The Lesser Evil wrote:
Of course, the creator would most likely claim himself High Priest of any cult and well, you know how well relations between golem and creator tend to develop after a while.
I'd go with the Planescape logic of a God deriving its power from the number of individuals who believe in it. The cult soon becomes a necessary tool for the Golem and the high priest, his creator, while increasingly annoying and bothersome, has too much of a hold on the cult. His words inspire belief and the Golem has to keep him alive and unharmed yet subservient.
A key to defeating the Golem would be to break up the cult and perhaps convince the creator that the Golem is merely a manifestation of the Gods and not a God itself. The messenger of the Gods should learn humility.
The story goes that a century or two ago a humble scholarly monk visited some far away islands where the local faith encouraged their followers to develop literacy. Even the poorest farmer should be able to read their equivalent of holy scriptures if he is to achieve illumination, he was told.
His visit brought him to reconsider his own religious order's views on the evils of the pen and infused him with a new mission: to protect and promote literacy among all of those who walk the earth.
Thus he formed the Order of the Quill, a loosely organized group of like-minded scholars who shared his ideal of a highly literate world. Over time the Order would expand its mission to protecting not merely the concept of literacy but the physical tomes themselves by preserving, restoring, and archiving various works.
Given the high costs of such activities, the Order agreed to finance themselves through the copying of rare and obscure manuscripts which they would then sell to wealthy patrons from various walks of life.
The Order was thus forced to assign certain roles to its members with some relegated to copying the tomes or maintaining the inventory while others scoured the land in search of forgotten works.
As one might suspect such a service is bound to attract unwanted attention from authorities. The Order has no rule as to what should and should not be copied or otherwise preserved, or should we say they have a single rule: all that is written is worth protecting. Be it to protect the moral integrity of the populace or to avoid the proliferation of sensitive information, some individuals have kept a close eye on the Order, yet others see their services as invaluable and thus they continue to exist thanks to this conflict.
At this point the Order operates mostly out of the more advanced domain of Dementlieu but the network of operatives is quite widespread and rumours say that the somewhat secretive inner circle of the Order keeps a massive library hidden somewhere in a remote location far from prying eyes and those who object to their mission.
Fyra would have been in no way exceptional were it not for her interest in storytelling. Oh, it's not that dwarves don't have stories. They too have their tales and their legends.
No, what made her different was her constant desire for tales and the way with which she would weave the improbable into otherwise quite mundane stories.
Moreover, she desired an audience. She felt wise and wished to share her wisdom with a barbaric world.
Most just grumbled that she seemed somewhat less keen on the harsh physical labour needed to restore their city. While the majority of her fellow citizens toiled endlessly under the burning sun, she would moralize and proselytize.
Her stories featured a stoic and handsome man whose singular character and sheer strength allowed him to bring about the greatest monument to the individual's ever toiling soul. A gleaming beacon of hope that rewarded the true with pure crystalline water.
Barunus, her brother, felt slighted by her growing disdain for others. The constant belittling of their collective efforts as masquerade pushed him to challenge her, hoping to capitalize on her ego to bring her to actually lift a hammer or a pick once in a while as opposed to a quill.
He pretended to admire the fabulous fountain from her latest story, suggesting in no uncertain way that their city would be far better with such a great monument in it.
She agreed, in fact, anyone with any sense would realize that her story was not just a mere tale to entertain the soul but a stern warning against the parasites that infest society. Building the fountain would be inspiring to be sure...
Barunus then proposed that she handle the project herself much as her characters would. More importantly, that she go about this task alone as no one in her tales ever required any assistance (a sign of weakness, of course). And only a true genius such as her could understand how to bring about this fantastic construct.
Fyra was initially wary, but her brother's compliments reached her ego and so she announced that she would forgo everything until the fountain was built.
The work required years as finding the proper stones, polishing, and cutting them as needed was not easy. However, for an Athasian dwarf, such tasks were expected of all.
Fyra's brother came and showered her with praise for her diligent work, but would the fountain not reward her inner strength and fortitude with pristine water? Anyone can build a fountain, but only a truly special individual could lay claim to a permanent source of clean water that only served those worthy of it.
He was right, of course. But how would she go about it? Clearly magic would be required, druidic magic.
For a decade she scoured the land looking for a druid capable and willing to help in her endeavour. Most felt she was insane or far too self involved, who ever heard of a fountain "rewarding" individuals with water if deemed "worthy". Only one with no knowledge of nature's secrets could misconstrue its workings in such a way.
Finally, after 30 years her search brought her to a strange halfling druid who had grown old and was abandoned by his tribe. He would help, but in his old age hunting and devouring his favourite animal had become difficult. Elves are too fast, he would argue, and he couldn't hunt them anymore.
Were she to provide him with enough fresh meat, he would entertain her project to the best of his considerable ability.
With a sharp mind like hers it wouldn't take much effort to secure a few slaves for the feast, but the old halfling was in a bit of a hurry as he did say that his health had seen better days and could hear his ancestral home beckoning him to join it forever.
The deed was dirty and surprisingly expensive, but the elderly druid had his fill of taut elven flesh.
It would take many months for them to reach the city again, and the halfling looked worse for wear. He was unimpressed and quipped that he never did understand the dwarven obsession with building "these soulless things of stone and mortar".
Insults aside, she begged him to bring about the incantation.
The halfling had made no promises except that he would try but just as he prepared to enter his trance and communicate with the spirits of the land, a dark figure struck him.
Like a dwarf turned inside out, the creature was devoid of flesh save for a few scraps hanging precariously from its powerful frame. With a mighty roar it tore down the fountain and turned its gaze Fyra.
"Storyteller... tell me your tale..." it said in a raspy voice.
Fyra was livid, who was this banshee? Who had he been in his life? She asked for his name, fearless and defiant.
"Tell me a story... I have no more walls to tear down, entertain this request..."
Fyra clenched her fists and began pummelling the half-tangible creature, ripping chunks of sinewy muscle from its frame while recalling the story of... well... truth is, the story was now her story. The fountain was HER fountain. The toil entirely hers. She told the undead creature of her labour and of the sacrifices. She told him of the years spent walking from city to city seeking rumours and hearsays about the whereabouts of elusive druids.
As her tale reached its conclusion, she cursed the nameless creature. It laughed and with a final sigh, answered "Ghedran... no one you would know... no one anyone would know..."
Indeed, a faceless name. She could barely remember what he looked like in life. He was one of the parasites who probably stood by as other toiled, one who understood that he could gain by association more than by hard work. A filthy faceless parasite.
Ghedran faded away into the shadows as other banshees rose from the ruins chanting in unison, a worker's song, a song of unity and fraternity.
Now, Fyra rules in a way. While she despised rulers in life, she has become one herself as she needs others to accomplish various menial tasks. The fountain still lies in ruin and until which time she finds a druid capable of bringing forth water of exceptional purity from the scorched, blasted earth beneath the now repaired city, she refuses to see anyone bring her vision to life again.
The city itself grows as it should have had all the dwarves not been killed by that unfortunate encounter with a ferocious hungry dead and his court. The only living souls are slaves forced to work for Fyra either as bards (she cannot write her stories herself) or as agents looking for a druid.
Infants, children, and other dependants are often kept imprisoned with the promise of freedom in exchange for finding someone who will bring life to the fountain.
A mistway forms between Forlorn and Falkovnia/Lekar. A few the lower ranks of Drakov's goons accidentally come through and get bushwhacked by goblyns, zombie wolves, or the malevolent ghosts of Castle Tristenoira. In any case, this gets Tristen's attention, and eventually he sends of his goblyns to investigate. They poke around Lekar, and for the most part are put to the pike in return. However, a couple of them make it back with tales of living vampires (the vampyres) similar to Tristen himself. Now Tristen believes he's found some kindred spirits like himself, and wants to learn more about them- maybe they have a way to escape his curse.
How will he learn more about them? Will he try to send more of his goblyns? Or will he entreat with more intelligent denizens of the forest, like neutral passer by adventurers? Meanwhile, how will the Falkovnians react to having a potential threat right at their front door?
"We never saw anyone so fat before. He was looking like he could burst out of his clothes; his belt was stretched to its limits. He was walking slowly out of the mists and no one knew what to make of him. We thought he might be one of those fellows from Borca or something, what with those colours."
"It bore colours, colours one would associate with individuals of higher birth. Not at all out of place in Borca, I would say, but the style was all wrong. Not to mention the blueish tinge to its skin and pale eyes."
"A belly distended... a body beheaded... the face of despair as bloody stumps appear everywhere!"
"Alfie laughed at him, not to his face mind you, only to us. Alfie probably thought he couldn't understand us, and I'm not sure if he did or not, but when he came closer we noticed his face was as blue as his shirt and he didn't look too good."
"Zhakata help us. The beast opened its maw. The blackness inside the gaping hole was mesmerizing. Does The Great Devourer walk the among us?"
"It ATE him! It swallowed his arm! It made no sense! How??? How could it swallow a whole arm??? It was fat, yes, but no bigger than any man!"
"We were lucky, just as it turned to us, these... these guys came from the mists to feed on the bloody leftovers. The scavengers were NOT welcome and it turned to them, cracking their bones with a mighty grip. They fought for a while then the mists took them away... Thank goodness..."
"Stories say that long ago the voracious appetites of men would be punished by the Gods. For their gluttony they would forever hunger in the after life. Alas, the Gods are not always merciful and the punishment of the glutton is also our cross to bear..."
"Educated guesses suggest some form of hungry dead, by all appearances recently revived. Possibly the work of a twisted curse. Reports however leave us with the possibility of a well preserved ancient dead as his clothes betray a life of opulence in a time long since passed. Then again, it isn't impossible that the individual originates from some far away land. In any case, the reports are alarming."
"The big man ate my family."
"The little ones and the big one fought. He kept killing them until they disappeared."
"I was cowering behind the houses, I will not lie. I saw it open its mouth wide enough to swallow a small animal. It was like a nightmare! Imagine a man opening his mouth that way! I fell ill almost immediately."
"It spoke, a little, but I didn't understand its words."
"It spoke with the men who followed him, they were listening... for a few minutes... then they rushed past and devoured everything they could scavenge. Some were missing limbs or clearly the victim of major trauma."
"The men wore clothes of various types, but most seemed dressed in a similar manner to simple peasants. Earth tones, rope belts, simple stitching... They looked ravenous, especially the ones feeding."
"'Heard the stories goin' round... ne'er thought I'd see it myself... They came in, maybe 20 of them... Carried the fat blob on a chair... no a throne... a stupid throne, like kids would make. Like playin' king or somethin'... I laughed, I laughed like a madman when they dropped him... The first guy, he just dropped, 'splat!' just like that. No juice left, empty. The others gave up. Then they chewed some girl's face off and I stopped laughin'..."
The above quotes have been collected by Professor Duwain, a respected man of science who has followed the trail of the "feasting king" for some time.
The title comes from the obvious noble origins and desire to be treated as a ruler along with the carnage that follows him.
Duwain has selected the above as representative of key characteristics and habits, as well as documenting potential changes in the creature's said habits.
Duwain's latest notes include warnings that the beast is unpredictable, appearing seemingly randomly through the mists. Also, it seems increasingly able to control its followers or at least is attempting to "tame" them.
So we've seen the dune runner, the fael, and the dwarven banshee... what creature will I now purloin from the Dark Sun campaign?
The Tempest
Mothers tell their children that powerful storms are not merely scary, but dangerous. Every year, careless travelers and wayward children disappear in a storm.
The violent rain and unrelenting winds are bad enough, but the addition of angry thunder and crashing bolts of lightning make any storm an even more extremely unpleasant experience.
Yet locals somehow feel that the storms themselves are still not frightening enough, so they add tales of monsters that either make their home in the pouring rain or simply lie in wait for easy, isolated prey.
In Tepest, goblins speak of a fearsome rain beast who will devour them whole were they to step out into the storm. The story finds echo in old wives' tales with dire warnings of traveling during a storm.
Old Eygir swears that she saw it herself one night. She was caught in a flash storm while picking berries and couldn't find shelter. As the rain fell all around her, she heard a sound louder than the thunder, a low rumbling, almost a growl.
A flash of lightning startled her and revealed shining eyes and scales in the wall of rain before a toothy maw tried to bite her hand. She lost a few fingers that night and blames the "rain snake".
The beast is a rain drake which possesses the ability to effectively "swim" in the rain. It travels through storms, devouring what it can indiscriminately. Without rain, the creature tries to find a moist hiding place where it can hibernate until the next storm wakes it.
Found this old legend... Definitely some inspiration to be had.
From Wikipedia:
The story goes that the ship was at sea on 13 February, 1748, because her captain, Simon Reed (in some accounts named Simon Peel), had just been married, and was celebrating the occasion with a cruise. According to several accounts, the ship was bound for Oporto in Portugal. Despite the longstanding sailors' superstition that it was bad luck to bring a woman on board, Reed had brought his bride Annetta with him on the ship.
According to legend, the first mate, John Rivers, a rival for the hand of the captain's young wife, was pacing the decks in jealous anger. While the captain, his wife and their guests were celebrating the marriage below deck, the first mate was seized with a fit of jealous rage. Casually drawing a heavy, club-like belaying pin from the rail, the mate walked softly up behind the crew member at the wheel and felled him to the deck with one crushing blow. Rivers then seized the wheel and steered the ship onto the treacherous Goodwin Sands, killing everyone aboard.
Harkon Lukas may dream of being the leader of men in some great, modern capital but this in no way means that he would allow anyone to defile his somewhat modest domain.
It started recently when reports came to him that isolated patches of woodland had somehow been burned. However the circle of ashes and dust was near perfect and obviously not natural. Furthermore, just outside the circle of ashes and dirt one could see that the grass and leaves were slightly wilted as if the very essence of life had been drained away.
A further incident took the life of a wolf with no direct cause of death visible save its emaciated frame marked by large bald patches where the fur had fallen out.
No sign of a struggle, no wounds, nothing.
Obviously magic was involved, but for what purpose?
The answer would be clear to anyone from Kalidnay or Athas. Defiling magic, a long forbidden path wherein the mage uses the very essence of life as fuel for magic. Minor incantations can wilt grass and cause some unpleasant queasiness in sentient beings while powerful ones may reduce an entire forest to dust.
Defiling magic being Unknown in most circles, Lukas will be hard pressed to find the guilty party and may be unable to confront the individual directly.
Truth is, the defiler in question is a vassalich defiler whose mistress' disembodied conscience inhabits his own mind. Her alien thoughts have taken a toll on his psyche along with the somewhat incomplete process of becoming undead.
After a rather unfortunate skirmish with Thakok-An, Arisphistaneles' lich mistress forced her conscience to flee the now broken physical shell and enter one of her phylacteries... the closest being hidden within her disciple's body.
It was supposed to be an experiment, to see if she could use an unassuming individual such as her disciple to smuggle her to safety. However she hadn't planned on using it without prior tests.
The process slowly turned Arisphistaneles into an undead due to the presence of the then stunned conscience of his mistress. Not quite comprehending the situation he fled the city state out of fear of being associated with the lich. The mist welcomed the duo and brought them to Harkon Lukas' home, a lush domain where towering trees dominate the landscape.
The conscience of the lich is unable to fully take over the body but has enough agency to allow the disciple to cast spells he would normally be unable to even attempt comprehending - but with limitations.
She spends her "waking" time insulting him and pushing him to find a solution, hence the constant draining of life.
Last edited by Zettaijin on Thu May 28, 2015 2:22 am, edited 2 times in total.
"How did he die?" Alkar asked . "I have seen this before in the Frozen Wastes." said the traveler "He froze to death. With the body frozen solid a few hours before." Alkar asks "How could this happen here in Pharazia? We have to find out as it is the fourth one this week." The answer is an insane sorcerer with cone of cold in his spell list is wandering around freezing people who have failed to lead him out of the domain.
Lieutenant Guillaume never once wavered as he approached the Falkovnian troops. For his Captain he would make the ultimate sacrifice, but as everything went black all he could see were his men falling.
This would not do. Falkovnia would not rule over Dementlieu for as long as his body remained able and only a firm offensive could prevent these monsters from taking over.
By sheer strength of will he rose from the battlefield and turned his eyes to the defending army and then to his own men. Or what was left of them.
He charged forward felling a few obviously surprised soldiers, no doubt amazed that a wounded man would continue fighting to his last breath.
When Guillaume recovered he was far from the battlefield, in fact, he recognized it as the resting place of those who died honourably fighting for the Four Towers.
Once he managed a peloton of almost fifty brave men, now he was alone. Once he was part of Captain Le Large's proud compagnie and his most trusted lieutenant, now he was surrounded by the dead.
This was unacceptable and he couldn't hope of facing his superior officer without a proper peloton at his command.
Ah but the young are such cowards these days, no fortitude, no drive, and so frivolous. He remembers the cowards from his peloton fleeing before the barbaric Falkovnians and thought to himself that he needed nothing but the best even if it meant travelling the farthest reaches of the land to find them.
Of course, Guillaume understands that he is dead however he refuses to fully acknowledge it. He can raise the dead to serve as corporeal ghosts in his army and can "feel" the presence of a strong soldier. Mere fighters and brawlers will not attract his attention, only soldiers.
When they rise from the dead, the soldier will appear in the finest military outfit of the rank and file of the company he served in life.
Confronting Guillaume about his undeath or about the slippery ethics involved in raising an army of the dead will provoke him into combat.
He will not tolerate anyone showing any visible signs of being of Falkovnian origin and attack these individuals immediately.
Guillaume will not retreat and shall fight until his body is dispersed into mist. Once dismissed, his soldiers cannot be brought back a second time and Guillaume must find a replacement.
If Guillaume were to "recruit" all 50 members of his platoon, he would return to the Falkovnian battlefield where he met his end to challenge Drakov's men again.
Only a direct order from his former Captain will allow his soul to rest.
The Piras, Alessandro and Fiore, are botanists who have travelled far and wide to build their extensive collection of rare specimens. From the swamps of Souragne to the Amber Wastes to the Barovian peaks, they've spent considerable resources and time finding and cataloguing the various forms of fauna found in the misty lands.
Recently, a benefactor of theirs came to their door with an unusual little tree. The potted plant was bearing a fruit that seemed almost ridiculously large for its shrivelled frame and bushy leaves.
The gourd shaped, pear like fruit bore no odour and seemed quite fatal to small animals. Its pale yellow flesh was fairly tender and lacked any visible seed.
The tree has yet to bear a second fruit and the couple are actively looking to find its origins.
It so happens two rivals are also looking for the tree, one a powerful woman and retired gladiator by the name of Aral-Kur, the other a flamboyant mentalist known as Merskin.
Both know the truth of the tree and seek its fruit as its consumption could bring them eternal life as a Kaisharga.
The problem is that both of these individuals are arrogant and callous not to mention quite unfamiliar with the various ways of people in the core as Kalidnay natives would be, making quite a fuss in Borca and irritating both Ivan and Ivanna.
A person looking remarkably like Tatyana appears in the domain of Forlorn, although she definitely seems to be a Forfarian. For the the first time, Strahd has a reason to pay attention to the forsaken woods that neighbor his domain.
Zettaijin wrote:Good one, Lesser Evil! I was looking into Forlorn to see if I could come up with anything but was coming up empty. Nice work!
Hey thanks! I've been trying to give the smaller domains some attention. I'm finding the trick is coming up with ways to get hooks for domains with limited, er... domain is to find ways to (plausibly) connect things that weren't necessarily connected before.
