Three Color Critters

Tumblr Blog Update!

Tue, 31 Jul 2012 20:39:24 -0400

Hello!

Sorry I haven’t posted a new creature in a while, I have been busy working on my main project, Dead Winter, a comic I do every week. I’m trying out a new painting style that working on this blog helped develop, and it’s a lot of fun to do! I want to continue this blog and at least push it to 100 creatures, time permitting, so it hasn’t been abandoned.

I recently (today) made a new Tumblr feed for my main comic and other artistic endeavors. If you want to follow more of my art and writing, you can follow http://deadwintercomic.tumblr.com/ which I will be updating weekly!

Thanks for all your support!

There are those whose arcane pursuits chase mastery of the...

Mon, 02 Jul 2012 19:46:42 -0400

There are those whose arcane pursuits chase mastery of the manipulation of a given element, or the conjuration of burly beasts or formidable forces, always dabbling in the command and control of something. For the descendants of the Shadehound line, however, true magic comes from the manipulation of nothing. Floating, dreadful silhouettes with long pointed ears and features indistinguishable beyond the light markings of their face, Shadehounds are articulate speakers, though their every breath is carried on a low, rumbling growl. Born only in the hours of the dawning dusk, Shadehounds live and breathe the lightless world, mastering an element absent of illumination in ways few others can ever hope to achieve.

Command of the Nothingness may at first glance seem like an impotent school of magic, but its power becomes evident when you consider how much of the world is untouched by light. Wherever there is light, so long as an object exists within its reach, a shadow will always be cast. A competent Shadehound capitalizes on every patch of darkness, pulling it up from a surface with a gesture and a gutteral command. These patches of shadow can be molded and shaped into whatever suits the Shadehound’s needs, be it a staircase, a fall-breaking cloud or a sharp shady set of spikes. Wherever they wander, and whatever their agenda may be, so long as there’s darkness the Shadehound always has the tools needed to see its given task through to the end.

In the north seas there’s a small chain of sizable islands...

Fri, 29 Jun 2012 22:49:20 -0400

In the north seas there’s a small chain of sizable islands removed from any major continent, where rolling hills and chistled mountains define the horizons. Where once, its told, a tribunal of territories shared the islands, now only the Grand Gummi Garrison remains. Thought to be distant cousins of the Candy Commonwealth, the Grand Gummi Garrison is a militant order of soft, squishy creatures wearing soft, squishy armor and riding soft, squishy steeds. While they seem sweet on the outside, the Grand Gummi Garrison is rabidly empirical, driving their territorial competition into the seas and claiming every inch of land they can find in the name of their King, the greedy George VI the Gobstopper. Given how sweet they seem on the outside, it’s hard to believe a group like the Grand Gummi Garrison would deal in invasion and oppression, but their history is written in gooey globs of glucose and blood.

The three realms of the northern isles once lived in harmony- the hardy Hardbodies with their mastery of might, the twisty Taffidyls whose bowstrings stretch and strike the Heavens, and of course, the Gummi Garrison, whose soft arms were better for diplomacy than acts of aggression. Their old king, George III the Gracious, was the backbone of the sweet tribunal, able to broker peace between the Taffidyls and Hardbodies, who famously competed for greater shows of military strength. The Gummi Garrison lived in the shadows of these armies, ever fearful of being consumed by conflict, until George III had had enough, and struck upon a plan. Using their power of persuasion, agents of the Gummi Garrison learned the technology behind both armies’ arsenals- the Taffidyls’ potent bows and the mallets and lances of the Hardbodies. Then, on the eve of a tribunal summit, the Gummi Garrison capitalized on a conflict and turned each tribe’s own technology against them in a sudden show of sugary strength. The Hardbodies’ mallets could not crush the squishy bodies of the Gummi Garrison, as they would spring back into place, and arrows sunk into their soft surfaces instantly closed up. There was nothing either army could do to hurt the Gummi Garrison, who cracked and pierced their former-friends one by one, beating them to the shores, leaving them little choice but to drown or die. With military power in their possession the Gummi Garrison no longer lived in the shadow of giants, no. Now all the isles were theirs to claim, and so they have sought to grow and expand for generations since, never the sweet speakers they seem at first taste.

Stroll along a sandy beach when the sun softly sets behind its...

Thu, 28 Jun 2012 21:32:23 -0400

Stroll along a sandy beach when the sun softly sets behind its backdrop of seaside scenery and you may hear the soothing sounds of a solo set or an ensemble band wail and welcome the night. Sat on a rock or a hunk of driftwood you’ll find between one and ten Shellsongs, depending on how fondly Fortune smiles upon you. Short and stocky, with stubby arms and round little fingers, Shellsongs are a race of seaborne songweavers who live off the coast and come ashore to hash out a harmony and enjoy an improvised intermission between daytime and nightfall. Docile and easy-going, these rhythmic reptiles mean no one any harm, and their reputation as mellow musicians earn them a degree of protection among their fellow sentients- it’s considered poor form by local standards to wish ill upon a Shellsong, and may the pantheons protect anyone who would bring harm to a seaside evening band.

Shellsongs’ first love is their craft, the music. Playing the evening set is their sole drive, it’s what they live and breath and strive for. All other love comes secondary to the music, and while two Shellsongs may find a common flame, it’s often a short fling until they move on. Sometimes an egg is born of this, buried in the sands to incubate and hatch, their young greeted not by parents, but by whatever band might find them. Young Shellsongs are fast to grow, and as they develop they begin to explore the sounds in their souls, and how they can best bring them out to share with the world. Each Shellsong builds his or her own instrument as they grow, some finding the windy whine of a seashell matches their wavelength, while others string taut, dried kelp and let the strings sing on their behalf. Every Shellsong’s song is different, fitting like puzzles with their peers to fill the glowing, fiery sunset with beautiful, calming sounds. There’s never need for rehearsal, just play what’s in your heart!

Beneath the snow-capped mountaintops, between great walls of...

Wed, 27 Jun 2012 17:36:13 -0400

Beneath the snow-capped mountaintops, between great walls of earth and stone, entrenched below the earth’s surface in dark chasms where even the seas themselves dare not tread, one can only wonder what horrors slither and writhe in the shadow of the world itself. What mindless beast might dwell in such a cold, godless pit, shielded from the sun’s warmth? Many who dwell amidst the grass and trees fill in the gaps of the underground unknown with visions of malevolent monsters, befanged and bloodthirsty, ready to rend to ribbons any who would pierce the veil of their sinister sanctum. And while the truth may deviate from the fiction of their fears, those same fears that has prevented expedition into this continental rift are not altogether unfounded.

They’re called Abyssal Horrors by surface-dwellers- or at least the idea of these creatures are so labeled- and they are anything but mindless. A rich and thriving civilization beneath the earth, Abyssals have built whole cities into the vertical walls of deep, lightless rifts in the earth’s crust. A set of tough tendrils allows them to grip stone facets and climb within their chasmous communities, their six eyes granting them superb vision in low- or no-light settings. An Abyssal’s head is covered in chitinous plates, protecting a network of nerves that allows the creatures to detect movement and vibration. Their mouths rest directly on their abdomens, taking food and minerals directly into their digestive systems. Thes tongueless maws are omnivorous and ill-equipped for speech, though the Abyssals are able to communicate thoughts telepathically. Their favored weapon is the barbed spear, able to provide balance and punch into stone surfaces for support. And any would-be explorer’s fears about piercing the veil of the Abyssals’ shadowy lives are entirely merited, as the Abyssals detest any who would bring the light of the world above into their dark, quiet lives, and among their diet of insect and mineral, meat is a rare and coveted delicacy.

Rare are the times one would consider an object or article of...

Tue, 26 Jun 2012 22:36:04 -0400

Rare are the times one would consider an object or article of clothing a creature unto itself, but rarer still are the moments when such a thing presents itself as peer among those who might wield or wear it. Such is the case-of-occasion for the Robe of the Grand Magus, a thick woolen garment wiser in the ways of weaving wonders than many meaty magicians. Once worn by the Grand Magus herself- a storied and secretive sage and sorcerer whose thread on the weave of fate was frayed- the Robe was found among her personal affects when her solitary tower was broken into by a messenger alerted by an absent reply to his knock. Local spellcasters heard tale of the Grand Magus’s disappearance- and nary a trace of her was anywhere to be found- but when the gawkers gathered at her gateway they were greeted by the Robe itself, risen and fully-animate.

The Robe of the Grand Magus is a curious thing, believed to have soaked the magical aura of the Grand Magus herself the way it would blood and sweat. The Grand Magus’s essence is deeply woven in the fibers of the old cloak, and the Robe remembers many of the gestures needed to invoke ancient acts of the arcane. The Robe of the Grand Magus doesn’t speak, but instead communicates by gesture of its hood and sleeves, floating about as though it were draped around the body of its former owner. The Robe radiates power, and more than a few would-be usurpers have attempted to don the Robe for themselves, but each met a gruesome, ashen end as the Robe drew the life and knowledge right out of their bodies, leaving naught but fragile husks behind. The Robe of the Grand Magus doesn’t show any outwardly aggressive tendencies, but it defends itself readily, its repertoire of skills expanding with each fallen fool.

3CC Downtime and Returns

Mon, 25 Jun 2012 19:50:49 -0400

Hello!

If you follow this tumblr you may have noticed it’d gone quiet for a while. I apologize for that. I had to power through an art-heavy musical scene in my comic, which starts here if you want to read the whole sequence. I’m through that now, so I’ll be making more little critters for your tumblr enjoyment, since I’m almost at 700 followers here (yikes!) I don’t want anyone to think the thing’s been abandoned. I’ll possibly be running Monday to Friday updates, just to give myself more time for other projects and just to breathe in general, I hope that’s alright.

Also, I’ve kinda put off saying this for a while, but since I’m making a text post I’ll add it here: way back in March or April I went to MoCCA in NYC with a bunch of 18x24” full-color posters for sale. I went in with 15, and I have 9 left over. They’re printed on thick high-quality paper stock and they have all the first 50 creatures on them and they came out very sharp. If you like this blog or you’d like a big poster to hang up, the last nine are up for sale on my comic site’s store page for $25 each. There’s only nine of them left, and that’ll be it. When I have 100 or 150 color creatures written I’l like to print a color field guide-style handbook, so that’s something to look into for the future if people are interested.

Thank you for reading, thanks for following and thanks for your support! These are fun to do and I’m glad people enjoy the blog!

In the sandswept deserts of the central eastern continent, some...

Mon, 25 Jun 2012 17:56:07 -0400

In the sandswept deserts of the central eastern continent, some of the world’s oldest and largest monuments can be seen from great distances, cresting the golden horizon when approached from any point on the compass. An ancient civilization thrives in the Sandstone Valley, but no monument standing bears likeness of or pays tribute to any king or queen. The absence of a monarch becomes more apparent the deeper you enter the central city of the Carrybacks, a proud race of sentient insects famous for the feats of strength and endurance their little bodies are capable of. Thick blue shells marked with bands of red protect these industrious insects from the sweeping sands of their nigh-inhospitable homeland. Their most famous trait is their fantastic capacity to carry weight on their backs, a trait exploited by ware-hocking merchants and loot-hungry adventurers alike- a Carryback can haul far more gear than any comparatively-sized race on the planet. Although their relatively small size allows them to go some days without a drop of water, Carrybacks cultivate an assortment of water-drawing desert plants within their communities. Upbeat and sociable, Carrybacks are experienced craftsbeetles with members pursuing a broad range of disciplines, but of all the things they love to build it’s perhaps a story they love to craft the most.

Once, long ago, the Carrybacks lived in collective hives, governed by an autocratic Queen whose reign was recognized by birthright from generation to generation. The Carrybacks’ hardshelled bodies are famous for their capacity to carry many times their own weight on their backs with little effort, and for a long time it was believed the Carryback Queen’s bloated, gigantic soft abdomen was the sole source of vital nectar needed by the entire community to survive. Thus, holding monopoly on survival, the Carryback Queen would traditionally command her hive to build her beautiful sculpture and jewelry and construct gigantic, extravagant monuments in her honor, hauling sandy stone blocks brick by brick on their hardy backs. Life was difficult for the lowly Carrybacks, until one tired worker happened upon a discovery: the prickly plants that peppered the desert sand- long believed to be dangerous- were actually full of water! And water not only sustained the Carryback, it was more refreshing than the Queen’s nectar! Word spread quickly among the lower ranks, on up the ladder to the Queen’s own guard, and needless to say the Carryback Queen was disposed of overnight. The monuments ordered by generations of Queens were subsequently dismantled, their stones used to build tall, artful sculptures, each an expression of the Carrybacks’ freedom to create as they please, living and thriving in the shadow of no lord or master.

The deserts of the world are arid and inhospitable. Water, the...

Mon, 04 Jun 2012 16:16:47 -0400

The deserts of the world are arid and inhospitable. Water, the all-soothing foundation of life, is a scarcity, and most living things will do whatever they can to secure it for themselves. Some animals store it in fatty deposits in their bodies, while other plants draw it drop by drop from deep below the sands. And sometimes the sands themselves will play a hand in this high-stakes game of drink or die, coming alive to claim the desert’s most valuable commodity as its own. Known as Oases, these sandy souls spring up around isolated bodies of water, drawing and interweaving this life-giving essence into their bodies, becoming strong enough to stand upright and resist the harsh desert winds. Some theorize an Oasis is an evolved form of sandsprite, while others believe it’s the desert itself racing flora and fauna alike to a new source of water, but whatever their origin the coming of an Oasis can spell boon or bust for all who encounter one.

Oases are a rare occurrence, developing once in a blue moon to monopolize a given source of water- if they appeared more often, other lifeforms would simply dry up and die. They don’t demonstrate any sort of culture, speak any language or serve any but their singular purpose- to grow in size and volume of water collected. The passing of an Oasis can spell disaster for any parched patrons of the desert, as the watering hole that could have saved them from dehydration at a critical moment would be gone before they got there. Conversely, if a group is ready and able to face the lashing sands and piercing water bolts of an Oasis they can strike it dead, the creature immediately collapsing into a fresh and untainted pool of cool water- a reward more valuable than gold or enchanted tools in the right circumstances. An Oasis is rare, and in the heart of the desert they can easily end your life, or save it.

Beyond the reach of the sweeping hands of time there exists a...

Fri, 01 Jun 2012 18:23:42 -0400

Beyond the reach of the sweeping hands of time there exists a horde of creatures, possessed of gnashing teeth and thrashing tails, who live apart from our world, but whose appetite is felt as a part of our everyday lives. Those who’ve bridged the gap between space and time to discover these hour-hungry horrors call them Chronovores, and attribute every lost day and forgotten stretch of time to their meddlesome munching. In their perception of reality, time exists as an infinite series of fraying, intersecting and intertwining lengths of cord stretching from one horizon to the other. As such, the Chronovore’s physiology is one of sharp claws and sinewy muscle, the creatures well-adapted to a life of climbing over, leaping from and latching onto metaphysical vines of varying thickness. Their long tails help them maintain balance in a world ever-flowing, but it’s their long teeth that help them really make a mark in our plane.

As the strands of time weave and wind, parts of threads will often fray off into nowhere. Whether these represent potential futures unrealized or progress prematurely terminated, the seers who glimpse beyond the veil still debate to this day. But what’s known by all seeking to study the stream of time is the Chronovores feed voraciously on these faltered futures. Acting as timestream cleaners, Chronovores consume time without a destination, ensuring there’s no clutter among the order of the threads. The reign of rulers deposed or unelected, youthful aspirations long-abandoned and the machinations of the fallen all create these frayed never-woulds within a given strand of time, and it’s the job of the Chronovore to consume them and keep time flowing cleanly. In our world this manifests as anything from forgotten languages and civilizations to forgotten tasks someone was on their way to fulfill. No one remembers the never-will, and we have the Chronovores to thank for it.

They say a great old evil lurks just beyond the light of the...

Thu, 24 May 2012 16:50:08 -0400

They say a great old evil lurks just beyond the light of the moon, trapped between the sun and stars. A militant force from ages ago set on a campaign of global conquest was forever lost to the world of light; be it from curse or course mischarted. No one can say for certain what force or misfortune sealed them away as they are- as is often the case with legends, living or otherwise- but what’s known to all who walk beyond the sight of the sun is to mind the moonless night, because once a month when the sky is darkest, the men of the No-Moon Army ride again. Clad in clankering articulated armor, their faces masked by hinged grated plates, the No-Moon Army appear from the moonless mists in full-supply, their horses scratching and their siege-engine squealing for fresh oil. A mobile and well-supplied force, the No-Moon Army is a force to be reckoned with, and while they have the practical tactical wisdom of centuries behind them, their greatest asset is the element of surprise.

When they walked freely under the light from above the No-Moon Army traveled far and wide, leaving their mark on every corner of the globe. Since their banishment the army only returns on nights when the moon is absent, and while this is predictable no one can guess where on earth they’ll appear next. Some months they appear in the unsettled wilderness, far from any civilization, but other nights they’ll storm full-force from the mists into the main street of a great city or into the front line of an exhausted battle, their great barbed tower shields deflecting opposition, swords and spears striking down those who stand in the path of their conquest. They fight tirelessly, and when one of their own is felled he will fade back into the mists, leaving no trace but the blood they shed in their wake. The No-Moon Army is an iron-plated force of nature, a storm of blood and steel that can appear anywhere, and those who’ve survived their encounter with this ghastly garrison never forget the night, their pitched battle relived with the coming of each new moon.

When the earth cracks deep and fissures, hot molten rock will...

Tue, 22 May 2012 17:39:00 -0400

When the earth cracks deep and fissures, hot molten rock will ooze up from the depths, searing and altering every inch of the landscape it claims. Rivers of flowing hot orange slip thickly down the sides of mountains, burning trees and rolling out into the seas, expanding islands beyond their own borders. And before it all cools into sharp black obsidian a company of slithering, smoldering Nagma settlers will be sure to follow. Born of the molten heart of the earth, Nagma are a breed of snakelike manlikes made of pure glowing red rock. This hot glowing rock cools on their exterior, forming the plates of thick stone hide that give them their distinct serpentine silhouettes. Having neither a face nor mouth, Nagma bear an intimidating facade, though they can see by sensing heat and speak in a hissing hot tone in their own language of pops, sears and boils.

Nagma go where lava comes, building their outposts on the cooling black rock left in the wake of an eruption. They come bearing tools made from small assembled metal plates, never using wood, stone or other resources, and they build small, simple houses out of obsidian and other volcanic stone. Their architecture is crude but functional, making nothing more ornate than it needs to be to do its job. Their purpose in coming to the surface is unknown, as they don’t speak the common languages, but some have formed assumptions based on observation- many Nagma are seen wielding flake-metal bo staffs, and at dawn and dusk they’re found practicing some form of serpentine martial art at the shores of their ebon outposts, leading folks to guess they come here to practice their martial art in a more open atmosphere than whatever lurks in the depths below. When Nagma settlers come they always bring canoes of yellow pumice and hooked metal poles, paddling out to sea to catch big delicious fish they assumedly can’t find at the earth’s core, leading others to think they’re here for resources to sustain themselves the way surface-dwellers dig below to find what they can’t acquire on the world above. Whatever their purpose the Nagma are a growing presence in our world, and given the earth itself sizzles beneath their searing tails many hope their intentions are peaceful, as few want to wage war against the molten core of the earth itself.

No matter how great or powerful a person thinks they are, there...

Mon, 21 May 2012 18:22:00 -0400

No matter how great or powerful a person thinks they are, there will always be a beast even greater and more powerful staking its claim to some unclaimable corner of the earth; a natural hierarchy of humility keeping a sea of egos checked and balanced. Some swim the depths, shattering to splinters and sailing ship who dares challenge their rule, others roam the dark caverns beneath the earth itself, causing tremors that crumble the mighty cities built above. These creatures possess power without peer, but their giant size and indominable constitution doesn’t mean they’re violent or malicious towards other living things. One example of the mighty but humble can be found in the giant Cliffback Tortoises of the chilly western mountains. Standing as tall as many whole buildings, Cliffbacks are docile hardshelled creatures known for their ability to weather harsh weather and navigate rough, uneven terrain that would spell the end of most load-bearing creatures. Possessed of four thick legs spread wide apart, Cliffbacks command solid stability when traversing the mountains, wide enough that they’re unlikely to tip over. These traits along with their passive attitudes have made them one of the few living forces of nature sentient races can harness and utilize for their own benefit.

There’s three ways to cross a mountainrange. You could burn time and go around it, you could pay out the nose and fly over it, or you can hire a Cliffback Rider and go through it. Having harnessed the natural feeding habits of these gargantuan quadrupeds, Cliffback Riders built huge howdahs on their docile shells and direct them across the mountains, offering a ride to any passenger who pays their modest fee. How did they do it? A little observation and ingenuity was all it took to master the Cliffback. There’s two things a Cliffback needs to survive: the rich green vegetation that grows midway up a mountain and the water that flows near its bases. By digging reservoirs of water at key stations on either side of a mountain route the Cliffback Rider can hitch a ride on the naturally-grazing Cliffback and point it where they want to go by positioning the sources of water they’ll inevitably come to in the most convenient places for passenger loading and unloading. They can’t command a beast so big it doesn’t have to listen, so they instead persuade it to climb across the mountains for them. The fare is fair compared to the alternatives, and those who’ve ridden in a Cliffback howdah say the ride is smooth and the view spectacular, citing it as a voyage you’ll want to take at least once in your lifetime.

There’s a place up north beyond the frozen seas where the...

Sun, 20 May 2012 17:33:00 -0400

There’s a place up north beyond the frozen seas where the sun smiles on a land caked in snow and ice for a full half-year, leaving the land cloaked in darkness until the sun comes ‘round again. Here, in isolation from the melting heat of the southern world, lives the fine citizens of the great Candy Commonwealth. Said to be made of sugar and spice, they call themselves Candykind, and they come in all shapes, sizes and patterns of color. In their ornate frosted houses lining peppermint roads, Candykind are known worldwide for the bleeding obvious, their unrivaled mastery of the sugary arts. Never will you taste candy so sweet, cakes so rich or treats so sour they’re said by some to be life-altering. Candykind know their way around the kitchen, and the fruits of their labor are in-demand by all races in all corners of the globe. But because of the freezing trek it takes to get to the Candy Commonwealth and back, the pride of their pastries remains a rare treat prohibitively-priced by the brave middlemen who travel and trade with the chilly chocolatiers of the far northern islands. It’s a heck of a hike, and some persons rich with resources and influence aren’t content to wait for a new shipment of these special sweets like some commoner; more than a few folks get it in their heads that if they could acquire the recipes instead- the means of production- they’d never be left wanting. Agents and hired knives are sent north to steal the secrets of Candykind, and while the Candy Commonwealth is not a warlike nation, they do not take such grievous acts sitting down. Theft of Recipe is the highest crime one can commit against the Commonwealth, and when these secrets are compromised the Confectioneries are called in to clean up any and all loose ends.

If the bakers and candymakers of the Commonwealth are the gloved right hand of the cheery and diplomatic Candykind, the Confectioneries are the dagger-clutching left hand hidden behind its back. When acts of aggression are taken against the Commonwealth, the Confectioneries are deployed to sever hamstrings and recover assets. Their duties are threefold: seek, secure, and execute. Trained in the arts of tracking and information-gathering, Confectioneries can follow the gumdrop trail of their quarry long after lesser investigators would find it run cold. Once they’ve zeroed in on an offender or group of offenders, Confectioneries approach with stealth and silence, sure to secure an area of all security and escape routes. Armed with licorice ropes, peppermint smokebombs, and poison candy dots- as well as their trusted trademark sharpened canes- Confectioneries swoop in without notice, executing their targets with extreme prejudice and recovering any and all assets or copies of assets missing from the Commonwealth. They don’t handle matters of state lightly, they’re given orders to kill as necessary to ensure no living soul remembers or tells the secrets they may have seen in a Candykind recipe- a sharpened sweet left sunk in the spine of their prey serves as a quiet calling-card and a message to any other would-be usurpers to the candy crown. And just as quickly and quietly as they’ve slipped into their quarry’s city, so are they gone to report back to their commanders and return all “broken arrows” to the right hands. The Candy Commonwealth deals in a sweet business, but if you bite off more than you can chew be prepared for things to turn sour fast, because the Confectioneries won’t rest until you misdeed is undone and you’re laid out like chalkline frosting, all guilty tongues silenced of their sugary secrets.

Demons and devils hail from planes beyond our own, lands of...

Sat, 19 May 2012 18:37:00 -0400

Demons and devils hail from planes beyond our own, lands of thumping rock music and burning mountains where the fives are high and they dig for skulls or blow things up and perceive reality in a more dilated capacity than any other known line of creatures, often known to speak with the unseen in ways no other line can replicate. But while the demons who visit our world may be loud, obnoxious, hedonistic and grossly-inarticulate in their use of language, they’re not freeloaders. They have unique talents that they’ll offer for the right price, and many enterprising demons have set up thriving businesses in our plane, none of them loyal to anyone but themselves. And if you’ve ever shipped post or parcel with the carriers in blue, you’ve surely struck a deal with these demons, whether you know it or not. They call themselves “Mailer Daemons”- spelled as such to make them sound fancier. They’re a line of outworlders who have set up shop on our soil, offering “to send whatever ya got wherever ya wants it to go,” committed to a code of conduct unmatched by any other parcel service by “super-duper pinkie swearin’ we won’t look at whatever dumb thing you’re tryin’ to send.”

Local city-states, kingdoms and alliances have their own established postal services, but there’s limitations where they can go and how fast they can get there- if the realm is at war or poor weather befalls a region, your urgent letter will assuredly be delayed or intercepted. Mailer Daemons don’t have this problem since they hold no earthly allegiance except to the customer. Equipped with nimble hooved legs and large wings, a Mailer Daemon can sprint across loose rocky terrain, thin ice and searing sands, and their wings let them sail over mountains, lakes and oceans alike. Their outposts dot the whole of the world, and they’re famous physiques allow them to dart from point to point without pause or interruption, ensuring your parcels get where they need to go as quick as possible. Their services don’t come cheap, though, and it isn’t because their job is hard, no. Mailer Daemons are great at doing what they do best… the only problem is their speed and mobility make them tempting targets for roaming Cannonesses eager to pick one out of the sky from far down range. ”Neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor hail shall keep the Mailer Daemons from doin’ their job; but those dang sharpshooters with their big fat devil-bullets might slow ‘em down a peg. Just a heads up.”

They say war and conflict are natural elements of life,...

Fri, 18 May 2012 17:02:00 -0400

They say war and conflict are natural elements of life, something encoded within the makeup of all thinking beings. Some would point out that there are plenty of passive, peaceful races among the sentient circles, but such claims to the contrary are often met with argument and rebuttal. A common point in the case against aggression as inevitability, however, is mention of the docile and pleasant Jellybees. A race of friendly floating folks, Jellybees drift along the cross-continental breezes that carry across the great inland lakes with hardly a care in the world. The top half of a Jellybee is roughly the height of a young person, but their long tangle of tendrils can stretch far beneath their slippery skirts. Semi-translucent sentients that they are, Jellybees take on a gentle glow when they soak in the light of a sunbeam, their internal colors mingling in a pleasant potpourri of pinks and purples. Jellybees aren’t aggressive but they’re not idle either, building their homes in the woodland regions surrounding large bodies of freshwater. Always friendly and courteous, Jellybees speak the common tongues and trade freely with their neighbors, specializing in the sale and handling of extremely poisonous reagents. Being extremely poisonous themselves, Jellybees are immune to the stings and effects of a wide range of lethal venom- from fish to snakes to insects and more- and have become expert toxicogists and masters in farming, extracting, bottling and selling these deadly components.

Some would describe their social structure as matriarchal, but Jellybees don’t actually have separate sexes, they simply bear similarity to other races’ familiar female aesthetics. They don’t choose their leaders by sex or gender either, as Jellybee society is small and democratic, each village electing its own mayor in biannual elections. Their architecture is angular and ornate, often utilizing stained glass, wood and smooth stone in their construction. Since Jellybees like to float on the air their buildings often have high ceilings and tall doorways, giving these structures a striking yet functional appearance. Outsiders have commissioned Jellybee architects to design buildings for them, but they often need to remind the architect of their need for stairs, a feature commonly absent in their native civilization. No Jellybee society maintains a standing army, a testament to their non-aggressive lifestyle, but some argue the Jellybees don’t wage war because they don’t need to, not because they don’t want to. Free-floating and full of poisonous barbed tendrils, it is a fool’s errand for a bipedal assailant to approach the Jellybee on her own terms, as their debilitating poison can inflict burning sensations and paralysis within moments of contact. And some still argue that while the Jellybees don’t directly engage in warfare they provide the means for many to kill their fellows through their stock in trade of poisons and natural venom, but Jellybees never market themselves in this way. Venom is a crucial component in antivenom and poisons paradoxically have healing applications- the Jellybees don’t question why a buyer is buying, they’re just happy to be of assistance.

Meet Necro Ned. He’s the son of two powerful geomancers...

Thu, 17 May 2012 16:24:00 -0400

Meet Necro Ned. He’s the son of two powerful geomancers who grew up in the midland hills and studied earth magic like their parents and their grandparents before them. Ned’s been pushed to study geomancy all his life. He hates it. ”Listen, Nedrick,” his parents would crow, “Geomancy is a noble profession, and as long as you’re living under this roof you’re gonna study the Earthen Arcanum! Your Pepah would be spinning in his self-woven gravechamber if he ever found out you left the family trade to study, what?” Necromancy. Ned was fascinated by the darker, much cooler magical art of the dead. Ever since the Iron Bard came through their humble village to weave his spell of thrashing chords Ned has been transfixed by the rock-and-roll lifestyle of the kids across the river who talk to ghosts and raise bands of skeletons from beneath the earth. What’s Ned ever raised from the earth? A protective wall of dirt and stone? Please, he thought, I might as well just stuff myself into my school-issue lockbox. No. Ned was going to become a necromancer, and he was going to do it by any means necessary. Working his part-time job commanding lawns to mow themselves, Ned saved enough coinage to slip across the river to the next town over and buy as many secondhand tomes of necromancy as he could. He absconded home with the right tools and the proper spell components he saw the cool kids use to summon their spectres and studied his spells in secrecy.

Months of tiny trials and experimentation passed and soon Ned was ready for the big test. Under cover of darkness he’d sneak into the village graveyard and raise a band of buddies to show the whole world and the kids in black what a cool necromancer he was. So he prepped his spells and raised his hands, uttering blasphemous invocations to summon and command the dead. Lightning cracked across a cloudless sky… and nothing happened. Distraught, he tried again. Nothing still. How could this be, Ned thought. I followed the spells to the letter and did everything by the book, how could it end in failure? He choked back tears of despair, his posture slouched, and just then he felt the ground beneath him start to rumble. The earth swelled and cracked, and up from the graveyard soil rose the coolest earthen golem Ned has ever seen! Bristling with tombstones and caskets and filled to the core with awesome bones, Ned didn’t raise the dead from their graves, he raised the graveyard itself! Oh man! It was all he could do to keep from crying, but he wasn’t fighting tears of sorrow this time. His parents were right, he had the heart of a geomancer all along! But more importantly, geomancy was just as cool as any other arcanum, and Ned couldn’t be happier. He hugged his newly-risen friend, his mind racing with excited thoughts- wait’ll the kids across the river see what I can do now! The moral of the story is to be yourself, you’re probably a cool person no matter what your talents are, or something.

It’s thought by some that all life came from the sea....

Wed, 16 May 2012 18:08:42 -0400

It’s thought by some that all life came from the sea. From our humble roots as tiny fish, they say, every diverging branch of living beings on the planet blossomed. Some fish grew legs and walked out of the sea to become masters of land, while others stayed home and turned into clouds of tiny little cells so they can have strength in impossible numbers. This is the Origin of All Things, as its known to some scholars. And while some creatures became great in size, others great in numbers and more still become great in deed and achievement, some creatures never stood very tall nor ventured far from home, living simple lives within their comfort zones. One such creature is the humble sandsnail, a line of gentle gastropod that make their home along the sandy shores of temperate beaches where it’s neither too hot nor too cold and they’re never far from the sea.

Born in clutches of eggs buried in the gentle arms of the rolling tide, sandsnails lead a lackadaisical lifestyle inching along the edge of life’s cradle. Subsisting on a diet of kelp, dried leaves and fish carrion, sandsnails serve a useful ecological role as cleaners of debris that washes up from the sea or blows over from inland trees. Since they mostly live in the granular environment of the beach, sandsnails secrete a thick mucous from their singular foot to protect their soft bodies from drying out. While their lives are lazy, sandsnails don’t live outside the shadow of danger; being as delicious as they are plentiful, sandsnails are a common snack for large birds and shellfish. And while they can pull themselves inside their large spiral shell, sandsnails’ primary defense is to wriggle their bodies and hide in the sands, their eye stalks peeking out to watch for the passing of predators. And while this works well against simpler creatures, local sentients are not so easily fooled. In addition to being a ready source of protein, sandsnail mucous is an important component in many local waterbreathing potions, and those can fetch a higher price than even a dish of sauteed sandsnail, sausage and peppers served on a plate of pasta- a local favorite along some sunny shorelines.

There’s magic in the world. It isn’t extremely...

Tue, 15 May 2012 16:15:22 -0400

There’s magic in the world. It isn’t extremely common to see it harnessed, but that’s part of what makes magic what it is. Scholars and practitioners alike have long studied the origins and innate properties of the arcane, but while their theories all share common themes, each is different enough from the others to bar them all from the domain of scientific fact. We know magic works, but we don’t fully know how or why. That doesn’t keep some of us from using it, however, and of those who can harness this ubiquitous force few have as intimate an understanding of its function as the Circuit Sages. Born of the scorched lightning fields of the northwestern region, Circuit Sages treat the flow of magic as a cousin to the flow of electricity they’ve come to know over countless generations. Draped in thick insulated robes marked with intricate linework, a Circuit Sage’s skin is thick and waxy, giving off no sheen of light or shadow. They speak many tongues but they don’t have lips, so their teeth are always bared and their voices carry on a raspy whisp. Their pupil-less eyes never blink and their physical presence has a perpetual static charge to it- they’re careful to shake hands with prospective clients so as not to give them a shock. Being around a Circuit Sage is slightly disquieting, but the service they offer is worth the price of discomfort.

Circuit Sages do not conjure, form or otherwise manipulate raw magical energy into any desired effect, be they common or uncommonly known. Or in other words Circuit Sages don’t cast spells, and they’ll be upfront in telling you this if you seek their aide. Instead, Circuit Sages read the flow of spells cast by other casters and amplify, redirect, capture and store, dampen, resist or neutralize these altered surges of magical energy using physical gestures, runic tokens or their own bodies’ innate arcane fields. Circuit Sages are masters of spellcasting support and their services have found use in countless disciplines- researchers rely on their aide to control unstable experiments, armies enlist them to enhance the potency of their spellcasters and cities under siege have called on them to help neutralize the effects of those same spellcasters. A Circuit Sage can smell magic in the air and adventuring parties have hired them to explore ancient ruins to help detect and disarm arcane traps, and even those parties who don’t bring a Circuit Sage will often purchase the stored, stolen spells they seal away in small runed stones to be released and re-cast at will. If one can get past their unsettling aura, the Circuit Sages are valuable allies to any group looking to carve out a life from a world teeming with magic.

Power is often fueled by technology. If you have more and you...

Mon, 14 May 2012 14:09:00 -0400

Power is often fueled by technology. If you have more and you can do more with it, you command much more leverage and influence than if you were without. And under the salty waves of the open sea few cultures hold the reigns of technology as strongly as the Redscale kingdom. Cold-blooded and bipedal, Rescales are a race of fishpersons whose discovery of metal and rubber enabled them to develop unparalleled means of exploration and conquest, allowing them to build a great and sprawling civilization on the sandy shoals of the deep. Subsisting on a diet of non-sentient fish and aquatic vegetation, Redscales are lean and quick, able to zip through the water with ease when they’re not encumbered by burden of bulk. Their king, Lord Bubbleglub the Briny, commands the seat of power in the ornate and gilded castle at the heart of Shellspire, their central city. Built of stone and mortar, Shellspire is a winding maze of old streets and open markets bristling with commerce and activity. Redscale weaponry is built to be hydrodynamic, from their curved swords to their long arrows and harpoons, if a weapon can’t be wielded with ease in the thick atmosphere of the sea it isn’t worth the material it’s made from. Many aquatic races swear by Redscale blades and bows as their rubber-coated parts are easy to grip and their metal bits resist corrosion, on top of slicing through the sea like a baracuda on the hunt. And while merchants and craftsfish barter to sell their tools and trinkets, the real prize of the Redscale kingdom is its unique take on armorsmithing.

They call them Terranauts. Those brave Redscale soldiers, masters of the blade and bow, who answer the call to explore the lands above are intimately familiar with the incredible advancements in Redscale armory. Sacrificing their natural agility for unrivaled protection, Redscale Terranauts learn to move and work while wearing the heaviest of heavy armor, to the point that it’s an extension of their body. Terranauts cannot breathe the air above, so they rely on a series of pressurized seals within their suits of plated mail to provide them a hospitable environment in the world beyond the waves- their water-filled plate also provides them added protection from crushing or bludgeoning blows, since they’re dense with water and not air they’re extra-resistant to non-piercing attacks. Donning a helm of thick crystal-glass, Terranauts are afforded a full view of the world around them- this special glass has been carefully developed over generations to resist cuts and blows, its thick walls and spherical design making it tough to crack. And while these are both impressive technological traits, the real technological feat of the Terranauts’ armor is in the water filtration units installed on their backs, pumping air in to keep their suit of water fresh and breathable. Equipped with the finest of tools the kingdom has to offer, a company of Terranauts is well-equipped to venture beyond the deep on missions of diplomacy, asset-recovery, acquisition of resources or military exercise. And though they’re called Terranauts, their special pressurized armor allows the Redscale kingdom to expand its reaches downward as well as upward, exploring the crushing pressures of the deepest of undersea trenches. Truly there’s no point on this earth beyond the reach of the Redscale kingdom.