The Campaign Builder's Guild

The cobbled path is flanked by rows of tall and wraithlike trees, their leafless interlocking branches swaying in bizarre and contrary directions as though compelled by divergent winds or some strangely sapient current.  In the silence of the autumn evening the faint susurrus of their dance carries through the ruins, reverberating between lopsided, vine-wreathed columns and greeting my ears like an alien wordless murmur.

My lover treads softly beside me, eyes keen and focused, pistol primed and readied.  Her unblemished skin shines like alabaster in the moonlight, dark leather like coal embracing her form tightly and accentuating that startling brightness.  Auglic moves swift and silent through the shadows, unseen and unheard, but his whisper alights on our thoughts and we know that he is eager.

â,¬Å"The madman must be near, or this chase has led us astray.â,¬Â  Younneâ,¬,,¢s voice is marred by impatience, and in the cursory flash of her amber eyes it is clear that this hunt wearies her. Sleepless and unceasing, we have navigated the darkness of this sunless place for five days, and nary a sign of the human have we seen besides the remains of charred villages and the hellish conflagration that greeted us at Volgge Sidora.

Nevertheless, we must endure.  The trauma that plagues this man is our doing, a curse inflicted unwittingly in the Ritual of Apotheosis, and we are accountable for his deeds.  Thus we must end this travesty before the malediction of the Torii falls upon us, or worse, he finds the rift and discharges the latent power we have foolishly instilled in him.

Auglicâ,¬,,¢s mind flares suddenly, and he glides into the light, brandishing his sabre with an agitated flourish.  There is something foul â,¬' do you smell it?  His head darts about like a sparrow and he raises his gauntleted hand to caution our advance.  There was a manifestation here.  The aberration has power still, and it is strongâ,¬Â¦

A terrible grinding tears through the teetering calm and we move instinctively, puissant energies propelling us from the path as it erupts in a shower of liquid stone, heat and sonorous crackling thunder.  I land gently on a branch overhead, my feet pressing and shifting with the canopyâ,¬,,¢s precarious sway to ensure my balance.  My sword is out in an instant, and the mantra rings in my mind, ready for evocation.

There is silence once again.

Tension, and I feel Auglicâ,¬,,¢s rhythmic psychic muttering as he weaves a shroud of darkness around himself and disappears.  I cannot see Younne through the shadow of the canopy, but she curses and once again the silence is sundered as a gunshot reverberates through the woods.

Birds stir and take flight, moulded on impulse from the very air itself: their translucent forms reek of ectoplasm and their wings glint with a razorâ,¬,,¢s edge.  They are upon me, cawing in unnatural tones as they rise above then descend, knife-like pinions extended.  Another shot pierces the night and the bullet strikes home, tearing through the flock in an explosive spray of phantasmal gore, a maddening screech behind it.  I dive with sizzling remnants of those ethereal crows raining down around me, hitting the sodden, fractured earth and rolling into a crouch.

I see Younne now, several yards away.  She stands defiant before an oscillating, fractal riot of distortion; a preposterous anomaly branching in sickening configuration like an aberrant snowflake, its edges raking the air like ravenous hounds and devouring the very space around it.  At the centre of that horrible impossibility is the madman, arms outstretched and hair billowing wildly.  He cries out some joyous exclamation, but the words are lost to the howling of the wind.

We have found him, or rather, he has found us.

The mantra intensifies and my hands illuminate, violet lightning playing across my fingertips. Younne fires once more, the bullet finding empty air as it careens into redundant spaces and is devoured.  A luminous pseudopod lashes out at her and suddenly Auglic is there, seizing her like a falcon might seize its prey and carrying her off into shadow and safety.

Strange pale apparitions parade across my vision, writhing in obscene motion.  The human is calling upon the memory of this place, a memory older than the Oldest Lords and fiercer than this world can stand.

But I have an answer to this madness.


The dirigible rocks erratically under the fierce coaxing of the turbulent winds, and as thunderous spirits howl their challenges into the skies and raindrops like aqueous darts plummet downwards to the churning sea beneath, Sebastian bellows a command that whirls and tumbles in the winds, meeting my ears as a distant murmur: â,¬Å"Orlan! Pull the fVcking lever!â,¬Â

With a jolt I am drawn to my senses, averting my eyes from the brilliant white display that dances and darts hypnotically in the air beyond the deck. I reach for the lever, and with a single jerk wrench it downward, stirring the elemental within the balloonâ,¬,,¢s leathered core and urging it up and onward.

With a groan of futile protestation it complies, drawing the vessel higher still, towards the cackling fury of the lightning-wracked heavens.

And staring into that roiling void as the elemental rises in idiot motion towards oblivion, I swear I see an image of my death; fiends of mindless electric fury descending upon the fragile ship, setting the wooden deck alight and igniting the gaseous spirit within in a sudden explosive discharge of destructive glee.

But we rise ever upward, and soon the cacophonous storm is beneath us, a tranquil sea of glistening stars heralding our ascent.
I fall unconscious then.

I wake later, Sebastian grinning overhead and pointing towards the sea below. â,¬Å"Look, boy.â,¬Â

I clamber to my feet in a nauseated stupor, and, shaking the haze of exhaustion from my eyes, follow his hand.

And there it is at last, a maelstrom at the centre of a placid sea, a vacuous darkness resting in the core of a saline vortexâ,¬Â¦ like an impossibly vast pupil, staring blindly into the sky.

An eye. The world is an eye.

In mere minutes the caravan has disappeared beyond the horizon, a veritable wall of scarlet dust stirring in its wake.  Steeds like colossal horses thunder across the plains: beasts of burden bearing innumerable men upon their backs or hauling grand war machines that rumble and clatter in a terrifying cacophony as they are driven ever onward.  They are moving west, beyond the barren land of Tyr with its violet skies and its crimson soil.

They leave behind a bloodbath.

The township is empty of life.  Corpses litter the empty streets and crows flit back and forth among the dead, not yet feasting, but cawing their unearthly deathsong in the summons of the wraith-kind.

Beside me my companion Malluk grunts in what could be disgust or frustration, maybe both.  He is crouched over one of the corpses, furiously stirring two dark fingers in the dirt beside him.  A small bone protrudes from the side of his pursed mouth, and it clicks and sputters as he chews pensively upon it.

â,¬Å"There was no battle here.  A massacre.â,¬Â  That I could have deduced myself.  Some of the adults hold swords or spears in their hands, but none of their weapons have blood upon them.  More frequently are those whose hands never reached their hilts or hafts, or whose feet never reached the armoury.

And then there are the children, killed in the same fashion.  Their murderers made no distinction, invariably firing from the front, straight for the heart.

My brow furrows.  Ã¢,¬Å"So nothing was taken?â,¬Â

He shakes his shaggy head.  Ã¢,¬Å"There was something.  I can smell it on the wind.â,¬Â  He sniffs the air brusquely, before nodding in confirmation.  Ã¢,¬Å"Something valuable.â,¬Â  He twirls a matted lock of hair as he contemplates, then rises to his feet and strides across the square in the peculiar lope of the malbuchh.

â,¬Å"What could these nomads have that would be worth the attention of the Aggrad Daer?â,¬Â I call to him, limping behind.  The wound from the suri-suri has long healed, but its poison is virulent, and my leg will never again be whole.  Ã¢,¬Å"This is peacetime.  The Rising is ended and the Edicts go unspoiled.  What reasons have the Dustmen for violence â,¬' against peasants, no less?â,¬Â

Malluk parts the Grand Tent and peers inside, pausing and shaking his head.  As I approach he raises a hand to caution me.  Ã¢,¬Å"Do not come, Sulqain, it is not something you wish to see.â,¬Â  His voice is terse and wavering, laced with quiet fury.  He crouches, picks something up from within the tent, then turns and lopes toward me once more.  His eyes burn with a fire I have seen only once before and had hoped never to see again.  I am reminded for the briefest moment of what he his is and what he is here to do, and there is a sudden coldness that swallows the stifling heat of the desert and sends a chill down my spine.

He is holding something, though I cannot discern its shape.

â,¬Å"This marks the end of the Ych Suddrasch.  The malbuchh will go to war.â,¬Â


The shopkeeper is a fat man.  Not terribly so, but enough that his pink paunch spills over his trousers and hugs his sweaty work tunic tight against his chest.  His belly button peeks out from beneath the fabric, and his gut jiggles slightly as he takes a startled step backwards, a pistol now aimed squarely at his chubby face.  He doesnâ,¬,,¢t know exactly what Iâ,¬,,¢m pointing at him â,¬' Iâ,¬,,¢d wager a hundred to one heâ,¬,,¢s never seen a firearm in his life â,¬' but I think he gets the general gist.

â,¬Å"Donâ,¬,,¢t move old son, or tragic things are gonna happen to that pretty face.â,¬Â  Before my boys and I had kicked our way into this dusty convenience store and stirred this chunky bastard from his languid stupor, I wonder what sorry cogitations were working their greasy way through his thick skull.  I doubt he could have conceived this, not in such an unassuming place.  Nevertheless...

Iâ,¬,,¢m now giving the fat man a series of instructions, and the chunky sumbitch is taking his sweet time carrying them out.  His stupefied wife blubs quietly in the corner while he plays it cool.  And itâ,¬,,¢s pissing me off.  He eventually completes his task and hands the hefty sack of dosh to me over the counter. Heâ,¬,,¢s still playing calm, but I can tell heâ,¬,,¢s seething.

I grin, and raise the pistol away from his face.  Ã¢,¬Å"No harm, old son.  Weâ,¬,,¢ll be off then.â,¬Â

He mutters something â,¬' sounds like â,¬Ëbarbariansâ,¬,,¢ â,¬' and I lose it.  Ã¢,¬Å"And you know what you are?â,¬Â  The pistol is once more trained on his chunky-ass, smug little face.  Ã¢,¬Å"Youâ,¬,,¢re dead, dead, dead!â,¬Â  Three perfect shots resound through the cramped shop, complementing my frustrated shout and launching a deluge of crimson gore from his skull.  To my glee some of it spatters on his wifeâ,¬,,¢s dainty floral dress, and she screams.

We are the Sunrazers: hellions, marauders and mercenaries, tearing across somnolent vistas with a foul stink and a raucous hell following close behind.  We arenâ,¬,,¢t for or against society â,¬' weâ,¬,,¢ve traded the fierce antipathy of our youth for the delightfully brutal ambivalence garnered by experience.  We ride our howling motorknives on the fickle wind of chance, and eke out our wild existence beneath a cruel and unforgiving sun on a desert world where tomorrow brings only the promise of blood, sweat and steel.

As we race across the desert a siren accosts our ears like the shrill cry of some dying beast, and I turn in my seat to send a cursory glance behind.  Itâ,¬,,¢s a lawman.  I canâ,¬,,¢t see him yet, but the blaring blue light that cuts through the desert haze in the distance is a dead giveaway, if that god-awful siren wasnâ,¬,,¢t evidence enough.

Orric calls to me over the roar of our motors: â,¬Å"Ready to coast it?â,¬Â

I shake my head, and a fierce excitement stirs in my innards.  Thereâ,¬,,¢s no way Iâ,¬,,¢ll pass this up.  My companion curses in frustration but jerks his motorknife into high gear nonetheless, racing ahead as I veer sharply to the right.  Itâ,¬,,¢s a delicate balancing act keeping the damned vehicle upright as the tail whips around quickly to bring me facing in the opposite direction.  The motor dies for a second, and then purrs again.

I wait a moment as the lawman speeds into view.  His own ride is similar to my own, but not as sleek.  A wavering streak of desert sand rises and churns behind him, and as he draws closer the maddening ululation of the demon-spawned siren grows into a deafening cacophony, until suddenly that harsh cry becomes a voice.

â,¬Å"You are under arrest!â,¬Â

I give the engine a good rev, drawing my pistol from its holster with my free hand.  I laugh, and take steady aim.  Ã¢,¬Å"And you know what you are?â,¬Â  Three perfect shots resound throughout the barren plain.


We move.

Swift and sure, as silent as the deeps, we flit from shadow to shadow.  The waters shift and press at our command, propelling us onward at an unnatural pace and masking our approach.  We sense them, the serpent brood.  They have made their home among our ruins, defiling our temples and profaning our altars.  We taste the sickly sweet taste that can only be the blood of our brethren, and we know that we are close.

They come from the higher, colder places, where the seas do not know the will of the cephalopod kind and the earth-men churn the water with their constructs of ice and stone.  With blasphemous magics the serpent kind shape the deeps to their will, so that the darkness is thicker, oppressive, and the chill water numbs our senses.  We would be blind, were it not for the static hum of the Deep Ones that flares and dissipates in frenzied rhythm, guiding our arms.

We reach the edge of the precipice, and Seven-Arms moves to the fore.  He is venerable and fierce, and his hatred of the chordates is strong.  Ã¢,¬Å"Into the crevasse, Far-Caller.  And you, Whisper-and-Sorrow.â,¬Â

We descend.

The chill in the rift threatens to overwhelm me, and I draw upon the lore of the Progenitors, weaving an aura that charges the atmosphere, warming and energising my shivering limbs.  Far-Caller notes my motion and follows suit.

Onward and downward, deeper and darker.  Only instinct and the whispered instruction of Deep Ones guides us now.

And suddenly there is light.  Far-Caller recoils, darting down and backward with a reflexive pulse of her arms.  Something hurtles forward, glowing and humming as it charges once, and then once again.  Far-Caller is struck, and her ovoid figure illuminates for a moment as her assailant collides with her, and burrows deep.

A Flesh-Taker.

I do not waste another moment, and I chide myself for my instant of hesitation.  Far-Caller is taken now; she is a Host, and so far from our brethren there is no hope of reclamation.  I move back into the recess of the crevasse, waving my arms in a gesture of warding.  The waters respond, solidifying before her advance and resonating with the sudden impact.  The ward dissipates, but I am spared enough time to swim past her stunned form.

The words of the Progenitors are clear: there is no mercy for the Taken.  I must kill the host while the Flesh-Taker is within, lest it live to taint another vessel.

I murmur to the Deep Ones, and they heed my call.  Their thoughts become mine, and the ocean shifts imperceptibly as the Memory of Malice awakens within my soul.  Far-Caller turns to face me, though it is her no longer, and her arms splay outward with a promise of aggression.

I give her no quarter.

The blow, when it comes, is fiercer than I anticipated, blossoming from my core, tearing tendons and muscle, and blistering flesh.  The wave strikes Far-Caller with phenomenal force, and her body ruptures in a sickening explosion of blood, ink, and viscera.

It is only then, when the waters have settled, that I notice the preternatural calm.  The serpent brood waits, and in the shadows of the temple they are callingâ,¬Â¦

What they are summoning, I pray we need never know.

I press on.

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I haven't finished reading them yet, but I must post now to tell you that Dystopia has won my heart, if only because it has no gnomes.

Glad to hear it.  This is really just advertising for my settings, which will appear on these forums in due time.

Gnomes are the bane of my existence, and kender even more so (I have no idea what kender are).

I really dislike gnomes, and I am still trying to work them ut of my setting.  Kender are a mischevious race of naturally-born thieves from the Dragonlance campaign setting.  They are known for their curiosity and sheer dumb luck.  They also use funny weapons and have a predisposition to be a royal pain.

Wow! Angel you've been hard at work over here...I must have spaced out for a bit. I've been logged on the whole time, and never once refreshed the forum.

-Nasty-

I suuuuuure have.  I like this place.  Cosy and accommodating.

hi,

i read through all of them, even though i have a hard time reading 1st-person, and i liked them.

i didnt really get a good feel for the settings i dont think,  but i enjoyed the vignettes the same.

good job (voted for Malluk & Sulqain ).

Yeah, they aren't really here to advertise, just for something to read.  Glad you liked them.

You know I've always been fond of the story of Whisper-and-Sorrow. It's evocative; after reading, I can't help but think about the cephalopods and their struggles, and their strange emotion magic.

Have you checked out my Dystopia thread here, Luminous?  It's a little more ordered than it was on WotC, and it's coming along nicely.  Sadly, Geongensia and the cephalopods are a long way away; the surface lands are going to be detailed first.  Nevertheless, give it a look-see.

(PS: it's in the Campaign Elements and Design section, not Homebrew)