The Well-Dressed Man from Elsewhere

He appears without warning, other than perhaps the briefest sensation of jamais vu. He has been seen anywhere from deep underground, to swank nightspots, to the soft places which border the near Astral. He often asks a question--a single question--in a voice somewhat muffled (which might be expected, given the mask), and distant, and with a diction very, very precise, like an old priest intoning an old liturgy. Few have been able to recall the question he asked after the meeting, but many are certain that he did ask one.

He has been known to raise a hand sometimes as if in warming, sometimes as if supplication. He has never been known to make an aggressive act, but It is unwise to touch him, or to be touched by him. The results vary, but they are often fatal, and always strange.

More than one appearance of the Man in the same area, almost surely means he will appear again, and in increasing frequency until something happens, typically some dire event. There are said to be bas-reliefs recovered from drowned Meropis with images bearing an uncanny resemblance to him.

Those encountering the Man would be wise to leave his vicinity as soon possible--though a polite departure is recommended. Just to be in his presence for extended periods has been associated with the development of certain rare cancers and unusual autoimmune diseases.  The smoke escaping from beneath his mask, and from his collar and cuffs is luminescent, and radioactive.

Real Dungeon: Paris Underdark

Modern stylings aside, he looks like an adventurer, doesn't he?  That's the sort of person you'd expect to find beneath a great city in old--and often forbidden--tunnels, wherein there's a house of bones, it's entrance bearing the legend: "Stop, this is the Empire of Death."

Everybody's heard of the Catacombs of Paris, the subterranean ossuary and tourist attraction. Morbid spectacle it may be, but its only small part of Paris’ underground tunnel system, all part of the Carrières de Paris--the Quarries of Paris--a network of abandoned limestone and gypsum mines reaching back to the 12th Century.

Only the area of the Catacombs is now open to the public, but it's just a part of the potentially accessible area of the quarries. Delvers known as cataphiles make a hobby of illegal entry into these other tunnels--if not for treasure, at least for adventure.

Here’s a map of a portion of the quarries. It probably helps if you read French...

...or maybe you can just think of it as some suitably accent tongue.

An interative map and a number of pictures can be found at the National Geographic website, and more cool maps can be found in this months issue.

Warlord Wednesday: Berserk

It's Wednesday, and another installment of my issue by issue examination of DC Comic's Warlord, the earlier installments of which can be found here...

"Berserk"

Warlord (vol. 1) #43 (March 1981)

Written and Pencilled by Mike Grell, Inked by Bob Smith

Synopsis: Morgan has fought his way into a Shamballah beseiged by the Theran army, only to find Tara has been captured by the enemy. The enemy, however, is unaware they have Shamballah’s queen in their hands, taking her for some common wench.

Within Shamballah’s walls, Morgan has surmised this, based on the fact the Therans have yet to ask for their surrender. With Morgan’s laser rifle, the Shamballan Elder thinks they should issue an ultimatum--but the rifle is almost out of charge. It will only be useful in a bluff, Morgan thinks, but maybe he can use it to leverage a deal. The Council of Elders balks at talk of deal-making, but Morgan doesn’t want to hear it:

Morgan’s got a plan. He leads the elder to the subterranean complex beneath the city. It’s been flooded, but Morgan wants volunteers to swim through, outflank the Therans and take them by surprise.

Shortly, Morgan leads a small contingent into the Theran camp, where he’s greeted by the commander, Kaatar Shang. Morgan reminds him he’s seen what the laser weapon can do. Why not save further bloodshed by a single combat? If Morgan wins, the Therans leave and release their captives. If Kaatar Shang wins, then the city is his.

After hearing that Morgan won’t use his laser rifle, Kaatar Shang agrees. Laughing, he calls forth the Theran champion, Brador:

Brador attacks, landing blow after savage blow. Tara watches, not knowing why her mate allows himself to be battered without fighting back. At the same time, beneath Skartaris, the Shamballan volunteers make the swim. Soon, they emerge at a point behind Theran lines.

In the Theran camp, Brador’s blow collapses Morgan’s already bent shield, knocking him to the ground. Kaatar Shang tells Brador to finish him.

As Brador raises his weapon, Morgan sees a flaming arrow flash across the sky behind him. It’s the signal he’s been waiting for! His hellfire sword cuts down Brador in one stroke.

The Shamballans emerge from the forest for a surprise attack, and the rest of their army pours forth from the city gates. Hearing their battle cries, Kaatar Shang realizes who his captive is. He grabs the laser pistol and holds Tara at gunpoint.

Morgan only smiles, and reaches for his pistol. Kaatar tries to fire--finds the gun is useless. Morgan shoots him in the face. He frees Tara, who takes up a sword, and the two join the battle.

As soldiers fall before them, the hellfire sword drinks deep of their blood. It’s influence creeps into Morgan’s soul, causing him to exult in the slaughter. He almost beheads a surrendering Theran, but Tara stays his hand.

That breaks the sword’s spell over him. He realizes it's dark influence, and rejects it. Impulsively, he tosses the sword into a nearby lake, from which a glowing hand rises to grasp it, and draw it below.

After the battle, Tara and Morgan share a kiss while standing on a parapet receiving the adulation of Shamballah’s people. Aton rides in on horse back, carrying Morgan’s banner, and calls out to the Warlord. Morgan angrily tells him he doesn’t want to hear it now.

Later, Tara awakens to find Morgan not in bed beside her, and knows what is to come. She peers through the door left ajar, and sees Morgan talking with Aton. He gives Morgan a piece of the wreckage from the Lady J, Jennifer Morgan's ship. Morgan says he has no choice--he has to find his daughter. He turns to see Tara watching. She smiles sadly, and shuts the door. Morgan lowers his head with tears in his eyes.

Soon, he and Aton are galloping out of the city.

Things to Notice:

• Morgan wears a slightly different outfit to go to war.
• Where did four-armed Brador come from?
• The Shamballan underground complex makes a return appearance.

Where It Comes From:
Kaatar Shang's name may have been inspired by Matai Shang, a villainous Thern, in Edgar Rice Burroughs' tales of Barsoom.  Brador's four-armed form somewhat resembles the Green Martians from the same series.

Morgan's casting of the hellfire sword into a body of water echoes events at the end of Le Morte d'Arthur, where Sir Bedivere, at Arthur's command, tosses Excalibur into a lake where it's caught by the Lady of the Lake.

Against Chaos

When the City was only a Dwergen fort on a swampy island, religious separatists from Grand Lludd were founding their own states some leagues to the north. These groups were sometimes derisively called “Sticklers” in their native country, but they called themselves the Lawful. Though their religion has disappeared in the centuries since, they left their mark on the New Lludd colonies they founded.

The Lawful took their name from their belief that existence was a struggle between the forces of Law (the living spirit of the commandments of God) and Chaos (everything non-godly). They opposed what they believed to be the excesses and superstitious ritual of Oecumenical Hierarchate, but also its softer stance on the practice of magic. They also rejected the worldliness of their homeland--the imbibing of strong drink, dancing, and merriment in general. The situation became intolerable when Gloriana became queen, and begin patronizing the thaumaturgical arts. It was even rumored that she was of fae-blood---a race inherently aligned with Chaos, and thus the Devil!

Their witch-hunting and monster-slaying was not as much appreciated as it had been in this new more permissive era. The Lawful sought a way to leave corrupt Grand Lludd behind and start afresh in the New World, where they hoped to build the perfect society.

Their first task was girding themselves for war. They had heard stories of the the New World, and knew it to be as infected by magic and godlessness as their homeland. And so, lead by their greatest holy warriors--their paladins--they set sail to bring the dominion of Law to the Chaos of the wilderness.

Things didn’t go exactly as they planned. They built settlements, slayed monsters and cleared ancient ruins, true, but the Strange New World infected them as well. Witches and warlocks (their terms for sorcerers) emerged among them, and they couldn’t ferret them all out. Contact with the Natives, Black folk, and other Ealderdish colonists softened their strict ways.

Today, the Lawful are mostly seen as just as quaint part of New Lludd’s past. Still, there are rumors of some families--and perhaps even whole villages--that keep to the hold ways. Stern folk living almost monastic lives, who believe they’re still in a holy war against Chaos, and so train their children generation after generation to take up arms against monsters and magic.

So...Pictures?

Here's more visual inspiration from the world of the City.

Okay, so this is a quick post.  I got back into town yesterday evening to find my house without power, which didn't get repaired until late, and the whole event lead to the loss of a couple of pieces of electronics.  Modern magics fail us sometimes!

Anyway, back to the Strange New World...

Black dust zombies are a constant danger in the Dustlands.

Tales overheard in a dockside tavern: Captain Clanton and the Girl Revolutionaries of Javasu.

It was a death-trap.  Four adventurers lost their lives there in the month of Swelter alone.

A succubus madam. Hell Syndicate middle management.

A Fist Full of Nonfiction

Here are some nonfiction recommendations I’ve rustled up from my collection with an eye toward the Western genre. Given the broad influence of Western tropes, though, there’s some ammunition here for your post-apocalyptic, space opera and even traditional fantasy games, too.

The Encyclopedia of Weird Westerns lets loose with both barrels on that very genre-blending tendency. It catalogs instances of science fiction and fantasy elements showing up in Westerns in all media--and vice versa. This means it terms “Western” pretty broadly, so the rational for including some of the entries is tenuous at best. The other downside is it is the entries are pretty short; it’s a catalog not an in-depth discussion. Still, having all this esoterica in one place makes for easy idea mining.

Staying on the encyclopedia trail, around the next bend we find another McFarland & Co. offering, Spaghetti Westerns: the Good, the Bad And the Violent. This bills itself as a “comprehensive filmography”--though some Amazon reviews have noted it to be plagued by quite a few errors. Still, for the casual browser (particularly one looking for game inspiration) its brief descriptions and discussions of a whole lot of films--including lists of series characters like Django and Sartana--is pretty cool.

Once all the hard riding’s done, we can sit at the saloon and let director (and spaghetti western enthusiast) Alex Cox regal us with 10,000 Ways to Die--which is not only a cool title, but an interesting work of criticism on the genre. Cox gives his insights and research on several films, some of which are on the more obscure side. He also offers up a lot of criticism of Clint Eastwood, and some grousing about Sergio Leone, but that’s the sort of thing one get when you get one (rather opinionated) guy’s take on things.

In a similar vein, Christopher Frayling’s Spaghetti Westerns: Cowboys and Europeans from Karl May to Sergio Leone, is another interesting overview, but its even more “film class” in style and so probably less useful as inspiration. Frayling’s axes ground are different than Cox’s--he’s got little good to say about American Westerns inspired by Spaghetti Westerns, and a whole lot of good things to say about Segio Leone.

Weird Adventures: Imperfect Union

Courtesy of the cartographic skills of Anthony Hunter at Battleaxes & Beasties, here’s a look at the Union, a political body of the Strange New World. It’s presented here without the full key, but many of the denoted places of interested we’ve already visited: Motorton, the Red Dwarf’s city (4), the ogre-haunted Smaragdine Mountains (6), the perilous Grand Chasm (11), San Tiburon, where dwells the King (maybe) of the New World (13), and of course, the City (1).

The Union, itself is a confederation of former Ealderdish colonies, formed for their mutual protection after they were abandoned by the great colonial powers (who were distracted by one of their interminable wars). It’s founding states were the New Lludd Counties, the City and its client municipalities, and the Southron Shires. The Union was designed to have no strong executive, instead vesting its power in a bicameral Union Congress.

The General Assembly (the larger house), has three representatives from each member state, elected by popular vote, though the means by which the slate of candidates is arrived at varies from state to state. The General Assembly is presided over by a speaker elected by the assembly members. The speaker still holds the ceremonial “Speaking Stick” (in appearance, something like a fraternity paddle or cricket bat inscribed with runes), but trials by combat are now a rarely invoked a parliamentary tool.

The smaller house is really a committee, empowered to make urgent decisions--originally defined as times when the Assembly was not in session, but now with a wider application. The committee has one representative from each state, but the number of “votes” they command is based on the population of the state. Each is appointed by their respective state government, but must be approved by acclamation of the Assembly. The chairman of the committee is not officially a representative of any state, and is instead appointed by the Assembly. Decisions of the committee must ultimately be approved by the Assembly, but details need not be publicly debated, and so mostly aren’t.

The seat of the Union government is Phratropolis, a city built with embedded wards and protections in an attempt to shield lawmakers from sorcerous influence.

Idylls of the Vagrant King

The city of San Tiburon gives deference to a peculiar character, a vagrant who claims to be king of the New World. No one knows for certain how long he has occupied his hilly and often fog-cloaked capital; for certain it has been thirty years, but old-timers have difficulty recalling a time when they were without his shabby, yet regal presence. Many recollect some small, strange miracle associated with a chance meeting, or an off-hand but profound bit of wisdom he offered in passing which they've carried with them since.

The King of the Union, Protector of Borea, and Suzerain of Zingaro (as he styles himself, formally) is Josiah Pellam, a man of uncertain background. His diction and erudition suggest a significant level of education, but his accent is slippery and can’t be placed exactly. He’s often given to archaic and flowery speech which perhaps makes this all the more difficult. He dresses in cast-off clothing, but somehow manages to find well-decorated, second-hand uniforms from past decades, and styles his beard like an Ealderdish aristocrat from the same era. When he talks about his past, it is only in oblique references to the weightiness of crowns upon heads, and the tiresomeness of destiny.

He walks with a pronounced limp, favoring his right leg.. “An old wound,” he will say. "A dolorous stroke."

Even King Pellam’s admirers must admit that he’s quite mad. He raves wild-eyed at times, like a man in delirium tremens, about a monster--a Beast Glatisant, he calls it--which sometimes he hunts, and sometimes is hunted by, but only he can see, though some have claimed to hear its weird, yelping cries in the distance. He knights folk at random, selecting them for perilous and important quests--visiting adventurers are favorites. Particularly important to him is the finding of a grail, which can heal his wound and by extension his kingdom.

Pellam is not without powers. Hardened killers have come for him, and in the end turned their guns on themselves instead. Magic cast directly against him seems to dissipate. The city itself seems to accomodate and protect him. Distances shorten at his royal whim, and those who irritate him or wish him harm, find themselves lost on unfamiliar streets.

The people of San Tiburon provide for their lord’s needs by allowing him and his honor guard (two mongrel dogs of unusual intelligence) to eat from any establishment in the city free, command passage on city cable cars, and to use his royal scrip to purchase small goods. They don’t burden him unduly with the problems of day to day governance, but each newly elected mayor and city council visits him to ask permission to take up their elected roles. 

The King sometimes disparages the old shark god, the city's ancient genius loci, still said to hunt the cold waters outside its harbor, but he seldom ventures out on the wharves, and never onto watercraft, perhaps out of grudging respect for his rivals powers.

Warlord Wednesday: War

Let's re-enter the lost world with another installment of my issue by issue examination of DC Comic's Warlord, the earlier installments of which can be found here...

"War"

Warlord (vol. 1) #42 (February 1981)

Writing and art by Mike Grell

Synopsis: Morgan and Shakira ride through the Forest of Ebondar, nearing the city of Shamballah. Everywhere, they find the signs of war; the countryside is battle-scarred and depopulated. A distant growl makes Morgan decide to climb a tree for a better vantage point. He sees a grim Theran army on the march, pulling a giant battering ram.

“The hounds of war are loosed upon the land.” And Morgan admits. he’s longed for it.

Shakira asks why men make war upon each other. Morgan replies that the Therans make war to subjugate those they deem inferior, and the Shamballans make war to resist the chains of tyranny. And Morgan? He once had a dream that all Skatarians could be free and equal. Maybe that dream still burns within him, somewhere, he tells her. Or maybe he just loves it when “the scent of blood and the sound of battle are in the air and a stout blade” is n his hand.

Morgan means to enter Shamballah and join his mate, Tara, in battle. Shakira points out that the city is besieged; there’s no way in--it’s a hopeless gesture. Morgan replies:

This is how Grell describes Morgan’s entrance to the city:

“Straight into the face of death plunges the man called the Warlord, his mighty blade clutched in a powerful hand that swings death in a glittering arc of destruction! No ordinary man this, but the mightiest warrior ever to stride the savage world of Skartaris!”

Amazingly, Morgan’s ferocity and speed almost win the day. He’s nearly cut through the Theran lines when his steed trips, and he’s thrown to the ground. Unhorsed and badly outnunmbered, one might think he’s done, but Grell tells us:

“In the aftermath of the battle, those fortunate enough to be nearby and still survive would report the strange warrior smiled savagely in the face of death and clutched a blade that pulsed and throbbed with inhuman power! And then...All hell broke loose!”

Shouting the name “Tara,” Morgan cuts a swath through the soldiers and back to his horse. He retreats back into the forest, but not before an arrow goes through his left shoulder.

Safe in the jungle, Morgan stops so his horse can drink in a pool. Through the haze of pain, he hears a murmuring--and realizes it comes from the hellfire sword. “What does it take to quench your unholy thirst?” Morgan asks of it. For a moment, it seems to squirm in his grasp, and the grim light of its jewel seems to burn within his soul, as well--but only for a moment. Morgan shakes it off and sheathes the blade.

Knowing what must be done, Morgan grabs the shaft of the arrow protruding from his shoulder and pulls it the rest of the way through. He passes out from the pain.

Miles away, Morgan’s daughter, Jennifer, also lies unconscious in a life raft washed up on shore. She had been the only survivor of the wreck of the Lady J. She’s found by the mysterious man who talks to the wooden box he carries on his shoulder.

Meanwhile, Morgan too is discovered--by Shakira. She carries something wrapped in a skin. Morgan asks how long he was out, and if the city still stands. Shakira replies that it hasn’t fallen--yet. Morgan asks why she came back. Shakira hands him the item in the skin, saying, “I thought you could use this.”

Morgan discovers its a laser rifle from the Atlantean armory they discovered. Shakira had gone back for it. And then:

Morgan asks if this is goodbye. Shakira says that if she knows him, they’ll probably meet again sooner than he thinks. She transforms into a cat an scampers off. Morgan mounts up.

Ever one for the direct approach, Morgan charges in again, just like the first time. With the laser in one hand and the hellfire sword in the other, he fights his way to Shamballah’s gates. He calls to soldiers on a parapet, and soon the gates open to admit him--their salvation, the Warlord.

Morgan is greeted by the Council of Elders, but he’s only interested in one thing: where’s Tara? The Elders say she hasn’t returned from Kaambuka. Morgan, horrified, realizes what that means--his mate is the captive of the Therans!

Things to Notice:

• Shakira and Morgan share a kiss for the first time.
• Jennifer Morgan resurfaces for the first time since issue #38.
• Remember the Therans were marching to war? We last saw them attack Shamballah in issue #30.

Where It Comes From:
Largely this issue signals the culmination of a lot of plot-threads that have been dangling for the about a year of publication time.

The Wonderbuss

Magical blunderbuss-type firearms were used by some wealthy Dwergen in their early conquest of the Strange New World. The weapons gave these sorcerously inept folk help against the shamans of the Natives and the thaumaturgists of rival Grand Lludd. Today, these antiques sometimes find their way into the hands of adventurers--in this world, and perhaps others.

Though they were manufactured in a variety of styles, they’re all muzzle-loading weapons with short, large caliber barrels and flared muzzles. They all can fire relatively normal projectiles of appropriate size (provided there is gun powder) , but their real power lies in specially designed spherical ammunition called “shells.” Interestingly, it appears likely that it was the prior existence of these magical shells which spurred the development of the gun, and not the other way around. No one knows who originally designed the shells, nor for what weapon.

Thaumaturgists (with alchemical aid) can manufacture new shells, but the process is tedious and expensive, so they tend to be rare. Sometimes, a supply is found in Ancient ruins or even other planes. The shells are classified by number, which denotes their effect. All shells of the same number historically tend to be of similar appearance, and modern manufacturers have kept with this tradition. Shells don’t not require gunpowder.

Magic Blunderbuss (Wonderbuss)
Dmg: 1d10 or special; Rof: 1/2 ; Range: 50’/100’/300’

Shells: (all spell references per the SRD)
#1: appears to be a lead ball, but too light for its apparently size. +1 weapon; Dmg. 1d12.  These are 80% of all shells found.
#2: brass-appearing. Casts two shadows, one distinct the other shimmering like heat-haze. Leaves a fiery streak when fired. 4d6 fire damage.
#3: appears to be a steel sphere etched with three 7-pointed stars. +2 to hit, 2d8 points of damage.  These are 5% of shells found.
#4: glass, containing a roiling green liquid. On a successful strike creates an Acid Fog as per spell.
#5: glass, faintly glowing and warm like the mantle of a lantern. Acts as the spell Sunburst, though it misfires on a roll of 1-2 on 1d6, and only does 1d10 damage.
#6: smoked glass. Faint moans can be heard within. Target’s soul is imprisoned on sucessful hit as per Magic Jar.
#7: silver and etched with glyphs which seem to shift when its not being watched. 1d10, deals double damage to lycanthropes, and extraplanar beings of evil. These are 5% of shells found.
#8: white, with the look of fine china, cool to the touch. Explodes for 5d6 damage in a 20 ft. radius.  Sleeping near (2 ft.) of one of these shells has a 75% chance of causing a ringing in the ears (leading to a penalty for rolls to detect things by hearing) lasting 1-4 days after removal of the shell from that distance.  Wrapping the shell in cloth will prevent this effect.
#9: appears as a flawless sphere of obsidian. Acts as a Sphere of Annihilation, though it can’t be moved, and exists only for 1 round before winking out.

Some scholars believe that more shell types are yet to be discovered.

Untrue North

An arctic of only (now melting) ice is sort of boring, don’t you think? At least in comparison to the flights of Age of Exploration fancy. Why settle for just ice when you could have a magnetic Black Rock, a swirling whirlpool, and islands of pygmies? Check out this 1595 map:

Gerard Mercator’s (yes, that Mercator) based his maps and his descriptions in a letter to John Dee off older works. He describes a landmass divided into four lands by channeled through which water rushed into the whirlpool surrounding the Pole, and.”descends into the earth just as if one were pouring it through a filter funnel.” This unusual geography supposedly led to the deaths of 4,000 men from the expedition King Arthur had sent to the islands.

At the pole itself, in the center of the maelstrom, was a giant black, a mountain, Rupes Nigra--the Black Precipice. As Mercator writes: “Its circumference is almost 33 French miles, and it is all of magnetic stone. And is as high as the clouds...” It’s magnetism was said draw ships made with iron nails to their doom.

After reading about all of this, I think I know what the North Pole of the City’s world is like...

The Black Train is Coming

“A black train runs some nights at midnight, they say..”

-- Manly Wade Wellman, “The Little Black Train”

Hobo-goblins, human tramps and bindlestiffs, and other Bethren of the Road, tell stories in their camps and jungles of a preternatural train that runs from this world to planes beyond. This lore is seldom shared with those outside their communities, but folklore records regular folk having chance encounters with the phantom.

The appearance of the train changes with time. It always appears old, like it has a decade or two of service behind it behind it, but otherwise stays current with locomotive technology and styles. It's not marked in any way, and has been described by observers in paradoxical ways. It’s plain and nondescript, yet powerfully commands intention. Some feel an intense unreality upon seeing it, others the cold hand of fear.

The train starts on mundane tracks, but as soon as it's "out of sight" of its observers it begins to shift into other realms. Some dreamers have seen it crossing the lunar wastes from the vantage of the parapets of the Dream Lord's castle. It is known to make stops in depots in the Hells. Planar travelers have attested to seeing rails that fade into nothingness at the mouth of the gyre at the bottom of reality.

Mostly, it seems carry certain dead to the afterlife, though why it comes for some and not others is unknown. Hell Syndicate snitches know of it, but not who operates it. Angels likewise keep a serene silence. Most who ride the train are dropped off in the waystation realm of the dead, from there to travel on to their souls' final destination.  Some, however, are taken directly to the outer planes. Others seem to ride the train for longer periods of time. They're found snoozing in couch cars, or drinking and playing cards in the dining car. Waiting, perhaps, for something. They’re sometimes inclined to conversation, though they seldom have anything useful to say.

Adventurers have sometimes used the train as a quick ride, either to the Other Side, or the Outer Planes. Hobo-goblin glyphs sometimes point the way to likely places were the train may appear. The train’s gray, nondescript, and seldom seen staff do not object to taking on new passengers, so long as they pay the fare--which varies, but is always in silver.

There's always the option, for those with fare or without, of hopping one of the train’s empty freight cars, but riding an open car through other planes is a dangerous proposition, and the boxcars are only empty of freight--not necessarily other travelers.

Naturalism of the Fantastic

Wanting to create your own unique wildlife a la the works of Edgar Rice Burroughs, or just wanting to get outside your usual monster manuals? Here are a few choice works of speculative nonfiction from my own shelves that you might consider adding to yours:

It’s 50 million years in the future: Do you know where your species is? Answer: Extinct. But hey, check out Dougal Dixon’s speculations about what crazy wildlife might have emerged in that far flung age in After Man: A Zoology of the Future. How about whale-like animals evolved from penguins, or large carnivores descended from mustelids (weasels, and their ilk)? Check out wikipedia for a complete rundown.

After Man won a Hugo Award when it was published in 1981. It has been out of print for a while, so it may be hard to come by, but worth getting if you can find it cheap.

Easier to find, is a more recent (but similar) work by Dixon, this one tied into a 2003 BBC documentary miniseries. The Future is Wild details evolution on earth over a span of 200 million years, checking in at three different periods. Again this is a world post-mankind. Here we get pack-hunting, flightless birds, terrestrial squids called swampuses, and the slithersucker--a predatory slime mold.

Dixon doesn’t have a monopoly on speculative naturalism. Conceptual designers for movies get into the game, too. For those of you who’ve wondered what’s so hard about pulling the ears off a gundark, or what exactly a scruffy nerfherder herds, Whitlach and Carrau provide answers to these questions, and many others, in The Wildlife of Star Wars. It’s far from bantha poodoo.

The World of King Kong gives us an isolated island where dinosaurs got 65 million (give or take) more years of evolution--which turns out mostly to be in the direction of “scary” and “more dangerous.” They share their inhospitable island home with all sorts of invertebrates grown larger than conventional science would say they ought to. And then there’s that giant gorilla everybody’s talking about..

So there you have it, plenty of creative creature inspiration. Enjoy.

There's A Story There

Sometimes a chance encounter opens the door to adventure.  This is as true in the City as anywhere.  Truer, probably...

An odd decoration on the hat of an aging beauty in a downtown bar. Ten years ago--when this picture was taken--Etta Bly was an adventuress in her prime. That was before alcohol and fast living took its toll. She still wears a cocktail hat adorned with a gear that looks like orichalcum (but isn’t) from the soul machinery of Primus, God-Engine and First Cause of the Modrons. It was a gift from a “made man” in the Hell Syndicate when a young Etta was, briefly, his moll. Etta killed the two-timing gangster--wasting a number nine shell from her wonderbuss. She vowed to keep the hat even as she blew her wayward beau a kiss as he was sucked into the blackness of the void, and nonexistence.

But on Mechanus, the values of “revenge,” and “just cause,” have been calculated. In the ten years since, several iterations of hardened, extraplanar expeditionary units have been generated, and the invasion counter is decrementing. Either the soul cog will be returned, or a horde of implacable, improbable contraptions will lay ruin to the world.

A caged sprite in small curio shop. The sprite begs for freedom in a tiny, pitiful voice to anyone that will listen. She also likes sugarcubes like others like cocaine. She was smuggled in from Ealderde, an accidental addition to an illicit shipment of weaponized faerie from the Great War. She knows her warped bethren are loose in the City, imagining themselves behind enemy lines, and planning the commando raid they were shaped for.

A werewolf speeding down a dirt road on a motorcycle. A lonely desert ghost town, plays host to a gang of lycanthropic motorcycle enthusiasts, bored and looking for entertainment.

Warlord Wednesday: The Pit

Let's re-enter the lost world with another installment of my issue by issue examination of DC Comic's Warlord, the earlier installments of which can be found here...

"The Pit"

Warlord (vol. 1) #40 (January 1981)

Written and Pencilled by Mike Grell; Inked by Bob Smith

Synopsis: Last issue, a visit to Kaambuka and his friend Aram al Ashir, thief turned king, has embroiled Morgan and Shakira in a web of intrigues and assassination plots.

More surprises await when Morgan watches, stunned, as King Ashir's betrothed enters the city--and its his own mate, Tara! An already strange situation takes a grim turn, as Morgan notices two more purpled hooded, flamboyantly dressed assassins in the crowd of on-lookers, and they're headed for Tara.

Morgan vaults from the balcony, and lays into the would-be assassins with his hellfire sword. He grabs one of them and demands to know who sent them, but he’s forced to use the hapless man as a human shield when a rooftop bowman takes a shot at him. Morgan fires back--with his magnum--and he doesn't miss.

The danger over, Morgan’s and Tara’s eyes meet for a moment. It’s fleeting. Then, Tara begins to act as if she doesn’t know him. Ashir runs up and introduces himself, and Morgan. Tara says she's heard of “the Warlord,” and she takes a jab at Morgan and Shakira:

Introductions aside, Tara retires to her quarters to bathe. Ashir is pleased--a beauty like her makes his crown feel less heavy! Morgan is focused on finding out who’s behind the assassination. He stalks off leaving his friends Shakira and Ashir puzzled, as they have no idea why his mood has darkened.

As soon as Morgan’s out of sight of others, he sneaks over to Tara’s room. He wants to find out why she didn’t acknowledge him. Despite his care, as he climbs to the balcony, he’s observed.

Meanwhile, Shakira has ditched Ashir to hunt a mouse in cat-form. She happens to walk by a partially opened door where the conspirators are talking. Their robed leader, a man known as Harrarh, listens to the report of the spy who saw Morgan go to Tara’s room. Harrarh sees this as an opportunity to let Ashir’s friend undo him by breaking the alliance. He calls for the guards loyal to him to be summoned. Shakira tranforms to human form to run away quickly with this new knowledge.

Morgan surprises Tara, who’s been crying in her room. The two long separated lovers embrace. Tara explains that Shamballah’s council of elders forced this marriage to Ashir upon her. They feel an alliance with Kaambuka is vital with the Theran army on the march against them. She hopes she can convince Ashir to abandon the idea of marriage, but still accept the alliance.

Morgan isn’t happy with any of this. If Ashir won’t free Tara from the contract, he says he’ll kill him. Tara points out that would mean certain war, but Morgan says he’s been to war, and never for better reason.

Their conversation is cut short, as Harrarh and a group of guardsman break in to seize the two of them for betraying the king under his own roof. Morgan knows these guards are from the same group as the assassins, and he and Tara  slash into them with their blades.

The guardsmen fall before the pair, and they turn their attention to Harrarh. He fires a magical blast at Morgan, but the Hellfire sword protects its bearer from magic, and Morgan is unharmed. Harrarh throws down a glass globe filled with the a mixture derived from the black lotus. The gas incapacitates our heroes.

When they awaken, they're tied and hanging over Harrarh’s pit. He explains to the assembled lords of Kaambuka that he plans to execute these traitors, and end the rule of a pretender so foolish as to be gulled by them. He exhorts the lords to join him in rebellion.

Morgan threatens to tell the nobles what Harrarh’s been up to, but Harrarh plans to drop him into the pit first.

Both are interrupted by the sudden appearance of Shakira and Ashir with a bow, drawn and aimed at Harrarh. Ashir reveals Harrarh’s plots and assassination attempts, and commands the lords to apprehend him. Harrarh threatens to drop his friends to their doom if he doesn’t stand down. Ashir responds by putting an arrow through his eye. Harrarh’s body topples backwards into the pit, and into the maw of an amorphous, orange, creature.

After Morgan and Tara are freed. Ashir says that after hearing Harrarh, he knows that Tara is Morgan’s mate. He would never dream of separating his friend from his woman. “Take her,” he says. “She’s yours.” Morgan thanks him.

Tara, incensed at being treated like an possession, knocks Morgan flat. When Ashir tries to placate her by kneeling and kissing her hand, she knees him in the jaw. She tells Morgan there was a time when she gave herself to him, but now he must win her.

Then she rides away in a huff.

Morgan changes clothes quickly. Ashir asks what he’s going to do now.

Morgan replies: “What else? I’m going to win her.”

Things to Notice:

• Assassins in Kaambuka don't seem to believe in being inconspicuous.  They tend to dress like circus performers.
• Theran is consistently misspelled "Theron" is this issue.

Where It Comes From:
Pits, particularly with amorphous monstrosities, are a sword and sorcery genre staple, though this may be more common in sword and sorcery comics than prose.

Black lotus is the source of a deadly poison in stories by Robert E. Howard, among them "Tower of the Elephant."

Harrarh may have been inspired by Harrar, an important ancient city in Ethiopia.

Happy Birthday, Robot

Ninety years ago today, the word robot entered the science fiction lexicon. It came by of the Czech language play R.U.R. by Karel Čapek. R.U.R. (Rossum’s Universal Robots) premiered in Prague on January 25, 1921. In the years since, robots have been unceasingly abused, or alternately, unceasingly rebellious against their human masters--at least in fiction.

The word “robot” derives from the Czech word robota which means “work” or “labor,” and figuratively “drudgery.” The word was supposedly suggested by Čapek’s brother, Josef. Over time, it’s all but replaced “automaton” which had been previously used for mechanical beings in English.

Interestingly, the robots in R.U.R. aren’t mechanical, but are instead biological constructs--more like what GURPS (Biotech and Transhuman Space) call bioroids (a term they borrowed from the work of Masamune Shirow)--than Robbie, or R2D2. The play clearly has them constructed, though, not grown like synthetic bioorganisms in other science fiction.

In the world of the City, I think there probably is an island where a scientist from Ealderde, Karel Rozum, has already fired up his vats and molds, and made his first organisms from alchemical protoplasm. He’s got a dungeon full of deformities and malformed monsters, the detritus of working the kinks out in his process. But he’ll get it right, eventually...and then what?

Run Rabbit Run

The City doesn’t have a monopoly on weirdness in the New World. There’s plenty for rural areas as well...

In the west of Freedonia, there exists a population of jackrabbits or hares the size of bison. Locals call them “lagoes” or “leaps.” These animals exist in a fair limited geographic area, but are still occasionally hunted for fur and food, and even used as mounts.

The origins of the lago are obscured. Most experts believe they are the result of some demented thaumaturgical experimentation, but a few consider it possible they are prehistoric survivors, or mutations from accidental exposure to magics of the Ancients.

Lagoes have historical been considered nuisances as they take grazing land away from cattle, and can ravage farmers' fields. Ironically, a use for the beasts’ being discovered--in the form of an interest in their fur for coats and trim for clothing--did more to bring them the brink of extinction that any previous effort. Their relatively fast reproduction rate for such a large animal, combined with the fickleness of fashion saved them.

Natives in the area have a superstitious dread of the animals, believing them to be the reincarnated souls of a gluttonous and grasping ancient tribe.  Folklore of the first settlers likewise takes a negative view, suggesting that they are sometimes infected with a degenerative disease that leads to frenzied attacks against other animals or man in its early stages.  Eating of lago meat is avoided by old trail hands for this reason for fear of contagion.

My Five Favorite Howard Yarns

On Robert E. Howard’s birthday yesterday, I was thinking about my favorite stories by him. It can be tough to choose--there are a lot of good ones to consider. Here, in no particular order, are what I think are my top five:

"Worms of the Earth": Bran Mak Morn, King of the Picts is (almost literally) willing to make a deal with the devil to get revenge on the hated Roman conquers. This is a tour de force by Howard with some great elements--the clash of cultures Howard loved in his historical fiction, a brooding hero, and weird horror.

"Xuthal of the Dusk": Also called "The Slithering Shadow." This may not rank among the best of the Conan stories for most folks, but I love the setting of a lost city full of drug-addled inhabitants awaiting an inevitable--but unpredictable--death from a weird menace. The original title is suitably enigmatic, too.

"Blades of the Brotherhood": Apparently, Howard’s original title was “The Blue Flame of Vengeance,” but I first encountered it under this title in the Marvel 1986 comics adaptation, with great art by Bret Blevins. Solomon Kane takes on a gang of pirates he’s been dogging, as he’s wont to do. Kane gets some great, badass lines, and deeds to match.

"The Shadow of the Vulture": My favorite of Howard’s historical actioners, its got an epic plot that would make a great film. It's got German Ritter Gottfried von Kalmbach with Howard’s real Red Sonya (no “j” or chainmail bikini) against the Turkish Empire, culminating in the siege of Vienna, 1529.

"Queen of the Black Coast": While there are plots, and settings I like better in other Conan tales, there are spots in this story where Howard’s writing really soars, and Conan’s musing on philosophy are great.

Close to these are “Pigeons from Hell,” “Red Nails,” and “People of the Back Circle.” I fact, ask me in a week and one of those will have bumped one the ones above out of a top spot. In fact, in most of Howard’s fantasy stories I find some elements I like even when the whole thing may not work for me.

Happy belated birthday, Bob!

Strange Trails--Free Download

Need a Weird Adventures appetizer?  Well, how about a download to tide you over?

Strange Trails features:

• Eight articles from this blog, some expanded, and all of them annotated and illustrated--including artwork by our man in Manila, Reno Maniquis, and that ostensible cat, Johnathan Bingham.
• An “Appendix N” for the City and its world.
• A shot of flavor fiction to set the mood.

And all for the low, low price of...free.  Get it here.

Release the Hounds

Chronos hounds, or temporal hounds, are extradimensional beings who sometimes hunt the Prime Material Plane. Some ancient tomes hold that these creatures are benevolent, and defend causality and stability against horrors form outside spacetime. Observed behavior of chronos hounds is ambiguous at best, and those who may encounter them are urged to caution.

From a distance, a chronos hound has the silhouette of a large, lean dog. A closer look reveals that the body of the creature is actual more like a human's, perhaps specifically an androgynous youth's, twist and stretched to conform to a canine’s basic arrangement. It's front paws, for example, are slender, human-like hands. The heads of the hound is always blurred and indistinct, as if in constant motion, but there is the suggestion of toothy, canine jaws, and glowing eyes. Hounds appear to be able to speak by telepathy, but also make a garbled sound like the cough and growls of a pack of dogs, as if heard at the other end of long and empty hallway. Their skin is hairless, and the faintly luminescent blue-white of moonlight.

Only in the past decade, has metaphysics developed the proper theoretical framework to understand the chronos hounds--and even now those theories remain controversial. The most brilliant minds in the City hold the hounds to be a wave function which only observation causes to collapse into the form of the creatures described above. Thaumaturgic investigation suggests they serve an eikone called Father Time, or are perhaps extensions of his will. They act to prune "streams" of time and possibility--making reality from probability--toward some inscrutable purpose.

# Enc.: 1d6 (1d6)
Movement: 120’ (40’)
Armor Class: 4
Hit Dice: 4
Attacks: 1 (bite),
Damage: 1d6
Save: F4
Chronos hounds are only visible if they choose to be, prior to acting. Only some rare circumstance keeps a first attack from being by surprise. Their actions in this plane have a stuttering appearance, as if they are teleporting short distances rather than moving normally. Chronos hounds reduced to 0 hit points disappear entirely. Chronos hounds are able to pass through (or around) any physical barrier--or indeed temporal barrier. A combat with them may begin one day, only to have them break off the attack, and re-appear months or even years later.  A first encounter with a chronos hound, maybe not be the true first encounter, from the perspective of the creature's timeline. Whatever subjective amount of time appears to pass in combat with them, 1d100 minutes have based for the world external to the combatants.

The greatest enemies of the chronos hounds are the achronal hyperbeasts, which they will fight to the death when they encounter them. Thankfully, these higher order dimensional monstrosities are seldom encountered on this plane.

Warlord Wednesday: Wizard World

This week, let's journey to the distant past of the lost world of DC Comic's Warlord, and check up on Machiste, Mariah, and Mungo Ironhand in the "Wizard World" back-up feature...

"The Book of the Dead" Parts 1 & 2

Warlord (vol. 1) #40 (December 1980) and #41 (January 1981)

Written and Pencilled by Mike Grell; Inked by Vince Colletta

Synopsis: Dwarf wizard Mungo Ironhand searches for something in the library of the recently deceased Wralf the Wretched while Mariah and Machiste look on. Mungo stops his search briefly to have a martini, and leaning against a wall, manages to accidentally open a secret door. In the small room behind it, he serendipitously finds what he’s looking for--The Book of the Dead, a tome of the dark arts.

Mariah is skeptical, but is concerned that even if it's real, it’s a thing of evil. Mungo assures her that power is neither good nor evil--it depends on how its used. He thinks he can use the book to send them back to their own time.

At that moment, a wizard appears in a burst of fire and brimstone, and snatches up the book. Machiste throws a dagger, but it’s too late. The wizard is gone as quickly as he came.

Mungo tells the other two that that was Zarrgon Fire-Eye. He lives inside a volcano called Great Fire Mountain. They have to get the book back from Zarrgon, or they’ll see what happens when the book falls into the wrong hands!

Astride giant, flightless birds the trio head for Great Fire Mountain. At the volcano’s base, they abandon their mounts, and climb. They find Zarrgon’s fortress in the volcano’s smoldering crater.

Our heroes descend into the crater only to be attack by diminutive brutes riding small pteranodons. Their tiny spears are little more than an annoyance, but one of the flying reptiles grabs Mariah by the hair--and begins to raise her into the sky. Machiste grabs her hand, and pulls her back to safety. Mungo suggests they take shelter in a cave up ahead.

Zarrgon, watching the trio escape his minions uses a blast of energy to cause an avalanche. Our heroes are buried!

Or so it appears. Actually, Mungo uses his magic to shield them. They manage to get into the cave before Mungo’s strength gives out, but the cave’s entrance is now blocked. The three are plunged into darkness.

Mungo fumbles for a moment, but manages to produce a magic flame from his finger. In the light he casts, the three are surprised to see a crouching humanoid:

The thing, which calls itself Craetur, bounds off promising that Zarrgon will make them pretty trophies, too. Mariah wonders what he’s talking about, but not for long. Mungo points her to a wall of skulls.

Determined not to wind up on that wall. the trio makes their way deeper into the volcano until they discover a stairway leading upward to a door. They soon find themselves in Zarrgon’s fortress, and after a short and stealthy search, locate the wizard, lost in study of the book.

Mungo has a plan. They waylay two guards and get disguises for Mungo and Machiste. They enter the wizards chamber, and move closer to attack. Before they can, Zarrgon glimpses Machiste’s mace hand.

Quickly, Machiste throws a dagger. Zarrgon laughs when it strikes the Necronomicon, not him. He blasts away at the two with magic energy. Mungo fires a blast of his own, but hits the dagger embedded in the book. Again Zarrgon mocks them.

He doesn’t see the dagger pommel begin to grow and change into the shape of a woman. He has no idea he’s been tricked until Mariah grabs him by the shoulder, then spins him around and punches him off the platform.

The three grab the book and try to make their escape before Zarrgon recovers. Before they can climb out of the crater, a recovered Zarrgon blasts them. The path crumbling beneath his feet, Mungo almost falls into the volcano, but Mariah saves him.

The Necronomicon, however, falls into the roiling smoke below. Mungo’s lost his chance to be sorcerer supreme, but consoles himself with the knowledge that the book can no longer fall into the wrong hands.

In the volcano below, Craetur picks up the book from the rubble, and pronounces it “pretty.”

Things to Notice:

• Wizardly knowledge is vast. Mungo Ironhand knows a lot of 20th century popular culture.
• Mariah has heard of the Necronomicon.
• Zarrgon's name is mispelled throughout Part 2.

Where It Comes From:
The evil sorcerer Zarrgon maybe be named for the comic book character Sargon the Sorcerer, or more likely, they both take their names from Sargon the Great of Akkad.

The Necronomicon, of course, comes from the works of H.P. Lovecraft.

Craetur's appearance and behavior is modelled on that of Gollum in the works of J.R.R.Tolkien.

Real Dungeon Hazards: Snotties and Slime

Ooozes and slimes aren’t just the the subject of Gygaxian dungeoneering fancy. Interestingly, it appears they have some basis in subterranean fact. Ready for an introduction to the world of snotties, red goo, and green slime?

"Snotties" look like small stalactites, but have the texture of mucus and drip battery acid. They’re actually colonies extremophile archaebacteria that thrive in intense levels of atmospheric hydrogen sulfide produced by volcanism. They’ve only been found in a few places including Cueva de Villa Luz, southern Mexico, and Sulphur Cave in Steamboat Springs, Colorado.

Other unusual things have been uncovered in Cueva de Villa Luz by the self-styled SLIME (Subsurface Life In Mineral Environments) team. “Red goo” is an acidic (pH 3.9-2.5) breakdown product of clay, which also makes a home for bacteria. “Green slime” which may be decaying algal elements.

Sulphur Cave also sports the red worms which live off sulfur--the only such higher organism ever discovered residing on land.

The Dead Travel Fast

In the deserts north of Heliotrope, weird monsters of the outer dark and thrill-crazy youths race hopped-up roadsters across dead sea bottoms.

In Hesperia, a “car culture” has emerged. Like the Southron bootleggers, some young Hesperian men have taken to modifying jalopies for the purpose of drag-racing. Most of the modifications are strictly mechanical, but would-be racers save up for more expensive thaumaturgical or alchemical modifications.

While some racing occurs along highways, the real action is out in the desert. There, on the vast and empty beds left by ancient seas, law enforcement doesn’t intrude, and higher speeds can be reached. The speeds, and the often haphazard modification of the cars, sometimes make these races deadly--but these mundane dangers aren't the only things to fear.

Maybe it was just the psychic energy boiling off youth hopped-up on alchemical drugs, speed, and the proximity of death; or maybe the death of the ancient seas left the skin of reality thin, inviting irruption. Whatever the cause, broken and burned-out husked of roadsters--and sometimes the charred and mangled remains of their drivers--have been reanimated by outer monstrosities in forms as colorful and grotesque as something from a drug delirium nightmare.

Appearances by these creatures are things of fear and wonder for the human racers. The unholy growl of giant engines and the overpowering smell of burning rubber presage their arrival--almost always between the stroke of midnight and first light of dawn. They're practically worshipped as secret and strange god-things. Rituals are performed; crude talismans of twisted steel and burnt chrome are fashioned. The bravest (or craziest) of the young drivers sometimes join in their monster races, and those few that survive with life and limb, and sanity, intact are often dragged along in the creatures' slipstreams as they roar back into the void, and are never seen again