May 15, 2022 6:20 pm
[ +- ] That's rough, buddy.
The world was broken, and it was broken beyond recognition.
The sky was cracked open like the shell of an egg, and... something moving around out there. You'd seen glimpses of it, dark unintelligible shapes, pressed up against the seams that spiderweb between the sun and stars. The rivers and seas had died -- not just the winds upon them, and far more than the beasts of their depths, but the water itself. It gave no nourishment, it sated no thirst, no heat would bring it to boil.
The world was broken, in ways no one could understand -- not the scholars in their studies, the wizards in their towers, the priests in their temples, and certainly not the royalty on their thrones. No one. And it was for that reason that you are here, now, in the depths of this dungeon. The deepest, most ancient tomb of this world. They say, when the dome of the sky was hammered and hung and the silk of the sea freshly spun and draped over the horizon, god retired to this place. They laid down their tools, and they slept.
You are here, now, on the threshold of the final room. Beyond this last door? The workshop of creation. The magic you seek to set right what has gone wrong. A place where no living soul has set foot in untold millennia. You exhale. You reach out. You touch the cold, hammered copper banding the great, obsidian door. You push.
...It is the smallest miracle that, say, a ceramic cup might shatter but not break. Or, maybe break but not shatter. Irreparable, regardless, but perfectly retaining its form. But only so long as, in your wonder, you resist. Resist the curiosity. Resist the need to explore that miracle too closely. Because as soon as you do...
The door opens with the sound of god's hammer falling upon the miracle cup, and if your eardrums had not burst in absolute silence it would be deafening.
The door opens with a burning light, brighter than any sun. It opens less than it unravels, really; unraveling, and passing through the exposed bones of your hand like streamers of boiling metal and ribbons of volcanic ash.
The black depths of your own mind swell up in your vision and you know two things: to faint in the face of this fresh new catastrophe is a mercy, and that as your body reels back there will be no ground to catch your weight. There will be nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing ever again. Will you starve? Or will the breath in your lungs give out long before then? Or will you be condemned to the worst fate of them all, and you will simply... be? Persisting in the senseless, soundless, burning aftermath.
Your skull strikes the pavement hard enough to rattle your teeth and make you bite your tongue. Your spine follows shortly thereafter, one bone after another, like a finger dragged across the keys of a piano.
Your eyes open onto tangled, awful splotches of color. Bloody red and sickly yellow and the dark of night and rotting green swimming and competing for dominance. This -- this is your fate. To be engulfed, to be churned up in the chaos of a new world's birth!
Your skin goes ice cold and slick and wet and it takes a moment to realize you have been splashed -- no, drenched with water. Head to toe (you realize you still have toes, that's nice), hair plastered to your brow, nostrils and mouth filled, sputtering and spitting and shaking the rivulets from your face. Your vision clears. Red and yellow and green banners, strung in patterns overhead. Strung from towering, claustrophobic buildings, and disappearing in all directions away from you -- away from you, and down tangling, twisting streets. The streets of a City, somewhere. Streets overfilled with life, with people, with sights you've never seen before. Sights like--
The figure standing over your sprawled form. The figure, pale as Death itself, adorned in shining armor, its skin banded with copper wire.
The figure holding a wooden bucket, dripping with water.
The figure, with a voice like ringing glass, who said: "Ey, stranger, ya can't f*#in' sleep here, yer blockin' traffic. I'ma need ya to git outta the f*#in' street, alright?"
...Huh.
The sky was cracked open like the shell of an egg, and... something moving around out there. You'd seen glimpses of it, dark unintelligible shapes, pressed up against the seams that spiderweb between the sun and stars. The rivers and seas had died -- not just the winds upon them, and far more than the beasts of their depths, but the water itself. It gave no nourishment, it sated no thirst, no heat would bring it to boil.
The world was broken, in ways no one could understand -- not the scholars in their studies, the wizards in their towers, the priests in their temples, and certainly not the royalty on their thrones. No one. And it was for that reason that you are here, now, in the depths of this dungeon. The deepest, most ancient tomb of this world. They say, when the dome of the sky was hammered and hung and the silk of the sea freshly spun and draped over the horizon, god retired to this place. They laid down their tools, and they slept.
You are here, now, on the threshold of the final room. Beyond this last door? The workshop of creation. The magic you seek to set right what has gone wrong. A place where no living soul has set foot in untold millennia. You exhale. You reach out. You touch the cold, hammered copper banding the great, obsidian door. You push.
...It is the smallest miracle that, say, a ceramic cup might shatter but not break. Or, maybe break but not shatter. Irreparable, regardless, but perfectly retaining its form. But only so long as, in your wonder, you resist. Resist the curiosity. Resist the need to explore that miracle too closely. Because as soon as you do...
The door opens with the sound of god's hammer falling upon the miracle cup, and if your eardrums had not burst in absolute silence it would be deafening.
The door opens with a burning light, brighter than any sun. It opens less than it unravels, really; unraveling, and passing through the exposed bones of your hand like streamers of boiling metal and ribbons of volcanic ash.
The black depths of your own mind swell up in your vision and you know two things: to faint in the face of this fresh new catastrophe is a mercy, and that as your body reels back there will be no ground to catch your weight. There will be nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing ever again. Will you starve? Or will the breath in your lungs give out long before then? Or will you be condemned to the worst fate of them all, and you will simply... be? Persisting in the senseless, soundless, burning aftermath.
Your skull strikes the pavement hard enough to rattle your teeth and make you bite your tongue. Your spine follows shortly thereafter, one bone after another, like a finger dragged across the keys of a piano.
Your eyes open onto tangled, awful splotches of color. Bloody red and sickly yellow and the dark of night and rotting green swimming and competing for dominance. This -- this is your fate. To be engulfed, to be churned up in the chaos of a new world's birth!
Your skin goes ice cold and slick and wet and it takes a moment to realize you have been splashed -- no, drenched with water. Head to toe (you realize you still have toes, that's nice), hair plastered to your brow, nostrils and mouth filled, sputtering and spitting and shaking the rivulets from your face. Your vision clears. Red and yellow and green banners, strung in patterns overhead. Strung from towering, claustrophobic buildings, and disappearing in all directions away from you -- away from you, and down tangling, twisting streets. The streets of a City, somewhere. Streets overfilled with life, with people, with sights you've never seen before. Sights like--
The figure standing over your sprawled form. The figure, pale as Death itself, adorned in shining armor, its skin banded with copper wire.
The figure holding a wooden bucket, dripping with water.
The figure, with a voice like ringing glass, who said: "Ey, stranger, ya can't f*#in' sleep here, yer blockin' traffic. I'ma need ya to git outta the f*#in' street, alright?"
...Huh.
Quote:
Dis… Sigil… Donjon… Aleph… answering to many names, there is only one Planar City.A sprawling metropolis, suspended at the heart of all existence. A strange melting pot, connected to the vast diversity of the multiverse. Sewers and cisterns, sinking their roots into every underworld. Alleyways and labyrinths, bridging all dungeons. Dizzying spires, grasping at and spreading across the first firmament. And in every direction: the Planes, tiny as a small fiefdom or large enough to seem infinite.
Many paths lead to its winding streets and packed houses. And in The City, the right doorway can take you anywhere… anywhere, except home.
...
You are Planar Orphans stranded in The City, your original home worlds destroyed, corrupted or lost.
You and others like you have been summoned, brought together by a Patron of substantial influence. You have been provided with a base of operations, a refuge from the hardships of the infinite streets. In exchange for this, you will travel the exotic corners of the multiverse, contending with strange creature and bizarre phenomena as you lend your skills to the Patron's mission. Their aim?
The completion of a Planar Key. A treasure, they say, that can do the impossible. A treasure that will give birth to a new plane.
A new home, for you and your fellow refugees.
If Spider-Man: No Way Home, The Multiverse of Madness, and Everything, Everywhere, All At Once are any indication, then it would seem that 2022 is the year for multiversal hijinks. And who am I to argue with the zeitgeist? Thus Planedawn: a selection from the planarch codex.
Looking for one to two players interested in joining in some plane-hopping adventures using Martin Nerurkar's and Martin Buntz's campaign kit: Planedawn Orphans. Mechanically, ruleset-wise, we'll be using John Harper's World of Dungeons + Johnathan Walton's Planarch Codex: Dark Heart of the Dreamer supplement. Planedawn Orphans is blatant about its themes of found family, creating your own destiny, and the beauty of diversity, so characters that dabble in those sandboxes are the kind of heroes I'd love to get to play with.
I have three players already, cool folks who are fun-loving, friendly, easy-going, and enormous fans of one another's contributions when gaming, so I would love to keep that energy and vibe going. So, if you are a chill and supportive person who likes to cheer for your fellow players, and you're interested in stuff like...
a) robbing a train that is cutting through the heart of a clockwork planet and riding the gears back to the surface,
b) attending a luxurious gala on an unkillable moon celebrating its annual plunge into the sun,
c) climbing up the guts of a 20-story god that is being used as "Uber but for smiting" so you can have a word with the manager, or
d) whatever other fever dream nonsense comes out of my fingers
...let me know! Preference goes to folks whose writing is a delight to read, and who have ideas for fun character concepts! (You don't need a fully-fleshed out PC -- much better to leave room for collaboration and discovering things on the fly in play -- but who doesn't love a fun elevator pitch?)
