Ecology of the Adventurer

As a shaman of my tribe, I have many duties: recording births and deaths, healing the sick and injured, interpreting omens, making spooky jewelry from teeth, restoring the visage of our fearsome god when the paint starts to peel, and supervising potato sack races. Upon this already massive mound of obligations, our beloved chieftain has piled yet another task: writing ecology reports for illiterate kobolds. Oh joy and bliss. Who needs sleep? Not me, apparently.

If you, like every other kobold, cannot distinguish a word from a beetle squashed on the page, please come by my office. I own a rare pair of spectacles of literacy. You can’t borrow them, but you can admire the padlocked silver and electrum chest I keep them in.

Our tribe has inhabited the Crypt of Cystus since time immemorial. Similarly, adventurers have been raiding this dungeon since time immemorial minus two days. Luckily, until recently, the raids were restricted to once per year.

When Cystus built this vast, magnificent dungeon, he had the foresight to enchant the front door so that it could only be opened on the ninth day of the eighth month, the anniversary of his divorce from Rita the Rogue, and then only if one knocked three times and shouted, while drunk, “It’s me, Rita… the harpy!” This fabulous safeguard kept the number of adventuring parties assaulting this place down to a minimum. Not too shabby, and far fewer than the sixty-something raids the poorly located Tomb of Horrors endures every year. (Cystus, unlike Acererak, felt no need to build his dungeon within walking distance of a bakery)

By all accounts, until three months ago our tribe was thriving in this massive crypt. I’m not saying there wasn’t room for improvement, mind you. There were many routine dangers here, such as wandering monsters and Ponzi schemes. Plus, at least three kobolds bled to death every day in my waiting room while I took my afternoon nap. And, of course, the annual adventuring party raid. Still, our tribe was thriving and doing pretty well. Much better than now, that’s for certain.

As I’m sure you know, Cystus’ safeguard was overcome three months ago when an adventurer propped the front door open with a chair. Since then, adventurers of all types have been pouring in: sorcerers, paladins, arcane archers, bards – you name it. They come at the rate of one adventuring party per day, and all of them repeat the same rumor: that Cystus finally succumbed to chronic osteoporosis. Maybe it’s true; I don’t know. The last time anybody saw Cystus was five years ago, when he came up here looking for his cat. What I do know, however, is that our warriors are being killed by the truckload (to use a popular anachronism I don’t understand). Were it not for the hassle of packing and moving what must be dozens of boxes of stuff, I would suggest to the chief that our tribe relocate to a lower, deadlier level where, ironically, we’d be safer.

So here we are and here we remain, defending our home against adventurers on a daily basis and worrying about the survival of our tribe. Wait, did I say “worrying”? Why should anyone worry? After all, is it even possible for adventurers to destroy a kobold tribe that has survived a millennium on this haunted crypt through determination, courage, and rapid breeding? Sorry, I don’t have time to answer that question. I’m too busy stamping the chieftain’s seal on piles of death certificates.

Psychology of the Adventurer
Killing kobolds has always been an obsession for adventurers, or at least a really bad habit. Some days it seems a kobold can’t place a piece of quartz on a stool without an adventurer slaughtering him, stealing the quartz, and setting fire to the stool. Nonetheless, the true reason that adventurers begin adventuring is not and never has been about kobolds. Adventurers go into dungeons for another reason entirely – and the reason isn’t treasure, if that’s what you’re thinking.

Several years ago, I sneezed while pronouncing the crucial final syllable of a “summon monster” spell and somehow accidentally teleported myself into a tavern full of adventurers. Several of them promptly beat me into helplessness and dragged me upstairs to a room filled with obviously worthless copper pieces, castoff everyday weapons, and minor magic items. Their leader stared me dead in the eyes and said, “explain you appearance in this tavern!” I replied, “Pretty much the way I look now, only with less bruises”. One of them yanked off the tip of my tail and fed it to me. Swallowing quickly, I boldly asked their leader, “why do adventurers go into dungeons?” The room became silent. Their leader spent several minutes cogitating, then smiled and replied, “for fun”. So that is the answer, straight from the source. Adventurers go into dungeons for fun. To them, adventuring is a game, it is something they play. I have divided adventurers into three distinct types, based on their approach to fun. I call these groupings Gamist, Narrativist, and Simulationist. Every adventurer fits cleanly into one of these three categories, without overlap.

Gamist:
Gamist adventurers are the most deadly type of adventurer, as their every thought centers upon destruction and competition. If a gamist fails to kill more creatures in a battle than his companions, he will rip his own head off in humiliation and hurl it against a wall. Gamists are masters of the sword and bow, but are no less formidable when wielding improvised weapons, such as chains, table legs, or bags full of kittens. Unlike other adventurer types, gamists never speak.

Narrativist:
Narrativist adventurers are the thinkers in the party and love agonizing over what is right and wrong. Not surprisingly, narrativists are also the easiest to kill. The backpack of a typical narrativist contains a map, a journal, a memento from his dead parents, two or three worn books, a corsage from his junior prom, some letters from the family who raised him, a 30-pound tome of his true family’s history, the last twenty-two issues of his favorite magazine, a pair of bronzed baby booties, a library card, receipts, and a miniature globe. Everything that happens to the party is recorded by the narrativist in his journal. The quickest way to kill a narrativist in battle is to distract him with a question about his background. He will usually stop attacking to explain his coat-of-arms or why he is wearing a carnation in his buttonhole.

Simulationist:
Simulationist adventurers are prepared for anything and never carry less than 200 pounds of gear (not counting armor and weapons). A typical simulationist carries a 10-foot aluminum pole, a comb, a mirror, wolfsbane, garlic, a pound of salt, 400 feet of knotted rope, a bedroll, flannel pajamas, a 15-foot pole, a 7 ½ foot pole, a favorite pillow, two carrier pigeons, breath mints, a padlock, a first aid kit, a second aid kit, a laminated card naming several people to contact in the event of an emergency, a dog whistle, a canister of lamp oil, a pornographic drawing of an elf maiden, and so forth. Simulationists, being more curious than gamists or narrativists, can sometimes be lured into traps, ambushes, and small obvious cages. For reasons unknown, all simulationists have difficulty speaking in a normal fashion. Instead of saying “I see a chest,” for example, they might say “verily, a chest!” or “arrr, there be a chest, says I”.

Physiology of the Adventurer:
Although it pains me to admit it, we kobolds have more in common with adventurers than we do with our crypt-mates. Have you noticed that ropers, darkmantles, and oozes don’t even have laundry? Adventurers, on the other hand, have two eyes, a nose, and lack tentacles – just like all of us (not counting Jimp, of course; sorry about that potion, Jimp). I’m not saying that adventurers are in any way preferable to our crypt-mates, not at all. But at least I can imagine how to go about torturing one.

In many important ways, however, we are extremely different. Consider the adventurer’s diet. One might assume each adventurer consumes 900 pounds of raw flesh every day based upon the number of creatures they kill, but this is not the case. Adventurers only eat desiccated rations, which they bring with them. I know this sounds implausible, but trust me, an adventurer has never set foot in a dungeon in search of moist delicious food. My mother has had her kitchen ransacked by adventurers no fewer than eleven times and not once did they even force her to make sandwiches. Because of the numerous dead creatures left in the wake of adventuring parties, scavenging vermin have experienced massive population surges in the crypt. This is becoming a problem, so if you see any vermin breeding, stomp your foot and scare them apart. Currently, I estimate no fewer than two hundred gnomes roaming our corridors.

Weapons of the Adventurer:
When not plundering dungeons, adventurers live in taverns on the surface, where they spend their time creating new, deadlier weapons to use in plundering dungeons. Over the years, the swords and arrows of adventurers have become so powerful that kobold warriors have started wearing armor to impress women rather than for any measurable protection. Concerned, our master armorer hammered together a special oaken shield thick enough to deflect at least one blow from their latest super-weapons. Unfortunately, at 23 inches thick, it proved too heavy to lift.

At the rate things are going – the imagination of adventurers being outweighed only by their bloodlust – eventually an adventurer will arrive in our dungeon with a weapon so lethal that it kills any kobold within 30 feet of it. At that moment, we will know the days of our tribe are truly numbered and without hope. Oh wait, never mind. An adventurer brandishing a dagger like that came through last week.

Tactics of the Adventurer:
Adventurers are resourceful. They flank, sneak, attack, levitate their archers above the reach of our swords, throw glass flasks that release eight-headed hydras, cast sonically-substituted fireballs, open massive gates into the Lower Planes behind legions of kobolds then scare them into flight with “symbols of fear”, and so on. Their most infuriating tactic, however, is not destructive; it is their application of resurrection magic on their dead. Seriously, that spell infuriates me. I’ve seen it happen over and over. Wave after wave of kobold warriors stream at an adventuring party until finally we kill one of them, and then tomorrow I see that same adventurer perched on the statue of the king, prying the rubies out of its eye sockets.

The chief once asked me what kobold warriors can do to counter the tactics of adventurers. All I could come up with was “kill themselves to deprive the adventurers of the pleasure”. Lucky for me his royal pompousness thought I was joking.

Some Positive Stuff:
Adventurers are a curse upon dungeon dwellers and we must recommit ourselves daily to their swift and merciless destruction before they succeed in eradicating us completely. But let’s not go overboard. Adventurers are responsible for several good things, too.

For starters, they cull from the tribe our weak, our sick, and our not-exactly-sick-but-taking-vitamin-B-just-in-case. As a shaman dedicated to keeping the tribe healthy, this certainly lightens my workload.

Furthermore, because so many warriors have died in countless battles over the past few months, the lady kobolds now outnumber the males eleven to one. As tragic as this is from a military perspective, one can’t help but notice that even the shortest, ugliest kobold warrior now enjoys at least five adoring wives… and most have far more! Myself, I have attracted thirty-one. I would be the happiest kobold in the tribe were it not for that spiked pit accident a few years back.

One would also be crazy to overlook the benefit of magic items. Adventurers bring these wonders into our shadowy world, not the other way around. The same goes for gold. We all hate adventurers, but whose coins do we use when we want to purchase sausages from the illithids? Not kuo-toa clamshells, that’s for sure.

Lastly, I must mention our generous pension plan. I feel morbid saying it, but it remains well-funded only because so few kobolds live long enough to collect.

If you are wondering why I’ve mentioned benefits derived from our enemy, I don’t know. I might have a fever. Or maybe I’m looking for the silver lining in a dark, imposing cloud that hates us and wants to blast us with sonically-substituted, empowered “lightning bolt”s.

Final Thoughts:
Speaking as a fellow kobold, I’ll be as direct as possible. The odds of you dying by adventurer are high. So high, in fact, that if you accidentally drank a quart of poison it would only reduce your chance of dying at the hands of an adventurer by five percent. Despair not, though, and more importantly, complain not, as the king says any dissent undermines the war effort and gives him a headache. So sharpen your gnome-sticker and never forget: we kobolds have battled adventurers since before the dawn of time! We are due for a win.

When you finally meet your foe, roar like a descending dragon and attack him with all the fury of our entire remaining population. If all goes well, you might qualify for a medal. If all doesn’t go well, you’ll likely find yourself dying on the cold stone floor, one of many kobolds whose broken bodies form a pathetic bleeding ring around a defiant scimitar-wielding cyclone of death. When that time comes, do not ponder the hopelessness of calling out for medical aid, but instead die in peace, comforted by the knowledge that I, Mokumok the Shaman, will record your death for posterity and the chief, as always, appreciates your sacrifice – probably.

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Magic Item: Chair of Propping

When placed against a door, this magical chair prevents the door from opening if the door is closed, or closing if the door is open. The chair can only be removed by the person who placed the chair against the door, or by an interior decorator.

New Kobold Feats
Kobolds might choose a variety of unique feats to aid them in surviving. Unfortunately, they’re about as good at choosing feats as they are at surviving. A kobold must have seen adventurers within the past five weeks to qualify for these restricted feats. Dreaming about seeing adventurers shouldn’t count, but it does anyway.

 Bad Decision 

You made a bad decision

Prerequisite: Kobold

Benefit: Upon choosing this feat, the kobold experiences an odd, nagging feeling that he did something really stupid. Wasteful, even.

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 Dying Shriek 

You refuse to die quietly

Prerequisite: Kobold

Benefit: Popular among kobold prison guards, this feat allows a slaughtered kobold to scream a short phrase upon his sudden, unexpected death. Popular screams are, “the humans have escaped!” and “I told you we should have killed them!”

Special: A kobold fighter can select Dying Shriek as a… never mind. There are no kobold fighters.

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 Elf 

Better to die as an elf than as a kobold

Prerequisite: Kobold

Benefit: Upon selecting this feat, the kobold spontaneously polymorphs into an elf and is immediately killed by nearby kobolds. This feat can only be selected by mistake.

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 Volunteer 

You have a death wish… in addition to being a kobold.

Prerequisite: Kobold

Benefit: A kobold with this feat boldly volunteers for any mission involving adventurers. Typical missions are, “sneak into the adventurer’s camp and strangle their guard dogs”, and “sneak into the adventurers’ camp and smear their wizard with grease so he will be afraid to throw “fireball”s tomorrow”. If a kobold survives five years with this feat, his chieftain attempts to memorize his name.