The Collector

I think I've mentioned here or elsewhere that I listen to a lot of dungeon synth. It occupies the chunk of musical bandwidth I have leftover when I'm done listening to all the Mongolian throat singing, lo-fi jazz, parody covers, royalty-free rock tracks or themes to anime I've never watched that I hear in the backgrounds of video essays, and whatever TikTok videos my SO sends me.

Dungeon synth has its origins in the harsh and sometimes hateful black metal and dark ambient music scenes of the '90s. But the genre has since grown, matured, and experimented far beyond that to encompass a huge range of subgenres with porous and overlapping margins, as the case eventually is with all types of music. Whether you need to unwind to the sounds of nature, curl up with some tea to some cozy wintery noises, find a soundtrack for your tabletop game tonight, take an inadvisable amount of substances and mentally transcend to outer space, or just be a neurodivergent little boy with a fixation on Tolkien for a while, dungeon synth has a flavor for you.

Recently, I've been listening to a creator called Witch Bolt, who seems to have exploded into existence and popularity all of a sudden after releasing like 7 albums within the span of a few months earlier this year. In fact, in the time I've spent writing this post I had to go back and add that they just released another album.

Witch Bolt is decidedly in the ambient/nature synth subgenre, but each album has a unique flavor that I've thus far enjoyed. I'd say I like them almost as much as DIM, who might be my favorite artist in the scene. Shoutout to Tales Under The Oak and all their froggy excellence, too.

Witch Bolt's most recent second-most-recent album is The Collector, which combines moody soundscapes with some very delicate instrumental touches I keep coming back to.

It's also got a pretty solid album cover.

But I'm not just here to talk about the music. The Collector has a short description attached which, alongside the track titles, turns it into a concept album with a plot of sorts. It reads as follows:

"Witch Bolt's seventh release, The Collector, is the story of a nomadic figure navigating the boundaries that separate the planes of existence. The Collector gathers overlooked fragments of nature and humanity, bestowing upon them a renewed honor and purpose.

Through their mystical craftsmanship, they reveal the inherent dignity concealed within the humble.

The Collector scatters these creations, weapons, armor, treasures, imbued with enchantments across the land and in the paths of those deemed worthy. The Collector is a beacon of hope and renewal."

I was smitten by this concept right away. From playing the part of lonely, wandering god to a being associated with the lucky discovery of magic items, the Collector feels tailor-made to appear in someone's tabletop campaign. Which got me wondering how there aren't more gods like that in existing games where roving adventurers rolling on loot tables in weird and out-of-the-way places is a fundamental pillar of the play experience. Certainly there are hundreds of deities of luck, or craftsmanship, or wanderers, but you almost never get all three of those portfolios in one.

So, I decided to fiddle around and rectify that by doing a little god writeup of my own.

I'm doing this using a fun and flexible format I stole from As the Gods Demand, a system-agnostic and level-less divine magic supplement where anyone can become a cleric. It's by the excellent art-friend and bagel gremlin Charles Ferguson-Avery, and you should definitely check it out if you like more eldritch and inhuman takes on tabletop deities.

But considerably less spooky and severe than them is our friend of the day, the Collector.

The Collector, Beacon of Hope & Renewal

There once lived a quiet, gentle, and very shy thing. Their zest for life was only matched by their unease around other living things. They wished to see the world, but not to be seen. So they wandered in secret, keeping to backroads and the silent gulfs between realms.

But even out there, amidst the beauty of the forgotten and the gracefully crumbling, they still happened upon other souls. They came in search of quiet solitude, a balm for their woes amid a life of hardship and pain. But in seeking out eternal stillness, they stirred that little thing's heart to action. A yearning to help filled them until it threatened to burst, and so they poured it out into the rubble and ruin of that forgotten place.

To their surprise, that tender care imbued the things they touched with strength, dignity, and renewed purpose. Or perhaps, they merely helped bring those innate qualities back up to the surface, through the layers of time and neglect. The wandering thing went about gathering these blessings together, before scattering them in their wake, just ahead of those lost and lonesome souls.

A quiet joy like never before filled them, and they at last knew their own purpose. Even now, the Collector wanders the spheres in search of forgotten things in need of a home, and forgotten beings in need of hope.

The Borrowers

The Collector has no organized clergy, and those who behave as priests would never call themselves such. Instead, they have admirers. People who long ago caught the Collector's eye, and who took notice of them in turn. They see the worth and beauty in what the nomad does, and seek to aid their cause however they can.

So they wander the land as pilgrims and sightseers in search of overlooked places, things, and people. They carry with them the Collector's gifts, knowing that they keep them in their possession only as a passing thing, until the item's true purpose is revealed by time and circumstance. Then, they secret their treasures into the paths of the worthy-in-need. In short they are not keepers, but mere Borrowers.

Initiation: Gifts Left Behind

To become a Borrower, you must first catch the Collector's attention, and then come to the realization that they exist at all. This is easier said than done, considering how discreet and willing to let others take credit for their acts the Collector is. But once that is all said and done, the act of cementing one's friendship with the Collector is quite straightforward: sacrifice something precious.

This item can't merely be powerful, magical, or materially valuable. It must hold great personal significance to you- both you the character, and you the player. It must represent something about your life, experiences, and/or worldview. Family heirlooms, mementos, childhood toys, or tried-and-true pieces of equipment with their own inferred personalities and nicknames are common selections.

You must hide this object in an out-of-the-way but not completely inaccessible location, such as tucked into a hollow in a tree stump off a dirt road, or buried in the earth of a shallow cave mouth. In time the Collector will find your offering and consider it carefully, before imbuing it with new qualities and leaving it in the hands of a future someone who dearly needs it.

You will never know what your sacrifice does for that stranger, and they will never know it was you who aided them. Nor will they ever know the history of this item or the way it was cherished. Instead they will give it a whole new life, and in doing so kindle that beacon of hope and renewal, to be cast into the future in turn.

Such is faith.

Daily Invocation: A Quiet Prayer

• Do not hoard resources or possessions from those in need.
• Maintain humility in the face of gifts and good fortune.
• Do not reveal the Collector's existence to outsiders.
• Live life humbly and surreptitiously.

Initial Miracle: Journey Home

Borrowers are wanderers who have no one place they call home; rather, home is wherever they are most needed.

You may divine the location of the nearest forgotten little thing. The miracle can specifically look for an abandoned location like a ruin, old den, or shrine, a long-lost object, or a lonesome creature, or it can look for any/all of the above. You know the direction and distance to your target "as the crow flies", but not the exact path needed to reach it, such as through a maze.

Rites

I Pass

Sometimes, we are what the Collector places in the paths of others.

You must stop wandering long enough to help someone through a particularly dark time in their life. Merely rescuing them from a dangerous situation is not enough; you must come to know them and their struggles, befriend them, and help them to rise above their hardships. Then you must let go, and allow the friendship to conclude so that you each may return to your respective lives. When you bid farewell to one another with finality and carry with you all the bittersweet memories and experiences into the future, the rite is complete.

Miracle: In Praise of Gentleness

You may sooth the target's woes, removing all natural or supernatural fear, doubt, anger, or other negative emotions from them and replacing them with a contemplative calm that grants the target Advantage on their next Saving Throw related to the mind, emotions, mental state, etc.

You may instead target two or more groups who are about to come to blows with this miracle, in which case they are dissuaded from physical violence for a number of hours equal to your Hit Dice.

Wandering Artisan

In emulation of our foulweather benefactor, we furnish the worthy in need with the fruit of our sweat, labor, and love.

You must craft an object of surpassing quality for one of your skill level; if you are a novice at a given craft it must be competent, if you're a master it must be exceedingly high quality, if creating magic items is well within your ability it must be truly extraordinary, etc. This step may take months or more by itself, and call for you to find and obtain rare materials.

Once it is completed, the item must be anonymously donated to a worthy cause or person whom you believe will use it for good. You must be present to witness them doing so, but may not betray the item's origins while in their company. The rite is complete when the bearer of your gift accomplishes (or at least tries their best at) a feat that aligns with the Collector's goals.

Miracle: Treasures Left

You may spend some of the goodwill you've earned with the Collector to receive a short "advance" of sorts on their gifts. Choose Providence or Luck:

Providence allows you to stumble upon just the sort of mundane or low-magic item you'd need in a given encounter for a specific purpose, such as a healing potion to save a downed companion or a replacement weapon for one that's snapped. The item lasts until it is consumed or the encounter ends, at which point it vanishes when you take your eyes off it.

Luck allows you to reroll once on a random loot table and take whichever option you prefer. Note that the referee doesn't have to disclose everything about the two choices (curses, specific magical effects, etc).

Extremist/Heretical Rite: Humble Harvest

These are the Collector's gifts. They are given, but never earned. If someone abuses them, is it not our duty to intercede?

You must dispense with the Collector's gentle discretion for a time, and take the fight to those who would take advantage of their kindness. This person must be a tyrant of some sort who has enriched or empowered themselves using magical items that ultimately came from the Collector. Merely defeating them is not enough; you must see their every means of effecting evil systematically dismantled and neutralized.

You must personally disenchant or destroy the misused item(s) in their presence while explaining to them precisely how powerless and wrong they are. Once the former tyrant is thoroughly broken and made an example of, the rite is complete. Whether or not they can be convinced to make amends is outside the scope of this rite.

Miracle: Desolation

You may permanently snuff out all enchantments and effects on a single item held by the target, rendering it a completely nonmagical object. If the item is a powerful artifact (or other object of huge plot significance that would cause your referee a real headache to destroy just like that), its powers are instead suppressed for a number of weeks equal to your Hit Dice.

Favor: Honored Things

• Encourage others to give and share resources freely.
• Disperse ill-gotten hoards, with force if necessary.
• Undermine those who deny others peace and dignity.
• Pass another object of great value on to the Collector.

The Spell-Handler's Guide to Magic

Howdy, 'zardner!

So you're lookin' to become a certified member of the Wizened Pardnership of Spell-Handlers?

Well you should thank your lucky stars, because you've come to the right place! With this handy little primer, you'll have everything you need to embark on your journey to become a trained spell-handler, breeder, or even arch-rancher!

Let's begin by going back to basics, and answering a few simple questions about the nature of magic. If you have any aspiring young buckaroos nearby, now would be a perfect opportunity to introduce them to the topic of spell-handling as well!

To start off, what is Magic?

Magic is a blanket term for the huge and diverse range of bodily functions produced by Spells.

What are Spells?

Spells are small, domesticated creatures belonging to the phylum carmenifera. Each species of spell produces a magical effect unique to itself. It is the job of the spell-handler to rear and harness spells for their magic.

What can Spells do?

Why, plum near anything! A better question to ask would be "what can't spells do?" Even then, the Wizened Pardnership believes that it should be even more precise to ask "what can't spells do yet?"¹

What is a Spell-Handler?

Spell-handlers (also known as "wizards" or "'zardners" for their association with the Wizened Pardnership) are specialists trained to rear and care for spells. They are the foremost experts on the theories and applications of magic, and often serve as pillars of their community besides.

How do Handlers use Spells?

Spell-handlers form lifelong² bonds with their spells that grant them the trust, familiarity, and know-how to coax magic out of them. This is sometimes called "casting" because many magical effects involve the spell ejecting substances from its body, sometimes at impressive ranges. A skilled spell-handler knows how to get their Fireball to sneeze, how to shake their Daylight just right, how to stimulate their Cure Wounds' musk glands to express healing goo on their pals, and so many other marvelous tricks!

What is Spellcare like?

Handlers have a robust set of daily obligations toward their spells. They must ensure that each spell is given proper food, water, exercise, and attention. If they are adventuring together, the handler must also tend to any injury or fatigue suffered by their spells, and keep any others from befalling them. Proper spellcare avoids waste and ensures that spells and their magic can be relied upon when they are most needed.

Why do Spell-Handlers go adventuring?

There's only so much a body can learn in class or in front of books. At the end of each handler's initial training period they enter their Journeyman Years, in which they gain practical experience and know-how about magic in the real world. Oftentimes this may be done by working at a string of ranches away from where they studied. Less common but more famous are the handlers who go a-venturin', often for the same reasons anyone else does: for excitement, challenge, and opportunity!

How long do the Journeyman Years last?

On average, handlers-in-training spend 2-to-3 years on the road. Some prodigies may complete this period in as little as 1 year, while slow-goers may take as long as 3-and-a-half or 4 years, depending on the details of their contract.

Contract? What contract?

Every spell-handler-in-training negotiates an education and employment contract at the start of their career. The contract outlines a mutually beneficial split between training, and making use of that training. Teaching someone how to handle spells is an expensive process, after all, and the educating institution has to make a return on its investment somehow. And that is why after a gap period, all spell-handlers return to their alma mater to work and repay the awesome opportunity that has been provided for them, as set forth in their voluntary and mutually agreed-upon contract.

Isn't that kind of like Indentured Servitude?

Haha, what?

Nothing, nevermind. Do Journeyman Handlers befriend their Spells?

'Friend' is a strong word that has many connotations incompatible with the realities of spell-handling. Spells are not pets, and handlers are not pet-owners. It is a serious working relationship in which attachment is unbecoming of someone of the handler's office, which requires executive decisions in the interest of the whole community.

Do Spells grow attached to their Handlers?

Unfortunately the spell-breeders have yet to breed attachment out of most spell strains. They are prone to mistaking grooming and cordiality for affection, and may respond in kind, even to the inconvenience of its handler.

But there is a silver lining: this makes spells great for ranch-sponsored petting zoos. Bring your kids!

How many Spells can Handlers have at a time?

As many as they can handle!

C'mon now buckaroo, you walked right into that one.

Jesting aside, the number of spells in a handler's repertoire can vary greatly depending on their individual responsibilities and skill level. Many folks go their entire lives with just 1 or 2 handy spells by their side, while some mavens have been known to handle a dozen or more at a time!

How do Handlers carry all their Spells?

Spell-handlers invariably rely upon the invaluable spell-kennel for all their on-the-go magical needs. A spell-kennel is a container for a spell meant to be convenient and accessible for the handler carrying the kennel, and cozy for the spell inside. Anti-magic lining³ and a convenient feeding port ensure that no day is too long or too arduous for a prepared handler.

What do Spell-Kennels look like?

Spell-kennels may take the shape of backpacks, bandoliers, folding organizers colloquially known as "spellbooks", and many other styles depending on individual needs and preferences. They may project an air of style, confidence, or simple, workmanlike professionalism to suit the handler. The beauty of the spell-kennel is that it is whatever you want it to be!

While supplies last, of course.

Can't Handlers keep Spells outside of their Kennels?

Technically they can, but any handler worth their salt would know better than to let their spells flop around all willy-nilly. It poses a needless inconvenience and risk to the handler to have their spells not immediately at-hand and under their control. Besides, most spells would not be able to keep up on foot.

Why can't some Spells walk?

The marvels of selective breeding have only been achieved by making a few very carefully considered sacrifices across the many diverse breeds of spells. One consequence is that many breeds of spells possess vestigial limbs that are no longer functional for locomotion- which makes it all the more important that the world have plenty of licensed spell-handlers to help take care of them.

Where do Handlers get their Spells?

Most spell-handlers receive their spells from the spell-ranch where they were currently are employed. If that is impossible or impractical, such as the case is with spell-handlers working abroad, they may acquire replacement spells from any nearby ranches or independent breeders at their convenience.

What is a Spell-Ranch?

Spell ranches are the centers of all things spellish. They are where spells are raised, new spells are created, spell-handlers learn, and countless members of your communities work, all to build a better and brighter future together. You could call it a farm that grows spells instead of crops, but to call it just a farm is to sell it woefully short. It would not be hyperbolic to say that the modern spell-ranch is the cornerstone of society.

Non-Handlers work at Spell-Ranches too?

Of course!

Spell-rearing is a multidisciplinary market, and it wouldn't behoove a ranch to have nothing but academics running around the fields sweating buckets. Anyone from any walk of life has the skills necessary to help keep a ranch running. Many towns and villages receive the majority of their employment from nearby ranches, all of which are solemnly grateful and duty-bound to provide for them in turn.

It may be hard for the layman to see it, but ranch hands know that they are essential: every spell fed, ditch dug, and pen mucked is a step toward prosperity and magical progress, and it fuels each and every one of their boundless hearts with a burning purpose that the Pardnership is plum gobsmacked at, even to this day.

I heard some Spell-Ranch workers are trying to unionize due to alleged mistreatment.

"The Wizened Pardnership and its affiliated spell-ranches are not anti-union, but they are not neutral either. They will boldly defend their direct relationship with their workers as something that is in the best interest of the worker, the ranc [sic], and the community. They do not believe unions are in the best interest of the ranch, the community, or—most importantly—the worker.

Spell-ranches optimize themselves to work best according to the core values of dependability, innovation, and efficacy, without which the world would not have such revolutionary wonders as brand-new spells."

Hang on, let's back up. How do you create "new" Spells?

So glad you asked!

An important part of spell-breeding is selecting for desirable traits. By paring the right spells of the same species together, those traits can be brought out and enhanced, made even more wonderous than what nature endowed them with. This is how you get new, subtle variations between spells of the same class; the kinds of things an outside buckaroo looking in might call different "ranks" of spells, though the reality is far more nuanced.

Alternatively, a skilled breeder may hybridize two different spells together into an all-new spell that combines some of the traits of each parent, or even results in something entirely new to magic and science.

It isn't as simple as plopping two spells down in the same room and waiting for the magic to happen, of course. Conditions must be carefully controlled, and a lengthy period of stabilization and strict testing follows all successful attempts.

What is Stabilization?

Stabilization is the process by which a new spell's magico-genetic structure is made stable enough for the specimen to be viable, as well as safe to handle. Failure to run a new spell through proper stabilization protocols is dangerous: it may behave erratically, attempt to self-terminate, discharge its magic uncontrollably, or even spontaneously explode.

Do some folks still try it anyway?

Regrettably yes, there are some bad actors among us who would disregard the wisdom of the Pardnership and pursue their own agendas in spell-breeding without oversight, putting themselves and their communities at risk. We condemn them in the strongest possible terms.

What should be done about that?

It is for the stated reasons above that unauthorized spell hybridization has been made strictly illegal in most jurisdictions. It is your civic duty—as well as the professional and moral duty of all 'zardners everywhere—to report any suspected cases of spell-breeding or related activity to local law enforcement.

We don't want another Larrold's Ridge Incident, now do we?

What Happened at Larrold's Ridge?

The Larrold's Ridge Incident was a tragic ████████ ██ █████ ███████ ██████ ██████ █████████ at an uncertified independent facility rapidly █████████ ███████ ██████████████ resulting in large-scale destruction and the almost complete loss of all ████ ███ ████████ within a 3-kilomile radius.

For more information, contact ███████████ at ████████████████████████.

Wow, I feel kind of unsafe right now. How can we trust Magic?

By trusting the Pardnership!

The Incident was shocking in its size and severity precisely because of the efforts of the Pardnership; otherwise, it and events like it would be far worse and far more frequent. But by putting the best and brightest minds in spell-handlerdom together, we can work to prevent such things from happening. It is thanks to these fine folks that magic remains and will continue to be a net positive and a force for good, both in your communities and across the world.

Trust us. We will protect you.

I feel much safer now, but I am not a certified Spell-Handler. How else can I help support the Pardnership?

There are many ways to help support the Pardnership, and they can all be done at the local level. You can volunteer your time at a local ranch, support the Pardnership by purchasing some of its marvelous products, or just be a good citizen and attend to the civic duties morally incumbent upon all of us. Keep the world clean and friendly, and make sure to report any feral spells you find!

Feral Spells? Aren't all Spells domesticated?

Almost! While most spells have been bred in captivity and virtually all extant species have been selectively bred from their wild ancestors, there are many feral spell colonies across the world. These "wild magic" populations are the result of domestic spells escaping captivity or being abandoned by negligent handlers, then reproducing in the wild. Wild spells should only be approached by certified spell-handlers with trap-neuter-return training, as they pose a potential danger to bystanders and their communities if agitated.

If you believe there is a feral spell colony in your area, please contact your nearest ranch.

Wait! I saw someone using Magic without a Spell. How is that possible?

Easy now, buckaroo. There are many spell-based products commercially available nowadays. What you may have witnessed was the proud owner of a spell-egg, magical wand, or staff showing off their shiny little slice of modernity.

What is a Spell-Egg?

Simply put, a spell-egg is an egg laid by a spell!

More properly, commercially available spell-eggs are unfertilized eggs that contain enough residual magic from the spell that laid it to allow it to be used as a sort of disposable single-use spell. The effects produced by eggs pale in comparison to what a live spell can do in the care of a handler, but they offer a wide range of options and conveniences to the layman.

How does one use a Spell-Egg?

Simply break open the shell of an egg to activate its latent magic. This may be done either by throwing the egg at the spell's intended target or, in the case of spells intended for oneself, by cracking that bad boy open and sucking the yolk down like a real Hoss.

Always consult the expiration date on spell-eggs before use. Do not purchase if shell is broken. Report any health code violations to your local ranch.

What are Magical Wands & Staffs?

Wands are a spectacular invention designed for the discerning non-handler who wants dependability and scalability out of their magical products for the best price. Through generations of selective breeding, certain spells have been designed to fit inside an enclosed space as small as a piece of wood or ceramic tubing without food, water, or air for months on end before reaching a natural expiration date.

Staffs are functionally identical to wands, except they are enlarged to hold up to a half-dozen (or more!) spells at once.

How does one use a Magical Wand or Staff?

Wands and staffs need only be activated with the proper gesture or phrase in order to effect its magic. This may be done several times depending on the size and type of the product in question. Once the spell within has been fully discharged of its magic, the wand may be disposed of in any way that is safe and convenient for perishable goods.

Vendors are required by law to supply suitable activation instructions with every purchase. Do not attempt to open wands or staffs or activate opened ones. Check your local ordinances.

Are there any sources of Magic other than Spells or Spell-Based Products?

We understand that in this modern age there is a growing sense of conscientiousness surrounding the use of spells, stemming from ecological, ethical, and dietary concerns. For those whom it concerns, it may be pleasing to know that a group of researchers is hard at work inventing a synthetic form of magic for experimental use. But R&D is a slow process, and Big Egg has one hell⁴ of a wizard lobby. In the meantime, remember that all available spell-based products are guaranteed safe and sustainable.

This has all been very enlightening, but I want to learn more.

You're in luck! Chances are, you have a world-class education in spells just a stone's throw away from home. Every Pardnership-affiliated spell-ranch has an information and admissions office ready and waiting to receive you and all your questions, curiosities, or concerns. Take a guided tour of the ranch, join community outreach programs, or apply for preliminary screening interviews to become the spell-handler of your dreams.

You'll know you're in the right neck of the woods when you pass the statue of our beloved mascot, Blorpy the Excarnating Illiquation spell.

Have a good'un, 'zardner!

¹ Such as create gold. No known magical effect can as of yet spontaneously generate gold, nor convert another substance into gold. But the fine folks at R&D are hard at work, and thanks to their ceaseless self-sacrifice and the hard work of their communities, a breakthrough could come any day now! The cost will be worth it. Literally.

² Lifelong for the spell, that is. The average life expectancy of a spell is 6-8 months, depending on species. Particularly long-lived specimens can exceed 2 years. Parents are advised not to get spells as children's pets.

³ Made from only the most high quality spell stomach lining using state-of-the-art rendering and polymerization techniques.

⁴ Literally. Since they successfully bred the Infernal Gulper (binomial name pending), portals to the underworld have been opening left and right. Watch your step, pilgrim!

Blood, Smog & Steel

"Gooood evening, and a fine First Shift to all you hard workers out there~! This is your nightly news and weather forecast. Let's start the shift off with some good news: productivity continues to trend upward, meaning that we are well on our way to achieving that 2.5% quarterly increase we've all been hoping for! Give yourselves a pat on the back on your way in- but not before casting your ballots! Mr. Bartos' careful deliberation is over, and he has sent down his list of nominees for the role of replacement foreman. May the victor honor the memory of Foreman Solt, who was taken from us too soon by a tragic linotype accident. Our hearts go out to Mr. Solt's family, and above all to Mr. Bartos, who has soldiered on despite the loss of so dutiful an employee. In his boundless magnanimity, Mr. Bartos has elected not to fine Mr. Solt's next of kin for ruining an entire batch of molten antimony. Instead, he has given the workers of Floor C an opportunity to show their commitment and team spirit by garnishing their wages to cover the lost profits and opportunity cost of new hires. Moving on! You also have an exciting walk home to look forward to tonight thanks to ash storms and a richer than usual smog bank, so do be sure to rent a premium respirator and stop by the company store for a fresh filter on your way out. Mr. Bartos would hate to lose another one of his beloved ducklings. Until next broadcast, goodnight and good work to you all! Bartos Type Industries; In Service Of Excellence™ ."

— Nightly loudspeaker announcement, Bartos Manorfactory

"Why didn't Orbiq show up for his first shift? Line 12-I is starting to back up!"

"You didn't hear? Couriers picked him up. They found wood splinters on his clothes."

"Really? Damn it. He's dead for sure... who's gonna cover his shift on such short notice!?"

— Stockyard Banter, Tilatosh Manorfactory

It has been a little over eighty years since anyone saw the sun in this land that has come to be known as the Burgravate.

A few old shells are still around who saw it, or claim to have seen it, but they're a dying breed. The ones who are left tend to keep quiet about it whenever management is within earshot- and management is always close, either out in the open or lurking in the shadows cast by the all-enveloping smog clouds.

Some folks think things should be different, but good luck getting them to admit that to anyone. Team players don't talk dissent, and dissenters don't stay alive for long. Everyone else just does their best to keep their heads down and do their own time; your shift's gotta end sometime, right?

The Burgravate

The new name for a very old land (or was it many lands?) that were quite different up until a few centuries ago. But those names and histories have been lost, their peoples and cultures flattened. Now it's all Burgravate in every direction you look.

This place is a sprawling city-state forever basking in a starless night of its own creation. Towering edifices combining factory and aristocratic manor work around the clock to spew a thick layer of smog, soot, and other particulates over the city, fueled by the unceasing toil of its workers. It lies at the unbeating heart of a vast wasteland made of dust, toxic waste, and scar tissue.

As the smog expands, so too does the waste, and the borders of the Burgravate follow soon after, creeping along like a slate grey glacier.

At the helm of this noctoforming project is a tenuous alliance of vampires and their servants. Theirs is a tangled web of rivalries and intrigue, but nothing brings them together quite like keeping the commoners in check. They keep the living busy, fed, and dependent, and in exchange they rule their respective district-fiefdoms with leisured impunity.

Time is a vexing and slippery thing in the Burgravate. With no sun to measure the days with, there are no days. The standard unit of measure is a 24-hour night divided into three 8-hour Shifts. The only timekeeping devices are the horns and claxons of the factories.

You are not to know how much time is left; only when that time has come.

The Vampires

The twitchy, undulating ruling class of the Burgravate, forever watching from their grey-litten manor house windows or strolling the streets in clothes so bright and fine that not even the ubiquitous ash of this land can touch them. They'd be notable for how pale they are, if everyone else wasn't suffering grievous vitamin D deficiency. They are the ones who penned the first contract that so many humans consigned themselves and their descendants to darkness for. Nowadays they call themselves barons, dukes, overseers, executives, and a number of other self-given titles.

They are enthusiastically unsubtle bloodsuckers who long ago murdered subtext.

Vampires possess many superhuman traits, if comparing them to humans at all can be considered appropriate. They possess supernatural speed, strength, grace, and intelligence, as well as magnetic personalities fueled by a terrifying charisma that seems to ensorcell their targets. They have been known to verbally berate people to death for minor infractions.

They also have an unnerving ability to be... present. By some unknown means, they seem to see and hear most of what transpires within their districts. They may appear out of a darkened corner or the blind spots of human vision at any moment, giving them the appearance of omniscience and omnipotence. And as the sun vanishes from collective memory, they appear ever more invincible for it.

The cause of vampiric sunlight allergy is not known; not even to them. Plenty have theorized about a mundane or magical origin for it, but little has come of it. Some vampires are terrified by this great unknown; others don't give a damn why and just worry about finding solutions, and so devise ever greater ways to protect themselves from the Lurid Enemy while expanding their influence.

Where or how vampires are created is not known. All that is known is that a new one will be introduced to the city every few generations to found a new district, and then in short order they will be treated as if they had always been there. The most popular theory in the Burgravate is that the process takes place somewhere deep down beneath the Yawn, where neither light nor living reach.

Vampirism is considered by a few deeply haunted scholars to be somewhere in between a magical enchantment and a set of dramatic mutations. While most vampires externally resemble humans, their internal biology is radically different, more closely resembling that of certain winged arthropods. Whether they were originally human or just resemble them by design or coincidence is unclear.

Famous allergies and weaknesses like garlic, silver, and wooden stakes are complete fabrications. They are lies propagated by vampires generations ago, as part of a broader disinformation campaign against their enemies. They went so far as to outlaw and heavily police the above substances once they rose to power, in order to keep up the appearance that they are dangerous. More than one would-be vampire hunter has gone to great lengths and expended enormous resources obtaining such contraband from Brighter Parts, only to realize too late that they are woefully ineffective.

In truth, any sufficiently grievous bodily harm can kill a vampire. Dismemberment is good. Explosions are better. Direct exposure to the sun is a guarantee. Some theorize that you could starve one to death by denying them blood, but none has ever seen a vampire become so much as famished within the Burgravate.

Vampires don't technically drink blood; their gastrointestinal tracts are completely nonfunctional and vestigial, just like their lungs, pancreas, and reproductive organs. Instead, they siphon their victim's blood up through ducts in their fangs and filter it through a specialized organ at the base of the skull. The blood is then stored in soft tissues all across the vampire's body for gradual absorption.

Vampires are not known for their temperance. They will drain an entire body dry in a single sitting before they stop feeding, and many will go for seconds or thirds if they have them within reach. This feeding frenzy typically leaves the vampire grossly swollen and tick-like, but also sluggish and vulnerable to attack.

Recently fed vampires will sleep off a meal in as secure a location as possible. This often takes the form of an armored enclosure deep within their manor that can only be opened from the inside. Wishful thinking on the part of some human rebels has led to these chambers being dubbed "coffins", but in reality they bear little resemblance to the funerary boxes of old. They're closer to sumptuously decorated panic rooms.

The Burgrave

The ur-vampire, retired founder of the first smog factories, and enigmatic ruler of the Burgravate and all its constituent manors. They are said to 'live' in the kingliest of all estates deep beneath the surface, accessible via the bottom of the Yawn; a spiraling former pit-mine at the heart of the Burgravate. They are 'said' to live there because no one knows for sure. The Burgrave has never been seen by any living shell, and the vampires keep tight-lipped about them.

Their activities as ruler of the city are opaque but far-reaching and of grave consequence. Messengers said to represent the Burgrave occasionally bring orders up to the surface in pursuit of some unknown agenda. These 'Couriers' are a task force of dhampirs charged with enacting the Burgrave's will. The Couriers answer to no other vampire but the Burgrave themself, and have been known to act against dissenting lords and ladies with surprising prejudice.

The Burgrave is rumored to...

• ... Possess powers beyond those of regular vampires, including but not limited to invisibility, flight, mindreading, precognition, animal magnetism, and long-distance exsanguination.
• ... Be preparing for a major military expansion of the Burgravate in the near future, with the end-goal of world domination.
• ... Be so swollen from constant feeding that they are confined to a single grand chamber in their palace deep below the Yawn, naked and luxuriant upon a pile of desiccated corpses like a dragon on its hoard.
• ... Not exist at all. The illusion of an all-powerful, far-reaching ruler operating from the shadows serves the other vampires perfectly well, both to keep their mortal charges in check and to justify any actions they take on the world-stage. If this Burgrave Conspiracy is true then there is no central government in the Burgravate, and the Couriers are just independent mercenaries playing their part and acting in the interests of the current highest bidder.

The Yawn

A massive, spiraling gyre at the center of the city. It was once the first pit-mine of the Burgravate, where thousands of tons of coal were carved out by countless miners over the first few centuries. It once fed the fires that darkened the sky enough for the first vampires to walk cautious and veiled during the day. Now it lies dead and silent like a festering wound in the land's flesh, its veins of useful minerals exhausted.

Dead and silent doesn't mean empty, however. Quite the opposite. Processions of dhampirs wind up and down its corkscrew pathways at all hours, sending out orders and bringing back reports, shipments of goods, and the occasional condemned shell.

So sterile and picked-clean of old mining equipment is this place that it looks eerily beautiful, like a work of land art devised by some mind possessed by manic genius. Perhaps it is for this reason that the manorfactories directly abutting the Yawn are considered the nicest, most scenic of all districts. The living are discouraged from staring for too long, though. The Yawn can be... captivating.

The Manorfactories

Massive agglomerations of factory space, warehouses, and stockyards watched over by towering industrial-gothic monstrosities that house each district's vampire and their personal estate and staff. They are imposing, impenetrable, and an awful pun besides.

As the home of its resident vampire and the center of industry, each manorfactory is essentially the capital of its given district. They stand arranged in a near-perfect grid pattern stretching for hundreds of kilomiles in every direction, interrupted only by the largest natural features and landforms too stubborn to be flattened or hollowed out by labor.

Each manorfactory consumes massive amounts of fuel in deliberately inefficient furnaces that belch forth the smog that sustains the Burgravate's rulers. Most of this fuel is coal hewn from local mines, each an upstart little imitation of the venerable Yawn. But so long as it burns, the hungry furnaces aren't picky: there are no landfills and no graveyards in the Burgravate.

Manorfactories tend to be dedicated to a single industry that complements its neighbors. A large minority of manorfactories are concerned with the production of luxury goods that keep the resident vampires comfortable and conspicuous. Slightly more than that are dedicated to producing the tools, engines, food, and other necessities that keep the living side of the district more-or-less alive.

The remainder of manorfactories in the Burgravate—the majority-—serve no other purpose than to produce smog and keep living people preoccupied with labor. Many workers don't even know what their jobs accomplish, if anything- just that they create a whole lot of sparks and loud noises, and that they're being graded for how many they make per shift.

Residential areas for the living are built directly into their respective workplaces in the form of repeating honeycomb dormitories- not that anyone living inside them would know what in the world a honeybee is. It isn't much of an exaggeration to say that most people can roll out of their bunk and onto the factory floor. Easier to control them that way.

The palatial building at each manorfactory's heart, often referred to as "the offices", towers over the rest of the district like a panopticon of spires and stained glass windows. Within each is an opulent labyrinth populated by teams of dhampirs, highly-paid and higher-strung service workers, and of course the resident vampire, who is boss and baron all rolled up into one taut evening suit.

The Dhampirs

A dhampir is a formerly living mortal who has undergone the voluntary process of being partially fed upon by a vampire in order to induce... changes. They are emphatically not half-vampires, nor are they considered to be descended from or "sired" by their respective vampire patron in any way. Vampires, it is known, are entirely incapable of reproducing (or wanting to).

Dhampirs were once living humans until they paid exorbitant fees and indentured themselves for several lifetimes of servitude to a single vampire in exchange for a chance at dhampir status. Most prospective dhampirs never get that far, and most who do end up dying anyway because of their benefactors' unquenchable appetites.

They exhibit several vampire-like qualities such as extended lifespan, physical durability, improved strength and reflexes, etc. Dhampirs need not (and cannot) feed on blood, but some of them are known to drink a glass of the ol' Fresh Red every now and then in emulation of their "betters", just to feel fancy. It is believed that they are also more resistant to the sun than their creators, but to what degree is unclear.

How much a vampire feeds on the dhampir-to-be determines how humanlike they remain. Just a little bite keeps them essentially human but enhanced; a moderate feeding creates something superhuman, gaunt, and severe; being all but drained leaves them monstrous, desiccated husks of their former selves, listless and sullen but able to perform tasks single-mindedly, like a supernatural lobotomy patient. Calling the latter group "ghouls" is strongly discouraged, and may constitute a hate crime in some districts.

Contrary to popular perception, dhampirs are not actually charmed or glamored toward their benefactors in any way; they really are just that yuppy and sycophantic. Real go-getters, you could say.

Dhampirs comprise the majority of each vampire's personal staff and assistants. They are crucial to the nightly operation of just about every system and industry in the Burgravate, acting as a sort of middle-management caste between their employers and the ashen masses below. They are also the only people entrusted with operating the Sableways.

The Sableways

A network of coal-fueled locomotives that crisscross the Burgravate and beyond, delivering goods and personnel wherever the vampires decree. Smaller railways service individual districts, which are connected together by a larger, strictly regulated national rail that extends all the way out to Brighter Parts beyond the Burgravate. The trains are crewed and serviced entirely by dhampirs; the living are not trusted with such things.

Every Sable engine and car is as overengineered as the manorfactories, making them downright malevolent to behold and disquieting to ride inside of. Ominous interior lights, constant howling, noxious smoke that vents out from strategically-placed exhaust pipes to create a billowing "mantle" of darkness, etc. Most living folks run the other way when they hear one screaming down the rails, for fear of being told to board for a destination unknown and best unfathomed.

Other than that, the Sableways are genuinely some of the best public transit in the world. Engineers in Brighter Parts are working to devise a more human-friendly adaptation of them.

The Living

Someone has to keep the wheels of industry turning for the vampires. Unfortunately for the residents of the Burgravate who yet live, it's them. The majority of the human population is kept as docile workers and an occasional food source by their vampiric employers. They avoid using the word "cattle", usually.

Groups are kept divided with almost no travel or contact between districts, except at carefully controlled checkpoints. These rifts between communities are fostered and deepened by vampire propaganda, which seeks to undermine any sense of unity they might develop. Common is the occurrence that a vampire announces how "those shiftless ne'er-do-wells on the other side of the fence" have ruined another shipment, forcing the district to work even harder to catch up.

Humans here are usually pale in complexion regardless of race or ethnic background, thanks to generations under the smog. Having a light coating of ash on them at all times adds to this effect of depressing uniformity. Despite this, many communities have been isolated from one another for so long that they now possess different cultures, practices, and dialects, insofar as they are allowed to exercise them.

Leading causes of death in the Burgravate are respiratory illness and workplace injury. Direct predation by the upper class is a highly visible cause of death, but statistically not even in the top 10; more die from scurvy alone. Most deaths by vampires are judicial sentences carried out on lawbreakers, but failed dhampir transformation constitutes a sizeable (and growing) minority.

Clothing manufactured for use by the living tends to be drab, utilitarian, and concealing. Ornamentation is likely to get confiscated or caught in a machine. Therefore, personalization of masks and respirators is a common, if limited, means of self-expression. Most districts consider someone not to be dressed if they don't have a mask on hand.

Children have it rough. Average height is slowly decreasing with each generation, and rickets is common. Many parents feel bad bringing them into the world and workforce, but that is another dimension of life that is not up to the living to decide on. Well, technically it's a choice, but few people decline for the same reason they don't decline a second shift of unpaid overtime: you're better off seen as a team player.

The Resistance, As It Were

Despite what the local human resources office might tell you about employee satisfaction and productivity, not everyone has been ground down into compliance by the vampires. There are those who realize (or have been made to realize) that there is an alternative. There is another choice—albeit an equally painful one—that they can make instead: fight.

Some are true believers in the occultated sun, who want to see the land restored to the way it was before cruel avarice poisoned everything. Others consider it a fairytale, but don't care one way or another; they see a bad situation, and want to make it less bad. Still others have more personal or short-term goals in mind; revenge, escape, sheer unmitigated boredom, etc. All camps differ in their ends, but are united by the means: killing vampires. Or trying to, at any rate.

Rebels operate in small cells scattered across the outskirts of manorfactories. Their movement is nascent and vulnerable to being snuffed out early, so they chiefly concern themselves with staying alive and undetected while pursuing modest goals. Their activities include stockpiling supplies, minor acts of sabotage at strategic locations, and many discreet forms of passive resistance.

Perhaps their most important goal of all is fostering moments of fleeting communication and cooperation between people of different districts; a sort of living class solidarity.

Just getting people from one district to see one from another as equal is a daunting task by itself: all their lives, both have been raised to believe that any benefit enjoyed by the other is a detriment to themself, and that only one's own vampire is in any position to better them. That has to change before anything else can be accomplished. Even if by some miracle a single district liberated itself tonight, it would be their living, breathing neighbors who'd be sent in to break them with a ferocity born of desperate self-preservation.

It is the rebels' hope that someday they can unite the districts in a general uprising against their masters with the intent to overthrow the Burgrave and shut down the smog factories. It's a dim hope, but not as dim as the sun.

Perhaps it could be managed with support from sympathetic parties in Brighter Parts...

Brighter Parts

Simply put, Brighter Parts are the rest of the world beyond the Burgravate, where the sun is rumored to still shine. Officially, the sun is a spurious myth propagated by criminals, anarchists, and disgruntled employees- all of which are synonymous with one another. But the vampires are still a few mortal generations away from hammering that belief in as "fact". Until that time, workers are kept as ignorant of the outside world as possible, and incidentally the converse is true as well.

Parts closer to the Burgravate are none too happy to catch some of its pollution whenever the wind changes- nor are they eager to see the smoggy domain encroach on them bit by bit as new contracts are negotiated. But the vampires have excellent PR, and their manufacturing exports are important to the regional economy, so political will to do anything about it is low for the moment.

The only way to reach Brighter Parts is by crossing the miles of blighted, trackless wasteland surrounding the Burgravate. The fastest way to do this is by taking a Sableway, but to do so you'd either have to get the OK of the vampires, or enact a daring hijacking. You could also try hoofing it across the lightless wastes, but there is a multitude of starving, toothy reasons why the fences around the outermost districts are designed to keep things out as well as in.

Slag & Scale

It is known how the God at the Forge created the Sun: by complete accident.

When the Trickster wished to give the smith a gift to express its love for them, it did not know how, because it could not express anything. Deceit and concealment was so ingrained in its ways that it could not even tell a truth it wanted to share. So the Trickster fell back on old habits and presented to the God at the Forge a lump of the world's worst, most impure ore. The Trickster then dared the god to create anything of beauty out of it, teasing them and doubting their abilities as a child might the person they fancy.

The God at the Forge was insulted, for pride in the craft was their insurmountable nature. So they accepted the challenge, and set straight to work. They took the lump of ore to their forge and heated it a thousand-thousand times over, in a fire a thousand times brighter and hotter than the smith had ever stoked before. So bright and hot was the forge that all the other gods and creatures of the Rift shied away and fled to the twilit places- all but the Trickster, who watched the smith work in teary-eyed awe.

The Trickster beheld as the god at their bellows began to melt away the outer layers of the ore. Molten slag flowed like rivers and cooled into mountains, yet that vexing lump of ore remained undiminished; still impure. The smith's anger burned as hot as the forge, nearly melting it to the firmament. The god finally lashed out and sent the slag crashing to their feet, before stomping away and brooding over what next to do.

The Trickster also watched as some of that discarded slag began to move. Shattered crags picked themselves up and brushed off the smaller, crumbly bits of their fellows with stumpy, blunt limbs. They looked around with eyeless heads, and soon trundled or toddled away in fear at the sound of their creator's loud grumbling.

When the ore proved too stubborn, the smith pulled it out of the forge and laid it upon their anvil in the grip of their great and immovable tongs. If all the impurities would not melt out, then they would hammer them out. The smith deliberated at length, and finally took up one of their 6,842 hammers with which to begin the Great Folding.

For a length of time that would come to be called a year, the god hammered at the lump of ore. Every swing lit the Rift with showers of sparks, and shook the gulfs to their depths. The ore was beaten and shaped, tortured and purified, until the lesser metals were dragged screaming to the surface and smote.

The Trickster watched as those flakes of hammerscale rained upon the anvil like storms-yet-to-be, only to be swept away by the calloused hand of the God at the Forge. The flakes danced and shivered like black snowflakes as they fell, twisting in the heated air currents until they landed upon spindly little arms and legs. Jagged and pointy, these diminutive creatures did not flee in fear from their creator so quickly.

But just as the smith ignored the gawking Trickster, so too did they ignore the growing audience at their feet. They seized upon the progress they made, bringing the hammer down faster and harder until their arm was a blur, and their work reached a fever pitch.

When it did, they broke their hammer upon the lump of ore and ignited something deep within it. A spark unlike any other, that grew and grew to absorb the entire sphere with a brilliance that not even the smith could withstand. So they hurled it away into the darkness, where it caught in the empty void and erupted into its full glory.

At that, the little scales yipped and fled in fear. All the gods of the Rift came to look in awe at the newborn Sun. Without a doubt, it was the greatest thing of beauty the God at the Forge had ever made. Even the dust and the dregs of the Rift thought so, and began to dance around the Sun in ever greater crowds.

But the story of how the worlds were wedded together is for another time.

For now, the God at the Forge stood and basked in the warmth of their creation, and the accolades of their fellows. They waited, proud and imperious, for the Trickster to come before them and declare its challenge met. But the Trickster did not. The Trickster could not. All it could do was conceal the ache in its heart as it stole away to darker parts, where the smith's beauty did not burn so brightly, and the laughter of gods was not so loud.

There, in the dark and quiet, the Trickster found that it was not so alone. It found there, huddled and frightened, the little bits of slag and hammerscale that the smith had cast off and forgotten in their work. They were as children without a parent, in a Rift that was no longer what it once was. Yet they were sharp and rough to look upon, beautiful like lead, cruel to the touch and clumsy in all ways. The haughty gods of the Rift would never even notice them, let alone deign to welcome them in.

And so the Trickster reached out its long arms, and gathered the slag and scales up in spindly hands that could only steal the belongings of others. And then it closed its mouth so full of lies long enough to tenderly kiss them upon their jagged little heads. And then in a voice too quiet to hear it admitted that yes, the God at the Forge had made something beautiful indeed.

That, child, is why you should always treat with respect the things we might call waste: you never know when they might hold the guarded love of the Trickster.

Or perhaps that is just another lie, meant to put fidgeting children to bed. Now go to sleep.

Living & Adventuring in the Earthen Vaults

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The Earthen Vaults

The Children of Earth and Stone live in a dozen or so air-filled, cavernous vaults deep below the surface. These vaults lie on top of fault lines connecting to the Elemental Plane of Earth. How close a vault lies to the plane varies, with deeper vaults having a far more primordial nature than those relatively closer to the surface. Some undiscovered vaults are said to lie on the other side of the rifts, their denizens strange, time-lost, and far more elemental than mortal.

Tribal myths disagree on whether the vaults already existed when the Children were spawned, or if their divine creators sculpted the caves specifically to house them. This question is of little importance in day-to-day life, because the Stonebloods know for a fact that they are integral to the continued existence of their beloved homes.

Each vault contains an ecosystem of plants, animals, fungi, and small numbers of elemental creatures. These ecosystems are delicately balanced with hardly any energy or resources for the cycle of life to spare, so the Stonebloods take sustainability gravely seriously.

The Children do not consider themselves wardens of their vaults, however. Their place in the world is no lower or higher than that of other animals, and they are dearly aware of how sensitive they are to the effects of systemic collapse.

A typical vault is several dozen miles across, and several hundred feet high. It contains anywhere from one to a half- dozen tribes, each varying in size from smallish to only a single extended family. The vault normally has the resources needed to support the existing population.

Many vaults have a ceiling of dimly glowing crystals that provide a level of illumination similar to twilight or moonlight. This light is constant, with no analogous day/night cycle like surface-dwellers are used to having. Time is better told using simple timekeeping devices, or the tide and flow of a vault’s subterranean lakes and rivers.

All known vaults are connected to one another by a network of tunnels known as the Veins. Trade and travel between the Stonebloods, in however small a capacity it exists, is completely dependent upon these tunnels. They are also the most permeable sites to incursion from the World Beyond, making them a vital yet dangerous place in Stoneblood culture.

Shale Moot

The vault of Shale Moot lies at the center of a small web of Veins somewhere beneath southern Earthroot in eastern Faerûn. It is so-named for the prominence that dominates much of the vault’s center, and the tribal assembly building which stands atop it. It is an otherwise typical Stoneblood vault.

Points of interest in Shale Moot include...

Makha’s Hearth. The largest settlement in Shale Moot. It is home to a temple dedicated to Luthic and Grumbar, as well as one of the only metalworking forges in the vault.

Luthic’s Bosom. A small quarry where precious stones and ores are carefully hewn out in accordance with religious law. Most quartz in the vault originates here.

Brightforest. A forest of giant, bioluminescent mushrooms where much of the tribes' food and 'wood' are grown. Dead Stoneblood orcs are ‘given back to the earth’ and buried here as fertilizer.

Hurosh’s Dens. A population of dire bears lives in the caves along one face of the vault. They and the Children mostly leave one another alone, but shamans and rangers are known to take their cubs as animal companions.

The Moot. The eponymous meeting place is an island carved out of the center of an old riverbed. The moot serves as a court for disputes between tribes and constituent clans, as well as a triennial gathering of all tribes from adjacent vaults known as the Cairn. The isle is presided over by an elder shaman and her clanless disciples, who act as a neutral third party in all events.

Mudbubble. Geothermal hot springs make this place a cross between a sacred house of healing and a public bath. Most non-Stonebloods find the water too hot and rich in minerals to enjoy.

Gnashing Teeth. The low, damp ceiling here has created a vast field of staggered stalactites and stalactites resembling rows of long teeth.

The Gyre. A large, circular pit occupying one corner of the vault. It descends an unknown depth into the darkness, and all are forbidden to approach it. Sacrifices of quartz and bear meat are made to quiet the rumbling that rises up out of its depths every few years, just in case.

Woeful Cairn. The site of an old battle between tribes that resulted in a near-total massacre of all combatants, as well as the subsequent establishment of Shale Moot to prevent future tragedies.

Adventure Seeds

Contact with the outside world was, for many generations, considered at once unthinkable and impossible. Yet in recent months that belief was tested and found wanting. The Shining Ones, so named for their debilitating dependence upon torches and other bright lights, have finally plumbed the Underdark deep enough to stumble upon the Stonebloods completely by accident while hunting for an Illithid thrall cell.

These Shining Ones, or “adventurers” as they call themselves, brought flesh to the ancient rumors of an upper world. It threw the tribes into a disarray that they are scarcely recovering from now, and it has thrown open the yawning and uncertain doors of possibility for the Children.

Some are interested in venturing beyond their ancestral vaults in search of the world that had been denied to their kind for so many generations. The possibility of new land is also immensely tempting. While conquest is not high on any Stoneblood’s list of priorities, the idea of taking some of the pressure off of their home vault is highly desirable. The idea of meeting new peoples, new cultures, and truly understanding the world they live at the heart of is an equally seductive thought to many youths.

Other Stonebloods instead choose to recoil from the world at large. They believe that they had been sequestered for a good reason, and that contacting the outside world is in defiance of the gods, as well as their better nature. Their attitude mirrors the clannish hostility of near-surface Luthic worshipers, emphasizing xenophobic defensiveness that appeals to many staunch traditionalists.

Most others are somewhere in the middle, or are entirely apathetic to the discovery or the idea of being discovered: they will endure whatever ephemeral changes have been wrought, just as they always have.

But even in the coziest vaults, among the staunchest homebodies, there have been found sprouts of that most hated and prolific weed: adventure.

20 Adventures in the Vaults

1. A strange new disease is ravaging a vault’s rothé herds. The tribes—and the whole ecosystem—may collapse.

2. The crystals lighting the vault’s ceiling are winking out one by one, plunging it into darkness.

3. A breathless messenger stumbles out of the Veins saying their tribe has been attacked by slavers.

4. Two clans threaten to go to war over the deaths of a pair of youths, each blaming the other and demanding justice.

5. The vault’s river ran dry for several days. Now the water is flowing again, but it is befouled and poisonous.

6. One of the Veins collapsed in a recent earthquake. The neighboring vault is stranded, and monsters now infest the tunnels.

7. A Stoneblood adventurer lost their ancestral quartz amulet in the Underdark, and face shame back home if they don’t find it.

8. A Stoneblood shaman had a vision of an imminent natural disaster and claims the only way to avert it is to appease the spirits of the Elemental Plane of Earth.

9. A group of Shining Ones formerly under a chief’s protection has been imprisoned and accused of corrupting the youth with tales of the World Beyond.

10. The vault’s sacred quartz mine was defaced and ransacked, its keepers murdered.

11. Near-surface orcs have made contact with a vault. The Stonebloods hope diplomacy has a chance.

12. A clandestine Gruumsh-worshiping cult has started to gain influence over a tribe’s warriors.

13. A community of Svirfneblin desperately need a type of ore that can only be found in a nearby vault.

14. Enterprising traders from the Veins wish to acquire rare and exotic surface goods for the vaults.

15. A newborn Stoneblood is rumored to have come out of the womb already covered in thick lithoderms- a startling omen in need of answers.

16. Some curse or sickness has rendered a vault’s venerated cave bears mindlessly aggressive.

17. Travelers have found a vault completely abandoned and empty, with no sign of the local tribes.

18. An ambitious and charismatic young chieftain believes the

Stonebloods must face the world as a people united... under a single ruler.

19. Swarms of starving xorns were pushed out of their habitat, and are tearing the vault apart for food.

20. The tribe moot draws near, and preparations for the proceedings must be made.

Stoneblood Orcs

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“BLOOD OF THE MOTHER, BONES OF THE EARTH.” Chanted the wizened old shaman as she lifted her hand up high over the newborn, sprinkling bloody earth over their head and shoulders. She then took a cord of woven rothé hair and draped it around the child’s neck. From it dangled a small crystal of pale, glowing quartz- the same sort of quartz which warriors defended with their lives, and which mates exchanged during marriage vows. At that moment the other orcs assembled before the shaman gave a great shout, echoing her words through the cavernous halls. In this way they welcomed the newest member of their tribe into the deep, dark world.

— Merhoon Hresh, Planar Peculiarities Vol. IX

There are a people who live between a literal rock and a hard place. Down, deep down below the earth, below the warrens of kobolds and the holds of dwarves, below the clamorous warcamps of even the deepest orogs, lies a place of transience. In that long-forgotten corner of the Underdark, the barrier between the Prime Material Plane and the Elemental Plane of Earth has grown thin in some places, and broken down completely in others.

Here, the Children of Blood and Stone dwell. They are orcs, or at least akin to them. But they have been radically altered by a genesis of betrayal and passion, and an existence of seclusion and solitude. Divine accidents, they had been content to hide away for generations. Now, they venture beyond their cavernous homes, steady and cautious in a world that has never known them, and knows not what to do with them.

Blood of the Mother

The Stoneblood are orcs born of exposure to the Plane of Earth. They remain superficially similar to orcs, being broad and muscular with tusked jaws and flat, wide features that more prejudiced humans might regard as primitive or even simian.

The similarities peter out from there. Stoneblood orcs possess tough hides and stony protrusions not unlike a goliath’s lithoderms, but on a more extreme scale. Pieces of crystal are known to grow from their heads and shoulders, and their tusks are angular and faceted like pieces of quartz. Their unique biology is divinely inspired, but maintained through more mundane means. When a Stoneblood is born, they are soft and almost smooth-skinned. As they mature and eat the mineral-rich food available in their earthen vaults, their bodies process the minerals into stone and crystal formations. One effect of sickness or old age is for these structures to grow weak and brittle.

Stonebloods are not as tall as orcs closer to the surface, but no less powerfully built. Skin tones range from dark green, to grey-blue, to a foggy amethyst color. Eye color can be as varied as the gemstones found in their vaulted homes. Hair tends to be dark, black, or silvery. They dress conservatively, in drab and muted tones unlike the lurid colors and garish pelts of near-surface orcs. The only spots of color most wear are a necklace of white or yellow quartz, and the occasional tattoo of blue-black or red pigment etched and dyed into their stony skin.

Bones of the Earth

Stoneblood orcs live in cavernous vaults adjacent to the Plane of Earth. They organize themselves into small tribes linked by blood or constructed lineage. These tribes can be highly regimented, and are generally oriented around a mildly matriarchal council of notables advised by a senior shaman. 

Stonebloods survive by hunting the earthy beasts of their home, and by farming a few hardy plants and fungi imported from the Underdark. They also harvest the abundant mineral wealth of their vaults to make tools, as well as works of art. Their skill in stonework is not as technically impressive or as lavish as dwarf engineering, but it possesses its own subtle sophistication and beauty. Where a natural earth vault ends and where Stoneblood artifice begins can be hard for even trained eyes to see- not that many outsiders have ever seen them.

For long, slow centuries the orcs kept to themselves, only periodically interacting with other tribes to trade, socialize, or settle disputes. Tribes typically cooperate through representatives who are sent to a “great council” hosted on neutral ground, often under the auspices of an elder shaman. Warfare of any scale is startlingly uncommon among the Stoneblood orcs, and it is quickly quashed. When differences get out of hand, warchiefs are selected to lead bands of warriors in small-scale ritual battles, or act as champions for their tribe in one-on-one trials by combat. Stoneblood orcs simply don't have the numbers, reproductive ability, or wild abandon that their upper cousins rely upon to lead them to victory in battle. Stonebloods believe that glory means little when so many are left dead, maimed, or starving.

Spawn of the Great Indiscretion

The divine parents of the Stoneblood orcs are Luthic, orcish goddess of caves and motherhood, and Grumbar, the Primordial of Earth. The gods conceived them by accident during one of their many trysts in the depths of the earth, but decided against destroying the misbegotten, soulless facsimiles on the spot.

Luthic still feared that their existence would alert her mate Gruumsh to her dalliances, so she hid them away underground, and Grumbar gave them a place at the far edge of his realm. Luthic later stole a magic orb of quartz from her mate and gifted it to Grumbar. He shattered the orb in his fist, and the shards rained down upon the Stonebloods, piercing them and imbuing them with souls and wills. Together the deities have protected the Stoneblood orcs ever since, through a combination of misdirection and tactical negligence.

Free of the bloodlust that Gruumsh has instilled in most other orcs, the Stonebloods have developed in a way that is far removed from their kin. They are temperate, thoughtful, and patient on an almost geological scale. Where exactly Gruumsh’s lack of influence ends and Grumbar’s influence begins is a matter of debate, but it is a question of huge import to the future of the orcish peoples.

Despite the absence of significant intervention in their lives, the Children of Blood and Stone still venerate their divine parents through quartz and prayer. For even if they do not directly speak to or intercede on behalf of their children, the presence of Luthic and Grumbar is evident in the land itself, and how it challenges yet provides for their children.

Most unusual about the distant-yet-present faith of the Stoneblood orcs is that it still appears to afford them spiritual power. While many shamans are druids of some kind, enough of them claim to be clerics of Luthic to bring into question just how much attention the Cave Mother really is affording her sheltered children, and by what means.

Isolated and Concealed

The Stoneblood orcs have been separated from most other sapient species for centuries. Any

relationships or grudges they have tend to be directed at each other, rather than at the people of the World Beyond. Nevertheless, they have had enough dealings with outsiders for some trends to develop.

Orcs. The “favored” children of Gruumsh see their sheltered kin as weak and misbegotten. If given the opportunity, their more warlike cousins would either destroy the Stonebloods, or subjugate them in the name of the One-Eyed God.

Genasi. The planetouched are a mixed bag for Stonebloods: they are ambivalent toward fire and water, standoffish and distrusting of the capricious air, and distantly friendly toward their earthy fellows.

Dwarves, Elves, Humans, etc. The Stonebloods have never meant any of these peoples any ill will, but those who have been raided by orcs for ages are reluctant to trust the word of another orc, no matter how crystalline and craggy they may be.

Stoneblood Orc Names

Stoneblood orcs tend to have unisex names drawn from a mixture of orc names and auspicious Terran words. Stoneblood orcs lack family names. They refer to other members of the same tribe by their given name plus the name of their mother with the prefix ken-, i.e., Doaarun the son of Makha would be Doaarun ken-Makha. Tribe names are derived from ancient totems, shared female ancestors (real or legendary), and famous landmarks.

Names: Arong, Bheldez, Guldre, Kulro, Mish’kha, Narhosh, Toron, Uurtch, Wa’marag, Zamaa.

Tribe Names: Beryl Fist, Krenka’s Tor, Rust River, Tsaagat’s Hollow, Xorn-Claw.

Stoneblood Orc Traits

Ability Score Increase. Your Strength score increases by 2, and your Wisdom score increases by 1.

Age. Stoneblood orcs mature and age slower than surface orcs. They reach adulthood at 15 and live up to 80 years.

Alignment. Stoneblood orcs inherited clannish rigidity from their mother, and dispassionate steadiness from their father. They tend toward lawful and neutral alignments. A few are lawful evil, preaching xenophobia against all outsiders, including other orcs.

Size. Stoneblood orcs are stockier than their softer kin, averaging less than 6 feet in height while remaining just as heavy. Your size is Medium.

Speed. Your base walking speed is 30 feet.

Darkvision. You can see in dim light within 60 feet of you as if it were bright light, and in darkness as if it were dim light. You can't discern color in darkness, only shades of gray.

Powerful Build. Your back is broad, and your bones are dense. You count as one size larger when determining your carrying capacity and the weight you can push, drag, or lift.

Blood of Stone. Your dark blood runs like tar, clotting quickly and affording you some limited protection. You have advantage on saving throws against conditions that cause bleeding, and you have resistance to damage related to blood loss.

Skin of Shale. Your body is covered in stony plates and protrusions that can turn away a blow. When you aren't wearing armor, your AC is 13 + your Dexterity modifier. You also have advantage on Dexterity (stealth) checks to hide in rocky terrain.

Cave Born. Your kind are born of the cavernous womb of the earth. You know the Mold Earth cantrip. Wisdom is your spellcasting modifier for it. You also never get lost underground.

Endurant. Expanding and surviving in the vaults of your treacherous and elemental home plane has made your people resourceful. You are proficient in Survival.

Tool Proficiency. You gain proficiency with the artisan’s tool of your choice: mason’s tools, or jeweler’s tools.

Languages. You can speak, read and write Common, Orc, and Primordial (Terran). The Stoneblood orc dialect contains many loanwords from Primordial. It features heavy agglutination and slight vowel harmony, and is said to have the cadence of a stone tumbling down a steep hill.

The Falling City

"The Falling City" is just one of several descriptive exonyms used by travelers and scholars. Others include Fallingrock, The Howling City, The Agglomerate, The Boulder, The Pebble, etc. None of them are especially clever, but all are true in part. For what it's worth, the city's denizens (commonly dubbed "fallers") merely call it "home", or "The City" at most.

The aforementioned rock is a collection of natural stone and mortal-made debris several kilomiles in diameter. It is approximately bullet-shaped, with a flattened top and tapering bottom. The "city" portion of the Falling City is located on the flattened top. The whole thing is held together by a small well of artificial gravity constantly maintained by the city's magic-users.

Without that, the City would be torn apart as it falls through the Chasm.

The Chasm is several times wider than the City, and by most accounts infinite in height. Most of the time it resembles an approximately circular rock tunnel, but it is known to deform into more jagged or esoteric shapes and materials at times. Rarely, it will widen out into massive vaults that offer strange and alien vistas before inevitably tapering back inward. Dim, ambient light comparable to an overcast day seems to suffuse the whole Chasm without source- nothing outside of the City casts a shadow.

It is unknown what, if anything created the Chasm, or if it even exists in a conventional sense.

The City perpetually falls through the Chasm at several times the terminal velocity it should be- what limited observations that can be made from the City suggest that its underside glows orange-hot from friction. The same blanket of spells that keeps the rock together also keeps a breathable atmosphere on top of the city, though the bubble is not thick enough to block out the low, constant howling of the wind whipping past the edges of the rock. Toward the middle of the rock it's little more than background static like any city has.

Under ideal conditions the City is stable and centered in the Chasm with no wobble, tilt, or rotation to its fall. As gashes and scrapes along the rock's flanks can attest, ideal conditions are not always met. Course correction requires immediate and immense effort on the part of all able spellcasters lest the City be dashed to pieces.

There is no way in or out of the Chasm—and by extension, the Falling City—except by way of teleportation spells (oftentimes a misfiring one, at that). The fact that it doesn't seem to connect to any other plane in the multiverse supports the argument that it is its own self-contained demiplane. Where on the "map" that is, is a mystery.

How it remained unknown by the larger multiversal community up until fairly recently suggests that the plane was either created recently, or is just very well hidden. This is reinforced by the fact that divine magic tends to fizzle out in the City- not even the gods seem to know where it is. Meanwhile, arcane and primal magic work more-or-less normally.

The citizens of the Falling City maintain that the City has been around for millennia at least, epochs at most.

Every neighborhood seems to have a different origin story for the City and the Chasm, influenced by local culture and history. Some believe that both have existed since before the dawn of time, and will continue to exist after all else has ended. Others maintain a small hero-cult dedicated to the original mages and geotheurges who either created the City and the Chasm or transported the City into the Chasm in order to save it from some impending disaster. Evidence for each is murky enough that many choose to believe whichever they fancy.

A Few Other City/Chasm Theories Include:

• The Chasm is the intestine of a Cosmic Earthworm that devoured the City's world long ago. The day is eagerly awaited when the Worm excretes the City onto a paradise built on solid ground and/or midnight soil.
• The Chasm is a very long circular loop that the City flies laps through. Glowing magical beacons are fired into the Chasm walls at intervals in the belief that someday the City will pass them by again and prove the theory true.
• The City is the leftover pocket domain of a dead and forgotten god. The citizens are fated to reincarnate within it for all eternity until they achieve moksha.
• The Chasm is actually an illusion projected around the perfectly ordinary City to keep its limits and its denizens imprisoned. Their jailors are an omniscient, vaguely malign conspiracy of NIMBY wizards and disgruntled suburban planners.
• The Chasm is actually a one-dimensional string in the process of propagating itself into empty space to form a brand new universe, and the City is a proto-particle that will help form new matter there. There's more to the theory than that, but most people mentally check out here.
• The City isn't falling down through the Chasm, the Chasm is flying up around the City, maaan.
• The Chasm is not infinite in length at all, and in fact its end is coming up very, very soon.
• Everyone in the City knows its history and the nature of the Chasm exactly, but refuse to give any details to outsiders because the mystique attracts tourists.
• Once there were many cities and other islands of life falling through the Chasm. Now only the one City remains, and the council knows why.
• All of these questions and more could be answered if one were to just ask the secretive natives hiding in the Chasm wall.
• The City was once a piece of masonry connected to a "Bridge" before it broke off and slipped into the "Under". Whatever that means.

Whatever its origins or nature, the Falling City is surprisingly accommodating despite its eminently hostile locale. It is arranged in a roughly circular plan with a combination of wide-open common spaces and narrow streets with efficiently stacked buildings. Being unable to build outward, the city builds vertically to account for the slow upward crawl of its population, which is no more than a few thousand. High-rise buildings are cheap, but soundproofing them against the constant howl of the Chasm is not.

The city is divided up into a half-dozen districts, each of which has a seat on the council that gives the city its veneer of government. Since most citizens of the Falling City have at least enough magical talent to create matter from thin air and live self-sufficiently, there are few limited resources for a central government to justify itself by consolidating and (mis)managing. The council mainly exists to organize the will of its citizens to prevent or repair damage to the city, treat with visiting outsiders, and pass judgement on criminals.

There are two punishments used in the Falling City; community service, which is used for the vast majority of offenses and ranges greatly in length according to severity, and Unfettering.

Unfettering is quite simple: a group of the city's most talented mages stand in a circle around the condemned in an open space. The mages suppress the city's magical anchoring effect around the individual for several seconds; the individual then proceeds to exit the city limits in a very expedited fashion. A cleanup crew is typically kept on-hand, on the off-chance that anything is left of them afterward.

Unfettering is exceedingly rare, fortunately. It is meted out only by council consensus when an offender has been found guilty of premeditating grievous harm upon their fellow citizens, or threatening the integrity of the entire city- practically speaking, both charges are one and the same. No one has been intentionally ragdolled to bits upon the skyline in decades, and no outsider has ever been judged so, no matter how clueless or rude they can be.

And there have been many outsiders in the Falling City, ever since access was first accidentally gained during the Conjuration Crisis of █████████. Visitors are frequent, though few mortals stay long enough to acclimate to the extra atmospheres of pressure and the complete lack of a day-night cycle. The city tolerates these planar tourists and enjoys their business for the time being, so long as they can pay in magical curiosities not available in the Chasm.

Natives of the City don't much care to leave their home, meanwhile. They may visit other worlds and planes, but to date no fallers have voluntarily moved out of the City. It might be just a hunk of rock screaming through the abyss, but isn't that most people's homes at the end of the day?

Thanks to many tourists, a handy list of interesting places and sites to visit in the Falling City has been compiled. It is always expanding or shrinking according to whim. The current interesting sites include but are not limited to...

Visitor Center: An ornate, almost garishly decorated building quite at odds with its neighbors, located centrally in the City in order to attract even the shortest of adventurer attention spans. It is what the sign says in a dozen-and-a-half languages (the length of which is growing every week); City Visiting Center: Planar Visitors Please Register Within! Within, a large lobby plays host to staff offering local resources to outsiders or educating them on the finer points of city law and culture. A small group of abjuration and conjuration specialists nicknamed the Shunters also stands by to protect citizens and visitors both from any hazards of planar travel. They're the closest thing to cops the Falling City will tolerate having.

City Hall: Unlike the Visitor's Center, most outsiders can't find this place for the life of them without direction, and some citizens are even prone to forgetting its location. Not because it's hidden in any way, but because of how utterly unremarkable the building is. Only the crowd that gathers outside of it in anticipation of important or potentially amusing meetings is any indication that this is the seat of government in the Falling City.

Tiriyab's Twirls: An experimental entertainment house that operates within a warded zone of partially weakened tethering. This allows anyone inside to move around in a low- or even zero-gravity environment. Games, performances, and drinking abound. The different open-air levels of the establishment are serviced by "twirls", rotating rings that function like lifts or conveyor belts. All of this is overseen by the eponymous Tiriyab, who is otherwise known for perfecting (and closely guarding the secret to) an at-will short-range teleportation spell which they use to navigate their business quickly. A recent arrival in the city, a former contortionist and thief-acrobat, seeks to earn permanent residence and work as a performer under Tiriyab (and perhaps also steal the spell).

The Spiral: An access tunnel that winds down into the rock from the surface like a massive corkscrew. It houses a modest undercity that mainly services the ever-rotating staff of magic-users tasked with maintaining the integrity of the rock by channeling power straight into its floors and walls. It's also a pleasant little getaway from the (admittedly already pretty subdued) hustle and bustle of the city's surface. The tunnel supposedly goes all the way down to the "tip" of the rock, but the temperature is so high down there that none but the most skilled magic-users ever visit, and even then it's only to make sure nothing is melting or harboring unexpected trouble.

Beloveds' Embrace: One of the small shrines dedicated to honoring some of the hypothesized founders of the Falling City; in this instance, the magical power couple known as Quy & Hnah. As the legend goes, when the arcanist and the geomancer married, they also wedded their arcane and earth magic together. This formed a potent mix that allowed them to raise and build whole continents in the mythic time before the Chasm, and ultimately led to the founding of the City. The shrine's votaries keep an extensive canon of Quy & Hnah's adventures for the public, mostly told in the form of parables on ethics, magical practice, and healthy partnerships. The shrine gets slightly more traffic than normal these days, after a popular albeit shallow and trend-chasing travelogue author mistakenly identified Quy & Hnah as the gods of the Falling City. Visitors typically leave the quaint little street-side alcove feeling slightly underwhelmed. A visiting cleric—exceptionally rare in the void of divine energy that is the Falling City—has recently arrived on what they claim is a sacred mission to preach about Quy & Hnah abroad. The shrine keepers are... perplexed by this.

"Wobblespike": A tower that has the dubious honor of being the tallest point in the City. Gravity is weaker and the atmosphere is thinner here. Unique within the Falling City's architecture, it is made primarily of metal. This allows the tower to bend slightly with the windy Chasm turbulence it is exposed to, rather than just breaking apart. Hence the somewhat silly nickname. The lower levels see small amounts of mixed use, while the top only ever has a motley assortment of researchers and/or diviners trying to learn more about the Chasm from that vantage point. An air elemental in a copper suit has recently taken up temporary residence on the roof, where they "record" the wind with the aid of a strange metal rod.

The Antiquarium: A shop that began as a modest establishment for hobbyists who collected and traded interesting minor magical items. Since the arrival of the first planar visitors, it has become a growing hub of people seeking grander and less cozy acquisitions. Up to this point all dealings and visitors have been peaceful, but the neighborhood around the Antiquarium grows antsy about the increasing numbers of traditional enemies and opposingly aligned outsiders, not to mention all the magic weapons and dangerous wands. The matter—as well as whether or not to post a few Shunters in the area— is soon to be brought to the City Council.

How Disenchanting: Much like the Antiquarium, this place unexpectedly earned a whole new life as more planar travelers trickled in. What began as a municipal box with a slot on the front for recycling magical junk has evolved into a thriving city-owned business. Adventurers, it turns out, tend to hoard literal tons of stuff in those Bags of Holding and Portable Holes of theirs. Many of them will gladly pay a small processing fee to have their old magic items broken down into raw magical extract, useful for spell components or item creation. The Falling City keeps a percentage too, of course.

The Meander: Vegetation and "wildlife" are present all throughout the Falling City, in private gardens and on more hospitable streets. But to get a taste of true envelopment in nature, most fallers take a stroll through this large park and garden. Named for its winding pathways, this park holds several plant and animal species unknown elsewhere in the multiverse, lit up and sustained by small artificial suns that lazily float through the groves. Since they can't survive in the Chasm, scholars theorize that they were originally taken from another world that has since been destroyed, or perhaps they were bred from wizard experiments like so many other monstrosities. A druid(?) who calls themself the High Orinthologue is squatting studying the local bird genera here.

The Scrape: Once upon a time during a particularly deadlocked and petty disagreement between districts, the City drifted slightly off course and struck an unexpectedly large protuberance from the Chasm wall. It cleaved off a chunk of the City's rim, taking streets and city blocks as well as all their occupants with it. It was the largest disaster ever recorded in the history of the Falling City. The site has since been reinforced to prevent erosion, but much of the visible damage has not been touched since that day. This shell of a neighborhood long-gone has had a memorial statue installed on its outskirts as a reminder of what can happen when the survival of the City is taken for granted.