40 Minute Settings- Heap

Heap is a shithole. It's like a garbage dump of different worlds. Once the technology to create portals becomes wildly available to a civilization, they will naturally start to throw away all their garbage. At first it might just be nuclear waste, plastics that never degrade, that sort of thing. But pretty soon they'll dump their normal litter and garbage away, and then it's only a matter of time before the excess population gets dumped too.

It happened to Earth, but it has happened to other places too. The world gets crowded. Over populated. People start to want to look for a better life. At first they don't even have to trick people, just give them the option. Keep the communication between the worlds as sparse as possible. Nobody ever comes back of course, that's the point of a depopulation program. They're told they can go here for a better life, a fresh start. Meaningless bribes like the removal of all debt or allowing them to breed again in eugenic societies- genetic dead ends are dumped in Heap like any other cesspit. Soon after, refugees from oppression and wars will go there, and punishment for crime will include permanent relocation.

Heap is a nexus of many worlds. Humans are there, as well as the pig-like Azon and the enigmatic Phissy. All these species and more have ended up opening stable connections to Heap, and all of them used it as a trash can. Heap is a world littered with garbage. Cities were built here, but the canals between them are filled with sewage. Huge sinkholes filled with trash have becomes the main scavenging locations for the impoverished residents. Heap is filled with high rises and micro apartments. Nobody who lives here has much of a choice, so the landlords have a field day. They can charge pretty much whatever they want- it's either that or go live like one of the many millions of homeless vagabonds digging through trash.

Heap's People

The many species who live in Heap do so because they were either tricked or forced to come here, they aren't usually happy about it. Getting sent to Heap is almost always a one-way ticket. Nobody is allowed to come back to their homelands without special connections or an insane bribe, and everybody in Heap is living hand to mouth. Well, almost everybody.

Heap is a world of urban decay. The place was falling apart when they built it. Now it's much worse. Cracked pavement and falling apart infrastructure are the norm. The water and lights mostly work, but it's expensive and spotty because you can never know when somebody will start siphoning it off your building. The canals are how people get around now, airboats are the luxury sports cars of Heap. People living here are hard scrabble. They dress in stolen rags, usually plucked from a corpse of somebody who tied slowly of toxic poisoning from the air and water. They work whatever filthy jobs they can. Certain outreach programs have given jobs to the area, but they're busywork at best. Painting garbage to make it look nice to anyone flying overhead, underwater canal welders, a few factories. Those who work in the health clinics (and whorehouses) can make a decent living. But of course, owning anything is an invitation to be robbed.

Most people work odd jobs. Garbage scavengers, growing food in the gutters, and petty theft are how most people get by here. One of the most controversial careers is those who work for the landlords. The eviction officers. You don't even get paid for that, they just slip a copy of the keys in your box and you force the tenants out. You get first dibs on whatever they have. That's what Heap is like.

Heap has grocery stores, spas, hardware stores. It's a normal “civilized” place. You just start to notice that all the doors and windows have bars on them. Armed guards patrol the stores from catwalks- ready to shoot shoplifters without a trial. Everything is just so slightly out of your price range. Everything's a bit dingy and faded. Most things here a recalled from the “real” world out there, the place you can't go back to. You don't think you've seen a tree since you came here. You could try calling the police if something bad happens, but you know they won't come. That's what life is like.

Heap's Technology

Heap is a place where many alien races and cultures have come together. It seems that everyone who has developed portal technology has about the same overall level of technology, but with different specialties and off shoots. Humans ended up being really good at computers. The bug aliens whose name nobody can pronounce have incredible body modifications. Drugs are a Heap specialty- it's a home grown thing here. Only way to design stuff that can make one species high and another one not dead is to have a LOT of hands on experience.

Guns are also made in this place. Often modified or hand crafted, making bullets is one of the most stable and good forms of work in this miserable place because of how much they are used. Not a night goes by when you don't hear gunshots- you just hope it's not in your own apartment building. Turf wars by the gangs or grudges being settled are more then enough to keep the bullet factors working all the time. Everybody with anything to defend in Heap is strapped.

Those who need to fight for a living in Heap- mobsters, eviction agents, people on the run- they need special help. Guns aren't enough. Instead, they turn to the special methods. Their bodies are sliced open, alien doctors sowing the ligaments back up with little chips inside. These are morphs. Imagine someone putting a flamethrower in your arm, powered by your blood. Now imagine what kind of daily routine and diet you'd need to keep to both avoid dying and to keep it in working order. Morphs are unique, special enhancements people put in themselves. It's as much of a burden as it is a gift. All of them show signs of it on the outside.

Those with morphs to spit fire or acid have burns along their arm- most put their morph in their non-dominant hand, as to keep their good one for punching or shooting. Ice morphs are cold, of course. Morphs that turn your body into a hive for insects or leeches are very nasty, but very effective in the closed environments where fights break out. Heap is an artificial environment, it's not like people have easy access to bugspray. Some morphs are put into the legs, chest, eyes or other parts of the body. Some people have urban travel morphs- their legs are skinless, bulging with muscle, which must be massaged and bathed in salt every day or else they'll start to cramp and probably sever an artery with how hard they'll spasm. In return for this sacrifice, you'll be able to jump a few stories- right up to your mark's window. Why not? It's not like you have a long life expectancy here anyway, what with the pollution and toxic air.

Hope for Heap

Heap is a bad place. Everybody here is on edge, racial tensions run high. Nobody likes the greedy landlords and everyone thinks everybody else owes them something. It's kind of rough. But even with all that, there is life growing up from the gutters. Kids (god forbid) play in the gutters sometimes, under careful eye of their parents. People have barbecues; sometimes the smell of alien cookery wafts into your window, and it smells good. Sometimes the pie guy wheels his cart outside your building. Damn, that guy is great. He carries a shotgun under his cart and can fire bone spurs from his head under his chef hat but he's the nicest food-cart guy around. The graffiti on the walls is beautiful. This place is filled with artists and musicians, exiled from their worlds because their art wasn't worth enough in capital to keep them in a place that wasn't the garbage pit. But sometimes this garbage pit isn't so bad.

There is of course, talk of revolution. Some want to destroy Heap, return to their home worlds, break the portals and force their people to take them back, or better yet, stop the cruel march of progress that is forcing people to the Heap dimension in the first place. Some people talk of a socialist revolution in Heap itself; taking all the property and giving it to the average citizen, instead of to the rich landlords who don't even need to visit this smelly dimension to get their checks. Some just think we need God here, or charity drives, or just hope. Maybe we can have hope. But hope needs to be defended with more then just words.

Author Afterwards

This world of mine is based on a few concepts. The idea of Heap peeked out at me when I was thinking about my home setting Garden again in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps if I could go back in time and change what I thought, I would have made Garden into what Heap is. Heap to me is the more grown up, better, more fully fleshed out version of Garden. But I can't just abandon Garden, it's got too much work and love put into it, but it's a bit silly. I think making Heap a sort of prison or outside place that is better explained in why it exists helps with the feel a bit.

The idea behind the Morphs and Heap in general came from Bioshock. One of my favorite games. I think this version of a “magic system” is a little better then the psychic stuff from Garden, but that's just a gut feeling, not idea how it actually looks from the outside. I also love the sort of dark and dingy modern life aesthetic seen in a few places, like Paratopic or any Puppet Combo games. I don't really have much else to add here- Heap is a sort of vague idea on my mind and I decided to write it up using my 40 minute setting format. Hope you enjoyed it, there might be other projects involving Heap in the future, it's gripped me in ways that I didn't expect.

40 Minute Settings- Bombed Empire

On the distant planet of Wagan, the ships are bombing the surface. It's been going on for about two years. If you're here, that means you weren't able to get off the planet in time. Now you're kind of stuck. The royal blockade has kept everyone here. You stay alive off humanitarian aid and scavenging through the ruins; but some co-opt farms and underground grub farms work well enough.

The war all began when the last emperor gave up the planet. Now, four species fight over it. The clever Tulari, the militaristic Zimt, the repugnant Olgun, and the conniving Jess'et.

These four alien races are just small smattering of the ones that inhabit the galaxy. Wagan was a very cosmopolitanism place. But after the human emperor gave up the planet, moved the capital back to Earth after four hundred years of tradition keeping it here, the planet became a real hell hole. Humans, Tulari, Zimt, Olgun, Jess'et, other species too- the little people are stuck down here in the ruins.

Every day bombs fall over head, trying to knock out important power connections and religious or cultural sites. Every day anti-bomb defense bombs try to blow up the first bombs. It's hard for the people of the planet to do much about it, mostly because they're all up in space in cruisers and battleships. These ships send down small armies of elite troops, mechanized infantry and drones to try and capture locations, while other factions try to bomb the shit out of them at the same time. At this point it's probably just laughable.

It's easy enough to avoid getting rubbled for the most part; staying indoors is a good start because most of the buildings here are made of zirconian elements, pioneered by the Tulari, which are essentially compression and explosive proof. Still, the damage takes its toll. You can see inner-city markets spring up in neighborhoods that were attacked two, maybe three days ago. The smoke still rises but it's cleared up enough that you can move in for a time. Usually any place that gets destroyed stays clear for up to a week before the ships overhead move back into position to fight for the next useful speck.

Wars on the Ground

The soldiers in the sky aren't just interested in each other though; there are factions on the ground too. People down here are willing to sell their knowledge; secret tunnels, bomb shelters, and lead troops into ambushes against their enemies. Everybody down here wants somebody to win this war for their own benefit, if they're interested at all in Wagan politics. The Jess'et are promising to make the planet an anthropological paradise for all of the deep-space remnants of old cultural importance for many resources who, frankly, can't afford to keep them on planets anymore. Space is at a premium on planets when compared to the vast empty. But the Zimt are famous for well-planned central economies that keep people working and hearty pensions for veterans; of which civilians who aid them will be recommended for by the Zimt ground captains, naturally.

The players could take the role of minor leaders. They could be landed nobles from a quickly dissolving feudal land-ownership system, gang and rebel squad strongmen, or military commanders in way over their head. You lead squads of men into the rubble to rescue civilians, capture territory, or hold important objectives. You need to keep a good schedule of the ships above and where they'll be over next, and down here short hyper-wave transmitter scanners are as common as microwaves. Everybody, civilians and soldiers alike, listens to the Wagan Renegade- the hyperwave transmitter AI that gives coordinates and estimated time of payload hits, calculating wind resistance and gravity acceleration in real time to give the most accurate reports. Nobody is quite sure who set up this AI, but whoever did has saved far more lives then they would know.

Of course, urban combat in such a chaotic environment is brutal. Half of warfare is about setting up hardpoints and using technology from the various races to augment your own forces, or make it hard for the enemy to catch up. The Zimt are experts in energy field manipulation, and while their ships and brigades sent from above are the best at it, most races can hack together some energetic fields that displace blaster fire or make force fields that cannot be passed except by those with the right keys. The Olgun are a special example as they partially terraform entire city blocs; pulsating moss growing on every surface fast enough that you can see it, turning interior spaces into gas-spore infested condemned buildings. Their race is adapted to breathe it with their air gills, you probably aren't.

There are wars in the Sky too. The ships above are in constant stalemate. The large carriers and cruisers holding the weapons refuse to cross over the horizon line close enough to see another ship; going too far over the curve of the planet means laser weapons can annihilate you at the speed of light. Instead, they play a careful game of posturing and delayed bombing. For the second half of the second year, kinetic rods were all that has been used since traditional ammunition has seem to run out. But if the council is anything to go by, new shipments of payload is coming in to replace the old. As such, some rebel civilian groups have even banded together to stop it from arriving. But how to get out into orbit and stop transports carrying military weapons with just our own scrap, planet-locked forces? That's the tough part.

War in the Council

Meanwhile, near the heart of Wagan is the Council building. The huge, laser-protected dome is one of the few megastructures not yet bombed to shit by the above cruisers. The garden terraces around the building can always be seen from below and above; a jealous look of cultural elegance that is anything but. Just about as much violence is inside the building as around it.

In truth, the Council is just about as cutthroat as anywhere else. Racial diplomats at the end of their rope; assassins hired among the staff are constantly stalking the halls. Young privates and custodians with no experience are quickly promoted to official liaisons, even generals, as the body count keeps growing. The Jess'et are pretty close to wining this war just through attrition; their RNA unsequencer poisons placed in cloth fabrics and ventilation shafts kill quick and clean.

Pointless debates over if cyber-bounce grenades should be banned by military troops who don't follow the guidelines in the first place rage on as slimy arms dealers try to undercut the expensive imported military goods from space, since the space elevators were cut at stratosphere height ages ago, by using cheap local manufacturing. Some of the most well off people on Wagan are those who put shell casings together by hand in what used to be a preschool.

Hyperinflation is the bane of most fiat economies- in Wagan? It's another form of attack. By getting the mints to mass duplicate credit codes, you can destabilize and cause hyper inflation in your opponents army. Of course in a month when things change and you're now reliant on the codes to supply your own side you'll do anything to shut down the computer farms that duplicate the digital currency; like bomb them from space. Now you can see the problem.

The Goodness tucked Away

All over the planet; people are just trying to get by. While some sectors seem almost well cleaned after the constant destruction, some don't even look inhabited. Young people get along as well as they can in education, requiring digital uplinks and learning from archaic methods, like reading books or watching videos, as opposed to full VR education exercises. Holographic imaging technology requires a lot of infrastructure a lot of people here just don't have anymore; theaters do plays in person with costumes and everything. It's a time of great cultural expansion; the people of the planet looking inward when a galaxy who has forgotten about them keeps turning the great wheel of productivity.

Wagan was once a planet of nothing but gray sludge formed into building shells and maximum utility centers of industry. Almost all of its natural resources were stripped a long time ago; a great desolation occurred hundreds of years ago when the humans settled here. It seems now, with their leaving and the jealous war over the aliens who are descended from their imperial ambitions, life untethered is making a come back. Species who were intentionally made extinct by city planners during the great urbanization have been seen in rumors around mossy-covered parks. Escaped Olgun specimens and mold-children have actually somewhat melded with the common ecosystem. Underground birds have begun to reappear, the lack of skyscrapers coating every inch of inhabitable ground means that the air currents that they navigate by with their eyeless little faces are opened up to them. In some ways, life has made a combat only through mass destruction. Perhaps it is just a temporary change as the result of a great, mostly pointless conflict. Or perhaps it is a change here to stay.

40 Minute Settings- Nalispar & The King's Island

On this episode of 40 minute settings, I used less randomization and more brainstorming. Because this is technically two settings instead of one, I allowed myself about 10 minutes of brainstorming time to come up with some basic concepts. You can find the completed bullet points at the bottom of the document, as to avoid spoilers.

I really enjoyed writing this one, possibly more then Etthurhia, because the idea was more fully formed in my mind and represents a type of fantasy I don't see as much in tabletop games that is nonetheless very famous and popular. I had to intentionally stop myself from thinking more about the setting before I started writing about it; since the whole point is to write it up in 40 minutes! Anyways, hope you enjoy this bit of fluffy worldbuilding.

The King's Island

On a small rainy island in the center of the known world is the heart of the greatest empire in the entire world. The King's Empire stretches from sea to land to mountain in all directions from this shining jewel of the world; King's Island. It is the heart of industry and technology, as well as the culture of the world. This island is rich; spices and goods from the colonies, the slaves and servants, and the technological innovation has made the King's Island the place to be.

But while adults work and serve in his Majesty's factories or under the banners of the great lion; the children sit in leaky boarding houses and dream.

Among the kids, the dark-skinned servants from the far off colonies, and the occultists come whispers of another place entirely. They call it Nalispar, a land of dreams. It is said that only those with imagination can enter it, and only when one is asleep. Strangely, the realm is not just a dream, as it is shared by all those who dream it.

The King's Island itself is a twisting maze of cobblestone streets, factories, smoke stacks, pinned in by expensive apartments and houses with lawns so small as to barely sit in. It has expansive docks, as the King's Empire mostly grew itself out of naval might, and the huge cannon ships dominate the skyline to the stroller along the boardwalk. The smoke of the city isn't exactly the cleanest, which is why residents often try to take vacations off on the far off tropical colonies, or up in the mountains in “rival” nations so small and insignificant to not even need naming here.

There is also a sense of mystery. While much of the world is being taken down and codified by the various scientists, borders on the map are being filled in, and newly discovered truths of the world such as Phrenology are taking away the commonly thought truths of the old realms. Nowadays, nobody believes in the magical and supernatural, and the old fairies of the druid's woad are thought to have either never existed, or perhaps just a long extinct animal with a few unusual traits. But even in this society on the up and up with science and learning; shadowy occultism exists in all levels of the society. From the shadiest back alley streets selling potions and palm-readings, to the highest secretive opium dens for the rich concerning themselves with psychic mediumship. There is still a sense that there is a secret lore out there. To the most attuned, they may have heard one shadowy name.

Class division is obvious, from the clothes that are worn to the streets one may walk along. Dapper individuals with waistcoats and ladies with long dresses stick to the clean sidewalks while busy errand boys and servants muck the street and hurry back and forth to deliver one of a million unfinished gadgets to the patent offices before they close for the day- even those of low social class can find themselves launched to the heights of wealth and nobility for the right invention. Policemen stand against stone pillars of old buildings and keep a lookout for urchins running between the legs of the adults; unsupervised and unwanted.

There are an unfortunate many orphans in the King's Island. The urban poor, dead soldiers, bankrupted business men, and many others chewed up by the teeth of this great and rapidly changing society leave behind their young. Boarding schools and orphanages are stocked up with a great many kids, who are often left to their own devices once the nannies and nursemaids retire for the night. Around these circles of beds and drawing books; tales emerge of another place.

Nalispar

For those who go to sleep with the heart to find it, and those who know its name, they may travel there. If you have never heard the name of Nalispar, it is said they cannot go there. Adults of the King's land probably haven't heard of the name, and the servants who speak of it from the far off colonies hush the children and try to silence them, as their cultures have more knowledge of it then even the greatest imperial scientists would dare know. If you do not wish to travel to Nalispar in your sleep, you also cannot go there, fear blocks the way. But to those board, cast aside, or simply adventurous young children, it offers a taste of freedom and escape from the foggy gray streets of King's Island.

The moment you find yourself in Nalispar, you will see color. The sky is a bright pink at dawn, shifts from yellows to blues to emerald greens in mid day, and finally falls on a curtain of dark blue and purple at night. The land is tropical, with the hooting and hollering of a thousand tropical birds, a million plants and their beautiful and delicious fruits. The monkeys paint images of themselves and their diminutive visitors on the tree trunks using pastel colored dyes they made from sticking their thumbs in flowers, a pastime that many of the young visitors will also try and tire of in their first few visits to the magical land of Nalispar.

When a child first dreams of the dream world, they find themselves in the center of a clearing with bright red lines painted onto the ground, each spiking off from the center as a giant pinwheel and pointing in a direction. They have begun at the center, which is adorned only by a small floating staircase with four steps ascending towards the sky, and nothing beyond. This place is where all children appear on their first visit. Those kids who sleep together in great communal dormitories or in their bedrooms will find themselves often appearing together in short time in Nalispar. The unfortunate lonely children may simply have to pick a direction and stick with it. These lines lead to the different lands of Nalispar, inhabited by its tribes.

In Nalispar, there are only children. No adults are supposed to be here. Every kid appears in their pajamas and sleepware. There are adults here but they aren't humans. At least, they aren't agents of their own wills. The children may be afraid of them at first, but there is no need to fear. All of them are jovial, simple. All of them are an unusual color, reds or blues, and adorned in tribal wear and feathers and flowers in their hair. They are very simple people, and are easily impressed and awed by the children telling them of the scientific world. The child who demonstrates a clever magic trick or invention of a simple tool can wow these simpletons; but their responses are canned, forced. It feels very much like these puppets are playing at being savages, a useful prop for the children of conquerors, who don't quite understand but still feel the vague sense of superiority they're supposed to have for a culture more primitive then their own. They are like actors, filling kids with a sense of adventure.

Of course- these adults have a sign. Their foreheads all have a raised white circle, a bump, which designates themselves as people of Nalispar. Not from the real world, none of them can ever be in King's Island nor ever will be.

The land of Nalispar itself is filled with tropical forests, an Arabian desert dotted with tombs built into geometric shapes, tropical beaches, a comfortably chilly autumn world with talking badgers and rabbits stuffing their finds into trees for a winter that never seems to come. The land itself is conductive to adventure; there always seems to be something new to find, a new beast to befriend, or a new treasure to find. The tribes who walk the land seem like keepers of the place, but have no trouble feeding and clothing the children who lose their way or take a tumble; its not like they need to eat here. But for many orphaned children, an imaginary warmed meal of corn and beans from a maternal figure is far better then anything they would get in the real world.

Every child that enters Nalispar has something special about them. It seems to be determined on their first trip, or unique to each child. Every kid can hold out their hands and be given something from the land. Usually, its a very old tree nearby the central dais that gives the gift to the child, but sometimes it is a tribesman, or other times it is even another child who knows the secret. Basically, they are given a small item. This is a special artifact, unique to that child, which has powers all its own. Brave young boys may be given a wooden stick which, when struck to the ground, can create a terrifying sound of thunder, or be tucked between the legs and flown like a witch's broomstick. Nice young girls are given magic thimbles, which let them make (sweet tasting) medicine from filling the thimble with water, weave warm, dry blankets from snow, or held out like armor against a thorn bush and breaking the thorns to make it safe to pass. Clever youths may be given pictureboks, which can record things they've seen in Nalispar with wonderful color illustrations that can be brought out again just by pointing at the picture. Those youths who boast their noble blood find themselves with a little tin knight who will grow to full size and valiantly quest for anything or anyone their heart desires. Regardless of the gift, they are all very powerful.

However, Nalispar is not always a land purely for the good hearted and innocent. Sometimes, children who are growing older envy Nalispar over the real world. They may seek to find a way to stay there forever, even as their body grows bigger and more frightening then what is intended for the residents of this place. Sometimes, adults who take special drugs or learn meditations in shadowy King Island parlors can slip into this realm. Armed with all the strength and cruelty of an adult; these men and women appear in Nalispar without the white raised circle on their head; only for a frightened explorer to see at the last moment in quite a panic.

Even stranger, these “magical” curiosities can sometimes, very rarely, be brought to King's Island. Children may wake up in their bed chamber with their magic thimble or broomstick or toy in hand. The next time they sleep with the item, they can bring it back to Nalispar. But if it is taken from them, they find themselves nearly unable to sleep at all, as if the item belongs to their dreaming self. Those children with their items taken will always grow into baggy-eyed, insomniac, dark adults who seek nothing more then to return to Nalispar to recapture the magic of their youth.

Original Brainstorming Session Bulletpoints

• Nalispar is like the Lovecraft Dream Lands
• This magical fantasy world is like Narnia; visited by kids from the “real” world, which is inspired by nostalgic Victorian London society
• Very Peter Pan and Merry Poppins esque
• Maybe some voodoo shenanigans, like Nalispar didn't exist until the colonies were set up in some not!Carribean?
• Kids die or go missing because Nalispar isn't all fun and games
• Kids have special powers in Nalispar
• Nalispar is accessed through dreams, and only those with “imagination” can access it
• Maybe adults lose imagination (not just figuratively as in real life, but literally) as they grow older, but crazy people or drugged up people on fine colonial opium can access the realm
• Nalispar is a shadowy rumor that the kids don't take to adults about, but servants from the not!Colonies know about it and don't want them talking about it maybe?
• King's Island is meant to be rainy old London and the heart of a great empire, hence the name
• Currently ruled by a powerful King conquering places all over the world
• Kids can be rich, poor, orphaned, abused, whatever; as long as they've heard of Nalispar they can access it
• Maybe kids that come from shittier homes are more powerful in Nalispar, providing a tempting offer for them to leave the real world forever (?)
• Maybe Nalispar is like a forbidden realm or maybe even a predator that spreads by getting kids to dream about it and then consuming them(?)
• Nalispar is divided up into zones or worlds like a theme park maybe, split down equatorial lines(?) or branching from a central “zone”
• One land is themed off ancient temples and cultures like mesoamerican Indiana Jones type stuff, another could be pirates on the high seas, something North American-y for Peter Pan vibes?
• Grim or dark worlds probably wouldn't exist in the dream space, but danger from adventure certainly would
• No human NPCs- everyone in Nalispar is a talking animal or object. Adults are evil in this world, or intruders on the fun family adventurers.
• Maybe the “fake” adults in this world are all marked by a symbol, these are fantasy people not from the real world. Could be thoughtforms made from dreams or like literal actors in a play
• Maybe Nalispar has only a fake exterior to draw kids in deeper, if you want to make it more grimdark, Like the trees are only painted on one side, temples unfinished except the parts you're supposed to explore, etc. Gives it a fake artificial quality?
• King's Island is filled with foggy rivers and chimney sweeps; lots of class inequality and other very real concerns that children don't understand much
• King's Island might have a black market for things brought back from Nalispar; maybe kids can bring back an item or items from Nalispar on rare occasion; perhaps these artifacts have magical powers or can act as a power source in a sort of Victorian occult steampunky sense?

40 Minute Settings- Dying Kingdom

The Kingdom is old, and the light has faded. The oldest bloodlines of the Kings, known as the holy lineage, has long since been pissed away into the bellies of whores and bastards. The once proud connection to the land, the fisher-kings, who bled the soldier's blood and sweat the farmer's sweat, now are so far removed as to be parasites on the life of the land instead. The rules were simple; what a man did, his children did. The bloodlines and rules set by the Gods, the great feudal lines and traditions, were broken time and time again- societal change brought the ruin to the Kingdom. The lesser sought above their places, and in turn spoiled it. That may just be a symptom of the disease and not the cause, but none can be sure.

In the olden days, order and righteousness was brought to the land from the Gods above, granting mankind the divine spark. The divine mandate of heaven, which gave rise to the rulers, who tamed the savages who tamed the land. The earth was plundered for its riches in ores and jewels, laws and writing was made, and seeds were harvested for bread and ale. The times were good. Now, everything is dying. It's not all at once, your grandparents thought everything was dying too, and so will you, and so will your grand children. People still find joy in the little things, but it's clear that it's all coming down. The decay will destroy everything, and nothing we can do can stop it.

The capital city of Arvakus was once the shining beacon of the world, which is now a ruin. The fields and forests nearest to it, once carefully tended, now are stalked by corrupted beasts and the game-warden families who were once sworn to protect it. Now the game wardens look much the same as the animals they are to game. The city itself is a broken cobble, irreparable and ominous, monsters roam the streets and the only “citizens” that remain are the broken shades who go about their daily labors without any thought or understanding- undying and impotent. Nobody knows what is happening within the great castle of the highest King; is he aware of the suffering in his manor, or is it his doing? The corruption within makes the corruption without, so say the Gods.

Along the roads and forts of the land; the once proud Knights are now the worst terrors of all. Purging all perceived corruption and perversion from their lands, they too were the worst corrupted. Once their armor was shining white, now it is pitch black with the pyres they have made from the innocents. Their eyes are blind towards the great flying beasts and flayed ghouls who dance along the walls of the crumbling castle, but a defiant and proper peasant woman will be accosted and tried as a witch. It is obvious to all that the land and people are sick, and no one has the cure.

The Noble Families

The great city of Arvakus is the seat of the Holy Lineage, the first and greatest line. Along with this King, several noble lords were selected from the primordial pre-men that the Gods chose for their piety and pagan-righteousness. Among these families were the proud Camnus, the wise Obligurd, the brave Foreon, and the compassionate Silovan. These noble lords were given the land to split among themselves evenly, and each of them elected their favored champions to be their lords and vassals, and these vassals split their lands among the low folk, humble yet good, and all was well in the Kingdom.

But the rules were broken. Time and time again, the men and women of these noble houses allowed their desires of the flesh to take over their rational minds and pure hearts; they married commoners or among the other houses, diluting the holy lines that gave them their power and strength. The strength and honor of the Kingdom, the house of Camnus, once measured the average height of five cubits. Now, they are shrunken dwarves, hiding in holes underneath the ground to steal the organs from wandering passersby. The wise house of Obligurd, the keeper of divination rituals, caught heritable blindness and became fools. The Foreon, who once sailed in ships to the foggy islands outside of the land of the Kingdom to find new realms and see if anything would threaten it, retreated to the inwards most parts of their manor- they became so deathly afraid of water that they resorted to drinking the blood of their low folk, the vampires they became. Even the uncorruptable Silovan have fallen; still preaching purity and truth to the lands, but having become weak and impotent, their hands shrivel and fall off along with their teeth as soon as they reach the age to see the evil in the world and wish to stop it. The only house seemingly unaffected is the Holy Lineage, but none know or have seen what corruption lies with them, if any.

These noble families, once the greatest and exemplars for the people, have become so degenerated that the commoners no longer respected them. If a noble can lie with a commoner, then a commoner can lie with a beast. The offspring are twisted, but righteousness was so foreign to the people of the Kingdom that it mattered not. Half-mutants walk the streets in daylight now, a sign of our dying times, madness and melancholy reign over all over emotions and feelings. Children seem to barely be out of the flush of their youth when their wrinkles begin to set in, and men begin to cough dust as soon as they turn in their mid thirties, if not even earlier. Much of this only feeds into itself; the Lords tire of their wives quickly, and seek young peasant girls for their fix of beautiful love, only further driving a stake between goodness and honor and their own personal lusts.

The Broken Steel

Once, the steel of the kingdom (mostly made by house Camnus) was the greatest that could be imagined. Spectacular, immutable, well balanced and forged without a hint of rust or bend. But now, the tools and weapons created in the sooty forges are warped and weak; the blacksmiths sacrifice bone and blood to the fires, a pagan ritual that only strengthens nature, to improve their blades so they are not dull right after being sharpened again. The truth is that the steel is weak because the people are weak; even the most noble of knights seem to walk around with rusting, patchwork armor.

The good people, however few remain, are themselves weakly armed. Stunted and corroded steel is a poor defense against beasts with supernatural strength and aggression, but it is all they have.

Still, a few old gleaming forms remain. Perhaps in the old Arvakus castle armory, or perhaps hidden in some buried treasure chest; these gleaming swords are almost blindingly white like ivory, capable of destroying anything corrupted with a single strike. These highly sought after weapons are fewer in number every year, as a careless man will crack it in an awkward swing against a stone and watch the light fade from the alloy.

Silent Temples

Perhaps worst of all, the peoples' despair only mounted greater and greater as the temples were silent. Those who were humble priests, or the paladins and priest-kings of Obligurd, found their divinations less and less effective. The widest spread heresy was that the Gods lost interest in the corrupted and degenerated people of the Kingdom, but the church themselves blamed the people. Every sin, every perversion acted like a cloud of dust kicked up in the eyes of the Almighty, and it was the fault of the people the rulers and sages could not commune with the divine. That is when the great purges began, the corpse fires burning streams of smoke in the sky that never quite fully fell down from it later on, even now the sky is still dark even during the day, the sun itself eclipsed by the weight of the sodden Earth beneath it.

The Temple-Houses were also once were the money was made; holy money blessed by the Gods so it was never used and traded to a treacherous hand. However, a the temples became silent, the money fell out of favor. Soon, red coins made from the blood of beasts came into effect and was commonly traded in the Kingdom. Now, no one can tell if the bloody red coins were made from beasts blood, or the blood of man or woman. They are too dark and spotty to tell anymore; even giving money to the poor feels like a dirty act to simply touch such coinage, and so few wish to dwell on how it is made.

Magic in the Kingdom, which was too once a tool to better divine and know the will of the Gods, has been corrupted as well. Taught from the holy and lofty institutions that once kept it a secret from the masses, it became too widespread and impossible to control. Each person could interpret the laws and rules of magic their own way, and while each had the greatest of intentions slowly they changed from a tool of learning and communion with the divine to a tool of blind ignorance and domination. The men of magic now wear tattered yellowing robes, a far cry from the white healers smock they once wore, and now command fire and branch to their wills, instead of staring into the flames or counting the rings of trees to know the will of their creators.

Old Knight's Head

The people who still seem to have the most sense in their head are those who live in the middle lands. Not in the outskirts of the Kingdoms near the made, treacherous coasts where godless heathen sea-raiders come from a mysterious land to the south. Nor are those who live near to the heart of the Kingdom, in their treacherous and decadent cities overflowing with greed and sewage. No- it is those in the blissful countryside, free from all outside and inside corruptions, that seem the most at peace. But even their peace there is strife, as none are truly free from the taint.

Your village found it- the Old Knight's Head. Still in its helmet, the decaying head can speak. And it did, a simple hammer blow to the unbreakable metal dome and the mouth will split and tell tales of the olden days. It will harken to a time before children were born with split lips and backwards knees, to a time before the greatest knowledge wasn't in books of the past but in the field and learning of the day. The Old Knight's Head fills you with the strangest sense of nostalgia for a time before you were alive.

The Kingdom is dying. You feel the weight of your years even in your youth, your split leather shoes and gloves, taken from a calf who couldn't breathe after its birth, are your most expensive pieces of armor aside from your rusting and crooked sword. Only a few have thought to raid the oldest tombs of the Kingdom- not for treasure and greed as they were raided before, but for wisdom. Speaking to the old dead, and to the men who made this land great, and learning from them what has gone so wrong. The corrupted watch may not approve of your actions, madly declaring your insanity for wanting to fix this broken land, but you must not ere from the path. But even as you struggle, you feel the pit in your gut deepen as you know, somehow, deep down, that no one is watching your struggle and no one will let you succeed. You fight against forces that can't be beaten. You will fail. Your effort will only end in an inevitable death and further slide into barbarism and returning the world to the primordial muddy chaos from which it can't stray. Still, what else can be done? You will fail before you begin, or fail after you have tried your greatest. Is the struggle worth it?

40 Minute Settings- Etthurhia

This is a new “feature” on this blog. I want to write more, but sometimes it's hard to decide how to iron out details of a fantasy world without any sort of guide or rules. So instead, we're making something new. This is going to be a fantasy world built in 40 minutes. I'm starting a timer before I start writing the setting proper after I've generated some stuff to get started.

I don't really do a lot of “worldbuilding”. However, I want to try it sometimes. Instead of making it just about my pet fantasy setting, instead I decided to do something different and force myself to write using random generation. This is going to feature a lot of randomly generated stuff for inspiration along with a strict time limit.

Themes

Darkness, nature, swamps, eldritch through a natural lens.

Musical Accompaniment

Some music from Skyrim. Nature/Ambient.

Magic Card Inspiration

Cycled through random cards until a monoBlack, monoGreen card, and then Sorcery were found.

-Bog Elemental

-Daybreak Ranger/Nightfall Predator

-Portent of Betrayal

Generated Invocations

By Xeipi!

By The Celestial Swamps Of Grmaurme!

By The One-thousand Flock Of Visodaeo!

I Call Upon Hidden Hacrotha!

I Evoke The Necropolis Of Phedenim!

Generated Realm Names

Empire of the Windy Bull's Amulet

High Earl's Realm

Knee Province

Living Earldom of the Pipes

Titan's Kingdom

Randomly Generated Fantasy World Name

Etturhia

Randomly Generated Death Worm Names (Took 2)

Urghirun
Urnur

Random Number between 1 and 1000

817

That should be enough to get us started. Original generators in order are done by MtG Gatherer, Seventh Sanctum, and fantasynamegenerators.com

------

Etthurhia

This is a sunken land. It's cracked ground goes from the black swamps to the tall white mountain peaks; those far away places known as the Titan's Kingdom. Only the most cunning or brave of men dare venture in those places, where the ancient ones so built the world.

The only race here is the race of men. Men are made of mud and mud they shall return. The “Gods” are long gone, they are the names for the old Titans who are now finished with their creation, uncaring if all but their mountain fall into black swamps. It seems every year the water is rising, or just getting more clouded and hard to swim. Men built, once, using the tools left behind by the ancient Titans. They could know all 817 of their names, and speak them to make the land go up, then dry, then press it flat, then dot it with trees and shrubs, then make the animals come and birds roost. But these sanctuaries are few and far between now. “Roads” are swinging, precarious bridges made of sticks and bones, the last bits of relatively safe travel between encampments.

Of course, one could brave the swamps. The mud is poison to you. You were made of mud, once, and by touching mud you are losing yourself. The longer one spends in the water, the more they forget. Forget their lives and forget their morals. They wish to betray their fellows, and the signs are all their clearly beforehand; they stop caring for the suffering of others at all, and speak ill of their family when not in earshot. These men are doomed. One day, they will be nothing but the bog itself, sludge rising to swallow and crush others who dare enter.

But not everything is so evil and dark. The Incantations are not wholly forgotten. By speaking to Xeipi, you can know the direction and make the moss grow that way. By calling upon the Celestial Swamps of Grmaurme, you can force away the foul swamp creatures for good ones. The crocodiles and giant dragonflies will leave you alone if you know to call the One-thousand Flock Of Visodaeo; the spawn of all things that fly and swim. Of course, these invocations don't work against the death worms. They were once the predators of the titans, or so it seemed. The most infamous one is Urghirun, black, with a hunger and sadism that strikes fear into the hearts of rulers. He stalks Knee Province, and is the reason none visit, not even to buy their black-salt lanterns.

In the Empire of Windy Bull, the worlds greatest spot of dry land exists. It is two valleys, strung together with a tiny 'wall' of mountains that keep the bog away. The Amulet of the Windy Bull is what is keeping the muck and swamp from tearing these stone walls down. Within the Empire, the men train and fight to search the swamp, both for worthwhile survivors to bring back to join them, as well as plunder. One of the most common invocations is to say “I Evoke The Necropolis Of Phedenim!” to open the doorways to sunken temples. It keeps the basements cleared of muck for a few hours at most. Just enough time to get in, get treasure, and leave before the swamp leeches sift back down through the stonework. The greatest treasure here are names; names of the Titanous Gods, names of debters. Debts are bought and sold as a currency themselves, as sometimes a favor is worth more then gold. No one knows this better then the High Earl.

The High Earl is an oddity amongst the race of men. He is immortal, forever kept alive by the names he has accrued. His true name is so long and his personas so numerous that “High Earl” is the only name of which is useful and convenient to call him by. Within his chest are holes that lead to the Living Earldom of the Pipes- his living body is its own Kingdom. Within it are shades, shadowy figures in the suggestion of a form, with masks. These are the names he has taken as favors. The Earl is a powerful sorcerer as well, possibly the greatest, due to his names and collection of power he had so gained.

The trees near the swamps are bolstered, stakes pushed into soil and twine strung around the saplings, pulled towards the land so their fronds do not hang in the water. This is because of Hidden Hacrotha. One calls his name to sees what is the dark shape hidden under the swamp water. In this place, it is Urnur the death worm, gray in tone, who stalks the waters. He waits for those to get close to the water's edge, hanging over it on a bowed tree, and then he will bite the leaves. So carefully he will pull them into the water; first a toe, then a foot, then a leg, and snap! Bite whatever is just under the surface. The more patient he gets, the more he can eat. He is getting very patient, and very smart for a death worm. This does not bode well for the people of High Earl's Realm.

People trade with dry linens. The air here is damp, everywhere, except Windy Bull of course. The first time a shirt or sock touches swamp water it is like a maiden losing her virginity- it can never quite go back to how it was, regardless of how much you clean and scrub it pure again. A good pair of socks is like a horse here. The mud in your boots is endlessly compacted and squished against your skin; trenchfoot is a common aliment. If only someone knew the invocation to cure it, if there even is one. Trade your nickname to the Earl's men, they may teach you. All names are valuable to his immortal self; when you were called Skipper as a child, or Drunkard as an adult, these are names. Names for names is a trade that all are willing to make, especially for a clean wool coat.

Blue-black mushrooms grow on the trees at shoulder height. They can only be collected when they 'bloom', which is when the water is just below their water level. Water rises and falls like the seasons in other worlds. Black sludge collects at the bottom in summer, the ground almost feels solid for a while, but the further down the endless hills, further away from the Titans' mountain, the deeper the water will get during the flood season. Water doesn't come down from the sky very often here, it comes up from the lowlands, and then up higher still. The small pools left over from the retreat of the water sometimes hold horrible lungfish, or sometimes delicious urchins, whose poison is bought and sold for use in the tanglewood cities in the treetops. Assassins are very valuable up there. And anyone who is a good climber is a good assassin. Most of them refuse to look their victims in the eye; spider climb under the floorboards and stick a needle in your target's foot. It's that easy. They may even speak the wrong invocation because they think it was a simple climbing-snake bite. Foolish tree dwellers. They think they are so safe just because they sleep up there.

Of course, the most dangerous men are the opposite of the tree dwellers. The mud men. Those who live near or in the mire proper and enjoy it. When the water retreats and the ground is dark, moist, and squishy for months on end, the mud men dig up things that fell in the swamp long, long centuries ago. Ancient things. Names of Titans who didn't build with the other Titans. Titans that went down hill, towards the black mud sea. Towards the sinkhole at the end of the world. Their names are striken from all the tablets and records- and if you see one, you should do the same. Even uttering their name is forbidden. Too much rides at stake for you to bring their attention to our little pocket of earth that does not consume us as greedily as crocodiles. The mud men are not dangerous for this reason though. They are dangerous because they are changing. They grow fur and claws, they become dumb and impulsive, they learn how to swim. They are becoming beasts; mucks and ooze is the breeding grounds for a return to the mud from whence you came.

Weapons in Etthurhia are simple. Everyone who wishes to live carries a sculptor's knife to mark the mud or tree branches, as well as to help shape and carve into clay. Everyone who wishes to not only live, but actually stand a chance against the foes in the mire carry a sickle-sword. The sword can curve through bog elementals and other creatures; a nice square shield is carried by mercenary companies. Especially those hired by the Earl. The shields are held flat against the ground and their corners interlock for when a rainmaking beast accidentally starts another flood.

People eat muscles. The tiny stuck-on creatures that live on the trees and rocks around the dry and wet seasonal areas- they do best when left alone and in return produce a huge, but nearly impossible to reverse, symbiotic relationship with their humans. Humans get a nearly unlimited food source, and in return, the muscles get several new places to attach. Like human skin. Lovely. The islands that men have built range from tiny foundations on which to build a single tower, to large shelves cutting out a negative space in the trees and mangroves above. Humans must fight to survive in this world, there is no “competition” with the ecosystem. Man will have what man wants.

Swamp Dragon @Ahmad Hilmi

Afterword & Notes

This was a fun experiment. I'm finishing with less then two minutes left, because I can't write anything useful or substantial since it's too hard to think of stuff! Anyway, this ended up being very one-trick, but I think it's a pretty cool dark fantasy/OSR-styled fantasy setting. I love swamps in games and wish the “classic” wasn't just evil place with a monster. Though that's probably one of the reasons I like it.

Anyway, next time I do this, (if I do it at all) I might generate more stuff. I tried very hard to not write too specific here in both detail and ideas; want to keep this pretty reasonable. And there you have it- a fantasy setting built in under 40 minutes!

PS- I can't take total credit for the Mudman. They were at least partially inspired by this post by WWCD, which is one of my all time favorites.