Rider of the Weird West: The Merkabah Rider series

In the mood for some good Weird Western fiction? Well, hit the trail with Edward Erdelac’s Merkabah Rider series and you’ll get it from both barrels.

The titular Rider is a Hasidic Jew and an initiate of mystical order known as Merkabah Riders. The Rider roams the post-Civil War Old West, combating supernatural evil with his esoteric powers and knowledge. He’s armed (and armored) by a coat full of magical talismans, mystic spectacles (etched with the seal of Solomon), and mystically engraved Volcanic pistols--particularly effective on the astral plane.

The first volume in the series is Merkabah Rider: Tales of a High Plains Drifter.  It's composed of a series of short-stories or novellas, with the glimmering of an overarching plot running through. Over the course of the stories, Rider combats a Canaanite god, a demonic tornado, and the denizens a house of ill-repute where Lilith herself is the madam.

The stories have a lot of real world mythological and occult detail--interpreted through a unifying mythos--but all of that only serves to enhance the pulpy action. In this way, the stories are perhaps most similar to Richard L. Tierney’s Simon Magus short-stories--though those have more of a Cthulhu Mythos bend (though that’s not entirely absent from the Merkabah Rider, either).

Another nice element is the little homages and sly references Erdelac drops into the yarns. There’s a direct homage to Howard’s “Kelly the Conjure-Man” (based on a real Texas legend, according to Howard) and “Black Canaan.” Some real world historical personages show up: note the real name of “Sadie” given in “Nightjar Woman.” There also other details mentioned throughout that I suspect are references to famous Western films, as well.

So much material that could vaguely qualify as Weird Western is largely “everything and the kitchen sink” steampunkian monstrosity (not that there’s anything wrong with that), but the Merkabah Rider stories have a versimilitude about it them that comes from riffing off real world magical beliefs and placing everything in a real world context.

So check out High Planes Drifter, and its sequel Merkabah Rider: The Mensch with No Name--and I sure a third book in the series is on its way. They’d make great inspiration for Stuart Robertson’s Weird West rpg, and others I’m sure.

Revenge of the Tiki Spirit

In the islands of the Tranquil Ocean (particularly in the Pyronesian chain), the natives create carvings of roughly human shape. Their shamans coax powerful spirits to inhabit these statues, and they become objects of veneration for the tribesmen.

The spirits of these idols are typically elemental in nature. Given the number of volcanic isles, its not surprising that fire elementals are the most common, though wind and water are also found. Many of these elementals are quite powerful, though their bonding to the statues gives them certain weakness. Some require sacrifices to maintain their powers. Bound to a physical object, they can be removed from their island homes by moving the statues. They may be compelled to serve the possessor of their statue, though they will look for ways to free themselves and avenge their enslavement. They may be placated by minor acts of veneration, but the exact nature of these rituals varies from spirit to spirit.

The spirits are always at least large elementals, but they differ from others of their size in being bound to the statues. Though wooden, the statues can’t be destroyed by nonmagical means, unless the elementals are slain beforehand.

art by Keith Tucker

 I’m at a conference in Hawaii this week, so my presence on the blogosphere and my posting may be lighter than usual, but this post seemed particularly apropros.

They Like You for Your Brains

Bored with your monsters? Tired of the same old thing? Here’s a couple of mechanically-unchanged stalwarts with a shiny new finish:

Moon Men
Mysterious beings that appear by night and move silently to feed upon the minds of humans. Moon Men appear as tall humanoids whose heads are hidden beneath gleaming, featureless domes. These scientist-sadists rarely make any attempt to communicate, and treat other sentients with clinical detachment, as if they were mere cattle.

These are good ol’ mind flayers--because tentacles are so last year. The only change would be to dispense with the tentacle attack--or maybe keep it and have pseudopods emerge from a Moon Man’s liquid metal head. With that option, they might literally eat brains, but otherwise its the mind they’re after, not the meat.

Though the picture is Mysterio, the name was inspired by a pulp hero with a similar look.

Brain Parasite
“The brain was in a serious state of liquefaction. Only the brain-stem had any discernable structure. A puncture in the back of the skull likely indicates where the creature insert its venom...Yes, that’s the thing in the preservative vat there. It was completely invisible--or more precisely, simply, unseen--on the victims back until it was killed.  And by then it was too late.”

These reskinned intellect devourers look like the zanti from the Outer Limits and act sort of like the mutant spiders from Metebelis 3, the titular Planet of the Spiders in Doctor Who. I imagine they inject some sort of a toxin into the skull, dissolve the brain slowly, and suck out the sweet, sweet juice over time. 

The Art of Illusion

Beyond the “scientific” sorcerers of the Thaumaturgical Society and the hedge hex-workers and folk conjurers, there exists another group of magic-users in the City. Illusionists (as they style themselves) bridge the gap between real magic and stage performance.

The origins of the arts of illusion are obscure. Thaumaturgical scholars suggest it developed as a way for low-skill sorcerers to earn a living, while illusionists hold it developed from ancient mystery ritual practices in Ealderde given to mankind by a pagan trickster god. Illusionists claim (much to the irritation of their thaumaturgical rivals) that several historic mages revered by thaumaturges were actually illusionists who pulled off big tricks. However it began, illusionism seems to have first been practiced as a form of thievery, usually as part of a confidence game, but gradually developed into a performance art.

Illusionists know powerful spells, but their repertoire is mostly limited to those that deceive the senses in one way or another. They combine the use of real thaumaturgy with the use of sleight-of-hand and other stage tricks. Economy of magic is their goal; They look down on the obvious displays of thaumaturgists.

Illusionists, it's said (by illusionists), take a solemn oath not to reveal their secrets (magical or legerdemain) to non-illusionists. They claim that there exists an international Brotherhood of Illusion which enforces this pledge--though evidence for the existence of this organization is hardly above suspicion as fabrication. Certainly, an Illusionists Guild exists in the City, but the theatrics and misdirection surrounding it make it impossible to know its true size or influence.

Warlord Wednesday: Sorceress Supreme

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 Sorceress Supreme"

Warlord (vol. 1) #54 (February 1982)

Written by Mike Grell (Sharon Grell); Penciled by Mark Texiera; Inked by Mike DeCarlo

Synopsis: Returned from their sojourn in the Arctic, Morgan, Tara, and Shakira approach Castle Deimos, unaware of what’s been going on inside. An exhausted Ashiya slumps in a chair and complains to Faaldren how Jennifer’s insatiable hunger for magical knowledge has been taxing her to the limit.  As if on cue, Jennifer calls “Mother!” again--for that’s the guise Ashiya has employed to gain her trust.

Jennifer is trying a variation on a spell and wants her "mother’s" aid. Ashiya tells her she would like to do some learning herself. She wants to know more about the Atlantean machines in the laboratory. Jennifer assures her she already knows all of that--and again insists on her help with the spell.

They’ve only just finished the ritual when Ashiya’s raven spy flies in to tell her visitors are approaching the castle. Ashiya goes to prepare a welcome.

Morgan rushes across the draw bridge and into the castle, eager for news about his daughter. Instead, he’s surprised to be greeted by Rachel, his dead wife. Morgan goes to her, so caught up in the moment that he doesn’t bother to question how it could be. He pays for his credulousness when Ashiya blasts him!

The portcullis falls. Shakira pushes Tara inside to get her out of the way, and quickly changes to cat form. Her head is caught, but she avoids being skewered.

Though knocked to his knees by Ashiya’s blast, Travis Morgan isn’t down. Gritting his teeth, he rises to face the woman in his wife’s guise. She blasts him again and again, but he staggers forward until his left hand is around her throat and his sword is in his right.  Morgan squeezes:

Morgan raises his sword, swearing Ashiya will pay for her charade. At that moment, Jennifer rushes in with a cry. She blasts her father aside. Ashiya yells for her to kill Morgan.

But Jennifer smiles wickedly and summons her powers. “I didn’t save you from him,” she says. “I saved you for me.”

Ashiya intends to serve no mortal, and so the two engage in a magical duel. In the direct contest, Ashiya soon bests her former student. But before Ashiya can finish her, Jennifer fires one last blast which appears to miss. In fact, she’s energized the Atlantean machinery around the old witch. When Ashiya gathers her power, she's engulfed by the machinery’s energies.

Morgan gets to his feet, wondering what the hell just happened. Jennifer causes the portcullis to rise, freeing Shakira. Morgan goes to his living wife, Tara, and takes her in his arms.

After everyone has exchanged stories, Morgan and companions prepare to leave. Jennifer says she won’t be joining them. There’s much learning left for her to do in this place, and Faaldren has agreed to stay with her. She tells her father to content himself that she’s found a place in this world of his. Tara reminds him that Jennifer is no longer a child--he gave his time with her to someone else. Morgan knows she’s right.

And so, father and daughter part again--each taking up a new life in Skartaris.

 
Things to Notice:

• This is the first issue Jennifer appears "in costume" within the issue.
• Shakira's near brush with portcullis-death isn't even commented on. 
• Jennifer seems to know before Ashiya's betrayal that she isn't her mother.  She seems more calculating in this issue than she will later appear.

Where It Comes From:
This issue's alliterative title was probably borrowed from Marvel's Doctor Strange, who's known as the Sorcerer Supreme.

WARLORD WEDNESDAY BONUS: Check out this Warlord fan art from Felt.

The Gore Between the States

I’m off work today for that most archaic of state holidays, Confederate Memorial Day. So in honor of the day, I thought I’d highlight one of the most gameable of movies alluding to the Civl War. I refer, of course, to Herschell Gordon Lewis’ Two Thousand Maniacs!

For all of you who’ve ever said to yourself: “It’s too bad Brigadoon isn’t a gore film”--well, this move's for you. In brief, a group of Yankee tourists head down to the South, but get tricked into the out of the way town of Pleasantville. There they find themselves the guests of honor at the centennial commemoration of the town’s destruction by Union troops. “Guests of honor” in this case meaning victims of torture in the hayseed townsfolk’s sadistic picnic games. Two of the tourists manage to escape and return with the local sheriff, only to find the town has disappeared.  It was destroyed 100 years ago! The townsfolk, meanwhile, wait elsewhere and look forward to their next celebration in 2065.

Beyond the obvious horror usage, towns that appear on schedule can be used in any sort of setting. Fantasy surely, but science fiction could work as well with a suitable technobabble explanation. The inhabitants could be pleasant--but really, what would be the point in that?  Orcs, vampires, zombies, Confederate zombies--all good candidates.

Of course, there’s another fun group that returns “when the stars are right.” There’s no reason why New England should get all the Lovecraftian fun. Adding a touch of Cthulhu gives extra meaning to “the South shall rise again!”

Black School

photo by Geoffrey Dunn

In the days when the City was only a village crowding a fort at the end of Empire Island, there were rumors of a sprawling house, beyond the glow of the village lights, built in single night by devils at the command of a cabal of evil Ealderdish sorcerers. The sorcerers came to this place in a swamp in a wild land to open a Black School--a Scholomance--to tutor what students would come in the dark arts.

Some stories say some natural disaster (an act of God) destroyed the school, while others say a group of righteous adventurers razed it, and a few hold it just disappeared, as if hell reclaimed it. No one really knows for certain.

What is known is that the place where the Black School once stood was eventually engulfed by the growing City and became the area called Scholo. Whatever industries that have tried to take hold there--from farms, to brothels, to sweatshops--never seem to last for long. The area seems strangely prone to fires, and strange accidents.

The only thing that lasts in Scholo is magic. As other enterprises have dwindled, magic book shops, alchemical supply stores, and the offices of cut-rate thaumaturgist-for-hire have thrived and grown to crowd Scholo’s streets. Thaumaturgists live here, too--mostly young would-be up-and-comers, and old has-beens and never-wases. They practice their arts in small, threadbare apartments, and congregate to trade secrets (and lies) in a few small cafes and bars.

On almost any night, if you sit in one of the bars long enough you’ll hear mages talk about the Black School. They’ll say it appears some nights of the new moon, in that old park where nothing has ever been built and nothing but twisted and blighted tress grow. Some brave souls have gone in, the story goes, and found it bigger on the inside--and growing larger all the time with creaks and groans. Amid its many rooms are libraries full of occult and sorcerous lore.

It’s a tempting destination for those young up-and-comers, but the old timers remind them that most who go in never come out again, and those that do have emerged haunted, shattered men, prone to suicide, and unable to remember any but barest details of what they experienced there.  What fragments can be gleaned from them suggest malign ever-shifting architecture, sadistic traps, strange hauntings, and halls stalked by a half-real creature--never fully manifest on this plane--that pursues intruders.