Shrine of the Nephilim

General Brolynn looked out over the battlefield. The war had been a tough one, but the final battle was taking place, and he knew his unit was going to be key to victory. An ogre stepped out of the mass of fighting bodies and leered at Brolynn and his unit of soldiers. "Attack!" One of his knights rushed forward and began attacking the ogre.  The rest stood still. "I said, Attack!" Another knight rushed forward to begin swinging at the ogre.  Brolynn just stared at the others. "Uh, what did you want us to do, General?" asked one. "Attack!" "Oh, okay!"  A third knight rushed towards the ogre.  The ogre took a swipe at one of the knights. Brolynn looked at the other two knights under his command.  "Well?" "Hey, General?" asked the first one that had joined the fray.  "What did you want me to do again?" Epic storytelling at its finest, right? The mechanics of an RPG should help the characters to act in accorda...

One day, we were making a character for Silver Age Sentinels - a point-buy superhero RPG. We made a gadgeteer - someone who could craft stuff at incredible speeds.  They also had the means to create the component parts out of thin air, and even create whole items (like, say, an engine) the same way.  On top of this, they could communicate with any machine, and control said machines with a thought (a machine including things like wheels, levers, handles, etc). The character had more than a few flaws, but that's not the point.   The point is the game had a limiter built in.  "You need to have a certain amount of points set aside to create gadgets". This is, we guess, to represent the limited materials you might have, or the limited funds, or whatever.  What that didn't take into account was the character could make the parts out of thin air - and the 'I make stuff' power didn't come with a quantity limit. Now, maybe , we could have possibly accepted that if...

  Many There’s something wrong. Where are we? It’s dark. His eyes opened.  We looked out, and we saw a simple clay and thatch room. We were laying on simple quilts over a pile of straw. We could feel the panic welling up in the person we were with, as he heard our voices echo in his mind. “Who are you?” No need to worry. We won’t hurt you. This was an accident. We shouldn’t be here. The cacophony of voices did little to alleviate his fears, and he bolted upright, looking about the room. He had enough mind to grab clothes to put on, even as he stumbled about. “What do you want with me?” Nothing. Be not afraid. We are sorry. The man tripped over himself leaving his home and rushed out into the street outside. It was a simple village with only perhaps a few scores of people living there. A place where everyone knew everyone else. He’s going to hurt himself. We should stop him. He flailed. Too many of us, unable to guide his actions.  One of his hands lashed out and struck on...