On Spell-slinging Crocodiles

Spoiler Warning: There are some incredibly minor Divinity: Original Sin 2 spoilers ahead.

A few Wednesdays ago, some friends and I started up a game of Divinity: Original Sin 2. I'm a big fan of the previous game, four-player co-op is always a lot of fun, and it promised to scratch that RPG itch (my Curse of Strahd game has unfortunately been in a limbo of cancellations for the past couple of months). We created our characters, played through the intro sequence, and then I got hit -- my character literally got hit -- with a lesson in game design that I'll be applying to tabletop games I run from here on out.

In the starting area of this game, we learned of some troublesome crocodiles on the outskirts of town, and that they potentially had some treasure. An interesting take on the "kill rats in the tavern basement" opening quest, we took that bait and set out to hunt some crocs. Upon finding our quarry, we set ourselves up in an advantageous position and prepared to initiate combat. My character, a damaging/debuffing Witch, climbed a ladder up onto a wooden structure, and I said to my friends something along the lines of "I'm just gonna cast spells from up here. What, are the crocodiles gonna climb this ladder to get to me?"

Boy was I in for a treat.

In D:OS2, combatants are ordered by an initiative stat, and then turns alternate between your team and the enemy's. So first our tank takes point, making sure to look like an attractive target for crocodile attacks... and then a crocodile casts a spell at me. It summoned a boulder that flew across the screen, hit me for half my health, and left an enormous pool of oil at my feet, along with which comes a slew of negative effects. Slowed movement, increased damage of a certain type, reduced action points. Moments earlier I had taunted the simple beasts for (probably) not being able to climb ladders, and now I was beaten half to death, my combat effectiveness utterly crippled. The healer had positioned himself next to me too, so he suffered all the same consequences. We were in tears laughing. We had just gotten got.

On a subsequent turn, a different crocodile cast the game's equivalent of Stoneskin on itself. I could not contain my delight. It was so unexpected and absurd, and made what was assuredly going to be a boring semi-tutorial encounter with some mundane monsters into something truly memorable. We were in such a bad position after getting caught off-guard that we wiped and had to load our save. This encounter influenced our approach to literally every subsequent encounter; the game taught us in very clear terms that nothing was ever to be taken for granted, and that's something that absolutely should be applied to tabletop RPGs as well.

Let your crocodiles cast magic spells.

Or perhaps a better way to phrase that would be "stop running crocodiles that can't cast magic spells." It's boring, seriously. Goblins, Kobolds, Gnomes, Bullywugs, etc. are all the damn same and it's super boring so stop using them. Instead, use crocodiles that can cast spells. Even if you're running a low magic game, a flavorful ability that makes sense for the creature will be infinitely more entertaining for the party encountering it. If your brown bear is the same as a black bear but with more hit points and an extra attack, then your brown bear sucks and you should come up with something better. Give it a roar that causes a save vs. fear. Give it a 50% chance to ignore characters that play dead or something. Give it the ability to grow back two arms every time it loses one. Now that's a dang bear your players will remember.

Since the D&D 5e Monster Manual is particularly egregious about having a ton of boring monsters with little more than a sack of hit points and a mundane attack or two, here are some example monsters I've written for that system:

Made using The Homebrewery

If the Crocodile That Can Cast Spells is the sorcerer of the reptile kingdom, then the Alligadabra is its wizard. Which makes sense, because they gained their power from eating a bunch of tasty wizards in the first place. This is mostly just a re-skinned Mage, but with a really flavorful swallow ability (if you'll pardon the pun).

I bet Alligadabra stomachs fetch a high price to the right buyers. Made using The Homebrewery

Alligadabras may seem similar to Crocodiles That Can Cast Spells, but if you say that to their face, they'll probably hit you with a Fireball. I think for both Alligadabras and Crocodiles That Can Cast Spells it's important to keep in mind that these animals aren't anthropomorphic. Any Alligadabra I run at my table will certainly be wearing wizard robes and maybe a pointy hat, but it will not walk upright or anything like that.

Now those are some good bears, if I do say so myself. Made with The Homebrewery

Because writing 5e monster stat blocks is proving to be exhausting, I think I'll just finish this post with a random table to roll up your own. To use the table, roll 3d8 and combine the effects into something that will assuredly catch your players off-guard. If it doesn't, then your game is probably already pretty awesome.

[Wondrous Item] The Babelisk

A white granite obelisk with a protruding face on one end and an indented face on the other. Looks as though someone pressed a mask into one side of a stone slab, and it perfectly displaced the stone on the other side. There are instructions for its use carved in a lost, ancient language onto its plinth.

like this, but with faces

Protruding face: empty eye sockets, missing nose, open mouth. Kinda like one of those comedy/tragedy masks. When discovered, there's a 1 in 6 chance that some shriveled, decaying eyes, noses, and/or tongues can be found nearby, or in the respective receptacles on the protruding face.

Indented face: as the protruding face, but inverted on the opposite side of the structure. Large enough for an adult to put their head into; if one does so, it will conform to the shape of their face, as will the other face. The faces will copy all mouth, nose, and eye movements of the person with their head in it. If they speak, the protruding face speaks as well, translating whatever they say into the aforementioned ancient language.

How it works: A person with their head inserted can operate the Babelisk. If an eye is placed in one of the eye sockets on the protruding side, the operator sees from the perspective of the eye's former owner. If a nose is placed on the protruding face, it will attach, and the operator smells what the nose's former owner would smell if they still had a nose. If a tongue is placed in the protruding face's empty mouth, the operator's speech translates into all languages known by whoever used to own that tongue, simultaneously.

Some history: long ago, Babelisks were installed in many town squares, markets, and other prominent places of multicultural gathering. Their usefulness in trade and diplomacy alone created a great demand (and market) for polyglot tongues. Scholars made fortunes by learning numerous languages and paying healers to regenerate their tongues so that they could be sold repeatedly. Similar mini-economies formed around sought-after eyes and noses. Because the name sounds so similar to "Basilisk," rumors spread that prolonged use could turn one to stone, which is ironic because without the Babelisks, most folk would not have understood that play on words.

Nowadays: their magic has faded, and the secret of their enchantment is lost to history. Inert or smashed up Babelisks can be found in the ruins of once-prosperous keeps and agoras. The price a working one could fetch from a merchant or king would be enough for an entire band of adventurers to comfortably retire, though lugging one up from the depths of a dungeon would be nearly as hard as finding it in the first place. An inert yet intact Babelisk could probably be restored to functionality by making a deal with a devil, though that would probably involve something messed up like hunting down a Couatl and feeding its still-beating heart to the protruding face.