An ancient civilization at its nadir makes bloody sacrifices to appease its terrible gods while it battles "barbarians" from all sides. What its leaders and its people don't know is that their world imprisons powerful, malign creatures who are desperately seeking a way to escape.
The old capital sits at the base of a volcano. It's built of heavy stone hauled in from quarries several miles away; the rock is chiseled from old limestone deposits and hauled across roads paved with granite. The plentiful obsidian, harvested from mines -- some in the heart of the city itself -- decorate signs and statues; it also tops fences as a crude form of security, while many households use the sharp, glassy rock for household chores where a cutting edge is handy.
But visitors to the capital most vividly remember the altars -- the gory altars, where deep russet bloodstains are evidence of what happens there. The high priests -- who often double as civil leaders -- round up slaves, criminals, dissidents and sometimes enemies every full moon and sacrifice them to the city's terrible gods. The blood is supposed to keep their wrath at bay; the rain god won't wash away crops with flooding, the sun god won't beat down during the summer, the wind god won't scatter seeds during harvest time -- and most importantly, the god of the volcano won't drown the city in lava.
The city leaders are most worried about that last possibility. Evidence that it's happened before are plentiful -- old, ropey rock has been trampled down in the oldest parts of the city, and carbonized bone or housewares are found in the volcanic soil further afield.
In recent decades, another problem has arisen -- barbarians from all directions have mustered up the courage to fight the city's standing legions. Their gods -- hopelessly debased from the city's leaders' point of view -- don't partake of the blood sacrifice, and refuse to call back their peoples. This has proven disastrous for slave stock; the city's soldiers are now killing enemy warriors rather than capturing outside slaves. Increasingly, sacrifices have come from the city's citizens.
Beyond all of this, the volcano's god has shown worrying signs of displeasure -- gouts of steam and black clouds of ash are becoming more common.
Amidst all this chaos, the priests find themselves contending with one last worry. A pernicious story, no doubt picked up from some outisder slave or brought back by some turncoat soldier, insinuates that the volcano's god cares nothing for the blood sacrifices, making it no better than the barbarian gods. The story says that, in the distant past, the volcano's god erupted with mighty fury, and had to be battled and restrained by the combined might of the surrounding nations; only after they subdued it could the renew the bindings that kept it locked deep in the bowels of the earth. Those who repeat this story often find that a soft knock comes at their door during the next full moon ...
Friday, September 17, 2010
Day 28: The wild hunt
The heavens herald the coming of the Fair Hunt, when adventurers of all stripes band together to hunt the Fey Beast. They track the creature through the Mistlands for one reason -- those who dine on the animal's flesh are granted a single wish.
The tranquil lands of the Green Valley are little troubled. Their seasons are mild and their fields yield easily to the farmer's plow; would-be conquerers are far away and concerned with their own petty battles. What threats there are -- goblins that haunt the woods, trolls that seek to spirit away children, fickle spirits that dwell in trees -- are easily dispatched and guarded against.
Still, there is always anticipation in the lands, an undercurrent of excitement. Astrologers keenly watch the chaotic heavens that swirl above, waiting for signs of emerging order -- when the stars become fixed, and form the pattern of the stag, it heralds that the Mistlands will open and the Fey Beast will stalk the land again.
During such times, otherwise sensible young men and women abandon themselves to the Fair Hunt. Sometimes heading out alone, other times banding together, they seek to track the everchanging beast across the wilds. The journey is perilous -- wherever the Fey Beast travels, boogeymen and monsters are riled. Goblins boldly attack grown men, and trolls lose their fear of the sun. Many of these adventurers become heroes to dales as they battle off the malign wake of the Fey Beast -- a good deal of them becoming wealthy and esteemed in the process.
But the actual prize is the beast itself. Whoever captures the beast and slays it in accordance with ancient law is sanctioned to partake of the creature's flesh. Those who do find that their deepest wish is answered, whether they utter aloud, or even know what it is that they truly desire.
When the Fey Beast is slain, the Mistlands again settle around the Green Valley, and safety and tranquility again settle across the land.
The tranquil lands of the Green Valley are little troubled. Their seasons are mild and their fields yield easily to the farmer's plow; would-be conquerers are far away and concerned with their own petty battles. What threats there are -- goblins that haunt the woods, trolls that seek to spirit away children, fickle spirits that dwell in trees -- are easily dispatched and guarded against.
Still, there is always anticipation in the lands, an undercurrent of excitement. Astrologers keenly watch the chaotic heavens that swirl above, waiting for signs of emerging order -- when the stars become fixed, and form the pattern of the stag, it heralds that the Mistlands will open and the Fey Beast will stalk the land again.
During such times, otherwise sensible young men and women abandon themselves to the Fair Hunt. Sometimes heading out alone, other times banding together, they seek to track the everchanging beast across the wilds. The journey is perilous -- wherever the Fey Beast travels, boogeymen and monsters are riled. Goblins boldly attack grown men, and trolls lose their fear of the sun. Many of these adventurers become heroes to dales as they battle off the malign wake of the Fey Beast -- a good deal of them becoming wealthy and esteemed in the process.
But the actual prize is the beast itself. Whoever captures the beast and slays it in accordance with ancient law is sanctioned to partake of the creature's flesh. Those who do find that their deepest wish is answered, whether they utter aloud, or even know what it is that they truly desire.
When the Fey Beast is slain, the Mistlands again settle around the Green Valley, and safety and tranquility again settle across the land.
Day 27: Tomes of warfare
Magical destruction wiped ancient cultures from the earth, leaving only a wasteland where they once flourished -- and a bevy of powerful artifacts. Now, forces clash for control of four mysterious books that pinpoint the location of these devices, and their scouts and reconaissance teams battle over the magical creations in an unforgiving wilderness.
When the empires of old fell to their final battle, they ensured that none would survive to record a history of it. Mages, bloated with arcane power, summoned fell forces and spun earth-shattering spells to level their foes. The end result was a complete devastation of the landscape -- where once verdant fields and tended crops grew, only desert was left. What buildings withstood the onslaught stood starkly against the white sands in mute memory of the once earth-defining civilizations that used to exist.
The rest of the world carried on, content for some time to be free of the imperialist nations; however, the allure of such powerful magic eventually drew in pillagers. Among the first discoveries were the Four Pillars -- one each of basalt, granite, ivory and salt. Atop each of these rough-hewn spikes of rock sat one of the Four Books. Each is filled with diagrams of ancient magical constructs; more importantly, each is filled with maps of the constructs' locations. Early explorers found that the books were immovable, chained by unseen force to their pillars; however, pages could be copied. These plunderers made maps and uncovered the artifacts; some sold them for coin, others used them for conquest, while some used them to forge new socities or uphold old ones.
However, it soon became apparent that the treasures were far too powerful for other nations to ignore. Armies were sent in to establish camps; the books became the centers for sprawling fortresses. Fierce battles are still fought for control of these resources; even in periods of relative peace, armed contingents stare at each other uneasily during protracted, de facto sieges.
The wastelands don't have it much better. Maps are ferried out of the fortresses in dozens of clandestine ways; reconaissance teams and scouts stealthily move through the desert, pinpointing the artifacts and attempting to spirit them back to their patrons. Sometimes, such teams go rogue and sell the devices; more often, they're killed by the unforgiving environment or in frenzied encounters with enemies. Sometimes, one of the devices is smuggled out into the outside world, where it inevitably changes the strained balance of power.
When the empires of old fell to their final battle, they ensured that none would survive to record a history of it. Mages, bloated with arcane power, summoned fell forces and spun earth-shattering spells to level their foes. The end result was a complete devastation of the landscape -- where once verdant fields and tended crops grew, only desert was left. What buildings withstood the onslaught stood starkly against the white sands in mute memory of the once earth-defining civilizations that used to exist.
The rest of the world carried on, content for some time to be free of the imperialist nations; however, the allure of such powerful magic eventually drew in pillagers. Among the first discoveries were the Four Pillars -- one each of basalt, granite, ivory and salt. Atop each of these rough-hewn spikes of rock sat one of the Four Books. Each is filled with diagrams of ancient magical constructs; more importantly, each is filled with maps of the constructs' locations. Early explorers found that the books were immovable, chained by unseen force to their pillars; however, pages could be copied. These plunderers made maps and uncovered the artifacts; some sold them for coin, others used them for conquest, while some used them to forge new socities or uphold old ones.
However, it soon became apparent that the treasures were far too powerful for other nations to ignore. Armies were sent in to establish camps; the books became the centers for sprawling fortresses. Fierce battles are still fought for control of these resources; even in periods of relative peace, armed contingents stare at each other uneasily during protracted, de facto sieges.
The wastelands don't have it much better. Maps are ferried out of the fortresses in dozens of clandestine ways; reconaissance teams and scouts stealthily move through the desert, pinpointing the artifacts and attempting to spirit them back to their patrons. Sometimes, such teams go rogue and sell the devices; more often, they're killed by the unforgiving environment or in frenzied encounters with enemies. Sometimes, one of the devices is smuggled out into the outside world, where it inevitably changes the strained balance of power.
Day 26: The pen is mightier ...
For as long as anyone can remember, stories were banned. When a daring author broke the ancient prohibition, it was discovered why -- the line between fiction and reality was truly thin, and his story spawned monsters and heroes alike.
The ban against stories was the only ironclad rule. None could violate this strictest of the taboos without swift retribution -- children were locked in dungeons without light for casual lies; grown men were executed for exaggerations. Within time, only truth -- literal truth -- was spoken.
When pages of scrawled doggerel -- telling of heroes traveling through dangerous lands filled with monsters -- were found pinned to a post in the public square, the reaction was swift. Witnesses were called in to identify the hand writing; eccentrics were rounded up and writing supplies were confiscated. When the culprit was discovered, he was brought before a magistrate to explain this most terrible of transgressions. As he summoned words to stammer out a defense, armed men -- covered in ichor from battles with a dreadful, unknown foe -- burst into the court. The stunned bailiffs did nothing as the rough crew wrestled the man to his feet and dragged him away.
Under their protection, the man was free to write whatever he pleased. He filled pages with crude, nonsensical poetry; as he orated the work to his saviors, monsters and beasts crawled forth from all corners of the lands, slouching into the city. The man's penstrokes hastily described heroes who would battle the monsters; further, he wrote of magnificent poets and playwrights who could help safeguard the city with their own tales.
Now, the land is embroiled in conflicts of all kinds. Armed battles between soldiers, monsters and things less describable rage across the countryside; love triangles simmer, sometimes blossoming into passionate romances and other times descending into bloody, tragic murder. Webs of politics enmesh all; improbable conspiracies and unlikely heroes together cause constant upheaval.
Worst of all, though, is a prevailing existential crisis. While all can confirm the truth of their own existence, none knows how true their memories are -- stalwart heroes and mundane commoners alike can't be sure they weren't spawned from some writer's fantasy.
The ban against stories was the only ironclad rule. None could violate this strictest of the taboos without swift retribution -- children were locked in dungeons without light for casual lies; grown men were executed for exaggerations. Within time, only truth -- literal truth -- was spoken.
When pages of scrawled doggerel -- telling of heroes traveling through dangerous lands filled with monsters -- were found pinned to a post in the public square, the reaction was swift. Witnesses were called in to identify the hand writing; eccentrics were rounded up and writing supplies were confiscated. When the culprit was discovered, he was brought before a magistrate to explain this most terrible of transgressions. As he summoned words to stammer out a defense, armed men -- covered in ichor from battles with a dreadful, unknown foe -- burst into the court. The stunned bailiffs did nothing as the rough crew wrestled the man to his feet and dragged him away.
Under their protection, the man was free to write whatever he pleased. He filled pages with crude, nonsensical poetry; as he orated the work to his saviors, monsters and beasts crawled forth from all corners of the lands, slouching into the city. The man's penstrokes hastily described heroes who would battle the monsters; further, he wrote of magnificent poets and playwrights who could help safeguard the city with their own tales.
Now, the land is embroiled in conflicts of all kinds. Armed battles between soldiers, monsters and things less describable rage across the countryside; love triangles simmer, sometimes blossoming into passionate romances and other times descending into bloody, tragic murder. Webs of politics enmesh all; improbable conspiracies and unlikely heroes together cause constant upheaval.
Worst of all, though, is a prevailing existential crisis. While all can confirm the truth of their own existence, none knows how true their memories are -- stalwart heroes and mundane commoners alike can't be sure they weren't spawned from some writer's fantasy.
Day 25: Double-edged blade
An ancient enshrined sword brings order and abundance when it's not used -- yet, outside forces seek to steal it, and the chaos it unleashes when it is unsheathed is terrifying.
An ancient mystical warrior fought across the land hundreds of years ago. In his left hand, he carried the scriptures of the Holy Buddha; in the other, he wielded a sword that was centuries old even when he fought with it. He battled the restless spirits of the land, laying them low and scattering them to the four winds; his weapon, already imbued with the holy light of the true enlightened one, became ever more powerful.
The warrior retired his blade one day. None know why -- some say he slew a human in anger, betraying his devotion to the Buddha; others say that he cut the devil itself, sending it back to the depths of hell. What is known that he sheathed the sword and rest it in a small roadside temple; he swore to never again battle, and promised prosperity until the blade was naked again.
A small farming village grew up around the shrine; its land was fertile and easy to till, and its summers and winters were mild. No crop withered from heat or frost. The villagers knew peace and tranquility.
Some years ago, a wandering warrior stole into the village. Entranced by the idea of a holy sword, he crept into the shrine and gazed upon the scabbard for some time. Having screwed up his courage, he approached the blade, and drew it -- just slightly, enough to see its marbled steel that glowed azure in the moonlight -- then he clapped it shut and replaced it. He had been humbled by such a fine weapon; he felt unworthy to wield it, even ashamed to have touched it. He vowed to return one day as a warrior worthy of the weapon.
Since then, the villagers' fortunes have turned. Petty warlords, intent on making the land their own, set their sights on it. Squads came, at first sure they could bully the meek farmers into submission -- only to be surprised by the farmers' stout defense. More men were sent, in larger groups; eventually, the farmers were forced to use their holy sword. They picked lots from among their own; the loser hefted the blade and used it in battle. It shined, even during the day, and cut down foe after foe; none could stand against its powers. However, such stunning defeats only increased the resolve of the most powerful warlords. Soon, whole armies were mobilized to take the village; they roamed across the farmlands, clashing with each other and the farmers. The potency of the blade became their main target -- the farmlands became hard to plow and the weather turned against the farmers. Many moved away; now only a contingent of hardscrabble men, just as much bandits and warriors as farmers use the blade to fight against the intruders in an ongoing guerilla battle.
An ancient mystical warrior fought across the land hundreds of years ago. In his left hand, he carried the scriptures of the Holy Buddha; in the other, he wielded a sword that was centuries old even when he fought with it. He battled the restless spirits of the land, laying them low and scattering them to the four winds; his weapon, already imbued with the holy light of the true enlightened one, became ever more powerful.
The warrior retired his blade one day. None know why -- some say he slew a human in anger, betraying his devotion to the Buddha; others say that he cut the devil itself, sending it back to the depths of hell. What is known that he sheathed the sword and rest it in a small roadside temple; he swore to never again battle, and promised prosperity until the blade was naked again.
A small farming village grew up around the shrine; its land was fertile and easy to till, and its summers and winters were mild. No crop withered from heat or frost. The villagers knew peace and tranquility.
Some years ago, a wandering warrior stole into the village. Entranced by the idea of a holy sword, he crept into the shrine and gazed upon the scabbard for some time. Having screwed up his courage, he approached the blade, and drew it -- just slightly, enough to see its marbled steel that glowed azure in the moonlight -- then he clapped it shut and replaced it. He had been humbled by such a fine weapon; he felt unworthy to wield it, even ashamed to have touched it. He vowed to return one day as a warrior worthy of the weapon.
Since then, the villagers' fortunes have turned. Petty warlords, intent on making the land their own, set their sights on it. Squads came, at first sure they could bully the meek farmers into submission -- only to be surprised by the farmers' stout defense. More men were sent, in larger groups; eventually, the farmers were forced to use their holy sword. They picked lots from among their own; the loser hefted the blade and used it in battle. It shined, even during the day, and cut down foe after foe; none could stand against its powers. However, such stunning defeats only increased the resolve of the most powerful warlords. Soon, whole armies were mobilized to take the village; they roamed across the farmlands, clashing with each other and the farmers. The potency of the blade became their main target -- the farmlands became hard to plow and the weather turned against the farmers. Many moved away; now only a contingent of hardscrabble men, just as much bandits and warriors as farmers use the blade to fight against the intruders in an ongoing guerilla battle.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Day 24: Party city
A mischevious god has ordained that one week out of the year will be time without sin -- a period where its followers can perform any act and it will turn a blind eye. However, never too concerned with particulars, the god let its followers decide which week will allow anything to go; now, dozens of factions cause havoc as each allows its followers to cause chaos at a different time in the year.
The god of the city has always had a troubled relationship with its citizens. Humans are petty, troublesome and quick to judge; fittingly, the only god willing to rule over them is mischevious, temperamental and sometimes cruel.
The best example is the time without sin -- a week where the god's followers can act out on their desires and needs without fear of divine retribution. A common folk tale suggests that as the god made his decree, he giggled before vanishing. Any true scholar scoffs at such a suggestion, and is quick to destroy any tome that confirms the story.
As is common among followers of such a god -- a god who is just as often bored with humanity as it is willing to meddle -- dozens of sects have sprung up, each claiming to understand the gods' vague and sometimes contradictory statements. When the week without sin was proclaimed, each of these took a differing opinion on when that week was. Some argued that it would be the week ending in the god's birthdate, representing the moral darkness before his coming; others scoffed at that, saying that the week beginning with the god's birth was far more fitting, as its followers ought to be as newborn infants, free of ill intent, during the week. Dozens and dozens of other weeks were suggested -- the first week of spring, because the god sought to increase the number of children through wanton sexual gratification; the last week of summer, as a celebration of the ending of the year; every 40th week, because a prophet was 40 when the declaration was made.
At this point, every week of the year is the week without sin to some sect; the city, never known for its orderly nature, has become bedlam. Ironically, the city hasn't fallen to chaos; instead, travellers stream to it now, seeking release in the eternal festivities. Others have made fortunes serving as bodyguards and police for hire, and enterprising merchants have found lucrative markets for intoxicants, stimulants, exotic foods and all manner of luxuries. Some have speculated that the god's purpose can be seen in these successes -- but they're just as likely to be shouted down by some other group.
The god of the city has always had a troubled relationship with its citizens. Humans are petty, troublesome and quick to judge; fittingly, the only god willing to rule over them is mischevious, temperamental and sometimes cruel.
The best example is the time without sin -- a week where the god's followers can act out on their desires and needs without fear of divine retribution. A common folk tale suggests that as the god made his decree, he giggled before vanishing. Any true scholar scoffs at such a suggestion, and is quick to destroy any tome that confirms the story.
As is common among followers of such a god -- a god who is just as often bored with humanity as it is willing to meddle -- dozens of sects have sprung up, each claiming to understand the gods' vague and sometimes contradictory statements. When the week without sin was proclaimed, each of these took a differing opinion on when that week was. Some argued that it would be the week ending in the god's birthdate, representing the moral darkness before his coming; others scoffed at that, saying that the week beginning with the god's birth was far more fitting, as its followers ought to be as newborn infants, free of ill intent, during the week. Dozens and dozens of other weeks were suggested -- the first week of spring, because the god sought to increase the number of children through wanton sexual gratification; the last week of summer, as a celebration of the ending of the year; every 40th week, because a prophet was 40 when the declaration was made.
At this point, every week of the year is the week without sin to some sect; the city, never known for its orderly nature, has become bedlam. Ironically, the city hasn't fallen to chaos; instead, travellers stream to it now, seeking release in the eternal festivities. Others have made fortunes serving as bodyguards and police for hire, and enterprising merchants have found lucrative markets for intoxicants, stimulants, exotic foods and all manner of luxuries. Some have speculated that the god's purpose can be seen in these successes -- but they're just as likely to be shouted down by some other group.
Day 23: Night terrors
On a farflung planet, hordes of flesh-eating monsters scour the landscape every night; colonists, seeking to research ancient alien technology and cities, establish flying cities and underground, glass-ceilined outposts.
Early research on Tiamat IV was promising. For the first time since branching out into space, humans found evidence of intelligent extraterrestrial life -- towering ruins of an obviously advanced society were easily observed from orbital satellites. Xenobiologists wondered about the planet's unusual characteristics; reconaissance teams found no sign of the aliens' bodies, just their imposing cities. In fact, the only living things on the planet seemed to be its plants -- wondrous, vibrant things. Flowers of all kinds, vines, creepers, trees -- striplings and massive giants alike -- a boggling, diverse selection of flora covered every inch of the planet. There was absolutely no evidence of any animal life.
Colonies were established and flourished. Research continued apace; archaeologists pieced together facets of the aliens' culture; herbologists cultivated new edible crops; physicians uncovered new medicines.
However, five years after the first colonies were established, humans discovered why there were no animals. In one terrifying night, hordes of small, reptilian beasts overran every settlement. There were no defenses -- there had never been a need for them. The only witnesses to the onslaught were those orbital satellites that had drawn humans there to begin with. There were no bodies left, and no trace of the creatures come daylight; however, the human cities were left just as bereft and as quiet as the ruins they'd been established to explore.
Every subsequent night, the creature re-emerged and washed across the planet's vast forests and jungles; they never harm the plants, but catch any other living thing and devour it before burrowing deep into the earth as morning comes.
The draw of the extraterrestrial ruins proved too strong for humanity. Several settlements have been developed -- massive, flying ships were deployed to orbit the planet, while smaller, temporary "family ships" flit across its surface. The family ships, which hold 50 or more explorers, settle during the day, allowing researchers to decamp and explore the region. At night, they hover hundreds of feet in the air, returning to the motherships when they run low on supplies or fuel. Other settlements were dug into the earth; reinforced glass plating can keep the beasts at bay during the evening, while allowing for extensive crops to grow. These types of settlements often serve as emergency shelters for disabled family ships; they store several fast-response skimmers that can quickly respond to distress calls.
Early research on Tiamat IV was promising. For the first time since branching out into space, humans found evidence of intelligent extraterrestrial life -- towering ruins of an obviously advanced society were easily observed from orbital satellites. Xenobiologists wondered about the planet's unusual characteristics; reconaissance teams found no sign of the aliens' bodies, just their imposing cities. In fact, the only living things on the planet seemed to be its plants -- wondrous, vibrant things. Flowers of all kinds, vines, creepers, trees -- striplings and massive giants alike -- a boggling, diverse selection of flora covered every inch of the planet. There was absolutely no evidence of any animal life.
Colonies were established and flourished. Research continued apace; archaeologists pieced together facets of the aliens' culture; herbologists cultivated new edible crops; physicians uncovered new medicines.
However, five years after the first colonies were established, humans discovered why there were no animals. In one terrifying night, hordes of small, reptilian beasts overran every settlement. There were no defenses -- there had never been a need for them. The only witnesses to the onslaught were those orbital satellites that had drawn humans there to begin with. There were no bodies left, and no trace of the creatures come daylight; however, the human cities were left just as bereft and as quiet as the ruins they'd been established to explore.
Every subsequent night, the creature re-emerged and washed across the planet's vast forests and jungles; they never harm the plants, but catch any other living thing and devour it before burrowing deep into the earth as morning comes.
The draw of the extraterrestrial ruins proved too strong for humanity. Several settlements have been developed -- massive, flying ships were deployed to orbit the planet, while smaller, temporary "family ships" flit across its surface. The family ships, which hold 50 or more explorers, settle during the day, allowing researchers to decamp and explore the region. At night, they hover hundreds of feet in the air, returning to the motherships when they run low on supplies or fuel. Other settlements were dug into the earth; reinforced glass plating can keep the beasts at bay during the evening, while allowing for extensive crops to grow. These types of settlements often serve as emergency shelters for disabled family ships; they store several fast-response skimmers that can quickly respond to distress calls.
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