Commoriom: Touring the Grand Metropolis, part One

After the ruthless death of a PC and a new, cosmopolitan fellow being introduced, play is turning towards the politics and vast bustle of a nearby city and base of operations. What follows is my introduction of this great metropolis. 

The ancient, wyrd-bound city of Commoriom has glittered on the edge of the Sea of Night for many aeons. Once ruled by an esteemed Overlord of Greater Commoria, and laying claim to various coastal fortresses and island outposts in the Sea of Night, it has fallen into disrepair for the last generation or so. The last Overlord– Aurelio XVII– took his regnal name and was assassinated on the same night, four-hundred and ninety-three years ago, marking the current period of political strife that has forced emigration and constant intrigue. 

The Five-Hundred Year Interregnum 

This is specifically for the reason of Commoriom's antiquated and demanding electoral procedure. The city's signoria– the Supreme Conclave of Supernal Successors– is comprised of the fifty-odd remaining noble families of the city. Each member can nominate the dynast of their lineage as a Scion of the Supreme Hippogriff– or candidate for Overlord– if they so choose. At the sunset of each day, all those nobility present in the electoral chambers vote from amongst the proposed successors. With over four hundred members, fifty-odd scions, and a two-thirds majority required, no single candidate has even come close to the required number of votes in the last century. 

Matters are further complicated when one realises the vast influence that various other organisations have within the Successors. Guilds– especially the Thieve's Guild; Military Orders and mercenaries; splinter factions; and the various temples and primarchs of the city all have puppets and bribes dispersed amongst the Successors, buying and securing votes towards their ends. 

Note the Hinterlands Romanticism– The ocean painted blue, rather than the true black-violet colour.

Cities Within the City

Indeed, these matters are so complicated that little rule of law comes from the Conclave. Rather, throughout the city's vast interior, factions and guilds hold control with private armies of hired bravos (and wage street wars with each other). Within the Supernal Successors, assassination and murder serve the only true method of changing the dug-in and unwavering spread of votes. As they say in Commoriom, "Politics is our National Blood Sport". 

And thus, for the last fifty years, the city has become a shadow of it's former self. Tired of the useless rulers and faction politics, the vast majority of the city's lower class has emigrated to greener pastures. Those that remain are hired mercenaries, traders and merchants, and the disproportionately-large nobility handing down tales of better days and centuries-old relics of the family. Much of the city has fallen into ruin or been reclaimed by nature: Closer to the threefold exterior walls, the "city" could better be described as numerous hamlets and villages between orchards and fields. 

All-in-all, this metropolis is a rugged, crumbling, bustling, and glittering metropolis of external opulence and internal intrigue. Amongst her crumbling halls and through her weed-run marble streets rumour and conspiracy are everyday life, backroom politics are assumed, and spilled blood in the name of endless politicians is assured. 

Expect a post discussing the various factions and families that run the city, and produce it's endless intrigue, within a few days. 

Death in the City of Snakes: Session 3 recap

As if to compensate for a sluggish session 2, session 3 was filled with a great deal of blood-filled development.

Our heroes– Corvus and Rumplestiltskin, Rhagorthua once again endeavouring on his own mysterious missions– descended through the mist-wound forests of Zel to the gates of the serpentine city of Bel Yarnak. Scaling the wall and descending, our heroes moved through the husk of an ancient stone edifice. 

Cold ashes and abandoned, earthenware cups caught the eyes of our hero as they moved. Investigation prompted little: save, of course, the sudden and claw-filled ambush that followed. A host of tiger-like humanoids bearing falchions and hungry looks leapt from hasty hiding places. This sudden assault found footing as a falchion bit deep into Rumplestiltskin's soft flesh, rendering him near death. Before, however, these tigrous beings could begin to feast, a whirl of steel and psychic energy in the form of Wilhelm Corvus cleaved through their ranks and rendered them lifeless and dismembered. Hauling his friend from the clutches of death, the two pushed onwards towards the city's palace.

The palace, however, was not reached before sundown– owing to one wounded hero and endless labyrinthine alleys. Eventually clambering atop a building's roof, our heroes settled in for a night's uneasy sleep. This dream was soon shattered by a flying assailment of javelins, launched by pursuing tiger-men and biting deep into the mortality of both our heroes. With gallant bravery, Wilhelm leapt from roof to roof, cleaving at the javelin-hurling thugs. Even as he cut one down, however, Rumplestiltskin remained fearfully alone. With fatal speed and lethality, two tiger-thugs clambered to the roof and in swift action plunged their daggers deep into Rumplestiltskin's side. He fell, and though from the immortal Summer Realm, bled and died like any mortal. 

The session ended with Wilhelm's swift and rapid vengeance. The killers were hacked to gory chunks, and the remainder fell in fear and were taken prisoner. A vengeful glint in his eye, Wilhelm no doubt desires revenge on these strange tiger-creatures who caused the death of his beloved friend. 

Loot: Little plunder, save five falchions, was garnered this day. The only rewards were bitter loss. 

Meeting a Patron in the Woods

A change in pace has come to our daring and dastardly protagonists. Although little happened last session, it did end in an encounter with a large train of slaves, soldiers, and towering howdah-bearing cyclops, all behind a tall and stately fellow with speckled green skin and a mild manner. 

And when three mercenaries, hungry for plunder and blood, meet such a fellow: well, words are exchanged. The fellow introduced himself as Ezzad, a rather affluent githzerai from the mist-filled city of Commoriom who fancies himself a patron of any who can offer distinguished services. And indeed, he explained, there is no shortage in need for skilled bravos and mercenaries in the cutthroat milieu that is Commoriom (and the Wyrd that encircles it). An agreement was settled: The heroes can rest their heads and satiate their appetites on whatever food, feather-beds, and fiery drink Ezzad's money can buy in Commoriom. In exchange, however, the three will conduct his business in and out of the city: his porters, guardsmen, and encouragers, as he put it. Unless Ezzad asks for it beforehand, the heroes can pilfer and loot whatever plunder is reasonable and acceptable to take. Ezzad has appearances to maintain, however, and mindless behaviour will not result well. 

The Skinny

Living in Commoriom and working under the wing of Ezzad boils down to a few necessary mechanics.

1. Ezzad's numerous guardsmen– not to mention the metropolis that is Commoriom, the misty marble city of the Githzerai– is full of characters. Players may create and choose from any characters they wish to create before each session, as long as that character has a reason to be employed by Ezzad or working with him. 

2. Likewise, gold, items, and supplies are shared between all of these characters. Before setting out of the city (or of Ezzad's palazzo), characters can pick and choose what weapons, armour, and cash they wish to tote on them. 

3. Each session must end either within the city of Commoriom or at a "save point": A safe and habitable site where camps and forward stations can be established, which I'll indicate as they are revealed. Characters begin each session at one of these campsites, provided it is furnished with at least the semi-permanent necessities and hasn't fallen into any particular disrepair. 

Although only occasionally related, I do have a few particular preferences for new PCs being created:

1. If a character can have a subclass, give them one. Especially arcane classes. 

2. Commoriom is a decadent, marble-filled trade metropolis in the middle of a mythic wilderness, as if Venice or Seville of the 16th century was given a makeover by Fritz Leiber and Roger Dean. Make characters fantastical and larger-than-life accordingly.

3. For such a game to work, characters will be needing strong emotions. Not necessarily specific goals– at least, not beyond plunder and drink– but a character should have something to treasure above all else, something to hate in all it's deplorable squalor, and a strong personality to match. Also, feel free to be mysterious about your motivations and goals to the other players: but not the DM. If your character has mysterious and enigmatic goals, I need to know them for them to happen. 

Ezzad's First job 

Ezzad is an open and forgiving patron– he trusts you when you tell him you are skilled with that blade or spell-book you carry. Regardless, to kill two birds with one stone, he needs you to fetch him something: the jewel-encrusted skulls of the kings of Bel Yarnak, a ruined city not far from Commoriom. The snake-worshipping indolence there turned the city into a forest-crusted ruin long ago, but the priceless treasures remain: no doubt with strata of failed attempts to pilfer them over the centuries. 

Currency in the Border-Realms

The marrow of this post is lifted largely from a similar currency idea from this fine blog. 

First of all, some updates:

There'll be no news post this week, due to the isolated milieu of the players. Additionally, no session recap either, as not enough occurred to warrant a full recap. By next weekend both will have returned (the former provided the players also return to any form of established civilization).
Okay. Onto the meaty stuff.

In light of the ever-developing strata of this campaign, I've wanted to compile a post on various small details and occurrences that are common throughout the disk. This is that post. Throw all notions of effective and flowing format; this is more a compilation of random ephemera than it is a presentable, thematic presentation.
A lot of these things also warrant their own posts, which will no doubt occur at some point. That is to say, if considerable pressure is thrust upon me.

Currency and Money 

Throughout the border-realms and beyond, various local and backwater currencies (made of anything from silver and lead to hammered dreams and beaten souls), circulate in their respective spheres. However, only one denomination is trusted by merchants and sellswords across the world: the Electrum Grivna.

The grivna is hammered and minted in the Voivodeship of Czerogrod, cast of a distinct alloy primarily consisting of gold and silver. Although often pressed with localised iconography or script the grivna's size (comfortably fitting in the aperture of a touching thumb and forefinger) and value (ten grivna would buy a cow) are practically universal. The distinct electrum alloy, containing trace elements only known to Voivodeship mints, gives the coin a melodic character: struck against each other, they will produce a lasting and pleasant ring. It this easy trial of authenticity that has produced their infallibility as the merchant's standard (and excited the ear of many a hoard-hungry adventurer).

Other Currency: Perhaps the only other form of currency that could truly be considered global is the unassuming Padishah's Dinar. The ancient coin of the once-united Zukbar-Sihirbazik realm, this coin appears as a tarnished and unremarkable piece of silver (until further examination). It marked only with the image of an engorged and stinging sand-fly. These coins are only hammered and distributed by the Knives of the Padishah, an enigmatic guild of assassins practicing the ancient art of the Zukbari-Sihirbazik royal vizier-assassins. These coins are worth exactly one assassination attempt. That is to say, those who are not members of the guild and are found carrying them are marked for death by the Knives. Thus, they are distributed by the guild as a marker for assassins seeking their target, though how they know the possessor of each tiny coin is unknown. To pilfer one of these coins is to risk every day holding it, but to sneak it into another's saddle-bags or strongbox is to effectively mark them for death.

The Most Supreme Anti-Dragon Team

Based on the desire of a player, I introduce to you: The Dragon-Fire Hussars of Hoskadem.

Aspirants of particularly epic and fire-proof distinction desire to join the ranks of the Hussars, an order of knights devoted to defeating the sometimes-nuisance-often-annihilating threat that is wyrms, dragons, and their kith and kin. With lance, sword, other sword, hex-slinging pistol, and usually a few back-ups, not to mention heat-treated armour and all the pomp of a Vérfakashan fashion parade, they ride across any terrain to puncture every kind of scale. While technically unlanded vassals of the Sultan of Sihirbazik (and often called to fight for him to honour this agreement), they will ride alongside any host that rides to slay anything draconic.
Often, they also function as a jockeying ground for political debutantes and champions, nobles offering patronage to individual hussars of distinction and prowess in exchange for the prestige that comes of it.

Those who offer their lance must be able to produce: 

• A well-fed and robust rouncey or courser, suit of plate (or plate-based armour), one lance; at least one sword, preferably unrusted; and pistol, with associated shot, powder, and tools
• A bag of powdered dragon-salts
• At least one hired or sworn man-at-arms attired similarly (horseflesh optional) 
• A uniform of the order (a tabard or even table-cloth stained red will do) 
• A tooth, tongue, or eye of a dragon, as well as 2 (two) signature witnesses to affirm the dragon was slain by the applicant and his retainers 

Those who wish to be considered by the council as Knight-Officers:

• A destrier of purebred Kynaztarg stock or a Vérfakashan-Sihirbazik jennet
• A filigreed and richly embossed suit of plate armour, graven with images of fearsome creatures or foes, with associated helmet (matching, if you please)
• One lance (with gilt and pennant), a palasz backsword,  koncerz estoc, and possibly a szabla sabre
• a fine pistol, carbine, or petronel, preferably able to handle first-grade sunfire black powder 
• A uniform of the order, woven from the finest Sihirbazik cotton or Lamassu-silk, replete with the order's charge
• A banner declaring your name and association, as well as personal arms
• Two to five retainers and hirelings, of which one must carry your banner, one who can supply replacement weaponry, and at least one who is prepared for combat 

Additional Matters: 

• All and their retinue must attend the fortnight-long bi-annual muster of the Hussars, the Great Huznanko, wherein the auction, entertainment, discussion, and mock melees will all no doubt include blood.
• Upon the order of the Sultan, all knights are required to raise their lance on his behalf above all matters, due to his blessed patronage of the order.
• 
  

Thirteen Cities, Two Islands, and a Dragon: The Hinterland News Roundup

Hinterlands news, fresh from painted caravels and Sybarite gossipers.

A handful of poor and dejected freebooters– a dozen in all– were sent off to the Arm of Namtar as the brave first explorers of Dražan's Exploratory Enterprise. The one who survived returned to tell no credible tales, his mind addled in a Wyrd-induced fugue. However, his tales featured recantations of the ancient myth of the Thirteen Lost Cities– thirteen cities of thirteen universes, which vanish and reappear on the sorcerous commands of inhabitants strange, shining, and terrible alike. Having never graced this realm since the sorcerous holocaust of the elves, their rediscovery would truly mark a wondrous find.

The misty, twin isles of Farkas and Huzar have long fought the sovereignty of either Hinterland or the Hegemony of a Thousand Banners, declaring their wild, wooly, ram-worshipping isles distinct and independent in the Great Sea. However, it seems a new creature has reared his head as suzerain– a writhing, stormy dragon declaring himself Thuvarrim, king of Farkas and Huzar. With the gilded lances and sparking pistols of the Dragon-fire Hussars of Hoskadem indisposed (skewering and shooting Zukbar cutthroats, namely, as per their eternal contract with the Sultan of Sihirbazik) the island has offered bounties in reward for the dragon's head; amphora of fermented and spiced sheep-milk, concubines (the women of the islands known for their wild nature) and of course as many grivna as the island could offer.

The prince of Sturkhmar himself has issued a plea, offering a fine title and a sum of coin for those with any information on the freak incident at the God's Eye tower west of the city. With the Guardsmen slain and robbed, the tower half-torched, and the scorched and mutilated corpse of an adolescent drekavak amongst it all, the prince has little to tell the multitudes of grieving blood relatives and outraged council of the Guardsmen's League.

A Nebulous Tour of the Border-Realms

Development of the campaign and the world surrounding it has (until today) been put on the back-burner, as scheduling had led me to believe our weekly game would be postponed to next Saturday. However, the schedules aligned as only fates are wont to do and our weekly game has become possible this weekend. Thus, my DM synapses have begun to fire once more, tying together a lot of the floating ideas and threads in my head together.

From those threads and synapses have developed a nebulous, grainy image of what the border-realms look like around the current region (the Hinterlands), existing only in scattered ideas and a chicken-scratch DM's map (which contains too many DM secrets to post here). I'm determined, however, to introduce these places and realms weird and wonderful.

Without further ado, we begin our tour of the scattered realms, lands, and kingships of the Border-Realms:

The Hinterlands. A realm of splintered and sub-splintered city-states across primeval forests and heathland sloping to the fractious mountains of the west. Why are you reading this? It's said far better here.

Note that all directions henceforth are given in relation to the Hinterlands.

A "meagre" outpost, along the southern border of the Voivodeship.

The Voivodeship of Czerogrod: An icy realm of painted domes and colourful cities, marching hordes and pyschic oligarchs, bearing north of the Hinterlands. Fear the war-wagons, draconian slave-warriors, and pyschic zakonnik dervishes they field. 

The famed trader The Phoenix succumbs to the Great Sea Wash.

The Great Sea: A vast inland sea of towering foam-green waves, which dash against the coast of the Hinterlands. A vital trade resource for the merchant-princes and the hegemony of one thousand banners beyond, plied by the ferocious Corsair Princes– pirates claiming the sea as sovereign territory.

The Hegemony of One Thousand Banners: Grand duchies and petty kings alike extend from the Great Sea's eastern coast, aligned beneath the High King of Vérfarkas and his Vrylokan house for fear of the Voivodeship's powerful armies.

A satrap of Sihirbazik descends his pleasure-palace stair.

Sihirbazik: A mountainous realm of deserts and tablelands, cradling the southern coast of the Great Sea. A dash of Orientalist painting mixes with Ottoman Turkey, Achaemenid Persia and shadow magic in this sultanate of sorcerous satrapies and shining cities.

One of many Zukbari ruins, guarding only the memories of golden days. 

Zukbar, Kingdom of the Sun: A kingdom of sun-worshipping folk, living amongst the remnants of their glory days: A brooding older cousin of Sihirbazik. In the centre of her great sands and endless ruins lies the Temple of the Sunset, where the King in Yellow sleeps.

Arm of Namtar: Named for the obscure cyclical-court God of magic and embodiment of the Wyrd, it is a great arm of Wyrd extending northwards to be held back by the Western Mountains of the Hinterlands. Unexplored for generations; rumoured to hold anything from the lost Pomegranate Sea to the Gardens of Paradise to a gate to the Hell-Plane itself.

A Lamassu, towering above his summoned slaves.

Kral-Sayyad: Northwest of the Hinterlands roam endless hordes of nomadic Lamassu, their wings and cloven hooves carving a vast nomadic empire. Gold-idolating and mystic, they drink the tribute of a handful of timid border-states and blaze in proud and fierce immortality.

Session 1: The attack of the delusional, door-smashing duo

Session 1 was a brilliant success, despite sadly missing a player due to allergies. As such, the adventure deviated off of the group's main goal (exploration) for a small pre-adventure, investigating the tall tales of Androj the Bellicose (see his drunken display here).

Today's Bold Bravos 

Wilhelm Corvus. Scavenger and psionic warrior of the shifting Southland dunes.

Rumplestiltskin. A rare, peaceful summer-folk, with a scholarly obsession with magic (and primeval, witch magic to contrast).

Rhagorthua. A mind-flayer of the Far Realms, come to Sturkhmar for shadowy purposes.

The Tale of Two 

Having come to the city for their own reasons, our heroes encountered each other in a white-washed coffee house and soon began to discuss the possibility of a pact of alliance, at each other's backs against the city's dangerous milieu. A quick discussion led to a hasty contract, sealed and signed by all.
Before they could take up Dražan the Twice-Dead's exploratory enterprise, however, Rhagorthua disappeared for his own purposes. The other two, left alone with the hunger for battle and gold, set out of the city on the bartender's rumour of giants in the nearby forest, not before acquiring the services of three hirelings: Two palanquin-bearing Goliaths and one prisoner-of-war from the Summer Country.

No giants were discovered west of the city, amongst the clinging fungus, verdant boughs, and twilit canopy. However, a bush-wacked trail lead south– as if something large had been moving in that direction. Could it be a giant, after so many years of exile in the Summer Country?
The trail took them from the trees to the open moors, sloping gently towards the distant mountains. Mists clung to the violet rocks and pale grasses, with the four moons hanging hazy in the sky above. On the horizon stood a squat tower, like an upended molar wracked with moss and verdant growths. The trail continued towards this ruin. Leaving their slaves to watch the door, the two ascended the stairs and drew their weapons.

In a brazen sally, Corvus entered the tower with a shattering blow to the moist, rotted door. It crumpled inward, and they found the dusty and untouched remains of the guard-tower's first level to be inhabited by twin emaciated corpses in frayed kaftans. Corpses which swung at the heroes upon investigation! This ambush was soon dispatched with the flashes of Corvus's broadsword and the booming, primeval assault of Rumplestiltskin's ancient tradition. After the spar, Rumplestiltskin sensed an inkling of psychic magic, hanging above them on the tower's crest. It was unsure whether this psychic magic affected them.
The second level, however, took our heroes by surprise. Upon shattering yet another rotted door all too loudly, Corvus found himself trapped between the rusted quarrels of three rotted, crumpled crossbowmen. Five of the bolts found home, nearly toppling the bull of a man. Unfazed (or experiencing acute blood-rage), Corvus charged at the crossbowman ahead, slaughtering him with a stolid slash across the collar. Wheeling around, he served as the anvil to Rumplestiltskin's hammer, who sent the final twin crossbowmen flying towards him with an arcane declaration. Bloodied and battered, our heroes had survived a second ambush.
Two further corpses and another level later, our heroes found themselves beneath the battlements (in the penultimate story of the tower). The pyschic aura grew in it's proximity and strength, and our heroes knew it was only just above them. The five shrines to various war-gods were untouched for quite some time, and the staircase to the battlements had been bolted and boarded– from the inside.
With his characteristic disregard for hesitation, Corvus hacked away at the boards that sealed them from the outside. Almost as soon as he broke them, a mangy set of claws– each at least the size of his thumb– raked downwards, almost catching Corvus on the throat. The blue-green sheen of the fur only served to further the mystery of their foe.

Sallying forth, Corvus pushed up the stairs, and found himself face-to-face with a horror. Six legs and a twisting body of undulating muscle, layered with mangy, black-blue fur and topped with an antlered, thousand-toothed head– and a set of brilliant yellow eyes. A drekavak (note: more on this creature in a TBA post). Corvus relayed the foe's nature to Rumplestiltskin, and wanting to let his ally a clean shot, dodged out of the way: but not before the creature's rows of hundreds of tiny teeth could rake his arm, blooming blood. With the bite came a reeling sensation of further, psychic pain, brought about by simple proximity to the beast, even for a fortified mind such as Corvus's.
The battle that ensued was a bitter and bloody one. Chains of lightning and wheeling, fury-driven strikes were not enough to slay the creature before it could unleash it's characteristic, psychic howl. The minds of our heroes burned, and they were close to death. Even as the psychic wounds made his vision blacken, Corvus leapt at the creature and brought it into it's death-throes by plunging his blade into it's breast. Even it's frenzied death-throws could not phase Corvus as he wriggled his blade deeper. The creature was dead, and seemingly enough, the ruined tower already seemed cleaner because of it.

About the place was found a pair of fine items: The first a towering two-handed sword that Corvus could sense would bite all the more harder with each challenge the Tiefling issued. The second floated from a strongbox of it's own accord, a lantern that shone with warm, white witch-light and circled around Rumplestiltskin's head. But it was strange: the weapon-racks and strongboxes had not been seen before, and certainly not these fine pieces of work. Confused but gold-happy, the pair descended the staircase.
To their mixed horror and realisation, the Drekavak's psychic magic had been affecting them. What they saw as corpses and animated cadavers were red-blooded, very-much-living city guardsmen, no doubt sent here to watch the moors for approaching armies. The blood of the guardsmen on their hands, the two began to drag the corpses outside to be burned. To add insult to injury, their slaves had disappeared: Though leaving a slave alone would usually prompt such a reaction, the two reasoned.

We end our session with a pile of burning corpses behind our two heroes, new gold ladening their packs, and the blood of seven city watchmen on their hands. What will become of this?

The Loot: 
75 grivna
A fine, silk kaftan
A pair of rabbit-trimmed boots
3 hunks of rhodocrosite, from necklaces
1x +1 Oathblade Greatsword
1x Floating Lantern 

Total Worth: 483 grivna