Lodgings

“…whenever anyone came to inspect it before purchase, the caretaker used to praise the house in the words that Nuth had suggested. “If it wasn’t for the drains,” she would say, “it’s the finest house in London,” and when they pounced on this remark and asked questions about the drains, she would answer them that the drains also were good, but not so good as the house.”

—Lord Dunsany, How Nuth Would Have Practiced His Art Upon the Noles

The upper part of the range of the d20 roll used to resolve #downtimes in the previous article determines whether the downtime was particularly successful or unsuccessful.

The lower part, indicating an average result, provides space for other complications, and consists of a seperate 1-8 table written for each available lodging, such as the default lodging of the campaign:

A Room at the Inn

An unpretentious room at a local inn, with a small fire in the grate. Recovery Rate: 1d6 CON/DT Ameneties: None. [Some kind of bonus to hiring retainers might be appropriate if we envision the inn as a clearing house for would-be adventurers.]

1-5: Pay Your Tab – 100cn upkeep (+50 per retainer) 6: Petty Theft – the cheapest gem, jewellery or other small treasure is taken. 7: Disturbed Sleep – Rowdy patrons reduce base recovery rate to 0 this DT. 8: Nemesis – If an enemy is looking to harm the PC, they gain access to the Inn.

So instead of having to remember to pay 25 coin every week for upkeep, the bill only comes due once a month on average. This might lead to unusually high or low living costs, but this can inspire fictional details – “we’ve had no trouble with the local youths since you started staying here – the room’s on the house” or “you’re traipsing through here every week with sacks of gold, you can afford to pay a little extra for our hospitality.”

A cozy inn before an orange sunset, a tent pitched amid green woods, and a castle looming atop a hill against a purple night sky.

For rangers, barbarians and skinflints, another options is:

A Camp in the Woods

Who needs the comforts of civilization when you can sleep beneath leafy boughs? Recovery Rate: 1d4 CON/DT Ameneties: None.

1-2: No event. 3: Good Foraging – Gain 1d6 surplus rations. 4: Weather – Roll on the weather table. If the weather is bad, the camp is negatively affected at the DM’s discretion. 5: Disturbed Sleep – The woods are not always a restful place. Reduce recovery rate to 0 this DT. 6: Random Encounter – Roll a forest encounter. 7: Rust & Rot – Next roll of 1 causes the item you’re using to break. 8: Ransacked – Roll a random encounter. The encounter finds the camp – wild animals may root around and eat provisions, humanoids may steal treasure etc.

And for those who like to keep things very simple:

A Guest at the Castle

Your patron has graciously made rooms available for your use, in recognition of services rendered – and services yet to be rendered. Recovery Rate: 2d6 CON/DT Ameneties: Depends on the patron, but may include library, training, chapel etc. Requisite: PCs must accept quests from the patron.

1-8: No event.

No upkeep or events outside of those dictated by the story (e.g. the villain lays seige to the castle), but the patron will require the PCs to go on regular quests for them.

Advanced Lodgings

So far so dull; these options don’t do much apart from establish that the PCs need somewhere to rest their heads and keep their stuff – but once the player starts asking “where do I want to live?” it can become a goal and another way to define their character.

An inspiration here is the lodgings from Fallen London. Depicted by evocative silhouettes and short descriptions, they imply a great deal about the nature of the setting, and suggest story possibilities.

A selection of lodging icons from the game Fallen London

Some examples (taken from the wiki, potential spoilers):

A Smoky Flophouse: Fleas, noise, smoke, Rubbery Men squealing as they're dragged out back and murdered. But you meet the most fascinating people.

Cottage by the Observatory: The blind men at the Observatory rent these out, to people who don't mind occasionally being assaulted by predatory fungus in the middle of the night.

Rooms above a Gambling Den: Noisy when it's open. Noisier when someone forgets to bribe the Constables and they stage a raid. But the conversation's good.

Rooms above a Bookshop: Rooms on three levels above a winding, dusty stair. The owner is melancholy and given to buttonholing you at the door and weeping into your hat. But he does have some interesting customers.

Decommissioned Steamer: Not a safe place, down by the Unterzee shore. Nor warm. But it's quiet, and offers good opportunities for beachcombing.

A Zee-Znail's Zhell: Whimsical echoes resound in the fluted vaults. Far out at zee, the lights of ships.

A Dripstone-Snared Third City Sub-Temple: A stalagmite: and at it's heart, a black space of silent sacred horror.

A guest room at the Brass Embassy: The luxury is sinful. The staff are always polite. Warm? I'll say it's warm. Good cigars, urbane conversation, and just the slightest possibility of accidental damnation.

A Room at the Royal Bethlehem Hotel: There's nowhere like the Royal Bethlehem Hotel. Its luxury is unparallelled: its guests, beyond baroque. Lock your door, or you don't know who you might wake up in bed with.

We have ambience, we have dangers, we have perks, we have NPCs! Suddenly home away from the dungeon isn’t just an off-camera void but a living place, with character and interest of its own. All in three sentences or fewer – easy enough to distill into a table.

There were plenty of enchanting or dangerous places to stay in my #RedHack / Ultan’s Door campaign, to list a few:

A simple lodgings table for each automates the ever present benefits and risks of living in such a place, such as the capricious requests the Chatelaine may make of her guests, or the comings and goings of Zyan Between.