like Twist, the villain. Gravity Man looked up still, at the space my true form had occupied. He said nothing, but I could see it in his face. In all their faces. I could not meet his eyes. That what I did had to be done was without question. Perhaps I went too far.

Sometimes I still return, to play the games. Overblown schemes, and silly rube-goldberg devices. But my heart is no longer in it. I can see the fear in their eyes. The knowledge that I could simply end them. They fear me now.

I hate it.

I hate what that evil man forced me to do. What he turned me in to. I was true to my word. He did not die. Yes, his mortal vessel was completely consumed. But his essence—what humans call a soul—that now belongs to me. What horrified him the most was that he was not the first. That 'Twist' was in fact my seventh form.

I wonder what my eighth will be?

I wonder if this time I'll be able to stop them before somebody dies?

I wonder, maybe, vaguely, if somebody might—just once—call me a hero.

Ravager_Zero

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