Chapter Six: In Which Torroran Meets An Old Friend

The city of Mountain Pass, several days travel north of Home, was built around a tunnel carved through the mountains. The tunnel cut through an isthmus connecting the ancestral mountains of the dwarves to the south and the lower mountains which gave way to the rolling hills of the human lands. On the east side of the isthmus was the Sartron Ocean. On the west side was a long arm of the Channel Sea which extended south and then east, embracing the human kingdom. Mountain Pass allowed merchant ships to make use of this extension of the Channel Sea and cut days off their journeys, much to the profit of the city.
The Sartron Ocean was named for the large island on its other side from the mainland. Karen Fordrunner, a Sartroni, was away from the green fields of her homeland for the first time in her life. She was short, for a Sartroni, but still towered over the majority of the residents, the dwarf majority.  Her height, strong jaw, and prominent chin distinguished her from the human minority, as did her clothes, which were leather, well cured and expertly worked. Her clothes hung reasonably about her, hinting at, but not constricting, her excellent figure. She occasionally passed a reptilian Ophidian or bat-winged Pteradon and tried (unsuccessfully) not to stare.
She had been walking along the canal for hours, wondering how in the world anyone, any city or race, would have the patience to dig this much. Occasionally a ship would pass by. Fascinated by a ship sailing underground, she would watch it until it passed out of sight. She was nearing the locks on the west side and hoped that a ship would be passing through. The locks, she had heard, connected the sea with the higher lake underneath the mountain which the dwarves had used to make part of the canal. They also served as a perfect barrier. Any ship that passed through Mountain Pass went through inspection and paid the city a share.

“Toro!” she shouted, and ran towards two men looking over the side of the lock, waiting impatiently.
Torroran whirled in surprise. His foot slipped on a wet spot on the stone. Hiegler put out a hand and steadied him. “Kar…umph,” Torroran said as Karen lifted him in a hug and swung him around.
“What are you doing here?” Torroran asked, when he was finally put down.
“I’m fine.” She answered, “Daddy is well. I’m sure he would have sent you his warmest regards if he’d known I was going to run into you.”
Hiegler chuckled.
“Karen, this is Dom Hiegler.” Torroran said, “Hiegler, Karen Fordrunner.”
“A pleasure, madam.” Hiegler nodded his head in a sketch of a bow, and looked back to the west. “Here she comes, Torroran.”
“Who?” asked Karen, her voice carrying slightly less bubblyness.
“Ah,” said Torroran, “more introductions.” He looked toward the west. The Whitecap was rounding a gentle bend in the tunnel, still distant, beginning to run up signal flags to the guards at the lock. “My ship, the Whitecap.”
Karen smiled, clapped her hands together, and bounced a little. “That’s wonderful, congratulations, Tor. But why aren’t you onboard? Not that I am complaining, since this way I got to see you.”
“It left Margate without me… long story.”
“And here comes the Wetherall,” said Hiegler, “by the way, Torroran, do you think we will have enough fighting men to break the siege when get to Stone Harbor? You had all mine killed, I seem to recall.”
“Yes, the ones who didn’t jump overboard,” Torroran smirked, “but we’ve got my crew, and they bested yours, so if yours would have done I would think that mine should do better.”
“Yes, we’ve got your crew,” Hiegler agreed, “the ones that weren’t killed by mine and left back in Margate. You are under strength.”
Torroran looked thoughtful.  “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said.
“Ooh, you're going to a battle?” said Karen, looking delighted, “Can I come?”
“Ruadan, Brigid, and Bres!” Torroran swore. “Look Karen, no… I mean this isn’t like a normal battle where everyone gets killed until they get tired and go home. There are these Din, monsters, they are starving and torturing those dwarves, they can’t get out, and… I’m really not helping my case here, am I?” Karen’s face had become serious, except for a grim smile. Her hand reached up to her right shoulder where the hilt of her great sword would be if she had been armed. She turned the gesture into rubbing her neck and flexing her back and arms.
“It’s important, then.” She said. “It’s settled, I’m going.”
“But your father,” Torroran started.
“We would waste too much time if we went to pick him up.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Torroran muttered.
The Whitecap and Wetherall had entered the lock, the one remaining escort waited its turn. The water had started to rise, and planks to board inspection teams were being made ready.
“I left my sword and fighting leathers back in my room,” Karen said, brightening again. She grabbed Torroran’s hand. “Come on,” she said, “We’ll meet your ship at the east locks.” She ran towards the city proper. Torroran, perforce, ran with her.
“Have fun!” Called Hiegler after them.

Torroran sat on the edge of the bed, dressing, exhausted. At least she can hurry, he thought, the Whitecap is probably waiting in line for the eastern locks by now. He watched as Karen, now in her thickly padded fighting leathers, threw the rest of her clothes and gear into bags. She had packed for a sightseeing trip and obviously didn’t want to leave anything behind. Damn. She’s probably going to want to share my cabin. I’m going to get no rest on this trip… Well, I’ll just have to put my foot down.
A loud thump rattled the furniture as Karen stepped into one of her massive boots, pulling it up over her calf and then pulling the straps tight.
Torroran was moody, “What would your father think?”
“About the battle?” Karen asked.
“No,” Torroran said, “not about the battle.”
Karen fastened her other boot, straightened. “Daddy thinks you’re wonderful, and he’s gaga about me. I don’t see the problem. Besides, its not like he needs to know.”
“Did he ever find out about last time?” Torroran had finished dressing, but still sat on the edge of the bed.
“Is that why you didn’t come back?” Karen asked.
“A bit, yeah.”
Karen sat beside him. The bed was specially made for Sartroni visitors and only creaked a little under her weight. She looked down at Torroran. “You’ve spend some time with us, you learned to fight from my father, don’t think that makes you an expert on our way of life.” Torroran looked at her, studied her face. She went on, “Tor, trust me when I tell you that everything is all right.”
“All right,” he said as he stood up, “but it won’t be alright if we don’t catch the Whitecap soon. You have everything you need?”
Karen smiled. She threw her bags over her shoulders, the hilt of her great sword protruded over her shoulder, higher than her head, and the end of the scabbard was mere inches from the floor. She whistled as they walked toward the eastern locks.

Quests

So, I've said in the past that Orison will have no quests.  Perhaps that was a bit too hasty.  Perhaps there is a way to do quests right.

A friend of mine completed a rather large project with the help of the graph database Neo4j.  That, and an Extra Credits episode about MMO quests got me thinking.

So, we have these player built cities.  The cities contain residences, which spawn NPCs, which can then be recruited into armies to fight against antagonists.

Why not model familial relationships, and other relationships, between NPCs?  It's all deep backend work, which is not time critical.  But then again, why?

Suppose that we had a database of hundreds of stories, all of which depended on a specific relationship between some characters to make it understandable.  If we tracked the relationships between NPCs then we could, for a given city, search the database for relationships that exist within that city and spawn some optimal number of quests.  Given a small enough number of quests per city and a large and varied enough database of quests to draw upon, there is no reason why this could not be a driver of procedural content.

Let's give an example.

Quest: Daughter Trouble
Relationship template:  (male, adult(a))-[father, loves]->(female,  young adult(b))-[loves]->(male, adult(c))-[fears]->(a)-[hates]->(c), (a)-[desires]->(item, valuable (d))

An easy relationship to search for within Neo4j.  But then a script could be written with entry points via talking to any of the three NPCs, and several outcomes determined by what choice the PC makes.  Does he deliver (d) to (a)?  On what terms?  Has he spoken to (c) who has pledged his portion of his families wealth to making the marriage happen?

So, quest writing in this system becomes a process:
1: Specify the initial relationships between your actors, material and immaterial
2: Specify the script based on all possible entry and exit points
3: Specify the changes in the relationships that result from the script

The last should not be neglected, as a dynamic relationship graph means a dynamic quest environment for the players.

Also, there is the opportunity for some few quests to incorporate relationships between the PC and the NPCs.  There should be avoided, however, the chaining together of quest and consequence to make 'quest lines'  as these are terribly annoying.

Asymmetric Multiplayer

I remember playing Tie Fighter back in the day.  A neighbor would come over and we would spawn all four difficulties of all four types of rebel fighters (A, B, Y, and X wings) and take them on all at once.  In a Tie Advanced, we could take them all on for hours at a time.  The reason we could do this was that one of us was only on the stick, maneuvering and finding targets, while the other was only on the keyboard, re-distributing energy to different systems as needed.
This is asymmetric multiplayer.  Two (or more) people cooperating in the same game, but playing in fundamentally different ways with different interfaces.  And this is the basic idea of player leadership of political units.  The leadership UI is a fundamentally different experience from the standard MMO, and could be criticized in Orison on the basis that only few people ever get to experience that UI. Why waste the resources putting it in the game?  Because the actions of those few players have large effects on the world that all the players inhabit.  This is player generated content, and is simply more fun than procedurally generated content.
The ideal is procedurally generated content that, while happening at random times, is fairly predictable once it happens, but nevertheless demands a response from nearby political unit leaders.  The humanly unpredictable responses of the player leaders could make the world seen much more alive.

Crowfall: An Exciting Upcoming MMO

  Crowfall is an MMO in development here in Austin TX by the good people at Art Craft Entertainment.  The core of the design philosophy is 'eternal champions, dying worlds'.
  Consider a persistent, competitive, unending game: this well describes the meta PvP in games like Eve Online.  The danger with this is that one group of players will gain an early edge over other players.  In doing so, they now have access to more resources than the other groups.  This is a 'winner take all' situation.
  The way Crowfall is attempting to avoid this scenario is to have multiple, short-lived, proceduraly generated game worlds operating simultaneously.  Player characters persist across multiple 'campaigns' and take spoils back with them to their 'Eternal Kingdoms.'  Different campaign rule sets vary the amount of loot you can take back into another campaign with you. Newbies may want to jump into a 'Terminator' rule set campaign where nobody imports anything except the clothes on their backs.

Chapter Five: Tebro Confronts His Mentor

West of Home, Tebro worked in his uncle’s tower. Tebro knew he would inherit the tower in ten weeks, unless he pushed magic beyond all bounds of the previous centuries. The thought galled him. The goblin air had cleared his head, though, and given him an insight. The components of the spells, the words and gestures, might exhibit a structural similarity to the sphere invoked. Or perhaps some rule is involved, the shape of the lips and throat complementing the gestures, the breath with the mindset.
Diagrams of lips and lungs, lines and arrows over parchment superimposed on the square and phoenix, spilled over his desk or were gummed onto the stone walls. Boradi, the younger aide, entered with Tebro’s evening meal. He looked around at the charts.  “Master Tebro?”
“Yes? What do you want, Boradi?” Tebro’s voice was tired, but he kept his focus on a table of syllables which he was attempting to complete.
“There is news of Stone Harbor,” said the young aide.
“You mean from Stone Harbor, don’t you?” said Tebro.
“No, master. We have reports from scouts. Shortly after we left, the goblins…”
“Goblins?” Tebro turned in his seat, looking quizzically over his shoulder at Boradi.
“It is what the scout called the creatures. They sealed off the entrance to the mountains and set a guard on the valley and harbor.”
“Stop, Boradi.” Tebro turned back to his work and spoke to his young aide without facing him, “Did I not say that under no circumstances was I to be told the outcome of the attack?”
“Not exactly, master, you…”
“It is a distraction. I must not be distracted if I am to complete my work in time. Please, Boradi, your job is to keep distraction from me.”
“Yes, of course master Tebro.” Boradi again looked at the charts and diagrams as he entered the room with the dinner tray.
“Your esteemed uncle,” Boradi said hurriedly, “once found system in breaking the incantations into pieces as it seems you are attempting to do with the words themselves.”
Tebro said nothing, so the aide continued, “If I may be so bold as to suggest, perhaps he could find the system here. You should see him.” Boradi set the meal down on the table and cleared away the remains of the previous.
“Thank you, Boradi,” Tebro said tiredly, “that will be all.”
“Master Tebro…”
Tebro turned suddenly in his chair, his voice rose, lamplight glinted in his eyes, “Go away, Boradi!” Boradi turned and ran out of the room.
Tebro scratched at his arm. He felt pinpricks in his fingers, aftereffects of the gnome air. He looked back down at his chart. The regularity that had hovered on the edge of his consciousness was gone. He sighed as he went to his bed and sat on its edge, pulling off his boots. He lay back on the bed. Perhaps Boradi is right, he thought, it might take me years to work out the proper system, even with an apprentice… which I don’t have. If I go to Genro now, though, he will ask me to write his history, and I can’t do that. I have to stop his final death. I have to find a way to save his existence. He sat up and put his boots on again, gathered up the most complete of his new charts. I will just have to be firm. He left his study and started down the tower to the room where his uncle lay, weak in his last months.
Tebro listened at the door. He heard the sound of his uncle’s voice, but could not make out the words. He knocked. The sound stopped and seconds later the door was opened by Tebro’s older aide, Dor. Again Tebro felt regret that Dor had not displayed the capacity for apprenticeship.
“Master Tebro, please… please come in. Master Genro will be delighted.” Dor stood aside and beckoned Tebro in.
Genro was as tall as Tebro, and even more slender and especially frail in his decline. He was propped up with pillows into a reclined sitting position. His huge but neatly trimmed beard covered the top quarter of the blanket. He smiled broadly when he saw Tebro.
“My dear nephew… hello. It’s good to see you. I heard that you had some business at Home. How are your esteemed parents?” Genro’s voice was still strong, although not the powerful basso of his prime.
“I did not have the opportunity to see them, master Genro.”
“Ah, well, that is much what I had expected. Do please look them up next time you are there. My sister, she will be following me in a few short years, and your father not long after that.” Genro smiled again to take the sting out of his words. “Sit with me. Tell me about your work.”
Tebro launched into his theory, explained how the syllables of incantation were not random, that they reflected the gestures, and that careful study of both might lead to the construction of other spheres of magical influence. He attempted to show Genro his notes, but Genro gently pushed them aside.
“It’s no longer my concern, young Tebro.”
Not so young, Tebro thought, as he pictured himself old and helpless on the same bed.
“You will find an apprentice,” Genro said, “and together the two of you will find the system. Or together you will prove that there does not exist such a system. You were more help than you realize in the construction of the square and phoenix.” A twinkle came into Genro’s eye. “It might all be random, you know. We might be looking for order where there isn‘t any.”
Tebro looked at his uncle, speechless.
“Hah,” Genro laughed, “I suppose I am getting heretical in my old age.” He looked stern for once. “That’s my prerogative. I’m glad, in a way, that Dor is writing my history. You would pretty it up.”
Tebro was now speechless and hurt. Genro put out his hand and touched Tebro on the arm, smiled once again and said, “Wizards usually don’t have time for a family. I know that. I know that better than most. You might try though.” He sat back on the bed. “Let’s pick up where we left off, Dor. Tebro, you are welcome to stay, if you would like.”
Tebro found his voice, “No. No, uncle," Tebro paused, stood, and said, "I will not accept that this is inevitable. I will find the magic for the soul. I will not let you die!” It was Genro’s turn now to be speechless. His eyes widened as he looked at his nephew, who was now pacing the floor. Tebro punctuated his words with gestures in the air. “It is absurd that a person should be annihilated, that you should be annihilated, ashes thrown on the mountains!”
“Tebro, stop,” Genro pleaded, “my work is done, my history will pass onto my family, to you. I am tired, boy. Let me rest.”
Tebro had stopped pacing, a shiver shook his body. “You will see. You will get your drive back with your energy. I will make you young again. You’ll see!” Tebro left the room quickly, shut the door behind him, and ran up to his study to pour himself into the work.

Chapter Four: The First Hero

Far to the north-west of the Channel Sea, deep in ancient woods are cities whose delicate, sky reaching towers testify to the fact that the builders, as well as having a highly developed aesthetic sensibility, have a lot of time on their hands. Living wood is coaxed out of trees huge enough to be towers in their own right and shaped into buttresses. These are joined without nail or peg, into hardened and varnished wood, which is in turn shaped with metal and stone. Looking at these structures, it is usually difficult to tell where the tree ends and the building begins. Simpler, and yet gracefully proportioned structures cluster around these duoliths.
The elves that live in these cities are long lived, subject to the same cycle of resurrection which rules all the races. Gracelessness and ignorance are the exception rather than the rule among these people, although gracefulness (in bodily dexterity, at least) and intelligence can be the attributes of monsters as well, as Oshayamora had seen.
Over the past six days, the creatures which had attacked her town, Woodhaven, had shown surprising cunning, and there was no doubt about their agility. They had scaled walls as if they were running over level ground, and they had outrun the elves that they chased down. They threw their bolas with exquisite skill. They were hideous, skin the color of ash and slime, fangs slightly protruding from their mouth. Their ears bore a resemblance to the pointed ears of her own race, which made Oshayamora shudder.
Oshayamora crouched in front of her young nephew. Her hands were bound behind her. She was an example of uncommon physical strength among her people, but she had tried the cords and knew she had no chance to break them. One of the monsters (who had said, “I am flayer,” indicating by gesture all of its kind, when it had been asked its name) had been brutally whipping the youth before Oshayamora had placed herself between the child and the whip.
“So, it does not like pain to the little one?” the flayer said with a sneer in its voice. (the fangs made it impossible to properly sneer with its face) “Perhaps it likes pain to itself more?” It brought the whip down in a wide sweep and the crack slashed a line from bare shoulder, across bare chest, to bare hip. Her clothes had been shredded over the past days by whip, knife, and sword. The flayers did not seem to notice clothing, they were naked themselves, but lacked any sexual characteristics, either primary or secondary. Another flayer approached with a whip, its tips were worked with tiny blades. One would bleed to death slowly under that whip.
“What about pain to the wrinkled one?” the second flayer said. It drew back the bladed whip, preparing to swing. At the last moment, Oshayamora threw herself into its path, protecting her grandfather. She twisted in the air, presenting her back and bound wrists. The whip tore wide gashes in her back, but missed the cords binding her wrists. Both of the flayers laughed as Oshayamora curled in pain, but she did not make a sound. For six days she had refused to cry out in pain. Unfortunately, this seemed to make her a challenge in the eyes of the flayers.
Laughing, dancing, one of the flayers said, “It likes the pain! It wants it! I gives, I gives!” slashing again with the whip.

From their omniscient vantage point, the gods looked down on Stone Harbor, they looked down on the Ophidian capitol, now under siege, and they especially looked down on Woodhaven and Oshayamora. They had come to a decision.
We cannot reverse our decree. Something hinders us.
We must fight this hideousness, but we dare not manifest ourselves, lest we unmake our creation.
Therefore let us raise Heroes from those most worthy.
This one is particularly enduring. We shall give her the endurance and strength of the ancient oaks, which her race esteems.
And remove her bonds.

Oshayamora felt a strength flow through her, and realized, as she lay bleeding, that her limbs were no longer tied. The flayers were still dancing, and the one with the bladed whip was preparing to swing again. She twisted, taking the whip-strike on her shoulder. It stung as it had before, but her new endurance kept her wits clear. She grabbed the end of the whip and lunged at the flayer, sinking the blades into its neck. It choked and fell back. The other flayer removed the bola from its belt and stepped back for a throw.  Oshayamora’s fists, like pistons, tore into the face of the first flayer. She moved to position it between herself and the second flayer, who was beginning to twirl the bola. Having briefly rattled the first, she tore the crude but sharp short sword from the belt of her opponent.
Naked, but now armed, Oshayamora waded into her erstwhile captors. She sliced the bola cord in half as it flew, and approached the thrower. Blow and parry were exchanged. The injured one had run off as the other shouted, “Get more me, bigger me!” The flayer brought down his sword on Oshayamora’s left arm as she cut into the waist of the flayer. The wound oozed only a trickle of blood. The flayer seemed infuriated by this and pressed the attack harder, but pressing, left itself open to the slice and cut of the weapon wielded by Oshayamora. She cut several times deep into the belly of the flayer, without seeming to slow it. Hearing the shouts of approaching reinforcements, she ignored the hacking blows of the flayer and plunged her blade into the gash she had made and upward, twisting the blade in a stirring motion. The flayer grunted, fell, and finally was still.
Oshayamora turned to her grandfather and nephew, bound hand and foot and lying on the steps of the town shrine. For the past six days they had been repeatedly killed on these steps. “Thank you, granddaughter,” said Tathor, as Oshayamora cut his bonds, “we should leave now and move so as to be closer to a shrine in a city not taken by these beasts.” He struggled to his feet. His clothes still hung about him, although shredded from many cuts. His face was wrinkled with care and age, but in normal circumstances he was still hale and vigorous. He gathered up a discarded cloak that lay nearby and held it out to Oshayamora as she cut away her young nephew’s bonds. “Can you walk, Findecino?” she asked him as she fastened the robe about herself.
“Yes, I think so,” he said. He was young, slight and pale. There was a large hole in his shirt where the flayers had disemboweled him. He touched the frayed edge of the hole and winced at the memory. “We should get bows.”
“Then quickly,” said Tathor, taking the boy by the hand and running toward the nearest house in the opposite direction from the approaching sound of the flayers. Oshayamora stood outside the door while Tathor and Findecino searched the house. The flayers had just come into sight. She glanced in the door. Tathor came out, handing a beautifully wrought great sword to Oshayamora. He carried a longbow and a large quiver of arrows. Findecino followed him out, carrying a smaller bow. The three elves ran for the forest edge.
The flayers caught sight of them and followed swiftly. Twenty flayers made up the pursuit, and with them was a creature standing several feet taller. The larger creature lagged somewhat behind the swift pursuit of the flayers, but its sheer bulk of muscle and twisted face radiated menace. As the elves ran, Tathor and Findecino shot several arrows expertly into their pursuers.
“They are not stopped lightly,” Oshayamora said as they ran, “concentrate your fire.”
“Yes, fire. A good thought,” said Tathor. He swung the quiver around and searched through it, picking out a particularly fine arrow. “Kashtat-Kemetat,” he intoned. The arrow shone briefly with a fiery aura, which was absorbed into the arrow. Tathor stopped, turned, and fired. The arrow sunk into the nearest flayer, between the eyes, and burst into flame. The elves continued their run, not pausing to see the head of the flayer explode and the rest of the flayers pause briefly, puzzled, to examine the body.  Several of the flayers ripped strips of flesh off the corpse just before it dissolved into a black, oily mass, and stuffed the strips into their mouths as they continued the pursuit.
Findecino glanced over his shoulder. “I believe that bought us some time,” he said, as the three entered the deeper woods at the outskirts of the town.
They plunged into the wood, running, trying to lose their pursuers in the thick foliage. “What were those things, great grandfather?” Findecino asked after some time, “I have never heard of anything like them.”
“I do not know,” Tathor said, levelly, “I have never heard of, read about, dreamed, nor imagined such viciousness. Our philosophers have speculated on the perfection of good and evil. I believe we may have just experienced the perfection of evil.” He looked back, troubled, as the three of them crested a hillock and started downward, towards a stream.
“I hope you are right, grandfather,” said Oshayamora.
“Why do you say that, child?” Tathor gripped young trees for balance as he half ran, half slipped down the steep, leafy slope.  Ahead of them the forest spread, dense, trackless and green.
Oshayamora urged the others on to greater speed. “Because I wish never to meet worse.”

Villains: Trolling And Griefing In Ironman Mode

  Every game has Trolls and Griefers.  Give them an open PvP system and they crawl out of the woodwork.  The Orison philosophy toward these is: give them an outlet and make them part of the player-driven drama in a special way.  It makes little sense for a player to go around randomly killing other players, and it is this that makes those people particularly annoying who, when confronted about their griefing say, "I'm role-playing a villain."  On the other hand, the Card-Carrying Villain is a recognized trope.  If the guy who just smacked you down for no reason is someone marked on your map by a red, flashy dot and surrounded with a black aura, well... you didn't run fast enough.
  So, how do these players go about collecting their Villain card.  Two things have to be done here in the design of the system.  First, make being a Villain irresistible to griefers.  Second, rig the system so that the Villain population naturally declines in the absence of players taking up the status of Villain.  It is similar to the concept of Rubber Band Systems.
  How to become a Villain:

• Level to somewhere in the late middle levels.  Early enough that natural griefers have something close to shoot for, but not so early that a player can make a Villain in a few days.
• Enter one of the dark temples.  There are four small temples, two medium, and one large.  These are circular mazes with rotating walls that open a door once every six hours real time.  Each temple has an inner and outer rotating wall.  The medium temples have an additional wall midway through, and the large temple has two walls one-third and two-thirds of the way through.  This means that it takes a minimum of six hours to traverse a small, twelve for a medium, and eighteen for the large.
• Touch the orb in the center of the temple.  The player is prompted that they are about to be severed from the wheel of life.  Proceed.  The player is now a Villain and has a resurrection stone of the level of the temple.

  What does it mean that the Villain is severed from the wheel of life?  It means that they don't res at temples like other players.  When a Villain dies, if they have a resurrection stone, then they become a ghost and can wander around without interacting until they activate the stone.  When they activate the stone, it is consumed and they return to life in that place.

• Small stone - lose a level of xp on res.
• Medium stone - lose no xp.
• Large stone - gain half a level of xp.

  A Villain can enter one of the dark temples and make his way through to collect resurrection stones, but they can carry only two at once.  If a Villain dies with no resurrection stone, all their gold and equipment drop and their character is deleted.
  Any time a Villain dies, they drop a soul shard valuable for crafting based on their level.  They also drop the key to their residence in the Villain town, if they have one.  Yes, Villains have their own town, but it deserves a post all of its own.