In early editions of D&D, level titles were used as descriptors for each character class at each level of advancement. A first-level cleric, for example, was known as an Acolyte, while a second-level cleric was called an Adept. Encountering three Mediums was synonymous with encountering three first-level magic-users. This system of level titles held true until the publication of AD&D 2nd edition in 1989 which dropped the practice. At the time, I can’t recall anybody I gamed with ever really noticing the change since most of us had already begun to ignore the titles in actual game play.

Level titles had their roots in the Chainmail miniature rules where they were originally associated with a figure’s fighting ability, and fighting ability was connected mechanically with one of Chainmail’s combat sub-systems in various ways. So, for example, a Hero (a fourth-level fighting-man) had the fighting ability of four men. A Hero also, among other abilities, increased unit morale in mass combat and could fight powerful monsters on the fantasy combat table. As D&D evolved and distanced itself from its Chainmail roots, level titles became little more than a colorful vestige (with, perhaps, the exception of the benefits that come from acquiring “name level”).

As a kid, the titles were thought-provoking and helped fuel my already active imagination. I probably spent hours in 1981 just pondering the various title lists found in Cook’s revised and edited Expert Rulebook. I mean, come on, who wouldn’t want to play a character that became a Swordmaster (a third-level fighting-man/fighter) or a Necromancer (a tenth-level magic-user in OD&D or an eighth-level magic-user in B/X D&D)? Sometimes, I also learned something from playing D&D that would later pop up in school. Such was the case with the level title for a sixth-level fighter or dwarf. At that time, my nine-year-old self had not been exposed to the Greek epics or other classic literature, so I had no clue what the hell a Myrmidon was, let alone how to pronounce it, but the strange title sure seemed cool on paper.

But not all of the class titles were inspiring to me. I never wanted to play my fighter as a Swashbuckler, for example, and the older I got the more the lists came across as haphazard and nonsensical. Isn’t a fighter still a Veteran after first level? Are all magic-users destined to become Necromancers? And what was going on with the Christian/Buddhist hybridity evidenced in the cleric class with its Bishop and Lama level titles? (I’ll discuss this topic in a later post.)

Despite some criticisms, I still enjoy the level titles found in early D&D. Conceptualizing and describing a character as a Seer, for instance, sounds far more interesting and invocative than using the mechanical description “second-level magic-user.” And, I confess, magic-user has always come across as a dumbass name to me. I always like to make more room for character flair, more invocative characterization, and more memorable titles. Enter epithets.

Epithets are terms used to characterize a person or serve as a descriptive substitute for the person’s name. Going back to those Greek classics I briefly alluded to above, the hero Achilles was frequently referred to using epithets like the swift-footed one, lion-hearted, and like to the gods. Aphrodite was called laughter-loving. Apollo was known as the destroyer of mice and the rouser of armies. Ares was the slayer of men, and Athena was the one whose shield is thunder. Such epithets are not only colorful, they are also full of meanings that point to stories about the characters themselves.

Examples outside these Greek sources also show how thought-provoking and colorful epithets can be. The Prince of Suzdal, in western Russia, from 1414-17 was known as Alexander the Potbelly. Tell me you don’t have an image in your head right now depicting this potbellied prince. The King of Galicia from 1188-1230 was known as Alfonso the slobberer. How badass (or sad) is that!

How might people refer to members of the same family? Epithets. For instance, Albert with the Pigtail, the Duke of Austria from 1365-95, was not to be confused with his son, Albert the Peculiar. While an epithet like Bernard the Hairy-Footed might call to mind a hobbit in the context of fantasy roleplaying, it’s also a reference to the 9th century Count of Auvergne. For a list of such amusing examples, check out this site.

Utilizing epithets in D&D can be done in many ways, and players have been doing so formally or informally since the inception of the game. Epithets can be used alongside the existing level titles; or, for those that dislike the level titles, epithets can replace them. In either case, here are some suggestions for implementing epithets in a fun and somewhat structure manner.

A character begins with an epithet of the player’s choice at first level. However, each time a player’s character advances to a new level, the other players in the group select a new epithet for that character.

Rarely do people get to pick their own nicknames or epithets. For better or for worse, such names are often bestowed by others. I doubt the King of Galicia woke up one day and demanded that everyone call him the slobberer. Only a demented porn star would adopt such an appellation. (Historical side note: the king apparently earned the nickname because he foamed at the mouth when enraged.)

The other players in the group should mutually decide upon an epithet that either best characterizes some aspect of the player’s character or is based on an event or events from actual game play involving the character.

Again, epithets characterize people and often serve as a substitute for a name. Epithets also have meaning by pointing beyond themselves to experiences, events, and stories. Sterg the fighter might become known as Sterg the One-Eyed after losing an eye in a battle with Orcs in the dungeons of Zulma. Sometimes, a sense of irony might be called for after an event that the party found amusing (at least in hindsight). Epithets can be put to good use in such cases. For instance, perhaps Flanavir the Elf earns the epithet Flanavir the Graceful after falling into a pit trap dug by his own party.

That’s really all there is to it. In the spirit of OD&D, each Referee/DM can apply the use of epithets in ways that fit their own game without the need for specific rules and mechanics. Still, for those wanting ideas for actual mechanical benefits associated with epithets, I offer the following reputation house rule.

To determine if a character’s renown/fame/exploits are known to others in an area, roll 1d10. First-level characters have only a 1-in-10 chance of being known, or having had some of their adventures spread to the person/group/area in question. For each additional epithet acquired, add +1 to the roll.

Thus, there would be a 4-in-10 chance to determine if a fourth-level cleric (a Vicar!) is known to others in terms of such things like temperament, appearance, or deed. Those desiring even more nuance could associate the roll with one of the character’s specific epithets, and thus a specific characteristic, description or event.