I’ve been blogging more. This, I think, is good. Weeknotes are dropping, I’m talking more about the side projects that bubble along on weekends and evenings. I even added an uncomfortable few paragraphs all about me. Being open after a few years living under a rock is good for me.

I’ve also been working on the blog itself. What started as an off-the-shelf WordPress monstrosity has now become a sleek static site - a bunch of Markdown and JSON data files, assembled by GitHub Actions and deployed to GitHub Pages. I’m using Hugo but slowly chipping away at it until I hope I won’t need it any more. I write the posts in Google Docs and then I point Claude at them and let it turn it into a Markdown file in the project, fixing double-spacing, adding links and metadata. This works well for me.

I want to keep my site static. I want to write, not sysadmin a live service. But I also want it to feel a bit more alive. With comments and likes and what us old folks used to call ping-backs.

Here’s what I initially settled on as a solution. I toot - I can’t say that with a straight face - I toot every post to Mastodon. So one obvious improvement was to collect the comments and likes from there on each post. And that’s what I did at first with a chunk of JavaScript and a prompt on each post to comment on Mastodon. It was a spark for further work, but it felt wrong. Too much magic happening in places I couldn’t control.

So, step 2 was to get the comments from Mastodon periodically and put them into a data file in the repository and rebuild the site. GitHub Actions to the rescue. My posts tend to have a half-life so I poll more frequently when a post is fresh and when comments are flooding - well, trickling - in. But still I wanted more…

Webmentions are a protocol whereby a website that links to yours can notify you it’s done so on a URL that you specify in your site’s metadata. I use webmention.io to collect my webmentions and I can treat them like the Mastodon posts. A GitHub Action to collect them daily and republish the site if any new ones are made.

This seems to be working well so far, but wheels-within-wheels, I found something yesterday that turns my Mastodon posts and likes into webmentions - brid.gy. So now Mastodon is just another source of webmentions, everything flows through the same place, and that first chunk of JavaScript is gone. Simpler.

Am I doing this right? I’ve no idea. As Indy said “I don’t know. I’m making this up as I go.” But you can of course let me know on Mastodon or webmention me somewhere.

“You lied to usss.” She screams at them.

“You lied to us too - we found the graves. The miners didn’t give up without a fight did they?”

“You are outnumbered. You cannot win.”

“Then we shall die fighting. And take many more of you with us.” A murmur from the other wererats, perhaps Zeleen’s leadership isn’t entirely unquestioned. She hisses at the others to reassert her dominance.

“What do you propose? We still need somewhere to live.”

Don-Jon, the troubleshooter employed by the mine, steps forward. He is pale and sweating. He doesn’t quite stand as tall as he did and he’s nursing a wound on his neck where he was bitten by one of the rats. “I will help you return to the shrine. My friends will stay here and clear out the rest of this place. Then we shall meet at the shrine and take it together.”

The adventurers are confused but this works. He provides them with a note. “Give this to Wester. You’ll get your pay.” He leads the rats out of the mine - they follow him.

The adventurers look at each other. What has happened here? “Let’s clear out the mine, get some rest and then head to the shrine.”

Much like their previous searches, the mine is empty. In the south-east corner, though, a barred room. Inside five malnourished, tired and drawn dwarves - all that’s left of the miners. Presumably left here to starve. “Damned rats,” says Lotho.

Eating the first rations for weeks the miners ask “Are they dead? The wererats?”

“Not dead. But gone. And we’re going to make sure they don’t come back,” Lotho says kindly. He takes the found ring, with the engraved pick-axe, and hands it to one of the miners. “Here, I think this belonged to one of your colleagues.”

“Aye son. It did. Thank you.” Dwarves are not known for tears, but he’s clearly welling up. “Look, I think the shrine they’ve gone to… it’s the one south of Conyberry? A long time ago, we helped forge a special bell for them. It’s made from the town’s reserves, solid gold, but disguises, see? Looks like a big iron bell but it’s gold. Hidden, you see, from the raiding orcs. Maybe it’s still there? Good luck to you. You seem like good people. Rest up in our cots for the night. And… thank you”

The giant Aasimar pulls two cots together to take his frame. The bard, Galandra, is composing a ballad praising their exploits. The two fighters rest. It is quiet.

In the middle of a large flat field, some five miles south of the abandoned village of Conyberry there’s a walled courtyard with corner towers and a temple in the middle. A belfry juts from its peaked roof. The building is little more than a ruin, only on of the towers still intact. The party gather a few hundred feet from the front gate. There they meet an air genasi called Elran - more curious than anything he asks the party to join.

“I don’t see any rats” says Lotho, hardly surprised.

“There’s an orc standing guard on the tower. Armed. Doesn’t look like he’s seen us. Wait… I have an idea.”

Whizzbang is, by his own account, a master of disguise. He disguises himself as an Orc and approaches the tower. With the others still hidden a way back, he’ll be on his own if anything kicks off.

“Hello, Orc!” he ventures in Common “I’ve come about the thing with the thing. You know? Have you by any chance seen any rats?”

The orc grunts. “State you business and what band do you come from? And what’s all this about rats?”

It’s dawning on Whizzbang how courageous his plan is when the orc lets out a loud volley in Orc. The sound of more orcs coming into the courtyard. And two gigantic beasts, ogres.

The other adventurers begin sprinting down the field towards the ruin. Whizzbang cowering out of the sentry’s line of sight. Lotho hangs back, choosing to take aim at the sentry with his longbow. Two orcs are piling out of a breached section of wall just west of Whizzbang, another two are encouraging an Ogre to lift the steel portcullis and give them a quick path to enter the fray.

A battle. The orcs are put down easily, but there are surely a lot of them. The ogres, though, are tough. Round after round of traded blows, an untidy melee sees the characters flanked and flanking. Will these Ogres ever yield? A thunderwave from Whizzbang nearly drops the gatehouse on a couple of Orcs. Elran magic not quite strong enough to throw the ogre through the air.

The sentry fires a volley of arrows at the bard for playing a Cat Stevens song. The song brings back memories of a lost love and a bitter parting, a pain for the ogre more cutting than a thousand rapier cuts. “Play that again, I dare you.” The bard runs and hides, heroically, in the undergrowth. The ogre is soon dispatched, a forlorn tear still in his eye as he falls.

Finally we’re left with the seemingly-unstoppable ogre surrounded by the party. Whizzbang lies unconscious behind him, a victim of his enormous club. Thank Thor he has a healing potion in his bag. The bard heals him before he too falls, and then the fighter, Talon, is down too. Now, only the wizard and the ranger left, neither of them unscathed.

Whizzbang draws on his God’s powers and tolls a mystical bell to finally put the creature down

“Did we miss something?” A voice from the undergrowth as Don-Jon and number of wererats reveal themselves. Don-Jon is transformed further. More wiry, his whiskers straighter, his ears… were they pointier all of a sudden?

“You were supposed to be here to fight alongside us” Lotho spits. “And where is Zeleen?”

“Zeleen didn’t make the journey. I now lead the Whiskered Gang”

“Figures.” Lotho says, barely hiding his contempt.

Don-Jon is sending rat-people to the four corners of the ruin, establishing sentry and guard positions like a military commander.

“Is the inside clear?”

The glare from Lotho tells him all he needs to know. He sends two minions in to check who return a few minutes later. “It’s clear” The party decides to rest a little.

“Maybe we should spend the night here?”, Elran says.

“I don’t fancy getting bitten. Do you?”

“No. You’re right.” he shivers “I came here for loot though, let’s at least check out the building before we leave”

The shrine itself is a ruin. A stone altar at one end, a high vaulted roof with a square opening where the belfry juts out. Elran approaches the altar, it has a relief in the shape of a large, humanoid eye, he touches it. Suddenly he’s floating. Through the roof of the shrine, soaring towards Icespire Peak, there on the mountain a fortress and there on its roof a sleeping dragon. He falls back quickly.

“What happened?” Lotho says. All the other characters saw was him freeze for a few seconds then stagger back. He relates the vision.

“Let me have a go” says Whizzbang. He touches the altar. Disappointed, nothing happens.

Remembering the dwarf’s story about the bell the characters briefly discuss trying to get it. The air elemental’s powers are spent, he can’t get anyone up to it. Besides, how would they get it past Don-Jon and his growing wererat army. Another time, perhaps.

“There’s nothing here. Back to Phandalin. And a long rest”

“Yep.”

“I’ve been here a couple of days. There’s something not right at the castle. Perhaps you could help me check it out.”

Lucas relates the story he heard from Cora in Bremen - her son went missing in the Tundra and returned a few days later, changed, and wearing an odd crystal amulet. He began acting difficultly and eventually left with two tieflings, heading for a castle somewhere. Perhaps he’d find him, Huarwar his name, at the castle. At the very least he could report back to Cora that he’s alive.

The next morning, the party set off up the bluff to the castle. It’s closed up, but there are torches burning on the circular turrets. They stand outside the large, closed wooden doors, portcullises visible through them. Veomileana sends his owl to investigate - signs of activity, footprints in the snow, but no-one visible. They shout out.

“We’re seeking an audience with the speaker!”

“Speaker Crannoc Siever is too sick to entertain guests.” A voice from the guardhouse above the gates.

“We can help - we travel with one skilled in the art of healing.”

“Speaker Crannoc Siever has no need for your heathen rituals… er… hold on… I have received instructions that you are to be admitted and am to pass on the message that we are delighted to have such an esteemed author visit us.”

“Author?” asks Veomileana, looking around the group.

“He means me.” replies Eifira. “I’ll explain later. For now, let’s get inside”

Doors swing open and portcullis lifts. The party is free to enter the castle. They’re in a courtyard, footprints in the snow speak to recent activity, as does the sound of dogs barking and whelping from a small outhouse. Abandoned marketstalls on one side though, say something different. All is not as it should be here. Ahead of them large double doors leading inside to the keep.

Entering the keep, they meet the servant girl Merl who guides them through to see Throob, a minor functionary, who in turn arranges for them to see Kadroth. A tall, old distinguished tiefling greets them in what may have been the speaker’s old office.

“Ah, the author! I’m told to give you the run of the place. Terrific work. Please make yourselves at home and accept the hospitality of the Black Swords. Do stay away from locked doors though.”

“We’d like to speak to Huarwar.”

“Be my guest, he’s in the guard tower. There’s no compulsion here. Everyone here of their own free will”

The party head to the gate-house. Still no escort. They’re either confident or short-staffed. Eifira tells them about the book she wrote: “I discovered a group of nobles in Waterdeep were making pacts with the devil Asmodeus. When I published it, they sent people to kill me. I escaped and that’s why I’m here.”

“Interesting” Veomilea says. “There is more going on here than we thought. Did you see the amulets they were wearing. I suspect this has something to do with it.”

In the gatehouse they find Huarwar and Fel. Huarwar reacts not at all to the news of his mother’s grief. He is to stay here. “Levistus saved me from death, and now I owe him a bond.”

Dezith grabs at Fel’s amulet. “Hey. I need that back.” The party wait for a change to happen in her, some indication of a spell broken but it doesn’t come. “When Levistus saved us, gave us another chance at life, he gave us these amulets to seal the bond.” It’s not yours to take.

Veomilea examines the amulet, it’s magical but not of a type he can readily ascertain. It feels off, desecrated. He returns it to Fel. “You should speak to Hethyl, she sees the future and she’s been in the Black Swords longer than anyone. In the keep, upstairs”

As the party return in search of Hethyl, they encounter Merl the serving girl in the courtyard. She doesn’t have an amulet. She tells them that all she wants to do is get out from under Zadroth’s thumb. “Promise you’ll set me free. There is evil in this place. A wizard has taken up residence below the castle - there’s a trapdoor in the northwest tower. Just promise you’ll take me with you.”

The party decide to visit the elder. Behind a locked door upstairs, swiftly destroyed with an explosive ice freeze to the lock, they come across an old dwarf, rocking in a chair.

“I’ve been expecting you. I guess it’s nearly time. I have a message from Levistus for you before I join him in the Nine Hells.

Xardorok Sunblight is coming and will destroy Icewind Dale with his duergar horde unless you stop him. His fortress lies in the Spine of the World and he is developing a weapon powered by the heart of dragon. It is not yet time for you to face him. But we will be the ones to defeat him and save Icewind Dale.”

And with that she lets out a long breath, her last. The rocking stops.

“Let’s investigate under the castle. I’m keen to meet this wizard” The party splits, Lucas and Eifira return to Kardoth’s office to talk some more.

Veo and Dezith find the trapdoor and are lead down into an underground cistern. A rowboat tied there that takes them east. In the water there are bodies, weighed down with the chainmail they wore - the remains of the palace guards. A cold storeroom to the north, containing the bodies of four members of the Black Swords. Long dead. Killed in battle. Frozen. Kept here until the ground thaws and makes burial possible. However the Black Swords took this castle, it wasn’t by peaceful means.

A room to the south, reached by the rowboat, and in it an humanoid effigy encased in ice, surrounded by heavy chains. This is an altar, they divine. This is where the cult worships. To the west, a small office and sat at the desk, writing, an albino teifling. She doesn’t seem to notice them, but then lifts a hand without looking up: “Go away. I’ve been told to tolerate you but as you can see, I’m busy.” She wears no amulet but tells the party that she too has made a pact with Levistus and works to prepare for the Duergar threat that looms.

Finding a lever in the room to the east, Veo pulls it with his Mage Hand. A noise, loud, of scraping stone comes from the cistern. A large slab has lifted revealing a further passage east. A door to the north.

The paladin heads in first and is surprised by a scrawny man who swings a chair leg at him, narrowly missing. “We mean you no harm, who are you?”.

“Please, help us get out of here.” More faces come out of the darkness - there are five people here, malnourished, dirty, they’ve been imprisoned here for some time.

“We are the speaker’s staff. We have been locked in here with no food. Please help us escape. The speaker, does he live? And Merl, the maidservant?”

“Here, take these.” The paladin offers up his rations and water bottle. “We have not seen the speaker but Merl, she lives, she sent us down here.”

“Will you get us out.”

“Please be patient, we will help you but for now, you must stay here. We do not have the strength for a straight-up escape right now. We will return. Trust us.”

They leave, resealing the slab that kept them contained and rendez-vous with the others in their party.

“The Black Swords believe we could be allies, Zadroth says it is foretold, shall we commit to help them face the Duergar threat? Perhaps they are the lesser of two evils?”

The party face a decision.

(Nar’rick disappears, being summoned to a different plane of existence for some real-life adventures involving a new human baby.)

“Here’s the plan: we tell the rats we’re leaving and will help them clear out their old home. But we regroup and come up with a way to take this mine back.” Whizzbang suggests. “There are too many of them for a head-on confrontation.”

“Mines like this often have more than one way in and out - in case of tunnel collapse. Let’s take a wander around and see if we can get back in somewhere.”

The mine is called Mountain’s Toe Gold Mine because it’s formed of a large promontory jutting out from the side of a mountain. The party take their leave and after being escorted outside by the two sentry wererats, they wander around the perimeter of the outcrop, looking for ways in.

A graveyard. Ten freshly dug graves. No headstones, but instead pick-axes planted in the soil. “There were sixteen miners here. I guess they didn’t leave as peaceably as the rats claimed.” Don-Jon surveys the scene, no emotion in his voice. Some 20ft above there’s a cave that could lead further in. A little further on an easier entrance, partially obscured by bushes.

“We should go through the cave, more chance of sneaking up on them, less likely it’ll be guarded.” It’s an easy climb, only the heavily-armoured cleric slipping at the first attempt. The tunnel curves and twists downwards. There is an overbearing smell of rotten stuff, a stench of death. A few tens of feet in, a door. But in front of it a hideous creature: a large yellow and green mostrosity, looking like a squat centipede with eight long tentacles protruding from its jawline.

A battle ensues - the centipede’s venom paralyzing Don-Jon as it climbs the walls and makes its way to the back of the party along the roof of the tunnel. The bard breaks into an impromptu version of the great elven ballad: “Dancing on the ceiling.” It’s no match for the adventurers though and it’s uickly dispatched. It seems it hasn’t been able to get through the door but rammed up against it is a charnal pile of its past victims. Poking round the pile there are a few gold pieces and a signet ring - bearing the image of a pick-axe. “This belonged to one of the dwarves”, Lotho thinks, “as he puts it on.”

Stealthily they move through the door into the mine proper. No-one anywhere - they find offices, ransacked, gold stores, emptied, sleeping quarters unused. They make it to the door of the rats nest room - listening confirms that the rat-people are still inside. “Let’s keep searching, but we should be quiet, they have no idea that we’ve come back.”

At the east end of a east-west passageway lies a storeroom, full of dried goods and water butts. But to get to it they need to sneak past the passageway off to the south where the two wererat sentries are posted. The sentries don’t notice them, but it gives them an idea.

“Maybe we can lure them here and get the jump on them. Perhaps if we set out a trail of food.” The plan works and the two wererats follow the food into the ambush. The bard starts playing the Ayn folk tune: “Thunderstruck” in anticipation of what comes next.

“We need to keep quiet, so they don’t alert the others”. The cleric is oblivous though, casting again and again Toll of the Dead, leaving a ringing sound in the air. These two are killed, though they’re tougher than they were expecting. In death they seem to lose their rat-like features and become human again.

But the surprise is gone and three more wererats are approaching to investigate what’s happening.

The cleric nods at the Bard who starts his appegiated crescendo: “Thunder… Thunder…” Throwing caution to the wind, the cleric takes a chance to hit them all at once with a ferocious Thunderwave. A booming noise reverberates through the mine. Still they approach, and after that clamour more are no doubt on the way. How many were there in that nest? “I counted eight” “No, nine.” No-one is quite sure.

An untidy melee - one of them bites Don-Jon deeply. That’s unlikely to be good. Three down now and another three badly injured. More coming. Two large rats scuttle down in the corridor. The one ahead stops and the party gasps as it transforms into one of the hybrid rat/human creatures. “There are too many of them. We need another approach”

“Surrender. We intend to fight to the death.” The cleric’s words have bite, the wererat is listening. “That’s right”, chimes in Don-Jon, “You can’t win. Bring your leader here. It’s time to talk” His words persuade. Lotho moves to one side, still in a defensive stance, to let the wererat past. A brief lull in hostilities. The adventurers tired and injured. What the Faerun are they going to say?

Three adventurers gather in the Northlook tavern in Bryn Shander, each waiting for a guide to take them north to Caer-Konig. It’s a seven hour journey overland - too much for a single leg. They’ve arranged a rest stop in Caer-Dineval, a little over four hours away.

Lucas, a red-skinned teifling warlock, is juggling a number of leads, all pointing north. A missing youth from Targos who left the town suddenly in the company of teiflings heading for a castle somewhere. Caer-Dineval maybe. A dog, Boy, now his loyal companion, searching for his master thought lost in an expedition to Kelvin’s Cairn. And, rumours of an abandoned wizard’s tower and a guide who can take a party there from Caer-Konig.

Eifira Galaran, a barbarian elf, seeking only to get to the furthest place away. Away from what? Just away.

And Veomileana, a short-statured Goliath wizard, with a secret agenda. Perhaps he too searches for the tower. Perhaps not.

Their guide arrives, Nebmara, from Farfrozen Adventures. Their dogs are fed and waiting and they encourage the party to leave rightways. “We should easily make Dineval by night-fall. If we don’t run into trouble…”

Two hours into the journey and all is quiet. Veomileana and Nebmara handling the cold as if they were born to it. The elf, Elfira, clearly suffering the effects of exhaustion. She’ll be fine holding that great axe of hers, but she’s slow to move and clumsy with the cold.

Something on the road ahead. Keen eyes pick out a large white cat and two smaller ones, not kittens but not yet fully grown. They’re feeding on another animal - carrion or prey, no-one can tell. Circle of life. They’ve not seen the party.

“The dogs won’t be able to take the sled overland - we need to clear this road.” Neb isn’t phased which gives everyone confidence. Eifira strolls forward, no attempt at silence, readying that great axe for the fight. The cats hiss and bridle, showing sharp claws and even sharper teeth.

It’s over quickly. Eifira, consumed by the anger that barbarians have learned to channel, dispatching the mother and one of the cubs. Veomileana stays on the sidelines firing bonfires towards the cat and sending his familar, a small owl, in again and again to distract the cats. Lucas is pounced on by the smaller of the cats but shields the attack with a flash of magic. Nebmara stays back at the sled, causing any creature that comes near the dogs to flee with dissonant magic whispers in their heads. Occasionally Neb shouts encouragement to the others - lacing their words with a sliver of bardic magic.

In the frozen north, nothing is wasted. The cats’ bodies will provide for other animals here, the adventurers take the pelts. Prized for their thickness, they’ll do to keep someone warm in this arctic hell.

They’re an hour or so from Caer-Dineval, their first stop, when the small lantern Lucas has strapped to his belt starts glowing. It was given to him by an academic in Targos who’s hunting for the mythical Chingwa spirits of the north. It glows when they are near. Persuading the party to stop, he fashions a quick pull-trap from a box, stick and string and puts it on the road ahead. Cutlery that he ‘borrowed’ from an inn set inside as bait. The party wait, and wait. The elf again feeling the effects of the cold. “Enough” says the Goliath, “I’m going to send my owl up to search for these creatures. We can’t wait here forever”.

The owl circles, spotting some odd stones to the North East. The party heads to investigate. “Not a good idea,” says Nebmara “I’m staying with the dogs.” They search, the cold wracking their bodies, but nothing. Returning to the sled they set off again towards Caer-Dineval, what passes for night now approaching and the temperature dropping fast. As they pass the trap, keen eyes notice that the cutlery is gone and there are what could be tiny footprints around it.

The tower of Caer-Dineval in sight, a bloodcurdling howl comes from the tundra and then another. Two terrifying creatures break forth - these are the fables yetis that the Reghed talk of. There’s no way they can fight these, not in their exhausted state. “Faster, faster,” says Nebmara, urging the dogsled forward - the last push before the town walls. It’s a bumpy ride, everyone hanging on for dear life. Neb loses their grip. They’re thrown from the sled towards the terrifying, charging beasts.

Suddenly, their familiar, a large orange owl is there. Catching them in a practiced manner and lifting them high out of the yeti’s grasp. The yetis turn to follow the flying creature. “Keep the dogs” Neb shouts to the adventurers “they weren’t mine anyway.” As they are carried away, chased by the terrors of the snow, keen eyes would see their whole appearance change as some kind of magic gets dispelled. Who was this person? Were they even the guide we were expecting?

Three exhausted adventurers arrive finally at the gates of Caer-Dineval. The frozen lake below them, the old castle high on the bluff ahead. It’s always been hard to travel between the Ten Towns.

I think I’ve always struggled with detailed backstories. They ask too much of a player. It’s hard to project a whole detailed backstory into what’s happening at the moment. Same goes for long lifestyle questionnaires about characters - ‘what’s your character’s favourite drink colour?’. I never know what to do with them.

I should say that some people find that backstories work really well for them, and they enjoy working on them, and that’s awsome. But they’re not for me.

For me, your character is not a backstory, or even a character sheet, it’s what gets shown to other people round the table, through your actions and reactions at the table, usually over many sessions.

So, I like a very short backstory - a couple of sentences that just describe how my character plausibly got to the start of this adventure. Just enough that I can answer consistently if another character asks. I’ll fill in bits of my past as I think about them during the campaign.

What I do like though are quirks. These don’t have to be funny or extreme . If they are, they can wear out their welcome very quickly. Instead, there are two types I try to build into my characters: habitual quirks and motivating quirks.

Find some small habit that your character has. Maybe the barbarian is always cleaning her axe with boiled linseed oil. Or sharpening it with a whetstone. Maybe your fighter always puts their sword back in its sheath and closes it up with a snap. Maybe your wizard always picks up spell components from the ground. Maybe, the cleric keeps a diary. Maybe… well, you get the picture. An action that your character takes regularly, that crucially, other characters can see. and react to.

This serves a few purposes. You always have something to do when you can’t think of anything else to do. That’s not nothing! It keeps the atmosphere alive and the group in-character. I am always surprised how much this adds.

The magic is that, over time, a habitual quirk will take on more meaning. What starts off as ‘always fiddling with her glasses’ becomes ‘always fiddling with her glasses when scared’. And to complete the circle, once this has happened you can signal you’re scared by fiddling with your glasses. It really works.

Don’t worry if your quirk ia a bit boring. In the midst of action, doing something boring can be a dramatic choice. Think of Qui-Gon in the Phantom Menace turning off his light-saber and meditating during the fight with Maul.

The second type of quirk I like is one that gives you a reason to act - lets call these motivating quirks. It’s important that these quirk prompt you to do something. “Afraid of the dark” is a fine quirk, but it doesn’t motivate action directly. “Always lights a torch when entering a dark place” or “Will only enter dark place holding the hand of someone with darkvision” are much better. Let’s do another one: “Hates boats”. Not necessarily motivating. “Always tries to convince the party to avoid boat trips”, “Always closes eyes and rocks back and forth when on the water”. Motivating.

These are similar to the bonds and ideals in the 5e rules. But I find they’re way too general as written to be helpful for new roleplayers and new characters. “Everything I do is for the common people” is unmotivating. “I give any treasure I make to the village orphan and foundlings fund. If I get a chance to steal from a noble, I take it” would be much more motivating.

When I’m making a character, I like to give them a couple of habitual quirks and four or five motivating ones. After a few sessions of playing I usually know if these are working and whether I should drop or swap some out.

Try it, it might work for you.