ELDRITCH EARTH

[Steerpike]

ELDRITCH EARTH

The time: the 32nd Epoch of the Seventh Supereon, in the Age of the Myrmecoleon.

The place: the planet Earth, more commonly referred to by her old names - Zaeme, Gaia, Ashratu, Jorth.

The planet is sparsely inhabited, peopled by strange beings.  The remaining humans, few in number, are universally sorcerers: immortal spell-casters who prefer the solitude of their towers and hidden fortresses to the once-teeming cities that dot the largely barren world.  The sorcerers have unlocked the secrets of the universal source-code called the Weft - the primal sea of esoteric variables seething beneath the skin of the Real.

Other creatures, though more numerous than the sorcerers, still tend to be scattered and solitary.  Small settlements and villages prevail over bustling metropolises, though many bands of individuals, humanoid or otherwise, have set themselves up in the beautiful husks of otherwise abandoned cities.  Many creatures have transcended the physical world altogether, abandoning the planet and the plane for other realities and Emanations; others have retreated into exclusive dream-worlds, or traded their flesh for bodies of gilded steel.  Local and personal conflicts tend to dominate over political ones - sortilege, in combination with the low population numbers, having ushered in an age of relative abundance, thus diffusing the territorial and economic struggles that once held the planet in a stranglehold.  Blood is far more likely to be shed over metaphysical disagreement than material goods.

Adventure

Adventure comes in a bewildering variety of forms:

Soar the scarred skies atop gargoyles or in orbs of arcane glass propelled by thought, to plunder floating cities infested with eyries of anthrophagic alkonosts or poach game that can phase into etheric dimensions in the misty arboretums of giants who live in the hearts of storms.

Wander realities where one's will becomes fact, or where civilizations ride on the backs of bestial colossi, or where the primary lifeforms are sapient colours.

Converse with entities of coagulate consciousness, with disembodied heads, with the stern Metafolk; riddle with the phanin and swap jokes with the Plasm.

Debate philosophies with your fellow sorcerers in their luxurious manors, fight duels for the favours of many-armed maidens, splice unlikely species together on a whim, or classify the multifarious fauna of the Gallsmoke Jungles.

Sail through the Astral Voidscape in a vessel of bones and tattooed drake-leather, venture into the squirming streets of the Liquescent Cities that roam the plains of Xench, and fight off hordes of crystalline devils from the ailing planes of the Outermost Gyre.

All this and more awaits you - so grab your grimoire, don your Robe of Incandescent Negation, cram a few arcane syllogisms into your sensorium and set off to explore the Eldritch Earth!

[ic=Pharouc Phell]Beneath a sky awash with the phantasmagoric colours of an overripe sunset, Volderean clutched the reins of his Zyz-bird and wheeled down towards the tower of Pharouc Phell - an elegant spire that appeared to be carved out of a single piece of sunstone, having been grown by the mystic jewel-gardeners of long lost Cxirr.  The tower - Volderean's home and laboratory - glittered scintillatingly in the bruised penumbra of oncoming twilight, throwing a thousand crystalline shadows across the slopes of the Tanglestone Mountains and the knotted canopies of Sepulchre Wood below, where the ailuranthropes that the Almanac of Shades, Wraiths, and Spectres termed 'panther-ghouls' would even now be sloughing off their human guises, swapping their skins for the shadowy pelts of luridly patterned hunting-cats.  Beyond the mountains stretched the echoing plains of Xench; in the far distance a vague glimmer marked the far-off Tomb Coasts and the green and haunted Dervish Sea, where the nereids basked and the brine-wisps sung their weird laments to drowned civilizations.

'Alight at the uppermost terrace,' Volderean instructed, twitching the reins again.  'I believe I shall take my refreshment in the Amber Library this evening.'

'Are you sure you would not prefer a warm bath first, perhaps with the addition of aromatic oils?'  The Zyz-bird spoke with the peculiar croaking accent of all avian creatures.  'I cannot fail to notice a certain pungency or chife about your person - no doubt the ineluctable consequence of a day spent chasing sylphs through the Empyrean Forests of the Cloud-Lords.'

'Impertinent beast!'  Volderean chided.  'Did I nurture you from a hatchling on human milk and ambrosia to be repaid with insults?  Why give you the gift of speech if you use it only for rudeness and disrespect?'

'Very well, master; the uppermost terrace it is.'  The bird chuckled in its throat, and banked in its final descent.  Presently, Volderean dismounted from his lacquered saddle, patting the bird's glinting metallic beak with grudging affection.  As he turned towards the arched entrance to Pharouc Phell a robed figure shuffled hurriedly out of the gloom and across the terrace towards the sorcerer and his mount.  This was Os-Kru, one of Volderean's familiars: a somewhat peevish if obedient creature formed out of elemental salt, giving it a glistening, angular cast.  Its eyes were large, luminous, and white.

'Master Volderean,' Os-Kru huffed.  'The sorcerer Lurmecelt arrived in your absence, appearing on the front steps of Pharouc Phell by means of etheric tunnelling.  He demanded, in no particular order, an audience with your person, a decanter of your finest cinderwine, and access to your libraries and workrooms.  When the foremost proved impossible and the lattermost was denied him he grew irate; we supplied him amply with the middle request, however, and he has ensconced himself in the third level parlour drinking and threatening the staff with arcane disembowelment and dimensional bifurcations all afternoon.'

Volderean tsked irritably, removing his gloves and handing them to the familiar.  

'Very well; alert Lurmecelt that I will see him after I have changed my garments,' the sorcerer announced, absently wiping his rune-etched spectacles on his sleeve.

A half hour later, freshly garbed in tunic and hose of opalescent moonsilk (spun from the threads of Callistoan rime-spiders), boots of soft drake-leather, and a cape embroidered with a map of the Astral Voidscape, Volderean descended to the third floor parlour, an expansive chamber with a vaulted ceiling, lit by soft lamps each bound with a diminutive sprite of bluish flame.  Lurmecelt was sprawled on a plush divan of crimson leather, drinking sherry from a gem-encrusted goblet and awaiting Volderean.

'At last you appear,' the former sorcerer declared.  'I'm not sure which was the greater concern - that some ill fortune might have befallen you, or that I would soon exhaust your cellar.'

'You may rest assured on both counts: my person is intact and Pharouc Phell's cellars go down for several levels.  In addition I maintain a small pocket-plane exclusively for the storage of a few especially select vintages.'

'My anxieties are much relieved.'  Lurmecelt stroked his well-trimmed beard, dyed blue and plaited into two forks.  'Now - the reason for my visit.'

'In point of fact,' Volderean interrupted.  'If this matter can wait, I customarily take my repast at this hour.  You are welcome to dine with me; then, after our meal, we may discuss whatever has brought you here over hookahs filled with rosewater and dreamskein.'

'That would be most amenable.'

The two sorcerers repaired to the dining hall of Pharouc Phell: a long room with large, triangular windows of bubbled glass facing the setting sun whose rays, refracted through the windows, stippled the hall with light and shadow, giving the place a bioluminescent character like that of a grotto or moon-dappled grove.  Here, served by a trio of nubile cave-nymphs (whisked away from their subterranean home with promises of fantastic wealth after a decade-long indenture) clad only in diaphanous silks and strings of onyx gems, the pair supped on a variety of dishes: roast peafowl, stewed plums, sweetmeats, ripe cheeses from Old Doluk, and candied insects, washed down with a bottle of spiced wine.

After their meal the pair retired to a room Volderean called the Vermillion Lounge, after the reddish tapestries hung on the walls.  Various other objects adorned the Lounge: a stuffed dwarf manticore, a caged imp that told lewd jokes when fed, a rack of blades forged in black fires by the troglodytic swordswmith Magnoi the Mordant, and similar artefacts.  A chamberlain with features half blue, half red provided the two sorcerers with baroque pipes.  The pair settled in and began to smoke.

'Now that we are refreshed,' Volderean began, 'What brings you to Pharouc Phell?'

'It is a matter of no small significance.  Though not immediately urgent, it may soon become so.'

'Your crypticisms and prevarications, Lurmecelt, though tantalizing, are somewhat wearisome,' Volderean said, blowing a smoke ring.  'Please: proceed to the grist of the matter.'

'Pardon - I have been perusing the Annals of Twerc-Xoera excessively of late, and her style is unpardonably floribund.  Are you familiar with the Gibbering Army, native to the paraphysical reality Jangrel names '˜Quorrim'?  They rampaged across Zaeme during the 27th Epoch.'

'Sadly my knowledge of the history of that era is somewhat inadequate: though the name is familiar, my memory fails me as to the particulars.'

'They were a barbarian army from one of the deteriorating dimensions of the Outermost Gyre, led by the warlord Moreach the Many-Mouthed.  Quorrim has since fallen into the Nethermost abysm of the Nihility, to be rent apart by the Entropic Reapers - but, through a contrivance of the magi of the 27th Epoch, the soldiers of the Gibbering Army remain alive to this day.'

'A Field of Stasis?'

'No.'  Lurmecelt shook his head.  'The Army are too many for such a difficult spell; to create a Field of sufficient size to contain them thus would be beyond even our own capabilities.  Instead, as the Army advanced on the city of Ghelderetch - this was well before the days of the Basilisk Dominion - the magi erected a Zone of Temporal Torpor.  The Army was not halted, but time has become locally sluggish around them, slowed to an infinitesimal crawl.  Their progress is so slow as to be invisible to the naked eye, but over the long roll of centuries and millennia they have crept towards Ghelderetch, oblivious of their plight.  They experience time as if mere hours have passed, when in fact it has been many thousands of years.

'The Zone is held in place with eldritch nodes fashioned from shards of ensorcelled nephrite.  Though these nodes have long endured, the enchantments placed on them have begun to fray.  Consequently, the Zone's effects are weakening, the boundaries beginning to ebb, becoming porous.  Normal time is leaking in, and the Gibbering Army are beginning to quicken.  Even now, if one watches closely, one can see their eyelids twitch, their limbs slowly rise and fall, their teeth gnash in bloodthirsty anticipation.  Every now and then a spurt of normalized time causes one of them to momentarily accelerate to regular speed.  At the current rate the Zone will fail completely in seven centuries and the spell will dissipate.'

'Seven centuries?  Lurmecelt, while I find your foresight praiseworthy, I would hardly classify the Zone's collapse as an immediate worry.'

'Unfortunately, there is more to the predicament than I have thus far expounded.'  Lurmecelt inhaled deeply, savouring the heady, gently psychotropic tingle of the dreamskein.

'Ah?'

'As you may be aware, Volderean, I have been known to dabble in nephomancy, ceraunoscopy, and austromancy.'

'Indeed: I was in attendance at the last conference of Precognitive Harmony at Ythan-Xim, when you gave an excellent paper on the dispositions of anticyclonic tempests when animated with elementally charged ions.'

'Aha!  I appreciate your commendations!  But I digress: as I was saying, I have some passing familiarity with the movements of cloud formations and the prediction of weather patterns, and I have noted the nascence of a sizeable storm brewing over the Sea of Fables.'

'My apologies, but how are storms relevant to the Gibbering Army and their Zone of Temporal Torpor?'

'Because the storm's path is coincident with the Vibrant Quag, where residues from the Prismatic Cataclysm still cling about the half-sunken monoliths.  The storm will inevitably stir up these lingering energies and become infused with arcane potency, generating a fluxwind.  When, in a month's time, the resultant weather intersects with the Zone of Temporal Torpor, the consequences could be dire.'

'Could the Zone not simply absorb the fluxwinds' negative effects?'

'Perhaps in an earlier Epoch; but now, already strained, I fear that the winds will play havoc with the Temporal aberrance.  Who knows what could happen?  The enchantment dissipating would be the least disastrous result.  Time inside the Zone might accelerate drastically, or even implode, ripping open the sutures between dimensions or rupturing causality.  Whatever the case, the Gibbering Army and their arcane prison pose a potential threat to our security, unless something is done to arrest the fluxwinds or otherwise deal with the situation.'

'I am in agreement.  Have you brought this matter to the attention of the Margaritaceous Council, or perhaps the Chronomancers of Manifold Omination?'  Volderean coughed, exhaling wisps of purplish smoke from his nostrils.

'The Chronomancers, a notoriously quarrelsome lot, are all members of the Synod of Cosmogonic Concordance, and so are currently locked in debate in the mansion of Koldus Kael for their centennial brawl over the genesis of the multiverse; I considered interrupting their deliberations but, I admit, feared their scorn.  The last churl to breach the sanctity of the Synod was encapsulated for two hundred years in a bloodstone broach-pin, as I recall.'

'And the Council?  They have been known to wield considerably power when necessary.'

'Several Entropists have seats on the Margaritaceous Council.  If they learned of the impending conflagration between the fluxwinds and the Zone of Temporal Torpor they would almost certainly do everything possible to hasten the event, in hopes of creating a vortex to the Graveyard of Worlds.  They might even attempt to summon an Asura, to help speed the process.'

'An excellent point, and one that I had not considered.  Clearly I am out of touch with the politicking of my colleagues.'

'Not to worry.  In any event, what is your advice?'

'Hmm.  There are numerous variables to tabulate and a number of strategies we might enact.  I suggest that we consult with the phrenai of Lloru, and perhaps with Illix Vaen: though his aesthetic predilections are distasteful he is no Entropist, and may be of great assistance.  In principle, however, three broad possibilities recommend themselves: 1) We prepare contingencies to deal with the Gibbering Army and then dispel the Zone of Temporal Torpor ourselves, to prevent unpredictable results when the fluxwinds manifest, 2) We somehow dredge particles of the opposite polarization as those in the fluxwinds and attempt to negate their effects.  I know of a certain neighbouring reality where such particles can be found in the effluvia of various squamous, polycephalic beings of considerable size, which the Xenonomicon classifies as the '˜Thamyzian Hydra,' or 3) We bolster the strength of the Zone in the hopes of augmenting it sufficiently to ward off the fluxwinds entirely.'

'Your assessment is astute and decisive: I heartily endorse your suggestions!  Now - where shall we begin?'

'If I understood your predictions correctly, the fluxwinds will not become dangerous for several weeks at least.'  Volderean reached for another coal to replenish his pipe and nodded to the chamberlain to fetch more dreamskein and fresh rosewater.

'That is correct,' Lurmecelt assented.

'In that case, I suggest we begin with a cup of potent and fortifying chrysanthemum tea mixed with brandy, and I shall have Os-Kru prepare us a midnight feast in the library, where we begin our research!  If we do indeed voyage to Thamyz we will need to fend off hordes of silicate insectoids, according to Perelund's Gazetteer of the Intermediate Gyre, and thus must be suitably furnished with spells both protective and deleterious.  I have several folios in mind..."[/ic]
[ooc]This is something of a spiritual sequel to the Cadaverous Earth, which isn't retired but is lying fallow for awhile.  It's similarly far-future but less dystopian in tone - also a lot higher magic.  A few things in my mind inspiration-wise:

Magic: The Gathering
Rhialto the Marvelous
Chronicles of Amber
Howl's Moving Castle
Planescape
Wizard (Salacious Angel)
Broken Verge (Cataclysmic Crow)
Gnosticism (pretty badly mutilated)
Transhumanism[/ooc]

[SA]

Kick. Ass.

I was gonna do this. Now I don't have to. I'll contribute ideas though.

[Steerpike]

Ethnographic Survey

[ic=Lloru]The city of Lloru, though mostly forsaken and empty, had not fallen into ruin; its buildings were constructed of an unearthly, mortar-less stone shaped with murmurs of force and whispered insinuations rather than hammer and chisel, and its smooth, uncanny contours were unblemished by cracks, fissures, or intrusive vines.  The wards were lain out in a pattern not immediately obvious to human visitors: the streets coiled and meandered in unexpected and unsymmetrical whorls, twisting and brachiating and winding over one another.  Above the avenues slender bridges arched at improbable angles, linking the tilting, bulbous-topped spires, which resembled gargantuan waterpipes. Below, odd statues of what were either abstract forms or decidedly strange beasts gathered dust in forlorn quadrangles.

The two sorcerers Volderean and Lurmecelt entered Lloru mounted on the six-legged equines called gyldfaxi, handsome steeds stabled at Pharouc Phell that could travel across land, sky, and sea with equal efficacy, moving with a queasy, blurred rapidity that left the eyes sore and the air bruised.  As they passed beneath the massive gates of the all but abandoned city they slowed to a canter.

'The city appears desolate,' Lurmecelt commented, eyeing the gaping doorways and windows with scepticism.

'Indeed,' Volderean replied.  'Lloru's original inhabitants were consumed by a wasting illness during the last Age: a virulent and incurable disease known as the Fading Flux, or Wraith-Plague.  The disease was conceived in the Phage-Vats of the Apocalypticists of Moribb - fell warlocks dedicated to the Sallow Veil, whose eldritch methods combined radical sorcery with certain unholy sciences gleaned from the Shadowed Epochs when technology held humanity in its steely grasp.  The contagion caused those affected to gradually dissipate into immateriality by means of progressive etheric displacement.  A non-painful but still unpleasant fate.'

'I concur.  The warlocks were forcibly disbanded, I take it?'

'By a crusade of reptilian war-priests, the Viridian Neonates, whose descendents can still be found in the Vibrant Quag, Marrow Marsh, and other wetland locales, though they have degenerated into primitivism.  Rumours persist that some of the Apocalypticists survived the assaults and fled to secret fastnesses beneath Zaeme's crust, where even now they devise new toxins in their infernal breweries.'

'A somewhat unlikely but still not impossible conjecture.  Perhaps we should organize an expedition into known cave-systems to ascertain the truth or falsity of such legendry'¦'

'Possibly an interesting and worthwhile undertaking, but for now we have other matters to attend to.  Come!  The phrenai cluster make their residence in a palatial structure whose original use is uncertain but which they have proclaimed the '˜Shrine of Aberenaacht the God-Whale.'  Do not ask me why: the phrenai are unusual beings with curious spiritual doctrines replete with bizarre deities, which often as not are merely metaphors for obscure mathematical phenomena.'

Lurmecelt nodded his assent and the two continued deeper into Lloru.  The sun was still low and so threw long, black shadows which filled the snarled streets with pools of viscous gloom.  Their gyldfaxi trotted with relative slowness while the sorcerers observed the city's melancholy grandeur with detached appreciation.  They were exchanging opinions on Lloru's architecture when a huge form stalked into view across a street ahead, then turned to stare at the two humans and their mounts.  Broadly speaking it had a feline aspect, resembling a tiger the size of a small house.  Its fur was striped with prolix, fluctuating patterns that fluoresced a multitude of vivid colours; its tail twitched to and fro.  Three pairs of huge, delicately veined wings like those of some titanic dragonfly emerged from behind its shoulder blades.  The sorcerers immediately halted.

'A shimmercat,' Volderean whispered to Lurmecelt.  'Do not move; perhaps it will pass us by if we do not perturb it.'  At that moment one of the gyldfaxi, catching sight of the enormous cat, whinnied in alarm and thrust out its long, purple tongue - a defensive display.  Unfortunately this mechanism had the opposite than intended effect on the shimmercat, which immediately assumed a crouching stance, in preparation for a pounce.

'It appears to have adopted a predatory posture,' Lurmecelt commented.  'Have you any spells?'

'One that may be of utility: a jinx that emits a spray of glowing venom, Perelund's Poisonous Pulse.  And yourself?'

'A charm that may stun or at least alarm the creature.  I also possess a headband bound with ensorcelled opal stones, which can project a Cube of Negation.  Could we not withdraw instead?  Our gyldfaxi would likely outpace the shimmercat.'

'And be deterred by a mere animal?  Such behaviour would be ungallant in the extreme!  I will ready the Pulse; prepare to activate your headband as necessary.'

The massive beast emitted a low purr that resonated along the ground like a small earthquake.  The not-so-gentle tremor had a hypnotic effect: both sorcerers had to fight off a sudden lethargy that suffused their limbs and dulled their minds.  The shimmercat's fur changed colours rapidly as its rear legs bunched.  Then it sprang, its gossamer wings whirring into sudden motion, gleaming claws suddenly extended, fangs bared!

Volderean intoned an arcane phrase and thrust out his fingers in a complicated gesture: a stream of luminous droplets burst from his fingertips towards the oncoming shimmercat.  The beast ducked and rolled out of the way with a roar, and the caustic spray merely obliterated a nearby column.

Lurmecelt, alarmed at the quickly approaching monstrosity on insect wings, began to yelp out the syllables of his own spell.  The shimmercat, humming through the air with startling speed, made a grotesque retching sound in its throat; its jaws opened, and it vomited forth a gob of pinkish electricity.  The ball lightning hurtled towards the two sorcerers; the mounts reared and dashed in opposite directions, interrupting Lurmecelt's spell and preventing him from activating his Cube of Negation.

The shimmercat hovered above Volderean, who had tumbled from his saddle in the chaos after his gyldfaxi had bolted.  The beast growled and prepared to strike, its claws glinting; Volderen raised his hands above his head in alarm, shielding himself - but the blow never fell.  He lowered his hands and looked up to see the shimmercat suspended before him, growling and struggling against invisible bonds.

There was a weird rippling in the air and five small shapes manifested about them, levitating in the air.  They resembled disembodied heads of indeterminate sex, with skins of pastel complexion: pale green, blue, turquoise, and purple, with dark, white-irised eyes and hair of metallic colouration.  They circled about the shimmercat, muttering to themselves and staring intently at the beast.  The cat hissed; its hackles rose; its shifting pelt changed hues and patterns at tremendous speed.  The heads narrowed their eyes and raised the volume of their voices: the shimmercat was pinioned by telekinetic force.  There was a hideous wrenching sound, followed by a series of loud pops, and the shimmercat screamed like a man being tortured.  Volderean watched as the animal's limbs and torso were wrenched and twisted first one way, then another.  The heads' chant reached a crescendo and the shimmercat was abruptly and almost comically ripped apart.  Blood and viscera rained down; Volderean scrambled aside to avoid staining his boots.  The floating heads were silent.

'Greetings, Capitis Primus,' Volderean said, getting to his feet and inclining his head towards one of the heads, a gaunt-cheeked being with a singular glyph on its forehead, a tattoo or a birthmark or a ritual scar.  'Your assistance is greatly appreciated.'

'Greetings, Volderean,' the head - one of the phrenai - replied in an echoing monotone.  'You seemed in a state of not inconsiderable distress: our intervention was necessary following the dictates of empathy.  What is the reason for your presence in Lloru, if my question is not impertinent?'

'I came to consult with you, in point of fact,' Volderean explained.  'May I present my associate, the sorcerer Lurmecelt.'  Lurmecelt staggered towards them, still dazed from the shimmercat's attack.  The phrenai swivelled in place and nodded in his direction.  'He has discovered an unfortunate eventuality with potentially disastrous consequences: an unstable Zone of Temporal Torpor which may be discombobulated by incipient fluxwinds.'

This information caused the phrenai to group together in a clump; no words were exchanged, but they stared at one another intently.

'Very well,' the one Volderean had called Capitis Primus declared after a moment.  'Come this way - we shall lead you to the Shrine of Aberenaacht.'[/ic]
Humanity

Homo sapiens sapiens would be all but unrecognizable to their ancestors.  Those few humans who persist on the dwindling, mutilated continents of the world are not the frail and mortal ape-things that once raised their crude metal cities and killed each other by the thousand in countless petty squabbles.  Having conquered the tyrannical demons of age and disease, fulfilled the eternal quest of alchemy with the distillation of the ambrosial immortality-nectar amrita, and rediscovered the ancient, long-forgotten secrets of sortilege or sorcery, humanity has transcended most of its prior limitations.  Few in number but great in power, the remaining humans are universally sorcerers (unless one counts the forever-slumbering Ataraxians): all but immortal beings of tremendous power.  Gone is the age of cities and nations, of races and religions and strife.  Sorcerers live solitary lives, dwelling almost exclusively in sequestered towers, hidden hermitages, or even private dimensions, attended by hand-crafted homunculi cultured in arcane spawning-baths, ornate golems with jewelled eyes and velvet-padded fingers, otherworldly servitors bound to bodies of clockwork and crystal, and similar sorcerous retainers.  Dedicating themselves variously to experiment, study, or hedonistic pursuits, Sorcerers are regarded with a mixture of dread and awe by the other denizens of the world - and of these there are many.

Scions

Most numerous are the Scion races: species descended from ancient humans who have been warped and twisted either by arcane design or by the seething, chaotic energies that wrack the planet, unintended by-products of sorcerous experimentation.

Possibly least humanoid of the Scion are the metameric phanin: long bodied, chitin-plated things like enormous centipedes with incongruously anthropoid heads, known for their cryptic mode of speech, their extreme cunning, and their off-putting, detritovorous appetites.  The phanin, lacking arms and hands, do not build, preferring to squat in the half-ruinous cities of elder civilizations, now degenerated or otherwise defunct - the citadels of the long-collapsed Cxirr empire carved from gigantic gemstones; the dormant Astral ziggurat-towns of the wayfaring zirach who left the plane for realms unknown, whose windows sometimes look out onto alien landscapes and whose doors, when fitted with the proper keys, lead to unlikely places; the forsaken palaces of the decadent psylirians, their fountains stagnant, their guardian-statues sealed in stony slumber.  The phanin (who are mostly solitary creatures) delight in codes and ciphers, in secrets and obscure knowledge; they are much prized for their savant-like grasp of patterns and hidden messages, and so are sometimes sought out by sorcerers seeking the answers to arcane puzzles or translations of otherwise unintelligible texts.  How exactly the phanin came into being is unknown; some believe they were cursed by a vengeful deity as punishment for an esoteric blasphemy, others that they were born out of the Prismatic Cataclysm of long ago.

More sinister if less outwardly repulsive than the chittering phanin are the once-human beings who call themselves the Metafolk.  Formerly possessing bodies of flesh and blood, the Metafolk long abandoned their organic forms in favour of gilded metal bodies complete with incredibly prolix machine-brains, each programmed with an exact simulacrum of the former human's own mind.  The transcendence of the Metafolk preceded the refinement of amrita, the eternity-tincture variously imbibed, snorted, or otherwise absorbed by sorcerers.  Though not bodiless per se, the Metafolk are deprived of the worldly, physical pleasures they once enjoyed, leading many to madness and mental corruption.  Some, however, have staved off such dementia and have fully embraced their new condition, building towering cities of glittering glass and metal with the aid of non-sentient, mechanistic serfs.

Similar and yet quite distinct from the oft-ascetic Metafolk are the Somnolites or Ataraxians, a group of humans who have forsaken waking reality altogether in favour of an elaborate universe known as Ataraxia.  The Ataraxians withdrew en masse to remote, well-hidden palaces (often deep underground), entombing themselves in gorgeous sarcophagi graven with mystic runes.  These sarcophagi hold their occupants in a state of suspended animation while projecting their consciousnesses into Ataraxia, a realm of infinite malleability and pleasure, changeable with a mere act of will, resembling a collective lucid dream.  Unlike the Metafolk, who hold the flesh in contempt, the Somnolites are hedonistic, obsessed with sensation - though in their case such experiences are technically wholly psychic rather than physical.  Some sorcerers have constructed sarcophagi of their own or have devised other means of entering Ataraxia in order to converse with the Somnolites, though unsurprisingly such beings are rather aloof and disdainful of 'reality.'

In some senses closer to their original human ancestors are the nocturnal people known as 'Starbloods,' or nebuloids, who look much like humans save for their total hairlessness, their large eyes and ears, and the complicated starry patterns that swirl beneath their skins, eerily mobile birthmarks that shine faintly through their void-black flesh.  Affected profoundly by the alignments and positions of the stars above, nebuloids have varying dispositions depending on the current constellations and planets overhead, whose movements consequently cause nebuloid society to enter different distinct seasons.  When the hunter Grixion is at its zenith, for example, the nebuloids are filled with a zeal for the chase and the kill, while when the lovers Vorla and Uldir enter the sky the Starblood mating season begins.  As such their civilization is quite mutable; they tend to lead semi-nomadic lives, though permanent nebuloid settlements are not wholly unknown.

Then there are the outright bizarre beings called the phrenai: humans who have discarded their bodies almost entirely and exist only as genderless heads possessing meticulously cultivated eldritch abilities, such as telekinesis, levitation, etheric phasing, and mesmerism.  Phrenai filter-feed on arcane particles and draw sustenance from the ether; they need not drink, eat, or otherwise consume, and obviously they feel no sexual urges, though occasionally they do form close, quasi-intimate companionships with one another.  These strange, cerebral creatures reproduce through an asexual 'head-birth,' their young literally erupting through their foreheads, generally killing the parent; the newly born child will, however, possess all the memories of its ancestors.  Not surprisingly phrenai culture is extremely odd; most devote themselves predominantly to the study of esoteric problems of some variety.  Sorcerers are frequently friends with them, though the phrenai usually consider most sorcerers frivolous creatures too fettered by bodily impulses.

These few are but a small smattering of the innumerable beings that make the elder Earth their home.  A more exhaustive catalogue of exhumans, quasihumans, pseudohumans, parahumans, demihumans, and other Scions can be found in Solomon Umberglass' Anthropic Compendium, though some are also detailed in the more variegated bestiary by Ezrai Sprakehurst, the Xenonomicon, especially Volume III, which deals exclusively with sapient species.

Non-Humans

While most of the intelligent races of Zaeme can trace their lineage back to humanity one way or another, plenty of sapient entities that live on the planet do not.  In addition to extradimensional creatures (see below), there are numerous species indigenous to this plane that possess roughly human-level (or higher) intelligence.

Creatures of elemental acid, the beings called vitriomorphs, also known as the Plasm, are distinctly sarcastic creatures known for their cutting wits, their amorphous bodies, and their biological immortality.  Physically they resemble gelatinous blobs that can reshape their bodies into any configuration they desire (they have enough surface tension to hold and manipulate objects); they can also change their colour, the equivalent of their facial expressions.  Various organ-analogues appear as swirls of colour suspended in their bodies.  The Plasm reproduce entirely asexually, simply splitting into two through fission, producing two identical copies of themselves.  However, they can also amalgamate, with two or more individuals combining their consciousnesses.  It is probable that there was one original vitriomorph (probably a sorcerer's experiment, escaped or set loose) from which all modern Plasm are descendent.  Because of their long life-spans vitriomorphs are a highly knowledgeable lot, but they possess a certain levity distinctly lacking in many other long-lived species, such as the phrenai or Metafolk.  They delight in messy pranks and jokes other species usually consider disgusting.

In contrast with the malleable vitriomorphs, the creatures called Living Statues (not to be confused with the decidedly unliving statues of Ghelderetch - former citizens mass-petrified during the Basilisk Dominion - or with golems or other constructs frequently used by sorcerers as servants) are the results of an arcane mishap in the ancient city of Nornhold, where the Seer-Queens once held sway.  It is said that Queen Vyrda, called Vyrda the Vain, became tired of all her mortal lovers.  She had fallen in love with a statue of a famous hero - the epitome of youthful beauty and strength.  She devised a spell to turn the statue into living flesh and so make him her lover, but as she spoke the syllables of her incantation one of the dreaded fluxwinds was blowing, and the spell backfired: instead of turning one statue into a being of flesh and blood it animated every statue in the city, creating an instant population of creatures of living stone.  Living Statues exhibit a wide range of forms and temperaments, their dispositions sometimes being radically at odds with their outward shapes.  Some still dwell in Nornhold, but most have ventured beyond the city's walls to wander the world, ageless and all but invulnerable, requiring no sustenance to survive.

Extradimensionals

A variety of beings from other universes, Emanations, realities, and planes can occasionally be glimpsed during Ashratu's elder days.  Though not as numerous as other sapient species they are frequently stranger, and tend to possess unusual, esoteric powers.

Often identified as devils or demons by the world's less enlightened inhabitants though, as the learned point out, 'angels' would be a more appropriate designation, the Exiles or Aions are otherworldly creatures from a higher Emanation, cast down into this one by unfathomable magistrates for opaque, inscrutable crimes.  In effect, the material Emanation has become their penal colony; some have sentences of but a few paltry centuries or millennia, while others are doomed to eternally wander the brutishly physical universe, forever fettered to bodies they find appallingly circumscribed.  Multifarious of form and mindset, the Aions are nonetheless uniformly strange and terrible.  Most retain some scrap of their former power, for even the limitlessly exacting justicars of their native reality are not so cruel as to thrust those they condemn into an unfamiliar world without any armaments.  Many of the Exiled are illimitably wretched beings, frantic horrors who gnash their teeth at the lurid stars and scream their unquenchable rage at the callow world they find around them.  Others are lonely, melancholy things that pine more broodingly for their nigh-unimaginable homelands.  Few are quite as bloodthirsty and malevolent as popular myth frequently claims, however, and some sorcerers consort with Aions or even offer them employment.

The Aions are not the only otherworldly visitors, however: just as common are the extradimensional refugees called the Interlopers or Archons by sorcerers.  Denizens of neighbouring realities (of the same Emanation, however - the same planar 'wavelength') that are beginning to collapse as the result of some nebulous cataclysm, the Archons opened portals to this plane in order to escape the destruction of their own.  Some come as humble vagabonds begging for sanctuary, but just as many are violent invaders, colonists from inhospitable realities who see the Earth as a planet ripe for exploitation.  Unlike the Exiles, who all seem to be more or less unique, the Archons consist of a number of distinct races or types.

Even more sinister than the sometimes troublesome Aions and Archons are the Discarnate, or Daimones (singular: Daimon).  The Aions are supraphysical, hailing from a higher Emanation: their bodies have to be reduced to the merely physical.  The Archons, as paraphysical beings, have bodies of their own.  Daimones, however, are subphysical, originating in an Emanation lower on the cosmic spectrum than material reality.  As such to enter the material universe they must steal bodies of their own, usurping the wills and consciousnesses of other entities.  The motives of Daimones are far less sympathetic than the Archons or even the oft-incomprehensible Exiles: they seem to visit the material plane not out of necessity or coercion but as a kind of interplanar tourism.   Bodiless, they wander the world like malignant spirits, sometimes jumping from form to form, wreaking havoc and playing unintelligible pranks, unable or unwilling to understand the dire consequences of their bizarre, sometimes violent mischief.

The least common and most powerful extradimensional beings to walk the Earth are the Asuras and Devas.  The Asuras, or Entropic Reapers, are indigenous to the Nihility or Netherworld, called the Graveyard of Worlds: an endless nothingness into which all other planes will eventually subside, though they may well have spawned new planes before collapsing.  The Reapers are dimensional 'angels of death': beings who usher a world into non-existence.  They are manifestations of primal chaos (though they dislike that particular term), harbingers of apocalypse and destruction, and are almost never seen on a 'healthy' plane, though sometimes they can be set loose through sorcery.  Utterly opposite and antithetical to the Asuras are the Devas, embodiments of cosmic order (and stasis) who inhabit the unreachable plane beyond the Astral Void called the Pleroma, or 'Totality.'  Despite their metaphysical opposition to the Asuras, Devas are hardly benevolent creatures.  They manifest only when some fundamental rule of reality has been dangerously breached, and care little for any collateral damage they cause when repairing such cosmic damage.

As with the Scions and non-humans, this is very far from an exhaustive list.  A more complete catalogue of extradimensional creatures can be found in Jangrel the Jinkmage's somewhat antiquated Demonoids, Thoughtforms, and Planar Beasts and in Volume IV of the Xenonomicon.  Some extradimensional entities can also be found in Val Otho's Almanac of Shades, Wraiths, and Spectres, and a monograph on Asuras and Devas was recently published by Rilekha of Xuuz, Codifier of Impossibilities and one of the Preceptors of the Entropists.

[Steerpike]

Cabals

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Though sorcerers do not group themselves into countries or nations and rarely dwell near to one another, they do form associations.  These allegiances usually consist from as few as three members to as many as several hundred, and vary in their rigidity and orthodoxy.  Some are cult-like groups dedicated to a certain philosophy or branch of sortilege.  Others are simply loose groupings of like-minded scholars who've agreed to share knowledge with one another.  Most sorcerers are members of at least one cabal, and some are members of several.  A few notable cabals include:

The Synod of Cosmogonic Concordance '" convened three thousand and four hundred years ago in the Age of the Cockatrice, the Synod of Cosmogonic Concordance was formed to reconcile the many competing theories of multiversal genesis and to theorizie a comprehensive cosmogonic and cosmological model of all known realities and Emanations.  However, no consensus has yet been reached, leading many to refer to the cabal as the 'Synod of Cosmogonic Discordance.  The Synod consists of some hundred and thirty members; their centennial meeting place rotates through the various members.  Since virtually no conclusive agreements have ever been reached the Synod meetings have more or less devolved into more casual social get-togethers; theories are sometimes discussed but they often have little or nothing to do with cosmogony.

The Margaritaceous Council '" a large council, the Margaritaceous Council are perhaps the closest thing to a sorcerous parliament, with members of many other factions, cliques, and cabals holding seats '" three hundred and thirty three in all.  Though sorcerers have no formal laws they do subscribe to a very rough code of conduct set down by the Council, though new dictums are notoriously difficult to pass, since key members of contradictory affiliations all hold veto powers, and referendums usually end in stalemates.  Despite their frequent inefficacy, the Council have occasionally proved themselves useful in mediating tensions between cabals or resolving major issues that affect the sorcerers en masse.

The Chronomancers of Manifold Omination '" consisting of a dozen sorcerers, all of whom are masters of the esoteric branch of sortilege known as chronomancy '" that is, sorcery involving time.  The Chronomancers are also skilled diviners and collectively have plotted out a staggering number of possibilities and statistically probable futures, placing these divergent predictions along a spectrum of likelihood.  The Chronomancers are infamous for their irritability and eccentricity; many of their colleagues find chronomancy an unfathomable science, and the Chronomancers are forever explaining the intricacies of their work only to find blank faces looking back at them.

The Entropists '" a cabal who contend that order of any sort is tyrannical, and view sorcery as a means of breaking down cosmic order and ushering in liberating chaos.  A cabal of some seventy-seven sorcerers, the Entropists are known to have dealings with the Asuras (Entropic Reapers), the terrifying denizens of the Nihility or Netherworld, the Graveyard of Worlds '" the abysm or limbo into which all planes and Emanations eventually collapse.  The Entropists' council-hall, the basalt citadel Tyranatz, is said to contain a vortex or portal that leads to this all too inhabited nothingness.  Their more flamboyant transgressions have occasionally earned them the ire of the Devas.

The Conclave of the Black Bell '" a group that includes the notoriously macabre Illix Vaen, renowned for his scuttling corpse-furniture, his servants like cadaverous marionettes, and his ownership of the morbid artefact known as the Cape of Faces.  The group is in collective possession of the Black Bell of Melioth the Mad, which is inscribed with minute glyphs, each detailing one of Melioth's many elaborate spells; however, it said that any who hears the bell's awful toll will instantly and irrevocably be plunged into madness.

[Steerpike]

[ooc]Thanks for the reply, SA/#39!  Your Wizards setting/stories were a pretty major source of inspiration, as was the snippet you posted a while back with the series of exotic planes and worlds (the Chorus, Panoply, etc).  That and Cataclsymic Crow's weird mages and philosophers, and all the ancient (AD&D) Planescape materials I've been reading.[/ooc]

[LD]

This seems interesting.

SA- could you or Steerpike please provide a link to your "Wizard" setting? I'll admit I'm intrigued since it was apparently a major source of inspiration for Steerpike's world here.

[SA]

Here it is LD. It's not really a setting so much as a bunch of concepts or tone-setters. Glad Steerpike got some use out of it.

[Superfluous Crow]

Strange world, indeed.
Are the quasis and the non-humans also universally sorcerers? Or have they taken the place of humans on earth, doing menial work such as farming, brewing and baking. The sorcerers have to get their delicacies from somewhere I guess.  
Is the population of Phrenai continously diminishing? If they die whenever they give headbirth, they can only ever maintain the population, and that's if we don't count disease and murder.
What's life like away from the hermetic castles of the sorcerers?
Can you kill a sorcerer as you could an ordinary man given the chance?

Roleplaying wise, do you imagine that players would play only sorcerers (making this sword & sorcery without the sword part) or did you imagine a mix.

I really love how, when writing "Pharouc Phell", you just keep throwing out new words which make little sense to us (and probably not much more sense to you) to give the conversation between the two erudite wizards a certain verisimilitude and pseudo-academic flair.

EDIT: Also, I'm very honored to have my setting considered to be inspiration for this!

[LordVreeg]

I might have to steal me some 'scuttling corpse furniture'.  

I find this interesting; it almost seems like a cosmology thread for a setting as opposed to a setting itself.  Terms such as 'Planar Wavelength' add to this feel.  Even when I think of the adventure notes, I get less the feeling of place than backdrop.  Less of an, " Adventure in this place!" and more of an, " Adventure with this as your backdrop".  If I am making sense at all, it is a subtle difference.

[Steerpike]

[blockquote=Cataclysmic Crow]Are the quasis and the non-humans also universally sorcerers? Or have they taken the place of humans on earth, doing menial work such as farming, brewing and baking. The sorcerers have to get their delicacies from somewhere I guess.[/blockquote]The non-humans aren't universally sorcerers, no.  I'm imagining a lot of the labour is done by things like golems or automata, rather than fully sentient organic beings.  A lot of things wouldn't farm, though.  Vitriomorphs just aborb stuff for sustenance; Living Statues don't need to eat; phrenai filter-ffed from the aether; Metafolk again don't eat, though they do need power; Ataraxians are held in suspended animation; phanin probably just scavenge.  The nebuloids are probably the closest to humans in terms of their professions etc... though I do imagine there are a ton more species out there.

Is the population of Phrenai continously diminishing? If they die whenever they give headbirth, they can only ever maintain the population, and that's if we don't count disease and murder.

Sometimes they have twins, but they do have trouble keeping up a stable population.  fortunately their phasing ability makes them very difficult to kill.

What's life like away from the hermetic castles of the sorcerers?

Not necessarily unpleasant, but probably more dangerous and difficult.

Can you kill a sorcerer as you could an ordinary man given the chance?

Yes, though getting that chance would be tricky.

Roleplaying wise, do you imagine that players would play only sorcerers (making this sword & sorcery without the sword part) or did you imagine a mix.

I did have sorcerers solely in mind as player characters, given that the other species are even less fathomable.
[blockquote=Lord Vreeg]I find this interesting; it almost seems like a cosmology thread for a setting as opposed to a setting itself. Terms such as 'Planar Wavelength' add to this feel. Even when I think of the adventure notes, I get less the feeling of place than backdrop. Less of an, " Adventure in this place!" and more of an, " Adventure with this as your backdrop". If I am making sense at all, it is a subtle difference.[/blockquote]That makes sense; I certainly haven't gone into much geography yet, though that will probably change.

[Superfluous Crow]

So are there established cities in the world? Or do most non-sorcerers live nomadic existences?

[Steerpike]

I don't think there'll be big cities - maybe a couple at most.  More common would be small groups of people living in the ruins of once great cities, or in villages, or as nomads.  But no thronging metropolises - I'm aiming for a kind of depleted world, where the few remaining beings are often strange and long-lived and vaguely transcendent.

[Steerpike]

Added a little snippet at the beginning of the "Ethnographic Survey."

[Superfluous Crow]

A question: Do the human sorcerers still reproduce like humans, or do they conjure/clone/vat-breed their heirs? I'm guessing that with no culture separate from their magical studies most children would be raised directly as sorcerers.  

[Steerpike]

Breeding and raising children biologically is considered rather quaint and old-fashioned, but it does happen (pretty rarely), and the children are of course raised with sorcery very naturally - they're taught sorcery from an early age along with reading and simple math.  More common is the creation of magical clones and conjurations.  Basically, reproduction is no longer necessary for the continuation of the species, so most individuals devote themselves to creative pursuits, pleasure, scholarship, and adventure rather than parentage.