Tag Archives: D&D

Book cover for Ready Player One; image from the internet.

Title: Ready Player One

Author: Ernest Cline

Tags: Boy Fantasy, VR, Dystopian Future

Reflections: With the impending release of the video adaptation, I was recently lent the book Ready Play One. After a week of effort, I finally finished reading it. I also finished reading the third and final installment in Patrick Weekes’ Rogues of the Republic series, The Paladin Caper. I bring this up because there are some strong similarities between these high fantasy novels; only one was well written and one was boring.

As I have mentioned in an older post, the Rogues of the Republic series is a blending of Ocean’s 11 crossed with high fantasy Dungeons and Dragons. Ready Player One is a nearly dystopian, virtual reality fantasy that was written by someone who loves the idea of D&D. Both books pull heavily on D&D style fantasy elements and trops. The difference is Ready Player One references D&D with key phrases like: I collected my ring of power and stashed in my bag of holding with an ancient sword that added +5 to my attack value. Yes, there are lots of terms from D&D embedded in the book, but there is less of an integration of the concepts. Mostly it is a series of references that do not help with world emersion.

Whereas in Rogues of the Republic the D&D elements come out as character types and world design. Only these are not simple flat caricatures, the book has a complex ensemble that includes a shapeshifting unicorn, a talking warhammer, a death priests, a wizard and many others. Despite the large cast of characters, they are all interesting and individual with complete backstories and personal goals. It is fun to watch how they all interact together on the page.

Book cover for Ready Player One; image from the internet.

Both books focus around a fetch quest and even include some con work to accomplish the main quest. While the fetch quest of Ready Player One is the main point of the book. It spends a great deal of time coming up with clever riddles that are so vague they could literally reference anything – as long is it was part of the 1980’s. The unique (selling?) feature of Ready Player One is the constant passing reference to music, movies, and occasional books from the 1980’s. Unfortunately, there is nothing in the references that can be used by the reader to understand the oblique clues. The clues must all be explained and even then there is no logic or elegant flow to their reasoning.

In contrast, the Rogues of the Republic is an over the top con-theft story. That wraps nicely together come the end. Internally, the world is logical. The heist may be ridiculous but it is written in such a way that sweeps the reader along. The surprising twists seem to come out of nowhere, but in the end it does make sense. Everything works and then it all ties together.

The biggest difference between the two stories is the method of telling, or the style of the author. Rogues of the Republic is well written and highly entertaining. The characters are complex, the world is internally consistent, and the banter between individuals is vastly amusing. The author is good about including diversity, adding some social commentary in a way that is not hamfisted or last minute additions. Most importantly, Patrick Weekes is good about showing and not just telling. There is lots of action, the characters are always doing something, even if doing involves conversing with someone else.

Cover for Patrick Weekes’ book, The Paladin, third in the Rogues of the Republic series. Image from the internet.

Ready Player One suffers from poor writing, that is largely boring. There are long swaths of exposition (the first 10 chapters), which demonstrate a poor concept of their world and a number of logical concerns (internally speaking). The dialogue between characters sounds is largely dumb – with all characters sounding like 15 year old boys. And let’s face it, 15 year old boy are not known for their witticisms. The first conversation that final broke up the monotony of the main character’s stream of conscious thought devolved into a series of 1980’s style insults with no purpose or substance.

Also the author spends way too much time explaining… well everything. Including words. With the story set in a not to distant future, focussing mostly on the virtual reality of that time, you would expect the audience to be mostly young boys (teenagers). Much of the content is wish fulfillment for male nerds. So, it baffles me that the author spends the first half-dozen (or more) chapters defining terms like VR, XP, PvP, and MMO. Granted, my mother might not know these terms, but then I don’t think she would have picked up this book anyway. The other one that really stood out to me, was the discussion about how people could make money in this alternate VR world as though it was something new. People have been buying and selling skins for years now. And even I know about marketplaces and microtransactions. Mostly, it seemed like Clive was writing about Gabe and Valve. (personal perspective only)

While Ready Player One is far from the worst book I have read, it is not one that I would strongly recommend. It is filled with tons of 80’s references which fail to develop into anything more than “hey, remember the 80’s, cause like, yeah… that’s all I got”.

If you want something more, something well written, fun and still filled with crazy high fantasy elements, then pick up Rogues of the Republic instead. This trilogy is filled with all the D&D references you could want, all the major heist adventure you could hope for and is actually well written too!

The Golden Jester Jabbers

Well, my month of Hel has ended and spring shines it’s welcoming, cheery light upon my workstation yet again. With a pile of work cleared from the timetable, I am now able to return to the blog and provided new, exciting content. To celebrate this occasion, I have decided to post an old short story from elsewhere.

It’s at least new to here!

This is another little short to further develop my character in Derek’s D&D campaign. Little did I realize that 5th edition includes a reward mechanic for this narrative nonsense I perform pretty regularly in my role-play groups. Every one of these little stories nets me an Inspiration Point. I don’t really know what the value of them is but I intended to collect as many as I can! As a quick reminder and overview, this is my ex-Cultist character Kaliban who was born and raised in the most generic fantasy world conceived by mankind. He, however, was lifted from that world and thrown into the most bizarre setting conceived by mankind as Derek loves running Planescape stories. It seems, poor Kaliban, has found some solace in the strange and overwhelming metaphysical planes by developing a rather questionable addiction to alcohol. Thus, whenever he gets a little too drunk, some unfortunate member of the adventuring party receives his unwanted affections. In this case, it is our royal half-genie Barou Nariah who, from my nearest estimations, is essentially a female Johnny Storm (the Human Torch) from Marvel’s comics. Also, she’s a princess. Or a duchess. Or maybe she’s just a snob. It’s sometimes hard to tell.

***

“You can say what you will about dwarven hospitality but there is one front upon which they will never disappoint.”

Lady Nariah stirred. The dark corners of the Ironridge tavern were considerably less so with the stouthearted genasi illuming them. The gentle wick of the faintest twisted threads along her scalp gave birth to flicking tongues of hungry flame which spat jittering shades upon the walls. The wood was painted in the soft gold and orange of her cast-off illuminance, making it somehow richer than it was in the empty spaces where she was not.

Her eyes were like twin rubies fed with an unquenchable inner flame as they focused on the tattooed man that slumped within the chair opposite her. He had but two flagons in either knuckle, the sticky sweet contents rolling off the too full rims in frothing rivulets along their stone sides.

She watched without response as both vessels clattered upon the table and one was pushed her way.

Her guest did not wait for her to join as he raised his flagon into the air, gulping greedily the contents with an unquenchable throat. He was not a large man but his thirst appeared insatiable as he finally lowered the tankard with but the shallowest amount left to slosh along the bottom.

“It wasn’t the most uncomfortable night I’ve ever had but it’s a far cry from the most pleasant. Makes you almost yearn for those echoing halls of the Nursery, doesn’t it?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Quite the metaphysical query,” he said, swaying upon his seat. The eyes amongst the dark pits of the inked skull were blood-shot and bleary. They had difficulty focusing on Lady Nariah, seeming to flitter about the shadows which writhed and prostrated themselves before her presence. He seemed almost distracted by the empty corners of the private alcove, as though he stared through Nariah into a place far from this small wedge of the Outlands.

“I suppose I am here because some being willed it so. What is our mortal lives but the discarded intentions of titans too absentminded to notice our existence? We’re the shuddering, shivering crumbs of meals the giants forgot they ate, collected in the cracks and crevices of the world shadowed by their majesty.”

“No,” Lady Nariah said, with a shake of her head. “What are you doing here?”

Her finger rapped upon the table for emphasis. The tattooed man merely squinted at her as though he expected duplicity in her question. Comprehension was lethargic but eventually his eyes widened with his mouth.

“Ohhh, sorry Lady Duchess. Didn’t catch your meaning.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

“But it’s your name!” he hiccoughed.

“Truly, it is not.”

“There’s no shame in it,” he levelled a shaky finger as he paused to finish the contents of his flagon. “We make no choice of our beginnings and there’s no reason for us to hold it against another. When we came mewling into this world, it is not by our design which hands hold us close. It doesn’t make you any less of a person. Your deeds define you—not whoever borne your birth.”

“Call me Nariah.”

“Ok, Lady Duchess Nariah.”

“No. Just Nariah.”

He shrugged. “Very well, Just Nariah.”

Kaliban by Me and really lazy.

Kaliban by Me and really lazy.

Kaliban’s head dipped and it took a moment for Nariah to recognize it as a reverent bow. In the meanwhile, Kaliban attempted to drink down the liquor long vacated his grasp before turning single-minded eyes towards the second tankard he’d brought.

Nariah’s fingers were around its sides, pulling it close before the drunk could finish transporting himself into his desired stupor.

“How did you get these anyway?” Nariah asked, too aware of how thirsty his eyes appeared as she lifted the drink to her warm lips. “I was under the impression Thia kept tight your spending allowance in these establishments.”

A rakish smile broke his mouth. The zombie raised a finger and thumb, darkened by the black shadows of the bones contained within the pale skin. It was as though he were inverted, with nought but his innards worn as a macabre dress to masque the individual lurking beneath. With a twist of those gory digits, a thick coin appeared.

Nariah could not help but gape. Surely, she had seen some of the tricks this strange little man could perform. But such manipulations were surely of a magical means.

“That can’t be possible!” she exclaimed. “Illusions do not work on the Outlands.”

And he cocked his head to the side as if to dare her an explanation for the conjuration. He raised the coin to Nariah’s brilliant hair as though testing her eyes for the indistinct outlines of a beguiling enchantment. However, it wasn’t until he brought the object down upon the table’s edge, the hard ring of solid contact refuting Nariah’s better judgement.

His grin widened and he sent the single shard of silver spinning along the wood. The lilting echo of its revolutions were near as thunder to Nariah’s incredulous ears. Her hands abandoned their post as she fetched up the whirling disk. She could feel the cold singe of actual silver as well as the hard sides of an honest coin.

If this were a trick, it was a damn good one.

But the coin held up under even intense scrutiny. For all her wits, it was real.

It was then that Nariah caught Kaliban lifting a full mug to his lips. She turned to her elbow and found his prior empty tankard by her side.

“Of course. I should have suspected legerdemain.”

“It’s warmed,” the zombie said, blowing softly upon his reclaimed drink. “As to your query, I am here because you are.”

“That is hardly an answer,” Just Nariah said, leaning back in her chair.

“And I am hardly one to provide,” he returned. “I am a nobody. I am nothing. I bear less worth than that silver piece in your possession.”

“That’s not true,” Just Nariah said.

“But it is. Look upon our glorious companions. There’s valorous Bill, a folk hero in his own right. Thia the brave whose courage defies her humble starts. Dire Araven has performed deeds which send shudders down the spines of those far from knowing her. Then is a marvellous survivor, wrapped as he is in personal enigmas and curiosities. Wise Halbeck has seen more than most us combine.

“And then there is you, glorious Nariah. You are but a goddess amongst us lowly worms—a being so radiant that she is a sun unto herself. Who am I amongst these heroes? Who am I amongst such majesty?”

“You are too hard on yourself.”

“So common an affliction. But look upon the truth.”

His fingers twisted again and within them now was the darkened shard of his sensing stone. Its vermillion skin was lifeless and dark as the eye which Kaliban held to it.

“I am but one of many to have held this rock. I am but a brief glimmer in the eye of its experience. Many have come before me. Many will follow after. In the annuls of its life I am worth not even a margin for the purpose I serve. My existence is of no concern to it for it shall far outlast whatever meagre accomplishment I may feign performing. Those who peer into its eyes will not desire my name. They will whisper Bill. They may search for Then. They will long for Just Nariah. But none will desire Kaliban.”

“You cannot know that.”

“There is little I know,” he whispered. “But of this, I am certain.”

Nariah shifted in her chair as the tattooed man stared into the crystal. She said nothing, however, before he spoke again.

“It seems unfair that I bear a name—a pretence of importance—when it does not.”

“Then why not name it?”

He stirred from the drunken melancholy, looking towards Nariah. The sensing stone chimed as it was placed upon the table.

“How could I?”

“Well, what do you think it should be called?”

Kaliban shrugged.

“If I knew that then I wouldn’t need to find a name.”

“It’s not like you’re naming a child,” Nariah said. But the look in Kaliban’s eyes was deathly serious. “I don’t know. Name it something pretty.”

“Nariah?”

She frowned.

“No, don’t name it that.”

“How about Lady Duchess?”

“No.”

“Lady Duchess the Just?”

“Why not name it after someone in your life. Someone from your life before the Young God’s Club,” she added with a hurry.

The zombie gave thought.

“Who?”

Nariah shrugged. “I don’t know. Someone important.”

“Important?” The question seemed genuinely puzzling to Kaliban. “What did you name yours?”

“I did not name mine.”

“I see.”

“But if I had,” Nariah said before he could slump into more mournful silence, “it would be after someone that meant a lot to me. Someone that had a lasting impact on my life.”

“Louhi.”

“That’s a… wonderful name. Who is that?”

“The first person I’ve ever killed.”

He stared at the stone and Nariah could sense no hint of irony in the statement.

“I… beg your pardon?”

“They say your first is always the most important. It is the one you remember. The rest, they sort of blur together, right? I don’t know. I wouldn’t know. I do remember her though. She was a devotee of St. Cuthbert. A Chapeaux, as it were. Nothing really extraordinary. Hardly a few months inducted into the fold. I still can’t puzzle out why she was targeted. But she was. Perhaps the ease of getting to her was a safe way to test my skills.”

And his eyes were lost again amongst the shadows that danced around Nariah. She could not see the images that haunted his eyes. She could not see the visions that gripped his mind.
But they were all too real for him. Fuelled, as they were, by the divine hands of a dead dwarven brewer, those memories welled up like bile from a mind all too ready to purge the sickening weight from its gullet.

He stood in the rain before the small chapel. It’s golden edges had lost their majesty beneath the oppressive weight of the smothering black clouds. Upon the stained glass of the centre window in its solitary tower was the image of a crumpled, simple hat. The glow of a candle behind its panes was meant to represent the undying flame to beckon the faithful to the comfort of the halls. Now, that dying flame was laughable in its resistance to the drowning storm.

His clothes were heavy. That was what he remembered most. He carried nothing else with him but the cotton drank deeply of the pelting rain and it felt as though he carried the weight of all the silent sins of the order. With languished steps, he approached the front.

The iron knocker was cold to the touch though its voice was nearly lost to the growling thunder. He called twice before there was an answer. A click of the latch told him none expected visitors that night. The explanation was quick to his lips before he even saw who opened the door.

“Forgive me but my waggon has broken down along the road. I spotted brigands amongst the hills and with the approaching storm I had little choice but to run. I have nothing to offer but my thanks in exchange for some small reprieve.”

It seemed like fate that it was bright green eyes framed amongst chestnut curls that received him.

She was young. He knew this. She was but an initiate—a nobody to the order. Even if the order knew of the dark attention it drew, none would worry over her fate. But while he had been thoroughly briefed, he had never truly given any thought to the information. Now that he stood before her, he could not ignore that they were of the same age.

Her eyes were immediate about his person, searching for some sign or symbol. He had none and his only response was to draw back his hood and offer the meekest smile.

She blushed. He did not understand at the time. What could he possibly evoke that would warrant her modesty? He appeared so humble. Just a young man, ill-suited for a body not yet properly proportioned for his years. He was but the barest steps from childhood and it showed. While he was tall and gangly—near a head over her—he still carried the soft, rounded contours of the cherubim.

“Yes, of course. All are welcome in the halls of the Common Shepherd.”

That’s all it took. A weak excuse and an awkward smile. The door opened and he was granted entry.

The disciples of St. Cuthbert could not have known that death had knocked on their door.

He waited out the storm. The members of the Chapeaux are known for their kindness towards wayward souls. In the morning, he insisted on repaying their generosity. They, of course, accepted. He expressed interest in the halls and history. He enquired constantly but always politely. He gave furtive glances to the girl and in little time she was appointed his caretaker. They spent long hours attending the garden and the duties about the shrine. They spoke at great lengths: her about the time before the order and him about his travels and trading aspirations.

They were all lies, of course. It was a pretty sort of dance—the kind only suited for the young and awkward. She paid lip service to her calling, goading him towards accepting the tenets. He flavoured his enthusiasm as interest in her rather than the great Bludgeoner. For three days he ingratiated himself amongst their number. In three days, his honeyed words at night began to sway her heart.

They stood beneath the mighty oak lit with the silver touch of a round moon. There, in the darkness, they promised themselves to the other. Their hands were shaky and anxious as he leaned in and rested his lips on hers. They writhed like worms, overtaken by the passions of youth, though neither ever shed their clothes. There would be time for such things. But first, she would have to leave. They would have to leave. It was the only way it could be.

He waited in those old robes as she quietly gathered her worldly possessions. They no longer held the smell of that dank storm. They were no longer stained with the dirt of his trespasses.

She was but a shadow as she flitted beneath the dying eye of the chapel’s candle. He took her pack upon his shoulder and, hand-in-hand, they darted from the road and into the woods. For a time, they listened to the flap of the nocturnal predators hunting amongst the boughs. For a time, he considered the life promised in her hands.

They stopped for a small cave beneath a rocky outcrop. He laid down the pack and then they lay down together. He indulged in that blasphemous flesh again, the taste of her tongue doing strange, profane things to his body. She reached for his robes, pulling fervently at the fabric. What she uncovered gave her pause.

He had his marks and in the twilight of their escape he had put no effort in masking them. The moon shone bright and boldly upon the twisted inked form of the worm amongst the darkened bones of his chest. Did she gasp? He thought she did. He remembered that she did. But a niggling doubt always took root in the back of his mind. As he withdrew the dagger and pulled it across her throat, bathing his hands in the warm ichor of her life, he couldn’t help but think she had said nothing at all.

“Deep within the Welkwood there is a cave, its entrance long overgrown with brambles. Half buried in the soft earth is that skeleton which disappeared one night with a boy. Her flesh fed the plants that would never bear her epitaph. For such a shallow grave will never proclaim, ‘Here lies Louhi.’”

Nariah watched the skull as it rested on weary hands, staring absently at the flicker of her hair.

“You… probably shouldn’t call it Louhi.”

“You’re right,” he sighed. He held up the stone. “She isn’t worthy. It’s all lies, anyway. You remember more than your first. It gets easier, for certain. I wept not a tear for Louhi. If anything, she was noteworthy in how unnoteworthy she really was.”

“Death does not define us.”

And he looked at her, completely unconvinced. “It defines us all.”

He reached for the remainder of his drink. But her fingers were on it first. Their touch was brief, and it seemed that his truly didn’t long for the tankard at all. They squeezed but Nariah’s were spry. She and the flagon were plucked from the table before he could truly relish the moment.

“I think you’ve had enough,” Nariah said. “You’re going to need to be able to walk tomorrow. We have a long road ahead.”

He watched her retreating back until the last glimmer of her orange hair disappeared like a gutted candle. Kaliban then turned to the stone and picked it up.

“Phyte,” he whispered to the stone. “For the first. Truly, I am sorry.”

Lawful or Evil Stupid?

The Nature of Man:

Are you Lawful Stupid or Stupid Evil?

I’ve complained about the Dungeons and Dragons alignment system in the past. It is a mechanic which I abhor and one that I’ve spent arguing with Derek over for far too many hours. For those unaware, part of your character creation in D&D involves choosing your hero’s nature. This has been conveniently distilled into the cross section of two diametrically opposed axises: Law vs Chaos and Good vs Evil. Figuring where your character stands in relation to these extremes is meant to create a simple two point summary which summarizes the individuals moral and personal beliefs and attitudes. Thus, we have the classic combinations taking on certain mythological archetypes. Lawful Good individuals value order and charity and are typified by the knight in shining armour motif of the selfless crusader out championing the virtues of his lord and god while raining down benevolence and charity to the unkempt, destitute peasants ravaged by dragons, goblins and an curiously high tax rate for medieval societies. The Chaotic Evil individual, by comparison, is that wicked warlock who spends his evenings in fogged choked graveyards practicing debased necromancy so as to raise an army of filthy and plague bearing undead to march upon the same destitute peasants in the hope of getting his own share of their exorbitant property costs.

It’s all very clean. It’s all very orderly. And it’s all so very useless.

As I mentioned, I hate the alignment system. I hate everything it tries to represent. I hate everything for which it stands. Above all else, I hate how it operates as a classic trap, luring unsuspecting new players and dungeon masters into shallow, derivative cliches that halts the game as everyone bickers over the finer details of law and chaos.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/a/alenza/satire.html

Satire on Romantic Suicide by Leonardo Alenza Y Nieto (1807-1845).

You see, the prime flaw of the alignment system is positing that there exists within the D&D framework a standard, objective truth concerning Good and Evil. Certain behaviour is, as alignment is so classically defined, intrinsically right or wrong. Sure, defenders will wring their hands and assuage that these are merely guidelines used to better categorize and assist in forming a character’s decision making. And they’ll maintain this stance as the party casts Detect Evil and sees the party’s rogue light up like a Christmas tree in Times Square. Alignment is a mechanical tool within the D&D universe itself. It is not a moral or philosophical debate–it exists as a real, tangible thing which is affected by both magic and gods in ways wholly beyond our understanding. Thus, as a true core element of a being’s identity, there must be actions and behaviour which is intrinsically connected to this alignment. If a paladin can detect evil then evil must exist to detect. You can’t have a fiend who gives to the poor and helps the needy for that would be indistinguishable from the paladin himself.

This seems obvious enough. Surely the only difficulty with the system would be hammering out the finer details of what constitutes evil and what does not.

And that statement alone should make obvious how futile an endeavour that would be. We can not agree on what is moral in our own society even without throwing in magic and fantasy into the mix. Take, for instance, the simplest example of murder. Surely murder is an evil action. And yet, every single D&D campaign is rife with heroes going through wholesale slaughter of goblins, gnolls, orcs, kobolds and whatever. “Ah,” says the alignment purist, “but these creatures are inherently evil thus their destruction is a good action!”

So murder in-of-itself isn’t bad but who you murder is. And yet, any campaign worth its salt will have helpful orcs, drow who have turned from their oppressive society or kobolds more interested in friendly exchange than kidnapping babies and worshiping dragons. Would it be just, moral or good to slay Drizzt on sight? He is a subtype of elf who were chased underground for their worship of the malevolent deity Lloth who delights in slaughter and torture. Of course not, for Drizzt has cast aside his society and its bloodlust-filled ways and walks a more charitable path. Well, what of Deekin the merchant? Should I stumble across him on the streets of Neverwinter would I be within my right to run him through with my sword and steal all of his merchandise? No? Because he is simply not situated in a dungeon awaiting eager adventurers to kick down his door and cut of his head on their way to the fabled dragon horde?

The alignment system is quick to tell us that animals lack the necessary intelligence for placement on the alignment system. They are what has become the Unaligned. They have not the self-awareness to judge their actions in a greater moral scope and players don’t have a free pass to slay every cow which they encounter on their way to the city. And yet, possessing the intelligence required to hold an alignment also gives the being the capacity to change their ways. Would not then the good path be to try and rehabilitate these societies instead of murdering them? And yet, paladins have been the quintessential figurehead for Lawful Good and their sole duty is to act as the judging blade to slice down all those that disagree with them. “But they wouldn’t” isn’t a valid excuse as examples demonstrate that they would.

It’s a simplistic black and white system trying to describe a game that encourages, promotes and pushes its players to explore shades of grey. I think anyone that has played the game can see the fruits of this broken system as well. Poll a player base and I’ll be surprised if you don’t find a great proportion who have had their share of moments of their DMs telling them “You can’t do that. It’s against your alignment.” Most experienced players would scoff at such actions but how quick are people to jump to calling for paladins to lose their abilities for betraying the sacred mantra of the ever undefined Lawful Good code? Or how frequent are there denunciations of DMs not dropping player alignment when they stray into territory someone else deems unworthy of their moniker? Should players be held at the whimsy of the DM’s personal moral code and definition of what a real Neutral Good alignment means? Why must these conversations come up for a system that was always only meant to assist beginning players with stepping out of their own skin and inhabiting the mind of someone else? It’s a tool for policing and it is far too rare that one is rewarded for their alignment compared to the numerous punishments for betraying it.

Well, I was thinking of this dilemma in the shower, as one is wont to think of random things while under running water. Personally, I think the biggest problem is that baggage which the system carries. Good and Evil are more than just words. They’re personal ideals that change from person to person and situation to situation. To try and create some absolute yard stick used for measuring them is an impossible task. Law and Chaos aren’t any better and lead to their own set of troubles. I mean, we’ve all know that one Chaotic Neutral character.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/a/amerling/franz_1.html

Emperor Franz I of Austria in his Coronation Robes by Friedrich von Amerling (1832).

Really, I think if we were to break down a sort of guidepost for character behaviour, it would have to be one that is less restrictive. An alignment should be just that: a guidebook and not a rigid code. It should give a suggestion to a character’s natural response but not dictate their reactions to every situation. Good and Evil is too encompassing. It’s too mutually exclusive. I think it is prone to cognitive dissonance. My character is good thus he can not do evil. But unlike in the real-world where we reshape our belief to compensate for the dissonance, in D&D we can bar an action from being performed to preserve our belief. However, part of the complexity of real people is being faced with the consequences of actions which we didn’t have the full benefit of considering or weighing against our morals. The system should be amiable to these issues, not ready to punish them.

Thus, I think renaming the axises would go a long way to fixing the alignment system. Instead of Good and Evil, we need something that is less oppressive. Altruism vs Selfishness are two concepts that encapsulate the original premise but have a lot more wiggle room. For example, if I were a Good character, I would be more inclined to assist the oppressed out of the goodness of my heart. However, to maintain my purity, I’d extend this charity to near all circumstances even if it were against the desires of my party. Hell, if we were about to be rewarded by an evil character, a good one would have a moral opposition to receiving anything from them. However, an altruistic person could be more negotiable. Now they aren’t constrained by the full encompassing weight of Goodness. They could be open to accepting payment from an able body especially if the party promised that some of their gains were donated to the needy. Now we needn’t completely turn down the quest given by the bandit chief because the paladin can’t abide aiding such criminal scum. We could accept his ill-gotten coin and altruistically turn around and give it to the church to feed the poor and hungry. The paladin is appeased, the party is appeased and the game can continue without coming to a screeching halt as an ultimatum is drawn in the sand.

Likewise, Law and Chaos could be commissioned into Conformity and Individualism. I especially like this pairing because both carry as many positives as negatives in their connotation. More than that, however, we get away from the cartoony depictions of the extremes of the spectrum. The Lawful Good was just as insipid and disruptive as the Chaotic Evil. Every child would need a hug from the LG just as every puppy would need be kicked by the CE. But a conformist doesn’t necessarily need such extreme reaction. Describing your character as a Conforming Altruist communicates readily far more what Lawful Good was meant to without needing to quibble whether the paladin needs to uphold all laws or when does he earn the right to judge whether a law has betrayed the idealisms of Goodness too much. Furthermore, our Selfish Individualist needn’t be as moustache twirling as they are now in D&D. They can be. Our Warlock can still sit in his graveyard unconcerned with his societies ethics over honouring the dead and raise his little skeleton army to steal in his name all he wants. But you can have rulers who are also Selfish Individualists, running their kingdoms without a care for the well-being of their nobles or peasants but without need to sacrifice every virginal daughter to a devil in order to fulfill the requirements of his alignment.

More than anything, these titles leave a lot of room for differences amongst the alignments themselves. They don’t immediately conjure any stereotypes or stock tropes. A Selfish Conformist does not have the baggage which a Lawful Evil name would suggest. It allows both heroes and villains to occupy the same alignment space without any question. And, more than anything, it means that people can drop the constraints of the alignments and focus on the core aspect in the first place: playing their character.

A Party at the Red Pony – A Tale of Drinking in Sigil

Perhaps it was the dim lighting, the heady scent of the seventh stained mug of potent but unidentifiable alcohol or maybe it was the fact that the small tavern was crammed full of all manner of creatures bizarre and unimaginable but never had that woman looked any more beautiful to Kaliban as she did now.

Kaliban could not take his eyes off her—save for the brief moments when upending his mug and slurring an order for another. There she sat, also eagerly knocking back drink after drink so that a mountainous pile grew between them beneath the raucous cheers of onlookers penning them on all sides. It was a contest of spirits which built the great divide between them and—as Kaliban’s vision began to blur—it was the determination that he would see his consciousness across those wet and sticky vessels to the oasis of her lavish green eyes awaiting on the other side that motivated him.

To be certain, he knew very little of the fair Thia Nailo despite having spent a great deal of time sharing mortal peril with her. Albeit, half that peril was illusory and contained with the safe and impenetrable walls of the Nursery but had he not died in her arms? Had he not suffered both sling and arrows by her side? His heart had thumped with red-bloodedness and adrenaline. Could there exist a more perfect recipe for romance? Kaliban knew no others and he was well versed in recipes and concoctions.

Perhaps she would take great interest in that knowledge? He paused in his chugging to perceive the slight swoon of her head, the bright veins which glimmered within her pupils. She looked at him with eyes barely clear and a dozen sobering tinctures and inebriation remedies sprung to his mind. Surely even a place as strange and incomprehensible as this carried enough meadowsweet herb, fennel seed, gentian root and black horehound to stave off the disabling effects of their drinking contest.

Wait. Was it black horehound? Or was it chiretta herb? Or was that used in Widow’s Bliss? No, that was certainly strychnine which is incredibly time consuming and an enormous pain in the ass to extract from the plant’s damn seeds.

Have you any idea how hard it is to pulp a dozen tiny seeds with bleeding fingers while your mind begins to fill with their maddening juice while your matron screams profanities for how the Lord of Worms will use your corpse should you succumb to their delusive properties?

Kaliban briefly considered that as an opening to pleasant conversation but the barest scraps of sobriety still nestled in his mind cautioned against its effectiveness.

“The zombie falls behind! Is this the end?”

“I still have vim left in me, devil!” Kaliban shouted. At least, that was his intended response. Instead, he barely craned a drooping head in the direction of the grinning tiefling, his lips forming a long series of half-formed syllables which sounded more like, “shuv off yuus stoop-edd edded orn devl laidee…”

This prompted riotous cheers and laughter from the crowd. Certainly the party’s merriment was not that rare of a sport but even though their uncreative method for relaxing was likely seen day after day within the establishment, there were still those who worked the crowd in gathering bets over who would win between the tattooed man and beast bedecked half-elf.

Kaliban found another mug in his hand and muscles lifted it automatically to compliant lips with his fogged mind hardly perceptive of the entire procession. In fact, he couldn’t help but notice a strange pattern of extra mugs appearing at his elbow compared to the fine and beautiful Thia. Kaliban turned to Araven—the chief amongst the bookmakers—to contest this issue when he caught the telltale slump of his opponent’s shoulders.

Her fingers were barely able to wrap about the wood handle of her next drink and handsome Bill leaned in to whisper in her ear. Thia attempted to wave him off, her fingers tapping his chest as she fixed her eyes on Kaliban with determination.

He swooned. But Kaliban had seen enough people slip into peaceful unconsciousness to know that the woman’s constitution would not hold for longer. He looked down at the rolling green froth in his hands.

He knew what he had to do.

Kaliban leaned back on his chair, the legs creaking as the seat drew half to the air. He raised the drink to his mouth. He felt the warm liquid brush his lips. He closed his eyes and pushed off the flagged stone with his toes.

Kaliban by Me and really lazy.

Kaliban by Me and really lazy.

His chair collapsed against the ground in a thundering crash that broke over the cheering. His face grew warm and sticky with the fermented drink as it rushed from the skyward flagon’s bottom to bathe his face. He sputtered just enough from his nostrils to breath as he let brief emptiness wash over him.

But his shadows were not empty.

For a moment, the tavern vanished. The onlookers disappeared. Darkness consumed all, leaving nought but the tattooed man in a gaping nothingness.

Kaliban sensed their presence before he saw it. It was all over his skin, crawling across his face where once pleasant mead had stuck. They writhed, thousands upon thousands of small putrid worms. They clung to his flesh and clothes. They bubbled up from the darkness around his body, writhing their way into the folds of his clothes. Nothing could protect and nowhere was spared as the little creatures bore into flesh and muscle and tissue.

He opened eyes which were immediately besieged by the pestilent creatures. They blinded him just as quickly as they numbed him to all sensation but their burrowing mouths. They wrapped about his lobes and dug into his ears and he was filled with the sounds of their chewing.

Within that cacophony rose a terrible voice.

“You forget yourself, my son.”

Kaliban opened a mouth to scream but it was filled with the multitude of green creatures.

“You think you can hide from me?”

He tried to struggle—to free himself from the crush of the endless bodies. The more his limbs thrashed, the more the shadows spewed forth the crawling tide.

“You think your profane worship of the flesh will cloak you?”

Above blazed two great orbs burning with a vermillion flame of such hatred that its heat burned through the creatures engorging themselves on Kaliban’s pupils. The darkness folded so as to form the hood of that ancient head. It leered upon him, pressing close so that its child-worms became singing. The screams of his children assaulted Kaliban. It was that hideous chorus once more. He could smell the burning of their flesh as their voices rose in piteous pleas.

His mind convulsed in the memories. Visions of that dreaded fissure returned and the children thrown screaming one by one into the pits before being joined by their frenzied parents in an orgasmic slaughter of captive and believer alike. The air was thick with their blood, sweat and excrement. It was an assault upon one’s very sanity with the unbridled violence enacted against detestable flesh at every turn. Skin and muscle was flayed, leaving behind nought but the blessed bones which—so fuelled by the blasphemous rites—took to their tattered feet to assist with the massacre.

Presiding over it all was the Bonemaster himself. The Worm that Walks.

Black sleeves raised heavenward as screams drowned out whatever words escape that black hood.

“Remember,” echoed that voice in his ears. “Remember and obey.”

Kaliban stood over the pits, looking down on the mound of bodies filling the unending earth maw which swallowed them. A dagger was in one hand and an initiate in the other. The poor creature was bathed in the blood of the child which he had just slain and pushed upon the mound. His eyes were unblinking as he stared naked over the carnage, chest heaving in its disgusting need to consume the stench of death surrounding him.

It was Kaliban’s duty. He raised the blade to the child’s throat. Even as his muscles tensed beneath the knowledge that he would be next, his mind had seemingly all but left the proceedings and only the will of the Wormgod remained, urging him on to completion.

He would have too. But he was interrupted. A hand stayed his.

The blade was plucked from his young fingers as his victim was raised from his grasp. Kaliban blinked in incomprehension. He vaguely recognized his shadow matron—that woman which had filled him with just as many toxins as she had forced him create—as she raised his brother to her arms. She fled, tears streaming her cheeks and was swallowed by the darkness.

And some deeply buried thought wiggled in Kaliban’s mind. At the time he was filled with only his thoughts of failing the great Bonemaster—of his inability to save his brother of shadows from the curse of life. But now, he recognized that the matron had always favoured the other boy. While she tormented Kaliban and the others beneath her care, that one child could do no wrong.

In this brief drunken recollection, Kaliban could not help but note how similar they looked.

Dumbly, Kaliban stood upon the precipice before hands came and claimed him as well. Hooded individuals, elder members of the cult, carried him from the fissure with eyes downcast and refusing to look upon the slaughter. He hardly knew them as they wept, whispering apologies as he was born away from the master. When at last Kaliban realized their intentions, he struggled until a sting along his arm burn hot with the welling of his own blood mixing with the sedative. But as darkness fell upon him, he felt their arms hold him tighter and tighter.

He could feel those hands now, starkly warm upon his cold flesh. Kaliban’s eyes broke open as his body jerked madly. But there were no worms covering him now. There was no hood bearing upon him.

There was just sweet, beautiful Thia blinking with bleary eyes riddled with what Kaliban can only assume was concern.

“Are you alright?”

Without thought, Kaliban rose lips to connect lips in an impromptu embrace. In that moment, time slowed as his mind drank deep every precious sensation. The warmth of her mouth drove away those dark shadows of his recollections. The moisture of the spilt beer singed the lasting sensations of the endless worms. The scent of her newly acquired bestial adornments drowned out the hooded master and his traitorous whispers.

Then her hands were on his bare chest, pressing him off and away. Kaliban collapsed against the floor, relishing the pain of his pounding head, weariness of his inebriated limbs and, yes, the feelings of the lingering kiss.

“We… should buy some… silver. In case of ravens…”

Thia stood and Araven was at her side, quick to pronounce her winner and collecting the scrip from those foolish berks stupid enough to bet on Kaliban. A few patrons tripped over him as they dispersed back to their own indulgences but even as boots left fresh bruises, Kaliban did not move until a reluctant Bill arrived to pick up his lethargic body and bear him back to the Whole Note.

The Petty Kingdom of Calandria Part 2

Don’t worry fellow readers, I’m not about to post a whole world of built kingdoms and histories and places and peoples. The one nice thing about my D&D setting (and this now carries both campaign and short story relevancy) is that it’s created piecemeal. I can travel to different parts and locations freely and can make and develop whatever whimsy strikes me in that moment. Alas, such freedom isn’t truly allowed in a game setting, which means this little isolated kingdom is likely to be the most developed portion of the world.

And we know this because it got a map. A map gracefully charted by my personal cartographer since I hate coming up with land shapes and the geological features. But I love filling everything in and imagining how life would develop and shape the land it finds itself upon.

Anywho, on to the major sites of the Petty Kingdom of Calandria!

——–

Major Sites of the Petty Kingdom of Calandria

 

I lied, my personal cartographer made it, I just filled it in.

Because the beauty of this map can’t be posted enough.

Castrus

(village, ranches, dynastic fortifications ~21,000 population and 1,400 garrison)

The capital and home to the throne of the House Laranica is the heavily fortified city of Castrus. Castrus served as the focal point for the defensive ring of Calandria’s fort system and it shows. Massive parapets, soaring walls, crenellations, thick portcullis, majestic keep – Castrus has it all. From a dominating position upon a bluff overlooking Lake Aluar, Castrus boasts the prestigious reputation of having never been breached. Course, no attack has ever managed to siege her walls as all wars were ended before a force could march against her. That hasn’t stopped each successive Jarl from adding to the plethora of defensive structures protecting the stone home of the ruling House. As such, multi-tiered gates and inner walls tumble down the precipitous side of the bluff to the newly raised harbour towers commissioned by Jarl Brivis himself. All this serves to create an intimidating spectacle for visitors. Clever engineering has formed a snaking stair wall protecting every home and shanty beneath the Jarl’s gaze. They say not even the Ridgeback mountain goats could hope to leap over Castrus’ fortifications. Keep Laranica itself is an awe-inspiring collection of spires rising like bunched pikes to oversee the people beneath. Despite Castrus’ protections, however, it fails to be particularly populous. The lake, after years of massive fishing from both Calandria and her neighbours have rapidly reduced the schools within it. The cracked rock surrounding the city is an ill-fit for farming but has served well enough as the only other alternative for grazing sheep within the Jarl’s borders. A decent wool and mutton industry keeps some production within the walls as well as locating much of the metalworking and ship building in the petty kingdom. It is clear, however, that the kingdom’s wealth isn’t going to be found in the capital’s influence but after so many years of fortifying, there is no safer place in all the lands. Countess Arosa has decried the irrelevancy of the ancestral hold and demanded that a lavish apartment be constructed in Valencia so that she could be closer to the lifeblood of her nation. While the kingdom’s court still meets within the stoney cold walls of Castrus, much of its influence and politicking is done at the Cath Croya Estate in the bustling heart of Calandria – especially given how the people whisper that the Jarl bends his ear to every whisper of his ignominious daughter.

 

Valencia

(city, farms ~65,000 pop)

Ask any from outside Calandria where is its capital and nine times out of ten people will tell you it’s Valencia. Despite demonstrating that the vast majority of nations are rather ignorant of the petty kingdom, what most ever learn about it is the bustling city. It’s no wonder as the enormous settlement not only holds almost half of the kingdom’s entire population, but it is also the single most important trade hub in the region. Though it does not connect directly with the Crossroads, it does connect with subsidiary lines and any foreign merchant’s first point of entry is inevitably through its bronze gates. It’s also where the vast majority of foreigners end up. Supported by the only arable land and the enormous fortified estate which houses the kingdom’s military elite, Valencia rises up over Calandria’s single sea of wheat and oats – the grains hardy enough to grow even in its crisp temperate climates. Valencia’s beginnings, however, were far more humble than one would suspect. Originally, it was just one of the ring of fortifications protecting the inner Calandria proper. But due to its location, temperature and land, it quickly grew from a hearty fort into a sprawling settlement that quickly expanded beyond its meagre walls. It became the home of Calandria’s old warrior council – the Cath Croya – supported by the farmers in its fields and an ever expanding fort that most believe is a palace and not a military base. As such, it has sometimes been referred to as the Etreria of the North though it lacks the romantic raised, decrepit keep over a sprawling plains view as well as the grandiose, multicultural flair of the City of Roads. Few in Valencia belabour the point.

Valencia is home to the wealth and heart of Calandria and its markets are often the last point of contact for most enterprises within its borders. There is a bit of a problem with Valencia, however, in that its conversion into the most populous city in the petty kingdom has left the southern border woefully unprotected. With Valencia’s rise in prominence, the sitting Jarl moved the garrison from the city and has never returned it. The Cath Croya, once the Jarl’s advisory formed from his most elite and expert warriors, were seen as a potential threat to the stability of the kingdom. Their prestige was assured through hereditary inheritance and subsequent generations were less loyal to the crown while their city grew wealthy and prestigious. As such, Valencia has been forced to hire a mercenary militia whose skills and loyalty to their employers is tenuous at best. Their inability to properly police the city has made the citizenry criticize the Cath Croya’s right to govern and many people cry for the abolition of the council and for the Jarl to be granted full fealty of the city. The council, however, holds loftier ambitions. From the grandiose halls of the Croya Estate, they manage a network of scattered castrum scattered about the countryside. These old stone structures are unearthed fortifications from antiquity and provide an early warning and supply line dotting the rollings hills and farmsteads.

Major production in Valencia is focused on the land surrounding it. This is the only location one can find orchards and apples as well as raspberries and more temperate foods. As such, much of Valencia’s tribute to the Jarl is paid in harvests that are then spread amongst the rest of his peoples. And while Valencia is large, it isn’t considered the most picturesque. It almost squats between the hills, crawling and creeping constantly outwards and onwards from its focal about the military estate. Homes pile upon themselves and try to squeeze out the streets running between them. With so many people and so many regulations, it’s quite difficult for locals and foreigners alike to gain a business foothold in its crowded streets. Even its temples seem to struggle with accommodating all the worshippers and must often run double or triple services to attend their followers. The city is, however, known for its feasts and festivals where seemingly the entire settlement gives over to celebration and food practically grows up amongst the streets as the people forget the cramped and crowded quarters for the boisterous celebrations heard all over the hills.

 

Celtic Galician House from wikipedia

Ancient stonework found around Muros. Most Calandria architecture focuses on the use of its sturdy lumber from the Caegulla Highlands

Muros

(city ~28,000 pop)

Muros is the proud old city of Calandria. One of the first settlements, there remain a few family lines who lay claim to remembrances of when booming Valencia was just another fort. Muros was originally founded on Calandria’s mainstay industry – lumber. It was the first point of production on the Ceagulla Highlands as well as being the legendary trade hub for the Northern Route. Unfortunately for Muros, the last generations have been hard. The legendary route has long since been abandoned, shifting the focus of international trade to southern Valencia. Untold years of lumber work has clear cut the area around Muros which led to a series of land slides and erosion preventing it from ever becoming arable for the city in any useful amount of time. Even its reliance for being the hub of the new lumber giant Ferrol has come under attack by the upstart Cea. But if there is one thing Muros has, and has it in droves, is history. The old streets are laid with ancient stone from the old times. The homes are a unique stone construct found nowhere else with the possible exception of Iliomar’s Folly. It’s temples are the most revered, being important points of study and worship for their seeming connection with the past as well as holding one of the original verses of the Poetic Saemundr. This reliance on history has kept foreign interests traditionally at bay, as many still look to the Muros scholars and priests as the moral and spiritual leaders of Calandria. Muros also has a proud tradition of being the birthplace of Calandrian architecture and many foreign students come to study the designs and techniques supposedly pioneered within its walls. There is a long and respectable history of engineers coming from Muros. Finally, despite the loss of farm or lumber industry, Muros has a robust animal husbandry and hunting production. They have the famed first caribou ranch as well as the largest hunting lodge in all of Calandria which claims and protects its monopoly on the Ceagulla Highlands viciously.

 

Cea

(city ~15,000)

Cea is considered Calandria’s rising star. A rather unremarkable town, Cea was a forgettable settlement on the Leyme Woods primarily serving as a stockpile and provider for the more distant Ares, Mens and Val Meyra. All this changed with the discovery of copper above Ares which brought enterprising merchants like ravens to a rotting corpse. Cea has been growing rapidly since, seeking to further expand their profits by being the kingdom’s sole point of export for Ares’ production. They have even gone so far as to enter a buyer’s race with Muros over the famous Ferrol lumber. Needless to say, this has stirred a lot of animosity in the older settlement. The merchants of Cea have also reinvigorated Mantrove’s Crossing, though the banditry has certainly cut into their hopes of great profit. But Cea’s rapid development and prosperity has brought many to its walls and it is the hottest place to be currently. This was made even more prominent with the recent establishment of both a ceilidh hall and an academy tower, giving a foothold for the bards and wizards that received chilly reception when attempting to make headway into Calandria previously.

 

Andrade

(dynastic hold, village, fishing quays, berry farms and distilleries ~5,000 pop)

Calandria’s northern most settlement, Andrade is built along and protects the legendary Northern Route. They’re one of the few to still refer to it by its old name – Nemento’s Pass – and maintain that it holds the oldest passage over the Ridgeback Mountains. No one makes the journey now, though, so verification of this claim and even confirmation where it leads is unprovided. However, it’s not Andrade’s long, proud history of independence or their own developing culture which they maintain is separate from the greater Calandria whole that the region is most famous. The thing that keeps the name of Andrade on people’s lips is its export of rich rowan wine and ale. Though the alcohol is wildly sought and appreciated, it is not the region’s number one production. The Andrade people are the largest producers of Calandria’s stockfish, caught and pulled form the ocean and dried with the frigid mountain winds along its rocky coastline. Andrade itself, however, isn’t built on the coast. The city proper is huddled around the ancestral Andrade Keep: hold and ancient focus of the dominion of the Andrade line. The Viscount is the last of his kind in the petty kingdom, holding out against the Jarls of Calandria far longer than any other rival. When he was finally brought to swear fealty it was under the solemn promise he would still be able to lord over his lands. Course, none now know exactly what these ancestral borders were so they just refer to the whole mess along the Eume and Allons rivers as Andrade and are done with it. The vast majority of its people are focused in the old walls of Andrade Keep or the village at the ocean’s mouth.

 

Mens

(village, ranches ~800 pop)

The only settlement that strikes out a living on the ice lake Iadra, Mens greatest importance is as the transition point on the lumber exchange between Ferrol and Cea. As the merchants of Cea continue their attempts to undermine their counterparts in Muros, much money has been directed to Mens in order to make it a more viable trade route for the Ferrol wood. Before its curious rise in recent prominence, Mens was a rather unremarkable fishing and shepherding village. Though they claim the fresh water fish is far tastier than what’s pulled from the marsh or ocean, the more temperate and protected Lake Iadra makes it impossible to preserve the fish through cold drying and instead the village relies on an import of expensive salt. Mens is also the only other place with any amount of wool/mutton production outside of Castrus which is focused in the southern hills between Mens and the sprawling farmlands outside Valencia.

 

Bares

(village ~2,400 pop)

Built on the edge of the marsh delta Iliomar’s Folly and the only ancient access point to the northern ocean for Calandria before the fealty of Andrade was sworn, Bares has carved a rather prominent niche in the colder northern climes. From their floating homes, the townsfolk can still plainly see the old stone walls of the failed ancient settlement that gave the marsh its name. The primary industry of the town is the prominent stockfish production, second only to Andrade itself. Unlike Andrade, Bares pulls its product from the waters of the marsh and not the ocean. The people make use of a wide variety of the marine life found in the delta. While fish is their primary export, the people are known for even eating salamander (and the infamous salamander brandy – known for its hallucinogenic and aphrodisiac properties – which is considered illegal in… well… pretty much everywhere). The abundant plants and herbs provide a unique flavouring to Bares’ often questionable cuisine but even more importantly, it is the home of some unique plants valuable for alchemical work and a lucrative export for the town. Finally, Bares has a very prominent hunting lodge and community. The members make the trek out through the Broken Spine Uplands to the wild coastline to catch deer and caribou.

 

Ferrol

(lumber village ~1,100 pop)

Many hold that this town is the fourth fort of Calandria. A rather impressive lumber trade has developed in Ferrol and the town itself impresses first time visitors expecting some rustic, northern backwater instead of a well structured and fortified settlement. The people of Ferrol pride themselves on their craft and are capable of creating many remarkable structures and monuments from the wood they harvest in the thick Ceagulla Highlands. The palisade isn’t just an impressive show of their talents, however, as it is an important barrier against the beasts that stalk the highlands. At the height of production, one of the most impressive displays is to watch the log jammers make the voyage down the Ice River Mino on the massive rolling stacks of harvested trees. Many liken it to a portable bridge spanning the entire length of the deep river and their navigation is so expert as to be almost graceful. Outside of the massive amount of wood, Ferrol also makes use of the other treasures of the Ceagulla Highlands. Medicine and alcohol is produced from the components of the trees. Leaves and branches are used to brew a mighty spruce beer and the fresh shoots are a natural and staple source of vitamin C for the townsfolk. The leaves also maintain much of the plant’s water and bundles are carried as a portable water source. The people of Ferrol have certainly earned their nickname of Tree-Eaters.

Trolltunga by Dag Endre Opedal

Typical view of the Ridgeback Mountains. Photo taken by Dag Endre Opedal of the Trolltunga.

 

Ares

(mining town ~300 pop)

Calandria’s most eastern settlement, Ares is nestled between the thick Leyme Woods and the Ridgeback. Ares has seen recent growth with the discovery of the copper veins in the nearby mountainside. Prior it had been a less productive lumber town with production focused on the softer deciduous woods than what’s found in the hardy highlands. The woods themselves are primarily elm (Leyme is the old tongue for elm) as well as aspen, birch and willow. Outside the elm, the other woods aren’t seen nearly as valuable though the aspen is used for a number of medicinal remedies throughout the petty kingdom.

 

Noya

(village, distillery, berry farms ~200 pop)

Noya would be just another unremarkable village unworthy of mention in any almanac if it weren’t for but one thing: cranberries. All along the river Cabron, travellers can find a sea of the floating red berries being harvested. A series of natural streams snaking off the Cabron create an irrigation network that allows the villagers to easily plant and grow the vines. Then, during harvest, the villagers dam the Cabron at key locations to flood the upland stretches and make gathering the floating berries easier. Then, the winter chill comes and freezes the flooded land, locking the moisture for next year’s harvest as the Cabron dams are torn down to allow the river passage once more. The recorded residents of Noya include the village proper and the berry farmers stretching up its rivers. When not harvesting the berries, most turn to illegal hunting of wild game in the highlands or trekking to Mens for fishing. Of particular note to travellers is a small brewery in Noya which is said to make an absolutely divine cranberry liqueur.

 

The Cells

(historic site)

Situated at the foot of Bandua’s Pike is an ancient site. The old ruins are from a time and people long forgotten and most of the structure has crumbled beyond recognition. It has seen a brief revival in recent times as villagers whisper morbid tales of the Countess sending ‘undesirables’ into its darkened depths to be forgotten.

 

Forts

These settlements represent the fortified corners of Calandria. They protect the old entrances to the petty kingdom. Val Meyra guards Mantrove’s Crossing, Val Vaiera the old Sarria river entrance and Val Minor the old northern route. Valencia protected the southern portion of Castrus but grew far beyond being useful as a fortification.

 

Val Minor

(garrison ~500 pop)

The smallest of Calandria’s fortification network, Val Minor would be the weak point in the armour if the natural landscape didn’t offer its own great protection. Across the rivers lie the soaring Ridgeback Mountains; a long chain far too arduous and difficult for an army to march. While many disused paths run up its side, the locals maintain that only two passages fully cross the range. Mantrove’s Crossing to the south, guarded by Val Meyra and the traditional entry into Calandria and the legendary Northern Route which has seen no use in memory and is held to be merely legend on its own. Val Minor’s most prominent service is to guard the logging route between Ferrol and Muros/Mens from wild beasts and creatures. It’s current standing force is twice as large as necessary but after the difficulties building Arosa’s Retreat, a greater show of force has been dispatched to the region.

 

Val Vaiera

(garrison ~2,000 pop)

Not typically considered important until tensions across the lake started to rise again. The neighbouring petty kingdoms have decided to test Calandria’s age old claim to the Uplands, moving people and warriors along Aluar’s coast in defiant claim of the previously ignored land. Fearing an invasion along historical lines, Jarl Brivis has been fortifying and expanding Val Vaiera and beneath the scaffolding it is turning into the region’s most impressive fortification, second only to massive Castrus itself. A sizable dock and small fleet is also being erected in the hopes to sail patrols along the Sarria and the ocean coast as an early warning to potential invasion from sea.

 

Val Meyra

(garrison ~1,200 pop)

Second most important fort as it guards the oldest road leading into Calandria. Course, with the southern connection to the Crossroads running up to Valencia, the pass sort of idled to mediocrity but laziness and tradition had kept it the grandest and most staffed fortification until the recent necessity of fortifying and expanding Val Vaiera. Mantrove’s Crossing was the traditional route which brought the most trade in and out of Calandria as it passed through the much more manageable foothills of the Ridgebacks. However, the development of the southern kingdom’s connection to the Crossroads and increase in banditry beyond Calandria’s reach has reduced the trade passing along old Mantrove.

The Petty Kingdom of Calandria

So, I’ve taken on the stupid task of running my own D&D campaign. Which probably means I’ll spend the next few months doing tons of work and then all my players will quite after three sessions. But whatever, it does give me an excuse to flesh out the world of my D&D stories (yes, it takes place in that ludicrous world) as well as give me something new and exciting to post. Now, Derek’s done such a good job with his organization and set up that I’m just going to copy his format and pass it off as my own. Don’t tell him!

I present to you, the Petty Kingdom of Calandria!

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Lake Bondhus, Norway from wikipedia

Prototypical image of Calandria’s marriage between ocean and soaring mountains.

The Petty Kingdom of Calandria

Capital: Castrus

Population: ~ 150,000

Government: Petty Kingdom

Lord: Jarl Brivis Laranica and Countesses Arosa and Isorna Laranica

Exports: lumber, lumber and more lumber, alcohol, berries, stockfish, copper, meat, alchemical herbs

Imports: salt, silver, grains, iron, spices

Mention of the petty kingdom of Calandria is likely to stir images of rugged landscape, bitter and tart berries as well as a hardy people capable of weathering war and harsh winters with equal ease. Though it is but one of many petty kingdoms making up the northern shores, Calandria has stood out in its success at remaining independent as well as developing a fairly lucrative trade destination despite its northern climes. House Laranica has ruled for near four hundred years with an unbroken line that they claim dates back to the first voyages of the Lochlanach. The petty kingdom has a proud history that has seen kingdoms rise and fall around her. At times, they have proved to be key allies in securing victory.

Not that Calandria has only been passive in military excursions. The throne at Castrus was forged with blood and bone and even the most recent northern expansion saw the ancient house Andrade forced to submit to the Jarl’s will. And while Calandria may lack the army of grander kingdoms, the greatest defence for the land is the harsh ground itself. Its north is composed almost entirely of impenetrable forest and land that has proven difficult for even native Calandrians to inhabit. A ring of great forts have long kept the temperate heartland of the kingdom protected and high grade metamorphic rock forms a natural shield around the arable farms.

Despite its burgeoning economy, Calandrian lacks a direct connection to the Crossroads. It’s most travelled path to the south passes through several kingdoms before reaching the great trade network and its most ancient artery goes through the foothills of the Ridgeback Mountains to the east instead of south. This isolation has been a blessing and curse. It does retard the development of the kingdom, slowing natural growth due to the length and cost of transporting goods in and out. However, it does provide its own protection as many see the land unworthy of the risk and cost of a full invasion to force fealty from the stubborn line. This has created a relatively lengthy peace for Calandrians who focus more on surviving their cruel climate than questions of subjugation to greater crowns. As such, their isolation has allowed a certain Calandrian culture to start flowering. Some of their old ballads and songs are still kept in the old tongue, intriguing scholars and bards alike who come north to see these ancient holdovers. The mossy and low scrub grounds seems to hold even older secrets as its citizens continuously find ancient ruins half covered in the slow hand of greedy nature. Furthermore, the Calandrians are quite keen on the value of the natural resources within their borders. The endless trees are a constant source of quality wood for local use and export. The whitewood of Caegulla Highlands is considered some of the best for performance and many bards whisper that a magical energy runs through the chords to enhance their shows. And honest scholars attest to the rare plants and flowers that can be found in the grand marsh delta that feeds into the ocean – home to many unique flora with quite a few alchemical applications.

Making recent history is the Jarl’s throne itself. While the fortified walls of Castrus have been famous for being impenetrable, the capital historically has seen less prominence other than being a pivotal port on the great Lake Aluar. However, much intrigue has surrounded the current Jarl Brivis and his beautiful but terrible daughter Arosa. For the outside world, the stories are many and varied. But what seems clear enough is a mounting discontent towards a house historically quite popular with its citizens. Whispers of rebellion are carried on travellers’ lips and more than one crown has kept an attentive ear to the developments in that incredibly defensible land.

I lied, my personal cartographer made it, I just filled it in.

A map of Calandria. You can tell I made it because it’s so awful.

Geographical Features

Great Lake Aluar: Aluar dominates Calandria’s western borders. In fact, the traditional delineation runs along the broad Sirria river that feeds into the ocean. But few have hold on the northern coast of the lake and the Calandrian throne has assumed ownership through proximity. Given Aluar’s expansiveness, it has long been a large source of trade and travel well before the major roads were laid in Calandria’s interior. Most scholars theorize that the Calandrians themselves came from across the western waters, despite the people’s claims of kinship to seafaring Lochlanach. Aluar holds a thriving marine ecology and many kingdoms dip into its waters to fetch the fish and weeds which thrive beneath its surface. More than one tale tells of sunken ships, brought down by mysterious creatures in the lake, and holding untold riches in their watery hulls that have yet to be reclaimed.

Lake Iadra: Considered the jewel of Calandria, Lake Iadra is a frigid lake fed by the waters of the Ridgeback Mountains. During the coming or departing of winter, it is not unheard of to discover great bergs of ice floating down the river Mino. It’s primary function is to serve as transportation for the spruce logs from Ferrol and there are many log jammers who will make the long journey to Mens upon the rolling backs of an entire fleet of downed trees. Fresh water fish inhabit the deep blue lake, providing Mens with a robust fishing industry of its own. However, Iadra is better protected than the northern villages and Mens requires the importation of salt o preserve their stock, hampering profits and output. But the rugged beauty of the lake is not to be underestimated. So picturesque is it that Countess Arosa demanded a summer estate be built so she can enjoy the only place in the petty kingdom to rival her own majesty. However, after some conflict, the construction on the estate has halted and it sits like a bleached skeleton overlooking the tranquil waters.

The Frozen Lake of Meros: The Frozen Lake is a prominent symbol in Calandrian legend, despite the isolated body having only a recent history of discovery. For most the year, the elevated lake is near frozen over, with only a brief period at the height of the summer solstice providing enough heat to break portions of its skin to send adrift down from its mountain hideout. For the longest time, the Calandrian’s believed the ice was from the mountainsides themselves and once the lake was discovered, rumours and tales of evil sorcery and the touch of the fickle gods abound. But because of it’s near continuous cover, there seems to be little production made from its icy waters so it mostly serves as a curiosity to travellers, bards and scholars alike who are drawn by its various stories and scenic location.

Freya and Heimdall by Nils Blommer (1853-1919)

Artistic rendition of the return of a sacred necklace by Heimdallr’s hand and demonstrating Calandrian culture isn’t all bearskin and mud.

Bandua’s Pike: Once thought to be the headwaters of the Ice River Mino, Bandua’s Pike is the largest mountain in the Ridgeback. Its tip is perpetually white capped and is said to be the spear to have pierced the side of the great Aenir Heimdallr the White God and thusly forever stained with his precious blood. Course, no one is entirely sure who Bandua is suppose to be. General consensus is that he must be some mythological Vanir figure though the temples attest he is not mentioned in any of the poetics or prose. Some scholars speculate he was an ancient god of a forgotten pantheon whose only remembrance is the soaring mountain. Others claim he was a mighty local hero. The actual headwaters of the Mino turned out to be the less impressive Little Brothers which feed the Frozen Lake of Meros.

Ice River Mino: An incredibly frigid river and often featuring in the ever amusing Calandrian initiation ritual of dunking hapless travellers nude in its icy embrace, the river Mino. While neither the deepest or longest river, Mino does chart a stunning course along the edge of the Ceagulla Highlands and the Ridgeback Mountains. It serves as the lifeblood for the lumber town Ferrol which floats practically all of its lumber down its length. Many travellers attest to the spectacle of the Ferrol log jammers navigating their long charges through the rather turbulent rapids as both a testament to Calandrian fearlessness and almost peculiar grace while performing the most ridiculous tasks.

Iliomar’s Folly: Named after the legendary ruins found within, Iliomar’s Folly (often referred to as simply The Folly) is a large marsh delta that feeds into the ocean. It marks the point of connection between the ocean and Lake Aluar and the Calandrians maintain that their ancestors navigated its twisting paths when they first arrived. Home to an ancient ruin of an unknown people, the marsh is perhaps more famous for the people who occupy its border along the river Sarria. The peoples of Bares carve out a fairly lucrative living with the many plants and animals that live within as well as producing the grossly infamous Salamander Brandy.

Ceagulla Highlands: An enormous expanse of valuable pine and spruce that stretches right across the north of Calandria and the source of its valuable lumber economy. The whitewood is especially sought after for use in musical instruments as well as lavish interior panelling. The pulp is then used in paper production. But the Calandrian’s do not rely solely on the trees, finding riches in just about every aspect of the expansive highlands. Fireweed Honey made from the nectar of the fireweed plant has a distinct, spiced flavour. The traditional Coporye tea is created with the leaves of the trees. Cranberry and Cloudberry are large harvests but as they’re considered sour and tart respectively, the connotations have carried over to the world’s consideration of its people. In the more northern sections, bilberries are a major fruit harvest with their near black/purple colour and deep red, flesh staining pulp that makes it look as if it were meat. Lingonberry are bright red and have a distinct tart taste while blackberries and raspberries provide some much needed sweetness to their medleys. Juniper trees offer spice for flavouring both the numerous wild game (quail, pheasant, veal, rabbit, venison etc) hunted within as well as the basis for a robust distillery tradition. Many of these berries spoil easily, however, and remain a staple of the northern settlements with little export beyond the borders. Spoil easily and hard to keep so are mostly a staple of the northern settlements and see almost no export beyond the borders.

Broken Spine Uplands: The hunters of Bares say it’s named after the fact that they break their backs going through the rugged land to hunt the caribou in the wild north beyond but the name comes from a failed invasion along the western border of Calandria. Her enemies thinking they could launch a surprise attack upon the northern shores of Castrus found the terrain far too rugged and formidable to navigate easily. Even worse, the ruling Jarl heard word of the approaching army and set an ambush. The battle was grisly and the outcome “broke the spine” of the invader’s army and they were forced to flee, seeing House Laracina’s sovereignty for generations to come. The Broken Spine has traditionally seen little use in the lives of Calandrians who consider it traditionally part of their lands. Some hunters will stalk its interior but for the most part it is ignored for the more dense Ceagulla Highlands and serves mostly as a nuisance for the hunting parties that have to constantly trek through it.