Meinst du 1:1 übernommen, oder von Vorlagen inspiriert?
Eine einfache 1:1 Umsetzung finde ich nicht sehr spannend und habe ich schon sehr oft schiefgehen sehen. Dann ist es entweder ein blaser Abklatsch oder sogar eine Parodie.
Spannende Idee. Ist damit auch gemeint den jeweiligen Charakter auch in nichtpassende Setting zu planschen und sich zu überlegen wie das dann sich transformieren würde. z.B Raistlin Majere in Shadowrun oder Jean Luc Picard in Forgotten Realms?
War es nicht im alten Marvel-Rollenspiel so, dass man einen der kanonischen Charaktere spielte? Im Buffy/Angel Rollenspiel von CJ Carella waren ebenfalls Spielwerte für die Scooby Gang bzw. Angel Investigations enthalten und es war zumindest als Option vorgesehen, sie zu spielen.
Meistens ist so was allein schon deswegen vorprogrammiert, weil die übernommenen Charaktere mindestens auf ihrem Fachgebiet verdammt gut sind. .mit genügend Charakterpunkten geht das, Gurney , Duncan sind IMHO einige 100 Wert, einen Sardaukar würde ich aber auch mit so ca 200 vermutlich bauen.
Wenn ein Spieler Conan spielt und es so versaut, das er von einer Horde Magdfrauen verhauen wird.aber nur weil Conan Gewalt gegen Frauen (Hexen, u.ä. Gesocks ausgenommen) entschieden ablehnt
mit genügend Charakterpunkten geht das
aber nur weil Conan Gewalt gegen Frauen (Hexen, u.ä. Gesocks ausgenommen) entschieden ablehnt
Gurney , Duncan sind IMHO einige 100 Wert, einen Sardaukar würde ich aber auch mit so ca 200 vermutlich bauenDuncan Idaho Auszug aus Wikipedia
In Dune (1965), Duncan is described as a handsome man with "curling black hair" to whom women are easily attracted. Paul Atreides notes Duncan's "dark round face" and "feline movements, the swiftness of reflex that made him such a difficult weapons teacher to emulate." Lady Jessica calls him "the admirable fighting man whose abilities at guarding and surveillance are so esteemed." Duncan is fiercely loyal to House Atreides, is a skilled pilot, and as a Swordmaster of the Ginaz is a gifted hand-to-hand fighter. In the fight that ends with his death in Dune, Duncan kills an unheard-of 19 Sardaukar, the Padishah Emperor's fearsome supersoldiers. The Sardaukar sell his body to the Tleilaxu; subsequent gholas of Duncan possess the rebellious streak of the original.
Sagen wir mal, "weil Conan Frauen als Gegner normalerweise nicht für voll nimmt" -- das paßt eher. ;)das wage ich zu bezweifeln
das wage ich zu bezweifeln
It was from Bêlit that Conan - native of a landlocked country and a complete landlubber at the beginning of "Queen of the Black Coast" - learned how to be a sailor and a pirate. During their entire time together, Conan was content to follow Bêlit's lead, and never disputed her authority: "Conan generally agreed to her plans. Hers was the mind that directed their raids, his the arm that carried out her ideas. It was a good life." Conan proved an apt pupil, and after Bêlit's death had a long piratical career on his own.
Bezweifel' ruhig weiter.Quellenangabe
Conan hatte Respekt vor Belit.
Conan Wikipedia Belit Auszug
The fight on the Argus was short and bloody. The stocky sailors, no match for the tall barbarians, were cut down to a man. Elsewhere the battle had taken a peculiar turn. Conan, on the high-pitched poop, was on a level with the pirate's deck. As the steel prow slashed into the Argus, he braced himself and kept his feet under the shock, casting away his bow. A tall corsair, bounding over the rail, was met in midair by the Cimmerian's great sword, which sheared him cleanly through the torso, so that his body fell one way and his legs another. Then, with a burst of fury that left a heap of mangled corpses along the gunwales, Conan was over the rail and on the deck of the Tigress.
In an instant he was the center of a hurricane of stabbing spears and lashing clubs. But he moved in a blinding blur of steel. Spears bent on his armor or swished empty air, and his sword sang its death-song. The fighting-madness of his race was upon him, and with a red mist of unreasoning fury wavering before his blazing eyes, he cleft skulls, smashed breasts, severed limbs, ripped out entrails, and littered the deck like a shambles with a ghastly harvest of brains and blood.
Invulnerable in his armor, his back against the mast, he heaped mangled corpses at his feet until his enemies gave back panting in rage and fear. Then as they lifted their spears to cast them, and he tensed himself to leap and die in the midst of them, a shrill cry froze the lifted arms. They stood like statues, the black giants poised for the spearcasts, the mailed swordsman with his dripping blade.
Belit sprang before the blacks, beating down their spears. She turned toward Conan, her bosom heaving, her eyes flashing. Fierce fingers of wonder caught at his heart. She was slender, yet formed like a goddess: at once lithe and voluptuous. Her only garment was a broad silken girdle. Her white ivory limbs and the ivory globes of her breasts drove a beat of fierce passion through the Cimmerian's pulse, even in the panting fury of battle. Her rich black hair, black as a Stygian night, fell in rippling burnished clusters down her supple back. Her dark eyes burned on the Cimmerian.
She was untamed as a desert wind, supple and dangerous as a she-panther. She came close to him, heedless of his great blade, dripping with blood of her warriors. Her supple thigh brushed against it, so close she came to the tall warrior. Her red lips parted as she stared up into his somber menacing eyes.
"Who are you?" she demanded. "By Ishtar, I have never seen your like, though I have ranged the sea from the coasts of Zingara to the fires of the ultimate south. Whence come you?"
"From Argos," he answered shortly, alert for treachery. Let her slim hand move toward the jeweled dagger in her girdle, and a buffet of his open hand would stretch her senseless on the deck. Yet in his heart he did not fear; he had held too many women, civilized or barbaric, in his iron-Chewed arms, not to recognize the light that burned in the eyes of this one.
"You are no soft Hyborian!" she exclaimed. "You are fierce and hard as a gray wolf. Those eyes were never dimmed by city lights; those thews were never softened by life amid marble walls."
"I am Conan, a Cimmerian," he answered.
To the people of the exotic climes, the north was a mazy half-mythical realm, peopled with ferocious blue-eyed giants who occasionally descended from their icy fastnesses with torch and sword. Their raids had never taken them as far south as Shem, and this daughter of Shem made no distinction between AEsir, Vanir or Cimmerian. With the unerring instinct of the elemental feminine, she knew she had found her lover, and his race meant naught, save as it invested him with the glamor of far lands.
"And I am Belit," she cried, as one might say, "I am queen."
"Look at me, Conan!" She threw wide her arms. "I am Belit, queen of the black coast. Oh, tiger of the North, you are cold as the snowy mountains which bred you. Take me and crush me with your fierce love! Go with me to the ends of the earth and the ends of the sea! I am a queen by fire and steel and slaughter--be thou my king!"
His eyes swept the blood-stained ranks, seeking expressions of wrath or jealousy. He saw none. The fury was gone from the ebon faces. He realized that to these men Belit was more than a woman: a goddess whose will was unquestioned. He glanced at the Argus, wallowing in the crimson sea-wash, heeling far over, her decks awash, held up by the grappling-irons. He glanced at the blue-fringed shore, at the far green hazes of the ocean, at the vibrant figure which stood before him; and his barbaric soul stirred within him. To quest these shining blue realms with that white-skinned young tiger-cat--to love, laugh, wander and pillage--"I'll sail with you," he grunted, shaking the red drops from his blade.
Well, last night in a tavern, a captain in the king's guard offered violence to the sweetheart of a young soldier, who naturally ran him through.
The jungle was a black colossus that locked the ruin-littered glade in ebon arms. The moon had not risen; the stars were flecks of hot amber in a breathless sky that reeked of death. On the pyramid among the fallen towers sat Conan the Cimmerian like an iron statue, chin propped on massive fists. Out in the black shadows stealthy feet padded and red eyes glimmered. The dead lay as they had fallen. But on the deck of the Tigress, on a pyre of broken benches, spear-shafts and leopardskins, lay the Queen of the Black Coast in her last sleep, wrapped in Conan's scarlet cloak. Like a true queen she lay, with her plunder heaped high about her: silks, cloth-of-gold, silver braid, casks of gems and golden coins, silver ingots, jeweled daggers and teocallis of gold wedges.
No hand was at the sweep of the Tigress, no oars drove her through the green water. But a clean tanging wind bellied her silken sail, and as a wild swan cleaves the sky to her nest, she sped seaward, flames mounting higher and higher from her deck to lick at the mast and envelop the figure that lay lapped in scarlet on the shining pyre.
So passed the Queen of the Black Coast, and leaning on his red-stained sword, Conan stood silently until the red glow had faded far out in the blue hazes and dawn splashed its rose and gold over the ocean.
Quellenangabe
Conan reached his destination without being seen, just as one he wished fervently to meet was leaving it. As the Cimmerian slunk into the courtyard below, the girl who had sold him to the police was taking leave of her new lover in a chamber one flight up. This young thug, her door closed behind him, groped his way down a creaking flight of stairs, intent on his own meditations, which, like those of most of the denizens of the Maze, had to do with the unlawful acquirement of property. Part-way down the stairs, he halted suddenly, his hair standing up. A vague bulk crouched in the darkness before him, a pair of eyes blazed like the eyes of a hunting beast. A beastlike snarl was the last thing he heard in life, as the monster lurched against him and a keen blade ripped through his belly. He gave one gasping cry and slumped down limply on the stairway.
The barbarian loomed above him for an instant, ghoul-like, his eyes burning in the gloom. He knew the sound was heard, but the people in the Maze were careful to attend to their own business. A death cry on darkened stairs was nothing unusual. Later, some one would venture to investigate, but only after a reasonable lapse of time.
Conan went up the stairs and halted at a door he knew well of old. It was fastened within, but his blade passed between the door and the jamb and lifted the bar. He stepped inside, closing the door after him, and faced the girl who had betrayed him to the police.
The wench was sitting cross-legged in her shift on her unkempt bed. She turned white and stared at him as if at a ghost. She had heard the cry from the stairs, and she saw the red stain on the poniard in his hand. But she was too filled with terror on her own account to waste any time lamenting the evident fate of her lover. She began to beg for her life, almost incoherent with terror. Conan did not reply; he merely stood and glared at her with his burning eyes, testing the edge of his poniard with a callused thumb.
At last he crossed the chamber, while she cowered back against the wall, sobbing frantic pleas for mercy. Grasping her yellow locks with no gentle hand, he dragged her off the bed. Thrusting his blade in the sheath, he tucked his squirming captive under his left arm and strode to the window. As in most houses of that type, a ledge encircled each story, caused by the continuance of the window ledges. Conan kicked the window open and stepped out on that narrow band. If any had been near or awake, they would have witnessed the bizarre sight of a man moving carefully along the ledge, carrying a kicking, half-naked wench under his arm. They would have been no more puzzled than the girl.
Reaching the spot he sought, Conan halted, gripping the wall with his free hand. Inside the building rose a sudden clamor, showing that the body had at last been discovered. His captive whimpered and twisted, renewing her importunities. Conan glanced down into the muck and slime of the alleys below; he listened briefly to the clamor inside and the pleas of the wench; then he dropped her with great accuracy into a cesspool. He enjoyed her kickings and flounderings and the concentrated venom her profanity for a few seconds, and even allowed himself a low rumble of laughter. Then he lifted his head, listened to the growing tumult within the building, and decided it was time for him to kill Nabonidus.
Ich habe da immer nur schlimme Erfahungen mit gemacht. Wenn ein Spieler Conan spielt und es so versaut, das er von einer Horde Magdfrauen verhauen wird.
Oder einen Gurney Halleck (P. Steward in Dune), der aber leider ein mäßig gebauter 5. Stufe Star Wars D20 Charakter war und dann eher ein Punry Palleck aus der direct-to-video Version Pune wurde.
Jean Luc Picard in Forgotten Realms
Habt ihr schon einmal eine, in Buch/Film o.a. existierende Figur als SCs übernommen und wenn ja, welche? Wie empfandet ihr das im Vergleich zu selbst erstellten SCs?Der letzte Charakter den ich entlehnte war Sarge aus Z Nation (Wiki-Eintrag (http://z-nation.wikia.com/wiki/Sgt._Lilley), Serien-Bild (http://www.nerdspan.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/NUP_179793_0014.jpg)).
Generell finde ich dass es besser funktioniert, wenn man weniger bekannte Figuren als Vorlage nimmt. Bei Figuren die alle kennen haben dann auch noch meine Mitstreiter eine Erwartung wie diese Figur zu funktionieren hat.
Habt ihr schon einmal eine, in Buch/Film o.a. existierende Figur als SCs übernommen und wenn ja, welche? Wie empfandet ihr das im Vergleich zu selbst erstellten SCs?
Meistens ist so was allein schon deswegen vorprogrammiert, weil die übernommenen Charaktere mindestens auf ihrem Fachgebiet verdammt gut sind. Wenn man die dann nach den üblichen Regeln erstellt, kann das natürlich nichts werden.
Als einer der High Captains von Luskan!(Klicke zum Anzeigen/Verstecken)