Homebrew Races

These are some races I came up with as I was messing around with an Illustrator template I created.  They don't necessarily have anything to do with Scourge. Let me know what you think.

The idea behind the reaper is similar to the revenant--an sinister undead character. Matt and I were actually tossing this idea around a while ago because we both like skeletons so much. We thought about what a skeleton PC would be able to do. As with all monsterous races in 4e, the challenge is to make it mechanically feel like the actual monster, but at the same be a viably balanced.

The next challenge with home brew is to make it look and feel different than any other race. Otherwise, you're just making a variation of some similar creature that could have been easily flavored to whatever particularity. The problem of balance also arises. Does your new race completely overshadow the old one? With the kickback to oldschool Aasimar, I had the gleaming problem of the Deva--WotC's officially declared replacement of the past Aasimar. So how could I make the "half-angel" different than the scholarly Deva's? Why, make the Aasimar a soldier of course!

Deva = INT/WIS, astral, memories, blue

Aasimar = STR/WIS/CHA, gold, glory, whispy

I wasn't trying to blatantly rip off Hellboy with the Nereid. My thought process was, "What could be a new 'Merfolk' race that would not be stupid and actually be fun to play?" While brainstorming, a flood of blue magic cards raced through my mind. I decided that magic card designers got it right--an creature that spend his days lurking through sunken ruins would be bound to come across forbidden secrets of the mind, not to mention all the "6th-sensey" glands to which dolphins are already attributed. The goal became to make a psychically flavored fish-man. As I began to photoshop the artwork, I realized that the architecture for the quintessential blue fish-man had already been set out for me. The universe revealed itself to me and the race practically designed itself.

You may think its dumb to rip-off such a contemporary comic book movie like Hellboy. Let me remind you that everything in D&D is a rip-off. Plus I think Hellboy is cooler than most silly old mythology from which modern epic fantasy is derived.

I spent hours trying to differentiate this guy from the minotaur. The bariaur is, of course, a throwback to the 2e planescape goat/centaur. What encounter power would you expect a goat man to have? What encounter power does the minotaur have? Hence, my hours of toiling with how the hell I was to back of from Goring Charge territory. The only answer I could come up with was that bariaurs are more "fey"-ey, thus the would have more exotic, primal power built in. I'm open to suggestions on how to make this guy better.

Let me know what you think. Also, give me suggestions of other races would like to see in the 4e dynamic.

SCOURGE CAMPAIGN VIDEO PREVIEW

Dark Sun According to WotC

To get a better feel of the campaign, read Wizard's official statement about their Dark Sun campaign setting.  Scourge is virtually the same thing so much of what you read will already be familiar to you (but I swear I came up with my stuff long before they released the 4e setting!).


Athas in Seven Sentences (or Scourge)
The world of the Dark Sun setting is unique. This is not a world of shining knights and robed
wizards, of deep forests and holy shrines. Athas (Scourge) draws on different
traditions of fantasy storytelling; simple survival beneath the crimson
sun is often its own adventure. With that in mind, here are the seven
most important things you need to know about the Dark Sun setting:
The world is a desert. (Almost the whole world, that is). Athas
is a hot, arid world covered with vast stretches of desert—endless seas
of dunes, stony wastes, thorny scrublands, and worse. In this
forbidding world, cities and villages can only exist in a few oases or
verdant plains. Beyond these islands of civilization is a barren
wasteland roamed by nomads, raiders, and hungry monsters.
The world is savage. Life
is brutal and short in Athas. The vile institution of slavery is
widespread in Athas, and hundreds, perhaps thousands, are sent to their
deaths every year in bloody arena spectacles. Metal is quite scarce.
Arms and armor are often made of bone, stone, wood, and other such
materials, because steel is priceless.
Arcane magic defiles the world. Athas
was reduced to a wasteland by the reckless use of arcane magic in
ancient wars. To cast an arcane spell, one must gather power from the
living world around. Plants wither to black ash, crippling pain wracks
animals and people, and the soil itself is sterilized; nothing can grow
in that spot again.
Terrible sorcerer-kings rule the cities. The
city-states of Athas are ruled by defilers of immense power. These
mighty spellcasters have held their thrones for centuries. The
sorcerer-kings govern through templars, a class of officials and lesser
defilers who can call upon the kings’ powers.
The gods of Athas are silent. Athas
is a world without gods. There are no clerics, no paladins, no prophets
or religious orders. In the absence of divine influence, people have
turned to other sources of power. Psionic power is well known and
widely practiced in Athas, while shamans and druids call upon the
primal powers of the world—even though the primal spirits of Athas are
often wild and vengeful.
Fierce and deadly monsters populate the world. Athas
is home to its own deadly ecology. Cattle, horses, camels—none of these
animals can be found in Athas. Instead, people tend flocks of erdlus,
ride on kanks or crodlus, and draw wagons with inixes and mekillots.
Wild creatures such as lions, bears, or wolves are almost nonexistent.
In their place are terrors such as the id beast, the so-ut, or the
tembo.
Familiar races aren’t what you expect. Many of the fantasy stereotypes don’t apply to Athasian heroes. On
Athas, elves are a nomadic race of herders, raiders, peddlers, and
thieves. Halflings aren’t amiable river-folk; they’re xenophobic
headhunters and cannibals who hunt and kill anyone foolish enough to
venture into their montane forests. Each of the major races has adapted
to Athas in new and unexpected ways. (Actually elves and halflings are too gay to exist in such a badass, harsh world).

DAY TWO

"We shall go to the Coliseum and have bloody adventures.

And the great whore will suckle us until we are fat and happy and

can suckle no more.

And then, when enough men have died, perhaps the gods shall be satisfied."

"Eat of my fruit, drink of my wine.

The bounty of life's pleasures, brought to you from Chult.

It would offend me if you did not make the most out of

my luxurious hospitality."

"Scars, snakes, slime and mold-

Only a fool is idol with gold."

"Tell me--is it bright where you are?

My mind's in a dark place.

I beg you to save my son for I am about

to do something terrible."

DAY ONE

The only thing that might have been worse than the hell they'd been thrust into was their choking thirst.

A mob of zombies overtook the rescue wagon.  Luckily, a group of haphazard defenders were there to chop their leathery bodies to pieces.  Among them were a Tiefling Battlemind, a wizardly Deva Swordmage, and a Githzerai Seeker.  Leading their little team was one Marhanthas Kane, a valiant warrior of Haeromar whose inspiration had ultimately collected them together, in the midst of a death-filled wasteland, on a mission to a distressed town.

After smashing the first wave of walking corpses, the men found a wounded rescuer that had set out with an earlier party.  He was Grant, another imposing Cephyan, who said it was his quest to reclaim Morgancastle.

"I don't hate the Gods for their silence.

I hate them for damning us.

I journey now to reclaim my family.

Men must now fight for their own redemption."

He claimed interest in the distressed Folium because he was looking for one of the fallen town's inhabitants--Zoltar the Swift.  Zoltar was a Mystic and supposedly knew the secrets of getting into Tower Amalgaloth.  The Tower must have been the key to getting back Morgancastle.

Marhanthas Kane also became intrigued by the revelation that the great Zoltar was somewhere in the burning town.  The party went forth and investigated the many houses that were being burned to the ground, as it was out of character for the undead to raze buildings.  Commanding the hoary mob was a big cut-up brute wearing a stone mask.  After being accused of "heresy" by the weary Siroccans, he was stoned.  Just before his death, a most foul Vistari witch emerged and cursed the tortured Goliath and he became Griever, Shepherd of the Dead.

Griever continued to plague the party's efforts.  They soon discovered a source of water, and Zoltar, who sat in his minaret babbling to himself when they found him.  Marhanthas Kane suddenly was struck in the back by Griever's axe, and he fell to the earth dead.  They party, now leaderless, decided it would be best to return his body back to the Kane family.

Around the flaming village they encountered another familiar face.  Sethezrael, better known as Seth, seemed to be searching for something in the town.

"I act with little regard for what others expect of me.

I try and speak reason to them.

I can only destroy the veil of ignorance."

After killing Griever and scattering the Dead, the party yet again encountered Seth.  It was he who had incinerated the buildings amidst the chaos and rescue.  He finally found a hidden glowing sigil that burned hot the ground beneath one of the buildings.  Confused, the party asked about it.  Seth responded that his efforts were no different than theirs, that he sought an "Icon of Sin", just as the party sought things for their own personal enlightenment.

They all made their way back to Sirocco.  Grant seemed to be earnest enough about his desire to protect Zoltar and use his wisdom to enter Amalgaloth, but Seth's loyalties at this point still remained a mystery. They could not brand him as evil, as he did much good, but his methods were almost always without compassion, and brutal.

Folium Est Carneum di Morto Vivi

WHAT HATH GOD WROUGHT?

World Map (Updated)

The new and improved world map.  I got rid of Conan names. Short descriptions of each realm to come.

A Note on Race and Classes

I don't believe that this necessarily needs to be done because most people can get the gist of campaign flow, but in the interest of "honing in" on a stronger campaign feel, I'm setting forth the availability of each race/class.

Common Races
 These are the most prevalent and probably have their own cities

Humans (overwhelmingly popular) - +2 any stat
Tiefling - +2 cha/+2 int
Half-orc - +2 dex/+2 str
Dragonborn - +2 str/+2 cha
Goliath - +2 str/+2 con
Shardsworn - +2 int/+2 wis or cha
Revenant - +2 con/+2 dex

Banned Races
 You could feasibly go the entire campaign w/o seeing another of your kind.  I have no interest in placing any emphasis on these races.
Elf
Half-Elf
Halfling
Gnome
Warforged

Less common but acceptable Races
 Don't expect to have many kin
Dwarf - +2 con/+2 wis
Deva - +2 int/+2 wis
Shifter- +2 dex/+2 wis (+2 str/+2 wis??)
Drow -  +2 dex/+2 cha
Genasi - +2 str/+2 int
Eladrin - +2 dex/+2 int
Wilden - +2 ????
Other approved monsterous races

Classes (by power source)

Common Classes
Martial
Psionic
Arcane

Uncommon Classes
Primal
Shadow

Very Rare Classes
Divine

The Ignoble Vistari and the Blighted Dracomar

Vistari

Liars.  Thieves.  Murderers.  The Vistari are gypsy-like degenerates with no place to call home.  Upon first glance, one could take their bizarre traditions to be whimsical and engaging.  In reality, they're completely amoral and would sooner slit your throat than to offer you hospitality.

Traveling by caravan throughout the land are these sporadic people.  They favor elaborate decoration.  They have many holidays and songs.  But for whatever reason, they seem to be completely insane.

If the land of Dracomar wasn't dangerous enough, groups of Vistari hide about, ransacking travelers and plundering farms.  They seem to be the only ones foolish enough to mingle about in the wilds with the ravenous dead.

The bastard orcs, ogres, and rest of goblinkind know not to trust a double-crossing Vistari.  These people, whose origins are among scattered pages in forgotten tomes, are literally shunned by every other society.  The dead are their only friends.

The only thread of loyalty this race possesses is to themselves, esoteric tradition, and the Tower Mortari that stands far to the west.  They guard the land around Mortari with zealousness.  They call it "Dawnspire", but as their true native tongue is deviously jumbled, this name could be a mistranslation.  

This race has a lot of secrets.  They make professions out of traveling carnivalers, assassins, and shepherds of the undead.  There is a Vistarian tradition that dates back a century to when "noble" members of their people achieved temporal exaltation.  The most brave and wise were revered; part of their celebration was their supposed "transcendence" beyond mortality.  Because they were no longer to be recognized by their mortal appearance, they would cut off their faces.  The "Faceless Ones" would craft odd masks for their new faces.  This tradition is kept alive today by proud Vistarians--but they merely wear the masks to honor the nobles.  The days of actual "Faceless Ones" are probably long gone. 

Dracomar

Upon the blighted Aerth of Scourge, the realm of Dracomar sits at the eastern fringe.  The Blasted Steppes claim a good chuck of it.  It is said to be cursed.  There the dead roam free and terrorize passengers.  Men have gathered at Sirocco to carry on life's pursuits despite hostility.

In the northernmost regions, territory becomes less chartered.  Beyond the cliffs lies Wraithmarsh, an aptly named swampland where rivers run muddy and black.  A few villages are scattered about the foggy hills.  They are all weary of Eboracum, a tower that the fearful people literally worship.  They chant and play on instruments the "Requiem of Storms", a haunting melody that is forbidden in other lands as myth holds that it will attract ghosts if played.

In southern Dracomar, before the Ivory Palace of Carunar, there are two small villages: Folium and Eremia.  Most paranoid people have left them and sought fortification at Sirocco.   Beyond that, you reach the great region of Cimaria, which hosts the new Tower Vorox and the ruins of Morgancastle.

Carunar - a once beautiful temple built to Gods of Light.  Might have been overrun by idols.

Folium - agrarian town with just enough water.  Has no wall to keep out the dead.

Eremia - like Sirocco, but less rundown.

Vorox - tower than has claimed Morgancastle.

Morgancastle - fallen noble castle.

Sirocco Flow

Sirocco.

The old city on the fringes of Dracomar.  It stands as the last bastion of sanity in the hopelessness of a land claimed by mystic-lords and legions of the undead.

In the minds of other towns and providences, the city sits as that hustle-bustle outpost in the Blasted Steppes.  Many make pilgrimages believing in the prospects of fortune.  But just as the torch's flicker attracts the unsuspecting moth, voyagers are sure to meet destruction in the flames of hostility that is old Sirocco.

In the centuries past, it might have been ruled by a king or sultan, but now the only sovereignty is the scattered guilds held together by a loose trade alliance and the utter need for one another.  Sticking together was a matter of survival for Siroccans.  Survival was the reason they had built the outer spiked wall--although the hordes of zombies were savvy enough to hide, sprint, and jump, they had yet to master a way of negotiating the tall sandstone fortified with spikes and spears.

And thus despite his noble birthright, Grant would receive no special treatment there (not that he needed the attention).  The days of kings had faded.  Lineages were forgotten.  The culture of Sirocco resembled no particular group; it was merely a melting-pot of peoples that had been forced together from the pressing ravages of a world gone mad.

And Grant needed to make it to the city despite the surrounding danger.  He rode away from the ruins of former glory near the Tower Vorox.  He looked the part of a royalty, tall and stout, but he was armed to his teeth in weapons and magical devices.  His gleaming brown-iron armor with bronze trim, his regal red cloak, and his heavy gold shield would get him hot in the sun but he had to make the trip during the day as zombies seemed to be mostly nocturnal.  His trip would take weeks.  At night, his magics would protect him if he didn't move about.

The sun went down on his last day of travel and he knew he couldn't make it down the cliff to the city before the hordes arose.  He tied his horse to a lone tree and sprinkled crystal dust around them to a rune shape.  His power would make him invisible to the the voracious undead, but not to the Vistari. . .

Grant lay there in a half sleep watching the fire's flicker.  He was a serious man, not prone to smile or otherwise change his stoic facial expression for most things.  Suddenly, a figure from the darkness kicked up enough dirt to break the warding seal.  Before Grant could rise to his feet with sword unsheathed, a nomadic Vistari thief galloped away on his unbridled horse.

There he stood in the darkness, alone.  Rather than idly curse at the horse thief, Grant stood in a brooding glare, listening to the fading gallop.  With the seal broken, his only choice now was to gather his things and petition to whatever gods still gave a damn.  Perhaps he could make it there by morning. . .

Grant sprinted through the gates of Sirocco with about 20 or 30 snarling zombies in pursuit.  The gate guard had seen him coming down the hill, held open the heavy spiked gate, and then smashed it back shut in time to lock out the uncaring devourers.  Grant fell to the earth in exhaustion and pain, watching the gate guards chuckle to themselves as they recreationally took pot shots at the zombies' clawing appendages that protruded through the wooden beams.  He was relieved that they failed to notice the oozing spot of missing flesh on his left arm.  Grant had to keep that a secret; the paranoid Siroccans would hardly welcome a visitor who had been bitten by the newly dead.

When hell is full, the dead shall walk the Aerth.  Damn you, my fallen Fathers, why did you have to be wrong?  I curse the gods for your sakes.

Within the walls of Sirocco, it really wasn't much safer.  The people were prone to violence and extremely superstitious.  As the weeks passed, Grant's arm-wound did not heal.  He most assuredly would have made the perfect candidate for a ritual sacrifice or perhaps the blood-hungry Siroccans would cast him into the gladiatorial fight pits.

A group of monks made their profession there.  The fighting arena was dug out of the ground.  The monks kept to themselves mostly and claimed to hail from some nearby secluded monastery.  It was a great event whenever some hapless convict was pitted up against a professional gladiator, wild animal, or randomly captured undead monster.

The shadows of Sirocco held more sinister secrets still.  There was some thieves' guild that was apparently led by some she-tiefling called Astara the Soulwitch.  There also was some underground religious cult that everyone was afraid of.  They called them "The Harvesters" for two reasons.  One, their creepy cloaks, their sickle and blade styles seemed to hearken to more agrarian culture, and two, because their murdered victims were usually missing a number of organs--as if they'd been harvested.

Astara, the Soulwitch.  The spirit thief.

Grant soon discovered that there were a few more recent events that made the town on edge.

Amalgaloth seemed to be acting up again.  Sirocco had a neighbor--Tower Amalgaloth.  It was a lone tower that stretched up high above the cracked, dry wastes.  It was locked with magic.  No one really knew much about it other than a myriad of rumors and the sporadic flashes of red light that could be seen through spyglass.  The superstitious Siroccans claimed that demons were brought in from there.  They were scared to death of demons.

They blamed one supposed demon named Charnock for drying up their well.  The well was fed from a stream that came from a nearby lake.  The lake dried up; Charnock, the ash-demon was to blame.   Luckily, Grant travelled with the fortune of royalty and could afford the steep price for a cup of the rationed water-supply.

Grant now was safe for the time being, but his quest could arouse suspicion from the Siroccans.  He sought a petition with some of the resident mystics--old men who were sometimes branded as demon mongers and subsequently killed.  He therefore treaded lightly in those dusty streets.  He knew the mystics could help him with his quest--his sole purpose of risking life and limb.  He knew that they could help him get inside Tower Amalgaloth.

He finished his ale, left the bar, and then gave one last prayer to those gods that still gave a damn.

Meet Firebrand

Demons,

The spawn of a blasphemed pit; the children of a cataclysm of destruction.  So feared are the Abyssal Seed that society would sooner embrace death than face the demon's wrath and torment.

Upon the smitten Aerth of Scourge, there dwells one demon, however, that is most peculiar.  The Sorcerer's Tome classifies him as the Red Arremar, a nasty creature that is said to crawl forth from the filth of graveyards where the temporal fabric that separates worlds is weakest.  There, from whence they emerge, they go about the usual malfeasance.  They wreak a good deal of havoc but the champions of men usually manage to rebuke them.  Such is the behavior of a normal Red Arremar.  

Eternity of torment in the acidic storms of darkness incites the rage into the hearts of demons.  The Abyss is the womb from which the beast is incubated.

It must have been only hours before sunrise.

The old master awoke in a sweat of panic.  As he sat up in his bed, he could feel the pains of despair creep within his heart.  These pains were specific and real--more than some gut feeling.  This was the throbbing of Sin and it was cause for the elder Eladrin Swordmage to tremble in fear.

As he gathered his boots and violet crystal scimitar, he made his way from his quarters down the dusty sandstone stairwell to the streets of Sirocco.  The night watch would not see him under the shroud of moon, he hoped.  To an Eladrin, the deep sphere of the sky was as good as any sun, but to man, it was  as an obscuring veil.  In a different time, perhaps he would have held true to his higher fey birthright, but the days of solace and nights of secrets gave him darker things with which to be preoccupied.

The old master needed to remain unseen if he was to get back to the meeting place without being implicated of the crime that was committed there.  He stood with his back against the cold wall, peeking around the corner to the wooden gate and its guard.  Slipping past the sentry would be difficult as his torch cast a revealing light to all the potential places of concealment.  But he had to make it unseen.  To be discovered meant the blood of another innocent would have to be shed.

The old master slipped to the wall easily enough, but his attempt over the wall must have been enough for the guard to notice.  Suddenly the wooden gate creaked open and the sentry entered with sword unsheathed.  His eyes darted about anxiously, but he was not nearly as nervous as the Eladrin Swordmage who watched behind a statue in the darkness.  The old master cursed himself under his breath for the next sin about to be added to his conscience.  If only he could have made it back to this graveyard unseen. . .

As the veteran Swordmage wiped the guard's blood from his purple crystal scimitar, yet another observer sat in the darkness.  The Eladrin came up the steps to the tomb where he had been only hours before.  He  paused for a moment with his bloody hand on the door.  He had to make sure all was well within this tomb; his conscience demanded it.  It was that feeling of darkness swelling up in his heart that made him get out of his bed and come back here, risk being seen at this crime scene, and kill a nosey guard that was only doing his job.

"Please, Gods of Light, I beg thee.  Please let all be well in this forsaken place. . ."

The heavy door creaked open and the sliver of moonlight splashed upon the stairs.  It was enough for the old master's eyes to see into the cold chamber.  He made his way in, and descended to the room where the crime took place.  His hand that held his scimitar shook in fear.  His other hand he placed over his mouth.

The room was as he remembered it.  The blood splattered on the walls and floor had now become as cold as everything else.  He was careful not to step in any of the gore, the body parts, the rites to the particularly grim ritual of which he was not proud.  Blood still even dripped from the sealing and he was careful not to get it on him.  He leaned his weary head on the center altar and sighed in relief, thanking the Gods.  No sooner that he bowed his head did a scratch come from behind the pedestal--a harsh, rigid scraping on the soggy floor.

His heart almost split in twain from the wrenching Sin that now throbbed inside him once again.  Despair raced through his mind.  He could barely breath.  He peered to the other side of the pedestal where the dark ritual took place.  A small, red creature scratched at the stone base.  It was a horrific beast from another world with knives for teeth and bat-like wings.  Yet its ferocity was somehow cheated because it seemed almost like a child.

"You should probably kill it," erupted a soft, deep voice from the chamber doorway.

The Swordmage spun around with sword outstretched.  It glowed with fire from the master's eldritch incantation.  His wide eyes matched the flame's ferocity.

In the doorway stood he who had been watching, a figure in a black cloak.

"Did you know it was here?" cried the Swordmage.

"Not until I followed you back.  Strange. . . it was almost as if you knew this Red Arremar had slipped through, because of the ritual no doubt."

The man in black entered the chamber and unsheathed one sickle and one knife--the iconic sacrificial tools of the cult syndicate that the superstitious Siroccans nicknamed "The Harvesters".  His weapons were spotless; he must have spent some time wiping the blood from them.

"Why is it small?  Why is it young?" the old master gulped nervously.

The man in black traced his gloved finger across some of the gore atop the alter by where the little demon played.  He turned back toward the old Eladrin and spoke in his deep, resonating voice once again.

"You should probably kill it.  Ought there any good that such beasts might wrought?"

The Swordmage stared for a while at the poor creature gnawing on some of the gore that had spilt over to the stone ground.  He became more and more convinced that this was all his fault.

"This creature," he almost could not believe his words as he uttered them, "it has no evil in him."

The man in black almost seemed offended.  He stepped between the Eladrin and the demon.

"Do you mean to tell me you would let this spawn remain?"

"What is it with you?" The Eladrin shouted and pointed his sword, "Why can't you kill it?"

The old master could not see into face of the man as his face was concealed by his cloak hood.  He could not tell that the man was ripe in anger.

"Just as well."  As the man in black turned and reared up his sickle, the old master shouted and intervened.

He came down with a heavy slash that landed down on the man's shoulder.  He fell like a sack of bricks onto the gory floor and clutched his wound.  The master hasted past him and wrapped the demon in a sack.  As he left the chamber, he gave one last look back to the man in black who laid there in the filth.  Should he kill the Harvester?  No, his conscience had been scarred enough.  The damage he inflicted would be enough to keep the cloaked man there until guards came to investigate at which time he would take the fall for the crime that had been committed.

The Eladrin could now make out slight features under the man's hood.  The harvester lay there, holding his shoulder, looking back up at him, and he was smiling.  The old master frowned with confusion, and left.

Some time later, some townsfolk of Sirocco would purport to have witnessed a hulking red demon in the streets.  Due to its incendiary nature and flair for chaos, they have nicknamed it with reference to the consuming sword of the same description.  On the rare and bizarre occasion, one has had the opportunity to meet Firebrand.

Gauthier's Epic

Let take thy drum and make an song
Of men of nights whom not belong
A sleeping god, a demon just
Awake! Dead world, arise from dust

Some Notes About the Campaign

Many details about the campaign I'm going to keep secret until we actually play as a good magician does not reveal his magic tricks before the show. But I want to convey as much as I can in these series of blog posts in order to help you shape a character that you will feel fits within the setting.

Some of my inspirations have been the traditional Dark Sun campaign setting, the "Golden Age" of history where the Assyrian empire hired court sorcerers, and the God of War video games. It's not the stone age, but people are far from industry. People say "by the Gods" and blame demons and witches for their bad crops.

If I were to pick an artist to illustrate the storyboard for the campaign, it would be Frank Frazetta, hands down (with the assistance of Brom). The images of Conan the Barbarian wrestling with a giant snake or a wizard unleashing some demonic horror are fresh in my mind.

"Conans & Dragons" however is a limiting description. It's restraining to the imagination because the world is actually overly-fantastical in theme. What is overly-fantastical? Think Neverending Story, Zelda, Narnia, or Pan's Labyrinth. Instead of kings and armies, you've got ruling mages in spiraling towers. You may have noticed that some of my previous ideas have almost been like they came from a kid's storybook--much different than the historically based world of Conan.

Instead of some vast metropolis, the adventures will take place on the stage of hostile wilderness--a stonehenge druid altar of storms or a cave of dark priests of Lolth. While PCs will not be "planescaping", the planes will nonetheless play a major part in everything.

Matt had a "Golden Age" campaign that borrowed from Greek and Arabian Mythology and the like. I wouldn't say this is the same, as there are no vast empires or direct historical parallels.

I am also creating a few new races and classes that correspond with Scourge. Among them will probably be variations of tieflings, more monster hybrid races and more arcane classes (like a supplement for an Arcane Leader instead of a stupid Bard).

Besides these, psionic and shadow classes will be prevalent as they will most likely make an appearance come summer--about the time we start playing.

Now, these Towers aren't as blatantly themed as Raza was, i.e. a tower of Fire, a tower of Lightning, etc. While they will be unique in host, location, and purpose, the world is not as divided when it comes to race or class.

Truth be told, it's basically a traditional D&D campaign. The only real change is the story.

So, if you feel so eager, you may start brainstorming with me some sort of new character or you may wait until I post some more details.

Welcome to the Scourge

The New Campaign in a Nutshell:

General key words: points of light amongst harsh darkness, High Fantasy, Prevalent Magic, small cities, multiple mythologies, bizarre/otherworldly sites, the planes.

More specific key words: Towers, blighted landscape, dark sun (campaign setting), almost planescape, dark and weary.

The Story:
Upon the smitten Aerth, fortune smites the weak and favors to the bold. The chasmed plains are bleached rough from the Sun and her sister winds are like razors to the cracked ground.



Most believe the Benevolent Gods have forsaken the realm. They are they who call it “Scourge”. They are faithless to salvation and now bow to mystic Lords.



Some of these sovereigns sit upon high Arcane towers. Eboracum, Amalgoloth, and Mortari are just some of the citadel’s names. Though men may not call the Lords of these towers “master”, they know not to venture lightly into their proximity. Many Lords go unchallenged. It is as if the Gods favor them and have given them pedestals from which, at times, they have reigned down fear and sorrow.



The realm is a great expanse of Sword and Sorcery. It is a time where men are crippled by mysticism and tyranny. It is home to many pantheons, where obscure Gods are pled for favors, where innocents are sacrificed to appease them. In the name of malfeasance, men covenant with devils in the shadows, they appease demons to blight the lands of their enemies. The rampant suffering in the land is evidence that these methods are often effective.

Civilization is scarce. Technology is crude. Superstition has almost replaced religion. The worst monsters run rampant and are often worshipped.



Waking up in the world of Scourge is like waking up into a nightmare. At the fringes of chartered territory, the elemental chaos bleats through with the hisses of a thousand fears. The higher planes are also easily accessed, as shrines to deities are often gates to the heavens and hells. A grove of trees might actually be a pit-trap leading to the ferocity that is the Feywild, and behind a mirror may lie a gate to the Shadow.



As evidenced by the Towerlords and the vomit of the hostility of darkness, Scourge is a breeding ground for heroes and villains. As nature and life are ruled by survival of the fittest, men only last if they emerge from the fires of oppression. Scarred, but more powerful.



The rare person that keeps his wits and wills inevitably proves to be a fulcrum in the greater story being told.

Why A New Campaign?

We've had fun with Raza. The world was plenty robust, the player characters were memorable, the plot was plenty epic. You may be wondering why at the brink of Paragon adventures I would want to scrap everything. While there were no gaping problems, there are a few reasons for my desire to change.

First off, Raza has been the only world I've ever dungeon mastered with the 4.0 redesign (it was the same even back at 3.9 with "prototype" characters). To put in perspective, I've been running it for 2 years while Matt has started probably 5 or 6 worlds. Olucra, Grothkor, and corrupt Vector have always been my bad guys. Not only have these enemy sources begun to be exhausted, such heavy themes seem to overshadow the rest of the magnificent wealth of new ideas that D&D 4.0 offers. When you have a world that is as heavily themed as Raza, its like I have to home-brew everything--use my own ideas for monsters and new plot devices. I've been anxious to show off some new adventure ideas that simply don't fit in the Raza world. It's almost like I'm doing a disservice to everyone by not "opening the creative door" for more traditional fantasy things.

While people have enjoyed the steampunk elements, no main players have ever really embraced the technological aspects. Not that they should have; we've seen from experience (e.g. Tab Fizzbibble, rangers who use guns, etc.) that guns and bombs are a bit clunky when trying to fit them into the rules. The lack of "Technomancers" probably indicates that people get along just fine with what's in the published rulebooks. Characters may resonate better with a world that is more like them.

Raza was also ill-suited for long term gameplay (i.e. more than 3 times a year). Every adventure that we did fit perfectly with the 3 session allotment but such epic themes would probably seem over the top after a few story arcs. Not that I couldn't have toned down the subject matter. It's just difficult however for characters to swallow "stopping the roadside bandits" or "finding the stolen gem" after having thwarted an Atomic Bomb and killing a resurrected Sterling Mortlock.

Naturally, we could have dragged Raza on, but I have better ideas. I have awesome ideas. In Scourge, I won't let you down.

That is, unless you guys are just IN LOVE with Raza and your characters. I suppose then we'd just keep going with it.

The new campaign will be suited for my permanent return back home. First level characters, weekly sessions, non-forced increasing of level and epicness, and natural story unravelling will be reinstated.

Harvest of the Void--Defeated

Magic, reinforced by the blessing of steam.

Cavalry ride with men made of steel.

Shields deflected both arrow and bullet.

Rumors of conquest escaped the lips of corrupt politicians.

Six lands were in the state of cold war.

Advancement was the world's pursuit.

Greedy nations drained the realm of its lifeblood.

It cried out. . . there were few who could hear it.

This was Rasa. This was your home.