The Campaign Builder's Guild

The problem I ran into when trying to come up with ideas for the Harrow setting was that no matter how big or how old I made the city, I was still constrained to just one city and that didn't sit well with my creative process. So, I scrapped the particulars, salvaged the macabre aesthetics and surreal cosmology, and managed to work them into a much more expansive sort of setting. So here for your critiques, Agents of Power:

[ic]Man may be the most prolific creature to walk upright upon the Known World, but Man does not rule it. That right is reserved for the Inhuman Powers, those beings who look upon the face of the World and see but a game board and who look upon the multitudes of mankind and see but a great many pieces.

It is the Inhuman Powers who rule the Known World, who make war and plot treacheries against one another. The Glorious Piscine Empire. The Sovereign Crustaceans. The Great Dragons. The Lords and Ladies of the Fey. The Nymph Kingdoms. The Polyp People. The Sphinxes. The Tribes of the Nephilim. The Arachnid Nobility. Monstrous and terrible are the Powers against the frail face of Man, and that is why Man's place in the World is as Vassal and Subject to the Inhuman Powers.

Man has his own lands at the edges of the Powers' domains: the prodigal Orphan Kingdoms, of which there are too many to count. Their independence comes at the cost of their strength, for not one is as strong as even the weakest Power's domain. But they are free all the same.

Man may infest every corner of the Known World, but his understanding of it is as that of a blind man in a garden of sand. No map or globe of the Known World has ever been made by the hand of Man, his understanding limited to the ground at his feet and the infinite horizon before him. The Known World is infinite to him, a world of terrifying size and marvelous beauty.

Man worships Heaven, but Heaven is no more a reflection of Man than the Powers who rule him. The Celestial Court of the Queen in Crimson is a pantheon of Goddesses and Gods, Saints and Demons, all both beautiful and awful in equal measure. The Mystery Cults that worship them are as numerous as the Stars in the night sky, but to invoke the capricious Heavens is to take ones Life and Soul into ones own hands.

If Man is as a naked and mewling infant to the Inhuman Powers, what use do they have for Man at all? Why not wipe clean the World of his kind and leave only Peers? It is because for his weakness and frailty, Man has his usefulness, and that which cripples him is also his greatest strength.

Inhuman Powers are potent beyond the ken of Man, but this power limits them in the Game they play against their Peers. Power against Power is as a duel between tidal waves, as the desert doing battle with the stars. Man, though, is subtle. Man is malleable. Man has that inscrutable quality of a Human Soul that gives the necessary spark to become something more.

So the Powers choose from among the multitudes of Man and Woman those who would be their Agents in the World. Like clay amphora, they are filled with a small modicum of Power. Like babes sucking at their Mother's teat, they are fed a portion of the Power's own Soul. They are imbued with Magics and Enchantments. They are gifted with a panoply of Artifacts and Relics. Their forms are altered with Grafts both Living and Mechanic. They become are not stripped of their Humanity, but they become something altogether Inhuman as well. They become Agents of Power.[/ic]

So there you go, a brief teaser of my fantasy setting. I couldn't think of a way to squeeze it in without murdering the flow, but magic exist side-by-side with technology both modern and archaic, though "modern" pretty much cuts off at around the Second World War.

The basic idea of being an Agent of Power is that you're somewhere between knight-errant and secret agent: James Bond with an invisibility cloak and a flaming sword, only M is a crab the size of a whale and instead of SMERSH, you're fighting dragons and giants and nymphs so powerful they're almost akin to Goddesses...except then again, so are you. Or at least part of you. You're simultaneously free and a slave, acting however you wish so long as it pleases the Power who made you, or at least works out in their favor. You used to be a pawn in the Game of Powers.

Now you're a Queen.

Any critiques, suggestions, assessments, etc?

I'll touch on two quick things before I elaborate later on.

Quote from: Superfluous Crow
I love grafts, but somehow they feel out of place here. Too premeditated for Harrow? They seem like a people who'd rather slave through existence than try to improve their lot.

Something I haven't really gotten to illustrating is that the Harrowed are not grim, dour people. They in many ways celebrate the corruption and decay they live in, the slow death of the city that is their entire world. They are the happy maggots wriggling through the flesh of their mother. Beyond its practical benefits, grafting adds mutation and asymmetry, not to mention that all but the most expensive ones are at least second-hand.

Quote from: Superfluous CrowMagic; are we talking fireballs or weird stuff?

Honestly, both. Nothing world-shattering here, but people are throwing fireballs and lighting bolts at each other all week long and then whispering to alien gods in narco-trances over the weekend.

Just a bit more for you all to digest. Inspiration comes in leaps and spurts for me.

Harrow really does resemble a massive, festering wound. Built within a deep gash high in the bone-white cliff face a mile high, ramshackle buildings jut out from every available inch of space. Catacomb-like excavations burrow deep into the living rock, while a few perilous bridges span the divide. Piers and wharves jut out into natural harbor that exists where the black sea flows into the lesion. All of it teeters.

There are no clean surfaces in Harrow: everything is covered in something, be it rust, grime, salt, fungus, or old and discolored blood. A river flowing from an unknown source drains its waters right down the middle of the city in a waterfall thousands of feet high, leaving everything dripping with moisture.

Every day, ships of the sea and air make berth in the port of Harrow. The people don't know where they come from. The people don't care. Harrow is the center of its citizens' universes, so while they may know of the existence of strange foreign lands from which hail many queer merchants, few can be bothered to know much more. The foreigners come bearing many treasures: exotic herbs and animals, potent drugs, and power-rings.

There is plenty magic in Harrow. Students of ancient traditions walk side-by-side with young spellpunks and their bootlegged hexes.

Grafters transcend their fleshy patterns with augmentation of metal and flesh, electrical wires as well as lashing tentacles. Few are the citizens who do not sport at least one graft, however minor.

The people worship many Gods. The Saint of Parasites asks only that you share your flesh with her. Cults of the Carrion Queen ritually devour their dead. Conspiracy is a holy obligation for the servants of the Many-Fingered King. Mercy wants to bring an end to it all.

The "eat" is both metaphorical and literal. Slaves do the work the citizens of a mile-high labyrinth of rust, grime, and decay won't demean themselves to. Of course, the Harrowed are infamous for their opportunistic attitudes, so cannibalism carries no taboo. Fresh young slaves might be a rare treat for a family of elites, while an old and bunt-out helot can expect to have his corpse gnawed upon by the poor after it's dumped in the waste.

Quote from: Superfluous Crow
...we do not elect our Queen. In fact she doesn't really have any power.

She is both the (officially) powerless monarch and the elected head of government. If she were to lose an election, she would still be the Queen, though her usurper would hopefully be smart enough to have her and everyone she's on a first name basis with immediately executed...

This idea came to me in Philosophy class today, and I'd be doing it a disservice if I let myself forget it. As always, feel free to chime in with what you think and how I can best expand upon what I've got;

The city of Harrow is an abscess on the ancient cliff face, a wound gouged into the living rock through unknown means by builders nobody can remember and infected with a civilization built of worn stone and rusted metal incessantly teetering over an ocean of bluish oblivion.

It is called the City of Cloaks and Masks, because those are the garments all citizens don out of necessity. They wear cloaks because everything leaks and drips; they wear the masks to hide their shame.

It is called the City of Slaves, because vast pen-ships bring pale-skinned slaves from unknown ports. They are meat; the City eats them.

It is called the City of Smokes, because rich and poor are brought together by the narcotic-pipe, the opiate-needle, and the need for escape.

It is meant to be a rotted sort of world: bleak and decaying on the surface, but with color flourishing in unlikely places. Themes of decay, death, morbidity, and an ancient and unknown past abound. Swords and plate armor exist in anachronistic harmony with night-vision goggles and assault rifles, all of it recycled a thousand times over. 

Alright so, some unexpected surgery kinda sidelined me for awhile, but I'm still making progress. Here's some more concrete facts about the island, as opposed to just general thematic concepts;

The island itself is located in the Mediterranean south. It is a rough oval 50 miles long by 37 miles wide. It's fairly fate, with a low mountain rising from the center.

The climate is a typical Mediterranean one, with warm, dry summers and cooler, sometimes rainy winters. The sun shines every day.

There are two major cities located at either end of the island. The center of the island remains more undeveloped, with the highlands reserved for the villas of the wealthy and the favela-style shantytowns of the poorest of the poor.

The west city is by far the larger of the two and the center of culture and economics. The east is the capitol city and the location of the Queen's palace, which is almost as much a fortress as it is a mansion.

The populace is an incredibly colorful one. Locals are a mix of cultures from around the Mediterranean: Greeks, Libyans,  Moroccans, Spaniards, Italians, Catalans, Algerians, etc. After the liberation in the 40s, the Queen encouraged more wealthy immigrants from northern Europe, the United States, and Canada. Recently, waves of immigrants from Asia and sub-Saharan Africa have begun to trickle in.

By law, all citizens must have an English name, but the government isn't particularly concerned with how accurately is qualifies as a "name". As a result, a lot of locals go by names that seem like they were picked at random from the Oxford English Dictionary.

A handful of major power groups that decide how things are run on the island: the government, the businessmen, and the criminals.

As should already be obvious, the Queen and her inner circle do what the fuck they want.

Businessmen, free of the regulations and laws protecting copyrights and trademarks found in every other developed country, are allowed to virtually anything to stay profitable, so long as they kick a generous portion the Queen's way.

It would be impossible to count all of the gangs, families, and criminal syndicates that operate on the island. In addition to a number of home-grown ones, foreign groups like the Mafia, the vory v zarkone, the yakuza, and the triads have set up shop there as well. Like any other group, the police leave them alone as long as their payoffs are sizable and regular.

As you may have noticed, nothing has a name yet. I'm honestly crap at coming up with believable names, so any assistance it that department would be extra-appreciated.

Alright, I'll touch on a few of the issues raised now and hopefully be able to elaborate more thoroughly tomorrow. Apologies if I don't quote you directly, but I hope you'll be able to figure it out:

It's set in a modern-ish time period, but it's a little anachronistic. Adds to the surrealism.

The government isn't fascist. The Queen doesn't really care what you do so long as you don't threaten her position.

Openly supporting fascism is actually pretty likely to get you disappeared.

The monarchy is a traditional position on the island. The current Queen helped to oust the Italians and then leveraged her popularity to become President of the newly-independent nation.

In short, probably the only reason there still is a Queen at all is that she was savvy enough to seize power immediately.

People don't actively rebel because of the longstanding culture of not trusting anyone but yourself. Few are willing to risk being sold out by their allies, so its hard to organize large-scale movements.

In the same way, the Peace Guard and secret police are very effective at self-policing. Treason is not taken lightly.

There's also a bit of a checkist mindset among people, to where they don't really consider not having the government breathing down their neck.

The place has an attitude towards international regulations and tax laws that would make the Cayman Islands blush, so it's a great place for wealthy individuals and corporations to put their money.

Money is one of the major forces on the island, so if you can kick a little the Queen's way, you can get a way with a lot.

Hence, organized crime can flourish despite the overwhelming police presence.

By "insane patois", I mean it's common to use English, German, and Arabic words in the same sentence.

Fucking with rich foreigners will get you disappeared. Nobody cares about poor ones.

So, apologies if this is basically just an internet-based version of the spaghetti test, but I've got a very rough description of a conspiracy setting I've been working on and I was hoping I could get some opinions on what sounds good and what doesn't as I go to flesh it out. Don't be surprised if I add to it later, and thank you in advance;

Small Mediterranean island nation.

Originally settled by the Greeks, then the Romans, Moors, Spanish, French, British, and finally a unified (and fascist) Italy before gaining their independence in the 1940s.

Cultural identity can best be described as schizophrenic, an eclectic melting pot of cultures from all around the region and, to a slightly-lesser extent, the world.

Radical self-expression is the order of the day.

English is the official language, but all the locals speak an insane patois of various tongues where choice of vocabulary often changes depending on the emotions the speaker wants to convey.

Leisure-loving populace views hard work as a necessary evil to be avoided whenever possible.

Culture of inhospitality where it's proper etiquette to assume that anyone you don't know will try to murder you at some point.

Only a slight breach of etiquette to actually try and murder someone you don't know.

Food and drinks are traditionally serves unopened and never let out of sight once they are.

Absolutely everyone carries a knife of some sort and plenty of them show a disturbing enthusiasm in using it.

Locals are extremely superstitious and typically dabble in religions ranging from the mainstream to the fringe: Roman Catholicism and voodoo are about equal in terms of popularity.

Drugs, prostitution, and gambling are all entirely legal.

Wealthy nation that gets most of its money from foreign investors, decadent tourists, and a number of illicit enterprises.

Majority of that money goes straight into the hands of a privileged few.

"Constitutional" monarchy that in reality more closely resembles an authoritarian dictatorship.

The reigning Queen just happens to win every single election by an enormous margin, making her the de facto president-for-life.

Secret police are everywhere.

Secret police are watching you.

Being under daily surveillance is pretty much an accepted fact of life for locals.

Citizens have virtually no rights against harassment, spontaneous searches, and other invasions of privacy.

Gun ownership is heavily-regulated and buying or attempting to buy one is guaranteed to put your name on even more government watch lists.

Body armor-clad, machinegun-toting Peace Officers maintain order between the haves and the far more numerous have-nots and have about the same relationship to peace that firemen have with fire.

Fucking. Attack. Baboons.

Seriously. They're like attack dogs, only they're smarter, they can climb walls, and they have the jaw strength to bite through a human forearm.

Secret police are still watching you.

Thanks its colorful history, central location, and general corruptness, the island plays host to virtually every secret organization and conspiracy worth not knowing about.