The Luck of the Little People

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!

In the City, there's a day when fountains are dyed green, a parade is held, and a great deal of alcohol is consumed (which is to say, somewhat more than usual). This celebration was brought to the New World by immigrants from the isle of Ibernia, a land under the rule of Grand Lludd.

Since before recorded history, Ibernia was the home of a race of pygmies known to later invaders as the Little People (a name the People themselves alternately reject or grudgingly accept). The Little People used the celebration to honor the Green Man, a mysterious eikone or pagan god of the natural world, who in some way helped them wrest control of Ibernia from savage giants (similar to hillbilly giants, at least in the legends) who dwelt there.

Waves of invaders, these bearing iron weapons, drove the Little People into underground homes and fortifications. There, waited out the invaders they couldn’t repel--and often ultimately assimilated them. A succession of Lluddish monarchs, from the earliest days of the kingdom through the rule of the Gloriana, down to the most recently decanted iteration of Her Preserved Majesty, Victoriana, have made that difficult. The magic of the Little People, cunning as they are in the art of illusion, has been no match for the doctors thaumaturgical in service of the crown.

To escape oppression, and poverty, the Little People immigrated to the New World, including City.  There many came to live in the crowded slums of the neighborhoods of Hardluck and Hell's Commot. Things weren't particularly easier there. As newcomers they were considered undesirables--viewed as drunken, and over-emotive. Some of these stereotypes remain, but over the decades they have made a place for themselves in New World society.

Over time, life in the New World has led them to grow taller (like the Dwergen before them), and most people who claim ancestry in “the old shires” aren’t remarkably short at all (though some pygymy families still remain). Whatever, they’re height, they care the pride of their people, and their yearly celebration with them.

Warlord Wednesday: Hunter's Moon

Time to 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...

"Hunter's Moon"

Warlord (vol. 1) #47 (July 1981)

Writing and art by Mike Grell; inks by Bob Smith

Synopsis: In the darkness of the Terminator, where the inner world of Skartaris folds back upon the outer Earth, Jennifer Morgan sleeps peacefully, unaware that she is in the castle of Deimos, her father’s greatest enemy.

She’s also unaware that there's a man standing above her with a dagger.

The cowled man who has been her guide hesitates. She may be the daughter of his masters greatest foe, but he can’t bring himself to harm her. Instead, he cuts his own hand, and lets the blood flow into a goblet. He opens the mysterious wooden box he carries, and proffers the cup: “I have done as you command, Master. Take this and drink deep!”

Elsewhere in the Terminator, Shakira and Morgan have been making camp to rest from their travels, when they’re suprised by a strange sight in the sky. Skartaris apparently has a moon! Morgan dashes off a fairly dubious theory:

Morgan decides to go hunting by moonlight, while Shakira catches a nap. Morgan finds a pond where animals are watering. He stalks up and pounces on an ibex-looking beast with his knife.

The moon sinks below the trees as Morgan makes his way back to camp. A dead body and the sound of battle diverts him from his path. Morgan runs toward the clamor with sword drawn, finding more bodies along the way. Finally, he comes upon a clearing where a man dressed like he’s from the upper world is engaged in battle against a group of savage foes.

Morgan admires the man’s skill for a moment before joining the battle at his side. Together, they quickly slay all their foes.

Morgan introduces himself, and the man--after getting over his suprise that Morgan speaks English--responds, in a Russian accent, that his name is Mikola Rostov. Then he demands to know where Mariah Romanov is. Rostov explains that he was Mariah’s fencing instructor--and more. He found out about Skartaris from the ever-helpful Professor Lakely. Morgan assures Rostov that he’s a friend of Mariah’s too, and he will be glad to tell him what happened to her.

Morgan makes a fire and cooks some of his kill. Rostov declines to join him in the meal, saying he has already eaten, and asks Morgan to go on with his story. Morgan tells him about the meteorite that sent Machiste and Mariah back to the past. Rostov’s skeptical about magic, but Morgan tells him it works, whatever it is.

After eating, Morgan drowses, and Rostov sneaks off into the forest to go on a hunt of his own. When he returns to camp, Morgan is awake and wondering where he’s been all this time. He tells Morgan he’s been hunting, but the explanation isn’t satisfactory because they have plenty of meat. Morgan also notices that Rostov looks larger now, more muscular.

Before Morgan can speculate any further, the tribesmen of the savages they killed drop a net on the two from above. They’re caught, and soon they’re tied to a post over the makings a fire. Morgan suspects the tribesmen intend to eat them--which is sort of an honor, given the cultural beliefs he attributes to the tribe.

Rostov is barely hearing Morgan’s explanation. He’s transfixed by the returning moon. Before Morgan;s eyes, Rostov transforms--into a werewolf:

Rostov bursts their bonds then savagely rips into the tribesmen. When he’s done with them, he turns on Morgan--who now has his gun and pistol drawn.

At that moment, the moon passes away, taking Rostov’s wolf-form with it, though it leaves him larger and more bestial-looking than before. He explains to Morgan that he suffers from the curse of lycanthropy. He came to Skartaris thinking the eternal sun would free him, but the strange wanderings of the ever-present moon has caused him to take on more wolf characteristics in his human form. He admits that Morgan chose the wrong side in helping him--it was he who attack the tribesman.

Rostov plans to continue his search for Mariah--and perhaps in this land of magic there may yet be a cure for his curse. Rostov runs off into the woods, as he again feels the pull of the returning moon.

Things to Notice:

• Despite having been to the Terminator before, neither Morgan nor Shakira have never seen or heard of the wandering moon.
• Shakira sleeps (apparently) through the whole issue.

Where It Comes From:
The title of this issues derives from the hunter's moon (also known as the blood moon--which is the title of a previous issue about a moon-like object), which is the first full moon after the harvest moon, which is, in turn, the first full moon after the autumnal equinox.  In the northern hemisphere it usually comes in October.

"Rostov" is a Russian placename.  The town bearing that name is better known to Russians as Rostov Veliky ("Rostov the Great").  It's one of the oldest towns in Russia.

Monsters Re-Imagined

Last week, James over at Grognardia urged bloggers to post re-imagined D&D monsters from their own campaigns.  I actually did sort a series of these in the earlier days of my blog.  Since at the time of most of them, my followers numbered in the single digits, there's got to readers today who didn't catch them then.

So, here are most of my monster re-imaginings (excluding the ones from the City's world), summarized for for your easy browsing pleasure:

• Beholders as insane, xenophobic murders.
• Dwarves as Neanderthal descendants, uplifted by an alien AI.
• Elves as transhuman, near post-scarcity anarchists, and a companion piece on the amoral, sensualist drow.
• Goblins as a pestilence, like a swarm of locusts.
• Gnolls informed by real (and folklore) hyenas.
• Gnomes as extradimensional tourists--they came from mushroom-space!
• Halflings as librarians and scholars at the world's greatest library.
• Mind flayers as alien invaders from pulp stories or '50s sci-fi films.
• Orcs as magical engineered violence-junkies.
• Slaad strange origin options.  Take your pick.
• Troglodytes as Sleestak-like fallen, dinosaur sapients.

The Wild Wood

One tragic loss of the Great War was the area of Grand Lludd known as Wild Wood. Covering a hundred acres of farm and woodland, it was the home of varies species of anthropomorphic animals. Now much of the land has been despoiled, and most of its inhabitants have been killed or displaced.

These creatures were the product of biothaumaturgy and the eccentric genius of one man, Gaspard Mauro. Mauro gained the support of the crown in his endeavors by promising applications of his techniques in creating servitors to free mankind from hazardous labors.

His work never amounted to more than a curiosity.  Still, the Queen herself was quite fond of them, and on the occasion of her eighty-ninth birthday had a group of the animal-folk perform for her. There is one wax-cylinder recording said to exist of their cheeful, high-pitched singing.

Most of the animal-folk appear to have died in bombing during the war. There is evidence that some burrowing species may have survived, and there are worrisome reports that rats, taken to Communalitarianism, may have absconded with some of Mauro's notes, and are now undertaking a program of evolution and revolution among the rodent underclass of several cities.

The Life Aquatic

A merman and his landwoman bride.  Grand Lludd, 5825.

In the waters west of Ibernia, ship passengers occasionally glimpse and wonder at light in the depths. These are the lights Undersea, municipality of the mer-folk. Part of the empire of Grand Lludd, the citizens of Undersea have never been Her Preserved Majesty’s most loyal servants. Only the threat of submarine bombardment has stifled open rebellion at times. Still, in these hard years following the Great War, land and sea need each other too much for such squabbles.

The mer-folk are not to be confused with mermaids, despite similarity in names. Those half-fish creatures (and wholly nonhuman, whatever their appearance) are more akin to faerie. Mer-folk look, for the most part, like surface humans except for a slight bluish tint to their skin, eyes a little larger than usual, webbed hands, and a slight tendency to barrel-chestedness--though its common for portrayals of them in art to exaggerate their inhumanness. So little apparent difference for beings naturally inhabiting great depths and pressures hint at the subtle magics that have been used to adapt them to a submarine life. Scientists suggest this points to them being an engineered race, perhaps derived from Meropian stock. Mer-folk find this whole line of speculation dull, and are largely unconcerned with their own origins.

Perhaps its this lack of curiosity, among other traits, that has led to the common Lluddish stereotype of Mer-folk as thickwitted. They're also held to quick-tempered and lascivious (a judgement perhaps derived from their indifferent attitude toward clothing--at least in the seas). Mer-folk don’t drink (at least not in their usual habitat) but their men tend to enjoy licking certain sea slugs for an intoxicant effect, and singing (it can be called that) gurgling, warbling shanties, while their women perform suggestive, water ballet-like dances.

Though they are limited in the areas of metallurgy, chemcal, and alchemical sciences, the mer-folk are not utter primitives.  They use magic to shape stone for buildings, and have either used animal husbandry or magic to enhance the abilities of sea creatures for their use.  The lantern jellyfish sometimes seen in aquariums are best known example. 

On land, mer-folk must wear something like reverse diving suits--pressurized suits filled with water--unless they have access to magic aid. They're able to breath air, but the exertion quickly tires them and it's uncormfortable for more than a half-hour or so. Their skin quickly dries out in air, as well.  The use of heavy suits isn't as cumbersome as it might seem as mer-folk are stronger than a surface human of comparable size.

There are some mer-folk enclaves in the New World. The largest of these are in New Lludd, there mer-folk are involved in fishing, and the Southron coast where they engage in sponge harvesting, as well.

Elven Chick? How 'Bout a Giantess?

A trip to the Smaragdine Mountains of the Strange New World can get a guy killed--particularly if the guy in question winds up peeping at a beauteous hill-billy giantess while she is bathing, and even more particularly if the protective father of said giantess is somewhere abouts when this peeping occurs.

llicit peeping related dangers aside, the Smaragdines have other hazards to offer. The inbred (and ill-tempered) ogres are around as well. They're often purveyors of bootleg alchemicals, but they don’t sell to those they don’t know, and stranger and “revenuer” are equivalent states in the dim, ogre mind.

Then they are conjure-folk. Nominally human, conjure-folk (or witch-folk) have made dark bargains for magical powers. Bargains that have made them more--and less--than regular humanity. They prefer the rural Smaragdines for the isolation they provide but also because nodes of greater magical energy are more common their than elsewhere. The skin that separates the material plane from the outer dark is easier to prick or pierce.

So why would anyone else want to go to the Smaragdines? Well, besides the scenic beauty, there’s mineral wealth to be exploited in the mountains, and the companies that do so often hire adventurers as muscle or troubleshooters. Law enforcement tries to stamp out illicit alchemical trade, and criminal types want to bring these same wares to market in the cities. Finally, there are the more unusual cases: academics looking to prove various theories in a variety of fields of study, or rich hunters looking to bag an exotic monster, or even Heliotrope talent scouts looking for the next it girl.

Maybe one about nine feet tall.

Illustration above by Reno Maniquis for Weird Adventures.

Weird Adventures: The City Mapped

Here’s the City area map for Weird Adventures, courtesy of the cartographic talents of Anthony Hunter.

Like all metropolises, the City grew by engulfing a myriad of hamlets, villages, and towns along the way.  It spread out from a humble Dwergen fort and trading post across what is now Empire Island, then beyond. Across the Rivers Wyrd and Eldritch, the most resistant of these entities had already grown strong by gobbling up smaller settlements, themselves. These couldn’t be fully conquered, they had to be accommodated, and so they became the other four baronies.

The “barony” title is now a relic, but at one time was quite literal. All of these areas began as domain grants to prominent adventurers by the Queen of Grand Lludd or (earlier) the Syndics of Gulden. Marquesa, for example, still bears the assumed (but not granted) noble title of its original ruler. Shancks was a name bestowed by the enigmatic, master assassin (one who's head existed only partially in this plane, but that's another story) who was the area’s first fief-holder. Empire Island’s name reflects the aspirations of its audacious conqueror.

The remaining two baronies were named for local features. Lichmond was the site of a group of burial mounds of the Ancients. Rookend was named for the dens of thieves, cutthroats, and smugglers (“rookeries” in the parlance of the day), that once squatted on its shore.