why aren’t demons scary? pt. 3

I know your kind, he said. What’s wrong with you is wrong all the way through you.

Demons are almost always boring.

Part 2 here.
Part 1 here.

It really doesn’t take much to make someone go wrong. A minor frustration, the wrong comment at the wrong time. Somewhat counterintuitively, the more powerful the demon, the less power is ever revealed: it is the weak, the graspers and posers, who compete amongst each other to rain down the most spectacular calamities; those of age and power compete amongst each other, quite contrarily, to see how little they can do to ruin a soul. Beginners want to hurl hellfire; old-timers want to see how gently they can kick out the stool.

This is a challenge because we make it so easy. We, the people. The wisest of demons know that it takes so little to send us astray because we are always trying to go astray. To go wrong, the strongest of us may need a push, or a nudge; most of us, just a distraction.

Consider the demon whose preference is avarice. He doesn’t want you to get rich; rather, he knows your desire for wealth, and wants to use that desire to bring you low. The novice demon might find it spectacular to engineer a horrific situation where, through some concatenation of efforts, you end up thrown into a pool of molten gold. The experienced1 demon might engineer a situation where the temptation to embezzle is there, and resisted as selfish… and then a loved one falls ill.

Or consider the demon whose preference is lust. The restrained man might fight mightily against his impulses and be forever faithful to his wife. No harlot could draw his touch. Where he will more likely fall is when, walking hand-in-hand with his wife, he allows the quickest of sidelong glances at a passing woman.

The beginner tries to engineer the end result. The old hand creates the beginning. And everyone fails the same way: slowly, and then all at once.

It really doesn’t take much. Consider the man on his way to give at the almshouse. There are many ways to prevent that charity; but the simplest may be just to remind him that it’s lunchtime. Or the man endeavoring on an important but unpleasant labor: let the thought occur to him that the task, at rock bottom, need not be completed today. It takes some not-insignificant energy to introduce a comely young lady into a proto-lecher’s life; easier, then, to remind him that his wife is as old as he.

Demons are almost always boring. That’s why they’re so scary.

It doesn’t take much to ruin someone. It is the easiest thing in the world, because it doesn’t take much force to get someone to do what they wanted to do anyway. Just a nudge. It’s much harder to fill a tub than to pull out the stopper. Easy as tipping a glass off a table.

I do think the how is more boring than the why. More later.

1 It is left as an exercise for the reader as to whether the experienced demons simply seek to minimize their efforts, or if they are simply weary and no longer impressed by spectacle, or whether it is a more difficult sort of competition. The most refined taste is indistinguishable from happy accident, and the master is simply he who performs the basics best.

dragons, again

This is a good post: co-DMing a boss fight.

It’s interesting in the sense of mechanics, especially a counter-balancing of the mechanical action economy (in favor of the players) with a second DM, who can keep track of the overload of options and potential tactics available and come to intelligent conclusions while another DM adjudicates the actions called. This is doubly-true for genius-level opponents (a dragon, a lich, a beholder) rather than juggernauts (a tarrasque), where a creativity of tactics, a clever use of terrain can make a powerful, compounding difference. But, while not mentioned in the above post, such reasons also apply to fights with many smaller opponents. When one DM is running twenty goblins against the PCs, there simply isn’t enough time for that DM to step into the head of each individual opponent and faithfully replicate it. Such fights very quickly exhaust the options a single DM can keep track of, and that group of individual opponents is only thought of a mass—and a mass that tends to just charge.

But back to the post. A maximal red dragon. And how it turned into a war of dice and cleverness, a puzzle to be solved, as much storytelling and emotion as the twisting of a Rubik’s cube.1 What is more interesting to me is what it feels like to be attacked by a dragon, to go hunt one.

The closest I can come to is something like this.

Not seeing the breath weapon doesn’t make you alive again. Also, it’s even got teeth.

Imagine that swooping down on you out of the blue sky. You first saw it seven seconds ago, in a screaming dive. Something lethal will erupt from its maw, and it will be gone. Maybe you have those seven seconds to stop what you’re doing, formulate a plan, prepare yourself. Maybe a generous second-and-a-half to fight back. In other words, you have the rest of your life to figure it out.

What are you going to do? No, I mean really. You’re there. Put yourself there. It’s happening now. You look up, it’s there. Right now. What does it feel like?

Is that how you felt reading the blog post? Unlikely.

Let’s get some emotional distance. You’re hunting the dragon. Let’s continue with the A-10 analogy. A dragon doesn’t just sit in a cave. It has the time, resources, and intelligence to put itself in a safe place. Don’t think that you’ll just tromp through the woods, following footprints, and get the jump on it. I’ll posit that the A-10 can be used as further analogy. How do you go destroy that? The dragon has an area under its control, maybe like an airbase. Even when it’s at its most vulnerable, on the ground, what do you have to do to get to it? Its intelligence network has known of your plans for weeks, and probably calculated that it is most efficient just to send someone to stick a knife through your eye when you sleep. It’s surrounded by obstacles—fences and concertina wire?—and traps—mines?—and early-warning sensors. All of those are overwatched by fighting creatures, who will not only notify the dragon, but actually fight you. And they communicate: not just with the dragon, but with the reinforcements who will also come fight you. And when you get through all of that, the dragon has scrambled: it’s not where you wanted it to be, it’s behind you, in the air, raining its own death upon you. Or it just left and will be five hundred miles away in a couple hours. Now you get to walk for weeks, to start the process over.

And what if, by happenstance, you find it on the ground? Somehow pinned, somehow cornered? You still have to fight it. It’s armored. That strafing attack works just as well on the ground. And you’re going to go hit it with your sword, because it’s super-powerful when you swing it with both hands? What does it feel like to try to creep up on an armored beast that spews fire?

Save for half, I guess?

I fall back on my previous views. Dragons—and their epic-level concomitants—are best seen not as individual beings to attack, but as institutions to be overthrown.

1 Okay, you caught me. The post describes a con game specifically designed to be a tactical puzzle. Let’s ignore that. How often does your game’s combat turn into a puzzle rather than a scene? . . . Yeah, me too.

minds that can never be our own

Human beings set out to encounter other worlds, other civilizations, without having fully gotten to know their own hidden recesses, their blind alleys, well shafts, dark barricaded doors.

As appears to have become a recurring theme in this blog, I am fairly captivated by the idea of what makes the classic building-blocks of D&D.1 What makes humans, elves, dwarves, and orcs iconic? And aasimar, tieflings, and eladrin stupid?2 I don’t think I’ve ever explained it particularly well—and I don’t think I am here, either—but I do have this consistent interest in what makes the most basic things tick, and what makes them stick.

There has to be something there. To the best I can tell, to get a relevant race—what makes one stick in a game, makes someone want to play one—you need a confluence of three things: (1) a distinctive appearance, close enough to human but clearly distinct; (2) a stat modification, providing a bonus and a penalty; and (3) a stereotype, an archetype, a shorthand, a feel that appeals to some type of player. The first is easy: an elf is slight and quick and beautiful; a dwarf, squat and solid; an orc, big and burly and ugly. The second is almost universal, and is a gamification, but a valuable one: a reskin without a stat difference feels almost empty. If there’s no stat difference, why not just play a short, stocky human with a beard and a burrowing instinct?

The third one is the hardest. It’s hard to explain. It’s not just the visual shorthand we use to immediately recognize a race. It’s more like . . . a type? An embodiment? How well it matches the idealized self-image of the player? I don’t feel like I have the words I’m looking for. When you hear “orc,” it’s the first thing that pops into your head. It is what I mean when I ask what an elf “means.” Or, more tangentially, when I wonder how to make this or that thing scary.

So, let’s continue apace. I don’t care for the races-as-races we’ve always been given in D&D—and the cultural shadow of D&D is long, and so very few of us have emerged from it, or want to. I don’t care for them simply because they’re flat. Thin. Elves are glam humans. Orcs are hardcore humans. Dwarves are . . . eh, I’m not a scenekid anymore, if I ever was,3 so let’s move on. I don’t like this thinness because it makes all the races just reskinned humans, Star Trek aliens, humans in funny makeup. I don’t like the stat mods not because it’s not a good gamification idea—it isn’t a bad one—but because without any real depth, it just feels tacked-on, and leads to a clustering of race/class, without a satisfying variety. When was the last time you saw a dwarven thief, or an orc mage, or a gnome fighter? They’re there! But there ain’t many.

So that’s a lot of preface, and is just me wandering through the basis of why we keep getting all these posts about some of the most basic elements of our game. What I want to talk about is alienness. To make our elves and dwarves and halflings and gnomes interesting, as interesting as they ought to be. We need to make our races something more than reskins; we need to make them what they are, which is fundamentally different from normal humans.

What is alienness? For our working definition, how about the great gulf between how we expect persons to act, and how they do act; how we think, and how they think. But for us, instead of thinking, “huh, that person talks funny,” let’s try to turn it up—we’re talking ineffably different—let’s try “how could something that looks like a person even be like that?”

This is the great gulf. What is the interior subjective world of a dead-eyed shark? Does a wasp have, however limited, thoughts that a person could even recognize as thoughts? What about a whole nest of eusocial wasps? Does an individual wasp have thoughts? Does the nest, as a corporate entity, have individual thoughts? If an individual wasp does not, how does the nest? What about ants? What about an ant colony? Or supercolony? Does it have a hundred million minute thought-fractions? Does it have one megathought? What is it thinking?

Moving further out, what about a myconid? If a myconid could talk, or you could telepath, could you communicate? Could we even posit a language with enough common concepts that a human and a myconid could pass a single mutually intelligible message? Or is the conceptual gulf so great that nothing could be communicated?

How about your dog? Does your dog understand you? Do you understand your dog? You see him every day. He responds to certain sequences of noises or gestures you make, and performs predictable actions. He understands that if he performs certain actions, you will likely act in a certain way. But does he have internal emotions you would recognize if they were somehow implanted in your head? He looks like he does . . . but does he? How could you ever know? Is your dog your friend, or have dogs domesticated humans as a food source? Does your dog love you, or does he somehow know that certain random—to him—behaviors happen to make food appear?

How can we know the internal mental state of anything that is not a human?

To be continued.

1 And by D&D, of course, I refer to just about every elfgame out there. Damn near all of us, whether we play it or not, are at least culturally aware of what D&D consists of. Maybe you don’t know what THAC0 is, but just about everyone knows what a gnome is, or a magic-user, or a hit point, or a saving throw.

2 I actually don’t know if these are popular things. I’m just crotchety.

3 “You buy that dye at Hot Topic? Fuckin’ poser!”

what do elves mean?

I always had a repulsive sort of need to be something more than human.

(Third in a series. Haven’t made it to “elves have to be fucked up, pt. 3: the price of purity” yet. Think of this as an interlude: what do elves mean? In our collective gamer consciousness, that is; why are they in our game? What pulls us to play them? Why are tieflings some bullshit made-up thing, but elves are canon? What do they say that we want to say, over and over? First in the series here. Second here.)

Yeah, yeah. I know. Fuckin’ Legolas.

No, none of that. We’ve had too much of that. We’ve had better before and after.

What do elves signify? Is an elf really simply the forest-man, a wild person who doesn’t clear or plow, but spends time carefully tending and gathering what is already there? Maybe not wild—there are game depictions of “wild” (primitive, barbarian, savage—insert your chosen denigration here) forest elves, but they are not the norm. Think Kagonesti, contra Silvanesti, Qualinesti.

So, people, but who live in the woods? But not grubby people, not logclearers and charcoalers and poachers, but people who live in the woods without dirt under their fingernails, people who live out there and turn that little copse into a place of windchimes and incense and no discernible labor, like a new-age shop? The woods, of course, always pictured as the primeval oak and hazel and beech forests of ancient England. Is that what an elf is? The man who doesn’t tame the looming wood, but submits to it; living in kind, rather that in opposition. Is an elf just a bourgeois city-dweller’s imagination of what living in the woods looks like?

Maybe the elf isn’t simply the forest-man. Maybe the elf is the ascended man. The elf is cerebral, a lover of beauty and art. Soft music floats through elven settlements, lovely fragrances waft. Maybe there’s no obvious way all of these folk actually support themselves, no evidence of the baseness of physical bodily functions.1 Do elves just waft—there’s a lot of wafting involved—through their many days with no obvious means of support, like a Silver Lake trust-fund kid, creating art no one cares about, writing books no one will read, getting into interminable status spirals over eye-rollingly abstruse controversies through infinitesimal fashion signals?

Or do elves signal the desire to be the Ubermensch, not so much the ascended man, floating passively in an assumed natural superiority, but the ruthless artist-tyrant, the Elric or the Thin White Duke? The hypercompetent aesthete who can subsist off liquor and all-night Weimar nightlife and drugs you aren’t cool enough to have even heard of much less consume and a single raw egg in the morning because you can never be too thin or too rich or too ironic and even in the 10 a.m. skullcrushing leftover morning he still knows more than you and still somehow looks better? Is there any reason to even posit that he isn’t just better than you? At everything? The only thing an elf cannot do is laugh at himself.

Jean-Luc Ourlin

Maybe elves are intended to represent something altogether different. Maybe elves are the prototype market-dominant minority. Planning and foresight produce good outcomes, outstripping the hasteful actions of others; longevity allows both. Heavy K-selection makes a permanent minority save in a few limited enclaves; longevity doesn’t help here. Returns compound with time, and when estates risk dissipation one-tenth as frequently as in a human clan, financial empires are created.

But doesn’t that sound so anodyne? Everyone else sees the cause of this particular form of dominance not as a predictable result of starting conditions but rather what it really is—elves are sneaky and sly, unloyal, dual-loyal, not to be trusted, clannish and unmanly, dishonest, sharp-dealers and cheaters—every slur ever hurled. And perfect targets for the ugliest violence. What’s the elvish word for pogrom?2

1 Elves are smart and elegant, which means, in Gaussian style, that there are nonetheless both some that are comparatively less smart and less elegant than their peers, and simultaneously more smart and more elegant than the average human. How does that kid feel when he learns that he gets to be a ploughboy, rather than trained up for sword-dancing or discoursing on planar metaphysics? And where’s the latrine, anyway?

2 And how much more likely is the formation of a market-dominant minority when that minority actually is smarter, on average, than humans? That +2 intelligence has killed more elves than it has helped. THANKS PATHFINDER.

why aren’t demons scary? pt. 2

no man’s ever seen the face of his foe, no
he ain’t made of flesh and bone
he’s the who sits up close beside you, girl, and
when he’s there you are alone

So how do they do it?

(Part 1 here.)

That’s a premature question. To ever really understand a how, you should first know the why.

Demons don’t want to kill you. They don’t mind, of course, they haven’t any compunction, but that’s not really the point. The rotisseur has no job without the fact of animals being killed, but the killing isn’t the point, just a necessary adjunct.

Demons just want human souls to suffer and wither. Or wither and thereby suffer. If you actually die or not is of little consequence. When you’re an effectively perpetual being, if a human actually lives for another eight days or eighty years is of little import; the deep scale of time makes the two effectively identical. Does a redwood care if a beetle dies young? There will be another there the next time it looks.1

The point is suffering. Killing the body ends the suffering. Moreover, the longer the suffering—generally!2—the more resentful and debased and cheapened the person becomes, leading to a stronger likelihood of the person, on death, shuffling off to an afterlife of continued suffering. Hurt people hurt people, they say for a reason; Job made the books because he’s an exception, not because he’s the rule.

So there’s the why. Demons are about fear and hurt and self-loathing (especially self-loathing!) and degradation and that change in the look in a person’s eye as time goes on. Twinkle, confusion, desperation, dead.

Let’s leave aside what a demon IS, for the moment, in favor of what one DOES. Basically, it talks to people. That’s the whole deal. Maybe once in a few centuries some favored paragon will zot to another plane and try to put enchanted steel to one. But demons talk to people EVERY DAMN DAY. They talk. That’s their power. They’re convincing. And very, very clever.

They lie, of course. But no more than anyone else does. Telling the truth is more powerful, and there are an eternity of ugly truths to direct peoples’ attentions to. Eventually the truths always shade into something else, sure, but the foundations are always truths. “You want this” so easily becomes “you deserve this” becomes “that’s yours” becomes “take it.”

A demon talks to you, at first telling you the things you want to hear, then the things you don’t want to hear, and finally the things you can’t unhear. Depending on the demon, or the demon’s favored approach (each has a favorite approach, depending on what end the demon finds most satisfying and what, in the past, has worked best for it), that talking can come in many forms. The grief-stricken mother might find her dead child’s voice coming out of the mouth of another woman’s child:  “Mother? Why couldn’t you feed me?” It could be the popular preacher you just really connected with, and if you just send out your prayers the universe will pour wealth upon you. Maybe it’s that intrusive thought, about how you’re not good enough for her and she’s always looking at other guys and if you leave her alone for a minute she’ll run off so better not.

That’s what they do. It can be sweet and soothing, or reproachful and rebuking. What it always is is either (1) telling you it’s okay to do something you already want to do, or (2) blaming you for something that has already happened. People don’t generally need much more encouragement than that. How hard is it to tell someone who feels bad that it really is his fault that bad thing happened? To tell the mighty how all those lowlies deserve what they get because they are so weak? To tell the cockscomb to linger another moment in front of the mirror? To tell the well-heeled to skip the almsgiving this week, because those wretches would probably just use it on dice and arak and not bread and besides almsgiving isn’t really a mandate for actual money, it’s symbolic of the goodwill in your heart that of course you have, for the deserving? To tell the melancholiac that it actually is of no use, and best to stay shut in and lie down for another day in the dim and stinking room?

Demons talk. That’s their weapon, at least here on this plane and this world and where everyone you’ve ever met will ever meet them and never know they’ve met them.

1 Yes, a redwood can look, smartass.

2 We all want to think our sufferings make us stronger. Sometimes suffering is just suffering.

why aren’t demons scary?

He said the wicked know that if the ill they do be of sufficient horror men will not speak against it. That men have just enough stomach for small evils and only these will they oppose.

Because at the end of the day, if there’s a big scary goon around, you just go somewhere else.

Okay, too glib.

Let’s try this:  which is scarier, getting stabbed by someone? Or that inescapable voice in your head that goads and shames and belittles you until it feels that the only deserving thing to do is to stab yourself?

Less glib.

Here’s the point. Demons are not about red-skinned humanoids with flaming swords and spiked chains. Not vrock nor hezrou nor glabrezu nor nalfeshnee nor marilith nor balor. Not type, Type I or IV.

Demons are about self-harm. That’s what makes them so fucked up.

Demons are not creatures, running around on some other plane, doing battle with each other for what always look like suspiciously human reasons.

Demons are whisperers. Whisperers and convincers. Underbreath mutterers and mumblers, murmurers and susurrators, grumblers and contemnors, maunderers and mussitators, scolds and rebukes. And not really liars, not really. It’s not so much untruth, as an expansion on little truths, little unpleasant truths carefully tended and nurtured, until the melon seed has grown large and full and then shrunk, just a little, skin of wrinkles, full of black rot inside until some little blow collapses the whole thing.

Are demons even really a thing? Is there a place where you can go, if you want to find a demon, to lay hands on it? Is there some journey you can take, some heroic journey where if you overcome enough adversity and display a pure heart you can walk up on one and put your dirk in its throat and make it grovel for its sin and shake your head at whimpered justifications and press through and watch its boiling blood spill and come back to the acre-a-day life you walked away from at the beginning of our story?


Probably not. If there is such a place, you don’t want to be there, not for any reason, least of all those reasons you think most justify it.

None of us, the best of us, even know if there are a million of them, all bickering and hissing for their meat, or if there is one, with little whispering hyphae sliding up all over the place. Does it matter? If they are legion, there will be another to take its place; slice a hyphae, the root grows two.

Even if there are many, they don’t so evenly divide into types. There isn’t the bird-beaked one and the spike-chained one and the fiery one and the snakelady one. There is no taxonomy of demons. If anything, each has a preference, a modus operandi as it were, a preferred sin—and by sin, a way of bringing a human soul low.

Men love allotments and sortings and hierarchies, and repeat them often enough to convince themselves of order when there is none. Demons just have preference. Men will categorize demons by their sin—mens’ sins, that is, as demons have none, for without the possibility of grace there is no sin to forfend. Men will tell you what demons love. In one of the greater ironies, they are not so wrong as may be supposed.

the forester’s lament

When you read, in a setting or in an adventure, about a forest, what do you picture? In your head?

Is it something like this?

The elves are hiding in the trees, natch.
Photo: debabrata

Green, pleasant . . . generic?

I know. Me too. It’s really damn hard not to. Fantasy forests are benign, commonplace. Set dressing without the dressing. Somehow, they’ve become so well-used and ill-described that an open, sun-drenched plain feels like it has more narrative potential.

But forests are interesting. In a former life hella had occasion to spend quite a bit of time—tromping through, sleeping under, getting lost as fuck in—in forests.

Sometimes they look like this.

The dwarves are hiding in the trees, obvs.
Photo: Hansueli Krapf

So what’s the difference? It isn’t just what we’re imagining—although, we are playing a game where all the action takes place in the imagination—but the actual implications are fully different. Before we were in a nice sunlit wood, not really hampered by anything: sure, there are hiding spots the bad guys can use, but nothing is really hindered or hidden. Here, we have to worry about elevation, taking the high ground; we have to worry about scree shifting underfoot; we have to worry about temperature or thunderstorms.

Above all, it just feels different. It’s a forest. But it’s not bog-standard elves-in-the-leaves sameness.

Or maybe your forest doesn’t look like that. Maybe it looks like:

No place to hide.
Photo: MeegsC

The only elves in this forest are the tatterdemalion sneakthieves of my setting.

Or what about here?

Not fog; smoke. Arsonist eucalypts!
Photo: Fir0002

Or here?

“Where’d he go?” “No, when’d he go.” “When’d he go?” “No, asshole, WENDIGO!”

The point being, when you think forests, don’t think gentle green foliage and shafts of sunshine and rabbits hopping about and sparrows flitting around. There’s so many forests—adventure in a different one.

the necessary spectacle of evil

Evil is unspectacular and always human, and shares our bed and eats at our own table[.]

Augustine fails in a world with explicitly evil gods.

My theodicy is weak. hella still hasn’t figured out the problem of evil. And still hasn’t figured out how to implement real evil in this game.

But my problem is prosaic. How do I depict evil, in play, that makes any sense?

The D&D I grew up with was the same bullshit high fantasy I saw in every one of those dozens1 of fantasy novels I read as a kid. It’s not even that good guys are good guys and bad guys are bad guys and there’s no moral ambiguity, nor much consideration of each actor as a mix of good and bad and generally self-minded and mostly morally indifferent and . . . complicated.

Rather, it’s that it never really feels like there’s anything at stake. Yeah, there’s the fight against titular evil, but it’s always evil-in-name-only. Like evil was a tag, an invisible attribute, applied to certain creatures but not others, will little rhyme or reason. Maybe you can tell the evil humanoids because they’re ugly. Maybe not.2

Of course, this is because lots of things do have an invisible tag:  lawful evil, neutral evil, chaotic evil.

The point being, nothing evil would ever happen,3 or if it did, it was given in the most anodyne way possible. Either, the orcs are just there, wandering around in the world, and we know they’re evil—I mean, we just know, because they’re orcs, so it’s okay to kill them—or there are some orcs, and we’re told they’ve raided a village or they’re going to attack the city; they are barbaric, or brutish, or bandits; they’re savage or slovenly. (That last one is a lie. I’d love to see slovenly used in a description.)

But we don’t see them slowly feeding bound townsmen into campfires. We might hear of the village being massacred, but we never seen the thicket of stakes along the marketpath, each topped with a blackened lolltongued head. We never see the eight-score kidnapped women being led off into the jungle to forced “marriages,” and those the lucky(?) ones. We never see—and thereby feel—the visceral wrongness of evil, and without that, “evil” just becomes another reason to wander around a gameboard, knocking over pieces.

Like, I get it:  people play this game for fun, and many do it for the escapism, escape from the unpleasantness of their daily lives. Many want to elide—fade to black—the explicitness of what evil actually is. I’m not one of them, but I understand it is a thing.

But—well, it just doesn’t work. Heroes’ hearts are stirred to action by the twisting of the guts that comes from the knowledge of true evil at work in the world. Evil visiting hearth and home. Not the abstract knowledge that someone, something, somewhere, is doing acts that should not be done, but the seeing of it, the bearing witness in person and always always too close. If the evil in your game is weak, or vague, the heroism in your game will be weak, and vague.

1 . . . and dozens . . . .

2 Ironic twist! Sometimes things are beautiful and wicked!

3 Eh. Mostly I just see bog-standard competition for resources.

coyote land

Lodged in faults and crevices a hundred feet above them were nests of straw and jetsam from old high water and the riders could hear the mutter of thunder in some nameless distance and they kept watch on the narrow shape of sky overhead for any darkness of impending rain.

Setting: You go in from the coast, in through the valley-and-mesa. Then the mountains arise before you, all boulders and chaparral and blue oaks. Up and down the mountains, like a green carpet, the shitty scratchy kind you find in a low-rent community rumpus room, avocado with grey splotches like old foot-ground gum. But the chaparral is deceiving; for all it looks like rolling carpet, it hides sharp gullies that can eat man and horse and spit them out somewhere else bloody and bewildered. Roll d10.

1: An old blue oak spreads wide over a bald hilltop. Tied to the limbs with hempen cord are wrist-thick locks of hair, each painstakingly braided. They wave in the breeze.

2: Four metates are worn in the smooth top of the granite. They are always full of water, no matter when it last rained.

3: A wedding under the oaks. Each tree is bound with bright, makeshift ribbons. Shabby lashed-wood symbols of incoherent make hang from the trees. An elfgirl. An elfboy. Guests, strictly segregated by some unknown code of ancient manners. Many sentinels, and arrows for interlopers—two feuding bands are being bound today, and expect other bands to disrupt.

4: Some of the long-limbed oaks are bound with bright, coarse-woven cloth, ribbons tightly interlaced, carefully knotted, not a loose end anywhere. Those are the safe oaks.

5: When the sun rises or sets, the watching shadows stand atop the hills, elongated giantmen staring into the twilight.

6: The valley floor, straw-colored swaying dried weeds, waving in the wind, begins to move. Really move. The weeds run. Uproot and frantic, they all flee together, swirling and wheeling around obstacles like a flock of starlings.

7: You smell it first. Then you see the haze of white smoke, smudging out the distance. Then the billows. Brush fire. Don’t run uphill—that shit’s faster than you.

8: The air smells of rain. Blue sky, but it’s there in the distance, grey needles from sullen withdrawn far-off clouds. The arroyos will be full in a second—in a flash, as freight trains of filthy frothing flood comes, half water and half skull-smashing debris.

9: The fire has gone but the rain has come. The black hillsides groan under the weight of water, gravity grinding gravel and substrate no longer tendoned by roots and dendrites. The hills will fall; will you be beneath?

10: The coyotes are here. All of them.

The chaparral hides more than it will ever show.

why aren’t goblins scary? pt. 2

Goblins are really rare. Solitary. You don’t often see one, and almost never see more than one together. And they’re smaller than you’d think, little more than half-size to a halfling. And emerald green. Yeah, they hide a lot.

But sometimes not, none of that.

Sometimes, when happenstance or outside design brings goblins together in close proximity, something truly remarkable happens. If two goblins are in skin-to-skin contact for more than a day—huddling in a burrow from a predator, perhaps, or trapped—they begin to change. They become gregarious goblins. Doesn’t that sound nice?

It isn’t.

Something about that skin-to-skin contact causes a release of something in the goblins. They grow bigger. They change color, from that otherworldly emerald to a contrasting black and savannah tan. Their body plan shifts, becoming longer of limb, lean, whipcorded like greyhounds. And they gather. Something about a gregarious goblin attracts other goblins, solitary and gregarious alike. They hunch together, and the solitaries turn gregarious. The more of them there are, the more powerful and wide-ranging the attraction. This works exponentially, as more gather, more turn, attracting more to gather.

Woe betide.

Now you have a plague of goblins. And, hungry, they’re on the move.

A plague of goblins—that’s what it’s called, and what it is—is insensate, insatiate, and inexhaustible. It will carpet the earth and befoul watersheds. It will eat everything more than halfway edible in its path, and it moves at a rolling sprint. As the front of the plague stops to eat clean its environs, the back has already exhausted its own and sprints forward to begin anew. In such way the plague continually rolls forward, denuding everything in its path.

It is just as well that goblins are, mercifully, solitary creatures. A plague may come once every other generation, and none but the elves below the sky and the dwarves below the hills have more than one in living memory.