Tuesday, July 25, 2017

Chapter 15 – Как Мужики Клад Делили*

Wherein the business of the band appears to conclude...

Having recovered their strength, the companions decide to split up. Raskel and Druvvaldis hold down the fort in Plamenka’s room, to defend their base, and direct attention away from the rest, who thoroughly search the non-family parts of the warren for the treasure chamber. They investigate all the dead ends, finding some to have been originally planned as more escape chutes, before the plans were abandoned. All are primarily stone rather than dirt, and appear to lack crevices that conceal portals behind them.
As they move through the tunnels, Chonkorchuk detects magical auras, to see if some sort of dweomer might be inscribed into walls, or concealed behind them. After finding nothing, and establishing to their satisfaction that the dead ends in fact lead nowhere, Chonkorchuk, Dmitri, Plamen and Lionia return to the corridor in the maze beyond the bone room, where the hermit did detect necromantic and transmutative auras before. Lacking the magical sigil to open the portal, Chonkorchuk orders his fefila to dig through the wall. After intensive digging lasting a third of an hour or so, it has created a one-foot tunnel into the room beyond. Unfortunately, though it is invisible, the creatures beyond are vigilant, and succeed in catching and dispelling the poor beast. Then, one begins to poke a rusty spear through the opening. The companions blast and hack at the bony limb that holds it, and succeed in wresting the spear away, but its holder retreats deeper into the chamber.
The band takes counsel about how to best draw out or destroy the skeletons in the chamber. Plamen proposes blasting them with thunder, but that is hard to do through a wall, and the tunnel is simply too small. He can also roll in a flaming sphere, as he did in the bone room, but the party members worry that the room contains treasure, and the fire would damage it. In the end, it is decided that the sphere is the way forward. Plamen rolls it around different parts of the chamber, but the sound of creaking bones suggests that the skeletons are avoiding it. Soon, something seems to burst into flame, and a sizzling sound is heard. Fearing that they are indeed damaging something valuable, the healer dispels the sphere.
Having failed to destroy or draw the skeletons out, the group decides to retreat a bit, so that the skeletons come out to them. Eventually, the ruse works, and four of the nezhit’ crawl out through the opening. Chonkorchuk blasts one (the erstwhile owner of the rusty sphere) in short order, but he and a tibia-wielding Dmitri have a really difficult time with a second. Meanwhile, Plamen holds back the remaining two with his staff, while Lionia deftly disposes of them with his sabre. Finally, the holdout is subdued before any further harm comes to the companions, and after enlarging the tunnel with their shovel, they slither inside the chamber.
Inside, they finally locate what they have been searching for this whole time. A wooden water pail was filled to the brim with copper and silver coins, but the wood was mostly burned by the flaming sphere, and now the treasure lies in a heap upon the floor. Fortunately, most of it was undamaged, but several hundred coins were melted together into slag. Though they are no longer contained, Plamen and Chonkorchuk both have cooking cauldrons, which can hold about a third of the coins, and Lionia produces a sack, which fits the rest. Thus loaded with precious cargo, the four return to Plamenka’s chamber, and begin counting the loot.
There is much kibitzing as Raskel and Druvvaldis try to count and separate the different types of coins, causing them to lose count on several occasions. Lionia insists on getting a full quarter-share, as was originally agreed on, and is not challenged on this claim. He mostly stands apart from the counting, watching the door, but he does interrupt several times, and at one point, his hand is seen hovering over the pile, precipitating an argument, and causing the counters to lose track once more. Eventually, he suggests that the counters begin again after they have slept, for the morning is wiser than the evening.
The night passes uneventfully, and in the morning (if that is what it is), the counters return to work. This time, they are interrupted by loud screams, and sounds of a scuffle reverberating off the tunnel walls. Chonkorchuk, who has not been involved in the counting, has spent time recalling his fefila from the Otherworld, and now sends it to investigate. The fefila soon sends him a telepathic message about an evil spirit near Plamen’s room. Not wishing to confront her, the band decides to wait her out, thinking that she does not stay in one place for long. In the meantime, the count concludes, and the treasure is divided up into proper portions – a quarter for Lionia, and an equal share for everyone else.
Before leaving, the band has one final discussion about what to do with the loot. Chonkorchuk makes a final pitch to return all of the treasure to Baba Yaga, though he is not sure whether the copper coins constitute part of the “pure treasure” or not. Plamen and Druvvaldis, who were not in it for the money from the start, are inclined to follow him, though perhaps going directly to the hermitage is a mistake, because that is the first place the villagers are likely to look for him. Lionia, for his part, insists that he joined the band only for the treasure, and feels he owes nothing to Baba Yaga, who, at any rate, never specified how much of the treasure is hers. He is unswayed by Chonkorchuk’s warning of the crone’s wrath, nor by promises of access to her realm, but does seem to hold to the promise of turning over the galumphing oaf, and says he will discuss the matter with his associates. But for now, he will be returning home, and tells all those going off with Chonkorchuk to seek him there. Raskel decides to accompany his fellow fox, while Dmitri says he will go and see if he can use the treasure to restore his lost limb.

The band disperses. Last apperance together?
Finally, the band is ready to leave the warren. At the main entrance by Plamen’s room, there is no trace of the evil spirit, though there is a dead body of a villager dressed as an armed servitor of the monastery, which looks like it is denuded of its life essence. The group leaves it, and exits the warren. There, some follow Chonkorchuk toward the river, and some follow Lionia in the direction of Medunitsa. Suddenly, there are sounds of crying villagers and monks approaching from the direction of Lazarevo. Lionia yells for everyone to scatter – those following him should meet him at home later. Chonkorchuk runs for the river, telling those following him to meet up at the hermitage.

*(How the muzhiks divided the buried treasure)

Saturday, July 15, 2017

Chapter 14 - A Smashing Success and a Dead End

Wherein an ancient wrong reaches its bony hand out toward the present...
Fearing a confrontation with scores of skeletons, the group takes an hour break to strategize. While Dmitri watches the hall leading up to the room, Chonkorchuk has a vision about whether the chamber contains they seek. He sees a skull-topped key, and informs his companions that there may be a key in the room. He then recommends that they return to the surface for sacks to carry the treasure in, as no one sought to bring any. Lionia, however, opines that there is no reason to get sacks, as it’s unclear there is any treasure in the room – the task at hand is dealing with the skeletons. Raskel proposes using a Misty Step spell to enter the room behind the ranks of skeleton warriors to search for the key. However, this would leave many skeletons unharmed. Plamen proposes dealing away with many of them with his thunder magic, but Chonkorchuk fears there are too many. In the end, it is agreed that Plamen will instead attempt to summon a Flaming Sphere, which persists for a longer period of time, while the familiars search the room for a key. If the press of the skeletons proves to be too much, Raskel will play the flute to immobilize them. In his estimation, that would hold them at bay for an hour.
Finally, with a plan in place, Dmitri outlines a doorway with Plamenka’s sickle, and Rodion burns the final sigil on her sash. The outline glows green, and Dmitri, with Plamen’s help, pulls the portal open. Inside, the chamber is filled with skeletons top to bottom. There are perhaps a hundred of them or more. A few are dressed as Kochmak warriors, like the ones they have encountered around the warren previously. The bulk of them are unarmed, and dressed in rotting rags. While the warriors immediately begin to harry Dmitri, who is blocking the entrance, the unarmed ones begin to fling themselves at another doorway on the left-hand side of the room, apparently trying to destroy it. Another similar doorway glows on the right wall.
While Dmitri holds the warriors back, Plamen conjures his flaming sphere in the middle of the room. Chonkorchuk and Rodion blast magic over Dmitri’s head, to relieve some of the pressure. Druvvaldis provides support, and bolsters the team’s élan by summoning a bear spirit. Kutkh, as well as Chonkorchuk’s invisible fefila sneak past the combatants to survey what’s happening. The room is too packed to see anything on the floor, and soon, one of the skeletons swipes at the crow, dispelling it. Dmitri and his supporters succeed in felling some of the warriors, but in the meantime, the unarmed skeletons smash through the left-hand doorway, and begin piling out of the chamber. This requires a change of plan, as the skeletons must be stopped from leaving. Raskel blows upon the flute, and all of the skeletons stop moving.
The band moves into the room. There are too many skeletons to find anything on the floor at present. The fefila darts past the immobile skeleton sitting in the hole burrowed out of the doorway by its undead fellows. It discovers another chute on the other side, leading to the surface. It signals to its master that it has a very bad feeling about where they might be heading.
The fefila returns, and stepping carefully so as not to provoke any frozen skeletons into action, the group opens up the third glowing portal on the right-hand side. Beyond it is yet another corridor. The six treasure hunters follow it behind Druvvaldis’ beetle, and find themselves in the most maze-like part of the warren. Dmitri suspects that the maze might not actually lead anywhere, and in the end is proven right – there are multiple dead ends, including one at the very end of the series of tunnels. A search reveals that there is nothing to find there. There is concern that the skeletons will reawaken, so the group hurries back. But near the last dead end, Chonkorchuk does detect necromantic magic behind a wall. It seems that there are more skeletons, and probably another chamber (though almost certainly not as many as in the place they just came from). Unfortunately, the sigils are all used up. Someone must learn the right spell, and find ingredients to inscribe more sigils on the sash – until then, it seems that there is no way in.
A demolition forty years in the making
The band hurries back to the skeleton chamber before the enchantment expires. Once there, they begin smashing the skeletons to smithereens using staves and bones – first the last of the warriors, then the others. Eventually, they stand in a foot or more of bone rubble. A search of the floor and what’s left of the bodies reveals a few peasant-type bundles, and the remains of designs on the linen shirts they were once wearing. These skeletons are almost certainly the peasants of Trofimovka that were captured in the raid forty years ago. Are they now heading back home? Raskel also finds a series of six impressions in the floor underneath the bones. Five are fully concave, but one is just an outline of a circle. He wonders if it represents the flute – with one open note, it would match the final note of the song he played to immobilize the skeletons. Perhaps each room with skeletons has such a key, he wonders.

But there are more pressing problems. Raskel, Lionia, and Dmitri want to figure out where the escaped skeletons went, while the others hold down the fort in the bone room. There is freshly fallen snow in the meadow, so Dmitri can’t track them, but the trio head toward Lazarevo, and after coming halfway, hear shouts in the village. Almost certainly, the skeletons came here. What will happen now? Will angry villagers head toward the warren? The three return to the bone room, and then the whole band relocates to Plamenka’s chamber, sets up camp, and ponders its fate. 

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Annoying Anachronisms

There is no particular epoch which fantasy-historical RPGs must model. In theory, crossover genres mixing aspects of the archaic, baroque, modern and futuristic are all the rage, and perhaps that is for the best. But in practice, there is a particular period which is all too often reproduced in game settings. That period is our own.

There is nothing particularly surprising, or even problematic about this. Our own age is the one we live in, and are most familiar with. Accepting features of our of society simply as "the way things are" is second nature to us. When we invent worlds de novo, we do not know them anywhere near as well, even if have taken the time to make up their religions, languages, and history. Given the presence of a huge number of blank spots, and the imperative to conjure things up on the spur of the moment, we understandably turn to what we know. Sometimes, we turn to well-worn tropes in contemporary fantasy literature, written by authors who are products of the same world as ourselves.

But sometimes, certain features are overused, to such an extent that continuing to replicate them constitutes a large-scale failure of imagination. We play RPGs to explore, to push back boundaries, and to learn new things. When settings become cluttered with the same baggage, boundaries retreat, and doors close. Sometimes, we should try snapping ourselves out of ruts where we implement the same material over and over, even if it requires a bit of work and preparation. Doing things a bit differently will, under the right conditions, cause our players to play their characters in new ways as well.

I want to make it perfectly clear that I do not object to the features I discuss below being in specific fantasy-historical settings. Some of them are not, strictly speaking, modern inventions at all. What I find distasteful is their near-ubiquity, their generally modern form, and the relative lack of alternatives.


The stereotype of the tavern as the starting point of adventure is so pervasive that some recent publications have even shifted to treating them ironically. Thus, the Yawning Portal tavern is the linchpin tying together a multiplicity of old school adventures. You finish one, then return to the tavern to learn about the next one. The tongue-in-cheek element present in the construction obviates looking for other connective elements (though I know from personal experience that people running Tales from the Yawning Portal seek something more substantial as the tie-in for a campaign).

Taverns are the places you go for news and information. It's where you learn whether anyone is trying to kill you, and why. It's where you make connections with seedy, underworld types. And it's where you go looking for a fight if you can't think of anything better to do. The entire world recedes behind the tavern, because there is really nothing worth noting going on anywhere else that isn't the dungeon.

Taverns, of course, are nothing new. Alcohol consumption has been part of human society for some 6000 years, and much of that consumption has taken place in public. But the form of the public drinking establishment has varied greatly. The fantasy RPG tavern is a curious blend of the late medieval and Renaissance English pub and the modern dive bar. Like the former it should have a colorful name like the Yawning Portal; you can even generate similar names randomly here and there. Like the latter, it has a bar, at which the regulars sit, and booths, where adventuring parties can confer quietly.

Over their 6000-year history, most drinking establishments did not look like this. In many cases, "publick houses" (hence, pubs) were simply private homes which were opened to customers seeking victuals and potables, which were usually produced in-house. Oftentimes, these establishments did not have a name, and were simply known as "the house of so-and-so, where you can get something to eat and drink".

It may seem like a minor point, and perhaps even a poor choice to make establishments less flavorful and memorable by calling them Johnson's instead of the Merry Mermaid. But the differences need not be merely cosmetic. Family-run taverns usually organized space differently than modern bars, which invariably serve as the models in games. If you drank there, you were essentially invited into people's house, into their familial environment. You were in a common area, sitting at tables (or even a single large table) with other patrons, and mingling with the servers, and often, cooks. If the tavern doubled as a hostel or inn, the guests also slept in the common area (or in a shed, with other guests, and not in private rooms made up with beds, chairs, desks [!], and other hotel furniture short of a TV). There was often little or no division between the areas where the food was prepared and the drinks poured, and the area where the customers consumed what was being served.

A more typical medieval tavern
The atmosphere of such establishments was more intimate. Although money might be exchanged, the visitor was more guest than client. The host's or hostess' family, including children, was usually present. It was significantly more likely that outlandish guests attracted much more attention than they would in a bar, where the only important thing was that they paid with coin. Children could become fascinated with, or frightened of, exotic visitors. Family problems would be much more visible, and the proprietors much more likely to ask powerful-looking strangers for help (without offering much in return). Long-term friendships and intimate relations with family members might arise much more frequently, but so would incidents where a desperate family might murder or rob a wounded adventurer. On the whole, a frequenter of such establishments would more quickly become integrated into the fabric of the local community than the customer in a modern-type bar.

If adventuring parties are looking for information, or meetings with influential people, there are places to go other than taverns. Most cities and towns had public squares, where markets were set up, and where gatherings of the town assembly took place. Some cities had town criers who announced important news at such venues. The harbor or port is another locale to gather news, and so are religious establishments. The latter may even provide free room and board, though supplicants can expect to receive offers to join the flock, or donate money later. A caravansarai (if such an institution exists in your world) is another place where information about interesting locales, or even work as a caravan guard can be acquired. With their open-air layout, mysterious alcoves, and beguiling stories by mysterious foreigners, they provide a very different feel from the typical tavern.

The citadel of the local ruler is also a good place to gather information and offer one's services. Trying to get an audience with the ruler or official isn't the same as going to a bar and spending some coin. It might involve preparation (like buying presentable clothes, or the procurement of gifts, or forging letters of introduction), but the role-playing opportunities at such venues are arguably greater and more varied than in taverns. And coming to know the local notables is another step toward integration in the community.

Wealthy merchant cities had feast circuits where important people met, hobnobbed, and exchanged intelligence. Those who gathered there wielded influence and had money to spend. As members of the elite, many of them were also skilled combatants, thus privy to knowledge about expeditions and adventure. Getting invited to a feast wasn't easy if you were an unknown or a new arrival, but trying to gain admittance by performing in public, or pretending you were a foreign prince could sometimes result in an invitation. If that didn't work, hiring oneself out as a servant could get you in the door, where you could then overhear all kinds of things. How often are adventurers in the position of servants, instead of customers? Why aren't they? As a variant, VIPs can also get together in a bathhouse; it would really change things up to have an encounter there, rather than in a bar.

Finally, all too often, taverns are nodes in a widespread criminal network. In fact, the slum-filled metropolis was a fairly rare occurrence in history before the 18th century. Most societies were simply not wealthy or stable enough to afford a large criminal underclass (plus, punishments for even minor crimes were generally quite severe). People who engaged in criminal activity were not career criminals, but generally poor people who acted out of need. This doesn't mean that there are no gangs, or gang-infested taverns in the cities frequented by adventurers. It does mean that thugs and thieves usually have day jobs, and spend time at establishments other than bars. I recently ran a session in which players were looking for a companion who disappeared. It turned out that he was last seen in the vicinity of a fishmonger's shop. The owner of the establishment, and a few sailors who supplied him with wares were subcontracted by a notable to make an undesirable person (one of the PCs) disappear. They were not mafiosi or thieves' guild members, just sailors and a small merchant who wanted to supplement their income. The fight that took place in the shop was great fun to run (the fishmonger flung a fish at one of the PCs at one point). Yet another barroom brawl would likely have been much less interesting.

Mercenary Companies

Can't think of why the PCs should be working together? Make them part of a mercenary company! Mercenary companies do what adventurers like best - the collect disparate individuals from different walks of life together into a team that likes to kill people and other creatures for money. In a way, mercenary companies are even easier than taverns - instead of going around looking for the right people at the right bar, and spending money to learn things, you just go to the headquarters of the mercenary companies, and see what the boss needs done, or just look on the bulletin board.

Like taverns, mercenaries have been around since antiquity, but they were not ubiquitous. Typically, the widespread use of mercenaries required the coincidence of two partly contradictory factors: political and social instability, coupled with high levels of wealth. Such conditions prevailed in 14th century Italy, which was politically fragmented, and significantly richer than the rest of Europe owing to its greater integration into long-distance trade networks centered in the Muslim heartlands and other parts of Asia. Mercenaries were convenient auxiliaries for seigneurs and urban republics because they did not fundamentally threaten internal social balance. Mercenaries turned to brigandage and kidnapping on occasion, but they lacked the wherewithal to take power into their own hands, at least not for long, and they could be quite easily destabilized through the fine art of poisoning, provided the right commanders were targeted. This was the golden age of mercenary companies, such as the renowned White Company, headed by the Englishman John Hawkwood.

But these conditions did not last. Already by the 15th century, the city-states that hired mercenary companies turned to standing armies, in part to address the problems of brigandage and the mercenaries' loyalty deficit. In addition, as the wealth gap between Italy and other states began to flatten or disappear (in great part, because of the discovery of the Americas), opportunities for mercenaries to earn good coin as 'guest workers' began to dry up. Technological advances directed rulers to invest more money in cannons and defensive fortifications rather than mounted mercenaries. So, while mercenaries have been around for a while, they were far from common, and prospered only under certain conditions.

Another factor to keep in mind about mercenary companies is their structure. Judging by the form they take in many GMs' settings, mercenary companies are made up of various unattached individuals from a variety of ethnic and racial backgrounds, and possessing diverse expertise as specialized warriors, safe-crackers, demolition mages, and so on. In fact, mercenary organizations were significantly more homogenous than that. Some were simply composed of the retinue of a particular aristocrat who was looking to make some money, or carve out a new domain. In other words, the mercenaries were actually bound to their captain by oaths, and not merely by wealth. Outfits like the White Company were more diverse, but even they consisted primarily of Englishmen. Maintaining the coherence and fighting élan of a military unit was much easier if its members share a sense of identity, and a language. Most of the private mercenary companies in Italy during their 14th century heyday were composed of Englishmen and Germans, and companies would frequently get into scuffles with one another to defend national pride. Identity factors typically do not figure at all in most fantasy RPG mercenary groups.

White Company mercenaries. Note the obvious distinction
from SEAL-style commandos
Perhaps the most noxious instantiation of mercenary companies in games is when they are explicitly presented as fantasy versions of commando or special ops units. Their tools and training are hyperspecialized, and they reflect a division of labor that one simply does not find prior to the 20th century. To me, technology disguised as magic makes the magic lose its mystery. If people want to play larger-than-life characters patterned on modern exemplars, fine, but it's the incessant replication of Navy SEALs in fantasy garb that's becomes grating if you've seen it one too many times.

I have suggested several alternatives to the mercenary company-style adventuring party organization. Perhaps they are all bonded to the same lord or lady. Perhaps they are traveling with a caravan, pilgrim group, performers' troupe, or gang of vagabonds. Perhaps they all originate from the same village, and are actually related to one another. It's not that these approaches are necessarily "better" than just making everyone into a mercenary. It's just that it's different, and builds on the recent imperative to actually make characters real people with social ties, rather than bags of statistics.  Why bother having a background if the only thing you use it for is to narrate stream-of-consciousness thoughts before you swing across the chasm in a special rope contraption while blasting minions with smithereens from your rechargeable wand?


Of all gaming anachronisms, this one is the most anachronistic, and my pet peeve. Everybody who is anybody has an office. The commander of the watch has an office. The gang kingpin has an office (usually several, so they are harder to track down). The priest at the local temple has an office. Mercenary companies, of course, have offices, and tavern owners have offices, too, somewhere in the back.

What do they all do in those offices? Well, produce and collect documentation, of course. All transactions in fantasy worlds must be documented. Not only sales and purchases, but also reports on everything imaginable. All people in offices carry on wide-ranging correspondence, in writing. And, owing to the absence of computers, such documents are all filed away, using a rational system, like alphabetic order. In filing cabinets.

There is a built-in assumption in many popular fantasy RPG systems that nearly everyone knows how to read and write. If that is the case, then perhaps the mass production of documents is not out of place. However, mass literacy was a rarity virtually everywhere prior to the late 19th century. Even in places with relatively high literacy rates, such as Renaissance Italy, or Greece in the 5th century BCE, the ratio of literate people rarely exceeded 25%. And even then, a lot of the writing was done on things like potsherds, owing to the fact that there simply wasn't much stationery available. Because the large-scale manufacture of writing implements doesn't make much sense if most people are illiterate.

This 'office' was called the Steelyard. Note what this
merchant wrote on, and how he filed documents
There were many reasons why most people remained illiterate until fairly recently. The most important has to do with the fact that most people were engaged in primary production (i.e. agriculture or herding, when they weren't hunting or gathering), and primary production does not in itself require documentation. There was insufficient surplus available to maintain more than a few record keepers and manipulators of symbols. And training people to use these symbols was a lengthy and expensive process that most simply couldn't afford. Additionally, those that could read and write generally tried to prevent most people from trying to learn, because they knew that knowledge was power, and did what they could from upending the established social order in which they enjoyed privileges (in fact, periods when literacy and documentation expanded were usually periods of great social convulsions). So, if mass amounts of documentation were not produced, there was no need of offices, and certainly not office spaces. For people who did know how to write, and did store documents, their "offices" often had multiple functions - counting houses, scriptoria, libraries, coffee houses, domiciles, sand so on. In other words, offices spaces doubled as manufacturing, consumption, or residential spaces.

How much damage can you do with
this mace of office?
The word "office" and its cognates has been around since the 12th century or so, but initially, it simply meant "work", "function", or "service". The position was not symbolized by having a space with a desk in the corner of a glass-and-concrete building, where you could enjoy a view from two windows, as opposed to only one, but by a weapon - a staff or a mace - granted by one's superior or a religious official. This object was usually ceremonial, and kept in a treasury, from which it was only removed on special occasions, but in a fantasy world, a commander of the guard is much more likely to be swinging a magical mace of office and dealing damage with it than hanging out behind a desk, shuffling papers.

The definition of an office as a place of business is not attested prior to the mid-16th century (significantly, about a century after the European invention of the printing press). Most office workers at the time labored away in state chanceries, which were relatively small institutions compared to later ministries and departments. In subsequent centuries, joint stock companies like the Dutch East India Company - a globe-spanning conglomerate that functioned much as a state in the areas in administered, were among the first to actually construct office buildings that served as their headquarters. In some cases, they had earlier prototypes, such as the kontors of the German Hanse (another early "multinational corporation"). But such operations - progenitors of today's corporate multinationals - were exceptional - a far cry from our own age of office ubiquity, where "going to the office" is nearly synonymous with "going to work".

A related institution where documents were kept - the library - certainly existed, but was significantly rarer and more difficult to access than is the case in many RPG campaigns. Usually, getting admittance to one is about as difficult as getting a library card if you are a contemporary gamer moving into a new town. But monastic scriptoria were often fortunate to own ten volumes, and those who labored there frequently had to write books on top of older ones, owing to the dearth of writing materials. Huge libraries existed, but institutions like the Great Library of Alexandria, or the Bait al- Hikma in Baghdad were truly extraordinary. They did not survive to our own day precisely because the materials they housed were so fragile, which in turn necessitated restricting access. There is a great sequence in Patrick Rothfuss' Name of the Wind (to use an example from fantasy literature) that depicts the difficulties of the hero, a matriculated university student named Kvothe, from accessing the university library, despite the fact that he technically had the right to do so, and had to, in order to complete his education and become a scholar. There were restrictions at every turn, often thrown up arbitrarily by those who guarded the stacks, simply as a demonstration of their power. There was a restricted section where the truly valuable tomes were kept, and it was inaccessible to virtually everyone. And even having access didn't guarantee being able to find anything, because, in the absence of a universally recognized system of classification, each new library administrator invented a new one upon gaining the office. The whole place was a hot mess, and finding what you needed was a long-term enterprise that usually required the help of friends. To a lesser extent, this would apply to searching for the right thing in someone's "office": things are tucked in randomly here and there.

I would personally prefer if every written document, even a shopping list, contained a magical spell inscribed on it, to having offices stuffed full of well-organized documentation on every corner. It would be extreme, but it would better represent the phenomenal power writing possessed in most ages. In my Lukomorye game, I don't even bother making casters with spellbooks find special ink or stationery to scribe new spells, since the regular thing is hard enough to find. I also make Literacy a distinct skill that you need to possess if you want to be able to read and write. Magical spells can be written in normal languages, but since most people can't read, it might as well be a magical script. So reading and writing are rare, but at least there are no office buildings to deal with. I should note that my Wax and Wendigoes setting has fairly widespread literacy, and even joint-stock companies (hence, not a few offices). But that's the thing - it shouldn't be the only, or even the most common type of setting.

Does having few or no offices complicate meeting the right people at the right time, and keep you from what you want to do? Not necessarily. It might make meeting important people different every time (see 'Taverns', above), instead of a rerun of the same social situation. Since people's work tends to be more active, and often takes place outside, rather than in an office, NPCs might need to be tracked down. Perhaps you will need to make use of messengers, which involves entering into another social relationship. Perhaps one of the messengers is even a PC (why are rogues and bards never messengers?). Perhaps finding the VIP necessitates the use of spells, which can involve planning and strategizing. I actually find that some spells, like Augury, are much too underutilized in the game, in the same way that meetings in offices are overutilized. Meetings with office-holders can then take place in a variety of locations - feasts, bathhouses, and yes, taverns. And breaking into places that contain records would be a major undertaking, because documents are so precious. They would be protected by magical wards and guardians, and be difficult to find. So mind-reading and scrying spells would find much more use than they typically do as well. As would Harry Potter-style memory globes.