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Rangers Upon the Coast
Crystal Realm Treasure Log
Crystal Realm Rulings
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In the West Marches format, there is a designated safe town that acts as the base of operations and the starting point of any adventure. Adventures do not happen in town. In our Wolves campaign, we had to strike a balance between this shared starting point and the frame story that the characters are seafaring raiders. And as referees, we wanted to do the least amount of work. A shared starting point meant that the next adventure is relatively nearby, limiting the amount of information we have to keep track of at any given time.
We settled on the concept of the flotilla, a group of karvi stolen from the captors. The flotilla moves as a unit. In order to provide an inexhaustible source of adventurers and vessels to convey them, there is no set number of boats or people.
But who decides how the flotilla moves? Referees always wanted this decision to be in the players’ hands. Whether the decision was made by a single player or a group, or even whether the decision was made in the fiction or just in the Discord server was too constraining from us. We did not want to administer polls or decide how players should organize themselves.
Thargol was the solution. Thargol is an NPC, the captors’ most valuable hostage, who steps up as leader after the captors die. He chooses when and where the flotilla moves. Crucially, he is a gigantic asshole about it. He takes a cut of all treasure to ensure that the flotilla is fed, but he is seen drinking delicate vintages and nibbling on sweetmeats. Thargol loves jewelry and finery. Whenever Thargol makes a decision, he chews the scenery. Thargol lauds wealth acquisition and combat prowess and derides parties who come home empty handed. Thargol refers to it as “my flotilla.”
Eventually, someone said “I fucking hate this guy, we should kill him.” We then communicated the Thargol-function. Thargol exists to:
If the players wanted to kill Thargol, they’d have to take over. We didn’t prescribe how they’d manage the above, but we implemented a hair-trigger to ensure that the transition happened. This is the Thargol Fragility Principle:
“No player can stop Thargol from being killed if any player wishes it.”
At any time, a player could accept the above responsibilities, pronounce Thargol’s death, and become the new leader. This rule stems from the referees’ stance on PVP (“not allowed unless both sides agree”). We did not allow players to say “no you don’t” to each other, instead pushing them to make durable changes in the fiction which advanced their personal goals.
Our players spent almost a month unsuccessfully Robert’s Rulesing their way towards representative democracy. Meanwhile, Thargol played the heel, taking his cut of the treasure and securing treaties using the pet baby gryphon as a bargaining chip. As intended, this drove people up the wall. Eventually Matt’s character, Unhindered Procession, got fed up and pulled the trigger, becoming the benevolent dictator. Thargol was beheaded and cast into the sea.
After a while, the flotilla formed its governance council and Unhindered Procession resigned his post. The community-led group managed a shared inventory, food supplies, silver, and conducted referendums on where to move next.
There was always the risk that the players would be too busy to handle the above tasks, but we didn’t have that problem. If it had happened, the referees planned to re-install another Thargol, one who was less of an asshole, and guide the flotilla around for an on-rails tour of the world.
Here are some selected quotes from our Discord.
Thargol, asshole captain
we love to hate thargol
Just an idea to throw out there and seed discontent: what if Thargol claimed the chick as a war trophy?
“It has come to my attention that a band of my bold warriors has slain a great beast in my name, and brought back from its nest one of its young. I am honored to accept it as tribute. It shall make for a steed befitting a king, when it is grown, and shall be a symbol of the might that has made this journey possible.”
thargol wheel thargol deal
“What’s this? Eggs and mushrooms? My fleet demands meat and mead!” Grumbles of agreement mix with the sounds of rumbling bellies. “If you cannot find real food, then at least bring coin or a prize. You should take a page from our gallant dragon slayers. I hear they’re going to collect a reward.” Proud flexing from the Brass-winged Beast Gang. Nancy Pelosi clap from Thargol, son of Thrond. Closeup on stinking griffon head, tongue lolling, flies buzzing.
His CUT?
how long until thargol meets with a little accident
I hate this guy so much
Perhaps you were all blinded by Thargol’s complements to your group at boat-moot.
m maybe
that’s ridiculous i would never be.. hm
“I also brought you a gift. Wine!”
Thargol makes a hurry-it-the-fuck-up-won’t-you hand waving motion at a rower, who hoists an oaken crate with words on the side. Southerners in the flotilla note that it is the good stuff from Pyorra, exchanging eyebrow waggles and approving nods.
“No, you dweeb, not that one, the other one!” hisses Thargol. The rower sheepishly lowers the crate and lifts up a rustic pine keg that has all the terroir of a dank basement.
(Hi, sorry about the murder. Had to rip the bandaid off with [the Gryphon chick] at stake)
shouts out to Thargol not being here
makes me further appreciate Thargol as a kind of flotilla admin / tutorial boss
This was narrative coda for Thargol after his untimely death.
Thargol is gone. His body sinks to the ocean floor, his fine raiment snagging on sharp rocks on the sea floor, becoming lodged.
Over the next few weeks, a sea bass nibbles at Thargol’s corpse. The most tender bits perk up his drooping dorsal crest and grant him the proteins needed to chase off the head of his school and become the alpha male. He remembers his good fortune, and the bones become his spawning ground. An eel makes its home in Thargol’s skull.
In 100 years time, the channel is plentiful with sea bass. The residents of Cloyne and Culemwardern are well fed, and it is a center of industry.
In 1,000 years time, a Ruis ironworker cracks open a can of Crested Prince, which she fries and adds to her potatoes and greens. She makes the Sign of the Tongue over her meal. It is a good thing to eat before going to the factory where she transforms steel rivets and sheet mithril into flying fortresses. Sadly, it is the last can of fish in this month’s war ration, but there are leftovers.
In 10,000 years time, a raiding party sets webbed foot on the cratered shores of what used to be Ruislip. They have many adventures, but none greater than finding the image of their god on strange canisters. Inside, the irradiated paste grants psychedelic visions of their progenitor and they relive the myths they were taught in School growing up. Exiled, he wandered the Dark Wet Wilderness. He slew and ate a giant and became Strong, taking counsel from the Eelchemist, before casting off the barbed net of the Evil Kingfish and erecting the First Holy Tabarnacle.
It is, objectively, the most useful Thargol has ever been.
