In the Gloom

This is a follow-up to my discussion of the gray dust earlier this week. Experienced astral projectionists and other sorts of planar travelers from the City know that all the outer planes between the unassailable heights of Heaven on high, and the abyssal depths of the Pit where the qliphothic things dwell, are conceptual places--and the prevailing concept of the Wasteland is gloom.

The Wasteland, Plane of Despair, is an expanse of cinereous, dessicated land and sunless, graveyard skies, but its not entirely featureless. An arthritic creaking might announce the appearance of corroded and broken playground equipment from the mists. One might stumble into a mire of quicksand ash or find a burned out and derelict house from either a recent or historical era.

Then there are the human forms coated in hardened ash, like the victims of a volcanic eruption, dotting the landscape at intervals like anguished sculptures. These are said to be the final remains of souls given over to an afterlife of despondency.  They arrive in the Wasteland as filmy shadows and over time petrify to immobile, tortured forms.

The inhabitants of the Wasteland are just as grim. The Faceless Mourners appear as women dressed in funeral veils and black dresses of a century ago. Sometimes they carry straight razors and sometimes ink black ichor drips from underneath their long sleeves and runs down the creases of their ashen hands. Sometimes they can be glimpsed in mirrors by a person contemplating suicide. It’s said that their appearance unsummoned on the Material Plane harbingers death.  Their keening causes stillbirth.

Particularly loathsome are the Lonely Husks. These creatures appear as androgynous human skins, as if the skin was shed whole like a snake’s. They attach themselves to sentients and slowly drain the life from them. They lie in bed. holding the victim close like a lover, whispering in the person’s ear of their undying devotion and begging--pleading--for the victim never to leave them, and to love them in return. First, the victim is weakened and fatigue, then over days, paralyzed. Finally they die in a period of 4-8 weeks as their lungs or heart gives out.

There are also fiends, likely relatives of demons or devils, which have adapted to life in the Gray Gloom. These entities claim rulership, but no one truly rules the Wasteland; It’s sufferings domain.

Hassled by the Man

My Strange Trails download is nonfunctional for the second time in two months.  Suspended.

It appears all anyone has to do is say to Mediafire "take that down" and it goes down.  Last time it was a film company saying I was violating their IP related to a film of their's I had happened to review (favorable) on my blog.  The fact that there was absolutely nothing in Strange Trails relating to their IP made no difference--since of course nobody actually read the file.  I'm sure if was just an internet search then seeing a download and the assumption was dread piracy.

So this time, I don't even know what the complaint is--just the name of the company that made it (which is a non-American media company I've never heard of).  At least this time I'm given the oppurtunity of rebuttal--which would be great if I knew what I was rebutting.

I suppose its time to go looking for a new host.  It's just frustrating it doesn't even require an actual allegation, just the suggestion of one.

Warlord Wednesday: The Talisman

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 Talisman"

Warlord (vol. 1) #61 (September 1982)

Written by Mike Grell (Sharon Grell); Penciled by Jan Duursema; Inked by Bruce Patterson

Synopsis:  In the palace of Shamballah, Tara speaks with her “oldest councilman” whose name must be Omniscient Exposition because he helpfully runs down the events of the previous "kidnapping and replacement of Morgan with an impostor" story arc--including her growing closer to her childhood sweetheart, Graemore. He suggests she’s got to get her feelings in order to get her house in order. Mulling this over, Tara looks out over the balcony to see Morgan and Graemore having a duel below. Unsurprisingly, Morgan wins and soon has his sword point at Graemore’s throat.

Tara shows up and angrily demands to know what they were doing. Morgan says it was just a little fun--a contest to see who was the better swordsman, the better man. Tara suggests that being a better with a sword doesn’t make one a better man. She tells them not to engage in such foolishness any more, and storms off. Morgan’s response:

Meanwhile, Darvin and Griff are talking in their new hideout. Darvin tells Griff what he’s intuited about Tinder’s parentage because of the armband (Morgan’s wristwatch). He wants to make the royals pay to get their son back. Griff points out he doesn’t have Tinder. Darvin counters he does have the armband and Griff--and some red hair dye.

In the palace, Morgan and Graemore lounge around drinking. Morgan asks Graemore about his past with Tara. Graemore admits his love for her and reveals it was only the old king threatening his family that ultimately kept them apart. Then, Graemore gives Morgan a warning:

A little later, Tara summons Morgan to show him a message she’s just received. Someone is holding their son “Joshua” for ransom. Morgan knows it to be a lie, as he believes he killed Joshua (though, as faithful readers know, he did not). He surmises that this means they have Tinder, whom they think is Joshua because of the wristwatch. Though he suggests they sleep on it before they act, Morgan wants to catch whoever sent the message; they were helping his kidnapper Praedor and they now have the boy who freed him.

Meanwhile, Darvin’s eye-patched lackey returns to tell him that the message was delivered. Griff’s now a redhead, meant to fool the royals into thinking he’s Tinder. Darvin sends the one-eyed kid up to the roof as a lookout. As soon as the kid’s up there, he lights a cigarette...and carelessly disposes of his match.

Back in the palace, Morgan can’t sleep. He heads out into the city toward the appointed place of rendezvous. He finds the building burned down. Sifting through the ash and rubble, he finds his wristwatch with the skeleton of a boy too tall to be Tinder. He realizes the boy must have escaped, but he's unaware that the boy watches him at that moment. Tinder looks down from a nearby perch and realizes that Morgan is going to keep his talisman--and that (seeing Morgan for the first time without the mask) he’s the king!

Morgan returns to the palace and awakens Tara. He tells her what he found and that the boy they had couldn’t have been the one who helped him. He returns the wrist watch to her, telling her he wishes he could have returned her son.

Later, Tinder sneaks into the palace grounds and climbs up to look in the window of Tara’s chamber. The queen and her mate are sleeping, and Tinder sees his talisman around the queen’s upper arm. Resigned to the fact he won’t be getting it back, Tinder leaves the palace and hops a wagon heading out of town. 

Things to Notice:

• We see someone smoking a cigarette in Skartaris for the first time.  In fact, other than Mungo Ironhand, this may be the first time we see someone smoking.
• Graemore seems less of the delicate type he'll seem later in the series.
• Praedor's name is still spelled "Praydor" in this issue.

Where It Comes From:
A talisman is a charm or amulet believed to have supernatural power.  In a less literal way, the wrist watch is indeed that: for Tara and Morgan it's symbolic of the son they lost, for Darvin it's the key to the big score, and for Tinder its in some clear way representative of who he is (ironically, he has no idea how much it is).  Significantly, all the principles are frustrated in their desires.

This is sort of an epilogue to the whole impostor storyline.  Tinder is again shuttled off stage.  We won't see him again for some twenty issues.

In A Handful of Dust

In the markets of Interzone or certain exclusive shops in the City, one might find gray dust. It’s an extraplanar substance, acquired in the Realm of Despair, the outer plane called the Wasteland or the Gray Gloom. The beings called the Faceless Mourners are rumored to trade it to the other worlds in exchange for tears of abandoned children or the captured last breath of suicides.

The gray dust has psychoactive properties, introducing the influence of its plane of origin into the mind of one who ingests or inhales it.

A failed saving throw results in one of the following effects (roll d6):

1 Fear - as per spell.
2 Anhedonia - the victim has a distinct lack of interest. They will take no action other that they aren’t forced, and are at a -1 to rolls when they do. Others react to them at a -2.
3 Despair - an intense low mood. Victim acts as if dazed, and has a -2 to initiative..
4 Anergia - Victim is exhausted.
5 Pain - pervasive aches and pains, effects as per Inflict Pain power.
6 Anxiety - effects like the shaken condition.

All effects last for 24 hours.

The Court of the Air and Beyond

Stephen Hunt’s Jackelian novels are often called “Steampunk”--and I suppose they do have the essential elements with their fantastic pseudo-Victorian sort of setting--but they draw from a much wider range of genre fiction tropes. In fact, all the factions, locales, and (dare we say) character types seem to make tailor made for gaming inspiration.

The first novel, Court of Air (2007), introduces the basic setting elements (and they’re a lot of them!) in a story about two orphans in the Kingdom of Jackals (Britain’s stand-in) who come to play a role in a world-destroying threat--a Communist stand-in rebellion secretly subverted by Lovecraft-by-way-of-Mesoamerica insectoid Elder Gods looking to regain the ascendancy they enjoyed in the last Ice Age. The heroes include an agent from the steampunk equivalent of SHIELD complete with helicarrier (the eponymous Court of the Air), a boy of the feyblood (super-powered magical mutants hated and feared by the world) who gains the magical weaponry of a legacy hero similar to the Scarecrow of Romney Marsh, and a plucky young girl with ancient nanites in her blood linking her to the robot savior at the Earth’s core!

That’s only a few of the ideas Hunt throws at us. There’s enough for 3 or 4 Rifts supplements. We’ve got Middle Eastern stand-in Cassarabians with magical biotech, Steampunk computers like in The Difference Engine, airships (I did say it was Steampunk), and the robotic Steam Men. The Steam Men are probably my favorite element of the world--these coal-burning artificial intelligences field heroic armies of knights, worship (and are sometimes ridden) by spirits called the Steamo Loa, and throw the cogs of Gear-gi-ju to divine the future.

In the midst of these rapid fire ideas, there’s a fast-paced adventure story. This is true of all Hunt’s novels in the series (the novel’s are standalone, but they have recurring characters). The second novel, The Kingdom Beyond the Waves, gives us a submarine journey up-river into a perilous jungle and a Bondian super-villain out to use ancient technology to take over the world. The Rise of the Iron Moon has a sort of War of the Worlds-esque alien invasion.

The world bears some resemblance to Tekumel in that civilization is fallen from great technological heights, and the artifacts of previous ages may appear like magic. It also contains a lot of stand-ins for real world historical elements--some of them with only the thinnest disguise. Quatershift, for example, is Revolutionary France with a mixing of various Communist states.

One characteristic of Hunt’s writing is a tendency to use portmanteau or sometimes punnning names. The world-saving robotic being is called Hexmachina. I’ve already mentioned the Cassarabians and the Steamo Loa. I could see this name practice irritating some readers.

I think these are minor quibbles. If you’re looking for good adventure fiction in a fantastic setting, particularly if you like sort of “kitchen sink” settings, I think you’ll find something in this series to enjoy.

Stray Cat Blues

For those in the know, the whispered mumblings of an urban druid on the corner, the boastful wails of alley cats in the night, and the raucous debate of an ad hoc committee of the Parliament of Crows in the trees, can all point to the arrival of royalty in the City. In any night-spot from Broad Street to Solace, one might run into the coolest of cats, the Cat Lord.

The Lords of Beasts are held by (human) thaumaturgists to be eikones imbued with the symbolic power of their animal totems. The lords themselves dispute this and claim they're the gods of their respective species--the remnant of a time before mankind staged a coup and replaced the democracy of tooth and claw with the tyranny of the tool-user. A lot of the Beast Lords are still angry about the loss of the old order, the old balance.

The Cat Lord keeps his cool. From worship in ancient temples to the pampered care lavished on them today, man's done alright by his folk, and he’s got children amongst humanity. Certain families descended from ancient cat-worshipping clans still change into cats when their passions are high, or the moon is full. Sometimes he runs into one of them and maybe his green eyes show a hint of paternal pride, but he ususally shows no more interest in them than his other offspring..

What does interest him is avoiding boredom--and he bores easily. Secrets interest him, but he mostly keeps those to himself.  Sensual pleasures pique his interest, but he tires of lovers quickly. He used to enjoy the hunt, but he’s old and jaded now, and only something really novel is worth the bother.

A meeting with the Cat Lord should be handled with caution. He's got knowledge of possible use to adventurers, but he may or may not be motivated to share it. To try and coerce him is earn his ire, and that’s likely to end badly. Becoming too friendly with him is unwise, as well; the road he walks can be a dangerous one for mortals, and his friendship is often fickle.

The most important word to the wise: Only a rube gawks at the sharp-dressed guy with a cat's head seated in the corner table.

Trading Fate

In the Financial District of the City an unconventional commodity exchange exists among all the mundane markets. A secret market open to a few of the rich and powerful is said to deal in fate itself.

Many thaumatologists prefer to speak of “probabilities” and view the whole idea of fate as a remnant of the unscientific past. Others point to the numerous pagan deities devoted to the concept and argue that the power of human belief must surely have made an eikone of it.

While the theoreticians argue, the exchange does brisk business. It’s members are few--likely less than 20--and are all powerful thaumaturgists, extremely wealthy, nonhuman entities, or some combination of the three. The exchange building itself is accessed from the second floor of a small insurance office. It can’t be found without an invitation or powerful magical aid.

The trading room is always filled with a low, periodic thumping sound. The story goes that its the slow beating of a monstrous heart: the heart of an alien chaos god stored in something like a rune-inscribed Leyden jar. The living heart of minor chaos (it’s supposed) keeps Management or some other in being of Law from shutting down the operation.

The exchange is somewhat misnamed. The goal is to manipulate fate, but the commodity exchanged is perhaps better termed luck. Wholesale theft of luck would attract unwanted attention, so the exchange only snatches small quantities of it---embezzling the “could have beens” rendered purposeless by random tragedy or miraculous fortune.

These loose strands are snatched from the weave of reality by three automata like four-armed women, seated in the lotus and made of brass and porcelain. These are likely of extraplanar origin. It’s said that (for some reason) the automata are only ever observed in operation indirectly, through the use of a mirror.

The traders buy and sell the strands collected by the automata. They exchange them with each other for other things of value from the mundane to the esoteric, but they also use them. Small changes to fate, targeted to critical moments, and over a long period of time, can have a profound effect. A poor man can be become rich (or a rich enemy poor), a wicked life can be extended, or an innocent soul corrupted toward damnation.

If the tales are true, the members of the Fate Exchange buy and sell nothing less than the power of gods--exercised over one seemingly inconsequential event at a time.