Ember
 

Dragon

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Classes

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Dragon #53

Probably the most common reaction
I’ve heard among AD&D™ players to the
monk class is, “Oh, yeah, monks . . . .
They’re kind of a cross between clerics
and thieves, right?” Ranking second in
frequency is, “Play a monk? No, thanks.
I’d like to live to see second level. Besides, I want to keep my treasure.” And
perhaps the third most common reaction
is “Hey, this character could be a monk!
That’s great! I’ve always wanted to act
out one of those Bruce Lee movies!”

Examining these reactions in order,
monks are not cleric/thieves. True, they
fight on the same table as clerics and
save as thieves, and have some thieving
abilities, but there’s more to the monk
class than that. Other than the sharing of
an attack matrix, there is little in common between clerics and monks. The
association no doubt springs from the
“traditional” image of monks as those
portly, bald-headed men who live at that
big church up on the hill, where the
chimes ring every quarter hour.

In an AD&D campaign, monks are not
like that at all. Although the Players
Handbook calls monks “monastic aesthetics,” the book also describes them in
terms which make them potentially the
most efficient fighting machines in the
AD&D universe. Their various immunities and their special advantage on saving throws give them very good defensive capabilities as well.

Secondly, monks can make it past first
level and still do some actual adventuring in the meantime, though sometimes
accomplishing this feat requires extraordinary circumstances. When my monk
character Dmitri was a Novice, he was a
member of a party hired by a High Priest
to trash a nearby dungeon. (In case
you’re wondering, this dungeon posed a
major threat to his temple, but he couldn’t
take care of it himself, because his sect
had a holiday coming up.) The priest
promised to heal any injuries suffered
and to perform a Raise Dead upon any
fatalities.

To make a long story short, guess who
took six hit points (all he had) of damage
from an orc’s spear? After being raised,
Dmitri was given a 1,000-point bonus
award of experience points (see Dungeon Masters Guide, pages 85-86). This
put him over the hump to second level,
and the treasure he had left over just paid
his training fees.

True, monks will give away most of
their treasure, keeping only a few magic
items, and some gold for buying food.
But just think what this philanthropic
reputation will do to the monk’s social
standing. Instant popularity! This will
serve the monk well, should he ever fall
on hard times. (“Sure, Dmitri, you can
stay at the castle for a few days until you
raise enough to get the monastery out of
hock. Heck, I’ll give you a couple thousand gold pieces myself.”).

Thirdly, monks are not kung fu maniacs, rushing about hacking at boards
and bricks, screaming at the top of their
lungs, and creating general havoc. (Nobody is, outside of Hollywood.) Hey,
people, remember: Monks have to be
lawful. Lawful means disciplined and
self-controlled. Bruce Lee and leapers of
that ilk are definitely chaotic. The character played by David Carradine in the
TV series “Kung Fu” is, at best, neutral
with respect to law and chaos: not a lawbreaker, but also not a person whose
actions are always logical, predictable
and dependable.

Monks are skilled in the martial arts,
but they use their deadly powers (the
“quivering palm” or an obvious attempt
to kill) only as a last resort. Only when
they see that there is no other way to
solve a problem will they attack, and
then not wantonly or recklessly, but
carefully and methodically. If a monk
ever kills a like-aligned creature, he
should stop at nothing in an attempt to
rectify the situation. Examples of what
might be done include: persuading a
cleric to Resurrect an opponent; getting
a spell caster to use the power of a Wish
or a magic item to change the outcome
of the combat (but never so that the
monk’s party is harmed); or donating all
of the monk’s share of treasure to the
family of the deceased. The dreaded
“quivering palm” is truly a last resort,
only to be used against those of diametrically opposed alignment (or perhaps
by a lawful good monk attacked by an
upwardly mobile lawful evil monk, or
vice versa) or those who present such an
awful threat that there is no other available means of dealing with it.

Now, to tackle a few of the more frequently asked questions about monks.
(Perhaps I should send these to Sage
Advice, and see if they agree with me.)

(Editor’s note: We showed Steven’s
questions and answers to the kindly old
sage. All he did was mutter something
about “whippersnappers” trying to do
his job, and then he threw his quill across
the room...)

Q. Why can’t monks use flaming oil?
A. That’s a good question. I wish the
rules had provided a good answer.
Maybe setting folks on fire is a chaotic
thing to do.

Q. Then how come paladins and other
lawful characters can do it?
A. Okay, maybe the founder of monkdom (“monkhood” would have been an
obvious pun) didn’t think to teach “Flaming Oil 101” at his monastery. If this
sounds feeble to you, that makes two of
us.

Q. How can we get around the problem of using flaming oil in a party that
contains a monk?
A. Obviously, you can’t. That would be
like party members asking a paladin to
turn his back while they poison the
dragon. (This answer applies if you accept the first explanation of the oil question. If you accept the second explanation, there’s no problem. Just don’t let
the monk do the torching.)

Q. What the heck are bo sticks and jo
sticks?
A. Judging from the illustrations in the
Dungeon Masters Adventure Log, a bo
stick is a 5-foot-long wooden stick, tapered at each end, and a jo stick is a
3-foot-long wooden stick, tapered at
each end, but with one end slightly
thicker than the other. According to the
Players Handbook, a bo stick is 5 feet
long, weighs 15 gp, and does 1-6, 1-3
damage; a jo stick is 3 feet long, weighs
40 gp, and does 1-6, 1-4 points of damage. Evidently, both are used to knock
people upside the head.

Q. Is there any way to get around the
problem of having only one monk per
level above the eighth?
A. Is it reasonable to assume that in a
milieu such as the ones most of us play
in, which postulate the existence of thousands of characters, that there are only
nine monks, higher than 8th level? (Don’t
write in, that was a rhetorical question.)

Consider the situation in this manner:
There are, say, 100 characters per year in
a campaign who begin as first-level
monks. Assuming a five percent annual
attrition rate, and an advancement rate
of one level per year, there will be at least
675 monks of seventh level or lower in a
fully developed campaign using those
figures. There are only 9 “chiefs” (Masterlevel monks) to keep track of all those
“Indians.” Each high-level monk would
have a minimum (average) of 75 lowerlevel monks to watch over (and watch
out for). This surveillance and supervision would take up probably all of the
Master’s time, leaving him no time for
adventuring. This is a shame, because
high-level monks are just coming into
their own as adventurers when they have
to stop and keep track of a bunch of
green kids. And suppose there is a two
percent annual recruiting rate? But
enough of this; you know the problem.
I’m supposed to supply an answer. (Note
that I said “an,” not “the.”)

What if those 675 low-level monks
were divided by alignment into 3 separate monk organizations, each independent of the others?
Using the formula given in the Players Handbook for determining non-player character monk alignments, this gives the nine lawful good
monk leaders 338 lower-level monks, or
37 each; the lawful neutrals 236, or 26
each; and the lawful evils 101, or 11 each.
If these figures still seem too unmanageable, it is a small step further to postulate the existence of smaller factions.
Let’s further assume that due to strife,
disagreement of religion, and great distance (my campaign map covers an area
roughly the size of the United States)
these alignment groups have further split
into smaller factions, called “brotherhoods.” With a little more juggling of the
numbers (perhaps a higher dropout rate
or a higher recruitment rate), a structure
can be established where each highlevel monk has only around eight lowerlevel monks to “keep watch over,” allowing much more time for adventuring.

One problem that could arise within a
single brotherhood is the “too many
chiefs and not enough Indians” syndrome. Should this occur, a large-scale
recruiting drive would be initiated in the
area. Should the problem grow severe,
the brotherhood might have to disband.
The few remaining members would have
the options of retirement, changing classes, or beginning to study in another
brotherhood (this last act could require a
drop in level and a re-training period of
several months.),

Naturally, it is not possible to allow for
more than one Grand Master of Flowers
and still entirely uphold the spirit of the
AD&D rules. But it is possible, and may
be advisable, to alter the monkish hierarchy to suit a particular campaign, as
long as the system and the rationale devised to affect such a change is logical,
balanced and fair. What is given above
represents a solution to the “problem”
—but by no means the only one or the
best one.