Idylls of the Vagrant King

The city of San Tiburon gives deference to a peculiar character, a vagrant who claims to be king of the New World. No one knows for certain how long he has occupied his hilly and often fog-cloaked capital; for certain it has been thirty years, but old-timers have difficulty recalling a time when they were without his shabby, yet regal presence. Many recollect some small, strange miracle associated with a chance meeting, or an off-hand but profound bit of wisdom he offered in passing which they've carried with them since.

The King of the Union, Protector of Borea, and Suzerain of Zingaro (as he styles himself, formally) is Josiah Pellam, a man of uncertain background. His diction and erudition suggest a significant level of education, but his accent is slippery and can’t be placed exactly. He’s often given to archaic and flowery speech which perhaps makes this all the more difficult. He dresses in cast-off clothing, but somehow manages to find well-decorated, second-hand uniforms from past decades, and styles his beard like an Ealderdish aristocrat from the same era. When he talks about his past, it is only in oblique references to the weightiness of crowns upon heads, and the tiresomeness of destiny.

He walks with a pronounced limp, favoring his right leg.. “An old wound,” he will say. "A dolorous stroke."

Even King Pellam’s admirers must admit that he’s quite mad. He raves wild-eyed at times, like a man in delirium tremens, about a monster--a Beast Glatisant, he calls it--which sometimes he hunts, and sometimes is hunted by, but only he can see, though some have claimed to hear its weird, yelping cries in the distance. He knights folk at random, selecting them for perilous and important quests--visiting adventurers are favorites. Particularly important to him is the finding of a grail, which can heal his wound and by extension his kingdom.

Pellam is not without powers. Hardened killers have come for him, and in the end turned their guns on themselves instead. Magic cast directly against him seems to dissipate. The city itself seems to accomodate and protect him. Distances shorten at his royal whim, and those who irritate him or wish him harm, find themselves lost on unfamiliar streets.

The people of San Tiburon provide for their lord’s needs by allowing him and his honor guard (two mongrel dogs of unusual intelligence) to eat from any establishment in the city free, command passage on city cable cars, and to use his royal scrip to purchase small goods. They don’t burden him unduly with the problems of day to day governance, but each newly elected mayor and city council visits him to ask permission to take up their elected roles. 

The King sometimes disparages the old shark god, the city's ancient genius loci, still said to hunt the cold waters outside its harbor, but he seldom ventures out on the wharves, and never onto watercraft, perhaps out of grudging respect for his rivals powers.

Warlord Wednesday: War

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...

"War"

Warlord (vol. 1) #42 (February 1981)

Writing and art by Mike Grell

Synopsis: Morgan and Shakira ride through the Forest of Ebondar, nearing the city of Shamballah. Everywhere, they find the signs of war; the countryside is battle-scarred and depopulated. A distant growl makes Morgan decide to climb a tree for a better vantage point. He sees a grim Theran army on the march, pulling a giant battering ram.

“The hounds of war are loosed upon the land.” And Morgan admits. he’s longed for it.

Shakira asks why men make war upon each other. Morgan replies that the Therans make war to subjugate those they deem inferior, and the Shamballans make war to resist the chains of tyranny. And Morgan? He once had a dream that all Skatarians could be free and equal. Maybe that dream still burns within him, somewhere, he tells her. Or maybe he just loves it when “the scent of blood and the sound of battle are in the air and a stout blade” is n his hand.

Morgan means to enter Shamballah and join his mate, Tara, in battle. Shakira points out that the city is besieged; there’s no way in--it’s a hopeless gesture. Morgan replies:

This is how Grell describes Morgan’s entrance to the city:

“Straight into the face of death plunges the man called the Warlord, his mighty blade clutched in a powerful hand that swings death in a glittering arc of destruction! No ordinary man this, but the mightiest warrior ever to stride the savage world of Skartaris!”

Amazingly, Morgan’s ferocity and speed almost win the day. He’s nearly cut through the Theran lines when his steed trips, and he’s thrown to the ground. Unhorsed and badly outnunmbered, one might think he’s done, but Grell tells us:

“In the aftermath of the battle, those fortunate enough to be nearby and still survive would report the strange warrior smiled savagely in the face of death and clutched a blade that pulsed and throbbed with inhuman power! And then...All hell broke loose!”

Shouting the name “Tara,” Morgan cuts a swath through the soldiers and back to his horse. He retreats back into the forest, but not before an arrow goes through his left shoulder.

Safe in the jungle, Morgan stops so his horse can drink in a pool. Through the haze of pain, he hears a murmuring--and realizes it comes from the hellfire sword. “What does it take to quench your unholy thirst?” Morgan asks of it. For a moment, it seems to squirm in his grasp, and the grim light of its jewel seems to burn within his soul, as well--but only for a moment. Morgan shakes it off and sheathes the blade.

Knowing what must be done, Morgan grabs the shaft of the arrow protruding from his shoulder and pulls it the rest of the way through. He passes out from the pain.

Miles away, Morgan’s daughter, Jennifer, also lies unconscious in a life raft washed up on shore. She had been the only survivor of the wreck of the Lady J. She’s found by the mysterious man who talks to the wooden box he carries on his shoulder.

Meanwhile, Morgan too is discovered--by Shakira. She carries something wrapped in a skin. Morgan asks how long he was out, and if the city still stands. Shakira replies that it hasn’t fallen--yet. Morgan asks why she came back. Shakira hands him the item in the skin, saying, “I thought you could use this.”

Morgan discovers its a laser rifle from the Atlantean armory they discovered. Shakira had gone back for it. And then:

Morgan asks if this is goodbye. Shakira says that if she knows him, they’ll probably meet again sooner than he thinks. She transforms into a cat an scampers off. Morgan mounts up.

Ever one for the direct approach, Morgan charges in again, just like the first time. With the laser in one hand and the hellfire sword in the other, he fights his way to Shamballah’s gates. He calls to soldiers on a parapet, and soon the gates open to admit him--their salvation, the Warlord.

Morgan is greeted by the Council of Elders, but he’s only interested in one thing: where’s Tara? The Elders say she hasn’t returned from Kaambuka. Morgan, horrified, realizes what that means--his mate is the captive of the Therans!

Things to Notice:

• Shakira and Morgan share a kiss for the first time.
• Jennifer Morgan resurfaces for the first time since issue #38.
• Remember the Therans were marching to war? We last saw them attack Shamballah in issue #30.

Where It Comes From:
Largely this issue signals the culmination of a lot of plot-threads that have been dangling for the about a year of publication time.

The Wonderbuss

Magical blunderbuss-type firearms were used by some wealthy Dwergen in their early conquest of the Strange New World. The weapons gave these sorcerously inept folk help against the shamans of the Natives and the thaumaturgists of rival Grand Lludd. Today, these antiques sometimes find their way into the hands of adventurers--in this world, and perhaps others.

Though they were manufactured in a variety of styles, they’re all muzzle-loading weapons with short, large caliber barrels and flared muzzles. They all can fire relatively normal projectiles of appropriate size (provided there is gun powder) , but their real power lies in specially designed spherical ammunition called “shells.” Interestingly, it appears likely that it was the prior existence of these magical shells which spurred the development of the gun, and not the other way around. No one knows who originally designed the shells, nor for what weapon.

Thaumaturgists (with alchemical aid) can manufacture new shells, but the process is tedious and expensive, so they tend to be rare. Sometimes, a supply is found in Ancient ruins or even other planes. The shells are classified by number, which denotes their effect. All shells of the same number historically tend to be of similar appearance, and modern manufacturers have kept with this tradition. Shells don’t not require gunpowder.

Magic Blunderbuss (Wonderbuss)
Dmg: 1d10 or special; Rof: 1/2 ; Range: 50’/100’/300’

Shells: (all spell references per the SRD)
#1: appears to be a lead ball, but too light for its apparently size. +1 weapon; Dmg. 1d12.  These are 80% of all shells found.
#2: brass-appearing. Casts two shadows, one distinct the other shimmering like heat-haze. Leaves a fiery streak when fired. 4d6 fire damage.
#3: appears to be a steel sphere etched with three 7-pointed stars. +2 to hit, 2d8 points of damage.  These are 5% of shells found.
#4: glass, containing a roiling green liquid. On a successful strike creates an Acid Fog as per spell.
#5: glass, faintly glowing and warm like the mantle of a lantern. Acts as the spell Sunburst, though it misfires on a roll of 1-2 on 1d6, and only does 1d10 damage.
#6: smoked glass. Faint moans can be heard within. Target’s soul is imprisoned on sucessful hit as per Magic Jar.
#7: silver and etched with glyphs which seem to shift when its not being watched. 1d10, deals double damage to lycanthropes, and extraplanar beings of evil. These are 5% of shells found.
#8: white, with the look of fine china, cool to the touch. Explodes for 5d6 damage in a 20 ft. radius.  Sleeping near (2 ft.) of one of these shells has a 75% chance of causing a ringing in the ears (leading to a penalty for rolls to detect things by hearing) lasting 1-4 days after removal of the shell from that distance.  Wrapping the shell in cloth will prevent this effect.
#9: appears as a flawless sphere of obsidian. Acts as a Sphere of Annihilation, though it can’t be moved, and exists only for 1 round before winking out.

Some scholars believe that more shell types are yet to be discovered.

Untrue North

An arctic of only (now melting) ice is sort of boring, don’t you think? At least in comparison to the flights of Age of Exploration fancy. Why settle for just ice when you could have a magnetic Black Rock, a swirling whirlpool, and islands of pygmies? Check out this 1595 map:

Gerard Mercator’s (yes, that Mercator) based his maps and his descriptions in a letter to John Dee off older works. He describes a landmass divided into four lands by channeled through which water rushed into the whirlpool surrounding the Pole, and.”descends into the earth just as if one were pouring it through a filter funnel.” This unusual geography supposedly led to the deaths of 4,000 men from the expedition King Arthur had sent to the islands.

At the pole itself, in the center of the maelstrom, was a giant black, a mountain, Rupes Nigra--the Black Precipice. As Mercator writes: “Its circumference is almost 33 French miles, and it is all of magnetic stone. And is as high as the clouds...” It’s magnetism was said draw ships made with iron nails to their doom.

After reading about all of this, I think I know what the North Pole of the City’s world is like...

The Black Train is Coming

“A black train runs some nights at midnight, they say..”

-- Manly Wade Wellman, “The Little Black Train”

Hobo-goblins, human tramps and bindlestiffs, and other Bethren of the Road, tell stories in their camps and jungles of a preternatural train that runs from this world to planes beyond. This lore is seldom shared with those outside their communities, but folklore records regular folk having chance encounters with the phantom.

The appearance of the train changes with time. It always appears old, like it has a decade or two of service behind it behind it, but otherwise stays current with locomotive technology and styles. It's not marked in any way, and has been described by observers in paradoxical ways. It’s plain and nondescript, yet powerfully commands intention. Some feel an intense unreality upon seeing it, others the cold hand of fear.

The train starts on mundane tracks, but as soon as it's "out of sight" of its observers it begins to shift into other realms. Some dreamers have seen it crossing the lunar wastes from the vantage of the parapets of the Dream Lord's castle. It is known to make stops in depots in the Hells. Planar travelers have attested to seeing rails that fade into nothingness at the mouth of the gyre at the bottom of reality.

Mostly, it seems carry certain dead to the afterlife, though why it comes for some and not others is unknown. Hell Syndicate snitches know of it, but not who operates it. Angels likewise keep a serene silence. Most who ride the train are dropped off in the waystation realm of the dead, from there to travel on to their souls' final destination.  Some, however, are taken directly to the outer planes. Others seem to ride the train for longer periods of time. They're found snoozing in couch cars, or drinking and playing cards in the dining car. Waiting, perhaps, for something. They’re sometimes inclined to conversation, though they seldom have anything useful to say.

Adventurers have sometimes used the train as a quick ride, either to the Other Side, or the Outer Planes. Hobo-goblin glyphs sometimes point the way to likely places were the train may appear. The train’s gray, nondescript, and seldom seen staff do not object to taking on new passengers, so long as they pay the fare--which varies, but is always in silver.

There's always the option, for those with fare or without, of hopping one of the train’s empty freight cars, but riding an open car through other planes is a dangerous proposition, and the boxcars are only empty of freight--not necessarily other travelers.

Naturalism of the Fantastic

Wanting to create your own unique wildlife a la the works of Edgar Rice Burroughs, or just wanting to get outside your usual monster manuals? Here are a few choice works of speculative nonfiction from my own shelves that you might consider adding to yours:

It’s 50 million years in the future: Do you know where your species is? Answer: Extinct. But hey, check out Dougal Dixon’s speculations about what crazy wildlife might have emerged in that far flung age in After Man: A Zoology of the Future. How about whale-like animals evolved from penguins, or large carnivores descended from mustelids (weasels, and their ilk)? Check out wikipedia for a complete rundown.

After Man won a Hugo Award when it was published in 1981. It has been out of print for a while, so it may be hard to come by, but worth getting if you can find it cheap.

Easier to find, is a more recent (but similar) work by Dixon, this one tied into a 2003 BBC documentary miniseries. The Future is Wild details evolution on earth over a span of 200 million years, checking in at three different periods. Again this is a world post-mankind. Here we get pack-hunting, flightless birds, terrestrial squids called swampuses, and the slithersucker--a predatory slime mold.

Dixon doesn’t have a monopoly on speculative naturalism. Conceptual designers for movies get into the game, too. For those of you who’ve wondered what’s so hard about pulling the ears off a gundark, or what exactly a scruffy nerfherder herds, Whitlach and Carrau provide answers to these questions, and many others, in The Wildlife of Star Wars. It’s far from bantha poodoo.

The World of King Kong gives us an isolated island where dinosaurs got 65 million (give or take) more years of evolution--which turns out mostly to be in the direction of “scary” and “more dangerous.” They share their inhospitable island home with all sorts of invertebrates grown larger than conventional science would say they ought to. And then there’s that giant gorilla everybody’s talking about..

So there you have it, plenty of creative creature inspiration. Enjoy.

There's A Story There

Sometimes a chance encounter opens the door to adventure.  This is as true in the City as anywhere.  Truer, probably...

An odd decoration on the hat of an aging beauty in a downtown bar. Ten years ago--when this picture was taken--Etta Bly was an adventuress in her prime. That was before alcohol and fast living took its toll. She still wears a cocktail hat adorned with a gear that looks like orichalcum (but isn’t) from the soul machinery of Primus, God-Engine and First Cause of the Modrons. It was a gift from a “made man” in the Hell Syndicate when a young Etta was, briefly, his moll. Etta killed the two-timing gangster--wasting a number nine shell from her wonderbuss. She vowed to keep the hat even as she blew her wayward beau a kiss as he was sucked into the blackness of the void, and nonexistence.

But on Mechanus, the values of “revenge,” and “just cause,” have been calculated. In the ten years since, several iterations of hardened, extraplanar expeditionary units have been generated, and the invasion counter is decrementing. Either the soul cog will be returned, or a horde of implacable, improbable contraptions will lay ruin to the world.

A caged sprite in small curio shop. The sprite begs for freedom in a tiny, pitiful voice to anyone that will listen. She also likes sugarcubes like others like cocaine. She was smuggled in from Ealderde, an accidental addition to an illicit shipment of weaponized faerie from the Great War. She knows her warped bethren are loose in the City, imagining themselves behind enemy lines, and planning the commando raid they were shaped for.

A werewolf speeding down a dirt road on a motorcycle. A lonely desert ghost town, plays host to a gang of lycanthropic motorcycle enthusiasts, bored and looking for entertainment.