General Exalted Thread

[Omicron]

So I haven't homebrewed in forever but there is a game I may be running in the short-term future, and so I needed to put down some notes as to the setting for players to make their characters, and uh.

It kinda ran away from me. In particular I have lost any skill I might have had at keeping things concise and neatly ordered

So have this.

The Grave of Swords

​

A curse is a living thing, and all things that live must die; and all that dies must be buried, lest evil be invited upon the world. Thus, a graveyard was made for curses.

There lies in the Southeast of Creation a valley astride civilization, yet outside it. The jungle stretches to its north east, while its south and west are bordered by great ochre mountains, jagged as knives, and the last stretch of a distant river, nameless in this forbidden land waters its fields. Grass grows green and brown and tall as a man's knees, relentlessly cut around cities and villages to make place for fields of maize and squash; meat is a rarity, and the feathered strider-beasts are ever a threat to those who drive their herds of goat or sheep too close to the jungle. At the heart of the valley lie the last remains of a broken dragon of metal and stone, and in the cage of its ribs has been built a city.

Riches abound in the valley. Eastern leylines bring fertility to the too-harsh soil, and spices grow besides staple crops. The salt quarries in the east have yet to run empty, and in the great city looms built out of the dragon's gears weave flax without end. But that is not the true wealth of the Grave of Swords; this land glitters with metals of mystical power, weapons planted into the earth like memorial stones. Burial mounds sit foreboding, each one a question - dare you risk my danger for the power intombed within me? And too many already have answered yes - this is the time of the Plague of Swords, when mortals and Exalts and stranger things yet wield weapons that were meant to be forgotten and roam the valley carving their fate at the tip of the blade.

Records of the First Age are myths and legends, the gods shy from sharing this story, and those things which would gladly tell it must never be trusted.

This is known: when the Exalted of the Age of Dreams grew into their power but before hubris consumed them, they forged tools and weapons of which they themselves were afraid. An uninhabited valley in the southeast of Creation was made into a crypt for these failures. There they were buried, and five monoliths of jade engraved with orichalcum were set as seals to keep them from escaping, and a guardian was set to keep fools from stealing what was best forgotten. Over time, such a place found much use; Exalts made pilgrimage unto this forsaken land to bury relics of great power which had nonetheless failed to find grace in their eyes. Failed creations banished out of spite by craftsmen who would accept nothing less than perfection, swords which had taken the wrong life in an excess of passion and which their masters wept to look upon, and more still.

When the rule of the golden ones ended, the Dragons who had rebelled gathered many of their creations which were too dangerous to use and too resilient to destroy, and made journey to the Grave of Swords, and the guardian accepted this.

Yet in time war plagued the Shogunate of Dragons to such extent that they sought any weapon, any advantage against each other. Their greed overcame their hubris, and they broke one of the monoliths sealing the valley and set to plunder its tombs. Seven crypts they open; seven weapons they drew from the depths; seven evil spirits followed them, and brought ruin upon the dragons. The dragons sought no more the weapons of old, but they set watchposts to study the grave and learn from the ancient arts of the age then gone.

Then came the horde from outside the world, and there was no room left for wisdom, lest the Dragons all be wise dead men. An army of the Exalted, dying of contagion, brought the weapons of old to the light of day and wielded them in battle, bringing ruination upon the fae and themselves both. Another of the monoliths was shattered, the guardian himself perished in battle, but the children of the Wyld were halted there, long enough for the Sword of Creation to be plunged in their heart from a distant isle.

Silence came upon the valley. In time, mortals were born among the ashes of the world, enough that some found their way to this accursed graveyard, and made a city out of the corpse of its guardian, a dragon of brass and gold and jade. Like worms they made its mighty body their abode, tore at its wires and its bones to make hollows for themselves, pried its scales to build houses and forge armors, dug furrows for their fields with the shards of its claws. And this was the first city of the Grave, which was called the Hearth.

For five centuries the Grave had existed in the shadow of the Realm. When the armies of the Empress came to seize the place and claim its rumored power, they found it ruled by a man who had made himself one with the heart of the dead guardian, who spoke to them dire warnings. The Scarlet Empress heeded these words, but could not fully pass on the great opportunity at hand. The Grave was made a satrapy held in her personal name, and careful ledgers were kept of which ancient weapons were taken by her chosen - never for more than a few decades at a time, always eventually returned to the valley. For when this was not done, evil surely followed, and the seven spirits still haunted the Grave.

But now the Empress is gone. Many of the soldiers holding the valley in her name have pulled back to fight distant wars, some officers unwisely taking forbidden arms with them - they will come back in time. Those who remain eye the Hearth's throne hungrily, and ask themselves why they have not taken it yet. The dragon-man on this throne sees the light in their eyes, and musters forces of his own. Merchants from the Scavenger Lands world who have made a fortune trading the riches of the valley now weigh the profits of war against the stability of peace, and make different choices each. The Great Schools are going to war with mystical fighting arts. New Exalts whose awesome power surpasses that of the Dragons flock to the valley, many of them claiming forsaken blades and working designs of their own. Surely disaster is at hand; surely this is the Age of Sorrows.


Sample Cursed Sword: Searing Glory

In a remote corner of the Grave, there is a small village of farmers, eking a living from maize crops and turkeys. Between two of their fields is a crater, and at the bottom of that crater is a sword, stuck blade-first as if it had fallen from the heavens. This is Searing Glory, an orichalcum daiklave two-thirds as long as a man is tall, its golden blade adorned with a vein-like pattern of red. None of the villagers touch this sword, for they know it to bring only misfortune.

Searing Glory brings power to the one who holds it, even the lowliest of mortals. It is not merely a blade of incredible size and sharpness that can be held as lightly as a twig, but a font of sun-like might which flows from its hilt into the body of its owner, filling them with divine strength and alacrity. But the mortal body cannot easily handle such energy, and once a master has bonded with Searing Glory the bond cannot be broken; every time they draw the blade, their body is consumed a little more from the inside. Inevitably the daiklave's power becomes too much to bear, and Searing Glory's wielder becomes one with the sun's fire, one moment of glorious power leaving behind nothing but ashes.

The last time Searing Glory was held was a century ago, when a rot came over the village's crop and starvation threatened. One girl stepped into the crater, drew the sword, and went to raid another village for food. Their parents wept and mourned as if she was already dead; even as she saved her village, she saw in her people's eyes that there was no place among them for a doomed girl wielding the sun's sword. She left, plied her services as a warrior, and went to fight the mountain-folk. A year later another woman who had become her lieutenant brought the sword back to the village along with all the war-spoils the girl had gathered, and a small urn containing ashes. The sword has been untouched since.


The Hearth

This is the city which rules the Grave of Swords: wide paved streets, curving red-tiled roofs, stone-and-moss gardens, wide villas housing vast extended families, guards in shining bronze armor. This is the city which rules the Grave of Swords: a palace built out of the hollow skull of a copper dragon, the last whole remnant of the valley's guardian, a stone wall built between its protruding ribs, textile mills as vast as palaces housing its repurposed muscles and tendons. This is the city which rules the Grave of Swords: a sprawling maze of winding streets and ramshackle houses leaning against the walls and expanding a little more each year, beautiful canals colored by the mesmerizing patterns of dyes and other poisons, great fortified camps where foreign soldiers watch over slaves whose freedom is only a wall away, deep mining pits where the natives of the valley extract copper from the sunken limbs of a dead dragon, which they smelt for bronze.

The Hearth is a city of great wealth and power which cannot do anything with it. The Hearth rules the Grave, but the Hearth is only one city with no authority over its sister-cities. The Hearth is ruled by a draconic Steward, but it is a Satrapy answering to the Realm. The Hearth is wealthy, but its wealth is harnessed by merchants from the Scavenger Lands. The Hearth has some of the greatest champions of the Southeast, but it has no army. The Hearth obeys the Realm's law under the Satrap, the Grave's common law under the Steward, martial law under the Legion, and the Great Schools scoff at obeying any law other than their codes of honor.


The Steward

One man rules the Hearth. But he is not truly a man, and he does not truly rule. At the foundation of the city, the Steward seized the brazen heart of the long-dead dragon that once guarded the Grave, and pushed it into his chest, where it devoured his heart of flesh. The Steward has skin of hepatizon and bleeds dark oil, his breath is smoke and his eyes shine like furnaces. All his existence has been spent trying to hold together his volatile city and managing all its power players. He is a pragmatic man. He is a compromising man. He is getting very tired.

The Steward answers to the Satrap of the Grave, and the Satrap has grown apt at knowing how far she can push her theoretically-absolute authority before she finds the city sabotaging her every effort with no hint of open rebellion. She resents his influence, but accepts it as a necessity; the alternative is martial law, and making herself a puppet of the Fourth Legion. The Steward has no true army, but his word and his law are enforced by a corps of hepatizon-clad champions who abandoned their Great Schools to serve him; a worse betrayal can scarcely be imagined and they are loathed by all seven schools. The opinion of those to whom the Steward's guard is the only recourse against the schools' claims to authority is more nuanced.


The Seven Great Schools

This is true: the swords of the Grave are dangerous to wield and cannot leave the valley for long. Often they bring doom to their wielder. This is also true: one of sufficient skill, strength, or luck, may master one such weapon and survive its danger. Thirteen heroes in the history of the valley have not only picked up a sword, but mastered it so thoroughly has to create a Sword Art, a martial art style originating from this one weapon. These heroes went on to build the Great Schools, passing down their teachings to pupils who wield mundane weapons that emulate the design of their founding Artifact, which was passed from master to master. These were once mere dojos where a single master oversaw a dozen pupils. Now the schools are factions in their own right, numbering dozens of masters and hundreds of pupils, vying for influence over the city, running entire neighborhoods according to their whim and their arcane codes of honor and glory.

Of the Thirteen Great Schools, seven remain. One was never a school; in each generation it numbers only one master and one student, and it is unclear if there is a current generation alive today. Two were defeated so thoroughly and utterly that their founding Artifact was surrendered to another school, and their Sword Art absorbed into that school's own style. Three suffered the most dire fate; when the Fourth Legion asserted its authority over the Hearth, the Great Schools chafed, and years of unrest and street-fighting almost led to a crackdown which might have seen all the schools wiped out. As a result, the three most disliked schools were made scapegoats, blamed for their rebellion, and banished from the city, all while the remaining seven promised in secret chambers that they would no longer trouble the Dragon-Blooded so much. These Banished Schools now dwell in the other cities of the Hearth, and harbor a resentment as deep as the history of the valley's cursed blades.


Sample Great School: The Steel Antler School

Other schools sneer at the Steel Antler, calling its style passive, reactive, lacking in initiative; they say it fails to show any skill, instead utilizing its opponent's flaws. At the same time, they value the school's existence; duels with the Steel Antler's students are an easy way to show their own pupils the dangers of thoughtless aggression. The Steel Antler style focuses on rapid movement at very close range, confounding circular patterns of avoidance, and lightning-quick parries. It is said the Steel Antler master disarms her opponent twice: first by stepping inside his reach too close for him to use his weapon effectively, then by actually tearing the weapon out of his grasp. Its weapons are the deer horn knives, always wielded in pair, as difficult to master as they are confusing to face. It is a style appealing to the Grave's men, who are often taught not to seek individual glory or act aggressively but to be calm and studious.

Hassan Sword-born is the current master of the school, and he wields the titular Steel Antlers, a pair of deer horn knives forged out of starmetal. Their wielder is endowed with the ability to see patterns and flaws; the motion of a coming blow is outlined to him as trails of light in the air, and his opponent appears as a shining pattern where weak points are blazing dots. But the Antlers were flawed in their conception, or perhaps too successful; that power eventually bleeds into every aspect of their wielder's being, until they see the flaws in all things - systems, philosophies, structures, people. Like every master before him, Hassan Sword-born is a jaded, cynical man, and this affects his school. Where once the Steel Antler were protectors of the Hearth's common people, they now still grant that protection - but at a price. Mere students form small gangs running simple protection rackets; but masters tend to make a philosophy of their cynicism, and the price for their help is often chosen for painful irony, seeking to show outsiders to the school the futility of their cares and worldviews.


The Hook Syndicate

The Fish-hook Gambler of the Night Caste once challenged a demon whose name is now forgotten to a test of skill. The demon stole the Solar's very own soul from his body; but the Solar outmatched him by stealing his own theft from the pages of history, such that the demon could only know that the the Gambler had bested him but never how. By the terms of their agreement, the demon became the Gambler's slave for a year; but tricking him, the Exalt used that term of service to forge the demon himself into two hook swords channeling his excellence at thievery - when the term was up, the demon was technically free, but swords cannot go anywhere under their own power, and so he served the Gambler for much, much longer.

For over a thousand years the Gambler's Hooks have hungered for freedom. When the dominion of the Solars fell, they thought their time was at hand; time and time again their voice has brought gullible souls to them and convinced them to wield their power, then tried to guide them through the steps of destroying the valley's seals. Time and time again, they have failed. The thieving demon does not appreciate failure. A sullen weapon, it has abandoned the frustrating hope of escape, and built an empire of crime through the proxy of mortal wielders.

The Gambler's Hooks rest in a shrine in a villa of the Heart, a front owned by a placid riverborn merchant. Through this house pass legions of thieves, gamblers, smugglers and racketeers, all taking their orders from the swords, and offering it sacrifices to bolster their power. Only the best of this little syndicate are allowed to wield the pair, and only in the pursuit of a crime exceptional not merely in its profit, but in its daring, taking special pleasure in enraging the Satrap and the Legion - for they are Exalted. For decades the Hooks have been satisfied with this arrangement; but of late the demon has been feeling a strange bond, broken for ages and now renewed - somewhere in the world, there is a soul to which he claimed ownership through its greatest feat of thievery. That soul could put him into slavery again - or it could be his hope of true freedom at last.


The Merchant Lords

If one listens to the riverfolk merchants of the Hearth, then all the valley's wealth is their doing, for they saw opportunity where natives saw only a motive for complacency. The truth is rather more than the riverfolk came from the Scavenger Lands with their plunderer's wealth, their retinues of slaves in a place where there were none, and their divine-blooded and Exalted mercenaries, and took over much of the industry and trade of the valley, not in one bloody coup but in a progressive but no less destructive encroaching. Though the merchant lords may harvest more resources out of the valley than the graveborn did, this is less a factor of skill and more the result of their web of trade letting them import manpower and money from family and investors in the Scavenger Lands.

Most riverfolk (those who are not slaves, anyway) either came to the Grave as part of a merchant lord's retinue, or are descended from one who did. These bonds endure, forming the loose connection of a "merchant house," where everyone is patron and client to someone else. Even a lowly laborer whose name will never be known to the lord of his house can find in others of his status a kind of support network, and may hope to become client to one less lowly than he is. These connections make the riverfolk stand apart from the graveborn, whom they see as lacking in social tissue and connection - a bias which often hides how deeply hierarchical and ossified riverfolk houses can be.


Slaves without Numbers

Slavery has always been a contentious subject in the Grave, as the institution had been banned ages ago when the merchants first came, and the graveborn find it loathesome both for the bondage that it is and for the pressure it allows merchants to exert on them. Out of pragmatic compromise - some say weakness - the Stewart of the Hearth has instituted a system of licence allowing riverfolk to keep and work slaves as long as they remain within specific delineated areas and follow specific routes. Thus, the overwhelming majority of slaves work the salt-quarries of the northeast and the lumber exploitations of the northwest, as well as some plantations around the Hearth. These bring the merchants great wealth; but if a slave is ever to step out of the boundaries allowed to their owner, they are free forevermore. Thus slave camps are heavily fortified and guarded against escape, and the merchants grumble increasingly loudly at the costs this imposes on them. Some merchants deal with it by eschewing slavery altogether, most notably the flaxen princes running textile meals, while others agitate for reform - by violent means if necessary.

The life of a slave is a harsh, and often short one; slaves are not born in the Grave (for a slave's children are free) but imported from the Scavenger Lands, to be put to harsh and long manual labor. Slaves find themselves stranger among strangers, neither riverfolk nor graveborn, kept in enclosed camps. Merchants try to discourage any kind of community in their property and the harsh labor goes some way to help it, but people are people, and each of the three domains of slavery - plantation, salt-quarry and lumber - have their own peculiar culture, communicated in languages their guards rarely understand. Slaves sing of their homeland, tell the stories of how they were captured (often at war), and draw salt-circles or glyphs in the trees to ward away the ghosts of those slaves who died before them. Advice and skills are a precious commodity, one of the only things slaves can trade between each other; one who can teach the others how to sleep better on hard soil or keep warm at night often becomes a revered figure for as long as they survive the harsh conditions.

Sometimes, more often than they like to admit, the merchants do not realize that one of their newest purchases was an officer in some defeated army, one whose tradeable skill is how to endure, fight as a group, and move through the night. Then come escapes. As soon as a slave steps out of their camp, they are free - though of course, the merchants rarely abide by this rule if they can avoid it. Once free, however, the slaves find themselves most foreign of all the people of the valley, more even that the riverfolk or the Realm. Some try to convince graveborn communities to accept them, and rarely succeed. Some trek all the way to the Hearth and offer their services to the Fourth Legion, who rarely ever looks at a man twice before taking him in. Others form small communities of their own at the edges of the valley, and are often willing to raid the burial mounds for their sacred weapons in order to defend themselves. When curses do not strike them down, these free men have much to be angry about, and the power to do something about it.

Many graveborn do not acknowledge the status of slaves as such even under the terms drawn by the Steward, though few care to act on this. Still, every so often groups of like-minded graveborn, especially those from the towns outside the Hearth, band together to strike at the merchant lords' slave business. This is not always good for the slaves; some consider them to be free men unrighteously held captive and work to help them escape their camps, but other consider them to be simply be outlaws, non-men existing outside society and used to pressure the graveborn into poverty or service under terms that are slavery by any other name. For those groups, the best solution to the problem of slavery is the death of slaves, much easier to arrange than their freedom.


Fourth's Redoubt

Centuries ago the Scarlet Empress claimed authority over the Grave of Swords, but she never made a true conquest, for there was no battle. The Steward surrendered, but spoke dire warnings, and the Empress was wise enough to heed them. One of the Throne's own Legions built a fort within a javelin's throw of the Hearth, and since then Throne Legions have been cycling in and out of the valley. For the last five decades the Fourth Legion has held this redoubt, and it is now far more than a military fort. "Camp followers" have become a population of their own, and generations of soldiers have spent the entirety of their service in the Grave.

Once the Fourth could have claimed to be able to subjugate the entire valley through force of arm if need be, and would have been believed. Now it is barely at half-strength. Many of its Exalts have gone back home as their Houses prepare for war, taking personally loyal soldiers with them. Without their leadership, soldiers have deserted, blending into the local population. What remains of the Fourth has been called the "Stray Legion," for its bizarre insistence on staying behind when the Realm decides its future.

The legionlord of the Fourth is not amused. Soon, she fears, the people of the Grave will rebel against her, or the Houses will come to claim the valley's wealth in their own name, or the barbarians will invade, or all at once. With her officers she already draws plans to address these issues before they manifest, by whatever means necessary. Even the Satrap now worries about her ambition.


Shards

The shards of the valley are the many villages dotting its landscape. Typically small in size, they are connected to the Hearth by a lattice of beaten-earth roads. Away from the spills, their lands are more fertile, and their crops are coveted by a city which is ever hungry; the Satrap's agent are ruthless in collecting taxes, and the people of the shards are cunning in concealing their belongings. Many of the shards exist near tomb or crypt, and their people are avid practitioner of hedge magic to ward off their influence; every village has a wise one or more.

Of the shards, three are powerful enough to influence the valley as a whole, straddling the line between town and city.

Forgetfulness is the largest settlement outside of the Hearth; a town spilling out of a now-empty crypt, it is home to a council of Blind Ones, wise men who dwell in the crypt and never see the sun. They read the murals of the burial chambers to divine the history of the valley, and through it its future; even the Satrap's men, who scoff at superstition, fear their powers. More dangerous than their rumored magic, their knowledge lets them know which of the Grave's Artifacts may be wielded safely and how, a knowledge they prize dearly and trade expensively. Yet rumors abound of dissent in Forgetfulness; it is said that the Brave Ones, most elite of their warrior-women, have entered a word-feud with the Blind Ones, and none knows what this could mean for the town, or the rest of the valley.

Holiness is a sacred town, whose size belies its influence; it sits at the foot of the mountains, astride the nameless river which runs from its peaks, and so controls one of the main routes of commerce out of the valley while holding back the fearsome goat-herders who would raid villages every year if they had their wont. At its center is a ziggurat-palace built around one of the three remaining monolith-seals protecting the world from the valley; there rules the Sister, priestess-queen protected by a champion wielding one of the valley's forsaken weapons. She has only ever paid allegiance to the Hearth out of respect for the Steward's strength, and she watches now to see if he shall fail and leave her free.

Dryness is less a city than it is a town-sized slave camp; hundreds of workers toil in its misshapen salt quarries, plagued by desiccation and haunting dreams, to feed the Salt Lords who rule over them. The quarries are at the easternmost edge of the Valley, a wound in the jungle; a small army of mercenary is on retainer to thwart threats from the woods and the lands beyond the Grave, for at the heart of the quarries is the broken base of a monolith which no longer protects anything. Strange dreams haunt the town of Dryness, for their salt is not wholly natural, and echoes of the Wyld hang over the quarries like miasma.


Places of the Wild

Swordbleed

One cannot bury a hundred and a hundred more cursed blades in one valley and not expect these dead curses to rot and foul the land. The monoliths bind their power and the ley lines of the Grave are strong, but two of these monoliths now stand broken, and the swords do bleed. Rarely is a single Artifact enough to cause such taint; but when proximity or geomantic alignment causes their energies to blend, then the Swordbleed unravels the skein of Fate. The most potent but least dangerous of these are isolated locales; a grove where all the trees have daggers for leaves, a burial mound whose dead rise on each new moon to ply a sword's hunger for battle, a crimson pond whose water makes the blood turn to red jade in one's vein. Worse yet, sometimes the taint comes alive, and trees rotted with curse usurp a Forest King. These are places of powerful magic, but easily avoided.

The true Swordbleed is more insidious, and yet more beautiful also. When the curse-flow of blades contaminates a stream of water, that water flows easily but shines with the color of magical materials. Such water taints the land it passes through in subtle ways and twists the flesh of men over years or decades. The wise one often draws this water for use in rituals and thaumaturgy, for it is potent; all the same it must not be allowed to reach the Grave's pure rivers. For this reason, worship of the Sobeksi elementals is wide-spread in the shards; mortals offer them worship and sacrifice in exchange for their help cleansing the streams.

Those Sobeksi which stanch Swordbleed by purging it out of the water consume great amount of powers and become lean and hungry beasts, needing ever more prayers, whose scales are engraved with warding glyphs and whose breath can purify illness. Those who keep the water clean by drinking the curse-flow themselves become twisted into weapon-beasts with scales of magical materials and teeth like daiklaves, imbued with an echo of the Artifacts' powers; these guardians need little nourishment, but their minds grow strange and twisted, and their nature far more than elemental.


Isojichi

No one remembers what the purpose of Isojichi once was, nor the meaning of its name, though records may yet exist in those places which call themselves remnants of the Shogunate. Those few daring enough to venture into the Grave's only shadowland, a place of dessicated shrubbery, bone-trees and treacherous will-o'-wisps, up in the mountains at the edge of the valley, speak of a place small as a village but built as strong as a palace. It has lain forgotten for ages, yet still lights blink in the night, sending messages which people have forgotten how to read.

Isojichi is a place full of treasures, but these treasures cannot be grasped by mortal hands. An intricate web of advanced technology of which no single component makes sense in a vacuum, its corridors are haunted by whispers and warnings for no one to hear, and its perpetual scrolls write and erase new messages every day. There is something buried at the heart of Isojichi, but no adventurer has yet managed to access this treasure and come back; most are content with stealing the shiny, glowing trinkets of its steel-and-wire apparatuses, and selling them to cunning merchants who can derive some purpose out of them. The wise do not linger long enough to find a true prize, for cold-eyed soldiers with body of mist and iron come every night, walking patrol routes that no longer make any sense.


The Carved Ones

The Blind Ones of Forgetfulness know the lore of the Grave and its swords; but such knowledge cannot come from simply dwelling in an ancient crypt. Some must go out in the valley, collect the stories of the shards' folk, study the forsaken weapons in close proximity, record the taint of Swordbleed. This is the task of the Carved Ones, who belong to no shard. These wandering lorekeepers have burned glyphs of warding into their skin, and can be recognized with one glimpse of their face. They are ascetics, pursuing dangerous knowledge for the sake of the valley's people, and as such are granted hospitality without question wherever they go.

The Carved Ones rarely meet the fate of mortal men. Exposing themselves to curses over and over, dealing with ancient and tainted spirits, they find the curse bleeding into their flesh until it changes them. The fortunate die young, their body unable to endure such transformations. Those who are strong enough may live for over a century or even more - changing until they are unrecognizable as men. When such ancient ones finally die, their ghosts invariably rise as tormented beasts of terrible power; for this reason, Carved Ones on their deathbeds are sealed within bronze coffins and buried in the Chasm of Shades at the foot of the mountains. It is rare for these ghosts to escape their coffins - but not unheard of.


People of the Valley


The graveborn are the oldest native population of the valley, and by far the most numerous. They tend towards light brown skin, curly black hair, and eyes which range from brown to gold to red. They favor sharp-lined tunics and skirts dyed in geometric patterns of warm or dark colors. The more recent outsiders consider them an uncouth, superstitious people, and gloss over the fact that they have been learning the valley's dangers and opportunities for long before they came, and that it is they who harvested the dead dragon. Graveborn of the Hearth consider themselves a sophisticated people, wise with the martial wisdom of the Sword Arts and the industry of the city; graveborn of the shards see the city as a tumorous growth which enforces unearned authority over the valley and is the vector through which the Realm can control their lives. Oral storytelling holds a great importance to the graveborn, as it is the means through which they track the history and threats of the valley's countless artifacts.

The riverfolk are the descendants of the greater entourage of merchants from the River Province, largely found in the Hearth. They tend towards bronze skin, straight hair ranging from black to auburn, and pale-colored eyes, and dress in long, flowing clothes; long nails and thin hands are considered a token of prestige among them. They have forged the connections between East and South that run through the valley, brought many foreign goods and exported the unique wealth found therein, and as such consider themselves to be the clever, ambitious people who turned a backwater into a thriving place. Graveborn instead tend to look at them as arrivist and scavengers who do not understand the dangers of the valley and would despoil its wealth in a century when it has lasted five so far. Many riverborn consider themselves merchant-princes in the making, even those who toil in manual labor, and all but the worst-off outcasts belong at least nominally to a "merchant house," the retinue of a given merchant that came to settle the Hearth - even when that merchant is long-dead and they are merely the fourth-removed daughter of a cattle-driver working for that merchant.

Raptorfolk come from the jungle; unlike their sicklefolk cousins further north, they are of diminutive size, but their talons and fangs are sharp while their feathers are magnificent. In the Hearth they are considered an adventurous but naive people, taking dangerous jobs normally reserved for children in the textile mills. Those raptorfolk dwelling outside the city are wholly unlike this picture; a semi-sedentary people splitting their year between the grass and the trees, they harbor deep resentment for the once-common practice per which the valley's people would hunt them down like animals for their valuable feathers. Beyond their forest dwellings is Heart-upon-Stone, capital of a sicklefolk nation, whose people are rarely seen in the Grave but are nonetheless the subject of lurid tales of blood-worship.

The mountainborn are a people from outside the valley; they are herders of goat and sheep who dwell in the rocky cliffs that line the Grave to its west and south. They are needed and yet dangerous; they bring the meat so valued by the elites of the city and towns, and yet every year some of them come down the slopes to raid and plunder, pelt-clad berserkers and slate-eyed slingers moving too fast for any army to fight effectively. Merchants passing through the mountains pay them tribute during ritualized false raids, never sure when the tribe charging them down the mountain slope will actually stop and heed the agreements.


War in the Valley

Warfare has existed in the Grave for as long as humans have dwelled in it, but it has often taken a peculiar form. The Grave lacks a tradition for large armies, and could not have withstood the Realm's conquest even if they had tried. Instead graveborn culture emphasize the role of individual champions, and battles between the cities of the valley often took the form of skirmishes between small group of warriors where each individual woman seeks to claim personal glory by finding and defeating the most prestigious opponent on the other side. To kill one's enemy in war is seen as a less worthy victory than forcing them to yield, taking their weapons, honor, and ransom.

Such emphasis on champions is partly born out of the Grave's small population and partly out of the very nature of the Grave of Swords. No city would go to war without at least one champion yielding one of the valley's ancient magical weapons or armors, and the duel of these magically endowed warriors tends to be the centerpiece of any skirmish; battle often ends when a relic-bearer is at a disadvantage and chooses to retreat. When they cannot or choose not to and their opponent defeats them and claims their blade, this often ends the war.

Those who are not so fortunate as to hold Artifact weapons are clad in bronze, for the valley is poor in iron but vastly rich in copper harvested from the dragon's corpse and natural mines in the mountains, and imports tin through the river. The most elite of champions are typically clad in hepatizon, their armor and weapons bearing an unmistakable purple-black cast.

It has been years since the last true battle between the Hearth's cities, although fighting against mountainborn raids are constant. The Fourth Legion casts a looming shadow over the valley; its soldiers are clad in steel and fight in close ranks rather than seeking individual glory, while being led by true Exalts whom most relic-bearers cannot hope to defeat - and by the standards of the valley, their tactics are horribly lethal. This is not to say the Legion has brought peace; though their conquest was bloodless at first, there have been periodic outbursts of violence when the shards rebelled against the Satrap's authority over some point of tribute or unwanted law. Now as the Fourth Legion bleeds soldiers to the Realm's brewing civil war, the champions of the Grave look at it and wonder whether the time has come for another challenge.


Ashuri Pillar-born, Champion of Forgetfulness

Ashuri, daughter of Ashuri, daughter of Ashuri, born under the sign of the Pillar, is blessed by carrying the name of heroes three generations old. Her eyes are red as blood and her armor the color of a deep bruise, and she bears a necklace of boar tusks, each from a beast she killed alone. She stands foremost of Forgetfulness's Brave Ones, their elite of warrior-women, and holds great sway over her sisters. Through her prowess in battle she has earned the right to bear the Azure Thorn, a spear without blade, a straight haft of unadorned blue jade coming to a piercing point. The Thorn endows its wielder with the speed of lightning and can be hurled like a thunderbolt, always coming back to its mistress's hand.

Ashuri tires of fighting rebellious spirits and monsters from the Swordbleeds. She longs for true battle in which she may claim another warrior's weapon. It is her belief that she is a match for a Dragon-Blood, but she is too wise to test that belief with a hasty war - for now. She believes Forgetfulness can be made the equal of the Hearth in power and wealth, if the council of Blind Ones were willing to use their mystical lore to conquer the surrounding shards and absorb their warriors into one army equipped with weapons that have gone unused for far too long. Then, with a dozen of sisters as powerful as Ashuri herself, the Exalted could be driven from the valley.


Spirits of the Valley

The Realm brought with it the Immaculate Order, who has ever since tried to convert the Grave to their ways. Yet the monks are few in numbers and find little purchase for their proselytizing. From their point of view, the Grave is plagued by spirits who claim unearned authority and resources, and its long history of cursed weapons and honored champions is rife for Anathema-worship. But to the natives, it is unthinkable to live in such a magically polluted place without relying on gods and elementals. Even the smallest shard village has a tutelar god protecting it, and often consorting with mortals; their god-blooded offspring often become revered wise ones. Said wise ones deal not only with earthly spirits, but also seek to call upon the wisdom of ancestors whose names each family records on a stone altar. Elementals are found around every settlement, and mortals bargain with them for blessings of fertility on their crops or clement weather, seeing them less as spirits and more as features of the land.

Some spirits, unfortunately, are not helpful, but hazards to be mitigated. The wilder sorts of elementals often feed on the power of buried Artifacts, and in doing so transform into sword-beasts of great power and warlike instincts. Hunting such monsters is many a young warrior's chance to earn her fame. Some of the Grave's relics are also sentient, and seek to be wielded once more - unfortunately, they were made to serve Exalts, and the path down which they lead mortal wielders is often one of doom, even when they do not mean ill. And of course, whenever mortals need the aid of spirits to survive, there are those who will take this opportunity to take as much as they can get away with, knowing the mortals have no chance but to comply. Greed is as prevalent among gods as it is among humans.

None of these wild monsters and cursed blades, however, comes close to the Seven Evil Spirits. They were there long before even the Graveborn, unleashed by unwise Dragons of the Shogunate, and their legends are whispered in hushed towns around the campfire. A wolf with a fur of storm wiping out an entire village, an oracle whose every foretelling is one of death which always comes true, a ghost fooling mortals into worshipping him as an ancestor so he can devour their souls when they die, such are some of the manifestations of the Seven. Decades may pass between any of the Seven being seen or heard of, for it is said that they slumber in burial mounds for years at a time; but when they act, they invariably bring ill upon the valley's folk. Prayers and sacrifices are made to ward them off, and a grand festival is made each year in which the whole of the valley abjures them; but at the same time these rites push them away, they also feed their strength as worship would. The Seven do not seek the death of all men; rather they seek to force them into miserable bondage, always fearing their strength and giving them prayers in hope of mercy. Thus the Seven never bring the whole of their power to bear, and the true extent of their strength is unknown.

 

[mothematics]

Blame/credit to this goes to various people who know EXACTLY WHAT THEY DID
-
Smiling Ape Confronts The Cosmos In Glorious Combat

Nothing is greater in life than a good fight; the same holds true into death and undeath. Such is the truth of the weirdest of Deathlords, Smiling Ape Confronts The Cosmos In Glorious Combat. All he desires is worthy opponents to fight, and now he has an eternity to do this in. What more could he ask for?

Once in the pre-history Smiling Ape was a beastman from dank sulfuric swamplands of the Southeast. Early in life he found his true love: Smiling Ape lived for a good fight. Then a crest of gold kissed his brow, and he found himself thrust into the greatest fight of all, the great war that first sundered Creation. Smiling Ape became known as a pugilist without peer. The war was hard-fought and many a battle was saved by his presence alone - none could say for sure there was a greater martial artist among the Solars than him.

When the war ended, the Sun's god-kings began to build great things and lead Creation into a golden age. Smiling Ape whiled away the time by leaping from jungle tree to cloud to mountaintop, affably challenging glorious Exalts and mighty divinities to honest fights. He did this for some time, but no matter what he tried, he could not find anyone who matched him - or if they did, he would train with obsession and soon outstrip them. He felt that nothing could match the old fights against the Primordials. Nothing gave him joy like he had during the war that carved Creation again.

Smiling Ape soon tried to pick fights with the Incarnae and Sol Invictus. He tried to pick fights with whole legions at a time. He would battle raksha for a hundred years and return home frustrated and dissatisfied. Soon, there were few beings left that would accept his challenges. He was too powerful, or had burnt through his good will. And whenever his challenges were accepted the results were catastrophic. Ax kicks gouged canyons from mountains and throws flattened mesas into inland seas. A punch could desolate a whole princedom.

At some point, his family left him. He did not notice, because he was preparing for his next fight. His peers confronted him; eager as he was to let loose, he accidentally destroyed them, underestimating his power. He had nothing left. No where in the world would he find a good fight.

Therefore he would fight the world.

He challenged Yu Shan and the might of the Deliberative, and the elemental legions of dragonspawn. He challenged the gods and the rakshasa and he challenged the flower and the gnat and he lost. What happened next is a matter of some debate, but this much is certain:

Smiling Ape, the indomitable, was dead.

His hun and po raged as they sank through the Underworld. There they continued to fight. Time passed, limp and frustrating epochs, and Smiling Ape - or something like Smiling Ape - found himself before a vile thing that bubbled and decomposed, that rotted what remained of his intelligence by merely existing. It was a way to more power. It was a way to a better fight.

Smiling Ape drank, and he grew, and he solidified, and he became rank and putrid. Eight arms, six eyes, and a great fanged smile stuck in a sea of grotesque and pallid muscle. A shape almost like a man. A hairless, skinless being with more power in his pinky than in any thing under the sun. A perfect fighter. He is almost ready for his rematch against everything at once.

This time he will win.

Smiling Ape as Liege: Smiling Ape curates good fights. All of his five Abyssals are warriors that he believes will one day provide a worthy fight. He is simple of mind and agreeable in demeanor. He is motivated primarily by what will be the best fight, either for him or his pupil Exalted. He will accept any challenge, and should you survive it, he will provide you time to train again for another fight. He will gladly let opponents improve themselves, but only up to a point.

Regularly he clashes with the First and Forsaken Lion, his only martial peer; to Smiling Ape, they are favored fighting partners. The First and Forsaken Lion regards him as a deeply infuriating nuisance that he must occasionally humor and will eventually destroy.

 

[Dif]

Long-delayed, finally hammered this out between work and various other nonsense! The books don't generally give a fair-shake to any notable thaumaturgists operating outside of urbanized areas, mostly relegating them to being vaguely the same but in "impoverished"/worse trappings, or simply practicing placating gestures and a load of meaningless ritual hogwash because they don't know any "educated" magic. Looking to give the whole thing a better treatment this time around, something to ground interesting NPCs and origin stories.


Folk Magic and Superstitions of Creation: Part 3 - Moving Heaven and Earth

The gods of developed lands are pampered and tamed, spoiled and fattened by human recognition and subservience. But the more distant one travels from well-trod roads and cultivated farmsteads, a harsher, more predatory character emerges. While most will see the practical uses for thaumaturgic ritual in domestic life and trade, the sheer number and magnitude of supernatural dangers in the far wilderness often require someone take up the mantle of spirit-warrior, faith-healer and psychopomp, to intercede where the demands and stress on her community become untenable. Malicious spirits, plagues and residual bleed from the immaterial world come frequent enough that simply weathering the worst is not possible, and so her people look to one person to alleviate the crisis, the local shaman.

A neighborhood alchemist might enrich her small township by diagnosing illness during lean times, or supplying birth control through various poultices and powders when maiden tea is scarce or expensive, but the burden shouldered by a shaman means to prepare herself as the front line in a magical contest of wills against all-comers. While her chieftain or bey acts with the material livelihoods of the people in mind, the shaman looks after spiritual well-beings and the safety of traditions, to present herself as the fearsome gatekeeper to all creatures low or high who would wish to bring harm and cause disorder. Some of these roles are not termed as shamans or as obvious as others, like that of the storyteller of tribal epics, the midwife blessing newborn souls, and the leader of ritual sacrifices, but in every aspect she serves as a shaman to defend and reinforce who her people are and will continue to be.

This status does not come easily, and her reasons for being a shaman can vary as widely as the culture she resides in. Some are chosen by way of spirit summons, others by birth inheritance, by life-altering physical or psychological illness, unexpected wandering or insight into the unseen worlds of the gods or the dead, even something as simple as celestial signs and omens which insist she alone must be trained for the future career she will lead. Inevitably all roads arrive at a rite of passage that irrevocably shapes both the would-be shaman's mind and her understanding of the world, considered by many to be the time when her destiny divides her away from the shared comfort and identity of her people. To be the kind of defender her tribe or community needs, she must become something more akin to the spirits themselves, but never losing track of who and what she stands for.

The strongest of shamans exist literally or metaphorically between states of being seen as significant to the culture she lives and works inside, walking the outskirts of two mortal worlds just as she would cross into the land of spirits. The casteless-one born from the union of a princess and a beggar, the oyster-diver who dreamt too deeply of the sea and awoke breathing water, the boy-child who undertook the rites of womanhood instead of her traditional tribal role, someone who drank from the shadowland river until she felt the touch of ghosts on her skin, the bordermarch hermit who lived isolated for years speaking only the tongues of monkeys and birds, all possess strong sympathies of distance or opposition from the societies which consider these things notable exceptions to typical life. While this alone is not totally indicative of potential shamanic skill, an uncommon background is often helpful to further strengthen her leverage against the supernatural in ways which will not become clear until later.

By her role as a comfortable stranger wrapped in upholding the old traditions, someone who is of the people and the sacred ways but stands apart in the observance, a shaman may willingly bypass social restrictions unimpeded by rules of honor or etiqutte. She can perform acts and interact with people generally considered 'spiritually unclean' by cultural mores without repercussions, walk through sacred places, speak crudely to sensitive ears and take others to task for misjudgements and slights regardless of class or station, cutting through many societal conflicts which cannot be acceptably managed by her peers. So long as the root of the issue lies with magical influence or the trespass of spirits, there is no one who holds higher dominion and expertise on the subject, and only the foolish would seek to second-guess her advisement. She might be treated as powerful royalty or feared as any outsider emissary, and most of the time this lies somewhere inbetween, as a figure of trepidation and awe for the mantle of austere authority she possesses.

Despite these vital services to her community, the shamanic tradition is often a lonesome one for this reason, typically a personal journey of power and discovery, or a formal pact of learning which passes from teacher to student, even if the two share nothing else in common save living outside the established norms. Aspirants are expected to be apprenticed for several years, serving as the interpreter and attendant for the aging elder shaman, explaining away the behaviors and trappings accumulated by decades of fraught spirit conflict or appeasement, and guiding her mentor to court and ceremony when hands tremble and eyes have grown cloudy and vacant from applying or ingesting the ritual mixtures necessary to witness the land of the unseen firsthand. She prepares the meals of food given as tribute, banks the fires, mending clothes and ritual dress to learn humility and understanding of the cosmic place of shamanic ways as her elder attempts to impart a lifetimes worth of unique and personal experiences, shrouded in secrecy and sworn to silence. Like any position of high esteem, there are alliances, mutual enemies, tacit agreements and looming challenges to be weighed carefully. Because like stepping into an empty throne, this time of uncertainty is ripe for local spirits jockeying to take advantage of perceived weaknesses in the fortitude of her people.

Even the lowest spirit is canny in the ways that power and authority is transferred, and would seek to test the limits and abilities of the shaman-to-be, either by demanding she meet or exceed the deeds accomplished by her superior as a proving rite, leveraging generous oaths and pacts once thought impossible in the hopes of gaining an upper hand, or seeking to change its community standing by openly preying upon her inexperience and ignorance of its domain. These trials are often overseen by the elder shaman in a hands-off manner, to give the apprentice a chance to build her own foundation of competence and repute, as many of these same spirits are ancient and entrenched to the land, keen upon bedeviling her progress and career until such a time she either dies in the attempt or takes on an apprentice of her own to pass the mantle, as it has continued for generations prior and will for generations hence. Her methods, partnerships and rivalries made here among the spirit courts will shape the kind of shaman she is seen to be, and her mistakes will be long remembered by creatures with a vested interest in exploiting those flaws for the indefinite future.

The politics of such spirits are rarely kind, regularly leaving the memories, health or flesh of the apprentice held as collateral for such dealings, in the hopes both sides will honor the agreement when she at last attains shamanhood. Canny aspirants play these interests against eachother, such as promising her arm to one spirit and her hand to another, forcing the two into conflict over which has the more legitimate right to eventually collect on this debt. Because in many cases, more than simple tithes of prayer and service are at stake for both the shaman and her people. A city god or powerful cult might persist entirely on prayer alone, the concentrated magnitude of attention and recognition being enough to sublimate the whims and lifestyle of the god on its own, but there are no parallels in the more sparsely populated frontiers. Its ambitious spirits are akin to starving dogs, snappish and greedy for whatever can be found, conquered or stolen on the sly, while the mission of any shaman is to foster productive dialogue and mutual coexistence between these troublesome sorts and her community, by force if necessary.

Prizes sought by spirits are typically brute labor in erecting grand constructions in it's honor, lavish celebrations of name and deed, exploiting the populace for wealth on its greatest exports, armed defense of important territory and gleaning godblooded heirs from blessed unions to oversee the growing domain. It falls to the shaman to curtail the worst extremes of these demands, deflecting the potential abuses while arranging for favors, such as negotiating undisturbed hunting rights of the spirit's herds in exchange for prayers of thanks during feasts and kills, or obtaining blessings upon the tribe's warriors in battle so long as the sacred lands are kept free from interlopers during several auspicious nights a year. These agreements are typically little more than bribes, stringing along needy and isolated gods with the promise of stone idols which may one day become temples, or pacts of song and celebration which may one day turn into strict religious reverence. Faced with the most irrational or unconscionable of these spirits, whose appetites grow too strong or patience for this slow-burn progress runs too thin, polite communications inevitably break down and a shaman is left to take matters into her own hands.


Fighting Spirit

The reputation of a shaman is fraught with fear and suspicion, not simply her origins, methods and abilities, but also the forces she trucks with as a matter of daily life. Even the most kind-hearted faith-healer may be regarded with unsure glances and deferential gestures of appeasement, as she is known primarily as the dead woman who was brought low by a mortal sickness, internalized it and now uses that power over illness to draw it out from others. That her endurance and understanding allowed her to overcome the disease and bend it towards her will is never fully considered, simply that there is something Odd about her nature, such that the normally-fatal affliction never took hold upon her life. This kind of unusual perception at being uncomfortably out-of-sync with her people is the strongest of a shaman's tools, and wielding this fearsome demeanor benefits both keeping tribal peace and broaching spirit conflict.

The traditional dress of a shaman is tailored to her station and goals, invoking necessary sympathies and resonances without having to parade around with a trove of mystical baubles. Retelling the historic epics of her people may require many masks strung about her robes within easy reach as she comports herself as the medium for a cast of ancient heroes or archetypal characters, donning one mask to regard the others held in her hands as the audience present to her dialogue, switching faces and personalities throughout the exchange of words and deeds. Kit for battle, the shaman could be piled-upon with many pelts of local predators or carnivores, arrayed with feathers or scrimshawed bone to display fighting prowess or offend her enemies. Unlike the warriors and proven adults of her tribe, the tattoos and scarification which crisscross her skin are more than symbolic merit, but embedded wards of protection, banishment and luck. Where the shaman travels she is unmistakable for who she is, and the simple act of her presence may inspire peace by her authority where force of arms cannot.

When she must wield her rituals and conjurings against spirits, it takes on a highly informal and improvisational character, as her foes often give little time for elaborate preparations. When one of her flock falls sick with a magical illness, time is of the essence to distract the bedeviling spirit before treatment becomes impossible. In a more highly developed land of abundance, a simple banishment would be effective enough to send off an unwanted god in search of easier prey, but her people may be the only settlement for miles where no other claims can be made. The creature will return again some other time, and perhaps again and again, watching and waiting for when her people are distracted, desperate and weak, with centuries of experience and patience behind its schemes. If she is to make any inroads and turn aside the will of an ambitious spirit, especially one who may exceed her at intelligence, physical might or resources, a shaman must fight to make this and every victory a decisive one at a moment's notice.

The most critical outcome in this endeavor almost never ends with a kill, since such means may well be out of her ability or control, and spirits are extremely slippery and evasive when pushed into corners. Instead she shamefully wounds her opposition in its ego and self-image, proactively working to baffle, frighten and frustrate the creature by defying its prior expectations for any representative of her people, and if not outwit it through quick-thinking and abusing loopholes in oaths and supernatural natures, then to cause hurt in ways the spirit did not know it could be hurt. For minor spirits, she arrays herself as a fearsome figure of antagonistic dread or unpredictable wildcard who is unimaginably far removed from the folk it would have thought to rule. By refusing to drown when the spirit thought to pull her under and spook her tribe into compliance with a show of murderous intent, or in striding imperiously through nightmarish illusions to haul the creature out into the firelight from its shadowed hiding place, she becomes an unplanned-for and unpredictable variable many gods cannot reconcile.

Though wielders of breathtaking powers and terrifying visages, most spirits are as dimwitted and foolish as the average mortal and just as easy to deceive. Sometimes simply suggesting to the arrogant god she knows or carries its true weakness is all which is necessary to brook surrender after these shows of blindsiding dominance, reaching into or shaking a pouch of unrelated refuse as an acting talisman, tricking the short-sighted and cowed creature into thinking itself defeated with no material evidence required. This same trick may even work more than once, provided she is careful enough to disguise her methods with novelty and misdirection. Time spent to research and gain familiarity becomes more vital for major spirits with notable legends, personalities and trappings to its name, so that she may act to capitalize on its hidden secrets, desires and fears. Casting herself to be a Peerless Hunter with ritual bow and skinning knife in hand makes her position vastly more secure when her foe thrives in the company of animals, taking the shape and demeanor of a spectral deer glowing within from molten heat.

It is her mission to continually put this supernatural enemy on a back foot and unprepared for her actions or plans, unable to utilize its potentially quicker thinking or powerful magics from caution or befuddlement over what is taking place. In the hesitation left by the offended sensibilities and disorientation of spirits at mortal impudence, the shaman has a chance to strike with a blow or forcefully present a bargain which would have no chance of being as effective if the circumstances were more equal. With luck and persistence, this manner of unkind rebuff repeatedly leveled from new and unforeseen directions will not only dissuade the creature from further visitations, but create an insult so detached from her community by her outsider status that the spirit will seek her demise or rivalry alone, her people be-damned and forgotten. Some spirits may even wish her such ill-will that nothing else save a violent challenge might suffice, and in this respect a wise shaman knows where to proactively plan her next battlefield.

Without a crisis to be solved, the standard means for conducting shamanic thaumaturgy is public ceremony, a communal demonstration accompanied by ritual chanting and music for her people to solemnly witness and engage with her magic respectfully as she calls down the rain or entreats the powers that be for strength and deliverance. As the representative of her people to invisible supernatural forces, it stands to reason that her most potent rites should be visible to all so it may help grant assurance and security in knowing she has fulfilled the will of the community to the best of her ability. Spoken word narration of her method and visions, laying out the scope of the places, meanings and beings she encounters beyond mortal perceptions during this performance is the cornerstone of this trust, bringing along her audience through the medium of her storytelling skill.

To impart the gravity of the circumstances, she vividly describes the journey of her mind and awareness to a meeting with a spirit benefactor within its distant sanctum, relays to her chief the bargaining position of the immaterial god standing within the bonfire circle, or illustrates with sweeping gestures how the east wind guides away dying souls into a gateway of Lethe or the underworld she has opened for the sacred warriors of her tribe. It is ironically this presence of ceremony which gives a shaman the edge when spirits seek her death, as few would turn down such a grandiose duel as a chance for indulging in unplanned spectacle, to shame and dispatch her before the horrified eyes of her people. Leaning into this desire for pageantry permits the shaman to subtly engineer a battlefield in her favor, even setting a conclusive time of day or pick of weapons which normally her foe would never allow.

The challenge often comes with many strings attached, formalizing the contest of choice, the ritual circle or fighting grounds, and establishing the stakes for both parties as winner-take-all. Before progressing to an outright confrontation, a last opportunity is traditionally taken by the canniest of shamans to employ some manner of subterfuge or ruse to permanently solve the dispute without need for bloodshed, usually as some form of "double-or-nothing" bet to pique curiosity or greed. More commonly, any spirit haughty or dimwitted enough to have taken its grudge to this degree often doesn't need much pressure to accept, likely viewing the gesture as an act of desperation or cowardice. The self-assured creature convinces itself of victory so well that it will readily take ridiculous-sounding terms, such as exiling itself out of the sacred lands for the next 300 years if it would mean the shaman is contractually bound to slice her own head from her shoulders when she inevitably loses.

These agreements made in bloodthirsty haste can quickly spell the spirit's downfall, and generations of tribes have been liberated by the act of a shaman declaring something as simple as a distant cliff-side where the spirit's true name can be seen to all who know where to look, challenging the spirit to manifest and walk with her to investigate knowing full well no such thing lies at the destination. Left unawares as her path takes an unusually circuitous course but distracted by its own irritation towards her delaying tactics, the spirit only realizes too late how deeply it has been deceived when both arrive at the top of the cliff not to find any evidence, but to overlook her handiwork below. Where the deliberately paced route of the entire trek itself can be seen to scrawl the unmistakable name of the spirit though the rough dirt, just as visible as she had said it would be. This compounded insult rarely works twice, but the fact it worked at all can be enough to send spirits into conniptions of unbridled rage or somber fugues of depression lasting decades, giving plenty of time to prepare for a future rematch.

More intelligent spirits are harder to catch in a lie or loophole, either by questioning her motives or having once been the victim of such a ploy and unwilling to shame itself further. So warned by her overweening cleverness, it eschews all contest save that of blood, trusting more in the ability to overpower her with brute might. In many cases, this spiritual battle may not even be fought with physical strikes and blows, but between the dematerialized attacker and the shaman through aggressive manipulations of essence and mental fortitude. Outsiders unfamiliar with local customs or occult works may see this as some manner of extravagant tribal dance or ceremonial worship, but her people know better. Her mighty shouts, foot stomps and rhythmic gestures are the physical manifestations of immaterial weapons and defenses, and many generations have sat and watched enraptured as the village shaman has dueled with an unseen spirit for the livelihood and safety of those under protection, breathlessly describing every invisible interplay of strike, dodge and riposte in the heat of battle. But a shaman is not limited by the sly tricks at her disposal or the knowledge passed down by her elders, chemical aides can supplement for the skills she lacks when the aim is to win by any means.

Various blends of drug play an important role in many shamanic rituals, as relaxants, stimulants and pain-killers to rival any urban apothecary, but focusing and honing the mind stands above all others when the supernatural is broached. A drug-addled mind with a single purpose is all but impossible to utilize against its wielder, when in many ways the horrifying illusions and honeyed words of spirits are easily lost in a sea of cottony haze or sensory overload. Many rites make use of altered states for safety and defense, walling the shaman away behind the assuredness of her compromised perceptions, knowing nothing can be trusted save the beat of the ceremonial drums in her ears and the practiced hand which guides her conjurings and prayers. Besides use for meditation aides and expanding her perception of the real, specifically-measured blends of hallucinogens and near-poisons are also often ingested to violently tear down the veils of her worldly ignorance. Experienced shamans are typically well-versed veterans of these transformative visions, waking nightmares or substance-triggered compulsions, and have successfully come out the other side whole and sane.

But bolstering herself against the worst of spirit influence through bone-deep chills of withdrawal and dissociative trances is not normally enough to tip the scales, and potent drugs may also be used as secret combat arts when the time comes. Ingested herbs and warpaint are often a much more subtle means of delivering spiritual banes, protective sealings and contact poisons to battle, repelling or horribly scarring her foe when the spirit thinks to engage her in a wrestling contest or tear fangs into her flesh. While it is the spirit who takes the full brunt of the admixture slicked from her skin in feverish sweats, this method is intensely taxing on the mind and body of the user, and is employed only against the most dangerous of foes or to send a clear and actionable message to any being who would attempt a similar engagement. Like most unnecessarily extreme compromisings of her well-being to harm a foe, all it takes is just the once to leave an unmistakable impression.

The average god is a presumptuous, self-interested and easily-deflated creature in this respect, ill-equipped to deal with meaningful opposition from an enemy seemingly made from weaponized contradictions, which call into question how narrow its preconceived notions generally are towards mortal agency. In defying the common conventions of her people the shaman also defies safe categorization, cannot easily be hoodwinked, spooked or shown the darkness of her own soul in the same methods of her peers, and would sooner see herself dead or mad by her own hand than finally acquiesce to otherworldly demands. Expending the due effort needed to subjugate such rebellious measures so that a shaman's people would fall into the spirits sway out of terror will often vastly outstrip the actual desire to deal with her continued and insufferable obstructions further, and so most self-respecting gods take this stinging insult away to bide time until cultural attitudes change or the shaman dies without another to fill her place.

However, any slighted spirit will certainly become enamored with the idea of pursuing both these aims during idle hours, preferably one leading into the other and indirectly of personal blame. No matter how definitive her victory, no shaman treats a single duel as the end of hostilities, but the start of a long and ongoing war of attrition that any mere mortal will eventually lose, even someone of her knowledge and strength. If not to the predations of the spirit and its agents, then the march of time conspiring against her steady hand, willful convictions and keen eye. So it becomes all the more important to find and educate a suitable replacement for the role, someone unlike her in every respect so her enemies will gain no greater insight against her pupil's methods, someone who will carry on the fight with a new passion and vigor when the shaman has at last exhausted her body, her inventive tricks and lingering alternatives.

Only through this repeated sacrifice can her tribe endure through the ages, and customarily the final words of even the harshest teacher upon passing down the mantle to an aspiring shaman takes the shape of a long-withheld apology. Remorse for the weight of destiny unfairly placed on her shoulders, in the hopes that in time she might one day forgive her elder and people for arming her thus, sent to fend away a den of lions with only her wits to guide her. Should her strength or cunning falter as the anchor point holding against foreign encroachment, all the culture and traditions contained within the land or customs, in what is seen as sacred to her people, and those lessons held inside herself would be left to the mercy of otherworldy forces unseen and unknowable. Paradoxically both the first to respond and the last line of defense, it is only with a shaman's aid can some societies even survive in some of Creation's harshest conditions.


A Wilderness of Mirrors

The shaman goes where the community needs her, helping to alleviate worldly concerns and bring spiritual assurances which touch on aspects of life both significant and trivial. When not fighting or fleecing aggressive spirits, the foremost duties of a shaman will vary wildly according to the potency and density of the magic which pervades the surrounding frontiers and wild places of her homeland, and it this easy contact which shapes the character of her practice in ways vastly apart from urban thaumaturgy. Powerful demesnes, shadowlands and wyld pockets are strewn across Creation haphazardly, and at these crossroads many tribal traditions are classically born out of rules and conduct demanded by the creatures and wildlife found lurking inside, and to which her people must live and work nearby in dangerous proximity. So it is imperative for a shaman to test her relationship to the land, analyze and if-possible reinforce and sow disinformation among the borders of the supernatural world, so that she may know how far one may acceptably go and quickly intercede when someone or something inevitably pushes back.

Upholding this tenuous harmony in her society and without is paramount above all things, conforming social identity and laws to coexist with neighbors both mortal and mystical, glean the advantages from otherworldly benefactors to ease the common toil of everyday life, and lastly reduce or disguise the impact of the tribe left on the earth and wildlife wherever supernatural attention might take offense. Because the wildlands of Creation do not truly belong to the shaman's people and never really have, no more than one may claim ownership on a migrating herd or a raging windstorm, and thus any populated area will persist only at the sufferance of the god who holds the most vested interest. Many benevolent spirits posture as prideful hosts to mortal peoples, but are entirely willing to dole out harsh punishments to those who flout this generous hospitality or act overly entitled to these good graces.

In some cases it may be her people who are metaphorically owned by the land, duty-bound there because of responsibilities for necessary care and mindfulness which were passed down from one generation to the next, and therefore it falls to the shaman to keep alive this longstanding history of custodianship. She may verse the young and brash in impure terms and epithets not to be spoken in good company, lest a link be drawn and rouse the attentions of a cruel namesake. Communal rituals might be needed to tame a disastrous sorcery or powerful demesne for safekeeping, preserve a holy place marking the death of a hero or mighty beast, to maintain the seals upon some ancient tomb or gateway to the underworld and beyond, perhaps help cultivate the only living examples of an imported plant or animal in a harsh foreign climate with its origins left unknown, among other greater missions of devotion. No place in Creation is truly free from these demands, though some just make better displays of hiding what must be done using architecture, annual celebrations, cultural taboos and rites of passage.

The only alternative is the path of the nomad, moving where the fairest wind blows and asking due permission through ritual and song for an extended rest on arrival at a new locale, giving grateful thanks and prayers for the brief respite along such a protracted and directionless journey. Here the shaman is the peacemaker and diplomat, easing the flow of her people around the chains and strictures held by others, never lingering in one land too long lest the tolerance of the gods for drifters run thin. Without a land to give shape to history, she also becomes the lore-speaker of her people, tying traditions and ways of life to ancient stories once told when she was young. A forgotten home, an impossible exile, the blessings, skirmishes and various cross-cultural detritus accumulated during such travels form the undercurrents of these tales, either in the pursuit of somewhere these traditions will finally find peace for her people, or be underscored as necessary sacrifices for the sake of freedom beneath an open sky.

As foremost authority when conducting relations with supernatural forces, it is the shaman who acts the as go-between whenever something particularly magical or exotic falls into the hands of her people, such as being called upon when excavations for construction or random chance uncover some lost and bygone ruin of ages past. Tense negotiations normally ensue in these cases, arguing whether the people hold ownership of the find by right of discovery, or the local spirit by dint of lordship over its domain. Due to her uncouth manner with upstart gods, she may find herself dealing most often with godblooded, the agents and heirs of patrons too frustrated or fearful of her methods to personally intervene. When the subject of this discovery is a being, be it a wandering monk, petty sorcerer on pilgrimage, or even an Exalt who has ignited within her people, the shaman steps forward first to determine how this newcomer might endanger her people and the sacred ways.

If threat is naught to be found and this continued presence would pique no concern among the local spirits or cultural customs, this is a joyous cause for celebration. The shaman has now a fresh mind full of strange foreign knowledge to entertain as an honored guest, and typically this intrusion will be the rare time she will have to compare practices and methods with an equal. Such an outsider customarily lives off the shaman's hospitality, kept mercifully distant from the tribe if these unknown magics would cause fear and suspicion, entrusted to her care until the decision is made to depart. Should this unexpected mysticism appear amongst her own people, it is not uncommon for the shaman to take the chosen under her wing as a mentor and advisor, possibly even apprenticed to someday follow in her footsteps as a guardian, helping to teach the ways this power will help enrich the traditions and beliefs her people hold dear.

Fulfilling the practical needs of her people's way of life and spiritual health demands a shaman must be a consummate teacher and knowledgeable in a variety of diverse, multidisciplinary pursuits. Depending on the treatment and her own resourcefulness at healing, she may verse local women in the use of poultices and powders, fight crippling and joint pain with pressure-point massage and needles, educate foraging children on the correct leaf-shapes needed for herbal remedies, conduct bloodletting, bone-setting or the transference of physical injury to herself, a prepared effigy or disposable livestock. So long as the methods do not break taboo, medicine work is an important skill to be shared in times of need. Where divination is vital, the shaman might conduit herself for spirit mediumship, scry for places and people in a dish of fresh water or tranquil pond, throw bones and etched runes to catch the manipulations of fate, read the upcoming weather in the entrails of a holy animal, or even outright undertake a hallucinatory vision to give some chance insight towards foretelling future events.

The shaman may purge bad luck or disease from domiciles with a mournful chant, practice extortion against unwanted haunts and coat the floors and furnishings of a cursed room with purified ashes to catch the footsteps and fingerprints of invisible spirits. Repelling sorcerous scrying or immaterial beings could require meticulously shaping the essence of the land into nets and whorls using carved trenches and standing stones, rearranging the placement of indoor furniture or cultivating plants or animals the presence finds offensive, like lining a hut with rowan-wood or fashioning ceremonial garments from bear pelt. The shaman might even indulge in a bit of calculated mischief herself, using sleight-of-hand tricks, miraculous feats of strength or endurance, ventriloquism and even brief acts of shapeshifting to defuse arguments, keep lovers faithful, befuddle enemies and enforce taboos with foreboding omens of her own design.

Critics and detractors among her fellows over her strange behaviors and habits are never as threatening as her spiritual rivals, but remain a persistent annoyance when she must opt to act diplomatically within her tribe. While lacking any supernatural acumen to contest her uses of power and station directly, such inconveniences can stand in the way of the cooperation and recognition she seeks, and so she must learn to posture herself as an austere figure worthy of her position. Preying on fears and cautionary tales told in her absence are the easiest method for cowing gossips and blowhards, like calling the result of a dice game several times with increasing certainty before wordlessly moving on. Often small efforts such as this is all that is necessary to still unwanted tongue-wagging, but for those who draw her ire further, the denial of her services can be almost ostracizing when she chooses to exert her indispensable nature. Even the most staunch-hearted will relent at the fear of being refused proper burial alongside cherished ancestors and kin.

But the most prominent role for a shaman is serving as master of ceremonies, officiating public gatherings and celebrations, blessing hunts and sacred unions, organizing religious devotions and quelling civil disputes, standing watch over childbirth and funerary rites in equal measure. It is the shaman who sees that bridal customs are upheld along with pledges of fealty under the onus of the spirits, and may regularly meet with a conclave of neighboring shamans to hear word of changes and upsets from distant lands worthy of sharing with her people. Though she may not be entirely welcome due to an icy reputation, the shaman's presence at a birth or marriage insures the happy occasion will be free from any malign entities or curses fueled by jealousy, focusing favorable rites on the spiritual well-being of the child through practiced midwifery, or seeing fit that the couple's union occurs during only the most auspicious of circumstances to impart the greatest amount of luck to the partnership.

These performances are at once both weighty religious ceremony and artistic performance, with the shaman in charge of uniting together various forms of music, dance, interpretative gesture, poetry and song harmoniously by her own hand or staged by accompanying artisans to best convey the mystical process being worked. It is her leadership which brings the assembled audience and performers involvement with her through this ritualistic experience, and a shaman's wisdom at best utilizing the rhythmic and lyrical aptitudes among the tribe to accentuate her craft can give a windfall of great esteem when the spirits will not tolerate half-measures or rehearsals. An auspicious dream or vision might provoke her to orchestrate a ceremonial trance with drumming and chants to derive its meaning, perhaps even coaxing out the aid of relevant spirits with an unspoken bribe in recognition and communal significance.

If an important sacrifice is not available at hand, such as carefully bred and trained guard dogs too valuable to kill to protect a simple gate, the shaman may engineer a satisfactory replacement from other materials like carved stone or baked clay, dubbing each one with a fearsome title like Bone-breaker or Foe-chaser to invest the effigy with sympathetic suggestions of its living kin. With due care she will nevertheless find these spectral hounds bowing at her passage at the rituals end, incarnate by the will of her magic though her knife drew no blood. Similar figurines might be used to array the honored dead with unliving servants and warriors, or to guide the soul of an ancestor or mighty animal to an expectant mother by reflecting the trappings of form it held in life.

Of tasks and ritualism she does not fulfill herself, the shaman will bless the work of other skilled artisans in the tribe, such as anointing with sterilizing soot the tattooist's art which marks the face of a grown adult with health and beauty. Her personal touch is what adds a measure of significance to practicing traditional forms of midwifery on a fateful child or applying sacred markings for life events and infuse the ink with power, but often she will merely be working alongside more generalist practitioners to achieve her goals. Although the most honored within the tribe by her willing contests with supernatural forces, the shaman is not alone in providing for the community with inventive works of thaumaturgy, and often will have been the one to help record, develop and pass along these minor tricks and techniques to a prospective artisan when a certain level of skill or prestige has been reached to allow for it. If no one holds the ability to surpass the aging master, she will be the one to learn and carry on the secrets of the craft instead, bestowing it upon a worthy successor when the time comes.

Though she may play host to the hidden techniques and special practices of her people, the shaman is not simply a gatekeeper to such knowledge, but a guardian to insure continuity from one generation to the next. She understands the valued place of this magic and the powerful influence it provides to one capable of fully utilizing its potency, and similarly it is customary within tribes to seek the shaman's council where spirits might be broached or trespass against the land is at risk by the possession or workings of these procedures. Many peoples hold histories of mighty weapons being forged by the hand of a blacksmith at the height of the art, gifts paid to the spirits of woven cloth enchanted by careful hands, and great acts of prophecy wrought by tribal astrologers, all aided by the overseeing guidance of the shaman to help insure everything goes according to plan. Equally many have seen the earth rise up against such efforts, spirits angered by the befouling of shared territory, the people caught unaware by the hubris of the act before it was too late to call the shaman to mediate.

It is her burden of secrecy to foresee which outcome this may be.

 

[EarthScorpion]

Ta Vuzi

South of the Wailing Fen lies Ta Vuzi. The brightly decorated houseboats and rum-sodden towns hide deeper sorrows. Long ago, countless races of beastmen were forcefully resettled here and they live here now in uneasy peace. The inhabitants of the sick lowlands huddle into the river deltas, beside unnatural channels built for long-departed cargo ships of the Shogunate. The skeletons of arcane machinery of a lost age rise from the polluted marshes and bayous, looking like great predatory birds. Most are ruined and scavengers have picked everything of value, leaving them to pollute the landscape. A few still work, so-called dragon-drinkers, and they latch onto the dragon lines like ticks. The coastline is collapsing into the sea, but the Realm doesn't care.

The highlands of Ta Vuzi are still scarred from ancient wars. Terrible weapons were used here - fire that scorched the earth such that nothing grows there a thousand years later, great lances of lead that are still embedded in bunkers, and the remains of the skycraft used by air-riding champions. The satrap's reach barely extends up there, and the petty princes of the hills are scavenger lords whose men dress in ancient armour and build underground forts. Sometimes they unearth powerful weapons of yesteryear. The Realm buys some of them, but most are used against their fellows or jealously hoarded.

Centuries of exploitation and neglect have left the Vuzians bitter and resentful of authority. Ironically, this leads them to cling to the favour they get from their colonial oppressors. They would rather rather fight over the scraps from the Realm's table than risk another tribe coming out on top. The last attempt at rebellion was thirty years ago, when a pair of outcaste siblings from the hills tried to unify the disorganised river people. They were betrayed by the La Mek turtlemen, and the revolt was brutally crushed with the assistance of the marines from an Imperial treasure ship docking at the Qui Don docks. The La Mek have done very well out of this, though the hill folk say that one of the siblings survived the battle.

Dragon Drinkers and Other Industrial Marvels

The Shogunate was a glutton, though not in the ways of men. It feasted on jade; it guzzled down hearthstones; it slurped up metals and ores and oil and resins and chalk and ten thousand other things. As the machinery of the High First Age broke down, it ravaged the world like a poppy addict desperate for their fix. Ta Vuzi bears these scars. In the eastern mountains, vast open mine pits still show where they broke hills to gorge on limestone and coal. The river network here is an unnatural thing, born from flooded canals made to ship out goods on titanic ships. Fields of rusted metal golems lie scattered like toy soldiers on the uplands; discarded servants of sorcerer-engineers who used them to claw out riches.

Down on the plains the Shogunate built great factory complexes and alchemical refineries. They slurped at the rivers, taking fresh water for all kinds of cunning mechanisms and processes. They pumped it underground to extract minerals from the rock, chaining the salt gods with jade and sorcery. And everywhere, they built manses to produce the hearthstones they needed for their artifice. Above the foetid marshes burning towers and stone pillars and thrumming jade mechanisms rose high. The land grew sick, but the Shogunate got its alchemical products and its stone and its metal.

But even capping every demesne they found was not enough for the princes of Creation. Their war machines were too hungry; their great cities too thirsty. Even in those days Ta Vuzi was a poor province, too close to the cursed Wailing Fen. The Terrestrial princes who ruled this land willingly took payment in jade so that others could exploit it. The sorcerers of the Shogunate peeled back the earth and chained ancient elementals. They used unspeakable spells to twist the dragon lines into spirals that concentrated traces of power into a slurry of malformed hearthstone fragments, and pumped water into the earth to wash up these essence-rich tokens. These are the famed dragon drinkers of Ta Vuzi, the skeletal structures of ancient metals which squat over the landscape.

Perhaps only one in a hundred of the ancient installations on the plains still function, and then only at a greatly reduced capacity. But in the Second Age, even a trickle of Shogunate materials is a thing of value. The Blue Monkey Shogunate plundered the land; the Realm plunders the land, and should another power rise and take Ta Vuzi no doubt they will too.

Colonial Governance

Were it not for the dragon drinkers and other ancient alchemical manufactoria, the Realm would not care for Ta Vuzi. The colonial administration is solely here to ensure that the flow is not stopped. The Scarlet Empire can get crawfish, sailors or sugarcane elsewhere - and more cheaply - without having to brave the malarial swamps and the pirate-infested Anarchy; hearthstones and essence tokens are quite another matter.

The satrap Ragara Elika is a middle-aged Water aspect and graduate of the Heptagram who has held her position for sixty years. She operates out of the capital Qui Don, a humid city built at the mouth of the La Ne river upon the ruins of a Shogunate fortress. The La Ne was dredged deep by ancient men and Elika's sorcery keeps the deepwater docks clear. The Imperial Navy operates a squadron from here, though their sole duty is to protect the treasure ships that must pass by the Wailing Fen. Qui Don is built in the Realm style, though from local materials, and white-painted houses surround the pyramidal bulk of the ancient citadel.

In her air-chilled fortress Elika pours over the reports from the dragon drinkers, or works on her own pet projects far away from the eyes of Imperial law. The beastmen and beastblooded population are animals in her eyes, unworthy of her concern. She has gathered a cabal of sorcerers - outcastes and disreputable Dynasts alike - and the Realm does not care to wonder what she does with them. If demons rampage over areas of Ta Vuzi, surely they just escaped from the Wailing Fen. All men know the land here is sick and there is no need to question why a village might come down with a wasting illness… or vanish entirely.

Away from those foundations the land turns to marsh and so the rest of the capital consists of stilt-houses and moored river-boats. These are painted bright colours in the Vuzian way, with floating reed-mat roads connecting them when the water rises. The satrap looks down at these sprawling slums with unveiled contempt. Any house-boats which moor too close to the Realm's red-buoyed markers or obstruct the waterways are sunk on sight.

Economy

The Realm shares the proceeds from the few working dragon-drinkers. It takes the valuable essence-rich fuel from the land, and to the Vuzians it gives polluted water, fire-sickness and air laden with toxic fumes. Fish die as the water becomes too foul for them; sinkholes open in the sodden swamps as hollow pockets collapse and flood; witchfire burns cool and fast across the land and lakes alike.

Despite all that, those who dwell close to those ancient mechanisms are glad for them. The delta tribes war to show their loyalty to the satrap, carrying out ritualised bloodsports for her amusement. The pittance of jade scrip the Realm plays their client tribes is a fortune in this desperately poor satrapy. As a result, despite the sickness that the dragon drinkers bring, towns cluster around their skeletal forms like ducklings hiding under their mother's wings.

River Culture

Beyond Qui Don and the area around those working bits of Shogunate artifice, the grasp of the Realm's hand is light. The local landowners are clients of the Realm, and are taxed lightly - though they must pay sharp fines if they fail to ensure that imperial trade is not harasseed. Otherwise, they are left alone to rule over their estates. In between the larger estates are a smaller mishmash of holdings which technically fall under imperial authority, although in truth customary Vuzian family custom holds power here. The patriarchs of the marsh families are princes within their lands, and their grudges are legendary.

The river culture was introduced to the Orthodoxy by the Blue Monkey Shogunate, but Immaculate principles never held strong among them. Around Qui Don monks tear down shrines to river gods and health gods and all the little spirits that the citizens worship, but that just forces them into private quarters.

In the countryside, unlettered heretical preachers proclaim versions of the Immaculate faith that would see their deaths if a proper monk heard them. These preachers are charismatics who submit themselves to the fury of the elements to prove their devotion. Common practices among such congregations include the consumption of hallucinogenic herbs, handling hot coals, near-drowning, days of burial, and naked exposure to all weathers - all to give life to the Immaculate Dragons, who gave their flesh and blood to craft Creation. Every village where these charismatic Immaculates preach will have lost someone in these practices. In some communities, not all such sacrifices are willing.

Beastmen of the Rivers

Under the Blue Monkey Shogunate, the governors implemented a complex system of classification for the beastman population. Kins were sorted by such traits as pliability, utility, deviation from the human form, and aesthetic value. Notably, this led to mammalian beastmen being favoured over birds and reptiles as they were felt to be both more docile and more aesthetically pleasing. The legacy of this still echoes in Ta Vuzi. While much of the river population has some beast blood, in the towns and larger boat clans it is a diluted blend of various mammalian breeds. A child might be born with deer horn-nubs, a shaggy coat of black-bear fur, or the eyes of a possum - but that's just the way things are. By contrast, bird and reptilian occupied the lowest rungs on the social ladder.

Ironically, when the Realm took Ta Vuzi it elevated the previously shunned kins as part of its standard policy to divide and conquer. The beastblooded find that pliable client-clans of beastmen get Imperial favour - such as it is - while the land continues to sour and they lose their old privileges. Ta Vuzi is simmering with resentment, but it is directed at the beastmen who've thrown in with the Realm rather than the imperial oppressors.

The La Mek are an extended clan of turtle beastmen, and are infamously nearly as ornery as their animalistic faces would suggest. Traditionally discriminated against by the men and beastmen of the rivers, their betrayal of rebels won them Imperial favour. Where once they were shunned outcasts, they have been awarded the lands of many of the traitors. This leaves them nouveau riche in the eyes of more established land-holders, but they are tolerated in their wealth. Only the La Mek have benefitted from this largesse. Other turtle beastmen suffer for their extravagances and have the title of 'Realm lackies' added to their burdens.

Gatormen dwell mostly around the river deltas, living apart from the larger towns in small communities. They have a poor reputation among other men and beastmen, who accuse them of stealing fish, raiding herds, and sinking barges. Their strange shrines of trees bound with bones are an ill-omen in the eyes of travellers. Many of their communities are desperately poor even by the standards of Ta Vuzi, exploited by the wealthier traders who sell them poppy and spirits in return for their catch of prey animals and their services as guides in the treacherous bayous. The sleek and athletic gatormen are fetishised among the Dynasts who come to this place. Some rumour that the satrap herself keeps a number of handsome young men with gator blood for her personal entertainment.

Never trusted but needed, the long-limbed condormen of the Kuta clan are always on the move as merchant traders and tinkers. Despite their light build and hollow bones, they can carry considerable quantities of cargo and have come to specialise in light, high-value goods; herbs, spices, and drugs. Ten years ago they bought the cocaine monopoly from the satrap - paid for with a notable loan from the Ragara - and they have been aggressive in keeping their control of the trade. Their settlements are deep in the wetlands, where family groups perch in tree houses and ancient ruins inaccessible from the ground. The influx of wealth leaves these dwellings festooned with new-bought carpets and fine silken drapes.

In Qui Don, a good number of black bearmen work the docks. With their physiques, they can lift things a normal human cannot and they take home twice the daily pay of the humans and beastblooded around them. Someone has taken exception to this. There's a serial killer out there, specifically targeting the bearmen. Some young hotheads argue for a strike until the authorities put more effort into finding the killer.

Hill Culture

Warlords rule in the blasted and mine-ravaged highlands. In the more stable areas these are the same kind of men as the marsh-patriarchs, ruling their isolated towns as grandfathers and tyrants. When even those social structures break down, it is only the strong who triumph - or whose who find ancient relics that give them power. There are minestriders held together with pulleys and bamboo up there, and king's champions who wear ancient hazardous mining equipment festooned with cutting saws and augurs.

The men of the hills are proud. Creation has kicked them in the face time and time again, but they hold to their stiff-necked determination. It is all they have left. They spit at Immaculate missionaries, and those who linger too long suffer unfortunate accidents. They once trusted in shining sun-gods to save them, they say, and all they received was betrayal and conquest - so damn them! They build their stone circles around the mouths of ancient mines and offer blood to the underground gods, recalling ancient times when wealth came from these hills. They bury their dead down there, awaiting the day when the gods call forth men to fight for freedom against the king of demons. In the meantime, they keep their blades whetted and war against each other with countless petty feuds.

The chief god of these hills is the Old King Taan Hin, called the Black Dragon by many. He has earned this name, for he lurks in the depths of the world, coiling through old mines until his scales are filthy with soot. His breath is noxious coal dust that cuts up the lungs so men drown on dry land, and his wings shed scales of anthracite when he flies. The Old King demands the pick of the young men of each generation to labour down in his caveneous temple in the deeps. They die down there - some fast in pit collapses or in the gullet of a gluttonous god, some slowly over decades as his priests and consorts.

The Collapsing Coast

Year by year, more of Ta Vuzi is lost to the sea. The leaking pollution from ancient machinery kills the roots of the marsh grasses and mangroves which guard the shore lands from the yearly typhoons that wash in from the Great Western Ocean. The corrupt and bloated gods of the dragon-drivers grow fat on their offerings and do not care the damage their depredations do to other spirit courts. Old King Taan Hin and his brood vomit their waste into the upland rivers which flow black at certain times of year.

Perhaps if Ta Vuzi was closer to the pole of Wood, it would have been cleansed of this ancient pollution long ago. Alas, the South West is far from the heart of Wood and fire and water dominate here. As the dragon-drinkers draw out the Wood from the land, the sea consumes river deltas and washes away marshes.

The heretical rituals of the charismatic Immaculates seem to help. When blood is spilled on the land and life given, plants recover their vitality and the soil grows less sick. Some occultists worry, though, that this death may pollute the geomancy in less obvious ways.

History

In the aftermath of the Usurpation, the Shogunate made the decision to relocate a number of politically suspect Southern populations to the wetlands south of the Wailing Fen. Impressment was a more human solution to the problem of dubious Solar-modified races than the methods of Anjei Marama in the North, and would additionally help with the progress of the current Twenty Five Year plan.

No one cared about the lives of the inhabitants of this new province, and it showed. The wetlands became an industrial centre, producing all manner of strange substances and exotic alloys, while the uplands were ravaged. The Dragonblooded princes only cared that quotas were met and the profits rolled in. The descendants of the relocated populations were kept in permanent penury.

The Contagion stilled the machinery and the Crusade slew the surviving Terrestrial lords. The survivors among the population were the ones who hid deep in the river deltas and in the mines, and they emerged to find that they were free. This freedom lasted less than fifty years, until the Blue Monkey Shogunate came down the coast and plundered the broken machinery, patching up what they could. They claimed to be the inheritors of the Shogunate and they certainly had the attitude of their forebears.

As the Blue Monkey Shogunate crumbled, Ta Vuzi drifted free. The Gens in charge of the province declared their independence and took up trade with the Realm. They grew rich as the proceeds filled their pockets, and they purchased many slaves from the rest of the South West, setting up sugar and tobacco plantations. These ventures failed, the soil unable to sustain plantation agriculture, and nearly bankrupted the Gens. Many of their best and brightest left, marrying into other ex-Shogunate Gens or travelling to the far-off Realm.

In RY602, the breakdown in negotiations between the Realm ambassador and the Governor-Tyrant of Ta Vuzi led to cessation of trade and the Vuzian fleet declaring that they would sink Imperial ships on sight. This was not the first time such posturing had occurred. While Ta Vuzi waited for the Realm to return to the negotiating table, the All-Seeing Eye acting on the Empress' orders sent a brotherhood of assassins with orders to "trim an imprudent weed". The broken aristocrats sued for peace a season later.

For a hundred and fifty years, Ta Vuzi has been under the Realm's thumb. There are rebellions every few decades, and when order is restored another clan is enslaved and sold off to profit the satrap. The old machinery breaks down and the Realm cannot fix it, so they plunder what jadesteel they can and leave the skeletal hulks to moulder. They do just what any other lord of this forsaken land would do.

 

[Kuciwalker]

A Geomancy System for Ex3

Motivation

I realized that the various "AOE" hearthstones (i.e. the ones that apply some kind of effect within X miles) are a great, ready-made list of effects for a geomancy system to provide. Exalted has never really had a satisfying mechanical depiction of geomancy, despite it (and related concepts like "sacred geometry") being a key part of the aesthetic.

Constraints

These mechanics are designed to be compatible with the craft rules-as-written. However, if you are using alternate rules, they should be straightforward to apply here.

Doing Geomancy

Creation is full of naturally-occurring demesnes — wellsprings of geomantic power — but through careful manipulation of the flow of energy, men can also raise them and fine-tune their effects. Geomantic projects are divided mechanically into four categories of increasing scope, power, and sophistication:

• Applying geomantic effects to a small structure, such as a home.
• Applying geomantic effects to a large structure, such as a palace, or the creation of a lesser demesne.
• Applying geomantic effects to an entire settlement, up to the size of a small town or a district of a large city, or the creation of a greater demesne.
• Erecting a manse on top of ("capping") a demesne.

The last already has rules (Exalted, p. 243) which I will not replace here.

Anchors

You affect the geomancy of a structure or region through the creation or modification of geomantic anchors, which are sources of energy or features that direct its flow. Projects can be made significantly easier by harnessing one or more local, preexisting features as anchors.

Creating an anchor is a craft project; the type of project depends on the scale of geomancy being done. The project requires a relevant Craft ability. Architecture is common, but anything from Gardening to Painting may be appropriate. The project also requires the Occult ability, and uses your rating in that if lower than your Craft.

An anchor should have some thematic connection to the aspect of the resulting demesne or geomantic effect, but this requirement holds more over all the anchors combined than any individual one. Your fire-aspected geomancy built around a hot spring can get away with "architecture to channel and distribute the fire energy" as an anchor. But it would be cooler if you mentioned that you used red marble or recurving walls.

For ideas for anchors, see the First Edition Book of Three Circles, p. 104 and the Second Edition Oadenol's Codex, p. 48.

Small structures

Small structures require a single anchor. This can be constructed as a difficulty 3 major project, and usually requires properly-aspected materials (e.g. gold for a Solar geomantic effect) that cost Resources •••. You can waive the expensive materials requirement with access to a natural source of appropriately-aspected energy or by increasing the difficulty to 6.

Large structures / lesser demesnes

Large structures or lesser demesnes (which may cover a region equivalent to a small neighborhood) also require a single anchor, which is a large-scale project (Exalted, p. 243). Materials and labor costs for these are almost always at least Resources •••, and often more. You can reduce the difficulty of the extended roll by 2 with access to a natural source of appropriately-aspected energy.

Settlements / greater demesnes

Settlements or greater demesnes require at least three anchors, which are each large-scale projects like for lesser demesnes. The total cost of geomancy on this scale almost always runs to Resources •••••. Because of this, a preexisting lesser demesne is often used as one of the anchors if possible.

Modifying natural demesnes

Modifying a natural demesne is also possible, although it's usually impossible to shift it to a different aspect. This requires the addition of one anchor for lesser demesnes or two for greater.

Spoiler: What's the difference between a demesne, a geomantically-engineered structure, and a manse?

Really these should be thought of as regions of a continuum, rather than precisely delineated natural categories. General differences include:

• Naturally-occuring demesnes are often somewhat more resilient than artificial ones, or geomantically-engineered structures, because geomantic architects often try to "do more with less" through careful and precise use of energy.
• By the same token, it's much more difficult to raise proper manses atop artificial demesnes, and often impossible to simply "upgrade" a geomantically-engineered structure to a manse.
• A manse almost always requires some of the magical materials and a dedicated hearthroom.
• A manse is capable of much more dramatic and overt effects, often reaching outside of itself and subject to direct control by the manse's owner.

Geomantic Effects

Here is a list of hearthstones with appropriate effects that can be used for geomancy, with brief summaries of their effect.

Air

Cool Breezes: Soft, cool breezes grace this demesne. These make hot days more comfortable and take the chill out of winter. (Orb of Cool Breezes, Exalted p. 604)

Pure Air: The air in this demesne is clean and pure, despite any nearby pollutants. Foul odors are also warded away. (Purifying Mercy Stone, Arms p. 132)

Fair Winds: The winds in this demesne always blow in a single direction when they blow at all. Changing this direction requires modifying one of the demesne's anchors as an appropriate repair project. (Gem of Fair Winds, Exalted p. 605)

Earth

Stability: All structures within the demesne are unusually sturdy and stable. (Stone of Stability, Exalted p. 605)

Wyld Resistance: The demesne and everything in it are immune to the passive transformative power of the Wyld. Fae dislike this effect as a Minor Tie. (Iron Soul Stone, Exalted p. 605)

Mental Comfort: Characters within this demesne gain two bonus dice on Willpower rolls to resist derangements. (Stone of Comfort, Arms p. 133)

Pliant Earth: The earth in this demesne can be easily worked; with a touch, it can be rendered soft as clay or hard as stone. (Earth Shaping Jewel, Exalted p. 605)

Spirit-Grounding: Spirits that enter this demesne are forced into their material form. (Spirit-Grounding Stone, Arms p. 133)

Fire

Firestop: Within this demesne fires are unusually difficult to start and rarely spread far before sputtering out. (Firestop Stone, Exalted p. 606)

Inflamed Passions: People within this demesne struggle to control their passions; inspire rolls gain an automatic success, and attempts to conceal emotions take a -1 penalty. (Passion-Unbinding Stone, Arms p. 133)

Energizing: This demesne burns away lethargy, granting +2 Resolve against sleep-inducing effects or +2 successes on fatigue rolls from lack of sleep. (Trance-Scorching Sardonyx, Arms p. 133)

Endless Summer: This demesne experiences a constant summer regardless of the surrounding climate or weather. (Gem of Endless Summer, Exalted p. 606)

Water

Pure Water: All sources of water originating in this demesne are clean and pure. Water brought in from the outside is heavily filtered, and any toxins or diseases are neutralized. (Purity Gem, Exalted p. 607)

Fountain: This geomantic effect calls forth a spring of clear water. (Fountain-Summoning Stone, Exalted p. 607)

Seacalm: (Greater only) Bodies of water in and abutting this demesne are always calm out to the horizon. (Orb of Calm, Exalted p. 607)

Wood

Good Health: Rot and disease are suppressed within this demesne. Food keeps twice as long and people gain two bonus dice to resist disease. (Health Stone, Exalted p. 608)

Bountiful Harvest: The fields of this demesne are exceptionally fertile, potentially doubling the land's yield and insuring against bad years. (Harvest Gem, Exalted p. 609)

Solar

Innocent's Protection: Within this demesne, no creature of darkness can enter any dwelling containing either a child under the age of ten or someone currently asleep. (Stone of Innocent's Protection, Exalted p. 609)

Daylight: The Sun never turns His face from this demesne; it experiences perpetual daytime. (Gem of Day's Light, Exalted p. 609)

Abyssal

Nightly Reunion: During the night, people can visit any grave within this demesne and speak with the dead buried there. (Stone of the Nightly Reunion, Exalted p. 610)

Ghostly Protection: Ghosts guard the night of this demesne, harassing anyone who enters and assaults or robs a resident. (Gem of Ghostly Protection, Exalted p. 610)

Lunar

Bountiful Nature: Anyone who sleeps within this demesne is graced with the knowledge of how to forage from it, gaining two bonus dice to foraging rolls. (Stone of Nature's Bounty, Exalted p. 610)

Dream Palace: Everyone who sleeps within this demesne shares a collective dream which they recall lucidly. The features of the dream are determined when the demesne is created and changing them requires an appropriate repair project. (Key to the Dream Palace, Arms p. 136)

Great Beasts: Animals in this demesne are unusually healthy, fertile, and strong, and trained animals are obedient, good-tempered, and intelligent. Those born and trained here retain these features if they leave. (Beast Gem, Exalted p. 611)

Sidereal

Luck: Everyone within this demesne is resistant to bad luck. (Gem of Luck, Exalted p. 611)

Hidden Safety: This demesne is sheltered from would-be assailants, forcing them to succeed at a difficulty 5 navigation roll to locate it. (Stone of Hidden Safety, Exalted p. 611)

One Voice: Everyone within this demesne can speak and understand Old Realm. (Stone of One Voice, Arms p. 137)

Charms

Order-Conferring Presence
Cost: 1wp; Mins: Presence 4, Essence 1
Type: Simple
Keywords: None
Duration: Indefinite
Prerequisite Charms: Harmonious Presence Meditation

The Solar's mere presence in a home or community promotes harmonious order. Every act flows along invisible social lines until they are strong enough to channel Creation's geomantic power. When she comes to reside in a home, she may activate this Charm. While she continues to interact with its other inhabitants at least once per day, it gains the benefit of one geomantic effect. She may change this effect once per story.

A Presence 5, Essence 3+ repurchase extends these effects to a large structure or small neighborhood, and a third Presence 5, Essence 5+ repurchase extends them to a settlement or a district of a large city.

A Footnote re: Manses

Given the rich mechanics this system provides to demesnes, manses may feel a little lackluster in comparison. I recommend polishing manses up by representing them as artifacts; that is, provide them with an attunement bonus (often, some kind of discretionary control over or enhancement to the underlying geomantic effect) and Evocations. For an example, see "The Teahouse at Blossom Sea" on page 4 of Kestral's Project Tracks homebrew.

 

[mothematics]

deathlord

Click to shrink...

did someone say DEATHLORD
--
Princess Magnificent with Lips of Coral and Robes of Black Feathers

Lord of Death
Creature of the Well of Oblivion

She is free, free, free at last!; and oh!, how she will dance! The Black Heron, Princess Magnificent with Lips of Coral and Robes of Black Feathers will stage the grandest show of all, and bring the house--and all of Creation--down.

Once upon a time, there was a young woman who was raised to do nothing but dance in the great Shogunate theaters. All the pleasures and freedom of girlhood were denied to her, for she was pledged from her birth to be student to a revered elder artist of the Shogunate, that had grown old and esoteric and developed his own forms of dance. Every generation he would take a student, and it was this day her turn. The old master wore a great multicolor cloak that seemed to contain all the secrets in the world and was loved and revered; and by his students, he was feared.

With time, the young woman became his star student, outshining all her peers. She would sabotage her rivals and break their ankles if they did better than her, because the only thing worse than having to dance was having someone do it better than you. She hated to dance, and hated her master, and hated herself most of all. And she could forget the hate for just a little while when she had the spotlight. It made things tolerable.

While in the prime of her career, before her feet were ruined and her mind held naught but the craft, she received a summons from her old master. The summons came the morning her magnum opus was to debut, a show she choreographed herself. It was the most important thing in the world to her. But she answered the summons, for still he was her master.

He took her onto a boat and they set sail down a river. The dark water turned to ebony screams and they sailed into a place that was not a place, into the Underworld, and he spoke of his plan. He had grown much too old, and devouring the souls of his students was no longer adequate for sustaining him and his artistic capabilities. He would require more. He would be eternal. And because he loved her so his prized student would be joining him.

The old master gave her souls to eat, and she did not say no, because he was her master. She devoured and grew queer and spectral, and so changed, becoming something more and less than human.

They sailed and they ate, and the old master ate many things he had not previously before, until he grew mighty and dubbed himself the The All-Color Crow That Folds The Night Into Morning. His robes were as wings, obnoxiously dappled of every color, and his thin mouth was as a beak; his cruel eyes were as sucking burnscars. Though he could not rival the mighty Deathlords which ruled deeper in the Underworld, he styled himself as one in his pretentious preening, and would destroy any that there suggest otherwise.

There deep in the lands of the dead he built a prison with a stage and a spotlight for his student to dance in, and he locked her away. His favored student, his prized possession, would dance into eternity where naught but her old master could see. There would be no death; the show - his show, not hers - would never end. For he was her master.

Ages passed. The two grew more deranged, more queer. Then one day, The All-Color Crow found the soul of his old Solar teacher whom he had overthrown in the Usurpation (for he was truly old), and this pleased him more than even his prized student. For he was never able to demonstrate his superiority to the old master while they were both still among the living. The old teacher was once a leading star too, who took joy in destroying, and devouring, other dancers that threatened her adoration. The All-Color Crow would happily devour this soul, too.

But his student saw this, and, for she was cunning, invited him to dance in celebration before devouring this exquisitely wicked and powerful soul. So they danced joyfully together, and then in a dip, the student snapped his neck and devoured The All-Color Crow whole, and then his old teacher. For she would have no master.

She took The All-Color Crow's cloak, stained black from his blood, and wrapped it about herself, and when she spins it unfolds to a half a league's distance in wingspan; his head makes a lovely hat. From the leftover skins of the Crow's old master she fashioned a lovely umbrella which she keeps at a jaunty angle in the crook of her elbow. With his gore she perfumed herself; with his skeleton she fashioned cruel makeup which she is always wearing or re-applying. Her legs are artful bows of bent bone, her feet perfectly compacted talons.

Joyfully she danced away from her cage, a single though guiding her: finally she could stage her show. But bigger. Better. Grander than any before or after--no, nothing after, never anything after--her show, her performance, will be so grand and perfect that there simply cannot be a follow-up. Its last notes will be the clarion finale that rings out Creation.

Now she is Princess Magnificent with Lips of Coral and Robes of Black Feathers, the Black Heron. She prepares for the curtain call of oblivion, to come after the greatest show of all. So she kills and adds to her company, finding a use for every soul in her plutonian choreography.

She dominates the Near Southern Underworld, making her home in the shell of a baroque First Age venue called the Amphitheater of the Black Sun, so named after its pitch-dark spotlight. Her she holds endless rehearsal, constantly fiddling with the venue as she continues its renovation. Renovation--and expansion. The building sprawls for leagues, and is still growing, for it is not yet perfect. To secure it, Princess Magnificent is in constant need of workers and supervisors and security.

Above it in the Near South of Creation, stories circulate of women dressed in dancing silks of old style, who will abduct artists and beautiful youths. They take young women and men and press-gang them into the production - if not as performers, then as crew; if not as crew, then as dumb muscle to aid in the production, or in the work of the Amphitheater.

Princess Magnificent as Liege:

Princess Magnificent is an egomaniacal bully obsessed with putting on a show she will never be happy with. All her Abyssals are souls she thinks will be useful to her production, be it on stage, with security, or behind the curtain - she demands excellence and suffers no disobedience. She is vain, jealous, prone to fits of abusive rage - and if an Abyssal makes herself useful to her production she will find herself rewarded beyond measure. The stage is a place of luxury and those luxuries should extend to her favored stars - her greatest assets are her wealth, and the sheer quantity and quality of personnel she employs.

Like all tyrannical directors, all she cares about is that you don't puncture her ego, you show up on time, and perform your job to her satisfaction--what you do and where you go on your own time is of no consequence to her. As long as she thinks you aren't getting ideas to change the show from her vision, or to steal the leading role from her. Do that, and you'll quickly find yourself dead again, permanently.

::SIDEBAR::
Princess Magnificent draws a great deal of souls that love the arts to her production. Working in her production is a unique experience the likes of which has never been seen before, and will never be seen again. None can deny her cruelty and capriciousness, but working with her is such an enthralling experience that many do anyway. She is as brilliant as she is cruel, but her production is an endless train of overworked, perfectionist misery. The genuine love and joy that is to be found under her are spots of light in an ultimately dark, futile affair; they may provide reason to stick around, to believe that it is ultimately going to be worth it in the end.

It won't be. It could never be. Hers is a perversion of everything good in art. Never forget that: Princess Magnificent's allure is not to be believed. To forget otherwise is to justify a monster.


---
So, because canon Deathlords are lame and none moreso than miss "I am Princess Peach, a Deathlord who is defined by not being able to be an actual Deathlord", I wrote her up again in my own style, in @EarthScorpion's model that my other two things use.

 

[Omicron]

heeeey what's this yup it's me i bet you all forgot i was writing underworld spooks before it was cool

have some belated halloween

inspired by @ManusDomini's Lookshy and @TenfoldShields's Out of the Eater (go read it it's great an pretty recent so you don't have a crazy backlog to go through)


Those who walk behind
Lesser Dead
Dead by Forced March

A thousand slaves march in a file, riders at their flanks, whips snapping across their backs. They are not bound by chains, for if they were, they would have to stop every hour, as another falls. The sick. The old. The starving. The young. The weak. They cannot endure another mile, and so they fall. They are left their in the dust to rot, watching the backs of their companions passing them by, one after the other. They don't care. They can't afford to; they would die too. And so these backs are the last sight of the dying, and to that sight their souls cling in fury and betrayal.

Those who walk behind are the ghosts of those who died because they could not keep up with a relentless march and so were abandoned. They manifest in beleaguered legions on the retreat and in caravans of refugees, but even much more commonly, among slaves. These tormented souls latch on to the sight of someone for whom they held feelings of companionship, who 'betrayed' them by walking on, and fester in contact with them, a ghostly, sentient disease.

Those who walk behind have no real body at first, immaterial or otherwise. They exist as a diffuse presence in the vicinity of their victim, and always manifest at their back. They are a whisper in the ear, a face glimpsed in a mirror, footsteps echoing one's own, creaking planks. When the victim turns, there is nothing - nothing but another cold breath on their shoulder. The manifestations increase in frequency and potency over time, putting the victim through increasing stress and unease, as if someone were always watching. They cannot sleep; their door opens in the night; something heavy sits on their chest at night; a voice mockingly tells them of their crime; they are cold even in the noonday sun.

It is possible to reject the influence of those who walk behind by steadfastly refusing to acknowledge their existence, putting oneself in a state of mind in which glimpses and whispers are rejected as mere tricks of the mind. Being in a tight-knit community, distracted by other people, helps. This is why, though these ghosts have a name known to exorcists, most communities deliberately avoid giving them one. Failing this, the fear and unease of the victim acts as worship for the ghost, which feeds on it and grows more bloated, more potent, more real. Eventually, as the victim becomes a shadow of its former self, eyes circled with deep dark rings, only skin on their bones, always shivering, the ghost begins to walk of its own rhythm, no more in lock-step with them. Step by step, it takes shape. Glancing behind one's shoulder reveals a known face - perhaps that of the dead, but perhaps that any of countless others who died on the march, flowing in and out of each other.

In a crowd, the ghost cannot kill, though it might get very close. But it is there, watching. Its face could be that of anyone. Its presence drives the victim to panic, seeking safety alone, in a place where they can see the threat coming and identify it.

And once they are alone, the ghost gently taps their shoulder.

Once a victim of those who walk behind has died of the spiritual infection, their soul is drawn out and consumed by the ghost, fusing with it, giving it more reality but confusing its memories and sense of self. It projects its perceived betrayal on another person to whom the victim was personally close, and the cycle begins again.

Necromancers and Exorcists

Necromancers find those who walk behind to have great potential, but to be difficult to properly use. As spies or assassins, they are incredibly difficult to deter: lacking a proper body, even immaterial, they often elude even the senses of trained spirit-hunters, and cannot be slain with a salt-encrusted sword to the heart (not until the last stages of their manifestation, at any rate). However, they also invariably grow emotionally obsessive over whichever target they were told to shadow, and are not stealthy at all in the conventional sense - the glimpses, whispers, and echoing steps are an unavoidable aspect of their nature. Properly used, the ghosts can wield great benefits, but victims who are not overworked slaves with no recourse have a much easier time dealing with the threat.


Though exorcists are rarely called upon to deal with those who walk behind, the protocols for handling these shades is well-trod, and can even be performed by mere apprentices - it is merely time-consuming. The would-be exorcist must shadow the afflicted exactly as the ghost does, staying at their back and sleeping next to them for three days and nights. On the third night, the ghost will detach itself from the victim and latch onto the exorcist; in that moment, they must close their eyes, turn around, and loudly abjure the ghost with proper prayers and blandishments. A struggle of will must occur, but unless the ghost has been allowed to feast on many souls, training and resolve will see one through the ordeal, and disperse the shade utterly.


The Fox-Breath
Aberration

A hundred men and women, so starved and sickly one cannot differentiate them, huddle together in the cold. When dawn comes, so will the whip. They will be fed, a little, 'enough to keep them going' as it is said, but never enough, always so little a few die each week. Their steaming breaths mingle, filled with craving, with desperation and despair.

Many mortals are born blessed with a strong will, a clever spirit, a yearning soul. Many carry in their blood the echoes of long-ago ancestors of renown, gods or Dragons whose faintest traces still linger. Many are born so, and in such circumstance that this will and this power never amounts to anything more than enduring the whip one more day than they might have otherwise. But their soul still yearns. Their soul still feels the outrage of this suffering.

The Fox-Breath is born of the lungs of those who waste away slowly at the hands of an uncaring world. It is the po, the base soul of hunger, slipping out of its shackles at night. It bubbles out of the mouth with a few drops of blood, draws on night-time shadows and the breaths of others too weak to resist its pull, to form a dark, vulpine shape of air and darkness, slinking along walls and floors and ceilings. Because its master is still alive, it is bound to the higher soul, and cannot manifest in full; but because it is bound, it is smarter than it might otherwise be. This intelligence is its downfall and its tragedy.

The Fox-Breath seeks to feed its mortal self. It sneaks into supply camps, pulling light items of food (it has little strength) to bring them back to its sleeping place. It squeezes itself into canteens, drinks all of their water, and comes back slow and bloated to gently spit the precious liquid back into the sleeping mouth. On occasions it will find soldiers who have harmed its waking self and brand them in their sleep with claw marks and bites. It may even, rarely, steal the keys off a guard's belt and slide them into the master's hand. Then it will find rest in his lungs.

The Fox-Breath almost never helps. The mortal does not remember its actions except as the vaguest of dreams, and cannot wake while it is gone. Often, angry soldiers barge in the slaves' quarters, looking for stolen food, and find it with the poor mortal, who has no idea how he got it. He protests his innocence in vain, and soon protests no more. If he wakes up early enough, he may quickly ingest the stolen contents, and must hope there will be no bread crumbs in his beard for the guards to find. And what to do with keys? Starved, broken by abuse, can he even hope to attempt escape, much less survive?

Most who manifest the Fox-Breath do not live long enough to see it develop further, and their keepers are none the wiser for it. But if the ghost is cunning enough, the waking self stealthy enough, the guards oblivious enough - the body is strengthened over time, and with it the soul. The Fox-Breath is emboldened. More than this, it is angry. Angry that no matter how much it steals, without its efforts everything would return to before, and its true self would die. So the Fox-Breath decides to feed it more.

The intermediate stages of the Fox-Breath's development are not kind to anyone. It drinks the sleeping breath of the mortal's companions, stealing their strength for his sake when they are already weak and ill, often causing their deaths. It finds the most ruthless of guards and slithers down their throat so it can eat their liver and feed the master their blood. It gnaws at chains, bites the whip's rope, haunts the dreams of those too powerful to kill. The mortal grows strong, too strong, too obviously so; black veins spread through their skin, their eyes take on a golden tinge, their teeth sharpen, their backs and shoulders become wide with muscle. These are telltale signs; even the most ignorant slave-mongers usually keep exorcists at hand, and though this ghost is rarer than most, they can pinpoint the symptoms. The poor mortal, who has no choice in this, has no way to hide his condition. The usual prescription is ritual execution in a circle of salt - such an expense typically leads angry masters to ruthless cruelty towards the rest of the slaves once the deed is done.

Very rarely, in camps where enough thousands of slaves are kept in such conditions that the ghost's works goes unnoticed until too late, the Fox-Breath can reach satiation. Having strengthened its mortal self enough, it nudges him awake at night, while it is manifested. In the moment of awakening with half his soul outside his body, the mortal is transformed. He becomes ghost-blooded, with an instinctive awareness and grasp of his own two souls. He is the higher self, cold and thinking and full of memories and care, and can drink breath, slip through the tiniest opening, see clearly in the night, and pierce the shroud of immateriality. The Fox is his lower self, ravenous and ferocious and strong and fluid as shadow, and under his command. He may bid it regurgitate the lower souls of those companions who died to feed the once-man. With shadows answering his will, blood boiling in his presence, wind muffling his footsteps, a pack of hungry ghosts at his heels, the man can escape easily. Or…

The prescribed remedy when a slave camp has been lost to the Fox-Breath is a Wyld Hunt.

Necromancers and Exorcists

Necromancers who hear of the presence of a Fox-Breath manifestation often offer their help for free in ridding the place of the threat, for the ghost is its own reward. A bag made out of the lung of a sheep or swine may confuse the beast; by lying in wait and using the proper scented herbs and beckoning words, a necromancer may lure the ghost into the bag, then plug it with a stopper made of rock salt. This severs the connection of the soul to the body, killing the unfortunate mortal in his sleep; the reward is a sealed hungry ghost which the necromancer may tame, train, or simply bind with magic. The Fox-Breath is very valued; while weaker in battle than most hungry ghosts, it is also smarter, stealthier, and more tame.

Exorcists know of the most simple remedy to the Fox-Breath, and those with good-natured inclinations are often frustrated at its lack of use. Execution in a circle of salt is expensive and cruel, but it is quick and avoids rewarding slaves for what is seen as a curse and likely a manifestation of some sin and vice. In truth, feeding the mortal, healing their body and allowing them plentiful rest will cause the ghost to fuse back with them over time, solving the issue.


The Unmourned
Greater Dead

Drive a thousand slaves to their death for the sake of your grand work. Have their broken bodies fall of the steps of the ziggurat they build. Drag their mangled remains from the firedust mine that cooked them alive. Pick them up in the coca fields where they fell. Tell yourselves they are only slaves, less than you, whether by birth or capture; that this is their lot in life, and that it is just. But in your heart you know they are human, and human souls who died in pain do not rest easily. All, even the least of your kind, deserve at least a proper funeral. So you heap their bodies in a great pile, and set fire to that pile, and tell yourself that it is good, that it is right, that it is enough. Fire cleanses. You would give them nothing more, but you will at least give them this.

Fire does cleanse. Many souls whose lives were too filled with pain find themselves too light to hold on. What is there for them to cling to in this world? They fall to Lethe.

Sometimes, it is not enough.

Fire cleanses and sometimes it cleanses the soul of all that is not its rage, its pain, its sorrow. It cleanses it to lethal purity and hardens it like clay in the kiln. A pyre does not leave enough remains for a hungry ghost to inhabit; it banishes them, but sometimes that is not enough. A thousand souls burn together, melt together, seek to hang on to bones and cracked teeth, their identity seared away. They cannot tell themselves from each other. They merge, fuse. The pyre is a crucible.

In the Underworld, the Unmourned manifests first as a tumorous growth in the dark soil. That cyst has an ashen tone and a flesh-like consistency; if pierced, one may find that it is filled with ashes, charred bones, and black tar. Piercing that cyst early enough can save many lives, but it is rarely done: the Unmourned are born in the mirror-places of slave camps, razed cities, or plague-ravaged lands, anywhere too many bodies were burned together with no more funeral rites than a single torch. Such places tend to be either empty of higher ghosts who could see the threat, or already haunted by mad roaming shades. So the tumor grows.

It takes months, sometimes years, for the Unmourned to metastasize. Over times it bloats to the dimension of tall buildings, and sends out fleshy tendrils across the ground in fractal patterns that are not without beauty; they drain Essence from the soil of the Underworld. The lords of the dead, when they chance upon a grown, but not yet bursting tumor, often set up a careful perimeter and a complex system of taps to control its growth, for the nascent Unmourned acts as a potent Demesne. Inside its shell of meat, the broken souls congeal and fuse over time, bound by the consumed Essence. They share dreams in that state: dreams of their lives of pain, of the agony of their death, of the anger and bitterness to never have received a prayer, a funeral offering.

Their dreams echo in the living world. The area which mirrors that where the tumor grows is slowly tainted. Though not yet a shadowland, the veil between worlds grows thin; the Unmourned's dreams plague the nights of those still living there, their voices sometimes echo on the wind; if there is plant life, its roots and branches may be found to be oddly supple, oddly bulbous, almost like organs. The effects are subtle, and rarely noticed - in no small part because the phenomenon is itself rare.

When the dream ends, the cyst bursts into pyreflame. From its core is born a grotesque giant, made of the remains of the dead, a thing of bone, burned muscle, cracked wood and kindling, hiding its no-face with an animal skull, shrouded in greenish flame. A corpse without a tomb. Its cacophony of minds has grown obsessed with only one thing: the funeral that was denied it. It reaches out into the living world, where it has already carved doors in the dreams of mortals. Every night, it pulls them in. Those living in the affected area find themselves plagued with the most vivid dreams of walking in an endless darkness, to reach a place where sits a corpse-master; and they are bound to honor him. With their bare hands they must break stone and assemble it into a mausoleum. They must find salt and offerings. They must make a funeral place worthy of a thousand kings.

Once victims have been pulled to the Underworld once in their dreams, leaving the tainted grounds will do them no good. The work they do at night denies them rest. They grow sickly, tired, thin as reeds. Much of the food they eat finds no purchase in their stomachs - instead at night they carry it as pristine meals to their new masters. Slaves must work an endless shift, taskmasters find themselves on the wrong hand of a whip, and guards answer to a new lord more terrible than any they've known before. Even as all grow to realize the reality of their plight, they find themselves unable to speak of it while awake, not unless they are asked by someone whose authority they feel is greater than their corpse-master - typically one of the Exalted. They labor in silent agony. When they die of wasting, their souls journey to the mausoleum, where they are to work forever.

Uprooting the infection is both necessary and, while not difficult, extremely expensive. The afflicted carry it wherever they go, and the land slowly grows corrupted. Individual treatment with dream-suppressing drugs over weeks can release one from the pull, but given the status of the victim, is almost never done. The area itself must be ritually purified with salt and prayer at great cost. The most efficient way of dealing with the Unmourned is also the most risky: a group of powerful warriors sleeping in the area until they too are pulled into the Underworld at night, where they may fight and defeat the Unmourned - a reckless endeavour; even a kinship of Dragons will find themselves at a difficulty from the environment alone, to say nothing of the army of slaves.

If nothing is done, the inevitable result is the tearing of the veil and the transformation of the area into a shadowland. The Unmourned's mausoleum manifests as a looming shadow in the day and a true building at night. The Unmourned seeks to expand its dominion and make its endless funeral all the more grandiose: strong slaves and soldiers are made into warriors bearing animal skulls and a pyreflame brand on their bodies, and are given no choice but to hunt down and capture more slaves. A small dominion of the dead arises in Creation and in the Underworld both, bent towards no other purpose but the commemoration of death. A burning corpse sits in its burial chamber, and will find no peace until a nation's worth of people weep for it, tear their hair in grief, sing its songs in tribute, burn the offerings in its name. Perhaps, then, the door of that burial chamber might be closed… But the dead are not known for being easily sated.

 

[mothematics]

Heron's Feather Writes In Blood

Slavish adoration of the Black Heron is not limited to those in her production. There are those that devote themselves to her worship completely, often in return for a dark benediction. Cultists across Creation whisper of the great Princess in a dozen names: the Shadow That Dances Armageddon, Crowmother and Rose-Lipped Maiden. Her cult is not one discrete organization, but certain commonalities are known, to those who keep track of their deeds.

Princess Magnificent with Lips of Coral and Robes of Black Feathers is worshiped by those who believe in art for art's sake, who surrender themselves to the need to be perfect, for those who will do anything to shine brighter than their peers. Typically a cultist can be recognized by tattoos, of wings on the shoulder-blades, inked gore on eyelids, or otherwise stylings of black-feathered birds.

The rituals to invoke the blessings of the Black Heron are all elaborately staged Shogunate-era dances under new or blood moons. They require the sacrifice of a rival or competitor on the part of the cultist. Victims are slaughtered ritually and then their blood is worn as a new layer of makeup, or spread like paint in a beautiful flourish. These rituals are difficult to enact and are inconsistently reliable, as sources on Shogunate-era dances are sparse. If you are lucky and your dance merely bores the Princess Magnificent, she will not respond. If you aren't and it offends her, she will possess you and you will die. Very seldom does she actually respond.

Examples of this cult include:

East of Cherak on a bay of the Inland Sea lies the city of Oolaun, a comatose stone-hewed place sloping down to iron water between white cliffs. It barely rises to the category of "small city" and was known for mining and fishing, until contact with the rest of the world stopped for five months, before resuming as normal. But all is not normal. The town has been taken over by a death cult that worships the Princess Magnificent. The cult is led by an old necromancer and his cabal of ghostly peers who wish a restoration of the great regional art the city was once known for. The whole town has been inducted - and those few that aren't members have been killed or hide away in fear, mounting a paltry resistance.

Oolaun's town center is built around an old coliseum that used to be used for bullfighting and has now been repurposed for bloodsport choreographies where the youth artfully butcher each other for the amusement of the the elders and the glory of the Princess Magnificent, who is herself turning an eye to the Northeastern city. Rumors are starting to trickle out of strange happenings in Oolaun, but none thus far have taken it seriously.

The greatest actress in Gem, Wasima Ayatol is a predator sapping the life from its theater scene. For three and a half decades she has maintained her supremacy and youthful looks through a mix of sorcery, politicking, raw chutzpah, and opportunistic murder. Would-be competitors are found and fed upon as Wasima Ayatol drains their health and desire to perform in the night. All her victims succumb to weakness and die, or otherwise give up on their dreams within days of her surreptitious feedings. Her latest victim is a young relative of the Despot, and he is rightfully upset at his favored niece's sadness - and just as eager to have someone to blame for it.

A band of wandering monsters known as Heron's Ensemble terrorize the wooded East. They number nine and include outcaste Dragonblooded. They are identifiable by their horrible tattoos of swooping birds of prey. Where they meander towns are obliterated, lands are wasted, and the songs of carnage and insanity fill the air. They are horrible, twisted thespians of murder that delight in the most dramatic, absurd ways to wreak havoc in worship for the Crowmother--yet they seldom agree on how that should actually be accomplished and are known to sometimes disagree violently and at length over aesthetics. All nine are known to have distinct styles recognizable instantly in the carnage they inflict.

The greatest known example of this conflict is between the leader, a Water Aspect named Spring Rain Swallows Mountainside, and his second-in-command, the Princess's favored Nemissary, Fist-And-Hammer-Supremacy. Spring Rain is known for his love of nature and belief that culling the numbers of man beautifully helps bring the world closer to harmony. He is judicious and conservative. Fist-And-Hammer is a firebrand who believes that the only beauty to be found in life is that manufactured and discovered by reason, and maintains that there is a perfect equation to beauty that has yet to be discovered - he is progressive and reckless.
-
(credit to @EarthScorpion for quite a few of these ideas)

 

[Shyft]

So I have another large project on my mind- a sort of aggregate 'storytelling advice' essay that is large enough that I'm probably going to post it as a serial instead of one singular piece. This essay derives most of its concepts and terminology from Exalted 2nd edition, but I hope to write it with an eye towards being both edition and system agnostic- a lot of what I want to cover applies to a number of games.

So without further ado-

Storytelling Action - Part 1

Introduction

There are numerous issues, possibly even crippling flaws with how tabletop RPGs are designed and presented to players. Very little of this is intentional or malicious- just the product of design tradition and inertia. Tropes like character creation, character advancement, purchasable skills, modifiers- call them tropes or cliches- I'm sure you all know what they are when you see them.

This essay aims to discuss and dissect one of the larger endemic problems of TTRPGs, rooted in some of its oldest developmental DNA: Combat mechanics often take of the lion's share of actual rules and wordcount in any given publication. Combat, and by extension physical actions are often given the most granular rules and the most complicated resolution mechanics.

A consequence of this emphasis is how many games confuse use of rules with fun or progress. Speaking for myself, I do appreciate the interaction and manipulation of rules as the boundaries of a playable space (In Magic the Gathering parlance, I am very much a Johnny). Exalted is not unique in how a significant portion of it's mechanics and design space are given over to combat resolution.

I hope to, over the course of this essay, offer insight and prompt discussion on how to develop more interesting action and combat scenes in both Exalted and any game.

A History of Violence

The modern TTRPG hobby grew out of Dungeons and Dragons and similar products back in the 70s and 80s. DnD was by no means the first or only one of its kind, but it was definitely foundational. Instead of covering history that we all largely know in broad strokes, I'll lay out some relevant points.

• DnD was first and foremost, and especially in the modern era, a combat engine- derived from other combat and movement systems in precursor games.
• The important thing to remember, is that DnD and the like revolve around a very clear gameplay loop of 'Go to fight, engage in fight, manage resources, recover, repeat.' It's designed around the idea of encounters being the majority of the playable content.
• As a consequence, to this day, a great many games revolve and focus on combat resolution mechanics- storytelling, persistent advancement and so on were all added later. This is not to say that these additional elements were 'weak', just that the mechanics were already biased in favor of opposition and adversarial resolution.
• Physical actions and phenomena are easy to quantify with numbers or simple logical qualifiers, and as such can be more readily defined in a mechanical system. Further, physical actions are easier to imagine compared to more ephemeral feats such as statecraft and logistics.

There are a number of games out there that eschew combat or conflict resolution- though I'm hard pressed to think of any that truly do away with it. Even Maid RPG has conflict resolution!

On Conflict

Conflict has a lot of meanings- but most of the time we see it either as the description of adversarial competition or contest, or in the narrative sense of 'What is the story about, who, what and why are these forces clashing'.

In context of mechanics, conflict is a poor word- I would encourage the use of contested or competitive. Conflict is best used to describe motives, causes and ideals, and how two or more characters can butt heads over them. Man vs Self, Man vs Nature, Man vs Man, etc- those are conflicts. Trying to see who parries what attack is a contest.

Most of the time, in media both classical and modern, an ethical or moral conflict is portrayed using a physical one. The Jedi vs the Sith, almost any given Shonen series, modern superhero comics and more. All of these are using the 'tool' of superpowered beings to create an interesting spectacle that is about their ideals more than their prowess. The superior moral and ethical philosophy wins the the debate by winning the fight. It's the same basic logic as the Mandate of Heaven- if you win, you clearly have the mandate. If you don't win, you clearly didn't.

Portraying this sort of morality play is difficult- especially organically. I know I didn't recognize it as being a thing until it was pointed out to me, but once I saw it, I couldn't stop seeing it in almost all the media I consumed. Developing good and playable conflicts is a discussion for later.

Action, Combat, Progress

Some games are designed to guide players implicitly or explicitly to a given end- usually back to the core gameplay loop. Exalted 2nd edition was actually very subtle about this in some ways, blatant in others. A great many of its mechanics (especially Charms) were written under the assumption that they were intended to push 'Non-action' scenes towards 'Action scenes'. Unfortunately, a great deal of Exalted's mechanical budget for 'action' was tied up in Combat.

This is not necessarily a bad thing, as a general design conceit. It was not great for Exalted however, even if it had an interesting metaphorical or metaphysical conclusion you could draw. If all your 'Not fighting' mechanics pushed you towards fighting, that would alienate a significant portion of your potential playerbase who don't want to fight.
Further exacerbating the above phenomenon is what I'd call the 'Sold' effect. I've brought it up before elsewhere, that people are often sold on some element of the game or interpretation, versus what the game actually is or best at arbitrating. Many people are attracted to Exalted for the gonzo elements, wacky hijinks and memetic jokes that surround the property, for example.

This has the consequence of creating a bias in storytellers, that Exalted the game is about something, usually fighting. Which to be fair- it kind of is! It's inspirations all celebrate and glorify the kind of hyborian fantasy that is straight out a Frazetta or Vallejo painting, it's a setting rich with characters and beings that sound like really fun fights. This isn't a bad thing in and of itself!

Unfortunately, it creates an uncomfortable expectation- which is made even more pressing when players knowingly or unintentionally silo out their competences- how many of you have played games where one player is the obvious combat champion, or similar? If the majority of the game is courtly intrigue, that one player is going to feel left out- so the storyteller contrives- and I mean that as I say- contrives- a fight to give them something to do- to the detriment of the rest of the group.

I'd call this 'Comic Fight Pacing'. Which is the idea that fights sell comics, so fights happen with regular if alarming frequency.

Action vs Combat

It is a very easy psychological trap to look at the rulebook of any game and see that it has a very large, complex section on Combat, and come away thinking 'wow, I should probably use those rules if there are so many!'.

Action however, is not solely Combat. Action instead is better described as movement, verb, effort, endeavor, pursuit. It is the [Thing] you do when you want [something] Done. In a game like Exalted, Action can be divided into three broad groups, and following the pattern established by other games, Physical got the majority of the content, followed by Social and Mental.

Physical Action is easy- it's the most intuitive thing to imagine and grasp because we humans are innately physical beings who understand basic concepts like run, jump, punch, climb. Even slightly more esoteric physical things are easy to understand like 'balance' or 'high ground'.

Social and Mental action are more difficult, because I believe we as a media-consuming culture don't really recognize good social and mental action scenes. It's not that they don't exist- it's that trying to convey them in a shared play experience at a table is hard, because the tools and terms to describe them are often borrowed from physical combat mechanics.

Action versus Progress

I want you to imagine a good fight scene you watched recently- or something you played in a game, tabletop or video. I want you to really think about it for a second. And then I want you to ask yourself the following question.

"What did I actually achieve in that sequence?"

You might be surprised at how little meaningful progress you might have made. It depends obviously on context and a bunch of other factors. Most videogames have very small progress loops by design- you fight your way through a room, you negotiate a coordination and environmental challenge. The goals and motives exist in very small, specific slices that can be easily contained in an hour or less span of playable time. Or is usually sliced up even smaller.

Examine Halo 1 or Metal Gear Solid 5 for extremely tight gameplay loops.

Tabletop games by contrast have massive gameplay loops. Time is one of your most precious resources when playing them. Many games often also encourage 4-6 hour sessions just to give enough time to do something.

Finally, Progress

So what is Progress?

Depending on how you ask, it can be a lot of things. It's easily represented by numbers rising- by having more XP, more character assets, more ways to do stuff. It can be defined as 'Having spent time/effort to achieve a goal', and that goal in turn having persistent or at least acknowledged effect on the game as a whole.

Getting stronger, navigating the character building 'game' of an RPG is totally a form of progress- it is however one that takes the lion's share attention away from other kinds of progress. Exalted I feel was intended to be a game that firmly pushed progress away from Experience and into players by way of their Charms.

The point is, it's easy to confuse lots of movement and spent energy for lots of progress.

The Death Game

Death is boring. Killing people is boring. Say it with me.

This is a controversial thesis , in context of a rolicking hyborean age fantasy game experience like Exalted, or
The greater fandom that is TTRPGs. Combat is a huge element of gameplay, due in no small part as to how it is the most developed and easiest to quantify with numerical traits and clearly has rising/falling dynamic changing of values.

Humans, especially gamers, like it when numbers change.

But in terms of narrative structure and even fun, death is boring. Death removes characters. It makes you make decisions based around the idea of 'If I don't choose the right course of action, I lose the ability to play my character'.

Or, it's presented as the best solution to a complex, enduring problem (an antagonist character). Death means the antagonist cannot hassle you again. This is more of a problem in 'narrative' systems like Exalted that have an expectation of continuity and implicit progress, where the campaign is tracking your circle's advancement through the world. The antagonist exists to disrupt progress, or is perceived as such by players, and thus dealt with in a decisive manner.

Compare to Dungeons and Dragons, which as mentioned, has consistently moved more towards an 'engine' style of design where the setting and internal consistency is secondary (but not ignored) in favor of a tightly balanced combat and encounter ruleset.

We have been conditioned by numerous games to believe that combat is progress. And that within that slice of gameplay, that killing is progress.

Now, is this a firebranded tirade against combat systems and death-in-games? No, not at all. I fully support the cinematic majesty of being able to scythe through dozens of Extras with the sweep of a sword. What I'm saying is more that killing dudes in and of itself though is boring.

Oh, it's nice and novel the first few times you realize how stupendously lethal your character is, both in terms of narrative (they're that willing to get their hands dirty), or how mechanically lethal they are (the mechanics show their ferocity). But in terms of narrative health of the campaign…. Not so much.

Tying it all together

So I covered at least in broad strokes the idea of Action, Combat, Progress and Death. I plan on expanding these topics more in subsequent releases. Before I leave though, I want to end with something immediately useful:

A bad action scene happens in an empty space, because there hasn't been any action in a while, and is often reduced to the most basic motive of 'The bad guy wants to kill the PCs'. This is a common trend, so I decided to write out a formalized test that might help you all in the future! I hope to expand on all these topics too.

The Action Test!

Think of this like the Bechdel Test, but for Action Scenes! Your scene 'passes' the test when:
(1) it is in a defined space with numerous actual or potential traits
(2) its not included because there hasn't been a fight recently
(3) motivated by something other than 'fight to the death'

 

[Shyft]

Storytelling Action - Part 2
Overview

There is a huge list of intimidating factors to possibly account for when developing an action scene, but one of the most important in my opinion is the choice of doing one in the first place.

Common Pacing Pitfalls

As mentioned in the first part, one of the most obvious pacing issues is the belief or perception that action must happen because action hasn't happened in a while. The rules themselves suggest this by dint of there being so many rules about resolving actions- and very few games- Exalted especially, giving you a strong foundation to decide when not to use them.

The second pacing pitfall is due to how Exalted has simultaneously one of the stronger but more open-ended approaches to player parity. At its simplest, it emerges out of the following logical chain:

• Storyteller/Group: "I want to play [This kind] of game!"
• One or two exceptional players: "I want to play [that kind]. of game!"

Implicitly, the ST/majority biases the majority of game content and challenges towards the original archetype of their campaign- this is most common where a group wants to do a social-heavy game and there's one combat tank in the mix. But it could easily be a combat game with one social character, or a warfare game with one crafter- or any combination thereof. The point is that this split in focus leads to the storyteller feeling pressured- either by themselves or by the minority at their table to create content that includes them.

The unfortunate consequence, especially in Exalted, is that it's very easy to create a character who is so good at one thing, that no other character can compete with threats meant for the singular outlier. So a number of action scenes (social drama, physical altercations, etc) leave one or more players by the wayside. The either can't contribute, or are simply going to leave the scene as their participation would complicate the engagement and detract from everyone's experience.

Related to the above point, is that there are a number of player archetypes- and I don't have an exhaustive list at hand. I do however recognize the following types:

• Active players tend to engage with the game the storyteller is presenting, or take action to move it into domains they are interested in or their character is good at. This is not necessarily a malicious action, or something the player does to be a jerk. It can be as innocuous as the socialite trying to flirt with every NPC, or the crafter trying to solve every problem with the craft rules they've invested so much in.
• Passive players meanwhile are more interested in being an audience that participates in an ongoing story, offering input usually in the form of a die roll or charm activation. They tend to care more about their choices mattering- they tend to look for having a significant stake in the outcome, and tend to become distant and bored if those choices end up meaning nothing at all.
  A good example of the passive player is the fast-travel sorcerer: "People need me because I am basically a car."

These two archetypes can come into conflict- like when the Storyteller might want to lure a passive player into participating in an action scene they are otherwise disinterested in, or are fine spectating. Note that most players switch between these two modes depending on the scene, session or any number of other factors- it's not a hard and fast rule.

The solution to the first problem- that of 'Arbitrary Action Setpiece Syndrome', is basically to not do that- or to take the time to develop the setpiece as to simply not be so obviously arbitrary. I do not mean to say that 'Random thing happening' is bad- it should remain a tool in the storyteller's toolbox, but being able to recognize the external impulse of 'There hasn't been a big rockem sockem setpiece in awhile' is a valuable storyteller skill.

The second problem is a lot more thorny, relying both a more developed set of rules or houserules, and a great deal of communication between players and storyteller. It can be divided into two broad domains- the setpiece and the character.

For the setpiece:

1. There should be multiple ways to engage the setpiece- and the storyteller should be very permissive- that is the point of Stunting! Part of this is down to game tone as well, and conveying with great strength what you want to see and rewarding it appropriately.
2. Be mindful of not over-specializing elements in a setpeice. A lot of players can immediately recognize when a given element is specifically set aside for one character or another, and that can be jarring or frustrating- up to even immersion breaking.
   1. A puzzle for the smart character, a lock for the thief, a monster for the fighter, and so on- are all obvious and often very stale cliches. Instead of making a lot of things that are tuned for the characters you have, make things a little easier overall and let players pick what they want- and/or force them to engage with their weaknesses- the stress of dealing with that can more than make up what you give up trying to impress them with higher difficulties.
   2. This is especially true when a storyteller borrows from MMO or similar design where roles are often a lot more concrete with clear gameplay loops like aggro and DPS.
3. Graduate failures! A setpiece, be it Physical, Social or Mental should not hang on the balance of a single roll with no chance for recovery. Even a botch should not irrevocably imperil a character.

For the characters:

1. Explore alternate ways to contribute to action scenes- maybe the socialite has a henchman background, and work with the players to let them play their bodyguards or porters in action scenes as extensions of themselves. (Mind you be careful of allowing a single player to upset the action economy.)
2. Make it easy to attain a minimum level of competence in your campaign's main experience with training or experience discounts
3. Maybe have a character strong in one dimension mentors those who aren't as competent, giving an in-game justification for a bonus that offsets their poor stats.
4. Take a hand in character generation- making sure all characters have a few dots in a combat or defense ability unless critical to their concept
5. Encourage characters to be well-rounded- and if necessary, develop houserules or incentives to develop in that regard.

This is The Part Where You Fall Down

Earlier, I specifically invoke 'action scene' as opposed to combat, though they're often closely related. It is supposed to be entirely reasonable for a player character to invest nothing in combat abilities, because Exalted is not about every Exalt being a good warrior. It's about being an exceptional hero, who happens to have god-shaming powers.

But Creation is also a violent, aggressive, action-packed world. It's a place where nearly everyone learns a little bit about fighting and defending themselves- but it's also a place where a number of people, even heroic types like Exalted, don't have to fight. This can create a balance issue at the table level- where one or two players may have a great deal of investment in one kind of action that the other players don't. As mentioned, the most common split is 'combat character' vs 'Non-combat character'.

Exalted specifically exacerbates this by simply not having strong teamwork mechanics or ways to apply 'Archetype A' actions into 'Archetype B' situations. It relies, to the point of storyteller arbitration and frustration, on making a judgement call. Judgement calls are fine- they need to exist in a tabletop RPG experience- but in an ideal world we'd have stronger more concrete rules for these kinds of logical cases.
Result versus Process

A general school of design thought is as follows: Result-based Resolution versus Process-based . Most granular systems are inherently process-based, with lots of itemized steps and specific results based on those steps. The fun is in moving through the process and seeing the result take shape bit by bit.

Result-based is heavily invested in abstraction and low-to-medium frequency rolls that are often pass-fail, or use very broad threshold success metrics to govern the results. A character says 'I want to do this', the storyteller gives them a pass/fail roll, they beat the difficult and the action is resolved as the player desires. Any extra detail, bonuses or maluses are provided at the storyteller's discretion.

Process-based play is focused on mechanical resolution, most combat/action mechanics in most tabletop games are heavily process based, to provide numerous hooks for modifiers as well as increasing randomness that helps extend the length of the play experience. Your mileage may vary of course on how useful a granular resolution system is. Most process-based systems involve high-frequency rolls and mechanical decisions.

Frequency, by the way, is how I'm describing rolls/actions over time. The more complex something is, the lower it's frequency. Simple, easy to arbitrate actions and mechanics can get away with higher frequency like pass/fail checks.

Put another way- Result is "Thing Happens, Reaction occurs" and Process is "Sequence of events is spelled out, the Thing happening is the Reaction."

To boil it down into the most base elements, Results-play is "You kill a man in front of the king" vs Process-play of "You are in the king's court, you attack the man, the man dodges, the man fails to dodge, you deal damage, the man dies. The king is also there, witnessing this."

Despite appearances of being very strongly "say it and it Happens" effects, Result-based resolution is very self-contained. Sure, you killed a man in front of the king, but unless the storyteller or player calls attention to extraneous elements, the action itself and any relevant roll is focused on the act.

Process allows for nuance, and for extra details to be inserted into that sequence to overlap and interconnect with other ongoing things. Like if that man was on fire, that proximity or contact means you're on fire now. Results can handle that by going, "you killed a burning man in front of the king and are now on fire," but its not caring about that last part. The fire is a footnote to the killing, whereas the process goes "oh no, my consequences of killing this man are Immediate. Also the king is there."

Example Results-Based Play:

• Player: "I want to climb to the top of the highest tower in the castle."
  ST: "Okay, roll me dex+ath at Difficulty 4."
  Player: "I got 5 sux!"
  ST: "You get there no problem, and because you got threshold 1, you got there just in time to see the beautiful princess at her balcony down below."
• ST: "Alright, you need to roll Intelligence+Bureaucracy at Diff 3, to secure your business deal."
  Player: "Alright, I roll it- and get six successes!"
  ST: "You got your deal, and have a lead on two more!
• Player: "I want to take down every guard in the camp and tie them up so they'll scare everybody else when we show up for real."
  ST: "Okay- that's a complex one. How about two rolls- Strength+Martial Arts to wrestle them all down Diff 3, with a -2 External Penalty since you want to do it without alerting everyone- and a Dex+Stealth roll to do it silently, Difficulty 4, -2 external penalty again."
  Player: "Got it- I passed both rolls!"
  ST: "Excellent! So when you do show yourself in the camp, you'll get a bonus to your social actions because you set this all up."
  Player: "What would've happened if I fail?"
  ST: "Depends- the guards might've alerted everyone, and there would've been a scuffle."

Example Process-Based Play:

• Almost any combat system that separates attack, defense, armor and damage.
• Craft

You'll notice that a lot of game books give you process-resolution systems, so I don't actually need to write out storyteller examples- they're already there in the books for us to examine.
The Right Tool for the Right Job

So this subtopic basically contends with two key points: How often should 'Action' happen, and how granular should it's resolution be?

Now I'm not here to tell you how to do that part- a lot of it is to taste of your table or your STing style. I am going to however tell you a few logical tricks that might help.

Rolls, and by extension specific resolution mechanics, only matter when failure is meaningful. Or when the specific results those rules matter. Consider the potential cost/benefit of using granular rules in favor of a more abstracted resolution.

For example- combat mechanics especially are best utilized when injuries and death are relevant to the challenge at hand.

It is entirely reasonable to abstract out an overwhelmingly powerful opponent against an unprepared, unarmored barracks of mortals. Abstracting or outright waiving a balance roll for a master gymnast is perfectly fine. Exalted itself often included rules for arbitrating automatic success for precisely this reason.

Consider this- let's say a storyteller has thrown a hundred guards at a circle of Exalts and started a big brawl- instead of modeling this as a hundred extras each rolling for Join Battle and all that rigamarole, the 'action' is less about threat of injury to the player characters and more about how they choose to deal with the problem of 'A hundred guards are trying to capture/hurt you'.

If the Dawn flares their anima and terrorizes them into compliance, that has a different effect than say the Night trying to snipe the leaders, or the Zenith shaming them. All of those actions can be resolved with single rolls that do not use DVs, MDVs or anything, abstracted as difficulties with threshold successes. The downside to this level of abstraction, is that most Charms are very specific about rolls they can and cannot supplement, or bring in the resolution mechanics- creating some of that bias I mentioned earlier.
Foundations of a Good Action Scene

Before you even get into the nitty gritty of stats, specific locations, and interactive elements, there are some metatextual fundamentals that need to be addressed. Calling back to the Action Test- you have to have a reason or cause for the action scene! Reasons can be logical extrapolations of the environment, or how various characters and courts behave within the world when prodded with stimulus.

After reason, you want to examine the scene's Relevance, which I would define as 'How does this action setpiece advance the plot, challenge, or empower the players.` Think of it as your validation against an action scene sort of spiraling off into not mattering. "We fought some bandits… and it didn't do anything other than be a fight."

Relevance is akin to impact- it can be positive or negative, costing some resource like time or material or goodwill, or generating the same. Ideally it should do both- and is one of the many ways an action scene can fail-forward or push the game on.

Lastly, one should have a rough idea of the scene's intended result. In terms of both how the setpiece concludes, and any advancements both concrete or symbolic the players secure. 'We survived!' is a possible result, but 'Deadly stakes' are a hard thing to sell and should be managed carefully.
Reason

The reason for the action scene can be informed either by external factors- the storyteller wanted to shake things up, an opportunity based on player action present itself, or it was the logical consequence of player action or inaction- all kinds of reasons. The best action scenes are rooted in narrative or logical reasons. Things that derive from the game world or the actions of the players.

Reason is closely related to motive, which I'll touch on in more depth later on. The goal here however, is to take the time to think of a reason or motivation that transcends beyond the external 'there has not been any action recently' and 'the PCs need to have someone try and kill them'.

Instead, develop your reasons for action sequences out of the world and the choices the players make.

Examine what the players are currently doing- and yes that can include 'nothing'. Examine their locale, the region they're in, and the circumstances around it. Generally most 'encounters' can be grouped into 'Environmental' and 'Actor'- either the 'world' is presenting a challenge like a rickety bridge, a ruin full of traps, bad weather, and so on. Or, a character or characters are exerting effort on the players to achieve some goal.
Basic Examples

Bandits for example are a very common staple in the fantasy-epic that Exalted draws from. Let's examine them as an illustrative example: Why do bandits go out and prey upon the locals? It honestly should not be because they're bloodthirsty little murderous savages.

Before I get into examples, I want to take the opportunity to elaborate on how there can be entire chains of motive, linking character to event to another character to who knows what else. A little bit of critical thinking and imagination can go a long way!

Having said that, we can assume that bandits bandit for a number of possible reasons- as below:

• The local economy is bad.
• There was a bad harvest
• A bunch of Dynasts or Outcaste DBs are eating the locals out of house and home.
• A merchant is hiring them to hurt their competitors or drive up prices
• They're actually soldiers of another kingdom in disguise, working to destabilize an enemy nation!

Developing the reason for an action scene is such a complex topic that almost no book can contain every possible example- the best one can do is develop the tools in the reader to do so themselves.

How about an environmental reason? Environmental challenges are commonly associated with weather, travel or both. Let's look at Nexus in fact, as it has a canonical hazard that it's citizens endure quite regularly- flooding.

• Nexus is on the convergence of multiple rivers.
• It has poor (almost non-existent) sewage system.
• The dam infrastructure upriver is damaged/inoperative.
• Seasonal rains make too much water for any of the rivers to handle.

All of those are solid 'Whys' for flooding to happen, and can be combined or exaggerated for effect before you even get into resolving the mechanics of 'actual play in a flood'.
Extreme Examples

'Extreme' means the dramatic, the mythic, the alien. This is a tough thing to account for, one of which is the Wyld Hunt, which honestly deserves an entire section all to itself.

So what do I mean by 'extreme'? Consider a Hungry Ghost- most often a singular hungry ghost is a monster, it has very little complex morality or motivation- but that's actually not true. At a glance it is monstrous, but it too follows a core logic that informs how it behaves and how the storyteller is intended to use them.

• Hungry ghosts attack everyone, looking for the cause of their death
• Ghosts can exhibit predatory behaviors, seeking out life/blood/etc to satisfy their new hungers or to sustain their unlives.
• Organized ghosts like military warbands have a goal or similar, much akin to bandits or army units.

The underlying point here is that even a 'monster' will have a logical chain of motives- or can benefit from one. Throwing a hungry ghost or a buck ogre at a group just because without a lick of thought is a waste of everyone's time.
But What About Fight Scenes?

One of the most common and easily accessible action setpieces is 'Combat'. We have the most rules for it, a lot of the game is sold on having a wild combat experience, and so on. Fight scenes are important, but they are not the total breadth of action. As a consequence though, combined with other setting elements like the Wyld Hunt, is the expectation that action must be deadly, and that if the statistics don't make them deadly, they aren't deadly.

Now a lot of that is put on the game book and setting for establishing tone- Exalted's problem is that a lot of it's content upsells how violent the setting is, that death is common and for players this is doubly true- that's a topic for a whole other section of this essay.

I'll repeat it though- Death is boring. Don't start your action scenes with death. You can include peril, which can range from 'bandits' to 'wild animals' to 'treacherous navigation' and more, but trying to aim for deadly right off the bat ends up making a lot of people focus on statistics instead of meaningful stakes.

Think of it like this- if players are traveling through a mountain and get hit by a rockslide, the 'threat' of the scene is more interesting if it's less about 'you take X damage from the falling rocks' and more 'You have to somehow endure this hazard, and how well you endure it determines how injured you are going forward- and maybe you got separated from your crew'.

A character being knocked off a cliff with a broken leg is a lot more interesting than just 'I took X HLs of damage and now I'm dead.' If you're confident in using the HL rules to achieve that end, more power to you- but don't be afraid to generalize or abstract these challenges if your players are on the same page as you!
Relevance

One of the most terrible failings of an action sequence, is the emphasis on the action itself. That is to say, it only exists to be action, and to not progress the plot forward. This ties closely into reason- if 'Reason' is why the setpiece or actors within the setpiece are participating, Relevance is why the setpiece matters to the players. This is closely related to the result of the setpiece, as in rewards or the 'stuff' you get that marks progress.

Remember also that most of this essay is couched in terms of setpieces being put in front of players, instead of players generating setpieces intentionally- that's a separate discussion.

Relevance can be personal or self-actualization. A clash of ideals is relevant to the players who hold them, for example. Or if the players care about the stakes the setpiece describes. "Defend this pass or the peaceful villagers are at risk of being enslaved!"

Relevance in an Environmental setpiece usually has to do with resource management (time, health, equipment, etc), over moral or ethical questions- but it can also be a character defining experience of refusing to give up, of learning when to compromise, or anything else.
Result

The Result is closely connected to the Relevance of an action sequence- usually some clear mark or boon that allows the players to progress forward in their ongoing plots. As previously mentioned- making the result too transparently contrived is a concern.

For example, let's say that a circle of Exalted are being jumped by bandits while en-route to meet with a local scavenger lord. The mechanical resolution of this is less important than the way the storyteller handles the aftermath- The understanding here is that the setpiece itself takes time and energy to resolve, as well as in-game resources that may not be recovered in time for the next challenge.

Depending on the setpiece, the advance may not be worth the cost- or be so valuable that it deforms the plot around it. It's the difference between beating the bandits and getting a few sacks of treasure, or discovering that the scavenger lord the players were going to meet was already captured by said bandits.

A simple form of Result is 'Clear mark of progress'. If the challenge is 'Get from point A to B', then the mark of progress is 'You are now closer to B'. This is largely unsatisfying, but with a bit of polish it can be engaging. It is useful when you have small sub-challenges denoting the leg of a journey or the cumulative progress towards a goal. It's such a simple form of Result , that it's easy to nest it alongside others- such as 'How quickly can you get it done' combined with 'The player cares about this subject'.

Another form of Result that I believe should be used sparingly is actionable game assets and rewards- up to and including Experience or 'Loot'. Character advancement resources are extremely valuable and can force all kinds of awkward cost/benefit examinations- best not to tempt fate.

One possible form of Result is an immediate if transitory reward or boon. Consider say- defeating a bandit raid, it gives the players a key to the lockbox the bandits are carrying, which is entirely reasonable and is easy to resolve. The storyteller should be careful here, because it is all too easy to create a contrivance. If the resolution reveals the boon needed to progress without cause or foreshadowing, it feels cheap and underwhelming.

Information is also incredibly useful- though it again risks contrivance. Any given setpiece can as part of it's relevance or result generate knew information for the players to engage with- in the form of plothooks, history of the local area, notable personages or potential assets to explore.

The last and most powerful form of Result is that of plot. As setpiece that has a clear connection to the ongoing plot of the campaign or the personal plots of it's characters is the goal- not every setpiece needs to be this relevant- but making sure several of them are is crucial to a memorable game experience.

A military campaign, for example, can be broken up into a number of logical setpieces that are all explicitly relevant to the ongoing plot of 'The war'. Same as a trade mission, or a spy intrigue plot, or any number of greater ongoing narratives. The storyteller's job is to make sure that the 'input' of the setpiece (the reasons, the player's presence, etc) matches appropriately with the output.
Goals - Player Driven Setpieces

The above discussions were primarily focused on the storyteller developing a setpiece or challenge and then deploying it in front of the players, and expecting a reaction. The goal of Reason/Relevance/Result is to get the storyteller thinking about more than just 'It would be cool to have THIS happen!'

Players, however, are intended to be movers and shakers. Often getting into or making spectacles and setpieces more often than the storyteller does.

Now player-driven setpieces can still have Reason/Relevance/Result, but they're sometimes harder to parse due to most tables having 3-5 players all vying for attention or other organizational hazards. As trite as this sounds- good communication is critical.

An important thing to note is that a goal is separate from a plan or method. A goal is the player's intent or end-state. The plan is how they're going to do it.

Goal: "Rule the world!"
Method: "Daiklave Everything!"

The above example is facetious, I admit, but it still is accurate. Obviously smaller goals can have more concrete, actionable methods and approaches. Often times games- especially Exalted, condenses methods into single actions or granular systems.

By having a clear goal, the storyteller can start developing potential methods and paths to accomplishing it. Note that depending on game tone and player personality (active vs passive, etc), the storyteller is not required to define every possible path and especially not devise a perfect path. Players and Storytellers cannot read each other's minds, and trying to identify the Exact Perfect Solution isn't fun for anyone.

Instead, the Storyteller should help the players break their goals up into smaller sub-goals, which in turn can be spun out into logical setpieces as appropriate- remember we're not trying to say Every Single scene needs a big airship battle with exploding demon artillery.

So with a goal or subgoal in mind, the storyteller can start spinning out logical or at least narratively consistent reasons for the world or other actors to get involved. A player who wants to free all the slaves will invite the ire of slavers and the plantations and miners that profit off of slave labor. A fearless cartographer is going to encounter hazards in the distant wilds, while a scavenger lord will contend with trapped ruins and angry spirits.

Since the goal is player-defined, relevance tends to take care of itself- but for really large goals or ones that have been broken up into numerous smaller goals- or tangents- it pays to keep the greater overarching desire in mind.

Lastly, ensuring that each resolved step has a clear contribution to the primary goal helps promote a feeling of progress and continuity, instead of an endless spinning wheel or moving goalposts.