Man, this bidness is hard to do when you got a life. Yestrday was Easter, which means it was Fambly Time, and last night after The Kid went to bed, my wife and I threw down a nice, enjoyable game of D6 Fantasy. It rocked and you should be happy for me.
Okay! Last time, an anonymous poster by the name of Pete (Spahn? I hope so) suggested that I was on the right track what with the sweeping generalities slowly sharpened into manageable specifics. So today, let's play with one of the ideas I threw down one Day 1: The Horse Tribes. Specifically, this one right here...
THE RIDERS OF MOGROL
A nomadic tribe, strong in numbers (about 10,000 people) who ride the plains and steppes of The Realm. Formerly they were raiders, but a nasty run-in with a much stronger power gave them cause to be peaceful and non-invasive. They have a tightly-knit community and a culture based greatly on tradition and honor. They raise and herd gamms (creatures which look, and taste, like cattle but are only about 3' at the shoulder), goats and chickens. They don't farm a whole lot, being that they move around so much.
Leadership is taken (not given -- taken) by those who can command the greatest respct; among the Mogrols, respect is due to he who rides best, can shoot best from horseback, provides best for the tribe and writes the best ancestor-songs (a kind of melodic, poetic oral history). There are a dozen chiefs and they all hold equal rank, but some of them feel they ought to outrank the others. Tradition hands them the notion that internal strife is bad -- it splits up the tribe and a house divided eventually falls. Thus, unity and concord are of utmost important to them, and to their culture.
Lately, that unity has come under duress. At their last campground, the Mogrols witnessed a falling star, which fell with a great explosion upon the benighted plain. Fearful for their herds they went to survey the damages, and found that the star itself still lay in the ground.
The Mogrols ahve never seen this happen before, but some of the scouts have brought back tales of Nagrol (non-Mogrol) craftsmen who fashion star-metal into swords and plows of immense, almost magical, properties. A genuine rift has developed amongst the Mogrol, trying to decide just what to do with the thing. Some say that it is a sign (or just an opportunity) to change forge weapons and begin rading again, as they did once before in more savage days; others say it was intended as punishment for certain chiefs' leaninfs toward re-instating the raids. Others see it as a call to stay in one place and stop wandering, while others are convinced that one of thoe gods wants them dead.
A few just shrug and say, "A rock fell from the sky one night. So what?"
What decision will the chiefs reach? Will they agree? Will it tear the tribe apart? Will they begin their deadly raids anew?
Is a god really trying to kill them?