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Re: Cow of Burden Burdened
How do you find out what the clothes think of you?  And yes, clothes typically don't stack as they all have different levels of wear. Fur cloaks, for instance, are heavy and good candidates for being carried by beasts. March 12, 2018, 08:22:45 AM |
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Re: After power outage bug
I use 7-zip to split the zip file into 10 MB chunks and send each chunk into a separate mail. The chunks would be added as mail attachments. Sami's mail address is found on the Contact page of the forum (sami@unrealworld.fi). April 23, 2018, 10:42:24 PM |
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Re: Tracks covered and decayed by snowfall and rain
One thing to look out for, though: The "animal lost in forest cover" quest is painful enough as it is (or, rather, too painful), and if care isn't taken to ensure the tracks are refreshed during the time the character is fruitlessly searching through the other parts of the search area, the tracks may well be gone by the time the PC stumbles upon the right world tile (and happens to see the correct part of that tile). For animals in the forest cover we'll need to add some additional logic as their movements in the forest cover is do different. Gentle adjustments though, so that it doesn't become all too fixed and gamey. Possibility to fail forest cover quest due to tracks getting lost in the snow will still exist. Weather can be taken into account with the plans of seeking the animal, as well optimizing character's travelling speed if need be. For the robbers there will be no additional adjustments. This is the beauty of procedurally generated and organic quests. Tactics need to be changed according to how the world rolls. Now you may need to reason if it's a good idea to go finding robbers in a blizzard or maybe it would best to do after the rains have ceased. Their footprints are renewable resource after all. February 20, 2020, 12:59:31 PM |
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Re: What's Going On In Your Unreal World?
Killing the Njerps. Though this last one caught me off guard. I was skiing back from a long trade haul and found him hanging out in my courtyard. I was exhausted and needed to drop all the newly bought furs, so I chased him off with a javelin to hunt him down later. An hour later, I start following his tracks away from my home. They're heavily mixed with elk tracks to the point of being hard to find. Eventually, I track the bastard down and javelin him in the thigh and slit his throat. Standard fare. But in his loot, I find a harsh elk skin and some uncooked elk cuts. I turn around and lo! there's a dead skinned elk carcass. I killed him in the middle of butchering a kill. Which felt like payback. My last character got killed that very way by robbers. So, I scored dinner and a movie with one go! April 18, 2020, 06:57:49 PM |
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Jutta's Tales: The Bog Mother. (A URW Horror Story.)
Hi, I want to try something different. Instead of a character story, I tried to write a horror story based in the URW. There might be more. I think Jutta has a few stories to tell. This is a little dark, and based on true things. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Jutta was my mother's mother. She came from the far north, away from the coast we call home now. Mother told me that she came from the Owl Tribe, before settling down with her husband, a Seal Tribe man in his homeland, our homeland. He had been killed before I was born and Jutta had moved in with us. Father, was a Seal Tribe man through and through, and didn't like Jutta. On good days, he said she had the touch of the Spirits. On his bad days, he would say she drank too much of them instead. But she seemed so ancient, so wise to me, I was just a little boy at the time. I took her word as law much to my practical father's annoyance. I was forever panicking over spilled salt, casting the expensive substance over my shoulders, refusing to whistle indoors for our dogs and all sorts of old Spirit ways. It seemed for beings who didn't care for humans, they certainly cared a lot about all sorts of things we do according to Jutta. Even though it has been many long winters since she left us, I still remember her sitting in front of the hearth. A broken net over her lap, her curled and swollen fingers deftly passing the bone shuttle needle through the cords, stitching it. The little clicks of bone, almost lost with the wind whirring past the window, sending snow against the sides of the cabin we were in. My job was to hold the lengths of cord taut as she worked. An important job she always told me. Fixing Father's fishing nets was my favourite job, not just because I get to stay in the warmth, curled against Jutta's leg, but because Jutta would tell me stories. Now I sit in front of the fire now, my children's children around me, watching me whittle, I still remember her stories or was they more warnings? I clear my throat, the children looked up expectantly. They were waiting for the next tale, as I did when I was their age. The wind howled and made them jump and look around skittish like deer and I smiled. “Have you ever heard the Bog Mother?” I started, echoing Jutta's words from so many moons ago... Winters on the coast are cold but with the sea air keeping the worst of the snow out, it is nothing like the far north. There was a village that was on the tip of the world it seemed, so far north and so cold. But nothing was colder than the people. Hunger and death was a constant companion to the people, Nothing would grow in the stony frozen soil for most of the year. The kept reindeer was scraggly starving beasts but the people made do. Yet they didn't move on. Some say they were cursed, banished to the far frozen north for some evil deeds, land and bloodlines cursed. All I say is that when the milk of a doe was ending, they often mixed it with the does' blood, bleeding the beast slowly keeping it alive and the hot blood mixed in with the thinning milk was their favourite treat. In the leaner years, when the villagers, deep into the dark months felt their stomachs ache with hunger, what little food there was, was shared out to the village hunters, trappers and crafters first. The men eating what they could as they needed to find more. The scraps was given to the womenfolk to pick whatever they could from the lean bones, breaking them for marrow like starving wolves. Whatever, if ever, anything was left it was scraped into the pot and boiled, the thin soup dished out to the elderly. There was one year though, it seemed the Spirits was plaguing the village, traps were sprung but lay empty and half the reindeer does lost their calf, the other half just didn't carry. The villagers already was gaunt from one bad winter but a worst spring? Followed by a tragic summer since the hunters was bringing barely any food in, just enough to keep them all from dying. The Summer Solstice brought the village leaders and the Sage, to the middle of the village. The old Sage, was barely able to stand but still chanted and cast a few bones into the fire and watched them burn. A sharp snap from the bones made him fall back. “A bad winter!” Was declared, the omens black. Worry filled the village far faster than food in the stores. Was it worse to die slow starvation or quick? People muttered as they walked past the storerooms again and again, looking at the small amount of food as if it would change. In the midst of summer, a young outsider housewife, who married into the Tribe but a year ago gave birth. The first one in many years. However births was not celebrated like yours. They marked another mouth to feed, another drain on scarce supplies they had. The other women, the ones who hasn't bared in years talked in hushed tones about it, how not right it was, how did she bare when even the does were barren. Even the Sage couldn't answer. The babe, seemed not quite right; small, pale and silent. The Tribe women whispered about it, how it wouldn't survive the night. Summer ended, and so did Autumn, the hunger and whispers grew as the child survived. Curses, and promises with Spirits was muttered, why else this year was so barren when the mother wasn't so? Didn't all the trouble start when she arrived? When winter began to creep into the village, one of the village women who lost her only child years ago began to tell the others about the unnatural sickly looking child who had weaned. Eating food. Even though it wouldn't survive till Spring. A waste. It's portion of food could feed her husband who brought that seal in. At the start of winter, it was just hot words in the cold air but as winter continued, and the hunger sank deeper in their bones, she wasn't the only one saying it any more. Winter is bad time to get a head full of bad ideas. No one had the energy to shake them off or think, all they kept hearing is how they could get more food for them, for their family. The mother hid herself and her son away, while her husband a crafter, unskilled was low in the village so kept quiet. He was already distrusted for marrying outside the Tribe. So he wasn't told when the leaders went to have a meeting on a nearby hill, out of eyeshot and earshot of the village. Hunger was a desperate beast that day, it's growls echoing in all the leaders' stomachs, the wicked anger clawing through them as they decided. In the older times, in leaner times, ones they thought they had passed, they would send the elderly off, into the woods with no supplies. One less mouth to feed. The outsider's child should be banished first, not one of the elderly. It was decided in harsh but quiet tones. They waited till the next full moon on the solstice, the Sage had said it would be best. The Spirits could snatch up the child before it's soul was left to howling void. The next words was heavy on his tongue, blood ritual offering are best on the solstice. One of the leaders jumped in his skin and admonished the man for his crude words. Blood rituals hadn't been done in generations, though they still drained the does when hunger set in. The mother found out only when the Sage knocked on the door of their cabin as night fell that evening. The leaders were just behind and with a glance into their solemn gaunt faces, she knew what they were here for. She screamed, cried as her husband held her. She tried offering them anything but her son. Food, valuables but in the end she offered her life up. Surely an adult's portion was far greater than what a babe would eat? The leaders accepted it with a jerky nod. Better on their soul, a woman give herself up then condemn an infant. She followed them out into the night, each of the men holding a burning torch, the guttering flickering lights surrounding her leading her deep into the marsh. The frozen ground crunching under her leather boots. She was sobbing to herself, the icy cold night freezing the tears on her face. The moon came out from behind a cloud, bathing them in the silvery light. She was handed a torch and ordered to walk away into the bog away from the village, away from her child, sobbing. The babe didn't survive long, neither did the husband who followed within a week. The woman was never seen again, but she was heard. The next full moon, an eerie call came from the bog. The village's best hunter grabbed his bow and arrow and crept out. He was shaking as the cold wind blew across him and a thin woman's sob drifted over him. He raised his bow and arrow thinking the outsider had returned, but there was nothing. He approached slowly and carefully thinking she must have been hiding behind a tree. He scurried home terrified. Again, the next full moon, the sobbing was closer now, the edge of the marsh now. The leaders gathered up as many men as he could arm, and marched them out to see what was happening. He heard the thin sobs and spun around, the noise seemingly surrounded them. They scattered, fleeing in haste away from the painful wretched sobs. They thought they were safe in the village, the cries moon after moon, never left the bog. The village learnt to live with it, the Sage drumming on full moons to banish the evil and stop the sobs. Maybe it was that, and not the offering which made the game plentiful, the traps full and the nets bursting with food. The village recovered even, the next winter easy to get through, even the bog was silent. Years past, the old Sage passing on, and drumming stopped. It was waking up the children who soon filled the yards of the village, horrors forgotten. It was after that winter solstice, when the children first mentioned her. The Bog Mother. The lady in the marsh, who called to them to play who promised them that she would be their mother. The children told the adults fled, all of them except one. One who had argued with his mother that morning, one who didn't know the dangers of the bog, one they found the body of face down in the mud, dead. They told the children never to play near the bog, to ignore any voices, any lights. It didn't stop there, a child woke up next full moon to a voice outside his window, calling for him. His brother sleepily awoke to see the boy leave the room and never return. Another child, and another, soon they were gone. The village died out but they still say she is out there, the Bog Mother, looking for her child every winter. If you sit quietly you can still hear her calling, or sobbing for her child she lost. I finish my story and look at the spell bound children, just then the wind blew past the window, a thin almost wail, sending the children to tears and screams. You know, it did almost sound like a distraught woman calling out. May 26, 2020, 09:12:49 PM |
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Jutta's Tales: The Story Teller. (A URW Horror Story.)
The men and women were busy getting ready for the seal hunts. Every year, the young men of village all go away for a month to hunt the beasts. From the window I could see each of the teams of four men standing by their large canoe, full of supplies. Hopefully by the end of the season, they would all come home with the canoes, stuffed full of meat, bones, fat and skins for the women to process. I could hear the Sage solemnly chanting, a handful of herbs smouldering away as he used it to draw runes on each of the boats, protecting the men from angry spirits while they hunted. I was too old to hunt now; seal hunting was a game for young men. The month was a true test of manhood and I could see several of the older children I was watching, sulking; their mother's deeming them too young to go. I was left in charge of the children, to keep these young men from sneaking off to join the hunt and to keep the children busy as the adults prepared so I turned to what I did best; I started a story, one told to me by Jutta, of her brother actually and his run in with a spirit while hunting. In the Owl Tribes, they didn't hunt seals but instead the reindeer. Just like us, the men would go off in groups to hunt the herds as they moved from the northern lands they bred and calved in, to the south, to fatten on the ripe berries and grasses, peeking up from the snow during the summer. The Tribe Sage has announced the season had started and the forest was ready to release some reindeer to them. Jutta's brother, Veli was often chosen to go on these hunts, not because he was a good shot with spear or bow, or even that strong but because he was a storyteller. A good storyteller could sit by a fire and his words could distract them from the aching of their bodies from walking for miles, from the tough dried meat that was dinner and the cold dark forest that surrounded them. When night fell there was nothing but to do, except eat, talk and sleep. The men carried as little as possible with them to ensure they could carry as much meat and fur back with them. To carry whittling tools or instruments to amuse themselves were considered selfish. The meat and furs would be shared between them all and if someone didn't carry a fair load, it was stealing warmth from their beds, and food from their children's mouths. Veli knew he was the weakest one and became the camp tender, ensuring the fire was lit and there was clean freshly boiled snow in the pot for the men to drink. He made up the stew from dried meats in a pot over the fire for them all. He didn't begrudge his work as this time his group was made up of two friends, Onni and Topi. All three had been friends for many years and if it wasn't for the last of the group, Olavi, it would have been a great time. Olavi was only son of a village leader and deemed his father's position was his position. His father's earned respect and wisdom was his too. He had joined the group solely on the fact that the Sage had 'seen' a great Reindeer Stag in his dreams, an unusual coloured one, splotches of white and black on it. The Sage was uncertain what it meant; a white stag meant good fortune, pleased spirits but a black one, meant ruin, unlucky. Olavi believed it meant the Stag was out there to hunt. Such a skin would turn many a head, the hunter would be part of many a story and poem for bringing back such a fine thing. In fact it might be good enough to impress a maiden he had his eye on. So after much begging of his father, Olavi went on his first hunt with Veli and friends. To someone who had never travelled far, the days of walking was hard for Olavi, and the complaints of walking for days was hard on the others. By evening of day three, the group were stressed and settled down to make camp in a grove. Veli made started the fire as the others cleared scrub away and built the shelters. Night fell soon and the men gathered silent for once around the fire, waiting for Veli to finish the food. The men almost jumped out their skins as they heard footsteps approach in the dark. The men's hands shifted to their weapons only to see a woodsman of sorts approach the fire. “Well met.” Veli greeted him. The man lifted a hand in greeting. “May I join you?” He asked. Olavi opened his mouth to speak but Onni beat him to it. “Of course.” He shifted on the log. “In nights like these, it would be rude to dismiss company.” Now closer to the fire, Veli could see the man properly. He looked old, in the flickering fire light. Dressed in deer skin clothing, his long silver beard and hair, scraggly. His hands were filthy as he took the bowl of food Veli offered. Manners dictated the guest ate first. The old man did so greedily slurping at the stew. Before Veli handed the rest of the food out, the old man had finished and held his bowl out for more. Veli refilled it, leaving himself only a little. He ate his own slowly watching the old man who pretty much licked the bowl clean. The old man broke the silence first, placing his bowl down. “After that fine food, let us tell stories. I think you might have a good one.” He pointed to Topi who startled. “... Okay? I am not much of a storyteller!” He told him sagely. “But... I do have one.” Topi began a tale of his brother and his first fishing trip. “And that's how I ended up with two fishing hooks in thumb...” He told the group the misadventure, causing the others to laugh. “Two?” Onni gasped between laughter. “I tried to get the first fishing hook one out with a second!” He retorted, breaking into laughter himself. The old man was snorting his amusement, tossing his head in laughter. Veli turned to see Olavi staring at the men, stony face. “Not that funny.” Olavi shrugged, determined to sour the evening. The air picked up for a second and Veli glanced at the old man and felt that off feeling. The old man turned and winked at Veli, seemingly knowing his thoughts. Veli looked away quickly as the old man pointed at Onni. “Your turn.” Veli knew Onni never told stories. He said he lived too simple life, but he saw him almost bewitched, compelled to tell a story and he did. One from his father. “Drunk on mead the night before his wedding ceremony, he saw a squirrel walk up to him. He thought it was a Spirit trying to bless him. So, he held out his hand and the squirrel instead scampered up him and stole the dowry of a bronze comb, running off with it!” He snorted. “He turns to my mother and told her what happened and she... she said, 'I'll be a squirrel's daughter then!'” The air was full of laughter again except for Olavi who sniffed and spat into the fire, breaking the mood. “Your father was a buffoon.” He sneered. “We should go to bed soon.” He glared at the old man who looked back baleful. Veli felt the forest fall silent with his words. Something running through him. The story jarred something in his brain, and he lifted his hand to cover his right eye, as he looked with his left, he saw the old man turn. No longer an old man but instead a black and white reindeer staring at him smiling. Again, a wink. “Who’s left.” The reindeer said. Veli blinked and removed his hand, the image of the reindeer gone, the old man was back. Topi looked at Veli. “Our best storyteller, that is who!” He preened on his behalf. “Veli is the best storyteller in our village.” Veli looked away, not ashamed but shy. “No guys, come on.” He tried. The old man tutted. “False modesty is far uglier than truthful pride.” Veli paused and nodded, not wanting to upset the forest spirit and sat up. He racked his brains looking for the best of his stories and picked one. The most requested an epic about a strong fighter. He finished to applause from most of the group apart from Olavi who stood up obviously annoyed. “I am tired of this. You may spend all night entertaining a smelly old man, but I want to be up in the morning to finish this stupid hunt. I am sick of made up stories and tales.” His anger apparent but not as apparent as the old man. No longer wearing the costume of the old man, the reindeer walked on two legs, like man but stood far taller. The being stalked towards Olavi who didn't notice until the shadow of the spirit fell on him and he fell silent. The old man's voice was quiet but carried. “Made up stories and tales?” The being asked. “It is my turn to tell you a story.” He grabbed the scared human. The others were frozen in their seats, almost bewitched as the Spirit bent low, murmuring too quiet in Olavi's ear. Finally, he released the quivering human who fled as quick as he could. The being turned around and gave them a bow. “I enjoyed your tales, men. May your next hunt be well.” The being blessed them and walked off into the darkness too. They couldn't find Olavi until sunrise, the man had climbed on top of a hill and clung there like a squirrel. His dark hair now white. It took longer to return home, Olavi silent and refusing to tell them what the spirit had said. The others fell silent too, not speaking to the others about what happened, only that Olavi had a terrible fright. Olavi was never the same again, refusing to leave the village even to court the pretty maiden he had desired before. He had seemingly been broken by the Spirit's words. Worse still he developed a fear of water, even having to be forced to wash by his own mother. Veli came across Olavi one night, deep into his mead which he lapped from shallow dishes like a dog. He was drunk enough to swing for Veli, the mead made him slow and Veli easily dodged. Olavi turned to sway as he cried. “It is your fault! If you didn't tell stories!” He shouted. “He wouldn't have told me!” He sat back now, too drunk to stand. Veli couldn't stop himself. “Told you what?” The words he didn't hear was plaguing him, he thought often of the spirit. It was hard not too with Olavi drifting through the village just like a spirit himself with his wide haunted eyes and white hair. Olavi sobbed. “He told me, a true story, my story.” He looked at the dish in his hand and threw it. “He told me my life, everything. Even stuff no one else knew!” He covered his face with his hands. “Like I broke the fence that let the reindeer out as a kid.” He admitted. “I didn't mean to!” He begged Veli. “You believe me, right?” Veli just nodded. They had lost their best does that night, costing the village a fortune to replace and they still struggled in winter to this day because of it. Olavi continued. “It wasn't just my past, but my future. He told me all of this. Everything he said came true. But he also told me my death. That I would die... drowning.” He shuddered. Veli sat back shocked. “How?” They lived in a land locked land, the only well was tiny. “Surely it cannot be true.” Olavi opened his mouth to respond but his father had walked in, to drag his drunken son to bed. Veli watched him leave, feeling guilty for not warning the others, what he had seen. He made offerings for the spirits. Maybe Olavi would find peace soon. He went to bed only to wake to a wailing from outside. He ran out in just his under-things as he watched the leaders carry Olavi out, dead. He caught whispers of the crowd. Dead, drown in the family's rainwater barrel. Must have gotten up for a drink during the night and fell in. Veli turned around to get dressed and see if he could help the family when he saw in the tree line a large black and white reindeer. The being saw him and gave him a wink before it walked off back into the forest on its’ hind legs. June 11, 2020, 09:06:18 AM |
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Re: A "get lost!" button?
You can throw a glove in his face, which would probably make him angry enough to fight you...
August 03, 2020, 09:45:09 AM |
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Re: [Short story] Faster.
Oskari the child, curiously ask why I made the big deadfall trap. "To outsmart, not outrun" I said. Screams, swears and growls exploded behind me, from the center of the village, all of sudden. I ran, unleashed my hounds, hands on my bow and arrows. Only to find it is too far, no windows to shoot. Men and women were slaughtered by the beasts, boys and dogs tried hard to save them, only to be overran. In split of seconds, chaos became silent bloodshed. I wish I could run faster. August 22, 2020, 03:57:43 AM |
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Re: Diary of Mikka Kaumolainen, a slave no more
Days 6-22 I searched the area around my lake and found three Reemi villages - two small and one big. In the big village I found a sage who treated my arrow wound. I also helped one old man from small village to gather some milkweed (had to crawl all over the fields for them) and got a valuable herbal blend from the old man. But I couldn't apply that blend to my wound as I ran out of bandages and didn't want to cut my last and only trousers for them. Later I made some utensils from birch-bark and traded them for a woolen undershirt, but at this stage my wound started to get significantly better so I stopped treating it. Then the blend somehow got lost. (Note from the author: I really do not know how I managed to lose that blend. It just disappeared:)). Days 23-28 Arrow wound finally got so better that I was able to stand! So I began to hunt. Killed a squirrel which was stupid enough to climb a single tree in the middle of a field, so it has nowhere to run from my constant rock barrage. Then villagers told me about the wounded adventurer who crawled to them after altercation with an angry wolf. I spoke with that adventurer, then went and recovered his woodsman axe for him, chasing away the wolf. I wounded the wolf and would kill it with my javelins, but it managed to tangle his tracks and get away from me. I didn't return the axe right away, but first fell some trees and made lots of boards with it. From boards I made some useful things, most importantly a shortbow and a cellar to store my food in. Days 29-31 With cords that I found in the camp of wolf-bitten adventurer and which he let me keep, I made two arrows and several more traded from the village hunter. I decided to go on my first revenge raid against the Njerpez war camp from which I ran away. Stealthily I approached the camp and noticed a roundshield hanging on a wall of the hut. For starters I thought to grab the shield and take it for myself as some compensation. But as I got close to the hut, two Njerpezit warriors noticed me and I ran back to the forest, they after me. One got tired really fast and lagged behind. I shoot all my five arrows (first was that old Njerpez arrow, which I plucked from my own thigh) but missed. I had four javelins and these I started throwing at Njerpez while stealthing through the trees like a ghost. I appeared from behind the trees for a second, threw a javelin and again disappeared. When I ran out of javelins, I circled the Njerpez, who rushed to my last seen location in more or less straight line, I picked up my missed javelins and repeated the procedure. Pretty soon I got a good hit and Njerpez fell unconscious. I jumped to him and severed his neck with my borrowed woodsman axe. Then the same fate befell the other Njerpez. Myself I was only once lightly scratched by Njerpezilai sword. I picked clean both corpses and headed home. I deemed it was enough for the first time. To be continued... (if I may) August 27, 2020, 11:52:36 AM |
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Why I carry a rock in real life
Why I carry a rock in real life. Lessons (mostly) from the Unreal World game: = Its a hammer for building = Its a digging tool, better than my hands = Digging can get me to flexible thin roots for cordage = Roots and plants can be rubbed against an edge of the rock to cut them = It can be weight to help braid roots into stronger "rope" = It can bash against branches as a crude axe = Two rocks can start a fire and I already have one = It can be thrown to get food, by pinging a squirrel or wounding a rabbit = It can be put in a fist as a knuckle puncher = It can be rolled in the fingers as a stress relief mediation = It can be banded on a rock or tree as a rescue signal = Rocks can be pets to talk too, I mean its only bad when the rock talks back Yes I carry a rock. When people ask me why these are rambled off. Unreal World crafting if stranded and unequipped begins with: a rock. So I start with a rock! Get a rock. Have a rock. Be one with the earth. October 07, 2020, 09:33:49 PM |
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