Dark Elves and the Second Sun

Here's another bit about elves in my campaign setting. The first is here. I'm obviously indebted to Zak S. and False Patrick, for initial inspiration. I personally see the Cult of Woe as a means to shoe horn dark elf/drow pcs into an otherwise more standard party, without resorting to endless Drizzt.

Woe is a black sun that is barely approaching Idios (Or your own campaign world, natch).

Sometimes it is invisible.  Sometimes it casts a green light at night.

Various apocalyptic cults have formed around the veneration of this foreign celestial body.  Some say it is the nemesis planet, destined to destroy the World. Some say it is the brother of Idios come at last to claim vengeance for his mutilation at the dawn of time. Others say it is the dead moon's husband, similarly inspired.

They are wrong. The Dark Elves know this. The Black Sun will take them home. Will erase the mistake they made of ever having tasted this world and its transient, mortal beauty.

(The black light and the white light fought a war when there was nothing else. The black light lost.)

Now the reversal is coming---when Woe will swallow Colossus & will burn anti-radiance across Idios.It will sweep the Dark Elves into its corona.

They came into our world because they loved the Dark. Their father was Yann, the Velvet Shroud. He broke himself up into all the Dark Elves.

But they did not know the Dark.

The Dark Elves came through to experience the Darkness, to taste its glory rather than admiring it as a concept from afar. To a god, everything is imagined, most especially the realm of flesh from which they are distinctly separate. At different times in history, gods have slipped across the Porous Borders and unless they have been very powerful, have found  themselves trapped, rendered in mortal flesh (essentially). So when those first Dark Elves truly felt the Dark...they were initially shocked. And after a time, it made them hate. They had seen the Dark from afar (aesthetically as gods experience things),  but not felt its bite, its cold, its relentless absence. And as it made their flesh, it forbade the upper worlds to them.

The majority of the undying 'elves' (as the mortals dubbed them) were forced to deal with their soulless natures (Gods, being pure spirit, are rendered pure flesh when they wander too far from the Porous Borders). Any elf that dies due to violence (they will never die of old age) will not pass into the Well of Souls. Instead its consciousness will persist in degraded, maddened form. A hateful imprint of an immortal super ego, denied both the flesh and transcendence.

The White Elves bind their dead into fetishes and tapestries woven from the spider silk mammary glands of their ancient Mother rulers. The Green Elf ghosts become one with the Witch Yews of the woods they inhabit (birthed by the great forest lord). The Moon Elves emerged only recently from moon debris (they are pieces of Her). The Dark Elves that die, are bound into bodies of lead called Cages, bodies built for war and slaughter. They wear lead pendants which will carry their essence for a short time (before the ghost escapes, stats as a Shadow). These pendants are collected for internment within Cages.

Since death for them is only the promise of one's worst aspects maintained within a hate forged shell of magic lead, most Dark Elves are content to sit and wait for the end of the 'others'. They avoid useless conflict, but utterly expunge anything that interferes with their precarious immutability. Eventually, everything else will die and they alone shall remain.

In this kind of climate, the worshippers of Woe are something akin to heretics. They believe in action. They know that the second sun is sending out a vibration to those most sensitive within the Dark. This vibration is almost information, but not quite, sitting uncomfortably upon the line demarcated 'instinct' and 'hallucination'. This vision says, that one day, Woe will arrive and it will upturn the order of Light and Dark which has existed since before there were gods; since, perhaps, before there was a multiverse. In this new light, some few Dark Elves imagine that they can reunite with their abandoned divinity or become something else entirely. 

To that end, these 'priests' of Woe have headed to the upper world to welcome the Black Sun. It must be granted purpose and power. A celebration or grand ritual, must happen upon the surface..in the hope that this will attract its attention granting the priests greater insight into its purpose, beyond the obscure glimpses unto which they have been made privy. Undoubtedly Woe is divine, since the power it grants its worshippers is inarguable. 

Ultimately, they know that Woe is coming regardless of the actions of the people of Idios and in order to placate its purpose (which will be sufficient to snuff out Colossus), certain mass scale geomantic alterations must be made to the surface. These alterations will form the nucelus of the celebration. A symbol must be shown to Woe, who will then reverse all things. Love will become hate, ice will become fire, the Dark will become a new Light.

This is how these few prophets understand the portents. The truth, is that there is very little known about Woe. Everything is interpretation. All is based upon the strong suspicion, that when Woe arrives, there will be no hiding for the Dark Elves, no outliving the perishable flesh. So these heretics have journeyed to the world above to see the Second Sun with their own eyes. To hear its song more fully. To pave the way.

In this land of old gods fallen; foreign tyrannical divinities and  the constant the threat of war and magical plague, the strange and charismatic followers of Woe seem to extend a lifeline to the people. They emerge from the wilderness, clad in black, faces goggled and hooded. They heal the sick. They feed the hungry.With these benevolent actions, their legend grows. People begin to talk.A fire is being lit in the hearts of the downtrodden. Woe promises one thing: change. And for many, that's the best deal they've heard in a long time.

Various disconnected Woe apocalypse cults wait for the picking; to be slowly organised under the aegis of the Dark Elf priests. How successful they will be, remains to be seen. One thing is for certain: hearts and minds must be won...a concept alien to many Dark Elves, whose hatred for the light dwelling mortal races is, commonly, infinite.

Woe's Domain

1st Protection From Evil/Good, Bane
3rd Continual Flame, Blindness/Deafness
5th  Daylight, Fear
7th Blight, Banishment
9th Commune (with Woe), Flame Strike

 1st Level

-Bonus proficiencies with heavy armour
-once per point of Wisdom modifier per day, you may command someone to change a given action to its exact opposite. This power may be used as a reaction. To avoid this compulsion, they are forced to make a Wis save.

2nd Level

-Once per day, per point of Wisdom bonus, you may cause any one spell cast with you or an ally as a target, to have precisely the opposite effect. Note that although this would cause a spell such as Inflict Wounds to instead Cure Wounds, if utilised against say a Fireball, it would create an anti-flame which would still cause damage,

6th Level

-You may swap HP totals (although not maximums) with any willing target. You may do this once per day, per point of Wisdom bonus. Wounds appear spontaneously, although remain bloodless for d6 rounds.

8th Level

-You may instantaneously swap locations with any one visible target. You may do this once per day, per point of Wisdom bonus. Target must make a Dexterity save. At this level, one of your senses becomes reversed. Roll randomly to see which one.

14th Level

-You may cause one environmental factor to reverse its effects upon your command. So one could now effectively hide in bright light, breathe underwater or freeze water with an open flame. This lasts no more than 10 minutes and may be performed once per day, per point of Wisdom bonus. A second sense becomes reversed.

17th Level

-You may reverse the nature and will of a mass of individuals, as many as you can see. A peaceful congregation might become an abatoir of cruelty, a market square could transform into a celebration of giving and sharing, a mass battle would produce a mass hug off and so on. This is a powerful effect and it may be utilised but once per year. Make one Wisdom save for the entire crowd. Whilst it occurs, the Second Sun burns brightly.

Weirder Dragon Born

A busy few weeks of gigging and production has come top an end, so I'm able to go back to my D&D comfort den,  perhaps with some extra insights gleaned from beating my brains a little. Or perhaps not.

At any rate,  I've been playing multiple games of my LotFP/D&D 5e hybrid since last Friday, with a couple of sessions on G+/Roll 20. It's been interesting to say the least, mainly because I've had the opportunity to develop a few ideas for my OSR community/homebrew setting---ideas which I think are not boring.

One of my players wanted nothing more than to play as Dragon Born. Frankly,  I was kind of horrified.  At best, they felt underwritten  and cartoony. At their worst,  they had a lame, B movie kind of vibe. Grotesque scenes floated before my third eye, scenes from a film, probably on the Sy-Fy Channel. I saw a rubber Dragon man stinking out the inn of ignorant goode folk. Just sort of looming there, waiting for his obligatory, stiffly choreographed fight scene and possibly , probably,earning a noble death, proving that the hero played by some 80s guy, was right to trust the big, dying lizard.

I mean, maybe you actually like the sound of that, I don't know. I mean, rubber heads definitely have their place. CGI heads, I'm still deeply unsold on. So think of those if you dig rubber.

Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, they even seem a poor fit for high fantasy, unless it's the kind of high fantasy championed by the Forgotten Realms,which, personally, as a setting,  seems too much like a LARP gathering in an American gym hall (and yes,  I've witnessed one...a Vampire game,  like the weirdest PE lesson of all time and a definitely saleable spectator sport). The idea of Renaissance Fair villages full of Midwestern peasants, I find, indescribably cack. To me, Dragon Born fit into that milieu.

There's no sense of mystery to them.  No sense of what makes a Dragon special. We see reasonable cracks at this with the other races...their racial abilities go some way to describing them as a culture and a species. But to say that dragons are defined by the types of damage they deal and resist... well, could it get any more boring?

What kind of losers are Dragon Born anyway?  How would you deal with the inferiority complex?  By hanging around other losers of your own species?  Or by stinking out inns, standing at the back of adventuring parties,  contributing nothing but your breath weapon and your BIG RUBBER DRAGON HEAD?

Even so, my player was thoroughly enchanted with the concept...thus, the race had to be made acceptable to mine eyes. I succeeded, but let's check your sensibilities...

The Dragon Born

The Dragon Born, ironically enough,  are not born,  but created. They emerge, from suicidal devotion to ideas,desperate need to escape the tatters of  life,doomed efforts to understand that which cannot be understood...and even; on occasion; from the wrong needle, dug deep into a vein, seeking an escape only the opiates of Yoon Suin can provide.


There are ten venerable dragons,  shepherds of the creatures of flesh, stewarding and winnowing as they see fit. Their ultimate origin is unclear...that they are orders of magnitude more potent than mortal races is as obvious as their matter is alien. They seem to bear a kind of responsibility towards the creatures of flesh. But it is more accurately a commitment, to a terrible kind of eugenic omnicide.

Areas home to dragons, warp and twist in fashions apt to nature of the master of the land (where they live, they are always masters).  Their very proximity,  causes reality to bend towards a model in which the Dragon dominates and flourishes.

At some juncture,  their blood appeared in stoppered vials, circulating through the arcane underground,  such as it is.  How this blood had been obtained, was open to conjecture.

Some say that the blood was donated by these gargantuan doom lords, with intent and carried out by their servants.

The blood of the Dragon is highly mutagenic. If one injects the blood,  then a change occurs on a fundamental physical, mental and spiritual level.  In short, the subject becomes Dragon Born, their identity and matter, being overwritten by the power contained within the draconic blood.

No memories exist of the former individual. If the blood is injected,  a new level 1 being comes to exist.  This creature is entirely new, ageless and inquisitive.

Some perceive this as apotheosis.  Others as escape from a life of shame, crime,  illness or grave misfortune.  It is undoubtedly a kind of suicide.  Even so, all that hope to receive the intravenous mutagen, tell  themselves a trace of their old self will remain.  But it does not. Whatever was born human, is cast away irrevocably.

And yet a visual clue persists.  The Dragon Born can assume a humanoid shape for a few hours a day. The shape, the illusion, is the image of the former, abandoned identity.

They learn swiftly,  the benefits of surreptitious behaviour. Their true forms are too monstrous to be acceptable.  They find themselves hunted by Cube Knights and Monster Slayers, driven into wild places,  far from civilisation. And yet they are attracted to the lives of mortals, their strange ways their odd achievements. They also, are tempted to feast upon them. There exists a beast in the heart  of every Dragon Born, no matter how seemingly noble.

Some insinuate themselves back into society. Reptilian presences within the higher echelons of culture.  They are constantly seeking, wondering,  attempting to find purpose. The worst of them groom  and farm sentient life  so as have a ready larder of flesh. Some they say, are deep ensconced within the greatest aristocracies of the land.

Sometimes they dream and their dreams are atomic splendour. And remote.

Sometimes they receive thoughts from the one that spawned them. Sometimes they are imperatives.

Both The draconic and mortal experience, are open to them and yet they are neither. They can see through the illusions perpetuated by other Dragon Born. Sometimes they form alliances and secret societies,  though they are just as often loners.

The fleeting notion that they are part of a greater whole, never leaves them. They are obsessed with transformations and indeed,  many continue to seek physical metamorphosis throughout their seemingly endless lives.

The mysteries of existence never end. They see inside the inside of themselves and they are compelled to make it explicit. But it is a mirror looking into itself. There seems to be cessation of revelation.

A true and inimical Madness waits for many Dragon Born. Some say this madness leads ultimately to a strange city, all angles terminating in impenetrable Draco-Space. Finally, the oldest Dragon Born are here, building, creating something. The angles keep getting tighter. Can an angle exert something akin to gravity if it is acute enough? Acute through multiple spatial plateau?

Some scholars think so.



Every Dragon Born is saddled with a Draconic Temptation. Roll a d10. The Dragon Born has disadvantage on all Intelligence, Wisdom and Charisma rolls whilst resisting the Draconic Temptation and able to satisfy it immediately.

1 Virgin Heads
2 The Fat of Children
3 The Flesh of Dogs
4 The Hearts of Lovers
5 The Skin of Saints
6 The Bones of Knights
7 The Eyes of the Holy
8 The Tongues of Fathers
9 The Blood of Mothers
10 The Unborn Whole and Crunchy



 
Every Dragon Born learns a Draconic Truth. They know one such Draconic Truth when they are created. They may learn a new one whenever they qualify for an attribute increase or whenever they find/persuade a Venerable Dragon to teach them.

1 Egg Rebirth: a dragon born can construct an egg from itself out of which it will be reborn. This costs 5000 xp to create the first time, doubling thereafter. It is a costly process. Invariably they emerge less human, gaining a new Draconic Temptation with each renewal.

2 See True Geometry: the Dragon Born can utilise space according to dragons. Once per day, per point of Wisdom bonus, it may Dimension Door. A DC 15 Wisdom save must be made to avoid passing into a different dimension for d6 rounds. Carcosa, say. They usually end up somewhere portentous.

3 Breather underwater/aether. Does what it says on the tin. Phlogiston would work just as well as Aether. Beware Aetherial Regrets, which are fascinated by Dragon Born. They also are now able to resist extremes of pressure.

4 Draconic Trans-mind. They can reach into a kind of Akashik Record, a draconic supra consciousness...a reptilian over soul. Roll 5 d20 and arrange in any order. These are the results of the Dragon Born's next 5 d20 rolls. Put this down to the fact that Draconic Trans-Mind knows the limits of neither time, nor space. This emanation is perhaps a side effect of the Strange City.

5 Envoy. The Dragon Born been chosen by a great dragon, to represent its interests amongst the lesser races. The Dragon Born gains advantage on persuade rolls with wise members of monstrous races (those who recognise the Envoy's crest). They become subject to random dragon missions and a gain a host of  new enemies. On the other hand, whenever a monster city is entered, the Dragon Born can rely on having the capability of drawing upon one contact, a being aware of their importance.

6 Stone Sleep. Can enter a stony encased hibernation trance appearing to be a foetal statue. This takes about 10 minutes. The Dragon Born is treated exactly like a petrified individual, but remains conscious and can re-flesh with a thought. DC 10 con save required, else cannot awake for d100 years without outside help. This help, involves the Dragon Born's favourite Draconic Temptation.

7 Mutagenic Blood. The Dragon Born's blood, creates more Dragon Born if injected intravenously. The transfused individual, is immediately level 1 in a new class. About a pint is required. The old person is completely gone. The new Dragon Born is a physical clone and will be favourable towards the one that made it.

8 Hoard Strength. GPs have powerful effects upon Dragon Born when slept upon. A minimum bed of 5000 gp, is enough to constitute a hoard.  Sleeping on it, will ensure the Dragon Born begins each morning inspired.  Furthermore,  the Dragon Born may make a DC 18 Insight check to know who was the last owner of any given GP in their collection.  A DC 18 Insight check will reveal their current location. Treasure must spend at least 2 weeks within   the lair of the Dragon Born to qualify for hoard status. The Dragon Born becomes trnasfixed by the notion of acquiring more wealth for its hoard.

The Dragon Born still possesses a breath weapon and a resistance. A d10 can be rolled to determine the Dragon colour of origin.

(I used the ten Venerable Dragons from Rafael Chandler's extremely fun 'Terratic Tome', as the basis for the breath weapon/resistance of my Dragon Born. You can use the normal ten if you wish. I don't really have much time for them, as written.)

Vermilion             Fire, 15' cone, resistance to poison or fire
Azuline                Lightning, 30' line, resistance to electricity
Porphyrous          Insects, 15' cone, resistance to piercing
Chlorochrous       Enchanted Cloud (force), 15'cone, resistance to force
Nacreous              Sulfur (fire), cone 15', resistance to poison or fire
Flavescent            Sonic Death (force) 30' line, resistance to force
Albicant               Cold, 15' cone, resistance to cold
Chromatophoric   Fire & brimstone (fire) 30' line, resist fire
Gamboge              Spores (poison), 15' vibe,  resist poison
Atrous                   Acid, 30' line, resist acid

Everything else, I'd keep as is. I recognise that I've certainly made the race more complex, but honestly, I think they needed that. Well...I needed that. 

Tūr Cadas and the Etter Caps

It is a city of spiders. The architecture is as much their work as that of Tūr Cadas' long perished founder kings. Perhaps more so now.

Imagine, conical towers, bricks and mortar, strung with hardened web, calcified after centuries, the webbing darker at the lower levels, the same colour as the dirt of life, meat; the used energy of squalor.

The Crawl Watch, thousands of domesticated, spiders herded by the Etter Caps, magicians trained in the ways of the Great Silk Spiders of Tūr Cadas, called the Silk Masons. The magics they wield have wrought terrible changes.

The higher one's perspective rises, the more the colours of the buildings lighten; here the Silk Masons are still spinning new wonders, delicate manses of the stupendously rich. Witch Elves (who have chosen to live here in large numbers) tend gardens of Yew, bark etched with screaming ancestors, branches thick with the cloud stuff of diaphanous silk.

Two immense cocoons, casts their  shadows across the city.  From a bridge, one can see their movement, the heart of the city, its power, its greatest resource, the home of its inscrutable creators. The surfaces are alive with the migrations of millions of arachna-forms.

Tūr Cadas, the Ghost Moon, the Greater and Lesser Suns

The greatest brothels in the whole of Macmóhrda  . The fantasies of all, are catered. Cultivated venoms, distillations of grieving, modelled for recreational use, still devastating...heavy use will change you over time. Is this whence came the Etter Caps? The alien, changed natives have more in common with the mighty Silk Masons, colossal industry made manifest, webs of delicate arabesque, art and purpose.

Each summer, a migration of Giant Horse Flies blacks out the sky. The spiders feast. These days are called the Buzz Kill.

What price is paid to maintain the City of Bound Whispers? Anything can be bought here, but there are no livestock.

Each morning, the people wake. They will always be lightly brushed with spider silk. Money Spiders maintain obscure functions.

It is considered both a luxurious and a cursed place. Lords, merchant princes, magi, high priests; visit here, but never stay. It is too alien for men, in the end. The natives look like men. But act like men? No, they do not do that.

Each night, the higher silks are illuminate--- tripped out dead moon glow, awash with delirium in lieu of mortal fog. 1000 strong choirs sing dirges in the language of spiders. The spiders never cease working.

Down below, the strange masses, lost to the venoms.

Also human flesh is a thing. But only if you are bad. Or too old. Or too sick Or for some other reason, some arachnid taboo broken, heedless, unknowing. The Crawl Watch carries you away. In the saloons of Low Cadas, 'Special Loin' is served daily. It is a staple. There are no graveyards.

The Witch Elves partake never. "Look how they ape the Masons", they say "they will never be like them!" And they laugh.

The Barbét Recency and the Cyclops

The rolling valleys of Barbét are choked with vineyards and orchards. Slicing through the greenery are alarmingly clear streams, white pebbles reflecting the light from Colossus, the greater sun,  which is considered holy in this land. The hills are verdant and flocks of black sheep and firey, red haired goats are driven across the pasture by hardy,  ruddy skinned shepherds. The peasants of this land have tended their flocks for generations.  They lead simple lives. They know and understand their place in the grand scheme of things: that is, to live and die upon the pasture. Their masters treat them well, watching with their great brass telescopes from their granite castles.

They are called Cyclops and they are as civil a people, as one could hope one eyed giants to ever be.

Their race is older than man and in their refinement, their gentlity, their measured calm; the surplus of years is made apparent.  They stand a full head higher than a man and their frames are broad and powerful.  Their hands are like shovels and yet their fingers are long and dexterous. They are magnificent musicians,  composing heart shudderingly beautiful scores upon their peculiar piano-harps. Their voices are peerless, rich and luxuriant of tone.

True to legend, each possesses but a single, great eye. It is right to say that their depth perception is not good. But those eyes see more than crude matter alone. If they fix upon a spot,  they can see the future of that tightly focused point in very specific terms...the holes that will form in a coat, the lines that will crease a maiden's face, the wound that will fell a soldier.  They use the chrono-scry rarely,  for it calcifies the future,  setting the most likely fate of a person or object in certain terms.  Still,  there are foreign princes who still pay great sums to know something of what a Cyclops sees.

They are not a populous race,  living many thousands of years,  but breeding perhaps once or twice in that great span. They, unlike elves,  have souls.  They are worshipers of invisible Metronon, but they are not fanatics like the men of Torquemada. Moreover,  the Torquemadan empire recognises the important allies these people represent and do not force them to burn their musical instruments or destroy their skewed, surreal paintings. Despite this seeming tolerance, it is no mere conjecture to say, that many within that base empire, where shallowness has been raised to holiness, would love to bring the  Barbét Regency to heel. But for now, they are simply too afraid.

They rule a population of men, generally serving as examples to their lessers in matters of honour and chivalry. Still, they see their human vassels more like the inhabitants of a great doll's house than as people.  Privacy is forbidden. Utilising enormous brass telescopes,  they peer into the most intimate places with complete impunity. To hide from their sight, is to invite a terrible paranoid fury. All peasant's homes have  large, round windows set into the north, east, south and west walls  . Through these  windows, every room in the house can be seen.  They call them 'The Master's Windows'.

They dress in the finest fashions. Indeed,  the salons of Barbét are widely considered to set trends across the continent. They are fond of a wide variey of smoking herbs, many of which are highly narcotic to a human partaker. They hold garden parties, upon clifftop retreats.

They are formidable warrirors, exceptional duelists and famous for their three man jezail teams, incorporating a shooter, a stabiliser and a range finder (vital with the Cyclops lack of depth perception).

They tolerate the persecuted Alephs (as they are known on Idios, You can call them Tieflings if you like. I was never a fan of that name). In fact, many Alephs have settled in the Barbet Regency; enough to be of concern to the Church of Metronon. For now, Barbet represents a great place of security for the Alephs and they do their best to find their way here. Were it not for the fact that they worship the Lord of Secrets, Murmuri , they would come in greater numbers. As it is, there are still a great many secular Aleph and these ones flourish.  The Cyclops tolerate nothing hidden.

Witches, personifying the profane 'secret' for the Cyclops, are not suffered to live. In fact,  all crimes,  even the slightest, are considered an affront to the natural order. If any are discovered,  then execution comes in the form of an iron mallet to the head. This is often carried about by enthusiastic human vassals. Every household has an execution mallet, wielded by the eldest member.

Despite this,  within the captal city of Ergo, thieves operate,  for objects d'art proliferate. The Cyclops produce nothing without idyosyncracy. Their work is not always beautiful, but it is always art. Ot at least their creations seem to unite critics in a perversely universal fashion.

Barbét Cyclops Chevalier

AC 18 (chain & shield), HP 85 Spd. 35 ft Proficiency bonus +2, To hit +8, 2d6+5 dm (massive longsword)

S+5/D+1/C+2/I+1/W+1/C+2

Disadvantage on ranged attacks.

Fated Strike: so localised and specific is the sight of the Cyclops that its power is as much of a hindrance as a boon. If the Cyclops chooses to use it (which it will do as a last resort), roll on the following table. (It takes up a bonus action) :

1 "I see you burn!" Target becomes vulnerable to fire for the next round (or some other random damage type)
2. "I am undone!" Cyclops gains disadvantage on all rolls this round.
3. "Your armour is badly maintained , my friend!" Next hit from the Cyclops reduces AC of opponent by 1.
4. "Tis not the time for battle." Cyclops compelled to do nothing but defend and spout poetry this round.
5. "We both, shall fight to the last! " Cyclops and opponent both do double damage to one another this round.
6. "Winds  of time, blow thy horns!" Cyclops gains advantage on all rolls this round.
7. "The horror! The horror!" Cyclops is nauseated.
8. "You and I may yet be brothers" Cyclops will immediately attempt to parlay. Opponent has disadvantage to strike Cyclops.
9. "Thou art mine bosom enemy!" Cyclops forever hits a critical on a 19 or 20 against this opponent.  It will fight to the death.
10.  "Stare into my eye and see thine reflection." Both Cyclops and opponent gain a level of exhaustion,  faced with a swift developing, cosmic ennui.

White Elves and the Ancestor Societies

"Not all the white elves are barbaric and pitiless – some are civilized and pitiless.... They are ruled by two blue-skinned sisters, frost giant queens." Vornheim-Zak S





So as I think I mentioned in an off hand, fluff fashion somewhere back, elves in my game are split into four distinct types, colour coded for easy reference: Dark Elves (heavily inspired by False Patrick's 'Black Glass' essay), Green Elves, Moon Elves and White Elves (Inspired by Zak S' two or three sentences in Vornheim). Here's a stab at a soulless White Elf, culture thing.

Mythos & Lore:

Across (and through)  the Porous Borders, the Hollow World of the gods, awaits in immaculate splendour. Beyond the physical , all things are conceived and known in an endless aesthetic instant. To experience the flesh,  is impossible. It does not constitute a part of a universe composed purely from the stuff of the imagination. And yet...to say that a god cannot understand experience would be quite wrong.  For the most part, they transcend it, but occasionally their aesthetic appreciation reaches a critical mass and they must find some way to feel first hand, the beauty of creation.

This is how the Elves came about.

In the case of the White Elves, two frost giant sisters emerged from the endless white wastes of the Kraal. By parthenogenesis, they gave birth to their people,  all for the sake of longed for sweet experience. To say they were shocked by the frigid cold (whose beauty was now somewhat offset by its tendency to kill) would be an understatement...at any rate, they absorbed some of its bite and cruelty. In many ways,  they were fortunate: they at least were not dealt the bleak hand played upon the Dark Elves. All Elves feel dully as if they have been tricked.

Once one crosses the Porous Border,one cannot go back.

They created the frozen city of Nornrik. From that strange city,  they spread south. Their peculiar talents, beauty and immortality  ensured them a place in society,  especially in Vornheim. However,their soulless natures presented a series of unforeseen problems.

The White Elves live outside the fear of old age. Imperishable, only violence or other outside agency can end them. When they do die, often after countless centuries of life, their consciousness reject what is occurring/has occurred (knowing only oblivion awaits) and these psychic imprints are driven insane, enraged by happen-stance and fear. Death simply does not happen to them. Now rendered psychotic wraiths,  they are incredibly dangerous and cause havoc for their families.

At some point, the White Elves learned to control and bind the ghosts of their fallen ancestors, combining placatory rites, with harsh spiritual torments. This has become the very totem of their society, the frame by which all else hangs.

White Elf 'Mothers' rule their people with every cunning

tool at their command, knowing that ultimately they are the gate that stands between the elves and a murky realm of rage maddened spectres. The word 'Mother' and the word 'Host', are one and the same in the Elven tongue.

Elven women produce something akin to spider silk from their mammary glands. Mothers weave this silk into the Tapestries of the Beloved Dead. These Tapestries are constantly worked upon by Family members and they depict Ancestors engaged in heroic and noteworthy activity. They are vital components of any long term placatory activity.

Organisation:

Each Elven family is a mini-state unto itself, ruled by an autocratic Mother. She determines the laws they follow, the customs they celebrate, the punishments that are meted out. She leads the rituals of the Ancestor Societies, receiving visions and binding ghosts into servitude and fetishes called 'Kaaba'. In practice, she delegates much responsibility, leading only the major rites and observances.

Restrictions:

White Elf society is a matriarchy. Something in the soothing nature of the feminine is believed to calm the insane ancestors. However, some have suggested that this is merely a ploy by the scheming Mothers to maintain the gender status quo. Either way, breaking this taboo seems to lead to madness more often than not.

During rites, The Mother wears a powerful Reindeer skin fetish called a Skikkja. All others wear black cloaks.

Whenever an elf is about to knowingly commit a sin, he/she puts a leaf in his/her hair to avow him/her from responsibility.

White Elf shaman are fond of using reindeer horns as symbols of their power.

Umbilical cords are kept and used as fetishes and jewellery. They must never be lost.

Hair and (Sometimes) fingernails must be not be cut, except during a rite to protect the original owner from malevolent ghosts.

Now D&D

Mechanically speaking, White Elves are the same as High Elves. However,  difficulty arises in terms of modelling the necro-animistic Ancestor Societies. I saw somebody handle shaman as essentially clerics who worship their dead descendants. I think this is probably a reasonable angle of approach.

Ancestor Domain

1st:  Protection from Evil/Good, Sanctuary
3rd: Gentle Repose, See Invisibility
5th:  Magic Circle, Speak with Dead
7th:  Banishment, Divination
9th:  Planar Binding, Dream

Bonus Proficiency: Persuade. Gains advantage on persuade with own people, due to deference.

 Fetch 

Starting at 2nd level,  you are joined by one of your Ancestors in the form of an invisible companion. This Ancestor is bound to your umbilical necklace 'Fetch Cord'. If the cord is destroyed, so is the Fetch. This is the only way to end it. It is a malicious thing, only visible to you. It  takes the form of (d12):

1 An eyeless crow
2 A horrible black moth
3 A rat with an old woman's face
4 A monkey that moves like a Ray Harryhausen creature.
5 A white hare, looks like road kill. Limps.
6 An elven child, mouth and eyes sewn shut.
7. A flat, naked old woman that lives under the bed.
8. An area of utter darkness.
9. A scarecrow that is always in the corner.
10. A puddle of stagnant water.
11. A crawling thing composed of flies.
12. A doppelganger of yourself, insane grin, reptilian eyes.


Initially it does very little but watch. Each Fetch represents tbe shade of an Ancestor and its stats are generated as for an elf. It can be consulted. It has the strange wisdom of the dead.  It will warn you if you are in danger sometimes. It can cast the Thamaturgy cantrip at will. But that is all.

(Channel Divinity) Bind Dead

Instead of destroy undead, at 5th level the you gain the ability to bind undead into fetishes. The table from the Player's Handbook is suitable for determining the level of undead which can be affected. The object in question must be prepared in a ritual that takes 3 hours, although it can be small and innocuous.

Upon binding,  physical undead turn to dust. Physical or ethereal, their animating spirit is drawn into the prepared object. There they will stay unless destroyed.

A fetish grants the use of any supernatural abilities possessed by the dead.  For example, a dagger containing a ghoul's essence,  will paralyse on a successful hit.  All saving throws are at the creature's original difficulty. However, every-time the fetish  is used in this manner,  you must test to bind the creature anew. Failure results in the spirit using the ability against you. A natural 1, means the spirit is immediately freed. In the case of physical undead,  they manifest as spectre.

Using a bound power counts as a use of Channel Divinity.


 Fetch Boon

At 6th level, the Fetch's relationship with you has grown to the point where it now provides a physical benefit.  Choose two from the following list. Choose another at level 9 and a final boon at level 17:

1. The Fetch can now venture beyond the animist's personal space.  It can travel around 100 mph. The Animist can see through its eyes (even if it has no eyes).

2. The Fetch obey commands.  It cannot interact with the physical world, but it is essentially loyal. Without this boon, the Fetch is a stubborn thing and must be persuaded to do the animist's bidding.

3. The Fetch can interact with the physical world, stars as generated.  In all other ways,  treat as a poltergeist. Can be dangerous.

4. Fetch can cast counter-magic once per day at the animist's level. It will do so instinctively.

5. Fetch actively wards the animist (or is it just the Fetch Cord it wants to protect?). +2 A.C.

6. Fetch can possess a target as a ghost. DC 10 + Fetch's Charisma bonus to resist.  Fetch can automatically animate a dead body. Stats as zombie, only with Fetch's mental attributes. Can animate objects or body parts. Can possess as many times per day as Wisdom bonus.

7. Fetch can cast any of the Animist's spells.  It can also deliver touch spells on the Animists behalf.

8. Fetch can see the future and will discuss it in the form of cryptic statements. See Vornheim for an excellent fortune system.

9. Can poison all food and water within 100m radius. Poison is deadly.

10. Can enter dreams and fight as an Invisible Stalker. If killed in dream, wake up with one random insane disorder.

11. Melds Ancestral memory with your memories. +2 Wisdom.

12. Can convert recently slain into Obol (currency used by the dead and demons) 1 HD/CR=10 Obol. For the purposes of XP, 1 Obol=5 XP  This idea is swiped from Matteo Diaz Torres and his 'A Most Thoroughly Pernicious Pamphlet'.

(Channel Divinity) Ancestor Strike

Add an extra d12 cold damage at the cost of a channel divinity use. Crist on a 19 or 20. At 14th level, this rises to 2d12.

Ghost Walker

At level 17, the you may concentrate for a turn to become ethereal. May force any spirit to parlay whist in this state.  May turn up to Wisdom bonus other characters ethereal also.


That's about all I can be bothered writing at the moment. I'll update this with some old school rules eventually, but I figure that it won't be far beyond you, my good reader in converting backwards.

Black Triangles over Macmóhrda

Macmóhrda is a grey-green island in the middle of a cold grey-green sea. It's people are tactiturn and strange. For centuries, they were ruled by druids from the deep and tangled forests. When the Church of Metronon arrived on the Island, they proclaimed it a bastion for the Torquemadan Empire. But then the Black Triangles arrived and all  contact was lost with the Island.

At the same time, cataclysm sruck across the world as the Moon fell from the sky, breaking into pieces across the land and devastating wherever and upon whatever it fell. Were these two events connected? Nobody knows. Not for sure.

When what remained of the Torquemadan Empire returned (to lay their hands upon the copious silver of the Island...needed to combat ever increasing numbers of Were-Beasts), they found a weird peace. 12 motionless Black Triangles in the sky and a populace that seemed to ignore them.

They say the old druids are back in the woods and that they have come from the Black Triangles. The Old Druids whisper from the wood dark, but only to children. Sometimes they take the Children away.

Some of the Children they kidnap, return and do strange things like turn into giant, mega brained prawns. Prawn 'things' (not the kind they sell in Iceland to poor mothers).

These mutations are then taken removed to creches maintained by virgins. From here, they occasionally confess to their carers, how to create items of magic-rechnology never before witnessed.

The Church of Metronon is horrified. There is so much to burn here. But the natives are more than happy to attend Church. The people of the wood said it was ok. It won't make a difference.

Manchester: Part 2

What was I saying about mining one's  hometown for ideas? Oh yeah... I said it was officially a good idea. Or at least it's a good idea when one hails from a place as exciting and vivdly realised as my hometown of Manchester (yes, I mean that).


 In truth, it's not really the city per se and its qualities (or lack thereof), that is serving as inspiration for me here. No, in this case, Manchester is merely a conceptual springboard for creativity (maaan).  It could really have been anything.  A loaf of white bread, say or a broken wheel chair. Perhaps seventeen saxophonist in a van. Whatever...the point, is that I'm familiar with what makes the place tick; it's a great bundle of abstractions, concrete definites, myths, pictures, sounds, people, histories and lurid, speculative psychogeography.

You can't really say the same about a loaf of white Warburton's.

With Manchester, I luck out. We're already half living in a Mythic Otherworld, here upon the edge of the glowering Pennines...a place walked by the ghosts of an almost utopia that never quite was. Tales of heroes and their deeds which, in truth, with the right kind of vision, are as much the stuff of cosmic myth as the Labours of Heracles (for example). It's a different kind of vibe...more Hesse than Tolkien; but it's present and correct.

I'm not going to eat up pages describing stuff you can find out on Wikipedia  or you might already know. The plan is to be game able quick. So let's begin with an example. In this case, music.An exceedingly easy starting point for our adventures. Let's focus on legendary Mancunian band,  Joy Division. Just for starters.

Ian Curtis' tale is well documented. His life, his career, his un-timely death. If you were so inclined (and many have been), you might point at Joy Division and Curtis as the progenitor of the famed Manchester music scene and make a convincing argument regarding their role as an influence upon popular music as we know it. With a bit of research,  one could mine raw history for ideas and derive something pretty punchy. But why make things difficult? Let's focus upon the art, in particular, Unknown Pleasures, Joy Division's debut album.

For a start, the title is my kind of D&D. The front cover depicts  the sound waves emitted by a dying star. This too is my kind of D&D. The lyrics? The music? The same. So let's focus once more,  this time on a song from Unknown Pleasures, namely track 1. Disorder, written out below:
.

Disorder.

I've been waiting for a guide to come and take me by the hand,
Could these sensations make me feel the pleasures of a normal man?
These sensations barely interest me for another day,
I've got the spirit, lose the feeling, take the shock away.

It's getting faster, moving faster now, it's getting out of hand,
On the tenth floor, down the back stairs, it's a no man's land,
Lights are flashing, cars are crashing, getting frequent now,
I've got the spirit, lose the feeling, let it out somehow.

What means to you, what means to me, and we will meet again,
I'm watching you, I'm watching her, I'll take no pity from your friends,
Who is right, who can tell, and who gives a damn right now,
Until the spirit new sensation takes hold, then you know,
Until the spirit new sensation takes hold, then you know,
Until the spirit new sensation takes hold, then you know,
I've got the spirit, but lose the feeling,
I've got the spirit, but lose the feeling,
Feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling

Ok, this is what my mind made, based purely on the above verse. Are you ready? OK:

The world's reality damage is causing  more problems with each passing year. Since the moon broke apart and the old things, banished beneath the earth began to rise once more (sensing the eldritch magics by which they had been forced from the surface of the planet Idios had faded), chaos (with a small c) has gripped the land.

Strange men tall men in sorrel cloaks have been noted. Men whose faces are never quite glimpsed beneath tbeir shadowed  cowls. They come out of the walls, from a place of tearing metal and screaming sod. They seem to have a plan, but no-one knows what it is. They ask people to do things.

They carry with them the Wyrd Light, which can be passed on. Some say they are emissaries of the new ghost moon. They consider it a sacred duty to task folk with slaying were-creatures, which proliferate in the woods and darkest places of the hedge,

THe Wyrd Light is the gift of creativity. It can be too much for an artist. The sheer volume of ideas can kill them. If it does not, it is the power of magic. But for a normal man, 'a flat man' as the Sorrel Hoods call them, it will be as if the world is glimpsed true for the first time.

It comes at the cost of normal pleasure, normal sensation. The more refined one's tases and senses become, the less they inhabit the perceptions of this world. For a Wizard, this is well known. To see the beyond is to lose interest in the here and now. This is the curse of the magus. This is why they eventually leave for higher realms of existence.

Some say there are no end to these delights. Others say, all things are finite and that in some distant aeon, a magus whose imagination has grown tired of all things, will snuff out the universe.

But this light is being granted to normal men. Wizards, once held in check by the three Hermetic Orders, begin to proliferate alarmingly. Magic becomes easier to wield. More are born with the blood magic/sorcery. This is interesting, since the Church of Metronon (a monotheistic Church, worshipping an invisible demiurge, ranging on missions of religious conversion,  hailing from the vaguely Spanish empire of Torquemada) is burning Hedge Wizards and Blood Magicians upon inexhaustable pyres. This is why the Church has decried art as shit. This is why Torquemada is like that planet in 'It's Hard Being a God'.

The Sorrel Hoods might be chaos magi from Incorrect Realities. They do not appear to be human. They can be invisible to most things. They are silent. They can open any door. They can lead you to to other places you didn't think possible, if you take their hands, which are cold and hard and never seen. Serve them well once and you will receive the Wyrd Light which they carry within the folds of their robes (when the Wyrd Light is granted,  you become a level 1 wizard.  They collapse like Obi Wan Kenobi in A New Hope). Fail them and you will never see them again. You will suffer a curse.

d12 Sorrel Hood Commands

1 Slay a certain werebeast
2 Destroy a moonstone mining operation.
2 Posion a town well with ergot.
4 Conceive a child and give it to the Moon Men.
5 Spend a level as a transformed animal.
6 Deliver a cryptic message to a dying noble. A note that says 'yes'.
7 Steal all copies of a certain astrological chart and deliver them to the Sorrel Hood
8 Assassinate a prominent artist.
9 Cause two people to fall in love.
10 Swap your shadow with one of the Sorrel Hood's choice
11 Lead a girl into an area of reality damage.
12 RIng the city bell 13 times when the Ghost Moon is in the sky.

I could keep going.  I really like the Sorrel Hoods. I like them because they're cool.  I like them because they're mysterious.  And I like them because they prove my point. Really,  you don't have much of an excuse to ever be out of ideas.  Just run with a high powered brain fart.

More stuff inspired by Manchester soon.

https://youtu.be/9TtWfTHzI2o

Here's some bit of funk from my Runequest 6 game...essentially built around the toils of the DIY scene. Enjoy it for what it's worth. I'll try and post more shit in upcoming days and weeks.

The Book of Fundaments

Runes

Law, Harmony

Mythos and History

It is said amongst certain scholars, that mankind and possibly all sentient life began amidst the Garden of Ulfire. At some point, man rebelled against the prime architect for he wished to perceive himself perfected. Alas, nothing perfect could tolerate separation. Only in unity was the 'one' realised. The primal colour,  Ulfire, became many and these new colours and the newly born perceptions which governed them exploded outwards,  creating the multiverse and all things.

 St Marten was the wise man that first codified this knowledge in a coherent form. Like many Hermetics, he sought the truth behind the universe. He rejected the quasi-gnosticism of the worshipers of Thassaidon as self aggrandising. He laughed off the studies of the Silent Voice as being a decadent exercise in daemonism. Instead,  he found wisdom amongst the cult of Metronon with their invisible god and its sacramental knowledge of the prime building matter of the multiverse (the Cube of Metronon, the unifying particle ).

 However,  where that cult was concerned with the glorification of Metronon and creation as it stood, St Marten considered reality to be 'unnatural'. The multiverse was in a state of malaise brought upon by self perception. Only by returning to the conditions at the beginning,  to resurrect the Garden of Ulfire, could any kind of truth be found.

 St Marten traveled the length and breadth of the world...from Vornheim to Jukai...from Macmóhrda to Yoon Suin, observing different practices and distilling their wisdom into a grimoire...the Book of Fundaments. In it,  he gathered together the sum total of knowledge regarding the fusing of matter, spirit, time and space.

 Naturally, St Marten gathered about him others of a learned and fervent persuasion. A lodge was built in Vornheim, declaring itself to be 'The Hermetic Order of the Infinite Thought', though it did little other than study in seculsion and donate heavily to the coffers of various institutions, not least the Lord's Treasury and the Eminent Cathedral. At any rate, the generosity of the Order ensured it was left alone.

 St Marten left the Order he had accidentally founded, after some 15 years. He announced to his brethren and to his fellow Hermeticists, that the calculations and formulae within the Book of Fundaments were 'overly complex', its obsession with theurgy a distraction and overall a 'muddying of wisdom'. Meditation and inward contemplation were the way back towards Ulfire, not an attempt to manipulate the outer cosmos. With a small core of loyal students, he went south and was never seen again. However, the Order which he created and the grimoire about which it was founded would go from strength to strength.

Organization

The Order of the Infinite Thought organises itself along classic Heremtic lines, recognising apprentices, adepts, practicioners, magi and a single arch-magi. Since St Marten abandoned the Order, its leaders have taken a more active role in society, acting as advisors to local aristocrats and sorcerous troubleshooters with whom favour can be found through the promise of future boons.

 In recent times, following the Church of Metronon's lurch into fundamentalsim and their subsequent crack down on Witch Craft and Blood Magic (Folk magic in my campaign), the Order has found a new niche, styling itself as 'White Wizards', willing and able to assist the Church in rooting out as many witches, demons, necromancers and diabolists as it is able. The cynical suggest that the Order is targetting its enemies and suggest that it will not be long before they turn the fury of the Metronon cult upon the other Hermetic orders. Others whisper that the Order are playing a dangerous game that may end with them being cast upon the very pyres they profess to feed.

Membership

One must pass a series of tests designed to shake the applicant's faith in the reality they cherish and know. This is usually accomplished by showing them visions of their own demise and demonstrating  how little the world notices or cares. Hallucinogenic mushrooms are consumed and applicants attempt to free themselves from a maze constructed of memories. Only through philosophical unity with their own past may they escape the maze and be accepted into the Order. Philosphers are valued over artists or scientists...especially those who hold abstract, objective, nihilistic or absurdists ideas to be the bedrock of their being.

Restrictions

The grimoire is only accessible to Practicioners and above. Thus one requires a master and apprentice realtionship to progress. If one were to lay one's hands upon the grimoire, it would be discovered to be quite accessible. St Marten was essentially writing a text book or instruction manual. It was written to be understood. Since then, the magi in control of the work have occluded its lore via a series of invented lingual cyphers. Their premeinence depends upon not allowing others free access to the grimoire. The original, concise, uncoded original is kept within an adamant vault beneath the Lodge, guarded by a monstrous space goat. If one were to find it, they would be surprised at its clean, unassuming appearance; red leather with vellum pages, adorned with a simple ring, cast in copper.

Skills
Lore (Customs of Unifaction), Lore (Theurgic Laws of Attraction), Invoke (Book of Fundaments), Shaping, Willpower.

Magic

Interestingly, since the book is something of a grand anthropological study and it is on hand, its oberved nuance can be used to forge a philosophical mystic link to foreign cultures and individuals one encounters. Within its pages are reams of text on the factors that ruminate upon the factors that link all things to the self or 'the one'. In game terms, given 1d4 days of study, a sorcerer can construct a dialectical  theorem.  This theorem  allows the sorcerer  to cast spells upon a given individual or group and  ignore Shaping restrictions and cost on Range (treat as if the target has been afflicted with a Mark spell of infinite range, with an intensity equal to the spell spell being cast). When the Book of Fundaments is utilised in this way, it levitates half a foot above the surface it initially rested upon and the copper ring on its cover emits primal Ulfire light (David Lindsay in  'A Voyage to Arcturus', describes Ulfire as being 'wild and painful').

The above is not generally known. Indeed, only the original grimoire possesses this potent capabilty (latter encoded copies have been shorn of much of St Martens rambling notes on culture and philosophy, the magi responsible mistakingly believing these scribblings to be tangenital to the true meat of the spells contained therein).

Spell List

Folk Magic: Glue
Sorcery: Mark (Symbol of Connection), Portal (Spatial Unity), Summon (Instantaneous Presence), Loxodromic Phasing (See Monster Island), Attract-Creatures/Magic/Spirits (Infallible Oneness), Transmogrify (Come Together) *

Special

*The version of Transmogrify within the Grimoire is a powerful, yet limited variant. In essence, the target can be transformed into any substance, so long as that substance is touching the targets unadorned surface or bare skin.

Gifts

Meditiating on 'oneness', the true student of the Book attains a kind of primordial insight. He may immediately trade in his Invocation and Shaping for Meditation and Mysticism resepctively. This takes approximately 1d3+5 weeks of study and a successful Invocation (Book of Fundaments) roll.

The Ulfire Path has been followed only by a select few, including St Marten. Its details remain hidden for now...


Allies and Enemies: Currently, the Order of Infinite Thought counts the Church of Metronon (or whatever monotheistic, invisible arsehole god your setting enjoys) as allies. It enthusiastically courts its witch finders and crusading priesthood, though as mentioned above, this is a tenuous and opportunistic relationship.

It counts both the Hermetic Order of the Silent Voice and the Hermetic Order of the 66 Archons as enemies. They see the adherents of the Infinite Thought as unpredictable backstabbers engaged in a Faustian pact with forces that threaten to destroy them all.

Credit to Zak S. for his inspirational 'Vornheim', Patrick Stuart and Scrap Princess for 'Fire on the Velvet Horizon' and Noisms for 'Yoon Suin '. All OSR stuff, but also amazing for Runequest.

Manchester: The New Fantasy Sensation! (Chapter I)

Conisdering the large number of gameable places in the world, I've noted a distinct lack of representation in RPG writing for the North West of England. Since I'm a Mancunian by birth and remain a resident, my first port of call in rectifying this circumstance has been my own doorstep. (The path of least resistance and all that...)

 It's true that, television's Game of Thrones has made the most recent (vague) stab, at least in the fantasy department. We've been treated to a washed out pseudo North, inhabited largely by British TV regulars with broad Yorkshire accents (which works better than a washed out pseudo North inhabited by Texans, I'll grant you). As is typical of the North's depiction in fiction, a well worn trope is being adhered to; that of the no nonsense meat and potatoes, honest, wet, cold, dour, 'bloody by 'eck' standard, by which it's characters and geography draw inspiration. In truth, I'm rather pleased that the north is enjoying this wee fantasy renaissance. But we need more sides to the die...

 So I began to brainstorm some Mancunian concepts using my own position as a native to get me started. With 'truth tm' as my springboard, I began to pick up a little momentum and it wasn't very long before I started generating ideas based off of these little fact nuggets (not technically facts, but at least primary evidence). I began to see that it was possible to make connections where there were, in truth, none. And that's when I decided that this was officially a 'good idea'. Note that I mix up real and imagined place names with real and imagined history. There's no pattern to inspiration. Well, not one I've been arsed to look for.

 I suppose I should bloody well dive in:

The Northern Quarter: Bohemian, pressed in by rich developers, famous for its twats and its artists, a place to escape the tumult of the city that is now threatened wit gentrification. There are entrances here to another mystic Manchester, back alleys hold apertures the locals call 'Cracks' that lead into the Higher Place. There is a secret path to Salford here.

Blur your eyes and you're in Vornheim.

Madchester: A mythical time when everyone was high and into good music. Many heroes wandered. Some still live but they have been largely corrupted by time and exposure to other dimensions. One of them, Lord Bez  (OK,  ok) has attempted to fight against the rot at the heart of the city. He struggles, since he is both in and outside of our reality. I imagine he's kind of vibrating at super high speeds almost none stop. I think he'd just be one example of his ilk. I think that it'd be interesting if I went through Manchester's musical heritage and tried to glean ideas from that particulalry fertile soil. That's got to be another post. We're near the beginning here. Run with me.

"You wish to see as I have seen? Do you know what it is you ask?"

Redbrick: The principle building matter of the city. Replace red bricks with any favourite colour. Perhaps the city is white, spun silk, mostly built by the region's White Spider Farmers. Of course, the pollution produced by the boiling fat of the area called the Cauldron has stained them a peculiar shade of dirty brown. See Cotton Factories.

Like this except silkier. And dirtier.

Canals: A network of canals built when the region was at its commerical zenith. Brightly painted boats of many shapes and sizes once crowded the water ways, silk flags billowing in a riot of colour. Most of the boats are gone now or in states of poor repair. However,it has become an artery of menace. For example, they are now home to the serial killer known the 'Shover'; an uncatchable drowner of prostitutes and drunk homosexuals. You can replace the Shover's chosen minorities with your own killer's particular prejudice. Likewise, you can replace the Shover with another urban legend...perhaps an Invisible Stalker that gains power from drowning folk...you know, the fear generated by drowning is super intense and this Stalker feeds on fear so...ahh, you catch my drift.

This is near London. But it's dillapidated so cool.

Cotton Factories: Cotton was the lifeblood of Manchester. Replace cotton with some kind of zarjaz silk that can be spun into pretty much anything, including ultra light, portable fortresses and you've got...something. Of course, when the White Spider Famers began to die, so did the city. Their slow demise is perhaps the result of a Torquemadan espionage plot (Torquemada is an evil empire. Replace with your own dish) that is, the introduction of giant vampiric/plague moths into the eco system. They're still about and flourishing (of course), mainly in canal tunnels. Infected humans are known as 'Moth Eaten' and look awful.

Imagine loads of these in abandoned parts of the city.

Cultural melting pot: Lots of different cultures here. Choose your own mish mash, Of course there is tension at times. But on the whole, they've adapted well and are accepted by people who aren't fascists, forming areas of cultural exclusivity that refuse to become ghettoes.  Which brings me to...

Labour stronghold: Traditionally left wing, its people are poor but rely on an eroding sense of community to get them through hard times. Once dilligently served by the Crimson Council, sadly, that body's leaders have since become corrupt. Now they engage in dark bad sex rituals to unknown gods, their principles thown to the wind. Secretly, they have the only constant supply of Arachnaethol. The entities they have made contact with, are not benign.

Drugs: The people mourn the heady days when they could harvest the by-product of White Spider Farmer silk...the ecstatic, vision producing Arachnaethol.  Arguably responsible for the phase shift of many of the regions great heroes, it vanished quite suddenly when the Torquemadan theocracy cracked down upon mystic states. It was discovered that 90% of the Arachnaethol was being produced by a single Spider Farmer, bloated to unfathomable proportions.

Salford: Within the walls of the city, there is yet another city, somehow finding independence from the greater metropolis that surrounds it. These people emerged from the shadows of Manchester and erected walls within its boundries. Invisible walls which turn men into Salfordites if they remain within the 'inside' city longer than 24 hours. They dance to experimental sorceries in empty Silk Factories and hold certain terrible wisdoms. Every Salfordite is a kind of were creature, only when the ghost moon shines they take on not animal shapes, but the aspects of ancient, anachronistic machines.

Were-Machine. What?

Manchester United/Manchester City: A war between two cults rages between normal, every day people. A two headed god, its worshippers are split between craniums. Nearly the entire city is carried by this madness and its power is greater than anywhere else. People who are normally friends, colleagues, customers or even family will tear each other to pieces should their paths cross on the weekly holy days. Activity is mostly in secret. However, twice a year, the two cults come together in a wild orgy of sexual reconciliation, holding the rites at one of the two major temples. This god could very easily be Demogorgon.

Chorlton: a rich and prosperous area that is almost entirely built by and inhabited by former dungeoneers. Here, wise adventurers spends their fabulous wealth on items that make them feel like they're still adventurers. Everything hearkens to a mythical notion of what it is or was to be wandering the land with one's bosom companions. The taverns are rustic, everyone has a sword...wizard beards are fashionable. Nowhere sells *just* ale. It's Dwarven, or Orcish, or Auld Wyrm Blood...or whatever. Homes are often small strongholds inhabited by entire adventuring parties. Once they come here, they tend to retire, but they cannot admit this to themselves. Thieves prey on the once adventurers of Chorlton mercilessly...it is as if much of the greatest treasure in the city has been concentrated in one place. Chorltonites still remain dangerous  if thoroughly removed from the realities of the city. After all, they were earning XP once.

Ahhh, a succinct picture=more grist for the mill.

I think this has legs.

PS

I'll figure out how to make everything nice eventually. For now, this is like some weird website from the X Files.

Anti-climatic first blog post is mainly other people's shit.

Without any further ado, here's my first blog post. Since it takes me no time at all and it's pretty fun, I'll follow up on Zack Smith's suggestion of stealing Noisms' County of Leon and adding a couple of bits and bobs to it. Perhaps someone will see this; perhaps not. Either way I'll use it myself, though I suspect I won't be putting it in anything resembling the 'real world', so to speak. Anyway, take a look.

 

County of Leon

Ruled by: Aqable - Count of Leon (Liege: Duke of Brittany)

Vassals: Baron of Morlaix, Baron of Douarnenez, Baron of Plogonnec

Military: 15 Heavy Cavalry (Knights), 50 Light Cavalry, 50 Heavy Infantry, 100 Medium Infantry, 50 Archers. 5 Cyclops Cavalry.

Income: 8,828 livres (Total guess--Deep Evan help out?)

Major Towns

Brest (Hex 40)

Population: 800

Major Industries: Fishing, trade

Personages:

Count of Leon and family. All aristocrats in Leon are of a strange line of civilised, scrupulously polite cyclops. They rule benificiently over the human peasantry. These cyclops are about 7ft in height. Like that dude in Krull.

Ibn Al-Aziz - An Ogre Magi from the Sheikhdom of Catalyud, now a powerful merchant who owns five vessels, with lots of 'shady' contacts and a symbiotic eye still connected to his sister (an ogre witch) overseas. She is jealous of his conquests in the mortal world and secretly schemes to destroy his holdings. She's probably in love with him.

A wizard living in a lighthouse on the edge of town - advisor to the Count and ambiguous ally. The light is actually a hive of fireflies upon which the wizard experiments.

Juliette de Nevers, a dwarfess sage, researching in the old library - secretly a spy? Not actually, more just a concerned citizen worried she's more capable and informed on local threats than her lord. Still--she's suspected. The librarian, something of a busy body, is compiling files regarding her studies which he has been dilligently passing to an agent of the Count's. That agent is now dead and replaced by a doppelganger.

Circle of druids - headquarters somewhere in the forest, occasionally come to Brest. They gather information with the help of their owls. These druids smoke a sacred pipe which allows them to 'see the roots'. Their catchphrase is: "We are all trees".

            Locations

            Wizards Tower - lighthouse, on the rocks on the outside of Brest (Hex 40)

            Ibn's Mansion - also on the outside of town, but on the inland side. (40)

            The Castle - where the Count calls home. (40)The count has a huge, golden telescope which he peers through with his single great eye to enjoy/spy upon the lives of his peasantry.

            Old Monastery - housing a library (& Juliette)(40)

            Smuggler's Caves -  ancient cave system, now abandoned - except for monsters - and the smugglers' hoard? The smugglers remain, as skeletal undead. The actual complex somewhat resembles the layout and content Disney's Pirates of the Carribean ride with the revenant creatures still playing out dramas from past lives.(Hex 20)

            Meriadoc's Tomb - burial place of the semi-mythic founder of Brittany, watched over by an order of clerics. The tomb and the clerics' weapons are made of an eerily dense metal. (Hex 14)Indeed, this metal is known as Pig Iron, formed from the excrement of the Iron Giant's sow herd. Gathering this material is an exercise in sheer nerve.

            Conomor's Tomb - burial place of an ancient king, now haunted. It is in a swamp--the ghosts are not that of the king, but of his many lovers and victims. A lich is entombed in a bog nearby.

            Tower of Erispoe - once owned by a now extinct noble line, reknowned for the eccentricity. Glass cages are built into the walls, housing exotic reptiles.

            Giant's Cave - not apparently inhabited by a giant, but a clan of ogres. The locals suspect they are connected to the merchant Ibn Al-Aziz but they despise the foreigner.(Hex 49)That said, they colour their hatred with a healthy dose of fear, believing that the gaze of an ogre magi will curse them to wither. Thus they struggle to forumlate a plan that involves killing him without their direct participation: an unusal circumstance for an ogre.

            Oessant - island, uninhabited but excellent shelter for raiders. Contains two hidden objects--one blessed, one cursed.(West of Hex 31)

            Witch's Hovel - home of an enchantress. Her features are ever changing--her head bloats into a morbid caricature at whatever woman is most powerful in the county at the time. (Hex 27)

            Castle of Mauclerc - ruined castle, magic treasure inside? There is, but it's in the belly of one of the creatures (or pigs) inside. (Hex 14)This place is home to the Iron Giant, a sinister being with glowing orange or red eyes (depending upon his mood). He keeps a herd of metal pigs as big as elephants. He and the pigs enjoy eating rusty metal. Sometimes he stalks the hills on foggy nights.

     Maiden Rocks- A site of great natural beauty that is beloved by the county's cyclopean, water colour enthusiasts.  A kind of psionic siren called a Dream Whistler, lures sleep walkers into the waves and an unknown fate. (Hex 17)

           

            Adventure Hooks

·       One of Ibn's ships has gone missing and he's certain it's the wreckers in Plogoff, who have caused him trouble before. (It's actually the ogres of the Giant's Cave, but the wreckers are PC-level troublesome dicks--and have treasure. Plogoff is on the coast south of Leon)

·       Juliette de Fevers wants bodyguards to visit the witch with her. They will be alarmed to discover the witch currently wears Juliette's features--because Juliette is sitting on a terrible secret about the Count.

·       A band of gnolls are causing trouble around Morlaix. Their leader communes with the bog lich. (Hex 30) 

·       Pirates spotted around Oessant. They are actually Spanish privateers, including the daughter of a powerful Venetian. Foiling them could result in a full-scale international incident.

·       Druids concerned about a troll. The troll has pustules which burst when struck, expelling poison.

. Pigs are being born with scales like fish. There is something loose, a little like an aquatic Runequest Broo.  It can impregnate any living creature. It is the beloved pet of a distraught undersea demi goddess.

. The Baron of Douarnenez is rumoured to be negotiating for the return of his food taster from bandits holding him hostage.

                   .  Skeleton warriors around Conomor's Tomb. The bog lich sent them to retrieve an artifact buried with the king which will bring the lich back to life.