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.
Day 22: Concrete jungle
Rapid-growing plants and wily animals retake major cities. Coporations, governments and wealthy individuals contract mercenaries to scout the cities and recover information, machinery and electronics.
Some say the wild growth was the result of genetic experimentation gone awry. Others said it was the wrath of God, punishing wicked humans for their hubris. Others thought it was proof that Earth had a soul of its own, and was intent on putting humans in their rightful place.
Whatever the cause, the Reclamation happened overnight, decisively turning cities into ruins. Large metropolitan centers across the world -- New York, Washington, Chicago, Los Angeles, Alberta -- hundreds of cities across six continents were retaken by plants.
Overnight, huge brambles encircled buildings; giant trees erupted from courtyards and avenues, splitting concrete and asphalt; thick, creeping ivies stretched across power lines and hung loosely between skyscrapers. Human edifice was damaged beyond use; those who stayed behind found that wildlife had grown dangerous and feral.
In the immediate aftermath, credit systems and transportation have broken down, but that doesn't mean that humans have given up their post as rulers of Earth. Rather, the remnants of governments and corporations -- especially those with rich, physical assets on hand -- have rallied to retake mankind's homes.
However, not all is going well with the effort. The volunteers, soldiers and mercenaries seeking to retake the cities find themselves stymied on many fronts. First, the wildlife and flora has proven incredibly resilient; even when it can be forced back with defoliants and expensive, awkward barrier systems, the buildings are often damaged beyond use. Second, many of these groups also pursue shadowy agendas of their own; they seek to capitalize in the chaos by taking data and materiel that they don't own. The agents who work on such projects are cutthroat and fanatically loyal. Finally, a contingent of humans actively oppose any attempt to return or retake the cities -- some believe what happened was divine will, others believe it was a wake-up call. Those who take up arms to block the recovery attempts are dangerous zealots, and they believe that force is an acceptable tool to use on nonbelievers.
Some say the wild growth was the result of genetic experimentation gone awry. Others said it was the wrath of God, punishing wicked humans for their hubris. Others thought it was proof that Earth had a soul of its own, and was intent on putting humans in their rightful place.
Whatever the cause, the Reclamation happened overnight, decisively turning cities into ruins. Large metropolitan centers across the world -- New York, Washington, Chicago, Los Angeles, Alberta -- hundreds of cities across six continents were retaken by plants.
Overnight, huge brambles encircled buildings; giant trees erupted from courtyards and avenues, splitting concrete and asphalt; thick, creeping ivies stretched across power lines and hung loosely between skyscrapers. Human edifice was damaged beyond use; those who stayed behind found that wildlife had grown dangerous and feral.
In the immediate aftermath, credit systems and transportation have broken down, but that doesn't mean that humans have given up their post as rulers of Earth. Rather, the remnants of governments and corporations -- especially those with rich, physical assets on hand -- have rallied to retake mankind's homes.
However, not all is going well with the effort. The volunteers, soldiers and mercenaries seeking to retake the cities find themselves stymied on many fronts. First, the wildlife and flora has proven incredibly resilient; even when it can be forced back with defoliants and expensive, awkward barrier systems, the buildings are often damaged beyond use. Second, many of these groups also pursue shadowy agendas of their own; they seek to capitalize in the chaos by taking data and materiel that they don't own. The agents who work on such projects are cutthroat and fanatically loyal. Finally, a contingent of humans actively oppose any attempt to return or retake the cities -- some believe what happened was divine will, others believe it was a wake-up call. Those who take up arms to block the recovery attempts are dangerous zealots, and they believe that force is an acceptable tool to use on nonbelievers.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Getting close to the end ...
and I've been slacking on the "1 a day" rule. Seriously slacking.
Part of it is time -- it takes a while to write even these unpolished nuggets of ideas.
I'm a slow writer, but I'm also typically developing these tiny snippets of a piece of a morsel of a setting as I'm sitting at my computer.
In any case, even though I'll miss the 1-a-day intent of the exercise by a couple thousand feet, I'm still going to follow through on the 30 settings.
It's Sept. 11 as I write this, early in the a.m.s; I've got until 11:59 p.m. on Sept. 17 to finish up 9 more settings. That's 1.5 settings a day, and I'm pretty sure that's well within doable range.
Part of it is time -- it takes a while to write even these unpolished nuggets of ideas.
I'm a slow writer, but I'm also typically developing these tiny snippets of a piece of a morsel of a setting as I'm sitting at my computer.
In any case, even though I'll miss the 1-a-day intent of the exercise by a couple thousand feet, I'm still going to follow through on the 30 settings.
It's Sept. 11 as I write this, early in the a.m.s; I've got until 11:59 p.m. on Sept. 17 to finish up 9 more settings. That's 1.5 settings a day, and I'm pretty sure that's well within doable range.
Day 21: The games of the gods
Each year, the gods host a contest in which the worthiest mortals can ascend to immortality. However, the gods are a fickle bunch, and each year they host a contest among themselves -- where the losing god is cast down and destroyed.
Atop Olympus, the mighty gods looked down on man and felt pity. His toil was great, but his works were small; the greatest of marble temples, with the finest artwork and the most moving orators, were but a pale imitation of what the least among the gods' numbers could do.
They showed such promise -- Orpheus' golden voice had beguiled the ears of the divine, though it rang tinny sometimes; Daedalus soared with the birds, though his machines were less elegant than wings.
Jupiter, in an uncharacteristic act of nobility and grace, pronounced that the gods would hold a contest each year. Mankind would bring its greatest works forth, and their chief architects would be granted eternal youth and godly vigor. Eventually, the gods thought, with eternity and might, man could build works worthy of his heritage.
However, the gods are nothing if not fickle. Years later, his magnanimity exhausted by godlings peopling Olympus, Jupiter -- now thoroughly in his typical humor -- declared another contest. The gods would compete each year in a contest of skill, wits and ingenuity. The loser -- selected by a vote of the assembled divine host -- would be dashed on the rocks; if that didn't kill him or her, then it was off to Tartarus, with its accompanying terrible, eternal trials.
So it's been. The younger gods, terrified of having their livers eternally pecked out, or being condemned to fruitless labor for all of time, or suffering eternal thirst and hunger or any of the myriad tortures Jupiter is fond of inflicting, strive to better themselves. Intrigues flourish, and the famously petty gods are just as often drawn into the fray -- and each year, another mortal ascends to godhood, while another is cast out of the heavenly manse.
Atop Olympus, the mighty gods looked down on man and felt pity. His toil was great, but his works were small; the greatest of marble temples, with the finest artwork and the most moving orators, were but a pale imitation of what the least among the gods' numbers could do.
They showed such promise -- Orpheus' golden voice had beguiled the ears of the divine, though it rang tinny sometimes; Daedalus soared with the birds, though his machines were less elegant than wings.
Jupiter, in an uncharacteristic act of nobility and grace, pronounced that the gods would hold a contest each year. Mankind would bring its greatest works forth, and their chief architects would be granted eternal youth and godly vigor. Eventually, the gods thought, with eternity and might, man could build works worthy of his heritage.
However, the gods are nothing if not fickle. Years later, his magnanimity exhausted by godlings peopling Olympus, Jupiter -- now thoroughly in his typical humor -- declared another contest. The gods would compete each year in a contest of skill, wits and ingenuity. The loser -- selected by a vote of the assembled divine host -- would be dashed on the rocks; if that didn't kill him or her, then it was off to Tartarus, with its accompanying terrible, eternal trials.
So it's been. The younger gods, terrified of having their livers eternally pecked out, or being condemned to fruitless labor for all of time, or suffering eternal thirst and hunger or any of the myriad tortures Jupiter is fond of inflicting, strive to better themselves. Intrigues flourish, and the famously petty gods are just as often drawn into the fray -- and each year, another mortal ascends to godhood, while another is cast out of the heavenly manse.
Day 20: Looking to the future
An unconquerable army wanders across the earth, laying waste to all in its path. What its goals are, and the secret of its invincibility, are cloaked in mystery.
Cities are a thing of the past.
Instead, man lives in nomadic settlements, prepared to tear down and scatter to the winds at the sight of white and yellow lights on the horizon.
For generations, humanity has scrabbled out an existence in the face of a constant onslaught. The Conquerors -- uttered with contempt and intoned with irony -- have roved the world, striking swiftly and decisively. They take no prisoners. They don't take goods or trophies. They simply eradicate any humans they find, then continue on their journey, as if searching for something. Their rock-hard skin gleams in the light; they kill with gestures and can summon thunder from the heavens in their onslaught.
None has stood against them, nor have any discovered The Conquerors' purpose. Mankind simply scatters when they appear, hoping to avoid the assaults.
However, there is hope -- a loose group of humans has divined The Conquerors' movements, and can tell a camp how long it'll be safe. These people now plot their next step -- they seek a weakness in their foes' defenses, and hope to fight back one day.
Cities are a thing of the past.
Instead, man lives in nomadic settlements, prepared to tear down and scatter to the winds at the sight of white and yellow lights on the horizon.
For generations, humanity has scrabbled out an existence in the face of a constant onslaught. The Conquerors -- uttered with contempt and intoned with irony -- have roved the world, striking swiftly and decisively. They take no prisoners. They don't take goods or trophies. They simply eradicate any humans they find, then continue on their journey, as if searching for something. Their rock-hard skin gleams in the light; they kill with gestures and can summon thunder from the heavens in their onslaught.
None has stood against them, nor have any discovered The Conquerors' purpose. Mankind simply scatters when they appear, hoping to avoid the assaults.
However, there is hope -- a loose group of humans has divined The Conquerors' movements, and can tell a camp how long it'll be safe. These people now plot their next step -- they seek a weakness in their foes' defenses, and hope to fight back one day.
Day 19: Old cities have character
An ancient city at a crossroads has passed from conquerer to conquerer -- now, an ancient evil stirs within, and archaeologists must team with strongmen to fight its influence.
None can say when al-Medynah was first founded. It sits in the crux separating the great powers from each other; to the northwest lie the bellicose nations united under the Great Church; to the east the imperious but decaying Old Empire.
Over millenia, the city has changed hands over and over again. Petty warlords from conquered it again and again, stealing it -- and its easy port access to both halves of the civilized world -- from one another in the hazy past. Grand powers of the West and East have held it for centuries at a time, both before and after the Great Church and the Old Empire; when those scourges of the north crusaded south, laying waste to all who opposed them, the Hyksars took al-Medynah as their crown jewel.
Its people bear the marks of their storied masters. Blood from East, West and North run in the Medynites; their architecture borrows from their neighbors and from far-flung, ancient rulers who have been lost to history. Generations have built atop the hovels and ruins of those before them, sometimes razing old buildings and other times co-opting them.
The ancient city has secrets for those who know where to look. Sewer grates lead to forgotten catacombs, where dead kings slumber beneath millners and tailors. Humble buildings hide trap doors that descend into 100-year-old storefronts, their doors blocked by earth; below even that is another dwelling, and another, each more ancient than the last. The city's history may be forgotten or misunderstood, but it still exists in a very real way.
Al-Medynah's become something of a mecca for archaeologists. The locals regard these out-of-towners with disdain or outright hostility -- archaeology, they contend, is nothing more than respectable graverobbing. They're partly right, unfortunately -- a lively and dangerous black market trading in historical baubles exists just in the city's shady places. Some of the superstitious warn that such truck can't come to any good end.
Those old wives and gullible fools may be right. Disappearances are on the rise, and not just of foolish explorers who fall in with a rough crowd -- respected natives have gone missing, or found with the life snuffed out of them. Mysterious portents alarm believers, and even give the jaded pause for thought -- birds fly backwards, fresh water in turns brackish and coppery as it's being sipped from cups.
None can say when al-Medynah was first founded. It sits in the crux separating the great powers from each other; to the northwest lie the bellicose nations united under the Great Church; to the east the imperious but decaying Old Empire.
Over millenia, the city has changed hands over and over again. Petty warlords from conquered it again and again, stealing it -- and its easy port access to both halves of the civilized world -- from one another in the hazy past. Grand powers of the West and East have held it for centuries at a time, both before and after the Great Church and the Old Empire; when those scourges of the north crusaded south, laying waste to all who opposed them, the Hyksars took al-Medynah as their crown jewel.
Its people bear the marks of their storied masters. Blood from East, West and North run in the Medynites; their architecture borrows from their neighbors and from far-flung, ancient rulers who have been lost to history. Generations have built atop the hovels and ruins of those before them, sometimes razing old buildings and other times co-opting them.
The ancient city has secrets for those who know where to look. Sewer grates lead to forgotten catacombs, where dead kings slumber beneath millners and tailors. Humble buildings hide trap doors that descend into 100-year-old storefronts, their doors blocked by earth; below even that is another dwelling, and another, each more ancient than the last. The city's history may be forgotten or misunderstood, but it still exists in a very real way.
Al-Medynah's become something of a mecca for archaeologists. The locals regard these out-of-towners with disdain or outright hostility -- archaeology, they contend, is nothing more than respectable graverobbing. They're partly right, unfortunately -- a lively and dangerous black market trading in historical baubles exists just in the city's shady places. Some of the superstitious warn that such truck can't come to any good end.
Those old wives and gullible fools may be right. Disappearances are on the rise, and not just of foolish explorers who fall in with a rough crowd -- respected natives have gone missing, or found with the life snuffed out of them. Mysterious portents alarm believers, and even give the jaded pause for thought -- birds fly backwards, fresh water in turns brackish and coppery as it's being sipped from cups.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Day 18: In Soviet Russia, abyss stares into you
Unquiet spirits and the walking dead menace the lands, held in check only by a cabal or sword-wielding monks with magnificent powers and hidden pasts.
Human ambition achieves great things. Grand art, awe-inspiring cities, miraculous technologies -- all owe something to ambition. However, ambition can also lead to ruin -- greed and avarice, obsession and desperation are just as often ambition's partners. Sometimes, earthly ambition simply isn't enough -- or desire and frustration blend into a powerful, piquant need -- and a soul overcomes death. When that happens, it returns to the land of the living, narrow-mindedly seeking to fulfill some momentous desire.
The dead come in many varieties: some are shambling corpses, driven back to life by hateful demons of revenge; some are sibilant spirits, foregoing physical form to quietly manipulate the living; others seem living, but compulsively seek to fulfill debauched appetites they couldn't sate in life. Each is a threat to humanity -- in the end, they destroy anything that stands in the way of their pursuits.
A shining light are the Order Reliant, a band of penitents that wander the land, excorcising the undead. Each wields a gleaming, silvery blade that burns away impurity; they augment their swordplay with magic and holy power channeled from God.
These monks and nuns are celebrated and beloved; wherever they go, they find food and shelter. What the common man doesn't know is that these priests have devoted themselves to a single-minded pursuit of justice and purity that transcends a single lifetime. Many are themselves uneasy dead, driven forward in their endless battle against the forces of darkness. Their swords are forged from the fallen souls of their brethren; the weapons themselves lend an edge to other's obsessions, egging them on to greater and greater acts.
The priests, intent on not being found out -- and hoping to avoid creating more restless dead -- are always on the move, quietly battling their darker brethren and fighting their own urges to lapse into a single-minded existence of endless slaughter.
Human ambition achieves great things. Grand art, awe-inspiring cities, miraculous technologies -- all owe something to ambition. However, ambition can also lead to ruin -- greed and avarice, obsession and desperation are just as often ambition's partners. Sometimes, earthly ambition simply isn't enough -- or desire and frustration blend into a powerful, piquant need -- and a soul overcomes death. When that happens, it returns to the land of the living, narrow-mindedly seeking to fulfill some momentous desire.
The dead come in many varieties: some are shambling corpses, driven back to life by hateful demons of revenge; some are sibilant spirits, foregoing physical form to quietly manipulate the living; others seem living, but compulsively seek to fulfill debauched appetites they couldn't sate in life. Each is a threat to humanity -- in the end, they destroy anything that stands in the way of their pursuits.
A shining light are the Order Reliant, a band of penitents that wander the land, excorcising the undead. Each wields a gleaming, silvery blade that burns away impurity; they augment their swordplay with magic and holy power channeled from God.
These monks and nuns are celebrated and beloved; wherever they go, they find food and shelter. What the common man doesn't know is that these priests have devoted themselves to a single-minded pursuit of justice and purity that transcends a single lifetime. Many are themselves uneasy dead, driven forward in their endless battle against the forces of darkness. Their swords are forged from the fallen souls of their brethren; the weapons themselves lend an edge to other's obsessions, egging them on to greater and greater acts.
The priests, intent on not being found out -- and hoping to avoid creating more restless dead -- are always on the move, quietly battling their darker brethren and fighting their own urges to lapse into a single-minded existence of endless slaughter.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Day 17: The day the Earth woke up
Ancient creatures tear themselves from the earth and run rampant across an unprepared, modern world.
(This is just a straight-up adventure setting. I like dinosaurs.)
It began with a rash of slayings in Washington, D.C. At first, the authorities thought a feral cougar or wolf had come into the city and was picking off lone unfortunates. Police and animal control officers were trained and prepared to deal with a large, probably rabid predator.
Six days after the first body was found, a video surfaced on YouTube. Called "The Monster In My Alley," it showed something large, bipedal and reptilian digging through garbage bins behind an apartment complex. It went viral, appearing on several other websites; widely considered a hoax, it was vindicated when the 8-foot-tall body of what the media called "the raptor" was found in a Washington street.
The next morning, before any herpetologist could be brought in to identify the corpse, reports began pouring in across the region -- reptilian creatures were roaming Virginia. Media reports were less tentative than many paleontologists -- the "Day of the Dinosaur" was announced.
National Guard quickly asserted some control over the region, but the sightings spread -- soon, ancient fauna were trampling across North America. While many of the initial creatures weren't native to the regions they infested, creatures such as tryannosaurs and giant sloths roamed the Great Plains.
Now, scientists from around the world work feverishly to discover the source of these creatures. Though they're simply beasts, they're ferocious, hard to kill and huge -- and they're reproducing at a far faster rate than anyone thinks is natural. The problem is, for now, contained in North America, but everyone's convinced that it's only a matter of time before it spreads further. Most in affected areas now live in walled camps of armed refugees; the National Guard and various police groups have set up reptile-free safe zones across the U.S. Some hardy souls continue to live in their homes, avoiding or fighting -- or being eaten by -- the rampaging beasts.
(This is just a straight-up adventure setting. I like dinosaurs.)
It began with a rash of slayings in Washington, D.C. At first, the authorities thought a feral cougar or wolf had come into the city and was picking off lone unfortunates. Police and animal control officers were trained and prepared to deal with a large, probably rabid predator.
Six days after the first body was found, a video surfaced on YouTube. Called "The Monster In My Alley," it showed something large, bipedal and reptilian digging through garbage bins behind an apartment complex. It went viral, appearing on several other websites; widely considered a hoax, it was vindicated when the 8-foot-tall body of what the media called "the raptor" was found in a Washington street.
The next morning, before any herpetologist could be brought in to identify the corpse, reports began pouring in across the region -- reptilian creatures were roaming Virginia. Media reports were less tentative than many paleontologists -- the "Day of the Dinosaur" was announced.
National Guard quickly asserted some control over the region, but the sightings spread -- soon, ancient fauna were trampling across North America. While many of the initial creatures weren't native to the regions they infested, creatures such as tryannosaurs and giant sloths roamed the Great Plains.
Now, scientists from around the world work feverishly to discover the source of these creatures. Though they're simply beasts, they're ferocious, hard to kill and huge -- and they're reproducing at a far faster rate than anyone thinks is natural. The problem is, for now, contained in North America, but everyone's convinced that it's only a matter of time before it spreads further. Most in affected areas now live in walled camps of armed refugees; the National Guard and various police groups have set up reptile-free safe zones across the U.S. Some hardy souls continue to live in their homes, avoiding or fighting -- or being eaten by -- the rampaging beasts.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Day 15: Rumspringa with Odysseus
A paradise on a mountaintop sends its youth out one gate and, months or years later, welcomes them at another -- after a journey that tests their mettle and morality.
The utopia on the mountain is the height of civilization. The abundant crops grow in land so fertile that only the most basic tending is required; the citizens of the land spend their time studying the arts and philosophies. Each pursues whatever interests him or her the most; citizens show art in the town square while debaters compare theories in the shade of nearby awnings. This perfection is surrounded by an unmountable wall on sides; only two gates exist -- one on the south and one on the north.
Every New Year's night, all the children who are 16 are taken to the south gate. In a brief ceremony, they're given a machairi dagger, warm leather boots and seven days' worth of food. Then they're sent out into the world, down the road that snakes around paradise's gates.
On the road are the Seven Cities: Akkad, Enlil, Eridu, Eshunna, Kisurra, Nippur and Shuruppak. In each, lost souls toil to fulfill their needs and waste their spare time chasing desires. Between the cities are wild and primal forests, deep and fast rivers and treacherous deserts. In each live fantastic beasts, each focused on devouring the foolish and unwary.
Those who circle all of paradise and return to the north gate find that, no matter how long they've been gone, they re-enter on New Year's Eve, exactly one year after they left and exactly one year older. Time flows differently outside the city walls -- for some, they spend just months traveling along the road. Others tarry in the cities or the wilderness, and take decades -- sometimes centuries -- to finish the trip. Others never do -- they're devoured by beasts or resigned to live lives of dignified sin in the cities or fiefdoms.
The utopia on the mountain is the height of civilization. The abundant crops grow in land so fertile that only the most basic tending is required; the citizens of the land spend their time studying the arts and philosophies. Each pursues whatever interests him or her the most; citizens show art in the town square while debaters compare theories in the shade of nearby awnings. This perfection is surrounded by an unmountable wall on sides; only two gates exist -- one on the south and one on the north.
Every New Year's night, all the children who are 16 are taken to the south gate. In a brief ceremony, they're given a machairi dagger, warm leather boots and seven days' worth of food. Then they're sent out into the world, down the road that snakes around paradise's gates.
On the road are the Seven Cities: Akkad, Enlil, Eridu, Eshunna, Kisurra, Nippur and Shuruppak. In each, lost souls toil to fulfill their needs and waste their spare time chasing desires. Between the cities are wild and primal forests, deep and fast rivers and treacherous deserts. In each live fantastic beasts, each focused on devouring the foolish and unwary.
Those who circle all of paradise and return to the north gate find that, no matter how long they've been gone, they re-enter on New Year's Eve, exactly one year after they left and exactly one year older. Time flows differently outside the city walls -- for some, they spend just months traveling along the road. Others tarry in the cities or the wilderness, and take decades -- sometimes centuries -- to finish the trip. Others never do -- they're devoured by beasts or resigned to live lives of dignified sin in the cities or fiefdoms.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Day 16: Somewhere over the arc of this coarse matter
Energy and matter are simply opposite poles of existence, and all living things tend to one side or the other. However, some who are trained can access the world of energy and find a glorious -- but dangerous -- plane just beyond human awareness.
The art of astral projection -- long practiced by the spiritually aware -- reaches into a realm that's difficult for those of the flesh to understand. It's been described as nirvana and heaven, but it's all been called hell and gehenna. The truth, as it often is, is more nuanced.
The intelligence that humans enjoy isn't unique, but it is unusual in that it inhabits flesh. Other intelligences flit through the aether, cataloging observations and making theories about reality. A conclusion that they all come to, eventually, is that the world of the humans -- the world where intelligence and matter meet -- is something of an aberration. Humans' suffering and joys reverberate through the aether, affecting the intelligences there like a drug.
The intoxication affects each intelligence differently; some find an enlightenment to the experience, while others are disgusted or disturbed by it. Others simply become addicted to the feeling. Within the aether, a longstanding battle has raged over the humans. Many of the intelligences want them destroyed; others want them to be kept. The two sides are both composed of dozens of factions, who each have their own reasons for fighting a certain way. Some of humanity's most ardent defenders are nothing more than sybarites, desperate to keep the source of their fix around; some of its most dedicated foes agonize over the destruction of a whole people, but believe it must be done for the greater good of all.
A third group -- again, divided by ideology -- has discovered a way to walk among humans, in a sort of reverse astral projection. These material manifestations foment trouble or match lovers, hoping to create a rich feeling to draw from in the aether.
Humanity has spun legends of these beings since time immemorial. Some have contacted them, cloaking the understanding in arcane mysticism. In recent years, the beginning of the 19th century, such contacts have become increasingly common; some great spiritual change is happening, allowing more and more to contact the aether.
The art of astral projection -- long practiced by the spiritually aware -- reaches into a realm that's difficult for those of the flesh to understand. It's been described as nirvana and heaven, but it's all been called hell and gehenna. The truth, as it often is, is more nuanced.
The intelligence that humans enjoy isn't unique, but it is unusual in that it inhabits flesh. Other intelligences flit through the aether, cataloging observations and making theories about reality. A conclusion that they all come to, eventually, is that the world of the humans -- the world where intelligence and matter meet -- is something of an aberration. Humans' suffering and joys reverberate through the aether, affecting the intelligences there like a drug.
The intoxication affects each intelligence differently; some find an enlightenment to the experience, while others are disgusted or disturbed by it. Others simply become addicted to the feeling. Within the aether, a longstanding battle has raged over the humans. Many of the intelligences want them destroyed; others want them to be kept. The two sides are both composed of dozens of factions, who each have their own reasons for fighting a certain way. Some of humanity's most ardent defenders are nothing more than sybarites, desperate to keep the source of their fix around; some of its most dedicated foes agonize over the destruction of a whole people, but believe it must be done for the greater good of all.
A third group -- again, divided by ideology -- has discovered a way to walk among humans, in a sort of reverse astral projection. These material manifestations foment trouble or match lovers, hoping to create a rich feeling to draw from in the aether.
Humanity has spun legends of these beings since time immemorial. Some have contacted them, cloaking the understanding in arcane mysticism. In recent years, the beginning of the 19th century, such contacts have become increasingly common; some great spiritual change is happening, allowing more and more to contact the aether.
Day 14: Church is state
In the City of God, thousands of sects perform millions of miracles -- including running a cosmopolitan city.
The City of God is many things to many people. The nomads that wander far outside its gates speak of it with wonder or with derision, but for its inhabitants, it's the center of the world -- where all that's holy and everything impious swirl and mix.
Thousands of churches line its streets. Some are magnificent structures, all light and iron; others are squat, dismal shacks, the last remnants of a dying faith.
The religious organizations tend to all of the city's functions. Some toil in fields, while other import and export goods; still others attend to the dead, and others direct sewage, and others manage public safety. The one unifying truth for all of these faiths, the one thing they all hold in common, is each believes that it is peforming a duty commanded by God.
That simple truth allows many of the groups with common interests to work together. However, it divides far more. For every harmonious relationship between two groups seeking to manage a city function, there are three acrimonious conflicts. Sometimes two groups have different dogmatic approaches to exactly how trash ought to be disposed of; others simply take affront that their holy duty would be co-opted by another, clearly lesser, group.
The end result is a hectic and chaotic soup of activity. The very forces that have risen up the City of God are the ones that bring dischord to its citizens. When a fire breaks out, monks are as likely to break into fistfights over who gets to extinguish it as they are to attack the blaze; when a riot happens, the public security forces are just as often found among the unruly as among the defenders of order. The Byzantine politics of the city are dominated by dogma and point-counterpoint, tit-for-tat, and none can honestly say when the demands of faith will trump the needs of the city for any given monk or priest.
In the rougher parts of the city, loose street gangs of bead-wearing deacons "convert" passersby and squabble over turf. Sometimes these groups are extensions of more legitimate operations, but far more often they're schisms, led by some charismatic who understands God in a new and powerful way.
The City of God is many things to many people. The nomads that wander far outside its gates speak of it with wonder or with derision, but for its inhabitants, it's the center of the world -- where all that's holy and everything impious swirl and mix.
Thousands of churches line its streets. Some are magnificent structures, all light and iron; others are squat, dismal shacks, the last remnants of a dying faith.
The religious organizations tend to all of the city's functions. Some toil in fields, while other import and export goods; still others attend to the dead, and others direct sewage, and others manage public safety. The one unifying truth for all of these faiths, the one thing they all hold in common, is each believes that it is peforming a duty commanded by God.
That simple truth allows many of the groups with common interests to work together. However, it divides far more. For every harmonious relationship between two groups seeking to manage a city function, there are three acrimonious conflicts. Sometimes two groups have different dogmatic approaches to exactly how trash ought to be disposed of; others simply take affront that their holy duty would be co-opted by another, clearly lesser, group.
The end result is a hectic and chaotic soup of activity. The very forces that have risen up the City of God are the ones that bring dischord to its citizens. When a fire breaks out, monks are as likely to break into fistfights over who gets to extinguish it as they are to attack the blaze; when a riot happens, the public security forces are just as often found among the unruly as among the defenders of order. The Byzantine politics of the city are dominated by dogma and point-counterpoint, tit-for-tat, and none can honestly say when the demands of faith will trump the needs of the city for any given monk or priest.
In the rougher parts of the city, loose street gangs of bead-wearing deacons "convert" passersby and squabble over turf. Sometimes these groups are extensions of more legitimate operations, but far more often they're schisms, led by some charismatic who understands God in a new and powerful way.
Day 13: You feel steamy, punk?
Interplanetary contamination prevents any hope of electronics on Earth during the early 20th century -- and attracts alien races who seek a potent biological weapon.
In 1908, the Tunguska event leveled trees for miles in northern Russia. The object that caused it, assumed to be a meteor or heavy comet, burst in air, scattering pieces in all directions. This one event -- puzzling to scientists, and traumatic for the few living near the impact zone -- soon phased out of the public conscience.
In what humanity has seen as an unrelated event, telegrams began acting strangely by 1910. First in Russia and Mongolia, the electrical transmissions began to be plagued by static -- words and letters would be garbled or simply lost. The technology became so unreliable that Russia stopped using it by 1912; Europe found telegrams useless by 1913. Worldwide communication went dark; indeed, nearly all electrical devices became useless. By 1914, only low-power devices, such as light bulbs, worked, and even low-voltage lines had high failure rates over long distances.
In response, humanity continued on the obvious technological curve -- it honing coal, steam and water power, utilizing them to generate power for hulking mechanical devices.
Without instant communication, the slogging battles of the Great War dragged even further. Brand new weapons, especially machine guns, bolstered defensive positions to a degree that was never possible before. Hugely fortified defensive lines became the norm; the war only came to an end when an exhausted Germany, blockaded from the north and cut off from erstwhile allies in the south, surrendered. The 1921 Armistice, led by a vengeful France, crippled Germany; Austria-Hungary and the Ottoman Empire were split and devoured by the Western victors. A lethargic Russia couldn't capitalize -- the socialists' failed revolution in 1917 ended with the tsar's family in coffins. Without effective communication, the country fell to pieces.
Now, in 1933, the Western powers uneasily stare at each other across fortified defensive lines. In the north, a resurgent, but still bitter German population looks to demagogues for leadership, while the Baltic is rife with anarchists and corporate statists. Both sides of the Maginot Line also struggle with mysterious disappearances and odd lights in the sky; the French and English worry that the Germans are testing some secret weapon of war, while the Germans claim that the French are kidnapping prominent German citizens.
The reality would shock even the most fantasticly inclined. Tunguska's object was a malfunctioning spacecraft; its crew had carelessly allowed the vessel to become infested with a nearly invisible organism while exploring some distant, unknown world. The creature quickly found fertile ground to replicate on Earth, where its side-effect -- the same one that caused the ship to lose control and crash -- was soon felt. The creature is attracted to large concentrations of electrons, and its presence disrupts their smooth flow. Single-handedly, this organism managed to waylay the development of electronic equipment on Earth.
Those mysterious lights in the sky are other alien vessels. Originally they came as recon ships, but the discovery of such a potent biological weapon has proven too alluring for many intergalactic privateers. The organisms have proven difficult to both quarantine and to keep alive -- meaning that many return trips are necessary. The missing people are simply those who happened to be in the wrong place when a ship landed -- many of the hardened space explorers think nothing of vaporizing intelligent and possibly dangerous beasts.
In 1908, the Tunguska event leveled trees for miles in northern Russia. The object that caused it, assumed to be a meteor or heavy comet, burst in air, scattering pieces in all directions. This one event -- puzzling to scientists, and traumatic for the few living near the impact zone -- soon phased out of the public conscience.
In what humanity has seen as an unrelated event, telegrams began acting strangely by 1910. First in Russia and Mongolia, the electrical transmissions began to be plagued by static -- words and letters would be garbled or simply lost. The technology became so unreliable that Russia stopped using it by 1912; Europe found telegrams useless by 1913. Worldwide communication went dark; indeed, nearly all electrical devices became useless. By 1914, only low-power devices, such as light bulbs, worked, and even low-voltage lines had high failure rates over long distances.
In response, humanity continued on the obvious technological curve -- it honing coal, steam and water power, utilizing them to generate power for hulking mechanical devices.
Without instant communication, the slogging battles of the Great War dragged even further. Brand new weapons, especially machine guns, bolstered defensive positions to a degree that was never possible before. Hugely fortified defensive lines became the norm; the war only came to an end when an exhausted Germany, blockaded from the north and cut off from erstwhile allies in the south, surrendered. The 1921 Armistice, led by a vengeful France, crippled Germany; Austria-Hungary and the Ottoman Empire were split and devoured by the Western victors. A lethargic Russia couldn't capitalize -- the socialists' failed revolution in 1917 ended with the tsar's family in coffins. Without effective communication, the country fell to pieces.
Now, in 1933, the Western powers uneasily stare at each other across fortified defensive lines. In the north, a resurgent, but still bitter German population looks to demagogues for leadership, while the Baltic is rife with anarchists and corporate statists. Both sides of the Maginot Line also struggle with mysterious disappearances and odd lights in the sky; the French and English worry that the Germans are testing some secret weapon of war, while the Germans claim that the French are kidnapping prominent German citizens.
The reality would shock even the most fantasticly inclined. Tunguska's object was a malfunctioning spacecraft; its crew had carelessly allowed the vessel to become infested with a nearly invisible organism while exploring some distant, unknown world. The creature quickly found fertile ground to replicate on Earth, where its side-effect -- the same one that caused the ship to lose control and crash -- was soon felt. The creature is attracted to large concentrations of electrons, and its presence disrupts their smooth flow. Single-handedly, this organism managed to waylay the development of electronic equipment on Earth.
Those mysterious lights in the sky are other alien vessels. Originally they came as recon ships, but the discovery of such a potent biological weapon has proven too alluring for many intergalactic privateers. The organisms have proven difficult to both quarantine and to keep alive -- meaning that many return trips are necessary. The missing people are simply those who happened to be in the wrong place when a ship landed -- many of the hardened space explorers think nothing of vaporizing intelligent and possibly dangerous beasts.
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