The Campaign Builder's Guild

I'm debating whether or not to proceed with another expansion of that woolly old mammoth, the Red Valor Campaign Setting. I never finished Project 1301, though I used it successfully to run several campaigns. Now I'm moving on to something else, because keeping the setting static bores me.

I have a habit of starting projects and never finishing them, so for now I'm just going to write vignettes and see if the narratives interest me. Hopefully you won't need to have a ton of background in the setting to appreciate the vignettes, but I apologize if they're too invested in the setting's history. That tends to happen.

Quote from: The Death of DecencyThe sky was blood and the earth was bleeding. Angry armies of three races and five nations clashed in the hidden vales of what was, until recently, the proud nation of Eladrannia. Just a year ago, no sovereign power would have dreamed of invading the nation, terrified of the power of its ruler and namesake, the mad elven mage Elador Orvead. But a day before his unprecedented millennial birthday, Elador died unexpectedly, clenching his chest and mumbling incoherently. The world's most powerful mortal and the political power broker of the past three hundred years died with no warning, no long-term defenses, and no legitimate successor. Both of Elador's sons had long ago fled the continent, afraid that Elador's paranoia would lead to their undoing, and even Elador's closest apprentices had found their arcane studies stunted and hindered at every turn by their domineering master.

   With the last bastion of the idealistic days of past and the tenuous balance that had emerged between world powers dead, three armies converged on Eladrannia, each of which was determined to the heartland of the Tare to an already considerable empire. The goblins of Koloth had conquered countless human realms over the past two centuries, and saw the ancestral homeland of the divine Maug family as a necessary addition to their borders. The Holy Kettan Empire of the west, ruled as much by the increasingly zealous Church of Sicloran as the fierce Holy Kettan Emperor, had deployed its army to save the souls of the people of Eladrannia, even if it meant killing them. And the secular Kettan Empire of the east, ever eager to feud with its ideologically opposed twin, wished to demonstrate once again its military might and superiority.

Corphel Ianisier had been one of the few elves to stay after war broke out between these factions. He watched as his brother wizards fled to the distant continent of Delphia, one by one abandoning all that their gracious master had worked centuries to achieve. He had seen the armies multiply and divide as new combatants entered the war, eager to claim the nearly empty territory for whatever cause they served. The Centinian Bank had sent mercenaries in hopes of establishing prime real estate possibilities. The adivi entered the war in hopes of establishing a safe haven from persecution. Corphel had even heard rumors of scouting parties sent by the tribes of the north, though he doubted that those barbarians could remain a cohesive army for very long.

 But for now, Corphel stood on the crumbled ruins of the once-proud Mirna Tower, a beautiful fortress made of ivory and gold. It had been built Artorius Somonus himself, meant to stand as a testament to brotherhood and good will between the races of the Tare. Somonus, regarded as an inspiration by nearly all of the lesser empires to succeed his, ruled with a sense of unity and justice that had posthumously been perverted into a doctrine of isolation and xenophobia. An onyx statue of Artorius stood nearby, its arm outstretched in kindness to a slouched and haggard beggar. It was one of the few symbols of peace that remained unblemished by the horrors of war, and Corphel had vowed to ensure that it remained such.

The sound of hell burned Corphel's ears, and the red-robed elf twirled to face its direction. Acrid smoke filled his lungs as sinewy bits of desperation marched through the black plumes of anarchy and toward his beloved statue. Were they goblins? Kettans? Adivi? It didn't matter. They would not pervert the ideals of Artorius, the life of Elador, or the history of this place. Corphel stretched his arms, screaming an incantation as energy coalesced in his hands. With a flick of his wrist, he bombarded the approaching hordes with burning red orbs, each exploding within the black fog of war.

The blast caused the dead mist to part, and Corphel looked on in horror. The approaching army had been elven, each bearing the standard of the Church of Ainos, a nonviolent god of healing and peace.

A goblin cannonball erupted behind him, shattering the statue of Artorius and the beggar.

The haze of uncertainty overtook Corphel as a piece of black onyx pierced his heart.

Very interesting and well written I think. Look forward to seeing more.

Indeed very interesting. There is an air of utter hopelessness to it (this I like).

I'm not as happy with this one, and it's a lot more violent. You've been warned.

Quote from:  The Death of Corphel IanisierBlack powder flashes as my musket propels little shards of death across the city of Eladon d'Miiraset. Sparks of scarlet life sputter out of fresh human corpses as the gutters fill with filthy blood. Commander says the macabre displays are meant to intimidate the following ranks. There is certainly terror in their eyes, but is it me they fear or the flash of my barrel? I stow the question as I reload and fire again.

   The goblin ranks shift and coordinate as the cannons fire into the shabby fortress the humans have seized. Grimy white elven architecture crumbles beneath superior goblin weaponry. Black strands of smoke curl across their ranks as brick and stone erupt around them, smothering them as though the tendrils of a wispy kraken.  My eyes are bloodshot and itching, but the discomfort is pushed aside as soldiers prepare to rush our position. Their nationality is unknown to me, all of their weapons and flags and faces blend together in one filthy grey bulge.

   Commander orders retreat, but is ambushed by second wing. We must fight. I feel my heart pounding as I attach the bayonet to the barrel. The mist of my musket parts and I see my prey: garbed in blue and wielding swords, these are Siclorians. Holy warriors, in their eyes. Misguided idealists who justify genocide. My pride swells. My body rages.

   Soon, I find myself running through the human ranks, cutting and stabbing at the hamstrings of poorly-armed conscripts. One by one they fall, their azure garb stained with the scarlet spilling from their tender flesh. It is then I realize that I am separated from my company. I bob and weave and slash and gnaw, I claw and growl and kill and stab.  I am standing on a pile of lifeless bodies when the cannons fire again. I take cover behind a black sculpture. Violence erupts around me.

   I survive. The humans are not so fortunate.

   I move to rejoin my company. A twitch of movement catches my eye. I stow my bayonet and load my musket. The motion is of an elf, putrid and only half-alive. I turn away, for he will be dead soon.

   He mutters in a foul tongue. 'This was a place of honor'¦ a monument of valor'¦'

   I pause and turn to him. I look into his uncaring eyes. 'Haven't you heard?'

   I point the musket and pull the trigger. I feel nothing as his life splatters on the yellowed grass. I am walking away, his blood seeping into my shoes.

   'Valor is dead.'

I think I'm going to kill the previous vignette character in the following vignette every time from now on.

I like the second one more.  In fact, I like the second character more.  Sure, kill him off if you must, but I see no reason why his death should be any more ignoble than the elf's.

Quote from: Munchausen's MonkeyI like the second one more.  In fact, I like the second character more.  Sure, kill him off if you must, but I see no reason why his death should be any more ignoble than the elf's.

I liked the character more too, and I definitely don't have a preference for any of the factions I'll be displaying. They will all have their philosophical point, their justifications, and the understandable motives as to why they're fighting the war. But they'll also have the ugly hypocrisy or undercurrent that enables them to take another person's life in the name of whatever cause that is. There won't be any singular hero to root for though, I think that'd be a cop-out when I'm trying to explore a more complex morality.

Quote from: The Stone TempleThe thunder of war could be heard in the distance, but inside Ainos Lurien's underground temple, the stone and masonry hardly rattled. Beneath the granite deposits of Eladrannia, Artorius Somonus had built a secret fortress and shrine to the god Sicloran, its mission to keep a watchful eye on the deceptive Elador Orvead. Now the bunker was again in Siclorian hands, and Ainos would use its protection to win this holy war.

A despicable creature sat before him, its bloated yellow skin and stringy green hair crusted in blood. Two bloodshot eyes glared at him defiantly as green mucus dripped from his mouth. A lesser man would have slain the creature out of disgust. Ainos could only feel pity.

'What is your name and rank?' There was neither a tremble nor quiver in his voice; it was as firm as the rock around him.

'I have told you,' the goblin answered.

Ainos lashed the creature with his whip thirteen times for its insolence. 'This is for your own good. Now answer.'

Blood trickled down the fresh wounds of the goblin's face and scalp. 'Ikris su-Katha, First Huntsman.'

Ainos smiled, the pale yellow light of his lantern bathing his otherwise benevolent expression with malevolent shadows. 'And your unit?'

The goblin turned its head toward a pile of disposed bodies that lay across the chamber. 'Are now a sacrifice.'

Ainos' smile faded. 'Yes, to the God Sicloran and his divine son, the Holy Artorius. They would not repent for their sins.'

The goblin merely sneered. Ainos had hoped that it could see the light, but it seemed the creature was to be damned.

Ainos leaned inward, brandishing his whip. 'Do you accept Sicloran as your god, and repent for your sins?'

'I do not.'

The flash of the whip and the groans of the goblin brought a deadliness to Ainos's eyes. 'Do you accept Sicloran as your god, and repent for your sins?'

'I cannot.'

Ainos growled in rage, and whipped the beast fifty times. He screamed and lashed until his voice was hoarse, until his body was emptied of energy and the bloodied creature before him was nearly dead.

'How can you still deny the glory of Sicloran?'

The goblin laughed chokingly. 'That's the'¦ funny thing about faith'¦ that you humans'¦ cannot understand. If you impose it on another'¦ you're merely admitting'¦ your own uncertainty.'

Ainos's eyes widened. He threw away his whip and pummeled the hapless creature with his fists. Blood spattered on his starched white robes. An explosion from above rocked the temple.

And for the first time, the stone fortress shook.

I really like that last one. Especially the last part that the goblin says (and his response).

I agree, the Goblin's response is great.

Not a vignette this time.

Quote from: Lamentations of a Grieving FatherMy poems, my children, my little boys
Have grown to rape and kill.
They sit and shoot and move up and down
All along the battlefield.

My couplets watch a city burn
As couples' hearts break in turn
My metaphors are drunken murderers,
They convince themselves of their worth in verse.
Personified now is rampant battle,
Given tongue and breath and horse and saddle.
I shape similes as an alchemist works with clay
I mould and press and work all day
From thus shall rise my golem beast
A meter found on all five feet

Hark! Comes now the rhetoric of the poisoned spokesman, his wordy prose convincing young men to die for him. I see my reflection within the pool of valor, muddied and bloodied by the corpses of forgotten sonnets.

Should not I the heart of man consider?
Could not I the lives of men deliver?

What happened to my children, my darling little boys?
How could I have saved them from being deadly toys?
Why didn't I speak up while they still had a voice?

Quote from: The Sins of the SonMy name is Akili Caine.

   I am the bastard child of colonialism.

   My father was a Vestinite soldier who was reluctant to be stationed in the remote deserts of the continent of Dontorr. He was a loyal officer with a wife and kids back home, but the longing for companionship and the need to be needed can drive a man to extremes. He took what he wanted and made what he could in a place he never asked to be from people he never asked to meet.

   My mother was a Dekarran nationalist whose father was murdered by thugs acting in the name of the colonial Governor. She wore the blood red turban and the violet robes of the separatist fighters of the colony, allowing her heart to turn cold and her mind to turn hateful. She could never accept anything but violence and destruction within her life.

   The details of their union are unknown to me. I cannot say if they happened to meet and fall in love, allowing their passions to overcome their diametrically opposed sensibilities. I cannot say if a soldier so far from home allowed his urges to propel him to a heinous act outside his station and outside his conscience. I cannot say if a radical activist seduced an Imperial influence in order to offer a more compelling narrative to construct her resistance.

   All I can say is that I am a product of a father who never wanted me and a mother who could never stand the sight of me. When his commission expired, Randolph Amelius Caine returned to his homeland on a distant continent and left my mother and me without so much as acknowledging our existence. My mother abandoned me in a crowded marketplace on a dusty afternoon with a loaf of bread and a small sack of silver. She couldn't even say goodbye.

   I spent the next week living in the alleyways of a city, stealing what I needed to survive and avoiding shopkeeps and soldiers. I had already learned the key lessons of survival from living as a nomad, but now they became the only laws to which I would abide by.  I ate desperation, drank necessity, and breathed dejection. In thirteen days, I had become a filthy, spiteful dog, a subhuman monstrosity intent on only the basest sense of survival. To be is to exist, to need is to live. To think is to do.

   The laws of man eventually conquered the laws of nature, and I was captured and caged, trained into an attack animal of the state. I was armed with sword and shield and bread and wine. I was told who to murder and who to protect, told how to think and what to believe. The thought of asking questions- the question of self and all those that stem from it- never occurred, as I had never been conditioned to ask it. Enlightenment, if such a thing exists, may be spontaneous, but if the ability to look into yourself is robbed by a controlling master, its occurrence is likely preventable. And that is the wish of the commander, to ensure his little toys do not object when their heart conflicts with what their bodies and minds are told to do. When a man can walk in a street running with blood and feel only the loss of traction beneath his boot, he is everything the powers of Imperialism could hope for. He is the perfect clockwork soldier for the perfect clockwork army.

   Eventually, this blissful cycle was thrown out of balance. A cadre of protestors, clad in scarlet turbans and purple robes, stood between an enemy of the state and the squad I served. It would not be the first time Dekarran blood had whetted my blade. I moved to strike down the radicals, eager as a Remardian warhound cut from his leash, and I did not flinch when bone and muscle were loosed from my enemy's flesh. I stabbed and slashed as they squealed and screamed, and it was only after I had killed the last one that I paused. I looked to the head upon the dirt road, looked into its accusing dead eyes.

   It was the face of my mother, still in awe at the betrayal of her womb.

   It was the horror of her people at what my heritage had allowed me to become.

   I dropped my sword and ran. I ran until I realized I had nowhere to go. I could no longer serve the Vestin Royal Army, my heart awakened and my mind appalled. I could not hope to be embraced by the Dekarran people, my crimes and evils too heavy to consider forgiveness. I was a Vestinite to the Dekarrans and a Dekarran to the Vestinites, a curse that drove me into the sweeping dunes of the arid wild. The sands of Dontorr would bury my sin, or so I hoped.

   Instead I found a fraternity, a brotherhood of outcasts, a ragtag group of fellow nonentities who only together embodied an identity.  Although I was still Akili Caine, cursed by the circumstances of my birth, I could now be something more. I was a wild dog still, but I had now found my pack.

I was part of something now. I was a component to a greater being. I was a Ghazi Warrior.

   My thoughts and reservations were encouraged while amongst my new companions. We discussed atonement, divinity, the nature of man. We lived by tenets and holy rules, not because they were imposed on us, but because we elected to approach perfection through veneration and the denial of vice. We never harmed any man except in the defense of the helpless, but never the self. A Ghazi would rather die than lift a sword in self-defense.

   And they did. My brothers in blade, who so perfected the art of swordsmanship, were all murdered mercilessly on a cold desert night. I had been scouting for a source of water, away for days with little fortune, and had only been spared by circumstance. My every purpose in this world had been wiped away as quickly as a desert dune in the hot afternoon wind.

   I fled. I left Dontorr and its deserts. I left Dekarra and its people. I left the world I knew behind to address the source of the senseless hate I had encountered.

   I came to the Tare to find my father. I went to Vestin and caused an uproar as I searched for him. His family, the one he had wanted, told me where to find him. They were sympathetic and apologetic for their ignorance of my existence. My response was likely curt and venomous.

   But now I had a place to go. Now I had a purpose. I could now point a guilty finger at the source of my existence.

   And so I made my way to the mercenary corps that Randolph Amelius Caine commanded.

   And so I made my way to Eladrannia, where he and his soldiers lurked within the blackpowder mist and above the bloodied marshes. I stared into my reflection within the blood of deadened elves and swore to find the man who fathered the ugly face of war.

That was incredibly moving as a story (then I saw your avatar and laughed so hard that I had to read it again to catch the mood). Good work :)

I don't think we've heard the last from Akili Caine or Ainos Lurien.