Solo Tabletop RPG Review & Actual Play – Eldersworn: Florida Grotesque Part One

Eldersworn
Written and Designed by Wasteland Sniper

You can access this game freely through the Ironsworn Discord server.

Read Part Two here.

It was inevitable. At some point, all tabletop RPG systems get a Lovecraftian/cosmic horror hack. It may be one of Newton’s Laws. I was curious how the Ironsworn system would handle mysteries. I could imagine some ideas based on its progress-tracking system, but I couldn’t nail down the concrete mechanics of how that might work. Leave it to Wasteland Sniper, the author of the in-development Eldersworn game, to come up with a pretty ingenious collection of investigative moves that, like the official Ironsworn content, remains genre-neutral so you can layer it over any mystery style.

Opening a Case is nearly identical to swearing an Iron Vow in concept. You are assigning a challenge rank to a progress bar. In the game’s move, you roll 2d6+Willpower against the challenge die. If the case involves someone you share a connection with, you get to add to the roll. In my case, I was a private eye, so it was just a regular roll. On a Strong Hit, your character knows what to do next and takes +2 Luck (the game’s renaming of Momentum). You can consult the Oracle if you want some extra inspiration, but in this case, you get to choose where the case leads you. A Weak Hit provides +1 Luck, and you know where you should go to find a lead. A Miss has you facing an obstacle to your investigation right away. With this move, you will understand how your investigator’s case is going based on the initial information.

Your main progress move for investigation will be Pursue a Lead. You reference a specific clue you have found and then decide on your approach to see where it leads. If you’re questioning a person of interest, use Willpower. A sneaky approach has you rolling with Covert. Research and analysis means the player rolls against the challenge dice with their Wits. 

The roll’s result will lead the player to one of three tables: Find a Clue on a Strong Hit, Reveal a Danger on a Miss, and if you roll a Weak Hit, then you reference a table associated with the Pursue a Lead move. That table naturally sits in the middle, allowing the player to find a clue or reveal a danger. Progress on the case only gets marked if you get a Strong Hit or are lucky enough with the Weak Hit table. After playing through a ‘short story’ with this system, I think this is very smooth, and a compelling mystery emerged via the mechanics and what I brought to the table. 

That’s always the key thing with any solo gaming experience: You cannot come to the table entirely blank. Just randomly rolling to get started can create fertile soil for imaginative play, but it always helps when you have at least one story aspect or tone in mind in case you get stuck. Eventually, you’ll make progress on the case and can choose to roll Solve the Mystery. This is a 2d6+Progress roll against the challenge die, very similar to Moves in Ironsworn and Starforged that have you checking to see if you have fulfilled a vow. A move called Lie Low is also included, which is a way to back off from the case if the heat gets to be too much, but doing this comes with risk to yourself or the people who could be harmed by the threat. There are a few other mechanical differences, but for the most part, Eldersworn is a testament to how comprehensive the Ironsworn system is in that its Moves can work in nearly any genre. 

For my playthrough, I wanted to do something I could complete in about two sessions, so I went with a challenge rank of Formidable (One box filled per progress marked). Regarding the fiction, I felt compelled to set it in Florida despite only having visited that state less than a dozen times. I find Florida to be a place that gets creepier to me the older I get; it’s the unreal atmosphere of tourist destinations juxtaposed with spots like the ocean and swamps that creep me out. 

As for the mystery, I made a few rolls on some inspirational tables and came up with what follows:

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Burger sauce dripped down Gordon Puckett’s stubbled double chin. He dabbed at it with a handful of napkins he’d grabbed when stopping by a local Beachside Burgers for a late breakfast. Sitting sideways in his car’s driver seat, Gordon stared at the empty beach parking lot. Gulls screamed in the distance. Further down, on the sand, the detective could see a couple figures running back and forth, towards the water then away. He had ended up farther from home than expected when the case had fallen into his lap.

Kristi Briggs, 20. College student at Belmont University in the middle of Nashville, Tennessee. The copious photos on the walls of her parents’ Brentwood mansion told Gordon the girl was essentially their precious little ornament. From age five to the present, she was posed in a ballet move in almost every picture, dressed as a prima ballerina. Gordon had sat in the study, served freshly made lemonade on a silver tray by a Guatemalan woman who smiled slightly and never said a word before disappearing into the house’s innards. Kristi’s mother related the facts measuredly while Papa Briggs couldn’t help blubbering about his missing little girl.

Kristi had met a boy, Walter van der Zwan. He was the son of a Dutch diplomat based out of New York City. Walter was also a student at Belmont, working towards an MBA. Mrs. Briggs explained how the two had met while attending a Christian youth organization on campus, the Congregation of Hope. The family didn’t provide many details on the Congregation, and Gordon assumed Kristi hadn’t said much. Six months later, Kristi stopped showing up for lunch on Sunday afternoons, answering phone calls, or responding to messages of any kind. Mom stopped by campus, and Kristi’s roommate told her she’d said she was going on a spontaneous vacation to Florida. 

Gordon presented the Briggs with his budget, and they agreed. Now, he hung out of his Corolla parked at a beach in Jacksonville. He looked down at the photo Mrs. Briggs had passed across the coffee table to him that rainy afternoon. Kristi’s big green eyes looked out at Gordon. Something about her smile and those eyes felt forced, but the kid was good at it. She had years of practice being a dancer, making her face look joyful even if she didn’t feel it. 

Gordon had made many calls since crossing into Florida, many stops at hotels where he’d flash a counterfeit yet frighteningly believable FBI badge a pal had made for him a couple years back. Yes, it was risky, but he hadn’t been caught yet. You just had to float under the radar, make sure you never made too big of a racket, and they never even remembered you. It had all turned up cold, though. Jacksonville was a place the detective assumed young college people would love to come. He recalled how Kristi and her beau had met at a college group. The University of Florida was here in Jacksonville. It couldn’t hurt to check.

After a quick hike across campus, Gordon stumbled across a community pinboard in the lobby of a dorm. Hanging there, printed on light green paper, peeking out from between an announcement about a beach clean-up on Saturday and a film in the student center, was a flier with the words “Congregation of Hope” printed across the top. Gordon scanned the paper and saw an informational meeting being held in a classroom that evening. 

The chairs had been arranged into a semi-circle, and about half were filled when Gordon arrived. He was clearly the oldest person in attendance and hung out in the back, close to the door, in case he wanted to quietly duck out. On a screen at the front of the room, a projected slide read “Hope in Uncertain Times,” with photos fading in and out showing the unhoused, war, and environmental destruction. An elderly man sleeps with his feet sticking out of a cardboard box on a sidewalk littered with trash. A missile launches, leaving a trail of white smoke behind it. A swan has oil washed off its once-white feathers.

Three people stand at the front, representatives of the Congregation. Two women, one man. One of the women, pale and looking sickly, steps forward and smiles wide. She introduces herself as “Sophie,” pointing to the name badge sticker and its Sharpie-scrawled text. Sophie points to her companions and tells everyone they are Oliver and Grace. Gordon noticed Oliver’s hand was bandaged, and then that ol’ Oliver glared at the detective. Grace doesn’t exude friendliness anymore than Oliver, who is also suspiciously eyeing Gordon. 

The whole spiel is about the Congregation being founded by a man named Felix Flatt. The photo on screen is from the circa-late 1980s; a man stands with his arms across the backs of two young African boys. The t-shirt on Felix announces this as a mission trip. Sophie talks with admiration about Flatt’s philanthropic work since he was a child, which led him to found this Congregation. The exact doctrine feels nebulous and vague when the presentation wraps up. Sophie informs everyone there’s a sign-up sheet for a Friday evening fellowship event at a Congregation Center off campus. 

Gordon approaches Sophie after the meeting concludes. He knows to someone else it might seem unscrupulous, but he brings up his wife and son, who died in a car accident five years back, telling Sophie that ever since he’s been searching for some direction in life. That’s a lie. They died, and Gordon gave up. There’s the work and then just vast, unceasing periods of nothingness. Hence, why he tries to never stop working. Sophie touches his shoulder in a comforting gesture and starts talking. While handing over a brochure, she mentions that the Congregation is based on Soltan Isle. Gordon looks at the back and sees a simple map showing a path going through Fort Myers and then to the Gulf. They chat a little more, but he doesn’t get anything relevant.

Gordon excuses himself but finds he’s been followed out to the parking lot by Oliver and Grace. The detective notes the fresh blood that has seeped through the bandage on Oliver’s hand. The Congregation member pulls back his jacket to flash the Beretta underneath, tucked into a shoulder holster. Oliver clarifies that Gordon is not to come to any more meetings or Congregation functions. With that glare, Grace appears to be trying to see through Gordon’s skin to his very bones. To his benefit, the private eye plays it cool; he’s been here before. 

Apologies, apologies, as he unlocks the car door and slips inside. Moments later, he’s leaving campus. A glance at the rearview mirror and Gordon watches Sophie pull out her phone to snap a photo of his plates. He decides to keep heading out of town towards Soltan Isle, driving through the night. Eventually, sleep catches up with him, and Gordon pulls off into the parking lot of the Saltwater Motel just off I-75 outside of Gainesville. He can’t sleep yet; something is still scratching in his mind. 

He spends about an hour looking up Soltan Isle on his phone. It was incorporated in 1929 and bought by a French industrialist family, the Cygnes, for a song due to hurricane damage from previous years. Sounds like intelligent people avoiding the real estate boom and sweeping up the scraps after the fact. Hunger pangs stab at Gordon’s gut, and he wonders if a Beachside Burgers is nearby. There isn’t, but a short drive brings him to a pizza place still open in a rather bland copy-pasted strip mall. He sits in the car, having a slice, before returning to the motel. Then he sees him. A few doors down, Oliver comes out of a liquor store with a brown paper bag. What are the odds? Like seriously, Gordon thinks, this is bizarre. He decides to follow Ollie and see where this case will take him.

To be continued.