I imagine myself to be a fair GM. I've read oodles of articles on the techniqes of GM'ing. I would like, however, to be an expert GM. In order to do so, I need both more practical experience and player feedback. The players are, after all, the ones who need to be entertained.
So, the way this works - I present a single, unconnected adventure scenario. You sign up. I GM the adventure. You stay until it's done.
Afterwards, you PM me at least one good critique - Something I could do better; an area I could improve in; something I seem to have missed. And, just to keep things fair and balanced, something I did right. (You could always leave the first out.
)
Because improvement is a verb, not a noun. Also, GM'ing is tons of fun.
Risus in four easy sentences: You have ten d6's. Divide them among three cliches with an acompanying bit of flavour (Exactly what the name says; Rocket Coyboy, Barbarian, Fighter with a Heart Of Gold) up to four dice. High roll wins. If you loose the roll, you temporarily loose a die.
Warchief Slaughter 12d/12d
Orciest Of The Band (Bloood! Death! Slaughter! Beer! WAAAAUUUGH!!!!!) 4d6
Warchief Of The Band (Listen up, you primitive screwheads!) 3d6
Death and Destruction (Axe of much Killing! Axe of Explosions!) 4d6
Likes Polka (Secret, deadly shame) 1d6
The Army is marching on the Orcish lands. In there way is a minor, insignificant fort, guarding the only way into the Orcish lands, through a mountain pass.
Insignificant as it is, a minor impediment to the Armies' invietable, glorious victory, Duke Fairhair has decided that it would be best dealt with by a small scouting party opening the gates. After all, if they storm the entrance, they might loose an Elf or two. *Cough*
Accordingly, you and a few other Valorious Heroes (Suckers who were caught napping) have made your way to the Cliffs Of Bloody Doom ('Doomed orcs, obviously', according the luietenant safely back at camp)
The cliffs rise sheer above you; two hundred feet of bare granite on the right, leading up to the fifty-foot walls of the fortress. To the left is a crumbled, eighty-degree cliff wall. Supposing you found a way up it without being shot by orcish crossbow snipers ('Easy as pie. Orcs are lousy at longbow play. Longbows are, of course, an Elven Invention. Humans are too crude to have invented them'), you would still be across a seventy-foot canyon from the fortress ('A mere ramshackle collection of wooden logs')
You do have, however, an ancient ('Completely reliable') map of a secret way into the fortress, back when it was ('An Elven Stronghold') 'made by Dwarves', some Elven spies snuck inside the Orcish construction site.
You also have Standard Gear for Privates, First Class ('The best stuff money can buy!')
Well, according to the inventory sheets you do. You definitely didn't trade the useless stuff at a Halfling village you passed. You definitely didn't beg, borrow, steal or scrounge whatever you could get your hands on before leaving.
In addition, you each have your own idea (Complete with evidence, or a plan, or old information, or a bit of magic - 'Elven only, of course' - That you bought/inherited/won in a poker game/swiped from your tent-mate/got as loot from the last campaign.
Desertion is far, far from your thoughts. Especially since your location is scry-marked on a map in the Duke's tent - Which you were unfortunately unable to get near ('To bask in the radiance of his presence')
Well, do or die (Possibly do and die), but it's time. The sun has set. Not a problem of course, you are Elves.