Apes on the Rise

Rise of the Planet of the Apes is, of course, a prequel (or a prequel to a reboot) of Planet of the Apes. It ignores (or perhaps replaces is a better word--there are a lot of sly references) the history of the end of the world of man and the rise of the--well, you know--given in Conquest and Battle for the Planet of the Apes. Anyone who knows me (and maybe anybody who reads this blog) knows I’m a fan of the original film series, so prequels or reboots of it attract my interest. The Burton remake had good ape effects, a similar sly humor to the original, and a soundtrack by Elfman that had some nice elements of homage to Goldsmith’s brilliant, experimental score for the first film. Unfortunately, beyond that, there wasn’t much to like. It wasn’t horrible; it was just flat.

Rise is not that. While on the surface it's a different sort of story than the original Planet of the Apes, it’s events parallel the first film's in interesting ways. Heston’s Taylor was a man trapped in a world not his own; so is the genetically enhanced Caesar of this film. His response--sometimes horrified, sometimes pissed off--is pretty much the same.

Caesar shares the spotlight with scientist Will Rodman played by James Franco. Franco is a more convincing stoner than researcher, but he’s competent enough. The apes are the real stars, after all.

And those CGI primates are great. There are some scenes where you’d be hard pressed to tell the difference between them and the real thing. When they rampage though, they’re not as violent as real chimps--likely both a plot concession to ensure sympathy and a practical calculation to secure a PG-13 rating. Still, it’s cool to see the apes engage in a little guerilla (heh) warfare against the law, culminating in a battle on the Gold Gate Bridge.

Rise replaces the nuclear spectre of the Cold War with the modern bêtes noires of genetic engineering and global pandemics. Just like in the original film series, the protagonists are pretty much responsible for the destruction of the world, yet they remain sympathetic. That’s no mean feat.

So if you like the ape films, or like movies sympathetic to animals over cruel humans, or just like a good near-future sci-fi yarn, check Rise of the Planet of the Apes out.

If only they'd found a way to work in apes with coonskin hats. Maybe in the sequel?

Catching Up on a Friday

If (unlike Bingo here) you want some rpg related readings for your Friday, I've got a few suggestions:

Over at Fame & Fortune, Satyre offers a free pdf of his always interesting taverns--these having the added twist of being cave-based.

R.W. Chandler reaches into the Black Hole Diaries and produces a cool, steampunkian pocket rpg--Gaslite.

In the realm of four-color adventure, I did a guest post for Jim at the Flashback Universe--part 1 of the untold history of the Fantastic Four from a perspective within the Marvel Universe.  It might be inspirational for some supers games.

Weird Adventures: Drawing Closer

I figure it's time for another Weird Adventures progress report--and a couple of cool pieces of art by Johnathan Bingham and Felt.  We have here the mugshot of a Hit-Fiend, one of the notorious assassins of the Hell Syndicate, and below, traveler in the astral plane.

I'm diligently at work on "City Confidential," the section overviewing the City itself, hitting the highlights of its neighborhoods and districts.  This includes a lot of things hopefully of pratical use to adventurers: the Cuthbert Bannerman weaponry museum and gun emporium, the exotic Appothecary of Dr. Lao in Yiantown, and the charity hospital of St. Valiant in Grimalkin.  Then there are the tantalizing hints at adventure itself: the strange fogs (and frogs) in the Corund Tunnel, the underground Fate Exchange, and the mysterious Monolith of Monolith Square, among others.

All the other sections have been finished.  Most of them I've discussed in previous updates other than "Weird Menaces" (the monster section)--including the Hit-Fiend and 29 others from "Blackdust Monsters" to "Zombie, Cujiatepecan."

My writing I plan on completing by before the end of the summer.  Relying on the charity of good folks to proofread my back-of-cocktail napkin scrawl so it can be turned into quality layouts means depending on their availability, so I can't predict things with absolute certainty, but the end is in sight now, my friends.

Warlord Wednesday: Cry Wolf

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...

"Cry Wolf"

Warlord (vol. 1) #62 (October 1982)

Written by Mike Grell (Sharon Grell); Penciled by Jan Duursema; Inked by Tom Mandrake

Synopsis:  In the vicinity of Shamballah, a young cowherd goes looking for a few stragglers of his flock and finds a pack of wolves devouring them. Surprisingly, they’re accompanied by a shirt-less man wearing jodhpurs and a fencing sword! It’s a man we know: Rostov.

Meanwhile, in the Shamballan palace, Morgan breaks up a fight between three soldiers. They claim the fight started over a gambling debt unpaid. Morgan tells the alleged loser to pay up and lets them go. Broody Graemore, watching from atop the palace walls, seems troubled by this exchange.

Back in his quarters, Morgan enlists Tara’s aide to help him get undress before he falls into a bath. Tara tells him he should be recuperating from his confinement rather than drilling with the troops--but he’s not called “the Warlord” for nothing. Tara leaves him to his bath wondering when his wanderlust will strike and he’ll leave her again.

Tara heads out into the garden and has barely had time to smell a flower when Graemore (still on the palace walls) shows up.  Tara and Graemore engage in some small talk and longing glances, before Graemore asks if she’s told Moran what happened between them.

No. She wouldn’t burden him with knowledge of something that only occurred in very unusual circumstances. Graemore tells her about the two soldiers quarrelling today--and he knows what it was really about.  One soldier made a comment about her and Graemore and the other soldier was defending her honor. The palace is full gossip.

Tara is confident Morgan is unaware--but he has been restless of late. He wants action. Graemore knows just the thing. He’s heard about a wolfpack terrorizing outlying farms...

And so, a royal hunt is organized. Asking around at farmhouses, Morgan finds what he thinks may be the site of the latest attack. They do pick up the wolves trail. The pack has split and they find human tracks with the smaller group. Morgan thinks he’s running with them.

Tara doesn’t understand. Morgan says its just a hunch, but he’ll follow the smaller group and Tara can lead the soldiers after the larger pack. Morgan plans to take “the entertainer” Graemore with him.

Morgan and Graemore track them, but find themselves in an ambush. While the wolves trouble Graemore, Rostov the werewolf knocks Morgan from his horse.

The crazed Russian gets the better of Morgan. Fighting for his life, Morgan yells the name of the woman Rostov followed to Skartaris: “Mariah!”

Morgan never gets to find out if that works, because Graemore knocks Rostov out with the butt of his spear. Morgan asks him why he did that? It was his opportunity to get rid of his rival for Tara! Graemore doesn’t reply.

Later, Morgan and an apparently recovered Rostov sit in the palace. Rostov says its gotten harder and harder for him to free his mind from the influence of the beast after each change to wolf form. Morgan suggests that his daughter has become quite a “magicker”--maybe she can remove the curse? Rostov has gone to magicians before with no success, but he’s willing to give anything a try. Morgan says they’ll leave immediately.

Tara follows him, and asks if he’s leaving. Morgan explains the plan. Tara wonders why he doesn’t consult magicians in Shamballah first, but Morgan thinks its better to get out of the city so as not to create a werewolf panic. He asks Tara if she wants to come along. Tara asks him who he thinks he’s fooling.

Tara says she didn’t want to be a queen, but she is one. She has responsibilities. She tells him to go and almost says “don’t come back,” but Morgan preempts her with an embrace. Morgan leaves, promising to be back.

Things to Notice:

• Rostov's jodhpurs remain mysteriously undamaged despite the time he's spent running with the pack through the Skartarian jungle.
• Graemore's pretty handy with a spear for a minstrel.

Where It Comes From:
The title of this issue, of course, references the expression meaning "to raise a false alarm," derived from the fable "The Boy Who Cried Wolf."  In this case, though, the wolf is real. 

Rostov was last seen in issue #47.

In Place of a Dark Lord...A Queen

In the tradition of the Moon Men and the Brain Parasite, here’s a another mechanically-unaltered monsters with a new look. This one gets a sexy makeover...

A strange excitement seemed to pass through the loathsome little folk. They paused in tormenting the surviving townspeople and looting the dead and turned to gaze with adoration in the direction of their approaching mistress. Bowing and genuflecting, they crept from her path as she moved, languid and insolent, into the midst of the captive folk. Her lips curled in a cruel smile as she regard one frightened stable boy, lifting his chin with a finger to look into his eyes.

The strange dark creepers need master to serve, but perhaps the dark stalker can be replaced by a dread queen--a Goblin Queene? The Queen is more likely to lead from the rear, preferring to use her darkness abilities to escape should the need arise, but she still have poison to fall back on if necessary.

Where do the goblin queens come from? There existence may suggest that dark creeper society (and biology) resembles eusocial insects--or more likely mammals like the naked mole rat.  Another possibility is the the queens are humans kidnapped as children and raised for their role among the creepers.  Or maybe they're not human at all, despite appearances, and have some supernatural origin?

Of course, one could use the dark creepers with my humanoid swarm as a manifestation of the onset of puberty idea, too.

Stone Walls; Iron Bars

The Black Iron Prison is the Plane of Confinement. Despite it’s name, the prison is not always as apparent as iron bars and stone walls (though it has plenty of that, carved as it was from ancient bones of some demonic titan)--its evil is more subtle than that. Restriction and imprisonment of various forms permeate it.

Portals to the plane are sometimes found on the Material Plane in the form palm-sized, rusted, black iron boxes, heavier than they appear.  Visitors to the plane describe an "outer" desert of squalid intern camps, stretched arond and inner, three (or more) dimensional Escher maze of cell-blocks, isolation chambers, and interrogation rooms.

The plane is the home (and the prison) of the deodands, a vile race sentenced to serve as the guards and administrators of the apotheosis prison as punishment for ancient crime. Demonologists have cataloged three primary castes or species of these creatures (though there are undoubtably more):

The lowest caste of deodands are tall, emaciated, scabrous creatures with frog-like mouths. Their bare skins weep a tarry ichor from numerous injection sites. They're junkies and dealers; they mix the astral excreta of despair, callousness, and resignation that oozes from the souls that fall into their hands with the bile of arthropodals that make their homes in the prison’s substructure and inject it beneath their skin. The tarry substance--and a brief respite from their paranoia in a cold, sneering high--are the result. The tar is packaged and sold (to the prisoners to be smoked or injected) in exchange for pleasant memories or dreams, or hopes--anything that defines the former self-hood of the soul. When not engaged in commerce, these tar demodands are the menials of the prison.  On the Material Plane, their shadows have the same viscous consistence as their tar, but no psychoactive properties.

The middle caste are the color of a fresh bruise.  Their limbs are swollen like blood sausages, and their tick-like bellies appear filled to near bursting, sloshing loathesomely as they waddle or fly drunkenly on ridiculously small wings. Their bloated faces are unpleasantly human-like and wear expressions of volutuous satiety, complete with drool running from the corners of their mouths and down their double (or triple) chins. Always their skins appear to glisten as if oiled; this is due to a slime they secrete.  They sweat even more when they eat, and they eat almost constantly. They fancy themselves gourmets, and there is nothing they consider so refined as dining on astral substance of souls. They prefer fatted souls, though and first expose victims to their slime.  Under the slimes influence, they become grossly corpulent. At that point, they're ready for the slime deodands who drain them to emaciation and let the process begin again. Slime deodands are torturers and interrogators in the deodand hierarchy.

The highest caste are strutting, sadistic martinets--the wardens and senior guards of the prison. They’re vaguely human-like in form, but with pale, wrinkled skin that seems ill-fitted to their bodies. They’re androgynous with bald heads and unfeminine faces, but pendulous breasts and high-pitched voices. They have a penchant for dressing in uniforms, the more elaborate the better. Sagging deodands (as they’re called) are found of searches, interrrogations, and tortures. They foster paranoid not as a hobby, or even a vocation, but simply due to their natures. Infractions are always found, and prisoners are encouraged to inform on others--but only after they themselves are questioned to the breaking point.

It’s a good thing for Prime Material Plane that deodands seldom arrive on it unbidden. Sadistic sorcerers have been known to arrange “renditions” for enemies, though the price for such a service is rumored to be steep.

Collect Call from the Outer Dark

The City is awash with weird rumors, but one of the weirdest is about thaumaturgic artifact said to be in the possession of (or perhaps possessing) the City Telephone Company. In some inner corporate sanctum (so it goes) a secret order of technician-priests performs rituals in the service of a mummified severed head.

The rumors vary as to whether the head is housed in the City Telephone Company Skyscraper (a ziggurat-like structure that’s highest tower is topped by a Tesla coil-like spire--could it be more that decoration?) or a few blocks away in the research laboratories of its parent company, Reade Telephone (confirmed to be working on advances like etheric image transmission and trans-mortem communication). Wherever its housed, the head is said to be studded with electrodes attached to the glass sphere surrounding it. Beyond the dome, the “altar” upon when the head sits is surrounded by magic wards and electrical equipment like rune inscribed van de Graaff generators. Despite the sealed vacuum that surrounds the head, the room is always filled with its sonorous babbling.

What’s the heads purpose? That’s the question, isn't it? Some think its pronouncements are coded prophecies dutifully collected and decoded by the scientists. Others believe it's some sort of extradimensional computation device; it’s vocalizations are sonic representations of binary code, ultimately describing the entire multiverse and giving thaumaturgic mastery of reality itself. Still others are sure the head's a demon from the depths of the Pit and the sounds that hold its acolytes in such thrall are a slow working spell to breakdown the walls of the material world and overturn Creation.

Some adventures have gone looking for the head. Most have found nothing but stiff security at the telephone company offices. If anyone’s ever found the head, it doesn't seem they've lived to tell about it.