Dungeons and Dragons – Necropolis Part II

I meant to get back to this much sooner, but here’s part II…

Back to Part I

The Council of Necropolis have determined that an evil force – of powerful but as yet undetermined nature – has taken up residence in the heart of the cemetery. It appears to be centered somewhere in the vicinity of the so-called “Avenue of Heroes”, a boulevard of the largest and most impressive tombs and monuments than run down to the largest of the Necropolis’s ornamental lakes. Rather than confront this force head on in a dangerous (not to mention expensive) battle, the Council have decided to place an enchantment over the whole cemetery, a massive Protection from Evil spell that will either drive out the force, or weaken it sufficiently to make a confrontation viable. This is where the Players come in.

The enchantment will be established and maintained via a series of stone pillars placed at carefully selected points within the cemetery. Each will initially offer protection to its immediate surroundings, but as more pillars are placed, their protective fields will grow in both range and power until the entire 5,000 or more acres of the site are covered. The setting up of a pillar requires a complex ceremony featuring elements of both Divine and Arcane magic – this can easily be done during the relative safety of the daylight hours. The final activation of each pillar however must be carried out at the stroke of midnight on a carefully determined date – failure to do so requiring a full month before the activation can be attempted again.

The Council require the Players to carry out these activations. They must venture into the Cemetery, carrying the carefully enchanted capstone for each pillar, and put in in place at midnight, facing down whatever horrors stalk the graves at night. Ample payment is offered, but will be only be delivered in full on a pillar by pillar basis.

There are 26 pillars to be capped in total, starting with those on the edges of the cemetery then moving inwards towards the Avenue of Heroes. Certain pillars present unique challenges – three must be placed on islands in the ornamental lakes and at least one is located with the extensive catacombs that riddle the site. For the enchantment to take effect no more than two pillars may be activated a week, so the task will take several months, during which time the evil presence at the heart of the Necropolis can be assumed to continue its growth.

Are the Players up to the challenge? And if so, what specific dangers and obstacles will they face? Tune in soon for Part III of Necropolis!

Dungeons and Dragons – Necropolis

Over the last few years the plot for a grand Dungeons and Dragons campaign has slowly assembled itself in my head. For various reasons it is unlikely that I’ll ever be able to run it as an actual game, so I thought I’d make it available for anyone who’s looking for something new and perhaps different to inflict on their playing group. Below, please find part one of the campaign sketch that I have decided to name ‘Necropolis’.

Over a thousand years ago the wise and powerful cleric Angevin passed away after a long life tending to the sick and destitute. His loyal disciples constructed a temple and small monastery around his grave, which over the years became a site of pilgrimage, attracting penitents and miracle seekers from across the known world. Many sick and elderly visitors sought nothing more than to be buried near the tomb of the blessed Angevin, and a cemetery grew up, tended by the brothers and sisters of the monastery, which grew rich and powerful on the bequests of the interred.

Over the centuries the burial ground grew larger and larger, and a town grew up to service the cemetery and its visitors. The great and powerful now sought to be buried there, with towering monuments and mausoleums rising above the simpler headstones. Catacombs and ossuries were dug into the hillsides, water courses were diverted to create streams and lakes, and gardens and shaded avenues were laid out among the tombs, creating a sculpted and manicured landscape to soothe the cares of the grief stricken mourners who now accompanied the bodies of their loved ones on the long trip to their final resting place.

Now the great cemetery covers over 5,000 acres, surrounded by miles of high marble walls. The burial ground and its attendant city – full of shrines, temples, inns and taverns to cater for the many visitors – are united under the name of Necropolis. Governed by a council made up of both businessmen and clerics it is a wonder of the world, and even the poorest beggar dreams of one day going to their rest among the heroes and saints that consecrate its soil.

But, all is not well in the city of Necropolis. The Council has so far kept matters quiet, but rumors are starting to circulate that a dark force has infiltrated the formerly sacred avenues and groves of Angevin’s resting place. The people of the city are loath to enter the cemetery alone, and all but the bravest (or most foolish) will not set foot within its bounds once the shadows begin to lengthen. As the rumors spread, visitors are starting to question whether a grave at Necropolis is such a prize after all, and the Council – for reasons both sacred and profane – has decided that action must be taken.

So it is that the word has gone out – discretely – that experienced adventurers looking to make a profit in both this world and the next should apply at the Monastery of Angevin before the next full moon…

Coming Soon – What’s going on, and what the Council want the Players to do about it!

Squid

Now ’tis often said by those learned in the ways o’ the briny deeps that the surest way to attract the common or vulgar squid onto a line is with that that can sooth the breast of the most savage of beasts, to wit, a song. As such, as the Lucky Betty sailed leisurely out o’ Cap’n Bandy’s marina, Phil – a member in good standin’ for many years of the Quantoket Bend G&S Society – suggested we join our tongues in the ballad o’ the HMS Pinafore. This proposal however was shot down by Old Joe, who explained that if he ever claimed to be a sober man, be it even in song, the Good Lord would strike him down with a bolt o’ heavenly lightning right as where he stood. This caused us no little consternation as he were the one captainin’ our fine vessel, but he allayed our fears by explainin’ that his alcoholism was of the ‘functional’ variety, and so long as he had a steady supply of liquors spirituous there could be no firmer hand on the wheel. The problem thus dispatched we returned our attentions to matters musical, and decided after some discussion that a chorus o’ the well know duet from Lakmé would serve almost as well, and so motored out to sea with my good self taking the title role, Phil as Mallika and Benny Mousetrap keepin’ time by beatin’ his head against the port gunwale.

Our destination that fine art’noon were the Peabody Shoals off the south end of Body Island, a well known place o’ habitat for the speckled squid o’ the delta coast. While confusin’ and treacherous for large vessels, and the site o’ many a piteous shipwreckin’ in times o’ yore, a craft of shallow draft such as our own would be in little danger, and Benny’s innate sense o’ direction, honed by many years o’ rollin the streets of the Cable District, would see us in good stead when avoidin’ the few banks and reefs that could pose any kind o’ serious threat. However we were no more than halfway to the shoals when a sudden change in the winds precipitated a dampening o’ the atmosphere and the western horizon changed all pale and hazy – a sign o’ certain assurance that the mists would soon be upon us.

Unwillin’ to abandon our expedition but equally reluctant to chance the shoals under conditions so increasingly hazardous Old Joe suggested we drop anchor where we floated and begin our squid huntin’. All agreed as to the prudence o’ this course o’ action so we rolled out the rusty anchor chain, set out the ridin’ lights – red, green and yellow to inform any passin’ vessel exactly what it was we was about – and optimistically hoisted the purple squidin’ flag for luck. Benny took station in the fo’c’sle to keep an ear for approaching vessels and Phil consulted his well worn copy o’ the Recollections o’ Joan o’ Arc while Old Joe and I took our seats in the stern and dropped our lines o’er the side to await the comin’ of the squid, doin’ so just as the first bank o’ fog rolled in on us.

I tell ye it was eerie out there on the open ocean with no more’n twenty feet o’ vision in any direction and no sound but the clank o’ the chain, the slap o’ the waves and Benny’s muttered recitation o’ the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam –  a nervous habit he’d developed stayin’ in a house o’ easy virtue o’er the west coast many years prior. I can fairly state that it would have surprised our party in no way had the legendary Great Sea Serpent, Old King Neptune and his Naiads or the Eliza Battle loomed at us out o’ the mists. The squid we had come out in earnest search of seemed similar spooked and not a nibble was felt on either o’ our lines, leading Old Joe to comment on our foolishness in settin’ sail on a day o’ the full moon so late in the year – an observation that would have been a great packet more useful back on the land before we committed ourselves to spending our time afloat on the briny deep.

I was considerin’ the wisdom of pullin’ our lines and headin’ back towards shore when a cry came from Benny up at the bow. Somethin’, he asserted, was headin’ our way at a right lick o’ speed, though with the current atmospheric conditions being as they were he couldn’t commit to say as to what it might be. Phil leapt to at the foghorn and began pumpin’ out a mournful howl while Old Joe and I braced for the expected impact, remembrin’ too late that short o’ clamping a rope betwixt his teeth Benny had no way to do similar at his perch in the fo’c’sle. I let go of the gunwale and headed fo’ward with a mind to his rescue  just as the biggest wave any o’ us could recall seein’ in all our God given days slammed into the Betty, throwin’ the boat skyward and sendin’ Benny flyin’ off into the mist with a final wail concerning what was to be done with his mortal remains, assumin’ they could be located after such a woeful misadventure. The boat slammed back down, fully intact, leavin’ us bruised and sore with no sign o’ the king wave, or o’ Benny Mousetrap whose fate it now seemed was fully in the hands o’ the mighty ocean.

We did, in the end find the mortal remains o’ Benny, but that my friend is another story entirely.

Squid

Well it were about 20 years back now when me, Old Joe, Phil and Benny Moustrap decided to go out squid fishin’. We didn’t have any squid rods handy but Phil said he knew an old schooner captain’s trick (which he learned at the foot o’ his gran’pappy) where a body could take an ordinary rod and with a few quick applications o’ nails and paint fashion up the finest squid rod you e’er did see. So we hauled out a tin o’ old paint Benny had in the back o’ his shed and scrounged up a handfull o’ nails from the gutters outside Levi’s Gin Palace and before ye could say ‘Jack Whiticker’ we had a fine pair o’ rods ready to go.

Now at this point Old Joe raised the issue that there happened to be four o’ us and only two rods, which seemed quite the dilemma until Phil explained, in his usual wheezy fashion, that he never liked doin’ the catchin’ himself, and much preferred to watch, and then Benny pointed out that with him havin’ no arms or legs he wouldn’t know what to do wi’ a squid rod nobouts. So fully armed and prepared we carried ourselves down to Cap’n Bandy’s Pelagic Boat Hire to acquaint ourselves with a vessel for the catchin’ o’ squid suitable.

Now, as it happened Cap’n Bandy wasn’t around, him havin’ to rush off and take the place of another Cap’n who had made certain promises to judge the Trout contest over at Lake Chudditch and all o’ a sudden been unable to due to an outbreak of the chitlins, but his assistant Lootenant Bejtman was most helpful and led us to a fine boat o’ the sea goin’ by the name of ‘Lucky Betty’. Old Joe weren’t too keen on this at first, two o’ his wives havin’ shared the name o’ the ship and he not havin’ good memories o’ either. But we talked him round and in said process even convinced Lootenant Bejtman to give us a discount on the hire for Old Joe’s emotional pain and sufferin’, which he said was easily the best thing to come out of either set o’ nuptials. So we piled into the Betty – Benny rollin’ in off the side of the dock as was his way – and set off into the wide blue ocean in search o’ squid.

But that my friend is another story entirely.

Jerusalem

Imagine a train. A steel black, armoured train drawn by a massive behemoth of a steam engine which groans slowly into life, accelerating out of the station and onto the tracks, its whistle howling bleakly into the night. As far as the eye can see is a bleak, post-industrial landscape of broken earth, shattered buildings, and dead chimneys, pierced through by the rail line our train follows, its ever increasing speed turning the piles of collapsed bricks and bent girders into a blur with only the cold, dead hills appearing clear in the distance.

The cabin is occupied by two engineers, their forms concealed by greatcoats,  goggles, rebreathers and caps. One ceaselessly shovels mounds of coal into the roaring furnace while the other types cryptic codes into a worn keypad, frayed and dangling wires carrying his signals back to the carriages behind. A greasy printer mounted on the cabin wall coughs to life and starts outputting a list of towns – the keypad engineer ticks them off as the train hurtles through their broken remains.

A golden light appears on the horizon. As the train climbs the hills it becomes brighter, and brighter still until the engine rounds a curve and a vast industrial complex is revealed, occupying the valley below. The sky is lit by gouts of flame and great searchlights, illuminating the stacks and towers of the refineries and furnaces that stretch to the horizon. The train slows as it comes down off the hills, entering a brightly lit corridor between the stacks. The horns and bells of the complex sound out in welcome and the train whistles back – rolling through the great gates that open in the wall of the largest factory…

Got that? Good. Now listen to it.

On Spiegeltents

People will tell you that ‘spiegel’ is Dutch for ‘mirror’, and a spiegeltent is hence called because of the mirrors used to decorate it. This is untrue.

A spiegel is a cross between a spaniel and a beagle. The breed was developed in Belgium in the late 19th century and became famous for its ease of training and ability to howl in tune. Choirs of spiegels toured Europe in tents and these ‘singing dogs’ were a major attraction of the age.

Spiegel choirs fell out a favour during the rise of fascism in the 1930s, and the last of the touring companies folded at the start of the second world war. Today only the tents remain.

(Went to the Perth Fringe Festival last night with Rebecca. We ended up seeing Face the Music, which was fantastic – highly recomended. We also saw the Spiegeltent, but without the dogs we judged it not worth paying to go in…)

Keldáq and Keldáqimon

An significant aspect of Zurvár music is a form of harmony singing called keldáq (‘balance singing’). Keldáq has existed among the Zurvár for as long as their histories record and in addition to being a form of entertainment has a notable ceremonial aspect.

A full, traditional keldáqimon (‘balance singing group’) consists of five vocalists with no musical accompaniment,

1 Keldit Fodim (‘front singer’) – The fodim provides the main melody that the rest of the group follows.
1 Keldit Lârim (‘top singer’) – The lârim sings in a high falsetto, prefiguring and and echoing the lyrics sung by the fodim.
1 Keldit Burmá (anchor singer) – The burmá provides a rhythm by producing non-verbal sounds in a deep bass, interspersed with occasional echoes of the fodim‘s lyrics.
2 Keldit Nìad (back singers) – The mon nìad sing a counterpoint to the fodim and each other with a mix of echoed lyrics and non-verbal sounds. This is considered the most demanding role in the group.

A number of variations of keldáq exist. While many involve assigning additional singers to the roles, the most common is a simplified form called keldáq rèd (‘short keldáq‘), which uses only the fodim, lârim and one nìad. Use of instruments is more common in keldáq rèd than in full keldáq.

The most important ceremonial use of keldáq is on the sûln cârálân (‘day of the departed’). Held every five traditional years this is a commemoration of the community’s deceased and begins with the assembly of the population at the local cremation ground before dawn. As the sun rises a full keldáqimon perform the kelkârâ, a lengthy keldáq song sung in Old Zurvár. Properly timed, this should finish just as the sun clears the horizon. Being chosen to perform the kelkârâ is considered a major honor for a keldáqimon and in the larger settlements on Zurvár Arèáná there is fierce competition to be selected.

Keldáq is also used ceremonially at weddings and funerals, and any Zurvár party worth the name will feature some keldáq singing – if only at the hands of drunken attendees.

A Taxonomy of Gross, Creepy Nerds

Gross, creepy nerds. You know the ones I mean. Overweight and greasy, they gather in the corners of comic shops, muttering in their strange nerd language and leering discomfortingly at anyone that dares enter their vicinity. Physically unappealing and socially dysfunctional, they are doomed to a life of loneliness, both by their inability to function normally and their unwillingness to implement any positive changes in their appearance or behavior.

Among the non GCN population, those who most often come into conflict with the gross, creepy nerd are women. The GCN – as with any straight male – is naturally driven to obtain female companionship, he is just completely unable to obtain it in any normal fashion. As such, he resorts to inflicting inept social interaction on any attractive woman that catches his eye. Such interaction is uniformly unpleasant for the woman involved, which leads to the majority of those so imposed upon to regard all GCNs as exactly the same kind of filthy weirdo. I contend that this is not the case, that there are in fact several distinct types of filthy weirdo among the GCN population, and that careful examination of their behaviors and failings will lead to a system of categorisation useful to determine if the freak hitting on one can safely be ignored, or should be kicked in the crotch with alacrity.

Hence I present here my Taxonomy of the Gross, Creepy Nerd, for the delectation and education of their social and moral superiors (ie: everyone).

Group 1: The IgnorantDisturbing yet fundamentally harmless social misfits.

The Oblivious: The Oblivious GCN is a simple minded soul who simply doesn’t realise that his interactions with women are dysfunctional. Bereft of any social perception (or numbed by a lifetime of abject social failure) he finds fulfillment and joy in any interaction with females, even when they’re telling him to get lost, or reacting with obvious fear and disgust. This, for him, is perfectly normal – the way the world is and always has been – and he’s perfectly content for it to continue as such until the day he dies, old, alone and basically happy.

The Hopeful: The Hopeful GCN knows full well that his approaches towards women fail horribly, but he continues with them anyway because he honestly believes that one day – presumably through the grace of a merciful god – he’ll either stumble into social competence or meet a girl who’ll find his musky odours and fumbling attempts at seduction charming rather than disgusting. The eternal optimist, he keeps on cheerily doing the inept and off-putting things he’s always done, taking every rejection with good humour and already looking forwards to his next attempt.

Group 2: The MisogynistsHorrible examples of humanity gone awry.

The Angry: Confronted with a lifetime of rejection, the Angry GCN has decided that the problem isn’t with him, his self-centred worldview and his poor personal hygiene, it’s with women. All women. In a fumbling attempt to justify his failures he’s latched onto the idea that every woman in the world is part of a grand, evil, man-hating conspiracy, and that’s why he never gets any action. He still tries, in his own, hostile way, but meets the inevitable rejection with yelling, cursing, and loud declarations that the object of his attention is a bitch, whore, gold-digger or lesbian – all such accusations accompanied by a good deal of foaming at the mouth.

The Hunting: Like all his fellow GCNs the Hunting GCN has never had any luck with women. Unlike them however he has decided to take action. Unfortunately rather than approaching the problem in a socially competent way, he’s analysed it like an engineering problem and decided that the optimum course to female companionship is via a targeted trapping campaign. As such the hunter assiduously studies the methods of the “pick up artist” community, and practices them at every opportunity – all the while failing to realise that they require a certain level of social competence (not to mention washing) that he’s completely incapable of. The abject failure of these techniques does not dismay him, rather it provides more opportunity for testing, experimentation and loud declamation on his ‘expertise’ in understanding the female psyche. He is the great white hunter, women are the prey and the rest of the world is disgusted.

Group 3: The AbstainersSelf pitying morons.

The Hopeless: The Hopeless GCN has been utterly crushed by a lifetime of ridicule and rejection. His confidence shot into tiny fragments, he doesn’t even try any more. Women walk by and he barely even looks – he just sighs quietly, weeps a little and adds another page to his encyclopaedia of despair and self-pity. In the (admittedly unlikely) event of an attractive woman speaking to him, he won’t look her in the eye and responds in monosyllables until she leaves – what’s the point in even attempting social intercourse when rejection is inevitable? His only companion is deep, crippling depression, and to be honest he prefers it that way because at least he knows she’ll never make fun of him.

The Noble: The Noble GCN has had his confidence shattered just as badly as the Hopeless, but his ego has remained at least somewhat intact. Unwilling to subject himself to further, inevitable rejection he has constructed a face saving fantasy in which he proves himself a hero by deliberately refusing to inflict his hideous self on the females of the world. He doesn’t refuse to talk to women because he can’t face failure – no, not at all – he does so as a noble sacrifice and will go to his grave knowing that his refusal made the world a better place.

So that is my taxonomy. To quote Bugs Bunny – wadda bunch’a maroons!

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