Clearance Sale in the Multiverse
- Squirrelbirb
- 20. März
- 5 Min. Lesezeit
Aktualisiert: 11. Apr.
Arborea. Pelion. Coriandor. Two travelers prepare for their journey home in this camp—a place where sun-bleached red tents and the murmur of the stranded defy the ever-present decay of history. Their destination: Mount Pelion. Their companion: an old, frail elf, dismissed by most as mad because he trusts only an amulet to guide him through the wasteland. "Children," he calls nearly everyone he meets, ruffling their hair with gentle affection.
(My version of) Coriandor is not a place known for trade. It doesn’t even have a market, let alone space in the crowded trails for one. Merchants rarely come here willingly, and those who do often arrive stripped of most of their wares. Anyone selling something has either turned necessity into a trade—crafting what little can be made from the sparse resources of this place—or deals in the lost possessions of the living and the dead. Theft is common.
Now, the two travelers stand in the makeshift alleys, backpacks slung over their shoulders, asking around for lanterns, ropes, healing potions, elixirs, and all manner of more or less magical items.
And then… it begins.
9:53 PM – About five more minutes, then we stop for the night.
It’s a weakness of mine (or a strength? 😂)—whether as a player or a DM—to add a touch of atmosphere to every little detail. Instead of handling shopping between sessions to save playtime, I spontaneously describe a cloaked merchant. Shady. Clickbait in NPC form. Our paladin takes the bait instantly and asks for a sun scepter.
9:55 PM – Slight panic on my part, because I was absolutely not prepared for a shopping scene. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear the cries of the seagulls from Pelion’s coast—birds that don’t even exist, their voices just echoes of memories of them.
9:56 PM – A black market, then. In a refugee camp where everything washes up that the multiverse has forgotten.
9:57 PM – "Technically, you could find anything here," I say, metagaming a little. "Even artifacts are probably possible—though very unlikely." I see my players’ eyes light up and quickly think about how high the chance for such a find should be. Characters at level 8 really have no business messing with artifacts. And honestly, I don’t even know them that well. So I trust my players to keep their feet on the dusty ground of this camp—and thankfully, they do.
10:01 PM – Our paladin is still looking for a light source, and I decide I won’t be the killjoy in this chaotic market. I improvise a rule and explain that everyone has a certain chance of finding the items they're looking for. "But what chance?" flashes through my mind. "With my players' luck, they'll end up naked, having accidentally sold all their stuff instead of equipping themselves."
10:03 PM – "You get three rolls, each with a 30% chance," I tell him. "Each roll represents you asking a different person, and each of them has a 30% chance of having what you need." Nods all around. The dice roll.
Failure.
Failure.
Failure.
There has never been anything as reliable as bad luck.
10:05 PM – "Just take a lantern," the shadowdancer suggests when she sees the paladin’s disappointed look.
"Same deal," I say, hoping for a better roll this time. And sure enough, just a few in-game minutes later, he holds a lantern and a flask of oil in his hands. I exhale. Another failed roll with this improvised shopping tour would have strangled the scene immediately.
10:06 PM – "I want a rope," the shadowdancer chimes in. I hesitate briefly, roll in secret…
"Same procedure," I tell her, and after a successful roll, a stranger snaps at her to just grab one of the countless ropes lying around. Had my initial roll failed, the same stranger would have picked up one of those ropes himself and shamelessly tried to sell it to her for a gold coin. Planescape in its purest form. But luck isn’t always on the DM’s side.
Next, they look for more mundane items—torches, minor healing potions. "Three rolls, 30%," I say again, watching the growing excitement at the table.
10:13 PM – Almost fifteen minutes overtime. "Do you need anything else?" I ask, already on the verge of packing up.
"A liar’s mask," the shadowdancer considers. "But a modified version, because I don’t like the one in the book, and I don’t need the full effect."
Alright. No problem. We modify items all the time. But what about the price? That kind of mask is way more expensive than the things they’ve been looking for so far, which means it should be much harder to find.
10:17 PM – "Two rolls at 50%," I decide on the spot, then immediately wonder if that’s actually less likely than three rolls at 30%. My math-loving heart hurts for a moment, but whatever. No one’s going to calculate it this late at night.
She gets the liar’s mask—from a stranger who takes it off his own face once she pays. Whether that was a good idea or not remains to be seen.
10:20 PM – Other merchants in the camp start noticing the characters and suddenly turn into enthusiastic beach vendors. "Some gloves and a fine cloak for the gentleman? A belt for the lady?" I watch as the two of them roll their way into a shopping spree and secretly smirk.
10:33 PM – "An undead grenade," the paladin suddenly says. For a brief moment, silence hangs over the table. Then, in the distance, sounds of a single die rolling.
"A throwable item combining daylight with a spell that destroys undead!" he explains. The tension lifts. "Roll," I say, and already feel bad for him when the dice fail again. The shadowdancer looks disappointed, too.
10:34 PM – "Something like this?" asks the old elf, who suddenly serves me excellently as a Deus Ex Machina. He gestures toward a woman sitting on the ground, strange items spread out before her. My players’ faces light up. I feel good about this.
10:55 PM – I start wondering how much gold they actually have left and carefully ask if they’re looking for anything else.
"This potion!" "And this one!" Pure shopping frenzy. They start trading items among themselves, swapping what they’ve found and hoarding what they need.
11:08 PM – "A potion of mirror images," the shadowdancer requests—and fails her rolls. The old elf steps in again.
11:16 PM – We’re all exhausted and giddy. One last time, I ask if anyone needs anything else. Glassy-eyed, my players stare at their inventory lists, smiling.
I smile, too—because something as mundane as shopping turned out to be so much fun that we ran over an hour longer than planned.
It fits Coriandor. A place that refuses to crumble, that just keeps going despite the decay around it.
Just Planescape.
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