Magic-users, concerned that scientific progress could one day overwhelm them, launch a pre-emptive strike across realities.
In the ancient world, magic and rationality co-existed. Magic was the power of unbounded human thought and desire; rationality examined reality and coldly predicted possibilities. Ancient magic-users, worried that their power could be diluted if they were polluted with a sense of limitations imposed by cause-and-effect view of the world, erected a high wall, separating the two realms.
In one, magic ruled supreme. Magic defied expectations, it surpassed classifications. Reality was subjective and tenuous; in the magical world, the limits of what is were define but what one could think. In the other, all shared a common reality; none could defy what the truth of the world was, regardless of flights of fancy.
Over time, those bound in the rational world forgot their magical brethren. Ancient truths were the fodder for stories; eventually, those stories were dismissed as myths. However, the magic-users never forgot the rational world. Their powers enabled them to peer across the veil of worlds; they watched as rational thought developed mathematics and science. Eventually, the magic-users realized that the power of technology may be greater than they ever thought. They witnessed the killing power of guns; they witnessed the locomotive energy of combustion; they witnessed the immediate communication of the Internet.
Alarmed, the magic-users convened. After much deliberation and bickering, they came to one conclusion -- that they must quash the rational world. The leading wizards, witch-doctors and shamans gathered and pooled their power. Their ritual shook the magic-using world, drawing arcane energies and directing powerful, unknowable spirits; after days of chanting and concentration, the barrier tumbled down. Magical power spilled into the rational world.
Now, the two struggle for dominance. The magic-users have the initiative, having launched the attack, but the nations of the rational world have long prepared for invasions and warfare. They may struggle to react to demons and elementals, but they're putting up a stauncher defense than the magic-users expected -- and the fate of reality hangs in the balance.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Day 11: The best-laid plans of men and spacemen
On a mysterious alien planet, marooned humans find that they must play along with ancient beings' games.
One of the weaknesses for creatures living in a world with limited diversity of intelligence is that a single point of view tends to eclipse others. For example -- humans. For millenia, they were alone in the universe. They understood the world within the context of minutes, hours and days; their lifespans -- of about 100 years by the time colonizing space travel became a reality -- meant that they rarely had to plan for more than a decade or so in advance. Even their most visionary members struggled to lay plans that would span centuries.
When a weak, but cleary artificial, signal was detected from a habitable planet, exploration teams were dispatched to examine it. What they found was a world that was extensively modified; ancient machinery, most of it with no immediately obvious purpose, lay in disrepair across the planet. The builders seemed to have perished -- in some places, where the conditions were right, their mummified bodies remaind; in others, their corpses had moldered away, leaving only scattered bone fragments. There was no sign that anything more complex than grass still lived.
That changed after several nations' teams had established base camps, however. The machines flared to life one evening, sending red lights arcing into the sky. Where these lights crossed orbiting ships, the craft cleanly separated. Within moments, the vessels were destroyed, their remains drifting into the atmosphere and spectacularly burning up as they streaking across the night sky.
Voices, heavy with self-importance, declared themselves to the camps -- the explorers had entered into a contest, and would work to advance their new patrons' interests. Teams that satisfied their patrons' goals would be granted passage off the planet. Most of the teams immediately sought the source of the voices; results were mixed. Some returned without finding any information. Some never returned at all.
Now, each of the teams works to fulfill daily instructions from their disembodied masters. Sometimes they're given innocuous tasks; other times they're asked to directly interfere with other teams. Some teams have been ordered to slay their opponents. Most teams also work as they can on uncovering the nature of their masters. It seems that the patrons have difficulty observing activities carried out at night; during the twilight hours, groups of archaeologists have taken to excavating in search of clues. Many teams have diplomatic and information-sharing units that contact each other and pool knowledge after hours.
What they've found so far is frightening -- it seems as though the process they're experiencing has happened before, perhaps dozens of times. It also seems that the voices, whoever -- or whatever -- they are, have been building toward some grand goal, and that the individual actions of each team have been helping cement the foundation for some mysterious event.
One of the weaknesses for creatures living in a world with limited diversity of intelligence is that a single point of view tends to eclipse others. For example -- humans. For millenia, they were alone in the universe. They understood the world within the context of minutes, hours and days; their lifespans -- of about 100 years by the time colonizing space travel became a reality -- meant that they rarely had to plan for more than a decade or so in advance. Even their most visionary members struggled to lay plans that would span centuries.
When a weak, but cleary artificial, signal was detected from a habitable planet, exploration teams were dispatched to examine it. What they found was a world that was extensively modified; ancient machinery, most of it with no immediately obvious purpose, lay in disrepair across the planet. The builders seemed to have perished -- in some places, where the conditions were right, their mummified bodies remaind; in others, their corpses had moldered away, leaving only scattered bone fragments. There was no sign that anything more complex than grass still lived.
That changed after several nations' teams had established base camps, however. The machines flared to life one evening, sending red lights arcing into the sky. Where these lights crossed orbiting ships, the craft cleanly separated. Within moments, the vessels were destroyed, their remains drifting into the atmosphere and spectacularly burning up as they streaking across the night sky.
Voices, heavy with self-importance, declared themselves to the camps -- the explorers had entered into a contest, and would work to advance their new patrons' interests. Teams that satisfied their patrons' goals would be granted passage off the planet. Most of the teams immediately sought the source of the voices; results were mixed. Some returned without finding any information. Some never returned at all.
Now, each of the teams works to fulfill daily instructions from their disembodied masters. Sometimes they're given innocuous tasks; other times they're asked to directly interfere with other teams. Some teams have been ordered to slay their opponents. Most teams also work as they can on uncovering the nature of their masters. It seems that the patrons have difficulty observing activities carried out at night; during the twilight hours, groups of archaeologists have taken to excavating in search of clues. Many teams have diplomatic and information-sharing units that contact each other and pool knowledge after hours.
What they've found so far is frightening -- it seems as though the process they're experiencing has happened before, perhaps dozens of times. It also seems that the voices, whoever -- or whatever -- they are, have been building toward some grand goal, and that the individual actions of each team have been helping cement the foundation for some mysterious event.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Day 10: Treacherous terrain
A sleeping god is torn between creating and destroying, causing upheavals throughout the land.
Hathor sleeps, but her dreams shape her world and reflect her ambivalence -- sometimes, soaring arches of stone crest through the air, mountains erupt from the firmament and forests spring into being. Other times, lakes drain away, sinkholes collapse and take swaths of land with them and deserts sweep across once-verdant wilderness.
The people of this world -- some human, others twisted and deformed monstrosities, the results of Hathor's troubled dreams -- know that they are to blame. Long ago, young Hathor created a paradise. She molded her world without forethought or design, using only her benevolence and generosity to guide her. For a time, her people lived happily alongside their divine mother, inhabiting a peaceful and beautiful world.
However, the such bliss did not last. Humanity proved to be untamable, even for a god; their free will meant that many would err and displease even the most lenient of masters. Hathor was horrified at the act of hunting; she had intended for all creatures to live in harmony. When the humans bickered and tried to order their societies, she was shocked; she had meant for all living things to share a sense of equality and brotherhood. When mankind fell, as it will inevitably do, to war, she was forced into reverie. Dazed, angered and crushed, she retreated from her creation, wondering if she could destroy it all -- becoming like her wayward children -- or if she could discover a new way to redeem humanity. With a heavy heart, she took to rest, a rest she has yet to awaken from.
In her dreams, Hathor debates creation and destruction. However, even a sleeping god is powerful. Her thoughts and desires manifest; when she is considering life, and disposed toward saving what she has made, the landscape beautifies. Awe-inspiring structures of rock and plant form overnight; the soil becomes rich and easily yields to cultivation. However, when she broods and thinks that creation is beyond redemption, lands disintegrate and plants wither. Women birth goblins and ordinary creatures turn into beasts.
It is in this chaos that mankind struggles to survive and do what good it can. Most are convinced that they can affect the goddess by trying to make the world a better place, earning their continued existence. However, simply surviving can sometimes preclude such nobility. Between the shifting landscape, the tribes of goblins and the roaming monsters, simply continuing to exist now often outweighs securing a long-term future.
Hathor sleeps, but her dreams shape her world and reflect her ambivalence -- sometimes, soaring arches of stone crest through the air, mountains erupt from the firmament and forests spring into being. Other times, lakes drain away, sinkholes collapse and take swaths of land with them and deserts sweep across once-verdant wilderness.
The people of this world -- some human, others twisted and deformed monstrosities, the results of Hathor's troubled dreams -- know that they are to blame. Long ago, young Hathor created a paradise. She molded her world without forethought or design, using only her benevolence and generosity to guide her. For a time, her people lived happily alongside their divine mother, inhabiting a peaceful and beautiful world.
However, the such bliss did not last. Humanity proved to be untamable, even for a god; their free will meant that many would err and displease even the most lenient of masters. Hathor was horrified at the act of hunting; she had intended for all creatures to live in harmony. When the humans bickered and tried to order their societies, she was shocked; she had meant for all living things to share a sense of equality and brotherhood. When mankind fell, as it will inevitably do, to war, she was forced into reverie. Dazed, angered and crushed, she retreated from her creation, wondering if she could destroy it all -- becoming like her wayward children -- or if she could discover a new way to redeem humanity. With a heavy heart, she took to rest, a rest she has yet to awaken from.
In her dreams, Hathor debates creation and destruction. However, even a sleeping god is powerful. Her thoughts and desires manifest; when she is considering life, and disposed toward saving what she has made, the landscape beautifies. Awe-inspiring structures of rock and plant form overnight; the soil becomes rich and easily yields to cultivation. However, when she broods and thinks that creation is beyond redemption, lands disintegrate and plants wither. Women birth goblins and ordinary creatures turn into beasts.
It is in this chaos that mankind struggles to survive and do what good it can. Most are convinced that they can affect the goddess by trying to make the world a better place, earning their continued existence. However, simply surviving can sometimes preclude such nobility. Between the shifting landscape, the tribes of goblins and the roaming monsters, simply continuing to exist now often outweighs securing a long-term future.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Day 8: It's all under control
(I've been posting a lot of gloomy, metaphysical-driven worlds. So today, I'm going to put up a straight adventure world.)
In an alternate Earth, technologically advanced aliens keep alive only the most dangerous -- and entertaining -- creatures, broadcasting the vicious clash of monstrous beasts as part of an intergalactic betting and reality show.
The Intergalactic Broadcasting Federation is perhaps the most famous -- or, rather, infamous -- of all the networks serving the larger MX Galactic Rim region. The region is best-known as an undeveloped backwater, best-known for its secretive, privately financed (and some say mad) scientific endeavors, largely ignored by the thinly stretched police forces. When the embarassingly rich need something ... unethical done, they come here; while they're waiting for it to be finished (or recuperating, as the case may be), they play on wildly terraformed paradises, where their every whim is catered to.
One of the IBF's most lucrative enterprises is its intersolar broadcasts of interactive betting shows. Its subjects range from the maddeningly mundane (which of these Kitallian bottle flies will faint in the toxic fumes of the Morim flower first?!?) to the frenzied and violent (How quickly will this pack of saber-toothed Marlyuks devour this live Cammit gor?!?). But its crown jewel is its operation on a tiny, oxygen-rich water-heavy planet. There, the native fauna -- though admittedly with a low predator-to-prey ratio -- is exotic, even for the jaded wealthy. Massive reptilian creatures stalk the land and soar through the sky; vicious, giant fish swim through the planet's shallow, warm oceans. Even the prey creatures are intersting; millions of years after IBF deflected an asteroid that threatened to derail its whole operation on the planet, the hairy, bipedal creatures have shown that they're able to use tools. With battles between overwhelming brawn and sly, furtive wit, the viewership -- and betting -- has shot through the roof.
IBF maintains the interest in a variety of ways. First, it takes pains to help keep the most terrifying and vicious of creatures alive and reproducing. If disease takes its toll on a favored creature, IBF inoculates its offspring. If any one predator begins to dominate, then IBF tinkers with another to make it that much more daunting. With just a little bit of ingenuity, some elbow grease and a handful of precise genetic changes, IBF has ensured that not only is this planet one of the most dangerous locales in the galaxy, but it's also got the most vicious, awe-inspiring battles seen.
There's a dark secret, though -- IBF has had to take extensive measures to control the bipeds in recent millenia. It's not willing to decimate the population, since biped v. massive lizard beast battles are among the most popular and high-earning, and it's not willing to tinker with the creatures' intelligence, their only real tool against slavering monsters. However, the creatures have proven too cunning. More than once, IBF patrols have had to destroy settlements -- settlements, as if the creatures thought they were people! -- and reset the clock on agricultural developments. This is, of course, all highly illegal, so IBF black ops personel have had to be very careful in how they remove all traces of intelligence that rise to levels protected by intergalactic law.
In an alternate Earth, technologically advanced aliens keep alive only the most dangerous -- and entertaining -- creatures, broadcasting the vicious clash of monstrous beasts as part of an intergalactic betting and reality show.
The Intergalactic Broadcasting Federation is perhaps the most famous -- or, rather, infamous -- of all the networks serving the larger MX Galactic Rim region. The region is best-known as an undeveloped backwater, best-known for its secretive, privately financed (and some say mad) scientific endeavors, largely ignored by the thinly stretched police forces. When the embarassingly rich need something ... unethical done, they come here; while they're waiting for it to be finished (or recuperating, as the case may be), they play on wildly terraformed paradises, where their every whim is catered to.
One of the IBF's most lucrative enterprises is its intersolar broadcasts of interactive betting shows. Its subjects range from the maddeningly mundane (which of these Kitallian bottle flies will faint in the toxic fumes of the Morim flower first?!?) to the frenzied and violent (How quickly will this pack of saber-toothed Marlyuks devour this live Cammit gor?!?). But its crown jewel is its operation on a tiny, oxygen-rich water-heavy planet. There, the native fauna -- though admittedly with a low predator-to-prey ratio -- is exotic, even for the jaded wealthy. Massive reptilian creatures stalk the land and soar through the sky; vicious, giant fish swim through the planet's shallow, warm oceans. Even the prey creatures are intersting; millions of years after IBF deflected an asteroid that threatened to derail its whole operation on the planet, the hairy, bipedal creatures have shown that they're able to use tools. With battles between overwhelming brawn and sly, furtive wit, the viewership -- and betting -- has shot through the roof.
IBF maintains the interest in a variety of ways. First, it takes pains to help keep the most terrifying and vicious of creatures alive and reproducing. If disease takes its toll on a favored creature, IBF inoculates its offspring. If any one predator begins to dominate, then IBF tinkers with another to make it that much more daunting. With just a little bit of ingenuity, some elbow grease and a handful of precise genetic changes, IBF has ensured that not only is this planet one of the most dangerous locales in the galaxy, but it's also got the most vicious, awe-inspiring battles seen.
There's a dark secret, though -- IBF has had to take extensive measures to control the bipeds in recent millenia. It's not willing to decimate the population, since biped v. massive lizard beast battles are among the most popular and high-earning, and it's not willing to tinker with the creatures' intelligence, their only real tool against slavering monsters. However, the creatures have proven too cunning. More than once, IBF patrols have had to destroy settlements -- settlements, as if the creatures thought they were people! -- and reset the clock on agricultural developments. This is, of course, all highly illegal, so IBF black ops personel have had to be very careful in how they remove all traces of intelligence that rise to levels protected by intergalactic law.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Day 7: A rose by any other name could be something else entirely
Mankind's mastery of genetic manipulation has destroyed any conventional sense of what it is to be human.
In the distant future, humanity has completely mastered the gene. Initial applications, such as replacing failing organs, accelerating industrial processes and casually changing one's appearance, swiftly gave way to more esoteric uses. Radical changes to a person's physical body became possible; permanent, true-breeding changes could be made in a laboratory. Six-plus digits on a hand, opposable thumbs on feet, even extra limbs -- these merely scratched the surface of what was possible to do to improve humans. Intelligent animals were well within the grasp of researchers, as were more exotic organisms. "Cloud intelligence" creatures could spread fungus-like feelers through the earth, unintelligently and unselectively gathering data, most simply in the form of chemical interaction, but also via sensory organs. This information could be relayed either to computer systems or it could be acted upon by a series of complex instinctual responses that mirrored computing logic. While many of these pseudo-intelligences couldn't think like humans, they could come to startlingly intelligent conclusions about the world.
Early in the genetic revolution, techniques were developed that allowed individual bacterial agents to act as role-players in a larger group. Bacteria could be engineered to do a very specific task; these role-players could be used to direct or change the functions of surrounding cells. These role-players, in turn, relied on a series of other role-players, each of which was engineered to perform a very specific task. An example -- bacteria were engineered which would form cement-like structures, similar to coral. Given enough time and minerals, these structures could grow to be very large and very sturdy; they could later be shaped and utilized as structural foundations by humans. However, short of clumsy, programmed cell death, there was no way to control how much these builder bacteria would grow. Enter the role-players. In this particular instance, role-players could be developed that would maintain a steady population in relation to the builder bacteria. That first role-players then would utilize a second role-player, again designed to grow in relation to the first role-player, to maintain direct, electrical or chemical contact with each other. When that chain took more or less than an engineered time to relay responses, it would trigger the first role-player to generate a chemical command to either encourage the builder bacteria -- or to cause them to die. The relay response could also be used to trigger cell death in the entire system once the sheer number of responses reached a certain critical mass, thus placing a relatively hard cap on the structure's growth.
These systems of bacteria could be used to produce effects similar to genetic engineering in living creatures; trivial uses included changing hair or eye color on a whim or regenerating tissue. Complex uses included creating whole cities using material mined and processed by microbes. The foundations of several large, modern cities were created in just this manner -- trillions upon trillions of microbes, each strain engineered to perform a specific and relatively simple task, were loosed into the soil. Within months, these systems would cause buildings to rise from the ground, then they'd utilize that coordination to end their own existence.
Between miraculous, biological creation and room for infinite self-improvement, humanity has become adventurous and open-minded. Ethical concerns that would have been pressing at one time have fallen by the wayside; cultural hang-ups over race and gender have become quaint bygones of an era that was too narrowly focused on a thin range of human possibility.
However, this isn't a utopian age. While it's possible to modify the avariciousness out of individuals, it's still a defining trait of humankind. Corporations and governments alike scramble to acquire data on citizens, each hoping to establish a link to each individual -- one to sell, the other to control. Those who work for either are paranoid to the degree of mania, but with good reason. Their world is one where plants can casually collect data; where the wildlife of the city -- pigeons and crows and rats -- could be intelligent agents of a foe; even where the very air, thick with engineered organisms, could seek to invade and alter a host, turning him or her to a tool for someone else's use or amusement.
In the distant future, humanity has completely mastered the gene. Initial applications, such as replacing failing organs, accelerating industrial processes and casually changing one's appearance, swiftly gave way to more esoteric uses. Radical changes to a person's physical body became possible; permanent, true-breeding changes could be made in a laboratory. Six-plus digits on a hand, opposable thumbs on feet, even extra limbs -- these merely scratched the surface of what was possible to do to improve humans. Intelligent animals were well within the grasp of researchers, as were more exotic organisms. "Cloud intelligence" creatures could spread fungus-like feelers through the earth, unintelligently and unselectively gathering data, most simply in the form of chemical interaction, but also via sensory organs. This information could be relayed either to computer systems or it could be acted upon by a series of complex instinctual responses that mirrored computing logic. While many of these pseudo-intelligences couldn't think like humans, they could come to startlingly intelligent conclusions about the world.
Early in the genetic revolution, techniques were developed that allowed individual bacterial agents to act as role-players in a larger group. Bacteria could be engineered to do a very specific task; these role-players could be used to direct or change the functions of surrounding cells. These role-players, in turn, relied on a series of other role-players, each of which was engineered to perform a very specific task. An example -- bacteria were engineered which would form cement-like structures, similar to coral. Given enough time and minerals, these structures could grow to be very large and very sturdy; they could later be shaped and utilized as structural foundations by humans. However, short of clumsy, programmed cell death, there was no way to control how much these builder bacteria would grow. Enter the role-players. In this particular instance, role-players could be developed that would maintain a steady population in relation to the builder bacteria. That first role-players then would utilize a second role-player, again designed to grow in relation to the first role-player, to maintain direct, electrical or chemical contact with each other. When that chain took more or less than an engineered time to relay responses, it would trigger the first role-player to generate a chemical command to either encourage the builder bacteria -- or to cause them to die. The relay response could also be used to trigger cell death in the entire system once the sheer number of responses reached a certain critical mass, thus placing a relatively hard cap on the structure's growth.
These systems of bacteria could be used to produce effects similar to genetic engineering in living creatures; trivial uses included changing hair or eye color on a whim or regenerating tissue. Complex uses included creating whole cities using material mined and processed by microbes. The foundations of several large, modern cities were created in just this manner -- trillions upon trillions of microbes, each strain engineered to perform a specific and relatively simple task, were loosed into the soil. Within months, these systems would cause buildings to rise from the ground, then they'd utilize that coordination to end their own existence.
Between miraculous, biological creation and room for infinite self-improvement, humanity has become adventurous and open-minded. Ethical concerns that would have been pressing at one time have fallen by the wayside; cultural hang-ups over race and gender have become quaint bygones of an era that was too narrowly focused on a thin range of human possibility.
However, this isn't a utopian age. While it's possible to modify the avariciousness out of individuals, it's still a defining trait of humankind. Corporations and governments alike scramble to acquire data on citizens, each hoping to establish a link to each individual -- one to sell, the other to control. Those who work for either are paranoid to the degree of mania, but with good reason. Their world is one where plants can casually collect data; where the wildlife of the city -- pigeons and crows and rats -- could be intelligent agents of a foe; even where the very air, thick with engineered organisms, could seek to invade and alter a host, turning him or her to a tool for someone else's use or amusement.
Day 9: Keep your wonderful creation to yourself
The world of light and the world of shadow are locked in a grim, unreasoning battle, where each fallen soldier bolsters the other side's ranks.
When God crafted his world, he left a line down the center. To one side, It granted the luminaries; to the other, the shadowfolk. It partitioned the sun to one side, granting the luminaries bright light and vibrancy; to the other, It partitioned the twin moons, granting the shadowfolk nuance and subtlety.
Perhaps the two sides were fated to conflict; they certainly began existence at odds. Each strove for recognition in competitions that pitted artists, crafters and athletes. With each win, both sides committed themselves to further glory in the name of their shared God and creator.
The end came when the luminary craftsman Prometheus declared its masterwork was complete. Once hailed as perhaps the most genius creator of all who lived, it had confined itself to its workshop hundreds of years before; after abruptly reappearing, it issued a challenge to all -- that none could best its final work. It promised to unveil the masterpiece only when 100 challengers appeared. Shadowfolk craftsmen answered, and each showed its wondrous creations. However, when Prometheus unveiled its invention, each fell silent with shame. Prometheus had created something that could think and create for itself. Though it seemed a pale imitation of the luminaries and shadowfolk, it boasted a generative drive and power of its own. Unlike either of God's races, the beings -- humans -- could unite to create more of their own; they changed with age and, eventually, died.
Having clearly won the challenge, Prometheus then declared that it had divined the true purpose of creation -- for each to strive to become God itself. Breaking tradition, Prometheus claimed the glory of creation for itself.
Immediately, the sky darkened and clouds filled the sky. Thunder streaked across the heavens. Terrified, the luminaries and shadowfolk alike cowered. Only Prometheus stood unbowed. Humanity sought refuge under their creator, clinging to its legs and pleading for its assisstance. But it was to no avail. God Itself appeared above the grounds. In Its rumbling voice, It uttered a phrase -- something that only Prometheus seemed to understand. The maker answered simply and firmly -- a single "yes." In the moment that followed, all in attendance stood transfixed, seeing an anger and hatred in the Creator they could never have envisioned; in that moment, each understood that its life was nothing before the wrath of God.
Then, the moment passed. God waved Its hands, and luminaries and shadowfolk doubled over, feeling hunger for the first time. God again waved Its hands again, and fatigue set in to the minds and bodies of Its creations. God again waved its hands, but nothing seemed to happen; then It retreated. God's steady presence -- a reassuring, always-present comfort -- disappeared. Never again would God respond to prayer, and never again would It return to Its creations.
Despite their sudden exhaustion, the shadowfolk grabbed hold of Prometheus, asking what God had said. They shook the crafter, demanding that it answer to them. An unfamiliar sensation crept through the shadowfolk -- one of anger. It was followed with frustration, then hatred and, finally -- bloodlust. One picked up a rock and struck the defiant Prometheus. It fell to the ground and uttered no words. In fear, the shadowfolk scattered, leaving the humans to mourn their fallen master.
(In the interest of wrapping up the details, and keeping even remotely true to the 500-word guideline, here's a bullet of the current situation.)
When God crafted his world, he left a line down the center. To one side, It granted the luminaries; to the other, the shadowfolk. It partitioned the sun to one side, granting the luminaries bright light and vibrancy; to the other, It partitioned the twin moons, granting the shadowfolk nuance and subtlety.
Perhaps the two sides were fated to conflict; they certainly began existence at odds. Each strove for recognition in competitions that pitted artists, crafters and athletes. With each win, both sides committed themselves to further glory in the name of their shared God and creator.
The end came when the luminary craftsman Prometheus declared its masterwork was complete. Once hailed as perhaps the most genius creator of all who lived, it had confined itself to its workshop hundreds of years before; after abruptly reappearing, it issued a challenge to all -- that none could best its final work. It promised to unveil the masterpiece only when 100 challengers appeared. Shadowfolk craftsmen answered, and each showed its wondrous creations. However, when Prometheus unveiled its invention, each fell silent with shame. Prometheus had created something that could think and create for itself. Though it seemed a pale imitation of the luminaries and shadowfolk, it boasted a generative drive and power of its own. Unlike either of God's races, the beings -- humans -- could unite to create more of their own; they changed with age and, eventually, died.
Having clearly won the challenge, Prometheus then declared that it had divined the true purpose of creation -- for each to strive to become God itself. Breaking tradition, Prometheus claimed the glory of creation for itself.
Immediately, the sky darkened and clouds filled the sky. Thunder streaked across the heavens. Terrified, the luminaries and shadowfolk alike cowered. Only Prometheus stood unbowed. Humanity sought refuge under their creator, clinging to its legs and pleading for its assisstance. But it was to no avail. God Itself appeared above the grounds. In Its rumbling voice, It uttered a phrase -- something that only Prometheus seemed to understand. The maker answered simply and firmly -- a single "yes." In the moment that followed, all in attendance stood transfixed, seeing an anger and hatred in the Creator they could never have envisioned; in that moment, each understood that its life was nothing before the wrath of God.
Then, the moment passed. God waved Its hands, and luminaries and shadowfolk doubled over, feeling hunger for the first time. God again waved Its hands again, and fatigue set in to the minds and bodies of Its creations. God again waved its hands, but nothing seemed to happen; then It retreated. God's steady presence -- a reassuring, always-present comfort -- disappeared. Never again would God respond to prayer, and never again would It return to Its creations.
Despite their sudden exhaustion, the shadowfolk grabbed hold of Prometheus, asking what God had said. They shook the crafter, demanding that it answer to them. An unfamiliar sensation crept through the shadowfolk -- one of anger. It was followed with frustration, then hatred and, finally -- bloodlust. One picked up a rock and struck the defiant Prometheus. It fell to the ground and uttered no words. In fear, the shadowfolk scattered, leaving the humans to mourn their fallen master.
(In the interest of wrapping up the details, and keeping even remotely true to the 500-word guideline, here's a bullet of the current situation.)
- The spirits of both the luminaries and the shadowfolk are eternal. When one dies, it is re-formed as a member of the opposite race. They are now also mortal; while aging doesn't take a toll on their bodies the way it does for humans, they will eventually die of old age. A newly formed member of either race is born with a fanatical devotion to either light or shadow; this forms the core of their beliefs. Both sides, in essence, are forcibly locked into, at best, a distaste for the other. A given being's base personality stays the same between incarnations.
- The luminaries and shadowfolk do not have gender and cannot procreate. While the numbers of each race can vary, the overall number of beings is always the same.
- Prometheus, the first of God's creations to die, has re-formed hundreds of times. He always lives apart from his fellows, and he alone seems to have no particular attachment to either light or shadow.
- Both the luminaries and the shadowfolk blame each other, to certain degrees, for God's departure. They both also believe that It can be summoned or convinced to return if they simply pay enough homage to It. In the current age, that homage is most often paid in the form of blood sacrifice -- the sacrifice, of course, being members of the opposing race.
- Humanity prospers as a relatively free agent in the twilight area between the world's halves, but many communities serve either the luminaries or the shadowfolk. These groups often proselytize to other humans and work to undermine the opposing race's efforts. Some small bands attach themselves to a given individual being, following it regardless of its current race. Prometheus has a selection of such humans.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Day 6: A stitch in time takes a long, long time
In a universe unexpectedly separated by vast gulfs of time, the relics of a forgotten age clash with humanity's new beginnings.
Humanity's spread to the stars was perhaps inevitable. Within generations of its initial, clumsy explorations of the Moon, it had established in-orbit outposts, and then permanent (if fragile) extraplanetary colonies. Within a few centuries, bustling cities dotted Mars and the Moon; outposts housed thousands near the other planets, where residents studied and mined the worlds and their moons.
Eventually, near-light-speed travel was developed. Self-sufficient colony ships scattered to the near stars; not only would those ships travel for centuries, the time dilation caused by moving at such speeds meant that many didn't establish their bases for upwards of 1500 or 2000 years, from the point of view of Earth, from when they left.
In that timeframe, Earth's scientists continued to refine travel and communication. The single largest breakthrough came in the form of sub-space movement. With it, scientists found they could "tunnel" through the universe, creating two points that matter could pass between. From an outside observer's point of view, matter moving through the tunnel would immediately pass from point A to point B, as if it teleported; within the tunnel, however, matter would not experience either a shortening of either space or time. In essence, researchers had discovered how to invert time dilation, creating a sub-space tunnel through which near-light-speed movement could be maintained, without the drawback of time dilation. The same technology was used to create nearly instantaneous communication.
Humanity's far-flung colonies were reunited and a second Golden Age of exploration was inaugurated. While cryogenic technology was still required to move explorers from point to point, it was perfected; humans were able to be kept in such conditions for tens of thousands of years, if necessary. Many ships, especially cargo-carriers, were entirely automated.
However, something happened. Whatever it was, it was swift and thorough. Humanity lost the ability to maintain the sub-space tunnels. The outside equipment necessary to maintain them simultaneously failed, across the cosmos. Interstellar communication was cut off; whole colonies were set adrift in regions that could not harbor human life without extensive terraforming using outside materials.
Many colonies were fortunate enough to have been established on worlds that were similar to Earth. While most required some degree of terraforming, most were able to support a stable, post-petroleum technological environment.
The bulk of worlds with human presence, however, lacked the material support for such endeavors. Many were lifeless before humanity and lacked petroleum reserves. Within a few hundred years, their supplies exhausted, these colonies reverted to hardscrabble pastoral communities, locked forever in a pre-industrial environment. For many of these worlds, the fabulous history that brought them to their homes has become the stuff of myths.
However, something new is on the horizon for these worlds. The ships that once plied the sub-space tunnels have returned.
When the sub-space tunnels collapsed, they vomited their contents into roughly analogous real space. These ships continued along, carrying their sleeping passengers and cargo, headed for destinations that were simultaneously decaying into a form of barbarism.
Humanity's spread to the stars was perhaps inevitable. Within generations of its initial, clumsy explorations of the Moon, it had established in-orbit outposts, and then permanent (if fragile) extraplanetary colonies. Within a few centuries, bustling cities dotted Mars and the Moon; outposts housed thousands near the other planets, where residents studied and mined the worlds and their moons.
Eventually, near-light-speed travel was developed. Self-sufficient colony ships scattered to the near stars; not only would those ships travel for centuries, the time dilation caused by moving at such speeds meant that many didn't establish their bases for upwards of 1500 or 2000 years, from the point of view of Earth, from when they left.
In that timeframe, Earth's scientists continued to refine travel and communication. The single largest breakthrough came in the form of sub-space movement. With it, scientists found they could "tunnel" through the universe, creating two points that matter could pass between. From an outside observer's point of view, matter moving through the tunnel would immediately pass from point A to point B, as if it teleported; within the tunnel, however, matter would not experience either a shortening of either space or time. In essence, researchers had discovered how to invert time dilation, creating a sub-space tunnel through which near-light-speed movement could be maintained, without the drawback of time dilation. The same technology was used to create nearly instantaneous communication.
Humanity's far-flung colonies were reunited and a second Golden Age of exploration was inaugurated. While cryogenic technology was still required to move explorers from point to point, it was perfected; humans were able to be kept in such conditions for tens of thousands of years, if necessary. Many ships, especially cargo-carriers, were entirely automated.
However, something happened. Whatever it was, it was swift and thorough. Humanity lost the ability to maintain the sub-space tunnels. The outside equipment necessary to maintain them simultaneously failed, across the cosmos. Interstellar communication was cut off; whole colonies were set adrift in regions that could not harbor human life without extensive terraforming using outside materials.
Many colonies were fortunate enough to have been established on worlds that were similar to Earth. While most required some degree of terraforming, most were able to support a stable, post-petroleum technological environment.
The bulk of worlds with human presence, however, lacked the material support for such endeavors. Many were lifeless before humanity and lacked petroleum reserves. Within a few hundred years, their supplies exhausted, these colonies reverted to hardscrabble pastoral communities, locked forever in a pre-industrial environment. For many of these worlds, the fabulous history that brought them to their homes has become the stuff of myths.
However, something new is on the horizon for these worlds. The ships that once plied the sub-space tunnels have returned.
When the sub-space tunnels collapsed, they vomited their contents into roughly analogous real space. These ships continued along, carrying their sleeping passengers and cargo, headed for destinations that were simultaneously decaying into a form of barbarism.
Missed a few days!
I'd like to say I was busy, but I was just lazy.
I'll be doing two settings a day for the next few days to catch up, still under the "Day X: Snarky comment" format.
I'll be doing two settings a day for the next few days to catch up, still under the "Day X: Snarky comment" format.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Day 5: A little slice of paradise
Special individuals, blessed with the power to teleport, protect the human outposts which dot rare, habitable areas in a wasteland of fire, steam and lava.
Humanity clings to tiny pockets of warm earth that drift across oceans of fire. These islands exist in what humans call the discord -- each element, when separated from the other, provides a singular service that is lost in the roiling harmony of the outside wastes. Earth gives a home to living things, lending stability through bedrock and soil; water is a medium for life energy, which sustains both animals and plants; and fire is the cleanser, destroying the rotten and useless.
These islands of habitability are typically about 11 cubic miles; some smaller ones are known, and several larger ones dot the wasteland. They move along ley lines, or lines of life energy. It is these lines that provide the jangling, discordant force that forcefully separates the elements from their natural state of the harmony of the wasteland. These orbits are generally predictable, and they sometimes intersect. About every 30 years, two or more pockets will come close enough for its inhabitants to trade and intermarry. It's rare for the same pockets to meet twice within the space of centuries.
Sometimes, a child will be born who is mystically attuned to one of the three elements. These children have a great destiny -- rather than living their days farming in their extended family groups, they will instead grow to become great leaders. These children all have the innate ability to walk the ley lines -- they can travel between the islands of discord in the blink of an eye, relaying messages, sharing advances and working to protect humanity from the dangers of the wasteland.
It is these special humans who form the first -- and truly, only -- defense against humans' eternal foes, the beasts of the wilderness. These creatures, composed of earth, water and fire, are harmony incarnate; they roam the wasteland as its undisputed masters. The lowliest of these creatures are more one element than another; their physiology is crude and mock animal and human forms. Their most harmonious masters, however, perfectly blend the three elements and take on whatever physical form they please -- some seem to be beautiful humans, whose veins run with molten gold; others are terrifying, massive scaled and horned beasts; still others eschew such trivial forms and enjoy allowing their elemental fury to vent itself in towering gouts of flame and steam that erupt from masses of lava and mud. These creatures find humanity and their pockets of life to be anathema; they are terrified, repulsed and bewildered by the very existence of such discord.
Humanity clings to tiny pockets of warm earth that drift across oceans of fire. These islands exist in what humans call the discord -- each element, when separated from the other, provides a singular service that is lost in the roiling harmony of the outside wastes. Earth gives a home to living things, lending stability through bedrock and soil; water is a medium for life energy, which sustains both animals and plants; and fire is the cleanser, destroying the rotten and useless.
These islands of habitability are typically about 11 cubic miles; some smaller ones are known, and several larger ones dot the wasteland. They move along ley lines, or lines of life energy. It is these lines that provide the jangling, discordant force that forcefully separates the elements from their natural state of the harmony of the wasteland. These orbits are generally predictable, and they sometimes intersect. About every 30 years, two or more pockets will come close enough for its inhabitants to trade and intermarry. It's rare for the same pockets to meet twice within the space of centuries.
Sometimes, a child will be born who is mystically attuned to one of the three elements. These children have a great destiny -- rather than living their days farming in their extended family groups, they will instead grow to become great leaders. These children all have the innate ability to walk the ley lines -- they can travel between the islands of discord in the blink of an eye, relaying messages, sharing advances and working to protect humanity from the dangers of the wasteland.
It is these special humans who form the first -- and truly, only -- defense against humans' eternal foes, the beasts of the wilderness. These creatures, composed of earth, water and fire, are harmony incarnate; they roam the wasteland as its undisputed masters. The lowliest of these creatures are more one element than another; their physiology is crude and mock animal and human forms. Their most harmonious masters, however, perfectly blend the three elements and take on whatever physical form they please -- some seem to be beautiful humans, whose veins run with molten gold; others are terrifying, massive scaled and horned beasts; still others eschew such trivial forms and enjoy allowing their elemental fury to vent itself in towering gouts of flame and steam that erupt from masses of lava and mud. These creatures find humanity and their pockets of life to be anathema; they are terrified, repulsed and bewildered by the very existence of such discord.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Day 4: The agony of victory
Ritualistic sports have replaced war for a group of city-states -- but death still haunts even this form of conflict.
After 1,000 years of escalating skirmishes and political maneuverings, the six city-states reached a breaking point. In the north, panther sent assassins and elite troops to strategically break its foes' ability to wage war; in the west, spider sent saboteurs to sow dissent among the enemy's citizens while snake massed troops for crippling, lightning strikes against incoming foes. In the south, bear girded its formidable army for a scorched-earth campaign and eagle extended its spy network to take advantage of weakened foes; in the east, rat labored to create poison-tipped spears and arrows to give an edge to its unruly, undisciplined ranks.
The result was cataclysmic. The city-states were ravaged; hundreds of thousands of citizens died, many from starvation. Rat's high priests were killed, his ziggurats were destroyed, and he was driven into the ocean. Bear, overcome by battlelust, personally waded into conflict; sharp-eyed eagle sprang into action, launching a lightning attack against bear's city and devastating his lands and stores. In time, the blow proved fatal -- bear, overcome by fatigue and worn down by attrition, was felled by jaguar's assassins.
In time, the remaining four totem spirits grew weary of war. Each had become paranoid; the wiliest of their kind, rat, lay moldering at the bottom of the sea, while the most powerful, bear, rotted away in a corner of some fetid jungle.
The spirits agreed to host a series of games every five years, using the outcomes of individual matches to decide how to resolve conflicts. The petty pride and territorial squabbling that had motivated armed conflict before would now be addressed in the ball court, rather than in the field of battle.
The spirits turned to frog, who was known for his wisdom, to be the neutral arbiter of the games. They enthroned him in bear's city, where he would organize and host the gathering; many of bear's priests and warriors were released to his care, where they maintained the city and prepared and built its arenas.
Now, 300 years later, the games are the only thing the spirits truly hold sacred. None have repudiated or refused to honor the outcome of a match. Frog administers the matches and their outcomes, ensuring that each spirit lives up to its word and that no one match decides too weighty a matter.
Each city-state has a cadre of athletes, many selected at birth, who train their entire lives for a single showing in frog's arenas. Before every match, each player is blessed by his or her city's spirit, infused with a piece of divine essence. In this way, the matches are sanctified, and none can say that the spirits themselves did not participate in the games. The athletes, however, pay a high cost for such attention; no mortal can support the spark of the divine for long. Invariably, the players die after a match, usually within hours. Their bodies simply cannot sustain the god's touch, and it consumes them.
The next games will be held in a year, and, as is typical in the run-up to the meeting, grudges are begining to wear on the spirits. The most important matches will be between eagle and spider -- one of spider's priests attacked one of eagle's viziers with a poisoned dagger. The vizier barely survived, but eagle himself descended on the priest, tearing him to tatters. Such assassination attempts are rare, but not unheard of, in the Byzantine plots between the spirits; the matches will determine whether either side owes compensation and, if so, how much. However, eagle's viziers have noticed that the spirit seems unusually focused on the case; the far-seeing spirit sees some pattern in the attack that troubles it greatly, but it's not sharing its concerns with anyone else.
Meanwhile, jaguar has conceded a great number of her matches, and is sending a tiny contingent of athletes to the upcoming games. Jaguar says that she's been forced to attend to ill-timed internal matters this year, which is causing her poor showing; speculation in the other city-states has run rampant. Jaguar is prideful, even for a spirit, and whatever is hindering her efforts must be pressing indeed to prevent her from attending all her matches.
After 1,000 years of escalating skirmishes and political maneuverings, the six city-states reached a breaking point. In the north, panther sent assassins and elite troops to strategically break its foes' ability to wage war; in the west, spider sent saboteurs to sow dissent among the enemy's citizens while snake massed troops for crippling, lightning strikes against incoming foes. In the south, bear girded its formidable army for a scorched-earth campaign and eagle extended its spy network to take advantage of weakened foes; in the east, rat labored to create poison-tipped spears and arrows to give an edge to its unruly, undisciplined ranks.
The result was cataclysmic. The city-states were ravaged; hundreds of thousands of citizens died, many from starvation. Rat's high priests were killed, his ziggurats were destroyed, and he was driven into the ocean. Bear, overcome by battlelust, personally waded into conflict; sharp-eyed eagle sprang into action, launching a lightning attack against bear's city and devastating his lands and stores. In time, the blow proved fatal -- bear, overcome by fatigue and worn down by attrition, was felled by jaguar's assassins.
In time, the remaining four totem spirits grew weary of war. Each had become paranoid; the wiliest of their kind, rat, lay moldering at the bottom of the sea, while the most powerful, bear, rotted away in a corner of some fetid jungle.
The spirits agreed to host a series of games every five years, using the outcomes of individual matches to decide how to resolve conflicts. The petty pride and territorial squabbling that had motivated armed conflict before would now be addressed in the ball court, rather than in the field of battle.
The spirits turned to frog, who was known for his wisdom, to be the neutral arbiter of the games. They enthroned him in bear's city, where he would organize and host the gathering; many of bear's priests and warriors were released to his care, where they maintained the city and prepared and built its arenas.
Now, 300 years later, the games are the only thing the spirits truly hold sacred. None have repudiated or refused to honor the outcome of a match. Frog administers the matches and their outcomes, ensuring that each spirit lives up to its word and that no one match decides too weighty a matter.
Each city-state has a cadre of athletes, many selected at birth, who train their entire lives for a single showing in frog's arenas. Before every match, each player is blessed by his or her city's spirit, infused with a piece of divine essence. In this way, the matches are sanctified, and none can say that the spirits themselves did not participate in the games. The athletes, however, pay a high cost for such attention; no mortal can support the spark of the divine for long. Invariably, the players die after a match, usually within hours. Their bodies simply cannot sustain the god's touch, and it consumes them.
The next games will be held in a year, and, as is typical in the run-up to the meeting, grudges are begining to wear on the spirits. The most important matches will be between eagle and spider -- one of spider's priests attacked one of eagle's viziers with a poisoned dagger. The vizier barely survived, but eagle himself descended on the priest, tearing him to tatters. Such assassination attempts are rare, but not unheard of, in the Byzantine plots between the spirits; the matches will determine whether either side owes compensation and, if so, how much. However, eagle's viziers have noticed that the spirit seems unusually focused on the case; the far-seeing spirit sees some pattern in the attack that troubles it greatly, but it's not sharing its concerns with anyone else.
Meanwhile, jaguar has conceded a great number of her matches, and is sending a tiny contingent of athletes to the upcoming games. Jaguar says that she's been forced to attend to ill-timed internal matters this year, which is causing her poor showing; speculation in the other city-states has run rampant. Jaguar is prideful, even for a spirit, and whatever is hindering her efforts must be pressing indeed to prevent her from attending all her matches.
Ah, our first setback
After Safiya read through "Umbra et Umbra," she was confused. Like, "what did I just read" confused. On second glance, I can see why -- there's plenty of gaps in both the logic and the explanations. There are plenty of things I can backfill to make sense, and if I ever revisit the idea, I will -- but I'd rather spend my time during this challenge writing new settings, rather than rewriting older ones. If I get a spare moment, I'll add a badly needed simplified version.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Day 3: Umbra et umbra
A world in which shadows stretch across realities, connecting analogs in a never-ending cycle of violence.
"The deceptive self-evidence of myth has shrouded truth from mortal eyes for ages. From our high perch, we see death for the illusion it is. We see self for the delusion it is. It pains us to even speak; if we could make you know as we know, we would. But what we know must be known to you, even if we must navigate the crude language of being to communicate it. We no longer have the luxury of time. Beware, mortals -- the devourers are coming, those who cannot cast shadows. They are coming, and your only hope is to seek your salvation from within."
--English transcript of The Broadcast, Dec. 19, 2063.
On Dec. 19, 2063, a message is delivered to each individual; the experience seems to travel in a wave, speaking to each recipient in the early afternoon, local time. News of the mass contact, called The Broadcast, rapidly spreads across the world. Most technologically connected people are aware of the phenomenon for hours before the experience it themselves. The next day, on Dec. 20, a black fog descends on coastal portions of Washington and Oregon states in the U.S., the northern coast of Quebec province in Canada, Djibouti, northern Somalia and the Kansai region of Japan. Contact with the regions is lost; rescue and reconnaissance teams sent into the fog disappear. When the fog finally lifts a little over a week later, the land has been scoured to the bedrock. Nothing is left of the land; even the soil is gone. Many of the regions are now below sea level, and the ocean quickly pours in, making investigation difficult. Especially in Japan, networks and power lines are disrupted.
In the aftermath of the black fog, millions of individuals begin having vivid dreams of "themselves, but different." Tens of millions more become deeply listless, losing interest in life and wasting away.
(A note: Unlike the adventure and exploration worlds I wrote up in Day 1 and 2, this world's primary mystery isn't really a variable that can be used as a hook for stories and games. In those worlds, the primary mystery – whether it's the history of the sky roads or the nature of a worldwide cataclysm – can be whatever the users wish. The mystery isn't mechanical, it's simply there as the question mark that teases users into a story. In this world, the mystery is the structure of creation; without knowing the mystery, it would simply seem like a typical unknown-enemy, near-future setting. In a game or novel format, the nature of the world would be slowly teased out, the same way the cause of Day 2's mysterious lights would be. The "question mark" hook of this world is a secondary mystery, instead – the obvious candidates are the aims, nature and source of the devourers.
(TL;DR – This world will not be as interesting in this format because it wouldn't make any sense if the mystery of the world wasn't spoiled.)
The modern Earth is only one of three realities – it resides in the long shadows of another world, and its own shadows are cast across another. Each of these realities is linked; what happens in one influences the other. When an event happens on any one reality, it's repeated in the next world by its analogous actors. It's then copied in the third, which soon causes the first reality to re-enact it. All actions mirror each other, in a lengthy chain of cause-and-effect with no discernable cause and no ultimate effect.
The well-used saw, "Those who fail to learn history are doomed to repeat it," captures only half of the dreadful truth – that all are doomed to repeat history. Some ancient clash reverberates across the realities; wherever it began originally, it has made itself felt over and over again as the realities' actors leap and whirl in an interminably repeated tragedy.
Mankind has always understood this in a dim, primal way. Ancient obsessions with fate and a sense that supernatural states or worlds were dual – heaven and hell, naraka and nirvana – reflected the partially grasped truths of reflections cast across a three-fold reality. Mystic traditions peered beneath the veil using trances or drugs; they dimly perceived the fractured mirror of worlds. Scientific methods deduced the existence and, in time, the nature of other multiple dimensions. Eventually, a critical mass of knowledge – or a critical mass of history – allows an important question to arise: "What germ of difference colors any conflict?" Within the context of a given reality, "How does war and bloodshed become justified, time and time again?"
The answer is simple – the reflection isn't perfect. The shadows that bind realities aren't absolute; the puppet strings that pull and bind across the worlds cannot perfectly replicate events, places or people. Within those distinctions, individuals can grasp for true self-awareness. Within those distinctions, individuals can command fate, staying or co-opting – at least for a time – the chaotic eddies of violence cycling throughout reality. The most astute and self-aware of these individuals can draw a bead upon their analogs in other realities. With proper understanding, they can become of one mind, creating tripartate kingdoms that span the face of creation. In time, these individuals – one mind and purpose across three realities – come to cast their own shadows onto some unknown place. Only those who have undertaken this journey know where it leads, or if there's a place where shadows are no longer cast – a place where self-determination can truly rest, where will creates a land free of fate.
"The deceptive self-evidence of myth has shrouded truth from mortal eyes for ages. From our high perch, we see death for the illusion it is. We see self for the delusion it is. It pains us to even speak; if we could make you know as we know, we would. But what we know must be known to you, even if we must navigate the crude language of being to communicate it. We no longer have the luxury of time. Beware, mortals -- the devourers are coming, those who cannot cast shadows. They are coming, and your only hope is to seek your salvation from within."
--English transcript of The Broadcast, Dec. 19, 2063.
On Dec. 19, 2063, a message is delivered to each individual; the experience seems to travel in a wave, speaking to each recipient in the early afternoon, local time. News of the mass contact, called The Broadcast, rapidly spreads across the world. Most technologically connected people are aware of the phenomenon for hours before the experience it themselves. The next day, on Dec. 20, a black fog descends on coastal portions of Washington and Oregon states in the U.S., the northern coast of Quebec province in Canada, Djibouti, northern Somalia and the Kansai region of Japan. Contact with the regions is lost; rescue and reconnaissance teams sent into the fog disappear. When the fog finally lifts a little over a week later, the land has been scoured to the bedrock. Nothing is left of the land; even the soil is gone. Many of the regions are now below sea level, and the ocean quickly pours in, making investigation difficult. Especially in Japan, networks and power lines are disrupted.
In the aftermath of the black fog, millions of individuals begin having vivid dreams of "themselves, but different." Tens of millions more become deeply listless, losing interest in life and wasting away.
(A note: Unlike the adventure and exploration worlds I wrote up in Day 1 and 2, this world's primary mystery isn't really a variable that can be used as a hook for stories and games. In those worlds, the primary mystery – whether it's the history of the sky roads or the nature of a worldwide cataclysm – can be whatever the users wish. The mystery isn't mechanical, it's simply there as the question mark that teases users into a story. In this world, the mystery is the structure of creation; without knowing the mystery, it would simply seem like a typical unknown-enemy, near-future setting. In a game or novel format, the nature of the world would be slowly teased out, the same way the cause of Day 2's mysterious lights would be. The "question mark" hook of this world is a secondary mystery, instead – the obvious candidates are the aims, nature and source of the devourers.
(TL;DR – This world will not be as interesting in this format because it wouldn't make any sense if the mystery of the world wasn't spoiled.)
The modern Earth is only one of three realities – it resides in the long shadows of another world, and its own shadows are cast across another. Each of these realities is linked; what happens in one influences the other. When an event happens on any one reality, it's repeated in the next world by its analogous actors. It's then copied in the third, which soon causes the first reality to re-enact it. All actions mirror each other, in a lengthy chain of cause-and-effect with no discernable cause and no ultimate effect.
The well-used saw, "Those who fail to learn history are doomed to repeat it," captures only half of the dreadful truth – that all are doomed to repeat history. Some ancient clash reverberates across the realities; wherever it began originally, it has made itself felt over and over again as the realities' actors leap and whirl in an interminably repeated tragedy.
Mankind has always understood this in a dim, primal way. Ancient obsessions with fate and a sense that supernatural states or worlds were dual – heaven and hell, naraka and nirvana – reflected the partially grasped truths of reflections cast across a three-fold reality. Mystic traditions peered beneath the veil using trances or drugs; they dimly perceived the fractured mirror of worlds. Scientific methods deduced the existence and, in time, the nature of other multiple dimensions. Eventually, a critical mass of knowledge – or a critical mass of history – allows an important question to arise: "What germ of difference colors any conflict?" Within the context of a given reality, "How does war and bloodshed become justified, time and time again?"
The answer is simple – the reflection isn't perfect. The shadows that bind realities aren't absolute; the puppet strings that pull and bind across the worlds cannot perfectly replicate events, places or people. Within those distinctions, individuals can grasp for true self-awareness. Within those distinctions, individuals can command fate, staying or co-opting – at least for a time – the chaotic eddies of violence cycling throughout reality. The most astute and self-aware of these individuals can draw a bead upon their analogs in other realities. With proper understanding, they can become of one mind, creating tripartate kingdoms that span the face of creation. In time, these individuals – one mind and purpose across three realities – come to cast their own shadows onto some unknown place. Only those who have undertaken this journey know where it leads, or if there's a place where shadows are no longer cast – a place where self-determination can truly rest, where will creates a land free of fate.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Day 2: Perhaps it was for the best
An island culture sets out into the world after generations of isolation.
When an unassailable force thratened a small archipelago, its aeolipile mages created the ultimate defensive weapon -- a series of underwater devices that launched scything, geothermal-powered steam jets that sank approaching ships. The assaulting forces were stymied and unable to mount an invasion of the island nation. However, there was a problem -- the controls that allowed the aeolipile mages to create safe passage for their nation's own ships failed. Without any way to visit or to leave the island, the nation was left to its own devices. Now, 60 years later, with the discovery and application of the principles of flight, the nation has circumvented its own security system, only to find that something devastated all outside civilization.
The mainland is vast and essentially unexplored. Old maps are somewhat reliable, but the landscape itself has seemed to shift in the intervening years. What atlases exist are only useful to find nearby locales; they're unreliable for long journeys or to pinpoint a location. The regions closest to the island are rolling plains that were once wheat fields; now, they're grazed on by herds of spined aurochs. Further in the distance, the fields give way to rocky scrubland. Dense pockets of forest, mostly ancient hardwoods, betray signs of having been religiously cultivated in the past; now, they're slowly becoming a natural part of the landscape. Some are rotting away, while others are growing beyond their carefully maintained borders. Most eerie are the sprawling, terraced cities. Palatial structures and defensive walls are all that's left of once-prosperous towns; the smaller, less-permanent structures have moldered and collapsed, leaving disquieting rings of rubble around buildings that once housed the wealthy and the royal.
There are human inhabitants on the mainland, but they're newcomers. Nomadic, non-native people have settled in the region, finding the fields fertile and the forests full of game. They're peaceful, simple people; they have little to offer in terms of commodities or economic opportunities. They do, however, know the lay of the land are willing to share that information. They don't know much about the cities, though -- they've learned to avoid those places.
Within the cities, brutish, hulking beasts have taken residence. Long-armed, sharp-toothed creatures -- cruel, warlike and horribly strong -- they fight amongst themselves for mates and food. Sometimes, a particularly cruel and strong warlord will band together his kinsman and raid neighboring ruins; other times, the armed bands will roam the fields to test their mettle against what humans they can find.
And sometimes, at night and in the distance, bright flashes will light the night sky. Explorers from the island, eager to discover what fate befell the mainland's once-mighty civilization, explore these regions, finding signs of battle -- flattened trees, scorched earth, the imprints of massive war machines and war beasts -- but never any bodies or wreckage.
When an unassailable force thratened a small archipelago, its aeolipile mages created the ultimate defensive weapon -- a series of underwater devices that launched scything, geothermal-powered steam jets that sank approaching ships. The assaulting forces were stymied and unable to mount an invasion of the island nation. However, there was a problem -- the controls that allowed the aeolipile mages to create safe passage for their nation's own ships failed. Without any way to visit or to leave the island, the nation was left to its own devices. Now, 60 years later, with the discovery and application of the principles of flight, the nation has circumvented its own security system, only to find that something devastated all outside civilization.
The mainland is vast and essentially unexplored. Old maps are somewhat reliable, but the landscape itself has seemed to shift in the intervening years. What atlases exist are only useful to find nearby locales; they're unreliable for long journeys or to pinpoint a location. The regions closest to the island are rolling plains that were once wheat fields; now, they're grazed on by herds of spined aurochs. Further in the distance, the fields give way to rocky scrubland. Dense pockets of forest, mostly ancient hardwoods, betray signs of having been religiously cultivated in the past; now, they're slowly becoming a natural part of the landscape. Some are rotting away, while others are growing beyond their carefully maintained borders. Most eerie are the sprawling, terraced cities. Palatial structures and defensive walls are all that's left of once-prosperous towns; the smaller, less-permanent structures have moldered and collapsed, leaving disquieting rings of rubble around buildings that once housed the wealthy and the royal.
There are human inhabitants on the mainland, but they're newcomers. Nomadic, non-native people have settled in the region, finding the fields fertile and the forests full of game. They're peaceful, simple people; they have little to offer in terms of commodities or economic opportunities. They do, however, know the lay of the land are willing to share that information. They don't know much about the cities, though -- they've learned to avoid those places.
Within the cities, brutish, hulking beasts have taken residence. Long-armed, sharp-toothed creatures -- cruel, warlike and horribly strong -- they fight amongst themselves for mates and food. Sometimes, a particularly cruel and strong warlord will band together his kinsman and raid neighboring ruins; other times, the armed bands will roam the fields to test their mettle against what humans they can find.
And sometimes, at night and in the distance, bright flashes will light the night sky. Explorers from the island, eager to discover what fate befell the mainland's once-mighty civilization, explore these regions, finding signs of battle -- flattened trees, scorched earth, the imprints of massive war machines and war beasts -- but never any bodies or wreckage.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Day 1: Jungles and other crunchy bits
A primeval jungle world dotted with massive mountains.
The jungle, rather than being a suffocating place of misery and disease typical to fantasy stettings, is vibrant and teeming with life. Open mangrove swamps, saltwater estuaries and dense, sun-dappled copses are typical. Its more remote regions house unusual and dangerous predators, ancient ruins and exotic people.
The mountains are individual, not parts of a range. The massive peaks shoot into the sky for miles, their barren tops bereft of breathable air. A network of dangling, crystalline "sky roads" connect the mountains; they're clearly artificial, but every culture attributes the roads' creation to a different maker. The hardy, ancient structures mystically boost travelers' speeds, allowing them to cover the hundreds of miles between mountains in a day or two.
Inscrutable and otherworldly guardians claim portions of the jungle, some mountains and even portions of the sky roads for themselves. These beings, whose minds defy mortal understanding, have goals and agendas that are mind-bogglingly comlicated and far-reaching. Some cultivate mortals as servants; others shun outside contact. All reign supreme within their chosen spheres.
Mortal cultures come in one of three flavors:
The jungle, rather than being a suffocating place of misery and disease typical to fantasy stettings, is vibrant and teeming with life. Open mangrove swamps, saltwater estuaries and dense, sun-dappled copses are typical. Its more remote regions house unusual and dangerous predators, ancient ruins and exotic people.
The mountains are individual, not parts of a range. The massive peaks shoot into the sky for miles, their barren tops bereft of breathable air. A network of dangling, crystalline "sky roads" connect the mountains; they're clearly artificial, but every culture attributes the roads' creation to a different maker. The hardy, ancient structures mystically boost travelers' speeds, allowing them to cover the hundreds of miles between mountains in a day or two.
Inscrutable and otherworldly guardians claim portions of the jungle, some mountains and even portions of the sky roads for themselves. These beings, whose minds defy mortal understanding, have goals and agendas that are mind-bogglingly comlicated and far-reaching. Some cultivate mortals as servants; others shun outside contact. All reign supreme within their chosen spheres.
Mortal cultures come in one of three flavors:
- Mountain dwellers live in urbane, technically advanced sttings. These societies are similar to real-world industrialized cultures; they have varying mores, but they value diplomacy and artifice. They rely most heavily on the sky roads, both for commerce and for contact with other societies.
- Jungle dwellers live in low-population-density agrarian or hunter-gatherer groups. These societies have a much wider range of cultural practices and beliefs than their city-dwelling brethren in the mountains. These societies rarely use the sky roads, and are far more likely to hold reservations or harbor superstitions about the ancient structures.
- Sky nomads travel the sky roads, usually in extended family groups. Some set up more-or-less permanent wayside attractions on a sky road, such as inns or thaters; others have no home base, forever traveling. A few have managed to gleam enough understanding of the roads to create "sky barges," slow-moving flying ships that move from city to city. They trade where it's profitable and avoid restrictive laws and strictures.
Conflicts:
- Guardians sometimes oppose to each other. These beings' long-term view and inscrutability often mean that such discord can have long-ranging effects; oftentimes, mortals living under a guardian's aegis are drawn into these conflicts. However, the battles between mortals often take on a life of their own -- whatever drives the guardians is less accessible to the mortal mind than the understandable forces of fear, revenge, pride and hate. The conflicts between mortals can be as benign as cultural rivalries and as serious as scorched-earth warfare.
- Some groups actively seek to limit or bar use of the sky roads. Some believe the roads are for gods or guardians alone; others think the roads are inherently dangerous remnants of a society that deserved or earned its destruction.
- Some mountain-dweller societies, particularly those with high population densities and little farmable land, are imperialistic and self-serving. They seek to impose their beliefs and economoic and governmental systems on others for their own benefit.
The rules
The rules of this little challenge are pretty basic.
1. Each fantasy world must be original. I'm willing to crib notes from other worlds, but each setting has to have its own germ of originality and must be created for this challenge. You won't see Vian or a Planescape variant in this list.
2. Names aren't important, but themes are. When I'm writing, creating a consistent sound is one of the major obstacles. It's time-consuming to create grammatical and phonological rules, and they're really more about creating polish and immersion than anything else. Each of these worlds will have a central theme and some related sub-themes, but don't expect to see many setting-specific names or titles.
3. Brevity is the soul of ... a setting. These will be briefs. If I have to take more than a type-written page -- about 500 words -- to explain a setting, it's too complicated.
4. Timeliness is in the eye of the beholder. Don't expect this page to be updated at the same time every day. I work evenings, which already complicates things; if I post a setting at 1:43 a.m. on Day X and 7:49 p.m. on Day X, I'm going to count that as two posts in two days. I've transcended the a.m./p.m. cycle. (That's a pompous way of saying that I've lost any semblance of a normal day/night routine.)
And for the readers --
You're expected to comment. Feel free to be harsh or fawning, as you feel that evening. Feel free to mercilessly compare any setting to published material. Feel free to complain of hopelessly generic worlds or ridiculously trite, derivative ideas. Feel free to opine that, while Day X's material felt fresh and innovative, Day X+Y's material is stale and silly. Just please leave feedback.
1. Each fantasy world must be original. I'm willing to crib notes from other worlds, but each setting has to have its own germ of originality and must be created for this challenge. You won't see Vian or a Planescape variant in this list.
2. Names aren't important, but themes are. When I'm writing, creating a consistent sound is one of the major obstacles. It's time-consuming to create grammatical and phonological rules, and they're really more about creating polish and immersion than anything else. Each of these worlds will have a central theme and some related sub-themes, but don't expect to see many setting-specific names or titles.
3. Brevity is the soul of ... a setting. These will be briefs. If I have to take more than a type-written page -- about 500 words -- to explain a setting, it's too complicated.
4. Timeliness is in the eye of the beholder. Don't expect this page to be updated at the same time every day. I work evenings, which already complicates things; if I post a setting at 1:43 a.m. on Day X and 7:49 p.m. on Day X, I'm going to count that as two posts in two days. I've transcended the a.m./p.m. cycle. (That's a pompous way of saying that I've lost any semblance of a normal day/night routine.)
And for the readers --
You're expected to comment. Feel free to be harsh or fawning, as you feel that evening. Feel free to mercilessly compare any setting to published material. Feel free to complain of hopelessly generic worlds or ridiculously trite, derivative ideas. Feel free to opine that, while Day X's material felt fresh and innovative, Day X+Y's material is stale and silly. Just please leave feedback.
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