Showing posts with label setting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label setting. Show all posts

A Note on Dragons


There is a common misconception that dragons are living creatures. Oversized reptiles that are magical and long-lived with varying degrees of intelligence, but ultimately just reptiles. They are not. Dragons are not alive in any way we would recognize. They're walking calamities, natural disasters incarnated and loosed on the world.

The mere presence of a dragon warps reality around it, causing unpredictable and unnatural changes in the physical world and any creatures unfortunate enough to be exposed. At this time the exact mode of action of a dragon's destructive field is unknown. The prevailing thought is that the extreme mutagenic and corrosive effects are caused by the hyper-concentrated zones of arcane energy dragons radiate. Unfortunately there are no solid studies to support the hypothesis yet since none of the research teams who have attempted entering dragon wastes have survived long enough to collect significant amounts of data.

What we do know from the few successful dissections we have on record is that dragons are anatomically very similar to lighter-than-air vehicles like ornithopters. Their wings are only used for propulsion and steering while the lift for their flight is generated by dozens of helium bladders distributed throughout their bodies. The helium itself is a byproduct of the internal fusion reaction that dragons use to sustain themselves and generate the energy for their destructive breath.

This lighter-than-air method of locomotion is key to dragons' ability to effortlessly fly long distances. In theory they could stay aloft forever since they don't actually need to eat and can subsist off atmospheric hydrogen and carbon dioxide alone. Unfortunately dragons enjoy eating so we'll continue to encounter them for the foreseeable future.

We also know that dragons don't reproduce. They don't lay or hatch from eggs and don't birth offspring. Eyewitness accounts of draconic generation, known as apodracosis, confirm that every dragon was once another creature which was transformed into a dragon. The exact form of the nascent dragon depends on several factors: What the creature was before the curse took hold, the strength of any nearby thaumaturgic fields, and most critically their emotional state at the moment of transformation. Greed is the usual catalyst of an apodraconic event, but all-consuming rage, pride, hatred, defiance, and betrayal are common instigators as well. In rare instances dragons can form from emotions that are generally considered positive, such as love, loyalty, curiosity, determination, and selflessness. The resulting dragons are just as terrible as the more common specimens, exhibiting a twisted form of their inciting emotion and an even greater drive to seek out living things.

It's always preferable to prevent the creation of a new dragon rather than slay one that has already developed. Should you encounter something or someone displaying the early symptoms of dracosis, don't hesitate.

A Note On Kobolds


Everyone knows there are two main varieties of kobold: dog and lizard. Arguments over which type is the "real" kobold are so common it's become a joke, which is ironic because both forms are the exact same creature. Kobolds have a complex genetic structure that causes them to shift forms in response to external environmental factors.

Most kobolds will say the dog state is their species' true form since it's the shape they take when left to themselves. In dog form kobolds have a distinct sense of self and canine traits like acute senses, fur, and endurance that let them thrive in a variety of ecosystems as resourceful semi-omnivorous persistence predators similar to humans. They use those strengths and their mobility to maintain a widespread but close-knit society of band, family, and clan groups organized around a network of partially subterranean hub cities. It's an efficient arrangement that can last indefinitely unless it's disrupted by exposure to a specific environmental factor, namely dragons.

The presence of a dragon in the area triggers an epigenetic shift in all kobolds within range, causing the exposed individuals to begin metamorphosing into lizard form. The change is agonizing and lasts several weeks as the kobold's body gradually reconfigures itself, completely consuming and rebuilding the skeleto-muscular and neurological systems. In lizard form kobolds lose a large portion of their individuality, falling into a set of closely unified thought patterns almost like a hive mind that's focused on the dragon. They become much more sedentary, living as purely carnivorous ambush predators in age-separated but otherwise egalitarian groups that keep as close to the dragon as possible without being eaten. If an individual kobold strays far enough from the colony they'll begin to revert to dog form, but it's so difficult to leave once the change is complete that it rarely happens.

With its effects and implications the change is obviously a subject of controversy and dread in kobold communities. Though some clans view dragons as holy creatures and consider their influence a blessing, most abhor the loss of self and agency that lizard form inflicts. Rumors of a dragon approaching or settling in an area will spark mass migrations out of the region to escape its influence and sometimes, in the case of wealthy cities, extremely lucrative contracts to slay the beast before it can nest.


Cenotaphs



Proxy-tombs like Tombs of the Unknown Soldier and civilian memorials are a near-universal tradition, not just to honor the lost dead but because everyone needs a funeral or they turn into some flavor of undead. Everyone. And when you can't find and lay to rest everyone who was killed, erecting a cenotaph serves as a mass funeral and keeps your countryside from being overrun with ghouls, haints, wights, and the other unquiet dead for generations after every war or natural disaster.

The cenotaph's weakness is that while it does work, it's a patch job. Effective but not final. If you destroy a cenotaph all the spirits it placated wake back up and are even more dangerous, having grown old enough that they're entirely divorced from any lingering humanity or mercy. This makes cenotaph maintenance a vitally important public service and the cenotaphs themselves extremely high-value targets in conflicts.

Large cenotaphs will be better protected than palaces. They'll have dedicated fortified and garrisoned complexes to house them and ideally an associated order of traveling exorcists who seek out lost remains to lay to rest and gradually decrease the cenotaph's spirit burden. In practice effective psychopomp orders are expensive to support and the private mortuary contractor industry is extremely lucrative, so real exorcists are rare.

Monsters Can't See Pink



Color perception is very different between species. Just as most mammals can't see longer wavelength colors like red and orange most monsters, even those with otherwise human-like color perception, can't see pink. It's not universal of course, but for the vast majority of monsters different shades of pink from palest pastels to deep rose and retina-searing hot pink all wash out to a mix of dull grays. That's why pink camouflage and equipment is so effective in dungeon environments and recommended for all adventurers planning expeditions with a chance of encountering monsters. It blends in with the bare stone walls of ruins and caves, rendering the wearer practically invisible as long as they make an effort to disguise their silhouette and hold still.

Note:
- Pink only provides an advantage against monsters that are primarily visual predators. It doesn't give any protection against creatures that hunt with other senses.
- While they can't see pink monsters can see True Magenta, which is as outside our color perception as pink is to them. They are aware of this.
- Be wary of anyone you meet who's not wearing pink. They're either dangerously inexperienced, not concerned about monsters, or after something else.


Food in Games


When I run games I make a point to describe the food the party eats and what they have available, even if it's only rations. It's a little extra effort, but it's worth it. Taking the time to describe what the characters eat changes meals from simple resource management into something memorable and fun. It helps build a sense of place and make the game world feel richer.

Cuisine is a major cornerstone of every culture. Making a point to describe the particulars of the local cuisine and regional specialties gives each place the party travels a different character. Instead of a string of nearly identical villages you get differentiating details like "that town on the coast that made those dried sardines soaked in chili oil" or "the village with the orchards that made peach wine." Even if nothing particularly adventurous or exciting happened there the players remember it, the characters go back to stock up on favorite snacks, and it becomes a thing.

It also helps emphasize distances and scale while the party's traveling. Places that are close to each other share basic cooking styles and as you go farther afield you start encountering new and different foods. Running into these new types of food does more to make the players feel like their characters have moved through space and gone somewhere else than just knowing 'you've been on the road for a month' does.

The availability and variety of food on offer in a place also builds the local identity. How many places to eat does a village/town/city have? There may not be any restaurants in a small village and you end up eating a meal in someone's home. There might be an inn that's the town's only eatery and doubles as the town hall for gatherings every other week, or it could be one of several establishments. The larger a city is the more choices you have. The more chances there are for fancy restaurants, multiple types of cuisine on offer, niche little cafes and clubs, street food, and a whole gourmet scene. And all of it shares information about the people who live there.

A variety of options also makes the party's decision of where to stay and what to eat actually mean something instead of just being another tickmark on a downtime activities list.

Here's how I do it:

1 Decide what the area's main cooking style is.
I look at the environment and what ingredients would be available in the ecosystem, then pick a cuisine that would fit. Or if an area's already similar to a real-world place, I just pick that.

Ex: A coastal fishing village in the north gets New England-style cooking because it's close and I'm familiar enough with it to improvise.

2 Decide a few regional and local twists to the overall style.
I think about what notable features the local area has, then choose a few ingredients that could come from there.

Ex: The village is surrounded by pine forest so they have an abundant supply of bolete and chanterelle mushrooms, edible ferns, and juniper that gets worked into their dishes.

3 Think about seasonal ingredients.
Having all sorts of fresh food available at all times of the year is a modern thing. I think about how crops and wild plants grow; how animals reproduce, migrate, and hibernate, and what that means for what's available throughout the year. Fresh food, especially fruit and produce, have a narrow window and the rest of the year you'll have it canned, dried, salted, or otherwise preserved.

Ex: Corn is harvested in the late summer and early fall, salmon run in the fall, mushrooms sprout in the fall and spring.

4 Consider preservation methods.
Every style of preservation has the same goal: to prevent bacteria, fungi, and critters from getting to the food and spoiling it. The different methods reflect what resources are available to the people doing the preservation. If you're by the sea, salting is convenient. In the forest with plenty of wood? You probably prefer smoking. Somewhere with reliable strong, direct sunlight? That makes drying easy. There are more expensive and labor-intensive methods like canning, candying, pickling, and fermentation that rely on having equipment like airtight glass or expensive sugar. I pick a few that make sense for the area and think about how they could be incorporated into the dishes.

5 Bring it together into a menu.
Once I know the basics from 1 to 4 I can start improvising dishes. I usually ad lib them when the party stops to eat. It's not difficult to do it on the fly because I've already decided the edible framework. All I need to do is pick a combination that sounds tasty.

Ex: The party's in that coastal fishing village next to a pine forest. There's a large swamp and marsh nearby and the village has cleared a little land for fields. The main culinary style is New England. Local specialties come from the forest, swamp, and sea.

Spring - Fried fiddlehead ferns and mushrooms, a filet of whitefish with cranberry preserves, and beer.

Summer - Roast sweet corn, turtle soup, frybread with caramelized onions, and blueberry tea. Strawberry rhubarb pie for dessert.

Fall - Maple-walnut cornbread, crab chowder, fried clams, roast squash with molasses, and birch beer.

Winter - Smoked wild turkey, roasted root vegetables, barley porridge with apple chunks and chestnuts, and cider. Apple pie for dessert.


Everything comes from the surrounding environment, is in season or a preserved holdover from the previous year, and is in tune with the local cuisine. I just need a moment to think about the land, how things grow through the year, and where the food comes from.

6 Consider where the food's served.
My players usually don't find themselves in refined establishments. They're more likely to visit a tavern, get street food, or cook over a campfire. I still think about what types of restaurants might be around and decide the number and styles of cooking based on the size of the city. More people in an area means more options. It applies to places outside of cities too. If there's a busy road I'll put a few chuckwagons and food trucks along the way, and a little diner or two at natural waystops. If there's a fair or market I'll add a row of food stalls. And you bet there'll be roadside stands selling fresh produce in farm country. Good food is everywhere.

If my players went to a restaurant in a bigger city that had an entirely different culinary style from the rest of the area I'd improvise dishes in that style. If they went to a fancy joint that served the region's main cuisine I'd keep the basics I've already established but flex a little. Throw in ingredients that would be rare, expensive, or imported; use more labor-intensive and obscure preparation methods, and have a lot more courses. The aim is to make the meal feel different from what they're used to.

A nine-course meal in the area might be something like this:

A gin aperitif and candied chestnuts.
Lobster bisque.
Oysters.
Wild greens salad with candied walnuts, dried blueberries, blue cheese, and cranberry vinaigrette.
Lemon-pepper cod served with grilled asparagus.
Roast swan with pomegranate and mushroom stuffing.
Peppermint-cucumber sorbet.
Blueberry pie with plum and dark chocolate ice cream.
Maple-glazed eclairs, peach tart, baklava, a peach brandy digestif, and coffee.

All courses served with white wines except the main which is accompanied by a red.

The meal uses mostly local ingredients with a few unusual things and dishes incorporated, and is different enough from what the party regularly eats that it registers as something new.

Note: I'd never make my players sit through me describing an entire full-course meal like boxed text. If they asked I'd lay it out in one go, but otherwise it'd be mentioned as a backdrop to something else occurring at the fancy dinner/party with me describing a new dish as it's brought out, then going back to what they're doing.

7 If they're cooking for themselves.
My players cook about as often a they buy prepared meals, maybe a little more. For that I think about what's actually in a "ration" and use those ingredients to decide what meal gets made over the fire. Rations aren't bricks of nutrient paste, they're preserved foods packed for travel. If you buy them locally then they'll be made with the locally available foods and ingredients.

I also give the party chances to forage to supplement their rations. Whatever they find gets incorporated into the meal (or preserved) and they decide if they want to use it to stretch their rations and conserve resources or if they want to get some benefit from having had a more interesting meal with bigger portions.

Give it a try. You're already doing worldbuilding as a GM, take a few minutes to think about food when you do. It's fun!

Folk of the Trails



Vaquero
A vaquero's life is spent on the trails, shepherding others through the trackless wilds. Terrain most people would consider unnavigable. You've never had trouble finding your way and you've always made sure everyone depending on you got where they're going safe and sound.

Possessions:
Lasso
Guitar
Dented coffee pot
Duster (as light Armor)
Twin pearl-handled revolvers (Damage as Pistolets)
Iconic hat

Advanced Skills:
3 Ridin'
3 Ropin'
2 Quickdraw
1 Campfire cookery
-1 Instrumentation

Special:
Horses love you.
Non-euclidean spaces stabilize around you and anyone with you.



Bounty Hunter
It's your job to find people. sometimes they're wanted, sometimes they're missing, and sometimes they haven't done anything at all. You fetch them and get paid. You're not popular, but you're very good at your job.

Possessions:
Binoculars
Dartgun (Damage as Fusil, non-lethal, paralyzes and knocks target unconscious after 5 minutes)
Beat-up laptop
Bag of burner phones
Portable cassette player and headphones

Advanced Skills:
3 Sharpshooting
2 Awareness
2 Investigating
2 Stakeouts
1 Music trivia
1 Wrestling
-2 Philosophy

Special:
You can sense where anyone is in The Trails or on The Road as long as you know their full name and something personal about them.



Wanderer
It's not always a good idea to use the main roads. Not safe to be out under the eyes of other travelers and the CC TVs. Better to stay out of sight and make your own way.

Possessions:
Patch-encrusted jean jacket
Worn boots
Walking stick (Damage as Polearm)
Rainbow-anodized gas station knife
Gym bag (Slots as 2 Backpacks)
Cigarillos

Advanced Skills:
3 OpSec
3 Temerity
2 Making friends
2 Orienteering
2 Scrounging
-1 Relaxing
-1 Trusting

Special:
You can find lost trails and forgotten roads or forge new ones to go wherever you want.

Folk of The Road



Hitchiker
You love the road and The Road loves you. It's your one true and constant companion in a life on the move. People always tell you it's dangerous and that you shouldn't travel alone but they don't know what they're talking about. You're never alone.

Possessions:
Towel
6-Pack
Harmonica
Hatchet
Notebook of viscerally terrible poetry

Advanced Skills:
3 Companionable silence
3 Menacing silence
3 Navigation
2 Spirit communication
2 Trekking

Special:
You can always find someone or something to give you a ride.
You can call on The Road to give you something you need (shelter/defense/resources fallen off a truck) once a day.



Longhauler
Sometimes it gets boring driving the same routes over and over, but at least the places they send you are interesting. You even like some of them. By now you know the way well enough that the distances all meld together into a single fleeting moment of Travel. You always make excellent time.

Possessions:
Sleeper cab
Mesh snapback
Paper maps
Audiobooks on CD
Sack of beef jerky and dubious stimulants
4d6 empty bottles
Cargo*

Advanced Skills:
3 Driving
3 Spatial awareness
2 Logistics
2 Shortwave radio
1 Chain-smoking
-1 Karaoke

Special:
You can move freely along The Road, shortening travel time to destinations you've already visited. Trips that'd normally be longer than 30 minutes take 15 for you and trips that'd be longer than an hour only take 1 hour.
You always have a Cargo. What it is, how much it weighs, and what it's worth changes with each stop you make but it's always at least 600 lbs and 10,000 SP. It takes 1d3 hours to unload and take on new Cargo at a stop.



Tourist
Traveling is wonderful. You get to see new places, try new things, meet new people, and everyone's always so nice. It's a shame you can never stay as long as you'd like, just a few days before you've got to move on again.

Possessions:
Elaborate camera
Flamingo-print bucket hat
2d6 Guidebooks to cities you've visisted
"100 Most Haunted Houses" paperback, heavily annotated
A disorganized wad of visitors' pamphlets for local attractions and restaurants rubber banded together

Advanced Skills:
4 Curiosity
2 Confidence
2 Improvising
2 Making reservations
1 Forensics
-1 Local customs

Special:
You can learn the history of any place within 100' of a road just by focusing on it. The events of the past play back for you as visions. It takes 3 minutes of still, silent mediation to look back over a year and no limit to how far back you can go except for your endurance. After you spend 3 days in one place your visions start randomly appearing to others.

The Road



Roads siphon a little life from everything that travels over them. In time they become living entities themselves, a network of semi-dormant creature-consciousness that spans entire continents, practically a god. That emergent entity is The Road. It's been with us for as long as we've made paths to follow and only grows stronger as we build more.

All roads are part of The Road, whether it's a tiny footpath, dirt two-track, or six-lane highway. All roads that join and carry people build the pattern that is The Road. The older a road is the more powerfully it's woven into the network, a foundation that descendant roads mimic. The larger a road is the more traffic it carries and energy it gathers to feed The Road. "Arterial road" isn't just a metaphor.

On the fringes of The Road are The Trails. Indefinite sub-networks of unset ways. Desire paths, forgotten streets, areas that are off the map. They cling to The Road as parasites, drawing energy from it to sustain their own shifting paths. If you know a Trailhead or want to find one badly enough, you'll slip through.

The longer you spend on The Road the more familiar it gets and the more likely it'll respond. The more often you hit The Trails the better you get at finding your way and the easier it is to get in.

Safe travels.

Dungeon Gifts



The Dungeon loves you. It wants you to feel safe, at home in the depths. It wants you to stay.

The Dungeon understands the unknown is scary, so it'll give you new eyes to see it. It'll tell you about itself, pouring the information into your head as gently as it can so you won't be afraid. It wants you to understand it, but it knows these things take time. It's patient.

The Acclimation Process

The more time you spend in the Dungeon the more influence it gains. The effects are well-documented and cumulative so experienced delvers often wear stopwatches or other timers as dosimeters to track their exposure. A normal progression of symptoms is:

Stage 1: Loss of anxiety and fear in total darkness. (Develops after 1 month of cumulative exposure.) [1]

Stage 2: Gain dimvision at 5, 10, 15, 30, 60, and finally 120'. (Each increase in distance takes an additional 2 weeks of exposure to develop after the onset of Stage 1. Total exposure time at the end of Stage 2: 4 months.) [2-7]

Stage 3: Gain darkvision at 5, 10, 15, 30, 60, and finally 120'. (Each increase in distance takes an additional 2 weeks of exposure to develop after the end of Stage 2. Total exposure time at the end of Stage 3: 7 months.) [8-13]

Stage 4: Gain an improved sense of direction. (You always know where north is and don't get turned around or lost in the Dungeon's halls. Develops with 1 week of exposure after the end of Stage 3. Total exposure time at the end of Stage 4: 7 months, 1 week.) [14]

Stage 5: Gain an instinctive partial awareness of the floor plan. (You know where specific locations are in relation to yourself but not the exact path to get there, only the general direction you need to travel. You know even if you've never been to the location before. Develops 1 week after the onset of Stage 4. Total exposure time at the end of Stage 5: 7 months, 2 weeks.) [15]

Stage 6: Gain an instinctive awareness of the area around you to 30, 60, 90, and finally 120'. (You know the surrounding halls, corridor branches, and rooms. Each increase in distance takes an additional week to develop after the onset of Stage 5. Total exposure time at the end of Stage 6: 8 months, 2 weeks.) [16-19]

Stage 7: Gain an instinctive awareness of the contents of rooms and the locations of the creatures around you to 10, 15, 30, 60, and finally 90'. (You know where everything in range is before you see it, including traps. Each increase in distance takes an additional 3 days of exposure to develop after the end of Stage 6. Total exposure time at the end of Stage 7: 9 months, 1 day.) [20-24]

Stage 8: Begin seeing secrets. (You automatically know where secret doors and room are, included magically-concealed features. Develops with 3 days exposure after the end of Stage 7. Total exposure time at the end of Stage 8: 9 months, 4 days.) [25]

Stage 9: Instinctively know the full exact floor plan of the level you're on, then the levels above and below you, and finally the adjacent levels 2 deep. (Each increase in distance takes an additional day to develop after the onset of Stage 8. Total exposure time at the end of Stage 9: 9 months, 1 week.) [26-28]

Stage 10: Instinctively know the full exact floor plan of the entire Dungeon. (You have complete awareness of all the Dungeon's architectural details, even ones you haven't explored yet. Develops 1 day after the end of Stage 9. Total exposure time at the end of Stage 10: 9 months, 1 week, 1 day.) [29]

Stage 11: Lose any desire to leave the Dungeon. You're home. (You live here now. Switch to a tower defense game protecting the Dungeon. Develops 1 day after the onset of Stage 10. Total exposure time at the end of Stage 11: 9 months, 1 week, 2 days.) [30]

This is only an average timeline for Acclimation. The exact speed of the progression varies between individuals, sometimes dragging on or leaping ahead unexpectedly. If you haven't been tracking exposure or lose count of how long you've been under, roll d30 to see how affected you are.

Progression can also shift dramatically based on your experiences in the Dungeon, ebbing and flowing like any other relationship. Roll d30 every time you:

- Are in total darkness
- Are injured
- Spring a trap
- Are ambushed
- Flee
- Have a near-death experience
- Watch something die
- Go without seeing the sun for 3 days
- Make a friend or alliance
- Discover something wondrous or beautiful
- Learn something about the Dungeon
- Find treasure
- Find shelter
- Eat a meal
- Sit by a fire

If the result is 5 more/less than your current exposure level, go up/down 1 step within your current Stage. If the result is 10 more/less, go up/down 1 full Stage.

The Dungeon's effects are reversible up to Stage 10, but recovery takes time. Remaining above ground with daily exposure to the sun and sky is key to undoing the changes caused by the Dungeon. If your goal is to recover you must not reenter the Dungeon before the sun's finished its work.

Reversing your exposure is literal. The effects of the most advanced stages burn away first followed by the Dungeon's earlier gifts in order.

- Knowledge of the Dungeon's levels and floor plan fades after 6 months above ground. (Stages 10-9)
- Specific awareness of Dungeon features subsides after another 3 months. (Stages 8-5)
- Direction sense disappears after another month. (Stage 4)
- Vision returns to normal in 2 weeks. (Stages 3-2)
- Anxiety in the dark returns after a solid week above ground. (Stage 1)

If you reenter the Dungeon before recovering completely you'll begin accumulating exposure again starting from the last Stage you healed to.

Once Stage 11 symptoms appear recovery is impossible.


Architectural Mimics


Everyone who's ever delved in a dungeon knows treasure chest mimics (Mendax arca). They're the most common and successful species of mimic in the dungeon ecosystem thanks to their highly effective bait, but the average dungeon is home to other, rarer species of mimic as well.

Architectural mimics inhabit dungeons alongside their flashier cousins and often go unnoticed due to their excellent camouflage. Their stealth and the wide variety in their hunting methods make them much more dangerous than sessile Chest Mimics. They're faster, more tenacious, and much more intelligent; often choosing specific targets instead of blindly attacking the first prey to wander close. Species in the architectural genus also regularly cooperate, living in mutualistic and commensal symbiosis with each other and other dungeon fauna and, in the case of Statue Mimics, hunting in packs.

While the odds of encountering one of these fascinating creatures is low, it's wise to keep a careful eye on your surroundings. Anything you see could be a mimic lying in wait.

All mimics require a:

DC 17 DEX save to avoid their initial ambush/getting grabbed
DC 16 STR check to break free once grabbed/entangled
DC 15 CON save to resist their venoms/toxins


1 Brick (Calumnia elidocaput)
Replace individual bricks and masonry elements in walls and ceilings. When prey passes below they leap down aiming for the head. Sometimes they live in floors and cause falls by shifting violently underfoot, but prefer a gravity-assisted ambush. Exactly as heavy as a brick. (1d12 damage)

2 Beams (Calumnia destructans)
Replace load-bearing structures like trusses and support pillars, then use their own weight as well as the collapsing rubble to crush prey. (3d12 damage)

3 Pillar (Calumnia incingodes)
Wraps itself around existing pillars in a thick skin that looks like carved stone. Occasionally have spots of faux cut gems and precious metals to make themselves even more alluring. When prey comes to examine the carvings it peels away from the column and falls, pinning the prey under a suffocating sheet of muscle. (1d8 damage/turn)

4 Arch (Calumnia fornixae)
Lines the inner surface of existing arches and exudes fine, nearly invisible threads coated with cnidocysts. Crawls down to devour paralyzed prey after they walk through its web. (1 CON damage, save or be paralyzed for 6 turns)

5 Door (Calumnia portico)
Embeds itself in walls leaving only its jaw-panel and lip-jambs visible. When prey opens its jaw it strikes with sets of inner pharengeal jaws to grab and draw them in. (3d6 damage/turn)

6 Trapdoor (Calumnia operculata)
Embeds itself mouth-up in the floor and waits for prey to investigate. The jaw looks like a concealed hatch and the first 10' of its esophagus resembles a stone shaft with a sturdy ladder. Snaps its mouth shut and starts chewing once prey is fully inside. (2d6 damage/turn)

7 Flooring (Calumnia tenax)
A communal species that replaces sections of planks, tiles, stones, and other joined floor materials. They secrete a sticky, numbing mucus that traps and slowly digests prey. (DEX save to not fall over, CON save to resist going numb, STR save to break free)

8 Mosaic (Confictura tessellatus)
Adheres to floors, walls, and ceilings. Lays dormant until it senses heat, then leaps off the surface it's on to engulf the prey and grind them to paste with its sharp radula-like tiles. (1d10 damage/round)

9 Stairs (Calumnia vorago)
Graft themselves between floors and hibernate until prey climbs on them. When they sense weight they open their mouths, retracting pseudo-step teeth to drop prey into their waiting stomach. They prefer large meals and rarely eat individual prey, targeting groups of two or three instead. The weight threshold needed to attract their attention is high. (2d12 damage/turn, STR save to climb out)

10 Railing (Calumnia cancelli)
Replaces banisters, safety rails, and low walls. They prefer locations near sheer drops, the more precipitous the better, but can be found anywhere. They lay dormant until prey leans on them. When they sense weight their either give way so the prey falls to their death, or entangle limbs and inject a paralytic venom depending on the subspecies. (Save or 1d20+5 fall damage) OR (Save or be paralyzed, 1d4 damage/turn)

11 Pipes (Calumnia fistulata)
Insinuate themselves in the plumbing of a building. They passively carry whatever the system transports until they sense prey, then spray their contents in a surprise attack. Capable of withstanding extreme temperatures, pressure, and corrosives. Occasionally replace sinks with mouths. (Save or be drenched in and damaged by pipe contents)

12 Gutter (Calumnia fistulata canalis)
Related to Pipe Mimics and sometimes thought to be a larval instar. They attach to the edges of roofs and embed near walkways, collecting runoff and mixing it with digestive juices to produce a rank slurry they spray on passing prey. (1d12 acid damage)

13 Sewer (Fictus cloacarius)
Giant wormlike mimics that burrow under cities. Their guts resemble spacious stone masonry tunnels and can actually function as sewers. They rely on the sewer ecosystem they host for sustenance and aren't particularly interested in individual adventurers. It's uncertain if they even notice a single humanoid's presence at all. When seriously irritated or injured they can contract their passages and crush everything inside. (Contracts if it takes 100 damage at once, 300 in an hour, 1000 in a day, or 3000 in a month.)

14 Fountain (Fictus immergo)
Plants itself near a source of running water to fill its basin. It's an opportunistic feeder and mostly relies on the insects, birds, and small animals that are drawn by an open pool of water, but will eagerly snare and drown larger prey. (Save to break free or drown in 6 rounds)

15 Window (Calumnia prospectans)
Embed themselves in walls and display high-resolution decoy images of an outside world using a sophisticated combination of chromatophores and bioluminescence. When prey tries to look through or open them they spring off the wall and engulf it in a sticky, membranous digestive sac. (Save to break free or suffocate in 3 rounds)

16 Mirror (Confictura indico)
Adhere to walls and doors. They can attack by flinging shards of crystalline exoskeleton but rarely break cover. They hunt cooperatively with other monsters, distracting prey with a false reflection of their surroundings that edits out any threats. Once the other monsters have finished they crawl down to scavenge the remains. (-2 to detecting ambushes and hidden creatures)

17 Light fixture (Confictura lucerae)
Come in a wide variety of forms from grand chandeliers to freestanding floor lamps to tiny sconces and table lamps. They're entirely peaceful decomposers that don't hunt. Easily startled and shy, they light up in alarm when creatures move nearby and flash blindingly when frightened. The can be calmed back to darkness with food. (Roll 3x as many encounters while lit)

18 Wallpaper (Confictura ornata)
Coats the walls of a room in a thin, tough layer of opaque tissue. The skin is porous, providing a habitat for symbiotic molds to grow inside, which produces a distinctive musty smell. When prey comes near it ripples, releasing clouds of toxic spores from its symbionts. (1 WIS damage, save or hallucinate for 6 turns)

19 Soft furnishings (Confictura stragula)
A communal species of threadlike individuals intertwined in soft nest-sheets. Their flexible multicolored bodies let them convincingly reproduce all kinds of textiles, from rugs to curtains to tapestries. When prey touches the nest it unfurls, individuals spooling out to entangle and garrote them. (1d6 damage/turn, save to break free or suffocate in 6 turns)

20 Statue (Confictura effigus)
The most mobile and energetic species of mimic. They hide inside their ornate sculptural exoskeletons and wait for prey to pass by, then begin actively stalking. They're stealthy and prefer to attack from ambush but will run down prey in a high-speed chase if necessary.
Often confused with Living Statues, statue mimics are flesh and blood creatures in shells, not awakened art.
(4HD, 17 AC, 60', 3 attacks/turn (1d10/1d10/1d12+4))


Extra rare!

Treasure (Confictura preciosa)
These small mimics look like individual artifacts and pieces of treasure. They hibernate until they sense heat, then become active and emerge from their shells. Usually the "treasure" portion of their body is an elaborate exoskeleton, but you'll occasionally find them living inside an actual hollow artifact like a hermit crab. They're curious, relatively gentle, and can be interesting pets if fed and cared for properly.

Poet's Grove


A poet's grove is a graveyard, serene and simple with no stones or markers. Instead of carving monuments to quietly erode over centuries the deceased are interred wrapped in linen with a beechnut embedded in their heart. After a month it sprouts, feeding on the body wrapped around its roots and absorbing the ghost left tethered within the bones, growing into a Verse Tree. Once the tree entirely devours the bones beneath it the magic takes hold and the tree's smooth gray bark begins to crack, etching itself with the deceased's unwritten work. The distinctive voice of each tree makes headstones unnecessary.

The groves are open to all who lived with words and are carefully tended by groundskeeper monks. They meticulously copy the writing from the trunks and branches of each Verse Tree, checking daily for new passages and collecting the ghost-written works into posthumous anthologies that support the perpetual maintenance of the groves. It's an endless duty as prolific ghosts regularly fill their original tree and spread to its saplings, creating entire stands and clearings etched with more works than they ever penned in life.

Note: There are several species of tree and arboreal parasites that mimic the look of a poet's grove but are unrelated. One such species is the carnivorous Glyphic Aspen which grows in large stands on calcium-poor soils. They produce marks on their bark that appear to be writing and often invitations to rest. Don't trust them. They lie. They only want your bones.

Another type of false grove is created by the Ruby Stanza Borer, a species of beetle that has an instinctive grasp of language and rudimentary psi abilities in its larval instar. They replicate the writing effect of true Verse Trees by burrowing through the host-tree's cambium layer in the shape of words, causing the script to appear in scars on the outer bark. This eventually kills the tree. They're generally not skilled writers, producing disjointed hackwork.

A true poet's grove will always have groundsmonks in attendance and a scriptorium situated somewhere on the grounds. Don't be fooled!

What is Common?


The usual explanations I see for what Common is and why there's this one language that everyone seems to share are:

  • It's a standardized trade tongue.
  • It's the official language of whatever empire/nation/state/culture you're in.
  • It's what humans speak, and they get everywhere so everyone else learns it in order to tell them to leave.

I don't particularly like any of those. They don't appeal to me, so here's my explanation: Common is the language of adventurers.

It's a professional language full of specialized jargon oriented around travel, exploration, delving, fighting, supplies, logistics, and contract law. You know it because you're an adventurer. Your colleagues know it because they're adventurers. The people you talk to (innkeepers, merchants, guides, nobles, etc.) know it because they regularly work with adventurers and need to communicate specifics while doing business.

When you're not talking about the job, you don't speak Common. It might have words for whatever the topic of conversation is, but that's for work. You have to maintain your professional boundaries. The random people you encounter during the day don't speak Common to each other or when they go home, they only speak it to you during the course of business. It only seems like everyone speaks Common regularly because your character is an adventurer and has an adventurer's view of the world.

It makes sense because adventuring is an exceptionally hazardous profession. You need fast, clear communication in the life or death situations you run into. There's no room for misunderstandings or hesitation. 

You need to be absolutely clear about contracts and exactly what you're being hired to do. (Nobles appreciate it because they don't want the party of people who can probably destabilize their realm to feel cheated, come back, and overthrow them.)

You need to be specific about the gear you purchase to make sure it'll be adequate for your nonstandard  needs. (Merchants appreciate it because adventurers are good repeat customers and they really don't want a party of vengeful survivors coming back because their gear failed them in the field.)

So you all speak the Common adventuring language to hash out details and make sure you're all on the same page.

Ghost Livestock

These strange creatures resemble animal skeletons wrapped in hazy, transparent ghost flesh. They're the same as normal livestock in their care and behavior, and are raised for their intensely magical meat and byproducts.

The only difference between ghost livestock and their mundane cousins is in how they reproduce. They don't breed. After being slaughtered the bones must be scoured and sheltered from the sun. If the skeleton is complete, undamaged, and perfectly clean a new ghost animal will rise in three nights. It won't be the same creature as before, though it shares the same skeleton.

No one knows where the come from, only how to care for them.

Findings: Only Humans

Back at the end of January I wrote about how there were only going to be humans in the new campaign I was about to start. No other humanoids, just humans. I outlined my reasons for the decision and sat back to see how it went.

Now, since an experiment is meaningless without results, here are my findings:

Humans are enough.

We've run 6 sessions so far and the absence of other humanoid species hasn't even been noticed. It's working out exactly as I hoped it would. Even the conceit of "humans still use the old languages from when other humanoids were around" is going smoothly and my players are managing to use it to their advantage.

The game's currently on hold on account of plague, but thus far I think the experiment has been a success.

An Experiment

Last Thursday I took over DMing for my long-running in-person game group. We'll be starting this Thursday with a fresh 5e campaign and I'm going to try something that I've not done before: An all human setting.

This world will have no humanoids except humans. Not as playable races or monsters. None.

There were once elves, dwarves, orcs, etc; and there are still humans with maybe 1/32 or 1/64 non-human ancestry, but currently there aren't any full-blooded humanoids around except humans.

The humans don't know exactly what happened to them. Some species had mysterious slow declines, others just vanished. Whatever happened, it wasn't a war or human action. (And that's true, not just human historical revision.)

Humans still use the other species' languages (with linguistic evolution over time) as everyday languages. It's a cultural artifact from when the other humanoids were around and is treated normally. A human's first language might be dwarvish or gnomish or ettin, it all depends on where they grew up.

My goal with this is to:

1) Avoid fantasy stereotypes. If a player wants their character to be a cheerful farmer-turned-reluctant-adventure who loves good food, great! They certainly can, but they'll be playing it because they want to, not because they're a hobbit halfling and that's what Tolkien said they're like.

2) Avoid fantasy racism. If two characters have a beef, it'll be over their deeds, not because one's a dwarf and one's an elf. (This could really be item 1.1)

3) Let the characters have equal experiences of terror. Everyone will be spooked by the things prowling in the dark. Everyone will be exhausted after being on the run for days and unable to sleep. There won't be the one elf with darkvision who can see just fine and doesn't need to sleep so they're fresh as a daisy.

4) Let there be mysteries. The mysteries of the past, magic, and the underpinnings of the world are actually unknown. Lost to time or only vaguely recalled in folklore, not a living part of an active contemporary culture. You can't pop back home to Elfington and ask your grandma what words were used to sing the world tree into being at the dawn of time, you need to adventure to learn it.

I'm curious to see how it turns out. The probabilities that it'll go as intended or mutate into something bizarre seem about equal; and it'll likely take a few sessions before I can get a solid idea of how my players will respond to the idea. My suspicion is that it'll be more of an exercise for me in remembering to not reflexively add dwarves (it's a habit) and that my players will adapt just fine.