The Empires

The Empires derivative common name for a fluid cultural area formally known as the Commonwealth
Characterised by ruins. People living out of the glory of the past, shattered by a tepid war to claim the seat of the Autarch. The succession war has carried on in its current state for generations, an amount of time so great that the common people don't think of it as a war, rather just the state of things.

The outside world knows them as mercenaries and adventurers. This blasted land produces them seemingly without end, the weary and the war-hungry, stumbling out of the dust looking for what they cannot find here.

There are more cities than this. The Great City was vast, stretching from horizon to horizon, so old that it's docks now sit far inland as the sea retreats from her. But this is some examples of her remnants.

The Empire and its neighbours

Link to the big version

Language
They speak a non-gendered language. This is cause for embarrassment when among foreign people, as they default to referring to everyone as women, and have great trouble differentiating gender linguistically. Possibly the source of the belief that Empiric mercenaries refer to everyone as women because of barbarian arrogance and a desire to demean other warriors as weak, but it's merely a matter of linguistic confusion.

Roads
There are extensive roads between the cities, but they are closed by order of the last Autarch. In disrepair and patrolled by ulans, who have royal writ to claim any belongings of trespassers). They are dangerous and avoided by all.

Ulans stalk the highways

Example City-States

Great Lady's house

White Ape City
Ruler: The Mighty Opener, Soul of Darkness,

If it were not redundant to call any city among the empires "ancient" White Ape City would earn that moniker. Temple city to the Great Lady Under Earth and at its highest peak her own residence and, by relation, entrance to the underworld.

Though not the most populous, it is opulent. Even modest citizens can live among the carven arches and endlessly repeating grotesques depicting scenes from the House of the Great Lady.

The city gains its name from the intelligent white gorillas that are allowed to lope around the city. They are considered to be guides to the underworld and contribute to the city's safety. Most people are hesitant to risk harming or angering them.

Carnifex
Ruler: The Carnifex
A cold and blasted hill, honeycombed with tunnels and cells. When the wind blows at the right angle and with enough spite it makes the city-hill moan with a thousand hopeless voices.

The wealthiest citizens live at the bottom of the hill in dark wooden houses, huddled together against the wind and noise. As you travel further and further up the mound they become poorer and poorer. The worst wretches live alongside the prisoners kept in the few functional cells left in the vast tunnels.

At the very top is the house of the carnifex and her apprentices. Masked and silent, she rules from on high. Her sword is the sum of the law, pray her masked agents do not take you in the night for breaking the unspoken law.

Gateway of Gods
Ruler: The Masterful Keeper of Gods

The twin rivers that flow through the Empires are the remit of The Flood-Storm, a god both OF and which IS the river system. The Flood-Storm ensures that the seasonal floods and other equally important river activities remain in place.

You will find the House of the Flood-Storm here, at Gateway of Gods, sitting atop the antiquated system of gates and channels that has the power to withhold and unleash the rivers. It's priesthood has evolved around its arcane operation, with the Keeper of Gods as its high priest, and bodily representative of the Flood-Storm when she is needed. At her command the waters were withheld and mountains flooded, thus both the White Tree Mire and Concourse of Copper was formed.

Gateway of Gods

The Gate of the Sun-Child
Ruler:  The Yellow Empress, the Power Perverse

The Gate of the Sun-Child is believed to be the closest point to the sun as it crosses the sky on its way to the underworld to determine the fate of the dead. At no other place is the Sun-Child's numinous power more apparent.

A caste of column builders call this city-state home. They mine the fine white stones from their quarries and fashion them into taller and taller pillars, upon which the wealthy clamber in order to be closer to the Sun-Child. Taller and taller columns require more and more advanced and elaborate constructions, all in order to prove the godliness of its owner and to allow them to look down upon others.

The construction of these pillars drives the city to expand and plunder.

City of the Emerald Throne
Ruler: The Amaranthine Vizier

Before the Gate of Gods redirected the Slow River, the Emerald Throne was home to only it's ruler and her staff. The great basalt ziggurat of the Emerald Throne is the seclusium of  The Amaranthine Vizier, who some suspect is THE Amaranthine Vizier, who advised the last Autarch and was suspected of being the true power behind the throne.

Since the arrival of the Slow River and its flood waters, others have come, flocking to live in the shadow of the ziggurat. Food is abundant and rival cities are fearful of the Vizier, who for now has seen fit to stay in her seclusium pursuing whatever it is brought him here to begin with.

Like this, but imagine cranes as well

Fort of the People at the Edge
Ruler:  The Manifold Gatherer

Sat on the edge of the Concourse of Copper, the starved river.

Once a vast port stretching for miles along its bank, now its inhabited area is largely confined to still operable loading cranes and the buttresses that once formed the solid walls of the river bank.

They maintain fields in the rich, damp soil of the riverbed, producing a vast surplus of food. In addition, they are the largest producer of Yellow Sun-Child, a thick, sometimes viscous, tea enjoyed by all levels of society. It numbs the senses and mouth, to which can be attributed the characteristic drawl and slow speech that foreigners associate so closely with the Empires.

The Impregnable City

Ruler: The Voluminous Shepherd, Eater of Hearts

Its name refers to the metaphorical nature of the city, rather than a measure of its assailability. Indeed, it has been taken and sacked many times since the beginning of the succession. Rather it is a statement regarding its origin as the necropolis of the Great City, which of course lies splintered every which way can be imagined.

Death can not be overcome, of which the residents are grimly aware. Their livelihoods are found in the acceptance and proper treatment of corpses. From all corners of the world people send their dead here. Great caravans arrive carrying dead kings from lands most people have never even heard of, all to be interred, burned, dismembered, preserved or otherwise attended by the citizens of the necropolis. Their knowledge of burial rites is immense and eerily up to date.

You can often spot the tell-tale rheumy eyes* of a member of the polis under foreign garb, just as they slip off the caravans and melt into the crypts and laboratories to report what they have learned. Ostensibly adding to their professional knowledge, but those ears can't help what else they may learn.

*Dark Water Corpse Dust, another source of wealth, is not good for the sinuses

Seven Orchard City
Ruler:  The Green Lion

Seven orchards for seven families. Not long ago it was simply Orchard City, and for miles at its approach you would be met with the sweet smell of pear blossoms, date palms row by row, tended by the armies of fieldhands.

Now there is little land left, the rows of trees are drowned in the White Tree Mire, a gift from the Gateway of Gods. As they give, they take away, or give so much you can take no more.


The Bear Tower
Ruler: The Unconquerable Monster, the Hidden Guest of the Bear Tower

The bear tower is a crumbling spire at the terminus of a meandering and shattered wall, at places scores of metres thick, clad in metal.

The Bear Tower itself takes in young children and raises them to become animal tamers. More than mere tricks, they can break any animal and produce extraordinary feats. At some point in life each tamer takes a lion or bear in marriage, after which they shun human lovers.

Under a member of the Bear Tower an animal will be tested and either broken or moulded into a focused machine, bent to whatever end it was intended for. Many die or are too wounded to continue and are thrown from the tower to be collected by the people living in the shacks and shanties below.

The Ven visit the House Absolute with diplomatic gifts of laser guns

The House Absolute
The seat of governance. Its palatial gardens are of such arcane and perfect design that those searching for it uninvited are unlikely to stumble across it.

Since the succession crisis the halls of the House Absolute have been a petty game of intrigue and jockeying for position. The rulers of the cities come in and out of favour among the courtiers, find themselves invited to the garden parties and dances less and less often.

Somewhere in it's halls is kept the Iron Sceptre of governance, left carelessly on the throne. No one would think to take it by force, only a man who believes he is Autarch, and with the will to make others believe it, can even find it. None so far have done so, regardless of their bombastic claims otherwise.



















Neighbours

Yongardy

A vibrant port city, teeming with humanity. Famous for its judicial system (fairest in all the lands) and being the place to stop for any respectable trade ship darting along the Friendly coast between it's grim storms and spasmodic squalls. Its enormous fortified harbour is a joyous sight, and the last one they will see in a good while for those headed north. No major ports exist in the Empires, where the coast has retreated from the ancient cities and been left to rough border towns to handle. And further, Calipyg's ports are strictly regulated by their mushroom overlords, each barrel and hold inspected and logged on entry and exit. Such a burden of time has meant that most skip it's once bustling waters and continue onto the frozen spires of Vornheim beyond the mountains.

Trade has made it rich, but it's cavalry has made it safe. The city sits in the corridor between the Yellow Kingdoms and the Empires, a plain occupied by nomadic Grass tribes (a rough and violent people), kept in check by decree of the governor and the court of directors. Dragoons are sent out regularly to pillage and burn the roving villages to keep them fearful and to ensure they never grow numerous enough to threaten the Fairest City.

Tutelage of the Spider God

All hail the wise Arak-Naka! The Weaver, The Spider Father, The Storyteller! Who lairs in the Caves of Small Favours at the heart of the Tertiary Sub-Realm! Ia!

Yes, I am yet again making more magic schools based on the super-fine Wonder & Wickedness (and here). I will eventually cover every peculiar magic source from my campaign, but today we're here, talking about spiders.

Originally this was a small encounter in Dwimmermount that spiralled off into strange and awful places. "The demon will offer anything for the party to spare its life". How about taking our wizard and making her your spidery disciple? Of course. Praise Arak-Naka and his fabulous new follower!








SPELLS

1
Summon Spider

1. Spawn of Arak-Naka AKA "Booby Spider"
   About the size of a man's hand. In place of a head and thorax it has a woman's head set back at an angle, as though laughing at the sky. It would be a pretty face if not for the madly rolling eyes and constant whispering of secrets. At its belly you find an array of withered teats from which its young may feed. Do not drink their milk.
2. Tall spider
   Little more than a black blot and hugely long and spindly legs. Though as tall as a cat it is ineffective in a fight since it is fragile. Merely touching it could snap one of its wispy legs.
   
   The tall spider can, if not squashed, clamber onto a victim and deposit its eggs beneath the skin. It will at this point die, turning brittle and twig-like, easily brushed away. In d6 turns they will start to hatch. A demonic birth, it doesn't abide by your pety logic, and the spiders (mundane, house varieties) will emerge from every possible opening. Mouth, ears, eyes.
3. Hoard of spiders
   Small poisonous spiders form roiling mass. They will bite and poison and generally be entirely unpleasant.
4. Noticeable huge spider
   A spider the size of a Labrador. Stubby legs and enormous fangs. Luckily, it isn't venomous. Unluckily, its fangs are 8 inches long.
5. Sourbroth Spider
   A single, tiny, yellow spider. Smaller than a pin head, but with a bite that should be feared. It sinks its tiny fangs into flesh, at which point it opens a minuscule gate to the sub-realms and channels its spurious powers. This effort kills the spider, but its effects are most impressive.
   
   Anyone bitten by the creature must save vs. death or have their insides dissolve and erupt from their orifices like a rudely squeezed raw sausage. A moral save would also probably be in order. Successful save causes 1d6 damage and a nasty rash.
6. You open a funnel to the sub-realms. Keep rolling until you get another 6. Only the first summons obeys you, though they will not harm you. Your friends however? Eh.

1-5 - They quietly leave when the time is up

6 - They stay as a permanent pet, until killed

2
Demonic Excretion
Exude a thick mucous, can be excreted to form a web effect, or to climb walls, or just be really gross. The quantity is controllable, where it comes from is not. So, it oozes from your hands, your face, your feet, your bum. Everywhere.

You can chuck it, you can smear it, you can eat it. But you shouldn't.

3
Speak with Spider
Always works. If there isn't a spider in the vicinity, there is now. It will speak with you as though you were its dark master, Arak-Naka, which is to say it will exchange secrets in a tense transaction. If you ever drop this ruse it will be hostile, or at least rude. Spiders know many secrets and love to tell them.

4
Spider Babies
Small spiders come to you and cover you in a sack of silk. They drain you of all your juicy juices and scamper off, leaving behind a soggy sack of skin and bones.

You emerge from a huge spider nest D6 days later, naked, stuck to a roof beam in a barn, in the boughs of a tree, in a quiet corner of an alley and so on.

5
Steal Stories
Distil raw memories from the targets mind. They form like glass globes at the targets forehead and float erratically to the sorcerers outstretched hand.

Save to resist. Failed save results in the subject losing a random memory which can be viewed in the orb. Spiders love these orbs, as does Arak-Naka.

1. They forget a person, utterly
2. They forget a detail about themselves, such as their name or job
3. They forget a period of time (1-5 it's negligible, 6 they lose d10 years)
4. They forget one specific fact
5. They forget what's going on right now, leaving them bewildered.
6. They forget a really useful fact or memory. GM chooses, based on what the players want/need

6
Chaos for the Fly
Induce hallucinations in others. Bring their memories to the surface so that they take form and confound them.

Save or suffer the affects.

1. Grief-struck. Paralysed, staring into the distance
2. Terrified and flees
3. Angered. Flies into homicidal rage
4. Happy. Babbles in a dreamlike state at long lost friends
5. Totally banal. A weak memory, doesn't fo anything other than distract them slightly (-1 to things)
6. The shock is too much. Save or take 1d8 damage from a heart attack or similar nervous outburt. Roll again.

7
Venom
You produce venom from your mouth parts. This can be spat or injected via bite, and so on.

If you spit it in their face, they must save of be blinded as it melts their eyeballs. Successful saves mean they are blinded for 1 round.

If you bite them they must save or suffer d6 damage per round, (in addition to you having just bit them, you madman). Lasts 1 round per level. If they die to it, please see Sourbroth Spider for the general effects. Morale saves all round.

If you get creative with it the venom lasts for 1 turn per level outside of your body, if stored in an air tight container. Otherwise, 1 round per level.

8
Whisper story
Spiders know every story. They don't just collect the best ones, but every story, they value them greatly and whisper them to Arak-Naka before they sleep.

You can communicate directly with Arak-Naka with this spell. In exchange for stories he will tell you a Truth. A small truth. A yes or a no, perhaps. The sorcerer must whisper his question and lose a small memory to the Weaver. This takes the form of either D4x100xp or something more appropriate and campaign specific. Possibly they exchange the memory of their husband? Maybe a great loss? Maybe someone else's memory in convenient orbicular form.




CATASTROPHES


1
Spiders live on you. They nest in your pockets, scamper from your sleeves and live in your hat. Others will occasionally get bitten or otherwise bothered by them.

2
Thick wiry hairs grow out of you in very obvious and unpleasant ways. Face, armpits, etc.

3
You grow a fetching set of mandible. You can no longer eat solids and must instead mush food into your face in a very undignified manner.

4
Contract a gradual transformation like The Fly (but, you know, The Spider). Bits fall off and are replaced with spider bits. Watch The Fly, do that to your players.

5
You constantly drool thick goo that dries into crusty webbing.

6
Open a permanent funnel to the realm of Arak-Naka as its legions (of spiders) pour forth.

7
Local spiders become sapient and conspire against the populace. Constant whispering in the crawl spaces drive people to panic.

8
Your memories pour over the edge. If you move too suddenly they pour out of you in a thick grey sludge. From your eyes and nose mostly. Save vs. device when suddenly jostled or else they start pouring out and you take d3 turns to gather yourself and stop the flow. If you don't eat up the sludge off the floor you loose d4x100xp

9
Spider migration. All arachnids within several miles come to this spot. Coat everything in webs, economy shuts down, famine, etc.

10
A senior spider demon appears. It might be helpful, it probably isn't. It will most likely be nosy, inconsistent and rude. Its objective is to spread the dominion of Arak-Naka which entails lots and lots of spiders, possibly changing the economy into a story-based rather than silver-based one.

11
The sorcerer is pulled through a 5th dimensional hole by giant spider to feed Arak-Naka. Tough titties.

12
Spiders wrap you in a silk bed at night. They revere you, you are a Disney Princess of spiders. Other people do not find this endearing.

The Undercroft #4

Watch it slither down mother's leg. Admire the glistening splendour sat squirming on the floor. Look! Barry's here, he couldn't stay away and continues to confuse history with his gentle hand. See here! We employ rules to impart a  paradoxical formlessness, thankyou Lord Inar, or Mr. Gacy to you. Lawks! It's Master Gearing come back from the wars with another monstrosity. Lo! It's the prettiest Princess, come with another troll he claims to be dreamy but I see it for what it is. Each a precious facet of the creature you hold in your arms, a moribund remnant of an effort spent. It only wants to be loved.

But of this, where am I? Nothing in this slick bairn's countenance speaks of the father. A cuckold and a chimera. But I love her and her fathers anyway, and hope you do to.









The Undercroft issue 4, available to purchase now in print and PDF.

RPGNow will follow soon.

Books as remembered (poorly) by me, Part 1

I like talking about books, so I'm going to do that for a while. You could call what I'm about to do an Appendix N, but let's not. That term holds no meaning to me, I never saw the Appendix N when it came out and only learnt about it from other people whispering about it in corners. Spurred on by their hushed tones I found a digital copy of it and was shocked at how tiny and narrow it was. It's called a bibliography.

So here's part 1 of my annotated bibliography. I'll spare the waffle and just serve the meat.

Gene Wolfe

Gene Wolfe looms large in my lizard brain. Where there should be fight or flight responses and the urge to feed and fuck, I have the need to be Gene Wolfe.

Recommended reading:

Book of the New Sun
Latro in the Mist
Wizard Knight


All of these books are written as artefacts, two diaries and one long letter. All have unreliable narrators. Severian in Book of the New Sun is moving through a world that is as weird as anything on Dying Earth, yet we aren't given a proper look at it because that's just how it is for Severian. Everything is filtered through someone to whom this is normal or only slightly odd, leaving us wondering what's really happening. On top of this we also have the "translation" performed by Gene Wolfe, who claims the book is a found text which has to be very generously translated because of a lack of better words for such alien things. Many of these approximations are very weighted classical Greek references that reward knowledge of them.

These are all interesting things.

Both Latro and Wizard Knight are probably better written works, tighter and more disciplined. Each experiments with form in interesting ways, Latro is writing the diary because he forgets everything each morning. He is the opposite of Severian, being pure eyes for us to see through. The reader is more informed of what is happening than that poor fellow is, we having the ability to contextualise what he is writing.

Wizard Knight has the least experimental form: a letter written to his family back in the mundane world explaining why he isn't coming home. A portal fantasy, which is rare nowadays in adult fiction. This book is subtle and doesn't lean so heavily on classical references, instead creating an internal folk lore that requires extreme attention to unravel.


Of the three, Book of the New Sun is the undoubted king of influence. I read it at a formative time, way back when I started writing properly, and it has embedded itself. Every bit of literature, poetry or RPG thing that I do is held up against this book and judged. There are other books (as we might see later) that have had a more profound impact on a fundamental creative level, none have come close to the consciously chosen influence this has.

What did I learn?

• It is okay to not make sense, to be obscure and referential. You don't need to lead the reader by the nose or particularly help them in any way.
• Experimental forms can work if you throw everything in to them. We are not just making lists of facts to be absorbed, we can make things that tickle at an obtuse angle.
• Narrators matter. Even in RPG books, a narrator is a choice that we make. 
• Create the weird as though it is part of the furniture. Do not point.
• It is okay to have a full three act play in the middle of your work.
• Be weird, but have a logic to it. Even if only you know how it connects, it should connect.
• Be unapologetically literate.
• Anti-intellectualism and pop-cultural absorption is a choice, so make it or don't. Don't allow yourself to be washed along because that's how it's done.
• Foreshadowing and slow realisation is the greatest thing. When weeks later a player goes "Oh my shit..." and links everything together in a montage of paranoia, then you have Gene Wolfed them.

Anatomy of Weird

WARNING: rambling, humour, teaching your granny how to suck eggs

So what is the weird? We're using "weird" in the sense used for Lamentations of the Flame Princess and similar games: an undermining of expectations and the stretching of boundaries. 

What's comedy? The core of comedy is the mechanical encrusted upon the living, the unexpected appearing beside the expected, the improper with the proper.  And we laugh. 

It's no coincidence that Raggi's games swing between funny and horrifying so easily, it's because they're almost the same thing. Comedy merely tickles, while weird pins you down until you start to cry.

The weird can be made with a simple formula:

Take a situation or object, as mundane and everyday as possible. Twist it. 

That's the basic set-up and would be enough for the most part. But there's so much to make it more than a cheap thrill.

Let's use an example. If we look at Death Love Doom the weird is produced by undermining the concept of love and familial relations, knocking it 90° into horrific and metaphorical territory (in Raggi-ist Russia foetus abort YOU, and don't forget sexually violent grannies) and pushing people's boundaries of taste. Nothing goes so far it becomes so strange as to put us into auto-pilot "oh look, another thing" mode, everything is built from perversions of our typical daily experience. Only the mundane is scary or funny. There's a reason that every good horror antagonist is essentially human.

So now to better illustrate how funny this is I'll recreate Death Love Doom in the medium of jokes:

"What's the difference between zits and a Catholic priest? Zits wait until a kid's 13 before it comes on his face."

See? In fairness both the adventure and the joke picked children to get a cheap emotional response but that's not to say it wasn't good value for money. You shouldn't abuse it too much and should occasionally go for higher hanging fruit or else it loses all impact, but it would be a waste not to grab for the low stuff on occasion. 

Before I go further I must curtail any possibility of this turning into a review of Death Love Doom. I liked it, I agree with everything it stands for, done.

Okay. Onwards.

So why am I talking about abusing weird? Well because I've been working non-stop on a weird zine and a weird Dead City of Duven'Ku and ran a weird The Monolith from Beyond Space and Time. All these elements came together as I butted up against another roadblock in building my vision of this horrible city: there is only so much boundary pushing horror you can sling at the players before it stops being subversive and becomes normal. Un-undermined normal isn't weird! 

Oppressive horribleness would have to take the occasional break to recharge the player's terror. Could comedy help us? What if there was the occasional dick monster or bumbling lich official? It still maintains the weird. Switching to comedy from weird is just like switching to your left hand when the right's tired. They do it in cinema all the time.

We need breaks from the horror, and a mega-dungeon doesn't allow for that. Raggi's adventures have worked so well because they are short, the terror will end and the world will settle back to how it was. If it was that way all the time then there would be no weird, just a continuation of a strange normality. This is why the Dead City of Duven'Ku is so hard. The players will switch to auto-pilot, they'll not bat an eye-lid at gutting the ghoul child to retrieve their ring, they won't care that their rations turn to blood in their mouths.

This led me to another thought: Sigil. Sigil, the central town of the Planescape D&D setting managed to run a line close to what would be needed by the Dead City. It was exceedingly strange but had a strong human element. We were grounded and had others to stand alongside us in our confusion in the face of the unknown.

Does Duven'Ku needs to be a functioning city with a human element?

Easy enough. Duven'Ku has themes in place already, themes we've learnt from the Death **** Doom adventures and Green Devil Face zine.

• Infanticide
• Destructive love
• Sexual violence
• Emotional distance
• Shame
• Punishment for wrongdoing
• Betrayal of those close to you
• Typical undead-ly stuff
• Self hatred

One questions how a society like this kept itself together, but that's the challenge. The Aztecs were pretty full on and they did well for a long time. Sigil was insane and that worked well enough. Can we do this again for an undead city? On one side we have a crazy fun-house, breeding detachment and familiarity. On the other we've built just another boring fantasy city supplement with humans replaced with zombies.

Now to tie this rambling essay together. The city must be weird, it must be the weirdest. There is no break from the normal so we need to wander into (dark, dark, barely even there) comedy to look for the players' psychic breaks. We need to nail the theme, nail it hard so there is a definite "Duven'Ku normal".

Next I might have to start making the physical thing and see how it works, planning is an endless process otherwise. As ever, opinions are welcome in this matter.

Cellar door

I went to the basement and what did I find?..

1. Puss-veined blood lapping against the rafters. Clots and less wholesome things float on its waves like icebergs.
2. The chef. The smell of cooking meat and the grinding of a turning spit. A zombie is skewered like a pig over the fire while the chef slices thin portions of meat onto a plate for his guests. It stares back in mad silence.
3. A ghoul breeding pen. Females are tightly chained by their necks to the wall while a single male has the liberty of a longer chain pinned to the centre of the room. D3 ghoul babies lay abandoned on the floor awaiting collection.
4. Bottles and jars and tubes and racks. In the middle of it all sits a wizened man in a metal chair, pipes coming from every vein and orifice. A number have come loose or been pulled out. It would be a simple matter to put them back in.
5. My heart's desire. Your childhood sweetheart, the one you left behind, the one you couldn't save. S/he stands there naked with arms wide open. Only from behind can you see what a thin veneer of humanity they hold, flimsy skin covering crooked hooks and pulsating coils of rotten flesh.
6. Nothing. Sweet, merciful nothing.

Ruminating on dead places

We're in a city full of towering blocks of buildings, massive tombstones on the grave of the Dead God. The streets are narrow and hold a heavy silence lifted only by the shuffling of dessicated feet. Everything looms. Before you your breath freezes in the air, the only sign of life this place has seen in centuries. A valuable commodity for the factions still skulking about.

The king, who hasn't moved in centuries, contemplating his next move while his court waits and plots.

The priests, who undermine the city with the raised dead of the cities past. They will find a way out.

The general, freshly returned from confinement in the Death Frost mountain. In his memories this city never died.

The dwindling population of ghouls packing out the slum. Never truly dying yet possessed by a fierce hunger. The strongest force the weakest to breed, feeding off their young.



Why would the players wander through this progression of awful things? What do they have to gain by entering each and every building in this city? Why, to kill death of course. But we don't have to turn over every stone for that. Broad strokes will serve, they'll fill in the gaps and let us know when something awful needs our attention. Here we find a trap, an encounter, an interesting thing. We know how they link together, we track a rough trajectory and ignore the nuts and bolts. A city isn't packed to the rafters with pertinent content, a city is a series of events, a flowchart or pain that can be created on the fly and run from a huge list of interesting things, small vignettes of soul-rending horror.

It may not be a priority to make deeply simulated structures for every inch. It might just be enough for us to know that the Duven'Ku live in towering stone buildings, one on top of the other in warren-like apartments, life imitating death. Packed in tight.

All we need to build are the choke points, be they physical or plot related. The gates, the monuments and landmarks, ruined buildings that block the way (there was a war!). The building that holds the skeleton whose hand has been carved just so and opens the gate to the sewer, the ghoul king, the Sleeping Queen's wig, the emerald studded maguffin! The players progress through them getting closer to the core of this place. Or dead.

Curated hubs with meandering random encounters connecting them.


As for Duven'Ku himself, the players don't know what will happen by killing him. Or even if they can. To make it even more fun, neither should the GM. Generate that bad-boy. Reach for a table full of interesting possible results of finding Duven'Ku. Maybe he really is dead. It would make sense after all. Maybe he's withered and weak, maybe he's a mindless ball of energy, maybe he turns you inside out, maybe he's not even here?


All this for a little necklace!

The Dead City

What is a dungeon? A series of events with a predictable progression. Typically a fun-house of horror and pain. But is the dungeon aesthetic inseparable from the experience? I think plenty of people have proven that it isn't, and this got me thinking: my players are aware of an item that cannot be destroyed because it is part of a god, they hate said item so much that they are planning to go and kill the god. Specifically, Duven'Ku and the Necklace of the Sleeping Queen.

Of all the horrible things I've done to my players, Death Love Doom struck a cord, thanks +James Raggi. One player retired his character to a monastic life and took a break from gaming because of that session, which I consider a great success. The surviving character hasn't forgotten the almost-TPK that cracking open the necklace caused, and has left a search for the creature on a low simmer ever since.


So, killing gods it is. A dead god of the dead, in a dead city in a dead land. We know his city is at the bottom of a canyon, we know it's dormant or at least incapable of projecting its malignant nastiness any more. Let's assume it has been sealed up as a result of a bitter war or some sort, a war that Duven'Ku got the short end of. The city is sealed, to a degree, and probably large since Duven'Ku was a three-in-one religion/magic-tradition/state. Let's also assume that Duven'Ku resides there, Cthulhu style.

Replace the sand with snow and you're there

Now with these assumptions and requirements we throw them in a bag and shake them up and out pops a mega-dungeon. A sprawling city-scape of the dead city of Duven'Ku with a god at its unbeating heart. Instead of levels we have buildings and neighbourhoods, instead of goblins we have Ancient Obscenities of a dead race of men, instead of treasure we have certain doom. All good so far. The players are motivated to go there and I see no reason to make it more tempting. This is the worst place for anyone to go, chances are they aren't coming back.


The issue with a city is that it is far easier to meander about than in an underground complex. A simple approach would be to roughly map the city, set up distinct districts, and then maybe create an enormous random table for generating buildings within that area. A random building for each "room", which you fill in on the map "here is event #24, it will always be here from now on". Each area will have its own flavour and grow over time as they are explored.

I really like this idea myself, but the execution is going to be another thing altogether. The map has been a right pickle so far, my room is full of abandoned attempts, and writing hundreds of interesting encounters is going to be a stretch to say the least.

This will be an ongoing project, since my players are set on going there eventually anyway. Hopefully it will develop into something usable and scalable.

Fingers crossed.

It has BEGUN! Again.

Leftovers from the manic printing run

The first batch of hard copies have gone out. It's too late to burn it and pretend it never happened, and besides, all the contributors (well... singular) have been paid.

On that topic, the second issue is already under way. The idea of doing a quarterly seemed like a very leisurely pace before I made a schedule. Damn those schedules and their "facts". So, it's time to put the feelers out to contributors and artists who want to make a humiliatingly small amount of money for their work. But, by golly, it's paid writing work. Who can say they get that with any regularity? Not me for sure.

Anyone interested in getting involved is welcome to email me or contact me on Google+. We're looking primarily for anything cruel and unusual based off of the Lamentations of the Flame Princess ruleset or entirely system neutral. Also happy to look at stuff of a more theoretical nature or maps/artwork.

Send a rough outline of what it is you want to do and a link to an appropriate example of your work and we'll go from there.

We shall resume the normal activities of this blog starting... now!

The Undercroft #1

Oh deary deary me. I only went and made a zine. A whole one, no less. It's got pages and pictures and diseases and death. It really is the deluxe service we're talking about here.

I started making it after reading this excellent article by Matt Jackson and seeing what The Manor had been achieving. It was all far too exciting to not jump in on. So a few weeks and a number of favours later and we have this monstrosity. It's still filtering through the brave proof readers but is essentially finished. The PDF is in front of me now, occasionally mocking me with its spurious spelling, goading me into another editing pass. But I'm strong.

So strong in fact that I jumped the gun and stuck it up for sale. If it's for sale it can't possibly be edited more. What a pity. And once these pesky grammar crimes are tidied it'll start making its way to the post office and out into the wild, alone for the first time.

By Friday it will be out of my hands. I hope it looks after itself.

EDIT:
As I woke up today I realised I hadn't described what the zine was in the slightest. This is what I get for making rash decisions while tired. Essentially The Undercroft is going to lean towards horror and unpleasantness. This specific edition deals with new diseases and methods for inflicting them, lawyers, and an adventure to an old kings tomb with a nasty twist.

12. Children of My Father

Hormud heard a gabble of voices, the whisper as his words were translated, and Ostromo’s pleading before the bear throne. He ignored it all, kept his eyes focused above Aosoka’s head, until one of the red guards returned with such a whip as he demanded. The spear points ringed him in and Hormud was marched away again through the perfumed court where the priest of ears laughed his senseless laughter beside the pyramid, then through the fur hung antechamber and out into the broad avenue before the palace. Despite his efforts his feet stumbled where there was nothing to trip him, and the hand which he forced to grip the whip almost lost its hold a dozen times. Beside him, Ostromo scuttled and danced ahead to peer up into the cracked and bloodied darkness that was Hormud’s face. His voice was a constant thin complaint.

“You do not trust me, Hormud, yet I have done what is necessary. Had I not ordered you bound they would have killed you where you lay, stricken on the road by the magic of the Tinsunchi. Had I not spoken the language of their masters, they would not have obeyed even me. So, master, you have me to thank for this chance your magic will surely seize.”

“So you believe in my magic.”

“Have I not linked my fate with yours?”

Hormud snorted. “Or the throne ordered it against your will. Best for him that he doesn’t swallow that ruby.” Hormud’s gaze ranged the throngs of the avenue and the eyes of its people were bright and coquettish upon him. Overhead, the sun bore down on them all, and the pricks of spears turned Hormud in through a columned facade and down a flight of stone stairs so that he confronted a narrow door of bronze. At his side Ostromo yelped in Tinsunchi.

Leaning in close and low, the wizard said “I have gained you some moments for your spells, master, weave them strongly or we both will die.”

Hormud grunted and took the whip in both of his awkward hands, and felt his blunt fingers without power.

“Tie this about my wrist with the knot I will teach you. As you love you worthless life make it strong. Then, in the other end, but close to that knot, make a loop as the horsemen do. I shall weave my own spells—” He threw back his head and begun to roar out in a great voice, a mocking song once used to taunt his people:

“On Chorazin Rock lives the coward,

Whose cowardly lord teaches them

“Do not hesitate, pull off quickly,

While their decedents riddle the ground——”

The spear guards eyed him suspiciously and made curious signs with their hands as they warded off his spells. His voice deepened and he chanted on, pausing only to admonish Ostromo.

“Tighter or the Heaven-Bear will bite you off at the shin.”

Hormud took the loop in the hand to which it was bound. It was a small loop, not big enough to fit around a man’s head, and Ostromo stared at it with reverent eyes.

“I shall weave more spells for you, master, while you fight,” he said softly, still looking at the knot. “Together, our might of magic—”

Hormud snorted, shook the leather loop above his head and picked up his chant, now in the language of the southern cities, letting the chirruping lilt further confound his guards.

“See me, you men of my father. See Hormud fight your battle for you. See him crush the Heaven Bear as only a true horse son can. See him shake the roots of the bear throne.”

He finished and spat upon the earth. “I am ready”.

Instantly, above him, trumpets blared and the narrow door before him swung wide— Hormud stalked through with Ostromo scuttling at his side, mumbling his charms, but keeping close. Inside the arena Hormud halted and heard the roar of a myriad voices beat down upon him, and his beard thrust fiercely. How many times in far lands had he heard the roar that greeted the gladiators? Yet he stared not up at the sea of waiting faces, but swiftly eyed the narrow circuit of the arena. It was no more than a pit among banked seats, but the barriers were high and for this moment he was alone with the wizard-priest beside him. Almost, he had reached out to wring that wry, treacherous neck, but Ostromo began to scrawl cabalistic figures in the sand and Hormud shrugged and went on in springing strides, feeling the good stretch and pull of muscles in his thighs— and stumbling with his wooden feet. He cursed, paused on braced legs, to press his forearm against the amulet about his throat.

“Now, Father,” said Hormud reasonably, “I know that my vow lacks fulfilment. A hundred thousands to bow before you, I promised, if needs be I must slit all their throats to bring them to reason. Fifty thousands I gave you at Turghol, and here, Father, are another fifty thousand. But they will be stubborn, you understand, and unless I conquer this Heaven-Bear they send against me, these idolators will never see the light of reason.” He grinned and his dry lips cracked with fresh blood as he smiled. “So, Father, if you want a kingdom that will praise your name carved out of this heathen land, lend a little help now.”

Hormud rolled his shoulders and his arms swung at his sides, one with the leather thong knotted hard about his forearm and carrying the loop, his other flexing with slow tension. A murmur rose from the banked throng above and he saw that a bronze door had swung open and through it, ponderously, shuffled the very grandfather of bears. Though massive, his sides were gaunt, his small eyes vicious with hunger and, when he saw Hormud, he reared on his hind legs and so towered above the barbarian’s head, letting him see the great girth of the beast’s chest, the power of the short, massive forelegs with their sabre claws.

Hormud delayed a moment there in the middle of the arena. “As you see Father.”

He looked down at the loop of woven leather on his wrist and then at the bear across the arena. Slowly then, on his stumbling feet, he marched toward the bear that sat on its haunches like a man, fanning the air with his paws to suck in the scent of this man that came towards him so boldly. And the bear uttered a roar that drowned all other sound.

The barbarian did not waver in his forward stride. He heard the thin chanting of Ostromo’s spells, louder since the murmur of the spectators above him had ceased, replaced with the breathless blood-hungry wait. Eyes never shifting from the bear, now mere feet away, Hormud gathered his strength as a man might suck in a great breath and leaped. With a shout that rivalled that of the beast he hurled himself squarely into the embrace of the great Heaven-Bear.

11. Aosoka

They dragged Hormud though a hall draped in the same patterned cloth of the city, and came to a courtyard that was cool beneath the high reach of green trees and the spray of perfumed fountains. In its midst was a small white pyramid and from it mounted a slim pillar with a golden ladder, on top of which was a light with all the blinding agony of the sun. He was forced to turn away and instead rest his eyes upon a man in a long scarlet robe who knelt over a small fire burning on the step of the pyramid. Attached to the mans head were huge, tufted fans, which gave the impressions of ears. The man coughed and laughed by turn but there was no mirth or humanity there.

“Surely they mean those ears for an ass.”

No one answered him, but the red warriors shuffled uneasily as if expecting something for a long moment. When this moment did not come, and the strange man ignored Hormuds remark, they quickly took up the lance once more and continued to drag him, causing him to clench his eyes at the wet pain of his raw back. They left the courtyard and, through high bronze doors, entered a hall where the drapes were a gauze of gold. His captors now alternatively crawled flat on their stomachs or paused to bump their heads with a dull thud against the stone, dragging Hormud now flat along the floor, feet first. And thus he came before the throne of the Heaven-Bear.

The man who sat upon it was obscenely fat with painted red lips and black grease about his eyes, he toyed with his hair, hung in long, oiled ringlets falling about his shoulders. He wore a curious smile as he looked up to see the injured Hormud, as if expectant. And following his gaze, turning from beating his face upon the floor, was Ostromo. Hormud sent his hoarse laughter upward towards the golden beams of the ceiling.

“Not even the marble can beat brains into your skull.”

A shout of anger burst from the guards about the bear throne, their shields clashed against golden armour and they started forward with spear points flicking out, but the man on the throne lifted a ringed hand, clattering like some shamans chimes, and the guards fell back. Hormud tried to spit in their direction but it came out as nothing but a dry hiss. He felt the dull touch of metal against his swollen hands and feet before they fell limply to the ground, the eager blood pressing into them was agony beyond bearing. His lips shrank back from grinding teeth and he bent his stiff knees and drove his body to lift itself upon them. With pain wracked fingers he rolled onto the bend of his his elbow the lance that had carried him so long. He took the butt in the grip of his two elbows and by that crutch, he began to lift himself, hands flapping uselessly. The flat broad muscles quivered on his shoulders and the cords of his neck gouged out hollows in the flesh while darkness wheeled and the throne room blotted out but slowly he brought himself upward, forcing his limp feet under him while his wounds burst with the effort leaving dark bloody smears on the white marble. Slowly, while his elbows held their grip upon the lance, the bowed power of his shoulders straightened. His limp head lifted, ragged but dauntless, and put his eyes directly upon the king.

Hormud let his crutch clatter to the floor and laughed. Though twisted and broken, his voice carried mockery, “Come, vast one, pass judgement on your simple subject.”

A shivering moan lifted from the guards, they understood his defiance but not his words. Ostromo twisted his face from its place against the marble so he could see the barbarian to make grimaces of pleading silence. The Heaven Bear twirled his thick fingers through his oiled hair, gently touching the circlet around his head, working his fingers along to touch the giant red ruby serving as its centre piece, carved in the likeness of an upright bear.

Silence fell as the ruby was plucked free, so that all the was left was the sound of Hormud’s breathing, too heavy and wheezing, and the distant tinkling music and a womans voice in a language he did not understand. The air was sweet with incense, warm and sickly. The king nodded gently and his eyes went lingeringly over the thews of Hormud’s now sagging body and he clapped his hands tightly together.

Behind the throne the curtains of golden gauze swayed and three creatures appeared. The first was all black, so much as to be a hole in space, with the head of a bear, stars glinting distantly in his unfathomable night. The second had the head of a snake and his robe was a crystal green in whose depths a black smoke swirled. But the third wore scarlet, and was clearly a man, though his face was obscured by a head dress of vast golden ears that shone with a blinding light.

At their entrance, one of the guards prodded the kneeling Ostromo with his spear point and the little wizard began to babble feverishly in the tongue that Hormud did not understand, except that the often repeated sound presently told him that the king was Aosoka. When Ostromo fell silent, Aosoka lifted the fillet from his brow and put the gleaming ruby into his mouth and pronounced judgement in a lisping voice. Ostromo knocked his head three times upon the floor and faced Hormud with triumph baring his rotted teeth.

“Know, slave,” he said, “that because of tyour boasting, and because Aosoka is the all merciful and all knowing, the compassionate—”

“Your tongue is too long”, Hormud said softly, “presently I shall shorten it.”

Ostromo’s face twitched. “Get of wind devils,” he spat, “You have won through me, your friend even in this hour, a chance for your life! You will match your strength with the Heaven Bear— but without weapons.”

Hormud looked down at his swollen, useless wrists, at the oozing ankles and at knees that he kept from quivering only with a will greater than his strength.

“Why, surely my friend. Why, surely. Lead me to this Heavan Bear of yours and I will shake the throne on which Aosoka sits so that he topples from it and bruises his fat body. I ask only this, friend, that you should enter with me. I will need your mighty magics.”

Ostromo’s yellow skin turned ivory and his voice became a whine in his throat. “Already, Hormud, master, Aosoka has ordered this thing. I will work my small spells. One more thing I have gained you, you need not meet the monster until-”

Cymbals clanged and from the walls horns wailed dimly while Ostromo shivered and cast his eyes down. “That, master, is the Hour of the Dog. In one hour, when the trumpets sound again-”

Hormud’s great shaggy head was thrust forward and his shoulders arched. He looked down at his hands, of which his utmost will contrived merely to crook the fingers a little. Soon they would stiffen and the hours of torture would drain his racked body.

“It is too long,” he said, his hand before his face extending and contracting, “My magic wants but short space and needs one thing for its working. Find me a braided whip with a tip that has often tasted the flesh of these red jackals about me, and at once will conquer this Heavan Bear. I have spoken.” He folded his arms to hide the growing tremors. “See to it, slave.”

He stood on braced legs, with a proud head tipped back so that his eyes lifted above Aosoka on his golden throne, and hummed through his nose in the tuneless drone of his mothers.

9. The Quiet Blackness

After some time in the quiet blackness Hormud swam back to a consciousness broken by torchlight in a swaying night. He could hear the thunk and crash of marching, armoured feet and felt his body sway with the rhythm, yet he was not marching. His wrists and ankles had been bound together and between them had been thrust a lance so that he hung limply like a stuck pig. He lifted his dangling head and saw a litter carried on the shoulders of red haired men, the only thing paying him any heed was the grinning face of Ostromo, above their heads as he was, being carried in state like an emperor. Life still pounded strongly though his veins so that he wrenched savagely at his bonds, causing the men carrying him to stagger and slow their stride. One turned a pleading face, pale in the red glare of torches, and from the darkness strode another, striking him in the teeth with the hilt of his dagger. He spat blood and put his gaze on the man, framed by a leopard helmet as if eating his head.

“I’ll remember you when I form my legions. You will serve me as my concubine and dance for the soldiers when I get tired of your fumbling embrace.”

This time he struck across his cheek, he felt the crack of bone. The man muttered and turned back into the darkness to leave Hormud, and alone he allowed his head to sag, and his hair to drag through the mud in matted tails. The familiar clank and thud of a marching army beat into his ears, he sucked in the sweet smells of sweat and campfires, fighting unconsciousness as he travelled. Most often he would wake with his head sagged backward so that his inverted gaze rested unwaveringly on the silks that hung from Ostromo. Ho Hormud, where are your legions of gold?

******

The further into the work I get the further I need to range ahead as my changes have deeper and deeper repercussions. Simple things like changing the timing of events so they actually make sense now change things quite a way ahead, slowing down the whole process. It's getting to a point where I need to seriously consider how much I am willing to change the work to make it good/less bad as things start to get tempting to change in quite profound ways. For now I will stick to my original intent of re-working this novel to bring out the good in it and see how that goes.

8. Where is the wizard?

He took long slow strides forward, bounding from tuft to tuft into the metallic whispering of the reeds, avoiding where the earth opened its wet mouth to drag back his feet. As they travelled the fog lifted leaving a black sheen to his bare skin that shone iridescent in the returning sunlight. Ostromo scuttled close at his side, moving like a deranged crab.

“There is only death ahead. The Fulgren Sea stretches to the edge of the world and is filled with unspeakable monsters ready to topple the unwary off into the aether. The Heaven Bear lies in wait to devour us. There is only death, even if we escape the demon grass.”

Hormud spat from dry lips, “In Om they told me the edge of the world was beyond Krakorum, in Krakorum they said beyond Phin, and in Phin they said the great sea beyond Yelo poured into a cavern beneath the earth. Beyond this sea of grass we will find people who will say the edge is yet further.”

They walked in silence for what he hoped was miles but with no landmarks it was impossible to tell. With the pain filling his mind it was becoming difficult to be sure if they were even keeping a straight course.

Upon finding a partially submerged boulder, large enough to allow him to sit and see above the grass, he concluded he would stop and attend to his wound, rest, and think a while.

Movement, there is movement everywhere. He strains his eyes at the thin green walls. Reeds behind reeds and between reeds, little corridors that inch off just when the eye is beginning to reach. From a thick clump a patch of fog creeps. The rot in his side spreads quickly in this fetid swamp, the gobi powder doesn’t help any more, take it by the fistfuls, just numbs the mouth. The wizard, where is the wizard? More fog, tendrils filtering through the grass in fingers curling against the ground and up to reach for him. The wizard calmly walks past and into their hands. For a moment they are confused, as if consulting each other on this new creature, touching each other and him gently, tentatively, and then they grab him. Twisting around him like snakes, squeezing and thrashing as a wail erupts from the grass behind them, dragging the thrashing form off faster than Hormud can see. He can’t shout or he would, he would cough but he can’t. Flicking the sheath off the sword into the mud he dived from his rock hacked at the grass until covered in it’s green juices. The grass twists and grabs as he rushes through to follow the fog, twisting in his arms and hair, thicker and thicker, slowing him down intolerably. There are shouts behind him as he runs, but they are given no heed. This is no madness, no thoughtless fury, they have arms so they must have bodies.

Ahead is a clearing two men might lay side by side and think. The white peak of a horesman’s cap is plain through the grass. Bursting through the verge of the clearing he sees, sitting cross legged on the small mound, an Onjen head turned back, eyes popping, the grass all about creating a collar for him, twisted around his neck from outside the clearing to make a flared disk of reeds. The rider looks unsurprised. He cuts him free and the grass falls to form a dress for the sitting man. Now clear, a second figure is obvious. Ostromo is wrapped in the skin of a tiger and stares up at the panting warrior.

“The wind devils have told you secret things. Do they tell you where to find safety?”

“At the edge of the world.”

“And there will be wealth at the end of the world?”

“Yes.”

“You shall win three kingdoms and before you shall march ten generals of gold and behind each shall follow ten thousand horsemen and a hundred thousand men. Your name will outlive a hundred hundred years.”

“I am more interested in tomorrow.”

The little wizard pulls the skin tightly around him, hiding him, laughing as he disapears until all that’s left if a shacking tiger, cackling with prophecy.

“You keep something from me Ostormo. You saw more than that.”

His head, balder and older than it ever was, is dripping and wet.

“Why yes you empty headed goat herder,” with great effort he gets to his feet, letting the tiger skin hang like a robe, “I keep something back.”

He falls backwards through the reeds as a call comes up as from an arena crowd, aye aye, grass devils, here is the man you seek.

He grasps at their treachery but the arms are already around him.

7. Dust

Skeletal knuckles whitened griping the dagger, shaking with anger.

“Do it or don’t. We haven’t the time for your indecision.”

“Ong values our choices, and I wouldn’t choose you if you were the last chattel in Turgohl. Your filthy barbarian blood flows thin and cheaply.”

The knife had disappeared among the folds of his robes and he moved to return to his chanting.

“Gods. I need more than one, and they make offerings to me.”

Hormud had brought out his pouch and, sprinkling its contents into his mouth, set his head back against the soft earth breathing deep and contentedly.

“Other wizards fight my spells. I can smell it in the air.”

“It’s you own goat-stink,” Hormud mumbled, staring vacantly at the sky.

As he spoke, darkness gathered above the tops of the grass, pressing down on their heads like a dry, black fog

“Flee Onjen! Flee from the spirits of the devil grass, flee before the Great Bear of Heavan devours you.” Still staring where the sky once was, Hormud could hear the little splashes as the wizard jumped about in delight at his success. He swore and felt around for his sword, finding it he used it to force himself to his feet. The dust had reduced the pain, leaving only a faint tearing sensation in his side. A high wail came from the distant shore where the Onjen waited, soon followed by the hard, fast pounding of hooves dwindling into the distance and back to the Black Sands. Ostromo giggled in the new darkness.

“I could slit your belly now, you hulk.” He whispered. “Mock my spells will you?”

“Lift this damned fog before the grass devils come up on us unaware.”

“No, my magic is too strong to be dismissed so quickly. Let us just leave and return to the friendly hills. The Onjen won’t return, the Heaven Bear chases them to your Queen’s door. I don’t like this grass, I can smell demons.”

“I have smelt better smells but there are no friendly hills for us. The Onjen will return, the Bitch of Turghol will send her sword-bladed lances to find us and give us to the Priests Gigantic. So it is forward, little Ostromo, before my wounds stiffen and rot my bones.”

The sorcerer made a sound like a sick dog.

6. Flames & Gold

The wailing chant of Ostromo was scarcely audible above the rustle of grass. The Palace Gigantic, towers of flames and gold, loomed in the small sky he could see through the grass, growing closer to block out the sun, becoming brighter until he had to squint and roll over to protect his eyes, so great was the majesty of it. He would not go back to the Princess, he had nothing left to give and he was not ready, but she wanted him, she came for him even here. The march of ordered feet, of her men, were in the marsh, coming for him, where was his sword? She had taken everything, defend yourself.

The chanting stopped and the light subsided, replaced by the shade of the demon grass and the choking pleadings of the old wizard. Realising his hands were around his neck, Hormud released him and rolled off into the mud.

“How long?” They were both breathing heavily.

Hormud looked down, ignoring the scowling sorceror. His side had a compact of mud and grass neatly applied and still surrounded by dried blood. His wound would heal.

“So you had enough courage to weave a spell eh? You tiger among men.”

Onjun’s head twisted sharply and his eyes had recovered their usual venom.

“You are free with your insults barbarian.” The dagger he had given him was in his hand, pointing at Hormud’s throat.

“My little apeling still has teeth.”

“A Pontiff of the Palace belongs to no one but the Warpope, and the Warpope is dead. My neck is my own since I left with you.”

“Maybe I was saving your worthless neck to split on my own steel.”

“See to your own.”

For the time it takes a high arrow to meet its mark the men glared at each other, the sorcerer poised as he was in times not long gone as a priest above his offering. But instead of fear Hormud looked as though satisfied and rolled onto his good side.

“Hurry with your spells Ostromo,” he grumbled, “the grass devils are waiting for us and I am not a man to disappoint when expected for battle.”

5. You Lion of Valour

Ahead the shrivelled sorcerer fled in desperate leaps, his shredded finery and flapping limbs made his terror almost comical. Hormud considered shouting to let him know it was him and not the Onjen chasing after him, but the irony of his lineage stopped him. Just as the lush, rank greenness of the grass proper absorbed them he lifted the little Ostromo by his battered hood, boosting the wizard along in great soaring bounds with his voice wailing high, chattering a litany of gods and spirits, beseeching Hormud, cursing his family upon the cruel alters of the Palace Gigantic. Hormud laughed and heard the wet thud of arrow into flesh, felt the start of muscles giving between his knees as iron struck the pony. Hormud leaped clear, landed running and still he boosted the sorcerer along so that his flailing feet scarcely touched the ground.

“Up, mighty warrior,” he bellowed over the rushing of reeds, “cover the earth with your magics, ten mile strides, a death to horses and the bastards that ride them. Spit your prayers to the demon grass.”

The grass now passed above his head but the whining arrows were all about him, plucking past to flick out of sight in the green wall ahead. A red flower leaped high under the slash of his sword and dropped limply. The grass thrashed and wavered like a living, suffering thing as he cut a path— and pain slashed through him. An arrow. His feet plunged deep into the slimy cold of the earth and he fell forward, the pain and exhaustion of days of chasing and hiding fully caught up. His mind darkened as he looked out on Ostromo, huddled on his knees, muddy hands clasping a bald head staring wildly at the fallen barbarian.

“Come, you lion of valour…”

4. Farewell Brothers

They were close behind him as he ran, two riders charging side by side, lances dipped, whipping through the tall grass, tracing hungry lines. No time to notch another arrow, the tiger bow flew from his hands as he leapt from the thorns and above the rushing spears, his sword singing hungrily from its sheath. The confusion of the barbarian’s unexpected charge gave him the time he needed to batter the rider screaming from his saddle. The momentum of the charge still unbroken and unstoppable, the second rider beside him snarling through a face yellow with horse fat, cursing his line as his arms desperately pulled to make room to draw his sword.

“Leave it in it’s sheath brother. It will do you no good.”

The rider cried high and voiceless with despair as Hormud’s curved blade twisted up through his chest— the scream died mid note as the rider hit the ground, head rolling separately through the mire.

Hormud swung a hand high in salute to the riders following, “Hail and farewell brothers”, his fist twisted into the pony’s mane as he kicked it into a mad charge for the tall grass.

3. A Magic of Sorts

“My brothers make a magic of sorts, and being sorcerers will not tread the devil grass.”

The wizard scurried from the barbarians side as far as their cover would allow.

“No, I left the Palace Gigantic with you but I will not enter that devil grass.”

“Then die here.” Hormud laughed, “As for me it doesn’t matter whether it be my kins’ arrows or demon magic. Though I’ve bested a few devils in my time I’ve never stood well against a cavalry charge.”

As though answering a challenge the horsemen crashed their cymbals along to a throaty song like rocks falling down a deep gorge.

“Here, my dagger.”

The wizard took it with trembling hands, “Better to die here under the merciful lances than fight and run. Even animal tracks turn from the edge of the devil grass.”

Hormud plucked a handful of grass, chewed, and jabbed it into into his ragged wound.

“Well then, little animal, find yourself a burrow and dig in. I’ll sharpening my steel on some ungrateful bellies and then see how far it takes me against the High Air. Off with you to make peace with the spirits, maybe they’ll welcome you as their own.”

He leapt to his feet, bow in hand, strung with the gut of a tiger and bound in its skin, shouting the Demarcation of Heritage and singing his challenge as the first arrow flew. The riders flattened against their ponies necks only to be pinned together, screaming in their dying. He was wise to their tricks.

“Howl for us, though I think your horse has a sweeter voice.”

The arrows flew two heart beats apart, made faster by the rumble of charging hooves.