Monster Canyon

In the West of the New World is one of the geographical wonder. Nearly 400 years ago, when Eadlerdish explorers were first making there way across the western desert, they came to a huge, steep-sided canyon they described in their writings as “a great abyss.” The Natives told them it was impassable, and the abode of monsters. Those early explorers only went far enough to determine the apparent truth of the Natives’ words, and turned back.

It would be 200 years before any Ealderdishman found a way across, and thus proved it was not impassable. The “abode of monsters” part remains true to this day.

The feature is today known as the Grand Chasm, or the Colossal Canyon--and sometimes, the Monster Canyon. It's around 500 miles long, up to 20 miles wide, and reaches a depth of nearly a mile and a half. The Red River runs through its depths, cutting deeper into rock in a time-frame of eons, though some thaumaturgists believe the scale of the chasm indicates something more than natural forces were involved in its making.

The canyon has tributaries--”lost valleys” which boast flora and fauna long extinct in other parts of the world. Procurers for circuses and zoos sometimes enter these regions to bring out beasts for public show, as do alchemists in search of exotic botanical materials. Scientists point to the unlikelihood of viable animal populations surviving in such small places and suggest that vast cave complexes must underlie the entire region, providing a wider habitat.

Other places in the canyon attract adventurers and other treasure-seekers. There are ruins and entrances to caves, some of them previously inhabited or even perhaps made by some human hands. Tombs of the Ancients or some allied culture promise treasure, and ancient magics.

Any treasure to be found there is never easy to acquire. Getting into the canyon is difficult--the easiest way is to come downriver--though there are precarious trails that wind downward from the rim, if you can find a guide. Guides come at a price, and may not be completely trustworthy.

Once a way is found, things only get more dangerous. Wayward flying reptiles from the lost valleys pluck travellers from boats or trails. Cavern crawlers, cave fishers, and other strange creatures (the results of ancient magical experimentation gone awry?) crawl forth from hidden recesses of the chasm when they sense a meal. Then, there are primitive human tribes--some too debased to be worthy of the name--descended from Natives or lost expeditions often fallen to superstitious worship of the canyon's monstrous inhabitants, and sometimes cannibalism.

Still, adventure and treasure calls, and there are always those brave or greedy enough to make the descent.

(My article on the lost cities of the Grand Canyon in the world we know would be instructive and inspirational here as well.) 

Warlord Wednesday: A Horse of a Different Color

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...

"A Horse of a Different Color"

Warlord (vol. 1) #37 (September 1980)

Written and Pencilled by Mike Grell; Inked by Vince Colletta

Synopsis: Beneath the eternal sun of Skartaris, Travis Morgan and Shakira share a whispered conversation, as they crouch in the jungle. Their discussing a wild horse drinking from a pond, which Morgan intends to try and capture. Shakira thinks he’s going to get his neck broken.

Morgan’s determined. He sneaks up and leaps on the stallion's back. As it begins to buck, we now see that it's no ordinary horse, but a winged one!

Shakira tells Morgan to jump, but he ignores her, confident he has the situation in hand. The horse takes flight and Morgan has no choice but to hang on until it lands again. The horse takes Morgan toward a fanciful and futuristic-looking castle atop a spire of rock. There the beast lands at what Morgan takes to be its home.

Meanwhile, an exasperated Shakira runs along, trying to follow Morgan’s path. She’s brought to a halt when a lasso slips over her. Acting quickly, she cuts it with her spear. She finds herself facing an unnaturally tall, broadly smiling man she first takes for a Titan. She takes off running. When the man gives chase, emerging fully from the foliage, she realizes he's actually a centaur.

She trips her pursuer with her spear, then holds him helpless at spear’s point. The centaur protests he meant her no harm, but Shakira points out that’s exactly what he would say in this situation. The centaur tries to bargain for his life with some sort of service. At first, Shakira isn’t interested in his perhaps lewd suggestions, but then she thinks of something he can do for her:

Offered little choice by Shakira, the centaur, who introduces himself as Arvak Thunderhoof, agrees reluctantly to give her a ride to Morgan’s location.

In the castle on the spire, Morgan marvels at the decor--amazing life-like statues representing all the ages of man in Skartaris, from the Age of the Wizard Kings to the present. While he’s examing the art, a beautiful green-haired woman enters, and asks if he likes her collection. She asks Morgan to forgive her for not greeting him earlier--she wasn’t expecting him until much later.

Morgan asks me she means, but she doesn’t reply. She gives her name as Astarte, but says his other questions will wait, and makes her point with a smoldering stare and her arms around his neck...

On the ground below, Arvak points out the castle to Shakira, naming it Grimfang. Shakira intends to climb the spire. Arvak tells her it's impossible; no one could attempt that climb and live. Shakira attends to try, regardless--Morgan would do no less for her. She can’t figure out why that moves her--she’s never been particularly loyal to anyone--but it does. She transforms into a cat and bounds off.

She begins the climb. It’s difficult even in her cat form. It becomes more so when a hawk swoops down to make a meal of her. Shakira finds a wide enough perch, then transforms back into a human. The diving hawk gets a surprise--and a punch in the head.

In the castle above, Morgan still has questions, but Astarte puts him off by offering him wine. Morgan refuses, bu Astarte insists, and something about her eyes seems to compel him....

Then, a snarling, black house cat leaps between the two, and buries its claws in Astarte’s face.The glass she was offering Morgan spills. Morgan recognizes Shakira but doesn’t know what’s going on.

Astarte finally succeeds in casting Shakira away, but only after accidentally knocking over one of her statues. Morgan reaches down and dips his fingers in the red liquid from the goblet. He realizes it isn’t wine, and he knows how Astarte came by her “art collection.”

Morgan pulls his hellfire sword. Within the glow of the hellfire’s mystic gem, he sees Astarte’s true form--a green-feathered, harpy-like creature.

She says she would have made Morgan immortal in stone, but now she’ll send him to the halls of death. Morgan offers her some wine first--and throws the remaining liquid from the goblet into her face. Astarte turns to stone in mid-lunge, then crashes to the ground, and shatters.

Shakira asks if Morgan’s noticed how bad his luck’s been with woman lately. Morgan declines to discuss it.

Morgan and Shakira fly out of Grimfang on the back of the winged horse, while below, lonely Arvak watches them--Shakira, actually--go.

Things to Notice:

• Grimfang is in sort of an isolated place to attract a lot of visitors, it seems.  The time it took to acquire her collection must matter less to someone apparently as long-lived as Astarte.
• How does Morgan instantly know where Astarte's statues came from just from figuring out the liquid isn't wine?

Where It Comes From:
This issue is largely Greek mythology inspired.  It's got a winged horse (pegasus), a centaur, and a women who turns things to stone--though admittedly, not with her gaze like a gorgon.  Like Circe, Astarte offers refreshment which will transform the consumer.

Arvak Thunderhoof seems to have a bit of the classical centaur lecherousness, though he plays more like a seventies ladies' man than the would-be abductors of myth.

"Astarte" is the Greek name of a goddess of the Eastern Mediterranean of Semitic origin.  Her purview was fertility and war.

Another Petty God: Noom the Ubiquitous

Symbol: A small statue, boundary marker, or herma with an head of an (often bearded) old man wth a bemused expression.
Alignment: Lawful

Noom the Ubiquitous, or Noom the Unlooked For, is the patron of the lost (both people and things), wanders, and things overlooked. For as long as there have been roads, streets, and trails, people have been placing crudely fashioned statuettes of this smiling godling along them. He oversees journeys that are not as planned. He brings the lost traveler to a place more interesting than where she intended to go, and insures that lost items wind up in the hands of those who might need them at a crucial moment.

In manifestation, Noom looks like a portly, aged, dwarf in bright clothing. The pockets on his clothes always look full, and he typically carries a peddler’s sack, fit to burst,on his back. He seldom appears though, preferring to act through his idols.

Noom has few if any worshippers. So ancient and forgotten is his cult, few even realize the small, roadside statues represent a god. Noom aides travelers not in exchange for their veneration, but out of whim. Anyone lost in the presence of a Noom statue has a 40% chance of attracting the godling’s attention. This increases to 60% if they sleep in close proximity to a statue.

Noom will not help a lost traveler find their destination, but will either subtly guide something interest their way, or guide the person to something of interest. “Interest” in this case, may be the threshold of adventure, but it will generally not be something immediately dangerous (like a wandering monster). Noom’s intercession will never be obvious. Events will always seem natural, if perhaps a little strange.

Other times, Noom’s influence will be felt in the finding of an innocuous, but ultimately useful item. These will seldom be magical, and will never appear to be particularly value at first (though they may actually be). These will be found in the dust or weeds around Noom idols. It will be strange in many cases that the item could have been lost where it is found.

Destroying a statue of Noom will bring the godling’s displeasure. Doing so may result (50%) in getting lost, at least for a time, in an unpleasant and possibly dangerous way.

Inception and D&D Cosmology

Rewatching Inception on blu-ray this weekend I thought of another way some of the film's concepts might inform an rpg setting. Its portrayal of descent through “levels" of dream got me thinking how that might be applied to the standard model of AD&D cosmology.

First, you’d have to take the occult/mystic view that the multiverse beyond the Prime Material is largely a conceptual or spiritual place. The macrocosm (all that is) is reflected, perhaps even encompassed, in the microcosm of a human being. This is hardly a new view, but a different from D&D’s more mechanistic approach.

If the planes aren’t necessarily physical places in the usual sense, but more like states of consciousness or spiritual planes, they’re probably mostly reachable by astral projection, mental/spirit travel, or the like. Travelers’ bodies are left behind in the semblance of sleep.

The first stop would be the astral plane. This area would be malleable (to a degree) to the mind of an experienced traveler. Maybe it also impinges on dreams so random dream stuff is here that can be utilized. The distance through here to any “outer” plane might be a factor of attunement to that planes dominant emotion/ethos/mind-set, or maybe it has to do with some other factor.

Like dream-levels in Inception, I think it would be cool if time ran different in each planar level. The further from the Prime Materal, the “slower” time runs. The astral is only a little slower than the Prime, but in Hell things seem to last forever.

Anyway, that might mean that while each outer plane has a particular theme or character, it will be filtered through the consciousness of the traveler. Everybody gets his own heaven and hell--and nirvana, or whatever. I don’t know how that would work for a party. Maybe the lead traveler would have the biggest influence, but if they split up, individuals would gradually find themselves in very different realms. Of course, maybe the planes are sentient too--iconic representatives, after a fashion, of certain ideas. Maybe they assert their own influence which establishes the broad strokes of their appearances.

Anyway, I think you can see where I’m going with this. I suppose this idea might work better in a modern occult game or something like that, but I see it as playable with traditional fantasy, too. Characters (or players) need not have a real understanding of how the planes operate for them to work this way. In fact, it might be more interesting if they didn’t.

The Night Mail

The New World depends on the timely delivery mail of over large distances. Unfortunately, large swathes of the continent are mostly unsettled, only cut by lone railways, or haphazard auto trails. Bandits, hostile Native tribes, and wandering monsters still harry travellers in much the West, while malevolent storms and ravenous zombies menace the Dustlands. The skies have often become the best option.

The Union has a postal service, but it relies on private contractors to carry air mail. Many of these companies are small operations, or even sole propietorships. The pilots are typically recruited from the ranks of barnstorming daredevils or veterans of the Great War. Their planes are often rickety and aging, held together by paint and wishful thinking.

The larger, or more reckless, operations run night and day. Coast-to-coast routes can be flown by most carriers in around 30 hours, pilots staying awake with black coffee and alchemical stimulants. Larger (and much more expensive) planes can make the trip in less than twenty. The smaller planes go from the City to San Tiburon in jumps--making deliveries in the Steel League, Lake City, and some Western cow-towns along the way.

That's assuming the planes make it safely. Aviation is a dangerous business in the best of conditions, and conditions are seldom the best. Thunderbirds hunt western skies, wings crackling with St. Elmo’s fire, riding the storms their presence invokes. Air-bandits strike from mountain hideouts, or (it’s rumored) cloud-hidden flying fortresses, to down and loot commercial planes. The whispered come-ons of slyphs seduce lonely aviators to their doom. Elemental storms smash aircraft out of spite.

Then there’s the strange fauna of the upper air. Eerily translucent, gelatinous predators, like something out the ocean depths, which drift downward in response to air vibrations, and almost certainly, magical energies.

Thamaturgical enhancements can, and have, improved aircraft engines and systems, but their use is limited for safety reasons. Magic energies tend to attract dangerous para-elementals of lightning (or electricity)--entities called gremlins or glitches by those in aviation. Their very nature disrupts electrical equipment; and their chaotic anti-potential can disrupt mechanical devices, and react with thamaturgical equipment in unpredictable ways.

Their presence interacts with the human mind, too. Pilots who have suffered gremlin attacks often report hallucinating outlandish, colorful, diminutive creatures--if they survive the encounter.

The Structures of Magical Revolutions

We’re all familiar with the advance of technology and the shifting--sometimes radically--of scientific ideas. The ether theory gave way to special relativity; the bow gave way to the gun. So why is it we seldom see any advancements in the technology of magic, or magical paradigm shifts, in rpg settings?

Not that magic isn’t shown as changing over time, but it's almost always a fall from a more advanced state, even a golden age, to its current one. Mostly, though, this seems to just a change from more magic to less. Sure, this gives a convenient rationale for ancient magical ruins and magical items laying around, but there are other explanations for that stuff, surely.

Why can’t magic missiles be more powerful today than 100 years ago? Maybe old spells have completely fallen by the wayside due to improve defenses (maybe, though, those defenses have been lost too?). Or how about old magical theories giving way to the radical new theories of a Magus Einstein? Different magical schools/styles need not be equally valid views that just add “color”, one could be more true than the other. What would that even mean: more powerful spells? shorter casting times? higher levels attainable? bragging rights in the outer planes?

Anyway, its something to think about: What are the structures of magical revolutions?

Crime & Amusement

A covert war is being fought along the boardwalk, and in the places of amusement, on Lapin Isle on the southeastern coast of the City. The war is between two lords (or one lord and one lady) of petty crime. The stakes are the illicit earnings from all the beach’s pick-pockets, quick-grab artists, petty confidence tricksters, and part-time prostitutes. Neither of these would-be kingpins are human, but are, in fact, coin-operated fortune telling machines.

In the middle of the boardwalk, a penny arcade is the domain of Mister Chax, the All-Knowing Homonculus. Inside his glass case, Mister Chax appears as a ventriloquists dummy in a natty suit with dead (yet still too-knowing) eyes and a leering, plastered grin beneath a pencil-thin moustache. His communications come on cards, neatly printed and filligreed. Chax’s gang is mostly scruffy urchins who seem innocuous when encountered singularly, but sinister in packs. They speak in a ridiculous child-argot never completely intelligible to adults, without magical aide. Some of them are very large for their age.

Chax also has been known to employ inky, spider-things the size of wharf rats with almost human faces and derisive, whispering voices. Their bites cause painful pustules and nightmares.

Mister Chax’s rival can be found in a novelty shop near the entrance to Lunar Rabbit Park. Her glass case gives her name as Grisselda, but her followers--her “ducklings”--call her “auntie” or “great aunt.” Grisselda appears as an old woman, like an Old World grandmother. She tells fortunes by the use of playing cards, and this is also the way she communicates with her followers. These are mostly young girls, either in their teens or early twenties, who dress like prim young ladies, perhaps on a church trip. Their dainty purses hide switchblades, maybe pocket revolvers, and nasty, back-alley magic items. The cryptic meanings of Grisselda’s cards are interpreted by an oracle. She's a girl a little older than Auntie's standard soldier, with eyes older still, and porcelain skin. She typically dresses like an aspiring torch-singer, and smokes a cigarette through a holder. Her name is always Esme.

Chax and Grisselda try to keep their war sotto voce. They have no wish to attract the authorities, but also no wish to draw the interest of the malign godling of Lapin Isle, the dark personification of the rabbit in the moon; the thing like a man in a bunny suit that is not a man.