Plane Talk About Ethereal Matters

In coming up with my own take on the classic planes--one that uses both AD&D cosmology and real world occult/esoteric beliefs as touchstones--I thought I’d start small with the microcosm of the individual. Coming as it does from relatively modern beliefs, the explanations in this model might not fit all campaigns, but the basic principles can probably be applied.

The body of an individual occupies multiple states of existence (or planes). The physical body, made of simple, everyday matter, is just the densest level of being. The subtle body of an individual, though not normally visible and made of “lighter” material, is no less integral. When the subtle body is separated from the physical for whatever reason, it’s tethered to its densest component by an umbilicus called a silver cord.

There are two parts of the subtle body. In order of decreasing density they are the etheric body, a being’s “shadow” in the substructure of the material planes; and the astral body, a being’s manifestation in the higher, noumenal worlds.

The Ether
The etheric body is generally invisible to the physical world, existing at a different vibrational frequency. It’s formed by the accretion of ether--the substance that is substrantum or medium supporting the material universe--or perhaps, as some theorist’s suggest, it would be more accurate to say it’s the area where the existence of a being deforms the geometry of the etheric plane.

It’s believed to be the etheric body that gives the spark of life to base chemical processes, and acts as the interface between mundane matter and higher states of being. To those able to see it, the etheric body appears as cloud-like aura vaguely in the shape of the being to whom it belongs; with sapient beings have thicker etheric bodies than nonsapient ones. The etheric body is just as mortal as the physical one. When a being dies it gradually disperses (usually over a matter of hours) until it is lost in the surrounding ether.

The etheric (or sometimes ethereal) plane is really the “canvas” on which the material world is painted--the matrix in which it crystallizes. The elemental forces are carried through the ether--or perhaps they excite it in certain frequencies. Some theorize that the etheric body is “vitalized” by the action of a positive energy. Undead might therefore be animated by negative energy. In this view, these forces cause flows or vortices in the ether in opposite directions.

The etheric body can be separated from their physical one via magical items or psionic discipline. Some spells or magical items allow the transformation of the physical body into an etheric form. Since the etheric is just part of a material world (only a different phase) there isn’t any such thing as the “deep ethereal”—at all points it is coexistence with the physical. However, sometimes this term can be appiled to the relatively less populated etheric regions coinciding with the vacuum of space.

Otherwise, this view of the etheric plane mostly conforms to the usual D&D traits and strictures. The plane appears as an all but featureless place of roiling grey and white mists (sorta like the Phantom Zone).  Entities inhabiting it are likewise ghostly and indistinct--though they sometimes possess translucent colors, particularly the bizarre etheric fauna which often resemble oversized microscope creatures or deep sea denizens.  The material plane can be observed from an etheric vantage, but it's as if its behind a veil of mist, or in soft focus.  Etheric beings can pass through nonmagical inanimate objects in the material plane, but living material beings are barriers.  While there is "up" and "down" in the ether, there is no gravity, and movement can be in any direction.  Physical beings fully converted to etherealness can move faster than their normal movement, but to do so causes vibrations in the ether that attract the attention.

When next I take up this subject, I’ll delve into the Astral.

Desolation Cabaret

In 5880, writer and Great War veteran, Geoffersen Turck, arrived in the Republic of Staark intending to write a travelogue of post-war Ealderde. What follows is from Turck’s journals...

Like home, the capital of Staark has an old name, which nobody bothers to use. It’s just “the Metropolis” these days.  I have to admit, it outdoes the City in some ways--giant skyscrapers are everywhere, with aircars flitting busily between them like insects, interrupted by the stately passage of the occasional zeppelin. Automata direct traffic in the streets, and there’s the ever-present hum and vibration of the underground factories and power plants. You could almost forget the country was flatten by war, then buried by debt--but of course, glittering towers and airplanes keep you looking up, instead of at the faces of the poor walking the low streets.

Then there’s the dark side--what they call “the half-world.” This is a town so full of prostitutes they actually publish guidebooks so the inquiring libetine can stay up on the shifting codes of clothing and color accessories that signal what sort of perversions a hire is game for! Below the elevated roads and railways, lurid neon decorates cabarets and clubs that offer all that's on the streets and more. These streets are all-night candy store for drug fiends--their narco-alchemists must work in shifts. Maybe they’ve got automata doing that, too. In the shadows on the periphery of this underworld are the poor, discarded veterans of the Great War. Those pressed into service by crime or poverty as Eisenmenschen--men thaumatosurgically reconstructed in the Imperial bodyworks with machine parts to be implements of war. The rising National Purity Party has been scapegoating these unfortunates in their rhetoric--blaming them for Staark’s humiliation and defeat.

The air’s starting to get to me. They say things about Metropolis’ air, like its some sort of intoxicant all its own. To me, it’s just the constant stench of stale cigarettes, diesel fumes, and sweat, poorly covered with cloying perfume.

I think I'll give the country a try.

There are areas of the Staarkish countryside posted with warnings. These are the desolation zones, places still tainted by the strange weapons used in the War. Mostly people heed the warnings--the signs aren’t even needed really, when you can see the sickly vegetation, or the pale glow on moonless nights, or hear the weird cries of things unseen. Locals sit in taverns and swap tales about things like gibbering mouths, dire worms, flabby men, or susurrous shamblers. They talk about the zones, but they stay out.

The fellows I’ve thrown in with have other ideas.

The government’s put a bounty on the malfunctioning constructs and golems from the war still stalking the countryside, still carrying out their orders. Menschenjäger--manhunters--they’re called. From the description of the frightened farmers, the leader of our band calls the one we're after a Betrachter, but when we finally see the thing, it looks like a cyclops to me.  Then it fires that disintegrating ray out of its eye and one of our group is seared to ash in its too-bright glow.

That night, after we’ve wrapped the head for transport, we’re sitting in the cold, and the tomb-stillness with the smell of burnt flesh still lingering unpleasantly, and eating iron rations, and I think--Maybe Metropolis isn’t so bad after all?

Wait & Resumption

One of the two groups I game with (the one I gamemaster, playing a Pathfinder module in Warriors & Warlocks) is going to be getting together Sunday for the first time since---I don’t even remember...December? Maybe its been even longer.

This is an unusually long break, but difficulties scheduling sessions is unfortunately quite common. Now this group contains three physicians with call and what not, but it isn’t just these players. The game I play in has been on a long hiatus, too, due to scheduling difficulties--though admittedly one of those involved our GM going to Manhattan to tap an appearance on the Daily Show, so I’d call that a reasonable excuse for a cancellation.

So, anyway, its hard. Hard to get busy adults together and hard to get back into the groove after a break. I wonder if these long breaks happen to other people? And if so, how do you guys recover after a break so long you’re lucky if players remember their characters’ names much less details of what was going on?

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.