A Thought On Bothering

 For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to be an author. I love storytelling. The appeal of sharing thoughts in a meaningful way with strangers is as much of an appetizing trait as it is a horrifying one. The creation of entire worlds, intricate designs and people, is nothing short of beautiful.

My brother was the first to introduce me to creative writing sometime in the 6th or 7th grade. We're twins, so the ability to communicate information or hobbies to one another was as quickly said and done as breathing. At least in comparison to our other siblings. He was a font of inspiration to me. I remember the stories he built being captivating, even though we were both poor pale novices. He fuels my passion still.

I must have begun trying to write sometime shortly after. 7th grade was when our school system started pushing the "creative" aspect of English class, which I suppose I'm grateful for. Although I still find it funny how a course about writing and literature is called English. It makes sense why it's called that, but it's just silly, y'know? A bit like calling mesoamerican history just Spanish.

Anyway, I wrote a couple short stories and dreamed a couple dreams. Started the long process of perfecting some kind of alabaster monolith of "good writing." Whatever that might mean. Storytelling is weird for so many reasons, but in my mind, it's a pain for two big ones; ability and consistency.

Your ability to actually produce content is in a constant state of hanging off the clothesline. If you cannot create work in a way that people are both drawn to and enjoy, you will not succeed.

Your consistency then, your ability to create more works in that same style time and time again, is even more critical. If you cannot captivate your audience like you did when you first skated onto the ice as a toddler, you will not succeed. 

It's a bit like this. What a cool fucking image.

And it's horrible! And there's probably a whole load of reasons why it is the way it is, but at the moment, I'm just wallowing in the fact that it's horrible. I have no guarantee that anyone will read my work even as I write this. Nobody. Not at all. Even if I came out onto the ice in my nice pants, skates neatly laced, and hair nicely done in a cute little bow. It's something I've had to come to terms with. Not that it's something I've come to terms with recently, but rather something that I ended up coping with a long time ago that still props up occasionally to ask for sugar.

So what do you do about it?

Write For Yourself

What a bullshit response.

Not that I necessarily disagree with it; it's a mantra that I intrinsically relate to, at least on a gut-feeling level of comprehension. It's reasonable enough to be simple. It's straightforward, but that doesn't make it any less bullshit. As a state of reference, writing should, first and foremost, be for yourself. You never know if anyone is gonna read your content. Save for yourself. That's forever. That's a googol. Because when the sun concaves on itself and this planet is reduced to a smouldering pile of pebbles on the inside of God's shoes, nobody is gonna know a damn thing about whatever it is you wrote on the back of that receipt.

That does not mean you shouldn't write for other people. You should be aware that you, the author, should be content with it first, regardless of who it reaches.

Of course, most people don't want to think about this outcome. I don't, nor do I want it to be my work's future. I want to create not just because I have all this weird stuff in my head that I want to release, but because I want to share it with people! What good are these ideas if I cannot feed them to others? If I cannot add to the great lexicon of the universe's most extraordinary works? I don't think I want to be some viral superstar, far from it. But I do want to entertain the world in a way that's both palpable and enticing. Several issues muddle things up, but that isn't the point. 

So, I want to share it with the world while also accepting that it may be forever unknown. That sucks. What else?

Market Your Content

This one is slightly less bullshit. In fact, I'd even be guilty of calling it a good idea! It's pretty much a given that the best way to get your writing out into the stratosphere is to actually put it there. Social media, Twitter, Tumblr, and Blogger; are great ways to get your content onto the internet. Because the internet is where everything is happening, always, all the time.

Posting on social media privately is good because you're getting it out of your head and onto a public space. It's fantastic for note-taking and having an accessible way to organize all of your thoughts. The only issue is that you're posting it privately, hidden away, making it the same as writing notes in your dream journal. The difference is that you can make it public on a whim. There's no need to transcribe work that's already online. All it takes is a single click, a hashtag or two, and suddenly your work becomes a very tangible thing.

But remember: just because it exists doesn't mean anyone will see it. We accepted that fact earlier. But we can make it visible, and that's what marketing is. In the same way you'd peddle a book or a product, you can advertise your work. That is good. Let's do that.

Social Media is a lot like a billboard. It's big, obnoxious, and potentially dangerous.

Marketing is a bit like knocking door-to-door on people's digital doorstep. You'll have a door slammed in your face most of the time, but occasionally someone will leave it open. This is good, and it's far superior to just letting things collect dust in your portfolio. Advertisement is how people accumulate viewers. It'll probably be slow and, in some cases, costly, but it's also full of potential. You've gone from getting 0 new subscribers to potentially 1 or 2. That's progress, and progress is good.

Some Last Thoughts

I can't keep writing this forever. I know I could, but that'd just mean it would float around in my drafts for a million years, and that's precisely what this post is arguing against. So what's my point with this? Why even write it in the first place?

To be honest with you, I have no idea. I just felt like I needed to write it, so I did. 

That's another point I've argued here, I suppose. It's pretty standard (at least in my circles) that you'll heed some advice from others which boils down to "don't think about writing, just write." 

It's decent advice, but I feel like it's missing something. I'm guilty of giving this kind of advice. I don't really think it's thoroughly good, so let me use this opportunity to correct  course a bit.

You should think about your writing. In the same way, you probably shouldn't try pantsing your way through an entire novel, don't just turn your brain off and write nonsense. You should consider what makes an idea exciting or, at the very least, what makes it special to you. Instead of framing it as just writing without a thought in the world, write what you want to write. Talk about what you love, hate, or just think is cool. Don't be afraid to write blog after blog about the passage of migratory bird patterns or the metaphysical implications of a four-dimensional fart. Because that's you. And that's cool.

Fear that nobody will be interested is worse than nobody actually being interested. It's pulling the plug before conception. I don't know everything I want to know. Hell, I don't even know what I want to know yet. But I'm changing and learning and just as excited to explore as I am to create. I know it'll be far from perfect, and I'm certainly aware that I might just be writing into the void. But that's okay.

Because when the sun does explode, I will take satisfaction in the fact that, out of a gazillion works of art on the internet, mine too will be destroyed. 

I did it.

The Storm Eternal, Pt. 1

 

P.A. Nisbet

Note: All of modern history is referred to as Post-Storm. This means that the current year would be written as 2022-PS. There is no written history preserved before this time, as it was either torched or lost to the ruins. 

When The Old World died over 400 years ago, many assumed that the end times had come. Screaming in terror as liquid night drooped over their heads and swallowed up the sun. Great pillars of lightning bundled together and struck the earth like hammers. It was a time of equal parts tragedy and horror, but mostly one of change.

In the time before, Bromeiles was an anarcho-primitivist's paradise; Tribal cultures were king. Small communities of nomadic people dominated the continent from coast to coast. Mankind was alone (as far as they were concerned) and thrived due to it. Various ethnic groups propagated the landscape, complete with their own unique customs and scattered communes, with none more prominent than the Roussili.

The Roussili are river folk. Their own namesake is a progenitor of The River Roussillon, a roaring stream which cut through the continent into two discernable halves. They are the most populous of the humans on Bromeilles. Their settlements originated from both sides of the River Roussillon, scattered threads from coast to near-coast. They are a proud people, an arrogant one at that, and it is that arrogance which leads (in part) to their eventual position as "founders" of The Republic.

Michal Karz

It was the druids who first noticed the signs. The coughing gust of winds. Blackened clouds the shape of inkblots. It was all reminiscent of a vile tornado, an omen encroaching slowly on the horizon. But the first mark of illness was no wind but light and a crackling ball of electricity. The records now call it Le Mauvais œil (The Evil Eye), but many argue its proper name was L'oeil des cochons. The Eye of Pigs.

This ball of static fire was the forerunner. It hung from the sky like a pendulum on electric strings. As it spun, dark clouds formed, and fields burned beneath it. With each swing, bolts of lightning carved trenches in the earth. 

The children of these circles say that there were many such conduits. (under whispered tones, as if horrified that merely speaking of the event may summon it again.) Others argue that there was only one. This discourse doesn't do much other than spawn arguments between bitter astrologists, but it at least keeps them occupied. Nobody knows the truth, after all.

As you might have noticed, all of these images are heavily overcast.

There was a mixed reaction to the storm's first appearance. Although strange, there was hardly anything that could be done to prevent the great event, and what was the point in assuming it was anything more than some natural phenomenon? 

Not all of the settlements which clambered together during the storm had been nomadic. Some (many roussili) had formed small towns or villages, held together with wooden palisades and piled stones for walls. They were shoddy even for their standards, but they were better than exposure to the open elements. Hundreds clambered to these forts, hoping to be sheltered from the increasingly darkening sky. Many of the dead are said to have spawned from these towns. A poor location, idiotic harbouring, or simply bad luck was all it took for an entire section to be wiped from reality. An electric current through a weathervane. A tornado on an open plain. Simple starvation.

Thunder roared with pouring rain for days on end. Lightning struck barns and trees, torching cattle and settling forests ablaze. The weather seemed to fight with veiled malevolence, a threat of some vile consciousness targeting the land. But there was still hope in the eyes of the needy. Perhaps this was all a haughty storm. A bad dream gave too much thought. Villages flocked together in communion, fear in their hearts, in the conjoined belief that this too shall pass. And so it was that the rain did revert to drizzle, and the clouds returned to silence.

But the blackness remained, for it had swallowed up the sun and all of its light. And for twenty days and twenty nights, the world was plunged into nothingness. A glance into the void.

That's on purpose.

Humans do not have darkvision. The closest comparison we have is a form of low-light vision, but even that is more or less subpar. We can see in the dark, but our ability to navigate in said darkness is better said than done, especially when likened to tigers and other predators. 

Spending upwards of a month in complete and utter darkness is not a beneficial scenario for your race's continued existence. Especially when you can't see anything. That doesn't even consider that the pitch-black void isn't the only problem. The storm is still there; the rain, the mud, the lightning. Natural predators are still wandering the woods. (albeit pretty blind, but not nearly as blind as you.) There's also the other stuff.

The Storm Eternal is not something I can explain in a single post. Well, I can, but it would either be a milquetoast rant or a page far longer than anyone would comfortably want to read. It'd probably be both. This is also for archiving my own thoughts, and so I'd prefer it to be in a digestible format! So, I'll definitely come back to this. I feel there's a lot of information here (both shared and not yet discussed) that is more or less paramount to understanding what exactly is happening in a lot of Bromeilles.

Or you could just skip this and pick up the pieces from whatever else I write. I don't judge.

What's On Your Mind, Then?

 I made this blog first and foremost as an outlet to express a bunch of ideas. This is not an airtight sort of logic, as what I define as "expression" and "ideas" can vary wildly based on the seasons, but I'll try to make things make sense. Also, I get to share my thoughts with internet people! How fun!

Let's start with the basics: campaign settings.

Bromeilles is a continent literally cracked by warfare and strife. An unknown cosmological event some 400 years ago invoked a massive storm which formed over the landscape, effectively destroying whatever fragments of everyday life remained. The storm's still there, albeit in many ways dormant. The sun's been obscured for centuries. There are no traditional Gods; the closest thing to organized religion are cults worshipping primordial entities. The largest nation is a dishevelled, french-inspired republic, which has sat on the precipice of annihilation for effectively half its lifespan.

Magic is accessible but ridiculously dangerous. An impossibly diverse cast of intelligent bug-people lives in tandem with other humanoids. Monstrosities, demons, and an entire alien civilization (complete with what remains of their species) have appeared in the world since the storm first struck. The main themes of the setting are belief, war, transmutation, curiosity and decay. Hard fantasy is my jam, so I attempt to keep everything in this world consistent with one another. It isn't easy, but it sure is fun.

Oh, also, rumours can create bloodthirsty monsters.

Seraphine is a hellhole in a shimmering ribbon. All the continents and their islands are a part of one combined government, with a pantheistic church to boot. Conflict is centred moreso around culture wars and sociological struggles than hateful neighbouring states. Language is as quintessential here as pissing. Infighting is everywhere, chaos roams in pockets throughout the world, yet The State holds firm. A massive fog bank hangs a few miles off the shore of the farthest landmasses. A vaporous glacier in all directions.

Sainthood is simultaneously a tremendous honour and the most terrible of curses. Anything that hasn't yet been built is razed or domesticated. Corpses roam the street in church garb. Heads are tied together by their locks and used for incense burning. The collectivist government is actively combating threats from the (self-proclaimed) riders of the apocalypse, who cry for the end of days behind the fog wall. The moon shifts between vibrant colours to signal the coming of various seasons or holidays, many of which cause a violent change in the world. Aspects of divinity itself roam the land atop chariots of boiling mercury, while others inhabit the cities of which their shrines reside, healing the hungry and feeding the sick.

It's currently the least developed of my settings, but I'm excited to learn more about it.

The City of Light is a gigantic complex somewhere around half the size of Nevada. It's also smack dab in the middle of actual Nevada, in a post-post-apocalypse version of the United States of America. This is my Cyberpunk™ setting, and it's also by far the oldest of the three stated here. A series of fledgling and experienced megacorporations fight for a majority share of the city (big shocker, there) while the undercity bubbles beneath. A catastrophic war between the companies resulted in the nuclear annihilation of one and the subsequent peace negotiations that followed. As a partial consequence of those accords, the city has been divided into segments; generous swathes of land and industry meant to keep the city alive. The megacorps are intended to keep the city fed rather than milking it dry. Each megacorp supplies a critical portion of civil support.

Body augmentation is heavily prevalent. 99% of people possess at least a simple modification or robotic prosthetic. Entertainment is one of the beating hearts within the city, an aspect that the spirit of Vegas keeps alive, although the actual city of Las Vegas hasn't existed for decades. Full-body augers exist, having replaced just about everything but their soul with machine parts. Automatons and intelligent machines are prevalent, though not quite yet commonplace. A large swath of Nevada desert remains accessible outside of the city's walls, lived in by many, but the various checkpoints and borders past it are nothing short of a mystery to what lies beyond. Nothing departs from the city save for megacorp business, yet even the founders rarely leave.

The president of the united states is alive and well, busy enough with European politics and a rising wave of monarchist nationalism.

There is not enough time or space in a single post for me to give this thing justice, from intricacies surrounding the failed management of a megacorporation by a spoiled teenager to the black-room drama of runner gangs "scavenging" impromptu donors.

What else then? Well, I love history, art, and music. I'm fascinated by sociology and all the intricacies it entails. I also just like to talk about stuff. So, that's probably what I'll do! 

Sand Moles

The deûlémain know them as dire moles, but most of the world calls them emeridae. They live amongst most of the beaches on the cracked continent and are a piecemeal menace to its inhabitants.

Emeridae are distantly related to giant crabs, lacking their cousins' pincers or widened stance in exchange for a hard, barrel-shaped carapace. Their limbs are long, hooked appendages which lock loosely into position underneath their bodies, allowing them to glide effortlessly across rushing sand or tides. An emeridae's eyes consist of a half-dozen black sprouts. A bundle rests on each side of the head, which projects through a thin hole bored on each flank. This peeking only occurs when submerged, preferring to otherwise keep their antennae safely within their shells.

An emeridae possesses twenty-two limbs of various sizes, most of which are specialized in digging through soft sediments. Using several shoehorn-like tools at the ends of their stems, they're capable of scooping considerable amounts of material from underneath. This allows entire packs to drop below the beach floor in just a second. They are slow creatures (no quicker than a moderately excited pig), but their movement potential increases exponentially once below ground.

Emeridae are Imps. There are many different kinds of imp — the majority of which being non-aware subspecies — that exist in discordant harmony throughout the realms. Many subspecies become cattle stock or mounts for various organizations, while others remain suitable as labourers within imp colonies. Imps have a word to distinguish these labour-beasts from other impkin ('Svnth' like Synth), a distinction most other cultures lack.

An average female grows between 0.9m and 2.0m (3 to 6.5 feet) in length, with males maturing somewhere just shy of their mates. Emeridae gather in packs, with egg-bearing mothers at the peak of its hierarchy. Emeridae give birth to clutches of bright, baseball-sized orange eggs, which they hold tightly against the undersides of their body. These eggs are brittle to the touch like hydrogel balls and a coveted ingredient in stews. They are violently protective of these clutches.

They are conscious but not intelligent. Imps possess a limited line of communication with them, which boils down to a limited form of speak with animals. Negotiating with an emeridae often revolves around the basic understanding of "leave us alone, and we'll leave you alone." They have no need for treasure but collect it in troves, both for clueless bedding and as a ribbon to bargain with. Emeridae dens lie several feet beneath the beach floor, massive dugout rooms held wide by whatever trash or treasure they manage to scavenge from adventurers. 

Emeridae Den Loot

1. A dead adventurer (50% still wearing their equipment).

2. 350sp in various coinage.

3. A half-eaten giant tuna.

4. A mage's lost robes.

5. Forgotten crates from a shipwreck.

6. A dead emeridae (25% of being female, holding eggs).

Round.

Don't mess with a mother and her children.

An emeridae has no concerns for the nature of its surroundings. All it wishes to do is live beneath its rocky beaches or sandy shores, utterly free of interruption, until the day its eggs hatch and it dies. They do not go out of their way to fight trespassers, often too busy hunting fish from the sands beneath the deep tide. This does not make them ambivalent. Those in a pack who are not spent hunting or digging their burrows will violently undermine those who step atop their grounds. Hunters of the emeridae's shells or eggs will oft find themselves sucked beneath the beach by the imp's talons. What limbs aren't tipped in scooping horns are adorned in frills and spikes.

The imps can clamber to the topmost layer of sediment, grab a fully-grown man with their claws, and then fall back beneath the sands in just over a second. They move through sand like water, grasp flesh like velcro. They do not consume human flesh, but their corpses still litter the burrows.

Beyond their own flesh and eggs, emeridae are considered valuable for their carapace, which possesses impressive durability while maintaining buoyancy. Witches will occasionally travel to beach burrows to dig for eggs, then used for alchemical purposes or bred as pets. A domestic emeridae provides an excellent familiar, serving as guard and breeding stock.

Emeridae can "coast" with the ocean tides, digging up to the surface whenever the waves wash or recede. This natural movement allows entire colonies to scurry from point to point. Sailors watch for Emeridae movements, tracking their round bodies flying down the beach as a sign of nearby fishing grounds. Imagine this but faster, larger, and with a lot more barbs.

Meet: Skullcrusher

This is part two. Click here for part one.

Conflict is a way of life in Jacquet. Every man, woman, or child has had some sort of fight to rationalize in their daily lives. Someone hasn't had their thorn bushes flower in weeks. Others have a debt to pay with loan sharks or neighbours. Nobody has a peaceful, boring life in Jacquet because peace implies you aren't doing anything with it.

And so, every week, the coliseum fills for the bloody festivities. Mostly gladiatorial events or brawls between beasts (a shmuck fighting a bear is typically seen as pretty one-sided for the bear and therefore boring). Sometimes a particularly rowdy gentleman will sign themselves up to settle an old rivalry. Fistfights over unpaid debts are frequent.

Everybody makes a little bit of coin on fight day. Gambling is encouraged, if not expected, pastime. Many opportunists have taken advantage of the events by setting up "betting tables" for the day, only to close shop when the fight ends. Sometimes this occurs before the winners get their payout. This does not end well for them.

Whenever the fights begin, the crowd roars. Distant birds scatter at the sound of wailing hordes. It is a momentous occasion. Absolving. It is a cleansing of shame. Of virulence. A prize to be won. 

But there is an expected result when the day is over, and the coin is counted. Every visitor knows to leave a crown in the small, leathery basket just by the door. Nobody knows who put the basket there, only that it is something you must do.

Because this patronage is reserved for the star.

A Challenger Approaches

The result is the same every week. 

The crowd pours in, filling their seats with fervent anticipation. Any betting that was set to begin had already started behind the gate. Merchants and soldiers pour in from near and close, far and wide, to experience the festivities.

Children play with twigs and stones. Seniors recall tales of yore to their neighbours by pointing out the various scars across their bodies. There is always a flowery scent in the air. Pleasure, food, death, and fear are palpable tastes in the coliseum.

They all see the bump. That obsidian mound furled up atop the arena's sands. 

It is an object paid no mind. It would be unthinkable to attend to a thing so ordinary, so dull to this town's residents, like the ornamental fountain in a town square. The crowd bubbles forth from their homes and their tunnels into the bleachers, awaiting the games to begin, and they wait. A stunted cough or jeer snubs out the perpetual anticipation of the crowd. At once, the seats are finally filled, the gates are swung shut, and the festivities can truly begin. That is when the main event presents itself.

Meet Skullcrusher. The Crown of Mètin.

Buff Bug.

The Main Event

Nobody knows where The Crown came from, having arrived one day from the outskirts of town, a herculean force of chitin and muscle. He had no name, influence, or money to spend. He did not speak to any shopkeepers or merchants, nor did he care for the bickering in the streets and bumbling rush of patrons. Any threats to his appearance or plum-faced young men were ignored. All he did was walk. Into town. Into the markets. Into the square. It had only been finished a decade by the time he reached the Coliseum, young sculptors still scrubbing mortar off its walls.

The bug had marched across its still-glistening floors, pushed through its freshly wrought gates, and beamed. As if they welcomed a champion who had already proven their worth. Nobody had seen this imp before, never one of its size. Its appearance was that of dread. Finally, it had reached the centre of the coliseum's sandy pits, and once it had scanned the land around it, it paused. The not-yet-named Crusher of Skulls tilted its horn to the air, blew air from its face, and collapsed to the floor. Snug and sound crumpled together with his horn to his knees. Some believe that he had come here to die. Others that he was punished: struck away from some terrible deed. The hopeful in Jacquet feels he has merely come for a good fight.

 Whatever reason it may be, he has remained since. Having shown no signs of stopping.

(note: Skullcrusher is an Imp; basically a bug-like humanoid in my setting. There are many kinds of Imps and many more subspecies of imp-like creatures, but that is something to develop in another post. Just know that Skullcrusher is a very large but not entirely out-of-the-ordinary imp. He isn't necessarily weird because he is a bug, but because he's an odd bug.)

Imagine a 9' tall, buff humanoid bug, except the red colour on their chitin wasn't always there.

Skullcrusher does not do much. The bug refuses to speak and doesn't appear to understand the common tongue (and if he did, he hasn't shown any evidence of it yet). Communication through another imp seems to bring a mild sense of understanding, although it isn't much. Imps can communicate non-verbally through a series of chemical processes, producing whatever respective pheromone messages they desire. Think of it like chemical telepathy.

Anyway, trying to commune with the warrior in this way is only marginally better than direct attempts. What was before constant silence is instead a bunch of faint groans and breathing noises. Like speaking to a neanderthal. Nobody has gotten information from the bug, and anyone who has either hasn't shared it or quickly died by his hands.

Because Skullcrusher didn't get his name by telling people, he earned it by committee.

When the crowd is at its peak, Skullcrusher rises from his slumber. This time isn't consistent with any specific period or day. More often than not, the bug doesn't wake until some event has already occurred. Common bets include when exactly the hulking monstrosity rises from their ball. All the while, fighting dogs and gladiators circle around his presence. A living environmental hazard.

Fighters dance between his body like a pit. Beasts ignore his presence entirely. Whenever a particularly clumsy fighter bumps into the mound, the crowd gasps. Usually, this does nothing. But usually does not cover everything, and so the betting tables rise. 

At some point in the day, for whatever reason it may be, the bug awakens. And the crowd roars. Blood may pool from a fighter's throat into the sand beneath the mound, or a particularly haughty warrior might kick or strike the bug. Sometimes there is silence. Eventually, there is war.

Sand rumbles, stones turn, and the monster unfurls itself. 

Being in the crowd when the Crusher of Skulls awakens is an exhilarating experience. Being in the arena when the mound turns into a hulking, blood-soaked monstrosity is sheer terror.

Dogs run. Men attempt to scamper up walls or plead for their lives. Imps oft stand in stunned disbelief, communing in vain with the bug as its horn expunges their abdomen. When the penny-scented dust finally settles (typically sooner than later), the Skullcrusher stands victorious. He does not carry a blade, armour, or shield. Just himself, and it is enough. 

An Introductory Course

You may notice an overall lack of explanation as to who Skullcrusher is or why exactly they arrived in Jacquet. This is on purpose.

This is an introduction of mine to this sort of writing style (hello, new readers, blogs at this point are very new to me!). Still, I wanted to focus moreso on the overall vibe of the big man. His occupation of Jacquet is a part of a much larger aesthetic. In fact, he's the living definition of it, and yet there's a bit more to his character that I haven't quite touched on. I think I'll touch on it in a future article. I've also stayed away from giving him a specific statblock because I want to keep things system-agnostic. Creating a statblock means I've limited his potential somewhat. Gotta keep things open.

This was also written to tie in nicely with the previous article. I'm still learning! 

So, adventure hooks!

1. The party has gone to Jacquet after a long day of adventuring, having been swindled into entering the day's festivities with the promise of coin. As their chosen fighter enters the arena, the party is horrified to see an awoken Skullcrusher, who's just made short work of at least a dozen other contenders.

2. A neighbouring noble (either of a duchy or prosperous enterprisee) has declared a bounty on the mysterious Crusher of Skulls, who has apparently murdered their son/daughter/favourite knight. The party must investigate whether or not the imp is actually responsible for their untimely demise and rationalize the possibility of bringing him in.

3. Skullcrusher hasn't gotten up in quite some time. At first, folks believed that the bug had finally kicked the bucket in his sleep, but he's still there: those chitinous plates of his shifting with each breath. While many suggest moving the bug and taking him elsewhere (or just dumping his "corpse" in a river), others see it as an opportunity to experiment. Also, lots of people want their folk hero back. Perhaps there's a way to help?

4. You've done it. You've fulfilled the impossible and defeated the prize champion of the Jacque-de-Lune. In their dying breaths, the Crown of Mètin gives you a look almost of understanding, before collapsing into the dust below. The crowd roars, celebrating your victory over the unbeatable. His title is yours. His unspent coffers now conjoined with your own. It comes as a surprise, then, when cheers are replaced with mumbles, and another voice enters the fray. An eldritch call to action.

A Thought On Towns

Not every coliseum has to be an Italian one.

Home Is Where The Thought Is

There are lots of towns out there. Towns are the perfect subsidiary to a big city. They are present because a small group of people decided they wanted to be there, formed a working society around it, and then made it accessible to strangers. Villages are a bit different, but this isn't about villages. Villages tolerate tourists, towns thrive off of them.

A town exists because it has unearthed its niche. That niche could very well be a specific export, or perhaps it involves whatever strange happenings occur in the town square at night, but it is a niche so long as it is unique. Cities have no need for such a thing. Their quota has already been filled by the sheer variety of its inhabitants.

A niche does not have to be a thing. It can be a thing, but the presence of that thing is not required for the niche itself to be effective. Villages and towns have sustained off the knowledge alone that, hundreds of years ago, their mountains were once swathed in gold. Those places are cities now.

A niche can be an idea. A thought. A social conduit. One village may enforce its curfew with vicious intent, whilst their neighbour allows even children to roam in the dark. Despite being mere miles apart, the idea is dissociated. 

In this way, towns become a projection of their citizens, rather than their citizens an infection of the town.

Note: I think now would be a good time, if possible, to take a gander at the concepts introduced in Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities. This is the first time I've referenced this work here, but it will probably not be the last. Fascinating stuff.

The Cracked Wall

Nestled between a mountain range and what now comprises The River Gap, the hill-town of Jacquet bustles with the sounds of life and commerce. It is an isolated space, despite its quaint strategic location and the abundance of its resources, leading to a largely negligent relationship with their suzerain: The Republic.

Jacquet is a fighting town. There is not a singular locale nor person you could find in this place that does not show signs of wear.

Street signs are adorned in gashes and indents. Pathways are flat scars of dirt. Every conceivable corner possesses a faded, red blotch somewhere on their flushed face.

The walls surrounding the city have all but collapsed, serving more as an obstacle than a defensive structure for the last 100 years. This also means that the walls are suitable replacements for tunnels, with expert criminals or fencers adorning its sandy carcass.

Even the hint of livestock is shunned if it does not abide by this code. Cock fights are popular for this reason, second only to Baryul (large, moose-like creatures with malleable horns).

Everyone in Jacquet wears their scars with pride. A woundless body invokes the likes of outsiders. Or cowards.

The Broken Pail

Every town has an idol, too. A place or object which provides a unique service to its patrons. It could be a church, or a courthouse, or even a giant nickel. What matters is the precedent:

This thing is ethical to the town's continued existence.

Here, it is the Jacque-de-Lune Coliseum.

These would be helpful if my setting had a visible sun.

Having been built a mere 46 years post-storm, the Jacque-de-Lune is by far the oldest structure in Jacquet, having outlasted even the stone walls which once encased the town. The town's history is ripe with tales of its construction; struggling to build the massive, alabaster arena and its ceiling.

These struggles are tales of pride, of course. Hardship such as this requires celebration!

This is why every week the stadium is packed with peasants and soldiers, merchants and masons, as well as anyone who isn't just sick or dying. Although even the dying would come, if not just to feel the thrill. When the coliseum is at maximum capacity (which it almost always is), each and every not-threateningly busy citizen is present to witness the carnage, with some extra seats to spare for visitors. It isn't uncommon for townsfolk to join in the festivities themselves. Settlings bets or proving your abilities is an ever so slightly admirable cause in front of a crowd, isn't it?

But the champion of the arena is not a native of this town. It isn't even a man at all.

The Solution To (My) Druid Problem

Druids are a fascinating archetype, synonymous with stories of the wandering shaman or the flowery forest folk. An old man rides along the back of a moose or some oversized bird, his body strapped in simple rags and wielding a wooden club. The man speaks softly to his animal companion and listens to the whistle of the wind, all with a smile on his face. He is serene. Gentle. One with nature.

He has also fallen into the pit trap of resemblance. 

That man may be remembered in the history books for his bravest of deeds, but he will not be remembered by name. His actions and accomplishments, no matter how celebrated, will inevitably converge into the canon of Druids everywhere. The Druid was a hermit. The Druid held a club. The Druid loved nature with all its heart and cried like a child whenever it died.

This has been the case for a very long time. This spirit, this Ur-Druid, haunts the dreams of creatives everywhere and strangles the walls of their imagination into form. A force which has tipped the scales to one side, sending the delicate balance of character design into a tailspin.

I am talking about the archetype of the Hippie Druid.

I don't think that it's necessarily a bad thing! Look at how much fun he's having!

The Hippie Druid is a powerful archetype. It is simple, easy to use, and incredibly malleable for anyone to adjust to their liking. It is also very popular. So popular, in fact, that the vast majority of Druids fall somewhere along the Hippie side of the axis. This is not a bad thing

I can enjoy the Hippie Druid. I can sit down for a couple of hours each and every week and listen to one of my players speak like a stoner and talk to small animals like children. I would even go as far as to say I support them wholeheartedly! But I can also say with confidence that it would be nice to get a bit more nuance in the other direction every once in a while.

That other side is the Savage Druid. Let's talk about the Savage Druid.

An Alternate Solution

Deep within the darkest corners of the eastern forests, there lives a  circle of druids. Nobody knows what they do: their every waking moment is spent hidden in the shade of the woodlands. Everyone knows who they are. Their presence can be felt throughout the forest, and the mangled warnings they make of wanderers serve as an effective, albeit brutal, form of deterrence. As far as Druids go, they share quite a lot with their cousins:

1. They are itinerants of the wilderness, relying on what nature provides (and one another) alone. This same territory they will defend with their lives.
2. They all worship a communal "religion" shared only through action. 
3. They are capable of communicating with woodland creatures, albeit not in the way another druid might just cast Speak with Animals.
4. They are also fully capable of Wild-Shaping, also through abnormal circumstances.
5. They ABHOR civilization. Given the chance, every single druid would set fire to the cities of their neighbours and crush the stones back into gravel, all with a smile on their faces.

These are not uncommon traits for Druids. In fact, they are actually some of the most important things that Druids share between one another. As beings of nature, the most important thing that one can represent is nature itself. A Druid that truly understands their place will eat, sleep, shit and breathe all within the confines of their domain. They are a mirror of chaos, shifting and changing in all ways but prime constants. The constant of power. The constant of death. The constant to feed.

Hippie or Savage? What say you?

Druids cannot be druids without these traits. That same hermit without his ragged clothes or his whispering would not be a druid at all, but a conduit for something else. The hipster druid's serenity and the savage druid's ferocity meet at some point in the middle, and yet their similarities are marred by significant lapses in coincidence.

A hippie druid speaks softly because he has become one with calamity. He is at peace and as a result, concentrated, a monk resting in their monastery. A savage druid speaks softly because language disgusts him, and so he wishes not to taint the breeze with its filth. 

A hippie druid carries a simple branch whittled into a staff. His movements are practiced and his strikes are true. He is both willing to kill you and open to witnessing change, for he knows that such a thing is inside you. A savage druid wields the same branch, sharpened to a spear's point. He places no iconography on this tool, nor does he adorn it in string or stone. He created this weapon through rigorous repetition, sliding it against a slanted stone, with the express permission of his kin. He will use it in the coming days to harpoon a lost traveller through both lungs. It will be left behind with the corpse.

The tone is different. The magic is different. The way the two archetypes stand beside one another is different. Whatever actions one can make the other can do in stride, and yet the perceived outcome will be either obverse or exactly the same. 

So how do you perform any action that the former druid can take and make it impactful to the latter?

You make them weirder.

In the darkest shadows of the oldest vines, birds do shriek and hopes shall die.

If there is one stereotype that these druids do not reciprocate, it is pacifism. The savage druid hates their urban neighbours with a broiling passion, rivalled only by their need to remain wild and uncollared. There are no shortcuts in this way. No discrimination. A druid who hunts in the nude on all fours will just as easily strike down a boar as they will a man. Young or old, rich or poor, weak or strong. All serve a purpose to the individual, and both will somehow benefit the pack. 

It should also be said what happens to those who aren't killed outright.

A Separate Fate

    You awaken in the pitch to the sound of crackling, your vision blurred and your temple throbbing. You have no memory of this place, and so you rely instead on your remaining senses. Your fingers tickle the edges of root and duckweed. A puddle sits warmly beneath you, soaking your rear. A wet trickle runs from your brow down to your lip. You taste blood.

Your nose too is assaulted by smells, the scent of smouldering embers and a brackishly sweet mist which engulfs your throbbing mind. Through your misty vision, you see a soft light shimmering. The chromatic glow of turmeric, flames licking at the feet of a wooden pallet, constructed from bark and string, a fleshy plank laid atop it. It is a man, a soul who you have never seen before in your life. He is bound to the board by scraps of fur.

The man on the pyre is drugged, of course, pumped to the brim with a concoction of vile toxins and opiates. His moans are one of confusion: his nerves belting still with an expression between pleasure and pain. The man's eyes roll behind their sockets as you attempt to meet his gaze, only to find those same scraps tying you to a rotting stump. You realize the man has been stripped to the nude, just as the tingle of your own skin soaks into the mud below.

It is not until your eyes finally adjust to the darkness (as well as your-throbbing concussion) that you see the woman standing mere feet from your position.

She is naked. Almost disturbingly so. Chittering bugs climb from her spindly limbs and across her body like droplets of rain. her hair is unkempt and long, reaching somewhere past her ankles. Its colour is that of old leaves. In another lifetime she could have made a beautiful wife.

She carries no tools and yet you feel a tingling in your chest. A horrible, primordial scream electrocutes your nerves. As your senses kick into gear once more, you recognize the taste of it. The ripened terror that your ancestor felt in the dark.

It is intuition. A howling thought which tells you to leave. You are not safe here.

She approaches the bound man with a gloss in her eyes. A hunger, pent-up compassion awaiting in her shivered breast. She crushes something in her palm and the sweet scent of fruit fills the air. An object gray as ash is placed between her teeth which she crushes between her molars, spit turning dust into mist in mere moments. She grasps the burning man's head like a child's and exhales into his mouth. The mist drips through his lips like pipe smoke, thick and cloudy, before the woman straightens herself.

A moment passes in silence.

She watches the man on the pyre with that same hunger as before, allowing him to simmer against the flame. She leaves her stillness shortly after, placing both hands against his sternum as if to cut him down the middle. She whispers something beneath her breath, an indecipherable phrase in an unrecognizable tone, and plunges her hands inwards. The man does not groan, nor scream nor cry, but merely gasps as his blood sizzles violently and the air in his lungs converts to steam. The body-mist only grows in intensity as the woman deepens the wound, spreading flesh from wall to wall. Ribs crack like twigs and leaves. She is engulfed in the fumes, her head nearly buried in the man's chest and yet digging still. She huffs violently as she digs, a boar fondling truffles in the woods.

He gasps once more, and as the steam builds within his throat she pinches his lips with her own, huffing the fumes from his neck. What is left is a shrunken man. A vile, desiccated corpse. The woman takes a deep breath and exhales before rolling the mummified body off of its seat. Your heart screeches to run in vain, your legs begin to kick the mud, and your arms slit against the knot. In your state of panic, you look to the horizon and instead meet her gaze. She is smiling.

She looks different than before.

I should write more on these folk sometime. So much to say!